Ruth walked home across the golf links, at her heart the agony of the beaten vixen who, crawling across a ploughed field still far from her earth, glances round to see a white wave of hounds breaking over the fence at her brush.
At Billing's Corner she nearly ran into her mother-in-law.
For the first time Anne paused deliberately to address her.
"That you, Mrs. Caspar?" she said, and looked away a sour smirk on her face. At the moment, beautiful old woman though she was, with her porcelain complexion of a girl, her snow-white hair, and broad-splashed dark brows, there was a suggestion of Alf about her--Ruth noticed it at once and was afraid.
"They're puttin away all the chance children the mothers can't support in there," the elder woman said casually, nodding at the blue roofs of the old cavalry barracks at the back of Rectory Walk that was now the Work-house. "To save expense, I suppose--the war or something. If you didn't want yours to go I might take my son's children off your hands. Then you could go out and char for her."
Ruth sickened.
"No, thank-you, Mrs. Caspar," she said.
Just then a nurse came by pushing a wicker spinal chair in which were a host of red-cloaked babies packed tight as fledgelings in a nest. Behind them trooped, two by two and with clattering heels, a score of elder children from the Work-house, all in the same straw hats, the same little capes. Ruth glanced at them as she had often done before. Those children, she remarked with ironic bitterness, were well-soaped, wonderfully so, well-groomed, well-fed, with short hogged hair, and stout boots; but she noted about them all, in spite of their apparent material prosperity, the air of spiritual discontent which is the hallmark, all the world over, of children who know nothing of a mother's jealous and discriminating care.
"The not-wanteds," said Anne. "They'll put yours along with them, I suppose."
Ruth shook. Then she lifted up her eyes and saw help coming. Old Mr. Caspar was bundling down the road towards her, crowding on all sail and waving his umbrella as though to tell her that he had seen her mute S.O.S.
Anne drew away.
"There's my husband," she said.
"Yes," answered Ruth, "that's dad," and walked away down Church Street, trembling still but faintly relieved that she had planted her pin in the heart of her enemy before disengaging.
She reached home and turned the key behind her. That vague enemy, named They, who haunts each one of us through life, was hard on her heels. She was in her earth at last; but They could dig her out. Before now she had seen them do it on Windhover, with halloos, the men and women standing round with long-lashed cruel whips to prevent escape. She had seen them throw the wriggling vixen to the pack ... and the worry ... and the huntsman standing amid a foam of leaping hounds, screaming horribly and brandishing above his head a bloody rag that a few minutes since had been a warm and breathing creature. Horrible--but true ... That was the world. She knew it of old; and could almost have thanked that hard old woman with eyes the blue of steel who had just reminded her of what They and life were compact.
Then she noted there was silence in the house.
What if in her absence They had kidnapped her child--little Alice, born in agony of flesh and spirit, so different from those other babies, the heirs of ease and security; little Alice, the child for whom she had fought and suffered and endured alone. It was her They were after: Ruth never doubted that. She had seen it in Lady Augusta's eyes, as she passed her in the porch of the hostel; in the downward glances of those other members of the committee she had met upon the cliff; in the voice and bearing of her mother-in-law.
She rushed upstairs.
Alice, busiest of little mothers, had tucked the other three away in bed a little before their time because she wanted to do it all alone and without her mother's help. Now she was turning down her own bed. Her aim successfully achieved she was free to bestow on her mother a happy smile.
Ruth swept her up in her arms, and bore her away into her own room, devouring her with passionate eyes.
"You shall sleep along o me place o daddy," she said, and kissed her hungrily.
"What about Susie and Jenny, mum?" asked the child.
"We'll leave the door open so we can hear," answered Ruth, remarking even then the child's thoughtfulness. "See, daddy wants you to take care o mother."
Alice gave a quick nod of understanding.
Next morning Ruth refused to let her go to school with the others, would not let her leave the house.
"You'll stay along with me," she said, fierce for once.
At eleven o'clock there came a knock. Ruth hustled the child out into the backyard, shoved her into the coal-shed, turned the key on her, and locked the backdoor. Then she went very quietly not to the front-door but to the window, opening it a crack with the utmost stealth. Kneeling she listened. Whoever was at the door was very quiet, not a man. If it had been he would have spat by now, or sworn.
"Who is it? she asked.
"Mrs. Lewknor," came the reply.
Ruth opened. The little lady entered, and followed into the kitchen.
"Is it all right, 'M?" asked Ruth anxiously.
"It's going to be," replied the other, firm and confident. "You've got your marriage-certificate if we should want it?"
Ruth sighed her relief.
"O yes, 'M. I got my lines all right. They're in the tin box under the bed." She was running upstairs to fetch them when the other stayed her.
"There's just one thing," said Mrs. Lewknor gravely. "It would help Mrs. Trupp and me very much, if you could give us some sort of idea where you were on September 14th, 1906--if you can throw your mind back all that great way."
"I was with him!" Ruth answered in a flash. She was fighting for her best-beloved: everything must be sacrificed to save her--even Royal. "It was the day!" she panted. "It were the first time ever I was in a car--that's one why I remember: Alf drove us."
"D'you happen to remember at all where you went?" tentatively.
"All wheres," Ruth answered. "Hailsham--Heathfield. I hardly rithely knaws the names. We'd tea at Lewes--I remembers that."
Mrs. Lewknor raised her keen eyes.
"You don't remember where you had tea?"
Ruth shook her head, slowly.
"I can't justly remember where. See Lewes is such a tarrabul great city these days--nigh as big as Beachbourne, I reck'n. It was over the Registrar's for births and deaths and such like--I remember that along o the plate at the door."
Mrs. Lewknor rose, her fine eyes sparkling.
"That's splendid, Ruth!" she said. "All I wanted."
All that afternoon Ruth waited behind locked doors--she did not know what for; she only knew that They were prowling about watching their chance. She had drawn the curtains across the windows though the sun was still high in the heaven, and sat in the darkness, longing for Ernie as she never would have believed she could have longed for him. Every now and then little Alice came in a tip-toe from the backyard to visit her. The child thought her mother had one of her rare head-aches, and was solicitous accordingly.
About three o'clock Ruth crept upstairs and peeped through her window. It was as she had thought. Alf was there, strolling up and down the pavement opposite, watching the house. Then he saw her, half-hidden though she was, crossed the street briskly and knocked.
She went down at once to give him battle.
He met her with his sly smile, insolently sure of himself.
"Police come yet?" he asked.
She banged the door in his face; and the bang brought her strange relief. With mocking knuckles he rapped on the window on to the street as he withdrew.
After that nobody came but the children back from school. Ruth packed them off to bed early. She wanted to be alone with little Alice.
In the kitchen she waited on in the dark.
Then she heard solid familiar feet tramping down the pavement towards her cottage. She knew whose feet they were, and knew their errand. The hour of decision had come. One way or the other it must be.
In the confusion and uncertainty only one thing was clear to her. There was a way--and a price to be paid; if she took it.
Joe knocked.
Ruth slipped to her knees. She did not pray consciously. Kneeling on the stone-slabs, her face uplifted in the darkness, her hands pale on the Windsor chair before her, she opened wide the portals of her heart to the voice of the Spirit, if such voice there were.
And there was. It came to her from above in the silence and the dusk. Ruth knew it so well, that still small voice with the gurgle in it.
