Delight (1926)/Chapter 9
She awoke in the silver dawn, her limbs cramped by a curled-up position, the rough hay scratching her tender neck, the chill of an autumn morning sending shivers to her very marrow. Her dress had not yet dried from the splash caused by Perkin's fall into the stream and clung damply to her bosom. She crept to a crack, and through it looked at the farm-house. It squatted, low and grey, on the hillside, a scarf of mist rising towards it from the stream. A dead house sheltering ghosts it seemed. Sinister ghosts who were angry because she would not stay and be another ghost. Not that Perkin had not life in him. But it was a cruel flame that frightened her. She must run from all this. She did not know where except that it must be the opposite direction from Brancepeth, somewhere past the quarries and Stebbing where they bred brook trout, to some place where no one had ever heard of her.
She descended the ladder and went to the byre. The Jersey cow was lying down, her black face resting against her bony cream-coloured flank, her liquid eyes gazing dreamily before her.
"Get up, Jersey," said Delight, slapping her.
The cow could not understand such an unusual proceeding, and closed her eyes as though to shut out the apparition. But when she was slapped again she rose and swished her plumed tail about her legs and put her nose in her drinking pail.
Delight found an empty tin and washed it at the well in the corner, by the pulping machine. She brought a stool then, sat down by the Jersey, and milked the pail full. The cat came bounding and rubbed herself against Delight's skirt, rolling her beseeching topaz eyes at her. Delight sent a stream of milk towards her, and Lizzie, her tigerish jaws distended, received every drop into her greedy throat.
"You don't deserve it, you naughty little cat," said Delight, "for you wouldn't come and sleep with me last night."
She raised the pail to her own mouth then and drank the foamy, warm contents. She was alone in the world, as poor as a girl could well be, stealing a breakfast of milk in a byre, yet she was happy; a sense of freedom, of early morning adventure, made her pulses thrill. Through an open window a fresh breeze came but a few drops of rain came with it, and a shadow fell, making the byre dimmer than before. Perhaps it was not so early as she had thought. She had better hurry away before old Peake appeared. It might, after all, be nearer seven than she imagined.
Even as the doubt crossed her mind she heard a heavy step outside. Then the door of the stable was swung open and the horses broke into eager whinnyings.
"Morning to you, old Major," she heard Peake's thin voice saying.
She dropped the pail and flew to the ladder. She clambered up breathlessly, and then stood listening. He passed below, pitchfork in hand.
"Morning to you, Jersey," he greeted. "Morning, cows."
She was trapped up there in the mow.
What a pity she had run away! Better have stood her ground and brazened it out before old Peake. He could not have stopped her running away. Even now it would be better to descend the ladder and face him alone, than to be caught up there by Perkin or Mr. Heaslip who would soon be at work on the new text. She went down slowly and met the old man carrying a pail of water. His look of vacant busyness changed to the one of dazed admiration with which he always regarded her. He set down his pail.
"Morning, girl," he said, showing his gums beneath his ragged moustache.
"Morning, Mr. Peake. I'm going away."
"Going away! Well, now. What'd that be for? Ain't they givin' ye enough to eat? I know their ways. I've worked for 'em, livin' in, and I know their table with no more grub than'd fatten a chipmunk. I bring my own dinner pail with meat sandwiches and a bottle of tea or I wouldn't have the stren'th to hoe their old weeds that grows like all possessed on this pesky farm."
"It's not the food. It's Perkin. I'm expected to marry him and I don't want to."
"Marry Perkin! No, no, you're too fine a big lass. Oh, no, no, no. I wouldn't have you marry Perkin. He's only a Home boy. Still—they say he's goin' to inherit all the money."
"I don't care. I threw him in the stream yesterday."
"Threw Perkin in the stream! Well, I never. My, but you're strong! A fine strong young girl. Now, tell us what he did to make you give him a duckin'. Don't be afraid. Every word, now. He laid his horny hand on her shoulder and stroked it.
But she was not listening to him. She was listening to a rattle of wheels, to a sharp sound of horses' hoofs outside.
"Hallo, in there!" a voice called.
Peake hurried forth.
"Where's Mr. Heaslip?" went on the voice. "Is he about yet?"
Delight began to creep towards the door at the far end of the byre. She would escape while the stranger engaged Peake's attention. Then something in the stranger's voice caught her ear, held her motionless. He was saying:
"I want to complain of the milk he's sending in to me. It's no up to the standard. He says he keeps a Jairsey and a half-Jairsey. Weel, the unnamed half must give water, I suspect."
It was the voice of Kirke.
"I wouldn't put it past him," the old man answered.
Delight threw open the door and ran to the nigh wheel of the cart in which Kirke, in a raincoat and bowler hat, with a long whip in his hand, was perched. His lean, highly coloured face was fresh with the moisture of the morning. His gimlet eyes were sternly fixed on the labourer.
"Oh, Mr. Kirke," cried Delight. "Will you give me just a little lift away from here? I'm that upset. I've thrown Perkin in the stream and I won't marry him and, dear me, I'd all but gone and left my china—" She burst into tears.
"So this," said Kirke, "is where you're hanging out."
"The poor girl is all upset," explained Peake. "By the look of her I believe she's spent the night in the mow."
Kirke bent over her as she clung, sobbing, to the wheel.
"What have they been doing to ye, lass?"
"Oh, my poor china," she wailed, "how can I ever get it out of that house, after me throwing Perkin in the stream and all?"
"It's terrible," said Peake. "They want to marry her to their boy, and she handled him rough, and she's hid all night in the mow, and they're holdin' her belongings, and won't pay her her wages, and she's half-starved."
"Weel," bit off Kirke, cracking his whip, "you have got yourself in a fine pickle."
Delight clung to the wheel and raised her eyes piteously to his. "Mr. Kirke, if you will only go to the house and get me the china tea-set that I brought across the ocean and have never been parted from since I lost my Granny, I'll bless you the rest of my days. I don't mind about my clothes. I'll leave them gladly if only I can get my—"
"Hop into the cairt," interrupted Kirke. "I'll see what can be done."
She climbed to the seat beside him, and wheeling rapidly about, he drove to the side door of the farm-house. He jumped out and knocked with the butt of his whip. To Delight he seemed nothing less than a god come to deliver her, a god in a raincoat and a jaunty bowler hat, but a god, nevertheless. Oh, but she was afraid! Even sitting up there in the high cart, with Kirke between her and the door, she was afraid of the Heaslips. Her eyes, wild and mournful, were fixed on the panels. A dragging sound came from within. Then the door opened softly and Mr. Heaslip appeared on the threshold, the basket containing the tea-set in his hand. With lowered eyes he set it outside on the stone step, then turned back again. Mrs. Heaslip now appeared holding one end of the little tin trunk. Her husband took up the other end and together they set it out beside the basket.
"Now about that milk," began Kirke, in a high, complaining voice.
The door was shut in his face. The lock clicked. The red in Kirke's cheeks became scarlet. He turned angrily to the window where Mr. Heaslip was now visible, seating himself with a benign expression, his Bible before him.
"You've used this poor geerl very badly!" shouted Kirke.
A hand—Mrs. Heaslip's—appeared inside the pane. The blind was drawn.
"Weel—I'm domned!" said Kirke.
They were bowling along swiftly towards Brancepeth now. Delight was nursing her basket, scarcely able to believe that she was delivered safely from the Heaslips, that her tea-set was safe on her lap. Kirke had even arranged with Peake to take her trunk to his daughter's house on his wheelbarrow, and to have his daughter's husband deliver it at Kirke's shop the next day, when he was driving in with a load of turnips. Delight had, by his order, lifted the lid and found her clothes neatly packed within. She had taken out her brown cloth jacket and rather crushed velvet tam with a quill in it, and a clean print dress. She had put on the jacket and tam, and laid the print dress on the top of the basket, blindly obeying Kirke.
She did not speak till they were long out of sight of the farm, then she asked in a trembling voice:
"Where are you going to take me, Mr. Kirke? I hope you don't think as I could ever go to work in Brancepeth again, for I couldn't. Besides no one there would ever give me work after the tales Mrs. Jessop would tell of me, and all. Perhaps you'd know of some village where I could get work in a factory."
"We'll talk of that later," replied Kirke. "What I want to know first is how you came to get into Heaslip's hands. By the way, is that the basket I carried up the stairs for you the nicht you first arrived?"
"Yes. I've never been parted from it since my Granny died. It's all I have in the world that belonged to her."
Kirke looked down at her inquisitively.
"It's always—'Granny—Granny' with you. Had ye no mother, then? I've often wondered about you, and I think, considering everything, it's only fitting you should tell me the truth about yourself. You've got some blood in you that's not a common sort, I'll be bound. . . . Is your mother dead?"
"Yes. She died when I was born. I only knew Gran. She kept the lodge on a gentleman's estate, and after she died I went up to London with another maid and got work in a public-house."
"I see. Now what about your mother? Where did she get you? You needn't be afraid to tell me. I can keep a secret if ever a man can. . . . Was it the gentleman whose lodge your grandmother kept? Or did she go up to London, too?"
The horse's hoofs made a pleasant clatter, the wheels a humming sound. A shaggy hill, with the first frost-touched maple crowning it, stood out against the rainy sky.
Kirke peered into her face.
"She was a beauty, eh?"
"Yes, Mr. Kirke, and she did go to London, sorely against my Granny's will."
"To work in a pub?"
"Oh, no." She was indignant. "She was stage-struck. And she learned how to dance with a lot of other girls. She was that beautiful that everybody noticed her. But not the same as me—finer like. All pink and white, and eyes as blue as harebells."
"And then she met your father, eh?"
"You'll never tell a soul one word of this? I've never told anyone here but May and Jimmy. Oh, please tell me about Jimmy. Is he well? And has he taken out another girl yet?"
Kirke replied curtly: "We'll talk of Jimmy later. . . . So your mother lairned to dance, and a handsome young man—or oldish, maybe—noticed her? Is that so, Delight?"
"He came with some Russian dancers, and he had grand dark eyes, and he could dance—dear me! Mother told Gran he could leap his own height in the air, and stamp and twirl and bound till he took your breath away. All London came to see him. And his muscles was like iron and his hair like beautiful black fur. Mother told Gran about him just once, after she'd come home, and then she never spoke of him again. I reckon her heart was broken. And Granny hated the very thought of him, but she told me 'cause she thought I'd a right to know."
"Weel, weel," said Kirke, staring meditatively between the horse's ears, "it's an interesting tale, and it's safe with me, you may depend." He was gratified by this revelation of the girl's origin. It pleased him to think of that bounding, leaping Russian giving his grand dark eyes to this sweet Delight by his side. No wonder dancing came naturally to her! No wonder she had a strange, exotic charm! Somerset and Moscow! a strange mixture.
"And who gave ye the name?" he asked.
"Delight? Mother named me that before I was born, because he used to call her his delight in his queer English—not much better than baby-talk, and she told Gran that if the child was a girl, it was to be Delight, and if it was a boy it must be Ivan, after him. And Gran held to it though she thought it an unchristian sort of name but she used to say afterwards that it just suited me."
"It does. Now, then, tell me how you got to Heaslips."
She poured out the story of her quarrel with Jimmy, of Bastien's asking her inside his room a moment to see some trinkets he had brought from Africa, of Mrs. Jessop's finding them. (Here Kirke smiled grimly, remembering his own part in the discovery.) She told of the terrible night she had spent with the storm raging outside and Mrs. Jessop watching her door the long hours through, of her departure, of her meeting with the fishmonger, of her life at the Heaslips.
"Weel," commented Kirke, "you've managed to pack an extraordinary lot of experience into a brief while. We haven't been exactly dull in Brancepeth, either."
"Please, tell me about Jimmy?"
"Jimmy!" answered Kirke laconically, flicking the mare's shoulder neatly with the whip, so that she plunged forward. "Ah, he's gone. Went the day after you did."
"Gone!" She was aghast. She clutched her basket, fearing she would let it fall in her agitation. "Gone! But where? Why?"
Kirke grinned at her with amusement.
"Why, to sairch for you, to be sure. When Mrs. Jessop told in the morning that she'd sent you packing, Jim had already gone to his work, but as soon as he came in for his dinner he haird the news and he raised a fine to-do. He told the old geerl she was no better than a murderess to send a lass like you into a city all alone. Bastien ordered him to leave the house. Bastien and I had words, for he'd got it into his silly head that I had set Mrs. Jessop after you. Annie and Pearl were crying. The cook burned the joint to a cinder. But it was good for business, for you couldn't have packed another man into the bar that night. Then Fergussen appeared and said he'd seen you going to the station before sunrise, and that you came out of Mayberry, the tailor's shop. Jim had been drinking a good deal in the afternoon, and he hit Fergussen fair on the mouth. Fergussen knocked him down. Then Bastien and Charley Bye put him out. Jimmy—"
"Oh, my own pore Jimmy!" broke in Delight, rocking her basket. "Pore lad!"
"Jimmy went straight to Mayberry's and asked him if it was true and the poor little man took his oath he'd never laid eyes on you. That didn't help him much, for Jimmy lifted him off his bench and gave him the finest beating he'd ever had. That done he took the train for the city and hasn't been haird of since. He told the station-master he'd walk the streets till he found you. But he'd soon change his mind when he sobered up, and by now he's happy with another lass you can be cairtain."
"But I'll never forget him, and mebbe when he doesn't find me in the city he'll come back to Brancepeth to look for me. Don't you think he might, Mr. Kirke?"
"Weel," agreed the Scot, "I should think he micht. His box with his clothes in it is still in his room. The room's vacant yet. Thing's aren't prosperous at The Duke of York. Lovering and I have left. We're stopping at The British American now."
"Oh," said Delight, trying to be agreeable, "and do you like it there?"
"It micht be better and it micht be worse. The house is dingy and dark, but the board is fair. I'm out to help Beemer improve it. You know, I have a nice dairy business stairted, and I've a produce shop now in connection with it. I supply Beemer with fresh eggs, milk, cheese, butter and poultry from the country. . . . Now my plan is to supply him with another product of the country—a nice, fresh dining-room geerl—"
"No, no, no, I wouldn't go to Beemer's to work—right next door and all—I couldn't do that."
Kirke turned his head sharply towards her.
"Don't be a fool, my geerl. It's your one chance of meeting your lad again, to stop here in Brancepeth, where he's bound to turn up sometime to fetch his box. Now I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll get his box for you, and you can keep it in your room at Beemer's, so he can never get away with it without your knowledge. And another thing, I'll see to it that Beemer gives you five dollars a month more than you got from Mrs. Jessop. Now be a sensible lass and be guided by a man who knows the wairld a little better than you do. And I'm fond of you, too, though I may not be willing to be your slave as these other silly blighters are. Now, will you do what I tell you?"
"Y-yes, I'll do it," she answered sadly. "Though I'll never put my nose outside the door where I might meet Mrs. Jessop, or any of the other folk from The Duke."
"Nobody wants you to put your nose outside the door. All you have to do is to wait at table and look pleasant. Now I'm going to take ye to my shop and you'll sit there while I telephone to Beemer. It may be that he won't want ye at all, but I think I can manage him."
Delight was sitting in the whitewashed room behind Kirke's shop, waiting with much trepidation while he rang up the proprietor of The British American. The little room was beautifully clean. Through the polished windows the yellow September sunlight, suddenly flaring along the slanting rain, fell on rows of mellow cheeses ranged on shelves against the wall. In a cupboard with glass doors, she could see pound prints of butter and sections of honey in the comb. On a table stood a deep basket filled with clean brown eggs. She wished that she owned a shop like this. She pictured herself behind the counter in the shop selling this tempting produce to dear old ladies with little round baskets, and to young wives carrying red-cheeked babies in their arms. She would give a little taste of honey to the babies, just to see them smack their funny little lips.
She could hear Kirke's voice talking on and on in the next room. His words did not come to her, but he broke now and again into a cackling laugh. The truth was that Kirke's body was tingling with triumph. Ever since his quarrel with Bastien and his departure from the house, he had been filled with vindictive energy against The Duke of York and its two managers. He was trying to persuade the Byes to leave, and start a small boarding-house of their own. He knew of several of the third-floor boarders who would be willing to go with them. He sneered at the pair for being slaves to Bastien and Mrs. Jessop. . . .
She sat quietly, her hands in her lap, while Kirke's voice hummed on and on; like a great bee she thought. She wondered why she felt so light-headed; the cheeses seemed to be dancing up and down. Then she remembered that she had had nothing to eat since her dinner the day before save some plums and the drink of milk from the Jersey. Oh, she was so hungry! If only she had a little bit of cheese! Or a mouthful of honey! A knife lay on the table. One of the largest of the cheeses was already cut. Desperately she snatched up the knife and cut herself a large thin slice. She sat down again and began to eat it, her eyes fixed anxiously on the door through which Kirke would enter. There was no sound in the other room. Kirke must be listening to Mr. Beemer for a change.
It was nearly noon and she was so hungry. She finished the cheese. Then she went to the cupboard and opened the door upon the squares of honey. A fat bumble-bee that had been knocking his head clumsily against the glass, flew in before she could stop him. A puddle of honey lay on the wooden frame of one of the squares. She put her finger, first in it then in her mouth. Strange how many lovely, sweet things there were in the world—and so much trouble.
"Ha!" said Kirke's voice behind her. "Into the honey, eh?"
She was dreadfully ashamed.
"Oh, Mr. Kirke, I didn't hear you coming," she stammered.
"Weel, never mind. We're friends." He came and put his hand under her chin and kissed her in an offhand, arrogant fashion. "We're friends, aren't we? We micht be very good friends." (Another kiss.) "Sweeter than honey, eh?" (Another.) "Ah, Delight, Delight, you're going to fall on this town like another blight. It's terrible. It's fair rideeculous."
She pulled herself away from him, and snatched up her hat.
"Is Beemer goin' to take me on or isn't he?" she demanded, colour flooding her face.
"He is, thanks to me."
"No thanks to you, Mr. Kirke, for treating me like this. It's an outrageful thing, I say. I threw Perkin Heaslip in the stream for no more."
Kirke's face was transfigured by a delighted grin to see her in a rage. He advanced a step towards her, but she snatched up the long black-handled knife with which she had cut the cheese. Her eyes were two shining dark slits. She said:
"If I ran this into you, they'd hang me, wouldn't they? And then it 'ud be all over."
"Come now, come now," said Kirke soothingly. "You're not in airnest, and I was only in fun. . . . We must make haste along to Beemer's now, for it's almost dinner time. Put down that knife, my lass."
She laid it down, but looked at him threateningly still, out of the sides of her eyes.
"Dear, oh dear," commented Kirke jauntily. "I never thought to stage a melodrama behind the wee shop." He took off his bowler hat and made her a little stiff bow. "The carriage is waiting, your ladyship, daughter of Ivan, the acrobat."
The British American Hotel, commonly called Beemer's, was a low-roofed, dark, musty place, a weather-beaten frame building, with a leaky roof, a sagging verandah, and small-paned windows. But there was something home-like about it, after all. There were men—the saddler, the auctioneer, and a down-at-heel lawyer—who had lived there for years. Once one got used to the smells and the disorder and the children that sprawled over the verandah in summer and the halls in winter, one found that the cooking was good; the beds, though never properly made, were fairly comfortable; and the whisky, Canadian brands, cheaper than at The Duke.
Mrs. Beemer, a black-browed, light-eyed heavy woman, did the cooking, except for one week in the year, when she had her annual baby. During that week the maids managed as well as they could, but she usually found things in a sorry tangle when she got about again, and she had violent outbursts of temper as she put them to rights. For years she had had her babies in November and December, very suitable months, since they were among the quietest in the year, but the last two years, through rather unseemly haste, she had decreased the period between the births till she had twice taken to her bed, not only in October but in Fair Week, the busiest week of the year. Beemer liked plenty of children. He saw in them future waitresses, kitchen girls, barkeepers and hostlers, hard-working on small pay. Children were easily fed in a place like this. But he did resent the lack of consideration shown by his lady in laying off, and lying in, just when he most needed her.
Now, as Fair time was approaching and her figure showed that her retirement was imminent, she knew herself to be in black disgrace and it did not improve her temper. From under her heavy brows she shot resentful looks at Delight as she stood in her fresh print dress in a corner of the kitchen, keeping out of the way of the bustle. Mrs. Beemer had told her to keep out of her way until clearing-up time. She did not want to be bothered with a new girl while she was serving the dinner. She did not like the idea of engaging Delight at all. She had never had a handsome girl in the hotel before and the sight of her standing there, her wild, bright eyes flying from face to face, put her in a smouldering rage. She thrust out her under lip and scowled as she cut thick slabs from the roast of pork. She rapped her ten-year-old boy sharply on the knuckles as he reached for a crisp bit of rind. . . . Kathleen and Nellie, two sisters who had been at Beemer's for years, going there straight from a rigid Catholic home, did not enjoy the sight of her any more than their mistress did. They had their boys, quiet-living, faithful boys, but how long would they remain faithful with Delight Mainprize in the house?
Delight looked longingly at these three women. No sensitive intuition told her of their unfriendliness. Folk were often stand-offish with a newcomer. She liked the little round heads and freckled faces of the sisters and their brisk movements. They worked together like two good stocky ponies. As for Mrs. Beemer . . . after Mrs. Bye's long-legged leaps across the kitchen, she seemed like an elephant ponderously going through the motions to which it had been trained. But presently she saw that Mrs. Beemer accomplished more than Mrs. Bye, for all her frenzy, and that, with the utmost economy of movement, she kept the machine of the kitchen running in deadly earnest.
After the big airy kitchen at The Duke and the animation of the occupants, this low-ceilinged room, these silent women were rather depressing. Even the children were odd, not a bit like Queenie Bye. They were fat, whey-faced urchins with clumpy boots and drab, tousled heads. They were eating their dinner at a table in a corner, and every now and again one would slide from his chair, come to the stove with an empty plate, and re-load it from the various platters and vegetable dishes. As they passed Delight they looked askance at her, resenting, like their mother, this new presence. One little fellow, bolder than the others, ran to her, and shutting his chubby fist, struck her on the side, then scuttled away to safety under the table.
"Here, Johnny, quit that!" said his mother, but a grim smile played about her lips.
Delight's face grew red from the heat of the stove, all her blood seemed to be singing in her head. It was queer to think that she was here at Beemer's, and just across the way was The Duke of York, and Charley and Mrs. Bye, and Annie and Pearl. What would they think when they heard she was here? Was there a chance of her ever meeting Jimmy Sykes again?
She saw the women moving about her in a haze. Very lonely she felt. . . . It was two o'clock when Mrs. Beemer said:
"I guess we can have our dinner now," and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand which still held the carving knife.
Delight got a chair and joined the others at the grease-spotted, untidy table. But she leant her head on her hand. There was a lump in her throat. For the first time in her life she was not hungry at mealtime.