FINISHING
“HOW minute we are.”
“Why?”
“Well, this does not seem to be a time of great feelings, perhaps we
have had too many of them lately. And we are so small compared to the
trees. Gods come and go, but trees remain. By ‘small’ I don’t mean ‘in
height.’ They seem to me so lasting, so grave in their fat green
cloaks, or in winter like naked lace.”
“There, an’ I’ve forgotten to feed the chickens.”
“We are so petty, while time in the towns rolls by on well-oiled wheels
with horrible efficiency. The machinery there goes on and on, and there
are bits of it that are not right. The most horrible injustices.”
“There’s no justice.”
“No, there is no justice.”
A long way beneath something in the town was dropped with a clang,
while a tug coming up the river whistled to get through the lock, a
long shriek which shivered through the trees. Birds circled in specks
round the Abbey tower. There was no wind and on the hill smoke from
a cottage fire drifted straight up towards the blue sky, for the sun
was shining. Just in front, in the meadow by the edge of the wood, a
rabbit was feeding quietly, trembling at being alive. And they sat
together against a tree, he with his head on one side to catch what was
going on, and she dozing, with the world drifting in and out of her
mind.
“I hate this easy life with the millions toiling there.”
“I don’t find it easy.”
“No, I suppose not. But I will do something, even if I am blind.”
She pulled a wisp of hair away from her face and rearranged the ragged
scarf about her neck.
“I expect you will, John.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes, I do.”
A confused shouting came from the lock, into which the barges were
being packed. Several dogs were barking at each other while men ran
about. The rabbit sat up and listened.
“John, there’s a darling rabbit out there,” and the rabbit fled.
“Oh?”
“He’s gone now.”
“Oh?”
And they were silent. From the other side of the wood a ploughman cried
to his horses. Then from in front came a rattling of machinery and the
lock gates creaked, painfully slow.
“Why are you so silent to-day, John?”
“I must go, I must go away.”
“What do you mean, away from here?”
“No, to the towns.”
“Yes, I know. You do want to get off sometimes. So do I. Minnie is
getting very tiresome, he’s been making messes all over the house, an’
father does hate messes. I really don’t know what to do.”
“What is Minnie?”
“Our cat.”
“Why do you give him a female name?”
“I don’t know. Father always calls him she. Father hates cats.”
She had told him this before.
“An’ Father’s so nervy nowadays, you don’t know what to do with him. It
gets harder and harder to live there at all. Father spends so much
money on--on small things we don’t need. There often isn’t enough to
eat an’ ...”
He heard a train snort in the distance like a dragon, and the wood
round reared itself in tall crowding shapes and dark images. A voice
droned complaint and he saw a little figure at the foot of an image
throwing words at the things which hemmed her in.
“... but he doesn’t care, he never thinks of me, it’s me who has always
to be thinking of him, how to keep him alive, how to keep the home
round his head, how to manage so’s he won’t starve. Always thinking of
him, I am, and he with never a thought to me.”
“Poor June.”
“Yes, it is poor June. You don’t know what it is with your easy life
down there. There’s times when you don’t know if your own life’s safe
when the fit is on him, he’s so dangerous.”
“June, he doesn’t attack you?”
“Attack me? If you could see my--the bruises on my arm, you simply
wouldn’t believe. And he was brought to it.”
“I must go away.”
“It wasn’t his fault.”
“We ought all to go away for a time. The country is poisoning us, June.
Under all the smiles that one hears and the soft kindness that one sees
at first, there is so much cruelty. We will go.”
“They brought him to it.”
“It’s all so different in the towns, there is so much more going on.”
“But I don’t want any more to go on. I’ve got enough as it is.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, it’s all right. If it wasn’t for Father’s being as he is, it
wouldn’t be bad. He’s worse than usual just now, and he won’t have you
do anything for him.”
“We shall never do any good in the country. What is the use of staying
down here? I ought to go away.”
“But how can we?”
We? How awkward!
“I shall never do any writing down here. It’s no good, one can’t.”
“No, I don’t suppose so.”
“Does nothing ever happen in the country?”
“Well, I don’t know that you have much to complain of, poor darling.”
“What, you mean going blind like that? Yes, I had forgotten. Except for
that, then, nothing has happened. Sometimes I see a pool shut in by
trees with their branches reflected in the stagnant water. Nothing ever
moves, the pool just lies there, day and night, and the trees look in.
At long intervals there is a ripple; the pool lets it die. And then the
trees look in the same as before.”
“Funny John.”
“I may be, but that is the country.”
“D’you know how I live in that house where there’s everything to clean,
and with not a soul to help me, mind you, with a man that throws
anything away, anywhere, an’ the chickens to feed and the meals to
cook?”
“There would be food to prepare and boards to scrub in towns.”
“Oh, I know there would, but we could have a gay time there, what with
dancing an’ nice dresses an’ everything.”
“Oh yes, we could have a gay time there.”
How different this was to the first time he had sat at the top with her
a fortnight ago. Only two weeks and so many things had happened.
“You will take me, won’t you, John darling?”
“Yes.”
Let in for it this time.
“But I can’t leave Father.”
“But I thought you said you wanted to go.”
“I wanted to make sure of you. Besides, why can’t I make believe?”
“Don’t you want to go with me, then?”
“Yes. But I can’t leave Father, he wouldn’t be able to do anything
without me. Poor Father, he’s helpless, you know. He must have someone
to look after him. And anyway you’ld have gone off.”
“June, why do you say that?”
“They always do. There was a story I read called _The Love of White
Hope._ The young man in that left his girl whom he had promised to
marry, and she committed suicide, which was stupid, and he was so sorry
that he drank water for the rest of his life, or something, I forget,
which was stupider still. Yes, that was it, he used to drink in his
young days, and then after that he gave it up. He was lovely when he
was young. You would never take me with you.”
“But I asked you to come.”
“Did you?”
“I said you could.”
“But you never meant me to.”
“Yes, I did.”
“I know you didn’t.”
“Why don’t you come, anyway? It will not be for long, probably.”
“Shall I?”
A cow bugled dejectedly. He thought that the neck would be stretched
out with the mouth half open as though it were going to vomit. Idiotic
cows.
“No, I can’t leave Father.”
“Well, don’t say now that I didn’t ask you.”
“But you never meant me to go.”
Another cow answered from a long way off, and they exchanged dull grief
across the hedges and the meadows. The hedges would be black at this
time of the year, and the trees bare. The plough creaked leisurely, how
slow everything was.
“I’m not blaming you. You’re not the sort that are meant to stay. Your
sort can get rid of anything that displeases them, as Father says.”
“June, do come.”
“No.”
“Then I don’t see what you have to complain of from me.”
“Poor John.”
“It’s not as if you are going to have a baby or anything.”
“Don’t.”
“Well, is it?”
“You don’t understand.”
There was a long pause.
“Oh, to be in a town again, to hear a barrel-organ, for instance,
across the street through gaps in the traffic! And all the rush there,
and the thousands of people. I’d give anything to be there and just
listen, so much would be going on, while here ...”
“I couldn’t leave Father, could I, now?”
“No, perhaps not. But I think it is really fine of you to stay with
him, I really do.”
“Fine? I don’t know about that.”
“Well, I mean, if he attacks you. And he has not done a great deal for
you.”
“It isn’t his fault--besides, I won’t have you say things like that
about him. Anyway I shouldn’t have been here if it wasn’t for him.”
“I am sorry. I did not mean that. Certainly I have much to be grateful
to him for.”
“Why, how do you mean?”
“For your being here.”
“Nice John.”
Why had he made a compliment like that? And why had she swallowed it?
“What will you do, June?”
“I don’t know.”
She never knew, perhaps that was the best. But he was beginning to.
“Well, remember, if ever you want to run away, come up to London and
stay with us. We have not yet arranged to go to London; that is, I have
not even broached the subject with Mamma, but I must go, and in the
end she and I will go. So just you come when you want.”
“I will. An’ may I bring Father too?”
“But--but yes, if you think he needs it.”
“I know you. An’ what’s wrong with Father? He’s nothing to be ashamed
of. You think I don’t notice the way people pass us as if we weren’t
there when they meet us on the road. It’s not his fault his being what
he is. He was brought to it, and by your lot too.”
“June, what do you mean?”
“They were always criticising him--d’you suppose I don’t know how it
was?--always carping away at him till his life wasn’t his own and as if
it didn’t belong to him and no one else, and not to everyone as they
thought, and finding fault with Mother for being in love with the
postman, of course it was wrong, but why shouldn’t she, and them saying
that he didn’t do his duty to his parish when he was worth the whole
crew of them put together.”
“But June ...”
“Oh, I’m not blaming you, don’t be frightened. But it was your lot that
brought him to it, it ...”
These scenes. And after all, flirting with the postman, it was
unfortunate, and a squalid story. Now the man was so soaked in
the whisky, or whatever it was he drank, that he was a topic of
conversation. For that alone one ought to be grateful to him. But Mamma
was right for once, it was disgraceful. But it was sad too.
“... poor, poor Father.”
“Yes, June, I am so sorry.”
“You aren’t really.”
There was a pause, and then he said:
“I think perhaps suffering is rather fine, don’t you?”
Was it? He did not know. At any rate, it was a way out of blindness.
She began again:
“But why wasn’t I allowed to wear nice dresses and stay in the Vicarage
and go to dances an’ have some fun? Why have I got to scrub floors all
day and cook meals and look after the house with never a word of
thanks? It isn’t fair.”
“But you and I are really rather lucky ...”
“Lucky! You ...?”
His face, that awful face. He didn’t know what scars he had, poor boy.
You couldn’t say anything to him, with his blindness an’ all.
“... but not _lucky_, John.”
“I can’t express myself. And I cannot understand how you endure your
life if you don’t see the fineness in its being as it is.”
“Endure it? Why, it just goes on. Oh, John, you will take me with you,
won’t you?”
“What is going to happen to Mr. Entwhistle, then?”
“I can’t leave Father.”
“Does he want to go to the towns?”
“No, he says that would be running away, I don’t know what from,
though.”
“You couldn’t leave him, June.”
“No.”
“But you will one day.”
“How do you mean? When he dies? Oh no, he mustn’t die.”
“I wish you saw that about suffering.”
What could one say to her? If one was in her position and did not make
it into something, it was not worth its own unpleasantness, that must
be so. So that if she was too small to understand, she had much better
go on the streets and have a good time on and off, if she could get it
in no other way. She could not come to London with him, even if they
went there, for she would only be unhappy. He could never introduce her
to his friends, if he educated her she would only be genteel. Her value
was her brutality, and she would lose that. Besides, there was the
Shame, who was a fool from all accounts, almost an idiot. But you
couldn’t let her go back to him in this frame of mind, it was waste.
And what would she do when the old man died?--not that he was old,
either, but quite young. Probably marry a commercial traveller. He
would talk to Mamma. Oh, he was tired, tired.
There was a roar in the distance.
“June, what was that?”
“It’s a football match on the Town ground. Norbury are playing Daunton
to-day, so Mrs. Donner told me. She has a son that plays, wonderful
they say he is.”
“That must have been a goal, then. Or a foul.”
“Oh, John, you mustn’t go.”
“Where?”
“Why, to London, of course. What shall I do?”
A huge voice came as a whisper from across the river. “’ere!” it said,
frenziedly, “’ere!” And another roar overwhelmed it, then a shrill
whistle, and silence.
“It is no good, June, I must go. And June must go too, if there is
anything in a name. Think of your August, and of how exciting that will
be. It will come right one day.”
“Will it?”
“You see, you cannot leave your Father; what would he come to? It is
your duty to stand by him. It is good for one, too.”
How unpleasant it was giving this sort of good advice. She ought to
stay down here, from every point of view it was best that she should.
And when the man died he would see what could be done. Yes, he really
would.
“We will write to each other, June, and everything will seem better
to-morrow.”
“It won’t.”
“Yes, it will. Poor June. But think, we have had one good time anyway,
you and I, haven’t we? There is one good thing behind us anyway, isn’t
there?”
“Don’t go, don’t go-o.”
God, she was weeping. Well, that had finished it, he could not go. Poor
June, and what a beast he was.
“All right, June, I won’t go. It’s all right, June, I’m not going. I’m
not going, June, so it’s all right.”
“I’m so mis-erable.”
“But I am not going.”
“It’s” (sniff) “not that.”
“Aren’t you glad I am not going?”
“No. Yes.”
“Well, then?”
Why did one always talk baby-talk to someone who was crying?
“There, June, are you better now?”
“Yes.” Sniff. “The chickens’ll be starving.” Sniff. “I’d better go
home.”
“Oh, you must not go home yet. June, I love you so.”
“Do you?” Sniff.
“Yes, I ...”
“But, John, I think you’d better go to London, after all. It’ll be
better for you there. I was only crying because of everything. I’m
better now ...”
What did she mean? What was in her mind? What was this, what was this?
“... fond of me, and I must help Father with his book, his wonderful
book which will come out next year, we’re hoping. An’ you’ll go to
London and do whatever you’re going to do there, I know you will. I
expect you will be a great man one day. There’s the chickens. I’ve got
to feed them an’ look for eggs, too, for supper. Shall I walk you back
or can you get home alone now? For I’ve got to hurry.”
“No, I can get back alone all right by the roads. But, June, don’t go
like this. What does it mean,--I mean how do you ...?”
“Oh, you go to London. Father an’ I’ve got the book to write. He’ll
show you all what a mistake you made. So long, John.”
“Good-bye, Joan.”
Another roar came from the football crowd, an angry sound. A dog had
been barking monotonously for ever so long.
“But, June,” he shouted, to the wood, “June, what do you--June, I--June
...”
But there was no answer, and he began feeling his way down the ride.
How strange it all was, what could she mean? One’s head felt in an
absolute turmoil, one didn’t know what to think.
He felt ill.
* * * * *
Heavy clouds lay above the house, mass upon mass. From the garden rose
a black tangle of branches with showers of wandering twigs. And on
these would hang necklaces of water-drops caught from the rain, shining
with a dull light. Over the river in the dark pile of wood there showed
frightened depths of blue, untrusting patches of it, lying here and
there. The grass on the lawn was sodden, beaten to a lake of pulp. But
over everything was a freshness of morning and of rain that had gone
by, and there was a feeling that the trees and the house and the sky
were washed, and that this day was yet another page, that there were
more to be, so quiet it was.
She came down the stairs, pausing at the hole on the ninth step, and
entered the kitchen, a song on her lips. The room was filled with a
wet, grey light that made it kind, and she was happy, so that she
thought of sweeping the floor. Father had been much better lately,
those pains of his had gone, and perhaps he had been drinking less. How
would he be to-day? It was not good for him, all the gin he drank, but
he could not help it. How nice it was this morning. She was sleepy, so
sleepy. A wonderful dream last night, about a young man who had made
love to her, with blue eyes. Poor John. But it was dusty in here. She
went to the cupboard under the stairs and took out the broom.
The broom swept a wrinkle of dust across the floor, with matches and
crumpled paper and dried mud thrusting along together in it. She hummed
contentedly and thought about her poor John. Her poor John who had no
eyes. Blindness would be a terrible thing to come upon you, and he was
so brave about it, always talking as if it were nothing. You couldn’t
help liking that in him. Oh, it was so wonderful this morning, and he
was wonderful too. He was a gentleman, just as they themselves were for
that matter, it was birth that counted, besides he hadn’t treated her
as anything else but the same as himself. But there was no going on
with him. It wasn’t as if times weren’t difficult enough just with her
own set of troubles, his into the bargain were too much. Though if she
had gone with him it would have been a score over Mrs. Donner. And what
would have become of Father then? He had been so much better lately,
quite different from what he had been before. Where was Minnie? And she
hustled the dust through the door, driving it into the air in a
fan-shaped cloud till it settled on the grass round the flakes of mud
and the paper and matches which sat there taking a first look round.
Now there was no nonsense about George. How those cows did eat, all day
long, and when they weren’t eating they were chewing over again. And
George had been quite nice lately. He had even said something, rather
surly and rude, and she had been rude back. At any rate it was a
beginning. Funny George, he was so powerful, his hands looked as if
they could hurt you so, not like John with that awful face always
screwed up with his scars; you were frightened of him in a horrid way.
John was clever right enough, but there wasn’t much to those clever
ones. While George could do anything with those hands. The beech tree
looked very big this morning, with the damp lying on his trunk in
sticky patches. But the weather was clearing, and it felt so fresh this
morning. There were the chickens to feed. Roses, roo-zez, all the way.
Getting some grain out of a cupboard in the kitchen, she went to the
hut and let the chickens out. The cock was quiet and dignified this
morning, rather sleepy. But as soon as he was in the yard he challenged
the world and then scratched over a stone. The hens at once began to
bustle about anxiously. When June scattered the grain they hurried to
each fresh handful, while the cock asserted himself in the intervals of
eating. She laughed at them as she always did, and cried “Chuck,
chuck,” and they clucked back with choking voices.
She sauntered away and stood looking at the trees over the river. There
had been a new man on the milk lorry yesterday, which was exciting. He
had such a nice smile, and all for her as she leant over the gate. He
would be going by again about half-past two, she would be there.
Perhaps he had come for good, and had taken the place of the one with
the wicked face. He had had two lives, that one. But the new man was a
dream, with fair, fair hair and his blue eyes that danced. It was nice
to have somebody new. There was a lot new to-day.
Funny how sometimes you suddenly saw everything different. The chickens
looked just like old women going round to tea-parties, and the cock
like that old Colonel who used to call Father “Padre.” They were well
out of that. That was John’s life, and--well, he was done with, anyway.
Three weeks and not a word, but then that was like him. Probably there
would be three letters one after the other in a week’s time, he was all
moods. Nice the way the wind blew the sleep from off you.
Father’s voice from the window: “Is breakfast ready?”
“In a minute.”
“Oh, it’s all right. Don’t hurry.”
“I won’t.”
Oh, why was she so happy to-day? And he was too, you could tell by his
voice, he never spoke like that unless things were going well. She
hugged her arms. The way that hawk hovered. Where was Minnie?
She called: “Minnie, Minnie.”
He would turn up in a minute or two. He was always coming from nowhere,
so to speak. You looked down and there he was, rubbing his back against
your leg, quite uncanny it was.
She turned and went back into the house. There was Father coming
downstairs.
“Breakfast isn’t ready yet. I’ve had no time.”
“That’s all right. Let’s go out.”
“It’s fine,” he said, “this morning, fine.”
They walked in silence along the path smothered in weeds. The dripping
undergrowth was shining. A sparrow chirped. And there, suddenly, was
Minnie.
“Oh, Minnie.”
“So she has come out too. I don’t hate her so much to-day. Puss, puss.”
Darling Minnie, so sleek, and looking rather frightened of Father, the
cold eyes watched him so closely. Webs of moisture clung to Minnie’s
coat, making such a brave show, pearls on black velvet.
“Minnie.”
And he lifted a paw.
“Never mind, leave her alone. We’ve interfered with her hunting. Anyway
she’ll want to be killing. Come on.”
That was a good sign, Father not making a fuss when he saw him. His
head was redder than usual, too.
“What about this Haye?”
“Oh, we parted.”
“Parted” had such a wonderful feel about it, and it had been so quiet.
They had just said “good-bye.”
“Good thing too.”
“He was quite nice.”
“I don’t think much of that house.”
They walked on, round and round the old lawn. She had a fluttering
inside.
“How did you know, Father?”
“Mrs. Haye wrote.”
“Wrote? What to say?”
“That you were going out with him. What business was it of hers, what
you were about?”
“She wrote to you?”
“Damn them all. But you would have done well to have married him. It
meant money.”
“But I couldn’t leave you.”
“Very good of you.”
She felt a kind of clearness, she saw her way. She was much, much
happier than ever. She took his arm, but he seemed so uncomfortable
that she let it go again.
“What’ll you do, d’you think?”
“Stay here.”
“But you can’t always do that, you know. You’d better go away.”
“Where to?”
“But you’ll marry some day.”
“No, I’ll stay with you.”
He pressed her arm. This time she did not try to press his, he was so
shy.
“And there’s your book to write.”
“Yes, my book.”
There was a pause, and then he went on:
“I tell you what, I’ll fix up that hen-run to-day. But then there is no
rabbit wire, and it is so expensive. Oh, well.”
“They’re just as well as they are. Look, Minnie has just pounced.”
“I must go and have a drop of something.”
“Why not give it up for a bit?”
“Oh no, can’t give it up, does one good, you know.”
“Then I’ll get breakfast ready.”
He went through the kitchen and into his room while she began leisurely
putting out the breakfast things. A sheet of chill winter sunlight lay
on the floor, and some of it was spilled over the window frame as well.
She dabbled her feet in it and it came up to her knees. In her hand was
the teapot, and, in the other, half a loaf of bread. There came the
sound of a cork being drawn in the next room, which sent a shiver
pleasurably down her spine. It got rather dull here when he knocked off
the drink. But still, it was bad for him. Turning, she put the things
down on the table and then went over to the cupboard.
A cough came from the next room. Then the door opened and he came
through, a faint flush over his face, and went out of doors. From
outside he shouted through the window:
“It’s great to-day.”
And there were patches of blue sky. Oh, it was going to clear up. Was
there enough milk? Yes, just. Anyhow he wouldn’t get angry, not yet
awhile, at any rate. Marry? Who was there to marry? No one as far as
she could see. They were all too difficult or too easy. George was only
something to do, if she hadn’t had someone to think of she would have
gone mad. That new milk-lorry man was so nice-looking. But she ought to
stand by Father, it was easier that way. Why marry, anyway? It would
turn out right in the end.
Mrs. Donner said that the other night when the wind had risen so, a
tree had blown down across the road and had prevented Mrs. Haye getting
to Barwood without wetting her feet, and that was a good thing. What
did she mean by writing to Father? She would like to marry John now,
just to spite her. She poured milk out of the can into the teapot, and
then began to wash up the plates from over-night. Father did not like
eating off dirty plates, and it wasn’t really very nice either. She
would have to change this water she washed everything in, it was so
greasy that you couldn’t do anything with it, and it smelt rather. They
might as well have some of that tinned herring. They had eaten it once
too often, but still it was good.
Father was better. He hadn’t been like this in the morning for many a
time. So pleasant to talk to, and he hadn’t minded about breakfast.
Yes, she would stay here and help him, he needed her, and look how much
better he was already. And what would they do then? You didn’t know. It
was not as if he could have a living again. But he would find some job,
sure to. She laid out the clean plates and put out the butter. Had a
mouse or something been at it? They were devils, those vermin, they got
into everything and ate all that they set eyes on. There was nothing to
be done, you couldn’t do away with them, there were too many. She
put down the tin of herrings with the opener and looked contentedly
at the table. She called:
“Father, breakfast is ready.”
He came in slowly and sat down.
“I’m so lazy.”
“So’m I,” said she.
* * * * *
Mrs. Haye was sitting in an armchair in her sitting-room reading a
volume of reminiscences that some hunting man had left behind him. Over
the fireplace Greylock looked down upon her, while on the writing-table
stood Choirboy’s hoof, and there were sporting prints on the walls and
an Alken in the corner. But all round were masses of flowers, the air
was heavy with the scent of them, for her one extravagance was the
hot-house, and Weston understood flowers. This book was interestin’,
she had never known that the Bolton had distemper in ’08 and mange in
’09, a most awkward time for them, and the bitch pack had been
practically annihilated. Again, it appeared that in ’13, Johnson, who
used to hunt hounds so marvellously, had broken an arm, and on the very
next day his first whip, the man that the Aston had now, had cracked
his thigh. It was an unlucky pack. They had had foot-an’-mouth for two
years now. Their own pack down here was gettin’ impossible. Even the
Friday country was infested with wire, which of course was young
Beamish’s fault; why they hadn’t given the job to someone more
experienced no one could tell, but then there was some money that went
with it. And she would have to get rid of this groom of hers, Harry; he
drank, there was no doubt about it, you had only to smell him. What
could one do?
Mabel would be here soon, and then they could have a long talk about it
all.
How dark it was getting. Putting aside the book she rang the bell.
Really it was becoming most tiresome, this affair between Herbert and
Mrs. Lane. All day long they were at it, she had seen them again
yesterday, spooning in the back yard. And the cooking suffered in
consequence, that beef had been positively raw three days ago, and
there seemed to be nothing but vegetables to eat now, John had been
complainin’ about it. His appetite had returned, which was splendid.
Where was William? She and Mabel could really have the business out,
she knew she would approve. Ah, at last.
“William, bring the lamps please.”
The old thing had aged lately. They were all gettin’ older; and with
Jennings dying like that, it was sad. Pinch retirin’ too, the garden
didn’t look the same without him. But he was comfortable at home, and
he had earned a rest.
There was somethin’ the matter with Annie, perhaps she was getting
really crazy, and they ought to send her to a home, but the other
morning when she had said to her near the rubbish heap, with such a
gleam in her eye, “There will be new leaves soon,” it really was too
extraordinary. And what did she mean, it wasn’t even March yet? Why
were there always idiots in a village? And there was nothing one could
do for them, that was the annoyin’ part about it.
Here were the lamps. Appalling it was, the way some people were
installing electricity, oil was much more satisfactory. They had always
had oil and always would. Electricity was so hard and bright that it
was bad for your eyes.
“William, Mrs. Palmer will be in for tea to-day.”
She was late, and that was wrong of Mabel, she knew how it irritated
her to have to wait. She needn’t have hurried so down from the village.
That roof in Mrs. Cross’s cottage would have to be seen to, it was in a
terrible state, she ought to have been told before. Would the next
people take any trouble? But then that wasn’t settled yet.
She was restless to-day, she hadn’t been able to settle down to
anything, this thing had been weighing on her mind so. And there were
the household accounts to do, she was late with them, and they should
be interesting this month. Mrs. Lane would have been going through an
orgy of waste, the affair with Herbert would be sure to make her
careless. They would have to take sixpence off the income tax this
time, things couldn’t go on as they were, and the papers were full of
it. Of course, giving this up would save money, but then there would
be no flowers and no horses. So much of one would go with it. Mabel
was late, late.
A motor. Ah, the Cadillac. Really, it was too bad of her, and it was
not as if she ever had anything to do. Well, anyway, they could get
down to business now.
The door opened.
“Mrs. Palmer.”
“My dear Emily, I’m so sorry I’m late. You see, my dear, the Cadillac
broke down on the way, so tiresome of it. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you, Mabel dear; and you?”
They lightly kissed.
“I caught a nasty chill at the Owens’ dance, and I’ve only just thrown
it off. My dear, such a bore! There are nothing but draughts in that
house, you know how it is. I think they might let one have one window
shut, don’t you? Emily, it is nice to see you, I haven’t come across
you for a week.”
“To tell you the truth, Mabel, I haven’t been about much this week.
With the village and one thing and another I haven’t had a moment. I
wanted to have a talk ...”
The door opened. John came in.
“Who is it?”
“Mabel, John.”
“How are you, John?”
“Oh, is it you? I’m all right, thanks. How are things with you?”
“Well, you know how it is dear boy, one irritating thing after another.
Only this afternoon on the way here the inside of the car went wrong,
so tiresome. We waited for hours while Jenkins tried to find out what
was the matter. And while we were there guess who should come by at the
most appalling speed, my dear, so that it was not safe for anyone.”
Pause. “The young Vincent boy on his motor bike.”
“Was he going fast?”
“My dear boy, he shot by. I have never in all my life seen anything
like it, you know.”
“John, dear, would you mind leavin’ Mabel and me for a short time We
want to have a talk.”
“Then I shall see you at tea, Mrs. Palmer.” The door shut.
“What has happened, Emily, nothing serious, my dear?”
“Mabel, I wanted to talk over a very important matter with you. You
see, it’s about John.”
“What? He is not ill again or something?”
“Let us go straight to the point. Let me collect my thoughts. You see,
Mabel, it’s like this. But perhaps I had better begin at the beginning.
You see, even before he went blind, I knew that he was not made for the
country, you know how one can tell about one’s boy. Well, anyway, from
one thing or another I saw that he was not happy down here. You see, he
has never liked huntin’ or shootin’ or any of those things, and now he
can’t fish. I don’t know how it is, he is not in the least like Ralph
or me. Where can he have got it from? And this writing that he is so
keen about, of course I encourage it, my dear, it is so good for the
boy to have a hobby, but no one has ever written on either side of the
family. Ralph even found letter-writing almost impossible. So that it
is so difficult to understand him, dear.”
“Yes, Emily, I have always felt that, you know.”
“And then one has had girls to the house so that he might see some nice
young things, but he has never taken to any of them, Mabel. There was
Jane Blandair, a charming girl, but he has told me, in confidence of
course, that he definitely dislikes her. My dear, I asked him why, and
he said that it was everything about her. What can one do? Jane would
have made such a splendid wife and mother. And of the other girls who
have been, there was not one of them I would not have liked for a
daughter-in-law. And he is quite a catch, isn’t he, clever and
artistic, and he will have a little money. It was all very depressing,
Mabel.”
“Yes, dear, I felt for you so.”
“Well, I was wretched about the whole business, and I slowly came to
realise that he was not made for the country, like you or I. You see,
he does not really care for the village, though he makes great efforts,
poor boy. And then it is his future that matters. He gets terribly
bored down here, he has no interests. He is always talking of the
towns. He never actually says it, but I know he thinks we all get into
grooves in the country, and so I suppose we do, I mean I personally
am always fussin’ about the village, but of course he is too young to
realise that one gets into a groove wherever one is. But there is his
writing. That is his only interest. He has been so very brave all
through this business, and he is now writing as hard as ever he did;
naturally I encourage it, I think everyone should have a hobby, and I
am sure you agree with me in this, Mabel. But he seems to think that
one can’t write books in the country. Though all the books that you and
I used to read, Mabel, like Jane Austen, were written about the
country. Still, he thinks that he can’t, and I have always told him to
try, but it must be so different when one is blind. So what he wants is
to go away, Mabel, that is what it all comes to. He has never said it,
of course, but that is what he wants to do.”
“To go away, Emily? What for?”
“Well, he is young ...”
“Yes, but we all know the wretched life they live in town, you know how
it is, dancing all night and only getting up for lunch, you know how it
is. I never could stand it when I was a girl. My dear, I don’t
understand it.”
“I think I do. I’m his mother, you see. He needs a change.”
“Listen, Emily, why not take him to Eastbourne for a few weeks? Such
air you get at Eastbourne.”
“It is not that, besides there are other things. No, he--we must go to
London.”
“To London! For how long? But think of the noise. Do you mean for the
winter and then come down here in the summer?”
“We could not afford it, Mabel. You see, so much of the money went in
those shares which are worthless now. No, it would have to be for
good.”
“My dear Emily, no, I cannot allow you to do this, you know. No. Think
of the Town Council, and the Board of Guardians, what would they do
without you? All it would mean is that the Walkers woman would take
charge of the whole thing, Colonel Shoton is such a hopeless creature.
And think of the village, Emily. Oh, you can’t go. It is probably only
a passing whim of the boy’s you know. Take him to Eastbourne to get
over it, my dear. Don’t do this thing recklessly. When you and I were
young we had these moments ourselves when we wanted to get away. Why
even now sometimes I say to myself that it is all too much and that I
was happier at Allahabad, you know how it is, only a little
restlessness, my dear.”
“It’s more than that, Mabel. I’ve been so wretched about the whole
thing.”
“Yes, my dear, I am so sorry for you, but don’t let the fact of you
being a little over-wrought influence you to ... Why, think of the
village. You know better than I do that Mrs. Crayshaw is so busy having
babies that she has absolutely no time to attend to the affairs of the
village. Why, it would all be indecent and disgraceful if you went so
that there was no one left to look after it. You know how it is,
illegitimate babies immediately, my dear. Oh no, Emily, you cannot go.
Besides, what does the boy want to do in London?”
“Yes, but you see he is artistic.”
“But Emily, painters always go to the country for inspiration. I have
never heard of a painting of a town that was any good. And there is
nothing to write about in a town. Don’t let him ruin your life, Emily.”
“My duty is by him.”
“Yes, my dear, but does he know what he wants? He is only restless. And
what would become of the committees and everything? And the Hospital
Ball, Emily?”
“Yes.”
“And the Nursing Association, and the Women’s Institute, just when it
is beginning to go so nicely, you know. Without you it would collapse.
You are absolutely indispensable to its welfare!”
“Am I?”
“Now don’t be modest. Why, of course, you are. Think of Mrs. Walkers on
the Board of Guardians. Emily, she isn’t honest.”
“She is dangerous, that woman.”
“My dear, do you know what I heard the other day? That as a very
natural result of the way she goes on and what with all the money she
burns and the way she keeps that house open always, trying to get
people to come to it, you know how it is, and of course no one will,
she is in the hands of the moneylenders. Deeply involved.”
“Well, I don’t know whether I should altogether believe that, but it is
very interestin’.”
“Isn’t it? All it means is that she will be misappropriating funds as
soon as you are out of the way. And you know I’ve no head for figures.”
“Yes; well, I don’t know.”
There was a long pause while outside the night drew in softly, peering
through the windows at the fire and the pools of light kept by the
lamps. Mabel Palmer was lying back in her chair worn out by what she
had had to say, and Mrs. Haye was looking vacantly at Greylock.
Presently she roused herself.
“Shall we have tea now, Mabel?” And she got up and rang the bell.
* * * * *
“Is everything in?”
“All that I’m going to take, yes.”
“Well, I must go and see about the labels.” Mamma hurried out again.
John stood in the middle of the room, smoking a cigarette. So they were
going. Lunch had been a hurried affair, he had hardly eaten he was so
excited. He had a wonderful stirring in his belly, for they were going.
A light feeling, a warning of change. They had packed all that was
being taken. When they got there Uncle Edward had lent them his house
till they should find one for themselves. Everything was packed and
arranged. There was only the train now. It was nice of Uncle Edward. He
sat down on his trunk.
Was there anything more dreadful than waiting to be off? When there was
nothing left to do, and you were forced to sit about and wait? He did
not dare to walk for the positions of everything had changed, chairs
were upside-down in the middle of what had once been a path, there was
a large packing-case with protruding nails in what had been the passage
between the sofa and the fireplace in the Hall, and he had tripped over
a carpet which was rolled up suddenly for half its length. Desolation
brooded over each room, and there were clouds of dust driving along
here and there on draughts. The flowers had been removed so that the
house was cold and hollow. It was changed.
For of course they were moving. London was only six hours off now. Life
would be quite different when they got there. Barwood would be wiped
out, and he was going to begin again, on the right path this time.
Think of all that one would write when one got to London, great things
were going to happen there. He would hunt out B. G. and Seymour; they
would introduce him to all the amusing people. How nice it was to be
going.
He had thought that yesterday was never going to end. Sitting here all
the afternoon and all the evening, with William moving about painfully,
stacking what he was to take away in one corner, and what was to be
left and sold in another. Mamma had shot in and then shot out again
continually, and her voice had been breathless at the number of things
left to do, with a high note of anxiety whistling through her
sentences. Ever since that day three months ago when she had sent him
away that Mabel might deliberate alone with her, the high note had
pierced through her conversation. Mabel had come many times since then,
almost every day, and lately her voice had grown hard towards him, as
if she thought that he was ruining Mamma’s life. But after all he had
not made the suggestion first, it had been Mamma a month back who had
said quite suddenly, “We are going to London,” and he “To London?”
“Will you like that, dear?” Everything inside him had been beating,
beating. It was good of her. He had a sinking feeling now, the whole
thing was almost too good to be true.
Spring was beginning here, and the hot rain that fell in short bursts
made the room sticky. They said there was a haze of yellowy green over
the black trees. He took off his tie and opened his collar.
Nothing had happened in those last three months, nothing had ever
happened down here, or rather, nothing always happened. He had thought
a good deal and little had come of it, only he had seen God as a great
sea into which all goodness drained, and those who were good pumped the
goodness out again and watered the desert to make the flowers grow.
Trees drew it up. A pretty notion. And all the time expectancy had
quivered in the air, making life unbearable, there had been so much
going on behind the scenes. Poor William, he had been sad packing
yesterday. He was not coming to London, he was too old, and he was
retiring on a pension, like old Pinch. That was another thing, all the
old people were being left behind to die, and Nan was dead. There would
be a new start in London. Poor Nanny, but she was happy, nursing
children who had died young. Would she remember him? On her character
in heaven “Great experience of blind babies.” Oh, he was so happy
to-day.
But Mamma would be happy in London, she would meet there all the people
she had known in Scotland before she had married, and they both wanted
to get away from Barwood. A town would be a great hive of houses where
people were born and lived and died bitterly, there would be no dozing
as in Norbury. They would be in the centre of things there, they would
be on the spot, and the echoes of what was happening that one only
heard faintly in these muffled fields would be clear up there, as a
gong. Life was only nice in retrospect, and they could look back on the
mists that coiled round Barwood and make them into an enchanting
memory, with Joan rising through them, attracting a stray glance of the
sun, and dispelling the mists a little.
The coal fire burned steadily with a brittle tinkling sound, as though
flakes of glass were falling tiny distances. Far beneath something
groaned at being moved.
The train, the first time since the affair. The same boy might sit and
throw more stones, one of which might hit his window appropriately. Or
there might be a collision, trains were unlucky for him. They would
rush through the quiet fields while the telephone wires dipped beside
them, over rivers where the fish lay under the bank, through villages
where Barwood was repeated, through towns that were not big enough,
till they crawled into the biggest town of all, dirtied by all the work
that was going on there.
Far away a steamer whistled on a river, it was the first warning of
change. He was so excited. The room was sticky with damp. The soft
harping rain fell rustling, rustling, while from the eaves drops
pattered down on to the window-sill.
Feet climbing stair carpet and Mamma came in.
“We’re off in half an hour. Is everything ready?”
“Yes, I think so.”
She went down the stairs, more slowly this time. Half-way down she
paused to look at her watch, then hurried on.
“William, they ought to be off now, if they are going to catch that
train. Are all the labels on?”
“Yes, madam.”
One, two--five--seven, eight. Eight trunks. They were all there, piled
on to two cars. Cars were so expensive to hire nowadays. Thirty
shillings. Ruinous.
“Get in, Janet, get in. You have got the money I gave you? Don’t forget
to label them to Paddington. The stationmaster is expectin’ you, and I
will be there soon, so you’ll be all right. Yes, drive away.”
Janet waved to William. He had aged, he looked so worn standin’ by the
door there. It was a terrible business gettin’ people off.
“There they go, madam.”
“Yes.”
What did he mean? Of course they were going. What?
“They have not stopped, William?”
“No, madam.”
Janet was a capable young thing and she had travelled, so she would be
able to manage. Besides, Smith had promised to look out for her.
“Are the labels on all the suitcases?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Well, we start in half an hour.”
Half an hour. Now what had she forgotten? Everything must be in. And
anyway, Dewars would send her the inventory, so that she could send for
anythin’ she did not want to sell. They would come by the furniture
vans.
“William, if there is anything I find missin’, you will send it up in
the vans with the furniture.”
“Yes, madam.”
Well, that was that. She sank into a chair. A great sigh escaped from
inside her. How terrible a house looked when you were gettin’ out of
it. And all the doors were always left open. She got up and shut them,
then she came back to her chair. This rain was horrible, and there was
no fire. Had she said a word to everyone? Of course she was not going
away for good, but they were not to live down here any more, so that a
word or two was expected of you. It was so difficult, too, to find
anythin’ to say. She had loved them all, and they loved her, but they
did not understand her going away like this. They were always asking
who was going to live here instead, and she did not know. It was a
relief, though, now that they were really off, now that those endless
discussions were over. Mabel was impossible sometimes, this business
had estranged them almost. The clock had stopped. Really, William might
have wound it up, even if they weren’t going to be here this evenin’.
She looked at her watch. Twenty-nine minutes.
It was nice of Edward to lend them his house with the caretaker and his
wife. The two would quarrel, of course, that was the trouble about
having married servants, but they would be comfortable there, and it
would give one time to look round. 9 Hans Crescent. A German name, but,
after all, the war had been over for some time. Nine. But ... And she
had only counted eight, and she had let them go off. What was this?
“William, William!”
“Yes, madam.”
“Did you take Mr. John’s trunk?”
“Mr. John? Mr. John’s box?”
“Oh, oh. I was afraid that would happen. I should have reminded you.
Oh, dear.”
“Will you take it with you, madam?”
“Yes, that would be best. Will you get it down now, and tell Mr. John
that we start in twenty minutes?”
How terrible all this was. There was William’s voice calling for
Robert. He was useless, that boy, quite useless. Why was he never there
when he was wanted? He was a good riddance, worthless creature. And
William was beginning to forget everything. What could one do?
They would have to take his box with them. And they would have to start
earlier so as to have time to label it and everything. Really, John
might have told them that he still had it in his room.
Ah, this sort of thing exhausted one. She was quite worn out. What with
going through the village on a last round of visits and talking to
everyone for the last time in one’s official position, so to speak, one
was worn out. Then she had given a farewell tea-party to the
neighbours, a terrible affair. But they had said nice things on the
Board of Guardians, and the Parish Council had presented her with an
address, she would never forget that. Weston was going to Mrs. Parks,
only three miles away, which was a good thing, for the soil here suited
him. Wait, there was Annie! She had not seen Annie. But what was the
good, the poor thing was quite crazy? Crayshaw was going to take her on
in his garden, so that she would be all right. It was good of him, he
had the village at heart. She would send Annie ten shillings when she
got to London. Mrs. Lane, too, was only moving two miles away, which
was because she wanted to be near Herbert, of course, as he was staying
on here to keep the garden tidy, till someone came to buy it. The house
was sure to be sold, it was so beautiful, and the garden was the best
in twenty miles. With Weston, Mrs. Parks would win all the prizes at
the Norbury Flower Show. He was a good gardener, quite excellent with
chrysanthemums.
It was stupid to forget that trunk. Why, he had been sitting on it when
she went up. She looked at her watch, ten minutes more, they ought to
be off. But no, not quite yet, perhaps.
It was nice of Edward, he must have understood how terrible leaving
Barwood would be to her. Having a foothold up there made house-huntin’
so much more comfortable. Goin’ away was like leaving half one’s life
behind one, but then the boy would be so much happier. She would be
able to look up Mrs. Malinger, who used to live in Norbury years ago,
she was such a nice woman.
Had she put in the medicine chest? There, she had forgotten. But
perhaps it was in. She leapt up and hurried upstairs to her bedroom.
Out of the window there was the view over the lawn. And there was the
cock pheasant being cautious at the bottom there. He and his wives
could eat all the bulbs now. That lawn, how beautiful it was. And in
the wild garden at the side the daffodils were beginning to come out,
such a mass of yellow. Well, they were going. What had she come here
for, she had been round the garden yesterday? Yes, the medicine chest.
She looked, and it was there still. She had forgotten. It must come up
by the van. How stupid of her, for towns were so unhealthy and the boy
might need a tonic. Oh, dear, the garden. They ought to be off soon.
She hurried downstairs again. There was William.
“The car is round, madam.”
“Very well.”
Wait a minute, just to show him she did not have train fever. But that
was childish.
“John, dear, get your coat on and come, or we shall have a rush at the
station.”
His voice from above:
“Coming.”
“William, I entirely forgot about the medicine chest in my room. Will
you send that on in the van?”
“Yes, madam.”
His voice, nearer:
“Coming.”
“Are the suitcases in?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Give me my coat, then.”
“And, William, come and see us in London some time. Your brother is
there, isn’t he?”
“I will, madam, thank you.”
Poor old thing, he was quite upset. It was rather terrible. Ah, here he
was. How quickly he walked alone now.
“Be careful, dear.”
“I’m all right.”
“Well, let’s get into the car. We have got plenty of time. Oh, William,
the clock has stopped in the Hall there. I hope it isn’t broken. You
had better get Brown’s man in to look at it.”
They were off now. What did the clock matter as they weren’t coming
back, but they sold better if they were going. John was waving. No, she
couldn’t look back.
“So we are going?”
“Of course, dear.”
He was so happy.
They were in the car on the way to the station, how extraordinary after
so many weeks’ work. Perhaps she had decided too quickly. Mabel, of
course, had been right against it from the start. But the boy would
only be happy in London, he wasn’t made for the country, especially
after he had gone blind like that. Only the other day and here they
were. Oh, there was the Vicarage. How fast they were going.
“Hi! don’t go so fast.”
“I love speed.”
“But it’s so dangerous, dear.”
“Where are we now?”
“In the sunken bit. He has slowed down, that’s better. Dear boy, are
you nearly enough wrapped up?”
Farther away, farther away. Everything had been leading up to this. The
road went by with a swish, the rain made the surface so wet.
“Are you sure you haven’t forgotten anythin’? There may be still time
to go back.”
“I don’t think so.”
There was the dove-cote. They were leaving so much behind. How fast the
man drove. What was the good? But it was tiresome forgettin’ John’s box
like that. It would put the excess luggage out, they would have to make
a new bill, and that would take time. It would be a rush. There was
Mrs. Trench. She hadn’t seen them, they were travellin’ so fast. She
was about to have another baby. There must be something in the family,
it was the only way to account for all the Trench babies dying as soon
just as they were born. It brought the average of infant mortality in
the village so high.
“Where are we now?”
“Why are you so jumpy, dear? We are just going under the leanin’ oak.”
The leaning oak? There was a long way to go yet. The engine purred.
London was the temple of machinery. It was hot in here.
“Shall we have a window down?”
“As you like. But it is rainin’.”
The air came rushing in, sown with raindrops that spattered coolly
against his face. He drank the wind in gulps, half-choking at the
volume of it cramming down his throat. This was good. And the horn on
this car had such an imperious note, but after all, great hopes were
driving with it. They must go faster, faster, but then Mamma did not
like it. The station was so far away, they might not catch their train.
The horn again. He would like to take it away and have it in London as
a souvenir to blow when things were not going well.
“Oh, John, look. There are the village.”
“Which side?”
“There, to your left. Oh, you have missed them, they are behind now.
How nice of them, how nice of them.”
“Yes, that was nice of them.”
“They were nearly all there. Oh dear.”
“We shall come down and see them again soon.”
“I saw Mrs. Withers, and Mrs. Hartley and old Mrs. Eddy had come from
the almshouses. I waved. They were waving. It would have been nice to
stop, but we haven’t the time.”
“No, that would only have made a rush at the station.”
Stopping like that would have been intolerable. Besides, it was better
to break quickly with the old than to linger by it. The village would
be all right. They must be on a hill now. How slow it was. They might
miss that train. Then they could always take the next one. But it was
this train that mattered, they must catch this train, he had thought so
much of it, tearing across the country to the biggest town of all.
Everything would give way to it, it was his train.
“We are just passing the last of your estate, dear”; for it was still
his.
“Yes?”
Thank God for that. They were almost out of the circle now.
She did feel miserable, yes, it was being worse than she thought it
would be. See how the corn was coming up, and the blossom just peeping
through the trees. Two partridges, frightened by the car, shot away to
curl over the hedge at the bottom of that field. Spring, and they were
leaving. But then October was always the best month down here, they
would come back for that, she had promised herself and Mabel. There was
Norbury, quite close now, with some blue sky over it and a great
rainbow--over the station no doubt.
“Are you happy, John?”
“Yes, very.”
What a fool of a man that was who was driving the cart. Why couldn’t he
get out of the way? That kind of labourer went to sleep, so the horses
did too, of course. What was that? No. Yes, it was the Vincent boy on
his motor bicycle. Mabel had been right, it was mad the pace he drove.
Look at him--no, he was gone.
“Here we are in Norbury.”
“Are we? Oh, well, it is not so very far now. Yes, I can smell it.
Splendid. What’s the time?”
“We have another ten minutes yet. Look, there’s the Tea Rooms, and
Smith the boot shop, and Green the draper’s.”
The driver had turned out of the High Street. Only another minute. He
could hardly sit still. That must be a coal dump they were passing. A
train whistled. Joy. The car pulled up, he jumped out and then stood
lost.
“Don’t move a step without me, dear.”
“All right.”
“You might fall on to the rails or something. Where’s Janet?”
That would indeed be an anti-climax.
“Here, John, come this way and sit on this seat.”
How quiet it was here. A cursed sparrow was cheeping foolishly so near.
The station seemed asleep. But he was going away. Behind in the
waiting-room a voice droned on, while another laughed at intervals.
There was Mamma’s voice coming. She had got hold of Smith, poor man. He
was being allowed to speak, “No trouble at all, Mrs. Haye, at all. I
will see to it immediately.” She stopped by him.
“They are making out the excess luggage, my dear. I think it is all
going to be all right.”
“Good.”
This seat was hideously hard. That sparrow. Why was no one moving? A
burst of laughter from the waiting-room, there were quite a number of
people in it. They would be travelling by the same train.
“Janet.”
“Yes, Mr. John.”
“How much longer, Janet?”
“Only five minutes now.”
Why did she speak as if he was a child? Here were steps coming towards
him, boots clanking on the flags. The man had a smell of grease and
leather about him.
“Porter?”
“Yessir.”
“Is it a through train to London?”
“Change at Bridcote, Swindon and Oxford.”
Why had Mamma not told him? So they were to travel provincially. Oh
well. It was London, but it was not the express. They would crawl like
a worm instead. Voices on all sides began to make themselves heard,
growing louder and louder. Over them all was Mamma suddenly thanking
Smith. Then she came and sat down by him.
“I have done it all, I think.”
“Good.”
“It will be in soon now.”
“So we change three times.”
“Yes, dear, do you mind? Such a nuisance. But it was the only train in
the afternoon, and I thought we had better have lunch at home, it is so
much more comfortable, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
How funny that she had never consulted him. But she had always loved
secrecy in her arrangements. A bell rang, steps began to make patterns
of sound, and the voices rushed out of the waiting-room. They were off.
A rumble which ran up to a roar and the train drew up. What a noise it
was. But Mamma was dragging him along. A child’s voice, plaintive,
“Mumma ... blind, Mumma.” Yes, that was him.
“Here you are dear, jump in. The corner seat. The carriage is reserved.
I shall be back in a minute. Thank you, Smith. Now ...”
So they were off. Good-bye. He had had so many. Where was Mamma? Oh,
why didn’t the train go?