"Fancy!" she said with a strange, cold bitterness. "Yes, in my fancy you were a Christian knight. Ready to battle any evil." She turned to him and spoke more warmly, as if desperate to encourage him. "Well, take heart. When the Devil seizes you again—as he did at Earlestown—I shall be there to see your lance does not droop!"
He tried valiantly to keep a straight face. And, of course, his laughter was all the stronger when it came. He could see the shock and the hurt in her face but it did nothing to halt him.
"Well may you laugh, sir," she said when it had died its natural death. She was deeply offended.
"I'm sorry!" he said, wondering how to soothe her.
"It is no laughing matter." She stood and walked away, irresolutely.
"Oh come!" He hoped to appeal to her sense of fun. "I know at least one young bride who would have been mightily downcast that night at Earlestown if my lance—as you put it—had drooped prematurely! Once, that is, her natural coyness had been…overridden!"
He watched her eyes go wide. He laughed again, to encourage her.
"Walter! I did not mean that! When I said 'lance'…"
"I know! I know!" He nodded and laughed yet again.
"Oh now I am all flustered." She was smiling—or trying hard not to. She had to look away. "How could you! How could you think it?" She was saved further embarrassment because he stood up, moved close to her, and kissed her long and tenderly. He felt the seriousness grow within her as she surrendered. "I love you," he said, touching their noses together.
"And I love you." She rested her forehead on his cheek. For a long while they stood thus, their eyes not meeting. He breathed in her sweetness and yearned for her.
When they moved apart, a little frown creased her brow. She was trying to say something. "I wish…" She strolled away to the bureau and stood irresolutely.
"What do you wish?"
She picked up her fan from one of the shelves. The leading aile was damaged. "I wish I had not broken this fan."
"What were you really going to say?" He sat down on the sofa and motioned to her to come beside him.
"I wish you would not gamble."
"Oh come," he said. "It is only on holiday. I don't gamble at all in normal…well, I hardly ever do. In any case, even your father is not above a little gaming."
She fretted with her broken fan. "I think each generation should strive to outdo the one before it. Otherwise—how may we ever hope for moral progress?"
"The logic of that is impeccable," he sighed.
"In fact, Walter dearest, I do not really approve of Blackpool. It seems so…"
He interrupted. "But you are having such fun—or so I thought."
"I am," she said, growing more agitated. "But not…I do not…it is not the best side of me. It is my lower nature. I agree there must be some occasions— holidays and feasts and ceremonies—perhaps four or five or even six days a year, when we should put aside our more solemn striving and unbend a little. A little. But ten days! All at once! Try as I may, I can find no sanction for that. It seems to me the sheerest licence."
His heart melted as he watched her serious little face, frowning at her own laxity of moral spirit. Such an earnest young girl!
"Understand me, please," she went on. "I'm glad we came to Blackpool. I'm glad to have experienced it. But all this idle jollification seems…I don't know, somehow so antique. It is an archaic mode of pleasure. It is shallow. And certainly, it is unworthy of you and me."
"What would you prefer?" he asked.
But she looked guilty again. "And now you are going to be good to me and pamper me. I would not press this upon you. I know how hard you have worked on your tunnel. And I'm sure you'll work the harder when we return if you have enjoyed your break from it. So…"
He squeezed her shoulder again. "What…would you prefer?"
She looked up at him to gauge his reaction. "To be completely honest…I want to see our new home." She was delighted to see his face light up. "You too?" she asked.
"Well—it's a fairly tense time at Summit. New contractor. Hint of labour unrest. I must admit…"
"Tomorrow?" she suggested.
He chuckled. "We'll go tomorrow. 'Tomorn' as they say at Summit."
"How will you tell Dixon?"
"Oh—I'll tell him the letter I got today contained some news, which, now I've slept on it, leaves me too uneasy to enjoy the rest of the holiday."
She sank her head on his shoulder again. "Oh Walter! How can I ever be as
good to you as you are to me." Thinking of a dozen ways, he held his peace.
When they went to bed, Arabella undressed skillfully, without revelation of herself, even though he was in the room and watching closely. The question of where he would sleep tonight still lay delicately undecided—just as the blankets he had used last night still lay folded in the cupboard. In fact, he assumed that Arabella's unnatural resolve had melted; she, for her part, assumed he had conquered the Devil within and was ready to enter the chaste and continent Christian marriage bed she had always wanted for them. Each was brought to realize how wrong these assumptions were, even before they had lifted the sheets. Walter's turn came first, as Arabella prayed for them.
"Oh God, who hast ordained the holy state of matrimony that it be not enterprised unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men's carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding, stretch forth now thine almighty arm and touch with understanding thy two servants who kneel here in sore perplexity and direst need of thy guidance. Grant us, O Lord, the gift of continency that we may keep ourselves undefiled members of Christ's body. Teach us to draw our pitchers at the deep and everlasting wells of thy pure love, most especially when our frailty prompts us to renew them at the shallower springs of lust and carnal pleasure. Help us…"
"Amen!" he said, unable to contain his disappointment longer.
"…when we are most like to stumble…" She faltered.
"Amen!" he repeated and rose stiffly, not looking at her.
Meekly she got into bed. "I had not finished, Walter dear," she said in mild reproof.
"I believe you had," he told her. "At all events, you had said quite enough."
"If you tell me so." Her only thought now was to pacify him; he was angrier than she had ever seen him.
"I do ma'am. I do." He breathed deeply, several times. Then, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head, he went on more gently, "And 'sore perplexed' is the word, right enough. Yes. Sore perplexed. Which way do I turn? To whom do we turn?"
"Oh dearest!" she cried out, wishing he would talk to her instead of to the empty air.
"Oh dearest—oh dearest!" he mocked. "I say, if I had married a Hottentot or…a mandarin maiden…I could not have met with a more…foreign…a more unfamiliar mode of thought."
Arabella was shocked. "How can you say it? It is a Christian mode."
"It has that appearance." He looked at her like a hunted animal. "You make me doubt myself."
"No," she whispered, wanting to hold him and quieten him.
But he persisted. "You make me feel…unclean…unworthy."
"Oh no!" The hot tears that had trembled at the rims of her eyes began to fall uncontrollably. How she longed for control—to be able to tell him it was not he that was unworthy, not he that was unclean…only the Devil within him.
"Oh yes!" he said. "A week ago, I felt for you the greatest…the most stirring love that any man could feel. In every…in every…fibre of me. My heart would not dance twice upon the same spot in here. I was all fired and steaming within. Every minute of my day sang for you. You were all. You were my all. You were my world."
Why did he talk about it in the past? "But that…" she began.
"Wait! Let me…finish. Please. That world…that whole…that all…that allness…was all loves and all kinds and conditions of love. Carnal—yes, it was carnal. But spiritual, too. Of the purest. And affectionate as well. As brother and sister, as old friends."
&
nbsp; "And I too, dearest," she stammered in a voice that wandered recklessly up and down the scales. "You feel me tremble when you…touch…and you see how I melt when we…when…but it is our lower natures. It is the Devil…"
"Then it is not for you as it is for me, whatever you may think. To speak of different kinds of love is a mere convenience. It is not like an apple with core, flesh, and rind—eat what you will, discard what you will. It is a living thing fed by three arteries. Pinch one off and some region it irrigates must wither. And from it a gangrene must spread that may rot the rest. Entirely."
He made it sound so right when he spoke. As she listened, bathed in his words, she could only think how noble he was in his suffering. Her lower nature, too, was urging her strongly, at levels far below the reach of words, to join with him as they had joined at Earlestown. To comfort him! Her entrails lurched in delight at the thought. And, as she felt again all that she thought she had conquered—the melting lassitude of her limbs, the shallow breath, the tingle in her bosom, the heat in the pit of her back, the riot of her heartbeat—as this ocean of sensuality rose to drown her and obliterate the wreckage of her conscience, something within her was singing an anthem of purest joy. And to
its swelling volume she surrendered herself entirely.
Walter was lying on his back, exhausted with all this talk; his eyes were shut. Dumbly, slowly, she leaned over him to pinch out the candle. Before its light fled, she saw his eyes open wide in astonishment and then fill with halfbelieving rapture.
"Arabella?" he began before she placed her palm flat across his mouth and bore down hard. When he struggled she relaxed and kissed him there softly.
He lay motionless. She knew he was excited. She could feel that—down there. But he did nothing to advance her. She itched for his hands to caress, for his nails to scratch, his tongue to melt, his lips to graze, his breath to winnow her body. But he did nothing. If she lowered her lips to his, he kissed. But if she took them away, he did not follow.
At last, she threw off her chemise and lowered her breasts to him. In her solemnest, innermost, unreachable heart, she knew, she still knew, that this was wrong. But for the rest of her, the sense of wickedness and shame merely added a spice. So that, even as she surrendered herself so utterly and wholly, feeding and swelling his lust and hers, she learned a deep-etched lesson on the tyranny of sin and of the subtle powers wielded by the Prince of that dark land.
The coach called at half past nine. Dixon was sad they had to, "quite understood," wouldn't dream of keeping the money, returned the unused portion, had capital fun. Yes—very sad they had to go.
They stopped at Nixon's to bid adieu to the doctor, but he was out.
When they drew near to Vauxhall, Arabella tapped the bodywork for the coachman to stop.
"Why?" Walter asked.
"There's that Miss Sanders. We can leave a message if her Mrs. McWhatsit is so friendly with the doctor. Yoo hoo!" she called as she pushed open the door.
Miss Sanders came across and curtseyed when she saw who it was.
"Will you see the doctor?" Arabella asked.
"Dr. Fisher has gone with Mrs. McKechnie for a boating trip, madam."
"And left you?"
"I'm no sailor, ma'am!"
Arabella explained why they had to leave so suddenly and asked to be remembered kindly to both absentees. Not once did the girl look in at Walter. Then Arabella, remembering how this girl had, in fact, warned Walter of gambling further with the doctor, felt she would like to give her some little reward.
"My dear," she said, turning to Walter. "Do you have a box of those peppermints we purchased at Preston?"
Mystified, Walter produced a box and gave it to her.
"Here," Arabella said, passing the sweets to an equally puzzled Miss Sanders. "These are for you."
"Thank you," Miss Sanders took them. "I'm sure I don't know what for."
Arabella smiled, as if to chide her. "I'm sure you do. It's for the little service you did my husband on Saturday night."
No landed fish ever gaped as wide nor stared with such unblinking glassy eyes as Miss Sanders.
"As he told me himself," Arabella prattled on, "he's so inexperienced in these things, it would never have occurred to him on his own. I'm very grateful. We both are."
She was slightly put out by the girl's total lack of response—the way she stood and just stared so, even after the door was shut and the coach moved off.
Unseen by her, Walter opened his eyes at last, let go his breath, and eased his fingernails from the trenches they had dug in his palms.
"Please don't tell me I was too effusive, dear. I know she's only a servant. But she's so ladylike and demure—I can't help thinking of her as something more."
"That's strange," he told her solemnly. "Nor can I."
Chapter 18
Summit Tunnel is a 2,885-yard hole through the spine of England. From Oldham Road, Manchester, through Mills Hill, Blue Pits, and Rochdale, the line rises steadily until it is 250 feet above its origin. Between Rochdale and Littleborough it levels off, but this is a mere breathing spell before the effort ahead. From Littleborough to the farthermost end of the tunnel is a steady climb to a summit point 331 feet (and three inches) above the Oldham Road terminus. Like the canal and the turnpike before it, the line deviates from its general easterly course to run northward through a great fold amid the rolling moors. Beyond the summit, the line, still following the northward fold, drops to Todmorden, a mile and a half away and seventy feet nearer sea level.
These are daunting gradients, even for a stout little Bury with its four driven wheels. But they are as nothing compared to the inclines faced by travellers on the road and canal; their summits are fully one hundred feet above that of the railroad—with more than forty lock gates to open and close between Littleborough and Rochdale. Yet the traveller on these open highways is always surprised to be told how high up he is—more than six hundred feet above the sea. He looks about him and sees only the mighty moors rising a further seven hundred feet within a mile of where he stands. And beyond them are hills of even greater eminence—range upon range of wild fell and moor receding in the blue gray distance. To the immediate west of the turnpike, the land rises steeply for over a hundred feet to a bluff, or "scout" as Pennine folk call it. In places it is broken by dashing streams, but elsewhere it rises sheer for a further hundred feet or more. Here, in earlier days, ran the packhorse trail, still the only free passage across the countryside. The turnpikes want a shilling for your journey; the canals will take up to three halfpence a mile and twopence a lock for every ton you send.
The country is rough sheep moor where mat grass, tormentilla, common bent, ladies bedstraw, and tall fescue are the chief fodder, and blue flax, purple molinia grass, and greenweed the chief decoration—with a sprinkling of petty whin and four-leaved heath in the damper hollows. No farmer ever made a fortune up on these tops. The money here is all assembled in the bottoms.
The new age stands down there, filling the air with soot and steam and vitriol and strange new gasworks smells, banishing the night with a thousand lighted windows, bringing the valleys alive with the muted thunder of many thousand looms. There is a place near Butcher Hill, they say, where you may feel the ground in ceaseless vibration from Fielden Brothers mill at Water Side, a quarter of a mile away; and on a windless night, when canal traffic is all moored, you may see the face of the water so agitated that a net of standing ripples is formed, making it seem one long ribbon of shattered glass.
And Fielden's, with its single room one acre in extent, where five hundred operatives tend as many pairs of looms, is only the largest among dozens. Every village and hamlet between the mouth of Summit and Todmorden—places like Strines Gate, Ramsden Wood, Walsden, Hollins Bottom, Gawks Holm, Dobroyd, and Salford—each has its power mills, iron foundries, vitriol works, or forges. They stand, strung out along the artery that carries their raw materials in and their products out: the Rochdale Canal—thei
r link with far off America to the west and the Baltic ports and Russia to the east. From it and into it they presently draw and pour their wealth.
But in terms of time, they stand poised at the dawn of an incomparably brighter era. For with the coming of the railroad, these remote and rustic valleys are at last brought into instantaneous communication with the world's great centres of trade and capital. People can only guess at the wealth this newer and mightier artery will induce in these once-sleepy hollows and unreachable vales.
Already the physical effect is profound. Along the foot of Reddish Scout, which looms above the turnpike, runs a string of shafts, fourteen in all. To the casual visitor they would appear like a rank of slow, cold volcanoes. From the mouth of each, a great mass of rock spoil tumbles in an ever-broader cascade, down the steep banks to the road below. In years to come, these banks may grass themselves over and round themselves off to blend with the vaster natural piles around; but now they form massive, barren spills of white-gray millstone, whose long, pale fingers already reach down to the valley floor.
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