Behind him Wolfpits lay brooding in the moonlight on its departed life. He did not turn to look at it, and in half an hour had reached the main road. He did not know where he was going, but turned mechanically toward the east, the quarter from which he had first entered the hills. At present it was not in him to strike out a way for himself; he could do no more than retrace his steps. He walked fast, impelled by an unconscious energy, and all the time one dominant thought possessed his brain. ‘Curse women! Curse all women! Curse the bloody lot of them!’

He passed through Chapel Green and Mainstone, dead villages both. Not a light in their windows. As dead as Wolfpits. The poplar under which he had trysted with Susie hung above him. The moonlight broke in ripples on its lofty crown. He saw nothing at all, heard nothing but the steady rhythm of his feet and the monotonous burden of words in his brain. The moon sank. Now the road was only faintly luminous with the reflected pallor of the sky. He heard a new noise behind him, and the lamps of a motor-car swept a slanting beam that carried his shadow into the hedge. The noise of the engine became distinct. A top-heavy van loomed up above the two blinding eyes of the headlights. He stood aside to let it pass; but as its roar overtook him, his own voice gave a hail that was swept along in the draught. He did not know why he had shouted, but a second later the car pulled up with grinding brakes, striking sparks of fire from the road. He ran after it.

‘What’s up?’ the driver called.

It was a man whom Abner had sometimes met at Llandwlas station when he was driving the milk from The Dyke.

‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ he said. ‘Want a lift?’ Abner caught him up and climbed into the seat next his.

They set off again, whirling like a tornado through the darkness. They could only speak to each other by shouting, for the engine was old and full of rattles, and the milk-pails jangled behind.

‘Drop you Lesswardine Bridge?’ the driver shouted.

‘Drop me in hell if you like,’ Abner replied.

‘What about Shrewsbury to be going on with?’

‘That’ll do me!’

The roar and vibration filled Abner’s aching brain. They turned northward at Craven Arms and plunged on between the rising masses of the Mynd and Caer Caradoc. The hotels of Church Stretton burned like a constellation in the darkness on their left. The lights of Shrewsbury appeared.

‘That’s good going, bain’t it?’ said the driver, with a laugh.

He refused the drink that Abner offered him and set him down in the outskirts of the city. Abner’s head was splitting. He staggered into a pub and drank three double whiskies straight off. What was there for a man to do but drink?

He passed into the main streets of the town. After the silence and darkness of Wolfpits it seemed to him a city of palaces sparkling with light. He moved in a dazed manner through the streets; had another drink, and began to feel better. For the first time since he had set out he felt capable of a determination. He resolved, as far as his money would let him, to get drunk.

He sampled several pubs and at last found one to his fancy. There, in a small and crowded bar, he settled himself in a corner next the counter and ordered his drinks methodically. Nobody took much notice of him, for most of the men who had gathered there were regular customers who came in every night. The only person with whom he had anything in common was a lanky labourer with a small head and dark eyes who sat at a table opposite to him drinking beer. The evening wore on. Abner was no longer conscious of such details. The only things that detached themselves from the warm, rosy confusion were certain points of light, the stopper of a cut-glass decanter that flashed rays of ruby and emerald-green; a brooch of brilliants that the barmaid wore; a medal hanging on the watch-chain of the labourer opposite to him. Abner’s fancy played with these lights childishly fascinated. He heard not a word of the conversation that buzzed around him, keeping only enough of his senses to ask and pay for his drinks.

It was nearly ten o’clock when another figure entered the bar: a man dressed in a military uniform with staring eyes and a red face that appeared to be transfixed by the skewer of a waxed moustache. He carried a silver-headed cane under his arm; his tunic fitted his back like a glove, and in his cap he wore a raffish bunch of ribbons. He shook hands with the barmaid, swept the room with a curious glance and settled down with his drink at the elbow of the lanky labourer. He spoke so loudly, and with such an accent of gentility that his voice could be heard above the rumour of the bar. He slapped his neighbour on the back.

‘Out of work?’ he said. ‘There’s no need for any one to be out of work in these days. I know the kind of work you chaps get, and damn me if I can see how you put up with it. Now, what have you been earning on the farm? Fifteen shilling a week? I guessed as much. And ten hours’ work a day. That’s a fine life for a man! That’s a damned fine life! I know what it is, my boy. I’ve had some of it. But that was many years ago. I had the sense to join the army, the good old Fifty-third, and I’ve lived the life of a gentleman ever since. That’s what you ought to do. Take the King’s shilling! You don’t know what you’re missing. Travel? See the world? I can tell you I’ve seen things you wouldn’t credit. India . . . Egypt . . . Cyprus. That’s a fine place now. You should see the women in Cyprus! Hey? Women!’ He broke into an obscene laugh.

The last word echoed late in Abner’s brain. ‘Women!’ he heard himself mumble. ‘Curse the lot of them! That’s what I say.’

The sergeant turned to him, delighted to have dragged another person into the conversation. The old hands nudged each other and smiled.

‘No, that’s going too far, my boy,’ he said. ‘You don’t know women till you’ve rolled about the world a bit. There’s many a chap that’s been disappointed with them in England that’s gone into the army and changed his mind. Now you’re another, like my friend here, that’s cut out for a gentleman’s life. There’s no saying that a fine chap like you mightn’t go a lot farther than I ever did. Athletics count a lot in the army. Football, cricket, and that. Upon my word, it’s just like a long holiday, and that’s the truth. A chap like you might be an officer before he finished with it.’ He crossed to Abner, took his arm, and whispered in his ear: ‘If you went out to Egypt where the second battalion is now, I could show you some places in Cay-ro as would soon change your mind about women. God, it’s a gentleman’s life, Egypt, with all the blacks to wait on you as if you was a lord! And whisky twopence a glass in the canteen! Women! I’d learn you about women.’

‘I’ve learned all I want about them,’ said Abner sullenly.

But he allowed the sergeant to stand him a drink, and found, as the time went on, that he was as good a fellow as he had ever met . . . he and the dark labouring man who sat at their table. When Abner’s money was finished, the sergeant behaved like a friend to him. ‘Money! What’s money?’ he said, and pulled out of his pocket a handful of silver that fell in a tinkling cascade on the marble-topped table. They sat and talked. The sergeant kept the ball rolling, patting Abner on the back and taking him by the arm with a friendly grip. He passed through a phase of exaltation into one of contented stupor, in which his only anxiety was where he should find lodging for the night.

‘Don’t you worry about that!’ said the sergeant. ‘I’ll see you through, my boy! You trust me. There’s just time for another.’

So, in a flash of brilliant light, the evening passed. A policeman put in his head at the door and disappeared. Abner found his new friend helping him to his feet. He laughed weakly, for he found that he could not stand.‘Steady does it, my boy, steady does it. You holt on to me and you’ll be all right. God, you’re a tidy weight!’

They passed laughing through an uncomfortably narrow doorway and out into the road. Street lamps danced before them in an eddying line. The road had a resilient, velvety feeling, like no other road that Abner had known. They walked arm in arm, the three of them. Abner felt himself impelled to stop suddenly, and take the sergeant into his confidence.

‘Look here, kid,’ he said, ‘I’m boozed.’

‘Boozed? Not a bit of it!’ said the sergeant, with an encouraging slap on the back.

‘Here, you’ll look after me?’ said Abner anxiously.

‘You bet I will!’

‘You’re a good pal, kid,’ said Abner. ‘Straight, you are!’

Half an hour later he threw himself with relief upon a mattress that was built up of three distinct slabs and pulled a gray blanket over his eyes to shut out the host of lights that swam before them. He heard the voices of men buzzing round him and heavy, regular steps on the stone flags. All he cared about now was sleep.

He fell into a drugged slumber, haunted by many dreams. He dreamed of Halesby, of old Mrs Moseley’s room and Susan Wade sitting demurely at the foot of her aunt’s bed. Alice put in her head and called him, telling him that his father was dead and that she could not do without him. He got up and followed her with Tiger prancing at his heels. ‘I can’t abear dogs, Abner,’ she cried. All his old resentment against her rose up in him, and he would have told her what he thought of her had not Mick Connor appeared at that moment and shouted his name. ‘Come along wud you!’ said Mick, ‘why would you be bothering your head about the likes of her? It’s time we were looking for a drop in Nagle’s Back.’ They walked on over twilight fields talking of old times. ‘Go aisy round the corner,’ Mick warned him, ‘for the ould devil of a policeman’s got his eye on us!’ They went round the edge of the woodland on tiptoe, and there, sure enough, stood Bastard, with a face as white as death and a thin stream of blood trickling from his nose. ‘He’s dead said Abner. ‘Don’t look at him. Our George killed him!’ ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Mick replied. And as he spoke Bastard turned and stared at them with blank eyes. Abner set off running. He knew that his only chance was to run as hard as he could. He plunged into a close lane, smelling of elder trees and nettles. Now he knew where he was! This was the Dark Half-hour, and if he kept on running he would emerge in safety on the hill-side above Mawne Colliery, just below the cherry orchard. Even now he could hear the thudding of hammers at Willises’ forge. Bastard was gaining on him, pounding along behind him, but a man stood in his path and barred the way. At first he thought it was his father, but a sudden revelation showed him that it was George Malpas. George Malpas, deathly white under his prison crop, and armed with a poker. They closed and struggled. It was a desperate business, for George managed to keep on battering his head with the poker, and Mary, in her strange tragic beauty, clutched at his arm. He knew that he was done for; fell with his hands locked about George’s throat. Bastard seized him from behind, and he woke.

In prison? Surely this could be nothing else. A long stone room lit by a single gas-jet burning low and blue. He saw that he was not alone. The whole room was spread with mattresses, on which were lying figures covered with gray blankets like his own. His neighbour, a man who snored heavily and clutched at his hair with his hands, gave a groan. This could not be a dream. Through the thudding of hammers in his head his consciousness painfully emerged. He remembered that he had come to Shrewsbury the night before, that he had slunk into a pub and drunk heavily. Where was he now? In a workhouse . . . a hospital . . . a doss-house . . . a jail? He could not guess. In any case it hurt his head to think. He tried to get his bearings. He had gone to bed in his boots. That was natural enough. He felt for his new watch. It was not there. He swore under his breath, not at the unknown people who had stolen it but at his evil luck. He supposed that they had stripped him of his money too—not that it mattered! He searched his left hand trouser pocket to see if anything remained. Not a penny! He laughed to himself. In the other pocket, to his astonishment, his fingers lighted on a single coin. How the devil had it got there? He fished it out, then propped himself on his elbow and held it up in the faint light. It was a new shilling. He stared at it; then spat on it for luck. So, tired and wretched beyond words, he turned over on his side, wrapped the blanket round his head, and went to sleep.

Anacapri;
March, 1910.