and bend at the critical moment. Her fancy compared Rickie to the cracked church bell sending forth its message of “Pang! pang!” to the countryside, and Stephen to the young pagans who were said to lie under this field guarding their pagan gold.
“This place is full of ghosties, “she remarked; “have you seen any yet?”
“I’ve kept on the outer rim so far.”
“Let’s go to the tree in the centre.”
“Here’s the path.” The bank of grass where he had sat was broken by a gap, through which chariots had entered, and farm carts entered now. The track, following the ancient track, led straight through turnips to a similar gap in the second circle, and thence continued, through more turnips, to the central tree.
“Pang!” said the bell, as they paused at the entrance.
“You needn’t unharness,” shouted Mrs. Failing, for Stephen was approaching the carriage.
“Yes, I will,” he retorted.
“You will, will you?” she murmured with a smile. “I wish your brother wasn’t quite so uppish. Let’s get on. Doesn’t that church distract you?”
“It’s so faint here,” said Rickie. And it sounded fainter inside, though the earthwork was neither thick nor tall; and the view, though not hidden, was greatly diminished. He was reminded for a minute of that chalk pit near Madingley, whose ramparts excluded the familiar world. Agnes was here, as she had once been there. She stood on the farther barrier, waiting to receive them when they had traversed the heart of the camp.
“Admire my mangel-wurzels,” said Mrs. Failing. “They are said to grow so splendidly on account of the dead soldiers. Isn’t it a sweet thought? Need I say it is your brother’s?”
“Wonham’s?” he suggested. It was the second time that she had made the little slip. She nodded, and he asked her what kind of ghosties haunted this curious field.
“The D.,” was her prompt reply. “He leans against the tree in the middle, especially on Sunday afternoons and all the worshippers rise through the turnips and dance round him.”
“Oh, these were decent people,” he replied, looking downwards— “soldiers and shepherds. They have no ghosts. They worshipped Mars or Pan-Erda perhaps; not the devil.”
“Pang!” went the church, and was silent, for the afternoon service had begun. They entered the second entrenchment, which was in height, breadth, and composition, similar to the first, and excluded still more of the view. His aunt continued friendly. Agnes stood watching them.
“Soldiers may seem decent in the past,” she continued, “but wait till they turn into Tommies from Bulford Camp, who rob the chickens.”
“I don’t mind Bulford Camp,” said Rickie, looking, though in vain, for signs of its snowy tents. “The men there are the sons of the men here, and have come back to the old country. War’s horrible, yet one loves all continuity. And no one could mind a shepherd.”
“Indeed! What about your brother—a shepherd if ever there was? Look how he bores you! Don’t be so sentimental.”
“But—oh, you mean—”
“Your brother Stephen.”
He glanced at her nervously. He had never known her so queer before. Perhaps it was some literary allusion that he had not caught; but her face did not at that moment suggest literature. In the differential tones that one uses to an old and infirm person he said “Stephen Wonham isn’t my brother, Aunt Emily.”
“My dear, you’re that precise. One can’t say ‘half-brother’ every time.”
They approached the central tree.
“How you do puzzle me,” he said, dropping her arm and beginning to laugh. “How could I have a half-brother?”
She made no answer.
Then a horror leapt straight at him, and he beat it back and said, “I will not be frightened.” The tree in the centre revolved, the tree disappeared, and he saw a room—the room where his father had lived in town. “Gently,” he told himself, “gently.” Still laughing, he said, “I, with a brother-younger it’s not possible.” The horror leapt again, and he exclaimed, “It’s a foul lie!”
“My dear, my dear!”
“It’s a foul lie! He wasn’t—I won’t stand—”
“My dear, before you say several noble things, remember that it’s worse for him than for you—worse for your brother, for your half-brother, for your younger brother.”
But he heard her no longer. He was gazing at the past, which he had praised so recently, which gaped ever wider, like an unhallowed grave. Turn where he would, it encircled him. It took visible form: it was this double entrenchment of the Rings. His mouth went cold, and he knew that he was going to faint among the dead. He started running, missed the exit, stumbled on the inner barrier, fell into darkness—
“Get his head down,” said a voice. “Get the blood back into him. That’s all he wants. Leave him to me. Elliot!”—the blood was returning—“Elliot, wake up!”
He woke up. The earth he had dreaded lay close to his eyes, and seemed beautiful. He saw the structure of the clods. A tiny beetle swung on the grass blade. On his own neck a human hand pressed, guiding the blood back to his brain.
There broke from him a cry, not of horror but of acceptance. For one short moment he understood. “Stephen—” he began, and then he heard his own name called: “Rickie! Rickie!” Agnes hurried from her post on the margin, and, as if understanding also, caught him to her breast.
Stephen offered to help them further, but finding that he made things worse, he stepped aside to let them pass and then sauntered inwards. The whole field, with concentric circles, was visible, and the broad leaves of the turnips rustled in the gathering wind. Miss Pembroke and Elliot were moving towards the Cadover entrance. Mrs. Failing stood watching in her turn on the opposite bank. He was not an inquisitive boy; but as he leant against the tree he wondered what it was all about, and whether he would ever know.
XIV
Table of Contents
On the way back—at that very level-crossing where he had paused on his upward route—Rickie stopped suddenly and told the girl why he had fainted. Hitherto she had asked him in vain. His tone had gone from him, and he told her harshly and brutally, so that she started away with a horrified cry. Then his manner altered, and he exclaimed: “Will you mind? Are you going to mind?”
“Of course I mind,” she whispered. She turned from him, and saw up on the sky-line two figures that seemed to be of enormous size.
“They’re watching us. They stand on the edge watching us. This country’s so open—you—you can’t they watch us wherever we go. Of course you mind.”
They heard the rumble of the train, and she pulled herself together. “Come, dearest, we shall be run over next. We’re saying things that have no sense.”
