A dead weight lay on Norah’s heart; the child beneath her heart was a burden. But even yet (it was now the month of August) those in Micky’s Jim’s squad did not suspect her condition. She knew, however, that she could not conceal her plight much longer, and she wanted to run away and hide. How could she endure the glance of her country people, of Micky’s Jim and Maire a Glan, when the truth became known?

The squad would soon set off to Morrison’s. Things would go well if once she got there, she assured herself. At present she wished that she had someone to confide in, somebody to whom she could tell her story. But in the squad there was none whom she could take into her confidence. The old women from Glenmornan and Frosses, brimful of a narrow, virtuous simplicity, were not the ones to sympathise with her; they would only condemn. If Gourock Ellen was here, Norah felt that she could sigh her misfortune into that woman’s heart; but neither Gourock Ellen nor Annie had turned up for the last two years, and nobody knew what had become of them.

One day Norah felt that her secret was discovered. No one spoke of it; no one hinted at her condition, but all at once a curious feeling of restraint, of suspicion, charged the atmosphere of the barn and potato field. Whenever she asked a question those to whom she spoke fixed on her a stare of thinly-veiled pity, not pity in essence but in design, before replying. Once or twice when ploughing through the fields, her head bent upon her work, she glanced round covertly to see the eyes of everybody in the squad fixed on her. No one spoke and all silently resumed their work when she looked at them. The silence terrified and crushed the girl. “How much do they know?” she asked herself. That afternoon as she ploughed her way through the wet fields Micky’s Jim came up and stood behind her. Instinctively she knew that he was going to speak and she waited his words in fear and trembling.

“Norah Ryan,” he said, and his words came out very slowly, “who is to blame? Is it——”

Jim bent down, lifted a potato which she had passed over, threw it into the barrel and left the sentence unfinished.

It was Friday, the day on which the weekly wages of the party were paid. That night, when Norah received her money, she stole away from the squad intending to call on Alec Morrison.

II

IT was the last day of August. The swallows and swifts circled above Norah’s head and from time to time swept down over the sodden pastures where the farm cattle were grazing. The birds snapped greedily at the awkward crane-flies that were now rising on their great September flights. Morrison’s farm was twenty miles distant, and not wanting to spend the money which she had earned at her work, Norah travelled all night long. In the morning she found that she had lost her way and had to retrace her steps for full seven miles in order to regain her former course. At a wayside post-office she sent half the money in her possession home to her mother. Late in the evening, feeling footsore and very weary, she came to the farm. Although she had not eaten food since leaving the squad she did not feel in the least hungry. Now and again dizziness seized her, however, and a sharp pain kept tapping as if with a hammer in her head.

“Everything will be all right now,” she said as she saw the lights of the farm glowing through the haze of the evening, but for all that she said the grave doubts which weighed upon her could not be shaken away. She entered the farmyard. A few stars were out in the sky, a low wind swept round the newly-built hayrick and the scent of hay filled her nostrils. Alec would surely be at home. She uttered the word “Alec” aloud; she had never given it utterance in his presence, she recollected, and wondered why she thought of that now.

The windows of the house were lighted up, and a long stream of light quivered out into the darkness. Norah approached the door, stood for a moment looking at the shiny brass knocker but refrained from lifting it. She was very frightened; the heart within her fluttered like a little bird that struggles violently against the bars of the cage in which it is imprisoned. One frail white hand was slowly lifted to the knocker; between the girl’s fingers it felt very cold and she let it go without moving it. A great weariness had gripped her limbs, and her hand, heavy and dead, seemed as if it did not belong to her.

She came away from the door and approached the window. She could hear loud laughter from the inside and somebody was playing on the piano. A dark blind hid the interior of the room from her view, but the light streaming out showed where the blind had been displaced at one corner, and pressing her brow against the pane Norah looked in.

The piano suddenly ceased; a frail shadow came between the light and the window; then a young and beautiful girl passed like a vision across the stretch of room open to the watcher’s eyes. Norah’s glance took in the girl for a moment; she noticed a fair head firmly poised, a small hand raised to brush back the tresses that fell down over a white brow. Even as the small hand was raised, a hand, larger, but almost as white, reached out and the fingers of the girl were gripped in a firm embrace.

Norah started violently, hitting her head sharply against the window-pane, and with difficulty restraining the cry that rose to her lips. The hand, white as a woman’s almost, with the glittering ring on the middle finger, how well she knew it. And who was the fair girl, the fleeting and beautiful vision on whom she looked in from the cold and darkness of the night? Norah did not know, but instinctively she felt rising in her heart a great resentment against the woman in the room. Hatred filled her soul; her breath came sharply through her nostrils and a mist gathered before her eyes.

“I’m not goin’ to cry!” she said defiantly, and began to weep silently even as she spoke.

A withered husk of moon crept up the sky; a dying wind moaned feebly on the roof overhead and on the ground beneath the girl’s feet; a blundering moth struck sharply against her face, fell to the ground, rose slowly and as slowly disappeared. All around was the vast breathing silence of the infinite, the mystery of the world.

Norah looked into the room again and old Farmer Morrison was facing her, a long white pipe in his mouth and a starched collar under his chin. A broad grin overspread his face, and he looked like a fat, serious frog that had suddenly begun to smile. The upturned end of the blind slowly fluttered down and the whole interior of the room was hidden from the girl’s eyes.

“Here am I out in the cold, and everyone is happy inside,” said the poor girl, pressing her hand tightly against her breast as she spoke. “What was I doin’ atall, atall, when I was here before? How I call to mind that night of all nights, a dear night to me! And it is forever written red in my soul.... There he’s in there and in there is another girl—not me. I’m out here in the cold.... Mother of God! What am I to do?”

Norah went back from the window, caring nothing for the noise she made; caring little for what might now happen to her. Her face twitched, her breath stressed through her nostrils, her shoulders rose slowly and fell rapidly. The breeze gathered strength; it swept as if in a light passion around the farmyard and caused the girl’s skirts to cling closely about her legs. She leant for support against the shed in which Micky’s Jim and his squad had taken up their quarters so often. How bare and lonely the place looked now! Somewhere in the far corner a rat was gnawing at the woodwork with its sharp teeth; presently it ran out into the open, moving along rapidly, but as softly as a piece of velvet trailed on polished wood.

At that moment an intense and sudden revulsion of feeling took place within Norah. She was filled with a strange dislike for everything and everybody. A great change began to operate in her soul. In one vivid flash the whole world lay as if naked before her. Man lived for pleasure only; he had no thought for others; he cared only for himself, his passions and desires. What had she been doing all her life? Working for others, slaving that others might be happy. She worked to bring money to the landlord (ah! the dresses that the landlord’s daughters wore!), to Farley McKeown (ah! the lady that got sixty thousand pounds to become his wife!), and to the priest (ah! the big mansion and the many rooms!). At this awful moment she dared not go to one of her people for help. Even her mother would give her the cold glance if she went home; she might shut the very door in her daughter’s face. There was nobody to care for her—but even at that moment she recollected Gourock Ellen and Sheila Carrol, and felt that in these two women great wells of sympathy were open and at these she might refresh her weary soul.

Before her for an instant the world lay exposed to its very core; then as if by a falling curtain the sight was hidden again from her eyes and she found herself, a lonely little girl, leaning against the cold wall, her head sunk on her breast and her numb fingers, that almost lacked feeling, pressing against the rough masonry of the shed. A great wave of self-pity surged through the girl and she burst into tears.

She took no heed of the voice near her, did not see the dark forms which stood beside her, and only started violently and looked round when a hand was laid upon her shoulder. Two persons, a man and a woman, were looking at her. But even then in the terrible isolation of her own thoughts she took little heed of the strangers. She gazed at them vacantly for a moment, then turned towards the wall again as if nothing interested her but the bleak shed and the rats squeaking in the corner. When, after a moment, the strange woman ventured to speak, Norah looked round in surprise. She had forgotten all about the two people. Recollection of having seen them before came to her; they were the man and woman that had made such an impression on Morrison when he viewed them sleeping in the pig-sty.

“What’s wrong with ye?” asked the woman in a not unkindly voice. Norah could detect the odour of whisky in her breath and concluded that both the man and woman were drunk.

“Poor girl!” said the man when Norah did not answer. He looked closely at her and seemed to understand her plight. “Poor lassie!” he repeated.... “Where’s yer folk? Ah, I know who ye are, for I saw ye before. Ye were here with the tattie diggers last year, weren’t ye?”

“Come doon to the shed with us,” said the woman. “It’s warmer there than here.”

The woman took the girl gently but firmly by the hand and led her into the sty in which herself and the man lived. Norah made no protest and followed the woman without a word. In the dwelling-place of the man and woman it was very dark and rats were scampering all over the place.

“Jean,” said the man on hearing the scurrying in the corner, “rats!”

“Last night they ate all our food,” said the woman.

“Last night, Jean?” interrogated the man.

“The night before,” the woman corrected.

The man drew a match from his pocket, rubbed it on his trousers and lit a candle stuck in the neck of a black bottle which stood on the floor. Near it a small pile of wood, hemmed with a few lumps of coal, was ready for lighting. To this the man applied the match and in a few minutes the fire was burning brightly. A dark smoke rose to the roof, which was broken in several places; something small like a bird fluttered out from the rafters and whirred in the air above.

“Jean,” said the man, “a blind bat!”

“Sit doon here, lass,” said the woman, drawing forward a splintered chest and placing it beside Norah. “We’ll gie ye somethin’ to eat in a meenit. Are ye hungry?”

“Not hungry,” said Norah, sitting down on the box, “but dry.”

“This is what ye need,” said the man, drawing a bottle from his pocket and handing it to the girl.

“I don’t drink,” said Norah. “I’ve the pledge.”

“Jean,” said the man, looking at his wife and pointing to a tin porringer which lay on the ground beside him, “water.”

The woman went out and returned in a few minutes with a porringer of water which she handed to Norah, who drank deeply.

“Jean,” said the man, uncorking the bottle which he held in his hand, “drink!” The woman returned the bottle when she had drunk a mouthful.

“Jean, tea!”

The woman emptied the porringer from which Norah had drunk and went out again.

“She’s a rare body that!” said the man to Norah when the woman clattered away through the darkness. “I like her, I like her—like——” he paused for a moment and bit the nail of his thumb; “like blazes!” he concluded.

Norah looked round and took a sudden interest in the place. An instinctive liking for this man and woman crept into her soul. True they were both half-tipsy, and the man now and again without any apparent reason uttered words which were not nice to hear.

“Yer wife is a kindly woman,” said Norah, breaking through the barriers of her silence.

“Wife!” said the man and laughed a trifle awkwardly. “Wife! Well, I suppose it is all the same.”

The man was a stunted little fellow, unshaven and ragged, but his shoulders were very broad. The little finger of his left hand was missing and his toes peeped out through his boots. His teeth were stained a dirty yellow with tobacco juice.

“It’s not much of a place, this,” he said. “We never have much company here ’cept the bat that lives in the rafters and the wind that comes in by the door and the stars that look down through the roof.”

He laughed loudly, but seeing that Norah did not join in his laughter, he suddenly became silent. Norah’s eyes again roved round the place. It was dirty and squalid, well in keeping with the occupants. A potato barrel stood in one corner; beside it was a pile of straw covered with a few dirty bags. This was the bed. The guttering candle gleamed feebly in the corner and the grease ran down the bottle. Overhead the bat was still fluttering madly, hitting against the joists every moment.

The woman re-entered the shed and placed the porringer of water on the fire; the man went to the barrel, lifted the bag which served as a cover, and brought out little packets of food.

“Can I be of any help to you?” asked Norah, rising to her feet.

“Ye’re tired and worn,” said the woman.

“Jean,” said the man, “don’t let the lass work.”

Norah sat down again. A box came from the dark recess of the room; the woman wiped it with her apron and laid it on the floor by the fire. The man placed a loaf, some sugar, a piece of butter, and a tin mug on the table.

“Donal,” said the woman suddenly, “milk.”

The man went out and returned in about ten minutes with some warm milk at the bottom of a large wooden pail.

“We just get a wee drop from the farmer’s cows when there’s nobody about,” he explained.

When tea was ready the girl was handed the tin porringer filled to the brim; the pannikin in which the tea was made served the other two, both drinking from the vessel in turn. Norah ate the bread greedily; she felt very hungry. The man and woman had recourse to the bottle once more when the meal was finished.

“Where is the tattie squad now?” asked Donal.

“Down at G—— farm, near S——,” answered Norah.

“Donal, dinna speir,” said the woman in a sharp voice.

“Jean, haud yer tongue,” answered the man, but he did not press the question when he noticed a startled look steal into Norah’s eyes.

“Things maun be some way,” said the woman in a voice of consolation, though she seemed to be addressing nobody in particular, “and things will happen.”

“There’s great goings-on in there,” said Donal, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the farmhouse. “Morrison’s son has been and engaged to a young lady. Happen that ye may have seen the young man when ye were here afore.”

Norah looked at Donal straight in the eyes and he felt that she was seeing through him into a world far beyond. The man looked at Jean; their glances met and a message flashed between them.

“Him!” said the woman.

“The feckless rascal!” exclaimed the man.

He threw another lump of coal into the fire, kicked the others into a riotous blaze, shook up the straw in the corner and spread out the blankets and bags.

“Bed, lassie,” he said to Norah, pointing at the straw.

“But where’ll yerselves sleep?” asked the girl.

“Jean, where’ll we doss?”

“By the fire,” answered the woman.

“But it’ll be wrong of me,” said Norah; then stopped and left the words that rose to her tongue unuttered. Sleep was stealing over her; she shut her eyes. A gentle arm was laid on her shoulders; she rose, because a voice suggested that she should rise, and afterwards found herself lying on the bed of straw.

A vision of a lighted window came to her; she was looking in at the man she loved and his lips were pressing those of another woman. Then scenes and objects vague and indistinct passed before her eyes, big dark shadows mustered together in the centre of the roof above her, then other shadows from all sides rushed in and joined together, trembled and became blended in complete obscurity. Norah fell asleep.

“Poor lassie!” said Donal, throwing himself down on the floor by the fire, “poor lassie!”

“God have pity on her,” said the woman; “and her sic a comely lass!”