Chapter XIII: Bursting of the Springs

A year passed by and little happened to mark it. Then full store of incident fell upon the dwellers at Ruddyford Farm.

It is to be recorded to the credit of Jarratt Weekes that, in the bitter difference which now happened between him and Daniel Brendon, he was not altogether at fault. Nevertheless an underlying element of malignity mingled with his attitude. In giving of advice, subtle personal satisfaction often lurks; yet sometimes the emotion belongs merely to that implicit sense of superiority felt by the critic over the criticized. When Weekes met Brendon on an autumn day and plunged into the most dangerous subject that he could have chosen, he did so quite awake to the delicacy; but he did so from motives at any rate largely blent with good. He was now himself happily married, for Mary Churchward, despite a harsh voice and a hard nature, had plenty of sense, and proved practical and patient. Jarratt's feeling to Brendon and his wife was mainly friendly, and if some sub-acid of memory still tinged thought, that recollection had largely faded. To sum up, if his motives in this encounter were mingled, he meant no lasting evil, but rather lasting good from his action. That Daniel might smart a little he guessed, and the fact did not cause him any regret. Frankly, he was glad of it. The giving of this advice would lift him above the lesser man, and, by so doing, help him to win back a little self-esteem. As for the upshot of his counsel, he felt very certain that it must tend to benefit the other and establish him more securely in his home and its vital relations. Since he acted in profound ignorance of Brendon's own character, his conscience was clear, and his mind free to state the case with all the force and tact at his command. He told himself that he was doing his duty; but his deed, none the less, had a relish that duty usually lacks.

Under any circumstances danger must attend the operation--how great Weekes did not guess; and in the event, the added circumstance of Daniel's mood had to be reckoned with. This precipitated the catastrophe with terrific suddenness.

When they met, Brendon's dark star was up. Matters were contrary at the farm, and a thing, little to be expected, had happened in the shape of a quarrel between Daniel and John Prout. Their master was the subject, and a word from the younger man brought sharp rebuke upon him.

"'Tis all tom-foolery about his being ill," said Daniel. "He's as tough as any of us. 'Tis laziness that keeps him mooning about with his books down at Lydford--that's my opinion."

But Prout flashed out at this, and, for the first time, the other saw him in anger.

"Tom-fool yourself!" he said; "and never you open your mouth to chide your betters in my hearing again, for I won't stand it. You ought to know wiser. You to speak against him! If you had half his patience and half his brain power, you might presume to do it; but you haven't: you've got nought but the strength of ten men and a very unsettled temper to make it dangerous. I'm sorry for you--you that pose for a righteous man and mistrust them as be set over you. What do you know about the sufferings of the body? When do a cough rack you of nights and rheumatics gnaw your bones like a hungry dog? Don't you dare to say a disrespectful word of Mr. Woodrow again, for I'll have you away if you do! After the master he's been to you--lifting you above the rest and making you free of the farm to work where you will, as if 'twas your own. Dear, dear!--'tis a bad come-along-of-it, and I'm greatly disappointed in you, my son."

His anger waned towards the end of this speech, as his words testified; but Brendon, having heard, hesitated and showed self-control. He was bitterly hurt at this tremendous reproof, yet he perceived that it was justified from Mr. Prout's standpoint. He did not seek to set himself right. His first anger died out when John reminded him of the things that the master had done for him. He apologized, but in a half-hearted manner; and then, with darkness of spirit, betook himself about his business.

It was necessary that morning that he should go into Bridgetstowe, and through a wet autumnal Moor he walked, passed under Doe Tor, and presently reached the little Lyd, where she foamed in freshet from the high lands.

The springs had burst, and the wilderness was traversed with a thousand glittering rillets. In the deep coombs and wherever a green dimple broke the stony slopes of the hills, water now leapt and glittered. Traced to their sources, the springs might be found beginning in little bubbling cauldrons, from which, through a mist of dancing sand, they rose out of the secret heart of the granite. Then, by winding ways, they fell, and the green grass marked their unfamiliar passing with beads of imprisoned light on every blade. It was the death-time of heath and furze, the springtime of moss, lichen and fungus. Quaint fleshy caps and hoods--some white and grey, some amber and orange-tawny--spattered the heath; and many mosses fell lustrously in sheets and shone in pads and cushions. The great lycopodium spread green fingers through the herbage, and his little lemon spires of fruit thrust upward in companies and groups. Beside him the eye-bright still blossomed; the whortle's foliage turned to scarlet; and in the marsh the bog mosses made splendid mosaic of delicate and tender colours. At river's brink the seed-cases of the asphodel burnt, like a scarlet flame; the sky-coloured bells of the least campanula still defied death; and the later gentian grew and lifted purple blossoms from the glimmering grass.

Daniel Brendon crossed Lyd by the stepping-stones and met with Jarratt Weekes. They walked along together, and the elder man happened to speak of a matter then in the other's thoughts.

"I suppose you know Mr. Woodrow's going at last? My wife says she can't live with her father no more, and she's right; so I've had to say that I must have the cottage empty after Christmas. What's he going to do?"

"Can't tell you," answered the other. "There's a general opinion that he's not strong and didn't ought to spend his winters up here."

"I reckon we shouldn't have heard about his health if he'd been a poor man. He's well enough to do everything he wants to do. Have 'e marked that?"

Daniel nodded.

"All the same, we mustn't judge people by their looks," he said. "I was thinking much as you do only an hour agone--and saying it too. But I got a pretty sharp rap over the knuckles from Prout for my pains. Ban't our business, after all. He's a very good master--never heard of a better."

"And a very good payer. I've nothing to grumble at. Only a man's wife must be his first thought. Mrs. Weekes wants to go into the house."

"Us married ones can afford to laugh at the bachelors," declared Daniel.

"So us can--though the bachelors have been known to pay back the compliment sometimes, and make us a laughing-stock. When I was married, kind-hearted people whispered 'twas the rasp wedding with the nutmeg-grater. That's the sort of gentlemanly thing one's friends say behind one's back. But I think it has been proved different. My wife's a wonder in her way--got all my mother's sense without her tongue."

"You're lucky for certain. I'm glad Sarah Jane and her be such good friends."

"So am I, and--and friendship's nothing if it won't---- Look here, may I say a thing to you on a delicate subject, Brendon? Will you promise not to be angered if I do it?"

"If you speak of friendship, who can be angered?" asked Daniel. "What delicate subject should you have to speak to me about?"

"The tenderest a man can touch to a neighbour. But from pure goodwill I speak it. You'll judge that when you hear me. A man doesn't strain friendship and say ticklish things for fun. 'Tis only out of kind feeling for you and Sarah Jane that I'm going to say it."

"Better leave her out," said Daniel. "Her welfare's the same as mine. She've not got any good away from my good. If you do me a friendly turn, you'll be doing the same to she."

"I can't leave her out. She's the matter."

Brendon stopped and stared.

"What be you talking about?"

"About Sarah Jane. There it is. I told you 'twas a delicate matter. If you won't stand it, I'll leave it alone."

"Go on," said Brendon shortly. His voice had changed, and Weekes noticed it.

"Don't be angry for nought. It's a free country, and I've a right to my opinions, I suppose. I say again, 'twas a great act of friendship in me to touch this thing at all; but if you're going to take it in an evil spirit, I'll stop. 'Tis no better than the old saying of Lydford Law--when they hanged a man first and tried him afterwards--for you to speak in that tone of voice, and command me to go on, as if I was a servant and you the master."

"What do you want, then?"

"I want you to understand that I'm not doing this because I like it. I know the gravity of what I'm going to say; but I'm not a word-of-mouth friend, but a real one--where a man will let me be. So I say to you that unwise things are being done--not by Sarah Jane--not for a moment--but by Hilary Woodrow."

"I must ask you to name them."

Weekes did not answer immediately. Then he went to the heart of the matter, so far as he knew it.

"They walk together. They meet--accident on her part, no doubt; but not on his. Yet could he meet her if he hadn't fixed to do it? 'Tisn't wrong, of course; but 'tisn't wise."

"You've been watching Sarah Jane?"

"Not I. What is it to me? They've been seen together in lonely places, that's all--no harm, of course--still----"

The other blazed out and his voice rose.

"You're a dirty-minded man to say these things to me, and 'tis far off from friendship that makes you say them! Quick to think evil--and wish evil. To cloud the fair name of a man's wife--because she's a fool----"

"Don't be a fool yourself! I'm clouding nobody and nothing. I'm only telling you that----"

"Tell me no more!" roared Daniel.

"If I did, perhaps you wouldn't make such a silly row," answered Jarratt, hot in his turn. "Why, you great stupid lout, what is it to me if she's his mistress? I don't care a damn--I----"

Brendon cut him short, made a loud, inarticulate sound like an animal, and struck the smaller man to the earth. He hit Weekes with his right fist full upon the forehead; and the blow dropped the castle-keeper backwards, and deprived him of consciousness.

Daniel shouted at the prone figure, raved at him and cursed him. Any chance beholder had fled with fear, under the impression that a maniac rioted there. The passion-storm was terrific, and for a time Brendon seemed not responsible. Then his wrath gradually passed, and both the conscious and unconscious men came to their senses. Weekes recovered, sat up, then stood up unsteadily, and looked round for his hat and stick. Daniel immediately left him and went upon his way.

That night Brendon told his wife what he had done, and she listened while he spoke at length. He cast no blame upon her; but very sternly he bade her be more mindful of herself henceforth; and he warned her with terrible earnestness that he would hold it no sin to destroy any man who injured him in his most sacred possession. His great self-control on this occasion impressed her more than rage would have done, and she uttered no protest when he told her of a fixed intention to leave Ruddyford.

"You're right to go," she declared.

"John Prout threatened to have me turned off for speaking rudely of the master this morning," he said. "Well, I'll go without being turned off. I can stop no more after this, and I won't. Don't think I'm angered with you or with him. I'm not. I scorn to be. 'Tis only that knave that has angered me by his evil lie. This won't end here. He'll have the law of me for what I've done and disgrace me, be sure of that. I must suffer what I must suffer: my conscience is perfectly at peace about that. He got less than he deserved."

But time passed, and Jarratt Weekes made no sign. So far as Brendon could judge, none even heard of the encounter. At any rate, it did not reach his ear again. It was said that the horse of Mr. Weekes had lifted its head suddenly, and given him a pair of black eyes while he was stooping over its neck.