distrust--both of herself and her blood in the veins of the next
generation. They talked apart after the meal, and she, as her custom
was, doubted her son’s ability to fight the world successfully for a
wife and possible children.
"A very good son, I can assure you--never a better. But whether he’ll
prove a husband of any account, I’m sure I couldn’t say," she murmured.
"Of course he will," answered the other. "You don’t know what a clever
chap Bart is. Jane’s a very lucky woman; and she knows it well enough,
and her family know it well enough, even if you don’t."
It was an amiable fiction with Margaret’s husband that she was largely
responsible for his success in life. He often solemnly declared that but
for her at the helm, he should never have prospered as was the case, and
certainly never have won the great prize at Tavistock. This statement he
would make repeatedly, despite his wife’s protests and Rhoda’s silences.
He made it now to Mrs. Stanbury.
"Look at Madge," he said. "If she’s such a splendid wife, why are you
afeared that Bart won’t be a splendid husband? Madge took after you;
Bart takes after his father. Why, where should I be if it wasn’t for
Madge? Not where I stand, I can tell you. She’s the corner-stone of
the house, and always has been, and always will be. You ought to
believe what people tell you about your children."
"’Tis very well to know you think so," she admitted; "all the same, a
mother’s eye can’t overlook the defects."
"Not in your case, seemingly; but ’tis just what a mother’s eye be
cleverest at doing as a rule," declared he.
"’Tis no good pretending with yourself, as you do," she answered. "You
think our Madge have helped you to greatness, and if love and worship
could bring you up top, you’d be right. But it can’t. You was too
strong and steady a man to want any woman’s help."
"No, no--never was such a man as that," her son-in-law answered, and
firmly believed it. "Madge has helped me to take big views," he
continued. "Why, there’s no work that we do can taste so good as the
work we do for other people. Your daughter teached me that."
The afternoon advanced and Margaret entered the parlour to say that tea
was ready in the kitchen.
Bart and Jane comported themselves with high indifference under the
ordeal of this entertainment. They had accepted the good wishes and the
chaff; they had eaten heartily and departed together as soon as dinner
was done.
"They won’t be back for tea. They don’t want no tea," declared Mr.
Stanbury. "Why, they’ve even got to naming the day! ’Twill be Martin
West’s turn to find the spread and give the party this time; and if he
does all I did for you and Madge, David, I shall be surprised--though
he’s a richer man than me by a good few pound, I warrant you."
Talk ran on the new romance; then Rhoda reminded David that a Princetown
man was to see him that evening within an hour from the present time.
He rose at once and prepared to depart. But Margaret did not accompany
him.
"I shan’t be back afore supper," she said. "Bartley Crocker’s coming up
presently. He won’t see my father and mother no more, for his time is
getting short. So I shall bide here till he’s been and gone."
"He’s so dark about dates," declared David. "We all want to give him a
bit of a dinner at ’The Corner House’--a real good send-off; and there’s
a little subscription started to get the man a remembrance. But he’s
not in very good spirits now the time’s so near; and he rather wants to
escape without any fuss. However, if you have the chance, try and find
out exactly when he’s going, Madge. He’ll tell you the secret. The date
is fixed, I expect. Try and worm it out of him; and fetch him along to
supper, if he’ll come."
She promised and David departed with Rhoda.
Bartley Crocker appeared in the valley as they went their way; and he
saw them going, but they did not see him.
His sister’s affairs now largely occupied young Bowden’s mind, because
the future, from her standpoint, was difficult. He, however, did not
quite comprehend the moody and irritable spirit which Rhoda had of late
developed. It fell out, indeed, that this taciturnity and
self-absorption caused David first uneasiness and then mild annoyance.
Rhoda had ceased to be herself. She was not interested in the future.
She spoke of going out of his life. She showed no enthusiasm in any
direction, and her attitude to Margaret he had secretly resented on
several occasions. He deplored it to Margaret herself, but she had
begged him not to think of it again, and declared it a matter of no
account. She could afford to be large-minded now, for she believed that
Rhoda would soon be gone from her home for ever. As for David, he
supposed this unsettled and cloudy weather of his sister’s mind to be
caused entirely by the forthcoming great upheaval in her life, and the
extreme difficulty of deciding on a plan of action. That she had
finally refused Crocker and determined to stop in England, he knew; but
whether she intended to accompany him and Madge to Tavistock, or return
to Ditsworthy, he did not know. None knew--not even the woman herself.
Her brother attributed Rhoda’s darkness to the trouble of decision; yet
it surprised him that she should find decision so difficult. She was
one who usually made up her mind with swiftness and seldom departed from
a first resolution. But, for once, she appeared unequal to the task of
concluding upon any form of action. The truth of Rhoda’s difficulties
he could not know; and in his ignorance he revealed a little impatience.
Observing this disquiet, she believed that the time had at last come to
speak. She knew the danger and perceived that the one thing she cared
for in life--her brother’s regard--might be imperilled by such a step;
but as he, in his turn, now began openly to resent her implicit attitude
to Margaret, some decisive action was called for.
And Rhoda upon that homeward walk proposed to speak, to put her
discomfort and fear before him, and to trust his affection and wisdom to
tide them all over a terrible difficulty. What might have fallen out
had she done so cannot be estimated. In the result she never spoke, for
there fell an interruption and she was still casting about for the first
word, when her brother, Napoleon, rode up on a pony. He had come from
Ditsworthy to ’Meavy Cot,’ and his attire marked some haste, for he wore
his Sunday coat and waistcoat, but had taken off his trousers and
substituted workday garments of corduroy.
"Just been to your place," he shouted as he approached them. "Farther
was took bad in the night, and he’s a lot worse to-day and reckons he
may die of it. And Joshua’s gone for doctor, and mother’s in a proper
tantara. And faither wants for you and Rhoda to come up this moment."
For an instant they stood, aghast and smitten.
"What’s took him?" asked David.
"His breathing, and he’s all afire and can’t let down a morsel of food.
You’d better get on this pony and go right up along, David."
"I suppose I had. Chap from Princetown will have his walk for his
pains; but it can’t be helped."
Napoleon dismounted and David took his place. "You’ll come on, you two,
after me," he said. "Best to go across through Dennycoombe wood.
Please God, ’tis of no account. Faither’s so strong and never knoweth
ache or pain; therefore what may be a small thing would seem worse to
him than it really is."
He started and then turned back again.
"When you pass Coombeshead, just run in, Nap, and tell Margaret what’s
happened. I may be back home to-night, or I may not be. And bid her
remember the calves."
"I shall be back for that," said Rhoda. "I shall go back to-night in
any case."
"All right then," concluded David. Then he galloped off and soon
disappeared.
His sister and the boy tramped without speech together until, glowing
like the bright fur of a wolf all grey and russet, Dennycoombe wood rose
before them, flung on the distant side of Sheep’s Tor in evening light.
"I’ll wait for you by the gate yonder," said Rhoda. "Your nearest way
from here be to the left. Don’t you stop talking, mind: you may be
useful up at home. Just tell Madge what’s fallen out and then come after
me."
"I can travel twice so fast as you," answered the boy. "No call for you
to wait. I’ll over-get you long afore ’tis dark."
He left her and she went forward, passed under Down Tor, crossed the
stream and skirted the great wood beyond. She reached the gate and
stopped for her brother as she had promised: but he did not come, and
presently she went her way through the edge of the trees. Then
suddenly, going on silent feet, she heard voices at hand. A great stone
towered there and in a moment she understood that her sister-in-law and
Bartley Crocker were on one side of it, and knew not that she was upon
the other. She guessed that the man had taken leave of the party at
Coombeshead Farm and that Margaret had departed with him.
This indeed had happened. Bartley made but a short stay at the
Stanburys’ and Madge left when he did. They were now sitting together
and talking.
Rhoda listened but could not hear more than a chance word
intermittently.
"Your husband wanted to give me a spread and a send-off in the
old-fashioned way, but, somehow, I’ve no stomach for any such thing just
at present," declared Mr. Crocker.
"’Tis natural you shouldn’t have."
"I shall write to David. I can’t stand all these good-byes, and all the
leave-taking business."
"’Tis crushing to think you’re so nearly gone."
"But mind you keep the secret of the day and tell none, Madge--till I’m
off. Those I care for shall hear from me--t’others don’t matter.
There’s nothing left to keep me but you, and I can’t make you happier by
staying."
"Don’t say that."
"Not really I can’t. We’re beginning new lives in new places--you and
me."
"So we are in a way."
"What does Rhoda do?"
"She can’t make up her mind seemingly. She’s very sad."
"She’s very mad, if you ask me. I wish to God some man could find how
to sweeten her mind. And you’re sad because she is. I knew it the
moment I heard your voice half an hour ago."
"’Tis wonderful to think how you can always tell by my tone of voice how
’tis with me! But then there’s nobody like you for understanding us
women. You’d have made a rare husband for the right one, Bartley."
"Yes; and the right one--well, perhaps I’ll find her over the water.
’Tis the day after to-morrow I go. I sail off from Plymouth, so that’s
all easy and straight-forward."
"Be the _Shamrock_ a good big ship?"
"Big enough for my fortunes."
"We must see one another once more, Bartley."
"Of course we must, Madge."
They moved forward as they spoke, and Rhoda saw Bartley kiss Margaret
and observed that her sister-in-law was weeping. Then came hasty feet
and Napoleon appeared. He shouted from a distance.
"She ban’t there! She’s gone! I waited a bit and had a dollop of figgy
pudden and told ’em the bad news about faither."
"Hullo!" said Bartley to Rhoda. "You!" He looked blankly at her, but
she ignored him and turned to Margaret. Hate was in her voice. She
spoke quickly and waited for no reply, then moved on with her brother.
"Napoleon have been to seek you at your father’s farm, Margaret Bowden,
but you was better employed seemingly. My father is took very ill
indeed, and your husband be gone up over to him. You’d best get
home--if you can spare the time to think of your home. I shall be back
by night, but David may not be able to come."
She swept on her way and left them staring at each other. Margaret was
dishevelled and the shock of this meeting had dried her tears.
"Good Lord! that’s bad luck. She saw me kiss you, I’ll swear," murmured
Bartley. "And now she’ll believe there’s another married woman in the
case! Will she tell David?"
"What if she does? I’ll tell him myself. D’you think he’d care?"
"Shall I go after her and explain?"
"No," she answered. "Let her be."
"It’s time I was off anyhow. But poor old Elias! ’Very ill indeed,’ she
said. I hope he’s not booked. Can’t think of Ditsworthy without him."
They talked a little longer and Mr. Crocker was glad that there had come
distraction for Margaret’s mind. She deeply felt parting from him, for
he had bulked largely in her life, and he too had enjoyed her loyal
friendship and owed her much, though her labours on his behalf were all
fruitless. But now the moment was come in which they must part; and he
knew that the parting was probably eternal. He did not, however, intend
that she should know it. He lied glibly about coming over to ’Meavy
Cot’ on the following day; then he talked of other matters, and then,
when they had drifted down to Nosworthy bridge, pretended to be amazed
at the time.
"I must be pushing back in a hurry. My boxes go off first thing
to-morrow. And I daresay I shall get up to Ditsworthy after dark and
may have a tell with David there. But if Rhoda has already told him she
saw me kissing you--!"
"He’d laugh. He’s not the sort to mind that between me and you."
"I know he isn’t. I was only joking."
She revealed extreme solicitude for his future.
"You’ll take all care of yourself wherever you be; and you’ve promised,
on your word of honour, to come home and see old friends inside five
year."
"On my word of honour. And you’ve got to write, and keep me up in the
news, and tell me all about the house at Tavistock and everywhere else
that’s interesting."
He shook hands and moved off quickly, while she, too, went on her way.
But, when her back was turned, he stood still and took his last look;
for, despite promises, the man had no intention to see her again. His
ship was to start after noon on the following day, and he meant to leave
Sheepstor at dawn of the morrow.
Now Margaret swiftly faded into the dusk, and he went forward, subdued
and as melancholy as his spirit allowed.
"So good and brave a woman as ever walked this earth," he said to
himself. "God send me such another; but ’tis hardly likely."
For her sake he made time that night to go to Ditsworthy and speak with
David; and the following evening--at the hour in which he had promised
to visit ’Meavy Cot’ for a final farewell--he was aboard and watching
Devon fade swiftly along the edge of the sea. A shadow lay above the
grey, rolling ridges; and then that shadow sank out of his eyes for
ever.
But Bartley Crocker belonged to the order of lighter spirits who can
close the book of their past without a pang; and he did so now.
*CHAPTER XII*
*RHODA AND MARGARET*
When Rhoda returned from Ditsworthy, she stated briefly that a doctor
had seen Mr. Bowden and declared there was no immediate cause for
uneasiness. David, however, proposed to stop for the night and help his
mother.
The women supped silently--each angered with the other; and then
happened that which loosed the flood-gates of Rhoda’s passion and
precipitated a deed which, since the recent meeting in the wood, she had
strongly considered. She had changed her mind with regard to David; and
now, instead, it had come to her as a reasonable thing to attack
Margaret directly. But she hesitated to do so until the latter
unconsciously provoked her. Rhoda had not spoken to David of the
meeting with Madge and Bartley Crocker; but now David’s wife returned to
the subject and awoke anger in Rhoda, so that she lost self-control and
spilled out all the bitterness of her mind.
"Since your father’s not in danger, one has time for one’s own thoughts
again," said Madge, "and they are dark enough for the minute. You
looked terrible surprised in Dennycoombe wood a bit ago, and you was
terrible rude to me; but why for I don’t know. You puzzle me sometimes,
Rhoda. Can’t you even feel that ’tis sad the man who loved you so well
be going so far ways off?"
"The sooner the better."
"You’re heartless, I do believe."
"You make up for it, if I am."
"I suppose you’re shocked because I kissed him. Did you tell David? I
lay he didn’t pull a very long face about it. But what’s come over me?
To think of me talking in this loud, wild way! Forgive me, Rhoda. I
meant nothing. You can’t help being what you are, and feeling what you
feel, any more than I can. I’m not myself to-night. I shall miss him
cruel, and I don’t care who knows it."
The other kept silence. Her colour had gone and her breast was rising
and falling rapidly. Anger put a strain on her lungs and called for
air.
"Oh, Rhoda," cried Madge feebly, "why didn’t you take him? Nobody will
ever love you like that again; and nobody will ever understand you so
well as Bartley did. You were a fool--a fool not to take him. Now look
at it--your life all useless and nowhere to turn, unless you come to
Tavistock with us. Think better of it even now. Go to him to-morrow;
keep him here afore ’tis too late and he’s gone."
Then the other rose to her feet, and spoke slowly, and crushed the
slighter creature for ever.
"So you’ve sunk to that! You can dare to sit there and say that openly
to me. I’m to marry him--I’m to drag myself through the dirt of that
man’s life, so that you can have him always at your elbow!!"
Margaret stared, and in her turn grew pale.
"What are you saying or thinking?" she cried. "Are you out of your
mind?"
"If I am, I’ve had enough to make me. But I’m sane enough--for my
brother’s sake. I’ve kept sane all these cruel, cursed months, while
you’ve gone your way, and forgotten yourself, and disgraced his name.
Hear me, I say! Don’t you shout, for I can shout louder than you. What
I tell be God’s truth; and if you don’t confess it, I’ll do it for you.
D’you think I don’t know what men are? Nine in ten be of the same
beastly pattern; and this man’s the worst of all, for he’s a liar and a
thief, and he came to me with his false tales, but his mind was always
running on you; and he came to David and pretended to be his friend
and--and--"
She caught her breath and Margaret spoke swiftly.
"What do you accuse me of?"
"I accuse you of being unfaithful and untrue to my brother; and right
well you know it is so. I’ve watched--I know--and I’m not the only one.
My sister Dorcas--clever enough in evil she be--she knows it too. And
belike a many others among that knave’s friends, for he’s the sort to
rob a woman of her all, and then laugh to men about it. Maybe all the
world knows it but David’s self. I say you’ve sinned against my
brother, and I say he must know it--now--now--afore he begins at
Tavistock. And, please God, he’ll put you away from him, and choose
rather to live his life maimed alone, than with a foul wretch like you
under his roof."
"These are hideous lies--you’re dreaming--you’re mad to say such things.
You--you to come to an honest wife with this filthy story! ’Tis you
shall be cast out--’tis you.--Oh, my God! to think that I should hear
such words uttered against me by another woman!"
Madge’s brief flash of fight died even as she spoke. She was not
fashioned to carry the battle with a high hand. She began to think of
her husband.
"You shall say this to David and see where you find yourself," she
continued. "Is not a man’s wife nearer to him than a sister? Will he
believe you rather than me? Will he believe Dorcas rather than Bartley
Crocker himself? That you--you, Rhoda, of all women, could sting me so!
That you--you we thought so pure and clean as newly-fallen snow--could
invent such a thing! That you, who know me so well and my love and
worship of David.... Oh, Rhoda, I’m sorry for you!"
"Be sorry for yourself. Well--and too well--I know you. I had to spy.
I ban’t ashamed of it. There was nothing else but to tell him and let
him spy. And I couldn’t do that till I knew. ’Tis all of a piece--all
clear to any human mind--foul or fair. God judge me if I was quick to
think evil. I was slow to do it. I fought not to believe it. I tried
heart and soul not to see it. But you took good care I should see it.
Wasn’t you always after him? Didn’t you meet him in secret places
scores of times? How could I not see? And him coming to me; and you
pretending to want me to take him. Yet ’twas no pretence neither, for
’twould have suited you both well enough. And David, working day and
night, and trusting you, and always ready at a word to pleasure you.
That proud of you and hungry for your happiness-- But it’s ended now.
It ended to-day when I saw you in the wood. Not that I’ve not seen you
kissing him afore--fawning on his hand, by God! I’ve watched--yes--and
seen enough to know all I didn’t see. And he’s going to know it
too--David. He’s got to know for his own honour’s sake, and he shall."
"Will he believe it? Never! May God strike me here afore you, and kill
me slow the awfullest way that ever woman died, if by thought or deed
I’ve been false to him."
"Ah! Even so the man talked, and he’s alive yet. But the A’mighty won’t
forget either of you. You add lies to lies as he did. But I know
they’re lies. You needn’t talk as if I was a fool; I know him well
enough--none better. Did such as him--lecherous-minded beast that he
was--dance about in lonely woods and secret places with you for nothing?
If an angel from heaven told me you was honest I’d not believe it. And
I’m stronger than you think--stronger far than you--with David, I mean.
He knows I’m single-minded, anyway. He knows I’ve got no thought or
hope in the whole world except his good. He knows right well that I’ve
been a kind sister to you, and never done anything but strive for your
happiness as well as his. Till now--till now. And he’ll believe me;
for he knows that I couldn’t lie if I was tortured for speaking the
truth. And I am tortured--tortured as never a woman was tortured yet.
But he’s got to hear it; and he shall hear it afore that man goes. And,
as for you, whether he believes me or you, God’s my eternal judge but
I’ll never ope my mouth to you again as long as I live."
She said no more and went up to her room. Margaret waited a while and
then followed her; but Rhoda’s door was locked and she refused to answer
when the other spoke.
Then the wife descended and sat with companionship of her thoughts. She
lived through many hours of poignant grief. Again and again she fell
away stricken by her own heart; but she returned as often to the theme;
she strove to pierce the problem and see what her sister-in-law could
mean. How was it possible that such transparent innocence as Margaret’s
could from any standpoint look so vile? The bitterest enemy was
powerless to throw one shadow over her friendship with Bartley Crocker;
and yet here was her brother’s sister frenzied with this fearful idea,
and speaking of it as a fact proved beyond question. Rhoda believed in
it as surely as she believed in her own life. She was prepared to stake
her future and David’s love for her upon it. She was going to separate
Margaret from David, or herself from David, forever. One or other event
must inevitably happen.
A thousand plans of action rushed through the wife’s brain, and their
number defeated their varied purposes. Her native timidity served her
ill now. She did nothing but sit and think and reconstruct the past.
She remembered all the meetings with Bartley and their many plots and
plans to win Rhoda for him. She recollected the most intimate
conversations, when her nature or his formed the subject of their
speech. She had once kissed his hand in a sudden impulse, when he
announced the means to cure her mother. But she did not recall a single
perilous or dangerous pass between them; for indeed no such thing had
ever existed. Their regard was based on close and lifelong
understanding and friendship. There never had been a reciprocal passage
of passion, even in the days of her freedom. Her regard was the regard
of an ordinary woman for her favourite brother--an affection absolutely
untinged by any conscious sexual emotion whatsoever. Even at that, she
had not loved him as Rhoda loved David. She was not cast in the great
mould of Rhoda--great if unfinished.