launched itself into a frenzy of yelps at their appearance, has received across its snout a sharp slap from the Reverend, and now lies on its belly in an ecstasy of restraint. Hooves on the cobbles ring like showers of flints. The farmers depart, their horses picking their way up the track towards the road, until at length only James and Sam and the Reverend remain, grouped in the emergent quiet, chiaroscuro fashion, around the Reverend's lantern.
The boy shivers. The Reverend looks down at him as if surprised to find him there.
'Had you your wits about you, Sam, you might have had a ride home with one of our guests.'
James says: 1 shall walk him. I've been keeping him up with old stories.'
*Ah, stories. . .' The Reverend nods as though the word signified to him in some special way. 'Well, you've some to tell.'
'And some we share.'
A smile flickers on the Reverend's face. 'We do that.' He sniffs the air. 'Watch your step on the ice, Doctor. Shall you take the lantern?'
'Nay. Sam and I are learning our stars. We shall see them better without a lantern.'
Sam has run back into the house to fetch their coats and James's staff. Waiting in the yard, James eyes the edge of the dressing that pokes from beneath the Reverend's wig. He wants to ask how he goes on with it, but the business of the bleeding continues to trouble him. He is relieved when the Reverend nods towards the open door, through which, visible among the remaining lights, Sam stands beside Mary, taking his leave of her.
'He is fond of her,' the Reverend says.
'Ay. There's something between them.'
'Does she ever speak to him?'
James shrugs. 'He understands how she means towards him.'
Sam brings his coat, the heavy surtout, its pockets deep enough for books and apples and paper for sketching.
WeU, then.'
'God speed.'
'Good night to you.'
'Good night, good night, Sam.'
They are drawing apart. The Reverend turns tow^ards the house, scratches behind the dog's ear and sighs, sighs so heavily it surprises him, as if his body possessed some secret knowledge yet to permeate through to consciousness. His temple throbs; he touches it tenderly with two fingers. Odd that James's nerve should go like that. Odd how a man can change. Finished as a doctor, of course. All that talent! True, he was a hard and unlovable man before. But useful; by God he was. What does the world need most - a good, ordinary man, or one who is outstanding, albeit with a heart of ice, of stone? Hard one that. This dog's too skinny. Needs worming. Time to sleep now. Dream something good.
From the house there is nearly a mile of pitted trackway to reach the bridge and the road that runs uphill to the village. It is darker here, under the shadow of trees and tall hedgerows, but the moon still guides them, showing deep ruts sequinned with frost, and the snaking of branches from the invisible to the invisible across bars of diffuse light. Where they find the sky unhindered they stop, Sam following the arc of James's hand as he names the stars, both of them staring up into the depths of heaven until it seems they can feel the earth tumbling under their feet, and they must look down or stagger. Their walking startles
an animal; eyes in a body of umbra, a creature insubstantial as the quick, dry rustle of its escape through the hedge. Sam claims it for a fox, says he shall tell George Pace of it and earn a penny.
By and by James persuades Sam to sing for him. Sam walks a way in silence, pondering his repertoire, then starts in with 'Old John Barleycorn'. His voice is too soft at first, then suddenly he is in his stride, a light treble voice, husky on the higher notes:
'There was three men come out of the West Their fortunes for to try. And these three men Made a solemn vow John Barleycorn should die . . .'
For some three or four minutes, this singing expresses for James more of the natural melancholy of Ufe than anything he has heard in cathedral or concert hall. Or madhouse.
'They wheeled 'im roun' an' roun' the field Till they came unto a barn And there they made a solemn mow Of poor John Barleycorn . . .'
They come out at the bridge, a stone hump with low parapets, and turn up the hill to Cow. A single light shows feebly from a house at the brow of the hill - Caxton's place. Passing, they peep in through the half-curtained window, at the backs of men working at their drink. Then they go on into zones of shadow, winding between the shut stone faces of sleeping cottages, the dark gardens, the breathing and shiftings of animals. Far off, yet very clear, comes the call of an owl, and its answer, equally clear, equally distant.
The sexton's house is marked by a glow seeping through the glass of a downstairs window. The light shifts at the noise of their approach and the door is opened before they have knocked. The boy's mother stands in the entrance with her candle.
*I trust he has been no worry to you, Doctor.' And then to the boy: What do you mean giving the doctor such trouble, walking all this way in the middle of the night?' There is more relief than anger in her voice.
James says: 'I pray you not be too hard on him. I am to blame. And to walk on such a night is no hardship. Sam has been singing for me. He has a fine voice. I was thinking he should be among the choir. They are not over-endowed with fine singing there . . . Your good husband being a notable exception.'
*You are kind to say so, I'm sure.' She makes the briefest curtsey,
