Gone to Earth | Page 9

going to be reasonable.
Everything he said was non-committal, every movement was expostulatory. Reddin never noticed. Vessons suited his needs, and he always had such meals as he liked. Vessons was a bachelor. Monasticism had found, in a countryside teeming with sex, one silent but rabid disciple. If Vessons ever felt the irony of his own presence in a breeding stable, he never said so. He went about his work with tight disapproving lips, as if he thought that Nature owed him a debt of gratitude for his tolerance of her ways. Ruminative and critical, he went to and fro in the darkly lovely domain, with pig buckets or ash buckets or barrows full of manure. The lines of his face were always etched in dirt, and he always had a bit of rag tied round some cut or blister. He was a lonely soul, as he once said himself when unusually mellow at the Hunter's Arms; he was 'wi'out mother, wi'out father, wi'out descent.' He preferred it to the ties of family. He liked living with Reddin because they never spoke except of necessity, and because he was quite indifferent to Reddin's welfare and Reddin to his.
But to Undern itself he was not indifferent. Ties deep as the tangled roots of the bindweed, strong as the great hawsers of the beeches that reached below the mud of Undern Pool, held him to it, the bondslave of a beauty he could not understand, a terror he could not express. When he trudged the muddy paths, 'setting taters' or earthing up; when he scythed the lawn, looking, with a rose in his hat, weirder and more ridiculous than ever; and when he shook the apples down with a kind of sour humour, as if to say, 'There! that's what you trees get by having apples!'--at all these times he seemed less an individual than a blind force. For though his personality was strong, that of the place was stronger. Half out of the soil, minded like the dormouse and the beetle, he was, by virtue of his unspoken passion, the protoplasm of a poet.
Chapter 4
Vessons took up the pose of one seeing a new patient.
'This young lady's lost her way,' Reddin remarked.
'She 'as, God's truth! But you'll find it forra I make no doubt, sir. "There's a way"' (he looked ironically at the poultry-basket behind the trap, from which peered anxious, beaky faces)--'"a way as no fowl knoweth, the way of a man with a maid."'
'Fetch the brood mares in from the lower pasture. They should have been in this hour.'
'And late love's worse than lad's love, so they do say,' concluded Vessons.
'There's nothing of love between us,' Reddin snapped.
'I dunna wonder at it!' Andrew cast an appraising look at his master's flushed face and at Hazel's tousled hair, and withdrew.
Hazel went into the elaborately carved porch. She looked round the brown hall where deep shadows lurked. Oak chests and carved chairs, all more or less dusty, stood about, looking as if disorderly feasters had just left them. In one corner was an inlaid sideboard piano.
Hazel did not notice the grey dust and the hearth full of matches and cigarette ends. She only saw what seemed to her fabulous splendour. A foxhound rose from the moth-eaten leopard-skin by the hearth as they came in. Hazel stiffened.
'I canna-d-abear the hound-dogs,' she said. 'Nasty snabbing things.'
'Best dogs going.'
'No, they kills the poor foxes.'
'Vermin.'
Hazel's face became tense. She clenched her hands and advanced a determined chin.
'Keep yer tongue off our Foxy, or I unna stay!' she said.
'Who's Foxy?'
'My little small cub as I took and reared.'
'Oh! you reared it, did you?'
'Ah. She didna like having no mam. I'm her mam now.'
Reddin had been looking at her as thoughtfully as his rather maudlin state allowed.
He had decided that she should stay at Undern and be his mistress.
'You'll be wanting something better than foxes to be mothering one of these days,' he remarked to the fire, with a half embarrassed, half jocose air, and a hand on the poker.
'Eh?' said Hazel, who was wondering how long it would take her to learn to play the music in the corner.
Reddin was annoyed. When one made these arch speeches at such cost of imagination, they should be received properly.
He got up and went across to Hazel, who had played three consecutive notes, and was gleeful. He put his hand on hers heavily, and a discord was wrung from the soft-toned notes that had perhaps known other such discords long ago.
'Laws! what a din!' said Hazel. 'What for d'you do that, Mr. Reddin?'
Reddin found it harder than ever to repeat his remark, and dropped it.
'What's that brown on your dress?' he asked instead.
'That? Oh, that's from a rabbit as I loosed out'n a trap. It bled awful.'
'Little sneak, to let