Part 29

Sally Cramphorn found the secret of her happiness hard to hide, and as the weeks lengthened into months and Libby still bid her hold her peace, yet would give no definite reason for the imposed silence, she grew somewhat restive. He refused to discuss dates, and declared that a year at least ought to pass in order that each should thoroughly understand the other before irrevocable matrimony. Under these circumstances Sally found her engagement fall something flat. She was in no haste to marry, but importunate that the world might learn of her good fortune; and finally, after a decided difference or two upon the question, Gregory realised that definite steps must be taken, and at once. First he thought of telling Sally, with frankness, how he had made a mistake, and was of opinion that, by reason of wide disparity in their dispositions, she could be no bride for him; but, to do Gregory justice, all manner of sincerity he consistently abstained from, and, in the present case, more than a candid bearing seemed necessary. To throw Sally over before her face called for full measure of courage, and any such step, until he was thoroughly established in Margery's good graces, must be highly dangerous. So Libby assured himself. He determined, therefore, first to propose to Sally's younger sister, win to his side the strength of her personality and the bitterness of her tongue, then explain his mistake to Margery and leave her wit to solve and escape from present entanglement with the wrong woman.

For once Mr. Libby acted speedily upon a decision, sought out the other maiden, lured her from the sheltering radius of the farm, and proceeded with his proposal after a plan very similar to that which had conquered Sally.

"It's took me a long time--I may say years--to make up my mind," he said, chewing a blade of grass and glancing sideways at the rather hard profile of Margery; "but I do think as you'm the best maid in Little Silver, cautious though I am by nature. Ess, a wife's a solemn thought, yet you come nearer my fancy than any gal ever I seed or heard tell of, Margery Cramphorn. You've got a warm heart, as would make any man happy, I should reckon; an' to cut a long story short, I've ordained to marry you, if you'm willin'."

For answer Margery began to cry; but she let him kiss her, so he knew that the response was favourable.

"Doan't blubber about it. 'Tis a joyful thing; an' I'm sure I'm mazed wi' gladness to think as you can care for me. An' I hope as your love be big enough to last."

"Always, always, till we'm auld mumpheads--so long as ever I can see an' move an' love--so long I'll do for you an' fight for you, dear Gregory."

"Caan't say no fairer, an' I b'lieve you mean it. An' the whole beauty of married life lies in the woman putting the man fust--so my mother said; 'cause he'm the bread-winner an' must be thought of all times. An' you might remember my mother's ways wi' me--a very gude, comforting, proper woman. I ban't a horse for strength, an' comfort I must have."

"Which you shall have--love an' worship always, dear Gregory; an' I'm a proud maiden to think such a rich man as you could look to me for a helpmate. An' you shan't never be sorry; an' faither do set me higher'n Sally, so come presently I'll bring 'e more'n myself."

"That's no odds. A chap in love doan't heed no such things as them; but theer's wan point as I ban't ezacally clear on touchin' Sally. I can't say nothin' now; but--but next time we meet, I'll tell you how it stands--a mystery like. She'm a gude gal, no doubt, but tu apt to run away with ideas an' misread a man's intentions, an' take for facts things what she've dreamed in her sleep, I reckon. But bide till next Monday, then I'll make it clear. Now we'll just love each other an' tell about marryin'."

"Oh, Greg, I do blush to think of it. An' I've longed for 'e, out o' sight, all these years an' years! Won't her be raw--Sally? Her always thought as she was the favoured piece."

"Ban't seemly in a woman to set her mind 'pon a chap so outrageous. But let her bide. Now, when shall us be man an' wife? An' what fashion wall-hangings would 'e like to the cottage-parlour? For it must be done again, 'cause theer's beastly grease 'pon it, wheer my mother's head got against the wall on Sundays. She used to fall asleep regular in a auld armchair, then roll to the left out o' the chair till the wall stopped her head. Done it for years. An' her recipes I've kept, an' the wan for herby-pie you'd best larn by heart, for 'tis favourite food o' mine."

"I will, Greg. You know how I can cook."

"Wi' a tender-stomached man, same as me, you'll have to put your heart into the cooking."

"So I will then."

He squeezed her slowly until she gasped.

"You'm strong enough, I reckon, however," she said. "Your arm be like a bar of steel around me!"

"'Tis love as hardens the sinews. I've a gert gift for lovin', an' if a man couldn't love the likes o' you, he'd be a poor, slack-baked twoad, for sartain. I'm lucky to get 'e, an' I knaw it, an' us'll be a happy couple, I lay--me a-doin' man's work an' makin' gude money, an' you 'bout the house, so thrifty an' savin' that us shall graw rich 'fore we knaw it, an' p'raps come to keep a servant for you to order here an' theer. An' me wi' my awn hoss an' trap, so like as not, to drive to cattle-shows an' junketings, an' taake my plaace in the world."

"An' I'll sit beside 'e an' look down at the walkers."

"You'll be home-along wi' the childer more like. That's the mother's plaace. But us be lookin' a thought tu far forrard now. Wait till Bank Holiday anyway; then I'll meet 'e quiet by the river--down where Batworthy fishing right ends. 'Tis a private an' peaceful plaace; an' theer you must fix the day."

"So I will then, an' a proud woman I am, an' a true wife I'll make you; Lard's my judge."

"Mother----" began Mr. Libby; but he changed his mind and declared that it was now time to turn homewards.

At Bear Down he left his new love, after cautioning her by all holy things to keep their secret, and, ten minutes later, met his old sweetheart returning from Chagford. Sally was heavily laden and in a bad temper. Indeed Mr. Libby's procrastination seemed enough to try any woman who heartily worshipped him. Now he offered to carry her parcels up the steep hill to the farm, and such unwonted civility soothed her not a little. Presently they rested awhile in the gathering twilight, and Gregory, with cynic satisfaction, kissed Sally's red lips while yet he tasted Margery's caresses. The experience fired him, and a wave of fancied courage held his soul. He told himself that he was the strong, resolute spirit into whose hand destiny had thrust the welfare of these simple maids. He laughed to think what soft wax they were under his control. Then he determined to put Sally out of her misery at once. He began a sentence to that end; but he changed his mind as her blue eyes fell full and honest upon him. After which she travelled the old, weary ground and clamoured for a definite understanding and definite date, superior to all self-respect in her importunity.

"How long be I to go dumb, anyways? An' how long be I to wait? Us doan't grow no younger, an' you'm five-an'-thirty come September. Ban't fair, I reckon, an' theer's more in it than I can guess, for you'm like no sweetheart ever I heerd tell 'bout. So cold as a newt seemin'ly. But if your love's gone poor, then best to say so. If you'm shamed of me or you've changed your mind----"

The opportunity was an excellent one, but Gregory's courage had evaporated. Moreover, there came into his head an inspiration. It occurred to him--while removed from such an event by distance--that it would be an exciting incident to invite Sally to the streamside also, to confront the sisters and clear up the situation once for all. The vision of himself between the tearful twain was pleasing rather than not. He saw himself the centre of an impressive scene.

"I'll play the man," he reflected; "an' set her down handsome afore her sister. 'Tis awnly her word against mine, an' Margery'll believe me quick enough, for 'tis her interest so to do."

Upon this heroic resolution he spoke.

"I doan't say as you'm not in the right, Sally, to ax for somethin' plain. Us'll come to a fixture next Monday, as be a holiday. You meet me wheer Batworthy fishing right do end, down in the valley onder the roundy-poundies on the hill, at three o'clock in the afternoon by my watch, an' us'll settle up 'bout the axing out in church an' such like."

The girl could scarcely believe her ears.

"Really! 'Tis 'most tu gude to be true."

"I mean it. Ess fay, I begin to want a wife 'bout the place."

"I'll come down-long, then, Monday afternoon, rain or shine."

"Very well. An' now I'll bid you gude-night. Mind the spot an' doan't keep me waitin'; but if 'tis pourin' cats an' dogs I shaan't be theer, for I've got to be careful of my paarts, bein' a bit naish, as you knaw."

"Bless 'e, dear Greg; 'tis gert news to me. An' you'll never be sorry for it, wance I'm Mrs. Libby--that I'll swear."

"Theer's awnly wan gal as be the wife for me," he said, and grinned at his own wit.

So they parted; and while Sally went home all gladness, forgetting the weight of her parcels in the lightness of her heart, Gregory moved down the hill occupied with a curious reflection.

"Theer'll be a 'mazin' tempest o' words between 'em, I doan't mind a red rage, but I'm always terrible afeared of a white wan. Sally'll go so fiery as sunset, an' use crooked language, no doubt; but that's nothin'. Awnly I couldn't cross t'other. Her turns ash-colour when her's vexed, an' her tongue's sharper'n a razor. 'Twill be a gert battle to watch an' a very fine study of female character, no doubt."

*CHAPTER XI.*

*THE ROAD TO PEACE*

A month after his conversation with Christopher, Myles Stapledon made definite and determined advance upon the road to peace. There came a night when he and his wife lay in bed and a bright moon fretted the wall opposite their eyes with the pattern of the latticed window. The man gazed upon this design as it elongated and stole from left to right; then, conscious that Honor was not asleep, he spoke gently to her.

"You are waking," he said, "and I also. Hear me a little while, dear heart. There's no shadow of anger in what I'm going to say to you. I'm cool in body and brain, and I want to look at your life as it must seem in other eyes--in the eyes of those who love you, though not as I love you. I want to be just--ay, and more than just."

"You are always just, Myles--where you understand. The hard, impossible thing is to be just where we don't understand. You're going to talk to me about Christo; and I'm going to listen. You've a right to speak--which is more than anybody else in the world has, though certain folks don't realise that. I thought all was well, but I am wrong. You hide behind yourself so much--even from me. You are an unhappy man, and you have not told me, but Uncle Mark has."

"I may be considered so. And to know that I am makes you unhappy and Yeoland uncomfortable. I have spoken to him recently. I explained to him that the present position, apart from my personal feelings concerning it, was very undesirable and must be modified, to say the least. He seemed surprised, but quite unprepared to make any suggestion. A plan other than my own proposal he hinted at, but he did not put it before me."

"He can feel deeply too; this must have been a shock and a grief to him."

"At least he recognised that it was so to me. I think he was neither shocked nor grieved himself. If anything, he felt incensed by my attitude. The position is not endurable to me, though you and he see no difficulty. But I must be allowed the decision, and I say that this state has to cease--selfish though that may seem to you."

"Then it shall cease. You could not be selfish if you tried, Myles. I, too, can feel a little. Uncle Mark began what you are going to finish. I'm probably faulty in my intellect, or I should have seen all this sooner. At any rate I know what I owe to you--what a husband you have been to me. I won't talk of duty; I'll talk of my love for you, Myles dearest. That is a live, deep thing at least."

"I never thought to doubt it, or ask proof of it. I knew it was real enough, and believed it immortal until--not doubt--I won't say doubt came--but sorrow, and a cloud, and a mist of the mind that was very chilling to me. I have lost my way in it of late, and have wandered wondering how far off you were in the darkness, asking myself if we were drifting further and further apart, fearing that it was so."

"You have been too patient, and I too blind. And I have loved you more every day, not less."

"It is a question for your decision. I don't like to wound your ear with blunt words; but there must be no more vague misery for want of speech after to-night. Half the wretchedness of life happens because we're frightened to speak out, and make a clean wound, and have done with it. You're my wife, for better or worse--not necessarily for good and all. My heart and soul are wrapped up in your well-being; but I've got to live my own life, not yours; I've got to do the unknown will, and I've no right to let anything from outside come between me and what I believe is my duty. Nothing outside a man can hurt him, unless he suffers it to do so. I must not let these troubles stand between me and my road any longer. I must go on with the light I have--alone, if you say so; but I must go on."

"Alone?"

"If you say so. Self-respect to a man with my outlook is all he has. And I'm losing it."

"To live without me?"

"If you say so. I'm not as conventional as you think, Honor. You made certain promises to me under certain impressions. The fact that the man whom you believed to be dead, when you married me, was not dead in reality absolves you from your undertaking, if you wish to be absolved. So at least it stands in my judgment; and mine is the only judgment, after your own, that you need consider."

"I swore an oath before God!"

"You swore in the dark. Now go back to the starting-point and make up your mind anew. Which of us is to have you henceforth--all of you?"

"To think that I should hear you say that! To know my actions justify the words!"

"I can very easily teach myself to go without; I can never tame myself to share. No man could."

"You have all of me, for ever, and for ever, and for ever. I am your wife."

"Don't let that last accident influence you. Argue as if you were not; argue as if you were free. Second thoughts are often best. You're linked to me by a chain that can quite easily be broken if you desire to break it."

"Your words are blunt, as you said they should be; but you're making the clean wounds you spoke of in my heart. They'll heal if they don't kill. I'd rather die--much rather die than leave you, Myles."

"Consider. Yeoland will be just as ready to accept and applaud your decision as I shall. He, too, realises at any rate that this isn't going on. We don't stand at the end of our lives; rather at the beginning of them. We may have fifty years more of it yet--either together or apart; but not like this."

"The alternatives?"

"We two are the alternatives. Go to him, if you like, and I shall know what to do; or stay with me and abide by my will. What comes afterwards you may leave to me. If you are to be my wife, Honor, you must shut this man clean out of your existence, for evermore, absolutely--never speak his name again, or think it. And for myself I shall be what I have always been--neither better nor worse. I can promise nothing--nothing of the beautiful side of life. No rainbows ever play in my cloudy atmosphere, as they do in his changeful, April weather. I am plain, dull, uninteresting, old-fashioned. I know nothing, and go joylessly in consequence--a cheerless soul with little laughter in me. Sometimes I think the east wind must blow colder for touching me. That's all I have to offer, and you know it by this time. What the other can give you that is better, softer, sweeter for a beautiful woman, I needn't tell you. It's the difference all through the piece between a working farmer and an accomplished gentleman of no occupation--no occupation but to make you happy. And no need to study the world in your choice; no need to think the accident of a human contrivance that makes you my wife should weigh with you. It was under a wrong knowledge of facts that you accepted me, and, in any case, we've gone far beyond paltry conventions and customs. I shall respect you more if you fling away that ring and go to him, than I do at present."

"Can you love me with all your heart and speak so?"

"You know whether I love you."

"And yet you talk so coldly of going on with your life alone."

"The necessity of facing that has been forced upon me, Honor."

"Do you think I am even without a sense of duty?"

"Don't let any trumpery consideration of duty weigh with you. You have to decide what is to become of your life. Consider only your duty to your soul. Your religion--of love and fear and belief in an eternity--should be of service to you here, if ever, for your trust is in a just Being who metes out reward or punishment according to the record in the book. That's a wholesome assumption if you can accept it; but don't let minor dogmas and man's additions interfere with your decision. By your record you will be judged--so you believe. Then create that record; set about it wisely and decide which line of action leads to making of the higher history. If you can justify your existence better with me, then stay with me; if life lived with Christopher Yeoland will offer more opportunities of doing something big and useful and beautiful--as very likely it might, when we consider his money and position and sympathetic nature--then it is your duty to yourself to go to him. Nobody can decide for you; but use your best thought upon it and make no mistake in this critical pass. Look at it every way impartially and distrust even your conscience, for that has been educated by rote, like every other woman's conscience."

"Your speech is very cynical, Myles; but your voice is earnest enough."

"There is nothing ironical in what I say; only the facts are ironical."

"Do you want me to go to him?"

"Yes--if your heartfelt conclusion is that you can live a finer, worthier life so."

"Don't you know I love you dearly?"

"I know you love us both."

"I've never stopped to contrast or compare. I was your wife."

"But I ask you again not to remember that. Decide between us, or decide against us. There's that alternative. I've thought of that for you. Once you said that, as you couldn't have both, you'd have neither. That was in jest; but the course is still open in earnest if the road to your peace points there."

"To leave you. Oh, Myles, how you must have suffered and suffered and thought before you could say these things to me."

She put her arms about him and pressed close to him. The light had stolen round and, one by one, the diamonds of wan silver were disappearing. He showed no responsive emotion, but stroked the small hand on his breast wearily.

"Yes, I have thought a good deal. Will you decide what you are going to do in a week? Is that long enough?"

"How wicked--how wicked I have been in this. To think we can be wicked day after day and never know it! And your patience! And how extraordinary that you had it in you to speak in this cold, calculating way!"

"A stronger man might have borne it longer--into old age, perhaps, as Yeoland said. I could not. I've got nothing much beyond my self-respect. That's the sole thing that has kept me from destroying you, and him."

She thought upon this, but did not answer it.

"Sleep now," he said, after a pause. "'Tis the day-spring nearly. I've wearied you, but it had to be. Speak to me again about the matter in a week. And don't fear me any more. Passion against him is clean passed and gone. Just a gust of nature, I suppose, that makes the males fight in season. I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head--or his."

She nestled closer.

"Why wait a week when there is no need to wait a day, or an hour? I love you--better than anybody in the world; and I'll tell Christopher that; also that I have done great wrong in this matter; and I ask you, Myles, to take me where I shall never see him again--for his good and because I love you with my whole heart--all, all of it. And judge me by what I do henceforth and not what I say now. See how I shall order my life--let that convince you."

He did not speak, but his silence was cardinal--a hinge on which his whole spirit turned.

"You believe me, Myles? You know that I have never spoken an untruth to you."

A sigh rose, and seemed to pass away like an embodied trouble under the first dawn light--to depart like a presence from the man and leave him changed.

"I believe you--I believe you. I wish I could feel a personal God--to kneel to Him and thank Him, and to let my life thank Him henceforth."

"I'm a very wicked woman, and I ought to have lived in the Stone days, for I deserve nothing better than a hut circle and a cruel master to beat me. I should have been kicked about by some old, Neolithic hero with his dogs. I'm not big enough to deserve the love of a man like you, not wise enough even to rate the depth and height of it. But you shall see I can learn still and be single-hearted too. I'll live differently--higher; I'll aim anew--at the sun--I'll--I'll----"

Here she broke down, and he comforted her in his slow, stolid fashion.

"Honor, you are all the best part of me--the best thing that my life has known, or can know. Pray that the time to come may shine brighter seen against gloom gone. I've never doubted your motives--never. I've only lived in torment, because--there, don't be unhappy any more. I could do great things--great things for sheer thanksgiving. I must try to pay the world back in coin for this sunrise. The rest will be easy now you have spoken. Thought can cut the knot that remains, and I will take deep thought for all of us. Nothing is left to hurt us; think of that! Here's a solid foundation to work upon, now that you have decided to be my wife."

"What shall you do, Myles?"

"Think of him, and study how best to take you out of his life with least wound to him. I can be sorry for him now."

"His life is to live as well as ours."

"He must learn how to live it; but not from me. Sleep now, my own woman, again. Leave me to think out the rest. You don't know what this return means to me; I can't find the words to thunder out such a heart-deep thing. I feel as I felt when first you promised to marry me. I am waking out of a long chaos into peace."

Honor answered him, and their conversation presently grew disjointed as slumber stole over her weary brain. She sighed once or twice--the shaken sigh that follows upon tears--then her hand, that held his, relaxed and fell away. But Stapledon did not sleep. A thousand blind alleys of future action he followed, and countless possible operations pursued to barriers of difficulty.

At dawn he arose, and, leaving unconscious rest to repair the fret and turmoil of his wife's mind, pressed on to new problems. For the storm-cloud of his sorrows was touched with light; the ragged soul-garden within him spread smoothed and purged of deep-rooted weeds. He found space for wholesome seed therein, and passing into the air breathed wordless prayers upon the pure morning and opened his heart to the warmth of the sunrise fires.

*CHAPTER XII.*

*PEACE*