After his companion had left him, Tom Beatup walked quickly down the lane, past the Horselunges and the Rifle [24] Volunteer, to where Worge gate hung crooked across Worge drive, paintless and smeared with dew. Here he stopped a minute, and looked at the huddle of the farm. It was one black shape against the yellow of the sky, and the cones of its oasts and the spires of its poplars seemed part of its block, so that it looked grotesque and horned. He hesitated, rubbed his hand along the top of the gate and licked the dew off his fingers, then turned and walked eastward.

Beyond Egypt Farm and the cottages of Worge, just before the willow pond that marked the end of the street, stood the shop, where Thyrza Honey was “licensed to sell tobacco.” It was in darkness now, except for a faint creep of light under the door. Had Thyrza “shut up”? No—the handle turned, the little bell gave its buzzing ring, and the warm light ran out for a moment into the darkling lane—with a smell of tea and tobacco, sweets and sawdust, scrubbed floor and rotting beams, the smell that was to Tom the same refuge as the smell of the forge was to Mr. Sumption.

The shop was empty, but he could see a shadow moving to and fro across the little window at the back—a ridiculous little window, about a foot square, yet as gay with its lace curtains and pink ribbons as the drawing-room bow of a Brighton lodging-house. The next minute a face was pressed against it, then withdrawn, and the door at the back of the shop opened.

“Good evenun, Mus’ Tom.”

“Good evenun, Mrs. Honey.”

She moved slowly to her place behind the counter. All her movements were slow, which women sometimes found irritating, but never men, who were always either consciously or unconsciously aware of a kind of drawling beauty in her gait. She was fair, with hair like fluffy, sun-bleached grass. Her skin was like that of an apricot, [25] soft and thick, of a deep creamy yellow, with soft dabs of colour on her wide cheek-bones.

“A packet of woodbines, please,” said Tom.

She reached them from the shelf behind her.

“Have you got any bull’s-eyes?”

“Yes—three-ha’pence an ounce.”

“They’ve got dearer.”

“And they’ll get dearer still, I reckon.”

“Give me three penn’orth, please.”

She took them out of a glass bottle at her elbow.

“Got any monster telephones?”

“I dunno—I’m afeard we’re sold out.”

Thyrza always spoke of herself in a business capacity as “we.” “Could you maake up two penn’orth? Harry and Zacky are unaccountable fond of them.”

“You’re a kind brother—buying sweeties for all the family. I reckon the bull’s-eyes are fur your sisters.”

“Reckon they are. No use giving monster telephones to girls—they can’t be eaten dentical.”

This was obvious when Thyrza finally unearthed the telephones in an old case under the ginger-beer box. They were long, black coiling strings of liquorice, requiring sleight of hand, combined with a certain amount of unfastidiousness, for their consumption. Tom was disappointed that Thyrza had found them so soon. He stood by the counter, fingering his purchases and wishing his money was not all gone.

“I hear you’ve bin up at the Tribunal,” said Thyrza, coming to the rescue.

“Yes—they woan’t let me off.”

[26]

“You’re sorry, I reckon.”

“Unaccountable. I doan’t know wot ull become of the farm.”

Thyrza sighed sympathetically, having nothing to say in the way of comfort.

“They said as how I wurn’t really indispensable, faather being able-bodied and having two lads besides me, and two ‘hands’”—he laughed bitterly. “I’d like to show ’em the ‘hands’—two scarecrows, you might say.”

“It’s a sad world,” remarked Thyrza comfortably.

Mrs. Honey was a widow, but never had more than a sentimental sigh for her husband who had made her miserable, and then suddenly rather proud—on that last day of October when the Royal Sussex had held the road to Sussex against the fury of the Prussian Guard, and Sam Honey died to save the home he had made so unhappy while he lived. He had died bravely and she was proud of him, but he had lived meanly and she could not regret him.

“Wot sort of a soldier d’you think I’ll make, Mrs. Honey?”

“A good one, surelye”—and she showed him teeth like curd.

“I’m naun so sure, though. I’m a farmer bred, and the life ull be middling strange to me.”

“Maybe you’ll lik it. Sam liked it fine. There was no end o’ fun to be had, he said, and foakes all giving you chocolate and woodbines, just as if you wur the king.”

“Will you send me a postcard now and agaun, Mrs. Honey?”

“Reckon I will.”

There was silence for a minute or two in the shop. The oil lamp swung, moving the shadows over the ceiling where the beams sagged with the weight of Thyrza’s little bedroom. A clock in the back room ticked loudly. Tom was still leaning across the counter, looking at Thyrza. They both felt rather awkward, as they often felt in each other’s company. Thyrza wondered when [27] Tom was going. She liked him—liked him unaccountable—but her bit of supper was on the fire in the next room, there was some mending to be done, and many other odds and ends of feminine business before it was time to set the mouse-traps, put the milk-jug on the doorstep, and go to bed. Besides, she knew he ought to be going back to Worge to tell his family the news which should have been theirs before he brought it to her.

“I reckon your mother ull be wondering how you’ve fared this afternoon. Has your father gone home and told her?”

“I left faather at Woods Corner.”

“She’ll be worriting about him too, then.”

“Maybe I should ought to go home and tell them.”

He straightened himself with a sigh. He must leave his refuge of tea and soap and candles, the peace of Thyrza Honey’s slow movements and thick, sweet voice. She was sorry for him.

“You’ll look in again, Mus’ Tom?”

“Surelye.”

“Maybe you’ll bring your sister Ivy round for a cup of tea before you go. Ull you be going soon?”

“In a fortnight.... Good evenun, Mrs. Honey.”

“Good evenun, Mus’ Tom.”

Again the bell gave its buzzing ring, as he opened the door and went out.