THE SEVEN SNOW-MEN
MARY'S child opened its eyes prematurely on this world, only to wail
itself out of it again in a couple of weeks. It was a miserable,
feeble little creature, but the mother clung to it, though it was the
son of her father's murderer, of the lover whose baseness towards
herself seemed to her nothing compared with his baseness in lifting
his hand against the grey head now lying by the wall in Crishowell
churchyard. This she told herself again and again as she lay tossing
in the weary days succeeding its birth. Though her love for the father
was dead, struck down by that foul blow, she had still some to give
the child; it was hers, she felt, hers alone. He had never seen it,
never would see it, and never would his face shadow its little life.
During her illness the Vicar had been to visit her, and had tried,
very gently, to bring home to her the greatness of her fault. She
listened to his words meekly and with respect, but he left the house
feeling that he had not made much impression. When he was gone she
thought over all he had said; to have explained to him what was in her
heart would have been impossible, for she could hardly explain it to
herself, but she knew that, though she recoiled from the man who had
once been everything to her, she could not go back upon the love. It
was a gift she had made fully, freely, rejoicing in the giving, and
she would not repent it. If the sun had gone down on her and left her
to grope through the black night, she would accept it as the price of
her short happiness; she felt this instinctively, dumbly. She was
proud, and, knowing that all the world would think itself at liberty
to cast stones at her, she was not going to invite it to do so, much
less to shrink from its uplifted hand. The thing was her affair, her
loss, and no one else's. Life would be hard, but she would meet it for
the child's sake; she would make him an honest man, and, perchance, if
she did her duty by him, he might one day stand between her and the
loneliness of existence. That was what one might call the middle
stratum of her soul; down below--far, far down--there was a tideless
sea of grief. Then the poor little infant died.
In a small place like Crishowell it is scant news that can remain
hidden; what is known to one is the property of the whole community,
and Mary's history was soon in every mouth. Horror and mystery were
sweet to the rural taste, which was beginning to feel dulled after
such a surfeit of events as the riot, the arrests, Vaughan's death,
and Rhys' disappearance. The tale of her double wrong gave it
something to think about again, and the talk reached the ears of
George Williams at last, though he mixed rarely with his fellow-men,
and consequently knew little of the topics of the village.
He had thought a great deal about the toll-keeper's daughter since the
day he had found her sitting in the churchyard, for, in that moment,
he seemed to have looked into her very heart. He knew now that he had
only seen half of it. He was anything but a vindictive man, but as he
walked out of the village one evening with his newly-gotten knowledge,
if he could have done what he liked, he would have gone straight home
and killed Rhys Walters, then and there, with his two hands. Seeing
the story laid out before his mind's eye, he wondered how he should
manage to exist under the same roof with him. His view was not
altogether a just one, for he could hardly have felt more strongly had
Walters deliberately murdered the father in order to ruin the daughter
unopposed, but he did not stop to think of that. He saw things in the
rough, and in the rough he dealt with them. He knew that Bumpett would
never consent to his turning him out, for the Pig-driver had got Rhys
into his power and meant to keep him there, as he had done with
himself. It was hard enough to find suitable men for his work--and men
who were dependent on him could tell no tales. The old man was
exaggerating every difficulty in the way of getting the fugitive out
of the country, so that he might retain him where he was and have him
at his service; Rhys also was becoming enamoured of the business,
which suited him exactly, and growing almost reconciled to his life,
now that he could spend his nights outside. Whether there was work on
foot or not, he left the cottage with the dark--often with the
dusk--remaining out until dawn, and spending most of his day in sleep.
Where he went George neither knew nor cared, but the day would come,
he thought, when Walters would get over-venturesome, and let himself
be seen. Though it would probably involve his own ruin, he prayed that
it might be soon. All he longed for was the end of his bondage to his
taskmaster, and of the hated company he was enduring.
The Pig-driver ran his trade on bold lines. It had to be largely done
to make it pay him, and he had taken two relations into partnership
who had butchers' shops in other towns. The farmers who grazed their
herds on the mountain-lands of Breconshire, and who suffered from this
organized system of marauding, had no idea, in these days of slow
communication and inefficient police, how to protect their interests.
On the side of the Black Mountain with which we are familiar, they
employed watchers for the flocks on dark winter nights, but hitherto
George's skill and luck had been greater than theirs, and he left no
traces of his deeds behind him. Once the dead animal had disappeared
beneath his floor, it emerged again in pieces, for all the cutting up
was done below, the skins dried before the fire, and each head with
the tell-tale mark on the skull buried in the garden. Only after a
fall of snow, when footmarks were ineffaceable, sheep-stealing was an
impossibility.
It had been coming down thickly, and after the fall the wind blew
billows of white into all the hedgerows, which were broken in great
gaps by the weight; everywhere they were being mended, and George was
employed at a place on the further side of the Wye to repair about
half-a-mile of damage.
He had finished early, and, after crossing the river, the fancy took
him to return along the shore and strike homewards into Crishowell
Lane by the toll-house, where Mary was still living with the new
toll-keeper's wife. The woman was a good soul, and had nursed her
through her trouble, and the girl was to remain with her father's
successors until it was settled where she should live, and how she
might support herself, and increase the small sum subscribed for her
by the public in memory of the dead man.
He went down towards the water and kept along the high bank beside it.
It was easy walking, for the wind had blown off the river where it
could gather no snow, and the path was almost dry; below him the dark,
swirling pools lay like blackened glass under the willows, whose
knotted stems overhung them. The fields on his right were three inches
deep in their dazzling cover. As his eye roamed over the expanse, some
objects in a hollow a short way ahead caught his attention, detaching
themselves as he drew near, and he saw that the boys of the
neighbouring cottages had been at work. Seven gigantic snow-men were
grouped together and stood round in a sort of burlesque Stonehenge,
their imbecile faces staring on the monotonous winter landscape. There
had been a slight fall since their erection, and though the grass
round had been scraped clean by their creators, it was covered with a
white powdering, few marks of their work being left. They seemed to
have risen from the ground of themselves, seven solitary,
self-contained, witless creatures. Not one of them boasted any
headgear, all the round bullet heads standing uncovered on the
pillar-like bodies; rough attempts at arms had been made, but these
had not been a success, for the fragments lay around their feet. Their
mouths grinned uniformly, indicated by long bits of stick embedded in
the lower part of their jaws, and black stones above did duty for
eyes. George contemplated the vacant crew with a smile. He was in no
special hurry, so he stood for some time looking at them.
Silence lay over everything, heavier than the sky, deeper than the
snow.
He turned his head towards the Wye, for from somewhere by the bank
came the sound of heavy breathing, as of a creature wrestling with a
load, pausing occasionally, but recommencing again after a moment's
rest. There was a movement among the small branches of an immense
willow whose arm stretched over a bit of deep water. The twigs were
thick, and the bank shelved out like a roof over the trunk, so, though
he could not see the man or beast, he gathered that whichever was
struggling there must be down below on a ledge running a few feet
above the river. He went cautiously towards the spot and looked over
the edge. A woman whom he recognized as Mary Vaughan was scrambling
along towards the limb of the great tree. Was he always to be an
unwilling spy upon her? he asked himself as he saw her.
He drew back and turned to go, when it struck him that he had better
not leave her alone, as her foothold on the rotten bank seemed rather
insecure, and he knew the pool below to be one of the deepest in the
Wye, so he split the difference by getting behind a holly-bush whose
evergreen boughs formed a thick screen in front of him, and through an
opening in which he could observe her movements. He could not imagine
what she was doing, and, until he saw her reach a place of safety, he
determined to stay near. Afterwards he would steal away unperceived.
Mary made her way towards the willow-branch, and, putting her foot
upon an excrescence of the bark, she climbed up and seated herself
upon it. George could see that her face was drawn and haggard, as the
face of one who has not slept for many nights; it was thin too, and
the fire of her beautiful eyes seemed drowned in unshed tears. She
drew herself along the thickness of the bough until she was two or
three yards from the shore and sat staring before her. A great pang of
pity shot through the heart of the man watching her, as it occurred to
him that her troubles might have turned her brain. He dared not stir
while she sat there so still, for fear of making himself heard, and he
held his breath in dread lest she might lose her balance, if startled,
and slip from her seat into the pool underneath. Presently she began
to fumble with something lying on the bough which he saw to be a piece
of rope.
He pressed a little nearer, peering under his hand through the
holly-leaves into the gloom of the willow. A large stone was resting
just where the branches divided into a fork beyond her, and one end of
the rope was tied tightly round it; her efforts to get it into its
present position had certainly caused the heavy breathing which had
attracted him as he stood by the snow-men. It seemed a miracle that
such a slight creature should have found strength to get the unwieldy
thing up from the water-side, along the slippery bank and out on to
the branch. George stood dumbly gazing at the unconscious woman, his
steady-going mind in a turmoil. That she was mad he did not doubt, and
that he must do something to get her away from her dangerous seat was
certain. While he was debating how he should manage it, she took the
slip-knot at the loose end of the rope, and, holding out her feet,
began to work it round her ankles. Then he understood that it was not
madness he was watching, but the last scene of a tragedy, which, if he
did not act at once, would be played before his eyes.
To shout out, forbidding her to do this thing, would, he knew, be
useless, for the rope was already round her feet, and she would merely
spring off into the water, before he could reach her. With such a
weight to drag her down, rescue would be almost impossible from the
depths which she had chosen for her grave, and might mean the loss of
two lives instead of one. He was not particularly afraid of death, but
he liked doing things thoroughly, and, as drowning himself would not
save her, he did not intend to take the risk if he could do without
it.
Instinct told him that, apart from all fear of prevention, people do
not take their lives in presence of the casual passer-by, and he knew
that in assuming that character lay his best chance. Mary had covered
her face with her hands as though she were praying, and he seized the
moment to get himself on to the path. Then he coughed as unconcernedly
as he could, and strolled by the tree swinging his bill-hook. She kept
as quiet as a bird sitting on a nest, looking at him with startled
eyes.
"Good-day to ye," he began, as he stopped on the bank above her.
Mary murmured something inaudible, and drew her feet as far as she
could under her skirt that he might not see the rope.
"That's a rotten bough you be settin' on," he continued; "come off, or
belike it'll break down."
"No, 'tis not," she replied, trembling in every limb; "you needn't
mind me. I'm safe enough."
For reply he laid hold of a projecting root, and swung himself down
upon the ledge.
"Look," said he, drawing her attention to a hollow in the limb, and
coming a little nearer at each word, "it's all sodden, I tell ye."
For fear of betraying her feet, she did not stir as he advanced; she
remembered him as the man in the churchyard, and she knew his name,
but his determined face awed her, and the shining bill-hook in his
hand made him look almost as if he were going to attack her.
When he had reached the bough he suddenly sprang upon it, and laid his
hand upon her arm. His grip was like iron. Mary screamed aloud; she
had not feared death, but she was terrified of George Williams.
He held her firmly as they sat; her strained nerves were beginning to
give way, and her determination to flutter to the ground like a piece
of paper hurled into the air. She looked round despairingly.
"Put your feet up on the bough, girl," he said sternly.
"I can't," she faltered.
They were sitting upon it side by side, more like a pair of children
on a gate, than a man and woman with the shadow of death between them.
He was holding her fast with his left hand, but he loosened his grip,
and put his arm firmly about her.
"Do as I bid ye," he said, very quietly. "Turn sideways with your back
to me and lean against me."
She obeyed.
"Now put your feet up on the bough. Gently, mind."
She drew them up with some difficulty till they rested upon it before
her; a piece of the rope lay across the wood near the fork.
"Sit still!" he cried, holding her in a vice.
The bill-hook whirled above them and came down in a clean cut upon the
branch; the two ends of the rope fell away, one on either side. George
gave the great stone a push with the point of the blade and it fell
from its place, splashing into the blackness below and sending up a
shower of icy drops. The circles widened and widened underneath till
they fell out of shape against the sides of the pool.
"Do ye see that?" he exclaimed, releasing her and looking at her with
stern eyes. "Mary Vaughan, that's where you would be now, but that I
had been set to take this way an' not the high-road."
She made no reply.
"Will you repent it?" he asked, "or be I to tell on you? They at the
toll-house are like enough to shut you up if I do--and 'twill be no
more nor their duty too."
Her overwrought mind was beginning to feel the influence of his quiet
strength of purpose and she resented it. A sullen expression crossed
her face.
"Do as you will," she answered. "What do I care? You've done me an ill
trick an' I hate you for it. Go, I tell you!"
She turned her head away. He sat quietly beside her, pity and wrath in
his heart.
"Will you let me be?" she said, after a pause, turning on him and
gathering excitement in her voice.
"I won't."
Then her lips shook and her breast heaved, and she burst into a
torrent of helpless tears.
"Poor lass, poor lass," exclaimed the young man; and, with an impulse
that had in it no shadow of his sex, he put his arm round her. She
clung to him, weeping violently. She would have done the same had he
been a stock or a stone. He tossed the bill-hook up on to the bank,
and stroked her hair clumsily with his large rough hand.
"Come away from here," he said, when the rush of her grief had
subsided, "this is a bad, lonesome place to be in, Mary. I'll lift you
down and we'll go up on the bank. If there's aught you want to say to
me, say it up there."
He helped her off the bough, and from the ledge up to the path. They
stood facing each other.
"And now what can I do?" he asked. "How am I to leave you alone? I
can't bide by you all day to see that you come to no harm."
She opened her lips to speak, but no sound came.
"Look," he went on, "will you hearken to one thing I've got to say and
not take it ill o' me?"
She raised her eyes to his.
"If you was gone--drowned and gone--who would mind that little one
you've brought into the world? Would you leave it alone, poor little
babe, to them as might misuse it?"
"But he's dead," she said simply, and the agony in her face made him
turn away his own. He met the placid gaze of the snow-men, whose
foolish eyes seemed intent upon them both.
"Was that why you was--why I found you there?" he asked in a low
voice.
"Yes," she said. "I've nothing now, you see. There's none to care."
For some time neither spoke.
"Mary," said Williams at last, his face still turned to the white
images in the hollow, "will ye take me for a friend? God knows I
bean't no manner o' use."