Chapter II (2)

The children were all together downstairs, and one of them had the fiddle under his chin, while the red-haired baby, in its trailing skirt, mopped and mowed in the forgotten game. Some of the magic had come back, in spite of the fiddle’s terrible voice. They laughed and clapped as they had done in the street, and the baby’s face was exalted and set. Even the fiddler had a shadow of Kit’s dignity and poise. There was an air of innocent joy strange in the dingy room, a faint recalling of beauty once perceived. Marget, coming in on the little scene, found herself outside it and shut off. There was no part for her in the play they had learned from the daft old man, who knew no better than to go fiddling in the street. All her fierce jealousy was aroused by this faithfulness to his little moment’s power. It seemed to her, watching, that he stood between the children and herself, teaching them something she couldn’t learn, and taking them where she could not go. For every mother there is a Piper drawing her child away, as even Marget was coming to understand. Perhaps she had seen his reflection in the red-haired baby’s face, and suddenly saw it again now. In any case, she brought the show to an end, clouting both player and dancer over the head, and making away with the fiddle up the stair. Through this enveloping cloud Kit heard the door burst open at his back, and saw a shining thing flung quivering on the bed. He did not move until she had banged out once more, and then after a long while he turned and put out a hand ... found shape and touch just as they had been, and a sweet answer from every string....

There flashed back on him at once all his vision and his peace. The tree stood up again in the midst of wonderland, and on either side of it the world was wide. His link with its golden solitude was renewed, so that it was his to wander in when he would. And after a while, when the first relief was past, his mind went off down the road that led to the sea.

Always, until they took the fiddle from him, he had been able to see the marsh when he chose, the broad, flat stretches and the clean, soft lines. There, where his mind went, was no muddle of mortar and folks. There was no street with the houses crouching cheek by jowl, muttering secrets into each other’s ears; houses, where strange faces looked in, where dust blew in from the road, where nobody was securely still and safely alone. Here, nobody died or was born, or suffered and rebelled, but the whole street knew and put it into words; but out there none of these things kept one ever on guard. Nobody heeded one’s secrets but the sea, and that never told until it gave up its dead. And the sea never heeded, however folk behaved. One could run there, while here one could only walk, could shout and sing without troubling the police; while the strains of a fiddle crying out its soul were as free as a gull crying behind a boat.

There was always sun for him when he thought of the marsh, the early-evening sun on road and field. It lay in a great, golden sheet, unbroken as always on a western marsh, stretching out to the far line of the sea. No matter how it rained in the street, in his mind that walked on the marsh there was always sun. The shadows were barely out, and never conquered the gold. And through it along the white road he came to his home.

But often he lingered so long on the road that his mind never reached its goal. The journey alone was an adventure in itself, full of things that could not be missed. There were always growing things to see in the dykes, marsh-buttercups on some pool, purple vetches on some hedge. Somewhere a farm would stand up between its orchard and fields, and meet him always with a new surprise. Houses never outstared you on the marsh, for all its long distances and unbroken sweep. They grew upon you by degrees, coming, yet keeping themselves in reserve, like faces peeping welcome round a porch. Even his own home on the sand’s edge, alone on its shooting tongue of land, stood back in a shelter of fence and tree. In spite of its outstanding position, it was yet serenely aloof. It had the withdrawn unconsciousness of well-bred folk, an unawareness of alien eyes. You might stare at it all day long and it would not blink. At Marget’s you were always conscious of the street outside.

Sometimes he did reach the farm and go in, and on those days he was a long time coming back. Often he never passed the meadow gate, but once through that he did not turn until he had reached the house itself. The gate was troublesome to open because of its broken bars, and even in his mind he found it hard to move. Even in his mind he was tired by the time he got to the gate, and so he often stayed on the near side. He could see the house from there plainly enough, and it was always ready when he wished to go in. Things waited for him until he came that way again. The light stayed level and golden on the evening land. The face of the house was steadfast in its peace. No need to hurry and force himself if he was tired. It would always be ready for him when he came.

On the days when he did go in he went with a rush, as if he had jumped the distance that lay between. He went with the whole of his energy and desire unwasted by the sweetness of the way. There he was, through the meadow and the wicket-gate and the house door, and the miracle was accomplished that brought him home. All the shadows and dim places of the house rested his eyes, and hinted of folks who had never gone away. The scent of his own place was rich with his memories of the past, tangible things that asked for his hand upon their heads. The house was full of that special surprise which belongs to the things we know by heart; the colour and shape of them ... the feel of suddenly-opened doors ... the gleam of a brass handle, the shallowness of a step, the forgotten pattern of some ancient stuff. A sense of coolness in a certain room, or of sun, or of firelight on a hearth; atmospheres as full of meaning as if lavender had been stirred. It was strange how you saw things wrong when you were living in a house. You had to leave and go back to it to know.

Of course there were people in the house, but they never spoke to him or he to them. He saw them sitting and talking or going about their work, but he never heard them speak. They never looked at him, either, as he went about. If they had lifted their eyes to look at him he might have been afraid. But as long as they did not look he could watch them in peace, the folk who had all been part of his own life. His parents were there, his brothers and sisters, his wife and his three sons. The same person at all ages was there, just as he himself was there at every age, so that the house was full and rich and warm. He never thought of it as it was when he left, a chilly case for a wailing violin. As soon as he had gone he filled it again with all who had a right within its walls, and wandered among them, quietly content. He could not touch them or hear their voices or meet their eyes, but he did not want to do any of these things. He could leave the house as it was with only a little ache, but he could not have left pleading looks and hands.

Even on the days when he went into the house he did not always go upstairs, because it meant going too near the dividing-line of which he was afraid. More often, he sauntered through the rooms below, into the sudden whiteness of the dairy or the still little parlour shut like a Sabbath book. Through every window as he passed, a picture flashed that was old to him and yet strange. He saw each of them now as if mounted and set in a frame. Things changed about the house to match his memories as they came, but they never passed beyond a certain point, and every one of them was mellow and sweet with time. Looking back, he saw nothing that struck him as being new. It was all much too beautiful for that.

When he did get to the bedroom at last, there was always shadow there. He went into the shadow as he went up the stair, and met it when he opened the door. Through the windows, when he looked out, there was no sun on the marsh, only the faint rising of a moon. Somewhere out in the uncertain dark was the quiet plashing of the sea. It was the hour when the world is nothing and some one person is all; when Heaven comes easily, and earth as easily goes. So would death come, he thought, his own good death. Some day he would enter the house for the last time, and climb the stair and open and shut the door. Through the shadows for the last time he would see the things stand out that they had shared, and that perhaps they might find again on the other side. The bits of carpet that their feet had worn; the bed where they had heard each other’s breathing in the night; handles and hooks that hand after hand had touched. The sea would be there for the last time, because in Heaven there would be no sea. He would lean out to it, but would only hear it, silver and cool. Then he would let himself summon her out of the dark, because now there would be no need of turning back, and however she came she would be just right, whether fresh and young or grey and wrinkled and bowed. They would put out their arms to each other, and find each other there.... Death, that seemed so dreadful to folk, meant only that.

His dreams grew upon him after the fiddle came back, chiefly because now he very seldom went out. He could not walk very far, and no matter where he went, it was sure to be against the rules. He was forbidden the other houses in the row, and the river-bank and his potterings on the footpath by the wall. If he went out at all, it was on an errand of Marget’s to the shops, but he had lost the wish to go out, just as he seemed to have lost the wish to play. In these days his fingers never went unknowingly to the strings. Even now that the fiddle was safe, he went on sitting in his room, and for some unstated reason Marget let him be. So his mind was often away on its travels over the marsh, and the body that was left grew quieter every day. The time seemed to be getting near for that last mounting of the stairs. Those who saw him about then said that he “wouldn’t be so long.”

And now, after all the days, had come the order of release. Thomas had got the farm in the end, and straight away asked for his father to come home. Not only his mind but his body could go to the place for which he cried. He could go to a son who would ease his remaining days and a daughter awaiting him with open arms. Of course he was glad to be going, thankful beyond words; too thankful and anxious, indeed, for his content. He could have taken it simply and easily, earlier on, but after all this time it loomed too large. Before, it would have been inevitable and right, but now it seemed to him more than a little strange. As he sat waiting for them to come and take him away, he was conscious of the discomfort and even terror of change. He felt both the reluctant weariness of the old—for whom every shift on the road may be the last—and the fear of the dreamer that his dream may prove untrue. The idealist always shrinks from fulfilment just at the last, and Kit was shrinking and suffering all through. He dreaded the emotional strain through which he would have to pass, longing with shame for his wretched bed and the quiet communion with his tree. Nevertheless he reached forward eagerly to his dream, knowing that he must accept it now, even if he slew both it and himself. Steadily, at the back of his mind, shone the golden glory of the marsh.

He sat patiently, as the old sit who have to husband their strength, but he was filled with a feverish aching to be off. His nervous energy ebbed continually during this long pause before the start. He had a miserable fear that he might refuse to go when it came to the point. He saw himself making for his room as soon as the trap appeared, an obstinate, desperate old animal slinking to its lair. Marget would curse and hammer on the door, and he would cower on the bed in silence, holding his breath. When they were tired of it they would leave him alone, and his heart would stop shaking itself out of its place. He would hear the trap drive away out of his life, and know in that instant all that he had missed....

He might have steadied his nerves by dozing in his chair, but the children, as usual, kept him from doing that. All the time they were darting in and out to look for the trap, or peering at him round the doors. All about the dark cottage he could see their eyes, excited, curious, mocking and bold. He could hear them speaking of him in rough whispers that always reached him as jeers. For once he wished them busy at their quarrelsome games, but they were much too intent to take themselves out of the way. The dramatic element in Gran’pa held them to the last—the thing that hinted tragedy and scenes. Even the act of driving away would mean more with Gran’pa than with anybody else. They felt instinctively that this was one of the climaxes of life, and responded eagerly to its thrill. Gran’pa’s bundle in its red handkerchief was also a source of thrill, a sort of monster pudding in its cloth. Now and then one of the children emerged and gave the bundle a sly but searching poke. If Gran’pa hadn’t been there, they would have had it open at once, and there was always the chance that he might leave it behind. So they stayed, impatient and fidgety but firm, wearing the old man’s strength with whisper and stare. There was more to be got out of this than any casual play. Besides, Marget’s concluding scene was still to make.

Now he had that first terrible feeling of being suffocated and hemmed in. He couldn’t even find a place to rest his eyes, because of the pointing fingers bristling on all sides. There seemed to be faces everywhere as well, and even when he turned to the street one peered at him over the sill. He would have got up and gone outside, but he knew they were there to watch him and would cry him down. Panting, he fixed his hunted gaze on the stair, seeing it in the dark room as a mysterious ladder climbing into peace. It rested him just to look at it and picture where it led. Up above, safe from all the eyes, was a hiding-place for the hunted, shrinking old. The desire to be there grew upon him as he looked, so that he was drawn irresistibly to his feet. Once up the narrow stair, he would be free of the effort that lay ahead, and the minds that had fastened on his like preying teeth. Now he ached to be there, burned to be there.... Something with wings would stand outside the door.... He straightened himself, nerving himself to move, and then he saw Marget coming down the stairs.

The silence, breaking the children’s speech in half, held a sense of something thrown from a height and smashed. Something always died or was hurt when Marget entered a room. Kit had been too intent to heed her step, but now she was there before him, blocking his way. Where the presence with wings should have been he saw Marget instead, thin, pallid, slatternly, flaring-fringed and slit-eyed. Her tight lips sneered when she saw the old man on his feet, and her knuckles whitened as she gripped the rail. He looked very tall in the low room, and, with bundle and fiddle, very ready to be gone. This was a bitter moment for Marget that snatched her bone from between her teeth. She was ragingly jealous of those who wanted him for himself—wanted before they had tried him, Marget said. They couldn’t really be glad of a burden in the house; they were only pretending, to make other folks look small. She despised them for saddling themselves with the old man, and hated and mocked them because they did it with smiles. Also she hated Kit for his evident eagerness to go.

“What d’ye think ye’re at?” she demanded, looking down at him from the stair. Her malignant face sneered at him out of the gloom, and her voice was full of sounds that troubled his delicate ear.

He braced himself, as he always did when Marget spoke. Even when she looked at him he held himself ready for attack. “Trap’ll be round, waint it?” he asked, by way of reply. He leaned his hand on the table to steady himself, looking up. “I reckon trap’ll be round afore so long.”

She glanced for a moment at his hand, finer, in spite of its age, than any in the house, and there came into her face that hatred of things unknown which had stirred her to fury when the baby danced.

“Nay, then, it just waint!” she rapped out. “I told Bob he needn’t hurry himself, getting off. They won’t be looking for you yet. Marsh-folk is always a week behind everybody else.”

“I’ll be glad to be off,” Kit said dully, with the mechanical patience he had learned at her hands. “I’m getting weary a bit, hanging about. I’d best be off.”

“Ay, well,” she jibed at him, “you’ll have to bide. I don’t know as another hour or two in my house’ll do you any harm. You were glad enough on it once, when landlord skifted you out. And it’s as cheap sitting as standing, I reckon, even for folks as hasn’t the price of a seat. You’d best set down till it’s time for you to stir.”

“Trap’ll be round,” Kit repeated doggedly. “I’d reyther stand.” He drew in his fingers as if her eyes hurt them, and did his best to straighten his back and set his jaw. The deliverance that was so near gave him courage to fight, in spite of the sinister things in her face and voice. He had yielded in almost every contest yet, and if she had lost where the fiddle was concerned, it was because she had been conquered by something in herself. To sit was to own himself beaten to the end, and would send him shamed to the marsh from a last defeat. And there was always the chance that if he sat he might never get away, because of the shrinking that wrought against him in his heart.

So again he braced himself and said, “I’ll stand.”

She bent forward towards him from the stair, her chin thrust out at him and her eyes nearly shut. He wanted to push her away and hurry out into the street. He had a feeling that she had trodden that winged thing underfoot, so that there was no longer a refuge for him upstairs.

“I tellt you trap wouldn’t be round just yet.”

“Ay, but it will.”

“Likely you think I don’t know?”

“Nay, not I.” Kit looked away.

“I’m a liar, that’s what it is?”

“Nay.”

“Set down and bide.”

“I’ll stand.”

Suddenly she dropped her strained pose and became all violence and storm, like the wind that gets up out of nowhere on a silent night. Raising herself with a jerk, she flapped down the stair with the noise of a dozen carpet-beaters in full swing. Nobody ever expressed as much as Marget with a pair of down-trodden slippers loose at the heels; yet nobody would keep them when she was gone, pathetic and reverenced by a bed.... Kit thought of his winged thing she had beaten down, and looked to see feathers scattered under her feet. Her face was changed both in colour and shape by the unknown terrible things that lived in her brain. Her voice was changed in the same way, and it was her voice that Kit dreaded most, because his ear had the straighter run to his soul. The things that were part of Marget yet not Marget he never could understand. He was never ready for them, never on his guard. Now she was close to him, bent as if to strike, a trick that had a special horror for the sensitive old man. The children nudged each other and laughed, gloating, yet more than half afraid.

“Stand, will ye—getting in folks’ road and showing yourself that smart to be up and off? Ay, I know you’re fain to be shot of us at last, and you should be right shammed o’ suchlike nastiness, I’m sure. Who’d ha’ seen to you all this time if it hadn’t been for us? Thomas wanted nowt wi’ you, as you know; he’d other fish to fry, had Tom. You’d ha’ bin on the parish, that’s where you’d ha’ bin, and like enough in t’ Union itself. Yon’s the spot for do-nowts as spend their own brass and then look to spend other folks’ as well! Yon’s the spot for wastrels and rattlehorns and fancy fiddlers playing in the street. (Eh, but it banged owt, did yon!) It’ll be queer if you don’t come to it yet, wi’ a pound o’ baccy at Christmas, and ‘Thank ye kindly, master,’ all the week. Likely they’ll set you going errands, tea and currants and a bit o’ lard, or happen your job’ll be cleaning out the pigs. Ay, you’ll land there yet, as sure as eggs is eggs! Likely you’ll think on a bit then about Bob and me.”

He stood looking at her without saying a word, fascinated, just as the children were fascinated, by this exhibition of a ruthless mind. He could feel them gathering closer, magnetised though afraid. The voice that was full of strange things filled all the house, flooded the street and carried down the row, so that folks in passing halted and stared, and the neighbours came running to their doors. “She’ll do for him yet,” they said to each other when they heard that voice, and there was always the chance that the moment had arrived.

“As for the spot you’re off to,” she flared on, “I hope you’ll find it all you think for, I’m sure. Thomas and his missis’ll likely be terble throng wi’ you while you’re fresh, but wait till they’ve had you to do for as long as me. Wait till they’ve gitten you maundering about the place, making a deal o’ work wi’ your daft-like ways. Agnes Black’ll skift you pretty sharp, or she’s not the woman I take her for, that’s all.”

Still he said nothing, paralysed by the flood of sound, and the fierce inflections springing out of her voice like sparks from a cat’s back. And then suddenly she changed her method of attack, letting her voice slide down the scale until it was even and chill and full of insidious hints and something that smiled.

“You think it’ll be a soft spot, I’ll be bound, wi’ nowt to do but set fiddling all day. You reckon you’re going back to things as they was, only wi’ other folk to see to the work instead o’ you. But if you’re counting on things being just the same, you’re badly wrong. Nowt stands still, and I reckon farms is like the rest. What, I doubt you’ll not know the place when you set eyes on it again! It’ll have changed a deal in these last two years, same as you’ve changed a deal yourself. Last man let it down pretty bad; it’s a mercy he broke his neck afore so long. Landlord’s had a deal to do at it, they say, and Thomas is that set up he’s for doing a deal more. Ay, it’ll not be the same farm, no more than Kit Sill’s the same man. You’ll find it out for yourself afore you’ve been there a week. You’ll be nobbut a beggar there, you’ll think on, same as here, and owe somebody every bite. It’ll be another man’s roof over you, as used to be your own. There’ll be another chap master, telling you what’s what. There’ll be a woman for missis as baint no wife o’ yours. It’ll be bitter as salt water washing at your door....”

“Ay, but it’ll be home,” Kit said bravely, holding up his head, and wondering what devil taught her his secret fear.

“Yon’s what you think—now.” For the first time there was a touch of sincerity in her voice. Her cold eyes looked away from him through the open door. “Them as gangs once shouldn’t return. Going back doesn’t mend things; it nobbut spoils what you’ve had. You’ll likely spoil summat if you gang ... summat you’ve fettled for yourself.... Your sort doesn’t live in houses made wi’ hands....”

“Summat I’ve fettled?” Kit asked, and his voice shook. “Houses not made wi’ hands...?” He stared at her, terror and pleading in his face, and she knew she had beaten him and turned again with a jeer.

“Nay, I doubt there’s summat smittal about daft folks like ye! I nobbut mean you’ll happen wish yourself back wi’ Marget afore you’ve done. Not that you’re off yet, so you can just set you down. Folks wi’ manners wouldn’t be showing themselves that smart.”

“I reckon I’ll stand.”

She shot out a furious hand, thin, with flat finger-tips and curved nails. “Set down!” she hissed, and he shrank back, but recovered himself again and stood firm.

“I’ll stand.”

She made a step towards him until their faces almost touched, putting such intensity into the short approach that his strength seemed to ebb from him consciously as he watched. She leaned across the table willing him to obey. “You’ll set down,” she said. “_You’ll set down!_” And suddenly he gave way as if pulled by a string, crumpling into a shaking heap of bones. He sat down slowly, grasping the fiddle so tight that it hurt his hands, and very slowly the tears ran down his face. For a moment longer she stayed as she was, holding him with her eyes, terrible as a Juggernaut in the way. And then the trap came trundling down the street.

The spell broke at the sound of the wheels, and at once the children were out at the door, tumbling and fighting as they went. As soon as the trap stopped they were round it like flies, fretting the horse and settling on the step. Marget caught the baby by its skirts as it stumbled after the rest, and it set up one of its stupendous howls. Only Kit stayed perfectly still where he was, as if the strength had indeed gone out of his limbs. The stage was set, but the chief actor did not appear. Bob turned in his seat and looked in at the door, and up at his father’s window and gave a hail, but Kit never showed that he heard him or tried to stir. The tears ran down his face and he did not so much as lift up a hand. Then Marget snatched at his bundle and thrust it into his arms.

“Ay, well, then gang!” she said in a brutal voice, and watched him tremble and totter to his feet. The red-haired baby fought and shrieked to be down, but she shook the breath out of it with a mighty jolt. Bob whistled and called again, but the two in the house still looked at each other and paid no heed. They had come too close in that last clash to slip apart again with ease. The hatred on both sides had its mixture of fascination and fear. He felt a helpless dread of a power that beauty could not touch; she, an angry terror of genius out of reach.

One of the children came running back to the door, but still the old man did not move. It seemed as though the leash in which Marget held him had not been slipped. The moment was here that began for him better things, but he did not feel in the least as though the break had come. The sense of relief he had looked for did not ease his heart. She scowled, “Be off with you, then,” turning away her head, but still he stood without attempting to go, as motionless as a stock. Never once did he even turn and look out at the door. And then, “I’m obliged to you, Marget,” he said at last; “I’m obliged to you, Marget, for all you’ve done,” and shifted the bundle to show a shaky hand.

She brushed it aside with a sharp elbow, but the red came violently into her face. “I’ll be bound you’re obliged!” she sneered, tossing her head. “You’d ha’ been in Queer Street, I reckon, but for us. Eh, well, I hope you’ll find everything to your liking at the farm.” The baby opened its mouth again, and she shut it with a jerk. There was a pause, and then she went on, her voice sounding hypnotised and dragged. “You’ll mind you can come back if you find as you can’t bide? I want nowt wi’ you, an’ that’s flat, but I reckon I can go on. You’d be best to come back if you find as you can’t bide....”

But now he had turned away and was looking eagerly at the door, so that he scarcely seemed to hear her final words. With that look he began his journey to the marsh, to the sun on the long levels that were all of them paths to home. He moved, and at once his feet were over the threshold and he found himself out in the street. He had forgotten Marget as if she had never been, though he had never noticed the snapping of the cord. She did not follow him out, but stayed at the door. The red-haired baby burst into bitter tears.

The neighbours were all looking out along the row, and a little crowd had gathered round the trap. The children still quarrelled and climbed and pushed each other down, or poked and fidgeted the sleepy horse. The road was like a river in the sun, golden beside the black one under the trees, but both of them coming ultimately to the sea. The light dazzled him as he went out, so that he could hardly see the smiling faces and outstretched hands. Somebody took the bundle from him and put it into the trap, but when they offered to take the fiddle he shook his head. A woman brought a nosegay from a bush beside her door, and pinned it laughingly in his coat. Another pushed a buttered scone into his hand, and asked if she should bring him a cup of tea. It would never be Marget, he heard them say, if she’d thought of setting him up for his ride like that. He shook his head at the tea and stared helplessly at the scone, while they pulled at his arm and wished him luck, or clapped him on the shoulder in farewell. Somebody begged him to give them a tune for the last time, but he was too dazed by the sun to heed what they said. He just stood there, fiddle and scone in hand, staring about him like a puzzled child. Then the parson came along and wished him a pleasant ride, and shook the hand that wasn’t holding the scone. Everybody seemed glad for him that he was going home, that he was getting away from Marget, after all. Folks were nearly always glad when they saw others going home. They felt kindlier towards them then than at any other time, he thought. Folks away from home were a kind of public trust. The world was worried about them until they were safely back.

Bob begged the parson to help the old man into the trap, and at once there were a dozen hands hoisting him up the step, holding needlessly to the horse’s head, and pulling the children from under the wheels. Kit arrived at his seat a little breathless and pulled about, and felt the fiddle quiver against his coat. He was grateful for the sympathy and help, but he had not expected to be sped by a crowd. He couldn’t help shrinking from the cheerful voices and the smiling eyes that made of him a spectacle in the street. They confused him and crossed his thoughts—troubled his perfect journey at the start. He did not know what to do with the buttered scone, and the button-hole worried him dreadfully under the chin. He would have liked to creep quietly out of the house where he had been so sad, and steal silently towards the house where he had been so gay.

The crowd saw that they fretted him at last and drew away, but Bob still talked to the parson over the wheel. The old man looked back up the street, and saw the village radiant in the sun, the white wall of the school like a snow-palace in its midst, and the church-tower high and sharp against the sky. He looked up at the trees and saw the leafy roof thick and green and still, and the doors of many mansions among the boughs. “Houses not made wi’ hands,” he said to himself, and wondered where he had heard the words. He looked at the cottages, with their porches and worn steps, their shaded windows and grey walls, their climbing roses and sagging, slated roofs. And for a long moment he looked at his own window which held the enchantment of the tree. From his window on the marsh he would see no trees, neither magic ones on a velvet sward nor giants bent into bondage by the gale. There would be nothing before his eyes which had been straitened so long but the long distances of the sands and the long pathways of the sea.

Bob sat up and put his hand on the whip, and saw the onlookers black as ink against the swimming gold of the road. Kit’s hat was over his eyes, so that he did not see Marget at the wheel until she spoke. Then he looked and saw her white face and her fringe, and the red head of the baby glowing in the light. “Think on you can come back,” she said in her hard tones, and repeated it as they slowly drew away. He nodded vaguely by way of reply, wondering why she talked of coming back when he was not yet conscious of being gone, and Bob said hurriedly, “Ay, ay, he knows,” and flourished the ragged whip. The horse gathered itself into a slow trot, and Marget fell back out of sight. The river that was yet road began to swim past, lined with waving figures on its banks. They lurched away straight into the eye of the sun, and the folk came back to the street to watch them go. Kit looked a very old man indeed from behind, and Bob’s shoulders seemed tired and slack. They were like weary folk hurrying into the light to be made young and strong. The swing of the cart behind the rolling horse gave them the air of going very fast. Those who were left talking in the street began to dispute whether the old man would look round. “Nay, he’s over glad to be off,” said one; “he’ll look round none, will the old chap, not he!” And another said, “He’s not found it that grand he’ll risk his neck for it, I’ll swear!” But a woman said, “We’ve had many a crack together, him and me”; and another said, “He makes his own things to suit himself with, does Kit.”

They watched the trap to the end of the street, past the little white rows that had steps up to the doors, and the woodyard and the smithy and the farmhouse by the bridge, and still Kit did not turn. The trap gave a sudden swerve, and they could see the buttered scone held tightly in his hand. Bob leaned towards him and spoke, but the old man gave no sign of reply.

And then just at the very last he turned, when another minute would have blotted him out. All he could see now was the tunnel of the trees, with the houses showing dimly along the side. He had thought himself free without so much as a pang, but somewhere a link was holding, after all. Something was left behind in the village street, something that would not follow, that could not come. He felt the tug at his heart and looked back, though it was too late to do anything but look. It passed as soon as the turn was passed, and his heart lifted, thinking itself loosed. Nevertheless, something was gone that he might not find again—something that he had made in prison, and might not take away.