‘Mary, Mary . . .’ he whispered to her, rejoicing in the sound of her name. But his voice was strange, distant, thick with passion, and his clasping hands could not be certain that they held her. They followed everycurve of her body, seeking to know if it were really she. His tongue stumbled on phrases that had never come to him before.
‘Mary, my little one, my beauty! Did I use you rough? Did I hurt you?’
She shook her head and smiled back at him, full of content. She herself, shyly daring, allowed her hands to caress his head, stroking his hair, his ears, his neck. And the light contact of her fingers maddened him, finding strange nerves that had never felt before, awakening new yearnings.
At last she opened her eyes.
‘The lamp’s flaring,’ she said, in a curious, toneless voice. Smiling gently she freed herself from his arms and turned down the wick. He followed her, feeling that she was escaping him. Never again should she escape him. Obedient to his will she came back to him.
‘Us bain’t gooin’ to wait for the parson, bin’ us?’ he said, and when she would not answer: ‘Durs’n’t you, wench? We’ve waited above a bit, us two!’
‘There’s the children,’ she said, lowering her eyes. ‘I thought I heard Morgan cry out in his sleep.’
‘Bless them!’ he said. ‘And don’t I love every bone in their bodies as if they was my own?’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know. And they’re so fond of you.’
‘It’s because they’m yours,’ he said. ‘So what does it matter?’
‘Don’t ask me. Poor sweet lambs! Oh, Abner, where am I?’
‘You’m here with me, wench! In my arms. You belong to me, Mary. There’s nought can take you away from me. I don’t let you go now I’ve got you. Not a minute, not a second!’
‘I can’t take it in,’ she said. ‘If Mrs Mamble could see through the wall! To think of all that people have said of us!’
‘They can say it again. They’re welcome now! Talk? They can talk their damned heads off. We’ve been through all that!’
‘I should just think we have,’ she sighed. ‘They can’t touch us now. Abner! Abner!’
She clung to him and kissed him again and again. ‘Ah, Abner, don’t ask me!’ she said. ‘Just let things happen as they will.’
She hid her face against him.
‘But afterward,’ she whispered. ‘What can we do? How can we get away, Abner? I feel as if something might stop us. Let’s get away at once. Let’s go. I can’t bear waiting!’
He laughed at her. ‘To-night?’
‘No, to-morrow.’
‘Nobody will know it’s any different till we’re gone,’ he said. ‘They can’t say worse of us than they have done.’
‘They will. . . . Of course they will. They can’t help seeing. Mrs Mamble . . . an old woman like that sees everything. I shall look different. I know I shall, if it’s only that I’m happy.’
He laughed as he kissed her. ‘Bin yo’ happy, my love?’
‘Oh, Abner!’
‘Three or four days’ll see me finished up at old Williams’s. He done us a good turn, and don’t you forget it. Besides that you couldn’t get ready by to-morrow. You’ll take a few days over that, and I’ll go on and look for a home.’
‘No, no, Abner!’ she cried. ‘Don’t leave me now! Don’t you leave me! If ever I lose sight of you now something will happen. I know it as sure as sure.’
‘You’m a baby, that’s what you are!’ he said, teasing. He gathered her up in his arms and talked foolishly to her.
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I mean it. I’m as serious as I can be.’
‘A damned sight too serious for me!’ he grumbled.
‘We must all go together. In three days I can be ready. No, two.’
‘In that case every one’ll see us. You’m all the other way now.’
‘I don’t care who sees us now,’ she said passionately. ‘What does it matter? Let it take its chance! It’s nothing to us. I’m so sick of their talk that it means nothing to me.’
She became thoughtful once more.
‘Abner,’ she said suddenly, ‘tell me truly, when did you first want me?’
Again he teased her.
‘What does that matter?’
‘I want to know,’ she protested.
And he told her of the night at Redlake when he had stood burning in the moonlight beneath the jasmine-covered windows of the inn.
‘I knew, I knew!’ she said softly. ‘I couldn’t sleep that night. The time we’ve lost, us two! Oh, how I hate myself! It was nearly the same with me. Just when we’d missed our way and my legs ached so that I felt I couldn’t walk another step. Poor little Morgan, and the bottle of pop you promised him! And then those strange sea-birds crying up in the dark. Do you remember how I turned on you and told you I hated the sight of you? That was when I loved you. Then and ever since.’
‘We’ve been through something, one time and another,’ he said.
She laughed softly.
‘It’s like a long courtship,’ she said. ‘George and I only knew each other six weeks before we were married.’
It amazed her to find that now she could speak of George without discomfort. Her mind ran swiftly over those early days.
‘Abner,’ she said, ‘I feel sorry for George now, don’t you?’
‘Don’t speak of him!’ said Abner seriously.
‘You’re jealous . . .’
‘Don’t speak of him. I gave old George my word. I’ve not been a pal to George.’
‘You’re a funny boy,’ she said, loving him with her eyes.
‘I want to forget old George,’ he said obstinately.
‘Then I won’t speak of him, Abner. What time is it?’
She put her hand into his waistcoat pocket and took out his watch. The sweet familiarity of the action entranced him. His eyes followed her fingers, and the newly conscious turn of her head as she looked at it.
‘Ten o’clock,’ she said. ‘Who’d have thought it?’
She rose, and again she abandoned herself to his arms. Then she left him suddenly and went before him, never looking back. He followed with the little lamp in his hand. At the foot of the stairs he stopped.
‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered, turning. ‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘There’s a step outside,’ he said. ‘Some one on the garden path.’
‘Whoever can it be at this time? Take the light to the door and see.’
The darkness of the staircase engulfed her as he opened the kitchen door and peered outside.
‘Who’s that?’ he called.
‘Is that you, Abner?’ a voice replied. ‘Now I thought I see’d a light. I guessed you’d have gone up over by this.’
‘What do you want, Mr Drew?’
‘You wait while I do get my breath back,’ said the old man. He had evidently been drinking and walked unsteadily. ‘Ah, that’s better! Well, Abner, I’ve a’ been down to the Buffalo to-night for a quart, and I thought as how I’d bring ’ee a bit of downright good news I heared. Yes, old Mrs Malpas she’ve got news from Shrewsbury—whether it be by letter or word of mouth I can’t say for certain—as young George have behaved himself so well into prison that they’m going to knock off part of his time. Any day this week he may be coming home along, so they says, and I thought I’d better bring the news quick to his missus.’
‘Coming home . . .?’ said Abner, dazed.
‘Yes. ’Tis not onusual, they do say. If she’s abed you can tell her in the marnin’. Wish ’ee good-night, Abner.’
‘I’ll tell her. Thank’ee for looking in.’
‘Oh, that’s nothing! ’Tis only natural. Good-night!’
‘Good-night, Mr Drew.’
He closed the door. The light fell on Mary, standing pale at the foot of the stairs.
‘He’s coming back,’ said Abner.
‘I heard. When?’
‘He couldn’t say certain. In a day or two.’
‘Abner!’
‘Well, there it is! We’re only just in time, my girl.’ She stood mute, paralysed. He wished she would speak.
‘It’s no good your standing there,’ he said. ‘Go on up. I’ll hold the lamp.’
She did not move.
‘I can’t take it in,’ she said.
He put the lamp down on the table again and held out his arms.
Still she did not move.
‘Mary . . .!’
She obeyed, came to his arms, shuddering, shaken with sobs, and through her tears he kissed her, comforting: ‘Mary, don’t cry now, don’t cry . . .’
‘What did I tell you?’ she wailed. ‘Abner, I knew, I knew! I told you something would happen. Thank God it came in time! We’ve not a minute to think. Two or three days! Abner, wemustgo to-morrow.’
He did not answer her, for his mind was deeply troubled.
‘I think I can manage if you leave it to me,’ she said. He held her closer. ‘What does it matter if we take nothing away? Only just a few clothes for me and the children. I can leave everything tidy, just as it was when he went.’ She hesitated, for she remembered the tea-set that she had pawned in Shrewsbury. He would miss that. Then she realised, thankfully, that it was her wedding present, not his.
‘Nearly everything,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think it’s better that we should start with nothing? In lodgings at first. Won’t it be strange?’ She laughed softly. ‘And not a soul to know! It’s beginning life all over again. Oh, Abner, my love!’
So she spoke, confidently, at times almost gaily, and he made believe that he was listening to her, humouring her childishness.
‘And isn’t it lucky,’ she said, ‘that Mr Drew’s working up at the Pentre. You won’t need to go there yourself. If you get up early you can catch him before he goes and send up a message to the farm. It isn’t as if itmattered your breaking your word to Mr Williams. People must make allowances, mustn’t they?’
He did not answer her, and she became conscious of his brooding.
‘Abner! What’s up with you? Tell me! You’re frightening me. Abner!’
‘We can’t go to-morrow,’ he said.
‘But, Abner, we must, we must! Two or three days, he said. He might even be a day early. He might come to-morrow. Think of it, Abner! I should die.’
‘If George is coming home like that we can’t go.’
‘Abner, are you mad? What’s come over you?’
‘I don’t know. Naught’s come over me. It’s hearing his name sudden like that. It’s like a judgment. It makes you think.’
‘Judgment!’ she scoffed. ‘Oh, Abner, haven’t we thought enough? Haven’t we been thinking for six months? I’m sick of thinking!’
‘Like a warning. Just the very second. If he’d come an hour later . . .’
‘What’s the difference, Abner? If he’d come to-morrow or in a week’s time it would be no different. We’d made up our minds, Abner, we’re not children. Things like that don’t count. Whether you’ve had me or not, I’m yours. You know that.’
She clung closer to him, but his mind would not accept the sway of her emotion. He freed himself from her hands, and the movement swept her into a passion.
‘Abner!’ she cried. ‘Don’t do that! Don’t! You’ll kill me . . . kill me!’
‘George is my pal,’ he said stolidly. ‘I gave old George my word. We shook hands on it, George and me. “Abner,” he said, “you’m the only pal I’ve got that I can trust.”’
‘Oh, that’s it, is it?’ she cried, and her voice went shrill. ‘That’s it? What children men are! Gave George your word! Don’t you see that you’ve broken your word already . . . broken it long ago, ever since you thought of me like that? And then you say you love me! That isn’t love, Abner, not my kind anyway!’
He caught her up in his arms, and she could not speak now for tears. His own face was anguished.
‘You’d better kill me and have done with it,’ she sobbed. ‘Far better. Oh, why don’t you kill me right out if you’re going to leave me? I wish I were dead! I do! Abner, if we don’t go away to-morrow I shall lose you. I know it . . . I know it! For my sake, Abner! I’ve had so little happiness.’
He fondled her as she spoke. ‘I’m not going to leave go of you,’ he said. ‘Don’t you ever think that!’ He kissed her tearful face. ‘But I gave old George my word,’ he continued obstinately.
‘Oh, damn your word!’ she cried, violently wrenching herself away from him.
‘Don’t get wild,’ he protested. ‘Listen to me.’
‘I won’t listen. You’re talking wickedly, madly.’
‘You’ve got to listen, my girl!’ He took hold of her and held her with his strength. ‘A chap may go back on his word. Every one knows that. But a man that’s worth calling don’t go slinking away behind another chap’s back like a dog. If old George is coming home he’s got to hear what I say to his face, not find the place empty and say I’ve run away from him. Me and George has got to have this out.’
‘Then take us away first,’ she pleaded, ‘and come back to see him afterward.’
‘You’m talking soft now!’
‘I’m frightened, Abner . . . frightened!’
‘You’ve no need to be while I’m here. I can look after myself and you too. I’m going to see old George and tell him straight. You may like it or lump it. That’s my way.’
She wept, inconsolable. She would not let him comfort her. She hoped that her tears would soften him.
‘Can’t you do just one thing for me, Abner? You’re cruel . . . cruel! You don’t love me. That isn’t love.’
‘I’ve got to do it my own way.’
‘You might just as well kill me.’
‘I’ve never run away from a man yet.’
‘If you don’t take me away from here now,’ she said desperately, ‘you’ll never have me at all. Never! I know it, Abner, it’s our last chance.’
‘It’s been too much for you,’ he said. ‘You can’t see anything clear. I’m not a chap that changes.’
She stared at him in silence with sad, resentful eyes. Then she lost control of herself and began to curse the clumsiness of old Drew, who had blundered in on them with his drunken gossip in the middle of the night. ‘I’ll never forgive him!’ she cried. ‘Never!’ She shouted like a drunken woman. Then she stopped and listened intently, just as an animal listens in suspicion. Morgan, awakened by the sound of raised voices, had begun to cry.
‘It’s Morgan,’ she whispered.
‘You’d better go to him,’ Abner replied.
She put her hands to her face.
‘Don’t!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Abner, don’t! You’re driving me!’
‘Go on!’ he said roughly. ‘I’ll put the light out. Got the matches?’
She saw that he meant it, and blindly went.
Slowly, methodically, Abner locked the kitchen door and put out the light. A moment later he himself went upstairs in the dark. Morgan was still sobbing, mechanically, for the sake of hearing his own voice, and as Abner passed the door he was aware of a soft moaning which told him that Mary was crying too. His heart ached, his body yearned for her; but in his brain George Malpas’s words re-echoed: ‘By God, you’re the only pal I’ve got that I can trust!’ In a day or two George would be home, and then the situation must be faced. He could not be a man and run away from it.
He got into bed. Lying there in the dark, listening to the ceaseless creaking of the boards and joists, he cursed himself for a fool. His body was on fire. He knew that he could not possibly sleep, and guessed that Mary surely was awake. He was a damned, soft fool, and nothing more! Lying there with eyes open, staring at the darkness, it seemed to him that he heard a soft step on the stairs. The latch of his door started. His heart dissolved within him. He leapt out of bed, trembling, tingling in every limb. Mary had been wiser. He knew it. She had come to him for comfort. She was his. In a moment she would be sinking warm into his arms. His scruples vanished like a puff of smoke. He heard himself swallow, heard his breathcoming in short grunts. He opened the door to meet her, to take her. The stair was empty and dark. A rat scuttled away in the wainscot. A dank, wintry air possessed the house. He slammed the door to, viciously.
Next morning, before Mary had stirred from her bed, he had set out as usual for the Pentre.
Onthe same day, at noon, George Malpas paraded before the Governor of Shrewsbury Jail to take his discharge. The interview was short, almost friendly. The prisoner had behaved well throughout his term, the chaplain had reported on him as a young man of superior intelligence, and for these reasons a remission of a quarter of his sentence had been recommended and sanctioned. From the governor’s office he was marched across the rigid quadrangle that he knew and hated to another room where he signed a receipt for the personal belongings that had been taken from him in the Lesswardine police-court and now miraculously reappeared. A warder checked them as each was handed out:—
‘One watch. Silver chain with medal. One packet of letters. One notebook and lead pencil. One steel foot-rule, folding. Four shillings and twopence, silver and copper. One pocket-knife.’ He paused. ‘Is that all?’
George Malpas was seized with a sudden anxiety. He tried to speak; but long familiarity with the ways of warders made him frightened to use his tongue.
‘Not half!’ said the other, with a wink. ‘One leather wallet. Fifty pounds in Bank of England notes.’
‘God! That’s something like!’ said the other, handing it to George with a wink.
He thrust it into the breast pocket of the coat which had been placed that morning in his cell, and the action gave him an unfamiliar thrill. What a thing it was to have pockets!
‘Well, Malpas, it’s good-bye, then,’ said the warder, who was also a humorist. ‘Look in any time you’re passing!’
George Malpas did not smile. They showed him out of a small doorway at the side of the arch under which the prison vans came grinding in. From his cell he had been able to hear the sound of the horses’ shoes sliding on the stone. He saw a street along whichfree men were moving with a rapt, purposive hurry. Sometimes a passer-by would turn and look up idly at the great nail-studded doors and the fan of spikes that surmounted them. George had never seen the gateway before. He only knew the jail as a heavy building dominating the hill above the station. When they had brought him handcuffed from the train, humiliated, wondering if it were worth while wrenching himself free and throwing his body on the rails, they had driven him to the prison in a black van. Now he stood undetermined, not knowing which way to take. Over the hill-side the city of Shrewsbury sprawled: spires, chimney-pots, towers, and smoke stacks blowing in a free and windy sky. Not a leaf on the trees, and black, unfriendly dust whirling along brick pavements.
He shivered. For some reason his newly-pressed clothes hung loose and damp upon him. He must have lost flesh. Of course he had lost flesh. Who wouldn’t after fourteen months in jail? A cart came slowly past him with a load of horse manure. A good smell . . . a country smell! The driver cracked his whip, and the noise made George Malpas jump. That was a bad sign surely! The sooner he got a drink and steadied his nerves the better. He looked up and down the road for the sign of a public-house. A hundred yards away a strip of hoarding with gilt letters topped the sky-line of a red brick building. Astill’s Celebrated Entire, it said. Brummagem beer was better than nothing. He crossed the road with long strides, but a dog-cart driven fast down the middle of the street made him pause. There was a bicycle behind it, and he did not think he could avoid both. People should not be allowed to drive so furiously.
He reached the public-house and thanked God for his escape. He felt that in gaining the shelter of its walls he was doing more than sheltering from the bitter wind and the dust. He grew surer of himself, cracked a joke with the barmaid, and paid for his beer. The florin that she tendered him in change for a half-crown looked like a foreign coin. He examined it suspiciously.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘One of these new ones. It’s quite a change to get the Prince of Wales’ head,isn’t it? I don’t think he looks half the man of King Edward.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘No, he don’t.’ He examined the coin, bewildered. Then, fearing that she must read the whole of his story in his ignorance, he pocketed his money and darted out into the street again. It was strange how a broken habit reasserted itself. He put his hand in his unfamiliar waistcoat pocket and pulled out his watch. Nine o’clock. That was impossible. He laughed, realising that his watch had run down at its usual winding time on the night of his arrest.
‘I’m like a fool,’ he thought. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m dull, useless. I want another drink.’
Gradually, under the influence of the liquor, his confidence returned. It must be market day in Shrewsbury, he thought, for the streets were so full of people; but reflection told him that Shrewsbury market is not held on a Monday and that the crowd that moved on the pavements of the steep high street was no more than the normal week-day traffic. It gave him a thrill of pleasure to realise that people were not staring at him. He was encouraged to slacken his pace, to walk no longer as if some one were pursuing him. He stared in several shop windows, and at last found himself gazing at his own image in a long mirror. It gave him a start to find himself facing an elongated lath of a man that he did not know, until he realised that the mirror was a convex affair placed as an advertisement outside an eating-house to emphasise the contrast between a man who had fed there and one who had not. It was not such a bad idea. He would go in and eat his first square meal.
The place was nearly empty, for Shrewsbury does not dine till one o’clock. They brought him steak and kidney pudding, the best that he had ever tasted, and a pint of half and half. He began to feel a man again. He called the waiter for a second drink and ordered, with it, a local time-table. Looking through it at leisure he found that the trains to Llandwlas had not been altered, though there was now time to get a drink in the change at Craven Arms. If he caught the afternoon train he would have time to look about Shrewsburyfor another two hours and see to certain business matters that were in the back of his mind.
He paid his bill, gave the waiter a liberal tip, and walked up the hill past the half-timbered houses to the main street. He wondered if the place was where it used to be. Yes, it was still there. It pleased him to think that he hadn’t lost his memory. Nothing would have surprised him after all those useless, numbing months. Above the shop door was the inscription: ‘Emigration Office.’ Inside, a long counter, backed by posters of shipping companies, and a single yawning clerk who had been left in charge during the luncheon hour. He asked George what he could do for him.
‘Canada,’ said George. ‘I want to know all about it.’
The young man produced a sheaf of circulars and began to explain. He found it difficult to place the applicant, his pale face, his hat jammed on his head to hide the prison crop, his equivocal hands.
‘Are you a mechanic?’ he asked.
‘No. Farmer.’
The clerk stared at him. ‘Farmer? You want to buy land?’
‘No, I don’t. I want to work on it. I have a little money.’
‘Married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Taking the missus with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And children?’
‘No children.’
‘You have to get two references for an assisted passage, you know,’ said the clerk, producing a form.
‘Never mind that. I can’t wait for any rubbish of that kind. What’s the fare, steerage?’
The clerk looked it up. ‘Liverpool, Quebec. That’s what you want,’ he said. ‘Then you get right over to Calgary if you take my advice. I’ll write it all down for you.’
He did so, in a sloped, flourishing hand, on the back of one of the circulars. ‘You’ll get the Allan boat from Liverpool Saturday week,’ he said. George thanked him and plunged out into the street.
At the station he bought a daily paper, the North BromwichCourier. As usual on Monday it was full of football. Albion at the top of the first league: Notts Forest, second. Strange clubs from the Southern League had invaded that sanctuary: the season was half over, and they were shaping well. He read words that meant nothing to him. He could not concentrate, for he had drunk as much as was good for him. The platform seemed to him a noisy, exposed situation; for he could not yet be at his ease in a crowd. He started at the sound of a familiar voice speaking the word Lesswardine. A man passed him in a drab covert-coat: Mr Prosser of The Dyke, talking to young Maddy. They had not recognised him. He slipped into a urinal to avoid them and waited there till he heard the south-bound train roll in. Then he made a dash for a non-smoking carriage and hid himself behind his newspaper in the corner. The train was not full, and to his great relief no one entered his compartment.
They started smoothly and soon left Shrewsbury behind. A wintry landscape unfolded on either side of him: the low bow of the Wrekin; Caer Caradoc, a sheer crag on the left; the cloven bastions of the Long Mynd. He threw up the window and drank in great draughts of hill air. He laughed to see the green of the fields and the gray, monstrous hills. But he knew that he was a stranger. The country that he rejoiced to see had rejected him. If he lived to be a hundred not a single man of his acquaintance would forget that he had spent a year in jail. As soon as he should have left Craven Arms the hills would fold him in, draw him within the confines of his old life. He was free, but this could never be a real freedom. A wider country, a new life, Canada. . . . He was dying for a drink.
At Craven Arms the satisfaction of this desire did not seem easy, for others were before him in the Refreshment Room and every moment his chance of meeting Lesswardine people increased. He took a flask of brandy from the counter and paid for it without waiting for the change. The local train stood humbly in the siding. He chose a carriage already full of Radnor farmers whom he did not know. He drankdown the whole of his flask of brandy, and then fell into a kind of doze lulled by the sing-song voices of his companions. The train twisted along the valley in the dark, pulling up with a jolt at every upland station. At Llandwlas he turned out in a hurry and handed his ticket to a new porter, who stood at the gate in the dusk swinging a lantern. Men were shouting, driving bullocks into a pen. A trap was waiting with the lamps already lit. He avoided their light, but guessed by the colour of the horse and the erect figure of the driver that Marion was waiting for Mr Prosser. A year before he might have dared to ask for a lift to Chapel Green. God, how strange, how hauntingly strange the country smelt!
An hour later he staggered into the bar at the Buffalo. Mrs Malpas, a withered, pathetic figure, half the size of the woman whom he remembered, gave a cry and ran to meet him.
‘My son, my son!’
He kissed her, laughing heavily, blowing gusts of brandy into her eyes. She would not think of the spirit in his breath. Her hands caressed his face. She turned him to the light to see if he were changed.
‘Oh, George, you’re that thin! They haven’t fed you proper.’
He freed himself from her. ‘How’s dad?’ he asked.
‘The same as ever, George.’
‘Poor old devil!’ he said.
She drew him into the bar-parlour where the old man was sitting.
‘It’s George, my dear,’ she cried excitedly. ‘It’s our George!’
George slapped his father on the back: ‘Don’t you know me, dad?’
The old man only mumbled.
‘He’s gone downhill,’ said George. ‘You’ve been with him all the time. You don’t see the change like I do.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said listlessly. She could not keep her eyes from her son. ‘You’re thin, George, so thin!’
‘Then give us a drop of beer, mother. That’ll help fatten me.’
She could not refuse him. While she was filling thetankard at the counter old Drew and another labourer from the Pentre who had been driving Williams’s bullocks to Llandwlas station came into the bar.
‘My son’s home,’ she told them gaily. ‘And so thin! It’s a scandal. They starve them.’
‘So I’ve always heard tell, ma’am,’ said Drew, with a wink. ‘Here’s his health.’
‘Who’s that?’ George asked anxiously. He still found it difficult to resist the impulse of hiding himself.
‘I didn’t see,’ Mrs Malpas lied.
She gave George his beer, and he settled down to it. The two labourers spoke spasmodically in the bar.
‘Well, mother,’ he said at last. ‘Tell us how things have been going on.’
Mrs Malpas pursed her lips. ‘Going on! That’s the word. I wrote to you, George. You got my letter?’
‘Yes, I got that all right.’
Mrs Malpas grew intense. Her hands trembled with emotion. ‘She’s a bad woman, George. Downright bad. I told you so before.’
‘There’s not another kid waiting for me, no surprise packet of that kind?’
‘No. But she’s that deceitful, George. She’s no better than her father. She couldn’t have used you worse than she has. So open! You never made a worse mistake.’
‘You let me teach her!’ said George between his teeth. ‘I’ll learn her her bleeding duty!’
‘Don’t swear, George!’
‘You ought to be more shocked at her than me!’
‘And that Fellows is no better. Rotten bad. Always going after women. There’s Susie Hind.’
‘God! He’s welcome!’
‘And Mr Prosser’s daughter. They had to turn him off The Dyke.’
‘Her?’ George laughed. ‘He’s a proper young bull!’
‘And all the time living as man and wife with Mary. Laughing at you, the two of them, behind your back.’
‘I’ll see to that!’ said George grimly. The liquor was spreading in hot fumes through his brain.
‘But you won’t go up to-night, George,’ she said anxiously.
‘Won’t I? You bet I will.’
‘You’d best stay here, George. Don’t you go near her. She’ll talk you round.’
‘I’ll shut her mouth for her. And I’ll get level with him too!’
The old woman grew alarmed.
‘Don’t go near them, George,’ she pleaded. ‘There’s a home for you here. Leave them to it. They’re not worth taking the notice of.’
‘What about the kids, eh?’
‘Fellows will have set them again you. They won’t know you. You see!’
‘That’s what I’m going to do.’ He grew excited. ‘And I tell you, if I have to do time again I’m going to put that b— on his back!’
He put down his tankard with another oath. One of the drinkers in the bar knocked at the counter.
‘Keep still till I’m back, George. I won’t be a minute,’ she said.
‘Get us another pint, then,’ George grumbled.
She took his tankard, and having given the labourers their change and wished them good-night, she brought it back to him filled. God would forgive her this sin. Even if he were drunk she wanted to keep him at the Buffalo, for she dreaded Abner’s strength. When she returned he was still on his feet, talking indistinctly to the old man, who was shaken by a fit of coughing that choked him. She thumped his back.
‘That’s right, dad,’ said George. ‘Better out than in!’ The joke appeared to please him.
She drew him down gently to his chair and gave him the tankard.
‘Sit down, my dear,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘I’ve done talking,’ said George obstinately. ‘Let me get at him: that’s what I want. Let me get at the dirty pair of them!’
She bent over him and whispered in his ear.
‘The money, George,’ she said. ‘Where did you put it? She told me you hadn’t hid it in the house, but I reckon she lied to me, or they couldn’t have lived all this time with him out of work. They must have got at it. Where did you put it, my son?’
He stared at her with affected stupidity. ‘What money?’
‘Fifty pounds. Out of my box. I guessed it was you that had it. That’s why I didn’t dare tell the police.’
He laughed. ‘Good old woman! I knew you wouldn’t. You’re a good mother. I’ll say that for you.’
‘Then you can give it back to me. Give it to me, my son.’
His cunning returned to him.
‘I’ve lost it, mother. Every penny. It’s gone.’
‘Gone? Fifty pounds? You couldn’t lose it, George.’
‘You try backing horses, and you’ll see,’ he said.
‘Racing, too!’ she cried. ‘Oh, George, George! It was all I had.’
‘Well, you’ve got me, mother,’ he said. ‘What more do you want? It’s no good crying over spilt milk.’
She came to his arms, weakly sobbing, and clung to him.
‘Now don’t go crying all over me,’ he said thickly. ‘Loose me! I’m going.’
‘George, you mustn’t go, dear. You’re not fit.’
‘I tell you I’m going. Leave hold of me!’
‘George!’
‘Do you say I’m drunk? I’ll show you if I’m drunk!’
Still she clung to him. He gave her a push and she went over into the hearth with a clatter of fire-irons. The old man began to wail in a high-pitched voice: ‘Help! Help!’
‘Shut your damned mouth, you!’ said George.
He blundered out into the bar, knocking against the end of the counter and bringing down a tray of glasses with a crash. A freakish idea seized him. He took the key from the door and locked it on the outside. He shook with laughter at the joke.
A young moon sank slowly over the misty woodland. He stopped in the middle of the road and solemnly turned over the packet of banknotes in his pocket for luck. Drunk? Not he! He was sharp enough to think of everything. He turned his uncertain steps toward Wolfpits.
Before him, with half an hour in hand, old Drew went pounding along the same road as fast as his rheumatic knees would let him. He reached Wolfpits breathless and knocked violently at Mary’s kitchen door. She was upstairs, putting the children to bed. Morgan was tucked in already, and Gladys was having her hair brushed. Panic seized Mary when she heard the old man’s knock. Those rapid blows seemed to her to herald catastrophe. She ran downstairs and came to the door with an ashen face.
‘Hey, missus,’ Drew panted. ‘Be Abner in there with ’ee?’
‘No, he’s not back yet,’ she said, relieved. Then, as a new fear chilled her: ‘Isn’t he at the Pentre?’
‘Most like he be,’ said Drew, slowly regaining his breath and leaning on the doorpost. ‘I’ve been a driving they bullocks to Llandwlas station.’
She looked at the clock. It was a little earlier than Abner’s usual hour of return.
‘Better wait if you want him. Take a seat, Mr Drew. He’ll be back in a few minutes.’
‘You must stop ’en . . . you must stop ’en!’ said the old man impressively. ‘If he come down over the field I shall meet ’en myself. But often he do come by the road. You must send some one to stop ’en that way.’
‘Stop him? What do you mean?’ she cried.
‘You must stop ’en. Your George be coming up from the Buffalo, mad with the drink. You must stop Abner. Keep him away, or there’ll be murder done, sure ‘nuff! Murder! You take my word for it!’
‘How can I stop him? What can I do, Mr Drew?’ she cried.
‘Go yourself, missus. Or send Mrs Mamble. Her’ll run along for ’ee.’
‘No. I must wait for George,’ she said.
An inspiration came to her. She took a piece of paper and scribbled a note to Abner, telling him that George was coming, begging him, for her sake, to keep out of the way until she had seen him. Then she called upstairs: ‘Gladys!’ and the child came down with her hair plaited for the night.
‘Come here, my darling,’ she said. ‘Put your shoes on. I want you to go down to the corner and meet Abner and give this to him.’
‘Isn’t it rather dark, mam?’ said Gladys, thrilled by the prospect of adventure. She shivered.
‘No, my darling. There’s a lovely moon, isn’t there, Mr Drew? Just wait at the bottom of the drive till he comes, or go a little way up the road. Let me put your coat on.’
She helped the child into her overcoat and kissed her. Gladys took the note. ‘Won’t our Abner be surprised?’ she said, as she went.
‘I’d best bide along with you, missus,’ said old Drew darkly.
‘I’d rather you went, Mr Drew,’ she replied. ‘I know you mean it kindly.’
‘Well, my dear, I’ll be going on up to the Pentre. Maybe I’ll meet Abner up the fields. Shall I send Mrs Mamble in to ’ee?’
‘No. Mrs Mamble’s out: gone to the shops in Lesswardine. I’d rather be alone when he comes. It was good of you to warn me.’
He left her, and she waited. Her brain followed the messenger down the avenue step by step. She realised that the most awful moment of her life was upon her. She wondered if she ought to pray. She could not pray. What right had she, a guilty woman, to call on Divine help? She must fight for herself. She looked at the clock. Barely two minutes had passed since she had looked before. Surely Abner could not be long.
Her strained ears heard steps in the distance. She peered out into the moonlight. Two dim figures were visible. Abner, in his obstinate folly, had seen her note and refused her warning. Even now there was time to stop him. She dared not call, for it struck her that George might well be coming up behind him. She stood, trembling with impatience, waiting for him to come within earshot. The figures of the man and the child became more distinct. His gait was unsteady but too fast for Gladys, who ran at his side. He carried her note unfolded. The paper showed white in the moonlight. They came toward her, and she saw thatit was George. A cry came from her lips. He left the child behind him, stalked straight into the kitchen and flung his hat on the table. He was as pale as death; his cropped head shaped like a skull. The walk had partially sobered him.
‘Go straight upstairs, Gladys,’ she called.
‘It’s dad, mam. I give him Abner’s note.’
‘Go upstairs as I tell you!’
Gladys’s mouth fell. ‘Why, mam?’ she faltered.
George pulled a chair toward him and flopped into it. ‘You be said!’ he shouted.
The child ran upstairs, frightened. George sat on, his eyes staring savagely at her out of his sunken orbits.
‘Well, Mary,’ he said at last. ‘This is a bloody fine game!’
She could not speak for her increasing terror. She had never felt so frightened of him in her life. ‘He looks like a criminal,’ she thought.
‘Speak up,’ he said. ‘What’ve you got to say for yourself. What’s the meaning of this?’ He held out her note. ‘Tell him to keep away, would you? You dirty bitch!’
‘George,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t believe all people tell you. You know your mother’s against me!’
‘Hold your noise about my mother! She’s a good woman, she is, and a good wife. The likes of you’s not fit to go near her. I know what’s been going on here without her telling me. Sleeping with the lodger! Don’t you deny it, or I’ll bash your mouth in for you!’
‘Never, George, never!’ she cried, passionately righteous. ‘I swear by God as I’m standing here, it never came to that.’
‘You can swear by the devil for all I care. I’ve finished with you. It’s him I want!’ His voice left him. He cleared his throat and spat viciously in the fire.
Mary pulled her senses together. ‘George,’ she said, ‘have you ever known me tell you a lie?’
‘I never knew a woman who wouldn’t,’ he said, with a laugh.
She let his speech pass. ‘Imagine the hard times we’ve had,’ she went on, ‘and not so much as a wordfrom you! Not a penny in the house! The way he’s worked for us and suffered for us, and all for the sake of the word he gave you. There’s not a man in a million who’d have done it! And all for nothing!’
‘All for nothing!’ he mocked: ‘tell that to some one else!’
‘Without him we should have starved . . . me and the children. Can’t you see that for yourself? And yet you believe the first word that’s spoken against him and me. You ought to go down on your knees to him and thank him for what he’s done. If it hadn’t been for him you’d have found us all in the workhouse. George, you must believe me!’
‘Oh, shut your bloody mouth!’ he said, rising clumsily.
‘George, you must!’ she repeated. She put her hand on his shoulder, but he pushed her away. Both of them heard a step on the path. She made a last, desperate effort. ‘George, if you touch him . . . ‘ she cried. ‘If you . . .!
Abner stood in the doorway. His face was solemn and heavily lined. The sight of Malpas did not seem to disturb him.
‘Hallo, George,’ he said, in a thick voice. ‘How goes it?’
‘Don’t you talk to me!’ said George, threateningly. ‘You wait till I’ve told you what I think of you, you damned swine!’
Abner flushed.
‘Steady, George! Go steady! We’ve got to talk this over. You sit down.’
‘There’s a sight too much talk about the both of you,’ George snarled. ‘When you’ve broke up a man’s home behind his back and then tell him to take a seat in it. I’m going to give you your lesson before you get kicked out!’
He made a threatening movement toward Abner, who watched him closely. Spider came dancing into the room. She leapt up at Abner with little yelps of joy at his return, licking his hand. At this sight the anger that smouldered in George’s brain leapt into flame.
‘Not only the wife and the kids,’ he cried. ‘You’vegot round the lot of them, even the bleeding dog!’
He snatched up the poker and hit out at Spider. Abner took the blow on his thigh.
‘Here, drop that!’ he cried.
But George’s senses had left him. He flew at Abner, raining desperate blows at his head.
‘George! You’ll kill him!’ Mary screamed.
Abner had picked up a chair and protected himself as best he could. For a second the two men stood staring at one another, panting for breath. Then another gust of anger swept over George and he made for Abner again. Mary tried to throw herself between them, but Abner flung her aside. The legs of the chair were splintered under George’s blows. He continued to lash out, and it was as much as Abner could do to defend himself. He saw that the man’s flushed brain meant murder, nothing less. Somehow he must put an end to this madness. George’s hobnails slithered on the stone flags. Abner took his chance, and timed his blow. George went down with a groan: his poker sang like a tuning fork on the floor.
‘Abner, Abner, what have you done?’ Mary cried. She ran to George and bent over him, pulling up his head. Abner, with black blood dripping from a bruised vein on his forehead, stood back. The corners of his mouth twitched with his violent breathing: he still held his chair uplifted.
‘It was him or me,’ he panted.
‘He’s dead! You’ve killed him!’
‘Not he! That sort don’t die.’
But he himself was anxious for a moment and stooped over George’s body, breathing heavily.
‘No. He’s all right,’ he said. ‘Just knocked out. I’ve been like that myself.’
‘What can we do?’ she cried, staring at him with frightened eyes.
‘Leave him alone. He’ll come round.’
‘I sent you a note by Gladys,’ she said inconsequently. ‘He met her and took it off her. I’d told you to keep away.’
‘If I’d had it it would have made no difference.You can’t stop a thing like this. Get up and put your things on. I’ll keep an eye on him. Get the children dressed and all.’
She stared at him as though she couldn’t take in what he was saying. She was still holding one of George’s inanimate hands that she had clutched in her first anxiety. ‘Dress them, Abner? What do you mean?’
‘It’s time we cleared. He won’t hurt.’
‘But I couldn’t leave him like this!’
He took her arm. ‘Do what I tell you. Go on! The sooner we clear the better.’
‘Abner, we can’t turn out in the middle of the night.’
‘That’s all right. You won’t come to no harm. I’ll look after you.’
‘Abner, I can’t!’ she wailed. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’
‘It’s either go now or stay altogether. I can’t stop here. That’s clear enough. If you and me are going together we must go now.’
‘Abner, my dear, I can’t face it. Not after this. Abner, I’m too frightened to move a step. And if he died . . .’
‘I tell you he’s all right. He’ll come round sober. If I was to wait for that there’d be no end to it. It’d begin all over again.’
She gazed at him, anguished.
‘Abner, my love, I daren’t. Don’t you understand? They’ll follow us. They’re bound to. The police . . .’
‘It’s no good thinking of that,’ he said.
She began crying softly, there on the floor above the prostrate body. Her fingers mechanically stroked George’s hand. The action irritated Abner. He could not look at her. He took a cloth from the table and mopped the blood that was running into his eyes. He propped himself up with the table edge, for he was still giddy from George’s blow on his temple. A sudden vision came to him of another kitchen, another man lying on the floor, another woman crying. The room swam before him. He steadied himself and sank down into a chair. The sense of time left him. He could not be certain where he was or in what period of his life.A shrill singing noise was in his ears. Through it, distantly, he heard the clear tone of a clock striking eight; and this recalled him to life, to the room that he had lost in a blur of confused memories, to the sound of Mary’s sobbing. He remembered that he had been speaking, but could only repeat the last words that had left an echo in his memory: ‘It’s no good . . .’
‘What?’ he heard her ask.
‘Wasting time over this. If you’re coming you must come now. Now or never.’
She neither moved nor answered him. He felt sorry for her: bent over her, pressed her to him. She turned her face away.
‘I can’t, Abner . . . not now,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t think: I can’t feel. Oh, why didn’t he kill me . . . why didn’t he kill me?’
He would have lifted her to her feet, but she lay a dead weight in his arms. All power of volition had left her. She sank back again limply, shaking her head from side to side. Her hair had become loose. It hung down over her shoulder.
Abner felt that he must do something to break the paralysing spell that held them.
‘I’m going, Mary,’ he said. ‘I can’t stay. Let me help you up! Come along now!’
She shook her head. ‘It’s no use, Abner.’
‘There’s naught left for you here that I can see. It’s only you and the kids I want to look after.’
She could only go on sobbing: ‘It’s no use . . . it’s no use!’
‘Well, I’m no judge. Maybe yo’m right,’ he said.
He turned from her and went upstairs to collect a few of his belongings. On his way down again Gladys came timidly to the door of Mary’s room and called his name. Her piteous fragility touched him. He took her in his arms and kissed her.
‘Where are you going, Abner?’ she whispered. ‘Where’s mam?’
He picked the child up and carried her to her cot, telling her that she must be a good girl and go to sleep. Morgan was sitting up with his fingers in his eyes,crying mechanically. ‘You look after our Morgan till mam comes,’ he told her.
He came down into the kitchen.
‘Mary . . .’ he said.
She did not answer. He went to her and put his arms round her neck.
‘Good-bye, lass,’ he said.
Her sobbing increased, but she would not raise her head. He wanted to pick her up in his arms as he had picked up Gladys, to carry her away with him; but he knew it was useless. He kissed her again, then rose and went to the door, closing it softly behind him. The cold air revived him. He drew it gratefully into his lungs. He was conscious of a strange physical lightening, as though a material load had slipped from his shoulders.
Behindhim Wolfpits lay brooding in the moonlight on its departed life. He did not turn to look at it, and in half an hour had reached the main road. He did not know where he was going, but turned mechanically toward the east, the quarter from which he had first entered the hills. At present it was not in him to strike out a way for himself; he could do no more than retrace his steps. He walked fast, impelled by an unconscious energy, and all the time one dominant thought possessed his brain. ‘Curse women! Curse all women! Curse the bloody lot of them!’
He passed through Chapel Green and Mainstone, dead villages both. Not a light in their windows. As dead as Wolfpits. The poplar under which he had trysted with Susie hung above him. The moonlight broke in ripples on its lofty crown. He saw nothing at all, heard nothing but the steady rhythm of his feet and the monotonous burden of words in his brain. The moon sank. Now the road was only faintly luminous with the reflected pallor of the sky. He heard a new noise behind him, and the lamps of a motor-car swept a slanting beam that carried his shadow into the hedge. The noise of the engine became distinct. A top-heavy van loomed up above the two blinding eyes of the headlights. He stood aside to let it pass; but as its roar overtook him, his own voice gave a hail that was swept along in the draught. He did not know why he had shouted, but a second later the car pulled up with grinding brakes, striking sparks of fire from the road. He ran after it.
‘What’s up?’ the driver called.
It was a man whom Abner had sometimes met at Llandwlas station when he was driving the milk from The Dyke.
‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ he said. ‘Want a lift?’ Abner caught him up and climbed into the seat next his.
They set off again, whirling like a tornado throughthe darkness. They could only speak to each other by shouting, for the engine was old and full of rattles, and the milk-pails jangled behind.
‘Drop you Lesswardine Bridge?’ the driver shouted.
‘Drop me in hell if you like,’ Abner replied.
‘What about Shrewsbury to be going on with?’
‘That’ll do me!’
The roar and vibration filled Abner’s aching brain. They turned northward at Craven Arms and plunged on between the rising masses of the Mynd and Caer Caradoc. The hotels of Church Stretton burned like a constellation in the darkness on their left. The lights of Shrewsbury appeared.
‘That’s good going, bain’t it?’ said the driver, with a laugh.
He refused the drink that Abner offered him and set him down in the outskirts of the city. Abner’s head was splitting. He staggered into a pub and drank three double whiskies straight off. What was there for a man to do but drink?
He passed into the main streets of the town. After the silence and darkness of Wolfpits it seemed to him a city of palaces sparkling with light. He moved in a dazed manner through the streets; had another drink, and began to feel better. For the first time since he had set out he felt capable of a determination. He resolved, as far as his money would let him, to get drunk.
He sampled several pubs and at last found one to his fancy. There, in a small and crowded bar, he settled himself in a corner next the counter and ordered his drinks methodically. Nobody took much notice of him, for most of the men who had gathered there were regular customers who came in every night. The only person with whom he had anything in common was a lanky labourer with a small head and dark eyes who sat at a table opposite to him drinking beer. The evening wore on. Abner was no longer conscious of such details. The only things that detached themselves from the warm, rosy confusion were certain points of light, the stopper of a cut-glass decanter that flashed rays of ruby and emerald-green; a brooch of brilliants thatthe barmaid wore; a medal hanging on the watch-chain of the labourer opposite to him. Abner’s fancy played with these lights childishly fascinated. He heard not a word of the conversation that buzzed around him, keeping only enough of his senses to ask and pay for his drinks.
It was nearly ten o’clock when another figure entered the bar: a man dressed in a military uniform with staring eyes and a red face that appeared to be transfixed by the skewer of a waxed moustache. He carried a silver-headed cane under his arm; his tunic fitted his back like a glove, and in his cap he wore a raffish bunch of ribbons. He shook hands with the barmaid, swept the room with a curious glance and settled down with his drink at the elbow of the lanky labourer. He spoke so loudly, and with such an accent of gentility that his voice could be heard above the rumour of the bar. He slapped his neighbour on the back.
‘Out of work?’ he said. ‘There’s no need for any one to be out of work in these days. I know the kind of work you chaps get, and damn me if I can see how you put up with it. Now, what have you been earning on the farm? Fifteen shilling a week? I guessed as much. And ten hours’ work a day. That’s a fine life for a man! That’s a damned fine life! I know what it is, my boy. I’ve had some of it. But that was many years ago. I had the sense to join the army, the good old Fifty-third, and I’ve lived the life of a gentleman ever since. That’s what you ought to do. Take the King’s shilling! You don’t know what you’re missing. Travel? See the world? I can tell you I’ve seen things you wouldn’t credit. India . . . Egypt . . . Cyprus. That’s a fine place now. You should see the women in Cyprus! Hey? Women!’ He broke into an obscene laugh.
The last word echoed late in Abner’s brain. ‘Women!’ he heard himself mumble. ‘Curse the lot of them! That’s what I say.’
The sergeant turned to him, delighted to have dragged another person into the conversation. The old hands nudged each other and smiled.
‘No, that’s going too far, my boy,’ he said. ‘Youdon’t know women till you’ve rolled about the world a bit. There’s many a chap that’s been disappointed with them in England that’s gone into the army and changed his mind. Now you’re another, like my friend here, that’s cut out for a gentleman’s life. There’s no saying that a fine chap like you mightn’t go a lot farther than I ever did. Athletics count a lot in the army. Football, cricket, and that. Upon my word, it’s just like a long holiday, and that’s the truth. A chap like you might be an officer before he finished with it.’ He crossed to Abner, took his arm, and whispered in his ear: ‘If you went out to Egypt where the second battalion is now, I could show you some places in Cay-ro as would soon change your mind about women. God, it’s a gentleman’s life, Egypt, with all the blacks to wait on you as if you was a lord! And whisky twopence a glass in the canteen! Women! I’d learn you about women.’
‘I’ve learned all I want aboutthem,’ said Abner sullenly.
But he allowed the sergeant to stand him a drink, and found, as the time went on, that he was as good a fellow as he had ever met . . . he and the dark labouring man who sat at their table. When Abner’s money was finished, the sergeant behaved like a friend to him. ‘Money! What’s money?’ he said, and pulled out of his pocket a handful of silver that fell in a tinkling cascade on the marble-topped table. They sat and talked. The sergeant kept the ball rolling, patting Abner on the back and taking him by the arm with a friendly grip. He passed through a phase of exaltation into one of contented stupor, in which his only anxiety was where he should find lodging for the night.
‘Don’t you worry about that!’ said the sergeant. ‘I’ll see you through, my boy! You trust me. There’s just time for another.’
So, in a flash of brilliant light, the evening passed. A policeman put in his head at the door and disappeared. Abner found his new friend helping him to his feet. He laughed weakly, for he found that he could not stand.
‘Steady does it, my boy, steady does it. You holt on to me and you’ll be all right. God, you’re a tidy weight!’
They passed laughing through an uncomfortably narrow doorway and out into the road. Street lamps danced before them in an eddying line. The road had a resilient, velvety feeling, like no other road that Abner had known. They walked arm in arm, the three of them. Abner felt himself impelled to stop suddenly, and take the sergeant into his confidence.
‘Look here, kid,’ he said, ‘I’m boozed.’
‘Boozed? Not a bit of it!’ said the sergeant, with an encouraging slap on the back.
‘Here, you’ll look after me?’ said Abner anxiously.
‘You bet I will!’
‘You’re a good pal, kid,’ said Abner. ‘Straight, you are!’
Half an hour later he threw himself with relief upon a mattress that was built up of three distinct slabs and pulled a gray blanket over his eyes to shut out the host of lights that swam before them. He heard the voices of men buzzing round him and heavy, regular steps on the stone flags. All he cared about now was sleep.
He fell into a drugged slumber, haunted by many dreams. He dreamed of Halesby, of old Mrs Moseley’s room and Susan Wade sitting demurely at the foot of her aunt’s bed. Alice put in her head and called him, telling him that his father was dead and that she could not do without him. He got up and followed her with Tiger prancing at his heels. ‘I can’t abear dogs, Abner,’ she cried. All his old resentment against her rose up in him, and he would have told her what he thought of her had not Mick Connor appeared at that moment and shouted his name. ‘Come along wud you!’ said Mick, ‘why would you be bothering your head about the likes of her? It’s time we were looking for a drop in Nagle’s Back.’ They walked on over twilight fields talking of old times. ‘Go aisy round the corner,’ Mick warned him, ‘for the ould devil of a policeman’s got his eye on us!’ They went round the edge of the woodland on tiptoe, and there, sure enough, stood Bastard, witha face as white as death and a thin stream of blood trickling from his nose. ‘He’s dead said Abner. ‘Don’t look at him. Our George killed him!’ ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Mick replied. And as he spoke Bastard turned and stared at them with blank eyes. Abner set off running. He knew that his only chance was to run as hard as he could. He plunged into a close lane, smelling of elder trees and nettles. Now he knew where he was! This was the Dark Half-hour, and if he kept on running he would emerge in safety on the hill-side above Mawne Colliery, just below the cherry orchard. Even now he could hear the thudding of hammers at Willises’ forge. Bastard was gaining on him, pounding along behind him, but a man stood in his path and barred the way. At first he thought it was his father, but a sudden revelation showed him that it was George Malpas. George Malpas, deathly white under his prison crop, and armed with a poker. They closed and struggled. It was a desperate business, for George managed to keep on battering his head with the poker, and Mary, in her strange tragic beauty, clutched at his arm. He knew that he was done for; fell with his hands locked about George’s throat. Bastard seized him from behind, and he woke.
In prison? Surely this could be nothing else. A long stone room lit by a single gas-jet burning low and blue. He saw that he was not alone. The whole room was spread with mattresses, on which were lying figures covered with gray blankets like his own. His neighbour, a man who snored heavily and clutched at his hair with his hands, gave a groan. This could not be a dream. Through the thudding of hammers in his head his consciousness painfully emerged. He remembered that he had come to Shrewsbury the night before, that he had slunk into a pub and drunk heavily. Where was he now? In a workhouse . . . a hospital . . . a doss-house . . . a jail? He could not guess. In any case it hurt his head to think. He tried to get his bearings. He had gone to bed in his boots. That was natural enough. He felt for his new watch. It was not there. He swore under his breath, not at the unknown people who had stolen it butat his evil luck. He supposed that they had stripped him of his money too—not that it mattered! He searched his left hand trouser pocket to see if anything remained. Not a penny! He laughed to himself. In the other pocket, to his astonishment, his fingers lighted on a single coin. How the devil had it got there? He fished it out, then propped himself on his elbow and held it up in the faint light. It was a new shilling. He stared at it; then spat on it for luck. So, tired and wretched beyond words, he turned over on his side, wrapped the blanket round his head, and went to sleep.