the little botallack man and eli penhale shook hands, tucked the slack of their wrestling jackets under their left armpits and, crouching, approached each other, right hands extended.
the three judges, ancient wrestlers, leaned on their ash-plants and looked extremely knowing; they went by the title of “sticklers.”
the wrestling ring was in a grass field almost under the shadow of st. gwithian church tower. to the north the ridge of tors rolled along the skyline, autumnal brown. southward was the azure of the english channel; west, over the end of land, the glint of the atlantic with the scilly isles showing on the horizon, very faint, like small irregularities on a ruled blue line.
all gwithian was present, men and women, girls and boys, with a good sprinkling of visitors from the parishes round about. they formed a big ring of black and pink, dark clothes and healthy countenances. a good-natured crowd, bandying inter-parochial chaff from side to side, rippling with laughter when some accepted wit brought off a sally, yelling encouragement to their district champions.
“beware of en’s feet, jan, boy. the old toad is brear foxy.”
“scat en, ephraim, my pretty old beauty! grip to an’ scandalize en!”
“move round, sticklers! think us can see through ’e? think you’m made of glass?”
“up, gwithian!”
“up, st. levan!”
at the feet of the crowd lay the disengaged wrestlers, chewing blades of grass and watching the play. they were naked except for short drawers, and on their white skins grip marks flared red, bruises and long scratches where fingers had slipped or the rough jacket edges cut in. amiable young stalwarts, smiling at each other, grunting approvingly at smart pieces of work. one had a snapped collar-bone, another a fractured forearm wrapped up in a handkerchief, but they kept their pains to themselves; it was all in the game.
now eli and the little botallack man were out for the final.
polwhele was not five feet six and tipped the beam at eleven stone, whereas eli was five ten and weighed two stone the heavier. it looked as though he had only to fall on the miner to finish him, but such was far from the case. the sad-faced little tinner had already disposed of four bulky opponents in workmanlike fashion that afternoon—the collar bone was his doing.
“watch his eyes,” bohenna had warned.
that was all very well, but it was next to impossible to see his eyes for the thick bang of hair that dangled over them like the forelock of a shetland pony.
polwhele clumsily sidled a few steps to the right. eli followed him. polwhele walked a few steps to the left. again eli followed. polwhele darted back to the right, eli after him, stopped, slapped his right knee loudly, and, twisting left-handed, grabbed the farmer round the waist and hove him into the air.
it was cleverly done—the flick of speed after the clumsy walk, the slap on the knee drawing the opponent’s eye away—cleverly done, but not quite quick enough. eli got the miner’s head in chancery as he was hoisted up and hooked his toes behind the other’s knees.
polwhele could launch himself and his burden neither forwards nor backwards, as the balance lay with eli. the miner hugged at eli’s stomach with all his might, jerking cruelly. eli wedged his free arm down and eased the pressure somewhat. it was painful, but bearable.
“lave en carry ’e so long as thou canst, son,” came the voice of bohenna. “tire en out.”
polwhele strained for a forwards throw, tried a backwards twist, but the pull behind the knees embarrassed him. he began to pant. thirteen stone hanging like a millstone about one’s neck at the end of the day was intolerable. he tried to work his head out of chancery, concluded it would only be at the price of his ears and gave that up.
“stay where ’e are,” shouted bohenna to his protégé. “t’eddn costin’ you nawthin’.”
eli stayed where he was. polwhele’s breathing became more labored, sweat bubbled from every pore, a sinew in his left leg cracked under the strain. once more he tried the forwards pitch, reeled, rocked and came down sideways. he risked a dislocated shoulder in so doing with the farmer’s added weight, but got nothing worse than a heavy jar. it was no fall; the two men rolled apart and lay panting on their backs.
after a pause the sticklers intimated to them to go on. once more they faced each other. the miner was plainly tired; the bang hung over his eyes, a sweat-soaked rag; his movements were sluggish. in response to the exhortations of his friends he shook his head, made gestures with his hands—finished.
slowly he gave way before eli, warding off grips with sweeps of his right forearm, refusing to come to a hold. st. gwithian jeered at him. botallack implored one more flash. he shook his head; he was incapable of flashing. four heavy men he had put away to come upon this great block of brawn at the day’s end; it was too much.
eli could not bring him to grips, grew impatient and made the pace hotter, forcing the miner backwards right round the ring. it became a boxing match between the two right hands, the one clutching, the other parrying. almost he had polwhele; his fingers slipped on a fold of the canvas jacket. the spectators rose to a man, roaring.
polwhele ran backwards out of a grip and stumbled. eli launched out, saw the sad eyes glitter behind the draggles of hair and went headlong, flying.
the next thing he knew he was lying full length, the breath jarred out of him and the miner on top, fixed like a stoat. the little man had dived under him, tipped his thigh with a shoulder and turned him as he fell. it was a fair “back,” two shoulders and a hip down; he had lost the championship.
polwhele, melancholy as ever, helped him to his feet.
“nawthin’ broke, squire? that’s fitly. you’ll beat me next year—could of this, if you’d waited.” he put a blade of grass between his teeth and staggered off to join his vociferous friends, the least jubilant of any.
bohenna came up with his master’s clothes. “?’nother time you’m out against a quick man go slow—make en come to you. eddn no sense in playin’ tig with forked lightnin’. i shouted to ’e, but you was too furious to hear. oh, well, ’tis done now, s’pose.”
he walked away to hob-nob with the sticklers in the “lamb and flag,” to drink ale and wag their heads and lament on the decay of wrestling and manhood since they were young.
eli pulled on his clothes. one or two monks covers shouted “stout tussle, squire,” but did not stop to talk, nor did he expect them to; he was respected in the parish, but had none of the graceful qualities that make for popularity.
his mother went by, immensely fat, yet sitting her cart-horse firm as a rock.
“the little dog had ’e by the nose proper that time, my great soft bullock,” she jeered, and rode on, laughing. she hated eli; as master of bosula he kept her short of money, even going to the length of publicly crying down her credit. had he not done so, they would have been ruined long since instead of in a fair state of prosperity, but teresa took no count of that. she was never tired of informing audiences—preferably in eli’s presence—that if her other son had been spared, her own precious boy ortho, things would have been very different. he would not have seen her going in rags, without a penny piece to bless herself, not he. time, in her memory, had washed away all the elder’s faults, leaving only virtues exposed, and those grossly exaggerated. she would dilate for hours on his good looks, his wit, his courage, his loving consideration for herself, breaking into hot tears of rage when she related the fancied indignities she suffered at the hands of the paragon’s unworthy brother.
she was delighted that polwhele had bested eli, and rode home jingling her winnings on the event. eli went on dressing, unmoved by his mother’s jibes. as a boy he had learnt to close his ears to the taunts of rusty rufus, and he found the accomplishment most useful. when teresa became abusive he either walked out of the house or closed up like an oyster and her tirades beat harmlessly against his spiritual shell. words, words, nothing but words; his contempt for talk had not decreased as time went on.
he pulled his belt up, hustled into his best blue coat and was knotting his neckcloth when somebody behind him said, “well wrastled, eli.”
he turned and saw mary penaluna with old simeon close beside.
eli shook his head. “he was smaller than i, naught but a little man. i take shame not to have beaten en.”
but mary would have none of it. “i see no shame then,” she said warmly. “they miners do nothing but wrastle, wrastle all day between shifts and underground too, so i’ve heard tell—but you’ve got other things to do, eli; ’tis a wonder you stood up to en so long. and they’re nothing but a passell o’ tricksters, teddn what i do call fitty wrastling at all.”
“well, ’tis fair, anyhow,” said eli; “he beat me fair enough and there’s an end of it.”
“?’es, s’pose,” mary admitted, “but i do think you wrastled bravely, eli, and so do father and all of the parish. oh, look how the man knots his cloth, all twisted; you’m bad as father, i declare. lave me put it to rights.” she reached up strong, capable hands, gave the neckerchief a pull and a pat and stood back laughing. “you men are no better than babies for all your size and cursing and ’bacca. ’tis proper now. are ’e steppin’ home along?”
eli was. they crossed the field and, turning their backs on the church tower, took the road towards the sea, old simeon walking first, slightly bent with toil and rheumatism, long arms dangling inert; mary and eli followed side by side, speaking never a word. it was two miles to roswarva, over upland country, bare of trees, but beautiful in its wind-swept nakedness. patches of dead bracken glowed with the warm copper that is to be found in some women’s hair; on gray bowlders spots of orange lichen shone like splashes of gold paint. the brambles were dressed like harlequins in ruby, green and yellow, and on nearly every hawthorn sat a pair of magpies, their black and white livery looking very smart against the scarlet berries.
eli walked on to roswarva, although it was out of his way. he liked the low house among the stunted sycamores, with the sun in its face all day and the perpetual whisper of salt sea winds about it. he liked the bright display of flowers mary seemed to keep going perennially in the little garden by the south door, the orderly kitchen with its sanded floor, clean whitewash and burnished copper. bosula was his home, but it was to roswarva that he turned as to a haven in time of trouble, when he wanted advice about his farming, or when teresa was particularly fractious. there was little said on these occasions, a few slow, considered words from simeon, a welcoming smile from mary, a cup of tea or a mug of cider and then home again—but he had got what he needed.
he sat in the kitchen that afternoon twirling his hat in his powerful hands, staring out of the window and thinking that his worries were pretty nearly over. there was always teresa to reckon with, but they were out of debt and bosula was in good farming shape at last. what next? an idea was taking shape in his deliberate brain. he stared out of the window, but not at the farm boar wallowing blissfully in the mire of the lane, or at simeon driving his sleek cows in for milking, or at the blue channel beyond with a little collier brig bearing up for the lizard, her grimy canvas transformed by the alchemy of sunshine. eli penhale was seeing visions, homely, comfortable visions.
mary came in, rolling her sleeves back over firm, rounded forearms dimpled at the elbows. the once leggy girl was leggy no longer, but a ripe, upstanding, full-breasted woman with kindly brown eyes and an understanding smile.
“i’ll give ’e a penny for thy dream, eli—if ’tis a pretty one,” she laughed. “is it?”
the farmer grinned. “prettiest i ever had.”
“queen of england take you for her boy?”
“prettier than that.”
“my lor’, it must be worth a brear bit o’ money then! more’n i can afford.”
“i don’t think so.”
“is it going cheap, or do you think i’m made of gold pieces?”
“it’s not money i want.”
“you’re not like most of us then,” said mary, and started. “there’s father calling in the yard. must be goin’ milkin’. sit ’e down where ’e be and i’ll be back quick as quick and we’ll see if i can pay the price, whatever it is. sit ’e down and rest.”
but eli had risen. “must be going, i believe.”
“why?”
“got to see to the horses; i’ve let bohenna and davy off for the day, ’count of wrastling.”
mary pouted, but she was a farmer’s daughter, a fellow bond slave of animals; she recognized the necessity.
“anybody’d think it was your men had been wrastlin’ and not you, you great soft-heart. oh, well, run along with ’e and come back when done and take a bite of supper with us, will ’e? father’d be proud and i’ve fit a lovely supper.”
eli promised and betook himself homewards. five strenuous bouts on top of six hours’ work in the morning had tired him somewhat, bruises were stiffening and his left shoulder gave him pain, but his heart, his heart was singing “mary penaluna—mary penhale, mary penaluna—mary penhale” all the way and his feet went wing-shod. almost he had asked her in the kitchen, almost, almost—it had been tripping off his tongue when she mentioned her cows and in so doing reminded him of his horses. by blood, instinct and habit he was a farmer; the horses must be seen to first, his helpless, faithful servitors. his mother usually turned her mount into the stable without troubling to feed, unsaddle it or even ease the girths. the horses must be seen to.
he would say the word that evening after supper when old simeon fell asleep in his rocker, as was his invariable custom. that very evening.
tregors had gone whistling down the wind long since; the unknown hind from burdock water had let it go to rack and ruin, a second mortgagee was not forthcoming, carveth donnithorne foreclosed and marched in. tregors had gone, but bosula remained, clear of debt and as good a place as any in the hundred, enough for any one man. eli felt he could make his claim for even prosperous simeon penaluna’s daughter with a clear conscience. he came to the rim of the valley, hoisted himself to the top of a bank, paused and sat down.
the valley, touched by the low rays of sunset, foamed with gold, with the pale gold of autumnal elms, the bright gold of ashes, the old gold of oaks.
bosula among its enfolding woods! no roman emperor behind his tall pr?torians had so steadfast, so splendid a guard as these. shelter from the winter gales, great spluttering logs for the hearth, green shade in summer and in autumn this magnificence. holly for christmas, apples and cider. the apples were falling now, falling with soft thuds all day and night and littering the orchard, sunk in the grass like rosy-faced children playing hide and seek.
eli’s eyes ran up the opposite hillside, a patchwork quilt of trim fields, green pasture and brown plow land, all good and all his.
his heart went out in gratitude to the house of his breed, to the sturdy men who had made it what it was, to the first poor ragged tinner wandering down the valley with his donkey, to his unknown father, that honest giant with the shattered face who had brought him into the world that he, in his turn, might take up this goodly heritage.
it should go on. he saw into the future, a brighter, better future. he saw flowers outside the owls’ house perennially blooming; saw a whitewashed kitchen with burnished copper pans and a woman in it smiling welcome at the day’s end, her sleeves rolled up to show her dimpled elbows; saw a pack of brown-eyed chubby little boys tumbling noisily in to supper—penhales of bosula. it should go on. he vaulted off the bank and strode whistling down to the owls’ house, bowed his head between adam and eve and found ortho sitting in the kitchen.
