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Chapters 38 to 40 · The Golden Arrow

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Chapter thirty eight to forty of the Golden Arrow by Mary Webb. This LibriVox
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recording is in the public domain. Read by Anne Ericson Toronto, chapter thirty
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eight. On Saturday afternoon, Lily called for Deborah, as it was only
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a little further to come this way from sleep to the clays. She came
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too early, in the hope of seeing Stephen. She and Deborah went arm
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in arm along the ridge, past the brown foxglove stalks, which rustled stealthily
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in the wind, down the wide bare pastures, through the dark larch spinny,
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and into Nancy's garden, now dank and full of stagnant aromatic scent.
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The yellow afternoon sunlight of mid October struck flat on the drawn red curtains of
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the kitchen, and the hills of slag white without purity. When they knocked,
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Nancy looked from the upper window, Oh, it's you. You can
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come in. Bolt the door after you. They entered the hot, dark
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kitchen, and Lily clutched Deborah's arm and now, my pretty, what can
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I do for you? Nancy inquired of Lily, who appeared likely to be
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the best customer, being more malleable than Deborah, Ay, ay, quite
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private will be. You come along upstairs, one at a time, and
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there's the word of God for the other to pass the time with bound in
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Morocca, without money and without price. For I got it off in a
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raffle, so I did. From above. The muffled sound of their voices
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came down to Deborah as she sat and looked at a text made of cut
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whiskey corks on the opposite wall. The room was so close that she wished
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Lily would be quick, and half thought of going without seeing Nancy. At
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last they came down, Lily scared and pale, Nancy brisk. Now that'll
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be five shillings, my pretty, she said, and that's counting the stuff
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you'll take home. And now for you, my dear. When they had
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gone, Lily looked round the kitchen, found a half pound bag of lump
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sugar and began to crunch it. Oh ay, said Nancy. When Deborah
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had talked to a while, it's as plain as sin the family way.
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Deborah thanked her radiant and rose to go immediately, very much to Nancy's dissatisfaction.
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The one downstairs is a sensible girl, she said, and you're a
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softie, she whispered in Deborah's ear. No, said Deborah flatly. She
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went down. Nancy turned her attention to Lily, and you'll come again next
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week, she coaxed. And when you've took that stuff and some more,
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you'll not be so whissen faced. Thank you, said Lily faintly. Dunna
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you take it, leave it here, Deborah cautioned her. Nancy was much
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annoyed. It'll be five shillings for you without the stuff, and you'll be
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worser and worser and worser afore you're better, and you'll wish you'd come to
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old Nancy, she remarked. Deborah paid her and they went out, leaving
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her muttering soft vituperations. Well, Lily, Deborah said, I'm thinking it's
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maybe the same kind of gladsome day for both of us. Gladsome. Miserable,
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I call it not. It's miserable if you and your man's fond of
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each other, and if you're in a living alone of him, a disgrace
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everybody. Dunna have such queer ideas as you, Lily replied, rather nettled.
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Whatever will Stephen say after what he told Joe? She added, spitefully,
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Stephen will say what's right to be said. The picture of Stephen thus
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conjured was attractive to Lily. How romantic to be married to Stephen. But
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there she must make the best of things. What'll Joe say, asked Deborah,
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kindly mighty pleased, he'll be They allus tell their husbands and whispers,
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and the novelettes donne they deb and then the husband says, ah, my
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deav or summat, and the writer says the rest too sacred. Along of
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him, not being able to think of any more to put, she wondered
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what Joe would say to be like the heroine of a novelette. Would be
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pleasant to hear Joe say, ah, my love would have a thrill of
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newness in it. Yes, she thought she would tell him, not as
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I'm going to have a brat, she cogitated, being as Nancy so clever.
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But I can easy tell him afterwards as I was mistook. She looked
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at Deborah rather wistfully. Stephen had say my dove, certain sure deb that
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he never would. Lily was taking away some of the glamorous atmosphere that had
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lain on all things for the past half hour, that had swept away every
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thought and left only a flood of light. The reminder of what Stephen had
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said only a few weeks ago disturbed her. She had meant on reaching home
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to go and put on the very colored dress, and then sitting in the
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rosy firelight with Stephen's hand in hers, to ring him with simple words into
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the light where she now dwelt. She had thought that there would be a
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long silence as bits of charred stick fell softly into the white ash under the
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grate, and the soup bubbled on the fire. No, she was not
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sure if she had better say anything. She must wait until just the right
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moment, For as Stephen received her news cherlishly, it would be too terrible.
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She quickened her pace. She was so longing to know if he would
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be in the right mood. Come a bit of the way with me,
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dab lily remembered. The shortest way down Cold Harrow Lane was lonely. I
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wanted to get back, said Deborah or Stephen. I'll be back afore me.
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You're soft about that chap. Can't a man be left a minute and
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get his own tea? Stephen's not a man, he's my man, and
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he's my lad and my friend. Deborah's voice shook a little with suppressed emotion.
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She searched for a way of making Lily understand and the lover of my
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soul, she concluded, that's blasphemy, Deborah, it's a hymn if you're
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man in the lover of your soul, said Deborah, as she went with
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great self sacrifice down the lane with Lily. You've missed the honey and only
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got the empty comb, empty nonsense. I'd lieve her a man was in
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love with me in the old fashioned way, it's a deal more exciting.
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It's a deal more exciting my way, insisted Deborah. For it's only when
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a man's the lover of your soul and wants you so as he's nigh beside
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himself as you're is a woman, right and true. I'm thinking it's only
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then, as you've a right to be called his wife and sleep along of
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him. You talk very indecent, Deborah, to my thinking it in a
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talking straight that's indecent. It's smiling and sneakering and coloring up over things.
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Lily remembered that she must be pleasant or Deborah might turn back. Lucy colors
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up awful and chapel. If there's anything about births and that nasty minded thing,
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she said, it's queer that folk never blush about dying, said Deborah,
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amused. It's a deal more indecent than being born. Would you keep
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this hat of mine all green if it was yours, inquired Lily, who
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had become bored during the last remark, or put some red on for the
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winter? Aye? A nice warm color is red, very red. It
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donnat suit you, deb said Lily, who had seen him been annoyed by
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Deborah's unusual and successful daring. Stephen likes it, so I dunna mind you
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think of never a mortal thing, but that chap of course, selfishness I
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call it. Lily, being a past mistress in the art of selfishness,
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felt qualified to judge. Deborah was amused. Selfish folk our focus do things
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for others, except Lily arden I suppose I always thought selfishness was thinking of
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yourself. And I'm that busy thinking of Stephen that I canna night and day.
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There's no rest but doing things for Stephen, and not but fears when
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he's away. What a miserable life that hit Inna. But if it was
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I'd sooner be miserable and have Stephen than be happy and not have him.
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Seems to me loving's like the golden arrow, bright and sharp, and him
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that finds it'll keep it against the world. There's not a many do find
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it such softness going hunting for old arrows. Well, I mind, you
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as used to be glad enough of an excuse to go along of a chap
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on palm Sunday and look for the arrow, But you never found it.
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I want a looking for it, and I found it. Well, good
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night, lily, I'll be turning now, take care the arrow den.
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A prick lily called after her acidly. Deborah hurried home up the dim lane,
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where ghostly honeysuckle waved long tentacles against the cloudy sky, and along the
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dark ridges, where ever moaning winds were deepening their lament. She felt that
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it was all wrong to be unselfish to others at Stephen's expense. If she
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didn't put him first, who would. It was dreadful that he should have
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to wait outside with no tea ready. She almost ran home. When she
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arrived, all was dark and silent. Before she reached the cottage, she
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thought she heard Stephen's voice somewhere near the chair. She called, but there
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was no reply. Then before she had time to call again, there was
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a tremendous explosion and the rattle of falling rocks from the Devil's chair. She
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was frozen with fear. Then with a cry of Stephen, she began to
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run uphill, straight towards the terror, all fear gone from her Chapter thirty
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nine. Down at the mine. That morning, Stephen had heard a thrush
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sing above a bed of early autumn violets in the manager's garden. He had
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gone for some order sheets while the manager was at breakfast, and while he
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waited the thresh plate on his arch in the yellow, wistful light, the
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idea of death, which every day of autumn had seemed to voice more insistently,
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which had haunted him since he had been flooded with the sense of nothingness,
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fled for a moment before the bird's voice, Stephen suddenly knew why he
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loved lights, color, spring song, Why men built themselves warm houses and
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planted orchards, Why women made their windows bright with geraniums and clean muslin.
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Why mothers delighted in their babies and young men delighted in football and the zest
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of love. It was because all these things kept away the idea of death,
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the knowledge of future intimacy with it, because they built up around the
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fleeting moment, the sapphire walls of immortality. Stephen did not put it in
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this way, but he remembered how he used to feel sometimes on a holiday,
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when he and a friend would come on some long to an inn at
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nightfall, and would sit there in the comfortable firelight, with a sense of
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leisure and rest at home for the moment, and a kind of timeless glow,
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quite forgetting the coming journey in the dark. So the thrush and Deborah's
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kitchen and young leaves and a gallop made him feel he stood tranced listening to
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the sad, tentative music the aftermath of spring. Then it snapped, as
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the bird's life might snap before another spring, and only some rusty oak leaves
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fell on the apple green violet bed with its few purple buds. Stephen woke
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again to a gray world and the voice of the manager, who was talking
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more pompously than usual because his mouth was full of bread and bacon. That
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evening, Stephen went home faster than ever in the woods, no color lived
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but the sad green of the pines. The tongues of fire that streamed up
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the hills when all the larchers were golden, were now almost extinct. At
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the gate, he looked up, there was no light. The cottage looked
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little more than one of the strewn rocks. From so far down above,
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like a fortress. On the bleak sky loomed the chair, an expectant,
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imperturbable sinister. Stephen loathed it. He knew all about quartzite and its enduring
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nature. He knew that for thousands of years the chair had fronted everlastingness,
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while men dive like flies, and would front it and partake a little in
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its quality for thousands more. After he himself was dead. He wanted to
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partake of everlastingness himself. Was he not better than a mass of quartzite that
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he could reduce to powder? In the rock crusher? Yet there stood the
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rock, smooth, weather proof, ancient, with an age that no other
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strata for hundreds of miles had attained. It was harder than steel, impervious
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to fire. It kept in its dark heart secrets of porphyrite and silver.
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The shapes of the bits of sky that shone here and there through windows made
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by the laying of one rock against two others had not altered by more than
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action. Since the Roman's mind at the clays, such pieces as sometimes broke
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off and crashed down the slope were only compared with the pile like marbles dropped
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from a palace window. The hills all round, especially the common sandstone,
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were being worn away, but this wore so slowly that many centuries would do
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no perceptible work on it. All the way home, in the midst of
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wondering why Deborah had not lit up, he stared at it with the fascination
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of horror, and the craftsman in him, the practical manual worker, grew
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enraged that mere rock should have any power over him. He forgot that material
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conquest usually means spiritual defeat. If only I'd got it down at the mine,
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he said to himself, and felt desperate when he remembered what a span
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of time would be cut from his life before any appreciable portion of it was
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destroyed. It was not for him, he felt, to lay low such
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a monument of years, It seemed to him, rather as he looked up
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at it, as if it were a huge, smooth, doomed table on
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which the death day of every man in the plain and on the hills was
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engraved, his own with them. The idea would probably have struck him as
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ridiculous in daylight or when he was with other men. But those that have
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dwelt in the majestic reserve of wild places, intolerable to natures that have not
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as yet found themselves, and being the peace passing understanding to people like John,
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will know that intuitions come there which cities call madness or genius. Stephen
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had, through a curiously time mixture of circumstances, fallen from the surface of
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life into the foundations. He awoke in dark, hard reality, loneliness made
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a mist around him. He stumbled on in the dying light with bent head
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and clouded youth, to all appearance of vigorous saying, though labor tired man
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going home to his well earned rest. But in reality he was one of
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the few on whom has come the ageless, brain rackingness necessity to look into
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pain, evil death, and the deserts beyond death for himself with his own
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eyes, not through the safe and rather misty glass of ready made dogmas or
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legends. What would happen to him? None could tell. But some change
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as vast and mysterious as the metamorphosis of sandstone into quartzight, must come upon
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him. He would find in the advancing gloom on the appointed day, either
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madness or God. He might run away from the place where these things had
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come upon him, but he did not know that the things were no longer
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dependent on the place. He thought of Deborah. She seemed to belong to
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this country of mountains. He could not imagine her anywhere else. He could
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not leave her, Yet, how could he stay here in hell? He
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rounded the last shoulder with his usual sensation of pushing everything back with both hands
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and fighting his way to the door that meant refuge. It always stood open
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to welcome him, making a gold and patch. In the dusk to night,
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it was indistinguishable. There was no light. He quickened his pace.
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Every hound and the kennels of despair was on his track. He felt every
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black bat of horror in his brain was astir with leathern wrestling. But once
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inside he came to the door, it was shut and locked. No one
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replied to his knocking. He set his shoulder to it, and pushed,
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set his teeth and flung himself against it. The stout hinges gave at last
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he got in. When he had searched, he sat down on the stairs,
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and a kind of stupor. Deborah had failed him. No matter of
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fact, explanation occurred to him. He was too much strung up for that.
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He sat there until the silence of the cottage maddened him. He went
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out, and the chair confronted him. If Deborah had been to him all
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that he was to her, strength and peace would have come to him from
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their perfect communion even in absence. But his love for her was as yet
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small and bounded. It had little kinship with the infinities. When she called
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him the lover of her soul, and included in that phrase all that a
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man can be to a woman, she was wrong, for although he was
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of the few to whom this is possible, he did not yet and might
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never love in so godlike a way. The intensity of his desire for her
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was simply the passion of an eager nature for one of the most beautiful things
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in the material world a woman's body, but the fierce, indestructible, white
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hot passion which desires the body because of the beauty at seas, and the
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soul was not yet his. Therefore, when her presence was withdrawn, she
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became non existent to him. Now, for the first time, the thought
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of flight began to take definite shape in his mind. He saw Deborah in
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one scale and freedom in the other. He had not allowed himself to think
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during the past weeks what life would be away from this place. Now he
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began to do so. He thought of the sea of countries, where color
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riotous, of all the scintillating world of adventure and forgetfulness. Then he remembered
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what Deborah had said of absence, and sickened at the thought. He looked
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up at the chair. Damn you, he shouted. I can neither go
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nor stay. And you know it, you know the whole hateful business.
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He broke off. There's nothing there, he whispered, I'm talking to an
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empty chair. He went into the house again, but he could not rest.
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If I go on like this, he said, with the pathos of
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the common phrase and the tragic moment, I shall go off my nut.
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An idea occurred to him. He went out to the woodhouse and brought from
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a safe fighting place a small cartridge of dynamite. He had brought it one
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day to show Deborah, and in the stress of his thoughts lately he had
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forgotten it. I'll blow the old rocking chair sky high, he said to
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himself, and see how it'll look. Then something practical to do. Put
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new heart into him. He climbed towards the chair at the back of his
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mind so shamefacedly hidden that he did not even own it to himself. Was
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a curious new hope. What if some presence, however, evil, did
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really lurk there, as some people imagined. He wished that it might be
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true, for it was the chair's emptiness, the impersonal element in the world
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that overcame him. He thought, well, if he throws stones into a
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lion's den, you find the lion. The primitive element, the underlying superstition
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of the human mind, came to the surface in Stephen. He went,
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as the first sentient man might have gone, to wake and brave the unknown
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gods. He told himself that he was only going to knock the old chair
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to blazes because it had annoyed him, But the other reason was the true
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one. He clambered up the rock and chose a crevice for the cartridge at
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a point which he judged to be the extreme end of one of the arms
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seen from a distance. He packed in the charge and tamped it with powdered
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soil and small stones. His height was dwarfed by the rocks, so that
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he moved under the dark clouds like an aunt on the face of the mountain,
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and the rocks stood up in ironical massiveness above his impotence. He climbered
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down some way and lit a match. Now we'll see if you're ever lasting,
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he said, and, stretching up, lit the fuse and ran over
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the rocks. Oh, Stephen, whatever's been doing, cried Deborah as they
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met. You've not hurt it hurt, of course not. I was only
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putting that dynamite charge out of harm's way. Deb From the hilltop, where
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they had been wheeling and alighting since the explosion, a covey of grouse rose
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with their mocking, staccato laugh. Let's go in, said Stephen. Those
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birds are devilish. Wherever have you been to get a two or three things
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at the clays. I'd be so sorry to be late, Stephen. She
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judged that her news must wait, and in her present need of sympathy and
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the communication of her joy, she thought she would go across to her mother's
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On Monday. Stephen said no more about his doings, but in the morning,
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as soon as it began to grow light, went to the window.
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The chair stood exactly as it had always done. He could not detect even
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a nick in it from this distance. All his trouble had not altered it
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in the least. When he went later to investigate, he found that although
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he had dislodged quite as much rock as he could expect, he had made
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little more difference in its appearance than a woodpecker makes to the tree on which
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he hammers. Superstitious tremors began to make themselves felt in Stephen's nerves, and
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because he had neither Deborah's naturalism, nor John's deep pantheistic Christianity, nor Joe's
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stolidity, nor the indifference of a shallow nature, he had nothing with which
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to combat them. Chapter forty. On Monday, when Joe came back from
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work, Lily planned her novelette scene. She had spent the day in visits
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to the cupboard where she had hidden Nancy's bottle. She had taken the cork
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out, smelt it, and returned it to the cupboard. It was doubtful
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if she would ever take any for she was one for whom future evils pale
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before present discomforts. She always took the way of least resistance. Well,
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Lil, said Joe, halfway through tea, what ails you? You're like
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a duck in thunder. Lily was offended. It took the rest of tea
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for her to recover her dignity. When they had cleared away and were sitting
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by the fire, Joe smoking with a sense of great well being, Lily
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thought the moment propitious. She whispered, well, said Joe, all in
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a beam, and without the faintest tincture of novelette. To show his delight.
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He became arch in the customary manner of the countryside. I could have
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told you that he said it was too much for Lily, a duck in
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thunder, And I could have told you that where was the romance? Where
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was the ah, my dove? She bounced off his knee and began to
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cry. There there, Lil, what's tookie, asked Joe, feeling rather
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like a duck in thunder himself, and that's all you say, cried Lily,
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vehemently. And much you care, selfish beast, you be all I've
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got to go through a never word of thanks nor anything. She quite forgotten
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her interest in the pose that she did not intend to go through anything.
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Now, Lile said, Joe, you know I'd leave her go through it
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for you. There's no I wouldn't go through to keep you from sorrow.
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That's only talk. They'll you've no call to say that it's in O my
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fault, the way the world's made. Lily took no notice, And there
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I'll be. She went on on, rising accents, groaning and clutching the
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bed post. To me be going mad with it all. Stop it,
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Lily shouted Joe miserably. And you sitting there and smoking by fire as pleased
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as punch. Oh, Lily, you'll drive me crazy. Dunno, you
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know, as there's no torment I wouldn't go through for you. Prove it.
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Then Joe looked round the kitchen slowly. He was always slow. Then
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he rose and put the poker carefully between the bars of the grate. What's
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that for, Joe? Never you mind? He watched it Redden and whiten
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then he took it out. Now, Lil, he said, I will
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prove it. He slapped the poker down on his hand so that it made
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a wheel across it. Damn, he said, and withdrew it. It
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was beyond human nature to keep it there, but he slapped it down again.
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In a second. Lily watched him, fascinated. He put it in
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the fire again, Lil, he said, I'd be a poor weakling,
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seemingly, and I cannot keep it there. But I'll go on putting it
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there till I've proved what I said to you, and till you've give me
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your promise not to talk like that, for I can't bear it, lil.
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And that's the truth. The sense of power this gave to Lily was
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very sweet. She said nothing. Joe continued his self inflicted torture. He
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was beginning to feel rather queer. Almost think I'll sit me down, he
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said, Do you feel bad? Joe? Something in his face stirred the
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better feelings, and Lily, she ran to him. There she said,
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you've proved it righty now, and where's the oil? And you wantn't talk
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like that? Joe spoke anxiously. He was determined to go on until she
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promised, and he was becoming eager to put the poker away. All right,
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but look at your hand, where's the oil? I'll get it,
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said Joe. Lily rummaged in a drawer for rag. From the doorway.
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Suddenly came Missus Arden's voice. What an awful smell if scorched meat. Dear
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sakes, Joe, what's gone of your hand? Lily observed with horror that
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Joe had brought Nancy's bottle instead of the oil. That ain't oil, said
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Missus Arden, sniffing it and looking at Lily. I'll fetch it, she
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said. Joe whispered missus Arden. I've come down that hill as I never
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did afore I might have a word with you before I go back. And
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as for that fling it on the mixen, whatever for? Because I say
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so? Taken to it now, But it's somewhat to Lili's. It seems
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queer to break Lily's bottles without her leave. When you've heard what I've come
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to tell you, you wanna think so? Joe departed with a semi sullen
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air that he used to wear as a chidden small boy. Well, my
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dear, said Missus Arden. Adroitly when Lily returned in a fluster, So
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I hear there's grand news for me. You'll be thought a do you love
25:18
and sleep I know, and a pretty child it'll be if it's like its
25:22
mother, so it will. And John's got somewhat put by for the eldest
25:25
grandchild. I've brought you somewhat for luck. It's early days, but time
25:29
soon passes. She produced a small lace trimmed gown, Joe's, she announced
25:34
with pride and a consciousness of the impossibility of any one believing her. They're
25:38
putting away my dear for hear him coming lumbering back like cart horses. The
25:44
men be an they. Lily was mollified, pleased, comforted, glad to
25:48
hear Joe spoken of unfavorably, sorry for his hand, delighted with the frock,
25:53
and quite unconscious that missus Arden knew anything. Muchever, she bound up
25:59
the hand. Well, you'll be a great baby, said missus Arden,
26:03
burning yourself as if you want to. Useless enough already, Joe was silent
26:07
as dark eyes full of dumb eloquence, sought Lilies. As she tied up
26:11
his burn unskillfully, lil he whispered as Missus Arden poked the fire kiss a
26:17
kiss, Lily gave it silently. Come and send me, Joe, said,
26:22
Missus Arden. Maybe Lily wants me, replied Joe, looking at Lily
26:26
longingly. Now you leave Lily to a bit of rest. Always hang around
26:30
the men are lil She carried her point. And the long short of it
26:34
is, she said, after talking to Joe without stopping for ten minutes,
26:38
as if you'd done a look out. There's no knowin what'll come to pass.
26:42
Joe was dazed, but surely, he said, Nancy had never dare,
26:48
and Lily'd never have the heart. That's a kind of goods. Lily
26:52
donna keep no more than her father mother. What you mun keep your tongue
26:59
offen, Lily, Oh, you'm no mother of mine. Your mother I
27:03
be, and ever shall be or iled without end. Most the pity's ah,
27:07
I but I like you all the better for it, lad And your
27:10
father'd have said the same. But the truth is Lily's one of the poor
27:14
in spirit. Mother. Well, I only called it what's supposed to be
27:18
a great thing in the Bible. But she said to me, listen to
27:22
the gobby. What's it matter? What she said, Joe groaned, I
27:26
cannot believe she'd tell lies to me. He suddenly flared up. Deb's a
27:32
tell tale, dab's no tell tale. She only said innocent, like as
27:36
they'd been to Nancy's. And I came down all in a fluster to find
27:40
out. And there was the bottle in mistake for the oil. Joe looked
27:44
at his hand. It came over him slowly that Lily had let him burn
27:48
it to show his sympathy with pain which she never intended to undergo. She
27:52
had played with him. Well, I be damned, he said, so
27:56
suddenly that his mother jumped. She the concentrated passion on his face as she
28:03
stood on tiptoe for him to kiss her. If you mangered when you're talking
28:07
to her, lad, she said, mind you of your wedding night.
28:11
The mention of his wedding night was unfortunate. The irony of things pressed on
28:15
him. He went home with long strides. Lily, he called. She
28:21
came bright eyed from some of her favorite literature. What were you doing with
28:25
Nancy's bottle? How do you know it was? Nancy's done a bandy words
28:30
with me them as has knocked about the earl like me knows about such as
28:33
Nancy. It's not but rhubarb. I'll learn you to lie to me,
28:38
shouted Joe. And I want to know the meaning of you letting me grill
28:41
my hand like a rasher when you meant all the while what you did mean?
28:47
I didn't mean anything, said Lily, with some truth, for she
28:49
never did. I'll learn you, said Joe, in a towering rage,
28:55
to come kissing of me and whispering to me, to make me the gladsomest
29:00
man in sleep, and all the while you're a damned lying woman, Oh
29:03
Joe, cried Lily, terrified. Did I or dinner say all or nothing?
29:08
Queried Joe. I and what did you say? Oh? Well,
29:14
all it shall be. He slapped his burnt hand on the table and was
29:18
silent with surprise at the pain. Now, he went on, practically,
29:22
you promised me never to take no more of Nancy's stuff, and never to
29:26
tell no more lies. Lily looked up in her distress and her flickering love
29:30
for him, which always burned higher when he was angry. The shallowness of
29:34
her face was momentarily obscured. She was almost beautiful. Joe looked at her
29:41
and was pacified in his own despite dunner. You want to have little un
29:45
sitting around with their mugs, he asked, No, Lily spoke in a
29:52
heartfelt tone. She was thinking of washing the mugs. Well, I'm anyway,
29:56
you mun promise. Lily did so, some relief as she thought of
30:00
the unpleasant smell of the bottle. Joe melted. Look here, little un,
30:04
he said, if you'll go on nice and proper this time, he
30:08
drew a deep breath, I'll let you off in the other five. I
30:12
thought to have six, he added, regretfully, seeing his dream picture fading.
30:18
Was it for you to think without asking me? Said Lily, pertinently
30:22
but ungratefully. I dun'no, And was it for you? She continued,
30:26
seizing her advantage to go and talk to that Stephen about it, and not
30:30
to me. Not. But what's Stephen's a fine chap and taller than you.
30:34
Joe was dumbfounded, So you knowed as I wanted six? Of course,
30:41
duty to king and country, not to speak of yourself. Joe flushed.
30:45
I suppose it might have seemed queer like I'm right, sorry, Lil
30:49
Lil thought that this was much better. I'm awful fond of you, Lil,
30:53
And I'll do the work for you evenings when I get back and borrow
30:56
whitefoot to go drives and by the locket, and by the locket by hook
31:03
or by crook, said Joe recklessly. Only no games, Lil, and
31:07
I'll stick to what I said. Lily never even saw the genuine, hard
31:11
won, unselfishness of this. Joe stroked her hair. What'll I be this
31:18
time next year, Lil, he whispered A donkey, said Lily, whose
31:22
spirits had risen at the hope of the drives on the locket. Gives a
31:26
kiss, said Joe, who was tired with unwonted emotion, but happy because
31:30
in some mysterious way Lily was dearer than ever before. Lily was happy,
31:34
also, but quite untired, for emotion had as little effect on her as
31:40
rain on a plant under glass. Neither breaking nor renewing, neither Lily nor
31:45
Joe, nor Nancy nor missus Arden noticed that their respective weakness, doggedness,
31:51
lack of principle, plethora of principle, tragedy and comedy had left things just
31:56
as they were, that with their will or without it, the courses of
32:00
life flowed on to their undreamed of endings from their mysterious source, end of chapter forty