contrast to the gushing and noisy effusion of the south. By a paradox it
is not inconsistent with the familiar conversationalism to which Briggs
had treated me, a stranger. But I admit I found Briggs's family circle a
little embarrassing. They were respectable people: the cottage was neat
and decently furnished, its occupants were sprucely dressed. I fancy
they were in their best clothes; certainly their demeanour--and the
aspect of the table in their midst--denoted a great occasion. This
table, as I saw when I assisted Briggs up the steps into the room, had
indeed borne a well-spread tea. No very acute powers of deduction were
required to decide, from the crumbs on the white cloth and on the
dishes, that there _had_ been bread and butter and jam and cake. Of
these not a vestige (except the crumbs) remained. Briggs and I were an
hour behindhand, and the relatives who awaited the wanderer had eaten
the banquet laid to welcome him: or so it appeared. I have no doubt that
all sorts of delicacies were in the cupboard; the kettle on the hob was
probably on the boil; perhaps buttered toast was in the oven. The fact
remains that devastation was on the table.
However, Briggs did not see the table, and the table's state occupied me
only for a fraction of a second. I was more concerned with the three
people in the parlour and with their reception of my patient. The pale
woman in the chair by the fire was evidently Briggs's wife. She stared
at us, as we entered, but said absolutely nothing. Nor did the other and
slightly younger woman, his sister, say anything. She too stared. And
the man stared, and said nothing.
"Well, here we are," I announced--an imbecile assertion, but I produced
it as cheerfully and matter-of-factly as I knew how. I unhooked my arm
from Briggs's, and made as though to push him forward into the family
group.
"Nay!" said Briggs. "I mun take my top-coat off first."
I helped him off with his coat. Not one of the three members of his
family had either moved or spoken--beyond one faint murmur, not an
actual word, in response to my "Here we are." But Briggs seemed to know
that his folk were in the room with him, and he neither accosted them,
expressed any curiosity about them, or betrayed any astonishment at
their silence.
When he had got his coat off I expected him to move forward into the
room. A mistake. Mine must be a hasty temperament. They don't do things
like that in Yorkshire, not even when they have come home blinded from
the wars. Briggs put out his hand, felt for the cottage door, half
closed it, felt for a nail on the inner side of it, and carefully hung
his coat thereon.
_Now_ I could usher him into the waiting family circle.
No. I was wrong.
Briggs calmly divested himself of his jacket. He then felt for another
door, a door which opened on to a stair leading to the upper storey. On
a nail in this door he hung his jacket. And then, in his shirt-sleeves,
he was ready. Shirt-sleeves were symbolical. He was home at last, and
prepared to sit down with his people.
Of the actual reunion I saw nothing, for I promptly said I must go. It
was imperative for me to hurry back, or I should miss my train.
"You'll stay an' take a sup of tea with us," said Briggs.
I couldn't, though I should have liked to do so, in some ways, and in
others should have hardly dared to be an intruder on such a meeting. I
shook hands with my patient. Looking back as I went out of the door I
saw Briggs's wife still seated, motionless, in her chair. She had not
opened her lips. It was impossible to divine what were her emotions. She
was very pale. There were no tears in her eyes as she stared at her
young blind husband. But I think there were tears waiting to be shed.
I looked back again when I reached the end of the path across the
cabbage-patch. The cottage door was still open. In the aperture stood
the younger of the two women, Briggs's sister. She waved to me and
smiled. It was evident that it had struck her that I ought to have been
thanked for my services, and she was expressing this, cordially if
belatedly. I waved my hand in return, and hastened up the street towards
the tram.
My hurry was fruitless. I missed my train in Bradford, and stayed the
night at an hotel, thus (with appropriate but improper extravagance)
concluding this particular performance in the rôle of travelling courier
to a distinguished invalid. As I sat over a sumptuous table d'hôte--this
was long before the submarine blockade and the food restrictions--I
wondered what Briggs's wife said to Briggs; and I made up a story about
it. But what I have written above is not a story, it is the unadorned
truth, which I could not have invented and which is perhaps better than
the story. In his courier's presence Briggs addressed not one word to
his wife, and his wife addressed not one word to him; nor did his sister
or his brother-in-law. Nor did any of this trio address one word to me.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD., LONDON AND
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Transcriber's note: Spelling and punctuation have been normalized.