The Loving Spirit Part 11

E. BRONT.

1.

When Janet Coombe died Thomas turned to his eldest daughter Mary for comfort and care. She helped him as best she could with gentle looks and tender words, and little by little his faith was restored to him and his affection for his daughter increased; Samuel and Herbert reigned supreme down at the yard, and with their own growing families and separate homes, there was no time for them to give way beneath the strain of losing a devoted parent.

Philip left home and moved to rooms in the middle of the town, near to his firm of Hogg and Williams. Here he could have absolute independence, unbothered by his many relatives. Lizzie felt keenly the blow of parting with her mother, and for a time she weakened considerably in health, but with her coming to convalescence came the presence of one Nicholas Stevens upon her little sphere, and this good man, some fifteen years older than herself and a farmer from up Truan way, was to aid her to recovery; and though she had lost her mother she was to find a devoted and faithful husband.

Joseph was different. His brothers and sisters had to live motherless, his father without a wife; but with the pa.s.sing of Janet something of Joseph's immortality had perished. He must walk through life henceforward with the certain knowledge that there was no reason for his existence, and that whereso-ever he trod and in what dubious company, he would inevitably march alone. The blessed love, his one and only salvation, was extinguished.

During those first weeks Joseph worked hard, never allowing himself a moment in which to relax.

There was much to be done.The ship had just been launched, and there were many necessary formalities to be gone through which Joseph, as her future master, took upon himself to arrange. Nor was she yet ready for sea, and it was some four months before she would be finished and fitted out. This was the business of Samuel and Herbert,Thomas Coombe being too dumbfounded with grief to help, and Joseph lent them a willing hand, suggesting improvements here and there, which his years of sea experience qualified him to give.

When Janet was buried that soft September afternoon, the sun shone upon the windows of the church, and the tall gra.s.s blew gently in the west wind. There was no sadness in the air. A blackbird sang joyfully on the topmost bough of the elm tree and from two fields away came the glad shouts of schoolboys as they played. The men were working as usual on the jetties; a ship pa.s.sed out of the harbour laden with clay, bound for a distant land. People moved to and fro like little dots on the Town Quay; the smoke rose from the chimneys; and beyond the harbour entrance were scattered a few fishermen in their small open boats, spinning for mackerel.

Henceforward Janet Coombe would be a little name carved on a still grey tombstone, until the winds and rain of many years should bring it to obscurity, and then covered with moss and the tangled roots of ivy the letters would fade away, and she would be as unremembered as the fallen trodden leaves of past summer and the melted snow of a vanished winter.

The family stood by the open grave, Thomas supported by Samuel and Mary, with the others weeping at his side.

Joseph watched them, dry-eyed and still; he saw the white surplice of the parson blowing in the wind; he looked into the heavens where the loose clouds fled across the sky, he heard the eager voices of the boys as they played in the field near by.

Dust unto dust. There was no reason then for life - it was only a fraction of a moment between birth and death, a movement upon the surface of water, and then it was still. Janet had loved and suffered, she had known beauty and pain, and now she was finished - blotted by the heedless earth, to be no more than a few dull letters on a stone.

Joseph watched the gravel fall in upon her coffin, stones and earth together hiding it from his view, then the whole was strewn with wreaths of brilliant autumn flowers.

As the little crowd dispersed from the side of the grave, Joseph threw back his head and laughed aloud. A few turned back to gaze on his solitary figure, torn with mirth over his mother's corpse.

It was not until the Janet Coombe started on her maiden voyage that a measure of consolation came to him.

The desolation of Plyn where Janet was no more lay behind him like a cast-off dream, and here stretched the calm and solitary sea, the love of which had run in his blood even before birth. The sea held danger, much beauty, and the elusive quality of unknown things in its keeping; here perhaps, when the winds shouted and the high sea swept him forward, there would come to him for one moment forgetfulness, and with it the zest of living once again. This ship was her namesake and her life's dream; they had planned it together as their means of escape to perpetual freedom - and now Janet was dead. This ship was alive, sweeping her way over the surface of the water like a carefree gull, with Plyn a dark line far astern on the horizon; but Janet was dead. She would have been beside him now, treading the sloping deck, turning her head aloft to watch the mighty spread of canvas, listening to the kiss of spray as the vessel tossed the sea from her bows.

And Janet lay in Lanoc churchyard. She could not see, she could not touch, she could not feel; all her promises had vanished in the air.

'I will never forsake you.' Had she said those words? If there was any truth in beauty, any power in love, should she not be there at his side, whispering in his ear, holding his hands with ghostly fingers? He was alone, save for the watch, and the man at the helm.

So Janet had been wrong; there was no force stronger than death; and survival was but another falsity in the general scheme of things, a fairy tale for frightened children who had never learnt to walk in the dark. He was alone then, but for his ship which had come to him like a legacy from her. For the sake of her blessed memory the ship should not be unworthy of her.

Joseph glanced around him, up at the wide sky with the grave placid stars; beside him at the dark swift water; and then with a word to the helmsman he went below to the cabin, where his supper was spread on the narrow table, and the lamp swung in its gimbals above his head. He was joined by the first mate, and after a little while, when they had eaten and drunk, Joseph turned in. All was silent. The watch on deck, busy with their own thoughts, spoke not to one another. The helmsman watched his compa.s.s, while the mate paced up and down beside him, the sparks from his pipe brushing away into the air.

And unknown to all save the wind and the sea, with the spray leaping to kiss her eyes and the breeze alighting on her hair, the figurehead of Janet Coombe smiled to herself in the darkness.

2.

The maiden voyage of the Janet Coombe lasted some months. She sailed first to St John's, Newfoundland, laden with china clay from Plyn, and from thence she proceeded with fish down to the Mediterranean, a very important freight at that time of the year, when the Catholic inhabitants of these southern ports were fasting for Lent.Then she filled with fruit, and there was a gallant race to London of schooners, barquentines, and brigantines, all eager to be the first to deliver their perishable cargo. The first home was Janet Coombe, who signalled for a pilot two miles before Gravesend, with her rivals still half a day astern of her down Channel.

From London she ran up to Newcastle in ballast, and there loaded with coals for Madeira; from thence to St Michaels for fruit and back to London, from whence she crossed the North Sea to Hamburg. Nearly a year had pa.s.sed since she sailed from Plyn harbour, but time meant little to Joseph now.

There was no peace to him save on the decks of his own ship, of whose capabilities and speed he was justly proud, and he journeyed from one port to another with but one desire in his mind, to escape somehow from the spectre of loneliness that haunted his still moments.

While he was at Hull he received the following letter from Samuel: Plyn. 13 November 1864 My dear Brother- As requested I have much pleasure in dropping you a few lines to say that we settled yesterday and that we had a goodly number present, all of whom, both ladies and gentlemen, were highly pleased at the success of yourself and the vessel, and your first year's work; and I believe it was the heartfelt wish of all that the same good fortune would smile upon you in the future. I need only add that yourself and vessel are now spoken very favourably of and I trust, and know, that you will do your best it may continue so. The Francis Hope is waiting at Falmouth for orders, and as it is probable she will be sent to Hamburg, all being well, you will be there together.

We are all in good health and hoping to get your sailing letter soon. Wishing you a prosperous and quick pa.s.sage with our best love, believe me, Your affectionate brother, Samuel Joseph smiled as he folded the letter, and put it away. He pictured them all at Plyn, solemn and unchanged, going about their work from day to day with few cares and worries, knowing nothing of the misery that gripped him always, nor of the dogged wish which swept upon him at times, to lose himself in adventure.

They would all forgather at Ivy House on Sunday evenings, with Mary seated at the harmonium, and offer up their voices to a G.o.d that did not exist. He did not know in his mind whether he pitied them or envied them.

There was a security in their life, a steadfastness of purpose which he would never know. But they knew nothing of the lifting power of a ship, of the scream of a gale in torn rigging, of the force of a tempest-swept sea which could fling humanity to destruction.

So Joseph pocketed his letter, and made sail for Hamburg, to whose port come men from every corner of the globe, where the richest merchants rub shoulders with the poorest sewer rat, where adventure beckons over the tall masts of crowded ships and loses itself in the sinister dock-side houses.

He knew no thrill like the entering of a strange harbour. First the dawning of an unfamiliar coast-line, then the hail of the pilot who came to take charge, the entering of a wide river which led to the port beyond.

If it was dark there would be the dim outlines of other ships at anchor, the rough voices of men, calling one another in a foreign tongue; and then suddenly the glare of lights, the throb of humanity, the shape of tall buildings outlined against the sky. There would be a scurry of feet in the darkness, a sharp cry from the pilot and the rattle of the heavy clanking chain. Janet Coombe was anch.o.r.ed in unknown waters.

Then, when all was safe and snug, Joseph would look about him, and let his eyes travel towards those challenging lights, which called to him to forsake the deck of his ship. Amidst those lights moved danger and romance, beneath those dark buildings dwelt poverty and suffering, love and death.

Joseph threw back his head and breathed the air which was a mixture of ships and tar and water, together with the smell of food and drink and tobacco, of people touching one another, and the disturbing scent of women. So Joseph looked upon Hamburg for the first time, and the figurehead of the Janet Coombe gazed proudly across the still waters to the city beyond.

Joseph was a month in Hamburg. He explored what he could of it, between visits to his broker and seeing to the general business of arranging a freight, and it was always the docks that interested him most. Joseph liked to lose himself amongst this crowd, pick up a few scattered words of their language, and drink with them in the thick atmosphere of the overheated cafes.

There was no need to speak sentences and search for phrases; a common understanding united every man there, for there was but one topic of conversation, one search which brought them here together. Women, always women.

A smile, a nod, a gesture, the c.h.i.n.king of money, this was the bond between them, while their restless eyes searched through the crowded room, and their restless feet beat time to the tune played by the sc.r.a.ping fiddler. On his last night in Hamburg, for they were to sail next morning for Dublin, Joseph left the broker's office and made his way down to that part of the docks where lay the Janet Coombe. The pilot was coming aboard at six o'clock, and long hours at sea stretched once more before him. The reasonable thing to do would be to go to the ship right away, and turn in, s.n.a.t.c.hing a few last precious moments of sleep.

But Joseph found little rest in sleep, and small comfort in reason. Here in Hamburg the lights glittered through the open doors of the cafes, the dark figures of men lurked in the corners of the street, and next to him on the pavement a woman murmured something, brushing against him with her skirt. Below him lay the docks, and the silent ships at their moorings. Tonight perhaps there would be something in the air, and an answer to a closed secret. So Joseph smiled, and bade reason fly to the winds, and he disappeared along the lighted streets in search of adventure, the inevitable adventure which means one breathless, intoxicating moment of intolerable pleasure - but so unchanging - so always the same.

Joseph stood by the crowd at the door of a cafe watching the people inside. There was a little stage at the corner of the room, where a Negro girl was dancing, and heaped against the walls were tables where the men were seated. The floor s.p.a.ce in the middle was intended for dancing, but at the moment it was filled with women, parading up and down, like animals at a show. Joseph pushed his way round the room and sat at a table, while a hustled waiter stood at his elbow for orders. Joseph drank his beer thoughtfully, his eyes searching the crowd of women on the middle of the floor. Two Portuguese were settled at the next table. One had a white, pasty face, with protruding eyes and a dirty tuft of beard. He muttered excitedly to his companion, and clutched his gla.s.s with puffy, trembling hands. Joseph watched him as he drank his beer, and disliked him.

The Negro girl had finished her performance. There were a few shouts and some half-hearted clapping, then the men rose from their tables and fought to get to the women in the centre of the room. Music struck up from the band in the corner, and dancing began. Couples pressed against each other, unaware of their ugliness, their greasy faces, their fixed, meaningless smiles. The men knew only that beneath the tangled petticoats and the trailing skirts was a woman. Nothing mattered but that.

Joseph pushed his gla.s.s away. The face of a girl stared up at him over the shoulder of a man. A girl with dark hair and eyes, and a provocative tilted nose. She moved well, and Joseph could picture the lines of her body. Suddenly she shook her shoulders and laughed, calling out something in German to a woman who pa.s.sed. Just for a fraction of a second she reminded him of someone - of something; she was like a clue to an invisible secret, and then it was gone again. He noticed the tight bodice drawn across her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Then Joseph knew that he wanted this girl. She moved with her companion to the table by his side, and he saw that the man was the Portuguese.

Joseph rose, and laid his hand upon the girl. No matter if the lights rocked a little above him, or the floor sloped like a deck beneath his feet. The Portuguese shouted an oath and seized a knife. Joseph swung his fist into the man's face, laughing as he did so. The Portuguese crumpled at his feet, his face smeared with blood. 'Come on,' roared Joseph, 'have ye had enough?' He wanted to fight, to seize the tables and chairs and swing them across the room, to break the limbs of other men and trample their skulls beneath his feet. Then the girl laid a hand on his arm, she laughed up at him. People crowded round him threateningly. Joseph shook himself free, and pushed his way out into the street with the girl hanging at his heels like a dog. He stood unsteadily on the pavement and looked into the girl's face.

Five o'clock in the morning.The girl lit a gas jet, which spluttered feebly and cast a sickly yellow glow about the dark room. This was reflected on the carpet, on the smeared window pane, on the face of the girl, as she moved about the floor treading heavily. She poured some water into a basin. Joseph sat on the edge of a chair, his head in his hands. He reached for his coat and fumbled in the pocket, from whence he took his pipe and pouch of tobacco, and a handful of change. He laid the money in a heap beside a photograph of a child on the mantelpiece. The girl's back was turned to him, he saw nothing but a bent figure encased in ugly stiff corsets, drawing on a pair of long black stockings. Joseph lit his pipe and moved towards the door.

Groping his way down a dingy staircase he opened the outer door, and let himself into the street.

Joseph felt the longing rise in his heart for Plyn. He wanted to look upon the quiet waters of the harbour, and the little cottages cl.u.s.tered about the hill, with the blue smoke curling from their crooked chimneys. He wanted to feel the cobbled stones of the old slip beneath his feet, where the nets were spread to dry in the sun, and where the blue-jerseyed fishermen leaned against the harbour wall. He wanted to hear the sound of the waves, splashing against the rocks below the Castle ruins, and the rustle of the trees in Truan woods, the movement of sheep and cattle in the hushed fields, the stirring of a rabbit in the high hedges that bordered the twisting lanes. He longed once more for the faces of simple folk, for the white wings of the crying gulls, and the call of the bells from Lanoc Church. Joseph stood on the side of the dock and saw the sharp outline of his ship, her two masts pointing to the sky. He raised his lantern and flashed it on the figurehead in the bows. The light fell upon her face. Her white dress was in shadow, and her two small hands folded upon her breast.

And as he watched, it seemed to Joseph that she smiled upon him and whispered in the air, 'Did you think that I'd forsaken you. Did you think I was crumblin' to dust in the churchyard? My son, my beloved, I've been at your side always, always - here, part of the ship, part of yourself, and you didn't understand. Open your heart, Joseph, an' come to me. There is no fear, no ugliness, no death - only the white light of courage and beauty and truth. I'm alive an' free, an' lovin' you as of old - Joseph - Joseph.'

He felt warmth steal into his cold heart and strength return to his spirit. The grim spectre of loneliness faded away.

For a moment Joseph was drawn into the light, beyond good and evil, beyond the flesh to the high places - and he opened his blinded eyes and looked upon the living Janet.

A pa.s.sing sailor saw a man, with a lantern raised, scanning the empty face of a weather-beaten figurehead.

3.

'Well, Joe, you're not greatly changed for all your travels, an' we're right pleased to see you back amongst us again.' Samuel smiled at his brother, while Mary poked the parlour fire into a warm blaze.Thomas Coombe sat in his usual place in the armchair, with the inevitable Bible on his knee. The other brothers and their wives had joined the circle, and were looking proudly at their sailor relative.

The curtains were drawn, the supper was cleared away, the hymns had been sung, and the clock ticked as slowly as ever on the wall.

Joseph stretched out his legs and sighed. It was good to be back. He gazed at the dear, familiar faces, and asked for all the Plyn gossip.

'Sammie's twin girls are a picture o' health,' said Mary, loyal as ever though secretly a little jealous of Posy. 'The'm raisin' ten now, you know, an' doin' splendid at school. Take after their father somethin' extraordinary.'

Samuel blushed proudly.

'Then little Tom is more delicate, but a dear boy for all that, an' his brother d.i.c.k is taller than him already.'

Funny to think that dear, sober Samuel was the father of four children, while quiet, painstaking Herbert, seated with his wife near the harmonium and beaming at Joseph, had been married scarce seven years and had already three boys and two girls, and it seemed that dark-haired Elsie, his wife, was expecting again.

Philip had dropped in at Ivy House to take a look at Joseph and to discuss the bills for the Janet Coombe. He was now second clerk at Hogg and Williams, and was inclined to take the business side of the family ship into his own hands. The brothers and sisters were a little afraid of him, he was so superior, 'quite the gentleman' they said amongst themselves.

Lizzie was courting Nicholas Stevens, and Joseph at once took a liking to this bluff genial farmer, with his blue eyes and his hearty handshake.

Why had he sometimes despised this little crowd, thinking them narrow and foolish? After all, they were part of Janet as he was himself. She had been the mother of them all. They none of them resembled her, though, unless it was Lizzie with her black hair like his own, and her large eyes. He was fond of Lizzie, and glad that she would make a home with her handsome farmer, for all the difference in age between them.

'The girls o' Plyn are in a ferment that you're back again,' laughed Mary. 'You'll have them chasin' you about the place lest you take care.'

'I should think Joe wants a rest from women when he comes home,' remarked Philip dryly. 'Besides, they must seem poor enough compared to the ladies of the Continent.'

Joseph glanced at his sandy-haired, narrow-eyed brother. Queer chap he was, with that strain of bitterness. Nothing of Janet in him.

'Why don't ye give the wild ways a miss, Joe,' suggested Samuel. 'You're old enough now to have had a good time, and seen all ye want. If I was you I'd find some nice girl in Plyn an' settle down, same as me an' Herbie has done. It 'ud do you all the good i' the world to have a wife, an' childrun of your own.'

Thomas looked up from his Bible and peered at Joseph over his spectacles.

'As ye sow, so shall ye reap,' he said firmly. n.o.body quite knew what he meant, but they were used to their father's ways by now.

'There's no need for you to leave the sea, Joe,' put in Mary, who was an ardent matchmaker. 'You can remain Master of the Janet Coombe, but Samuel's right about you marryin'. It's a wife you need to steady you, an' a neat tidy home o' your own.'

Joseph smiled and shook his head. 'I reckon I'm not the marryin' sort,' he said. The idea clung to his mind, however, and though he professed to laugh at the suggestion, he thought it over when he was alone. What was against it anyway? He knew that he would never be able to love a woman. His heart and his soul were given to Janet - Janet and the ship. But he could feel affection and tenderness, he could experience that warm, contented sensation that someone was waiting for him in a lighted cottage, that he was not entirely unwanted, that someone perhaps might give him comfort and a home, and a kindly devoted nature. It would be grand, too, to see boys growing up around him, his own boys. Janet's boys. Funny - queer. Yes, he must think about it.

Joseph spent these first days quietly enough at Plyn. He went for long walks about the country, looking up the old haunts where he had rambled as a boy, when Janet had been by his side. It was still winter, and there was no sign of spring in the air as yet. He liked to trudge over the wet fields and the desolate hills, with the soft rain blowing about his face, and the squelching mud soaking his boots. Often he stood in the corner of Lanoc Churchyard, where Janet's grave lay sheltered in the long gra.s.s, beside the thorn hedge and the elm tree. Could it be true that she lay beneath the soaking earth, heedless of him and of his need for her, or was his vision of beauty the real truth, when he stood on the dock-side at Hamburg and looked into her face? He clung to the stupendous grandeur of this thought. Meanwhile his own personal life stretched out before him, days and nights that must be faced with courage, and he knew too well how often he would fail. So Joseph turned away from the silent grave, and made his way down to the busy world of Plyn, with the noise of the jetties and the ships, and the voices of folk who called from their cottage doors. Mary would welcome him with a kind smile, and push him a chair next his father's on the hearth; but more than ever Joseph began to think of the idea of a wife and home of his own, where he could feel himself at perfect liberty on his return from the sea.

Ivy House was still too full of memories. He could not look up to the ivy above the porch, because it was her room. Her voice echoed on the landing, and in the kitchen. He could not sleep in his bed without turning his head towards the door where she should come, softly on tiptoe, a candle in her hand. Memories that tugged at his heart, and weakened his strength. Unconsciously he missed, too, all the little attentions which she had made so dear to him. She had cared for his clothes and his food, giving him always the best of everything, and making him aware of love.

Mary was a loyal affectionate sister, but she gave him none of these things. To her he was just one of the family, and must shift for himself.

Joseph was lonely in a hundred ways. Parts of him that had never grown up called out for sympathy, understanding, and care.

Perhaps he would find this in marriage. He would not take any of these laughing pretty girls, who watched him walk up Plyn hill with a blush on their cheeks and a glance from their lowered eyes; but a woman with a brave and loving heart, who would know how to calm his restlessness, who would give him a home, and not a haunted dwelling. He would be good to her and respect her, she would be the mother of his sons. So Joseph reasoned as he gazed upon the harbour from the garden at Ivy House, and as he watched the movement on the water he saw that the Francis Hope was anch.o.r.ed off the Town Quay. He had missed Captain Collins at Hamburg, and now he would be able to make up for it, and they would have a chat on old times.

Joseph seized his hat, and made his way along the street to the house where the Collinses lived. Sarah, the captain's wife and Janet's former friend, was ill, it appeared, and in bed. This was told him by the boy who opened the door. 'Grandfather's upstairs with my Grannie, Captain Joe,' said the boy, 'but Auntie Susan is in the parlour and will give you a cup of tea. Grandfather'll be down directly, and glad to see you for certain.'

Joseph entered the house and wiped his feet on the mat. He remembered being brought to tea here as a lad, and playing with the young Collinses. The boys were all grown up now, sailors like himself, and the child who had let him in must be a son of one of them. Susan he could recollect but vaguely. She was the eldest daughter, three years older than his own brother Samuel, and had not entered much into their games in the former days. She must be thirty-five now. Strange how the years fled without your reckoning them.

'Come on, do, Captain Joe,' called a voice from the parlour, 'the kettle's on the boil and I dare say you'd like warmin' up after this dirty weather. Terrible it's been now all the month, an' father arrived home to find our poor invalid upstairs. Sit right down, and put yourself at ease.' So this was Susan. A kind, motherly woman with patient hazel eyes, and quick capable hands that moved swiftly about the tea table, laying the cups and saucers.

'Why, you'm wet, I declare,' she said, pointing to his streaming boots. 'Let's have 'em off right away, and put to dry in the kitchen. Give me your coat as well. That's better, isn't it? Was there ever such foolish, careless creatures as men?'

He laughed up at her, and his eyes followed her as she moved about the room, her trim, rather plump figure, the twist of her humorous mouth, and the brown hair that curled beneath her white cap. He stretched his feet to the fire, and drank his tea. He felt well, comfortable, and he liked this woman who showed no sign of embarra.s.sment at the rough sailor in his shirt-sleeves, with his stockinged feet stuck in the fender.

She was no beauty, neither was she young, but there was something appealing about her for all that, and her voice was soft and low. He was content to be there in this house, and see her bend over the fire, and laugh at some remark of his, and then brush her hair away from her brow with an impatient gesture.

It reminded him of someone - something - No, he didn't remember. Must have been an idle fancy.

After a while Captain Collins came down, and two of the sons came back from their work in Plyn, so the parlour was filled. When at length Joseph rose to go Susan Collins went with him to the door, and helped him on with his dried coat. 'Now keep out o' mischief, an' don't go catchin' any chills,' she warned him laughingly.

'I'll know where to come if I do,' he told her, and he was pleased to see the colour come into her cheeks, and a dimple show at the corner of her mouth. 'Good evenin',' she said, shy for the first time.

Joseph returned to Ivy House and found the fire out in both the rooms, his father and sisters having gone to Samuel's for the evening. His supper was waiting for him in the kitchen, cold and unappetizing. He wished himself back in the cosy parlour at the Collinses' house; and hastily swallowing his supper he climbed to his cheerless bedroom, and after reading for a while, he dropped off early to sleep.

After that day Joseph found himself often calling in to have a chat with Captain Collins. This was the excuse he made for going there, but more often than not the old man would be above in his wife's bedroom, and Joseph would find n.o.body about but Susan.

Thus it happened that many times now Joseph would sit by the fire in the kitchen, while Susan baked her cakes and her bread, and saw to the needs of her household.

In a month's time Joseph would be sailing again, so he made the most of his days while he could.

One afternoon he arrived and went round to the back door as usual. He tapped softly on the window, 'Where are you to, Susan?'

'You must let yourself in, Joe,' she called, 'for it's bakin' day an' I've my hands all messed with the flour, an' the yeast.' He went into the kitchen, and she raised her face from the stove, rather hot and red, while her hair fell in curling untidy wisps about her forehead. Her sleeves were rolled up, and he noticed the full white arms with a dimple in the elbow.

'O' course you would choose now the moment to come in,' she reproached him, 'wi' me in such a state. Why don't you take yourself off with one o' the gay girls up the hill, instead o' laughin' at me and idlin' by the fire, takin' me mind off the work.'

She pommelled at her bread, kneading it and punching it with her capable fists.