The other emphasized her feelings by a tap on Mrs. Tom's arm. "The
truth is, I was always a bit shy and I don't like tellin' about they
laigs. Laigs is laigs and I can 'ardly explain them to a man."
Which shows that Mrs. Bate, in spite of the illegitimacy of Janey and
Jenifer, had a modest mind.
"Why, my dear life, 'e's used to laigs. Been measurin' bodies all 'is
lifetime. 'E wouldn't take any notice of 'em, or you, uther."
"Well, other bodies got laigs but this one 'aven't got any. Don't seem
hardly decent to talk about 'em."
Little Henwood, however, when the matter of the legs was explained to
him, behaved with propriety; showing only a calm satisfaction that the
coffin he was about to make, should be of the usual length and shape.
He said nothing that could bring a blush to spinster cheeks--if Mrs.
Bate who, in spite of the matronly title, had never been married, could
be called a spinster--but demeaned himself with a practical common sense
which won him some tolerable opinions.
"The coffin will be 'ere to-morrow early, I'll bring it meself and put
'er in."
"'E knaw 'is business, that one do," said Mrs. Tom, as she watched him
drive off behind the surprised-looking horse. "Got a good 'ead on his
shoulders."
Mrs. William Brenton, however, happened to be his wife's cousin. She
sniffed disparagingly. "Proper l'il tubby. When Sandra was ill, 'e was
such a glutton 'e drinked up all the brandy that Passon sent down for
'er 'e did."
"Iss," said her sister-in-law who if not 'gifted wi' good looks' was
easy-natured, "but 'twas because she said she wouldn't drink that
'ell-brew, not even to please the Passon. She's get better wi'out it.
Iss and from that time she started to cheat the craws."
"Undertakin'," said Aunt Louisa, "is a drinkin' job. Never seem to got
enough work to full up a man's time and what can 'ee expect?"
"Expect?" cried Mrs. Brenton virtuously. "I expect for'm to 'av
self-respect and not make pigs of theirself."
"Then, my dear, you expect more'n you'll get. We do all knaw what men
is. If they bain't out drinkin' they're out courtin' somebody's li'l
maid." She began to fold the dress she had been altering and, as she
did so, looked towards Mrs. Tom. "Well, now, I've done that. Is there
anything else I can do?"
"No, I think you've done enough to-night." The mistress of the
ceremonies knew better than to over-tax her assistants. "But I hope
you'll try and come to-morrow as there's a good bit more to do yet."
With a glance she included the other occupants of the room.
"Oh, my dear, I bain't goin' to leave 'ee till it's all finished now,
what next?" said Aunt Louisa, taking the pins from the crumples of her
old lips. "I was goin' to Mrs. Martyn because she got two children now
where she only expected one, but she must wait. I'm sure she won't
mind."
"Iss, my dear," murmured Mrs. Bate, "livin' can wait, but the dead must
be tended to."
The little band left in a body, 'almost' thought Mrs. Tom, 'as if they
was afraid of meeting some of the Little People.' Though she herself
had never seen so much as a Jack-in-the-box--as Will-o'-the-wisps are
called in the West--she knew that where death is, other less familiar,
even less desirable appearances may be gathered; and she did not wonder
that the women clung to the companionship of the living. Long after the
dusk had rendered the speakers invisible, she could hear the rise and
fall of their voices. A sudden shower dashed its raindrops into her face
and with a sigh she turned back into the kitchen.
"Awful catchy weather," she said: she would give Leadville his supper,
light the candles in Sabina's room and then she, too, would go home.
A step in the porch made her look up and she found that Jim Rosevear,
his day's work done, had followed her into the house.
"Why, Jim?" She noted the raindrops on his hair and coat and that for
some reason he was looking dissatisfied.
"'E've give me my walkin' ticket, to-day," said the young man and his
eyes, on either side of that delicately bridged nose, had the hard look
of a hawk's, "so I've come for me wages."
Mrs. Tom's brows went up but, if she simulated surprise, she did not
feel it. "Well, I shouldn't trouble," she comforted, "you could not
stop 'ere very well."
That, he did not dispute. "But there's means and ways of doin' a
thing."
"'E don't mean all 'e say, poor old villain."
"'E mean this all right." He went to the heart of the matter. "'Tisn't
best 'e come meddlin' after Gray no more, or I'll bash 'is oogly face
for'n."
"Oh, I shouldn't go quarrellin'. With 'im quietness is the best noise.
Let's 'ope 'e'll be more sensible when 'e knows 'ow things is." She
looked kindly at the man and continued to drop balm. "I'm sorry for the
poor chap. 'Twas nothing but natural 'e should want to work the farm,
anybody would and now 'e'll 'av 'is chance."
"Fine 'and 'e'll make of it," said implacable youth.
"Well, that'll be 'is look-out." She headed him in another direction.
"What be yer thinkin' to do?"
"I'll talk it over with Gray to-night and, if she's agreeable, I think
I'll take on Aunt Urs'la's offer."
The fact that Gentle Jane was just over the ridge from Trevorrick, gave
Mrs. Tom a sense of impending trouble. "There's no 'urry for that yet,"
she said thoughtfully, "and Gray's terribly upset over 'er auntie's
death. Why don't 'ee take 'er up to Plymouth for a week or two? I'm sure
mv sister Ellen would be pretty and glad to 'av yer."
"Well, I dunno," but his face, brightening at the suggestion, lost its
hardness. Ellen Warne's husband was in process of evolving from a
carpenter into a builder and they were thriving hospitable folk. "I'll
see what Gray got to say about it."
"As funeral's on Monday I think as you could go on the Tuesday." She
looked as simple as a sheep but, under the kind suggestion, lay an
anxious hope that it might prove acceptable. In Plymouth, Gray would be
out of Leadville's reach.
"I haven't travelled very much. Never been further'n Bodmin," said the
young man and already the note of holiday was in his voice.
"No, Gray 'aven't nuther," smiled the mother. "I'm sure you'll be
delighted. Plymouth is a lickin' great place, nothin' but streets and
'ouses and bobbing up against people all day long. Ah, now," as the
door of the porch was kicked open, "'ere's Leadville comin'. Now, my
dear, I shouldn't say anything to'n if I was you, a still tongue make a
wise 'ead. 'E've had quite enough to-day to upset'n."
Byron, coming out of the dark yard into the lamplit kitchen, did not at
first perceive the second occupant of the room. He was in a good
humour, for the men he had met in Stowe had been more friendly than
usual and, in the attitude of the Wastralls hinds, he had gauged a new
respect. The latter had come to him for orders and their manner had
been conciliatory. If, in the past, they had given unwilling service,
from henceforth he was their employer; and, in their submission, he,
strangely enough, saw himself justified.
As he caught sight of Rosevear, however, his brows came together in the
familiar line and Mrs. Tom, watching, felt her heart sink. A brawl in
the house, where his wife lay dead but as yet uncoffined, would be
unseemly and she cast about in her mind for means to prevent it.
"'Enwood 'av been 'ere," she said, thrusting the thought of Sabina
between the men. "You ought to leave the 'inds knaw as the funeral's on
Monday. I thought p'raps Jim could go around and tell'n?"
Leadville, obliged to consider the suggestion, tossed it aside on the
gale of his dislike. It is customary for the hinds belonging to a
farm--not only the men working there at the moment, but all who have
done so in the past--to carry the coffin of their employer from the home
to the graveyard. In payment of their services they receive a meal, a
pair of gloves and half a crown; and, at a time when wages ranged
between eleven and fifteen shillings a week, this custom was honoured
with a careful observance.
"Old George can do that. 'E been 'ere longest, longer than _'e_ 'av and
'e'll know 'oo to tell." The appeal to him for direction had, however,
the effect Mrs. Tom had anticipated. Turning to the cupboard he took out
his cashbox and counted down the teamster's wages.
"That's right, 'edn't it?"
The other glanced perfunctorily at the coins. "No, 'edn' right.
There's another week owing. You gave me no notice."
Byron looked up with a scowl. He wanted to deny that the extra payment
was customary, to precipitate a quarrel; but Mrs. Tom, looking on, was
ready. She stepped up to the table.
"Iss, my dear," she said, in her sweet and placid tones, tones which
denied the possibility of ill-feeling on either side. "That is the way
of it 'ere. You 'aven't worked a farm and wouldn't know; but 'ere we do
give a week's notice or a week's pay."
The farmer turned towards her, conscious of the need for caution, yet
longing to persist.
"Iss, my dear," she said again, "'tis a week's notice or a week's pay."
At length, with a contemptuous flinging down of extra coins, Byron
completed the transaction. Without a word Jim swept up the money and
turned to go. As he swung out of the room, his head up, his nailed
hoots ringing on the flags, Leadville, in a sudden access of irritation,
flung after him a few hot words. "And mind what I've told yer. You
pick yer bones off from 'ere."
The young man, pausing on the threshold, looked back. In his eye was a
defiant sparkle and his smile was blithe. He would welcome trouble.
"I've told yer before, I don't take no more notice of 'ee than that!"
and he snapped his fingers in derision.
With a furious oath Byron sprang forward but Mrs. Tom was before him.
From where she stood it was easy to push the door to and she did so,
nimbly and with a will. By the time the raging farmer had opened it
again, Jim had disappeared into the mirk of the, as yet, moonless night.
Mrs. Tom, at his back, smiled her relief. For the moment the quarrel,
hanging over them like a rain-filled cloud, had been averted and, if her
plan of 'land between' were carried out, they would not meet again for
some time.
"Now, my dear," she said in kindly wise, "don't 'ee go takin' no notice
of'n, 'tis naught but a young chap and cockerils do craw loud. Take and
set down by the fire now. I'm sure you must be tired."
Byron paid little heed to her but, in the end, her deft and quiet
movements as she laid the supper, her familiar voice relating the small
events of the day, talking of Sabina and the respect shown her by the
neighbourhood, had the desired effect. He threw himself into Old
Squire's chair and, pulling off his mud-caked boots, stretched his feet
to the glow. The black garments upon which the women had been employed
were piled beside Aunt Louisa's machine on the side-table; but otherwise
the place was as usual, austerely tidy and yet comfortable, the plain
dignified living-room of a thriving farmer. Byron, tired after his day
at Stowe, glad to have taken the first step towards getting rid of
Rosevear, leaned back. He was happy in that this space between four
thick walls was now, at last, actually his.
"'Av yer thought it over," said Mrs. Tom, breaking eggs into a pan and
proceeding to fry them, "'oo you'll 'av 'ere to stay wi' yer? 'Cos you
can't live by yerself and I shan't be able to come always, so I should
settle it up if I was you."
"What d'yer mean?
"Must 'av somebody to cook for yer and do the work."
Byron, preoccupied, had yet a feeling, dim but friendly, for Mrs. Tom.
Her essential motherliness appealed to one whose reality was masculine.
He recognized in her a deep knowledge which made subterfuges and
insincerity of no avail and, if he had not hitherto spoken freely to
her, it was because there had been no need of speech. Mrs. Tom knew all
the things of which Sabina had been so amazingly ignorant; and now
Sabina, with what had seemed to him her wilful misinterpretation of
facts, was gone. He saw no reason to conceal his immediate hope.
"I shall be 'aving a wife soon," he said and, in saying it, showed that
although he might have gauged correctly Mrs. Tom's insight he had
altogether missed her attitude. She turned sharply, staring at him.
Accustomed to have her facts dressed in the clothing which obtained
among her neighbours, his honesty repelled, even alienated, her. To know
was one thing, to admit your knowledge was another and, in Mrs. Tom's
eyes, Byron's candour was shocking and indecent. She stopped him with a
hasty, "A wife? My dear, yer poor wife ain't 'ardly cold yet?"
But Byron's perceptions had been dulled by the vividness of a secret
hope. "Iss," he persisted, unable to realize his companion's point of
view, "but I'm gwine marry again."
"Do-an 'ee say that then," implored Mrs. Tom, whose words were a loose
robe under which her thoughts could move at ease, "it don't sound
vitty."
Her earnestness, penetrating the mist of his illusions, reached the man.
He looked up, puzzled and anxious. Had he gone too far? Had he said
anything to arouse suspicion? Surely not, nevertheless he would be
careful, he would even affect a show of grief.
"I shall prettily miss S'bina," he began tractably, and Mrs. Tom nodded.
If the words were uttered perfunctorily the phrasing was correct. "I do
miss her," he continued, warming to the task. "I'm grievin' now." With
his feet stretched luxuriously, his body niched in the comfort of the
big chair, he looked woebegone indeed. "Nobody knows what a day I've 'ad
and she only just gone. Everybody I met stopped me and wanted to know a
parcel of questions and me keep on tellin' till I was muddled up. I
didn't knaw no more'n Adam what I were tellin' of'm." Having offered
his oblation he relapsed into a pleading sincerity. Not for years had
he spoken of his affairs, but the change in them, the hope of a belated
happiness, had unlocked his lips. "But still I can't live wi' that and
soon I'm gwine marry--no stranger to you."
Mrs. Tom put her annoyance into a shake of the frying-pan. "Now, my dear
feller," she said, "hain't a bit o' good for 'ee to think anything about
that. 'Tis so well to put it out of yer mind for ever. One thing I
don't want to knaw anything about it, bain't right as I should and,
another thing, I know she 'edn't for you." Obliged to admit a knowledge
she would have denied, she spoke with warning emphasis. "She never did
think anything about yer, nor never will."
Though Byron's belief that his good star was in the ascendant was
unshakeable, her conviction, expressed so firmly, troubled and irritated
him. He sprang out of the chair and, in his stocking feet, began to
walk up and down. Mrs. Tom, as she took knives and forks from the
kitchen drawer, looked at him uneasily. To her mind he suggested a
bull. He had the close-curled hair, the thick body and the gaze
alternately fierce and brooding. He was like a bull too in his ways,
rushing here, rushing there, a head-strong creature using force when
subtlety would have proved the better weapon. The uneasiness she felt,
being for her child, was like a smouldering fire, a very little fanning
and it would burst into flame.
"You may say what you like!" Now that Sabina was dead he could see no
reason for Mrs. Tom to oppose his suit. With the freehold of Wastralls
and his late wife's savings he would be the richest farmer in the
district. "She'm too young to knaw her own mind. I can make her care
and I will." His face grew bleak with the intensity of his emotion.
"I'll 'av 'er if I go through fire and water."
Only dread of what he might do, a dread impersonal and foreboding, could
have kept Mrs. Tom to her purpose. "Well," she said, rallying her
forces, for after all, poor soul, she had only one woman's share of
courage. "'Tis as well to tell yer, first as last--she's Jim
Rosevear's."
Byron had paused in his uneasy walk. He heard but he was unable to
believe, indeed he took this simple statement for a malicious invention.
Not for a moment did he credit it; but he was wrath with Mrs. Tom. If
for reasons he could not fathom she wanted Gray to marry Rosevear, she
must be made to realize that she was dealing with some one who, in this
matter, would not stand any nonsense. His eye grew menacing. "I dare
you to say such a thing to me," he cried, "to me what's mad in love with
her."
Mrs. Tom put down the frying-pan. Her fear for her child was
momentarily pushed aside by outraged affection. After twenty years of
married life and before his dead wife had been carried out of the house,
Leadville could proclaim his love for another woman! True or not he
should not say it, not to her. Taking the purple bonnet from behind the
door she tied it on. Leadville, however, was still too much obsessed by
passion to realize the effect he had produced; indeed, not until she was
walking out of the house did the breeze of her going reach him.
"What's the matter with yer?" he cried, shaken out of his absorption.
"I'm done wi' yer and I'm goin' 'ome."
"Goin' 'ome? Whatever be goin' 'ome for?"
"And what's more I 'ope I shall never come inside the door no more."
"What 'av I done?"
"Done?" she cried explosively.
He looked at her in a bewilderment, the genuineness of which angered her
the more.
"You talkin' like that and poor S'bina lying there. I'm fairly ashamed
of yer. A dog'd knaw better than that. I don't knaw 'ow she 'ad so much
patience, puttin' up wi' you all these years. Thank 'Eaven, I've no
need to."
He understood that she was annoyed on his late wife's account. To him
it was as if Sabina had been dead a year and he marvelled that she
should still exert an influence over others.
"Oh, come now," he said hurriedly, "I didn't mean to vex you, but when
people's dead and gone----"
"'Twould serve yer right," cried Mrs. Tom still indignant, "if she
should haunt yer."
"Haunt me?" stammered Byron with a quick change of mood. "She wouldn't
do that? You don't think she'd do that, do yer?"
"You knaw best whether she should or no," and she perceived without
understanding why, that this random shot had hit the target.
"Well, why should she?" The man relapsed into his ordinary manner. "I
don't like that kind of talk. Take an' come in now like a good sawl and
take no more notice of't."
Though Mrs. Tom yielded, she preserved a certain stiffness of manner.
The eggs were cold and leathery but she declined to fry others. "'Tis
your own fault yer supper's spoilt. S'bina was always studyin' you but
you'll 'av no one now to wait on you like she did, I bet a crown."
She looked over the supper-table to see that nothing had been forgotten.
"You 'av a cup o' cocoa at night, don't yer?"
Again that baffling glimpse of something hidden. "Cocoa?" said he.
"'Twas S'bina that drinked the cocoa. _I_--I 'ate it."
"Very well, then, I'll get yer a cup o' beer," and as she drew it from a
cask in the linhay her glance rested for a moment on the high-girdled
brown jug, the jug which Sabina had always used for her cocoa. Mrs. Tom
regarded it thoughtfully. Many a time she had seen it standing on the
stove, waiting till Sabina should be ready to carry it to her room. It
was a part of the nightly ritual of locking up, undressing,
sleep-wooing, a part of the old order which, with Sabina, had passed
away.
In spite of his bulk Byron was a moderate eater. The quality of his
food was, as he said, a matter of indifference and he swallowed the
leathery eggs as contentedly as if they had been worthy examples of Mrs.
Tom's skill.
"I think I should like to 'av a pipe," he said as soon as his hunger was
appeased. "I 'aven't smoked much lately, 'aven't felt like it."
Crossing the room he put a hand on the high mantelshelf in search of his
pipe. The restlessness of the past months had ebbed, leaving him at
peace. He craved the dreamy satisfaction of tobacco. "Why, what's this?
'Ere's a new pipe! 'Owever did it get 'ere?"
Mrs. Tom, glancing up from her work of clearing the table, saw that he
held in his hand the pipe with an amber mouthpiece which she had brought
from Stowe.
"Why, that's the one poor S'bina bought for yer!"
The unexpected was to Byron the threatening and the presence of the pipe
disturbed his new serenity. His mind began to bubble with suspicion,
with wild extravagant surmise. It did not occur to him that the
purchase of the pipe was a sign of Sabina's persistently kindly thought,
a survival from the disowned discredited past. "She did?" he muttered,
turning on it a look of mingled fear and aversion. "I didn't know that.
You don't mean to say she put it there?" It was as if she had crept
from her bed of death, had stolen in, shrouded but invisible and set the
mysterious pipe where his hand would chance on it.
Mrs. Tom, observant and wondering, filled the wooden wash-up bowl with
water and set it on the table. "I dare say she did."
"Did she put it there," he hesitated, calculating, "did she put it
there, last night?"
Last night when he was planning her death, had she too had her thoughts,
her plans? It was a disconcerting, to a guilty man, even an alarming
thought.
"It don't seem only last night, it seem ages since," said Mrs. Tom,
beginning to wash the cloam. "We bought it into Stowe and gived it to
S'bina and what she did with it then, I dunno. I s'pose she put it on
the chimley-piece."
It fell from his fingers and, hitting the steel fender, broke in two.
"I won't 'av it," he cried, violently. His face was grey. He was
beside himself with superstitious dread. Sabina, who should have been
dead, still lived. The old belief in her, as strong and incalculable,
had revived. He was like one expecting a blow and not knowing from what
quarter it would come. "I won't 'av it, I don't want'n. 'Ow do I know?
It might be poisoned!"
Mrs. Tom continued tranquilly to cleanse plates and dishes, but her mind
was busy. "A pipe poisoned? Get away man, you'm mad. What do yer mean?
Why, she bought it for a present for yer."
Byron looked from the pipe to Mrs. Tom and a glimmer of common sense
returned. He broke into an uneasy laugh. "Don't know what's come over
me," he said, picking up the pieces. "I'm all twitchy to-night. I
dunno what I'm sayin'. I'm carried off."
"Want a good night's rest," said she comfortably. "That's what's the
matter with 'ee. I shall be finished in a minute, then you'll be able
to lock up after me and go away to bed."
"Lock up after you?"
"I'll light the candles in S'bina's room--they're thick an' long and I
think they'll burn all the night--and then I must be goin' 'ome."
"You bain't goin' 'ome to-night, be yer?" Fear, scarcely driven out,
had returned.
"Why, of course I be. Surely you bain't afraid to stay 'ere?
"Well--there'll be no one in the 'ouse but me."
"Why, S'bina won't 'urt 'ee! Poor sawl, she's gone past 'urtin'."
He would be left alone with this strange incalculable Sabina who sprang
surprises on him, from whom not even his most private belongings were
safe and who had been wronged. The shadow of past horrors, the horrors
of the preceding night, fell on him.
"I can't stay 'ere alone," he said. "I can't. No, I can't."
"Well, my dear, there's the children to see to, and the 'ouse and
everything. Besides there's no bed for me to sleep in if I do stay 'ere
and I'm tired as a dog."
He was unable to offer a suggestion but his anxiety was written so
plainly on his face that Mrs. Tom would not deny him. If he were afraid
to be left, she must stay.
"I'll see what Tom got to say," she began uncertainly, and the trouble
died off Leadville's face. He looked about him and said in an excusing
tone:
"'Tis a whisht old house, so it is."
"Well now," said Mrs. Tom who, after a little thought, had seen how she
would manage, "I'll be off 'ome and whiles I'm gone you bring the li'l
bed from the top room and I'll make it up when I come down."
"I want for 'ee to 'av a decent bed." He was for once considerate.
"Search out a blanket or two for me and I shall be all right."
Her manner was matter of fact, but more than once that evening Leadville
had given her food for thought. Why should he be so uneasy, so
irritable and why, oh why, should he be frightened of the one creature
on earth who had held him dear? "When I've time," said Mrs. Tom to
herself as she went up the road, "I'll ponder it in my mind."
*CHAPTER XX*
A death in the family brings to some members of it unwelcome holiday.
Tom Rosevear, though not particularly fond of his cousin, would not have
thought it 'decent' to do more work than was necessary on the day 'poor
S'bina 'ad gone 'ome'; and when he had shot 'a wild duck or two,'
counted the seventy-three red-brown bullocks of his herd and arranged
for the death of a nineteen-score pig, he found time hang heavy on his
hands. Without his wife, Tom was like a whip-handle without a lash.
Once or twice during the afternoon he put his head in at the door, but
finding only Gray, went off again. He was as dissatisfied as a dog with
a sore toe and, though when evening darkened he sat down with the
children and took his tea, he ate without relish. The room which Gray,
ashamed of previous slackness, had set in order, was homelike and snug;
but in his thoughts Tom found vague fault with it. The old sofa was
shabby and the oilcloth worn, the place too was small, too small for so
large a family. When the meal was over he fetched the last number of
the _Cornishman_ from the parlour table and set himself, unhappily, to
read the paragraphs that bore on matters agricultural: and it seemed to
him--the lack of one being the lack of all--that even the _Cornishman_
was dull.
The hum of good-natured clack, of bubbling irrepressible life, that note
which is peculiarly the note of a growing family and which was
characteristic of Hember, had sunk to the merest suggestion of a sound.
The younger girls, having stayed away from school, showed by an
inclination to bicker that they missed their regular routine of work.
Gray, absorbed in her own affairs, was silent; while Richbell, who had
been trimming a hat and found her mother's fingers were needed to give
the smartening touch, sat staring at the unsatisfactory result of her
industry. As the evening wore on, one by one, the children slipped
cheerlessly away to bed. Gray, who had lighted a fire in the parlour,
went to sit there with her sweetheart and, upon the usually pleasant
kitchen, settled an unsatisfactory hush.
"'Tis time mammy was home," said Richbell as the rain of a sudden shower
beat on the window and went singing on across the shelterless land.
Tom, who had been nodding over the newspaper, looked at his feet. "If I
'adn't took off me boots, I'd go down and fetch 'er." He was a man of
medium height who spoke slowly, fetching up his words like water from a
well, fetching them, too, with considerable creaking of the machinery.
In appearance he was spare and hard, with a Viking moustache and close
dark hair which fitted to his skull like a cap. His wisdom being only
of the heart he was likely to remain in that state of life to which it
had pleased God to call him. His wife could rely on him for counsels of
moderation, she could rely also on an affection which, like home-brewed,
was good from the froth to the dregs.
"I can hear steps," cried Richbell, her discontented face brightening
and, as she spoke, Mrs. Tom, the raindrops shining on the wool of her
bonnet, her cheeks flushed by the quick walk uphill, came in. "Oh,
mammy," said the girl in tones that were themselves a welcome, "we
thought you was lost."
Tom laid aside the _Cornishman_. "Just thinking you was pisky-laid'n,"
he said, with the smile on which she had rested her heart content for
many a year. So glad was she of it after the discomfort, the hinted
mystery of the evening that, as she passed his chair, she pressed her
cheek for a moment against his. He responded by catching and pulling
her down upon his knee.
"Take and sit down 'ere a minute," he said, in his most cheerful tone.
Mrs. Tom was a busy creature, strong to work and to manage and it was
not often that her spirit flagged, that she showed the need of a stay.
"Now tell us all what you bin doing."
From the room beyond, Gray and Jim, their love-dreams shattered by the
sound of an arrival, came to round out the circle. They had been
sitting in the firelight, discussing the projected journey to Plymouth
and the disagreeable ways of Uncle Leadville. It did not surprise them
to find Mrs. Tom throned on her Jim's knee, for they believed in the
permanency of 'sweet-hearting.' What were twenty years?
In the home atmosphere--the atmosphere created by her return--Mrs. Tom
was able to dismiss the dim but ugly suspicions Leadville's manner had
engendered and take a simple, more prosaic view of his state. The man
was, as he had said, 'carried off' and the strangeness of his looks and
words were due in all probability to the shock he had received. He had
not loved Sabina but, to lose her thus suddenly, had unnerved him. Let
him have a good night's rest and he would be his usual brusque and
sombre self. She turned from the thought of him to give her attentive
hearers a recital of the day's events. They would like to know who had
called and what had been said, would like to take part at second hand in
the stir caused by Sabina's death. Tom had a further interest. His
mind had grasp. Unable to originate, he could adapt and improve, and he
was anxious to hear what arrangements were being made for the funeral.
"I think," said Mrs. Tom, at last, and there was a question, perhaps
even a glint of unkindly hope in her tone, "I think Leadville, poor old
chap, want for me to sleep down there to-night for company. What d'yer
think about it, Tom?"
Rumblingly, out of the depths, came his considered fiat. "I don't see
why you can't."
"No--o."
"The maidens 'ere," he glanced at his pretty daughters, "the maidens
'ere are big enough to look after the childer and me. I don't think I
should care to be left by meself if I was in 'is place."
"I don't s'pose you would." And with the ghost of a sigh she got up.
"Well, to-morrow I shall make arrangements with Mrs. Bate. Might 'ave
done it to-day, but I forgot. Now I'll go. 'Tis no good putting off
the evil hour; still, you do all seem pretty and comfortable in here."
Never had the little room, the close quarters, seemed so attractive; and
Tom too, looking round, found his discontent had evaporated. It was a
jolly snug little place, so it was.
He went with her to the door and they found that, between scudding
clouds, the moon was showing a bright face. The lane lay white between
the stone hedges with their crown of tamarisk and, at its foot, the
Trevorrick River ran with faint occasional sparkle across the sands.
Mrs. Tom had warmed her heart at the domestic fire. What was one night
away? She could look back at Tom, standing on the doorstep, and send
him an affectionate good night. After all, in keeping Leadville
company, she was doing what Sabina would have wished.
When she reached Wastralls she found an empty kitchen. Leadville,
following her directions, had brought down a small bed, set it in the
angle of the wall, between table and linhay door and, that done, had
gone to his own. The lamp was burning brightly, the fire glowed red
between the bars, the cushions of Old Squire's chair, the cloth on the
side-table, made notes of cheerful colour and the room, dark-raftered,
whitewashed, had an encouraging homeliness of aspect. A pang of loss
stabbed Mrs. Tom, for this had been her friend's home--had been! Only
yesterday those brave blue eyes of hers had rested contentedly on
objects made familiar by a lifetime of careful use. Sabina, to Mrs.
Tom, was not dead. She had gone away, exchanged this known and
comfortable world for things new and strange. The other was bound to
believe the change was for the better; but after all a change is a
change. She wished the veil that now hung between herself and Sabina
were not so thick, so deadening; she wished, with a sad heart, that she
might have been permitted to draw it aside. There must be much Sabina
would like to tell her.
The candles in the justice-room were burning steadily. Before arranging
the pile of pillows and blankets Leadville had left ready, Mrs. Tom
stole down the passage and went in. She must say good night to Sabina,
this Sabina who could not hear. She looked to see that no draught was
filtering through blind and curtain to set the lights guttering, then
turned to her friend; but, as her glance fell on the set cold face, she
had a sense of disappointment. Sabina was so remote. No word of hers
could carry so far, nor could the eager seeking of her spirit find this
other which for so long had been in touch with hers. The figure in the
bed was not Sabina. It was the cloak she had worn and, taking off, had
thrown away. It had been shaped to her uses, it had been hers, but that
was all.
Turning away, she closed the door on it and went back to the kitchen.
The ache of her loss, realized in this quiet hour, was a gnawing pain
but she had been at work from before dawn and her limbs were heavy.
Extinguishing the lamp, she settled herself between the blankets. As
her eyes accustomed themselves to the change of light she saw that the
room was not in darkness. Pale diamonds of moonlight lay on floor and
table, filling the space with a soft greyness in which the few articles
of furniture, the tables, the big chair and the glazed cupboard, loomed
darkly clear. In spite of grief, Mrs. Tom was too tired to be wakeful.
Her eyelids closed on the familiar objects which spoke so loudly of
Sabina and she fell asleep.
A little later, but while the moon was still a mild radiance lighting
the low warm room, she was roused--and being the mother of young
children she slept lightly--by a distant but regular sound, the sound of
approaching steps. Sick or sleepless or frightened little ones often
stole to her bedside and she awoke therefore, not to fear but a kind
readiness. As she opened her eyes she realized that she was not in her
sea-scented upper chamber at Hember, but this did not alarm her. Too
unself-conscious for small timidities, her mind leaped to the surmise
that Leadville, having been 'twitchy-like' all day, was worse. Before
he thrust back the kitchen door she was considering which of the simple
remedies at her command would prove most beneficial.
"Why Leadville, whatever's the matter..." she was beginning when
something about him, some departure from the normal, checked her words;
and she perceived that, though he had come into the room with head
thrust forward in everyday fashion, his aspect was unusual. His features
were set and his eyes had an inward look. It was as if something behind
his eyes and not they themselves, were looking out. He was staring
across the room and his glance had focused itself on the wall behind
Mrs. Tom. She had thought he saw her but, in a moment, she realized her
mistake. He was not aware of her, in fact was looking through her. To
him she was unsubstantial as the sea-mist, nay as the warm air of the
kitchen. His was the illumination of a dream. The objects he saw were
not the actual furnishings of the kitchen but the figments of a mind
asleep.
Mrs. Tom, who had seen children walking in their sleep, recognized the
look. It was as if an intelligence, banished to some remote cell of
being, had seized the opportunity of slumber to assert itself. The body
moved, but unconsciously and as if under a spell. It obeyed, but
clumsily and as if it had a difficulty in interpreting the wishes of
this new master.
She was not alarmed but at a loss. The children 'walked' when they had
eaten too many raw blackberries or had sat overlong at their lessons or
been frightened; and Leadville, 'poor sawl too,' was only a big child.
He had had a shock and this was the result. She wondered what she had
better do? A little maid could be led back to bed and tucked in again
and left, but Leadville? She decided to wait and see. Perhaps, in a
minute or two, he would go of himself.
Meanwhile the sleep-walker, after standing by the door for some moments,
had crossed the room and seated himself on the window-bench. Mrs. Tom
was tired and very drowsy. Reassured as to his needs and purpose, she
found it difficult to remain awake. Her lids were closing, her mind was
drifting from the contemplation of his dark and motionless figure and
she was nodding off again, when the elbow on which she was leaning,
slipped. Jarred into wakefulness she glanced hastily at Leadville. For
a moment she had been oblivious of him. She hoped to find that he had
gone quietly back to bed, but no, he was still sitting in the moonlight.
To Mrs. Tom it seemed either that the moonlight was particularly bright
or that she saw by it more clearly than usual, for not only was Byron's
figure clear and sharp but his features were darkly visible. She could
see that he was interested in something which was taking place on the
other side of the room, that his eyes moved as if watching some one who,
to Mrs. Tom, was invisible.
"Old chap see something," she thought and, looking at the blank space
about the hearth, felt her flesh creep. Of a folk who accept the
supernatural, the unusual, without doubt or question, she took it for
granted that Leadville in his sleep-walking condition would have powers
to which she could not pretend. That what he saw he had first created,
did not occur to her. What moved about the hearth was, she believed,
actually there; and she was intensely, tremulously interested. Who
could it be? Sabina?
She had at first supposed that, unnerved by his wife's sudden and
unexpected death and with his self-control relaxed by sleep, he had not
been able to resist the inclination to wander restlessly about the
house. She had had to admit, however, that there was more in this
sleep-walking than mere shock and restlessness. Byron was conscious in
a peculiar way, conscious of things and events. He saw something and
this something or somebody, was moving about as if engaged on a domestic
task. Could Sabina, having put off mortality, be here in the spirit;
was her wraith haunting the rooms familiar to her, viewlessly busy in
the old way? Mrs. Tom strained her eyes in a pathetic attempt to catch
a glimpse of the dear long-known features and full figure, but no
spectral greyness lightened the heavy obscurity of that part of the room
and nothing moved, nothing that is, that she could see. She turned back
presently to Leadville and it seemed to her that either the moonlight
was brighter or she more observant, for now his face had grown so clear
to her, its very expression could be seen. She looked at him and then
began hurriedly to hope she had been mistaken and that the unseen form
he was watching was not Sabina's for, if it were, how should his gaze be
at once so furtive and so menacing? What did it mean?
If, at the suggestion of an unseen companion her flesh had crept, what
was her state when in Leadville's eye she read a threat? Under her the
little bed shook until she feared lest she might attract his attention.
She did not know that to him she was the invisible occupant of the room.
His subconscious mind was reconstructing a scene out of the past in
which she had no part and he was therefore entirely unaware of her. For
some time he continued to follow the movements of the unseen person by
the fireplace and, gradually, his intent look changed to a smile, a
smile of satisfaction. He had learned what he would know and he was
smiling to himself over it, smiling after such a fashion that the
watcher shrank back and back until she was against the wall. This was a
'whisht' old house and she was alone in it with a dead woman and with
this man.
Her thoughts, hitherto vague as mist, distilled a clear drop ... 'a dead
woman and why dead?'
The question frightened her and, for a moment, she shut her eyes. If
only she could have shut the eyes of her mind, for suspicion was one
thing, actual knowledge another. But no, a word was being whispered in
her unwilling ear and already, although she refused to admit it she knew
what lay behind Leadville's terrifying smile.
That time last night a light had been burning in the kitchen, yet he had
told her he was in bed by ten. She had doubted then and, during the
day, had found a hundred reasons for continuing to doubt. If her mind
had swung uncertain, anxious to think generously, to discredit its own
acumen, uncertainty was now over. The blood was drumming in her ears
but, suddenly, above it rose the soft padding sound of a stockinged
foot. Mrs. Tom opened her eyes quickly and from that moment forgot
herself and her reluctance in an absorbed attention. For her the time
was come when what was still hidden would be made clear. Leadville had
got up from his seat and was crossing the room. He went directly to the
wall cupboard, opened the green door and took something from the shelf.
There was no groping, his hand fell at once on what was required and he
turned away with it to the range. As if expecting to find a vessel of
some kind on the top, he passed his hand slowly across the cavernous
space. As it did not meet with an obstacle he paused and, for a moment,
stood balancing in his habitual way from one foot to the other. Mrs. Tom
saw that he was at a loss, that the directing impulse was no longer
clear. In her curiosity, her distress, she had risen and followed him;
and now stood by the table watching his face, his face which though the
eyes were open was yet blind. On it trouble was depicted, trouble and
anxiety. The onlooker had more than a suspicion of his purpose, knew
indeed as well as if she had seen it what he held in his hand. Had he
not cried out that the pipe Sabina had bought for him was poisoned?
She wondered what he had thought to find on the oven-top, what saucepan,
kettle, pan. She had no doubt as to what he would do, but the actual
means?
Leadville swayed from side to side in a long uncertainty and it was
evident that his trouble grew. His face twitched, those unseeing eyes
of his stared anxiously; and at last in a voice, hoarse and smothered,
he uttered with immense effort two words:
"The ... jug..."
Startled by this desolate and abominable sound, Mrs. Tom shrank back
from him. The words had come from those depths in which was lurking the
guilty spirit of the man, they had come in spite of the swaddling bands
of sleep, they had come laden and heavy laden. He wanted--a jug; and
her thoughts flew to the jug that had stood on the table by Sabina's
bed, the brown high-girdled jug which, after supper, was always placed
on the oven-top that the contents might be kept warm until she was ready
to drink them. Mrs. Tom remembered his expression when she had offered
to brew cocoa for his supper--''Twas S'bina that drinked the cocoa.'
Byron had torn the veil from his deed. Mrs. Tom knew what was kept in
the wall cupboard and where. She knew upon what bottle his hand had
fallen. Presently she would make sure but she already knew. The
measure meted to the old and damaged and useless of the farm animals had
been meted to Sabina; and the hand that poured the poison had been the
one which owed her everything.
After that exclamation which seemed to have been torn from some remote
corner of his being, Leadville's agitation began to pass. His
disappointment, even his purpose was forgotten and, for some time, he
stood quietly by the range, his face wearing a fixed but no longer an
intent look. The impulse that had driven him remorselessly, which had
reconstructed for him the scene of the preceding night, which had shown
that, like Zimri, there was for him no peace, was fading.
The chill of the night had begun to invade the kitchen and the
sleep-walker seemed to be dully conscious of discomfort. He shivered
slightly, stirred and then slowly, heavily, turned away. During the
last few minutes he had lost vitality, grown older; and it was a man
shouldering the full burthen of his years who went out of the kitchen
and up the shallow treads of the stair.
*CHAPTER XXI*
The day following Sabina's death had been to Byron as a tract of hilly
and dangerous country. He had traversed it, as he believed, without
more than an occasional stumble and, at the day's end, had seen from the
mountain-tops of sleep a vision of rich lands under the suns of fair
to-morrows, a vision not altogether dispersed when he awoke. Springing
out of bed he surveyed with eager hope the yellowing dawn. Mrs. Tom,
being in no mind to trouble herself about him, he had been allowed to
sleep on and, exhausted by the emotions, by the mental gymnastics of the
previous day, he had done so until the eastern horizon was afire. From
his upper window he looked up Trevorrick River, now December-full and
purring over a wide bed of slates and quartz. The day was mild and
still. A girl, in a blue coat and carrying a can, was crossing the
stepping-stones and he recognized her as Jenifer Bate. The cloak hung
in straight lines about her swelling figure and on her head was a gooky
bonnet--a sort of winter sun-bonnet--which had belonged to her dead
mother. She had brought Mrs. Bate down to Wastralls and was returning
with milk for the people at Cottages. "She think weather'll be catchy,"
he said to himself with the joyous feeling that she was mistaken. The
wind had dropped till not a breath stirred the beaded tamarisk but, far
overhead, clouds were drifting lazily from the north. As long as they
sailed the sky in that direction there would be no rain.
Below stairs the women were busy roasting chickens and otherwise
preparing for the morrow. Sunday in the West is a time of rest from
labour; of gathering in the chapels for friendly intercourse; but death,
with a high hand, substitutes for local custom a universal law and not
one of Mrs. Tom's helpers had failed her. In a corner of the kitchen a
meal had been prepared for Byron and he slipped quietly into the chair
set in readiness. For the first time since his wife's death he was
conscious of flavour in the food. Breakfast was the good beginning of a
good day and he ate and drank with relish. His mind had been like the
sands at low water, a place of quags and pools and unsuspected rocks but
now the tide of life had risen and he had forgotten what lay below.
Yesterday was wholly gone and before him lay long hours--hours of
realization, of happiness such as he had never before known. The women
moved quietly about and in the midst of that orderly bustle Byron sat,
speaking now and then in answer to some remark but always as if his mind
were preoccupied. The meal ended, he made perfunctory offer of his
services but was relieved to find the work had been so arranged that his
room was more desired by the women than his help.
"That one's glad to be gone out of it," said Mrs. Con as his heavy
figure passed the window on its way to the waste lands; and all could
see that Byron was no longer slouching along in the mooning and
indifferent manner to which they were accustomed.
"He'm like Parson's Fool, like everything that's good, but don't want to
work for't," remarked Aunt Louisa, her big scissors going 'crusp, crusp'
through some black material that was spread over the table.
Mrs. Tom repeated in an indifferent voice, the old tag:
"'s'E 'av got fever o' lurk
Two minds to eat and none to work.'"
She was looking ill and, when the women commented on her appearance, had
spoken of a sleepless night. She was in fact oppressed by the horror of
her late experience. As she went about the tasks of the moment she was
as if in a cloud, a cloud on which the scene of the previous night was
reflected, now from one point of view, now from another.
Unable to forget it she threw herself into the work with an energy which
aroused the admiration of the other women and made Aunt Louisa wonder.
"She don't work 'ome like that," mumbled the old woman over her mouthful
of pins, "nor I don't believe 'tis cos she was so fond of S'bina. That
one know more'n we think she do," and throughout the day which, for Mrs.
Tom, was unbearably long, a haunted miserable day, Aunt Louisa kept a
thoughtful eye upon her.
Byron, striding out of the yard, struck across the wide spread of
shallow water and up the natural rock embankment which, on that side of
Trevorrick valley, prevented the sea from overrunning the 'wastralls.'
The turf, cropped closely by his bullocks, clipping into the bright
yellow green of marsh, breaking into grey spire-grass towards the west,
stretched before him up the coast. With his happy feet he meant to beat
the boundaries of the farm, of the goodly acres which, after a time of
waiting longer than that of Jacob, were his. A tamarisk hedge ran north
and south between the commons--which a century ago had been arid
sand--and Hember fields. Byron, walking by this, looked across the
undulating ground to the sandy ramparts on the sea-edge. Piled by
forgotten tides they resembled in their tiny crests and hollows, their
unexpectedness, their general conformation, the huddle of a mountain
range. By them the plain behind was protected from the worst rigours of
the Atlantic and Byron saw them as a useful factor in his plan for the
development of the commons. At present cattle pastured on the turf,
rabbits flickered through the spire-grass and the wide space was quiet
and at rest. It lay, peacefully, under the eye of day and that which
moved on its green bosom moved as if time did not exist. But Byron
meant to alter this, to change the face of the dunes. He would tear up
the turf which fitted to the land as curling hair fits to a man's head
and he would plant the seaward side with a sea-plant, with asparagus.
Farther in, he would have strawberries. He knew they did well on the
south coast, on the sandy strip beyond Southampton; and he planned a
journey which should enable him to observe the methods of other men,
which should teach him how to turn the sand beneath his feet into gold.
As he walked by a clump of hawthorn and bramble he touched a rabbit gin
and, with a sinister snap, the teeth came together. Byron pulled it out
and reset it. He meant to rid the land of its rabbits and it pleased
him to mark his intention; but gins and guns were ridiculously
inadequate, his trapping would be of a more efficacious kind. It should
exterminate.
Returning to the house for a midday meal he once more made perfunctory
offer of his services.
"Funeral being to-morrow," said Mrs. Tom, and her glance gave him a
momentary, quickly banished qualm, "of course there's things to be
arranged out-of-doors as well as in. You'll 'av to clear the yard to
make room for all the carts; and 'tis a pity there hain't time to give
front door a coat of paint. 'Tis looking terrible grimy."
"I know the paint's rubbed off but there 'edn't time to do't now," said
Byron and, lest she should have other suggestions to make, hurried
through his meal and went out. A glance round the yard showed that old
George was at work preparing the place for the influx expected on the
morrow, an influx which would be welcome to Byron when it came but the
thought of which was momentarily disturbing. Sufficient unto the hour
the emotion thereof. This was the day of anticipation, the day between
the end of the old order and the beginning of the new. He would not
have it broken in upon by claims from either side. Shaking off thoughts
of yesterday and to-morrow, as a man shakes raindrops from his coat,
Byron turned out of the yard. This time he went uphill. Dark Head lay
before him to the south and from its crest he could survey the good
lands that sloped from the ridge--the cornfields and the cider orchard,
the meadows between which Trevorrick River wound its way and above which
St. Cadic Mill lifted a grey tower. Byron's heart sang to the rhythm of
his striding feet and his mind busied itself with schemes. If the hinds
would not work the land as he wished he would advertise for strangers,
experienced men. He would find them cottages, there were some on the
farm, Hindoo Cottage, Hesselwood, Towan Veals. The men would keep each
other in countenance. For all he was himself a 'foreigner,' he knew how
the country people would look on these strangers. But in the end, when
he was reaping his fat harvests, when one field was bringing in what
would cover the rent of a farm, the folks about would change their note.
He saw himself on the crest of the wave, a man who had fought his way to
the top, who had deserved what he had won. And how much more than the
material award would that winning be!
From where he stood on the landward slope of Dark Head, the slope that
was washed by the morning and the midday sun, his glance fell naturally
on the square outstanding block of Hember, the cheery ugly house, grey
but with its many bright windows set in white cement, the house which
had some far-off look of a hive and about which was always the murmur of
life. A sunny garden, sunk between stone walls, between black wind-bent
firs, ran down to the road and in it a girl was moving from patch to
patch of earth. His heart leapt for, as her hair gave out no dazzle of
light beneath the sun, he knew it must be Gray. He would have known
without that indication, without any; his blood would have recognized
her in the dark. His 'little umuntz!' The significant black gown gave
her an unfamiliar look but, in his eager pleasure at the sight of her,
he missed the difference, missed too another difference, that change
that comes to fruit when, after hanging green upon the bough, the sun
has warmed it to ripeness and a hand, a desirous hand, has gone out to
it. From time to time Gray stooped over the garden beds. She was
picking the flowers that yet lingered in sheltered nooks, the flowers of
the dying year and those that were burgeoning to greet the new. A
rosebud that would never open hung on the brier, a few snowdrops had
pushed up from their bulbs. Gray was binding her treasure-trove with a
long dark hair. Flowers from Hember garden should lie between Sabina's
dead fingers and go down with her into the grave; and, as the girl moved
from one lew corner to another, her tears fell on the old roots and on
the blossoms in her hand. Leadville watching, wondered what she was
about. His mind being wholly occupied with the future, he had forgotten
that past for which Sabina stood.
Until the flowers were gathered to the last bud he stood looking on and
in his eyes was a kindliness strange to them. Gray, moving hither and
thither on her loving task, showed young and helpless. Once she was
his, once he had overcome her faint reluctance--and, thinking of it, his
face hardened with resolution. He would take any measure he esteemed
necessary to gain his end. But, once he had overcome the reluctance
which he must admit, he would be good to her. He would live for
her--for her and Wastralls. She should have no wishes that he would not
gratify. She should be rich, looked up to and beloved; and what more
could a woman want? The thought of what he would do when Gray was his
and Wastralls his, quickened his steps and he walked on, in a warm
content, walked until he, even he, felt a weariness in his bones. A
scarlet sun was setting in splendour over a milky sea as he made his way
home. In the kitchen Mrs. Bate, now installed as housekeeper, had
prepared a meal. He ate of it in happy silence, not missing Mrs. Tom,
if anything pleased to have only a servant in the room. The place, with
only the old women present, seemed more utterly his.
For a little he sat on by the hearth, his shirt open at the neck to the
agreeable warmth of the fire, his eyes on the leaping blue and purple
flames. It had been a 'borrowed' day, it had been full of happy
anticipation, of planning no longer vague. To-morrow would be even
better for, with its dawning, the countryside would gather to Sabina's
funeral and all must recognize him as owner of the place. His heart
sang a wild measure of triumph. He was no longer a man in the forties,
moving with unimpaired strength yet with a growing stiffness, but one
who had renewed his youth. That day had been the beginning. He was
dreaming great dreams, passionate hot dreams, the dreams of a man with
immense capacities for emotion. Mrs. Bate, shutting up for the night,
broke in at long last on a vision of himself teaching a little son--his
son and Gray's--to ride the black stallion; and, getting up, he
stretched himself with a laugh, a laugh the old woman thought
indecorous.
"You'm for overstairs? Well, so be I."
"Do I rake out the ashes, maister?" she asked timidly.
"Oh, leave'n be." He had no more use for petty economies than he had
for petty spite. The day of small things was at an end.
To Mrs. Tom the revelation of the previous night had been as the rolling
away of a mist from the face of a landscape already dimly familiar. Its
horrific nature had banished sleep and darkened a natural grief but had
not startled her by its unexpectedness. Subconsciously she had expected
something of the sort to happen. She did not dwell on Sabina's stubborn
withholding of the land, on her failure to understand the more emotional
more desperate nature of her husband. She accepted it as a fact.
Sabina had been like a person riding out to sea, who had believed fondly
that she was only fording a river and, with patience and management,
must presently find her horse's hoofs on the shingle of the opposite
bank. Tragedy had been the outcome and this Mrs. Tom, with her sure
instinct for life, had known would come to pass. Not even the form it
had taken had seemed other than natural. A man's weapons are those to
his hand, the things he has handled from his youth up, not something
strange and foreign. Byron had poisoned his wife, as he had poisoned
old Shep and many another used-up creature. With the means to hand the
only wonder was that he had not done it before. He had been married
twenty years and every day must to him have been more unhappy and more
disappointing than the last. Mrs. Tom was aware of the provocation he
had received but accepted it as a cause, not an excuse. Because she saw
it with the imagination of the country-woman who, having never been to a
theatre is yet able to stage for her own pleasure the dramas being
enacted within her reach, saw it with a deadly clarity from faint
beginnings to the culmination, her moral sense was not the less
outraged. Her attitude towards animals used for food had not affected
her belief that human life was sacred; and Byron's crime, though easy to
understand, was to her mind unpardonable.
But Mrs. Tom's attitude was not one of mere condemnation. That warm and
pitiful heart had agonized through the dark hours over her friend's
fate, over the snatching away of that fag-end which was all Sabina had
of life. Sabina who had been so trusting, so simple! Well, she had not
known. She was saved that. She had carried her optimism with her, her
fond belief that all would come right, that discomforts were only of the
moment and that peace must follow, peace and affection. Good, she would
have said, must prevail. Mrs. Tom, reviewing that sunny faith, that
placid acceptance of weather conditions, both in life and with regard to
the land, that wholesome jovial point of view, felt her gorge rise
against the man who had lived with Sabina without loving her who, for
his own ends, had done her to death.
How had he dared? To that question Mrs. Tom could fit the answer. With
Sabina living he could not hope to win Gray. Not because of Wastralls
had he been moved to do this thing. Mrs. Tom, accustomed to the facile
passions of the West, shrank from contemplation of an emotion so
devastating. In a land where sexual lightness is looked on, not as
sinful but inconvenient, where the village light-o'-love lives to a
respected old age and the love-child has as many chances of success in
life as he who bears his father's name, such a passion as that of Byron
for Gray is rare. Mrs. Tom, although she knew, could hardly believe.
She was thankful there could be nothing in it, that Gray had made her
choice; yet with that thankfulness went the pricking of a further doubt.
If Byron had done so dire a deed in order to clear his path, how would
he act when it was brought home to him that his deed was to make no
difference, that the path was blocked for him beyond all clearing? Mrs.
Tom was angry for Sabina, but for Gray she was afraid. Would Jim be
able to protect her? He was, after all, only a young chap. Between her
anger and her fear she hung in sore trouble until the hour struck that
ushered in another workaday morning.
Mrs. Tom was glad to leave the blankets. She had tossed among them till
they seemed all hair and hardness, and it was a relief to fold them away
and begin the labours of the day. 'Great Thomas,' the other hind, so
called because he gave promise in limb and shoulder of unusual strength,
came in with the milk. 'Uncle George' brought the tale of his
requisitions among the farm-labourers of the vicinity and, by the time
the kitchen was ready and the sewing-machine in place, Mrs. Tom's
helpers were beginning to arrive. Never had their familiar faces been
so welcome to her. By companionable talk they were to banish the
haunting terror of the night and it seemed at first as if this might be.
Before long, however, Mrs. Tom found that the effect on her mind of
Leadville's revelation was darker, more insistent than she had believed.
Between her and the everyday talk came the sleep-walker and she saw
again Leadville's smile. At times during the morning she could, so
great was the tension, have cried out.
That smile ...
It had been a writing on the wall, the interpretation of which was death
and, though she carried this ghastly knowledge in her breast, she must
behave as usual, or Aunt Louisa---- She knew instinctively it would be
Aunt Louisa, always taking soundings, who would guess. Perhaps even now
...
She glanced up suddenly and met that cool grey eye fixed on her
consideringly. Yes, Aunt Louisa was awake to every scent and sound.
Marvellous old creature! She must be seventy, yet age had not impaired
her faculties, had not taken from her the power of scenting out a
mystery, of satisfying her avid curiosity. The feeling that she was
already suspicious had a stimulating effect on Mrs. Tom. She pulled
herself together and, plunging into the work, was successful for a time
in banishing a too-persistent memory.
Nevertheless, when in the late afternoon the house was adjudged ready
for the morrow and the women, all but Mrs. Bate, prepared to go, Mrs.
Tom's relief was unspeakable. The dead woman lay in her coffin, legs in
place; the leaves had been fitted into the parlour table and the best
damask spread upon it. Floors, windows, paint, every corner was
meticulously clean and on the linhay shelves were stacked cold meats in
generous provision. Everything must be as Sabina would have wished and
it was in the minds of all that, at this her funeral feast, Sabina was
still hostess. Byron's claim to be owner had by them been tacitly
ignored. As long as Sabina was above ground Wastralls was hers, and it
was from her dead and silent lips that they had taken their orders.
Driven by Mrs. Tom's example they had worked hard and as they went
together up the lane, after the manner of tired bodies, they spoke but
little. She herself, unable to stave off any longer her troubled
thoughts, walked quickly and, as she turned in at her own gate, bade
them a good night she had some ado to keep from being tremulous. She
was overwrought. She wanted to get back to Tom, to his affection and
his good counsel; and her heart, running before, whispered that a
certain shoulder in an old coat was the one safe and comfortable pillow
for a tired head.
As she crossed the threshold, intent on pouring out her troubles and
finding heartease, she heard the sound of voices. It being Sunday,
Gray, who played the harmonium at the little chapel, had gone thither;
but the other maidens uncertain what, in the circumstances, was expected
of them, had not ventured to accompany her. They were gathered in the
kitchen where Tom, too, was sitting. Mrs. Tom, controlling herself to a
last effort, told them she was sure their auntie would not have wished
them to stay home from chapel on her account. Better for them the sight
of kindly faces, the familiar routine of the service, than this brooding
quiet.
"An' yer mournin's is all made up ready. 'Tis wonderful that they have
been done so smart. Aunt Louisa is the quickest 'and for 'er needle I
ever seen in my life."
While, with the dilatoriness natural to young people, they fastened
strings and hooks Tom, from his seat on the old sofa, asked her
concerning the funeral. A burial, like a birth or a marriage, was part
to him of the pageant of life; and each part brought its particular and
pleasurable emotion.
"I expect the people from all around'll be 'ere," he said in measured
tones and to each syllable he gave its due volume of sound. He spoke
with effort but the sounds he produced were strong and full of
substance, rough sounds and not in the least mellow but satisfying to
the ear as home-made bread is to the inner man. "You've provided a
plenty of food for them 'aven't yer?"
"Plenty of everything, I believe," said his wife and there was a note in
her voice, a note of tension, which he recognized but did not
understand. What had upset her? Was she still grieving or was she
overtired? "We shall 'av tea in the kitchen for the bearers and a table
laid in the Big Parlour for the mourners. Now Rhoda, make haste or the
others'll be to Church Town before you'm started."
"'Twill be a pretty grand sight," pursued Tom, "with so much people. I
bet 'twill be the finest funeral that 'av been for many a year."
Mrs. Tom saw the last loiterer on her way and, returning, sat down on
the cushioned stool which was generally occupied by Smut. The old cat,
thus dispossessed, sprang into her lap and pushed its little pointed
face against her hand. But Mrs. Tom put it down. "No, Smutty, I
'aven't got the 'eart to take yer up to-night."
"Ah, mother," said Tom, fancying he had found the key to her haggard
looks, "I'm afraid you're missin' poor S'bina. 'Tis a sad thing for
yer. I don't believe there's a day gone but you've seen one another."
"Iss, I do miss 'er and I shall miss 'er." But her acquiescence,
lacking fullness, showed him he had not reached the heart of the matter.
"Well and what is it?" he asked and in his rough full tones and his
eyes, was the kind comprehension of which she stood in need.
"Tidn't 'er dyin' I'm thinkin' about, 'tis 'ow she did die."
"'Er goin' so suddint?" said Tom, cautiously.
"No, nor 'tidn't that uther but--well, it do look very funny and there's
things I've seen--" she paused, gazing anxiously at her husband. "Old
chap surely done something--between you and I."
"Old chap 'av?" Tom's face, expressive as was natural to one who helped
out his words with gesture, showed a deepening interest. "You don't
mean it? Why do 'ee think so?"
Thus encouraged she plunged into her tale and, though she told it in
rambling fashion, with discursions and superabundant detail, it was
convincing. The interpretation Isolda put on Byron's sleep-walking was
one Tom could accept. Simple and primitive, such a deed did not seem to
him impossible. It was wrong, it was wicked, but it might happen and
his wife told him that it had. Poor Sabina, and she had had no idea what
sort of a man she was marrying and what she was bringing on herself! A
black heart if ever there was one, but what could you expect? Tom was
visibly moved. He punctuated his wife's tale with exclamations of ruth
and horror but he did not feel it as deeply, as emotionally, as she.
Mrs. Tom thought of Byron vindictively and with a personal animus. She
would have been glad to see him taken to gaol, to have had him hanged;
but to Tom he was still what he had always been--an intruder. The
willingness to ''eave 'alf a brick' at his head had been there from the
beginning and Tom was of those who wait and do not trouble but who, if
the opportunity occurs, will seize it.
"Well, do seem funny, sure, mother," he said as his wife made an end.
"Nothin' 'scapes your eyes, I knaw."