d when the girl darkened the doorway, but did
not look straight at her.
"There's more of the bank going to slip where father fell--it's loose,"
she said.
They both heard. The servant answered her, commenting on the
information. These were the only words that were said for some time. The
girl stood and pressed herself against the side of the door. Bates did
not look at her. At last she addressed him again. Her voice was low and
gentle, perhaps from fear, perhaps from desire to persuade, perhaps
merely from repression of feeling.
"Mr. Bates," she said, "you'll let me go in the boat with that?"--she
made a gesture toward the unfinished coffin.
His anger had cooled since he had last seen her, not lessening but
hardening, as molten metal loses malleability as it cools. Much had been
needed to fan his rage to flame, but now the will fused by it had taken
the mould of a hard decision that nothing but the blowing of another
fire would melt.
"Ye'll not go unless you go _in_ a coffin instead of along-side of it."
The coarse humour of his refusal was analogous to the laugh of a chidden
child; it expressed not amusement, but an attempt to conceal nervous
discomposure. The other man laughed; his mind was low enough to be
amused.
"It's no place for me here," she urged, "and I ought by rights to go to
the burying of my father."
"There's no place for ye neither where he'll be buried; and as to ye
being at the funeral, it's only because I'm a long sight better than
other men about the country that I don't shovel him in where he fell.
I'm getting out the boat, and sending Saul here and the ox-cart two
days' journey, to have him put decently in a churchyard. I don't
b'lieve, if I'd died, you and your father would have done as much by
me."
As he lauded his own righteousness his voice was less hard for the
moment, and, like a child, she caught some hope.
"Yes, it's good of you, and in the end you'll be good and let me go too,
Mr. Bates."
"Oh yes." There was no assent in his voice. "And I'll go too, to see
that ye're not murdered when Saul gets drunk at the first house; and
we'll take my aunt too, as we can't leave her behind; and we'll take the
cow that has to be milked, and the pigs and hens that have to be fed;
and when we get there, we'll settle down without any house to live in,
and feed on air."
His sarcasm came from him like the sweat of anger; he did not seem to
take any voluntary interest in the play of
|