Aaron's Rod
n the open shed at the bottom of his own garden, looking out on the rainy da
re was a light also in the upstairs window. His wife was gone upstairs again. He wondered if she had the baby ill. He could see her figure vaguely behind the lace curta
een which jutted the intermediary back premises, scullery and outhouse, in dark little blocks. It was something like the keyboard of a piano: more still, like a succession of musical notes. For the rectangular planes of light were of different intensities, some bright
this contiguous stretch of back premises. He heard the familiar sound of water gushing from the sink in to the grate, the dropping of a pail outside the door, the clink of a coal
descent light, and her hat nearly knocked the globe. Next door a man had run out in his shirt sleeves: this time a young, dark-headed collier running to the gate for a newspaper, running bare-headed, coatless, slippered in the rain. He had got his news-sheet, and was returning. And just at that moment the young man's wife came out, shading her candle with a lading tin. She was going to the coal-house
th her hand. The candle blew out. She ran indoors, and emerged again, her white pinafore fluttering. This time she
ght! I hope she'll be no worse. Good night Mrs. Sisson!" She was gone-he heard the
into motion, as so many colliers do. Then he moved along the path to
forward. But she only threw the contents of her pail on the garden and retired again. She might have seen him had she looked. He remained standing where he was, listening to the trickle of rain in the water-butt. The hollow countryside lay beyond him. Sometimes in the windy darkness he could see the red
a jar. There was a bang of the yard-gate. A shortish dark figure in a bowler hat passed the window.
ntly. Voices were upstairs only. He quietly opened the door. The room was empty, save for the baby, who was cooing in her cradle. He crossed to the hall. At the foot of the stairs he
ith familiar cadence. He began feeling for something in the darkness of the music-rack beside the piano. He touched and felt-he could not find what he wanted. Perplexed, he tur
ar room, the familiar voice of his wife and his children-he felt weak as if he were dying. He felt weak like a drowning man who acq
earer from upstairs, feet m
on the stairs. "If she goes on as she is, she'll be all right. Only s
outs I can't bear it," Aa
cked on the tiled passage. They had gone i
er a few drops from the little bottle, and raise he
'll go off my hea
ou won't go off your head. You'll keep your head on your
arly drive
all right, with care. Who have you got sitting up with her? You
ut it's no good-I shall have
w what's good for you as well as for her.
d silence-then a sound of Millicent weeping with her mother. As a matter of fact,
s matter-of-fact voice, after a loud nose-blowing. "I am h
I can't bear it,
ther nose-blowing, a
ear it-but we'll do our best for you. I will do my best for you-always-ALWAYS-in
rd from your hus
-sobs-"from the b
DE B
r month, from him, as an allowance, and tha
not let him trav
ion in her voice. "To go off and leave me with ever
e about him. Aren't you
that letter this morning, I said MAY EVIL BEFA
ret. Don't be angry, it won't
. A week ago I hadn't a grey hair in my
You will be all right, don't you bo
go off like that-never a word-coolly t
ever happy
him. But he'd kill anything.-He kept himself back,
was a
"Marriage is a mystery. I'm
off inside you. He was a man you couldn't quarrel with, and get it over. Quiet-quiet in his tempers, and selfis
m. A fair man? Yes
him in the parlour-taken when he was mar
oice, and his heart went cold. Quick as thought, he obeyed his first impulse. He felt behind the couch, on the floor where the curtains fell. Yes-the bag was there. He took it at once.
passage, holding a candle. She was r
r door open?" she asked o
illicent fro
trait and begin to weep. But he knew her. The doctor laid his hand softly on her arm, and left it there, sympathetically. Nor did he
ne away, you must be happier too, Mrs. Sisson. That's all. Don't let him triumph
on a large white silk handkerchief, and began to polish his pi
down the passage and into the living room. His face was very pale, ghastly-looking. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the mantel, as he passed, and felt weak, as if he were really a
lute and piccolo. It seemed a burden just then-a millstone round his neck. He hated the scen
wn to town. He dared not board, because people knew him. So he took a side road, and walked in a detour for two miles. Then h
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