“Oh, I’m tired!” Frances exclaimed petulantly, and in the same instant
she dropped down on the turf, near the hedge-bottom. Anne stood a
moment surprised, then, accustomed to the vagaries of her beloved
Frances, said:
“Well, and aren’t you always likely to be tired, after travelling that
blessed long way from Liverpool yesterday?” and she plumped down beside
her sister. Anne was a wise young body of fourteen, very buxom,
brimming with common sense. Frances was much older, about twenty-three,
and whimsical, spasmodic. She was the beauty and the clever child of
the family. She plucked the goose-grass buttons from her dress in a
nervous, desperate fashion. Her beautiful profile, looped above with
black hair, warm with the dusky-and-scarlet complexion of a pear, was
calm as a mask, her thin brown hand plucked nervously.
“It’s not the journey,” she said, objecting to Anne’s obtuseness. Anne
looked inquiringly at her darling. The young girl, in her
self-confident, practical way, proceeded to reckon up this whimsical
creature. But suddenly she found herself full in the eyes of Frances;
felt two dark, hectic eyes flaring challenge at her, and she shrank
away. Frances was peculiar for these great, exposed looks, which
disconcerted people by their violence and their suddenness.
“What’s a matter, poor old duck?” asked Anne, as she folded the slight,
wilful form of her sister in her arms. Frances laughed shakily, and
nestled down for comfort on the budding breasts of the strong girl.
“Oh, I’m only a bit tired,” she murmured, on the point of tears.
“Well, of course you are, what do you expect?” soothed Anne. It was a
joke to Frances that Anne should play elder, almost mother to her. But
then, Anne was in her unvexed teens; men were like big dogs to her:
while Frances, at twenty-three, suffered a good deal.
The country was intensely morning-still. On the common everything shone
beside its shadow, and the hillside gave off heat in silence. The brown
turf seemed in a low state of combustion, the leaves of the oaks were
scorched brown. Among the blackish foliage in the distance shone the
small red and orange of the village.
The willows in the brook-course at the foot of the common suddenly
shook with a dazzling effect like diamonds. It was a puff of wind. Anne
resumed her normal position. She spread her knees, and put in her lap a
handful of hazel nuts, whity-green leafy things, whose one cheek was
tanned between brown and pink. These she began to crack and eat.
Frances, with bowed head, mused bitterly.
“Eh, you know Tom Smedley?” began the young girl, as she pulled a tight
kernel out of its shell.
“I suppose so,” replied Frances sarcastically.
“Well, he gave me a wild rabbit what he’d caught, to keep with my tame
one—and it’s living.”
“That’s a good thing,” said Frances, very detached and ironic.
“Well, it _is!_ He reckoned he’d take me to Ollerton Feast, but he
never did. Look here, he took a servant from the rectory; I saw him.”
“So he ought,” said Frances.
“No, he oughtn’t! and I told him so. And I told him I should tell
you—an’ I have done.”
Click and snap went a nut between her teeth. She sorted out the kernel,
and chewed complacently.
“It doesn’t make much difference,” said Frances.
“Well, ’appen it doesn’t; but I was mad with him all the same.”
“Why?”
“Because I was; he’s no right to go with a servant.”
“He’s a perfect right,” persisted Frances, very just and cold.
“No, he hasn’t, when he’d said he’d take me.”
Frances burst into a laugh of amusement and relief.
“Oh, no; I’d forgot that,” she said, adding, “And what did he say when
you promised to tell me?”
“He laughed and said, ‘he won’t fret her fat over that.’”
“And she won’t,” sniffed Frances.
There was silence. The common, with its sere, blonde-headed thistles,
its heaps of silent bramble, its brown-husked gorse in the glare of
sunshine, seemed visionary. Across the brook began the immense pattern
of agriculture, white chequering of barley stubble, brown squares of
wheat, khaki patches of pasture, red stripes of fallow, with the
woodland and the tiny village dark like ornaments, leading away to the
distance, right to the hills, where the check-pattern grew smaller and
smaller, till, in the blackish haze of heat, far off, only the tiny
white squares of barley stubble showed distinct.
“Eh, I say, here’s a rabbit hole!” cried Anne suddenly. “Should we
watch if one comes out? You won’t have to fidget, you know.”
The two girls sat perfectly still. Frances watched certain objects in
her surroundings: they had a peculiar, unfriendly look about them: the
weight of greenish elderberries on their purpling stalks; the twinkling
of the yellowing crab-apples that clustered high up in the hedge,
against the sky: the exhausted, limp leaves of the primroses lying flat
in the hedge-bottom: all looked strange to her. Then her eyes caught a
movement. A mole was moving silently over the warm, red soil, nosing,
shuffling hither and thither, flat, and dark as a shadow, shifting
about, and as suddenly brisk, and as silent, like a very ghost of _joie
de vivre_. Frances started, from habit was about to call on Anne to
kill the little pest. But, today, her lethargy of unhappiness was too
much for her. She watched the little brute paddling, snuffing, touching
things to discover them, running in blindness, delighted to ecstasy by
the sunlight and the hot, strange things that caressed its belly and
its nose. She felt a keen pity for the little creature.
“Eh, our Fran, look there! It’s a mole.”
Anne was on her feet, standing watching the dark, unconscious beast.
Frances frowned with anxiety.
“It doesn’t run off, does it?” said the young girl softly. Then she
stealthily approached the creature. The mole paddled fumblingly away.
In an instant Anne put her foot upon it, not too heavily. Frances could
see the struggling, swimming movement of the little pink hands of the
brute, the twisting and twitching of its pointed nose, as it wrestled
under the sole of the boot.
“It _does_ wriggle!” said the bonny girl, knitting her brows in a frown
at the eerie sensation. Then she bent down to look at her trap. Frances
could now see, beyond the edge of the boot-sole, the heaving of the
velvet shoulders, the pitiful turning of the sightless face, the
frantic rowing of the flat, pink hands.
“Kill the thing,” she said, turning away her face.
“Oh—I’m not,” laughed Anne, shrinking. “You can, if you like.”
“I _don’t_ like,” said Frances, with quiet intensity.
After several dabbling attempts, Anne succeeded in picking up the
little animal by the scruff of its neck. It threw back its head, flung
its long blind snout from side to side, the mouth open in a peculiar
oblong, with tiny pinkish teeth at the edge. The blind, frantic mouth
gaped and writhed. The body, heavy and clumsy, hung scarcely moving.
“Isn’t it a snappy little thing,” observed Anne twisting to avoid the
teeth.
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Frances sharply.
“It’s got to be killed—look at the damage they do. I s’ll take it home
and let dadda or somebody kill it. I’m not going to let it go.”
She swaddled the creature clumsily in her pocket-handkerchief and sat
down beside her sister. There was an interval of silence, during which
Anne combated the efforts of the mole.
“You’ve not had much to say about Jimmy this time. Did you see him
often in Liverpool?” Anne asked suddenly.
“Once or twice,” replied Frances, giving no sign of how the question
troubled her.
“And aren’t you sweet on him any more, then?”
“I should think I’m not, seeing that he’s engaged.”
“Engaged? Jimmy Barrass! Well, of all things! I never thought _he’d_
get engaged.”
“Why not, he’s as much right as anybody else?” snapped Frances.
Anne was fumbling with the mole.
“’Appen so,” she said at length; “but I never thought Jimmy would,
though.”
“Why not?” snapped Frances.
“_I_ don’t know—this blessed mole, it’ll not keep still!—who’s he got
engaged to?”
“How should I know?”
“I thought you’d ask him; you’ve known him long enough. I s’d think he
thought he’d get engaged now he’s a Doctor of Chemistry.”
Frances laughed in spite of herself.
“What’s that got to do with it?” she asked.
“I’m sure it’s got a lot. He’ll want to feel _somebody_ now, so he’s
got engaged. Hey, stop it; go in!”
But at this juncture the mole almost succeeded in wriggling clear. It
wrestled and twisted frantically, waved its pointed blind head, its
mouth standing open like a little shaft, its big, wrinkled hands spread
out.
“Go in with you!” urged Anne, poking the little creature with her
forefinger, trying to get it back into the handkerchief. Suddenly the
mouth turned like a spark on her finger.
“Oh!” she cried, “he’s bit me.”
She dropped him to the floor. Dazed, the blind creature fumbled round.
Frances felt like shrieking. She expected him to dart away in a flash,
like a mouse, and there he remained groping; she wanted to cry to him
to be gone. Anne, in a sudden decision of wrath, caught up her sister’s
walking-cane. With one blow the mole was dead. Frances was startled and
shocked. One moment the little wretch was fussing in the heat, and the
next it lay like a little bag, inert and black—not a struggle, scarce a
quiver.
“It is dead!” Frances said breathlessly. Anne took her finger from her
mouth, looked at the tiny pinpricks, and said:
“Yes, he is, and I’m glad. They’re vicious little nuisances, moles
are.”
With which her wrath vanished. She picked up the dead animal.
“Hasn’t it got a beautiful skin,” she mused, stroking the fur with her
forefinger, then with her cheek.
“Mind,” said Frances sharply. “You’ll have the blood on your skirt!”
One ruby drop of blood hung on the small snout, ready to fall. Anne
shook it off on to some harebells. Frances suddenly became calm; in
that moment, grown-up.
“I suppose they have to be killed,” she said, and a certain rather
dreary indifference succeeded to her grief. The twinkling crab-apples,
the glitter of brilliant willows now seemed to her trifling, scarcely
worth the notice. Something had died in her, so that things lost their
poignancy. She was calm, indifference overlying her quiet sadness.
Rising, she walked down to the brook course.
“Here, wait for me,” cried Anne, coming tumbling after.
Frances stood on the bridge, looking at the red mud trodden into
pockets by the feet of cattle. There was not a drain of water left, but
everything smelled green, succulent. Why did she care so little for
Anne, who was so fond of her? she asked herself. Why did she care so
little for anyone? She did not know, but she felt a rather stubborn
pride in her isolation and indifference.
They entered a field where stooks of barley stood in rows, the
straight, blonde tresses of the corn streaming on to the ground. The
stubble was bleached by the intense summer, so that the expanse glared
white. The next field was sweet and soft with a second crop of seeds;
thin, straggling clover whose little pink knobs rested prettily in the
dark green. The scent was faint and sickly. The girls came up in single
file, Frances leading.
Near the gate a young man was mowing with the scythe some fodder for
the afternoon feed of the cattle. As he saw the girls he left off
working and waited in an aimless kind of way. Frances was dressed in
white muslin, and she walked with dignity, detached and forgetful. Her
lack of agitation, her simple, unheeding advance made him nervous. She
had loved the far-off Jimmy for five years, having had in return his
half-measures. This man only affected her slightly.
Tom was of medium stature, energetic in build. His smooth, fair-skinned
face was burned red, not brown, by the sun, and this ruddiness enhanced
his appearance of good humour and easiness. Being a year older than
Frances, he would have courted her long ago had she been so inclined.
As it was, he had gone his uneventful way amiably, chatting with many a
girl, but remaining unattached, free of trouble for the most part. Only
he knew he wanted a woman. He hitched his trousers just a trifle
self-consciously as the girls approached. Frances was a rare, delicate
kind of being, whom he realized with a queer and delicious stimulation
in his veins. She gave him a slight sense of suffocation. Somehow, this
morning, she affected him more than usual. She was dressed in white.
He, however, being matter-of-fact in his mind, did not realize. His
feeling had never become conscious, purposive.
Frances knew what she was about. Tom was ready to love her as soon as
she would show him. Now that she could not have Jimmy, she did not
poignantly care. Still, she would have something. If she could not have
the best—Jimmy, whom she knew to be something of a snob—she would have
the second best, Tom. She advanced rather indifferently.
“You are back, then!” said Tom. She marked the touch of uncertainty in
his voice.
“No,” she laughed, “I’m still in Liverpool,” and the undertone of
intimacy made him burn.
“This isn’t you, then?” he asked.
Her heart leapt up in approval. She looked in his eyes, and for a
second was with him.
“Why, what do you think?” she laughed.
He lifted his hat from his head with a distracted little gesture. She
liked him, his quaint ways, his humour, his ignorance, and his slow
masculinity.
“Here, look here, Tom Smedley,” broke in Anne.
“A moudiwarp! Did you find it dead?” he asked.
“No, it bit me,” said Anne.
“Oh, aye! An’ that got your rag out, did it?”
“No, it didn’t!” Anne scolded sharply. “Such language!”
“Oh, what’s up wi’ it?”
“I can’t bear you to talk broad.”
“Can’t you?”
He glanced at Frances.
“It isn’t nice,” Frances said. She did not care, really. The vulgar
speech jarred on her as a rule; Jimmy was a gentleman. But Tom’s manner
of speech did not matter to her.
“I like you to talk _nicely_,” she added.
“Do you,” he replied, tilting his hat, stirred.
“And generally you _do_, you know,” she smiled.
“I s’ll have to have a try,” he said, rather tensely gallant.
“What?” she asked brightly.
“To talk nice to you,” he said. Frances coloured furiously, bent her
head for a moment, then laughed gaily, as if she liked this clumsy
hint.
“Eh now, you mind what you’re saying,” cried Anne, giving the young man
an admonitory pat.
“You wouldn’t have to give yon mole many knocks like that,” he teased,
relieved to get on safe ground, rubbing his arm.
“No indeed, it died in one blow,” said Frances, with a flippancy that
was hateful to her.
“You’re not so good at knockin’ ’em?” he said, turning to her.
“I don’t know, if I’m cross,” she said decisively.
“No?” he replied, with alert attentiveness.
“I could,” she added, harder, “if it was necessary.”
He was slow to feel her difference.
“And don’t you consider it _is_ necessary?” he asked, with misgiving.
“W—ell—is it?” she said, looking at him steadily, coldly.
“I reckon it is,” he replied, looking away, but standing stubborn.
She laughed quickly.
“But it isn’t necessary for _me_,” she said, with slight contempt.
“Yes, that’s quite true,” he answered.
She laughed in a shaky fashion.
“_I know it is_,” she said; and there was an awkward pause.
“Why, would you _like_ me to kill moles then?” she asked tentatively,
after a while.
“They do us a lot of damage,” he said, standing firm on his own ground,
angered.
“Well, I’ll see the next time I come across one,” she promised,
defiantly. Their eyes met, and she sank before him, her pride troubled.
He felt uneasy and triumphant and baffled, as if fate had gripped him.
She smiled as she departed.
“Well,” said Anne, as the sisters went through the wheat stubble; “I
don’t know what you two’s been jawing about, I’m sure.”
“Don’t you?” laughed Frances significantly.
“No, I don’t. But, at any rate, Tom Smedley’s a good deal better to my
thinking than Jimmy, so there—and nicer.”
“Perhaps he is,” said Frances coldly.
And the next day, after a secret, persistent hunt, she found another
mole playing in the heat. She killed it, and in the evening, when Tom
came to the gate to smoke his pipe after supper, she took him the dead
creature.
“Here you are then!” she said.
“Did you catch it?” he replied, taking the velvet corpse into his
fingers and examining it minutely. This was to hide his trepidation.
“Did you think I couldn’t?” she asked, her face very near his.
“Nay, I didn’t know.”
She laughed in his face, a strange little laugh that caught her breath,
all agitation, and tears, and recklessness of desire. He looked
frightened and upset. She put her hand to his arm.
“Shall you go out wi’ me?” he asked, in a difficult, troubled tone.
She turned her face away, with a shaky laugh. The blood came up in him,
strong, overmastering. He resisted it. But it drove him down, and he
was carried away. Seeing the winsome, frail nape of her neck, fierce
love came upon him for her, and tenderness.
“We s’ll ’ave to tell your mother,” he said. And he stood, suffering,
resisting his passion for her.
“Yes,” she replied, in a dead voice. But there was a thrill of pleasure
in this death.