Now thundered upon John Aggett the full flood of his griefs at highest
water-mark. Until this time hopes had alternated with fears,
possibilities of recovered joy with the thought of utter loss. Then he
had possessed Sarah’s promises and the consciousness that in his hands,
not another’s, lay the future. But now John had departed out of her life
for good and all, and the great act of self-renunciation was complete.
To the highest-minded and noblest soul something in the nature of
anti-climax must have followed upon this action. That one capable of so
great a deed and such unselfish love possessed ample reserves of
self-command and self-control to live his life henceforward on the same
high plane by no means followed. Having by his own act insured the
highest good for the woman he loved, John Aggett’s subsequent display
sank far below that standard and indeed embraced a rule of life inferior
to his usual conduct. A supreme unconcern as to what might now await him
characterised his actions. As a lighthouse lamp illuminates some horror
of sea and stone, so his notable deed shone in a sorry setting, for John
Aggett’s existence now sank as much below its usual level of indifferent
goodness as his relinquishment of Sarah Belworthy, for love of her, had
risen above it. Until the present his attachment to the girl and hope of
happiness had made him a hard-working man, and since his engagement he
had laboured with the patience of a beast and counted weariness a delight
as the shillings in his savings-box increased. Now incentive to further
work was withdrawn, he abated his energies, lacking wit to realise that
upon sustained toil and ceaseless mental occupation his salvation might
depend. His final departure from Bellever Barton was brought about as
the result of a curious interview with his master.
To Farmer Chave, young Timothy, now reestablished with Sarah, had come to
break the news of his betrothal. But no parental congratulation rewarded
the announcement. Mr. Chave knew every man and woman in Postbridge, and
was familiar with the fact that the blacksmith’s daughter had long been
engaged to his cowman. That his son and heir should favour a labourer’s
sweetheart was a galling discovery and provoked language of a sort seldom
heard even in those plain-speaking times. Finally the father dismissed
his son, bade him get out of sight and conquer his calf-love once and for
all or hold himself disinherited. A little later he acted on his own
shrewd judgement and held converse with Sarah’s original suitor.
John was milking as the farmer entered his cow-yard, and a flood of
sunlight slanted over the low byre roofs and made the coats of the cattle
shine ripe chestnut red.
“Evenin’ to ’e, Aggett. Leave that job an’ come an’ have a tell wi’ me.
I wants to speak to ’e.”
“Evenin’, maister. I’ll milk `Prim’ dry, ’cause she do awnly give down
to me. Milly can do t’others.”
Farmer Chave waited until the cow “Prim” had yielded her store, then he
led the way to an empty cow-stall—dark, cool and scented by its
inhabitants. Across the threshold fell a bar of light; without, a vast
heap of rich ordure sent forth delicate sun-tinted vapour; close at hand
the cows stood waiting each her turn, and one with greatly distended
udder lowed to the milkmaid.
“Look you here, Jan Aggett, you’m for marryin’, ban’t ’e? Didn’t you
tell me when I took you on as a you was keepin’ company wi’ blacksmith’s
purty darter?”
“’Twas so, then.”
“Well, I’m one as likes to see my hands married an’ settled an’ getting
childer ’cordin’ to Bible command. What’s your wages this minute?”
“You’m on a wrong tack, maister. Sarah Belworthy an’ me be out. Theer’s
nought betwixt us more.”
Mr. Chave affected great indignation at this statement.
“’Struth! Be you that sort?”
John reflected a moment before answering. He suspected his master must
know the truth, but could not feel certain, for Mr. Chave’s manner
suggested absolute ignorance.
“Us changed our minds—that’s all.”
“You say so! When a girl changes her mind theer’s generally another
string to her bow. Either that, or she’s tired of waiting for the fust.”
“It might be ’twas so,” said John, falling into the trap laid for him.
“A maid like her can’t be expected in reason to bide till such as me can
make a home for her. I doan’t blame her.”
“Well, if that’s the trouble, you can go right along to her this night
an’ tell her theer’s no cause to keep single after Eastertide. Yeo and
his wife do leave my cottage in Longley Bottom come then, an’ instead of
raisin’ your wages as I meant to do bimebye, I’ll give ’e the cot rent
free. A tidy li’l place tu, I warn ’e, wi’ best part of an acre o’
ground, an’ only half a mile from the village. Now be off with ’e an’
tell the girl.”
Aggett gasped and his eyes dimmed a moment before the splendid vision of
what might have been. It took him long to find words and breath to utter
them. Then he endeavoured to explain.
“You’m a kind maister, God knows, an’ I’d thank ’e year in an’ year out
wi’ the sweat o’ my body for such gudeness. But the thing can’t be,
worse luck. Best I tell ’e straight. ’Tis like this: Sally have met
another chap—a chap built o’ softer mud than what I be. An’ he’m more to
her than me, an’—”
“God A’mighty! An’ you stand theer whining wi’ no more spirit than a
auld woman what’s lost her shoe-string! A chap hath kindiddled the maid
from ’e? Another man hath stole her? Is that what you mean?”
John grew fiery red, breathed hard and rubbed his chin with a huge fist.
“Ban’t the man I cares a curse for. ’Tis the girl.”
“Rubbishy auld nonsense! ’Tis woman’s play to show ’e the worth of her.
They’m built that way an’ think no man can value ’em right unless he sees
they’m for other markets so well as his. Do ’e know what that vixen
wants ’e to do? Why, she’s awnly waiting for ’e to give t’other chap a
damn gude hiding! Then she’ll cuddle round again—like a cat arter fish.
I know ’em!”
John’s jaw dropped before this sensational advice. Now he was more than
ever convinced that his master knew nothing of the truth. It appeared to
him the most fantastic irony that a father should thus in ignorance
condemn his son to such a sentence. Then Aggett put a question that
shewed quickening of perception.
“If ’twas your own flesh an’ blood, what would ’e say?”
“Same as I be sayin’ now. Burned if I’d blame any man for sticking to
his own.”
“It be your son,” declared John, shortly.
“I know it,” answered the other. “That’s why I’m here. You’m not the
fule you look, Jan, an’ you know so well as I can tell ’e this match
ban’t seemly nohow. I ban’t agwaine to have it—not if the Lard Bishop
axed me. An’ I tell you plain an’ plump—me being your master—that you
must stop it. The girl’s your girl, an’ you must keep her to her
bargain. An’ you won’t repent it neither. Marry her out of hand an’
look to me for the rest. An’ if a word’s said, send him as sez it to me.
I’ll soon shut their mouths.”
“Ban’t the folks—’tis her. She do love your son wi’ all her heart an’
soul—an’ he loves her—onless he’s a liar.”
“Drivel! What does he know about love—a moon-blind calf like him? I
won’t have it, I tell ’e. He’s gone his awn way to long! Spoiled by his
fule of a mother from the church-vamp{70} onward till he’ve come to this
bit of folly. It’s not to be—dost hear what I say?”
“I hear. Go your ways, maister, an’ prevent it if you can. I’ll not
meddle or make in the matter. Sally Belworthy have chosen, an’ ban’t me
as can force her to change her mind.”
“More fule her. An’ between the pair of ’e, she’ll find herself in the
dirt. ’Tis in a nutshell. Will ’e take the cottage an’ make her marry
you? I lay you could if you was masterful.”
“Never—ban’t a fair thing to ax a man.”
“Best hear me through ’fore you sez it. If you’m against me in this, you
can go to hell for all I care. If you won’t help me to keep my son from
disgracing me an’ mine, you’m no true man, an’ I doan’t want ’e any more
to Bellever Farm. ’Tis a wife an’ a home rent free ’pon wan side, an’
the sack on the other. So you’d best to make choice.”
“I’ll go Saturday.”
“Of all the ninnyhammers ever I saw! You gert yellow-headed cake, can’t
you see you’m spoilin’ your awn life? Or was it that t’other side
offered ’e better terms? If that’s so, you won’t get ’em, because Tim
Chave’ll be a pauper man the day he marries wi’out my leave.”
The farmer stormed awhile longer, but presently he stamped off and Aggett
returned to his mother. Then, as he had angered Mr. Chave, so did his
own parent enrage him. She protested at his folly, and implored him to
carry out his master’s wish while opportunity remained to do so. He was
strong against it until the old woman went on her knees to him and wept.
Then he lost his temper and cursed the whole earth and all thereon for a
cruel tangle that passed the understanding of man to unravel.
Later in the evening he revisited the village and before ten o’clock
returned intoxicated to his home.