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be downstairs.”
A small smile of relief came on his face, and he put out his hand from the bed. He lay with the disorderly clothes pulled up to his chin. His face was discoloured and rather bloated, his nose swollen.
“Don’t you feel so well this morning?” asked Emily, softening with pity when she came into contact with his sickness.
“Oh, all right,” he replied, wishing only to get rid of us.
“You should try to get up a bit, it’s a beautiful morning, warm and soft —” she said gently. He did not reply, and she went downstairs.
I looked round to the cold, whitewashed room, with its ceiling curving and sloping down the walls. It was sparsely furnished, and bare of even the slightest ornament. The only things of warm colour were the cow and horse skins on the floor. All the rest was white or grey or drab. On one side, the room sloped down so that the window was below my knees, and nearly touching the floor, on the other side was a larger window, breast high. Through it one could see the jumbled, ruddy roofs of the sheds and the skies. The tiles were shining with patches of vivid orange lichen. Beyond was the cornfield, and the men, small in the distance, lifting the sheaves on the cart.
“You will come back to farming again, won’t you?” I asked him, turning to the bed. He smiled.
“I don’t know,” he answered dully.
“Would you rather I went downstairs?” I asked.
“No, I’m glad to see you,” he replied, in the same uneasy fashion.
“I’ve only just come back from France,” I said.
“Ah!” he replied, indifferent.
“I am sorry you’re ill,” I said.
He stared unmovedly at the opposite wall. I went to the window and looked out. After some time, I compelled myself to say, in a casual manner:
“Won’t you get up and come out a bit?”
“I suppose I s’ll have to,” he said, gathering himself slowly together for the effort. He pushed himself up in bed.
When he took off the jacket of his pyjamas to wash himself I turned away. His arms seemed thin, and he had bellied, and was bowed and unsightly. I remembered the morning we swam in the millpond. I remembered that he was now in the prime of his life. I looked at his bluish feeble hands as he laboriously washed himself. The soap once slipped from his fingers as he was picking it up, and fell, rattling the pot loudly. It startled us, and he seemed to grip the sides of the washstand to steady himself. Then he went on with his slow, painful toilet. As he combed his hair he looked at himself with dull eyes of shame.
The men were coming in from the scullery when we got downstairs. Dinner was smoking on the table. I shook hands with Tom Renshaw, and with the old man’s hard, fierce left hand. Then I was introduced to Arthur Renshaw, a clean-faced, large, bashful lad of twenty. I nodded to the man, Jim, and to Jim’s wife, Annie. We all sat down to table.
“Well, an’ ‘ow are ter feelin’ by now, like?” asked the old man heartily of George. Receiving no answer, he continued, “Tha should ‘a gor up an’ corn’ an’ gen us a ‘and wi’ th’ wheat, it ‘ud ‘a done thee good.”
“You will have a bit of this mutton, won’t you?” Tom asked him, tapping the joint with the carving-knife. George shook his head.
“It’s quite lean and tender,” he said gently.
“No, thanks,” said George.
“Gi’e ’im a bit, gi’e ’im a bit!” cried the old man. “It’ll do ’im good — it’s what ‘e wants, a bit o’ strengthenin’ nourishment.”
“It’s no good if his stomach won’t have it.” said Tom, in mild reproof, as if he were sneaking of a child. Arthur filled George’s glass with beer without speaking. The two young men were full of kind, gentle attention.
“Let ’im ‘a’e a spoonful o’ tonnup then,” persisted the old man. “I canna eat while ‘is plate stands there emp’y.”
So they put turnip and onion sauce on George’s plate, and he took up his fork and tasted a few mouthfuls. The men ate largely, and with zest. The sight of their grand satisfaction, amounting almost to gusto, sickened him.
When at last the old man laid down the dessert-spoon which he used in place of a knife and fork, he looked again at George’s plate, and said:
“Why tha ‘asna aten a smite, not a smite! Tha non goos th’ raight road to be better.”
George maintained a stupid silence.
“Don’t bother him, Father,” said Emily.
“Tha art an öwd whittle, Feythey,” added Tom, smiling good-naturedly. He spoke to his father in dialect, but to Emily in good English. Whatever she said had Tom’s immediate support. Before serving us with pie, Emily gave her brother junket and damsons, setting the plate and the spoon before him as if he were a child. For this act of grace Tom looked at her lovingly, and stroked her hand as she passed.
After dinner, George said, with a miserable struggle for an indifferent tone:
“Aren’t you going to give Cyril a glass of whisky?”
He looked up furtively, in a conflict of shame and hope. A silence fell on the room.
“Ay!” said the old man softly. “Let ’im ‘ave a drop.”
“Yes!” added Tom, in submissive pleading.
All the men in the room shrank a little, awaiting the verdict of the woman.
“I don’t know,” she said clearly, “that Cyril wants a glass.”
“I don’t mind,” I answered, feeling myself blush. I had not the courage to counteract her will directly. Not even the old man had that courage. We waited in suspense. After keeping us so for a few minutes, while we smouldered with mortification, she went into another room, and we heard her unlocking a door. She returned with a decanter containing rather less than half a pint of liquor. She put out five tumblers.
“Tha neda gi’e me none,” said the old man. “Ah’m non a proud chap. Ah’m not.”
“Nor me neither,” said Arthur.
“You will, Tom?” she asked.
“Do you want me to?” he replied, smiling.
“I don’t,” she answered sharply. “I want nobody to have it, when you look at the results of it. But if Cyril is having a glass, you may as well have one with him.”
Tom was pleased with her. She gave her husband and me fairly stiff glasses.
“Steady, steady!” he said. “Give that George, and give me not so much. Two fingers, two of your fingers, you know.”
But she passed him the glass. When George had had his share, there remained but a drop in the decanter.
Emily watched the drunkard coldly as he took this remainder.
George and I talked for a time while the men smoked. He, from his glum stupidity, broke into a harsh, almost imbecile loquacity.
“Have you seen my family lately?” he asked, continuing. “Yes! Not badly set up, are they, the children? But the little devils are soft, mard-soft, every one of ’em. It’s their mother’s bringin’ up — she marded ’em till they were soft, an’ would never let me have a say in it. I should ‘a brought ’em up different, you know I should.”
Tom looked at Emily, and, remarking her angry contempt, suggested that she should go out with him to look at the stacks. I watched the tall, square-shouldered man leaning with deference and tenderness towards his wife as she walked calmly at his side. She was the mistress, quiet and self-assured, he her rejoiced husband and servant.
George