Wastralls: A NovelDawson Scott, C. A. (Catharine Amy)
General
Wastralls: A Novel
Dawson Scott, C. A. (Catharine Amy)
Cornwall (England : County) -- Fiction; Farm life -- Fiction; Husband and wife -- Fiction
Bit by bit the crushed fragments of bloody flesh were cast into the
cauldron; but as long as bone or sinew held together, Byron tore at the
body with unabated passion. The last lump was flung in with the same
fury of effort as the first; but as soon as his hands were empty, the
mood passed. The sweat was on his forehead, his knees were knocking
together and he was trembling, but he seemed unconscious of his
condition. For some minutes he stood by the furnace staring vacantly
into the bubbling depths but by degrees his breath came more evenly, and
the suavity of successful effort began to wash over his tortured mind.
Daunted by his master’s incomprehensible ferocity, the hind waited in
the background; and, behind him again, the chickens picked and scratched
and on the lichened roof the pigeons balanced in the sun. Byron was
watching the formation of a large iridescent bubble. His eye dwelt
languidly on the red and green transparence, on the smaller bubbles
hurrying to its side; but as the film burst and disappeared he pushed
the stirring-stick into the labourer’s hand with a deep, "Mind you don’t
leave’n burn," and swung away. He was come fully to himself, a weary
and a hungry self and he remembered that the dinner hour was long past.
The outer door of the linhay opened on to a paved drying-yard and, as he
passed through, he stooped his head under a sagging cord with the
practical man’s comment that a new prop was needed. Trifles,
common-place and wholesome, were distracting his mind. He felt cold,
noticed that what little wind there was had gone round to the north,
noticed too that above Dark Head the sky was flaming with a sunset of
good augury. The short December day being so near its close, the linhay
was dark; but the hungry man knew where to lay his hand on a rabbit
pasty. He had shot the rabbits and brought them in—to Gray; and now
Gray was—where? Behind him lay the old house with its many chambers and
not one of them harboured her. For the first time he realized that
without Gray, Wastralls was but an empty shell.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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