Chapter VIII: Part 8

As Leadville on his black stallion turned the corner below Church Town, he met the Wastralls wagon coming back from Stowe with a load of coal and oil. The sight of the teamster, leading his horse as it zigzagged across the sharp ascent, brought the other a sudden tingling realization of power. Yesterday Rosevear had been a hind on his wife's farm and Byron, though ostensibly, blusteringly master, had not been able to dismiss him. Now, opportunity, spruce and debonair, was walking towards him up the wide curve of the road.

Reining in his horse--a gift from Sabina, who liked him to be well mounted--he waited till Jim, this 'proper jump-the-country' was abreast of him.

"The missus is gone!" He was not thinking of Sabina but of the alteration in their relative position.

Jim's face had been as cheerful as his thoughts. Though in workaday clothes he wore them with a holiday air and had adorned his cap with the iridescent wing-feather of a drake. He was in pairing mood and had seen in Stowe 'a lickin' great wardrobe' that he would like for Gray 'if she'd a mind to't.' His nest-building thoughts were scattered by Byron's untimely news and his face lengthened. "Gone?" he repeated. "'E don't say so? Poor sawl! I'm awful sorry. Was it a fit or what was it?"

Byron, impatient to assert himself, ignored the question. Sitting his horse with a touch of swagger he said truculently: "I'll leave yer know I'm maister now."

Jim believed that he had a reason to dislike the speaker and none whatever to avoid a quarrel. Better bad blood between them than that Byron, under the cloak of kinship, should be able to come worrying Gray.

"Iss," he said, accepting the challenge, "missus is 'ardly cold, but still I s'pose you think you'm maister now."

In Byron's fierce eyes was the longing to begin the inevitable fight. The youth, blithe and with his handsome face upturned, was incarnate provocation. One hearty blow and Byron saw the contour of that admirable nose for ever changed.

"When you finish up to-night you can come in," he growled, "and I'll pay you your wages. I don't want you 'ere, on the place, any longer."

Jim did not seem impressed. "I can clear now if you like." It would serve the 'ole hunks' right if he were left with the horse and wagon on his hands.

"An' if yer don't want to 'av yer bones broken," continued the other, pausing on a darkling thought that the sea did not always give up its dead, "you'll clear out of this part altogether."

In Jim's eyes was a little dancing light. "Shen't clear out for the likes of you."

"Well, now, you take this for a warning. If you don't you'll wish you 'ad."

"We'll see about that," and being of those whose spirits rise at the prospect of a fight he smiled. "We'll see who is the best man of the two, me or you."

A grimmer smile was on Byron's face. Knowing his strength he could look forward, past the irritating unpropitious moment, to the happy hour when they should come to grips. "Oo d'yer think's afraid of you, yer banty cock?" he cried, contemptuously, and prepared to ride on.

"If you was as big as a church and tower I ain't afraid," cried the youth after him. As the affair seemed to be hanging fire, he tried a rousing word. "An' if I'm in yer way I shall stay where I'm to."

Byron flashed him a look full of sinister possibilities, the look of one who had taken into consideration that cliffs are sheer and nights dark. "I'll see about that, then."

The prospect of a fight was dwindling into nothingness. "There's people," said Jim, on a last hope, "'ud rather see me than you."

"Any more of your cheek, young sprat, and I'll wring your neck."

But he had realized the countryside would cry shame if he were seen brawling in public while his wife lay dead at home. They would not be blinded to the reason and such knowledge might breed suspicion. He must wait. Grinding his heel into the stallion's side he started at a gallop, leaving Jim disappointed but smiling, for with him, too, it was a case of 'Gay go the Gordons.'

A little annoyance was enough to upset Byron for hours. In a fume of exasperation and bitter feeling he now urged his horse to a speed which drew on him the attention of other wayfarers.

"If 'e ride that rate 'e must be goin' after a doctor. I should think man's missis was goin' to straw--first child, too," said a man from Little Petherick to whom Leadville was a stranger.

"Thiccy feller's Mr. Byron to Wastralls," corrected his companion, "and I know there's no chick nor child there, nor any comin'. 'E do always ride as if Old Nick was after 'un. 'E'll break 'is neck one of these odd days."

The short interview with Rosevear had been unsatisfactory in more ways than one, for the youth's last words had planted a thorn. Not only had he smiled at Byron's threats but his smile, had been of a quality which made the other's blood run cold. Behind it lay assurance, a knowledge he might not divulge but which, like a hidden weapon, was for use at need. The other's jealousy, temporarily in abeyance, stirred and he sought a reason, other than the simple love of fighting inherent in the male, for Jim's smile. Not many cared to try conclusions with the strongest man in the parish. Byron had browbeaten the few who crossed his path, but Jim was game. What had happened to give him confidence? How were matters between him and Gray? That drive into Stowe! The farmer ground his teeth at the thought of it. Was she promised and did Rosevear feel sure of her? A fool for his pains! Such promises were of cobweb stuff. She might promise--his little umuntz--for she did not know, but the end would be the same.

The black stallion was damp with sweat when Byron pulled up at Dr. Derek's freshly painted gate--which in its brightness, its specklessness, was the outward and visible sign of the doctor's tastes! A pathway, gravelled with small white stones and edged with scarlet tiles, led directly to a cream-coloured house, the wide windows of which were brilliantly clean but uncurtained. On the door a highly polished knocker twinkled above a discreetly closed brass letter-flap. Dr. Derek was just returned from his morning round and, though the midday meal was on the table, his constant curiosity with regard to Mrs. Byron, would not allow him to keep her husband waiting. The farmer was, therefore, shown at once into the consulting-room.

The little doctor, round and rosy, was seated before a table of light polished wood. Byron, as he went up the room, gathered an impression of bright glass and metal surfaces, in a well-lighted sunshiny place. So bright was everything, the glass cupboards full of silver implements, the polished woods, the glazed bookcases, that the man, used to low tones within doors, blinked. The high lights of innumerable small objects, the sharply defined pattern of carpet and upholstered chair, confused him and for a moment he stood tongue-tied. At last the difficult words came.

"I've bad news for 'ee, sir."

If that well-regulated organ, which Dr. Derek called his heart, ever varied in its beat this was one of the occasions. He had been convinced that with such injuries as had been inflicted by her accident Mrs. Byron could not recover and, by doing so, she had proved him mistaken. Was it possible that after all...

"Sorry to hear it, Byron. The missus isn't worse, I hope?"

The man breathed heavily. "I'm sorry to tell 'ee, sir, she's gone."

Dr. Derek sat back in his cane elbow-chair. It was a sign, with him, of elation but his face was decorously long. "Dear, dear, you don't say so? How did it happen?"

Byron twisted his hat in his hands. In the meticulously clean room he showed clumsy, weather-browned and out of place. "She wasn't like herself all day, yesterday," he volunteered after a pause, during which Dr. Derek, waiting and knowing he must wait, had occupied himself with a retrospect. No woman could survive such injuries. If it had been one leg or if the head had not been hurt! Her partial recovery had been the effort of a healthy organism, a fine effort but foredoomed. The event had justified his prognosis. "She went to bed early," continued Byron, dragging out his words as if they were creatures with a will opposed to his, "she thought if she did she might be better by the mornin'."

"Did she take her food?"

"She was eatin' like a 'adger last night. I couldn't 'elp noticing it. I thought 'twas a poor sign."

"What did she have for supper?"

Byron recalled, not the articles of food but, the look of the table. "Well, I believe as she 'ad a piece of cold pork."

"Ah!" said the doctor and, behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of the investigator who has run a fact to earth. "And I said she was to be careful about her food. If you remember I recommended a light diet?"

Byron, without understanding it, had noted the satisfaction. "Iss, doctor, but 'er mind was runnin' on pork." He did not know what a light diet was nor that fat pork, when indulged in freely and late at night, was unwholesome.

"A hearty meal," mused the doctor, "and a heart suffering from overstrain. Well--what happened?"

"Since 'er accident, she've been sleepin' downstairs and I never 'eard nothin' of 'er till Mrs. Rosevear come over early this mornin' and found 'er dead in bed." He shook his head. "It frightened all the lot of us."

The doctor, turning to a brass dish, picked up an agate penholder. "Very sad, Byron, very sad; but I'm afraid only what was to be expected."

It was the countryman's turn to experience surprise. The doctor had taken Sabina's death as a matter of course. Very satisfactory, but on what grounds? "You don't say so, sir," he began cautiously. "I'd no idea!"

"If people in a weak state of health will eat pork late at night, in other words give their stomach more work than it is capable of doing," explained Dr. Derek and, behind his twinkling spectacles, his cold and keen eyes emitted a friendly gleam, "the heart is apt to stop work. It's not a bad death, Byron. She didn't suffer."

"I'm pretty and thankful to hear that, sir. We was rather afraid, poor sawl, there by 'erself, might 'av 'ad a 'ard death."

"You can put that fear out of your mind. In all probability she passed in her sleep, just--" he snapped his fingers--"snuffed out. Now, let's see, do you want me to come over?"

So far, matters had gone better than Byron had dared to hope; but now his heart sank. If Dr. Derek were to see Sabina he might realize--Byron accredited him with miraculous powers--on what a fairy superstructure his diagnosis was built. "Well, sir," he said, "just as you like. If you think you ought to come, do so. I shouldn't like for people to talk after she were buried up and say we didn't do what we ought to 'ave done; but she's dead and stiff."

"You don't make a point of it, then?"

"I want you to zactly please yerself, sir."

"Humph!" The doctor considered. "I saw her yesterday and I'm pretty busy. Yes, yes, it isn't necessary." His gold nib in its cool agate holder began to run in smooth flowing style over a sheet of partly printed paper. "Show that to the undertaker," he said, passing the certificate to Byron.

"Thank you, doctor, and for all the trouble you've took of 'er." He placed the paper carefully in his pocketbook and prepared to go. "Seems rather hard that after all you couldn't pull 'er through!"

In Dr. Derek's bosom the professional man was often at war with the scientific. "The fact is, Byron," he said honestly, "I didn't expect to save her. I've never thought she would live so long." His experienced glance dwelt fleetingly on the other's face. "You look pretty seedy, yourself. If you don't take care we shall have you on the sick list."

"Well, sir, 'twas awful sudden, 'twas. I don't feel to believe she's really gone. I'm like I'm in a dream." But, in his hidden mind, he was wondering why the man who saw so much could not pierce to the little more.

"Must have been a terrible shock to you. When is the funeral to be?"

"Monday, I believe, sir."

"Walking, I suppose?"

The man looked surprised. "What else would we 'av, sir?"

"No, of course, I was forgetting. Well, I'll try to come to it. I had the greatest possible respect for your wife as a farmer. She should have been a man."

"'Tis great respect you're payin' her, sir."

The doctor smiled enigmatically. "That's as may be," he said and, indeed, for him to say a woman resembled a man was the reverse of complimentary. In his experience the sterile female frequently approximated to the male in type and habits; and he thought such approximation a sign of degeneracy. He had been interested from a scientific point of view in Mrs. Byron. She had led a man's life and she was childless. Was the latter a consequence, or had the childlessness determined her way of life? He could find arguments in support of both theories.

Byron had brought to the interview a mind filled with misgiving. Dr. Derek had a reputation for ability and the other had hardly ventured to hope his tale would pass muster. He had told the truth because he dared not do other and behold it had stood him in good stead, that and the fact that Dr. Derek, for the sake of his professional reputation, had not been altogether sorry to hear of Mrs. Byron's death. As he rode at a walking pace down the hilly street the farmer could congratulate himself on the outcome.

The streets of Stowe, like spokes of a wheel, converge on the quay; and back from it, but near at hand, lie the huddle of warehouses, shops and inns, which supply the needs of sailormen. The quayside itself is, at low tide, a sheer drop of many feet; but the children play on its unprotected verge and the drunken man rolls gaily home from the waterside pubs and there is no tale of casualties. In one of the less frequented streets, opposite the Farmer's Arms, stood the undertaker's shop with, in the window, by way of advertisement, a baby's coffin and a hollow mortuary urn. Henwood, the undertaker, a little chattery man, fond of society and overfond of his glass, was generally to be found on his neighbour's premises; and, when Byron rode up, was fetched therefrom by the wife whose tongue was supposed to drive him thither. As Dr. Derek would have said, however, it was a moot point whether Mrs. Henwood's temper was the cause of his going, or his going the cause of her temper.

He came in, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and, the subject of beer being to him the most congenial in the world, opened the proceedings by asking Byron if he would have a glass. The latter, preoccupied and anxious, had not known he was thirsty.

"I don't mind if I do 'av one," he said, with that increase of cordiality which an offer of hospitality induces.

"Wait a moment, then." Little Henwood, who was a man of girth rather than height, rolled himself down the shop. When he reached the door at the end, he opened the upper half and called to some one within. "Sandra! would you mind running in for a jug of beer?"

A clatter of tin pans reached Byron's ears, then a voice the reverse of amiable. "Do you think I'm going to run my foot in and out for you--yer walkin' beer-barr'l? Fetch it yerself."

"'Tidn't fer me, my dear," twittered the little man.

"Mr. Byron don't want beer when he's come for yer to make a coffin. 'Tis for yerself I reckon and quench yer thirst in this world you can but Lorrd knows yer throat will be dry enough in the next."

"Well, 'av it your own way then, my dear, but Mr. Byron's thirsty as a gull. He's comed all the way from Trevorrick. Perhaps," he added disarmingly, "you'll 'and me out a jug--a jug of water, my dear."

"And 'ave you empt that water away and go after beer? Do you think, Mr. Henwood; you've married a fool?"

"I wish I 'ad, I wish I 'ad," muttered Henwood and shaking a head on which a rim of grey curls surrounded an unreverend tonsure he came slowly back. "Don't you take no notice of 'er," he said, lifting the mortuary urn out of the window.

"I don't," said the other simply. "I've 'ad enough of that."

"Where there's a will there's a way," said the little undertaker making for the door, "and thiccy urn 'olds just about a pint. I'll be back in a jiffy."

Left to himself, Byron glanced down the shop. He felt curiously at home in it; and this was strange because he could not remember ever to have been there before. At the end was a shed lighted from above and furnished with a carpenter's bench, trestles and some newly planed boards. A sack of shavings stood in a corner and the air carried a scent of wood. Byron sniffed it appreciatively. It wakened in him a dim memory, a memory so elusive that, try as he might, he could not capture it. The place was familiar, the boards, the smell of wood, but something was lacking, some sound. As he stood, puzzling over the circumstance, Henwood returned with the brimming urn.

Setting it carefully on a small black stool or cricket, he turned to the window and, lifting the lid of the baby's coffin, took from within two rather smeary glasses. "The Lorrd 'elps them as 'elps 'emselves," he said cheerfully. "Missus 'ud never think of looking in thiccy coffin and many a drink I've 'ad from'n."

The other drank in silent appreciation of the undertaker's mother-wit. He found it pleasant after the annoyances, the secret fears and elations of the morning, to be in contact with this simple soul, whose one idea was beer and yet more beer.

"Not much doing," said Henwood, conversationally, as he returned the glasses to their hiding-place, "but what's my loss is other people's gain and, after all, though I do my duty by the dead the livin' 'as always been more to my taste. What can I do for you, Mr. Byron?"

"I want for 'ee to come over to measure my wife for 'er coffin."

"My dear life, you don't mean to say she's dead?"

"Iss, the poor sawl, she died off in her sleep last night and we want for you to come and do the business."

The little man considered, his head on one side. "You want 'er buried decent, I s'pose?"

So that Sabina was hurried into the grave, Byron was indifferent as to the furnishings of her journey but he knew better than to let this appear. "Of course I do--although I don't believe in wastin' so much money to be put'n under the turf, when it could be used for something better. The missus used to think same as I do, she was never one for grandeur."

"Well, you got to study other people's tongues, you know."

"If it wasn't for that," said the countryman with his grim smile, "you'd cut a poor shine, I reckon. Well, what sort of wood be yer goin' to put in?"

"I've a good piece of oak here, seasoned wood, what about that? I cut a coffin for Colonel Pendarves out of it, but there's enough for another."

Bargaining was second nature to these men and Henwood, in suggesting what he knew would not be acceptable, was only observing the rules of the game.

Byron made the expected answer. "Oak 'edn't for the likes o' we, it's for the gentry folk. What other 'av you got?"

"There's ellum. It's good hard wood and lastin'."

"Don't matter 'ow long it last when 'tis once in under the earth."

Henwood led the way into the shed and pointed to some timber.

"Why don't you 'av a polished pitch pine wi' brass fittin's? Thiccy stuff was only landed last week." He touched the wood with spatulate hands, the hands of the craftsman. Next to his beer he loved 'a bit o' seasoned wood.' "You wouldn't wish for a handsomer coffin than that 'uld make."

"Pitch pine is more like it," agreed the buyer. "What would it cost?"

"I dunno as I could tell 'ee to a pound or two. There's a lot o' things to consider. There's the linin's and the fittin's; and then there's the gloves for the bearers and their 'arf crowns. Was you thinkin' to 'av one set of bearers or two?"

"'Tis a braaeve way to Church Town and the missus was a big woman, I think we better 'av the two."

"Sixteen half-crowns is a good bit. That'll make two pound. You see that tally up."

"Well, 'av it done decent, but she wouldn't like no show nor fuss. I know she wouldn't."

"We'll 'ave it plain as possible then." He made a note on the wood itself and then stood thoughtful. "When would you like to 'av it?"

"Mrs. Rosevear said I'd better leave it to you."

Henwood tapped his teeth with the broad wood pencil. "Weather's braaeve and cold," he said meditatively, "but if she died off sudden----"

"She done 'er day's work as usual and ate a good supper but doctor said 'twas 'er 'eart. Accident must 'av strained it. 'E didn't think she'd live so long as she 'av."

"She must 'er died on a full stomach, so I should bury her up as soon as we can. To-day's Saturday, but I can be ready by Monday."

"We must 'av it that way."

"Very well, then, tell Mrs. Rosevear we shall leave the 'ouse at 'arf-past one."

As Byron went out, the little man's glance travelled beyond him on an errand in no way connected with the business in hand. Life was 'terrible short' and he must make the most of his time, get down as many 'cups o' beer' as he could before his journeymen were set to make that coffin which must be put together without his help.

The Farmer's Arms beckoned and he went.

*CHAPTER XIX*

That afternoon, having snatched a moment from her work of setting Wastralls in the pious order which a death and consequent funeral demand, to run home, Mrs. Tom found Hember kitchen deserted by all but Gray. The range was open and on a stool by the dull fire--a stool usually appropriated by Smut the old black and white cat--sat the young girl. She was, of course, in black; but the dress, not having been worn for some time, was a little tight. The promise of Gray's frame was womanly and as she sat, huddled on the low stool, she looked not only unhappy, but uncomfortable. The mother, appraising the woe-begone face and uneasy figure, saw that here also was work for her. Aunt Louisa could alter the dress but it was for Mrs. Tom to comfort this little heart which in all its eighteen years had had no greater grief than the loss of Smut's frequent kittens.

"My dear," she said and hung her purple knitted bonnet behind the door, thereby giving a pleasant air of permanency to her visit. "Where's the childern to?"

"They'm with dad."

"And Richbell?"

"Gone up to Shoppe for some black ribbon."

"She needn't have troubled to do that," said Mrs. Tom, with a lack of her usual perspicacity, "there's plenty down to Wastralls."

Gray's little tear-blurred face showed a faint lightening, as of a thinning in the rain-cloud. "I heard them telling," she said tentatively, "that Art Brenton is home."

"Art?" said Mrs. Tom severely. "'Im an' Percy 'Olman's a pretty pair. I should think the maid 'ud 'av somethin' else to do 'stead of gaddin' round the lanes!"

Gray knew her mother's opinion of Richbell's various admirers. "I wouldn't worry my head about her," she said, a touch of sympathy in her voice. "I don't believe she means to have any one of them. She's only just amusing herself and, when the time comes, she'll know better."

"Let's 'ope she will." Mrs. Tom had not found that young people showed a greater wisdom than their forbears with regard to matrimony. "Please God she won't do so silly as yer auntie did, turn up 'er nose on all the chaps round 'ere and marry a stranger that she don't know nothing 'tall about."

"Poor auntie after all!" The tears welled up till Gray's dark eyes were shining stars.

Mrs. Tom changed the subject. "I'm pretty and glad you're back, my dear. 'Ow did Mrs. Andrew treat yer?"

"Oh, she treated me as if I was one of 'er own," but Gray's tones were flat. With Aunt Sabina newly dead what did it matter how old Mrs. Andrew had treated her? "She'd have liked for us to stop altogether."

"Well," said the mother, but with a little knit of perplexity between the brows, "you might do worse'n that. Still--I wish Gentle Jane was a little farther away from Wastralls."

Gray had no difficulty in following the trend of her mother's thoughts. "I don't think Uncle Leadville 'ud bother to come over there," she said, adding, as if struck by a fresh idea, "I suppose he knows?"

"Dunno whether he do or no. Everything's been upside down to-day and that reminds me----" she turned to the cupboard in the wall and took from the top shelf a box of stationery. "My dear, if you 'aven't got nothing else to do, I think you'd better write some letters for me."

Gray rose from the stool. "I shall be glad to have the job." Her lip quivered, her whole soft face crumpled into childish lines. "Oh, mammy," she said, looking forlornly across the gulf of the generations, "I do keep on thinking and thinking."

Middle age accepted the further burthen. "Iss, I know you must be!" Mrs. Tom, putting comforting arms about her, drew the young head to rest against her shoulder and, at ease after what had seemed a long loneliness, Gray sobbed out the thought that had been troubling her.

"'Tis the first night since auntie's accident that she've been left by herself." The circumstances of this death, seeming to reflect on her conduct, had added a poignancy to what would otherwise have been endurable.

"We can't pick nor choose our hour," said Mrs. Tom gravely; "'cos, when 'tis the Lorrd's time, it must be ours whether we'm ready or no."

"Yes, mammy, but I've got the feeling that if I hadn't gone away it wouldn't have happened."

But Mrs. Tom could comfort her daughter with the larger outlook that proves our insignificance. We are less important than we feared. We are of no importance at all. "My dear, you mustn't look at the black side. Her time was come and she'd be sorry for you to grieve yerself so. I knaw you've been like a daughter to 'er all these months and she did dearly love yer; but when it come to the end she wouldn't be wantin' you nor me. She had other things to think about."

"Supposing she was suff'rin', mammy?"

"She couldn't 'av suffered anything, my dear, and that you'll say when you see 'er face. 'Tis lovely, just like an angel. She must 'a passed away in 'er sleep."

Mrs. Tom's words, turning mortal death into the visitation of God, had the effect she wished. Gray, forgetting the personal equation, had a quieting vision of powers at once superhuman and beneficent. The Unknown, that was God and Good, had blossomed about her homely aunt and, through those dead eyes, all might look for a little moment into the Beyond.

"You'm a better 'and for writin' letters than I be," said Mrs. Tom, returning after a time to the simple needs of the hour. "And there is people who must know that yer auntie is gone." She turned to the table, rummaging in the box of stationery. "I always keep some mournin' letters in the bottom of this. Ah, 'ere 'tis," and she extracted some black-edged paper.

Gray, with death at once simplified and exalted, was able to follow her lead. She had been to a school in Stowe kept by two Welsh ladies and was passably instructed, that is to say, knew how to cast accounts and phrase a simple letter. "Who must I write to, mammy?"

"Well, my dear, there's the Rosevears of St. Issy and St. Minver and there's the Trudgians to Wadebridge and the Jackas and Sowdens and Trebilcocks. They'm all relations, you knaw. Tell 'em your poor auntie died in 'er sleep and the funeral's goin' to be--" she paused, remembering day and hour had been left for the undertaker to fix. "Well, now you must leave a place for that and put it in after we know." She glanced about the kitchen, which for Hember looked cheerless, being indeed dusty and unswept. "And when you've finished the writing, you better try and clean up a bit."

"Why--you aren't goin' back, are you?"

"Yes, I must for a bit, but I shan't be long. You'll find there's plenty for yer to do. Time quickly goes when you're busy."

She nodded briskly and, refusing to be moved by her daughter's unwillingness, set off down the lane. She had left the cleaning of Wastralls well begun. Above stairs and below, the rooms had to be turned out, scrubbed and set in order; and, no doubt, this washing and polishing, though applied to an already clean house, had its useful side. It affected not only the walls and furniture but the emotions of the workers and was a panacea for inconvenient feelings. Grief expended itself in hard conscientious rubbings and nerves were turned, to the benefit of their owners, into elbow-grease. Mrs. Tom, having set every one to work, had thought she might slip away without being missed but, on her return, heard her name being called about the house. The undertaker had come to measure the body for its wooden dress and she was required to bring him into the room where Sabina, her hands folded over the Bible on her chest, lay sleeping. Mrs. Bate, in her capacity of Stripper, had already conducted thither a number of admiring visitors but they had been without exception of her own sex. The old woman was by no means shy, nevertheless when Henwood drove up behind a black long-tailed horse, which seemed surprised at being required to move at other than a walking pace, she hurried in search of Mrs. Tom.

"If you don't mind, my dear," she said with something as near a blush as her old cheeks could show, "I'd rather for you to take'n in."

Mrs. Tom agreed. "I don't mind. I'll do it if you want for me to."

The other emphasized her feelings by a tap on Mrs. Tom's arm. "The truth is, I was always a bit shy and I don't like tellin' about they laigs. Laigs is laigs and I can 'ardly explain them to a man."

Which shows that Mrs. Bate, in spite of the illegitimacy of Janey and Jenifer, had a modest mind.

"Why, my dear life, 'e's used to laigs. Been measurin' bodies all 'is lifetime. 'E wouldn't take any notice of 'em, or you, uther."

"Well, other bodies got laigs but this one 'aven't got any. Don't seem hardly decent to talk about 'em."

Little Henwood, however, when the matter of the legs was explained to him, behaved with propriety; showing only a calm satisfaction that the coffin he was about to make, should be of the usual length and shape. He said nothing that could bring a blush to spinster cheeks--if Mrs. Bate who, in spite of the matronly title, had never been married, could be called a spinster--but demeaned himself with a practical common sense which won him some tolerable opinions.

"The coffin will be 'ere to-morrow early, I'll bring it meself and put 'er in."

"'E knaw 'is business, that one do," said Mrs. Tom, as she watched him drive off behind the surprised-looking horse. "Got a good 'ead on his shoulders."

Mrs. William Brenton, however, happened to be his wife's cousin. She sniffed disparagingly. "Proper l'il tubby. When Sandra was ill, 'e was such a glutton 'e drinked up all the brandy that Passon sent down for 'er 'e did."

"Iss," said her sister-in-law who if not 'gifted wi' good looks' was easy-natured, "but 'twas because she said she wouldn't drink that 'ell-brew, not even to please the Passon. She's get better wi'out it. Iss and from that time she started to cheat the craws."

"Undertakin'," said Aunt Louisa, "is a drinkin' job. Never seem to got enough work to full up a man's time and what can 'ee expect?"

"Expect?" cried Mrs. Brenton virtuously. "I expect for'm to 'av self-respect and not make pigs of theirself."

"Then, my dear, you expect more'n you'll get. We do all knaw what men is. If they bain't out drinkin' they're out courtin' somebody's li'l maid." She began to fold the dress she had been altering and, as she did so, looked towards Mrs. Tom. "Well, now, I've done that. Is there anything else I can do?"

"No, I think you've done enough to-night." The mistress of the ceremonies knew better than to over-tax her assistants. "But I hope you'll try and come to-morrow as there's a good bit more to do yet." With a glance she included the other occupants of the room.

"Oh, my dear, I bain't goin' to leave 'ee till it's all finished now, what next?" said Aunt Louisa, taking the pins from the crumples of her old lips. "I was goin' to Mrs. Martyn because she got two children now where she only expected one, but she must wait. I'm sure she won't mind."

"Iss, my dear," murmured Mrs. Bate, "livin' can wait, but the dead must be tended to."

The little band left in a body, 'almost' thought Mrs. Tom, 'as if they was afraid of meeting some of the Little People.' Though she herself had never seen so much as a Jack-in-the-box--as Will-o'-the-wisps are called in the West--she knew that where death is, other less familiar, even less desirable appearances may be gathered; and she did not wonder that the women clung to the companionship of the living. Long after the dusk had rendered the speakers invisible, she could hear the rise and fall of their voices. A sudden shower dashed its raindrops into her face and with a sigh she turned back into the kitchen.

"Awful catchy weather," she said: she would give Leadville his supper, light the candles in Sabina's room and then she, too, would go home.

A step in the porch made her look up and she found that Jim Rosevear, his day's work done, had followed her into the house.

"Why, Jim?" She noted the raindrops on his hair and coat and that for some reason he was looking dissatisfied.

"'E've give me my walkin' ticket, to-day," said the young man and his eyes, on either side of that delicately bridged nose, had the hard look of a hawk's, "so I've come for me wages."

Mrs. Tom's brows went up but, if she simulated surprise, she did not feel it. "Well, I shouldn't trouble," she comforted, "you could not stop 'ere very well."

That, he did not dispute. "But there's means and ways of doin' a thing."

"'E don't mean all 'e say, poor old villain."

"'E mean this all right." He went to the heart of the matter. "'Tisn't best 'e come meddlin' after Gray no more, or I'll bash 'is oogly face for'n."

"Oh, I shouldn't go quarrellin'. With 'im quietness is the best noise. Let's 'ope 'e'll be more sensible when 'e knows 'ow things is." She looked kindly at the man and continued to drop balm. "I'm sorry for the poor chap. 'Twas nothing but natural 'e should want to work the farm, anybody would and now 'e'll 'av 'is chance."

"Fine 'and 'e'll make of it," said implacable youth.

"Well, that'll be 'is look-out." She headed him in another direction. "What be yer thinkin' to do?"

"I'll talk it over with Gray to-night and, if she's agreeable, I think I'll take on Aunt Urs'la's offer."

The fact that Gentle Jane was just over the ridge from Trevorrick, gave Mrs. Tom a sense of impending trouble. "There's no 'urry for that yet," she said thoughtfully, "and Gray's terribly upset over 'er auntie's death. Why don't 'ee take 'er up to Plymouth for a week or two? I'm sure mv sister Ellen would be pretty and glad to 'av yer."

"Well, I dunno," but his face, brightening at the suggestion, lost its hardness. Ellen Warne's husband was in process of evolving from a carpenter into a builder and they were thriving hospitable folk. "I'll see what Gray got to say about it."

"As funeral's on Monday I think as you could go on the Tuesday." She looked as simple as a sheep but, under the kind suggestion, lay an anxious hope that it might prove acceptable. In Plymouth, Gray would be out of Leadville's reach.

"I haven't travelled very much. Never been further'n Bodmin," said the young man and already the note of holiday was in his voice.

"No, Gray 'aven't nuther," smiled the mother. "I'm sure you'll be delighted. Plymouth is a lickin' great place, nothin' but streets and 'ouses and bobbing up against people all day long. Ah, now," as the door of the porch was kicked open, "'ere's Leadville comin'. Now, my dear, I shouldn't say anything to'n if I was you, a still tongue make a wise 'ead. 'E've had quite enough to-day to upset'n."

Byron, coming out of the dark yard into the lamplit kitchen, did not at first perceive the second occupant of the room. He was in a good humour, for the men he had met in Stowe had been more friendly than usual and, in the attitude of the Wastralls hinds, he had gauged a new respect. The latter had come to him for orders and their manner had been conciliatory. If, in the past, they had given unwilling service, from henceforth he was their employer; and, in their submission, he, strangely enough, saw himself justified.

As he caught sight of Rosevear, however, his brows came together in the familiar line and Mrs. Tom, watching, felt her heart sink. A brawl in the house, where his wife lay dead but as yet uncoffined, would be unseemly and she cast about in her mind for means to prevent it.

"'Enwood 'av been 'ere," she said, thrusting the thought of Sabina between the men. "You ought to leave the 'inds knaw as the funeral's on Monday. I thought p'raps Jim could go around and tell'n?"

Leadville, obliged to consider the suggestion, tossed it aside on the gale of his dislike. It is customary for the hinds belonging to a farm--not only the men working there at the moment, but all who have done so in the past--to carry the coffin of their employer from the home to the graveyard. In payment of their services they receive a meal, a pair of gloves and half a crown; and, at a time when wages ranged between eleven and fifteen shillings a week, this custom was honoured with a careful observance.

"Old George can do that. 'E been 'ere longest, longer than _'e_ 'av and 'e'll know 'oo to tell." The appeal to him for direction had, however, the effect Mrs. Tom had anticipated. Turning to the cupboard he took out his cashbox and counted down the teamster's wages.

"That's right, 'edn't it?"

The other glanced perfunctorily at the coins. "No, 'edn' right. There's another week owing. You gave me no notice."

Byron looked up with a scowl. He wanted to deny that the extra payment was customary, to precipitate a quarrel; but Mrs. Tom, looking on, was ready. She stepped up to the table.

"Iss, my dear," she said, in her sweet and placid tones, tones which denied the possibility of ill-feeling on either side. "That is the way of it 'ere. You 'aven't worked a farm and wouldn't know; but 'ere we do give a week's notice or a week's pay."

The farmer turned towards her, conscious of the need for caution, yet longing to persist.

"Iss, my dear," she said again, "'tis a week's notice or a week's pay."

At length, with a contemptuous flinging down of extra coins, Byron completed the transaction. Without a word Jim swept up the money and turned to go. As he swung out of the room, his head up, his nailed hoots ringing on the flags, Leadville, in a sudden access of irritation, flung after him a few hot words. "And mind what I've told yer. You pick yer bones off from 'ere."

The young man, pausing on the threshold, looked back. In his eye was a defiant sparkle and his smile was blithe. He would welcome trouble. "I've told yer before, I don't take no more notice of 'ee than that!" and he snapped his fingers in derision.

With a furious oath Byron sprang forward but Mrs. Tom was before him. From where she stood it was easy to push the door to and she did so, nimbly and with a will. By the time the raging farmer had opened it again, Jim had disappeared into the mirk of the, as yet, moonless night. Mrs. Tom, at his back, smiled her relief. For the moment the quarrel, hanging over them like a rain-filled cloud, had been averted and, if her plan of 'land between' were carried out, they would not meet again for some time.

"Now, my dear," she said in kindly wise, "don't 'ee go takin' no notice of'n, 'tis naught but a young chap and cockerils do craw loud. Take and set down by the fire now. I'm sure you must be tired."

Byron paid little heed to her but, in the end, her deft and quiet movements as she laid the supper, her familiar voice relating the small events of the day, talking of Sabina and the respect shown her by the neighbourhood, had the desired effect. He threw himself into Old Squire's chair and, pulling off his mud-caked boots, stretched his feet to the glow. The black garments upon which the women had been employed were piled beside Aunt Louisa's machine on the side-table; but otherwise the place was as usual, austerely tidy and yet comfortable, the plain dignified living-room of a thriving farmer. Byron, tired after his day at Stowe, glad to have taken the first step towards getting rid of Rosevear, leaned back. He was happy in that this space between four thick walls was now, at last, actually his.

"'Av yer thought it over," said Mrs. Tom, breaking eggs into a pan and proceeding to fry them, "'oo you'll 'av 'ere to stay wi' yer? 'Cos you can't live by yerself and I shan't be able to come always, so I should settle it up if I was you."

"What d'yer mean?

"Must 'av somebody to cook for yer and do the work."

Byron, preoccupied, had yet a feeling, dim but friendly, for Mrs. Tom. Her essential motherliness appealed to one whose reality was masculine. He recognized in her a deep knowledge which made subterfuges and insincerity of no avail and, if he had not hitherto spoken freely to her, it was because there had been no need of speech. Mrs. Tom knew all the things of which Sabina had been so amazingly ignorant; and now Sabina, with what had seemed to him her wilful misinterpretation of facts, was gone. He saw no reason to conceal his immediate hope.

"I shall be 'aving a wife soon," he said and, in saying it, showed that although he might have gauged correctly Mrs. Tom's insight he had altogether missed her attitude. She turned sharply, staring at him. Accustomed to have her facts dressed in the clothing which obtained among her neighbours, his honesty repelled, even alienated, her. To know was one thing, to admit your knowledge was another and, in Mrs. Tom's eyes, Byron's candour was shocking and indecent. She stopped him with a hasty, "A wife? My dear, yer poor wife ain't 'ardly cold yet?"

But Byron's perceptions had been dulled by the vividness of a secret hope. "Iss," he persisted, unable to realize his companion's point of view, "but I'm gwine marry again."

"Do-an 'ee say that then," implored Mrs. Tom, whose words were a loose robe under which her thoughts could move at ease, "it don't sound vitty."

Her earnestness, penetrating the mist of his illusions, reached the man. He looked up, puzzled and anxious. Had he gone too far? Had he said anything to arouse suspicion? Surely not, nevertheless he would be careful, he would even affect a show of grief.

"I shall prettily miss S'bina," he began tractably, and Mrs. Tom nodded. If the words were uttered perfunctorily the phrasing was correct. "I do miss her," he continued, warming to the task. "I'm grievin' now." With his feet stretched luxuriously, his body niched in the comfort of the big chair, he looked woebegone indeed. "Nobody knows what a day I've 'ad and she only just gone. Everybody I met stopped me and wanted to know a parcel of questions and me keep on tellin' till I was muddled up. I didn't knaw no more'n Adam what I were tellin' of'm." Having offered his oblation he relapsed into a pleading sincerity. Not for years had he spoken of his affairs, but the change in them, the hope of a belated happiness, had unlocked his lips. "But still I can't live wi' that and soon I'm gwine marry--no stranger to you."

Mrs. Tom put her annoyance into a shake of the frying-pan. "Now, my dear feller," she said, "hain't a bit o' good for 'ee to think anything about that. 'Tis so well to put it out of yer mind for ever. One thing I don't want to knaw anything about it, bain't right as I should and, another thing, I know she 'edn't for you." Obliged to admit a knowledge she would have denied, she spoke with warning emphasis. "She never did think anything about yer, nor never will."

Though Byron's belief that his good star was in the ascendant was unshakeable, her conviction, expressed so firmly, troubled and irritated him. He sprang out of the chair and, in his stocking feet, began to walk up and down. Mrs. Tom, as she took knives and forks from the kitchen drawer, looked at him uneasily. To her mind he suggested a bull. He had the close-curled hair, the thick body and the gaze alternately fierce and brooding. He was like a bull too in his ways, rushing here, rushing there, a head-strong creature using force when subtlety would have proved the better weapon. The uneasiness she felt, being for her child, was like a smouldering fire, a very little fanning and it would burst into flame.

"You may say what you like!" Now that Sabina was dead he could see no reason for Mrs. Tom to oppose his suit. With the freehold of Wastralls and his late wife's savings he would be the richest farmer in the district. "She'm too young to knaw her own mind. I can make her care and I will." His face grew bleak with the intensity of his emotion. "I'll 'av 'er if I go through fire and water."

Only dread of what he might do, a dread impersonal and foreboding, could have kept Mrs. Tom to her purpose. "Well," she said, rallying her forces, for after all, poor soul, she had only one woman's share of courage. "'Tis as well to tell yer, first as last--she's Jim Rosevear's."

Byron had paused in his uneasy walk. He heard but he was unable to believe, indeed he took this simple statement for a malicious invention. Not for a moment did he credit it; but he was wrath with Mrs. Tom. If for reasons he could not fathom she wanted Gray to marry Rosevear, she must be made to realize that she was dealing with some one who, in this matter, would not stand any nonsense. His eye grew menacing. "I dare you to say such a thing to me," he cried, "to me what's mad in love with her."

Mrs. Tom put down the frying-pan. Her fear for her child was momentarily pushed aside by outraged affection. After twenty years of married life and before his dead wife had been carried out of the house, Leadville could proclaim his love for another woman! True or not he should not say it, not to her. Taking the purple bonnet from behind the door she tied it on. Leadville, however, was still too much obsessed by passion to realize the effect he had produced; indeed, not until she was walking out of the house did the breeze of her going reach him.

"What's the matter with yer?" he cried, shaken out of his absorption.

"I'm done wi' yer and I'm goin' 'ome."

"Goin' 'ome? Whatever be goin' 'ome for?"

"And what's more I 'ope I shall never come inside the door no more."

"What 'av I done?"

"Done?" she cried explosively.

He looked at her in a bewilderment, the genuineness of which angered her the more.

"You talkin' like that and poor S'bina lying there. I'm fairly ashamed of yer. A dog'd knaw better than that. I don't knaw 'ow she 'ad so much patience, puttin' up wi' you all these years. Thank 'Eaven, I've no need to."

He understood that she was annoyed on his late wife's account. To him it was as if Sabina had been dead a year and he marvelled that she should still exert an influence over others.

"Oh, come now," he said hurriedly, "I didn't mean to vex you, but when people's dead and gone----"

"'Twould serve yer right," cried Mrs. Tom still indignant, "if she should haunt yer."

"Haunt me?" stammered Byron with a quick change of mood. "She wouldn't do that? You don't think she'd do that, do yer?"

"You knaw best whether she should or no," and she perceived without understanding why, that this random shot had hit the target.

"Well, why should she?" The man relapsed into his ordinary manner. "I don't like that kind of talk. Take an' come in now like a good sawl and take no more notice of't."

Though Mrs. Tom yielded, she preserved a certain stiffness of manner. The eggs were cold and leathery but she declined to fry others. "'Tis your own fault yer supper's spoilt. S'bina was always studyin' you but you'll 'av no one now to wait on you like she did, I bet a crown."

She looked over the supper-table to see that nothing had been forgotten. "You 'av a cup o' cocoa at night, don't yer?"

Again that baffling glimpse of something hidden. "Cocoa?" said he. "'Twas S'bina that drinked the cocoa. _I_--I 'ate it."

"Very well, then, I'll get yer a cup o' beer," and as she drew it from a cask in the linhay her glance rested for a moment on the high-girdled brown jug, the jug which Sabina had always used for her cocoa. Mrs. Tom regarded it thoughtfully. Many a time she had seen it standing on the stove, waiting till Sabina should be ready to carry it to her room. It was a part of the nightly ritual of locking up, undressing, sleep-wooing, a part of the old order which, with Sabina, had passed away.

In spite of his bulk Byron was a moderate eater. The quality of his food was, as he said, a matter of indifference and he swallowed the leathery eggs as contentedly as if they had been worthy examples of Mrs. Tom's skill.

"I think I should like to 'av a pipe," he said as soon as his hunger was appeased. "I 'aven't smoked much lately, 'aven't felt like it." Crossing the room he put a hand on the high mantelshelf in search of his pipe. The restlessness of the past months had ebbed, leaving him at peace. He craved the dreamy satisfaction of tobacco. "Why, what's this? 'Ere's a new pipe! 'Owever did it get 'ere?"

Mrs. Tom, glancing up from her work of clearing the table, saw that he held in his hand the pipe with an amber mouthpiece which she had brought from Stowe.

"Why, that's the one poor S'bina bought for yer!"