ON HAZEL TOR
John Bamsey was a youth who had not yet felt the edge of life. His
own good parts were in a measure responsible for this fortune, and
the circumstances destined to make trial of his foundations and test
what fortitude his character might command, were yet to come. He was
quick minded and intelligent, and his success had made him vain. His
temper was short, and in his business of water-keeper, he held it a
virtue to preserve a very obstinate and implacable front, not only to
declared evil-doers, but also against those who lay under his
suspicion.
He was superior in his attitude to his own generation and therefore
unpopular with it; but he set down a lack of friendship to natural
envy at his good fortune and cheerful prospects. He liked his work
and did it well. The fish were under his protection and no ruth
obscured his fidelity to them. Into his life had come love, and
since the course thereof ran smoothly, this experience had chimed
with the rest and combined, by its easy issue, to retard any impact
of reality and still leave John in a state of ignorance concerning
those factors of opposition and tribulation which are a part of the
most prosperous existence.
Dinah accepted him, after a lengthy period of consideration, and she
was affectionate if not loverly. He never stayed to examine the
foundation of her compact, nor could he be blamed, for he had no
reason to suppose that she had said "yes" from mixed motives. A girl
so direct, definite and clear-sighted as Dinah, seemed unlikely to be
in two minds about anything, and John, knowing his own hearty passion
and ardent emotions, doubted not that, modified only as became a
maiden's heart, she echoed them. Yet there went more to the match
than that, and others perceived it, though he did not. Dinah's
position was peculiar, and in truth love for another than John had
gone largely--more largely than she guessed herself--to decide her.
There was little sex impulse in her--otherwise her congenital
frankness with man and woman alike had been modified by it. But she
could love, for a rare sense of gratitude belonged to her, and the
height and depth of her vital affections belonged to her
foster-father, Benjamin Bamsey. Him she did love, as dearly as child
ever loved a parent, and it was the knowledge that such a match would
much delight him, that had decided Dinah and put a term to her
doubts. But she had become betrothed on grounds inadequate, and now
was beginning, as yet but dimly, to perceive it. Her disquiets did
not take any shape that John could quarrel with, for she had not
revealed them. She was honestly fond of him, and if she did not
respond to his ardour with such outward signs of affection as he
might have desired, his own inexperience in that matter prevented any
uneasy suspicion on his part. He judged that such reserve in love
was becoming and natural to a maiden of Dinah's distinction, and knew
not the truth of the matter, nor missed the outward signs that he
might have reasonably expected.
The beginning of difficulty very gradually rose between them, and
since they had never quarrelled in their lives, for all John's temper
and Dinah's frankness, the difference now bred in a late autumn day
gave both material for grave thought.
They met by appointment, strolled in the woods, then climbed through
plantations of sweet-smelling spruce, till they reached great rocks
piled on a little spur of the hillside under Buckland Beacon. Here
the granite heaved in immense boulders that broke the sweep of the
hill and formed a resting-place for the eye between the summit of the
Beacon and the surface of the river winding in the lap of the Vale
beneath.
Hazel Tor, as these masses of porphyry were called, now rose like a
ridge of little mountainous islets from a sea of dead heath and fern.
The glories of the fall were at an end, and on an afternoon when the
wind was still and the sky grey and near, pressing down on the naked
tree-tops, Dinah, sitting here with her sweetheart, chatted amiably
enough. The cicatrix on her cheek was still red, but the wound had
cleanly healed and promised to leave no scar.
Johnny, however, was doubtful.
"I won't say you won't be marked now."
"If kissing could make me safe, I should be."
"I wish you'd give me something to kiss you for; and that's the name
of the day next Spring we're to wed."
"Isn't it enough if we say next Spring?"
"Quite enough, if you mean next Spring. But I don't know whether you
do; and more do you know. And for that matter you never have said
next Spring. If you say the word, then you'll keep your word; but
you haven't, and patient though I am, I can't help wondering
sometimes why you don't."
"You're not the only one that wonders for that matter."
"Of course I'm not. Cousin Joe wonders every time I see him, and
father wonders, and mother does more than wonder. In fact it's
getting to be a bit awkward and unreasonable."
"I know it is, Johnny. I never thought it would be so difficult when
the time came."
"So you grant that the time has come--that's something."
"I do grant it. I dare say a man doesn't quite realise what a
tremendous thing it is for a girl to lose her liberty like this."
He was irritable.
"Do chuck that! I'm fed up with it. If you think what you call
liberty at the farm is better than living with me in your own house,
you must be a fool, Dinah."
"No," she said. "I'm right. Marriage cuts into a woman's liberty a
lot. It's bound to, and, of course, home along with foster-father
must be a much freer sort of life than home along with you."
"You are a cold-blooded little devil sometimes," he said. "What's
freedom, or slavery, or any other mortal thing got to do with a man
and woman if they love one another? You don't hear me saying I shall
lose my bachelor liberty."
"No, because you won't," answered Dinah. "I know you love me very
dear, and I love you very dear; but marrying a woman don't turn a
man's life upside down if he's a strong man and got his aims and
objects and business. He goes on with his life, and the woman comes
into it as an addition, and takes her place, and if all goes well, so
much the better, and if all don't, then so much the worse for the
woman--if the man's strong. A man's not going to let a woman bitch
up his ways if he's strong. And you are strong, and no woman would
spoil your show, because you wouldn't let her. But a woman's
different. Marriage for her be the beginning of a new life. She
can't take anything of the old life into it except her character and
her religion. Marriage is being born again for a woman. I've
thought of these things, Johnny."
"Well, what about it? If you know so much, you ought to know more.
Granted it don't always pan out well, and granted I'm a sort of man
that wouldn't be turned to the right or left, are you a sort of woman
that would be like to try and turn me? Are you masterful, or cranky,
or jealous of your fancied rights? If you'd been such a she as that,
should I have falled in love with you, or would you have falled in
love with me? People fall in love with character quite as much as
looks. And as we've grown up side by side, our characters were laid
bare to each other from the time we could notice such things."
She took him up eagerly.
"Now that's the very matter in my mind. I've been getting to wonder.
There's a lot in it, John. Do we know one another so well as we
think we do? And isn't the very fact that we're grown up under the
same roof a reason why we don't know each other so well as we might?"
"You're always for turning a thing inside out, my words included. I
say we must know each other as well as a man can know a girl, or a
girl a man. We was little children together, when nothing was hidden
between us, and grew up in perfect understanding which ripened at the
appointed time into love--all natural and right and proper. Of
course we know each other to the bottom of our natures; and so our
marriage can't fail to be a good one. Any jolter-head would see that
a man and a woman seldom come together on such a bed-rock of common
sense and reason as us. And knowing all that, 'tis pure cussedness
in you to argue different."
"You can be too near a thing to see it," she said. "I don't say we
don't understand each other beautiful, John; but look at it without
feeling--just as an interesting question, same as I do. Just ask
yourself if we're all you say, how it comes about that, despite such
a lot of reasons, I hang back from naming the date. You say you want
to know why. Well, so do I. What makes me refuse to name it--an
easy-going creature like me, always ready and willing to pleasure
anybody if I can? It's interesting, and it's no good merely being
cross about it. I don't want to fix the date. I don't feel no call
to do it."
"Then you ought."
"That's what I'm saying."
"And since you're well used to doing what you ought, it's about time
you let your duty master you."
"Granted. I allow all that. What I want to know is why I'm not so
keen to name the day and get to the day as you are?"
"Along of this silly fooling about losing your liberty I suppose. As
if a married woman wasn't a lot freer than a single one."
"Oh no, she isn't. The single ones was never so free as now. They
can do scores of things no married woman would be suffered to do for
a moment. That's because mothers and fathers care a lot less about
what happens to their daughters than husbands care what happens to
their wives. A daughter's good name be outside a parent's; but a
wife's good name is her husband's. So the unmarried ones are a lot
freer. There's few real parents nowadays be what your father is to
me."
"If you think such a lot of him and feel you owe him such a lot, why
don't you do what he wants you to do and fix the day?"
She did not answer, knowing well that old Mr. Bamsey, at the bottom
of his heart, little liked to dwell on her departure. Indeed, she
realised with growing intensity the reasons that had made her agree
to marry John; and she knew more: she was aware that John's father
himself had become a little doubtful. But the deed was done and
Dinah appreciated the justice of her sweetheart's demands.
They talked and he pressed and she parried. Then he grew angry.
"Blessed if you know what love is despite all your fine talk. A
little more of it, and I shall begin to think you're off the bargain
and haven't the pluck to say so."
For answer she put her arms round his neck and kissed him.
"It's all very well; but you leave me guessing too often: and I'm not
the sort that care to be left guessing. From a man I always get a
plain answer, and I never leave him till I have. I hang on like a
dog, and turn or twist as they may, they know they've got to come to
it. But you--it's rather late in the day to begin all over again and
ask you if you really love me, or not. It's putting a pretty big
slight upon me; and perhaps, if I wasn't a fool, I should see the
answer in that, without asking for it. For you wouldn't slight
me--not if you cared for me one quarter what I care for you."
He showed temper, and the girl made no very genuine attempt to turn
away wrath. She was in a wilful and wayward mood--a thing uncommon
with her; yet such a mood was capable of being provoked by Johnny
oftener than most people.
"I love your hair," she said, stroking it.
He shook his head and put on his cap.
"You're not playing the game and, what's a lot more, you know you're
not. It's outside your character to do
this--weak--feeble--mischievous. You know I smart a bit under it,
because--fault or not--I'm a proud man. How d'you think that's
likely to pan out in my feelings to you? Does it occur to you that
with my very keen sense of justice, Dinah, I might begin to ask
myself questions about it?"
She changed her manner and, from being idle and playful, gave him her
undivided attention. He had said something that rather pleased her
when he hinted that his own feelings might grow modified; but she
knew well enough that such a remark ought not to have pleased her and
was certainly not uttered to do so.
"There's a screw loose somewhere, Johnny," she said.
"Where then? And whose fault--yours, or mine? God's my judge I
didn't know there was a screw loose, and it's pretty ugly news, I can
tell you. Perhaps you'll let in a little more light, while you're
about it, and tell me what the screw is and why i'ts loose?"
"I wish I could. Oh Johnny, don't you feel it?"
"No, I do not. And if I don't, then it's up to you to explain, not
me."
"I don't know enough yet," she answered. "I'm not going to flounder
into it and make trouble that can never be unmade again. I'll wait
till I see a bit clearer, John. It's no use talking till we've
thought a thing out and got words for it. A row will often happen
just for lack of words to say what anybody really means. There is
something--something growing; but since you've not felt it, then it
can only be on my side. You shall know if it's anything, or nothing,
pretty soon. Feelings never stand still. They fade out, or else get
bigger. I love you very dearly, and, so far as we stand at present,
it's understood we are to be married in the Spring."
"Then why hang it up any longer? You love me and you'm tokened and
there's no reason why we shouldn't be wed and a great many reasons
why we should. But now a screw's loose, or so you say. But you
won't give it a name. Don't you see that instead of being yourself,
Dinah--famed for thinking straight and seeing clear and saying what
you mean--you're behaving like any stupid giglet wench, with no wits
and not worth her keep to anybody?"
"Yes; and that's why a screw's loose. If I can feel like I do, and
act away from my general plan, and dally with a thing--don't you see
there's something wrong with me?"
"Well, if you know it, get it right."
"I must do that for all our sakes. I must and will, John."
"You certainly must. And the sooner you put a name to it and let me
know what that name is, the better pleased I'll be. If I was the
fast and loose sort, or if I'd ever done anything since we hitched up
to give you a shadow of distrust, or make you look back in doubt,
then it would be different; but this I will swear, that no man ever
loved a woman better than I love you, or have been a better or truer
lover. I must say that for myself, Dinah, since you've given up
saying it."
"I did say it and I do say it. You're all right, and you've every
reason to be pleased with yourself, Johnny. You're a wonder. But
it's me. I'll work at myself. I can't promise more. I'll thresh it
out and try to find where I'm wrong; and if you can help me, I'll
tell you. It's not a happy thing; but at the same time it's not an
unhappy thing--not yet. I owe you a very great deal--only less than
your father. I'd sooner make anybody on earth unhappy before you;
but it's no good pretending, and I couldn't hide worry from you even
if I wanted to."
"Leave it then," he said, "and get it off your mind so quick as you
can."
They talked about other things, and for the most part chimed
harmoniously enough; but they did not always agree in their estimate
of other people, or in their views of action and conduct. Dinah
never conceded anything, nor pretended to see with his eyes if she
did not, yet sometimes she praised him if he put a point and changed
her own view by enlarging her vision of the subject.
John was in a better temper when presently the dusk fell and the
lovers, leaving Hazel Rocks, passed through a clearing, reached the
road to Buckland and presently climbed again to Falcon Farm, where
they were to drink tea with Susan and her father.
Soosie-Toosie had a heavy cold in her head and appeared more
unsightly than usual. Her large frame shook with her sneezes, and
Joe, while humorously concerned for her and anxious that she should
take steps to get well, soon dropped the humour for a little genuine
trouble on his own account.
"There's some people I catch cold from, and there's some I don't
catch cold from," he said, "just like some fires you catch heat from
and some you never can. But Soosie-Toosie's colds be of the catching
order. 'Tis the violence of her sneezes no doubt--like a
fowling-piece going off. And though a cold be nought to her and here
to-day and gone to-morrow, if I get 'em they run down the tubes and
give me brownkitis and lay me by for weeks."
"Never seen you look better, Cousin Joe," declared John. "You be
always at your fighting best when the woodcock comes back, so father
says."
"He will have his bit of fun. There's only one thing wrong about
your dear, good father, Johnny; and that is he ain't a sportsman.
For a man to live in the Vale and not be a sportsman is like for a
man to live by the sea and not care to go fishing. With a place in
his heart for a bit of sport, I do believe Ben Bamsey would have been
a perfect human. But as that's contrary to nature, no doubt the
sport had to be left out."
"He is perfect," said Dinah, "and I've often told him so."
"He'd never believe it if you did," said Susan; "he's much too good a
man to think he's good."
"As to that, my dear," answered Joe, "it's only false modesty and
silliness to pretend you'm not good, when you know perfectly well you
are. If I said I wasn't a good man, for example, it would be merely
fishing for compliments; and if Soosie-Toosie said she weren't as
good as gold, who'd believe her?"
"'Tis easy to be good if you're so busy as Soosie-Toosie and Johnny
and a few more," answered Dinah; "but how you can be so amazing good
with nothing on your hands, Cousin Joe? I'm sure that's wonderful."
"Nothing on my hands? you bad girl! Little you know. And me the
mainspring. You ax Susan if I've got nothing on my hands, or Thomas
here."
Lawrence Maynard was absent, but Mr. Palk took tea with the rest. He
had not so far spoken.
"You'm the head of the house," he said.
"And if my hand have lost its cunning, my head have not--eh, Thomas?"
"It have not," admitted Thomas.
"Father makes his head help his heels, don't you, father?" asked
Soosie-Toosie, following her question with an explosion.
"I should hope so; and do, for God's love, go out in the scullery
when you feel a sneeze coming, there's a dear! You be scattering the
evil germs around us so thick as starlings."
"I'm just going," she said, "they'll be done their tea in a minute;
then I'll gather the things and get away for the wash-up."
Dinah soon departed to help the sufferer; then Joe smoked and bade
the others do the like.
"'Twill lay Soosie's germs," he said.
They discussed Maynard, who had gone to see some cows for a neighbour.
"What he don't know about 'em ain't worth knowing," said Mr.
Stockman. "A tower of strength the man is going to be."
"Is he growing a bit more cheerful?"
"If he's not cheerful, there's a reason for it. But he's very
sensible, with a head rather old for his shoulders--eh, Thomas?"
"Made of sense, I reckon."
"And what is his opinion of me, Thomas, if I may ask?"
Mr. Palk was always rendered cautious at the hint of personalities.
He did not reply immediately, though there was no need to hesitate.
But he never replied immediately to any question.
"He thinks a great lot of you, master. He holds you to be a very
good man indeed."
"Then I shall think higher of his opinion than ever," replied Joe;
"and you may drop in his ear that I rate him high too, Thomas. All
well within reason, of course--he ain't indispensable--nobody is,
great or small. Still, I'm suited and I'm glad he is."
Thomas made no reply, but rose and went out. Then Joe addressed his
kinsman.
"Have you got the date out of her?"
Johnny shook his head.
"She allows it must be in the Spring, but holds off naming the time
any nearer."
"Not like her. We must all have a go at her. But if your father
can't do it, who can?"
"If I can't, who can? That's the question, I should think."
They argued Dinah's delay and presently she returned.
"Susan did ought to go to bed," she said. "See me down the hill,
Johnny; I must be off, else they'll wonder what's become of me."