“Couldn’t you bide just the one night?” Agnes coaxed. She came across to him and laid a hand on his arm. “You’ll feel a deal better in t’morn, I’m sure, and it’s real comfortable upstairs.”
“I’m feared to gang upstairs....” He shrank away from her, letting her hand drop. His eyes hated her—hostile, terrible eyes. He returned to the door. “Now, lad, get by.”
“Nay.”
He let himself go then, and became all fear and rage, a wild old creature fighting and raving to be free. “I’ll not bide—I waint!” he cried, his voice rising and cracking as it rose. “I can’t bide. I mun seek they things as is gone an’ lost!” He clubbed the fiddle and came at his son with it raised in the air. “Mun I crack fiddle over thy danged head?”
“Let him be, the poor old man!” Agnes cried, weeping aloud, but Thomas’s attitude had already changed. The futile act of defiance had shown him plainly the nature of his father’s need. He must be out of himself to risk his precious fiddle like that! He felt ashamed of himself, too, for bringing that evil into his kindly face. He moved away from the door, his expression softened, almost shocked. “Don’t take on,” he said gently. “You shall gang if you want.”
“I can gang to Marget?” Kit demanded, hard of faith.
“Ay, if you’re that set.”
“We’d best be off, then, or we’ll be missing Bob.” He was still shaking a little in every limb, but now it was with excitement and relief. Close to the door, “Where’s t’bundle?” he asked, wheeling round in a sudden scare. Marget would give it him, he knew, if he left the bundle behind. When he had left Marget’s he had seemed half-dazed, hypnotised, as it were, into going against his will. Now he was all bustle and business, thinking for himself, straining every nerve to get away....
“Here’s t’bundle.” Thomas took the red handkerchief from his wife.
“You’ve gone and hid my hat!” Again his voice rose.