Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  Willie was silent a moment as he peeled off his socks.

  “Gwaineter take the fire to-night with Nell?” he asked.

  “I reckon so. And ain’t you got a girl yet you fancy a bit?”

  “Never a bit, neither to kiss nor to cuddle nor to be chums with,” said Willie. “I reckon it’s a kink in me, and not like to come out.”

  “You make me feel bad when you talk like that, Willie,” said the other.

  “Whatever for? ’Tisn’t your fault, nor mine either.”

  “Maybe, but I wish it were different with you.”

  “Don’t you bother your head with it. Happen I’ll change some time and be like other fellers. An’ don’t you ever think I’m sore for that you’ve got your girl. Passon Allingham he read summat about David and Jonathan in church Sunday last, and the love of one for t’other, he telled, was wonderful, passin’ the love of women. That made me think of us, and I looked round to see if I could catch your eye, but you wasn’t there.”

  “You bet you’d ‘a caught it fast enough, if I had been, and I’d ‘a understood fast enough,” said Dennis.

  “That’s all I ask, then. Now let’s have done and take the sea.”

  Dennis jumped up.

  “And have a bit of a sweat first,” he said. “I won’t fight you, but I’ll have a wrestle with you to a fall, both shoulders on the ground.”

  They circled round each other, arm on arm, to find a grip, and then Dennis bored in, getting him round the chest, while Willie took a hold with one arm half round his neck over the shoulder, the other round his ribs. The sand made good foothold, and Willie crooked his right knee outside Dennis’s left, and brought his whole weight to bear, but the other stepped out of that and freed himself. They closed again, and this way and that they swayed, chin pressing into shoulder, and chests glued together, till with a sudden sideways jerk Willie twisted him off his feet, and got him under on the sand. But Dennis, wriggling like an eel, escaped before his shoulders were pinned, and with the purchase of his bent leg turned him off. Their breath was coming short now, ribs were heaving, and the sweat made their holds slippery, and they tumbled and rolled over together, cheek to cheek, a tangle of intertwined arms and legs, till at last Willie had the other fairly under again, and pressing on his shoulders with all his weight got him flat.

  “Yes, ’tis your fall, ye hulking Jonathan,” panted Dennis.

  They lay there a moment, all slack and relaxed after the tussle, Dennis with arms spread out, and the other lying across him. Then Willie rolled off and got up.

  “Eh, that was rare!” he said. “The body of a feller is better than the tongue at talking.”

  “Sure. Pull me up, and off to the sea.”

  The threatening storm had passed away eastwards, and when they got back to the bonfire it was safe to pull the tarpaulin off. and finish the building of it. It must be piled high to make a fine flare, for its light had to carry across the bay to where, on the ridge above St. Orde’s, the next pyre would be lit after sundown. There were half a dozen of these bonfires that would blaze that night in the country round the bay, signalling to each other in symbolic flame, as they had done for a score of centuries, that the fires of life were aglow, but it was at St. Columb’s alone that the leaping was done, as Dennis had said. When the flames died down into glowing embers, boys and girls, who had chosen each other to wed and bed, would run hand in hand together and leap with closed eyes and held breath: if they jumped clear, for certain they would be wed before All Hallows Eve, but if a foot came down in the embers, there would be a cry of “Hot Ankles,” and then they must jump again if they wanted to make sure of their wedding. As well there would be dancing in the circle of stones, and that brought fertility. About these rites there was nothing of black and secret magic, it was a clean spell that both the fire and the dancing wove: these were customs and beliefs, the heritage of the race, an heirloom of the spirit handed down almost without word of speech to all inheritors of native blood. Neither Nell nor Dennis could have told how they had come to know of these things: the germs of them were there, and they had developed with their growth. But none except the natives had any part in them: aliens, foreigners from England, might come and look on and gratify a tourist-curiosity. They might leap across the embers or dance with each other, but they had no true part in the rite: it was as if a heathen man received the sacrament, and for him no spell would be wrought, since he was blind in unbelief and ignorance, and whether such leaped or danced none heeded them any more than if they had been moths that singed themselves in the blaze, or the insects of the earth beneath the feet of the dancers.

  No word was spoken at supper that night at the farm of what was coming, and when it was over John sat him down as usual with his pipe and his glass, while Nancy and Nell cleared the table. But instead of drawing the cloth and folding it away, they brought out mounds of saffron-buns, which had been baking these last days, and put plates of them along the table with jugs of beer and glasses, so that any who willed might come in and take their refreshment. But when the clock whirred at the hour of ten, Mollie got up, and wrapped her shawl round her, and John, pretty full of whisky, finished his glass and was off with her. Nancy followed them, and Dennis and Nell were left alone in the kitchen. He caught her to him, and kissed her on the mouth.

  “Nell, will ‘ee leap with me this night?” he asked.

  “Sure I will,” she said. She looked him in the face, expectant, waiting for what he should ask next.

  “Nell, will ‘ee dance with me this night?” he said.

  She did not answer for the moment.

  “Dennis, I’ve summat to tell you,” she said. “I reckon there’s no need for us to dance.”

  “No need? D’you mean—”

  “Aye. I must make sure, though; I must go and see Dr. Symes to-morrow.”

  “God, then to make it sure we’ll dance,” he said. “And if Dr. Symes says ’tis so, then we’ll not wait, Nell, but be wed straight away.”

  “But what’ll your grandfather say?”

  “Just exactly what he wills.”

  She hid her face on his shoulder.

  “Eh, how I love you” she said. “Fair shocking!”

  “Shocking, is it? Then there’ve been two shocking folk in the world for everyone as is here now. Make haste and let’s go down.”

  She looked up at him, still clinging.

  “Dennis, was it in sin I conceived?” she said.

  “Aw, that’s nought but grandfather’s tipsy talk on Sunday,” he said. “’Twas in love you conceived, and ’twas in love I begot, and that’s enough. Come on down.”

  Already when they got out the sky in front of them was dusky red, for the bonfire was blazing high, and there hung above it, drifting slowly away southward, the thick smoke of its burning, while the moon, a little past its full, and travelling through a cloud flecked sky, was blanched to an unbelievable whiteness in contrast with the red flaring of the bonfire. The shadows of the circle of stones cast by that light stretched far across the field of corn that encompassed them, and the high moon, as it shone out between the clouds, cast shorter separate shadows of its own. Mingled with these, crossing and recrossing them, were other shadows that moved this way and that: these were thrown by the couples already dancing there. Dennis and Nell went down by the footpath at the edge of the corn to where in the field below the bonfire blazed. High and lustily it roared greedy of the piled fuel, and there would be no leaping yet awhile, for it burned too fervently for any to approach it, far less to think of leaping through those high-flung sheets and snake-tongues of flame. But it was held to be of good omen if the bonfire blazed well, and there would be plenty of leaping in an hour’s time, for the field was dotted with couples from Penza nee and St. Columb’s, and a dozen villages round who wandered about with linked arms or waists. This saunter of those intending to take the fire was equivalent to a declaration of betrothal, and glances and salutations passed between them. The faces of those
turned towards ‘the bonfire glowed red with its illumination, as if they had been lit within, those coming away from it were black silhouettes. The young trollop who had kissed Dennis one night on the quay was there, but seeing him with Nell, gave up her pursuit as a bad business, and made after Tim Trehern, rather a lout, but better than nothing, who was still not paired off. The folk were streaming up now in hundreds from Penzance, and flitting about in the crowd was Mr. Willis, very smartly decorated, drinking in the tonic suggestions of this soft, amorous night. But there were no signs of John and Mollie, nor yet of Nancy; perhaps she had gone to see her fancy man in St. Columb’s.

  “Come, Nell,” whispered Dennis. “There’ll be no leaping this hour yet. Come up to the stones. You and I’ve got to dance.”

  “But the blaze is bright still,” she said, “and there’s the moon, too. All the folk’ll see us, and ’tis only the married ones as dance.”

  “Dance with you, I will,” said Dennis. “Put your shawl over your head, so as none will spot you, and I’ll walk small and low, with a hump and a limp, and they’ll think we’re just strangers. Besides, it’s a queer flickering light; none’ll know.”

  Nell wanted but little persuasion, for her heart was set that way, and she threw her shawl over her head, and Dennis crouched and hobbled beside her, and up they went along the grass path that led to the stones.

  They squatted down by one of the stones, outside the circle, to see who was there, but, as Dennis had said, the light was strange and flickering: now a burst of flame came from the bonfire, now a cloud obscured the moon. No sort of music accompanied the dance, and in silence the dim couples footed it as their instinct drove them. Some whisked madly round, holding each other by the hands at arm-stretch, leaning outwards with feet planted close: others made queer cantering steps; others loosely clasped, pirouetted together; others slid gravely this way and that to some slow rhythm of their own, but all were worshippers in this rite of desire. Sound there was none save the soft thud of feet on the turf, and the quick panting breath of the more active dancers. Leaning against the stones inside the circle were a few couples exhausted by their exertions, and getting their wind again. Just now the moon was passing behind a thick belt of cloud and the light dim, when suddenly a fresh blaze of flame shot up from the bonfire.

  “God, there’s Grandfather and her at it,” Dennis whispered.

  So indeed it was: that was none other than John Pentreath, who followed rather than directed the antics of his partner, staggering and stumbling after her. She whisked him about, with great leaps and high steppings that sent her skirt £lying about her knees; of all the women, young and old, there was none who capered and circled with such frenzy. Her face, red in that blaze from the bonfire, was alight with some wild exaltation: she was a Menad driven by the urge of her longing. Yet the primeval force of her womanhood redeemed her from all grotesqueness. To her this dancing was an act of passionate worship, her faith must needs work the miracle of fruitfulness within her; and now Nell, who had hung back before, was swept into that dynamic vortex, and fairly pulled Dennis into the ring.

  “Dance, dance,” she whispered. “I care naught who sees, and let them make of it what they will.”

  The flare from the bonfire died down, and they jumped into the ring, adding their contribution to the force that these couples, all moved with one desire, were generating, just as the whirling, humming dynamos generate electricity. Yearly for centuries that power had boiled and seethed here, and the stones that formed the circle, and the grass and the trodden thyme were soaked in it. Here was an eddy in the river of life, circling and piercing down into the very heart of the stream. Borne round and round at first on the rim of it, Dennis and Nell were sucked inwards deep into that revolving funnel, and soon they were scarcely conscious of the presence of any but themselves, and their very individualities were merged in the power which their dancing set at work. The gleaming eyes of other couples, faces illuminated by the glow of the bonfire, or white with the moon, came within their ken and whisked out again, but these, too, had no individuality: they were but wavings of the wand of magic.

  At last they rose to the rim of the eddy again, and slipped out of it: spent and exhausted and inspired they dropped, outside the circle, in the shadow of one of the stones, and lay there, individual again, panting for breath. The flames of the bonfire had died down now, and presently they went along the short grass path, to where it smouldered, flaring no longer, but glowing only. Feathery white ash of wood floated away from it, and round it were strewn half-consumed fragments of the fuel: Dennis and the other young fellows who meant to leap, swept these back on to the red-hot embers, till the edges of it were straight and defined, a canal of incandescence a full ten feet from bank to bank.

  Then Dennis ran to seek Nell, who was waiting for him at the entrance of the field.

  “Quick, quick,” he cried. “’Tis all ready for the leaping now, and we’ll be the first over it, for that’s the best luck of all.”

  Nell drew back.

  “Eh, Dennis, I can never leap that!” she said. “We shall come plump in the midst of it.”

  “That we shall not,” he cried, “you trust me; give me your hand, Nell, and keep step with me, and we’ll fly it like a pair of birds.”

  They went back some yards more to get up speed for their run: on each side, forming a lane up to the bonfire, the crowd was gathered to watch the leaping.

  “We’re off,” shouted Dennis, and he grasped one of Nell’s hands in his, while with the other she held up her skirt and they began running.

  “Lift your feet,” he called to her, «left, right, left, right, that’s the way, and when I say leap, leap for all your worth and leap high.”

  They went down the slight slope towards the fire with ever-increasing speed, Dennis adapting his longer stride to the girl’s steps, and they moved as if they were one. The boy ran a foot or two in advance of her, lending his strength to aid her swiftness, and she was but a light weight on his arm so active and fleet she was. The wind of their movement blew her skirts close to her legs, defining her strong round thighs, and her arm raised towards Dennis’s hand moulded the supple muscles of her shoulder beneath her gown. Willie had been standing close to where they started, and she had given him her shawl to hold, and now her hair slipped from its comb and streamed out thick and long behind her; and the glow of the fire, brighter and brighter as they raced down to it, turned her white gown to crimson.

  Then Dennis increased his pace to the full power of her going, and she but skimmed the ground, feeling weightless as a flying bird in his grasp. Three more steps now would take them to the edge of the embers, and he drew in a long breath.

  “Leap, Nell, and leap high,” he yelled.

  They soared together, and Nell, through her half closed eyelids, peeped at the fierce red glow beneath them. Next moment they alighted with a yard to spare on the singed grass beyond the fire, and a bellow of shouting hailed the first leap.

  Other couples followed: this leaping was not so deadly serious an affair as the dancing in the circle of stones which set the mysterious spell of fertility at work: it was more the intimation that a boy and a girl intended to get wed, and a successful leap would make their mating sure; comedy was mingled with it, as when Tim Trehern’s girl took fright as they neared the fire, and, pulling her hand out of his, left him to do his leaping alone. Shouts of congratulation went up when Jim Paget, veteran bachelor of near forty years, was towed down the course by Janet Graeme, that great buxom wench, who had been in hot pursuit of him these last five years. “Pull ‘im ‘long, Janet,” cried her delighted mother. “Don’t ‘ee leave hold of him now ye’ve got him.” Then as the fire burned lower Tim Trehern’s girl plucked up her courage, for, after all, she wanted Tim more than she feared the fire, and leaped with him: shy youths made up their minds to it, and said, “Will ‘ee leap?” to girls who had long determined to get them, or shy girls rewarded constancy with a consent to take the fire. But
below the chaff and laughter on the surface ran the stream of belief that sprang from the heart of the granite hills, and was as steadfast as they.

  The moon had set, and the sky to the east was tinged with the approach of day before all the dancing and the leaping were over. One by one the stars, flowers of the night, folded up their petals, as the dawn drew on, and soon the heavens were empty, but for the planet of love which still burned there. Birds chirruped in the bushes, larks rose from the tussocks of grass and hovered singing, the cattle got up and cropped a mouthful or two of the dewy herbage, and a flight of gulls high overhead were rosy with dawn. The breeze of morning awoke, scattering the ashes of the burnt-out bonfire, and night hid itself away with the spells in its keeping.

  CHAPTER XI. EXPECTATIONS

  A GUST of violent wind plucked the door-handle from John Pentreath’s grasp as he entered the kitchen from the farmyard one afternoon in mid-September, and the door was flung wide, letting in a sharp spatter of driving rain. He swore angrily as he forced it shut again, and stood dripping on the mat as he stripped off his mackintosh, which was streaming with water. He unlaced and kicked off his soaking boots and came across the room to where his wife sat by the oven, with his footsteps printing themselves in wet on the tiled floor.

  “’Tis black ruin for the harvest,” he said. “There’s not a blade of corn left standing, and the wreck of it’s sprouting as it lies there.”

  Mollie’s hands were always busy now: to-day she was employed in knitting a pair of tiny woollen socks, and the needles flashed swiftly in her fingers. She paused before answering, counting her stitches.

  “That’s a bad business, John,” she said indifferently. “Bad business it is. I reckon I’m with you there,” he said.

  He thrust his feet into the slippers that stood by the hearth, and shuffled across to the cupboard where his bottle stood.

  “Never did the corn look fairer nor fuller in the ear than a few weeks ago,” he said, “and me thanking the Lord for it punctual every Sunday, as you well know. But this last fortnight’s done for it: rain, rain, rain, day and night. Can’t you give me a bit of help, Mollie? Your hens and your bees have made you a fat purse this year.”