Marcella

le were dim chattering shapes in a red darkness. Mrs. Hurd still plaited, silen

nock at the door. Mrs

said a strident voice. "I'll h

iking head standing out against the pale sky behind. Marcella noticed that she greeted none of the old people, nor they her. And as for

', mother?" re

ings, while the daughter stood silent, waiting, and every now

sharply to her, as though she had been a child of ten

, as it had grown so dark. Her tone was smooth and servil

ted a minute or two after the mother and daughter

me irrepressible tears, as Marcella showed her the advertisement which it might possibly be worth Hu

rly broke down. Leaning against the bare shelves which held their few pots and pans, she threw her apron over

Mrs. Hurd presently recovered enough to tell her that Hurd had gone off that morning befor

her hands in a sort of restless misery; "there's nothing good happe

eformed man, with a large head and red hair, stumbled in blindly, spl

, straining his eyes to see

" said his wife. "Did

f takin' ov 'em on," he said briefly

stick-like arms and legs, and the glancing wildness of their blue eyes, under the frizzle of red hair, which shone round their little sickly faces. Very soon she had begun to haunt them in her eager way, to try and penetrate their peasant lives, which were so full of enigma and attraction to her, mainly because of their very defectiveness, their closeness to an animal simplicity, never to be reached by any one of her sort. She soon discovered or

nces he threw from side to side as he sat crouching over the fire-the large mouth t

he put it aside almost without looking at it. "There ud be a hun'erd men after it before ever he could get there," was all he would say to it. Then she inquired if he had been to ask the steward of the Maxwell Court estate for work

sible they might want some extra men now the pheasant shooting h

vement, and Hurd raised his

ot trouble yer. I don't want

k into the grate. Marcella looked from one to the other with surprise. Mrs. Hurd's expres

roke out. "I shall. I know Miss

looked at his wife f

assistant. That was in Mr. Robert's days, you understand, miss-when Master Harold was alive; and they took a deal o' trouble about the game. An' George Westall, he was allays leading the others a life

rt of mute conversation seemed to pass between them. Then he turned

med. "He can't bear no talk about Westall-it seems to

her companion. Marcella was puzzled b

long ago, sure

as an Irish girl, out of a gang as used to work near here-an' she let him drop one day when she was in liquor, an' never took no trouble about him afterwards. He was a poor sickly lad, he was! you'd wonder how he grew up at all. And oh! George Westall he treated him cruel. He'd kick and swear at him; then he'd dare him to fight, an' thrash him till the others came in, an' got him away. Then he'd carry tales to his father, and

-he never complained?" as

m back. That made him as cross as vinegar, an' when Jim began to be about with me ov a Sunday sometimes, instead of him, he got madder and madder. An' Jim asked me to marry him-he begged of me-an' I didn't know what to say. For Westall had asked me twice; an' I was afeard of Jim's health, an' the low wages he'd get, an' of not bein' strong myself. But one day I was going up a lane into Tudley End woods, an' I heard George Westall on tother side of the hedge with a young dog he was tra

that she could ce

in each other's way of late yea

went hurriedly to fetch a fur tippet which

gainst her will she reddened a little; but she had not been able to help throwing out the pr

her furs wrapped about her, she had the air of protecting and guiding this poverty that could not he

*

o the fire and put it together, sighing all

ame in. He carried some potatoes

starvin'. What did she want to stay all that time for? You go and get it.

preparing the supper, she saw that he wa

tell 'er?" he

thinkin' for you!" she said as though with a little cry, "or we'd

to the flames. With his deformity, his earth-stains, his blue eyes, his brown wrinkled

ust now-if yer wouldn't send a fellow stumpin' the country for nothink. If you'll just let me alone I'

e of despair as she stood beside him,

chillen-when you're took to pr

All the same, Westall got holt o' me this

vertheless, he flinched before them. His brutality was mostly assumed. He had adopted

. I'd kill him or myself first. But he caught me lookin' at a snare this mornin'-it wor mi

quietly,' says he. He had young Dynes with him-so I didn't say nought-I kep' as still as a mou

e said bre

n a ditch far enough out o' his way. I just laughed at the look ov 'im. 'I'll have the law on yer for assault an' battery, yer damned miscalculatin' br

n gang of poachers with head-quarters in a neighbouring county town, who had their eyes on the pheasant preserves in Westall's particular beat-the Tudley End beat-and wanted a local watcher and accomplice. He had thought the matter at first too dangerous to

er upon one of Minta's wails

the bare kitchen, which had none of the little properties of the country poor, no chest, no set of mahogany drawers, no comfortable chair, nothing, but the dresser and the few rush chairs and the table, and a few odds and ends

ness, the inner need of her affection and of peace with her, which he st

with emphasis, putting down a cup and looking at him-it's the thought of that makes me cold in my

ction of Mellor to indicate Miss Boyce, and then pointing to a heap of newspapers which lay on the floor in a corner, "they'd tell yer summat a

reover, she had the conforming law-abiding instincts of the well-treated domestic servant, who has lived on kindly terms with the gentry and shared their standards. And for years after their marriage Hurd had allowed her to govern him. He had been so patient, so hard-working, such a kind husband and father, so full of a dumb wish to show her he was grateful to her for marrying such a fellow as he. The quarrel with Westall seemed to have sunk out of his mind. He never spoke to o

ke," as the village put it, in search of London work-then, out of actual sheer starvation-that very rare excuse of the poacher!-Hurd had gone one night and snared a hare on the Mellor land. Wo

Mellor, where, since the death of young Harold, the heir, the keepers had been dismissed, and what remained of a once numerous head of game lay open to the wiles of all the bold spirits of the neighbourhood. He must needs go on to those woods of Lord Maxwell's, which girdled the Mellor estate on three sides. And here he came once more across his

s "receivers" of the poached game of the neighbourhood. And it seemed to him that Westall pursued him into these low dens. The keeper-big, burly, prosperous-would speak to him with insolent patronage, watching him all the time, or with the old brutality, which Hurd dared not

s, the same shames before the gentry and Mr. Harden!-the soft, timid woman with her conscience could not endure the prospect. For some weeks after th

there was a certain ease and jauntiness in hi

e in at once!

ctober dusk, a third, panted behind. The girls ran in to their

n this nasty damp? I've brought yo a whole p

e" of promise. The curtains were close-drawn; the paraffin lamp flared on the table, and as the savoury smell of the hare and onions on the fire filled the kitchen, the whole family gathered round watching for the moment of eating. The fire played on the thin legs and pinched faces of the children; on the baby'

n a velveteen suit and gaiters, his gun over his shoulder and two dogs behind him, his pockets bul

a barel

er mind. "Yet no doubt he is a valuable keeper; Lord Maxwell would be

mushroom hat, drove past her in the dusk and bowed stiffly. Marcella was so taken by surpris

mor