Читать книгу The Eyes of Love - Warwick Deeping - Страница 8

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Slim Wetherell had made his way from Willow End along the hedgerows of Fox Farm. The lad was hardly a furlong away when he heard the dull crash of the explosion, and saw earth and débris thrown up into the air. The old oak was down, and Slim ran to be in at the death.

He scrambled through the hedge, had one glimpse of Jesse Falconer, and scrambled back again with his face the colour of dough. The sight had scared Slim to the very marrow of his bones. He fled homewards in a panic.

The lad found Ann alone in the little back kitchen, her forearms sunk in a tub of soapy water, her blouse open at the throat. Slim was out of breath, and his face looked yellow.

“O, my Gawd! Master Jesse’s blowed his face off!”

Ann stood and stared at him, the soap-suds bubbling about her elbows.

“What——?”

“Over by t’ old oak. Tryin’ t’ blow ut up. Must ’ave caught un in t’ face.”

Ann did not move. She looked into the lad’s eyes, and the horror in them flashed back into her own. It was as though she had seen what Slim had seen. Her lips went white.

“Who’s with him?”

“No un.”

“All alone! Run back, then——”

Slim shook his head.

“Not me, not for ten bob!”

Ann gave him one look, and understood. She went and dried her hands and forearms on the roller-towel behind the door.

“Slim.”

“What d’ye want?”

“Run down to Ashhurst and fetch Dr. Rushholm. Run——!”

Slim reacted suddenly to a flick of excitement and a certain sense of self-importance. Even old Will Moker’s pigs were forgotten. He bolted out of the cottage and down the garden into the road.

Ann stood gripping the rough brown towel. She was trying to think, and her eyes and forehead were full of the effort of her thoughts. She went into the bedroom where she slept with Rose and Prudence, and took the first piece of clean linen she found in the chest of drawers. Ann did not wait to put on a hat, or to fasten her blouse at the throat. The urgent horror of Slim’s words drew her half-shudderingly across the fields.

When Ann neared the hedge by the north corner of the Clay Bottom she saw that the dead boughs of the old oak straggled no longer against the sky. There was a thin place in the hedge, and a gap that Slim’s passage had helped to widen. Ann ran to it and looked through, her hands pushing the twigs aside.

And straightway she saw Jesse, and for an instant her heart stood still. He was moving slowly, round and round, groping with outstretched hands, his face a mere blackness blurred with red. His shirt had been burnt away so that the bare chest showed. Beard and hair were singed to the skin, and his clothes were covered with soil.

Ann felt her senses swimming. Her knees shook under her, and the strength seemed to melt and flow away out of her body. Her hands clutched the thorn twigs and did not feel the stabbing of the thorns.

She looked again and saw Jesse stumble over a piece of dead wood, and fall forward on his knees. His blind, groping helplessness hurt her heart. Compassion overcame the sheer physical horror of the thing. She pushed her way through the hedge towards him.

Falconer had risen, and was standing absolutely still.

“Mr. Jesse, Mr. Jesse——!”

It was the intimate, familiar name that came to Ann’s lips, the name that was used in the farmyard and the fields. Falconer turned his head slowly like a great, sightless animal.

“O, Mr. Jesse—Mr. Jesse.”

It was all that she could say to him, but Falconer recognized her voice. He groped with his hands, and his scorched lips managed to speak.

“Child, take me home.”

She dropped the linen she had brought with her, and caught his arm. Even her pity told her that she could do nothing for him.

“Won’t you bide here, Mr. Jesse? They’ll be coming soon.”

His thick voice repeated the words.

“Take me home, child.”

“But can you walk, sir?”

“Yes.”

He had seemed stunned, and stupid. The shock had dazed him.

“O, my God,—I can’t see!”

He leant upon her shoulder, and Ann tried not to shudder. Pity stood with clenched teeth, and strove not to be overcome.

“I can’t see; I’m blind!”

That was the last cry of bitterness that he uttered. Huge, sightless, in vile pain, a dumb patience seemed to come to him. His fingers felt their way down Ann’s arm to her hand.

“Lead me home.”

“O, Mr. Jesse, to think this should have happened!”

“Well, it just—happened. That’s what life is, child.”

They moved a few steps. Then Falconer remembered something.

“There’s my coat, in the ditch.”

She let go of his hand, and ran for the coat, feeling that his asking was the asking of a great, blind child.

“Here ’tis. I’ll lay it about your shoulders.”

His hands fumbled to help hers. A great sigh came from him. It was as though he realised everything, and put away all hope.

“Queer—how strong I feel! The stuff just hit me in the face. My luck! I might have known.”

Very slowly they went on side by side, Ann holding Falconer’s right hand. Tears were running down her cheeks, but she made no sound with her weeping. Jesse kept silence, for it hurt him to move his lips.

They came to a gate. Ann left him standing, opened it, and then led him through. A field of stubble lay before them, with a narrow path cutting across the centre. Ann walked in front of Jesse, her arm held behind her, her hand clasping his. Lines rose on her forehead, and her lips were pressed tightly together as she remembered the stile at the end of the path. The footboard had rotted away, and there were five bars to climb.

“There’s the stile, Mr. Jesse.”

“I can climb it, all right.”

His patience and his fortitude amazed her. He was walking steadily, so steadily that she was seized by a shudder of hope. Yet she could not bring herself to look into his face.

“Perhaps ye can see—a very little?”

He answered her without faltering.

“I could not even tell you whether the sun was shining.”

Ann climbed the stile, and turned to help him.

“Where are you?”

“Here.”

“Put my hands on the top rail.”

“There.”

“Now stand away.”

He was over quite easily. Ann took his hand again. There were two more fields before the home paddock, and gates led out of both.

When they came to the home paddock, Jesse asked her:

“Where are we?”

She told him, and he gave a great sigh, turning his face to right and left with pathetic helplessness. He was so near home, and all about him lay utter darkness.

His thoughts went to his wife. He walked on silently, wondering what she would say.

They came to the farm-yard, and through it to the brick-paved court at the back of the house. Jenny the maid came out, carrying a pail. She stared, dropped the pail with a clatter, and ran in screaming.

Jesse started as though someone had hurt him. Ann’s hand tightened on his. For the first time she felt to the full the incomprehensible cruelty that is part of life.

“You be home, Mr. Jesse——”

“Ah—! I know the feel of these bricks.”

It was then that his wife appeared under the dense shade of the old yew.

Her eyes were hard brown circles in a white face.

“My Lord, what a sight!”

She stood back with a look of shocked disgust, and from that moment Ann hated Kate Falconer from the bottom of her heart.

“My Lord, what a mess you have made of yourself! It’s enough to turn one sick!”

Jesse said nothing. He was still holding Ann Wetherell’s hand. The girl drew gently away from him, for Kate Falconer’s eyes were thrusting her into the background.

“Wetherell’s girl? Where did you find him?”

“Down by the oak.”

“Here, Jenny, run down to Ashhurst——”

Ann drew her hand away from Jesse’s. He was standing with an air of tragic patience, saying nothing, and making no movement of any kind. Ann heard him sigh.

“I sent my brother for Dr. Rushholm.”

“Oh, did you? So much the better.”

She caught hold of her husband’s arm, and her nostrils betrayed her disgust.

“Faugh! My Lord! Come along in.”

A strident, hard, and resentful figure, she disappeared under the porch, pushing the man before her, while Ann turned wonderingly away.

In the stone-paved passage the girl, Jenny, threw her apron over her head, and fled screaming up the stairs. A flare of anger lit Kate Falconer’s face.

“You silly slut——!”

She turned Jesse roughly into the parlour.

“Here’s a chair.”

He groped and sat down. Kate Falconer appeared to compel herself to look at him. A shudder of disgust went through her.

“My God,—where’re your eyes? You’re blind!”

He moved his head slightly.

“Good Lord! What next?”

She gripped her breasts with her hands, turned, and stared out of the window. Something rose in her throat. She fought it back, and stood biting her lips, and beating one heel on the floor. Her face was full of a hard and vivid understanding.

“Where’s that fool, Rushholm? Always out when he’s wanted. Wife drunk again, I suppose!”

Her impatience showed the brutal part of her. Jesse put up his hands, and touched his face. He dropped them again, so that they rested on his knees.

“You’ve made a fine mess of yourself this time, Jesse.”

For a moment he was silent. Then he said—

“It’s a pity I married you, Kate. Bad luck sticks.”

She turned and looked at the bowed, blind, ruined head, and for a moment a glimmer of pity awoke in her eyes. The old love stirred in its death sleep, and stretched out quivering hands. But the impulse was not strong enough to smother the consciousness of the harder, fiercer self.

Kate turned away again to the window. And silence prevailed in the room like a cold greyness at the close of a sad day. And to Jesse his wife’s silence was more bitter than any words.