I
Their last afternoon, a Saturday. They believed that Gregory was to
return at seven; only Silas knew that he was to return at five. With the
hoarding instinct that this knowledge might be useful to him, he kept it
a secret. They were very silent, and remained close to one another,
holding hands. How grave they were! They were very self-contained,
husbanding all their strength. He knew that they meant to beard Gregory
that evening, but he, Silas, equally, meant to outwit them, and he
thought with satisfaction that his cunning was greater than theirs. He
considered their silence with an irony more tragic than any of them
knew. The pain that their company had cost him during the last ten days;
the pain, too, which his own desire for their happiness had cost him;
his angry, resentful love for them both; the strain of remaining true to
his principles, and his vindictiveness (Christine! Christine! always
Christine, recurrent, gnawing,) all this mingled in his mind to a state
of folly with which he was almost unable prudently to deal. He
acknowledged that he had been partly to blame. He had drawn out Nan’s
confidences. But his temperament inclined him harshly towards
self-flagellation....
“Only a little time now, Nan, before he’s here,” he said. “You’ll have
much to tell him, much that’ll interest him. Remember, if you want any
help, I’m here: Silas is here. Him being my brother, we understand one
another, like you and Linnet understand one another. Blood brothers is
close like lovers. Close as lovers.—But what call have I to talk of
love, seeing I never knew it, nor wanted it?”
He went outside and sat on the doorstep, leaning his back against the
closed door. The village street was deserted, distant voices sounded
from the green; in the faint warmth of the April sun the paint of the
door smelt hot, and flies buzzed stickily in the corners of the
woodwork. Silas sat there clasping his knees, and swaying slightly to
the ironical rhythm of his own thoughts. He felt like a jailer, keeping
those two imprisoned inside; they were happy, in spite of the imminent
crisis; merely and childishly happy because they were together,—that
sufficed; he had learnt during those ten days the perfection of their
happiness. Nan had betrayed, under his questionings, more than she had
probably intended to betray, and under the pain of defrauded envy he had
accumulated a store of knowledge. They seemed to _be_ one another; it
was not so much sympathy that they enjoyed, as identity. Silas swayed
himself slowly backwards and forwards; he put the tip of his tongue
between his teeth and held it there; he tapped his boots softly together
because of his enjoyment. They were inside, talking; Gregory would be
home soon. It tickled Silas’s fancy to think he had a surprise up his
sleeve in store for them; he, the unwanted third! he, the ostracised of
the village! they would soon learn, all of them, that he still had
fangs. He strained his ears to catch the first sound of the train,
which, after stopping at Spalding, crossed the fenny country at some
little distance. He wished for the dulled rumble indicative that the
train was upon its journey and therefore that Gregory and Calthorpe were
upon their way to Abbot’s Etchery along the dyke, but at the same time
he wished this hour prolonged, an hour so entirely after his own heart.
He had so many revenges to take, so many old debts to wipe off, that no
luxury of procrastination could be too great. Provided only, indeed,
that the completion was sufficient, and sufficiently inevitable; and as
to this he had no misgivings.
He never heard the train. He continued to hear only the distant shouts
from the green, the small noises of insects, and the murmur within the
room—not a continued murmur, only an intermittent one—and the first
sound that drew him from his torpor of satisfaction was that of
footsteps on the cobbles and Calthorpe’s voice, in its somewhat
irritatingly cheery tones, “Friend Silas! well, I’ve brought back
Gregory safe and sound, and how are you all at home?”
Gregory stood planted in the middle of the street watching his brother’s
face for his greeting of Calthorpe. His throat heaved, and his
suppressed violence, which was entirely apparent, made his stiff black
travelling suit and bowler hat seem puerile and ridiculous. He was in
one of those primitive moods when civilised trappings become laughable:
an angry man in a bowler hat.... Not only angry, but convulsed with
anxiety, and with a rage that prayed only to be released. Yes, even
though that rage must destroy his soul, it craved for an outlet. A man
so minded would not have thanked the reassuring speech that drove back
the straining rage as unwarrantable. The bag he carried was as paper in
his hand. His limbs seemed to burst out of his clothes; strong muscle
impatient for nakedness. His throat reared itself out of his collar. His
hands protruded starkly from his cuffs. Civilisation upon him was as
preposterous as the naked man wrestling beneath was superb. He stood
with his feet planted wide apart, in the attitude of one who awaits and
encourages an attack.
Silas was petulant at being taken by surprise; “I didn’t expect you,” he
said, as though he had been cheated of his due. “Well, now that we’re
here, let us come in,” said Calthorpe, still good-humoured, but slightly
uneasy; he would have liked the numbers increased, not fancying the part
of sole interpreter between the brothers; was he to act as light to the
one, and as sound to the other? The constant companionship of Gregory,
and, above all, the railway journey that day, and the walk along the
dyke, had convinced him that all was very far from well amongst the
Denes. “No,” said Silas, standing up and stretching his arms
crucifix-wise across the door, “you can’t go in there.”
Gregory saw the gesture, which was intelligible enough, although he did
not hear the words. A perverse relief swept over him, at having his
worst dread confirmed. A horrible inarticulate noise broke from him,
which made Calthorpe swing round in his direction. “Good God,” said
Calthorpe appalled, “it’s like a baboon,” and he continued to stare,
expecting the noise to be repeated. Silas, too, had heard; “Yes—like a
brute,” he said, becoming transfigured with delight as he saw the
certainty of manœuvring that brute with the cunning of his own
intellect. Gregory never uttered a sound unless he was extraordinarily
moved. “Tell him, Mr. Calthorpe,” said Silas, “that he can’t go into my
cottage.”
“He wants to know why,” said Calthorpe, having delivered this message
and received the answer from Gregory’s quivering fingers. “He looks as
though he might spring upon you at any moment, Silas.” He watched,
anxiously, first one and then the other.
“Gathering himself together, is he?”
“Yes—he doesn’t look as though he’d hold himself in much longer. Oh, you
wouldn’t chuckle if you could see him.”
“Tell him to trust me and not to be a fool.”
“He says, was it true?”
“Tell him first, that he must let me manage things.”
“I don’t like the look of this, Silas; I’m all in the dark.”
“Never mind, sir; you just tell him to trust me.”
“He’ll be at your throat if I don’t,” and the communication passed
silently from Calthorpe to Gregory. “He says he will trust you a bit
longer, but he wants to see things for himself.”
Silas appeared to be perplexed by his brother’s impatience, and by the
danger of Calthorpe putting two and two together.
“Ask him if he will wait till to-morrow,” he said, at length.
This suggestion so enraged Gregory that he leapt at his brother and was
only warded off by Calthorpe’s appeasing gesture. He fell back a pace,
and framed a message with shaking hands.
“He says,” said Calthorpe, “that he will be damned if he waits another
five minutes. And I am damned myself, Silas,” added the honest
instrument, “if I understand a word of this, or if I will go on letting
you make a cat’s-paw of me for your black tricks. Call Mrs. Dene, who
perhaps knows what you are up to.”
Silas was outwardly calm, but alert. He must lose no time in breaking up
the trio.
“I shall explain everything to you, Mr. Calthorpe,” he said earnestly,
still standing with his arms flung wide across the door, “but he’s a
dangerous man, my brother. He’s in a dangerous temper. To tell you the
truth, Mr. Calthorpe,” he ran on with extreme glibness, “he suspects
some one of tampering with his designs—but keep that for yourself. I’ve
got the proofs inside my cottage, only I didn’t expect you so early. We
must get him away. Tell him to go into his own place and change his
clothes, and I’ll send his wife to him.”
“Well, there seems to be no harm in that,” said Calthorpe dubiously.
“Believe me, sir, I’m acting for the best.”
“H’m—you seem mighty eager to get your brother out of the way.”
“Surely you only have to look at him, Mr. Calthorpe.”
Calthorpe looked, and, having done so, he asked Gregory to go. “But I am
damned if I understand,” he said again, taking off his hat and
scratching his head. “You Denes are hard fellows to make out,” he added
in an access of irritation, seeing the expression on Silas’s face, and
indeed he felt that his irritation was only small and petulant beside
the anger of Gregory and the sardonic malevolence of Silas. If it were
not for Nan, he would wash his hands of the whole lot of them. His
easy-going philosophy of life was too greatly disturbed by the stress
and inexplicable ferment of the Denes. He saw Gregory scowling in his
indecision, than a message came from the able fingers, which he passed
on to Silas. “He says he will wait for his wife in his own cottage.”
“Tell him she shall join him there,” said Silas grimly.