CHAPTER TWO

MICHAEL HARSCH CAME out of the hut in which he had been working and stood looking down the tilted field to the house at Prior’s End. Because the work on which he was engaged was dangerous, and there was always present the possibility that it might end itself and him quite suddenly in a puff of smoke, the house was nearly quarter of a mile away. The hut was long and low, a shabby-looking affair roughly creosoted to withstand the weather, but the door through which he had come was a very solid one, and the line of windows not only carried bars but were secured inside by strong and heavy shutters.

He turned to lock the door behind him, pocketed the key, and then stood again as he had done before, looking out past the house to the lane which followed the slope, and the line of willows which marked the trickling course of the Bourne. The village of Bourne was out of sight, all except the top of the square church tower. On a fine day the weathercock glinted in the sun. But there was no sun tonight. Dark hurrying clouds overhead where a wind blew – high up, unfelt below. Strange to see the clouds drive when not a leaf was stirring in the hedgerow or among the willows.

Unseen forces driving men. The thought went through his mind, tinged, as his thoughts were apt to be tinged, with something deeper than melancholy, more austere than sarcasm. Forces driving men, unseen, unfelt, unguessed at, until the storm broke in darkness and shattering confusion.

He lifted his face to the sky and watched the driven clouds. A man of middle size, standing crookedly to save the leg which had been crippled in a concentration camp, the habitual stoop of his shoulders less noticeable now that he was looking up. His hair, rather long and still very black, was barred by a white lock which followed the line of a scar. His features had no markedly Jewish look. They were thin, and drawn so fine that it was only a second or a third glance which would probably decide that they had once been handsome. The eyes were beautiful still – brown, steadfast eyes which had looked on many things and found them good, and then had looked on other things and found them evil. They looked now upon the sky and upon those hurrying clouds, and all at once he straightened up, standing evenly upon his feet. For a moment ten years dropped away – he was a young man again. There was power in the world, and he had the key to it. He began to walk down the field to the house.

Janice Meade was in the little sitting-room which had been built on at the back, perhaps a hundred and twenty, perhaps a hundred and fifty years ago. It jutted out into the garden and had windows on three sides of it – casement windows, each with a cushioned window-seat. The rest of the house was very much older. Some part of it must have been standing before the old Priory had fallen or been battered into a heap of ruins. The house fetched its name from those far off days. It was, and always had been, Prior’s End. The lane that served it served no other house, and ended there, just beyond the gate.

Michael Harsch came through the house, stooping his head where the low beam crossed a crooked passage, turned the handle of the sitting-room door, and came in with something of the air of a man who comes home. Janice was in the window-seat, curled up like a mouse, with a book held close to the glass to catch the light. She always reminded him of a mouse – a little brown thing with bright eyes. She jumped up as she saw him. ‘Oh, Mr Harsch – I’ll make you some tea.’ He lay back in a long chair and watched her. All her movements were quick, light, and decided. The water was hot in the kettle; it needed very little to bring it to the boil again over the blue spreading flame of the spirit-lamp. He took a biscuit and sipped gratefully from a cup brewed just as he liked it, very strong, with plenty of milk. Glancing up, he saw that she was looking at him, her eyes bright with questions. She would not ask them in any other way – he knew that – but for the life of her she could not keep them out of her eyes. His answering smile made a younger, happier man of him.

‘Yes, it has gone well. That is what you want to know, is it not?’ His voice was deep and pleasant, with a marked foreign accent. He reached forward to put down his cup. ‘It has gone so well, my dear, that I think my work is done.’

‘Oh, Mr Harsch!’

The smile was gone again. He nodded gravely.

‘Yes, I think it is finished. I do not mean altogether of course. It is, I think, a good deal like bringing a child into the world. It is your child – you have made it – without you it would not be there at all. It is flesh of your flesh, or, like this child of mine, thought of your thought, and between its conception and its birth there may be many years. With my child, it is five years that it has been in my thoughts night and day, and all that time I have worked with all my might for this moment when I could say, “Here is my work! It is fulfilled – it is perfect! Look at it!” When it is grown it will do the work which I have brought it into the world to do. Now it must have nurses. It must grow, and be strong. It must be schooled, and tutored.’ He reached his hand for his cup again and said, ‘The man from the War Office will come down tomorrow. When I have finished my tea I ring him up. I tell him, “Well, Sir George, it is over. You can come down and see me for yourself. You can bring your experts. They can see, they can test. I give you the formula, my notes of the process – I give you everything. You can take my harschite and put it to its work. My part is done.” ’

Janice said quickly, ‘Does it make you sad to let it go – like that?’

He smiled at her again. ‘A little, perhaps.’

‘Let me give you some more tea.’

‘You are very kind.’

He watched her, with the kindness in her eyes, as she took his cup and filled it. She was wishing so much she could say something that would make him feel less sad. She hadn’t got the words, she didn’t know them – not the right ones – and it would be unbearable to blunder. She could only give him his tea. She didn’t know that her thoughts spoke for her in eye and lip, rising colour and eager hand.

He said, ‘You are very kind to me.’

‘Oh, no-’

‘I think you are. It has made this time very pleasant.’

He paused, and added without any change in his voice, ‘My daughter would have been just about your age – perhaps a little older – I do not know-’

‘I’m twenty-two.’

‘Yes – she would have been twenty-three. You are like her, you know. She was a little brown thing too – and she had a brave spirit.’ He looked up suddenly and directly. ‘You must not be sorry, or I cannot talk about her, tonight I have a great desire to talk. I do not know why, but it is so.’ He paused, and then went on again. ‘You know, when there has been what you may call a tragedy – when you have lost someone, not in the ordinary way of death but in some way that puts fear into the imagination – it becomes so difficult to talk about the one that you have lost. There is too much sympathy – it makes an awkwardness. You do not like to speak because your friend is afraid to listen. He does not know what to say, and there is nothing that he or anyone else can do. So in the end you do not speak any more at all. And that I find sometimes very lonely. Tonight I have a great desire to speak.’

Janice felt her eyes sting, but she kept them steady, and her voice too.

‘You can always talk to me, Mr Harsch.’

He nodded in a friendly way.

‘It would be a happiness for me, because, you see, it is the happy things that I would like to speak about. She had a happy life, you know. There was her mother and I, and the young man she would have married, and many friends. She had much love given to her, and if at the end there was pain, I do not believe that it could blot out the happiness, or that she remembers it now any more than you remember a bad dream you had a year ago. And so I have trained myself to think only of the happier times.’