by E. F. Benson
Then suddenly the light leaped up within, and she heard a footfall there. A key grated in the door, and then, instead of its being put discreetly ajar, it was thrown wide, and Dennis’s Willie stood there. The light shone into the summer-house, where she had risen to her feet: to move, in the attempt to escape, would certainly betray her. If she stopped quite still he might not notice her. But even that was not to be: some slight movement of hers perhaps caught his attention.
“Hullo! Who be there?” he called out, advancing into the garden. “Why, ’tis Mrs. Pentreath, surely.”
There was nothing for it, and she stepped out of shelter.
“Yes, it’s me, Willie,” she said. “I chanced to be down in St. Columb’s seeing a lady friend...I thought I’d rest here a minute, before going up the hill again.”
Willie’s voice trembled with suppressed laughter.
“Was it Mr. Giles you wanted to see, ma’am?” asked he. “He’s not back yet. There’s been a rail accident by the Saltash Bridge, and he sent a telegram to me an hour ago that he’d not be back to-night.”
“He’s not hurt? Nothing wrong?” asked she.
“Not a word o’ that, only that the line’s blocked, and he’s sleeping at Plymouth to-night, and’ll be down here first train in the morning. Was there any message I could give him?”
“No, ’tis nothing. But I’d be rare obliged, Willie, if you’d say nothing of having seen me. Seems so hard to explain exactly-I’ll be getting back to the farm again.”
“Shall you be liking to take Mr. Giles’s lantern again, ma’am?” asked Willie. “I’ll have it ready for you in a jiffy.”
“No, thank you, Willie: there’s the moon not set yet. And you’ll be sure not to speak to Dennis.”
Nancy went back up the hill near as quick as she had come down it, and soon came opposite the circle of stones. An awkward thing to have happened, indeed, not to mention the cruel disappointment. “He should have telegraphed to me,” she thought, “and yet that might have been awkward, too, with all those spying eyes round me. And another awkward thing would be if Mr. Pentreath hasn’t gone to bed yet, and he found me stealing in, for he looked like making a boozy night of it. And him kissing me on the mouth like that, reeking he was, and it’s lucky if Mrs. Pentreath didn’t notice it. It was another set of lips I was wanting to-night, and, my, didn’t it give me a turn when Willie said there’d been a railway accident. Nasty things those trains are, and I’ve not set foot in one since I came here twenty years ago. Aggravating it’s all been, but he’ll be here to-morrow. I’ll stop and get my breath again a while, else I’ll be blowing like a grampus when I get to the farm...Queer the stones look in the moonshine with their long shadows: ’tis said that there’s a powerful spell in them. Yet look at poor old Mrs. Pentreath: she visits them constant with her bits o’ bunches o’ flowers, and what good luck have they brought her? Why, nothing at all, save to eat her own heart out with wanting. Poor thing, I’m sure!”
She got her breath and her coolness back, and once in the garden went very quietly, moving on the grass instead of the crackling gravel, for who could tell who might be watching and listening? There was an owl scouting about, one of those big brown owls, flying low and noiseless as a bat, and she hurried her steps to the house. She closed the door of the studio, and felt about for the candle-end and box of matches she always left there. Somehow, she was ill at ease; was there to be another awkward moment? But all the house was silent, and she tiptoed along the passage to her room, and found the key on the lintel. But, lor’, the door wasn’t locked: that was a bit of carelessness on her part, for in her absence anyone might have turned the handle, and found her room empty. Very quietly she slipped inside.
The flame of the candle she carried, still not burning firmly, was almost blown off its wick by the draught from the door, and before she actually saw anybody she knew, by some animal sense, that she was not alone. Then the flame, shaded by her hand, got a grip of the wick. Beside her bed was standing John Pentreath, just slipping his braces over his shoulders, and while yet her eyes had hardly taken in what they saw, she heard a rustle from the bed just behind him, and there was Mollie, sitting up, and wrapping her black and yellow bed gown round her. The faces of both, gleaming in the close candle-light! were a-fire with physical exaltation. Man and wife, to be sure, they were, indeed. But why were they in her room? Then for a moment Nancy was spectator only: neither of the others seemed to be aware of her at all, she but held the candle.
Nimbly did Mollie jerk herself out of bed, and she came close to her husband. He was fumbling with his coat, and thrust his arms into the sleeves. Dazed and drunk he was, but the fire still licked round him.
“So I’m none so amiss, John,” said she. “We’ve sampled each other again, we’ve had a loving darkness together after all these years.”
He moistened his lips with his tongue: his tipsiness was clearing fast.
“You?” he said. “God Almighty, you?”
She reached her arms about his neck, pulled his head down to hers and kissed him, lip to lip.
“Yes, sure, ’tis your Mollie,” she cried, “and you should go down on your knees and thank your God that I’ve delivered you from the sin you was so keen on. I’ve saved you spite o’ yourself. ’Twas Nancy’s voice you thought spoke to you from the darkness, and Nancy’s arms you thought were round you, and, ’twas I, your own wife, and we’ve served each other well.”
Her voice rose to some chanted pitch of triumph.
“Am I so sparkless yet, John?” she cried. “Look upon my breasts and see if they’re not fit to suckle a child, and, by God, they will. Look upon my loins and see if they’re not lusty to bear their burden for nine months. Old and withered did you think me? Sure you’ve learned your error. Are’t I a harp for man’s fingering, and a well of wine for his thirst? ’Twas a bridal night, sure enough. And now we’ll be off, you and me, and leave Nancy her room.”
Up till that moment she had been dominant in the triumph of her fulfilled desire, and he bewildered, trying to realise the actuality of what had happened. She laid her hand on his arm, and now at that touch, which had so lately been flame to him, fury at having been cheated, blind resentment at the monstrous trick, which had beguiled his senses, flared up in him, and for answer he struck at her in the pit of the stomach with all his force.
She gave one little thin cry, and fell like a thing broken. Sober indeed he was now; memory of the last half-hour, mixed with some wild fear, chased the fumes of drink from him as the east wind drives the clouds. He dropped on his knees beside her.
“God, what have I done?” he cried. “Mollie, I never meant to do it. Sure I’ve not hurt you, have I? Here, you bitch, “he called to Nancy. “Run and get a drop of whisky from below.”
He took Mollie round the shoulders, propping her in his arms, and pressing her to him, and before Nancy could come back she had opened her eyes, while her mouth writhed in pain.
“No, ’twas nothing,” she said. “You was angered a moment, and I’ll bear you no ill-will, John, now I’ve got you back again. I want none of your drinks, nor Nancy to help me either. Pick me up yourself, and just lay me on my bed. I’m a bit queer yet.”
He carried her to her room, and drew the bedclothes over her.
“I’ll do well now,” she said. “Just fill me a glass of water for my teeth, for ‘twill never do if I go choking myself with them, on my bridal night. And set the window open, a breath of fresh air’ll do me good after that smelly chamber.” All was silent in Mollie’s room when John awoke next morning, and thinking she might be still asleep he went downstairs without looking in. Dennis had already gone out to his work, and Nancy was alone in the kitchen.
“Been to see her yet?” he asked.
“Lor’, yes,” said Nancy. “I took her a cup of tea half an hour ago. Such a bruise as she’s got. That was a cruel thing to do, Mr. Pentreath. But she seems pretty fair; she’ll be down presently, she said. You might have killed her
, hitting out savage like that. ’Twas lucky you haven’t got Dennis’s strength.”
Nancy was still completely in the dark as to the history of the amazing situation she had returned to last night, and was bursting with curiosity. Not a word had she been able to get out of Mollie, who just gave her no answer at all to her questions, as if they had never been asked.
“Well, Mr. Pentreath,” she said, as she brought him his breakfast. “I think you’ve got to let me know what’s been going on. A pretty thing for me to come to my own room and find you there, to say nothing of Mrs. Pentreath in my bed.”
“Aye, and a pretty thing for you to come back, all dressed up at that time of night,” said he, “when you told us all you were so sleepy that you must get to bed as soon as supper was over. Been walking in your sleep, maybe.”
“Never you mind where I was walking,” said Nancy. “It’s where you were walking is what I want to know about. I found you in my room, and that’s where I never invited you to come.”
Suddenly Nancy put down the teapot she was carrying, and burst out laughing as a notion struck her. “Lor’! If I don’t begin to see daylight,” she cried, “and more shame for you, Mr. Pentreath. ’Twas me you came looking for, and she guessed you would, and gave you something to satisfy you. Well, I’m sure! Real sporting I call it of her. Look me in the face, and tell me that wasn’t the way of it. But what must you take me for, to think I’d ‘a let you into my room?”
“Shouldn’t wonder if I took you for what you are, my girl,” said he. “What does a handsome wench like you dress up for cruel fine when all’s dark, save to go and see a man? Or was you thinking of showing off to Mollie’s hens? So do ha’ done with them airs, Nancy, and your wondering what I take you for. ’Tisn’t the first time, I guess, that, when you’ve been sleepy after supper, you woke up wonderful a bit later. Look me in the face, if it comes to that, and tell me that you haven’t been trapesing down to see some feller in St. Columb’s. There’s a godly trick.”
“And I’ll find you another to match it, Mr. Pentreath,” said she, annoyed that her sleepy-head formula was solved, “and that’s when you came creeping to my room and thinking that ’twas I giving you welcome. That’s a bit o’ godliness! Talk of airs, too, with you setting yourself up to pray for light women, hoping as they’d lose their looks and be turned from their wantonness. A pack of hypocrisy, I call it...Why, if there isn’t Mrs. Pentreath come down already! Fresh as a daisy, I declare, after all that’s been said and done.”
Stiffly and a little bent she moved across the kitchen to where he sat, and kissed him, no kiss of forgiveness, hut rather of ownership. Stooping like that gave her a stab of pain, but it was nothing. Then she turned to Nancy. (t I’m a bit late,” she said, H so you’ll look to my hens this morning, I’m sure. You might be getting about it now: no time like the present, they say.”
Dearly would Nancy have liked to stop and hear what the two had to say to each other.
“I’ll be glad to, Mrs. Pentreath,” she said. I’ll be clearing up here first, and then—”
“You’ll be getting along now,” said Mollie, without raising her voice or even looking at her.
When Nancy had gone, she sat down by her husband. She took a bit of bread from his plate, dipped it in his tea, and ate it. “Well, you’ve learned to love me once more, John,” she said. “See you don’t forget it again.”
The same hard wrinkled face, which he had long hated, was close to his, but fresh was the memory of an hour last night. Ice-cold and bubbling hot the two were, not mixing, but each standing separate.
“Eh! to think that all these years I’ve known nought of you,” he said. “You old wife with your wrinkled face, and your hot heart! I doubt you’ve bewitched me, Mollie, with your spells, but such a bowerly body I never yet came nigh to, and there’s a long tale of wenches to my account, just riotous dolls.”
“They’re past and done with,” she said. “And Nancy, too, by my reckoning. What’s left is you and me, John, so don’t make any mistake about that. I, your wife, was your desire last night, and sweet you found me. So don’t forget that again, or maybe I’ll remember that cruel dab you gave me.”
There was menace here. “Nay, don’t ‘ee do that, Mollie,” he said.
“Not so long as your manhood’s mine,” she said. The grim eager face smiled at him, and even while his flesh revolted, it stiffened with desire.
“You darned old conjurer!” he said. “And me never doubting that ’twas Nancy’s voice what called to me.”
Mollie laughed.
“Yes, ’tis easy to make her voice, the silly slut,” she observed. “I’ll make it again for you in the dark, John, before long, and you can think you’re tucked up with her, if you will.”
During the next week the new values and relations of the three elder folk at the farmhouse readjusted and confirmed themselves. John’s theology easily adapted itself to them; right-pleasing, he was sure in the sight of the Lord was the casting out of his mind his adulterous desires, and his turning again to his wife. That disaster to his sheep he now felt sure was a judgment; he had learned his lesson, and already the Lord was rewarding him, for the hay promised a bumper yield, and that would put things a bit more square. He drank as freely as ever, and the ascetic warnings of Dr. Symes were all forgotten, or remembered only for mockery, for never had he been in better trim. Even the score against Dennis sank below the conscious surface of his mind, instead of remaining a vivid preoccupation; it was there, but for the present stowed away and ripening perhaps in secret, till something came to bring it under notice again. His fear of his wife was in similar abeyance; she, like the Lord, was well pleased with him, and there was nothing to be afraid of while that lasted.
There she sat now, evening by evening, close by the open-doored oven, busy with the knitted bedspread she was fashioning to keep her warm on winter nights. A rare lot of wool it required, but her hens continued laying bountifully, and week by week she was putting money away in the savings-bank at Penzance, and there was enough over for her to be setting up a fine new henhouse in the yard, and wiring in a further space for their run. Equal luck was she having with her bees. Two swarms already had she had in this first week of May, and a May swarm was worth two of a later month, for then the bees established themselves earlier, and yielded during the summer double the weight of honey. A sight it was to see her gathering them: she went out without veil or gloves. for never a bee would sting her. One swarm had settled in the magnolia on the south front of the house, just beside Dennis’s window; there was no getting the skep smeared with bergamot above it nor yet below it, so as to shake them into it, and Mollie had leant out of his window, and taken handful after handful of the bees, and dropped them into it, as if she were handling nuts or raisins. All the time she chanted a little crooning song, just the song of the bees, so she said, but the words she would tell to none but to Nell, for she was of the Robsons, and the bee song was known to none else. She walked stiffly still, and now and then she had stabs of pain where John’s fist had felled her, but there were none of those shrill tirades, nor did she look round, furtive and observant, when they sat in the kitchen after supper, to see what was passing.
As for Nancy, since the significance of her sleepy fits was known to John and Mollie and indeed to Dennis, she had no return of them, and came and went as she chose. She would soon have to use some fresh exit and entrance, for Mr. Willis, the lodger who had taken the rooms in the wing of the house, was coming next week, and the studio door would be no longer available. But the other door into the garden would do: not quite so discreet and retired, “but where’s the use o’ making a mystery,” thought Nancy, “when they al1 know about it?” Anyhow, the old folk heeded her no more.
CHAPTER IX. THE LODGER
SUNDAY prayers were going on. The young moon which Dennis had seen in the sky above the Kenrith copse was now approaching the full, and he wondered if Nell would ever come out for a moonlight running with him; sh
e had half said she would do so, before the spring was over. For the last night or two he had leaned out of his window and called or whistled to her, but she had given him no answer, and during the day she had kept a bit aloof. She wasn’t vexed with him, for he had asked her, and he had done nothing amiss. Just a mood, he supposed, such as girls had ... On went the praying, of much milder sort than it used to be, though Grandfather had got a lot of liquor on board that night. There was a bit about being defended from all dangers ghostly and bodily, but not a word about spells and sorceries or the wiles of lascivious women. The pride and wantonness of youth came in again (and Dennis winked at Nell), and after that just petitions for the welfare of the stock and the growing corn, and the praying was soon done. Almost directly afterwards Nancy was off to bed, as all might have guessed from her new smart clothes, and Dennis and Nell washed-up together. When that was finished, Dennis went with a lantern into the cowhouse, for one of the beasts had but lately calved. All was well: the calf was on its feet, as sturdy as anyone could wish, and old Buttercup knew him and welcomed him with a puff of sweet breath through her wet nostrils, and soft watchful eyes on him as he handled the calf. It was a young bull-calf, and it lowered its head with a baby menace as he rubbed its neck. Then emerging, he heard the bell of a bicycle at the sharp corner from the highroad into the lane, and saw the jiggling of the lantern as it came jolting over the uneven surface. It was a wonder how a fellow could keep upright perched on that high wheel. He brought a telegram, addressed “Pentreath,” and Dennis took it into the house, and gave it his grandfather. He had been questioning with himself whether his prayers had been sufficiently fervid to please the Lord to-night; and here was a chance to make up for his tepidity, and he thumped the table when Dennis held it out to him. “Nay, ’twas written in sin,” he called out; “and ’twas sin of the lad to bring it up to-night. Let it bide till morning.”
