first come to Sheepstor he was a little fellow in a lamb’s-wool coat, as
wanted his mother’s hand to help him over the rough ground. And I’ve
lived to see him rise into manhood, and show his valour in the ring, and
take a wife, and now stand up among leading people and rise to be the
right hand of one of the richest personages in the county."
"Very wonderful, as you say. Yet not wonderful neither. ’Tis David
that is wonderful--not the things as happen to him. Given such a man,
he was bound to get up top."
"True," declared Mr. Shillabeer, passing his cup to be refilled; "the
very same thought often came in my mind when my wife was alive. She was
the wonder, and I was sure to be lucky and fortunate when I married her.
But death’s stronger than the most wonderful life that ever was lived.
She went and took her luck with her; and her gone, I sank again to be a
common man. And when you feel puffed up, Margaret, always remember that
death lies behind every hedge and makes ready the gun trigger for this
man, the flood for that; the weak lynch-pin here, and the mad dog there.
Another thing as you may have noticed; ’tis always the usefulest be
picked off. Heaven’s terrible jealous of a real valuable man. It ain’t
got no need of the rogues and wastrels no more than we have; but if a
male or female be doing for the Lord with both hands, so often as not
the Lord says, ’That’s the very man or woman I want for such and such a
bit of real high work.’ And they’m cut down like the grass of the
field."
"Yes," she said. "The Lord harvests His own way, Mr. Shillabeer; and
because a beautiful, useful life goes, ban’t for us to mourn, but to say
’twas needed for higher things."
"And another point I’d have you to know," he added. "I ban’t at all sure
if the right of private judgment be withheld either. Parson will tell
you, and most people will also tell you, that ’tis a very bad
come-along-of-it for a human creature to say ’I ban’t wanted no more and
so I’ll be off;’ but I won’t go so far as that myself. I’ve tried to
look at this matter with the eyes of God A’mighty, and I’ve done it."
She stared at him.
"You’m surprised," he said; "but listen to me. I’m a man of many
troubles and griefs, and I hope you’ll never see half a quarter the
sorrows I have. Still as the sparks fly upwards, so you’ll have your
share and know what it is to suffer."
"Yes, for certain."
"But don’t you ever suppose that we’re put here for nought but suffering
and nought but happiness. I tell you, Margaret, that suffering and
happiness be both beside the great question."
"We’re put here for usefulness," she said, and he eagerly agreed with
her.
"The very word! Trouble or joy be an accident--always a matter of
chance. You can see it everywhere. There’s wise and sensible people
wading through nought but trouble and opening their eyes on it at every
sun up; and there’s born fools sailing along in nought but fine weather;
and so you get men like me full of doubt and darkness, because we can’t
trust our own wisdom; and fools such as--but I won’t name no
names--thinking themselves terrible clever and giving themselves
terrible airs because they suppose their good be a matter of their own
making, instead of simple kind fortune."
"I suppose things come out pretty fair all round in the long run," she
said. "If you’ve got money, you miss childer; if you’ve got love you
miss luck; if you’ve got health--"
"As to health, nought matters less than that," declared Mr. Shillabeer.
"You speak as one who never had an ache or pain," she said.
"Bah!" he answered, "this carcase be less to me than the bones the crows
have plucked beside the way. I’ve reached a high pitch of mind now when
I could drive a red-hot needle through the calf of my leg and care
nought for the pang. D’you think these things matter to a man who have
been hammered into a heap of bruised, senseless flesh four different
times in his life like what I have? ’Tis the inner pain that hurts me,
and if I was canker-bitten and racked with every human ill, I’d laugh at
it all, if only my wife had been spared to sit beside me and hold my
hand. Things ban’t fairly planned here. You say they are, but it isn’t
so. I know ’tis a common speech on easy tongues, but it won’t stand the
test of workaday life. Happy people may say it to calm their
consciences if they be having an extra good life, but ’tisn’t true, and
never was true. Things ban’t fair all round--nothing like it."
"No, they’re not," she confessed. "’Tis just a foolish parrot speech.
I know they’re not fair as well as you do really."
"Then I go on to my argeyment," said Reuben. "Granted the Lord, for His
own secret ends, ban’t concerned to play fair with us, then, being a
just God, He must let us right the balance and use our own judgment
where we have the power. If even you--with all your big share of good
luck--allow on second thoughts that things don’t fall fair, how much
more must the most of people feel it so?"
"My luck--" she began, and stopped, but her tone indicated she was about
to demur, and he invited her to do so.
"There again," he said, "we can only speak what we see, but what we see
ban’t always the truth. The outside ban’t a glass pane to show the
inside, but more often a clever door to hide it. I say in my haste how
that none ever had more luck to her share than you. Well, I’ve no right
to say that. Perhaps I’m wrong."
"In a way, yes. David, you must know, is a great man now, and ’tisn’t
the least of a loving woman’s hardships to see her husband growing great
and herself biding little."
"Good Lord! what a silly point of view!" said he. "Ban’t you bone of his
bone and flesh of his flesh? How the deuce can the man grow great and
leave you behind?"
"I can’t explain," she said. "But ’tis so--off and on. Sometimes he
catches sight of me in his life, if you understand, and remembers me,
and we have precious days. Then again he loses sight of me for a bit.
I tell you these things, because you be such a big-hearted,
understanding man, Mr. Shillabeer."
"I am," he said. "’Tis my sole vartue to be so. But my usefulness is
nearly over. So we come back to that usefulness we started with."
"Your usefulness ban’t ended, I’m very sure."
"’Tis only ourselves know about that. A thinking creature, unless he’s
growing old and weak in the head, knows very well when his usefulness be
coming to an end. Old I may be growing, but my mind is clear enough,
and it tells me that my work’s pretty nearly done. Think if ’twas you,
Margaret, and them you loved best was in heaven, and there come into
your mind the certainty that there was nought to keep you an hour from
them--what would you do?"
"Wait the Lord’s time."
"What happens must be in the Lord’s time, and can’t fall out in any
other time. But if the thought comes into your heart to join the dead,
ban’t it the Lord as sent the thoughts; and if you do join ’em, can it
be done without the Lord’s wish and will?"
"Of course nothing can happen without the Lord permits, because He’s
all-powerful and wills nought but good."
"That’s all I want for you to see. And it follows--don’t it?--that if
the still small voice tells me I may go home, the way be clear?"
"Go home!"
"To the home that’s waiting where my woman be. I’m home-sick for
it--terrible home-sick. And the thought have come very strong of late
that there’s nothing left to bide for. And a simple thing--such a
simple thing! ’Tis merely putting something between you and the air of
heaven for a brief minute--a drop of water, or a rope round your throat.
Or, if your nature goes against that way, you can let the immortal soul
out through a hole--"
His great eyes stared into vacancy, and she gazed with horrified
interest at him.
"To kill yourself! Oh, dear Mr. Shillabeer, what are you saying?"
"You may call it killing," he said, "but I don’t. I call it opening the
half-hatch of the door and going home. They say self-slaughterers be
mad mostly--at least, so ’tis brought in most times by a crowner’s jury
of busy men--men as don’t care a button about the job, but want to get
back to their work. But I tell you ’tis no mark of weak intellects to
do it. A cowardly deed it may be sometimes, but a coward isn’t daft as
a rule. And now and then ’tis the bravest thing a man can do, and now
and then the wisest."
"Never--never!"
"You wait till you’ve seen life move into the middle time, or lost
what’s better than life. Keep your own opinions, but don’t grow narrow,
and don’t tell me that the still small voice ever whispered a lie to a
Christian man. Usefulness ended, ’tis our place to seek a new bit of
ground again where we can be useful anew; and if this world have done
with us, who’s to say the next won’t be very glad of a new workman?"
"But not to go like that, surely?"
"I tell you the Lord’s over all," he answered again solemnly. "The Lord
chooses the fly for the fish, and hedge-sparrow for the hawk, and the
mouse for the owl. The Lord comes to me by night, and He says,
’Shillabeer,’ and I say, ’I be listening, Lord.’"
Margaret shivered, yet felt no fear of him.
"And then," he continued, "the Lord says ’They’ve done with you,
Shillabeer; they want a cheerfuller, hopefuller pattern of man;’ and I
say, ’’Tis so, Lord; I read it in their faces.’"
He broke off suddenly and spoke of other things.
"D’you mind when holy words sprang up on the gates and lintels round
about--like corn springs after rain? ’Twas my work! You’re the first
to know it, and I must ax of you to keep it dark ’till I’m gone to my
reward. But ’twas my thought and deed. By night I’d do it; and of
lonely grey evenings; and often afore the sun was up. I’ve walked with
God, woman!"
"And much good those texts in the lone places did. I know they warmed my
heart more than once, Mr. Shillabeer."
"Yes, they did a power of good. I could see that."
"To think you was never found out!"
"The Lord hid me. ’Twas His idea, not mine. Every idea be the Lord’s
first; and the cleverest things we can do be planned out by Him and then
slipped into a man’s intellects, like we post a letter or whisper into a
ear."
"But the wicked thoughts?"
"Good men don’t get ’em. Proper-thinking people don’t let ’em in. Be
the God of Hosts going to suffer a humble, faithful servant like me to
be pestered with Satan’s nonsense at my time of life? Would that be a
fair thing? If a man ban’t done with the Devil when he’s in sight of
seventy, ’tis a bad lookout for him. And God’s nearly always been a fair
sportsman, you mind."
"Somebody far wiser and cleverer than me ought to hear about this," she
declared. "I do think and believe you’re terribly wrong."
He shook his great head impatiently.
"No, no. I’m in the right. I met Mr. Merle in the churchyard, when I
was sitting beside my wife’s bones a bit ago, and he walked over and had
a tell with me; and I axed him if our inner thoughts come from God--just
to see what he’d say. He answered that every good and perfect thought
comed from the Father of Gifts. So there you are. What is it--this
thing driving me to be gone? Why, ’tis the voice of Heaven calling
me--just like you yourself might call the cows home off the moor at
milking time."
"You make a terrible mistake."
He held up his hand.
"Say not a word, my dear. ’Tis no better than speaking against the
Master of all flesh to tell me I’ve heard wrong. My wife’s in Heaven.
I’ve got her that loved me best among the angels at the Throne of Grace.
Belike she’s just fretting her spirit with cruel impatience because I
hang fire. You might think, perhaps, that there wasn’t no great haste,
eternity being what it is. But if you loved your husband like my wife
loved me, you’d know eternity’s self was none too long for us to be
together again. There’s only one little thing that makes me hang back."
"’Tis the Word of God."
"Not a bit. ’Tis the way of man. I’m very doubtful of parson
Merle--not as a righteous creature before Heaven; but he’s human, and
he’s a terrible narrow thinker here and there. If I take myself off,
’tis so like as not he’ll get some bee in his bonnet and withhold the
burial service or maim it over me, like he did when Pritchard hung
himself. Not that that would trouble me very greatly; but supposing
that he wouldn’t let my bones go beside hers? Such a thing happening
would turn me into a wandering ghost till Doom without a doubt."
"Don’t give him the chance. Think a very great deal about it," she
urged. "You may be all wrong in your opinions, dear Mr. Shillabeer, and
right well I know you are. Perhaps, if you was to pray about it to
Christ, He’d show you how awful mistaken you was. And as for
usefulness, there’s no more useful and well thought on man among us."
"I’ve done my duty, and my duty’s done," he said.
"Promise me not to do anything till you’ve talked to me again," she
urged. "At least you might do that. I knew your wife, and she loved
me."
"Yes, my wife was very fond of you when you was a child," he said.
"I’ll do your bidding that far then. You speak what be put into you to
speak, no doubt. Now I look at you, there’s sense as well as sadness in
your face. I hope the sense will bide and the sadness lift in God’s
good time."
The old man departed, and that night Margaret told David of all that she
had heard and the condition of Reuben Shillabeer’s mind. He took the
matter very seriously and resolved to be busy on the sufferer’s behalf.
"I can ill spare the time," he said. "But for a neighbour in such a fix
our own affairs must be put aside. I’ll go to doctor at Tavistock
to-morrow the first thing. He’s a rare sportsman and a very keen man.
’Twas him that stood referee in the fight. ’Tis time he took the poor
old chap in hand; and Shillabeer’s got high respect for him and will
trust him I hope, if he goes about his work clever."
David was not surprised to hear the secret of the texts.
"As a matter of fact amongst a few of us--my father and me and
others--’twas an open secret," he said. "Father himself first guessed
it. But we didn’t say a word for fear of vexing poor old ’Dumpling.’
’Twas a harmless thing, and very likely it did good now and again."
*CHAPTER X*
*THIRD TIME OF ASKING*
The circumstances and necessities of Bartley Crocker’s wooing were
peculiar, because one-sided. Rhoda naturally never assisted him; indeed,
many carefully laid plans for meeting were consciously frustrated by her
when she chanced to learn them. At last, however, thanks to Margaret’s
aid, opportunity fell for a final proposal, and Bartley used it to the
best of his power. A day came when David drove Madge over to Tavistock
to look at certain houses, and Rhoda stopped at home.
Her own plans began to be very doubtful now, and choice lay before her
of returning to her father or continuing to live with David. Her love
had made light even of Tavistock; but, in a town, Rhoda’s occupation
would be gone: at such a place she must cease to justify existence. Her
greatest sorrow was reached at thought of living away from David; and a
second emotion, only less disturbing, made decision doubly difficult.
The apparent complications and secrets of her sister-in-law’s life had
first alarmed Rhoda, and now they angered her. She read the facts in
the light of her own wisdom, and her wisdom led her wide of the mark.
She believed that Crocker was using alleged love of her as a pretence
and excuse for very different affection. Some such dim thought had long
haunted her, and it remained for Dorcas and her brutal speeches to
convince Rhoda that she did Margaret no wrong by the suspicion. In
sober truth Rhoda had felt shame upon herself when first the fear arose;
but then came her hidden watches, the spectacle of familiar meetings and
the vigorous word of Mrs. Screech. She knew that Dorcas loved Madge and
had not spoken to injure David’s wife. Her sister, indeed, evidently
approved; and the circumstance convinced Rhoda that her opinion of
Dorcas was correct.
And now, upon restless loneliness, came Crocker knowing that he would
find her alone. He sneered at himself for a fool as he knocked at the
door of ’Meavy Cot’; but he had sworn to ask her thrice and would not go
from his word, though the vanity of troubling her a third time was very
clear to him.
After noon on a late autumn day did Bartley call, and Rhoda, not
guessing who it was that knocked, but thinking it to be one of her
brothers, who was due from Ditsworthy, cried out, "Come in!"
She was eating her dinner of a baked potato, bread, cold mutton, and a
glass of water; and she leapt up as Mr. Crocker appeared.
"Go on," he said. "Please go on--or I’ll walk about outside till you’ve
finished, if you’d rather I did."
"I thought ’twas my brother," she said. "I’ve done my food. David’s
not at home, if you want him."
"I know," he answered. "I’ve come to see the only one who was at home;
and that’s yourself."
She stood by the table. Her mind moved swiftly. She sought to find some
advantage in this meeting; but she could not think what to say. David
was her sole thought, and how best to serve him she knew not.
"It’s a long time since I had a chance to speak to you," said the
visitor, "and I’m afraid, from your looks, you wouldn’t have given me
the chance even now if you hadn’t been caught and cornered. But there’s
no need for you to grudge ten minutes of talk. ’Twill be the last
time--unless there’s a glimmer of another sort of feeling in you."
Her way of escape seemed to lie through this man’s departure alone. She
hated every tone of his voice and wished that he was dead.
"If you’re going out of it, ’twill be by the blessing of God for all in
this house," she answered.
He started and his colour changed to pale.
"A glimmer of another sort of feeling with a vengeance!" he said. "But
not the sort I was still fond fool enough to hope for. You shall talk,
since you’re so fired to do it, and I’ll listen. Yes, I’m going. And
you won’t come?"
Her silence spoke scornfully.
"Well," he continued, "I’m paid what I deserve, I suppose: I’ve made you
loathe me instead of love me. It’s bad luck, for I’ve felt for three
years--however, such queer things often happen."
"You never loved a woman like a decent man, for ’tisn’t in you to do
it," she said. "You think you hide yourself; but you don’t. You’re
evil all through, and the touch of you is evil."
"Why do you say these harsh things? What have I done but court you like
an honest man and a patient one?"
"Ask yourself--not me. Ask yourself what you’ve been doing, and
plotting, and amusing yourself about of late. Ask yourself who ’tis you
meet in this place and that!"
"Well, I never! So you’ve been interested in me all the time!
Interested enough to care what I was doing and thinking about. By all
right understanding that ought to mean you cared a bit for me. Women
don’t spy on a man, save for love or hate. And hate me you can’t
without a cause, though you speak and look as if you did. If I thought
you were jealous--but that’s too good to be true. Who is it? Out with
it.’ At least I’ve a right to know who ’tis that I meet so secret while
you peep at us."
He bantered her and cared little that she grew rosy and furious; for he
knew it was all over now and that they would probably never speak
together again.
"You ask that and pretend--and pretend!" she burst out. "As if it might
be a score of women! But I know, and ’twasn’t for love nor yet hate
that I watched you--not for love of you or her anyway."
"Come now--no puzzles! Then I’m after another man’s sweetheart on the
quiet. Is that it? Well, who is she? I’ve a right to know in the face
of such a charge."
"You’re after another man’s wife," she said, and faced him without
flinching. But still he laughed.
"You maidens! What hen dragons of virtue you are, to be sure. ’Another
man’s wife’--eh? Then no wonder you look a thought awry at me. Poor
fellow! He’s terribly wronged, to be sure. Have you told him what I’m
doing? Or are you in love with this other chap?"
"Go," she said furiously. "You know the truth in your wicked heart, and
I know it, and it’s devilish in you to take it like this. I’ll suffer
no more of you; I’ll never breathe the same air with you no more;--and
them I care about shan’t, if I can help it. You ought to be torn in a
thousand pieces by honest men and women--vile thing that you are!"
He sat down calmly and patted a dog that rose from the hearth and
growled at him in some uneasiness before Rhoda’s fury.
"Can’t leave you like this--must understand what you’re driving at," he
declared.
"Then I’ll go," she said. "What do you take me for? Have you sunk so
low that you don’t know a clean-minded creature when you meet one? I’m
not a fool, and I am not blind; and I’ve seen too well what’s been doing
of late; therefore I warn you to be gone afore the storm is let loose on
you."
"No fear of missing the storm while you’re about. And off I shall be ere
long now. There’s nothing more to keep me, since you’ve gone out of
your wits. All the same, I believe you’ve thrust yourself under the law
for such talk as this. To tell me I’m going wrong with a married woman!
Damn it all, Rhoda, what nasty thoughts have crept into your head? Why
don’t you name her and have done with it? ’Tis bad enough to know you
hate me; but hear this: May the Almighty find and finish me where I sit
if--"
"Don’t!" she cried out. "Don’t take His name here and belike leave your
stricken dust rooted in that chair for me to watch till others come!
I’ll hear no oath and I’ll name no names. I know you--I’ve seen
it--I’ve heard it--heard it from another as quick to do evil as ever you
was."
"By God, this is too bad!" he cried, leaping up. "You--you to accuse me
of loose conduct and wrong-doing! Look to your eyes that have seen what
never happened; and your ears that have listened to lies; and your
tongue too--your tongue that can talk thus to a man who loved you truly
and uprightly and has kept as straight as yourself from the day he loved
you and longed for you! You can’t love me and I don’t blame you there.
You can’t love me; but is that a just reason why you should lie about
me? See to yourself, Rhoda, and you’ll find a bitter weed in your own
heart that’s better out and away. And threaten no more neither. You may
drag me as deep as you please through the dirt that’s got into your
mind--God help you; but don’t drag some innocent woman through it.
Anyway, you’ll never see my face again--spy as you may--for I shall be
gone for good in a month or two."
She did not answer and he abruptly left her. He was very angry, very
startled, and very shocked that she could believe and repeat such a
monstrous error. He cast about for some ground in reason, and examined
his life. He could only think of the meetings with Margaret Bowden; but
that these were actually what Rhoda referred to did not even occur to
him. He had, as a matter of fact, travelled recently as far as Plymouth
with a woman, but she was Rhoda’s own widowed sister from Ditsworthy,
and it seemed impossible that she could refer to her.
He puzzled to know what this assault might mean; but apart from these
unexpected circumstances attending her refusal, the final negative was
all that mattered. That she believed him a libertine soon ceased to
trouble Hartley. His anger swiftly vanished before the immediate
interest of the future. Nothing remained but to follow his previous
plans and depart. He had only waited for Rhoda and now the coast was
clear. Before he reached home, he had finally determined to leave
England early in the new year.
*CHAPTER XI*
*BAD NEWS OF MR. BOWDEN*
Mrs. Stanbury’s habit of mind died hard, even after the truth concerning
the Voice at Crazywell had been impressed upon her. Slowly she
appreciated the great fact that neither her husband nor her son might
longer be considered as under sentence of death; but often still she
woke in fear or rose in gloom, while yet her mind retained only the past
terror and forgot the more recent joy. Billy Screech had explained to
Bartley; and since Bartley was of opinion that no real blame attached to
anybody, and that the plot was perfectly reasonable in its original
purpose--all things being fair in love--the matter soon blew over. Bart,
indeed, declared that Mattacott and Billy ought to pay the doctor’s bill
for his mother; but they were not of his mind, and Mr. Stanbury, who,
despite stout assurances of indifference, felt really much relieved when
the truth appeared, very gladly met this charge. The immediate result of
the event was a decision on the part of Jane West. Bart, having safely
emerged from these supernatural threats of extinction, found her in the
most oncoming spirit, and they were now definitely engaged to be
married.
With the turn of another year this fact became generally known, and
there fell a Sunday in late January when the party from ’Meavy Cot’
visited Coombeshead and assisted at a formal meal given in honour of
Bart’s betrothed.