side, and the roof sloped up steeply above the actual shop, and under the apex, set partly in plaster, was a wheel, the hub cracked, the felloes springing out here and there from the rim. It looked, as it had done for the last fifty years, as if it were going to fall from the face of the wall.
At one side of the shop was the yard. It was a big yard and held various neat stacks of timber, besides odd piles. Two old farm carts stood in one corner and a saw pit ran along one wall. At the far end of the yard was a stable with a loft above.
On the other side of the shop was the house. It had a good-sized kitchen and scullery downstairs, besides a small parlor, three bedrooms above, and, lastly, an attic. This latter was Matthew's room, as it had been from the age of five when his grandmother and Aunt Mildred had come to live with them.
Although a six-room house with five people in it could be considered almost empty, Matthew felt the place so crowded that he was barely able to breathe in it. This^ iarpression was caused, he knew, by his grandmother's and his aunt's constant presence in the kitchen, and had been added to over the last three years by his father's prone figure in the bedroom and the fact that they all now looked to himself for survival.
Matthew's life, until the day he had been called over to Brookdale to make the coffins for a Mr. and Mrs. Brodie, had, he would have said, run smoothly, and this in spite of times being bad. When the prosperity of farms went down the demands for carts and wheels and repairs went down; as for households, old buckets weren't renewed but puttied. Still, he made enough to feed them, and keep on one man. And there was no need to really worry about not being able to manage, for always in the back of his mind was the life belt in the form of Rose Watson. He knew he had only to say the word and Rose would be his, together with all she would own when her father died, and such a decision would mean living at the mill. But that could only bring pleasure; what didn't bring him pleasure was the thought of Rose herself.
Rose, he considered, was a good lass. She was a wonderful cook and fine housewife, none better, as the mill house showed, and her nature was pleasant, at least to him, although he had heard it said she had a temper. But it wasn't her temper that would worry him, it was the looks of her, the big bulk of her. Yet, as he told himself time and time again, such women generally made admirable wives and mothers; but he also told himself that he had no feeling for her one way or the other, except that she evoked pity in him.
That was how he was feeling prior to making the coffins for the Brodies. Then he had met Cissie; and from the first moment when he had stood in that room which was reeking with death and looked at her, so young, so slight, so lovely, he had known he would never feel the same again. And that experience on the road when she had dissolved into light had set the seal on his life. And as he watched her fight to hold that squad of children together his love for her had rolled away with him, as he put it to himself, like four brand-new wheels on a wagon. Had she stood alone he would have defied his mother and his grannie and brought her into the house.
After his visit last Sunday he knew he must stop seeing her; because she was no fool, she knew what was in his mind, and it wasn't fair, seeing that nothing could come of it. He reasoned that as soon as she got the ramshackle structure up he would cut adrift, but first he must see the place right, before the winter set in.
Sunday, in his home, ran to a pattern. In the morning he drove his mother and his Aunt Mildred in the cart to church; he would sit in the back row and, except when Parson Hedley was preaching the sermon, he would think not of God or religion in any form, but of things that were of importance to him. Until recently, his thoughts had centered around his work, or the lack of it, or the injustices being
At one side of the shop was the yard. It was a big yard and held various neat stacks of timber, besides odd piles. Two old farm carts stood in one corner and a saw pit ran along one wall. At the far end of the yard was a stable with a loft above.
On the other side of the shop was the house. It had a good-sized kitchen and scullery downstairs, besides a small parlor, three bedrooms above, and, lastly, an attic. This latter was Matthew's room, as it had been from the age of five when his grandmother and Aunt Mildred had come to live with them.
Although a six-room house with five people in it could be considered almost empty, Matthew felt the place so crowded that he was barely able to breathe in it. This^ iarpression was caused, he knew, by his grandmother's and his aunt's constant presence in the kitchen, and had been added to over the last three years by his father's prone figure in the bedroom and the fact that they all now looked to himself for survival.
Matthew's life, until the day he had been called over to Brookdale to make the coffins for a Mr. and Mrs. Brodie, had, he would have said, run smoothly, and this in spite of times being bad. When the prosperity of farms went down the demands for carts and wheels and repairs went down; as for households, old buckets weren't renewed but puttied. Still, he made enough to feed them, and keep on one man. And there was no need to really worry about not being able to manage, for always in the back of his mind was the life belt in the form of Rose Watson. He knew he had only to say the word and Rose would be his, together with all she would own when her father died, and such a decision would mean living at the mill. But that could only bring pleasure; what didn't bring him pleasure was the thought of Rose herself.
Rose, he considered, was a good lass. She was a wonderful cook and fine housewife, none better, as the mill house showed, and her nature was pleasant, at least to him, although he had heard it said she had a temper. But it wasn't her temper that would worry him, it was the looks of her, the big bulk of her. Yet, as he told himself time and time again, such women generally made admirable wives and mothers; but he also told himself that he had no feeling for her one way or the other, except that she evoked pity in him.
That was how he was feeling prior to making the coffins for the Brodies. Then he had met Cissie; and from the first moment when he had stood in that room which was reeking with death and looked at her, so young, so slight, so lovely, he had known he would never feel the same again. And that experience on the road when she had dissolved into light had set the seal on his life. And as he watched her fight to hold that squad of children together his love for her had rolled away with him, as he put it to himself, like four brand-new wheels on a wagon. Had she stood alone he would have defied his mother and his grannie and brought her into the house.
After his visit last Sunday he knew he must stop seeing her; because she was no fool, she knew what was in his mind, and it wasn't fair, seeing that nothing could come of it. He reasoned that as soon as she got the ramshackle structure up he would cut adrift, but first he must see the place right, before the winter set in.
Sunday, in his home, ran to a pattern. In the morning he drove his mother and his Aunt Mildred in the cart to church; he would sit in the back row and, except when Parson Hedley was preaching the sermon, he would think not of God or religion in any form, but of things that were of importance to him. Until recently, his thoughts had centered around his work, or the lack of it, or the injustices being
Similar Books
