by E. F. Benson
“Get a good sleep,” said Nancy, “and, come morning, you’ll be frisking like a two-year-old.”
Mollie bent her head over her knitting, in some noiseless spasm of mirth.
“And I’m next door again to you,” she said; “if you want aught before morning give me a call. Nancy’s had some broken nights, I warrant.”
Dennis had occasion on the afternoon of this Friday, so eagerly expected by his mother, to go on some farming errand over to Penerth, which lay in the combe below the pool beside which the ecstasy of his running had come to its climax on that spring night of wind and rain some weeks before. He was detained there longer than he had anticipated, and before he set out on his return the sun was setting, and a crescent moon low in the sky was beginning to gild itself. His directest way home lay through a strip of the ill-famed Kenrith copse, to which that night he had given a good wide berth with a prudence he half despised, which yet sprang from some inbred instinct. But to-day it was only early evening: at the worst he could but meet some old dame like Sally Austell, muttering to herself as she gathered a bundle of fallen sticks, or whatever her business there might be; if he did, he would be very polite to her, help her for a few minutes, and maybe he’d get a blessing from her instead of a cursing and a twitching of her lips. So wanting to get home as quick as might be, he struck into the footpath that led through the wood.
Strangely dark it was under the trees, when he had got a bit of a way in. The red-grey fir-trunks stood close, like pillars supporting the sombre roof of their branches, and the air was dead still, as if in a shut room. The ground was strewn with lichen-covered boulders: they gleamed whitely on this side and that as he threaded his way along, with foot noise lesson the fallen needles. But ahead it was lighter, for not far off now was the clearing in the centre of the wood, where stood that old stone table, which had been there, it was said, as long as the circle in the midst of the ploughed field. There were legends about it, similar to those attached to the circle. It had been an altar according to tradition, and blood-sacrifices were made on it, and magic dances done round it, and women who performed such rites got their heart’s desire if it was a child they wanted: all knew that not many years ago old Sally Austell used to be seen capering there, and sure enough a child she had, though she was gone fifty, and none knew who the father might be. But these things were not much spoken of, for Kenrith copse was an evil place, and such spells were black, not the white magic of the circle, where every Midsummer Eve lads and lasses newly wed danced together, and Parson, being Cornish bred, himself looked on.
Dennis had come close to the clearing; glimpses of it appeared between the tree-trunks. Then suddenly, on the still air there shrilled up the cry of an animal, as of a creature caught in a trap. Two long yowls it gave, and there was silence again. Moving a step on he caught sight of the stone table. There was a woman standing beside it, her hands busy at something that lay on it with a kneading movement, and he saw who it was. At that, sheer curiosity, with horror pricking through it, as to what she was doing here, overscored all other feelings, and he peered out, bending low, from behind a tree and watched her.
Mollie picked up that which was lying on the altar, and Dennis saw that it was a cat. The fur was soaked in blood, and she squeezed the twitching body with both hands, as if squeezing a sponge to wring the water from it. She dipped her fingers in the blood that lay in a pool on the stone, and opening her dress smeared her breasts with it. She was muttering to herself the while, and he could see her mouth working, milling out the words silently, as if at some private devotion, but presently, when she had anointed herself, her voice grew audible and rose to a shrill gabbling sort of chant, and then she curtsied three times, swift and low, so that her skirts billowed up round her.
Still chanting she began some uncouth kind of dance round the stone table. Her hair fell on her shoulders as she whisked about in those frenzied antics, all alone in the black circle of pines beneath the moon. Had Dennis imagined for himself such a spectacle as this lone woman presented, the thought of it would have made him laugh, but now, when he was witness of it, the very spring and source of merriment froze within him and the antique creeds and superstitions of his race stirred in his blood. Some ritual, secret and reverend, ordained the extravagant gestures, the prancings, the jerky wooden pirouettings; glee and the spirit of worship inspired them, and the sight made his skin to prickle and his hair to stir. Then suddenly her chants and her dancings ceased, and she threw herself on her back on the ground spent and panting for breath after these awesome antics.
Dennis crept stealthily away back along the path he had come, with glances behind him to see if he was being followed, and once clear of the wood, he ran like a hare.
Supper at the farm was nearly over when Mollie came in. Nancy had been in a fine fuss over her lateness, for in these lengthening days the hour had been moved to eight, and it was gone half-past before she came into the kitchen. Nancy bounced up to give her the plate of meat which had been kept hot for her.
“Well, and what a time of night, to be sure, to come in at, Mrs. Pentreath!” she said sharply. “Where can you have been all this long while?”
Dennis glanced up at Mollie, and she sat down at the head of the table. She’d got a bit of colour in her face to-night; no wonder, he thought, after all that dancing. And now, away from that sombre ill-omened copse, the ludicrous side of what he had so fearfully witnessed overcame him. To think that an hour ago that black silent woman had been capering and cantering around, blood-bedaubed, and chanting like a mad thing. He bent over his plate, silently shaking.
“Where’ve I been?” she answered Nancy. “Why, just out for a saunter.”
Suddenly she flared up, as any inquisitiveness was apt to make her do. “And so I’ve got to give an account of myself to you, have I?” she cried. “That’ll be a new thing, I reckon. Mayn’t I leave the house without your seeking to poke and pry into what I’ve been doing? Faith, there’d be some queer things known if we all told what we’d been up to.”
“La! Mrs. Pentreath,” said the startled Nancy. “What a taking on, to be sure! I but asked you friendly-like, no offence meant.”
She passed round by the head of the table to draw the dumplings from the oven, and Mollie saw that she had on her smart Sunday shoes and a pair of new stockings. Instantly all her ill-humour vanished.
“I spoke a bit hasty, Nancy,” she said. “You spoke kind and friendly like you always are, and there’s no offence taken.”
Silence descended again. Nancy cut up the scraps she collected from various plates, and set down a platter for the cat.
“Pussie’s not been in all this evening,” she said, “and him usually so keen for his supper.”
“Out mousing, maybe,” said Mollie.
CHAPTER VIII. VOWS RENEWED
JOHN had gone back to his usual allowance at supper, and now while the table was being cleared he filled his glass again, and set the bottle by him. That doctor had only been trying to frighten him: he had a bee in his bonnet about drink, and always told his patients that they’d be ever so much better if they never touched the muck. Little did the man know about it, and how should he, seeing he never took a glass himself? John had never felt fitter than he did to-night: he was all alert again; food was good, tobacco was good, and never had Nancy looked so alluring. He had been a fool, he thought, not to have tried his luck when she had been coming so often at any hour of the night into his room, just in her nightgown. Likely she had been inviting him all the time, or surely she’d have thrown a cloak over her: she’d been wanting to show herself to him, to see how he liked her, and, by God, he’d never liked the look of a woman more. But then all those nights he had been in pain and fever, and had done no more than take note of her without desire. What a waste, what a bit of ill-fortune that when he had such opportunities he hadn’t been man enough to grab them! Once, it is true, he had determined to put such thoughts from him, but that was when the Lord had been so gracio
us to him over the fruitfulness of his ewes, but then the Lord had turned against him, and, after all, perhaps Mollie was right, and God wasn’t much more to him than a superstition. Besides, what of King David and his Bathsheba and his concubines? God favoured him, and it was Bathsheba’s son that sat on the throne of his father. As for concubines, King David went to them just as often as he felt a lech, and here was John Pentreath, who’d not been near a woman for ever so long. And as for Nancy being his son’s widow, why, the boy had been in his grave for twenty years, and the very thought of him never entered his head now, nor that of Nancy either, he’d warrant.
Dennis and Nell had gone up to bed, and Nancy was at her book, a bit restless, with glances at the clock, or maybe at him. If only Mollie would go to bed, thought John, he would get a word with Nancy now, and see how the land lay. But Mollie still sat on by the fire, and presently it was Nancy who got up.
“I’m rare sleepy to-night,” she said, “and I’ll be off to bed, too. It must be those nights when I was sleeping with one eye open, Mr. Pentreath, in case you wanted something, that need to be made up:”
Mrs. Pentreath could have kissed Nancy for that word.
“It was kindly indeed that you tended him,” she said, “and many a long night do you deserve. Sleep you well.”
“And not a good-night kiss for your dad?” asked John.
“Well, there you are, Mr. Pentreath,” said Nancy, bending to kiss his cheek. But he supped his head round and met her lips with his.
As soon as she had gone Mollie left her fireside chair, and sat herself near her husband. His glass was empty, and she refilled it for him, keeping the bottle near to hand.
“There’s a word or two I want with you, John,” she said, “if you’ll give me your ear.”
“Take your choice between the pair of ‘em,” said he, in high good humour.
She paused a moment, looking to see that Nancy had shut the door, and began talking shrilly and rapidly like a woman who had some crying grievance.
“’Tis about Nancy,” she said, “and I tell you flat that Nancy’s making up to you, and it’s a thing not to be borne, the shameless wench. Perhaps you’ve not taken note of it, but I have, and you can trust a woman’s eye for that. She’s fair beside herself when you’re within eyeshot. When Dennis chawed you up she would give me no peace till I let her take my room. I didn’t think. at first what she was up to, or I’d never have let it be. She wanted to be washing you and meddling with you all day, and having the door between you open at night, and coming in when all was still and seeing to you. She’s set on you, that’s what she is, and you must make it plain to her that you’ll have nothing to do with such ungodliness, she, your own son’s wife, and me under the same roof. Giving airs to herself, too, and asking what I’d been doing to be so late for supper, as if she was mistress here, and I the widowed woman.”
From under her brows she saw him grow alert and eager, straightening himself up from his sprawling attitude in his chair.
“A pack of nonsense, Mollie, “he said. “What’s put such flightiness into your head? Me and Nancy’s good friends, as is but fitting, but you’ve no cause to think that such a notion’s ever come to her.”
“He spoke with an excitement he could not suppress, and as he turned to fill his glass again she could hear the bottle’s lip ticking against the rim of it. She broke in again.
“But it’s the truth I tell you,” she cried. “that you may be on your guard, else some day you’ll find her arms round your neck, and her comely face against yours, and after all, man, you’re but flesh and blood, as I’d good cause to know once on a time, and you’ve lost none of your fire yet, I’ll be bound. What’ll you do then, John, when you feel her hugging you? Will you say to her, ‘Get out with you, you shameless wench’? Maybe you might of a Sunday night, when you’d been hot in prayer against lascivious women, but there’s more nights to the week than Sunday. I saw her kiss you to-night and press her lips to yours, and that was a pretty thing for your own wife to look on at. I tell you she’s after you, and if she can get you she will.”
Was it Nancy, he began to wonder, who had sought his lips just now? It had appeared so to Mollie, and perhaps she was right, though that was news to John. Little did she know, poor old soul, that every word she said was kindling him, and inflaming him with unlooked- for hope. Never had he found his wife’s shrill tirades so much to his mind.
“You’ve got no call to say that,” he said. “When has Nancy ever behaved herself other than modest and respectable toward me? Flighty she may be with her fineries, and that eye of hers that she turns on all men alike, inviting them to admire her.”
“Aye, for she’s a whore at heart,” said Mollie; “but I’ll tell you the name of the man she’s set on, and that’s John Pentreath. She’s lying awake in her bed now thinking of you, that’s the sort she is, and thirsty for you to come to her. Some night she won’t contain herself any more, and once she thinks I’m in bed and asleep she’ll come to you, and happen she’ll get you. And then she’ll go flaunting her pleasure in my face: that’ll be my portion in it, and bitter herbs ‘twill be.”
He had had enough of her now; why wouldn’t the old woman be off to bed?
“I’ll hear no more of it,” he said. “I’ll tell Nancy what you’ve been saying of her, if you don’t have done.”
“Shouldn’t wonder if you do,” she said, ct some night when you and she’s together, and you’ll laugh fine over it.”
She saw his eye kindle again at that; heavily gone in drink as he was, and filling up his glass again, there was something he wanted more than the spirits. But she had set him on fire with her talk, and that was enough for Mollie.
“Well, that’s all I’ve got to tell,” she said rising, “just to set you on your guard, for you’re decent-minded, and do ‘ee take care of that woman, or she’ll catch you one night when you’re a-fire with drink and not rightly minding what you do. Eh, it’s little but sorrow and bitterness that waits a woman when she comes to my age, and her man has no more use for her, while there’s you, nigh fifteen years older, and two women under this roof still wanting you. I’ll wish you good night.”
She could have laughed to see him shrink from her kiss, and she shuffled from the room, the picture of soured womanhood. But thereafter her step became quick and light, and swiftly she ascended the stairs and softly went along the passage to Nancy’s door and tried the handle. As she had expected, the door was locked, and there perched on the lintel was the key. She turned the lock and just peeped into the room, now familiar to her, which of course was empty. Nancy would be down in St. Columb’ by this time, and it was no short visit that she made there, when she had gone early upstairs with a sleepy head. There’d be a clear hour and more before she was back.
But there was no time to lose, for she must be ready before John came up, and that, if she had read him aright, he’d be sure to do as soon as he thought she was gone to bed, and replacing the key on the lintel she slipped back to her own room, and undressed. She threw her wasp-striped bed-gown round her, closed her door, and went back to Nancy’s room, shading her candle with her hand. On Nancy’s dressing-table stood her bottle of musk-scent, and she smeared it plentifully over her mouth and neck, and blowing out the candle crept into the bed: the pillow smelt of musk, and she need hardly have troubled to daub herself with it.
Downstairs alone, but not to be alone for long, sat John Pentreath. His fuddled brain was dancing with the phantoms of desire, and he could have laughed aloud at the remembrance of that screechy voice of Mollie’s counselling him to be careful about Nancy and telling him just precisely what he wanted to know. Yes: damned careful he would be, and that was why he sat here, giving the old woman time to get to bed: for a quarter of an hour by the clock would he remain before he followed her upstairs. Then he would go audibly shuffling and stumbling along, as was his wont, making the banisters creak, and so to his room, noisily opening and shutting the door but not enterin
g. After that, no more stumblings: cat-footed he’d steal to Nancy’s room. She wanted him, did she? It would never do to disappoint a handsome woman, and, by God, she’d get him. Again he had to stifle his laughter at the thought that Mollie for all her furtive observation had never given an eye to him. Too busy watching Nancy: that was a rare joke!
The voiceless clock whirred to indicate the hour of ten, and the period of waiting which he had set himself was over. He was full up with drink to-night, and there was no need to feign stumbling steps and make the banisters creak. But once he had come to his door and made pretence to close it behind him, the need for silent going took charge of his random staggering, and lighted by the moonshine from the passage window, he moved ghost-like to Nancy’s door, tried the handle, and opened it.
The merest glimmer of light came through a chink of the drawn curtains, but the odour of musk told him that Nancy was there. Then there came some little stir of movement from the bed to the left, and a whisper, thrilled with expectancy.
“Lor’, who’s that? said the voice, which he never doubted was hers.
He closed the door very quietly, with the handle still in his hand.
“Nancy!” he said.
“Why, if it isn’t Mr. Pentreath,” said the answering whisper.
He felt his way across to the bed.
“Yes, ’tis me’’ he said. “You’re not gwain to turn me out, are you?”
“But are you sure it’s safe?” came the answer. “Has she gone to bed?”
“Yes, a quarter of an hour ago. Nothing’s stirring.
“Lor’! How I’ve been wanting you!” said the voice from the darkness.
Just about the time that John and Mollie were having their talk in the kitchen, Nancy was on her brisk walk down to St. Columb’s. The London train got into Penzance at eight: Mr. Giles would have had his dinner, and be expecting her, “And if he’s as keen for me as I’m for him,” thought Nancy, “I’ll be borrowing his lantern again, for the moon’ll have set.” Soon she saw below her the roofs of St. Columb’s, silver-grey and glimmering, and the lights of the fishing fleet far out on the bay. Her step slowed down as she came opposite the house in Kenrith Lane, and she looked to see whether the thin line of light showed that the door of the studio was ajar for her entry. But it was shut, and now she must wait in the summer-house till it was opened. It seemed as if the studio itself was dark also, for no ray escaped from the window: usually a glimmer came through the chinks between the drawn curtains. But perhaps the train had been late, and he had not yet finished his dinner.
