John Pritchard and Hugh Morgan helped him up the stairs to bed.
June, Minetta, and John Willie left the valley before Eesaac Oliver descended from the bandstand. As they walked along the now rather more crowded Promenade Minetta seemed to be in livelier spirits; she chattered with June; but John Willie was morose again. Again he was wondering what would have happened had Ynys not chanced to pick a flower at the moment when his hand had moved imperceptibly towards hers. He saw her again, bending over the stick-heap and looking up as she gave him that expressionless "Nos da." By this time she was probably asleep, asleep far away up that Glyn, with the deep plunge of the fall for her lullaby, the stars for her night-lights, and the sun over the wood-edge for her alarum in the morning. Before the noises of Llanyglo should awaken him, she would be lying flat on the bank, taking trout for his breakfast.
And, again and ever again, he wondered whether, had that attempted touch of his not miscarried, she would have been off as the trout would have been off at the falling of her shadow on the water....
For one moment, just before he went to sleep, he seemed to hear Eesaac Oliver's voice again:
"Do not say, 'I will sin one more sin and then repent'—perhaps you will be taken away before that sin is committed——"
Then he slept, brokenly, waking at intervals to mutter "Damn it——" and to think of her again where she lay, far up Glyn Iago.
John Willie began to spend his days up Delyn and his nights elsewhere than at Llanyglo. He too passed them under the night-lights of the stars—for if she could go to bed by those candles, so could he. On the first night on which he did not return to Llanyglo they peeped down on him where he lay, gazing at them, a mile and more over the head of Delyn, to the summit of which he had reascended after bidding her "Nos da" in the Glyn. On the second night he put another mile between herself and him, bathing in the morning in a brook the chilliness of which only a little refreshed him after his night's tossing; he slept for three hours that afternoon, with her keeping watch by his side. And on the third night he lay among the fern, in her own old place behind Sharpe's hut. She did not know that he did not return each night to that dusty town by the sea.
And now once again he was muttering to himself, fiercely and frequently, "No—no——"
June's stay began to draw to a close. Minetta suspected her of moping for John Willie, and told her that he often disappeared for days at a time like that. Sometimes, she added, he called it fishing.
"But he'd be fearfully annoyed if we went to look for him," she said; and she turned away and smiled.
She smiled again when one morning June had a letter from Wygelia, with a postscript for herself. "A bit of gossip for Minetta," the postscript ran. "Ask her if she remembers a girl from Llanyglo father took into one of his shops. He's thinking of sending out search-parties for her. She went off for a holiday, and hasn't turned up again——" etc., etc., etc.
And so it was that John Willie, filled now with one thought only, came to miss quite a number of things that went down into the history of Llanyglo. He missed, for example, those first days of Revival in which the town, self-accused of sin, strove to purify itself. He missed that storm of impassioned evangelicalism in which Eesaac Oliver, walking one day on the Porth Neigr road, stopped at the foot of the lane that led to the quarries, suddenly threw up his hands, broke forth, and presently had the occupants of a dozen brakes and wagonettes listening to him in the great echoing excavation of the quarry itself. He missed, too, an odd little by-product of that gale of spiritual awakening—the black-faced group that one morning made its appearance on the beach, and resembled a troupe of ordinary seaside niggers until it broke, not into Plantation Melodies, but into hymns, one of which had a catchy pattering chorus that told over the names of the blest ones the redeemed would meet in Heaven:
"There'll be Timothy, Philip and Andrew,Peter, Paul and Barnabas,James the Great, James the LessAnd Bar-tholo-mew——"
"There'll be Timothy, Philip and Andrew,Peter, Paul and Barnabas,James the Great, James the LessAnd Bar-tholo-mew——"
He missed that other great storm of groans and fervour, when the pale young regenerator, mounting the railway embankment from a low-lying meadow near Porth Neigr, began to preach before sunset, preached until the stars came out, and then sent hysterical young women and overstrung young men home in couples along the benighted lanes together, to comfort and enhearten and uplift one another as they went.... And he missed, among these and a multitude of other things, a certain rather famous exploit of his compatriot, Tommy Kerr.
He knew how Tommy had flouted and insulted Llanyglo, and how Llanyglo in return had long been looking for signs that Tommy was drinking himself to death. But neither John Willie Garden nor anybody else had thought of the alternative solution of the inconvenience of Tommy's presence in Llanyglo. This was, not that Tommy himself should fall one night and break his neck, but that something should happen to the house that, having been put up by the four brothers in a single night, was enjoyable by them as long as they or any of them should remain alive.
During Ned's illness, if that listless state in which he had moved between the accident to Harry and Sam and the death of the canary had been an illness, the care of the Hafod had fallen to Tommy; and that was as much as to say that it had been cared for very little. Moreover, the fabric itself was perhaps by this time impaired. The digging of the foundations of the hotels on either side of it had done it no good, and the constant vibration of the Pontnewydd Street trams had done it even less. On a certain Sunday morning, some weeks before the sickening of the canary, Tommy had taken it into his head to make a thorough examination of the place, while Ned had dozed in his chair. That examination had given Tommy a bad fright. Mounting a short ladder and looking up into the roof-space above the single living-room, he had found the loft far lighter than it ought to have been; but it had not been the gap in the roof that had scared him so badly. It had been what he had seen through the gap—the chimney-stack all tottering, hooped out on one side like a barrel....
With boards and baulks, an old pole-mast and other timbers from the unsightly little backyard, it had taken him the greater part of the day to shore the chimney up again.
Whew! He and Ned had been sleeping underthat!——
It may be that there had been plotting against Tommy, too—or, if not actually plotting, a great deal of quiet watching to see what would happen, backed by a powerful desire that something should happen. Both Howell Gruffydd and John Pritchard were on the Roads Committee, and—well, it was obvious that Pontnewydd Street could not remain unrepaired merely because these Kerrs happened to live there. Orders had gone forth that its mains were to be seen to, pits had been dug in the street and barriers erected round them, and red flags set there by day and red lanterns by night.
Nothing had happened.
Then the excavations had been filled up again, and the road-metal carts had come. The surface was to be tackled....
So it had been that John Willie Garden returning one night from Delyn, had seen Dafydd Dafis's road-engine drawn up for the night opposite the Imperial Hotel.
The engine had remained in Pontnewydd Street ever since.
It shook the Hafod as if it had been brought there expressly for its destruction. During the very first hour of its slow and ponderous passing backwards and forwards, Tommy's newly cobbled chimney had given a not very loud crack, and, like a heavy sleeper, had settled down into a more comfortable shape. Tommy had come out, and had hailed the man who walked in front of the machine with a red flag. Nervously, almost politely, he had asked him how long they were likely to be. The man had replied that they had orders to "make a job of it." Then Tommy had seen Dafydd Dafis's face, watching him from the cab.... Half an hour later he had met Howell Gruffydd in the Marine Arcade. The Chairman of the Council had stopped. He had patted the shoulder of the common enemy gently with his hand, and his smile had been odiously affable.
"Well, Thomas Kerr," he had said, "how are you? I hear there is improvements at Plas Kerr; you have a grand road to your house soon, whatever! I think we have to assess you higher. How are you, Thomas Kerr?"
Kerr had hated the Welshman's fine, small, regular teeth. They were false, but by no means the falsest thing about his mouth. As he had made to move away Howell had continued.
"I hope Dafydd Dafis does not incommode you with the road-engine, Thomas Kerr? He has orders not to be a nuis-ance to the town. 'Drive as gently as you can, Dafydd Dafis' is his orders.... You are off to the Marine Hotel now, Thomas Kerr? Dear me, it is a curious fas-cin-ation such places have for some pip-ple! Would it not be bet-ter to come to the Chap-pel on Sundays?... Thomas Kerr." (Tommy had been shuffling miserably away.) "Excuse me, Thomas Kerr, but you lose your handkerchief if you are not careful!"
And at this reminder that he had intended to button up his pockets in the presence of his foe, Tommy had been wellnigh ready to weep.
And then Ned had died....
There was a good deal of "edge," or vanity, or self-esteem, or conceit, or whatever you like to call it, about Tommy Kerr. He knew now that that road-engine would not be taken off as long as his crazy house stood, and he was stung and mortified that a few beggarly Welshmen, backed by a pettifogging Railway Company or two, with Kursaals Limited, a miserable District Council, a Pleasure Boats' Amalgamation, a few Hotel Syndicates and other such trifles, should be able to beat him. He felt very lonely without Ned. He would have liked to see Lancashire again, particularly Rochdale, his own town. He wanted to walk its hilly streets, and to see the Asbestos Factory again, and Hollingworth Lake. He would almost rather be found dead there than continue to live among these indigo mountains and pink hotels and chrome-yellow sands.
And so he set about his exploit.
At the very outset they tried once more to baulk him. For the thing that he intended to do certain timbers were necessary, and at six o'clock one night he passed, none too steadily, to a timber-merchant's, and gave an order to a clerk. The clerk smiled, and sent for his principal. Kerr pointed to various pieces in the yard. "Ye can send that—an' that—an' that t'other," he said thickly; "ye can get 'em out now—I'll fetch a cart." Then, looking at the builder's face, he saw that he too, like the clerk, was smiling....
There was no need of words. Howell Gruffydd had been beforehand with him again. If one builder refused to sell to him, so, he knew, would all the others. He was wasting precious time with builders.
How many inns he had been to that day he could not have told, but he now felt the heart in him again. They thought they could dish Tommy Kerr like that, did they? Well, he would show them.... He lurched away to the "Lancashire Rose," in Gardd Street, and then crossed to the "Trafford." But at neither of them did he stay very long. He left the "Trafford" at a little after eight, three hours before he needed to have done so. He wanted those three hours. He also wanted all the hours he could get between then and sunrise.
No sober man would have dreamed of attempting it; but sobriety and large deeds do not always go hand in hand. Neither do large deeds and very clear thinking—which, stout hearts being commoner than unmuddled brains, is lucky for us. Through Kerr's bemused head ran one thought and one thought only, namely, that the Hafod had been built by himself and his three brothers in a night—built in a night—built in a night——
If it had been built in a night it could be rebuilt in a night——
It had taken four of them to build it, but the rebuilding ought not to be nearly so heavy a job——
He would show them he did not come from Lancashire for nothing!
But before entering his dwelling that night he committed an act of theft. That damned road-engine had again been left drawn up opposite the Imperial Hotel, and Tommy, fumbling under the tarpaulin that covered it, stole something from the cab. He chuckled as he seemed to see again Dafydd Dafis's cat-like face looking at him round the fly-wheel.He'dshow Dafydd Dafis!——
He entered his house and locked the door behind him.
He had formed no plan, but yet, somehow, he was conscious of a plan, and a reasonably clear one. Where it had come from he did not know; it was as if he heard again, somewhere in the air quite near, the voices of his brothers again, saying, in the loved Ratchet accents, "Never heed that, Sam—here's where th' strain comes—we'll do th' paperin' and put a pot o' geraniums i' th' window after." He saw these vital points and master-members of his plan as if they had been marked in his mind in red. He had not to stop to reason about them. He knew—dead Ned seemed to tell him—that the wall between the living-room and the scullery might stand. He knew—he seemed to have it from Sam—that the whole of the street-frontage was sound. The ends, near the two hotels, were the danger-points; most perilous of all was the main beam under the lately propped chimney. The chimney must be taken down first of all. "To lighten th' beam, ye see," Harry's voice seemed to sound; "nay, donnot fiddle wi' it—shove it ovver into th' alley—we're pushed for time——"
So, whether you call it drink, or whatever you call it, Tommy did not set to work quite unassisted.
At the very beginning he almost came to grief. This was over the chimney, that essential member of the dwelling up whose throat the comfortable smoke had passed on that far-off morning as a token of habitation before the eyes of astonished little Llanyglo. He had climbed out on to the perilous roof and had begun to "study" how best to take it down; then, as cautiously he had unlashed and removed the baulks and the pole-mast, the chimney had suddenly thrust out its stomach at him. His heart gave a jump, and in a twink he had set his back against it, grasping a rope to check his heave.... But the chimney would neither stand, nor yet fall as he wished it to fall, over the end of the Hafod into the side-alley. It wanted to fall inwards, over Tommy's head. He thought his agonised effort would never end.... But end it did. He felt the release of weight. The thing hung poised for a moment, and then....
He was once more down in his kitchen before the windows which had been flung up in the two hotels had closed again. No doubt they had been waiting for days for that crash. They did not know that the scandalous Tommy himself had caused it. The ghost of a malicious smile crossed his face. "Sucks," he muttered, "for Gruffydd."
Then, at eleven o'clock at night, he fell to his house-breaking.
"Kerr?" said the author of theSixpenny Guide, when asked about this. "I suppose you mean Tommy Kerr? Yes, I remember him.—His cottage? That Hafod Unos place?—Yes, it's perfectly true. He did pull it down or put it up again in one night, or at any rate something like it. An uncouth little animal he was; a drunken little beast; still, he did this. Made quite a job of it too.—How? That I can't tell you. But I saw the place the next morning, and it seems to me that at one time during the night both the ends and half the back must have been as open as an empty rick-shed. Of course the whole thing was altogether preposterous. Six men's work. I was staying a little farther up the road, and by daybreak there must have been a thousand people in Pontnewydd Street. Nobody lifted a finger. They just watched. He wasn't to be seen mostly; he was busy inside; but when he did come out he never turned his head.—Sober? Impossible to say. And of course he didn't quite finish the job. But you've heard the rest."
The rest was as follows:
By three o'clock in the morning Tommy was neither drunk nor sober. He was a will and a piece of muscular apparatus, the two things quite separate, yet working together with never a jerk to mar the harmony. As a worn-out old machine will continue to run provided it is not interrupted, so Kerr worked, in a state to which the only fatal thing would have been to stop. The Tommy Kerr Llanyglo knew was a base thing, senseless as the lime and stone through which his chisel drove (with a fearful racket), obstinate as the beams under which he hammered his wedges; but this was another Tommy Kerr—somehow the name yet somehow another—a Kerr who might have been imagined to mutter, as he laboured, that it was a gradely night for a titanic act—that he came from Lancashire, where men did impossible things as a matter of course—and that if any Welshman would pocket his pride and ask him, he would pull down and put up again their whole blasted flashy town for them while he was about it.
And perhaps he was not really patching up his tottering cottage at all that night. Perhaps he was rather doing one of those useless and splendid things that alone among man's contrivances do not crumble and fall. Perhaps he was doing in his ruined Hafod pretty much the same thing that Eesaac Oliver Gruffydd did from bandstands and railway embankments and rocks and bedroom windows—setting up an ideal, and bidding men remember, though they might never attain, to strive. Or perhaps he was working from the most religious motive known to man—to please himself, trusting that if he did so he might please Something greater than himself. If so, his idea might have had grandeur, but that grandeur was curiously expressed. For he did not cease to grunt from time to time, as his face became grimy and then washed clean again with perspiration: "Damned Treacle-tongue! I'llsewmy pockets up next time! Owd false-teeth—their road-engines—him an' his new brolly!—--"
By four o'clock twenty road-engines could not have shaken down the beam on the chimney side of the house, and without another look at it he turned to the other wall. It was Ned's remembered voice that bade him hasten. As he tackled the second beam he grew quite chatty with Ned. It was Ned who kept him to those red-marked crucial points, and told him that he needn't bother about the walls, for the ceiling-sheets would do to cram into the interstices, and that, if he made haste, the golden days would come again when he had mocked at all Welshmen, and had had on the hip the Railway Companies and Kursaals and Hotels and Steamboats that had done their utmost to get rid of him.
It was soon after this that he became conscious of other whispers than Ned's. At last he had seen the crowd gathered in Pontnewydd Street. But by this time he had ripped his ceiling-cloth down, and the grey incoming day was suddenly darkened again as he ploughed across the talus of debris and made a wall of cloth, fastening it anywise from beam to beam. Ned said that that was quite good enough. You never caught wise old Ned napping. Tommy Kerr had been very fond of his brother Ned. He had gone ratting with him, and alder-cutting, and he remembered a whippet Ned had once had, a rare dog for nipping 'em as they turned, and a canary too....
Then Tommy Kerr's brain, which for more than seven hours had been as steady as a sleeping top, gave a little wobble. This was as he paused in the middle of the floor of his incredible house. There was something else he had to do; what was it?...Whatwas it, now?... He knew there was something else he had to do....
He would have done better to begin his work all over again than to stop and think.
What ... ah yes, he remembered! He remembered and chuckled. Why, he had been on the point of forgetting the cream of the whole joke!——
He stooped by the rounded grey mound of lime and plaster that represented his bed, but his knees gave, and he came with a little thump to the floor. But he rolled over on his side, and his fingers found what they sought, and after a few minutes he rose again. In his hand was the red flag he had stolen from the cab of Dafydd Dafis's road-engine. That was to go up where his chimney had been, that chimney that had emitted that first smoke on that far-off first morning. The town, when it awoke, must on no account missthat. Tommy Kerr wanted to see the faces of Howell Gruffydd, John Pritchard, Dafydd Dafis and Co. when they saw that flag....
He tottered to the ladder that ran up into the loft.
He fell twice from the lower rungs of it, but a foot of lime made his fall soft. He mounted to the top, and crawled on his belly across the open rafters of the loft. He did not know how he got out on to the roof; it seemed to him that he lay below for a long time, gazing up through a gap at the paling sky and wondering how it was to be done, and then miraculously found himself where he wished to be. Then he got on his feet.
Then he saw them, the people in the street below. He had again forgotten they were there. So much the better; they should see him do it. Then he'd give a shout that should wake all Wales, and—and—by that time the pubs ought to be opening....
But the little hand-staff of the flag was not long enough to please him. He wanted a longer one, to make more of a show. It took a whole tree to carry the flag over the Kursaal Dancing Rooms there. It was stupid of Tommy not to have thought of that—not to have brought one up from below, where there were plenty—yes, plenty——
As it happened, he did not need the stick. It all came about very softly and gently. He was standing up, again looking about for a longer stick, when once more his brain gave a wobble. The watchers below saw him lean, as formerly his chimney had leaned, only now Tommy Kerr leaned the other way——
And so gently did he come over, and so comparatively short a distance had he to fall, that you would have sworn it did not hurt him very much. He stuck to the little square of red calico at the end of the short staff; it was still in his hand when they picked him up from the heap of chimney-bricks that choked the little alley where the principal entrance to the Kursaal Gardens now is.
Ancient Mrs. Pritchard, when she heard of it, baa-ed, and said that folk came and went—came and went——
From sleeping badly, John Willie Garden had passed to sleeping hardly at all. From that same fear of startling her, he still did not appear in the Glyn much before his accustomed hour (though there had been times without number when he had resolved otherwise); instead, he wandered about, a mile, two miles away, sometimes setting himself a distant point to walk to, on his return from which it would surely be time he was seeking her. On the first two mornings of his absence from home he had not shaved; then he had decided that that would never do, and has sent somebody from the inn below to fetch him a bag. With the bag had come a short note from Minetta. It had merely said that June was leaving on the following Saturday, and that after that day she would be alone in the house.
He now wished he had not asked Minetta to show June that sketch. She had put it on his breakfast-plate for all the world as ifhehad wished to see it, instead of merely to show June how much better it was than the others. He didn't think that Minetta cared in the least how he spent his time, but she was so sharp, and queer as well as sharp. She watched things without taking any part in them. The more self-absorbed the actors showed themselves, the more keenly interested Minetta became. In many respects she took after her father. Edward Garden too had that habit of poking and prying into people's tastes and enjoyments and passions and desires, noting and understanding them while remaining himself inaccessible to such weaknesses. It wouldn't greatly have surprised John Willie to learn that Minetta guessed what he was about up Delyn.
The curious thing was that, if that were so, he didn't think that Minetta would disapprove. She would look as it were over the tops of a pair of imaginary glasses, and under them, and finally through them, and her ironical glance would say as plainly as words, "This seems to be a love-affair." She would neither disapprove nor approve, or, if she did approve, it would be of his provision of entertainment for her. Her disapproval would appear only if John Willie involved her in something that would not "do."
This brought John Willie straightway back face to face with his old and torturing dilemma, of having something "on"—but something that would not "do."
A hundred times he had fought it out, and a hundred times he had come to the conclusion that, while Minetta might resemble her not quite human father, he, John Willie, was his mother's son. His mother would have been entirely for that "No" that a hundred times had gained the day. After each of these victories he had been on the point of turning his back on the mountains and of not returning as long as he knew her to be there. These impulses had now nothing to do with his fear of startling her. They were born of that stiff and indispensable code. He had only to thank her for a few breakfasts, to tell her he was going, to wish her well, and all would be over. He found rest in the thought. He might suffer an ache or two afterwards, but it would be the best way out. It had been his first impulse, and it had proved to be his last conclusion. He would consider it settled so. It would be much the best course to act like an ordinary young man.
For several days he had said that.
He said it again on the morning when he shaved off half a week's growth of beard.
Once more he had slept within a stone's-throw of the hut. There had been light showers during the night, but hardly enough to call a break of the weather; the drops twinkled on fern and grass and spiders'-webs and tiny flowers, but the ground was still as dry as tinder. As he shaved, with the little mirror of his dressing-bag hung on a hazel, he reflected that it was only half-past seven, and that the Llyn ought to be a good colour for fishing. There would be plenty of time for a cast or two before saying good-bye. But his rod was in the locked hut, of which she had the key. No matter. Since he had now come to his decision, it would make no difference did he seek her in the Glyn a little earlier than usual. He would then be able to get away earlier in order to say good-bye to the neglected June.
He was heartily glad it was all over. The only possible course seemed so plain that he wondered now what he had been tormenting himself about all this time. Smiling a little, he even thought of all the awkwardnesses and dissimulations and machinations and deceits he was by one stroke escaping. Hewouldhave felt rather a brute had he come upon Dafydd Dafis one day, and asked him how he was getting on, and, casually, what had become of that little niece or cousin of his, whose name he would have had to make a lying pretence of having forgotten. Itwouldhave been behaving rather off-handedly to June, to see her for the first two days only of her stay and then to let her go without as much as seeing her off. Itwouldbe better that Minetta should not have to write home saying that John Willie was away (fishing) and she alone in the house, but she was quite all right. Itwouldbe better to think of the things that would permanently "do"—altogether more comfortable and satisfactory not to have to call himself, in the waking hours of nights in the years ahead, or in the days to come when business claimed him, by a disquieting name. It was not as if there were not plenty of other things to think of. This particular aspect of life was far too much dwelt on. Percy Briggs dwelt on it too much, he himself had dwelt too much on it. He wasn't sure that he hadn't been getting even a little morbid about it. Not every lovely flower is picked because it is lovely and then thrown wilting away again. John Willie had come to his senses. It had taken him some time, but he was all right again now. He wondered how those people at the inn below had been looking after his horse. They'd probably let him get fat and lazy. Well, he would give him a twisting on the way home. Too much inaction is good for neither horse nor man....
He finished shaving, and began to whistle as he packed his tackle and strapped the case. He would leave the case where it was, and pick it up on his way back. He would take the boat, pull straight across, get it over, and then have a swinging walk down to the inn. Despite his moping wanderings, he felt the need of a really good hard walk.
He strode down to the lake, unfastened the boat, dashed the waterdrops from the thwart with his cap, and pushed off.
It was a brilliant, if broken, sky. Up the mountain-side the light mists were quickly evaporating, and a great crag of dazzling white cloud, shaped like the north of Scotland on a map, was perfectly reduplicated in the glassy Llyn. As if the surface of the water had had a tenuity without abating a jot of its crystal clearness, the smooth V from the bows seemed to shear through something that, even when the water settled to rest again, did not return; there fled at each stroke an intact perfection. He altered the boat's course, and the reflection of the edge of Delyn broke into long smooth stripes. He altered it again, and an invisible comb seemed to pass through the towering inverted cloud. His wake was a dancing of broken glittering facets. He stood in towards the shaly spur; a few more strong strokes and he grounded abruptly; and he gathered up his boots and stockings from the bottom of the boat, stepped out, and made fast at the bottom of the Glyn.
The showers had swollen the stream a little, and mossy stones that had been dry the day before were lapped by the water, and pools came farther up his calf. But suddenly at a thought he stopped. In the new circumstances it was a new thought. She did not expect him for some hours yet; it might be better—in case of his coming upon her as she might not wish to be come upon—to give a call. On second thoughts he was sure that he ought to give a call. He opened his mouth——
But it was not necessary. Suddenly he saw her twenty yards ahead. She had probably been up for hours, and had got her bathe over long since.
But even that glimpse of her through the leaves had been as it were two glimpses. In the first of them he had seen that she was there; in the second he had noted that her appearance was not her usual appearance. She was no longer wearing the black dress of Philip Lacey's flower-shop, but that old blouse, unconfined at the waist, and again, as on that day when she had started back from the door of the hut, her legs and feet were bare. Four trout lay on the grass beside her, one of them still fluttering. She was stroking the drops of water from her forearms, and wiping her hands on her old striped petticoat.
He did not call, but all in a moment she looked round as quickly as if he had done so. At first he thought she was going to start to her feet and run, but she remained seated. Then a bough intervened. He put it aside behind him, threw his boots and stockings ashore, and climbed the bank.
"Hallo, Ynys," he said, as he sat down beside her. "I'm a bit early, but I've got to get off soon. They want me down there. There are some people I must see before they go."
Then he wondered whether, after all, he had not startled her. In her eyes was once more that look that had been there that other day, when she had fallen back, though no farther than a cat falls back. If that was so he must reassure her by going on talking. Without pausing, he continued.
"Yes, I shall have to get off by eleven. I've not been home, you see. Couldn't stand going back to that place, so I just made myself comfortable by the hut there.—I say, I hope you didn't get wet with that rain in the night?"
Simply, freely, naturally, and without a second thought, he put out his hand to feel whether her petticoat was dry. He supposed she slept in her petticoat, and that his early visit had not allowed her time to change.
But she crouched back so swiftly that he also fell a little back, surprised. He forgot that his own words, "I'm a bit early," raised twenty questions—questions of why he was there at all, of how it had come to pass that a variation in his habit was a thing to be remarked on, of why his announcement that he must be off early seemed even to himself a breach of something that had never been established, but only tacitly allowed. He forgot these things, stared at her, and suddenly exclaimed, "Why, what's the matter?" Had she feared that he was about to put his hand upon her? One of her elbows had shot up as if she would have defended herself, and the frightened seaweed eyes looked at him over the guarding forearm. Her other hand, behind her on the grass, supported her. So they sat, she trembling, he covering her with an astonished stare.
Then, as quickly as she had raised it, she dropped the defending arm. She made a swift clutch at her petticoats and scrambled a foot farther away from him. Her breast fluttered like that of the still living trout, and her hand was clasped betrayingly about one foot hidden in the short striped petticoat.
And in a twink John Willie saw his mistake. It was not from his advanced hand that she had shrunk. It was from the resting of his eyes—those eyes that, even as she had drawn herself back, had already rested. Those eyes, of Scandinavian blue, had sought hers again, of the wet greenish brown of the seaweed of the shore.
He spoke quietly.
"Come here, Ynys," he said.
She did not move.
"Come here, Ynys," he said again.
Her trembling became violent.
"Come here, Ynys—I want——"
He did not finish. His hand shot quickly forth. The next moment it held what she had striven to hide. He was gazing at the silver mark that ran round the outer edge of her foot near the little toe as a vein runs round a pebble.
She had twisted her body so that her face lay on the grass, covered with her hands. She made one feeble movement to draw the foot from his hand, and then lay still. When, presently, he put it gently down, she made no further attempt to hide it; what was the good, since he had seen? It lay still now, a little crinkled brown sole with bits of vegetation pressed into it, and, running across it, that old thread, silver, like the wedding-ring of her mother—that hard little sole that had made the kidney-shaped footprints on the Llanyglo beach, that had pattered after pedestrians on the road, and that would take to the roads again rather than be pressed into a shoe and walk the pavements of a town.
Yet, though he had seen the foot, she seemed determined he should not see her face too. Presently she was conscious that he was trying to do so, that he was gently trying to draw away the concealing hands. That she resisted. "Ynys! Ynys!" he was saying remorsefully in her ear. She lay quite still, and "Ynys! Ynys!" he continued to repeat, over and over again.
At last he heard that uniquely soft voice of hers in reply. She spoke into the grass, not sobbingly, only a little dully.
"I 'ould not show you," she begged him—movingly begged him—to believe.
"Ynys—dear!—--"
"Indeed you ask me, one day, if I take off my boots and stock-kings, and I 'ould not——"
"No, no——" he soothed her.
"I not show nobody, in lot-t of years, never." She turned her face to him for a moment; the anger of a fury lurked there for him had he not believed her. "I not show nobody, if they kill me," she went on. "Lot-t of years Ihateit——" the vindictiveness of the single word died away, and he scarcely heard what came next, "—but I not hate it any more now——"
His answer was to rise suddenly to his knees, to stoop again, and to kiss the foot he had innocently maimed. He was conscious as he did so of its quick little pressure against his mouth....
The next moment his arm was about her shoulder, and he was gently seeking to see her face again.
"Cariad!" he murmured, his lips to her ear.
And he knew that by no other means could it have come to pass. "Lot-t of years I hate it—but I not hate it any more." She had hated the foot for its disfigurement. She had loved it for him.
There was no question of Yes or No as they ate their breakfast together; it was as it was, and neither guilt nor innocence had any part in it. From time to time, as they sat, he flung his arms about her shoulders as frankly as children embrace, and she suffered the crushing with lips parted and eyes immeasurably far away. The black pool was flecked with froth; it danced over the whitey-green ebullition at the foot of the swollen fall; and two dragon-flies, one blue as a scarab and the other like a darting twig of green metal, hovered and set and spun. There seemed to be no wind, but the great country of white cloud up aloft had advanced, and a soft gloom filled the Glyn. They did not wash up; impatiently John Willie tossed the platter they had shared aside; and they embraced again.
Midday did not find John Willie on his way to Llanyglo, nor yet did he see June off by the three o'clock train. By three o'clock he was on the summit of Delyn again, under the same rock where he had tried, as if by accident, to touch her hand. She had put on her shoes, but not her stockings, for the climb, but he had drawn them off again, and once more she lay, luxuriating with her foot under his hand. Even now she did not talk very much. She had only one thing to say, with lovely monotony and very few words to say it in; she strayed no farther from her little store of English than to say, over and over again, "Boy bach!" with the greenish-brown eyes slavishly on his, and her parted lips hurrying out the diminutive before he crushed them again. She started from her dream once, as a stray sheep close behind them gave a call like a rich oboe; then she relapsed into it again. The shadows lay still and leagues long over the rumple of mountains, and she had not changed, and had promised that she would not again change, that unfastened bodice and short and faded old petticoat.
So June steamed away, while Ynys's face was framed in John Willie's arm on the summit of Delyn.
They descended to the Glyn again between the afternoon and the early evening, and with each step as they dropped down the mountain a silence grew and deepened on them. He knew its meaning, if she did not, and, back by the pool again, he first cleaned the forgotten platter (which she tried to prevent), and then stood before her as he had stood when once, with an abrupt, "Nos da," he had stridden away. And in that pause of gazing silence he knew how much was packed—his Yes, his No, hers too; all that lay behind them, all that lay before. For him, there lay enwrapped in it that slight black figure he had seen under the crimson pier-light; his searching for her; his finding her; his struggles, his decision, and then, even in the act of his relinquishment, his wonderful recovery of her. And her memory took a farther flight still. She saw herself, a little girl, sitting with a bandaged foot upon a chair, while a testy girl not two years older than herself drew her likeness. She remembered the unendurable length of those half-hours—unendurable, save that occasionally there looked in at the door or passed the window a cowslip-haired boy, with hard blue eyes that would stare down even his own conscience and none be the wiser, a conquering boy, of a race so habituated to conquest that it takes with the sword-hand and carelessly tosses twice as much back with the other. That was what it meant to her, that silver mark that ran round the edge of her foot as a vein runs round the edge of a pebble....
And for the future? His future might be anything, but hers could be one thing only. For the gipsy loves never but the once. In all but love, the waters of the world are not more unstable than she; in love, the rocks are not more irremovable. Therefore she has no past and no regrets. She has no regrets, for there is no scar upon her heart—how can there be a scar, when a scar is a healing, and this wound is never healed, but ever new, ever quivering? And she has no past—how can she have a past when all is a poignant and lovely present, that endures to the end?...
There was so little for John Willie to do. He had only to go away without kissing her again.
Kiss her, however, he must not—he was only an ordinary young man——
He knew it, and——
He passed his arms about her waist and drew her down by his side.
It was dark in the Glyn long before the light had faded from the open hillside above. In Llyn Delyn not a fish rose to break that dark and intact perfection. The fall into the pool diminished a little in volume, and mossy cushions that had lately been covered began to rise out of the water again. And a heart was laid quiveringly open where formerly only a foot had been maimed. She was twice conquered, for she was Welsh and woman too. In the hearts of the men of her race the fame of their story still lives, and while it lives strife will not cease. As their own proverb says, what the sword took, the tongue will take back again.
But the woman goes with the land.
It was a summer nightfall in the Kursaal Gardens. The turnstiles of the new Main Entrance in Pontnewydd Street revolved ceaselessly, with a noise as of an unending rack and pinion. The lightly clad merrymakers poured under the trees that had electric globes for fruit; they moved towards the cream-coloured buildings that, with their illuminations, seemed no more than footlights to the solemn stage of the immeasurable blue beyond. Most of them were going to that Dancing-Hall where all the youths and maidens of the world seemed to dance together; the others hurried to keep appointments, to sit at the little tables where the waiters moved on the grass, to join the slowly moving circle about the bandstand, or to see the side-shows. The band played the "Lohengrin" Prelude; the soft sound of gravel crunching underfoot mingled with the music; and the great lighted circle of the Big Wheel rose against the sky.
In the topmost coach of the Wheel sat John Willie Garden and June Lacey. They were alone in the bright upholstered compartment. June wore her Juniest frock and an engagement ring; John Willie, who had been walking, was in cap and knickers. They had been engaged since the Spring, and everybody had said how splendidly it would "do." They had played together (everybody had said) since childhood, knew exactly what to expect and what not to expect of one another, had (as they put it) the solid cake to cut at when the sugar and the almond-paste had begun to pall, and what could have been more romantic?
"They'd be hard put to it to think of anything they're short of," everybody had said.
From the windows of the car they could see the whole of Llanyglo. With the turning of the Wheel they had watched its lights rise slowly over the intervening roofs, and then slowly sink away again. Now, to see the grounds below, they had to step to the windows and to look almost vertically down, through the intricacy of girders and lattice and mammoth supporting piers.
"It takes about twenty minutes to go round, doesn't it?" June asked.
"About that," John Willie replied absently.
"Look at the Trwyn light!"
"Yes, dear."
"We aren't as high as that, are we?"
"Oh dear no."
"I suppose we've stopped to take more passengers up?"
"I expect so."
Then, after a pause, June said, "Do you know, dear, I think I've finally decided about the drawing-room. I think I shall have it all white—every bit——"
From her white gloves to her gypsophylla petticoats, she was a girl any young man would have been glad to spend his shillings on, and her house was going to be as smart and complete as herself. Her father was coming down very handsomely for her wedding, and in addition to his other gifts, was going to lay out the gardens and the greenhouse for them. Counting her silver, tapping her flower-pots to see which was in need of water, trimming bits of raffia with her scissors and putting drops of gum into her geraniums, June would be exactly in her right place. She was already attending a Cookery Class, and had all her household linen marked. And already they were promised any number of presents. "Presents are so useful," she had said to John Willie, "because then you have them, and so often they're the kind of thing you'd put off buying for yourself." It was all going to "do" very splendidly.
"I say," said John Willie by and by, "we don't seem to be moving."
"The Wheel?" June asked.
"Yes. But it will go on in a minute, I expect."
"I hope it won't stop long," June replied.
John Willie also hoped it would not stop long, but for the life of him he couldn't have told you why he hoped so. Indeed he tried to smother the hope. He tried to smother it because he had an obscure feeling that—that—well, if a reason can smile, that his reason for not wishing to stay up there too long was quietly smiling at him. It seemed to tell him that he and everything about him were enviably all right—safe—thoroughly and entirely comfortable—need have no fears for the future—and that all would continue to be just as comfortable and safe and altogether all right until he should come to die, in a best bed, with eiderdowns, and frilled pillow-cases, and hot bottles, and the certainty of a handsomely appointed funeral a few days later. Few were as sure of their future as that. John Willie was one of the lucky ones....
He moved, not to the windows from which he could look down on the lights of the Promenade and Pier, but to those that were turned to the dark and unseen mountains. Somehow this reason he had for hoping that the car would not stop long seemed to come from there. He told himself that he would be better presently. He had these—bad humours, call them—sometimes. He hid them from June, but Minetta had noticed them, and he knew all about them himself. He turned to June again.
"I wonder what's happened," he said.
"It's—it's quite safe, isn't it?" June asked.
"Oh, quite." His lips compressed a little. It was quite safe—neither more nor less safe than everything else in John Willie's life. That, somehow, was at the bottom of these ill-humours of his.
"Dash it," he muttered....
"It is a nuisance," June agreed. "But I don't suppose Minetta will be anxious."
"I wasn't thinking of Minetta," John Willie replied.
Now when you are reluctant to enter into explanation, and there is something you badly want to do, you never (if you are an ordinary young man) look very far for a reason. The first that comes will serve your turn. If it is a flimsy one, no matter; you then get angry when its flimsiness is pointed out to you, and presently out of your anger and obstinacy you will have found a reason as good as another. John Willie did not at all like those interior smiling taunts of himself that took the form of congratulations on his neatly planned life and pillowed and feathered death to close it. If anybody of his own weight had taunted him thus he would have knocked that person down. But you cannot knock down a whisper that seems to come on the wind from the mountains through the night, making you, your ordered comfort notwithstanding, absolutely wretched. Again John Willie turned to June.
"I say, June; this won't do, you know," he said.
June looked enquiringly at him.
"But we can't do anything but wait, dear, can we?"
He did not answer.
They waited. Half an hour passed. Then John Willie muttered again that, among so many other things that would "do" beautifully, this particular thing would not "do." June coloured a little.
"But—but—it isn't our fault," she murmured, picking at the fingers of her gloves.
He saw she understood. Again they waited.
Then, suddenly, John Willie came shortly out with that reason that must serve in the stead of his real reason. He knew how lame it was. A score or two of other young couples were in precisely the same situation as they, and more that cheerfully resigned to their plight; but then they were not being goaded and taunted as John Willie was being goaded and taunted. They were not being told that their paths lay, so to speak, on flowers, while the paths of others were the stony road, that cut and blistered the foot, and tired the eyes, and bowed the back (but had no power, perhaps, thus to reproach the heart).... Anyway, John Willie was not disposed to stand it.
"June," he said abruptly, "I can't stay up here all night with you."
Her wail interrupted him.—"Oh-h-h!—--"
"It wouldn't do."
"Oh-h-h—it isn't our fault——"
"No, but that can't be helped. The woman I marry——"
"Oh-h-h—but there isn't anything to do!"
"Oh, yes there is. We needn't be together. I can get into another car or something. It will only be like walking along the footboard of a train."
She gave a little shriek.—"Oh—if you do I shall throw myself out—I know I shall!—--"
"You won't do anything so silly. Get up, dear; I've quite made up my mind. I tell you it wouldn't do. The woman I marry...."
With gentle force he picked her up and set her on the seat of the car. Then he approached the window. There was a bar across it, which it took him a minute to bend, but the chances were that where his head would pass the rest of his body might follow. June hid her face and moaned as he took off his coat; then he kissed her and thrust his head under the bar. He wriggled through, stood on the footboard, smiled again grimly through the window, and then looked down.
At any rate, he had given a reason of sorts.
Then he looked up.
Instantly he saw that, unless head or wrist or finger should unexpectedly fail him, the most dangerous part of his exploit lay at the very beginning. There was no descent from the step on which he stood. The cars were slung from axles, and in order to get to the rim that held the axles themselves he must climb to the roof of the coach. He glanced at the roof of the coach twenty feet below and to his left. He saw that it had a curved rain-sill like that of the top of a railway carriage. Good; the coaches would be all alike. He set his knees in the window-frame once more. June was still lying with her face hidden on the seat. His fingers felt blindly for the rain-sill; they found it, and he moistened his other hand. He wished he could have glued it, for for some moments mere friction must be half his support. For an instant he thought calmly and abysmally; then he risked it....
It succeeded. He knelt on the roof, holding the sling and coupling that hung from the car-axle overhead. He glanced up at the axle to which he must swarm. The singing in the cars continued, and a babble of sound rose lightly from below. Evidently he had not been seen to get out of the car.
But then, who would have thought of looking?
It was as he swarmed up the coupling that there first came over him the sense of the difference between the reason he had given, and the real reason that had brought him out from that brightly lighted and cushioned car in which he might far more easily have stopped. And the realisation of that difference brought with it, very strangely, the sense, not of bodily peril, but of inner peace. It was unaccountable, but there it was, not to be argued about. The only thing that disturbed this peace, and that but lightly, was that his venture had not a more profitable object. Folk did less dangerous things for far better reason—to save life, or property, or something else worth while. But this neck-risking of his was—could only be—bravado. He knew perfectly well that in the circumstances nobody would have thought a penny the worse of June. "The woman I marry——" he had known that to be an hypocrisy even when he had said it. No, he was merely idiotically showing-off, and that peace at his heart would presently prove to be an illusion....
It was quite suddenly, as he lay out along the Wheel's topmost car-axle, that the thought of Ynys came to him. He didn't know why it should come at that moment, unless it was born of his bodily isolation on the very top of that immense bracelet hung with trinkets of cars. But perhaps it was that; perhaps there was a connection, if only an idle and fanciful one. Save perhaps the keeper of the Trwyn light, nobody in Llanyglo was nearer the stars than he that night; and only Mynedd Mawr had been higher than he when he had lain on the rocky head of Delyn....
Or was it, not the isolation of his body at all, but his isolation of soul, that had brought that mysterious and inexplicable and probably fallacious peace.
While not ceasing to keep his carefully calculating eyes open, and every motor-fold of his brain intent on the preservation of his balance, he began to think of Delyn.
He had stayed many days up there; some weeks perhaps; he couldn't have told you how long. Its rain had soaked him, and its winds dried him again; its streams had fed him and its herbage furnished his litter at night; but the sun itself had not warmed him more than had her impulsive looks and surrendering gestures when he had but lifted up a hand. With another eye than that that now measured the distances between girders and axles and ties, he seemed to see the rocks again, and the lake shining in its morning intactness, and the drowned bubbles of the fall in the Glyn, and the thin wind stroking the short grass, and the mountain-ashes under which they had sat, their leaves like finger-prints against the sky. He could see again the trout she had cooked for him—her breast had fluttered as those dying silvery things had fluttered, silvery as that dry old scar he had kissed. He could smell the smoke of her morning fire again, her hair, her breast.... And he could hear again the shrill warning note in that unique voice of hers that had first set him wondering whether, after all, it would "do." ...
That quarrel had not been on that heart-breaking morning of their parting. There had been no quarrel then. No; it had been at something unguarded he had said about his sister and her friends. Yes, he saw again the insensate jealous flame in those seaweed eyes, and heard the ugly passionate cracking of the voice in which she had cried, "They noth-thing, your fine miss-es! They mar-ry house without a man if they could—they take house in their arms—they make those eyes at house, and kiss house, and call it cariad! You no dif-ferent from them! You go to your miss and say, 'I have house'—she want-t you then!—--" It had taken a whole morning before he had had her, humble and sobbing and remorseful and enslaved, in his arms again.... No, it wouldn't have done to marry a temper like that—and, temper altogether apart, it wouldn't have done. There are only a few years of this world and its companionships, and, though your friends may have their twists and crankinesses, they are still your friends, all you are likely to have. Better be in the stream with them while you are here. He would only have been sorry for it later, on her account as well as on his own. She had been quicker to see that than he, and had spoken of it in her soft and halting English. At first he had laughed and said "Kiss me" ... but she had been right....
But John Willie, with a Wheel to descend, must not let these things take him too far from the business in hand.
He had reached a chain in a great guiding sprocket, but he thought of what at any moment a hand upon a lever in the power-house far below might do, and of one of his father's men who had once been carried round shafting. No moving parts for him.... He looked down through an iron-framed lozenge at the people below. The grounds resembled a tray of many-coloured moving beads. All Llanyglo seemed to have run to see the stopped Wheel. Probably the Pier itself was half empty. If so, all the more room for anybody who wanted to watch, not a Wheel, but the moon lift her gilded sacrificial horn out of the sea.... There had been far too much drub-drub-drubbing. John Willie was weary of it. It was time he settled down. And Llanyglo itself seemed to have come to much the same conclusion. It had begun to make a restriction here and a regulation there, as if it wished to purge itself of its evil name. There was no doubt that for a time it had been a very sinful place, and ... (here John Willie, with a slow steady pull, hoisted himself to where he wished to be, on the long curved upper plate of a massive H, rivet-studded like a boiler, that was knitted with iron lace to other H's—John Willie must not venture too far down that slope unless he should suddenly acquire a fly's faculty for walking upside-down) ... and perhaps the town had begun to get a little frightened, as sinful people, and perhaps sinful towns also, sometimes do. But that would be all right presently. Llanyglo was going, in a manner of speaking, to be married. It was turning over, had turned over, a new leaf. Soon it would be a churlish thing to reproach it for a past that it had lived down; it was becoming sadder and wiser, and better able to distinguish between the things that would "do" and the things that would not. The less talk ... (here John Willie began to realise that he was not a fly, and to collect his nerves for the turn-over to the under side of that H that a few yards away dropped over, with a little gleam, into nothing) ... the less talk the soonest mended. He did not intend to say—anything—to June. Indeed he intended ... (there: that was rather a jerk to his shoulder socket, but he was safely underneath) ... indeed he intended that his attitude to June about such matters should be rather severe. This was not because June's own thoughts were in the least degree lax (she erred, if anywhere, on the prudish side), but because women were very tender things. A whisper was fatal to them. That was why John Willie was clinging now to that enormous piece of knitting of iron and upholstered carriages and electric light. He had climbed out in order that nobody should be able to say, after that, that....
Then it was that he knew, once and for ever, that this was a lie. Then it was that he knew that he was not where he was, suspended between the stars of heaven and the lamps of earth, on June's account. He was there because a gipsy girl had called him. This was his service, not of the pretty and pleasant June he was presently going to marry, but of one whom he had not married, of one he had not feared to compromise, of one who had known nothing, cared nothing, save that she had been lost in a wild and tender and beautiful love. She, none other, had called him——
Then, too, it was that there rose to him from below a faint yet high and shuddering "A-a-a-ah!" that was followed by a sudden cessation of all sound whatever save only a distant throb and pulsing in the Dancing-Hall. It surprised him for a moment; then he remembered. Of course. He had been seen——
She, none other, had called him, and he knew now that so she would continue to call him, wherever he might be—from his labour by day and from his rest by night, from his laughter with his children and his clasping of his wife. She would continue to call him until softness and ease should have done their slow and fatal work, would continue to call him until that nerve, with her harping on it, should have become dull....
He seemed to hear the echoes of that voiceless calling, diminishing through the years to come. They would end in a silence that his wife's innocent garrulity would never, never be able to break——
The faint throb in the Dancing-Hall also ceased. The Kursaal Gardens were a bead mat of faces. There was not a whisper. Delyn was not stiller.
Unconscious that already he was black and torn and bleeding, he looked down from his girder upon the bead mat. He knew what, presently, if he came down alive, every bead there would be singing—his daring and his quixotry and his devotion, and the possession by June of a husband who would do this rather than suffer the lightest breath upon the mirror of her name——
He looked at them as he clung, scarce bigger than a speck, high in that webbed diadem of the Wheel——
And as he hung there, with only the guardian of the Trwyn light higher than he, and the rest of the descent still to make, he still could not decide, of the two things that oppressed his heart, which was the atonement and which the sin.
"You're leaving Llanyglo? Well, holidays must come to an end.—You'd like another walk up the Trwyn? Very well; but you've seen all there is to see....
"Here we are.... What's going on at the Light? Oh, that's the Board of Trade, experimenting with some new fog apparatus or other. By the way, the Light people are rather sore because of a new Regulation, that they mustn't have lodgers at the farm; and also because they'd like to grow roses up the look-out wall, and that's prohibited too; I suppose the authorities think they'd be spending the day looking at the roses instead of at the ships. They've moved the rocket apparatus farther along the coast; they found it wasn't much use here, and it's turned out very successfully at Abercelyn.—Eh? Yes, where the manganese comes from. They still get a certain quantity, but there's peace in the Balkans or wherever it is for the moment, so nobody's growing very rich out of the mines here....
"Hallo, that's rather a coincidence. Don't look round too quickly. You see that tallish man over there? I don't suppose you've even seen him before; as a matter of fact he hasn't been—er—to be seen. He got into trouble once; in plain English, they put him in prison. His name's Armfield, and his trouble was all about Llanyglo. Awkward things, meetings like these. I think Armfield's a capital chap, and I should like to go and talk to him; but prison's a cruel thing, and you never know how the poor fellow himself feels about it.... Ah! As I thought, he looks rather broken. If you don't mind we won't watch him. Come on to the Dinas and have a smoke....
"How's John Willie Garden? Perfectly rosy, if beginning to get a bit fat. Lucky dog! Four children, two boys and two girls, quite an amiable chatter-box of a wife, and rich enough to buy almost anything he wants. Lucky, lucky dog!—Did I tell you he was the adopted Conservative Free Trade candidate for one of the Manchester divisions? Not that he cares a snap about Free Trade politically; economically it merely happens to be a good part of his bread and butter; but then you have to be careful about what you say on platforms, and so John Willie talks like the editor of theSpectatorhimself. June Garden runs her two houses, one here and one in Manchester, like clockwork, and they go backwards and forwards between them in a really regal car. Every tramp and gipsy on the road knows that car. However fast he's driving, John Willie always pulls up and gives them a shilling. Just a foible of his. We all have 'em in one shape or form.
"Llanyglo's going in heartily for these new proposals for advertising the town out of the rates. A young man called Ithel Williams is very keen on it; he's a son of Tudor Williams, the Tudor Williams who used to be M.P. for this division. Young Ithel's got rather a nice billet here, as Librarian or something for the Council, and if this new thing goes through he'll be quite in clover.—Jobbery? Well, I suppose that's the name for it, but personally I'm not altogether against it. It seems to me that the only alternative is putting these berths up for competitive examination, which in my opinion's failed all along the line, so find the right man and then job him in, I say.—The right man's so frequently a relative? Well ... there you are. Thatisthe weak spot. But there's always a crab somewhere....
"I wonder if Armfield's gone yet? Let's have a look.... No, he's still there....
"A good season? Yes, from all accounts it's been a very good season. There have been better from the purely money point of view, I should say, but after all everybody can't be everything, and every place can't get all there is. Llanyglo, like other places, has its natural limits of expansion. I don't think it will get any bigger yet awhile. There's no doubt the Wakes people were the people who flung the money about, and they've a little fallen off; but even if Llanyglo has to write down some of its obligations it will probably gain in the long run. A section of the Council's coming to see that, and is pressing for reconstruction (that's always rather wonderful to me, that they should construct things of solid materials and then reconstruct them by saying they cost less than they did); but that's the Council's business, or rather the powers behind the Council. Edward Garden isn't one of these any longer, at any rate not to the extent he was. He sits in Manchester and makes towns in Canada now. But he still looks at letters under his glasses, and over them, and backwards and forwards and upside down, and then looks mildly up at you and says the letter seems to be a letter....
"A last look at the place: there you are: bay, Promenade, Pier, the ring of mountains behind. It grew from a few fishermen's huts to over-capitalisation in a very few years. And there's Terry Armfield, still looking at it all, like a not very old Rip Van Winkle. I wonder what he's thinking! I suppose he couldn't keep away, but must come and remember it as it was and dream over it again as it was never, never to be.... Walk past quickly; he's sobbing, poor chap. His dream was of a place—I don't know how to describe it—all friendliness and loveliness and graciousness, fowl and flesh and good red-herring all in one, so to speak, what you might call a diaphanous sort of place, a jolly place to think of during those few minutes of the morning or evening when you're not quite asleep and not quite awake, but—hm!—I'm not so sure ... not in this imperfect world....
"Anyway, that down there is what he sees....
"I suppose the other wouldn't have done....
"Shall we go?"