him robbed her of her new-found confidence. It returned at sight of the medicine bottles arranged on the sill of the bedroom which had previously been hers. The names of the drugs and instructions for use inscribed on the labels filled her with pity once she had overcome her awe.
Mr Roxburgh hesitated, but finally asked, ‘Are there any interesting walks, Miss Gluyas, in the neighbourhood?’ (No one had ever called her ‘Miss Gluyas’.) ‘I’ve resolved to take up walking—for my health.’
‘There’s walking in all directions.’ (Nobody had ever asked her advice.) ‘There’s the sea to the north—it’s wilder op there. And the church. To the south there’s a whole lot of pretty lanes. And chapel. You could walk to St Ives—or Penzance—if you’re strong enough,’ she thought to add.
But Mr Roxburgh no longer appeared interested, as though he had done his duty by the landlady’s daughter.
Then he became dependent on her, to remind him of time (his medicines), to warn him of changes in the weather, or to take a letter on market days when she drove to Penzance.
‘My mother tends to worry,’ he told her; and on another occasion, ‘She is fretting over my brother, who left, only recently, for Van Diemen’s Land.’
‘Aw?’ she replied with simulated interest.
She was unacquainted with Van Diemen’s Land. She had heard tell of Ireland, America, and France, but had no unwavering conviction that anything existed beyond Land’s End, and in the other direction, what was referred to as Across the River.
The void suddenly appalled her, and she repeated with spontaneous fervour the prayers Mamma and Mr Poynter had taught her it was her duty to recite after undressing.
That night she did not dream, and for some reason, awoke with enthusiasm. As it happened, it was the day on which he lent her his ‘little crib of the Bucolics ’. She looked at the cover of his book as though reading were her dearest occupation. ‘But not while there’s daylight,’ she warned.
She was wearing a coarse, country hat, the brim of which rose and fell, allowing him glimpses of a burnt face engrossed in country matters.
She told him, ‘There’s two lads should come for hay-making, but can never be trusted to.’
‘May I help?’
‘Well,’ she answered, ‘I suppawse tha could,’ and at once blushed for her thoughtlessness.
Again she was embarrassed when he came upon her pulling the milk out of Cherry.
‘Is this what you do?’
‘Some of it.’ She dragged so hard the cow kicked and grazed the pail.
They were for ever encountering each other at the least desirable moments.
On one occasion she had to halt him and lead him back across the yard. ‘Not that way,’ she advised, her instincts persuading her that Mr Austin Roxburgh needed her protection.
But he looked back, and noticed the calf pinned to the ground, its throat tautened to receive the knife.
‘They’re killing the calf!’
‘Yes,’ she admitted. (Will had come over to help Pa perform the operation.) ‘You dun’t have to watch, Mr Roxburgh.’
Without thinking, she touched his hand, unladylike, to lead him back into the enclosed existence others had ordained and maintained for him, in which death, she only latterly discovered, was a ‘literary conceit’.
Soon after his arrival her own reasoning told her that books held more for Austin Roxburgh than the life around him.
He read aloud to her what he said was the Fourth Eclogue . ‘A pity you’re not able to appreciate the original, but you’ll enjoy, to some extent, the crib I’ve lent you.’
It seemed that poetry was all, and the ‘natural beauty of a country life’.
‘And labour,’ he remembered to add. ‘Over and above practical necessity, labour, you might say, has its sacramental function.’
Yet he retired gladly to nurse his blisters after a morning with the rake, and sniffed and frowned to find pig-dung stuck to the heel of his boot.
When Will came over, as for
Mr Roxburgh hesitated, but finally asked, ‘Are there any interesting walks, Miss Gluyas, in the neighbourhood?’ (No one had ever called her ‘Miss Gluyas’.) ‘I’ve resolved to take up walking—for my health.’
‘There’s walking in all directions.’ (Nobody had ever asked her advice.) ‘There’s the sea to the north—it’s wilder op there. And the church. To the south there’s a whole lot of pretty lanes. And chapel. You could walk to St Ives—or Penzance—if you’re strong enough,’ she thought to add.
But Mr Roxburgh no longer appeared interested, as though he had done his duty by the landlady’s daughter.
Then he became dependent on her, to remind him of time (his medicines), to warn him of changes in the weather, or to take a letter on market days when she drove to Penzance.
‘My mother tends to worry,’ he told her; and on another occasion, ‘She is fretting over my brother, who left, only recently, for Van Diemen’s Land.’
‘Aw?’ she replied with simulated interest.
She was unacquainted with Van Diemen’s Land. She had heard tell of Ireland, America, and France, but had no unwavering conviction that anything existed beyond Land’s End, and in the other direction, what was referred to as Across the River.
The void suddenly appalled her, and she repeated with spontaneous fervour the prayers Mamma and Mr Poynter had taught her it was her duty to recite after undressing.
That night she did not dream, and for some reason, awoke with enthusiasm. As it happened, it was the day on which he lent her his ‘little crib of the Bucolics ’. She looked at the cover of his book as though reading were her dearest occupation. ‘But not while there’s daylight,’ she warned.
She was wearing a coarse, country hat, the brim of which rose and fell, allowing him glimpses of a burnt face engrossed in country matters.
She told him, ‘There’s two lads should come for hay-making, but can never be trusted to.’
‘May I help?’
‘Well,’ she answered, ‘I suppawse tha could,’ and at once blushed for her thoughtlessness.
Again she was embarrassed when he came upon her pulling the milk out of Cherry.
‘Is this what you do?’
‘Some of it.’ She dragged so hard the cow kicked and grazed the pail.
They were for ever encountering each other at the least desirable moments.
On one occasion she had to halt him and lead him back across the yard. ‘Not that way,’ she advised, her instincts persuading her that Mr Austin Roxburgh needed her protection.
But he looked back, and noticed the calf pinned to the ground, its throat tautened to receive the knife.
‘They’re killing the calf!’
‘Yes,’ she admitted. (Will had come over to help Pa perform the operation.) ‘You dun’t have to watch, Mr Roxburgh.’
Without thinking, she touched his hand, unladylike, to lead him back into the enclosed existence others had ordained and maintained for him, in which death, she only latterly discovered, was a ‘literary conceit’.
Soon after his arrival her own reasoning told her that books held more for Austin Roxburgh than the life around him.
He read aloud to her what he said was the Fourth Eclogue . ‘A pity you’re not able to appreciate the original, but you’ll enjoy, to some extent, the crib I’ve lent you.’
It seemed that poetry was all, and the ‘natural beauty of a country life’.
‘And labour,’ he remembered to add. ‘Over and above practical necessity, labour, you might say, has its sacramental function.’
Yet he retired gladly to nurse his blisters after a morning with the rake, and sniffed and frowned to find pig-dung stuck to the heel of his boot.
When Will came over, as for
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