Chapter 30

THROUGH ONE GREAT DAY

Just within the woods of Teign Valley, at a point not far distant from that where Will Blanchard met John Grimbal for the first time, and wrestled with him beside the river, there rises a tall bank, covered with fern, shadowed by oak trees. A mossy bridle-path winds below, while beyond it, seen through a screen of wych-elms and hazel, extend the outlying meadows of Monks Barton.

Upon this bank, making "sunshine in a shady place," reclined Chris, beneath a harmony of many greens, where the single, double, and triple shadows of the manifold leaves above her created a complex play of light and shade all splashed and gemmed with little sun discs. Drowsy noon-day peace marked the hour; Chris had some work in her hand, but was not engaged upon it; and Clement, who lolled beside her, likewise did nothing. His eyes were upon a mare and foal in the meadow below. The matron proceeded slowly, grazing as she went, while her lanky youngster nibbled at this or that inviting tuft, then raced joyously in wide circles and, returning, sought his mother's milk with the selfish roughness of youth.

"Happy as birds, they be," said Chris, referring to the young pair at Newtake. "It do make me long for us to be man an' wife, Clem, when I see 'em."

"We're that now, save for the hocus-pocus of the parsons you set such store by."

"No, I'll never believe it makes no difference."

"A cumbrous, stupid, human contrivance like marriage! Was ever man and woman happier for being bound that way? Can free things feel their hearts beat closer because they are chained to one another by an effete dogma?"

"I doan't onderstand all that talk, sweetheart, an' you knaw I don't; but till some wise body invents a better-fashion way of joining man an' maid than marriage, us must taake it as 'tis."

"There is a better way--Nature's."

She shook her head.

"If us could dwell in a hole at a tree-root, an' eat roots an' berries; but we'm thinking creatures in a Christian land."

She stretched herself out comfortably and smiled up at him where he sat with his chin in his hands. Then, looking down, he saw the delicious outline of her and his eyes grew hot.

"God's love! How long must it be?" he cried; then, before she could speak, he clipped her passionately to him and hugged her closely.

"Dearie, you'm squeezin' my breath out o' me!" cried Chris, well used to these sudden storms and not averse to them. "We must bide patient an' hold in our hearts," she said, lying in his arms with her face close to his. "'Twill be all the more butivul when we'm mated. Ess fay! I love 'e allus, but I love 'e better in this fiery mood than on the ice-cold days when you won't so much as hold my hand."

"The cold mood's the better notwithstanding, and colder yet would be better yet, and clay-cold best of all."

But he held her still, and pressed his beard against her brown neck. Then the sound of a trotting horse reached his ears, he started up, looked below, and saw John Grimbal passing by. Their eyes met, for the horseman chanced to glance up as Clement thrust his head above the fern; but Chris was invisible and remained so.

Grimbal stopped and greeted the bee-keeper.

"Have you forgotten your undertaking to see my hives once a month?"

"No, I meant coming next week."

"Well, as it happens I want to speak with you, and the present time's as good as another. I suppose you were only lying there dreaming?"

"That's all. I'll come and walk along beside your horse."

He squeezed his sweetheart's hand, whispered a promise to return immediately, then rose and stumbled down the bank, leaving Chris throned aloft in the fern. For a considerable time John Grimbal said nothing, then he began suddenly,--

"I suppose you know the Applebirds are leaving my farm?"

"Yes, Mrs. Applebird told my mother. Going to Sticklepath."

"Not easy to get a tenant to take their place."

"Is it not? Such a farm as yours? I should have thought there need be no difficulty."

"There are tenants and tenants. How would you like it--you and your mother? Then you could marry and be comfortable. No doubt Chris Blanchard would make a splendid farmer's wife."

"It would be like walking into paradise for me; but--"

"The rent needn't bother you. My first care is a good tenant. Besides, rent may take other shapes than pounds, shillings, and pence."

Hicks started.

"I see," he said; "you can't forget the chance word I spoke in anger so long ago."

"I can't, because it happened to be just the word I wanted to hear. My quarrel with Will Blanchard's no business of yours. The man's your enemy too; and you're a fool to stand in your own light, You know something that I don't know, concerning those weeks during which he disappeared. Well, tell me. You can only live your life once. Why let it run to rot when the Red House Farm wants a tenant? A man you despise, too."

"No. I promised. Besides, you wouldn't be contented with the knowledge; you'd act on it."

Grimbal showed a lightning-quick perception of this admission; and Hicks, too late, saw that the other had realised its force. Then he made an effort to modify his assertion.

"When I say 'you'd act on it,' I mean that you might try to, though I much doubt really if anything I could tell you would damage Blanchard."

"If you think that, then there can be no conscientious objection to telling me. Besides, I don't say I should act on the knowledge. I don't say I shall or I shall not. All you ve got to do is to say whether you'll take the Red House Farm at a nominal rent from Michaelmas."

"No, man, no. You've met me in a bad moment, too, if you only knew. But think of it--brother and sister; and I, in order to marry the woman, betray the man. That's what it comes to. Such things don't happen."

"You re speaking plainly, at any rate. We ought to understand each other to-day, if ever. I'll make you the same offer for less return. Tell me where he was during those weeks--that's all. You needn't tell what he was doing."

"If you knew one, you'd find out the other. Once and for all, I'll tell you nothing. By an accidental question you discovered that I knew something. That was not my fault. But more you never will know from me--farm or no farm."

"You're a fool for your pains. And the end will be the same. The information must reach me. You're a coward at heart, for it's fear, not any tomfoolery of morals, that keeps your mouth shut. Don't deceive yourself. I've often talked with you before to-day, and I know you think as I do."

"What's that to do with it?"

"Everything. 'Good' and 'evil' are only two words, and what is man's good and what is man's evil takes something cleverer than man to know. It's no nonsense of 'right' and 'wrong' that's keeping you from a happy home and a wife. What is it then?"

Hicks was silent a moment, then made answer.

"I don't know. I don't know any more than you do. Something has come over me; I can't tell you what. I'm more surprised than you are at my silence; but there it is. Why the devil I don't speak I don't know. I only know I'm not going to. Our characters are beyond our own power to understand."

"If you don't know, I'll tell you. You're frightened that he will find out. You're afraid of him."

"It's vain trying to anger me into speaking," answered the other, showing not a little anger the while; "I'm dumb henceforward."

"I hope you'll let your brain influence you towards reason. 'Tis a fool's trick to turn your back on the chance of a lifetime. Better think twice. And second thoughts are like to prove best worth following. You know where to find me at any rate. I'll give you six weeks to decide about it."

John Grimbal waited, hoping that Hicks might yet change his mind before he took his leave; but the bee-keeper made no answer. His companion therefore broke into a sharp trot and left him. Whereupon Clement stood still a moment, then he turned back and, forgetting all about Chris, proceeded slowly homewards to Chagford, deep in thought and heartily astonished at himself. No one could have prompted his enemy to a more critical moment for this great attack; no demon could have sent the master of the Red House with a more tempting proposal; and yet Hicks found himself resisting the lure without any particular effort or struggle. On the one side this man had offered him all the things his blood and brain craved; on the other his life still stretched drearily forward, and nothing in it indicated he was nearer his ambition by a hair's-breadth than a year before. Yet he refused to pay the price. It amazed him to find his determination so fixed against betrayal of Will. He honestly wondered at himself. The decision was bred from a curious condition of mind quite beyond his power to comprehend. He certainly recoiled from exposure of Blanchard's secret, yet coldly asked himself what unsuspected strand of character held him back. It was not fear and it was not regard for his sweetheart's brother; he did not know what it was. He scoffed at the ideas of honour or conscience. These abstractions had possessed weight in earlier years, but not now. And yet, while he assured himself that no tie of temporal or eternal interest kept him silent, the temptation to tell seemed much less on this occasion than in the past when he took a swarm of John Grimbal's bees. Then, indeed, his mind was aflame with bitter provocation. He affected a cynical attitude to the position and laughed without mirth at a theory that suddenly appeared in his mind. Perchance this steadfastness of purpose resulted, after all, from that artificial thing, "conscience," which men catch at the impressionable age when they have infantile ailments and pray at a mother's knee. If so, surely reason must banish such folly before another dawn and send him hot-foot at daybreak to the Red House. He would wait and watch himself and see.

His reflections were here cut short, for a shrill voice broke in upon them, and Clement, now within a hundred yards of his own cottage door, saw Mr. Lezzard before him.

"At last I've found 'e! Been huntin' this longful time, tu. The Missis wants 'e--your aunt I should say."

"Wants me?"

"Ess. 'T is wan o' her bad days, wi' her liver an' lights a bitin' at her like savage creatures. She'm set on seein' you, an' if I go home-along without 'e, she'll awnly cuss."

"What can she want me for?"

"She 's sick 'n' taken a turn for the wuss, last few days. Doctor Parsons doan't reckon she can hold out much longer. 'Tis the drink--she'm soaked in it, like a sponge."

"I'll come," said Hicks, and half an hour later he approached his aunt's dwelling and entered it.

Mrs. Lezzard was now sunk into a condition of chronic crapulence which could only end in one way. Her husband had been ordered again and again to keep all liquor from her, but, truth to tell, he made no very sustained effort to do so. The old man was sufficiently oppressed by his own physical troubles, and as the only happiness earth now held for him must depend on the departure of his wife, he watched her drinking herself to death without concern and even smiled in secret at the possibility of some happy, quiet, and affluent years when she was gone.

Mrs. Lezzard lay on the sofa in her parlour, and a great peony-coloured face with coal-black eyes in it greeted Clement. She gave him her hand and bid her husband be gone. Then, when Gaffer had vanished, his wife turned to her nephew.

"I've sent for you, Clem Hicks, for more reasons than wan. I be gwaine down the hill fast, along o' marryin' this cursed mommet[12] of a man, Lezzard. He lied about his money--him a pauper all the time; and now he waits and watches me o' nights, when he thinks I'm drunk or dreamin' an' I ban't neither. He watches, wi' his auld, mangy poll shakin', an' the night-lamp flingin' the black shadow of un 'gainst the bed curtain an' shawin' wheer his wan front tooth sticks up like a yellow stone in a charred field. Blast un to hell! He'm waitin' for my money, an' I've told un he's to have it. But 'twas only to make the sting bite deeper when the time comes. Not a penny--not a farthing--him or any of 'em."

[12] _Mommet_ = scarecrow.

"Don't get angry with him. He's not worth it. Tell me if I can help you and how. You'll be up and about again soon, I hope."

"Never. Not me. Doctor Parsons be to blame. I hate that man. He knawed it was weakness of heart that called for drink after Coonistock died; an' he let me go on an' on--just to gain his own dark ends. You'll see, you'll see. But that reminds me. Of all my relations you an' your mother's all I care for; because you'm of my awn blood an' you've let me bide, an' haven't been allus watchin' an' waitin' an' divin' me to the bottle. An' the man I was fule enough to take in his dotage be worst of all."

"Forget about these things. Anger's bad for you."

"Forget! Well, so I will forget, when I ve told 'e. I had the young man what does my business, since old Ford died, awver here last week, an' what there is will be yourn--every stiver yourn. Not the business, of course; that was sold when Coonistock died; but what I could leave I have. You expected nothin,' an' by God! you shall have all!"

She saw his face and hastened to lessen the force of the announcement in some degree.

"Ban't much, mind, far less than you might think for--far less. Theer's things I was driven to do--a lone woman wi'out a soul to care. An' wan was--but you'll hear in gude time, you'll hear. It concerns Doctor Parsons."

"I can't believe my senses. If you only knew what happened to me this morning. And if you only knew what absolute paupers we are--mother and I. Not that I would confess it to any living soul but you. And how can I thank you? Words are such vain things."

"Ban't no call to thank me. 'Tis more from hatred of t' others than love of you, when all's said. An' it ban't no gert gold mine. But I'd like to be laid along wi' Coomstock; an' doan't, for God's love, bury Lezzard wi' me; an' I want them words on auld George Mundy's graave set 'pon mine--not just writ, but cut in a slate or some such lasting thing. 'Tis a tidy tomb he've got, wi' a cherub angel, an' I'd like the same. You'll find a copy o' the words in the desk there. My maid took it down last Sunday. I minded the general meaning, but couldn't call home the rhymes. Read it out, will 'e?"

Clement opened the desk, and found and read the paper. It contained a verse not uncommon upon the tombstones of the last rural generation in Devon:

"Ye standers-by, the thread is spun; All pomp and pride I e'er did shun; Rich and poor alike must die; Peasants and kings in dust must lie; The best physicians cannot save Themselves or patients from the Grave."

"Them's the words, an' I've chose 'em so as Doctor Parsons shall have a smack in the faace when I'm gone. Not that he's wan o' the 'best physicians' by a mighty long way; but he'll knaw I was thinking of him, an' gnash his teeth, I hope, every time he sees the stone. I owe him that--an' more 'n that, as you'll see when I'm gone."

"You mustn't talk of going, aunt--not for many a day. You're a young woman for these parts. You must take care--that's all."

But he saw death in her face while he spoke, and could scarcely hide the frantic jubilation her promise had awakened in him. The news swept him along on a flood of novel thoughts. Coming as it did immediately upon his refusal to betray Will Blanchard, the circumstance looked, even in the eyes of Hicks, like a reward, an interposition of Providence on his behalf. He doubted not but that the bulk of mankind would so regard it. There arose within him old-fashioned ideas concerning right and wrong--clear notions that brought a current of air through his mind and blew away much rotting foliage and evil fruit. This sun-dawn of prosperity transformed the man for a moment, even awoke some just ethical thoughts in him.

His reverie was interrupted, for, on the way from Mrs. Lezzard's home, Clement met Doctor Parsons himself and asked concerning his aunt's true condition.

"She gave you the facts as they are," declared the medical man. "Nothing can save her. She's had _delirium tremens_ Lord knows how often. A fortnight to a month--that's all. Nature loves these forlorn hopes and tinkers away at them in a manner that often causes me to rub my eyes. But you can't make bricks without straw. Nature will find the game 's up in a few days; then she'll waste no more time, and your aunt will be gone."

Home went Clement Hicks, placed his mother in a whirl of mental rejoicing at this tremendous news, then set out for Chris. Their compact of the morning--that she should await his return in the woods--he quite forgot; but Mrs. Blanchard reminded him and added that Chris had returned in no very good humour, then trudged up to Newtake to see Phoebe. Cool and calm the widow stood before Clement's announcement, expressed her gratification, and gave him joy of the promised change in his life.

"Glad enough am I to hear tell of this. But you'll act just--eh? You won't forget that poor auld blid, Lezzard? If she'm gwaine to leave un out the account altogether, he'll be worse off than the foxes. His son's gone to foreign paarts an' his darter's lyin'-in--not that her husband would spare a crust o' bread for auld Lezzard, best o' times."

"Trust me to do what's right. Now I'll go and see after Chris."

"An' make it up with Will while sun shines on 'e. It's so easy, come gude fortune, to feel your heart swellin' out to others."

"We are good friends now."

"Do'e think I doan't knaw better? Your quarrel's patched for the sake of us women. Have a real make-up, I mean."

"I will, then. I'll be what I was to him, if he'll let me. I'll forgive everything that's past--everything and every body."

"So do. An' doan't 'e tell no more of them hard sayings 'gainst powers an' principalities an' Providence. Us be all looked arter, 'cording to the unknawn planning of God. How's Mrs. Lezzard?"

"She'll be dead in a fortnight--perhaps less. As likely as not I might marry Chris before the next new moon."

"Doan't think 'pon that yet. Be cool, an' keep your heart in bounds. 'T is allus the way wi' such as you, who never hope nothing. Theer comes a matter as takes 'em out of themselves, then they get drunk with hope, all of a sudden, an' flies higher than the most sanguine folks, an' builds castles 'pon clouds. Theer's the diggin' of a graave between you and Chris yet. Doan't forget that."

"You can't evade solid facts."

"No, but solid facts, seen close, often put on a differ'nt faace to what they did far-ways off."

"You won't dishearten me, mother; I'm a happy man for once."

"Be you? God forbid I should cloud 'e then; awnly keep wise as well as happy, an' doan't fill Chris with tu gert a shaw of pomps an' splendours. Put it away till it comes. Our dreams 'bout the future 's allus a long sight better or worse than the future itself."

"Don't forbid dreaming. That's the sole happiness I've ever had until now."

"Happiness, you call it? 'T is awnly a painted tinsel o' the mind, and coming from it into reality is like waking arter tu much drink. So I've heard my husband say scores o' times--him bein' a man much given to overhopefulness in his younger days--same as Will is now."

Clement departed, and presently found himself with the cooler breezes of the high lands upon his hot forehead. They put him in mind of Mrs. Blanchard again, and their tendency, as hers had been, was to moderate his ardour; but that seemed impossible just now. Magnificent sunshine spread over the great wastes of the Moor; and through it, long before he reached Newtake, Clement saw his sweetheart returning. For a little time he seemed intoxicated and no longer his own master. The fires of the morning woke in him again at sight of her. They met and kissed, and he promised her some terrific news, but did not tell it then. He lived in the butterfly fever of the moment, and presently imparted the fever to her. They left the road and got away into the lonely heather; then he told her that they would be man and wife within a fortnight.

They sat close together, far from every eye, in the shade of a thorn bush that rose beside a lonely stone.

"Within the very shadow of marriage, and you are frightened of me still! Frightened to let me pick an apple over the orchard wall when I am going through the gate for my own the next moment! Listen! I hear our wedding bells!"

Only the little lizard and the hovering hawk with gold eyes saw them.

"Our wedding bells!" said Chris.

Towards set of sun Hicks saw his sweetheart to her mother's cottage. His ecstatic joys were sobered now, and his gratitude a little lessened.

"To think what marvels o' happiness be in store for us, Clem, my awn!"

"Yes--not more than we deserve, either. God knows, if there 's any justice, it was your turn and mine to come by a little of the happiness that falls to the lot of men and women."

"I doan't see how highest heaven's gwaine to be better than our married life, so long as you love me."

"Heaven! Don't compare them. What's eternity if you're half a ghost, half a bird? That's the bribe thrown out,--to be a cold-blooded, perfect thing, and passionless as a musical box. Give me hot blood that flows and throbs; give me love, and a woman's breast to lean on. One great day on earth, such as this has been, is better than a million ages of sexless perfection in heaven. A vain reward it was that Christ offered. It seemed highest perfection to Him, doubtless; but He judged the world by Himself. The Camel-driver was wiser. He promised actual, healthy flesh in paradise--flesh that should never know an ache or pain--eternal flesh, and the joys of it. We can understand that, but where's the joy of being a spirit? I cling to the flesh I have, for I know that Nature will very soon want back the dust she has lent me."