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

fear," he told her simply, "and I'm 'avin' holiday to-day. If you don't mind I'll walk down to Wastralls with you. You don't know 'ow glad I be to see ye 'ome again and lookin' so well too."

Sabina's heart beat irregularly for a moment. If only Leadville would talk to her like this! She comforted herself with the thought that his being undemonstrative did not mean he was unfeeling. Words did not come easily to him, but still waters run deep.

The cottagers about the smithy threw more flowers into the cart. "Might be May Day," as Sabina said, with her happy smile. At Hember, Tom Rosevear was waiting with four of his daughters. "Mother's down to Wastralls wi' Gray," he said and the blooming girls, the so-called nieces, raised their young voices in affectionate greeting. 'Aunt S'bina' had been the fairy godmother of the family, always willing to abet them in any piece of innocent fun. They were sincerely glad to have her back.

The drive had been long for one just out of hospital, but the kindliness of friends and neighbours had proved a stimulant. When the wagon turned into the yard of Wastralls, however, Sabina was almost too tired to note the changes that had been made. The absence of the honeysuckle caused the porch to look bare, the old sheepdog was no longer lying in the sun; but Leadville had come back from the fishing and was ready to lift her down. At sight of him the tired face brightened. "I'm glad to come 'ome again," she said.

The man had been standing idly by the door. Having drawn nothing out of the sea he had come back in a mood which was not uninfluenced by his lack of success. Everything had gone wrong, his hopes were dashed, his plans had miscarried and he searched the landscape in vain for any hope of change. Sabina was well again, she had already asserted her will with regard to the farm and before him lay a future as dreary as the past.

He lifted his eyes as the beflowered cortège rolled into the yard. He had expected a sort of chair and the trolly with its basket-work cone was an unpleasant surprise; while the sight of his wife, in brightly coloured gown and pink sunbonnet, swelling out of it like a monstrous fruit, completed his dismay. She was a figure of fun, a queer oddity, repellent as something out of nature. The bravery that faced the sunshine as simply as in the days of its strength did not appeal to him, he was only conscious of the deformity. His heart contracted, emptied itself of good-will, then slowly filled again—but not with kindliness.

The business of unloading occupied the men for some minutes and Mrs. Rosevear, taking the parcels, handed them to her daughter.

"What a lovely lot o' flowers. I should think every garden for miles round will be bare."

"Take care o' that box," cried Sabina, suddenly, as they lifted out the case that was suggestive of a coffin. "I value that."

"Where be 'ee gwine put it, auntie?"

"In the cupboard in the big parlour."

"What 'av 'ee got in it?"

"Ah, my dear, ask me no questions and I tell 'ee no lies."

"'Ere, I'll take that," said Mrs. Tom, intervening, "I know where it got to be put. 'Tis what you told me of, S'bina?"

Mrs. Byron nodded. "Iss, I've brought it back wi' me. Doctor said I was maäze to do it; but I said I would, an' I 'av."

A meal was ready on the kitchen table, a piece of stout wood which had weathered the use and elbow-grease of more than a century. This room had been for three generations the gathering-place of the family. Innumerable savoury meals had been cooked on the slab range; hams in a succession longer than that of the Kings of England had been lifted from the rafter hooks and, after the buffetings of winter and the scorch of summer, men had taken their ease on the bench while women made and mended. Old tales had been told and retold by deep voices, tales of witches, of wreckers, of people 'pisky-led'n'; and the sound of them lingered in the dim corners. They were waiting for the new generation which should utter once more the familiar words and keep alive the traditions.

"I never thought I should ever be back 'ere any more," said Sabina, contentedly, as she ran her trolly up to the table and, by a contrivance similar to that on a dentist's chair, reduced her height to a sitting level. "It do seem good to be 'ome. Everything look so natural."

"Well, 'twould be funny if it didn't," said Mrs. Rosevear, helping the meat.

"Don't seem as if I'd been all that time away."

"I expect it do to Leadville."

His wife turned to him. "What do 'ee think of my invention?"

"I can't abide it," said the man, with the emphasis of sincere feeling.

The others looked at him in surprise. "I'll always be thinking of what you was," he added hastily.

Sabina's face clouded, but only for a moment. "Let's make the best of things," she said. "I'm goin' to forget about them times, I'm goin' to live for the moment."

"I'm not one as forgets," said Leadville heavily.

Revived by food and rest Sabina was soon impatient to begin a further progress. She trundled herself into the linhay to inspect the milk and butter; then into the two seldom-used rooms known as the Big and Little Parlour. Beyond them lay the wide shallow stairs, the door into the front part of the house and the long Justice Room.

Mrs. Tom threw open the door of this and Sabina, pushing the trolly in, uttered an exclamation of pleasure. The litter of agricultural implements, broken harness, bags and boxes, had been cleared away, the grates had been blacked and the panelled wall painted a shadowy grey. Between the two fireplaces stood a large bed, the posts of which were carved with corn, fruit and other emblems of fertility. On it lay a patchwork quilt, the work of Sabina's grandmother. Drift-wood fires flamed under the white marble mantelpieces and the coverlet shone with the glistening silks of other days. The spacious room with its white-hung bed and its white curtains, smelt of the sea and Sabina turned and smiled at her husband.

"'Av you moved your clothes down?" she asked.

"Not that I know of."

"Well, you better make 'aste an' do't."

Looking past her into the beautiful room he thought dimly that it was too large. "I shent like it down 'ere," he said and something ancestral moved in him, assuring him that the upper parts of a house, the upper branches, were secure from the marauding enemy, the terror by night. "Never sleeped on the ground-floor."

Laying a hand affectionately on his shoulder, the woman looked into his face with a touch of softening and appeal. Surely he would not leave her to sleep there alone?

To the man, this light touch was illuminating. "Oh, leave'n go," he muttered.

In the bedroom, Gray Rosevear was moving deftly to and fro, unpacking Sabina's clothes and laying them in the drawers of the tall-boy. The man's eyes followed her light figure, at first unconsciously, but before long with a strange quickening of emotion. If it had been this girl who was asking him, he would have given up his eyrie with an eager willingness. He did not understand himself. What was Gray to him?

His wife's voice when she spoke again, seemed a whisper from far away. "I can't go overstairs," she said pleadingly.

Byron turned his eyes deliberately from Gray's wildflower grace to the thick shortened figure in the trolly and his incipient repugnance grew. Sleep with this deformity? He could not bring himself to it. To live in the same house with her would be difficult; at least he would shut her out of his nights. Already he knew instinctively what those nights, moon-silvered, star-set, nights not of bitter brooding but of dreams, would be to him.

"I can't sleep 'ere."

Sabina sighed. The people had given her the froth of sweet words but this was reality. "Well, my dear, I can't 'elp it," she said resignedly. "I can't do much nowadays."

"Ah now, if 'ee'd only reckernize that."

The touch of opposition was a spur. "Still there's a lot as I can do. This trolly now, 'll 'elp me a lot."

He eyed it with distaste. "Oogly thing, can't think why 'ee do want to be runnin' round like a toad on a red-'ot shovel. Seein' 'ow you be, 'twould be more to your credit if you was to die down and be quiet, 'stead o goin' about on an old thing like that. You'll be the laughing-stock of the parish."

"Nothin' 'ud get done."

"Oh, fiddlesticks, 'ow won't the things be done? Can't I do't for yer?" For the moment Gray was forgotten and he was back at the old gnawing bitterness.

"Whiles my 'ead's above ground, I'll look after the place myself," said Sabina who, being tired, was a little captious. She was disappointed that her welcome home had been so commonplace. She had expected, she knew not what, but something culminating.

"A pretty mess 'ee'll make of it," muttered Leadville and, turning about, walked off with himself. When he and Sabina differed, which was not often—their differences being fundamental, trifles took the subsidiary place so seldom granted them—he invariably ended the discussion by going out of the house. With all the open from which to choose it was easy for him to get away from a woman's tiresomeness, to get back to his own quiet company and his thoughts.

Sabina looked after the husband whom she had long ago decided was difficult, but probably not more so than other men, and her heart sank. She had so wanted Leadville to rejoice with her over her recovery, to be proud of her. Though she carried herself gallantly there were periods when her poor heart acknowledged a weakness, a lowness. She had longed sometimes to stay it on a greater strength.

"Where's Gray goin' to sleep?" asked Mrs. Rosevear who, standing quietly in the background, had been a shrewd spectator.

"Gray?" said she, and a feeling seldom hitherto experienced, awoke in her. If she had been as young as Gray, soft-eyed as she, would it have made a difference?

"Twill be a bit lonely for 'er upstairs," said the mother thoughtfully. "Though, of course, Leadville'll be near."

But it was envy, not jealousy, that had been awakened in Mrs. Byron. "Let her come in wi' me. We'll 'av a little bed put up, there's plenty of room for 'er."

When Leadville came back, and he must in time grow accustomed to the idea of sleeping on the ground-floor, a fresh arrangement could be made. Meanwhile the maid would be company. Sabina felt that the place was peopled with the judges and judged of long ago and, to her Celtic mind, the shadows moved. In the dark hours it would be comforting to hear the movements, the breathing, of some one still this side the grave.

From an upper chamber they brought the small bedstead which, when Mrs. Byron was a girl, had been hers; also a chest of drawers.

"Where's your traäde to?" asked the mother.

"Jim's bringin' it down. I believe he's out in the kitchen now. I'll go and see."

As she went from the room Mrs. Rosevear sank into the nearest chair. "I'm glad you'm back, S'bina. I bin so whisht without 'ee. Not a soul to speak to besides Tom and you can't tell a man very much."

"No, they don't understand." Her thoughts wandered for a moment. Leadville had been strange in his manner but of course it was only that he did not understand.

"Now you've seen Jim," continued Mrs. Rosevear, "what do you think of him?"

Sabina roused herself. "I call 'ee a proper chap," she said smilingly. "Lovely curly 'air he 'as."

"Yes," confided the mother, "and Gray's as maäze as a rattle about 'im."

Mrs. Tom's confidences made Sabina feel as if she had a share in the other's happy motherhood. They sat gossiping until the shadows began to fill the valley. Jim was a long time on his way with Gray's box—but to every man and woman their hour!

Leadville, on leaving the house, had turned