by E. F. Benson
“Nay, I’ll take my money now,” said Sally, “or not a foot of mine will I set in that pleasant chamber upstairs. ’Tis a most reasonable sum I ask ye for, too, for could ye get anyone but me, as has always been a friend of hers, to pass the night there?”
John drained his glass.
“Get away home then,” he said, “and good night to you.”
“I wish ye the same, John Pentreath,” she said, “and I’ll be off. And a quiet night may ye have, though happen it’ll be a bit disturbed. She’s lasted out the day, but she’ll never get through another night, if ’tis like the last.”
“Nay, she’ll not die to-night, nor for many a moon yet,” said he.
Sally picked up her great black bonnet, which she had taken off and laid on the table.
“Then ’tis my error,” she said, “for John Pentreath’s always in the right, so a peaceful night I wish him and all in this house, when Mollie goes forth on her journey all alone. A good God-fearing soul like she will be sure to have a peaceful passing, and mind ye to make the sign of the cross over her, and then quiet and content she’ll lie when that rattle of her breath ceases, and she’ll trouble you no more. Eh, I’ve learned a lot about ye all, for she was gabbling half last night, and I’ll go have a gossip in the ale-house instead of watching.”
John looked round, peering into the dark corners of the kitchen, and fumbled in his pockets. There was a fresh menace here, and it was unwise, anyhow, to cross Sally Austell.
“Eh, dear me, I’ll pay you for this coming week,” he said to her, “though ’tis a cruel sight of shillings you charge me for just sitting there with your old friend.”
She laughed.
“Well then, ye’d best take my place this night,” suggested Sally, “an’ spare your pretty shillings, John Pentreath, and I’ll be getting home—”
He pushed them across the table to her. “Nay, gladly I give ye them,” he said, “ for sure I won’t grudge Mollie any bit o’ comfort she can have. ’Tis weeks she’s lingered, when doctor thought there was but days for her, and who can tell she won’t bide with us many more yet? And mind this, Sally Austell, you keep her breath in her body, and don’t let her pass. Mollie’s been a good wife to me, all these years, and I should be broken without her.”
Once more he cast a terrified glance round the room.
“Where’s that lamp,” he said, “as ought to have been lit ere now? But look ‘ee here, Sally. Ain’t there no word o’ yours as’ll keep Mollie from passing? Can’t you rivet her to the living, so’s she can’t ‘scape?”
Sally counted over the silver, found the tale correct, and dropped it jingling in her pocket. “Thank ye, John,” she said. “I’ll do my best with her, but she’s in awesome plight, a bag of bones she is, and the lump such as I’ve never seen it yet. Eh, ’twould be a litter she was bearing you, if ’twas that as ailed her. But I’ll hold her to life for all I can. Sure she clings to it, for all she’s suffered, till she’s borne her child, and that wouldn’t be this side a dozen Midsummer dancings. Well, I’ll be getting to my job, for I’m late with this talking.”
She went briskly upstairs, making the banisters creak, for she was a weighty woman. Nancy heard her coming, and opened the door to her.
“I’m glad you’ve come, Mrs. Austell,” she said, “for ’tis fit to choke you to-night, and I’ll be off to get a wash and a breath of air. But there! you seem to thrive wherever you be. Give me Mrs. Austell’s constitution, I often says, and I ask nothing no more. I’ll lay your supper outside the door, as per usual.”
Sally was used to politeness, and was always polite herself to the pleasant-spoken.
“Thank ye kindly; there was something stewing in the oven as smelt rare and tasty,” she said, taking up a candle. “I’ll just have a look at her ere you go.”
She bent over the bed, and looked into the wide eyes that met hers with recognition.
“She’s far gone,” she said to Nancy, “and I warrant I’ll have to summon you this night if ye want to be there at the passing. ’Tis wonderful she’s living yet.”
She replaced the candle.
“Tap on the door when my supper’s ready,” she said. “An’ the doctor feller said he’d be up before long, and I’ll clean her up a bit before he comes. The butcher or the baker would be pretty nigh as much use as he.”
These hours of horror had not quenched Nancy’s innate compassion, though glad she was to be gone. “Poor old body,” she said to herself, “she’s got a peck to bear and no mistake. It’s croolest of all for her, though, maybe, she knows little of it all.” She went to her room, next door, and stripping herself of every stitch she had on, soaped and bathed herself and scrubbed again. There was some dreadful odour of corruption that still clung to her, and before she went to see Nell and her baby she strolled out in the garden to get the clean air into her. The month had been as mild and warm as it was just a year ago, and the beds were gay with the blossomings of full spring. After her day in the sick chamber these aromas of the earth’s awakening were an ecstasy, and for the sheer joy of handling the juicy stalks of daffodils, and searching among green leaves for the fragrance of violets, she made a handful of these blossoming things for a nosegay to take to Nell. There was health and life in them, and she stroked their cool petals as she plucked them, and chewed a primrose stalk. After this awful day of watching and listening to the babble from the bed, and of sponging away the dross of the body that lay there, and of the perpetual sight of those burning eyes and that dim discoloured face over which the skin was stretched like mouldy parchment, it was just the evidence that sweet things were still growing and that breezes could be pure that she desired, and the garden was more to her mind than Piccadilly and the crowds and the gas-lamps reflected on the wet pavements. So she drifted about in the dusk and the dewy fragrance of the soft falling night: soon, when she felt clean again, she would go to see Nell, who now occupied the bedroom above the studio, which was a bit removed from the horrors of the rest of the house, and have a look at her and Dennis-the-less. Nell had been through her delivery without any sleepy stuff, and never was there a lustier pair than she and her baby. She had been up and sitting out to-day: to-morrow she intended to begin taking a hand in the housework again.
Nancy had turned at the garden gate, and was now about to go indoors and have a look at Nell, when there came a step on the gravel of the path! and there was Dr. Symes.
“Lor’! I’m glad you’ve come,” said Nancy. “It’s been a terrible day with her, for ever talking and babbling on, and between whiles her breathing like the sawing of wood. ’Twas enough to make a body stop her ears. Why, you can hear it now.”
“Has she been conscious all day?” asked the doctor after a pause.
“Bits at a time: she’s often called to me by name to go and tend her, and then she’s asked for the breeches she’s knitting, and then it’ll be just gibberish again for all I could make out of it, though Mrs. Austell had a talk with her last night. And then often she’s been expecting the pains to take her again. It’s just the thought of her babby coming that keeps her alive, I’m thinking, else surely she’d ‘a’ gone before now.”
“And the other two, Nell and her boy?” asked he. “Ah, there’s a bit of all right. It makes me proud to be a granny. Nell’s been out in the garden already. Eh, what’s that. Lord save us all!”
From the room above came the sound of thin screaming, shrill as a whistle, and he nodded to her and hurried indoors.
Nancy could not face entering the house till that was still, for to-day had tried her nerves beyond all bearing, and she took another turn up to the garden gate, hasting to get away from the sound of it. Just then Dennis came up from the fields beyond where he had been ploughing; for with his grandfather sitting all day now by the fire he was seldom in till supper-time. But there was a bit of wholesome stuff to cling to; for he smelt of soil and sweat.
He put his arm round her waist. “You look terrible overgone, Mother,” he
said. H Been a bad day?”
“Eh, something shocking,” she said. “Hold me tight, dear; give me a chunk of wholesome flesh to cling to. I was going in to Nell, but the old woman started screaming, and I couldn’t lace the house.”
Dennis listened.
“Nay, then, she’s stopped now, for ’tis all quiet again.”
“Thank the Lord. I’ll go in and see Nell: there’s summat to think on, as should keep me steady. Why, here’s Mrs. Austell coming out. She’ll be wanting her supper, maybe; so I’ll make it ready. Well, Mrs. Austell?”
“Poor Mollie can’t last many minutes now, thinks Dr. Symes,” she said. “So ’tis time for her kin to gather round and speed her, and be quick. I’ll go tell John Pentreath.”
Dennis had a rinse at the sink in the scullery, and he and his mother went upstairs together. Dr. Symes had thrown the window wide, and lit some aromatic pastilles; a lamp burned steadily on the table by the dying woman1 and John was sitting near the bedside. His eyes, red and terrified, looked this way and that, but shrank from the sight of his wife: now they glared at Dennis, now they were lifted in wild appeal to the doctor, now they peered out into the dusk where a fading primrose light lingered in the west. And indeed none but Sally Austell looked long at that fallen face on the pillow, but she smiled and nodded and whispered as if well pleased with her patient.
“I doubt she’s going fast,” she said, “for ’tis low tide at sunset, but she’ll come back and look on US all once more afore she passes. There’ll be a pretty moment.”
Suddenly Mollie’s rattling breath, the sound of which filled the room, grew lighter: her skeleton hands which had been picking at the bedclothes began to make firmer and more definite movements, one fumbled at her breasts, feeling for them, the other curved itself as if supporting something, and her mouth twitched with unformed inaudible speech. Then these twitching shaped themselves into clear coherent talk.
“Aye, my little one,” she said, “here’s your mammie’s breast, full and firm for ye. ’Tis the spring-time, and now ye’ve come to gladden me, and my labours past, though sore it was and long. Such pangs ye gave me, and here’s a kiss and a cuddle for each o’ them.”
“Eh, ’tis a wonder to see,” whispered Sally. She’ll be herself afore she passes, and sure there’ll be no babby at all, poor soul.”
Nancy broke into sobs.
“Lor’! it’s more than a woman should be asked to bear,” she cried, “for she’ll break her heart at the last. Can’t we give her just one happy minute, the pore old woman, as’ll comfort her for what she’s been through? Can’t none of us help her? Eh, I’ve an idea.”
She turned to Dennis, laying her hand on his arm.
“Dennis, lad, it’s you as can help her,” she said. “Just go and fetch your little one, for a moment, cradle and all, and let her see it laying there. She shan’t touch it, I promise you that, and it can’t hurt your babby just to be set where her eyes can fall on it, and I warrant she’ll pass happy then, for she’ll think it’s her own. Do ‘ee, my dear. Why, I’m sure if I thought she’d be deceived, I’d put my own head down against her breast for her to cuddle.”
He hesitated, then got up.
“Aye, I’ll fetch him,” he said, “if doctor gives me his word she shan’t touch him, for that mustn’t be.”
“She shan’t, she shan’t,” sobbed Nancy. “Bless you, darling, and be quick, for she won’t tarry long now.”
John slid on to his knees by the bed.
“That’s a good thought,” he said, “she’ll get better when she thinks she’s her babby there. We’ll pull her round yet, and she’ll be up and about again one of these days. The Lord be praised for all His mercies. Praised be the Lord!”
Dennis was back again at once, carrying his burden. The child, who had been asleep, stirred and woke and cried, and at that sound Mollie’s eyes lifted, and she saw the baby in his wicker cradle by her side. She laughed aloud.
“Eh, my chick!” she cried. “Come to me, then.”
She tried to raise herself in bed, but her head fell sideways across the pillow. One sigh she gave, and all was over.
Nancy dried her eyes.
“I’ll bless you for that, Dennis, till my dying day,” she said, kissing him. Now take the boy away back to Nell.”
John tried to clutch the cradle.
“You just leave the child there,” he whispered. “She’s gone asleep, but she’ll be waking when she’s rested herself, and she’ll pick up fine when she sees it. Eh, we’ll soon have her better!”
“La, Mr. Pentreath,” said Nancy, “where’s the use of talking like that? She’s passed quiet and happy, pore thing, and you can praise the Lord for that, for there indeed is a mercy to be thankful for.”
He rose to his feet, and peered at the dead face.
“Mollie!” he said. “Mollie...What? She’s not gone?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Sally, “and you’d better be gwine, too, John Pentreath. I’ll take a bit o’ supper in your kitchen now, and then I’ll get to my job, if so be you want me to do the laying out.”
The funeral took place as soon as could be, for there was good reason for having no delay. Despite John’s awful forebodings of what might befall when Mollie had gone, the intervening hours passed peacefully enough, and at Sunday supper on the evening of the funeral he found fresh causes for confidence. There were just the three of them there, John, Dennis and Nancy, for Nell, though about the house again, had had her supper earlier, and gone back to her baby. At the end of the table opposite John stood Mollie’s chair, the rocking chair in which she was used to sit by. the fire all afternoon, and which she dragged up to the board at suppertime.
“Mollie’d have been rare pleased at all we’ve done this day for the poor vessel o’ her body,” he said, “and maybe she’s ‘ware of it, who knows? A fine set-out it was, indeed; eh, Nancy?”
“Yes, ’twas very handsome,” said Nancy.
“Handsome? Sure, that was my orders, or I’d ‘a’ known the reason why. There’s not been a burying to match it in St. Columb’s since I can remember. I’ll take a portion more o’ that pie. One o’ Mollie’s chickens, I reckon, and juicier nor some I’ve wrestled with.”
As he took his replenished plate back his eye fell on the empty chair opposite him.
“Nay, I’ll take back that word,” he said. “Mollie was always fine and liberal with her fowls and her eggs, and I’ll have no talk against her now she’s gone, and I’ll have none o’ your dark looks on me, Dennis.”
Dennis had not glanced at his grandfather as he passed his plate back to him.
“I gave ye no look, dark nor light,” he said.
“Happen you did or you didn’t, ’tis no odds. A fine show it was, I was saying, and I don’t grudge a penny of it. A black varnished coffin and silver-plated handles to it, and a pair O’ black horses, with brave plumes on their heads, a-nodding in woe with every step they took. Glass sides to the bier, too, and black hat-bands and gloves for the bearers. A queen couldn’t have had more done for her.”
He paused as he poured himself out a fresh drink, as if listening, and then fell to his pie.
“No, ’twas nothing,” he said. “I thought I heard a step on the stairs, but all’s quiet. Just draw the curtains over the window, Nancy: who wants the night looking in? ... Yes, a fine burying it was, as was meet for her that’s gone.”
Nancy had gone round the end of the table to draw the curtains, and as she went back to her place her sleeve caught in the arm of the rocking-chair and set it on the move. John’s knife and fork clattered on his plate and he sprang up.
“God, there’s Mollie’s chair rocking,” he said. “What’s that about?”
“Lor’, Mr. Pentreath, don’t give me such a turn and yourself, too,” said Nancy. “I brushed by it and set it bobbing.”
He sat down again.
“Aye, that was the way of it, no doubt,” he said. “I’m glad you mentioned that. The burying now, I
was speaking of. All of us with our mourning bands, and such a sight of folk there too, for they wouldn’t miss such a funeral: no fisher-boat, I’ll be bound, put out till they’d paid their respects to her. A bit of a tiff I had with the undertaker chap, as wanted to put a cross on her coffin. ‘No,’ says I, ‘silver-plated handles and all as handsome as you can furnish, but naught else.’ And cards I’ll send out to all as knew her with a thick black line round them. ‘In loving memory,’ they’ll say, ‘of Mollie Robson, well-beloved wife of John Pentreath,’ and then a bit of a motto. ‘Rest in peace,’ and the date. God, she ought to be well content, and mind you, I pay for every penny of it. No bargaining about me: why, I’ve paid Sally Austell a’ready for a whole week’s night-nursing, and ’twas only one night out o’ the seven she watched, and that but for an hour, and all the laying out extra. Mollie sure’l1 rest quiet if so be she knows all I’ve done. I’ll be taking a drop more o’ my drink, for ’twas thirsty work to-day. Fetch me a fresh bottle, Nancy, out of the cupboard, ’Tis but a filling of water they put into it these days, with a bit of saffron, belike, for colouring.”
He gave another glance at the rocking-chair as he rose to go to his usual seat.
“Eh, there was some comforting things said at the burying,” he hiccupped. ‘’Tis sown corruptible,’ said Passon, and right he was there, ‘and ’tis rais’d’ incorruptible.’ Then there was about being delivered from the pains and miseries of this sinful world. Mollie should be thankful for that. Lord, how the old house creaks to-night, though there’s not a breath of wind stirring. Happen the spirit of it’s walking about, wondering what’s come to its old mistress. There’s an owl tu-whooing again. It’s been scouting round this last hour.”
“Aye, and it got among the poultry this evening, afore I penned them, and killed two chicks,” said Nancy, “and it’s been hovering round the yard ever since. You’d better lie up at dusk to-morrow, Dennis, and see if you can’t shoot it.”
“Nay, nothing of the sort,” cried John. “Yet they’re Mollie’s chickens. I wonder what she’d have counselled!”