Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  “And you’ll give your hand on that?”

  “Iss, fey, and a thump with it afterwards for making such rubbishy talk about the love of us two being past and done with.”

  They sat there a while yet in a silence as intimate as any talk could be. The wind of the night had subsided into an absolutely dead calm, and the rain had ceased, hut it was dark for so early in the afternoon, not yet much after two o’clock, for the whole sky was overlaid with that yellowish curtain of cloud thicker now and completely concealing the sun, and the light that came through it was wan, like the breaking of a stormy morning.

  “A rum day,” said Dennis at length, “with the barometer-glass in its boots, and yet not a breath of wind. Eh, what’s that?”

  On the still air there rose a noise like the roar of a furnace, when the doors are thrown open. It grew rapidly louder, until the sky boomed with the bellowing of it, and it came from above, for now, though still no wind reached them here, the vapours overhead were torn asunder like the rending of a woven fabric: then down the hurricane plunged like a stooping hawk on to the earth. Crash went another tree in the garden, and the blast struck the house with a solid blow that made it shudder. Yet this was but the fringe of the central fury that yelled its way across the fields a few hundred yards off, and Dennis, with a sudden apprehension, ran round into the garden, from the wall of which he could see the field where the sheep were folded. The wind nearly blew him back again as he leapt up, but he steadied himself and beheld. Of the three trees between which the shelter of hurdles had been erected two had fallen across it. A few sheep only could be seen cantering distractedly about.

  Dennis jumped down again.

  “God, the ewes and the little ones!” he cried to Willie. “The trees have fallen right across the fold we made for ‘m. I’ll go tell Grandfather, and then. We’ll be off with an axe and a saw and a crowbar: maybe there’s some buried there unhurt.”

  He ran into the kitchen. John Pentreath had put his Bible from him at the sound of that huge wind, and turned round as Dennis entered, as if knowing he had news. “Well, out with it,” he cried.

  “Two trees have fallen across the fold, Grandfather,” he said. “We’re off there, Willie and I, to see what can be saved.”

  “I’ll be following you,” he said.

  Straight along the line of the hurdles had the trees fallen, and there was shambles beneath. What lay directly under the trunks needed no guessing, and there was havoc enough without that. Here a heavy branch had been snapped off by the fall, and lay across the buttocks of an ewe, pinning her under it. She turned dying eyes on them, with little bleating moans as they levered the branch away. She was all smashed up, and her dead lamb lay flattened out beside her.

  Another was caught by a hind leg, but was quite unhurt, scrambling to her feet when they released her with no more than a limp: another’s head was crushed in, and her two lambs were tugging at her teats, and others were burst asunder, a pool of blood, and a pool of milk. John Pentreath had soon joined them, and he had brought his gun with him: those injured beyond hope of recovery he shot.

  The wind still blew half a gale, though the hurricane was past, and now the rain began to fall heavily again on the lambless ewes and the motherless. Not a word did he give either of the boys, and when about sunset the work was over he counted up the number that remained, and shouldering his gun, went home.

  All supper time there had been silence but for the wind and thick falling rain outside. There was nothing to be said about so dire a disaster. John Pentreath had eaten nothing, but he had drunk more than his wont, and now he sat with an empty pipe in his mouth waiting for the clearing of the table to be done.

  Then, as was usual of a Sunday evening, Nell and Nancy and Dennis ranged themselves by the table for prayers, and Mollie pushed back her chair. John stared at them all a moment, seeing nothing of them, as if he had wakened in a strange room, and did not know where he was. Then he made his bearings and got up.

  “Aye, it’ll be prayers you’re waiting for,” he said, and went to the head of the table. But instead of kneeling there he stood.

  “I’ve been meditating on the Lord God,” he said, “and do you all hearken to the voice of my prayer. What I tell you is that I, John Pentreath, curse the Lord God, and spit on His damned name. He’s been playing the dirty on me, while I’ve been busy worshipping Him, and while I’ve been calling on Him as a present help in trouble it’s He who’s been sending the trouble on me, and I’m not going to slobber on Him no more. Black ways He has to his friends.”

  Mollie gave a great cackle of laughter.

  “Well done, John Pentreath,” she cried. “I like your prayings to-night. Talkin’ a bit o’ sense at last.” The bawling voice went on.

  “Never a Lord’s Day for twenty years have I missed His service, and to reward that, where’s the comfort of His help? Answer me that, any of you. You, Nancy, what do you say to that?”

  “ Lor’! Mr. Pentreath , do have done,” said Nancy. “You’ll be sorry for what you’ve said.”

  “Is that so? I’ll be sorry when the Lord gives me back my ewes and my lambs. Iss, indeed; there’s a fine loving Shepherd for you! That’s what He’s done for me, and cursed be His Name and His works for ever and ever, Amen. Now get you all to bed; and that’s the last prayer you ever hear from John Pentreath. Amen and Amen, say I, if none of you has the spunk to say it, too. God, I’m going to have a proper drink to-night. Off with you!”

  When John was left to himself, he soon finished his bottle and went to the cupboard to get another. To night the drink seemed to take no hold on him: that muddled content and sense of comfort that should have been his by this time wouldn’t come near him, and his step was as steady, when now he walked up and down the room trying to blur that ruinous tragedy of the afternoon, as when he set off in his Sunday blacks to church that morning. There it still was, ghastly and distinct as ever, that stricken field, the dead beasts and the maimed which he had shot; and up above the windy sky that terrible Lord God laughing at him... .

  And perhaps He hadn’t done with His jokes yet, for the wind still roared round the house, and rain, with a volley or two of hail, beat on the windows, and that would be fine for the young springing corn, and for the ewes and lambs that had survived. More jokes yet, perhaps; for the old house, solid though it was, was full of strange groaning creaks as the wind punched it. Likely the cow-house would fall in, and there’d be a rare pasty of blood and milk again; strawberries and cream no doubt for the Lord God! He’d be fair blown out with blood-sacrifice! Well: he had said what he thought of Him...There was no abatement in the fury of the wind, and as John sat and shuddered at it, wondering what new disaster the morning might reveal, his mind began to misgive him as to what he had said, calling his family to witness that he had done with the Lord. But had the Lord done with him yet? What if He had sent this disaster just to test him as He had tested Abraham, to see if He submitted to His will, with the purpose of rewarding him a hundredfold for what he had lost, if he took his chastisement as from a loving Father? Now perhaps he had made God his foe indeed. Perhaps God had said to Himself, “So be it then, John Pentreath!”; had taken up his challenge, had lifted a finger and nodded to the terrors and’ the pestilences that lay couched beside His throne, bidding them go forth and get on the trail of John Pentreath. Eh, it was an awful thing to make an enemy of Him; He could open the vials of His wrath, and pour them out upon you, and at the end topple you over into the pit of eternal damnation. Sure, He had always the last word!

  The terror gained on him as he glowered and drank; and hearkened to the thump and squeal of the wind and the rattle of the rain. He rose from his seat, dropping his pipe on to the floor, and slid on to his knees by the table, clasping his hands together. Perhaps it was not too late yet, and he was eloquent with all he had drunk.

  “Lord God!” he hiccupped, “have mercy upon me, a miserable sinner. I have erred and strayed from Thy ways, and there is no health
in me. Thou didst send on me to-day a sore chastisement, and instead of receiving it as from a loving hand, I started aside like a broken bow, and in the stubborn wickedness of my heart, I cursed Thee and blasphemed. Lord, forgive the iniquity of my transgressions against Thee. I spoke in the anguish of my soul, and I knew not what I said. Justly Thou visitedst me for all my backslidings, wherewith I have provoked Thine anger and indignation against me. I will make atonement for all my wickedness, and conduct myself uprightly in humble fear of Thee and Thy judgments. I will follow a godly and sober life, and I will lead those whom Thou hast committed to me in Thy way...”

  He paused: what had happened? Even as he prayed the wind had dropped and the rain beat no longer on the panes. A sign, for sure, that his prayers were heard.

  “Praise the Lord, praise ye the Lord,” he gabbled. “He spake the word, and the wind was still, and there came a great calm. He heard the voice of my humble petition: He sent down from on high, and took me out of the deep waters. Amen and Amen.”

  He scrambled to his feet, and opened the kitchen door: a night of stars was there and of full moon near to its setting over the west. The Lord was good: what should he do to reward Him?

  He tipped some more spirits into his glass: the water jug was empty, but he could make shift without it. He had made some promises to the Lord just now in his praying, and he’d keep them too, for John Pentreath was a man of honour. There was something about leading those of his household in the Lord’s way: he must set about that. Not so easy though, for there was Mollie in the forefront of them, and a terrible lot of leading there would have to be before she got into the Lord’s way. She must go after her own devices, for he was just downright afraid of crossing her.

  He listened for a while after his conclusion that Mollie had best be left alone. But there was no disapproving sound of the wind rising again: the Lord God seemed to agree that this was reasonable. Perhaps He had a thought of dealing with Mollie himself.

  Then there was Nancy: and his mind began slipping back into old grooves before he knew it. A good-looking buxom wench she was, with her firm breasts and her shapeliness and that clump of golden hair, and the full ripe mouth and the whorish eyes. She’d make a lusty armful in bed one night... Eh, but there was a sinful thought, an adulterous and an incestuous thought, likely to call down His wrath again...Nancy had light ways, he was afraid (that was better): there had been that artist-boy in St. Columb’s a year or two ago, and it was rumoured she used to bed with him, the lucky fellow. What was he to do about Nancy, to help her turn to the Lord? He must have a tussle with himself first, and then when he’d trampled his thoughts underfoot, he must try to tackle Nancy’s lightness, and bid her remember she was a woman with a grown son. Too many ribands and rouges about her...

  Then there was Dennis, and at the thought of Dennis he ranged himself heart and soul with the Lord. He had a long personal score against Dennis, and a drop more whisky made it stand out as clear as the print in his Bible. Again and again lately the boy had defied him: he had refused to go back to his work when ordered, he had smashed one of the old Pentreath vegetable dishes, and when John had told him to stand out and take a couple of clouts for his carelessness, he had just given that hitch to his shoulder to show his arm was loose and ready. Then, by God, this very morning he had refused to come to church, and had sent Nell down to St. Columb’s to fetch up his lad, and they had made the wife’s poultry safe, and gotten each of them a ten-shilling piece for their wickedness... That extra dram of whisky had cleared his brain wonderful. and he began to see it all rightly. The Lord had looked down on this godless household, and seen how they made a mock of His holy day. “Two can play at that game,” thought the Lord; “they’ve saved their chickens, but I’ve got a bit of a wind somewhere that’ll make Me quits with their ewes and their lambs.” ’Twas Dennis’s fault all along. It was all clear now, and the Lord had sent that hurricane to mark His displeasure. John had been a bit slack with Dennis, noting his big fists and lithe arms, but he had promised the Lord to lead his household in His way, and there was a long score against the boy, anyhow.

  His eye fell on the dog-whip that hung near the kitchen door. It was a tight-plaited thong of leather, with a bone handle to it: a dog didn’t need more than a few cuts of it; however thick its coat. Often when Dennis was younger he had had his hands tied to the bed-post, and had writhed under it with no coat to protect him. But now there should come to him the chastisement of the Lord, and bitter should that chastisement be. The fear of the Lord should be put into him, so that he’d turn from his godless ways, and learn to fear his grandfather as well.

  He took the whip down, and thought over just what he would do. Dennis would be asleep by now, and by a few quick movements, if John got quietly into his room without waking him, he would awake powerless against those slashing blows. That was what God laid on His servant, John Pentreath, to do. Once pinioned in bed, he would admonish him: it was the Lord who struck, and the Lord would strike heavy and often, till he’d learn to keep holy the Sabbath Day. John’s will and inclination alike were in the Lord’s service here: there was no tussle with himself, for desire and duty were at one.

  He had it all clear now in his mind, and he took off his boots, and with candle in hand went noiselessly upstairs and along the passage to Dennis’s room. The handle of his door turned without a sound; and he entered. The boy was lying fast asleep with legs out stretched, and turned over almost on to his face. His head lay on one arm crooked on his low pillow, the other was tucked below his chest.

  John put the candle down on the washstand, tiptoed over to the bed, and planted a knee across the back of Dennis’s calves, clipping them both beneath it. He stripped the blanket off him down to his hips, and with his left hand he grasped the back of the boy’s neck between thumb and fingers, pressing his head down on to his arm. Then with all the savage drunken force that was in him, he slashed his back from shoulder to loin with the whip, and raised his arm again for the second cut, that was to be but one out of many more to follow.

  Dennis woke out of deep sleep mad with burning pain. He saw above him grim, and tight-jawed, his grandfather’s face, and knew that his legs were powerless. But before the second blow fell, he twisted his head round, lithe as a cat, and bit with all his force into the hand that gripped his neck, above and below the big thumb-joint. He felt his teeth crunch through the gristle and sinews, and grate on the bone.

  At that the red lust of murder came over John Pentreath, and dropping his whip on the bed he seized Dennis’s throat in both hands with a hold that was meant to strangle. And in some fanatic fashion, his drink-sodden brain encouraged him, telling him that he was fighting an enemy of God.

  His movement enabled Dennis to get one arm free, and while still he held on like a bulldog to his grandfather’s thumb, he picked up the whip that lay by his side, and slashed with the bone handle of it at his face. The first blow fell wide, and already his ears sang and his eyes were growing misty with this strangling clutch. Knowing that in a few seconds he must be choked into unconsciousness, he aimed his second blow more carefully, and got home with it. Right across that savage face it fell from forehead to chin, cutting an eyelid open and biting deep into lip and cheek. At that the pressure on his neck and throat relaxed, and he released that gnawed thumb and wrenched himself free.

  He spat the blood with which his mouth was full on the boards by the bedside; his legs were still imprisoned, and there was strength in the tough old drunkard yet. Out shot his hand, and with open palm he hit him with all his force on the cheek, and at that the pressure on his legs became a mere inert weight, and he easily shuffled free of it, and struggled out of bed. He took hold of his grandfather’s shoulders, and shook him till his head nodded to and fro like a marionette’s.

  “That’s what you get from me,” he cried, blind with fury. “And do you give in now, or I’ll shake the head off your lousy shoulders. Answer me, you old scruffy-head!”

  Dennis waited a
moment, standing over him ready to bash him again if need be. But no answer came, for John Pentreath collapsed across the bed. Then, without more ado, Dennis picked up the limp burden, slinging it over his shoulder like a sack, and with John’s candle in his hand carried it down the passage. He rapped hard on Nancy’s door as he passed, and before he had come to his grandfather’s room, she had opened it, and followed him.

  “Lor’! What’s up, Dennis?” she said. “What have you done to your grandfather? And you without a stitch on, why, ’tis shameful.”

  He dropped the burden on the bed.

  “Hush!” he said. “No need to wake Grannie. You look after him. Bleeding like a pig, he is.”

  He turned round, showing his back to her.

  “That’s what he gave me while I was asleep,” he said; aye and near scragged me. Go and tend him, Mother, and see what I gave him when I woke. His face is a wisht sight, ain’t it, and look to his hand: same as if someone had bitten it, and I shouldn’t wonder if it had happened so. God, how my back burns, and my throat’s squeezed in half. So that’s what he got for it, the bloody old drunkard, and I’ll give him twice as bad next time. I’ll get my coat and bags on and come back.”

  Dennis broke into silent laughter.

  “Looks as if he made a bit of a mistake in his manner of praying to-night,” he said. “Cursing God doesn’t seem to do much for a man. What the hell for did he want to go for me, who’d saved Grannie’s hens and worked like a nigger to do summat for his sheep? And me asleep, too, the swine!

  CHAPTER VII. KENRITH COPSE

  ONE afternoon, some three weeks later, John Pentreath strolled into the kitchen from the farmyard to sit and have a pipe in his arm-chair. The kitchen was empty, for Nancy had gone down into St. Columb’s for her shopping, Nell was weeding in the garden, Dennis out at work, and his wife packing a crate of eggs for the market. Never had the poultry been so fruitful: the hens seemed to be made of eggs, though on the farms round they were still scarce and the market prices high. Mollie was in luck and no mistake, but that didn’t profit John, for all her money went into her own pocket. But she had been decent about letting him have plenty of chicken broth during the days when he had been on slops.