Part 22

"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.