AT “THE WATERMAN’S ARMS”
A measure of argument arose between Abel Hayman and his wife, master
and mistress of “The Waterman’s Arms.” He had held that to receive
Medora and Kellock was quite impossible, while she took a contrary
opinion, and her word was law.
“Morals is morals, and business is business,” said Mrs. Hayman, “and
I know Jordan Kellock by reputation, and his reputation is all it
should be. Dingle will get a bill of divorcement and they’ll be married
according to law; and if they don’t come to us, they’ll go to the ‘Ring
of Bells,’ so enough said.”
Mr. Hayman relented at sound of “The Ring of Bells,” and was ready to
welcome the guests when they arrived.
It seemed strange to Medora, who had passed the little inn by the
bridge so many times, to enter the door and find it her home for a
season. It was a cool and restful spot, and the private rooms, facing
the stream, were removed some way from the bar. A yellow rose straggled
over the face of the building and in the garden were old world flowers,
now pushing up to renewed life—columbines and bleeding hearts, orange
lilies and larkspurs.
Medora arrived weary, and Kellock, to his own surprise, proved nervous
and found himself wishing very heartily that his first day at work was
ended. He knew not what might be in store for him, and Medora, who was
not in a happy mood, had, in the train, deplored the fact that they
were returning. Nothing would have disappointed her more than not to
do so; yet she meant it at the moment when she said it, for who does
not often contradict his own deep-seated desire and side, as it were,
against himself at some passing whim from within, or inspiration from
without?
When she found all her clothes and possessions waiting for her, Medora
fell very silent, and Jordan puzzled to know how they should have come
there.
“I told my mother where we were going to stop,” she explained, “but, of
course, I never said nothing about my clothes. I didn’t regard them as
mine no more—nor yet the ornaments.”
“They meant well. You needn’t wear them.”
Their supper was laid in a little parlour on one side of the private
entrance, and when Medora descended, she found Mrs. Hayman turning up
the lamp.
“You’ll be tired, my dear, I expect,” said the elder, “and Mr. Kellock
also. Shall I send in bottled beer or draught?”
“We shan’t want nothing in that way. Yes, I will too—I’ll have a Bass,
Mrs. Hayman; but he won’t—he’s teetotal. Was it my mother brought my
things?”
“She did—her and Daisy Finch. And your mother’s coming over to see you
to-morrow morning. I was to be sure and tell you.”
“I suppose it have made a bit of stir, Mrs. Hayman?”
“What have, my dear?”
“Me, running away with Mr. Kellock.”
“Not that I have heard of. There’s such a lot of running away
now-a-days. Though, as a man said in the bar a few nights ago, there
ain’t much need for most women to run. They can go their own pace,
so long as it takes ’em away from their lawfuls. Take my own niece.
She married a wheelwright, and ran away with a carpenter six months
after. And when she did, far the happiest of them three people was
the wheelwright. Yet the guilty pair, so to call ’em, thought he’d do
dreadful things; they didn’t draw a breath in comfort till they’d got
to Canada, and put the ocean between. Marriage, in fact, ain’t what it
was. In my opinion it won’t stand the strain much longer. It was never
built to endure against such facilities for getting about and seeing
new faces as the people have now—let alone the education. These here
life-long partnerships—however, no doubt you know all about it. I’m a
very broad-minded woman myself, and never throw a stone, though I don’t
live in a glass house, for me and my husband are two of the lucky ones.
I’ve never wished for no change, and God help him if he’d shown any
feeling of that sort.”
Medora little liked the assumption that her achievement was an affair
of every day.
“Few have got the courage and self-respect to do it,” she said.
“’Tain’t that. It’s selfishness in some cases, and just common sense in
others. We small people are much freer to act than the upper sort. And
as divorce costs a mint of money, there’s thousands and thousands fling
up all hope of an orderly release, and part, and go their own way, and
live respectable lives that make the Church properly yelp and wring its
hands. But the Church is powerless against the Law, so my husband says;
and the Law takes very good care to keep the whip-hand and make divorce
a great source of income for lawyers. However, Dingle is a prosperous
man, and no doubt he’ll run to it and do the needful. The trouble in
these cases is the children, and lucky that don’t arise this time. ’Tis
a very great thing in my view that a woman should have her children by
the man she prefers.”
“Who wants children?” asked Medora. “They’re nothing but a curse and a
nuisance most times. Me and Mr. Kellock want to do important things in
the world, Mrs. Hayman.”
“If you can think of anything more important than getting a brace of
good healthy children, I’d be glad to know what it is,” answered the
landlady. “I speak without prejudice in that matter, never having
had none myself. But that’s no fault of ours—merely the will of
Providence, and nothing more puzzling or outrageous ever happened, for
I was one of seven and Abel one of ten; and yet God willed me barren—a
good mother blasted in the bud, you might say. I sometimes wish the
Almighty would let Nature take its course a bit oftener.”
Medora was glad that Kellock arrived at this moment.
“I’m going to have a glass of beer, Jordan,” she said. “I’m properly
tired to-night, and I shan’t sleep if I don’t.”
He answered nothing, for she had promised to give up stimulant. Then
Mrs. Hayman went to fetch their supper.
Medora enjoyed familiar Devon food, ate well, and slept well enough
presently in a comfortable feather bed, with the murmur of Bow River
for a lullaby.
The next day was Sunday, and Mrs. Trivett duly arrived, to be received
in the little parlour. Medora kissed her, and Kellock offered to shake
hands; but he found that Lydia was far from cordial. She kissed Medora
coldly, and ignored the man.
“I felt it my duty to see you, Medora,” she began, “because I don’t
want for you, nor yet Mr. Kellock, to be under any doubt about my
feelings. I think you’ve done a very evil and ill-convenient thing,
and I’d like to know what would become of the world if everybody was
to break their oaths and make hay of their marriage lines, same as you
have.”
Medora quoted from Mrs. Hayman, and Kellock ventured to think that each
case ought to be judged on its own merits.
“I quite understand I’m in a very delicate position so far as you’re
concerned. I don’t expect you to take my side in the matter, though I’m
quite confident that in a year’s time, Mrs. Trivett, you’ll see this is
a blessing in disguise. And I tell you that Medora’s husband that was,
abused his rights, so that it was up to me, who loved and respected
Medora, to rescue her from him. Because, if she’d stopped under his
cruel tyranny much longer, she’d have lost everything that makes life
worth living for man or woman.”
“And where did you get this news from? Where did you hear Ned Dingle
was a cruel tyrant, and all the rest of it?”
“On the best possible authority surely. I had it from Medora herself.”
There was a pause, then Lydia proceeded.
“Yesterday, at Ned’s wish—at his wish, mind—me and Daisy Finch went
to his house and packed up every stitch belonging to my daughter—every
tiniest thing that was hers—and brought ’em here for her comfort. You
wouldn’t call that a cruel thing, would you?”
“You might have saved yourself the trouble, because Mr. Kellock
wouldn’t let me wear them even if I wanted to,” said Medora. “It shows
his nice feeling against my late husband’s coarse feeling—as if any
proper thinking man could suppose I wanted anything about me to remind
me of the bitter past. I’ve got everything new from London.”
“A pity you couldn’t have got a new—however, I’m not here to lecture
you. I’m your mother. I’ve only a few things to say.”
“How’s Mr. Dingle took it?” asked Medora.
“Like a Christian, so far, and will, I hope, to the end.”
“Will he see me?” enquired Kellock. “He didn’t answer my letter.”
“I can’t tell as to that. Like the rest of us, he was a lot surprised
that you could come back here after a thing like this. And Mr. Knox
said your point of view was beyond his experience. He wondered if you
expected to see a triumphal arch put up. But Ned feels more like an
ordinary, decent person, I reckon. He’s going. He’s left the Mill, and
he’s going to put up his house for sale.”
“If he’s took it like a Christian, as you say, perhaps he’ll go
farther still,” suggested Kellock. “There’s only one house in these
parts that’s like to suit Medora and myself; but perhaps Dingle’s
house—?”
His dry mind saw nothing impossible about the idea, but Lydia stared at
him.
“What on earth are you made of?” she asked.
“It sounds unreasonable to you? But, if you think of it, there’s
nothing unreasonable really. If we’re all going to carry this through
in a high-minded way, there’s no more reason why I shouldn’t buy, or
rent, Dingle’s house than anybody else.”
“Except me,” said Medora. “And mother’s right there. I wonder
at you thinking of such a thing, and putting me in such a false
position—seeing his ghost at every corner, and hearing him whistling
at every turn. You haven’t got no imagination, Jordan. I wouldn’t go
back to that house or cross the threshold, not if it was built of gold
with diamond windows.”
“I stand corrected,” answered Kellock mildly. “As for imagination,
Medora, you mustn’t think I lack for that. I’ve got my vision, else I
shouldn’t have done what I have done, or be going to do what I hope to
do; but I grant that while the house is only bricks and mortar to me,
like another, it means more to you—a prison and a place of torment.”
“Tom-foolery!” said Lydia. “Nobody ever tormented Medora but her own
silly self, and if you’d got half the sense you think you’ve got,
Jordan Kellock, you’d have found that out long ago. However, you will
find it out; and I say it before her, for I’d never say a word behind
her back that I’d fear to say to her face. You’ve took her at her own
valuation.”
“No—no,” he replied, flushing. “I take her at a much higher valuation
than her own. I want to put her in a place worthy of her, where she
can expand, and be herself, and reveal what she really is. I want for
Medora to show the world all that’s hid in her. She doesn’t know
herself yet; but I know her, and I’m going to help her to let the world
see what she is. And I hope as you’re not for us, at any rate, you
won’t be against us, Mrs. Trivett.”
“If anybody had told me you’d ever do a thing like this, I wouldn’t
have believed them,” she answered. “I’m not going to pretend to you, or
Medora either, that I’m on your side. I think you’ve done a very wicked
thing, and what beats me, and will always beat me, is how such a man as
you could have done it.”
“But I don’t think I’ve done a wicked thing, Mrs. Trivett. I only ask
you not to judge. It’s no good talking or explaining all the thousand
and one points that decided me. I only ask you to give me credit
on the strength of my past, and to understand I’m no headstrong,
silly creature who dashes at a thing on impulse, regardless of the
consequences to the community at large. Nobody can say of me I haven’t
got a proper respect for the community.”
“It’s her husband you ought to have respected I should think.”
“You mustn’t ask that. When I remember the way he treated Medora,
I can’t respect Mr. Dingle. Otherwise these things wouldn’t have
happened. I admit I love Medora and always did do; but I can honestly
say that if Medora had been nothing to me, I should none the less have
tried to save her from such a fate, for common good feeling to humanity
at large. Being as she was and finding, as she did, that she could love
me, of course that simplified it and made it possible for me to put her
in the strong and unassailable position of my future wife.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” answered Lydia. “You think all this, and I
suppose you really believe all this; but you’re blinded by being in
love with my daughter. However the mischief’s done now. Only I want
you both to understand that you’ll get no sympathy from me—or anybody
else.”
“We don’t want no sympathy,” declared Medora. “We’ve got each other
and we don’t expect a little country place like this to understand.”
Jordan dwelt upon a word that Mrs. Trivett had spoken.
“You say ‘the mischief is done,’ but I can’t allow that. No mischief is
done at all—far from it. The mischief would have been if Medora and
her husband had been bound to stop together—chained together against
all their proper feelings and against all decency. But for them to
separate like responsible beings was no mischief.”
“And it’s up to him to get on with it,” added Medora. “We’ve done our
share and took the law in our hands, because we were fearless and knew
we were right; and more we can’t do until he acts.”
“Has he moved in the matter, Mrs. Trivett?” enquired Kellock. “I can
supply his lawyer with the necessary data.”
Lydia flushed.
“No; he’s done nothing to my knowledge. He’s got to think of himself
and his future work.”
“He’ll be reasonable I’m sure. The world being what it is—a very
critical place—I’m exceedingly jealous for Medora’s good name.”
“In common decency and duty I should think he ought to feel the same,”
said Medora. “He can’t martyr me no more and the least he can do is to
set me free the first moment possible. He’s took ten years off my life
and my looks; and that’s about enough.”
“No, he hasn’t,” returned her mother. “You’re looking a lot better than
you deserve to look, and as to decency and duty, there’s nobody here
will come to you to learn about either. You’re no more a martyr than
anybody else. Ned’s the martyr, and it ill becomes you to talk of him
in that hateful tone of voice.”
Kellock was much pained and Medora began to cry.
“I do implore you—I do implore you, Mrs. Trivett, to think about this
subject on a lofty plane. God’s my judge I have taken as high a line
about this as I knew how to take. We’ve looked at it in a religious
spirit and had every respect for our own characters and every respect
for Mr. Dingle. That’s the truth about it. I don’t want to preach or
explain how we saw our duty, because in your present biased frame of
mind, you wouldn’t believe me; but I may say that Medora is a sacred
object in my eyes—just as sacred as anybody else’s property is
sacred—and I’d no more treat her with less reverence and honour than
I always did before and after she married, than I’d treat any other
woman. I’m not going to do anything on which I could look back with a
sigh, or her with a blush. We’re not that sort by any means.”
“I should hope not,” murmured Medora. “We’re a lot too proud to explain
ourselves to such people as live here; we move on a higher walk of
conscience than what they do, but all I know is that Jordan’s a saint
and they’re not worthy to black his boots or tie the laces.”
Through tears she spoke.
“No, I’m not a saint; but I’m a reasonable man and know what’s due to
my reputation and my peace of mind,” declared Mr. Kellock, “and knowing
that, I abide by it and don’t risk losing the only thing that matters,
and don’t put myself in such a position that Medora shall ever think
less of me than she does now.”
“I think more of you—more of you every minute of my life!” sobbed
Medora.
“So there it is, Mrs. Trivett,” summed up the man. “I’m glad you called
and I wish it was in my power to make you see the light in this matter.
But we shall appeal to the future and we’re not in the least afraid of
the verdict of posterity. There’s no support like the consciousness of
right. In fact for my part I’d never take on anything, big or little,
if I didn’t feel to the bed-rock of my conscience it was right. And one
thing you can be quite sure about, and that is that your daughter is as
safe in my hands as it is humanly possible for her to be.”
Mrs. Trivett looked at him helplessly and then at her weeping child.
“You’re one too many for me, Jordan Kellock,” she said. “You’ve thrown
over every law and gone the limit so far as I can see; and yet you talk
about your honour and Medora’s as the only thing you really care about.
You’re beyond me, both of you, and I think I’ll wish you good evening.”
“I feel perfectly sure that light will come into your mind as the
future unfolds itself, Mrs. Trivett.”
“I hope so,” she answered; “but your idea of light and mine ain’t the
same and never will be—unless you change.”
“There’s no shadow of changing with me,” he answered. “Medora’s the
first thing in my life henceforth and, though you don’t agree with
us, I hope you’ll reach a frame of mind when you’ll respect us as we
respect ourselves.”
“You might stop to tea, mother,” suggested Medora, but Mrs. Trivett
declined.
“I don’t want to talk no more,” she said, “so I’ll go; and you needn’t
think I’m an enemy or anything of that. I’m your mother, Medora, and
I’m about the most puzzled mother living this minute.”
Lydia went away deeply mystified and disliking Kellock more than when
she had come. Yet she told herself it was folly to dislike him. He was
no hypocrite, and though his sentiments had seemed ridiculous in any
other mouth, they were really proper to his.