ABOUT THOMASINE
Thomasine sat in the kitchen of Town Rising, sewing. It was a dreary
place, and she was alone and surrounded with stone. The kitchen walls
were stone; so was the floor. The window looked out upon the court, and
that was paved with stone. Beyond was the barn wall, made of blocks of
cold granite. Above peeped the top of a tor, and that was granite too.
Damp stone everywhere. It was the Stone Age back again. And Thomasine,
buried among it all, was making herself a frivolous petticoat for
Tavistock Goose Fair.
Among undistinguished young persons Thomasine was pre-eminent. She was
only Farmer Chegwidden's "help"; that is to say, general servant.
Undistinguished young persons will do anything that is menial under the
title of "help," which as a servant they would shrink from. To the lower
classes there is much in a name. Thomasine knew nothing. She was just a
work-a-day girl, eating her meals, sleeping; knowing there was something
called a character which for some inexplicable reason it was necessary
to keep; dreaming of a home of her own some day, but not having the
sense to realise that it would mean a probably drunken husband on a few
shillings a week, and a new gift from the gods to feed each year;
comprehending the delights of fairs, general holidays, and evenings out;
perceiving that it was pleasant to have her waist squeezed and her mouth
kissed; understanding also the charm in being courted in a ditch with
the temperature below freezing-point. That was nearly all Thomasine
knew. Plenty of animals know more. Her conversation consisted chiefly in
"ees" and "no."
It is not pleasant to see a pretty face, glorious complexion, well-made
body, without mind, intellect, or soul worth mentioning; but it is a
common sight. It is not pleasant to speak to that face, and watch its
vacancy increase. A dog would understand at once; but that human face
remains dull. A good many strange thoughts suggest themselves on
fair-days and holidays in and about the Stannary Towns. There are plenty
of pretty faces, glorious complexions, and well-made bodies surrounded
with clothing which the old Puritans would have denounced as immoral;
but not a mind, not an intellect above potato-peeling, in the lot. They
come into the towns like so many birds of passage; at nightfall they go
out, shrieking, many of them, for lack of intelligent speech, and return
to potato-peeling. The warmth of the next holiday brings them out again,
in the same clothes, knowing just as much as they did before--how to
shriek--then the pots and potatoes claim them again. All those girls
have undeveloped minds. They don't know it, not having been told, so
their minds remain unformed all their lives. The flower-like faces fade
quickly, because there is nothing to keep the bloom on. The mind does
not get beyond the budding stage. It is never attended to, so it rots
off without ever opening. Sometimes one of these girls discovers she has
something besides her body and her complexion; or somebody superior to
herself impresses the fact upon her; and she uses her knowledge,
cultivates her mind, and with luck rises out of the rut. She discovers
that her horizon is not limited by pots and potato-peel. Beyond it all,
for her, there is something called intelligence. Such girls are few.
Most of them have their eyes opened, not their minds, and then they
discover they are naked, and want to go away and hide themselves.
Thomasine's soul was about the size and weight of a grain of mustard
seed. She was a good maid, and her parents had no cause to be sorry she
had been born. She had come into the world by way of lawful wedlock,
which was something to be proud of in her part of the country, and was
living a decent life in respectable employment. She sat in the stone
kitchen, and built up her flimsy petticoat, with as much expression on
her face as one might reasonably expect to find upon the face of a cow.
She could not think. She knew that she was warm and comfortable; but
knowledge is not thought. She knew all about her last evening's
courting; but she could not have constructed any little romance which
differed from that courting. In a manner she had something to think
about; namely, what had actually happened. She could not think about
what had not happened, or what under different circumstances might have
happened. That would have meant using her mind; and she didn't know she
had one. Yet Thomasine came of a fairly clever family. Her grandfather
had used his mind largely, and had succeeded in building up, not a
large, but a very comfortable, business. He had emigrated, however; and
it is well known that there is nothing like a change of scene for
teaching a man to know himself. He had gone to Birmingham and started an
idol-factory. It was a quaint sort of business, but a profitable one. He
made idols for the Burmese market. He had stocked a large number of
Buddhist temples, and the business was an increasing one. Orders for
idols reached him from many remote places, and his goods always gave
satisfaction. The placid features of many a squatting Gautama in dim
Eastern temples had been moulded from the vacant faces of Devonshire
farm-maids. He was a most religious man, attending chapel twice each
Sunday, besides teaching in the Sunday-school. He didn't believe in
allowing religion to interfere with business, which was no doubt quite
discreet of him. He always said that a man should keep his business
perfectly distinct from everything else. He had long ago dropped his
Devonshire relations. Respectable idol-makers cannot mingle with common
country-folk. Thomasine's parents possessed a framed photograph of one
of the earlier idols, which they exhibited in their living-room as a
family heirloom, although their minister had asked them as a personal
favour to destroy it, because it seemed to him to savour of
superstition. The minister thought it was intended for the Virgin Mary,
but the good people denied it with some warmth, explaining that they
were good Christians, and would never disgrace their cottage in that
Popish fashion.
Innocent of idols, Thomasine went on sewing in her stone kitchen amid
the granite. She had finished putting a frill along the hem of her
petticoat; now she put one higher up in regions which would be invisible
however much the wind might blow, though she did not know why, because
she could not think. It was a waste of material; nobody would see it;
but she felt that a fair petticoat ought to be adorned as lavishly as
possible. She did not often glance up. There was nothing to be seen in
the court except the usual fowls. It was rarely an incident occurred
worth remembering. Sometimes one stag attacked another, and Thomasine
would be attracted to the window to watch the contest. That made a
little excitement in her life, but the fight would soon be over. It was
all show and bluster; very much like the sparring of two farm hands.
"You'm a liar." "So be yew." "Aw well, so be _yew_." And so on, with
ever-increasing accent upon the "yew." Not many people crossed the
court. There was no right of way there, but Farmer Chegwidden had no
objection to neighbours passing through.
Whether Thomasine was pretty could hardly be stated definitely. It must
remain a matter of opinion whether any face can be beautiful which is
entirely lacking in expression, has no mind behind the tongue, and no
speaking brain at the back of the eyes. Many, no doubt, would have
thought her perfection. She was plump and full of blood; it seemed ready
to burst through her skin. She was somewhat grossly built; too wide at
the thighs, big-handed, and large-footed, with not much waist, and a
clumsy stoop from the shoulders. She waddled in her walk like most
Devonshire farm-maids. Her complexion was perfect; so was her health.
She had a lust-provoking face; big sleepy eyes; cheeks absolutely
scarlet; pouting lips swollen with blood, almost the colour of an
over-ripe peach. It was more like paint than natural colouring. It was
too strong. She had too much blood. She was part of the exaggeration of
Dartmoor, which exaggerates everything; adding fierceness to fierceness,
colour to colour, strength to strength; just as its rain is fiercer than
that of the valleys, and its wind mightier. Thomasine was of the Tavy
family, but not of the romantic branch. Not of the folklore side like
Boodles, but of the Ger Tor family, the strong mountain branch which
knows nothing and cannot think for itself, and only feels the river
wearing it away, and the frost rotting it, and the wind beating it. The
pity was that Thomasine did not know she had a mind, which was already
fading for want of use. She knew only how to peel potatoes and make
herself wanton underwear. Although twenty-two years of age she was still
a maid.
There were steps upon the stones, and Thomasine looked up. She saw
nobody, but sounds came through the open window, a shuffling against the
wall of the house, and the stumbling of clumsy boots. Then there was a
knock.
There was nothing outside, except miserable objects such as Brightly
with an empty and battered basket and starving Ju with her empty and
battered stomach and her tongue hanging out. They were still trying to
do business, instead of going away to some lonely part of the moor and
dying decently. It was extraordinary how Brightly and Ju clung to life,
which wasn't of much use to them, and how steadfastly they applied
themselves to a sordid business which was very far less remunerative
than sound and honest occupations such as idol-making. Brightly looked
smaller than ever. He had forgotten all about his last meal. His face
was pinched; it was about the size of a two-year-old baby's. He looked
like an eel in man's clothing.
"Any rabbit-skins, miss?" he asked.
"No," said Thomasine.
Brightly crept a little nearer. "Will ye give us a bite o' bread? Us be
cruel hungry, and times be hard. Tramped all day yesterday, and got my
cloam tored, and lost my rabbit-skins and duppence. Give me and little
dog a bite, miss. Du'ye, miss."
"If master was to know I'd catch it," said Thomasine.
"Varmer Chegwidden would give I a bite. I knows he would," said
Brightly.
Chegwidden would certainly have given him a bite had he been present, or
rather his sheep-dog would. Chegwidden was a member of the Board of
Guardians in his sober moments, and it was his duty to suppress such
creatures as Brightly.
"I mun go on," said the weary little wretch, when he saw that Thomasine
was about to shut the door. "I mun tramp on. I wish yew could ha' given
us a bite, miss, for us be going to Tavistock, and I don't know if us
can. Me and little dog be cruel mazed."
"Bide there a bit," said Thomasine.
There was nobody in the house, except Mrs. Chegwidden, who was among her
pickle jars and had never to be taken into consideration. Chegwidden had
gone to Lydford. The girl had a good heart, and she didn't like to see
things starving. Even the fowls had to be fed when they were hungry, and
probably Brightly was nearly as good as the fowls. She returned to the
door with bread and meat, and a lump of cheese wrapped in a piece of
newspaper. She flung Ju a bone as big as herself and with more meat upon
it, and before the fit of charity had exhausted itself she brought out a
jug of cider, which Brightly consumed on the premises and increased in
girth perceptibly.
"Get off," said Thomasine. "If I'm caught they'll give me the door."
Brightly was not well skilled in expressing gratitude because he had so
little practice. He was generally apologising for his existence. He
tried to be effusive, but was only grotesque. Thomasine almost thought
he was trying to make love to her, and she drew back with her strained
sensual smile.
"I wun't forget. Not if I lives to be two hundred and one, I wun't,"
cried Brightly. "Ju ses her wun't forget neither. Us will get to
Tavistock now, and us can start in business again to-morrow. Ye've been
cruel kind to me, miss. God love ye and bless ye vor't, is what I ses.
God send ye a good husband vor't, is what I ses tu."
"You'm welcome," said Thomasine.
Brightly beamed in a fantastic manner through his spectacles. Ju wagged
what Nature had intended to be a tail, and staggered out of the court
with her load of savoury meat. Then the door was closed, and Thomasine
went back to her petticoat.
The girl could not exactly think about Brightly, but she was able to
remember what had happened. A starving creature supposed to be a man,
accompanied by a famished beast that tried to be a dog--both shocking
examples of bad work, for Nature jerry-builds worse than the most
dishonest of men--had presented themselves at the door of her kitchen,
and she had fed them. She had obeyed the primitive instinct which
compels the one who has food to give to those who have none. There was
nothing splendid about it, because she did not want the food. Yet her
master would not have fed Brightly. He would have flung the food into
the pig-sty rather than have given it to the Seal. So it was possible
after all that she had performed a generous action which was worthy of
reward.
It must not be supposed that Thomasine thought all that out for herself.
She knew nothing about generous actions. She had listened to plenty of
sermons in the chapel, but without understanding anything except that it
would be her duty some time to enter hell, which, according to the
preacher's account, was a place rather like the top of Dartmoor, only
hotter, and there was never any frost or snow. Will Pugsley, with whom
she was walking out just then, had summed up the whole matter in one
phrase of gloomy philosophy: "Us has a cruel hard time on't here, and
then us goes down under." That seemed to be the answer to the riddle of
the soul's existence: "having a cruel hard time, and then going down
under."
Thomasine had never read a book in her life. They did not come her way.
Town Rising had none, except the big Bible--which for half-a-century had
performed its duty of supporting a china shepherdess wreathing with
earthenware daisies the neck of a red and white cow--a manual upon
manure, and a ready reckoner. No penny novelette, dealing with such
matters of everyday occurrence as the wooing of servant-girls by earls,
had ever found its way into her hands, and such fictions would not have
interested her, simply because they would have conveyed no meaning. A
pretty petticoat and a fair-day; these were matters she could
appreciate, because they touched her sympathies and she could understand
them. They were some of the things which made up the joy of life. There
was so much that was "cruel hard"; but there were pleasures, such as
fine raiment and fair-days, to be enjoyed before she went "down under."
Thomasine was able to form mental pictures of scenes that were familiar.
She could see the tor above the barn. It was easy to see also the long
village on the side of the moor. She knew it all so well. She could see
Ebenezer, the chapel where she heard sermons about hell. Pendoggat was
sometimes the preacher, and he always insisted strongly upon the
extremely high temperature of "down under." Thomasine very nearly
thought. She almost associated the preacher with the place which was the
subject of his discourse. That would have been a very considerable
mental flight had she succeeded. It came to nothing, however. She went
on remembering, not thinking. Pendoggat had tried to look at her in
chapel. He could not look at any one with his eyes, but he had set his
face towards her as though he believed she was in greater need than
others of his warnings. He had walked close beside her out of chapel,
and had remarked that it was a fine evening. Thomasine remembered she
had been pleased, because he had drawn her attention towards a fact
which she had not previously observed, namely, that it was a fine
evening. Pendoggat was a man, not a creeping thing like Brightly, not a
lump of animated whisky-moistened clay like Farmer Chegwidden. No one
could make people uncomfortable like him. Eli Pezzack was a poor
creature in comparison, although Thomasine didn't make the comparison
because she couldn't. Pezzack could not make people feel they were
already in torment. The minister frequently referred to another place
which was called "up over." He reminded his listeners that they might
attain to a place of milk and honey where the temperature was normal;
and that was the reason why he was not much of a success as a minister.
He seemed indeed to desire to deprive his congregations of their
legitimate place of torment. What was the use of talking about "up
over," which could not concern his listeners, when they might so easily
be stimulated with details concerning the inevitable "down under"?
Pezzack was a weak man. He refused to face his destiny, and he tried to
prevent his congregations from facing theirs.
Thomasine looked at the clock. It was time to lift the peat from the
hearth and put on the coal. Chegwidden would soon be back from Lydford
and want his supper. She admired the petticoat, rolled it up, and put it
away in her work-basket.
"Dear life!" she murmured. "Here be master, and nothing done."
A horseman was in the court, and crossing it. The window was open. The
rider was not Chegwidden. It was the master of Helmen Barton, his head
down as usual, his eyes apparently fixed between his horse's ears; his
head was inclined a little towards the house. Thomasine stood back and
watched.
A piece of gorse in full bloom came through the window, fell upon the
stone floor, and bounded like a small beast. It jumped about on the
smooth cement, and glided on its spines until it reached the dresser,
and there remained motionless, with its stem, which had been bared of
prickles, directed upwards towards the girl like a pointing finger.
Pendoggat had gone on. His horse had not stopped, nor had the rider
appeared to glance into the kitchen. Obviously there was some connection
between Pendoggat, that piece of gorse, and herself, only Thomasine
could not work it out. She picked it up. She could not have such a thing
littering her tidy kitchen. The sprig was a smother of blossom, and she
could see its tiny spears among the blooms, their points so keen that
they were as invisible as the edge of a razor. She brought the blooms
suddenly to her nose, and immediately one of the tiny spears pierced the
skin and her strong blood burst through.
"Scat the vuzz," said Thomasine.
Iron-shod hoofs rattled again upon the stones, and the light of the
window became darkened. Pendoggat had changed his mind and was back
again. He tumbled from the saddle and stood there wagging his head as if
deep in thought. Supposing she was wanted for something, the girl came
forward. Pendoggat was close to the window, which was a low one. She did
not know what he was looking at; not at her certainly; but he seemed to
be searching for her, desiring her, sniffing at her like an animal.
"Du'ye want master, sir? He'm to Lydford," said Thomasine.
A drop of blood fell from her nose and splashed on the stone floor
between them. She searched for a handkerchief and found she had not got
one. There was nothing for it but to use the back of her hand, smearing
the blood across her lips and chin. Pendoggat saw it all. He noticed
everything, although he had his eyes on the window-sill.
"You're a fine maid," he said.
"Be I, sir?" said Thomasine, beginning to tremble. Pendoggat was her
superior. He was the tenant of Helmen Barton, a commoner, the owner of
sheep and bullocks, and married, or at least she supposed he was. She
felt somehow it was not right he should say such a thing to her.
"Going to chapel Sunday night?" he went on, with his head on one side,
and his face as immobile as a mask.
"Ees," murmured Thomasine, forgetting the "sir" somehow. The question
was such a familiar one that she did not remember for the moment the
standing of the speaker. This was the man who had drenched her with
hell-fire from the pulpit.
"How do ye come home? By the road or moor?"
"The moor, if 'tis fine, sir. I walks with Willum."
"Young Pugsley?"
"Ees, sir."
"You're too good for him. You're too fine a maid for that hind. You
won't walk with him Sunday night. I'll see you home."
"Ees, sir," was all Thomasine could say. She was only a farm-maid. She
had to do as she was told.
"Going to the fair?" he asked.
The answer was as usual.
"I'll meet you there. Take you for rides, and into the shows. Got your
clothes ready?"
The same soft word, which Thomasine made a dissyllable, and Boodles sang
as an anthem, followed. Goose Fair was the greatest day in the girl's
year, and to be treated there by a man with money was to glide along one
of the four rivers of Paradise, only that was not the expression which
occurred to Thomasine.
Pendoggat reached in and took her hand. It was large with labour, and
red with blood, but quite clean. He pulled her towards him. There was
nobody in the court; only the unobservant chickens, pecking diligently.
A cloud had settled upon the top of the tor, which was just visible
above the barn, an angry cloud purple like a wound, as if the granite
had pierced and wounded it. Thomasine wondered if it would be fine for
Goose Fair.
Her sleeve was loose. Pendoggat pressed his fingers under it, and
paddled the soft flesh like a cat up to her elbow.
"Don't ye, sir," pleaded Thomasine, feeling somehow this was not right.
"You're a fine, lusty maid," he muttered.
"'Tis time master was back from Lydford, I reckon," she murmured.
"You're bloody."
"'Twas that bit o' vuzz."
He drew her closer, threw his arm clumsily round her neck, dragged her
half through the window, kissing her savagely on the neck, lips, and
chin, until his own lips were smeared with her blood, and he could taste
it. She began to struggle. Then she cried out, and he let her go.
"Good blood," he muttered, passing his tongue over his lips. "The
strongest and best blood on Dartmoor."
Then, he flung himself across his horse, as if he had been drunk, and
rode out of the court.