“Come,” he said, as though awakening from a dream, and moved on up the path that led from the ravine to the lawn.
The turkeys were crossing the lawn, led by the cock, whose blazing wattles swung arrogantly in the first sunrays. His wives, with burnished breasts and beaming eyes, followed close behind, craning their necks, alternately lifting and dragging their slender feet, echoing his bold gobble with plaintive pipings. The hens paused to look with curiosity at the boy and girl who emerged from the ravine, but the cock, absorbed by his own ego, circled before them, swelling himself rigidly, dropping his wings, urging into his wattles a still more burning red.
Down the wet roof Finch’s pigeons were strutting, sliding, rooketty-cooing, peering over the eaves at the two who slowly mounted the steps.
Inside, the house lay in silence except for the heavy snoring of Grandmother in her bedroom off the lower hall. It was as if some strange beast had a lair beneath the stairs, and was growling a challenge to the sun.
They passed the closed doors of the hall above and went into their own room. Pheasant dropped into a chair by the window, but Piers, with a businesslike air, began collecting various articles—his brushes, his shaving things, the clothes which he wore about the farm. She watched his movements with the unquestioning submissiveness of a child. One thought sustained her: “How glad I am that I am here with Piers, and not flying with Eden as he wanted me to!”
When he had got together what he wanted, he took the key from the door and inserted it on the outside. He said, without looking at her:
“Here you stay, till I can stand the sight of your face again.”
He went out, locking the door behind him. He climbed the long stairs to the attic, and, throwing his things on the bed in Finch’s room, began to change his clothes for the day’s work. In the passage he had met Alayne, looking like a ghost. They had passed without speaking.
XXV
FIDDLER’S HUT
THREE WEEKS LATER Mr. Wragge was an object of great interest one morning to a group of Jersey calves as he crossed their pasture. They ceased gambolling, butting, and licking each other, to regard him with steadfast scrutiny out of liquid dark eyes. He was in his shirt sleeves, his coat being thrown over one arm, for the day was hot; his hat was tilted over his eyes, and he carried, balanced on one hand, a tray covered with a white cloth. He was smoking, as usual, and his expression was one of deep concern.
When he reached a stile at the far end of the paddock, he set the tray on the top, climbed over, then, balancing the tray at a still more dangerous angle, proceeded on his way. It now lay through an old uncared-for apple orchard, the great trees of which were green with moss, half smothered in wild grapevines and Virginia creeper, and their boughs, like heavy wings, swept to the long coarse grass. Following a winding path, he passed a spring, where long ago a primitive well had been made by the simple process of sinking a wooden box. The lid of this was now gone, the wood decayed, and it was used by birds as a drinking fountain and bath. The liquid gurgle of the spring as it entered the well made a pleasant undertone to the song of birds with which the air was merry.
Embowered in vines, almost hidden by flowering dogwood, stood the hut where Fiddler Jock, by the consent of Captain Philip Whiteoak, had lived in solitude, the story of whose death young Finch had told Alayne on their first walk together.
Here Meg Whiteoak had been living for three weeks.
Before approaching the threshold, Mr. Wragge again set down the tray, put on his coat, straightened his hat, threw away his cigarette, and intensified his expression of concern.
“Miss W’iteoak, it’s me, ma’am,” he said loudly, as though to reassure her, immediately after knocking.
The door opened and Meg Whiteoak appeared, with an expression as sweetly calm, but a face paler than formerly. “Thank you, Rags,” she said, taking the tray. “Thank you very much.”
“I’d be gratified, ma’am,” he said anxiously, “if you was to lift the napkin and tike a look at wot I’ve brought you. I’d be better pleased if I knew you found it temptin’.”
Miss Whiteoak accordingly peered under the napkin and discovered a plate of fresh scones, a bowl of ripe strawberries, arid a jug of thick clotted cream such as she liked with them. A sweet smile curved her lips. She took the tray and set it on the table in the middle of the low, scantily furnished room.
“It looks very tempting, Rags. These are the first strawberries I’ve seen.”
“They are the very first,” he announced, eagerly. “I picked them myself, ma’am. There’s going to be a wonderful crop, they s’y, but it don’t seem to matter, the w’y things are goin’ on with us these days.”
“That’s very true,’ she said, sighing. “How is my grandmother today, Rags?”
“Flourishing amazing, ma’am. My wife says she talked of nothink but ‘er birthd’y the ’ole time she was doin’ up ’er room. She ’ad a queer little spell on Thursday, but Mr. Ernest, ’e thought it was just that she’d eat too much of the goose grivy. She looked remarkable well yesterd’y, and went to church the sime as usual.”
“That is good.” She bit her full underlip, and then asked, with an attempt at nonchalance: “Have you heard anything about Mrs. Eden’s leaving?”
“I believe she’s to go as soon as the birthd’y celebrations are over. The old lidy wouldn’t ’ear of it before. Ow, Miss W’iteoak, she’s only a shadder of ’er former self, Mrs. Eden is; and Mr. Piers is not much better. Of all the people in the ’ouse those two show the wear and tear of wot we’re goin’ through the most. Of course, I’ve never seen Mrs. Piers. She ain’t never shown up in the family circle yet, but my wife saw ’er lookin’ out of the winder, and she says she looks just the sime. Dear me, some people can stand any think! As for me, I’m not the man I was at all. My nerves ’ave all gone back on me. It’s almost like another attack of shell shock, you might s’y.”
“I’m very sorry, Rags. You do look pale.”
He took out a clean folded handkerchief and wiped his brow. “It isn’t as though my own family relations was wot they were, ma’am. Mrs. Wragge and me, we ’ad our little altercations, as you know, but, tike it as a ’ole, our life together was amiable; but now,” he dolefully shook his head, “it’s nothing more nor less than terrific. Me being on your side and she all for Mr. Renny, there’s never a moment’s peace. W’y, yesterd’y—Sunday and all as it was—she up and shied the stove lifter at my ’ead. I escaped to the coal cellar, where she pursued me, and as for ’er language! Well, Mr. Renny ’e ’eard the goings on and ’e came rattling down the basement stairs in a fine rage, and said if ’e ’eard any more of it we should go. The worst was, ’e seemed to blime me for the ’ole affair. I never thought I’d live to see the d’y ’e’d glare at me the w’y ’e did.”
“That’s because you are on my side, Rags,” she said sadly.
“I know, and that makes it all the worse. It’s a ’ouse divided against itself. I’ve seen deadlocks in my time, but I’ve never seen a deadlock like this. Well, I’ll be takin’ aw’y wot little appitite you ’ave with my talk. I must be off. I’ve a thousand things to do, and of course Mrs. Wragge puts all the ’ard work on to me as usual. And if you’ll believe me, ma’am, she’s so evilly disposed that I ’ad to steal those little scones I brought you.”
He turned away, and when he had gone a few yards he put on his hat, removed his coat, and lighted a cigarette. Just as he reached the stile he met Renny Whiteoak crossing it.
Renny said sarcastically: “I see you have a path worn to the hut, Rags. Been carrying trays to Miss Whiteoak, I suppose.”
Rags straightened himself with an air of self-righteous humility.
“And if I didn’t carry trays to ‘er, wot do you suppose would ‘appen, sir? W’y, she’d starve; that’s wot she’d do. It would look rather bad, sir, for a lidy to die of starvation on ‘er brother’s estite, and’im livin’ in the lap of luxury.”
This remark was thrown after the retr
eating figure of his master, who had strode angrily away. Rags stared after him till he disappeared among the trees, muttering bitterly: “This is all the gratitood I get for the w’y I’ve slaved for you in war and in peace! Curses yesterd’y, and a sneer and a dirty look tod’y. You ill-tempered, domineerin’ red-’eaded slave driver! But you’ve met your match in Miss W’iteoak, let me tell you—and serves you right.”
With this he climbed over the stile, and returned meditatively to the basement kitchen.
When Renny reached the hut, he found the door open, and inside he could see his sister sitting by the table, pouring herself a cup of tea. She looked up as she heard his step, and then, with an expression of remote calm, dropped her eyes to the stream of amber liquid issuing from the spout of the teapot. She sat with one rounded elbow on the table, her head supported on her hand. She looked so familiar and yet so strange, sitting in these poverty-stricken surroundings, that he scarcely knew what to say to her. However, he went in, and stood looking down at the tray.
“What particular meal is this?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” she answered, buttering a scone. “I keep no count of meals now.”
He looked about him, at the low, rain-stained ceiling, the rusty stove, the uneven, worm-eaten floor, the inner room with its narrow cot bed.
“This is an awful hole you’ve chosen to sulk in,” he commented.
She did not answer, but ate her scone with composure, and after it two strawberries smothered in cream.
“You’ll make a charming old lady after you’ve spent ten years or so here,” he gibed.
He saw a sparkle of temper in her eyes then.
“You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you drove me to it.”
“That is utter nonsense. I did everything I could to prevent you.”
“You did not send that girl away. You allowed Piers to bring her into the house with me, after her behaviour.”
“Meggie, can’t you see anyone’s side of this question but your own? Can’t you see that poor young Piers was doing a rather heroic thing in bringing her home?”
“I will not live under the same roof with that girl. I told you that three weeks ago, and you still try to force me.”
“But I can’t allow you to go on like this!” he cried. “We shall be the talk of the countryside.”
She regarded him steadfastly. “Have you ever cared what the countryside thought of you?”
“No; but I can’t have people saying that my sister is living in a tumbledown hut.”
“You can turn me out, of course.”
He ignored this, and continued: “People will simply say that you have become demented.”
“It will not surprise me if I do.”
He stared at her, positively frightened. “Meggie, how can you say such things? By God, I have enough to bear without your turning against me!”
She said, with calculated cruelty: “You have Alayne. Why should you need me?”
“I have not got Alayne,” he retorted furiously. “She is going away the day after Gran’s birthday.”
“I do not think she will go away.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, suspiciously.
“Oh, I think you have a pretty little game of progressive marriage going on at Jalna. No, Alayne will not go away.”
His highly coloured face took on a deeper hue. Its lines became harsh.
“You’ll drive me to do something desperate,” he said, and flung to the door.
She pushed the tray from her and rose to her feet.
“Will you please go? You are mistaken if you think you can abuse me into putting up with loose women in my house. As to being the talk of the countryside, there must be strange stories about the married couples of our family already.”
“Rot! It’s all within the family.”
“All within the family? Just think those words over. They’ve got a sinister sound, like the goings on in families in the Middle Ages. We should have been born two hundred years ago at the very least. No woman who respects herself could stay at Jalna.”
He broke into a tirade against her, and all hard, narrow-minded women. She followed him to the door, laying her hand on the latch.
“You can never argue, Renny, without using such dreadful language. I can’t stand any more of it.”
He had stepped outside, and his spaniels, having traced him to the hut, ran to meet him with joyous barks, jumping up to paw him and lick his hands. For an instant Meg almost relented, seeing him there with his dogs, looking so entirely her beloved Renny. But the instant passed; she closed the door firmly and returned to her chair, where she sat plunged in thought, not bitterly reviewing the past as Maurice did, nor creating an imaginary and happy present, but with all her mind concentrated on those two hated alien women in her house.
Renny, returning to his stables, found Maurice there, waiting to talk over some proposed exchange. He was in the stall with Wakefield’s pony, feeding her sugar from his pocket. He turned as Renny entered.
“Well,” he said, “how are things going now?”
“Like the devil,” he returned, slapping the pony sharply, for she had bitten at him, not liking the interruption of her feast. “Piers still keeps Pheasant locked in her room, and, goes about with an expression like the wrath of God. Uncle Nicholas and Aunt Augusta quarrel all day long. He’s trying to worry her out of the house and back to England, and she won’t go. He and Uncle Ernest aren’t speaking at all. Alayne is looking ill, and Grandmother talks ceaselessly about her birthday. She’s so afraid that something will happen to her before she achieves it that she refuses to leave the room.”
“When is it?”
“A week from today. Alayne is staying here till it’s over; then she goes back to New York, to her old position with a publisher’s firm.”
“Look here; why doesn’t she divorce Eden? Then you and she could marry.”
“The proceedings would be too beastly unsavoury. No, there’s no hope there.”
Something vicious in him prompted him to tease the pony. He cuffed her till she drew back her lips, showed all her teeth, bit at him, neighed, and finally reared and struck at him with her sharp hoofs. Maurice moved out of the way.
“Stop it, Renny,” he said, half angry and half laughing at the display of temper by the pair. “You’ll make her an ugly little brute for Wake to handle.”
“That’s true.” He desisted at once, red-faced from temper, rather ashamed of himself.
“It’s a pity Alayne could not have seen that.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” He began to stroke the pony. “Here, give me a lump of sugar, Maurice.”
“No, I’ll give it to her myself. She and I are friends. We have no quarrel to patch up. Have we, pet?”
He offered her sugar, but, too upset to take it, she wrinkled her lips and cast baleful glances at them both. As they left the loose box, Maurice asked: “How is Meg, Renny?”
“I’ve just been to see her. She’s still stuck in that awful hut, sulking. Nothing will budge her. It looks as though she would spend the rest of her days there. I don’t know what I’m to do. If you could only see her! It would be pathetic if it weren’t ridiculous. She has a few sticks of furniture she took from the attic. The floor is bare. They say that all she eats is the little that Rags carries over to her. I met him with a tray. The fellow is nothing but a spy and a tale-bearer. He keeps her thoroughly posted as to all that goes on in the house. Aunt Augusta was for starving her out, forbidding Rags to take food to her; but I couldn’t do that. She shut the door in my face just now.”
“It’s appalling.”
They walked in silence for a space, along the passage between stalls, among the sounds and smells they both loved—deep, quiet drinking, peaceful crunching, soft whinnying, clean straw, harness oil, liniment.
Vaughan said: “I’ve been wondering—in fact, I lay awake half the night wondering—if there is a chance that Meg might take me now. Pheasant being gone, an
d Jalna in such an upset, and things having reached a sort of deadlock, it would be a way of solving the problem for her. Do you think I’d have a show?”
Renny looked at his friend with amazement.
“Maurice, do you really mean it? Are you still in love with her?”
“You know perfectly well I’ve never cared for any other woman,” he answered, with some irritation. “It’s not easy for you Whiteoaks to understand that.”
“I quite understand, only—twenty years is a long time between proposals.”
“If things had not turned out as they have, I should never have asked her again.”
“I hope to God shell have you!” And then, fearing that his tone had been too fervent, he added: “I hate to see you living such a lonely life, old man.”
Meg had come out of the cottage, and was bending over a spray of sweetbriar that had thrust its thorny way up through a mass of dogwood. She loved its wild sweetness, and yet it made her sadder than before. Maurice noticed, as she raised a startled face to his, that her white cheeks were dappled by tears. One of them fell, and hung, like a bright dewdrop, on the briar.
“I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
His voice, unheard for so many years, came to her with the sombre cadence of a bell sounding through the dark. She had forgotten what a deep voice he had. As a youth, it had seemed too deep for his slenderness, but now, from this heavy frame, she found it strangely, thrillingly moving.
“I had no right to intrude on you,” he went on, and stopped, his eyes resting on the spray of briar; for he would not embarrass her by looking into her tear-stained face. Why did she not wipe her cheeks? He reflected, with a shade of annoyance, that it was just like Meggie to leave those glittering evidences of her anguish in full view. It gave her a strange advantage, set her on a plane of suffering above those around her.
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