Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  Supper was close on ready when he got back to the farm, and he looked at the barometer by the kitchen door. His grandfather had set it at dinner time, but the machine must surely be crazy, for it had gone down a full inch, and as he tapped, it jerked downwards again. Then there came out of the dead calm a sudden wail of wind that set the trees in the garden tossing, and a tattoo of rain beat against the panes, loud and startling as if somebody outside was tapping at the window. It lasted only for a couple of minutes and it and the blast that drove it ceased.

  John Pentreath had had a drink or two since he came in, and he laughed.

  “There’s your storm, Mollie!” he said, not so terrible bad, and the ewes might have got through it without my paying extra time to the fellows and putting up a palace of hurdles for them. What’s the barometer at, Dennis?”

  “An inch and more down since you set it at dinner,” said he.

  Pentreath looked at it.

  “God! and I set it when I came in,” he said. “Maybe we haven’t wasted our labour.”

  “Maybe you haven’t,” said Mollie. “Maybe you’ll go to church to-morrow morning thankful that you hearkened to me. Give me a cut of that mutton, Nancy, for I’d like a piece of meat to-night: rare and hungry I am when there’s a storm coming up, and such a one as none of us’ll forget.”

  It was a silent supper, and silent the hour that followed. Nancy had her book, Mollie her knitting, John his pipe and glass, and Nell her eternal darning with the wool she had wound, and Dennis a pack of greasy playing-cards. Nell was the Queen of Hearts, he thought to himself, and he the King. He shuffled and dealt them out in four lines: should those two cards be touching each other, that was a good omen. Then he added grannie as a black queen, and twice she got between them, and so he must deal again, and not leave it like that...The clock whirred out the hour of nine, and though he was sleepy from his run last night, he’d wait to go upstairs with Nell and tell her of it, for not a word had he had with her all day, since she had sulked at him all morning, and he had been hard at work all afternoon. To be sure they had sat over skein-winding, but they couldn’t talk then, and after supper Nancy had helped with the washing-up, and there was no room for three in that cupboard of a scullery. Sleepy though he was, too, there was something alert within, listening and expectant.

  That same unease seemed to possess the others, for there was Nancy with her book unregarded on her lap, and Mollie had put her knitting aside, and Nell had thrust her darning into her work-basket. All were waiting for this tempest to arise, which should justify three hours’ work on Saturday afternoon. He went across to the barometer again, but it had not fallen farther. Inside and out, dead silence. As he stood there, something whispered outside: rain had begun to fall, straight and rather thick in the dead calm of the air, for not a drop specked the windows. Then came a more sonorous noise: here was the wind at last, and again the rain splashed the panes. It was a strong breeze out of the west, and it continued steady, though not violent, just such a night as last night, with nothing to fear for the flock. A bit of wind was but usual this month and a dash of rain with it, and there seemed no more to it than that after all this to-do with the hurdling.

  Nancy was the first to go upstairs, and Nell and Dennis followed, with John Pentreath hiccupping on their heels. Nell went into her room without a glance at Dennis, but surely she couldn’t be in the sulks again, and he opened his window and called softly to her. She answered with a whistle through the magnolia leaves.

  “’Tis all right again, Nell?” he said.

  “Surely: I was just a crosspatch,”

  “Mayn’t I come in and talk a bit, and tell you of my running?” he asked.

  “No, best not,” she said.

  “And what if I did?” he asked.

  “You’d find my door bolted. Good night,” and she shut her window.

  Well: there it was, and they were puzzling creatures. Why shouldn’t he have gone in, and sat on her bed for a talk, and told her about his running? What hurt could come of it? But she must have her way, and, had he known it, she was still standing by the window with trembling fingers that yearned to unlatch it again, and call to him.

  Dennis slept sound and late that night, and when he woke it was broad day, and the boughs of the trees in the garden were clashing together as the wind, now risen to half a gale with occasional violent gusts, streamed through them. But there was no need to get up yet, for he could lie a-bed on Sunday morning as long as he pleased, with no further penalty than finding breakfast cleared away when he got down, and having to pick something from the larder that would last him till dinner. But before dinner came the churchgoing in his cloth clothes and a linen collar and constrained, uncomfortable boots which he must black before he set out on the grim walk to worship with his grandfather and Nancy and Nell, leaving Mrs. Pentreath to mind the house and have an eye to the dinner.

  The wind had done sore havoc in the night with the garden: flowers were shredded from their stalks, and the grass was strewn with broken branches from the trees, and the paths were deeply channelled by the rain. That had ceased, and perhaps was over altogether, for rifts, showing spaces of watery blue, appeared in the tatter of scudding clouds overhead. In the south-west, out of which the wind was coming, there was an arch of clear sky, like a funnel from which it was blown, and watery sunshine gleamed. As he went downstairs a violent gust swept by with a screech as from a living thing, and he thought he heard some crash outside in the garden.

  John Pentreath had already been down to the field where the sheep lay; the hurdles had withstood the force of the wind, and the ewes with their young were snugly cuddled up in the shelter, while a few barren ones with no maternal cares to worry them were at feed again. He was in his Sunday humour of grim piety, with a day’s abstinence in front of him to blacken his temper.

  “The Lord’s been a-riding on the wings of the wind and no mistake,” he said, “and it’s blowing as strong as ever. The sheep and lambs are safe though, praise His Holy Name for putting it into my head to see to them yesterday, else they’d have had a sore rough night of it. But the Lord is my shepherd, that’s a true word of King David’s.”

  Mollie gave a little thin high laugh.

  “I’m thinking it was I who put a notion of shepherding into your head, John Pentreath,” she said, “whatever your King David said about it.”

  John did not argue that point, and he pushed back his chair.

  “A fine time of day to come down to breakfast, Dennis,” he said. «But you mind you’re ready to start to church with your mother and Nell and me. I won’t have you coming in when it’s sermon-time. I’ll just take a look round the yard, and then we’ll be off. Where’s my hat?”

  Nancy, still obliging, jumped up.

  “It’s in the cupboard, Mr. Pentreath,” she said, “I’ll give it a bit of a shine against you’re ready for it.”

  “Thank you, Nancy,” he said, “that’s a good girl.”

  He went round to the kitchen door, glancing at the barometer as he passed.

  “God save us!” he said. “The bitch has gone down another full inch since I set her last night. Very stormy, and low at that. What do you say to it Mollie?”

  “Just what me and the Lord said to you yesterday, a wild night and a day of trouble to follow. Step out quick, man, if you’re going, and shut the door after you.”

  It was not a couple of minutes before he was back again.

  “Mollie, there’ll be the deuce to payout in the yard,” he said, “for the ash at the corner has fallen across the wall, and the wall’s bulging full dangerous with the weight of it. If it goes, it’ll fall smash on to your poultry. And you can’t get at them, for a heavy bough lies right over the door.”

  Dennis ran out and came hurrying back.

  “I’ll fetch the two-handled saw,” he said, “and we’ll get the top branches off the tree. That’ll ease the weight, Grandfather, and you and I’ll have them off in a jiffy.”

 
John Pentrearh hesitated, then brought his hand down thump on the table.

  “That will I not,” he said, “till church is done.”

  “And till all my poultry are buried flat underneath the wall,” cried Mollie. Again he hesitated, and came across to her, speaking low, as if for fear that the Lord was listening.

  “Mollie, can’t you find a word that’ll keep them safe, till I’m back?” he said, “and then sure as sure I’ll help, though ’tis the Lord’s Day.”

  She shook her hands in his face.

  “Yes, I know something that’ll keep them safe, and that’s that you go out with the boy, and saw the branches off. Go and take your Sunday blacks off, while he’s fetching the saw, and do your praying when my hens are safe.”

  He spat into the fire.

  “So that’s all the word you know, is it?” he said, “and hearken to mine. Them’s the church bells going and it’s time to start. Come on, Nancy and Nell and you, too, Dennis; off we go.”

  Dennis turned his back on his grandfather.

  “Nell, run ‘ee down quick, quick, to St. Columb’s and tell Willie I want him here hot-foot. He’s at the first house in Kenrith Lane, with the garden in front. Mr. Giles, it is, an artist-fellow.”

  “I bid you come to church, Dennis,” roared John, “and you too, Nell.”

  Dennis faced round, as Nell scuttled off.

  “Sure you do, and you may bellow at me ten times and I’ll not hear you.”

  Mollie nipped in between them, with finger pointing at her husband.

  “Enough said,” she yelled. “Leave the lad alone, and go off to your holy pow-wows. Do you think I’m going to have all my fowls killed along of it being Sunday? Get you gone, if you haven’t the spunk to help the boy. I’ll make you tremble, John Pentreath, worse nor God ever did, if you cross me, and if once I give you the tremblings they’ll last you a prayerbook full of Sundays. Get your saw, Dennis, against young Polhaven’s coming. You’re a good lad.”

  The wills of the two came to grips; and wrestled together, but his was ludicrously the weaker for such a tussle, for he was backed only by his bogy-fear of God, which was all that his religion amounted to, and half of him was already on her side, for had he not asked her for a “word” that would keep her hens safe against disaster, until he had made his obeisances; and could lend a more material aid? The silent fight lasted but a few seconds, and he took up his hat, and went off with Nancy. And a fine score was adding up, he thought to himself, against young Dennis, for it was he who had engineered this impious business in place of church-going, and he who had bade Nell run off to St. Columb’s and fetch his Willie. The boy would rue this morning’s work, sure enough.

  Dennis had scarcely got into his working clothes, when Willie came trotting up from St. Columb’s, and the two went out with the saw and consulted how to tackle their work. The trunk of the tree that had stood on a high knoll behind the wall had fallen across it, and lay there almost horizontal, and the wall bulged ominously with its weight, threatening to collapse. It was necessary therefore to sever the trunk close to where it rested on the wall, and thus relieve it of the weight of the heavy branches that now hung over the henhouse. But it would not do just to cut the trunk in half, for the top part of the tree would then simply fall on to the coops and crush all beneath it. So first they propped up the branches with stiff strong stakes thrust below them so that when the trunk was severed they would be supported. After that they could lop off the smaller branches, and get access to the imprisoned animals without fear of the wall collapsing.

  Half an hour’s furious work in hammering the stakes against the underside of the branches rendered them pretty secure against their crashing when the trunk was severed, and now they climbed up on to the wall and got the big saw to work on the trunk. The quicker this was done the better, for every moment was dangerous, and swiftly the saw buzzed to and fro: luckily the sap flowed late into the ash in springtime, and the wood was not yet toughened and moist with it. Out came Mrs. Pentreath to watch them, her hair blown across her face by the wind, and heedless of the flaws of cold rain that dashed against her, and screamed encouragement.

  “Good lads, good lads,” she cried, “you’re more nor half -through already. You’ll save my hens yet, and good fortune will light on your house, Willie, like the swallows returning year by year, and the desire of your heart shall be yours. Well done, Dennis, you made the sawdust fly with that strong stroke, and for you there’ll be a lass so fair to hold in your arms that you’ll wish the morning would never dawn, and the farm shall prosper in your hands when you come into your own, and the blight shall spare your corn—”

  She paused in this spate of benedictions: the trunk was all but cut through and the danger over, when she saw the wall quiver, and mortar crumble out from between the bulging bricks. She waved her arms in the air; then grew rigid as the stones of the circle, with eyes shut and mouth working furiously. When she looked again, the wall still stood and with two more pulls of the saw the trunk was severed. The top part creaked as it subsided on to the stakes and struts the boys had put there to support it; the other piece, relieved of the weight of the upper branches, was now harmless.

  They scram bled down from their perch; there was Mollie fairly dancing on the threshold, and she threw an arm round each.

  “The best morning’s work you ever did, lads,” she cried. “Come you both quick into the kitchen and have your dinner, whether my old psalm-singer is back from church or not: I’ll dish it up for you. And there’ll be a bit of gold for each of you that I’ll cross your palms with, and ‘twill bring you days of pleasure and nights of joy. And when you’ve fed, off you go again to loose the boughs off my henhouse, and I’ll give them their victuals.”

  She took them into the kitchen just as the church party returned, and now that her hens were safe all her fury against her husband was gone, and genially she gabbled.

  “Eh, John Pentreath,” she said, “a rare morning’s work have the lads done, ’twas good to watch the hefty fellows. And you with your church-going! Well, I’ll not rile you more over that: one thinks one way, and one another; you’re for the Lord; but give me a pair of lusty young men like them if I’m in a fix. But I’ll meet you half-way: I’ll say ’twas the Lord that heard your prayers, if so be you minded to mention my hens, and He put the vigour into their arms. Eh, they made the sawdust fly like spurts of water, beautiful to see. But let’s have dinner! There’s a roast cockerel, and I was feared that my broody hens ‘ud soon be as dead as he. Say grace, John, and whatever you say, I’ll give Amen to you.”

  A pleasant old lady, thought Willie, for she had clasped a ten-shilling piece in his hand, and bade him sit next her, but! God, how her pretty speeches frightened him! She was friends, as he knew, with old Sally Austell, who kept house for his master, and there was trouble- for those who crossed them. It was just as well that he had earned Mrs. Pentreath’s good-will, for those two old hags between them knew a terrible lot. She put her teeth on the table, and sucked and swallowed at bits of that bird that must surely have been a fighting cock in the days of his youth. Would it be polite to say, “What beautiful teeth, ma’am!” or were they just a bit of absentmindedness, sitting grinning at him by his elbow? But he thought but little of her, for it was Dennis who mattered most, and not a look did he get from him: Dennis’s eyes were all on Nell. So that was the way of it. Dennis was turning to the girls, as he had suspected this long time past, and that was why he so seldom came down to St. Columb’s now when his work was done.

  Next Dennis sat his mother: Willie thought she seemed a bit shy of him, and little wonder, for she had brought back the lantern yesterday, meaning no doubt to go into the studio through the garden door and pop it down, but, as ill-luck would have it; Willie had been cleaning up there at the time, so now she knew he must have guessed who had come in the night before and stayed so late. And at the end of the board was Dennis’s grandfather, black and silent. As soon as dinner was over he had mo
ved from the table, and gotten a great Bible, and sat smoking his pipe in a chair by the window.

  Then Dennis and Willie went out to make sure of the security of what they had done; and to cut away the boughs that still sprawled over the hen-run. They were as clever as two mechanics over it, working just by common sense. The thick sections of the trunk and boughs must first be sawn off and removed, and so surely had they strutted them up that they could work on them as if they stood on the solid ground. After they had been taken off the lighter boughs were easy to handle, and in an hour the whole was clear, and Mrs. Pentreath could get at her hens again, and bring them their provender. There were a rare lot of eggs to be gathered, and she heaped her basket.

  The two boys took the saw to the woodshed when they had finished, and sat for a while on the bench outside, for neither wanted to go back into the kitchen. For the first time since their friendship had blossomed out of their fight, there was an embarrassment between them, and perhaps it was better to speak of the cause of it now, thought Willie, for the longer the delay the harder it would be to bring it out.

  “That Nell Robson’s a rare pretty piece, Dennis,” he said.

  Dennis had been troubled just like his friend. He laid his hand on Willie’s shoulder.

  “Iss sure,” he said. “And it’s come to me, Willie. I’m fair top-heavy wi’ the thought of her. It happens to all, don’t it?”

  “Pretty nigh. I thought there was something when evening by evening now-you’ve never come down to St. Columb’s for a talk and a saunter.”

  “Savage with me, Willie?” asked Dennis.

  “Nay, not savage, for ’tisn’t your fault. Might have happened to me instead. But there ’tis, and I reckon all’s past and done with now.”

  “And what’ll you be meaning by past and done with?” asked Dennis.

  “This last three years. You and me, not wanting aught else but us.”

  “Well, there’s a silly thing to mean!” said Dennis. “You’re the lad of my heart, same as ever, but ’tis no use talking, if you haven’t got that in your marrows after all this long while. There you are, Willie, and there you’ll bide, and none can come betwixt you and me, not Nell nor another.”