Finn would have arrived at the byre a little before Roddie had he not been deflected from the river path by a sudden desire to cross over the knoll of the House of Peace. He had always been slightly ashamed of the impious visit under the influence of drink, and to-night, because he was feeling so happy after his highly successful Dale trip (the drover had been there the second night, and asked, “Are the days of Finn MacCoul coming back upon us?”) he wanted to be at peace with the world, even the other world. To have shouted “Come forth!” would have been such bad manners. The thought of it more than once had made his sensitiveness wriggle. But he had not shouted it, and he was convinced now that it was not fear altogether that had kept him silent, but consideration for the figure he had once imagined there.
In the usual spot, by the little flat stone circle, he sat down and looked about him. The natural tiredness of the body after the long walk disposed him to pleasant ease. And, besides, there was this odd feeling of fulfilment in the simple fact of being back home. Here was a difference not merely in the stones and the trees and the shape of the ground but in some influence that came out of them, old and friendly and known. At no hour was this experienced so much as at the approach of the twilight, when a tenuous darkness came into the light and made grey rock or autumn-tinted leaves glow faintly as from an inner radiance. The robin’s song was full of impersonal reflection. Above the rising broken rocks across the little gully, a rowan-tree hung with its load of brilliant berries. From his pocket he took and examined the sprig he had brought with him from Kildonan. The tiny stems had gone soft, but the berries themselves had not wilted. It was a curious present to bring back to his mother. He smiled but put the berries carefully back in his pocket, seeing Ronnie’s point now. They were quite valueless, and it seemed to him amusing that they yet could convey something. But they did, and he would produce them with a smile. Precisely how? Would he mention Ronnie? No. In an offhand way, as if he were discovering them in his pocket….
He got up, went down through the birches, and walked across the little field. He had not let the “Come forth!” incident even enter his mind, but he now knew that it was washed out—as if one existed here not in words or even in silent thoughts but in states of mind. Not that he worked it out clearly, or worked it out at all. The mind was in a new condition and the eyes glimmered.
The two long pools, the Steep Wood, the wall that his trumpet had shattered, and now the rising slopes, the roof, his home. His heart began to beat. His mother would come rushing out. It’s a wonder she wasn’t on the watch! How unsuspecting the house was of his near presence! He would approach quietly. There was Bran—ah, now he had seen him. Bark! bark! They met at the byre door, and he spoke in a loud voice which his mother could hear in the kitchen. She couldn’t be in. And she wasn’t. The kitchen was empty. At once he turned out again—and there were Roddie and herself at the byre door.
In a very short moment of time Finn’s mind was invaded by a shattering tale of action that had had a, beginning, a middle, and now an end. Their faces, looking towards him, their arrested bodies, cried the story aloud in that small moment. And when, above it, his mother cried “Finn!” and came towards him carrying the milk-pail, with an exaggerated eagerness, a hurrying trepidation, he stood still, his mind scattered, smiling awkwardly.
Roddie slowly followed her.
“Oh, Finn, how are you?” she cried, her eyes glancing. She looked confused, but eager for him. He had taken her at a disadvantage but—but—that was all, was what her manner was crying out. “You must be famishing. Come away in and get some food,” and she made to bustle in at the door. But Roddie was still there.
“Perhaps,” said Roddie, “I’d better be getting home. You had a good trip?”
“Yes,” answered Finn, not looking at him.
“Come away in,” Catrine cried eagerly to Finn, cutting Roddie away from them.
“Don’t you think——” began Roddie; but she interrupted him, as though she had not heard him, crying over her shoulder, “We’ll be seeing you soon.”
Finn followed her and, after standing a moment, Roddie walked away.
In the kitchen, she bustled about, getting food ready. “I’ve been watching for you ever since last night.” She talked without looking at Finn as she hurried, talked quickly. “And how are they all?”
“They’re all right.”
“And had you a good time?”
“Yes.”
“I missed you this time a lot. The house felt quite empty. For the two nights I could hardly sleep. I was frightened!” Her hurried voice was laughing. “No-one came near me until Roddie looked in at the milking to-night.”
“What did Roddie want to say?”
“When?”
“Just now, when you stopped him.”
“Want to say?” She stood and glanced at him, as if hitherto unaware of his cold peculiar manner. “I didn’t notice he wanted to say anything.”
“Finn, what do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said.
“You must mean something. I don’t think that’s right.” She was bustling about again. “I don’t know what’s come between you and Roddie. But—but—you make me feel awkward. And I was so looking forward to you coming home.” Her voice had risen in distress.
He did not speak, but stood staring at the patch of window, with a gloomy mocking expression on his face. Through her distress, she glanced at him acutely.
But Finn could not help himself. His brain felt dull as if it had been struck a heavy blow. What he wanted to do was to walk out and leave her. She was acting, lying, trying to get round him, to smooth things over. Something had happened. She was hiding it. She was all strung up. Why had they taken so long to come to the byre door?
“Here’s your supper.” Her voice was calmer. He felt the quiet desperation in it. The blame was falling on him. He did not want his supper. If he would not speak to her, she would not speak to him now. This could not be borne. He stirred, putting his hands negligently in his pockets. The right hand pulled forth the sprig of rowan-berries from Kildonan. He regarded them on his palm with a slow sarcasm, then pitched them towards the fire, but with a physical indifference that let them fall short, an indifference that yet had in it an odd perversity, as though he would not quite destroy them, but must let them be seen.
He was aware, too, that his mother was watching him, for there had come an extraordinary stillness upon the kitchen. But he could not turn and look at her now. All at once an element of fear touched him and he swung round. Her eyes were on the berries, her face death-pale, her lips apart, her fingers against her breast like claws. She collapsed so suddenly that she fell her length before he could stir a foot to save her. She hit the floor with a solid thump, and lay with the crown of her head a couple of inches from the sharp edge of the hearthstone.
Finn had never seen anyone faint before, and now got into a state of extreme anxiety. “Mother! Mother!” he cried sharply, on his knees beside her, shaking her. He touched her face. It was death-cold. She had stopped breathing. When he lifted her head and shoulders against him, the head rolled away and the arms slumped. Was she dead?
“Here, Mother!” he cried into her face. He did not know what to do. He could not leave her and run for a neighbour. His voice broke. He gathered her up against his breast. Would he try to lift her into bed? “Mother! Speak to me!” O God, what would he do? As, beside himself, he began to lift her, getting to his feet, her soft body slid heavily down through his arms. He felt he was choking her and laid her out on her back. Rob had once told a story of how cold water … Before the memory was right born, he dashed for the bucket. His intention was to sprinkle it, but from his cupped hands the cold well water fell in a splash on her face and trickled down her neck. He had done it badly! But as he hung in desperation, he saw her eyelids flicker. Quite suddenly her eyes opened, and stared, and glanced from side to side. She did not know where she was, and in a moment was in a flurry of terror, as if she were being attacked. He tried to soothe her crying, “It’s all right! It’s all right, Mother!”
She grew calmer. “I must have fainted,” she said.
“Yes. Come, and I’ll help you into bed.”
“Wait a minute. I feel strange.” Her smile came strangely. “Did I give you a fright?”
“You did indeed! But look, it will be softer for you in bed.”
Slowly her face turned to the fire. Yes, the berries were there. She began to tremble. Finn put his hands under her armpits and would no longer be denied. His right arm round her waist, he guided her to the bed and heaved her legs in. “Now! You just rest and you’ll be all right,” he said comfortingly.
She lay on her back and closed her eyes.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said brightly. “I’ll go for Shiela. You’ll be all right until——”
Her scared expression stopped him, and he at once assured her he would not go away, but would get her a hot drink.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she implored him in an exhausted voice.
“No, no!”
“Where—where did you get the rowan-berries?”
“I got them in Kildonan. I—I thought you might like to have them from there.”
“Finn.”
“Yes.” He lowered his head towards her weak voice.
“Please leave me for a little.”
“Yes, Mother,” he said at once. “Try and get a little sleep.”
But before leaving the kitchen, he picked up the berries. It was now getting quite dark outside. A surging passion of affection for his mother moved in him. Her death-pallor, her helplessness, had wrung his heart. A profound feeling of responsibility, transcending every other consideration, walked with him. He did not want to be seen; he wanted to hide what had happened from all prying human eyes; and crossing the pasture lands above and to the back of the house, he came among the bushes where his mother used to play hide-and-seek with him when he was a little boy. Down below, the small pools of the burn were grey from the last of the light in the sky.
For a little time he lay without thought, moved only by emotion for his mother. Gradually, however, his mind darkened with the foreshadow of thought. He felt it coming, and began to breathe more quickly. It came in the shape of Roddie, at whom he would not look. But though he avoided looking, because the conflict would be too destructive even inside his own mind, he still apprehended the coming. And now an odd limitation of vision beset him. There was no need for the body to have a head. Headless, it drew near him, dark-clothed, physically rank, imminent, awful, abominable, and in a paroxysm of revulsion and hatred, he slashed and destroyed it.
When the paroxysm had passed, he found his hands smeared with the crushed berries. He wiped away the sticky red stuff on the grass and then, moved by fear lest his mother came upon the crushed mess, he hid it under a bush and covered it up.
After that his expression grew cunning and full of a bitter mockery. But he could not think. Everything stopped on the edge of thought, of apprehension. For he could not penetrate beyond the vision of Roddie and his mother at the byre door. Some ultimate loyalty to the thought of his mother would not let him penetrate.
By the time he went back to the house, he was tired, and weary of his own mind. His mother was up and greeted him quietly. “You must be very hungry.”
“No, not very,” he replied in an indifferent voice.
“Sit in.” She placed his chair.
Presently, she referred to the folk in Dale.
“They are all well,” he answered. “They were asking for you.”
“Were they?”
“Yes.” He knew she wanted details, wanted him to talk. The food was sticking in his throat.
“How is Granny?”
“Fine.”
“And Isebeal?”
“Quite well. I spent the evening there last night.”
“Did you? Were there many in?”
“Yes. The house was full.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Yes; it was all right.”
She did not encroach on him; did not press him. She seemed pleased with the few crumbs of talk.
“I’m feeling tired.” He pushed his chair back. “I think I’ll go to bed. We were late last night.”
“All right, then.”
Once behind his own door, he stood stock still, wishing he could have said something natural and kindly to his mother. But it had been beyond him. He sat down on Kirsty’s chest and began to breathe heavily, as if he could not get enough clean air. His hands were shaking, his chest was restricted, he was beset by an impending darkness of guilt and horror.
*
Next day, Finn and his mother had a quietened attitude to each other, and went about their tasks in a fatalistic manner. Folk behaved so after or before a death—but not with this underlying consciousness of estrangement, of secretiveness. There was a feeling of waiting, of watching, that soon would become intolerable.
Catrine, however, hung on to the mood, playing for time. She must keep Roddie and Finn apart, and allowed this to become an obsession, obscuring her own personal problem, keeping it under, where she need not see it. All day she was in terror lest Roddie appear, and made work in places where she could command his approach.
At their midday meal, they spoke little to each other, but reasonably. Catrine said she would do some herding in the afternoon down by the burn, and Finn thought he would go along to see Henry. They were glad to get away from each other, from the strain of being calm and reasonable.
When Finn disappeared, Catrine lay beside a whin bush and closed her eyes. She would have these few minutes to herself. Blessed minutes, they lapped her about from the grass and the heather, from the spaces beyond men. They came pressing upon her in a soft darkening, pressing on her eyeballs through the lids. When Roddie awoke her, she grew agitated and confused and glanced about half-terrified, pulling her clothes straight.
“Who are you frightened of?” he asked, with that faint humour that could come into his steady eyes.
“I fell asleep,” she answered, flushed in astonishment.
“Didn’t you sleep well last night?”
“Not very.” She hadn’t slept a wink.
“Anything wrong?”
“No oh no.” She was restless, ill at ease in his company, as if she wanted him gone.
“Was Finn a bit difficult?”
She kept looking away. Lack of sleep and involved torturing indecisions made her eyes brilliant, her fair skin very delicate. She bit her lip.
“Catrine,” he said gently, sitting down, “you must tell me.” He was deeply moved by the vivid troubling spirit of life in her.
“I am afraid of Finn,” she said, swallowing.
“How afraid?”
She looked down at her restless hand plucking the grass. “I don’t want you—I want you to keep clear of him. If there was any trouble between you—it would kill me.”
“But why should there be any trouble?”
“He’s young. I’m his mother. Oh, Roddie, promise me!” And she looked swiftly at him.
“All right, Catrine. I won’t cause any trouble.”
“Yes, but—do you understand?” She searched his eyes with a feverish penetration.
“Yes, I understand. Don’t worry about that.” Into his voice had come a cool amusement.
“I don’t want you near the house for—for a little time.”
“You’re wrong. It would be better to get it over. I’ll speak to him myself.”
“No, no; you mustn’t! Promise me!”
“Oh, all right. I don’t mind.” His smile was hardening. “So I’m not to come near the house?”
She could not speak.
“Don’t you want me to come?”
“I don’t think I do!” she cried, and suddenly buried her face in the grass.
“That’s bad,” said Roddie thoughtfully. “You’re upset, I’m afraid. However, there’s one thing you needn’t be frightened of. I have too great a respect for you ever to do anything to Finn. You can keep your mind easy on that score.”
“Oh, I’m glad!” she muttered, and, after she had wiped her eyes, sat up again, deeply confused but brighter and happier than she had yet appeared.
“He’s a lot in your mind, I can see,” said Roddie.
“It’s—it’s difficult to tell you.”
“You needn’t,” said Roddie. “I was on my way to the shore when I saw you lying here, so I thought I’d waken you up for fun. But I must be off.” There was now a penetrating coolness in his light pleasant tone. “I may see you sometime, then. So long!” And he walked off.
Catrine sat quite still for a little while, then suddenly shivered.
She had wanted to cry to Roddie, to get up and call him back so that he would understand, but had been unable to stir a hand. Roddie could not discuss and recriminate. In the pleasantness of his tone had been a bitter anger.
A feeling of intense shame came upon her, of awful, of obliterating shame. Visions would come back. She crushed them into the grass. Everything was wrong. Life was ugly and miserable. She had been so happy with Finn alone.
But behind this emotion her mind was gathering its cunning, which knew neither shame nor bitterness, only the real knowledge of life as it was, of the day as it came. And for the first time she felt in touch with Roddie’s inner mind, with the pride that would stand provocation and not break. She admired it—and was glad to take advantage of it, to save Finn.
*
When the folk had cured their supply of herring for home use through winter and spring, the next excitement was the appearance of schooners to carry the thousands of barrels to the foreign market, mostly the Baltic. They were vessels of about a hundred tons burden, and the sight of one of them anchored in the bay made a truant of every adventurous boy.
Transporting the barrels in the local boats from the beach to the schooner’s side was a merry job, and Finn had lads of his own age with whom to raise a laugh or crack a joke. Occasionally, too, a schooner was well-found in brandy, and brandy was a novelty. When Rob rubbed his beard and admitted judiciously, “Yes, it was a good drop,” and then, on walking away, side-stepped, Callum and Finn rocked with laugher.
“By God, you’re drunk, Rob. What’ll your sister say to you when you get home?”
“Me drunk?” inquired Rob, turning upon Callum with slow care. “It would take more than that to-to-to make me turn a hair.”
“It’s not your hair, Rob; it’s your feet.”
Rob looked down at his feet.
Callum and Finn swayed.
“I know you,” said Rob, offended. “You think you’re a wh-whale of a fellow. Both of you think you’re wh-wh-whales. But I could tell a different story.” He nodded and walked on with a serious air.
Finn could hardly tear himself away from the beach. Because he hated going home, he hung about avid for any amusement or hilarity. Sometimes he grew quite reckless, and was the leader in any ploy where brandy was concerned. He reckoned he knew something about brandy! Three other lads and himself did a bit of secret trading at night, and succeeded in concealing on shore a gallon of fiery cognac.
The sea was his element. “The sea is our salvation,” said George.
“Our worldly salvation,” corrected Finn solemnly.
“It’ll be the only salvation most of you young devils will ever know unless you mend your ways,” retorted George.
“I doubt if it can last,” said one man in a dubious tone.
“Last!” exclaimed George. “I’ve just had the figures from the Fishery officer, for this parish alone, although it’s not all in his jurisdiction.”
That was a cracker of an English word! Their eyes gleamed.
“What figures?”
“The figures for the season just ended. We had 73 boats fishing out of here. We had 94 boats out of Lybster, 30 boats out of Forse, we had 49 boats out of Clyth and 15 out of East Clyth. Altogether we had 305 boats for this parish coast alone. What do you think of that? We had 1,257 fishermen actively engaged; we had about 900 women, and 160 labourers of one kind or another.”
“You wouldn’t count the coopers?”
“And,” continued George, “we had 99 coopers—the only skilled men in the whole business for without them there would be no business at all. A total of 2,400 persons—not counting the 45 fishcurers.”
“Why don’t you count them?”
“Altogether there was cured about 40,000 barrels of herring—and that doesn’t include the 3,000 barrels that must have been cured by all of us for our own use nor the hundreds of barrels that were sold fresh. The average price of the cran here was nine shillings, and the price of the cured barrel was one pound.”
“But what price did the curer get when he sold abroad?”
“That’s his business. Do you grudge it to him?”
“No, och no. We only want to know.”
“And what do you want to know for?” demanded George.
“Just to make sure that the poor man was not out of pocket.”
“Some of you are not worth talking to, upon my word,” cried George against their laughter. “You cannot understand the bigness of what’s happening before your eyes. Even if the curer got two or three pounds a barrel—what would that mean? It would mean that from the coast of this poverty-ridden parish, with its calfie or its stirkie—its calfie or its stirkie,” he repeated derisively, “it would mean that there has been exported—exported, do you understand?” he boomed, “about ₤100,000 worth of fish. About ₤100,000!”
It was an astonishing figure. Its size warmed them. They felt friendly to George. Thier eyes travelled out to sea, while they moved restlessly, prepared for more wonder of the kind. But George now seemed to be on his high horse.
“Ay, but will it last?” asked the man, who had asked it before. He was a small round-shouldered man, inclining to pessimism, with a large wife and a large family of daughters.
“By the look of things, it will last as long as you whatever,” retorted George. There was a smile all round at this thrust, for they wanted a large optimism, not the crofter’s niggardly fear.
“You cannot tell that.”
“Can’t I?” said George. “Believe me, I can tell you a few more things besides. What goes on in your own house through the winter and spring? Do your family spin hemp and make nets or do they not? And if they do, is it found money?”
“I’m not denying that. I never said——”
“No, you wouldn’t. And yours is not the only family nor score of families. What do I do myself, and the whole squad of coopers on the station from now on? We make barrels—and get paid for it. All the thousands of barrels we need are made on this same strip of coast. Last! Will it last? Huh!” barked George. “You can take it from me—it will last as long as we have the spirit to make it last. The spirit!”
A droll voice made the inevitable reference to spirit in a bottle and the pleasant fun increased.
Finn always felt invigorated by George. The sight of the sea brought him out of himself. He did not want to think of his mother and Roddie. He hated to think of them. Going back home was like retreating into a dark silent hole.
So he recounted George’s talk to Henry, “They’re wanting a deck hand on the schooner,” he added lightly.
Henry looked at him. “Thinking of going?” he asked in a quizzing tone.
“You would never think of going, Finn? Surely not!” exclaimed Henry’s wife, with a touch of dismay.
Finn had become very friendly with Henry lately, finding relief in his dry satiric manner and the real ability and generosity underneath it. Henry had three children, with another not far off, and the second boy, Andrew, was Finn’s favourite. His wife was fond of company and Finn could be so gay that he seemed not to have a care in the world. She was always glad to see him about the house.
“Why not?” Finn smiled at her. “It would be fine to see a bit of the world. I would like to go up the Baltic.”
“You’re not serious?”
“I am—unless Henry here falls in with my plans for the cod-fishing.”
“Oh, you and your schemes!” she cried, relieved. “Henry is worse than yourself, I do declare.” She laughed.
And so, in good humour, Firm started out for home. But as he approached the Steep Wood in the gathering dusk, the usual nervous tremoring began to affect him.
It was now nearly a fortnight since the incident that had estranged his mother and himself. For a few days she had left him alone, and he could see she was hoping that time would heal the difference between them. But something was hidden in her mind, something more than the resignation the difficulty demanded, an inner troubling, and now and then she did not seem to care whether he spoke or not.
Sometimes his heart cried out to her, but in a moment there would follow a relentless feeling, a deliberate vindictive pleasure in the thought that she was being hurt. It usually eased the stress on the knot in his mind, but left his mouth bitter.
What he really feared as he came by the Steep Wood was that he might meet Roddie, or might meet both Roddie and his mother in some moment of secret communion, and he did not know how he himself would behave. There was that occasion in the public house in Stornoway when he had lost his head. He did not care to remember its hysteric weakness.
These last few days, too, a change had come over his mother. Her preoccupation with herself had increased. Instead of the gradual re-establishment of the old relationship, there was suddenly a deepening of the existing trouble. He had seen this in Roddie too; a gathering of him inwardly into a relentless strength.
As he came up to the dry-stone wall, he heard his mother’s voice cry out, beyond, amid the salleys by the stream. It was a strange, sharp, heart-wrung cry. Roddie’s head and back appeared. He had Catrine in his arms, bearing her lightly, and he was laughing.
Over Roddie’s shoulder, Catrine saw Finn. She was borne several steps in Roddie’s triumph, before she could cry to him to let her down. She struggled violently. “It’s Finn.” He set her on her feet and turned round.
Finn was standing motionless behind the wall, his face white. There must have been something uncanny about his head and shoulders, of the nature of an apparition, to Catrine, for her voice, breaking in distress, emitted half-whining sounds.
“All right,” said Roddie coolly. “We’ll tell him now.”
Finn’s face turned away, and in a few steps his head sank below the top of the wall, and he was walking down the burnside. Roddie’s voice cried to him sharply, but he did not rightly hear it and continued on his way.
In a wood of small birches, he lay until it was quite dark. Occasional spasms of violence forced his fingers into the earth and contorted his body, but they were formless and without any conscious cause. For the most part he lay in a quiescent state, and more than once a queer ultimate sensation of solitariness touched him.
In the star-lit darkness, he could walk anywhere without fear of being met, for most people were afraid of what might be encountered in the dark.
There were two ceilidh-houses where folk gathered at night. Outside one of them, Finn listened to the singing of a traditional song, until he could no longer bear it. Then he drifted away. At various places he appeared, and had anyone seen him drifting away voiceless they would have said it was his wraith. Out of the moor, miles distant, he came down on Una’s house and from a hundred paces stood looking at the glimmer of light in its little window.
He went up to the window on quiet feet. The slip of blind had not been drawn, for busy folk used all the daylight they could get, and in the slow change to the peat light would sometimes forget the blind altogether. There was a young woman with her back to him, sitting on a small stool just beyond the fire, making a net. Her right hand was extremely dexterous and the white bone needle flew out and in. The mother was spinning and humming. Duncan, Una’s brother, was helping his father to make a heather rope. There were others, but Finn could not take his eyes off this stranger, this dark young woman with her hair up. All at once, she turned her head over her shoulder and looked at the window. It was Una. He saw her eyes open, her expression grow rigid in terror, and at once he tip-toed away. A dog barked.
Surely she could not have seen him! But he knew by her expression that she had seen something.
When a young woman hears her name called from outside at night and no-one else hears it—and there is no-one outside—it is a sign of her near death.
But he had not called her name. She would think it was his wraith!
From the land, he turned at last to the sea and appeared among the looming bows of the boats drawn up over the ridge of the beach. He leaned against one of them for a while, then, going down into the mouth of the river, unfastened a small boat, slid her as noiselessly as he could into the water, and began to row out towards the schooner.
When he drew quite near, the man on watch cried, “Hullo, there!”
“Hullo,” answered Finn.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me. I heard——”
“Who are ye?”
“I’m a fisherman. I heard you were wanting a sailor.”
“Oh, is that it? Well, ye’re too late, my lad. A young fellow signed on this evening.”
Finn sat quite still. The man spoke again, but he did not answer.
“Hullo down there?”
“Hullo,” answered Finn. “You don’t want anybody then?”
“No. Ye’re a bit slow, my lad.”
“Thank you,” said Finn, and he rowed away.
The small boat was old and heavy and altogether beyond Finn’s power to haul up the steep slope. He hunted about for wooden rollers and when he had got her three-quarters out of the water he fastened her short painter to a boulder. The tide was making but had still some three hours to flow. After he had stood for a while in the windless night by the sea, he began to shiver with the cold, and, going up among the boats, climbed into one and huddled up on the planking between two timbers.
That the schooner had been unable to take him deepened his misery, but somehow now he did not greatly care and closed his eyes in a weariness beyond thought. Every now and then, however, he found himself regarding figures with an extreme clarity. His mother’s heavy elderly body—so it struck him—in Roddie’s arms, with Roddie’s laugh, the laugh that could harden into a cackle, like a gull’s, the whole action had for him elements of the obscene. The revulsion blotted out the picture. Una did not trouble him much. She was Jim’s “armful”. Obscene enough, too. Suddenly there were footsteps and low voices—of two men, who came and stood on the other side of the planking. They talked for half an hour and revealed to Finn a harrowing story of secret family trouble. Finn knew the family, and wouldn’t have believed the story possible. “For God’s sake, never by word or look …” The footsteps died away.
After a time, Finn went to the small boat and found her afloat and wet his arms to the shoulders getting the painter off the boulder. When at last the tide was full in and he had made her fast, he turned for home. As he approached the house, the old trepidation beset him, but now his mother would be in bed for it must be three o’clock. All at once he stood still, unable to move, for he imagined Roddie and his mother sitting by the fire, waiting for him. It was an extremely strong visualization, and may have been prompted by an instinctive knowledge of how Roddie would act. And indeed Catrine had had great difficulty some hours before in getting Roddie to see the wisdom of his going home. Finn approached the blinded window quietly and listened. The fire was not smoored and there were no voices. The silence affected him in an appalling way, and he had the desperate sensation of pushing noisily against it, slowly, in at the door, and into the kitchen.
His mother rose from her stool and saw him glance about the kitchen.
“You’re late,” she said quietly.
“Am I?”
“Would you like something?”
He did not look at her and turned for his own room.
“Finn!”
He stopped.
“This can’t go on,” she said. “I can’t——” She had meant to be calm, but now her voice had suddenly risen and threatened to break.
“Good night.”
“Finn! You must listen to me. You must. I—I have something to tell you. We can’t go on like this.”
“What is it?” He half-turned his head but did not look at her.
“Why are you—why do you make it so difficult? Cannot you understand——”
“What is it?”
There was a moment’s silence. Then she said, “Roddie and I are going to get married.”
There was a further and complete silence.
“Finn,” she said appealingly, desperately, “why are you against me? If you are to be against me, life will be unbearable.” Her voice went on, suddenly released, and then abruptly stopped, as if she were on the verge of a breakdown and a storm of tears.
“It’s got nothing to do with me what you do,” he said, and walked away into his room and shut the door.
She could weep herself to death for all he cared. He did not even listen. “I don’t give a damn,” he muttered, and pulled the blankets around him. If she came to the door, he would drive her out—as Alan had driven his sister. She did not come to his door, however, and when at last he had to listen he heard a silence intense and desolate.