Inheritance Feud

Chapter 46

Chapter 46

"You do not understand. How can you? How could you in any case let him come to live at Mains? Nobody in the county will know us, or will send invitations-and Sybilla, it isn't fair to her and in any case, Theon, of all people! You don't know him, what a devil he can be; he will destroy us, and our marriage. He has come here resolved "She sat up, her face swollen, her eyes bloodshot with weeping. Godfrey's heart turned over with pity for her; he still tried to use reason, thinking she was hysterical.

"My dearest, how could I turn your kinsman from the door without shelter? I could not ask him to stay with us, as you say, for the sake of Sybilla; but, after all, if he had not been permitted to stay at Mains he'd have made do for himself, I doubt not, in the ruined cottage Aaron left him, I hear, rather than leave the vicinity. It's-it's his native place," and Godfrey faltered, for he, a southerner, could not fully under stand the fierce need Theon had for Baron, Baron which he could no longer even see or hope to inherit. After he and Hermione were dead. Godfrey knew, the place would belong to Sybilla and the man she would marry. He tried, as time passed, to comfort his wife on this head, and the other she had mentioned; but she would not be comforted, and it was some days before Godfrey felt that she had forgiven him for letting Theon into Mains, after wrecking her rout-party.

Theon moved in to the dower house at once, setting Sam son to light a fire and bring out and air the bedding; the house was somewhat damp with lack of being lived in since aunt Galadriel's death. They cracked a bottle between them that they had brought from the Fleece, that night to keep them warm; and sat by the fire reminiscing till near morning. It seemed to Samson that his master never grew weary, for even he was beginning to feel the need of repose; tomorrow, Mor ven promised him, they should go again to the village and fetch necessaries. He was smiling as he said this, and Samson felt the delight of a small boy who has been promised a treat, but will not be told more till he sees what it is; he often had this experience with Theon.

The evening after moving into Mains, Theon returned to the inn.

Livia Judd was behind the bar-counter, looking as folk always saw her now; a comely young woman in sad-coloured kirtle and snowy apron, with her famed skill in laundering, which she also taught her maids, well shown in the neat goffering of her cap. The fine bosom her tight-laced bodice displayed was the occasion, sometimes, with new customers for lewd advances, ogling its owner as they sat across the coun ter at their ale; but no man who behaved so would be made welcome at the Fleece, and as her older customers knew, Livia was chaste and faithful to Abel. She was respected nowadays, as tonight's talk showed; it was pleasant and not bawdy, and men kept their consumption of ale at a decent level. Some smoked long pipes at a table nearby the door, and the blue grey smoke rose, rivalling the cheerful blaze of the fire on the hearth, which sent reflected lights out on to the well-sanded irons. It was a kindly scene, made more so by the increasing contrast of the wind rising outside, which made the flames dip and sway, like bright-clad ladies curtsying,

Doon came in at the door, borne on this wind. He stood for instants, the dark caped cloak he always wore swirling about him into stillness. He was like a thing of the night, of the devil; the pale eyes, unerring, focussed on Livia as though they could see. There might have been no one else in the room for either of them. She made one slow, hesitant movement with her hand to her bosom, then set down the flagon she was filling.

The ale at the tap brimmed over. Livia was still aware that the flow, which she had not yet turned off, was dripping over the floor and would stain it and her skirts. But there was nothing she could do, nothing; it was as though she were already bewitched. She heard Theon's voice, across the sud den silence that had fallen in the taproom. It was as though she had known what he would say.

"I have come for you, Livia; and our son." In after years it would become a legend, what happened

that night. Those who witnessed it perhaps said less, later on, than those who did not, but imagination could not in any case gild the truth. And the truth was this; that the chaste, comely tavern-wife of the Fleece, still wearing her snowy cap and apron, left the counter, and the ale still brimming over at its tap; and walked across the floor to where the blind man stood. To most of them here he was still the heir of Baron, young Doon to whom a cruel lot had denied his heritage, not a criminal, as the gentry regarded him; but to night he put a chill in men's hearts. He himself said nothing to anyone, only caught his cloak about Livia as if to protect her from the night outside. Then they went out together, and for a long moment there was nothing heard but the sound of the wind, and of a coach driving away.

Then it had taken as long as that someone remembered to go and turn off the ale-tap, and somebody else said they'd better go for Abel. But no one in the end, did that; and when he came down, and found the counter unattended, nobody for a long time answered when he asked where his wife had gone.

The coach must have been ready and waiting; Theon had

helped her in at once, and himself after her. He must have

had it planned at all points, because the mulatto, carrying

William wrapped in his greatcoat, sat already up beside the

driver on the box, and she couldn't see more because of the night. It could have been no easy task to drag William from his bed, to go off with a strange blackamoor, and she ... The horses drew away and were making all speed through

the night, and Theon's hands had found her. "Not here," she tried to say, "not until we...

"Livia, Livia." "Not until ... ah, Theon, Theon.

Afterwards, he asked her if she'd expected him to wait one moment longer, having waited all these years? And it was as it had always been between them, a living fire. She felt the coach swaying on the road to Mains, and even heard the driver's whip c***k over the heads of the horses, and they drove on and on; and she, held in Theon's arms so tightly it did not seem that she could live till journey's end, knew ecstasy; to live again, when she'd thought of herself as dead.

To live... for Doon. He was unaltered. She loved him. It didn't matter or not he was blind. "You were always mine," he told her afterwards. "Did you

doubt I'd come for you? Why didn't you wait for me?"

But she'd waited, she'd waited. She couldn't find the words

to say that Abel didn't matter, had never mattered in any case, poor Abel. Later she would perhaps regret it more. But now... They drew up at last by Mains gate; she saw the hedge in the light of the carriage-lamps. "There's a fire lit already,

though the chimney smokes damnably," he told her. "Come

in."

Next day, Abel came for her on foot, walking up the path from the gate and tirling the door-pin. It was Livia who opened to him; there wasn't anyone else, save the blackamoor who was drawing water and had already served their meal. She herself was in disarray, her hair hanging down like a girl's; she looked, no doubt, like anyone would after the night they'd had, she and Theon, together in a half-aired bed, not finish ing till noon. There would be a thousand and one things to do at Mains to make it habitable again, she'd get busy with it, she told herself, as soon as Abel was dealt with. Already she knew she would not go back to Abel, for the kirk folk or anyone.

Theon came then, and the two men said the things to one another which had to be said. They finished it together in doors, beside the fire. At one point Livia bent forward and put on more sawn logs, her black hair slipping over her shoulders like a veil. She put it back, and caught the expres sion on Abel's face as she did so; and felt sorry for him.

"I've listened to what you have to say, Theon," replied Abel slowly, "but I haven't yet heard what Livia has to." "Livia has nothing to say."

"Speak up, lass, and don't be afraid of either of us... the

kirk elders may come, you know, and order you to the stool

again." For Abel knew, for she'd told him, at the beginning, of her past, and hadn't judged her for it, and wouldn't judge her either, it was evident, for this. She began to cry quietly; it was worse, much worse, than if he'd been angry with her. "Abel" she began, but Theon again forestalled her. He slid an arm about her waist in a swift, possessive gesture; for the first time since coming, Abel's face flushed to his hair fringe.

"Samson will kick the elders down the path," said Theon brutally. "Don't say you can see me perched on a stool by Livia in kirk, lad? It wouldn't do for either of us." He laughed; the kirk folk wouldn't come here, it was, he thought, too far out of town.

"Is it your wish to stay with him?" Abel said, as though there were only the two of them in the room. "If that's so I'll not hinder you; you know well it's always been, from the beginning, what you wanted, only that. But if you come back with me, as I hope you will, I'd as soon Theon kept away from us at the Fleece." He turned to Theon. "And there's this also," he said slowly. "I don't know for certain, Theon, what it is you mean to do with your warehouses, and your packmen across country, and the rest; but you can leave me out as a customer; from now on I'll pay dues on what I buy openly."

"Poor business, Abel: no other publican can afford it." Theon was smiling openly. "Don't let pique throw you into the arms of Billy Pitt in London: he's cold company, they say, and never cheap."

"Billy Pitt may well perceive before long that lower tax will bring him bigger profit. But that's not for me to say. All I know is that I'm done with you, Theon."

"As Livia is with you, from this day." "Is it true, lass?" said Abel.

Her eyes were full of tears. "You've been good to me, Abel, well I know that. But-but it isn't enough for me. I'm a bad bargain, come of bad gipsy stock, you're well rid of me."

He did not answer this. He jerked his head, in the peasant's immemorial gesture, towards Theon, standing by the smoking fire. "You're staying with him, then?"

"Yes. I'm staying. I'm sorry, Abel." He turned without another word, and left the house. She

heard the door close and the bolt, shot to by Samson, slide into place behind it, outside the rain was beginning to patter down. "He won't have a dry walk," she said. The habit of years, of seeing Abel warm, dry, fed, and comforted, was strong again in her; she felt miserable and ashamed. For an instant she made as if to go after Abel, she saw the massive dark shape of the mulatto go upstairs to his own place, felt Theon move at her side. He took hold of her, unlacing her gown. His hands were

sure and confident and she felt, seeing the near glow of the flames glinting on the surface of his eyes, as if he could see her and the room; she recoiled a little. Was he to make a w***e of her, openly and so soon again here by the hearth? That that was what he would do she knew; a puppet, an obedient thing on strings, she was now, without mind or con science. Still, if she thought hard enough, she could picture Abel in his soaked clothes, walking back alone to Grattan, with nobody to get him dry gear when he got there, or make his supper. Then the gaspings of ecstasy came to her, above the faint sound of the rain; they were her own, and Theon was within her, already having his way with her as he had always done. He was so quick, so sure, was Theon Doon. Soon she forgot Abel. The dark came down early and the fire died in the hearth.