The sufferer moved restlessly on her pillow. "I'd rather be out on
Gool-land,[*] than like I be now."
[*] Gulland, a barren islet off the north coast of Cornwall.
Looking at the hollows of the face once so apple-round, Isolda's heart
misgave her.
"I feel," continued Mrs. Byron in a dragging voice, "that I can't stand
much more of this."
"Nonsense, you'll cheat the crows yet."
"Don't care whether I do or no. What is there for a woman like me?
I've neither chick nor chield."
"Well, there's Leadville to think about."
Sabina sighed. "He'd cut a poor shine without me; but there--I
dunno..." her voice trailed away into silence.
Mrs. Tom's heart began to beat more quickly. "Well," she ventured,
"he's workin' pretty and 'ard now."
"He's got to keep the thing going," assented the wife.
"He's doin' more'n that."
Sabina's voice was still languid, but she showed a little interest.
"What's ah doin' then?"
"A cart come over from Wadebridge o' Thursday piled up wi' boxes and
bags. Now just let me turn this heel."
"Boxes and bags?" murmured the wife. "Good gracious! What's ah going
to do with that?"
After a few seconds given to her work, Mrs. Tom looked up. "He's
teelin' the li'l medder wi' sugar-beet."
The other's mind, dulled by suffering and loss of blood, took time to
grasp the significance of this statement. "Sugar-beet?" she said,
slowly, "but I'm goin' to 'ave the li'l medder teeled wi' dredge-corn."
"You bain't there to give the orders."
Sabina's lips took a firmer line. "I won't 'av it teeled wi' that
new-fangled traaede. You tell'n so."
"Better tell'n yourself; I reckon--" She glanced shrewdly at her
friend, for Sabina's unexpected illness had put new thoughts into Mrs.
Tom's head. She was not greedy, but the most self-effacing creature
will scheme a little for its young. "I reckon he'd do far different if
you wasn't 'ere."
"You think so?" Sabina shut her eyes the better to realize the
situation. The news had been stimulating, and when she spoke again her
voice was stronger. "I don't think as I'm goin' round land this time,
Isolda."
"I do hope an' pray as you aren't, my dear soul."
"What else is ah doin'?"
"Tom went down to see'n last night, thought as 'ee might be lonely in
that big 'ouse all by 'imself; and Leadville was tellin' 'im he didn't
believe in the way missis was farmin'. He'd like to try and see what
the land'd grow best. He said--terbacca."
"Terbacca? I should think he was maaeze. Never heard tell of such a
thing. Whatever next is he gwine grow?"
"He think the land would grow vegetables as 'tis the right sort o' soil
and that 'tis wasted in corn."
Sabina gave a feeble snort. "What do 'ee know about soils--a sailor!"
She shook her head. "As long as I live he'll never have nothing to do
with Wastralls."
Mrs. Rosevear's needles clicked in agreement. "As long as you do live,
S'bina."
"Iss, why not me livin'? I 'ent older than he is, and there's no reason
I should turn up my trotters first; at least I don't see why I should."
"We'll all live till we die, sure enough; but it's been touch and go
lately with you."
"I'll live in spite of'n," said Mrs. Byron.
"I hope you will, my dear, but sposin' you don't?" Mrs. Byron returned
her friend's glance with a startled look. "Ah, iss, sposin'." She saw
at last what her death would have meant both to her husband and her
kinsfolk. "Well, I make no promises, but I do see now where I'm to.
Iss, I can see through a very small hole, and I'm not too old to learn."
Sabina had been effectually roused. Possessions that are menaced
increase in value and as long as Leadville was making changes at
Wastralls she would not want to die.
"There's things as you can't alter," she said, thinking Sabina should be
prepared for what could not now be helped.
"What can't I alter?"
"He've pulled up the honeysuckle by the porch."
A fugitive colour dyed the wan cheeks. "Have 'ee now, the old villain?
Whatever for? The honeysuckle as my poor old mother planted."
Sabina's thoughts were finally diverted from her own trials and, lame or
not, she was now only too anxious to stop this meddling with what was
hers.
"He's always after something new." Leadville could not have known that
she treasured the climber. She was sure he would not knowingly have
hurt her feelings. Whenever he did anything that to her was
incomprehensible, Sabina put it down, not to design, but want of
thought. She was of those who cannot see into the heart of a matter.
"I like the old things best," she continued, and her eyes, those
impersonal eyes, which were the blue of a December sky, shone with new
purpose. "We'll have no more of they doin's. Where's that traaede
Nurse wanted for me to take? I feel I could drink some now."
Byron, busy putting his plans into execution, nearly forgot on what
their success hung. He had thrown himself into the work with the
eagerness of a man in all ways extreme. He was living his dream and he
was happy. After one or two non-committal post cards from Dr. Derek,
however, came the news that, though her husband would be wise not to
build on it, Mrs. Byron was holding her own. By this time some of the
glass-houses were up, and the land below the house, which should have
been in dredge-corn, was planted with sugar-beet. For the first time
Byron felt a qualm of anxiety. He had not imagined it possible Sabina
could survive the amputation of her legs. In giving leave for the
operation to be performed, he had believed that he was hastening--with
the doctor's kind assistance--the inevitable end. With a sinking heart
he now began to wonder whether he had underestimated her vitality. What
if, after all, she should recover? She was a sound, harmonious being,
whom exposure and a simple strenuous life had only toughened. If any
one could survive so terrible an accident, it would be she.
That day he did his work in perturbation of spirit. He had no illusions
as to what Sabina would think of the changes he was making. She would
be stubbornly opposed to every one of them and Sabina's stubbornness was
the force with which for so long he had had to reckon. A gleam of hope
came with the thought that even if she recovered she would no longer be
able to manage the farm. A poor cripple could not get about the fields,
especially such up-and-down fields as those of Wastralls. She would be
obliged to appoint a deputy and who so suitable as the man she had
married?
He cursed the impatience which had led him astray. If he had waited, the
matter would have arranged itself in accordance with his wishes. Now,
if Sabina recovered, it was only too likely that she would make it
difficult for him to carry out his schemes. He tried to imagine what
form her opposition would take, but though he had lived beside her for
so long, the writing on the wall was in characters he could not
interpret.
To add to his anxieties the man was finding himself short of money. One
of his counts against Sabina was that when they married she had refused
to have her banking account put in their joint names. "Tedn' a woman's
business to sign cheques," he had told her in a futile attempt to bring
her to his way of thinking.
She smiled as at a good joke. "I don't think you ever signed a cheque
in your life."
"I didn' marry yer for yer money," he assured her hastily.
"Don't bother yerself about it, then. I done business for my old dad
all the time you was to sea; and I'd be a pretty malkin if I didn' knaw
more about signin' cheques than you do."
"I'm told I ought to be able to draw cheques on your account."
"Shouldn't listen to all you 'ear. If you want money, go and work
for't. I'll lend 'ee any to start with."
"There never ought to be two purses between man and wife. They should
share alike."
"When you got something," she assured him, "we will."
In spite of her words she had not been niggardly. As much as Byron
asked for he received and, believing that all was rightly his, he had
taken as much as he wanted. He had seen, however, no reason to save; and
now found himself unable to pay for what he had ordered. Sabina was too
ill to be approached, and when he took the tale of his difficulties to
Hember he found Tom Rosevear civil, as usual, but evasive. He did not
say much, but it was evident the 'improvements' did not meet with his
approval; that he could not understand Byron's initiating them while his
wife lay at death's door. The trifling loan which the farmer succeeded
in raising did not do more than pay the wages of the extra workmen, the
carpenters and masons he was employing; and, as time passed, and his
agent at Wadebridge began to press for the money owing, Byron found
himself awkwardly placed. Money he must have, but when he tried to
raise it on his expectations he discovered that the security was not
considered good. The obvious course was to tell Liddicoat to send the
bills in to Sabina; but this, as he well knew, would entail on him
unpleasant consequences. Meanwhile the injured woman was slowly gaining
ground. Isolda's tale had roused in her, not only the will to live, but
the will to overcome, as far as might be, the disabilities of her
condition. In the days when she was accounted handsome she had been
without self-consciousness; and she did not develop it now that she knew
herself to be "a poor remnant." What were looks when the heart was
beating warmly and the mind was clear? Her mutilation being the result
of accident, it did not occur to her that any one--any one to whom she
looked for love and tenderness--might find her repulsive.
After the operation was performed Byron had inquired after her welfare,
but had not come to see her. Although so happily occupied he felt at
times a little uneasy. Sabina's attraction for him had been her flawless
health and the amputation aroused in him, not pity, but a faint stirring
of repugnance. He sent her a message that he "must be on the spot to
see to things," and, undemonstrative herself and not yet instructed as
to the nature of the "things," she had accepted his excuse. A day came,
however, when he felt that he must overcome his unwillingness to see for
himself the difference in her which the operation had made. Liddicoat
was pressing for payment, and he had other liabilities. He rode into
Stowe, therefore, rode at his usual breakneck pace and, having stabled
his horse, called at the hospital.
Although his visit was unexpected, Sabina had had the long leisure of a
slow convalescence in which to arrange her thoughts and make plans for
the future. Leadville had tried to take advantage of her being ill. He
had thought that when she recovered she would accept the changes he had
introduced. He had acted like a child without thought of the
consequences. The foolish fellow! Sabina was not angered. She had
always been an indulgent wife, and she could overlook this attempt to
steal a march on her, as she had overlooked his many efforts to get the
management of the farm into his hands.
Looking neither to the right nor to the left, Byron dragged his
reluctant feet up the ward. Sabina, who disliked sewing, and did not
care to read, had been lying back on her pillows, her hands folded on
the white sheet. As she caught sight of the well-known figure; a little
flush of surprised pleasure spread over her pale cheeks. She was very
glad to see him. In her eyes his breadth and heaviness, the strong
growth of his black hair, the jut of his square chin, were so many
attractions. She had always admired his strength; and the evidences of
it in deep chest and hairy skin were to her taste. She could have
wished, however, that he would look up, would answer her ready smile,
instead of staring before him like a bull who is not quite certain
whether the people he is encountering are friend or foe. She had no
suspicion that every step her husband took was more unwilling than the
last.
The moment came when he must look at her. His furtive glance swept in
one unhappy second the bed and its occupant, then he bent forward and
gave her a clumsy kiss. The truth was not as bad as he had feared. By
some deft arrangement of the clothes the bed gave a false impression.
As far as appearances went the woman in it might have been in possession
of her limbs. Byron, escaping the shock he had expected, experienced,
however, one of a different kind. The face he touched was indeed that
of his wife, but it was changed. Sabina's red-gold hair, which had been
rippling and abundant, the very symbol of her gay vitality, had lost its
colour. When he last saw her a bandage had concealed it, now, white as
that bandage, it framed a face lined and haggard.
"Why--my dear life--" he stammered, staring, "'ow your 'air 'av
altered."