“Didn’t you know all the time that you were taking a risk, father?”
“We’ve got to take risks,” Barras answered angrily. “Every one of us. In mining it’s a case of risks and risks and more risks, day in and day out. You can’t get away from them.”
But Arthur was not to be turned aside.
“Didn’t Adam Todd warn you before you started stripping coal from the Dyke?” he asked stonily. “You remember that day you went to see him. Didn’t he tell you there was a danger? And yet you went on in spite of him.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” Barras almost shouted. “It’s my place to make the decisions. The Neptune is my pit and I’ve got to run it my own way. Nobody has the right to interfere. I run it the best way I can.”
“The best way for whom?”
Barras struggled violently for self-control.
“Do you think the Neptune is a Benevolent Institute? I want to show a profit, don’t I?”
“That’s it, father,” Arthur said tonelessly. “You wanted to make a profit, an enormous profit. If you had pumped the water out of the Old Neptune workings before you started to strip that coal there would have been no danger. But the expense of dewatering the old workings would have swallowed up your profit. The expense, the thought of spending all that money in pumping out waste water was too much for you. So you decided to take the chance, the risk, to ignore the waste water and send all these men into danger.”
“That’s enough,” Barras said harshly. “I won’t have you talk to me like that.” The lights of a passing vehicle momentarily illuminated his face, which was congested, the forehead flushed, the eyes indignant and inflamed. Then all was darkness in the car again. Arthur clung tremblingly to the seat of the car, his lips pale, his whole being rent by an incredible dismay.
Once again he felt that strange unrest behind his father’s words, the sense of hurry, of evasion; it impressed him dully as an act of flight. He remained silent while the car swung into the drive of the Law and drew up before the front porch. He followed Barras into the house and in the high, bright vestibule they faced each other. There was a singular expression on Barras’s face as he stood with one hand upon the carved banister preparatory to ascending the stairs.
“You’ve had a great deal to say lately, a very great deal. But don’t you think it would fit you better if you tried to do something for a change?”
“I don’t understand you, father.”
Over his shoulder, Barras said:
“Hasn’t it occurred to you that you might be fighting for your country?” Then he turned and heavily went upstairs.
Arthur stood with his head thrown back watching the retreating figure of his father. His pale, upturned face was contorted. He felt finally that his love for his father was dead, he felt that out of the ashes there was arising something sinister and terrible.
FOUR
Earlier on that same Saturday night Sammy walked down the Avenue with Annie Macer. Every Saturday night for years Sammy and Annie had taken this walk. It was part of the courtship of Sammy and Annie Macer.
About seven o’clock every Saturday night Sammy and Annie met at the corner of Quay Street. Usually Annie was there first, strolling up and down in her thick woollen stockings and well-brushed shoes, strolling quietly up and down, waiting, waiting for Sammy. Sammy always was the late one. Sammy would arrive about ten past seven, dressed in his good blue suit, very newly shaved about the chin and very shiny about his nobby forehead.
“I’m late, Annie,” Sammy would remark, smiling. He never expressed regret for being late, never dreamed of it; Annie, indeed, would have felt it very out of place if Sammy had said that he was sorry he had kept her waiting.
They had set out for their walk “up the Avenue.” Not arm in arm, there was nothing like that in the courtship of Sam and Annie, no holding of hands, or squeezing, or kissing, none of the more exuberant manifestations of affection. Sam and Annie were steadies. Sam respected Annie. In the darkest part of the Avenue Sam might quietly and sensibly encircle Annie’s waist as they strolled along. No more than that. Sammy and Annie just walked out.
Annie knew that Sammy’s mother “objected” to her. But she knew that Sammy loved her. That was enough. After they had walked up the Avenue they would come back to the town, Sammy nodding to acquaintances “How do, Ned,” “How again, Tom,” back along Lamb Street and into Mrs. Wept’s pie-shop where the bell went ping and the loose glass pane in the door rattled every time they went in. Standing in Mrs. Wept’s dark little pie-shop they would each eat a hot pie with gravy and share a big bottle of lemonade. Annie preferred ginger ale but Sam’s favourite drink was the lemonade and this meant, of course, that Annie always insisted on lemonade. Sometimes Sammy had two pies, if he was flush after a good week’s hewing, for Mrs. Wept’s pies were the last word. But Annie refused, Annie knew a woman’s place, Annie never had more than one. She would suck the gravy from her fingers while Sam made inroads upon the second pie. Then they would have a chat, maybe, with Mrs. Wept and stroll back to Quay Corner where they stood for a while watching the brisk Saturday night movement in the street before they said good night. And as he walked up the Terraces Sammy would think what a grand evening it had been and what a fine girl Annie was and how lucky he was to be walking her out.
But to-night as Sam and Annie came down the Avenue it was plain that something had gone wrong between them. Annie’s expression was subdued while Sammy, with a harassed look, seemed to struggle to explain himself.
“I’m sorry, Annie,” kicking moodily at a stone which lay in his way. “I didn’t think you’d take it that sore, lass.”
In a low voice Annie said:
“It’s all right, Sammy, I’m not minding that much. It’s quite all right.” Whatever Sammy did was always all right with Annie; but her face, seen palely in that dark avenue of trees, was troubled.
Sammy took a kick at another stone.
“I couldn’t stand the pit no longer, honest I couldn’t, Annie. Goin’ down every day thinkin’ on dad and Hughie lyin’ inbye there, it’s more nor I could stand. The pit’ll never be the same to me, Annie, never, it won’t, till dad and Hughie gets brought out.”
“I see that, Sammy,” Annie agreed.
“Mind you, I’m not exactly wantin’ to go,” Sammy worried on. “I don’t hold with all this ruddy buglin’ and flag flappin’. I’m just makin’ it the excuse. I’ve just got to get out that pit. Anything’s better’n the pit now, anything.”
“That’s right, Sammy,” Annie reassured him. “I see what you mean.”
Annie saw perfectly that Sammy, a fine hewer who liked, and was needed in, his job, would never be going to the war but for the disaster in the Neptune. But the sadness in Annie’s acquiescence set Sammy more at cross-purposes than ever.
“Ah, Annie,” he exclaimed with sudden feeling. “I wish’t this thing had never happened on us in the Neptune. As I was bringin’ out my tools at the end of the shift the day, that’s just what I kept thinkin’. There’s our Davey, now. I’m proper put down ower what it’s done to him. I’m worrit, lass, at how he’s took it.” He went on with sudden heat: “It wasna fair the way they sacked him out of the school. Ramage done it, mind ye, he’s always had his knife in wor lot. But God, it was shameful, Annie.”
“He’ll get work some other place, Sammy.”
But Sammy shook his head.
“He’s done wi’ the schoolmasterin’, lass. He’s got in wi’ Harry Nugent someways. Harry took a heap of notice of Davey when he was up, something’ll come out of that, I’m thinkin’.” He sighed. “But there’s a proper change come ower him, lass.”
Annie made no reply: she was thinking of the change which had come over Sammy too.
They walked along the Avenue without speaking. It was now almost dark, but as they passed the Law, the moon sailed out from a bank of cloud, and threw a cold hard light upon the house which sat there square and squat, with a self-complacency almost maligna
nt. Beside the big white gate, under one of the tall beeches which flanked it, two figures stood together—the one a young fellow in uniform, the other a bareheaded girl.
Sammy turned to Annie as they reached the end of the Avenue.
“Did you see that?” he said. “Dan Teasdale and Grace Barras.”
“Ay, I saw them, Sammy.”
“I’m thinkin’ it wouldn’t do for Barras to see them there.”
“No, Sammy.”
“Barras!” Sammy jerked his head aside and spat. “He’s come out of the sheugh all right. But I’ll not work for him no more, no, not if he came and begged us.”
Silence continued between Annie and Sammy as they walked towards Mrs. Wept’s shop. Annie was bearing up, but the thought that Sammy was going to the war paralysed her; anyone but Annie would have refused to go to the shop. Yet Annie felt that Sammy wanted to go, so Annie went and struggled gamely with her pie. To-night Sammy had only one pie and he left half a tumbler of his lemonade.
As they stood at the corner of Quay Street Sammy said, with an effort at his old smile:
“Don’t take on, Annie, lass. The pit hasn’t done that much for me after all. Maybe the war’ll do a bit more.”
“Maybe,” Annie said: and with a sudden catch in her breath: “I’ll see you to-morrow, Sammy. I’ll see you for sure before you go.”
Sammy nodded his head, still holding his smile, then he exclaimed:
“Give us a kiss, lass, to show you’re not angry wi’ us.”
Annie kissed Sammy, then she turned away for fear Sammy should see the tears that were in her eyes. Holding her head down she walked rapidly towards her home.
Sammy climbed the Terraces slowly. He was a fool, he knew he was a fool to be leaving Annie and his good job for a war that did not interest him. And yet he couldn’t help himself. The disaster had done something to him—ay, just like it had to David. Where he was going didn’t matter; all that mattered was that he was getting out of the pit.
When he reached Inkerman his mother was sitting up for him as usual in her own hard, straight-backed chair by the window and the minute he came in she rose to get him some hot cocoa.
She gave him his cocoa, and, standing by the grate where she had just put the steaming kettle, she watched him, her hands folded beneath her breast, elbows rather gaunt, eyes sombre and loving.
“Will I cut you a piece of cake, son?”
He had sat down rather wearily at the table with his cap pushed back on his head and now he raised his eyes and looked at her.
She had altered. Though she did not fight within herself against the disaster but received it sombrely with the calm fatality of a woman who has always known and accepted the danger of the pit, the calamity at the Neptune had left its mark on Martha too. The lines on her face were deeper and her cheeks more fallen in, one grey strand made a curious streak on the black of her tight-drawn hair, there was a little pattern of furrows graven upon her brow. But she still held herself erect without effort. Her vitality seemed inexhaustible.
Sammy hated to have to tell his mother; but there was no other way; and as he was without subtlety he spoke directly.
“Mother,” he said, “I’ve joined up.”
She went an ashen grey. Her face and her lips turned as grey as the grey strand of her hair; and her hand flew instinctively to her throat. A sudden wildness came into her eyes.
“You don’t mean”—she stopped, but at last she brought herself to say it—“the army?”
He nodded moodily:
“The Fifth Fusiliers. I fetched my tools outbye this afternoon. The draft leaves for camp on Monday.”
“On Monday,” she stammered, in that same tone of wild and incredulous dismay.
Still looking at him she sat down upon a chair. She sat down very carefully, her hand still pressed to her throat. She seemed shrunken, crushed into that chair by what he had told her; but still she refused to believe it. In a low voice she said:
“They’ll not take you. They want the miners back here at home. They can’t possibly take a good man like you.”
He avoided her beseeching eyes.
“They have taken me.”
The words extinguished her. There was a long silence, then almost in a whisper she asked:
“What way did you have to do a thing like that, Sammy? Oh, what way did you have to do it?”
He answered doggedly:
“I cannot help it, mother, I cannot go on any longer we the pit.”
FIVE
It was about five o’clock on the following Tuesday evening and though still light the streets were quiet as David walked along Lamb Lane and entered his house. In the narrow hall he stopped, his first glance towards the little electro-plated tray upon which Jenny, with her deathless sense of etiquette, always placed his mail. One letter lay upon the tray. He picked it up and his dark face brightened.
He went into the kitchen, where he sat down by the small fire and began to take off his boots, unlacing them with one hand and staring at the letter in the other.
Jenny brought him his slippers. That was unusual, but lately Jenny had been most unusual, worried and almost timid, looking after him in small ways, as though subdued by his sombre uncommunicativeness.
He thanked Jenny with a look. He could smell the sweet odour of port on her breath but he refrained from speaking, he had spoken so often and he was tired of words. She took very little, she explained, just a glass when she felt low. The disgrace—her own word—of his dismissal from New Bethel Street had naturally predisposed her to lowness.
He opened the letter and read it slowly and carefully, then he rested it on his knee and gazed into the fire. His face was fixed and unimpassioned and mature. In those six months since the disaster he seemed to have grown older by a good ten years.
Jenny moved about the kitchen pretending to be busy but glancing at him furtively from time to time, as if curious to know what was in the letter. She felt that deep currents were working secretly within David’s mind; she did not fully understand; a look, almost of fear, was in her eyes.
“Is it anything important?” she asked at length. She could not help asking, the words slipped out.
“It’s from Nugent,” he answered.
She stared at him blankly, then her features sharpened with temper. She distrusted this sudden and spontaneous friendship with Harry Nugent which had sprung from the disaster at the Neptune; it struck her almost as an alliance; she felt excluded and was jealous.
“I thought it was about a job, I’m about sick of you going idle.”
He roused himself and looked at her.
“In a way it is about a job, Jenny. It’s the answer to a letter I wrote Harry Nugent last week. He’s joining the ambulance corps, going out to France as a stretcher-bearer, and I’ve decided that the only thing to do is to go with him.”
Jenny gasped—her reaction was unbelievably intense. She turned quite green, a ghastly colour, her whole body wilted. She looked cowed. He thought for a moment she was going to be sick, she had lately had some queer bouts of sickness, and he jumped up and went over to her.
“Don’t worry, Jenny,” he said. “There isn’t the slightest reason to worry.”
“But why must you go?” she quavered in that odd frightened voice. “Why have you got to let this Nugent drag you in? You don’t believe in it, there isn’t any need for you to go.”
He was moved by her concern; lately he had resigned himself to the conviction that Jenny’s love for him was not what it had been. And he hardly knew how to answer her. It was true that he had no patriotism. The political machinery which had produced the war was linked in his mind with the economic machinery which had produced the disaster in the Neptune. Behind each he saw that insatiable lust for power, for possessions; the quenchless self-interest of man. But although he had no patriotism he felt he could not keep out of the war. This was exactly Nugent’s feeling too. It was awful to be in the war but it was more awful not to be in the wa
r. He need not go to the war to kill. He could go to the war to save. To stand aside palely while humanity lay locked in the anguished struggle was to proclaim himself a fraud for ever. It was like standing upon the pit-bank of the Neptune watching the cage descend filled with men upon whose foreheads was the predestined seal of the disaster, standing aside and saying, you are in the cage, my brothers, but I will not enter with you because the terror and the danger which await you should never have arisen.
He put out his hand and stroked her cheek.
“It’s difficult to explain, Jenny. You know what I’ve told you… since the disaster… since I got the sack from the school… I’m chucking the B.A., teaching, everything. I’m going to make a complete break and join the Federation. Well, while this war is on there’s not much chance to do what I want to do at home. It’s a case of marking time. Besides, Sammy has gone and Harry Nugent is going. It’s the only thing.”
“Oh no, David,” she whimpered. “You can’t go.”
“I’ll be all right,” he said soothingly. “There’s no need to worry about that.”
“No, you can’t, you can’t leave me now, you can’t desert me at a time like this.” She created the picture of herself forsaken, not only by him, but by everyone she had trusted.
“But, Jenny—”
“You can’t leave me now.” She was quite beside herself, her words came all in a rush. “You’re my husband, you can’t desert me. Don’t you see I’m going… that we’re going to have a baby.”
There was a complete silence. Her news staggered him, not for an instant had he suspected it. Then she began to cry, letting her head droop while the tears simply ran out of her eyes, to cry as she always cried when she had offended him. He could not bear to see her cry like this; he flung his arm round her.
“Don’t cry, Jenny, for God’s sake don’t cry. I’m glad, I’m terribly glad; you know I’ve always wanted this to happen. You took me by surprise there for a minute. That was all. Don’t cry. Jenny, please, don’t cry like that, as if it was your fault.”