Rhoda. Her instinct of self-preservation inclined her first to David,
then to Bartley, and then to her father’s home. She determined at last
to rest until day, and sought her bed. She lighted a match in the dark
after a sleepless hour. It went out before she could reach a candle,
and she was struck by the trivial phenomenon that, long after the match
was extinguished, its light shone in her eyeballs and throbbed in the
gloom like fiery rings until the impression waned. She rose an hour
before dawn and dressed and descended. Then she went out and breathed
the chill morning wind. As yet it was quite dark. Looking up, she saw
that a candle burned in Rhoda’s room. Some subtle psychological instinct
crushed her spirit before the spectacle of that woman’s steadfast and
unsleeping watch. An impulse to get away from Rhoda overpowered
Margaret. She returned, fetched her sun-bonnet, and hastened off
without any fixed purpose of destination.
When David’s sister came down before six o’clock, the house was empty.
She, too, had passed through storms; she also had faltered at the hour
when life’s pulses beat lowest and midnight sets its dead weight upon
human hearts. She had longed to rise and get into the air; but she was
determined not to lose sight of Margaret until David came home. Yet for
a time she had lost consciousness and slept awhile at edge of dawn. And
during those fitful slumbers, Margaret had departed.
The day found Rhoda assured of her own action, though the result of it
she could not foretell; but thus to have thrust matters upon their
climax was a relief to her, and she felt only interested further to
learn the extent of David’s future sufferings and her power to lessen
them.
That Margaret had disappeared did not much astonish her. She doubted
not that her sister-in-law was gone to have the first speech with David.
Rhoda reviewed her own knowledge of facts and prepared her own
statement. She perceived that she herself must come vilely out of it,
as a spy and informer; but she kept her intentions and object in view,
and believed that, suffer as he must, David would not lose sight of her
motives. Her only desire was that her brother’s home might be
cleansed--at any cost to its inhabitants. She thirsted to speak to
David and hear his voice.
Yet, when she saw him coming alone through the morning, her thoughts
flashed along another train, and she held her peace until a more fitting
time for speech. And this she did because she guessed that something
vital had happened to Margaret--something which must justify her
attitude and sweep away the last shadow of doubt.
Then her brother surprised her mightily; for, when she told him that
Margaret had gone from the house before daylight, he seemed but little
astonished to hear it.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*THE SEARCH*
More for thought of Margaret than the sick master of Ditsworthy, had
Crocker climbed to the Warren House upon his last evening at Sheepstor.
He asked to see David, spent half an hour with him, and spoke explicitly
of Rhoda, of his final failure to win her, and of the attitude that she
had adopted towards him during that interview.
"God knows I wish her nought but good," he said; "and first and best
that her mind should be cleansed of things she’s heard from some unknown
enemy and believes against me. She’s got it in her head that I’m a
worthless blackguard, born to make trouble. When she met me with your
wife in Dennycoombe wood, a few hours since, she spoke as if I’d no
business to be talking to Margaret. I say this for Margaret’s sake;
because, before saying ’good-bye,’ I kissed Margaret, and your sister
saw me do so, and went white with passion. There’s that about kissing
she can’t forgive or forget, seemingly. But I’m off to-morrow and don’t
want to leave any trouble behind me."
David nodded.
"You must allow for Rhoda. She’s terrible fretted and has got a deal on
her mind just now," he said.
"That’s true enough; and she’s often right; and I’m a fashion of man not
worthy to name in the same breath with her. I only mention these things
for your sake and Margaret’s. Your sister is cruelly wrong about me,
anyway, and maybe time will show her so. Only she mustn’t be wrong about
Madge. Me and Madge did very often meet, and even in secret, if you
like. But why? Not to hide anything from anybody but Rhoda herself.
Madge was very wishful for me to have Rhoda, and again and again we
planned and plotted together what she could do, and what I could do, to
bring it about. You understand that?"
"Why, yes; Margaret always told me about it of course."
"But perhaps Rhoda didn’t see what we wanted to be together for behind
her back. A stupid muddle sure enough, and nothing but Madge wanting to
do her and me a good turn was the cause of it. You clear her mind for
her the first minute you can, David. And if she’s had a row with
Margaret, make ’em be friends again. Only you can do it."
Thus he spoke, and the other saw all clearly.
"Rhoda’s been unlike herself a good while," he answered. "And now I
begin to see daylight. Of course, if she had some wild, silly fancies
against you, and people have been telling her that you’re not straight,
she may have been vexed and anxious that you saw so much of my wife.
For my sake she’d have felt so. But why she should have believed
anything against you, or who spoke against you--that I can’t say.
However, your character is safe with me. I’ll soon have it out and let
loose some common sense into her brains. You must allow a bit for
unmarried girls like her. They can’t see life whole, and they get wrong
opinions about men’s minds. She’s wise as need be every other way; but
where men and women combined are the matter, she never can take proper
views. She’s jealous for me without a doubt--maybe because I was never
known to be jealous for myself: too busy for that. And why should I be
with a wife like mine?"
"You may well ask it. Madge would rather die than think an evil
thought, let alone do an evil deed, against you. As for Rhoda--she
beats me. Most of the man-hating sort be ugly and a bit hard at the
angles; but she--she’s as pretty as any wife you ever saw in the world.
The Lord may send her a husband yet! And mind you let me know if it
happens, for I’d like to give her a wedding present worth having."
They parted then.
"Well, good luck to you," said the elder; "and don’t forget to let us
home-staying chaps have a sight of you again presently, when a few years
be past and you’ve started on your fortune."
"And all good wishes to you, David; and, for a last kindness, I’ll ask
you to get Madge to see my Aunt Susan Saunders sometimes and cheer her
up. She badly wanted for me to take her along to Canada--poor old lady;
but of course I couldn’t do that--such a wanderer as I shall be till I
find that place that pleases me."
Thus it came about that when David returned to his home and heard that
Madge was not there, he felt no intense astonishment. He doubted not
that sharp words had passed and that his wife had left Rhoda until he
should come home. For the time, however, he kept silence. He
determined to speak to Rhoda and Madge together when the latter
reappeared. He felt certain that she had gone to Coombeshead; and he
also believed that she would stop with her parents until he went to
fetch her.
"Put on the griddle and cook me a bit of meat for breakfast," he said to
Rhoda. "I’m very hungry, along of having sat up most of the night with
father. He’s come well through it. He slept off and on, and feels he’s
safe this morning. I shall go up again later, when Madge be back."
He ate, then started to Coombeshead; but his wife was not there, neither
had any news been received concerning her. Then he walked across to
Sheepstor, but none had seen or heard of Margaret. He called at ’The
Corner House’ to drink, and stopped there a while. But his mind was now
much agitated. He soon set off for Ditsworthy; and he prayed as he went
that there his increasing fears for Madge might be laid at rest.
It was after noon when he arrived at his father’s house, to learn that
the doctor had pronounced Mr. Bowden better. But no news of Margaret
greeted him. His twin brothers were just setting out for Princetown, to
procure certain medical comforts for their father. Now they went as far
as Coombeshead with David, and there he left them and returned again to
the Stanburys. Still they had heard nothing. In grave alarm the husband
went home, but Margaret was not there. Night now approached, and the
man braced himself to set about systematic search and summon responsible
aid.
Rhoda had left a hot meal for him and he ate it quickly; but she herself
had departed. A pencilled note explained that she had gone to seek
Margaret at certain farms where chance might have led her. David now
much desired to cross-question Rhoda closely as to the matters that fell
between her and Margaret on the preceding evening; but for the present
this was impossible. He was just about to set off, give the alarm, and
institute search parties, when the twins, Samson and Richard, suddenly
appeared together and brought news.
* * * * *
When David’s wife left her home before dawn, she walked aimlessly onward
until thought worked with her and directed her footsteps to a definite
goal. The first note of light in the sky presently beckoned her, and
unconsciously she set her feet in that direction. She moved along
eastward by the leat, where it raced down a steep place under Cramber
Tor; and she reflected between three courses. Her first thought was to
seek David before all others, tell him what Rhoda was going to tell him,
and explain the truth. Then she feared. The day broke very cold and
dawn chilled her and lowered her spirit. Next she considered of
Bartley; and it seemed a wise thing to seek him and go to David with
him. Finally she thought of her father, and wondered whether wisest
action might not take her to her old home. It was a father’s and a
brother’s part to fight this battle for her. They would stand before
David, man to man, and refute the infamy that Rhoda had prepared for his
ears. But some mood led to Bartley Crocker before the rest. She turned
presently and set her face to Sheepstor. And thus it happened that
standing near the village, on high ground above it, she actually saw the
early departure of her friend. He drove swiftly away under her eyes,
and she was powerless to reach him now or to communicate with him. He
had promised to see her again that evening; but doubtless to escape
emotional leave-takings and an elaborate departure he had planned this
secret exit. She did not blame him; but now that he was irrevocably
gone, she doubted terribly for herself and asked herself what next must
happen. She did not fear David, but she greatly feared Rhoda. She knew
her husband’s estimate of Rhoda, and she suspected that in a deliberate
contest between them he might lean to the stronger nature. He had never
been jealous or shown the shadow of such an instinct, and that thought
comforted her; but Rhoda was very strong, and if Rhoda was not mad, then
she must be armed with arguments to support her awful belief. Margaret
had nothing but denials--and Bartley was gone. Perhaps, against the
lying testimony that Rhoda possessed, and doubtless believed, her bare
denial would prove all too weak. She amazed herself to find how calmly
she considered the sudden situation--a situation that yesterday she
would have fainted to consider. Now, looking at the empty road when
Bartley’s vehicle had left it, she felt that salvation lay in one
direction alone. She must see David before Rhoda could see him. He
would return that morning; therefore her safest course was to go home
swiftly, lie hidden by the way, and intercept him as he came along. She
set off again, and as she returned, became conscious of physical hunger.
But the sensation passed and she pressed forward until her home
appeared. She came back in time to find herself too late; for she saw
her husband descend the hill to ’Meavy Cot’ and enter the house while
yet she was half a mile distant.
Now active fear got hold upon Margaret. In spirit she heard Rhoda’s
voice; she listened to the indictment; she pictured David’s incredulity.
He would surely start to see Bartley Crocker on the instant; and he
would find Bartley gone for ever. And then? Her thoughts turned again
to her own people. She cried out from her heart for protection. Her
mental weakness gained upon her as she grew physically more feeble. Her
legs trembled under her. She turned, and crouched, and crept behind a
wall, that no chance eye from ’Meavy Cot’ might see her aloft on the
hill. Then she started to go to Coombeshead, and ran some distance
until she grew suddenly weak and was forced to sit and rest herself for
fear of fainting. David would doubtless guess that she had gone home.
He would follow; he was certain to be upon the way now, and he must
overtake her long before she reached Coombeshead. Increasing terror and
decreasing reason threw her into a shivering sweat. She jumped up and
left the road to Coombeshead, and so in reality avoided David, who had
now set out for the farm of the Stanburys. She actually saw him pass
within a hundred yards of her, and she rejoiced at her escape. Then,
when he had gone by, she went forward to Crazywell and hid there, in
deep gorse brakes not far distant from the water. Here she was safe
enough for the present. She drank from a spring, and then sat on a
stone until she grew very cold.
The time for useful thought or a sensible decision was past; the
critical hours, when this woman’s humble intellect might have led her to
salvation, had gone by. Now she stood weak every way--physically
reduced, mentally depressed and fear-stricken. She had declined upon a
state which found her a prey to unreal terrors, phantom-driven, pervious
to the secret evils of heredity. These intrinsic ills, latent in her
blood and brain, now found their vantage, and presently reduced the
daughter of Constance Stanbury to a condition of peril. It was in this
pitiful case, as she wandered some hours later near Crazywell, that
there came to her two children, and she had speech with them. She was
light-headed; but they did not know it. They stared at the things she
said and thought that brother David’s wife was making very queer jokes.
Samson and Richard, with their basket carried between them, staggered
steadily homewards through thickening dusk. They wondered which of the
luxuries in the basket their father would eat first; and they rather
envied him his collapse, when they considered the attractive nature of
these prescriptions. Then they came suddenly upon Margaret standing by
the gorse-brakes. She started and was about to dive into cover, like a
frightened beast or bird, when she recognised the boys.
"Hullo!" cried Samson. "Why, ’tis Madge! Whatever be you doing up here
all by yourself?"
She stared at them as they set down their basket and rested their arms.
"Oh, Lord, these good things be heavy!" declared Richard.
"Have ’e got a bit of meat there, Dicky?" she asked, her nature crying
for food.
"I should just think we had. A half of a calf’s head for soup, and
three bottles of jelly, and a bottle of wine. I wish I was faither!"
"And grapes, took out of a barrel of sawdust," said Samson.
"A long journey for your little legs; but nought to mine," she said.
"You must know, you boys, that I be going to set out on a journey myself
as far as from here to the stars--or further."
They laughed at the idea.
"Be you? And what’ll David say?" asked Richard.
"He’ll understand very well. ’Tis for him I shall do it. I lay he’ll
be glad."
"Why don’t he go along with you?"
"Not yet; but he’ll come after some day."
"Where’s your luggage to?" asked the practical Samson.
"Don’t want none--no luggage--no money--no ticket--only a pinch of
courage. Mr. Shillabeer taught me the way. If you’ve out-lived your
usefulness, ’tis better to make room for better people. And there’s no
such thing as wrong-doing, Dick, because God A’mighty, being
all-powerful, won’t let it happen. You and Samson might think as you do
wrong sometimes."
"So they tell us," admitted Samson.
"Not you--you’re God’s children and can’t no more do wrong than the
birds and the angels."
"That’s worth knowing," said Richard.
"Nor yet me: I must do what I must, and the journey’s got to be took.
Because I may be useful in one place, though I can’t be in another....
’Tis a bitter cruel thing to be misunderstood, Samson."
"So it is--as I said last time Joshua gave me a lacing and found out
after ’twas Nap," he answered.
"When might you start?" asked Richard.
"There’s nought to keep me--my usefulness be ended. But I’m that
terrible hungry."
"I should go home along and have a bit of supper first."
"No, no, Sam. Good-byes be such sad things. Better I go without ’em.
Bartley, he went off without, and he was wise. But I see’d him set out.
All the same, his journey’s but a span long to mine."
The boys were puzzled. They talked together.
"Might us give her a biscuit--one of them big uns?" whispered Richard;
but Samson refused.
"No. ’Twill be found out, and of course they’ll say we ate it."
"Where do ’e set out from?" asked Richard.
"From this here pool."
"Funny place to go on a journey from," said Samson. "’Tis my belief
you’m having a game with us."
Margaret shook her head.
"Never no more," she said. "We’ve played many and many a good game--you
two and me. But they all be ended now. I’m going to new usefulness
somewhere long ways off--terrible busy I’ll be, without a doubt; and you
be both growing into men, and busy too. But don’t you forget me, you
boys--because I never will forget neither of you."
"You talk as if you wasn’t going to come back," said Richard. "I’m sure
David would make a terrible fuss if you was to go for long."
"But Rhoda won’t," added Samson. "Rhoda don’t like you overmuch. For
that matter, she don’t like anything but David and dogs. Me and Dick
don’t set no store by Rhoda, do we, Dick?"
"No," said Richard. "We do not."
"I’ll come back--I’ll come back to watch over David," said Madge
suddenly. "Yes, I won’t bide away altogether. I couldn’t. But not
same as I am now--not a poor, broken-hearted, useless good-for-nothing,
as have worn out her welcome in the world. I’ll be a shining, joyous
thing then--winged like a lark, and so sweet a singer too."
"You can sing very nice, and always could," said Dick graciously.
"I’d sing to you boys now, but there’s no time. Be it night or morning
with us? I’m sure I couldn’t say, for I’ve been up and about these days
and days."
"They’m looking for you, come to think of it," said Samson suddenly.
"David was up over after dinner."
"Was he kind or cross?"
"Neither--but a good bit flurried seemingly."
"He don’t know about the journey, you see. I’m afraid he’ll be
sorry--after. He’ll be sorry, won’t he, Dicky?"
"He’ll be terribly vexed without a doubt," declared Richard. "In fact,
if I was you, I’d change your mind. You oughtn’t to do nothing without
telling him--ought her, Samson?"
"No, her oughtn’t," answered his brother.
"You two--two at a birth," she said. "Got together and born together!
’Tis a very beautiful thing--a beautiful thing, sure enough. You’m
one--not two at all--one in heart and thought and feeling, one in your
little joys and fears and hopes. And even so I’d thought to be with
David. But I wasn’t strong enough and understanding enough for that.
He’s too much above me. And us had no childer, you see. There comed no
babby to my bosom, and so--there ’tis--the usefulness and hope of me all
gone--a withered, worn-out blossom as never set no fruit. And when the
flower be fallen, ’tis all over and forgot. My mother knowed best, you
see. She always feared it wouldn’t come to good. How right she was!"
"What silly old rummage you do talk," said Richard. "Never heard the
like! Why for don’t you go home? Didn’t Madge ought for to go home,
Sam?"
"Yes, she did," said Samson, "this instant. She’m mazed, I believe."
"Pisgies been at her, I reckon," hazarded his brother.
"I’m going home," she answered. "On my solemn word of honour, as a
living Christian, I’m going home; and if I’m there afore them I care
about--what’s the odds? Only there’s no marrying nor giving in marriage
there. Won’t Rhoda be happy then! But I tell you two witty boys that
I’m wickedly wronged, and the world will know it. I won’t stoop to
defend myself--I’m above that; but my God will defend me, and you must
defend me--both of you. ’Tis a very cruel thing to tell lies against
the innocent--them as never did you harm--them as only thought and
planned always to better you and bring you happiness. And wasn’t my
sorrow large enough, the black sorrow of the women that never rock
cradles--but she must--? .... you’ll always have a good word for me,
Richard--won’t ’e?--if ’tis only for the sake of the fun we’ve had."
"So we will then," said Dick. "And if anybody says anything against
you, me and Sam won’t suffer it. Because you’re a jolly good sort and
always have been. Never was one like you for cake--never."
Samson pulled at Richard’s sleeve in the gathering gloom.
"Us had better go," he whispered.
"Us must go now," repeated Dicky to Margaret.
"Good-bye then, and God bless you both--such little men as you be
growing! Yet ’tis cruel not to give me a bite from your basket. I’m
faint for want of food--God’s my judge but I am."
"Can’t, for fear of catching it. You’ll do best to go back home,"
advised Samson.
"I shall be there afore you are. ’Tis beautiful to be there first of
all, to welcome all the rest as they come in one after t’other, like
homing pigeons. If they only knowed ... if they only knowed how dearly
I’ve loved ’em all--Rhoda, too. I tried so hard to make her a happy
woman. But they will come to know at journey’s end. And she’ll know
then. ’Twill all be burning light then, with nothing hid and the last
heartache lifted."
They took their basket and crept off. In the dark they stopped and
listened. She was singing.
"Never knowed her like that afore," said Richard. "I’ve a good mind to
take back a biscuit for her and chance what they’ll say. She’s terrible
leery[#] and terrible queer."
[#] Hungry.
"Us had better get home and tell about her."
They pushed on for a quarter of a mile, and then Samson had another
idea.
"We’m nearer ’Meavy Cot’ than anywheers," he said. "Us had better go and
tell David. ’Tis his job to look after Madge, I should think--him being
her husband."
"’I’m cruel tired," answered Richard; "and as ’tis we shall catch it
pretty hot for being such a deuce of a time."
"’We’ll leave the basket here, and just run down and then come back for
it. And as to catching it, we shall catch it worse if we don’t tell
David, and he comes to hear about it after Madge has sloped off."
"You go, and I’ll bide here and keep guard over the basket," suggested
Dick; but Samson would not have this.
"No," he answered firmly, "I’m not going without you. You know very
well us can’t do nought apart."
They left the basket on the top of a wall and turned back and reached
’Meavy Cot.’ Then they told David that Madge was by Crazywell, and much
to their disappointment, he seized his hat and rushed from the house
before they had time to give any description of their remarkable
conversation with her. Rhoda was not in, and finding themselves alone,
the boys sought the larder and ventured to eat heartily. Then they went
on their way, cheered at consciousness of well-doing and the reward of
well-doing.
All that David had heard was how his brothers had met with Madge by
Crazywell. More he did not stop to learn; and when some time afterwards
he stood by the pool, tramped its shores and shouted Margaret’s name
until the hollowed cup of the little tarn echoed, he judged that the
children had been mistaken in the darkness and imagined that some other
was Madge. Because he saw no sign of her and heard no answer to his
cries. For a time he wandered through the night and splashed along the
fringes of the pool; then he abandoned the search, groped his way
upwards, and returned home.
His wife, however, had been within sound of his voice. Through the
locked portals of a sleeping ear his cries had reached and wakened her.
When Samson and Richard were gone, she sang a hymn about the joys of
heaven; and then nature made a sudden and imperious appeal for sleep.
She had not slumbered for forty hours, and now, succumbing swiftly, lay
down under the gorse and sank into oblivion.
Anon her husband’s voice reached her brain, and roused her
consciousness. His loud summons, filtering through the sleep-drenched
avenues of her brain, begot happy dreams therein. She smiled and
wakened. Then she heard him calling in the darkness, and sudden terrors
bound her hand and foot. His voice, lifted in deep anxiety, to her
seemed laden with wrath. Her dismantled mind hid the truth and turned
the man’s cry into a sinister threat. Therefore she cowered motionless,
breathless, like a bird that sees a hawk at hand, until he was gone, and
silence returned.