For the first two days of this new 'kick-up,' that 'fellow Freeland's'
family undoubtedly tasted the sweets of successful mutiny. The fellow
himself alone shook his head. He, like Nedda, had known nothing, and
there was to him something unnatural and rather awful in this conduct
toward dumb crops.
From the moment he heard of it he hardly spoke, and a perpetual little
frown creased a brow usually so serene. In the early morning of the day
after Malloring went back to town, he crossed the road to a field where
the farmer, aided by his family and one of Malloring's gardeners, was
already carrying the hay; and, taking up a pitchfork, without a word to
anybody, he joined in the work. The action was deeper revelation of his
feeling than any expostulation, and the young people watched it rather
aghast.
“It's nothing,” Derek said at last; “Father never has understood, and
never will, that you can't get things without fighting. He cares more
for trees and bees and birds than he does for human beings.”
“That doesn't explain why he goes over to the enemy, when it's only a
lot of grass.”
Kirsteen answered:
“He hasn't gone over to the enemy, Sheila. You don't understand your
father; to neglect the land is sacrilege to him. It feeds us—he would
say—we live on it; we've no business to forget that but for the land we
should all be dead.”
“That's beautiful,” said Nedda quickly; “and true.”
Sheila answered angrily:
“It may be true in France with their bread and wine. People don't live
off the land here; they hardly eat anything they grow themselves.
How can we feel like that when we're all brought up on mongrel food?
Besides, it's simply sentimental, when there are real wrongs to fight
about.”
“Your father is not sentimental, Sheila. It's too deep with him for
that, and too unconscious. He simply feels so unhappy about the waste of
that hay that he can't keep his hands off it.”
Derek broke in: “Mother's right. And it doesn't matter, except that
we've got to see that the men don't follow his example. They've a funny
feeling about him.”
Kirsteen shook her head.
“You needn't be afraid. He's always been too strange to them!”
“Well, I'm going to stiffen their backs. Coming Sheila?” And they went.
Left, as she seemed always to be in these days of open mutiny, Nedda
said sadly:
“What is coming, Aunt Kirsteen?”
Her aunt was standing in the porch, looking straight before her; a trail
of clematis had drooped over her fine black hair down on to the blue of
her linen dress. She answered, without turning:
“Have you ever seen, on jubilee nights, bonfire to bonfire, from hill to
hill, to the end of the land? This is the first lighted.”
Nedda felt something clutch her heart. What was that figure in blue?
Priestess? Prophetess? And for a moment the girl felt herself swept into
the vision those dark glowing eyes were seeing; some violent, exalted,
inexorable, flaming vision. Then something within her revolted, as
though one had tried to hypnotize her into seeing what was not true;
as though she had been forced for the moment to look, not at what was
really there, but at what those eyes saw projected from the soul behind
them. And she said quietly:
“I don't believe, Aunt Kirsteen. I don't really believe. I think it must
go out.”
Kirsteen turned.
“You are like your father,” she said—“a doubter.”
Nedda shook her head.
“I can't persuade myself to see what isn't there. I never can, Aunt
Kirsteen.”
Without reply, save a quiver of her brows, Kirsteen went back into the
house. And Nedda stayed on the pebbled path before the cottage, unhappy,
searching her own soul. Did she fail to see because she was afraid to
see, because she was too dull to see; or because, as she had said, there
was really nothing there—no flames to leap from hill to hill, no
lift, no tearing in the sky that hung over the land? And she thought:
'London—all those big towns, their smoke, the things they make, the
things we want them to make, that we shall always want them to make.
Aren't they there? For every laborer who's a slave Dad says there are
five town workers who are just as much slaves! And all those Bigwigs
with their great houses, and their talk, and their interest in keeping
things where they are! Aren't they there? I don't—I can't believe
anything much can happen, or be changed. Oh! I shall never see visions,
and dream dreams!' And from her heart she sighed.
In the meantime Derek and Sheila were going their round on bicycles, to
stiffen the backs of the laborers. They had hunted lately, always in
a couple, desiring no complications, having decided that it was less
likely to provoke definite assault and opposition from the farmers. To
their mother was assigned all correspondence; to themselves the verbal
exhortations, the personal touch. It was past noon, and they were
already returning, when they came on the char-a-bancs containing the
head of the strike-breaking column. The two vehicles were drawn up
opposite the gate leading to Marrow Farm, and the agent was detaching
the four men destined to that locality, with their camping-gear. By
the open gate the farmer stood eying his new material askance. Dejected
enough creatures they looked—poor devils picked up at ten pound the
dozen, who, by the mingled apathy and sheepish amusement on their faces,
might never have seen a pitchfork, or smelled a field of clover, in
their lives.
The two young Freelands rode slowly past; the boy's face scornfully
drawn back into itself; the girl's flaming scarlet.
“Don't take notice,” Derek said; “we'll soon stop that.”
And they had gone another mile before he added:
“We've got to make our round again; that's all.”
The words of Mr. Pogram, 'You have influence, young man,' were just.
There was about Derek the sort of quality that belongs to the good
regimental officer; men followed and asked themselves why the devil
they had, afterward. And if it be said that no worse leader than a fiery
young fool can be desired for any movement, it may also be said that
without youth and fire and folly there is usually no movement at all.
Late in the afternoon they returned home, dead beat. That evening
the farmers and their wives milked the cows, tended the horses, did
everything that must be done, not without curses. And next morning the
men, with Gaunt and a big, dark fellow, called Tulley, for spokesmen,
again proffered their demand. The agent took counsel with Malloring by
wire. His answer, “Concede nothing,” was communicated to the men in the
afternoon, and received by Gaunt with the remark: “I thart we should
be hearin' that. Please to thank Sir Gerald. The men concedes their
gratitood....”
That night it began to rain. Nedda, waking, could hear the heavy drops
pattering on the sweetbrier and clematis thatching her open window. The
scent of rain-cooled leaves came in drifts, and it seemed a shame to
sleep. She got up; put on her dressing-gown, and went to thrust her nose
into that bath of dripping sweetness. Dark as the clouds had made the
night, there was still the faint light of a moon somewhere behind. The
leaves of the fruit-trees joined in the long, gentle hissing, and now
and again rustled and sighed sharply; a cock somewhere, as by accident,
let off a single crow. There were no stars. All was dark and soft as
velvet. And Nedda thought: 'The world is dressed in living creatures!
Trees, flowers, grass, insects, ourselves—woven together—the world is
dressed in life! I understand Uncle Tod's feeling! If only it would rain
till they have to send these strike-breakers back because there's no hay
worth fighting about!' Suddenly her heart beat fast. The wicket gate had
clicked. There was something darker than the darkness coming along the
path! Scared, but with all protective instinct roused, she leaned out,
straining to see. A faint grating sound from underneath came up to her.
A window being opened! And she flew to her door. She neither barred it,
however, nor cried out, for in that second it had flashed across her:
'Suppose it's he! Gone out to do something desperate, as Tryst did!' If
it were, he would come up-stairs and pass her door, going to his room.
She opened it an inch, holding her breath. At first, nothing! Was it
fancy? Or was some one noiselessly rifling the room down-stairs? But
surely no one would steal of Uncle Tod, who, everybody knew, had nothing
valuable. Then came a sound as of bootless feet pressing the stairs
stealthily! And the thought darted through her, 'If it isn't he, what
shall I do?' And then—'What shall I do—if it IS!'
Desperately she opened the door, clasping her hands on the place whence
her heart had slipped down to her bare feet. But she knew it was he
before she heard him whisper: “Nedda!” and, clutching him by the sleeve,
she drew him in and closed the door. He was wet through, dripping; so
wet that the mere brushing against him made her skin feel moist through
its thin coverings.
“Where have you been? What have you been doing? Oh, Derek!”
There was just light enough to see his face, his teeth, the whites of
his eyes.
“Cutting their tent-ropes in the rain. Hooroosh!”
It was such a relief that she just let out a little gasping “Oh!” and
leaned her forehead against his coat. Then she felt his wet arms round
her, his wet body pressed to hers, and in a second he was dancing with
her a sort of silent, ecstatic war dance. Suddenly he stopped, went down
on his knees, pressing his face to her waist, and whispering: “What a
brute, what a brute! Making her wet! Poor little Nedda!”
Nedda bent over him; her hair covered his wet head, her hands trembled
on his shoulders. Her heart felt as if it would melt right out of her;
she longed so to warm and dry him with herself. And, in turn, his wet
arms clutched her close, his wet hands could not keep still on her. Then
he drew back, and whispering: “Oh, Nedda! Nedda!” fled out like a
dark ghost. Oblivious that she was damp from head to foot, Nedda stood
swaying, her eyes closed and her lips just open; then, putting out her
arms, she drew them suddenly in and clasped herself....
When she came down to breakfast the next morning, he had gone out
already, and Uncle Tod, too; her aunt was writing at the bureau. Sheila
greeted her gruffly, and almost at once went out. Nedda swallowed
coffee, ate her egg, and bread and honey, with a heavy heart. A
newspaper lay open on the table; she read it idly till these words
caught her eye:
“The revolt which has paralyzed the hay harvest on Sir Gerald
Malloring's Worcestershire estate and led to the introduction of
strike-breakers, shows no sign of abatement. A very wanton spirit of
mischief seems to be abroad in this neighborhood. No reason can be
ascertained for the arson committed a short time back, nor for this
further outbreak of discontent. The economic condition of the laborers
on this estate is admittedly rather above than below the average.”
And at once she thought: '“Mischief!” What a shame!' Were people, then,
to know nothing of the real cause of the revolt—nothing of the Tryst
eviction, the threatened eviction of the Gaunts? Were they not to know
that it was on principle, and to protest against that sort of petty
tyranny to the laborers all over the country, that this rebellion had
been started? For liberty! only simple liberty not to be treated as
though they had no minds or souls of their own—weren't the public
to know that? If they were allowed to think that it was all wanton
mischief—that Derek was just a mischief-maker—it would be dreadful! Some
one must write and make this known? Her father? But Dad might think
it too personal—his own relations! Mr. Cuthcott! Into whose household
Wilmet Gaunt had gone. Ah! Mr. Cuthcott who had told her that he was
always at her service! Why not? And the thought that she might really
do something at last to help made her tingle all over. If she borrowed
Sheila's bicycle she could catch the nine-o'clock train to London, see
him herself, make him do something, perhaps even bring him back with
her! She examined her purse. Yes, she had money. She would say nothing,
here, because, of course, he might refuse! At the back of her mind
was the idea that, if a real newspaper took the part of the laborers,
Derek's position would no longer be so dangerous; he would be, as it
were, legally recognized, and that, in itself, would make him more
careful and responsible. Whence she got this belief in the legalizing
power of the press it is difficult to say, unless that, reading
newspapers but seldom, she still took them at their own valuation, and
thought that when they said: “We shall do this,” or “We must do that,”
they really were speaking for the country, and that forty-five millions
of people were deliberately going to do something, whereas, in truth,
as was known to those older than Nedda, they were speaking, and not too
conclusively at that, for single anonymous gentlemen in a hurry who
were not going to do anything. She knew that the press had power, great
power—for she was always hearing that—and it had not occurred to her
as yet to examine the composition of that power so as to discover that,
while the press certainly had a certain monopoly of expression, and
that same 'spirit of body' which makes police constables swear by one
another, it yet contained within its ring fence the sane and advisable
futility of a perfectly balanced contradiction; so that its only
functions, practically speaking, were the dissemination of news,
seven-tenths of which would have been happier in obscurity;
and—'irritation of the Dutch!' Not, of course, that the press realized
this; nor was it probable that any one would tell it, for it had
power—great power.
She caught her train—glowing outwardly from the speed of her ride, and
inwardly from the heat of adventure and the thought that at last she was
being of some use.
The only other occupants of her third-class compartment were a friendly
looking man, who might have been a sailor or other wanderer on leave,
and his thin, dried-up, black-clothed cottage woman of an old mother.
They sat opposite each other. The son looked at his mother with beaming
eyes, and she remarked: “An' I says to him, says I, I says, 'What?' I
says; so 'e says to me, he says, 'Yes,' he says; 'that's what I say,' he
says.” And Nedda thought: 'What an old dear! And the son looks nice too;
I do like simple people.'
They got out at the first stop and she journeyed on alone. Taking a
taxicab from Paddington, she drove toward Gray's Inn. But now that she
was getting close she felt very nervous. How expect a busy man like Mr.
Cuthcott to spare time to come down all that way? It would be something,
though, if she could get him even to understand what was really
happening, and why; so that he could contradict that man in the other
paper. It must be wonderful to be writing, daily, what thousands and
thousands of people read! Yes! It must be a very sacred-feeling life! To
be able to say things in that particularly authoritative way which must
take such a lot of people in—that is, make such a lot of people think
in the same way! It must give a man a terrible sense of responsibility,
make him feel that he simply must be noble, even if he naturally wasn't.
Yes! it must be a wonderful profession, and only fit for the highest! In
addition to Mr. Cuthcott, she knew as yet but three young journalists,
and those all weekly.
At her timid ring the door was opened by a broad-cheeked girl,
enticingly compact in apron and black frock, whose bright color, thick
lips, and rogue eyes came of anything but London. It flashed across
Nedda that this must be the girl for whose sake she had faced Mr.
Cuthcott at the luncheon-table! And she said: “Are you Wilmet Gaunt?”
The girl smiled till her eyes almost disappeared, and answered: “Yes,
miss.”
“I'm Nedda Freeland, Miss Sheila's cousin. I've just come from
Joyfields. How are you getting on?”
“Fine, thank you, miss. Plenty of life here.”
Nedda thought: 'That's what Derek said of her. Bursting with life! And
so she is.' And she gazed doubtfully at the girl, whose prim black dress
and apron seemed scarcely able to contain her.
“Is Mr. Cuthcott in?”
“No, miss; he'll be down at the paper. Two hundred and five Floodgate
Street.”
'Oh!' thought Nedda with dismay; 'I shall never venture there!' And
glancing once more at the girl, whose rogue slits of eyes, deep sunk
between check-bones and brow, seemed to be quizzing her and saying: 'You
and Mr. Derek—oh! I know!' she went sadly away. And first she thought
she would go home to Hampstead, then that she would go back to the
station, then: 'After all, why shouldn't I go and try? They can't eat
me. I will!'
She reached her destination at the luncheon-hour, so that the offices
of the great evening journal were somewhat deserted. Producing her
card, she was passed from hand to hand till she rested in a small bleak
apartment where a young woman was typing fast. She longed to ask her
how she liked it, but did not dare. The whole atmosphere seemed to her
charged with a strenuous solemnity, as though everything said, 'We have
power—great power.' And she waited, sitting by the window which faced
the street. On the buildings opposite she could read the name of another
great evening journal. Why, it was the one which had contained the
paragraph she had read at breakfast! She had bought a copy of it at the
station. Its temperament, she knew, was precisely opposed to that of
Mr. Cuthcott's paper. Over in that building, no doubt there would be the
same strenuously loaded atmosphere, so that if they opened the windows
on both sides little puffs of power would meet in mid-air, above the
heads of the passers-by, as might the broadsides of old three-deckers,
above the green, green sea.
And for the first time an inkling of the great comic equipoise in
Floodgate Street and human affairs stole on Nedda's consciousness. They
puffed and puffed, and only made smoke in the middle! That must be why
Dad always called them: 'Those fellows!' She had scarcely, however,
finished beginning to think these thoughts when a handbell sounded
sharply in some adjoining room, and the young woman nearly fell into her
typewriter. Readjusting her balance, she rose, and, going to the door,
passed out in haste. Through the open doorway Nedda could see a large
and pleasant room, whose walls seemed covered with prints of men
standing in attitudes such that she was almost sure they were statesmen;
and, at a table in the centre, the back of Mr. Cuthcott in a twiddly
chair, surrounded by sheets of paper reposing on the floor, shining
like autumn leaves on a pool of water. She heard his voice, smothery,
hurried, but still pleasant, say: “Take these, Miss Mayne, take these!
Begin on them, begin! Confound it! What's the time?” And the young
woman's voice: “Half past one, Mr. Cuthcott!” And a noise from Mr.
Cuthcott's throat that sounded like an adjuration to the Deity not to
pass over something. Then the young woman dipped and began gathering
those leaves of paper, and over her comely back Nedda had a clear view
of Mr. Cuthcott hunching one brown shoulder as though warding something
off, and of one of his thin hands ploughing up and throwing back his
brown hair on one side, and heard the sound of his furiously scratching
pen. And her heart pattered; it was so clear that he was 'giving them
one' and had no time for her. And involuntarily she looked at the
windows beyond him to see if there were any puffs of power issuing
therefrom. But they were closed. She saw the young woman rise and come
back toward her, putting the sheets of paper in order; and, as the door
was closing, from the twiddly chair a noise that seemed to couple God
with the condemnation of silly souls. When the young woman was once more
at the typewriter she rose and said: “Have you given him my card yet?”
The young woman looked at her surprised, as if she had broken some rule
of etiquette, and answered: “No.”
“Then don't, please. I can see that he's too busy. I won't wait.”
The young woman abstractedly placed a sheet of paper in her typewriter.
“Very well,” she said. “Good morning!”
And before Nedda reached the door she heard the click-click of the
machine, reducing Mr. Cuthcott to legibility.
'I was stupid to come,' she thought. 'He must be terribly overworked.
Poor man! He does say lovely things!' And, crestfallen, she went along
the passages, and once more out into Floodgate Street. She walked along
it frowning, till a man who was selling newspapers said as she passed:
“Mind ye don't smile, lydy!”
Seeing that he was selling Mr. Cuthcott's paper, she felt for a coin
to buy one, and, while searching, scrutinized the newsvender's figure,
almost entirely hidden by the words:
GREAT HOUSING SCHEME
HOPE FOR THE MILLION!
on a buff-colored board; while above it, his face, that had not quite
blood enough to be scorbutic, was wrapped in the expression of those
philosophers to whom a hope would be fatal. He was, in fact, just what
he looked—a street stoic. And a dim perception of the great social
truth: “The smell of half a loaf is not better than no bread!” flickered
in Nedda's brain as she passed on. Was that what Derek was doing with
the laborers—giving them half the smell of a liberty that was not there?
And a sudden craving for her father came over her. He—he only, was any
good, because he, only, loved her enough to feel how distracted and
unhappy she was feeling, how afraid of what was coming. So, making for a
Tube station, she took train to Hampstead....
It was past two, and Felix, on the point of his constitutional. He had
left Becket the day after Nedda's rather startling removal to Joyfields,
and since then had done his level best to put the whole Tryst affair,
with all its somewhat sinister relevance to her life and his own, out of
his mind as something beyond control. He had but imperfectly succeeded.
Flora, herself not too present-minded, had in these days occasion to
speak to him about the absent-minded way in which he fulfilled even the
most domestic duties, and Alan was always saying to him, “Buck up, Dad!”
With Nedda's absorption into the little Joyfields whirlpool, the sun
shone but dimly for Felix. And a somewhat febrile attention to 'The Last
of the Laborers' had not brought it up to his expectations. He fluttered
under his buff waistcoat when he saw her coming in at the gate. She
must want something of him! For to this pitch of resignation, as to his
little daughter's love for him, had he come! And if she wanted something
of him, things would be going wrong again down there! Nor did the warmth
of her embrace, and her: “Oh! Dad, it IS nice to see you!” remove that
instinctive conviction; though delicacy, born of love, forbade him to
ask her what she wanted. Talking of the sky and other matters, thinking
how pretty she was looking, he waited for the new, inevitable proof that
youth was first, and a mere father only second fiddle now. A note
from Stanley had already informed him of the strike. The news had been
something of a relief. Strikes, at all events, were respectable and
legitimate means of protest, and to hear that one was in progress had
not forced him out of his laborious attempt to believe the whole affair
only a mole-hill. He had not, however, heard of the strike-breakers, nor
had he seen any newspaper mention of the matter; and when she had shown
him the paragraph; recounted her visit to Mr. Cuthcott, and how she had
wanted to take him back with her to see for himself—he waited a moment,
then said almost timidly: “Should I be of any use, my dear?” She flushed
and squeezed his hand in silence; and he knew he would.
When he had packed a handbag and left a note for Flora, he rejoined her
in the hall.
It was past seven when they reached their destination, and, taking the
station 'fly,' drove slowly up to Joyfields, under a showery sky.