Chapter 2

The music rolled through the dark, empty church. The last, leaden
flicker of daylight glimmered in through the pointed windows, and beyond
the level rows of dusky pews, tenanted only by a litter of prayer-books,
two guttering candles revealed the organ pipes, and the young girl's
swaying figure.

She played vigorously. Once or twice the tune stumbled, and she
recovered it impatiently, bending over the key-board, showily
flourishing her wrists as she touched the stops. She was bare-headed
(her hat and cloak lay beside her on a stool). She had fair, fluffy
hair, cut short behind her neck; large, round eyes, heightened by a
fringe of dark lashes; rough, ruddy cheeks, and a rosy, full-lipped,
unstable mouth. She was dressed quite simply, in a black, close-fitting
bodice, a little frayed at the sleeves. Her hands and neck were coarsely
fashioned: her comeliness was brawny, literal, unfinished, as it were.

When at last the ponderous chords of the Amen faded slowly into the
twilight, flushed, breathing a little quickly, she paused, listening to
the stillness of the church. Presently a small boy emerged from behind
the organ.

'Good evenin', Miss Rosa', he called, trotting briskly away down the
aisle.

'Good night, Robert', she answered, absently.

After a while, with an impatient gesture, as if to shake some
importunate thought from her mind, she rose abruptly, pinned on her hat,
threw her cloak round her shoulders, blew out the candles, and groped
her way through the church, towards the half-open door. As she hurried
along the narrow pathway that led across the churchyard, of a sudden, a
figure started out of the blackness.

'Who's that?' she cried, in a loud, frightened voice.

A man's uneasy laugh answered her.

'It's only me, Rosa. I didna' think t' scare ye. I've bin waitin' for
ye, this hoor past.'

She made no reply, but quickened her pace. He strode on beside her.

'I'm off, Monday, ye know,' he continued. And, as she said nothing,
'Will ye na stop jest a minnit? I'd like t' speak a few words wi' ye
before I go, an tomorrow I hev t' git over t' Scarsdale betimes,' he
persisted.

'I don't want t' speak wi' ye: I don't want ever to see ye agin. I jest
hate the sight o' ye.' She spoke with a vehement, concentrated
hoarseness.

'Nay, but ye must listen to me. I will na be put off wi' fratchin
speeches.'

And gripping her arm, he forced her to stop.

'Loose me, ye great beast,' she broke out.

'I'll na hould ye, if ye'll jest stand quiet-like. I meant t' speak fair
t' ye, Rosa.'

They stood at a bend in the road, face to face quite close together.
Behind his burly form stretched the dimness of a grey, ghostly field.

'What is't ye hev to say to me? Hev done wi' it quick,' she said
sullenly.

'It be jest this, Rosa,' he began with dogged gravity. 'I want t' tell
ye that ef any trouble comes t'ye after I'm gone--ye know t' what I
refer--I want t' tell ye that I'm prepared t' act square by ye. I've
written out on an envelope my address in London. Luke Stock, care o'
Purcell and Co., Smithfield Market, London.'

'Ye're a bad, sinful man. I jest hate t' sight o' ye. I wish ye were
dead.'

'Ay, but I reckon what ye'd ha best thought o' that before. Ye've
changed yer whistle considerably since Tuesday. Nay, hould on,' he
added, as she struggled to push past him. 'Here's t' envelope.'

She snatched the paper, and tore it passionately, scattering the
fragments on to the road. When she had finished, he burst out angrily:

'Ye cussed, unreasonable fool.'

'Let me pass, ef ye've nought mare t'say,' she cried.

'Nay, I'll na part wi' ye this fashion. Ye can speak soft enough when ye
choose.' And seizing her shoulders, he forced her backwards against the
wall.

'Ye do look fine, an' na mistake, when ye're jest ablaze wi' ragin','
he laughed bluntly, lowering his face to hers.

'Loose me, loose me, ye great coward,' she gasped, striving to free her
arms.

Holding her fast, he expostulated:

'Coom, Rosa, can we na part friends?'

'Part friends, indeed,' she retorted bitterly. 'Friends wi' the likes o'
you. What d'ye tak me for? Let me git home, I tell ye. An' please God
I'll never set eyes on ye again. I hate t' sight o' ye.'

'Be off wi' ye, then,' he answered, pushing her roughly back into the
road. 'Be off wi' ye, ye silly. Ye canna say I hav na spak fair t' ye,
an', by goom, ye'll na see me shally-wallyin this fashion agin. Be off
wi' ye: ye can jest shift for yerself, since ye canna keep a civil
tongue in yer head.'

The girl, catching at her breath, stood as if dazed, watching his
retreating figure; then starting forward at a run, disappeared up the
hill, into the darkness.