THERE was no one she knew at the station; she had been nervously
apprehensive that there would be. She had expected to create a small
flutter among the railway people--measuring the intensity of their
emotions during the last year by her own. No one was surprised to see
her. The station-master civilly said good-morning. The porter pulled
his cap and added that they had not sent from Folly Corner to meet her.
Should he send for the blacksmith’s pony-cart? She shook her head,
stepping out into the sun.
She crossed the common, noting every detail of the landscape with
ecstasy. It all soothed and comforted her so inexpressibly, so
mystically; she fell into it with a delicious sensation of ease. Across
the common a woman was driving kids. The old goat had got free and was
awkwardly humping after her, dragging its tether chain. She saw
everything; her heart swelled in her throat at every step, at every new
sight. She saw it all, felt it all--even to the white horse silhouetted
against the broken black sail of the disused windmill.
Each side of her, as she walked on the well-kept road, the common at
her back, were the clean-cut black ditches, half filled with
iron-reddened water, and bound by the silver of dew-soaked, glittering
grass. In a field a man was harvesting swedes. The sick, sweet smell
of them hung in the air; they were bulbed, tawny and big on the black
ground. She stood and watched him, finding added peace in these simple
occupations--the land drew her. He was stuffing the roots into a
bloated, dun-colored sack. They bulged here and bulged there until the
canvas looked like an unwieldly, headless sheep of some mammoth breed.
He threw up the green tops into a cart, the prongs of his fork flashing
in the sun. Everything was bright and cold and hard; the newly-painted
shafts of the cart blood-red and angry against the fierce, clear blue
of the drifting sky.
She noted everything minutely. She was struck by the fantastic
appearance of a copse of bare bushes--a gray-brown film of mystery. She
didn’t throw a backward glance at London, with its crowds, its hectic
flow of life. She was at home. She didn’t even think very much of
Jethro; didn’t speculate on her reception at Folly Corner. She wanted
the place, the influences of the country, as distinct from human
preference. She dreaded the thought of a man’s love. All she had longed
for was placidity. The clear, hard day, the slow, simple occupations of
the few men and women she saw, gave her that.
And then, as the time wore on, came the note of dread, of chill
threatening. The sun slipped out of sight, the sky sulked. When she
began to cross the second stretch of common, a light, delicate powdery
mist hung over the shriveled heather. The common drew away--brown,
bare, heavy with foreboding.
The autumn flaying of the turf was in progress. She saw the bare,
blue-black patches, like the skin of a dark cat. Through the mist she
saw the stolid figure of a man. He was leaning his body against a
turfing iron. A cart, half full of square turfs, was at his elbow.
The mist grew thicker at every step. The one note of comfort and warmth
came from the smithy, round which was an angry red flare, and from
which came the steady clink of iron on iron.
The afternoon grew cold. The chill, delicate powder-mist was eating
into her. She was lightly clad. When first she went to Beaufort Street
she had bought herself some cheap, necessary clothing out of the few
pounds in her purse. This was an afternoon for furs. The mist rose and
rose. The voice of a woman who plodded by with a top-heavy
perambulator, the cry of the wretched, chilled baby inside, were the
only dull sounds in the eerie, pure-white thickness.
Her hair was wet on her face, moisture stood in minute pearls on the
velvet collar of her cloth coat. Higher and higher, thicker and
thicker, rose the delicate, eating mist! She was chin high in it. A
couple of cows, a tethered goat, a long white string of geese, were
queerly-shaped wraiths. The world was white: a wet, ghostly, silent
world. There was a threat at every step; each corner, each clump of
dripping bush formed to her nervous fancy some sinister ambush.
Her spirits fell. Once she absolutely stopped, half-crying, with cold
and misery. She was disposed to go back. It was still a long way to
Folly Corner, and the terrifying mist was triumphant.
She came at last to the cottage at the edge of the oak-scrub copse, the
thatched and plastered cottage under the great oak trees. She
remembered it so well, remembered the hot August day when she had
walked to Folly Corner for the first time, and had thrown herself on
the moss-grown turf under the burning sun. She strained her eyes to see
the wide green glades, the clumps of primrose leaves, the tangled
brambles, the great tropical growing thistles. She knew exactly what
should be there at that season, but she saw nothing save the fire of a
bush of haws. The cottage, which had stood empty on that August day,
was now tenanted. She approached, her chilled limbs moving creakily.
She slowly skirted that cottage, preferring to tread the soddened grass
just for the sake of being near somebody. The world was deserted; she
could no longer hear one single sound. She was the last desperate soul
left outside.
The languid flame of a small fire fell across the tiny casement with
its ragged curtain of brownish white net. She went up close. She could
see the gray beams across the plaster, see the plumy Irish yew standing
straight by the yellow, weather-stained wall. The door was half open.
She saw the flagged floor exuding moisture, saw one poor chair; a bare
brown dresser, on which stood a coarse crock or so. She saw the mere
hint of a table, with turned legs which winked feebly in the light. At
the deadened sound of her feet there was a heavy clumping across the
flags. An old face, the malevolent, evil face of a man, hung in the
shadow. She saw the dull, golden fustian of his torn coat, saw his
gnarled, filthy hand close round the jamb of the door and shut it. She
likened him to an evil spirit. He was a bad omen. It was nonsense, of
course; yes, she knew it was nonsense. The man was only Chalcraft. But
the mist made everything ghostly, demoniacal.
She hadn’t far to go now. She imagined it, she knew every detail, she
knew just how it would all look on that particular day--the white
wicket-gate dirty and dripping with water, the umbrella yew in a fairy
wreath of fog, the great brown pond, with the muddy wheel-tracks
zigzagging away from it and the marks of many hoofs in the yellow mud
at its edge. The garden beds would be weedy; vivid green here and there
with patches of self-sown plants. No doubt, in her absence, Gainah and
Daborn had easefully lapsed back to the old way--weeds all the winter
and a grand forking in the spring. She pictured the long windows,
running away each side of the house door. Inside, Gainah’s red
geraniums would still be fitfully blooming. She remembered the sentinel
poplars at the gate, the raised brick path leading to the door. She
remembered the outbuildings, the untidy muck-yard--all, all.
It was here. Twenty more paces would bring her to the pond. She took
them tremblingly, things becoming practical now that she was steadily
creeping beneath the warm, wide shadow of the place. The mist must
surely be thicker than ever. She could not see the poplars; yet how was
it that she had been able to see the Irish yew outside Chalcraft’s
cottage?
It was here, it should be here, it must be. She nearly reeled in the
wide road as she peered fearfully about her, looking for so many
familiar tokens which should have studded the landscape--but didn’t.
It was, it must be, Folly Corner. But--but--was that a new house? What
was the meaning of that wall which shot up like a straight, unrelenting
shaft and mocked her?
The pond was there. The pond! She stared at the big, brown patch of
water affectionately--certain of that, anyway.
The house! Yes. The house was the same. It wasn’t a new house. She
penetrated through its modern coat, its gingerbread attempt at
gentility. The house was there. She could not see very well; the impish
mist tantalized her. But the hard, smooth line of roof told her that
the tiles were new. The yew was gone, the bristly, unclipt umbrella yew
which had watched Edred kiss pink Nancy: the yew which knew the night
of her secret vigil.
That night! The night when she had waited. The night when Boyce had
helped the poor cow with her calving; the night when Chalcraft had
thrown earth at his master’s window to rouse him, because it was
raining, and the ricks were not covered. That night!
She had crept like a criminal a dozen times down the brick-path, had
stood between the poplars, had looked along the road, had heard feet,
phantom feet, which came and died and finally departed. That night! The
poplars were gone, the yew, the raised path of worn bricks. They had
gone and taken that old story of dishonor with them.
A sinuous carriage drive of the brightest gravel wound away, beginning
where the entrance to the yard had been. The yard had been redeemed and
planted as a shrubbery; the new wall half hid the ample farm-buildings.
The shrubbery was very new--glossy laurels and firs set at regular
intervals, the ground between newly dug. She thought--and marveled at
herself for the preference--that she would rather have seen the
mother-pig there, as in the old days--with a pendulous stomach sweeping
the soiled ground, and a litter of pink, squeaking things about her.
The gates leading to the drive were newly hung. She pushed them back
fearfully and went toward the house, treading on the beautifully-cut
grass edge, because she was afraid of the crunch of her own feet in the
death-like silence and pallor of the early evening.
Firelight danced inside the house. As she drew nearer and yet nearer
she could see that there were two fires, one in the dining-room, one in
the drawing-room. The dining-room wouldn’t be dark now that the yew was
gone. That must be an improvement. Yet, at every step she made notes of
disapproval. It was so cold, so tame, so flat and unfeeling; these
mechanically set shrubs, that gleaming regular roof, those wide
windows. Yes! She was near enough to see. There were new windows, sash
windows, with little panes above and one large pane beneath. She had
once said impatiently to Jethro that lead lights cut up the view. He
had taken advantage of her ideas for the benefit of that girl. Of
course, there must be a girl. He would not have gone to all this
expense, except with a view to a wife.
She was near the house, so near that it seemed to throb out to her with
sympathy. She put out her hand and touched the spick, newly-painted
walls. With a quick feeling of resentment she saw that they had cut
down the Devoniensis rose--that globular, foam-like, ethereal thing
which she had worshiped more than any of the roses. She looked down,
round, up, making mental, resentful notes of everything. There were
pert pots on the wide-throated chimneys, grotesque and poor-looking.
There was a new window upstairs, high and narrow, filled with stained
glass. That must be the bath-room. Most of the upper rooms were dimly
lighted. She had often insisted that this was the proper thing to
do--in good houses. Jethro had resisted the innovation, with a view to
the oil involved.
Yes! She stopped, her head critically on one side, her heart becoming
more tolerant of the many changes. This looked a good house, a house
that a lady might live in: she was full of these commonplace
expressions that smack of the housekeeper’s room.
Lights in every window, jealously drawn blinds. It looked like a
house where they dined late, where, about this time, the maids were
tripping to the bedroom doors with cans of hot water. The house had all
the appearance of a good house--a gentleman’s, as distinct from a
yeoman’s, so she thought, beginning to be satisfied and then
remembering that it made no difference to her now. She went round the
house stealthily, like a gypsy woman with a basket of cheap lace. The
dog bounded out of the kennel, then wagged his tail when she went close
and he recognized her. She went round, went past the woodstack. As she
passed, a sandy rat, whose young family lived in the shelter of the
fagots, ran timidly over her foot.
She reached at last the back door. It stood open; she had always
grumbled at the maids, in vain, because they would have the back door
open. Everything around the door was much the same, the modern spirit
had not affected the back of the house. There was the pig-tub waiting
to be carried to the stye, there was the ash-heap, the other heap of
broken crockery and old iron. There were the rain-water tubs lurking in
the angles of the house, their green paint turning blue. She looked up
at the sky and found that the mist had risen, that the mellow moon was
full on her head.
She saw everything. Her eyes stretched away into the garden, through
the entrance-arch of which she saw the glittering glass of the
greenhouse which Jethro had bought to please her.
She stood close to the wall, her wet shoulder pressing the thick
branches of the vine, all black and damp and with loose rough bark.
There were busy movements inside in both the kitchens, a subdued
cluttering of feet, a comforting rattle of china. The warmth and smell
of the fire puffed out. There was a band of amber light, shaming the
cold moon. It fell across the pig-tub and the ash-heap, running
straight from the open door and losing itself in the hedge, which was
being grubbed. Jethro was evidently in the grip of some frenzy of
renewal and refurbishing.
The voices came from the kitchen. One was the voice of Nettie, that
girl Edred used to kiss and squeeze on the sly in his hateful animal
way. There were a couple of strange voices. The predominant smell was
that of apples bubbling in sugar. And then at last, as she stood
shrinking by the wall and undecided what to do, she heard Gainah’s
voice. It said, in the old acid shrew’s tone:
“I’ll have ’em made int’n apple-stucklin.”
She curled her lip, remembering those stodgy apple-pasties of Gainah’s
which Jethro had eaten with such relish. If they were still eating
apple-stucklins--such a name!--the improvements were only external
after all. Gainah’s voice, Gainah’s charge to the new cook, gave her
courage. Jethro had not yet taken a wife; no young wife would endure
Gainah’s rule.
He hadn’t a wife. She would walk straight into the house; the
garden-door was always unbolted until well after dusk. She would
go into the house through the garden-door and walk through the
dining-room. If he were not there she would look into his little room,
where he kept papers, guns, his boots, his bicycle even, when he chose.
It was a new surprise to find herself in a porch--so the dining-room no
longer opened direct into the garden! That was another improvement.
She went through the porch into the room itself. She stopped on the
threshold and cried out faintly. Everything was changed. The yawning
hearth was filled in, and a coal fire was burning in a grate of the
latest design. There was a square table in the middle of the room, in
place of the long narrow one, with the stout legs and the thick staves,
which she had always considered so rude, so uncouth. It was pushed
against the wall opposite the new door--the table beneath which so many
dead and gone Jaynes had slept off their liquor, the table whose top
was ringed with black, ring within ring, each the mark of a wet mug,
each telling the tale of some dead joviality.
She had always declared that it was only fit for a public-house. It
stood against the wall, its disreputable ringed top discreetly covered
with a cloth. They used it as a side-board. There was a filter set out,
a soda-water syphon, and various other things.
The china ornaments had gone, the brass candlesticks. The big
horsehair-covered chair had been re-covered in shrimp-colored plush.
The plaster walls were papered. The thick oak beam above had been
whitened with the rest of the ceiling. She thought that the room looked
much more light and cheerful, much more suitable for a dining-room. But
it was empty. There was no hint of Jethro, no gun in the corner, no
cloth cap thrown carelessly down, no heavy boots drying on the hearth;
one wouldn’t expect any of those things now. And yet their absence
depressed her.
She glided across the thickly-carpeted floor--it was a new carpet--and
looked into his own particular little room. Nothing had changed there.
The bureau from which he had taken the notes for Edred was open. The
shabby rugs were kicked up, the plaster on the walls was in places
discolored. His bicycle, all muddy, leaned against the window ledge,
his gun, his boots, his cap, his thick woolen gloves were strewn about
with masculine carelessness.
“The last thing in the house that a man changes is his own room,” she
said, looking tenderly at a shapeless, deplorable old shooting jacket
which hung limply on a chair. “But she will make him tidy this place
up.”
She! She! She! Who was this girl? She ran through the list of likely
maidens--every Jayne or Crisp or Turle or Furlonger under thirty-five.
It couldn’t be Peggy Crisp of Liddleshorn. It was probably silly,
pretentious Maria Furlonger of the Warren, as Barbara had said.
She turned away, feeling a quick, painful affection for this little,
dirty, dim, north room of his--the only room left untouched. She turned
away, opened the other door, and went along the corridor, thinking that
she might find him in the drawing-room. It was most unlikely; he
disliked that room. But then he had always disliked coal fires, new
furniture, many lights about the house. She was beginning to realize
that only the unlikely would happen at Folly Corner that night.
She turned the handle of the drawing-room door, stole in, and saw with
satisfaction that very little had been touched. Her improvements were
still rampant. The various slips of Eastern embroidery were disposed
about the furniture--awkwardly, by an unskilled, stiff hand. The piano
was draped. The door of the china closet stood ajar, showing the dark
floor with its gaudy rug and the daintily-finished shelves holding the
still daintier family china. The curtains--those curtains which they
had bought together at Liddleshorn--were drawn; the standard lamp,
which had been one of his last gifts before she went away, burned
steadily. There were candles alight on the high shelf--she had always
insisted on candles in the drawing-room; they made such cool pin-points
of steel-blue and yellow. On one side of the hearth was the one thing
that she had always longed for--a cozy corner. She didn’t think that
you touched the water-mark of true refinement without a cozy corner.
Jethro had stoutly resisted it. Yet there it was; no home-made affair,
but a perfect thing, cunningly upholstered in the most artistic style
known to Regent Street.
The green sofa, the green chair, were still in the bay--that bay,
curtained now, through whose leaded lights she had looked--weighing the
uplands thick with grain in all their beauty and plenitude with
Edred’s shallow protestations of love and worldly success.
Jethro was lying on the couch half asleep. She had seen him lie so on
many autumn evenings when he came in tired after a day’s tramping on
the farm, or in the stubble after partridges. He was dozing. She stood
under the shade of the standard lamp and looked at him. He surprised
her--everything did. He wore a brown velvet coat and waistcoat; his
slippers had thin soles.
She made an involuntary sound with her foot, and he was awake and erect
in a moment, stirred like a watch-dog by the least noise.
“Jethro!” she said humbly.
“Pamela--Cousin Pamela! You’ve come to Folly Corner at last.”
He was on his feet, at her side. He stooped and kissed her lightly,
conventionally--the lukewarm kiss of a relative, to whom a kiss has no
background. He seemed to regard it as the proper thing to do--proper,
and perfectly safe. That matter-of-fact kiss of his made her more
wildly miserable than many of Edred’s blows had done.
“You’ve come!” He looked behind her, a curious, questioning glance, as
if he were waiting for the second indispensable figure. But the door
was closed; she offered no explanation.
“How cold and wet you are!” He ran his hand down her coat. “Take that
thing off. I’ll ring for tea; you could always drink tea at any moment.
You see I remember--everything.”
He had his hand out to the bell--bells had been added to the old place
with other things. She put out her chilled hand and tapped him lightly
on his hairy wrist, where the skin was so white.
“Not just yet. No one saw me come in. I’m cold. I had a terrible walk.”
“But you didn’t come alone! Where is Edred? If he couldn’t leave his
business you should have wired. I would have driven to the station. I
would have brought the new Battlesden. You know you had set your heart
on one. I bought it soon after you went away. It’s only been used once.
Did Edred----”
“Sit down,” she said, with another light touch. “Oh! this fire is
glorious.” She turned up the hem of her skirt and let the warmth touch
her icy ankles.
“It’s Friday,” Jethro continued thoughtfully. “Is he coming down
to-morrow? You must stay a week at least.”
“I’ll stay longer--if you will have me,” she said, looking at him
queerly.
“Good! I didn’t suppose he’d be able to get away from business for more
than a week. All the summer I’ve been talking of running up to town,
but I’ve been prevented: haying, harvest, one thing and the other. You
never wrote”--his voice was gently reproachful--“but I remembered the
address--Marquise Mansions.”
“You’ve been making improvements,” she said, looking round the room.
“Yes, I’ve done a few things--the things we settled to do before you
went away,” he returned, in a calm voice, “I knew you’d be coming down
sooner or later, and that you would be pleased. Let me ring for
tea--though there will be dinner in half an hour”--he pulled out the
big, ancestral watch. “I dine late now, as they do at the Warren.”
“The Warren! Oh, yes. Of course you dine late now.”
So it _was_ Maria Furlonger of the Warren--Maria Furlonger, who made
such agonized efforts to get on socially.
“I know you like late dinner. I thought it was as well to have it, so
that when you and Edred came down there would be no fuss--everything
ready and as usual. He used to say that early dinner gave him
indigestion. Late ones make me sleepy; I’m ready for bed before nine.”
“But you haven’t done all these things; you don’t dine late--for us?”
“The place had to be done up,” he said, rather curtly, as if he thought
she laid too much stress on a trivial point. “It doesn’t matter much
whether you call your last meal dinner or supper.”
“But----”
She broke off. The fire was warm and crackling, his voice so calm, she
didn’t wish to disturb things. She recoiled from telling him the truth,
she shrank from hearing it. For she was certain that he meant to marry.
He had learnt to be indifferent to her--his kiss was an admission of
that.
“We must have Gainah in.” He put his hand out again to that little knob
on the wall. “She shall tell them to get the guest-room ready. You’d
like to go upstairs?”
“Not yet. There is something I must tell you first. Perhaps you’ll turn
me out--I don’t know. In any case you will wish me to go to-morrow
morning; even if you were willing to let me stay, she wouldn’t hear of
it.”
“Gainah! She doesn’t rule me any longer,” he laughed. “Poor old Gainah!
She’s old--and queer. Aunt Sophy is afraid she is breaking up. That
would be awkward for me; a man can’t manage maids.”
“I didn’t mean Gainah. I meant Maria Furlonger. She is a good
housekeeper. She’ll make a good mistress for Folly Corner. When you
tell her the truth--and you must tell her--she’ll be indignant. There
isn’t much mercy in Maria. But I congratulate you, Jethro.”
“You talk as if I meant to marry Maria.”
“And you don’t? Who is it, then?”
“I’m not going to marry at all,” he returned soberly. “You ought to
know that, Pamela.”
“You are not going to marry!” she cried out in a shrill, happy,
half-incredulous voice. “I am so glad. Barbara Clutton said you were. I
thought you were doing up the place for your wife.”
“I did it up for you. I thought you’d be pleased. The men had begun
before you went away; it seemed a mistake to stop them. I should have
lost by it; the builder could have claimed.”
“You’re not going to be married,” she repeated, as if it were too good
to be true. “Then, I am not afraid of you. Men are kind and just. They
don’t understand; they don’t pet you and croon over you, as a woman
does. They talk hard business and look at things from the practical
side. You, for example, would urge me to expose him, and I could never
do it, never.”
He started.
“Has he got into trouble again? Is he in prison?”
She shook her head.
“Worse--from my point of view. He is married. His lawful wife comes
first; he married her before he ever met me. He thought she was dead--I
do not blame him for that; it was a mistake. But other things!” She
bent forward and took his big, hard hands. “You don’t know what I’ve
suffered,” she continued in a quick, passionately vibrant whisper.
“Blows! Worse than blows. He constantly urged me to terrible things.
There was one man; there were two. The second one told me the truth and
offered, in a spirit of superb generosity, to marry me. He wanted me to
run away with one--a man I loathed, whose hand I would hardly touch.
There are some like that: you couldn’t kiss them, not if you were as
free as air, not if they were the only ones in the world. Do you ever
feel like that about particular women?”
“I never thought about women--only one.”
“You are different. I think these things out, just for amusement: women
do. I imagine what might happen in particular circumstances. He wanted
to get rid of me; I was a constant danger. He was tired of me--he never
cared, after the first few weeks: no one is indifferent to an absolute
novelty. I went away directly I heard he was married. I have never seen
him, never heard of him since. Barbara Clutton took me in. This morning
I found a periwinkle. You haven’t dug up that patch near the granary?”
“Yes. Everything is altered out there. You’ll see.”
“It reminded me of you. I put on my things and drove straight away to
the station, the flower in my hand. I threw it out of the railway
carriage window. It had done its work; to bring it with me would have
been sentimental, stupid.”
“Poor Cousin Pamela!” He just pressed her fingers, then gently pushed
them away, as if they were a danger. “You must forget him. You are
free.”
“I was always free. But I went away. I left you for him.”
They looked deeply into each other’s eyes. Until that moment they had
not trusted themselves to embark on a long, steady gaze. She saw in
Jethro’s nothing but intense, almost brotherly, affection and pity.
“You might leave me again to go to him?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know--I think, never. But I don’t know--so long as he is
alive.”
“You are free. But he isn’t. He can’t marry you--can’t make it up to
you.”
“Can’t make an honest woman of me,” she said, with bitter bluntness.
“That is what the women say about here when they force the young men
to marry their daughters. No, he cannot. But that would make no
difference to me--if he wanted me. He was first. I don’t even hate him.
Sometimes I think I am getting indifferent; but I felt like that
before, when he was in prison. I never know--unless he dies. That would
break the terrible spell.”
He looked into her eyes again; he gave her hand a significant grip.
They understood each other. They were to be cousins--nothing more.
Nothing more was possible--she wasn’t even sure that she desired more,
and she feared that he did not. Nothing was possible now. Their love
had come to a full stop.
He got up, saying:
“I’ll go and speak to Gainah. I’ll prepare her. She’s getting old, and
surprises upset her.”
When he came back, he looked a little stubborn--the old familiar look
of rebellion at woman’s tyranny.
“She’ll be all right to-morrow,” he said, in answering Pamela’s
eloquent querying look. “She’ll be glad to-morrow. You know that her
temper’s an odd one.”
They dined alone. Everything seemed strange--Jethro so unusually
precise in dress and manner, the dining-room so conventionally elegant.