The Silver Bough Read Free Page A

But the mask was habitual, indifferent, and as quiet as stone.
    Grant had nothing more to say.
    â€œWell, shall we go on?” With that objective look which seemed to pause and contemplate its object, Martin moved on.
    â€œI hope you really don’t mind,” said Grant, his own tone firming.
    â€œNot really,” answered Martin. “To tear the guts out of everything is characteristic, I suppose.” His tone remained uninterested.
    â€œCharacteristic of what?” inquired Grant.
    â€œOf our age.” He half turned his head. “Or don’t you think so?”
    â€œIt all depends on the point of view.” Grant smiled ahead, for he could be angry as he could be merry, and as quickly.
    â€œAnd your point of view?”
    â€œIs that knowledge helps.”
    â€œHelps what?”
    â€œHumanity,” said Grant succinctly.
    They walked on.
    â€œAre you to do all the digging yourself?” inquired Martin presently.
    â€œI hope to find some labour, though I had supposed that may be difficult.”
    â€œVery difficult, I should say, if not quite impossible.”
    They had come down the slope and now a winding belt of small birch trees ahead indicated a stream of which Grant presently caught a glimpse.
    â€œI don’t suppose you could suggest,” he said politely, “any possible source of labour? A man of any age would do, so long as he can lift stones or dig?”
    â€œI’m afraid—not. The old here cultivate their crofts or go to sea to fish occasionally. Productive labour—which they might be unwilling to forgo.”
    With an effort Grant said nothing. The road came within a hundred yards of the stream, on whose bank he saw a woman knitting, a dark-brown shawl round her head. A man was staggering about in the water below her. A motor car came noisily towards them and Martin stopped. “You might,” he said, “get the man in the burn there to help you. I rather think the job he’s on is about finished. But the woman will tell you.” His talk was now easy and cool as his courtesy. The car drew up beside them. “Got her right?” he asked the driver.
    â€œShe needs a new gasket,” answered the fair-haired young man who seemed to have acquired some of his employer’s expressionless manner. “I’ll turn her here.” A rough cart track went from the road towards the stream, and while the car was being turned, Martin said to his fellow traveller. “If you care to come along and see us, do.”
    â€œThank you.” Grant’s nod was nearly a bow, but as the car drove off, he said to himself, “‘Productive labour’—damn him!” He hitched up his rucksack, wiped his brow, and started for the woman by the stream. All at once he found himself in a furious temper. He paused for a moment to let it rip, then, much relieved, he went on and removed his tweed hat with the friendliest gesture.
    The aged face, framed by its shawl, was heavy and solemn, the unwinking eyes a faded blue. The expression was that of a woman quietly on guard, waiting to hear what had to be said. Grant said it straight away, and did not omit the fact that he had been directed to her by Mr Martin. It would be perfectly simple labour, he explained; neither so heavy nor so wet, he added with his engaging smile, as heaving these boulders from the stream. The crack of one boulder on another drew his startled attention. The shambling figure in the stream had now turned his face towards them and Grant saw that it was an idiot’s face. The trousers were tucked up to the thighs and the body staggered on bare feet.
    â€œMy son,” the woman said, “is engaged under the County Council for road work. But just now he is only taking the stones up to be ready for the breaking. There is no hurry for this. Indeed he has taken enough and he is only going on now in case they will be needing it all.”
    â€œI