THE ROAD TO ANDERBY
"Well," sighed Mary, "and that's that."
She thrust the last parcel into the back of the dog-cart, and walked
round to examine the pony's harness. The ostler at the _Paul Jones_ had
a natural gift of imperfection.
"How many times have I told you to twist the belly-band once round the
strap before you pass it under the pony's body?" she inquired with
asperity.
While she was attending to this business herself, John lounged into the
yard, his pipe in his mouth, and his hands thrust into the pockets of a
light overcoat. He stood watching as her strong fingers tugged at the
stiff straps and buckles. She gave the ostler his sixpence and climbed
up to the driver's seat.
"Just hold the pony's head till we get out of the yard, will you,
ostler? Now then, John, are you up?"
"Going to be a rough night, Mrs. Robson," remarked the ostler, as John
mounted the step.
Mary looked from the threatening sky to the orange peel and paper bags
blown by the wind along the esplanade.
"Yes, but we shall be well home before the storm breaks. With a wind
like this, the rain will hold off long enough. That's right. Now let
go, please."
The cart swung out of the inn yard, and clattered down the lamplit
street, Mary driving dexterously among the Saturday night crowd.
"I don't much like putting up at the _Paul Jones_, John," she observed.
"They take such a while to yoke up, and the ostler can't do anything
right."
John made no reply. Ever since his illness he had grown more reserved.
The trouble of the strike had stunned him into a lethargy of
submission. After his protest on the first morning, when he considered
Mary's outburst of temper unjustifiable, he had accepted her judgments
without comment. Mary was therefore surprised when, as they drove
through the streets at the west end of the town, he volunteered a
remark:
"I saw young Rossitur this morning."
"Oh."
Of course someone was bound to mention him sooner or later. Ever since
she heard of his return to the village, she had prepared herself to
face every possible situation. She would meet him somewhere, and be
forced to speak with him--or John would meet him, and remember.... But
day by day news came of him, of his interview with Hunting, of his
impassioned speech to the men of the union, of his final settlement of
the strike. And she had never seen him. Perhaps he had avoided her as
assiduously as she had avoided him.
She sat silent for a moment, her attention apparently occupied by the
reins. Then she gained sufficient self-control to ask, with apparent
indifference:
"Did you speak to him at all?"
He knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the splash-board, before
he answered.
"Yes, I did. You know, Mary, I don't think we did that young fellow
justice."
"No? Why, John?"
"Well, he always seemed to me a bit of a wind shaker, and there's no
denying that if he hadn't been to the village that chap Hunting might
never have come down."
"That's true of course."
"But you know, I think he must have seen he'd made a bit of an ass of
himself, when he saw the strike coming on and all that, at least, so he
said."
"Oh, he said that, did he? Why, John? When did you talk to him?"
"I met him up in village this morning when I went to pay the joiner's
bill for mending the reapers."
"Oh, yes. He was still there then?"
"Ay. He said he was leaving Anderby to-night. Going back to Manchester.
He told me he'd wanted to say that as far as the strike had hit us,
he was sorry and that when he saw how Coast and Hunting between them
were egging the men on to hold out for more money, after we offered the
three pounds, he felt he had to come down and stop it if he could."
"Oh, well, I'm glad he said that. Did he--did he ask after me?"
"No, I can't say that he did. He seemed a bit upset, though that's not
unlikely seeing the way he's treated us. But I will say this, once he
made up his mind, he did act like a gentleman. That was a rare speech
he made at the meeting in the school room before the men came in. Some
one reported it in the _Hardrascliffe Times_. I got a copy in the
market to-day."
"Oh. I'll look at it when we get in."
"Ay. Do you remember when you brought him home--last spring, wasn't it?
Ah, but that's a while back."
"Do you remember?" The road was dipping towards the valley where the
cross-roads met. All her life, Mary thought, when she passed them, she
would see the stoop of slender shoulders, and the back of a red head in
a misty circle of lantern-light. She looked sideways at John's bulky
figure, lolling on the seat where once David had sat.
"Oh, yes, let me see, that was in the spring, wasn't it?" she replied.
It was strange, how things could happen which seemed to turn the world
upside down, and yet the people who saw one every day never noticed.
"... Anyone with my beautiful disposition has to have some physical
disability to counteract it." ... Imagine John ever saying anything as
silly as that! John never said anything silly. That was the worst of
him.
Then something that she had been wanting to say all day recurred to
her. "John, I was talking to Mr. Slater in church last night. He says
you mentioned in the parish meeting that you'd like to retire from
Anderby. Is that true?"
"Well, I don't know if I said those exact words."
"But did you mean it?"
"Now, I wouldn't go so far as to say that. But I was talking it over
with Sarah Bannister that time she came to see me when I was in bed...."
"Oh, I see," said Mary.
She understood.
"And you know I'm not a young man, honey. And I'm not very clever
about these new rules and regulations. And when I have to think about
overtime and union secretaries and all that, it strikes me that farming
isn't what it used to be."
Of course. Sarah's very words. It was just what she had imagined. Where
John didn't echo her, he echoed Sarah. Well, this time he'd have to
echo her.
"Of course it isn't what it used to be," she said brusquely, flicking
the pony with her whip. "Nothing ever is. We've got to move with the
times. It's only when things are changing that it's difficult. In a
year or two you'll forget there ever has been a union."
John shook his head. "I don't know. I feel sometimes it's hard to start
all over again, just when I was getting used to things as they were."
"That's because you haven't been very well lately. You will, though.
You'll get used to it. One can get used to anything."
Again she felt as though there were enemies trying to snatch her
kingdom from her, and that she must hold on with both hands in blind
tenacity, no matter what it cost her or anyone else.
"Of course I can't hold you here against your will," she said. "I'm not
going to deny that you came here on my account. Only I do think it
would be silly to make a move now, when the mortgage is just paid."
He did not answer. The wind caught them as they turned westward along
the road to Anderby. It whipped short strands of hair across Mary's
face. John clutched at his hat and bent his head to the gale.
"Mind you," continued Mary, "I dare say that Sarah is right when
she says that any more upset wouldn't be good for you. But now that
everything is quiet again, I see no reason why we should worry."
"Very well, honey. You know best."
This would be her life, thought Mary. She would always have John's
large and ineffective figure beside her. His "Very well, honey, you
know best," would greet every decision that she made. She would always
have long days at Anderby and short hours by the sea, and the homeward
road winding before her in the fading light. There would always be the
dull absence of expectation that rewards those who have realized their
ambitions, and, later, there would be failing energy and old age....
Well, at least she had two possessions which made all that endurable.
The kingdom of Anderby was, after all, still hers, in spite of Sarah
and John and Coast and Hunting, and that fierce, indefinable power
which David called progress. The other thing--she opened her eyes more
widely in the windy dusk, and even then the colour rose to her cheeks
and her heart beat faster--the other thing was the knowledge that
somewhere David was alive and working. Though she might not, no, did
not now even wish to see him, yet, from time to time the force of his
vitality would quicken her through his writings, through chance news
of his activities, through the memories to which she turned again and
again when other thoughts were still. She might still amuse herself
by pretending to hear his voice offering help again from the darkness
of the road, or by rehearsing imaginary scenes to herself, scenes
that would follow his return, many years afterwards, to visit her at
Anderby. And she would confess what a narrow, complacent fool she had
been, and they would laugh together over everything--even that incident
in the cornfield ... no, perhaps not that. They would never speak of
that. All the same, the quiet dream meadow where John had wooed her was
driven now from her imagination by the picture of a wheat-field, hot
and golden, and the scent of poppies and ripening corn upon the air.
Suddenly she raised her head. The scent of wheat and poppies? This
familiar, acrid smell that the wind blew against her nostrils? "Can you
smell something, John?" she asked.
He sniffed the air.
"Ay. Something's burning. Probably they're burning hedge-clippings
somewhere."
"You don't burn hedge-clippings just after harvest."
A bicycle bell rang furiously just under the horse's nose. He swerved
aside.
"Where are your lights?" called Mary. "It's past lighting time."
A voice answered from the road. "That you, Mrs. Robson?" Then, almost
before she had time to reply, it called, "Then hurry back. I'm off to
fetch t' fire-engine. Your stacks are afire."
She stopped for no inquiry, but leaning low and plucking the whip from
its socket she sent the pony forward at a gallop.
There was only another mile of road to cover before they rounded the
Church Hill and the village lay beneath them. Then they would know the
worst that was to be known.
The smell of burning grew stronger. The road seemed interminable. The
fat pony, overfed and scant of breath, resented this sudden outburst of
activity on the part of his mistress. He slackened his pace.
Mary rose from her seat and cut him sharply several times with the
whip. It was the surprise of his life. He stopped dead, then started
forward and galloped full into the teeth of the gale.
The dark trees and hedges streamed past them as they mounted the rise
to the Church Hill, John crouching still and silent, Mary half standing
and urging the pony forward with whip and rein.
From the top of the hill they looked down. Below in the village was a
glare of red that threw the fantastic outline of roofs and chimneys
into black relief, and rose into smoke hiding the outline of the wold
and merging into the evening sky.
The fire looked a little too far to the right. For a wild moment of
hope Mary thought the cyclist might have been mistaken. As the cart
descended the hill she called to a passer-by:
"Where's the fire?"
"Robsons'--stackyard and farm buildings."
They rattled on. The village street was astir with clamorous commotion.
Everyone in Anderby seemed to be out of doors; skurrying black figures
moved to and fro in the flickering red light.
Mary drew up outside the stackyard gate and let the reins fall on the
pony's heaving flanks. Before her, above a jagged bar of wall, rose the
flames from twenty-four stacks merrily blazing. A southwesterly wind
swept them towards the farm buildings. The thatch along the covered
side of the fold-yard was already alight.
Fascinated, she watched the moving figures of men pass and repass
before the fire. They were leading the horses and cattle away from
the stable. Poor things! No wonder the animals were afraid with those
horrid sacks tied over their heads. It was a shame, too, that they
could not see the pretty fire. For it was pretty. Mary, who loved
bright colours, watched the sparks dance upon the wind and trail away
in a cloud of smoke like the fireworks at Hardrascliffe during the
season.
A sudden jolt of the cart as John clambered down aroused her, but still
she did not move. She watched his indecisive movements, his hesitating
steps towards the fire, his stumbling return towards the cart.
There was a small crowd in the road. Some one had recognized them now.
"That you, Mrs. Robson, that you?"
Even then Mary was glad that it was she to whom they called. "Yes.
We're back. Take the pony to the other stables, some one, and please
see that there's a rug put across him. We've come fast. Now then, who's
in charge here?"
"Shep's getting the horses out. Foreman ain't back yet. Did you see
young Mr. Rossitur on the road to Hardrascliffe? He went on his cycle
to get t' engine."
"No--there was a man though, going to get the fire-engine."
Shepherd approached her, his face grimed with smoke. His blue eyes
shone grimly.
"We've got the stock out, Mrs. Robson, but I doubt we'll save t'
buildings. There's no water in t' pond and we can't get none fra' back
till t' fire-engine comes and the hose."
"Have the far stables caught yet?"
"Not yet, but the wind's blowing right agin' them."
"Well, we can't do anything about the fold-yard, but get some
men--anyone, and make a line of buckets and jugs from the pump to the
stables, and try and keep the fire off them. Mrs. Greenwood, you go and
take those other women and get all the jugs and things you can find in
the house. Oh, wait a minute. There's the key. Violet's out."
There was very little that one could do but wait for the fire-engine.
John seemed entirely bewildered, not exactly alarmed but stunned and
helpless, standing by the wall and doing nothing. That really did not
matter because no one could do anything with a fire blazing in a dry
stackyard, without an adequate supply of water. She touched his arm.
"There's nothing to be done here," she cried. "Not till the fire-engine
comes. You'd better go into the house."
He shook her off irritably, but said nothing and continued to watch the
crackling flames and floating wisps of fiery straw.
The onlookers stared at them both with awed curiosity. They wondered
what it was like to stand and see, one's whole harvest, corn and straw
and buildings and all, blazing away like a bonfire on Guy Fawkes' night.
Mary turned to a woman at her side.
"Do they think it was a spark from the engine?" she asked.
The onlooker was Mrs. Waite. She stared at Mary with wide frightened
eyes.
"Oh, I don't know, I don't know. Eli said it was."
Louie Watts, roused by unwonted excitement from her usual langour,
turned to Mary with the pride of information.
"I heard Mike O'Flynn say it was lit a-purpose. I saw him come from t'
_Flying Fox_ when news first went round t' village."
Mary turned to her.
"What did he say, Louie?" she asked.
"He said, 'This is the dirty work of that damned skunk,'" repeated
Louie, with gleeful recollection. "And then he ran out of the yard."
"Oh." Mary was not really very interested in what Mike O'Flynn had
said. It seemed unnecessary for him to run out of the yard when so
much remained to be done inside it, but doubtless he must have gone
to fetch something.... Because, even if the stacks had been "lit
a-purpose," some one ought to put the fire out.
She looked at her watch. Eight o'clock. Only about a quarter of an hour
had elapsed, then, since she passed the cyclist on the road. That was
never David! Why had David ridden for the fire-engine? And, if he had
ridden, why hadn't she seen him on the way? Riding at that rate he must
have reached Hardrascliffe by now. If he had any sense he would stop
at the first telephone call office. She wished that she had thought of
that. He passed so quickly.
"Is the policeman here?" she asked abruptly. Constable Burton was
usually a most conspicuous figure at village crises. Mary thought that
his large stupidity might be comforting.
"He was here a bit back," a woman replied, "but some one said something
about an accident up street, and he went to see."
It would take another half-hour for the fire-engine to arrive at the
village. By that time, probably, the flames would have reached the
buildings to the right of the stackyard. Mary wondered whether she
ought to go herself and superintend the fight against the fire. It
would be a pity not to do the right thing now. She always had done
it ... only somehow, it was so useless, because there wasn't any
water.... A dress, the colour of that vivid orange and red, when the
flames had caught a pile of loose straw, would be pretty.... If David
rode too fast down the hill into Hardrascliffe, she did hope he would
ring his bell before the turn at the bottom....
Jack Greenwood stood beside her. His round eyes stared, his wide mouth
hung open.
"Oh, Mrs. Robson!" he gasped.
"Yes, Jack?" It was so silly that anyone should look so excited. There
really was nothing to fuss about. After all, they were her stacks
burning and she was quite content to stand watching them. Really it was
rather a beautiful sight, so long as one did not stand too near, where
the sparks might fall.
"Please, m'm, Constable Burton says I'm to tell you there's been an
accident up the street. Some one's hurt and they want to bring him into
your house."
"Of course. I'll go. I can't do anything here. What is it?"
Here at least, was something obvious and familiar to be done.
"Some one's shot that fellow what talked in the village."
"Shot him? Oh, nonsense! Who do you mean? Mr. Hunting?" Thank
everything there was to thank that David was in Hardrascliffe!
"No, yon other, with red hair."
"Oh.... Is he badly hurt?"
She began to move towards the garden, Jack stumbling beside her, almost
running to keep up with her eager stride.
"I doant rightly know. Policeman's there. Mike O'Flynn had a gun and
stood agin' him, and kept on saying, 'I've done 'im in. Praise be to
Mary! I've done him in.'"
"Mike?"
She frowned a little, as though she did not quite understand. The
garden was dark, with curious flashes of crimson light through the
overhanging trees. She reached the backdoor of the house. It swung idly
in the wind, but the women who had entered it to search for jugs and
pails had gone.
Mary stood in the yard beside it, listening to heavy footsteps
approaching up the garden path--the path that led through a wicket-gate
into the road on the way to the _Flying Fox_.
She ought to have gone forward into the house and lit the lamps and
made things ready. Only it was too late now. It was stupid, of course,
to be unprepared, but she wanted to welcome him at the doorway a second
time. She smiled to herself. Now, at least, she might have him. She
might touch him again. However badly he was hurt she would nurse him
back to health. He was young and wiry. Mike was an old soldier, but he
probably hadn't shot very straight.
Constable Burton came through the garden door into the yard. She saw
his round, solemn face in the flickering light. How silly of him to
look so solemn, when he was being kinder to her than ever he had been
before ... bringing her David, David, David.... There was another
figure behind him, and something lying between them on a hurdle.
"Oh, do be careful! Mind the step," she called, as they stumbled into
the yard. "You'll hurt him."
"We can't do much harm, Missus Robson," said the policeman.
"Is he badly hurt?"
"Nay. He's dead. Shot right through 'is 'ead. It's a bad job."
She opened the door wider to receive him.
"Come in," said Mary.