Chapter XII: Polly’s Confession

In the year that followed, nothing particular happened. The great change in the Cherry household was that things ceased to happen--though there were severe inward struggles of will against will, for both Nan and Cherry. Cherry’s bluff in this year’s course became fortitude. Nan’s domestic virtues ceased to be quite so much iron qualities--things she set herself to do as a part of her religion. Sometimes Cherry fancied that a time would come when Nan would drop that crutch of the primitive religion and will by grace of sheer humanity and love of her kind.

But it was not yet. It might only be on the edge of the grave.

Within Myrtle Cottage, which Bob Wild had newly papered, hung bacon flitches, oaten cakes on strings, and herbs from the garden. Outside, snowy whitewash made the house a shining patch of light set on the hilltop. Apart from extra cleanliness, nothing was changed. Moses and Daniel were still there. So was “Wedded Love.” There was, however, an additional picture--one of Nelson, with his empty sleeve and his delicate face, with the brave eyes looking down always on Cherry and Nan. This picture was dear to Cherry. There was also a tiny bookshelf with the Southey’s Life elbowing “Dickens.” But Cherry knew that he would never be really a bookman. He had got on too well without books to worry about them. Eyes and ears had stood him in good stead of other men’s ideas. But, occasionally, he passed an hour or so with them, generally ending by going to sleep.

Outwardly, the only mark of his intense struggle to survive in a changed world, was a little more grey in his hair, a more anxious look in the eyes, and a clear-cut manner that bespoke a man who knew what he wanted, and was getting it; who believed in himself, in his three ounces and laughed at difficulties. Economically, his position was about the same as before his catastrophe. But the pulling of Nan in the same direction meant a doubling of comforts, and of plenty. Domestically--he had realised “home” as he had not done in his palmiest days.

It was not a bad harvest that crowned the year of struggle. Polly was getting famed beyond her native county. She was not a nightingale.

But she was certainly a thrush--or “cock-throstle” as her Granny called her. She also knew her way about a house, now, and by extra baking for the shop made Granny no worse off than she would have been without her. So stood the world with these three, a year after Cherry had followed the lorry with his “sticks” going towards Narrowfields.

Cherry and Nan decided that a little house warming would not be amiss, to celebrate their having had a prosperous twelve months in Cherrydale. Accordingly, they asked Granny to invite the guests for them, by word of mouth. She was to be sure to include the two blind men whom Cherry had got friendly with--partners in a little newsagents’ business at the end of the village. She was also to make pork pies.

Behold Myrtle Cottage, then, one Sunday afternoon, basking in warm sunshine, and a bluebottle droning sleepily against a window pane that was as a frame to Polly’s garden (Adam Wild had given Polly lessons on flower-growing)--a garden in which flowers whose mere names sound like the Poet’s Calendar grew in a burst of pomp that would have made Solomon’s look poor. Within, as without, everything was spick and span. Polly had left Granny on her own in the shop and had come up to help her mother, the day before, for the great occasion.

Nan played the hostess in a white apron.

Nan in such a white apron always reminded Cherry of the third-rate actresses who take such parts in thirty-third rate plays.

Granny was the first arrival.

Her voice, speaking some comic philosophy, came from outside the porch, with Polly’s giggling “Ooo.”

“I’ve brought all Cherrydale wi’ me,” she said warningly, as she entered.

Granny had come in style, yet looking plain as a pikestaff.

“We shall want more chairs, Nan,” said Granny.

Which would have been rude had it not come from Granny.

There was Ted the organ-blower, Bob Wild, Susan Thorpe, and the two blind men.

Mr. Gibbs and Mr. Moss, the two blind men, said they were rather tired, as they had been up all night, having been to see the sunrise from Bouldsworth.

Cherry felt that they were jesting at first, but Mr. Moss wagged his head in appreciation of his friend’s apology, or of the sunrise.

“Bob allus tak’s ’em up every year,” said Granny.

Cherry wanted to laugh.

Fiction! It wasn’t in it with fact.

“The grandest surprise I’ve ever seen,” broke in Bob, enthusiastically. “We fairly enjoyed it.” The two blind men nodded.

Polly led them into the parlour to take off their coats and hats. They wouldn’t have them carried away. They were very independent.

“Does ta mean to say----?” began Cherry to Bob Wild.

Bob smiled.

“They enjoyed it as much as me,” he said, quietly. “I told ’em about it. Moss lost his sight when he were twelve. He can remember. Gibbs--enjoys it in another way. He feels it.” He ceased speaking as the two men came back, cautiously finding their way to their respective chairs.

“Here, tak’ my bonnet away,” said Granny, handing hers to Polly.

Polly and Susan went into the parlour.

New chintz made into covers and cushions by Polly made it a pleasant place. Myrtle Cottage was looked on by Nan as her “duty,” too, now. She cleaned it for God.

“Can I try it on?” asked Polly of Susan’s hat.

Susan smiled assent.

“Do I--suit it?” asked Polly, anxiously.

She looked in Susan’s face for the answer.

“Yes,” nodded Susan.

“I don’t think I do,” said Polly, and took it off.

Susan was acutely conscious of Polly’s childish charms.

“I don’t think I do,” said Polly, in a worried way.

Susan made a valiant attempt to like Polly, as she knew she would have liked her, but for her ironic position, as Bob Wild’s mother confessor, the recipient of his year’s confidences regarding Polly.

“Nice folk,” said Jabez Thorpe’s daughter, “look nice in anything.”

Polly blushed.

It was the first praise any girl had given her.

“Am I--nice?” she asked, archly.

“Very,” said Susan, honestly.

“You,” said Polly, “are the nicest girl I ever met.”

Susan smiled.

A burst of laughter came from the kitchen.

It was Granny’s, and was joined by that of the two blind men, and then, by Cherry.

Granny had just told a live joke about a little lad who came in her shop.

Polly set Susan’s hat on the Siberian rabbit globe.

“Try mine on,” she said.

It was an offer of friendship.

Susan accepted it--but not enthusiastically.

She was conscious of being at least ten years older than Polly, in reality. The freshness from Polly was the same as that she felt when near children.

It was this freshness the rollicking Bob was drawn by.

Susan was old, quite old, so she told herself.

And suffering in the deep, slow way of one so much older.

“Don’t you like me?” asked Polly wistfully.

Polly was missing Becky--Becky who had not been to see her for months.

Moreover, she had taken a deep fancy to Susan Thorpe.

So that when Susan drew back from the touch of her hand she seized Susan’s cold fingers, and said, “_Do_ like me,” with a lack of pride that amazed Susan, without touching her. Susan was trying hard to like Polly, who had demolished that dream of the little boy who had sat with her on the stone wall on those misty moors, and whom she had made to kneel down with her, and pray for the soul of the sheep they had buried.

“I--could tell you anything,” said Polly, in her almost un-English way. “You have no sister. I haven’t. Let’s adopt one another.” Her shaky little giggle told that she was ready to cry.

Susan gently pressed the warm hand in hers.

“Very well, then,” she said.

“How cold your hand is,” she said.

“Cold hand, true heart,” quoted Susan.

They walked into the kitchen, arms linked.

“I forgot to introduce thee to Miss Thorpe,” said Granny to Cherry.

Cherry looked at Susan.

“Not ailin’ aught, I hope?” he inquired in a fatherly way.

Susan smiled denial.

“She looks like a beef-steak a foot thick with onions on the top would do her no hurt,” said Cherry, candidly.

“She’s allus her nose to th’ grind-stone,” said Granny. “But I never noticed before she were so pale.”

Whereupon Bob looked at Susan.

Whilst he was amazed that they could think Susan pale. She was red as a rose. Her eyes smiled. But her lips trembled.

“It’s nerves,” said Granny. “That’s what it is. Wait till I see Jabez. I shall tell him she wants a good sea-breeze.”

Whereupon Susan said that nothing ailed her and her father mustn’t be upset.

“Try dumb-bells, Miss Thorpe,” said Bob. “First thing of a morning with the windows open--and deep breathing.”

“Perhaps Miss Thorpe’s in love,” said Mr. Gibbs. “I remember when I----” He went off into a fit of laughter, hearty, wholesome laughter at the young fool he had been.

“Well,” said Cherry, “if she’s aught like our Polly, she’ll get o’er it an’ be as bad again.”

Which made Bob Wild cease wondering if a girl like Susan could be in love, and if she was in love with Adam--to look accusingly at Polly. Twelve months had made him more deeply in love than ever with Polly.

Polly was looking appealingly at her Dad, asking him to say no more. Cherry had served his purpose in turning the scrutiny from Susan.

“Well, when we get to our age,” said Granny, “we want summat substantial. I’m feelin’ peckish, so how other folk are. I believe same as the chap, it’s hard work keeping the heart up when the carcase is down. Whatever comes, or whatever goes, we’ve got to keep on eating.” Granny always quoted some mythical “chap” as her authority for such philosophy.

She had given the signal for tea-making.

Nan had all this while sat without a word.

She now got up and moved towards the scullery.

“Let me help,” laughed Susan. “Do! Mrs. Cherry.”

Nan melted under the readiness of Susan Thorpe.

“You can cut th’ tay-cakes,” she said.

Whereupon Granny began to tell a tale of two deaf folk who invited some friends to tea, and were kept cutting up, and whose audible remarks on that point were heard by their visitors. Which set Bob off telling tales about gamekeepers, how he had dodged them, and wonderful rabbit-chases, and then the two blind men got telling tales, and Polly sat, fascinated, her hands clasped around her knees, her eyes shining, until Granny said, “Tha lazy hussy! Help to get tea ready,” whereupon she jumped up as if she’d been shot.

When they sat down Cherry said, “If anybody goes short, it’s their own fault. It’s there. Sam in.”

Which--after a little time--every one did, except Susan, and--Bob.

“I’m glad you came,” said Cherry twice, to no one in particular.

“We’ll have to have another Cheer-up Party one o’ these days,” said Granny.

“Wait till our Polly gets wed,” winked Cherry.

He was beginning to understand that young Wild’s putting on the rose-sprigged paper on their kitchen wall was not just country kindness.

Whereupon Polly declared she should never marry.

And every one laughed and disbelieved her--but Bob became very gloomy all at once.

Until he caught Susan’s eyes, smiling quietly, and telling him to believe no such wild statement. Whilst Granny, catching those meeting glances, felt bewildered. Was Bob going to fail her as a mate for Polly, also? Was Susan deeper than she seemed?

As for Polly, she was noting all Susan’s ways.

No wonder Adam liked her.

After tea, they left Granny and the two blind men to be called for, after chapel.

Polly was soloist that night.

Bob had changed from a pagan haunter of the moors to a Methodist again. Susan had told him he could sit in their pew. Poor Susan! It had been what she called a “wicked year” for her.

Ted walked along with her to the hillside church.

Bob went ahead with Polly.

The sweetness of a blossom-scented world with a new moon gleaming through it, was all about them.

“I heard that Sagg Farm is advertised,” said Ted. “Have you heard?”

“Oh--no,” protested Susan.

“There were no name to it,” said Ted, “but it sounded like it.”

“Mr. Wild will be worried, won’t he?” asked Susan.

Ted did not know that she referred to the careless Bob.

“He’ll go potty,” he said, cheerfully.

Susan was disappointed in Ted.

She had thought that he and Bob were David and Jonathan to each other.

She resolved to ask her father to help the Wilds out.

Which she knew was no light task. Next to her mother and herself, Jabez Thorpe was passing fond of his bankbook.

Polly sang, and Bob worshipped.

It was not hard to believe in seraphim and cherubim as Polly sang.

The Thorpes’ pew gave him a fine view of Polly.

Susan found the hymns for him, and the chapters.

“Let’s have a walk,” suggested Ted, as Adam, Bob, himself and the two girls met outside, after service.

A walk they had.

Adam divided himself between the two girls.

It was a new experience for Adam.

A little awkward at first, the strain grew easier when they had climbed half a dozen stiles. Polly always influenced people towards the lighter side of life. Moreover, Adam had set himself to save Bob from Polly. He had set his hand to the ploughshare of Love, which he was going to drive through this light heart. She was trying to fool his brother. Adam Wild’s brother must not be fooled. Adam’s great fear ever since he was a boy in his teens had been that Bob would make a fool of himself. He was out to protect Bob, whom this girl was laughing at, just as he had protected him at school. That was his reason to himself. Your rational people have a way of persuading themselves that they do things for reasons. Adam, with his book-learning, and his science certificates, was sufficiently complex, to be able to lie to himself without detecting it, at once.

But whilst he set out ploughing the heart of this foolish girl, he took care not to estrange Susan.

It was Susan whom he asked to come up to help Sarah churn.

“Ooo,” said Polly, “I should like to know how to make butter.” Which frank invitation of herself to Sagg Farm made both Adam and Susan smile, their smiles meeting across her. Whilst Adam--looking from first one girl’s face to the other, as the moon shone on them, for the first time realised why poets had written about women, and to women. Susan carrying her Bible, Polly exuding cheap scent, were admirable foils to each other. Susan’s silences became demure, elusive things. Polly breaking into song, all at once--made the air flower with music. Adam Wild was conscious of a feeling of exhilaration, or triumph--a strong leaping of that old sex-pride of his. Susan he was sure of. Polly, he was going to teach a lesson.

Bob was a little angry at Adam, when he and Ted got up with them.

Polly was aware of it, and laughing in her sleeve, Adam knew.

“Do you think you can come, Miss Thorpe?” asked Adam, referring to the churning.

“I don’t think so,” said Susan. “We’re busy with the chickens.”

Polly was silent asking to be asked.

“Well, perhaps Miss Cherry will come?” said Adam.

He then gave way for Bob.

Bob walked on the stars.

The time he had wasted--knowing only men and dogs! Whilst as Polly led him on, her brain was busy trying to find out if Susan Thorpe really cared for Adam Wilde.

The blind men had departed when they all arrived at Myrtle Cottage. Granny had her bonnet on, waiting. Susan had some way to go. Adam proffered to take her on the way. He wanted to be moving cautiously with Susan, too, to let her see that he--needed her. More and more Susan became his ideal woman, the type that Swift depicted as the perfect wife, prudent, soft-answered, sacrificing, dependable.

“Let’s all go,” said Bob, at Granny’s doorstep. “Come on, Miss Cherry.”

Adam was thus foiled.

But he walked ahead with Susan.

“Is it true that--Sagg Farm is advertised?” asked Susan.

There was a little pause.

“I’m afraid it is,” said Adam ruefully. “But--I think I shall be the one who buys it. Anyhow, it’s safe yet.” His optimism was a grim faith, considering the corner he was in.

This had been a wicked year for Adam, too.

“I--I will ask my father to give a hand,” said Susan.

Her voice sounded a little nervous.

“That is kind of you,” said the proud man.

Susan appreciated the compliment.

Adam had accepted her offer.

Susan was thinking how Bob would feel the hardship of hiring himself out on some other man’s farm, if Sagg Farm went.

When Bob walked with Susan, Adam with Polly again, Bob was saying to Susan, “Do you think I’ve a chance, Susan?” Susan thought he had.

“But--do you think she likes me a bit?” urged Bob.

“It’s just--possible,” said Susan.

He saw that she was smiling.

Susan was copying a little of the lightness of Polly Cherry. For a moment she looked roguish, less like a demure mother confessor.

Acting on her advice, Bob procured the “Jewel Song” out of “Faust.”

It arrived at Myrtle Cottage two mornings later. Polly had come up early that morning, to do her few daily tasks at “home” before starting work for Granny.

She tried to continue her task of whitening the doorstep that looked out on the “rosydandrum” in which the birds were singing gaily. But she made but a poor job of it. The “Jewel Song” engrossed her. Whilst as Cherry watched her at it--heard her fresh voice in the “Mirror, mirror, tell me truly”--he winked at Nan, saying: “Madam Albino there is having a good time.”

When Polly went down from Myrtle Cottage to Granny’s she passed Adam on the way to Narrowfields with the milk-float. He smiled down at her, stood up in the old cart, holding the reins over Jinny’s back, and she smiled up at him--and blushed. The vision of her in her pink sun-bonnet, with that pink plush, haunted him all the way to Cherrydale. Whilst Polly--Polly was twittering: “Mirror, mirror, tell me truly,” until Granny asked her what mak’ o’ rubbish she’d got on the brain this time. Polly was under the impression that Adam had sent this song.

When Adam called at Granny’s cottage for hen-grit, late in the afternoon, he saw Polly in a new phase.

She was covered in one of the dead Primrose Leaguer’s old shirts, as he entered, standing in the little scullery, taking lessons in washing from Granny. Just as he entered he heard Polly break off in her whistling from “Rigoletto”--and Granny saying, “Listen to what I’m saying, wilta? Drat the lass! Nobody’ll ever teach her anything!” Which made him smile.

There was a certain play for his dominance in trying to break in the skittish soul of this town girl, just as there was a fascination to him in trying to save Sagg Farm.

When she ran out of the way on seeing him, with a horrified “Ooo,” and Granny said grimly, “Eh, lass, tha’ll do weel if tha’rt never sin no waur nor that,” he realised that this lighter side of ploughing a girl’s heart, instead of stubborn land, was a relief from that harder struggle that was now culminating.

“Choir practice up at our house to-night,” he told Polly, when she came out of the scullery, still garbed in the shirt.

Polly nodded.

“Seven prompt,” he called laughingly, as he went.

Polly was always late.

Polly lifted up the curtains that made the background for Granny’s wares and peeped after him.

Granny’s proud flesh in her gammy leg was troubling her to-day.

“Don’t fa’ in luv wi’ yon mon,” said Granny, grimly. “What he wants is a woman wi’ buddin’ wings, an’ tha’rt a long way short, Polly. If tha could pop on a dook as wanted somebody to leet his pipe an’ laugh an’ sing--tha’d be a’ reight. Well, happen. The chap for thee should ha’ bin ordered, by good reights. Adam comes o’ folk ’at warked their women folk to death, whilst they went up and down to cattle fairs an’ sich like. He might weel crack on his grandfather. He’s the spit on him--and he killed his wife--wi’ wark. She starched for a’ th’ gentry, besides helping run th’ farm. They laid her out on her own ironing board. Oh, they’re grand ’uns are the Wilds. Either they don’t care a brass button which end goes first--or they’re like that.”

Polly turned away from the window.

She was laughing.

“I’m not in love with _him_,” she said disdainfully.

“I reckon naught o’ folks at worships graven images,” said Granny, returning to the wash-tub.

The keen-sighted old Calvinist had half seen through Adam’s game lately. She did not like the way Polly grew tongue-tied in his presence at times. She was thinking of withdrawing her twenty pounds. After all, had it not been flying in the face of Providence to try help Adam keep Sagg Farm?

He was going to marry Susan Thorpe. At least, the Thorpes thought he was. She had heard as much.

The Thorpes stunk of brass.

They must help him.

In this spirit she worked all day, till the washing was done. Polly had been, as Granny said, “waur nor a bare place.” She was glad to sit down, spectacled, and read Josephus, between the tinkling of the shop bell whilst Polly was at the practice.

When Polly got up to Sagg Farm she found three extra candles burning on the old harmonium top. Adam was dressed in his best.

Polly was all of the choir that turned up.

“Oh--don’t go. We can run through a few pieces,” said Adam.

So they did.

They ran through piece after piece. It was Sarah, in Adam’s old overcoat, and the muffler that gave her a mummified look, who asked Polly to sing “Come unto Him all Ye that labour.” Labour! Sarah knew the full meaning of that word. Sarah had taken a wistful liking to the blithe girl with the lilting joy in her voice. She reminded Sarah that long ago she, too, had been feminine, and taken a little pride in putting her hair up. So few people came to the farm, too.

Polly singing that piece she had sung in the wheat-field had in her mind all the guilt of those kisses that ever lay, all this year since she had come to Cherrydale, a barrier between easy friendship with Adam Wild. Adam turning the music felt her fingers, going to the same task, draw back. The music fell on the sanded floor. Player and singer bent to pick it up--with a consequent bumping of heads. Then, Polly giggled. Whereupon Sarah smiled, then laughed--and Adam smiled, and old Wild woke out of his uneasy sleep, and murmured his old plea for this past week. “Oh--for a drop o’ whisky.”

“Take her and show her th’ chickens,” said Sarah, suddenly, when the playing was done. “An’--have a bit o’ supper, Polly. I’m goin’ to call thee Polly.”

“Everybody does,” said Polly.

She smiled.

She was in one of her honest, simple, seven-year-old phases, to-night.

“I don’t think Miss Cherry cares about chickens--” said Adam.

But Sarah got the lantern.

“Let th’ child see ’em,” she said.

Adam wondered why Sarah was so eager to get them out of the kitchen. There was nothing for it but to go.

When they stood within the hen-house, there arose a great beating of wings from startled, sleepy birds. Polly clutched the arm of the man who held the lantern.

It was as she knelt down, looking into a box that held a fluffy-breasted Buff Orpington with her thirteen chicks, that Adam remembered this was a good opportunity for making his first furrow in Polly’s heart. He was not altogether unexcited himself at this new hobby--playing at love. Bob must be saved, at all costs. Polly would not be a suitable wife for a--Wild. Thus did the rationalist excuse himself for laughing at Polly as Polly was going to laugh at Bob.

“How would you like to be a farmer’s wife?” Adam asked her.

Looking up swiftly she saw a pair of Airedale brown eyes fixed intently upon her. Adam expected some of the wiles he had seen her use on Bob.

“It depends,” said Polly candidly, “how much I liked the--farmer.”

Then she fell cuddling a yellow chicken against her cheek. If he hadn’t been there he thought she would have talked baby-talk to it.

“You can have--that,” he said.

“What?” she asked.

“The chicken,” he told her.

She looked at it, then at Adam, and said. “Oh--thanks.” Then she asked, anxiously, “What shall I feed it on?” Adam pondered, then said, “Oh--beans.”

“Beans?” she queried. “Really! Do they eat beans? I should have thought----”

Then, they both burst out laughing, at her innocence.

“You’ve a great deal to learn,” he told her, “before you are fit for a farmer’s wife.”

She blushed this time.

The chicken squeaked.

“Ooo,” she murmured. “Poor ikkle thing. I’m going to kill it.”

Adam showed her how to hold it.

He held her hand and closed her fingers round it.

She was an utter little fool.

But, for the moment, he half hesitated at playing with her light soul. Wasn’t Bob big enough to look out for himself? But even as he asked himself the question, he knew Bob was as irresponsible as Polly. They would be a couple of fools together--and Bob would have a fool tied round his neck for the rest of his life.

The only thing to remember was--to turn Polly’s thoughts from Bob, without endangering his own chances with Susan Thorpe.

“I thought you’d got lost,” said Sarah, as they entered the kitchen. Supper was ready. Sarah had made herself what she called “half-way decent.” She had taken off the muffler and tried to put her hair up. She had also donned a blouse.

Polly had the same effect on every one.

She made them feel fossils and wiseacres.

“Some tay, father?” asked Sarah, as they sat at table.

The man on the settle groaned--thinking of whisky.

“Are you coming to-morrow, Miss Cherry?” asked Adam.

“Ca’ her ‘Polly,’” said Sarah. “‘Miss Cherry’ doesn’t suit her. It’s too owd for her.”

Adam smiled.

“Polly, then,” he said.

Polly dimpled--and blushed.

Looking at her across the table Adam thought, just for one fleeting moment, that had he been a rich man, he would have married Polly. As a working partner she was no use. She was just--a little, foolish beauty, with a throstle’s throat. These were luxuries for the rich.

“Eh, our Bob’ll be mad he worn’t in,” said Sarah once.

Adam and Polly were discussing music.

The foolish thing knew more about music than anything else--except lads.

“Art comin’ to-morn?” asked Sarah.

Polly nodded.

“Tha can twine, then,” said Sarah. “It gies me a pain under my left breast.”

Adam started.

“You never said anything of it--” he began.

Their mother had died of cancer.

“What’s th’ good o’ sayin’?” she asked, a little nettled.

For a moment Adam saw a little of the tragedy of Sarah’s overwork at the farm.

But--when he got out of this hole, she could have help. Besides--she would have Susan to help her. Susan who was young and strong, even as she had been when first this struggle began.

But it was not of Susan or Sarah he was pondering as he took Polly home to her Granny’s through the splendour of a moonlit night. They both wished on the wishing-bridge. He held up the lantern to let Polly see a rose-bush in its glory and to hear her say “Ooo” in her foolish, rapturous way. He wondered what she had wished. There were star-ripples in the water below the bridge, and their reflected faces, looking down. Everything was scented. There was only the one rail. Adam held Polly’s hand for safety. It fluttered in his like a foolish bird.

Starry silences all about them, plash of water on mossy stone, and the moon climbing up the sky, there was something elfin in the night.

As they passed from the bridge, a green hill came in sight--a little hill with a blue, moonbeamy sheen on it.

“If I saw fairies dancing in a ring,” said Polly, “I wouldn’t feel surprised. Would you?”

She looked up into his face like a seven-year-old.

The freshness from her that Susan had felt swept around the care-burdened man.

Perhaps the long, uphill struggle to keep Sagg Farm was telling on him.

He took off his cap, without answering Polly’s remark, and stared up into the glory of the Milky Way.

“I like star-baths,” said Polly’s voice.

He was a little surprised.

“Mind!” he warned Polly.

It was another excuse for holding the foolish hand a moment.

The village lay sleeping under moon and stars when they came down to it. The little houses were like match-boxes against the hills.

Granny’s light was burning, the inn had an illumined window. All else was--asleep.

“Oh--” said Granny, “tha’rt in good hands,” and she closed the door after Adam with a “Good night, Adam.” Granny had called in her twenty pounds. He would get the letter in the morning.

Before leaving the road, the inn light made Adam pause. He went back.

His father’s misery, chained in that desert of Thirst, had made a human appeal to him. He did not realise it as a humanity in any way connected with that touch of that trembling, young hand.

He stopped on the wishing-bridge, listening to the water, wondering what Polly had wished. Then, he remembered that he did not mean to lose Sagg Farm.

“What’s up with our Adam?” asked Wild, when Adam had gone to bed after pulling out the whisky bottle and handing it to his father with an ungracious look that said “Oh--take it.”

Sarah shook her head.

“He’se not in love with that yellow-haired hussy, is he?” he asked. “An’ gotten th’ softenin’ o’ th’ brain.”

“She’s a nice lass,” said Sarah.

Wild enjoyed his whisky.

Then he said, in his dazed way, “I thought our Bob were after her.”

Sarah said nothing.

“I wouldn’t like yon lads to get across,” said her father. Another silence. Then, “no, by G--ff, I wouldn’t like them lads to get across.”

In the morning Adam got up, betimes.

He had been awake before dawn.

He got up to carry out his intention to burn Polly Cherry’s glove. It was somewhere in Bob’s possession. Bob was yet asleep. His moor tramp of the previous night had been a long one.

Adam found it at length.

It was in Bob’s breast pocket.

Adam carried it by the finger-tips--that thing with the impress of Polly’s hand. It had cast a spell on Bob. He felt the spell of it, himself, as he carried it so. The fire was roaring up the wide chimney.

He pitched it into the middle of the flames.

It writhed, shrunk, and--he could not dispossess himself of the idea that he was burning that foolish little hand, one finger of which seemed to point accusingly at him.

After breakfast, he watched Bob feeling about in his pocket for it, looking in the deep shadow behind the door, looking questioningly at him, once or twice, too. But--a woman’s glove was not a thing a dog-man could ask for.

Polly came that day to churn.

Bob leaned outside the door with the netting throwing shadows on the red tiles where the great pans of milk were set, and whereon Polly stood, a dainty dairymaid in blue muslin and exuberant youth.

Polly would not flirt with him, except very mildly.

She was busy, she said.

Adam was triumphant.

Whilst whenever Bob saw Polly staring in the direction of Adam, who took scarcely any notice of her, his suspicions about the glove grew. Though--he had taken it out of his pocket on Whitemoor, to be sure he still had it. For this was Bob’s first passion.

It was quite late when Polly went down to Granny’s.

The sun was gone down.

Granny had left Polly her ordinary tasks to do.

Granny saw that she did them, late as it was.

She was surprised that Polly did not grumble.

Half-asleep as she was, the girl went cheerfully about. Polly was moulding herself on Adam’s lines. Polly had not the least doubt about it that some day Adam would marry her. She thought she would ask him to have a little churn for her--that could stand on the floor, not quite so difficult to keep going as this big one Sarah had put up with for so long. This was Polly’s first affection. It had begun, subconsciously, on that night in the wheat-field, when she had told Adam she would sooner marry a monkey.

She woke, some hours later, out of a dream of Adam, to hear Granny making a strange noise.

“Ooo, Ooo!” cried Polly, shaking like a leaf. “What shall I do? What shall I do?”

Granny’s heart had dotted and carried two, this time.

She got water--and spilled it over Granny.

After the second attack, Granny said: “Fetch Miss Thorpe. She’ll talk less nor--anybody.”

Granny was too ill to see that Polly ran out into the night with bare feet, and only a coat over her nightdress.

Through the dead stillness of the night Polly ran to the Thorpes’, knocked them up, and came back with Susan. It was only when she got within the cottage that she realised the terrors she had braved.

Granny was better.

She had propped herself up in bed.

But Polly begged Susan to stay the night.

Susan did.

Whilst as she saw how little able the girl was to take care of herself--she shuddered at the thought of the irresponsible Bob having her in tow. Love is not always blind.

It was as they slept in one bed, in that moon-silvered room, Granny asleep, that Susan tried to keep her promise to Bob to do all she could.

Which left cunning Polly a way open.

“Do you like Adam Wild?” she asked.

There was a silence, through which the blind tap-tapped in a wind. It was like old Time walking along on a stick, because he was so very old.

“Oh, yes, I like him,” said Susan, honestly.

“Do you like him a lot, I mean?” queried Polly.

She was peeping at Susan, Granny’s white sheet up to her dimpled chin. She looked like an alabaster angel in the moonlight, her hair about the pillow, but too anxious for the comparison to hold quite true.

“Not--not in that way,” said Susan.

She was watching Polly.

The little dream that had begun on that stone wall on the moors where the poor sheep was buried was building up, again.

“_You_ do,” accused Susan, swiftly.

The blind tap-tapped again.

“Ooo,--yes,” said Polly, in her extravagant way. “I could--die for him--I think.”

“You foolish child,” said Susan.

They fell asleep with their arms round each other’s necks, and the blind tap-tapped the night through.

“Think on,” said Granny, in the morning. “Nobody has to know I’ve been ill. I’ll not be messed an’ mucked about wi’ folk--whilst I’m wick. They can do what they like wi’ me when I’m dead.”