SHEAVES

By E. F. BENSON Author of “The Angel of Pain,” “Dodo,” etc. FOURTH EDITION New York Doubleday, Page & Company Copyright, 1907, by Doubleday, Page & Company Published, October, 1907 All Rights Reserved Including that of Translation into Foreign Languages Including the Scandinavian {1}

{2}

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CHAPTER I

THE long and ferocious battle between those desperate wild Indians, Chopimalive and his squaw Sitonim (otherwise known as Jim and Daisy Rye) and the intrepid trader, Hugh Grainger, had come to an end, and the intrepid trader lay dead on the hayfield. He had still (which was a good deal to ask of a dead man) to carry on and direct the Indians’ subsequent movements, and with praiseworthy disregard of self and scorn of consequence, he had said that it was necessary to bury him with musical honours in the arid sands of the American desert, and “Rule Britannia” would do. He had, however, hinted that if his body and legs were buried, that would be quite sufficient in the way of ritual; but the Indians had thought otherwise, and had covered his head also. Then the Indians, being inconveniently hot, had sat down close to his tomb, with threats that unless he lay really dead they would bury him much deeper.

“Dead traders always have their faces uncovered,” said Hugh.

“This one didn’t,” remarked Chopimalive.

“But the squaw always came and uncovered his face afterward, immediately afterward,” said Hugh, “otherwise his ghost haunted them and woke them up about midnight with the touch of an icy hand.”

“Well, your hand wasn’t at all icy,” said Sitonim{4} scornfully. “It was very hot—as hot as me. Besides, you’re dead, and you can’t talk.”

Hugh coughed away some bits of clover that had got into his mouth.

“I’m not talking,” he said; “it’s the voice from the tomb. And if you don’t take the tomb off my face, my ghost will let itself down to-night from the ceiling like a purple spider and eat your nose.”

Shrieks from Sitonim; and she clawed the hay away from his face, nearly putting out his eye.

“Promise you won’t!” she said.

“O Daisy, you funk!” said Chopimalive.

“Well, I don’t want my nose eaten,” said she.

The corpse continued:

“And then to make sure that the trader wouldn’t drop down from the ceiling, Chopimalive felt in the left-hand pocket of his coat, and put a cigarette which he found in a case there into his mouth. Yes. And there was a box of matches—— Oh, I forgot, they pulled his left-hand trouser down, so that the sand of the American desert didn’t get up above his sock and tickle his leg, because the Tickle-ghost is far the worst.”

Chopimalive had memories of the Tickle-ghost.

“Oh, which is your left leg?” he cried. “You’re upside down.”

“So’s the Tickle-ghost,” said Hugh.

“Oh, do tell me!” screamed Chopimalive.

“Well, it’s the other leg,” said Hugh.

“And who’s a funk now?” asked Sitonim.

Daisy was applying the match to the end of the cigarette, and after setting a little hay on fire and burning the trader’s nose, she succeeded in making sure that the spider would not drop down from the ceiling.{5}

“Do ghosts always want such a lot of things?” she asked.

“The worst sort do,” said Hugh. “I’m the worst sort. You are only ten, you see. You haven’t seen all the ghosts yet. The worst come last.”

The minds of the Indians, however, were now relieved. The ritual demanded by the voice from the tomb had been performed, and they grew aggressive again.

“You musn’t talk,” said Chopimalive. “You’re dead.”

“Very well, then, it will all happen,” said Hugh mystically. “It happens most if one doesn’t talk.”

“The worst things? Oh, there’s mother on the lawn! She’s calling to us. Must we go, Hugh?”

Dead silence.

“Hugh, you may talk just this once, to say ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’”

“Yes or no,” said the corpse.

“It means bedtime for Jim,” said Daisy, “because he’s only nine. Yes, mummy, we’re here,” she shrieked.

“And is Hugh there?” called a distant voice.

“Yes, he’s dead. But he’s a voice from the tomb, and he’s telling us a story.”

“Well, five minutes more,” called the distant voice.

“Thank you, darling mummy!” shrieked Daisy.

“Oh, you little liar!” said Hugh.

“Well, but I said you were telling us a story because you were just going to. Weren’t you?”

“That’s no reason why you should tell mummy a story,” said he.

“Oh, then make it true! Do tell us a story!”

Chopimalive sat down heavily on the middle portion of the tomb, and the corpse gave a short, involuntary grunt.{6}

“Oh, Hughie, just a short one!” he said. “We’ve got to go to bed. Do people go to bed later and later as they get older?”

“Yes. I never go to bed at all, because I’m ninety-nine.”

“You aren’t,” said Daisy. “You’re a corpse.”

“Oh, Daisy, don’t be stupid!” said Jim. “That’s finished. Hughie’s going to tell us a story.”

“Will it be silly?” asked Daisy anxiously.

“I can’t tell. It depends on internal evidence,” said Hugh.

Daisy sighed.

“I don’t know what that means,” she said.

“Nor do I,” said Hugh. “I’m a corpse, I am. You said so.”

“Oh, shut up!” said Jim, bounding up and down. “Now begin, Hugh. A minute’s gone.”

Hugh was far too sensible and serious to waste more of the time of the children, which is so infinitely precious when bedtime looms like a thunder-cloud, and began.

“Once upon a time,” he said, “there were three absurd old men, who lived together in an enormous castle built of strawberries.”

“I should have ate them!” said Jim.

“They did. When they felt the least hungry, and very often when they didn’t, they ate a piece of the wall, which instantly grew again. Sometimes they forgot, and ate the chairs on which they were sitting. Because the chairs never grew again, and so after a year or two they all had to sit on the floor.”

He paused, for to talk pure nonsense requires an effort of the imagination. It is fatal if any sense creeps in. In the pause Daisy brushed away the last remnants of hay from his face, because she thought she would hear{7} better so. The face was very red and hot and extraordinarily young—the face of a man, it is true, but of a very boyish person.

“Oh, get on!” said Jim.

Hugh again gave an involuntary grunt.

“They were all, all three of them, very absurd people,” he said, “chiefly because they had never had any mothers, but had been found in gooseberry-bushes in the garden.”

Daisy gave a long appreciative sigh.

“Oh, were you found there, Hughie?” she said.

Hugh thought a moment.

“No. Otherwise I should have been an absurd person. None of us were found in gooseberry-bushes. Try to remember that, and don’t say I said anything about it. But these people were found there, so they were all very peculiar. One was so tall that he had to go up to the attics to brush his hair, and one was so short that he had to go down to the cellar to put on his boots; and the third had such long sight that he saw all round the world, and could thus see the back of his own head, because the world is round and he saw all round it. But he could see nothing nearer than America, unless—unless he wore spectacles. What’s that?”

“It isn’t anything,” said Daisy in a faltering tone.

Hugh thought he had heard some extraneous sound, but he did not trouble to look round.

“Now, though the castle was made of strawberries,” he said, “and there was no trouble about washing up or cleaning——”

“What happened to the stalks?” asked Jim.

“There weren’t any. They were the best strawberries, like those you see when you come down to tea with mummy.”

“Was there cream?” asked Daisy.{8}

“Yes; it came out of sugar-taps in the wall, so that you held the strawberry under the tap and it was covered with cream and sugar, because the taps always melted very fast. That was all right. But what wasn’t all right was that the first absurd old man, whose name was Bang, was always running up to the attic to brush his hair, and the second silly old man was always sitting in the cellar to put on his boots. His name was Bing; and the third old man, whose name was Bong, was always putting on his spectacles, because he wanted to see something nearer than America. So after they had lived like this for rather more than two hundred years, it struck them that a system of coöperative and auxiliary mutualness——”

“What?” shrieked both the children together.

“I don’t know,” said Hugh. “So the tall man always lived up in the attic and brushed everybody’s hair, and the short man always lived in the cellar and tied everybody’s bootlaces, and——”

This time there was a distinct sound of suppressed laughter, and Hugh sat up.

“And the long-sighted man put on all the spectacles he could find in the garden and went to bed, because the five minutes were up, and he expected that a good long night, especially if he wore spectacles, would make him think of something in the morning.”

Daisy saw through this.

“Oh, mummy, you spoiled it all by laughing!” she said with deep reproach. “I know he wouldn’t have gone to bed quite at once.”

“More than five minutes, darlings,” said Lady Rye. “Say good night to Hugh.”

“And you’ll come and see us when you go down to dinner?{9}”

“Yes, if you go at once.”

The two obedient little figures galloped off to the house, and Hugh dispossessed himself of the sand of the American desert and sat up.

“Dressing-time?” he asked.

“No, only dressing-bell,” said she. “I came to sit in the hay for five minutes. When did you get here?”

“About tea-time. You were all out on the river, so we played Indians.”

“Daisy said you played better than anybody she knew,” said Lady Rye. “I wish you’d teach me. They don’t think I play at all well.”

Hugh was combing bits of things out of his hair.

“No, I expect you are not quite serious enough,” he said. “You probably don’t concentrate your mind on the fact that you are an Indian and that this is an American desert. Heavens, I shall never get rid of this hay; I wish it wasn’t so prickly!”

“One has to suffer to be absurd,” said she.

“Oh, but surely it isn’t absurd to play Indians!” said Hugh. “Anyhow, it isn’t more absurd than it is for all us grown-up people to dress up every evening and go to parties. That is just as absurd as children’s dressing-up. In fact, they are more sensible; they dress up and are what they dress up as. We dress up, and behave exactly as usual.”

Lady Rye considered this.

“Why do you go to parties, then, if it’s absurd?” she asked.

“Why? Because it’s such fun. I play wild Indians with Daisy and Jim for the same reason. But in both cases it’s playing. If you come to think of it, it is ridiculous for some distinguished statesman or general{10} to put on stars and ribands when he goes to see his friends. It’s dressing-up. So why not say so?”

“Well, it’s time for us to go and dress up. Oh, isn’t it nice just for a day or two to have a pause? There’s no one here but Edith and Toby and you, and I shall make no efforts, but only go out in a punt and fill my pond.”

“Fill your pond?” asked Hugh.

“Yes; you and Edith shall both help. Don’t you know the feeling, when you have been racketting about and talking and trying to arrange things for other people how one’s whole brain and mind seem to be just like an empty pond—no water in it, only some mud, in which an occasional half-stranded fish of an idea just flaps from time to time? Go and dress, Hugh, and don’t keep me talking.”

Lady Rye’s misguided parents had selected the name Cynthia for her. This was a pity, since there was nothing whatever in her appearance or disposition that could remind her friends of the moon, and while she was still of an early age they had taken the matter into their own hands, disregarded her baptismal name, and always called her Peggy, which suited her quite admirably. In her own opinion she was hideous, but this fact, for so she honestly and frankly considered it to be, did not in the least weigh on her mind, nor did she let that very acute instrument of perception dwell on it, for it was a mere waste of time to devote any thought to that which was so palpably inferior. She knew that her mouth was too big, and that her nose was too small, and that her hair, which might, if anybody wanted to be really candid, be called sandy, did not suit with her rather dark complexion. She knew, too, that her eyes were green, and since this was so, she considered, this time{11} rather hastily, that they must therefore be ugly, which they certainly were not, for

they had to a wonderful degree that sensitiveness and power of reflecting the mood of the moment, which green eyes above all others seem to possess. And since the moods which were reflected there were always shrewd, always kindly, and always humorous, it followed that the eyes were very pleasant to look upon. They indicated an extraordinary power of friendliness.

Her friends, it therefore followed, were many, and though their unanimous verdict was that “she looked charming,” she, with the rather severe commonsense which distinguished her, took this epithet as confirmation of her own opinion. For nobody (except one’s enemies) said one looked charming if it was ever so faintly possible to say that one was pretty or beautiful, and to her mind “you look charming” was rather a clumsy mode of indicating one’s plainness, accompanied by a welcome. But she was as far from quarrelling with her fate as she was from quarrelling with her friends; in this over-populated world, where there are so many people and so few prizes, she was more than content with what had been given her. She was well married, she had two adorable children, a “dear angel” of a husband—a position in its way quite unique, and entirely of her own making; also she had formed the excellent habit of enjoying herself quite enormously, without damage to others—an attitude toward life which is more to be desired than gold.

It was, in fact, a large part of her gospel; with her whole nature, pleasant and mirthful and greatly alive, she passionately wanted people to be happy. It seemed to her the ideal attitude toward life, and she practised it herself.

The advent of her sister, Mrs. Allbutt, and herself on{12} the London horizon had, twenty years ago, been quite a big event. Edith had been then a girl of twenty-two; she herself was three years younger. Much of the coal of Staffordshire was in their joint hands, and marriageable London was at their feet. Then, as usual, the unusual happened. Cynthia (or Peggy), the green-eyed, the sandy-haired, married at once, and married well; and though that was not in the least remarkable, the odd thing was that Edith, the elder, the beautiful, did not marry for two years later. And when she did marry she married that impossible little Dennis Allbutt. The only explanation was that she fell in love with him. She, at any rate—that proud, shy, silent girl of twenty years ago—had no other to give, for this was true and simple and sufficient, and as to the “why” that she had fallen in love with this bad subject she did not concern herself to enquire. It was so; something in her responded to something in him—to his quickness maybe, for she, beautiful mind and

body alike, was rather slow of movement, and it was in vain that Peggy, wise from the heights of her two years’ knowledge of the domestic hearth, besought her to withdraw her hand before it was irrevocably given. Then, when pleading was of no use, when reasoning was vain, she had told her sister what people said of him—how he tipped and fuddled himself, so that he went to bed every night not sober, even if not drunk; that it was in the blood, that his father had died a drunkard’s death. And at that Edith had risen up in quiet, rather dreadful anger.

“It will be wiser of you not to go on, Peggy,” she had said. “Dennis has told me all about it. What you say about his father is true; what you say about him is false. It was true, however, at one time. He has completely got over it.{13}”

“But—” began Peggy.

“I think you had better beg my pardon,” said Edith.

So, poor soul, she had her way, and the twelve years that followed had been for her a descent, steady and unremitting, into the depths of hell. Three years ago now the end had come, and these three years of her widowhood had been passed by her in a long heroic struggle to build up life again out of the wreck and ruin that he had made of her best years, when he chained her by his side, so to speak, in a cellar while outside June was in flower for her. It had been hard work, and often it was the mere fear of going mad if she allowed herself to pause to let her mind dwell on that frightful background of the years, that had kept her struggling and battling to make something of what remained to her. She had studied, she had worked, with the whole force of her quiet indomitable will she had held to that which she knew, even in the darkest hours, to be a fact—namely, that nobody could ruin your life for you, unless you acquiesced in the ruin; as long as she could say to herself “I do not allow it to be ruined,” it was not. And to-day she

might fairly say that that attitude had become a habit to her; dark hours still came—hours of gloom and impotent revolt against the searing and burning years she had been through—but these were no longer habitual.

London, which never remembers anything clearly for long, never wholly forgets, and this spring when Edith Allbutt had appeared again, staying at Rye House with her sister, it faintly recollected these facts and commented on them. It really was almost worth while to live twelve years with a dreadful little man like that if at the end you came out at the age of over forty looking like Juno. She was so pleasant too, so agreeable, she had{14} such distinction of a kind that was rather rare nowadays, when everybody played bridge with one hand while they played croquet with the other, and talked all the time with their mouths full of a vegetarian diet. She was the sort of person—magnetic, is it not?—of whom one is always conscious. In a way utterly opposite to Peggy’s, she gave the impression of immense vitality. What had she been doing with herself during these three years in the country, where nobody had seen her, to make her like that? Above all, what was she going to do with herself now?

It seemed then that, dissimilar as the two sisters were, the family likeness between them did exist somewhere very essentially, for if there was one thing for which Peggy was distinguished it was vitality of a kind that made everybody else seem rather like molluscs. And though very differently manifested, this vitality seemed to be equally characteristic of her sister, who had not retired to a bath-chair or a cemetery, but had come out again unimpaired and serenely splendid from what would have driven most women out of their minds.