HUBBUB AT GRIMSTONE
1.
It seemed to Derek that he spent the next day in avoiding people. He
bolted his breakfast, his appetite spoiled by the ashen presence of Mrs.
Machin, who waited on him herself. She had even fried kidneys for him,
which she knew he disliked. He hurried over his orders to Hugh McKay,
irritated, and yet depressed by the expression of deep melancholy on the
fellow’s honest face. He would have welcomed a talk with Mr. Jerrold,
but he heard that he was laid up by an attack of lumbago, and he would
not venture to go down to Durras for fear of meeting Grace. It occurred
to him that he was being made vastly uncomfortable for doing a humane
and just act. Many a man would have bundled the whole crew off his farm.
The Indians avoided him, too. All day they squatted in the blazing sun
among the strawberries, never lifting their eyes when he passed. Added
to the enervating heat, a tension of suppressed excitement hung over
Grimstone like a cloud charged with stormy portent. Under that hard blue
sky the Indians, the hired help, and Derek moved like people in a secret
game, watching in furtive fashion for someone to make the next move.
In the afternoon Derek went to the basket factory. He found the drive
over the sandy roads incredibly hot and stifling. The man at the factory
told him that the thermometer registered 100 degrees in the shade. He
let the gelding take his time home, so that the shadows were lengthening
on the lawn when he turned in his own gates. He had met the fruit-waggon
laden with crates of strawberries on its way to the station. On a
circular seat under one of the walnut trees he saw a woman sitting. It
was Fawnie. She must have got her things from the shack, for she wore a
dress of coarse white embroidery, a red sash, and a hat nodding with red
poppies. It was amazing how she gave the effect of ease, and grace, even
elegance, sitting erect on that white seat. And the extraordinary cheek
of her, thought Derek. Mrs. Machin would be in a taking, as Phœbe said;
he dreaded meeting her. The situation was getting preposterous. . . .
Mrs. Machin sitting up at night . . . Fawnie disporting herself on the
front lawn . . . the infant, the Lord only knew what he was doing.
To-morrow, when it was not so hot he must send Fawnie away somewhere. He
imagined how, under that white dress, her shoulders were still covered
with welts. . . . That night Mrs. Machin again took up her position
beside the lamp on the dresser. Too exhausted to knit, she sat with
clasped hands staring fixedly at her grotesque shadow on the wall.
“You know, you are going to make yourself ill,” whispered Derek,
vehemently, from the bottom of the stairs.
“There are worse things than illness—or death,” she retorted.
And, once more, there being nothing to say, Derek went to bed.
2.
The heat still held. When he came out of his room the next morning at
seven, it seemed like a ferocious noonday. Lake and sky seemed merged
into some dazzling new element that bewildered and exhausted.
He sat down at the breakfast table and rested his head on his hand. Then
he heard the kitchen door open, and raised his eyes to see whether it
were Mrs. Machin or Phœbe who was to wait on him.
It was Mrs. Machin but, instead of the black dress and large white
apron, which he expected, she wore a silk cape with a shiny jet trimming
and a bonnet that tied under her chin. His first thought was, “She will
suffocate in those things”; then, as he realized what she was up to, he
said, sternly: “Mrs. Machin, if you have it in your mind to leave me,
you had better think twice before you do such a foolish thing. I am
going to arrange things very differently to-day.”
“You can arrange things anyway you like,” she said, violently. “It don’t
matter to me. I’m shut of the whole affair. My month was up day before
yesterday, and I’ll make you a present of the last two days and nights
of misery. You’ve disgraced Grimstone. Your uncle made the mistake of
his life when he left the fortune to a headstrong, good-for-naught like
you’ve turned out to be.”
“That’s pretty hard talk, Mrs. Machin.” He felt, not so much anger at
her words as dismay and sadness at the thought of losing this faithful
old servant.
“It’s a case for hard talk, and hard thoughts, too. Here I’ve worked for
the Vales for over fifty years, till my hands are all knuckles, and what
is my reward? I’ve got to get out for shame at the carryings-on here,
and with a squaw girl at that.”
“Very well, Mrs. Machin. If you won’t listen to my explanation you can
go. But I expect to see you back here inside of a week, and whenever you
come I’ll be willing to forget the hard things you’ve said to me, if
you’ll promise——”
“I won’t promise nothing, and I won’t come back.” With a defiant stare
from her oyster-coloured eyes, she marched out of the room.
Phœbe tiptoed in, as to a chamber of death, and brought him his
porridge. But, after a few mouthfuls, he pushed the plate away, and got
up. He went out to the flagged yard and stood staring at the bent
figures of the pickers in the strawberry beds. The shrieks of pigs that
were having their snouts ringed came from the direction of Chard’s farm.
How beastly uncomfortable to have a ring put through one’s nose on a
stewing hot day like this! He had seen Chard do it once; the pig
standing upright before him, its front feet on his chest, its shrieks
full in his face, as he stood with his inexorable, pale grin, driving
the iron skilfully home.
The sun blazed on his bare head, the flags burned his feet. Mrs. Machin
came out of the house and turned down the drive.
“I wouldn’t take a man off to drive me into Mistwell,” she called back,
“so I’m walkin’. I’ve told Snailem to fetch my trunk when he takes the
fruit in.”
Before Derek had time to reply, a window was thrown open upstairs, and
Fawnie’s voice cried, derisively:
“Get along out, ole woman! We don’ want you. Hurry up, now.”
Mrs. Machin, her face contorted with rage, stared up, speechless, at the
window a moment, and then rushed through the gate, the picture of black
and impotent fury.
A delighted chuckle came from above. Derek strode around under the
window and looked up. She was sitting on the sill, half dressed, her
arms and shoulders brown as a nut in the sand, her small, red mouth open
in laughter, her bronze-coloured eyes dancing with triumph.
“Fawnie, Fawnie, you’re a little devil. You ought to be whipped.” But he
laughed in spite of himself.
“Whippin’ don’ do me no good. But it does me good to see that ole woman
runnin’ down the road, like an ole black sheep. . . . Baby an’ me, we’re
sittin’ in the sun. See.” She picked up the child from somewhere and
holding him under her arm, suspended him out of the window. He was stark
naked. His massive, infantile legs dangled feebly, and he stared,
blinking, at Derek, with an air of benign jollity.
“Don’t let him fall,” said Vale, anxiously.
“I jus’ wanted you to see how big he is. Ain’t it fonny he’s our little
baby?”
“Very funny.” He stared at the child with grim curiosity. It was indeed
larger and lustier than he had thought from the glimpse two days ago. He
felt neither remorse nor shame in looking at it; rather pride in its
lustiness. Yet he felt ashamed because he felt no shame.
3.
With the departure of Mrs. Machin a change took place in the atmosphere
of Grimstone. Instead of the feeling of impending storm, a feeling of
reckless holiday was born. Phœbe piled up her breakfast dishes without
washing them and lounged to the fields with Hughie. Snailem tramped
about the kitchen in boots caked with manure, and stewed himself a pot
of strong tea in the middle of the morning. Even Jock, the collie,
seemed to realize that the strong hand of discipline had relaxed its
grip, for Derek found him sleeping comfortably curled up on the sofa in
the parlour.
The heat had not penetrated there as it had into the rest of the house.
There was even a damp sort of chill that made one shiver after the hot
glare out of doors. Having pushed Jock off the sofa, Derek lay down
himself. His head ached, and he rammed it into an uncomfortable beaded
cushion, because the green and white beads in the design of a laurel
wreath looked cool. The light that came between the green curtains was
restful. Jock was making a very soothing sound licking his paws. Derek
began to get drowsy. . . .
He had had a sort of cat nap when he was roused by Phœbe. She was
bending over him, whispering, her face close to his. The pupils of her
eyes seemed to jig with excitement behind her thick spectacles. “Wake
up,” she whispered, hoarsely, “Chard and the minister from Mistwell’s
outside waitin’ to see ye.”
“To see me? What for?”
Phœbe regarded him sorrowfully. “Can’t ye guess?” She pointed
dramatically to the room above.
Derek reddened and sat up with dishevelled hair. “If that’s the case,
I’ll make short work of them. Show them in, Phœbe.”
Phœbe, heavy with importance, stamped out. He heard her trip on the step
that led to the dining-room, and he pictured how she would plunge across
the floor. A moment more and his neighbour and the minister stood before
him.
“You are energetic, making calls on a morning like this,” said Derek,
cheerfully. “Won’t you sit down?”
The two men stared about the room, obviously taken aback at being
received in such state. Then Chard, with his pale grin, said, “Allow me
to introduce my friend and pastor, Mr. Barker, Mr. Vale.”
Derek recognized Mr. Barker as the minister who had played the autoharp
at the funeral of Solomon Sharroe. With his oily skin and opaque dark
eyes, he looked rather like an unpleasant foreigner. He took Derek’s
hand in his and held it in a fervent grasp.
“Mr. Vale,” he said, “I wish I might have met you first in the little
church where we worship. But, better late than never. I hope I am not
too late to turn you from the evil you have fallen into.”
Derek extricated his hand. “I don’t think you quite realize,” he said,
trying to keep his temper, “what you are taking upon yourself. You come
into the house of a stranger and make an accusation against him without
any other grounds for your suspicion than the stupid gossip of ignorant
people.”
“You can scarcely call Brother Chard stupid and ignorant,” reproved Mr.
Barker, “and he suspects the worst.”
“What the devil do you suspect?” asked Derek, turning on Chard.
“Well, Mr. Vale,” said Chard, uncovering once more his neat rows of
artificial teeth, “I’ve a pretty good idea who’s the parent of that
black baby with the white hair upstairs.”
“It’s not black,” said Derek, testily. “It’s bronze. And it doesn’t
concern you if it’s all the colours of the rainbow. Now I’m trying to
keep my temper, but I strongly advise you men to stick to your autoharp
and plough, and leave me to manage my affairs in my own way.”
“I have my wife and family to think of,” said Chard. “This is putting
the whole neighbourhood under a cloud. I have to try to keep my
children’s minds pure. They are hearing words they haven’t any right to
hear.”
“It’s terrible for their pure little minds to be sullied,” murmured Mr.
Barker.
“What sort of words?” asked Derek.
“Well, Mr. Vale,” replied Chard, a yellowish flush creeping over his
face, “concubine for one. My second youngest boy was saying that you
have a concubine in here.”
“Surely that touches you, Mr. Vale,” said the minister.
“It makes me sick,” said Derek. “In fact you both make me sick. You had
better go.”
“You are a headstrong young man,” said Mr. Barker, “and you are going to
wreck your life. Better bring the woman right down here and I’ll marry
you and make it legal. Remember, too, that no sin is so dark but it can
be washed white by the Blood.”
A lusty cry came from the baby in the room above.
Chard’s grin became painfully wide. Mr. Barker took a dingy white
handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. Derek went to the
door and opened it. “Phœbe,” he said, “show these gentlemen out.”
As Chard passed Derek, he said:
“If you think you’ve heard the last of this, you’re mistaken. If you
think you can live a licentious life here, and not be interfered with,
you’re mistaken. All Mistwell is aroused. . . .”
As soon as she had got rid of the two men Phœbe came back to the
parlour, shutting the heavy door carefully behind her, before she spoke.
“Don’t you worry, master, for Hughie and me’ll stand by ye in spite of
all these old curmudgeons with all their talk about columbines. I was
brung up in a norphan asylum, but I know the world, and I know a
gentleman’s got to have a little margin. That’s what I said to Hughie
last night—‘a gentleman’s got to have a margin, if it’s ever so.’ So
they don’t frighten me with their columbines.”
4.
Derek pitched hay in the field with Hugh all afternoon, and the hard
exercise in the heat brought calm to his mind; he smiled at the
recollection of the call from Chard and the Reverend Barker. It was good
to work among the warm, sun-dried hay; he liked the smell of the baked
earth, of the glistening, round flanks of the horses, of Hugh’s healthy,
sweating young body. He liked, too, to drive the heavy, lurching load
into the barn where it was dim after the glare outside, and fowls ran
cackling out of the way of the horses’ hoofs.
When they had brought in the last load Derek went to the house, Jock at
his heels. He saw Phœbe and Fawnie sitting by the kitchen table drinking
tea. The sun touched with mellow light the white, scrubbed wood of the
table, the loaf of good bread, the brown, shiny teapot, and the red pot
of jam. The two girls were leaning over their cups, laughing and
whispering together.
Vale had a plunge in the lake, and, after his tea, sat with a book in
the porch, till dark. He felt that he was neglecting his farm accounts,
which must be getting in a bad state, but he was too sleepy and warm to
undertake them to-night. He heard Phœbe and the men go to their rooms,
one by one; he heard Fawnie murmuring some little lullaby to her baby.
He thought he would not go to bed till the night air had found its way
into the house and cooled it.
About ten o’clock he dropped into a doze in his chair. His book slipped
from his knees and his head sank forward. . . . He thought a storm must
have arisen, for he was awakened by a moaning, roaring sound. He sat up
drowsily at first, and then straightened himself with a start, as
something heavy fell almost at his feet on the steps. The roaring rose
again like a wave, and was shattered into howls and yells about the
gate. He got up and peered into the blackness. He could see a dark
huddle of figures by the second’s flash of an electric torch. Then a
second stone rattled on the roof of the porch and struck sharply on the
flagstones below. Derek ran down the steps and half-way along the walk.
“Who is there?” he called, sharply. “What are you doing?” His questions
were greeted with a prolonged hoot. Someone began to beat on a tin pan.
Then a voice bawled, “Where’s your fancy girl?” and another, “Bring out
your squaw!”
Derek walked firmly to the gate. He tried to speak, but his voice was
drowned in yells and catcalls. The same voice kept bawling:
“Where’s your fancy girl? Let’s see your squaw baby.”
The man who held the electric torch turned it suddenly on Derek. There
was a howl of delighted laughter. As it subsided, a cockney voice said,
“Wot a tableau ’e mikes!” More derisive laughter followed, then, out of
the blackness, a clod of earth spun, and struck Derek on the head.
An instant later the house door banged and Hugh McKay came running down
the walk.
“What’s the trouble, sir?” he panted.
“Those blackguards,” answered Derek, in a voice heavy with passion, “are
giving me a sort of charivari.”
“I’m no surprised. Bob Gunn told me the oldest Chard boy said they were
gaein’ to mak’ things hot for ye.”
“Go to bed, Scotty! Go to bed!” yelled the rowdies. “Take your boss with
you, too.” An obscene remark followed, then a shower of sticks and
stones.
“Shall we rush them, sir?” asked Hugh, wiping a trickle of blood from
his cheek.
“Yes. Keep close together, and let them have it.”
Derek swung open the gate. He and Hugh, without waiting for the rabble
to recover from their surprise, flung themselves upon them in all the
exuberance of their strong young manhood.
For a few moments the serenaders surged about them and showed some
fight, but it was soon over. The dark mass of figures coiled and
uncoiled in the road, then streamed like a snake towards Mistwell. Derek
had snatched one of their own sticks, and savagely belaboured the
shoulders of the stragglers. Hugh encountered the cockney, who stumbled
away, sobbing, “Ow, ’e’s broke my naose, the brute!”
Derek could distinguish two figures running towards Chard’s gate. Hugh
was already in pursuit of them. Derek jumped the ditch, and, bounding
along beside the palings, captured the hindermost just as he threw one
leg over the fence. It was Bob Gunn.
“Well, you miserable little sweep,” said Derek, grasping him by the
collar, “so this is the way you make me sorry I wouldn’t take you back.”
“I was just lookin’ on,” muttered Bob.
“You’ll find that it’s not safe to look on at me,” said Derek, and,
administering a kick that sent him sprawling, he let him go.
Hugh caught up to him as he reached his gate.
“Did you get your man, Hugh? Who was he?”
“Chard’s eldest son, sir.”
“What did you do with him?”
“I made him greet.”
This summer, as had happened last summer, because of the lack of help,
the grass on the south side of the house had grown tall and rank, while
the lawn at the front and the tennis-court at the north had been rather
well cared for. Now the grass was cut, and raked into a great
sweet-smelling mound close to the house. On it Derek had thrown himself
when Hugh went back to bed, and lay, tingling with the excitement of the
sally. He wished the Mistwell ruffians had not been so easily routed. He
should have liked to prolong the ecstasy of those barbarous moments. He
recalled the feel of his knuckles against someone’s jaw in the dark, and
the sound of heavy breathing and shuffling feet and finally the thudding
on the hard road of the retreat.
The sky hung low, powdered with stars, and the rim of the waning moon
rose above the lake. And at his back the solid walls of old Grimstone.
He liked to think the walls of Grimstone were at his back. . . . His
back to the wall with all those curs of Mistwell yapping before him.
He thought of his brother and laughed. How disgusted Edmund would be
with him! But he believed he was of coarser fibre than Edmund. He could
not imagine his taking up with an Indian girl. He might have admired
her, felt her charm—for a moment—but nothing more. He would not have
been enchanted by her strangeness, as of some creature of the wildwood,
he would not have been allured by those sliding velvet eyes.
The front door softly opened and in the shaft of light he saw Fawnie
step out into the porch. She had on a yellow dress, a faded yellow he
had seen by daylight, but now it looked as though it had been spun from
the moon. Her hair was about her shoulders and she was barefooted. She
peered about, plainly in search of him, but he kept still. As well try
to hide from a soft-footed animal with the instincts of the forest. In a
moment she was padding across the grass to him.
She leaned over him, looking enquiringly into his face.
“Did you get hurt, Derek?”
“No. I hurt some of those brutes, though.”
She clapped her hands delightedly. “I’m glad, Derek. I wish you would
have took an axe and chopped their heads off. Can I sit down aside you?”
“Yes. Sit down. It’s cool out here. Were you frightened, Fawnie?”
“Yes, I was. My little heart she was like a fox hidin’ in her hole from
the dogs.” She had dropped to the mound of grass beside him and, with
her arms under her head, stared up at the glimmering sky. “I’m always
scared when I’m not with you, Derek.”
“Why, Fawnie, you told me once that you were not afraid of anything, or
anyone.”
“Ah, that was ’fore I get my baby. All those fellas from Mistwell, they
would ha’ torn me to pieces, surely.”
“Nonsense. They only came to make an infernal row.”
“Well, Derek, I don’ like those informal rows. They sound like hell
marchin’ down the road. You won’t turn baby an’ me out, will you?”
“Don’t worry, Fawnie, you are going to be taken care of.” He stared down
at her face, in its frame of rich, dark hair, her slanting eyes holding
a gleam of moonlight in their depths, her slender bare ankles crossed on
the odorous grass. It was soothing to lie beside her there in the
troubled shadow of old Grimstone, and watch the moon like a pale petal
wafted across the sky.
“I was in swimmin’, too.” Her voice had changed, and had a little husky
note. “I was in swimmin’, that place where the sand’s all wavy. It made
me cool as cool. Feel.” She laid one supple, cool, little hand on his
throat. “Do you like the way that feels, Derek?”