consumed several months on the great problem of whether he should or
should not ask Rhoda to take a walk with him during some Sunday
afternoon. His inclinations varied, and occasionally he believed that to
walk with her was desirable; but more often he feared that such an
action would be too definite and must commit him. Moreover, he felt
extremely doubtful as to Rhoda’s reply and, thanks to a spark of
imagination in his character not to have been suspected, he believed
that if she said ’no,’ he would feel very uncomfortable.
She met him on a day when the first opinion was uppermost, and almost
before he knew it, Mr. Snell had succeeded in asking Rhoda if she would
take a stroll with him upon the following Sunday afternoon. She replied
without emotion that she was engaged to dinner with her parents at
Ditsworthy.
"The next then," faltered Mr. Snell. As he spoke, he determined with
himself that in thus pressing himself upon her, he had gone too far, and
he prepared to leave her. To his surprise, however, Rhoda agreed.
"If ’tis a fine afternoon Sunday week, I’ll come. But not if ’tis
pouring torrents," she said.
"I’ll be to your house at three of the clock," he answered.
Then he left her and found himself in great agitation. This was the most
audacious thing that he had ever done. He felt proud and alarmed by
turns. As the day approached he heartily hoped that it might be wet;
but it arrived clear, cold, and fine. Therefore he went forth in his
Sunday clothes, reached his destination too soon and waited out of sight
behind a stone, until his watch told one minute to the appointed hour.
Rhoda was ready for him and they set off together up the valley. From
his cottage door David watched them and smiled grimly. His sister had
not mentioned her appointment, and both Margaret and her husband were
exceedingly surprised.
"It can’t surely be that poor Mr. Snell--?" said Madge.
"Anything can be," he answered; "but ’tis hard to believe. On the
whole--no. It amounts to nought. Look at the way Simon carries his
legs--that loose from the thigh--that loose and wandering, as though
they belonged to a Guy Fawkes!"
"’Tis a most amazing thing, David, what different sort of people
sometimes have something in ’em that draws them together willy-nilly.
But Hartley!"
"’Tis no good looking that way," he answered with decision. "I sounded
her as to the man a bit ago, as I promised. She’s got no fancy that
way, Madge, and the sooner he knows it the sooner he’ll stop wasting his
time."
Meanwhile Mr. Snell walked beside Rhoda and talked of the amazing number
of water rats in the leat. Presently he lifted the theme to poultry, and
then, returning to the water, detailed the exact manner of his
professional labours. She said little but listened to his statement of
facts. His mind was only constituted to assert crude happenings. He
had no ideas, no theories, and few opinions.
"You can see the tower of Princetown church very clear from here," he
said; "but if a mist comed over, it would be hidden."
She admitted that this was so.
"A gentleman stopped in our best bedroom and parlour a year back,"
continued Simon; "and his custom was to paint pickshers. And once I
comed this way and he was painting pretty near where we be standing now.
And I made so bold as to look, and then I made so bold as to talk,
because the gentleman axed me what I thought of it. ’You’ve left out
the church tower,’ I says to him. ’Yes,’ he says, ’’twasn’t like I was
going to stick such a beastly, ugly thing as that in the middle of they
hills.’ So he left it out, though to my eye ’twas the most interesting
sight to be seen."
"Did he make his pickshers for pleasure, or did he get anything by
them?" asked Rhoda.
"He lived by ’em. He said to me once that there were one or two sane
men in the world who bought everything he liked to paint. ’Twas a very
curious speech to my ear. And to be honest with you, I didn’t like his
pickshers--messy and half done to my eye--very different to the
pickshers you see on grocers’ almanacs, where everything, to the hairs
on a horse’s tail, be worked out to a miracle."
"Have ’e seen they pickshers that David got to Tavistock?" she asked.
Mr. Snell had seen them; but with a great and sudden access of cunning
he replied in the negative. He expected her to invite him home to do
so; but she did not.
A silence fell until they came to a clapper bridge of rather narrow
dimensions.
"Shall I hand you over, miss, or would you rather go alone?" he
inquired.
But Rhoda had crossed before he finished the question.
The church-tower seemed to draw his eyes like a magnet, and after
further silence Mr. Snell began to talk about it again.
"’Tis a very wonderful and curious thing that the old prisoners made
thicky pile," he said. "You might not know it, but so it was in ancient
days."
"Very sad for them, because they was foreigners," ventured Rhoda.
"Exactly so. ’Twould be a very sad thing to have a wife and family and
be shut away from them."
"Yes."
"Very sad without a doubt."
"Yes."
Mr. Snell next ventured on a great generality.
"I don’t think ’tis a very good plan for fighting men to marry," he
said.
"Perhaps not."
"Because, if they get the worst of it, and get shot dead or taken
prisoners, or any such like misfortune, their children and females have
to suffer."
Rhoda did not answer.
"’Tis a deep question, if you come to think of it, miss, who ought to be
married and who ought not to be married."
"There’s a lot married as had better not be," she declared.
"I quite agree, I quite agree," answered Simon; "and you might even go
so far as to say there’s a lot might be married who ain’t."
"There’s a lot don’t want to be, I believe."
"Women, I grant you. I do think here and there you’ll find a woman who
won’t change the single state, along of experience with married sisters,
or babies, or cross-grained men, or what not; but us was telling to ’The
Corner House’ a bit back along, and it seemed the general idea that
there comes a time in every manly mind when the chap cries out for a
wife. Should you think that might be so?"
"How should I know?"
"Beg pardon, I’m sure. Perhaps ’twas a silly question to put to a young
woman. No offence, I hope?"
"Yes, it was a silly question."
"Sorry, I’m sure, and I hope you’ll overlook it. But, when I ax myself
if ever it was so with me--but perhaps it don’t interest you?"
She considered before answering, then replied:
"I don’t much care what men think, but if you want to tell me, tell me."
"Not at all--far from it, I’m sure. For that matter I couldn’t tell you
very easy. I haven’t been throwed much with the female kind."
"So much the better for you very like."
"I quite agree--as a general thing; but, however--" he broke off and
looked at his watch.
"My word, only four o’clock! Who’d have thought it?" he exclaimed.
"In my case I’ve been throwed a lot with men," said Rhoda.
"So you have, and no doubt you’ll understand ’em pretty well. In fact,
you’re as brave as most men. I’m sure now you are braver than me."
"Ban’t you brave then?"
"I’m brave by fits and starts," said Mr. Snell. "With cattle, yes; with
horses, no. When I was a little nipper, not above twelve or thirteen
year old, a wicked horse got me down and bit my shoulder to the bone.
He’d have killed me in another moment, but the Lord sent a man with a
pitchfork and I was saved. But I feared a horse from that day, and if I
could show you my shoulder, which, of course, I wouldn’t offer for to
do, you’d see how I was mangled by the teeth of him."
"Some horses be as uncertain as dogs, and they’ve got terrible long
memories--better than ours sometimes."
"No doubt you know, so full of learning about four-footed things as you
be."
"We’ll turn now, please."
"Certainly. Us have come a longer way than I thought to. But you step
out something wonderful."
"I like walking."
"So do I--nothing better. I go along ten miles of the leat six days a
week, winter and summer. You might be surprised to know that I go more
than three thousand miles in the year. ’Twas done out in figures by Mr.
Mattacott all quite correct."
They had turned, and now walked a considerable way in absolute silence.
Then a neighbour came in sight, and Mr. Snell grew nervous.
"There’s that clacking creature, Mary Main. She haven’t seed us yet.
If you’d rather for me to go away afore she does--?"
"Yes, if you like."
"It might be better--unless-- Well, here’s good-bye then for the
present, and I’m very thankful to you for walking--very thankful and no
less."
"Us have had a nice walk."
"I quite agree, I’m sure; and thank you kindly; if I get over this here
wall I can pick up the leat yonder; and to see me by the leat will be an
everyday sight for anybody."
"Yes, it will."
He hurried off, and Mary Main, when she met Rhoda alone as usual, had no
idea of her recent great adventure.
What impression the walk with Simon left in the girl’s mind none ever
knew; but Mr. Snell felt mildly elated by the achievement, though he
told nobody about it. He was secretive, and his own mother knew nothing
of his thoughts. Indeed, she was scarcely aware that he did think.
Rhoda, too, confided in none but her brother. She said nothing about
her amusement, and when Margaret openly asked her if she had enjoyed it,
she did not answer the question, but replied with some other matter. It
happened thus.
"Did you like Mr. Snell’s opinions?" asked her sister-in-law, as Rhoda
took off her hat and came to the tea-table.
"They horned sheep have all gone down in a crowd from the high ground,
and they want to be driven back, which I’ll do after I’ve had a cup of
tea and changed my clothes," said the other.
Six weeks later there fell out an unfortunate incident which went far to
extinguish the slightly closer understanding that had obtained between
these women since Bartley Crocker met David. By ill-fortune Madge
annoyed Rhoda exceedingly, and her brother was also implicated. Mr.
Snell, however, suffered most in the sequel. With great circumspection
he had avoided Rhoda for a month after their walk, then he met her and
proposed another.
"’Twill have to be short, for the evenings close in so," she said.
"I like the dark so well as you, however," he assured her.
"I only like the dark alone," she answered.
"How coorious! I only like it in company," he declared. "But, if you’m
willing, I’ll be so bold as to call at the cot half after two come
Sunday week."
"I shall be home that day. I dare say my sister-in-law will come too."
"As to her--" began Mr. Snell, then he checked himself. "She’s a very
nice woman; in fact, you’d have to look a long way further than
Sheepstor parish to find her equal," he declared. And then he went his
way, dimly conscious that he had chosen his words awkwardly.
When he arrived Rhoda was ready, but Margaret had a cold in her face,
and the other had not asked her to join the party. Mr. Snell’s
appearance came as a surprise, and David spoke.
"Why, here’s Simon again! So ’tis him you be prinked up in that new hat
for, Rhoda!"
Margaret laughed despite herself, and the virgin flushed; but with
anger.
"Look at her roses!" said David, whose Sunday dinner had left him in an
easy mood. Then his sister instantly restored him to seriousness.
"How dare you!" she cried. "How dare you laugh, Margaret, or you say
such things, David? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. I won’t see
the man! Never again will I see him! ’Tis you coarse creatures ought to
blush--not me!"
She left them, went to her room, and refused to descend though Margaret
came up and pleaded with her.
"Tell him to go," was all that Rhoda said.
Mr. Snell was placidly regretful to hear that Rhoda had a headache.
"The headache is a very painful thing; but she’ll soon be rids of it,"
he said. "Us was going for a walk, but ’tis not of any consequence. I
can go just as easy alone. Or I needn’t go at all, come to think of
it."
He went to the gate, hesitated, and returned.
"When she comes down house again, you might give her my respects," he
said; "and if ’tis her stomach that is out of order, there’s nothing
better than a little cold onion broth without salt, taken when the
organs all be empty."
"I’ll tell her," promised Margaret, and Mr. Snell shuffled off.
He walked over the exact ground of the former peregrination and recalled
the former topics very accurately.
"I shall leave it now till well on into the new year," he told himself;
"then, if my feelings be so fierce and fiery as they seem to be at
present, I might offer for to go walking again. There’s nought like a
walk for helping a male to see into the female mind. ’Twas Crocker, I
remember, who said in the bar that if you could get a girl to laugh at
your jokes, ’twas a great thing done. But ’twill have to be something
out of the common funny to make that woman laugh. And as to making a
joke--I don’t know I’m sure."
*CHAPTER XIII*
*RHODA PASSES BY*
A great uncertainty prevailed above Margaret Bowden, where she sat on
the lofty side of Lether Tor before noon and waited to meet Bartley.
The aerial doubt was reflected on earth in shadows and darkness shot
with fitful light; an increasing opacity threatened rain; yet, where the
vapours crowded most gloomily and massed their hooded cowls, light and
wind would break their conclaves and scatter them upon the humid bosom
of the Moor. Through this welter, sunshafts fell and flashed over the
grey and russet of the wilderness.
A sort of mystery belonged to the day seen in its huge encounter between
cloud legions and the light of heaven. Strange things might have been
happening within the penetralia of the fog-banks, where they drove
through the valleys gloomily. There was an air of mighty preparation,
of imminent explosion, of forces stealthily taking stand and making
ready to declare themselves in elemental encounter between the armies of
the sun and the rain. Light and darkness joined battle, and Mother
Earth lowered heavily, in mood to welcome the victory of her own
innumerable cloud children. The sobriety of the hour increased. The
distant details of the land faded; the tors ascended solemn and purple
above the grey.
Yet, through loopholes in the driving fog, the sun still shot his arrows
strongly and, where they fell, there broke forth fire on dene and
dingle, and small roof-tree isolated in the loneliness. The watcher
marked a sudden shaft sweep the vale of Kingsett with a besom of light,
while another radiant gleam broke the clouds, descended upon her old
home, and set the far-off whitewash glimmering like a jewel at the
throat of Dennycoombe.
Now the high lands southerly shone for a moment; now the ragged crest of
Sheep’s Tor was glorified with a nimbus of light, that revolved in a
broad, wet fan, and then shut up again, as the clouds thrust between sun
and earth.
In process of time, as the war swept hither and thither, there grew a
cheerful hope in Madge’s mind that the clouds might be beaten. When all
seemed lost and new vapours gathered even to her feet, she saw the upper
heaven shine with sudden access of glory. It collected in close,
dazzling centres; it pierced and riddled the fog beneath with silver
that warmed into gold. And then the earth, that had taken service with
storm and lifted her dark bosom to welcome rain--the faithless earth
paid court to the conqueror and welcomed him with beauty. No longer she
sulked; no longer the tors and hog-backed hills answered the dark strata
of the sky with greater darkness, and spread beneath the sullen colours
of the clouds a face still more sullen. Instead they donned a brighter
aspect; while banderoles of blue unfurled aloft in the widening rents of
the cloud rack. A great wind gathered strength, scattered the mists, and
drove them flying down the hills; there fell warmth on the watcher’s
cheek; the world smoothed out her granite wrinkles, smiled, and
reflected the azure of heaven upon her manifold stony faces, her
water-ways and plains. Light conquered and upon the skirts of the
defeated fog there burnt cold fires and glimmered the iris.
This transformation and overthrow of the day’s dark prophecy much
heartened Madge. The victory of sunshine lifted her spirits
unconsciously. She grew happier with the unfolding serenity of the
hour; and she was singing to herself when Bartley Crocker arrived.
Of late not seldom they had met unseen in lonely places, far afield.
Sometimes she waited for him by the great menhir of Thrushel Coombe;
sometimes at Plym Steps; sometimes in spots even more remote, haunted by
the heron and the shadows of clouds. But during the past fortnight
Margaret had only seen Mr. Crocker on one occasion, when she called to
know of his mother’s fading health. Then he made the present
appointment; and now, as she sang, he climbed up through the wild
clitters of Lether Tor to keep it.
"Go on," he said. "I heard you long afore you saw me. ’Tis pleasant to
my ear; for nought be singing just now but the robins."
"I was cheered somehow when the sun mastered the fog."
"How’s Rhoda?"
"Very well. She’ll come this way herself presently, by Nosworthy
bridge."
"Mr. Snell called again?"
"Not again. ’Tis a pity you can’t see a bit more of Rhoda, however."
"My mother wouldn’t let me out of her sight at the last."
"Well I know it, poor dear. How does she find herself to-day, Bartley?"
"A bit strange, no doubt; but with my father to show her the new place.
She’s dead."
"Dead! Oh, Bartley!"
"Yes--thank God. Faded out at four o’clock yesterday morning.
Flickered out just the same as a night-light flickers out. Wavers and
shakes--then steadies down again--then gets brighter than ever--then
grows dim--slowly, slowly, till there’s nought but a bead of fire left.
And then a flash, and then--gone. And your eyes think it’s there still;
but it isn’t."
"Dear Bartley, I’m so sorry for you."
"Are you? But I know you are. Not many else will be--not many but me
and my Aunt Susan. She’s torn to the heart. I couldn’t stand no more
of it."
"I’ll see your aunt to-morrow. I’ll see her to-day."
"She’ll thank you. Make it to-morrow. My dear mother wasn’t a very
much sought after woman--too wise for that, I expect. But you could
comfort her sister. Nobody else will trouble about her."
"To-night I shall go down."
"The funeral’s on Tuesday. Would you put her to the west where the big
holly tree is, or under the sunny wall where the slates of the Moses
family all stand?"
"She’d have liked to be buried by her husband. She told me so."
"I know; but ’tisn’t convenient. He lies at Honiton, and ’twould cost a
King’s ransom to take her there. But I asked her almost the last thing,
and she thought and shook her head. Past caring then."
"Me and David will be at the funeral--I can promise for myself, and I’m
pretty sure he’ll go."
"D’you think you could get Rhoda to come? D’you think I might go so far
as to ask her to come?"
"I’m sure she’d go if she thought it would give anybody any pleasure."
"Not pleasure exactly. You might almost say ’twas business more than
pleasure. Don’t think I’m hard-hearted and all that sort of thing; but
when you’re in love like I am--everything--even the funeral of his own
mother--is used by a man to his advantage, if it can be. To feel like I
feel for Rhoda makes me as hard as a millstone for everything else. I
want her at the funeral; because if she sees me there burying my dear
mother, it may bring a pinch of softness to her. I’ve planned to get
her there if ’tis possible."
Margaret stared at him in wonder.
"Don’t think me daft. I’m suffering enough; but ’tis man’s way to look
on ahead. And I can’t look on ahead into nothing. I’ve grown to feel
to Rhoda that she’s got to marry me. And yet ’tis idle to pretend that
I’ve much right to be hopeful. What’s the best news about her?"
"There’s no news, unless her long, lonely walks be news. She must think
of something when she takes ’em. She can’t talk to the dogs all the
time. Her mind can’t be empty, can it?"
"Certainly not," Mr. Crocker assured her. "She must be travelling over
something in her brain, if ’tis only the joneys on the mantel-shelf in
your parlour. But it isn’t about me and Canada she thinks, I reckon.
Canada, perhaps, but not me."
"I will say this: there’s no unfriendliness in her. I never hear her
speak a word against any man, bar William Screech. And I go in hopes
that she’ll forgive even him and Dorcas."
"She’d forgive ’em right enough if she was married to me. Anyway, when
my dear mother’s laid to her rest, after a few days are past, I shall
ask Rhoda again. The time has come to do it."
"I think it has."
"Will she be along with you at Christmas?"
"No," answered Margaret. "’Tis ordained that we all go to Ditsworthy
for Christmas dinner. ’Tis a longful time since David was to home, and
his mother has planned this."
"Well, you must ask me a bit later. Or I’ll try to get David to bid me
come and eat along with you after New Year. I may tell you this: David
wouldn’t make any objection."
"None--none at all."
Bartley began to spare a little thought from himself for Margaret. He
had often wondered whether his plain hints to her husband brought any
fruit for her. To-day he was in a high-strung and somewhat emotional
mood; therefore he did not shirk the subject as usual; but prepared to
plunge into it.
"Let’s get down the hill," he said. "We’ll go so far as Nosworthy
bridge together, if that’s not drawing you too much out of your way."
"’Twill suit very well," she answered. "I want to meet Rhoda, and
she’ll be fetching back by the bridge afore long."
"You’ll be hungry."
"No; I’ve got a bit of bread and cheese in my pocket. You can have half,
if you mind to."
He shook his head.
"Can’t eat to-day. ’Twill be a fast day in my life for evermore."
"Dear Hartley, I don’t say much. Who can say anything to the purpose
against such a loss? But I do feel for you."
"I know it, Madge. Nobody’ll feel for me like you. Give me your hand.
’Tis a thought steep here; but it leads to the best road to the bottom."
He helped her down the crooked acclivities, and in half an hour they
were at the bridge beneath.
Here Meavy opens her arms, and shutting them again, creates a little
island. The waters join once more below and sing and foam under the
ivy-mantled span of one grey arch. To-day naked boughs thrust up from
the drooping red mat of the brake-fern, and the leaves of the willows
were reduced to a mere yellow sparkle of yellow on the boughs. Only the
greater furze laid a heavy green in great masses on the harmony of
winter colours.
Bartley led the way by mossy stones beside a backwater where dead leaves
danced.
"We’ll sit on the island," he said, "while you eat your food. There’s
an old hurdle there, and I’ll put my coat over it for you."
A few moments later they were talking about Margaret’s self, and she
felt her heart flutter somewhat at this sudden and very unexpected
change of subject.
"D’you mind what you told me some time since, Madge?" he asked. "At
least it can’t be said you told me; but, between the lines of things
that you spoke, I somehow pieced together a sort of feeling you wasn’t
as happy as you’d a right to be."
"How can you think so? I’m sure--"
"Well, anyway, it got into my stupid head, and as luck would have it I
fell in with David a bit after I’d left you. You must remember the day,
Madge. It’s idle to pretend you’ve forgot."
"Yes, I remember. I was down-daunted and silly. You oughtn’t to have
thought twice about my feeble grumbling."
"You didn’t grumble. Another person would have marked nothing in what
you said; but I know you so well--quick as lightning I am where you are
concerned, or any woman I care about. And I talked to David."
She started and stared at him.
"Then I’m very angry indeed with you, Bartley."
"Are you? Well, he wasn’t. There’s few more sensible, clever chaps
knocking about than your husband. Like a flash I opened his eyes, and
he thanked me for doing it. Thanked me, mind you."
"Opened his eyes! Whatever do you mean?"
"I mean I opened his eyes. He’s a terrible busy man and I’m a terrible
lazy one. And ’tis no use being lazy if you can’t use your time to do
the busy folk a good turn. Fools would say ’twas interference; but not
a wise man like David."
"What did you tell him?"
"Say you forgive me."
"It depends what you said."