WHINNYATES FARM
Ten days after Kit left the tank he got down at a quiet station in the
North of England. The train rolled on across a bridge, and by contrast
with the trains in Canada, he thought it ridiculously small. A few
country people crossed the platform, and a farmer’s gig and a battered
car waited at the gate. Although Kit had telegraphed from Liverpool,
the Netherhall car had not arrived and he saw nobody he knew.
Putting his bag and coat on a bench he looked about. The evening was
cold, and in the west yellow light shone behind lead-colored clouds.
Bleak moors, in dark silhouette, cut the ominous glow; a flooded river
brawled under the railway bridge, and the road that went up-hill was
wet. At the top of the hill a ragged firwood loomed indistinctly in
rolling mist. Kit smiled. It was summer in the north, and all he saw
threatened storm.
Netherhall was eight miles off, and the nearest inn was at the village
in the dale. Before long heavy rain would sweep the moors and Kit
doubted if the car would arrive. It did not look as if his relations
were very keen to welcome him, but he reflected with rather grim humor
that he had gone away in disgrace, and although he was perhaps
entitled to claim he came back in triumph, nobody yet knew. To some
extent, he had been afraid to boast; to some extent he admitted he had
indulged his rather boyish pride.
Then he began to think about Evelyn. Where others doubted she believed
in him; she had stuck to him nobly and for his sake had borne some
strain. After a time, perhaps, she got daunted, but she had grounds
for disappointment, and the news he sent had not helped her much.
Well, in two or three hours she would know he had made good; but he
must take the road.
The wind was cold and Kit put on his coat and seized his bag. He set
off briskly, but when he got to the top of the long hill he admitted
the bag was heavier than he had thought, and he speculated about the
Netherhall car. Mrs. Carson had got his telegram, but perhaps her
husband had not. Kit’s mouth curved in a crooked smile, but he would
not trouble Mrs. Carson for long. Her fastidiousness accounted for his
carrying the bag, although he doubted if she would approve the
dinner-jacket he bought at Montreal.
By and by he heard an engine throb and he stepped on the grass. A car
stopped, and Kit looked up. Two or three large dusty sacks occupied
the back, a wing was broken and the shabby paint was scratched. The
engine rattled noisily and Kit knew the rattle. In Canada he had used
cars like that. A brown-skinned young fellow held the wheel.
“Are you going far?” he inquired. Kit said he was bound for
Netherdale, and the other told him to jump up.
“I’ll give you a lift for three or four miles. Don’t know, but I might
go by village and over gap. I’m carrying some calf meal for Tyson o’
Whinnyates; my farm’s not far from his. We’s see when we get to
water-splash.”
“Mrs. Tyson was ill,” said Kit when the car rolled ahead. “Do you know
if she’s better?”
“She begins to get aboot, but for a time she was near away with it,
and Joe Tyson sent for’s niece in Canada.”
“Is Miss Forsyth now at Whinnyates?”
“She was there in t’morning when I started for market, but Joe was
yoking pony to tak’ her to Langrigg, and he reckoned she’d stop for
t’night. D’ye ken Miss Forsyth?”
Kit said he met Alison in Canada, and the other resumed: “Then, ye ken
a leal, kind lass! She came back four thousand miles to nurse her
aunt, and Joe reckons she did as much as doctor to pull old body
round——”
He slowed at an awkward corner, and Kit speculated about Alison. If
Mrs. Tyson did not need her she might return to the creamery, and Kit
hoped she would do so. Alison ought not to remain at Whinnyates; she
had qualities and talents she could not use at the lonely farm, but if
she did not go soon the moors might claim her. One lost the alert
keenness Canadians valued, and in the bleak dales a woman’s work was
hard. Kit hated to picture Alison’s laboring at the byres and perhaps
in the fields.
Then a pale yellow beam touched the road and he looked about. Thin
mist rolled across the broken moor and vague, dark hills melted in
thunder-clouds. The road curved across open heath, and white, wild
cotton bent in the wind. Big drops splashed in the pools and stopped.
Then a guide-post cut the threatening sky and Kit remarked: “There’s
your road; I’ll get down.”
“If we can get through water-splash, I’ll go by village. Gap bank’s
easier than t’other, and she’s carrying a good load.”
They ran down a hill and at the bottom the driver slackened speed, for
an angry flood swept the hollow. At one side a white turmoil and a
broken rail marked the narrow footbridge.
“You’ll not get across and if I tried’t I reckon car would stall,” the
farmer remarked. “Mireside brig’s not far from Whinnyates. We’ll go by
Birkfell.”
He turned the car, and when they climbed the hill rushy fields and wet
moors melted in the rain. The car had not a hood, but the driver
pulled out a tarpaulin, and crouching behind the battered sheet, they
fronted the deluge. Water streamed from the glass and leaped about the
wheels. Rivulets cut the mossy bank and one could not see two hundred
yards. Kit, however, knew the north, and at Netherdale floods in
summer are not remarkable.
After a time the car jolted up an uneven track. Kit saw a wet hillside
and by and by white buildings behind bent ash trees. When the car
stopped he knew they had arrived at Whinnyates, but Alison was
visiting with friends and he would not meet her.
“I must help Joe tak’ in bags,” said the driver and blew his horn. “I
doubt he does not hear us and you might gan to door. When we’re
unloaded you’ll come home with me and wait for rain to blow off.”
Kit went up the path, but after a few moments he stopped and his heart
beat. Alison came to the door and waved to the man in the road.
“Wait a moment, Jim; I’ll send Uncle Joe!”
Then she saw Kit and the blood came to her skin.
“Oh, Kit!” she said, “I didn’t know you were back!”
“It looks as if nobody knew,” Kit remarked with a twinkle, because he
saw he must be cool. “When I arrived, half an hour since, the car was
not at the station and your friend picked me up. I was going to his
house.”
“If you go to Jim’s, my uncle will be much annoyed,” Alison replied.
“But I must send him to unload the meal. Come in!”
“Perhaps I ought to thank your friend,” said Kit, and went back to the
road, where Jim pulled a heavy bag from the car. Kit did not see Tyson
and he seized the bag.
“Help me up with it! There’s no use in your getting wet.”
He got the load on his back, and lowering his head, steered for the
barn. At the door an old man advanced, as if to help.
“Don’t bother! Show me where to dump the stuff,” Kit gasped.
After a moment or two he threw down his load and straightened his
back. The meal stuck to his wet coat, and his soft hat was crushed and
marked by a grey patch. Kit laughed, smoothed his hat, and turned to
the farmer. Tyson was tall, but his shoulders were bent. His hair was
white and his brown face was lined, and Kit thought him a typical
dalesman: the older dalesfolk were not cultivated, but they were
shrewd, laborious, independent and frugal. Tyson gave him his hand.
“You were kind to our lass, Mr. Carson, and you’re varra welcome. Gan
to hoose. I’se wait for Jim.”
Jim arrived with another bag and Kit crossed the yard. Alison was at
the back porch. Her color was rather high, but she gave Kit a level,
inquiring glance, and he knew he must explain his arrival.
“I expect you’re puzzled, and perhaps you’re sympathetic,” he remarked
with a smile. “Looks as if I’d got fired?”
“No,” said Alison quietly. “Had the company turned you down, you would
not have come back. You have built the tanks!”
“To feel somebody believes in you is comforting,” said Kit. “The first
tank is built, and when the manager ordered me to put up the lot I
felt I was entitled to take a holiday. I think that’s all. I did not
expect to see you; Jim stated you were visiting friends.”
He imagined Alison knew it was all he dared talk about, but the look
she gave him was strange and searching.
“I started for a farm across the hills, but the storm was bad and the
water was on the road,” she said. “But my aunts want to see you and I
must get supper.”
She showed Kit into a big flagged kitchen. Old ash trees grew near the
window and the rain beat the glass. For the most part the kitchen was
dark, but a fire burned in the big grate and the reflections touched
polished brass and oak furniture. Kit thought the furniture was made
when the house was built, and the crooked beams that carried the
ceiling were cut long since.
An old woman got up from a chair by the fire, and when she gave Kit
her hand he saw she studied him. Well, some curiosity was justified.
Mrs. Tyson knew who he was; she probably knew he was forced to leave
the shipyard, and Alison had talked about their adventures. Mrs. Tyson
was thin and worn by sickness and labor, but her glance was keen, and
her calm, somehow, was proud.
“You’re welcome. If the rain does not stop you’ll bide for the night.”
“I must try for Netherhall,” said Kit. “You ought not to have got up.
I hope you’re better?”
“Getting up is boddersome, but when you must you can,” Mrs. Tyson
replied, and put some old blue-pattern plates on the table.
Kit went to a settle by the fire, and after a few moments Alison came
in and helped her aunt. Kit was satisfied to watch her. Alison moved
harmoniously, and he liked her background. For all its austerity, the
big room was homelike. Dark wood shone in the reflections from the
grate, and he remarked the ruddy gleam of copper. Nothing was modern,
but he felt all was good. The dalesfolk had no use for ambitious
pretense. Their virtues and their drawbacks were primitive. Kit knew
he himself sprang from stock like that, and he had inherited a
primitive vein, perhaps from his ancestor the smith. He thought he saw
where Alison got her pluck and balance.
Mrs. Tyson called him to supper. The food was good, and to know his
hosts were kind helped his appetite. In the farm kitchen he was at
home. He had felt at home at the Canadian camps, but at Netherhall he
had not. Somehow he was conscious of a subtle antagonism.
“Will you take some more, Kit?” Alison inquired. “Since steamship
cooking’s luxurious, I’m glad you like your supper.”
“My liking it is rather obvious,” said Kit, and gave his plate.
“Anyhow, I know your cooking; I have not forgotten our feasts on board
the cars. When I think about them, I recapture my lunch by the bluff
at Harper’s—crackers and cheese and the canned fruit the storekeeper
gave me. How do you account for it?”
He thought Alison blushed, but she began to talk about Austin and
Florence, and after a time Mrs. Tyson said:
“You’ll not have got much news from Netherhall latterly?”
Kit remarked her use of the negative form, but he said he had not got
much news and he thought she pondered. Alison was quiet, and Tyson
talked about the floods. At length Mrs. Tyson got up and Kit went to
the window. The ash trees shook in the wind and big drops splashed on
the grass but the rain had stopped.
“I’m sorry to go, but I must take the road,” he said.
“You had better get over fell in daylight,” Tyson agreed. “We’re plain
folks, Mr. Carson, but if you’re lonesome at Netherhall, we’ll be glad
to see ye back.”
Kit got his coat and Alison went with him to the door. When they
reached the porch Kit stopped and looked about. Mist rolled across the
moors and the hills melted in the dark. A cold wind tossed the ash
branches, and he heard a flooded beck. All was bleak and daunting, but
the cheerful firelight flickered about the kitchen. Kit admitted he
was not keen to start, and when he looked at Alison he knew she knew.
Yet he felt she was somehow remote and elusive; in Canada Alison was
frank.
“In the dark the fell road’s awkward,” she remarked.
“You want me to push off?”
“I think you ought to go,” said Alison in a quiet, meaning voice.
Kit smiled, but the smile cost him much.
“Well, I’ve got to indulge you. When you stole away from Harper’s you
showed me my proper road, and the road was straight. That’s all, my
dear. Are you going back to Fairmead?”
“I don’t know, Kit,” said Alison. “If the old folks need me, I’ll be
content to stop. To come back was hard, but after all to be head clerk
at the creamery is not a great ambition. One must take some knocks,
but sometimes the knocks one is forced to take don’t hurt as much as
one imagines.”
She gave Kit her hand and when he took the hill track he was puzzled.
Alison knew why he went to Netherhall and why he used control. All the
same he fancied she and her relations knew something he did not.
Anyhow she did not want another’s lover; Alison was kind, but she was
firm and proud. Kit set his mouth and pushed ahead.