Wastralls: A Novel, C. A. Dawson Scott [i love reading books TXT] 📗
- Author: C. A. Dawson Scott
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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."
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.
CHAPTER XII
"I've asked Gray to get Raby Gregor to come down and alter trolly a bit. I've thrived a bit since I lost me laigs."
"Good sign that."
"Shows I'm in better 'ealth, still I don't like bein' so fat. I've 'ad to 'av Aunt Louisa alter all my clothes and if Raby Gregor takes a long time to make trolly bigger, I shan't be able to get about for goodness knows 'ow long."
"Well, I should think Mrs. Bate 'ud come in for a day or two to 'elp yer. I shouldn't 'av trolly done till after Christmas, if you do you won't be able to come up to our place."
Leadville, sitting engrossed in secret thought, had had a withering effect upon the women's talk. It lost spontaneity, it grew spasmodic and, as soon as the last tin was on the shelf, Mrs. Tom said she must go home.
"I'll go out as far as the gate with yer," Sabina had answered eagerly. After the hot kitchen it would be pleasant to have a breath of air from the sea, pleasant also to finish their chat. The flags being level it was an easy run but the gate marked the end of the journey. From it the ground fell away to the sandy commons covered with grey spire-grass, which had given the place its name. The Wastralls had been bare blown sand, but the stiff spire held the ridges from shifting and on its heels had come bright lady's-fingers and silver-weed, coarse herbage and, in depressions, the thick yellow moss. Sabina found it rested her, after the dark confinement, the depressing influence of the house, to look across the commons. The sand was piled in fantastic bulwarks but between these wind-formed bastions and ditches glimmered a white unrest of tides.
The short winter's day was drawing to a close. The sun had sunk below Dark Head and the black shadow of the cliff had fallen on Wastralls.
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