Chapter ELEVEN: § 1

The next morning Daniel Sheather was serving in his father’s bar when Ernley Munk walked in. He had not seen nor spoken to Ernley since James Munk’s death, and he felt horribly embarrassed at the sight of him, in a smart new suit of clerical grey with a black tie.

“Well, Daniel, you’re a nice one.”

Daniel could not find a suitable reply. He felt acutely that he was indeed “a nice one.” His rupture with Belle was now public property, and Ernley must have heard of it days ago and be waiting for the confidences due to the event--though that same event may also have explained his callous ignoring of his friend’s recent trouble.

“I made sure you’d be coming over to see me,” continued Ernley--“every night I’ve been expecting you, since the funeral--and before it, too.”

Dan still said nothing. Since the day which was to Ernley the day of the funeral and to him the day when he had last seen Belle, he had scarcely left the George. The condolences of his own family, mixed as they were with covert relief, had been hard enough to bear without the thought of enlarging their circle in Bullockdean. Mr. Marchbanks, Jess and Maudie Harman and Ernley himself would all be glad to know that Daniel Sheather was not going to marry Belle Shackford after all--“Never would have done--not a bit his sort--I told him so,” he could hear everybody saying--“Thank heaven he’s escaped before it was too late. I wonder why it was broken off.” ... Relief and curiosity--covered by varying thicknesses of compassion--were all he had to expect from his friends, so he had kept away from them, preferring the company of the strangers who came to the George from Lewes and Newhaven. In their society he had drunk a great many whiskies, and had even taken part in those mysterious shufflings with the names of horses and slips of paper which it had always been his business to detect and stop.... Now he felt ashamed. He saw that he had behaved badly and had treated his friends badly.

“I’m sorry, Ernley,” he mumbled.

“So am I, old chap. Damnably sorry. You’ve been let in for a wretched business. Look here--can’t your brother take over this bottle-washing for a bit, and you come and have a drink with me across the road? We may be interrupted any moment here.”

Dan doubted very much whether Chris would be so obliging, but solved the problem by calling his father. Tom was only too glad for his son to get out of the place for a bit. He did not care for this solemn, home-hugging, whisky-drinking Daniel, and was relieved to see him cross the road once more in Ernley’s neglected company.

The Crown was wrapped in its usual noontide peace. The bar was red with sunshine that streamed through its bright curtains on to the clean sawdust of the floor and the polished table at which the farmer of Burnt Green and the farmer of Highbarn sat talking and drinking ale. From behind the counter Maudie Harman smiled a speechless welcome.

“We’re getting ready for Easter,” said Ernley, as they went upstairs. “Two sets of people coming--one on the second, and one on the fourth.”

“Shall you keep things going as they used to be?”

“More or less. I’ve got the same ideas as dad--I want to make a decent little country hotel out of this place. We’re getting on that way ... next year I may run up an extra wing. People seem to care less and less for going into ‘Apartments’ in the country--they got scared off that during the war. What they want now is a cosy little pub--that sort like it called a pub--which ull take ’em in at about three guineas a week. They find that over a month’s stay it doesn’t work out at much more than, say, three or four rooms at a quid each, and all the bother of doing their own catering. I shall give luncheons and teas as well--I’ll put up a sign on the high road this summer--but to private parties only, no beanfeasts or charabanc crowds. Now, you could do that if you liked--it would mix well with your sort of business, and wouldn’t interfere with ours. The only way for two pubs to exist in a village this size is for them to follow different lines and cater for different sorts of customers--and that’s what the George and the Crown have done up till now.”

While he rattled on in this way he was busy fetching drinks. He evidently did not want to talk of intimate matters till they had a bottle between them.

Daniel took the hint.

“You needn’t worry about us trying to poach on your lay,” he said bitterly; “we couldn’t manage the charabanc parties even. I reckon you’re right in saying we ought to keep to different lines, but you needn’t talk as if ours paid as well as yours. You can’t make much money out of drinks these days, especially when you sell drink like ours.”

“Well, try some of this. It’ll put a heart into you. It’s a special malting of Truby’s I was lucky enough to get a cask of, and am bottling myself. It’s like wine--got a bouquet instead of froth,” and Ernley passed his nose over his glass before sipping it.

Dan drank his in a less experienced manner, but if it did not actually put a heart into him, it put a tongue.

“I suppose that as a start off to this scheme of yours, you’ll get married?” he remarked.

“Married!--whom to?”

“Why, Miss Jenner, of course.”

“Miss Jenner would not be flattered to hear you say so. She has set her hopes on something far higher than a country publican. Besides, she isn’t at all the sort of girl I’d want for keeps.”

Daniel stared.

“Then why did you trot her out like that in front of us all?--said you wouldn’t come along to supper unless you brought her. I made sure you were engaged.”

“I trotted her out, as you call it, because I didn’t want Belle to think she was the only one who had got over our little affair and fallen in love with somebody else.”

Daniel gaped as well as stared. Ernley’s words seemed to him rather too glaring an example of the truth to be found in strong ale.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” continued Ernley.

“About Miss Jenner?”

“No--you fool. About Belle.”

Daniel flushed miserably. Even Messrs. Truby’s first malting was unable to make him face that topic in a gallant spirit.

“I thought you’d have come over and told me about it,” reproached Ernley.

“I couldn’t--I felt too bad.”

“You were afraid, I suppose, that I’d say ‘I told you so,’ or ‘it’s a good thing you found out in time.’”

“Found out what?” cried Dan, with a start.

“That you weren’t suited to each other. You were afraid I’d say that, so you kept away. I’m sorry you didn’t come, for it ud have done you good. Your sort of chap is always the better for talking. I’m going to make you talk about it now, and you’ve no idea how much better you’ll feel.”

Daniel for some reason felt affronted. Ernley seemed to be patronizing him from the vantage of his free heart.

“I don’t want to talk about her.”

“But I do. I want to talk about her most particularly. I want you to tell me if the reason of her giving you up was that she’s still keen on me.”

Daniel was utterly taken aback, and could not answer.

“Is Belle Shackford still keen on me?” asked Ernley, his eyes glittering.

Dan had by this time collected himself enough to remember that his vow of secrecy did not necessarily cover more than Belle’s condition. He had not promised never to divulge her feelings.

“Well, reckon she is keen on you. But what difference does it make?”

“A lot.”

“You don’t mean ... you’re not telling me that you’re still sweet on her.”

“I am. Keen and sweet.”

Daniel spluttered.

“Then why the hell ... why the hell did you let me.... I tell you I’d never have courted her if I’d known ... you told me you were shut of her--it was all finished.”

Ernley rose to his feet, and came and stood beside Daniel’s chair, his hand on his shoulder.

“Look here, old Daniel. The thing’s like this. It isn’t your fault--I blame myself entirely. I told you I wasn’t keen on Belle because I was too proud to let on that I was, after all that had happened. I made sure that she’d finished with me, too, and I was afraid that if you guessed I was still fond of her, you’d tell her somehow. Another thing I made sure of was that she’d never have you. When I found she would, I was knocked over. Then I simply had to get hold of Pearl and trot her out. I wasn’t going to let Belle think I still wanted her, and I wanted her so much that I felt everyone must know it. Then dad died, and I knew I was a free man and could have married Belle if we’d still been lovers. That made me pretty mad, you bet. Then I heard she’d broken with you----”

The rapid flow of words was checked, and he stared at Daniel.

“I reckon,” said young Sheather--“that you think I’m unaccountable good-natured.”

“Because I believe I can talk frankly to you about what I feel for Belle?”

“Because you can talk so calm about all you’ve made Belle and me suffer through not knowing your own mind and being too proud to speak it when you did. We’ve been in hell both of us--through you. And now there’s no good you talking of her caring about you still, for she won’t have you, whether she cares or not. It’s too late.”

“How d’you mean?”

“Well, reckon she’ll never take you on again now, for all that she won’t have me. She told me she wouldn’t. She told me she’d rather die....”

He rose to his feet as he spoke, and for a moment the two men stared at each other in silence. Then they were startled by a knock at the door.

“Who’s that?” cried Ernley.

“A gentleman to see you, sir, downstairs. A Mr. Shackford....”

§ 2

There was a brief pause. Then Ernley said:

“Show him up.”

“I don’t want to see him,” cried Daniel.

“Don’t be a fool! You’ve nothing to reproach yourself with--it isn’t you he’s come after. I wonder what he wants out of me.”

Daniel turned away and stood by the window. For that moment he hated Ernley--who in the midst of all this tragedy and humiliation was happy and confident because he knew Belle still cared for him. He did not worry about her outraged heart or the barriers it had set up--he did not really care about Daniel’s sorrow--he was telling himself what he had said he would never have told Daniel--that he and Belle weren’t suited to each other, and therefore it was all for the best that they had found out in time ... “in time”--that was good--“in time” for Ernley still to have her ... the Sheather worm was turning.

Shackford walked in.

“Hullo! Both of you here. That’s what I want. I went to the George first, and they told me Sheather was at the Crown. I want a word with both of you. Where’s my daughter?”

The question was equally startling to both. Dan turned from the window and came forward into the room.

“Isn’t she at home?” he asked, bewildered.

“If she was, I’d scarcely have come all this way to ask you where she’d got to.”

Shackford evidently meant to be unpleasant.

“We neither of us have the faintest idea where she is,” said Ernley, “though we were talking about her when you came in. When did she disappear?”

“Yesterday evening--after a row with her sister.”

“Then why should you imagine that either Sheather or I know where she is?”

“Well, reckon both you men knew more about my girl than I do.”

Dan’s memory was whirling with fears. It seemed extraordinary to him that Ernley could still retain his calm assurance, now with an added touch of impudence. Was the fact of Belle’s love so sustaining and fulfilling that it would suffice even when Belle herself might be lost in danger or even in death?

“I believe she’s killed herself.”

The words burst from him as he remembered her own. He saw her standing before him pale and rigid--he heard her say “if you do, I’ll kill myself.... I’d rather die than----”

“Killed herself! Why should she have killed herself?” asked Ernley--“after a row with her sister.”

“I guess what the row was about. Reckon everybody was on to her, same as I was, wanting her to tell you or else marry me.”

“I said she must marry one or the other of you, and I’d come over here this morning and settle with whoever she chose. I told her there was to be no getting out of it, not by her or by either of you fine gentlemen. Then I went off--and she fell upon her poor sister Lucy and hit her about--and then ran away goodness knows where.”

“She’s killed herself,” cried Daniel desperately--“she said she would if Ernley knew, and you said you were going to tell him----”

“Tell him! I reckon he don’t want much telling.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ernley. “What’s all this about telling?”

“I reckon you know that the reason this man here has broken off with my daughter is that he’d no liking for all you’d let him in for.”

“It ain’t true!” cried Daniel. “I never broke off. I’d have married her any day, and done my best for the kid. It was she who said she couldn’t have me....”

His voice tailed off as he looked at Ernley. All his calm assurance was gone now, suddenly broken, like a bubble. His face was colourless, and he clutched the back of a chair.

“Do you mean to tell me that Belle is going to have a child?”

“I do, sir.”

“Then why in God’s name....”

“She wouldn’t have you told,” cried Daniel--“she said she’d kill herself if I told you, and now I reckon she’s done it.”

“How long have you known this?”

“Maybe a week or ten days. When Belle knew for certain she said she couldn’t marry me, or anybody but you. So you needn’t talk of my breaking off----” turning angrily on Shackford.

“And you knew that and never told me.”

“She made me promise I wouldn’t. She said she’d kill herself if I did. She said she’d rather die than marry you.”

“You fool! You blasted, bone-headed fool! You believe everything a girl says when she’s beside herself, and freeze on to a secret that may ruin two lives. I’ll marry Belle the minute I find her, and you bet she won’t make any fuss.”

“You speak like a gentleman,” cried Shackford. “I knew you’d do the proper thing if you was given a chance. I said the same to her. It’s a lucky thing I came over. It’s a lucky thing I wasn’t like some people, listening to every silly thing a silly girl says.”

Daniel felt these censures undeserved.

“If she didn’t mean what she said, why did she run away like that?”

“She’d had a row with her sister, I tell you--pulled down her hair and scratched her face--not that she hadn’t good reason”--remembering that Ernley was now a man of intentions--“Lucy’s got a tongue like a wasp’s sting, and reckon Belle was getting terrible worked up at everything. She’s the best-tempered girl in the world as a rule. That’s why she’s run away--she’s ashamed of herself. But I bet she hasn’t gone far--back to her cousins at Heathfield, most like, where she’d just come from.”

“Well, you’d better go and look for her there,” said Daniel, almost crying--“and then come back and drag the pond.”

“I’ll go over at once on my ’bus,’” said Ernley. “How did you come here?” he asked Shackford.

“I came on horseback, and if you’re going to Three Cups, I’ll just ride quietly home again. You’ll do your job better without me.”

“You’re just pretending you think she’s at Three Cups,” broke in Daniel--“you know she ain’t there really. You know she’s drowned herself.”

But Ernley had recovered his old assurance.

“Don’t be a fool, Daniel,” he said--quite good-humouredly--as he went out of the room.

§ 3

But when the afternoon came, Daniel, too, had his legitimate reproaches, which he was too human not to make. Ernley had returned from the weald--so much faster the miles flew under the tyres of his motor-bicycle than under the wheels of the George trap--and his quest had been in vain. Through his cocksureness he had lost valuable hours that might have been spent in search. He and Shackford had yielded to the fatal optimism of men who know themselves to be in the wrong and try to recover their self-respect through hope.

He was chastened by his failure. He no longer swaggered before Daniel, he no longer abused him. Indeed, he listened to his advice, and together they set off, in saddle and side-car, to make inquiries and notify the police. The evening passed fruitlessly. The police had no light to shed on the affair, and Belle’s friends, either in Lewes or Newhaven, had heard nothing of her. Perhaps she had gone off somewhere by rail, but once again inquiries, whether at Lewes Junction or the wayside stations, brought no result. Daniel no longer said, “She’s killed herself”--he sat dumb beside Ernley in the side-car, or followed dumb behind him up and down stairs and along passages. It was Ernley at last who said:

“We’d better get over to Batchelors’ and drag the pond.”

The spring night had fallen as they bowled up towards Lewes from the coast. A faint greenish light hung over the downs, and the summit of the sky was full of stars. A keen wind blew in their faces, bringing dampness and chill. Dan shuddered and still was dumb.

Ernley’s headlight rushed before them over the surface of the road, with a flying gleam on the hedges. It lit up the wheels and sides of passing wagons, leaving their loads in darkness--it lit up the doors and steps of houses as they ran through Beddingham and Firle--and always it showed them half a dozen orange yards of road ahead. As they rushed on Daniel had the absurd dream that if only they could reach the end of that glowing road before them they would find Belle. But the orange road was like the moon’s path on the sea, it had no ending.

Neither of them spoke as the motor-cycle ate up the road and the darkness. At last it bumped into the drive of Batchelors’ Hall, lurching and creaking in the ruts, the engine labouring with the drag of mud on the wheels. The orange light flashed over the puddles and the long canals in the ruts--it ran ahead of them into the yard and lay on the stones as Ernley brought the machine to a standstill.

Shackford stood on the doorstep. He, too, had lost his compensating hope, and looked like Ernley, hangdog and desperate.

“Any good?” he asked.

Munk shook his head.

“I’ll get the men,” said Belle’s father, “and drag the pond--and if that’s no good we’ll try the Cuckmere.”

That night, it seemed to Daniel, was full of water--the sight of it, ruddy with the lanterns held over it, the sound of it, lapping against the shore, and against the sides of the boat in which Bream the cowman put out with a long pole, the feel of it oozing through the mud over the tops of his shoes.... The pond yielded a load of weeds, a stock of old iron-ware, and three little drowned kittens in a bag with a stone.

Between dragging the pond and dragging the river they had drinks in the house. Dan and the farm men had cocoa, but Ernley and Shackford had whiskies without much water. Lucy served them, fully dressed though it was one o’clock in the morning, and with the pretty hair that Belle had torn down piled high and curled anew. The tears ran down her cheeks, and she spoke forgivingly of Belle.

“Of course I forgive her,” she said. “She didn’t know what she was doing.”

Nobody else spoke much--even the whiskies did not seem to help Shackford and Ernley--and soon they all went out again. They dragged the place where the Cuckmere in its windings makes a bay, eating into the meadows by Hayreed. But here again there was no finding. After all, they did not really expect to find. As Shackford said, Belle might have chucked herself in anywhere between Monkyn Pin and the Dicker. They had no special reason to think she would inevitably have drowned herself near home.

Daniel thought of White Lion Pond and Red Lion Pond and Jerry’s Pond, all the dew ponds between the valley of the Cuckmere and the valley of the Ouse.

“She may have gone up on the down,” he said.

Both Shackford and Ernley thought it probable that she had. They had searched the Ouse and Cuckmere valleys, the two big towns and the railway line. Also, during the afternoon, when Ernley and Dan were rushing about on the motor-cycle, Shackford had made inquiries at the two Dickers and the two Horsebridges, also at Hailsham, where he had interviewed a couple of conductors on the Eastbourne bus route. The down seemed the only hiding-place left unchallenged. It was decided to make up a search-party.

§ 4

“Let me walk with you, Daniel,” said Ernley, when everyone scattered.

The dawn was white, and only a few stars still hung in the north, above the Gate of Lewes. It was bitterly cold, and the men shivered. They all carried lanterns, for it had been dark when they left Batchelors’ Hall, and the moving spots of light were like stars, making the down look like a fallen sky.

If Belle were hiding--if she had sought only a temporary and not a final refuge from her oppressors--she might see those stars and go out towards them. She surely would be tired of hiding now--now that the down’s back was hoar with half-frozen dew and the dawn-wind searched the hollows. Ernley’s face was pinched and his teeth chattered. He was almost failing physically. A day spent in the saddle of his machine, a night spent in dragging a pond and a river, all under the strain of sickening remorse and anxiety--and to finish all, too many whiskies ... no wonder he was done for. Daniel, whose physical labours had been less, whose physical strength was greater, and who was not suffering from a reaction after too much alcohol, was still comparatively able-bodied, though--dreadful and humiliating to realize--most unconscionably sleepy. He waited for Ernley while he puffed on the steep slope, he slackened his pace to match Ernley’s tottering progress.

“Don’t you think you’d better get home?” he suggested at last.

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t rest till she’s found--alive or dead.”

They walked on a couple of furlongs. Then Ernley said:

“Do you think there’s any chance of her being alive, Dan?”

“Maybe there’s a chance--maybe we’d think there was more than a chance if we weren’t so terrible scared. She’s been gone only a day and two nights. Reckon she could have hid herself for that.”

“If I find her,” said Ernley--and in the grey light Dan could see that he was crying--“if I find her, there’s going to be nothing good enough for her. Oh, Dan, how am I ever to pay her back for what I’ve made her suffer?” His voice, though hoarse, was quite calm, in spite of the tears that ran down his cheeks. It was only physical weakness that made him cry. The grief of his heart was beyond tears.

“Don’t think I fail to realize what you suffer, Daniel. But it’s nothing to what I do. It can’t be. You’ve nothing to reproach yourself with. You’ve been kind and manly and decent all through. I haven’t. I’ve been a swine--a proud swine and a cruel swine. All the quarrels we ever had were my doing, and I blamed her for them all. I was angry with her because I couldn’t give her what she wanted. I could have given it to her if I’d wanted it as much as she did--but I didn’t--so I was angry with her for wanting it. I took advantage of her, Dan--because she wasn’t wise, like most women. If she’d said, ‘You must wait till we’re married,’ I’d have married her rather than wait. But she didn’t, and I took advantage of her and made her wait till I thought things ud be more convenient. If we’d been married we shouldn’t have had any of those rows, for they all came of her not really belonging to me. If we’d belonged to each other we shouldn’t have mistrusted each other so, and been jealous, and imagined all sorts of things about each other. Then this last time we quarrelled, I was furious with her because of the way I’d hurt her, and I swore I’d never make it up again. I couldn’t stand being made ashamed of myself time after time like that, so I swore I’d stop it, and started off with Pearl Jenner at once just to show Belle it was good-bye for ever this time.... I said to myself she was getting to count on my coming round.... Oh, and she’d humbled me too--she didn’t let me off easy.... I paid for every quarrel we had by the way I was obliged to make it up.... But I couldn’t live without her, so I always came back, and I said, ‘She knows it. She expects it this time, so I’ll teach her she don’t always get what she expects.’ That’s why I took up with Pearl--though she was only trash--only draper’s stuff. I must say it was a blow to me when Belle got engaged to you. It made me swank more than ever--Belle wasn’t to know I cared. She wasn’t going to marry you knowing that I still loved her, and get the last laugh. I never thought.... It’s my blasted pride that’s driven her to this. She couldn’t even turn to me when she wanted to--I’ve cut her off. Think--all that time I was so mad against her, she was carrying my child. Oh, there’s fate in that--the fate of my own bad will. I’ve done her in--poor Belle!”

Dan tried not to listen while Ernley spoke. He blushed to hear his friend’s confession, he was horrified at this stripping of his mind. If this was love--the genuine passion as apart from the jog-trot emotion he was supposed to feel--he was glad he had never experienced it.

“Reckon you’re tired out,” was all he could say; “you’ll be ill if we go any farther--you’d better get home.”

The day was quite clear now, though the sun had not yet risen. Their lanterns were no longer stars, merely opaque orange splashes on the whiteness of the morning.

“I can’t go as far as Bullockdean,” said Ernley.

“Then we’d better turn back for Batchelors’. Besides, your bike’s there, and Lucy can give you some breakfast before you start.”

He was relieved to find that Munk had given way, for he was obviously unfit to go searching much farther. By daylight his face looked far more ravaged than it had looked in the glow of the lanterns. His body, gassed and wounded, bore the stigmata of war, and was always liable to sudden collapses. Dan gave him an arm as they turned backwards, and his friend seemed glad of it. Sheather was glad too. He loved to expend physical care and protection, though he shrank from the sick-nursing of souls. With Ernley’s body he was tender.

“There--hang on to me. I’m strong as a horse--you can put all your weight.”

They went on half a mile, Munk occasionally stumbling but always held up by Dan’s sturdiness. When they came to the dip of the down, where the slope ran swiftly towards Alciston, he stopped and shuddered.

“I can’t go down there. I feel giddy.”

With memories of the same symptoms in earlier “attacks,” Dan was practical.

“There, there--don’t worry--don’t try. Sit down.”

Ernley collapsed in a huddled heap upon the hoar dew. Dan sat down beside him with supporting arm, and was immediately conscious, as the other in his nervous straits was not, of the wet striking up into his limbs.

“Reckon you shouldn’t ought to sit here. You’ll get rheumatics.”

“I can’t help it--I’m done.”

Dan looked round him for an unlikely stone. Nothing broke the whiteness of the half-frozen dew, but he suddenly realized the turning to old Gadgett’s cottage at the top of Bostal Way.

“Look here, if you can walk just a hundred yards, there’s Gadgett’s cottage we could go to. Then you could sit by the fire and I’d get you a cup of tea.”

Ernley groaned. His devil was upon him--the devil that had risen in a hideous cloud behind the headless trees of Waertsel Wood, and crawling and stinking over the shell-holes had found him where he lay helpless, and taken possession. Nevertheless the picture that Dan painted was a fair one.

“Couldn’t you bring the tea to me here?” he asked idiotically.

“Of course I couldn’t--it ud be stone cold. And even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t do you any good sitting here on the wet grass. You’ll get rheumatics and lumbago and sciatica and belly-ache and chills and pneumonia and I dunno wot else if you don’t stand up quick.”

He stood up himself, and seized Ernley under the arm-pits.

“Now then--up you get.”

Ernley groaned, and Dan brought his knee in ungentle contact with his spine.

“Get up, Ernley.”

This wasn’t his first encounter with his friend’s devil, and he knew that Ernley possessed must be treated in direct contrast to Ernley unpossessed. He must be bullied and ordered about, just as on ordinary occasions he must be looked up to and treated respectfully. It was characteristic of Dan that he slipped quite naturally into the latter mood when the need for the former had passed.

He soon had Munk on his feet, and part threatening, part coaxing, part hauling, guided him over the down to the head of the Bostal Way--then along the little chalk path that winds among the blackberry bushes, till at last they were on the step of Gadgett’s cottage.