ban’t the first who has talked like this. Crocker did the very same a
bit ago, and I took it as kind in him, for I’m that sort of man. I’m
not a jealous chap--too sensible for that. But if ’twas known what I
felt for Madge, I dare say people, that see me so busy and wrapped up in
getting on, might wonder. Even you don’t quite see it, Rhoda. Still,
this I will say I blame myself as I did before. I’m not one to think
I’m always right; and love should out, not lie asleep in the heart.
’Tis nought unless you see it and let it work all the time, as you say."
"Don’t for God’s sake, talk like that," she begged earnestly. "Who am I
to lecture you? What do I know of love? What do I want to know of it?
I only care for you and your good, else I wouldn’t have said this much."
She was thinking more of what he had just spoken than what she herself
was saying. Bartley Crocker had taken her brother to task on this
identical theme! She gasped with secret amazement at such extraordinary
news. Doubtless this meant that Crocker and Margaret-- Here she barred
her own thoughts. She refused to examine what such a fact could mean.
Her brother made an end of his work.
"Now I’m going in to have a tell with Madge," he said. "You come too."
But Rhoda refused.
"I’m for a walk. ’Tis a fair night."
They parted; he returned to his house; she loosed two dogs and went off
on to the Moor.
David lighted his pipe and sat by his fire. Margaret was working at the
table. For a time he kept silence, and then she spoke.
"What are you thinking on, dear heart? I hope all be going well at
Tavistock?"
"I wasn’t troubling about Tavistock," he answered. "I was thinking what
a wonder you be, and how you spoil me, and how I’m not worth it--such a
man as me."
"David!"
"To think as you went to Ditsworthy about rabbit pies! ’Tis things like
that make me wonder."
Her face shone and she set down her work and came to him.
"’Twas nought; but ’tis lovely to know you marked it and was pleased,"
she said.
"I don’t mark enough," he answered. "I’m that set on driving ahead, and
making a bit of a splash, and getting up in the world for you--for you,
Madge,--that I forget here and there. Don’t gainsay me. Too well I
know it in my leisure moments."
"You shan’t say so. ’Tis all along of me being so small-minded and not
looking on ahead like you do, but living in the stupid every-day things.
I know they don’t matter; and I know what you feel to me; and ’tis for
me to see things with your eyes, not for you to see ’em with mine."
"’Tis for me to set higher store by the every-day things," he declared.
"’Tis for me to value better the home you keep always sweet and ready
for me; and the food you cook, and the hundred little odd worries and
bothers many married men have to face, but me never. You don’t bring no
trouble to me; but you’m always ready and willing to hear my troubles.
I can’t expect you to understand when I talk about figures and such
like. Such things ban’t your part. But you’m always ready with your
bright eyes to be glad and rejoice when good comes; and ’tis for me to
be glad and rejoice in lesser things when you tell me about ’em. I
don’t let you know how clever I think you. And you always hold yourself
so cheap that ’tis my duty to lift you up in your own conceit, for if
you thought half so well of yourself as I think of you, you’d be the
proudest woman in England, Madge."
She sat on his lap and put her arms round his neck and kissed him.
"’Tis like life to me to hear you say such things," she answered.
"Though too well I know how little I deserve ’em. I wish I was a
better, cleverer sort to lend a hand with high matters like figures and
work and sheep. But I’m only useful here."
"Us will each stick to our own share of the load," he said. "We’m both
doing our part pretty well, I believe; and so long as you never forget
that I mark your cleverness and love you better every day of your life,
the rest don’t matter. I’ve been a thought too buried in my own hopes
of late, and I own it and I’m sorry for it. But my eyes was opened half
an hour agone, and I want you to forgive me, Madge. ’Twas only seeming,
mind you; but I doubt it looked real and it’s made you down-daunted, as
well it may have; and I’m truly sorry for it."
"You’ve a deal more to forgive than me. Many men would fling it in my
face every day of my life as I’d brought ’em no family."
"I’m not that sort, and I’m hopeful in that matter as in every other.
Put that out of your mind, same as I do. Man plants, but God gives the
increase. I’ve found out--all my life so far--that, if we do our part,
He’s very willing to do His. And if He holds back--that’s His business
and not for His creatures to fall foul of. Who knows best?"
She tightened her arms round him and her tears flowed.
"Doan’t ’e cry," he said, "unless ’tis for happiness. And I’ll speak yet
further, Madge, since I’m confessing my sins to-night. There’s another
that must have credit for this useful talk betwixt me and you."
Her thoughts leapt to Hartley Crocker; but she did not speak.
"I was saying to Rhoda a minute ago in the shed, that ’twas just like
you to go up to Ditsworthy for the secret of mother’s rabbit pies. And
then she--Rhoda, I mean--told me a thing or two I ought to have found
out for myself."
"I know right well Rhoda loves me dearly. Whatever--" began his wife;
then she broke off.
"Of course--like every other mortal. And she’s a woman, and soft
too--though not like you. She’s content with me as I am, but you’re
not; and there’s no reason why you should be. You’re right to ask for a
bit of worship from me; and the hard thing is you should have to ask."
"I never--never did, David. I was content too--always content, and
proud of you always."
"I know. You didn’t ask with your lips. But maybe you asked another
way; and I didn’t see the question till--till others in the past, and
again to-day, put it afore me. I’m a contrite man. I’m--"
She put her hand over his mouth.
"You’re a million times too fine and great for me. And I won’t hear
another word. There ban’t a happier she on Dartmoor this minute than
me!"
"Look here," he said. "I’ll tell you what: we’ll have a lark next week.
There’s a revel to Tavistock and we’ll all go--you and Rhoda and me.
Would you like it?"
"Dearly, and--d’you think, David, that we might ax Bartley Crocker to
come? For his own sake and for Rhoda’s?"
"Ax him an’ welcome. But I’m afraid ’tis all up. She’s actually against
him now, I should judge, and at best she merely kept an open mind. She
never cared a straw about the man, and never will. I’m sorry for him,
because he’s very fond of her; but I’m not sorry for her."
"I am. Any woman with a good husband must be sorry for them who haven’t
got one."
"But ’tis no use thinking about it. She’ll die an old maid unless
something very different from Crocker comes along. I met poor Snell but
yesterday and asked him how the world wagged with him. And he said as
he saw his way clearer than ever he had, owing to a talk with Rhoda.
Rhoda of all people! ’Glad you see what a sensible woman she is,’ I
told him, and he swore he’d always seen it, but never more than when she
told the risks of marriage were greater than the gains. ’I’m off it for
evermore,’ he says; ’and so be she--I’ve got her word.’ Never a man was
more relieved in his mind, I should reckon."
"Nonsense!" declared Margaret. "She’s young for her years, and maidens
all talk like that. I won’t believe it yet awhile. I won’t even
believe that Bartley’s not the man. I see a lot of him and none knows
him better. He’s gained a deal of sense and patience of late. He’s a
kind-hearted, gentle creature, and she’d soon wake up to know what
happiness really meant if she’d take him."
"She’s happy enough in her own way."
"I hope ’tis so; yet how can such a lone life be happy?"
"The heron be so happy as the starling," said David; "though one’s his
own company most times and t’other goes in flocks. She needn’t trouble
you. However, since you still think it may be, I’ll forget a thing here
and there and help you, though ’tis against my own wish in a way. Of
course Rhoda’s good is as much to me as my good have always been to her.
I want her to be a happy woman and a married woman too, if Mr. Right
comes along. But all the same, I can’t think whatever I should do if
Bartley Crocker was to win her and take her off to Canada."
"The thing is to make her happy," answered his wife. "Before all else I
want to do it. We’re as happy as birds. ’Tis for us, one way or
another way, to fill her cup fuller."
"We’ll do what we may," he replied. "At least be sure that no man nor
woman cares for her more than we do."
"And poor Bartley--don’t leave him out. He mustn’t be left out," she
said.
His mind for the moment was on another issue.
"I’ll grant in one particular she’s not too happy," he remarked
suddenly. "And that’s over Dorcas. I’m not speaking a word for Dorcas.
She behaved very badly and she’s very well out of it, with a lot more
luck than she deserves. Screech isn’t what I thought him, and I’ve
admitted I was wrong in my opinion of him; but Rhoda can’t pardon her.
I’m feared to say much, though she knows, for that matter, that I go so
far as to nod to Dorcas now, and give her ’good-morning’ or ’good-night’
when we meet. But Rhoda won’t budge an inch. I suppose ’tis out of our
power, Madge, to soften her a little bit in that quarter?"
"I’ve tried full often, but I’ll gladly try again," she answered. "And
you’re right and put your finger on the sore place, no doubt. You can
see so deep into people, David. For certain ’tis being out with her own
flesh and blood that makes Rhoda wisht and mournful. But we’ll try yet
again to bring ’em together. I know ’tis a great thorn in Dorcas,
though she pretends not to care about it."
*CHAPTER VII*
*A SHARP TONGUE*
Timothy Mattacott and his life-long friend, Ernest Maunder, walked and
talked together. The latter was on duty, but since the way led over an
open space skirted with wild and empty land, the constable relaxed his
official manner and gave ear to Mattacott.
"I ban’t too easy," confessed the elder man; "for it’s rumoured that
along of that silly business on Christmas Eve, when Screech hollered out
Stanbury’s name in the fog to Crazywell, and the wrong people heard him,
that Mrs. Stanbury’s going out of her mind. Something ought to be done."
"Something certainly ought to be done," admitted Maunder. "You couldn’t
say strictly that it comes under the head of law, else I should take
steps; but we must consider of it before the woman gets worse."
"I don’t want to anger Screech, for he took a lot of trouble, and
’twasn’t his fault that Jane didn’t hear the voice. For that matter,
’twas as good as if she had done, and she’s holding off even now from
Bart Stanbury, as Screech foretold me she would do. But I don’t get no
forwarder with her, and ’tis only an evil postponed from my point of
view, because she’s plainly told me that she likes Bart better than me,
and she’s only waiting to see if there was anything in that voice, or if
’twas all nonsense and stuff."
"In other words," said Mr. Maunder, "if the man lives over into next
year, which, of course, he will do, then she’ll take him."
"Yes, exactly so. If he died she’d have me, but on no other terms."
"I’m afraid then, to say it kindly, Tim, the game’s up," declared
Ernest. "You see, the man ban’t going to die, and you’m harrying his
mother silly for nought. If I may venture to advise, I’d urge for you to
let it out and give her up."
"I don’t mind for myself, but there’s Billy Screech."
"If you’ve lost her, ’tis no good keeping up these hookem-snivey doings.
Nought’s gained by it. To use craft, though foreign to my nature, I
hope, in a general way, I should advise that Screech lets the thing out
sudden. He might pretend that he’s just heard tell about it, and his
wife could tell Mrs. Stanbury’s daughter, Margaret Bowden. Then ’twould
be all right in a day, and the poor creature might recover her senses
and rest in peace."
"As ’tis," explained Timothy, "she’s in a double mess, which we never
thought upon--no, not the cleverest among us--for she can’t tell whether
’tis her son or her husband be going to drop. And she goes in fear
according."
"It oughtn’t to be. It mustn’t be," declared the other. "’Tis unworthy
and improper; and though I couldn’t say ’twas an actual crime against
law, yet ’tis a very indecent situation, and if the poor creature was to
go mad, you’d feel a heavy load on your conscience, Timothy, even though
Billy Screech may be so built as not to care."
"Yes, I should," admitted Mr. Mattacott; "and something must be
done--especially so, since I’ve lost the woman. ’Tis very vexatious in
her, for she’s as near as damn it said ’yes’ a score of times."
"You’ll do better to look elsewhere, whether or no. Them uncertain
creatures afore marriage are often uncertain afterwards, and then they
be the very mischief," said Ernest. "And as for wits, upon my life I
don’t think Mrs. Stanbury’s the only one that’s tottering. ’Twouldn’t
maze me any day to hear as Reuben Shillabeer had to be handled. That
man’s not what he was."
"He hath a wandering eye, I grant you."
"More than that, and worse than that. ’Tis my business, in its higher
branches, to take thought of what be passing in a man’s brain, Timothy,
and oft of late I’ve marked the ’Dumpling’ waver in his speech and break
off and lose the thread."
"Have you now!"
"True as I’m here on duty. He don’t fix his intellects as he used."
"He’s always down--I grant that. ’The Corner House’ ban’t very lively
nowadays."
"He is down, and that’s a sign of a screw loose. Say nought, however,
for ’twould be libel and land you in trouble; but mark me, the poor
fellow changes from his old self, though never a cheerful creature since
his wife went."
They overtook a woman and both saluted Rhoda Bowden. She had just
crossed Lether Tor bridge, and was proceeding by the road to Lowery.
They talked concerning Mr. Shillabeer a while longer, and then Mr.
Maunder mentioned Dorcas and her children. Whereupon from urbanity
Rhoda lapsed into silence, soon bade them good-day, and turned off the
main road into a lane. They passed on, and having left the track, Rhoda
pursued the way she had chosen. It wound to her right, skirted a quarry
on Lowery Tor, and returned to the main thoroughfare half a mile beyond.
The detour was of no account, and yet, owing to this trivial incident,
there happened presently an event that set rolling deep waves along the
shore of chance.
The rough footpath led directly behind Mr. Billy Screech’s cottage, and
just as Rhoda was speeding by with her eyes turned from the place, the
eldest child of Dorcas--a boy of more than three years old--fell
headlong out of the hedge at her feet. The accident looked serious.
For a moment her nephew lay motionless and silent, then he began to
utter piercing screams and cry for his mother. The noise stilled
Rhoda’s alarm and brought Dorcas flying from her cottage, with her
mother-in-law after her. When they arrived at the hedge Rhoda had
picked up her sister’s first-born, and was endeavouring to calm it.
The lesser William Screech was found to have escaped with no worse hurt
than fright and bruises. He was soon in his mother’s arms, and she
handed him on to his grandmother. Dorcas thanked Rhoda and told the
elder Mrs. Screech to depart; then, the opportunity being a good one,
she descended into the road herself, set her face, shook her red fringe
out of her eyes, and resolutely overtook Rhoda, who had hastened
forward.
"Stop, if you please," she said. "It’s a free country and you’ve no
right to deny speech to any civil-spoken creature. I want to speak to
you, and I’ll be obliged if you’ll listen for a minute. You can’t
refuse to hear me."
Even at this moment Rhoda was struck by the calm authority in her
younger sister’s voice. She spoke as the superior woman, with all the
weight of a husband, a family, and a home behind her. The aggressive
personality of Dorcas was something new.
"I don’t want to have aught to do with you," said Rhoda.
"Nor I with you," answered the other. "But we’ve all got to do a lot of
things we don’t like in this world--you and me among the rest."
"Speak then," said the elder. She had not stood face to face with her
sister for some years, and now she marked that Dorcas looked better far
than of old. She had filled into neat matronly lines; her eyes were
stronger; her gift of ready words was still with her.
"’Tis this: I’m weary of the scandal between us. I’m looked up to and
treated proper by other women, and ’tis a wonder to them all why you
hold off as you do. I don’t want your friendship, God knows, nor yet
your good word; but civility I’ve a right to ask for, and ’tis a
beastly, obstinate wickedness in you that refuses it. Here, but three
days since, Madge comed in and said how hard she’d tried again to make
you see different, but not a kindly thought to your own flesh and blood
have you got. A minute agone, if you’d known ’twas my child you’d
picked up, no doubt you’d have let the poor little toad drop again. And
Madge says you won’t make friends and be civil, even on the outside, out
of respect to everybody; and I’ll ask you why and thank you to tell me."
Rhoda lacked the usual armoury of women. Her mind moved slowly; her
words did the like. She made no instant answer, but looked down into
the angry eyes of Mrs. Screech and noticed her hands were wet and puffy.
"’Tis washing-day with you, I see," she said in a mechanical voice. Why
she made this remark she had not the least idea. It was certainly not
meant as an offence; but Dorcas held such irrelevance as rude.
"Never mind whether ’tis my washing-day or not. Please to answer me and
give me a reason for what you’m doing year after year. I suppose you
think ’tis terrible fine to stick your vartuous nose up in the air, and
pretend you’m a holy saint and not a common woman. Terrible fine, no
doubt--and terrible foolish--like many other terrible fine things be.
Don’t you judge your betters so free, and sneer at every woman who does
her first duty in the world and helps the world along; but look at home
a bit and see what a nasty-minded, foul-thinking creature you be,
without enough charity to keep your brains sweet. You was very fond of
bally-ragging me in the old days, when I was a stupid girl and didn’t
know what I was born for; but you shan’t come it over me no more, and I
warn you not to try."
Her voice was shrill, and Rhoda, listening to the sound, perceived
another whom marriage had made a shrew.
"What’s the use of this noise?" she asked coldly. "You can’t make me
have aught to do with you or your children, and I refuse to do it. ’Tis
playing with the past to ask the reason. You know the reason. I never
would speak, and never will speak to any woman who does what you did.
I’m jealous for women, and the like of you, that makes them a scorn and
a laughing-stock, should be cast out by all right-minded females. Then
such things as you did wouldn’t be done no more."
"No! If the women were like you, there’d mighty soon be no more
women--nor men neither--a poor, unfinished thing--like a frost-bitten
carrot--good for nought. You to talk to me out of your empty life! You
to say I’m not fit company for people--me as be bringing brave boys and
girls into the world, while you look after puppies and lambs! Why, damn
you, you be no more than a useless lump of flesh, as might so well be
underground as here! You--out of your empty, silly life--to talk to me
in my full, busy days! I spit at you; and if you think to punish me,
then I’ll punish you too. I can bite so well as bark; and if you ban’t
on your knees pretty soon, I’ll have you and David by the ears--then
we’ll see what becomes of you!"
Mrs. Screech suggested a woman suffering under too much alcohol. But
she was merely drunk with anger. Her sister’s calm attitude and patient
indifference to this attack did not help to soothe her. Rhoda looked at
the sun, and Dorcas knew that she was judging the time of day.
"You’ll call for the hours to move a bit faster afore long," she said.
"Don’t you think you can insult me and my husband, year ’pon year like
this, and not smart for it. We know very well how to hit back, and if
it hadn’t been for a better woman than you, I’d have done it a long time
ago. I don’t forget how you boxed my ears once, because I knowed how to
love a man. You’d have better axed me what the secret was and begged to
know it. But you think you’ve got no use for a man; and they’ve got no
use for you and never will have--as you’ll live to find out. And I’ll
sting you to the quick now--now--this instant moment, if you don’t say
you’m sorry for the past and promise on your honour to treat me and mine
decent in future. I warn you to mind afore you speak."
A malignant light shone over the face of Dorcas. She set her teeth and
panted at her own great wrongs, while she waited for the other to speak.
"You can’t hurt me," said Rhoda, "and you know it."
"Can’t I? We’ll see then! God defend the world from white virgins like
you--that’s what I say. A holy terror you are; and we’re all to be
brought up for judgment, I suppose--to have our heads chopped off,
because we dare to be made of flesh and blood instead of dead earth.
Pure and clean--is it? What _you_ call pure. All the same, the likes
of you does things, and thinks things, us married women would blush to
do and think."
"If that’s all you want to say, I’ll thank you to get out of my road,"
answered the other.
"’Tisn’t all, as it happens. I’m going to talk of Bartley Crocker now,
and then you can take away something to think about yourself, you frozen
wretch! I suppose, in your pride, you fancy he’s after you all these
days, and comes because he wants to marry you--wants to marry a lump of
granite! ’Tisn’t you he thinks about, or cares about, or ever will;
’tis one whose shoes you ban’t worthy to black--or David either. Between
you she’d be like to die of starvation, I reckon; and who shall blame
her if she does take her hungry heart to somebody, else? You and
him--good God! ’tis like living between two ice images--enough to kill
the nature in any creature higher than a dog. And she knows it, and a
good few more--Bartley Crocker among the number--knows it. Belike Madge
grows tired of being moss to his stone, and working her fingers raw for
such as you and her husband. And even your precious David ban’t the
only man in the world. And so a decent chap like Bartley comes along,
an old friend that knows a little about girls and what they feel like,
and knows they be different from sheep and heifers. Hear that! ’Tis not
for you the man seeks your house. He uses your name like a blind. He
laughs at you and your airs and graces. He’s got no use for you and
never will have. They meet here and there and everywhere--and why not?
’Fallen woman’ be the word for me, I suppose. ’Tis you be the fallen
woman; and to call you woman is too good for you! You never was a
woman; but Madge is, and I hope to God you’ll wake one day to find
she’ve had pluck and sense enough to leave you and David and run for it
with a better man. You may stare your owl’s eyes out of your head. But
you’ve got it now, and you’ve earned it."
Dorcas stopped, panting from her tirade, and passed her sister and
disappeared without more speech. Rhoda, left alone, stood quite still
for a little while; then she proceeded on her business. Not a shadow of
anger clouded her mind, only dreadful dismay at the things she had
heard. She was not galled for herself; she did not wince at the foul
torrent loosed upon her. It passed over her harmlessly. But her
thoughts busied themselves entirely with David. That Dorcas should thus
have supported her own fears, and driven home her own cloudy suspicions
and terrors, struck Rhoda dumb. Here was the thing that she had hidden
and suffered to gnaw her breast without a sign, now shouted on the loud,
vulgar tongue of the world, as represented by Dorcas. Here was the
secret that she had suspected, and searched out in fear and trembling,
blurted coarsely for any ear.
A period of increased happiness had recently passed over ’Meavy Cot,’
and Madge, who appeared to hide her emotions no more than a bird, went
singing and cheerful through it. Then matters drifted into the old
ways. Now much of hope deferred was upon David’s mind and some
abstraction and silence clouded the home again, for the Tavistock
appointment remained still a matter of uncertainty. But the
circumstance chiefly in Rhoda’s thoughts at this moment was the attitude
of her brother to Bartley Crocker.