THE CONFESSION
In the evening of Kellock’s catastrophe, Philander Knox saw Ned Dingle,
who was working in his garden at the time.
“Heard the latest?” he asked.
“The latest for me is that Mr. Trenchard will take me back if I like to
come.”
“No, the latest for you is that Jordan Kellock’s lost his stroke.”
Ned dropped a packet of seeds.
“Has he, by God! That’s the best news I’ve heard for a good bit.”
“You’re glad, but you won’t be glad if you think over it.”
Knox explained the circumstances, and told the tale of Jordan’s failure.
“Poor devil,” said Ned. “I can’t say I’m sorry all the same. It won’t
last. He’ll get it back, no doubt, and perhaps he’ll see now he can’t
go playing fast and loose with people, same as he did, and not get a
facer himself sometimes. I told him I wasn’t going to divorce my wife,
and no doubt that’s bowled him over.”
“You’ve done very well so far, in my opinion,” declared Mr. Knox.
“You’ve conducted the affair in a high-class way, and you and me know
where we stand; but he don’t, and more does she.”
“I’m in your hands,” answered Ned. “I begin to find better every day
you’re right, Knox. And what did she do when she heard he was down and
out?”
“Took a very proper line,” answered Philander. “Some, feeling what
she feels and knowing that she’d done with him, for evermore, whatever
happened, would have left him to stew in his own juice; but Medora,
having a very fine pride, would have despised herself for any such
littleness as that. I see as clear as day what was in her mind. She
said to herself, ‘I’ve been a silly fool, and so has he. We were lost
to sense and reality, and acted in a mad and improper manner. In
fact, we’ve been everything we could be, except wicked, and silliness
is often punished worse than wickedness. But, though Kellock richly
deserved to lose his stroke, it’s as much my fault as his own that he
has done so, and I’m too sporting to turn my back on him at such a
moment. If he’s ruined, then it’s my hard duty to share his trouble,
and I won’t be a rat and quit a sinking ship. That’s not the sort of
woman Ned Dingle married.’ So Medora argued, no doubt—not knowing, of
course, what you’ve said to Kellock. So she went to him, and they’ve
gone to Totnes this evening along with Ernest Trood to see a doctor.
Thus you see, for her proper and womanly behaviour, Medora will be
rewarded—as we sometimes are if we do rightly—sooner or later.”
“How rewarded?” asked Ned.
“Why, by hearing presently from the man that you’re not going to
divorce her. She plays her part to him and cheers him up and takes
a hopeful view of the disaster, and so on; and then she hears what
brought it all about—your strong line. Of course, to her ear—she
being now a contrite creature with the scales fallen from her eyes—the
fact that you wouldn’t set her free to marry him was the best music she
could hear. She’ll know with you taking that line, she’ll be free of
Kellock for evermore, and able to set about her own salvation in fear
and trembling. And that, no doubt, is what she’ll do, for having paid
for girlish faults, she’ll now cultivate her womanly virtues and become
as fine a creature in mind as she is in body, and rise to be worthy of
our admiration again.”
Ned listened to this long speech while he sowed carrots.
“These things don’t happen by chance,” concluded Knox. “A man like you
bends fate to his own purpose; and fate, being a female, does a lot
more for them that drive her than them that spoil her. You stand in a
very strong position now, and the lucky thing is that the strong can be
merciful to the weak without losing their self-respect.”
“I’ll see Kellock,” promised Ned. “I’ll see him to-morrow and hear what
he’s got to say about it.”
“A very good thought, but let your mind dwell on Medora a bit before
you do. You think so clear and see so straight that you won’t make
any mistake in that quarter. You’ve got to remember how it looks to
Kellock so far, and whether it looks right to him, or whether it do
not. Now Kellock only knows as yet that you don’t put away Medora; and
that means he can’t marry her, so this brother and sister racket must
end. As for Mrs. Dingle, she’s done with the masculine gender, and, of
course, she may have told Kellock so—I can’t say as to that. But you
see him by all means.”
They talked till dusk fell, then Mr. Knox departed and Ned considered
all he had said, with the imputations proper to Philander’s words.
He had trusted largely to the vatman of late, and found himself in
agreement with his sentiments on all occasions, for Knox was treating
Ned with rare diplomacy.
Next morning, Jordan himself anticipated his visitor, and as Ned set
out to see him, he appeared at Ashprington. He wore holiday attire,
looked pale, and was somewhat nervous.
They met at the gate of Dingle’s house, and Ned spoke.
“Come in the house, and you can speak first—no, I will.”
They entered the little parlour and sat down opposite each other.
“I hear you’ve lost your stroke. I suppose to find what I meant to do
was a bit too shattering. No doubt you’ll get it back. I’ve no wish to
come between you and your livelihood; but when you and my wife hatched
this bit of wickedness, you didn’t stop to think whether it would play
hell with my nerves; and if you’d known it would, that wouldn’t have
changed you.”
“That’s quite true,” admitted Kellock, “and, I may tell you, it’s come
home to me pretty sharp before you said it. As for me, I may get my
stroke again, or I may not; and if I don’t, I shall never blame you—I
shall blame myself. Those that think they stand, often get a fall, and
I’m not too proud to confess to you that that’s what has happened to
me.”
“Serve you right.”
“I don’t matter any more. What matters is Medora, and I shall be
greatly obliged if you’ll allow me to speak a few words on that
subject.”
“The fewer the better.”
“I come from myself, understand. She knows nothing about it. I didn’t
ask her, because if she’d said ‘no,’ I couldn’t have come. And she
might have forbid.”
“Well, get on with it.”
“It’s very difficult, and I beg you’ll make allowances for a man who
has done wrong and done you wrong, too. You’ll probably say that I’m
only changed since you told me you weren’t going to divorce Medora.
That’s true in a way, but not all true. I’ve learned a great deal I
didn’t know from Medora, but I’ve only come now to talk about her. The
question is how you feel about her.”
“That’s my business, not yours.”
“I don’t know that, because as you feel, so I must do. I recognise my
obligations sharp enough, and she is the first of them if you ordain
she is to be. I’ve thought a lot about it you may be sure, and I’ve
recognised one thing fairly clearly—I did before you struck this blow.
I’m not a marrying man, Mr. Dingle.”
“Nobody ever thought you were but that fool.”
“It wasn’t her fault. We were both wrong—that’s all. And I want to say
this. I wouldn’t marry Medora now if I could, because I’ve been brought
to see I shouldn’t make her happy. A brother I’m prepared to be; but
for her own sake, and for her future, I wouldn’t marry her if I could
now, because I should be doing her a wrong. Of course, you’ll say I’m
putting this on because you won’t let me marry her; but I swear to you
that I’d begun to feel it before.”
“That lets you out then—with your tail between your legs. And what
price her?”
“That’s why I’ve called this morning. I can’t say anything to Medora
until I’ve spoken to you, because it’s clear that what I must do
depends upon you. If you’ve done with her, then I shall support her and
be as good a brother as I know how to be.”
“Have you ever seen the man who would take a woman back after these
games? Would you, if you was me?”
“I’d think a lot before I refused, if I was you. Knox tells me that
it’s a very uncommon case, but quite in keeping with my character. You
understand, I’ve said nothing to Medora. Of course, she knows what the
price is she’s got to pay. The appearance of evil is as bad in this
case as evil itself; so she’s doomed if you doom her, but saved if you
save her. Would it be asking too much to ask you to see her?”
“I have seen her.”
“Not since she knew the situation. We often learn a lesson when it’s
too late to profit by the knowledge, and it’s for you to judge if that
will be the case with Medora. I’m only raising the question, and I
don’t want to fill her head with false hopes. She’s been too much of a
lady to say anything out; but she’s shown her feelings on the subject
in a good many ways.”
“She’s fed up with you, in fact?”
“Yes; I believe that is so. In a way, to use a homely sort of
illustration, what we did was to keep company—no more than that; and
that showed her very clear I’m not the right company; and it’s shown
me, as I say, I’m not a marrying man. So there it is. I can promise you
your wife will want for nothing, and I shall regard her destiny as in
my hands in future, if you’re off her for good. And if you change your
mind and divorce her, I’ll swear it won’t be me that marries her. That
you can take on oath. I’ll tell her so to-day.”
Kellock rose to go, and Ned remained silent and seated.
“Remember, if you do see her, you’ll see a wiser and sadder woman,” the
vatman ventured to add.
“No doubt. You’d make anybody sadder and wiser. When are you going to
try for your stroke again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nobody will pity you when they hear how you lost it.”
“You’ll find Mrs. Dingle along with her people at Priory Farm if you
want her. She means to come to my lecture next week; but not if you’ve
any objection, of course. And I beg you to understand that I’m heartily
sorry for what I’ve done, and I’m punished a lot worse than you could
punish me. To lose my stroke is nought; to lose my self-respect is
everything.”
“You’ll get ’em both back—such an amazing creature as you,” said
Dingle dourly.
Then Kellock went away, and the man who had listened to him little
guessed at his soreness of spirit. Jordan indeed had the satisfaction
of clearing his soul and confessing his weakness and failure; but he
suffered ample degradation and discomfort under his right-doing. Nor
did he believe that his end was likely to be gained. Doubting, he had
taken his proposal to Ashprington; still doubting, he returned. Indeed,
he felt sure from Ned’s attitude, both to him and Medora, that the girl
would remain on his hands. A subtler man had felt every reason to hope
from Dingle’s blunt comments, but he read nothing behind them. He only
believed that he had eaten dirt for nought; yet he did not regret his
confession of wrong; for his bent of mind was such that he knew he
must have made it sooner or later.
The future looked dark and sad enough. He was confused, downcast. Even
the thought of the lecture had no present power to cheer him. But he
told himself that he had done his duty to Medora, and suspected that,
had she heard his appeal to her husband, she might have thanked him.
And elsewhere Dingle pondered the problem. Curiously enough, only a
point, which had seemed unimportant to anybody else, held his mind.
Kellock had said Medora was changed, and such is human inconsistency,
that whereas Ned had told himself for six months he was well rid of
a bad woman, now the thought that he might receive back into his
house a reformed character annoyed him. If he wanted anybody, it was
the old Medora—not the plague, who left him for Kellock, but the
laughter-loving, illusive help-mate he had married. He did not desire
a humbled and repentant creature, ready to lick his boots. He was very
doubtful if he really wanted anybody. Once the mistress of any man,
he would never have thought of her again except to curse her; but she
never had been that. She had doubtless shared Jordan’s exalted ideals.
That was to her credit, and showed she honoured her first husband and
the stock she sprang from.