I heard …” She saw his face then.
But she did not even have time to step back.
He did not strike her; his hand on her arm was quite gentle.
It was just hurried, getting her out of the path, out of the door.
He swept her aside as he might have a curtain across the door.
“He’s at a dance,” he said. “Get away, old woman.”
She turned, clutching the shawl with one hand, her other against the door face as she fell back, watching him as he crossed the room and began to run up the stairs which mounted to his attic.
Without stopping he looked back.
Then she could see his teeth shining in the lamp.
“At a dance, you hear?
He’s not dancing, though.”
He laughed back, into the lamp; he turned his head and his laughing, running on up the stairs, vanishing as he ran, vanishing upward from the head down as if he were running headfirst and laughing into something that was obliterating him like a picture in chalk being erased from a blackboard.
She followed, toiling up the stairs. She began to follow almost as soon as he passed her, as if that implacable urgency which had carried her husband away had returned like a cloak on the shoulders of the boy and had been passed from him in turn to her.
She dragged herself up the cramped stair, clutching the rail with one hand and the shawl with the other.
She was not speaking, not calling to him.
It was as though she were a phantom obeying the command sent back by the absent master.
Joe had not lighted his lamp.
But the room was filled with refracted moonglow, and even without that very likely she could have told what he was doing.
She held herself upright by the wall, fumbling her hand along the wall until she reached the bed and sank onto it, sitting.
It had taken her some time, because when she looked toward where the loose plank was, he was already approaching toward the bed, where the moonlight fell directly, and she watched him empty the tin can onto the bed and sweep the small mass of coins and bills into his hand and ram the hand into his pocket.
Only then did he look at her as she sat, backfallen a little now, propped on one arm and holding the shawl with the other hand.
“I didn’t ask you for it,” he said. “Remember that.
I didn’t ask, because I was afraid you would give it to me.
I just took it.
Don’t forget that.”
He was turning almost before his voice ceased.
She watched him turn into the lamplight which fell up the stair, descending.
He passed out of sight, but she could still hear him.
She heard him in the hall again, fast, and after a while she heard the horse again, galloping; and after a while the sound of the horse ceased.
A clock was striking one somewhere when Joe urged the now spent old horse through the main street of town.
The horse had been breathing hard for some time now, but Joe still held it at a stumbling trot with a heavy stick that fell rhythmically across its rump.
It was not a switch: it was a section of broom handle which had been driven into Mrs. McEachern’s flower bed in front of the house for something to grow on.
Though the horse was still going through the motion of galloping, it was not moving much faster than a man could walk.
The stick too rose and fell with the same spent and terrific slowness, the youth on the horse’s back leaning forward as if he did not know that the horse had flagged, or as though to lift forward and onward the failing beast whose slow hooves rang with a measured hollow sound through the empty and moondappled street.
It—the horse and the rider—had a strange, dreamy effect, like a moving picture in slow motion as it galloped steady and flagging up the street and toward the old corner where he used to wait, less urgent perhaps but not less eager, and more young.
The horse was not even trotting now, on stiff legs, its breathing deep and labored and rasping, each breath a groan.
The stick still fell; as the progress of the horse slowed, the speed of the stick increased in exact ratio.
But the horse slowed, sheering into the curb.
Joe pulled at its head, beating it, but it slowed into the curb and stopped, shadowdappled, its head down, trembling, its breathing almost like a human voice.
Yet still the rider leaned forward in the arrested saddle, in the attitude of terrific speed, beating the horse across the rump with the stick.
Save for the rise and fall of the stick and the groaning respirations of the animal, they might have been an equestrian statue strayed from its pedestal and come to rest in an attitude of ultimate exhaustion in a quiet and empty street splotched and dappled by moonshadows.
Joe descended.
He went to the horse’s head and began to tug it, as if he would drag it into motion by main strength and then spring onto its back.
The horse did not move.
He desisted; he seemed to be leaning a little toward the horse.
Again they were motionless: the spent beast and the youth, facing one another, their heads quite near, as if carved in an attitude of listening or of prayer or of consultation.
Then Joe raised the stick and fell to beating the horse about its motionless head.
He beat it steadily until the stick broke.
He continued to strike it with a fragment not much longer than his hand.
But perhaps he realised that he was inflicting no pain, or perhaps his arm grew tired at last, because he threw the stick away and turned, whirled, already in full stride.