Chapter XV
BEFORE THE HARVEST
"Good evening, Bert. What is it you've come to see me about?"
Mary stood in the dining-room smiling at the embarrassed figure of Bert Armstrong, who waited, shuffling his feet along the carpet.
"Have you seen that chap Hunting, Mrs. Robson?" he asked. He hated having to come to her like this—and her having such trouble with her husband an' all.
"Yes, I have, and I'm glad you came to see me about that. Won't you sit down, and smoke if you like. I wanted a talk with you."
Bert looked round, seeking the least committal seat in the room. They all looked too large or too small. Finally he chose John's arm-chair and crouched there miserably, trying to find somewhere to put his hands and his knees.
Mrs. Robson, for all her kindness, had always been an alarming sort of person, and lately people said that she had been acting very queerly. She certainly looked queer, with her dull expressionless eyes and the lines running from her nostrils to the corners of her smiling mouth. And there was a sort of restlessness about her, as though all the time she was expecting something unpleasant to happen and yet didn't care very much if it did.
"Did 'e say that if we don't give three pund ten this harvest the men are all coming out on strike?"
"Yes, he did."
"Does 'e mean it, Mrs. Robson?" the young man asked anxiously.
"I'm afraid so. These people generally mean what they say, and he has got the men pretty well in hand."
Bert leaned forward, his clasped hands between his knees. "It means ruination for us, Mrs. Robson. There was me just getting on like. The farm well stocked up, and going to begin to put a bit on one side. If these goings on don't stop, I'll have to give up."
"I see."
"'Taint as if I was the only one, Mrs. Robson. There's others, like Andersons of Stowall, and Baines on the Glebe Farm. It's all very well for yon big farmers, like you and Willerbys at High Wold. But what shall we do? We can't pay high wages."
"What do you want me to do?" Mary raised unsmiling eyes to Bert's crimson face.
He moved uneasily in the arm-chair, summoning his courage.
"Why, they say down in the village that you're going to give in—because of Mr. Robson. Rare bad luck it is having a stroke like that just now, and they say he mustn't be excited, but if you pay what they ask, we'll have to give t' same and we can't do it—we can't. We'll have to give up. Just when we're starting."
"Who said that I was going to give in?"
Bert blushed and looked at the floor. "Oh, they say in t' village—of course, we know you've had a bad time—Mr. Robson ill and all. And then you knew that young fellow, Mr. Rossitur. And they say he was all in t' favour of unions like, and perhaps you, being clever, and seeing you understand all these new ideas——" He paused, stumbling and intimidated, the words with which he had been carefully primed before the interview oozing out of his mind like water from a sponge.
"Oh, I see," said Mary slowly. "They say in the village that because I am supposed to be rather better off than the rest of you, having a larger farm, I can afford to play with socialistic ideas and pose as a kind of enlightened high-brow introducing new methods into Anderby. Is that it? And that I choose my friends from among the class that spreads discontent among the labourers because it amuses me. And that I shall make the excuse that my husband isn't well to give way to the first difficulty, no matter what it may cost the rest of you. Is that it, Bert?"
"Why"—he hung his head—"I wouldn't go so far as t' say that."
"That's what you mean, though, isn't it? I've been busy the last ten days. I haven't been much in the village, but Hunting came to see me, here. Would you like to know what I said to him?"
She rose and went to the window and Bert saw her strong profile and tall figure outlined against the sunlit lawn and shrubbery. Very straight and confident she looked—queer, though. Bert felt he was in for it now. You never knew what Mrs. Robson would do next.
She was not looking at Bert but at the roses and hollyhocks along the garden border, as her even voice continued:
"I told him that he was mistaken in thinking that co-operation and public spirit lay among the labourers alone. I told him that up till now the men had had good wages, and that until he came into the village there had been no complaints. I told him that whatever might happen in the towns, here we were friends together, masters and men, that many of the masters had been labourers themselves once, like your father, Bert, and had risen to be foremen and then bought a bit of land on their own. I told him that except on one or two of the larger farms, there was a continual struggle between the smaller men and the land they held, that every extra penny of capital was needed for manure and stock and that to increase the labourers' wages meant to starve the land, and in the end the labourers as well as the farmers lived on what the land produced. Do you understand that far?"
Bert nodded, though he felt that Mrs. Robson was getting rather out of his depth. Still, she seemed to know what she meant and women—even such superior ones as Mrs. Robson—will talk.
"I told him also that I was not a rich woman. Until last year my farm was mortgaged and though I might this year be able to pay the wages he asked, it would mean that I should have to spend my savings and that in the end would have to be made up from the land. But I said that even if I were as rich as the Setons of Edenthorpe my answer to him would be the same. If there was any real need to increase my labourers' wages I would do it, for we Robsons haven't farmed at Anderby for nearly four hundred years without knowing that the first condition of success is good feeling between fellow-workers. But when I saw discontent spread among ignorant villagers by men whose profession it was to spread such unrest——"
Her quiet voice hesitated a moment. Bert saw her hand make a slight involuntary movement as though she were in pain.
"When I saw demands being made simply because journalists and union organizers and paid agitators—men from Manchester—were interfering where they had no experience, when I saw that one demand would lead to another, one interference from outside grow into an enforced separation of master from man, then I said I would fight that movement until my last penny was spent and the last sheaf of corn had gone from Anderby. Will you tell them that in the village?"
Again Bert nodded, because Mrs. Robson seemed to have got well away and there was no stopping her anyhow.
"Do you think you understand? Because I'm busy with my husband and can't speak for myself. Will you tell them that if the men will strike we must let them? We can all join together and get the harvest in somehow. Dawson and Foreman and Mike O'Flynn and a few others at the Wold Farm here won't go out I know—mind you, there mayn't be a strike."
"I doubt it."
"I doubt it too. The men know well enough which side their bread is buttered. The agitators'll go away and forget all about it and stir up trouble somewhere else where they'll be better paid and everything will be settled down just like it was before—oh, and I've spoken to the Willerbys too, and they'll do whatever Mr. Robson and I think best and I think the same thing applies to the other farmers. Now do you know what to say in the village?"
"Ay. Thank you, Mrs. Robson. I'm sure I always said——"
Mary smiled again. Her intensity relaxed, and Bert sighed with relief as she suddenly became again an ordinary farmer's wife entertaining a visitor.
"Oh, that's all right then. You'll have a glass of wine and a piece of cake before you go, won't you?"
Later in consultation at the market with a group of other young farmers, Bert delivered his message.
"Nay, she'll not give way, she says. Ay, but she do talk! She's a rare woman, is Mrs. Robson, but not the sort I'd like to have about t' house days and nights out. She's a bit unchancy like."
He would have thought her yet more "unchancy" could he have seen her outside John's bedroom, hesitating on the dark landing, clasping and unclasping her hands while her breath came in quick, gasping sobs.
During the last ten days her life had become a jagged patch work of moments when, composed and self-confident in the presence of others, she met the increasing difficulties of the labour question, and the moments when alone she wrestled sobbing and abandoned with her doubts and fears and shames.
There were three things to be remembered directly she opened John's door. First, she must give him the doctor's message about getting up. Secondly, she must satisfy his querulous curiosity about Bert. Thirdly, she must avoid if possible all topics which might recall to his mind the scene in the wheat-field.
She pulled herself together and entered the room.
John lay still and sullen on the great bed. His beard had grown thick and straggling and his rumpled hair and restless eyes did not increase his comeliness. But he was better. It had been a slight stroke.
"The doctor says you can get up next Saturday."
"About time too. I never saw such tomfoolery, keeping me here just before harvest for a touch of sunstroke. Who's been up to the house, honey?"
"Bert Armstrong came for a bit of advice about harvesters. He's not a bad sort of boy, John, but I think he finds the responsibility of farming a bit too much for him after his father's death."
"Ay. It's not in the blood, you see. Old Armstrong was a good hedger and thatcher, but his son's not bred to be a farmer."
"No. I suppose not."
Mary moved about the room, setting straight the cushions and bottles and a vase of crimson roses. If only she knew! If only John would show whether he had seen her that afternoon—her and David. The doctor said it was a slight stroke brought about by riding in the hot fields after a heavy meal. But a shock might cause the same sort of thing. And she did not know what he had seen.
"Sarah Bannister sent you some peaches. Would you like one for lunch?"
"I might as well. Any more about that chap Hunting lately?"
"No. I don't think so. Things seem fairly quiet."
"Rossitur still here?"
Mary clutched at the mantelpiece, where she had been replacing a fallen rose in the vase.
"Mr. Rossitur? No. Why should he be? He only came for that night we saw him on the bridge, and left again on the Monday."
"Did you ever see him to speak to?"
Was he tricking her? Trying to force her to a confession? She bent above the roses. This was too absurd. Like a scene out of a novel. And it was happening to her—Mary.
She spoke very quietly.
"Yes. He came to call on Monday afternoon."
"Oh, the day I was taken ill. I thought you were out then."
"I must go quietly here," she thought. "Then it will be all right. He may not have seen. He may never remember."
"I was out," she said. "So he came up the fields to find me and apologize. He thought quite rightly that he had behaved rather badly, coming to stay with us and making an upset in the village."
There was a sound from the bed. Mary dared not turn round. She awaited the sharp exclamation of surprise and recollections, the ensuing scene—which must be avoided at all costs because John had to be kept quiet.
The sound swelled and died.
John had yawned.
His drowsy voice came again from the bed.
"Well, I'm glad he had the decency to realize he'd behaved shabbily. But of course, whatever sort of fool he may be, he is a gentleman, Mary; I always said so." John yawned again. "I think I'm going to have a nap now."
"All right. I'll bring you some tea about four."
She left the room.
Then he did not know. Or, if he had seen, his temporary seizure had driven all recollection from his mind. And she must go on, hourly expecting the possible return of his memory.
Of course it was absurd to make a fuss. It really was nothing—a kiss in a cornfield on a hot day. Lots of farmers' wives might have done it—only Mary was not lots of farmers' wives. She was Mary Robson of Anderby Wold and her conduct must be without blemish. And then John was not like lots of farmers. His trust in her was as absolute as his loyalty to her was unquestionable. Any small lapse from propriety became doubly a breach of confidence. And then—and then, it was not so much what she had done as what she was ready to do....
She passed through the quiet house. In the kitchen Violet was singing as she cleaned up after a day's baking.
Mary returned to the dining-room and closed the door. As she turned the handle she felt she was shutting herself up with a swarm of pitiless thoughts that danced round her like gnats on a summer day, leaving no respite.
David had written. Oh, yes, he had written all right. She had his letter now in her desk in the drawing-room—a most proper letter that would fully clear her character should her husband accuse her and she wished to prove her innocence. Of course he hadn't meant it for that. David had written just because he was David and couldn't leave well alone—must all the time be spoiling things by trying to make them better....
She knew it by heart. She knew the characteristic writing with its finely formed letters, impetuously looped, the upward sweep of the lines—even the smudge at the end where he had blotted it too hastily. He never could do anything quite perfectly.
"Dear Mrs. Robson,
"I can't imagine what you think of me."
No, that was obvious. He never would know either.
"I won't ask for your forgiveness, for I know I don't deserve it."
Mary smiled bitterly. Quite true again. She never would forgive him, never—for thinking that forgiveness was necessary.
"But I want to say that what happened in the cornfield was my own fault, but not my intention. I can't think what possessed me that I should behave so extraordinarily to you of all people whom I really respect so profoundly. It must have been the scent of the poppies or something. It all happened so suddenly. But please believe me it was quite unpremeditated. Think of it as a kind of momentary madness if you like—anything but an act of deliberate disrespect. I knew as soon as it happened had how appallingly I had behaved, and how angry you must be. Of course I don't expect anything so nice could happen as your writing to say you understand and forgive me.
"Yours very very sincerely,
"David Rossitur."
Poor dears! Men always thought they did it all themselves. If they only knew. Mary smiled again.
Well, she supposed she must answer it—even after a week's delay. There was no reason why he should suffer from something which he showed clearly—so very clearly—was not his fault. She would make the excuse that her husband had been ill. There had been no time to write before.
She fetched paper and envelopes and sat down, passing her tongue thirstily over dry lips. The flowers on the table were untidy. She rose again, and picking up two petals that had fallen dropped them into the waste-paper-basket.
Then she chose a pen from the inkstand, and began:
"Dear Mr. Rossitur." Her writing was large and round with black down strokes. This was the first time that she had written to him. How hot the room was! Perhaps, with the window open.... She tried again.
"Dear Mr. Rossitur,
"Thank you for your letter. I quite understand. I expect it was the hot afternoon. It seems to have affected a lot of people. John got a slight touch of sunstroke. Perhaps you had one too—I quite understand you did not mean it. I was angry at the time, but now we will forget all about it. Please don't worry any more.
"Yours sincerely,
"Mary Robson."
It did not seem a very wonderful production, to have taken nearly two hours to write, but it was what she meant to say, and she could not think of a grander way in which to say it. Besides, she must reassure him some how that she was not angry. He must not suffer even a momentary humiliation for her own deliberate and shameless fault.
She blotted her letter and re-read it, repeating aloud the written words. What, after all, was the use of saying anything when there was one thing alone that she wanted to say, and could not? Quickly she tore the paper in small pieces, and let them drop into the waste-paper-basket. She walked to the window, and thence to the mantelpiece, then up and down the room that had become too small for the tireless thoughts which began to attack her in regular procession.
By the fire-place, she realized again the triumph of that moment in the cornfield, and the two hours afterwards when deliberately she had blinded herself to every consideration but the intensity of her desire for his love—when she had believed only what she wanted to believe, and forgot everything which common sense and propriety and experience recalled. Up the room again, she confronted the disaster of John's illness and the shock of her probable responsibility. Back again by the tables and chairs that she touched in passing with her fingers, she lived again through the hours of fearful expectation, awaiting the return of John's memory and the ensuing scene. Finally, by the door, she received once more that letter from David, when, as the hottest shame of all, she read that she had no cause for shame, that her fruitless waiting after church on Sunday and her flight up the fields had been the truth, and the quivering ecstasy of her stolen delight a sentimental lie.
That was what she was—a sentimental neurotic fool. Cheap, vulgar, sentimental. Those names hurt even more than calling herself disloyal, which she knew she was. Thinking herself starved for romance, and snatching at the first young man who came along, however unwilling he might be, she had known, oh, she had known all right, all along, that he could not care.
She had failed John. She had shamed David. Well, there was still the village. Hunting? There was that interview with him, and the long vista of defeat and deprivation it disclosed. But she had not lost the village. There at least lay a way to regain self-respect.
That was what one must have—self-respect. She couldn't bear life without it. She couldn't bear that fugitive shame that kept her starting at every sound, that burned her at every thought of David.
She looked up in surprise, for a sound of low sobbing filled the room. It could not be she who was crying. Why, she'd just made up her mind that in her work in the village lay the royal road to the only thing in life that really mattered. There was a real battle to be fought against Hunting, that would cure her of hysterical fancies.
But the choking sobs continued, for she did not care. She did not want to regain her self-respect if that meant shutting herself off from all thoughts of him. What did the village matter? What did she matter if it came to that?
"Oh, David, David," she moaned. "And I loved you so."
Footsteps sounded along the passage. Violet called to her from the hall.
"Are you there, m'm?"
She rose and pushed back the fallen hair from her face.
"Yes. What is it?"
"Please, m'm, is Mr. Robson to have toast for his tea, and may I have the key of the dairy, because that there cat's been at the butter again?"
"Yes, you'd better make some toast. I'll get the butter."
As she went up the passage on her way to the kitchen, Mary kicked the cat.