This brought sly jibes from the growing ring of farmers round the late deserter. “So yon’s what fetched tha back i’ sic a ter’ble scufter like, eh, lad? Nay, now, there’s no use lookin’ as slape as an eel tail! We ken all about it. Oh ay, Ladyford’s snug enough. Here’s Michael to speak for hissel!”
Dumbfounded, Dockeray stared as at a ghost, but when he had gathered his wits, had nothing different to say from the rest. He urged the young man to make some attempt to catch his boat, but could not move him.
“Ower late, now,” Lup said, running his eye over the wet street for Brack in vain. He had kept his own counsel about the telegram, scarcely knowing why. “I’ve missed it, right enough.” And as in Liverpool, so he said in Witham: “Seein’s believin’!”
There was no sign of Brack all morning, but presently he ran into Denny, who fell upon him in delight, and cared not a rush what reason had brought him back as long as he was back. To the dogged inquiry he returned the common denial, but his usually open glance shifted a little when Lup asked for Brack.
“Nay, he’s not in town this morning. Leastways, there’s nobody clapped eyes on him yet. He’s a bit rocky in the upper storey, nowadays, is Brack. Going clean off his nut, I reckon!”
They had dinner together at the “Dragon,” and afterwards he suggested that Lup should drive back with him and spend the night at Lockholme. Dockeray was for taking him to Ladyford, but Denny clung jealously to his prize, and though Lup’s heart turned to the latter farm, his courage shrank unmistakably. He would go with Denny. If all was right at the Pride, there was no haste till morning.
“There’s yon do of Mr. Shaw’s, to-night, at the ‘Duke,’” Denny went on, heartened out of his vague doubts by the “Dragon’s” ale. “What d’you say to going down? I’ll lay Mr. Shaw’ll be glad to see you, and there’s Brack’s invite going begging, anyhow. I hear he’s not for turning up. You can slip over to the Pride first thing while morning. The old folk’ll be feared to death if you come knocking at the door to-night. If you can hang about a bit longer, I’ll be through with my job, an’ then we’ll get out.”
After some hesitation, Lup agreed. He had had no sleep, and was bewildered almost to helplessness by the sharp turn of events and the puzzle of the situation. He had a feeling that he ought to go with Michael, but he did not know why. If he went now, he could get over to the Pride before dark without running any risk of alarming the old people, but if there was nothing wrong, what would they think of his sudden return, cropping up in this aimless manner, having thrown away Ninekyrkes on the one hand, and like enough his passage-money on the other? Wolf would call him a fool. He began to feel a fool, too—to wonder what could possibly have taken him. Drink heartens some and depresses others. Lup wondered and worried. Francey would have something to say as well; unsaid, even, he would see it in her eyes. In any case she would be certain to think that he had come crawling back to her because he could not keep away, and at that his Westmorland pride took fire. The powerful instinct that had drawn him blindly but surely so far, checked in the last ten miles before the possibility of a woman’s scorn. No! He would not go with Michael.
Yet, when Dockeray drove out, he watched the retreating trap with something like a very agony of desire to follow. He wanted to tear down the crowded street and leap up behind; he could scarcely hold himself back. But the Westmorland farmer does not tear, especially after dinner on a market-day, so he stood where he was, and let the trap drop out of sight.
Waiting for Denny, he wandered aimlessly here and there, stopping now and then for a chat under some shelter, or to stare, with little interest, at a shop-window. There was a hat he thought would look a regular knock-out on Francey. It was of extensive diameter, with two wild wings beating the air far behind. The marsh wind would have taken it mightily to heaven, but he did not think of that. He thought, though, of the gulls he had seen driving inland in the dawn, as the night-train hugged the edge of the wind-swept bay.