What Necessity Knows

by L. Dougall

Turrif himself opened the door. He was a man of middle age, thick-set but thin, with that curious grey shade on a healthy skin that so often pertains to Frenchmen. For a moment his shrewd but mild countenance peered into the darkness; then, holding wide the door and making welcome motion with his hand, he bade Trenholme enter.

Trenholme could not speak French, but he knew that Turrif could understand enough English to comprehend his errand if he told it slowly and distinctly. Slowly and distinctly, therefore, he recounted all that had befallen him since Saul arrived at the station; but such telling of such a story could not be without some embarrassment, caused by the growing perception, on the part of both men, of its extraordinary nature.

"Eh—h!" said the Frenchman during the telling. It was a prolonged syllable, denoting meditative astonishment, and it brought another listener, for the wife came and stood by her husband, who interpreted the story to her, and shortly a girl of thirteen also drew near and stood listening to her father's interpretation. Trenholme began to wonder whether the elder listeners were placing any confidence in his word; but the doubt was probably in his mind only, for an honest man does not estimate the subtle force of his own honesty.

Turrif and his wife listened to all that was said, and looked at each other, and looked at him, and asked him a good many questions. They were neither of them hasty, but, as the woman's manner was the more vivacious, so her questions, when translated, showed a somewhat quicker wit. When all was said, like wise people, they pronounced no sentence, either upon Trenholme's actions or upon those of the creature that had inhabited the coffin; but they remarked that if the carter had committed no evil he would not have run away. They said that they had some knowledge of this man, whom they called "Monsieur Saul," and that he was a fellow of little worth. They agreed that Turrif should go with Trenholme, as requested, to bring the man to book.

On crossing the threshold of the house Trenholme had come at once into a large, long room, which composed the whole lower flat of the dwelling, as appeared from the windows on both sides and from the fact that the staircase went up from one end of it. It was a comfortable, well-warmed room, containing evidences of all the various industries of the family, from the harness that hung on the wall and the basket of carded wool by the spinning-wheel, to the bucket of cow's mash that stood warming by the stove at the foot of the baby's cradle. At the far end a large table, that held the candle, had a meal spread upon it, and also some open dog's-eared primers, at which small children were spelling audibly.

When the conference, which had taken place near the door, was over, the wife went back to her children and her lighted table, and Trenholme made as if to open the door, supposing that Turrif would walk away with him.

"Eh—non," said the older man, with a kindly smile. "Pas encore," and taking Trenholme by the arm, he pushed him gently towards the table. "I weel get out my 'orse," said he, in slow, broken English. "You have had enough walking to-day, and I have had enough work. À présent"—with a gesture toward the table.

He made Trenholme sit down at the table. There was a very large pan of thick sour milk on it, and a loaf of grey bread. Bits of this bread were set round the edge of the table, near the children, who munched at them.

Turrif gave Trenholme a bit of bread, cutting into the loaf as men only do in whose lives bread is not scarce. With a large spoon he took a quantity of the thick rich cream from the top of the milk and put a saucer of it before the visitor. Trenholme ate it with his bread, and found it not as sour as he expected, and on the whole very good. Turrif, eating bread as he went, carried the harness out of the house.

As there was no one left for him to talk to, Trenholme grew more observant. He remarked the sweetness and sense in the face of the house-mother as she bestowed their suppers upon the children. She was still comparatively young, but there was no beauty of youth about her, only the appearance of strength that is produced by toil and endurance before these two have worn the strength away. But, in spite of this look of strength, the face was not hard—no, nor sad; and there was a certain latent poetry, too, about the gesture and look with which she gave food to the little ones, as if the giving and receiving were a free thing, and not the mere necessity of life. Her manner of giving them supper was to push the large pan of curded milk close to the edge of the table, where the little ones were clustered, and let them, four of them at once, lap out of the side of it with their little spoons. At the same time she pushed the creasy yellow cover of cream to the farther side, with a watchful glance at Trenholme's saucer, evidently meaning that it was kept for him. She and the elder boy and girl waited to sup till the little ones had finished.