ABDICATION
"Ham, pie, cheese, bread, tarts, a custard and stewed apples. Well, I
don't think we shall do so badly. Why didn't you roast a fowl and have
done with it, Mary?"
At four o'clock in the morning Sarah Bannister faced Mary across the
dining-room table with a smile of grim amusement. Mary looked up from
the end of the table. She was abstractedly fingering one of her best
netted doilies set under the ham in a moment of mental aberration by
the red-eyed Violet.
"Well, I suppose I might have done that without such trouble. I'm
afraid one or two have been roasted without any help from me." She
laughed forlornly and pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across
her forehead.
"Where are the men?" asked Sarah.
"I think they've gone to wash their hands. They must all be pretty
black."
"Oh. I'm glad to hear it. You could do with a wash yourself, Mary.
There's a smut right across the middle of your nose. No, it's no use
dabbing at it with your handkerchief. You'd better by half go upstairs
and get tidied a bit. I'll pour out if the men come in."
Mary left the room, and Sarah stood by the table beating a soft tattoo
on the back of John's chair. Only five hours ago a cyclist passing
through Anderby on his way from Hardrascliffe had brought news to
Market Burton of the Robsons' stack fire.
Sarah had asked no questions. She had put on her second best bonnet,
roused Tom from his sleep and sent him to hire a car from the garage
while she went herself to summon Toby. Sarah never was quite sure why
she considered Toby's presence necessary, but a legal adviser might
always come in handy and in this final catastrophe John must lack no
possible support.
There was a clatter in the passage and three men entered the room: Tom
Bannister, flushed and embarrassed, his round eyes wide with sleep,
Toby Robson, nervous and loud voiced, wishing himself out of the whole
damned show but determined to pass it off with as much joviality as
possible, John, pale and miserable, his physical bulk only emphasizing
his mental helplessness.
Sarah looked at him anxiously. She wanted, with an intensity that
surprised her, to go up to him and put her arms round his broad bowed
shoulders and stroke his hanging head and whisper, "Never mind, John.
Never mind, dear John. You couldn't help it. You've done your best.
You've given the ten best years of your life to Mary's farm. It isn't
your fault it's all spoilt. I'll take care of you. Give it all up and
come to Market Burton and we'll all be happy there again."
Instead she remarked:
"Hum. From the time you've all been away I thought you must have been
having a bath, but now I've seen you I doubt I was mistaken. Tea, John?
Tom, hand me the whisky decanter, please. A drop of whisky in a little
strong tea won't do any of you any harm."
She established herself behind the teapot and was pouring out when Mary
came in. Quietly Sarah relinquished her place and began to cut the loaf
in stalwart slices.
"I wouldn't have any pie on an empty stomach if I were you, Tom. It's
a while back since tea and I'm sure after a drive in Collinson's car
your liver will be upset for weeks. Give him just a little ham, please,
John."
"Decent fellow that constable of yours, Mary," remarked Toby, his mouth
full of pie. "Getting his head turned a bit though with two arrests in
one night. Murder and arson! It's a bit thick for a village in these
parts. You mayn't have much money in Anderby, but you do see life!"
Sarah frowned, but as John seemed to be paying little attention to the
conversation she decided that Toby's exuberance was not worth checking.
Besides, he had really been quite useful throughout this extraordinary,
uncomfortable night.
Mary had been attempting to eat the ham that lay on her plate in limp
pink slices. She put down her knife and fork now and turned to Toby.
"What's going to happen to Mike O'Flynn now?" she asked.
"Oh, well, of course, he'll have to be kept safe until the trial. Of
course the man's insane. An old soldier you said?"
"Yes, and very excitable. He had pneumonia about two years ago and was
quite off his head then for a bit. The men told me he's been drinking
a lot lately and getting very worked up. I suppose I ought to have
noticed, but I just didn't."
"Oh, completely mad I should say. Look at the way he never attempted to
escape. Just hung about the body till some one fetched the policeman.
Why on earth did he do this fellow in, though? Senseless sort of thing
it seemed."
"Oh, I saw him to-night for a few minutes, you know, and he told me."
Sarah heard Mary's flat dreary voice, sounding as though she told a
tale so often repeated that it had become unutterably boring.
"He seemed sane in a way then, but queer of course and not at all
ashamed. He said that Mr. Rossitur had brought all the trouble to
Anderby and when the strike was over he was really furious, but just
pretended it was all his own doing. And Mike says that earlier in
the evening he saw him hanging round and was sure he was up to some
mischief. Then when he heard of the fire he knew Mr. Rossitur had lit
it to pay us out, and he saw him run off to get his bicycle--really to
fetch the fire-engine, but Mike thought he was running away. So he got
Foreman's gun, the one John gave him to shoot rabbits with, and ran
down the garden path at the back of the house to the _Flying Fox_, and
came on Mr. Rossitur just as he was getting on his bicycle and shot him
point-blank through the head."
Sarah listened with frowning brows.
Really, now the fire was over, and the police officers interviewed and
the Irish murderer and Mary's discharged beastman arrested, it was time
to talk about something else. She passed her cup to Mary.
"More tea, please. And, if you have any water, I should like it weaker.
My digestive organs are not made of cast iron, and I don't suppose that
a heavy meal at this house will exactly improve their condition. Tom,
if you've had enough, you'd better go and wake that chauffeur. We'll be
moving."
"Oh, no. You'll stay the night here, please, Sarah," said Mary.
"Violet's putting some sheets on the spare room bed now. I found her
crying all over Fred Stephens in the kitchen, and decided she had
better have something else to do. Fred was very tired. He's been
splendid to-night. In fact, they all have."
"Oh, very well. I suppose that man will wait. I'm sure I don't want him
to stay, though, if he's going to charge us by the hour, I'd rather he
took the car back to Market Burton, and you could give us a lift to the
station to-morrow. I hate those nasty, smelly cars, always breaking
down just when you want them most. What amazes me is that we didn't
have a puncture to-night."
She straightened the bonnet which she had not yet laid aside, and
helped herself to another tart.
It was strange how the memory of another meal haunted her. Last
December they had all sat round the table, congratulating themselves
on their own cleverness, and Uncle Dickie had made that deplorable
speech. Well, Uncle Dickie was dead and there was not much matter for
congratulation now. The stackyard was gone. The farm buildings were
reduced to blackened husks. Only the rain, held off too long by the
wind to save the stables, had come in time to check the fire before it
reached the cottages beyond. And that red haired young socialist lay
dead in the back sitting-room. That was bad luck. He was an irreverent,
conceited young fool of course, but then one was like that when one was
young, and doubtless he was rather clever, and had a good many hopes
about the fine things he was going to do. It was bad luck, being shot
down by a crazy harvester, just when life was beginning. Still, the
important thing at the moment was to get John to bed without any more
fuss. He looked absolutely worn out. She supposed that even this would
not make any difference to Mary's determination to stay on at Anderby.
Mary was of the obstinate, selfish type, who insist upon doing good
in their own way. If she thought that she was doing her duty there at
Anderby, at Anderby she would stay, even if John had twenty strokes and
died.
Sarah rose from the table.
"Now then, Mary. What about getting to bed? I'm sure we're all tired,
and if Violet has put those sheets on the spare bed we'd better use
them."
"Well, well, it doesn't sound so bad. I could do with forty winks
myself," remarked Toby, with a tremendous yawn.
They trooped upstairs, Mary hurrying first to see that the rooms were
ready. In a little while she returned to the dining-room, and found
Sarah sitting there. She had not even removed her bonnet.
"Aren't you going to bed?" asked Mary.
"I never go to bed within an hour after a meal unless there is some
special reason. Is John in bed?"
"Yes. He went straight to sleep. He must be very tired."
Mary sat down on a chair near the table, and idly dug little pits in
the salt-cellar, raising the spoon and watching the salt stream slowly
back into the pot. The fire was dead and Sarah looked from the empty
grate to the discarded meal on the table.
"Hadn't you better go to bed yourself? You'll have a hard day
to-morrow."
"I know," said Mary, but she made no effort to rise.
"You're spilling that salt on the cloth. It'll only be more mess to
clear away in the morning."
Mary's hand was still. She turned and looked at Sarah.
"You were right," she said at last very slowly.
"Indeed? I usually am. But when do you mean particularly?"
"When you said we should have to give up Anderby."
"Oh."
"I was wrong in the garden the other day. And I knew I was wrong all
the time. That's why I was so angry, I suppose."
Sarah raised her eyebrows. This was the first time she ever remembered
hearing Mary confess herself mistaken.
"I have not had time yet to talk to Toby, but I will in the morning.
About selling the farm, I mean. I think we'll sell and not let it. I
shouldn't like the idea of anyone but a Robson farming it while it was
still mine. Then we could live at Littledale, or Market Burton."
Sarah said nothing. Until last Wednesday she had never believed it
possible that she could have been so sorry for Mary. The flat, weary
voice went on.
"You know, ever since we drove down the hill and heard about the fire,
I've had a sort of feeling that if I had given way at once and said
we would retire, when everyone thought we should, this wouldn't have
happened."
"Now, you're being sentimental, Mary. You know quite well it had
nothing on earth to do with you retiring."
"I'm not so sure. I think Waite did it to drive us out of the village.
If he'd heard we were going anyhow...."
"That's all far-fetched nonsense. It's happened and it's a great pity
that it's happened. But in a way it might have been worse. After the
insurance has been paid, you won't have lost a deal o' money, and you
can live quite comfortably somewhere else, and do a bit of farming
at Littledale. I certainly think Anderby is a bit too much for John
after what's happened, and now he isn't well. He looks done up enough
to-night."
"That's all, then."
Sarah rose. She was tired herself, and Mary looked tired too. It was
quite time that they both went to bed, but something in Mary's face
made Sarah hesitate. After all, it was Mary's farm, and she knew it
would not be pleasant to be driven out in this way. She wanted to
comfort her--at least, part of her wanted to, the other part felt only
resentment against the woman whose obstinacy and self-confidence had
been so bad for John.
"Hadn't you better go to bed?" she asked.
"I'm coming in a minute. You go. I'm just going to see if the doors are
fastened."
"Mary, is there anything I can do?"
"Nothing, thank you."
For a moment they confronted one another. There was no sound except the
rain, falling in a steady downpour on the house and garden. The wind
had dropped. Sarah took a step forward. If Mary had given one sign of
emotion, had done anything but stand by the table, with a grey, bored
face, Sarah might have tried to console her. She did not move.
"Good night then, Mary."
"Good night."
On the threshold, Sarah paused. Mary was still standing contemplating
the wreckage of the meal. She was even smiling to herself, a strange,
light smile. Now, people hadn't any business to smile like that when
they had just made things thoroughly miserable for every one else.
Sarah retired to bed.
Mary stood alone in the dining-room. Just through the wall, in John's
little gun-room, lay David with a sheet across his face. It was one
of the best linen sheets. Mary was sorry that he was in such an
uncomfortable place, but the house had been very full and so many
policemen and inspectors and people had wanted to look at him, that it
seemed the only thing to be done. It was queer how little anyone seemed
to think of him, though, because, really, he was much more important
than a stack fire. Mary felt quite angry when she thought of Toby and
Sarah comfortably asleep upstairs, while David lay on a sofa in the
gun-room. Still, it was a linen sheet....
She did not want to go and look at him. It was not fair to go now,
when her presence would have embarrassed him so much, had he still
lived. There was a note from him in her pocket. He had pushed it under
the door that evening after she had driven to Hardrascliffe when Mike
thought he was "hanging about up to some mischief." He only said he
was glad that he had been able to help in settling the strike, and
hoped that Mrs. Robson would regard this as a more substantial form of
apology for his recent behaviour, but that he was just as convinced as
ever that Anderby was being worked on a pernicious system of patronage,
and it would be so splendid if only she would realize it.
One day, she supposed, she might be glad to have this and the articles
he had written, but just now she felt too tired to read--too tired even
to think properly, though she was sure that there was something very
special she had to think about, if only she could combat that queer,
vague feeling in her head that made everything so unreal.
What had happened was all her fault.... Mike ... His sudden madness
had been her fault in a way, because of something she had said to him
in their last interview before the strike. She wasn't quite sure what
it was, but she knew that there was something. Then Waite--it had been
just his luck that some one should have caught him hiding the paraffin
tins in the oilshed--of course, she might have been less unkind to
him.... Then John's stroke, and Coast's invitation to Hunting, and the
strike, and the fire, and David's death.... All somehow connected with
things she had done or left undone.
She began to move about the room, lifting dishes and placing them on
the butler's tray, then putting them back again. But the table refused
to become any tidier. She ought to tidy it. Every one would be so busy
in the morning. She must do her best to make things easy....
She had always done her best. Everything, her rule over the village,
her saving of the farm, her treatment of John, even her dismissal of
Waite.... What was one to do? Was it her fault that all the ideas she
had encountered, all the circumstances surrounding her, tended to make
her one kind of person?
She must try and get things straight in her head. If she persisted in
blaming herself entirely, she would go mad. Besides, it probably wasn't
true. If only there was some one to tell her what was true.... David
could have done it.
She sat down by the curtained windows and pressed her hands across her
aching eyes.
The broad view.... If one could only take the broad view. David had
said, it made everything tolerable. There was something he had quoted
once in an article in the _Northern Clarion_. "There comes a time when
out of a false good, there arises a true evil." ... Was that meant for
her? David had told her she belonged to a generation that should have
passed.... Her work at Anderby might be the best thing of which she was
capable, but it was a false good. She looked after people too much.
They needed to be taught how to look after themselves, because no one
could ever look after people properly. There always came a time when
that vicarious strength broke down ... as with John, or the village
after Hunting came....
Besides, David was dead. David, with his wild ideas for the progress
of civilization and the reform of agricultural conditions, could carry
out none of them now. He had died, horribly, wastefully, futilely. Such
horror and such futility would hardly bear contemplating, because he
had been so much alive, so full of purpose, possessing such an ardent
desire for work. That was why she must go. Because, if David was dead,
it wasn't fair to spoil his work even if one didn't believe in it. If
the changes which David desired in Anderby were to come, then she and
John must go. For, if they stayed, they would prevent the completion of
his work. They could not help it. They were made like that. Whatever
they might mean to do, they would slip back at last into the old
ways. So, only by going could she in any way make up to David for
the folly of his dying ... and she must go. Market Burton was a dull
place, but she supposed there would be work of some kind to be done
there. There would always be a girl's club or a nursing association or
something--something that couldn't do anyone much harm....
She smiled a little bitterly. Once she had thought so much of all the
good she was going to do to people....
Of course nothing mattered very much now, but she supposed that one day
she would wake up and remember that she was under thirty still, and
want again desperately all the things she had missed. David, the smile
of the labourers as she passed them by the stackyard gate, the brown,
full-bosomed, curve of the hills, and the scent of cream and butter in
a red-tiled dairy....
But they were nothing to the things that David would miss. That was why
one must remember all the time the things that he had said. Of course
it might be consoling to realize that Jack Greenwood and Hunting and
Coast and Fred Stephens were the heirs of the future and that by going
away quietly she was doing the only thing she could do to ensure them
the contentment of proceeding....
But Mary had seen enough of Market Burton to know that she would find
little satisfaction in noble sentiments when her maid gave notice,
or the rector altered the date of the missionary bazaar, or Mrs.
Marly-Thompson wouldn't call.
Perhaps though, even if one did not think of them, even if in one's own
limited, unsatisfactory life there seemed no room for them, those fine
things were there just the same--courage, service, progress....
David's courage and service not wantonly wasted, his desire for
progress not frustrated, but fulfilled at last because of him--even
remotely because of her....
Just now, though, she must be practical and get to work. The morning
was here already and there were policemen and insurance agents to be
interviewed and the labourers to be seen and plans to be made for the
sheltering of cattle and implements. For a few months until she and
John left Anderby she would be too busy to think. Well, perhaps it
was just as well and--after that--she might even understand a little
better....
She moved suddenly and flung back the curtains. Outside, the rain
had ceased and it was light again. The pungent smell of rain-washed
earth came in from the autumn garden, and with it another smell of
charred wood and blackened straw. From the church on the hill a bell
was ringing for the seven o'clock service. Golden beyond the sodden
shrubbery the sun rose slowly over Anderby Wold.
THE END
* * * * *
_by the same author
and published by The Bodley Head_
THE CROWDED STREET
a novel
WOMEN
a sociological study