I
It was on the same unpropitious evening that Silas’s only son returned
to his home from Canada.
The train discharging him at Spalding, he fought his way against wind
and rain, along the lonely road on the top of the dyke. He trudged with
his hands in his pockets and a bundle on his back, the peculiar
bleakness of the road returning familiarly to him after his absence of
seven years. It was dark, but through occasional rifts the moon
appeared, showing him the floods; they were familiar too,—their wide
flat stretches lying on either side of the high dyke, and swept by the
East Anglian wind straight from the North Sea,—he knew in his very bones
the shape and sensation of the Fens; this was homecoming. There was a
knowledge, a grasp of the size, shape, and colour—almost of taste and
smell—a consciousness that marked off home from any other place.
When he reached the village, he felt in similar manner the presence of
the factory on the one hand, and of the abbey on the other, with the
village lying between them. His boots rang on the stone of the
pavements. That was the school, and this the concert-room.... He reached
the double cottage of his father and his uncle; he thought he would
surprise his father and mother, so without knocking he turned the
door-handle and went in.
Nan was still sitting by the table on which her zither lay; her hands
were clasped and drooped listlessly. Her whole attitude betrayed her
dejection. Morgan stood by the range talking. They were alone, and young
Dene recoiled, thinking he had broken in upon strangers, though the
smile was still broadly upon his face, with which he had prepared to
greet his parents’ surprise.
“I’ve made a mistake,” he muttered, “this used to be Silas Dene’s
cottage ... my name’s Martin Dene.”
He was a bronzed young man, with thick black hair, a Roman nose, and a
fine curved mouth; a proud face, like the face upon a coin.
“Can you tell me where my father lives now?” he added. He looked at them
frankly; he took them for a young married couple.
“Why, Martin!” cried Nan, recognising him.
“Why, it’s Nancy Holden,” he said almost at the same moment. They
greeted one another gladly. “You’re married? living here?” he asked,
with a glance at Morgan.
“Married to your uncle Gregory....”
“No! He could be your father!” exclaimed young Dene naïvely, and again
he glanced at Morgan.
“Oh, no,” said Nan, flushing, and she hurried on with an explanation,
“Your father lives here still, but he went out a little time back; he
said he was going to the abbey. He’ll be in presently. Sit down; I’ll
get you a cup of tea.”
“But where’s mother?” asked Martin Dene, and in his impulsive,
attractive manner he strode across the room, flung open the door that
led to the staircase, and shouted “Mother!”