IX

The second week of the fortnight was passing much quicker than the

first week. By a most happy inspiration Mavis had hit upon a means of

filling the dull empty time. On Tuesday morning she told Mary that

they would turn the master's absence to good account by giving the

house an unseasonal but complete spring cleaning, and ever since then

they had both been hard at work.

The work gave exercise as well as occupation; it furnished a ready

excuse for declining to go over and see Mrs. Petherick or to allow a

visit from her; and, moreover, it had a satisfactory calming effect on

one's nerves. While Mavis was reviewing pots and pans, standing on the

high step-ladder to unhook muslin curtains, and, most of all, while

she was going through her husband's winter underclothes in search of

moths, it seemed to her that she was not only retaining but

strengthening her hold on all these inanimate friends, and that they

themselves were eloquently though dumbly protesting against the mere

idea of forcible separation. When she sat down, hot and tired, in the

midst of shrouded masses of furniture, to enjoy a picnic meal that

Mary had set out on the one unoccupied corner of a crowded table, she

was able to eat with hearty appetite; and yet, no matter how tired she

might be by the end of the day, she could not sleep properly at

night.

If she slept, a dream of trouble woke her. As she lay awake her

trouble sometimes seemed greater than ever. It was as though the

spring cleaning, which by day proved mentally beneficial, became

deleterious during these long night watches. The neater, the cleaner,

the brighter she made her home, the more terrible must be a sentence

of perpetual banishment.

On Friday afternoon the work was nearly over. Kitchen utensils were

like shining mirrors; the flowers of the best carpet were like real

blossoms budding after rain; and Mavis on the step-ladder, with a

smudged face, untidy hair, and grimy hands, had begun to reinstate the

pictures handed to her by Mary, when Miss Yorke came knocking abruptly

at the parlor door.

"A telegram, ma'am."

"All right."

Mavis had come down the ladder, and as she opened the yellow envelope

she began to tremble.

"Answer paid, ma'am. Shall I wait?"

"No. I--I'll--No, don't wait."

It was from Dale. She had sat down on the lowest step of the ladder,

and was trembling violently. "Oh, how dreadful!" She muttered the

words mechanically, without any attempt to express her actual thought.

"How very dreadful!"

"What is it, ma'am? Bad news?"

"Oh, most dreadful. But perhaps a mistake. I'm to find out;" and she

stared stupidly at the paper that was shaking in her fingers. Then,

spreading it on her lap, she read the message aloud:--

"Evening paper says fatal accident to Mr. Barradine. Is this

true? Wire Dale, Appledore Temperance Hotel, Stamford Street,

S.E."

Then she jumped up, ran into the front room, and looked out of the

window. A glance showed her that the village was in possession of some

sensational tidings. There was a knot of people standing in front of

the saddler's, and another--quite a little crowd--in front of the

butcher's; all were talking excitedly, nodding their heads, and

gesticulating.

She ran down-stairs and joined the group at the saddler's.

"I never cared for the look of the horse," Allen was saying

sententiously. "And I might almost claim to have warned them--no

longer ago than last March. The stud-groom was riding him at a meet,

and I said, 'Mr. Yeatman, you aren't surely going to let Mr. Barradine

risk his neck with hounds on that thing?' 'No,' he said, 'Mr.

Barradine has bought him for hacking.' 'Oh,' I said, 'hacking and

hunting are two things, of course, but--'"

Then somebody interrupted.

"Chestnut horse, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Allen, "one of these thoroughbred weeds, without a back

that you can fit with to anything bigger than a racing saddle; and

I've always maintained the same thing. A bit of blood may do very well

for young gentlemen, but to go and put a gentleman of Mr. Barradine's

years--"

"Mind you," interposed a Roebuck stableman, "Mr. Barradine liked 'em

gay. Mr. Barradine was a horseman!"

Mr. Barradine _liked_ gay horses. Mr. Barradine _was_ a horseman.

That tremendous sound of the past tense answered the question that

Mavis was breathlessly waiting to ask.

"Shocking bad business, isn't it, Mrs. Dale?"

She did not reply; but nobody noticed her silence or agitation. They

all went on talking; and she only thought: "He is dead. He is dead. He

is dead." She was temporarily tongue-tied, awestricken, full of a

strange superstitious horror.

Presently Allen spoke to her again. "There'll never be such another

kind gentleman in _our_ times, Mrs. Dale; nor one so open-handed. And

it's not only the gentry that's going to mourn him. The pore hev lost

a good friend."

"Yes," she whispered. "Indeed they have. Indeed they have."

Miss Waddy came out of her absurd little post-card shop and kept

saying, "Oh, dear!" She, like almost everybody else in the village

except Mavis Dale and Mary, had known the news for hours; but she was

greedy for the more and more particularized information that every

newcomer brought with him along the road from Manninglea.

"How was the body taken to the Abbey?"

"Sent one of the carriages."

"Oh, dear!"

They continued to talk; and Mavis, listening, for a few moments felt

gladness, nothing but gladness. He had gone out of their lives

forever. There could be no divorce. Now that he was dead, she would be

forgiven. Then again she felt the horror of it. The thing was like an

answer to her secret prayer or wish--like the mysterious overwhelming

consequence of her curse. It was as though in cursing him she had

doomed him to destruction.

"They caught the horse last night, didn't they?"

"Yes. Some chaps at Abbey Cross Roads see un go gallopin' by, and

followed un up Beacon Hill. Catched un in the quag by th' old gravel

pits."

"Oh, dear!" said Miss Waddy.

Little by little Mavis pieced the story together. Mr. Barradine had

been out riding late yesterday, and the riderless horse had given the

alarm some time about nine o'clock in the evening. But, although a

wide-spread search continued all through the night, the body was not

found until past noon to-day.

They had found it at Kibworth Rocks. These rocks, situated in Hadleigh

Wood, about two miles from the Abbey, were of curious formation--a

wide mass of jagged boulders cropping out unexpectedly from the sandy

soil, some of them half hidden with bracken, while others, the bigger

ones, rose brown and bare and strange. They provided a redoubtable

fortress for foxes, and contained what was known as the biggest

"earth" of the neighborhood. Not far off, the main ride passed through

the wood, making a broad sunlit avenue between the gloomy pines; but

no one without local knowledge would have suspected the existence of

the rocky gorge or slope, because, although only at a little distance,

it was quite invisible from the ride.

The body had been discovered lying in a narrow cleft, the head

fearfully battered; and how Mr. Barradine came by his death was

obvious. He had been riding through or near the rocks, and the horse,

probably stumbling, had thrown him; and then, frightened and

struggling away, had dragged him some considerable distance, until

the rocks held him fast and tore him free.

What remained doubtful was how or why Mr. Barradine approached the

rocks. Of course, his horse might have shied from the ride and taken

him there before he could recover control of it; or, as perhaps was

more probable, Mr. Barradine might have ridden from the safe and open

track in order quietly to examine what was called the main earth, and,

if fortunate, gratify himself with a glimpse of two or three lusty fox

cubs playing outside the burrows.

However, as Mr. Allen sagely observed, such conjectures were at

present idle. These and all other matters would be cleared up at the

inquest.

"Oh, dear!" said Miss Waddy. "Will there have to be an inquest?"

"Certainly there will," said Mr. Allen.

"Yes, that's the law always," said somebody else.

"Surely not," said Miss Waddy, "in the case of such a well-known

gentleman as Mr. Barradine."

"It would be the same," said Allen, "if it was the Prince of Wales, or

the Archbishop of Canterbury. Coroner's Court sits on everybody who

doesn't die in his bed certified by his doctor."

"And it rained, too, last night," said Miss Waddy.

"Yes, there was some heavy showers."

"Fancy the poor gentleman lying out in the rain. Oh, dear!"

Mavis Dale left them talking and went back to the post office. In her

agitation she had forgotten about the reply telegram to her husband.

She got Mr. Ridgett to write the message--her hands were trembling so

that she could scarcely hold the pencil.

"Very sorry, I'm sure," said Mr. Ridgett sympathetically. "This was

the party you told me of--the gentleman that was giving his support to

Mr. Dale?"

"Yes."

"Well, well--very sad. How will you word it?"

"Please say--'Report true. Mr. Barradine killed by fall from his horse

yesterday.' And sign it 'Mavis.' No, sign it 'Mav.'"

"Mav!--Ma-v!" Mr. Ridgett looked round, smiling. "That's hubby's pet

name for you, isn't it? Upon my word, you two _are_ a pair of

love-birds.... There, off it goes. Good night, Mrs. Dale. I'm truly

sorry that you've been deprived of such a friend."

She went up-stairs to her bedroom, and did not come out of it that

evening. For a long time she sat on the bed sobbing and shivering. She

was glad really, and she knew that she was glad, and yet all the blood

in her body seemed to be running coldly because of unreasoning

superstitious fear. It was as though she had seen a ghost, and as

though the ghost, while imparting to her a piece of surprisingly good

news, had at the same time almost frightened her out of her wits. It

is so wicked, so impiously wicked to wish for the death of a fellow

creature. But what are wishes? Common sense revolts from the

supposition that thoughts can kill. Why, if they could, half the

population of the world would succumb beneath the impalpable weapons

wielded by the other half. It is only toward nightfall, when rooms

begin to grow dark, and the deepening shadows give queer shapes to

furniture, curtains, and other familiar objects, that one can be

foolish enough to entertain such fancies.

She told Mary to bring the candles, and to run out and buy a

night-light. Then Mary helped her to undress and to get to bed; and

she slept dreamlessly. The feeling after all was one of unutterable

relief. Mr. Barradine _was_! Never again would her flesh shrink at the

sight of him; never again could those lascivious hands touch her.

Next day, between dinner-time and tea-time, while she was giving final

touches to the well-cleaned parlor, she heard her husband's voice just

outside the door. He had come up-stairs very quietly and was speaking

to Mary on the landing.

"Will, Will!" With a cry of delight, Mavis rushed out to welcome him.

"Oh, thank goodness, you've come home." She boldly took his arm, drew

him into the parlor and shut the door again. "Will--aren't you going

to kiss me?"

"No." And he disengaged himself and moved away from her. "No, I can

not kiss you."

"Oh, Will. Do try to forget and forgive." She stood stretching out her

hands toward him imploringly, with eyebrows raised, and lips

quavering.

"I can never forget," he said, after a moment's pause.

Then she tried to make him say that things would eventually come all

right, that if he could not pardon her and take her to his heart now,

he would do so some time or another. He listened to her pleadings

impassively, stolidly; his attitude was stiffly dignified, and it

seemed to her that, whatever his real frame of mind might be, he had

determined to hide it by maintaining an impenetrably solemn tone and

manner.

"Will, you've come home, and I'm grateful for it. But--but I do think

you're cruel to me. Especially considering what's happened, I did

hope you'd begin to think kinder to me."

"Mavis," he said solemnly, "it is the finger of God." And he repeated

the phrase slowly, with a solemnity that was almost pompous. "It is

the finger of God. If that man had not chanced to die in this sudden

and startling way, I could never have come home to you. It was the

decision I had arrived at before I read of his accident in the paper.

Otherwise you'd 'a' never set eyes on me. Now all I can say is, you

and I must trust to the future. It will be my endeavor not to look

back, and I ask you equally to look forward."

She was certain that this was a set speech prepared beforehand. She

knew so well the faintly unnatural note in his voice when he was

reciting sentences that he had learned by rote: she who had helped in

so many rehearsals before his public utterances could not be mistaken.

However, she had to be contented with it. And, stilted and stiff as it

was, it certainly seemed to imply that she need not relinquish hope.

He added something, in the same ponderous style, about the probability

of its being advisable to put private inclinations on one side and

attend the funeral of the deceased in his public capacity of

postmaster. This mark of respect would be expected from him, and

people would wonder if he did not pay it. Then he left the parlor, and

again spoke to Mary.

Mavis, listening, heard him give orders that an unused camp bedstead

should be brought down from the clerk's room and made up in the

kitchen. He told Mary that he wished to sleep by himself because he

felt twinges of rheumatism and was afraid of disturbing the mistress

if the pain came on during the night. And Mavis noticed that all the

time that he was talking to Mary his voice sounded perfectly natural.

Then he went down-stairs, speaking again when he was half-way down.

"How goes it, Miss Yorke? Is Mr. Ridgett in the office?"

And this time it was absolutely his old voice--rather loud, rather

authoritative, but really quite cheerful.

Thinking of his manner to her and his manner to others, she believed

that she could now understand all that he intended. She was to be held

in disgrace perhaps for a long time, but appearances were to be kept

up. No breath of scandal was to tarnish the reputation of the

Rodchurch postmaster; the curious world must not be allowed the very

slightest peep behind the scenes of his private life; and she, without

explicit instructions, was to assist in preventing any one--even poor

humble Mary--from guessing that as husband and wife they were not as

heretofore on the best possible terms.

Down below in the sorting-room Dale greeted Mr. Ridgett very heartily.

"Here I am. May I venture to come in a minute? I'm only a visitor till

Monday, you know." And he told Ridgett how he had taken a liberty in

returning before the stipulated date; but he had written to

headquarters explaining the circumstances, and he had no doubt they

would approve. "There's the funeral, you know. Though I suppose that

won't be till Tuesday or even Wednesday. But there's the inquest. And

I felt it like a duty to attend that too."

"Yes, I suppose this is a bit of a blow to you--knowing him so long.

Your good lady was mightily upset."

"So she had cause to be," said Dale gravely.

"He'd always shown himself a real friend?"

"The best friend anybody ever had," said Dale with impressive

earnestness. Then, going, he returned to speak in a confidential

whisper close to Mr. Ridgett's ear. "It was he who did the trick for

me up there. But for _him_, I was to be hoofed out of this, as sure as

eggs."

"Really! Well, I'll tell you frankly, I'm not surprised to hear it.

Ever since the little Missis came home with the happy tale, I've been

wondering what miracle pulled you through so grand with them."

Then Dale went out and down the street, talking to everybody he met.

The village received him with tranquil indifference. No one

congratulated him. The greater excitement had obliterated all memory

of the less: not a soul seemed to recollect the famous controversy,

the postmaster's campaign against detractors, his long absence or his

brilliant success. Kibworth Rocks, the drawn blinds of the Abbey

House, the decorations of the Abbey Church--these were the only things

that Rodchurch could now think of, or talk about.

The inquest, held on Monday in one of the state rooms at the Abbey,

brought to light no new facts that were of the least importance. All

sorts of people gave evidence, but no one had anything to say that was

really worth saying. Mr. Allen, it appeared, had "acted foolish" and

been reproved by the Coroner, first for irrelevance and then for

impertinence.

Allen had attempted to persuade the Court that the prime cause of the

accident was simply this, that poor Mr. Barradine's saddle was made by

a London firm instead of by him--Allen. He pooh-poohed the

stud-groom's statement that Mr. Barradine had an ineradicable

objection to patent detachable stirrups, and maintained that he would

have been able, in five minutes' quiet conversation, to prevail on the

deceased gentleman to adopt a certain device which was known to Allen

but to nobody else in the trade; and then he attempted to read a

written paper in which he advocated the superiority to the modern

plain flap of the ancient padded knee-roll as a means of rendering the

seat more secure for forehand stumbles.

"It was laughable--but for the occasion--to hear him spouting out his

nonsense, until Doctor Hollis told him straight he wouldn't put up

with it any longer."

Dale gave this account of the proceedings to Mavis and to Mr. Ridgett,

who had come up to take high tea on the eve of his departure just as

he had done on the day of his arrival.

"But I admit," said Dale, conscientiously, "there was one bit of sense

in Allen's remarks. He convinced me against trusting to these blood

animals. They're too _quick_, and they're never _sure_. The grooms an'

all spoke up to Mr. Barradine's knowledge of his ridin' gen'rally; but

it stands to reason, when you're past sixty your grip on a horse isn't

the same thing as what it once was. Say, your mount gets bounding this

way, that way;" and with his body and hands he indicated the rapid

lateral movements of a horse shying and plunging. "Well, it's only the

grip that can save you. You aren't going to keep in your saddle by

mere balance--and it's balance that old gentlemen rely on best part

of the time."

Mavis listened wonderingly and admiringly. When her husband spoke of

the dead man, his voice was grave, calm and kindly. No one on earth

could have detected that while the man lived, he had been regarded

with anything but affection. She thought of that epithet that people

so often echo--Death the Leveler. Could one hope that already,

although Will might not know it, might not be willing to know it,

death had taken from him all or nearly all of his anger and

resentment? If it was only just acting--the stubborn effort to keep up

appearances--it was marvelous. Then she sighed. She had remembered

that Will never did things by halves.

She felt almost gay, certainly quite light-hearted, when driving out

with him to the funeral. It was such a glorious day, not a bit too

hot, with a west wind sweeping unseen through the limpid sky; and the

whole landscape seeming animated, everywhere the sound of wheels, the

roads full of people all going one way. She simulated gravity, even

sadness, as they passed the dark pines near Hadleigh Wood; but in

truth she was quite undisturbed by her proximity to the fateful spot.

It seemed to her that with the murmur of the wheels, the movement of

the air, the progressive excitement of every minute, all the tragic or

gloomy element of life was rolling far away from her.

The scene presented at the Abbey struck her as magnificent. She had

never seen so many private carriages assembled together, and she would

not have guessed that the whole county of Hampshire contained so many

policemen. There were soldiers also--members of some volunteer or

yeomanry corps of which the deceased was honorary colonel. Their

brilliant uniforms shone out dazzlingly on a background of black

dresses and coats.

Naturally there was not space in the church for all this vast

concourse. The nobility, gentry, and other ticket-holders were

admitted first, and then there came an unmannerly rush which the

constables checked with difficulty. Mavis and Dale were just inside

the door; and Mr. Silcox close by, whispering, and pointing out

several lords and ladies near the chancel steps. The service was long

but very beautiful, with giant candles burning by the draped bier,

organ music that seemed to swell and rumble in the pit of one's

stomach, and light voices of singing boys that made one vibrate as if

one had been turned into glass--all stirring one to a quite

meaningless regret, not for the man who lay deaf and dumb and blind

beneath the velvet pall, but because of vague thoughts about children

who die young and have wings to hover over those they loved down here

below. And, oh, the increasing heat of the church, the oppressive

crush, the heavy odors of flowers and crape and perspiration! When at

last one emerged, and the open air touched one's forehead, it was like

coming out of an oven into a cold bath.

Then the remains were consigned to the family vault in the small

graveyard behind the church--the crowd filling every vista, the bells

tolling, and the soldiers discharging a cannon and making one jump at

each regularly timed discharge. Mavis, turning her eyes in all

directions, looked at everything with intense interest--at the

gentlefolk, now inextricably mixed up with the tenantry and the mob;

at her husband, standing so black and solemn, with a face that might

have belonged to a marble statue; at the puff of smoke that crept

upward when the gun went bang, at the sunlight on the church tower, at

the birds flying so high and so joyous above its battlements. And all

at once she saw Aunt Petherick--the blackest mourner there, with crape

veils trailing to the ground, a red face down which the tears streamed

in rivers; sobbing so that the sobs sounded like the most violent

hiccoughs; really almost as much noise as the soldiers' gun.

Will had seen her too. Mavis noticed his stony glance at Auntie, when

the crowd began to move again.

While he was slowly making his way toward the stables, she got hold of

Mrs. Petherick and had a little chat with her. Auntie had now entirely

recovered from her recent hysterical storm; the redness of her face

was passing off, and its expression was one of anxiety, rather than of

grief.

"My dear girl," she said, "I don't yet know what this will mean to me.

You know, he promised the house for my life--but he wouldn't give me a

lease. I've nothing to show--not so much as a letter. I may be turned

out neck and crop."

"Oh, Auntie, I should think his wishes would be respected."

"How'm I to prove his wishes?" said Mrs. Petherick, quite testily.

"It'll be wish my foot, for all the lawyers'll care."

"Oh, Auntie!"

"You know, he faithfully promised to provide for me. And now the talk

is he never made a will at all. You can't believe the talk. But, oh,

it's awful to me. The suspense! It'll break my heart to give up North

Ride."

"Auntie," said Mavis presently; "if you chance upon Will, don't speak

to him."

"Why not?"