Wastralls: A Novel by C. A. Dawson Scott (100 books to read .TXT) 📕

"We can't pick nor choose our hour," said Mrs. Tom gravely; "'cos, when 'tis the Lorrd's time, it must be ours whether we'm ready or no."

"Yes, mammy, but I've got the feeling that if I hadn't gone away it wouldn't have happened."

But Mrs. Tom could comfort her daughter with the larger outlook that proves our insignificance. We are less important than we feared. We are of no importance at all. "My dear, you mustn't look at the black side. Her time was come and she'd be sorry for you to grieve yerself so. I knaw you've been like a daughter to 'er all these months and she did dearly love yer; but when it come to the end she wouldn't be wantin' you nor me. She had other things to think about."

"Supposing she was suff'rin', mammy?"

"She couldn't 'av suffered anything, my dear, and that you'll say when you see 'er face. 'Tis lovely, just like an angel. She must 'a passed away in 'er sleep."

Mrs. Tom's words, turning mortal death into the visitation of God, had the effect she wished. Gray, forgetting the personal equation, had a quieting vision of powers at once superhuman and beneficent. The Unknown, that was God and Good, had blossomed about her homely aunt and, through those dead eyes, all might look for a little moment into the Beyond.

"You'm a better 'and for writin' letters than I be," said Mrs. Tom, returning after a time to the simple needs of the hour. "And there is people who must know that yer auntie is gone." She turned to the table, rummaging in the box of stationery. "I always keep some mournin' letters in the bottom of this. Ah, 'ere 'tis," and she extracted some black-edged paper.

Gray, with death at once simplified and exalted, was able to follow her lead. She had been to a school in Stowe kept by two Welsh ladies and was passably instructed, that is to say, knew how to cast accounts and phrase a simple letter. "Who must I write to, mammy?"

"Well, my dear, there's the Rosevears of St. Issy and St. Minver and there's the Trudgians to Wadebridge and the Jackas and Sowdens and Trebilcocks. They'm all relations, you knaw. Tell 'em your poor auntie died in 'er sleep and the funeral's goin' to be—" she paused, remembering day and hour had been left for the undertaker to fix. "Well, now you must leave a place for that and put it in after we know." She glanced about the kitchen, which for Hember looked cheerless, being indeed dusty and unswept. "And when you've finished the writing, you better try and clean up a bit."

"Why—you aren't goin' back, are you?"

"Yes, I must for a bit, but I shan't be long. You'll find there's plenty for yer to do. Time quickly goes when you're busy."

She nodded briskly and, refusing to be moved by her daughter's unwillingness, set off down the lane. She had left the cleaning of Wastralls well begun. Above stairs and below, the rooms had to be turned out, scrubbed and set in order; and, no doubt, this washing and polishing, though applied to an already clean house, had its useful side. It affected not only the walls and furniture but the emotions of the workers and was a panacea for inconvenient feelings. Grief expended itself in hard conscientious rubbings and nerves were turned, to the benefit of their owners, into elbow-grease. Mrs. Tom, having set every one to work, had thought she might slip away without being missed but, on her return, heard her name being called about the house. The undertaker had come to measure the body for its wooden dress and she was required to bring him into the room where Sabina, her hands folded over the Bible on her chest, lay sleeping. Mrs. Bate, in her capacity of Stripper, had already conducted thither a number of admiring visitors but they had been without exception of her own sex. The old woman was by no means shy, nevertheless when Henwood drove up behind a black long-tailed horse, which seemed surprised at being required to move at other than a walking pace, she hurried in search of Mrs. Tom.

"If you don't mind, my dear," she said with something as near a blush as her old cheeks could show, "I'd rather for you to take'n in."

Mrs. Tom agreed. "I don't mind. I'll do it if you want for me to."

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