Before the snows melted and the first month of the new year had passed
by, John Aggett and his master’s son were friends no more.
Of Timothy it may be recorded that he fought fiercely, then with waning
strength, and finally succumbed and lost his battle. By slow degrees his
intimacy with Sarah grew. Neither sought the other; but love dragged
them together. The man hid it from his small world, or fancied that he
did so; the girl blushed in secret and knew that what she had mistaken
for love was mere attachment—an emotion as far removed from her affection
for Timothy as the bloodless moonbeams from the flush of a rosy sunrise.
A time came, and that quickly, when she could deceive herself no longer,
and she knew that her life hung on her lover, while the other man was no
more than a sad cloud upon the horizon of the future.
Frosts temporarily retarded the thaw, and Timothy and Sarah walked
together at evening time in a great pine wood. A footpath, ribbed and
fretted with snakelike roots, extended here, and moving along it they
sighed, while the breath of the great trees bore their suspirations aloft
into the scented silence. One band of orange light hung across the west
and the evening star twinkled diamond-bright upon it, while
perpendicularly against the splendour sprang the lines of pine trunks,
dimmed aloft with network of broken and naked boughs, merging above into
a sombre crown of accumulated foliage. Cushions of dead needles were
crisp under foot and the whisper of growing ice tinkled on the ear.
“’Tis vain to lie—at least to you an’ to myself. I love ’e, Tim; I love
’e wi’ all my poor heart—all—all of it.”
Her breath left her red lips in a little cloud and she hung her head
hopelessly down.
“God can tell why such cruel things happen, dearest. Yet you loved him
too—poor chap.”
“Never. ’Tis the difference ’tween thinkin’ an’ knowin’—a difference
wide as the Moor. I never knowed love; I never knowed as theer was such
a—but this be wicked talk. You’ve winned the solemn truth out o’ me; an’
that must content ’e. I never could ax un to give me up—him so gude an’
workin’ that terrible hard to make a home for me.”
“What will the home be when you’ve got it? Some might think it was
better that one should suffer instead of two.”
“I couldn’t leave him, out of pity.”
“You must think of yourself, too, Sarah—if not of me. I hate saying so,
but when your life’s salvation hangs on it, who can be dumb? John
Aggett’s a big-hearted, honest man; yet he hasn’t our deep feelings; it
isn’t in him to tear his heart to tatters over one woman as I should.”
“Us can’t say what deeps a man may have got hid in him.”
“Yes, but we can—in a great measure. John’s not subtle. He’s made of
hard stuff and sensible stuff. I’ll fathom him at any rate. It must be
done. He shall know. God forgive me—and yet I don’t blame myself very
much. I was not free—never since you came into my life and filled it up
to the brim. He saw the danger. I confess that. He warned me, an’ I
bade him fear nothing. I was strong in my own conceit. Then this
happened. The thing is meant to be; I know it at the bottom of my being.
It was planned at creation and we cannot alter it if we would.”
“’Tis well to say that; but I reckon poor Jan thought the same?”
“I’ll see him; I’ll speak with him man to man. He must give you up. Oh,
if I could change places with him and find myself a labourer just toiling
to make a home for you, I’d thank the Lord on my knees!”
“I wish I’d never seen either of ’e, for I’ve awnly made the both of ’e
wretched men. Better I’d never drawed breath than bring this gert load
of sorrow upon you an’ him.”
“You can’t help it; you’re innocent, and the punishment must not fall
upon your shoulders. You love me better than Aggett; and that he must
know in justice to himself—and us.”
“Then his life be ruined an’ his cup bitter for all time.”
“I don’t think so, Sarah. You misjudge him. And even if this must be
so, it is only Fate. I will speak to him to-night.”
“Leave it a little while. I’m fearful to trembling when I think of it.
’Tis I must tell him, not you. ’Tis I must tell him I’m not faithful an’
beg for forgiveness from him. An’ if he struck me down an’ hurted me—if
he killed me—I’d say ’twas awnly fair punishment.”
“He never would lift a finger, even in his rage.”
“Jan? Never—never. A fiery soul, but so soft-hearted as a li’l cheel.
Ess fay, ’tis from me he should hear it, if he must.”
“It would be better that I should do this.”
Before they reached the stile, that stood under the great beech tree,
each loving coward had prayed the other to leave the task alone; and
finally both promised to do nothing for a short space. Then into the
light they came, and Sarah, glancing upward, saw dim letters and a
lovers’ knot like sad eyes staring from the tree trunk.
As a matter of fact, there existed no great need to impress the situation
upon John Aggett. The man, if slow-witted, was not blind, and, indeed,
agile enough of intellect where Sarah was concerned. For many days he
had hesitated to read the change in her. His visits to her had been
marked by gloomy fits of taciturnity, by short speeches, abrupt
leave-takings, by distrust in his eyes, by rough mumbled sentences she
could not catch, by outbursts of affection, by sudden hugs to his heart,
by searching, silent scrutiny of her features and numberless reiterations
of one question. He never wearied to hear her declare that she loved
him; his only peace of mind was in the moments of that assurance daily
repeated; and he approached to absolute subtlety in appraisement of
Sarah’s voice and vocal inflection as she made answer. Until the
present, her affirmation of love had rung truly upon his ear; now he felt
a shadow behind the words and steeled himself to the change. Her lips
said one thing; her voice and eyes another. He grew slowly to believe
the signs and to realise that she loved him no more, or if a little, so
little that she did not mind lying to him.
Over this earthquake in his life he brooded bitterly enough, yet the
stroke of it, upon first falling, was in some measure broken by his
knowledge of Timothy’s interview with Gammer Gurney. A fatalistic
resignation arose from this recollection and manifested itself, for the
brief space of a week, in John’s attitude to his fate. But as the nature
of all he had lost and how he had lost it beat upon his brain, a great
agony of reality soon caused him to brush the white witch and her
predictions out of the argument; they were factors too trivial to
determine the careers of men and women; and thus, from beneath the smoke
of his brief apathy appeared a consuming fire, and the man’s passionate
nature cried for a speedy and definite end to his torments.
Work upon the land was suspended under frost; but from the great barn in
Bellever Barton came daily a hurtling of flails where threshing of barley
kept the hands busy for many hours in each brief day. The flails gleamed
like shooting stars across the dusty atmosphere of the barn, and when the
sunlight entered, a sort of delicate golden cloud hung in the air, only
to sink slowly away upon cessation of labour. Timothy Chave, too,
laboured here. For something to occupy him he swung a flail with the
rest, and made the old hands think better of themselves and their skill
within sight of his clumsy efforts. Then it happened that Aggett, awake
to an opportunity, suddenly desisted from work, pulled on his coat and
accosted his rival. But he spoke for Tim’s ear alone and challenged no
general attention.
“Set down your drashel an’ come an’ speak wi’ me a minute t’other side
the yard.”
“Certainly, John, if you wish it.”
A moment later the meeting that Sarah had dreaded came about; but the
results of it were of a sort not to have been anticipated. Aggett went
straight to the point of attack and his temper suffered from the outset
before the more cultured man’s attitude and command of words.
“You knaw full well what I’ve got to say before I sez it, I judge. I see
in your face you know, Timothy Chave.”
“Yes, I do. It’s about Sarah. Things that must happen, must happen.
I’m glad you’ve broached this subject, Aggett. Well, it stands thus; we
are not our own masters always, unfortunately.”
“You can say that an’ look me in the face calm as a stone, arter what
passed between us six weeks ago?”
“Six weeks—is that all?”
“Ess fay, though more like six years to me—six years o’ raging, roasting
hell. Why do ’e bide here? Why do ’e take walks along wi’ she—skulking
in the woods away from honest eyes like a fox? You’ve lied to me—”
“Don’t speak quite so loud, John. I cannot help the past. It was not my
doing. I never sought out Sarah. We are all tools in the hand of Fate
or Providence, or whatever you like to call it; we are puppets and must
dance to the tune God is pleased to play. We’re not free, any of us—not
free to make promises or give undertakings. Doesn’t this prove that
we’re slaves to a man? I love Sarah Belworthy with all my heart and
soul. That is not a sin. There is nothing in the world for me but her.
I’m frank enough to you now; and if I lied before, it was because I
thought I could control what was to come. I tried to keep my word. I
turned from her path many times. I begged to be allowed to go away from
the Moor, but my father would not suffer me to change my mind again. I
swear I did my best; but loving is another matter. I might as easily
have promised not to breathe as not to love her.”
“Words! An’ her—an’ me—?”
“It’s cursedly hard. God knows I don’t find it easy to answer you. But
think: picture yourself in her place. Imagine that you found a woman you
loved better than Sarah.”
“’Tis allus lifting of the burden on to other folks’ shoulders wi’ you.
I ban’t agwaine to imagine vain things at your bidding. Dost hear me? I
want the plain truth in plain speech. But that’s more’n you could give
me, I reckon. The question I’ve got to ax, my girl’s got to answer. An’
I call her ‘my girl,’ yet, until I hear from her awn lips she ban’t my
girl no more. Then—then—Christ knaws what—”
“If there’s any sort of satisfaction on earth, I’d give it to you. I
know better than you can tell me that I’m a weak man. And I’ve hated
myself for many days when I thought of you; but there it is—a fact beyond
any mending.”
“Get out of her life, if you’re honest, an’ doan’t whine to me ’bout
things being beyond mendin’! Go! Turn your back on her an’ let the
dazzle of ’e fade out of her eyes an’ out of her mind. You knaw so well
as me, that it ban’t beyond mendin’. She promised to marry me ’fore ever
she seed the shadow of you; an’ you knawed it from the fust moment you
set eyes on her; an’ yet you went on an’ sinked from manhood into this.
You’m a whole cowardice o’ curs in the skin o’ one man, damn you!”
“You do right to curse. You will never feel greater contempt for me than
I do for myself. I cannot go away. It is impossible—wholly above my
strength. And the position is beyond mending, despite what you say—both
for Sarah and for me. It is no crime in her to love me; the fault is
mine, and if I had sworn on my hope of salvation to you, I should have
broken my oath as I did my promise. Measure my punishment—that is all
you can do; and I won’t flinch from it.”
“She loves you—better’n what she do me? It’s come to that; an’ you ax me
to measure your punishment! You pitiful wretch! You know you’m safe
enough now. She loves you better’n me. Theer’s your safety. ‘Struth!
I could smash your bones like rotten wood, an’ you know it; but she loves
you better’n me; an’ who be I to crack her painted china wi’ my rough
cloam? I doan’t love her no less—anyways not so little as to bruise you,
an’ that you knowed afore you spoke. Get out o’ my sight an’ may worse
fall on you than ever I would bring. May the thing you’ve done breed an’
bite an’ sap the heart out of ’e like a canker worm; may it bring thorns
to your roses, an’ death to your hopes, an’ storms to your skies; may it
fill your cup wi’ gall an’ bend your back afore your time an’ sting you
on your death-bed. May it do all that, an’ more, so as you’ll mind this
hour an’ know if I’d scatted your lying brains abroad an’ killed ’e,
’twould have been kinder than to let you live!”
“I have deserved your hardest words; but forgive her—now that you yield
her up; forgive her if ever you loved her, for the fault was none of
hers.”
“You can think for her, can ’e? You can stand between me an’ her to
shield her against the man as would have faced fire an’ water an’ all
hell’s delights for her ever since she was a li’l dinky maid! You ax me
to forgive her—you? Christ A’mighty! she’m a lucky woman to have a man
of your metal to stand up for her against me!”
“I didn’t mean that, Aggett; only I feared—”
“Doan’t I love her tu, you smooth-faced fule? Do ’e think one hair of
her ban’t so precious to me as to you? Do ’e think because she’ve took
your poison I’m mazed tu? I’ve got to live my life wi’out her; I’ve got
to bide all my days wi’out her—that’s enough. But she’d have loved me
still if she could. Ban’t her sin that you poured magic in her cup;
ban’t her sin that she won’t wear glass beads no more now she thinks
she’ve found a strong o’ di’monds.”
“You’re a better man than I am, John; you make me see what I’ve done; you
make me wish I was dead.”
“Liar! Don’t prate no more to me. I hate the filthy sight of ’e, an’
the sound of thy oily tongue. I’d swing for ’e to-morrow, an’ keep my
last breath to laugh with; but for she. Tell her—no, that I’ll do
myself. I’ll tell her; an’ no call for you to fear as your fine name
will get any hard knocks. I’ll never soil my mouth with it more arter
to-day.”
He departed, and the other, in misery and shame, stood and watched him
return to the threshing-floor. Yet, as the unhappy spirit who has
sacrificed his life to a drug and creeps through shame and contumely back
and back to the poison, counting nothing as vital that does not separate
him therefrom, so now the man felt that Sarah Belworthy was his own and
told himself that his honour, his self-respect, his fair repute were well
lost in exchange for this unexampled pearl.