Джон Голсуорси
The Freelands
CHAPTER XX
But next morning, turning on his back as it came dawn, Stanley thought, with the curious intensity which in those small hours so soon becomes fear: ‘By Jove! I don’t trust that woman a yard! I shall wire for Felix!’ And the longer he lay on his back, the more the conviction bored a hole in him. There was a kind of fever in the air nowadays, that women seemed to catch, as children caught the measles. What did it all mean? England used to be a place to live in. One would have thought an old country like this would have got through its infantile diseases! Hysteria! No one gave in to that. Still, one must look out! Arson was about the limit! And Stanley had a vision, suddenly, of his plough-works in flames. Why not? The ploughs were not for the English market. Who knew whether these laboring fellows mightn’t take that as a grievance, if trouble began to spread? This somewhat far-fetched notion, having started to burrow, threw up a really horrid mole-hill on Stanley. And it was only the habit, in the human mind, of saying suddenly to fears: Stop! I’m tired of you! that sent him to sleep about half past four.
He did not, however, neglect to wire to Felix:
“If at all possible, come down again at once; awkward business at Joyfields.”
Nor, on the charitable pretext of employing two old fellows past ordinary work, did he omit to treble his night-watchman…
On Wednesday, the day of which he had seen the dawn rise, Felix had already been startled, on returning from his constitutional, to discover his niece and nephew in the act of departure. All the explanation vouchsafed had been: “Awfully sorry, Uncle Felix; Mother’s wired for us.” Save for the general uneasiness which attended on all actions of that woman, Felix would have felt relieved at their going. They had disturbed his life, slipped between him and Nedda! So much so that he did not even expect her to come and tell him why they had gone, nor feel inclined to ask her. So little breaks the fine coherence of really tender ties! The deeper the quality of affection, the more it ‘starts and puffs,’ and from sheer sensitive feeling, each for the other, spares attempt to get back into touch!
His paper – though he did not apply to it the word ‘favorite,’ having that proper literary feeling toward all newspapers, that they took him in rather than he them – gave him on Friday morning precisely the same news, of the rick-burning, as it gave to Stanley at breakfast and to John on his way to the Home Office. To John, less in the know, it merely brought a knitting of the brow and a vague attempt to recollect the numbers of the Worcestershire constabulary. To Felix it brought a feeling of sickness. Men whose work in life demands that they shall daily whip their nerves, run, as a rule, a little in advance of everything. And goodness knows what he did not see at that moment. He said no word to Nedda, but debated with himself and Flora what, if anything, was to be done. Flora, whose sense of humor seldom deserted her, held the more comfortable theory that there was nothing to be done as yet. Soon enough to cry when milk was spilled! He did not agree, but, unable to suggest a better course, followed her advice. On Saturday, however, receiving Stanley’s wire, he had much difficulty in not saying to her, “I told you so!” The question that agitated him now was whether or not to take Nedda with him. Flora said: “Yes. The child will be the best restraining influence, if there is really trouble brewing!” Some feeling fought against this in Felix, but, suspecting it to be mere jealousy, he decided to take her. And, to the girl’s rather puzzled delight, they arrived at Becket that day in time for dinner. It was not too reassuring to find John there, too. Stanley had also wired to him. The matter must indeed be serious!
The usual week-end was in progress. Clara had made one of her greatest efforts. A Bulgarian had providentially written a book in which he showed, beyond doubt, that persons fed on brown bread, potatoes, and margarine, gave the most satisfactory results of all. It was a discovery of the first value as a topic for her dinner-table – seeming to solve the whole vexed problem of the laborers almost at one stroke. If they could only be got to feed themselves on this perfect programme, what a saving of the situation! On those three edibles, the Bulgarian said – and he had been well translated – a family of five could be maintained at full efficiency for a shilling per day. Why! that would leave nearly eight shillings a week, in many cases more, for rent, firing, insurance, the man’s tobacco, and the children’s boots. There would be no more of that terrible pinching by the mothers, to feed the husband and children properly, of which one heard so much; no more lamentable deterioration in our stock! Brown bread, potatoes, margarine – quite a great deal could be provided for seven shillings! And what was more delicious than a well-baked potato with margarine of good quality? The carbohydrates – or was it hybocardrates – ah, yes! the kybohardrates – would be present in really sufficient quantity! Little else was talked of all through dinner at her end of the table. Above the flowers which Frances Freeland always insisted on arranging – and very charmingly – when she was there – over bare shoulders and white shirt-fronts, those words bombed and rebombed. Brown bread, potatoes, margarine, carbohydrates, calorific! They mingled with the creaming sizzle of champagne, with the soft murmur of well-bred deglutition. White bosoms heaved and eyebrows rose at them. And now and again some Bigwig versed in science murmured the word ‘Fats.’ An agricultural population fed to the point of efficiency without disturbance of the existing state of things! Eureka! If only into the bargain they could be induced to bake their own brown bread and cook their potatoes well! Faces flushed, eyes brightened, and teeth shone. It was the best, the most stimulating, dinner ever swallowed in that room. Nor was it until each male guest had eaten, drunk, and talked himself into torpor suitable to the company of his wife, that the three brothers could sit in the smoking-room together, undisturbed.
When Stanley had described his interview with ‘that woman,’ his glimpse of the red blouse, and the laborers’ meeting, there was a silence before John said:
“It might be as well if Tod would send his two youngsters abroad for a bit.”
Felix shook his head.
“I don’t think he would, and I don’t think they’d go. But we might try to get those two to see that anything the poor devils of laborers do is bound to recoil on themselves, fourfold. I suppose,” he added, with sudden malice, “a laborers’ rising would have no chance?”
Neither John nor Stanley winced.
“Rising? Why should they rise?”
“They did in ‘32.”
“In ‘32!” repeated John. “Agriculture had its importance then. Now it has none. Besides, they’ve no cohesion, no power, like the miners or railway men. Rising? No chance, no earthly! Weight of metal’s dead against it.”
Felix smiled.
“Money and guns! Guns and money! Confess with me, brethren, that we’re glad of metal.”
John stared and Stanley drank off his whiskey and potash. Felix really was a bit ‘too thick’ sometimes. Then Stanley said:
“Wonder what Tod thinks of it all. Will you go over, Felix, and advise that our young friends be more considerate to these poor beggars?”
Felix nodded. And with ‘Good night, old man’ all round, and no shaking of the hands, the three brothers dispersed.
But behind Felix, as he opened his bedroom door, a voice whispered:
“Dad!” And there, in the doorway of the adjoining room, was Nedda in her dressing-gown.
“Do come in for a minute. I’ve been waiting up. You ARE late.”
Felix followed her into her room. The pleasure he would once have had in this midnight conspiracy was superseded now, and he stood blinking at her gravely. In that blue gown, with her dark hair falling on its lace collar and her face so round and childish, she seemed more than ever to have defrauded him. Hooking her arm in his, she drew him to the window; and Felix thought: ‘She just wants to talk to me about Derek. Dog in the manger that I am! Here goes to be decent!’ So he said:
“Well, my dear?”
Nedda pressed his hand with a little coaxing squeeze.
“Daddy, darling, I do love you!”
And, though Felix knew that she had grasped what he was feeling, a sort of warmth spread in him. She had begun counting his fingers with one of her own, sitting close beside him. The warmth in Felix deepened, but he thought: ‘She must want a good deal out of me!’ Then she began:
“Why did we come down again? I know there’s something wrong! It’s hard not to know, when you’re anxious.” And she sighed. That little sigh affected Felix.
“I’d always rather know the truth, Dad. Aunt Clara said something about a fire at the Mallorings’.”
Felix stole a look at her. Yes! There was a lot in this child of his! Depth, warmth, and strength to hold to things. No use to treat her as a child! And he answered:
“My dear, there’s really nothing beyond what you know – our young man and Sheila are hotheads, and things over there are working up a bit. We must try and smooth them down.”
“Dad, ought I to back him whatever he does?”
What a question! The more so that one cannot answer superficially the questions of those whom one loves.
“Ah!” he said at last. “I don’t know yet. Some things it’s not your duty to do; that’s certain. It can’t be right to do things simply because he does them – THAT’S not real – however fond one is.”
“No; I feel that. Only, it’s so hard to know what I do really think – there’s always such a lot trying to make one feel that only what’s nice and cosey is right!”
And Felix thought: ‘I’ve been brought up to believe that only Russian girls care for truth. It seems I was wrong. The saints forbid I should be a stumbling-block to my own daughter searching for it! And yet – where’s it all leading? Is this the same child that told me only the other night she wanted to know everything? She’s a woman now! So much for love!’ And he said:
“Let’s go forward quietly, without expecting too much of ourselves.”
“Yes, Dad; only I distrust myself so.”
“No one ever got near the truth who didn’t.”
“Can we go over to Joyfields to-morrow? I don’t think I could bear a whole day of Bigwigs and eating, with this hanging – ”
“Poor Bigwigs! All right! We’ll go. And now, bed; and think of nothing!”
Her whisper tickled his ear:
“You are a darling to me, Dad!”
He went out comforted.
And for some time after she had forgotten everything he leaned out of his window, smoking cigarettes, and trying to see the body and soul of night. How quiet she was – night, with her mystery, bereft of moon, in whose darkness seemed to vibrate still the song of the cuckoos that had been calling so all day! And whisperings of leaves communed with Felix.
CHAPTER XXI
What Tod thought of all this was, perhaps, as much of an enigma to Tod as to his three brothers, and never more so than on that Sunday morning when two police constables appeared at his door with a warrant for the arrest of Tryst. After regarding them fixedly for full thirty seconds, he said, “Wait!” and left them in the doorway.
Kirsteen was washing breakfast things which had a leadless glaze, and Tryst’s three children, extremely tidy, stood motionless at the edge of the little scullery, watching.
When she had joined him in the kitchen Tod shut the door.
“Two policemen,” he said, “want Tryst. Are they to have him?”
In the life together of these two there had, from the very start, been a queer understanding as to who should decide what. It had become by now so much a matter of instinct that combative consultations, which bulk so large in married lives, had no place in theirs. A frowning tremor passed over her face.
“I suppose they must. Derek is out. Leave it to me, Tod, and take the tinies into the orchard.”
Tod took the three little Trysts to the very spot where Derek and Nedda had gazed over the darkening fields in exchanging that first kiss, and, sitting on the stump of the apple-tree he had cut down, he presented each of them with an apple. While they ate, he stared. And his dog stared at him. How far there worked in Tod the feelings of an ordinary man watching three small children whose only parent the law was just taking into its charge it would be rash to say, but his eyes were extremely blue and there was a frown between them.
“Well, Biddy?” he said at last.
Biddy did not reply; the habit of being a mother had imposed on her, together with the gravity of her little, pale, oval face, a peculiar talent for silence. But the round-cheeked Susie said:
“Billy can eat cores.”
After this statement, silence was broken only by munching, till Tod remarked:
“What makes things?”
The children, having the instinct that he had not asked them, but himself, came closer. He had in his hand a little beetle.
“This beetle lives in rotten wood; nice chap, isn’t he?”
“We kill beetles; we’re afraid of them.” So Susie.
They were now round Tod so close that Billy was standing on one of his large feet, Susie leaning her elbows on one of his broad knees, and Biddy’s slender little body pressed against his huge arm.
“No,” said Tod; “beetles are nice chaps.”
“The birds eats them,” remarked Billy.
“This beetle,” said Tod, “eats wood. It eats through trees and the trees get rotten.”
Biddy spoke:
“Then they don’t give no more apples.” Tod put the beetle down and Billy got off his foot to tread on it. When he had done his best the beetle emerged and vanished in the grass. Tod, who had offered no remonstrance, stretched out his hand and replaced Billy on his foot.
“What about my treading on you, Billy?” he said.
“Why?”
“I’m big and you’re little.”
On Billy’s square face came a puzzled defiance. If he had not been early taught his station he would evidently have found some poignant retort. An intoxicated humblebee broke the silence by buzzing into Biddy’s fluffed-out, corn-gold hair. Tod took it off with his hand.
“Lovely chap, isn’t he?”
The children, who had recoiled, drew close again, while the drunken bee crawled feebly in the cage of Tod’s large hand.
“Bees sting,” said Biddy; “I fell on a bee and it stang me!”
“You stang it first,” said Tod. “This chap wouldn’t sting – not for worlds. Stroke it!”
Biddy put out her little, pale finger but stayed it a couple of inches from the bee.
“Go on,” said Tod.
Opening her mouth a little, Biddy went on and touched the bee.
“It’s soft,” she said. “Why don’t it buzz?”
“I want to stroke it, too,” said Susie. And Billy stamped a little on Tod’s foot.
“No,” said Tod; “only Biddy.”
There was perfect silence till the dog, rising, approached its nose, black with a splash of pinky whiteness on the end of the bridge, as if to love the bee.
“No,” said Tod. The dog looked at him, and his yellow-brown eyes were dark with anxiety.
“It’ll sting the dog’s nose,” said Biddy, and Susie and Billy came yet closer.
It was at this moment, when the heads of the dog, the bee, Tod, Biddy, Susie, and Billy might have been contained within a noose three feet in diameter, that Felix dismounted from Stanley’s car and, coming from the cottage, caught sight of that little idyll under the dappled sunlight, green, and blossom. It was something from the core of life, out of the heartbeat of things – like a rare picture or song, the revelation of the childlike wonder and delight, to which all other things are but the supernumerary casings – a little pool of simplicity into which fever and yearning sank and were for a moment drowned. And quite possibly he would have gone away without disturbing them if the dog had not growled and wagged his tail.
But when the children had been sent down into the field he experienced the usual difficulty in commencing a talk with Tod. How far was his big brother within reach of mere unphilosophic statements; how far was he going to attend to facts?
“We came back yesterday,” he began; “Nedda and I. You know all about Derek and Nedda, I suppose?”
Tod nodded.
“What do you think of it?”
“He’s a good chap.”
“Yes,” murmured Felix, “but a firebrand. This business at Malloring’s – what’s it going to lead to, Tod? We must look out, old man. Couldn’t you send Derek and Sheila abroad for a bit?”
“Wouldn’t go.”
“But, after all, they’re dependent on you.”
“Don’t say that to them; I should never see them again.”
Felix, who felt the instinctive wisdom of that remark, answered helplessly:
“What’s to be done, then?”
“Sit tight.” And Tod’s hand came down on Felix’s shoulder.
“But suppose they get into real trouble? Stanley and John don’t like it; and there’s Mother.” And Felix added, with sudden heat, “Besides, I can’t stand Nedda being made anxious like this.”
Tod removed his hand. Felix would have given a good deal to have been able to see into the brain behind the frowning stare of those blue eyes.
“Can’t help by worrying. What must be, will. Look at the birds!”
The remark from any other man would have irritated Felix profoundly; coming from Tod, it seemed the unconscious expression of a really felt philosophy. And, after all, was he not right? What was this life they all lived but a ceaseless worrying over what was to come? Was not all man’s unhappiness caused by nervous anticipations of the future? Was not that the disease, and the misfortune, of the age; perhaps of all the countless ages man had lived through?
With an effort he recalled his thoughts from that far flight. What if Tod had rediscovered the secret of the happiness that belonged to birds and lilies of the field – such overpowering interest in the moment that the future did not exist? Why not? Were not the only minutes when he himself was really happy those when he lost himself in work, or love? And why were they so few? For want of pressure to the square moment. Yes! All unhappiness was fear and lack of vitality to live the present fully. That was why love and fighting were such poignant ecstasies – they lived their present to the full. And so it would be almost comic to say to those young people: Go away; do nothing in this matter in which your interest and your feelings are concerned! Don’t have a present, because you’ve got to have a future! And he said:
“I’d give a good deal for your power of losing yourself in the moment, old boy!”
“That’s all right,” said Tod. He was examining the bark of a tree, which had nothing the matter with it, so far as Felix could see; while his dog, who had followed them, carefully examined Tod. Both were obviously lost in the moment. And with a feeling of defeat Felix led the way back to the cottage.
In the brick-floored kitchen Derek was striding up and down; while around him, in an equilateral triangle, stood the three women, Sheila at the window, Kirsteen by the open hearth, Nedda against the wall opposite. Derek exclaimed at once:
“Why did you let them, Father? Why didn’t you refuse to give him up?”
Felix looked at his brother. In the doorway, where his curly head nearly touched the wood, Tod’s face was puzzled, rueful. He did not answer.
“Any one could have said he wasn’t here. We could have smuggled him away. Now the brutes have got him! I don’t know that, though – ” And he made suddenly for the door.
Tod did not budge. “No,” he said.
Derek turned; his mother was at the other door; at the window, the two girls.
The comedy of this scene, if there be comedy in the face of grief, was for the moment lost on Felix.
‘It’s come,’ he thought. ‘What now?’
Derek had flung himself down at the table and was burying his head in his hands. Sheila went up to him.
“Don’t be a fool, Derek.”
However right and natural that remark, it seemed inadequate.
And Felix looked at Nedda. The blue motor scarf she had worn had slipped off her dark head; her face was white; her eyes, fixed immovably on Derek, seemed waiting for him to recognize that she was there. The boy broke out again:
“It was treachery! We took him in; and now we’ve given him up. They wouldn’t have touched US if we’d got him away. Not they!”
Felix literally heard the breathing of Tod on one side of him and of Kirsteen on the other. He crossed over and stood opposite his nephew.
“Look here, Derek,” he said; “your mother was quite right. You might have put this off for a day or two; but it was bound to come. You don’t know the reach of the law. Come, my dear fellow! It’s no good making a fuss, that’s childish – the thing is to see that the man gets every chance.”
Derek looked up. Probably he had not yet realized that his uncle was in the room; and Felix was astonished at his really haggard face; as if the incident had bitten and twisted some vital in his body.
“He trusted us.”
Felix saw Kirsteen quiver and flinch, and understood why they had none of them felt quite able to turn their backs on that display of passion. Something deep and unreasoning was on the boy’s side; something that would not fit with common sense and the habits of civilized society; something from an Arab’s tent or a Highland glen. Then Tod came up behind and put his hands on his son’s shoulders.
“Come!” he said; “milk’s spilt.”
“All right!” said Derek gruffly, and he went to the door.
Felix made Nedda a sign and she slipped out after him.