BOOK VI

STRUGGLING UP

§ 1.

That night was a purging. From thenceforward Reuben was to press on

straight to his goal, with no more slackenings or diversions.

He had learned one sound lesson, which was the superfluousness of women

in the scheme of life. From henceforward he was "shut of" them. Long ago

he had denied himself women in their more casual aspect, using them

entirely for practical purposes, but now he realised that women no

longer had any practical purpose as far as he was concerned. The

usefulness of woman was grossly overrated. It is true that she produced

offspring, but he thought irritably that Providence might have found

some more satisfactory way of perpetuating the human race. Everything a

woman did was bound to go wrong somehow. She was nothing but a parasite

and an incubus, a blood-sucking triviality, an expense and a snare. So

he tore woman out of his life as he tore up the gorse on Boarzell.

It was wonderful how soon he adapted himself to his new conditions. At

first he missed Rose, but by the time he had got rid of her clothes and

swept the perfume of her out of his room, he had ceased to hunger. He

never heard of her again--he never knew what life she led in the new

land, whether the reality of love brought her as much happiness as the

game, or whether her old taste for luxury and pleasure reasserted

itself and ruined both love and lover.

As for Alice, he found to his surprise that she was not so dangerous

even as Rose, for an ideal is never so enslaving as a habit. He avoided

Cheat Land, and there was nothing to bring her across his path as long

as he did not seek her. So the yoke of woman dropped from Reuben's neck,

leaving him a free man.

He formed a plan of campaign. The large unreclaimed tracts of Boarzell

must be left for a time, while he devoted his attention to the land

already cultivated. He must economise in labour, so he hired no one in

Handshut's place, but divided his work among the other men. His

rekindled zeal was hot enough to ignite even the dry sticks of their

enterprise, and Odiam toiled as it had never toiled before. Even Harry

was pressed for service, and helped feed the pigs and calves, besides

proving himself a most efficient scarecrow.

Early the next spring Reuben had a stroke of luck, for he was able to

sell the remainder of his lease of the Landgate shop to a greengrocer.

With the proceeds he bought half a dozen more cows, and grounded his

dairy business more firmly. In spite of his increased herd he still had

several acres of superfluous pasture, and pocketing his pride,

advertised "keep" for stock, which resulted in his pocketing also some

much-needed cash. His most immediate ambition was to pay off the

mortgage he had raised a year ago, and restore to Odiam its honourable

freedom.

It seemed almost as if his luck had turned, for the harvests that year

were exceedingly good. In most of his fields there were two hay-crops,

while the oats and wheat yielded generously, even on Boarzell. As for

the hops, he reaped a double triumph, for not only did his hop-gardens

bring in more than the average to the acre, but almost everyone else in

the neighbourhood did badly, so prices rose in a gratifying way.

Under this encouragement, part of the old adventurous spirit revived,

and Reuben bought a Highly Commended bull at Lewes Fair, and advertised

him for service. In spite of catastrophe, he still believed

cattle-rearing to be the most profitable part of a farmer's business,

and resolved to build up his own concern on its old lines. With regard

to the dairy, Caro was an excellent dairy woman, besides looking after

the two little children, and Odiam had a fair custom for its dairy

produce, also for fruit and vegetables.

Thus, in a very small way, and with continual hard work and anxiety, the

farm was beginning to revive. Reuben felt that he was recapturing his

prestige in the neighbourhood, and, when his labours allowed him,

assisted the good work by drinking slow glasses of sherry in the bar of

the Cocks, and making patronising remarks about his neighbours'

concerns.

He was glad from the bottom of his heart that he had not been wooed from

his ambition, in a moment of weakness, by softer dreams which he now

looked upon as so much dust.

§ 2.

In the course of the following year Reuben had news of all his absent

sons, except Benjamin, who was never heard of again.

One day Caro came home from Rye, where she had gone with the vegetables

to market, and said that she had met Bessie Lamb. Bessie was on her way

to the station, where she would take the train for Southampton. Robert

had written that he was now able to have her with him in Australia, and

she had at once packed up her few belongings and set out to join him in

the unknown.

Bessie was now thirty, and looked older, for she had lost a front tooth

and her pretty hair had faded: but she was as confident of Robert's love

as ever. He had written to her by every mail, she told Caro, and they

had both saved and scraped and waited and counted the days till they

could consummate the love born in those fields eternally fixed in

twilight by their memory. There had been no intercourse between Odiam

and Eggs Hole, so, as Robert had never written to his family, Caro heard

for the first time of the sheep-farm in Queensland and its success. He

had done badly at first, Bessie said, what with the drought and many

other things against him, but now he was well established, and she would

be far better off and more comfortable as the felon's wife than she had

ever been as the daughter of honest parents.

She left Caro with a restless aching in her heart. In spite of the lost

front tooth and the faded hair, she had impressed her in much the same

way as Rose on her wedding night. Here was another woman sure of love

looking confidently into a happy future, wooed and sought after, a man's

bride.... Jolting home in the empty vegetable cart beside Peter, one or

two tears found their way down Caro's cheek. Oh, if only some man, no

matter whom, tyrant, criminal, no matter what, would love her, give her

for one moment those divine sensations which she had seen other women

enjoy! Why must she alone, of all the women she knew, be loveless?

It was her father's fault, he had kept her to work for him, he had

starved her purposely of men's society--and now her youth was departing,

she was twenty-nine, and she had never heard a man speak words of love,

or felt his arms about her, or the sweetness of his lips on hers.

When they came to Odiam, she told Reuben what she had heard about

Robert.

"Would you believe it, he has a hundred sheep--and a man working under

him--and money coming in quite easy now. It wur hard at first, Bessie

says, and he wur in tedious heart over it all, but he pulled through

his bad times, and now he's doing valiant."

"And who has he got to thank fur it, I'd lik to know? Who taught him how

to run a farm, and work, and never spare himself and pull things

through? There he wur, wud no sperrit in him, grudging every ströake he

did fur Odiam. If I hadn't kept him to it, where 'ud he be now?"

News of Richard came a few months later. He was heard of as a barrister

on the Southern Circuit, and defended a gipsy on trial for

turnip-stealing at Lewes. Rumours of him began to spread in the

neighbourhood--he was doing well, Anne Bardon was working for him, and

he was likely to be a credit to her. At the Cocks he was the subject of

much respectful comment, and for the first time Reuben found himself

bathed in glory reflected from one of his children. He could not help

feeling proud of him, but wished he did not owe anything to the Bardons.

"Tedious argumentatious liddle varmint he wur--I'm not surprised as he's

turned a lawyer. And he had good training fur it, too. There's naun to

sharpen the wits lik a farmer's life, and I kept him at it, tough and

rough, though he'd have got away if he cud. Many's the time I've wopped

him near a jelly fur being a lazy-bones, and particular, which you can't

be and a lawyer too. But I reckon he thinks it's all that Bardon woman's

doing."

A few weeks later Richard wrote himself, breaking the silence of years.

Success had made him feel more kindly towards his father. He forgave the

frustrations and humiliations of his youth, and enquired after his

brothers and sisters and the progress of the old farm. Anne Bardon had

kept him fairly well posted in Backfield history, but though he knew of

Reuben's unlucky marriage and of the foot-and-mouth catastrophe, he had

evidently lost count of absconding sons, for he seemed to think Pete

had run away too, which Reuben considered an unjustifiable aspersion on

his domestic order. However, the general tone of his letter was

conciliatory, and his remarks on the cattle-plague "most präaper."

As for himself, his life had been full of hard work and the happiness of

endeavour crowned at last by success. Anne Bardon he referred to as an

angel, which made Reuben chuckle grimly. He had already had a brief,

though he was called to the bar only two years ago--which struck his

father as very slow business.

He also gave news of Albert, but not good news. He had kept more or less

in touch with his brother, and had done what he could to help him, yet

Albert had made a mess of his literary life, partly through incapacity,

partly through dissipation. He had wasted his money and neglected his

chances, and his friends could do little for him. Richard had come more

than once to the rescue, but it was impossible to give real help to one

of his weak nature--also Richard was still poor, and anxious to pay off

his debts to Anne Bardon.

"I reckon," said Reuben, "as how they'd all have been better off if

they'd stayed at home."

§ 3.

Soon afterwards a letter came from Albert, asking for money, but again

Reuben forbade any notice to be taken of it. For one thing he could not

afford to help anyone, for another he would not even in years of plenty

have helped a renegade like Albert. His blood still boiled when he

remembered the boy's share in his political humiliation. He had shamed

his father and his father's farm. Let him rot!

So Albert's letter remained unanswered--Caro felt that Reuben was

unjust. She had grown very critical of him lately, and a smarting

dislike coloured her judgments. After all, it was he who had driven

everybody to whatever it was that had disgraced him. He was to blame for

Robert's theft, for Albert's treachery, for Richard's base dependence on

the Bardons, for George's death, for Benjamin's disappearance, for

Tilly's marriage, for Rose's elopement--it was a heavy load, but Caro

put the whole of it on Reuben's shoulders, and added, moreover, the

tragedy of her own warped life. He was a tyrant, who sucked his

children's blood, and cursed them when they succeeded in breaking free.

Caro had been much unhappier since Rose's flight. She had loved her in

an erratic envious way, and Rose's gaiety and flutters of generosity had

done much to brighten her humdrum life. Now she was left to her

brooding. She felt lonely and friendless. Once or twice she went over to

Grandturzel, but the visits were always difficult to manage, and somehow

the sight of her sister's happiness made her sore without enlivening

her.

It was only lately that her longing for love and freedom had become a

torment. Up till a year or two ago her desires had been merely wistful.

Now a restless hunger gnawed at her heart, setting her continually

searching after change and brightness. She had come to hate her

household duties and the care of the little boys. She wanted to

dance--dance--dance--to dance at fairs and balls, to wear pretty

clothes, and be admired and courted. Why should she not have these

things? She was not so ugly as many girls who had them. It was cruel

that she should never have been allowed to know a man, never allowed to

enjoy herself or have her fling. Even the sons of the neighbouring

farmers had been kept away from her--by her father, greedy for her work.

Tilly, by a lucky chance, had found a man, but lucky chances never came

to Caro. She saw herself living out her life as a household drudge,

dying an old maid, all coarsened by uncongenial work, all starved of

love, all sick of, yet still hungry for, life.

Sometimes she would be overwhelmed by self-pity, and would weep

bitterly over whatever task she was doing at the time, so that her tears

were quite a usual sauce to pies and puddings if only Reuben had known

it.

The year passed, and the new year came, showing the farm still on the

upward struggle, with everyone hard at work, and no one, except Reuben,

enjoying it particularly. Luck again favoured Odiam--the lambing of that

spring was the best for years, and as the days grew longer the furrows

bloomed with tender green sproutings, and hopes of another good harvest

ran high.

Caro watched the year bud and flower--May came and creamed the hedges

with blossom and rusted the grass with the first heats. Then June

whitened the fields with big moon-daisies and frothed the banks with

chervil and fennel. The evenings were tender, languorous, steeped in the

scent of hay. They hurt Caro with their sweetness, so that she scarcely

dared lift her eyes to the purpling twilight sky, or breathe the wind

that swept up heavy with hay and roses from the fields. July did nothing

to heal her--its yellow, heat-throbbing dawns smote her with

despair--its noons were a long-drawn ache, and when in the evening hay

and dust and drooping chervil troubled the air with shreds and ghosts of

scent, something almost akin to madness would twist her heart.

She felt as one whose memory calls and yet has nothing to remember,

whose thoughts run to and fro and yet has nothing to think of, whose

hopes pile themselves, and yet is hopeless, whose love cries out from

the depths, and yet is loveless.

One evening at the beginning of August she wandered out of the kitchen

for a breath of fresh air in the garden before going up to bed. Her head

ached, and her cheeks burned from the fire. She did not know it, but the

flush and fever made her nearly beautiful. She was not a bad-looking

woman, though a trifle too dark and heavy-featured, and now the glow on

her cheeks and the restless brilliancy of her eyes had kindled her

almost into loveliness.

She picked one or two roses that drooped untended against the fence, she

held them to her breast, and the tears came into her eyes. It was nearly

dark, and the lustreless cobalt sky held only one star--Aldebaran, red

above Boarzell's firs. A puff of wind came from the west, and with it a

snatch of song. Someone was singing on the Moor, and the far-away voice

wove itself into the web of trouble and yearning that dimmed her heart.

She moved down to the gate and leaned over it, while her eyes roved the

twilight unseeing. The voice on the Moor swelled clearer. It was a man's

voice, low-pitched and musical:

"Farewell, farewell, you jolly young girls!

We're off to Rio Bay!"

She remembered that there had been a wedding at Gablehook. One of the

farmer's girls had married a Rye fisherman, and this was probably a

guest on his way home, a little the worse for drink.

"At Vera Cruz the days are fine--

Farewell to Jane and Caroline!"

The song with its hearty callousness broke strangely into the dusk and

Caro's palpitating dreams. Something about it enticed and troubled her;

the singer was coming nearer.

"At Nombre de Dios the skies are blue--

Farewell to Moll, farewell to Sue!"

She stood at the gate and could see him as a blot on the Moor. He was

coming towards Odiam, and she watched him as he plunged through the

heather, singing at the pitch of his lungs:

"At Santiago love is kind,

And we'll forget those left behind--

So kiss us long, and kiss us well,

Polly and Meg and Kate and Nell--

Farewell, farewell, you jolly young girls!

We're off to Rio Bay."

He had struck the path that ran by the bottom of the garden, and

swaggered along it with the seaman's peculiar rolling gait, accentuated

by strong liquor. Caro felt him coming nearer, and told herself uneasily

that she had better go back into the house. He was drunk, and he might

speak to her. Still she did not move, she found herself clinging to the

gate, leaning her breast against it, while her tongue felt thick and dry

in her mouth.

He was quite close--she could hear the thud of his step on the soft

earth. Her hands grasped the two gate-posts, and she leaned forward over

the gate, so that her face caught the faint radiance that still lingered

in the zenith. He had stopped singing, but she could see him now

distinctly--a tall, loosely-built figure, with dark face, and woolly

hair like a nigger's, while his seaman's earrings caught the starlight.

He drew level with her, not seeing her. She did not move, she scarcely

breathed, and he had almost passed her ... then suddenly his eyes turned

and met hers.

"Hello, Susan!"

He stood swaying before her on his heels, his hands in his

trouser-pockets, his head a little on one side. Caro did not speak--she

could not.

"What time is it, dear?"

"I--I dunno," she faltered, her voice sounding squeaky and unlike her

own: "it might be nine."

"It might be Wales or Madagasky,

It might be Rio de Janeiro."

he trolled, and Caro was suddenly afraid lest someone should hear in

the house. She glanced back uneasily over her shoulder.

"Papa on the look-out?"

She coloured, and began to stutter something.

"I've been to a wedding," he said conversationally; "a proper wedding

with girls and kisses."

He suddenly leaned over the gate and kissed Caro on the lips.

She gave a little scream and started back from him. For a moment earth,

sky, and trees seemed to reel together in one crazy dance. She was

conscious of nothing but the kiss, her first kiss; it had smelt and

tasted strongly of brandy, if the truth were told, but it had none the

less been a kiss, and her sacrament of initiation. She stood there in

the darkness with parted lips and shining eyes. The dusk was kind to

her, and she pleased the sailor.

"Come out for a walk," he said, and lifted the latch.

Caro trembled so that she could hardly move, and once again came the

feeling that she ought to turn and run back into the house. But she was

powerless in the clutch of her long-thwarted emotions. The tipsy sailor

became God to her, and she followed him out on to the Moor.

After all he was not really drunk, only a little fuddled. He walked

straight, and his roll was natural to him, while though he was

exceedingly cheerful, and often burst into song, his words were not

jumbled, and he generally seemed to have a fair idea of what he was

saying.

She wondered if she were awake--everything seemed so strange, so new,

and yet paradoxically so natural. Was she the same Caro who had washed

the babies and cooked the supper and resigned herself to dying an old

maid? She could not ponder things, ask herself how it was that a man who

had not known her ten minutes could love her--all she realised was his

arm round her waist, and in her heart a seethe of happy madness.

"When the stars are up above the Main

And winking in the sea,

'Tis then I dream of thee,

Emilee!

And my dreams are full of pain."

--sang the sailor sentimentally. His arm crept up from her waist to her

shoulder and lay heavy there. They strolled on along the narrow path,

and the darkness stole down on them from the Moor, wrapping them softly

together. They told each other their names--his was Joe Dansay, and he

was a sailorman of Rye, who had been on many voyages to South America

and the Coral Seas. He looked about twenty-five, though he was tanned

and weather-beaten all over. His eyes were dark and foreign-looking, so

was his hair. His mouth was a trifle too wide, his nose short and

stubborn.

He was now leaning heavily on Caro as he walked, and too shy, and

perhaps reluctant, to ask him to lift his arm, she naively suggested

that they should sit down and rest. Dansay was delighted--she was not

the timid little bird he had thought, and directly they had sunk into

the heather he seized her in his arms, and began kissing her violently

on neck and lips.

Caro was frightened, horrified--she broke free, and scrambled to her

feet. She nearly wept, and it was clear even to his muddled brain that

her invitation had been merely the result of innocence more profound

than that which had stimulated her shyness. Rough seaman though he was,

he was touched, and managed to soothe her, for she was too bashful and

frightened to be really indignant. They walked a few yards further along

the path, then at her request turned back towards Odiam.

They parted uneasily, without any arrangement to meet again.

§ 4.

For the first few hours of her sleepless night, Caro's happiness

outweighed her regret. Her mind sucked her little experience like a

sugar-plum and filled her thoughts with sweetness. She lived over the

adventure from its birth in a song on Boarzell to its consummation in

the blessedness of a kiss. Afterwards it became a little smudged, a

little terrifying, and the end had not been in keeping with the

beginning. None the less, the fact remained that she had been kissed,

that she had tasted at last of the glories of love, felt the touch of a

man's lips, of his arm about her ... she was no longer without

knowledge; when other women spoke of these things, an answering thrill

would creep into her heart, and words of experience to her tongue.

Then she asked herself--would he come again? Her joy seemed almost too

divine to be renewed, she could hardly picture such a profanity as its

repetition. Yet as the night wore on, the question began to loom larger

than all her blessed certainties--and with it came a growing tendency to

dwell on the latter part of her experience, on the awkward aloofness of

the walk home, and the uneasy parting at the gate. It struck her that

she had been a fool to take fright at his violence. After all, if he

loved her so much ... it was wonderful how quickly he had fallen in

love, and quick things are more apt to be violent than slow ones.

Besides, men were inclined to be rough and fierce by nature. Thus she

reassured and reproached herself. Perhaps she had driven him away,

perhaps her timidity had made him doubt her love. Perhaps she had been

too squeamish. After all....

She rose the next morning with a bad headache and her eyes staring

rather plaintively out of black saucers. None the less she was happy,

even in spite of her regrets. She loved and had been loved, so she told

herself over and over again as she dressed David and Bill and prepared

the breakfast. Why, even if, when he got home, Joe Dansay discovered

that he did not really love her, she would still have had his love, and

as for herself, she would go on loving him for ever--"for ever and ever

and ever," she repeated in a low, trembling voice as she cut her

father's bacon.

During the rest of the day it was the same--she moved in a kind of

exalted dream. The most common objects thrilled her, and gave her

unexpected tokens of divinity. Her work was consuming, her leisure

beatific. The children loved her, for that day she could do what she had

never done properly to their mind, and that is--play; while with Harry,

dribbling and muttering, she was tender, as no one but Naomi had been.

Towards evening uneasiness sprang up again, with the old question--would

he return? She told herself that if he did, she would not hold back, she

would not let her inexperience and timidity rob her or him of their

love. She would let him kiss her as he pleased--love was too good a

thing to risk for a few qualms. But would he come?--would he give her

the chance of reparation? The sun dipped behind Castweasel, the hot sky

cooled into a limpid green--stars specked it in the north, and the moon

came up behind Iden Woods, huge and dim.

Caro ran out once or twice into the garden; the flowers hung pale and

stirless on their stems, and from the orchard, full of the babble of a

hidden wind, came a faint scent of plums. The old walls of Odiam seemed

to smell of the sunshine they had caught and held during the day. The

gable-ends broke into the stars, and the windows gleamed in the

yellowing light of the moon. Up towards the south the mass of Boarzell

rose hullish and deserted--far away at Ellenwhorne a dog was barking,

but all else was still.

§ 5.

There was no doubt that Joe Dansay had got drunk at Willie Tailleur's

wedding. The fact was cruelly emphasised by the headache with which he

woke up the next morning. He thought it very hard luck, for after all,

he had not got nearly so drunk as he might have, as he often had.

However, he had been forced into abstinence by a long voyage from Sierra

Leone, and put down his sufferings to nature's mutiny at such an

unwholesome state of affairs.

At present he lodged with some relations in Watchbell Street, and round

him were all the Dansays and Tailleurs and Espinettes and Perrots, the

Rye fisher tribe, of French origin--which was still traceable in their

names, in their brown eyes, and the sensitiveness of their mouths. He

nearly always went to his people between voyages, for the Rye girls took

his fancy. There was at this moment a charmer in Wish Ward on whom a

good part of his pay had already been spent. Sometimes he went out in

his uncle Bob Dansay's fishing boat, for he was not above handling a net

between his ventures on the high seas.

He mumbled curses as he dressed, and bathed his head in cold water. He

did not deserve this visitation--usually he regarded an after-debauch

headache as one of the marvellous acts of Providence, in which he, like

most sailormen, believed with a faith which though conveniently removed

from works was deeply tinged with admiration. But yesterday he had not

been really drunk--why, he could remember nearly everything that had

happened, the dancing, the songs, the girls, how he had walked home

singing "Rio Bay," and how he had met that queer girl at the farmhouse

gate, and thought he was going to have some fun with her and been

disappointed.

Though he had spent, on and off, some years in Rye, he had seen very

little of the surrounding country, and did not know that Odiam was the

farm of his adventure. Caro had told him her name, and he had heard of

Ben Backfield, but did not remember much about him. The episode did not

affect him very deeply. At dinner he asked his aunt the name of

Backfield's farm, and forgot it as he walked down Wish Ward that

evening, wearing his best guernsey and breeches, his hands in his

pockets, his pipe in his mouth, his earrings glittering in the forest of

his hair.

His headache had passed off, and he felt a man again; so he sought the

woman. She lived in a small old house wedged tight between two new ones;

her window was dark, and her threshold silent, though he knocked again

and again. He walked up and down once or twice in front of the cottage

whistling "Ropes and Rum"--perhaps she had gone to do some shopping; he

saw himself sitting down to a feast of pickled herrings in her kitchen.

Then when he was about a hundred feet from the house the door opened

stealthily and a man slunk out. The gleam of a street lamp passed over

his face, and Dansay rushed at him with his fists up.

The story of Joe Dansay has nothing to do with us except so far as it

affects Caro Backfield, so there will be no digression to explain why he

and Albert Cock fought each other up and down Wish Ward till the police

came running up and hauled them off to gaol. The next morning he came

before the magistrate, and was fined ten shillings and costs or fourteen

days. He was able to find the money, but it was not the fine which made

him drag his footsteps and hang his head as he walked home, it was the

sight of his victim of the night before leaving the court arm-in-arm

with a certain pretty witness.

Evening came, the dusk fell, stars floated up out of the mists that

piled themselves along the shore, the bleat of sheep came from the

marsh, and the eye of Dungeness Lighthouse flashed off the Point into

the fogs. Inland the country was wrapt in a tender haze, perfumed with

hops and harvest. The moon rose above the Fivewatering, and bronzed the

dark masses of wood huddling northward. The scented wind seemed to sigh

to him of a woman's hair and lips, of the softness of a woman's hand in

his, of her silly little voice talking love and nonsense. But the house

in Wish Ward was shut to him--perfidious woman had added yet another

perfidy to her score. For about the twentieth time his love dream had

been shattered. Now she was eating pickled herrings with another man.

A kind of defiance, a kind of swagger possessed him. He would show her

and himself how little he cared. He would find another woman this very

night. He remembered the dark-browed, demure little thing of the

farmhouse gate. He would go back to her, and she would not be so timid

this time--they never were.

§ 6.

"Oh, I thought you wur never coming back."

She murmured it over and over again as he kissed her, and she clung to

him like a child. There was something about her words and about herself

as she quivered in his arms that touched him inexpressibly. He swore

that he loved her, and forgot all about the woman in Wish Ward.

That evening Caro remembered her own counsels and did not draw back from

his love. She let him kiss her as much as he chose, though he saw with

amusement that he frightened her sometimes. They wandered on Boarzell

through webs of star-fretted mist, they drank the night together, and

sacramental silences. It was only when she realised that her father

would be shutting up the house that Caro was able to tear herself away,

and this time they parted with many kisses and vows to meet again.

He came nearly every night. If she was not at the gate he would whistle

a few bars of "Rio Bay," and she would steal out as soon as she could do

so without rousing suspicion. Boarzell became theirs, their accomplice

in some subtle, beautiful way. There was a little hollow on the western

slope where they would crouch together and sniff the apricot scent of

the gorse, which was ever afterwards to be the remembrancer of their

love, and watch the farmhouse lights at Castweasel gleam and gutter

beside Ramstile woods.

Sometimes he would talk to her of the strange voyages he had made--how

he had lived on ships ever since he was a boy of twelve, and had seen

nearly the whole world, from the fiery steaming forests of Equador to

the Northern Lights that make a mock day in Spitzbergen. He told her

strange tales of wooded atolls in the South Seas, painting a fairyland

she had scarcely dreamed, of palms motionless in the aromatic air, of

pink and white shores, and lagoons full of fish all winged and frilled

and iridescent--of the sudden swift sunrises and sunsets between Cancer

and Capricorn, of the great ice-wall in the south, below Tasmania, which

he had longed to penetrate, for who knew what lay beyond it in the

Unknown? "And there's another like it what I've seen from Franz Josef

Land--maybe there's countries beyond it, with gold." Then he told her of

the terrible storms south of the Horn, of the uncharted Nelson

Strait--of northern Baffin Land, where he had once gone on a whaler, of

Rio Grande and the buried city of Tenoctitlan--"where there's gold."

Gold seemed to be hidden in large quantities all over the world

according to Dansay, and Caro once asked him why he had never brought

any back. "Because I love what's better than gold," he answered, and

drew her, happy and quivering, into his arms.

She became inexpressibly dear to him during those meetings. Her timidity

and innocence charmed him so completely that he preserved them longer

than he had at first felt inclined to do. His vanity was tickled to

think that though she was past thirty he was the first man who had

kissed her. She was not bad-looking, either, with her straight black

brows and huge eyes--in spite of toil she did not look her years, and

during the weeks of his courtship she seemed to grow younger and

prettier, she grew daintier. Yet she largely retained the qualities that

had first attracted him, her admiration for him was unbounded and

guilelessly expressed--she would listen in tender reverence to his

yarns, and received his caresses with a humble gratitude that went

straight to his heart.

As for Caro, life was a rainbow dream. The hardships of the day were

gladly lived through in expectation of the joys of the evening. She felt

very few qualms of conscience, even when the barrier was past which she

had thought impassable. Somehow love seemed to alter her whole point of

view, or rather stripped her of one altogether--after all, her point of

view had never been more than the acceptance of other people's. Besides,

there were things in love that she had never guessed; nobody had ever

done anything to make her realise that there was beauty in it--Rose's

flirtations, her father's jealous passion had never suggested such a

thing. But now her life was brimmed with beauty, unimaginable beauty

that welled up into the commonest things and suffused them with light.

Also, about it all was that surprising sense of naturalness; which

almost always comes to women when they love for the first time, the

feeling of "For this I was born."

Sometimes she would have anxious moments, a strange sense of fear. "I'm

a bad woman," she would repeat to herself, and she would dread the

thought of her sister Tilly. But the terrors did not last, they were

driven away by the remembrance of what her life had been before she met

Joe--its drabness, its aimless toil, its lassitude, its humiliations.

She would have been a fool to spurn her golden chance when it came. It

had been her only chance; after all it was not as if she ever could have

married. She had had to choose between the life she had led up to that

August evening and the life she was leading now, and she could not

regret her choice.

She never asked Dansay to marry her. He had given her pretty clearly to

understand that he was not a marrying man, and she was terrified of

doing or saying anything that might turn him against her. One of the

things about her that charmed him most was the absence of all demand

upon him. She never asked for presents, and the few things he bought her

stimulated both her humble gratitude and her alarm lest he should have

spent too much money. One day he suggested that he should take her to

Boarzell Fair.

"Oh, Joe, would you really!"

"Of course, if you can manage it without us being spotted."

"I reckon I cud, for fäather äun't going this year, he's got an auction

at Appledore."

"Then you come along; I'll take you, and we'll have some fun."

"But I döan't want you to waste your money."

"It won't be wasting it. Why, Lord love ye, I'd rather spend it on you

than anything in the world."

Her look of surprise and adoration was his reward.

§ 7.

Boarzell Fair was in many ways a mark of the passage of the years and a

commentary on history. Not only did the atmosphere and persons of it

change very much as the nineteenth century changed, but the side-shows

were so many lights cast on popular opinion, politics, and progress.

For instance, in the year 1878, the Panorama which had started with the

Battle of Trafalgar and the Royal Gardens of Vauxhall, now gave

thrilling if belated episodes of the Siege of Paris, and a gorgeous

picture of the Queen being declared Empress of India at Delhi. The

merry-go round not only went by steam, but was accompanied by a steam

organ playing "The Swell Commercial" and "Married to a Mermaid"

unfalteringly from noon till night. In the shooting gallery men potted

Mr. Gladstone, Mr. Dillon, and Charles Peace, instead of the Russian

Czar or Nana Sahib of their youth, or the hated Boney of their fathers.

It all moved with the times, and yet remained four or five years behind

them. One came in contact with movements which had just ebbed from the

country, waves that had rolled back everywhere except in these lonely

rural districts where interests and hatreds came later and lingered

longer than in more accessible parts.

The population had altered too. Old Gideon Teazel had died some years

ago, and his son Jasper was boss in his place. He was unlike his father

both in character and physique, an undersized little ruffian, seasoned

by a long career in horse-stealing, who beat his wife openly on the

caravan steps, and boasted that he had landed more flats at thimble-rig

than any thimble-engro in England. He would have cheated the shirt off

any man at the Show, and established a sort of ascendancy through sheer

dread of his cunning. The only man who did not fear him was Mexico Bill,

a half-breed in charge of the cocoanut shie. Mexico Bill feared only the

man who could knock him out, and that man had not yet been found in

Boarzell Fair. As a matter of fact he was usually pretty genial and

docile, but he had been wounded in the head by Indians long ago, and

sometimes went mad and ran amok. On these occasions the only thing to

do was to trip him up, and enrol as many volunteers as possible to sit

on him till he came to his senses.

There was no longer any fiddler at the Fair. Harry Backfield's successor

had been a hurdy-gurdy which played dance music louder and more

untiringly than any human arm could do. Dancing was still a vital part

of the festivities, but it was more decorous than in the days when

Reuben and Naomi had danced together to the tune of "Seth's House," or

Robert and Bessie to "My Decided Decision." Only in the evening it

became rowdy, when the sun had set and the mists had walled in the Show

with nacreous battlements.

Joe and Caro joined the dancers on their arrival. It was the first time

in her life that Caro had danced at the Fair, and the experience

thrilled her as wonderfully as if it had not been just a link in the

chain of a hundred new experiences. The hurdy-gurdy was playing "See me

Dance the Polka," and off they skipped, to steps of their own, betraying

in Dansay's case a hornpipe origin.

She saw people that she knew, but had no fear of betrayal, unless from

Pete, who was, however, safe in the fighting-booth, now conveniently

banished by public opinion to the outskirts of the Fair. Pete would

"tell on" her, she knew, but no one else cared enough for Reuben to

betray his daughter to him. She looked with kindly eyes on all the world

as her accomplice--that all the world loves a lover is primarily the

lover's point of view.

Besides, she was lost in the crowd which jigged and clumped around her,

not even daunted by the unfamiliar waltz that the hurdy-gurdy struck up

next. Nobody, except fanatics, bothered about steps, so one could dance

to any tune.

In time Caro grew tired, and they wandered off to the shooting-gallery

and the merry-go-round. They patronised the cocoanut shie, and won a

gilt saucer at the hoop-là stall. In the gipsy's tent Caro was told that

she would ride in a carriage with a lord, and have six fine children,

all boys, while Dansay was promised such wealth that he would be able to

throw gold to crossing-sweepers. They sat in the Panorama till it stuck

fast at a gorgeous tableau of Britannia ruling the waves from what

looked like a bath chair. Joe bought Caro a pie at the refreshment

stall, and himself ate many beef rolls. She was overwhelmed by the

lavish way he spent his money, and quite relieved for his sake when they

went back to the dancing green.

The day had slipped by, and twilight was settling down on the Fair. The

stalls flared up, a red glow streamed into the sky, and patched the

shagginess of Boarzell's firs with crimson shreds. The dancing had

become more disorderly, the decent folk had retired, and left the madder

element to its revels. The mass of the dancers was blurred, confused in

the grey smeeth. It seemed to invite Joe and Caro, for now in the thick

of it one could give and take surreptitious kisses; some of the kisses

were not even surreptitious--the love-making was becoming nearly as open

as in the days when Reuben and Naomi had danced together. Caro was no

longer shocked at the "goings-on," which had used to scandalise her in

earlier years when she knew them scarcely more than by hearsay. Her very

innocence had made her easier to corrupt, and she now joined in the

revel with a delight scarcely less abandoned, if more naïve, than that

of the cottage wantons who bumped round her. It was all so new, and yet

so natural, this kicking and capering to a jigging tune. Who would have

imagined that the lonely bitter Caro, enviously watching the fun in

earlier years, should now have both a partner and a lover? She laughed

like a child at the thought.

Then suddenly her laughter died; her expression became fixed, and she

swayed a little in Joe's arms, as she stared into the crowd of

spectators. They were on the outskirts of the dancers, and quite close

to them stood Pete. He had come out of the fighting-booth, still in his

bruiser's dressing-gown, evidently to watch the fun. He was looking

straight at Caro as she danced dishevelled, and both he and Dansay knew

that he had recognised her. They saw his lips tighten, and an angry look

came on his face which his profession had not made more benevolent than

Nature intended.

"Quick," muttered Joe, and he guided her cleverly enough through the

pack of dancers, leading her out on the opposite side.

"Oh, Joe, he's seen us."

Dansay bit his lip--he was afraid so.

Caro began to cry.

"My fäather will kill me, surelye."

She knew for certain that Pete would tell him, and then almost quite as

certainly she would lose the adventure which had become life itself to

her. She would be driven back into the old prison, the old loneliness,

the old despair. She clung to Dansay, weeping and frantic:

"Oh, Joe--döan't let them find me. I can't lose you--I wöan't lose

you--I love you so."

He was leading her away from the people, to the back of the stalls. He

was nearly as miserable and aghast as she. For he had become

extraordinarily fond of her during those few weeks, and the thought of

losing her turned him cold. He had been a fool to bring her to the Fair.

"You must come away with me," he said abruptly.

"Oh, Joe!"

It was a bold step, but he saw that none other would serve, and he

realised that she was not the kind of woman to take advantage of him and

make herself a permanent encumbrance.

"Yes--there's nothing for it but that. We'll go down and stay at the

Camber. You'll be safe with me, and I've got a little money put by."

Considering how much she had already given him, it was perhaps strange

that she shuddered a little at this open venture.

"You'll be good to me, Joe!"

"Won't I, just!"

Something in the wistfulness and humility of her appeal had touched him

to the heart; he clasped her to him with a passion for once free from

roughness, and for one moment at least had every intention of sticking

to her for ever.

§ 8.

It was not from Pete that Reuben first heard of his daughter's

goings-on. Caro's benevolent trust in humanity had been misplaced, and

at the Seven Bells where he called for a refresher on arriving at Rye

station, various stragglers from Boarzell eagerly betrayed her, "just to

see how he wud täake it."

Reuben received the news with the indifference due to outsiders. But he

was not so calm when Pete told his tale at Odiam.

"The bitch," he growled, "I'll learn her. Dancing wud a sailor, you say

she wur, Pete?"

"Yes," said Pete, "and wud her hair all tumbling."

"I'll learn her," repeated Reuben. But he never had the chance. By the

time the two males had sat up till about three or four the next morning,

they came to the conclusion that Caro must have seen Pete watching her

and run away.

"She'll never come back," said Pete that evening--"you täake my word fur

it."

"That's another of my daughters gone fur a whore."

"Who wur the fust?"

"Why Tilly--goes off wud that lousy pig-keeper up at Grandturzel. She's

no better than Caro."

"And there wur Rose," added Pete, anxious to supply instances.

Reuben swore at him.

He felt Caro's disappearance more acutely than he would allow to show.

First, she had left him badly in the lurch in household matters--he had

to engage a woman to take her place, and pay her wages. Also she had

caused a scandal in the neighbourhood, which meant more derisive fingers

pointed at Odiam. Pete was now the only one left of his original

family--his children and their runnings-away had become a byword in

Peasmarsh.

In the course of time he heard that Caro was living with Joe Dansay down

at the Camber, but he made no effort to bring her back. "I'm shut of

her," he told everyone angrily. If Caro preferred a common sailor and

loose living to the dignity and usefulness of her position at Odiam, he

was not going to interfere. Besides, she had disgraced his farm, and he

would never forgive that.

It struck him that his relations with women had been singularly

unfortunate. Caro, Tilly, Rose, Alice, had all been failures--indeed he

had come to look back on Naomi as his only success. Women were all the

same, without ambition, without self-respect, ready to lick the boots of

the first person who stroked them and was silly enough not to see

through their wiles.

During those days he spent most of his time digging on Boarzell. It

relieved him to thrust viciously into the red dripping clay, turn in on

his spade, and fling it back over his shoulder. It was strange that so

few men realised that work was better than women--stranger still that

they did not realise how much better than a woman's beauty was the

beauty of the earth. Toiling there on the Moor, Reuben's heart gave

itself more utterly to its allegiance. The curves of Boarzell against

the sky, its tuft of firs, its hummocked slopes, its wet life-smelling

earth, even its savagery of heather, gorse, and thorn brought healing to

his heart, and strength. Caro and other women could do what they chose,

love, hate, follow, cheat, and betray whom they chose, as long as they

left him the red earth and the labour of his hands.

§ 9.

Early the next year Reuben heard that Caro and her lover had left

Camber, and gone no one knew where, but by that time the elapse of

months had dulled his feelings on the matter, and Caro, never very

important in herself, was buried under the concerns of his farm.

Odiam, after superhuman efforts, was looking up again. Years of steady

work and strenuous economy had restored it to something like its former

greatness. Reuben was no longer hampered by an extravagant wife, and he

also had the advantage of a clear field. For at last Grandturzel had

given up the battle. Realf and Tilly were now the parents of four

healthy, growing, hungry children, and had come to the conclusion that

domestic happiness was better than agricultural triumph. They were

contented with their position on a farm of considerable importance and

fair prosperity. They took no risks, but lived happily with each other

and their children, satisfied that they could comfortably rear and

educate their little family, and leave it an inheritance which, if not

dazzling, was not to be despised.

This was an infinite relief to Reuben. He was now no longer under the

continual necessity of going one better than somebody else--he could

rebuild along his own lines, and economise in the way he chose. However,

this very convenient behaviour of Grandturzel did nothing to soften his

resentment. Tilly and Realf were, and were always to be, unforgiven.

Sometimes he could see that they seemed inclined to be friendly--Realf

would touch his hat to him if they met, and perhaps Tilly would

smile--but Reuben was not to be won by such treacly tactics. It was

largely owing to the rivalry of Grandturzel that ruin had nearly

swallowed him up four years ago--and he would never be weak enough to

forget it.

Meantime it was soothing to contemplate the result of his efforts. After

all, his own striving had done more for him than any slackness or

grass-fed contentment on the part of Grandturzel. His greatest

achievement was the paying off of his mortgage, which he managed in the

spring of '79. Now he could once more begin saving money to buy another

piece of Boarzell. There was something both novel and exhilarating about

this return to old ways. It was over ten years since he had bought any

land, but now were renewed all the ticklish delights of calculation, all

the plannings and layings-out, all the contrivances and scrapings and

wrestlings.

There were still about two hundred acres to acquire, including the

Grandturzel inclosure, on which, however, he looked more hopefully than

of old. He had so far subdued not more than about a hundred and forty

acres--most of the northern slope of Boarzell adjoining Odiam and

Totease, and also a small tract on the Flightshot side. This was not

very encouraging, for it represented the labours of two-thirds of a

lifetime, and at the same time left him with more than half his task

still unaccomplished. If it had not been for his setback ten years ago

he would now probably have over two hundred and fifty acres to his

credit. But he told himself that he would progress more quickly now.

Also, though he had not enlarged his boundaries during the last ten

years, he had considerably improved the quality of the land within them.

The first acquired parts of Boarzell were nearly as fruitful and richly

cultivated as the original lands of the farm, and even the '68 ground

was showing signs of coming into subjection.

Besides, Reuben had now a respectable herd of cattle--not quite so

numerous or valuable as the earlier lot which had been sacrificed, but

none the less respectable, and bringing him in good returns. He had made

some sound profit out of his service-bull, and his sheep were paying

better than they had paid for years. He no longer "kept" other people's

cattle. Odiam, whether in stock or cash, was now inviolate.

Soon the rumour spread round Peasmarsh that Backfield was going to buy

some more land. Reuben himself had started it.

"He's done better nor he desarved," said Coalbran of Doozes.

"He's warked fur it all the same, surelye," said Cooper of Kitchenhour.

"He's worked like the Old Un fur the last five year," said Dunn, the new

man at Socknersh.

"Well, let's hope as he's found it worth while now as he's lost two

wives and eight children," was the sage comment of old Vennal of

Burntbarns.

Then the conversation wandered from Reuben's successes to the price he

had paid for them, which proved more interesting and more comforting to

those assembled.

At Flightshot the Squire viewed Odiam's recovery with some uneasiness.

It would be a good thing for him if he could sell more land to old

Backfield, but at the same time his conscience was restless about it.

Backfield was a rapacious old hound, who forced the last ounce of work

out of his labourers, and the last ounce of money out of his tenants. He

was a hard master and a hard landlord, and ought not to be encouraged.

All the same, Bardon did not see how he was to avoid encouraging him. If

Backfield applied for the land it would be suicidal folly to refuse to

sell it. He was in desperate straits for money. He had appealed to Anne,

who had money of her own, but Anne's reply had been frigid. She wrote:--

"I do not see my way to helping Flightshot while I have so many other

calls upon me. Richard is still unsettled, and unable entirely to

support himself. I should be a poor friend indeed if after having

induced my protégé to abandon his home and rely on me, I should forsake

him before he was properly established. Be a man, Ralph, and refuse to

sell any more land to that greedy, selfish, unscrupulous old Backfield."

But Ralph only sighed--it was all very well for Anne to talk!

§ 10.

Except for a steady maintenance of prosperity by dint of hard work, the

year was uneventful. Autumn passed, and nothing broke the strenuous

monotony of the days, not even news of the absent children. Then came an

evening in winter when Reuben, Pete, and Harry were sitting in front of

the kitchen fire. Reuben and his son were half asleep, Harry was

mumbling to himself and playing with a piece of string.

A great quiet was wrapped round the house, and a great darkness, pricked

by winking stars. The barns were shut, the steamings of the midden were

nipped by brooding frosts--now and then the dull movements of some

stalled animal could be heard, but only from the yard; in the house

there was silence except for the singing fire, and Harry's low muttering

which seldom rose into words. Then suddenly there was a knock at the

door.

Reuben started, and Pete awoke noisily. Harry was frightened and dropped

his string, crying because he could not find it. The knock came again,

and this time Pete crossed the room yawning, and opened the door.

For a moment he stood in front of it, while the icy wind swept into the

room. Then he dashed back to Reuben's chair.

"Fäather--it's Albert!"

Reuben sprang to his feet. He was still only half awake, and he rubbed

his eyes as he stared at the figure framed in the doorway. Then suddenly

he pulled himself together.

"Come in, and shut the door behind you."

The figure did not move. Reuben took a step towards it, and then it

tottered forward, and to his horror fell against him, almost bearing him

to the floor.

Pete, who had recovered his faculties to some extent, helped support his

brother. But he had fainted clean away, and the only thing to do was to

let him down as gently as possible.

"Lordy!" said Pete, and stooped over Albert, his hands on his knees.

"You're sure that's Albert?" asked Reuben, though he really did not

doubt it for a moment.

"Course I am. That's his face sure enough, though he's as thin as wire."

"It's nigh fifteen year since he went away. Wot did he want to come back

fur?"

"I reckon he's half starved--and he looks ill too."

"Well, he's swooneded away, anyhow. Can't you do something to mäake him

sensible?"

"Poor feller," said Pete, and scratched his head.

Reuben was irritated by this display of sentiment.

"You needn't go pitying him, nuther--he's a lousy Radical traitor. You

do something to mäake him sensible and out he goes."

At this juncture Albert opened his eyes.

"Hullo," he said feebly.

"Hullo," said Pete. Something in his brother's pitiable condition seemed

to have touched him.

Albert sat up--then asked for some water.

Pete fetched a jug, which he held awkwardly to Albert's lips. Then he

helped him to a chair, and began to unlace his boots.

"Stop that," shouted Reuben--"he äun't to stay here."

"You'll let me stop the night," pleaded Albert. "I'll explain things

when I'm better. I can't now."

"You can go to the Cocks--I wöan't have you in my house."

"But I haven't got a penny--cleaned myself out for my railway ticket.

I've walked all the way from the station, and my lungs are bad."

"Wot did you come here fur?"

"It struck me that you might have some natural affection."

"Me!--fur a hemmed Radical! You'd better have saved your money, young

feller--I'm shut of you."

"If you're still harping on my politics," said Albert fretfully, "you

needn't worry. Either side can go to the devil, for all I care. I

suppose it's natural to brood over things down here, but in London one

forgets a rumpus fifteen years old."

"I'll never disremember the way you shamed me in '65."

"I don't ask you to disremember anything. Only let me have supper and a

bed, and to-morrow----"

A fit of coughing interrupted him. He strained and shook from head to

foot. He had no handkerchief, and spat blood on the floor.

"Fäather!" cried Pete, "you can't turn him out lik this."

"He's shamming," said Reuben.

"Quite so," said Albert, who seemed to have learned sarcasm in

exile--"hæmorrhage is so deuced easy to sham."

"He's come back to git money out of me," said Reuben, "but he shan't

have a penny--I've none to spare."

"I don't ask for that to-night--all I ask is food and shelter, same as

you'd give to a dog."

"Well, I'll leave you to Pete," said Reuben, and walked out of the

room. He considered this the more dignified course, and went upstairs to

bed.

The brothers were left alone, except for Harry, who was busy imitating

Albert's cough, much to his own satisfaction.

Pete fetched some soup from the larder and heated it up to a tepid

condition; he also produced bread and cold bacon, which the prodigal

could not touch. Albert sat hunched up by the fire, coughing and

shivering. He had not altered much since he left Odiam; he was thin and

hectic, and had an unshaved look about him, also there were a few grey

streaks in his hair--otherwise he was the same. His manner was the same

too, though his voice had changed completely, and he had lost his Sussex

accent.

Pete ministered to him with a strange devotion, which he carried finally

to the pitch of putting him into his own bed. The absence of so many of

the children did not make much more room in the house, as Reuben's ideas

on sleeping had always been compact--also there were the little boys,

the new dairy woman, and a big store of potatoes. Pete's large untidy

bed was the only available accommodation, and Albert was glad of it, for

he had reached the last stage of exhaustion.

"I bet you anything," he said before he fell asleep, "that now I'm here

the old boy won't be able to turn me out, however much he wants to."

§ 11.

Whether Reuben would have succeeded or not is uncertain, for he was

never put to the proof. The next day Albert was feverish and delirious,

and the doctor had to be sent for. He cheerfully gave the eldest

Backfield three months to live--his lungs were in a dreadful state, one

completely gone, the other partly so. He had caught a chill, too,

walking in the dark and cold. There could be no thought of moving him.

So Albert stayed in Pete's room, almost entirely ignored by his father.

After some consideration, Reuben had come to the conclusion that this

was the most dignified attitude to adopt. Now and then, when he was

better, he sent him up some accounts to do, as it hurt him to think of

his son lying idle week after week; but he never went near him, and

Albert would never have willingly crossed his path. Those were not the

days of open windows and fresh-air cures, so there was no especial

reason why he should ever leave the low-raftered stuffy room, where he

would lie by the hour in a frowsty dream of sickness, broken only by

fits of coughing and hæmorrhage.

His return had created a mild stir in the neighbourhood, and in Reuben's

breast, despite circumstances and appearances, many thrills of

gratification. Albert's penniless and broken condition was but another

instance of the folly of those who deserted Odiam. None of the

renegades, Reuben told himself, had prospered. Here was Albert come home

to die; Robert, after a prelude in gaol, had exiled himself to

Australia, where the droughts lasted twenty years; Richard, in spite of

studyings and strivings and spendings, had only an occasional brief, and

was unable to support himself at thirty-five; Tilly was living on a

second-rate farm instead of a first-rate one; Caro was living in sin;

Benjamin was probably not living at all. There was no denying it--they

had all done badly away from Odiam.

However, he refused all temptations to discuss this latest prodigal. If

anyone asked him how his son was doing, he would answer, "I dunno; ask

Pete--he's the nurse."

Pete's attitude was Reuben's chief perplexity. It is true that in early

years Albert seemed to have exercised a kind of fascination over his

younger brothers and sisters; still that was long ago, and Pete did not

appear to have given him a thought in the interval. But now he suddenly

developed an almost maternal devotion for the sick and broken Albert. He

would sit up whole nights with him in spite of the toils of the day, he

trod lumberingly about on tiptoe in his presence, he read to him by the

sweat of his brow. Something in his brother's weakness and misery seemed

to have appealed to his clumsy strength. The root of sentimentality

which is always more or less encouraged by a brutal career was quickened

in his heart, and sprouted to an extent that would have mystified the

many he had bashed. It perplexed and irritated his father. To see Pete

hulking about on tiptoe, carrying jugs of water and cups of milk,

shutting doors with grotesque precaution, and perpetually telling

someone upstairs in a voice hoarse with sympathy that he "wurn't to

vrother, as he'd be better soon"--was a foolish and maddening spectacle.

Also Reuben dreaded that Pete would scamp his farm work, so he fussed

round after everything he did, and called him from Albert's bedside

times without number to hoe turnips or guide the plough.

However, someone had to look after the invalid, and Pete might as well

do it as anybody else--as long as he realised that his sick-nursing was

a recreation, and not a substitute for his duties on the farm.

Spring came on, and Albert grew worse. Pete began to look haggard; even

his bullish strength was faltering under sleepless nights, days of moil

and sweat, and constant attendance on the sick man. The dairy-women

helped a little, but what they did they did unwillingly; and as the

dairy was short-handed, Reuben did not like them to take up any extra

work. Pete's existence was a continual round of anxiety and contrivance,

and he was not used to either.

There was also another depressing factor. As he felt his end approaching

Albert began to develop a conscience and remorse. He said he had wasted

his life, and as time wore on and he became weaker he passed from the

general to the particular. The memory of certain sins tormented him, and

he used Pete as his confessor.

Pete was a very innocent soul. He had spoilt many a man's beauty for

him, but he had never been the slave of a woman's. He had broken arms

and ribs, and noses by the score--and he had once nearly killed a man,

and only just escaped being arrested for manslaughter; but he had

remained through it all an innocent soul. He had always lived in the

open air, always worked hard, always fought hard--his recreations had

been whistling and sleep. He had never thought about sin or evil of any

kind, he had never troubled about sex except as it manifested itself in

the brutes he had the care of, he had never read or talked bawdry. All

the energies of his nature had been poured into hard work and hard

blows.

Therefore the confessions of a man like Albert came upon him as a

revelation. Indeed, at first he scarcely understood them. They

disquieted him and sometimes made him nervous and miserable, not because

he had any very definite moral recoil, but because they forced him to

think. Few can gauge the tragedy of thinking when it visits an

unthinking soul. For the first time in his life Pete found himself

confused, questioning, lying awake of nights and asking "why?" The world

suddenly showed itself to him as a place which he could not understand.

It frightened him to think about it. Sometimes he was acutely miserable,

but he would not betray his misery to Albert, as the poor fellow seemed

to find relief in his confidences. And on and on the stream flowed,

swifter and muddier every day.

§ 12.

At last matters reached a climax. It was late in March; Albert was much

worse, and even the doctor looked solemn. "He won't last till the

summer," he said in answer to one of Pete's questions, and unluckily

the sick man heard him.

When Pete went back into the room he found him struggling under the

bedclothes, the sweat trickling down his face.

"Pete!" he cried chokingly--"I won't die!--I won't die!"

"And you wöan't, nuther," said Pete, soothing him.

"But I heard what the doctor said to you."

Pete was at a loss. He could lie if the lie were not too constructive,

but in a case like this he was done for.

"Well, döan't you fret, nohow," he murmured tenderly.

But it was no good telling Albert not to fret. He threw himself from

side to side in the bed, moaned, and almost raved. For months now he had

known that he must die soon, but somehow the idea had not really come

home to him till this moment. He would not let Pete leave him, though

there was a load of mangolds to be brought in; he clung to his brother's

hand like a child, and babbled of strange sins.

"I've been so wicked--I daren't die. I've been the lowest scum. I'm

lost. Pete, I'm damned--I shall go to hell."

Albert had been known openly to scoff at hell, whereas Pete had never

thought much about it. Now it confronted them both under a new

aspect--the scoffer trembled and the thoughtless was preoccupied.

"Döan't fret," reiterated poor Pete, desperate under the fresh

complication of theology, "I reckon you're not bad enough to go to hell,

surelye."

"But I'm the worst--the worst that ever was. I'm scum, I'm dirt"--and

out poured more of the turbid stream, till Pete sickened.

"If I could only see a parson," sobbed Albert at last.

"A parson?"

"Yes--maybe he could comfort me. Oh, I know I've mocked 'em and scoffed

'em all my life, but I reckon they could do summat for me now."

In his weakness he had gone back not only to the religious terrors of

his youth, but to the Sussex dialect he had long forgotten.

Pete scarcely knew what to do. He had become used to his brother's

gradual disintegration, but this utter collapse was terrifying. He

offered his own ministrations.

"You've told me a dunnamany things, and you can tell me as many more as

you justabout like"--touching the climax of self-sacrifice.

But Albert's weak mind clung to its first idea with scared tenacity. He

was still raving about it when Pete came in from his work that evening.

"I want a parson," he moaned, throwing himself about the bed, and his

terrors seemed to grow upon him as the darkness grew.

Neither of them slept that night. Albert was half delirious, and

obsessed by the thought of hell. The room looked out on Boarzell, and he

became convinced that the swart, tufted mass outlined against the

sprinkled stars was hell, the country of the lost. He pictured himself

wandering over and over it in torment. He said he saw fire on it,

scaring the superstitious Pete out of his life.

"On the great Moor of the lost

Wander all the proud and dead--

Those who brothers' blood have shed,

Those who brothers' love have crossed."

He broke into his own verse, pouring it out deliriously:

"There's the shuddering ghost of me

Lips all black with fire and brine,

Chained between the libertine

And the fasting Pharisee."

Then he became obsessed by the idea that he was out on the Moor,

wandering on it, and bound to it. The earth was red-hot under his feet,

and he picked them up off the bed like a cat on hot bricks, till Pete

began to laugh inanely. He saw round him all the places he had known as

a child, and called out for them, because he longed to escape to them

from the burning Moor--"Castweasel! Castweasel!... Ramstile!...

Ellenwhorne...."

It was strange to hear a man calling out the names of places in his

fever as other men might call the names of people.

It was all a return to Albert's childhood. In spite of fifteen years in

London, of a man's work and a man's love and a man's faith, he had gone

back completely to the work and love and faith of his childhood. Odiam

had swallowed him up, it had swallowed him up completely, his very hell

was bounded by it. He spoke with a Sussex accent; he forgot the names of

the women he had loved, and cried instead the names of places, and he

forgot that he did not believe in hell, but thought of it as Boarzell

Moor punctured by queer singing flames.

Pete lay and listened shuddering, waiting with sick desire for the

kindling of the dawn and the whiteness that moved among the trees. At

last they came, the sky bloomed, and the orchard flickered against it,

stirred by a soundless wind. The poor fellow sat up in bed, all troubled

and muddled by things that had never touched him before. He stretched

himself and yawned from force of habit, for he was not in the least

sleepy, then he began to dress.

"What is it?" mumbled Albert, himself again for a moment.

"I'm going to fetch a parson," said Pete.

It was very gallant of him to do so, for it meant venturing still

further into new spheres of thought. None of the Backfields had been to

church for years, though Reuben prided himself on being a good

churchman, and Pete was rather at a loss what to do in a ghostly crisis

such as this. However, on one thing he was resolved--that he would not

go through another night like the last, and he credited a parson with

mysterious cabalistic powers which would miraculously soothe the invalid

and assure him of sleep in future.

So he tramped off towards the Rectory, wondering a little what he should

say when he got there, but leaving it to the inspiration of the moment.

He warmed his honest heart with thoughts of Albert sleeping peacefully

and dying beautifully, though it chilled him a little to think of death.

Why could not Albert live?--Pete would have liked to think of him lying

for years and years in that big untidy bed, pathetic and feeble, and

always claiming by his weakness the whole strength that a day of

unresting toil had left his brother.

The morning flushed. A soft pink crept into ponds and dawn-swung

windows. The light perfumes of April softened the cold, clear air--the

scent of sprouting leaves in the woods, and of primroses in the grass,

while the anemones frothed scentless against the hedges. Pete was about

half a mile from the village when he heard the sound of angry voices

round a bend in the lane, pricked by little screams from a woman.

Expecting a fight he hurried up eagerly, and was just in time to see one

of the grandest upper cuts in his life. A short, well-built man in black

had just knocked down a huge, hulking tramp who had evidently been

improving the hour with a woman now blotted against the hedge. He lay

flat in the road, unconscious, while his adversary stood over him, his

fist still clenched and all the skin off his knuckles.

"Lordy! but that wur justabout präaper!" cried Pete, bustling up, and

sorry that the tramp showed no signs of getting on to his feet.

"It's settled him anyhow," said the man in black.

They both stooped and eyed him critically.

"You've landed him in a good pläace," said Pete; "a little farther back

and he'd have been gone."

"Praise be to God that his life was spared."

Pete looked in some surprise at the bruiser, who continued:

"I'm out of practice, or I shouldn't have skinned myself like this--ah,

here's Coalbran's trap. Perhaps he'll give you a lift, ma'am, into

Peasmarsh."

The woman was helped into the trap, and after some discussion it was

decided not to give themselves the trouble of taking the tramp to the

police station, but to pull him to the side of the road and leave him to

the consequences he had brought upon himself.

"He's had some punishment," said Pete when they were alone. He inspected

the tramp, now feebly moaning, with the air of a connoisseur. "I'm

hemmed if I ever saw a purtier knock-out."

"I'm out of training, as I told you," said the stranger.

"Then you must have bin a valiant basher in your day. It's a pity you

let yourself go slack."

"It was not becoming that I should use my fists, except to defend the

weak. I am a minister of the Lord."

"A parson!" cried Pete.

"A minister of the Lord," repeated with some severity the man in black,

"of the brotherhood named Ebenezer."

Pete remembered hearing that a new parson was coming to the local

Methodists, but nothing had led him to expect such thrilling

developments.

"I used to be in the fancy," said the minister, "but five years ago the

Lord challenged me, and knocked me out in the first round."

Pete was following a train of thought.

"Is a minister the same as a parson?" he asked at length.

"Is a priest of Jehovah the same as a priest of Baal? For shame, young

man!"

"I mean can a minister do wot a Parson does?--tell a poor feller wot's

dying that he wöan't go to hell."

"Not if he's washed in the blood of the Lamb."

"That's wot I mean, surelye. Could you come and talk to a sick man about

all that sort of thing?"

A gleam came into the minister's eyes, very much the same as when he had

knocked out the tramp.

"Reckon I could!" he cried fierily. "Reckon I can snatch a brand from

the burning, reckon I can find the lost piece of silver; reckon I can

save the wandering sheep, and wash it in the blood of the Lamb."

"Same as a parson?" enquired Pete anxiously.

"Better than any mitred priest of Ammon, for I shall not vex the

sinner's soul with dead works, but wash it in the crimson fountain. You

trust your sick man to me, young feller--I'll wash him in blood, I'll

clothe him in righteousness, I'll feed him with salvation."

"I'll justabout täake you to him, then. He asked fur a 'stablished

parson, but I'd sooner far bring you, for, Lordy, if you äun't the

präaperest bruiser I've ever set eyes on."

§ 13.

That was how the Rev. Roger Ades started his ministrations at Odiam. At

first Reuben was disgusted. He had never before had truck with

Dissenters, whom he considered low-class and unfit for anyone above a

tenant farmer. He was outraged by the thought of the pastor's almost

daily visits, accompanied by loud singing of hymns in Albert's bedroom.

However, he did not actually forbid him the house, for Pete had brought

him there, and Reuben never treated Pete exactly as he treated his other

sons. Pete was the only member of his family who had so far not

disgraced Odiam--except the two little boys, who were too young--and he

was always careful to do nothing that might unsettle him and drive him

into his brother's treacherous ways. So the pastor of Ebenezer came

unchecked, and doubtless his ministrations were appreciated, for as time

went by the intervals between them grew shorter and shorter, till at

last Mr. Ades was more often in the house than out of it.

Though strengthened in soul, Albert grew weaker in body, and Pete began

to scamp his farm work. Even when the minister was present, he would not

leave his brother. It grieved Reuben that, while outside matters

prospered, indoors they should remind him of a Methodist conventicle.

The house was full of hymns, they burst through the close-shut windows

of Albert's bedroom and assaulted the ears of workers on Boarzell. In

the evenings, when Ades was gone, Pete whistled them about the house.

Reuben was ashamed; it made him blush to think that his stout

churchmanship should have to put up with this. "I scarcely dare show my

face in the pub, wud all this going on at höame," he remarked

sorrowfully.

Meanwhile, the farm was doing well; indeed, it was almost back at its

former glory. Having laid the foundations, Reuben could now think of

expansion, and he engaged two more farm-hands.

He had quite changed the look of Boarzell. Instead of the swell and

tumble of the heather, were now long stretches of chocolate furrows,

where only the hedge mustard sometimes sprang mutinously, soon to be

rooted up. Reuben, however, looked less on these than on the territories

still unconquered. He would put his head on one side and contemplate the

Moor from different angles, trying to size the rough patch at the top.

He wondered how long it would be before it could all be his. He would

have to work like a fiend if he was to do it in his lifetime. There was

the Grandturzel inclosure, too.... Then he would go and whip up his men,

and make them work nearly as hard as he worked himself, so that in the

evening they would complain at the Cocks of "wot a tedious hard mäaster

Mus' Backfield wur, surelye!"

One day Albert sent his father a message through Pete.

"He wanted me to tell you wot an unaccountable difference he sees in

Boarzell now he's come back. He'd never have known it, 'tis so changed.

All the new bit towards Doozes is justabout präaper."

Reuben said nothing, in spite of the entreaty in Pete's honest eyes, but

his heart warmed towards his son. Albert had shown at last proper

spirit; he had no doubt realised his baseness, and acknowledged that he

had been a fool and villain to betray Odiam. Now he saw how mightily the

farm prospered in spite of adversity, he praised its greatness, and no

man could praise Odiam without winning a little of Reuben's goodwill. He

softened towards the prodigal, and felt that he would like to see the

boy--he still called him "the boy," though he was thirty-seven--and if

he behaved penitently and humbly, forgive him before he died.

That evening he went up to Pete's room. The sound of voices came from

it, one exceedingly loud, and it struck Reuben that "that hemmed

Methody" was there. He opened the door and looked in. Albert lay propped

up in the bed, his hands, wasted into claws, clasped in the attitude of

prayer, his eyes protruding strangely above his sunken cheeks, where the

skin was stretched on the bones. Pete knelt beside him, his eyes closed,

his hands folded, like a child saying its prayers, and at the foot of

the bed stood the Rev. Roger Ades, his face contorted with fervour, his

arms waving in attitudes that were reminiscent of the boxing ring in

spite of his efforts.

None of them saw or heard Reuben's entrance, and at that moment they all

burst into a hymn:

"There's life in the crimson Fountain,

There's peace in the Blood of the Slain."

A long shudder of disgust went over Reuben's flesh. He was utterly

shocked by what he saw. That such things could go on in his house struck

him with horror, tinctured by shame. He went out, shutting the door

noisily behind him--the softer feelings had gone; instead he felt

bitterly and furiously humiliated.

The hymn faltered and stopped when the door banged, but the next moment

the minister caught it up again, and hurled it after Reuben's indignant

retreat:

"My soul is all washed to whiteness,

And I'll never be foul again.

Salvation! Salvation full and free!"

§ 14.

Early in May, Pete came out to Reuben on Boarzell and told him that

Albert was dead. Reuben felt a little awkward and a little relieved.

"He died quiet, I hope?"

"Oh, yes," said Pete, "he laid hold on the merits of Jesus."

Reuben started.

"It wur a präaper death," continued Pete; "his soul wur washed as white

as wool. He wur the prodigal son come höame; he wur the Lord's lost

sixpence, I reckon."

"And that son of a harlot from Little Bethel wurn't wud him, I trust?"

"No, I'm going to fetch him now."

His father opened his mouth to forbid him angrily, but changed his mind

and said nothing. Pete walked off whistling--"When the cleansing Blood

is poured."

Reuben could not help feeling relieved at Albert's death, but he had

noticed with some alarm Pete's definitely religious phraseology. He

hoped that Ades had not corrupted him from his pure churchmanship, the

honourable churchmanship of the Backfields. Being a Dissenter was only

one degree better than being a Liberal, and Reuben swore to keep a firm

hand over Pete in future.

That evening he and his son had their first conflict. Pete announced

that he had made arrangements with Ades for Albert's funeral, and Reuben

announced with equal conviction that he was hemmed if Ades had any truck

in it wotsumdever. Albert should be buried according to the rites and

ceremonies of the Church of England, he wasn't going to have any

salvation sung over his grave. Pete, on the other hand, stuck to his

point, and alarmed Reuben with more religious phraseology.

"It wur Ades wot gave him to the Lord, wot found him salvation in the

Blood of the Lamb."

"I döan't care two straws about that. Albert wur born and christened

Church, and he's not going to die chapel because a lousy Methody sings

hymns over him when he's sick and döan't know better. If I find that

feller on my pläace again, I'll break every bone in his body."

Pete angrily defended the minister, which caused Reuben fresh alarm; for

in the old days when his father abused Ades he had tried to conciliate

him by laying stress on the latter's prowess as a bruiser, but now he

never once mentioned his fists, enlarging instead on his qualities of

soul and on the fact that he had found Christ. The two theologians

carried on their argument till well past bedtime, and at last separated

in a great state of dogma and indignation.

In the end it was the Church that won. Reuben went over early the next

morning to the Rectory, and made arrangements for Albert's funeral on

the following Monday. He enlarged on the conflict he had had with Pete,

and was a little dashed by the rector's want of enthusiasm.

Albert was buried with all the decent rites of the Establishment. He

was laid to rest in the Christian company of his mother and his brother

George, at the bottom of the churchyard where it touched the pond; a

little way from him was the old yeoman who had "never wanted anything he

hadn't got, and so hadn't got anything he didn't want." It relieved Pete

a little to think that from where he lay his brother could not see

Boarzell--"not even if he sat up in his grave."

The funeral was dignified and impressive, and every now and then Reuben

glanced across at his son with eyes that said--"Wot could Ebenezer have

done compared wud this?" All the same, he was disappointed. Somehow he

had expected his churchmanship to strike the rector and the curate very

favourably; he had expected them metaphorically to fall on his neck; he

saw himself as a champion of established Christendom, of tithes and

glebes and cosy rectories and "dearly beloved brethren" on Sundays. It

was humiliating to find himself ignored, indeed treated as an outsider,

simply because he had not been to church for ten years. He had had his

children baptised into the Establishment, and now he was burying his son

according to its rites, in spite of opposition, even persecution. These

parsons were ungrateful, bigoted, and blind.

Perhaps though, he thought, their behaviour was partially accounted for

by that of Pete, who stood beside the grave with his eyes shut, saying

"A-aaa-men" at unliturgical intervals, as only Dissenters can say it.

§ 15.

Pete spent that evening with Ades, and Reuben's fireside slumbers were

unrestful because he missed Pete's accustomed snore from the other end

of the settle. The next morning his son did not appear, though there was

plenty of work to be done in the hop-fields. The young hops were now

well above ground, and exposed to the perils of blight, so Reuben and

Beatup were spraying them with insect-killer, badly in need of a third

man to do the mixing.

"Where's Pete?" asked Reuben.

"I dunno--äun't seen un this mornun. Ah--thur he be!"

"Where?"

"Cöaming up by the brook, surelye."

Reuben stared in amazement. The approaching figure undoubtedly was Pete,

but a Pete so changed by circumstances and demeanour as to be almost

unrecognisable. He wore his Sunday black clothes, which--as, with the

exception of the funeral, he had not put them on for ten years--were

something of a misfit. On his head was a black hat with a wide flapping

brim, he walked with a measured step and his hands folded in front of

him.

"Well," cried Reuben, calling abuse to the rescue of surprise--"you

hemmed lazy good-fur-nothing, you!--wud all the Glotten hay to be cut,

and ten acres o' hops to be sprayed, and you go laying in bed lik a

lady, and then come out all dressed as if you wur going to church.

Where's your corduroys?"

"In my box--you can clöathe the naked wud 'em--I'm never going to put

'em on no more."

"I'm hemmed if I'll have you working on my farm in that foolery. You'll

mäake us the laughing-stock of Peasmarsh. You've got Ebenezer on the

brain, you have, and you can justabout git it off again."

"I'm never going to do another ströake of wark on your farm as long as I

live. Salvation's got me."

Reuben dropped the insect-killer.

"I'm the Lord's lost lamb," announced Pete.

"The Lord's lost----!" cried his father angrily. "You täake off them

blacks, and git to work lik a human being."

"I tell you I'm never going to work fur you agäun. I'm going forth to

spread the Word. Salvation's got me."

"You wait till _I_ git you, that's all," and Reuben ran at Pete.

"Kip off, or I'll slosh you one on the boko," cried the Lord's lost lamb

swinging up a vigorous pair of fists. Reuben breathed a sigh of relief.

"There--I knew as there wur reason in you, Pete. You wöan't go and leave

your fäather lik the rest, all fur a hemmed Methody."

"Hemmed Methody! That's how you spik of the man wot's säaved my soul. I

tell you as there I wur lost in trespasses and sins, and now I'm washed

white as wool--there wur my evil doings sticking to my soul lik maggots

to a dead rat, and now my soul's washed in the Blood of the Lamb, and

I'm going out to spread the Word."

"Where are you going?"

"Unto the ends of the earth--Hastings. There's a friend of Ades there

wot'll guide me into the Spirit's ways."

"But you'll never leave me at the time of the hay-harvest, and Emily due

to calve in another month?"

"I tell you I'm shut of your farm--it's wot's led me astray from a lad.

Instead of settin' and reading godly books and singing wud the saints

I've gone and ploughed furrers and carted manure; I've thought only of

the things of the flesh, I've walked lik accursed Adam among the

thistles. But now a Voice says, 'work no more!--go and spread the Word!'

And if you're wise, fäather, you'll cöame too, and you, Beatup. You'll

flee from the wrath to cöame, when He shall shäake the earth and the

elimunts shall dissolve in fervient heat, and He ..."

"Have adone do wud your preaching. I'm ashamed of you, led astray by

lunies as if you wur no better nor poor Harry. You're a hemmed lousy

traitor, you are, the worst of 'em all."

"I'm only fleeing from the wrath to cöame--and if you're wise you'll

foller me. This farm is the city of destruction, I tell you, it's a

snare of the devil, it's Naboth's vineyard, it's the lake that burneth

wud fire and brimstone. Cöame out of her, cöame out of her, my peoples!"

Reuben was paralysed. His jaw worked convulsively, and he looked at Pete

as if he were a specially new and pestilential form of blight.

"Save yourself, fäather," continued the evangelist, "and give up all the

vain desires of the flesh. Is this a time to buy olive-yards and

vineyards? Beware lest there cöame upon you as it did to him wot

purchaised a field, the reward of inquiety, and falling headlong he bust

asunder in the midst and his bowels goshed out----"

But Reuben had found his voice.

"Git out of this!" he shouted. "I wöan't stand here and listen to you

miscalling the farm wot's bred you and fed you over thirty year. Git

out, and never think you'll come back again. I'm shut of you. I döan't

want no more of you--I'm out of the wood now, I've got all the work out

of you I've needed, so you can go, and spread your hemmed Word, and be

hemmed. I'm shut of you."

Pete fixed upon his father a gaze meant to inspire the utmost terrors of

conscience, then turned on his heel and slowly walked away.

The sight of his broad black back disappearing among the hop-bines was

too much for Reuben. He picked up the can of insect-killer and hurled it

after his son, splashing his respectability from head to foot with the

stinking fluid. Pete flung round with his fists up, then suddenly

dropped them and raised his eyes instead.

"You wudn't daur do that if I hadn't been saved!" he shouted.

Then he walked off, beautiful of soul no doubt, but highly unpleasant of

body.