BUCKSKIN STRIKES HIS TENT
1.
It may have been standing about on the ice so long that gave Derek a
cold (he wandered there an hour or more after Grace had left him), but,
whatever it was, the cold appeared, manifesting itself in flashes of
heat and chills, and, worst of all, a toothache. He did not sleep much
all night because of the toothache, and when morning came his one
thought was to be rid of the tooth.
He did not like leaving Buckskin for so long, but he had a way of
barricading him with chairs on the couch in the dining-room that had
answered very well when he had gone to visit Hobbs. After breakfast he
imprisoned him thus, gave him Pegleg to play with, a bottle of milk and
two biscuits for refreshment, and left Jock on the foot of the couch for
company.
The ride to Brancepeth made him feel better, the invigorating air, the
light rise and fall in the stirrups, the feel of the well-groomed horse
beneath him.
By the time he was sitting in the waiting-room of the dentist’s office
the tooth was not aching at all; nevertheless he was determined to have
it out.
There was a patient in the chair, so he was obliged to wait. He felt
nervous about Buckskin. He stared through the dingy window at the shops
across the way. There was the milliner’s where Fawnie had come out on
the step to show him the new hat. Fawnie. She should be at home now
minding Buckskin—the baggage!
He picked up one of the women’s magazines that littered the table and
began to read. It was an article on Better Babies. As he read his fair
boyish forehead was puckered into worried knots. He had never dreamed
that babies needed so much attention. Why, Great Scott, if he did
everything for Buckskin that was advised, nay, commanded, here, he
should have time for nothing else! What the devil was this about orange
juice at ten every morning? Buckskin ate pulp and all at any old hour.
What was this about coddled eggs and grated carrots? And a thermometer
in the bath? The book made him sick. Buckskin wasn’t that kind of baby.
He was a healthy little animal that needed no pampering. Hold on—Weight
at ten months—Dangers of overweight—Buckskin was five pounds
overweight! Well, well. He had known he was a whopper. How that tooth
was howling now!
The dentist came to the door, smiling, and beckoned him with his head.
He was a twinkling young man who looked as though doing things to teeth
was the most cheery profession on earth.
“Open, please,” he said, and twinkled into Derek’s mouth. “Now which
tooth?”
“Widdom toot,” said Derek, as well as he could, through the dentist’s
fingers.
“Wisdom tooth, yes. A cavity that should have been attended to some time
ago. But we can soon fix that. It needs treating.”
“Pull it out,” said Derek. “I’ve no time for treatments.”
“Very well,” agreed the dentist, still twinkling. “Gas or freezing?”
“Oh—freeze it. . . .”
It was out. What a beastly grating noise the forceps made! The dentist
was all twinkles as he held it up, gory-rooted, for Derek to see.
Derek felt immensely relieved to be back in the street without it. He
went to the “Duke of York” and had a little whisky neat.
His cold was worse, a cough was developing, yet he would not set out for
home till he had bought the boy a new pair of shoes. Shiny
patent-leather strap slippers he got with little buckles. He pictured
Buckskin’s kicks and crows of delight when they were put on him.
He was really getting anxious about Buckskin. Suppose he fell off the
couch someway and got to the fire! Or Jock might get rough with him.
Jock wouldn’t actually _hurt_ him, but he might get a bit rough. He
covered the last two miles at a gallop.
He gave his horse to Bill at the barn and hurried to the house.
“Buckskin!” he called, as he unlocked the kitchen door and stamped the
snow off his feet. “Hello, Buck!”
Jock came to him through the pantry crawling on his belly.
What was wrong? For God’s sake what was wrong? Buckskin! Buck!
He was lying, wedged, between the row of chairs and the couch. He was
writhing—twisting. The whites of his eyes showed through the
half-closed lids, his lips were blue.
Derek snatched him up and shook him. Buckskin! Waken up! Thank God,
there came a flicker of those white eyelids!
Oh, for a woman! Any woman! Lottie Rain. . . . Miles away. . . . Mrs.
Chard. He laid the child on the pillow and ran wildly through the house.
He crashed through the dry currant and gooseberry bushes. Bang! bang! at
Chard’s back door! Mrs. Chard opened, her arms white with flour, flour
on her nose, fright in her eyes.
“Whatever is the matter?” she asked.
“My boy—my little chap—dying!”
She began to wipe the flour off her arms. “What is the matter? What does
he act like?”
Oh, the incredible coolness and slowness of the woman! “Oh, Mrs. Chard,
he’s stiff and blue—he’s perhaps dead by now. He looked awful.”
Mrs. Chard turned to her stove. She lifted the lid off the tea-kettle
and looked in. “Full,” she said, “and boiling. It sounds like
convulsions. Just you bring this along, Mr. Vale. Children, be good
while I’m gone.” She shut the door and followed Derek heavily through
the yard.
He showed her where the child was lying, but he could not bear to go
into the room with her because of what he might see. He felt more afraid
than he had ever felt in his life before, a new, sick, helpless sort of
fear. Buckskin was so little, so young.
After a moment she came to the door. “Fill his bath,” she said. “Make
the water as hot as you can bear your hand in. I’ll strip him. He’ll be
all right, I think.”
Glad to do something, Derek got the little green tin bath, filled it,
and tested the water with a shaking hand. Mrs. Chard came out carrying
the baby. Derek turned away. He could not look.
Ages of misery passed. Mrs. Chard was speaking: “Now, what a good little
boy! My, my, what a good little boy! Look around, Mr. Vale.”
He turned. Buckskin lay in the bath, his body, steaming, scarlet,
supported by her hand, his face bewildered but—thank God!—natural. He
looked at Mrs. Chard, he looked at Derek, then he smiled, pushing
forward his lower teeth and wrinkling his nose in a funny way he had.
Derek went to him. “Is he all right?” he asked. “Shall I get a doctor?”
“I wouldn’t now. You might ask the doctor to advise you about him, but
just now he’s all right. One of mine had two convulsions, but he got
over them and he’s the healthiest of all now. This is an awful fine
child.”
She had taken him from the bath, laid him on her broad lap, and, with a
practised hand, was drying him. Derek looked down at her with almost
overwhelming gratitude. At the moment he really loved her for what she
had done. Her sad heavy face, her large bosom, her thick round shoulders
were admirable, because they were the essence of brooding motherhood.
When she rose to go he saw that she was with child and his heart smote
him for having been so excitable with her, and for having almost dragged
her from her house to his.
“How can I ever repay you?” he asked, when she had Buckskin comfortably
tucked up on the couch with Pegleg clasped to his breast.
“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “I s’pose his mother was badly
frightened, eh?”
“His mother! Oh—she’s away,” Derek stammered, his face scarlet. “She’s
gone to Brancepeth for the day, shopping. I was here alone with him.”
“No wonder you were scared,” said Mrs. Chard, kindly.
2.
Buckskin slept well that night and awakened Derek as usual by clasping
his head in his fat little arms and kissing him rapturously. To get his
jumping, naked little body into his clothes was a task that took all
Derek’s newly acquired skill. At breakfast he beat the table with his
porridge spoon, and broke into trills of laughter over nothing.
“It’s all very well,” said Derek to him, seriously. “I like to see you
in high spirits, old man, but have a thought for your poor dad.
Yesterday you changed him from a hardy young man into a doddering old
imbecile by your eccentricities. Don’t do it again.”
“Gug-gug! Did-dy, dad-dy!” replied his son, winking at him between his
curling pink fingers, and getting porridge on his hair.
Derek thought: “I believe I’ll buy some of those women’s magazines. A
fellow might get some pointers from them after all.”
He had determined that he would see Mrs. Machin that day, tell her that
he and the boy were alone, and beg her to come back and keep house for
them. Surely no woman with a heart in her body could refuse him when he
told her of yesterday’s fright.
He had Bill bring the red sleigh to the door. When Buckskin heard the
bells jingling and saw Derek fetching his rabbit-skin coat and cap with
the earlugs, he could hardly contain himself for joy. He kicked his
heels and shouted. He showed all his pearl-like teeth, and Jock, to add
to the gaiety, leaped to the couch, put his nose to the window-pane and
gave forth a volley of short, mad barks.
Mrs. Machin came out of her sister’s cottage near the lighthouse and
stood with folded arms, on the doorstep, listening to Derek’s recital.
She did not look at Derek while he talked, but stared out over the scene
familiar since her birth. The pier was thronged with gulls, resting
quietly with folded wings in the February sunlight. Sometimes one rose
and sailed aloft, his cries mingling with the constant whining of the
reels. A smell of fish and wood fires ascended from the fishing huts on
the shore.
“Well,” said Mrs. Machin, when he had finished, “it’s just about what I
had expected. That rat Jammery, eh? I could have told you so. D’ye mind
the time I sat up two whole nights to keep her in the room where you’d
put her? But she was one of the kind that wouldn’t stay put no matter
what you’d do.”
“Mrs. Machin, are you coming back to me?”
She looked at him ruminatively now out of her pale oyster-coloured eyes.
“Well, I won’t say I will and I won’t say I won’t. It partly depends on
my sister. She’s been on her deathbed now for six weeks and seems in no
hurry to be off, but when she does go you may see me at Grimstone any
day.”
“I had hoped you might come right away, but, of course, under the
circumstances——”
“Well, you’ll know I’m comin’ when you see me. And you take good care of
that baby. He’s a beauty and no mistake. The image of you, only a little
darker in the skin. And I wouldn’t worry too much about them fits. Fits
is fits, and if they’re in you they’re bound to come out, the same as
boils. He may never have another. I’m more concerned about that cough of
yours. It’s an awful cough. However did you get it?”
“I was up and down with a toothache night before last. The room was
cold. Then yesterday I had it out. Took a chill, somehow, and I couldn’t
sleep last night.”
“Well, well, you have had a time,” sympathized Mrs. Machin. “Now, look
here, Mr. Vale, I’ve got something that’ll fix that cold of yours up in
no time. It cured me of bronchitis and asamay when no doctor living
could. It’s a mixture that I make up myself and the secret of it was
told to me over fifty years ago. You just wait and I’ll fetch you a
bottle of it.”
When she had gone into the house Buckskin rolled his eyes up at Derek
with the drollest laughter in them as though to say—“Rum old party,
eh?”
“Rather,” agreed Derek, “but you’ll do well to keep on the right side of
her.”
When Mrs. Machin had brought the bottle she made him take out the cork
and swallow a mouthful of the mixture on the spot. “It’s awfully queer,”
he said, tasting. “What is it made from?”
Mrs. Machin gave a delighted smile. “I’ll tell you,” she said. “Though
there’s very few I would tell. But I can’t live for ever, and some time
you might want the mixture when I’m dead and gone.” In a lowered voice
she added with a triumphant grin, “It’s a wasps’ nest.”
“A wasps’ nest,” he repeated, blankly. “What do you mean by a wasps’
nest?”
“Just what I say, a boiled wasps’ nest.”
He was somewhat aghast. “Mrs. Machin, was that dose actually made out of
a wasps’ nest?”
“It was. You get the nest when the wasps are settled down for the
winter. You boil it three hours with plenty of sugar and a little rum,
and then strain and bottle it. There’s nothing in the nature of a cough
it won’t cure.”
“Most remarkable,” said Vale, “I’d never heard of such a thing.”
“Well, I s’pose there’s a few things you haven’t heard of.” Her tone was
tart. “You never heard anything _agin_ wasps’ nests, have you?”
“No-o. Were there many wasps in the nest when you boiled it?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t directed to look in the nest and I didn’t look
in. I always follow directions carefully. If more people would follow
directions there’d be fewer mistakes made. Better take another sip
before you go.”
He meekly took another.
“Bah-bah,” said Buckskin, reaching up towards the bottle.
“Bless his heart,” said Mrs. Machin, her pale lips relaxing into a
smile, “he wants some. And a little taste would do him good, too. Whose
pretty boy are you, eh? Whose pretty boy are you?” She shook her head at
him and laughed.
3.
Derek was now afraid to leave Buckskin alone. His cold was so bad that
he kept to the house almost continually, but when he did go to the barn
or the stables he would carry the child on his arm. In fact, the child
was seldom out of his thoughts. He would light a candle in the night and
hold it near the little sleeping face, to assure himself that those
terrible contortions had not again disfigured it. Word came from Yeoland
that Lottie’s children were ill of the measles, so he could not look for
her for several weeks.
To make matters worse, he had trouble with his sheep and cattle, which
had fallen sick from eating mouldy silage. If he had been about as
usual, he would have prevented its being fed to them. But Bill Rain
thought that whatever animals could be made to eat was good for them.
His own taste in food was peculiar. He begged from Derek all the
left-over bacon rinds. These he frizzled in a pan till they were crisp
and hard. He carried them in his pocket and produced them at all hours
to crunch between his black, broken teeth. “Say, Mr. Vale,” he would
affirm, “I’ve got the strongest teeth in the country, exceptin’ just my
uncle, John Blackbird. He can lift a chair in his.” And he would take
another mouthful of rind.
So he thought nothing of feeding mouldy silage to the stock. The silage
had been ensiled in a dry, rather ripe condition, and was woody and
loose, perhaps because it had not been tramped or settled solid. It
moulded badly, and two sheep died, and several cows were very sick.
Derek had the veterinary, but he was glad when Hobbs appeared one day
hopping on a crutch, and ready, as always, to give advice.
Hobbs carried a bunch of daffodils from the Durras greenhouse for Mrs.
Vale. He looked downcast when Derek said she was still ailing. After a
pause he asked whether he had ever offended Mrs. Vale. He believed she
was avoiding him. Good Lord, no, Derek assured him, she was simply
languid, lay down a great deal. He believed the winter had been hard on
her. He placed the daffodils in a vase and they stood on the table,
golden and arrogant between the two men.
Since he had been so much alone with Derek, Buckskin had grown very shy.
He screamed and kicked when Hobbs picked him up, and even the proffering
of Hobbs’s big gold watch would not tempt him. But when Hobbs took a
daffodil from the vase and held it towards him, he did a wonderful
thing. He left Derek’s knees, between which he had braced himself, and
ran to Hobbs. They were his first steps unaided by his father. Derek was
red with pride. Hobbs was jubilant. When Buckskin found out what he
could do, he did it again and again, toddling, head down, from Derek’s
knee to Hobbs. Mouldy silage, dead sheep, sick cows were clean forgotten
while they watched the splendid staggering of the boy.
“Well, well,” said Hobbs. “It beats all. Most cock-a-hoop little rascal.
Eleven months, did you say?”
“Yes,” replied Derek. “His birthday’s in April. I don’t want to seem a
fool about him, Hobbs, but he really is a rip, isn’t he?”
To Derek it seemed that there would be no end to this strange secluded
winter that enveloped him like a fog, a fog through which the memory of
that morning on the hummocks shot like a flame. But he sought no further
meetings. What was the use? Better cling to the remembrance of those
terribly sweet moments and forget the rest, if one could. Not seek to
add to their sweetness, lest the fruit of the flower should be bitter.
He would sit before the fire in the evenings seeing in the flames the
faces of the two women, Grace and Fawnie. It was amazing how distinct
they were—the delicate aquiline of Grace’s profile, the disdainful yet
tender arch of her mouth—the glow of health beneath Fawnie’s dusky
skin, the rich convolutions of her hair, her deep, mirthful eyes.
He would stare and stare till he could bear it no longer, then he would
snatch up Buckskin from the floor, and pace the room with him, singing
loudly some college song that he had never thought to sing again.
Sometimes he would recite bits of things he had learned as a youth. Not
so long ago, and yet what had happened since then! Buckskin would listen
as though he understood every word. His favourite was the song from
Hippolytus. When Derek would declaim in his rich, full voice:
“O take me to the mountain O,
Past the great pines and through the wood,
Up where the lean hounds softly go,
A-whine for wild thing’s blood,
And madly flies the dappled roe.
O God, to shout and speed them there
An arrow by my chestnut hair
Drawn tight, and one keen glistening spear—
Ah, if I could!”
Buckskin could not restrain his rapture. He would shout at the top of
his lungs and thump Derek on the chest.
“It’s all very well to be enthusiastic,” Derek would admonish, “but you
ought to restrain yourself to the end of the piece. You nearly drowned
me out.”
4.
One moist evening, the first of April, when the heavy air was fragrant
with the essence of spring, Vale saw the figure of a man standing with
bent head, just inside the gate, beneath the tallest walnut tree. He
stood so motionless and so long that Vale’s curiosity was aroused and he
strolled out to him. It was Newbigging. Even in that dim light he could
see that the Scot looked thin and weather-beaten and that his clothes
were ragged.
“Newbigging,” he exclaimed. “Is it you?”
“Ay, sir, it is. What’s left o’ me. I’ve had a haird time since I left
here last spring. I got what I wanted and that was the sea. I’ve had
enough o’ that to last me the rest of my life. I’ve been to China and
back, two trips, and now I was juist standin’ here trying to mak’ up ma
mind to go in and ask ye if ye’ll no take me back.” He looked up into
Derek’s eyes, shamefaced, yet unrepentant.
Derek was eager to take him back, yet he showed some proper reluctance.
“If I do, Newbigging, you’ll probably take it into that wild head of
yours to flit just when I need you most.”
“Never,” declared Newbigging, emphatically. “I juist want to bide here
on the fairm. Yon lake is sea enough for me.”
“Come along,” said Derek, and took him into the house. Briefly he
explained the situation. He was keeping bachelor’s hall; Mrs. Vale was
away on a visit. He said this last, looking steadily into the eyes of
Newbigging, who nodded solemnly. Derek believed he understood.
But it was good to have a friendly soul in the house once more!
Newbigging settled down without ado. Lass of all work, he named himself.
And he set about getting the tea, and washing up the stacks of dirty
dishes in the kitchen. He had no tin box to carry upstairs, all his
clothes were on his back; but he took the little pasteboard box that
held his gilt studs, and the little red book of Scottish songs from his
breast pocket, and laid them in the dresser drawer where they had been
wont to lie. He carried a hot dish of ham and eggs in to Derek and ate
his own meal from his knee as he dried his feet in the oven.
Buckskin made friends with him at once and toddled back and forth
between dining-room and kitchen, carrying Pegleg to be kissed by
Newbigging and Derek alternately.
“Ah, he’s a bonnie wee boy,” said the Scot, admiringly. “He’ll mak’ a
son to be proud of. But keep him away from the sea, Mr. Vale. It mak’s a
bad son, and a bad husband, too.”
“I’ve been awfully worried about him,” said Vale, seriously. “He’s had a
convulsion—a terrible one.”
“Did ye see a doctor?”
“Yes. I asked Mrs. Machin about it first. She didn’t think it serious.
Then I saw Dr. Bosomworth. I thought perhaps I was feeding him wrong.
But the doctor said his diet was very good. Said it might be
hereditary.”
“Never worry, sir. I had three fits in one afternoon when I was six
years old and I’ve not had the sign of one since.”
“Were there no bad effects?”
“Weel, whin I come out o’ the third one I says, ‘I’ll gang tae sea,’ and
that was the beginning o’t.”
“Come along in,” said Derek, “and I’ll get a bottle of whisky from the
cupboard. I haven’t had anyone to talk and drink with in the evening for
a long time.”
Newbigging sat down by the table with some diffidence, but his blue eyes
glistened when Derek set the bottle before him and told him to pour what
he wanted. He half filled his glass, added some soda-water, and then
raised it in the direction of the sofa where Buckskin slept.
“The bairn,” he said. “Long life to him.”
“Buckskin,” said Derek, and they drank.
“I wager,” said Newbigging, after he had wiped his lips with the back of
his hand, “that ye’d never guess who I met out West in the
Saskatchewan.”
“Not Phœbe and Hugh?”
“The very pair. The train I was on was crawlin’ over the dismal, flat
prairie, and every time we stopped at a station, I mairvelled tae see
the pale, weary-lookin’ folk on the platform. Grey, and dour, and old
before their time, wi’ never a rosy cheek or full red lips among them.
Presently, at one of the stops, the door of the coach was flung open and
a young woman followed by a man came in. Her airms were full of
paircels, and when she boarded the train she tripped on the step and
plunged intil the coach, head down, her bundles flyin’ in all
directions. I jumped up to help her, and she gied me a shamefaced look.
I saw that it was Phœbe, rosy as ever, wi’ her neck like a bowl o’ new
milk. . . . Man, they were glad tae see me. And they asked kindly after
you, Mr. Vale.”
“Had they a good situation?”
“Fine. Keepin’ hoose for a wealthy rancher. They were shoppin’ for him
that day. They wanted me tae come back wi’ them, and get a job, but I
slapped ma bonnet on ma heid and said, ‘Nae prairie for me, I’m gaein’
back tae old Grimstone.’”
“I’m glad you came,” said Derek. “Help yourself.”
“D’ye mind, Mr. Vale,” said the Scot, when he had drunk another glass,
“how Hughie used tae say in lambing time—‘We’ll be haein’ a new wee
lamb afore the morn’?”
“I’ll never forget that.”
Newbigging chuckled. “I think he’d been safe in repeatin’ that saying,
tae judge by the appearance of Phœbe.”
“Tck,” muttered Derek. “What would the rancher say to that?”
“Weel,” replied Newbigging, “they didna seem to be worryin’.”
“Speaking of babies,” said Derek, “I must put that little fellow to
bed.”
He carried the child to his bedroom and laid him snugly in the old
four-poster. He buried his face for a moment against the little neck,
inhaling the delicious sweetness of the warm, tender flesh. Then he drew
the covers close, lowered the light, and returned to Newbigging.
He was sitting with his fair head thrown back against the high back of
the chair, his blue sailor’s eyes fixed unwinkingly on the light.
“I’ve been thinking o’ some of my adventures in China,” he said,
solemnly. “I’d like tae tell ye aboot them, sir, if ye’ll listen.”
Derek acquiesced and sat down again. It was plain that Newbigging had
drunk a good deal. He launched into stories of his doings in the East,
which Derek did not believe but which he found very entertaining, for
the Scot had a vigorous flow of words, and his changeful face was a
pleasure to watch. Derek had not drunk to excess since those summer
nights when he had gambled with his Indian relations at the shack. But
now in the warmth of Newbigging’s presence (he had not known how lonely
he was) he grew once more indiscreet.
They exchanged reminiscences of boyhood. Newbigging told of fights in
Scotland—even to his first real fight when as he lay on his opponent
panting, the other urchins crowded close, yelling, “Mak’ him greet,
Jimmie, mak’ him greet!” and, man, he had made him greet!
At last Derek told Newbigging of how, when a small boy in Nova Scotia,
he had squeezed his body between the horizontal bars of an old farmer’s
orchard gate, and had filled his blouse with ripe red apples. The farmer
had given chase. Derek had had a good start, but when he had attempted
to get through the gate, the bulk of the apples in his blouse had made
him too wide, and wriggle as he would he could not escape. When Derek
told this story, Newbigging laughed. They both laughed uproariously.
After another drink Derek drew his chair closer and told the story again
with more detail. This time Newbigging looked very grave, and they
stared at each other in sorrowful silence. Still another drink. Derek
repeated the story. “Picture me, Newbigging,” he ended, his voice
shaking a little, “a poor, miserable little fella, c-caught there,
between those bars, the apples on my tummy, and f-farmer at my back!”
Newbigging reached across the table and held out his hand. Derek took
and retained it. Then they both sang together in voices mellow with
feeling:
“And here’s a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie’s a hand o’ thine;
And we’ll tak’ a right guid-willie waught
For auld lang syne.”
5.
Derek did not awaken until the bright spring sunshine had flooded the
room. He heard the familiar liquid calling of the hen turkeys and the
thunderous note of the gobbler. He heard the hiss and scrape of his tail
feathers as they were unfurled.
He scarcely remembered how he had got to bed the night before, but there
were his clothes neatly hung on their stretchers. He remembered seeing
Newbigging disappear up the stair in his stockinged feet, the candle in
his hand dripping wax over the steps, and there had been singing.
Wonderful, soul-stirring singing. . . .
It was a wonder Buckskin was not up and doing. Playing peek-a-boo under
the sheet or trying to put his toe in his mouth. He turned over to look
at him. Buckskin lay facing him. He looked, and a horrible shudder shook
him. He looked again. But surely this was not Buck! This cold, set
little mask of a face, with the look of angry surprise in the open eyes
and on the compressed mouth, as though bitterly indeed he resented this
outrageous jest that Fate had played on him. And that rigid body—those
clenched hands—Buckskin, oh, Buck!
Derek sprang from the bed. He ran to the foot of the stairs and shouted
for Newbigging. Newbigging came headlong from his sleep.
“For God’s sake, what is it, sir?”
“The boy—the boy—he’s dead!”
“Dead? How can that be? What killed him?”
“That same thing, I suppose. Come down! Come down!”
Newbigging came running.
Derek stood, sick and bewildered, in the passage while Newbigging was in
the room. When he came out his step was heavy.
“You’re richt enough, sir. The puir laddie’s gone. Gone these hours
past.”
He took Derek by the arm and led him to the dining-room. He gave him
something to drink—something that burned his throat.
“Just sit here quietly a bit,” said Newbigging.
Derek sat down in the armchair before the black hearth. He did not
speak. He clasped his hands between his knees, and twisted and turned in
his chair. His face was contorted with agony. He had not known that one
could suffer so. Jock came and timidly licked his clinched hands.
Buckskin, oh, Buck!
After a while Newbigging said: “I think I should go for the doctor, Mr.
Vale. It’s customary.”
“I won’t stay here alone,” said Derek, with a wild look towards that
room. “You go and harness the mare, and I’ll get Bill.”
He left the house and went through the orchard. Moisture from the bare
limbs dripped on his head. He knocked at the door of the shack, a heavy,
resounding knock. Bill appeared in the door, frightened, hollow-cheeked;
an insufferable heat and stuffiness came from within.
“Go for the doctor,” said Derek, shortly. “The little boy is dead.”
Back through the orchard, under the drip of the quickening trees, back
in the house.
Once more in the chair before the hearth, twisting his hands together.
Buckskin, oh, Buck!
The doctor came. He was a nice fellow, sympathetic. He was terribly
sorry. He was the coroner, too. He gave Derek the certificate of natural
death and a permit to bury the child at Grimstone. Derek would not have
him put in that desolate little graveyard where Solomon Sharroe lay. He
wanted him near him.
Hobbs came. Amazingly sympathetic. Tears in his eyes. He brought a bunch
of daffodils to lay on the little coffin. You could have knocked him
down with a feather when he heard it. Would he let the Jerrolds know?
They might not hear until after—No, no, for God’s sake, no. All he
wanted was to be left alone.
Mrs. Machin came. She had buried her sister two days before and was now
ready to take up the reins at Grimstone. She bathed the child and
prepared him for burial. A little coffin was brought from Brancepeth.
After the lamps were lighted Mrs. Machin and Newbigging sat together in
the kitchen. The sailor’s tongue was running, doubtless about his
adventures in China. Derek now sat in state alone. He had not looked at
the newspaper that day, so he got it and spread it out on the table
before him. Mechanically he turned to the column of Horses for Sale.
That always interested him. He read, muttering the words half aloud:
For Sale—“Silken-Maid”—
Beautiful breedy-looking upstanding standard-bred trotting mare;
her sire “Silk-Tassel,” dam “Belle Roland”; age six years;
sound: 15.3 hands; weight eleven hundred; good free active road
mare; road all day twelve miles an hour; best feet and legs;
well-boned, level-headed, square-gaited trotter.
Good Lord, he did not know what he had been reading. . . . What was it
all about? His eyes, raised stupidly from the paper, rested on the
collection of butterflies that now stood on the mantelpiece. How the
little chap had loved them! Derek had tried to teach him the names of
the different species, and he had made sounds that were really good
attempts, and had always leaned forward lovingly to pat the glass above
that bright blue one from the Hartz Mountains, with his soft little
palm. The little hands—the little hands!
Derek pushed back his chair and rose from the table. He went into the
parlour. Mrs. Machin lighted candles in the tall silver candelabrum
there, to look “pretty”—not because she held with “any popish notions.”
The candles threw a seemly light over the little folded hands (he held
one of Hobbs’s daffodils) and over the little face—not startled and
resentful now, but wearing a look of sweet composure.
Derek placed one hand on the foot of the coffin and the other on the
head. Supported thus, he bent forward till his lips touched the lips of
that darling child of his transgression. Sobs tore at his throat.
“Buckskin, oh, Buck, my little boy!”
6.
Spring had come in the night. The world was full of joy. Ingratiating
odours stole up from meadow and field. Forth from the lake leaped the
hot bright sun, and strode like a giant to his work. Sweet, hostile
strains of rival birds rose upward to the sky. Everywhere, everywhere,
the striving, shooting, leaping, singing upward; but for Buckskin the
lying down in the dark earth beneath the walnut trees, the clasping of
little hands, the shutting of gay, deep eyes, the folding of bright
wings scarcely spread.
It was only six o’clock when Derek crossed the lawn to the green plot
behind the apple-house where he had told Newbigging to dig the grave. He
had chosen this spot because he had often thought that winter what a
nice place it would be for the little chap to play on next summer. The
grass here seemed especially fine; and it was starred in May by little
blue-eyed flowers, and here the birds liked to hop about and sing. Then
the smell of apples that came through the latticed window of the
apple-house was sweet, very sweet.
Newbigging was not quite ready yet. He was digging so energetically that
some of the loose soil flew against the sloping, moss-grown roof of the
apple-house, and from there scattered to the ground. He looked up and
wiped his brow.
“The ground’s still haird,” he said. “But I took all the sod off nicely,
and it can be laid back without a break.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Derek.
He watched Newbigging till the grave was ready, then he said, “Come. I
want to get this over before anyone is about.”
They returned to the house.
Mrs. Machin was waiting in the parlour. In her black bonnet and cape she
was prepared to follow in decency to the grave, though she thought it
heathenish that the child should not be laid in consecrated ground.
Nor would Derek have Mr. Ramsey sent for to read the burial service. The
conception of Buckskin had been secret; their life together that winter
had been secret; now, in death, let him strike his tent in secret and
join his forebears without benefit of clergy.
But Derek took his uncle’s large prayer-book from the bookcase and
carried it to the graveside. Newbigging and he bore the light coffin
between them. Mrs. Machin followed. A strange funeral procession. Their
slow passage over the moist turf was watched by heavy gulls swinging
above in the warm April wind. The chime of the waves on the shore was
Buckskin’s knell.
In a low voice, but steady, Derek read the burial service, his head bent
over the book, the wind tossing his fair hair. Newbigging stood with
folded arms and legs apart, his tanned neck rising like a column out of
his blue sailor’s jersey. Mrs. Machin’s face was set as she stared
sorrowfully into the grave. The feather on her black bonnet kept up a
nervous quivering.
“We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry
nothing out”—read Derek (not even Pegleg, he thought, lying discarded
on the floor). “The Lord gave (He gave this kind, too!), and the Lord
hath taken away (He took this kind to Himself, also); blessed be the
name of the Lord.”
The wind freshened; the chiming of the waves grew sweeter; the gulls
swung above their heads. Derek read on: “Man that is born of a woman
hath but a short time to live (a year, this man!), and is full of misery
(misery? Oh, those mirthful, laughing eyes of his!). He cometh up, and
is cut down, like a flower (like a flower! Derek’s voice broke); he
fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.”
With a motion of the head, he signalled Newbigging to begin filling in
the grave. As the earth was cast upon the lid of the coffin only broken
phrases were audible—“to take unto Himself the soul of our dear brother
here departed”—“dust to dust”—“according to the mighty working,
whereby He is able to subdue all things to Himself.” The mighty working!
He could read no more, but stood motionless and silent as Newbigging
finished his work.
Unconsciously his eyes followed the movements of a woman, whose figure
was outlined against the sky, as she slowly made her way along the
undulations of the bluffs. Slowly she descended the steep and came to
the bridge. She stood leaning over the rail a moment, looking down into
the tumbling stream below, before she proceeded. Her progression was
heavy as though she were tired or weak, but still she drew nearer and
nearer.
Newbigging was laying the green sod in place as she turned in at the
gate. He sat up on his heels and stared at the approaching figure, then
he raised his startled eyes to Derek’s face. Mrs. Machin, after one long
bitter look, turned and walked back to the house.
Jock crawled to the end of the chain by which he had been fastened to a
tree, and lifted his lip in deprecating welcome. Fawnie went to the two
men and stood between them, looking down at the grave.
“What little grave is this?” she asked slowly, with a catch in her
voice.
“It’s the wee lad’s,” replied Newbigging. “He died yesterday.” He went
on carefully replacing the sod.
Fawnie watched in silence a space as though fascinated by the movements
of his hands. Then she said, “Couldn’t you uncover him and let me see
his face, jus’ for a minute, please, Derek?”
“No,” answered Derek, coldly. “You deserted him when he was well. You
shall not disturb him now.”
She drew a deep sigh. “It’s pretty hard,” she said, “never to see my
little baby’s face again.”
“I suppose it is,” said Derek, without looking at her, “but it’s not to
be.” He went to Jock, who was whining, unloosed him, and went into the
house.
He hesitated a moment in the dining-room, and then entered the dim, cool
parlour. He replaced the chairs that had been taken from their customary
positions to support the coffin, and then sat down on the sofa, staring
blankly at the shuttered windows.
He thought—“What a stupid, sullen chap I am getting! Nothing surprises
me. There is Fawnie come back, and it seems perfectly natural. There is
Buck—dead—and she standing by his grave and—I’m not surprised.
Well—well—well—well.”
He repeated the monosyllable aloud, his mouth twisted with a pained
expression. He took his pipe from his pocket, looked at it, turned it
over in his hand, and returned it to his pocket.
Though Buckskin was in his grave, Derek’s heart would not let him be.
Painfully he went over in his mind the events of the past thirty-six
hours. And after each piercing recollection he said, “Well—well”—in
the same tone.
He was aroused from these thoughts by a movement of one of the shutters.
A slat had been opened and Fawnie’s voice came through. He could see the
glint of her eyes in the aperture. “Say, darling, can I come in?”
“No.”
“Well, look here, Derek, can I tell you why I run away?”
“It was because you loved Jammery, I suppose.”
“No. It was because I loved you. Jammery told me if I didn’t he’d run a
knife through your back in the lane some night, and I knew he would. You
didn’t know Jammery, darling. He was wicked. He’d done it before. Killed
a man. And I didn’t want you stabbed in the dark. So I went. Every word
of this is true, Derek. As I went my tears splashed on the ground and I
was sayin’ all the while to myself—‘poor Derek—poor baby!’ And I sent
Lottie Rain, and every night I cried in my sleep, and Jammery got to
hate me and said he wished he’d never seen my face.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s dead. I had to stay till he died. There was no one else to take
care of him. He was sick even when he was here. With the consumption,
you know. He got worse pretty soon. He’d think his pillow was you,
Derek, and he’d kneel up in the bed and stab it with a pretend knife,
and he couldn’t kill it, so he died.”
Derek made no comment, and, after a space of silence, she faltered,
“Derek, may I open the shutter so’s you can see how thin and tired I
am?”
“If you wish.”
She fumbled with the fastening, then the shutter swung open and revealed
her as in a frame. She was indeed thin. Her cheeks had lost their
child-like roundness, her breast was flat, her eyes beneath their
pencilled brows looked very large and bright.
“May I come in and rest a little while, Derek?” she asked plaintively.
“My poor little feet is blistered.”
“Yes,” he said, shortly. “You may go up to your old room. Go round by
the front door.”
“Will I close the shutter?”
“No. Leave it open.”
Meekly she turned away. He heard the soft brush of her feet on the
grass, the timid shuffle of them on the stair, the pad of them in the
room above his head. . . .
Through the open window he looked across the lawn, across the strawberry
beds, across the stream, to the shore meadow where the young bull, son
of Gretta van Lowe, had been turned out for exercise. He had had his
fill of running, of snorting, of charging the wind, and now stood in
statuesque unconcern staring insolently at the gentle ewes that grazed
on the bank of the stream.
A great love for Grimstone surged over Derek. Grimstone and he were one.
His own flesh that morning had become one with the soil. He could never
leave it now. And there upstairs was Fawnie, little, weak, something to
be cared for, protected, his own—after all. What a strange thing
possession was! You thought you were the possessor, when in truth you
were the thing possessed.
He rose, and slowly went upstairs.
Fawnie was lying on her bed, her loosened hair tumbled on the pillow.
Her eyes were wet, and tears ran unheeded down her cheeks.
“Why are you crying?” asked Derek from the doorway.
“Not for that poor little baby—not for Buckskin,” she sobbed, “but for
you, darling, because you suffer, and—as a matter of fac’, I don’ know
how to comfort you.”
He came to her and sat down on the side of the bed.
She clutched his hand and pressed it to her breast.
“Oh, believe me, Derek, believe me! I’ll be as true—as true as one of
those strong trees out there—the one with the iron ring grown into its
side.” She drew their clasped hands to her lips and kissed her wedding
ring. “Every word of what I told you is true,” she said with passion.
He did not answer, but looked down soberly into her eyes.
From her appealing face his gaze moved to the window. On the bluff
before the house he saw the figures of Grace and her father surrounded
by their dogs. They, too, became conscious of him. With a military
gesture Mr. Jerrold raised his hand to his cap, and Grace looked and
smiled a little, and looked again as though she could not keep her
wistful eyes from the window.
But she knew nothing of what had happened.
Derek turned to Fawnie. He put his arms about her, and laid his face
beside hers on the pillow.
‾Billing and Sons, Ltd., Printers, Guildford and Esher‾
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.
The printer’s details on the prior page are enclosed by ‾ ‾ markings and
indicate an overline.
A cover was created for this eBook and is placed in the public domain.
[The end of _Possession_, by Mazo de la Roche.]