The Devil in Clevely (Afternoon of an Autocrat) (12 page)

'Now-er we will take for our text-er this evening-er the words-er of the Apostle-er ...' Abel began, and Danny, who never even heard the text, was the only person present who could truly have said that he enjoyed the next forty-five minutes.

This evening Amos had no difficulty in getting hold of the new-comer; Danny was waiting outside, just where the thick candle in the hanging lantern made a little island of light in the murky black of the autumn night. While Amos gripped him by the hand and spoke the words of welcome which he had not been able to deliver last Sunday and asked Danny to wait so that they could walk home together Damask stood silent. She knew why Danny was there; but she acted as though she had never spoken a word to him in all her life, nor ever would. Her silence passed unnoticed; everybody was shaking hands with everybody else and saying 'Good night, God bless you', and a good many people were busy lighting their lanterns for their long trudges along lonely roads and over the field paths. Abel Shipton came and joined them and they all four set out together, lighted by Abel's lantern: but as soon as they had fallen into step Abel said: 'Oh-er, I saw Judson-er yesterday-er in Baildon-er and he said-er he'd worked out-er the timber costs-er.'

Amos's attention was immediately riveted, and as soon as a bigger puddle than ordinary shone up in the lantern-light Danny seized Damask by the arm and said, 'Mind the mud', and drew her aside; and after that they walked two and two.

'Well,' he said. 'Surprised to see me?' To say 'Yes' would be a lie; to say 'No' would imply that she had expected him and had been thinking about him; so she said: 'I think it's wrong to go to chapel and make everybody think...well, things that aren't true. Father might have been preaching at Summerfield tonight, and then how should we have looked?'

'You think a lot about how things look, don't you?' Danny said, not critically, just pursuing a line of interest. 'Well--it says in the Bible to avoid sin and the appearance of sin: I can't remember the exact words, but I understand the meaning.'

'And is walking along with me a sin?'

'You know what I mean and you know how it looks. I felt awful when Father was welcoming you in as though you'd turned from...well, all your old ways.'

'Maybe I have. I said you should give me a chance, didn't I, Damask?'

She made no answer. He cast about in his mind for something impersonal and inoffensive to say and hit upon the topic which had eclipsed all others during the past week--Sir Charles's death and the changes expected as a result.

'When I got home the other night ...' he began, and told her about the kitchen-turned-byre and the Squire's reaction to it and the notice which now could be ignored. 'Down in the Black Horse,' he ended, 'they were saying that the new Squire was as different from his father as chalk from cheese, just as the old man was different from his father. And Jim Jarvey from the Lodge said last time he opened the gate for Lawyer Turnbull he told him the new Squire was in India and he'd sent a letter off with the news. People make fortunes in India; maybe he has and'll come back and build us all new byres.'

'It'll be nice for your mother to have her kitchen back,' said Damask primly.

They came to the cross-roads where the three roads met; one running on to Clevely, one to Muchanger, and one to Strawless. In the little green triangle where they forked there was a hump, said to be the grave of a boy who had hanged himself because he was suspected of sheep-stealing, away back in ancient times. Nobody tended the grave --if grave it was, for nobody was even sure of that--but everybody knew that the little mound always produced the wild flower that was in season--wild violets, primroses, cowslips, marguerite daisies, scabious, knapweed. One old story said that there was some connection between this grave and the Witch, Lady Alice of Merravay; it said that she had planted the roots of the flowers.

Here Amos always turned off on to the road to Clevely, while Damask went straight along to Muchanger. And here, as usual, Amos halted and said: 'Well, good night, Damask. Be a good girl. God bless you.'

Shipton halted too, holding his lantern a little higher as though in salute; as though they expected, Danny thought, that he was going to join them and leave Damask to go on alone.

She seemed to think so too, for she walked straight ahead into the darkness, with just a 'Good night, Father; good night, Mr Shipton.' None of them, fortunately, could hear how her heart, so long uneasy, had suddenly started to knock in her ears. 'Mr Greenway, d'you mind if I walk along with Damask?'

'Why, no. But thass the long way round for you, ain't it?'

'I don't mind that. Good night, Mr Greenway; good night, Mr Shipton.'

'So that-er is why-er he came to chapel-er," said Shipton, a little sourly.

'Why he came,' said Amos, vaguely. 'Well, maybe, maybe. God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.'

'Danny Fuller don't-er. He move in a brash, sinful way-er, wenching and drinking. I should-er be very sorry-er to see him go off-er with my daughter.'

'Ah, but you ain't got one. If you had you'd know that no harm could come to a properly brought up Christian girl same as Damask.' He was absorbed in the problem in mental arithmetic just presented to him by Shipton's account of his meeting with Judson; he was also distracted by the very terrible nervous affliction which always came upon him after ten minutes of Shipton's company--he had to struggle against imitating him; and between the two bothers he had no time or interest to spare for his daughter.

Danny caught up with Damask and took her by the elbow. 

'There,' he said, 'now we can talk properly.'

Fire ran all over her at his touch, but she jerked her arm free and stopped walking.

'I've said all I have to say to you, Danny Fuller,' she said. 'You go along with Father and Mr Shipton and leave me be. I don't want you coming to chapel and making me look ridiculous. Nor I don't want you walking me home.'

'Now why not? Just tell me why not.'

'I did tell you. And just now you said about being in the Black Horse; I don't want...I mean it wouldn't be suitable for me...with you going there.'

'Well, I don't see much harm in that; but if you do, Damask, then I won't go in the Black Horse. Would that please you?'

A great warm, weakening tide seemed to lift her, hold her helpless, threaten to sweep her away. She strove against it valiantly.

'It isn't just the inn. It's...it's everything. You know as well as I do; you're just pretending not to see, just to tease me.'

'What else don't you like about me?'

'Well...swearing.'

'I don't swear,' he said indignantly.

'You do. I heard you say "Hell" myself.'

'Bless you,' he said. 'D'you call that swearing? You should hear...' He broke off. 'All right then, no swearing. You know I'd do anything to please you.'

And that, at the moment, was true. He was schooled in the practice of pleasing in order to be pleased. He had had his first lesson long ago, during his year at the King Edward Grammar School in Baildon. There, every Saturday morning, an old woman was allowed to enter the courtyard and sell her toffee and meat pies and saffron cakes to such boys as were blessed with spending money. Mrs Fuller, who had insisted upon Danny having a year's schooling when he was thirteen, was paying his fees with her 'quilt money' and allowed him fourpence a week. Accustomed to good farm food, he found the school meals meagre and for some weeks counted the hours between Saturday and Sunday. Then one morning the old woman came accompanied by a little girl, a waifish little creature with great dark eyes in a thin, sad face. She helped to carry the basket and then stood watching the money and the foodstuff change hands. When it was Danny's turn to be served something made him say, 'Do you like toffee?'

'She don't know,' said the old woman gruffly. 'We can't afford to eat it, we make it to sell. We ain't lucky like you young gentlemen.'

He took his purchases and dropped back, waiting, whistling nonchalantly until the last customer had scampered away and the old woman drew over the basket the cloth which kept the dust and flies from her goods. Then he reached out and pushed all his fourpennyworth into the little girl's thin, dirty hand.

He knew, even then, that he was not being charitable, or generous or kind--there were plenty of boys all about who would gladly have accepted even one mouthful; he did it to make the great dark eyes smile at him. And they did. After that, so long as he was at school, he spent his fourpence on the little girl. (The old woman always took the stuff away from her as soon as they were out of the school yard; but Danny had had his smile. And on the whole the child benefited, for the old woman was suddenly granted a glimpse of the future, the hope that one day there might be some reward for bringing up an unwanted orphan grandchild--if she appealed to the gentlemen.)

'You know I'd do anything to please you.' he said again, as Damask did not reply to his first protestation. 'No, hell; no damn. I think that's all I know, Damask. Come on, you tell me the other words I mustn't say.'

'Now you're teasing me,' she said, and tried to sound prim, but suddenly broke into laughter.

'That's better,' Danny said, and laughed too and took her by the arm again. All in a moment something was established. The preliminaries were over.

Damask's fear of 'talk' had been well founded. Before Christmas everyone knew that Danny Fuller was walking out with her, and spice was added to the gossip by the rumour that he was a reformed character. At the Christmas-week market this rumour was abundantly confirmed: one of his former cronies had betted another five shillings that he would have Danny inside the King's Head before the day was out, and with such a sum at stake exerted all his cajolery to gain his point. When he failed he turned nasty and said, 'Well, I hope it's worth it! I'm told that if you can get a Methody girl in the ...' and went on to say something very gross and offensive. Blows were struck, out there in the open street, to the great delight of the whole market.

In February Mrs Fuller felt it safe to say, looking up from the patchwork quilt: 'I got a feeling that this one 'on't hev to .go very far afield, Father. I allust said, didn't I, that the boy'd settle down and pick a decent girl in the end.'

Fuller, with the consciousness of Lady Day being within reckoning distance now, was little disposed to rejoice about anything.

'Time enough to crow,' he said, 'when they're married. And whether that'll be much to crow over I ain't so sure, Funny he couldn't pick up a decent girl reared to farm work and with a bit in her stocking, same as we give Susan when she married. And there's another thing--if he do wed Amos Greenway's wench and they live along of us, she needn't think she's gonna bring her Methody ways here. Cold Sunday dinner for the glory of God and a black look if you use a bad word! Not.' he added gloomily, 'that there'll be much dinner, hot or cold, by the look of things.'

'Oh, you wirrit too much,' said Mrs Fuller, 'Lawyer Turnbull and Sir Edward Follesmark said, didn't they, that everything was going to jog along unchanged till Sir Richard arrived. And nobody but us knew about the notice, did they? You'll see it'll all be forgot, and most like when the changes do come they'll be the ones you been hankering for all this time.' 'I wish I could believe it.'

'You might as well. Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you; thass what I allust say.'

Amos Greenway, who never heeded gossip at any time, was particularly immune just then; his whole mind devoted to the plans for the new chapel. The timber dealer, Judson, had fallen far short of expectations and quoted an extortionate price for the needed material, and Amos, depressed by this evidence of 'lukewarmness in the cause', was still seeking another source of supply. He had no time or interest to fritter away on trivialities.

One day Matt Ashpole came into the workshop with a bit of harness to be mended and said: 'I hear young Fuller hev took up with your girl, serious like.'

'Oh,' Amos said, vague and unconcerned as though Ashpole had mentioned a stranger. 'This end's clean perished, Matt. Wouldn't hold the stitches more'n a week afore it'd break away agin.'

'Well, tack it together. I might be lucky and pick up a new bit while it was holding, like. Done very well for herself, ain't she? I only wish my Sally could do as good.' 'You didn't bring her up right. No man can gather figs from thistles. 'Tain't in the nature of things. All right, I'll do what I can, but don't blame me if it don't last.'

Julie's attempts to talk about the affair met with no more success. She had only to ask whether Danny had been in chapel again, and off Amos would go, speculating on the possibility of persuading the young man to take an interest in the Sunday School. 'Its early days yet, of course, but once I'm sure it ain't just a flash in the pan I shall ask him. He had a bit of schooling, you know; he'd be very useful.'

That kind of remark exasperated Julie, but she was accustomed, by this time, to thinking her own thoughts and holding her own counsel; and one morning in March when Amos was out she unlocked and opened the bottom drawer of the chest which stood by her bed. The musty, melancholy scent of ancient lavender came to meet her as she stooped stiffly over her treasures. First of all, taking up most of the space, was the blue silk dress in which she had been married, and a saucy little flat hat, ribboned with the same blue. Both showed signs of wear, for during her early married life, before Amos turned Methodist, she had worn them every Sunday and on many other festive occasions. She could still remember the day when Amos had said that they were 'too worldly' for chapel wear. 'I ain't suggesting you should chuck 'em away, Julie; the dress'd dye some sober colour and you could spare a bit out of the skirt to fill in the neck like, couldn't you? And pull the hat about a bit, more like a bonnet.'

She had saved for months to buy the material for that dress and stitched it herself after long hours of toiling over other women's clothes. It was the only completely charming and satisfactory outfit she had ever owned and it was too precious to sacrifice upon the altar of Amos's Puritanism; she had folded it carefully, sprinkled it with lavender and locked it away. It had lain there for twenty-one years.