From that day forward John Aggett exhibited a spectacle of reckless
indifference to circumstances and a manner of life lightened only by
occasional returns to sobriety and self-command. As to how it fared with
Timothy and Sarah he cared not. Others ceased to speak of the matter in
his presence, and thus it happened that he went in ignorance of events
for the space of five weeks. During that period he loafed at the “Green
Man” Inn until his money was spent, then returned to dwell with his
mother.
Meantime Timothy Chave’s romance was prospering ill, despite his rival’s
endeavour to make the way easy. Other obstacles now confronted him, and
though Sarah was happy and well content to live in the delight of each
hour with her lover, Tim found delay less easily borne and struggled to
change Mr. Chave’s attitude toward his desires. But it proved useless,
and the young man chafed in vain. He assured Sarah that his father was
merely an obstinate elder and would surely be won to reason in good time;
but the full significance of her engagement with Timothy, as his father
viewed it, she did not know and never would have heard from Tim’s lips.
There happened, however, an accidental meeting between Sarah and Farmer
Chave himself, and this brushed all mystery or doubt from the girl’s
mind, opened her eyes to the gravity of Tim’s actions and left her face
to face with the truth.
One day Sarah, on foot, with her face set homeward, observed Farmer Chave
riding back from Widecombe to Postbridge on a big bay horse. He saw her,
too, eyed her narrowly and slackened speed, while she wished the road
might open and swallow her from his sight. But there was no escape, so
she curtseyed and wished Mr. Chave a very good evening. He returned the
salute and seeing, as he believed, a possibility of setting all right on
the spot by one great master-stroke, attempted the same.
“Ah, my girl, Belworthy’s darter, ban’t ’e? A peart maid an’ well
thought on, I doubt not. Be you gwaine home-along?”
Sarah’s heart fluttered at this genial salutation. “Ess, maister,” she
said.
“Then I’ll lighten your journey. I haven’t got the double saddle, but
you’m awnly a featherweight an’ can ride pillion behind me an’ save your
shoes.”
The mode of travel he suggested was common enough in those days, but such
a proposal from Tim’s father frightened Sarah not a little. Her first
thought was for herself, her second for her sweetheart, and she nerved
herself to refuse the farmer’s offer.
“I’m sure you’m very kind, sir, but—”
“No ‘buts.’ Here’s a stone will make a splendid upping stock, an’
`Sharky’ can carry the pair of us without knowing his load be increased.
Up you get! Theer’s plenty of room for my fardels in front o’ the
pommel. Us won’t bate our pace for you, I promise. Now jump! Whoa,
bwoy! Theer we are. Just put your arms around my flannel waistcoat an’
doan’t be shy. ’Tis well I met ’e, come to think on’t, for I wanted a
matter o’ few words.”
Soon they jogged forward, the big horse taking little account of Sarah’s
extra weight. At length they crossed Riddon Ridge and passed Dart at a
ford, where Sarah had to hold up her toes out of the reach of the river.
Then, as they rode along the foothills of Bellever, the farmer spoke
suddenly.
“My life’s been wisht of late days along wi’ taking thought for my son
Tim. You’ve heard tell of un? You see, ’tis my wish to have un mated
wi’ his cousin. But I’m led to onderstand as theer’s a maiden up-long he
thinks he likes better; an’ her name’s same as yours, Sarah Belworthy.”
“Oh, Maister Chave, I do love un very dear, I do.”
“So you done to that yellow man, Jan Aggett.”
“’Tweern’t the same. When Maister Timothy comed, I seed differ’nt.”
“Doan’t shake an’ tremble. You’ll never have no reason to fear me. Tell
me how ’twas. Jan gived ’e up—eh?”
“Ess, he did.”
“Why for?”
“For love of me.”
“Ah! Now that was a brave fashion deed. I allus thought a lot of the
man, an’ I’m sorry you’ve sent un to the Devil, wheer they tell me he’s
bound of late days.”
“He’m a gude man, an’ I wish to God as something could be done to bring
him back in the right road.”
“Ess fay! An’ you’m the one as would have to look the shortest distance
to find a way to do it, Sarah. A gude example that man, for all his
foolishness since. Loved ’e well enough to leave ’e—for your own gude,
he did—eh?”
“God bless him for doin’ it.”
“Why doan’t ’e go back to him?”
“I cannot, I cannot now.”
“Well, man’s love be greater than woman’s by the look of it. What girl
would have done same as that man done? What girl would give up a man for
love of him, an’ even leave un for his gude? Not one as ever I heard
tell of.”
“Many an’ many would for that matter. What’s a sacrifice if your love be
big enough?”
“Be yours? That’s the question I’d ax ’e.”
Sarah’s heart sank low; Mr. Chave felt her shiver and the hands clasped
over his thick waistcoat tremble. Looking down, he saw her fingers
peeping out of woollen mittens; and upon one, sacred to the ring, a small
gold hoop appeared with a coral bead set therein.
Sarah did not answer the last pointed question, and Farmer Chave
continued:—
“I know you’ve promised to be wife to my son some day, an’ I know he’ve
taken partickler gude care to hide from you my view of the question. But
you must hear it, for your awn sake as well as his an’ mine. I’ve
nothin’ against you, Sarah, nothin’, an’ less than nothin’, for I like
you well an’ wish to see you so gude as you’m purty an’ so happy as you’m
gude; but I know my son for a lad of light purposes an’ weak will an’
wrong ambitions. Ban’t enough iron in un; an’ the maid I’m set on for un
have got a plenty backbone to make up for his lack. Her he’s to wed in
fulness o’ time, if I’ve any voice left in affairs; an’ if he doan’t,
’tis gude-bye to Bellever for him, an’ gude-bye to more’n that. So theer
he stands, Sarah, an’ you’d best to hear what it means. Maybe you
thought you was makin’ choice between a labourin’ man an’ a gentleman,
between a pauper an’ a young chap wi’ his pockets full o’ money. But
ban’t so, I assure ’e. ’Tis the gentleman’ll be the pauper if he marries
you; but John Aggett—why, I offered un my cottage in Longley Bottom free
o’ rent from the day as your banns was axed in marriage wi’ un to
Widecombe Church! That’s the man as gived ’e up for love of ’e. An’
ban’t you so strong as him?”
“Tu gude he was—tu gude for the likes o’ me.”
“Well, as to t’other, though he’s my son, blamed if I think he’s gude
enough. But that’s neither here nor theer. The question ban’t what sort
of love he’s got for you; but what sort you’ve got for him. Do ’e follow
my meanin’? I doan’t storm or rave, you see—tu wise for that. I only
bid you think serious whether your feeling for Timothy’s the sort to ruin
him, or to save him from ruin. ’Tis a hard choice for ’e, but we’m all
faaced wi’ ugly puzzles ’pon the crossways o’ life. Now you know my
’pinions, you’ll do what’s right, or you’m not the girl I think ’e.”
“I must give un up for all time?”
“Best not put it that way. Doan’t drag my rascal of a bwoy in the
argeyment. Say to yourself, ‘I must mate him as I promised to mate—him
that’s wastin’ his life an’ gwaine all wrong for love o’ me.’ ’Tis plain
duty, woman, looked at right. Not that I’d rob ’e of the pleasure of
knowin’ you’d done a gert deed if you gived Tim up; but t’other’s the man
as you’ve got to think of; an’, if you do this gude thing, ’tis just
similar as he done for you. Wi’ Jan Aggett be your happiness wrapped up,
if you could see it. An’ Jan’s much more like to go well in marriage
harness than my son be, or I doan’t know carater.”
“I’ll try, I’ll try. It’s more than I’ve heart or strength for, but I’ll
try, Maister Chave. I’ll try to do right by both of them.”
“Who could say fairer? An’ here’s the lane to blacksmith’s, so I’ll drop
’e. An’ give your faither my respects an’ tell un I want un to-morrow to
the farm.”
After Sarah had dismounted the farmer spoke again.
“Take to heart what I’ve said to ’e, an’ remember that to please me won’t
be a bad action from a worldly side. Go back to Jan Aggett, Sarah
Belworthy; that’s my advice to you, an’ angels from heaven couldn’t give
’e no better, ’cause theer ban’t room for two ’pinions. Now let me hear
what metal you’m made of, an’ that afore the week be out. So gude
night.”
The man trotted off with knees stiff and elbows at right angles to his
body; the girl entered her home; and that night, tossing and turning
wearily, thrice she decided to give up her lover and thrice determined to
take no definite step until she had again seen and spoken with Timothy.
But her heart told her that such a course was of all the weakest.
Presently she assured herself that many plans might be pursued and that
wide choice of action lay before her. Then John Aggett chiefly occupied
her thoughts. To go back to him now appeared absolutely impossible. He
had given her up, at a cost even she but dimly guessed, and to return
into his troubled life again struck her as a deed beyond measure
difficult and dangerous.
Long she reflected miserably on the sorrow of her lot; then, in the small
hours of morning and upon the threshold of sleep, Sarah determined to let
another judge of her right course of conduct and dictate it to her.
“’Twas the white witch, Gammer Gurney, as foretold Tim would marry me
that terrible night,” she thought. “Then ’tis for she to say what I
should do an’ what I shouldn’t do. If ’tis ordained by higher things
than men-folk as I’m to have Tim, what’s the use o’ weeping ’cause Farmer
Chave wishes differ’nt?”
There was a sort of comfort in this philosophy; but her grey eyes closed
upon a wet pillow as she slept, to wake with sudden starts and twitches
from visions in great aisles of gloom, from dim knowledge of horrors
hidden behind storm-clouds, from the murmur of remote callings and
threatenings and cries of woe, from all-embracing dread begotten of a
heavy heart, and an outlook wholly dreary and desolate.