"No, of course, I was forgetting. Well, I'll try to come to it. I had
the greatest possible respect for your wife as a farmer. She should
have been a man."
"'Tis great respect you're payin' her, sir."
The doctor smiled enigmatically. "That's as may be," he said and,
indeed, for him to say a woman resembled a man was the reverse of
complimentary. In his experience the sterile female frequently
approximated to the male in type and habits; and he thought such
approximation a sign of degeneracy. He had been interested from a
scientific point of view in Mrs. Byron. She had led a man's life and
she was childless. Was the latter a consequence, or had the
childlessness determined her way of life? He could find arguments in
support of both theories.
Byron had brought to the interview a mind filled with misgiving. Dr.
Derek had a reputation for ability and the other had hardly ventured to
hope his tale would pass muster. He had told the truth because he dared
not do other and behold it had stood him in good stead, that and the
fact that Dr. Derek, for the sake of his professional reputation, had
not been altogether sorry to hear of Mrs. Byron's death. As he rode at
a walking pace down the hilly street the farmer could congratulate
himself on the outcome.
The streets of Stowe, like spokes of a wheel, converge on the quay; and
back from it, but near at hand, lie the huddle of warehouses, shops and
inns, which supply the needs of sailormen. The quayside itself is, at
low tide, a sheer drop of many feet; but the children play on its
unprotected verge and the drunken man rolls gaily home from the
waterside pubs and there is no tale of casualties. In one of the less
frequented streets, opposite the Farmer's Arms, stood the undertaker's
shop with, in the window, by way of advertisement, a baby's coffin and a
hollow mortuary urn. Henwood, the undertaker, a little chattery man,
fond of society and overfond of his glass, was generally to be found on
his neighbour's premises; and, when Byron rode up, was fetched therefrom
by the wife whose tongue was supposed to drive him thither. As Dr.
Derek would have said, however, it was a moot point whether Mrs.
Henwood's temper was the cause of his going, or his going the cause of
her temper.
He came in, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and, the subject
of beer being to him the most congenial in the world, opened the
proceedings by asking Byron if he would have a glass. The latter,
preoccupied and anxious, had not known he was thirsty.
"I don't mind if I do 'av one," he said, with that increase of
cordiality which an offer of hospitality induces.
"Wait a moment, then." Little Henwood, who was a man of girth rather
than height, rolled himself down the shop. When he reached the door at
the end, he opened the upper half and called to some one within.
"Sandra! would you mind running in for a jug of beer?"
A clatter of tin pans reached Byron's ears, then a voice the reverse of
amiable. "Do you think I'm going to run my foot in and out for you--yer
walkin' beer-barr'l? Fetch it yerself."
"'Tidn't fer me, my dear," twittered the little man.
"Mr. Byron don't want beer when he's come for yer to make a coffin.
'Tis for yerself I reckon and quench yer thirst in this world you can
but Lorrd knows yer throat will be dry enough in the next."
"Well, 'av it your own way then, my dear, but Mr. Byron's thirsty as a
gull. He's comed all the way from Trevorrick. Perhaps," he added
disarmingly, "you'll 'and me out a jug--a jug of water, my dear."
"And 'ave you empt that water away and go after beer? Do you think, Mr.
Henwood; you've married a fool?"
"I wish I 'ad, I wish I 'ad," muttered Henwood and shaking a head on
which a rim of grey curls surrounded an unreverend tonsure he came
slowly back. "Don't you take no notice of 'er," he said, lifting the
mortuary urn out of the window.
"I don't," said the other simply. "I've 'ad enough of that."
"Where there's a will there's a way," said the little undertaker making
for the door, "and thiccy urn 'olds just about a pint. I'll be back in
a jiffy."
Left to himself, Byron glanced down the shop. He felt curiously at home
in it; and this was strange because he could not remember ever to have
been there before. At the end was a shed lighted from above and
furnished with a carpenter's bench, trestles and some newly planed
boards. A sack of shavings stood in a corner and the air carried a
scent of wood. Byron sniffed it appreciatively. It wakened in him a
dim memory, a memory so elusive that, try as he might, he could not
capture it. The place was familiar, the boards, the smell of wood, but
something was lacking, some sound. As he stood, puzzling over the
circumstance, Henwood returned with the brimming urn.
Setting it carefully on a small black stool or cricket, he turned to the
window and, lifting the lid of the baby's coffin, took from within two
rather smeary glasses. "The Lorrd 'elps them as 'elps 'emselves," he
said cheerfully. "Missus 'ud never think of looking in thiccy coffin and
many a drink I've 'ad from'n."
The other drank in silent appreciation of the undertaker's mother-wit.
He found it pleasant after the annoyances, the secret fears and elations
of the morning, to be in contact with this simple soul, whose one idea
was beer and yet more beer.
"Not much doing," said Henwood, conversationally, as he returned the
glasses to their hiding-place, "but what's my loss is other people's
gain and, after all, though I do my duty by the dead the livin' 'as
always been more to my taste. What can I do for you, Mr. Byron?"
"I want for 'ee to come over to measure my wife for 'er coffin."
"My dear life, you don't mean to say she's dead?"
"Iss, the poor sawl, she died off in her sleep last night and we want
for you to come and do the business."
The little man considered, his head on one side. "You want 'er buried
decent, I s'pose?"
So that Sabina was hurried into the grave, Byron was indifferent as to
the furnishings of her journey but he knew better than to let this
appear. "Of course I do--although I don't believe in wastin' so much
money to be put'n under the turf, when it could be used for something
better. The missus used to think same as I do, she was never one for
grandeur."
"Well, you got to study other people's tongues, you know."
"If it wasn't for that," said the countryman with his grim smile, "you'd
cut a poor shine, I reckon. Well, what sort of wood be yer goin' to put
in?"
"I've a good piece of oak here, seasoned wood, what about that? I cut a
coffin for Colonel Pendarves out of it, but there's enough for another."
Bargaining was second nature to these men and Henwood, in suggesting
what he knew would not be acceptable, was only observing the rules of
the game.
Byron made the expected answer. "Oak 'edn't for the likes o' we, it's
for the gentry folk. What other 'av you got?"
"There's ellum. It's good hard wood and lastin'."
"Don't matter 'ow long it last when 'tis once in under the earth."
Henwood led the way into the shed and pointed to some timber.
"Why don't you 'av a polished pitch pine wi' brass fittin's? Thiccy
stuff was only landed last week." He touched the wood with spatulate
hands, the hands of the craftsman. Next to his beer he loved 'a bit o'
seasoned wood.' "You wouldn't wish for a handsomer coffin than that
'uld make."
"Pitch pine is more like it," agreed the buyer. "What would it cost?"
"I dunno as I could tell 'ee to a pound or two. There's a lot o' things
to consider. There's the linin's and the fittin's; and then there's the
gloves for the bearers and their 'arf crowns. Was you thinkin' to 'av
one set of bearers or two?"
"'Tis a braaeve way to Church Town and the missus was a big woman, I
think we better 'av the two."
"Sixteen half-crowns is a good bit. That'll make two pound. You see
that tally up."
"Well, 'av it done decent, but she wouldn't like no show nor fuss. I
know she wouldn't."
"We'll 'ave it plain as possible then." He made a note on the wood
itself and then stood thoughtful. "When would you like to 'av it?"
"Mrs. Rosevear said I'd better leave it to you."
Henwood tapped his teeth with the broad wood pencil. "Weather's braaeve
and cold," he said meditatively, "but if she died off sudden----"
"She done 'er day's work as usual and ate a good supper but doctor said
'twas 'er 'eart. Accident must 'av strained it. 'E didn't think she'd
live so long as she 'av."
"She must 'er died on a full stomach, so I should bury her up as soon as
we can. To-day's Saturday, but I can be ready by Monday."
"We must 'av it that way."
"Very well, then, tell Mrs. Rosevear we shall leave the 'ouse at
'arf-past one."
As Byron went out, the little man's glance travelled beyond him on an
errand in no way connected with the business in hand. Life was
'terrible short' and he must make the most of his time, get down as many
'cups o' beer' as he could before his journeymen were set to make that
coffin which must be put together without his help.
The Farmer's Arms beckoned and he went.
*CHAPTER XIX*
That afternoon, having snatched a moment from her work of setting
Wastralls in the pious order which a death and consequent funeral
demand, to run home, Mrs. Tom found Hember kitchen deserted by all but
Gray. The range was open and on a stool by the dull fire--a stool
usually appropriated by Smut the old black and white cat--sat the young
girl. She was, of course, in black; but the dress, not having been worn
for some time, was a little tight. The promise of Gray's frame was
womanly and as she sat, huddled on the low stool, she looked not only
unhappy, but uncomfortable. The mother, appraising the woe-begone face
and uneasy figure, saw that here also was work for her. Aunt Louisa
could alter the dress but it was for Mrs. Tom to comfort this little
heart which in all its eighteen years had had no greater grief than the
loss of Smut's frequent kittens.
"My dear," she said and hung her purple knitted bonnet behind the door,
thereby giving a pleasant air of permanency to her visit. "Where's the
childern to?"
"They'm with dad."
"And Richbell?"
"Gone up to Shoppe for some black ribbon."
"She needn't have troubled to do that," said Mrs. Tom, with a lack of
her usual perspicacity, "there's plenty down to Wastralls."
Gray's little tear-blurred face showed a faint lightening, as of a
thinning in the rain-cloud. "I heard them telling," she said
tentatively, "that Art Brenton is home."
"Art?" said Mrs. Tom severely. "'Im an' Percy 'Olman's a pretty pair.
I should think the maid 'ud 'av somethin' else to do 'stead of gaddin'
round the lanes!"
Gray knew her mother's opinion of Richbell's various admirers. "I
wouldn't worry my head about her," she said, a touch of sympathy in her
voice. "I don't believe she means to have any one of them. She's only
just amusing herself and, when the time comes, she'll know better."
"Let's 'ope she will." Mrs. Tom had not found that young people showed
a greater wisdom than their forbears with regard to matrimony. "Please
God she won't do so silly as yer auntie did, turn up 'er nose on all the
chaps round 'ere and marry a stranger that she don't know nothing 'tall
about."
"Poor auntie after all!" The tears welled up till Gray's dark eyes were
shining stars.
Mrs. Tom changed the subject. "I'm pretty and glad you're back, my
dear. 'Ow did Mrs. Andrew treat yer?"
"Oh, she treated me as if I was one of 'er own," but Gray's tones were
flat. With Aunt Sabina newly dead what did it matter how old Mrs.
Andrew had treated her? "She'd have liked for us to stop altogether."
"Well," said the mother, but with a little knit of perplexity between
the brows, "you might do worse'n that. Still--I wish Gentle Jane was a
little farther away from Wastralls."
Gray had no difficulty in following the trend of her mother's thoughts.
"I don't think Uncle Leadville 'ud bother to come over there," she said,
adding, as if struck by a fresh idea, "I suppose he knows?"
"Dunno whether he do or no. Everything's been upside down to-day and
that reminds me----" she turned to the cupboard in the wall and took
from the top shelf a box of stationery. "My dear, if you 'aven't got
nothing else to do, I think you'd better write some letters for me."
Gray rose from the stool. "I shall be glad to have the job." Her lip
quivered, her whole soft face crumpled into childish lines. "Oh,
mammy," she said, looking forlornly across the gulf of the generations,
"I do keep on thinking and thinking."
Middle age accepted the further burthen. "Iss, I know you must be!"
Mrs. Tom, putting comforting arms about her, drew the young head to rest
against her shoulder and, at ease after what had seemed a long
loneliness, Gray sobbed out the thought that had been troubling her.
"'Tis the first night since auntie's accident that she've been left by
herself." The circumstances of this death, seeming to reflect on her
conduct, had added a poignancy to what would otherwise have been
endurable.
"We can't pick nor choose our hour," said Mrs. Tom gravely; "'cos, when
'tis the Lorrd's time, it must be ours whether we'm ready or no."
"Yes, mammy, but I've got the feeling that if I hadn't gone away it
wouldn't have happened."
But Mrs. Tom could comfort her daughter with the larger outlook that
proves our insignificance. We are less important than we feared. We
are of no importance at all. "My dear, you mustn't look at the black
side. Her time was come and she'd be sorry for you to grieve yerself
so. I knaw you've been like a daughter to 'er all these months and she
did dearly love yer; but when it come to the end she wouldn't be wantin'
you nor me. She had other things to think about."
"Supposing she was suff'rin', mammy?"
"She couldn't 'av suffered anything, my dear, and that you'll say when
you see 'er face. 'Tis lovely, just like an angel. She must 'a passed
away in 'er sleep."
Mrs. Tom's words, turning mortal death into the visitation of God, had
the effect she wished. Gray, forgetting the personal equation, had a
quieting vision of powers at once superhuman and beneficent. The
Unknown, that was God and Good, had blossomed about her homely aunt and,
through those dead eyes, all might look for a little moment into the
Beyond.
"You'm a better 'and for writin' letters than I be," said Mrs. Tom,
returning after a time to the simple needs of the hour. "And there is
people who must know that yer auntie is gone." She turned to the table,
rummaging in the box of stationery. "I always keep some mournin'
letters in the bottom of this. Ah, 'ere 'tis," and she extracted some
black-edged paper.
Gray, with death at once simplified and exalted, was able to follow her
lead. She had been to a school in Stowe kept by two Welsh ladies and
was passably instructed, that is to say, knew how to cast accounts and
phrase a simple letter. "Who must I write to, mammy?"
"Well, my dear, there's the Rosevears of St. Issy and St. Minver and
there's the Trudgians to Wadebridge and the Jackas and Sowdens and
Trebilcocks. They'm all relations, you knaw. Tell 'em your poor auntie
died in 'er sleep and the funeral's goin' to be--" she paused,
remembering day and hour had been left for the undertaker to fix.
"Well, now you must leave a place for that and put it in after we know."
She glanced about the kitchen, which for Hember looked cheerless, being
indeed dusty and unswept. "And when you've finished the writing, you
better try and clean up a bit."
"Why--you aren't goin' back, are you?"
"Yes, I must for a bit, but I shan't be long. You'll find there's
plenty for yer to do. Time quickly goes when you're busy."
She nodded briskly and, refusing to be moved by her daughter's
unwillingness, set off down the lane. She had left the cleaning of
Wastralls well begun. Above stairs and below, the rooms had to be
turned out, scrubbed and set in order; and, no doubt, this washing and
polishing, though applied to an already clean house, had its useful
side. It affected not only the walls and furniture but the emotions of
the workers and was a panacea for inconvenient feelings. Grief expended
itself in hard conscientious rubbings and nerves were turned, to the
benefit of their owners, into elbow-grease. Mrs. Tom, having set every
one to work, had thought she might slip away without being missed but,
on her return, heard her name being called about the house. The
undertaker had come to measure the body for its wooden dress and she was
required to bring him into the room where Sabina, her hands folded over
the Bible on her chest, lay sleeping. Mrs. Bate, in her capacity of
Stripper, had already conducted thither a number of admiring visitors
but they had been without exception of her own sex. The old woman was
by no means shy, nevertheless when Henwood drove up behind a black
long-tailed horse, which seemed surprised at being required to move at
other than a walking pace, she hurried in search of Mrs. Tom.
"If you don't mind, my dear," she said with something as near a blush as
her old cheeks could show, "I'd rather for you to take'n in."