Fortitude | Page 5

middle of the room.
The floor and the walls shook a little with the noise that the heavy
boots of the fishermen made and the smoky lamp swung from side to
side. The heat was great and some one opened the window and the
snow came swirling, in little waves and eddies, in and out, blown by
the breeze--dark and heavy outside against the clouded sky, white and
delicate and swiftly vanishing in the room. Dicky the Fool came across
the floor and talked to Stephen in his smiling, rambling way. People
pitied Dicky and shook their heads when his name was mentioned, but
Peter never could understand this because the Fool seemed always to be
happy and cheerful, and he saw so many things that other people never
saw at all. It was only when he was drunk that he was unhappy, and he
was pleased with such very little things, and he told such wonderful
stories.
Stephen was always kind to the Fool, and the Fool worshipped him, but
to-night Peter saw that he was paying no heed to the Fool's talk. The
Fool had a story about three stars that he had seen rolling down the
Grey Hill, and behold, when they got to the bottom--"little bright
nickety things, like new saxpennies--it was suddenly so dark that Dicky
had to light his lantern and grope his way home with that, and all the
frogs began croaking down in the marsh 'something terrible'--now what
was the meaning of that?"
But Stephen was paying no attention. His eyes were set on the open
window and the drifting snow. Men came in stamping their great boots
on the floor and rubbing their hands together--the fiddle was playing
more madly than ever--and at every moment some couple would stop
under the mistletoe and the girl would scream and laugh, and the man's
kiss could be heard all over the room; through the open window came
the sound of church bells.
Stephen bent down and whispered in the boy's ear: "Yer'd best be going
now, Peter, lad. 'Tis half-past nine and, chance, if yer go back now yer
lickin' 'ull not be so bad."

But Peter whispered back: "Not yet, Stephen--a little while longer."
Peter was tremendously excited. He could never remember being quite
so excited before. It was all very thrilling, of course, with the dancing
and the music and the lights, but there was more than that in it. Stephen
was so unlike himself, but then possibly Christmas made him sad,
because he would be thinking of last Christmas and the happy time that
he had had because his girl had been with him--but there was more than
that in it. Then, suddenly, a curious thing happened to Peter. He was
not asleep, he was not even drowsy--he was sitting with his eyes wide
open, staring at the window. He saw the window with its dark frame,
and he saw the snow .. and then, in an instant, the room, the people, the
music, the tramping of feet, the roar of voices, these things were all
swept away, and instead there was absolute stillness, only the noise that
a little wind makes when it rustles through the blades of grass, and
above him rose the Grey Hill with its funny sugar-loaf top and against
it heavy black clouds were driving--outlined sharply against the sky
was the straight stone pillar that stood in the summit of the Grey Hill
and was called by the people the Giant's Finger. He could hear some
sheep crying in the distance and the tinkling of their bells. Then
suddenly the picture was swept away, and the room and the people and
the dancing were before him and around him once more. He was not
surprised by this--it had happened to him before at the most curious
times, he had seen, in the same way, the Grey Hill and the Giant's
Finger and he had felt the cold wind about his neck, and always
something had happened.
"Stephen," he whispered, "Stephen--"
But Stephen's hand was crushing his hand like an iron glove, and
Stephen's eyes were staring, like the eyes of a wild animal, at the door.
A man, a short, square man with a muffler round his throat, and a little
mouth and little ears, had come in and was standing by the door,
looking round the room.
Stephen whispered gently in Peter's ear: "Run home, Peter boy," and he
kissed him very softly on the cheek--then he put him down on the floor.

Stephen rose from his chair and stood for an instant staring at the door.
Then he walked across the room, brushing the people aside, and tapped
the little man with the muffler on the shoulder:
"Samuel Burstead," he said, "good evenin' to yer."