Chapter XI: Part 11

"Very well indeed; and you’ve taught me a lot about the female sex. And, but for you, I don’t suppose I should ever have knowed anything at all about them. I may tell you, owing to your large understanding, that I’ve often considered about the sense of marrying. But I’m sure I don’t know. When you look round--the heart sinks."

"Yes, it does."

Mr. Snell did look round, and the beautiful woman roused some faint, feeble flicker of his anæmic passion.

"I grant you that the wedded state as shown by other people--and yet I won’t go so far as Bartley Crocker do."

"How far’s that then?"

"Mind, don’t you say it against him. I’ve no wish to be thought a tale-bearer. But, in open speech at the bar of Shillabeer’s public-house, he said that though you hear of happy marriages, you never see them. Now that’s too far-reaching--eh?"

"Not much. He’s not far out, I reckon."

"Well, you know better than me; but, begging pardon for mentioning her again, your own sister is as happy as a bird. And I really don’t say it’s impossible to be happy with a home of your own."

"The right ones never meet. I’d warn every man and woman against it for my part."

With this speech Rhoda quite extinguished the paltry flicker in Mr. Snell’s broad bosom. He looked rather frightened. He stroked his beard. At heart he felt a sort of relief that even the shadow of disquiet was now banished in the light of her plain statement.

"If that’s your opinion, ’tis no part for a common man like me to say a word against it," he answered. "Sometimes--I won’t deny it--I’ve thought, in uplifted moments, that the married state with such a meek nature as mine--and then again, however--"

"I speak what I know; but nobody can be sure they’re right, I suppose. What do you think about it?" asked Rhoda. But why she gave him this loophole she knew not. Her interest in Mr. Snell was at a low ebb to-day, and her own thoughts filled her spirit to the exclusion of all else. Still she was always content with him. He appeared to her to be a sensible and responsible man whose opinion was better worth having than that of most people.

"Now you ask a poser," declared Simon, "for my own opinion on such a high subject be very unsettled. In fact, I’d a long ways sooner go by yours, and if you, of all females, feel as marriage be too doubtful in the upshot, then I’d so soon, if not sooner, take your word for it. And I may say that I will. There’s nothing so restful as having your mind made up for you by a better one. And I can’t say the men I know--they’m all for it in a general way--bring up very strong arguments. There’s Amos Prouse tokened now, and he goes about properly terrified, so far as I can see; and there’s Mattacott, from being an even-tempered man, turned so sour as a sloe, because Jane West keeps him on the tenterhooks. To keep company is certainly a very bad state; and you can’t be married without going through it; so that’s another reason against."

"I shall never marry," she said.

"Then no more shan’t I," he declared. "And ’tis a troublesome weight off the mind to hear you say that."

"Better not go by me, however."

"’Tis just you and no other I would go by. Because--well, now since you’ve spoken and never been known to go from your word--the coast be clear for me and I feel so light as a lark in the air. If you’d said as you were for it, then my manhood would have--well, God knows what might have overtook me; for at such times a man gets into a raging fever and be ready to fight creation for the female, as the savage beasts do. But you’ve said it; and I quite agree. I know you’m right, and I say ditto to it. And we’ll see t’others dashing into it, but ’twill be nought to us."

"It looks to me as if the useful people be often the single ones," she said.

"There again! What good sense! ’Tis the very height of sense! And Paul’s on our side too. Better to marry than to burn, he says in his large wisdom. But better not to marry if you’m perfectly cool and contented, same as what I be, year in, year out."

She did not answer and he spoke again.

"Still, mind this. If it had been otherwise with you, it would have been otherwise with me. Never was a manlier man in his instincts of self-preservation than me, as my mother will tell you. And if by chance I’d fallen upon a creature of the female sex as appeared to be looking to me to share life with her, then I doubt it might have happened. But not now. If she comed along now it would be too late. Because I’ve had walks along with you in my time, and we’ve been terrible close, and we’ve understood each other as well as any two people could."

"I suppose we have."

"I tell you this, because you’ve given your word you ain’t going to marry," he concluded; and nothing more was said until they reached a lane that broke from the main road. Then Mr. Snell pulled up.

"Here’s my way. You must get down now. You go straight on. I shall be back after eight o’clock, and will bide here till a quarter past if I can help you home."

"No. I’ll be back long afore that, I hope."

So the lifeless, bloodless abortion of a romance passed stillborn from between them, unregretted by either. They often met in after life, and they were always friendly within their natural limitations; but marriage never again rose as the most dim possibility on the horizon of the man.

He permitted her to alight without assistance. They talked a while longer before separating, and conversation drifted to David and his wife.

"I hear the people air their opinions and I say nothing--that being the way of least trouble seemingly," declared Mr. Snell. "But certainly now and again very outrageous speeches be spoke. Take Screech, for instance. He’s no fool, Screech isn’t. But he have a very coarse way of putting things, to my mind. His wife--begging pardon for mentioning her--was saying something about her brother David. I’ve forgot what it was, except that it weren’t flattering, and Screech, he ups and says, ’Them two’--meaning David and Mrs. Bowden--’them two,’ he says, ’be like a moulting cock and hen--that down on their luck, and all about nought, for the man’s prospering and getting home the money with both fists.’ ’Twas a vulgar thing to say, and I went so far as to tell him so."

"You might have told him he was a liar too," said Rhoda. "When did anybody ever see David down on his luck, even if he was? He don’t carry his heart in his hand. A cheerful and a steadfast man always; and if my sister-in-law be not cheerful nor steadfast--that’s another matter, and the fault’s not David’s. I tell you this because you’ve got sense and was never known to make mischief."

"And never shall, please God!"

"What does an evil thing like Screech know about David?"

"Nought--less than nought. He allowed that, for in my cautious way, I went so far as to ax for chapter and verse, when he said your brother and his wife weren’t happy. ’I don’t know nothing about ’em and don’t want to,’ he said in his coarse style; ’but a good few eyes be open round these parts, and ’tis very well marked they go different roads when out of sight of each other.’ It might become you to mention it, or it might not. You know best, living along with them."

Rhoda hesitated but said nothing. The inclination to confide in Mr. Snell was not revived.

"Thank you for telling me. But whether I’ll name it--"

"Don’t mention me if you do," said Mr. Snell. "’Tis only to you I’d have said as much as I have said--out of respect to the family. And now I must be going on."

They shook hands and parted. He returned to his cart and, the lane leading up a hill, went slowly forward. His horse sagged at his collar and the thill chains clanked. With each step forward Simon’s body jolted on the board. One leg of the quartered pig also waved spasmodically, and the candid lilies powdered their purity with golden pollen.

Thus it came about that Snell left the woman’s thoughts where he found them. She tramped forward full of the matter of Margaret; she did her business; ate some bread and butter and drank some milk; started for home again. But, returning by way of Horrabridge, she was detained awhile and she did not ascend a steep hill out of Walkhampton on her return journey until the evening. Her brother, who had gone to Okehampton, was combining business and pleasure in a ride across Dartmoor. He would not come back until late, and it was understood that Rhoda herself might not be expected home before him. She, however, pursued her direct way under the acclivities of Black Tor while yet it was light, and looking down into the valley, the raw blue patch of the roof of ’Meavy Cot’ stared up a mile distant and smoke surmounted it. At nearer approach Rhoda saw Madge and a man come out of the cottage. They went off in the direction of Coombeshead and they walked close together and talked very earnestly. She altered her way somewhat, to get nearer to them, and was able to make sure of Margaret’s companion. At first she trusted that he had been her brother Bart; but it was Mr. Crocker with whom Madge proceeded and with whom she kept such close converse.

Rhoda went back, took the key of the door from a secret hiding-place, where it was always hidden for the first home-comer, and entered the cottage. A litter of tea things stood on the table and Bartley had evidently partaken of that meal.

And on the road to Coombeshead farm David’s wife and David’s friend were talking with profound interest not of Rhoda and not of David--but concerning Constance Stanbury. That day, early after noon, Crocker had met Madge’s father in trouble and had taken a message to the doctor for him, that he might the quicker return to his wife. Mrs. Stanbury had quite succumbed to her nerves again and was suffering much terror and horror through the hours of night. Her agitation culminated in what Mr. Stanbury held to be "a fit," and he felt that the unfortunate, haunted woman again needed medical care to help her fight these superstitious fears.

Mr. Crocker gladly conveyed an urgent message to the physician, and soon afterwards he walked to Meavy Cot, that he might tell Madge. To his satisfaction he found her alone, accepted her invitation, drank tea with her, and then accompanied her to learn how her mother fared.

Now they talked of this curse that had fallen upon the old woman’s life, and Crocker tried hard to conceive some possible way of relief. The truth was hidden from them and he did not for an instant suspect it; but the thought and care of both were entirely centred upon this subject, and for a time every other interest remained in abeyance while they strove to hit on some device by which Mrs. Stanbury might be comforted. Bartley suggested a visit from Mr. Merle; and Madge declared such an idea to be quite vain.

But Rhoda Bowden knew nothing of these facts. It was not until night, when Margaret returned and David also came home, that she heard the truth from her sister-in-law. And her inclination was to disbelieve at least a part of it.

*CHAPTER VI*

*VIRGO--LIBRA*

A moon at full rolled hugely up over the Moor edge, outlined a black peat wall and by chance made a brilliant background for an atom of life that was there. Here Rhoda’s kitten rested on an August night after great hunting of moths; and the planet threw a golden frame around it.

Rhoda herself, sitting alone at hand in the presence of her mistress, the moon, perceived this accidental conjunction and noticed her little pet dark against the immensity of the bright dead world now ascending. Rhoda sat with her hands folded in her lap and watched the red-gold rise. The moon and the kitten, for some subtle reason, alike comforted her. One rose clear of the horizon, and the other vanished. The work of the first was to diffuse a warm and wondrous stain upon the cloudless air; to permeate the earth’s atmosphere with fleeting radiance and then, swimming upwards, to cool the passing heat of ruddy colour she had created and to supersede this glow with a pale rain of silver-grey light. It poured down into the silence and spread pools and patches of misty pearl upon the ebony of the waste. The work of the second was to come to Rhoda, stick up its little tail, pad in her lap, purr with infant heartiness, and, lifting its nose, mirror the moon in a pair of phosphorescent green eyes. So from both she won good and had sense to see that the stars in heaven and the beasts of earth might each minister after their fashion to such a soul as hers. They soothed her; but they did not advance her reflections or help to solve the gathering difficulties that conscience cast into her path. She was troubled and knew not where to turn. She stated the situation again and again to herself, but no light fell upon the picture from anywhere. Her belief was that her brother’s wife saw far too much of another man. That the man in question wanted to marry Rhoda herself was an added complication; and from that fact, she judged that Margaret must be fonder of Bartley Crocker than he could be of her. Her mind was not constituted to weigh very subtly the shades and half shades of this situation, or appraise the extent of its danger. She concerned herself with David and busied her spirit to consider only her duty towards him. Indifference toward Margaret of late tightened into dislike. Secretly she had always felt impatient with the other’s softness; but since that softness began to lead David’s wife astray, she became alarmed and angered. She retraced the general attitude of her brother and could see nothing in it at all unreasonable. He was very busy, very hard-working, very ambitious. He treated Margaret much as Elias Bowden treated his wife; and Rhoda believed that her mother was always happy and contented. But it could not be said that David’s wife was particularly happy. Rhoda often broke upon her, when entering the house suddenly, and at such times Margaret would put on cheerfulness in haste, as a surprised bather might put on a garment.

What then was this woman to do? She had a high sense of duty and that sense had now begun to torment her. It was impossible to formulate any charge against Crocker or against Margaret. Yet she blamed the man not a little, for she believed that he ought to know better than seek the society of Margaret so frequently. Again justice reminded her that Madge made no secret of the meetings. Some, indeed, she might have had--perhaps many--which were never reported; but of others (and others which Rhoda had not seen) she spoke freely afterwards; and she often asked David if she might invite Bartley to Meavy Cot.

Rhoda remembered that Bartley and her sister-in-law had been children together and that they had known each other all their lives. Herein was comfort, but reflection dashed it. At one time most certainly they had not felt the mere close friendship of brother and sister; for it was an open secret that Crocker had asked Margaret to be his wife within a few days of David’s engagement. But the thinker did not permit this view long to discomfort her. She strove with native resolution to look at the position in a clean and reasonable light. David himself had said that Bartley and Margaret were like brother and sister. He exhibited not a shadow of uneasiness; and if he felt no concern, why should she do so? This argument, however, broke down; because Rhoda knew much more than David. He went about his business and it absorbed him. Margaret was always at home to welcome him; everything was waiting as he wished it; his whispered word was law, and his wife anticipated his very thought and remembered chance utterances and desires in a way that often surprised and gratified him. Rhoda could not blame Margaret’s attitude to David, and she could not for an instant blame David in the amount of time and consideration he devoted to his wife. Upon her estimate it seemed ample and generous.

She considered the brother and sister theory of Bartley’s friendship with Margaret and resolved to cleave thereto with all her strength. She reminded herself of what she felt for David; she was very fair; she perceived that even as she and David thought and felt alike, with such mysterious parity of instinct and judgment that they often laughed when they simultaneously uttered the selfsame words, so Margaret and Bartley Crocker were certainly built on a similar pattern. They too looked at life through the same eyes; they too doubtless arrived at similar conclusions. The side issue of this man’s regard for herself recurred in the weft of Rhoda’s thought; but she drew it out. That relation was beyond the present problem and did not influence her decision. She had twice dismissed the man, and doubtless her second refusal would be taken by him as final.

She came to a conclusion with herself and decided to do nothing but watch. Such a task pained her to reflect upon; but there was none to whom she could speak, for she had none to be regarded in any light of close friendship but her brother. Her father, her mother, her elder sister were of no account. Therefore she determined to wait and watch as a duty to David. She hoped that a brief period of such work would bring peace back to her mind; and she went about it with a rising gorge, in doubt whether to be ashamed of herself or not.

But it happened, only two days later, that opportunity to modify this plan offered and David himself gave it to her. Thankfully she took it, and after a conversation to which he opened the way, Rhoda felt a happier woman than she had felt for many weeks.

He was mending some garden tools in his outhouse at dark and called for another candle. She carried it to him and stopped with him while he worked. The man was in a very good temper and happened to wax enthusiastic over his life and his wife.

"’Tis borne in upon me more and more, Rhoda, that I have better luck than I deserve. Me--such a stand-off chap--yet I’m always treated civil and respectful and taken as a serious and important sort of person. Sometimes, looking back, I can hardly believe it all. But I suppose ’tis my gert power of holding to work does it."

"’Tis because you’m a straight man and never known to go from truth and honesty by a hair," she said. "People see that your word’s your bond, and that you set truth higher than gain. You deserve all you get or ever will get--and more."

"Like you to say it; and well you know that my good is your good, Rhoda."

Then he praised his wife. His admiration was genuine but mechanical.

"What with you and her--Margaret--I’ve got a lot more than falls to most. Needn’t say nought about you: we’re one; but she’s different. She can’t see so deep and far off as we do; but she can feel more; and she trusts me; and I’m proud of the simplicity of her. Never wants no figures nor nothing. Never asks no questions. Leaves her life in my hands as trusting as the dogs are with you. And ever thinking for me. I said a bit ago as I dearly loved cold rabbit pie, made after mother’s way. Well, the pie to-night was like the Ditsworthy pies. I thought for sure ’twas a present from home; but not a bit of it. She went up-along two days ago and larned the trick of it. If only--but ’twould be mean in me even to name it with such a woman--"

"If only what? All the same, I know. There’s compensations against childer, David. Leave that and go on feeling grateful for her goodness; and--and wake up to a bit more too."

She spoke suddenly and with no little feeling. An inspiration had come to her--a brilliant thought greater and finer far than her recent solitary imaginings under the moon.

"’Wake up’!" he exclaimed. "Whatever do you mean, Rhoda? If I’m not wide awake, who is?"

Her ideas struggled within her. She strove to say the right thing, yet almost despaired. He waited during her silence, then spoke again.

"Don’t think I’m not grateful to God for such a good wife. I love her more than she knows, or ever will know. I’m even down about her sometimes, when I think she don’t know. Yet what more can I do? If there’s anything, ’tis your bounden duty to tell me."

He made the way clear; yet she felt a doubt that if she did speak, he might take it ill. She was frightened--an emotion so rare that she did not recognise it and feared that some physical evil must be threatening her.

"I saw Simon Snell not long since," she said. "Didn’t mention it at the time, for ’twasn’t interesting, except to me; but I will now. He gave me a lift on my way to Buckland and said a good few very sensible things, as his manner is. He told me of a saying he heard made by that Screech that married Dorcas. Screech was speaking of you and your wife, and he said you was like a moulting cock and hen sometimes--both down on your luck and didn’t know what was the matter."

David laughed.

"So much for that then. I’ll tell you how that happened. I fell in with the man--we’re friends of a sort now--and chanced to talk of children. I may have just hinted I was sorry to be without ’em. But that was all. He’s jealous of me as a matter of fact. He’s getting on pretty well too; but he don’t get on as quick as me; and he’s handicapped by his mother and his children."

"He spoke of Margaret, too, however."

"What he may have heard her say I can’t guess. Nought against her home, that I will swear. Of course, ’tis only human nature to have our up and down moments."

"No doubt that spiteful woman--Dorcas I mean--would be quick to make mischief if ’twas in her power," declared Rhoda.

"It isn’t. There’s no power on God’s earth powerful enough to make mischief between me and Madge."

"Then look after her closer," said his sister.

It was out and she expected a shower of exclamations and questions. But they did not come. David dropped a hammer, stood up, and replied. He had not wholly understood.

"I will," he answered. "I’ll think this very night how to give her a bit of a treat. ’Tis natural, without a cradle in the house, she’s moped. Us must make it up to her a little, Rhoda. Such towsers for work as you and me forget sometimes that some natures call for a little play as well. I’ll look closer after her pleasure and such like. We’ll go to Tavistock revel. I hadn’t thought to do it; but we’ll all take a whole holiday and not do a stroke of work for the day. At least no more than we’m bound to do."

"I mean all the time, David, not just for a day."

"Fancy your saying this to me! And now I’ll surprise you too. You ban’t the first who has talked like this. Crocker did the very same a bit ago, and I took it as kind in him, for I’m that sort of man. I’m not a jealous chap--too sensible for that. But if ’twas known what I felt for Madge, I dare say people, that see me so busy and wrapped up in getting on, might wonder. Even you don’t quite see it, Rhoda. Still, this I will say I blame myself as I did before. I’m not one to think I’m always right; and love should out, not lie asleep in the heart. ’Tis nought unless you see it and let it work all the time, as you say."

"Don’t for God’s sake, talk like that," she begged earnestly. "Who am I to lecture you? What do I know of love? What do I want to know of it? I only care for you and your good, else I wouldn’t have said this much."

She was thinking more of what he had just spoken than what she herself was saying. Bartley Crocker had taken her brother to task on this identical theme! She gasped with secret amazement at such extraordinary news. Doubtless this meant that Crocker and Margaret-- Here she barred her own thoughts. She refused to examine what such a fact could mean.

Her brother made an end of his work.

"Now I’m going in to have a tell with Madge," he said. "You come too."

But Rhoda refused.

"I’m for a walk. ’Tis a fair night."

They parted; he returned to his house; she loosed two dogs and went off on to the Moor.

David lighted his pipe and sat by his fire. Margaret was working at the table. For a time he kept silence, and then she spoke.

"What are you thinking on, dear heart? I hope all be going well at Tavistock?"

"I wasn’t troubling about Tavistock," he answered. "I was thinking what a wonder you be, and how you spoil me, and how I’m not worth it--such a man as me."

"David!"

"To think as you went to Ditsworthy about rabbit pies! ’Tis things like that make me wonder."

Her face shone and she set down her work and came to him.

"’Twas nought; but ’tis lovely to know you marked it and was pleased," she said.

"I don’t mark enough," he answered. "I’m that set on driving ahead, and making a bit of a splash, and getting up in the world for you--for you, Madge,--that I forget here and there. Don’t gainsay me. Too well I know it in my leisure moments."

"You shan’t say so. ’Tis all along of me being so small-minded and not looking on ahead like you do, but living in the stupid every-day things. I know they don’t matter; and I know what you feel to me; and ’tis for me to see things with your eyes, not for you to see ’em with mine."

"’Tis for me to set higher store by the every-day things," he declared. "’Tis for me to value better the home you keep always sweet and ready for me; and the food you cook, and the hundred little odd worries and bothers many married men have to face, but me never. You don’t bring no trouble to me; but you’m always ready and willing to hear my troubles. I can’t expect you to understand when I talk about figures and such like. Such things ban’t your part. But you’m always ready with your bright eyes to be glad and rejoice when good comes; and ’tis for me to be glad and rejoice in lesser things when you tell me about ’em. I don’t let you know how clever I think you. And you always hold yourself so cheap that ’tis my duty to lift you up in your own conceit, for if you thought half so well of yourself as I think of you, you’d be the proudest woman in England, Madge."

She sat on his lap and put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

"’Tis like life to me to hear you say such things," she answered. "Though too well I know how little I deserve ’em. I wish I was a better, cleverer sort to lend a hand with high matters like figures and work and sheep. But I’m only useful here."

"Us will each stick to our own share of the load," he said. "We’m both doing our part pretty well, I believe; and so long as you never forget that I mark your cleverness and love you better every day of your life, the rest don’t matter. I’ve been a thought too buried in my own hopes of late, and I own it and I’m sorry for it. But my eyes was opened half an hour agone, and I want you to forgive me, Madge. ’Twas only seeming, mind you; but I doubt it looked real and it’s made you down-daunted, as well it may have; and I’m truly sorry for it."

"You’ve a deal more to forgive than me. Many men would fling it in my face every day of my life as I’d brought ’em no family."

"I’m not that sort, and I’m hopeful in that matter as in every other. Put that out of your mind, same as I do. Man plants, but God gives the increase. I’ve found out--all my life so far--that, if we do our part, He’s very willing to do His. And if He holds back--that’s His business and not for His creatures to fall foul of. Who knows best?"

She tightened her arms round him and her tears flowed.

"Doan’t ’e cry," he said, "unless ’tis for happiness. And I’ll speak yet further, Madge, since I’m confessing my sins to-night. There’s another that must have credit for this useful talk betwixt me and you."

Her thoughts leapt to Hartley Crocker; but she did not speak.

"I was saying to Rhoda a minute ago in the shed, that ’twas just like you to go up to Ditsworthy for the secret of mother’s rabbit pies. And then she--Rhoda, I mean--told me a thing or two I ought to have found out for myself."

"I know right well Rhoda loves me dearly. Whatever--" began his wife; then she broke off.

"Of course--like every other mortal. And she’s a woman, and soft too--though not like you. She’s content with me as I am, but you’re not; and there’s no reason why you should be. You’re right to ask for a bit of worship from me; and the hard thing is you should have to ask."

"I never--never did, David. I was content too--always content, and proud of you always."

"I know. You didn’t ask with your lips. But maybe you asked another way; and I didn’t see the question till--till others in the past, and again to-day, put it afore me. I’m a contrite man. I’m--"

She put her hand over his mouth.

"You’re a million times too fine and great for me. And I won’t hear another word. There ban’t a happier she on Dartmoor this minute than me!"

"Look here," he said. "I’ll tell you what: we’ll have a lark next week. There’s a revel to Tavistock and we’ll all go--you and Rhoda and me. Would you like it?"

"Dearly, and--d’you think, David, that we might ax Bartley Crocker to come? For his own sake and for Rhoda’s?"

"Ax him an’ welcome. But I’m afraid ’tis all up. She’s actually against him now, I should judge, and at best she merely kept an open mind. She never cared a straw about the man, and never will. I’m sorry for him, because he’s very fond of her; but I’m not sorry for her."

"I am. Any woman with a good husband must be sorry for them who haven’t got one."

"But ’tis no use thinking about it. She’ll die an old maid unless something very different from Crocker comes along. I met poor Snell but yesterday and asked him how the world wagged with him. And he said as he saw his way clearer than ever he had, owing to a talk with Rhoda. Rhoda of all people! ’Glad you see what a sensible woman she is,’ I told him, and he swore he’d always seen it, but never more than when she told the risks of marriage were greater than the gains. ’I’m off it for evermore,’ he says; ’and so be she--I’ve got her word.’ Never a man was more relieved in his mind, I should reckon."

"Nonsense!" declared Margaret. "She’s young for her years, and maidens all talk like that. I won’t believe it yet awhile. I won’t even believe that Bartley’s not the man. I see a lot of him and none knows him better. He’s gained a deal of sense and patience of late. He’s a kind-hearted, gentle creature, and she’d soon wake up to know what happiness really meant if she’d take him."

"She’s happy enough in her own way."

"I hope ’tis so; yet how can such a lone life be happy?"

"The heron be so happy as the starling," said David; "though one’s his own company most times and t’other goes in flocks. She needn’t trouble you. However, since you still think it may be, I’ll forget a thing here and there and help you, though ’tis against my own wish in a way. Of course Rhoda’s good is as much to me as my good have always been to her. I want her to be a happy woman and a married woman too, if Mr. Right comes along. But all the same, I can’t think whatever I should do if Bartley Crocker was to win her and take her off to Canada."

"The thing is to make her happy," answered his wife. "Before all else I want to do it. We’re as happy as birds. ’Tis for us, one way or another way, to fill her cup fuller."

"We’ll do what we may," he replied. "At least be sure that no man nor woman cares for her more than we do."

"And poor Bartley--don’t leave him out. He mustn’t be left out," she said.

His mind for the moment was on another issue.

"I’ll grant in one particular she’s not too happy," he remarked suddenly. "And that’s over Dorcas. I’m not speaking a word for Dorcas. She behaved very badly and she’s very well out of it, with a lot more luck than she deserves. Screech isn’t what I thought him, and I’ve admitted I was wrong in my opinion of him; but Rhoda can’t pardon her. I’m feared to say much, though she knows, for that matter, that I go so far as to nod to Dorcas now, and give her ’good-morning’ or ’good-night’ when we meet. But Rhoda won’t budge an inch. I suppose ’tis out of our power, Madge, to soften her a little bit in that quarter?"

"I’ve tried full often, but I’ll gladly try again," she answered. "And you’re right and put your finger on the sore place, no doubt. You can see so deep into people, David. For certain ’tis being out with her own flesh and blood that makes Rhoda wisht and mournful. But we’ll try yet again to bring ’em together. I know ’tis a great thorn in Dorcas, though she pretends not to care about it."

*CHAPTER VII*

*A SHARP TONGUE*

Timothy Mattacott and his life-long friend, Ernest Maunder, walked and talked together. The latter was on duty, but since the way led over an open space skirted with wild and empty land, the constable relaxed his official manner and gave ear to Mattacott.

"I ban’t too easy," confessed the elder man; "for it’s rumoured that along of that silly business on Christmas Eve, when Screech hollered out Stanbury’s name in the fog to Crazywell, and the wrong people heard him, that Mrs. Stanbury’s going out of her mind. Something ought to be done."

"Something certainly ought to be done," admitted Maunder. "You couldn’t say strictly that it comes under the head of law, else I should take steps; but we must consider of it before the woman gets worse."

"I don’t want to anger Screech, for he took a lot of trouble, and ’twasn’t his fault that Jane didn’t hear the voice. For that matter, ’twas as good as if she had done, and she’s holding off even now from Bart Stanbury, as Screech foretold me she would do. But I don’t get no forwarder with her, and ’tis only an evil postponed from my point of view, because she’s plainly told me that she likes Bart better than me, and she’s only waiting to see if there was anything in that voice, or if ’twas all nonsense and stuff."

"In other words," said Mr. Maunder, "if the man lives over into next year, which, of course, he will do, then she’ll take him."

"Yes, exactly so. If he died she’d have me, but on no other terms."

"I’m afraid then, to say it kindly, Tim, the game’s up," declared Ernest. "You see, the man ban’t going to die, and you’m harrying his mother silly for nought. If I may venture to advise, I’d urge for you to let it out and give her up."

"I don’t mind for myself, but there’s Billy Screech."

"If you’ve lost her, ’tis no good keeping up these hookem-snivey doings. Nought’s gained by it. To use craft, though foreign to my nature, I hope, in a general way, I should advise that Screech lets the thing out sudden. He might pretend that he’s just heard tell about it, and his wife could tell Mrs. Stanbury’s daughter, Margaret Bowden. Then ’twould be all right in a day, and the poor creature might recover her senses and rest in peace."

"As ’tis," explained Timothy, "she’s in a double mess, which we never thought upon--no, not the cleverest among us--for she can’t tell whether ’tis her son or her husband be going to drop. And she goes in fear according."

"It oughtn’t to be. It mustn’t be," declared the other. "’Tis unworthy and improper; and though I couldn’t say ’twas an actual crime against law, yet ’tis a very indecent situation, and if the poor creature was to go mad, you’d feel a heavy load on your conscience, Timothy, even though Billy Screech may be so built as not to care."

"Yes, I should," admitted Mr. Mattacott; "and something must be done--especially so, since I’ve lost the woman. ’Tis very vexatious in her, for she’s as near as damn it said ’yes’ a score of times."

"You’ll do better to look elsewhere, whether or no. Them uncertain creatures afore marriage are often uncertain afterwards, and then they be the very mischief," said Ernest. "And as for wits, upon my life I don’t think Mrs. Stanbury’s the only one that’s tottering. ’Twouldn’t maze me any day to hear as Reuben Shillabeer had to be handled. That man’s not what he was."

"He hath a wandering eye, I grant you."

"More than that, and worse than that. ’Tis my business, in its higher branches, to take thought of what be passing in a man’s brain, Timothy, and oft of late I’ve marked the ’Dumpling’ waver in his speech and break off and lose the thread."

"Have you now!"

"True as I’m here on duty. He don’t fix his intellects as he used."

"He’s always down--I grant that. ’The Corner House’ ban’t very lively nowadays."

"He is down, and that’s a sign of a screw loose. Say nought, however, for ’twould be libel and land you in trouble; but mark me, the poor fellow changes from his old self, though never a cheerful creature since his wife went."

They overtook a woman and both saluted Rhoda Bowden. She had just crossed Lether Tor bridge, and was proceeding by the road to Lowery. They talked concerning Mr. Shillabeer a while longer, and then Mr. Maunder mentioned Dorcas and her children. Whereupon from urbanity Rhoda lapsed into silence, soon bade them good-day, and turned off the main road into a lane. They passed on, and having left the track, Rhoda pursued the way she had chosen. It wound to her right, skirted a quarry on Lowery Tor, and returned to the main thoroughfare half a mile beyond. The detour was of no account, and yet, owing to this trivial incident, there happened presently an event that set rolling deep waves along the shore of chance.

The rough footpath led directly behind Mr. Billy Screech’s cottage, and just as Rhoda was speeding by with her eyes turned from the place, the eldest child of Dorcas--a boy of more than three years old--fell headlong out of the hedge at her feet. The accident looked serious. For a moment her nephew lay motionless and silent, then he began to utter piercing screams and cry for his mother. The noise stilled Rhoda’s alarm and brought Dorcas flying from her cottage, with her mother-in-law after her. When they arrived at the hedge Rhoda had picked up her sister’s first-born, and was endeavouring to calm it.

The lesser William Screech was found to have escaped with no worse hurt than fright and bruises. He was soon in his mother’s arms, and she handed him on to his grandmother. Dorcas thanked Rhoda and told the elder Mrs. Screech to depart; then, the opportunity being a good one, she descended into the road herself, set her face, shook her red fringe out of her eyes, and resolutely overtook Rhoda, who had hastened forward.

"Stop, if you please," she said. "It’s a free country and you’ve no right to deny speech to any civil-spoken creature. I want to speak to you, and I’ll be obliged if you’ll listen for a minute. You can’t refuse to hear me."

Even at this moment Rhoda was struck by the calm authority in her younger sister’s voice. She spoke as the superior woman, with all the weight of a husband, a family, and a home behind her. The aggressive personality of Dorcas was something new.

"I don’t want to have aught to do with you," said Rhoda.

"Nor I with you," answered the other. "But we’ve all got to do a lot of things we don’t like in this world--you and me among the rest."

"Speak then," said the elder. She had not stood face to face with her sister for some years, and now she marked that Dorcas looked better far than of old. She had filled into neat matronly lines; her eyes were stronger; her gift of ready words was still with her.

"’Tis this: I’m weary of the scandal between us. I’m looked up to and treated proper by other women, and ’tis a wonder to them all why you hold off as you do. I don’t want your friendship, God knows, nor yet your good word; but civility I’ve a right to ask for, and ’tis a beastly, obstinate wickedness in you that refuses it. Here, but three days since, Madge comed in and said how hard she’d tried again to make you see different, but not a kindly thought to your own flesh and blood have you got. A minute agone, if you’d known ’twas my child you’d picked up, no doubt you’d have let the poor little toad drop again. And Madge says you won’t make friends and be civil, even on the outside, out of respect to everybody; and I’ll ask you why and thank you to tell me."

Rhoda lacked the usual armoury of women. Her mind moved slowly; her words did the like. She made no instant answer, but looked down into the angry eyes of Mrs. Screech and noticed her hands were wet and puffy.

"’Tis washing-day with you, I see," she said in a mechanical voice. Why she made this remark she had not the least idea. It was certainly not meant as an offence; but Dorcas held such irrelevance as rude.

"Never mind whether ’tis my washing-day or not. Please to answer me and give me a reason for what you’m doing year after year. I suppose you think ’tis terrible fine to stick your vartuous nose up in the air, and pretend you’m a holy saint and not a common woman. Terrible fine, no doubt--and terrible foolish--like many other terrible fine things be. Don’t you judge your betters so free, and sneer at every woman who does her first duty in the world and helps the world along; but look at home a bit and see what a nasty-minded, foul-thinking creature you be, without enough charity to keep your brains sweet. You was very fond of bally-ragging me in the old days, when I was a stupid girl and didn’t know what I was born for; but you shan’t come it over me no more, and I warn you not to try."

Her voice was shrill, and Rhoda, listening to the sound, perceived another whom marriage had made a shrew.

"What’s the use of this noise?" she asked coldly. "You can’t make me have aught to do with you or your children, and I refuse to do it. ’Tis playing with the past to ask the reason. You know the reason. I never would speak, and never will speak to any woman who does what you did. I’m jealous for women, and the like of you, that makes them a scorn and a laughing-stock, should be cast out by all right-minded females. Then such things as you did wouldn’t be done no more."

"No! If the women were like you, there’d mighty soon be no more women--nor men neither--a poor, unfinished thing--like a frost-bitten carrot--good for nought. You to talk to me out of your empty life! You to say I’m not fit company for people--me as be bringing brave boys and girls into the world, while you look after puppies and lambs! Why, damn you, you be no more than a useless lump of flesh, as might so well be underground as here! You--out of your empty, silly life--to talk to me in my full, busy days! I spit at you; and if you think to punish me, then I’ll punish you too. I can bite so well as bark; and if you ban’t on your knees pretty soon, I’ll have you and David by the ears--then we’ll see what becomes of you!"

Mrs. Screech suggested a woman suffering under too much alcohol. But she was merely drunk with anger. Her sister’s calm attitude and patient indifference to this attack did not help to soothe her. Rhoda looked at the sun, and Dorcas knew that she was judging the time of day.

"You’ll call for the hours to move a bit faster afore long," she said. "Don’t you think you can insult me and my husband, year ’pon year like this, and not smart for it. We know very well how to hit back, and if it hadn’t been for a better woman than you, I’d have done it a long time ago. I don’t forget how you boxed my ears once, because I knowed how to love a man. You’d have better axed me what the secret was and begged to know it. But you think you’ve got no use for a man; and they’ve got no use for you and never will have--as you’ll live to find out. And I’ll sting you to the quick now--now--this instant moment, if you don’t say you’m sorry for the past and promise on your honour to treat me and mine decent in future. I warn you to mind afore you speak."

A malignant light shone over the face of Dorcas. She set her teeth and panted at her own great wrongs, while she waited for the other to speak.

"You can’t hurt me," said Rhoda, "and you know it."

"Can’t I? We’ll see then! God defend the world from white virgins like you--that’s what I say. A holy terror you are; and we’re all to be brought up for judgment, I suppose--to have our heads chopped off, because we dare to be made of flesh and blood instead of dead earth. Pure and clean--is it? What _you_ call pure. All the same, the likes of you does things, and thinks things, us married women would blush to do and think."

"If that’s all you want to say, I’ll thank you to get out of my road," answered the other.

"’Tisn’t all, as it happens. I’m going to talk of Bartley Crocker now, and then you can take away something to think about yourself, you frozen wretch! I suppose, in your pride, you fancy he’s after you all these days, and comes because he wants to marry you--wants to marry a lump of granite! ’Tisn’t you he thinks about, or cares about, or ever will; ’tis one whose shoes you ban’t worthy to black--or David either. Between you she’d be like to die of starvation, I reckon; and who shall blame her if she does take her hungry heart to somebody, else? You and him--good God! ’tis like living between two ice images--enough to kill the nature in any creature higher than a dog. And she knows it, and a good few more--Bartley Crocker among the number--knows it. Belike Madge grows tired of being moss to his stone, and working her fingers raw for such as you and her husband. And even your precious David ban’t the only man in the world. And so a decent chap like Bartley comes along, an old friend that knows a little about girls and what they feel like, and knows they be different from sheep and heifers. Hear that! ’Tis not for you the man seeks your house. He uses your name like a blind. He laughs at you and your airs and graces. He’s got no use for you and never will have. They meet here and there and everywhere--and why not? ’Fallen woman’ be the word for me, I suppose. ’Tis you be the fallen woman; and to call you woman is too good for you! You never was a woman; but Madge is, and I hope to God you’ll wake one day to find she’ve had pluck and sense enough to leave you and David and run for it with a better man. You may stare your owl’s eyes out of your head. But you’ve got it now, and you’ve earned it."

Dorcas stopped, panting from her tirade, and passed her sister and disappeared without more speech. Rhoda, left alone, stood quite still for a little while; then she proceeded on her business. Not a shadow of anger clouded her mind, only dreadful dismay at the things she had heard. She was not galled for herself; she did not wince at the foul torrent loosed upon her. It passed over her harmlessly. But her thoughts busied themselves entirely with David. That Dorcas should thus have supported her own fears, and driven home her own cloudy suspicions and terrors, struck Rhoda dumb. Here was the thing that she had hidden and suffered to gnaw her breast without a sign, now shouted on the loud, vulgar tongue of the world, as represented by Dorcas. Here was the secret that she had suspected, and searched out in fear and trembling, blurted coarsely for any ear.

A period of increased happiness had recently passed over ’Meavy Cot,’ and Madge, who appeared to hide her emotions no more than a bird, went singing and cheerful through it. Then matters drifted into the old ways. Now much of hope deferred was upon David’s mind and some abstraction and silence clouded the home again, for the Tavistock appointment remained still a matter of uncertainty. But the circumstance chiefly in Rhoda’s thoughts at this moment was the attitude of her brother to Bartley Crocker.

Their relations had grown more and more friendly of late. Crocker often came uninvited to ’Meavy Cot,’ and David always appeared well pleased to see him. When the younger was not by, her brother often spoke of him, and both he and Margaret endeavoured to make Rhoda share their high opinion. From Madge she had always turned impatiently away; but to David she had listened and not seldom wondered that he and she--who found themselves thinking alike in most questions of life and character--should differ so widely upon the subject of this man. The reason was now easy to discover: she knew the truth and her brother did not. Her judgment was confirmed. Then, upon this appalling conclusion, came doubt and deepest perplexity. Why should such a woman as Dorcas be right? Her evil heart might have invented the whole story with no purpose but to torture and torment. Rhoda had next reluctantly to consider Crocker himself and his bearing when they met.