§ 1
The next morning it was Dan’s turn to be Bullockdean at the village
altar, and having tried in vain to force an extra day’s representation
on Freddie Pont or Tommy Pilbeam, he resolved not to disappoint Mr.
Marchbanks, but to sacrifice five minutes of Belle’s society. It was not
likely to be more, as he expected her to take advantage of her absence
from home, by having a good rest in bed. But by seven o’clock Belle was
tired of her thoughts and of the hard places of the George’s best bed,
so she rose, dressed, and came downstairs into a silent and chilly
darkness.
The blinds were all down, for the Sheathers were not at their best early
risers, and this morning they were tired after their dissipations.
Belle opened the door, which Daniel had left on the latch, and walked
out. The street was full of the pale March sunshine and the tossing
March wind. The signs of the George and the Crown swung creakingly to
and fro. Belle stared up at the blind face of the Crown. The street was
empty, the village seemed asleep except for the columns of smoke that
the wind spun, scattering them every now and then in wood-scented clouds
that swept down from the roofs and mixed with the pale sunshine in the
street.
Belle knew where Daniel had gone and walked up the church lane in hopes
of meeting him. There were, in spite of his simplicity, one or two
things in him that she could not understand. She wondered if he was
religious--she thought not, for he never spoke of it. But he was a good
boy, that she knew. He had always been good, even during the difficult
days of the war--and, unlike many good people, he had always been
kind.... Oh, she must not let him suffer! He must never suffer because
of his sweetness, his generosity, his daring towards her.
She had come to the churchyard gate and would not go any farther. The
lane had by now reached a level above the rest of the village, and from
where she stood she was looking down on the Crown garden. It was a fine
big place, plentifully studded with arbours which in summer would give
shade to tea-drinking couples. Dan wanted the George to “give teas,” and
thought perhaps it would do so when Belle was there to help. But there
wasn’t room for two inns of that sort in the same little village--the
George would simply smash once it went into deliberate competition with
the Crown. That was another of Dan’s silly ideas. He ought to see that
the George’s only chance was to keep its own common ways--his father had
better sense than he.
A man had come out of a shed in the Crown garden and was walking towards
the house. She knew immediately, by his figure and his walk, that he
was Ernley. Her breath thickened, and suddenly she felt almost faint and
clung to a stake in the hedgerow for support. Good Lord! what was
happening to her if she could not bear even the distant sight of Ernley?
Every effort she made at her own reassurance seemed only to land her
further in doubt. What would become of her?
“Belle--darling! This is a fine surprise.”
Daniel had come through the gate while she stood lost in her new
weakness. He put his cold cheek to hers and she found her usual comfort.
“Oh, Danny, I’m so glad to see you.”
“And I to see you, sweetheart. I never thought you’d be out so early.
“I woke up early.”
“Didn’t you sleep well, dearie? Weren’t you comfortable? I know most of
our beds are full of lumps.”
“Oh, I was right enough. But I felt wide awake--and I’m not used to
lying long.”
“Belle, must you go home to-day? Can’t you stay till to-morrow? I seem
to have had so little of you.”
“I must go, I reckon. We’re short-handed as it is. But you’ll be coming
over soon.”
“I’ll walk over with you to-day--but I’d sooner have you here.”
He stopped and drew her to him in the last shelter of the lane.
As he released her he seemed to notice something.
“Darling, are you well? You’re looking terrible pale.”
“Oh, I’m right enough.”
“But you shouldn’t ought to have come out like this before breakfast, on
an empty stomach.”
“And what about yours?”
“Oh, I’m used to it. I’m tough. But you--you just about want someone to
take care of you.”
He kissed her fiercely--without shelter.
“Oh, Danny--don’t. Not out here in the street.”
She had a sudden fear that Ernley would see.
“There ain’t nobody about.”
“But someone might be looking out of a window.”
He saw her eyes slant upwards to the windows of the Crown.
“Don’t you worry about old Ernley. It ud do him good to see us.”
She was seized with a strange fury at his insensitiveness. Her heart
beat wildly, and for the first time she nearly gave him bitter words.
But she managed to force herself to silence, and they went into the
George together. Breakfast was laid in the kitchen--a substantial meal,
richly various for a man who could not pay his brewer.
“Good morning, mum--good morning, dad. Here we are--here’s Belle. Reckon
she’s dying for her breakfast, same as I am.”
Dan’s cheerful voice seemed to fill the room, or rather to fill all of
it that was not filled by the voices of Kitty and Tom and Chris.
Perversely, Belle herself felt unable to speak a word. Having shut her
mouth on bitterness, she seemed unable to open it again for friendliness
or greeting. She sat down beside Dan at the table--sausages appeared
before her, bread and butter and a great cup of tea.
“My, Belle! but you’re looking ornery!”
Tom Sheather’s voice came down the table, bellowing ... she saw Dan
cutting more bread ... she felt just as she had felt when she was
watching Ernley in the Crown garden ... almost faint ... quite faint.
She went suddenly in a huddle to the floor.
§ 2
The next thing that she became conscious of was a pair of eyes, looking
down at her. They were dark eyes like Daniel’s, yet not Daniel’s, and
they seemed to be boring down into hers, reading the inmost secrets of
her heart--secrets of which even she herself was unaware. Then slowly a
face surrounded them, and she realized that she was lying with her head
on Kitty Sheather’s knee, looking up into her face.
She stirred uneasily, and moaned.
“Belle--Belle----”
The agonized voice came from beside her, and with a slight roll of her
head she looked into Daniel’s face, convulsed and pitying.
“Oh, my darling--my poor darling!... Don’t be frightened, sweet--you’re
better now. Here’s dad with some brandy.”
Tom Sheather held a flask to her lips. She drank it, gulped and sat up.
For a moment the room seemed to go round, then steadied itself again.
She gripped Daniel’s arm and laughed weakly.
“I fainted.”
“You’re tired, my precious--you’ve been working too hard, and you
shouldn’t ought to have got up so early. Now you shall go back to bed
and stay there till you’re rested.”
“No--I must go home.”
The words were out of her almost before she realized her own urgency.
“But you can’t possibly--it ud be wicked for you to go when you’re tired
and ill like this.”
“I must go--I’m quite well now.”
She had scrambled to her feet, and stood swaying and clutching him by
the shoulder.
“Don’t be silly, my dear,” said Tom Sheather; “we’d have it on our
conscience if you went home to-day.”
“But I must--I must. I tell you I can’t stay.” Her need seemed to grow
in desperation every minute. “Danny can drive me--you’ve got a trap.
Please, please, Danny, take me home.”
The clear voice of Kitty Sheather broke into the discussion.
“Let her go if she want to--there’s nothing the matter with her.”
“Oh, mum! How can you speak so? Look how white she is. Is it natural for
a girl to faint at her breakfast?”
“Yes,” said Kitty coolly, “sometimes quite natural.”
Belle walked towards the door, waving back Daniel when he tried to
follow.
“You go and get out the trap. Please don’t come--please don’t keep me.”
She managed to hold back her tears till she was out of the room. She was
aware of some sort of argument going on behind the closed door, but
Daniel did not come out to her, as she had feared. No doubt his mother’s
notions of propriety forbade his helping her with her packing. To her
great relief, Kitty did not come either. She was left alone. She felt
quite well again now, but she could not stop crying. Her tears fell on
her clothes as she folded them and put them in her bag. When she had
finished packing she had to wait a few minutes till they had ceased.
At last she was ready and had come downstairs in her coat of purple
freize, with her sky-blue tam o’ shanter crammed down over her hair,
which she had not troubled to brush out of its recent confusion. Dan was
waiting for her with the trap, miserable, but resigned. Her farewells
were said--defensively to Chris, gratefully to Tom, nervously to
Kitty--and she was up in the trap beside Daniel, driving down
Bullockdean street under the staring windows of the Crown.
“How are you feeling, dear?” he asked her every moment, and when they
were out of the village he wanted to put his arm round her. Almost
without knowing what she did, she pushed him away.
“Don’t, Danny, you mustn’t do that--you can’t drive with only one arm.
Please get me home quickly--quickly.”
§ 3
When they came to Batchelors’ Hall, she would not let him stay. He
wanted to go indoors with her and explain to her family that she was
ill, and must rest. But she would not let him. She gave him on the
doorstep an almost sacrificial kiss, and stood watching him drive
through the gate before she went in.
Daniel was bewildered, not only by the last hour but by all the events
of the morning. He was bewildered by Belle’s illness, still more by his
mother’s indifference in the face of such a calamity, and most of all by
Belle’s new strange aloofness, refusing his comfort when most she seemed
to need it. As a rule, in her blooming health, he had always found her
eager to lean on him, but now when she was ill, faint and tired, she
seemed to turn away. He was distressed.
These sad thoughts occupied him all the way home, but when he reached
the George they were immediately dispelled, not by any comfort, but by a
fresh piece of catastrophe.
“What you think’s happened?” cried Kitty from the open door as he drove
up.
“I dunno--anything good?”
“Good! _I_ shouldn’t call it good, but I never know what you think.”
She was evidently more moved than by poor Belle’s afflictions.
“Well, then, what is it, mum?”
“James Munk--old Munk--he’s dead.”
Daniel gaped.
“He was knocked down and killed in Lewes this morning,” put in Tom
Sheather over his wife’s shoulder. “A car got him as he stepped off the
pavement. This very morning it was--he’s just been brought home.”
“And now Ernley have the Crown and get married at once,” said Kitty.
Dan still found himself speechless. James Munk had continually maddened
him and scared him with his bitter gifts of tongue--but to be dead ...
to be swept suddenly out of life in the familiar High Street of Lewes,
among all the traps and cars and people and driven beasts ... he felt
the back of his throat thicken with the beginnings of a sob, and hastily
whipping up Spot, he drove round to the back yard, where he could be
unmanly if he wished.
All that day nothing else was talked of in Bullockdean. Maudie Harman
answered a continual stream of inquiries in the bar, and by common
consent almost nothing but sherry was ordered, sherry being for some
obscure reason considered locally as the only suitable drink in the
presence of death.
Dan did not go over to the Crown. He did not know what to say to Ernley.
He did not know what Ernley was feeling, whether he, too, felt all the
pathos and horror of death like that in Lewes Street, or whether he was
only thinking that now he was free, master of the Crown and of himself,
or perhaps wondering what would have happened if his freedom had come
earlier, when he was still Belle Shackford’s lover.... He had never
credited Ernley with any strong feelings for his father, and he knew he
wasn’t the kind of man to speak as he didn’t feel. He would not speak of
James Munk in the way Daniel was accustomed to hear speak of the dead,
and something in young Sheather’s country heart was shocked at the idea,
and would not let him go where there was a chance of good ways being set
at naught.
At the George there was also plenty of talk, but it was in the right
tradition. Neither Kitty nor Tom had had a good word to say for Munk
while he was alive, but they had nothing but good to say of him now he
was dead.
“Poor chap!” said Tom. “I saw him drive away soon after you did,
Daniel--wearing his grey suit ... it seems terrible, don’t it? I’d just
come up from the cellar with some of the stout, and I heard wheels and I
thought ‘that can’t be Dan come back--no, it’s from the Crown’--and that
very moment James Munk drove past the winder.”
“Was Ernley with him?”
“No, he was alone; but he’d got a crate or something at the back of the
trap. If I’d known what was going to happen, I’d have looked more
particular.”
Tom sighed regretfully. The next minute he changed the subject.
“But here we are in such a terrification about poor Munk, who’s dead,
that we’ve forgotten our Belle, who’s living. I hope you left her
feeling better, Daniel.”
“Yes, I think she was better, dad. She said she was--she wouldn’t let me
come in.”
“Well, I hope she won’t go working herself to death at that place.
That’s what’s the matter with her, you mark my words. Shackford can’t
afford a proper lot of men, so he works his girls to death. Poor soul!
It made my heart bleed to see her looking so ordinary.”
“It was nothing,” said Kitty, “only a little morning faintness.”
Something in her voice and in her look, as well as something vaguely
suggestive and familiar about her words, made Daniel start and turn
suddenly hot.
“What d’you mean, mum?”
“Only that I think you’ll soon have something more of Ernley’s to take
over.”
She was standing near the door, and went out as she spoke. Dan remained,
gaping at his father.
“Come, lad, don’t take on,” pleaded Tom. “Reckon mum didn’t mean what
she said.”
But Daniel was no longer there.
§ 4
The news of James Munk’s death came to Batchelors’ Hall almost as
quickly as it had come to Bullockdean. Fred Shackford brought it back
from Lewes, and had it all ready to retail to his girls at dinner.
“He’d left his trap at the White Hart, and was just going to cross the
road to Mr. Vine’s shop, when, as he stepped off the pavement, a car got
him. A private car it was, driven by a gentleman from Guildford. Lord!
they were upset--the lady in the back seat fainted right away. No one
was to blame, they say--car going quite slow and on its proper
side--only old Munk stepped off without looking around. I didn’t see it
happen--- didn’t get up in time--but I saw some of the blood.”
“Was he alone?” asked Lucy. “Wasn’t Ernley with him?”
“No, he was quite alone; but, of course, everyone knew who he was. I
heard it was Munk before I got anywhere near.”
“Ernley ull be able to get married now.”
“So he will, and he’ll be a bit of a catch, too. I hear the Crown’s
worth something these days.”
“Mr. Munk wanted him to marry a lady. He thought he could, with the
education he’d given him, and he being an officer in the war. I wonder
if the girl he’s got now is a lady?”
“She looked one. But by this time it don’t matter. He can marry whom he
chooses. Poor old Munk can’t stop him.”
Belle said nothing till dinner was over, then she went up to her room.
She did not cry or make any sound, but in her heart was a twisting,
strangling despair.
Ernley was free. He could marry anybody he chose. He could marry Pearl
Jenner in her refined black frock, with her Eastbourne accent and her
private father. He could have married Belle if only James Munk had died
a little earlier, or if only she had been patient a little longer. He
had always meant to marry her some day, either when he had found a job
or his father had relented. Belle had told herself--and, unfortunately,
him--that if he really loved her he would not wait, but would marry her
at once, and they would face poverty together. He had assured her in
return that he did love her, but that for her own sake as well as his he
would not marry her without maintenance or independence. She had not
believed him, and they had quarrelled--many times--and been
reconciled--many times. And now, after the last quarrel, she had refused
reconciliation, and instead had pledged herself to a man who was ready
to marry her without maintenance or independence. Whereas, if she had
waited only a few more weeks she could have had Ernley and both.
That was the sort of trick you had played on you when you were bad.
Maybe if she had been good all this would never have happened. Good
people would say she had got what she deserved. Perhaps they were right.
After all, she ought to have understood.... Men don’t love women the way
women love men. Ernley had not wanted of her all that she wanted of him,
so he had been happy and satisfied without marriage. He had been happy
because he did not want so much. She had made too many demands on him
... she had been like the daughter of the horseleech saying,
“give--give.” She had said: “It isn’t enough that you’ve given me your
friendship and so much joy--I want everything you’ve got: your home,
your family, your daily life, your leisure. Give--give!”
She had asked for so much that she had got nothing. She saw that she
hadn’t got even Daniel now. She could not marry Daniel now that she knew
she carried Ernley’s child. To her spirit’s long recoil had now been
added the recoil of the flesh--and the thing was impossible. She carried
Ernley himself in her body. She could not give even so much as her body
to Daniel.
She felt neither joy nor sorrow, only a deadly fear. It seemed a long
time now that she had felt this fear, but it had been only faint,
half-realized, a vague sickness. Now it had shape and name. Kitty
Sheather’s boring eyes had given it both. She knew now what for long she
had suspected, and she knew, too, that her suspicions had been more
vigorous than she would acknowledge at the time. She had thrust them
from her with hasty reassurances, born of ignorance out of desperation.
But they, more than any bodily condition, had been responsible for her
ill-health, and now that they were no longer thrust aside, but an
admitted part of her stress, she felt curiously well. It was her bodily
health alone that enabled her to face the future. Her mind was sick. She
saw herself friendless, kicked out by her family, and bound by all the
strange contrariety of nature to refuse the only help that could come to
her, from Daniel. She saw herself exposed and forsaken ... she saw her
love for Ernley made immortal, looking up at her with undying eyes of
torment.
§ 5
She was in the midst of these thoughts, sitting on her bed, when Lucy
stuck her head in at the door, saying:
“Daniel’s come.”
Well, that did not really make it any worse; on the contrary, the sooner
she was through with it all the better. She rose, and without troubling
about her appearance, went downstairs. He was in the drawing-room,
comparing details of the Munk tragedy with her father. She was anxious
to get him away, but Shackford was full of the garrulity of
almost-an-eye-witness, and it was some time before he had done with the
relative positions of the White Hart and the car and the body and Mr.
Vine’s shop. Daniel seemed anxious to be off, too--she saw him try to
break away more than once--but it was nearly ten minutes before the
farmer remembered the afternoon’s milking and reluctantly went out.
Belle did not feel secure in the drawing-room, and asked him to come out
of doors. He protested for her sake, as a light drizzle was falling, and
it ended in their going together into the big barn. They had its
vastness to themselves, and there seemed something vaguely terrible
about its size to-day, for the light of the drizzling afternoon was only
feebly spread among its shadows. Daniel had often dreamed of loving
Belle under the mighty wing of its darkness, but now he felt almost
afraid. Here was neither darkness nor light, but a grey dusk woven of
the tears of the day, and though he was alone with Belle, he could not
speak, for his intense pity for her had made him fear her, as he had
never feared her before.
She spoke first, and her words were like a knife, cutting right down
into the wound of his fear. She had no pity for him--her one thought was
to do his business quickly, so that she could turn to her own.
“Daniel, it’s no good. I can’t go on with it.”
“With what, Belle?”
“Our engagement--our marriage.”
He began to stammer.
“B--but, darling--that’s--that’s what I came over about. I--I wanted to
tell you it makes no difference ... even if it’s true.... I--I don’t
mind--I love you just the same.”
“That isn’t what I mean. I mean that it’s I who--I can’t go on with it.
I’m sorry, Daniel--I know I should ought to have done this long ago--or
better still, I shouldn’t ever have let you love me. It’s my fault. But
I can’t help it. I can’t marry you now that I know ... do you guess what
I know?”
“Yes--mum guessed ... but, Belle, it makes no difference....”
She brushed his protest aside.
“I’m going to have Ernley’s child. I can’t marry you when I know that.”
“But, lovey, I don’t mind--I swear I don’t. And it only makes it the
more necessary I should marry you--quick. Then folk can’t talk so--or
anyway their talk won’t hurt you.”
“I can’t help their talk. I’d rather they talked.... I can’t help it. I
can’t marry you now I know this.”
He began to look scared. At first he had put her words down to her
humility, and he had thought them words of renunciation, but now he was
half-guessing their true significance. Here was something altogether
terrifying and incomprehensible.
“Belle, sweetheart--you mustn’t talk so. You just about must marry me
now, or you’ll be done for--ruined. Oh, darling, don’t think I’ll ever
miscall you for this, or fail you--and I’ll be kind to the kiddy, I
swear I will--I’ll love it as if it was mine.”
His generosity almost reached her pity, but pity came too late now. The
instinct which dragged her from him was stronger than any emotion which
pulled her towards him--all that she could do was to soften her words a
little.
“Poor Daniel--I’m unaccountable sorry. I know I’m treating you badly,
but I can’t help it. I wish I could explain it all, but I can’t. Oh,
can’t you understand? If I was to marry you I’d feel I was doing
something wicked--committing adultery. Oh, I know I’ve done wicked
things before, and you’ll think I’m silly to mind now. But this is
different somehow--if I married you I’d feel I was doing worse than any
other thing I’ve done. Oh, Daniel, do try and understand.”
Perhaps he was hardly to be blamed if he couldn’t.
“But, Belle, didn’t you love me all those times when you said you
did?... You must have loved me when I held you in my arms, and you came
so close, and you gave me all my kisses back....”
“I know. I loved to be in your arms and feel you taking care of me--but
things are different now--I I couldn’t bear you to kiss me....”
His face suddenly went dark.
“Then you can’t really have loved me, or you wouldn’t change--even now
... when things are different. Belle, I believe that you loved Ernley
all the time.”
“Maybe I did--I must have--though I didn’t know it.”
“Then you’ve played the harlot to me. You’ve taken me in. You’ve given
me your kisses for what you could get....”
He stopped suddenly, for he could just see her face in the faint light,
and her eyes were pools of fear and pain. Even though he guessed that
neither was on his account, he must pity her. He realized all that she
had set before herself by this refusal of his protection, now in this
last moment of her extremity. He could not believe that Ernley, probably
engaged to another girl, would turn to her again. Without Ernley,
without Daniel, she would have to face shame, friendlessness, poverty
and pain. Something very strong, very terrible, must be driving her,
even though he couldn’t understand it.
“Forgive me, dear. I shouldn’t ought to speak so. I’ll believe that you
were honest with me, though I can’t understand you now.”
“Oh, Dan, I was honest, as far as I knew my heart.”
“But what do you mean to do about it if you don’t marry me? I reckon
Ernley’s engaged to Miss Jenner, and you can’t do ... have ... go
through this without being married.”
“I can--I must”--setting her teeth--“I will.”
He relented absolutely.
“Since you won’t have me, let me tell Ernley what’s happened. He’d never
let you face it without him ... reckon he’ll chuck that girl ... anyways
he should ought to provide for you.”
“Daniel, promise me--swear to me--you won’t breathe a word to Emley. I
won’t be beholden to his pity. If you tell him I--I’ll kill myself.”
He was more bewildered than ever.
“Promise me, Daniel,” she repeated hoarsely, and he promised--shaken in
heart and head.
The conversation seemed to have withered. They stood in the darkness,
staring at each other. Voices sounded in the yard, coming from the
cowhouse, and suddenly both were taken with the same fear--that they
should be found here together, and be given the teasing due to lovers in
the dark.
“Get out, Daniel,” cried Belle--“out by the cartshed door.”
“But you’ll let me see you again? Belle--I can’t bear this.”
“No--don’t come again--not just now. Oh, don’t you see it’s no good?
I’ll never change my mind--I’m finished.”
“But you can’t....”
“Yes, I can--get out, damn you! If you don’t go now I’ll never see you
again as long as I live.”
“If I go now, will you see me?”
He was like a child pleading.
“Yes--yes. Some day--next week. But get out, anyway. I’m off.”
With a sudden swooping gesture she blundered like a white owl through
the darkness to the main door of the barn. He heard her calling her
father’s, her sister’s name--making truce with the invader, in order to
escape more easily from him, her sweetheart and servant.