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Gone to Earth

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<h2 id="id00267" style="margin-top: 4em">Chapter 5</h2> 'I be going home-along,' she said, but he pulled her in and shut the door. 'Why did you want to go?' 'I'm alost in this grand place.' 'Your hair's grander than anything in the place. And your eyes are like sherry.' 'Truth on your life?' 'Yes. Now you'd better change your dress again.' He reached down an old silver candlestick, very tarnished. 'You can go upstairs. There's a glass in the first room you come to. Then we'll have supper.' 'Sitting at the supper in a grand shining gown wi' roses on it,' said Hazel ecstatically, her voice rising to a kind of chant, 'with a white cloth on table like school-treat, and the old servant hopping to and agen like thrussels after worms.' 'Thrussel yourself!' muttered Andrew, peering in at the door. He retired again, remarking to the cat in a sour lugubrious voice, as he always did when ruffled: 'There's no cats i' the Bible.' He began to sing 'By the waters of Babylon.' Upstairs Hazel coiled her hair, running her fingers through its bright lengths, as she had no comb, and turning in her underbodice to make it suit the low dress. Outside, his rough hair wet with snow, stood Reddin, watching her from the vantage-ground of the darkness! He saw her stand with head erect and bare white shoulders, smiling at herself in the glass. He saw her slip into the rich gown and pose delightedly, mincing to and fro like a wagtail. He noted her lissom figure and shining coils of hair. 'She'll do,' he said, and did not wonder whether he would do himself. Then he gave a smothered exclamation. She had opened the window, pushing the snowy ivy aside, and she leant out, her breast under its folds of silk resting on the snow. She looked over his head into the immensity of night. 'Dunna let 'un take my good name, for the old feller says I'd ought to keep it,' she said. 'And let me get back to Foxy quick in the morning light, and no harm come to us for ever and ever.' The night received her prayer in silence. Whether or not any heard but Reddin none could say. Reddin tiptoed into the house, rather downcast. This was a strange creature that he had caught. Vessons was still at the waters of Babylon when Hazel came down. 'Why canna he get beyond them five words?' asked Hazel. 'He allus stops and goes back like a dog on a chain.' She sang it through in her high clear voice. There was silence in the kitchen. Reddin stared at Hazel. 'Who taught you to sing?' he asked. 'Father. He's wonderful with the music, is father.' Hazel found that in the presence of strangers her feeling for her father was almost warm. 'Playing the harp nights, he makes your flesh creep; ah! and he makes the place all on a charm, like the spinneys in May month. And he says, "Sing!" says he, and I ups and sings, and whiles I don't never know what I bin singing.' 'That I can well believe,' said Vessons. Reddin swung round. 'What the devil are you doing here?' he asked. 'I've come to say'—Vessons' tone was dry—'as supper's burnt.' 'Burnt?' 'Ah, to a cinder.' 'How did you do that, you fool?' 'Harkening at the lady teaching me to sing.' Reddin was furious. He knew why supper was burnt. 'Get out!' he said. 'Get out into the stable and stay there. I'll get supper myself.' Vessons withdrew composedly. Since Hazel had offended him, he had decided that she must take care of herself. 'Couldna he bide in the house?' asked Hazel uneasily. 'No.' They fetched in bread and beer and cold meat. Her host was jubilant, and during supper, quite deferential. He had been awed by Hazel's request to the night and by her beauty. But when his hunger was satisfied, his voice grew louder and his eyes sultry. Restraint fell between them. Looking at his face, Hazel again had an impulse for flight. When he said, 'I want to stroke that silk dress,' and came towards her, knocking the candle over as if by accident, she edged away, saying sharply: 'Dunna maul me!' He paid no attention. 'I'll do right by you,' he said; 'I swear I will. I'll—yes, I'll even marry you to-morrow. But to-night's mine.' It was not a question of marrying or not marrying in Hazel's eyes. It was a matter of primitive instinct. She would be her own. He had pulled the low dress off one shoulder. She twitched it out of his hand and slipped from his grasp like a fish from a net. He was too surprised to follow at once. 'Old feller!' she called, running into the yard, 'quick! quick!' A rough grey head appeared. 'What? after the old 'un?' 'I wunna stay along of him!' Vessons looked at her interestedly. Apparently she also was a devotee of his religion—celibacy; one who dared to go against the explicit decrees of nature. 'I think the better of you,' he said. 'So he's had his trouble for nothing,' he chuckled. 'You can have my room. You shanna say Andrew Vessons inna a man of charitable nature. Never shall you! There's a key to it.' He led the way to his room through the back door and up the kitchen stairs. Most people would have suffered anything rather than sleep in the room he revealed when he proudly flung the door open. He had the recluse's love of little possessions and daily comforts. On an upturned box by the bed were his clay pipe, matches, a treacle-tin containing whisky, and some chicken-bones. He usually kept a few bones to pick at his ease. A goldfinch with a harassed air occupied a wooden cage in the window, and the mantelpiece was fitted up with white mice in home-made cages. It seemed quite a pleasant room to Hazel. 'Mind as you're very careful of all my things,' said Vessons wistfully. 'I hanna slep away from this room for nigh twenty year. That bird's ne'er slep without me. He'll miss me. He unna sing for anybody else.' He always asserted this, and the bird always belied it by singing to Reddin and any chance visitor. But Vessons continued to believe it. There are some things that it is necessary to believe; doubt of them means despair. Vessons was conscious that he was being generous. 'You can drink a sup of whisky if you like,' he said. 'Now I'm going, afore that bird notices, or I shall never get away.' The bird sat in preoccupied silence. He was probably thinking of the woods and seeded dandelions. He was of the fellowship to which comfort means little and freedom much. So was Hazel. 'Lock the door!' Vessons said in a sepulchral whisper from the stairs. Hazel did so, and curled up to sleep in the creaking house, thoughtless as the white mice, defenceless as they, as little grateful to Vessons for his protection, and in as deep an ignorance of what the world could do to her if it chose. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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