Possession (Roche, February 1923)/Part 1/Chapter 12
Things seemed determined to go wrong that spring. Phœbe affirmed that from the moment when she had set her teeth in that hard russet apple which had snapped off a perfectly good incisor misfortunes had come tripping on one another's heels. Excessive rains had swollen the stream until it had grown to a tumbling, coffee-coloured torrent, in which a ewe and her skipping lamb had lost their lives. Bessie, Derek's favourite Jersey, had given birth to twin calves, both of which had died, and she, herself, had been ailing ever since. Mike had torn his leg on a piece of barbed wire, carelessly left dangling at a fence corner—it was impossible to tell by whom—and had severed an artery. Derek would never forget Mike's hard breathing and the look in his distended eyes as he stood beside him miserably waiting for the veterinary, while the blood gushed from the wound as from a tap, making a thick puddle on the floor of the stall. Mike had recovered but must go easy for a while; another horse had to be purchased, and it turned out that he was full of nasty tricks, in stall and field—the men vied with each other in repeating Philip's misdeeds. The heavy rain produced a growth of rank weeds that fought for supremacy over the mangolds, turnips, and garden vegetables. Old Peek and Mrs. Orde's short-legged husband, and four boys from Mistwell were constantly employed in weeding, and in sorting the last of the apple crop in the apple-house. Carelessness in storing defective apples and leaves among the good ones, combined with the mildness of the winter, had caused a great deal of rot. The sound apples had to be separated and washed, and the decayed thrown to the pigs. The air about the apple-house was full of a sweet, acrid, ciderish smell.
Derek anxiously waited for a new man to be sent by the Immigration Agency in York, but every farm seemed to be in need of help, and experienced men were few.
One morning in late May Hugh strode up to Derek, where he stood on the porch snuffing the fresh breeze from the lake. Phœbe followed Hugh closely, her eyes dancing with excitement behind her spectacles.
"Guid mornin', sir," said Hugh, "and I've got to tell ye that Newbigging's flitted. He was restless all day yesterday, and last nicht he sat by the window peerin' out and wouldna coom to bed, and when he did, he kept me awake wi' his tossing. Then, this morn he must have been up with the birds, for when I woke at sunrise he was gone, and his wee bag, and his box wi' the gilt collar studs, and his wee red book of songs. He's flitted for certain."
"And I called over the fence and told Bob Gunn," said Phœbe, "and he said it was all one could expect from one of those chaps from Dundee. He's getting pretty sick of Chard's, Bob is."
That evening Bob himself came to Derek, short, stocky, and rosy as ever. "I hear Newbigging's made off," he said.
"Yes, what's that to you?" asked Derek, shortly.
"Nothing. But I'll come back and fill his place if ye say the word, Mr. Vale."
"What, you want to leave Chard after only a month?"
"A month can seem like a lifetime, sometimes, sir. He's a regular slave-driver, Chaird is. The very first nicht I was there after an awfu' day's work, he says after supper, 'Come on now, Bob, and get busy cuttin' up potatoes for seed.' 'Cut up potatoes!' I said. 'Why we never work in the evenings at Mr. Vale's.' 'Weel,' says he, 'we work all the time here, and anyone who won't do it, can get out.'"
"It served you right for leaving me."
"Will ye hae me back, sir? Now that Newbigging's gone, me and the other lads'd get along fine."
"What about Mrs. Chard's pies?"
"Pies! I'm fair sick o' the very sicht o' pie. She gies them to us even for breakfast."
"Well, you've made your bed, Gunn, and you must lie on it—"
"It's straw and awfu' lumpy," interrupted Gunn.
"I'll not have Mr. Chard saying that I took you away from him," went on Derek. "What do you think you are, Gunn, a shuttlecock, to be bandied back and forth across the fence?"
"I'm no shuttlecock," said Gunn, his eyes snapping. "I'm a free British citizen, and I can't be forced to stop anywhere. I'll gang where I please."
"You can go to the devil as far as I'm concerned," said Derek, packing tobacco into his pipe with the handle of his pocket knife. "You played me a dirty trick, and I'm through with you."
Gunn turned away, his rosy face puckered with chagrin. "Weel, good-bye, and I'm no' afeerd to say that you'll wish you had me back before the summer's through." He hung about a moment, irresolutely, and then walked slowly back to Chard's.
Derek, impatient at the delay of the immigration officials in sending him help, had taken the train to York to impress them, if possible, with his extreme need. He could not believe that other farms were crying for succor so urgently as Grimstone. Yet the officials, though polite, were singularly callous to his need, and offered as a sop only one poor creature, Snailem by name, suspiciously smooth of hand, who now sat in the other end of the coach gazing out of window with dull eyes that, Derek thought, would blink before the problem of distinguishing a reaper from a mower. Still, he was a "hand," and Derek determined to get the utmost out of him till more help came, which was promised shortly.
He, too, gazed through the window at the fields steaming in a hot sunset after a day of rain. He saw woods flash by, rounded in all the rank effulgence of their springing maturity; hillsides dotted by plump ewes with sucking lambs butting against their udders; black, rich fields where wet-booted men still seeded the hungry soil. He saw a deep cut through a cedar wood, where a narrow stream ran far below, its course marked by white lilies and lady's slipper. A heron rose heavily above it, his long legs stiff, his neck stretched, his wings beating against the flaring sunset.
Derek felt very content. Life in all its intensity surged about him, and he was part of all this divine, strange vivacity of living—the steaming fields—the flying heron—the flying train—even Snailem, surreptitiously slipping a wad of tobacco into his untidy mouth.
Across the way a young woman comforted her little boy, who was crying because he had bumped his nose on the window sill. She gave him and his sister each a sponge cake, and kissed the little bumped nose, and laughed. The two children ate the cakes hungrily, but the boy dug the caraway seeds out of his and laid them on the plush seat beside him. His mother, seeing him deposit the last one there, gave him a little slap and brushed the seeds hurriedly to the floor. The boy puckered his face to cry again, but seeing Derek laughing at him, he laughed too, and, in a moment, sidled across the aisle and stood at his side.
"You don't like caraway seeds, eh?" said Derek.
"I frow 'em away."
"That's a mistake. They'll give you muscle—make you strong."
"What's the use of being strong?" said the little fellow, his mouth down at the corners; "there's always somebody else stronger."
"Cyril," called his mother, "come here, this moment. Don't be so forward."
"Sha'n't go," said Cyril. "I'll stop here till we get to Mistwell."
"He does need a man to straighten him," confided the mother, leaning across. "His father's been out two years now. We're just coming to him. . . . It's an awful thing crossing the ocean and taking such a long rileway journey with young children."
"I'll see that you get off all right," said Derek. "Is your husband at Mr. Jerrold's?"
"No. He's with a Mr. Vile, at a farm called Grimstone, quite near Mistwell. He's not expecting us—." Her face flushed, and grew hard.
Derek was staggered. Rapidly the faces of his four men flitted across his mental vision—rosy, beady-eyed Gunn, altogether too young—brown, honest Hugh—if it were he, Good God! what a time they would have with Phœbe—Windmill, who was courting Miss Carss, and who was a notch above this worried, dowdy, little woman surely—Newbigging, ah, Newbigging, who had so lately "flitted," having got wind perhaps of his wife's intentions. It must be Newbigging.
He had leaned back staring out at the fields without seeing them. Now he asked the little boy, who had squeezed into the seat beside him, "What is your other name—besides Cyril?"
"Windmill . . . And daddy's name's Windmill, and mother's name's Windmill, and Ruby's name's—"
The train stopped with a jolt, its grinding of wheels drowning the child's voice. Derek was thankful; he felt that he could stand no more reiterations of that name.
He had helped the woman into the 'bus. He had sent Snailem in it, too, and had paid the fares of all four. Then he had set out on foot himself, determining to telephone to Windmill and prepare him for the coming visitation. Although he pitied the dowdy little wife, some loyalty of sex made him pity, still more, the erring husband. Poor Windmill! who had fainted in the field the day before because of the heat, and who was probably now washing and dressing, after a hard day in the fields, in preparation for his evening walk with Miss Carss, all unconscious of the weary Nemesis that was rolling towards him in the 'bus.
Derek called up Grimstone from the village store. Phœbe's voice came thickly over the wire as though she were eating something. Windmill? Oh, he was out. The usual, she s'posed. He'd hurried right off after tea. She had a terrible sore throat and would Mr. Vale fetch her a few peppermint bull's-eyes from the shop?
Derek hung up the receiver and bought the bull's-eyes from the shop-keeper's wife, who grunted as each one dropped from the jar, as though it hurt her. Disconsolately he left the shop and walked slowly towards Grimstone. His one idea now was to loiter till the worst should be over when he arrived. He could picture that little woman making a pretty scene. He put a bull's-eye in his mouth and sucked it meditatively, feeling rather as he used to at eight, when he had a mind to be late for school.
As he was passing the graveyard he heard a rattle of wheels behind him, and, turning, saw the 'bus lumbering up. Good Lord! He had thought it had reached Grimstone long ago. Now he remembered to have seen Jackman in it, a farmer who lived a mile east of Mistwell. He had been driven home first! The 'bus driver drew up his horses. "Can I give you a lift, sir?" he called.
Derek swallowed his third bull's-eye and climbed into the 'bus. He was in for the scene after all!
Cyril, Ruby, and Mrs. Windmill smiled as though he were an old friend. Snailem tried to smile, but he was manipulating a fresh wad of tobacco and it took all his skill.
"The 'bus driver tells me that you are Mr. Vile," said Mrs. Windmill. "I'm so glad, for I'm sure you'll tell my husband that I did right in coming to him. It's no way for husband and wife to live, and—I've heard rumors. So I just sold my bit of furniture and came strite across. His father gave me money for the passage, so you can see what his family feel about it."
"I shouldn't place much dependence in rumors, if I were you," said Derek. "A man sometimes makes a friend when he's far from home, but he means nothing wrong—he's just lonely."
"Mr. Vile, did my husband tell you he is a married man?"
"No," acknowledged Derek, "he didn't."
"Oh! the villain!"
"Be careful. That man Snailem will hear you."
"It mikes me wild. Look at his two lovely kiddies—and him not to own to them."
"He does not tell me his affairs."
"And I sent him their picture at Christmas. I'll wiger he never showed it to that minx he's walking out with!"
"This is my place," said Derek, thankfully, as the 'bus stopped. He swung the children to the ground, and helped Mrs. Windmill with her bundles; Snailem let himself down heavily, and cast a dismal look over the farm. There was no sign of life about. The air was moist, heavy, and filled with the honeyed smell of the locust flowers. The lake lay still as molten lead, following the hot exuberance of sunset.
The 'bus rattled away. Derek sent Snailem to the kitchen to report to Mrs. Machin. Then he turned to Mrs. Windmill. "Don't you think it would be best," he said, "for you to wait here a bit? I'll find your husband and send him to you." She assented, and he went through the house to the kitchen.
He found Snailem and Mrs. Machin there, she regarding him as he stood before her, with the ironical grin of an old spider who had just caught a stupid fly in her web . . . not the sort of fly she fancied but one which nevertheless had to be demolished.
"Where is Windmill?" demanded Derek.
"He ain't here," replied Mrs. Machin, "that's all I know about him. He went out half an hour ago, slicked up like a city feller."
"I must send Hugh to find him. His wife is here. I don't want her to see him perhaps with Miss Carss. I'd better fetch her in."
"His wife?" Mrs. Machin's grin broadened. "Well, he kep' it mighty quiet. Here's a pretty kettle of fish. Fool!"
Phœbe dashed in from the outer kitchen followed by Hugh.
"Hugh," began Derek, "go over to Mr. Jerrold's—"
"Ow!" cried Phœbe, "there's a norful scene on the bluffs! Windmill and Miss Carss, and a woman in high-strikes. Come along out!"
They hurried to the flagged yard. On the bluffs they could see Windmill outlined against the sky, and beside him the tall figure of Miss Carss, her long veil fluttering in a freshly sprung breeze. Climbing towards them up the side of the bluff was the wife, her hat fallen back, her arms waving, her voice raised in screams. Her two children were running far behind her down the road.
"I had a fambly once," remarked Snailem, "but they're all dead. Wife and triplets."
"Ow, the villain," cried Phœbe, "to desert his poor wife like that! He ought to be horsewhipped."
"Hold your tongue," ordered Mrs. Machin, "you'll likely be deserted yourself some day."
They saw Windmill stride quickly to his wife and take her roughly by the arm. His touch only made her more violent, and Miss Carss, after watching them struggle for a moment, turned abruptly away and began to run along the bluffs towards home. Windmill's wife, seeing her rival retreat, ceased her screams, and sank exhausted to the grass. The two children reached their mother's side and threw themselves upon her, sobbing. Windmill's bowler hat was on one side. He stood looking down at the dishevelled heap of humanity before him, the wife of his bosom, and the two beings he had begotten, who had brought this shame, this chagrin, this retribution across the sea to him.
"It was for all the world like a play," heaved Phœbe from the depths of her.
"All the world's a stage," observed Snailem, moving closer to her.
"All the world 'ud be a work-house, if we was all as simple as some folks," snapped Mrs. Machin.
Windmill and his wife sat for an hour or more on the cliff, talking earnestly. It was almost dark when he came at last to the house, leading one of his children by each hand. His wife, he explained, was not in a condition to meet strangers but she would like a pot of tea. He would carry it to her. He displayed his pink-cheeked children proudly, and while Phœbe stuffed them with strawberries and cream, he told Vale, shamefacedly, that he must leave that very night. They could catch the late train for York, and they would return almost directly to the Old Country. His father was a boot manufacturer and he could go into the business at any time. He regretted leaving Canada for he loved the life, and—he had meant no harm by his friendship with Miss Carss—it was purely platonic.
Vale had Hugh harness the gelding and drive the family to the train. When Windmill had lifted his wife and whining infants into the surrey, and the huddle of drooping figures had disappeared into the dusk, Derek went to his room to read a letter from Edmund that had awaited him on his return from town.
He felt rueful over the loss of Windmill, and he opened the letter slowly. Edmund seemed to be in good spirits. Towards the end of the letter he wrote: "I think you can safely expect me to visit you before the summer is over. I am keen to see you, and besides, I have a mind to try my luck next door. It seems audacious, I know, but I have reason to hope. Anyway, it would not be the first time that a beautiful heiress has thrown herself away on a penniless young officer. God knows, I do not want her money but I do want her, desperately. I know you wish me luck."
After reading the letter Derek felt more rueful than ever. Indeed, he felt perilously near to being sick at heart.