Chapter 3

Relations between Ivy and Nell had always been a little uneasy. Ivy was tolerant and good-humoured, but could not always hide the contempt which she felt for Nell’s refinements, while Nell, though she did not despise Ivy, hated her coarseness—particularly since she could never see it through her own eyes alone, but through others to which it must appear even grosser than to herself.

One evening Nell came in from school, and as she took off her hat before the bit of glass on the kitchen wall, could see the reflection of Ivy munching her tea, which she had started late, after a day’s washing. Her sleeves were still rolled up, showing her strong arms, white as milk to the elbow, then brown as a rye-bread crust. Her meadow-green dress was unbuttoned, as if to give her big breast play, and her neck was thick and white, its modelling shown by bluish shadows. “She’s a whacker!” thought Nell angrily to herself, then suddenly turned round and said—

“Jerry Sumption’s here.”

“Lork!” said Ivy, biting off a crust.

“I met him,” continued Nell, “and he knows you’re [162] going with Seagrim.”

“Well, wot if he does?”

“It might be awkward for you. He seemed very much upset about it.”

“Wot fur dud you go and tell un?”

Nell sniffed.

“I didn’t tell him. But your love-making isn’t exactly private.”

“No need fur it to be.”

“I don’t know—it might be better for you as well as for us if the whole parish didn’t know so much about your affairs.”

“And I reckon you think as no one knows about yourn?”

Nell flushed—

“Leave my affairs alone. I’ve none for you to meddle with.”

“Oh, no—you aun’t sweet on Parson—not you, and nobody knows you go after un!”

“Adone-do wud your vulgar talk,” cried Nell furiously, forgetting in her anger to clip and trim her blurry Sussex speech. “I’ve warned you about young Sumption, and it aun’t my fault if you have trouble.”

“There woan’t be no trouble. I’ve naun to do wud Jerry nor he wud me—I got shut of him a year agone.”

All the same, she was not so easy as her words made out. It was evil luck which had brought Jerry Sumption back at just this time. He was bound to be a pest anyhow, though perhaps if his jealousy had not been roused he might have had enough sense to keep away. Now he would most likely come and make a scene. Even though she would not be his girl, he could never bear to see her another man’s; he might even try to make mischief between her and Seagrim—be hemmed to the gipsy! At all events he would be sure to come and kick up trouble.

[163]

She was partly right. Jerry came, but he did not make a scene. He turned up the next morning, looking strangely dapper and subdued. Ivy interviewed him in the outer kitchen, where she was blackleading the fireplace. It spoke much for the sincerity of his passion that he had hardly ever seen his charmer in a presentable state—she was always either scrubbing the floor, or cooking the dinner, or washing the clothes, or cleaning the hearth. To-day there was a big smudge of black across her cheek, and her hair was tumbling over ears and forehead, from which she occasionally swept it back with a smutty hand.

Contrariwise, Jerry was neat and dressed out as she had never seen him. His puttees were carefully wound, his buttons were polished, his tunic was brushed, his hair was sleek with water. He stood looking at her in his furtive gipsy way, which somehow suggested a cast in his fine eyes which were perfect enough.

“Ivy....”

She had decided that he should be the first to speak, and had let the silence drag on for two full minutes.

“Well?”

“I’ve come—I’ve come to ask you to forgive me.”

“I’ll forgive you sure enough, Jerry Sumption—but I aun’t going wud you no more, if that’s wot you mean.”

“You’ve taken up with another fellow.”

“That’s no concern of yourn.”

“But tell me if it’s truth or lie?”

“It’s truth.”

“And you love him?”

“Maybe I do.”

Jerry’s face went the colour of cheese.

“Then you’ll never come with me again, I reckon.”

“I justabout woan’t”—Ivy sat up on her heels and looked straight into his dodging eyes—“I’ll forgive you [164] all, but I’ll give you naun—d’you maake that out? I cud never have loved you, and you’ve shown me plain as mud as you aun’t the kind of chap a girl can go with for fun. If you’re wise you’ll kip awaay—we can’t be friends. So you go and find some other girl as ull do better fur you than I shud ever.”

“If there hadn’t been this chap——”

“It ud have bin the saum. I’m not your sort, my lad, for all you think.”

“Will this other chap marry you?”

“I’ll tell naun about un. He’s no consarn of yourn, as I’ve said a dunnamany times.”

“Ivy, when I was in France, I thought to myself—’Maybe if I’m sober and keep straight, she’ll have me back.’”

“I’m middling glad you thought it, Jerry, fur it wur a good thought. You’ll lose naun by kipping straight and sober, so you go on wud it, my lad.”

“I don’t care, if I can’t get you.”

“That’s unsensible talk. I’m not the only girl that’s going—thur’s many better.”

“Reckon there is—reckon I’ll get one for every day of the week. No need to tell me girls are cheap—I only thought I’d like one that wasn’t, for a change.”

“Doan’t you talk so bitter.”

“I talk as I feel. You’ve settled with this chap, Ivy?”

“I’ve told you a dunnamany times. Wot maakes you so thick?”

He did not answer, but turned away, and walked out of the room with a stealthy, humble step, like a beaten dog. Ivy’s heart smote her—she could not let him go without a kind word.

“Jerry!” she called after him. But he did not turn back—and then, unaccountably, she felt frightened.