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With the room to themselves they were quiet for a moment, until Maggie Ann, stroking the soft shawl lying over her chest, said, Àpart from Moira, you are the kindest person I've had the good fortune to meet in me life. And I thank you, me dear young woman, for this gift, and I will wear it every day as long as I live and perhaps after. But that apart--` Now looking at the shawl and her fingers still moving over it, she went on, Ì'm goin' to ask you

two very personal questions and because I'm a sick woman, you'll feel you must humour me. From what I know of you I think you're a very honest person, so you mustn't humour me; but you can say either yes, or ... well, I know you won't say, "You should mind your own business", but you can say politely, "I'll not answer your question, Miss McTaggart." Now me first question is: Do you like our Daniel?`

There was a long pause before Janie answered, `Yes, I like Daniel.`

Maggie Ann had stopped stroking the shawl and now she turned her head as much as it was possible and looked at the tall figure sitting by her bedside, who was wearing a green velvet coat. It was open and showing a brown dress with a belted waist; and on her head she had a green velour hat. It had a high crown, but was not, like those now in the height of fashion, covered with flowers and feathers. The face beneath was a good face, and to Maggie Ann at this moment the flush on it was making it beautiful. And quietly she asked her second question, `Do you, or could you, more than like him?`

Janie stared down into the wide face. The round

dark eyes were bright, and she said, `Before 297 I answer your question, Maggie Ann, I would like a promise.`

`Fair enough. Fair enough.`

`Whichever way I answer it, and I will answer it, I want you to promise that you will not repeat what I have said, or suggest what I think, to the person concerned or those near him.Àfter a moment Maggie Ann said, `You have me promise as if it was God's word: I'll never repeat what you're about to say.Ìt was a long moment before Janie said, `Yes, I more than like Daniel, and I have done for a long, long time. I cannot remember when I knew how I felt about him, but I do know now that whatever happens in my life, I shall retain this feeling for him. Yet I also know that I don't exist for him. There is only one person in his life and that is Frances. They are apart now but whether they come together or not I cannot imagine there will come a time when he will not love her, for such is my feeling for him, so his has been for Frances. I will say one last thing. It may sound spiteful, but it is how I feel; she is not worthy of him.Àgain there was silence between them until Maggie Ann's hand went out and Janie put hers into it. And now Maggie Ann said, `You never spoke a truer word than with your last utterance, for I've always known that if he gets her she'll do him no good, because she's an upstart and she'd drive him to do things against his whole nature. But thank you, lass, for your confidence. No-one could have spoken more plainly or honestly. I liked you afore, I've always liked you, but now I admire you. And I'll tell you this; there won't be an hour until I leave this world that I won't think of you and pray that one day you'll find great happiness. Whether it's with him or whoever, it'll come.` Then, on the sound of voices in the corridor she exclaimed, Ènough. Enough. Here they come. God bless you, lass.`

When the door opened Maggie Ann was laughing. `Coffee!` she was saying; Ì could have made a six-course dinner in the time it takes them to fetch a cup of coffee.`

6

The black coat of depression that hung over Daniel was lifted momentarily three days before Christmas Day when he received a note. 299 Consisting of only two lines, the contents set his heart thumping against his ribs. `Can you be in the wood at three o'clock on Friday? I have something to say to you, if not to tell you.`

The last five words puzzled him; yet clearly she wanted to see him.

Up in his bedroom he again read the note: I have something to say to you, if not to tell you. Well, he would have something to say to her, too. He would again tell her how much he loved her, and he would tell her that he would always love her, always and always.

Friday. That was today. What was he thinking about? Of course, it was today.

He stood up and caught a glimpse of himself in the cheval mirror standing crosswise in the corner of the room. What did he look like! A scarecrow--he just needed some straw in his hair. He also needed new working breeches, new leggings, new boots. He had two good suits, although one no longer fitted him.

He'd have to ask Moira to let it out, and he'd use it for work. But anyway, today, as it was freezing, he could hide his shabbiness with his topcoat, which was of quite good quality.

He now stared at his reflection in the mirror

and thought how ludicrous it was that this big house, so well appointed, even if, these days, run down with dust and untidiness, and the farm that was once one of the most prosperous in the district, if not in the county, even if not as large as some, had been reduced to a shadow of their former glory. According to Barney, a lavish ball had been held here at least twice a year, when the yard and front of the house had been packed with carriages, with the horses unhitched and led down to the farm. Well, that would never happen again. And yet, not only this house but all the farms for miles around were in similar straits.

Farming in general was in a very bad way, with the prices of corn and wheat dropping each year. As for the vegetables, most of the crops had been washed out of the ground before they'd had a chance to mature. It was the weather. But then it was always the weather, wasn't it, that controlled the fortunes of a farmer? Nevertheless, the weather couldn't take all the blame for what had happened to this farm and house.

As he swung round from the mirror he cried within himself, No, it isn't always the weather, it's drink and neglect and the satisfying of one man's lust. And the thought brought him to a standstill: lust. No, no. The feeling that he had for Frances

wasn't lust. Need ... oh yes, a 301 great, great need; but it was prompted by love, because he could never see that need being fulfilled by anybody but her ...

At ten minutes to three he was standing in the wood, and although he had an overcoat coat on, a muffler, and a tweed cap pulled well down on his head, he had to stamp his feet and keep moving, so severe was the cold. The roads were hard now, the trees stiff, the branches like artificial arms stuck on the trunks.

When he spotted her in the distance he became still; then he hurried towards her.

Although neither of them put out hands towards the other, their gazes linked and held. Her face was framed in a fur bonnet, and she was wearing a thick grey Melton cloth coat that reached down to the top of her boots. The collar of the coat was turned up, forming a frame around the bonnet and the lower part of her face.

As if they were meeting formally he said, `How are you?`

Ì'm very well, but I must get back soon, so we'd better not waste words. As I said in my letter, I've come to ask you something.`

`Well`--his voice was quiet--`go on, ask me.`

She lowered her lids for a moment, nipped at her lip, then turned and looked towards the gnarled roots spreading from a tree on to the path.

Then, her head snapping upwards, she said, Ì'm going to give you one more chance and meet you halfway. I'll wait six months, longer if you'll promise me you will then leave here and we could be married.` Her voice softening now, she went on, Ì don't care where we go, Daniel, but one thing I won't do is live in any part of that house; at least, not as it stands now with that crop in it. And what's more, Father wouldn't allow it. I'm under age, and he would put his foot down. Anyway, he has other ideas for me ... Well?`

His face was stiff. He was about to speak, but found he couldn't for the moment--his Adam's apple was jerking in his throat--but when the words did come out they weren't on a yell, nor even harsh, but quiet and firm: `We've been over this already, Frances; this is the crux of all the trouble and nothing has altered, not a jot. But that isn't quite true, for the situation has worsened, if anything, because I suppose your father has 303 already heard--he too has an ear to the inn chatter

--that Father is going to sell the Westfield strip. So what, in your heart of hearts, would you think of me if I walked out on that family, with Maggie Ann dying and Moira about to have another child? And then there are the children, the crop, as you call them; as far as I can see, looking at things plainly, I'm their only stay. But it can't go on forever. I ... I feel things will clear up some time.`

Òh, yes, yes,` Frances retorted, `wait until the one she's carrying is married, eh? Another twenty years and then you'd be free, wouldn't you? Well, you've answered my question and you'll be sorry for it because, as I put in my letter, I have something to tell you, but I thought I'd give you one more chance to see things my way; just for once, to see things my way. Well now, since you don't want me, somebody else does: your dear friend Ray Melton. He'll see I won't have to live like a pig in a sty, or be a kind of servant to a crop of half-Irish peasants ... Oh, you can grit your teeth, Daniel Stewart, but that's what they are, and I can tell you now, Ray has already been to my father to ask if the road is clear, and Father said that in his opinion the road had always been clear, because he would never have countenanced my marrying you anyway. And he told him to go ahead. I'm seeing him tonight, and when he asks me, I shall say yes. Well, I've asked you my question and I've said what I had to tell you. How d'you like it?`

He stared into the face of this beautiful girl, screwed up as it was with a mixture of what he could only describe as disdain and hate. He had never seen her like this, nor had he heard her talk like this. That she didn't like Moira and the children, he understood, and she had never said anything to their credit, but the venom that had been in her tone shocked him.

The thought crept in from the back of his mind that she had a mean soul. At bottom, he thought, she's got a mean soul. But he rejected the thought. It was her love for him that was driving her to say such things, and her need. Oh yes, her need. He knew all about her need as he did about his own. He had scorned her need, at least so she had thought, but now he had the urge to grab her, drag her into the thicket to the side of the road and there put a child into her.

And what then? Would he then take her 305 away and marry her? Or if she was obliged to come and live with him, what kind of a life would that be for all concerned? As it was, only he was suffering at the moment. No. No; he must be fair; she was suffering too, but mostly because of her need, and that would soon be satisfied. Ray would see to that ... but what then?

Ray. Hatred flared up in him for his long-time friend. He had always liked Ray, perhaps because his was such a different character from his own. A bit wild, but always amusing. And in some respects Ray had been kind. But then, he had always had plenty of money to be kind with. When he had first heard he was going to university it seemed to him that Ray could wish for nothing more. But he had wished for something more, and he would get it because he had money; or his people had, with their line of shops.

But would they welcome Miss Frances Talbot as the wife of their only son, and her father and mother who, after all, were homely folk and just one step above farm labourers? He wondered. But why was he wondering? Why was he standing there just staring at her, unable to say a word?

Her voice seemed to come from a long distance to him

as she cried, Ìt's no use looking at me like that. And if you've got nothing to say, I'm going. But I'll say one last thing: you love me and you're throwing me over for a lot of no-good individuals, and that means from your father downwards, and you'll be sorry for it. As long as you live you'll be sorry for it. You mark my words, Daniel Stewart. Yes, indeed, you mark my words.`

He watched her stepping away from him. When she stumbled on a rut and almost overbalanced he made no movement towards her, not even putting out his hand, but just watched her pause for a moment as she stared fixedly at him, then flounce around and hurry away at between a run and a walk.

Instead of standing there until she had disappeared from view, he too turned away, although not towards home. He pushed his way through the dead bracken and into the woodland, and there, with his arm outstretched, he supported himself against a tree. It was over, quite over, finally over. He knew this for a certainty now. But she had said, Às long as you live you'll be sorry for it.` ...

He remained in the wood until he began to shiver, when he turned and made his way home.

He entered the house through the front 307 door and went straight up the stairs and into his bedroom.

There, he took off his overcoat and hung it in the wardrobe. And again he looked at his reflection in the cheval mirror; but this time his thoughts prompted no voice inside him to retaliate in any way against his life, for they were being choked by an emotion that now caused him to swing about and push the door bolt home. Then, because he was blinded by this weakness that seemed to be sweeping away his manhood, he made for the head of the bed and there he twisted his body until his face lay buried in the pillow, and it became wet with the agony of rejection.

Christmas came and went. The tree had been put up in Maggie Ann's room and the children had never known such excitement as they experienced when opening the coloured parcels, from which the girls were careful to keep the fancy paper and bows.

The presents ranged from school bags to pretty dresses, and each parcel contained a book of one kind or another. But the excitement reached its height when Moira opened hers to find a grey silk blouse with a pink bow at the collar

and matching buttons at the front. And when Daniel opened his and found two books, one Mary Barton by Mrs Gaskell, the other Conditions Of The Working Class by Engels, he had stared at them, then given a wry smile as he said, `She's aiming to get me into politics.`