Possession (Roche, February 1923)/Part 2/Chapter 10
Derek could not sleep. He went to bed, but at two o'clock he rose and drew on some clothes. Restlessly he walked about the house, turning over different plans in his head. If it were not for the child he would have closed the house and returned to Halifax. Yet he had no yearnings for his old life there. Grimstone and he seemed to belong to one another. And the child—a new rush of tenderness for it swept through him. When all was said and done, it was his child and he loved it with all the protective strength of his nature.
He had no intention of following Fawnie and Jammery. He would not touch her again, if she came on her knees. He believed Jammery loved her—more than he ever could—and she was very sweet to love. As Jammery had said, one couldn't ever forget her. It was impossible to think that she would sit before the fire in the evening no more—with the ruddy glow on her face, on her supple folded hands, on her bracelet touching it to fire. That damned bracelet—the hypocrisy of her! "If you beat me I will lov' you more than ever." He longed to kill her, and tramped up and down the hollow echoing house, saying so, to the walls, to the streaming windows, to the black hearth.
At six o'clock he made himself some breakfast and fed the child who, exhausted by the excitement of the day before, went immediately to sleep again. Lighting his pipe, he sat down before the kitchen stove and dozed till he was awakened by Peek bringing in the milk.
It was a mild morning of delicate blue sky and little white clouds like puffs of smoke. Sparrows pecked and twittered on the flags outside the kitchen door as though it were spring. Derek carried Buckskin out for an airing and strolled up and down in the sunshine. Both were bareheaded and Buckskin held a large sweet apple from which he with difficulty took small bites with his square little teeth. Derek had washed his face and hands and brushed his hair so that he was fresh as the morning. He cooed, he laughed, he pressed wet kisses on Derek's cheek, and kicked his heels on Derek's side as though to lose his mother was a matter of light concern. After one questioning look at Derek he had taken his breakfast from the bottle without more ado, as one who said, "Bottle is it? Well, here goes!" A remarkable baby.
Derek held him close. He would not have parted with him for worlds.
He was so taken up with the child that he did not see a group of people coming down the road until they had turned in at the gate. Then he perceived that they were Indians. The group was composed of a man, his wife, three little girls, a grown-up son. The man, terribly emaciated, leaned heavily on the squaw's shoulder. The young man carried several large bundles and an old-fashioned carpet bag. He set them down with a grunt of weariness as he reached Derek's side, but he turned to his mother as though it had been arranged that she was to speak first.
She was a wholesome, good-looking woman of about five and forty. Her clothes were clean and neat, and her three little girls, who resembled pretty Italian children, looked decently cared for. After taking her breath, for she had been much burdened, she said in a soft, husky voice: "I been told that you ain't got much help here. We thought maybe you could do with us. My son and me we're both good milkers, and he's good with horses and all kinds of farm work."
"But I have no place to lodge you in," said Derek. "The shack isn't fit for winter."
"Oh, we'll make it all right," replied the squaw easily. "We just come from an awful poor one now. Our floor was never dry. I can do your housework, too. My goodness, that's a nice baby you got." She stared curiously at the child. Evidently she knew all about his marriage.
The man broke in, "I can't go no further, I tell you. I must get in some place and lie down or I'll die."
He looked fit to die, Derek thought. He said:
"Well you may come and look over the shack. If you think you can live in it, I'll give you work." With Buckskin on his shoulder he led the way through the orchard.
A little windmill made by Bobby Sharroe turned with a whining noise on the roof of the shack. The outer walls were ornamented with skins of squirrels and chipmunks he had nailed there to dry, and, in the row at leaving, had forgotten. The stove in the lean-to was red with rust.
"Bill and me will carry that stove inside," said the woman. "We'll be fine and warm. Kin we have fresh straw fer the bunks? And maybe you have an old quilt you not usin'?"
"Come to the house and I'll give up a couple," said Vale. "Have you food?"
"We got bread and ham. If we jus' had some tea and a point of milk and a little drippin' or butter we'd git on fine."
She was such an amiable, wholesome soul Derek liked her at once. And he liked the little girls who fluttered about the baby, clapping their hands at him, and laughing as merrily as though they had never known hunger and cold and buffeting from post to pillar. They were the prettiest Indian children he had ever seen, with even features and magnificent black eyes. They were Annie, Lizzie and Susy, aged nine, seven, and five.
The man had gone into the added room and thrown himself on the bare bed there with a groan. Derek looked in at him and then asked the son what was the trouble with him. He mentioned a disease common enough, but of which Derek knew little. "Is it serious?" he asked.
"Oh, I guess not," replied the youth. "He's just got to keep still and he'll git all right."
Derek looked pityingly at the hunched figure on the bed. "Let me know if he needs anything. And cover him up or he'll freeze."
He was getting cold himself standing about and Buckskin was sneezing in his ear. He returned to the house, taking the son with him to get provisions for the family. The youth said his name was Bill Rain. He was a hollow-cheeked, hollow-chested fellow, who always gave the impression that he had just reached the top of a steep hill. But he said he was strong and seemed eager to work.
Derek felt an immense relief at having acquired the Rain family. He would pay off Peek that night, and Peek could stop at the Orde's cottage on his way back to Mistwell and tell Mrs. Orde that she would not be needed at Grimstone for some time. He hoped that by ridding himself of Mistwell people he might be able to conceal the fact that Fawnie had deserted him. For the present, at least, that was his great need. The Jerrolds, Hobbs, the Vicar, it must be hidden from them all. He had been the subject of gossip, conjecture, pity, scorn, long enough. No. It must not be known. He might conceal it for a month—or more. Further than that he did not look. He would not even tell Edmund.
Before Hobbs and the Holstein breeder whose name was Maher, left that afternoon Derek took them into the house for something to drink. When the whiskey and soda had been set on the table Hobbs asked after the health of Mrs. Vale. Mrs. Vale was not very well, Derek said. She was lying down. Hobbs was disappointed. He had been anxious to have Maher meet her. As the bottle became almost empty he grew more and more solicitous for her health, and he begged Derek to fetch the boy down, if only for a moment, that Maher might see for himself the sort of heir she had produced for Grimstone. So Buckskin came on Derek's shoulder, very bright-eyed and wondering, and was set on Mr. Maher's knee, and was hefted, and had his muscles felt, and his massive legs admired, and his eight teeth admired, and his curly yellow head rumpled, and Maher said he was the sweetest thing that had ever been foaled. "If you'll believe me," he said, "my missus has given me six daughters, all of them high-shouldered and short-necked—like me. Nary a son. Women are kittle cattle. Nary a son."
"Give me boys every time," said Hobbs. "If a boy misbehaves you give him a good leatherin', if he does it again you give him a harder one—but a girl—keep your six, Maher, I don't want 'em."
"They're all right," declared Maher, bridling. "They're nice girls—good and all that—but why had they got to go and have high shoulders and thick necks like me?"
Derek scarcely heard their talk. An overwhelming weight of loneliness had fallen on him. Fawnie was gone. No more would she sit beside him watching the fire, with that mysterious, sombrous look that had sometimes almost frightened him; no more would her hair fall like a silken mantle over his shoulder, around his neck; and her arms hold him close against her—"as a matter of fac', darling, you are no better than Buckskin"—Oh, the sweetness of those arms! Their fragility—and their strength—those pouting lips. And she loved Jammery—He could not hear what those fellows were saying. How he dreaded the night!
But the night passed quickly. Tired out from lack of sleep, his head had barely touched the pillow when he was off. A dreamless sleep held him till daylight, when he was awakened by Buckskin whom he had taken to bed with him to keep him warm. Buckskin cooed, he crowed, he chuckled, he lifted Derek's eyelid and looked quizzically down into his eye. "Good Lord," groaned Derek, "can't you let your poor dad sleep in peace?" Buckskin could not and would not, so Derek got up and made the breakfast.
They sat side by side at table (Buckskin had a high chair) unwashed and uncombed, eating large plates of porridge covered with cream. Buckskin's bib was a sight. Derek wondered what Edmund would have said.
"The first thing for you to do," he told Lottie Rain when she came to do the work, "is to give this baby a bath. He's got soap and sponge and everything of his own. Don't let him get a chill. Keep him by the stove. And look here—" he turned in the doorway—"My wife is away but I don't want the folk about here to gossip, so if anyone asks you anything, just say she's not very well, and she stops in most of the time. Understand?"
Lottie's face melted into a comprehending smile. "Yes, I understan' all that. I know how to keep quiet. I know your wife ever since she was a little girl. It was her sent me back to look after you and the baby. She couldn't bear to think you wasn't gittin' looked after properly." . . .
So Lottie took them in hand. She was a motherly decent soul. She scrubbed the kitchen till the boards shone; she blackened the stove, and swept the hearth; she kept Buckskin cleaner than his mother had done. His bath in the kitchen was a melodious riot of chuckles, squeals, splashings, and the rippling laughter of the three little girls. The laughter of little Indian girls is the prettiest laughter in the world.
Derek grew to love Buckskin more every day. He became the centre of his life. He feared sometimes that Fawnie might return and steal him away, and he would not have him often out of his sight. He took long rides at this time and he would have Lottie bundle the boy in his rabbit-skin coat and cap, and place him before him on the horse. Off they would gallop, making the snow fly, making the bridge ring with the dash of hoofs. Buckskin would gravely clutch a bit of the rein in his tiny mittened hands, and his cheeks would glow, and his eyes sparkle and glint with all the changeful brightness of the lake. He learned to shout "Ho!" for "Whoa."
One day they met the Jerrolds. There was no escape, and Derek must face Grace with that offspring of his wildness and his weakness between them. Grace leaned forward in her saddle to look into the little rosy face. "Oh, he is a darling!" she breathed. "A darling." Her arms moved toward him without her volition, as though she must take him to her breast and hold him.
Surprise and delight made Derek's heart pound. Grace liked his child—that child. Gratitude misted his vision of her. He drew his horse nearer that she might touch the boy. She lifted him to the saddle before her and kissed him. Nothing small about Grace—nothing grudging—nothing cruel. Their eyes met over the boy's head—they could not look away—yes—they were kissing each other through him—holding each other close.
On Christmas Eve came a knock at the door where there were now but few knocks to disturb the lonely master of the house. Mr. Jerrold in a fur greatcoat stood there, his accustomed cigar in his fingers. He and Gay and Miss Pearsall, who was stopping with them over the holiday, were on their way to Mistwell where he had a Christmas tree every year for the village children. They looked forward to it all year, and, by Jove, he wasn't going to have the poor little beggars disappointed, even though he had been smitten rather roughly. Would Vale care to come? And Mrs. Vale? He spoke with genial unconcern, as though it were quite the custom for Mrs. Vale to join in their little activities. It was such a fine starlit night they were walking.
Derek had been feeling abominably homesick for Halifax and Edmund. He said eagerly that he would be glad to go, but Fawnie couldn't very well leave the baby. This time he blamed it on the baby. He wasn't quite up to the mark. Stomach ache or something. Kids were always getting something wrong. He grew hot with nervousness, but nothing would have induced him to tell the truth.
The girls had walked on ahead. Their slight figures outlined against the sparkling snow hurried on, as though avoiding the men. "Let them go," said Mr. Jerrold. "I want a good talk with you."
They overtook them at the door of the little weatherbeaten town hall already packed with the children and their parents. A curtain was drawn before the tree, and Derek was led behind this by the girls to help light candles and add some final touches while Mr. Jerrold disappeared into a cupboard to dress for the part of Santa Claus.
This unexpected nearness to Grace excited Derek. The expression of her face as she raised it when she lighted a candle was to him piercingly beautiful. Their hands touched. He drew his quickly away. He could not bear it. . . . Miss Pearsall hovered about the tree, ecstatic over dolls, work-boxes, horns, and jack-knives. "I feel a little, little child again," she breathed. And again she said, "My name is Joy. I am but two days old." Derek thought—"My God, this woman and Hobbs!"
Never was a handsomer, more jovial Santa Claus than Mr. Jerrold. Such a scarlet belted tunic, such a woolly white beard, such mirthful, sparkling, teasing eyes. He joked everyone as he handed down the presents, for he knew them all, and the little hall rocked and heaved with laughter; and the smell of the tree, and the smell of guttering candles, and the smell of hot children were delightfully mingled with the smell of fish that subtly pervaded all gatherings in Mistwell.
After the tree there were sandwiches, cakes, and coffee for everybody.
It was eleven o'clock when Mr. Jerrold with a grunt of relief pulled off his beard and wig and mopped his dripping head. "I wouldn't give up this treat for anything," he said.
"I have not forgotten those three little girls at your place," said Grace to Vale. "And here are two little china mugs and a work-box for them—and a bag of sweets and an orange apiece, too."
"Oh, that will be jolly for them! I'm such a duffer I had never given Christmas a thought."
Miss Pearsall flew to get coloured paper and ribbon to tie up the parcel. "Darling Gay," she said, "always so thoughtful."
Unseen by the others, Derek picked up a discarded doll from the floor and dropped it into the pocket of his overcoat. The doll had only one leg.
It was refreshing to get out into the sharp bright air, to hear the crunch of the crisp snow beneath their feet, to watch the silvery moon sailing above and its bright train shimmering on the lake. It was a world of silver light and meticulous black shadows.
They walked four abreast.
"Happy, happy people!" exclaimed Miss Pearsall. "Going about doing good!"
"Nonsense. We get as much fun out of it as the kids," said Mr. Jerrold.
"Oh, Mr. Vale!" cried Miss Pearsall. "Do you know the Gitanjali?"
"No," replied Vale. "Where do they live?"
"They are not people but poems. By Tagore. I am singing them now. They are wonderful."
"You sing them beautifully," said Grace.
"There is no one like Tagore. No one like the Hindoo writers. I am in closer touch with the Infinite since I have steeped myself in the East than ever before. 'I am a slave of this spirit of the quest.'"
Mr. Jerrold was saying, "By Jove, I've gone and lost my pipe."
Vale was thinking, "My God! This woman and Hobbs—hard-bitten Hobbs."
Miss Pearsall went on: "I have no faith in doctors. Absolutely none. No doctor could ever cure one of my headaches. Only God can cure my headaches." Her eyes glistened in the moonlight.
Mr. Jerrold was saying: "They sent me some pretty poor stuff from the wholesale. One of those dolls, for instance, I had to throw away. The plaster was all broken off its foot and the wooden support stuck out for all the world like a ridiculous wooden leg."
At the gate of Grimstone Vale held Grace's hand a moment. "If only I might have walked beside you—had a few words alone with you."
She withdrew hers quickly. "Oh, do you think I'm made of iron?" she said.
Derek gave Lottie Rain the presents for her little girls. He bolted the kitchen door after her and returned to the dining room. He raised the flame of the lamp and sat down by the table. Then, with a whimsical smile, he drew the doll from his pocket. He held her close to the lamp and examined her matted yellow hair and glassy blue eyes. "You look terribly cold in that pink shimmy," he said, "and you certainly have a game leg. But I'm sure Buckskin will love you. Poor little Buckskin. His first Christmas. No mother. . . . We must find a name for you. H'm. Pegleg? That's the ticket. You shall be Pegleg from now on. . . ."
Buckskin made a scarcely perceptible mound under the yellow eiderdown in the huge four-poster. The bedroom was bitterly cold, for there was no way of heating it. Derek made short work of undressing, but he spent some time in choosing the best possible spot to lay Pegleg on, so that the sight of her might greet the child when he awoke. Then, when he had braced her there between the two pillows, he stood a full minute admiring the effect.
Buckskin loved Pegleg at first sight. He wakened Derek in the cold December dawn crowing over her. He sat up in bed with his curls on end hugging and kissing her. He pulled her hair and bit her in a fury of love. He held her while he was being dressed (not a long ceremony, for he wore but three garments) he clutched her while he had his bottle, he screamed if Derek touched her. And Derek would touch her just for the pleasure of hearing him yell.
After breakfast Derek carried him to the barn to weigh him. Annie, Lizzie, and Susy danced about the weighing scales singing:
"Buckskin weighs twenty pounds! Buckskin and Pegleg weigh twenty pounds."
"It's Christmas Day, Mister Vale," cried Lizzie, the prettiest of the three. "My brother Bill is goin' to take us to church."
"Where, then? To Mistwell?"
"No. To Stead. The niggers have got a church there. You know the nigger church?"
Derek had heard of it. Mrs. Machin had told him how, during the American Civil War, several southern families had taken refuge in the beautiful little village of Stead, a few miles east of Mistwell. When the war was over they had returned to their own country but, as the servants they had with them were now free, they left them behind in Stead, first providing them with cottages and situations. These slaves had been the nucleus of a respectable little coloured colony in Stead. They kept to themselves, were prosperous, prolific, and had their own pastor, whose collar and cuffs, it is safe to say, were whiter and shinier than those of any other minister in the village.
"To the nigger church," repeated Derek, looking at Lizzie, musingly. "Now, look here, if your mother and father are Indians, and you, yourself, go to the nigger church, I'd like to know what you are."
Lizzie's great eyes flashed up at him as she cried stoutly, "Me? I'm British!"
"Lizzie, you rebuke me," said Derek. "You're an intrepid little soul. May I shake hands?" And he took the little brown hand and held it in his own. "Good for you, Lizzie."
He led her to the stable, where Bill and Lottie were filling the mangers with hay. "Mister Vale, is it true," asked Annie, "that God was born in a stable?"
"Why, yes," said Derek. "It's true."
"Was a manger really his cradle, just like these here ones?"
"Yes. Only it was Jesus, you know, the little one. Not God. At least, not exactly."
"Well, Mister Vale, you lay Buckskin down in the manger and let's see just what a baby in a manger looks like, eh?"
"Ain't they awful?" said Bill.
Derek laid Buckskin in the Welsh pony's manger and held the pony's head to one side. "There you are," he said. They filled the stable with their laughter, and the morning sunlight fell on the sweet-smelling hay, and on Buckskin's blond head and golden brown face.
Annie said: "We'll be the three Wise Men. We'll bring him gifts. I'll bring him this big Northern Spy apple. What'll you bring, Susy?"
"This new egg I jus' find," answered Susy.
"An' you, Lizzie? What'll you give this little Jesus?"
"There's thistles in this hay," said Lizzie of the great dark eyes. "I'll make him a crown o' thorns."
Bill and Lottie, their pitchforks in their hands, stood gazing fascinated. Lottie said: "Last winter we was at a place where them little girls went to Sunday-school all winter. They learned an awful lot of religion. I expect it'll do them the rest of their lives."
Derek had given the Rains a turkey for dinner and he had one to himself. Buckskin sat beside him in his high chair, alternately gnawing a drumstick and beating his tray with it. After dinner Derek had a happy thought. He went to one of the trunks he had not unpacked since he had come from Halifax and unearthed his most cherished boyhood possession, a glass-covered box of carefully mounted butterflies. These he presented to Buckskin who gazed, round-eyed, clutching Pegleg to his breast.