Sheila Kaye-Smith, "Mrs. Adis" (1922
In Northeast Sussex a great tongue ofland runs into Kent by Scotney Castle. It is a land of woods-the old hammer woods of the Sussex iron industry—and among the woods gleam the hammerponds, holding in their mirrors the sunsets and sunrises. Owing to the thickness of the woods-great masses of oak and beech in a dense undergrowth of hazel and chestnut and frail sallow-the road that passes Mrs. Adis's cottage is dark before the twilight has crept away from the fields beyond. That night there was no twilight and no moon, only a few pricks of fire in the black sky above the trees. But what the darkness hid the silence revealed. In the absolute stillness of the night, windless and clear with the first frost of Octo ber, every sound was distinct, intensified. The distant bark of a dog at Delmonden sounded close at hand, and the man who walked on the road could hear the echo of his own footsteps following him like a knell.
Every now and then he made an effort to go more quietly, but the roadside was a mass of brambles, and their crackling and rustling were nearly as loud as the thud of his feet on the marl. Besides, they made him go slowly, and he had no time for that.
When he came to Mrs. Adis's cottage he paused a moment. Only a small patch of grass lay between it and the road. He went stealthily across it and looked in at the lighted, uncurtained window. He could see Mrs. Adis stooping over the fire, taking some pot or kettle off it. He hesitated and seemed to wonder. He was a big, hulking man, with reddish hair and freckled face, evidently of the laboring class, but not successful, judging by the vague grime. and poverty of his appearance. For a moment he made as if he would open the window, then he changed his mind and went to the door instead.
He did not knock, but walked straight in. The woman at the fire turned quickly round.
"What, you, Peter Crouch?" she said. "I didn't hear you knock."
"I didn't knock, ma'am. I didn't want anybody to hear."
"How's that?"
"I'm in trouble." His hands were shaking a little.
"What you done?"
"I shot a man, Mrs. Adis."
"You?"
"Yes I shot him."
"You killed him?”
"I dunno."
For a moment there was silence in the small, stuffy kitchen. Then the kettle boiled over, and Mrs. Adis sprang for it, mechanically putting it at the side of the fire.
She was a small, frail-looking woman, with a brown, hard face on which the skin had dried in innumerable small, hair-like wrinkles. She was probably not more than forty-two; but life treats some women hard in the agricultural districts of Sussex, and Mrs. Adis's life had been harder than most.
"What do you want me to do for you, Peter Crouch?" she said, a little sourly.
"Let me stay here a bit. Is there nowhere you can put me till they've gone?"
"Who's they?"
"The keepers.”
"Oh, you've had a shine with the keepers, have you?"
"Yes. I was down by Cinder Wood, seeing if I could pick up anything, and the keepers found me. There was four to one, so I used my gun. Then I ran for it. They're after me; reckon they aren't far off now."
Mrs. Adis did not speak for a moment. Crouch looked at her searchingly, beseechingly.
"You might do it for Tom's sake,” he said.
"You haven't been an over-good friend to Tom," snapped Mrs. Adis.
"But Tom's been an unaccountable good friend to me; reckon he would want you to stand by me to-night."
"Well, I won't say he wouldn't, seeing as Tom always thought better of you than you deserved. Maybe you can stay till he comes home to-night, then we can hear what he says about it."
"That'll serve my turn, I reckon. He'll be up at Ironlatch for an hour yet, and the coast will be clear by then. I can get away out of the country."
"Where'll you go?"
"I dunno. There's time to think of that."
"Well, you can think of it in here,” she said, dryly, opening a door which led from the kitchen into the small lean-to of the cottage.
"They'll never guess you're there, specially if I tell them I ain't seen you to-night."
"You're a good woman, Mrs. Adis. I know I'm not worth your standing by me, but maybe I'd ha' been different if I'd had a mother like Tom's."
She did not speak, but shut the door, and he was in darkness save for a small ray of light that filtered through one of the cracks. By this light he could see her moving to and fro, preparing Tom's supper. In another hour Tom would be home from Ironlatch Farm, where he worked every day. Peter Crouch trusted Tom not to revoke his mother's kindness, for they had been friends when they went together to the Council School at Lamberhurst, and since then the friendship had not been broken by their very different characters and careers.
Peter Crouch huddled down upon the sacks that filled one corner of the lean-to and gave himself up to the dreary and anxious game of waiting. A delicious smell of cooking began to filter through from the kitchen, and he hoped Mrs. Adis would not deny him a share of the supper when Tom came home, for he was very hungry and he had a long way to go.
He had fallen into a kind of helpless doze, haunted by the memories of the last two hours, recast in the form of dreams, when he was roused by the sound of footsteps on the road. For a moment his poor heart nearly choked him with its beating. They were the keepers. They had guessed for a cert where he was— with Mrs. Adis, his old pal's mother. He had been a fool to come to the cottage. Nearly losing his self-control, he shrank into the corner, shivering, half sobbing. But the footsteps went by. They did not even hesitate at the door. He heard them ring away into the frosty stillness. The next minute Mrs. Adis stuck her head into the lean-to.
"That was them," she said, shortly. A party from the Castle. I saw them go by. They had lanterns, and I saw old Crotch and the two Boormans. Maybe it ud be better if you slipped out now and went towards Cansiron. You'd miss them that way and get over to Kent. There's a London train comes from Tunbridge Wells at ten to-night."
"That'd be a fine thing for me, ma'am, but I haven't the price of a ticket on me." She went to one of the kitchen drawers.
"Here's seven shillun. It'll be your fare to London and a bit over." For a moment he did not speak.
Then he said, "I don't know how to thank you, ma'am."
"Oh, you needn't thank me. I am doing it for Tom. I know how unaccountable set he is on you and always was."
"I hope you won't get into trouble because of this."
"There ain't much fear. No one's ever likely to know you've been in this cottage. That's why I'd sooner you went before Tom came back, for maybe he'd bring a pal with him, and that'd make trouble. I won't say I shan't have it on my conscience for having helped you to escape the law; but shooting a keeper ain't the same as shooting an ordinary sort of man, as we all know, and maybe he ain't so much the worse, so I won't think no more about it." She opened the door for him, but on the threshold they both stood still, for again footsteps could be heard approaching, this time from the far south.
"Maybe it's Tom," said Mrs. Adis.
"There's more than one man there, and I can hear voices."
"You'd better go back," she said, shortly.
"Wait till they've passed, anyway.” With an unwilling shrug he went back into the little dusty lean-to, which he had come to hate, and she locked the door upon him.
The footsteps drew nearer. They came more slowly and heavily this time. For a moment he thought they would pass also, but their momentary dulling was only the crossing of the strip of grass outside the door. The next minute there was a knock. It was not Tom, then.
Trembling with anxiety and curiosity, Peter Crouch put his eye to one of the numerous cracks in the lean-to door and looked through into the kitchen. He saw Mrs. Adis go to the cottage door, but before she could open it a man came quickly in and shut it behind him. Crouch recognized Vidler, one of the keepers of Scotney Castle, and he felt his hands and feet grow leaden cold. They knew where he was, then. They had followed him. They had guessed that he had taken refuge with Mrs. Adis. It was all up. He was not really hidden; there was no place for him to hide. Directly they opened the inner door they would see him. Why couldn't he think of things better? Why wasn't he cleverer at looking after himself-like other men? His legs suddenly refused to support him, and he sat down on the pile of sacks. The man in the kitchen seemed to have, some difficulty in saying what he wanted to Mrs. Adis. He stood before her silently, twisting his cap.
"Well, what is it?" she asked.
"I want to speak to you, ma'am." Peter Crouch listened, straining his ears, for his thudding heart nearly drowned the voices in the next room. Oh no, he was sure she would not give him away. If only for Tom's sake. . . She was a game sort, Mrs. Adis.
"Well?" she said, sharply, as the man remained tongue-tied.
"I have brought you bad news, Mrs. Adis." Her expression changed.
"What? It ain't Tom, is it?"
"He's outside," said the keeper.
"What do you mean?" said Mrs. Adis, and she moved toward the door.
"Don't, ma'am-not till I've told you."
"Told me what? Oh, be quick, man, for mercy's sake!" And she tried to push past him to the door.
"There's been a row," he said, "down by Cinder Wood. There was a chap there snaring rabbits, and Tom was walking with the Boormans and me and old Crotch down from the Castle. We heard a noise in the Eighteenpounder Spinney, and there . . . It was too dark to see who it was, and directly he saw us he made off; but we'd scared him, and he let fly with his gun." He stopped speaking and looked at her, as if beseeching her to fill in the gaps of his story. In his corner of the lean-to Peter Crouch was as a man of wood and sawdust.
་
"Tom-" said Mrs. Adis. The keeper had forgotten his guard, and before he could prevent her she had flung open the door.
The men outside had evidently been waiting for the signal, and they came in, carrying something on a hurdle, which they put down in the middle of the kitchen floor.
"Is he dead?" asked Mrs. Adis without tears.
The men nodded. They could not find a dry voice like hers. In the lean-to Peter Crouch had ceased to sweat and tremble. Strength had come with despair, for he knew he must despair now. Besides, he no longer wanted to escape from this thing that he had done. Oh, Tom!—and I was thinking it was one of them damned keepers. Oh, Tom! And it was you that got it got it from me! Reckon I don't want to live! And yet life was sweet, for there was a woman at Ticehurst, a woman as stanch to him as Tom, who would go with him to the world's end even now. But he must not think of her. He had no right: his life was forfeit to Mrs. Adis.
She was sitting in the old basket armchair by the fire. One of the men had helped her into it. Another man with rough kindness had poured her out something from a flask he carried in his pocket. "Here, ma'am, take a drop of this. It'll give you strength."
"We'll go round to Ironlatch cottage and ask Mrs. Gain to come down to you."
"Reckon this is a turble thing to have come to you, but it's the will o' Providence, as some folks say; and as for the man who did it, we've a middling-good guess who he is, and he shall swing."
"We didn't see his face, but we've got his gun. He threw it into an alder when he bolted, and I swear that gun belongs to Peter Crouch, who's been up to no good since the day when Mus' Scales sacked him for stealing his corn."
"Reckon, though, he didn't know it was Tom when he did it, he and Tom always being better friends than he deserved."
Peter Crouch was standing upright now, looking through the crack of the door. He saw Mrs. Adis struggle to her feet and stand by the table, looking down on the dead man's face. A whole eternity seemed to roll by as she stood there. He saw her put her hand into her apron pocket, where she had thrust the key of the lean-to.
"The Boormans have gone after Crouch," said Vidler, nervously breaking the silence.
"They'd a notion as he'd broken through the woods Ironlatch way. There's no chance of his having been by here? You haven't seen him to-night, ma'am?" There was a pause.
"No," said Mrs. Adis, "I haven't seen him. Not since Tuesday." She took her hand out of her apron pocket.
"Well, we'll be getting around and fetch Mrs. Gain. Reckon you'll be glad to have her." Mrs. Adis nodded.
"Will you carry him in there first?" And she pointed to the bedroom door.
The men picked up the hurdle and carried it into the next room. Then silently each wrung the mother by the hand and went away. She waited until they had shut the door, then she came toward the lean-to. Crouch once more fell a-shivering. He couldn't bear it. No, he'd rather swing than face Mrs. Adis. He heard the key turn in the lock, and he nearly screamed. But she did not come in. She merely unlocked the door, then crossed the kitchen with a heavy, dragging footstep and shut herself into the room where Tom was. Peter Crouch knew what he must do the only thing she wanted him to do, the only thing he could possibly do. He opened the door and silently went out.