The Complete Project Gutenberg Works of Galsworthy

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"He's walking with us! Look! Over there!"

And for a second there did seem to Nedda a dim, gray shape moving square
and dogged, parallel with them at the stubble edges. Gasping out:

"Oh, no; don't frighten me! I can't bear it tonight!" She hid her face
against his shoulder like a child. He put his arm round her and she
pressed her face deep into his coat. This ghost of Bob Tryst holding him
away from her! This enemy! This uncanny presence! She pressed closer,
closer, and put her face up to his. It was wonderfully lonely, silent,
whispering, with the moongleams slipping through the willow boughs into
the shadow where they stood. And from his arms warmth stole through her!
Closer and closer she pressed, not quite knowing what she did, not quite
knowing anything but that she wanted him never to let her go; wanted his
lips on hers, so that she might feel his spirit pass, away from what was
haunting it, into hers, never to escape. But his lips did not come to
hers. They stayed drawn back, trembling, hungry-looking, just above her
lips. And she whispered:

"Kiss me!"

She felt him shudder in her arms, saw his eyes darken, his lips quiver
and quiver, as if he wanted them to, but they would not. What was it?
Oh, what was it? Wasn't he going to kiss her--not to kiss her? And
while in that unnatural pause they stood, their heads bent back among the
moongleams and those willow shadows, there passed through Nedda such
strange trouble as she had never known. Not kiss her! Not kiss her!
Why didn't he? When in her blood and in the night all round, in the feel
of his arms, the sight of his hungry lips, was something unknown,
wonderful, terrifying, sweet! And she wailed out:

"I want you--I don't care--I want you!" She felt him sway, reel, and
clutch her as if he were going to fall, and all other feeling vanished in
the instinct of the nurse she had already been to him. He was ill again!
Yes, he was ill! And she said:

"Derek--don't! It's all right. Let's walk on quietly!"

She got his arm tightly in hers and drew him along toward home. By the
jerking of that arm, the taut look on his face, she could feel that he
did not know from step to step whether he could stay upright. But she
herself was steady and calm enough, bent on keeping emotion away, and
somehow getting him back along the river-path, abandoned now to the moon
and the bright, still spaces of the night and the slow-moving, whitened
water. Why had she not felt from the first that he was overwrought and
only fit for bed?

Thus, very slowly, they made their way up by the factory again into the
lane by the church magnate's garden, under the branches of the sycamores,
past the same white-faced old house at the corner, to the high street
where some few people were still abroad.

At the front door of the hotel stood Felix, looking at his watch,
disconsolate as an old hen. To her great relief he went in quickly when
he saw them coming. She could not bear the thought of talk and
explanation. The one thing was to get Derek to bed. All the time he had
gone along with that taut face; and now, when he sat down on the shiny
sofa in the little bedroom, he shivered so violently that his teeth
chattered. She rang for a hot bottle and brandy and hot water. When he
had drunk he certainly shivered less, professed himself all right, and
would not let her stay. She dared not ask, but it did seem as if the
physical collapse had driven away, for the time at all events, that
ghostly visitor, and, touching his forehead with her lips--very
motherly--so that he looked up and smiled at her--she said in a
matter-of-fact voice:

"I'll come back after a bit and tuck you up," and went out.

Felix was waiting in the hall, at a little table on which stood a bowl of
bread and milk. He took the cover off it for her without a word. And
while she supped he kept glancing at her, trying to make up his mind to
words. But her face was sealed. And all he said was:

"Your uncle's gone to Becket for the night. I've got you a room next
mine, and a tooth-brush, and some sort of comb. I hope you'll be able to
manage, my child."

Nedda left him at the door of his room and went into her own. After
waiting there ten minutes she stole out again. It was all quiet, and she
went resolutely back down the stairs. She did not care who saw her or
what they thought. Probably they took her for Derek's sister; but even
if they didn't she would not have cared. It was past eleven, the light
nearly out, and the hall in the condition of such places that await a
morning's renovation. His corridor, too, was quite dark. She opened the
door without sound and listened, till his voice said softly:

"All right, little angel; I'm not asleep."

And by a glimmer of moonlight, through curtains designed to keep out
nothing, she stole up to the bed. She could just see his face, and eyes
looking up at her with a sort of adoration. She put her hand on his
forehead and whispered: "Are you comfy?"

He murmured back: "Yes, quite comfy."

Kneeling down, she laid her face beside his on the pillow. She could not
help doing that; it made everything seem holy, cuddley, warm. His lips
touched her nose. Her eyes, for just that instant, looked up into his,
that were very dark and soft; then she got up.

"Would you like me to stay till you're asleep?"

"Yes; forever. But I shouldn't exactly sleep. Would you?"

In the darkness Nedda vehemently shook her head. Sleep! No! She would
not sleep!

"Good night, then!"

"Good night, little dark angel!"

"Good night!" With that last whisper she slipped back to the door and
noiselessly away.




CHAPTER XXXVII

It was long before she closed her eyes, spending the hours in fancy where
still less she would have slept. But when she did drop off she dreamed
that he and she were alone upon a star, where all the trees were white,
the water, grass, birds, everything, white, and they were walking arm in
arm, among white flowers. And just as she had stooped to pick one--it
was no flower, but--Tryst's white-banded face! She woke with a little
cry.

She was dressed by eight and went at once to Derek's room. There was no
answer to her knock, and in a flutter of fear she opened the door. He
had gone--packed, and gone. She ran back to the hall. There was a note
for her in the office, and she took it out of sight to read. It said:

"He came back this morning. I'm going home by the first train. He seems
to want me to do something.
"DEREK."

Came back! That thing--that gray thing that she, too, had seemed to see
for a moment in the fields beside the river! And he was suffering again
as he had suffered yesterday! It was awful. She waited miserably till
her father came down. To find that he, too, knew of this trouble was
some relief. He made no objection when she begged that they should
follow on to Joyfields. Directly after breakfast they set out. Once on
her way to Derek again, she did not feel so frightened. But in the train
she sat very still, gazing at her lap, and only once glanced up from
under those long lashes.

"Can you understand it, Dad?"

Felix, not much happier than she, answered:

"The man had something queer about him. Besides Derek's been ill, don't
forget that. But it's too bad for you, Nedda. I don't like it; I don't
like it."

"I can't be parted from him, Dad. That's impossible."

Felix was silenced by the vigor of those words.

"His mother can help, perhaps," he said.

Ah! If his mother would help--send him away from the laborers, and all
this!

Up from the station they took the field paths, which cut off quite a
mile. The grass and woods were shining brightly, peacefully in the sun;
it seemed incredible that there should be heartburnings about a land so
smiling, that wrongs and miseries should haunt those who lived and worked
in these bright fields. Surely in this earthly paradise the dwellers
were enviable, well-nourished souls, sleek and happy as the pied cattle
that lifted their inquisitive muzzles! Nedda tried to stroke the nose of
one--grayish, blunt, moist. But the creature backed away from her hand,
snuffling, and its cynical, soft eyes with chestnut lashes seemed warning
the girl that she belonged to the breed that might be trusted to annoy.

In the last fields before the Joyfields crossroads they came up with a
little, square, tow-headed man, without coat or cap, who had just driven
some cattle in and was returning with his dog, at a 'dot-here dot-there'
walk, as though still driving them. He gave them a look rather like that
of the bullock Nedda had tried to stroke. She knew he must be one of the
Malloring men, and longed to ask him questions; but he, too, looked shy
and distrustful, as if he suspected that they wanted something out of
him. She summoned up courage, however, to say: "Did you see about poor
Bob Tryst?"

"I 'eard tell. 'E didn' like prison. They say prison takes the 'eart
out of you. 'E didn' think o' that." And the smile that twisted the
little man's lips seemed to Nedda strange and cruel, as if he actually
found pleasure in the fate of his fellow. All she could find to answer
was:

"Is that a good dog?"

The little man looked down at the dog trotting alongside with drooped
tail, and shook his head:

"'E's no good wi' beasts--won't touch 'em!" Then, looking up sidelong, he
added surprisingly:

"Mast' Freeland 'e got a crack on the head, though!" Again there was
that satisfied resentment in his voice and the little smile twisting his
lips. Nedda felt more lost than ever.

They parted at the crossroads and saw him looking back at them as they
went up the steps to the wicket gate. Amongst a patch of early
sunflowers, Tod, in shirt and trousers, was surrounded by his dog and the
three small Trysts, all apparently engaged in studying the biggest of the
sunflowers, where a peacock-butterfly and a bee were feeding, one on a
gold petal, the other on the black heart. Nedda went quickly up to them
and asked:

"Has Derek come, Uncle Tod?"

Tod raised his eyes. He did not seem in the least surprised to see her,
as if his sky were in the habit of dropping his relatives at ten in the
morning.

"Gone out again," he said.

Nedda made a sign toward the children.

"Have you heard, Uncle Tod?"

Tod nodded and his blue eyes, staring above the children's heads,
darkened.

"Is Granny still here?"

Again Tod nodded.

Leaving Felix in the garden, Nedda stole upstairs and tapped on Frances
Freeland's door.

She, whose stoicism permitted her the one luxury of never coming down to
breakfast, had just made it for herself over a little spirit-lamp. She
greeted Nedda with lifted eyebrows.

"Oh, my darling! Where HAVE you come from? You must have my nice cocoa!
Isn't this the most perfect lamp you ever saw? Did you ever see such a
flame? Watch!"

She touched the spirit-lamp and what there was of flame died out.

"Now, isn't that provoking? It's really a splendid thing, quite a new
kind. I mean to get you one. Now, drink your cocoa; it's beautifully
hot."

"I've had breakfast, Granny."

Frances Freeland gazed at her doubtfully, then, as a last resource, began
to sip the cocoa, of which, in truth, she was badly in want.

"Granny, will you help me?"

"Of course, darling. What is it?"

"I do so want Derek to forget all about this terrible business."

Frances Freeland, who had unscrewed the top of a little canister,
answered:

"Yes, dear, I quite agree. I'm sure it's best for him. Open your mouth
and let me pop in one of these delicious little plasmon biscuits.
They're perfect after travelling. Only," she added wistfully, "I'm
afraid he won't pay any attention to me."

"No, but you could speak to Aunt Kirsteen; it's for her to stop him."

One of her most pathetic smiles came over Frances Freeland's face.

"Yes, I could speak to her. But, you see, I don't count for anything.
One doesn't when one gets old."

"Oh, Granny, you do! You count for a lot; every one admires you so. You
always seem to have something that--that other people haven't got. And
you're not a bit old in spirit."

Frances Freeland was fingering her rings; she slipped one off.

"Well," she said, "it's no good thinking about that, is it? I've wanted
to give you this for ages, darling; it IS so uncomfortable on my finger.
Now, just let me see if I can pop it on!"

Nedda recoiled.

"Oh, Granny!" she said. "You ARE--!" and vanished.

There was still no one in the kitchen, and she sat down to wait for her
aunt to finish her up-stairs duties.

Kirsteen came down at last, in her inevitable blue dress, betraying her
surprise at this sudden appearance of her niece only by a little
quivering of her brows. And, trembling with nervousness, Nedda took her
plunge, pouring out the whole story--of Derek's letter; their journey
down; her father's talk with him; the visit to Tryst's body; their walk
by the river; and of how haunted and miserable he was. Showing the
little note he had left that morning, she clasped her hands and said:

"Oh, Aunt Kirsteen, make him happy again! Stop that awful haunting and
keep him from all this!"

Kirsteen had listened, with one foot on the hearth in her favorite
attitude. When the girl had finished she said quietly:

"I'm not a witch, Nedda!"

"But if it wasn't for you he would never have started. And now that poor
Tryst's dead he would leave it alone. I'm sure only you can make him
lose that haunted feeling."

Kirsteen shook her head.

"Listen, Nedda!" she said slowly, as though weighing each word. "I
should like you to understand. There's a superstition in this country
that people are free. Ever since I was a girl your age I've known that
they are not; no one is free here who can't pay for freedom. It's one
thing to see, another to feel this with your whole being. When, like me,
you have an open wound, which something is always inflaming, you can't
wonder, can you, that fever escapes into the air. Derek may have caught
the infection of my fever--that's all! But I shall never lose that
fever, Nedda--never!"

"But, Aunt Kirsteen, this haunting is dreadful. I can't bear to see it."

"My dear, Derek is very highly strung, and he's been ill. It's in my
family to see things. That'll go away."

Nedda said passionately:

"I don't believe he'll ever lose it while he goes on here, tearing his
heart out. And they're trying to get me away from him. I know they
are!"

Kirsteen turned; her eyes seemed to blaze.

"They? Ah! Yes! You'll have to fight if you want to marry a rebel,
Nedda!"

Nedda put her hands to her forehead, bewildered. "You see, Nedda,
rebellion never ceases. It's not only against this or that injustice,
it's against all force and wealth that takes advantage of its force and
wealth. That rebellion goes on forever. Think well before you join in."

Nedda turned away. Of what use to tell her to think when 'I won't--I
can't be parted from him!' kept every other thought paralyzed. And she
pressed her forehead against the cross-bar of the window, trying to find
better words to make her appeal again. Out there above the orchard the
sky was blue, and everything light and gay, as the very butterflies that
wavered past. A motor-car seemed to have stopped in the road close by;
its whirring and whizzing was clearly audible, mingled with the cooings
of pigeons and a robin's song. And suddenly she heard her aunt say:

"You have your chance, Nedda! Here they are!"

Nedda turned. There in the doorway were her Uncles John and Stanley
coming in, followed by her father and Uncle Tod.

What did this mean? What had they come for? And, disturbed to the
heart, she gazed from one to the other. They had that curious look of
people not quite knowing what their reception will be like, yet with
something resolute, almost portentous, in their mien. She saw John go up
to her aunt and hold out his hand.

"I dare say Felix and Nedda have told you about yesterday," he said.
"Stanley and I thought it best to come over." Kirsteen answered:

"Tod, will you tell Mother who's here?"

Then none of them seemed to know quite what to say, or where to look,
till Frances Freeland, her face all pleased and anxious, came in. When
she had kissed them they all sat down. And Nedda, at the window,
squeezed her hands tight together in her lap.

"We've come about Derek," John said.

"Yes," broke in Stanley. "For goodness' sake, Kirsteen, don't let's have
any more of this! Just think what would have happened yesterday if that
poor fellow hadn't providentially gone off the hooks!"

"Providentially!"

"Well, it was. You see to what lengths Derek was prepared to go. Hang it
all! We shouldn't have been exactly proud of a felon in the family."

Frances Freeland, who had been lacing and unlacing her fingers, suddenly
fixed her eyes on Kirsteen.

"I don't understand very well, darling, but I am sure that whatever dear
John says will be wise and right. You must remember that he is the
eldest and has a great deal of experience."

Kirsteen bent her head. If there was irony in the gesture, it was not
perceived by Frances Freeland.

"It can't be right for dear Derek, or any gentleman, to go against the
law of the land or be mixed up with wrong-doing in any way. I haven't
said anything, but I HAVE felt it very much. Because--it's all been not
quite nice, has it?"

Nedda saw her father wince. Then Stanley broke in again:

"Now that the whole thing's done with, do, for Heaven's sake, let's have
a little peace!"

At that moment her aunt's face seemed wonderful to Nedda; so quiet, yet
so burningly alive.

"Peace! There is no peace in this world. There is death, but no peace!"
And, moving nearer to Tod, she rested her hand on his shoulder, looking,
as it seemed to Nedda, at something far away, till John said:

"That's hardly the point, is it? We should be awfully glad to know that
there'll be no more trouble. All this has been very worrying. And now
the cause seems to be--removed."

There was always a touch of finality in John's voice. Nedda saw that all
had turned to Kirsteen for her answer.

"If those up and down the land who profess belief in liberty will cease
to filch from the helpless the very crust of it, the cause will be
removed."

"Which is to say--never!"

At those words from Felix, Frances Freeland, gazing first at him and then
at Kirsteen, said in a pained voice:

"I don't think you ought to talk like that, Kirsteen, dear. Nobody who's
at all nice means to be unkind. We're all forgetful sometimes. I know I
often forget to be sympathetic. It vexes me dreadfully!"

"Mother, don't defend tyranny!"

"I'm sure it's often from the best motives, dear."

"So is rebellion."

"Well, I don't understand about that, darling. But I do think, with dear
John, it's a great pity. It will be a dreadful drawback to Derek if he
has to look back on something that he regrets when he's older. It's
always best to smile and try to look on the bright side of things and not
be grumbly-grumbly!"

After that little speech of Frances Freeland's there was a silence that
Nedda thought would last forever, till her aunt, pressing close to Tod's
shoulder, spoke.

"You want me to stop Derek. I tell you all what I've just told Nedda. I
don't attempt to control Derek; I never have. For myself, when I see a
thing I hate I can't help fighting against it. I shall never be able to
help that. I understand how you must dislike all this; I know it must be
painful to you, Mother. But while there is tyranny in this land, to
laborers, women, animals, anything weak and helpless, so long will there
be rebellion against it, and things will happen that will disturb you."

Again Nedda saw her father wince. But Frances Freeland, bending forward,
fixed her eyes piercingly on Kirsteen's neck, as if she were noticing
something there more important than that about tyranny!

Then John said very gravely:

"You seem to think that we approve of such things being done to the
helpless!"

"I know that you disapprove."

"With the masterly inactivity," Felix said suddenly, in a voice more
bitter than Nedda had ever heard from him, "of authority, money, culture,
and philosophy. With the disapproval that lifts no finger--winking at
tyrannies lest worse befall us. Yes, WE--brethren--we--and so we shall
go on doing. Quite right, Kirsteen!"

"No. The world is changing, Felix, changing!"

But Nedda had started up. There at the door was Derek.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

Derek, who had slept the sleep of the dead, having had none for two
nights, woke thinking of Nedda hovering above him in the dark; of her
face laid down beside him on the pillow. And then, suddenly, up started
that thing, and stood there, haunting him! Why did it come? What did it
want of him? After writing the little note to Nedda, he hurried to the
station and found a train about to start. To see and talk with the
laborers; to do something, anything to prove that this tragic companion
had no real existence! He went first to the Gaunts' cottage. The door,
there, was opened by the rogue-girl, comely and robust as ever, in a
linen frock, with her sleeves rolled up, and smiling broadly at his
astonishment.

"Don't be afraid, Mr. Derek; I'm only here for the week-end, just to
tiddy up a bit. 'Tis all right in London. I wouldn't come back here, I
wouldn't--not if you was to give me--" and she pouted her red lips.

"Where's your father, Wilmet?"

"Over in Willey's Copse cuttin' stakes. I hear you've been ill, Mr.
Derek. You do look pale. Were you very bad?" And her eyes opened as
though the very thought of illness was difficult for her to grasp. "I
saw your young lady up in London. She's very pretty. Wish you happiness,
Mr. Derek. Grandfather, here's Mr. Derek!"

The face of old Gaunt, carved, cynical, yellow, appeared above her
shoulder. There he stood, silent, giving Derek no greeting. And with a
sudden miserable feeling the boy said:

"I'll go and find him. Good-by, Wilmet!"

"Good-by, Mr. Derek. 'Tis quiet enough here now; there's changes."

Her rogue face twinkled again, and, turning her chin, she rubbed it on
her plump shoulder, as might a heifer, while from behind her Grandfather
Gaunt's face looked out with a faint, sardonic grin.

Derek, hurrying on to Willey's Copse, caught sight, along a far hedge, of
the big dark laborer, Tulley, who had been his chief lieutenant in the
fighting; but, whether the man heard his hail or no, he continued along
the hedgeside without response and vanished over a stile. The field
dipped sharply to a stream, and at the crossing Derek came suddenly on
the little 'dot-here dot-there' cowherd, who, at Derek's greeting, gave
him an abrupt "Good day!" and went on with his occupation of mending a
hurdle. Again that miserable feeling beset the boy, and he hastened on.
A sound of chopping guided him. Near the edge of the coppice Tom Gaunt
was lopping at some bushes. At sight of Derek he stopped and stood
waiting, his loquacious face expressionless, his little, hard eye cocked.

"Good morning, Tom. It's ages since I saw you."

"Ah, 'tis a proper long time! You 'ad a knock."

Derek winced; it was said as if he had been disabled in an affair in
which Gaunt had neither part nor parcel. Then, with a great effort, the
boy brought out his question:

"You've heard about poor Bob?"

"Yaas; 'tis the end of HIM."

Some meaning behind those words, the unsmiling twist of that hard-bitten
face, the absence of the 'sir' that even Tom Gaunt generally gave him,
all seemed part of an attack. And, feeling as if his heart were being
squeezed, Derek looked straight into his face.

"What's the matter, Tom?"

"Matter! I don' know as there's anything the matter, ezactly!"

"What have I done? Tell me!"

Tom Gaunt smiled; his little, gray eyes met Derek's full.

"'Tisn't for a gentleman to be held responsible."

"Come!" Derek cried passionately. "What is it? D'you think I deserted
you, or what? Speak out, man!"

Abating nothing of his stare and drawl, Gaunt answered:

"Deserted? Oh, dear no! Us can't afford to do no more dyin' for
you--that's all!"

"For me! Dying! My God! D'you think I wouldn't have--? Oh! Confound
you!"

"Aye! Confounded us you 'ave! Hope you're satisfied!"

Pale as death and quivering all over, Derek answered:

"So you think I've just been frying fish of my own?"

Tom Gaunt, emitted a little laugh.

"I think you've fried no fish at all. That's what I think. And no one
else does, neither, if you want to know--except poor Bob. You've fried
his fish, sure enough!"

Stung to the heart, the boy stood motionless. A pigeon was cooing; the
sappy scent from the lopped bushes filled all the sun-warmed air.

"I see!" he said. "Thanks, Tom; I'm glad to know."

Without moving a muscle, Tom Gaunt answered:

"Don't mention it!" and resumed his lopping.

Derek turned and walked out of the little wood. But when he had put a
field between him and the sound of Gaunt's bill-hook, he lay down and
buried his face in the grass, chewing at its green blades, scarce dry of
dew, and with its juicy sweetness tasting the full of bitterness. And
the gray shade stalked out again, and stood there in the warmth of the
August day, with its scent and murmur of full summer, while the pigeons
cooed and dandelion fluff drifted by. . . .