_The Primrose Path_
A young man came out of the Victoria station, looking undecidedly at
the taxi-cabs, dark-red and black, pressing against the kerb under the
glass-roof. Several men in greatcoats and brass buttons jerked themselves
erect to catch his attention, at the same time keeping an eye on the
other people as they filtered through the open doorways of the station.
Berry, however, was occupied by one of the men, a big, burly fellow whose
blue eyes glared back and whose red-brown moustache bristled in defiance.
'Do you _want_ a cab, sir?' the man asked, in a half-mocking, challenging
voice.
Berry hesitated still.
'Are you Daniel Sutton?' he asked.
'Yes,' replied the other defiantly, with uneasy conscience.
'Then you are my uncle,' said Berry.
They were alike in colouring, and somewhat in features, but the taxi
driver was a powerful, well-fleshed man who glared at the world
aggressively, being really on the defensive against his own heart. His
nephew, of the same height, was thin, well-dressed, quiet and indifferent
in his manner. And yet they were obviously kin.
'And who the devil are you?' asked the taxi driver.
'I'm Daniel Berry,' replied the nephew.
'Well, I'm damned--never saw you since you were a kid.'
Rather awkwardly at this late hour the two shook hands.
'How are you, lad?'
'All right. I thought you were in Australia.'
'Been back three months--bought a couple of these damned things'--he
kicked the tyre of his taxi-cab in affectionate disgust. There was a
moment's silence.
'Oh, but I'm going back out there. I can't stand this cankering,
rotten-hearted hell of a country any more; you want to come out to Sydney
with me, lad. That's the place for you--beautiful place, oh, you could
wish for nothing better. And money in it, too.--How's your mother?'
'She died at Christmas,' said the young man.
'Dead! What!--our Anna!' The big man's eyes stared, and he recoiled in
fear. 'God, lad,' he said, 'that's three of 'em gone!'
The two men looked away at the people passing along the pale grey
pavements, under the wall of Trinity Church.
'Well, strike me lucky!' said the taxi driver at last, out of breath.
'She wor th' best o' th' bunch of 'em. I see nowt nor hear nowt from
any of 'em--they're not worth it, I'll be damned if they are--our
sermon-lapping Adela and Maud,' he looked scornfully at his nephew. 'But
she was the best of 'em, our Anna was, that's a fact.'
He was talking because he was afraid.
'An' after a hard life like she'd had. How old was she, lad?'
'Fifty-five.'
'Fifty-five ...' He hesitated. Then, in a rather hushed voice, he asked
the question that frightened him:
'And what was it, then?'
'Cancer.'
'Cancer again, like Julia! I never knew there was cancer in our family.
Oh, my good God, our poor Anna, after the life she'd had!--What, lad, do
you see any God at the back of that?--I'm damned if I do.'
He was glaring, very blue-eyed and fierce, at his nephew. Berry lifted
his shoulders slightly.
'God?' went on the taxi driver, in a curious intense tone, 'You've only
to look at the folk in the street to know there's nothing keeps it going
but gravitation. Look at 'em. Look at him!'--A mongrel-looking man was
nosing past. 'Wouldn't _he_ murder you for your watch-chain, but that
he's afraid of society. He's got it _in_ him.... Look at 'em.'
Berry watched the towns-people go by, and, sensitively feeling his
uncle's antipathy, it seemed he was watching a sort of _danse macabre_ of
ugly criminals.
'Did you ever see such a God-forsaken crew creeping about! It gives you
the very horrors to look at 'em. I sit in this damned car and watch 'em
till, I can tell you, I feel like running the cab amuck among 'em, and
running myself to kingdom come--'
Berry wondered at this outburst. He knew his uncle was the black-sheep,
the youngest, the darling of his mother's family. He knew him to be at
outs with respectability, mixing with the looser, sporting type, all
betting and drinking and showing dogs and birds, and racing. As a critic
of life, however, he did not know him. But the young man felt curiously
understanding. 'He uses words like I do, he talks nearly as I talk,
except that I shouldn't say those things. But I might feel like that, in
myself, if I went a certain road.'
'I've got to go to Watmore,' he said. 'Can you take me?'
'When d'you want to go?' asked the uncle fiercely.
'Now.'
'Come on, then. What d'yer stand gassin' on th' causeway for?'
The nephew took his seat beside the driver. The cab began to quiver, then
it started forward with a whirr. The uncle, his hands and feet acting
mechanically, kept his blue eyes fixed on the highroad into whose traffic
the car was insinuating its way. Berry felt curiously as if he were
sitting beside an older development of himself. His mind went back to his
mother. She had been twenty years older than this brother of hers whom
she had loved so dearly. 'He was one of the most affectionate little
lads, and such a curly head! I could never have believed he would grow
into the great, coarse bully he is--for he's nothing else. My father made
a god of him--well, it's a good thing his father is dead. He got in with
that sporting gang, that's what did it. Things were made too easy for
him, and so he thought of no one but himself, and this is the result.'
Not that 'Joky' Sutton was so very black a sheep. He had lived idly till
he was eighteen, then had suddenly married a young, beautiful girl with
clear brows and dark grey eyes, a factory girl. Having taken her to live
with his parents he, lover of dogs and pigeons, went on to the staff
of a sporting paper. But his wife was without uplift or warmth. Though
they made money enough, their house was dark and cold and uninviting.
He had two or three dogs, and the whole attic was turned into a great
pigeon-house. He and his wife lived together roughly, with no warmth, no
refinement, no touch of beauty anywhere, except that she was beautiful.
He was a blustering, impetuous man, she was rather cold in her soul, did
not care about anything very much, was rather capable and close with
money. And she had a common accent in her speech. He outdid her a
thousand times in coarse language, and yet that cold twang in her voice
tortured him with shame that he stamped down in bullying and in becoming
more violent in his own speech.
Only his dogs adored him, and to them, and to his pigeons, he talked with
rough, yet curiously tender caresses while they leaped and fluttered for
joy.
After he and his wife had been married for seven years a little girl was
born to them, then later, another. But the husband and wife drew no
nearer together. She had an affection for her children almost like a cool
governess. He had an emotional man's fear of sentiment, which helped to
nip his wife from putting out any shoots. He treated his children
roughly, and pretended to think it a good job when one was adopted by a
well-to-do maternal aunt. But in his soul he hated his wife that she
could give away one of his children. For after her cool fashion, she
loved him. With a chaos of a man such as he, she had no chance of being
anything but cold and hard, poor thing. For she did love him.
In the end he fell absurdly and violently in love with a rather
sentimental young woman who read Browning. He made his wife an allowance
and established a new ménage with the young lady, shortly after
emigrating with her to Australia. Meanwhile his wife had gone to live
with a publican, a widower, with whom she had had one of those curious,
tacit understandings of which quiet women are capable, something like an
arrangement for provision in the future.
This was as much as the nephew knew. He sat beside his uncle, wondering
how things stood at the present. They raced lightly out past the cemetery
and along the boulevard, then turned into the rather grimy country. The
mud flew out on either side, there was a fine mist of rain which blew in
their faces. Berry covered himself up.
In the lanes the high hedges shone black with rain. The silvery grey sky,
faintly dappled, spread wide over the low, green land. The elder man
glanced fiercely up the road, then turned his red face to his nephew.
'And how're you going on, lad?' he said loudly. Berry noticed that his
uncle was slightly uneasy of him. It made him also uncomfortable. The
elder man had evidently something pressing on his soul.
'Who are you living with in town?' asked the nephew. 'Have you gone back
to Aunt Maud?'
'No,' barked the uncle. 'She wouldn't have me. I offered to--I want
to--but she wouldn't.'
'You're alone, then?'
'No, I'm not alone.'
He turned and glared with his fierce blue eyes at his nephew, but said no
more for some time. The car ran on through the mud, under the wet wall of
the park.
'That other devil tried to poison me,' suddenly shouted the elder man.
'The one I went to Australia with.' At which, in spite of himself, the
younger smiled in secret.
'How was that?' he asked.
'Wanted to get rid of me. She got in with another fellow on the
ship.... By Jove, I was bad.'
'Where?--on the ship?'
'No,' bellowed the other. 'No. That was in Wellington, New Zealand. I was
bad, and got lower an' lower--couldn't think what was up. I could hardly
crawl about. As certain as I'm here, she was poisoning me, to get to th'
other chap--I'm certain of it.'
'And what did you do?'
'I cleared out--went to Sydney--'
'And left her?'
'Yes, I thought begod, I'd better clear out if I wanted to live.'
'And you were all right in Sydney?'
'Better in no time--I _know_ she was putting poison in my coffee.'
'Hm!'
There was a glum silence. The driver stared at the road ahead, fixedly,
managing the car as if it were a live thing. The nephew felt that his
uncle was afraid, quite stupefied with fear, fear of life, of death, of
himself.
'You're in rooms, then?' asked the nephew.
'No, I'm in a house of my own,' said the uncle defiantly, 'wi' th' best
little woman in th' Midlands. She's a marvel.--Why don't you come an' see
us?'
'I will. Who is she?'
'Oh, she's a good girl--a beautiful little thing. I was clean gone
on her first time I saw her. An' she was on me. Her mother lives with
us--respectable girl, none o' your....'
'And how old is she?'
'--how old is she?--she's twenty-one.'
'Poor thing.'
'_She's_ right enough.'
'You'd marry her--getting a divorce--?'
'I shall marry her.'
There was a little antagonism between the two men.
'Where's Aunt Maud?' asked the younger.
'She's at the Railway Arms--we passed it, just against Rollin's Mill
Crossing.... They sent me a note this morning to go an' see her when I
can spare time. She's got consumption.'
'Good Lord! Are you going?'
'Yes--'
But again Berry felt that his uncle was afraid.
The young man got through his commission in the village, had a drink with
his uncle at the inn, and the two were returning home. The elder man's
subject of conversation was Australia. As they drew near the town they
grew silent, thinking both of the public-house. At last they saw the
gates of the railway crossing were closed before them.
'Shan't you call?' asked Berry, jerking his head in the direction of the
inn, which stood at the corner between two roads, its sign hanging under
a bare horse-chestnut tree in front.
'I might as well. Come in an' have a drink,' said the uncle.
It had been raining all the morning, so shallow pools of water lay about.
A brewer's wagon, with wet barrels and warm-smelling horses, stood near
the door of the inn. Everywhere seemed silent, but for the rattle of
trains at the crossing. The two men went uneasily up the steps and into
the bar. The place was paddled with wet feet, empty. As the bar-man was
heard approaching, the uncle asked, his usual bluster slightly hushed by
fear:
'What yer goin' ta have, lad? Same as last time?'
A man entered, evidently the proprietor. He was good-looking, with a
long, heavy face and quick, dark eyes. His glance at Sutton was swift, a
start, a recognition, and a withdrawal, into heavy neutrality.
'How are yer, Dan?' he said, scarcely troubling to speak.
'Are yer, George?' replied Sutton, hanging back. 'My nephew, Dan Berry.
Give us Red Seal, George.'
The publican nodded to the younger man, and set the glasses on the bar.
He pushed forward the two glasses, then leaned back in the dark corner
behind the door, his arms folded, evidently preferring to get back from
the watchful eyes of the nephew.
'--'s luck,' said Sutton.
The publican nodded in acknowledgement. Sutton and his nephew drank.
'Why the hell don't you get that road mended in Cinder Hill--,' said
Sutton fiercely, pushing back his driver's cap and showing his short-cut,
bristling hair.
'They can't find it in their hearts to pull it up,' replied the publican,
laconically.
'Find in their hearts! They want settin' in barrows an' runnin' up an'
down it till they cried for mercy.'
Sutton put down his glass. The publican renewed it with a sure hand, at
ease in whatsoever he did. Then he leaned back against the bar. He wore
no coat. He stood with arms folded, his chin on his chest, his long
moustache hanging. His back was round and slack, so that the lower part
of his abdomen stuck forward, though he was not stout. His cheek was
healthy, brown-red, and he was muscular. Yet there was about him this
physical slackness, a reluctance in his slow, sure movements. His eyes
were keen under his dark brows, but reluctant also, as if he were
gloomily apathetic.
There was a halt. The publican evidently would say nothing. Berry looked
at the mahogany bar-counter, slopped with beer, at the whisky-bottles on
the shelves. Sutton, his cap pushed back, showing a white brow above a
weather-reddened face, rubbed his cropped hair uneasily.
The publican glanced round suddenly. It seemed that only his dark eyes
moved.
'Going up?' he asked.
And something, perhaps his eyes, indicated the unseen bed-chamber.
'Ay--that's what I came for,' replied Sutton, shifting nervously from one
foot to the other. 'She's been asking for me?'
'This morning,' replied the publican, neutral.
Then he put up a flap of the bar, and turned away through the dark
doorway behind. Sutton, pulling off his cap, showing a round,
short-cropped head which now was ducked forward, followed after him, the
buttons holding the strap of his great-coat behind glittering for a
moment.
They climbed the dark stairs, the husband placing his feet carefully,
because of his big boots. Then he followed down the passage, trying
vaguely to keep a grip on his bowels, which seemed to be melting away,
and definitely wishing for a neat brandy. The publican opened a door.
Sutton, big and burly in his great-coat, went past him.
The bedroom seemed light and warm after the passage. There was a red
eider-down on the bed. Then, making an effort, Sutton turned his eyes to
see the sick woman. He met her eyes direct, dark, dilated. It was such a
shock he almost started away. For a second he remained in torture, as if
some invisible flame were playing on him to reduce his bones and fuse him
down. Then he saw the sharp white edge of her jaw, and the black hair
beside the hollow cheek. With a start he went towards the bed.
'Hello, Maud!' he said. 'Why, what ye been doin'?'
The publican stood at the window with his back to the bed. The husband,
like one condemned but on the point of starting away, stood by the
bedside staring in horror at his wife, whose dilated grey eyes, nearly
all black now, watched him wearily, as if she were looking at something a
long way off.
Going exceedingly pale, he jerked up his head and stared at the wall over
the pillows. There was a little coloured picture of a bird perched on a
bell, and a nest among ivy leaves beneath. It appealed to him, made him
wonder, roused a feeling of childish magic in him. They were wonderfully
fresh, green ivy leaves, and nobody had seen the nest among them save
him.
Then suddenly he looked down again at the face on the bed, to try and
recognize it. He knew the white brow and the beautiful clear eyebrows.
That was his wife, with whom he had passed his youth, flesh of his flesh,
his, himself. Then those tired eyes, which met his again from a long way
off, disturbed him until he did not know where he was. Only the sunken
cheeks, and the mouth that seemed to protrude now were foreign to him,
and filled him with horror. It seemed he lost his identity. He was the
young husband of the woman with the clear brows; he was the married man
fighting with her whose eyes watched him, a little indifferently, from a
long way off; and he was a child in horror of that protruding mouth.
There came a crackling sound of her voice. He knew she had consumption of
the throat, and braced himself hard to bear the noise.
'What was it, Maud?' he asked in panic.
Then the broken, crackling voice came again. He was too terrified of the
sound of it to hear what was said. There was a pause.
'You'll take Winnie?' the publican's voice interpreted from the window.
'Don't you bother, Maud, I'll take her,' he said, stupefying his mind so
as not to understand.
He looked curiously round the room. It was not a bad bedroom, light and
warm. There were many medicine bottles aggregated in a corner of the
washstand--and a bottle of Three Star brandy, half full. And there were
also photographs of strange people on the chest of drawers. It was not a
bad room.
Again he started as if he were shot. She was speaking. He bent down, but
did not look at her.
'Be good to her,' she whispered.
When he realized her meaning, that he should be good to their child when
the mother was gone, a blade went through his flesh.
'I'll be good to her, Maud, don't you bother,' he said, beginning to feel
shaky.
He looked again at the picture of the bird. It perched cheerfully under a
blue sky, with robust, jolly ivy leaves near. He was gathering his
courage to depart. He looked down, but struggled hard not to take in the
sight of his wife's face.
'I s'll come again, Maud,' he said. 'I hope you'll go on all right. Is
there anything as you want?'
There was an almost imperceptible shake of the head from the sick woman,
making his heart melt swiftly again. Then, dragging his limbs, he got out
of the room and down the stairs.
The landlord came after him.
'I'll let you know if anything happens,' the publican said, still
laconic, but with his eyes dark and swift.
'Ay, a' right,' said Button blindly. He looked round for his cap, which
he had all the time in his hand. Then he got out of doors.
In a moment the uncle and nephew were in the car jolting on the level
crossing. The elder man seemed as if something tight in his brain made
him open his eyes wide, and stare. He held the steering wheel firmly. He
knew he could steer accurately, to a hair's breadth. Glaring fixedly
ahead, he let the car go, till it bounded over the uneven road. There
were three coal-carts in a string. In an instant the car grazed past
them, almost biting the kerb on the other side. Sutton aimed his car like
a projectile, staring ahead. He did not want to know, to think, to
realize, he wanted to be only the driver of that quick taxi.
The town drew near, suddenly. There were allotment-gardens with
dark-purple twiggy fruit-trees and wet alleys between the hedges. Then
suddenly the streets of dwelling-houses whirled close, and the car was
climbing the hill, with an angry whirr,--up--up--till they rode out on to
the crest and could see the tram-cars, dark-red and yellow, threading
their way round the corner below, and all the traffic roaring between the
shops.
'Got anywhere to go?' asked Sutton of his nephew.
'I was going to see one or two people.'
'Come an' have a bit o' dinner with us,' said the other.
Berry knew that his uncle wanted to be distracted, so that he should not
think nor realize. The big man was running hard away from the horror of
realization.
'All right,' Berry agreed.
The car went quickly through the town. It ran up a long street nearly
into the country again. Then it pulled up at a house that stood alone,
below the road.
'I s'll be back in ten minutes,' said the uncle.
The car went on to the garage. Berry stood curiously at the top of the
stone stairs that led from the highroad down to the level of the house,
an old stone place. The garden was dilapidated. Broken fruit-trees
leaned at a sharp angle down the steep bank. Right across the dim
grey atmosphere, in a kind of valley on the edge of the town, new
suburb-patches showed pinkish on the dark earth. It was a kind of
unresolved borderland.
Berry went down the steps. Through the broken black fence of the orchard,
long grass showed yellow. The place seemed deserted. He knocked, then
knocked again. An elderly woman appeared. She looked like a housekeeper.
At first she said suspiciously that Mr. Sutton was not in.
'My uncle just put me down. He'll be in in ten minutes,' replied the
visitor.
'Oh, are you the Mr. Berry who is related to him?' exclaimed the elderly
woman. 'Come in--come in.'
She was at once kindly and a little bit servile. The young man entered.
It was an old house, rather dark, and sparsely furnished. The elderly
woman sat nervously on the edge of one of the chairs in a drawing-room
that looked as if it were furnished from dismal relics of dismal homes,
and there was a little straggling attempt at conversation. Mrs. Greenwell
was evidently a working class woman unused to service or to any
formality.
Presently she gathered up courage to invite her visitor into the
dining-room. There from the table under the window rose a tall, slim girl
with a cat in her arms. She was evidently a little more lady-like than
was habitual to her, but she had a gentle, delicate, small nature. Her
brown hair almost covered her ears, her dark lashes came down in shy
awkwardness over her beautiful blue eyes. She shook hands in a frank way,
yet she was shrinking. Evidently she was not sure how her position would
affect her visitor. And yet she was assured in herself, shrinking and
timid as she was.
'She must be a good deal in love with him,' thought Berry.
Both women glanced shamefacedly at the roughly laid table. Evidently they
ate in a rather rough and ready fashion.
Elaine--she had this poetic name--fingered her cat timidly, not knowing
what to say or to do, unable even to ask her visitor to sit down. He
noticed how her skirt hung almost flat on her hips. She was young, scarce
developed, a long, slender thing. Her colouring was warm and exquisite.
The elder woman bustled out to the kitchen. Berry fondled the terrier
dogs that had come curiously to his heels, and glanced out of the window
at the wet, deserted orchard.
This room, too, was not well furnished, and rather dark. But there was a
big red fire.
'He always has fox terriers,' he said.
'Yes,' she answered, showing her teeth in a smile.
'Do you like them, too?'
'Yes'--she glanced down at the dogs. 'I like Tam better than Sally--'
Her speech always tailed off into an awkward silence.
'We've been to see Aunt Maud,' said the nephew.
Her eyes, blue and scared and shrinking, met his.
'Dan had a letter,' he explained. 'She's very bad.'
'Isn't it horrible!' she exclaimed, her face crumbling up with fear.
The old woman, evidently a hard-used, rather down-trodden workman's wife,
came in with two soup-plates. She glanced anxiously to see how her
daughter was progressing with the visitor.
'Mother, Dan's been to see Maud,' said Elaine, in a quiet voice full of
fear and trouble.
The old woman looked up anxiously, in question.
'I think she wanted him to take the child. She's very bad, I believe,'
explained Berry.
'Oh, we should take Winnie!' cried Elaine. But both women seemed
uncertain, wavering in their position. Already Berry could see that his
uncle had bullied them, as he bullied everybody. But they were used to
unpleasant men, and seemed to keep at a distance.
'Will you have some soup?' asked the mother, humbly.
She evidently did the work. The daughter was to be a lady, more or less,
always dressed and nice for when Sutton came in.
They heard him heavily running down the steps outside. The dogs got up.
Elaine seemed to forget the visitor. It was as if she came into life. Yet
she was nervous and afraid. The mother stood as if ready to exculpate
herself.
Sutton burst open the door. Big, blustering, wet in his immense grey
coat, he came into the dining-room.
'Hello!' he said to his nephew, 'making yourself at home?'
'Oh, yes,' replied Berry.
'Hello, Jack,' he said to the girl. 'Got owt to grizzle about?'
'What for?' she asked, in a clear, half-challenging voice, that had that
peculiar twang, almost petulant, so female and so attractive. Yet she was
defiant like a boy.
'It's a wonder if you haven't,' growled Sutton. And, with a really
intimate movement, he stooped down and fondled his dogs, though paying no
attention to them. Then he stood up, and remained with feet apart on the
hearthrug, his head ducked forward, watching the girl. He seemed
abstracted, as if he could only watch her. His great-coat hung open, so
that she could see his figure, simple and human in the great husk of
cloth. She stood nervously with her hands behind her, glancing at him,
unable to see anything else. And he was scarcely conscious but of her.
His eyes were still strained and staring, and as they followed the girl,
when, long-limbed and languid, she moved away, it was as if he saw in her
something impersonal, the female, not the woman.
'Had your dinner?' he asked.
'We were just going to have it,' she replied, with the same curious
little vibration in her voice, like the twang of a string.
The mother entered, bringing a saucepan from which she ladled soup into
three plates.
'Sit down, lad,' said Sutton. 'You sit down, Jack, an' give me mine
here.'
'Oh, aren't you coming to table?' she complained.
'No, I tell you,' he snarled, almost pretending to be disagreeable. But
she was slightly afraid even of the pretence, which pleased and relieved
him. He stood on the hearthrug eating his soup noisily.
'Aren't you going to take your coat off?' she said. 'It's filling the
place full of steam.'
He did not answer, but, with his head bent forward over the plate, he ate
his soup hastily, to get it done with. When he put down his empty plate,
she rose and went to him.
'Do take your coat off, Dan,' she said, and she took hold of the breast
of his coat, trying to push it back over his shoulder. But she could not.
Only the stare in his eyes changed to a glare as her hand moved over his
shoulder. He looked down into her eyes. She became pale, rather
frightened-looking, and she turned her face away, and it was drawn
slightly with love and fear and misery. She tried again to put off his
coat, her thin wrists pulling at it. He stood solidly planted, and did
not look at her, but stared straight in front. She was playing with
passion, afraid of it, and really wretched because it left her, the
person, out of count. Yet she continued. And there came into his bearing,
into his eyes, the curious smile of passion, pushing away even the
death-horror. It was life stronger than death in him. She stood close to
his breast. Their eyes met, and she was carried away.
'Take your coat off, Dan,' she said coaxingly, in a low tone meant for no
one but him. And she slid her hands on his shoulder, and he yielded, so
that the coat was pushed back. She had flushed, and her eyes had grown
very bright. She got hold of the cuff of his coat. Gently, he eased
himself, so that she drew it off. Then he stood in a thin suit, which
revealed his vigorous, almost mature form.
'What a weight!' she exclaimed, in a peculiar penetrating voice, as she
went out hugging the overcoat. In a moment she came back.
He stood still in the same position, a frown over his fiercely staring
eyes. The pain, the fear, the horror in his breast were all burning away
in the new, fiercest flame of passion.
'Get your dinner,' he said roughly to her.
'I've had all I want,' she said. 'You come an' have yours.'
He looked at the table as if he found it difficult to see things.
'I want no more,' he said.
She stood close to his chest. She wanted to touch him and to comfort him.
There was something about him now that fascinated her. Berry felt
slightly ashamed that she seemed to ignore the presence of others in the
room.
The mother came in. She glanced at Sutton, standing planted on the
hearthrug, his head ducked, the heavy frown hiding his eyes. There was a
peculiar braced intensity about him that made the elder woman afraid.
Suddenly he jerked his head round to his nephew.
'Get on wi' your dinner, lad,' he said, and he went to the door. The
dogs, which had continually lain down and got up again, uneasy, now rose
and watched. The girl went after him, saying, clearly:
'What did you want, Dan?'
Her slim, quick figure was gone, the door was closed behind her.
There was silence. The mother, still more slave-like in her movement, sat
down in a low chair. Berry drank some beer.
'That girl will leave him,' he said to himself. 'She'll hate him like
poison. And serve him right. Then she'll go off with somebody else.'
And she did.
