Four grown-ups and a child were gathered in the living-room of Halsey's
cottage. The cottage was old like its tenant and had all the
inconveniences of age; but it was more spacious than the modern cottage
often is, since it and its neighbours represented a surviving fragment
from an old Jacobean house--a house of gentlefolks--which had once stood
on the site. Most of the house had been pulled down, but Colonel
Shepherd's grandfather had retained part of it, and turned it into two
cottages--known as 1 and 2 Ipscombe Place--which for all their drawbacks
were much in demand in the village, and conferred a certain distinction
on their occupants. Mrs. Halsey's living room possessed a Tudor
mantelpiece in moulded brick, into which a small modern kitchener had
been barbarously fitted; and three fine beams with a little incised
ornament ran across the ceiling.
Mrs. Halsey had not long cleared away the tea, and brought in a paraffin
lamp, small but cheerful. She was a middle-aged woman, much younger than
her husband--with an ironic half-dreamy eye, and a native intelligence
much superior to her surroundings. She was suffering from a chronic
abscess in the neck, which had strange periodic swellings and
subsidences, all of which were endlessly interesting to its possessor.
Mrs. Halsey, indeed, called the abscess "she," wrapped it lovingly in red
flannel, describing the evening dressing of it as "putting her to bed,"
and talked of "her" qualities and oddities as though, in the phrase of
her next-door neighbour, "it'd a been a christened child." She had
decided views on politics, and was a match for any political agent who
might approach her with an eye to her vote, a commodity which she kept,
so to speak, like a new shilling in her pocket, turning it from time
to time to make sure it was there.
But independent as she was, she rarely interfered with the talk of Halsey
and his male friends. And on this occasion when the three men--Halsey,
Peter Betts, and young Dempsey--had gathered smoking round the fire, she
settled herself with her knitting by the table and the lamp, throwing in
every now and then a muttered and generally sarcastic comment, of which
her husband took no notice--especially as he knew very well that the
sarcasms were never aimed at him, and that she was as proud of him as she
was generally contemptuous of the rest of the world.
Halsey had just finished a rather grudging description of his experiences
two days before for John Dempsey's benefit. He was conscious that each
time he repeated them, they sounded more incredible. He didn't want to
repeat them; he didn't mean to repeat them; after this, nobody should get
any more out of him at all.
Young Dempsey's attitude was certainly not encouraging. Attentive at
first, he allowed himself, as Halsey's talk developed, a mild,
progressive grin, which spread gradually over his ugly but honest face,
and remained there. In face of it, Halsey's speech became more and more
laconic, till at last he shut his mouth with a snap, and drawing himself
up in his chair, re-lit his pipe with the expression that meant, "All
right--I've done--you may take it or leave it."
"Well, I don't see that what you saw, Mr. Halsey, was so very uncommon!"
Dempsey began, still smiling, in spite of a warning look from Betts.
"You saw a man come down that road? Well, in the first place, why
shouldn't a man come down that road--it's a reg'lar right of way--"
"It's the way, mind ye, as the ghost of old Watson has allus come!" put
in Peter Betts, chivalrously anxious to support his friend Halsey, as far
as he could, against a sceptical stranger. "An' it's been seen twice on
that road already, as I can remember: once when I was a little boy, by
old Dan Holt, the postmaster, and once about ten years ago."
Dempsey looked at the speaker indulgently. To his sharpened transatlantic
sense, these old men, in this funny old village, seemed to him a
curiously dim and feeble folk. He could hardly prevent himself from
talking to them as though they were children. He supposed his grandfather
would have been like that if he'd stayed on at Ipscombe. He thanked
the stars he hadn't!
But since he had been summoned to consult, as a person who had a vested
interest, of a rather blood-curdling sort, in the Great End ghost, he had
to give his opinion; and he gave it, while Halsey listened and smoked in
a rather sulky silence. For it was soon evident that the murderer's
grandson had no use at all for the supposed ghost-story. He tore it
ruthlessly to pieces. In the first place, Halsey described the man seen
on the grass-road as tall and lanky. But according to his grandfather's
account, the murdered gamekeeper, on the contrary, was a broadly-built,
stumpy man. In the next place--the coughing and the bleeding!--he laughed
so long and loudly at these points in the story that Halsey's still black
bushy eyebrows met frowningly over a pair of angry eyes, and Betts tried
hurriedly to tame the young man's mirth.
"Well, if yer don't think that man as Halsey saw _was_ the ghost, what do
you s'pose 'ee was doin' there?" asked Betts, "and where did he go?
Halsey went right round the farm. The hill just there is as bare as my
hand. He must ha' seen the man--if it _wor_ a man--an' he saw nothin'.
There isn't a tree or a bush where that man could ha' hid hisself--if
he _wor_ a man."
Dempsey declared he should have to go and examine the ground himself
before he could answer the question. But of course there was an answer
to it--there must be. As to the man--why Millsborough, and Ipscombe too,
had been full of outlandish East Enders, flying from the raids, Poles
and Russians, and such like--thievin' fellows by all accounts. Why
couldn't it be one of them--prowling round the farm for anything he could
pick up--and frightened off, when he saw Halsey?
Betts, smoking with prodigious energy, inquired what he made of the
_blood_. Didn't he know the old story of how Watson was tracked down to
the cart-shed? Dempsey laughed again.
"Well, it's curious, grant ye. It's real funny! But where are you going
to get blood without a body? And if a thing's a body, it isn't a ghost!"
The two old men were silent. Halsey was lost in a hopeless confusion of
ideas, and Betts was determined not to give his pal away.
But here--say what you like!--was a strange man, seen, on the road, which
had been used, according to village tradition, on several previous
occasions, by the authentic ghost of Watson; his course was marked by
traces of blood, just as Watson's path of pain had been marked on the
night of the murder; and on reaching the spot where Watson had breathed
his last, the apparition, whatever it was, had vanished. Perplexity,
superstition, and common sense fought each other. Halsey who knew much of
his Bible by heart was inwardly comparing texts. "A spirit hath not flesh
and blood"--True--but on the other hand what about the "bodies of the
saints"--that "arose"? While, perhaps, the strongest motive of all in the
old man's mind was the obstinate desire to prove himself right, and so to
confound young scoffers like Dempsey.
Dempsey, however, having as he thought disposed of Halsey's foolish tale
was determined to tell his own, which had already made a great impression
in certain quarters of the village, and ranked indeed as the chief
sensation of the day. To be able to listen to the story of a murder told
by the grandson of the murderer, to whom the criminal himself had
confessed it, and that without any fear of unpleasant consequences to any
one, was a treat that Ipscombe had seldom enjoyed, especially as the
village was still rich in kinsfolk of both murdered and murderer.
Dempsey had already repeated the story so often that it was by now
perfect in every detail, and it produced the same effect in this lamplit
kitchen as in other. Halsey, forgetting his secret ill-humour, was
presently listening open-mouthed. Mrs. Halsey laid down her knitting, and
stared at the speaker over the top of her spectacles; while across
Betts's gnome-like countenance smiles went out and in, especially at the
more gruesome points of the tale. The light sparkled on the young
Canadian's belt, the Maple Leaf in the khaki hat which lay across his
knees, on the badge of the Forestry Corps on his shoulder. The old
English cottage, with its Tudor brick-work, and its overhanging beams,
the old English labourers with the stains of English soil upon them, made
the setting; and in the midst, sat the "new man," from the New World,
holding the stage, just as Ellesborough the New Englander was accustomed
to hold it, at Great End Farm. All over England, all over unravaged
France and northern Italy similar scenes at that moment were being
thrown on the magic sheet of life; and at any drop in the talk, the
observer could almost hear, in the stillness, the weaving of the Great
Loom on which the Ages come and go.
There was a pause, when Dempsey came to a dramatic end with the last
breath of his grandfather; till Mrs. Halsey said dryly, fixing the young
man with her small beady eyes,--
"And you don't mind telling on your own grandfather?"
"Why shouldn't I?" laughed Dempsey, "when it's sixty years ago. They've
lost their chance of hanging him anyhow."
Mrs. Halsey shook her head in inarticulate protest. Betts said
reflectively,--
"I wouldn't advise you to be tellin' that tale to Miss Henderson."
Dempsey's expression changed at the name. He bent forward eagerly.
"By the way, who is Miss Henderson? Do you know where she comes from?"
The others stared.
"Last winter," said Betts at last, "she wor on a farm down Devonshire
way. And before that she wor at college--with Miss Janet."
"Was she ever in Canada?"
"Yes!" said Halsey with sudden decision, "she wor--for she told me
one day when I wor mendin' the new reaper and binder, that we in this
country didn't know what harvest meant. 'Why, I've helped to reap a
field--in Canada,' she ses, 'fower miles square,' she ses, 'six teams o'
horses--an' six horses to the team,' she ses--'that's somethin' like.' So
I know she's been in Canada."
"Ah!" said Dempsey, staring at the carpet. "And she's not married? You're
sure she's not married?"
"Married?" said all the others, looking at him in disapproving
astonishment.
"Well, if she ain't, I saw her sister--or her double--twice--about
two-and-a-half year ago--at a place thirty miles from Winnipeg. I could
ha' sworn I'd seen her before!"
"Well, you can't ha' seen her before," said Betts positively; "cause
she's Miss, not Missis."
"Ah!" said Dempsey again in a non-committal voice, looking hard this time
into the fire.
"Where have you seen her--in these parts?" asked Mrs. Halsey.
"At the Harvest Festival, t'other day. But I must have been
mistaken--that's all. I think I'm going to call upon her some day."
"Whatever for?"
"Why--to tell her about my grandfather!" said Dempsey, looking round at
Mrs. Halsey, with an air of astonishment that any one should ask him the
question.
"You won't be welcome."
"Why not?"
"Because she don't want to hear nothin' about Watson's murder. And
whatever's the good on it, anyhow?" said Mrs. Halsey with sudden
emphasis. "You've told us a good tale, I'll grant ye. But yer might as
well be pullin' the old feller 'isself out of his grave, as goin' round
killin' 'im every night fresh, as you be doin'. Let 'im be. Skelintons is
skelintons."
Dempsey, feeling rather indignantly that his pains had been wasted, and
his audience was not worthy of him, rose to take his departure. Halsey's
face cleared. He turned to look at his wife, and she winked in return.
And when the young forester had taken his departure, Mrs. Halsey stroked
the red flannel round her swollen neck complacently.
"I 'ad to pike 'im out soomhow. It's 'igh time she wor put to bed!"
That same evening, Ellesborough left the Ralstone camp behind him about
six o'clock, and hurried through the late October evening towards Great
End Farm. During the forty-eight hours which had elapsed since his
interview with Rachel he had passed through much suffering, and agonies
of indecision. He had had to reconstruct all his ideas of the woman he
loved. Instead of the proud and virginal creature he had imagined himself
to be wooing, amid the beautiful setting of her harvest fields, he had to
think of her as a woman dimmed and besmirched by an unhappy marriage with
a bad man. For himself, he certainly resented the concealment which had
been practised on him. Yet at the same time he thought he understood the
state of exasperation, of invincible revolt which had led to it. And he
kept reminding himself that, after all, her confession had anticipated
his proposal.
Nevertheless such men as he have ideas of marriage, both romantic and
austere. They are inclined to claim what they give--a clean sheet, and
the first-fruits of body and soul. In Rachel's case the first-fruits
had been wasted on a marriage, of which the ugly and inevitable
incidents haunted Ellesborough's imagination. One moment he shrank from
the thought of them; the next he could not restrain the protesting rush
of passion--the vow that his love should put her back on that pinnacle of
honour and respect from which fate should never have allowed her to fall.
Well, she had promised to tell him her story in full. He awaited it.
As to his own people, they were dear, good women, his mother and
sisters--saints, but not Pharisees.
It was a dark and lowering evening, with tempest gusts of wind. But from
far away, after he had passed Ipscombe, a light from one of the windows
of the farm shone out, as though beckoning him to her. Suddenly from the
mouth of the farm, he saw a bicycle approaching. The rider was Janet
Leighton. She passed him with a wave and a smile.
"Going to a Food meeting! But Rachel's at home."
What a nice woman! Looking back over the couple of months since he had
known the inmates of the farm, he realized how much he had come to like
Janet Leighton. So unselfish, so full of thought for others, so modest
for herself! There couldn't be a better friend for Rachel; her friendship
itself was a testimonial; he reassured himself by the mere thought of
her.
When he drew up at the farm, Hastings with a lantern in his hand was just
disappearing towards the hill, and the two girls, Betty and Jenny, passed
him, each with a young man, two members, in fact, of his own Corps, John
Dempsey and another. They explained that they were off to a Red Cross
Concert in the village hall. Ellesborough's pulse beat quicker as he
parted from them, for he realized that he would find Rachel alone in the
farm.
Yes, there she was at the open door, greeting him with a quiet face--a
smile even. She led the way into the sitting-room, where she had just
drawn down the blinds and closed the curtains of the window looking on
the farm-yard. But his arrival had interrupted her before she could do
the same for the window looking on the Down. Neither of them thought of
it. Each was absorbed in the mere presence of the other.
Rachel was in her black Sunday dress of some silky stuff. Her throat was
uncovered, and her shapely arms showed through the thin sleeves. The
black and white softened and refined something overblown and sensuous in
her beauty. Her manner, too, had lost its confident, provocative note.
Ellesborough had never seen her so adorable, so desirable. But her
self-command dictated his. He took the seat to which she pointed him;
while she herself brought a chair to the other side of the fire, putting
on another log with a steady hand, and a remark about the wind that was
whistling outside. Then, one foot crossed over the other, her cheek
reddened by the fire, propped on her hand, and her eyes on the fresh
flame that was beginning to dance out of the wood, she asked him,--"You'd
like to hear it all?"
He made a sign of assent.
So in a quiet, even voice, she began with an account of her family and
early surroundings, more detailed than anything she had yet given him.
She described her father (the striking apostolic head of the old man hung
on the wall behind her) and his missionary journeys through the prairie
settlements in the early days of Alberta; how, when he was old and weary,
he would sometimes take her, his latest child, a small girl of ten or
twelve, on his pastoral rounds, for company, perched up beside him in his
buggy; and how her mother was killed by the mere hardships of the prairie
life, sinking into fretful invalidism for two years before her death.
"I nursed her for years. I never did anything else--I couldn't. I never
had any amusements like other girls. There was no money and no time. She
died when I was twenty-four. And three months after, my father died. He
didn't leave a penny. Then my brother asked me to go and live with him
and his wife. I was to have my board and a dress allowance, if I would
help her in the house. My brother's an awfully good sort--but I couldn't
get on with his wife. I just couldn't! I expect it was my fault, just as
much as hers. It was something we couldn't help. Very soon I hated the
sight of her, and she never missed a chance of making me feel a worm--a
useless, greedy creature, living on other people's work. If only there
had been some children, I dare say I could have borne it. But she and I
could never get away from each other. There were no distractions. Our
nerves got simply raw--at least mine did."
There was a pause. She lifted her brown eyes, and looked at Ellesborough
intently.
"I suppose my mother would have borne it. But girls nowadays can't. Not
girls like me, anyway. Mother was a Christian. I don't suppose I am. I
don't know what I am. I just _had_ to live my own life. I couldn't exist
without a bit of pleasure--and being admired--and seeing men--and all
that!"
Her cheeks had flushed. Her eyes were very bright and defiant.
Ellesborough came nearer to her, put out a strong hand and enclosed hers
in it.
"Well then--this man Delane--came to live near you?"
He spoke with the utmost gentleness, trying to help her out.
She nodded, drawing her hand away.
"I met him at a dance in Winnipeg first--the day after I'd had a horrid
row with my sister-in-law. He'd just taken a large farm, with a decent
house on it--not a shack--and everybody said his people were rich and
were backing him. And he was very good-looking--and a Cambridge man--and
all that. We danced together almost all the evening. Then he found out
where I lived, and used to be always coming to see me. My brother never
liked him. He said to me often, 'Why do you encourage that unprincipled
cad? I'm certain there's a screw loose about him!' And I wasn't in love
with Roger--not really--for one moment. But I _think_ he was in love with
me--yes, I'm sure he was--at first. And he excited and interested me. I
was proud, too, of taking him away from other girls, who were always
running after him. And my sister-in-law was just mad to get rid of me!
Don't you understand?"
"Of course I do!"
Her eyelids wavered a little under the emotion of his tone.
"Well, then, we got married. My brother tried to get out of him what his
money-affairs were. But he always evaded everything. He talked a great
deal about this rich sister, and she did send him a wedding present. But
he never showed me her letter, and that was the last we ever heard of
her while I knew him...."
Her voice dropped. She sat looking at the fire--a grey, pale woman, from
whom light and youth had momentarily gone out.
"Well, it's a hateful story--and as common!--as common as dirt. We began
to quarrel almost immediately. He was jealous and tyrannical, and I
always had a quick temper. I found that he drank, that he told me all
sorts of lies about his past life, that he presently only cared about me
as--well, as his mistress!"--and again she faced Ellesborough with hard,
insistent eyes--"that he was hopelessly in debt--a gambler--and
everything else. When the baby came, I could only get the wife of a
neighbouring settler to come and look after me. And Roger behaved so
abominably to her that she went home when the baby was a week old--and I
was left to manage for myself. Then when baby was three months old, she
caught whooping-cough, and had bronchitis on the top. I had a few pounds
of my own, and I gave them to Roger to go in to Winnipeg and bring out a
doctor and medicines. He drank all the money on the way--that I found out
afterwards--he was a week away instead of two days--and the baby died.
When he came back he told me a lie about having been ill. But I never
lived with him--as a wife--after that. Then, of course, he hated me, and
one night he nearly killed me. Next morning he apologized--said that he
loved me passionately--and that kind of stuff--that I was cruel to
him--and what could he do to make up? So then I suggested that he should
go away for a month--and we should both think things over. He was
rather frightened, because--well--he'd knocked me about a good deal in
the horrible scene between us--and he thought I should bring my brother
down on him. So he agreed to go, and I said I would have a girl friend to
stay with me. But, of course, as soon as he was gone, I just left the
house and departed. I had got evidence enough by then to set me
free--about the Italian girl. I met my brother in Winnipeg. We went to
his lawyers together, and I began proceedings--"
She stopped abruptly. "The rest I told you.--_No!_--I've told you the
horrible things--now I'll say something of the things which--have made
life worth living again. Till the divorce was settled I went back to my
brother in Toronto. I dropped my married name then and called myself
Henderson. And then I came home--because my mother's brother, who was a
manufacturer in Bradford, wrote to ask me. But when I arrived he was
dead, and he had left me three thousand pounds. Then I went to Swanley
and got trained for farm-work. And I found Janet Leighton, and we made
friends. And I love farm-work--and I love Janet--and the whole world
looks so different to me! Why, of course, I didn't want to be reminded of
that old horrible life! I didn't want people to say, 'Mrs. Delane? Who
and where is her husband? Is he dead?' 'No--she's divorced.' 'Why?'
There's!--don't you see?--all the old vile business over again! So I cut
it all!"