Suddenly both girls started, and lifted their heads. They heard a footstep—distinctly a solid, heavy footstep. Banford recoiled in fear. March stood listening. Then rapidly she approached the door that led into the kitchen. At the same time they heard the footsteps approach the back door. They waited a second. The back door opened softly. Banford gave a loud cry. A man’s voice said softly, “Hello!”
March recoiled, and took a gun from a corner.
“What do you want?” she cried, in a sharp voice.
Again the soft, softly-vibrating man’s voice said, “Hello! What’s wrong?”
“I shall shoot!” cried March. “What do you want?”
“Why, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?” came the soft, wondering, rather scared voice, and a young soldier, with his heavy kit on his back, advanced into the dim light. He stood before the two women, a dark stranger.
“Why,” he said, his voice, masculine and unfamiliar, giving each of them a shiver along their spine, “who lives here then?”
“We live here,” said March. “What do you want?”
“Oh!” came the long, melodious, wonder-note from the young soldier. “Doesn’t William Grenfel live here then?”
“No—you know he doesn’t.”
“Do I? Do I? I don’t, you see. He did live here, because he was my grandfather, and I lived here myself five years ago. What’s become of him then?”
The young man—or youth, for he would not be more than twenty—now advanced and stood in the inner doorway. March, under the influence of his strange, soft, modulated voice, stared at him spellbound. He had a ruddy, roundish face, with fairish hair, rather long, flattened to his forehead with sweat. His eyes were blue, and very bright and sharp. On his cheeks, on the fresh ruddy skin were fine, fair hairs, like a down, but sharper. It gave him a slightly glistening look. Having his heavy sack on his shoulders, he stooped, thrusting his head forward. His hat was loose in one rough, strong hand. He stared brightly, very keenly from girl to girl, particularly at March, who stood pale, with great dilated eyes, in her belted coat and puttees, her hair knotted in a big crisp knot behind. She still had the gun in her hand. Behind her, Banford, clinging to the sofa-arm, was shrinking away, with half-averted head.
“I thought my grandfather still lived here? I wonder if he’s dead.”
The three of them stood in silence, the young man’s gaze moving from March to Banford then back to March, while the two women, each with her own concerns, looked the youth over. They took in all the details of him again.
“We’ve been here for three years,” said Banford, who was beginning to recover her wits, seeing something boyish in the round head with its rather long, sweaty hair.
“Three years! You don’t say so! And you don’t know who was here before you?”
“I know it was an old man, who lived by himself.”
“Ay! Yes, that’s him. And what became of him then?”
“He died. I know he died.”
“Ay! He’s dead then.”
The youth stared at them without changing colour or expression. If he had any expression, besides a slight baffled look of wonder, it was one of sharp curiosity concerning the two girls—sharp, impersonal curiosity, the curiosity of that round young head.
But to March he was the fox. Whether it was the thrusting forward of his head, or the glisten of fine whitish hairs on the ruddy cheek-bones, or the bright, keen eyes, that can never be said—but the boy was to her the fox, and she could not see him otherwise. Deep in her bones she knew the truth of it as she knew his hunting would be relentless.
“How is it you didn’t know if your grandfather was alive or dead?” asked Banford, recovering her natural sharpness.
“Ay, that’s it,” replied the softly-breathing youth. He moved his hat to his other hand, again drawing the rapt gazes of the women. “You see, I joined up in Canada, and I hadn’t heard for three or four years. I ran away to Canada.”
“And now have you just come from France?”
“Well—from Salonika really.” His fingers flicked across the hat. Each of his movements was another opportunity for the women to watch and study him. Especially March, who appreciated how crafty a fox must be.
There was a pause, nobody knowing quite what to say.
“So you’ve nowhere to go now?” said Banford rather lamely.
March stiffened at Banford’s words. Where the youth had to go was not their concern. But then, he was on their doorstep. Perhaps they had to do something for him.
“Oh, I know some people in the village. Anyhow, I can go to the Swan.”
“You came on the train, I suppose. Would you like to sit down a bit?”
“Well—I don’t mind.”
He gave an odd little groan as he swung off his kit. Banford looked at March.
“Put the gun down,” she said. “We’ll make a cup of tea.”
“Ay,” said the youth. “We’ve seen enough of rifles.”
He sat down rather tired on the sofa, leaning forward. His lean, angular body was mannish and very out of place in the home of these two women who rarely—if ever—entertained male visitors.
March recovered her presence of mind, and went into the kitchen. There she heard the soft young voice musing, “Well, to think I should come back and find it like this!” He did not seem sad, not at all—only rather interestedly surprised.
“And what a difference in the place, eh?” he continued, looking round the room.
“You see a difference, do you?” said Banford.
“Yes—don’t I!”
His eyes were unnaturally clear and bright, though it was the brightness of abundant health.
March was busy in the kitchen preparing another meal. It was about seven o’clock. All the time, while she was active, she was attending to the youth in the sitting room, not so much listening to what he said as feeling the soft run of his voice and the heavy weight of his presence. She primmed up her mouth tighter and tighter, puckering it as if it were sewed, in her effort to keep her will uppermost. Yet her large eyes dilated and glowed in spite of her. She lost herself. Rapidly and carelessly she prepared the meal, cutting large chunks of bread and margarine—for there was no butter. She racked her brain to think of something else to put on the tray—she had only bread, margarine and jam, and the larder was bare. Unable to conjure anything up, she went into the sitting room with her tray.
She did not want to be noticed. Above all, she did not want him to look at her. But when she came in, and was busy setting the table just behind him, he pulled himself up from his sprawling, and turned and looked over his shoulder. He saw her and she felt him. Impossibly, she felt him everywhere, as though he were touching her with his quick, busy hands, touching her with his nervous inquisitiveness. She became pale and wan. It was because of the odd response of her heart, forcing blood away from her skin and deep inside her body. She shivered from the effect.
The youth watched her as she bent over the table, looked at her slim, well-shapen legs, at the belted coat dropping around her thighs, showing him each curve of her hips. He looked at the knot of dark hair, and his curiosity, vivid and widely alert, was again arrested by her.
The lamp was shaded with a dark-green shade, so that the light was thrown downwards and the upper half of the room was dim. His face moved bright under the light, but March loomed shadowy in the distance. The two were sizing each other up, perhaps without knowing it, but that was the truth of the matter.
She turned round, but kept her eyes sideways, dropping and lifting her dark lashes in a movement she remembered from her own youth. Her mouth unpuckered as she said to Banford, “Will you pour out?”
Then to get away from him and the danger he had brought to their peaceful and quiet doorstep she went into the kitchen again. But leaving the room wasn’t enough, the odd hot chill he’d created in their house followed her, chasing her.
“Have your tea where you are, will you?” said Banford to the youth. “Unless you’
d rather come to the table.”
March could hear her from the kitchen. She stayed breathless, awaiting the youth’s reply and listening for the rasp of his deep voice and bracing for its effect upon her.
“Well,” said he, “I’m nice and comfortable here, aren’t I? I will have it here, if you don’t mind.”
“There’s nothing but bread and jam,” she said. And she put his plate on a stool by him. She was very happy now, waiting on him. For she loved company. And now she was no more afraid of him than if he were her own younger brother. He was such a boy.
“Nellie,” she called. “I’ve poured you a cup out.”
March appeared in the doorway, took her cup, and sat down in a corner, as far from the light as possible. She was very sensitive in her knees. Having no skirts to cover them, and being forced to sit with them boldly exposed, she suffered. She shrank and shrank, trying not to be seen. And the youth sprawling low on the couch, glanced up at her, with long, steady, penetrating looks, till she was almost ready to disappear. Yet she held her cup balanced, she drank her tea, screwed up her mouth and held her head averted. Her desire to be invisible was so strong that it quite baffled the youth. He felt he could not see her distinctly as he had moments ago. She seemed like a shadow within the shadow. And ever his eyes came back to her, searching, unremitting, with unconscious fixed attention.
Meanwhile he was talking softly and smoothly to Banford, who loved nothing so much as gossip, and who was full of perky interest, like a bird. Also he ate largely and quickly and voraciously, so that March had to cut more chunks of bread and margarine, for the roughness of which Banford apologised with soft, gentle words.
“Oh, well,” said March, suddenly speaking, “if there’s no butter to put on it, it’s no good trying to make dainty pieces.”
Again the youth watched her, and he laughed, with a sudden, quick laugh, showing his teeth and wrinkling his nose. March’s heart quickened its pace, but she was growing accustomed to her response to him, and so she breathed more deeply to ease the discomfort of his stare.
“It isn’t, is it,” he answered in his soft, near voice.
It appeared he was Cornish by birth and upbringing. When he was twelve years old he had come to Bailey Farm with his grandfather, with whom he had never agreed very well. So he had run away to Canada, and worked far away in the West. Now he was here—and that was the end of it.
He was very curious about the girls, to find out exactly what they were doing. His questions were those of a farm youth—acute, practical, a little mocking. He was very much amused by their attitude to their losses, for they were amusing on the score of heifers and fowls.
“Oh, well,” broke in March, “we don’t believe in living for nothing but work.”
“Don’t you?” he answered. And again the quick young laugh came over his face. He kept his eyes steadily on the obscure woman in the corner.
“But what will you do when you’ve used up all your capital?” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered March laconically. “Hire ourselves out for land-workers, I suppose.”
“Yes, but there won’t be any demand for women land-workers now the war’s over,” said the youth.
“Oh, we’ll see. We shall hold on a bit longer yet,” said March, with a plangent, half-sad, half-ironical indifference.
“There wants a man about the place,” said the youth softly.
Banford burst out laughing. For she herself saw the humour in their situation and knew that her laughter would be understood by the others. But the laughter was also a chance to let free some of the confusion she felt inside as she looked at the young man seated in what had been their very predictable and common home.
“Take care what you say,” she interrupted. “We consider ourselves quite efficient.”
“Oh,” came March’s slow plangent voice, “it isn’t a case of efficiency, I’m afraid. If you’re going to do farming you must be at it from morning till night, and you might as well be a beast yourself.”
“Yes, that’s it,” said the youth. “You aren’t willing to put yourselves into it.”
“We aren’t,” said March, “and we know it.” She said these words even though she herself had the rough hands and raw knees of one who did in fact put themselves into it.
“We want some of our time for ourselves,” said Banford.
March looked at the other woman who, unlike herself, spoke honestly.
The youth threw himself back on the sofa, his face tight with laughter, and laughed silently but thoroughly. The calm scorn of the girls tickled him tremendously.
“Yes,” he said, “but why did you begin then?”
“Oh,” said March, “we had a better opinion of the nature of fowls then than we have now.” And that was the truth and voicing it eased her.
“Of Nature altogether, I’m afraid,” said Banford. “Don’t talk to me about Nature.”
Again the face of the youth tightened with delighted laughter.
“You haven’t a very high opinion of fowls and cattle, have you?” he said.
“Oh no—quite a low one,” said March, turning to move her knees from the light.
He laughed out. March watched his mouth, opening and closing, twisting, giving more expression to his face, for his blue eyes seemed to be in a constant state of curiosity. She looked at his hands, watched his long fingers grip the cup of tea.
“Neither fowls nor heifers,” said Banford, “nor goats nor the weather.”
The youth broke into a sharp yap of laughter, delighted. The girls began to laugh too, March turning aside her face and wrinkling her mouth in amusement.
“Oh, well,” said Banford, “we don’t mind, do we, Nellie?”
“No,” said March, “we don’t mind.”
The youth was very pleased. He had eaten and drunk his fill. Banford began to question him. His name was Henry Grenfel—no, he was not called Harry, always Henry. He continued to answer with courteous simplicity, grave and charming. March, who was not included, cast long, slow glances at him from her recess, as he sat there on the sofa, his hands clasping his knees, his face under the lamp bright and alert, turned to Banford. She became almost peaceful at last. He was identified with the fox—and he was here in full presence. She need not go after him any more. There in the shadow of her corner she gave herself up to a warm, relaxed peace, almost like sleep, accepting the spell that was on her. But she wished to remain hidden. She was only fully at peace whilst he forgot her, talking to Banford. Hidden in the shadow of the corner, she need not any more be divided in herself, trying to keep up two planes of consciousness. She could at last lapse into the odour and commanding strength of the fox.
For the youth, sitting before the fire in his uniform, sent a faint but distinct odour into the room, indefinable, but something like a wild creature. A scent that sank deep into the pores of the women in the room. Banford chatted on, ignited in her own way by the scent and the possibilities it represented. March no longer tried to reserve herself from it. She was still and soft in her corner like a passive creature in its cave. Her body was heated from her own blood, stirred by her heart, which had already become accustomed to responding to the young man. It was inevitable, she saw that now, that the fox would find her and she would be released, if only for a while, from the arduous hunt.
At last the talk dwindled. The youth relaxed his clasp of his knees, pulled himself together a little, and looked round. Again he became aware of the silent, half-invisible woman in the corner. She had been acutely aware of him the whole time and now that he had spotted her she was stirred and ready, although she wasn’t quite certain what she was ready for, or even if she welcomed such readiness.
“Well,” he said unwillingly, “I suppose I’d better be going, or they’ll be in bed at the Swan.”
“I’m afraid they’re in bed, anyhow,” said Banford, her voice still light and chatty, happy for another occasion to pass on news of others. “They’ve all got this influe
nza.”
“Have they!” he exclaimed. And he pondered. March observed his mouth again moving as he considered the consequences and possibilities. “Well,” he continued, “I shall find a place somewhere.”
“I’d say you could stay here, only—” Banford began.
He turned and watched her, holding his head forward.
“What?” he asked.
“Oh, well,” she said, “propriety, I suppose.” She was rather confused.
“It wouldn’t be improper, would it?” he said, gently surprised.
“Not as far as we’re concerned,” said Banford.
“And not as far as I’m concerned,” he said, with grave naivete. “After all, it’s my own home, in a way.”
Banford smiled at this, her soft face glowing behind her spectacles.
“It’s what the village will have to say,” she said.
There was a moment’s blank pause. Banford remained bright and at ease while March brewed with thick understanding. Foxes do not leave easily, once established. Why should they, she wondered, when they have all they need before them? And the helpless creatures whose lives they snatch at will, what is to become of them? They are powerless and so the fox will decide their fates.
“What do you say, Nellie?” asked Banford.
“I don’t mind,” said March, in her distinct tone. “The village doesn’t matter to me, anyhow.”
“No,” said the youth, quick and soft. “Why should it? I mean, what should they say?”
“Oh, well,” came March’s plangent, laconic voice, “they’ll easily find something to say. But it makes no difference what they say. We can look after ourselves.”
“Of course you can,” said the youth.
“Well then, stop if you like,” said Banford. “The spare room is quite ready.”
His face shone with pleasure.
The Fox Page 2
