Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  “Well, that was a rare bit o’ fun!” said Nell.

  “That it was. And some day, I promise you; I’ll take you and your baby out for drive, and call for you right here at the kitchen door, and say, ‘Is Mrs. Pentreath at home?’”

  “Eh, ‘twill be too grand for me,” said Nell.

  “Not a bit of it, for if I’ve had the luck to marry into the gentry, why shouldn’t my own son’s wife take a slice? And as I told Dennis in my letter, if there’s anything you want out of the ordinary for your baby, as is my grandson, you know where to go for it. Lor’, here’s Midsummer’s Eve’s come round again, and there’s you and Dennis married, and me married, too, and poor old Mrs. Pentreath in the churchyard. There were dark days, to be sure, before she got her congy.”

  “There were happenings then, as I know little of,” said Nell. “Dennis and me don’t tell of them.”

  “And right you are,” said Nancy. “But to think that on this very night a year gone there the poor old lady was kicking and capering in the ring, and believing a child was corning. As I came up to-day I saw them finishing the bonfire for the leaping.”

  “Yes, Dennis and Willie and I all helped in the piling of it, one time or another this morning,” said Nell.

  “And I warrant you and Dennis’ll be down there to-night and have a dance in the circle, a-thinking of the next one to come,” said Nancy.

  “Happen you and Mr. Giles’ll be having a dance yourselves,” suggested Nell.

  Nancy pursed her lips.

  “No, there’s no thought o’ that,” she said, “though I dessay we shall look on awhile, after we’ve had our dinner, me in my evening gown, as I put on regular, company or none.”

  “Sure, you’re fine enough, just as ye stand now, to dine with all the Lord Mayors and dukes of London,” said Nell politely.

  “Lor’, ’tis nothing but a costoom for the day,” said Nancy, “and hat to match, as Madame Elise of Bond Street made for me, though I’m sure she charged enough for it, and I should have been real scared to bring the bill to Mr. Giles, but that he’d told me to get something a bit out of the common. It’s the fashionable shade of red just now, a bit bright maybe, but cheerful. What was we saying? Yes, about the bonfire and the dancing. I reckon Mr. Pentreath won’t come down to view it, for it’ll remind him of how he and your Aunt Mollie was there last year, and he won’t want to recall that.” “No, he won’t be there,” said Nell, “for he’s never out o’ the house now after the dusk’s drawing on. And, maybe, you’ll be so kind as not to mention to him that it’s Midsummer Eve, if he comes in before you go, which I hope’ll be a long while, for we think he don’t know it’s the day. You see, Willie and us were thinking of coming down soon after supper’s over, when Mr. Pentreath’s settled to his drink, saying we were off to bed, and then sure he’ll sit quiet over his bottle till we’re back. But if he knew we were leaving him alone in the house, happen he’d have the horrors.”

  “To be sure I’ll say nothing of it,” said Nancy, “for I reckon he’s getting a handful to manage. He was queer enough before I went, and Dennis says there’s not much to boast of since. Lor’, when I sit in the studio down at our place so cheerful and comfortable and Mr. Giles sometimes making a sketch of me like old times, it’s often I think o’ the dark evenings in the kitchen here, with the two old folk, and me with my book, and the sound O’ the rain hishing outside, and the scullery door ajar, and the clock there whizzing for the hour. Why, bless me, it points to five minutes to twelve, and what’s the cause o’ that?”

  “Mr. Pentreath he muddled it up a month since,”said Nell, “when he made to wind it, and there came a sizzle from its innards, and never a tick has it gone since. But he won’t have it looked to, for he says ’twas the Lord’s hand as stayed it, though ’twas his own awkwardness, sure enough.”

  “But I’m thinking what’ll you do with your baby, when you all go to the dancing to-night?” said Nancy. “You’ll never leave him all alone in his crib with the old man boozing away down in the kitchen?”

  Nell laughed.

  “Nay, I shouldn’t go to do that,” she said. “That would be a queer thing indeed. I’m going to step down with him presently to Willie’s mother, who’ll see to him while we’re at the dancing, and I’ll fetch him away after it’s done. There’s to be no spread of buns up here to-night, with Mr. Pentreath the way he is. You can’t tell what he’d be doing or saying.”

  Nancy consulted the little gold watch she wore on a chain.

  “Eh, how the time’s flown,” she said. “Let’s walk down together, then, for I’ve made a long visit already, and we’re going for a bit of a saunter, Mr. Giles and me, in the cool of the day.”

  Even as she spoke there came a fumble at the kitchen door; then it was flung open, and John Pentreath stood in the doorway. Haggard and yellow he was, and three days unshaven, and his clothes hung round him as if he were but a peg for them. Nell and Dennis, accustomed to seeing him every day, did not realise how ruinous his deterioration was, but to Nancy, beholding him now for the first time after a lapse of so many weeks, his appearance was a shocking thing. He stood a moment on the threshold, seeming to listen for any sound in the house. Then he banged the door behind him, and his eye fell on Nancy in her bright red dress.

  “Lord, there’s a fire been lit in the midst o’ the kitchen,” he said, “and fine it’s flaring. God bless me, I see it’s a lady now, and I’m sure I beg your pardon, ma’am, whoever you be, for thinking you was a pile of blazing faggots.”

  Nancy pulled herself together.

  “Well, I declare if Mr. Pentreath doesn’t see who I am,” she said. “Out o’ sight, out o’ mind, they say.”

  He gave a cackle of a laugh.

  “Why, ’twas just my fun,” he said. “Sure I know it’s Nancy, or Mrs. Henry Giles, I should say, as left such a handsome piece o’ pasteboard on me. Proud indeed I am to welcome you, and I’ll thank you to get me my bottle, and we’ll drink your health together.”

  “And here’s a bit of old times, Mr. Pentreath,” said she, “to hear you talk like that. Now, where’s your bottle kept, for I declare it’s gone out o’ my head.”

  Nell fetched it for him, and mixed his glass, which he drank straight off.

  “Now have a go, Nancy, won’t ‘ee?” he said.

  “Never for me,” she said; “I never touch the stuff.”

  “Well, if you won’t, I know someone else who will,” he said.

  He sat himself down; often now he would pass the day without a word crossing his lips, but the sight of Nancy seemed to have unloosed his tongue.

  “And so you’ve come back to us again after this long while,” he said, “and glad I am, for you’ll be a light to lighten our darkness; and there’s too much darkness these days. The nights are long, Nancy, longer nor I’ve ever known them in summer-time, and sunset’s upon us almost as soon as it’s day, like the door as has just been opened slammed to again. God save us all when they grow longer yet, for there’s the terror by night o’ which King David tells. It comes creepin’ up in the darkness, it does, moving slow, for the grave clothes are about its feet, and the hill from St. Columb’s churchyard is steep to climb, and it must be back again afore dawn, but I reckon it gets as far as the garden-gate even now, and where’ll it get to when the winter’s on us? But now you’ve come back to us, maybe ‘twill keep away. ‘Why, ’tis Nancy,’ it’ll think to itself, ‘‘’tis Mrs. Henry Giles from London town, and she looked after me kindly in the day of my trouble.’”

  Nell was watching him ill at ease: this manner of talk was something new, and she wished Dennis and Willie would come in. She gave a touch to Nancy, to encourage her to keep on with him, for the fit of mad babbling would pass, she thought, and he would get fuddled and quiet again.

  “Well, I’m real glad you’re so pleased to see me, Mr. Pentreath,” said Nancy. “And, lor’, what’s there to worry about in the night, for the night’s the time for us all to get to sleep, and b
e fresh and bright come morning. There’s good times in store for us all, I’ll be bound. That’s what I always say when Mr. Giles has a bit o’ the hump, and he plucks up amazing.”

  “But you’ll bide here, Nancy?” he asked. “You’ll sup and sleep here, surely? You’ll read your book again in your chair, and then give a yawn and say you’re a sleepy-head?”

  He gave a hiccupping giggle at the fresh topics which this suggested.

  “Well I mind those times,” he said; “and strange things came O’ them, the judgments of the Lord. Some day, when I’ve a bit o’ leisure, I’ll make a clear tale of it all, for the thoughts come crowding into my head faster nor I can sort them out. God, I was taken with you, Nancy, and then Mollie made her conjuring trick, and that angered me.”

  “Oh, pray-a be done with all that, Mr. Pentreath,” cried Nancy. “Give it the go-by, and it’ll trouble you no more.”

  Dennis came in, and Nancy hastened to be gone.

  “Well, I’ll be stepping,” said she. “Nell was taking me on my way. Good night to you, Mr. Pentreath. Always pleased to see you if you pop in down at our place, and I’ll be looking in on you all again, never fear.”

  Nell went upstairs to fetch her baby, and the two women set off together. As soon as the door was shut John pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, and giggled again.

  “Do you know who’s that?” he said. “’Tis the scarlet woman o’ Babylon out of Revelation. And saying she was Nancy! I saw through her, though I humoured her. A handsome jade, too.”

  Dennis found no reply to this, and his silence produced a sudden explosion of wrath from his grandfather.

  “God, I’ll teach you to heed me one o’ these days,” he shouted.

  Dennis looked at him, just bracing his hand on the arm of his chair, in order to rise swiftly if need be. But the old man began sipping again, and made no movement. Presently he dozed off: he was breaking up fast, surely. Then Willie came in, and the two young men played a game of cards together till Nell returned.

  It was a silent supper: the three young folk spoke but little, and as for John not a word, black or white, came from him, while the thoughts he had not time to sort out went buzzing in his head, like bees about to swarm. They were all centred on one thing now, and that was to make an end of Dennis. He forebore even to look at him, lest the sight of the boy should lash him into some outburst, which would put him and the others on their guard. He had no fears about Mollie just now: that had sunk out of sight below the more pressing business, and he even wanted to be alone, un-distracted by other presences, in order to concentrate on this: he wished they’d go off to bed and leave him. He had soon finished with his eating, and took to his arm-chair again with his pipe and his glass, and presently the table was cleared. It was growing dark, and Nell lit the couple of lamps which were always kindled now at nightfall, for one alone gave too little illumination for him, and set one of them on the supper board, and another on a small table by his side. Dennis and Willie were doing the clearing and washing-up to-night, and she heard them talking low in the scullery as she drew the curtains across the windows, and locked the kitchen door into the farmyard. Perhaps they’d made a plan together! for soon Willie strolled off without a word to any.

  The other two got out the cards again and played awhile. Then Nell gave a nod to Dennis and got up.

  “I’ll be off to bed,” she said.

  “I’ll be coming, too, Nell,” said Dennis. “Good night, Grandfather.”

  They went out, crossed the hall, and through the door into the garden, which Dennis closed quietly.

  “Willie’s gone down,” he said. “Grandfather might ‘a’ scented something, if we all went off together.”

  “That’s right: he’s taken no notice,” said she. “Lord, he’s in a queer way to-night. How he babbled on to your mother, before you came in, and then just locked his mouth at supper. She was shocked to see him and no mistake: he’s breaking up fast, she says. And what’s he thinking on to-night? He’s thinking steady about summat, with none of those scared glances around.”

  “Pleasant thoughts, for sure,” said Dennis, putting his arm about her. “But I reckon I’ll get Dr. Symes to have a look at him to-morrow, for I doubt his mind’s going. Eh, Nell, I long to hold you in the midst of them stones, twisting about in the fruitful dance.”

  Already the sky ahead to the east was bright with the flames from the bonfire that cast a ruddy glare on the wheat of the nearer field and the hedgerows, but here, just under the trees by the garden gate, it was dark.

  Then Nell gave a startled cry: there on the gatepost sat a big brown owl. It hissed at them, and slid noiselessly away over the garden, its wings red in the glare from the bonfire. They saw it perch on the ash-tree close to the house.

  “Lord, that gave me a turn,” said Nell. “’Tis lucky I drew the curtains in the kitchen, for Mr. Pentreath ‘ud go crazy if he saw it...”Eh, Dennis, but there’s a queer thing, for he was talking in his wad way o’ the terror by night as came up from St. Columb’s yard as far as the garden-gate, and there was the night bird sitting on the post.”

  “Well, if the terror by night’ll come and sit there again to-morrow eve, when I’ve got my gun handy,” said Dennis, “it’ll be sorry it came so far. ’Twas strange, though, for they’re shy, wary things, and it let us come within an arm’s length of it. I warrant it’s the same bird as raided the hens, and sat on Willie’s sill one night till he fetched it across the face with his belt.”

  There was a crowd to leeward of the bonfire, waiting for the flames to die down, so that the leaping might begin, and Willie joined them.

  “There’ll be naught doing yet awhile,” said Dennis. “Let’s go up to the circle, Nell, and have a dance. Why, good Lord, there’s no one footing it. How’s that?”

  “Somehow they’re not fancying it to-night,” said Willie.

  Dennis laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Ye’ve heard some talk, I warrant, Willie,” he said.

  “Let’s have it, lad. What’s it all about?”

  “’Tis like this,” said he. “The fellers remember what happened a year gone, how the old mistress up to the farm was kicking and skipping higher nor any; and what came of that, they say. Looks as if there was a mischief there. Don’t ‘ee dance, you and Nell.”

  “A pack o’ rubbish, Will,” said Dennis. “That wasn’t where the mischief came from. Are you fear’d, Nell?”

  “For sure I’m not with your arm about me,” she said. “And the fewer the folk, I reckon there’ll be more o’ the power for us. Come away, and I’ll dance with you till morning, and never tire.”

  Meantime John Pentreath sat quiet in the kitchen of the empty house, drinking pretty steadily, and unusually free from the terror the night brought with it, for his mind had settled on something else, and clung tight to it. More than a year ago it was now since Dennis had handled him so savagely, and not many days had passed after that on which John had not pictured himself bashing the life out of him, or blinding him with that fine acid stuff that quenched the light of the eyes and stripped the flesh from the bones like a hungry dog. Yet all the time he had done nothing; he could devise no safe plan of finishing him; always there were risks and possible mischances. But there must be no further delay about settling this long score: it should be wiped off with a balance in his favour, before another day dawned.

  His eye fell on his gun that stood in a corner of the kitchen. He had often had an idea of hiding behind a bush to shoot the pigeons that came to feed on the ruined corn last year, and killing Dennis as he came back from his work. Vividly he had pictured it, but never had he come near doing it, and to-night any business with the gun would be impossible. Dennis would be sleeping with Nell in the room that had once been portioned into two, but was now thrown into one again, and there’d be the child with them. Half crazy as he was, he couldn’t see himself shooting a woman who lay asleep, for if he killed Dennis, sure the other must go too...It was no use
thinking of his gun.

  He shuffled across the room to fetch himself a fresh bottle from the cupboard. There was a pile of cases there, full of straw, but empty of all else, and he had to rummage among these till he found one that contained a bottle, and that seemed to be the last. On his way back to his chair he noticed that the hands of the clock pointed to a few minutes short of twelve, and forgetting that it had stopped for the last month, only thought that the night was getting on, and there was nothing settled yet. Perhaps another drink would give him a notion.

  He sat down again, stroking the three days’ bristles on his chin, but never a fruitful thought came near him. Presently, all on fire with drink and maddened by this impotence of invention, he pushed back his chair and got up. As he did so, he upset the small table at his elbow on which burned one of the two lamps. It crashed to the ground; the chimney and the glass receptacle for the paraffin were smashed, and the wick, still alight, set fire to the spilt oil. There were but a few spoonfuls of it, for Nell had forgotten to fill it up, the flame flared high and smoky for a minute or two, then died down again, leaving a charred place on the boards of the floor. Instantly the idea for which he had sought so long flashed upon him. He would set fire to the house while all slept sound upstairs, and then go running down to St. Columb’s, spite of the dark, to get help. A rare notion: his crazy brain exulted at the thought of it. Thoughts came fast now: they were sorting themselves out finely. There were Dennis and Nell and the by in that room with the narrow slits of windows out of which they’d never creep. Willie must still be out; he had gone off alone, he remembered, soon after supper, and he’d have been sure to have sat and had a drink if he’d come home. He must lock the door on the passage upstairs, leading to the studio and the bedroom above, and take the key, so that Dennis and Nell couldn’t get out that way. He would do that at once, and he crept upstairs in his slippered feet, pausing to listen if there was any sound from their room; then he peeped into Willie’s room, but that was empty, and so back to the kitchen again. He would pile a lot of stuff here, and set light to it, and he’d pile a lot more on the stairs, and he’d drench them both with paraffin, so that there would be no getting down the stairs at all, and even if they could leap it, they could never win to the kitchen door, for the blaze would be roaring there. The garden door he would leave for himself to escape by, when he’d seen that the flames mounted high, and lock it after him.