§ 13

The next day Gervase drove off to Thunders Abbey, and went by way of Icklesham. It was a windless afternoon; the first scent of primroses hid in the hollows of the lanes, and the light of the sun, raking over the fields, was primrose-coloured on the grass. The browsing sheep and cattle cast long shadows, and the shadows of the leafless trees were clear, a delicate tracery at their roots.

As he drove up and down the steep, wheel-scarred lanes he watched familiar farms and spinneys go by as if it were for the last time. He knew that he would see them all many times after this, but somehow it would not be the same. Gervase Alard would be dead, as Jenny Alard was dead, and he felt as Jenny had felt the night before her wedding—glad and yet afraid. He remembered her words—“Can’t you understand?—It’s because I don’t feel big enough ... afraid.” He, too, felt afraid of his new life, and for the same reason—because he knew he was not big enough. Yet, in spite of her fear, Jenny had gone on, and now she was happy. And he was going on, and perhaps he would be happy, too.

He found her baking little cakes for tea. She tapped on the kitchen window when the lorry rattled into the yard, and he came in and took her in his arms, in spite of her protest that she was all over flour.

“Hullo, Gervase! this is splendid—I haven’t seen you for ages.”

She was wearing a blue gingham overall, and with her face flushed at the fire, and her background of brick, scrubbed wood and painted canisters, she looked more like a farmer’s wife than he could ever have imagined possible. She had grown plump, too, since her marriage, and her eyes had changed—they looked bright, yet half asleep, like a cat’s eyes.

“I’ve come to say goodbye, Jen. I’m off to Thunders.”

“When?—Tomorrow?”

“No—this very evening. I’ll go straight on from here.”

“Gervase!”

She looked sad—she understood him less than ever now.

“Father Lawrence wrote two days ago and said they were able to take me—and I’ve nothing to wait for. Father won’t see me. I’ve written to Mother—I thought it better than farewells in the flesh.”

“And Stella?”

“I’ve said goodbye to her.”

“Gervase, I know—I feel sure you’re only doing this because of her.”

“Well, I can’t show you now that you’re wrong, but I hope time will.”

“I hope it won’t show you that you’re wrong—when it’s too late. My dear——” she went up to him and put her hands on his shoulders—“My dear, you’re so young.”

“Don’t, Jen.”

“But it’s true. Why can’t you wait till you’ve seen more of life—till you’ve lived, in fact?”

“Because I don’t want to give God just the fag-end of myself, the leavings of what you call life. I want to give Him the best I’ve got—all my best years.”

“If Stella had accepted you, you would have married her, and we shouldn’t have heard anything about all this.”

“That’s true. But she refused me, and it was her refusal which showed me the life I was meant for. The fact that I loved Stella, and she would not have me, showed me that God does not want me to marry.”

He seemed to Jenny transparent and rather silly, like a child.

“But you’re only twenty-one,” she persisted gently, as she would with a child. “You’d have been sure to fall in love again and marry someone else.”

“And there’s no good telling you I’m sure I shouldn’t. However, my dear, I’m not going to prison on a life sentence—I can come out tomorrow if I don’t like it; and probably for a year or so the whole community will be trying to turn me out—they’re as much afraid of a mistake as you are.”

“I don’t trust them. They only too seldom get hold of men in your position.”

“My dear, don’t let’s talk any more about me. It’s making us quarrel, and probably this is the last time I shall see you for months. Tell me how you’ve been getting on. Has the County called yet?”

“Not so as you’d notice. As a matter of fact, the Fullers left cards the other day. Agney’s far enough off for it not to matter very much, and I think Mrs. Fuller has a reputation for being broad-minded which she’s had to live up to. But I’m getting to like Ben’s friends—I told you I should. There’s the Boormans of Frays Land and the Hatches of Old Place, and a very nice, well-educated bailiff at Roughter, who collects prints and old furniture. I see a lot of them—they’ve been here and I’ve been to their houses; and as Mrs. Godfrey and the girls keep to their own part of the house, I’ve got my hands full from morning to night, and don’t have much time to think about anything I may have lost.”

“It seems to suit you, anyhow. You look fine.”

“I feel splendid. Of course, I couldn’t do it if it wasn’t for Ben. I don’t pretend I’ve found everything in the life agreeable, after what I’ve been used to. But Ben makes everything worth doing and worth bearing.”

“And that’s how it is with me. Can’t you understand now, Jen?—I’ve got something, too, which makes it all worth doing and worth bearing—though I don’t pretend, any more than you do, that I expect to find everything in my life agreeable.”

“I’ll try to understand, Gervase; but I don’t suppose I’ll succeed—and you really can’t expect it of me.”

“All right, I won’t, just yet.” He picked his cap and gloves off the table—“I really must be going now.”

“Won’t you stay and have some tea? I’ve got over the failure stage in cakes—I really think these will be quite eatable.”

“No, thanks very much, I mustn’t stay. It’ll take Henry quite two hours to get to Brighton.”

She did not seem to hear him—she was listening. He could hear nothing, but a moment later a footstep sounded in the yard.

“There he is,” said Jenny.

She went out into the passage and closed the door behind her.

He was left alone in the big kitchen. The fire and the kettle hummed together to the ticking of the clock, and there was a soft, sweet smell of baking cakes. The last of the sunshine was spilling through the window on to the scrubbed, deal table, and over all the scene hung an impalpable atmosphere of comfort, warmth and peace. Outside in the passage he could hear the murmuring of a man’s and a woman’s voices.... His eyes suddenly filled with tears.

They were gone when Jenny came back into the room with Ben, who had evidently been told the reason for his brother-in-law’s visit, for he shook hands in clumsy silence.

“How do you do?” said Gervase—“and goodbye.”

Ben still said nothing. He neither approved nor understood young Alard’s ways. Religion was for him the ten commandments, Parson’s tithes, and harvest thanksgivings—anything further smacked of Chapel and the piety of small-holders. But he was too fond of Gervase to say openly what was in his heart, and as he was not used to saying anything else, he was driven into an awkward but well-meaning silence.

“I’m glad you’re taking Henry with you,” said Jenny, attempting lightness—“It would have been dreadful if you’d had to leave him behind.”

“Yes—‘The Arab’s Farewell to His Steed’ wouldn’t have been in it. But I’m taking him as my dowry. They’ll find some use for him at Thunders—he’s got at least one cylinder working. If they hadn’t wanted him I’d have given him to Ben—just to encourage him to start machinery on the farm.”

“I’d sooner keep my horses, thank you,” said Ben, relieved at having something to say at last. “Give me a horse-ploughed field, even if it does take twice the labour.”

“But you’ll be getting a tractor soon, won’t you? That’s another idea altogether, and you’ll never find horses to beat that.”

Thus talking of machinery the three of them went to the door, and said goodbye under cover of argument.

“You’ll see me again before long,” cried Gervase, as he drove off.

“Will you be able to write to us?”

“Of course I will—look out for a letter in a day or two.”

With hideous grindings, explosions and plaints, the lorry went off down the drive. As it disappeared between the hedgerows, Jenny felt her heart contract in a pang of helpless pity.

“Oh, Ben ... he’s so young—and he’s never had anything.”

She would have cried, but her husband’s arm slipped round her, drawing her back into the darkening house.