The Freelands

J >> John Galsworthy >> The Freelands


"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....

When, two hours later, he entered the kitchen at home, of the company
assembled Frances Freeland alone retained equanimity enough to put up
her face to be kissed.

"I'm so thankful you've come back in time to see your uncles, darling.
Your Uncle John thinks, and we all agree, that to encourage those poor
laborers to do things which are not nice is--is--you know what I mean,
darling!"

Derek gave a bitter little laugh.

"Criminal, Granny! Yes, and puppyish! I've learned all that."

The sound of his voice was utterly unlike his own, and Kirsteen,
starting forward, put her arm round him.

"It's all right, Mother. They've chucked me."

At that moment, when all, save his mother, wanted so to express their
satisfaction, Frances Freeland alone succeeded.

"I'm so glad, darling!"

Then John rose and, holding out his hand to his nephew, said:

"That's the end of the trouble, then, Derek?"

"Yes. And I beg your pardon, Uncle John; and all--Uncle Stanley, Uncle
Felix; you, Dad; Granny."

They had all risen now. The boy's face gave them--even John, even
Stanley--a choke in the throat. Frances Freeland suddenly took their
arms and went to the door; her other two sons followed. And quietly they
all went out.

Derek, who had stayed perfectly still, staring past Nedda into a corner
of the room, said:

"Ask him what he wants, Mother."

Nedda smothered down a cry. But Kirsteen, tightening her clasp of him
and looking steadily into that corner, answered:

"Nothing, my boy. He's quite friendly. He only wants to be with you for
a little."

"But I can't do anything for him."

"He knows that."

"I wish he wouldn't, Mother. I can't be more sorry than I have been."

Kirsteen's face quivered.

"My dear, it will go quite soon. Love Nedda! See! She wants you!"

Derek answered in the same quiet voice:

"Yes, Nedda is the comfort. Mother, I want to go away--away out of
England--right away."

Nedda rushed and flung her arms round him.

"I, too, Derek; I, too!"


That evening Felix came out to the old 'fly,' waiting to take him from
Joyfields to Becket. What a sky! All over its pale blue a far-up wind
had drifted long, rosy clouds, and through one of them the half-moon
peered, of a cheese-green hue; and, framed and barred by the elm-trees,
like some roseate, stained-glass window, the sunset blazed. In a corner
of the orchard a little bonfire had been lighted, and round it he could
see the three small Trysts dropping armfuls of leaves and pointing
at the flames leaping out of the smoulder. There, too, was Tod's big
figure, motionless, and his dog sitting on its haunches, with head poked
forward, staring at those red tongues of flame. Kirsteen had come with
him to the wicket gate. He held her hand long in his own and pressed
it hard. And while that blue figure, turned to the sunset, was still
visible, he screwed himself back to look.

They had been in painful conclave, as it seemed to Felix, all day,
coming to the decision that those two young things should have their
wish, marry, and go out to New Zealand. The ranch of Cousin Alick Morton
(son of that brother of Frances Freeland, who, absorbed in horses, had
wandered to Australia and died in falling from them) had extended
a welcome to Derek. Those two would have a voyage of happiness--see
together the red sunsets in the Mediterranean, Pompeii, and the dark
ants of men swarming in endless band up and down with their coal-sacks
at Port Said; smell the cinnamon gardens of Colombo; sit up on deck at
night and watch the stars.... Who could grudge it them? Out there youth
and energy would run unchecked. For here youth had been beaten!

On and on the old 'fly' rumbled between the shadowy fields. 'The world
is changing, Felix--changing!' Was that defeat of youth, then, nothing?
Under the crust of authority and wealth, culture and philosophy--was the
world really changing; was liberty truly astir, under that sky in the
west all blood; and man rising at long last from his knees before the
God of force? The silent, empty fields darkened, the air gathered dewy
thickness, and the old 'fly' rumbled and rolled as slow as fate. Cottage
lamps were already lighted for the evening meal. No laborer abroad at
this hour! And Felix thought of Tryst, the tragic fellow--the moving,
lonely figure; emanation of these solitary fields, shade of the
departing land! One might well see him as that boy saw him, silent,
dogged, in a gray light such as this now clinging above the hedgerows
and the grass!

The old 'fly' turned into the Becket drive. It had grown dark now, save
for the half-moon; the last chafer was booming by, and a bat flitting,
a little, blind, eager bat, through the quiet trees. He got out to walk
the last few hundred yards. A lovely night, silent below her stars--cool
and dark, spread above field after field, wood on wood, for hundreds of
miles on every side. Night covering his native land. The same silence
had reigned out there, the same perfume stolen up, the same star-shine
fallen, for millions of years in the past, and would for millions of
years to come. Close to where the half-moon floated, a slow, narrow,
white cloud was passing--curiously shaped. At one end of it Felix could
see distinctly the form of a gleaming skull, with dark sky showing
through its eyeholes, cheeks, and mouth. A queer phenomenon;
fascinating, rather ghastly! It grew sharper in outline, more distinct.
One of those sudden shudders, that seize men from the crown of the head
to the very heels, passed down his back. He shut his eyes. And, instead,
there came up before him Kirsteen's blue-clothed figure turned to the
sunset glow. Ah! Better to see that than this skull above the land!
Better to believe her words: 'The world is changing, Felix--changing!'