Possession (Roche, February 1923)/Part 1/Chapter 1
On an evening in early May, a young man was walking sharply along the country road that passed through the fishing-village of Mistwell, and, following the shore of one of those inland seas, oddly called great lakes, led to the town of Brancepeth, seven miles away.
The young man was just above medium height and just under thirty, and he walked with a resolute and eager step that spoke of some elation of spirit. As the deep ruts of the road were half-frozen he kept to the side, where a narrow path was beaten, looking about him with the interest of one who sees his future surroundings for the first time. His wide-open, greenish-blue eyes rested with pleasurable curiosity, first on the budding orchards to his right, and then on the level expanse of the lake, flushed pink by the reflection of the western sky, to his left.
His eyes were not only wide open, as though they looked life eagerly in the face, expecting more than most men: but they had a free, fearless, careless look, that, combined with his closely cropped fair hair, and small, tawny mustache, made him appear even younger than he was. His strong limbs denoted vigour and his full, round chin and rather wide nostrils indicated some rashness and dominance of character.
He stopped to snuff the crisp air from the lake and to watch a flock of gulls circling in pursuit of their evening meal.
He now saw that he was not alone, for another pedestrian had appeared around a bend of the road behind him. He watched the approach of the newcomer with the same look of pleasant curiosity that he had given to the landscape. As he came up beside him, he said:
"Can you tell me whether I am near a place named Grimstone?"
He spoke in the full, agreeable tones of a Nova Scotian; the other replied with a slight North of Ireland accent:
"You are. It's not above half a mile from here. I'm going past the gate myself, and, if you like, I'll bear you company."
They walked along together; the Nova Scotian keeping to the narrow path, while his companion strode doggedly over the frozen ruts. He was a slender, wiry man, with thin, ruddy cheeks and hard, light-blue eyes. His coatcollar was turned up against the frosty air, and he swung a carved walking-stick, as though he had a fierce pleasure in movement.
"I take it that you're young Mr. Vale, himself," he said.
The young man nodded, smiling with a little embarrassment.
"It's queer they didn't come to meet ye."
"They are not expecting me till tomorrow. I found I could get away a day earlier, and—well, I suppose I was in a hurry to see the place."
"Naturally. It's a fine place, but not kept up as it should be. But perhaps you've visited it before?"
"No. I have never been west of Quebec till now."
"Perhaps you've never taken much interest in farming, eh?" His tone was inquisitive.
"Very little. I'm an architect. But I like the country. Riding, fishing. That sort of thing."
"Well, you'll find life different here. Of course, Grimstone is a small place, just two hundred acres; it's not a great charge. Now, we have eight hundred acres, and the finest herd of Holsteins in the Province. You must come to see us, Mr. Vale, and I'll show you about. I manage the farm lands for Mr. Jerrold, the owner. My name is Hobbs." He gave the information about himself with a certain swagger. Obviously, he was a man to be reckoned with.
While he discoursed with fluency of prize bulls, butter-making contests, and fattening steers, young Mr. Vale, half wishing he were alone again—this man seemed to take the glamour from his adventure—peered into the now deepening dusk for the first signs of his new habitation.
He had been told at the station that a little graveyard lay just east of Grimstone, and now the road, sweeping sharply to the very edge of the steep shore, almost circled a grove of ragged pines, among which he caught the pale glimmer of gravestones. The gentle swish of the water seemed at his very feet. A white wooden house appeared like someone waiting at the roadside. Hobbs was saying:
"This is where Chard lives. You'll not find him much of a neighbour. Now I'll just tell you what he's like. Not long ago he hired some men from Mistwell to help him dig drains. Very well; when the end of the week came he paid the men, all but old Peek. And he says to him—'Peek, you're so old and feeble that you can't do as much as the others, so you'll come back to work two days more before I give ye a week's wage.' And the poor old devil had to. So now I've introduced Chard, the Superintendent of the Sunday-school, and a damned good farmer. But that's what I call sharp and hard, Mr. Vale, and yet I'm called hard sometimes by the thirty-odd men under me. Now here's your gate, and good night to you. Don't forget to come over and see our herd."
Touching his cap he hurried down a sudden steep that fell from the gates of Grimstone, ending in a little bridge that spanned an unseen stream whose gushing murmur proclaimed it swollen with the spring rains.
Derek Vale stood still. He did not want to open the gate till Hobbs was out of sight. Then—"My gate," he thought, and laid his hand on the cold iron almost caressingly. The dark bulk of a low, broad, stone house rose before him, surrounded by the massive trunks of trees whose lowest branches were higher than its chimneys. The front of the house was in darkness, but he could see a light in one of the back rooms. He determined to go to the window where the light was and get a glimpse of the occupants of the house, so that he might have the advantage of having seen them unobserved.
The light was cast by an oil lamp on the kitchen table. Derek drew near the window with caution. He felt beneath his feet the stone of a flagged yard. A noise of stamping and singing came from within. He was astonished and amused by what he saw.
In the circle of ruddy light a girl was dancing a sort of breakdown, supplying the music for her performance with her own lusty, clear voice. She seemed charged with rough vigour, snapping her fingers and stamping her feet in almost frenzied rhythm. Her full breasts bounced, her strong legs leaped against her long, heavy skirt; the lamp light sparkled on the thick spectacles she wore. Around her were grouped four men and an old woman. "She must be Mrs. Machin," thought Derek, "the housekeeper . . . the men, farm labourers, of course."
He was fascinated by the dancing of the girl. Only when she had dropped panting into a chair could he give more than a glance to the men. Two were seated at the table facing each other. They had been playing at dominoes and they now returned to the game, their faces still fixed in the grin with which they had watched the dance. One was a red-cheeked youth with a black bullet head, beady eyes, and a sly smile. His opponent had a narrow head, a fair, reckless face, and the look of a sailor rather than a farm labourer. Talking and laughing with the girl, the third man showed through his open collar a full brown throat and chest; he had an honest, stubborn face. The fourth had been sitting in the shadow, but he now drew a match across a stove-lid and held it to a cigarette, the flash illuminating for a moment his prominent, well cut cheek bones, bright eyes, and curly brown hair. He rose, stretched himself, and came towards the window. Derek hastily turned away, and, finding himself facing the door, he gave a sharp, yet nervous rap.
The man with the cigarette opened the door. A collie dog at his side barked noisily.
"I should like to see Mrs. Machin," said Derek.
The old woman instantly appeared, pushing aside the dog and man, and presenting a peremptory front to Vale.
"You are the housekeeper, aren't you?" he said.
She looked at him shrewdly. "My goodness, don't tell me you are Mr. Vale! We didn't expect you till tomorrow. Of course, it don't matter to me. But one of these boys should ha' met you."
"I've enjoyed the walk," said Derek. "Shall I come in at this door?"
"Well, I expect you can come in at any door you please. It's your house. But if I was you, I'd go round and come in at the front. It'd be more seemly for the master."
Derek laughed. "I think I shall come this way if you don't mind. It looks rather more cheerful."
The young men had got to their feet, but the girl, evidently overcome by shyness, sat with her face hidden in the curve of her arm, supported by the back of her chair.
Mrs. Machin put the dog outside and shut the door sharply. She said:
"Now you are in the kitchen, Mr. Vale, I may as well name over these idle rascals to you. The two playing dominoes are Bob Gunn and John Newbigging. Bob used to be in the Chube Wur-rks in Glesca, he says. He means he used to be in the Tube Works in Glasgow." The bulletheaded youth grinned. "John Newbigging has been all over creation and he has an old mother in Dundee he never writes to. Perhaps you'll be able to stop him and Bob quarrelling as to which is the worst city, Glesca or Auld Reekie. I can't." Both men burst into embarrassed laughs, and Newbigging said, "It's no fair, Mrs. Machin, to be tryin' to prejudice Mr. Vale against us frae the start."
"This one," proceeded Mrs. Machin, indicating the honest-faced fellow, who still kept near the girl, "is Hugh McKay. He's a Galloway shepherd, and he'll talk about sheep to you all day long if you'll let him." McKay came forward with dignity and held out his hand.
"Mrs. Machin 'd be givin' us all a character," he said.
"Well, I'm prepared to do a good deal of talking about sheep," said Derek, shaking the proffered brown hand, and liking McKay at once.
"Phoebe, get up out of that chair and speak to Mr. Vale." But the girl, though she rose, uncovering her comely, red face, would not speak. She stared, teetering on her feet, and holding to McKay's coat sleeve.
"Are you Scotch, too?" asked Derek.
"No, she comes from Kent. She used to work in the hop-fields," replied McKay. "That's where she learned to dance."
"To hop, as it were," said Derek. The joke brought a roar of laughter from the men.
"This is Mr. Windmill," interrupted Mrs. Machin. He threw away his cigarette and came forward. "He's out here to study farming. But he just works and lives like the rest of us. Except he wears gloves to plough."
Windmill flushed but smiled good-humouredly. "The horses don't seem to mind me having gloves on."
"No, but Mike minded you having boots on when you kicked him the other day."
"Didn't I say she'd be givin' us all characters?" said McKay.
Mrs. Machin had lighted a tall, brass lamp; picking it up, she said: "Well, you've had a look at us, Mr. Vale, and if you'll come to the dining room now, I'll lay you a bit of supper." As she preceded Derek with the lamp, she called back, "Wood and water, boys."
She was a repellent old woman, he thought, with her yellow face, black, oily hair, eyes the colour of an oyster, and stiff, white apron. And she had hurried him out of the kitchen, his own kitchen, in a very domineering fashion. Well, since she seemed so capable, and so used to ordering the men about, it would relieve him of the necessity of taking the reins into his unaccustomed hands at once.
The dining room was a low-ceilinged room wainscoted in white and papered in dark green. The furniture was black oak, and two deep, built-in cupboards filled with blue china lent a comfortable old-world air. There were two large steel engravings on either side of the chimney piece: Wellington and Blucher after Waterloo, and The Trial of William, Lord Russell. The large fireplace had been papered over. Tapping it with his knuckles, he thought, "I'll have that opened up," but, as Mrs. Machin looked at him sharply, he picked up a china greyhound from the mantel and examined it. His greyhound . . . . but it was ridiculous.
Mrs. Machin set him down to cold beef, bread and butter, bramble jam, and tea.
"Home-made bread?" he asked, with his mouth full.
"No, indeed. We've plenty to do without bread-making and the baker three times a week from Mistwell. Ain't it good?"
"Delicious," he replied, abashed.
Mrs. Machin had closed the door between the dining room and kitchen and established herself in a straight-backed chair against the wall. She said:
"I should know you for a Vale anywhere. I s'pose that's why your uncle took to you."
"It was a great surprise. It scarcely seemed fair to my brother."
"Fair! What's unfair about it? Couldn't he leave his property where he liked?" She stroked her apron with her large-knuckled hands. "Well I remember when he went away to Halifax ten years ago to choose which one he would make his heir. When he came back he said to me—'I've made my choice, Mrs. Machin. His name's Derek. The other one is no Vale,' says he. He was terrible proud of this place. I s'pose you know that your great-grandfather built it above a hundred years ago."
"My uncle talked to me a great deal when he was in Halifax. He spoke of you too."
"He might well speak of me. I've served his family faithful for—let's see—fifty-four years this month. And the last two years, I've run the place myself, you might say. Not bad for a woman of seventy-two, eh?"
"Wonderful."
"And now I want to know if you're going to keep me on. It don't matter a bit to me because I've got a sister in Mistwell that wants me to live with her, and I haven't slaved all these years and saved nothing you may depend on it."
For all her air of independence Derek could see that she was fiercely eager to stay. He did not want her, yet he was afraid to be left alone in charge of the four men and the girl. He might make himself ridiculous. He said:
"In his will my uncle recommended you. Of course I shall want you to stay on."
"Well, I'm glad that's settled. Not that it matters to me, though I do look on Grimstone as my home, having lived here ever since my father was drowned."
"In the lake here?"
"Why not? There's plenty of room, ain't there? It gets all the Mistwell fishermen sooner or later. It didn't get pa till he'd fathered six of us, so that wasn't so bad. But it laid low and got two out of the six. Fools, to be fishermen!"
When she was gone and the door closed behind her, Derek stretched his legs and felt for his pipe. He lay back in his armchair staring at the ceiling darkened by the soot from a stove-pipe that crossed it from end to end. "Stove-pipe's got to go," he muttered, between puffs. "Just a big open fireplace—and logs." He got up and began restlessly to pace the room. He examined Wellington and Blucher again, shaking hands so cordially, the dead and dying tumbled plentifully about their horses' hoofs.
He next observed a sampler, The Lord's Prayer, worked by Agnes Vale, aged nine years, in the year of our Lord, Eighteen Hundred and Thirty-six. Seventy-five years ago, Cousin Agnes in England must be named for her . . . . he thought of cousin Agnes, whom he had never seen. He thought of Edmund, his only near relation. How Edmund would laugh if he could see him now! He felt that Edmund would have been better able to cope with Mrs. Machin. He wished that she and the others would go to bed so that he might adventure further. No doubt they were talking him over in the kitchen. Now he heard a shuffling of feet and the click of a bolt. He returned quickly to his chair and crossed his legs.
The door behind him opened. It was the women. Mrs. Machin gave the impression of driving Phoebe before her. The girl's hand was over her mouth, as though at any moment she might explode with laughter. Mrs. Machin gave a curt good night, and they disappeared into the dark passage. Soon the three Scotchmen went through in Indian file. They were in their stockinged feet, and McKay carried a short end of candle. They said, "Good nicht, sir," in a friendly chorus, but kept their eyes shyly averted. Derek waited impatiently for the Englishman, Windmill. It was quite half an hour before he followed the others. He wore slippers and carried a small lamp. He hesitated, smiled pleasantly, and said:
"There is a step down into the hallway, Mr. Vale. I thought I should warn you."
"Oh, thanks," said Derek.
He was alone.
A clock in the hall struck ten with harsh, penetrating tones.
The dog was snuffling at the crack under the door, evidently disturbed by the strange presence.
Derek went to a window and looked out. No moon; he had never seen such utter darkness. It was as though Grimstone had swallowed him, and a tangible body was reared between him and the world he had known. He turned back to the room and picked up the lamp. Mrs. Machin had told him that she had prepared two bedrooms for him—one downstairs—one above. (It didn't make no difference to her which he took.) Detestable old woman. Why had she not warned him of the step? Even knowing of it he almost stumbled. The lamplight showed him a severe hall with five closed doors, and a hatstand, on either side of which a deer's head peered at him with startled brown eyes. The tall clock stood under the stairway beside a narrow door, which, when he opened it disclosed only a closet hung with hats and coats, and a shelf of old magazines and ledgers. His uncle's clothes. He closed the door feeling a little rebuffed for his curiosity, and opened a door opposite. Here was the parlour: a long, narrow room with two doors opening on the hall, and a row of low windows, hung with straight green curtains. There were many walnut chairs and tables, the latter ornamented with brass-bound books, and glass candelabra with hanging prisms. A group in marble stood on the closed piano; a few oil-paintings hung against the pale walls. A room full of memories; not to be taken possession of lightly, rather repelling intrusion.
Across the hall he found a bedroom whose tall four-poster and deep leather chair pleased him at once. The old English sporting prints on the walls were nice, too. He was tired but he would not go to bed till he had seen the upstairs.
So he ascended the uncarpeted steps, the lamp at a precarious angle. He explored three bedrooms and a dingy little study, and peered down a narrow passage that led to the rooms occupied by the help.
As he undressed he wondered how they were disposed: probably the robust girl and the dry old woman together; Windmill alone; the three Scots sleeping like logs. He found his bed, when he plunged into it, amazingly soft and enveloping. He had never slept on feathers before. As he drew the quilt to his chin he gave an amused little chuckle. It seemed to him that he had taken command of a storm-worn old ship and was outward bound on an unknown sea. Well, he had a hardy old pilot in Mrs. Machin . . . and, thinking of her, he fell asleep.