Chapter V: Book II: The Woman's Part (2)

Meantime he was worried about Naomi. It says much for the ineffectiveness of her emotions that he had not till just then realised her hostility towards him. Now that he saw it, he put it down to her ill-health, and re-established the tyrannous watch over her which he had kept up in the old days. He was sorry for her, and knew now that he had made a mistake in marrying her. He should have chosen a sturdier, more ambitious mate. However, there was no help for it, he could not give up the battle because his fellow-fighter had no stomach for it. He was grieved for the loss of her beauty, and would make things as easy for her as possible, but he could not let her off altogether. She must do her share in the struggle which was so much greater than either of them. She had rested from child-bearing a year, but he still longed desperately for children, and she became a mother again at the end of '49.

The baby was a girl, and Reuben was bitterly disappointed. One girl was quite enough, and he badly wanted more boys. Besides, Naomi was very ill, and the doctor told him in private that she ought not to have any more children, at least for some time.

"She never was a strong woman, and these repeated confinements have quite worn her out. You have seven children, Mr. Backfield, and I think that ought to be enough for any man."

"But two of them are girls--it's boys I want, surelye!"

"Aren't five boys enough for you?"

"No--they äun't."

"Well, of course, if she has a thorough rest from all work and worry, and recovers her health in the meantime, I don't say that in three or four years.... But she's not a strong subject, Mr. Backfield, and you'd do well to remember it."

§ 12.

Reuben was very kind to Naomi during her illness. He helped his mother to nurse her, and spent by her side all the time he could spare from the farm. He was too strong to vent on her personally the rage and disappointment with which circumstances had filled him. He pitied her fragility, he even pitied her for the antagonism which he saw she still felt towards him.

At nights he slept upstairs in one of the attics, which always smelt of apples, because it was next to the loft where the apples were stored. He was happy there, in spite of some dark hours when the deadlock of his married life kept him awake. He wondered if there was a woman in the world who could share his ambitions for Odiam. He expected not, for women were an ambitionless race. If Naomi had had a single spark of zeal for the great enterprise in which he and she were engaged, she would not now be lying exhausted by her share in it. He had honoured her by asking her to join him in this splendid undertaking, and all she had done had been to prove that she had no fight in her.

He could now gaze out on Boarzell uninterrupted. The sight of the great Moor made his blood tingle; his whole being thrilled to see it lying there, swart, unconquered, challenging. How long would it be, he wondered, before he had subdued it? Surely in all Sussex, in all England, there had never been such an undertaking as this ... and when he was triumphant, had achieved his great ambition, won his heart's desire, how proud, how glorious he would be among his children....

The wind would carry him the scent of gorse, like peaches and apricots. There was something in that scent which both mocked and delighted him. It was an irony that the huge couchant beast of Boarzell should smell so sweet--surely the wind should have brought him a pungent ammoniacal smell like the smell of stables ... or perhaps the smell of blood.

But, after all, this subtle gorse-fragrance had its suitableness, for though gorse may cast out the scent of soft fruit from its flowers, its stalks are wire and its roots iron, its leaves are so many barbs for those who would lay hands on its sweetness. It was like Boarzell itself, which was Reuben's delight and his dread, his beloved and his enemy.

The day would come when Boarzell would no longer drench the night with perfume, when the gorse would be torn out of its hide to make room for the scentless grain. Then Reuben would no longer lean out of his window and dream of it, for dreams, like the peach-scent of the gorse, would go when the corn came. But those days were not yet.

Naomi's illness dragged. Sometimes Reuben suspected her of malingering, she so obviously did not want to get well. He guessed her reasons, and took an opportunity to tell her of the doctor's verdict. The struggle was in abeyance--at least her share of it. Nature--which was really what he was fighting in Boarzell--had gained a temporary advantage, and his outposts had been forced to retire.

Naomi began now decidedly to improve. She put on flesh, and showed a faint interest in life. Towards the end of April she was able to come downstairs. She was obviously much better, and old Mrs. Backfield hinted that she was even better than she looked. Reuben watched over her anxiously, delighted to notice day by day fresh signs of strength. She began to do little things for the children, she even seemed proud of them. They were splendid children, but it was the first time that she had realised it. She helped the scholastic elders with their sums and made frocks for the little girls. She even allowed baby Mathilda to wear Fanny's shoes.

The summer wore on. The sallow tints in Naomi's skin were exchanged for the buttery ones which used to be before her marriage. Her hair ceased to fall, her cheeks plumped out, her voice lost its weak shrillness. She made herself a muslin gown, and Reuben bought ribbons for it at Rye.

The husband and wife now lived quite independently. They no longer made even the pretence of walking on the same path. Naomi played with the children, did a little sewing and housework--exactly what she chose--and occasionally went over to Totease or Burntbarns for a chat with the neighbours. She once even spent a couple of nights at her father's, the first time since her marriage that she had slept away from Odiam.

As for Reuben, he worked as hard as ever, but never spoke of it to his wife. He seemed to enjoy her society at meals, and now and then would take her out for a stroll along the lanes, or sit with her in the evening by the kitchen fire. Once more he liked to have her read him the papers; and though she understood no more than she had ever done, her voice had ceased to be dull and fretful. Then at night he would go up to his attic and drink in the smell of gorse at the window, till he grew drowsy and shut himself in with the smell of apples.

After a time they began to notice a convergence in these independent ways. It seemed as if only by running apart had they learned at last to run together. A certain friendliness and comradery began to establish itself between them. Reuben began to talk to Naomi about politics and agricultural doings, and gradually her character underwent a strange blossoming. She became far more adult in her opinions; she took interest in matters outside her household and immediate surroundings. He never spoke to her of his plans for Boarzell, for that would have brought them back into the old antagonism and unrest; but when she read the papers to him he would discuss them with her, occasionally interrupt her with comments, and otherwise show that he had to do with an intelligent being. She in her turn would enquire into the progress of the hops or the oats, ask him if his new insect-killer was successful, or whether Ditch had done well with his harvest, or how much Realf's had fetched at the corn-market.

Three months passed in this new way. Reuben would never have believed that Naomi could be a companion to him, especially after the last few hostile years. As for her, she looked young and pretty again; delicious slim lines had come into her figure--no longer the slack curves and emaciation of recent months, or the matronly fullness of earlier times. Her health seemed completely restored.

Then came a day early in December, when they were walking home together through the mud of Totease Lane, their faces whipped into redness by the south-west wind. Naomi wore a russet cloak and hood, and her hair, on which a few rain-drops glistened, was teasing her eyes. She held Reuben's arm, for the ruts were treacherous, and he noticed the spring and freedom of her walk. A sudden turn of the lane brought them round due west, and between them and the sunset stood Boarzell, its club of firs knobbily outlined against the grape-red sky. It smote itself upon Reuben's eyes almost as a thing forgotten--there, half blotting out the sunset with its blackness. Unconsciously his arm with Naomi's hand on it contracted against his side, while the colour deepened on his cheek-bones.

"Naomi."

"What is it?"

"Boarzell."

She lifted her eyes to the shape between her and the sky, and as unconsciously he had flushed so unconsciously she shuddered.

"Well, what about it?" she asked in a voice that stuck a little.

"It's wunnerful ..." he murmured, "all that great big dark Moor, wot's going to be mine."

She did not speak.

"Mine!" he repeated almost fiercely.

Then suddenly she began to plead:

"Can't you let it alone, Reuben?--we--we've been so happy these last months not worrying about it. Must we ever start again?"

Her voice came anxiously, timidly like a child's. He dropped her hand from his arm.

"Yes--we must," he said shortly.

They reached Odiam, both feeling that the glory of those last three months had departed. The sight of Boarzell, lying black and hullish across their path, had made them realise that their happiness was but an interval, an interlude between more significant, more sinister things. Naomi had lost her peace and confidence, she seemed to avoid her husband, was tongue-tied in his presence, gave him a hurried good night from the door. Reuben was silent and meditative--when his eyes rested on Naomi they were half regretful.

That night he lay awake long hours in the smell of apples. He pondered many things. Those past months had been sweet in their revived tenderness, their simple freedom. But Boarzell had reasserted itself--Naomi was now quite well again--she must no longer shirk her duties. She must have more children.

It was cruel, he knew. She had already given him seven, she could not realise that her task was not yet done. She had just felt what it was to be well and strong again after long months of illness. It would be cruel to impose on her once more the pains and weariness of motherhood. It would be cruel.--But, hem it all! was not the thing he was fighting cruel? Was not Boarzell cruel, meeting his endeavours with every form of violence and treachery? If he was to conquer it he too must be cruel, must harden his heart, and press forward, without caring how much he or anyone bled on the way. He could not stop to consider even his nearest and dearest when his foe had neither mercy nor ruth for him.

§ 13.

It was the August of another year. Reuben's new land on Boarzell was tawny with oats. He had at last broken into that defiant earth and taken handfuls of its treasure. To-day he inspected his crop, and planned for its reaping. With parted lips and a faint sensuous gleam in his eyes he watched it bow and ripple before the little breeze that stole over the hedges from Tiffenden. He drank in the scent of the baking awns, the heat of the sun-cracked earth. It was all dear to him--all ecstasy. And he himself was dear to himself because the beauty of it fell upon him ... his body, strong and tired, smelling a little of sweat, his back scorched by the heat in which he had bent, his hand strong as iron upon his sickle. Oh Lord! it was good to be a man, to feel the sap of life and conquest running in you, to be battling with mighty forces, to be able to fight seasons, elements, earth, and nature....

He turned and walked slowly homewards, a smile on his lips. As he passed the orchard, where a crop of plums was ripening, the shrill whir of a bird-rattle made him look up. There in the long grass stood his young Albert, dutifully scaring sparrows from the trees. He had been there all the afternoon, and Reuben beckoned to him to come in to tea. Further on, in the yard, he encountered Robert feeding the chickens out of an enormous bowl carried by Pete, whose arms with difficulty embraced its girth. He summoned these two in. His family trotted after him at a respectful distance. They did not speak, except to say "Oo" occasionally to each other.

In the kitchen a substantial meal was prepared. It was the children's supper, and was to last Reuben till he came in at nine o'clock and had a bowl of broth before going to bed. Old Mrs. Backfield was settling the children round the table. Caro and Tilly showed only their heads above the cloth, a piece of neck proclaimed Benjamin's extra inches, while Richard had quite two buttons to his credit. Harry sat at the bottom beside Caroline; when he heard Albert's rattle, he seized it and began making a hideous din. Caro and Tilly began to cry, and Reuben snatched the rattle away.

He sat down, and immediately his mother put a plate of hot bacon before him. She was vexed because it was the only meat he allowed himself on week-days. The children ate bread and milk, and thrived on it, to judge by their round healthy faces. Reuben was proud of them. They were fine children, and he hoped that the one that was coming would be as sturdy.

"How is she?" he asked Mrs. Backfield.

"She slept a bit this afternoon. I took her a cup of tea at five, but I think the heat tries her."

"I'll go up and see her soon as I've finished--Harry, täake your hand out of the baby's pläate."

As soon as the supper was over, Reuben still munching bread and bacon went up to his wife's room. The sunlight was gone, but the sky was blood-red behind Boarzell's hulk, and a flushed afterglow hung on the ceiling and moved slowly like a fire over the bed. The corners of the room, the shadows cast by the furniture, were black and smoky. On Naomi's face, on her body outlined under the sheet, the lights crimsoned and smouldered. There was a strange fiery reflection in her eyes as she turned them to the door.

"Well, my dear, how are you?"

"I'm very well, thank you, Backfield."

She always said that.

He came over to the bed and looked down on her. Her eyes were haunting ... and the vestiges of youth about her face. But he no longer pitied or spared. Boarzell had taught him his first lesson--that only the hard shall triumph in the hard fight, and that he who would spare his brother shall do no better than he who would spare himself.

He sat down beside her and took her hand.

"I hear you had some sleep this afternoon."

"Yes--I slept for an hour. I think I'm better."

Her voice was submissive--or indifferent.

"I've bin on the new land all to-day. It's doing justabout splendid. Those oats are as dentical as wheat--not a sedge-leaf adin them."

She made a faint sound to show that she had heard him.

"Albert's bin in the orchard scaring sparrers, and Robert and Pete wur helping wud the chickens. My family's gitting quite valiant now, Mrs. Backfield."

"Yes."

"I'll soon be able to have Richard on, and then there's still Jemmy to foller--and George."

"Mmm."

"Now döan't you put me off wud Georgina."

Her mouth stretched mechanically into a smile, and at the same time a tear slid out of the corner of her eye, and rolled slowly over her thin cheeks. In the red, smouldering light of the sky behind Boarzell it looked like a tear of blood.

§ 14.

Early in September George arrived. Reuben's face kindled when the doctor told him he had escaped Georgina.

The doctor, however, did not look pleased.

"Perhaps now you have enough boys?" he said rather truculently.

"Well, there's six...."

"I hope that's enough to satisfy you. Because there won't be any more---- She's dying."

"Dying!"

He repeated the word almost stupidly.

"Yes"--said Dr. Espinette. He did not feel inclined to mince matters with Backfield.

"But--but--can't you do anything for her, surelye?"

"I'm afraid not. Of course, one can never speak with absolute certainty even in a case like this. But----" and the doctor wasted some medical technicalities on Reuben.

The young man turned from him, half-dazed. Dying! Naomi! A sudden wild pang smote through his heart for the mother of his children.

"Do something for her! you can--you must."

"I'm going over to Gablehook now, but I'll call in on the way back. I'm afraid there's not much hope; however, I'll do my best."

Reuben's sudden pallor and blank eyes had softened his heart a little. But, he reflected the next moment, there was no sense in pitying Backfield.

Reuben did not wait any longer--he dashed out of the room and upstairs to his wife's door.

He knocked. From within came a faint sound of moaning. He knocked again. The midwife opened the door.

"Go away," she said, "we can't let you in."

"I want to see Naomi."

"You can't."

"I must. Hem it! äun't I her husband?"

"You can come back in an hour or two. But you must go now--" and she shut the door in his face.

Reuben slunk away, angry and miserable.

He pottered about the farm all the morning. Somehow these terrible events reminded him of the birth of his first child, when he had moped and fretted and sulked--and all for nothing. That seemed twenty years ago. Now he did not fret for nothing. His wife was dying, still young, still sometimes beautiful. His mind was full of jumbled memories of her--he saw her as Harry's sweetheart, sitting with him on Boarzell while he sang; he saw her in the dairy where he had first kissed her stooping over the cream; he saw her as his bride, flushed and timid beside him at the wedding-feast, as the mother of his boys, proud and full-bosomed. But mostly his thoughts were more trivial and tattered--memories of her in certain gowns, in a cap she had bought because, having three little boys, she thought she must "dress older"; memories of little things she had said--"Why don't you keep bees, Reuben? Why don't you keep bees? They're such pretty things, and I like the honey...."

Towards two in the afternoon he came in, tired and puff-eyed with misery, his brain all of a jangle. "Why don't you keep bees, Reuben? Why don't you keep bees?"

He sat down at the table which the children had left, and mechanically began to eat. His healthy young body claimed its dues, and almost without knowing it he cleared the plate before him. Harry sat in the chimney corner, murmuring, "Why döan't you kip bees, Reuben? Why döan't you kip bees?"--showing that he had uttered his thoughts aloud, just as the empty platters showed him he had made a very good dinner.

At last, strengthened by the food, he went up to Naomi's room again. This time he was admitted.

She lay propped high on the pillows, and he was astonished to see how well she looked, much better than before the baby was born. The infant George lay like a rather ugly doll on his grandmother's lap. He was not so healthy as the other children, indeed for a time it had been doubtful whether he would live.

Naomi smiled feebly, and that smile, so wan, so patient, so utterly wistful, so utterly unregretful, with which almost every mother first greets the father of her child, went straight to Reuben's heart. He fell on his knees by the bed, and covered her hand and her thin arm with kisses.

"Naomi, my darling, my love, git well--you mustn't die and leave me."

Actually his tears fell on her hand, and a rather bitter compassion for him drove away the more normal mood. He had killed her, and he was sorry for it. But if he had it all to do over again he would do it, for the sake of the land which was so much more to him than her life.

"My sweet," he murmured, holding her palm against his mouth, "my liddle creature, my liddle sweet. Git well, and you shan't never have to go through this agäun. Six boys is all I'll want to help me, surelye--and you shall rest and be happy, liddle wife, and be proud of your children and the gurt things they're going to do."

She smiled with that same bitter compassion, and stroked his head with her feeble hand.

"How thick your hair is," she said, and weakly took a handful of it, as she had sometimes done when she was well.

When he left her, ten minutes later, she struck him as better. He could not quite smother the hope that Dr. Espinette was mistaken and that she would recover with nursing and care. After all, even the doctor himself had said that one could never be certain. He felt his spirits revive, and called Beatup to go with him to the hop-fields.

Naomi heard him tramp off, talking of "goldings" and "fuggles." She lay very still, hoping that the light would soon go, and give rest to her tired eyes--but she was too utterly weary to ask Mrs. Backfield to draw the curtains. Her mother-in-law put the baby back in its cradle, then sat down at the foot of the bed, folding her arms over her breast. She was tired after her labours in the house and in the sick-room, and soon she began to doze. Naomi felt more utterly alone than before.

Her fingers plucked nervously at the sheet. There seemed to be a strange tickling irritation in her skin, while her feet were dreadfully cold. She wondered rather dully about the baby--she supposed he could not come to any harm over there in the cradle by himself, but really she did not care much--it was all one to her what happened to him.

Gradually the sun slanted and glowed, and a faint ripple of air stole into the room, lifting the hair on her forehead, tangled and damp. It struck her that she must be looking very ugly--she who had used to be such a pretty girl.

The light trembled and pearled, and in a swift last clearness she saw the great Moor rolling up against the sky, purple with heather, golden with gorse, all strength and life. It seemed to mock her savagely--"I live--you die. You die--I live." It was this hateful land which had killed her, to which she had been sacrificed, and now it seemed to flaunt its beauty and life and vigour before her dying eyes. "I live--you die. You die--I live."

Yes, she was dying--and she hoped that she would die before Reuben came back. She did not want to feel again that strange, half-bitter compassion for him. The tears ran quite fast down her cheeks, and her eyes were growing dim. This was the end, and she knew it. The evening was full of tender life, but for her it was the end. Ambition and folly had stolen her out of all this freshness before the spring of her life had run. She was like a young birch tree blighted with its April leafage half uncurled.

The tears splashed and dribbled on, till at last for some purely physical reason they stopped. Then a familiar tune swam into her head. She had been told of people who heard music when they were dying.

"At last when your pride shall have brought you to sorrow,
And years of remorse and despair been your fate,
Perhaps your cold heart will remember Seth's Manor,
And turn to your true love--and find it too late."

But her mind was too dim even for regrets. Instead, she seemed to see herself dancing with Reuben at Boarzell Fair, when the dusk had been full of strange whirling lights, whispers, and kisses.

Dancing!... dancing!... Dying!... dying! Even the tune had faded now, and she could see nothing--only a grey patch where the window had been. She was not frightened, only very lonely. Her legs were like ice, and the inside of her mouth felt all rough and numb.

... Even the window had faded. Her head had fallen sideways on the pillow, and behind Boarzell the sky had kindled into a sheet of soaring triumphant flame.

"I live--you die. You die--I live."