Wastralls

Chapter XI

An hour later Byron came into the kitchen carrying a small dead seal. Climbing down by a little treacherous path, he had seen it lying at the mouth of a cave and for some minutes had stood to watch it. By means of an inner membrane it was clearing first one nostril of sea-water and then the other; and he had shot it while it was still unaware of him.

“What’s become o’ the furnace?” he asked. “I told George to leav’n by the hedge-gripe.”

Sabina, though a farmer, preserved some feminine traits and in particular a love of tidiness. She was as clean as a cat and to see her yard churned up by the hoofs of the cattle, and the farm implements at the mercy of the weather, troubled her. The rusty furnace, an outdoor stove used for farm purposes and, in particular, to try out seal-oil, had been an eyesore and she had had it removed.

“’Tis out in the bullocks’ house.”

Leadville ‘damned ’er up in the ‘eaps for interferin’ with ’is things’; but he spoke, not harshly so much as absent-mindedly.

“I’ll ’av the place as I’ve a mind to,” returned Sabina placidly. Her husband had often raged against the equable good nature which suffered without malice, as a mother surfers the unreasonableness of her child. Now he only muttered vaguely as he set the gun in its thongs over the door.

“Where’s Dick to?”

“Drayin’ oreweed.” Sabina, who had manoeuvred the trolly close to the fender, had been nodding in the agreeable warmth. An indoor life had made her susceptible to cold and this afternoon she felt tired and ill. The emotions rather than the work of the day had exhausted her, and she had thought to snatch a few minutes’ rest before Mrs. Tom, whom she was expecting to call on the way back from Stowe, should arrive.

“You’ll catch afire one of these days if you keep on gruddlin’ so,” said Byron, with a fathering wish. Sabina could not follow his thought, in fact she mistook it for solicitude. It was long since he had shown any interest in her welfare. Could the doctor’s visit, revealing that she was in a poor way, have brought her husband to a better mind? Like the rest of us she could not believe that it takes all sorts to make a world and, in the eyes of others, saw consequently only the reflection of herself. She looked hopefully at Leadville and at once he turned away, hanging his big head and balancing from one foot to the other. His mind was stirring, as the sand crawls under an army of ants. He felt the movement, was perhaps vaguely conscious of the direction in which he was going, but could not see the end; not yet.

A cart laden with glistening weed, wet and olive-brown, had come up from the beach. As Leadville lounged out of the porch he saw that Dick Bennett was the driver. The weed had been left by the receding tide, left ankle-deep in every sandy bay, strewn over the black rocks; a generous provision, enough for every potato-patch in the parish. Nor did the glossy slippery weed constitute the whole of the sea-harvest. Manure for the fields, wood for the kitchen fires and, what that wood had held—oranges and shelled walnuts, crates and bags and boxes—had floated in during the night. The sea had been good to the lonely dwellers on her coasts; and she had offered, in her own gruesome fashion, a Christmas gift.

“The furnace, maister? I knaw where ’tis to. Leave me empt up this and I’ll get it for yer.”

When the stove, red with rust, had been reinstated in the shelter of the hedge, Byron took up the limp body and began to prepare it.

“That’s every bit of coal we got, till Jim bring ’ome some from Stowe,” said Bennett as he poured a shovelful of round knobs, which had been salvaged from the sea, on to the furze bushes, and set them alight.

“There’s plenty of wood there,” grunted the other, “so we must burn that.”

“I should think ’twas time Jim ’ud be back.” The hind was a little mournful man with a grievance. He had seen Jim drive off that morning, in his Sunday suit, with a pretty girl for company; and he had felt that he himself, older in service, should have been sent. “But these young chaps, when they go an errand, they take good care they don’t come ’ome very quick. Course,” he added grudgingly, “’e can spend the day in Stowe without any trouble.”

“Oh, shut yer mouth,” cried the other savagely. The man’s grumbling chatter had obliged him to remember that Jim Rosevear was with Gray. Till then, he had succeeded in keeping the thought of their proximity at the back of his mind. It had been difficult, but he had done it. Dick had made it no longer possible and the day in Stowe unrolled itself before his jealous eyes—the drive in, a drive of five good Cornish miles, the drive behind Lady who, though a good mare, was slow: the stall in the market where Rosevear would set up the trestles, help the girl arrange to the best advantage the eggs, the poultry, the pounds and half pounds of butter: the meeting after market on the Quay where, the wagon being loaded with coal and flour, they would leave Lady by the warehouse while they hurried from shop to shop, she buying and he carrying the parcels: finally the long drive home in the windy dusk. Leadville tortured himself with the thought of that drive, of Gray’s softness and nearness, of the little face between the fur of cap and necklet, the little smiling face....

He had been skinning the seal. Much as less powerful men skin a rabbit, he had been tearing the coat, grey and damp, from the smooth pale body. A stone wall, five foot broad at the base and crowned with tamarisk bushes, is what in Cornwall is called a hedge. It is at least a shelter from the wind, and Dick Bennett had been careful to set the furnace in a lew corner. The furze bushes burnt with a crackle and above them the sea-coal smouldered slowly in large red lumps. The air in the yard was fresh but still, and through it, a warm reek, rose the smell of blood. It rose to Byron’s nostrils, affecting him as it affects the children of the wild, rousing in him that primitive, long-forgotten, but deathless passion which claims survival as its right and, battling before the hosts that wait to be called across the threshold, stakes its life. Between his hands hung the limp body and he wrenched at the skin in a growing fury of impatience. His blunt dark-skinned fingers were foul and, as the sealskin slipped he noticed that a trickle of thickening blood had run down his palm on to the wrist. He stared at this from between narrowed eyelids for a second, then, stooping his big head, licked it away. The taste of it, salt on his tongue, further affected an equilibrium already unstable; and the beast which slumbers behind the arras of our civilization, which stirs with a faint growl at every shaking of that decent cover, that savage incalculable beast of the long past, awoke. The blood-lust rose in him. He forgot the presence of the bullock-man, the time, the place, everything but a sudden overmastering need. Something, he could not remember what, had defied him and it was of paramount necessity that this something should be done away with, destroyed, ground into the earth. To rend and crush had become obligatory, the vindication of his claim to live. The poor body of the seal was gone and in its place was an enemy who had been given into his hands. He caught up the carcass, seeing not it, but all he hated, all he was burning to destroy and the dismemberment degenerated from honest butchery into an orgy. Dick Bennett stood aghast. In the master’s eye was a wildness which made the hind thankful he was even more inconspicuous than small. For once his querulousness was hushed. “The old devil pulled and dragged and ’acked as though ’e was mad,” was his description afterwards of the scene. “’E fetched ’is spite out on the poor creature. It made me fairly sick to see ’im.”

Bit by bit the crushed fragments of bloody flesh were cast into the cauldron; but as long as bone or sinew held together, Byron tore at the body with unabated passion. The last lump was flung in with the same fury of effort as the first; but as soon as his hands were empty, the mood passed. The sweat was on his forehead, his knees were knocking together and he was trembling, but he seemed unconscious of his condition. For some minutes he stood by the furnace staring vacantly into the bubbling depths but by degrees his breath came more evenly, and the suavity of successful effort began to wash over his tortured mind.

Daunted by his master’s incomprehensible ferocity, the hind waited in the background; and, behind him again, the chickens picked and scratched and on the lichened roof the pigeons balanced in the sun. Byron was watching the formation of a large iridescent bubble. His eye dwelt languidly on the red and green transparence, on the smaller bubbles hurrying to its side; but as the film burst and disappeared he pushed the stirring-stick into the labourer’s hand with a deep, “Mind you don’t leave’n burn,” and swung away. He was come fully to himself, a weary and a hungry self and he remembered that the dinner hour was long past.

The outer door of the linhay opened on to a paved drying-yard and, as he passed through, he stooped his head under a sagging cord with the practical man’s comment that a new prop was needed. Trifles, common-place and wholesome, were distracting his mind. He felt cold, noticed that what little wind there was had gone round to the north, noticed too that above Dark Head the sky was flaming with a sunset of good augury. The short December day being so near its close, the linhay was dark; but the hungry man knew where to lay his hand on a rabbit pasty. He had shot the rabbits and brought them in—to Gray; and now Gray was—where? Behind him lay the old house with its many chambers and not one of them harboured her. For the first time he realized that without Gray, Wastralls was but an empty shell.

In a row on the shelf stood the loaves and, beside them, on a big white dish lay the pasties. Sabina had added onion and bacon to make them appetizing, parsley to give flavour, freshly dug potatoes to hold the gravy; and all was folded in a responsible crust. Her pasties were renowned; but Byron, satisfying his hunger, did not notice the quality of the food. He was still obsessed by his vision of the empty house. The barren years, when he had paced the friendly fields as a captive paces his cage, unable either to take action or to escape, had done their work. He had supported life on a meagre hope; but he was older now, less patient, had a shorter time left him in which to enjoy. The young Samson can afford to ask riddles and play tricks, it is the ageing man who, grown desperate, brings destruction upon the people. Standing by the shelf, eating hungrily but absent-mindedly, Byron presently became conscious of voices in the kitchen. For a moment his heart beat in swift anticipation. Was Gray back? He stopped eating to listen, but the voice which had suggested that of the young girl was older and had lost some of its West-country music. He recognized it disappointedly as that of the girl’s mother.

Filling himself a mug from the pitcher of milk that stood on the flags, Byron drank. If Mrs. Tom were in the kitchen the little party must have returned from Stowe, and the thought was, in a way, reassuring. Gray would be at Hember now and Rosevear would have come on to Wastralls with the mare and cart. At least they were no longer together.

Byron’s thoughts dwelt fleetingly on Rosevear. Should he go back, find the fellow and send him packing? He hated the sight of that womanishly smooth face. Some day he would send his fist crashing into it, put the weight of his shoulder into the blow. If he could fell a bullock it would be child’s play to spoil Rosevear’s beauty, to make him so as the chap’s own mother wouldn’t recognize him. When Gray saw what he made of her fine sweetheart, there would be no more hesitation—Leadville could not believe it to be more than hesitation. She would turn to the man who had proved in primal fashion his right to her.

In the kitchen the women’s voices rose and fell, lifting at the end in the Cornish way. Phrases and half words reached the man’s ears and brought him to a distrustful consideration of them. These women, with their ‘under-hauling,’ their scheming, the way they ‘held for each other’—what were they discussing? Him and his affairs? He fell to again on the pasty, biting into its hard crust with unnecessary force, biting indeed into more than crust and meat.

Mrs. Tom, having brought in the Christmas groceries and stacked the tins and parcels on the side-table, had settled down for a chat. The bond between the women, which like themselves was stout and workaday, had been embroidered by the years with a pattern of memories; and what can be pleasanter at the end of a winter day than to sit by a bright fire with a friend who has been tried by time? Sabina talked of her husband, of the farm, of the future.

“Ah!” said Mrs. Rosevear cheerfully, “and now the time ’as come for ’ee to make a fresh start. When Leadville knaw about Gray, ’e will ’av to rest ’is ’eart content.”

Sabina stirred her tea in a meditative fashion. With a simple faith in good and evil, reward and punishment, it was puzzling to her that she who was a ‘member and had gone to prayer meeting and chapel all right and been a good livin’ woman,’ should have had so much trouble. “I think it’s a awful thing for ’e to be running after Gray, when ’e got a wife of’s own?” she said. “Too bad, I do call it.”

“Well, there ’tis, my dear, I ’spose ’e can’t ’elp it. Men are like that, bain’t they, poor old dragons? Best thing to do is to keep temptation out of’s way.”

“Do ’ee think so? Now I’d rather show’m as ’e can’t ’av what ’e wants.”

The more clear-sighted woman did not dispute the matter. Even if Sabina wanted Gray and Jim to live at Wastralls, the decision would not rest with her. Gray would not care so long as she was with Jim, but he, though good-natured and easygoing, knew his own mind. Not long since, he had been over to Gentle Jane where his aunt, receiving him warmly, had been urgent that he should live with her. He had not given a definite answer, but Mrs. Tom knew he was considering the matter.

“Better for Leadville if ’e ’ad something to take up ’is time,” she said. “E’s always mumpin’ around the cliffs like a wandering Jew.”

The wife’s happy-go-lucky faith in Leadville’s harmlessness did not commend itself to Mrs. Tom. She remembered the zest with which he had torn up the honeysuckle, the indifference he had shown as to whether Sabina lived or died, his moroseness since her return. They might yet have trouble with him.

“Well, ’tis ’is choice, ’e could work if ’e like; there’s plenty to do, but ’e’s not that way inclined.”

“’E ’as got fever of lurk,
Two minds to eat and none to work,”

quoted Mrs. Tom as she helped herself to a slice of yeast-cake. “If a man got nothin’ else to think about, ’e sure to get into mischief. Can’t you find something for’m to do? Why don’t yer let’n go to town for ’ee in an’ out, and work a team sometimes?”

“‘Av yer forgotten the trick ’e served me when I was in the ’ospital? ‘Twouldn’t do at all. ’E’s one o’ they sort, if you give’n a inch ’e’ll take a nail.”

“Well, you’m Job’s comforter, but all I can say is you’re both gettin’ upstairs and, after a bit, you’ll settle down all right again. Of course Gray’ll stay ’ome now, until we see what’s to be done. The young folks must please their own minds, then they can’t blame nobody.”

Sabina agreed, though with some reluctance. “Whatever be I to do without ’er?”

“You needn’t trouble yerself about that. Richbell shall come down in the mornin’ and light yer fire and get the breakfast. Iss, and while I think of’t, Tom say you must sure to come up to Hember to spend Christmas. He’ll fetch yer ’isself. The Constantines are comin’, and we shall be all together; and by then, please God, I ’ope Leadville’ll be settled down.”

“I should like that very much.” Her face brightened at the thought of the welcoming faces and the cheer. “I’m sure ’tis good of ’ee to think about it and I’ll bring up something with me. ’Tis years since we’ve spent Christmas together.”

“My dear, ’tis more’n ten years ago. Now, ’av you told Leadville about Gray?”

“I said to’n ‘They’re courtin’ an’ll be married very soon an’ I expect they’ll come ’ere to live.’”

“What did he say about it, then?”

“’E give a nasty grunt-like, ’e did; still ’e’ll get over that. To-morrow I’ll tell’n of ’t; but I don’t feel I could bear any more to-day.”

“Well, to-morrow’ll do.”

As she spoke, Byron opened the linhay door. The dancing flames illumined the low-browed room sufficiently, for him to see the two women seated one on each side of the hearth; and with a short mutter of greeting he walked over to the window-bench. “Who brought they groceries back?”

“I did,” said Mrs. Tom.

“Is Gray come back then?”

“Gray? She idn’t comin’ back. Me and S’bina ’ve made arrangements for Richbell to come in ’er place.”

He had suspected the women were plotting against him. He had been conscious of their intangible opposition and a spasm of hatred took him by the throat. He shook in the grip of it. “Why?”

Mrs. Tom was resolved that there should be no ill-blood between Hember and Wastralls and her reply was non-committal. “She do dearly love ’er Aunt S’bina but she want to be ’ome.”

“She’ll soon be back ’ere,” asserted Byron.

“She’s very grateful for all your kindness but she’d rather live ’ome with me for a bit.”

“I don’t like changes and I won’t ’av them.”

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Tom placidly, “won’t is a big word!” She turned to the figure in the wicker cone as if, having disposed of one matter, she were ready for another. “Shall I put they groceries in the cupboard for ’ee, S’bina?”

Leadville had risen from his seat. They had taken Gray from him and they meant to keep her away. Would she be a consenting party to their scheme? He feared she might, yet if she only knew! Mrs. Tom, tranquil, occupied with household thoughts, seemed to the angry man to possess a tremendous, terrifying power. She could make Gray inaccessible and she would.

“We want ’er ’ere,” and his harsh voice shook so that Mrs. Tom, aware of him out of the corner of an eye, could not but pity him.

“I knaw ’tis very good of ’ee to make so much fuss of her,” she returned, pushing back her chair, “but just now she’d rather be ’ome.”

Through the turmoil of his fears and hopes Leadville heard his wife’s easy, “You can put they things away if you like, Isolda; but leave out the tin of boot-polish for I know we want one.”

They could talk of groceries and boot-polish! He was astounded at their lack of understanding. A man might be suffering the pains of hell and they would still be occupied with trifles. With an effort which set the blood drumming in his ears he forced himself to sit down. Behind him in the thickness of the wall was the bench and above it the many-paned window, with a geranium on the inner ledge. The kitchen table stood against this bench and, as Leadville sank back he gripped the stout edge, putting into the clutch the passion or his disappointment, his revolt. The women moved about, pouring sugar and currants into jars, filling the bin with flour, folding up bags and paper. The murmur of their casual talk filled the air—their talk of the markets and the shops, of prices and of people! Murmur of women’s voices is the breeze in the tree-tops; murmur of men’s, the sea on the beaches, the sea at night! Leadville heard as one a great way off hears a familiar sound. He heard and gradually the gale of his impatience ceased to blow. He was no longer occupied with the soft movements of the women, no longer exasperated by their intangible opposition. He had turned from the latter as from a thing of little moment, and in the depths of his spirit had found enlightenment.

Take Gray from him, would they?

He understood at last that Mrs. Rosevear and Jim were not his chief enemies. The person who stood between him and the realization of his dreams was Sabina. She had withheld Wastralls; now, by merely living, she blocked his path to Gray.