CHAPTER XXXITHE WAY TO PARADISEMARYsat behind her counter sewing, for customers were not frequent, and she had plenty of time on her hands. June was well advanced, and the fact was proclaimed by a long spray of dog-roses which stood in a glass beside her. The bloom of the month had not passed her by, and her whole being was making good its losses with the elasticity of youth. Not that she did not carry in her face the same traces of sorrow she also bore in her heart; but as beauty, mental or physical, cannot be made perfect without suffering, it was a fairer woman sat under the light of the window among the fruits of gracious earth than the one who had parted from Rhys Walters at the Dipping-Pool for the last time, six months before. Time is a great healer, but his rival, Work, runs him hard, and though the former’s chance had yet to come with Mary, the latter had begun his ministration.Now and then she would break into a snatch of song, and although it would end, for the most part, in a sigh and a long silence, it indicated a state of things impossible a little while ago. She lived very much alone, and but for the old woman who owned the shop and the occasional looker-in, who came to make purchases, she spoke to no one. Only when George Williams contrived to get into the town, and presented himself with a certain determined shyness at the door, did she have any touch with the human beings who surrounded her.And once, when, in the quiet of the evening, she had been induced to stroll out with him, they had crossed the Wye andwandered a mile or two between the dimness of the hedges, a faint yellow sky overhead and the white crescent of a young moon rising above the limitless translucence of the ether. She had not known at the time how much she was enjoying herself.She thought of it again as her needle stitched on and on and the feet of the passers-by rang on the pavement. The shop was so low that, when a cart drove along in the middle of the road, there was nothing but a vision of wheels. One was just stopping outside, and, as a pair of singularly crooked legs was to be seen climbing down, she laid her work by, and rose as the door opened to admit a person whom she had often seen, oftener heard of, and never spoken to.The Pig-driver entered the shop with the air of a man who brings good tidings, so cheerful was his demeanour, so satisfactory his smile, so full of a precise and proven benevolence. A chair stood by the counter, and he drew it yet closer and sat down with a studied care, which suggested that he meant to make immense purchases at illimitable leisure. Before speaking, he eyed her carefully from top to toe.“What can I serve you with?” inquired Mary civilly.“He! he!” chuckled Bumpett, “I bean’t come to buy; no, no, not to buy.”He laid his stick along the counter, and spreading his elbows out over it, leered up into her face.“I be come to see you, you an’ no one else. Ah! I’m an old stump, I am, but I do like the sight of a pretty face.”She looked annoyed.“No offence, my dear, no offence.”“What is your business?” she asked, drawing a little back from the counter.“It isn’t business, my dear, it’s pleasure this time. I’ve come because it does me a sight of good to get a look at you, he! he! Name o’ goodness! A wonderful thing it is to think what a deal o’ mischief a smart-like wench can do. Ye’vedone for that fellow up at Masterhouse, an’ no mistake. It’s all up wi’ him now.”She stared at him and laid hold of the wooden counter with her hand.“Ye needn’t look,” said Bumpett, “’tis true. I had it from Mrs. Davis, straight. There won’t be no more o’ he up at the farm, I’ll warrant.”“But what has it to do with me?” exclaimed Mary, unable to connect the Pig-driver’s meanings, but scenting trouble vaguely. “I don’t know what you’re driving at, Mr. Bumpett.”“Ye don’t know nothin’ about it, eh? My! you’re a bold one, you are, for all ye look as meek as skim-milk. I suppose you’ll tell me ye don’t know George Williams next. That’ll be no use though, because I see’d ye wi’ him at Llangarth Fair hangin’ on to his arm like a ladyship. But ye’ve done him no good wi’ your sheep’s eyes.”“I don’t believe you—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”“Ah, don’t ye? Well then, I’ll tell ye.”He smacked his lips, for the moment he longed for had arrived.“You sit down, girl. ’Tis a long tale. Ye won’t, won’t ye? Ah! I hope ye’ve got a good pair o’ legs under ye then, for ye’ll have to stand some time. He’s an ungrateful dog is Williams, behaving shameful to me, that was like a father to ’im; me that put the bread into ’is mouth when ’e was starving. Then ’e got took on at Masterhouse; nothin’ was too good for ’im then, I believe. I warned ’er—went out o’ my way by a mile an’ more, I did. Ye needn’t look at me like that, ye mawk-mouthed piece o’ spite; ye’ve done my job for me, and I’m come to thank ye. Now, mind ye this. When Mrs. Walters got wind that ’e was keepin’ company wi’ a slut like you, there weren’t no more ado, I can tell ye. She says, ‘Damn ye!’ she says, ‘ye’ll clear yerself out o’ this or ye’ll be done wi’ that trollop down i’ the town.’ That’s a sweet bit o’ news to ye, I’ll be bound.”“And is he gone?” asked Mary, her face white.“Gone! I suppose he is, indeed. She had ’im out that blessed evenin’. She’s one o’ the holy sort, an’ trust them to stand no jolly doin’s.”Tears started to Mary’s eyes. She could not but believe the old man’s words, and it was terrible to think that she, of all people, had been the cause of fresh misfortune to George. She had known him first—a poor man, so poor that he had a hard struggle to live, and then she had seen the difference in him when luck had come his way. He had told her many of his troubles, and, when she had allowed interest to creep in, sympathy and friendship had followed.The day seemed to have grown darker, the light to have faded. She felt herself a blight, a malignant influence which had come into this man’s hard life and made it harder. She would have given anything to hide her distress from Bumpett, but she could not, and he sat gloating in his chair over the effect he had made.“You’re a bad man,” she said, when she had managed to control herself a little, “I’ve heard it said of you, and God knows it’s true.”The Pig-driver’s reply was cut short by the opening of the shop door and the entrance of a customer. She dried her eyes quickly, and he, finding that he could no longer monopolize his victim, departed, and went away a satisfied and contented man, feeling well towards this life. A little boy begged of him in the street and he gave him a halfpenny.The old woman for whom Mary worked did not generally descend from her room overhead till late in the afternoon. The girl had charge of everything during the greater part of the day, but, at five o’clock, her mistress would come down and take her place behind the counter, leaving her free to do as she pleased and go where she would. She was never asked to give any account of her doings, and was only expected to be back at nine o’clock to put away things in the shop and to close up the house. Sometimes she would stay on in herplace, taking out her book, for she still tried to teach herself, and sometimes, since summer had begun, go out into the scented evening, communing with her own soul and drawing peace from the peace around.To-night, though she had little heart to leave the house with, she found her mind unable to fix itself on the letters of the simple pages she was spelling out. It flew off continually to George—George unemployed, George despondent, George disgraced because he had not consented to forego the infinitesimal part she had been willing to give him in her life.It was striking six by the town clock as she went out. The street was a quiet one and there were few people in it, but as her hand left the latch she saw Williams coming towards her. She went hurriedly on to meet him.“Come,” she exclaimed, without other greeting, “I want to see you.”She put her hand on his sleeve and almost turned him round. George turned with her and they went forward, hardly thinking where they were going, he because he was with her and would have gone with her to perdition, and she because she had no other thought than the one which had been in her all day.“Oh, George, why have you left your place?” she cried.“How do you know I’ve left it?” said he, almost roughly.“I heard to-day. Mr. Bumpett the Pig-driver was here. ’Twas him I got it from.”“What was he doing?”“He was in the shop.”“Buying?”“No. He came to tell me you was leaving Masterhouse. He told me why, too.”An exclamation broke from the man.“Oh, I know. I know all about it,” said the girl, her voice trembling. “Do go back now, George, do. For all the good you’ve done me, I’ve given you nought but harm. Let me be an’ go back to the farm, and I’ll never see you nor speak toyou, if they’ll take you back. It will make me happy, oh! so happy, George. Do you hear what I say?”“I hear.”“To-morrow, George. Go to-morrow. She may fill up your place if you wait. Will you go early?”“I bean’t going. I’m off to Hereford to-morrow; I’ve come down to say good-bye to ’e, Mary.”“Oh! George Williams, will nothing turn you?” she entreated.“Nothin’,” said the young man.Looking at him she saw it was useless to try to move him. His face was hard, as she had first known it. There was a barred cell in Williams’ heart, and when he had entered into it, no one could draw him out, not even the woman he loved.“If you be going to Hereford, you’ll be gone from me, the same as if you was at Great Masterhouse. It will be all one,” said Mary presently.Not knowing how to explain himself, he did not reply. If he stayed on in his place it would mean a denial of the faith that was in him, a disloyalty to her. He did not so much as consider it, and it annoyed him that she should do so.They had turned into a deep lane leading up to the higher ground. From a clump of thorn-trees further on the cuckoo was calling. When the lane ended, the two stopped and looked at Llangarth beneath their feet.Mary’s heart was full; the world was too complicated for her, man too hard, and George was going. She had ruined him, not willingly, but none the less effectually. She glanced up at him and saw his look fixed on her. His eyes were soft in his hard face, and in them lay the weary knowledge of how far outside Paradise he stood. She made a step towards him, catching her breath.“George!” she cried, “oh, but I’ve been bad to you!”* * * * * *It was some time after that they came down the lane againtogether, her hand, like a little child’s, lying in his. The late sunset had faded, and its remains were just dying along the edge of the world. They said little, the man of few words and the woman of wounded heart. It was the silence of knowledge, profound, irrevocable, lying miles and miles from the door of their lips; of trust, of sorrow, of coming joy. For her the joy was but faintly showing itself through the veil, for him it stood in the path.If his Eve had caused him to be expelled from Paradise by one door, she had let him in again at another.
MARYsat behind her counter sewing, for customers were not frequent, and she had plenty of time on her hands. June was well advanced, and the fact was proclaimed by a long spray of dog-roses which stood in a glass beside her. The bloom of the month had not passed her by, and her whole being was making good its losses with the elasticity of youth. Not that she did not carry in her face the same traces of sorrow she also bore in her heart; but as beauty, mental or physical, cannot be made perfect without suffering, it was a fairer woman sat under the light of the window among the fruits of gracious earth than the one who had parted from Rhys Walters at the Dipping-Pool for the last time, six months before. Time is a great healer, but his rival, Work, runs him hard, and though the former’s chance had yet to come with Mary, the latter had begun his ministration.
Now and then she would break into a snatch of song, and although it would end, for the most part, in a sigh and a long silence, it indicated a state of things impossible a little while ago. She lived very much alone, and but for the old woman who owned the shop and the occasional looker-in, who came to make purchases, she spoke to no one. Only when George Williams contrived to get into the town, and presented himself with a certain determined shyness at the door, did she have any touch with the human beings who surrounded her.
And once, when, in the quiet of the evening, she had been induced to stroll out with him, they had crossed the Wye andwandered a mile or two between the dimness of the hedges, a faint yellow sky overhead and the white crescent of a young moon rising above the limitless translucence of the ether. She had not known at the time how much she was enjoying herself.
She thought of it again as her needle stitched on and on and the feet of the passers-by rang on the pavement. The shop was so low that, when a cart drove along in the middle of the road, there was nothing but a vision of wheels. One was just stopping outside, and, as a pair of singularly crooked legs was to be seen climbing down, she laid her work by, and rose as the door opened to admit a person whom she had often seen, oftener heard of, and never spoken to.
The Pig-driver entered the shop with the air of a man who brings good tidings, so cheerful was his demeanour, so satisfactory his smile, so full of a precise and proven benevolence. A chair stood by the counter, and he drew it yet closer and sat down with a studied care, which suggested that he meant to make immense purchases at illimitable leisure. Before speaking, he eyed her carefully from top to toe.
“What can I serve you with?” inquired Mary civilly.
“He! he!” chuckled Bumpett, “I bean’t come to buy; no, no, not to buy.”
He laid his stick along the counter, and spreading his elbows out over it, leered up into her face.
“I be come to see you, you an’ no one else. Ah! I’m an old stump, I am, but I do like the sight of a pretty face.”
She looked annoyed.
“No offence, my dear, no offence.”
“What is your business?” she asked, drawing a little back from the counter.
“It isn’t business, my dear, it’s pleasure this time. I’ve come because it does me a sight of good to get a look at you, he! he! Name o’ goodness! A wonderful thing it is to think what a deal o’ mischief a smart-like wench can do. Ye’vedone for that fellow up at Masterhouse, an’ no mistake. It’s all up wi’ him now.”
She stared at him and laid hold of the wooden counter with her hand.
“Ye needn’t look,” said Bumpett, “’tis true. I had it from Mrs. Davis, straight. There won’t be no more o’ he up at the farm, I’ll warrant.”
“But what has it to do with me?” exclaimed Mary, unable to connect the Pig-driver’s meanings, but scenting trouble vaguely. “I don’t know what you’re driving at, Mr. Bumpett.”
“Ye don’t know nothin’ about it, eh? My! you’re a bold one, you are, for all ye look as meek as skim-milk. I suppose you’ll tell me ye don’t know George Williams next. That’ll be no use though, because I see’d ye wi’ him at Llangarth Fair hangin’ on to his arm like a ladyship. But ye’ve done him no good wi’ your sheep’s eyes.”
“I don’t believe you—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ah, don’t ye? Well then, I’ll tell ye.”
He smacked his lips, for the moment he longed for had arrived.
“You sit down, girl. ’Tis a long tale. Ye won’t, won’t ye? Ah! I hope ye’ve got a good pair o’ legs under ye then, for ye’ll have to stand some time. He’s an ungrateful dog is Williams, behaving shameful to me, that was like a father to ’im; me that put the bread into ’is mouth when ’e was starving. Then ’e got took on at Masterhouse; nothin’ was too good for ’im then, I believe. I warned ’er—went out o’ my way by a mile an’ more, I did. Ye needn’t look at me like that, ye mawk-mouthed piece o’ spite; ye’ve done my job for me, and I’m come to thank ye. Now, mind ye this. When Mrs. Walters got wind that ’e was keepin’ company wi’ a slut like you, there weren’t no more ado, I can tell ye. She says, ‘Damn ye!’ she says, ‘ye’ll clear yerself out o’ this or ye’ll be done wi’ that trollop down i’ the town.’ That’s a sweet bit o’ news to ye, I’ll be bound.”
“And is he gone?” asked Mary, her face white.
“Gone! I suppose he is, indeed. She had ’im out that blessed evenin’. She’s one o’ the holy sort, an’ trust them to stand no jolly doin’s.”
Tears started to Mary’s eyes. She could not but believe the old man’s words, and it was terrible to think that she, of all people, had been the cause of fresh misfortune to George. She had known him first—a poor man, so poor that he had a hard struggle to live, and then she had seen the difference in him when luck had come his way. He had told her many of his troubles, and, when she had allowed interest to creep in, sympathy and friendship had followed.
The day seemed to have grown darker, the light to have faded. She felt herself a blight, a malignant influence which had come into this man’s hard life and made it harder. She would have given anything to hide her distress from Bumpett, but she could not, and he sat gloating in his chair over the effect he had made.
“You’re a bad man,” she said, when she had managed to control herself a little, “I’ve heard it said of you, and God knows it’s true.”
The Pig-driver’s reply was cut short by the opening of the shop door and the entrance of a customer. She dried her eyes quickly, and he, finding that he could no longer monopolize his victim, departed, and went away a satisfied and contented man, feeling well towards this life. A little boy begged of him in the street and he gave him a halfpenny.
The old woman for whom Mary worked did not generally descend from her room overhead till late in the afternoon. The girl had charge of everything during the greater part of the day, but, at five o’clock, her mistress would come down and take her place behind the counter, leaving her free to do as she pleased and go where she would. She was never asked to give any account of her doings, and was only expected to be back at nine o’clock to put away things in the shop and to close up the house. Sometimes she would stay on in herplace, taking out her book, for she still tried to teach herself, and sometimes, since summer had begun, go out into the scented evening, communing with her own soul and drawing peace from the peace around.
To-night, though she had little heart to leave the house with, she found her mind unable to fix itself on the letters of the simple pages she was spelling out. It flew off continually to George—George unemployed, George despondent, George disgraced because he had not consented to forego the infinitesimal part she had been willing to give him in her life.
It was striking six by the town clock as she went out. The street was a quiet one and there were few people in it, but as her hand left the latch she saw Williams coming towards her. She went hurriedly on to meet him.
“Come,” she exclaimed, without other greeting, “I want to see you.”
She put her hand on his sleeve and almost turned him round. George turned with her and they went forward, hardly thinking where they were going, he because he was with her and would have gone with her to perdition, and she because she had no other thought than the one which had been in her all day.
“Oh, George, why have you left your place?” she cried.
“How do you know I’ve left it?” said he, almost roughly.
“I heard to-day. Mr. Bumpett the Pig-driver was here. ’Twas him I got it from.”
“What was he doing?”
“He was in the shop.”
“Buying?”
“No. He came to tell me you was leaving Masterhouse. He told me why, too.”
An exclamation broke from the man.
“Oh, I know. I know all about it,” said the girl, her voice trembling. “Do go back now, George, do. For all the good you’ve done me, I’ve given you nought but harm. Let me be an’ go back to the farm, and I’ll never see you nor speak toyou, if they’ll take you back. It will make me happy, oh! so happy, George. Do you hear what I say?”
“I hear.”
“To-morrow, George. Go to-morrow. She may fill up your place if you wait. Will you go early?”
“I bean’t going. I’m off to Hereford to-morrow; I’ve come down to say good-bye to ’e, Mary.”
“Oh! George Williams, will nothing turn you?” she entreated.
“Nothin’,” said the young man.
Looking at him she saw it was useless to try to move him. His face was hard, as she had first known it. There was a barred cell in Williams’ heart, and when he had entered into it, no one could draw him out, not even the woman he loved.
“If you be going to Hereford, you’ll be gone from me, the same as if you was at Great Masterhouse. It will be all one,” said Mary presently.
Not knowing how to explain himself, he did not reply. If he stayed on in his place it would mean a denial of the faith that was in him, a disloyalty to her. He did not so much as consider it, and it annoyed him that she should do so.
They had turned into a deep lane leading up to the higher ground. From a clump of thorn-trees further on the cuckoo was calling. When the lane ended, the two stopped and looked at Llangarth beneath their feet.
Mary’s heart was full; the world was too complicated for her, man too hard, and George was going. She had ruined him, not willingly, but none the less effectually. She glanced up at him and saw his look fixed on her. His eyes were soft in his hard face, and in them lay the weary knowledge of how far outside Paradise he stood. She made a step towards him, catching her breath.
“George!” she cried, “oh, but I’ve been bad to you!”
* * * * * *
It was some time after that they came down the lane againtogether, her hand, like a little child’s, lying in his. The late sunset had faded, and its remains were just dying along the edge of the world. They said little, the man of few words and the woman of wounded heart. It was the silence of knowledge, profound, irrevocable, lying miles and miles from the door of their lips; of trust, of sorrow, of coming joy. For her the joy was but faintly showing itself through the veil, for him it stood in the path.
If his Eve had caused him to be expelled from Paradise by one door, she had let him in again at another.