Chapter XIX
THE ROAD TO ANDERBY
"Well," sighed Mary, "and that's that."
She thrust the last parcel into the back of the dog-cart, and walked round to examine the pony's harness. The ostler at the Paul Jones had a natural gift of imperfection.
"How many times have I told you to twist the belly-band once round the strap before you pass it under the pony's body?" she inquired with asperity.
While she was attending to this business herself, John lounged into the yard, his pipe in his mouth, and his hands thrust into the pockets of a light overcoat. He stood watching as her strong fingers tugged at the stiff straps and buckles. She gave the ostler his sixpence and climbed up to the driver's seat.
"Just hold the pony's head till we get out of the yard, will you, ostler? Now then, John, are you up?"
"Going to be a rough night, Mrs. Robson," remarked the ostler, as John mounted the step.
Mary looked from the threatening sky to the orange peel and paper bags blown by the wind along the esplanade.
"Yes, but we shall be well home before the storm breaks. With a wind like this, the rain will hold off long enough. That's right. Now let go, please."
The cart swung out of the inn yard, and clattered down the lamplit street, Mary driving dexterously among the Saturday night crowd.
"I don't much like putting up at the Paul Jones, John," she observed. "They take such a while to yoke up, and the ostler can't do anything right."
John made no reply. Ever since his illness he had grown more reserved. The trouble of the strike had stunned him into a lethargy of submission. After his protest on the first morning, when he considered Mary's outburst of temper unjustifiable, he had accepted her judgments without comment. Mary was therefore surprised when, as they drove through the streets at the west end of the town, he volunteered a remark:
"I saw young Rossitur this morning."
"Oh."
Of course someone was bound to mention him sooner or later. Ever since she heard of his return to the village, she had prepared herself to face every possible situation. She would meet him somewhere, and be forced to speak with him—or John would meet him, and remember.... But day by day news came of him, of his interview with Hunting, of his impassioned speech to the men of the union, of his final settlement of the strike. And she had never seen him. Perhaps he had avoided her as assiduously as she had avoided him.
She sat silent for a moment, her attention apparently occupied by the reins. Then she gained sufficient self-control to ask, with apparent indifference:
"Did you speak to him at all?"
He knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the splash-board, before he answered.
"Yes, I did. You know, Mary, I don't think we did that young fellow justice."
"No? Why, John?"
"Well, he always seemed to me a bit of a wind shaker, and there's no denying that if he hadn't been to the village that chap Hunting might never have come down."
"That's true of course."
"But you know, I think he must have seen he'd made a bit of an ass of himself, when he saw the strike coming on and all that, at least, so he said."
"Oh, he said that, did he? Why, John? When did you talk to him?"
"I met him up in village this morning when I went to pay the joiner's bill for mending the reapers."
"Oh, yes. He was still there then?"
"Ay. He said he was leaving Anderby to-night. Going back to Manchester. He told me he'd wanted to say that as far as the strike had hit us, he was sorry and that when he saw how Coast and Hunting between them were egging the men on to hold out for more money, after we offered the three pounds, he felt he had to come down and stop it if he could."
"Oh, well, I'm glad he said that. Did he—did he ask after me?"
"No, I can't say that he did. He seemed a bit upset, though that's not unlikely seeing the way he's treated us. But I will say this, once he made up his mind, he did act like a gentleman. That was a rare speech he made at the meeting in the school room before the men came in. Some one reported it in the Hardrascliffe Times. I got a copy in the market to-day."
"Oh. I'll look at it when we get in."
"Ay. Do you remember when you brought him home—last spring, wasn't it? Ah, but that's a while back."
"Do you remember?" The road was dipping towards the valley where the cross-roads met. All her life, Mary thought, when she passed them, she would see the stoop of slender shoulders, and the back of a red head in a misty circle of lantern-light. She looked sideways at John's bulky figure, lolling on the seat where once David had sat.
"Oh, yes, let me see, that was in the spring, wasn't it?" she replied.
It was strange, how things could happen which seemed to turn the world upside down, and yet the people who saw one every day never noticed.
"... Anyone with my beautiful disposition has to have some physical disability to counteract it." ... Imagine John ever saying anything as silly as that! John never said anything silly. That was the worst of him.
Then something that she had been wanting to say all day recurred to her. "John, I was talking to Mr. Slater in church last night. He says you mentioned in the parish meeting that you'd like to retire from Anderby. Is that true?"
"Well, I don't know if I said those exact words."
"But did you mean it?"
"Now, I wouldn't go so far as to say that. But I was talking it over with Sarah Bannister that time she came to see me when I was in bed...."
"Oh, I see," said Mary.
She understood.
"And you know I'm not a young man, honey. And I'm not very clever about these new rules and regulations. And when I have to think about overtime and union secretaries and all that, it strikes me that farming isn't what it used to be."
Of course. Sarah's very words. It was just what she had imagined. Where John didn't echo her, he echoed Sarah. Well, this time he'd have to echo her.
"Of course it isn't what it used to be," she said brusquely, flicking the pony with her whip. "Nothing ever is. We've got to move with the times. It's only when things are changing that it's difficult. In a year or two you'll forget there ever has been a union."
John shook his head. "I don't know. I feel sometimes it's hard to start all over again, just when I was getting used to things as they were."
"That's because you haven't been very well lately. You will, though. You'll get used to it. One can get used to anything."
Again she felt as though there were enemies trying to snatch her kingdom from her, and that she must hold on with both hands in blind tenacity, no matter what it cost her or anyone else.
"Of course I can't hold you here against your will," she said. "I'm not going to deny that you came here on my account. Only I do think it would be silly to make a move now, when the mortgage is just paid."
He did not answer. The wind caught them as they turned westward along the road to Anderby. It whipped short strands of hair across Mary's face. John clutched at his hat and bent his head to the gale.
"Mind you," continued Mary, "I dare say that Sarah is right when she says that any more upset wouldn't be good for you. But now that everything is quiet again, I see no reason why we should worry."
"Very well, honey. You know best."
This would be her life, thought Mary. She would always have John's large and ineffective figure beside her. His "Very well, honey, you know best," would greet every decision that she made. She would always have long days at Anderby and short hours by the sea, and the homeward road winding before her in the fading light. There would always be the dull absence of expectation that rewards those who have realized their ambitions, and, later, there would be failing energy and old age.... Well, at least she had two possessions which made all that endurable. The kingdom of Anderby was, after all, still hers, in spite of Sarah and John and Coast and Hunting, and that fierce, indefinable power which David called progress. The other thing—she opened her eyes more widely in the windy dusk, and even then the colour rose to her cheeks and her heart beat faster—the other thing was the knowledge that somewhere David was alive and working. Though she might not, no, did not now even wish to see him, yet, from time to time the force of his vitality would quicken her through his writings, through chance news of his activities, through the memories to which she turned again and again when other thoughts were still. She might still amuse herself by pretending to hear his voice offering help again from the darkness of the road, or by rehearsing imaginary scenes to herself, scenes that would follow his return, many years afterwards, to visit her at Anderby. And she would confess what a narrow, complacent fool she had been, and they would laugh together over everything—even that incident in the cornfield ... no, perhaps not that. They would never speak of that. All the same, the quiet dream meadow where John had wooed her was driven now from her imagination by the picture of a wheat-field, hot and golden, and the scent of poppies and ripening corn upon the air.
Suddenly she raised her head. The scent of wheat and poppies? This familiar, acrid smell that the wind blew against her nostrils? "Can you smell something, John?" she asked.
He sniffed the air.
"Ay. Something's burning. Probably they're burning hedge-clippings somewhere."
"You don't burn hedge-clippings just after harvest."
A bicycle bell rang furiously just under the horse's nose. He swerved aside.
"Where are your lights?" called Mary. "It's past lighting time."
A voice answered from the road. "That you, Mrs. Robson?" Then, almost before she had time to reply, it called, "Then hurry back. I'm off to fetch t' fire-engine. Your stacks are afire."
She stopped for no inquiry, but leaning low and plucking the whip from its socket she sent the pony forward at a gallop.
There was only another mile of road to cover before they rounded the Church Hill and the village lay beneath them. Then they would know the worst that was to be known.
The smell of burning grew stronger. The road seemed interminable. The fat pony, overfed and scant of breath, resented this sudden outburst of activity on the part of his mistress. He slackened his pace.
Mary rose from her seat and cut him sharply several times with the whip. It was the surprise of his life. He stopped dead, then started forward and galloped full into the teeth of the gale.
The dark trees and hedges streamed past them as they mounted the rise to the Church Hill, John crouching still and silent, Mary half standing and urging the pony forward with whip and rein.
From the top of the hill they looked down. Below in the village was a glare of red that threw the fantastic outline of roofs and chimneys into black relief, and rose into smoke hiding the outline of the wold and merging into the evening sky.
The fire looked a little too far to the right. For a wild moment of hope Mary thought the cyclist might have been mistaken. As the cart descended the hill she called to a passer-by:
"Where's the fire?"
"Robsons'—stackyard and farm buildings."
They rattled on. The village street was astir with clamorous commotion. Everyone in Anderby seemed to be out of doors; skurrying black figures moved to and fro in the flickering red light.
Mary drew up outside the stackyard gate and let the reins fall on the pony's heaving flanks. Before her, above a jagged bar of wall, rose the flames from twenty-four stacks merrily blazing. A southwesterly wind swept them towards the farm buildings. The thatch along the covered side of the fold-yard was already alight.
Fascinated, she watched the moving figures of men pass and repass before the fire. They were leading the horses and cattle away from the stable. Poor things! No wonder the animals were afraid with those horrid sacks tied over their heads. It was a shame, too, that they could not see the pretty fire. For it was pretty. Mary, who loved bright colours, watched the sparks dance upon the wind and trail away in a cloud of smoke like the fireworks at Hardrascliffe during the season.
A sudden jolt of the cart as John clambered down aroused her, but still she did not move. She watched his indecisive movements, his hesitating steps towards the fire, his stumbling return towards the cart.
There was a small crowd in the road. Some one had recognized them now.
"That you, Mrs. Robson, that you?"
Even then Mary was glad that it was she to whom they called. "Yes. We're back. Take the pony to the other stables, some one, and please see that there's a rug put across him. We've come fast. Now then, who's in charge here?"
"Shep's getting the horses out. Foreman ain't back yet. Did you see young Mr. Rossitur on the road to Hardrascliffe? He went on his cycle to get t' engine."
"No—there was a man though, going to get the fire-engine."
Shepherd approached her, his face grimed with smoke. His blue eyes shone grimly.
"We've got the stock out, Mrs. Robson, but I doubt we'll save t' buildings. There's no water in t' pond and we can't get none fra' back till t' fire-engine comes and the hose."
"Have the far stables caught yet?"
"Not yet, but the wind's blowing right agin' them."
"Well, we can't do anything about the fold-yard, but get some men—anyone, and make a line of buckets and jugs from the pump to the stables, and try and keep the fire off them. Mrs. Greenwood, you go and take those other women and get all the jugs and things you can find in the house. Oh, wait a minute. There's the key. Violet's out."
There was very little that one could do but wait for the fire-engine. John seemed entirely bewildered, not exactly alarmed but stunned and helpless, standing by the wall and doing nothing. That really did not matter because no one could do anything with a fire blazing in a dry stackyard, without an adequate supply of water. She touched his arm.
"There's nothing to be done here," she cried. "Not till the fire-engine comes. You'd better go into the house."
He shook her off irritably, but said nothing and continued to watch the crackling flames and floating wisps of fiery straw.
The onlookers stared at them both with awed curiosity. They wondered what it was like to stand and see, one's whole harvest, corn and straw and buildings and all, blazing away like a bonfire on Guy Fawkes' night.
Mary turned to a woman at her side.
"Do they think it was a spark from the engine?" she asked.
The onlooker was Mrs. Waite. She stared at Mary with wide frightened eyes.
"Oh, I don't know, I don't know. Eli said it was."
Louie Watts, roused by unwonted excitement from her usual langour, turned to Mary with the pride of information.
"I heard Mike O'Flynn say it was lit a-purpose. I saw him come from t' Flying Fox when news first went round t' village."
Mary turned to her.
"What did he say, Louie?" she asked.
"He said, 'This is the dirty work of that damned skunk,'" repeated Louie, with gleeful recollection. "And then he ran out of the yard."
"Oh." Mary was not really very interested in what Mike O'Flynn had said. It seemed unnecessary for him to run out of the yard when so much remained to be done inside it, but doubtless he must have gone to fetch something.... Because, even if the stacks had been "lit a-purpose," some one ought to put the fire out.
She looked at her watch. Eight o'clock. Only about a quarter of an hour had elapsed, then, since she passed the cyclist on the road. That was never David! Why had David ridden for the fire-engine? And, if he had ridden, why hadn't she seen him on the way? Riding at that rate he must have reached Hardrascliffe by now. If he had any sense he would stop at the first telephone call office. She wished that she had thought of that. He passed so quickly.
"Is the policeman here?" she asked abruptly. Constable Burton was usually a most conspicuous figure at village crises. Mary thought that his large stupidity might be comforting.
"He was here a bit back," a woman replied, "but some one said something about an accident up street, and he went to see."
It would take another half-hour for the fire-engine to arrive at the village. By that time, probably, the flames would have reached the buildings to the right of the stackyard. Mary wondered whether she ought to go herself and superintend the fight against the fire. It would be a pity not to do the right thing now. She always had done it ... only somehow, it was so useless, because there wasn't any water.... A dress, the colour of that vivid orange and red, when the flames had caught a pile of loose straw, would be pretty.... If David rode too fast down the hill into Hardrascliffe, she did hope he would ring his bell before the turn at the bottom....
Jack Greenwood stood beside her. His round eyes stared, his wide mouth hung open.
"Oh, Mrs. Robson!" he gasped.
"Yes, Jack?" It was so silly that anyone should look so excited. There really was nothing to fuss about. After all, they were her stacks burning and she was quite content to stand watching them. Really it was rather a beautiful sight, so long as one did not stand too near, where the sparks might fall.
"Please, m'm, Constable Burton says I'm to tell you there's been an accident up the street. Some one's hurt and they want to bring him into your house."
"Of course. I'll go. I can't do anything here. What is it?"
Here at least, was something obvious and familiar to be done.
"Some one's shot that fellow what talked in the village."
"Shot him? Oh, nonsense! Who do you mean? Mr. Hunting?" Thank everything there was to thank that David was in Hardrascliffe!
"No, yon other, with red hair."
"Oh.... Is he badly hurt?"
She began to move towards the garden, Jack stumbling beside her, almost running to keep up with her eager stride.
"I doant rightly know. Policeman's there. Mike O'Flynn had a gun and stood agin' him, and kept on saying, 'I've done 'im in. Praise be to Mary! I've done him in.'"
"Mike?"
She frowned a little, as though she did not quite understand. The garden was dark, with curious flashes of crimson light through the overhanging trees. She reached the backdoor of the house. It swung idly in the wind, but the women who had entered it to search for jugs and pails had gone.
Mary stood in the yard beside it, listening to heavy footsteps approaching up the garden path—the path that led through a wicket-gate into the road on the way to the Flying Fox.
She ought to have gone forward into the house and lit the lamps and made things ready. Only it was too late now. It was stupid, of course, to be unprepared, but she wanted to welcome him at the doorway a second time. She smiled to herself. Now, at least, she might have him. She might touch him again. However badly he was hurt she would nurse him back to health. He was young and wiry. Mike was an old soldier, but he probably hadn't shot very straight.
Constable Burton came through the garden door into the yard. She saw his round, solemn face in the flickering light. How silly of him to look so solemn, when he was being kinder to her than ever he had been before ... bringing her David, David, David.... There was another figure behind him, and something lying between them on a hurdle.
"Oh, do be careful! Mind the step," she called, as they stumbled into the yard. "You'll hurt him."
"We can't do much harm, Missus Robson," said the policeman.
"Is he badly hurt?"
"Nay. He's dead. Shot right through 'is 'ead. It's a bad job."
She opened the door wider to receive him.
"Come in," said Mary.