‘ “Rawdon! if dad sees you . . .”
‘And Westmacott’s hoarse voice.
‘ “I’ll chance that, but, by hell, Ruth, you shall listen to me. They think you’re going to marry that lout, but as I’m a living man you shan’t. I’ll murder him first. I swear before God that if you become that man’s wife I’ll make you his widow.”
‘I stood petrified, wondering what I should do. It was night, and pitch dark inside the shed, but as I looked over the back of my cow down the line of stalls in which the slow cattle were lazily ruminating, I saw two indistinct figures and, beyond them, the open door, the night sky, and an angry moon, the yellow Hunters moon, rising behind the trees.
‘Ruth spoke again.
‘ “Rawdon, don’t talk too loud. I’ll stay, yes, I’ll stay with you; only dad’ll kill you if he finds you here.”
‘ “I’ve been up every night to find you,” Westmacott said in a lower voice. “I’ve hung about hoping you’d come out. Ruth, you don’t know. I’m mad for you. . . . You’re my woman. What business have you to go with bloodless men? You come with me, and I’ll give you all you lack. I’ll be good to you, too, I swear I will. I’ll not drink; no, on my word, it’s the thought of you that drives me to it. Ruth!”
‘He put out his arms and tried to seize her, but she recoiled and stood holding on to the butt-end of a stall.
‘ “Hands off me, Rawdon.”
‘ “You’re very particular,” he sneered; and then, changing his tone, “Come, child, you’re just ridiculous. I know you better than that. Have you forgotten the day we drove to Tonbridge market? you wasn’t so nice then.”
‘ “I disremember,” she said stolidly, but under her stolidity I think she was shaken.
‘ “You don’t disremember at all. There’s fire in you, Ruth, there’s blood; that’s why I like you. You’re shamming ladylike. I’ve got that gent with his accursed notions to thank, I suppose.”
‘This reminded me with a start of my own identity. I could not stay eavesdropping, so I made up my mind and stepped out into the passage between the stalls.
‘Westmacott and Ruth cried simultaneously,—
‘ “Who’s that?”
‘ “Mr Malory!”
‘ “This is a bad hour for you, sir,” said Westmacott to me.
‘I knew that I must not quarrel with him.
‘ “I am sorry,” I said. “I had no intention of spying on you and was only doing my ordinary work in here. I will go if you, Ruth, wish me to go.”
‘ “No,” said Westmacott, “go, and tell them all I’m here? Not much. You’ve heard enough now to know I want Ruth. You’ve always known it. I’ve always wanted her, and I mean to have her. Who are you, you fine gentleman, that you should stand in my way? I could crush your windpipe with my finger and thumb.”
‘I pictured that grotesque scene in that dark, smelly shed, among the ruminating cattle, and those two antagonistic men with the girl between them.
‘I turned to Ruth,’ said Malory, ‘and asked her frigidly what she wanted me to do? Should I attack the fellow? or give the alarm? or was it by her consent that he was there? Again she did not speak and he answered for her.
‘ “I’m here by her consent, she’s had a note from me, and she answered it, and here she is. Isn’t it true?” he demanded of her.
‘ “It is quite true,” she said, speaking to me.
‘I was hurt and disappointed.
‘ “Then I will go, as it appears to be an assignation.”
‘ “No,” said Ruth, “wait. You said you had had your finger on the pulse of my affairs ever since you came here, and now you must follow them out to the end. I am not a bit afraid of your turning me away from the path I’ve chosen.”
‘Weak! I had thought her. As I stood there like a bereft and helpless puppet between those two dark figures, I felt myself a stranger and a foreigner to them, baffled by the remoteness of their race. They were of the same blood, and I and Leslie Dymock were of a different breed, tame, contented, orderly, incapable of abrupt resolution. Weak! I had thought her. Well, and so she had been, indolently weak, but now, like many weak natures, strong under the influence of a nature stronger than her own. So, at least, I read her new determination, for I did not believe in a well of strength sprung suddenly in the native soil of her being. I perceived, rather, a spring gushing up in the man, and pouring its torrent irresistibly over her pleasant valleys. I thought her the mouthpiece of his thunder. At the same time, something in her must have risen to merge and marry with the force of his resolve. Who knows what southern blood, what ancient blood, what tribal blood, had stirred in her from slumber? what cry of the unknown, unseen wild had drawn her towards a mate of her own calibre? An absurd joy rushed up in me at the thought. I flung a dart of sympathy to Leslie Dymock, but he, like those slow-chewing cattle, was of the patient, long-suffering sort whose fate is always to be cast aside and sacrificed to the egoism of others. I forgot my homily on marriage, and the pictures I had drawn of Ruth and Dymock in their happy home with their quiverful of robust and flaxen children. I forgot the sinful lusts of Rawdon Westmacott. Yes, I lost myself wholly in the joy of the mating of two Bohemian creatures, and in Ruth’s final justification of herself.
‘ “I want you,” continued Ruth, in the same even, relentless voice, “to stand by Leslie whatever may come to him, and to show him that he’s a happier man for losing me . . .”
‘I heard Westmacott in the darkness give a snarl of triumph.
‘ ‘‘You’re determined, then?” I said to Ruth. “You’ve not had much time to make up your mind, or wasted many words over it, since I surprised you here.”
‘ “Time?” she said, “words? A kettle’s a long time on the fire before it boils over. I know I’m not for Leslie Dymock, I know it this evening, and I’ve known it a long while though I wouldn’t own it. I’m going, and I want to be forgotten by all at home.”
‘I was moved by her homely little simile, and by the anguish in her voice at her last sentence.
‘ “I don’t dissuade you,” I said. “Dymock must recover, and if you and your cousin love one another . . .”
‘Westmacott broke in bitterly,—
‘ “Say! You seem to have missed the point . . .”
‘ “Rawdon!” Ruth spoke with a passion I, even I, had not foreseen. “Rawdon, I forbid you to say another word.”
‘He grumbled to himself, and was silent.
‘I looked at her during the pause in which she waited threateningly for signs of rebellion on his part, and I found in her face, lit by the light of the Hunter’s moon, the strangest conflict that ever I saw on a woman’s face before. I read there distress, soul-shattering and terrible, but I also read a determination which I knew no argument could weaken. She was unaware of my scrutiny, for her eyes were bent on Westmacott. Her glance was imperious; she knew herself to be the coveted woman for whose possession he must fawn and cringe; she knew that tonight she could command, if for ever after she would have to obey. I read this knowledge, and I read her distress, but above all I read recklessness, a wild defiance, which alarmed me.
‘ “I’ve said what I want to say,” she added. “You’ve thought me a meek woman, Mr Malory, you’ve told me so, and so I am, but I seem to have come to a fence across my meekness, and I know neither you nor any soul on earth could hold me back. It’s never come to me before like this. Maybe it’ll never come again. Maybe you’ve helped me to it. There’s much I don’t know, much I can’t say. . .” her ignorant spirit struggled vainly for speech. I was silent, for I knew that elemental forces were loose like monstrous bats in the shed which contained us.
‘ “Am I to say good-bye?” I asked.
‘She swayed over towards me, as though the strength of her body were infinitely inferior to the strength of her will.
She put her hands on my shoulders and turned me, so that the light of the yellow moon fell on my face.
‘She said then,—
‘ “Kiss me once before I go.”
‘Rawdon started forward.
‘ “No, damn him!”
‘She laughed.
‘ “Don’t be a fool, Rawdon, you’ll have me all your life.”
‘I kissed her like a brother.
‘ “Bless you, my dear, may you be happy. I don’t know if you’re wise, but I dare say this is inevitable, and things are not very real tonight.”
‘There was indeed something absurdly theatrical about the shed full of uneasily shifting cattle, and that great saffron moon — shining, too, on the empty arena of Cadiz.
‘I left them standing in the shed, and got into the house by the back door; with methodical precision I replaced the key under the mat where, country-like, it always lived.’
I felt in my own mind that much remained which had not been satisfactorily explained, but when Malory resumed after a moment’s pause, it was to say,—
‘I don’t know that there is very much more to tell. I came down at my usual hour the next morning, and found no signs of commotion about the farm. As a matter of fact, I caught sight of nobody but a stray labourer or so as I went my rounds. I moved in a dull coma, such as overtakes us after a crisis of great excitement; a dull reaction, such as follows on some deep stirring of our emotions. Then as I went in to breakfast, I saw Mrs Pennistan moving in the kitchen in her habitual placid fashion, and Amos came in, rubbing his hands on a coarse towel, strong and hearty in the crisp morning. The old grandmother was already in her place by the fire, her quavering hands busy with her toast and her cup of coffee. Everything wore the look I had seen on it a hundred times before, and I wondered whether my experience had not all been a dream of my sleep, and whether Ruth would not presently arrive with that flush I had learnt to look for on her cheeks.
‘ “Where’s Ruth?” said Mrs Pennistan as we sat down.
‘ “She’ll be in presently, likely,” said Amos, who was an easy-going man.
‘Her mother grumbled.
‘ “She shouldn’t be late for breakfast.”
‘ “Come, come, mother,” said Amos, “don’t be hard on the girl on her wedding-eve,” and as he winked at me I hid my face in my vast cup.
‘Then Leslie Dymock burst in, with a letter in his hand, and at the sight of his face, and of that suddenly ominous little piece of white paper, the Pennistans started up and tragedy rushed like a hurricane into the pleasant room.
‘He said,—
‘ “She’s gone, read her letter,” and thrust it into her father’s hand.
‘I wish I could reproduce for you the effect of that letter which Amos read aloud; it was quite short, and said, “Leslie. I am going away because I can’t do you the injustice of becoming your wife. Tell father and mother that I am doing this because I think it is right. I am not trying to write more because it is all so difficult, and there is a great deal more than they will ever know, and I don’t think I understand everything myself. Try to forgive me. I am, your miserable Ruth.” ’
‘I cannot tell you,’ said Malory, who, as I could see, was profoundly shaken by the vividness of his recollection, ‘how moved I was by the confusion and distress of those strangely disquieting words. I could not reconcile them at all with the picture I had formed of two kindred natures rushing at last together in a pre-ordained and elemental union. I rose to get away from the family hubbub, for I wanted to be by myself, but on the way I stopped and looked at the mice in their cage among the red geraniums. They were waltzing frantically, as though impelled by a sinister influence from which there was no escape.’
PART TWO
Chapter One
I continued to feel, as I have said, that there was much in Malory’s story which remained to be satisfactorily explained, for I was convinced in my own mind that his interpretation of Ruth Pennistan’s flight, plausible as it was, was totally misleading, with the dangerous verisimilitude of a theory which will fit all, or nearly all, the facts, and yet more entirely miss the truth, by a mere accident, than would a frank perplexity. I think that he himself secretly agreed with me, a conviction I arrived at less by his own doubting words after the reading of the letter, than by his manner towards me when he had finished the story, and his mute, but none the less absolute, refusal to discuss, as I in my interest would willingly have discussed, certain points in his narration. I received the impression that he had chosen me as his audience merely because we knew nothing of one another beyond our names, from a craving to pour out that long dammed-up flood of emotion and meditation. I had – a somewhat galling reflection – played the part of the ground to Malory’s King Midas. I think that his indifference towards me turned to positive dislike after our week of intimacy, and this belief was strengthened when, with scarcely a farewell, he took an abrupt departure.
I will confess that I was hurt at the time, but an unaccountable instinct buoyed me up that some day, it might be after the passage of years, I should again be thrown in contact either with him or with his dramatis personæ. How this came about I will now tell, though I do not pretend that any more mysterious purpose than my own desire intervened in the accomplishment of my hopes. Perhaps Malory would say that War was my fate, my god in the machine; perhaps it was; I do not know. The definition of fate is a vicious circle; like a little animal, say a mouse, turning after its tail.
I left Sampiero in 1914, a year after I had parted there from Malory, and my earlier prophecy justified itself, that our acquaintance would not be continued in our own country. In fact, amid the excitement of the war, I had almost forgotten the man, his habitual reticence, his sudden outburst into narrative, and the unknown, unseen people with whom that narrative had been concerned. But now as I idled disconsolately in London, discharged from hospital but indefinitely unfit for service, there stirred in my memory a recollection of the Pennistans, who were to me so strangely familiar, and I resolved that I would go for myself to pick up the thread where Malory had dropped it, to work on the fields where he had worked, and to probe into the lives he had tried to probe.
Hearing that the small help I could give would be welcome, I started out, much, I suppose, as Malory had started, with my bag in my hand, and reached the tiny station one evening in early April. The station-master directed me across the fields, by a way which I felt I already knew, and as I walked I wondered what had become of Malory; presumably he had turned his hand to a fighting trade, or had he sought some bizarre occupation congenial to him, in the bazaars of Bagdad, or in a North Sea drifter, or had the air called to him? I could not decide; perhaps the Pennistans would have news of his whereabouts.
But they had none. He had sent them a field post card from Gallipoli, and since then he had again disappeared; they did not seem very much surprised, and I guessed that in their slow instinctive way they had felt him to be a transitory, elusive man, who might be expected to turn up in his own time from some unanticipated corner. They suggested, however, that I should walk over to Westmacotts’ on a Sunday, and inquire from their daughter Ruth about Mr Malory.
I cannot say that I was unhappy at the Pennistans, for, though I fretted a good deal at my comparative inactivity, the peace and stability of the place, of which Malory had so often spoken, stole over me with gradual enchantment of my spirit, like the incoming tide steals gradually over the sands. During the first days I took a curious delight in discovering the spots that had figured in his story, the fields, the dairy, and the cow-shed, in recognising the pungent farm smells which had pleased his alert senses. These things were the same, but in other respects much was changed. The three bullock-like sons were gone, and few men remained to work the land. Rawdon Westmacott, they told me, was at the war, so was Nancy’s husband. And on sunny days I used to watch the aeroplanes co
me sailing up out of the blue, the sun catching their wings, and tumble, for sheer joy it seemed, in the air, while the hum of their engines filled the whole sky as with a gigantic beehive.
One detail I noticed after several days. The cage of mice which Malory had given to Ruth was no longer in the place I expected to see it, on the kitchen window-sill.
The unexpected had favoured me in one particular. Malory had mentioned that the old woman was ninety-six in the year he had gone to Pennistans’, and although he had never, so far as I remembered, given a date to that year, I reckoned that she must, if alive now, have passed her century. I was certain I should find her gone. Yet the first thing I saw as I entered the house was that little old huddled figure by the fire, head nodding, hands trembling, alive enough to feed and breathe, but not alive enough for anything else; she spent all her days in a wheeled chair, sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes in her own room, the quondam parlour, on the ground-floor across the passage; sometimes, when it was very warm, beside the garden door out in the sun. She must always have been tiny, but now the frailty of her shrunken form was pitiable. Her wrists were like the legs of a chicken. Her jaws were fallen in, thin and flabby; her eyes never seemed to blink, but stared straight in front of her, at nothing, through everything. . .
I had Malory’s bedroom. It was bare, white-washed, monastic, and appeared to me peculiarly suitable as a shrine to his personality. I wondered whether he had spent any part of his wandering life in the seclusion of a cloister, and as I wondered the realisation came over me that Malory was in spirit nearly allied to those mediæval scholars, so unassuming, so far removed from the desire of fame, as to dedicate their anonymous lives to a single script, finding in their own inward satisfaction the fulfilment of personal ambition. And as I thought on Malory, in that clean, bare room, I came to a closer understanding of his kinship with many conditions of men, of his sympathy with life, nature, and craft – Malory, the man who had not been my friend.
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