Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  “Why, so it is,” he said, “and it had slipped me. And young Dennis and Nell a-whistling and singing in there, all heathenish. Stop that noise there,” he called out, “or you’ll pay for it... By God, to-morrow morning I’ll give the boy a drumming that’ll show him my arm has a bit of drive about it still! And you’re no better with your gathering of eggs on the Lord’s Day.”

  At the sound of his raised voice there came dead silence from within, but his wife laughed aloud.

  “You’d best leave Dennis alone,” she said, “or the lad’ll give you a keepsake to remember him by, for ’tis a sappy young colt that he’s grown and no mistake. And as for me gathering eggs on the Lord’s Day, you give me a good laugh there, John Pentreath, Why don’t ‘ee go and wring the hens’ necks for laying ’em on the Lord’s Day? There’s a bit o’ sin an’ wickedness for you! Surely a Godfearing hen would abide and hold herself in, though fit to burst, until the clock struck twelve on Sunday night, before she would do such a thing!”

  “Now, none of your blasphemies, Mollie!” he said.

  Her mocking voice rose shrill. Some squall of anger whistled in it.

  “Blasphemy?” she cried. “Tis but a bit of good sense in answer to your rubbishy talk. Why, the man speaks as if there’d be a dollop of brimstone instead of a yolk inside of an egg gathered on Sunday! Eh! You’re nought but a paltry hypocrite, John Pentreath. Would a God-fearing man, as you think yourself to be, get tipsy every day O’ the week, and never do a kind deed nor a Christian one from year’s end to year’s end, but go cruel and black from Christmas to Christmas, and think he can make good by a couple of churchgoings on Sunday, and sitting glowering till time comes and he can take to the bottle again? You’re no more than a child playing a fulish game.”

  He slapped his open hand on his thigh.

  “I’ll not hearken to you,” he said. “Jabber on if you will, but I pay no heed. I’ll mind my reading.”

  “Yes, pick up your Bible from where it lies on the path,” she said, pointing to it, “and as you read I’ll tell you how it got there. You heard the children singing, and Sunday slipped from you like the sheath off a flower, and you sniffed the spring and wished you were young and handsome again like Dennis, with a pretty girl beside you. That’s what your mind’s been brewing, and a sweet mouthful you found it.”

  He was afraid of her and of that awful power she had of exposing a man’s mind, so that it was like a cupboard thrown open for all to see what was on the shelves.

  “Well, Mollie, you’re in the right of it there, I shouldn’t wonder,” he said in a conciliatory voice.

  “The spring gets into a fellow’s bones, unless he’s past feeling anything, like a bit of dried fish. I reckon it was God who made man that way. But have done with such talk.”

  “Ah, that’s like you!” she said. “You say your mind about gathering eggs on the Lord’s Day, and when I answer you with a bit of sense for that rubbish, you bid me have done with such talk! John, all Sunday long you’re no more than a hypocrite, as I tell you, and what’s more, you don’t believe in all your prayings and Bible-readings. You’re yourself from Monday to Saturday, and then you say your Sunday lesson like a child in school. A pack o’ nonsense! If you believed in your hells and your damnations, would you be the man you are all the week?”

  These clashing scolding moods of hers were something new. She used to be a silent, brooding woman, speaking hardly a word all day from sunrise to sundown, but in this last month or so she had broken out half a dozen times like this, and the outbreak had always preceded a certain topic. That was the way of women at her time of life. But at present it appeared that she had not done with what she had to say about this.

  “You should listen to sense,” she said. “You’re a hard man and a cruel, John, and you act as if sitting glowering at your Bible for one day out of the seven will save your soul, and give you a harp and a pair of wings and a crown of gold and a sight of silly truck when you die, while all the rest of us’ll be sizzling in hell. And in your heart you don’t believe a word of it: it’s nought but the task you’ve set yourself for Sundays. And what’s the Lord God done for you in return for your psalm-singing and your thumbing ‘pon your Bible? Isn’t it plain that He sees through you? Sure, He’s not such a flat as to be taken in by you. He’s got your measure, and He knows what your kneeling and your Amens are worth, else He’d never be allowing you to get old without ever a spark of joy coming to you save what you get out of your whisky-bottle. Not a bit o’ good luck has come out of it all, and the stock on the farm is dwindling, and you can scarce make two ends meet.”

  She drew a little closer to him till their knees touched.

  “Belike He’s paying you out for being such a hypocrite,” she said. “The house is divided against itself. Have done with it, and see if a bit o’ better luck doesn’t come along, for, sure, you couldn’t have worse. And then there’s this. Dearly I’d like to give you a son for your old age—”

  He broke in.

  “Ah, I knew ’twas coming to that,” he said, “and yet you bid me listen to sense! Give me a bit of sense to listen to! Why, you’re an old woman: you’re past the power of bearing. ’Tis as if you tried to find a harvest by lighting a fire in the stubble when the time for reaping’s long over.”

  “Nay, I’m not so old, John,” she said. “There’s a power of life in me yet. Why, there was Sally Austell down in St. Columb’s who was fifty afore she ceased, and I know all that Sally knows and maybe a bit more. You’d soon be of the same mind as me, if you’d give up your Sunday nonsense and let the spring have its way with you. And as for that “ — and she pointed with forefinger and little finger at the Bible that still lay on the path between his feet- “as for that, what manner of blessings has that ever brought you, John Pentreath?”

  Borne on the soft breeze from the sea there came the sound of church bells. He plucked himself from the touch of her, and picked up the book. “Back at your blasphemings again,” he said.

  She laid her hand on his arm. “I want a child by you, John,” she said. “Ye’ve got to give me one.”

  He shook himself free with an effort, for though her fingers were but lightly laid on him, he felt as if they gripped him.

  “You and your Sally Austell!” he cried. “Be wise, and put your black ways from you. And if there’s no luck about the house because it’s divided, ’tis for you to come over and save your soul while there’s time. And here’s a godly conversation for the Lord’s Day, and may I be forgiven for the part I had in it. ’Tis church time and I’m off.”

  Molly Pentreath had a gift of mimicry that was like an echo, and as she rose, tall and grim, facing him, and as she spoke, mocking him, it was as if he were confronted by some wraith of himself.

  “Yes, ’tis church time and we’ll be off,” she said in his very voice, “and when church is done, ‘twill be supper-time, and we’ll get properly tipsy, and then we’ll pray like a chosen vessel of the Lord, and we’ll have no blasphemous talk on the Lord’s Day, no, we won’t.”

  “There, be done, Mollie,” he said. “I didn’t speak to anger you.”

  She picked up her basket of eggs. “No, sure,” she said. “We’re a loving couple, John and you’ll hearken to me yet. Get gone, and thank the Lord for all His mercies to you.”

  Two hours later the household was gathered together over the silent business of Sunday supper. This took place in the kitchen, an ample whitewashed room with the door opening on to the farmyard, and curtained windows on each side of it. There was a big dresser against one wall, and a tall grandfather’s clock; another door opened into the scullery, a third led into the main body of the house. The oven was cold this evening, for no cooking beyond the roasting of the joint for dinner was allowed on Sunday, and Mollie Pentreath, though the room was warm, had wrapped her shawl round her. She sat at the end of the table with her back to the stove, the door of which to-morrow and throughout the week would be thrown open, when cooking was done,
so that she could enjoy to the full the heat that came from it. Facing her sat her husband. Dennis and Nell Robson, Mollie’s niece, sat side by side on one length of the table, and Nancy Pentreath, Dennis’s mother, was opposite to them. A checked, much-darned cloth covered the board, and the sirloin of cold beef and a plate of lettuce were reinforced with the remains of an apple tart, a jar of Cornish cream, and a wedge of cheese with home-made bread and butter. Close by John Pentreath was his whisky bottle, and two mugs of wallflowers and a paraffin lamp stood up the centre of the table. No word from any of them broke the silence, till Dennis, passing up his plate for further supplies to Mollie Pentreath, who was carving the beef, let his fork clatter on the floor. “You damned awkward lout,” said his grandfather. “You go meatless for that. Not a bite more for you: take your plate back.”

  Mrs. Pentreath finished cutting the slice she had begun for Dennis, and tossed it on the blade of the carving-knife on to the boy’s plate.

  “Eat your victuals, lad,” she said, “and don’t mind him. Slish o’fat with it?”

  “Do as I bid you, Dennis!” cried his grandfather. “Not a morsel more meat crosses your teeth to-night.”

  Mrs. Pentreath shot out her left hand at him with rigid pointing finger.

  “And don’t you mind Dennis, John,” she cried. “You let him be, I tell you. He shall eat and you shall drink. That’s the way: he’ll grow tall and you’ll grow tipsy.”

  John Pentreath’s hand was raised towards Dennis, as if to clout the boy, or take his plate from him, and Dennis had half-risen from his place, his eyes alert, ready to duck his head, or snatch his plate away.

  “Do as I bid you, John,” cried his wife, not relaxing the menace of that pointed finger, and muttering to himself he dropped his hand and finished his glass.

  Nancy Pentreath thought to put in her word. She had been down to St. Columb’s that afternoon and was dressed in the best of her finery. There was a touch of rouge on her cheeks; round her neck was a magenta riband that matched another in her hair; a fine, handsome woman she was, and no mistake. She made a little clicking noise with her tongue on her teeth, and spoke in her clipped Cockney speech.

  “Such an awkward boy as you are, Dennis,” she said... No wonder you startled your grandfather with that clatter, and made him vexed with you. But there! It’s all over now, so eat your good slice of beef, and we’ll hear no more about it.

  “Lord save us, and who’s been seeking your advice?” said John.

  Old Mrs. Pentreath gave a thin cackle of a laugh at Nancy’s discomfiture, and again silence descended till supper was done. Then John pushed back his chair, and rising from the table, took his pipe and glass to the big arm-chair that stood handy, while the table was being cleared and the crockery washed. N ell saw to this to-night, with Dennis midway between a hindrance and a help; he sat on the edge of the scullery sink with a dish-cloth for drying the crocks, talking to Nell in whispers, while she threw the scraps into the, pig tub and did her best to scour the plates with the cold water of Sunday evening. Mollie Pentreath in the meantime remained in her chair at the head of the table, silent and furtive.

  John Pentreath had drunk pretty well at supper, and while the room was being tidied up for prayers he smoked a pipe of his black shag tobacco and had a couple more stiff glasses, and now the spirits began to take hold of him. Walking to church that afternoon he had been ill at ease, for not only had his ears been hearing blasphemous talk, but he knew that in his heart he admitted that there might be some sense in what his wife had said. What; after all, had he got by all his dark pieties? What reward had the Lord given His servant for all the prayers and Bible-readings of those years, his church-goings; his black clothes, his Sunday abstinence?-it looked as-if all those pains had gone for naught. Had he been on the wrong side? Well he knew, and his wife knew better, that there were other powers ready to befriend a man. That was beyond question; he had seen their work too often to have any doubt on that subject. If you crossed old Sally Austell, for instance, of whom his wife had spoken, you might know there’d be trouble ahead, and ’twas wiser to make it up with the old woman with a flitch of bacon or a basket of eggs before she got going. And Mollie was just such another. He was always crossing Mollie, and look at the way things were tumbling at the farm!... But then to reinforce his wavering allegiance he had come in at the afternoon service for a thumping strong sermon, forty minutes of the best, from Parson Allingham on witchcraft, and the certainty of eternal damnation for all who had traffic with the powers of evil: God, you could smell the singeing of the goats on the Day of Judgment! A stout man was Parson, who spoke his mind and feared nobody, for he was strong in faith, and what a glebe was his, the fruitfullest meadows in all the place, and half a dozen lusty children. Then at the end of his sermon he had pointed to the red sunset that smouldered in the west window. “See the fires of the wrath of God,” he cried. “You and I and all of us may still be on earth, when they shall spread over the whole heaven, and sea and sky and land shall vanish like a burning scroll. And then shall He say to those on His left hand, ‘Depart from Me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels.’”

  John Pentreath’s waverings had been firmed up again by so powerful a discourse, and as he came up the hill home, he vowed to bear such testimony in his prayer to-night as would atone for any vacillation there might have been in his heart. Those of his household present at his ministrations would know that John Pentreath had made up his mind to side with the Lord God; his words should be searching words, words that should warn them to turn from their lightnesses and their wicked ways, while there was yet time. So to kindle his fervour of speech he filled his glass and filled it again till his brain was inflamed with the sacredness of his mission.

  Soon all was ready for prayers: John shuffled over from the window-seat to the end of the table where he knelt opposite his wife, but Dennis took his place by his mother’s side, opposite Nell, so that he could make chinks through his fingers to look at her. All but Mollie Pentreath got to their knees; she continued sitting where she was.

  For a minute or two John knelt in silence. Holding himself in, so that his drunken eloquence might gather itself up. Even in everyday life he was a man of marrowy speech, and now the sonorous phrases of the Bible chapters he had read that afternoon were fermenting in his head, and after a few mutterings and mumblings his words broke out hot and smoking.

  “Lord God of Abraham,” he cried, “look upon us poor sinners assembled here to bow before Thy just wrath and indignation at our wickedness. There are those of us who would fain turn their backs on Thee, and call on the power of darkness to befriend them, whereby they damn their souls and will suffer the eternal torments Thou hast ordained for them. They worship in the groves of idolatry; and they have made snares to entrap the godly. Smite them, O Lord, upon their lying mouths, set them in slippery places, and pour Thy plagues upon them, so that they may know and repent of their wickedness before Thy just judgment whelms them in the pit of Thy fury.”

  A faint crooked smile crossed Mollie’s face: so that was a bit of his mind about her. He was praying fine to-night, the comic man, busy as a clown at the circus over nothing at all, just a mock to all who looked on him. Such a clatter of babbles: that wasn’t the way to pray. She shrugged her shoulders, and let her shawl drop from them, for the lamp had warmed the room up.

  Then the tipsy voice went on.

  “Lord, there are those among us whose hearts are set on their lusts and passions, light women and harlots, who like Jezebel of old paint their faces and tire their hair, and entice the sons of men to serve their wantonness. Consume their beauty, O Lord, with heaviness, make their eyes to be dim, and disfigure their fairness, so that none shall desire them; purge them from their evil ways as with hyssop, and wash away their iniquities lest they be a snare to the righteous.”

  Mollie Pentreath watched him more closely: she had felt no more than an amused contempt for his allusions to herself, but n
ow that he was directing them to Nancy, a new notion sprang up in her mind. Often lately she had seen him looking at her with a kindled eye, as she tripped about the room, and these mentions of the snares that lewd women laid for the righteous chimed in with that. That was like him; oh, that was very like him to make her responsible for his own lecherous thoughts, to pray that her beauty would consume and her eyes grow dim, so that he should desire her no more. She watched and listened to the bawling voice.

  “Woe unto them, the whores and the harlots who tempt a Godfearing man from the narrow way, and lure him to the damnation of his soul, who bedizen themselves and make soft eyes to seduce the righteous. May their children be fatherless and beg their bread, may there be none to pity them nor have compassion when their beauty consumes away like as a moth fretting a garment; yea, let their sins be the garment that covers them and the girdle below their breasts, until they turn themselves to the Lord.”

  “That’s what he’s driving at,” thought Mollie, “and now Dennis and Nell will come in for a piece about the fatherless children. He’s primed, he is, and we’re having a rare praying to-night ...”

  “And there are those, Lord, as well Thou knowest, who in the spunk and insolence of their youth make light of Thy ordinances and Thy holy days. They wax fat, like Jeshurum, with their gluttonies and make mock of Thy commandments. Behold, they were shapen in wickedness, and in sin did their mothers conceive them, so pluck not Thou the mercy of Thy chastisements from them. Let Thy angel stand with drawn sword at the entry of the pleasant road, and pierce their hearts with fears and manifold tremblings, that they may forsake the ways of wickedness and go in the strait path of Thy commandments. Drive far from them and from us all the powers of those who would ensnare us in spells of witchcraft, and shut not up Thy loving-kindness in displeasure. Defend this house, 0Lord, from Satan’s hosts, that compass us about to destroy us, and cast upon them the furiousness of Thy wrath, anger and displeasure-”