His eyes grew tender. "You do want a nest of your own, my bird. I can
see you in it, a li'l place away from 'ere."
She shook her head, repudiating the idea with courage born of her
sister's nearness. "I don't want never to leave Trevorrick and mammy,
and any of them."
"You'd 'av so much of your own things to think about," he murmured, his
mind full of the nest he would build for her, "you wouldn't 'av time to
think upon 'ome."
Before she could answer, Leonora was back. "'Tis you auntie want,
Gray."
Suspicion flamed in Leadville's eye. "If they're schemin' to come
between us," he said angrily, "they'd better look out. Don't you go,
Gray."
But the girl, running on light feet down the long dark passage, was glad
to escape. When Uncle Leadville looked at her like that, she had ever a
fluttered feeling that she must run away, or something, she knew not
what, but something terrible, would happen. Instinct was warning her,
instinct that is wiser even than experience and Leadville might sit on
in the kitchen, waiting and waiting, but until he was gone, Gray would
not return.
*CHAPTER VII*
The year ran mildly down to Christmas, but the wind with its tang of
cold did not fling a rose into Gray's cheek or buffet her into keener
life and, when again the friends met in council, it was to discuss
changes which both saw to be necessary.
"Jim's taking the cart into Stowe, week before Christmas," said Mrs.
Byron when they had talked the matter over, "to bring 'ome some coals
and flour. P'raps that day'll suit Gray?"
"Well, I'll talk to 'er and see what she got to say."
"Very well then, Friday before Christmas."
"And you'll 'av Richbell till you see 'ow things turn out?"
"Iss. She growin' to a fine maid. They'm all pretty but Richbell's got
the best colour. 'Tis lovely an' I don't wonder the boys is maaeze
about 'er. Still," she sighed, "give me Gray."
"We all know Gray's the favourite here," smiled Mrs. Tom, sticking her
needles into the stocking she was knitting and looking round for her
cloak. "Well, I think we'm doing the best we can, seein' Leadville's so
teasy."
"He'll settle down right enough now. 'Tedn't as if 'e was a young man.
When 'e do realize 'e's out of the running, 'e'll take it quiet and
we'll be all comfortable again."
"Well, my dear, I hope we shall. It 'as been a draggin' time for 'ee
since you was laid up."
"'Tis funny," said Sabina, "'ow you think 'Now that's over and done
with,' but 'tedn't. I thought 'Once I'm out of 'ospital I'll soon put
things to rights,' but I 'aven't done it yet."
"Takes time, my dear."
"Iss, and time's life."
Leadville had become so remote and unapproachable that Sabina did not
find an opportunity to tell him the wagon would be going into Stowe the
Friday before Christmas and that Gray would be taking fowls, cream and
butter, to the market. Not even when the day dawned did he realize that
anything unusual was afoot. He had come down to breakfast, stared with
sullen aversion at Leonora, as the cheerful child ran to and fro between
kitchen and linhay; and sought in his uninventive mind for expedients
which should leave him alone with her sister for a blessed few minutes.
He did this morning after morning, sometimes successfully; but
generally, as Gray wished to keep the child near her, without its making
much difference. On this particular day Leonora, chattering of
Christmas festivities, the tree they were to have at the chapel on New
Year's Eve, the tea the following day, was eventually seen off to school
and Gray, turning a deaf ear to Leadville's plea that she would linger,
went candle in hand, for the sun was still below the eastern hill, to
Sabina's room. Her mind was brimful of the practicalities of the day in
Stowe. She had no time for Byron, had forgotten even the fear with
which his hungry presence was wont to inspire her, was only conscious of
the many things to be done before she could change her workaday raiment
for clothes befitting the occasion.
To Leadville all seemed as usual, though Gray was perhaps unusually full
of domestic business but, as Christmas was the following week, that was
to be expected. He heard her low singing voice in the Justice Room as
she flitted about, tidying the place, putting what Sabina needed ready
to her hand; and he decided to smoke his morning pipe in the yard. He
enjoyed looking on critically while the men worked. He told himself
that if he had been master they would have done as much again. He had
said so to Sabina more than once and she had smiled, thinking that she
knew better.
As he watched them that morning, idly content with the fine weather and
with his heart momentarily at rest, he called to mind that on the
previous day he had seen a seal sporting in the surf beyond Morwen Cove.
The end of an Atlantic gale had been lashing the cliff-face and a
procession of monstrous waves had been rolling in out of the grey
distance. In that welter of far-sounding sea, the living atom had been
at play; and Byron, detecting the springing shadow in the curl of a
wave, the dark speck in the racing tide of the Mad Rip, had reflected
that the last bottle of seal-oil had been sold. Remembering this, he
had thought the opportunity good and, returning to the kitchen, had
lifted his gun from the leathern thong above the door. The room still
lay in obscurity, the only light being that of the frugal banked-up
fire. Long handling, however, had given the gun-butt a bright dark
polish which reflected the faint glow, and Leadville's hand had gone out
instinctively. Crossing the kitchen to the wall-cupboard on the right
of the slab range he took out the ammunition of which he stood in need.
Some empty bottles, not over-clean, stood on the top shelf, bottles
which were to hold the fresh supply of seal-oil, a medicine for stock
with which he did a trade among the farmers of the neighbouring valleys.
Already Treherne Gaskis had sent once to ask for a pint. As Byron
slipped the pouch into his pocket, a sound broke the stillness which lay
like dust over the rooms.
"When the wind is off the hill
Flows the water to the mill..."
sang a voice in the linhay and, though West-country birds sing sweetly,
they cannot compare for music with West-country maidens. This voice,
though without much volume, had a tender, joyous note as of one singing
out of a full heart and Leadville hardly recognized it as Gray's. A
narrow gleam of candle-light, edged the dark oblong of the door and,
from beyond, came the brisk slap-smack of a beater upon newly made
butter.
As the man stood to listen, a look, human, eager, almost happy, broke
like a shining over his swarthy face. The seal-hunt was forgotten, for
the voice singing of the rain had a thrill in it, the thrill of a
love-call and the man's wild heart was assured the call was for him.
For a moment, the habit of years reasserting itself, he glanced at the
door on the other side of the kitchen. At the end of the long dark
passage his wife still lay abed, or so he hoped. The swift glance had
been unintentional, the drag of a chain from which he was about to free
himself. He threw back his head, the brooding night of his deep-set eyes
quickened by emotion and, laying the gun on the table among the
breakfast crocks, pushed farther open the door of the linhay.
This room, at once the scullery, larder and dairy of the house, was high
and narrow, with a sloping roof. A pump stood by the outer door, and
the place was lighted from above; but, as the dawn had not broken, Gray
was butter-making by the light of a candle. The living jewel of flame
illumined faintly the high and shadowy place, was reflected from the
tiny surfaces of the wet butter and, outlining Gray's figure of a young
and happy maid, shone on her absorbed face. The butter had "come"
quickly. She struck it with the heavy beater until the milk ran
soundingly into the pail below and, as she worked, she sang in that
voice of infinite allure,
"When the wind is off the land
It brings the weed on to the sand."
For some time Leadville, aware that his self-control was limited, had
been trying to get Gray to himself. Like a wisp of blossomy tamarisk
swaying in the bright upper air, however, she remained tantalizingly out
of reach. He spent himself in the attempt to lay hands on her, to force
her to hear his suit; but Sabina's presence was for ever being thrust
between him and his objective, until between fury with his wife and
baulked desire, the man was in a dangerous mood. His highly strung
temperament prevented his being able to seize opportunity by the
forelock; but so often had he met with disappointment, grasping shadows
in place of a woman that, when he realized Gray was alone and ignorant
of his proximity, he obeyed for once a natural prompting. Stepping
quickly across the linhay, he threw his arms round the busy girl and
sought her lips.
To his almost incredulous joy, Gray did not offer any resistance. He
had come up behind, had taken her strongly in his arms and the soft
young body yielded as if his coming had been in answer to her own
unexpressed desire. Though the month was December, spring was in the
air and with an unmistakable murmur of content, Gray abandoned herself.
He bent to hers a transfigured face and then, but not till then, did she
realize she was in Leadville Byron's arms.
Her body stiffened suddenly and, uttering a cry of horror, she began to
struggle. "You!" she cried and made a frantic effort to escape. So
surprised was he by this change of front that, with his mood in the
balance between love and rage, he let her go.
"My little umuntz," he cried, "don't 'ee play with me." A moment before
she had yielded herself, her voice had been liquid with invitation, he
had heard in it the mating note. Now she stared at him from a safe
distance with a spark in her soft eye.
"If you don't leave me alone," she said angrily, "I shall go home and
never put foot inside this door no more, whiles you're here."
Byron stood with his head bent. He too was angry. He felt defrauded.
Only a moment since she had lain in his embrace, thrilled by his touch,
a warm and palpitating woman. Now she spoke as if her heart were
virgin.
"Don't 'ee play with me," he said again. "I couldn't bear it, I've 'ad
as much as I can stand. 'Ee knaw I love 'ee."
"I--I don't--I don't want to."
"Don't want to? Don't want to know that night after night I can't sleep
for thinking of 'ee?" He struck his chest with a strong blunt-fingered
hand. "Here's your place, love, and my arm'll ache till I 'old 'ee
again."
Hot colour dyed her face. To think that she should have lain in his
arms! On that day, too, of all the days in the year, of all the days in
a lifetime! "'Tis all a mistake."
"The day'll come when you'll worship the ground I tread on."
"No--never."
"I'll make 'ee love me. I loved 'ee from the first day you come 'ere.
I've never wanted nobody but you and I've wanted 'ee ever since I did
see your 'andsome face about Wastralls and heard you singin', 'appy as a
greybird. Wastralls an' you, they go together in my mind. I love 'ee,
Gray, and you know what that means to a man like me, what cares for
nobody and nothing. I'm eaten up with the love of you. I'd do anything
to get 'ee. I must 'av 'ee and I will 'av 'ee." He came a step nearer,
but she drew back.
"Leave me alone, leave me alone."
"Leave 'ee alone? I want to be kissin' of 'ee all the day."
The girl was trembling. She leant one arm upon the stone slab behind
her, and the shock of its coldness was a steadying influence. "I bain't
gwine let you kiss me. I'd rather slap yer face for yer. What d'yer
think then?"