by E. F. Benson
Nancy disposed the mugs of wallflowers on the darned tablecloth, and buried her face in them for a moment. That sensuous fragrance of spring mounted to her head like wine, and she laughed to herself as she sniffed it in.
“Such a perfect gentleman,” she remarked to herself, “as I knew the moment I first set eyes on him. There he was with the studio door ajar, waiting for me last night, and there was a tasty bit of supper spread out, and when I’d taken off my hat and sat down with ’twas as if I was at home, and him and me man and wife. ‘Take a bit of that chicken pasty’ Mrs. Pentreath,’ he says to me, and I caught what he was after and said, ‘Thank you kindly, Mr. Giles,’ and after that it was Harry and Nancy again. And there was his beginning of the picture of me, sitting in front of his looking-glass with nothing on, and doing up my hair, so as my face could be seen in the glass though my back was turned, but he wasn’t thinking of his picture now, nor I neither. Then when we’d done our supper we had a bit of a chat, ever so cosy and pleasant, and to think that but a year ago I was wanting it so badly that I made up with a chance man in the dark, whom I wouldn’t know again nor he me! Fair ashamed I was to trunk of it, specially when Harry asked me if I had any other friend but him, for that he would not permit for a moment, and quite right. ‘No, not one,’ says I, ‘if you’ll let what’s been bygones for a year be bygones now, and even then it was nothing to me.’ And he said. I was a good girl as had. wiped. her mouth properly, and he could kiss it and call it his. That’s the sort of man for me, a bit of romance about him. So that was that, and then he asked me if I didn’t want to know anything about his doings, but I said, ‘Gam! I know all about you. You’ve always had a fancy for a pretty face, and if I’ve had one predecessor I’ve had fifty,’ I said, ‘for that’s the sort of man you are, and that’s the proper nature for a man, so I ask no questions and you’ll not have to tell me any lies.’ How we laughed!”
Nancy was doing Nell’s work this morning in laying the table for dinner. She had no inclination to-day to sit and read her book, for her own adventures were more enticing to run over in her mind than to pursue the hapless fortunes of the poor girl married to the wicked earl, and employment seemed to suit her better than sitting idle. There was a vegetable soup for dinner to-day, and that had been simmering for an hour already; cold beef followed, with potatoes in their jackets, and she put these into the oven for a long bake, for Mr. Pentreath liked them black with burning outside, and crumbled to powder within. Everyone should have his way and enjoy themselves, as far as she could aid to make the day as much to their minds as last night had been to hers.
“And then our chat was over,” she thought, “and I nipped upstairs, and gracious me, how surprised we both were when he lit a match and found it was close on one o’clock of the morning. The time had gone quick. And to think of his dressing himself again and walking with me right up to the garden gate. So unusual, I call it, for mostly a man wants to get rid of his girl as soon as he’s had his fill. I declare it’s like a honeymoon again, and there’s a bit more money in the honey this go, though I don’t take any account o’ that. And then he must needs know which was the window of my room, but ’twas best to be honest, and I told him it was the other side of the house. A rare bother it is that he’ll be off so soon for a visit to London, for then there’ll be no more evening performance till he’s back... Eh, it’s sweet to be loved!”
All morning this exuberant good humour possessed her: it was sweet to be loved, and her appreciation of that overflowed into kindliness. Happiness and pleasure had always an unlocking effect on her warm elementary heart: when good luck came her way she was always eager that other people should profit by it. She took the cabbage leaves from Mrs. Pentreath to spare her another excursion to the hen house, she bade Nell take her ease, and saw to the dinner herself; she was at the cupboard to give Mr. Pentreath his morning drink before he could so much as ask for it, mixing it so strong in her beneficent exuberance that he had to add a drop of water to it himself. Then Dennis came in half an hour before dinner was ready, and she split an egg for him and fried it with a sprig of bergamot in the butter to give it the flavour he liked.
All the time there was an unusual sum of money hot in her pocket. Nancy loved money, not for the sake of hoarding it, a feat of which she was entirely incapable, but of spending it. When she “‘ad the ‘ump” herself, nothing cheered her so effectively as the spending of a shilling or two on a riband or a bit of finery for herself, but when she was happy her first thought was to make a fairing for others. Lewd and common she might be, but she bubbled with good will towards everyone round her, in the contentment of her unreflecting animalism,-and she wanted to share her good fortune with them. Here she must walk with caution, for she must not seem to have suddenly become a millionaire, else there might be some curiosity as to the origin of her capital: there was five pounds of it now, and that called for disposal. Assuredly a little present for Mrs. Pentreath, poor old thing, would be a wise investment and a pleasant one, for Nancy was genuinely sorry for the barrenness of her days, and at the same time she was the likeliest of them all to get thinking how she was so flush of money, and something nice for her would stop her mouth, if she wanted to make trouble. So Mrs. Pentreath should have a new Shetland shawl, for her own was wearing sadly thin, and there should be a leather belt for Dennis, who had but a hank of string to keep his trousers on his haunches, and a new tobacco pouch for Mr. Pentreath, instead of that old leaky thing ... but, no, perhaps it would be better not to give him anything. For herself she really desired nothing, for she had more than all the milliners in Penzance could provide: just a bottle of scent, Flowers of Musk, would be enough for her.
She bought the Shetland shawl for Mrs. Pentreath that afternoon: it had long languished in a shop at St. Columb’s, and often before now Mollie had referred to it, as a thing she had her eye on, but, poor soul, she couldn’t bring herself to spend the money on it, for close she was with the cash her hens brought her in, putting every penny of it away in the bank. It wasn’t often, thought Nancy, that something pleasant came the old lady’s way: she couldn’t have a night out and be all the better for it in the morning, and it was with a mixture of compassion and her own genuine joy in giving that she untied the parcel that evening before supper, and made her presentation.
“It’s a reel pleasure, Mrs. Pentreath,” she said, “to give you something that’ll lie a bit warmer over-your shoulders than that old rag you’ve worn so long, and it’ll be a better protection against your poor rheumatics, come winter again. There! Let me spread it for you.”
Mollie bristled with silent resentment at the flavour of patronage in this speech. Nancy did not intend it, any more than she intended her triumphant benevolence: it just oozed from her. And the mention of the “poor rheumatics” was not less clumsy and complacent: the speaker was so clearly conscious that she hadn’t got rheumatism yet. On the other hand, Mrs. Pentreath had long coveted the shawl.
“Well, I’m sure that’s most handsome of you, Nancy,” she said, “and I’m much obliged and thank you kindly, though indeed I feel loth to let you spend your little savings on me. And don’t you trouble: I’ll fix it myself as it suits me.”
Instinctively, with the shrinking of hatred, she withdrew herself from Nancy’s touch, as she smoothed the shawl over her, and tweaked it straight. In that shrinking was all the envy of an undesired woman in whom desire burns, towards one, so few years younger than herself, who was giving her some fraction of the money that must have come to her from the joys that Mollie longed for more than a shopful of Shetland shawls: those were Nancy’s H savings.” There was this bitterness, too, that the man who was rightfully hers had an eager eye on Nancy: only this morning she had counselled her to lock her door against an entry for which her own was ever unbolted. Mollie had not a particle of love for her husband, but her want was as decent as thirst or hunger.
On went Nancy’s genial insolence.
“Lor’! Don’t talk of my little
savings like that, Mrs. Pentreath,” she said. “Where’s the use of savings except to spend them, and I’m sure I couldn’t do nothing better with mine, than to give you a bit of comfort for your aches and pains. Nice and warm, isn’t it? I threw it over my shoulders in the shop, and I’m sure I had to take it off in a jiffy, else it would have brought the sweat out on me, so snug it is. But you’re a one for keeping warm, you are.”
“Well, it’s kind of you, my dear,” said Mollie, “and a kindness never goes astray. Warm and comfortable your shawl is, and I’ll sit in it often, I hope, and think of you.”
“My! Don’t trouble your head about me!” cried Nancy. “I’m up to a bit of enjoyment yet, and, lor’, what does anything matter if you can only enjoy yourself?” She gave her silly giggle of a laugh and tripped upstairs singing, to clean herself for supper. How Mollie hated her! She would gladly have smothered her in the folds of the Shetland shawl, but Nancy alive, she made no doubt, was to serve her purpose better than Nancy dead could ever do. But there was a lot to be thought out still.
It was soon evident that Nancy was not intending to be tired and go to bed early that night, for there was no sign of smartness about her, and, when supper was cleared away, she sat down close to the lamp with her book. Nell was washing-up in the scullery next door, with Dennis to help her, drying the plates and dishes after she had scoured them. The door from the kitchen was open, and they spoke low, but every now and then some suppressed ripple of laughter emerged, hovering, like a sunbeam above dark water, over the black silence in the kitchen. There they sat, the three of them, and it was as if they watched each other moving round in the eddies of some bubbling cauldron. John Pentreath was in his chair beside the singed rug, with his bottle and glass beside him for occupation; Mollie sat beside the range, the door of which she had opened, so as to get the glow from the embers within. Her new shawl was on her shoulders, her knitting busied her hands though not her eyes, and she had drawn her chair sideways, so that she could look either at her husband or at Nancy without moving her head. Nancy was in her rocking-chair, with her book held up in front of her, but it remained long to-night with leaf unturned, for there were more vivid images in her mind than those that the printed page conveyed. From time to time, quick as a winked eyelid, she glanced up, and as often as she did that she saw with a glow of self-approbation that Mrs. Pentreath looked cosy in her Shetland. And when she looked at John Pentreath she saw that often he was shooting sidelong glances at her with a smouldering eagerness. That was pleasant, for she piqued herself on looking what she felt like, ever so attractive and alluring. But it was a bit disconcerting seeing that Mrs. Pentreath was on the watch, and remembering their pleasant talk of this morning she folded her lips tight, as if she were being photographed, and kept her eyes on her book. It was clear that John was « thinking a deal of her” that evening, and not a look of appreciation nor a smile should he have from her. But, though she met them no longer, those glances were like a whiff of incense, sweet to the nostrils, which she breathed in. Nobody could find fault with her for breathing, she supposed: even Mrs. Pentreath would allow her to breathe!
Not one atom of all that concerned her husband and Nancy escaped Mollie. It was serving her purpose, she was studying it, she was winding up a ball of it, like yarn from the skein, to be knitted into the fabric that was being fashioned in her mind. The fire was prospering, and the black iron top of the range was beginning to grow dusky red, for Nell had heaped the coal on, finishing the scuttle, when she made it up at supper time. Mollie stretched out her hands to the heat, then wrapped them again in her shawl, and fingering the fringe of it she felt, adhering to it, the shop ticket which Nancy had forgotten to take off. Or perhaps, more likely, Nancy had purposely left it on, so that the recipient of her gift might discover how much it had cost. She quietly detached it, taking care not to tear it, and holding it concealed in her hand as she read the figure by the firelight. Thirty-five shillings was what Nancy had paid for it.
Bitter as bile rose an intolerable jealousy. How much had that common slut received for the pleasures of last night? She could only have spent a portion of that on the shawl, for there was Dennis’s leather belt as well. And more than all that, there had been a man loving her, a man, a man ... and here in the kitchen to-night was another man desiring her, and he the man who was her own. Out of all that treasure Nancy had chucked these shillings at her, as a woman with a pocketful of gold might compassionately throw some silver change to a beggar in the street.
She stood up, plucking the shawl off her shoulders, and dropped it on to the red-hot plate of the range. Nancy looked up as she rose, and saw.
“Gracious me, Mrs. Pentreath,” she said. “What have you done?”
Mollie sniffed in the smell of the burning wool. Sweet it was to her.
“Why, there’s an unfortunate thing now!” she said. “If I haven’t dropped my new shawl on to the oven top. What a bit of carelessness!”
Nancy ran, tongs in hand, to pick it off. “Nay, let it bide,” said Mrs. Pentreath. “It’s burned through, and ’tis no use to fill the kitchen with that nasty smell. Stuff it into the fire, and the smell’ll go up the chimney.”
The price ticket had dropped from her hand, and she bent down, supple and alert, to pick it up.
“Aw, my dear,” she said, to and to think of your having spent that sight of money on me, and all gone now but for the damned stink of it! There’s an unfortunate thing! I must go upstairs and make do with my old rag again.”
“Well, there’s a pretty return for Nancy’s kindness,” said John with a hiccup. “I’d value it more, if she sent a bit of it my way.”
Instantly Mollie made up her mind not to leave them alone together. He was just in that hot tipsiness when he might tell Nancy he wanted her, and then Nancy might make it plain that she was disgusted with his filth, and that would make an end of her own plans.
“Be a kind woman,” said Mollie, “and fetch it for me, for I’ve got stiff with sitting so long. It’ll be on the foot of my bed, and hadn’t I been looking forward to having two shawls over me to-night!”
“That I will, Mrs. Pentreath,” said Nancy good-humouredly, and she lit a candle and went upstairs. Grim and cheerless was that bedroom, not a flower nor a bit of chintz anywhere to brighten it up, and that square four-poster bed, long barren of joy, was the dreariest thing of all. The sight of it enlightened her with compassion, and suddenly the meaning of that burning of the shawl came to her. Till now she thought that by some inconceivable awkwardness Mrs. Pentreath had accidentally dropped it on the stove: now it flashed on her that it had been thrown there: there had been purpose behind it.
“Poor old lady,” she thought with pity and hardly a touch of resentment. “I reckon she was all wrought up with watching Mr. Pentreath sitting there and making eyes at me all evening, for she wants him bad, she does, and it must be fair poison to her to know that he came knocking at my door last night, with her only wanting him to come in to her without any knocking at all. And then she’d be looking at me, sitting so cheerful and happy, without any fancy for what I could get so easy and she couldn’t get at all, and it made her mad to think of taking a kindness from me, and that was how thirty-five shillings went up the chimney. I wonder if she guessed that somebody else had been wanting me too: that would have added to it. It was a deal of money, for sure, to spend on her, and it’d be like her to be puzzled at where I got it and want to light upon the way of it ... and, lor’, what a crash! That’ll be a dish gone. Well, if it isn’t a night of misfortunes.”
She hurried downstairs again with Mrs. Pentreath’s old shawl, to find storm raging in the kitchen. Dennis had dropped a vegetable dish in his washing-up, and there he stood in the door of the scullery, and John Pentreath bawling at him.
“That’s why there’s never a bob in the house,” he shouted. “You’re for ever breaking things, you damned geek, while you chatter and laugh with that girl. I’ll give you a couple of sound clouts on the
head for that. Come out here and get them.”
Dennis took a couple of quick steps towards him, his eyes dancing and his white teeth showing in his mouth. His arms hung by his side, loose and ready with a clenched fist at the end of each, tingling to let fly.
“Here I be, then,” he said. “Now just hand over the first of those clouts, Grandfather, and you’ll see what you get.”
“Lor’, that’s my son, and he’s a beauty!” thought Nancy. But she ran and threw the shawl on the table, and clutched John’s raised arm.
“Now you leave Dennis alone, Mr. Pentreath,” she said. “You come and sit down and I’ll fill your glass for you. He’s an awkward boy, but there! Mrs. Pentreath’s been awkward too this evening. It’s just a day of misfortunes, it is.”
“You let him be, Mother,” bawled Dennis. “Let him try an’ clout me, if that’s his wish, and then I’ll have mine.”
Out shot Mrs. Pentreath’s forefinger at Dennis.
“Enough of that, Dennis,” she cried. “Finish up in there, and hold your tongue.”
John turned savagely on Nancy as she still grasped his arm. She had no business to interfere, but she was a tasty wench for all her commonness.
“Have your way, then,” he said, “but that boy of yours is adding up a long score against himself. Pour me out a glass, and you can take a sip yourself: that won’t spoil the taste of it.”
“Eh, I wouldn’t touch the fiery stuff,” said Nancy. “But there you are, and now let’s all sit down and have a bit of peace before bedtime. Why, there’s my book face down on the floor.”
Silence descended again: Dennis and Nell came in from the scullery, and she took up her darning, and the boy went to fill the coal scuttle and bring in a handful of firing for the morning. But below that silence there were perilous things stirring unseen: there was a tenseness, as if a whispered word or the flick of an eyelash might have been like the striking of a match in a room charged with inflammable gas. But no such word was spoken, nor yet any other, and when next the chimeless clock whirred for the hour, first one and then the other went up to bed. Mrs. Pentreath, the first to go, sat waiting by the half-opened door of her bedroom, till she heard the click of Nancy’s lock.
