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Walter de la Mare
under the upper. The more active he was the more completely he
became master of the ceremonies, the woman only an insignificant
accomplice, as stupid as she was irresponsible. Even while she
helped him drag out the body from the cupboard on to the flat
arena of oilcloth, she continued to cry and snivel, as if
that
would
be of any help. But a keen impassive will compelled her obedience.
She followed the boy's every nod.
And presently she almost forgot the horror of the task, and
found a partial oblivion in the intensity of it, though the boy was
displeased by her maunderings. They were merely a doleful refrain
to his troublesome grisly work. But he uttered no open reproof -
not even when she buried her face in the baize apron and embraced
the knees of the dead man. Only once she made any complaint
against the limp heedless hung-up creature. 'If only,' she assured
her young accomplice, 'if only he hadn't gone and
said
as how I
wasn't the first. I ask you! As if I didn't know it.' But to this he paid
no attention.
And now, at last, he drew back to view his handiwork. This he
did with an inscrutable face, a face flattered at his own extra-
ordinary ingenuity, a young face, almost angelic in its rapt gaslit
look and yet one, maybe, of unsophisticated infamy. The dwarfish
body seemed to be dangling naturally enough from its hook in the
ceiling, its heels just free of the chair. And it did to some extent
resemble the half-sinister, half-jocular cut that adorned his
Calendar.
Yet somehow he wasn't perfectly satisfied. Somehow the consum-
mation was as yet incomplete. Some one thing was wanting, some
blemish spoiled the effect and robbed it of unity. What? He stood
hunting for it without success.
He followed the woman into the passage. She walked unsteadily,
swaying bulkily to and fro, now and again violently colliding with
the wall. 'Oh, it was crule, crule,' she was muttering.
After her stalked the boy, deep in thought. When she stopped, he
stopped; when once more she set forward, as patiently he too set
forward with her. Which of them was led, and which leader, it
would be difficult to say. This dogged search after the one thing
wanting continued to perplex and evade him. He decided that it
was no good trying. It must be looked to when the woman was
gone; when he was alone.
'I think you had better go now,' he said. 'He'll be coming home
An Ideal Craftsman
2 1 7
soon - my father, I mean, and. . . . It's just ten to twelve by Jacobs's
clock.' The words conjured up in his mind a vision of his handsome
dressed-up stepmother, standing there in the kitchen doorway half-
hysterical before her swaying manservant. It faintly, and even a
little sadly, tickled his fancy.
He opened the front door. It was still raining, and the smell of
the damp earth and ivy leaves came washing into the house. The
woman squatted down on the doorstep. 'Where shall I go?' she
said. 'Where shall I go? What's the use? There ain't nowhere.' The
boy scowled at the dripping trees. The house was surrounded by
night - empty and silent but for the smothering soft small whisper
of the rain, and the flat
drip, drip
of the drops from the porch.
'What's the use? There ain't nowhere,' again wailed his poor be-
draggled confederate. He scrutinized her scornfully from under his
tilted yachting cap. 'Wait a minute,' he said. He raced at full speed
up the three dark flights of stairs to his bedroom. The book, the
mouse-nibbled pie-crust were tossed on to the hearthrug and a
florin was dug out of the gritty soot. Down he came again pell-
mell.
Like a cat venturing into a busy street, the woman now stood
peering out from the last of the three shallow crescent-shaped stone
steps under the porch. 'I've brought you this,' he said superciliously.
'Thank you, sir,' said the woman.
She paused yet again, looking at him, in an attitude now familiar
to the boy - the fingers of her knuckled left hand, with its thick
brassy wedding-ring, pressed closely against mouth and cheek. He
wondered for a moment what she was thinking about, and he was
Still wondering when she stepped finally off out into the rain.
A shrill shout followed her. 'I say! Mind that ditch there in the
road!' But the only result of this was to bring the woman back
again; she knelt and clasped him tightly to her bosom.
'I don't know why or anything. Oh, my lamb, my lamb, I didn't
mean to do it and now I haven't got anywhere to go.' She bent low
and hid her distorted miserable face on his shoulder. 'Oh, oh, I miss
him so. The Lord God keep you safe! You've been very kind to me.
But. . . .'
She released him, and waddled out once more under the flat-
spread branches of the cedar tree, while the boy rubbed the smart-
ing tears from his neck. He shut the door indignantly. This tame
reaction was mawkish and silly. Then he paused, uncertain what to
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