A DROP OF GALL
What did Mark Runham mean by his conduct?
He had left Zita to go after that fellow, Pip Beamish, and they were
together on the embankment in close confabulation. The girl looked
after them from between the red curtains, and could see Beamish
gesticulating with his long arms. He was excited, he was speaking with
vehemence, and at intervals Mark interrupted him.
Something that Mark had said seemed to have struck the orator with
surprise. He dropped his arms and stood like a figure of wood. He let
Mark lay his hand on his shoulder and draw him along, speaking rapidly
into his ear.
What this meant was plain to Zita. The two men were rivals for Kainie
of Red Wings. They had been disputing; Beamish hot and impatient,
and unwilling to listen to the other. What was Kainie? A she-miller,
as Zita put it, and ineligible as a wife to such as Runham. Among
fen-farmers no one marries for mere love; money or land is the
substance for which they crave. If a little love be sprinkled on the
morsel, so much the better, but it is no essential—it is a condiment.
Zita tossed her head. She was not a beggarly miller! She had the van
and its contents, red curtains and gold tassels. She had money as
well—the profits of fair-days at Swaffham, Huntingdon, Wisbeach,
Cambridge, and Ely. She had a good deal of money in her box—none
suspected how much. Of course her wealth would not compare with that of
a fen-farmer, but it was enough to place her immeasurably above Kainie,
and within reach of Mark if he chose to stoop a little—just a little.
Zita turned the head of Jewel homewards. Mark did not follow her to say
farewell. He had given her no thanks for the jolting and jumbling in
the conveyance to which she had treated him, though 'good as medicine
to his insides.'
Zita was angry with the young man. She did not relish the thought that
he came to see her one day and went to Kainie the next—nay, that he
visited both in the same afternoon.
It was true that he had made no overtures to Zita—said nothing
definite relative to his condition of heart; but he had kissed her, and
would have done so again had she not warned him that it would give the
horse an apoplectic fit. He had shown her plainly that he liked her
company, and that he was unhappy if he did not see her daily.
His attentions had been noticed. Mrs. Tunkiss had commented on them,
and the girl with St. Vitus' dance had made a joke about them.
His visit that day to Prickwillow would inevitably have been seen.
The unusual sight of the van out on an airing must have attracted
attention. And if the van had been seen, those who saw it were certain
to speak of it to those who did not. That expedition would come to the
ears of Drownlands.
Knowing what she did, Zita was able to account for the dislike
Drownlands showed to the presence of Mark Runham. The sight of the
young man was a sting to his conscience. He would be afraid lest Zita,
in conversation with him, might let drop something about the events of
the night on which Jake Runham died.
But Zita was woman enough to see that there was another reason why
the master of Prickwillow eyed the young fellow with dislike. He was
jealous of him. Zita perceived that Drownlands liked her, at the same
time that he feared her. She could discern in the expression of his
eye, read in his consideration for her comfort, decipher in the quiver
of his lips when Mark's name was mentioned, that his regard for her was
deep, and that his dislike of Mark was due to jealousy.
Zita was accustomed to admiration; she had received a good deal of it
in her public life, and regarded it with contemptuous indifference; but
the admiration she had met with in market and fair had been outspoken;
this of Drownlands was covert. Hitherto she had accepted it from her
vantage-ground—the platform of her own habitation; now she was at a
disadvantage—the inmate of the house of the man who looked on her with
admiration.
She turned her thoughts again in the direction of Mark. What were the
ties binding him to Kainie, of which he spoke?
On consideration, she thought she could understand. Mark had fallen in
love with the girl at the mill when in hobbledehoydom, and had stupidly
plunged into an engagement. Boys are fools; and he was but just emerged
from boyhood. His father's death had knocked the nonsense out of his
head, and brought him to the consciousness that he had made a blunder.
He was now a rich farmer; Kainie had nothing of her own but the clothes
she stood up in. Moreover, he had since seen Zita, and had become
sincerely attached to her. So long as he was tied to that miller-girl,
he could not speak of his wishes and purposes to Zita. He was in a
dilemma; he was an honourable fellow, and could not break his word to
Kainie. Mark was laying the case before Pip Beamish, and was inviting
Pip to take Kainie off his hands, and set him free to speak out to
Zita.
'Well,' thought the girl, as she put up Jewel in his stable, 'we all do
foolish things; some of us do wrong things at times in our life. I have
done both in one—I sold a box of paste-cutters at one and nine that
cost father two shillings. I've had that threepence as hot coppers on
my soul ever since. Well! I hope Pip Beamish will take Kainie. He loves
her, and he's suited to her—both are millers; one has nothing and the
other nought—so they are fitted for a match. I'll help matters on, or
try to do so. I'll see Kainie, and have a deal with her—she is but one
of the general public after all. I daresay she likes Pip quite as much
as Mark, and is doubting in her mind which to have. I know what I can
throw in to turn the scale.'
Accordingly, when the van had been consigned to its shed and the
curtains removed to her room, Zita knitted her fingers behind her back
and surveyed her goods, moving from one group of wares to another.
After some consideration, she descended the stairs and prepared to
leave the house.
Mrs. Tunkiss peered out of the kitchen as she heard her step, and said—
'Going to meet the master—be you?'
A malevolent smile was on her face.
'No, Mrs. Tunkiss. I do not know in which direction he has ridden.'
'You'd like to know, would you? You'd go and meet him, and he'd jump
off his horse and walk alongside of you, and say soft things. Oh my!
The master! Ki Drownlands say soft things!'
The woman burst into a cackling laugh.
'What do you mean?' asked Zita, reddening with anger at the insult
implied in the woman's words.
'Oh, miss, I mean nothing to offend. But I'd like to know what the
master will say to your carawaning about with Mark Runham—what
the master will say to your receiving visits from young men in the
poultry-house.'
'That is no concern of yours; and for the matter of that, I care
nothing what he thinks.'
'Oh dear no! But folks can't carry on with two at once. Two strings to
a bow may be all very well in some things. I don't mean to say that
you shouldn't sow clover with your corn, and so have both a harvest of
wheat and one of hay; but with us poor women that don't do. If it be a
saying that we should have two strings to one bow, there is another,
that there's many a slip between the cup and the lip.'
Zita pushed past the insolent woman.
Mrs. Tunkiss shouted after her, 'Strange goings on—so folks say.
There's Mark Runham running after two girls, sweethearting both; and
there's one girl—I names no names—running after two men, and I bet
she catches neither.'
Then she slammed the kitchen door.