The Time of Man

by Elizabeth Madox Roberts

  Nellie said, her eyes wide, her bent shoulders lifted as she listened:

  ‘Jasper! I heared his whistle!’

  Ellen had not needed to hear, for the fact had spoken directly to her mind in the instant. She took her cloak from the nail behind the door and went quickly out to the roadside where he waited as his custom had been before he went, as if he had never been gone. When they had greeted each other he told her that he had a place to work far to the northwest of the town, the farm owned by a man named Phillips, that he had worked for the past week filling the silo.

  ‘I got the papers for us to wed, got the papers here in my pocket,’ he said as they stood near the step together. He took the paper from his coat and gave it into her hand and she felt its crisp edges, turning it about in the dim light. But presently his hate and anger rose in a great tide, for he remembered his ruin and his losses.

  ‘There’s one thing I aim to do afore I go from here,’ he said. ‘J.B. Tarbell made my trouble with his busybody ways. I got the rest about him in town today, and he told a tale and made me out a lie. I aim to thresh his hide afore I leave this-here land for good. I aim to wipe up the road with his dirty rags and I don’t mind if I break a bone or so, but I have no aim to kill. I wouldn’t feel like myself if I went without I tended to his dirty bones and if I hurt more than I aim why that’s his bad luck. He’ll remember this-here night all his life and that’s my aim. He’s at McGill store now, that I know, and I aim to go there or I’ll meet him on the road. All fair and in the open and no ambush, is what I aim. “Take your time and get ready,” I’ll say, “but you got to fight or get busted.” I aim to go to McGill store now. It’s a thing I got to do. My hands are in a twitchet to get fast on his neck.’

  Ellen stood in his embrace, gathered to the heart of his hate and the heart of his power, feeling his sinews taut about her, knowing the strength of his anger. ‘Jasper, I don’t want you to do e’er hurt to J.B. Tarbell,’ she said. ‘Jasper, I don’t want it.’

  Her pleading increased his anger, for why should she turn from him to defend a lazy tramp? He intended to thresh the scoundrel for his share in the disaster. ‘If you, Ellen, take up for his dirty carcass I’ll crack his skull wide open and tear his heart plumb outen him.’

  ‘I don’t want you to do e’er hurt toward him, Jasper,’ she pled. ‘I ask you now.’

  He walked away toward the garden fence where he stood, bewildered in his rage, but Ellen followed him there and stood beside him. He moved away along the road saying, ‘I aim to do as I said.’

  But she walked slowly beside him, calling him by name, and she took his hand and slowed his steps although he walked uneasily on the road as a man half blind might go. She kept beside him and after a little she drew her arm through his and his arm bent to meet her touch even while his words were still muttered oaths and threats of violent hurt. His arm yielded to her touch and his fingers bent over her hand, and presently she began to talk of other things, of the trouble the mule had given that day, jumping the fence and wandering down the road. Mrs Donahue had passed and had stopped to talk for a while. She had said that Susie Whelen was a bold girl with her eyes on Pius. She herself had been three days looking for the cog from the sausage mill, and she had tumbled out all the rubbish from the shed and had picked it over, scrap by scrap, and where did he think she had found the cog in the end? On the top of the high fence post over beside the barn, laid up there some time in somebody’s hurry. Then she began to talk of themselves, taking more entire possession of his sense and his thought. The time had been long when he was away, and why had he not written her a letter? She had cried in the night thinking that something might have harmed him, and once she had gone, past midnight, to the hill above the quarry, and she had been ready at any hour of the day or the night to go with him, for he had only to call to her. All the others had said, ‘He’s gone for good. You’ll never see a sight of him again,’ and she told him of those who had said this in one way or another, recounting what each had said.

  Then he was telling her that he had had never a thought of anything else but to come. She had led him out of the road onto the lane that went toward the south, and the way was soft underfoot, dry with autumn dust, and thus they went far, winding among the hills, now upward and now down. The night was lit only by the stars. She talked from time to time, murmuring responses to his endearments, or murmuring the idle thoughts and surmises of her mind, keeping him far from his anger and his losses.

  ‘The high bushes over there would be sassafras, red and maybe green, over there in clumps on the far side of the fence. Milkweed gone to seed is in the air today… There’s St Lucy’s bell. Can you hear it? It seems far off, hardly to sound at all. Can you hear?… The road comes here to a gate but I cannot tell what is beyond… We will fasten the gate after us or their cattle might stray…’

  The fences had fallen away from the lane and now the road drifted out into an open space that rose slowly as they walked, a mere beaten path which the cattle took as they went back into remote pasturage. They could no longer hear the dogs bark at Whelen’s or at Stigall’s, for they had walked far. The moon was rising down on the edge of the sky, and after a while they came out onto an upland and passed among a few scattered trees beyond which the land fell away suddenly, making a precipice below, stones rising on the left in great blocks, the hard dolomite, that made a cliff above, so that they stood on a shelf at the side of a wall that reached above and fell below them. Their feet were among fallen leaves, and below they could see the treetops, lit by the misty light of the rising moon, or they sat on the ledge, looking out over some great vale, their sentences falling, now one and now the other, or slipping over each other as their thoughts ran eagerly.

  ‘I saw such a rock-cliff as this once,’ she said, ‘and I said I would…’

  ‘We could go to Phillips’s place, and if we don’t like there we will go further until we find the land we want.’

  ‘And I said that sometimes I would climb to the top and see far out, mountains maybe, or cities…’

  ‘I will kiss you another time. I could sit here the whole of enduren life. If any man ever offered you any insult or any dirt just name his name to me and I’ll give the nasty skunk my fist in his jaw.’

  ‘And now I am on the top of a rock-cliff and I can see the hickory trees down past the rock shoulder, scaly trees you can see there.’

  ‘We will not part any more. Some fair country is what we’ll find, and never part, me and you.’

  ‘If it would be light I could see a far piece I know, but now it is dark but for the little way the moon goes.’

  ‘Rich soil, all cleared, land worth a man’s sweat. And all my work will be for you all day.’

  ‘Or if it is mountains to see, blue they’ll be, with trees over the top. Or cities. Could we see a city from this here place by day, do you reckon?’

  ‘Your mouth is sweet to taste and your hand against my skin, sweet. I can hear your heart beat inside your shoulder and I can feel it beat in your throat.’

  ‘I used to think when I was a youngone, Jasper, that all the things you read about or hear came to pass in some country, all in one country somewheres. “Oh, Mary go and call the cattle home,” and “Lady Nancy died like it might be today,” all in one country.’

  ‘I’ll buy you whatever you want, just name it to me. And we’ll not see any more trouble, e’er a bit. Whatever you so desire.’

  ‘All in one country somewheres, as “Bangum rode to the wild boar’s den”, and “He married Virgin Mary the queen of Galilee”. A country a far piece off.’

  ‘If it so be that it’s in my power.’

  ‘Off past Tennessee somewheres.’

  ‘God knows, I would, Ellie.’

  ‘All in one country somewheres.’

  ‘God knows.’

  ‘But now I know better and know how the world is, a little.’

  ‘The moon makes your eyes big and deep and your mouth, it’s sweet like honey
drips.’

  ‘If day came we could maybe see as far as Phillips’s and see the house we’d have, our house where we will live. To live together and we’ll never be lonesome.’

  ‘Your fingers on my neck and on my throat, they are soft, Ellie, like feathers, and they rub gentle-like up and down…’

  ‘Or our own house sometime, that belongs to us and all our own stock in the pastures. Three quick taps on the farm bell to call you to dinner. A rose to grow up over the chimney. A row of little flowers down to the gate.’

  ‘Your skin is soft under the coat, and warm, and you are a fair sight to see. Your mouth is sweet to taste and your hair is sweet, and under the cloak is sweet…’

  ‘A strong house that the wind couldn’t shake and the rain couldn’t beat into.’

  ‘I will slip your arms outen the cloak and fold it around you. And me and you will sleep wrapped in the cloak.’

  ‘And I will never leave you, Jasper, forever, but I will stay with you all my enduren life and I will work for you all my days.’

  ‘It’s sweet under the cloak…’

  She began to dream. Jasper was in her own body and in her mind, was but more of herself. She sank slowly down to the stone and to the leaves lying upon the stone, and the great bulk of the rock arose to take her. Dolomite stones shut over her and she was folded deeply into the inner being of the rock and she was strong with a strength to hold up mountains. Far away, as if it were beyond the earth, she heard a dog bark, a strange voice, none she had ever heard before, and long after that the sour odour of a fox came up from below the cliff and a little step went off in the leaves. Then Jasper whispered something that was lost in the substance of her dream, but she remembered a little of the sweet odour of the fox and the barking of the dog, but after a while they were mingled with Jasper’s unheard whisper and went when she sank more deeply into the stone. After a while the stones were still again, and when she waked from sleeping daylight had come over the small valley that lay beyond the cliff. They walked down into the pasture and found a spring to drink from and then walked hand in hand across an old meadow, avoiding a house or a cabin, until they had gone far toward the south. The dust of the road was red and brown, hard crumbled dolomite, and the herbs were tall and slender, growing out of the red hard soil. They walked along the way for a time, but later they were taken into a wagon where they sat beside the driver and floated along with the rise and fall of the horses. The land was very still in the quiet of the early morning, and her dream held. Then they left the wagon at a road turning and walked again, passing through a lane, and so came to a house set near the road. The man who lived in the house said that he had a brother living not far away and that the morning was fine and that they were welcome. Inside the house three tall women moved about, and the things they set here and there made low rich sounds as they were placed, a cup or a plate on the table. The dream widened to take in three tall women who came and went. Then all of them left the room but one, and the door was closed, and Ellen was given a basin and a towel. She removed her dress and bathed, and later she tended her hair while the woman handed her the things as she needed them, and her dream widened again to take in the darkened room with its quiet and privacy and the fall of the water into the basin, Jasper not far away, outside the door with the men talking softly, the voices rising and falling. When she had pinned up her hair all the others came into the room, filing in quietly, and she and Jasper were set at a table where the food had been placed, the three women standing about to see that nothing was wanting, and one food after another was ceremoniously passed, bread and meat and sweet drips and coffee.

  It was a quiet country, for there was no bell to ring to tell the time of day. The man’s brother came, brought by a child who had been sent to fetch him, and the woman who stood beside the table poured Ellen a cup of sweet milk, fresh and good. The child was beautiful with dark hair and a soft clinging dress of dark cotton cloth. Her hair lay against the sides of her head in free waves that drifted softly when she moved and was gathered into a little braid below. Her brown legs moved quickly and her feet touched the floor with little taps of sound, her movements free and undesigned, unpredicted. She stood beside the door or she ran softly toward the window, toward the table, toward one of the women, or she fingered a cup or a spoon or knelt on a chair, moment by moment. Her smile was very open and sweet. Then they went, all, into the outer room and stood about the walls. Ellen’s eyes followed the child as she slipped in unpremeditated motions from place to place or stood in unfixed quiet. The room became very still as Ellen and Jasper stood beside the man, the brother who had been brought; or the man faced them, and joining their hands, said ceremonial words. His face was thin and set with ceremony, his hands moving rigidly over the words or settling down in hard firm finality over the said word, fixed and done. Fixed forever, pronounced, finished, said and unrevoked, his words flowed through the great hardness of his voice, a groundwork on which to lean, a foundation beneath a foundation, the framework of the house set and fixed in timbers and pinned together with fine strong wedges of trimmed hard wood. His voice trembled a little with its own fixity and hardness, but it erected a strong tower. In the end he made a prayer for herself and Jasper, and he gave her a paper on which their names were written. The women shook her hand, and then the men came, their handshakes reserved and ceremonious. The child stood beside the wall, her gaze light and aloof, or she tapped her shoulder softly against the door or touched the latch, her look free and her way unhampered, and the beauty of her look came about Ellen as she gave her hand to the men.

  Jasper talked with one of the women apart and later with one of the men, and he gave them money from that which he had. Ellen was sitting on one of the chairs beside the wall with the other women sitting near, while the voices of the men came through the open door. The women talked, but Ellen heard the up and down of their voices but faintly and forgot their sayings when they were said. The child walked nearer, fingering the wall with little nut-stained fingers, or she sat gravely on the chair beside the door, or she walked near to Ellen’s chair, but Ellen’s hands lay still in her lap. The child’s little dress hung softly about her knees, its small sleeves a tender jest, a loving pretence, sleeves turned in their littleness to something precious and fine. Then Ellen asked her name and one of the women said that it was Melindy and that she was six years old. The sun flooded in at the window, having left the door, and after a little one of the women brought Ellen a hat which she put on over the coils of her hair, and another brought her cloak which she put on, Jasper standing beside her. There was a vehicle before the gate. Then Jasper wrote a letter to Henry and Nellie, and when he had sealed it, he climbed with Ellen into the rear seat of the wagon, one of the men sitting in the front to drive. One of the women had given them a package of sugar bread and this was set under the front seat, and they drove away.

  Some little pointed birds in a flock twitted from branch to branch in the sun, and the road went up a hilltop and lay along a ridge where a woman standing by a great gate stopped to watch them pass, her hand stayed on the latch pin. A woman sat before the door of her house among withering hollyhock stems where the road fell gently down to the valley again, and beside the bridge a kingfisher flew from a limb and darted behind the white of a plane tree, the departure of the bird standing out upon the air as something never seen before by man. Ellen looked at her hands as they lay before the folds of her cloak, her hands acutely recognised and the cloak, hardly her own, folded strangely about her, her body stilled and muffled under the strangeness of the old cloak and the kindness of Jasper whose hand touched her sleeve. The day lay outstretched laterally, no marks upon it, and she greeted herself intently. Sometimes Jasper held her hand and then the edge of her sleeve touched the worn edge of his and in that moment became more real. The strange road went over hills and through valleys, winding between farms or stretching along ridges, the dust red or sandy, or Jasper leaned nearer to kiss her as they passed before a grapevine
tree and a great hawk flew over with wide frayed wings. A smoke lay along the sky in a long design, and then a band of colour, grey and dull purple, gathered, and the town began to appear beneath the smoke. Many travellers were met in wagons or carriages. Then the old driver turned the horses down a long hill into the town, the white stones of the graves off to the right spreading about widely in the sun. The houses seemed very near together. The railroad was a black path leading straight away in a long strange line that turned outward from the hill, and beyond the railroad came the street with store windows, where wagons were drawn up to the curb or went quickly by. They passed through the court square without a stop, but Ellen saw the red wall of the courthouse and the grey wall of the jail. Then Jasper was pointing back to the jail and she saw its oblong windows set with one iron bar.

  ‘That-there second window. I tried all night to get outen there, but the bar was fast. Then the next night the jailer he locked me inside a cage, and every night after.’

  The fear of the jail settled on Ellen for a space as they went quickly up the hill leading from the town, going north, and she wondered what stood in Jasper’s mind as his eyes stared at the moving fencerow and what as they turned to the floor of the wagon or fixed upon the back of the driver. She noticed that the man on the seat before them was more than old, a being now the black of whose hair was thickly grizzled where it brushed against his coat collar and his neck was weathered and seamed, the thick skin burnt with age, and what did he have and what was his wish about the world? The road was stony beyond the town and a great flock of grackles were gathering above a thin wood, as if it were evening.