"There always seems some one in the passage," she said whimsically,
"some one who wants to talk and can only say what we do say."
Richbell tried the echo. "Mammy!" she said and "Mammy" was whispered
back to her.
Mrs. Tom hung her cloak behind the door and turned upon the world a
business face. "Here's the matches," she said, taking them from the
mantelshelf, "and you'll find a candle in the linhay there. Now light
up the fire quick and make a cup of tea and I'll run in and see if yer
auntie's awake."
Exaggerating the companionable sound of her steps, she went down the
passage. So dark was it that she guided herself with a hand to the
wall, finding thus the stairs, the turning that led into the other part
of the house and, eventually, the door of the justice-room. At this she
knocked.
Receiving no answer she hesitated for a moment and then knocked again.
"She's sleepin' well this mornin'," she told herself. "I believe she
was fair beat yesterday with all that bread-makin' and Leadville so
teasy; funny, though, 'at I can't make 'er 'ear."
She rattled cheerfully at the handle and, under her preoccupation with
Sabina, was the feeling that Hember chambers were full of light and
sound and that presently she would return to them. Never had she felt
so strongly the brooding oppression of the old house.
"S'bina! S'bina!" she called and pushed open the door. "Pretty time o'
day this to be in sleepin'," and her voice, dauntingly loud, filled the
room. For a moment she stood to listen. Another voice should have
answered her, should have come to her, reassuringly, out of the gloom.
"How be gettin' on, S'bina?" she faltered. From down the passage came
sounds of human nearness: Richbell was moving about in the kitchen and
the fact that the girl depended on her for direction stiffened the
other's courage. Pulling herself together she crossed the threshold.
Once in the room, however, and she was momentarily at a loss. As day
still lingered below the eastern hills, to pull the dimity curtains
apart would not further matters. Her hand went to the pocket of her
white apron and, in a loud, would-be-cheerful tone, she went on talking
the while she struck a match. "You always seem to be able to sleep
towards the mornin', don't 'ee? Iss, and we've overslept ourself this
mornin'; well, we couldn't expect any other after yesterday. 'Twas a
lot to think about if not much to do. I've brought Richbell down this
morning. She didn't care to come by 'erself so I told 'er I'd come with
'er; and, while she was makin' your cup of tea, I thought I'd come and
'av a little chat and tell yer 'ow we got on last night."
She had been in the justice-room many a time, had sat gossiping with
Sabina while she rested, had listened to her complaints of the ache in
those legs which were no longer there; but, in spite of the familiarity
of the place, as she reached for the candle, her chatter ceased for very
fear. If only the wick would catch, but it was tallow, thick and slow to
ignite. Before the flame was more than a blue glimmer she was holding
it up and peering below it at the bed, gazing with a premonition of what
she would find. As she said afterwards, "I thought what I should see."
Nevertheless, though instinct had warned her, she was unprepared. "Oh,
my dear sawl she's gone!" she cried and, with confirmation, her fear
passed.
"S'bina! S'bina!" she cried, the tears starting. "Speak to me! It
can't be true!" Laying her hand upon the brow she felt the unmistakable
chill of death. "'Owever on earth did it 'appen?"
The sounds of Mrs. Tom's grief reached Richbell as she put a match to
the heap of tamarisk twigs with which she had filled the grate. She sat
back on her heels in amazed suspense. What ailed her mother? To hear
her give way openly to emotion was unknown to her sixteen years.
Trembling she ran out down the passage.
"Whatever is the matter with you, mammy?"
Mrs. Tom was clinging to the green post at the foot of the stairs.
Leaning her face on its square top she was weeping for her friend. Next
to husband and children Sabina had been dearest. The bond had seemed
unbreakable, a thing to trust in, until for her, too, the evening should
darken into night.
"Oh, my dear, your poor auntie's gone."
The girl's eyes, which had been merely questioning, filled with terror.
To discover that in the midst of life we are in death, shakes the
confidence of youth. With a little cry she crept into her mother's arms
and her tears, the easy tears of girlhood, ran over her round checks and
mingled with those of the older woman.
The needs of the occasion were grim and, after the first burst of grief,
Mrs. Tom pulled herself together and, wiping her eyes on her apron, sent
a call up the wide stair, a call, which echoing through the empty
chambers and down the passages found Byron in his heavy sleep, a call
which brought him back to consciousness.
"Leadville! Leadville!"
Who was crying in that lamentable voice? He sat up, rubbing the sleep
out of inflamed eyes. Who was calling to him so dolefully out of the
darkness of the lower rooms? Not Sabina?
"What is it? I'm comin'," he answered in his rough bass but he did not
move. The shadow of grief, rising from below had fallen on him and he
was reluctant. Out of the torpor of exhaustion he had brought a bemused
mind; and, though disaster threatened, he was not yet aware of the form
which it must take. Sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at his
knees, it dawned on him that he was still in his workaday clothes. This
surprised him and further stamped the morning as unusual.
"Leadville! Leadville!" cried the voice and he found its unhappiness
irritating. "Are 'ee dead up there, too?"
"Dead? No. Can't 'ee wait a minute, man must dress."
He had slept on the outside of the bed and, though the yielding feathers
marked where he had lain, the clothes were undisturbed. He knew, though
without as yet understanding why, that he must be careful. Everything
must be as usual. Hastily pulling the clothes from the bed he threw the
room into disorder.
He had taken off his boots and his feet in their grey woollen wear fell
noiselessly on the drugget. Upon the group at the foot of the stairs he
came unexpectedly and, so coming, waited for a moment in fear and
trembling. Mrs. Tom, lifting her voice to send yet another summons
echoing aloft, presently caught sight of him. In the justice-room a dim
light showed. She did not speak but pointed over her shoulder.
"Well," he quavered, aware of the dim light, "whatever's all this fuss
about?"
"I dunno' ow to tell yer," returned Mrs. Tom. "'Tis awful thing. Poor
S'bina's gone."
"Gone?" His voice rang out full of incredulity and, pushing past, he
walked quickly into the bedroom. "What d'yer mean?"
The man's concern, if not his surprise, was genuine. Sabina's death
assured, he could think of her as a tried and loyal comrade, dwell on
her many virtues, mourn her as, whatever her shortcomings, she had
deserved. Memories, kind and gay and casual, crowded into his mind.
Though he might be glad that she was gone, he would miss her. Mrs. Tom,
jealous for her friend and, with the accumulated knowledge of years to
breed suspicion, weighed his words and considered his manner. Bitterly
would she resent any failure on his part to render unto Sabina the
conventional marks of grief. But Leadville did more. He showed real
feeling, a sorrow that was unmistakably sincere.
She followed him into the dead woman's presence and together they went
up to the bed. As the man, stooping towards Sabina, gathered the
meaning of her immobility, of her sculptured calm, his voice rang out in
a cry of grief and longing, a cry which lightened Mrs. Tom's heart of
its suspicion.
"S'bina! Oh, my dear, speak to me. Whatever shall I do, whatever shall
I do without yer?" He turned with an appeal to the other's womanly
knowledge. "Be yer sure she's gone? Titch 'er 'ands and see whether
they'm cold or not."
Mrs. Tom laid her hand on fingers already growing rigid. "Iss, my dear,
she's gone right enough, I'm afraid."
He covered his face, breaking suddenly into gulping and ugly grief. The
last doubt that had harboured in Mrs. Tom's mind blew out to sea. After
all, Leadville 'wasn't a bad feller, 'e 'ad 'is feelin's!'
"Terrible job to be took away like this," he gasped after a few minutes,
"and she all by 'erself too."
"Aw, poor sawl, iss," agreed Mrs. Tom, "but she's lookin' 'appy and
peaceful. I believe she must 'ave died in 'er sleep and didn't know
nothin' about it."
Leadville looked at her anxiously and his heart was in the question:
"You don't think she suffered any pain, do you?"
"Why, look at 'er. You can see she didn't. If she 'ad suffered 'er
face 'ud 'av been quite drawn. But there she is, lookin' so peaceful as
a lamb." Her tears flowed again. "We shall all miss her. She was a
good sawl."
"I dunno whatever I shall do without 'er."
"My dear life, 'tis nothing but right you should feel it so."
"Well, nobody knew what a good wife she's been to me. I 'adn't 'ad a
penny to bless myself when she married me, but since then I 'aven't
wanted for nothing. Never an angry word between us."
"Poor sawl, too."
"'Twas 'ard on the missis losin' 'er laigs but after that she never
complained. She made the best of everything."
From the world beyond the justice-room, the world of living people and
the everyday, came sounds of movement. Richbell, left in the passage,
had returned to the kitchen and, once there, had mechanically resumed
her work. Come life, come death, breakfast must be prepared.
"Come out now," said Mrs. Tom, the odour of 'fry' being wafted to her
nostrils, "and 'av a bit of breakfast, Leadville. I'm sure you'll be
wantin' it."
The man shook his head. "I don't feel I want any. I'd rather go out on
the cliff by myself. Tidn't like she's dead to me and I must get used
to it." He followed Mrs. Tom out of the room but his eyes were so dim
he stumbled as he went.
"Well, she's dead right enough. 'Ow it 'appened I dunno. She seemed
quite all right yesterday. She might 'av been a bit tired but what was
that? I'm afraid," she looked at him thoughtfully, "I'm afraid, as she
died suddint, we shall 'av to 'av an inquest."
Byron was on his way to the porch but at the word 'inquest' he stopped
and, though Mrs. Tom dismissed the thought indignantly, her heart had
said to her, "'E don't want no inquest."
"What do we want an inquest for, after doctor been tendin' 'er so long?"
"Did doctor say that she might die off quick like this?"
"'E was 'ere yesterday and seen 'er." Leadville was trying to remember.
"I can't call to mind 'zactly what 'e said but 'e didn't give me a word
of encouragement."
"'E knaw better than we do," said Mrs. Tom, musingly. "Did S'bina seem
poorly after I went 'ome last night?"
Leadville constrained himself to answer as if the elucidation of the
mystery were of as much moment to him as to her. "I don't think I took
much notice of 'er but she wadn't very special. After you went she got
the supper and, as soon as she'd eat it, went off to bed."
Mrs. Tom nodded with, however, an irrepressible doubt. "Wonder what made
'er go so early?"
"I dunno I'm sure." He spoke without considering whether what he
asserted was in accordance with the facts. Mrs. Tom's questions were
irritating him, they were like the buzz of flies on a hot day. "I
didn't stay up very late. In fact we was both to bed by ten."
Mrs. Tom was careful not to look at him. She and Richbell, standing at
their gate in the small hours, had seen a light in Wastralls. If the
Byrons were abed who then was up? Perhaps Sabina, feeling unwell, had
gone in search of a remedy. That was possible, of course, indeed quite
likely. Not until later did Mrs. Tom remember that the light had been
stationary. If Sabina had been seeking medicine or a hot-water bottle
she would have been carrying a candle.
"Well, there's a lot of things to be done," she said, non-committally.
"Can you tend to 'em?"
He shook his heavy shoulders, as if he would have shaken off something
unwelcome. He would like to have told her he had not slept much the
previous night but that was out of the question. "Oh well, you must
leave me go out and think it over first," he said, making for the door,
"I'll tell yer when I come back."
Death in a household, particularly sudden death, brings a rush of work.
Mrs. Tom, realizing that the brunt of this must fall on her, as the wife
of Sabina's nearest relative, was thankful to see that Richbell had made
the tea and fried some bacon. She drew her chair to the table and sat
down, sat down with the quick lamentable thought that here Sabina would
never sit again. The thought flashed up into poignancy and passed. She
must not think of it now, for there was work to be done.
"Now, my dear," she said, when they had eaten and the little
breathing-space, between the knowledge of calamity and the girding up of
loins, was at an end, "Now, my dear, you must go 'ome. 'Tis no place
for you 'ere."
"Iss, mammy." The lively self-assertive girl was become pliant to her
mother's hand.
Mrs. Tom made her dispositions. "'Tis a pity that Gray went to Gentle
Jane, but Leonora must run over and bring 'er back--better be all
together now. After you've gived the children their breakfast, Rhoda
better run up to Cottages and ask Mrs. Bate to come down and set your
auntie forth; and tell Aunt Louisa Blewett to come down and bring 'er
machine with 'er to do the mournin's. Let Loveday go to St. Cadic and
tell your Aunt Bessie to come down to 'elp us; and now I'll go and get
the room straight."
"Is there anything else you'd like for me to do?" Richbell spoke in
tones so subdued they hardly rose above a whisper.
"You can take my black things out of the box and ask your father to
bring 'em down and if there's anything else I want, when 'e comes back
'e'll tell yer."
"Aren't you coming home?" Hember without mother would be unspeakably
dreary.
The girl's tone, resigned yet unhappy, touched Mrs. Tom's heart. For a
moment practical matters were put aside. "Now you mustn't go worryin'
yerself," she said, her glance warm and motherly. "Yer auntie's 'ad a
'ard struggle, so it's a 'appy release she's gone. She's taken out of a
world of trouble."
"Well, mammy, I can't help grievin'," protested the girl, her tears
rising. "It seems so sudden."
"'Twas one good thing she died off in her sleep and didn't know nothing
about it. It's our loss but her gain."
"But mammy, I think 'tis awful to be dead. Makes me creep."
"Dead? You mustn't think she's dead. I feel she's livin'. She's up
there tellin' them everything about we down 'ere. She's 'appy and busy.
No more tears. She've 'ad 'er share."
The girl was only anxious to be comforted. "Well, if that's what's
she's doing, we didn't ought to grieve, we ought to be glad she's gone."
Her little face lost its pinched expression and she moved more briskly.
Nevertheless when, the breakfast dishes being cleared away, she was free
to go, she went as if glad to leave this house to which she had come so
unwillingly and which had at once proved itself the 'whisht' place of
her imagination.
As she went up the road she looked back once or twice and each time she
quickened her steps. The promise of dawn was brightening the east and
in the bay some big sooty-plumaged birds could be dimly discerned, their
web-feet set firmly on the very edge of the tide. A light was twinkling
in the many panes of Wastralls kitchen, tiny glimmers that, affecting
only the one spot, made the sombre outlines more darkly impressive. A
part of the haunted night, what had happened there so lately gave it to
the young girl's imagination an extra touch of gloom. With a quick
shudder she set her face towards the lights of home.
*CHAPTER XVII*
Leadville left the house with a hasty but heavy step. He had slept but
little and his fall the previous evening had jarred and bruised him.
Carrying his head even more forward than was his wont, he went along the
shaly path which led, a little circuitously, up Dark Head. At another
time he would have made the ascent without realizing he was not on level
ground but, that morning, he stubbed his feet against the grey rock and
stumbled over the cushions of sea-thrift. He was so tired, so stiff,
that he, who had the sure-footedness of the mountain sheep, slipped on
the smoother surfaces and came near to falling. When, at a turn in the
path, a lew corner presented itself, an angle of rock about a few hardy
plants, he uttered a grunt of satisfaction. Why should he go farther?
Here was a refuge from the questioning of the women, a spot where he
could rest. The cliff wall rose between him and the north and, when the
southerly sun rose, its first beams would fall on that high but
sheltered rock. He flung himself down and, as he lay on the tussocks of
colourless grass, seemed in his weather-worn clothes as much a bit of
natural waste as the oreweed drying on the rocks below.
The day was mild, one of those we owe to what we are told is not the
Gulf Stream but something which has a similar effect. In the growing
light the sea shone dimly, a pale expanse of quiet water. On the man's
harassed mind the peace of the scene had, as ever, a soothing effect.
His glance roved over the treeless country, the rare farmsteads with
each a group of grey outbuildings, the Cornish moors and the far range
of rounded hills. What he saw was dear to him as it was familiar.
Those well-known slopes, swelling softly till they reached Rowtor and
Brown Willy, sinking to the abrupt black rocks that edged the sea!
Byron seemed to himself a part of that on which he looked. Wastralls
had made ham. He was, as he had said in his youth, a clod of Wastralls
earth, dust which at the appointed time would fertilize the land to a
fresh harvest. To be of it and, at the last, to go back to it, was what
he had asked of life. He had been obsessed by one large and simple idea
and, in his extreme weariness, he returned to it, looking across the
land he loved, lifting his eyes to the good sun. He was outwearied and
he longed for warmth and comfort. The shelter of his corner promised
forgetfulness. The land lay green about him, the sea sang its
thunderous lullaby and sleep was in the soft touch of the air, the thin
warmth of the December sun. Pillowing his shaggy head upon his arm, the
man drifted from the manifold irritations, the aches and pains of life,
into that state which doth so mysteriously resemble death.
For at least two hours, Leadville, warmed through by sunbeams and the
sea-scented air, lay deeply asleep. When he stirred the red was in his
cheek and his eyes were clear. He looked about him and remembered. He
had killed Sabina and now must bear himself so that none should know or
even suspect. It would, he thought, be easy enough. She had been a
good wife to him and, as she was actually dead, he might show, without
tempting Providence, a natural grief. His walk as he went down the hill
was brisk and purposeful. To the dead their hour, a sob and a black
coat; when they were underground it would be the turn of the living.
From the future opening before him, Leadville turned his eyes. Sabina
should have her due!
Before Rhoda, full of the importance of her message, reached Cottages,
its inhabitants were agog. A little bird had carried the news of Mrs.
Byron's death and those whom it least concerned were discussing it. Mrs.
Bate, who lived in the end cottage of the hamlet, a tiny two-roomed
place, had for many years been Stripper, or, as some call the woman who
prepares the dead for their last journey, 'Nurse' to the community. As
soon as a death occurred, she was sent for and her duty it was not only
to strip the clothes from the corpse and array it in fine linen, but to
receive the many visitors and conduct them, in turn, to the
death-chamber. On the day of the funeral her position was one of some
importance. She was the undertaker's right hand. Indeed, the
responsibility for the smooth working of the arrangements rested on her
rather than on him.
When the news reached Mrs. Bate, therefore, that Mrs. Byron of Wastralls
had died during the night, she knew that she would be wanted. Though
the possessor of a handsome jolly face she was given to timid fears and,
after raking out her fire, she went across to Mrs. Blewett, the
seamstress, better known as 'Aunt Louisa,' to have one of these
resolved.
"Mrs. Rosevear sure to be there," she said anxiously, "and she could set
Mrs. Byron forth if her liked; but she wouldn't do anybody out of a job,
would she?"
'Aunt Louisa,' slim and, in spite of the wear and tear of life still
graceful, was fitting the cover to her machine. "She bin poor 'erself,"
she said encouragingly. The two old bodies had lived in the same parish
for seventy years, and as next-door neighbours, for thirty. She knew
that Fanny Bate, in spite of her large well-covered frame and square
face, found it difficult to stand alone.
"I wouldn't miss doing this," said Mrs. Bate, her old blue eyes still
anxious, "for all the golden sovereigns in Trevorrick. When Judgment
Day come, there won't be many from 'ere but what will look up and thank
me for settin' 'em forth."
"If you set 'em forth," said Aunt Louisa, remembering the many shrouds
her fingers had fashioned, "I've made the things for 'm."
"Iss, but I've nursed and tended them as well as set them forth," she
would not admit the other's claim to a share in the work of preparing
the neighbourhood for burial. "And I think of their souls, too, poor
things. 'Tis better to look after their souls than their bodies. 'Tis an
awful thing to die not being prepared to meet God. I sing hymns till
they'm happy and not afraid to die. I 'ope 'tis all right with poor
Mrs. Byron's soul," she paused, a little troubled by Sabina's eminent
unpreparedness, "but she was always a good-livin' woman and God is
merciful to the last."
Aunt Louisa turned her quiet grey eyes on the other woman and in them
was a suggestion from, which Mrs. Bate shrank in pretended ignorance.
"Must 'av died pretty and suddent!" said the seamstress.
"Well, I think she has been ailing for some time, she 'aven't been vitty
since her accident!" Louisa was so 'forth-y,' but it didn't pay to say
all you thought. She, herself, daring enough before the event, knew that
'a still tongue make a wise 'ead.'
"Mrs. Bate!" cried a voice from the road, where old Hawken, rather
staggery about the feet, was making shift to carry an armful of fodder
to his donkey. "Rhoda's comin' up the lane. I believe she want you."
"Thank you, Mr. 'Awken," said the old woman modestly, "but there's
more'n me'll be wanted at Wastralls."
"You're the Stripper, bain't you? and you'll be wanted first. Iss,
first and last."
The child, a sensible as well as pretty little girl of ten, came quickly
from the direction of the sea. She was shocked to think that kind
Auntie S'bina was dead. She was also impressed with the importance of
her errand. Seeing Mrs. Bate at Aunt Louisa's door, she ran to her
across the little green. "Mammy says, please will you come down to
Wastralls at once and will Aunt Louisa come too and bring her machine."
"I'll be prettily glad to do anything for Mrs. Byron and your mammy,"
responded the latter, a little anxiously, "but I can't carr' the
machine, my dear."
Old Hawken who had lingered, curious to hear what passed, seized the
opportunity. "If you will wait a minute," he volunteered, "I'll put the
ole dunkey in and drave 'ee down."
"Well, 'tis braaeve and kind of 'ee, Mr. 'Awken."
"Time like this, everybody must do all they can to 'elp," and, as Mrs.
Bate saw her neighbour drive off in the donkey-cart, she regretted that
laying out the dead did not necessitate the transport of large and heavy
parcels; but it was like Louisa, so it was, she got the best of
everything and always had since she was born wrong side of the blanket
and everybody allowed it was the right!
Meanwhile Mrs. Tom, her heart heavier than it had been for many a year,
had set Sabina's room in order and removed the evidences of humble use.
She took up the cocoa-jug, looked into it, then carried it away and put
it on the upper shelf in the linhay. With the certainty of knowledge,
she went to the bottom drawer of the tall-boy for the clothes in which
Mrs. Bate was to 'set her forth'--'no need to stream up anything, S'bina
'ad 'er clothes ready, stockings, night-cap and all!' As Mrs. Tom hung
them over the back of a chair, a belated tear ran down her cheek and she
glanced from their smooth white folds to the still figure on the bed. A
lifetime of friendship! She caught her breath in a sob but, because she
had so much to do, tried to check her grief. Yet when, a little later,
Tom brought the black dress for which she had asked, he found her
sitting on the floor, her head against the chair and her tears falling
unheeded on the hem of her friend's shroud.
"Why, mother, dear!" he cried with a quick rush of tenderness. "I
shouldn't take on like that. You know we've all got to die sometime."
She put out her arms to him like a forlorn and sorrowful child. "I
can't 'elp feeling of it. You know we was schoolgirls together."
"Well, well, my dear, she's gone. I'm pretty and sorry but still she's
better off. We 'av got each other still and we need to be thankful
for't."
Mrs. Tom clung to him. "I knaw. I've got a lot to be thankful for.
I've got you and the childern, but to-day I can't 'elp thinkin' about
'er. What 'appy times we've 'ad together."
"I knaw, my dear." He held her close, closer than was his wont in
prosperous times and, with her head on that middle-aged shoulder, Mrs.
Tom wept till the rush of grief was spent.
When the women whom she had summoned made their appearance, however,
though red-eyed, she had herself in hand. She and Mrs. Con Rosevear
being the nearest relatives, the family, only too well aware of the
latter's slatternly ways, would look to Mrs. Tom for direction. And she
was ready for them. Experience had instructed her in the routine to be
followed and, before long, Mrs. Bate with a bowl of hot water, with
flannel, soap and scissors, had shut herself into the justice-room: Mrs.
Con with the bustling help of a sister-in-law, Mrs. William Brenton of
Cumean, was turning out the big parlour; and Aunt Louisa, like an
embodied shadow, was slipping from room to room in search of mourning
apparel. Mrs. Byron had stores of black material, in the piece and made
up, and to the old woman was deputed the congenial work of looking for
it. Her sewing machine had been given pride of place on the side-table
in the kitchen and, already, the other was growing dark with the first
results of her search, with crape, black ribbon, cottons, buttons, etc.,
a heterogeneous assortment. When Leadville returned from Dark Head, the
work of preparation was so far forward, that the women, calling a halt,
had gathered for a mid-morning cup of tea.
When life has passed the adventurous stage--if it ever does--it turns to
the doings of others for its spice; and, in that homely room, about
which were scattered so many black garments that the place looked as if
draped for some funereal occasion, the five women discussed the dead.
"'Tis very good of 'ee, Aunt Louisa, to come at once to 'elp wi' the
blacks, when I knaw you be always slagged wi' work," said Mrs. Tom, with
the usual sweet civility of the Cornishwoman.
"Well, my dear," returned Mrs. Blewett, "at a time like this anybody 'ud
do anything. I'd go on me 'ands and knees for Mrs. Byron. I've knawed
'er ever since she was a child and 'ave always done 'er sewin' for 'er.
Why, some time back, I made the clothes to set 'er forth with! But I
thought she was worth a hundred dead ones. Never thought, as I should
live to make up 'er mournin's."
"She's lookin' so natural now," said Mrs. Bate, who had brought from the
death-chamber the night-cap which had been put in readiness. The lacy
frills of it were limp with the sea-damp and Mrs. Tom had offered to
iron and goffer it. She was glad to do for her friend this last of many
kindnesses.
"Aw, poor soul, she's at rest now. Gone out of a world of trouble.
She's best off where she's to," said Aunt Louisa, in tones of
conventional grief.
"I wonder," began Mrs. William Brenton, who being in Trevorrick on a
week-end visit to her sister-in-law, had accompanied her and was
delighted to find herself in the midst of such interesting occurrences.
Living at Polscore, and that only since her marriage, for she was a
woman from up-country, she was not deeply versed in local gossip. She
endeavoured to remedy this by asking questions but, as she was not noted
for discretion, her gleanings were apt to be scanty. "I wonder if
she've left any will?"
Neither Mrs. Tom nor Mrs. Constantine looked up. The latter felt that
after Leadville's death the farm should come to one of her tall sons, to
Freathy, Ern or Tremain; while Mrs. Tom was sure that her girls, being
Mrs. Byron's favourites, had the prior claim.
"You ought to know if anybody do," said Aunt Louisa, snipping the thread
of a finished hem and turning her grey eyes on Mrs. Tom. The neat
precise old woman gave a general impression, in colourless face, smooth
scanty braids and capable hands, of greyness. She was like water
overhung by trees, a limpid stillness in which shadows moved.
"Well," said Mrs. Tom carefully, "I don't know. S'bina was very close
wi' money matters. She never let on to any one what she intend doin'."
Aunt Louisa's clear eyes moved thoughtfully from face to face. With the
exception of Mrs. Tom she was far and away the cleverest woman in
Trevorrick and she applied her wits--as do all of us, from scholar to
ale-house gossip--to gathering stores of useless information. "Never
'eard tell of any will," she said, beginning to tack the seams of a
skirt for little Rhoda, "and I never knawed of any lawyer comin' 'ere to
do anything about a will."
"What you don't knaw, my dear," said. Mrs. Bate, tactless but admiring,
"is good for sore eyes;" and in this statement she voiced so
conclusively the opinions of all present that the hopes of both Mrs. Con
and Mrs. Tom sank. If there were no will Leadville would inherit and
there was no reason he should leave it to a Rosevear. In all probability
he would marry again and rear a family. Mrs. Tom thought fleetingly of
his infatuation for Gray and what might have been.
"Goodness!" said Mrs. Brenton cheerfully. "There'll be pretty ole
capers if everything's left to Mr. Byron. 'E'll be turnin' the place
upside down. 'E'll be tellin' us all 'ow to farm. Continuous croppin'
'e call it, but my maister say 'better leave things as they be and not
make work when there's no need for it.' 'E don't believe in these
new-fangled ways."
"I think," said Mrs. Con uneasily, "'e'll teel all those new things 'e's
craikin' about and I wonder what Old Squire would say if 'is 'ead was
above the earth."
"Some do say 'is 'ead's up now." Mrs. Tom's smile was faint, a twitch
of the lips, a recognition of Mrs. Con's tremulous outlook. "I think if
Leadville was to start 'is sugar-beet and terbacker teelin' 'e 'ud 'av a
'ot time wi' Old Squire!"
"Mrs. Byron," began Aunt Louisa and stopped to re-thread her needle.
She spoke as if her mouth were full of pins. Use had made her able to
speak through a bristling _chevaux de frise_ while age made her forget
whether the pins were there or not. "Mrs. Byron is the livin' image of
Old Squire as I remember'n." She glanced at his elbow-chair, wide and
built with a cunning hand. Pushed against the wall, its red cushions
were hidden under billows of black material, but this drapery only made
its outlines the more regal. None of those who looked but thought of
the man for whom it had been made as still dimly occupying it. More
than one had a glimpse of silver hair above a masterful face and caught
the faint sound of an imperious voice. "I seed'n when 'e was in 'is
coffin," continued Louisa, recalling further a mountainous bulk. "I
warn't higher than the table when 'e died but I can remember mother
takin' me in."
"'E was a great big man, wasn't 'e?" asked Mrs. Brenton.
"A lickin' great feller!" Aunt Louisa basted as she talked and the other
women, most of them younger by a generation, listened with interest.
With the exception of Mrs. Brenton they knew why the old woman's mother
had been anxious to imprint the features of Freathy Rosevear on her
child's plastic memory. "When he was dead," continued Aunt Louisa, who
in her neatness, her precision, was as unlike her sire as any child
might be, "they couldn't get his coffin overstairs. They had to take it
up in pieces and put'n together in's bedroom. And then they couldn't
get'n out. They 'ad to take out the big winder in the end of the 'ouse
and slide'n down over the boords. I can remember as if 'twere
yesterday. 'E was so 'eavy they had the bier out from Stowe to carr'n;
for 'twas more'n the bearers could manage."
"And S'bina was like 'im," said Mrs. Con curiously. She had heard the
tale of Old Squire's funeral before but that his granddaughter resembled
him so closely was new to her.
"The spit of 'n. 'E was a great big red-faced feller with flamin' 'air
which was always stickin' up on end and 'is voice, it was like it was
going to wake the dead."
"I wonder at your mother takin' you to see 'im, an old dead man. It
don't 'ardly seem the thing, do it?" said Mrs. Brenton looking round at
the others but finding them, to her surprise, dull and unresponsive.
"She wanted for me to remember what 'e was like," said the old woman
placidly and Mrs. Bate, who had received the night-cap from Mrs. Tom and
was absent-mindedly smoothing the strings, smiled to herself a little
wistfully. She was old now, but she had been a handsome maid. If only
she had been alive when Old Squire was in his prime!
"I shouldn't think," said Mrs. Con, putting down her empty cup and
leaning both elbows comfortably on the table, "that S'bina's coffin
would cost so much, now, without laigs? Twill be all that the shorter
and 'twont be so 'cavy for the men to carry. I should think one set of
bearers 'd do."
"Surely," urged Mrs. Brenton, "they'll make it the right size? Twill
look funny to 'av a dumpy coffin."
"'Ere, Betsy, you can tack this seam," said Mrs. Tom, who, seeing no
reason for any one to be idle, was apportioning the sewing. This done
she spoke with authority. "They must make S'bina's coffin the right
length; for when 'er laigs was cut off she wouldn't 'av them throwed
away. 'When I'm buried up,' she say, 'I'll 'av me laigs with me.
Anybody can't rise up on the Last Day without laigs!'"
The others showed surprise. "Very thoughtful of 'er, I'm sure," said
Mrs. Brenton.
"No," said Aunt Louisa in her pin-muted voice, "'twouldn't be decent to
go before 'er Maker wi'out laigs. But I didn't know she 'ad 'em.
Wherever's she kept 'em to?"
"Well, she got 'em in a box, salted away. She brought 'em 'ome from the
'orspital and they'm in the li'l parlour in the cupboard. I think we'd
better get'n out against Mr. 'Enwood come to measure 'er."
"She'll make a vitty corpse, after all," said Mrs. Con, who had been
haunted by the thought of that legless body and who would now be able to
think of her cousin as made whole by the restoration of the carefully
preserved limbs. Her person, large and soft, the person of a big eater
and small doer, heaved in a gusty sigh of satisfaction. "Nights I've
lied thinkin' when she die there'd 'av to be something put in the coffin
to keep 'er from boompin' up and down."
Mrs. Bate got up. "I'll just put on 'er cap and then you can all come
in and see 'er. She's the fines' body I've set forth for many a day.
Some fat body, too, she be, some 'andsome body, fat as butter."
Before the others could take advantage of this invitation which, with
the exception of Mrs. Con they were naturally eager to do, Leadville's
step was heard on the linhay flags and he at once became the centre of
interest. The corpse could wait but this was their first glimpse of the
bereaved. Curiosity was veiled by industry and politeness and like the
fates they snipped and stitched.
Fresh from his sleep in the sunshine and ready to do his part, he
paused, on his way in, to break his fast. As he ate, the whirr of the
sewing-machine caught his ear and at once some of his briskness passed.
"Well, Mrs. Tom, I'm come back," he cried, pulling open the little door.
To him, the room, always dark, seemed full of soberly clad women and,
between them, he made out masses of black material which, overflowing
chairs and tables, lay in discreet heaps on the clean blue floor. The
women glanced up with conventional murmurs and he perceived that, for
the nonce, it was they who were at home there and not he. "What is
there for me to do?"
Isolda put down the child's frock on which she was at work. "I think
you better go into Stowe and see Mr. Henwood and tell'n to come out and
measure 'er for 'er coffin."
Leadville viewed the task set him with disfavour. "I can't abide that
job."
"It bain't a bit of good for 'ee to talk like that, my dear," said Mrs.
Tom, as to a fractious child, "you know it's got to be done. As well
'av it done first as last."
"I know that." Traffic in the gruesome ceremonial of death was
repugnant to him and he would have liked to take a broom and sweep these
women and their blacks out of Wastralls, to clear the place of them and
have it once more sweet and clean. "Still 'tis 'ard lines on a poor
feller."
"Of course it be but, there, it can't be 'elped. I don't want to bother
you more'n I can 'elp; but still there's things as must be seen to."
He stood before her, balancing first on one foot, then on the other.
"Well?" he said.
"There's the funeral and what about the food?"
"Tedn't a bit of good for 'ee to ask me. You must do zactly as you
like. You knaw best, better than I do."
"I thought," she pursued, bent on getting his assent to the arrangements
she considered should be made, "about 'avin' a 'am and a couple of
chicken and a piece of beef and then I thought we'd better 'ave a couple
of tarts and white cake and yeller cake: and tea. That will be enough."
"Iss," he said, longing to get away, "well, you know what to do."
"And you'll 'av to go and see doctor to get a certificate before you go
down to Mr. 'Enwood. As 'e was 'ere yesterday, 'e may not want an
inquest--still you never know."
"Well, I'll see'n."
"What day be yer thinkin' to 'av the funeral?"
Leadville was anxious to have it as soon as possible, but knew that this
desire was not one to which he could give utterance. "I can't abear to
think of 't," he said, conscious of his audience. "I feel as if I'm
waitin' for 'er to come in. 'Tidn't like she's dead, to me."
The women glanced at him kindly. They were sorry for him, a poor
forlorn creature, a widow man. "I'm afraid," said Mrs. Tom,
regretfully, "we shall 'av to bury 'er up pretty quick. Mrs. Bate think
she oughtn't to be kep' longer'n Monday."
"Monday?" cried the man and, for a moment, lifted his heavy lids and
stared at her. "You don't mean it? Why it's now Saturday?"
"Well, my dear, she died on a full stomach and you know you can't keep
her very long. Still I should be the last to 'urry 'er into 'er grave.
We'll see what Mr. 'Enwood say."
Mrs. Con, glad of a moment's respite from the sewing, had been watching
the speakers. "What 'av 'ee got on yer face there?" she asked peering,
with short-sighted eyes, at a brown smear on the man's forehead, the
smear his seal-blooded hand had made the previous evening when wiping
away the drops of his fear.
"'E 'aven't washed yet," interposed Mrs. Tom and turned back to Byron.
"I've put yer black clothes upstairs on yer bed and there's plenty of
'ot water you can 'av."
"Look like you've got blood there," persisted Mrs. Con, "'av you cut
yerself?"
Byron swung over to the little mirror by the range. Across his forehead
lay a broad smear, dark brown in hue. Though he recognized it instantly
as blood, his forgetfulness of the unimportant past prevented his being
able to account for it and superstitious dread swooped on him out of a
clear sky.
"I dunno what that is," he stammered, already shaken out of his
reasonableness and with a vague recollection of a similar episode on the
previous evening. "It do look like blood! 'Owever did it get there?"
"Don't 'ee worry, Leadville," soothed Mrs. Tom and who knows whether her
words were accidental or chosen. "There's no mark o' Cain on 'ee, Lorrd
be praised."
"Mark o' Cain!" he muttered and Mrs. Tom saw leap into his eyes a
questioning terror.
"I expect you've scratched yourself somewhere," she said easily.
"Take'n go and wash it off." Pouring hot water into a dipper she
offered it to him and Leadville, treading delicately among the heaps of
black material, went out. He had brought from Dark Head a clear
simplicity of purpose, but now his mind was like a ruffled pool. "Mark
o' Cain?" he muttered to himself as he went upstairs. "What do they
knaw about it? It's all tommy-rot, they can't knaw anything, 'tis only
what they'm surmisin'. Can't trust they women, their tongues is always
waggin'. They'll ferret out the last rat that's in the mow."
As he put his hands into the dipper he noticed they were trembling and,
with this, his caution began to reassert itself. The women must not be
allowed to suspect that there was anything concealed. "If I don't take
care," he admonished himself, "I shall find meself in a box. Pretty
feller me, to take so much notice o' they. I've done more'n they'll
ever bear to think on and 'ere I'm all twitchy because of their silly
talk."
After washing his face he examined it in the toilet-glass for any sign
of a hurt, but the skin was unbroken.
"I 'aven't cut meself," he said perplexedly, and suddenly the episode of
the seal occurred to him. He laughed aloud. "Mark o' Cain indeed! And
me, what don't believe in they old ideas! Iss, they'm too fanciful for
our day o' livin'." He shook his heavy shoulders. "I mus' pull meself
together. I must remember, only thing that's 'appened is that I've lost
the missus--poor sawl."
In the room below the women had returned to their work of 'makin' up the
mournin's.'
"'E seem rather cut up about it, not like 'e belong to be," commented
Aunt Louisa.
"Well, what can 'ee expect," said Mrs. Brenton, "only lostin' 'is wife
this mornin'? Can't expect for'm to be bright and cheerful!"
"I don't expect anything," said the old woman, "still you can't 'elp
noticin' things."
*CHAPTER XVIII*
As Leadville on his black stallion turned the corner below Church Town,
he met the Wastralls wagon coming back from Stowe with a load of coal
and oil. The sight of the teamster, leading his horse as it zigzagged
across the sharp ascent, brought the other a sudden tingling realization
of power. Yesterday Rosevear had been a hind on his wife's farm and
Byron, though ostensibly, blusteringly master, had not been able to
dismiss him. Now, opportunity, spruce and debonair, was walking towards
him up the wide curve of the road.
Reining in his horse--a gift from Sabina, who liked him to be well
mounted--he waited till Jim, this 'proper jump-the-country' was abreast
of him.
"The missus is gone!" He was not thinking of Sabina but of the
alteration in their relative position.
Jim's face had been as cheerful as his thoughts. Though in workaday
clothes he wore them with a holiday air and had adorned his cap with the
iridescent wing-feather of a drake. He was in pairing mood and had seen
in Stowe 'a lickin' great wardrobe' that he would like for Gray 'if
she'd a mind to't.' His nest-building thoughts were scattered by
Byron's untimely news and his face lengthened. "Gone?" he repeated. "'E
don't say so? Poor sawl! I'm awful sorry. Was it a fit or what was
it?"
Byron, impatient to assert himself, ignored the question. Sitting his
horse with a touch of swagger he said truculently: "I'll leave yer know
I'm maister now."
Jim believed that he had a reason to dislike the speaker and none
whatever to avoid a quarrel. Better bad blood between them than that
Byron, under the cloak of kinship, should be able to come worrying Gray.
"Iss," he said, accepting the challenge, "missus is 'ardly cold, but
still I s'pose you think you'm maister now."
In Byron's fierce eyes was the longing to begin the inevitable fight.
The youth, blithe and with his handsome face upturned, was incarnate
provocation. One hearty blow and Byron saw the contour of that
admirable nose for ever changed.
"When you finish up to-night you can come in," he growled, "and I'll pay
you your wages. I don't want you 'ere, on the place, any longer."
Jim did not seem impressed. "I can clear now if you like." It would
serve the 'ole hunks' right if he were left with the horse and wagon on
his hands.
"An' if yer don't want to 'av yer bones broken," continued the other,
pausing on a darkling thought that the sea did not always give up its
dead, "you'll clear out of this part altogether."
In Jim's eyes was a little dancing light. "Shen't clear out for the
likes of you."
"Well, now, you take this for a warning. If you don't you'll wish you
'ad."
"We'll see about that," and being of those whose spirits rise at the
prospect of a fight he smiled. "We'll see who is the best man of the
two, me or you."
A grimmer smile was on Byron's face. Knowing his strength he could look
forward, past the irritating unpropitious moment, to the happy hour when
they should come to grips. "Oo d'yer think's afraid of you, yer banty
cock?" he cried, contemptuously, and prepared to ride on.
"If you was as big as a church and tower I ain't afraid," cried the
youth after him. As the affair seemed to be hanging fire, he tried a
rousing word. "An' if I'm in yer way I shall stay where I'm to."
Byron flashed him a look full of sinister possibilities, the look of one
who had taken into consideration that cliffs are sheer and nights dark.
"I'll see about that, then."
The prospect of a fight was dwindling into nothingness. "There's
people," said Jim, on a last hope, "'ud rather see me than you."
"Any more of your cheek, young sprat, and I'll wring your neck."
But he had realized the countryside would cry shame if he were seen
brawling in public while his wife lay dead at home. They would not be
blinded to the reason and such knowledge might breed suspicion. He must
wait. Grinding his heel into the stallion's side he started at a
gallop, leaving Jim disappointed but smiling, for with him, too, it was
a case of 'Gay go the Gordons.'
A little annoyance was enough to upset Byron for hours. In a fume of
exasperation and bitter feeling he now urged his horse to a speed which
drew on him the attention of other wayfarers.
"If 'e ride that rate 'e must be goin' after a doctor. I should think
man's missis was goin' to straw--first child, too," said a man from
Little Petherick to whom Leadville was a stranger.
"Thiccy feller's Mr. Byron to Wastralls," corrected his companion, "and
I know there's no chick nor child there, nor any comin'. 'E do always
ride as if Old Nick was after 'un. 'E'll break 'is neck one of these
odd days."
The short interview with Rosevear had been unsatisfactory in more ways
than one, for the youth's last words had planted a thorn. Not only had
he smiled at Byron's threats but his smile, had been of a quality which
made the other's blood run cold. Behind it lay assurance, a knowledge
he might not divulge but which, like a hidden weapon, was for use at
need. The other's jealousy, temporarily in abeyance, stirred and he
sought a reason, other than the simple love of fighting inherent in the
male, for Jim's smile. Not many cared to try conclusions with the
strongest man in the parish. Byron had browbeaten the few who crossed
his path, but Jim was game. What had happened to give him confidence?
How were matters between him and Gray? That drive into Stowe! The
farmer ground his teeth at the thought of it. Was she promised and did
Rosevear feel sure of her? A fool for his pains! Such promises were of
cobweb stuff. She might promise--his little umuntz--for she did not
know, but the end would be the same.
The black stallion was damp with sweat when Byron pulled up at Dr.
Derek's freshly painted gate--which in its brightness, its
specklessness, was the outward and visible sign of the doctor's tastes!
A pathway, gravelled with small white stones and edged with scarlet
tiles, led directly to a cream-coloured house, the wide windows of which
were brilliantly clean but uncurtained. On the door a highly polished
knocker twinkled above a discreetly closed brass letter-flap. Dr. Derek
was just returned from his morning round and, though the midday meal was
on the table, his constant curiosity with regard to Mrs. Byron, would
not allow him to keep her husband waiting. The farmer was, therefore,
shown at once into the consulting-room.
The little doctor, round and rosy, was seated before a table of light
polished wood. Byron, as he went up the room, gathered an impression of
bright glass and metal surfaces, in a well-lighted sunshiny place. So
bright was everything, the glass cupboards full of silver implements,
the polished woods, the glazed bookcases, that the man, used to low
tones within doors, blinked. The high lights of innumerable small
objects, the sharply defined pattern of carpet and upholstered chair,
confused him and for a moment he stood tongue-tied. At last the
difficult words came.
"I've bad news for 'ee, sir."
If that well-regulated organ, which Dr. Derek called his heart, ever
varied in its beat this was one of the occasions. He had been convinced
that with such injuries as had been inflicted by her accident Mrs. Byron
could not recover and, by doing so, she had proved him mistaken. Was it
possible that after all...
"Sorry to hear it, Byron. The missus isn't worse, I hope?"