Aarons Rod | Page 8

one foot.
He looked at her, and his eyes were angry under knitted brows.
"What are you bothering about?" he said.
"I'm not bothering--I only wanted to know if you were going out," she
pouted, quivering to cry.
"I expect I am," he said quietly.
She recovered at once, but still with timidity asked:
"We haven't got any candles for the Christmas tree--shall you buy some,
because mother isn't going out?"
"Candles!" he repeated, settling his music and taking up the piccolo.
"Yes--shall you buy us some, Father? Shall you?"
"Candles!" he repeated, putting the piccolo to his mouth and blowing a
few piercing, preparatory notes.
"Yes, little Christmas-tree candles--blue ones and red ones, in boxes
--Shall you, Father?"
"We'll see--if I see any--"
"But SHALL you?" she insisted desperately. She wisely mistrusted his
vagueness.
But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo
broke forth, wild, shrill, brilliant. He was playing Mozart. The child's
face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went out,
closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise.
The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music seemed to possess the
air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man went on playing to
himself, measured and insistent. In the frosty evening the sound carried.

People passing down the street hesitated, listening. The neighbours
knew it was Aaron practising his piccolo. He was esteemed a good
player: was in request at concerts and dances, also at swell balls. So the
vivid piping sound tickled the darkness.
He played on till about seven o'clock; he did not want to go out too
soon, in spite of the early closing of the public houses. He never went
with the stream, but made a side current of his own. His wife said he
was contrary. When he went into the middle room to put on his collar
and tie, the two little girls were having their hair brushed, the baby was
in bed, there was a hot smell of mince-pies baking in the oven.
"You won't forget our candles, will you, Father?" asked Millicent, with
assurance now.
"I'll see," he answered.
His wife watched him as he put on his overcoat and hat. He was well-
dressed, handsome-looking. She felt there was a curious glamour about
him. It made her feel bitter. He had an unfair advantage--he was free to
go off, while she must stay at home with the children.
"There's no knowing what time you'll be home," she said.
"I shan't be late," he answered.
"It's easy to say so," she retorted, with some contempt. He took his
stick, and turned towards the door.
"Bring the children some candles for their tree, and don't be so selfish,"
she said.
"All right," he said, going out.
"Don't say ALL RIGHT if you never mean to do it," she cried, with
sudden anger, following him to the door.
His figure stood large and shadowy in the darkness.

"How many do you want?" he said.
"A dozen," she said. "And holders too, if you can get them," she added,
with barren bitterness.
"Yes--all right," he turned and melted into the darkness. She went
indoors, worn with a strange and bitter flame.
He crossed the fields towards the little town, which once more fumed
its lights under the night. The country ran away, rising on his right hand.
It was no longer a great bank of darkness. Lights twinkled freely here
and there, though forlornly, now that the war-time restrictions were
removed. It was no glitter of pre-war nights, pit- heads glittering far-off
with electricity. Neither was it the black gulf of the war darkness:
instead, this forlorn sporadic twinkling.
Everybody seemed to be out of doors. The hollow dark countryside
re-echoed like a shell with shouts and calls and excited voices.
Restlessness and nervous excitement, nervous hilarity were in the air.
There was a sense of electric surcharge everywhere, frictional, a
neurasthenic haste for excitement.
Every moment Aaron Sisson was greeted with Good-night--Good-night,
Aaron--Good-night, Mr. Sisson. People carrying parcels, children,
women, thronged home on the dark paths. They were all talking loudly,
declaiming loudly about what they could and could not get, and what
this or the other had lost.
When he got into the main street, the only street of shops, it was
crowded. There seemed to have been some violent but quiet contest, a
subdued fight, going on all the afternoon and evening: people
struggling to buy things, to get things. Money was spent like water,
there was a frenzy of money-spending. Though the necessities of life
were in abundance, still the people struggled in frenzy for cheese,
sweets, raisins, pork-stuff, even for flowers and holly, all of which were
scarce, and for toys and knick-knacks, which were sold