Evening was rapidly falling, but the coming of night would befriend him,
since it could not hinder. As he reached the foot of the stair he stood
for a moment in hesitation. He listened. The tessellated square was
silent, but for a drip of water off a gutter into one of the great
butts; no footsteps rang across the cobbles; no voice exclaimed “Why,
Dene!”; no call from Nan or Linnet echoed down to him from above. He
felt himself more utterly alone than ever in his life before, more
finally at bay. Never for an instant did the idea of giving himself up
cross his mind. He was calmer now than he had been up in the gallery,
where he had bruised himself so cruelly against these serried vats.
Here, at least, he had space around him; and out there, where he meant
to go, would be still wider space, the flat freedom of the Fens, the sky
above his head, and night, the only ally that could begin to equalise
his chances with other men.
But there would be uncertainty. Always the uncertainty whether he had or
had not been seen. He might be ringed about by pursuers closing in upon
him, and not know it. He must make up his mind to that; he must make up
his mind to the knowledge that defeat would overtake him in the end.
This knowledge came to him with a strangely familiar quietness; it was
as though it had been with him all his life, although he might not have
given it a name.
In the silence of the evening he passed beyond the factory and gained
the road on the top of the great dyke stretching across the Fens. Upon
its eminence he paused, forlorn, uncertain, and derelict. That
illumination which had sustained him before, seemed now to have deserted
him; he no longer trod with the same assurance, but cautiously, afraid
of making a false step and of slipping down the sides of the dyke,
afraid of being seen, upright upon the skyline, yet not venturing to
leave the road and to make his way across the flooded country. Yet as he
stumbled on, he realised that therein lay his wisest course: the floods
would reveal no footmarks, and he would be less conspicuous than erect
on the height of the dyke. In so far as his hopelessness could devise a
plan, that was the plan to follow. He struck across the road, and,
crouching on his heels, allowed himself to slither down the escarpment.
At the bottom he found the water, icy about his ankles, and shivered at
its sinister touch. Nevertheless, he plunged forward into it, his hands
outstretched before him, determined to put all possible distance between
himself and Abbot’s Etchery. Behind him the three chimneys of the
factory vomited their black plumes of noiseless smoke that trailed
across the sky, but of this he did not reckon; he was aware only of the
cry of the curlew circling above him, and of the marshy ground that
sucked back his steps beneath the water. He fought his way, each foot
held down and his progress hampered as in a nightmare, and with an
effort he dragged one foot after the other stickily out, ploughing
onwards into the unknown breadth of the marshes, ignorant of his
surroundings, of whether night had fallen, concealing him, or whether
the last bars of day still made of him a distinguishable mark. And, for
his greater misery and discomfort, as he advanced across the submerged
fields, he came periodically to the ditches that were their boundaries,
and knew them because his footing suddenly failed him and threw him
forward into the water, pitching down upon hands and knees, so that
presently he was drenched, and the touch of the water which at first had
been only about his ankles now conquered his body also, little by
little, penetrating to his skin, glacial as the presaged touch of death.
Still he advanced, striving towards no known prospective refuge, but
merely, irrationally, to increase the distance, without considering the
paltriness of the help those few poor miles could afford him.
By now, although he could not be certain of it, night had fully come. A
huge, low moon stole up above the horizon, and sailed slowly higher into
the heavens over the flooded country. In its light the few bare trees
stood up like twigs, black and stark; and still across the now shining
expanse of water the blind man held on his laborious, hindered way the
splash of his steps breaking the placid surface into a ripple of jet and
silver. He had no notion how far he might have gone; he was uncertain
even whether he had succeeded in keeping straight in the same direction.
Every now and then he came to a hillock of higher ground, which lifted
him for the moment out of the floods, and every now and then he stumbled
into a ditch, from which he extricated himself, his teeth chattering;
and all the time he walked with his hands groping before him, but they
could not save him from the ditches that seemed to lie in wait for him
and to take pleasure in trapping him unawares. He thought that he must
have been walking half the night. Even the curlews had ceased to cry
long since, and no owl hooted across the waste of waters. His extreme
weariness deadened him; but fever reanimated him; and it was a conflict
as to which would gain the advantage. At one moment he thought that he
must sink down from exhaustion, even into the floods; the next moment, a
bout of fear and determination spurred him on, and he splashed forward,
behind his groping hands, while obscure mutterings came in the immense
silence of the night from his moving lips.
Morning found him crouching beside some meagre trees upon one of the
hillocks out of reach of the water. His hair was matted, his eyes
bloodshot, his clothes wet and dankly clinging to his limbs. He crouched
as closely as possible to the ground, feeling about for the shelter of
the trees, which, leafless as they were, offered no shelter at all. He
crept about amongst them,—they might be half a dozen in number, a small
clump;—he crept over the twenty square feet or so of the little island
on which he was marooned, and once or twice he seemed tempted to renew
his passage through the water, for he cautiously adventured down to its
edge, and stretched out his foot towards it, but, although he essayed
this on different sides of the mound, he always took his foot back
shuddering as soon as he encountered the water, and withdrew himself in
the same shambling, furtive fashion to the shelter of the trees.
It was here that in the afternoon he was found by the men who were out
for his capture. They came beating across the flooded fields in extended
order, as men beating for game. When they first descried him from a
little way off, he still was stealing about his patch of refuge,
rambling uneasily and without purpose, now coming down to the water’s
edge, now out of sight over the curve of the hillock, now reappearing to
slink between the trees. Uncouth, haggard, his clothes torn and soiled,
his hands always at their unhappy groping, his useless eyes turning
hither and thither, he resembled some half-crazy castaway that might
have subsisted there for days on berries and foul water, too bemused now
for further endeavour; too broken in spirit for any frenzy of despair;
merely acquiescent in his climax of the long premonitory years; waiting
for the end which, after all the riot and the burden, could not be
otherwise than welcome.