Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“Why, you’re made for a race horse!” exclaimed Renny. “I wish to God Dad had never sold you!”
The dust lay dark, flattened on the road. The leaves, new washed, cherished the last drops of the pain. All bright colours blazed at each other as though in challenge. Little birds essayed their evening song or preened their wet plumage.
Just beyond a hamlet in a hollow, the farm where the two women had come lay on the side of a steep hill. A red sunset cloud hung above it like a banner.
Renny felt a strange new shyness. What should he say when he arrived? In what different ways should he approach Elvira or her aunt, according to which he first met? He realized that his coat was torn, that he was wet through. As he and the colt moved slowly along the farm lane their heads hung in weariness.
By the side of a barn a load of hay was drawn up. A man in a dripping shirt was forking hay to the loft above. Just inside Renny could see Elvira distributing the hay on the floor of the mow. Her long cloth skirt was pinned up so that it reached just below her knees, but, as though to counterbalance this immodesty, her hair had loosed itself and hung in a dark mass about her shoulders.
The childish poise of her head as she peered down at him was moving to Renny. She looked innocent, isolated in the twilight of the mow. He thought of her as the mother of Maurice’s child. Yet Maurice hated the remembrance of her.
“Hullo, Elvira,” he said, riding round the load of hay so that it stood between him and the man.
“Oh, how do you do, Mr. Whiteoak,” she returned sedately, leaning on her fork.
“I had to come this way,” he went on, “to deliver this colt. My father sold it to a Mr. Ferrier, not far from here, so I thought I’d drop in and ask how you are.”
“Oh,” was her only answer. She looked timidly down on him as though not knowing what to do, as though wondering whether she should put aside her fork and come down to him.
The man came round the load of hay and looked aggressively at Renny.
“Is it John Ferrier you mean?”
“Yes.”
“He don’t live near here. He lives ten miles away, at Creditford.”
“Ten miles is nothing to this colt,” said Renny. “You’re lucky to have saved this load of hay before the rain came. It looks nice and dry.”
“It is,” returned the man, gruffly. “What I’ve got to do now is to stow it in the mow before dark. There’ll be more rain tonight.” He looked at the red cloud that hung above the hilltop. “Come along, Elvira. We’ve wasted enough time.” He set to work again.
“I’ve never seen a girl do farm work before,” observed Renny. “It looks strange to me.”
“You’d see lots of it where I came from,” said the farmer. He threw a forkful of hay, as though with intentional carelessness so that some of it fell over Renny and the colt. The colt started and laid back his ears. Renny dismounted. “Look here, let me help you! You’ll never get it in before dark at this rate.”
“Thanks,” muttered the farmer. “There’s an empty stall in there.” Fork in hand, he led the way to the stable. He gave Renny a small basin of oats for the colt.
Renny mounted the steps to the loft and Elvira obediently handed him her fork. He looked no better than a hired man, she thought, with the red sunburn on his face, his untidy hair and torn coat. Very different from Maurice. The sight of him brought back all her old life. Her heart ached with longing as she stood in the twilight watching his swift manipulation of the hay.
He and the man worked well together. The load diminished as the colour faded from the cloud. A thin piping of locusts began on all sides. A cow lowed in the stable below.
The man looked up at Elvira. “Why don’t Lulu come and do the milking?” he demanded.
“Shall I go and tell her?” asked Elvira. She turned to Renny. “This is our cousin, Bob,” she said. “We’re staying here.”
Renny and Bob assented to the introduction, as though they had just met. Bob said: —
“I’ll go and tell Lulu. Then you can go to the house and get some supper for us.” He felt that Renny and Elvira wished to be alone for a little.
When they were, she looked at him questioningly.
“Your child is well,” he said reassuringly, then added — “but you couldn’t have cared much for it or you’d not have done what you did.”
“Lulu made me,” said Elvira simply.
“The devil, she did! And you do just what she says?”
“Yes.”
“Well — I guess it’s better off as it is. The Vaughans are going to keep it. Maurice says his mother loves it like her own grandchild already.”
“Have you seen it?” She twisted her thin, chaff-strung fingers together.
“Yes. It’s a sweet little thing. I looked in the window of the sitting room and saw it.”
“How was it dressed?”
Renny considered, leaning on the hay fork. “Well, it had on a long white dress and some sort of woolly pink jacket with a bow under the chin.”
“That sounds nice,” she said, and gave a little smile of pleasure at the picture.
He turned to her abruptly. “Do you think Bob will mind my coming here to see you and Lulu?”
“No. He’ll be glad you helped him with the hay. He’s glad to have us here. His wife’s in bed with her fifth child. He’ll not say anything.”
“Gosh!” exclaimed Renny. “are there nine of you living in that cottage?”
She nodded and repeated — “Bob’s glad to have help.” She held out her palm, on which a blister showed. “Look!”
Renny took her hand in his and saw, at the same moment, the older woman called Lulu coming along the path carrying a milk pail.
The sight of her made him forget Elvira’s existence. He looked down at Lulu and noticed her smooth supple walk, easy as an animal’s. Her hair was drawn in a smooth knot at the back of her head. She had a spot of rouge on each cheek and she wore a clean white cotton dress with large red polka dots on it. A red ribbon was wound twice round her neck and the bow fastened in front by a brooch with a yellow stone set in it.
He stood, a tall thin stripling, watching her nonchalant approach. To hide the quick beating of his heart behind careless words, he said: —
“Do you always dress up like that for milking?”
She looked up at him boldly, swinging the pail.
“I always dress up when I know you’re here,” she returned.
Elvira asked — “Shall I go up and lay the supper?”
“Yes — that’s a good idea.” The woman smiled up at her. “Bob has gone in to see Lizzie. She’s feeling a bit lonesome for the sight of him. I told him I’d give a hand with the hay. He’s worn out.”
“Dressed like that!” exclaimed Renny, astonished.
Lifting her skirt, she clambered onto the top of the load and picked up Bob’s fork. There was not much hay left to unload. Elvira descended the ladder from the loft and went toward the house. She walked stiffly, as though she were very tired.
“Poor kid!” said Renny, looking after her.
“Don’t pity her! She’s had her happiness. We all pay for that.”
“Have you had yours?”
“I’ve had my share.”
“Have you paid for it?”
“Twice over.”
“You don’t look as though you’d minded.”
“Oh, I’m a hard one!”
He gave an excited laugh. “So am I! I don’t mind paying.”
“
You!
You’re only a baby!”
“If you talk to me like that — I’ll go.”
“Surely it don’t matter to you — anything I say.”
“I came all the way here to see you.”
“Why?” She looked at him provocatively out of her yellowish slanting eyes.
“Don’t you remember asking me — that night? You said you’d tell my fortune from tea leaves and tell me where you got those queer eyes.”
“
Queer
eyes! I like that.”
“Well — aren’t they?”
“Don’t you admire them?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t.”
“Well,
do
you?”
“I repeat that they’re queer.”
“So are yours!”
“Mine! I don’t see anything queer in them.”
“I see the devil in them.”
“It’s your own reflection.”
“Aren’t you a clever boy! Now I say your eyes are as dark as a thundercloud with lightning behind it and your lashes are blacker than they’ve any right to be.”
“Yes — and my hair is like the sunset and my teeth like tombstones and my nose like a battle-axe — Oh, I’m a most poetic-looking devil!”
“However did you tear your coat so?”
“The colt tore it off me. He was jealous of my affection for you.”
“I’ll kiss him for that!”
“Good! I want you and him to be friends.”
For answer she took a forkful of the hay and threw it up at him. He caught it and spread it on the mound on which he stood. Another and another followed. A tall strong woman with a small breast and a head that moved swiftly on her supple neck, she worked with fierce energy, while he, with his trim loins and legs braced apart, received the hay on his fork in an almost angry eagerness. The hay was so dry that the loft was full of its dust. He coughed and rubbed his nose on his sleeve.
As the last brightness was received into the earth and the cloud on the hilltop gathered other smaller clouds to its bosom, the last of the hay was stored. Below in the stable the colt whickered and the fowls quarrelled over the best positions on the perches.
Renny put the farm horses in their stalls and watered them.
“I wonder,” he said, “why your cousin didn’t come back?”
“He was tired out. I told him we’d finish the hay. He’s putting the kids to bed. He’s a good fellow about the house. Elvira’s laying the table.” She began brushing bits of hay from her dress, and putting her hair in order. Renny regarded her dispassionately, but was conscious of the inference of all her gestures.
“Am I invited to supper?” he asked. “I’m starving.”
“Of course. Let us go now.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. As she walked ahead of him along the path, she did not once glance over her shoulder.
“We’re going to have more rain,” he said.
“Yes. Bob will be glad he’s got his hay in.”
They found Bob in the kitchen buttoning a sturdy girl of four into a flannel nightdress. A baby, half naked, was crawling about the floor. In spite of his squareness Bob looked gaunt. His face was heavy with weariness. His coarse fingers were deft about the child.
Elvira had had no time to ready herself. Her hair still hung about her shoulders and her cloth skirt was pinned up, but she had set out a substantial meal on a clean white cloth. There were fried potatoes, cold pork, pickles, fresh wild raspberries, Sultana buns, and yellow Canadian cheese.
Bob turned to Renny and said: —
“Elvira tells me you’re a swell. Maybe you won’t eat with the common folks like us. I guess I shouldn’t have let you help with the hay.”
“Rot! I’m starving and I liked helping with the hay.”
“That’s all right, then. I’ll take these kids up to bed.” Bob took a child under each arm and clumped up the narrow stairs to the room above. Through the thin partition came the faint cry of a young infant.
Elvira looked questioningly at Lulu. “Have I got plenty to eat, do you think?”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Renny. “It’s a spread!”
Lulu said, in a low voice — “What a pity there aren’t just the three of us! We could have fun.”
“Yes,” said Elvira. “There’s no fun in Bob.”
Bob clumped down the stairs and passed his hand over his forehead. “It’s as hot as hell up there,” he said. He raised his face to the stairway and called — “Shut up, you kids, or I’ll be after you!”
The scuffling and giggling of the children ceased.
“Will you like to wash?” Elvira asked of Renny.
She led him to a stand in the corner of the kitchen where she had placed a basin of water, a clean towel, and her own cake of pink, rose-scented soap.
He rolled up his sleeves and dashed the water over his face, neck, and arms. “Gosh!” he thought, under the delicious coolness, “if the family could see me!” He grinned into the basin.
Bob was glad to have another male to talk to, especially one who knew something of farming. What Renny did not know about he hid under an air of sagacity. But what Bob really wanted was a listener. He talked on and on, expounding his theories, telling of his trials and disappointments. Like many farmers he ate little, but urged Renny to repletion. The two women sat silent, their eyes fixed on Renny. There was dead silence in the next room and upstairs. An alarm clock on a bracket ticked in extravagant and watchful haste.
Lulu brought a round glossy teapot from the stove. “Now,” she said, “what about that fortune?”
Bob’s face relaxed into humorous condescension. “Don’t you let her tell your fortune,” he advised. “She’ll give you a bad one.”
“Why?” asked Renny, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. Bob was already puffing at his pipe.
“That sort of woman always brings bad luck.”
“Now that’s a hard thing to say,” declared Lulu.
Bob reached out and caught her dress in his hand. “Well, Lulu, you know what I mean. What I mean is you’re not steady and safe like my Lizzie in there. But you’ve been good to me, there’s no denying that! You and Elvira too.”
Lulu sat down and stared into the teapot. “I guess it’s stewed long enough,” she said. She stirred the leaves and poured a cup apiece.
They drank simultaneously, with almost the air of conspirators in a rite. Summer lightning woke the landscape beyond the door into swift brightness.
“Now,” said Lulu, crossing her legs, “who shall I do first?”
“Not me,” said Bob. “Last time, you told me the potatoes would be blighted, and they was….” He stared glumly into his cup. “And the time before, you told me that my missus was going to have another girl — and she did! No more fortunes for me!”
“How can you say that!” exclaimed Lulu. “Didn’t I tell you you were going to have a handsome visitor within three days?”
“So you did,” said Bob. “I remember. But I guess he came to see Elvira.”
“He’s not my visitor,” said the girl sulkily.
Lulu turned to Renny. “Whose visitor are you?” she asked, looking at him out of half-closed eyes.
He was suddenly boyish, embarrassed. Bob rose and pushed in
his chair. He said — “Well, you settle it among you. I’m going to do the chores.”