Best Short Stories Omnibus - Volume 2

The Fox-2

It was the same old, slow, laconic way of speech March always had. Banford stared at her friend for a few moments.

‘You saw him?’ she cried.

‘Oh yes! He was looking up at me, cool as anything.’

‘I tell you,’ cried Banford — ‘the cheek! They’re not afraid of us, Nellie.’

‘Oh, no,’ said March.

‘Pity you didn’t get a shot at him,’ said Banford.

‘Isn’t it a pity! I’ve been looking for him ever since. But I don’t suppose he’ll come so near again.’

‘I don’t suppose he will,’ said Banford.

And she proceeded to forget about it, except that she was more indignant than ever at the impudence of the beggar. March also was not conscious that she thought of the fox. But whenever she fell into her half-musing, when she was half rapt and half intelligently aware of what passed under her vision, then it was the fox which somehow dominated her unconsciousness, possessed the blank half of her musing. And so it was for weeks, and months. No matter whether she had been climbing the trees for the apples, or beating down the last of the damsons, or whether she had been digging out the ditch from the duck-pond, or clearing out the barn, when she had finished, or when she straightened herself, and pushed the wisps of her hair away again from her forehead, and pursed up her mouth again in an odd, screwed fashion, much too old for her years, there was sure to come over her mind the old spell of the fox, as it came when he was looking at her. It was as if she could smell him at these times. And it always recurred, at unexpected moments, just as she was going to sleep at night, or just as she was pouring the water into the tea-pot to make tea — it was the fox, it came over her like a spell.

So the months passed. She still looked for him unconsciously when she went towards the wood. He had become a settled effect in her spirit, a state permanently established, not continuous, but always recurring. She did not know what she felt or thought: only the state came over her, as when he looked at her.

The months passed, the dark evenings came, heavy, dark November, when March went about in high boots, ankle deep in mud, when the night began to fall at four o’clock, and the day never properly dawned. Both girls dreaded these times. They dreaded the almost continuous darkness that enveloped them on their desolate little farm near the wood. Banford was physically afraid. She was afraid of tramps, afraid lest someone should come prowling around. March was not so much afraid as uncomfortable, and disturbed. She felt discomfort and gloom in all her physique.

Usually the two girls had tea in the sitting-room. March lighted a fire at dusk, and put on the wood she had chopped and sawed during the day. Then the long evening was in front, dark, sodden, black outside, lonely and rather oppressive inside, a little dismal. March was content not to talk, but Banford could not keep still. Merely listening to the wind in the pines outside or the drip of water, was too much for her.

One evening the girls had washed up the tea-cups in the kitchen, and March had put on her house-shoes, and taken up a roll of crochet-work, which she worked at slowly from time to time. So she lapsed into silence. Banford stared at the red fire, which, being of wood, needed constant attention. She was afraid to begin to read too early, because her eyes would not bear any strain. So she sat staring at the fire, listening to the distant sounds, sound of cattle lowing, of a dull, heavy moist wind, of the rattle of the evening train on the little railway not far off. She was almost fascinated by the red glow of the fire.

Suddenly both girls started, and lifted their heads. They heard a footstep — distinctly a footstep. Banford recoiled in fear. March stood listening. Then rapidly she approached the door that led into the kitchen. At the same time they heard the footsteps approach the back door. They waited a second. The back door opened softly. Banford gave a loud cry. A man’s voice said softly:

‘Hello!’

March recoiled, and took a g*n from a corner.

‘What do you want?’ she cried, in a sharp voice.

Again the soft, softly-vibrating man’s voice said:

‘Hello! What’s wrong!’

‘I shall shoot!’ cried March. ‘What do you want?’

‘Why, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?’ came the soft, wondering, rather scared voice: and a young soldier, with his heavy kit on his back, advanced into the dim light.

‘Why,’ he said, ‘who lives here then?’

‘We live here,’ said March. ‘What do you want?’

‘Oh!’ came the long, melodious, wonder-note from the young soldier. ‘Doesn’t William Grenfel live here then?’

‘No — you know he doesn’t.’

‘Do I? Do I? I don’t, you see. He did LIVE here, because he was my grandfather, and I lived here myself five years ago. What’s become of him then?’

The young man — or youth, for he would not be more than twenty — now advanced and stood in the inner doorway. March, already under the influence of his strange, soft, modulated voice, stared at him spellbound. He had a ruddy, roundish face, with fairish hair, rather long, flattened to his forehead with sweat. His eyes were blue, and very bright and sharp. On his cheeks, on the fresh ruddy skin were fine, fair hairs, like a down, but sharper. It gave him a slightly glistening look. Having his heavy sack on his shoulders, he stooped, thrusting his head forward. His hat was loose in one hand. He stared brightly, very keenly from girl to girl, particularly at March, who stood pale, with great dilated eyes, in her belted coat and puttees, her hair knotted in a big crisp knot behind. She still had the g*n in her hand. Behind her, Banford, clinging to the sofa-arm, was shrinking away, with half-averted head.

‘I thought my grandfather still lived here? I wonder if he’s dead.’

‘We’ve been here for three years,’ said Banford, who was beginning to recover her wits, seeing something boyish in the round head with its rather long, sweaty hair.

‘Three years! You don’t say so! And you don’t know who was here before you?’

‘I know it was an old man, who lived by himself.’

‘Ay! Yes, that’s him! And what became of him then?’

‘He died. I know he died.’

‘Ay! He’s dead then!’

The youth stared at them without changing colour or expression. If he had any expression, besides a slight baffled look of wonder, it was one of sharp curiosity concerning the two girls; sharp, impersonal curiosity, the curiosity of that round young head.

But to March he was the fox. Whether it was the thrusting forward of his head, or the glisten of fine whitish hairs on the ruddy cheek-bones, or the bright, keen eyes, that can never be said: but the boy was to her the fox, and she could not see him otherwise.

‘How is it you didn’t know if your grandfather was alive or dead?’ asked Banford, recovering her natural sharpness.

‘Ay, that’s it,’ replied the softly-breathing youth. ‘You see, I joined up in Canada, and I hadn’t heard for three or four years. I ran away to Canada.’

‘And now have you just come from France?’

‘Well — from Salonika really.’

There was a pause, nobody knowing quite what to say.

‘So you’ve nowhere to go now?’ said Banford rather lamely.

‘Oh, I know some people in the village. Anyhow, I can go to the “Swan”.’

‘You came on the train, I suppose. Would you like to sit down a bit?’

‘Well — I don’t mind.’

He gave an odd little groan as he swung off his kit. Banford looked at March.

‘Put the g*n down,’ she said. ‘We’ll make a cup of tea.’

‘Ay,’ said the youth. ‘We’ve seen enough of rifles.’

He sat down rather tired on the sofa, leaning forward.

March recovered her presence of mind, and went into the kitchen. There she heard the soft young voice musing:

‘Well, to think I should come back and find it like this!’ He did not seem sad, not at all — only rather interestedly surprised.

‘And what a difference in the place, eh?’ he continued, looking round the room.

‘You see a difference, do you?’ said Banford.

‘Yes — don’t I!’

His eyes were unnaturally clear and bright, though it was the brightness of abundant health.

March was busy in the kitchen preparing another meal. It was about seven o’clock. All the time, while she was active, she was attending to the youth in the sitting-room, not so much listening to what he said as feeling the soft run of his voice. She primmed up her mouth tighter and tighter, puckering it as if it were sewed, in her effort to keep her will uppermost. Yet her large eyes dilated and glowed in spite of her; she lost herself. Rapidly and carelessly she prepared the meal, cutting large chunks of bread and margarine — for there was no butter. She racked her brain to think of something else to put on the tray — she had only bread, margarine, and jam, and the larder was bare. Unable to conjure anything up, she went into the sitting-room with her tray.

She did not want to be noticed. Above all, she did not want him to look at her. But when she came in, and was busy setting the table just behind him, he pulled himself up from his sprawling, and turned and looked over his shoulder. She became pale and wan.

The youth watched her as she bent over the table, looked at her slim, well-shapen legs, at the belted coat dropping around her thighs, at the knot of dark hair, and his curiosity, vivid and widely alert, was again arrested by her.

The lamp was shaded with a dark-green shade, so that the light was thrown downwards and the upper half of the room was dim. His face moved bright under the light, but March loomed shadowy in the distance.

She turned round, but kept her eyes sideways, dropping and lifting her dark lashes. Her mouth unpuckered as she said to Banford:

‘Will you pour out?’

Then she went into the kitchen again.

‘Have your tea where you are, will you?’ said Banford to the youth — ‘unless you’d rather come to the table.’

‘Well,’ said he, ‘I’m nice and comfortable here, aren’t I? I will have it here, if you don’t mind.’

‘There’s nothing but bread and jam,’ she said. And she put his plate on a stool by him. She was very happy now, waiting on him. For she loved company. And now she was no more afraid of him than if he were her own younger brother. He was such a boy.

‘Nellie,’ she called. ‘I’ve poured you a cup out.’

March appeared in the doorway, took her cup, and sat down in a corner, as far from the light as possible. She was very sensitive in her knees. Having no skirts to cover them, and being forced to sit with them boldly exposed, she suffered. She shrank and shrank, trying not to be seen. And the youth sprawling low on the couch, glanced up at her, with long, steady, penetrating looks, till she was almost ready to disappear. Yet she held her cup balanced, she drank her tea, screwed up her mouth and held her head averted. Her desire to be invisible was so strong that it quite baffled the youth. He felt he could not see her distinctly. She seemed like a shadow within the shadow. And ever his eyes came back to her, searching, unremitting, with unconscious fixed attention.

Meanwhile he was talking softly and smoothly to Banford, who loved nothing so much as gossip, and who was full of perky interest, like a bird. Also he ate largely and quickly and voraciously, so that March had to cut more chunks of bread and margarine, for the roughness of which Banford apologized.

‘Oh, well,’ said March, suddenly speaking, ‘if there’s no butter to put on it, it’s no good trying to make dainty pieces.’

Again the youth watched her, and he laughed, with a sudden, quick laugh, showing his teeth and wrinkling his nose.

‘It isn’t, is it,’ he answered in his soft, near voice.

It appeared he was Cornish by birth and upbringing. When he was twelve years old he had come to Bailey Farm with his grandfather, with whom he had never agreed very well. So he had run away to Canada, and worked far away in the West. Now he was here — and that was the end of it.

He was very curious about the girls, to find out exactly what they were doing. His questions were those of a farm youth; acute, practical, a little mocking. He was very much amused by their attitude to their losses: for they were amusing on the score of heifers and fowls.