"Shan’t I? That’s bad news," he said. "And, what’s more, I’ll make so
bold as to question it. Why should I waste time and beat about the
bush? Look back a bit--to that day on the leat path, Rhoda. Well, a
lot’s happened since then; but nothing has happened to my great love of
you except it’s grown stronger and stronger. And you, Rhoda? Don’t say
that you never thought of it again. Perhaps you blame me for holding
off so long; but you see how I was placed. Couldn’t go on with it and
mother fading out day by day."
In the light of her knowledge she believed that this statement was
untrue. At best the hypocrisy of it offended her. The man who played
with Madge on the island was surely not the man to let his mother’s last
illness interfere with love-making.
But she did not comment upon this side of the question. She did not
comment at all, but waited for him to make an end.
"And now, though you might think I was too near her still, yet I know it
isn’t so. And I ask you to remember what I said before, and answer me
different. You’re more to me than all the rest of the world put
together, and I’m sure that I could make you a happy woman. I’ve
watched you, like a cat watches a mouse, these many months. I’ve
followed your ways and learned your fancies. David’s self don’t know so
much about you as I do--all I know of your beautiful, brave nature and
likes and dislikes--down to the walks by night with nought but the
moonbeams and your own thoughts for company. And you--can’t you feel a
bit too, and picture your life along with me away over the water? Can’t
you see yourself mistress of such a place as you’ve heard me tell about
to David? Can’t you let me love you and make you my dear wife, Rhoda?
For God’s sake think about it, and don’t say ’no’ again. I’ll wait your
pleasure; I’ll not hurry you. Take a year to say ’good-bye’ to Dartmoor
if you like; or stop on Dartmoor if you like; and I’ll gladly stop too,
if you say the word; but oh, Rhoda Bowden, do marry me and find what it
is to have a husband who worships your shadow!"
He stood over her as he spoke, while she sat motionless and looked out
of the window. Now she saw David returning and was glad. But her quick
ears heard Margaret stop him outside, and husband and wife went into the
kitchen together.
"Say ’yes’ and have done with it," begged Bartley.
She was thinking, but not of him. It occurred to her that Margaret had
planned the entire incident. Her thoughts retraced many past events,
and she wondered how much more Margaret might have planned. Then she
asked herself the reason.
Her sustained silence made the lover speak again; but she was so
interested in side views of the situation that the central fact seemed
unimportant. To him, however, nothing else mattered; and her answer to
one who had just asked her to marry him, struck the man as
extraordinary.
"Don’t be dumb, unless silence is to give consent," he said; then she
came to herself, looked at him blankly, and shook her head.
"Good God! Is that all your answer?" he asked.
"That’s all," she replied.
"Why--why--why? What’s between us? I’m frank to you; be frank with me,
Rhoda. It’s now or never. Say everything in your mind to say. Leave
nothing unsaid. What is it between us? What’s the bar? Can it be got
over or broken down? Where do I fail? Can I mend it? Can I change
anything--every thing to please you better? Don’t fear to hurt me.
Anything is better than refusal."
"You’re too light-minded," she said. "And, even if you wasn’t, I
shouldn’t care about you. You’re not the sort of man that I like."
"What sort do you like then? Tell me, and I’ll try to be that sort."
She did not answer the question, but reproved him for the past. It
occurred to her again that by protesting now against the incident on the
island she might prevent any such folly in the future. She was only
considering David--not Margaret, and not the man before her.
"Too light-minded," she repeated, "and I’ll tell you for why I say it.
On the day after your mother died, you met my sister-in-law and it
chanced that I saw you together. She don’t know it and needn’t. But
you’d better know. The man who could play child’s tricks at such a time
wouldn’t be trusted by any woman, I should think."
He wrinkled his forehead and endeavoured to remember.
"Whatever did you see that shocked you so much?"
She told him and he shrugged his shoulders.
"I’m afraid I can’t expect to make you understand that. Perhaps no
woman that ever I met but Madge would understand it. Don’t let that
come between us. Be just. Moods and whims and silliness after a long
cruel strain may happen to men as well as women."
"Well, I despise the men, or women either, who could sink to such
things."
"You were at my mother’s funeral. You know if I felt her loss or not."
"Things are as they are," she answered calmly. "’Tis no good us telling
any more. My brother and his wife want to come in the parlour, and
we’re keeping ’em out."
Bartley rose.
"I’ll be off then. And mark this: you’ll have to listen to me once more
yet before I go. No man worth the name would take ’no’ for an answer
under thrice."
"Better save your time. You’ll never make me feel different to you.
We’re not built to look alike or feel alike at any point. The sooner
you know that the better."
"Bid ’em good-bye for me and try to think different."
He offered his hand and she took it.
"I’ll never think different so long as I can think at all," she said.
He departed, and Margaret and David saw him go and knew that he had
failed.
Madge sighed for him; her husband showed no emotion.
"Come what may come, ’twill be best," he declared. "Rhoda knows her own
mind; and that’s more than half the maidens do nowadays."
They returned to her and found her sweeping the hearth.
"Mr. Crocker have gone," she said. "I was to bid you good-bye from
him."
Elsewhere the baffled suitor tramped through Dartmoor under conditions
of setting sunlight and approaching darkness. Strong winds had
scattered the fog of the preceding evening and now a gale shouted along
the heath and drove the clouds before it. Flashes of light broke
through the west and, like golden birds, floated upward over the dark
bosoms of the hills. They reached the ragged summits of the land,
revealed the granite there, then seemed to take wing into the sky.
*CHAPTER IV*
*POINTS OF VIEW*
The folk were coming to church, and some walked by road; some drove from
distant hamlets; some tramped by sheep-tracks and rough pathways over
wide spaces of heath and stone. Down through outlying farms that
stretch tentative fields into the Moor; down past gorse-clad banks and
great avenues of beeches; down past Kit Tin Mine--busy then, but empty
and silent now; down into the valley bottom, drawn by the thin bell
music from the tower above the trees, came the family of the Bowdens.
It was smaller than of old. But the boys were growing; Napoleon and
Wellington had become responsible persons in the scheme of life at
Ditsworthy, and even the twins could be trusted to work without a ruling
eye upon them. Mr. Bowden and his wife came to pray upon this early
summer noon. Of women there were only two left at Ditsworthy; therefore
Sarah and her daughter Sophia had to take Sunday at church alternately;
and to-day the widow stopped at home to cook the dinner. With the
Bowdens came other of the people. Susan Saunders appeared beside her
nephew; but he saw her to the entrance only; there he stopped and talked
with a knot of men. Among them was David Bowden. He, however, stayed
not long outside and soon joined his family and Rhoda. She was already
seated between Joshua and her father in the Bowden pew. Charles Moses
was finding seats for chance visitors; Reuben Shillabeer, who never
missed Sunday service, sat in his corner, having just handed four
collecting dishes to those who would presently carry them through the
congregation. He was a sidesman now, and Mr. Merle held the old
prize-fighter in high esteem as a valuable example to the young men.
Mr. Screech arrived with his elder child. Mattacott met him and they
talked apart. Their conversation concerned Timothy himself. Jane West
had ceased to smile on Mattacott since the winter; yet there was no
report of any engagement between her and Bart Stanbury. The appearance
of Timothy’s rival cut this conversation short. He came with his father
and mother. The men entered and Mrs. Stanbury spoke to Mr. Crocker.
"Be Margaret gone in?" she asked.
"No," he said. "She’s home to-day. David and Rhoda are here. Madge
hasn’t come."
Mrs. Stanbury sighed with dismay.
"There! And I want particular for to see her. Now whatever shall I do?"
"Come and see her," suggested Bartley. "I’ll be very pleased to walk
along with you. I’m not going in. The weather’s too fine to miss two
hours of it, and I shan’t taste another English June for many a long
day--perhaps never."
Constance considered, and then, the matter being of some urgency,
consented.
"I’ll just go into the church and tell master I’m stepping over to see
Margaret. And I shall have to get my dinner there. Everything’s locked
up at Coombeshead till evening. We was all going to take our meat along
with Mr. Moses to-day; but my men can do so, and I’ll ask Madge for a
bit."
So it fell out, and Hartley, quite to his satisfaction, escorted Mrs.
Stanbury to ’Meavy Cot.’
First he chattered about his own hopes and disappointments; then he
interested himself in his companion’s affairs.
"Yes, I must be gone. No good staying here in sight of that girl--only
makes me savage and good for nothing."
"A pity she won’t take you; but she’ll never take anybody. She’s cut
out for the single state," declared Constance.
"How can you say that? Was ever a finer woman seen in Sheepstor?"
"Womanhood’s a matter of heart, not body, my dear. To the eye she’s
female, to the mind she’s male--that, or neither one nor t’other. I
know all about her through my daughter. Not that I don’t wish with all
my heart you could have her, and take her long ways off. Not a word of
unkindness do I mean; but ’twould be better every way, and better for
Madge if she lived somewhere else."
"Yes--I understand that," he said. "David never can be everything to
Madge while he thinks such a deuce of a lot of Rhoda. They’re all good
friends, however."
"Good friends enough. But ’tisn’t the home it might be. You don’t see,
and strangers don’t see; but I see, because my mother’s eyes can’t be
blinded."
"I see too--I know very well what you mean."
"If you do, then say nought," she answered; "for ’tisn’t for you--nor me
neither--to stand between a man and his wife. D’you know what Madge
said to me last week? I grant she was down when she said it; but she’s
down too often now. She said, ’Life was sunshine with only a little
cloud three year agone; now it’s cloud with only a little sunshine,
mother.’ Not a very nice thing for me to hear. But it didn’t astonish
me. We’re an unlucky race, I must tell you. Whether luck comes through
the blood, or through some dark powers outside us, I don’t know yet;
’tis a very real thing, and some has it from the cradle and some never
gets a pinch of it. Stanburys don’t."
But Crocker was thinking of Margaret Bowden.
"I’m terrible sorry to hear you tell this about her. She keeps such a
stiff upper lip before the world and looks out with such cheerful eyes,
that I never guessed ’twas quite as bad. Yet now you say it, I mind the
signs."
"Keep out of it, however, and go away. You can’t do no good if Rhoda
won’t have you."
"Don’t be sure of that. I was a lot of use once. I might again."
Mrs. Stanbury was mildly surprised.
"Seeing David’s good sense and patience, I won’t say ’tis impossible to
do anything. But David be David, and even if he had the will to alter,
how can he do it, more’n the leopard his spots? There’s nothing you can
put your hand upon and say ’there’s the evil’; and yet ’tis clear
enough. They’ve drifted apart through having no family. ’Tis all said
in that word."
Mr. Crocker sighed and felt a moment of real sorrow.
"If she’d married me," he said, "’twould have saved us both a lot of
bother."
The other did not answer and they proceeded some distance silently.
Then he turned the conversation to Mrs. Stanbury herself.
"This is telling on you too. You’re not all you might be, I’m sure. I
wish it was in my power to do you a good turn."
"Like you to say it. Many have to thank you for a good turn. But ’tis
outside human strength to help me. I’ve run against the Powers of
Darkness; I’ve heard Crazywell tell how my husband is to go inside the
year."
"Does he believe it?"
"I don’t know. He won’t talk about it. He’s very careful of hisself,
and he gets a bit short if I run on about it; so we’ve agreed to let the
matter drop. All the same it’s aged him, and God knows how many years
it has took off my life."
Mr. Crocker was interested.
"I only heard about it from David. There may be some sort of
explanation."
"How can there be? ’Tis like a thunderbolt hung over us. Bart’s the
only one who takes no account of it."
"It might be him just so likely as his father," said the man. "Why are
you so positive ’twas your husband the voice meant? They’re both called
’Bartholomew.’"
Mrs. Stanbury stood still, stared at him, and then sank down suddenly in
the hedge.
"But--but that can’t surely be? The one’s ’Bart’ always," she gasped
out.
"To other people; but if this was some magic thing from another world,
you couldn’t expect it to care about nicknames."
"Oh, my God! where do we all stand now?" cried out Mrs. Stanbury.
"Nobody ever thought of that afore!"
"One person did, if not others; and that person’s Jane West," he
answered. "I saw her a bit ago and asked her--out of kindness to
Bart--why she held off and didn’t take him. I know only too well what
’tis to be hanging about with your heart telling you not to take ’no’
for an answer and your head telling you that you’re a fool. And Jane
said that, so far as it went, she’d decided between Mattacott and
Stanbury. ’But,’ she said, ’though I’m addicted to Bart and like him
very well, ’tis no use taking the man if he’m going to die afore next
Christmas.’ ’Twas only by the merest chance she and Bart didn’t hear
the voice themselves, for they went up to Princetown shopping that very
afternoon, and nothing but the fog made ’em go round by road."
But Mrs. Stanbury heard none of these words. She had never connected
this catastrophe with her son; neither had Bart himself done so. Jane
West, however, inspired thereto by Mr. Mattacott, perceived the real
significance of the situation, and she proposed to wait until time
showed whether father or son was to fall. Now Mrs. Stanbury was herself
faced with this hideous complication, and it struck her almost as
harshly as the original blow had done. Her weak mind whirled; she
became incoherent and spoke without sense.
"Leave it, for God’s sake," urged the man. "You’ll go mad at this gait.
One thing be just as absurd as t’other. Some innocent fool saw your
husband through the fog and shouted to him--perhaps just wished him a
merry season or some such thing--and then went on his way and thought no
more of it. Be sure you’ll hear the truth soon or late, and you’ll live
to see your men as well and hearty next January as they are now."
"You mean kindly to say these things," she answered. "But ’tis vain, and
you’ll know it afore the year’s gone."
"Well, give God Almighty a chance," he urged. "’Tis you will be dead,
not them, if you go on so."
They reached ’Meavy Cot’ and found Margaret. Her mother sat down, took
off her bonnet and rested, while Madge stood a few minutes at the gate
with Mr. Crocker before he started homeward.
"Try and cheer her up," he said. "’Tis that damned nonsense about the
voice at Crazywell. She’ll fret herself into her grave over it if this
goes on."
They discussed the matter for a while; then Madge spoke of Bartley
himself.
"Don’t know what to be at," he said. "My life’s stuck for the minute.
I can’t ask her again yet, and I’m not going till I have. Just once
more. But the thing is to know what to be doing meantime--how to get a
bit forwarder. How is she?"
"She’s all right--silenter than ever to me, though. Sometimes I think
she’s judging me rather hardly and don’t reckon I’m a very good wife for
David."
"I’m sure that can’t be. She’s a long way too sensible to imagine any
such nonsense."
"She may be right, all the same. I don’t know what it is; I wouldn’t
even name it to anybody but you and mother; but sometimes I feel as if
there was a door between me and David, and sometimes he tries to open
it, and I’m sure I’m always trying to, but it keeps shut."
"Stuff!" he repeated. "You’re such a parcel of nerves, Madge--like poor
Mrs. Stanbury. You mustn’t let yourself think such things. David’s
wrapped up heart and soul in you, and if ’tisn’t his way to show all he
feels, that’s only to say he’s a Bowden. They are built on that
fashion. You must try and look at life more with his eyes. He’s a rare
man and I envy him his tremendous power of sticking to a thing till he’s
got through with it. His ideas are big, not little; I can see that, and
you ought to see it. You and me are a bit too much alike there, and
’tis our luck not to be rated at our real value in consequence. But we
mustn’t repay in the same coin. Because David don’t quite understand
you, and Rhoda don’t understand me, we, who are nimbler-witted than
them, mustn’t be cross. They may not see the truth of us and all the
virtues that we’ve got--and we’ve both got a rare lot in my opinion--but
we do see the truth of them, and so we must be patient with their
characters."
It was a new light to the woman, and she perceived the wisdom under his
jesting manner.
"If he’d only let me into his secrets!" she said.
"You must be content with mine," he answered. "David lets you into his
good fortune and tells you when he’s drawn a prize. But the bother and
battle he keeps to himself."
"He doesn’t," she answered. "I’d forgive that. But he tells Rhoda.
Again and again I’ve known them to break off a subject when I came
along--as if I was a baby."
"Try to think ’tis out of their kindness they do it."
"I have tried; but I know different. David don’t believe in me--that’s
the bitterness of my life in a word, Hartley. He don’t trust me like he
trusts Rhoda."
"Then tell him so. Let him see what he’s losing by keeping you out.
And I believe, come to think of it, that might be good advice to myself
too. With Rhoda I mean. How would it be if I took a bit of counsel
with her, Madge--asked her advice, like David does, and treated her like
a man instead of a girl? Would that work?"
She considered.
"It would work, no doubt, as far as her being civil went. If you asked
her questions, she’d answer ’em; and if you asked her opinion she’d give
it. Whether ’twould lead to anything further, I can’t tell. We’ve
drifted apart a bit of late, and I see it clear enough without seeing
the reason for it. However, I daresay I’m to blame too. No doubt I
don’t look at life from their point of view all I might. But I wish--I
wish to God she’d take you--as much for my sake as her own."
The woman’s unusual bitterness impressed him.
"Follow my advice and have a good talk with David. Thresh it out and
open his eyes a bit. If you see from his point of view, as you will
now, then ’tis but fair he should see from yours; and if he can’t see
your side single-handed, then you must help him. We’ll meet again afore
long and I’ll tell you what comes of my new idea. Perhaps we shall both
be lucky!"
He left her and she returned to her mother.
Mrs. Stanbury was absorbed in the dreadful new problems raised by
Bartley Crocker’s theory of the voice. She explained these
complications to Margaret, and her daughter strove to comfort her
without success.
*CHAPTER V*
*END OF A ROMANCE*
Rhoda Bowden was walking over Yennadon Down, a broad tract of common
above the gorges of Meavy. Great spaces stretched beneath her and a
still higher and mightier wilderness heaved upward beyond the river and
the forests to the east. There Ringmoor extended, and its lone miles
basked in unclouded sunshine. Beneath lay Sheepstor and Meavy, each
crowned by a church tower; while beyond rolled out long leagues of Devon
to the margins of the sea. But Rhoda’s eyes were on the ground and she
moved with less than her usual steady purpose. An empty cartridge met
her glance and some small grey object that fluttered in the mouth of it
led her to stop and pick up the fragment. The cartridge was old and
weather-worn; the live creature that had found this convenient
receptacle was a large and dusky moth. For a moment Rhoda felt
interested, then, perceiving that this insect had laid many eggs within
the empty cartridge, she shuddered slightly and flung the moth and its
nursery away; because maternity on such a scale seemed loathsome to her
even in an insect.
She was on her way to Buckland of the Monks with a message from David,
and she welcomed the long and lonely day promised by this task, for not
a few matters lay heavy on her mind. Rhoda’s responsibilities were
growing beyond power of control.
But the anticipated hours of reflection were largely curtailed, for when
she returned to the highway nigh Dousland Barn, a light cart overtook
her and the driver was Simon Snell. His face indicated the most
profound surprise. He smiled, hesitated, gave her ’good-morning,’
proceeded on his way, then changed his mind again, pulled up and
alighted.
"What a terrible coorious thing as me and you should both be bound out
along like this--on the very same day too!" he said.
"So ’tis then, and I hope you’re well. Us haven’t met this longful
time."
"I was coming over one Sunday this summer," he declared; "but now will
do just so well. I be going out to Vartuous Lady Mine to spend the day
along with my brother James and his wife. You might not have heard me
tell much about him, perhaps? I’ve took a day off--by permission, of
course--and I’m carrying ’em a gift, because they’m not very well-to-do,
I’m sorry to say."
"I’m going to Buckland Monachorum for David."
"Well, I never! What could have falled out better? I very nearly drove
by you; because I said to myself, ’Perhaps it might be too pushing in me
to offer to give her a lift.’ But I’m very glad I didn’t, and I hope
you’ll accept of a seat till I leave your road. ’Tis a fainty sort of
day, with thunder offering, in my opinion."
"Thank you, I should be very glad if you’ve got room."
"Room enough. I’m taking my brother half a pig as we killed last week,
and his wife a bunch of they white Mary lilies, what grow to a miracle
in our garden. People stop and stare at ’em. And if you’ll sit
alongside me--if it isn’t making too bold--"
She ascended and they proceeded together.
"There’ll be a thunderstorm afore long, as you say," she remarked.
"I quite agree. And how be you faring? You’m looking purty middling;
and I be purty middling, and so’s my mother, thank God, though she was
into her seventy-fourth year last month."
"I’m all right."
"I ban’t too close to you, I hope?"
She shook her head. She felt comfortable and easy with him, as usual,
but her heart beat no quicker for his voice or the inquiring gaze of his
great mild eyes.
"My brother was married afore I comed acquainted with you. He’s a
gamekeeper and his wife has a child every second year. For my part I
think they’re unlucky; but their way is to trust the Lord to look after
the childer. But I’m not sure. By the same token you might not know
that you’ve got another nephew. Your sister, Mrs. Screech, had a son
yesterday betwixt six and seven of the evening. Screech comed in to
smoke a pipe when ’twas all over. A very clever job, I hear, and the
child to be called after your father."
"I don’t want to know nothing about it, thank you."
"Beg pardon, I’m sure."
He was silenced for some time. Then he observed that Rhoda had a finger
tied up.
"I do hope as you haven’t hurt yourself," he said.
"Nothing at all. A dog bit through when he was playing."
"They will, and yet mean no harm."