Chapter I: Brendon Stops at Ruddyford

Even Joe Tapson expressed regret when Daniel Brendon decided to leave Ruddyford, and let his decision become known. All begged him to reconsider the step; all bluntly asked where he expected to find more satisfactory employment, a happier home, and equal money. Prout had been among those who urged him most strenuously to reconsider his determination. Then shone the lunar rainbow, and from that hour the head man was silent.

Three days later Daniel, after long brooding, set off to do two things. He meant to visit Jarratt Weekes and express contrition for his recent violence; and he intended to call upon his master, that he might give notice of his approaching departure from Ruddyford.

Joe met him on the way, saw that Daniel wore Sunday clothes, guessed his mission, and made a final appeal.

"Don't you be a fool, Dan. A man's only worth what he'll fetch, as you ought to know. I withstood you so long as I could do it, and, to this day, I don't reckon you be worth a penny more in open market than what I be myself; because, though I've but one eye, it sees further than the two of many men I could name; and though you've got larger muscles upon you than me, yet I won't grant your brains be ahead of mine by an inch. However, he thought different, and he's the purse, so 'tis for us to mind our own business and keep our opinions in check. I've long larned to do that."

"You mistake me, Joe," answered the other. "My money's all right, and the place is all right, and I shall be mighty sorry to go from you all--you as much as any man, for in your way you've taught me a great deal worth knowing. But life have got an inside and an outside to it; an' 'tis the inside of mine I ban't too pleased with. More than good wages and good friends go to peace of mind."

"Well, I hope he'll make you change your ideas, for I'm sure he'll try."

"The more he tries, the steadfaster shall I stand."

"More fool you, then. However, go your way. I know a chap who'd be very wishful to fill your shoes, an' a very willing boy, though 'twill be like David coming to do Goliath's work."

Brendon called at Adam Churchward's and learned from Jarratt's wife that he was at Lydford Castle.

"'Tis his last season there," she said; "for he've grown too big a man for that small work now, and his time's better worth. I wanted to make him give it up long ago, but he don't like dropping sure money, even though 'tis small money. However, they've appointed young Teddy Westover to succeed him--old Westover's grandson."

"I'm much obliged to you," answered Daniel. "I'll seek him there."

Presently, as a party left the ruin, Brendon met Weekes, and asked to be allowed to speak to him.

Jarratt hid his heart and consented to listen. He nodded gravely while Brendon apologized, explained that he had acted from worthy motives, and added that he had told nobody--not even his wife--of the outrage put upon him by Daniel.

"I'm sorry to God," said Brendon. "I was wrong every way to smite you. Whether you was right to speak what you did, I won't say. I don't know. I only know that I'd no right to answer so. And I ask you to forgive an erring man. I was shaken from my hold on the Lord--surprised away from it by the shock of what you said. You were wrong in your opinion--that I do steadfastly know; but none the less---- But I ban't here to make any excuses. I'm sorry to the heart, and I beg you to forgive me."

"I will do so, Daniel Brendon."

"Thank you. There's another thing. I've got a five-pound note here. I heard as you kept your bed for two days. That means I did more than hurt you. I robbed you of money. Please to take this. 'Tis a sign that you forgive me properly if you take it."

He held out the note and Weekes extended his hand quickly, then drew it back.

"I was off work three days, to be exact. But five pounds for three days would be ten for a week. That's five hundred and twenty for the year."

"Ban't it enough?"

Weekes laughed.

"That's a home question; however, since you want to do the honest thing, I won't stand in your way."

He took out a heavy leather purse and put the note into it.

"Now we'll cry quits. Don't let this go no further."

Weekes shook hands and left Daniel abruptly; but the big man felt satisfied. He held that, save for his own lasting regret, the matter was now concluded. He continued to be ashamed of himself when he reflected upon it; but he ceased to feel any pity for Jarratt Weekes, and he could not satisfy himself that the other's motives had been pure.

Now Daniel called upon his master and found him at home.

"I came because of the rain," he said. "I knew 'twould hold you to the house."

Hilary was writing, and held his hand for silence. Then he finished a page and blotted it. Various papers littered his desk, and, among others, lay a large one, rolled up and tied round the middle with pink tape.

"Good-morning, Dan. This is a funny coincidence. I sent for you an hour ago. You missed my messenger."

"I met no messenger."

Woodrow rose and took his pipe from the mantelshelf.

"Let's have your business first, then you shall know mine. Sit down. We don't see one another often enough. I wish you'd come more frequently."

Brendon took a chair and put his soft black hat under it.

"'Tis harder to speak afore those kind words, master. And yet--I've got to do it. I want to go--I must go. This is to give notice, please. I'll suit your convenience, of course. Perhaps after Christmas. I'm mighty sorry for many reasons. Still, 'twill be the best thing."

An expression of real pain crossed the face of Hilary Woodrow.

"How can you say this, Daniel? Don't you care more than that for me? I thought--why, good God--I hold you dearer than almost anybody in the world! You're far, far more to me than a servant. You--a friend--to say this! You, my right hand, to ask to be cut off!"

"I know you set store by me. I know how good you've been--yet--we can't say all we know. You mustn't think 'tis a small thing; you mustn't think I'm not grateful, master. I owe you far more than 'tis in my power to pay. I pray for you. 'Tis all I can do--all the poor can do for the rich--to pray for 'em. My work's nought. That's the everyday business between man and man. For that you pay, and pay well. But prayer's beyond. I tell you this because, afore I go, I want you to know I'm more than just a strong man working for wages."

"You shall not go! This is a matter far beyond the farm, or the welfare of the farm. You are a great deal to me. You are an example to me and to all of us. While you have prayed for me, I--I haven't prayed, since I know of nothing to pray to that has ears to hear--but I've done what I could--according to my lights."

"I know that. You've been good and generous to me. There's nothing--nothing I can say against you."

"I can't part with you, Dan. I won't believe the reason is beyond explanation. Be honest with me--absolutely. Tell me why this idea has come to you. You're at a point far more vital in your career than you think for. Don't leave any shadow or uncertainty. Be dead straight about it, Dan."

Brendon did not answer, but he struggled fiercely with himself. He was a great-hearted man, and now, within sound of his master's voice, in sight of his earnest eyes, his reason dwindled somewhat.

Suddenly he blurted out the truth.

"Jarratt Weekes told me a while ago that you saw too much of Sarah Jane. I believe that he said it without malice. He thought so--like as not others do."

A great expiration left the lungs of Woodrow.

"Too much of her! No, Dan--not too much of her--not enough; but too much of this dirty little village and the mean-minded vermin that live in it! Nobody could see too much of Sarah Jane--any more than they could see too much of the sun in the sky, or hear too much of the song of the birds. I don't see enough of her--or of you. How glad I am you had the pluck to speak!"

"One thing I must ask of you--to take no step against Weekes. I've punished him. I nearly broke his neck when he said it. I knew 'twas a lie; but, of course, I can't live where 'tis possible to tell such lies."

"You'll never get beyond the reach of falsehood in this world, Dan. Lying is woven into the fabric of all human life--part of the regular pattern. We should be like the beasts that perish if we did not lie. Civilized existence rests on a bedrock of lying. 'Tis the cement that keeps every state together; the first necessity of conscious existence. Only Nature can work without falsehood. The lie is as old as human language. If men said what they thought, the world's work would stand still. Try it--yet I wouldn't ask you to do that. Why should I wish my best friend to have nought but enemies?"

"I won't live where 'tis possible to tell this lie," repeated Brendon.

"If you believed the lie--then I should be the first to ask you to be gone. Happily you don't. I've not got much heart, Brendon; but the little I have would break if I thought you did not care for me. If there is a thing that I've hoped and planned and rejoiced to plan in this fading life of mine, it is your future."

"My future! That's God's work to plan--not yours."

"I know it is. But in one of these conversations I held with your wife, which have shocked this low-minded rascal, she said a fine thing to me, Dan. She said, 'All good things come from my man's God. You can't have no good without His hand be in it. And men and women are His messengers to carry the goodness of God up and down in the world and show it.'"

"That's true enough. Nothing new, surely?"

"It was new to me. If there's a God, Daniel, He is a good God. I'll grant you so much. And if good comes to any man, 'tis his God that sends it. I suppose you believe that?"

"Where else can good come from? Man's heart don't imagine it. Man's heart don't breed it."

"Then you're answered, for into my heart has long since come the wish to do you good. I desire it, and I am thankful that I can perform it. I wish you to have power, because you understand how to use power wisely; and content, because you are the only man I ever met who understood that content is higher than happiness."

"You've done all you could, and I have thanked you."

"And thanked your God, I warrant?"

"Yes--Him first."

"It's good to thank Him, I suppose?"

"It's right--it's natural--'tis all we can give Him--our thanks and worship."

"Then take my hand, Daniel, and say I've cleared this cloud. Don't make my sad life sadder by going out of it. Don't say I may not sometimes see and speak with Mrs. Brendon. If you had a beautiful and rare flower in your garden, you would not deny other people the sight of it. 'Tis a parallel case every way. She is a remarkable woman, full of high qualities. I ask you to be my close friend henceforth, Brendon. It would seem a strange thing for a master to ask of his man. Yet I do it. Prout is my friend and I want you too, because you are much more to me than good old John, or any other man on earth."

He stopped and coughed, then rose, took a wisp of paper from a china jar, and re-lighted his pipe.

Brendon did not speak. Woodrow's words troubled him at one moment, gratified him at the next; now the farmer said a thing that made him start, and, before he had grasped it, the quick, nervous voice passed on and uttered some word that could not fail to soften his heart.

"Say you'll stop, Dan," continued Hilary Woodrow. "Say you'll stop, before I come to my affair. 'Twill spoil all if you cleave to this determination. 'Twill make the thing I have plotted all dust and ashes. Yet I won't influence you with it. I won't influence you save to say this: I'm not going to be in the land of the living more than a few years at best; but you'll cloud those years for me, Daniel, if you go; and as sure as your God's watching you to-day, you'll be sorry afterwards, if you stick to this determination."

He turned to the window, and smoked and looked out into the little street.

For a minute or two neither spoke. Then Brendon bent for his hat, picked it up, and rose.

"Since you put it that way, and say so solemnly that 'tis in my power to better your life by stopping, then I'll stop, master. Don't think I wanted to go, but for what I told you. 'Twas the only thing in the world that would have took me. But since 'tis false, I'll spurn it. My God's Self's a jealous God, but--there 'tis--I'll fight to be large-minded--I'll stop----"

Woodrow did not speak, but his eyes were damp when he turned from the window and came back to the table. A strange conflict of emotions filled his spirit, choked his throat, seethed upward to his brain, and sunk downward to his heart. His admiration and even affection for Daniel were genuine enough at that moment; and he rejoiced at the thing that he was about to do. But not for an instant did he mourn the thing that he had done.

He could not speak immediately.

He took the other's hand and shook it very warmly. Then he picked up the packet on the table, dragged the tape off, and gave it to Brendon.

"Read," he said.

The giant, amazed at such emotion, stared dumbly out of his dark, dog-like eyes, opened the packet and knit his brows to peruse the calligraphy.

Woodrow walked about the room while Daniel read his will. It was short, and took but three minutes. Then Brendon put the paper on the table again.

"Tell me one thing," he said. "Be you sure that to do this is not to wrong some other--somebody of your own kin who have a right to it all? Can you swear that?"

"None has a right. I'm alone in the world. My kin are remote and nothing to me. They are well-to-do, and have no anxiety. You must keep John Prout easy and comfortable until he dies, and also his sister--that's the only condition."

"I can't bring it home to my mind. 'Tis too much to happen to a man. I don't know what to say."

"Say you're my friend, that's all I want you to say."

"'Your friend'! This is not friendship. This is a thing greater than friendship. I know how to thank my God; I don't know what to say to you, master."

"Not master. Thank me by calling me 'master' no more. Thank me by seeing me oftener--both of you. Talk to me. Tell me all you believe, and why you believe it. Help me, if you can. Perhaps your God will look to it that you pay me so well that my gift shall be dross to your gold. Stranger things have happened. I'd dearly like to believe in a world beyond this, Daniel, before I go to find out for myself. Now be off for a while. Good-bye--friend Daniel."

"Good-bye. I be dumb still--in a maze. I'm surely dreaming this."

"Tell nobody--not a soul except your wife. But ask her not to mention it."

Brendon went away entranced, and was nearly run over at the corner of the street by a waggon laden with straw. The carter laughed at him.

"Ban't often us catches you mooning about in the middle of the road!" he said.

Daniel climbed White Hill presently and looked down at Ruddyford. Then his eyes atoned for his lack of imagination, and helped him to understand and realize the prodigious thing that had happened.

This place would be his own. He would be master presently, and his child would follow him. It rushed upon him in a wave--drowned him almost, so that he panted for air. His mind turned to Woodrow, and, with heart and soul, he hoped that the farmer might enjoy length of days. He determined with himself that evermore he would add to his prayer for Woodrow that it might please God to let him see Truth before he died. He thought of himself being allowed to make Woodrow a Christian.

For a while he gazed, then considered Sarah Jane's joy. Suddenly his mind turned back to Hilary, and next he turned his body back also. He began to understand at last; he yearned to go before the giver again and say a little of what he felt. As for God, Dan believed that he was in His presence all the time. An under-current of thanksgiving rose from his soul, like smoke of incense.

Words from his favourite, Isaiah, ran through his head as he swept with great strides back to Lydford:

"That He may do His work, His strange work; and bring to pass His act, His strange act," the man kept repeating.

But the strange act went far deeper than Daniel conceived. Of the strange act, strange thoughts were bred in one man's spirit; and when he was alone, Woodrow pondered long of the amazing complexity of his own motives during the past few days, and of the impress stamped upon present thought and future resolution by this actual conversation with the husband of Sarah Jane. He was moved to find how little he had pretended, how much he had felt; how largely grain of truth mingled with the seed of falsehood sown by him upon Brendon's heart in that hour.