once and for all. You own up, and I dessay we'll take it into
consideration.'
Nobby answered, as blithely as ever, 'Consideration, your a--!'
'Don't you get giving me any of your lip, young man! Or else
you'll catch it all the hotter when you go up before the
magistrate.'
'Catch it hotter, your a--!'
Nobby grinned. His own wit filled him with delight. He caught
Dorothy's eye and winked at her once again before being led away.
And that was the last she ever saw of him.
There was further shouting, and when the prisoners were removed a
few dozen men followed them, booing at the policemen and Mr Cairns,
but nobody dared to interfere. Dorothy meanwhile had crept away;
she did not even stop to find out whether there would be an
opportunity of saying goodbye to Nobby--she was too frightened, too
anxious to escape. Her knees were trembling uncontrollably. When
she got back to the hut, the other women were sitting up, talking
excitedly about Nobby's arrest. She burrowed deep into the straw
and hid herself, to be out of the sound of their voices. They
continued talking half the night, and of course, because Dorothy
had supposedly been Nobby's 'tart', they kept condoling with her
and plying her with questions. She did not answer them--pretended
to be asleep. But there would be, she knew well enough, no sleep
for her that night.
The whole thing had frightened and upset her--but it had frightened
her more than was reasonable or understandable. For she was in no
kind of danger. The farm hands did not know that she had shared
the stolen apples--for that matter, nearly everyone in the camp had
shared them--and Nobby would never betray her. It was not even
that she was greatly concerned for Nobby, who was frankly not
troubled by the prospect of a month in jail. It was something that
was happening inside her--some change that was taking place in the
atmosphere of her mind.
It seemed to her that she was no longer the same person that she
had been an hour ago. Within her and without, everything was
changed. It was as though a bubble in her brain had burst, setting
free thoughts, feelings, fears of which she had forgotten the
existence. All the dreamlike apathy of the past three weeks was
shattered. For it was precisely as in a dream that she had been
living--it is the especial condition of a dream that one accepts
everything, questions nothing. Dirt, rags, vagabondage, begging,
stealing--all had seemed natural to her. Even the loss of her
memory had seemed natural; at least, she had hardly given it a
thought till this moment. The question 'WHO AM I?' had faded out
of her mind till sometimes she had forgotten it for hours together.
It was only now that it returned with any real urgency.
For nearly the whole of a miserable night that question went to and
fro in her brain. But it was not so much the question itself that
troubled her as the knowledge that it was about to be answered.
Her memory was coming back to her, that was certain, and some ugly
shock was coming with it. She actually feared the moment when she
should discover her own identity. Something that she did not want
to face was waiting just below the surface of her consciousness.
At half past five she got up and groped for her shoes as usual.
She went outside, got the fire going, and stuck the can of water
among the hot embers to boil. Just as she did so a memory, seeming
irrelevant, flashed across her mind. It was of that halt on the
village green at Wale, a fortnight ago--the time when they had met
the old Irishwoman, Mrs McElligot. Very vividly she remembered the
scene. Herself lying exhausted on the grass, with her arm over her
face; and Nobby and Mrs McElligot talking across her supine body;
and Charlie, with succulent relish, reading out the poster, 'Secret
Love Life of Rector's Daughter'; and herself, mystified but not
deeply interested, sitting up and asking, 'What is a Rector?'
At that a deadly chill, like a hand of ice, fastened about her
heart. She got up and hurried, almost ran back to the hut, then
burrowed down to the place where her sacks lay and felt in the
straw beneath them. In that vast mound of straw all your loose
possessions got lost and gradually worked their way to the bottom.
But after searching for some minutes, and getting herself well
cursed by several women who were still half asleep, Dorothy found
what she was looking for. It was the copy of Pippin's Weekly which
Nobby had given her a week ago. She took it outside, knelt down,
and spread it out in the light of the fire.
It was on the front page--a photograph, and three big headlines.
Yes! There it was!
PASSION DRAMA IN COUNTRY RECTORY
PARSON'S DAUGHTER AND ELDERLY SEDUCER
WHITE-HAIRED FATHER PROSTRATE WITH GRIEF
(Pippin's Weekly Special)
'I would sooner have seen her in her grave!' was the heartbroken
cry of the Rev. Charles Hare, Rector of Knype Hill, Suffolk, on
learning of his twenty-eight-year-old daughter's elopement with an
elderly bachelor named Warburton, described as an artist.
Miss Hare, who left the town on the night of the twenty-first of
August, is still missing, and all attempts to trace her have
failed. [In leaded type] Rumour, as yet unconfirmed, states that
she was recently seen with a male companion in a hotel of evil
repute in Vienna.
Readers of Pippin's Weekly will recall that the elopement took
place in dramatic circumstances. A little before midnight on the
twenty-first of August, Mrs Evelina Semprill, a widowed lady who
inhabits the house next door to Mr Warburton's, happened by chance
to look out of her bedroom window and saw Mr Warburton standing at
his front gate in conversation with a young woman. As it was a
clear moonlight night, Mrs Semprill was able to distinguish this
young woman as Miss Hare, the Rector's daughter. The pair remained
at the gate for several minutes, and before going indoors they
exchanged embraces which Mrs Semprill describes as being of a
passionate nature. About half an hour later they reappeared in Mr
Warburton's car, which was backed out of the front gate, and drove
off in the direction of the Ipswich road. Miss Hare was dressed in
scanty attire, and appeared to be under the influence of alcohol.
It is now learned that for some time past Miss Hare had been in the
habit of making clandestine visits to Mr Warburton's house. Mrs
Semprill, who could only with great difficulty be persuaded to
speak upon so painful a subject, has further revealed--
Dorothy crumpled Pippin's Weekly violently between her hands and
thrust it into the fire, upsetting the can of water. There was a
cloud of ashes and sulphurous smoke, and almost in the same instant
Dorothy pulled the paper out of the fire unburnt. No use funking
it--better to learn the worst. She read on, with a horrible
fascination. It was not a nice kind of story to read about
yourself. For it was strange, but she had no longer any shadow of
doubt that this girl of whom she was reading was herself. She
examined the photograph. It was a blurred, nebulous thing, but
quite unmistakable. Besides, she had no need of the photograph to
remind her. She could remember everything--every circumstance of
her life, up to that evening when she had come home tired out from
Mr Warburton's house, and, presumably, fallen asleep in the
conservatory. It was all so clear in her mind that it was almost
incredible that she had ever forgotten it.
She ate no breakfast that day, and did not think to prepare
anything for the midday meal; but when the time came, from force of
habit, she set out for the hopfields with the other pickers. With
difficulty, being alone, she dragged the heavy bin into position,
pulled the next bine down and began picking. But after a few
minutes she found that it was quite impossible; even the mechanical
labour of picking was beyond her. That horrible, lying story in
Pippin's Weekly had so unstrung her that it was impossible even for
an instant to focus her mind upon anything else. Its lickerish
phrases were going over and over in her head. 'Embraces of a
passionate nature'--'in scanty attire'--'under the influence of
alcohol'--as each one came back into her memory it brought with it
such a pang that she wanted to cry out as though in physical pain.
After a while she stopped even pretending to pick, let the bine
fall across her bin, and sat down against one of the posts that
supported the wires. The other pickers observed her plight, and
were sympathetic. Ellen was a bit cut up, they said. What else
could you expect, after her bloke had been knocked off? (Everyone
in the camp, of course, had taken it for granted that Nobby was
Dorothy's lover.) They advised her to go down to the farm and
report sick. And towards twelve o'clock, when the measurer was
due, everyone in the set came across with a hatful of hops and
dropped it into her bin.
When the measurer arrived he found Dorothy still sitting on the
looked haggard, and much older than before. Her bin was twenty
yards behind the rest of the set, and there were less than three
bushels of hops in it.
'What's the game?' he demanded. 'You ill?'
'No.'
'Well, why ain't you bin pickin', then? What you think this is--
toff's picnic? You don't come up 'ere to sit about on the ground,
you know.'
'You cheese it and don't get nagging of 'er!' shouted the old
cockney costerwoman suddenly. 'Can't the pore girl 'ave a bit of
rest and peace if she wants it? Ain't 'er bloke in the clink
thanks to you and your bloody nosing pals of coppers? She's got
enough to worry 'er 'thout being ---- about by every bloody
copper's nark in Kent!'
'That'll be enough from you, Ma!' said the measurer gruffly, but he
looked more sympathetic on hearing that it was Dorothy's lover who
had been arrested on the previous night. When the costerwoman had
got her kettle boiling she called Dorothy to her bin and gave her a
cup of strong tea and a hunk of bread and cheese; and after the
dinner interval another picker who had no partner was sent up to
share Dorothy's bin. He was a small, weazened old tramp named
Deafie. Dorothy felt somewhat better after the tea. Encouraged by
Deafie's example--for he was an excellent picker--she managed to do
her fair share of work during the afternoon.
She had thought things over, and was less distracted than before.
The phrases in Pippin's Weekly still made her wince with shame, but
she was equal now to facing the situation. She understood well
enough what had happened to her, and what had led to Mrs Semprill's
libel. Mrs Semprill had seen them together at the gate and had
seen Mr Warburton kissing her; and after that, when they were both
missing from Knype Hill, it was only too natural--natural for Mrs
Semprill, that is--to infer that they had eloped together. As for
the picturesque details, she had invented them later. Or HAD she
invented them? That was the one thing you could never be certain
of with Mrs Semprill--whether she told her lies consciously and
deliberately AS lies, or whether, in her strange and disgusting
mind, she somehow succeeded in believing them.
Well, anyway, the harm was done--no use worrying about it any
longer. Meanwhile, there was the question of getting back to Knype
Hill. She would have to send for some clothes, and she would need
two pounds for her train fare home. Home! The word sent a pang
through her heart. Home, after weeks of dirt and hunger! How she
longed for it, now that she remembered it!
But--!
A chilly little doubt raised its head. There was one aspect of the
matter that she had not thought of till this moment. COULD she,
after all, go home? Dared she?
Could she face Knype Hill after everything that had happened? That
was the question. When you have figured on the front page of
Pippin's Weekly--'in scanty attire'--'under the influence of
alcohol'--ah, don't let's think of it again! But when you have
been plastered all over with horrible, dishonouring libels, can you
go back to a town of two thousand inhabitants where everybody knows
everybody else's private history and talks about it all day long?
She did not know--could not decide. At one moment it seemed to her
that the story of her elopement was so palpably absurd that no one
could possibly have believed it. Mr Warburton, for instance, could
contradict it--most certainly would contradict it, for every
possible reason. But the next moment she remembered that Mr
Warburton had gone abroad, and unless this affair had got into the
continental newspapers, he might not even have heard of it; and
then she quailed again. She knew what it means to have to live
down a scandal in a small country town. The glances and furtive
nudges when you passed! The prying eyes following you down the
street from behind curtained windows! The knots of youths on the
corners round Blifil-Gordon's factory, lewdly discussing you!
'George! Say, George! J'a see that bit of stuff over there? With
fair 'air?'
'What, the skinny one? Yes. 'Oo's she?'
'Rector's daughter, she is. Miss 'Are. But, say! What you think
she done two years ago? Done a bunk with a bloke old enough to bin
'er father. Regular properly went on the razzle with 'im in Paris!
'GO on!'
'She did! Straight, she did. It was in the papers and all. Only
'e give 'er the chuck three weeks afterwards, and she come back
'ome again as bold as brass. Nerve, eh?'
Yes, it would take some living down. For years, for a decade it
might be, they would be talking about her like that. And the worst
of it was that the story in Pippin's Weekly was probably a mere
bowdlerized vestige of what Mrs Semprill had been saying in the
town. Naturally, Pippin's Weekly had not wanted to commit itself
too far. But was there anything that would ever restrain Mrs
Semprill? Only the limits of her imagination--and they were almost
as wide as the sky.
One thing, however, reassured Dorothy, and that was the thought
that her father, at any rate, would do his best to shield her. Of
course, there would be others as well. It was not as though she
were friendless. The church congregation, at least, knew her and
trusted her, and the Mothers' Union and the Girl Guides and the
women on her visiting list would never believe such stories about
her. But it was her father who mattered most. Almost any
situation is bearable if you have a home to go back to and a family
who will stand by you. With courage, and her father's support, she
might face things out. By the evening she had decided that it
would be perfectly all right to go back to Knype Hill, though no
doubt it would be disagreeable at first, and when work was over for
the day she 'subbed' a shilling, and went down to the general shop
in the village and bought a penny packet of notepaper. Back in the
camp, sitting on the grass by the fire--no tables or chairs in the
camp, of course--she began to write with a stump of pencil:
Dearest Father,--I can't tell you how glad I am, after everything
that has happened, to be able to write to you again. And I do hope
you have not been too anxious about me or too worried by those
horrible stories in the newspapers. I don't know what you must
have thought when I suddenly disappeared like that and you didn't
hear from me for nearly a month. But you see--'
How strange the pencil felt in her torn and stiffened fingers! She
could only write a large, sprawling hand like that of a child. But
she wrote a long letter, explaining everything, and asking him to
send her some clothes and two pounds for her fare home. Also, she
asked him to write to her under an assumed name she gave him--Ellen
Millborough, after Millborough in Suffolk. It seemed a queer thing
to have to do, to use a false name; dishonest--criminal, almost.
But she dared not risk its being known in the village, and perhaps
in the camp as well, that she was Dorothy Hare, the notorious
'Rector's Daughter'.
6
Once her mind was made up, Dorothy was pining to escape from the
hop camp. On the following day she could hardly bring herself to
go on with the stupid work of picking, and the discomforts and bad
food were intolerable now that she had memories to compare them
with. She would have taken to flight immediately if only she had
had enough money to get her home. The instant her father's letter
with the two pounds arrived, she would say good-bye to the Turles
and take the train for home, and breathe a sigh of relief to get
there, in spite of the ugly scandals that had got to be faced.
On the third day after writing she went down the village post
office and asked for her letter. The postmistress, a woman with
the face of a dachshund and a bitter contempt for all hop-pickers,
told her frostily that no letter had come. Dorothy was
disappointed. A pity--it must have been held up in the post.
However, it didn't matter; tomorrow would be soon enough--only
another day to wait.
The next evening she went again, quite certain that it would have
arrived this time. Still no letter. This time a misgiving
assailed her; and on the fifth evening, when there was yet again no
letter, the misgiving changed into a horrible panic. She bought
another packet of notepaper and wrote an enormous letter, using up
the whole four sheets, explaining over and over again what had
happened and imploring her father not to leave her in such
suspense. Having posted it, she made up her mind that she would