BOOK V

ALMOST UNDER

§ 1.

Reuben did not go back to Cheat Land for several weeks. Those five

minutes had been too much for him. He would never again risk putting

himself in the power of things he did not understand. Besides, he felt

vaguely that after what had happened Alice would not want to see him.

She had humiliated herself, or rather he had humiliated her--for she had

put out in one swift dark minute all the powers of her nature to bind

him, and she had failed. He remembered her voice when she whispered,

"But not too late," and her eyes afterwards, smouldering in shadow, and

her little hands held out to him.... There had been nothing definite,

obvious, or masterful, yet in those few words and actions her whole self

had pleaded on its knees--and he had turned away.

But sometimes what kept him from her more than the thought of her

humiliation was the thought of his own. For sometimes it seemed almost

as if she had humbled him more than he had humbled her. He could not

tell whether this sick feeling of shame which occasionally swamped him

was due to the fact that he had so nearly surrendered to her or to the

fact that he had not quite done so. Sometimes he thought it was the

latter. The whole thing was ridiculous and perplexing, a lesson to him

not to adventure into subtleties but to keep in communion with the broad

plain things of earth.

Early in May he found a visit to Cheat Land forced upon him. Jury

wanted to buy a cow of his, but one of the sudden chills to which he was

liable kept him indoors. Reuben was anxious to sell the animal, and,

there being one or two weak points about her, would trust nobody but

himself with the negotiations. However, the visit would be quite safe,

for he was not likely to see Alice alone, indeed it was probable that he

might not see her at all.

On reaching the farm he heard several voices in the kitchen, and found

the invalid in an arm-chair by the fire, talking to an oldish man and a

rather plump pretty girl of about twenty. Jury was an intellectual,

incompetent-looking fellow, who seemed elderly, but at the same time

gave one the impression that this was due to his health. His grey hair

straggled over temples where the skin was stretched tight and yellow as

parchment, his cheeks were hollow, his eyes astonishingly like his

daughter's. He was one of the arguments against the marriage.

Alice had let Reuben in. She looked a little tired, but otherwise quite

cheerful, and she welcomed him simply and naturally.

"This is Miss Lardner," she said, introducing him to the girl, "and Mr.

Lardner of Starvecrow."

"I heard as how Starvecrow had been bought at last," said Reuben; "not a

bad farm, Muster, if you're fur green crops mostly."

"Potatoes," said Lardner, "potatoes--if farmers 'ud only grow potatoes

and not think so much of grain and rootses, we shudn't hear of so many

of 'em going bust."

The conversation became agricultural, but in spite of the interest such

a topic always had for him, Reuben could not help watching the two

girls. Miss Lardner, whom Alice called Rose, was a fine creature, so

different from the other as to make the contrast almost laughable. She

was tall and strapping--in later life she might become over stout, but

at present her figure was splendid, superbly moulded and erect. She

looked like a young goddess as she sat there, one leg crossed over the

other, showing her white stocking almost to the knee. There was

something arrogant in her attitude, as if she was aware of the splendour

of her body, and gloried in it. Her face too was beautiful--though less

classically so--rather broad, with high flat cheek-bones, and a wide

full-lipped mouth which would have given it almost a Creole look, if it

had not been for her short delicate nose and her fair ruddiness. Her

hair seemed to hesitate between gold and brown--her eyes between

boldness and languor.

Reuben found himself glancing at her continually, and though she seldom

met his eyes, he knew that she was aware of his scrutiny. He sometimes

felt that Alice was aware of it too.

As the conversation wore on, and became more general, Lardner said

something about going over to Snailham and taking Rose home on the way.

"Oh, no, Uncle--I don't want to go. Alice has asked me to stay to

supper."

"But you can't go home alone, and I can't wait wud you, surelye."

"I'll take Miss Lardner home," said Reuben.

Directly he had said the words, he looked over at Rose to see how she

would receive them. Her eyelashes lay black and curly against her cheek,

then they lifted slowly, and her eyes looked out from under the

half-raised lids with a kind of demure roguishness. At the same time her

lower lip seemed to quiver and plump out, while the corners of her mouth

rose and curled. He suddenly felt a desire to plant a kiss fairly on

that wet red mouth, which from away across the room seemed to pout

towards him.

§ 2.

Supper was a quiet meal. Old Jury and his invalid wife sat at each end

of the table, while Alice did most of the helping and waiting. They

seemed a sorry three to Reuben, pale, washed out, and weakly, their eyes

bright as birds' with the factitious light of their enthusiasms for

things that did not matter. They ate without much appetite, picking

daintily at their food, their knives never in their mouths. Reuben found

himself despising them as he despised the Bardons.

Rose did not talk much, but she ate heartily--she must be as healthy as

she looked. Once or twice during the meal Reuben caught himself staring

at her lips--they were extraordinarily red, and at the end of the meal

the juice of her pudding had stained them purple.

She said that she must leave directly after supper. Alice fetched her

hat, which was not the kind that Reuben had ever seen on country girls,

being of the fashionable pork-pie shape. All her clothes were obviously

town-made; she wore a blue stuff dress, tight-fitting round her bust and

shoulders, full and flounced in the skirt--afterwards he heard that Rose

had spent some years with relations in London before coming to live at

Starvecrow.

He gave her his arm, said good-bye to Alice in the doorway, and went

through the little garden where flowers crowded out vegetables in a very

unbusiness-like way, into the lane which wound past Cheat Land and round

the hanger of Boarzell, to the farms of the Brede Valley.

Rose, a little to his surprise, began to chatter volubly. She talked

very much like a child, with naïve comments, about simple things. She

asked trivial questions, and screamed with delight when some

dusk-blinded bird flew against her breast and dashed down heavily into

the ruts. She exclaimed at the crimson moon which rose behind the hedge

like a hot penny--she laughed at the slightest provocation; and yet all

the while he was conscious of an underlayer of shrewdness, he had an

extraordinary conviction of experience.

Besides, while she laughed and babbled like a child, her eyes

continually rose towards his with a woman's calculated boldness. They

spoke something quite different from her lips--the combination was

maddening; and those lips, too, in their rare silences, were so unlike

the words they uttered that he scarcely knew whether he wanted most to

silence them completely or never let them be silent.

"I don't like Alice Jury," she prattled, "she says just the opposite of

what you say. She never lets herself agree with anyone. She's a

contradictious female."

Then suddenly she was silent--and Reuben kissed her.

He crooked his arm round her and held her close to him, standing there

in the lane. Her lips slowly parted under his, then suddenly she threw

her head back in a kind of ecstasy, giving him the white expanse of her

neck, which he kissed, giddy with a soft fragrance that rose from her

clothes, reminding him a little of clover.

She was so obviously and naïvely delighted, that when he drew himself

up, his idea of her was again one of extreme childishness. And yet it

was evident that she was used to kisses, and that he had kissed her at

her own unspoken invitation.

They walked on down the lane. Rose's chatter had ceased, and a complete

silence dropped between the hedges. The moon had risen higher, and the

western hazels were bloomed with light. The moon was no longer crimson

in the dark sky, but had burnt down to copper, casting a copper glow

into the mists, staining all the blues that melted into one another

along the hills. Only the middle of the lane was black--like a well.

Reuben and Rose could see each other's faces in a kind of rusty

glimmer, but their feet stumbled in the darkness, and her hand lay

clutching and heavy on his arm.

At last they came to Castweasel--three old cottages and a ruined one,

leaning together in a hollow like mushrooms. Beside the ruined cottage a

tree-trunk was lying, and Rose suddenly stretched herself with a little

sigh.

"I'm tired--let's sit down and rest a bit."

They sat down on the log, and she immediately crept close to him like a

child. He put his arm round her, and once again she thrilled him with

her own delight--she stole her arms round his neck, holding his head in

the crook of her elbows, and laughed with her mouth against his. Then

her hands crept into his hair, and rumpled it, while she whispered like

a child finding some new virtue in its toy--"How thick! how thick!" At

last she drew his head down to her breast, holding it there with both

hands while she dipped her kisses on his eyes....

Reuben was in ecstasy by this time. It was years since he had caressed a

woman, except casually, for he considered that women interfered with his

work. Rose's eagerness could not cheapen her, for it was so childlike,

and she continued to give him that sense of deep experience which robbed

her attitude of insipidity. Her delight in his kisses was somehow made

sweeter to him by the conviction that she could compare them with other

men's.

She began to laugh--she became gay and mettlesome. Her whole nature

seemed changed, and he found it hard to think of her as the beautiful

yet rather lumpish girl who had sat in the silence of a good appetite at

the Cheat Land supper-table. Behind them the ruin of the old cottage

sent out bitter-sweet scents of decay--its crumbling plaster and rotting

lath perfumed the night. Fragrances strove in the air--the scent of

Rose's clothes, and of her big curls tumbling on his shoulder, the

scent of still water, of dew-drenched leaves, and damp, teeming

soil--sweet vagabond scents of bluebells, puffed on sudden breezes....

Reuben was growing drunken with it all--he strained Rose to him; she was

part of the night. Just as her scents mingled with its scents, so he and

she both mingled with the hush of the lightless, sorrowless fields, the

blots of trees, the woods that whispered voicelessly.... Above the

hedges, stars winked and flashed, dancing in the crystalline air. Right

overhead the Sign of Cancer jigged to its image in Castweasel Pool.

Reuben looked up, and through a gate he saw Boarzell rearing like a

shaggy beast towards him. He suddenly became more aware of Boarzell than

of anything in the night, than of the flowers or the water or the stars,

or even Rose, drowsing against his shoulder with parted lips. Boarzell

filled the night. The breeze became suddenly laden with scents of

it--the faint bitterness of its dew-drenched turf where the

bracken-crosiers were beginning to uncurl, of its noon-smelling gorse,

of its heather-tangle, half budding, half dead, of its fir-needles and

its fir-cones, rotting and sprouting. All seemed to blend together into

a strong, heady, ammoniacal smell ... the great beast of Boarzell

dominated the night, pawed Reuben, roared over him, made him suddenly

mad, clutching Rose till she cried out with pain, kissing her till she

broke free, and stood before him pale and dishevelled, with anger in her

eyes.

He sprang to his feet, the mood had passed--the beast of Boarzell had

ceased to worry him.

"I'm sorry," he said sheepishly.

"And well you may be," said Rose, "you've torn my gown."

They walked on down the lane; she pouted and swung her hat. Reuben,

anxious to propitiate, picked primroses under the hedge and gave them to

her.

She looked pleased at once, and began to eat them.

"Wot," said Reuben, "you eat flowers?"

"Yes," she answered, "I love eating primroses--pick me some more."

So for the rest of the walk to Starvecrow, he picked primroses, and she

nibbled them with her white teeth, which were small and even, except for

the two canines, which were pointed like a little animal's.

§ 3.

During the next day or two Reuben thought a great deal about Rose

Lardner. He made covert enquiries about her in the neighbourhood. He

found out that she was an orphan and old Lardner's only surviving

relative. He was an extremely prosperous man, and at his death Rose

would have all his money. Moreover, rumour gave him a cancer which would

carry him off before very long.

Reuben turned over these facts in his mind. He realised what a fine

thing it would be for Odiam if he married Rose. Here was the very wife

he wanted--of good standing in the neighbourhood, and something of an

heiress, young and healthy, and likely to give him stout boys, and also

exceedingly attractive in herself.

Under the circumstances he hardly knew what held him back, what made the

whole idea vaguely repugnant to him. Surely it could not be his feeling

for Alice Jury. The terrible thought suggested itself that his love for

Alice would survive all the outward signs of its demolition, that though

beaten and killed and destroyed it would haunt him disembodied. That was

the secret of its power--its utter lack of corporiety, its independence

of the material things a strong man could bend to his will, so that, as

it were, one could never lay hands on it, but chased it for ever like a

ghost.

Nevertheless, he called at Starvecrow and renewed his impressions of

Rose. They did not want much adjustment; he found her as he had found

her that first evening--childlike in all things save love, indolent,

languorous, and yet with gay bursts of spirit which made her charming.

He noticed too how well dressed she was--he admired her stuff gown and

neat buttoned boots, so different from what he was accustomed to see on

the feet of his womenfolk; he admired the crinkle and gloss of her hair,

so beautifully waved and brushed, and scented with some lotion--her

hands, too, well kept and white with shining pink nails, her trim muslin

collar, the clover scent of her garments ... it was all new, and gave

him somehow a vague feeling of self-respect.

When they were alone she was as eager as ever for his love. He had a

precious ten minutes with her in the parlour at Starvecrow, at the end

of which in came old Lardner, with talk of crops and beasts. Reuben

considered that he had some knowledge of farming--which was a long way

for him to go--and took him into confidence about some of Odiam's

affairs. The farm was still causing him anxiety, and he felt in need of

ready money. He wanted to establish a milk round, with a dairy shop in

Rye, but he could not spare the capital.

That visit was the first of several others. Starvecrow took the place of

Cheat Land--indeed, he seldom went near Cheat Land now. Rose gave him

all the refuge he wanted from the vexings and thwartings of his daily

life. She was not, like Alice, a counter-irritant, but a sweet drowse of

tenderness and beauty in which he forgot his disappointment, thinking of

nothing but the lovely woman he caressed.

She gave him sympathy, too, in a childlike way. She did not like it if

he interrupted his love-making to tell her about his plans for Boarzell,

but at other moments she seemed to enjoy hearing him talk of his

ambition; and often, when the jar and failure of things depressed him,

she would take him in her arms, and soothe him like a baby with--"Of

course you'll have Boarzell, my Reuben; of course it will be

yours--you're so strong and masterful, you're bound to get all you

want."

Her delight in him never seemed to fail. Sometimes it seemed to him

strange that the difference in their ages did not affect her more. She

never gave him a hint that she thought him too old for her. He once told

her that he was nearly fifty, but she had answered with a happy laugh

that she did not like boys.

As a matter of fact, Reuben at fifty was a lover of whom any girl might

still be proud. If a little grey had come into his hair, it had merely

been to give it the gleam of polished iron, and contrast it more

effectively with the swarthiness of his skin. His teeth were as white

and even as when he was twenty, for he had never risked spoiling them by

too much tobacco--his eyes, dark and bright, were like a boy's; his

broad back was straight, and his powerful arms could lift even the plump

Rose to his shoulder. He once carried her on his shoulder all the way

from Tide Barn to the beginning of Starvecrow lane.

§ 4.

Towards the end of August, Reuben asked Rose to marry him.

The request was not so much the outcome of passion as might have been

imagined from the form it took. It was true that he was deeply enamoured

of her, but it was also true that for three months he had endured the

intoxication of her presence without definitely, or even indefinitely,

claiming her for his own. He had held himself back till he had

thoroughly weighed and pondered her in relation to his schemes--he was

not going to renounce Alice for a wife who would be herself a drawback

in another way.

However, though he had never deceived himself that Rose's sympathetic

tendernesses meant any real sharing of his ambition, he was soon

convinced that to marry her would be materially to help himself in the

battle which was now dragging a little on his side. He wanted ready

money--her settlements would provide that; and her heirship of Lardner

held out dazzling hopes for the future. He wanted children--where could

he find a healthier mother? He wanted to raise the dignity of Odiam, and

could hardly have thought of a better means than marriage with the niece

of one of the wealthiest and most important farmers in the parish. To

crown all, he gave himself an adorable woman, young, lovely, tender, and

gay. This consideration could not have dragged him contrary to his

ambition, but combined with it, it could give to an otherwise very

practical and material plan all the heats of passion and the glories of

romance.

The only disappointment was Rose's reception of his offer. At first she

was unaffectedly surprised. She had looked upon the whole affair as a

flirtation, of which she had had several, and had never expected it to

take such a serious turn.

Even when she had recovered from her surprise, she refused to give him

an answer. He became suddenly alarmed lest she thought him too old, and

pressing her for her reasons, found that the real matter was that she

did not want to sacrifice her freedom.

"Wot do you mean, sweetheart? Döan't you love me?"

"Of course I love you--but it doesn't follow I want to belong to you.

Can't we go on as we are?"

"You queer me, Rose. How can we go on as we are?--it's like walking on a

road that never leads nowhere."

"Well, that's very nice--I don't always want to go somewhere every time

I take a walk, I much prefer just wandering."

"I döan't."

"Because you're so practical and business-like, and I'm afraid you'd try

and make me practical and business-like too. That's why I said I wanted

to be free."

"You shall be free, Rose--I promise you. You shall do wotsumdever you

please."

"Absolutely 'wotsumdever'?"

"Yes--wudin reason, of course."

"Ah, that's it. Your reason mightn't be my reason."

"You wudn't find me unreasonable, dear."

"Well, I shall have to think it over."

She thought it over for two months, during which Reuben suffered all the

torments of his lot. She soon came to realise and appreciate her powers;

she dangled hopes and fears with equal zest before his eyes, she used

his anxieties to stoke the furnaces of his passion, till she had

betrayed him into blazes and explosions which he looked on afterwards

with uneasy shame.

Once in sick amazement at himself he took refuge at Cheat Land, and sat

for an hour in Alice Jury's kitchen, watching her sew. But the springs

of his confidence were dried, he could not tell Alice what he felt about

Rose. She knew, of course. All the neighbourhood knew he was in love

with Rose Lardner, and watched the progress of his courtship with covert

smiles.

Rose used often to come to Odiam, where she was at first rather shy of

Reuben's children, all of whom were older than herself. In time,

however, she outgrew her shyness, and became of an exceedingly mad and

romping disposition. She ran about the house like a wild thing, she

dropped blackberries into Caro's cream, she tickled Pete's neck with

wisps of hay, she danced in the yard with Jemmy. Reuben grew

desperate--he felt the hopelessness of capturing this baby who played

games with his children; and yet Rose was in some ways so much older

than they--she loved to say risky things in front of the innocent Caro,

and howled with laughter when she could not understand--she loved to

prod and baffle the two boys, who in this respect were nearly as

inexperienced as their sister. Then, on the walk home with Reuben, over

Boarzell, she would retail these feats of hers with gusto, she would

invite his kisses, sting up his passion--she tormented him with her

extraordinary combinations of childishness and experience, shyness and

abandonment, innocence and corruption.

In time the state of his own mind reduced Reuben to silence about his

longings. He somehow lost the power of picturing himself married to this

turbulent, bewildering creature, half-woman, half-child. He clung to her

in silent kisses; leading her home over Boarzell, he would suddenly turn

and smother her in his arms, while his breast heaved with griefs and

sighings he had not known in the earlier weeks of his courtship.

Rose noticed this difference, and it piqued her. She began to miss his

continual protestations. Sometimes she tried to stir them up again, but

her bafflings had reacted on herself; she handled him clumsily, he was

too mazed to respond to her flicks. Then she became sulky, irritable,

slightly tyrannous--even stinting her kisses.

One night early in October he was taking her home. They had crossed

Boarzell, and were walking through the lanes that tangle the valley

north of Udimore. She walked with her arm conventionally resting on his,

her profile demure in the starlight. He felt tired, not in his body, but

in his mind--somehow life seemed very aimless and gloomy; he despised

himself because he craved for her arms, for her light thoughtless

sympathy.

"Why döan't you speak to me, Rose?"

"I was thinking."

"Wot about?"

"Oh, clothes and things."

He stopped suddenly in their walk, as he had often done, and seized her

in his arms, swinging her off her feet, burying his face in her wraps to

kiss her neck. She kicked and fought him like a wild cat, and at last he

dropped her.

"Why wöan't you let me kiss you?"

"Because I won't."

She walked quickly, almost running, and he had to stride to keep up with

her.

"You're justabout cruel," he said furiously.

"And so are you."

"Wot have I done?"

"You've changed your mind about wanting to marry me."

He stared at her with his mouth open.

"Rose...."

"Well, don't gape at me. You know you have."

"I justabout haven't. It's you----"

"It isn't me. I only asked for a little time to think it over, and then

you go and cool off."

"I--cool off! My dear, I dudn't ever. I never understood--you're such a

tedious liddle wild thing."

"Well, do you want to marry me?"

"Rose!"

"And you'll let me do as I like?"

"Rose, marry me."

"Very well--I will. But it's funny I should want to."

Then suddenly her expression changed. Her eyes half closed, her lips

parted, and she held out her arms to him with a laugh like a sob.

§ 5.

Reuben and Rose were married in the January of '70. It was the earliest

date compatible with the stocking of her wardrobe, a business which

immediately absorbed her to the exclusion of everything else.

Meantime Reuben, having repapered the parlour and given a new coat of

whitewash to the best bedroom ceiling, discussed settlements with old

Lardner. These did not turn out as large as he had hoped--the old man

was close, and attempts on his generosity only resulted in embarrassing

doubts as to the disinterestedness of his son-in-law's affections.

Reuben comforted himself with the thought that Lardner most certainly

had a cancer.

At the wedding Rose fairly dazed the onlookers. She wore a dress of

heavy white satin, with a white lace veil--and a bustle. It was the

first bustle that had ever been seen in Peasmarsh, or even in Rye. In

itself it was devastating enough, but it soon acquired a prophetic and

metaphorical significance which made it even more impressive. Spectators

saw in it the forecast of Odiam's downfall--"He can't stand that," said

Brazier, the new man at Totease, "she's a Jezebubble."--"Only it äun't

her head as she's tired this time," said Ticehurst.--"She shud have worn

it in front of her, and then we shud have bin interested," said Cooper

of Kitchenhour.

Alice Jury and her father were in church. Reuben saw them as he marched

up the aisle with an enormous flower in his buttonhole, accompanied by

Ginner of Socknersh as his best man. It struck him that she looked more

pretty and animated than usual, in a woolly red dress and a little fur

cap under which her eyes were bright as a robin's. Even then he felt a

little offended and perplexed by her behaviour--she should have

drooped--it would have been more becoming if she had drooped.

The remnants of his family were in a front pew--Pete with an elaborately

curled forelock, Jemmy casting the scent of cheap hair oil into the

prevalent miasma of camphor and moth-killer, and between the two boys,

Caro in an unbecoming hat which she wore at a wrong angle, while her

dark restless eyes devoured Rose's creamy smartness, from her satin

shoes to the wave of curling-irons in her hair. Harry had been left at

home--he was in an impossible mood, tormented by some dark current of

memory, wandering from room to room as he muttered--"Another

wedding--another wedding--we're always having weddings in this house."

After the ceremony nearly a hundred guests were fed at Starvecrow. All

the most important farmers of the neighbourhood were there, except of

course Realf of Grandturzel. Rose was like her name-flower, flushed and

scented. Very different from his earlier bride, she sat beside Reuben

with head erect and smiling lips--she drank with everyone, and the wine

deepened the colour of her cheeks and made her eyes like stars. She

talked, she laughed, she ate, she was so happy that her glances, full of

bold languor, swept round the table, resting on all present as well as

the chosen man--she was a gay wife.

Dancing at weddings was dying out as a local fashion, so when the

breakfast was over the guests melted away, having eaten and drunk

themselves into a desire for sleep. Reuben's family went home. He and

Rose lingered a little with her uncle, then as the January night came

crisping into the sky and fields, he drove her to Odiam in his gig, as

long ago he had driven Naomi. She leaned against his shoulder, for he

wanted both hands for his horse, and her hair tickled his neck. She was

silent for about the first time that day, and as eager for the kisses he

could give her while he drove as Naomi had been shy of them. Above in

the cold black sky a hundred pricks of fire shuddered like sparks--the

lump of Boarzell was blocked against a powder of stars.

At Odiam Rose shook off her seriousness. Supper was ready, and undaunted

by the huge meal she had already eaten, she sat down to it with a hearty

appetite. Her step-children stared at her curiously--Rose had a gust of

affection for them. Poor things!--their lives had been so crude and dull

and innocent. She must give them a little brightness now, soften the

yoke of Reuben's tyranny--that girl Caro, for instance, she must give

her some pretty clothes and show her how to arrange her hair becomingly.

Supper was a very gay meal--the gayest there had ever been at Odiam.

Rose laughed and talked, as at Starvecrow, and soon her husband and the

boys were laughing with her. Some of the things she said were rather

daring, and Caro had only a dim idea of what she meant, but Rose's eyes

rolling mischievously under the long lashes, and the tip of her tongue

showing between her lips, gave her words a devilish bite even if only

half understood. Somehow the whole atmosphere of the Odiam kitchen was

changed--it was like the lifting of a curtain, the glimpsing of a life

where all was gay, where love and ambition and all solemn things were

the stuff of laughter.

The boys beat the handles of their knives on the table and rolled in

their chairs with wide-open mouths as if they would burst; Reuben leaned

back with a great pride and softening in his eyes, round which many hard

lines had traced themselves of late; Caro's lips were parted and she

seemed half enchanted, half bewildered by the other woman's careless

merriment. Only Harry took no interest and looked dissatisfied--"Another

wedding," he mumbled as he dribbled his food unnoticed over the

cloth--"we're always having weddings in this house."

It was strange that during this gay meal the strongest link was forged

between Rose and Caro. Two natures more utterly unlike it would be hard

to find--Caro's starved ignorance of love and aged familiarity with

dustier matters made her the antithesis of Rose, a child in all things

save those of the affections; but the two women's hearts met in their

laughter. It was Rose who invited, Caro who responded, for Rose in spite

of her years and inexperience had the one advantage which made her the

older of the two. She was drawn to Caro partly from essential kindness,

partly because she appreciated the luxury of pitying her--Caro

responded with all the shy devotion of a warped nature going out towards

one who enjoys that for which it unconsciously pines. Rose's beauty,

jollity, and happiness made her a goddess to the less fortunate girl.

After supper Rose turned towards her.

"Will you come up and help me unpack?"

Caro flushed with pleasure--a light had kindled in her grey life, and

she found herself looking forward to days of basking.

They went up together to the huge low-raftered bedroom, which struck

horribly cold.

"Ugh!" said Rose--"no fire!"

"But it's a bedroom."

"That's no reason for not having a fire. I shall freeze. Let's have the

servant up to light one."

"Oh, no. I'll light it; Mary's busy clearing the table. But I reckon as

fäather wöan't be pleased."

"I'll make him pleased. You leave father to me for the future."

Caro fetched some wood and turf and laid the fire, to which Rose applied

a match, feeling that by this she had done her share of the work. Then

they began to unpack. There were two trunks full of clothes, and Rose

complicated matters by refusing to take things out as they came but

diving after various articles she particularly wanted.

"I want my blue negleegy--I must show you my blue negleegy," she panted,

up to her elbows in underlinen.

"Oh, here it is! what do you think of it?"

"It's silk!" said Caro in a hoarse whisper.

"Of course it is--and the very best silk too. I'll put it on. Please

undo my dress."

Caro helped her off with her wedding-dress, and after having recovered

her breath, which she lost completely at the sight of the lace on her

chemise, she helped her arrange the "negleegy," and watched her

open-mouthed as she posed in it before the fragment of looking-glass.

"Isn't it chick?" said Rose, "I got it in Hastings--they say it is

copied from a Paris model. Now let's go on with the unpacking."

They went on--that is to say Rose leaned back in her chair and directed

Caro as she took the things out of the trunks. The girl was fairly

bewildered by what she saw--the laced chemises, the flounced petticoats,

the dainty nightgowns with transparent necks. "But you'll show through,"

she said in tones of horror as she displayed one of these, and could not

understand why Rose rolled in her chair with laughter.

There were little pots of cream and bottles of hair-lotion, there were

ebony-backed brushes, patent leather shoes, kid gloves, all sorts of

marvels which Caro had seen nowhere but in shops. As she unpacked she

felt a kind of soreness in her heart. Why should Rose have all these

beautiful things, these laces, these perfumes, these silks and ribbons,

while Caro wore nothing but stuff and calico or smelt of anything

sweeter than milk? As she glanced at Rose, leaning back in the most

comfortable chair to be found in that uncomfortable room--the firelight

dancing on the silken ripples of her gown, her neck and arms gleaming

through clouds of lace--the soreness woke into a pain. Rose had

something more even than silks and laces. She had love. It was love that

made her hold her chin so proudly, it was love that made her cheeks

flush and her eyes glow. And no one had ever loved Caro--she had never

heard a man's voice in tenderness, or felt even so much as a man's hand

fondle hers....

"Caro, would you mind brushing my hair?"

Rose was taking out the pins, and curls and tendrils of hair began to

fall on her shoulders. Caro took the brush, and swept it over the soft

mass, gleaming like spun glass. A subtle perfume rose from it, the rub

of it on her hand was like silk. Rose's eyes closed as the brush

stroked her, and her lips parted slowly into a smile.

Then suddenly, without warning, all this love and happiness and

possession became too much for Caro--she dropped the brush and the

scented hair, and burst into passionate tears.

§ 6.

Reuben at once laid out his wife's money to the best advantage. He

bought twenty cows, good milkers, and started a dairy business in Rye. A

shop was opened near the Landgate, which sold milk, butter, cream, and

eggs from Odiam. He also tried to establish a milk-round in Rye, sending

circulars to inns and private houses. He engaged a young woman to serve

in the shop, and boys to drive his milk-carts. This meant a big

expenditure, and almost all Rose's money was swallowed up by it.

Reuben was surprised at Lardner's attitude. The old man refused to look

upon this spending of his niece's dowry as an excellent investment,

which would soon bring in returns a hundredfold--he would have preferred

to see her money lying safe and useless in Lewes Old Bank, and accused

Backfield of greed and recklessness. Reuben in his turn was disgusted

with Lardner's parsimony, and would have quarrelled with him had he not

been afraid of an estrangement. The farmer of Starvecrow could not speak

without all sorts of dreadful roars and clearings in his throat, and

Reuben hopefully observed the progress of the cancer.

Rose herself did not much care how her money was spent as long as she

had the things she wanted. First of these at present was Reuben's love,

and that she had in plenty. She was a perpetual source of delight to

him; her beauty, her astounding mixture of fire and innocence, her good

humour, and her gaiety were even more intoxicating than before marriage.

He felt that he had found the ideal wife. As a woman she was perfect,

so perfect that in her arms he could forget her short comings as a

comrade. After all, what did it matter if she failed to plumb the depths

of his desire for things outside herself, as long as she herself was an

undying source of enchantment?--smoothing away the wrinkles of his day

with her caresses, giving him love where she could not give him

understanding, her heart where she could not give her brain. During the

hours of work and fret he would long for her, for the quiet warm

evenings, and the comfort which the wordless contact of her brought. She

made him forget his heaviness, and gather strength to meet his

difficulties, giving him draughts of refreshment for to-morrow's journey

in the desert.

His times were still anxious. Even if the milk-round turned out a

success, it was bound to be a loss to him during the first year. A

multiplication of servants also meant for a man like Reuben a

multiplication of trials. He would have liked to do all the work

himself, and could trust no one to do it properly for him. His

underlings, with their detached attitude towards the farm, were a

perpetual source of anxiety and contempt. His heart sickened for those

stalwart sons he had dreamed of in the days of his first marriage--a

dream which mocked him daily with its pitiful materialisation in the

shred of family that still worked for Odiam. Reuben longed for Rose to

have a child, but the months passed, and she had no favourable answer to

his repeated questionings, which struck her at first as amusing, later

as irritating, and at last--at the suggestion of one or two female

friends--as indelicate.

She herself had no wish for motherhood, and expressed this so openly

that in time Reuben began to entertain dark doubts of her, and to feel

that she would avoid it if she could. Yet she in herself was so utterly

sweet that he could not find it in his heart to be angry, or use

anything but tender remonstrance when she vexed him with her attitude

towards life in general and marriage in particular.

She gulped at pleasure, and she gave him so much that he could not deny

her what she craved for, though the mere decorativeness of her tastes

amazed and sometimes appalled him. She coaxed him to buy her new

curtains and chair-covers for the parlour, and to turn it into a room

which could be used, where she could lounge in her pretty frocks, and

entertain her women-friends--of whom she had a startling number--to

afternoon tea, with cream, and little cakes that cost an amount of money

altogether disproportionate to the space that they filled in one's

inside. She demanded other entertainments too--visits to Rye, and even

to Hastings, and jaunts to fairs other than the sanctioned one on

Boarzell.

Reuben was delighted with her fashionable clothes, the dainty things

with which she managed to surround herself, her fastidious care for her

person, her pomadings, her soapings, her scentings--but he sometimes had

vague doubts of this beautiful, extravagant, irresponsible creature. He

was like a man stirring in a happy dream, realising in the midst of it

that he dreams, and must some day awake.

§ 7.

The year '71 was on the whole a bad one. The summer was parched, the

autumn sodden, and the winter frozen. Reuben's oats after some excellent

promises failed him abruptly, as was the way with crops on Boarzell. His

wheat was better in quality but poor in quantity, his mangolds had the

rot, and his hops, except for the old field by the lane, were brown and

ragged with blight.

This would have been bad enough in any year, but in times when he bore

the burden of his yet profitless milk-round it was only a little short

of catastrophe. Making every allowance for a first year, that milk-round

had disappointed him. He found private custom hard to win, and even the

ceasing of French dairy supplies, owing to the Franco-Prussian war, did

not bring him the relief he had hoped. One or two small farms on the

borders of Rye catered in dairy stuff for its inhabitants, and he found

them hard to outbid or outwit. Also, owing to the scarcity of grass

feed, it was a bad milk year, and poor supplies were put down by

consumers to the new milkman, and in more than one case custom was

withdrawn.

Reuben faced his adversity with set teeth and a dogged countenance. He

had not been farming thirty odd years to be beaten casually by the

weather. Scorching heat and blighting cold, the still blanker doom of

the trickling, pouring rain--the wind that seeded his corn, and beat

down his hay, and flung his hop-bines together in muddled heaps--the

pests that Nature breeds by the ten million out of her own putrefyings

and misbegettings--all things in life from the lowest maggot to the

fiercest storm--he was out to fight them. In challenging Boarzell he had

challenged them all.

In time his struggle began to modify his relations with Rose. At first

he had told himself that her uselessness was only apparent. Though she

herself did no fighting, she gave such rest and refreshment to the

soldier that he went forth strengthened to the war. He had almost begun

to attribute to her his daily renewed courage, and had once or twice

been moved to show his gratitude by acts of expensive indulgence.

Now slowly he began to see that this gratitude was misleading--better

receive no comfort from Rose than pay for it too dear. He must make her

understand that he could not afford to keep a useless and extravagant

wife, however charming she might be. Rose must do her share, as Naomi

had done, as his mother had done, as his children had done.

Sometimes he would expostulate with her, and when she met his

expostulations with blandishments, he would feel himself yielding, and

grow so furious that he would turn upon her in rage and indignation.

Rose was not like Naomi; in her own words "she gave as good as she got,"

and once or twice, for the first time in his life, Reuben found himself

in loud and vulgar altercation with a female. He had never before had a

woman stand up to him, and the experience was humiliating.

He had used to turn from Boarzell to her for rest, and now he found

himself turning from her to Boarzell. It was part of the baffling

paradox that the thing he fought should also be the thing he loved, and

the battlefield his refuge. Out on the Moor, with the south-west wind

rolling over him like the waves of some huge earth-scented sea, he drank

in the spirit of conflict, he was swept back into the cleanness and

singleness of his warfare. It was then that Boarzell nerved him for its

own subduing, stripped his heart of softness, cleansed it of domestic

fret. Rose and her love and sweetness were all very well, but he was out

for something greater than Rose--he must keep in mind that she was only

a part of things. Why, he himself was only a part of things, and in his

cravings and softenings must be conquered and brushed aside even as

Rose. In challenging Boarzell he had challenged the secret forces of his

own body, all the riot of hope and weakness and desire that go to make a

man. The battle was not to be won except over the heaped bodies of the

slain, and on the summit of the heap would lie his own.

§ 8.

The last piece of land had been exceptionally tough even for Boarzell.

It was a high strip, running right across the Moor from the edge of the

twenty-acre piece acquired in '67, over the high-road, to the borders of

Doozes. The soil was amazingly various--it started in the low grounds

almost as clay, with runnels of red water in the irrigation ditches,

then passing through a stratum of marl it became limish, grey and

brittle, powdering under the spade. Reuben's ploughs tore over it,

turning up earth of almost every consistency and colour, till the new

ground looked like a smeared palette. Towards Doozes it became clay

again, and here oats would grow, sedge-leaved and tulip-rooted, with

puffy awns. On the crest was rubble, poor stuff where even the heather

seemed to fight for existence.

Reuben struggled untiringly--he tried manure as in his first

enterprising days, and a horrible stink of guano told traffic on the

road it was passing through Odiam territory. Spades and ploughshares and

harrows scored and pulped the earth. Sometimes with breaking back and

aching head, the sweat streaming over his skin, he would lift himself

stiffly from the plough-handles, and shake his fist at the desert round

him. He had never had such a tussle before, and put it down to the fact

that he was now for the first time on the high ground, on the hard and

sterile scab of the marl, where it seemed as if only gorse would grow.

He felt as if now for the first time he was fighting against odds, his

earlier struggles were tame compared with this.

Often in the evenings, when the exhausting work of the day was done, he

would wander out on the Moor, seeking as usual rest on the field of his

labours. The tuft of firs would grow black and featureless against the

dimming sky, and stars would hang pale lamps above the fog, which smoked

round Boarzell, veiling the fields, till it seemed as if he stood alone

on some desert island, in the midst of a shoreless sea. All sounds would

be muffled, lights and shadows would blur, and he would be alone with

the fir-clump and the stars and the strong smells of his land.

He would wait there till the dew hung in pearls on his clothes and hair,

and the damp chills of the night were in his bones. Then he would creep

down from the Moor, and go back into the warmth and love of the

house--yet with this difference now, that he never quite forgot.

He would wake during the night after cruel dreams of Boarzell stripped

of its tilth, relapsed into wildness; for a few agonised moments he

would wonder if the dream were true, and if he had not indeed failed.

Sometimes he had to get out of bed and steal to the window, to reassure

himself with the sight of his diggings and fencings. Then a horrible

thought would attack him, that though he had not yet actually failed, he

was bound to fail soon, that his task was too much for him, and only one

end possible. He would creep back into bed, and lie awake till dawn and

the restarting of the wheel.

One comfort was that these evil summers had blighted Grandturzel too.

Realf's fruit and grain had both done badly, and he had been unfortunate

with his cows, two of which had died of garget. It was now that the

characters of the two rivals were contrasted. Realf submitted at once to

adversity, cut down his expenses, and practically withdrew from the

fight. Ambitious and enterprising when times were good, he was not the

man to be still ambitious and enterprising when they were bad. The

greatness of his farm was not so much to him as the comfort of his

family. He now had a little son, and was anxious that neither he nor

Tilly should suffer from bad speculations. He despised Reuben for

putting Odiam before his wife and children, and defying adversity at the

expense of his household.

"He'll do fur himself," he said to Tilly, as he watched her bath the

baby before the fire, "and where'll his old farm be then?"

"He's more likely to do fur someone else," said Tilly, who knew her

father.

"Wot about this gal he's married?"

"I'm sorry fur her."

"But she döan't look as if she wanted it, surelye. I never see anything

so smart and well-set-up as she wur in church last Sunday."

"Still, I'm sorry fur her--I'm sorry fur any woman as he takes up with.

Now, Henry, you can't kiss baby while I'm bathing him."

It sometimes grieved Tilly that she could not do more for her brothers

and sister. Pete did not want her help, being quite happy in his work on

the farm. But Jemmy and Caro hated their bondage, and she wished she

could set them free. Reuben had sternly forbidden his children to have

anything to do with the recreant sister, but they occasionally met on

the road, or on the footpath across Boarzell. Once Caro had stolen a

visit to Grandturzel, and held the baby in her arms, and watched her

sister put him to bed; but she was far too frightened of Reuben to come

again.

On Reuben's marriage Tilly had hoped that Rose might do something for

Caro, and indeed the girl had lately seemed to have a few more treats

and pleasures in her life; but from what she had heard and from what she

saw, the younger sister was afraid that Rose's good offices were not

likely to make for Caro's ultimate happiness. Then comfortable little

Tilly would sigh in the midst of her own, and wish that everyone could

have what she had been given.

Benjamin occasionally stole afternoons in Rye--if he was discovered

there would be furious scenes with Reuben, but he had learned cunning,

and also, being of a sporting nature, was willing to take risks. Some

friends of his were building a ship down at the Camber. Week by week he

watched her grow, watched the good timber fill in her ribs, watched her

decks spread themselves, watched her masts rise, and at last smelt the

good smell of her tarring. She was a three-masted schooner, and her

first voyage was to be to the Canaries. Her builders drank many a toast

with Backfield's truant son, who gladly risked his father's blows to be

with them in their work and hearty boozing. He forgot the farmyard

smells he hated in the shipyard smells he loved, and his slavery in

oaths and rum--with buckets of tar and coils of rope, and rousing

chanties and stories of strange ships.

Next spring the news came to Odiam that Benjamin had run away to sea.

§ 9.

It was Rose who had to tell Reuben.

Benjamin had given no one the faintest hint of his plans; indeed for the

last two or three weeks his behaviour had been unusually good. Then one

morning, when Reuben was at Robertsbridge market, he

disappeared--Handshut could not find him to take his place in the

lambing shed. Rose was angry, for she had wanted young Handshut to hang

some curtains for her--one cause of disagreement between her and Reuben

was her habit of coaxing the farm-hands to do odd jobs about the house.

That same evening, before her husband was back, a letter came for Rose.

It was from Benjamin at Rye, announcing that he was sailing that night

in the _Rother Lady_ for Las Palmas. He was sick of the farm, and could

not stand it any longer. Would Rose tell his father?

Rose was not sorry to see the last of Benjamin, whom she had always

despised as a coarse lumpkinish youth, whose clothes smelt strongly

either of pitch or manure. But she dreaded breaking the news to Reuben.

She disliked her husband's rages, and now she would have to let one

loose. Then suddenly she thought of something, and a little smile

dimpled the corners of her mouth.

Reuben came in tired after a day's prodding and bargaining in

Robertsbridge market-place. Rose, like a wise woman, gave him his

supper, and then, still wise, came and sat on his knee.

"Ben ..."

"Well, liddle Rose."

"I've some bad news for you."

"Wot?"

"Jemmy's gone for a sailor."

He suddenly thrust her from him, and the lines which had begun to soften

on his face as he held her, reappeared in their old harshness and

weariness.

"Gone!"

"Yes. I had a letter from him this evening. He couldn't stand Odiam any

longer, so he ran away. He's sailed for a place called Palma."

Reuben did not speak. His hands were clenched on the arms of his chair,

and for the first time Rose noticed that he looked old. A faint feeling

of disgust came over her. She shivered, and took a step backwards as if

she would leave him. Then her warm good nature and her gratitude to the

man who had made her so happy, drove away the unnatural mood. She came

close, and slipped her soft arms round his neck, pressing her lips to

his.

He groaned.

"You mustn't fret, Reuben."

"How can I help it?--they're all gone now save one ... my boys...."

"Perhaps there'll be others."

She had slid back to his knee, and the weight and warmth of her

comforted him a little. He lifted his head quickly at her words.

"Others?"

"Yes, why not?"

Her bold sweet eyes were looking into his and her mouth was curved like

a heart.

"Rose, Rose--my dear, my liddle dear--you döan't mean----"

"Of course I mean. You needn't look so surprised. Such a thing has been

known to happen."

"Döan't go laughing at me, but tell me--when?"

"In October."

"Oh, God! oh, God!"

His rapture and excitement alarmed her. His eyes blazed--he threw back

his head and laughed in ecstasy. Then he seized her, and crumpled her to

him, covering her face, her neck, her hair, her ears, with kisses,

murmuring broken phrases of adoration and gratitude.

Rose was definitely frightened, and broke free with some violence.

"Oh, stop it, Ben! can't you see you're spoiling my dress? Why should

you get in such a taking? You've had children before, and they've all

been failures--I expect this one will only be like the rest."

§ 10.

Rose's child was born towards the end of October. Once more Reuben had a

son, and as he looked down on the little red hairless thing all his

hopes and dreams were built anew. He had always lived too near the earth

to let experience thump him into cynicism. He raised as glorious dreams

over this baby as he had raised over the others, and seen crumble into

ashes. Indeed, the fact that his earlier hopes had failed made him warm

himself more gratefully at this rekindling. He saw himself at last

raised out of the pit of difficulty--he would not lose this boy as he

had lost the others, he would perhaps be softer and more indulgent, he

would at all events be wiser, and the child should indeed be a son to

him and to Odiam. "Unto Us--Reuben and Odiam--a child is born; unto Us a

son is given."

He was soon confirmed in his idea that the birth had brought him luck.

Before little David was a week old, the welcome news came that Lardner

had died. For some time he had been able to swallow only milk food, and

his speech had been reduced to a confused roaring, but his death at this

juncture seemed to Reuben a happy coincidence, an omen of good fortune

for himself and his son.

He was so pleased that he forgot to veil his pleasure before Rose, whose

grief reminded him of the fact that Lardner was a near and dear

relation, whose death must be looked upon as a chastisement from heaven.

In a fit of compunction for his behaviour, he ordered a complete suit of

mourning, in which he attended the funeral. He was soft and benign to

all men now, and soothed Rose's ruffled spirit by showing himself to her

in all the glory of a top-hat with crape weepers before setting out for

Starvecrow.

He himself had helped plan the obsequies, which were carried out with

all possible pomp by a Rye undertaker. After the ceremony there was a

funeral meal at Starvecrow, where sedate joints and solemn whiskies were

partaken of in the right spirit by the dozen or so men and women who

were privileged to hear old Lardner's will. This was read by the

deceased's lawyer, and one or two pleased malicious glances were darted

at Reuben from under decorously lowered lids. He sat with his fists

doubled upon his knees, hearing as if in a nightmare:

"I bequeath the farm of Starvecrow, with all lands, stock, and

tools pertaining thereto, also the house and fixtures, together

with seven thousand pounds to Henry Robert Crick of Lone Mills,

Ontario, Canada, my dear son by Marion Crick.... My household

furniture and fifty pounds free of legacy duty I bequeath to my

niece, Rose Backfield, wife of Reuben Backfield of Odiam."

Reuben felt dazed and sick, the solemn faces of the mourners seemed to

leer at him, he was seized by a contemptuous hatred of his kind. There

was some confused buzzing talk, but he did not join in it. He shook

hands deliriously with the lawyer, muttered something about having to

get back, and elbowed his way out of the room. Pete had driven over to

fetch him in his gig, as befitted the dignity of a yeoman farmer and

nephew-by-marriage of the deceased, but Reuben angrily bade him go home

alone. He could not sit still, he must walk, stride off his fury, the

frenzy of rage and disgust and disappointment that consumed him.

What business had old Lardner to have a natural son? Never had the laws

of morality seemed to Reuben so august and necessary as then, or their

infringement more contemptible. He was filled with a righteous loathing

of this crapulous libertine who perpetuated the vileness of some low

intrigue by bequeathing his worldly goods to his bastard. Meantime his

virtuously married niece was put off with fifty pounds and some trashy

furniture. Reuben fairly grovelled before the seventh commandment that

afternoon.

He staggered blindly along the road. His head swam with rage, and also,

it must be confessed, with something else--for he was not used to

drinking whisky, which some obscure local tradition considered the only

decent beverage at funerals. His face was flushed, and every now and

then something would be whirled round by the wind and whip his cheeks

and blind him momentarily in a black cloud. At first he was too confused

to grapple with it, but when two long black arms suddenly wound

themselves about his neck, nearly choking him, he remembered his hat

with the crape weepers, and his rage from red-hot became white-hot and

cinerating. He tore off the hat with its long black tails, and flung it

into the ditch with a volley of those emasculate oaths which are all the

swearing of a Sussex man.

Afterwards he felt better, but he was still fuming when he came to

Odiam, and dashed up straight to Rose's bedroom, where she lay with the

ten-days-old David and a female friend from Rye, who had come in to hear

details about her confinement. Both, not to say all three, were startled

by Reuben's sudden entrance, crimson and hatless, his collar flying, the

dust all over him.

"Here! Wot d'you think?" he shouted; "if that old man äun't left all his

money to a bastard."

"Don't be so excited, Ben," said Rose; "you've no business to come

bursting in here like this."

"Remember your wife's delicate," said the lady friend.

"Well, wot I want to know is why you dudn't tell me all this afore."

"How could I? I didn't know how uncle was going to leave his money."

"You might have found out, and not let me in fur all this. Here I've bin

and gone and spent all your settlements on a milk-round, which I'd never

have done if I hadn't thought summat more 'ud be coming in later."

"Well, I can't help it. I expect that as uncle knew I was well provided

for, married and settled and all that, he thought he'd rather leave his

stuff to someone who wasn't."

"I like that--and you the most expensive woman to keep as ever was.

"Hold your tongue, Ben. I'm surprised at you."

"I justabout will speak. A purty mess you've got me into. You ought to

have told me before we married as he had a son out in Canada."

"I didn't know. This is the first I've heard of it. Anyhow, you surely

don't mean to say you married me for my money."

"Well, I wouldn't have married you if you hadn't got none."

"For Shame!" said the lady friend.

Rose burst into tears, and young David, interrupted in the midst of an

excellent meal, sent up a piercing wail.

"You'd better go downstairs till you know how to speak to your wife

properly," said the female from Rye.

"My wife's deceived me!" shouted Reuben. "I made sure as she'd come in

fur thousands of pounds when old Lardner died, and all she's got out of

him is fifty pounds and his lousy furniture."

"Furniture?" said Rose, brisking up; "why from what you said I thought

there was nothing. I could do with some furniture. I want a bedstead

with brass knobs."

"Well, you shan't have it. I'll justabout sell the whole lot. You can't

prevent me."

Rose's sobs burst forth afresh. Her friend ran up to her and took her in

her arms, badly squeezing poor David, who became purple and entirely

animal in his remonstrances.

Then the two women fairly stormed at Reuben. They told him he was a

money-grubber, an unnatural father, that he had been drinking, that he

ought to be ashamed of himself, that he had only got what he deserved.

Reuben tried to stand up to them, but Rose had an amazing power of

invective, and her friend, who was a spinster, but sometimes forgot it,

filled in the few available pauses so effectively that in the end the

wretched husband was driven from the room, feeling that the world held

even worse things than wealthy and perfidious libertines.

§ 11.

Of course there was a reconciliation. Such things had begun to loom

rather large in Reuben's married life. He had never had reconciliations

with Naomi--the storms had not been fierce enough to warrant a special

celebration of the calms. But he and Rose were always being reconciled.

At first he had looked upon these episodes as sweets of matrimony, more

blessed than any amount of honeymoon, but now he had gone a stage

further and saw them merely as part of the domestic ritual--that very

evening when he held Rose and the baby together in his big embrace he

knew that in a day or two he would be staling the ceremony by another

repetition.

He now began to crave for her active interest in his concerns. Hitherto

he had not much missed it, it had been enough for him if when he came in

tired and dispirited from his day's work, she had kissed him and rumpled

back the hair from his forehead and called him her "poor old man." Her

caresses and sympathy had filled the gap left by her help and

understanding. But now he began to want something more. He saw the

hollowness of her endearments, for she did nothing to make his burden

lighter. She refused to realise the seriousness of his position--left

stranded with an under taking which he would never have started if he

had not been certain of increased capital in the near future. She was

still extravagant and fond of pleasure, she either could not or would

not master the principles of economy; she saw the fat lands of Odiam

round her, and laughed at her husband when he told her that he was

crippled with expenses, and in spite of crops and beasts and barns must

live as if he were a poor man.

Of course, he had been rash--he saw now that he had been a fool to

speculate with the future. But who could have foretold that heir of

Lardner's?--no one had ever heard of him in Peasmarsh, and most people

were as astonished as Reuben though not so disgusted. Sometimes he had

an uneasy feeling that Lardner himself had not thought much about his

distant son till a year or two ago. He remembered how the old man had

disapproved of the way Rose's settlements were spent, and horrible

conjectures would assail him that some earlier will had been revoked,

and Rose disinherited because her uncle did not wish to put more money

into her husband's pocket.

After all, fifty pounds and some furniture was very little to leave his

only niece, who had lived with him, and had been married from his house.

It was nonsense to plead the excuse that she was comfortably settled and

provided for--the old man knew that Backfield had made a desperate

plunge and could not recoup himself properly without ready money. He

must have drawn up his will in the spirit of malice--Reuben could

imagine him grinning away in his grave. "Well, Ben Backfield, I've

justabout sold you nicely, haven't I?--next to no capital, tedious heavy

expenses, and a wife who döan't know the difference between a shilling

and a soverun. You thought you'd done yourself unaccountable well, old

feller, I reckon. Now you've found out your mistake. And you can't git

even wud me where I am. He! He!"

Reuben would imagine the corpse saying all sorts of insulting things to

him, and he had horrible nightmares of its gibes and mockery. One night

Rose woke in the dubious comfort of the new brass bed--which she had

wheedled Reuben into sparing from the auction--to find her husband

kneeling on his pillow and pinning some imaginary object against the

wall while he shouted--"I've got you, you old grinning ghosty--now we'll

see who's sold!"

She thought this immensely funny, and retailed it with glee to her

female friends who continued to invade the place. The multitude of these

increased as time went by, for Rose had the knack of attaching women to

herself by easy bonds. She was extremely confidential on intimate

subjects, and she was interested in clothes--indeed in that matter she

was even practical, and a vast amount of dressmaking was done on the

kitchen table, much to the disorganisation of Caro's cooking.

Sometimes there would be males too, and Reuben found that he could be

jealous on occasion. It annoyed him to see a young counter-jumper from

Rye sitting in the parlour with an unmanly tea-cup, and he would glare

on such aristocracy as a bank-clerk or embryo civil servant, whose

visits Rose considered lent a glamour to Odiam. Like a wise woman she

used her husband's jealousy to her own advantage. She soon grew

extremely skilful in manipulating it, and by its means wrung a good deal

out of him which would not otherwise have been hers.

It was true that her young men were not always on the spot when she

wanted them most, but on these occasions she used the drover Handshut, a

comely, well-set-up young fellow, of independent manners. Reuben more

than once had to drive him out of the kitchen.

"I wöan't have my lads fooling it in the house," he said to his wife,

when he found her winding a skein of wool off Handshut's huge brown

paws--"they've work enough to do outside wudout spannelling after you

women."

Rose smiled to herself, and when she next had occasion to punish Reuben,

invited his drover to a cup of tea.

Then there was an angry scene, stormings and tears, regrets, taunts, and

abuse--and another reconciliation.

§ 12.

In time, as these battles became more usual, the family were forced to

take sides. Peter supported Reuben, Caro supported Rose. There had been

an odd kind of friendship between the downtrodden daughter and the gay

wife ever since they had unpacked the latter's trunks together on her

wedding night and Caro had cried because Rose had what she might never

have.

Rose approved of this attitude--she liked to be envied; also Caro was

useful to her in many ways, helping her in the house, taking the burden

of many irksome duties off her shoulders, leaving her free to entertain

her friends or mix complexion washes. Moreover, there was something in

Caro which appealed in itself, a certain heavy innocence which tickled

the humour of the younger, more-experienced woman. Once her stepdaughter

had asked her what it felt like to be kissed, which had sent Rose into

rockings of laughter and a carnival of reminiscence. She liked to dazzle

this elderly child with her "affairs," she liked to shock her a little

too. She soon discovered that Caro was deeply scandalised at the thought

of a married woman having men friends to visit her, so she encouraged

the counter-jumpers and the clerks for Caro's benefit as well as

Reuben's.

It never occurred to her to throw these young people together, and give

the girl a chance of fighting her father and satisfying the vague

longings for adventure and romance which had begun to put torment into

her late twenties. She often told her it was a scandal that she had

never been allowed to know men, but her own were too few and useful to

be sacrificed to the forlorn. Besides, Caro had an odd shy way with men

which sometimes made them laugh at her. She had little charm, and though

not bad-looking in a heavy black-browed style, she had no feminine arts,

and always appeared to the very worst advantage.

Those were not very good times for Caro. She envied Rose, and at the

same time she loved her, as women will so often love those they envy.

Rose's attitude was one of occasional enthusiasm and occasional neglect.

Sometimes she would give her unexpected treats, make her presents of

clothes, or take her to a fair or to see the shops; at others she would

seem to forget all about her. She thought Caro a poor thing for not

standing up to Reuben, and despised her for her lack of feminine wiles.

At the same time she would often be extremely confidential, she would

pour out stories of love and kisses by moonlight, of ardent words, of

worship, of ecstasy, and send Caro wandering over strange paths, asking

strange questions of herself and fate, and sometimes--to the other's

delight--of Rose.

"Wot do you do to make a man kiss you?"

"Oh, I dunno. I just look at him like this with my eyes half shut. Then

if that isn't enough I part my lips--so."

The two women had been bathing. It was one of Rose's complaints that

Odiam did not make enough provision for personal cleanliness in the way

of baths and tubs. Reuben objected if she made the servant run up and

downstairs ten times or so with jugs of hot water to fill a wash-tub in

her bedroom--they had once had a battle royal about it, during which

Rose had said some humorous things about her man's washing--so in summer

she relieved the tension by bathing in the Glotten brook, where it ran

temporarily limpid and reclused at the foot of the old hop-garden. She

had persuaded Caro to join her in this adventure--according to her ideas

it was not becoming for a woman to bathe alone; so Caro had conquered

her objections to undressing behind a bush, and tasted for the first

time the luxury of a daily, or all but daily, bath.

Now they were dry and dressed once more, all except their stockings, for

Rose loved to splash her bare feet in the water--she adored the caress

of water on her skin. It was a hot day, the sun blinked through the

heavy green of the sallows, dabbling the stream with spots and ripples

of light. June had come, with a thick swarthiness in the fields, and the

scent of hayseed scorching into ripeness.

Rose leaned back against a trunk, a froth of fine linen round her knees.

She splashed and kicked her feet in the stream.

"Yes--I've only to look at a man like this ... and he always does it."

"But not now!" cried Caro.

"What do you mean by 'not now'?"

"Now you're married."

"Oh, no--I'm talking of before. All the same...."

"Wot!"

"Nothing. You'd be shocked."

Caro looked gloomily at the water. She did not like being told she would

be shocked, though she knew she would be.

At that moment there was a sound of "git back" and "woa" beyond the

hedge. The next minute two horses stepped into the Glotten just by the

bend.

"That must be Handshut," said Rose.

It was. He came knee-deep into the water with the horses, and, not

seeing the women, plunged his head into the cool reed-sweetened stickle.

"Take care--he'll see us!"--and Caro sharply gathered up her legs under

her blue and red striped petticoat. Rose continued to dabble hers in the

water, even after Handshut had lifted his head and looked in her

direction.

"Rose!" cried Caro.

"Well, why shouldn't he see my legs? They're unaccountable nice ones."

"All the more reason----"

"Not at all, Miss Prude."

Caro went crimson to the roots of her hair, and began pulling on her

stockings. Rose continued to splash her feet in the water, glancing

sidelong at Handshut.

"He's a nice lad, ain't he?"

Caro vouchsafed no reply.

"Reuben knows he's a nice lad, and he knows I know he's a nice lad.

Hasn't he got a lovely brown skin?"

"Hush."

But Rose was in a devilish mood.

"Look here," she said suddenly, "I'm going to prove the truth of what I

told you just now. I'm going to make that boy kiss me."

"Indeed you äun't."

"Yes I am. I'll go down and talk to him at the bend, and you can creep

along and watch us through the hedge; and I'll shut my eyes and maybe

part my lips, and he'll kiss me, you see if he don't."

"I won't see anything of the kind. I'm ashamed of you."

"Nonsense--it's only fun--we'll make a bet on it. If I fail, I'll give

you my new white petticoat with the lace edging. And I'll allow myself

ten minutes to do it in; that's quite fair, for it usually takes me

longer."

"And what am I to give you if you succeed?"

"Nothing--the kiss'll be enough for me. I've been wanting to know what

he was like to kiss for many a long day."

"Well, I'm justabout ashamed of you, and I wöan't have anything to do

with it."

"You can keep out then."

"Wot if I tell fäather?"

"You wouldn't tell him--you wouldn't be such a sneak. After all, what's

a man for, if it isn't to have a bit of fun with? I don't mean anything

serious--it's just a joke."

"What'll Handshut think it?"

"Just a joke too. You're so glum, Caro--you take everything so

seriously. There's nothing really serious in a kiss."

"Oh, äun't there!"

"No--it's just something one enjoys, same as cakes and bull's-eyes. I've

kissed dozens of people in my time and meant nothing by it, nor they

either. It's because you've no experience of these things that you think

such a lot of 'em. They're quite unimportant really, and it's silly to

make a fuss."

For some obscure reason Caro did not like to see herself credited with

the harshness of inexperience. She did her best to assume an air of

worldly toleration.

"Well, of course if it's only fun.... But fäather wudn't think it that."

"No, and I shouldn't like him to. You _are_ funny, Caro. Don't watch me

if you're shocked--you can know nothing about it, and then you won't be

to blame. But I'm going to have my lark in spite of you."

"Put on your stockings first," said Caro sternly.

Rose made a face at her, but pulled on a pair of gauzy stockings,

securing them with garters of pale blue ribbon. Then she scrambled to

her feet and edged her way through the reeds and bushes to where young

Handshut stood at the bend.

He was not visible from where Caro sat, for he had come out of the

water, and for a minute or two she vowed that she would have nothing to

do with Rose's disgraceful spree. But after a time her curiosity got the

better of her. Would Rose be able to do as she said--persuade her

husband's drover to kiss her, simply by looking at him through

half-closed eyes? Of course Handshut was very forward, Caro told

herself, she had often disliked his attitude towards his mistress--he

would not want much encouragement. All the same she wanted to see if

Rose succeeded, and if she succeeded--how. She craned her neck, but

could see nothing till she had crept a few yards through the reeds. Then

she saw Rose and Handshut sitting just beyond the hedge, by the water's

rim.

The horses were drowsing in the stream, flicking at the flies with their

tails. Rose's dress made a brave blue splash against the green, and the

gold-flecked chestnut of her hair was very close to Handshut's brown

curls. Caro could dimly hear their voices, though she could not

distinguish what they said. Five minutes had passed, and still, though

close, there was a decent space between them. Then there was a little

lull in the flow of talk. They were looking at each other. Caro crept

nearer, something like a hot cinder in her heart.

They were still looking at each other. Then Handshut began to speak in a

lower voice than usual; he stopped--and suddenly their heads stooped

together, the gold and the brown touched, mingled, lingered, then drew

slowly apart.

Caro sprang to her feet. The couple in the field had risen too, but they

did not see her through the hedge. Her heart beat fiercely with an

uncontrollable anger. She could have shouted, screamed at them--at her

rather, this gay, comfortable, plump, spoilt wife, who had so many

kisses that she could look upon one more or less as fun.

Rose's merry, rather strident laugh rang out on the hushed noon.

Handshut stood facing her with his head held down; then she turned away

from him and laughed again. Her laugh rose, fluttered--then suddenly

broke.

It snapped like a broken knife. She turned back towards Handshut, and

they faced each other once more. Then Caro saw a strange and rather

terrible thing. She saw those two who had kissed for fun stumble

together in an embrace which was not for fun at all, and kiss with

kisses that were closer to tears than laughter.

§ 13.

There was a convention of silence between Caro and Rose. From that day

forward neither made any allusion to the escapade which had ended so

unexpectedly. At the same time it was from the other's silence that each

learned most; for Caro knew that if her eyes had deceived her and that

last kiss been like the first, for fun, Rose would have spoken of

it--while Rose knew that Caro had seen the transmutation of her joke

into earnest, because if she had not she would have been full of

comments, questions, and scoldings.

Sometimes Caro in her innocence would think that she ought to speak to

Rose, warn her, and plead with her to go carefully. But a vague fright

sealed her lips, and she was held at a distance by the reserve in which

the merry communicative Rose had suddenly wrapped herself. Those few

minutes by the brookside had changed her, though it would be hard to say

exactly in what the change lay. Caro was both repelled and baffled by

it. A more skilled observer would say that Rose had become suddenly

adult in her outlook as well as her emotions. For the first time she had

seen in its sorrowful reality the force which she had played with for so

many years. The shock disorganised her, drove her into a strange

silence. Love and she had always been hail-fellow-well-met, they had

romped and rollicked together through life; she had never thought that

her good comrade could change, or rather--more unimaginable still--that

she should suddenly discover that she had never really known him.

She was sobered. Her attitude towards things insensibly altered--to her

husband, her child, her servants she was different, and yet in such a

manner that none could possibly lay hands on the difference. Reuben's

jealousies and suspicions were increased. She avoided Handshut, and she

flourished the shopmen and clerks but feebly, yet he mistrusted her in a

way he had never done when her enthusiasms were flagrant. This was not

due to any psychological deduction, rather to a vague kind of guess, an

intuition, an uneasiness that communicated itself from her to him.

Rose had begun to question her attitude towards her husband. She had

hitherto never doubted for a moment that she loved him--of course she

loved him! But now she asked herself--"If I love him, how is it that our

most tender moments have never meant so much to me as that second kiss

of Handshut's?" None of Reuben's kisses stood out in her memory as that

kiss, he had never made the thrill of life go through her, he had never

filled her heart to bursting with joy so infinite that it was sorrow,

and sorrow so exquisite that it was joy. She would observe Reuben, and

she would see him--old. He was fifty-four, and his hair was grey; there

were crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes, and straight lines between

his brows, where he had furrowed them as the pitiless sun beat down upon

his face. There were other lines too, seamed and scored by hard

struggles. He was strong as an ox, but she told herself he was beginning

to move a bit stiffly. He had exposed himself so ruthlessly to the wet

and cold that his joints had become rheumatic. It was nothing very much,

but he liked to have her rub them occasionally, and up till then she had

liked it too. Now she suddenly saw something dreary and preposterous in

it--here she was married to a man thirty years older than herself, his

chattel, his slave. She did not really love him--how could she, with all

those years between them? She was fond of him, that was all--and he was

getting older, and horribly cantankerous; and she was young--oh, God!

she had never known till then how young.

Then suddenly it all changed. One day she found herself alone with

Handshut--and nothing happened. His manner was quite that of the

respectful servant towards his mistress, he made no allusion to the

scene by the brook, spoke entirely of indifferent things. And she, she

herself--that was the biggest, best surprise of all--did not feel the

slightest embarrassment, or the slightest pang. On the contrary, all the

passion which had scorched and withered her heart since the day of the

kiss, seemed to die away, leaving her the old Rose, gay, confident, and

at peace with all men.

She had been a fool--she had brooded over a little trivial incident till

it had assumed unwarranted proportions and frightened her. Nothing

whatever had happened to her and Handshut--they had shared a joke, that

was all. She did not love him, she loved her husband, and she was a fool

to have thought anything else. Love was not a drama or a tragedy, but a

game and a lark, or at times a comfortable emotion towards one's lawful

husband, who was the best and finest man in the world.

The joy of this discovery quite restored Rose, and she flirted with

Handshut so outrageously in front of Reuben, that afterwards they had

one of the biggest quarrels of their lives.

§ 14.