The noise of dishes being piled together on the breakfast table caught
Byron's attention. He glanced at Gray and the sight of youth, with a
blush on the hot cheek, a suggestion of tears on the long lashes, was to
him as the opening of a door. He came out of his preoccupation and the
knocking either died away or was forgotten. Forgotten, too, were his
rage and disappointment.
"What's she doin' out o' bed so early for?"
"I'm going into Stowe with the butter and there's a lot to do."
"'Oo yer gwine with?" asked Byron, instantly on the alert.
"With Jim."
"You needn't go." He was reluctant to have her out of his reach, even
for a morning. He wanted her at home under his eye. He was going to
renew his pleading as soon as the moment was auspicious. "Rosevear can
take that in."
"I want to go to-day."
His mind examined the statement with that ever-ready fear of the lover
who is uncertain of his standing. "What you want to go for?"
"Shopping!" said she and, with a smile that was faintly malicious,
enumerated the items, groceries, liniment for her aunt, pitchers, cloam
pans.
"Shopping?" But what he saw was that five-mile drive over Big Hill into
Stowe. He saw her beside Jim, driving away from Wastralls, from him.
"I'll drive 'ee in!"
Gray's heart sank and she remained silent.
"Would 'ee like me to?"
If she said 'No,' he would be all the more eager. "Once I'm in Stowe I
shall be that busy you wouldn't see anything of me."
He laughed. "I'd take care of that. All right then, 'tis I as'll drive
'ee into Stowe and not the lad. I'll not trust Rosevear to drive 'ee,
I'll do it myself." He looked back at her from the door, his dark face
alight. "My God, if I caught 'ee with one of they, I'd--I'd break his
neck."
The door banged to behind him, and Gray putting down the printer laid
her head on her arms. If Aunt Sabina should not be able to prevent him!
But Aunt Sabina was a tower of strength.
*CHAPTER VIII*
In order that Gray might start for the market in good time, Mrs. Byron
had swung herself out of bed that morning as soon as she had swallowed
her simple breakfast of tea and buttered split. But though she had
brush, comb, garments, in fact all toilet necessaries at hand, and could
therefore dress expeditiously, she found when she reached the kitchen
that day was breaking. A red sun, having topped the south-easterly
slopes of Brown Willy and Rowtor, was smiling in at the many-paned
window and winning an answering brightness from surfaces of steel, of
yellow glaze and of glass. Mrs. Byron's eye as she pushed the trolly
into the room took in the homely details. To the right of the range
yawned a cloam oven and, before long, Jim Rosevear would be bringing
faggots of tamarisk wood with which to fill it. Before the fire in a
deep pan the dough was 'plumping' under a linen cloth, and nothing makes
a house so homely as dough on a low chair 'plumping' in kitchen warmth
and stillness. As she gathered the breakfast crocks together,
preparatory to cleansing them, she smiled to herself well-pleased. Her
plans were working smoothly and although the past year had been one of
change and discomfort, she could believe that the disturbance, like
yeast in flour, would bring good results. Mrs. Byron's movements were
still quick and deft. She set the remains of the fry aside, poured hot
water into the wooden tub for washing up and stood the knives, blade
down, in a pot. The trolly, being of cane and shivered wood, ran
lightly over the blue flags; but as she turned from putting the refilled
kettle on the fire she heard voices in the linhay, the deep bass murmur
that was her husband's and a clearer sound, the voice of some one young
and troubled, of some one angered, but also afraid.
The smile died off Mrs. Byron's lips and for some minutes she stared
unseeingly at the steaming water in the round wooden bowl. So he was at
his tricks, the old villain! She had taken the matter lightly as a
vagary, a passing fancy: but as the sound of his voice fell upon her
ears she experienced a doubt, the first real doubt that she had known.
In these tones there was a passion wholly new to her. It shook the
wife's heart with fear, the fear of ultimate irremediable loss; with
such fear, that for the moment she went sick and faint and leaned
perilously forward in the cone of her trolly.
In the linhay, the voices dropped into silence and, when they began
again, they were pitched in a more commonplace key. Sabina, sitting by
the table, stunned by a late realization of what had happened, heard a
well-known step, a pause and the utterance in quick, fierce tones, of
some threatening phrase. Upon that, Leadville came quickly into the
kitchen.
"S'bina," he said and she noticed with a fresh pang that his face wore a
warm and eager look, a look of happy anticipation, "I want the money for
they veares."
The year's pigs had been made into hams and bacon and Mrs. Byron,
discussing the matter with old George, had decided not to buy young
animals--veares or slips--until the New Year. She could not understand
why Leadville should want to restock the empty sties. What was it to do
with him?
"Pigs," she said non-committally, "'ull be cheaper after Christmas."
"They won't go down again."
"I know they will. You can get good-sized slips after Christmas for
less money than you'll give for veares now."
He thrust his hands into empty pockets and tried to think of another way
in which he could procure money. How could he take Gray into Stowe if he
had none? He wanted to give her pretty things, to spend on her, to
impress her: but he could not ask the one woman for money to throw away
on the other. "Ah," said he, "but I can go to-day and get them and
after Christmas I shan't be able to."
Only then did Mrs. Byron remember the errand upon which Gray was bound,
the errand which was taking her into Stowe. She smiled and a tinge of
malice crept into her thoughts.
"It bain't often as you're so keen to do things for us," she said, "and
I didn't know as you'd time to spare."
"Iss, I can spend the day in buyin' they veares for 'ee and welcome."
"There's things as I want more'n veares. Wi' the wind off the land
there'll be a pretty lot of oreweed in the bay. You might give a hand
to that."
"I been down and there 'edn't a bit in."
She knew that he had not been farther than the yard that morning. "I
don't say 'no' to a fair offer," she said, her upper lip lifting a
little over the still white and regular teeth. "They turmits want
bringin' in from the Willows Field, else the rabbits will eat'n all."
"I 'eard Biddick say as 'e was goin' after'm to-day." He had a habit of
shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as he stood, and it gave
him an appearance of restlessness, as if at any moment he might start
off on some errand. "I don't want to bother with oreweed or turmits.
I'm going into Stowe and I thought you might like for me to get the
pigs. Come, leave me 'av some money."
"I don't want they veares." She rested her strong hands on the sides of
the cone and looked at him with understanding. He must be made to
realize that this was folly and that it must come to an end. "An' you
don't want to buy them. All you want is to go with Gray."
Leadville, as always when his subterfuges were detected, fell back on
the truth.
"Well?" he said. "An' s'posin' if I did?"
Sabina was startled. Had matters gone so far that he no longer had the
decency to deny his feelings? "Isolda's goin' wi' Gray," she said, with
a shrug of her plump shoulders.
"Isolda?" he said and his disappointment, bubbling up from the depths,
showed as anger. Among them they took good care of Gray; but if they
thought their scheming and underhauling would prevent his reaching her,
he would very soon show them they were mistaken. "Fine thing you," he
cried wrathfully, "to be jealous over a feller."
Mrs. Byron had grown stouter since her long illness. She filled the
wicker cone to overflowing, a big rosy woman with abundance of white
hair above a face the strength of which time had made plain. Her
husband's thrust was shrewd, so shrewd that she gave way before it.
"You'm wishin' me daid, I s'pose?" she said bitterly and waited to hear
him deny the accusation.
Leadville shifted from one foot to the other but did not speak. People
say terrible things when they are angry, but silence can be more
terrible than speech.
"I shen't die any quicker," cried poor Mrs. Byron, "for you wishin' of
it."
For months the man had concealed his feelings behind down-dropped lids
and avoidance; but now the repugnance with which she filled him rose to
his eyes, eyes no longer moody and dull, but suddenly, revealingly,
alive. Hitherto the secrecy which was natural to him had seemed the only
possible plan; now, driven by jealousy, by anger, by a mounting hatred,
he suddenly discarded it. Raising his lids he stared at Sabina for some
seconds and his soul showed her its loathing and threatened her and
condemned her; and--like a rabbit held by lanthorn light--she stared
back.
The truth was riding nakedly through the street of life. It spoke with
a clear note of warning and Sabina--for a moment--both saw and heard.
*CHAPTER IX*
"You'm lookin' whisht this mornin', missis, what's the matter with 'ee?"
Jim Rosevear had brought two faggots of tamarisk wood for the cloam
oven. His shy glance, taking in every corner of the now brightening
kitchen, had assured him that Gray was not present; and, putting that
main preoccupation momentarily aside, he had leisure to note that Mrs.
Byron's face was haggard, that she looked older, more worn, than he had
thought. It followed that she must be ill and for illness he had always
a solicitous word.
After that revealing look Leadville had walked quietly past his wife out
of the house. His dark thoughts, his secret hopes had risen to the
surface. He had held them in for months but, in the end, they had
escaped from him in a glance.
His footsteps died away on the hard mud of the yard, the warm silence
fell again over the kitchen and, in the midst of it, a modern Lot's
wife, Mrs. Byron sat strangely still. The steam died off the surface of
the water, the sun crept a little farther into the room and the untidy
pile of breakfast crocks gave back a glint here and a dazzle there.
Mrs. Byron was undeniably shaken. Her poor hands were trembling and now
and again a quiver passed over the rubicund cheeks. It was as if the
woman would have wept, as if only a summer rain could have dissolved the
ice at her heart, but as if the source of tears had for too long been
dry.
At the sound of the yard-man's voice she raised eyes which, though
tearless, were dim. Jim seemed a long way off but kind and human. She
was old enough to be his mother and, like a mother who has secret
sorrows, she answered him.
"I'm down in the dumps to-day, terr'bly. 'Aven't got any 'eart for
nothing."
"Can I do anything for 'ee, missis?"
Being the eldest of a 'long tail,' he was used to doing odd jobs for a
woman; and, at Treketh, his mother, dependent now on the unsatisfactory
help of younger boys, sent him daily a regretful thought. Jim had been
so handy, so good-natured.
Rousing herself, Mrs. Byron looked about. "You might light up the fire
in the cloam oven for me, Jim, there's a good sawl."
Breaking a faggot apart he filled the oven with bushes and set a light
to them. The smoke curled up the black chimney and little flames ran
along the brittle wood. When the earthenware sides were sparkling hot
the oven would be ready for the tins of bread, the cakes and pasties
which were to feed the household during the ensuing week.
"Anything else I can do for 'ee while oven's hettin'?"
Mrs. Byron's eyes were the brave frozen blue of the seafarer and
wistfulness was not possible to them, nevertheless Jim was conscious of
that quality in their gaze. The son of a cross-grained father, words
were not needed to tell him that the Byrons had had a difference. He
moved deftly about, emptying the cool water and replacing it with hot,
setting out the array of loaf tins and filling a scuttle. He was glad
to be of use. It made him think of happy evenings with his mother, made
him wonder which of the elder boys, Sidney or Charley, was carrying coal
and water for her and what hand they made of it.
"Anything else, missis?"
She had watched him unseeingly, but with a growing sense of comfort.
"I'm in better 'eart now you've helped me so." She would have this
young man at hand to help her in all her future difficulties and the
thought was reassuring. "'Tis near time for 'ee to be goin' into Stowe.
Gray's all but ready."
As if she had been called, the girl opened the door of the linhay. At
sight of Jim, a sight by no means unexpected, her pale-tinted face
bloomed like an opening rose.
"Good mornin', Jim. You're late." If only he had come one little
half-hour sooner!
He was looking spruce in clean shirt and new tie, a fresh smooth-skinned
youngster. "Well, my dear," he said awkwardly, "I 'ad a lot to do this
mornin' before I could come away."
"Jim 'ad to put 'is best bib and tucker on," said Mrs. Byron. Her
interest in these opening lives helped her to push her anxieties into
the background. Never one to nurse a grief, she smiled at the boy and
girl, glad to be looking at a morning face.
"I'd thought," said Gray, and in her voice was a regret he could not
fathom, "you'd be earlier, so as to take the chickens and eggs."
"Well, to tell 'ee the truth," the young man threw himself on her mercy,
"I went down in the orchard to see if I could find a few vi'lets for
yer. I want yer to look vitty to-day." He stepped back into the porch,
returning with a little posy. In the West, flowers bloom the year
round, and these were scented violets.
"Oh, Jim," said the girl, taking them--and could say no more. The
violets were a charming thought; but if he had only known what hung on
his keeping to the arrangement he had made with her the previous day, to
come to the linhay after breakfast!
"Your uncle wants to go in with yer," said Mrs. Byron, making an effort
to speak of the matter with her customary cheerfulness, "but I bain't
goin' to let'n go." She was rewarded by a grateful glance from Gray, a
glance which laid for all time the incipient doubts of a natural
jealousy. "Now Jim, by the time you've tackled up Lady, Gray'll be
ready. My dear," she turned to the girl, standing dreamily by the
table, the violets in her hand, "'av you finished the butter?"
In the warm air of the kitchen the flowers were giving forth their
scent. "Yes, and packed it," said Gray, raising the posy to her face.
It had been dearly bought.
"Couldn't find your dress anywhere this mornin'. What 'av 'ee done with
it?"
"Aunt Louisa carried it to ma's, and ma said I'd better come up there
and dress."
Mrs. Byron looked disappointed. "P'raps 'tis best," she said, common
sense triumphing as was usual with her, over the longing for a little
personal gratification, "still I should like to 'av seen the costume."
"Well, I'll wear it down to-morrow for you to see."
"Iss, my dear, do."
The girl looked affectionately at the older woman, conscious for a
moment of her disabilities and her still young heart. "I wish you could
come, auntie."
"You don't wish it more'n I do." She shook her head, but in her eyes
the old smile was relit. She had resigned herself and with her, when a
decision was reached, the natural thing was to turn from it to the next
item on the programme of life. "Now, my dear, you must make haste and
clear off," she said, beginning to roll up the sleeves of her blue
cotton gown. The day promised to be busy and it was high time the young
people were on their way. She did not even wait until Gray was out of
the room before reaching down for the 'springing' dough. The oven was
nearly ready, but she was all behindhand. That would never do.
The atmosphere which Mrs. Byron diffused was so practical, so reassuring
that it had soothed her young cousin's natural distress. As the girl
walked quickly away to the room they shared, though she could not
altogether forget the scene with Leadville, she remembered that she was
about to escape from his importunities; and, though an occasional
shudder still shook her, she encouraged herself to think of other,
happier things and in particular of the errand upon which she and Jim
were bound. Gray was bidding good-bye to Wastralls, at least for a
time; and the green box she had brought with her had been packed ready
for him to fetch away. For immediate necessities however she was taking
with her a brown leathern bag, which had been given her by her aunt and
which bore the initials G.R., initials Gray was never to change.
In an otherwise empty drawer lay a little pile of garments of superfine
quality and workmanship; and for these, after cleansing herself from the
stains of butter-making and household work, the girl exchanged her
everyday clothes. Jim had made her a moleskin cap and necklet and in
the latter, she pinned the little bunch of violets.
"It don't seem hardly possible!" she said dreamily, on her return to the
kitchen, where Mrs. Byron was kneading the dough.
Memory carried the older woman back to a like day in her own life.
"Well, my dear," she said, from the other side of Time's river, "you'll
know all about'n by to-morrow." She contemplated the blushing girl for
a moment then turned to practical matters. "Did you think about
bringin' out the list for groceries?"
"Never thought nothing about it." She ran off, returning with a
blue-lined page, torn from a penny account book.
"Whatever you do, don't 'ee forget yer uncle's pipe."
No man shall instruct deaf ears or open the eyes of the blind. Already
Sabina's optimism was reasserting itself. She had exaggerated the
import of her husband's look. Leadville, poor chap, had been
disappointed and had shown it. No need for her to make 'the worst of a
bad bargain.'
Christmas is a time of good-will and Christmas was coming. She had
noticed he was in need of a new pipe and who knew whether such an
offering might not prove a milestone on the difficult road to
reconciliation?
"No, I won't forget," said Gray, who saw the commission as yet another
instance of nobility exercised towards the entirely undeserving. She
kissed her aunt warmly. "You are a darlin'," she said. "I feel awful
to leave you to do all this work," she glanced from the dough to the
bread-tins, "I can't bear going."
"Well, my dear," Sabina felt the pleasantness of this young and partisan
affection, "'tis only for a little while. Richbell will do so well as
she can."
"Richbell'll never think to make your cocoa of a night or to get your
hot-bottle and make you comfortable."
"Please God, I'll 'av you back again soon. Now you go on and be 'appy
and don't you think about me. I shall be all right. There--" she
glanced through the diamond panes of the window, "the mare's being
tackled up, make haste."
A slight frost had hardened the mud of the yard and above St. Cadic Mill
the December sun had risen into a sky of little far-off clouds. Between
the shafts of the wagon stood Lady, the young mare, glad to exchange the
warm dark stable for the adventure of the public road. Jim Rosevear, in
well-brushed clothes and with a tie that matched the blue of his eyes,
was fastening the last buckle as Gray came out, with a basket of eggs
and butter in one hand and her bag in the other. A larger basket,
containing poultry, was already in place and, beside it, lay a piece of
broken mechanism which was to be left at the smithy. As the girlish
figure stepped out of the dark house Leadville, who, with frowning brow,
had been watching the preparations, came forward. Gray had a momentary
qualm; but saw with relief that he had not made any change in his dress.
In old clothes and without a collar even Leadville, though he set many
conventions at defiance, would not think of going to Stowe.
"Hullo!" said he, "what be yer gwine do wi' that bag?"
"I'm going to stay home to-night."
"'Ome? This is yer 'ome 'ere."
"Well, I'm going to stay to mammy's for a change," she spoke lightly,
willing to placate him and hasten her escape.
"I think you ought to 'av ask me if you can stay 'ome or no." He had
stepped between her and the wagon; and his eyes had the smouldering
light which she had learnt to dread.
With her heart fluttering, she controlled her voice to a pleasant,
"Well, what is there to hinder me?"
Her docility appeased him. After all she was only going to the butter
market.
"Well, can I? Can I stay to mammy's?" asked the singing voice with its
rising inflexion on the last word.
"I s'pose you can," he said reluctantly. "You can go if you'm a good
maid and bring me back something."
"I'll bring you back something that'll surprise you," promised Gray, her
eyes soft and smiling, but an edge of malice under her tongue.
He towered over her, ardent and dominating. "There's only one thing I
want and that you know."
She knew and was both angered and afraid. In vain she tried to think of
Leadville as wicked, for her he was worse than that, he was terrifying.
She did not know what he might do, whether there was any limit.
Jim having finished harnessing the mare, came up on the other side of
the wagon. Gray, glancing aside from her tormentor, saw his courageous
eyes and took heart of grace. She had a protector and this was the last
time, the very last, that she would be at Leadville's mercy.
"Come now, Uncle Leadville," she said and her young voice, carrying
across the wagon, dissipated an incipient jealousy, "I want to be gone."
He drew back as if he had received a blow and, in a moment, the girl was
climbing nimbly to her place on a bag of chaff which Jim had placed
ready. As she turned, a little anxious as to the effect of her words,
but glad on any terms to have got away, she was met by a black scowl of
wrath. "Mind I never 'ear yer call me that again."
With a graceful swing, Jim sprang on to the rail of the wagon and the
mare, fresh from her oats, began to move. Gray, secure at last, looked
down on Byron with an air of innocent inquiry and the lad beside her
smiled. For some time he had had a suspicion that the other was more
attentive to her than became a married man; and this suspicion had
stimulated a wooing which might otherwise have seemed too tame.
As the wagon wheels turned, Leadville perforce gave way, but
unwillingly, for in his heart was suspicion, a fear of all men, a
shaking terror lest one should have been before him. The memory of her
supple yielding form yet thrilled him with its promise. For a moment
she had abandoned herself and though she had drawn away at once the
yielding had betrayed her. Gray was no longer a chrysalis of cool dim
life and unfolded wings. Emotion was quick in her, she was ready for
full experiences, the blue sun-warmed air and the flight. Instinct,
teaching Leadville she was no unawakened maid, was brought up short by
the word she had flung at him. Uncle? What did it mean? Had some
younger man dared to approach her? Had she listened, listened because
he was the first and young love is sweet? Was there some light fancy
that must be extinguished before she could be wholly his? Surely not.
Surely she had meant to mark the gulf between herself and Sabina's
husband, to point out to him that he was married. The theory explained
her momentary yielding, her quick withdrawal, her words. He smiled to
himself. If Gray imagined that, because long ago he had gone through a
form of words with another woman, they were to bind him now that for the
first time in his life he loved with passion, she should learn that she
was mistaken. As soon as she returned to Wastralls, he would show her
in what estimation he held the worn unwelcome bond.
From the low window of the kitchen Mrs. Byron had watched the scene.
Jim's handsome head had been bent over the mare's shiny coat as he
thrust the tongues of the buckles through the brass. He moved easily
and well, for life had not yet taken advantage of his strength and she
saw him as a proper lad. When Gray came out, Mrs. Byron felt a motherly
pride in the little rounded figure, the soft fair face between the furs
of cap and necklet. "An' she've pinned they vi'lets on, trust her for
that."
Leadville's appearance cast a shadow on the scene. In the bright winter
sunshine he loomed up, a threatening unhappy figure, the incarnation of
a desire which might not be gratified. The light fell on his uncovered
head with its thick black hair, on his muscular figure, growing heavy
with years but still a wonder for its strength, on his eager face.
Sabina, in a reaction from the blow she had received, felt that the time
was come for her to assert herself. Anxious not to drive him farther
away she had played a gentle self-obliterating part and she felt that in
doing so she had made a mistake. She would grasp her nettle more
firmly, let him know that Gray was bespoken. Conscious, as she went, of
envy, she began to push herself towards the porch. What a thing it was
to have an old body, a body that had 'gone abroad' and a young heart!
Jim and Leadville hung about Gray with the same hope. Sabina, for all
her vitality and strength, had no longer anything to give. She was old
and done, while Gray, to them and every man, was incarnate promise.
The wagon was turning out of the gate as Mrs. Byron reached her
husband's side and the off-wheel rose over a stone. The body of the
cart swayed and lurched and Gray, with a little cry, caught at Jim
Rosevear's arm.