Part 25

"True," declared Mr. Shillabeer, passing his cup to be refilled; "the very same thought often came in my mind when my wife was alive. She was the wonder, and I was sure to be lucky and fortunate when I married her. But death’s stronger than the most wonderful life that ever was lived. She went and took her luck with her; and her gone, I sank again to be a common man. And when you feel puffed up, Margaret, always remember that death lies behind every hedge and makes ready the gun trigger for this man, the flood for that; the weak lynch-pin here, and the mad dog there. Another thing as you may have noticed; ’tis always the usefulest be picked off. Heaven’s terrible jealous of a real valuable man. It ain’t got no need of the rogues and wastrels no more than we have; but if a male or female be doing for the Lord with both hands, so often as not the Lord says, ’That’s the very man or woman I want for such and such a bit of real high work.’ And they’m cut down like the grass of the field."

"Yes," she said. "The Lord harvests His own way, Mr. Shillabeer; and because a beautiful, useful life goes, ban’t for us to mourn, but to say ’twas needed for higher things."

"And another point I’d have you to know," he added. "I ban’t at all sure if the right of private judgment be withheld either. Parson will tell you, and most people will also tell you, that ’tis a very bad come-along-of-it for a human creature to say ’I ban’t wanted no more and so I’ll be off;’ but I won’t go so far as that myself. I’ve tried to look at this matter with the eyes of God A’mighty, and I’ve done it."

She stared at him.

"You’m surprised," he said; "but listen to me. I’m a man of many troubles and griefs, and I hope you’ll never see half a quarter the sorrows I have. Still as the sparks fly upwards, so you’ll have your share and know what it is to suffer."

"Yes, for certain."

"But don’t you ever suppose that we’re put here for nought but suffering and nought but happiness. I tell you, Margaret, that suffering and happiness be both beside the great question."

"We’re put here for usefulness," she said, and he eagerly agreed with her.

"The very word! Trouble or joy be an accident--always a matter of chance. You can see it everywhere. There’s wise and sensible people wading through nought but trouble and opening their eyes on it at every sun up; and there’s born fools sailing along in nought but fine weather; and so you get men like me full of doubt and darkness, because we can’t trust our own wisdom; and fools such as--but I won’t name no names--thinking themselves terrible clever and giving themselves terrible airs because they suppose their good be a matter of their own making, instead of simple kind fortune."

"I suppose things come out pretty fair all round in the long run," she said. "If you’ve got money, you miss childer; if you’ve got love you miss luck; if you’ve got health--"

"As to health, nought matters less than that," declared Mr. Shillabeer.

"You speak as one who never had an ache or pain," she said.

"Bah!" he answered, "this carcase be less to me than the bones the crows have plucked beside the way. I’ve reached a high pitch of mind now when I could drive a red-hot needle through the calf of my leg and care nought for the pang. D’you think these things matter to a man who have been hammered into a heap of bruised, senseless flesh four different times in his life like what I have? ’Tis the inner pain that hurts me, and if I was canker-bitten and racked with every human ill, I’d laugh at it all, if only my wife had been spared to sit beside me and hold my hand. Things ban’t fairly planned here. You say they are, but it isn’t so. I know ’tis a common speech on easy tongues, but it won’t stand the test of workaday life. Happy people may say it to calm their consciences if they be having an extra good life, but ’tisn’t true, and never was true. Things ban’t fair all round--nothing like it."

"No, they’re not," she confessed. "’Tis just a foolish parrot speech. I know they’re not fair as well as you do really."

"Then I go on to my argeyment," said Reuben. "Granted the Lord, for His own secret ends, ban’t concerned to play fair with us, then, being a just God, He must let us right the balance and use our own judgment where we have the power. If even you--with all your big share of good luck--allow on second thoughts that things don’t fall fair, how much more must the most of people feel it so?"

"My luck--" she began, and stopped, but her tone indicated she was about to demur, and he invited her to do so.

"There again," he said, "we can only speak what we see, but what we see ban’t always the truth. The outside ban’t a glass pane to show the inside, but more often a clever door to hide it. I say in my haste how that none ever had more luck to her share than you. Well, I’ve no right to say that. Perhaps I’m wrong."

"In a way, yes. David, you must know, is a great man now, and ’tisn’t the least of a loving woman’s hardships to see her husband growing great and herself biding little."

"Good Lord! what a silly point of view!" said he. "Ban’t you bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh? How the deuce can the man grow great and leave you behind?"

"I can’t explain," she said. "But ’tis so--off and on. Sometimes he catches sight of me in his life, if you understand, and remembers me, and we have precious days. Then again he loses sight of me for a bit. I tell you these things, because you be such a big-hearted, understanding man, Mr. Shillabeer."

"I am," he said. "’Tis my sole vartue to be so. But my usefulness is nearly over. So we come back to that usefulness we started with."

"Your usefulness ban’t ended, I’m very sure."

"’Tis only ourselves know about that. A thinking creature, unless he’s growing old and weak in the head, knows very well when his usefulness be coming to an end. Old I may be growing, but my mind is clear enough, and it tells me that my work’s pretty nearly done. Think if ’twas you, Margaret, and them you loved best was in heaven, and there come into your mind the certainty that there was nought to keep you an hour from them--what would you do?"

"Wait the Lord’s time."

"What happens must be in the Lord’s time, and can’t fall out in any other time. But if the thought comes into your heart to join the dead, ban’t it the Lord as sent the thoughts; and if you do join ’em, can it be done without the Lord’s wish and will?"

"Of course nothing can happen without the Lord permits, because He’s all-powerful and wills nought but good."

"That’s all I want for you to see. And it follows--don’t it?--that if the still small voice tells me I may go home, the way be clear?"

"Go home!"

"To the home that’s waiting where my woman be. I’m home-sick for it--terrible home-sick. And the thought have come very strong of late that there’s nothing left to bide for. And a simple thing--such a simple thing! ’Tis merely putting something between you and the air of heaven for a brief minute--a drop of water, or a rope round your throat. Or, if your nature goes against that way, you can let the immortal soul out through a hole--"

His great eyes stared into vacancy, and she gazed with horrified interest at him.

"To kill yourself! Oh, dear Mr. Shillabeer, what are you saying?"

"You may call it killing," he said, "but I don’t. I call it opening the half-hatch of the door and going home. They say self-slaughterers be mad mostly--at least, so ’tis brought in most times by a crowner’s jury of busy men--men as don’t care a button about the job, but want to get back to their work. But I tell you ’tis no mark of weak intellects to do it. A cowardly deed it may be sometimes, but a coward isn’t daft as a rule. And now and then ’tis the bravest thing a man can do, and now and then the wisest."

"Never--never!"

"You wait till you’ve seen life move into the middle time, or lost what’s better than life. Keep your own opinions, but don’t grow narrow, and don’t tell me that the still small voice ever whispered a lie to a Christian man. Usefulness ended, ’tis our place to seek a new bit of ground again where we can be useful anew; and if this world have done with us, who’s to say the next won’t be very glad of a new workman?"

"But not to go like that, surely?"

"I tell you the Lord’s over all," he answered again solemnly. "The Lord chooses the fly for the fish, and hedge-sparrow for the hawk, and the mouse for the owl. The Lord comes to me by night, and He says, ’Shillabeer,’ and I say, ’I be listening, Lord.’"

Margaret shivered, yet felt no fear of him.

"And then," he continued, "the Lord says ’They’ve done with you, Shillabeer; they want a cheerfuller, hopefuller pattern of man;’ and I say, ’’Tis so, Lord; I read it in their faces.’"

He broke off suddenly and spoke of other things.

"D’you mind when holy words sprang up on the gates and lintels round about--like corn springs after rain? ’Twas my work! You’re the first to know it, and I must ax of you to keep it dark ’till I’m gone to my reward. But ’twas my thought and deed. By night I’d do it; and of lonely grey evenings; and often afore the sun was up. I’ve walked with God, woman!"

"And much good those texts in the lone places did. I know they warmed my heart more than once, Mr. Shillabeer."

"Yes, they did a power of good. I could see that."

"To think you was never found out!"

"The Lord hid me. ’Twas His idea, not mine. Every idea be the Lord’s first; and the cleverest things we can do be planned out by Him and then slipped into a man’s intellects, like we post a letter or whisper into a ear."

"But the wicked thoughts?"

"Good men don’t get ’em. Proper-thinking people don’t let ’em in. Be the God of Hosts going to suffer a humble, faithful servant like me to be pestered with Satan’s nonsense at my time of life? Would that be a fair thing? If a man ban’t done with the Devil when he’s in sight of seventy, ’tis a bad lookout for him. And God’s nearly always been a fair sportsman, you mind."

"Somebody far wiser and cleverer than me ought to hear about this," she declared. "I do think and believe you’re terribly wrong."

He shook his great head impatiently.

"No, no. I’m in the right. I met Mr. Merle in the churchyard, when I was sitting beside my wife’s bones a bit ago, and he walked over and had a tell with me; and I axed him if our inner thoughts come from God--just to see what he’d say. He answered that every good and perfect thought comed from the Father of Gifts. So there you are. What is it--this thing driving me to be gone? Why, ’tis the voice of Heaven calling me--just like you yourself might call the cows home off the moor at milking time."

"You make a terrible mistake."

He held up his hand.

"Say not a word, my dear. ’Tis no better than speaking against the Master of all flesh to tell me I’ve heard wrong. My wife’s in Heaven. I’ve got her that loved me best among the angels at the Throne of Grace. Belike she’s just fretting her spirit with cruel impatience because I hang fire. You might think, perhaps, that there wasn’t no great haste, eternity being what it is. But if you loved your husband like my wife loved me, you’d know eternity’s self was none too long for us to be together again. There’s only one little thing that makes me hang back."

"’Tis the Word of God."

"Not a bit. ’Tis the way of man. I’m very doubtful of parson Merle--not as a righteous creature before Heaven; but he’s human, and he’s a terrible narrow thinker here and there. If I take myself off, ’tis so like as not he’ll get some bee in his bonnet and withhold the burial service or maim it over me, like he did when Pritchard hung himself. Not that that would trouble me very greatly; but supposing that he wouldn’t let my bones go beside hers? Such a thing happening would turn me into a wandering ghost till Doom without a doubt."

"Don’t give him the chance. Think a very great deal about it," she urged. "You may be all wrong in your opinions, dear Mr. Shillabeer, and right well I know you are. Perhaps, if you was to pray about it to Christ, He’d show you how awful mistaken you was. And as for usefulness, there’s no more useful and well thought on man among us."

"I’ve done my duty, and my duty’s done," he said.

"Promise me not to do anything till you’ve talked to me again," she urged. "At least you might do that. I knew your wife, and she loved me."

"Yes, my wife was very fond of you when you was a child," he said. "I’ll do your bidding that far then. You speak what be put into you to speak, no doubt. Now I look at you, there’s sense as well as sadness in your face. I hope the sense will bide and the sadness lift in God’s good time."

The old man departed, and that night Margaret told David of all that she had heard and the condition of Reuben Shillabeer’s mind. He took the matter very seriously and resolved to be busy on the sufferer’s behalf.

"I can ill spare the time," he said. "But for a neighbour in such a fix our own affairs must be put aside. I’ll go to doctor at Tavistock to-morrow the first thing. He’s a rare sportsman and a very keen man. ’Twas him that stood referee in the fight. ’Tis time he took the poor old chap in hand; and Shillabeer’s got high respect for him and will trust him I hope, if he goes about his work clever."

David was not surprised to hear the secret of the texts.

"As a matter of fact amongst a few of us--my father and me and others--’twas an open secret," he said. "Father himself first guessed it. But we didn’t say a word for fear of vexing poor old ’Dumpling.’ ’Twas a harmless thing, and very likely it did good now and again."

*CHAPTER X*

*THIRD TIME OF ASKING*

The circumstances and necessities of Bartley Crocker’s wooing were peculiar, because one-sided. Rhoda naturally never assisted him; indeed, many carefully laid plans for meeting were consciously frustrated by her when she chanced to learn them. At last, however, thanks to Margaret’s aid, opportunity fell for a final proposal, and Bartley used it to the best of his power. A day came when David drove Madge over to Tavistock to look at certain houses, and Rhoda stopped at home.

Her own plans began to be very doubtful now, and choice lay before her of returning to her father or continuing to live with David. Her love had made light even of Tavistock; but, in a town, Rhoda’s occupation would be gone: at such a place she must cease to justify existence. Her greatest sorrow was reached at thought of living away from David; and a second emotion, only less disturbing, made decision doubly difficult. The apparent complications and secrets of her sister-in-law’s life had first alarmed Rhoda, and now they angered her. She read the facts in the light of her own wisdom, and her wisdom led her wide of the mark. She believed that Crocker was using alleged love of her as a pretence and excuse for very different affection. Some such dim thought had long haunted her, and it remained for Dorcas and her brutal speeches to convince Rhoda that she did Margaret no wrong by the suspicion. In sober truth Rhoda had felt shame upon herself when first the fear arose; but then came her hidden watches, the spectacle of familiar meetings and the vigorous word of Mrs. Screech. She knew that Dorcas loved Madge and had not spoken to injure David’s wife. Her sister, indeed, evidently approved; and the circumstance convinced Rhoda that her opinion of Dorcas was correct.

And now, upon restless loneliness, came Crocker knowing that he would find her alone. He sneered at himself for a fool as he knocked at the door of ’Meavy Cot’; but he had sworn to ask her thrice and would not go from his word, though the vanity of troubling her a third time was very clear to him.

After noon on a late autumn day did Bartley call, and Rhoda, not guessing who it was that knocked, but thinking it to be one of her brothers, who was due from Ditsworthy, cried out, "Come in!"

She was eating her dinner of a baked potato, bread, cold mutton, and a glass of water; and she leapt up as Mr. Crocker appeared.

"Go on," he said. "Please go on--or I’ll walk about outside till you’ve finished, if you’d rather I did."

"I thought ’twas my brother," she said. "I’ve done my food. David’s not at home, if you want him."

"I know," he answered. "I’ve come to see the only one who was at home; and that’s yourself."

She stood by the table. Her mind moved swiftly. She sought to find some advantage in this meeting; but she could not think what to say. David was her sole thought, and how best to serve him she knew not.

"It’s a long time since I had a chance to speak to you," said the visitor, "and I’m afraid, from your looks, you wouldn’t have given me the chance even now if you hadn’t been caught and cornered. But there’s no need for you to grudge ten minutes of talk. ’Twill be the last time--unless there’s a glimmer of another sort of feeling in you."

Her way of escape seemed to lie through this man’s departure alone. She hated every tone of his voice and wished that he was dead.

"If you’re going out of it, ’twill be by the blessing of God for all in this house," she answered.

He started and his colour changed to pale.

"A glimmer of another sort of feeling with a vengeance!" he said. "But not the sort I was still fond fool enough to hope for. You shall talk, since you’re so fired to do it, and I’ll listen. Yes, I’m going. And you won’t come?"

Her silence spoke scornfully.

"Well," he continued, "I’m paid what I deserve, I suppose: I’ve made you loathe me instead of love me. It’s bad luck, for I’ve felt for three years--however, such queer things often happen."

"You never loved a woman like a decent man, for ’tisn’t in you to do it," she said. "You think you hide yourself; but you don’t. You’re evil all through, and the touch of you is evil."

"Why do you say these harsh things? What have I done but court you like an honest man and a patient one?"

"Ask yourself--not me. Ask yourself what you’ve been doing, and plotting, and amusing yourself about of late. Ask yourself who ’tis you meet in this place and that!"

"Well, I never! So you’ve been interested in me all the time! Interested enough to care what I was doing and thinking about. By all right understanding that ought to mean you cared a bit for me. Women don’t spy on a man, save for love or hate. And hate me you can’t without a cause, though you speak and look as if you did. If I thought you were jealous--but that’s too good to be true. Who is it? Out with it.’ At least I’ve a right to know who ’tis that I meet so secret while you peep at us."

He bantered her and cared little that she grew rosy and furious; for he knew it was all over now and that they would probably never speak together again.

"You ask that and pretend--and pretend!" she burst out. "As if it might be a score of women! But I know, and ’twasn’t for love nor yet hate that I watched you--not for love of you or her anyway."

"Come now--no puzzles! Then I’m after another man’s sweetheart on the quiet. Is that it? Well, who is she? I’ve a right to know in the face of such a charge."

"You’re after another man’s wife," she said, and faced him without flinching. But still he laughed.

"You maidens! What hen dragons of virtue you are, to be sure. ’Another man’s wife’--eh? Then no wonder you look a thought awry at me. Poor fellow! He’s terribly wronged, to be sure. Have you told him what I’m doing? Or are you in love with this other chap?"

"Go," she said furiously. "You know the truth in your wicked heart, and I know it, and it’s devilish in you to take it like this. I’ll suffer no more of you; I’ll never breathe the same air with you no more;--and them I care about shan’t, if I can help it. You ought to be torn in a thousand pieces by honest men and women--vile thing that you are!"

He sat down calmly and patted a dog that rose from the hearth and growled at him in some uneasiness before Rhoda’s fury.

"Can’t leave you like this--must understand what you’re driving at," he declared.

"Then I’ll go," she said. "What do you take me for? Have you sunk so low that you don’t know a clean-minded creature when you meet one? I’m not a fool, and I am not blind; and I’ve seen too well what’s been doing of late; therefore I warn you to be gone afore the storm is let loose on you."

"No fear of missing the storm while you’re about. And off I shall be ere long now. There’s nothing more to keep me, since you’ve gone out of your wits. All the same, I believe you’ve thrust yourself under the law for such talk as this. To tell me I’m going wrong with a married woman! Damn it all, Rhoda, what nasty thoughts have crept into your head? Why don’t you name her and have done with it? ’Tis bad enough to know you hate me; but hear this: May the Almighty find and finish me where I sit if--"

"Don’t!" she cried out. "Don’t take His name here and belike leave your stricken dust rooted in that chair for me to watch till others come! I’ll hear no oath and I’ll name no names. I know you--I’ve seen it--I’ve heard it--heard it from another as quick to do evil as ever you was."

"By God, this is too bad!" he cried, leaping up. "You--you to accuse me of loose conduct and wrong-doing! Look to your eyes that have seen what never happened; and your ears that have listened to lies; and your tongue too--your tongue that can talk thus to a man who loved you truly and uprightly and has kept as straight as yourself from the day he loved you and longed for you! You can’t love me and I don’t blame you there. You can’t love me; but is that a just reason why you should lie about me? See to yourself, Rhoda, and you’ll find a bitter weed in your own heart that’s better out and away. And threaten no more neither. You may drag me as deep as you please through the dirt that’s got into your mind--God help you; but don’t drag some innocent woman through it. Anyway, you’ll never see my face again--spy as you may--for I shall be gone for good in a month or two."

She did not answer and he abruptly left her. He was very angry, very startled, and very shocked that she could believe and repeat such a monstrous error. He cast about for some ground in reason, and examined his life. He could only think of the meetings with Margaret Bowden; but that these were actually what Rhoda referred to did not even occur to him. He had, as a matter of fact, travelled recently as far as Plymouth with a woman, but she was Rhoda’s own widowed sister from Ditsworthy, and it seemed impossible that she could refer to her.

He puzzled to know what this assault might mean; but apart from these unexpected circumstances attending her refusal, the final negative was all that mattered. That she believed him a libertine soon ceased to trouble Hartley. His anger swiftly vanished before the immediate interest of the future. Nothing remained but to follow his previous plans and depart. He had only waited for Rhoda and now the coast was clear. Before he reached home, he had finally determined to leave England early in the new year.

*CHAPTER XI*

*BAD NEWS OF MR. BOWDEN*