there. He went into the shadow as he went up the stair, and met it
when he opened the door. Through the windows, when he looked out,
there was no sun on the marsh, only the faint rising of a moon.
Somewhere out in the uncertain dark was the quiet plashing of the
sea. It was the hour when the world is nothing and some one person
is all; when Heaven comes easily, and earth as easily goes. So would
death come, he thought, his own good death. Some day he would enter
the house for the last time, and climb the stair and open and shut
the door. Through the shadows for the last time he would see the
things stand out that they had shared, and that perhaps they might
find again on the other side. The bits of carpet that their feet had
worn; the bed where they had heard each other’s breathing in the
night; handles and hooks that hand after hand had touched. The sea
would be there for the last time, because in Heaven there would be
no sea. He would lean out to it, but would only hear it, silver and
cool. Then he would let himself summon her out of the dark, because
now there would be no need of turning back, and however she came she
would be just right, whether fresh and young or grey and wrinkled
and bowed. They would put out their arms to each other, and find each
other there.... Death, that seemed so dreadful to folk, meant only
that.
His dreams grew upon him after the fiddle came back, chiefly because
now he very seldom went out. He could not walk very far, and no
matter where he went, it was sure to be against the rules. He was
forbidden the other houses in the row, and the river-bank and his
potterings on the footpath by the wall. If he went out at all, it
was on an errand of Marget’s to the shops, but he had lost the wish
to go out, just as he seemed to have lost the wish to play. In these
days his fingers never went unknowingly to the strings. Even now that
the fiddle was safe, he went on sitting in his room, and for some
unstated reason Marget let him be. So his mind was often away on its
travels over the marsh, and the body that was left grew quieter every
day. The time seemed to be getting near for that last mounting of the
stairs. Those who saw him about then said that he “wouldn’t be so
long.”
And now, after all the days, had come the order of release. Thomas
had got the farm in the end, and straight away asked for his father
to come home. Not only his mind but his body could go to the place
for which he cried. He could go to a son who would ease his remaining
days and a daughter awaiting him with open arms. Of course he was
glad to be going, thankful beyond words; too thankful and anxious,
indeed, for his content. He could have taken it simply and easily,
earlier on, but after all this time it loomed too large. Before,
it would have been inevitable and right, but now it seemed to him
more than a little strange. As he sat waiting for them to come and
take him away, he was conscious of the discomfort and even terror
of change. He felt both the reluctant weariness of the old—for whom
every shift on the road may be the last—and the fear of the dreamer
that his dream may prove untrue. The idealist always shrinks from
fulfilment just at the last, and Kit was shrinking and suffering
all through. He dreaded the emotional strain through which he would
have to pass, longing with shame for his wretched bed and the quiet
communion with his tree. Nevertheless he reached forward eagerly to
his dream, knowing that he must accept it now, even if he slew both
it and himself. Steadily, at the back of his mind, shone the golden
glory of the marsh.
He sat patiently, as the old sit who have to husband their strength,
but he was filled with a feverish aching to be off. His nervous
energy ebbed continually during this long pause before the start.
He had a miserable fear that he might refuse to go when it came to
the point. He saw himself making for his room as soon as the trap
appeared, an obstinate, desperate old animal slinking to its lair.
Marget would curse and hammer on the door, and he would cower on the
bed in silence, holding his breath. When they were tired of it they
would leave him alone, and his heart would stop shaking itself out
of its place. He would hear the trap drive away out of his life, and
know in that instant all that he had missed....
He might have steadied his nerves by dozing in his chair, but the
children, as usual, kept him from doing that. All the time they were
darting in and out to look for the trap, or peering at him round the
doors. All about the dark cottage he could see their eyes, excited,
curious, mocking and bold. He could hear them speaking of him in
rough whispers that always reached him as jeers. For once he wished
them busy at their quarrelsome games, but they were much too intent
to take themselves out of the way. The dramatic element in Gran’pa
held them to the last—the thing that hinted tragedy and scenes.
Even the act of driving away would mean more with Gran’pa than with
anybody else. They felt instinctively that this was one of the
climaxes of life, and responded eagerly to its thrill. Gran’pa’s
bundle in its red handkerchief was also a source of thrill, a sort
of monster pudding in its cloth. Now and then one of the children
emerged and gave the bundle a sly but searching poke. If Gran’pa
hadn’t been there, they would have had it open at once, and there
was always the chance that he might leave it behind. So they stayed,
impatient and fidgety but firm, wearing the old man’s strength with
whisper and stare. There was more to be got out of this than any
casual play. Besides, Marget’s concluding scene was still to make.
Now he had that first terrible feeling of being suffocated and hemmed
in. He couldn’t even find a place to rest his eyes, because of the
pointing fingers bristling on all sides. There seemed to be faces
everywhere as well, and even when he turned to the street one peered
at him over the sill. He would have got up and gone outside, but he
knew they were there to watch him and would cry him down. Panting, he
fixed his hunted gaze on the stair, seeing it in the dark room as a
mysterious ladder climbing into peace. It rested him just to look at
it and picture where it led. Up above, safe from all the eyes, was a
hiding-place for the hunted, shrinking old. The desire to be there
grew upon him as he looked, so that he was drawn irresistibly to his
feet. Once up the narrow stair, he would be free of the effort that
lay ahead, and the minds that had fastened on his like preying teeth.
Now he ached to be there, burned to be there.... Something with wings
would stand outside the door.... He straightened himself, nerving
himself to move, and then he saw Marget coming down the stairs.
The silence, breaking the children’s speech in half, held a sense of
something thrown from a height and smashed. Something always died
or was hurt when Marget entered a room. Kit had been too intent
to heed her step, but now she was there before him, blocking his
way. Where the presence with wings should have been he saw Marget
instead, thin, pallid, slatternly, flaring-fringed and slit-eyed.
Her tight lips sneered when she saw the old man on his feet, and her
knuckles whitened as she gripped the rail. He looked very tall in the
low room, and, with bundle and fiddle, very ready to be gone. This
was a bitter moment for Marget that snatched her bone from between
her teeth. She was ragingly jealous of those who wanted him for
himself—wanted before they had tried him, Marget said. They couldn’t
really be glad of a burden in the house; they were only pretending,
to make other folks look small. She despised them for saddling
themselves with the old man, and hated and mocked them because they
did it with smiles. Also she hated Kit for his evident eagerness to
go.
“What d’ye think ye’re at?” she demanded, looking down at him from
the stair. Her malignant face sneered at him out of the gloom, and
her voice was full of sounds that troubled his delicate ear.
He braced himself, as he always did when Marget spoke. Even when she
looked at him he held himself ready for attack. “Trap’ll be round,
waint it?” he asked, by way of reply. He leaned his hand on the table
to steady himself, looking up. “I reckon trap’ll be round afore so
long.”
She glanced for a moment at his hand, finer, in spite of its age,
than any in the house, and there came into her face that hatred of
things unknown which had stirred her to fury when the baby danced.
“Nay, then, it just waint!” she rapped out. “I told Bob he needn’t
hurry himself, getting off. They won’t be looking for you yet.
Marsh-folk is always a week behind everybody else.”
“I’ll be glad to be off,” Kit said dully, with the mechanical
patience he had learned at her hands. “I’m getting weary a bit,
hanging about. I’d best be off.”
“Ay, well,” she jibed at him, “you’ll have to bide. I don’t know as
another hour or two in my house’ll do you any harm. You were glad
enough on it once, when landlord skifted you out. And it’s as cheap
sitting as standing, I reckon, even for folks as hasn’t the price of
a seat. You’d best set down till it’s time for you to stir.”
“Trap’ll be round,” Kit repeated doggedly. “I’d reyther stand.” He
drew in his fingers as if her eyes hurt them, and did his best to
straighten his back and set his jaw. The deliverance that was so near
gave him courage to fight, in spite of the sinister things in her
face and voice. He had yielded in almost every contest yet, and if
she had lost where the fiddle was concerned, it was because she had
been conquered by something in herself. To sit was to own himself
beaten to the end, and would send him shamed to the marsh from a last
defeat. And there was always the chance that if he sat he might never
get away, because of the shrinking that wrought against him in his
heart.
So again he braced himself and said, “I’ll stand.”
She bent forward towards him from the stair, her chin thrust out at
him and her eyes nearly shut. He wanted to push her away and hurry
out into the street. He had a feeling that she had trodden that
winged thing underfoot, so that there was no longer a refuge for him
upstairs.
“I tellt you trap wouldn’t be round just yet.”
“Ay, but it will.”
“Likely you think I don’t know?”
“Nay, not I.” Kit looked away.
“I’m a liar, that’s what it is?”
“Nay.”
“Set down and bide.”
“I’ll stand.”
Suddenly she dropped her strained pose and became all violence and
storm, like the wind that gets up out of nowhere on a silent night.
Raising herself with a jerk, she flapped down the stair with the
noise of a dozen carpet-beaters in full swing. Nobody ever expressed
as much as Marget with a pair of down-trodden slippers loose at the
heels; yet nobody would keep them when she was gone, pathetic and
reverenced by a bed.... Kit thought of his winged thing she had
beaten down, and looked to see feathers scattered under her feet. Her
face was changed both in colour and shape by the unknown terrible
things that lived in her brain. Her voice was changed in the same
way, and it was her voice that Kit dreaded most, because his ear had
the straighter run to his soul. The things that were part of Marget
yet not Marget he never could understand. He was never ready for
them, never on his guard. Now she was close to him, bent as if to
strike, a trick that had a special horror for the sensitive old man.
The children nudged each other and laughed, gloating, yet more than
half afraid.
“Stand, will ye—getting in folks’ road and showing yourself that
smart to be up and off? Ay, I know you’re fain to be shot of us at
last, and you should be right shammed o’ suchlike nastiness, I’m
sure. Who’d ha’ seen to you all this time if it hadn’t been for us?
Thomas wanted nowt wi’ you, as you know; he’d other fish to fry, had
Tom. You’d ha’ bin on the parish, that’s where you’d ha’ bin, and
like enough in t’ Union itself. Yon’s the spot for do-nowts as spend
their own brass and then look to spend other folks’ as well! Yon’s
the spot for wastrels and rattlehorns and fancy fiddlers playing
in the street. (Eh, but it banged owt, did yon!) It’ll be queer if
you don’t come to it yet, wi’ a pound o’ baccy at Christmas, and
‘Thank ye kindly, master,’ all the week. Likely they’ll set you going
errands, tea and currants and a bit o’ lard, or happen your job’ll be
cleaning out the pigs. Ay, you’ll land there yet, as sure as eggs is
eggs! Likely you’ll think on a bit then about Bob and me.”
He stood looking at her without saying a word, fascinated, just as
the children were fascinated, by this exhibition of a ruthless mind.
He could feel them gathering closer, magnetised though afraid. The
voice that was full of strange things filled all the house, flooded
the street and carried down the row, so that folks in passing halted
and stared, and the neighbours came running to their doors. “She’ll
do for him yet,” they said to each other when they heard that voice,
and there was always the chance that the moment had arrived.
“As for the spot you’re off to,” she flared on, “I hope you’ll find
it all you think for, I’m sure. Thomas and his missis’ll likely be
terble throng wi’ you while you’re fresh, but wait till they’ve had
you to do for as long as me. Wait till they’ve gitten you maundering
about the place, making a deal o’ work wi’ your daft-like ways. Agnes
Black’ll skift you pretty sharp, or she’s not the woman I take her
for, that’s all.”
Still he said nothing, paralysed by the flood of sound, and the
fierce inflections springing out of her voice like sparks from a
cat’s back. And then suddenly she changed her method of attack,
letting her voice slide down the scale until it was even and chill
and full of insidious hints and something that smiled.
“You think it’ll be a soft spot, I’ll be bound, wi’ nowt to do but
set fiddling all day. You reckon you’re going back to things as they
was, only wi’ other folk to see to the work instead o’ you. But if
you’re counting on things being just the same, you’re badly wrong.
Nowt stands still, and I reckon farms is like the rest. What, I doubt
you’ll not know the place when you set eyes on it again! It’ll have
changed a deal in these last two years, same as you’ve changed a deal
yourself. Last man let it down pretty bad; it’s a mercy he broke his
neck afore so long. Landlord’s had a deal to do at it, they say, and
Thomas is that set up he’s for doing a deal more. Ay, it’ll not be
the same farm, no more than Kit Sill’s the same man. You’ll find it
out for yourself afore you’ve been there a week. You’ll be nobbut a
beggar there, you’ll think on, same as here, and owe somebody every
bite. It’ll be another man’s roof over you, as used to be your own.
There’ll be another chap master, telling you what’s what. There’ll be
a woman for missis as baint no wife o’ yours. It’ll be bitter as salt
water washing at your door....”
“Ay, but it’ll be home,” Kit said bravely, holding up his head, and
wondering what devil taught her his secret fear.
“Yon’s what you think—now.” For the first time there was a touch of
sincerity in her voice. Her cold eyes looked away from him through
the open door. “Them as gangs once shouldn’t return. Going back
doesn’t mend things; it nobbut spoils what you’ve had. You’ll likely
spoil summat if you gang ... summat you’ve fettled for yourself....
Your sort doesn’t live in houses made wi’ hands....”
“Summat I’ve fettled?” Kit asked, and his voice shook. “Houses not
made wi’ hands...?” He stared at her, terror and pleading in his
face, and she knew she had beaten him and turned again with a jeer.
“Nay, I doubt there’s summat smittal about daft folks like ye! I
nobbut mean you’ll happen wish yourself back wi’ Marget afore you’ve
done. Not that you’re off yet, so you can just set you down. Folks
wi’ manners wouldn’t be showing themselves that smart.”
“I reckon I’ll stand.”
She shot out a furious hand, thin, with flat finger-tips and curved
nails. “Set down!” she hissed, and he shrank back, but recovered
himself again and stood firm.
“I’ll stand.”
She made a step towards him until their faces almost touched, putting
such intensity into the short approach that his strength seemed to
ebb from him consciously as he watched. She leaned across the table
willing him to obey. “You’ll set down,” she said. “_You’ll set
down!_” And suddenly he gave way as if pulled by a string, crumpling
into a shaking heap of bones. He sat down slowly, grasping the fiddle
so tight that it hurt his hands, and very slowly the tears ran down
his face. For a moment longer she stayed as she was, holding him with
her eyes, terrible as a Juggernaut in the way. And then the trap came
trundling down the street.
The spell broke at the sound of the wheels, and at once the children
were out at the door, tumbling and fighting as they went. As soon as
the trap stopped they were round it like flies, fretting the horse
and settling on the step. Marget caught the baby by its skirts as it
stumbled after the rest, and it set up one of its stupendous howls.
Only Kit stayed perfectly still where he was, as if the strength had
indeed gone out of his limbs. The stage was set, but the chief actor
did not appear. Bob turned in his seat and looked in at the door, and
up at his father’s window and gave a hail, but Kit never showed that
he heard him or tried to stir. The tears ran down his face and he did
not so much as lift up a hand. Then Marget snatched at his bundle and
thrust it into his arms.
“Ay, well, then gang!” she said in a brutal voice, and watched him
tremble and totter to his feet. The red-haired baby fought and
shrieked to be down, but she shook the breath out of it with a
mighty jolt. Bob whistled and called again, but the two in the house
still looked at each other and paid no heed. They had come too close
in that last clash to slip apart again with ease. The hatred on both
sides had its mixture of fascination and fear. He felt a helpless
dread of a power that beauty could not touch; she, an angry terror of
genius out of reach.
One of the children came running back to the door, but still the
old man did not move. It seemed as though the leash in which Marget
held him had not been slipped. The moment was here that began for
him better things, but he did not feel in the least as though the
break had come. The sense of relief he had looked for did not ease
his heart. She scowled, “Be off with you, then,” turning away her
head, but still he stood without attempting to go, as motionless as
a stock. Never once did he even turn and look out at the door. And
then, “I’m obliged to you, Marget,” he said at last; “I’m obliged to
you, Marget, for all you’ve done,” and shifted the bundle to show a
shaky hand.
She brushed it aside with a sharp elbow, but the red came violently
into her face. “I’ll be bound you’re obliged!” she sneered, tossing
her head. “You’d ha’ been in Queer Street, I reckon, but for us. Eh,
well, I hope you’ll find everything to your liking at the farm.”
The baby opened its mouth again, and she shut it with a jerk. There
was a pause, and then she went on, her voice sounding hypnotised and
dragged. “You’ll mind you can come back if you find as you can’t
bide? I want nowt wi’ you, an’ that’s flat, but I reckon I can go on.
You’d be best to come back if you find as you can’t bide....”
But now he had turned away and was looking eagerly at the door, so
that he scarcely seemed to hear her final words. With that look
he began his journey to the marsh, to the sun on the long levels
that were all of them paths to home. He moved, and at once his feet
were over the threshold and he found himself out in the street. He
had forgotten Marget as if she had never been, though he had never
noticed the snapping of the cord. She did not follow him out, but
stayed at the door. The red-haired baby burst into bitter tears.
The neighbours were all looking out along the row, and a little
crowd had gathered round the trap. The children still quarrelled and
climbed and pushed each other down, or poked and fidgeted the sleepy
horse. The road was like a river in the sun, golden beside the black
one under the trees, but both of them coming ultimately to the sea.
The light dazzled him as he went out, so that he could hardly see
the smiling faces and outstretched hands. Somebody took the bundle
from him and put it into the trap, but when they offered to take
the fiddle he shook his head. A woman brought a nosegay from a bush
beside her door, and pinned it laughingly in his coat. Another pushed
a buttered scone into his hand, and asked if she should bring him a
cup of tea. It would never be Marget, he heard them say, if she’d
thought of setting him up for his ride like that. He shook his head
at the tea and stared helplessly at the scone, while they pulled
at his arm and wished him luck, or clapped him on the shoulder in
farewell. Somebody begged him to give them a tune for the last time,
but he was too dazed by the sun to heed what they said. He just stood
there, fiddle and scone in hand, staring about him like a puzzled
child. Then the parson came along and wished him a pleasant ride, and
shook the hand that wasn’t holding the scone. Everybody seemed glad
for him that he was going home, that he was getting away from Marget,
after all. Folks were nearly always glad when they saw others going
home. They felt kindlier towards them then than at any other time, he
thought. Folks away from home were a kind of public trust. The world
was worried about them until they were safely back.
Bob begged the parson to help the old man into the trap, and at once
there were a dozen hands hoisting him up the step, holding needlessly
to the horse’s head, and pulling the children from under the wheels.
Kit arrived at his seat a little breathless and pulled about, and
felt the fiddle quiver against his coat. He was grateful for the
sympathy and help, but he had not expected to be sped by a crowd. He
couldn’t help shrinking from the cheerful voices and the smiling eyes
that made of him a spectacle in the street. They confused him and
crossed his thoughts—troubled his perfect journey at the start. He
did not know what to do with the buttered scone, and the button-hole
worried him dreadfully under the chin. He would have liked to creep
quietly out of the house where he had been so sad, and steal silently
towards the house where he had been so gay.
The crowd saw that they fretted him at last and drew away, but Bob
still talked to the parson over the wheel. The old man looked back up
the street, and saw the village radiant in the sun, the white wall
of the school like a snow-palace in its midst, and the church-tower
high and sharp against the sky. He looked up at the trees and saw
the leafy roof thick and green and still, and the doors of many
mansions among the boughs. “Houses not made wi’ hands,” he said to
himself, and wondered where he had heard the words. He looked at the
cottages, with their porches and worn steps, their shaded windows and
grey walls, their climbing roses and sagging, slated roofs. And for
a long moment he looked at his own window which held the enchantment
of the tree. From his window on the marsh he would see no trees,
neither magic ones on a velvet sward nor giants bent into bondage
by the gale. There would be nothing before his eyes which had been
straitened so long but the long distances of the sands and the long
pathways of the sea.