and she decided that he could not. It was in any case almost impossible
to state her difficulties. She found it hard to put them into words
even in thought, where an idea, though it cannot live away from the
symbols of words, yet develops without any coherent sentences and
reasoned speech. To tell to another what was in her mind had as yet
been beyond her power; and to mention the difficulty to Mr. Snell, even
if possible, must have proved a futile task. Her instinct assured her
that his mind was no more built to speak wisdom on sex questions than
her own. She reflected thus, while he, employed upon a different
matter, wondered vaguely if he might arrange another walk with her;
whether it was worth while to do so; and whether, even if she accepted
the invitation, he really desired such a thing.
Presently she uttered a generality which bore obliquely upon his own
ideas.
"What a terrible difficult world it do seem to become, if you’m married!
And even if you’m thrown much against married people, you can’t escape
it. If you care a lot about folk, you’m bound to feel for ’em, I
suppose."
"I quite agree--never heard a truer word," he said. "’Tis the worst of
being fond of people that, if they get in a mess, it makes you feel
uncomfortable. You can’t escape from that."
"The fewer we care about, the more peace we have, seemingly."
"Exactly so. I’ve thought that very thought, and I’ve often thanked God
that, after my mother, and my brother, and my brother’s wife, and one of
my nephews, there’s nobody in the world I should shed a tear for if they
was took."
She nodded, and he suddenly perceived that this was one of the speeches
wherein he had failed of perfect tact. Yet to modify it needed some
courage.
"I should say one other--one other, if I may make so bold," he added.
She did not answer and he considered before continuing. Then he decided
that he could not leave the matter there. Yet he was cautious.
"You mustn’t think the worse of me for it. I don’t mean anything by it
to cause you any uneasiness. But you’re the one, Miss Rhoda. I should
certainly be very vexed if anything happened to you."
"Thank you, I’m sure, Mr. Snell."
"Don’t," he said. "These things don’t merit thanks. I’ve never told a
lie, and so I won’t hold my reason back. I think a lot of your
character: that’s why I should be sorry if harm happened to you."
"We’ve understood each other very well, I believe."
"Very well indeed; and you’ve taught me a lot about the female sex.
And, but for you, I don’t suppose I should ever have knowed anything at
all about them. I may tell you, owing to your large understanding, that
I’ve often considered about the sense of marrying. But I’m sure I don’t
know. When you look round--the heart sinks."
"Yes, it does."
Mr. Snell did look round, and the beautiful woman roused some faint,
feeble flicker of his anæmic passion.
"I grant you that the wedded state as shown by other people--and yet I
won’t go so far as Bartley Crocker do."
"How far’s that then?"
"Mind, don’t you say it against him. I’ve no wish to be thought a
tale-bearer. But, in open speech at the bar of Shillabeer’s
public-house, he said that though you hear of happy marriages, you never
see them. Now that’s too far-reaching--eh?"
"Not much. He’s not far out, I reckon."
"Well, you know better than me; but, begging pardon for mentioning her
again, your own sister is as happy as a bird. And I really don’t say
it’s impossible to be happy with a home of your own."
"The right ones never meet. I’d warn every man and woman against it for
my part."
With this speech Rhoda quite extinguished the paltry flicker in Mr.
Snell’s broad bosom. He looked rather frightened. He stroked his
beard. At heart he felt a sort of relief that even the shadow of
disquiet was now banished in the light of her plain statement.
"If that’s your opinion, ’tis no part for a common man like me to say a
word against it," he answered. "Sometimes--I won’t deny it--I’ve
thought, in uplifted moments, that the married state with such a meek
nature as mine--and then again, however--"
"I speak what I know; but nobody can be sure they’re right, I suppose.
What do you think about it?" asked Rhoda. But why she gave him this
loophole she knew not. Her interest in Mr. Snell was at a low ebb
to-day, and her own thoughts filled her spirit to the exclusion of all
else. Still she was always content with him. He appeared to her to be
a sensible and responsible man whose opinion was better worth having
than that of most people.
"Now you ask a poser," declared Simon, "for my own opinion on such a
high subject be very unsettled. In fact, I’d a long ways sooner go by
yours, and if you, of all females, feel as marriage be too doubtful in
the upshot, then I’d so soon, if not sooner, take your word for it. And
I may say that I will. There’s nothing so restful as having your mind
made up for you by a better one. And I can’t say the men I know--they’m
all for it in a general way--bring up very strong arguments. There’s
Amos Prouse tokened now, and he goes about properly terrified, so far as
I can see; and there’s Mattacott, from being an even-tempered man,
turned so sour as a sloe, because Jane West keeps him on the
tenterhooks. To keep company is certainly a very bad state; and you
can’t be married without going through it; so that’s another reason
against."
"I shall never marry," she said.
"Then no more shan’t I," he declared. "And ’tis a troublesome weight
off the mind to hear you say that."
"Better not go by me, however."
"’Tis just you and no other I would go by. Because--well, now since
you’ve spoken and never been known to go from your word--the coast be
clear for me and I feel so light as a lark in the air. If you’d said as
you were for it, then my manhood would have--well, God knows what might
have overtook me; for at such times a man gets into a raging fever and
be ready to fight creation for the female, as the savage beasts do. But
you’ve said it; and I quite agree. I know you’m right, and I say ditto
to it. And we’ll see t’others dashing into it, but ’twill be nought to
us."
"It looks to me as if the useful people be often the single ones," she
said.
"There again! What good sense! ’Tis the very height of sense! And
Paul’s on our side too. Better to marry than to burn, he says in his
large wisdom. But better not to marry if you’m perfectly cool and
contented, same as what I be, year in, year out."
She did not answer and he spoke again.
"Still, mind this. If it had been otherwise with you, it would have
been otherwise with me. Never was a manlier man in his instincts of
self-preservation than me, as my mother will tell you. And if by chance
I’d fallen upon a creature of the female sex as appeared to be looking
to me to share life with her, then I doubt it might have happened. But
not now. If she comed along now it would be too late. Because I’ve had
walks along with you in my time, and we’ve been terrible close, and
we’ve understood each other as well as any two people could."
"I suppose we have."
"I tell you this, because you’ve given your word you ain’t going to
marry," he concluded; and nothing more was said until they reached a
lane that broke from the main road. Then Mr. Snell pulled up.
"Here’s my way. You must get down now. You go straight on. I shall be
back after eight o’clock, and will bide here till a quarter past if I
can help you home."
"No. I’ll be back long afore that, I hope."
So the lifeless, bloodless abortion of a romance passed stillborn from
between them, unregretted by either. They often met in after life, and
they were always friendly within their natural limitations; but marriage
never again rose as the most dim possibility on the horizon of the man.
He permitted her to alight without assistance. They talked a while
longer before separating, and conversation drifted to David and his
wife.
"I hear the people air their opinions and I say nothing--that being the
way of least trouble seemingly," declared Mr. Snell. "But certainly now
and again very outrageous speeches be spoke. Take Screech, for
instance. He’s no fool, Screech isn’t. But he have a very coarse way
of putting things, to my mind. His wife--begging pardon for mentioning
her--was saying something about her brother David. I’ve forgot what it
was, except that it weren’t flattering, and Screech, he ups and says,
’Them two’--meaning David and Mrs. Bowden--’them two,’ he says, ’be like
a moulting cock and hen--that down on their luck, and all about nought,
for the man’s prospering and getting home the money with both fists.’
’Twas a vulgar thing to say, and I went so far as to tell him so."
"You might have told him he was a liar too," said Rhoda. "When did
anybody ever see David down on his luck, even if he was? He don’t carry
his heart in his hand. A cheerful and a steadfast man always; and if my
sister-in-law be not cheerful nor steadfast--that’s another matter, and
the fault’s not David’s. I tell you this because you’ve got sense and
was never known to make mischief."
"And never shall, please God!"
"What does an evil thing like Screech know about David?"
"Nought--less than nought. He allowed that, for in my cautious way, I
went so far as to ax for chapter and verse, when he said your brother
and his wife weren’t happy. ’I don’t know nothing about ’em and don’t
want to,’ he said in his coarse style; ’but a good few eyes be open
round these parts, and ’tis very well marked they go different roads
when out of sight of each other.’ It might become you to mention it, or
it might not. You know best, living along with them."
Rhoda hesitated but said nothing. The inclination to confide in Mr.
Snell was not revived.
"Thank you for telling me. But whether I’ll name it--"
"Don’t mention me if you do," said Mr. Snell. "’Tis only to you I’d
have said as much as I have said--out of respect to the family. And now
I must be going on."
They shook hands and parted. He returned to his cart and, the lane
leading up a hill, went slowly forward. His horse sagged at his collar
and the thill chains clanked. With each step forward Simon’s body
jolted on the board. One leg of the quartered pig also waved
spasmodically, and the candid lilies powdered their purity with golden
pollen.
Thus it came about that Snell left the woman’s thoughts where he found
them. She tramped forward full of the matter of Margaret; she did her
business; ate some bread and butter and drank some milk; started for
home again. But, returning by way of Horrabridge, she was detained
awhile and she did not ascend a steep hill out of Walkhampton on her
return journey until the evening. Her brother, who had gone to
Okehampton, was combining business and pleasure in a ride across
Dartmoor. He would not come back until late, and it was understood that
Rhoda herself might not be expected home before him. She, however,
pursued her direct way under the acclivities of Black Tor while yet it
was light, and looking down into the valley, the raw blue patch of the
roof of ’Meavy Cot’ stared up a mile distant and smoke surmounted it.
At nearer approach Rhoda saw Madge and a man come out of the cottage.
They went off in the direction of Coombeshead and they walked close
together and talked very earnestly. She altered her way somewhat, to
get nearer to them, and was able to make sure of Margaret’s companion.
At first she trusted that he had been her brother Bart; but it was Mr.
Crocker with whom Madge proceeded and with whom she kept such close
converse.
Rhoda went back, took the key of the door from a secret hiding-place,
where it was always hidden for the first home-comer, and entered the
cottage. A litter of tea things stood on the table and Bartley had
evidently partaken of that meal.
And on the road to Coombeshead farm David’s wife and David’s friend were
talking with profound interest not of Rhoda and not of David--but
concerning Constance Stanbury. That day, early after noon, Crocker had
met Madge’s father in trouble and had taken a message to the doctor for
him, that he might the quicker return to his wife. Mrs. Stanbury had
quite succumbed to her nerves again and was suffering much terror and
horror through the hours of night. Her agitation culminated in what Mr.
Stanbury held to be "a fit," and he felt that the unfortunate, haunted
woman again needed medical care to help her fight these superstitious
fears.
Mr. Crocker gladly conveyed an urgent message to the physician, and soon
afterwards he walked to Meavy Cot, that he might tell Madge. To his
satisfaction he found her alone, accepted her invitation, drank tea with
her, and then accompanied her to learn how her mother fared.
Now they talked of this curse that had fallen upon the old woman’s life,
and Crocker tried hard to conceive some possible way of relief. The
truth was hidden from them and he did not for an instant suspect it; but
the thought and care of both were entirely centred upon this subject,
and for a time every other interest remained in abeyance while they
strove to hit on some device by which Mrs. Stanbury might be comforted.
Bartley suggested a visit from Mr. Merle; and Madge declared such an
idea to be quite vain.
But Rhoda Bowden knew nothing of these facts. It was not until night,
when Margaret returned and David also came home, that she heard the
truth from her sister-in-law. And her inclination was to disbelieve at
least a part of it.
*CHAPTER VI*
*VIRGO--LIBRA*
A moon at full rolled hugely up over the Moor edge, outlined a black
peat wall and by chance made a brilliant background for an atom of life
that was there. Here Rhoda’s kitten rested on an August night after
great hunting of moths; and the planet threw a golden frame around it.
Rhoda herself, sitting alone at hand in the presence of her mistress,
the moon, perceived this accidental conjunction and noticed her little
pet dark against the immensity of the bright dead world now ascending.
Rhoda sat with her hands folded in her lap and watched the red-gold
rise. The moon and the kitten, for some subtle reason, alike comforted
her. One rose clear of the horizon, and the other vanished. The work
of the first was to diffuse a warm and wondrous stain upon the cloudless
air; to permeate the earth’s atmosphere with fleeting radiance and then,
swimming upwards, to cool the passing heat of ruddy colour she had
created and to supersede this glow with a pale rain of silver-grey
light. It poured down into the silence and spread pools and patches of
misty pearl upon the ebony of the waste. The work of the second was to
come to Rhoda, stick up its little tail, pad in her lap, purr with
infant heartiness, and, lifting its nose, mirror the moon in a pair of
phosphorescent green eyes. So from both she won good and had sense to
see that the stars in heaven and the beasts of earth might each minister
after their fashion to such a soul as hers. They soothed her; but they
did not advance her reflections or help to solve the gathering
difficulties that conscience cast into her path. She was troubled and
knew not where to turn. She stated the situation again and again to
herself, but no light fell upon the picture from anywhere. Her belief
was that her brother’s wife saw far too much of another man. That the
man in question wanted to marry Rhoda herself was an added complication;
and from that fact, she judged that Margaret must be fonder of Bartley
Crocker than he could be of her. Her mind was not constituted to weigh
very subtly the shades and half shades of this situation, or appraise
the extent of its danger. She concerned herself with David and busied
her spirit to consider only her duty towards him. Indifference toward
Margaret of late tightened into dislike. Secretly she had always felt
impatient with the other’s softness; but since that softness began to
lead David’s wife astray, she became alarmed and angered. She retraced
the general attitude of her brother and could see nothing in it at all
unreasonable. He was very busy, very hard-working, very ambitious. He
treated Margaret much as Elias Bowden treated his wife; and Rhoda
believed that her mother was always happy and contented. But it could
not be said that David’s wife was particularly happy. Rhoda often broke
upon her, when entering the house suddenly, and at such times Margaret
would put on cheerfulness in haste, as a surprised bather might put on a
garment.
What then was this woman to do? She had a high sense of duty and that
sense had now begun to torment her. It was impossible to formulate any
charge against Crocker or against Margaret. Yet she blamed the man not
a little, for she believed that he ought to know better than seek the
society of Margaret so frequently. Again justice reminded her that Madge
made no secret of the meetings. Some, indeed, she might have
had--perhaps many--which were never reported; but of others (and others
which Rhoda had not seen) she spoke freely afterwards; and she often
asked David if she might invite Bartley to Meavy Cot.
Rhoda remembered that Bartley and her sister-in-law had been children
together and that they had known each other all their lives. Herein was
comfort, but reflection dashed it. At one time most certainly they had
not felt the mere close friendship of brother and sister; for it was an
open secret that Crocker had asked Margaret to be his wife within a few
days of David’s engagement. But the thinker did not permit this view
long to discomfort her. She strove with native resolution to look at
the position in a clean and reasonable light. David himself had said
that Bartley and Margaret were like brother and sister. He exhibited
not a shadow of uneasiness; and if he felt no concern, why should she do
so? This argument, however, broke down; because Rhoda knew much more
than David. He went about his business and it absorbed him. Margaret
was always at home to welcome him; everything was waiting as he wished
it; his whispered word was law, and his wife anticipated his very
thought and remembered chance utterances and desires in a way that often
surprised and gratified him. Rhoda could not blame Margaret’s attitude
to David, and she could not for an instant blame David in the amount of
time and consideration he devoted to his wife. Upon her estimate it
seemed ample and generous.
She considered the brother and sister theory of Bartley’s friendship
with Margaret and resolved to cleave thereto with all her strength. She
reminded herself of what she felt for David; she was very fair; she
perceived that even as she and David thought and felt alike, with such
mysterious parity of instinct and judgment that they often laughed when
they simultaneously uttered the selfsame words, so Margaret and Bartley
Crocker were certainly built on a similar pattern. They too looked at
life through the same eyes; they too doubtless arrived at similar
conclusions. The side issue of this man’s regard for herself recurred
in the weft of Rhoda’s thought; but she drew it out. That relation was
beyond the present problem and did not influence her decision. She had
twice dismissed the man, and doubtless her second refusal would be taken
by him as final.
She came to a conclusion with herself and decided to do nothing but
watch. Such a task pained her to reflect upon; but there was none to
whom she could speak, for she had none to be regarded in any light of
close friendship but her brother. Her father, her mother, her elder
sister were of no account. Therefore she determined to wait and watch
as a duty to David. She hoped that a brief period of such work would
bring peace back to her mind; and she went about it with a rising gorge,
in doubt whether to be ashamed of herself or not.
But it happened, only two days later, that opportunity to modify this
plan offered and David himself gave it to her. Thankfully she took it,
and after a conversation to which he opened the way, Rhoda felt a
happier woman than she had felt for many weeks.
He was mending some garden tools in his outhouse at dark and called for
another candle. She carried it to him and stopped with him while he
worked. The man was in a very good temper and happened to wax
enthusiastic over his life and his wife.
"’Tis borne in upon me more and more, Rhoda, that I have better luck
than I deserve. Me--such a stand-off chap--yet I’m always treated civil
and respectful and taken as a serious and important sort of person.
Sometimes, looking back, I can hardly believe it all. But I suppose
’tis my gert power of holding to work does it."
"’Tis because you’m a straight man and never known to go from truth and
honesty by a hair," she said. "People see that your word’s your bond,
and that you set truth higher than gain. You deserve all you get or
ever will get--and more."
"Like you to say it; and well you know that my good is your good,
Rhoda."
Then he praised his wife. His admiration was genuine but mechanical.
"What with you and her--Margaret--I’ve got a lot more than falls to
most. Needn’t say nought about you: we’re one; but she’s different.
She can’t see so deep and far off as we do; but she can feel more; and
she trusts me; and I’m proud of the simplicity of her. Never wants no
figures nor nothing. Never asks no questions. Leaves her life in my
hands as trusting as the dogs are with you. And ever thinking for me.
I said a bit ago as I dearly loved cold rabbit pie, made after mother’s
way. Well, the pie to-night was like the Ditsworthy pies. I thought
for sure ’twas a present from home; but not a bit of it. She went
up-along two days ago and larned the trick of it. If only--but ’twould
be mean in me even to name it with such a woman--"
"If only what? All the same, I know. There’s compensations against
childer, David. Leave that and go on feeling grateful for her goodness;
and--and wake up to a bit more too."
She spoke suddenly and with no little feeling. An inspiration had come
to her--a brilliant thought greater and finer far than her recent
solitary imaginings under the moon.
"’Wake up’!" he exclaimed. "Whatever do you mean, Rhoda? If I’m not
wide awake, who is?"
Her ideas struggled within her. She strove to say the right thing, yet
almost despaired. He waited during her silence, then spoke again.
"Don’t think I’m not grateful to God for such a good wife. I love her
more than she knows, or ever will know. I’m even down about her
sometimes, when I think she don’t know. Yet what more can I do? If
there’s anything, ’tis your bounden duty to tell me."
He made the way clear; yet she felt a doubt that if she did speak, he
might take it ill. She was frightened--an emotion so rare that she did
not recognise it and feared that some physical evil must be threatening
her.
"I saw Simon Snell not long since," she said. "Didn’t mention it at the
time, for ’twasn’t interesting, except to me; but I will now. He gave
me a lift on my way to Buckland and said a good few very sensible
things, as his manner is. He told me of a saying he heard made by that
Screech that married Dorcas. Screech was speaking of you and your wife,
and he said you was like a moulting cock and hen sometimes--both down on
your luck and didn’t know what was the matter."
David laughed.
"So much for that then. I’ll tell you how that happened. I fell in
with the man--we’re friends of a sort now--and chanced to talk of
children. I may have just hinted I was sorry to be without ’em. But
that was all. He’s jealous of me as a matter of fact. He’s getting on
pretty well too; but he don’t get on as quick as me; and he’s
handicapped by his mother and his children."
"He spoke of Margaret, too, however."
"What he may have heard her say I can’t guess. Nought against her home,
that I will swear. Of course, ’tis only human nature to have our up and
down moments."
"No doubt that spiteful woman--Dorcas I mean--would be quick to make
mischief if ’twas in her power," declared Rhoda.
"It isn’t. There’s no power on God’s earth powerful enough to make
mischief between me and Madge."
"Then look after her closer," said his sister.
It was out and she expected a shower of exclamations and questions. But
they did not come. David dropped a hammer, stood up, and replied. He
had not wholly understood.
"I will," he answered. "I’ll think this very night how to give her a
bit of a treat. ’Tis natural, without a cradle in the house, she’s
moped. Us must make it up to her a little, Rhoda. Such towsers for
work as you and me forget sometimes that some natures call for a little
play as well. I’ll look closer after her pleasure and such like. We’ll
go to Tavistock revel. I hadn’t thought to do it; but we’ll all take a
whole holiday and not do a stroke of work for the day. At least no more
than we’m bound to do."
"I mean all the time, David, not just for a day."