Part 3

He cursed the impatience which had led him astray. If he had waited, the matter would have arranged itself in accordance with his wishes. Now, if Sabina recovered, it was only too likely that she would make it difficult for him to carry out his schemes. He tried to imagine what form her opposition would take, but though he had lived beside her for so long, the writing on the wall was in characters he could not interpret.

To add to his anxieties the man was finding himself short of money. One of his counts against Sabina was that when they married she had refused to have her banking account put in their joint names. "Tedn' a woman's business to sign cheques," he had told her in a futile attempt to bring her to his way of thinking.

She smiled as at a good joke. "I don't think you ever signed a cheque in your life."

"I didn' marry yer for yer money," he assured her hastily.

"Don't bother yerself about it, then. I done business for my old dad all the time you was to sea; and I'd be a pretty malkin if I didn' knaw more about signin' cheques than you do."

"I'm told I ought to be able to draw cheques on your account."

"Shouldn't listen to all you 'ear. If you want money, go and work for't. I'll lend 'ee any to start with."

"There never ought to be two purses between man and wife. They should share alike."

"When you got something," she assured him, "we will."

In spite of her words she had not been niggardly. As much as Byron asked for he received and, believing that all was rightly his, he had taken as much as he wanted. He had seen, however, no reason to save; and now found himself unable to pay for what he had ordered. Sabina was too ill to be approached, and when he took the tale of his difficulties to Hember he found Tom Rosevear civil, as usual, but evasive. He did not say much, but it was evident the 'improvements' did not meet with his approval; that he could not understand Byron's initiating them while his wife lay at death's door. The trifling loan which the farmer succeeded in raising did not do more than pay the wages of the extra workmen, the carpenters and masons he was employing; and, as time passed, and his agent at Wadebridge began to press for the money owing, Byron found himself awkwardly placed. Money he must have, but when he tried to raise it on his expectations he discovered that the security was not considered good. The obvious course was to tell Liddicoat to send the bills in to Sabina; but this, as he well knew, would entail on him unpleasant consequences. Meanwhile the injured woman was slowly gaining ground. Isolda's tale had roused in her, not only the will to live, but the will to overcome, as far as might be, the disabilities of her condition. In the days when she was accounted handsome she had been without self-consciousness; and she did not develop it now that she knew herself to be "a poor remnant." What were looks when the heart was beating warmly and the mind was clear? Her mutilation being the result of accident, it did not occur to her that any one--any one to whom she looked for love and tenderness--might find her repulsive.

After the operation was performed Byron had inquired after her welfare, but had not come to see her. Although so happily occupied he felt at times a little uneasy. Sabina's attraction for him had been her flawless health and the amputation aroused in him, not pity, but a faint stirring of repugnance. He sent her a message that he "must be on the spot to see to things," and, undemonstrative herself and not yet instructed as to the nature of the "things," she had accepted his excuse. A day came, however, when he felt that he must overcome his unwillingness to see for himself the difference in her which the operation had made. Liddicoat was pressing for payment, and he had other liabilities. He rode into Stowe, therefore, rode at his usual breakneck pace and, having stabled his horse, called at the hospital.

Although his visit was unexpected, Sabina had had the long leisure of a slow convalescence in which to arrange her thoughts and make plans for the future. Leadville had tried to take advantage of her being ill. He had thought that when she recovered she would accept the changes he had introduced. He had acted like a child without thought of the consequences. The foolish fellow! Sabina was not angered. She had always been an indulgent wife, and she could overlook this attempt to steal a march on her, as she had overlooked his many efforts to get the management of the farm into his hands.

Looking neither to the right nor to the left, Byron dragged his reluctant feet up the ward. Sabina, who disliked sewing, and did not care to read, had been lying back on her pillows, her hands folded on the white sheet. As she caught sight of the well-known figure; a little flush of surprised pleasure spread over her pale cheeks. She was very glad to see him. In her eyes his breadth and heaviness, the strong growth of his black hair, the jut of his square chin, were so many attractions. She had always admired his strength; and the evidences of it in deep chest and hairy skin were to her taste. She could have wished, however, that he would look up, would answer her ready smile, instead of staring before him like a bull who is not quite certain whether the people he is encountering are friend or foe. She had no suspicion that every step her husband took was more unwilling than the last.

The moment came when he must look at her. His furtive glance swept in one unhappy second the bed and its occupant, then he bent forward and gave her a clumsy kiss. The truth was not as bad as he had feared. By some deft arrangement of the clothes the bed gave a false impression. As far as appearances went the woman in it might have been in possession of her limbs. Byron, escaping the shock he had expected, experienced, however, one of a different kind. The face he touched was indeed that of his wife, but it was changed. Sabina's red-gold hair, which had been rippling and abundant, the very symbol of her gay vitality, had lost its colour. When he last saw her a bandage had concealed it, now, white as that bandage, it framed a face lined and haggard.

"Why--my dear life--" he stammered, staring, "'ow your 'air 'av altered."

She put a hand to her head. "Yer didn't know? Well, can't be 'elped."

"Yer 'air was awful pretty." The change troubled him vaguely; he was not pleased to find that his wife, who had kept her looks beyond the average, should have aged.

"I reckon I'm as God made me, but I was never one to trouble about my looks." She sought for words to express her thought. "Red 'air or white, I'm the same."

"Iss," he said and continued to look at her thoughtfully.

She might be the same woman, but her effect upon others, and in particular on himself, would be different. "'Ow be 'ee?"

"I've 'ad a prettily and draggin' time, but now I'm doin' grand."

He uttered a rough sound of no meaning, but she took it to be congratulatory.

"I shall be up afore long."

"Up?" he murmured, glancing sideways at the bed.

"I shall get Raby Gregor to make me a little trolly so that I can get about."

He pushed his chair farther away. In spite of appearances she was not a woman, but the distorted remnant of one. A shiver ran down his spine. "You bain't thinkin' of--of tryin' to get about?"

"Me not gettin' about? Iss. You've never seen me settin' down wi' me 'ands folded."

"But you'll find things'll be different now," he stammered. He thought of the trolly as some sort of wheel-chair. He had no conception of his wife's inventiveness or of her indifference to comment. "You've been a strong woman, but you can't look to be that again."

The resolute look he knew so well came into Sabina's eyes, and for a moment he doubted whether after all she would not conquer her disabilities. "I bain't strong now," she said, "but a month or two'll make all the difference. I'll soon be up and about again."

The momentary doubt passed. "I wouldn't make too sure of that, then," he told her. The fact that Wastralls had not so much flat land as would make a football field was reassuring. No wheel-chair, whatever the power of its directing will, could climb up and down those fields.

"I'm hopin'," said Sabina obstinately, "to teel Wastralls as I 'av before."

"We must see 'ow you do frame."

"Bain't a matter of gettin' about," she continued, guessing his thoughts. "I know Wastralls like the palm of my hand, every 'itch and stitch of it, and the 'inds'll carry out my orders. I can trust old George Biddick to see as the others do their work. I've planned it all."

"And me?" asked Leadville grimly.

"My dear feller, you don't like farmin', you wouldn't make no 'and at it, you an' your old rigmaroles."

"I c'd teel Wastralls so as it brought in double what you get now."

She shook her head. "You bain't goin' to try."

It was as well for her peace of mind that eyes cannot speak. That this mutilated trunk of a woman should still be in a position to withstand him! His great chest heaved with bitter emotion, but he did not answer.

"Come," said Sabina peaceably. "Tell me how things is going."

He stared out of the window until he had mastered himself sufficiently to speak. "I came to ask mun for what you aw Liddicoat."

"Aw Liddicoat?" A smiling light came into her eyes. "How much do I aw'n?"

"Couldn't tell 'ee for a pound or two; but if you was to draw out a cheque for me I could full'n soon as I get 'ome."

"You send me in the bill and I'll pay'n after I've checked'n."

Byron's face darkened. He would not be able to hide from her much longer the changes he had attempted. What did it matter? She could only be angry. He thought he would be glad if she were. "There's the men's money--three weeks 'awin'."

"I give'n Isolda yesterday. I expect she's paid'n by now."

"You ought to 'ave give it to me and I could 'av paid'n."

"So I should 'av," she answered peaceably, "if you'd been in to see me. But I give it to Isolda instead."

He was not to be placated. "Looks mighty queer you don't trust me with the money. I've to keep the place goin' and if I don't pay the 'inds who's to know I'm maister?"

"There's no need, for you bain't maister. You may blate morning till night, you won't 'av Wastralls, no never for, come to that, I don't trust 'ee."

"S'bina!"

She held up her hand. "You do take too much on your own 'ead."

He knew then that the tale of his imprudent labours had run before him and that she was expressing her disapproval. She was not angry with him; a mother is not angry when she sequestrates a forbidden toy. "I always thought," he stammered, making no further mystery of the matter, "that we should grow sugar-beet."

"An' you was welcome to try it--at Polnevas. Now come, it bain't too late to put the li'l medder in dredge-corn. You'd better see to't at once, or I'll 'av Tom do't."

He cried out at that last humiliation and it was still the same cry, the cry his wife thought so unreasonable. "You'd put Tom Rosevear over me? You'd take away what belong to me?"

"'Long to you? I should like to know 'ow it come yours."

"You give it me, you give it me when we married."

"Never."

In his disappointment and rage he stumbled over his words. "You'll see, you'll see! Iss, you'll see whether I won't 'av it or no."

"'Tis mazedness of 'ee to think so," she answered. "Come, be sensible. I'll pay for these old fads of yours and you can pile'n away where you mind to. I'll pay this once, but 'twas a fulish game for 'ee to play and maybe you'll see that before you'm done."

*CHAPTER III*

Near St. Cadic Mill, at the head of the valley, a hamlet had gathered, a few deep-set cottages built of cliff stone and planted irregularly about a smithy. Sheltered by a rise in the land from sea winds their gardens were rich with produce. A green broadened from their little gates and in the wall of the smithy had been set a scarlet post-box, a flaring touch of the official in a land sufficient unto itself.

In these, houses, which were known far and wide as 'Cottages,' dwelt a cobbler, who was also the barber of the community: Mrs. Bate, the Stripper; her friend Aunt Louisa Blewett, the seamstress: one or two independent labourers, and an old sailor. Here, too, was the Dolphin, where could be obtained a little muddy cider and some home-brewed; also, the village shop. The self-respecting and thrifty community was like a family which, having grown up and married, had continued to live in a group, separated only by the walls of their homes and gardens. Ties, acknowledged and unacknowledged, linked them, linked them also with the farmer folk; and, as all respected the axiom that you must not 'step on a Cornishman's tail,' the hamlet was to the outward eye an abode of peace.

Mrs. Byron's accident had caught the imagination of her humble neighbours. For years they had watched her riding about, a wholesome hearty woman with a ripe cheek and a commanding eye. Not one of them, but had had experience of her vigour and capacity. She was now reduced to a helplessness greater than that of child or dotard and to her helplessness was added the mystery of mutilation.

During the long light weeks the cottagers sat at their doors of an evening and, while Charley Brenton trimmed hair in the front garden, discussed the inopportune event.

"I was almost sure there was ill luck comin'," said Mrs. Bate, the woman who was Stripper, or Nurse for the hamlet, that is to say who laid out the dead.

The man upon whom the barber was operating was a Brenton from the neighbouring valley of Polscore. The gossip was new to him.

"'Ow d'yer think so?" he asked.

"I b'lieve she was ill-wished. Never mind 'ow I think so, you wait an' see. My belief, there's they 'av got an evil eye on 'er."

Aunt Louisa Blewett looked up from her sewing. She was a peculiarly neat and clean old woman, who spent her time going from one house to another, mending and making for the long families. She did not speak, but her toothless mouth worked as if over a choice morsel.

"I thought the witches were all gone years ago," remarked the stranger Brenton.

"Well, there is witches, only they don't come out in their true colour," asserted Mrs. Bate, whose mother was said to have been the last in Tregols.

"Besides," urged old Hawken, the sailor, who was sitting on a stone awaiting his turn at Charley Brenton's hands, "who's goin' to do Mrs. Byron any 'arm? A nicer woman never lived. She's noted for 'er kindness at Christmas time or any other time."

"Iss, iss, we knaw she's well liked," said Mrs. Bate non-committally. Unlike Aunt Louisa she had still an occasional milestone of tooth. The old women were handsome now, and what must they have been when they were the village belles? "Still, I b'lieve there's one that bear 'er a grudge. I don't mention any names but you can think 'oo you like."

"Go along, you don't think as 'e'd do 'er a mischief do yer?"

"Hush!"

For some time the sound of approaching hoofs had been carried to them on the still air of the evening; and the voices died into silence as Leadville Byron, on his black stallion, clattered by. The animal was as usual flecked with foam, the master stained with the mud of the road. Returning from his humiliating interview with Sabina, he had found in the hard gallop up hill and down, an outlet for his rage and disappointment. What did he care if he lamed the horse? Whirling through the hamlet he noticed the curious cottagers no more than the birds in the hedges.

"'Ow 'e do ride," said old Hawken, as the furious figure melted into the growing dusk and only the beat of the hoofs reached the listeners, a beat which in turn was merged in the distant sound of the tide. "One of these days 'e'll break 'is neck."

"'Tis like 'e's tearin' away from something," said Aunt Louisa suddenly.

"Do 'ee think," said Mrs. Bate, lowering her voice, "do 'ee think th' Old Squire knaw what's happenin' above ground?"

"If 'e do," said Hawken, "'e must find it terr'ble 'ard for that feller to be in 'is place."

"And alterin' things," said Aunt Louisa.

"Old Squire," said Mrs. Bate mysteriously, "can look after's own. You mark my words, thiccy feller 'ont 'av all 'is own way."

Willie Brenton took the towel from his neck and handed it to the sailor. "Your turn, Mr. 'Awken."

The old man got up painfully. "My feet's terr'ble knucklin' to-day and my poor laigs is stiff with the rheumatism; but still they'm better'n no laigs. I wonder 'ow poor Mrs. Byron'll manage?"

This was a matter of interest to the cottagers. They supposed that, for the cooking and cleaning, Mrs. Byron would employ one of themselves. Mrs. Bate, who had not been married, had yet grandchildren old enough to go out to service.

"We've all worked there in an' out," she said, "but now the poor thing'll 'av to 'av some one there altogether. She'll be so helpless as a baby."

"I bet she won't," said Aunt Louisa, folding together a patched garment and preparing to go indoors for the night. "Mrs. Byron'll frighten us all yet for what she can do."

"I reckon she 'ont 'av the 'eaft to go about the work as she used to. My mind tell me she's done for," said Hawken.

Aunt Louisa nodded her trim grey head in the direction of Church Town. "Not till she's laid alongside the Old Squire," she said and, going in, shut her door with the precision of touch characteristic of her every movement.

At Wastralls, the following morning, Byron went as usual into the yard. Two breeding sows, black as a cave's mouth, were wandering about and, on a heap of straw in the sun, lay an old sheep-dog. The dog wagged its tail but, unfortunately, did not rise and the man's sore heart registered its laziness as an affront.

"Shep's gone past for work," he said to George Biddick, who was standing by waiting for orders.

"Iss, I b'lieve 'e is. Gettin' blind."

"Better give'm a dose. You come to me at twelve and I'll 'av it ready for 'ee." He cast a vindictive look at the old dog. "And, Biddick..."

"Iss, sir?"

"I've changed my mind about the li'l medder. I'm afraid 'tis too late for sugar-beet this year, I'll 'av it teeled in dredge-corn."

He went back to the kitchen, a roomy whitewashed place, the rafters of which were dark above the blue flagstones, stones which had been worn smooth by feet, trampling for a little to and fro, then going as they had come. In a wall-cupboard to the right of the slab-range, the farmer kept such matters as ammunition, packets of seed, medicaments for the stock. Crossing the kitchen, with a step which was light for so large-framed a man, he stood for a moment contemplating the medley of articles--bluestone, cattle-salts, turpentine, oak-marbles which had been through the coffee grinder, bottles of Red Drink--which confronted him. By the last named stood a small blue bottle with an orange label. He had bought it some time ago, he had used it on old and useless animals. He would pour out a little now and give it to Biddick for the sheep-dog; but the rest he would put by again. He felt that to rid the place of Shep would be a satisfaction. If only other things which stood in his way, which refused to recognize his authority, could be got rid of as easily.

Sabina's interview with her husband had made her realize how necessary she was to him. She thought of him as a foolish child who, the moment it was left to its own devices, got into mischief. The conviction that she stood between Leadville and disaster was soothing. It increased her wish to live and was as good as a tonic. Not that tonics were necessary, for once she had turned the first difficult corner she made good progress and, when Raby Gregor came to discuss with her the trolly she had designed, he was agreeably surprised to find her as cheerful as of old.

This trolly was for long the wonder of those who saw it. On a three-wheeled stand, a cone of cushioned basket-work, itself strengthened by iron stays, had been set upright. Into this wicker receptacle Sabina, who had strong arms, presently learnt to swing herself and, once in place, the cushions supported her in comfort. The front wheel of the trolly had a guiding handle and she was thus enabled, as long as the ground was flat, to go where she would.

"I want to be on a level with other people," she said, "so don't make the stand too low. I can't bear to be down; 'av to look up to everybody as I'm speaking to'm."

The little contrivance, when finished, proved admirably suited to her needs. The nurses, proud of her as a case, helped her over the first difficulties; and, as the figure she cut did not trouble her, she soon learnt to swing herself in and out. Before long she was able to steer herself about the ward and Mrs. Tom, coming in one afternoon with eggs for the patients and saffron cake for the nurses' tea, found her pushing herself about as contentedly as a child.

"I shall be comin' 'ome next week," she said happily, "so Leadville can send in the cart for me."

"I shall be pretty and glad for 'ee to come 'ome again, but why must 'e send the old cart?"

"Why, to bring this 'ome in." She put her hands to the sides of the trolly and sat erect, a smiling cheerful woman. Her face, though pale from the long confinement, had lost its lines, was indeed showing a tendency to over-fullness and she looked older, but she was herself again. "If I didn't I should 'av to lie down an' I don't want to do that. I want to sit up and see all there is to be seen. Besides I want for the people to see I'm able to get about again, if I be a cripple."

Mrs. Tom perceived that Sabina meant to celebrate her recovery by a triumphal return. "Well, my dear, I'll tell Leadville to send in the cart for 'ee."

"This 'ere thing do run so smooth as a die," said Sabina, returning to her happy absorption in the trolly. "You'd never believe 'ow easy I can get about in it," and she began, with her strong, illness-whitened hands, to turn the wheels.

"Will it go uphill?" said the other, after observing with interest the paces of this new steed.

Sabina's face fell. "Lorrd bless me, I never thought o' that!"

"'Owever will you manage?" Only the shelf on which Wastralls--house, yard and garden--stood, was flat.

"I..." Sabina hesitated. The brightness had died cut of her face. "I don't know if Leadville will carry out my wishes or no."

"Well, you can 'ardly expect 'un to."

"I dun't see why 'e shouldn't. 'Tis my land, why shouldn't 'e do as I want for'n to do?"

"'Cos 'e's so obstinate in 'is way as you are in yours."

"My dear life, I bain't obstinate. 'Ow can 'ee say so? I only do same as my father and granfer did. I'm sure they wouldn't like for me to alter it."

"No, I don't 'spose they would," said Mrs. Tom, "still..."

Sabina was troubled, but not on account of Isolda's mistaken view of her character. That she had already forgotten. "Well, I've got th' old George Biddick. I'm sure 'e'll do what I want for'n to do, if Leadville won't."

"Still that isn't like seein' for yerself."

"I shall 'av to take the chance of that," but she did not seem happy about it. She mused with knit brow for some seconds, then changed the subject. "Isolda, I'd like for Mrs. Bate to put my bed up in the big room."

This--the old Justice Room--occupied one end of the house. For many years it had been used as a storeroom, but underneath dust and litter lay evidence, in painted panelling and marble mantelpiece, of former state.

"'Tis a proper old lumber-shop," said Mrs. Tom, "but that doesn't matter."

"You see," explained Sabina, "I can't go overstairs."

"I wonder 'ow Leadville'll like sleepin' on the ground floor?"

"Well, he must like it or lump it." She spoke with the confidence of one whose marriage had been a success. "We'll get the room to rights for yer."