BEHIND him Wolfpits lay brooding in the moonlight on its departed life.
He did not turn to look at it, and in half an hour had reached the main
road. He did not know where he was going, but turned mechanically toward
the east, the quarter from which he had first entered the hills. At
present it was not in him to strike out a way for himself; he could do no
more than retrace his steps. He walked fast, impelled by an unconscious
energy, and all the time one dominant thought possessed his brain.
‘Curse women! Curse all women! Curse the bloody lot of them!’
He passed through Chapel Green and Mainstone, dead villages both. Not a
light in their windows. As dead as Wolfpits. The poplar under which he
had trysted with Susie hung above him. The moonlight broke in ripples on
its lofty crown. He saw nothing at all, heard nothing but the steady
rhythm of his feet and the monotonous burden of words in his brain. The
moon sank. Now the road was only faintly luminous with the reflected
pallor of the sky. He heard a new noise behind him, and the lamps of a
motor-car swept a slanting beam that carried his shadow into the hedge.
The noise of the engine became distinct. A top-heavy van loomed up above
the two blinding eyes of the headlights. He stood aside to let it pass;
but as its roar overtook him, his own voice gave a hail that was swept
along in the draught. He did not know why he had shouted, but a second
later the car pulled up with grinding brakes, striking sparks of fire
from the road. He ran after it.
‘What’s up?’ the driver called.
It was a man whom Abner had sometimes met at Llandwlas station when he
was driving the milk from The Dyke.
‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ he said. ‘Want a lift?’ Abner caught him up and
climbed into the seat next his.
They set off again, whirling like a tornado through the darkness. They
could only speak to each other by shouting, for the engine was old and
full of rattles, and the milk-pails jangled behind.
‘Drop you Lesswardine Bridge?’ the driver shouted.
‘Drop me in hell if you like,’ Abner replied.
‘What about Shrewsbury to be going on with?’
‘That’ll do me!’
The roar and vibration filled Abner’s aching brain. They turned
northward at Craven Arms and plunged on between the rising masses of the
Mynd and Caer Caradoc. The hotels of Church Stretton burned like a
constellation in the darkness on their left. The lights of Shrewsbury
appeared.
‘That’s good going, bain’t it?’ said the driver, with a laugh.
He refused the drink that Abner offered him and set him down in the
outskirts of the city. Abner’s head was splitting. He staggered into a
pub and drank three double whiskies straight off. What was there for a
man to do but drink?
He passed into the main streets of the town. After the silence and
darkness of Wolfpits it seemed to him a city of palaces sparkling with
light. He moved in a dazed manner through the streets; had another
drink, and began to feel better. For the first time since he had set out
he felt capable of a determination. He resolved, as far as his money
would let him, to get drunk.
He sampled several pubs and at last found one to his fancy. There, in a
small and crowded bar, he settled himself in a corner next the counter
and ordered his drinks methodically. Nobody took much notice of him, for
most of the men who had gathered there were regular customers who came in
every night. The only person with whom he had anything in common was a
lanky labourer with a small head and dark eyes who sat at a table
opposite to him drinking beer. The evening wore on. Abner was no longer
conscious of such details. The only things that detached themselves from
the warm, rosy confusion were certain points of light, the stopper of a
cut-glass decanter that flashed rays of ruby and emerald-green; a brooch
of brilliants that the barmaid wore; a medal hanging on the watch-chain
of the labourer opposite to him. Abner’s fancy played with these lights
childishly fascinated. He heard not a word of the conversation that
buzzed around him, keeping only enough of his senses to ask and pay for
his drinks.
It was nearly ten o’clock when another figure entered the bar: a man
dressed in a military uniform with staring eyes and a red face that
appeared to be transfixed by the skewer of a waxed moustache. He carried
a silver-headed cane under his arm; his tunic fitted his back like a
glove, and in his cap he wore a raffish bunch of ribbons. He shook hands
with the barmaid, swept the room with a curious glance and settled down
with his drink at the elbow of the lanky labourer. He spoke so loudly,
and with such an accent of gentility that his voice could be heard above
the rumour of the bar. He slapped his neighbour on the back.
‘Out of work?’ he said. ‘There’s no need for any one to be out of work
in these days. I know the kind of work you chaps get, and damn me if I
can see how you put up with it. Now, what have you been earning on the
farm? Fifteen shilling a week? I guessed as much. And ten hours’ work
a day. That’s a fine life for a man! That’s a damned fine life! I know
what it is, my boy. I’ve had some of it. But that was many years ago.
I had the sense to join the army, the good old Fifty-third, and I’ve
lived the life of a gentleman ever since. That’s what you ought to do.
Take the King’s shilling! You don’t know what you’re missing. Travel?
See the world? I can tell you I’ve seen things you wouldn’t credit.
India . . . Egypt . . . Cyprus. That’s a fine place now. You should see
the women in Cyprus! Hey? Women!’ He broke into an obscene laugh.
The last word echoed late in Abner’s brain. ‘Women!’ he heard himself
mumble. ‘Curse the lot of them! That’s what I say.’
The sergeant turned to him, delighted to have dragged another person into
the conversation. The old hands nudged each other and smiled.
‘No, that’s going too far, my boy,’ he said. ‘You don’t know women till
you’ve rolled about the world a bit. There’s many a chap that’s been
disappointed with them in England that’s gone into the army and changed
his mind. Now you’re another, like my friend here, that’s cut out for a
gentleman’s life. There’s no saying that a fine chap like you mightn’t
go a lot farther than I ever did. Athletics count a lot in the army.
Football, cricket, and that. Upon my word, it’s just like a long
holiday, and that’s the truth. A chap like you might be an officer
before he finished with it.’ He crossed to Abner, took his arm, and
whispered in his ear: ‘If you went out to Egypt where the second
battalion is now, I could show you some places in Cay-ro as would soon
change your mind about women. God, it’s a gentleman’s life, Egypt, with
all the blacks to wait on you as if you was a lord! And whisky twopence
a glass in the canteen! Women! I’d learn you about women.’
‘I’ve learned all I want about _them_,’ said Abner sullenly.
But he allowed the sergeant to stand him a drink, and found, as the time
went on, that he was as good a fellow as he had ever met . . . he and the
dark labouring man who sat at their table. When Abner’s money was
finished, the sergeant behaved like a friend to him. ‘Money! What’s
money?’ he said, and pulled out of his pocket a handful of silver that
fell in a tinkling cascade on the marble-topped table. They sat and
talked. The sergeant kept the ball rolling, patting Abner on the back
and taking him by the arm with a friendly grip. He passed through a
phase of exaltation into one of contented stupor, in which his only
anxiety was where he should find lodging for the night.
‘Don’t you worry about that!’ said the sergeant. ‘I’ll see you through,
my boy! You trust me. There’s just time for another.’
So, in a flash of brilliant light, the evening passed. A policeman put
in his head at the door and disappeared. Abner found his new friend
helping him to his feet. He laughed weakly, for he found that he could
not stand.
‘Steady does it, my boy, steady does it. You holt on to me and you’ll be
all right. God, you’re a tidy weight!’
They passed laughing through an uncomfortably narrow doorway and out into
the road. Street lamps danced before them in an eddying line. The road
had a resilient, velvety feeling, like no other road that Abner had
known. They walked arm in arm, the three of them. Abner felt himself
impelled to stop suddenly, and take the sergeant into his confidence.
‘Look here, kid,’ he said, ‘I’m boozed.’
‘Boozed? Not a bit of it!’ said the sergeant, with an encouraging slap
on the back.
‘Here, you’ll look after me?’ said Abner anxiously.
‘You bet I will!’
‘You’re a good pal, kid,’ said Abner. ‘Straight, you are!’
Half an hour later he threw himself with relief upon a mattress that was
built up of three distinct slabs and pulled a gray blanket over his eyes
to shut out the host of lights that swam before them. He heard the
voices of men buzzing round him and heavy, regular steps on the stone
flags. All he cared about now was sleep.
He fell into a drugged slumber, haunted by many dreams. He dreamed of
Halesby, of old Mrs Moseley’s room and Susan Wade sitting demurely at the
foot of her aunt’s bed. Alice put in her head and called him, telling
him that his father was dead and that she could not do without him. He
got up and followed her with Tiger prancing at his heels. ‘I can’t abear
dogs, Abner,’ she cried. All his old resentment against her rose up in
him, and he would have told her what he thought of her had not Mick
Connor appeared at that moment and shouted his name. ‘Come along wud
you!’ said Mick, ‘why would you be bothering your head about the likes of
her? It’s time we were looking for a drop in Nagle’s Back.’ They walked
on over twilight fields talking of old times. ‘Go aisy round the
corner,’ Mick warned him, ‘for the ould devil of a policeman’s got his
eye on us!’ They went round the edge of the woodland on tiptoe, and
there, sure enough, stood Bastard, with a face as white as death and a
thin stream of blood trickling from his nose. ‘He’s dead said Abner.
‘Don’t look at him. Our George killed him!’ ‘Don’t you believe it,’
Mick replied. And as he spoke Bastard turned and stared at them with
blank eyes. Abner set off running. He knew that his only chance was to
run as hard as he could. He plunged into a close lane, smelling of elder
trees and nettles. Now he knew where he was! This was the Dark
Half-hour, and if he kept on running he would emerge in safety on the
hill-side above Mawne Colliery, just below the cherry orchard. Even now
he could hear the thudding of hammers at Willises’ forge. Bastard was
gaining on him, pounding along behind him, but a man stood in his path
and barred the way. At first he thought it was his father, but a sudden
revelation showed him that it was George Malpas. George Malpas, deathly
white under his prison crop, and armed with a poker. They closed and
struggled. It was a desperate business, for George managed to keep on
battering his head with the poker, and Mary, in her strange tragic
beauty, clutched at his arm. He knew that he was done for; fell with his
hands locked about George’s throat. Bastard seized him from behind, and
he woke.
In prison? Surely this could be nothing else. A long stone room lit by
a single gas-jet burning low and blue. He saw that he was not alone.
The whole room was spread with mattresses, on which were lying figures
covered with gray blankets like his own. His neighbour, a man who snored
heavily and clutched at his hair with his hands, gave a groan. This
could not be a dream. Through the thudding of hammers in his head his
consciousness painfully emerged. He remembered that he had come to
Shrewsbury the night before, that he had slunk into a pub and drunk
heavily. Where was he now? In a workhouse . . . a hospital . . . a
doss-house . . . a jail? He could not guess. In any case it hurt his
head to think. He tried to get his bearings. He had gone to bed in his
boots. That was natural enough. He felt for his new watch. It was not
there. He swore under his breath, not at the unknown people who had
stolen it but at his evil luck. He supposed that they had stripped him
of his money too—not that it mattered! He searched his left hand trouser
pocket to see if anything remained. Not a penny! He laughed to himself.
In the other pocket, to his astonishment, his fingers lighted on a single
coin. How the devil had it got there? He fished it out, then propped
himself on his elbow and held it up in the faint light. It was a new
shilling. He stared at it; then spat on it for luck. So, tired and
wretched beyond words, he turned over on his side, wrapped the blanket
round his head, and went to sleep.
* * * * *
_Anacapri_;
_March_, _1910_.