He stood there, gazing. Behind the ricks and barns the smoke from the farm-house chimney curled up to a cruelly placid heaven amid the budding boughs of the elms; the sheep browsed peacefully upon the pastures, and the little lambs played to and fro, but Bess did not come stealing forth and running across amongst them, joyful too, as he had so often pictured her to himself at this meeting. Bess did not come, and there was no peace in his heart; he was frightened—frightened at the awful “inevitable” that he saw marching upon him.
Presently the little maid issued forth alone, and crept crying across the mead. It was long before she took courage to come to him, long before he could still her sobs enough to hear her words.
Farmer had got hold of her, Farmer had sworn at her, and she was frightened. For when she had asked for Bess, he had said a bad word, and had talked very loud, and had looked very fierce, and had made her cry. Pressed as to what he had said, she sobbed out that he had sworn “Bess would never come ’ome no more,” that he “didn’t know where she was, nor didn’t care, for ’e never wanted to see ’er no more,” and that any person, little girl or other, who should come inquiring for her would be treated “same as” herself.
The sobs had burst into a howl at the end of this speech, but Charley stood as one dazed, gazing out through the soft evening light upon the quiet landscape with a mist before his eyes. He attempted no comfort, and the child cried on, stopping sometimes to gaze at him amazed. But at last he seemed to shake himself, and, fetching a deep sigh, put his hand in his pocket and gave a sixpence to the little one, bidding her run home to tea.
She needed no second persuasion, and when she was gone he turned slowly away and went down the hill to the station. He had made up his mind now. If Bess had gone, she had gone to try and find him. He must go back to London, he must go back to every place in that vast and terrible city where he had ever set foot. He would not let himself remember that it was an absolutely foolish and bootless search: it was all he could do, and he must do it at once.
But at the station they told him that there was no train for an hour and a half, and he turned into the “Public” hard by to get something to keep up his spirits before starting.
The bar was full, for it was a Saturday, and tongues were wagging noisily. But there was a lull as he came in, and he was sure—yes, he was quite sure this time—that men looked at him curiously.
He nodded carelessly to those whom he knew, and walking up to the counter ordered his drink.
A young man stood beside it: a short, thick-set young man with flaxen hair. He didn’t know him, and they did not speak, but a lad of about his own age lounged up to him.
“Well, Charley Chiswick, gettin’ on pretty fair since ye left the old place?” asked he.