LITMIR.BIZ

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nobbut wanted warmin’ up. I’ll see as you’re all right. It’s a bargain. Chink again, iverybody.”

      “A bargain,” said he before he put his lips to the glass. “What bargain’s that?” said Meg.

      The old lady laughed loudly and winked at George, who, with his lips wet with wine, got up and kissed Meg soundly, saying:

      “There it is — that seals it.”

      Meg wiped her face with her big pinafore, and seemed uncomfortable.

      “Aren’t you comin’, Gran’ma?” she pleaded.

      “Eh, tha’ wants ter ‘orry me off — what’s thai say, George — a deep un, isna ‘er?”

      “Dunna go, Aunt, dunna be hustled off.”

      “Tush — Pish,” snorted the old lady. “Yah, tha’ ‘rt a slow un, an’ no mistakes! Get a candle, Meg, I’m ready.”

      Meg brought a brass bedroom candlestick. Bill brought in the money in a tin box, and delivered it into the hands of the old lady.

      “Go thy ways to bed now, lad,” said she to the ugly, wizened serving-man. He sat in a corner and pulled off his boots.

      “Come an’ kiss me good night, George,” said the old woman — and as he did so she whispered in his ear, whereat he laughed loudly. She poured whisky into her glass and called to the serving-man to drink it. Then, pulling herself up heavily, she leaned on Meg and went upstairs. She had been a big woman, one could see, but now her shapeless, broken figure looked pitiful beside Meg’s luxuriant form. We heard them slowly, laboriously climb the stairs. George sat pulling his moustache and half smiling; his eyes were alight with that peculiar childish look they had when he was experiencing new and doubtful sensations. Then he poured himself more whisky.

      “I say, steady!” I admonished.

      “What for!” he replied, indulging himself like a spoiled child and laughing.

      Bill, who had sat for some time looking at the hole in his stocking, drained his glass, and with a sad “Good night,” creaked off upstairs.

      Presently Meg came down, and I rose and said we must be going.

      “I’ll just come an’ lock the door after you,” said she, standing uneasily waiting.

      George got up. He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself; then he got his balance, and, with his eyes on Meg, said:

      “‘Ere!” he nodded his head to her. “Come here, I want ter ax thee sumwhat.”

      She looked at him, half smiling, half doubtful. He put his arm round her and looking down into her eyes, with his face very close to hers, said:

      “Let’s ha’e a kiss.”

      Quite unresisting she yielded him her mouth, looking at him intently with her bright brown eyes. He kissed her, and pressed her closely to him.

      “I’m going to marry thee,” he said.

      “Go on!” she replied, softly, half glad, half doubtful.

      “I am an’ all,” he repeated, pressing her more tightly to him.

      I went down the passage, and stood in the open doorway looking out into the night. It seemed a long time. Then I heard the thin voice of the old woman at the top of the stairs:

      “Meg! Meg! Send ’im off now. Come on!”

      In the silence that followed there was a murmur of voices, and then they came into the passage.

      “Good night, my lad, good luck to thee!” cried the voice like a ghoul from upper regions.

      He kissed his betrothed a rather hurried good night at the door.

      “Good night,” she replied softly, watching him retreat. Then we heard her shoot the heavy bolts.

      “You know,” he began, and he tried to clear his throat. His voice was husky and strangulated with excitement. He tried again:

      “You know — she — she’s a clinker.”

      I did not reply, but he took no notice.

      “Damn!” he ejaculated. “What did I let her go for!”

      We walked along in silence — his excitement abated somewhat.

      “It’s the way she swings her body — an’ the curves as she stands. It’s when you look at her — you feel — you know.”

      I suppose I knew, but it was unnecessary to say so.

      “You know — if ever I dream in the night — of women — you know — it’s always Meg; she seems to look so soft, and to curve her body —”

      Gradually his feet began to drag. When we came to the place where the colliery railway crossed the road, he stumbled, and pitched forward, only just recovering himself. I took hold of his arm.

      “Good Lord, Cyril, am I drunk?” he said.

      “Not quite,” said I.

      “No,” he muttered, “couldn’t be.”

      But his feet dragged again, and he began to stagger from side to side. I took hold of his arm. He murmured angrily — then, subsiding again, muttered, with slovenly articulation:

      “I feel fit to drop with sleep.”

      Along the dead, silent roadway, and through the uneven blackness of the wood, we lurched and stumbled. He was very heavy and difficult to direct. When at last we came to the brook we splashed straight through the water. I urged him to walk steadily and quietly across the yard. He did his best, and we made a fairly still entry into the farm. He dropped with all his weight on the sofa, and leaning down, began to unfasten his leggings. In the midst of his fumblings he fell asleep, and I was afraid he would pitch forward on to his head. I took off his leggings and his wet boots and his collar. Then, as I was pushing and shaking him awake to get off his coat, I heard a creaking on the stairs, and my heart sank, for I thought it was his mother. But it was Emily, in her long white nightgown. She looked at us with great dark eyes of terror, and whispered: “What’s the matter?”

      I shook my head and looked at him. His head had dropped down on his chest again.

      “Is he hurt?” she asked, her voice becoming audible, and dangerous. He lifted his head, and looked at her with heavy, angry eyes.

      “George!” she said sharply, in bewilderment and fear. His eyes seemed to contract evilly.

      “Is he drunk?” she whispered, shrinking away, and looking at me. “Have you made him drunk — you?”

      I nodded. I too was angry.

      “Oh, if Mother gets up! I must get him to bed! Oh, how could you!”

      This sibilant whispering irritated him, and me. I tugged at his coat. He snarled incoherently, and swore. She caught her breath. He looked at her sharply, and I was afraid he would wake himself into a rage.

      “Go upstairs!” I whispered to her. She shook her head. I could see him taking heavy breaths, and the veins of his neck were swelling. I was furious at her disobedience.

      “Go at once,” I said fiercely, and she went, still hesitating and looking back.

      I had hauled off his coat and waistcoat, so I let him sink again into stupidity while I took off my boots. Then I got him to his feet, and, walking behind him, impelled him slowly upstairs. I lit a candle in his bedroom. There was no sound from the other rooms. So I undressed him, and got him in bed at last, somehow. I covered him up and put over him the calfskin rug, because the night was cold. Almost immediately he began to breathe heavily. I dragged him over to his side, and pillowed his head comfortably. He looked like a tired boy, asleep.

      I stood still, now I felt myself alone, and looked round.

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