Читать книгу The Coil of Carne - John Oxenham - Страница 7

In the great house of Carne there was a stillness in strange contrast with the roaring of the gale outside. But the stillness was big with life's vitalities--love and hate and fear; and, compared with them, the powers without were nothing more than whistling winds that played with shifting sands, and senseless waves that sported with men's lives.

It was not till the new-comer was lying in her warm bed in the room above the oak parlour, shivering spasmodically at times in spite of blankets and warming-pans and a roaring fire, that she spoke to the old woman who had assisted her in grim silence.

The silence and the grimness had not troubled her. They suited her state of mind and body better than speech would have done. Life had lost its savour for her. Of what might lie beyond she knew little and feared much at times, and at times cared naught, craving only rest from all the ills of life and the poignant pains that racked her.

It was only when Mrs. Lee had carefully straightened out her discarded robes, and looked round to see what else was to be done, and came to the bedside to ask tersely if there was anything more my lady wanted, that my lady spoke.

"You'll come back and sit with me?" she asked.

"Ay--I'll come."

"Whose baby is that downstairs?"

"It's my girl's," said the old woman, startled somewhat at my lady's knowledge.

"Did she live through it?"

"Ay, she lived." And there was that in her tone which implied that it might have been better if she had not. But my lady's perceptions were blunted by her own sufferings.

"Is she here?"

"Ay, she's here."

"Would she come to me too?"

But the old woman shook her head.

"She's not over strong yet," she said grimly. "I'll come back and sit wi' yo'."

"How old is it?"

"Seven days."

"Seven days! Seven days!" She was wondering vaguely where she would be in seven days.

"It looked very happy," she said presently. "Its father was surely a good man."

"They're none too many," said the old woman, as she turned to go. "I'll get my supper and come back t' yo'."

"Who is she?" asked her daughter, with the vehemence of an aching question, as she entered the kitchen.

Mrs. Lee closed the passage door and looked at her steadily and said, "She's Denzil Carron's wife." And the younger woman sprang to her feet with blazing face and the clatter of a falling chair.

"Denzil's wife! I am Denzil Carron's wife."

"So's she. And I reckon she's the one they'll call his wife," said her mother dourly.

"I'll go to her. I'll tell her----" And she sprang to the door.

"Nay, you wun't," said her mother, leaning back against it. "T' blame's not hers, an' hoo's low enough already."

"And where is he? Where is Denzil?"

"He's in trouble of some kind, but what it is I dunnot know. Sir Denzil's gone back to get him out of it, and he brought her here to be out of it too."

"And he'll come here?"

"Mebbe. Sir Denzil didna say. He said he'd hold me responsible for her. She's near her time, poor thing! An' I doubt if she comes through it."

"Near----!" And the girl blazed out again.

"Ay. I shouldna be surprised if it killed her. There's the look o' it in her face."

"Kill her? Why should it kill her? It didn't kill me," said the girl fiercely.

"Mebbe it would but for yon woman you told me of. Think of your own time, girl, and bate your anger. Fault's not hers if Denzil served you badly."

"He connot have two wives."

"Worse for him if he has. One's enough for most men. But--well-a-day, it's no good talking! I'll take a bite, and back to her. She begged me come. Yo' can sleep i' my bed. There's more milk on th' hob there if th' child's hungry." And carrying her bread-and-cheese she went off down the passage, and the young mother sat bending over the fire with her elbows on her knees.

She had no thought of sleep. Her limbs were still weary from her long tramp, but the food and rest had given her strength, and the coming of this other woman, who called herself Denzil Carron's wife, had fired her with a sense of revolt.

The blood was boiling through her veins at thought of it all--at thought of Denzil, at thought of the boy in the next room, and this other woman upstairs. Her heart felt like molten lead kicking in a cauldron.

She got up and began to pace the floor with the savage grace born of a life of unrestricted freedom. Once she stopped and flung up her hands as though demanding--what?--a blessing--a curse--the righting of a wrong? The quivering hands looked capable at the moment of righting their own wrongs, or of wreaking vengeance on the wrongdoer if they closed upon him.

Then, as the movement of her body quieted in some measure the turmoil of her brain, her pace grew slower, and she began to think connectedly. And at last she dropped into the chair again, leaned her elbows on her kneel and sat gazing into the fire. When it burned low she piled on wood mechanically, and sat there thinking, thinking. Outside, the storm raged furiously, and the flying sand hit the window like hailstones. And inside, the woman sat gazing into the fire and thinking.

She sat long into the night, thinking, thinking--unconscious of the passage of time;--thinking, thinking. Twice her child woke crying to be fed, and each time she fed him from the pannikin as mechanically almost as she had fed the fire with wood. For her thoughts were strange long thoughts, and she could not see the end of them.

They were all sent flying by the sudden entrance of her mother in a state of extreme agitation, her face all crumpled, her hands shaking.

"She's took," she said, with a break in her voice. "Yo' mun go for th' doctor quick. I connot leave her. Nay!"--as the other sat bolt upright and stared back at her--"yo' mun go. We connot have her die on our hands. Think o' yore own time, lass, and go quick for sake o' Heaven."

"I'll go." And she snatched up her cloak. "See to the child." And she was out in the night, drifting before the gale like an autumn leaf.

The old woman went in to look at the child, filled the kettle and put it on the fire, and hurried back to the chamber of sorrows.

The gale broke at sunrise, and the flats lay shimmering like sheets of burnished gold, when Dr. Yool turned at last from the bedside and looked out of the window upon the freshness of the morning.

He was in a bitter humour. When Nance Lee thumped on his door at midnight he was engaged in the congenial occupation of mixing a final and unusually stiff glass of rum and water. It was in the nature of a soporific--a nightcap. It was to be the very last glass for that night, and he had compounded it with the tenderest care and the most businesslike intention.

"If that won't give me a night's rest," he said to himself, "nothing will."

But there was no rest for him that night. He had been on the go since daybreak, and was fairly fagged out. He greeted Nance's imperative knock with bad language. But when he heard her errand he swallowed his nightcap without a wink, though it nearly made his hair curl, ran round with her to the stable, harnessed his second cob to the little black gig with the yellow wheels, threw Nance into it, and in less than five minutes was wrestling with the north-easter once more, and spitting out the sand as he had been doing off and on all day long.

"There's one advantage in being an old bachelor, Miss Nancy," he had growled, as he flung the harness on the disgusted little mare; "your worries are your own. Take my advice and never you get married----" And then he felt like biting his tongue off when he remembered the rumours he had heard concerning the girl. She was too busy with her own long thoughts to be troubled by his words, however, and once they were on the road speech was impossible by reason of the gale.

When they arrived at Carne she scrambled down and led the mare into the great empty coach-house, where the post-horses had previously found shelter that night. She flung the knee-rug over the shaking beast, still snorting with disgust and eyeing her askance as the cause of all the trouble. Then she followed the doctor into the house. He was already upstairs, however, and, after a look at her sleeping boy, she sat down in her chair before the fire again to await the event, and fell again to her long, long thoughts.

And once more her thoughts were sent flying by the entrance of her mother. She carried a tiny bundle carefully wrapped in flannel and a shawl, and on her sour old face there was an expression of relief and exultation--the exultation of one who has won in a close fight with death.

"He were but just in time," she said, as she sat down before the fire. "I'm all of a shake yet. But th' child's safe anyway." And she began to unfold the bundle tenderly. "Git me t' basin and some warm water. Now, my mannie, we'll soon have you comfortable. . . . So . . . Poor little chap! . . . I doubt if she'll pull through. . . . T' doctor's cursing high and low below his breath at state she's in . . . travelling in that condition . . . 'nough to have killed a stronger one than ever she was. . . . I knew as soon as ivver I set eyes on her . . . A fine little lad!"--as she turned the new-comer carefully over on her knee--"and nothing a-wanting 's far as I can see, though he's come a month before he should."

She rambled on in the rebound from her fears, but the girl uttered no word in reply. She stood watching abstractedly, and handing whatever the old woman called for. Her thoughts were in that other room, where the grim fight was still waging. Her heart was sick to know how it was going. Her thoughts were very shadowy still, but the sight of the boy on the old woman's knee showed her her possible way, like a signpost on a dark night. She would see things clearer when she knew how things had gone upstairs.