He knew then that the tale of his imprudent labours had run before him
and that she was expressing her disapproval. She was not angry with
him; a mother is not angry when she sequestrates a forbidden toy. "I
always thought," he stammered, making no further mystery of the matter,
"that we should grow sugar-beet."
"An' you was welcome to try it--at Polnevas. Now come, it bain't too
late to put the li'l medder in dredge-corn. You'd better see to't at
once, or I'll 'av Tom do't."
He cried out at that last humiliation and it was still the same cry, the
cry his wife thought so unreasonable. "You'd put Tom Rosevear over me?
You'd take away what belong to me?"
"'Long to you? I should like to know 'ow it come yours."
"You give it me, you give it me when we married."
"Never."
In his disappointment and rage he stumbled over his words. "You'll see,
you'll see! Iss, you'll see whether I won't 'av it or no."
"'Tis mazedness of 'ee to think so," she answered. "Come, be sensible.
I'll pay for these old fads of yours and you can pile'n away where you
mind to. I'll pay this once, but 'twas a fulish game for 'ee to play
and maybe you'll see that before you'm done."
*CHAPTER III*
Near St. Cadic Mill, at the head of the valley, a hamlet had gathered, a
few deep-set cottages built of cliff stone and planted irregularly about
a smithy. Sheltered by a rise in the land from sea winds their gardens
were rich with produce. A green broadened from their little gates and
in the wall of the smithy had been set a scarlet post-box, a flaring
touch of the official in a land sufficient unto itself.
In these, houses, which were known far and wide as 'Cottages,' dwelt a
cobbler, who was also the barber of the community: Mrs. Bate, the
Stripper; her friend Aunt Louisa Blewett, the seamstress: one or two
independent labourers, and an old sailor. Here, too, was the Dolphin,
where could be obtained a little muddy cider and some home-brewed; also,
the village shop. The self-respecting and thrifty community was like a
family which, having grown up and married, had continued to live in a
group, separated only by the walls of their homes and gardens. Ties,
acknowledged and unacknowledged, linked them, linked them also with the
farmer folk; and, as all respected the axiom that you must not 'step on
a Cornishman's tail,' the hamlet was to the outward eye an abode of
peace.
Mrs. Byron's accident had caught the imagination of her humble
neighbours. For years they had watched her riding about, a wholesome
hearty woman with a ripe cheek and a commanding eye. Not one of them,
but had had experience of her vigour and capacity. She was now reduced
to a helplessness greater than that of child or dotard and to her
helplessness was added the mystery of mutilation.
During the long light weeks the cottagers sat at their doors of an
evening and, while Charley Brenton trimmed hair in the front garden,
discussed the inopportune event.
"I was almost sure there was ill luck comin'," said Mrs. Bate, the woman
who was Stripper, or Nurse for the hamlet, that is to say who laid out
the dead.
The man upon whom the barber was operating was a Brenton from the
neighbouring valley of Polscore. The gossip was new to him.
"'Ow d'yer think so?" he asked.
"I b'lieve she was ill-wished. Never mind 'ow I think so, you wait an'
see. My belief, there's they 'av got an evil eye on 'er."
Aunt Louisa Blewett looked up from her sewing. She was a peculiarly
neat and clean old woman, who spent her time going from one house to
another, mending and making for the long families. She did not speak,
but her toothless mouth worked as if over a choice morsel.
"I thought the witches were all gone years ago," remarked the stranger
Brenton.
"Well, there is witches, only they don't come out in their true colour,"
asserted Mrs. Bate, whose mother was said to have been the last in
Tregols.
"Besides," urged old Hawken, the sailor, who was sitting on a stone
awaiting his turn at Charley Brenton's hands, "who's goin' to do Mrs.
Byron any 'arm? A nicer woman never lived. She's noted for 'er
kindness at Christmas time or any other time."
"Iss, iss, we knaw she's well liked," said Mrs. Bate non-committally.
Unlike Aunt Louisa she had still an occasional milestone of tooth. The
old women were handsome now, and what must they have been when they were
the village belles? "Still, I b'lieve there's one that bear 'er a
grudge. I don't mention any names but you can think 'oo you like."
"Go along, you don't think as 'e'd do 'er a mischief do yer?"
"Hush!"
For some time the sound of approaching hoofs had been carried to them on
the still air of the evening; and the voices died into silence as
Leadville Byron, on his black stallion, clattered by. The animal was as
usual flecked with foam, the master stained with the mud of the road.
Returning from his humiliating interview with Sabina, he had found in
the hard gallop up hill and down, an outlet for his rage and
disappointment. What did he care if he lamed the horse? Whirling
through the hamlet he noticed the curious cottagers no more than the
birds in the hedges.
"'Ow 'e do ride," said old Hawken, as the furious figure melted into the
growing dusk and only the beat of the hoofs reached the listeners, a
beat which in turn was merged in the distant sound of the tide. "One of
these days 'e'll break 'is neck."
"'Tis like 'e's tearin' away from something," said Aunt Louisa suddenly.
"Do 'ee think," said Mrs. Bate, lowering her voice, "do 'ee think th'
Old Squire knaw what's happenin' above ground?"
"If 'e do," said Hawken, "'e must find it terr'ble 'ard for that feller
to be in 'is place."
"And alterin' things," said Aunt Louisa.
"Old Squire," said Mrs. Bate mysteriously, "can look after's own. You
mark my words, thiccy feller 'ont 'av all 'is own way."
Willie Brenton took the towel from his neck and handed it to the sailor.
"Your turn, Mr. 'Awken."
The old man got up painfully. "My feet's terr'ble knucklin' to-day and
my poor laigs is stiff with the rheumatism; but still they'm better'n no
laigs. I wonder 'ow poor Mrs. Byron'll manage?"
This was a matter of interest to the cottagers. They supposed that, for
the cooking and cleaning, Mrs. Byron would employ one of themselves.
Mrs. Bate, who had not been married, had yet grandchildren old enough to
go out to service.
"We've all worked there in an' out," she said, "but now the poor
thing'll 'av to 'av some one there altogether. She'll be so helpless as
a baby."
"I bet she won't," said Aunt Louisa, folding together a patched garment
and preparing to go indoors for the night. "Mrs. Byron'll frighten us
all yet for what she can do."
"I reckon she 'ont 'av the 'eaft to go about the work as she used to.
My mind tell me she's done for," said Hawken.
Aunt Louisa nodded her trim grey head in the direction of Church Town.
"Not till she's laid alongside the Old Squire," she said and, going in,
shut her door with the precision of touch characteristic of her every
movement.
At Wastralls, the following morning, Byron went as usual into the yard.
Two breeding sows, black as a cave's mouth, were wandering about and, on
a heap of straw in the sun, lay an old sheep-dog. The dog wagged its
tail but, unfortunately, did not rise and the man's sore heart
registered its laziness as an affront.
"Shep's gone past for work," he said to George Biddick, who was standing
by waiting for orders.
"Iss, I b'lieve 'e is. Gettin' blind."
"Better give'm a dose. You come to me at twelve and I'll 'av it ready
for 'ee." He cast a vindictive look at the old dog. "And, Biddick..."
"Iss, sir?"
"I've changed my mind about the li'l medder. I'm afraid 'tis too late
for sugar-beet this year, I'll 'av it teeled in dredge-corn."
He went back to the kitchen, a roomy whitewashed place, the rafters of
which were dark above the blue flagstones, stones which had been worn
smooth by feet, trampling for a little to and fro, then going as they
had come. In a wall-cupboard to the right of the slab-range, the farmer
kept such matters as ammunition, packets of seed, medicaments for the
stock. Crossing the kitchen, with a step which was light for so
large-framed a man, he stood for a moment contemplating the medley of
articles--bluestone, cattle-salts, turpentine, oak-marbles which had
been through the coffee grinder, bottles of Red Drink--which confronted
him. By the last named stood a small blue bottle with an orange label.
He had bought it some time ago, he had used it on old and useless
animals. He would pour out a little now and give it to Biddick for the
sheep-dog; but the rest he would put by again. He felt that to rid the
place of Shep would be a satisfaction. If only other things which stood
in his way, which refused to recognize his authority, could be got rid
of as easily.
Sabina's interview with her husband had made her realize how necessary
she was to him. She thought of him as a foolish child who, the moment
it was left to its own devices, got into mischief. The conviction that
she stood between Leadville and disaster was soothing. It increased her
wish to live and was as good as a tonic. Not that tonics were necessary,
for once she had turned the first difficult corner she made good
progress and, when Raby Gregor came to discuss with her the trolly she
had designed, he was agreeably surprised to find her as cheerful as of
old.
This trolly was for long the wonder of those who saw it. On a
three-wheeled stand, a cone of cushioned basket-work, itself
strengthened by iron stays, had been set upright. Into this wicker
receptacle Sabina, who had strong arms, presently learnt to swing
herself and, once in place, the cushions supported her in comfort. The
front wheel of the trolly had a guiding handle and she was thus enabled,
as long as the ground was flat, to go where she would.
"I want to be on a level with other people," she said, "so don't make
the stand too low. I can't bear to be down; 'av to look up to everybody
as I'm speaking to'm."
The little contrivance, when finished, proved admirably suited to her
needs. The nurses, proud of her as a case, helped her over the first
difficulties; and, as the figure she cut did not trouble her, she soon
learnt to swing herself in and out. Before long she was able to steer
herself about the ward and Mrs. Tom, coming in one afternoon with eggs
for the patients and saffron cake for the nurses' tea, found her pushing
herself about as contentedly as a child.
"I shall be comin' 'ome next week," she said happily, "so Leadville can
send in the cart for me."
"I shall be pretty and glad for 'ee to come 'ome again, but why must 'e
send the old cart?"
"Why, to bring this 'ome in." She put her hands to the sides of the
trolly and sat erect, a smiling cheerful woman. Her face, though pale
from the long confinement, had lost its lines, was indeed showing a
tendency to over-fullness and she looked older, but she was herself
again. "If I didn't I should 'av to lie down an' I don't want to do
that. I want to sit up and see all there is to be seen. Besides I want
for the people to see I'm able to get about again, if I be a cripple."
Mrs. Tom perceived that Sabina meant to celebrate her recovery by a
triumphal return. "Well, my dear, I'll tell Leadville to send in the
cart for 'ee."
"This 'ere thing do run so smooth as a die," said Sabina, returning to
her happy absorption in the trolly. "You'd never believe 'ow easy I can
get about in it," and she began, with her strong, illness-whitened
hands, to turn the wheels.
"Will it go uphill?" said the other, after observing with interest the
paces of this new steed.