TALKING WITH DINAH
On a public holiday in early spring, Joe Stockman suddenly declared
an urgent necessity to communicate with Arthur Chaffe at Lower Town
on the subject of some hurdles.
"And if you saw your way to take the air in that direction, Maynard,
I shall be more than a bit obliged," he said.
Susan mildly protested.
"'Tis a holiday, father, and Mr. Maynard's bound for pleasuring, be
sure," she said.
"I know, and I hope he is," answered her father, "but I thought
perhaps he might be taking a bit of a walk and would so soon go that
way as another. 'Tis no odds, of course, if not convenient. I must
meet a few men in Ashburton myself--more business than pleasure,
however--else I'd ride down."
"I'll go then," suggested Susan. "I'm wishful to see Faith Bamsey."
Lawrence, however, declared himself very willing to go.
"I'm not for the fair," he said, "and would just so soon walk down to
the carpenter as anywhere else. I've got no use for revels."
"I'm much to blame, mind you," confessed Joe. "I heap blame on
myself, because I did ought to have written to Chaffe on the subject
a month ago; but it slipped my memory along of my rheumatism, and
being so busy helping you chaps afterwards to spread muck on the
land. Then I was with the shepherd a lot too, and so on. But
Chaffe's always got a little stock of seasoned hurdles in his big
store, and he can send me just so many as ever he likes up to fifty
yards of 'em; and if he can cart them up to-morrow, the better
pleased I'll be. And if he can't, I must get 'em elsewhere, bitter
sorry as I shall feel to do so. Make that clear, Lawrence. And say
I'm blaming myself a good bit about it. I ought to have given Arthur
time, I allow--wonder though he is."
Accordingly the cowman set out for Lower Town and took his holiday on
foot. The day was fine, and he told Soosie-Toosie that he should not
be back before milking. She was taking no pleasure herself, but glad
to devote the day to some spring cleaning. Palk and the boy, Neddy
Tutt, had started at daybreak for the old home of Thomas near Newton
Abbot. Maynard had spent a second Sunday afternoon with the Bamseys,
and now he called there on his way to Mr. Chaffe with Susan's message
for Faith. But Mrs. Bamsey was from home with Benjamin. They and
Jane had driven early to Ashburton and were taking holiday. Dinah
had not gone, and she answered the door when Lawrence knocked. She
was surprised to see him.
"I never!" she said. "Why ain't you gone to the fair?"
"No use for fairs. Why ain't you for that matter, miss?"
"No use for them either. I'm under the weather a bit. Come in and
have a tell. There's nobody home but me."
Their acquaintance had ripened a little, for Dinah came to Falcon
Farm sometimes with messages. Lawrence admired Dinah's
straightforward mind, but was puzzled at some things about her; while
she, inspired by her step-father's opinion, that the man had some
hidden grievance against life, found him interesting. She did not
think he had a grievance, for he was not particularly gloomy with her
or anybody else; but she had found him reticent concerning himself
and he never spoke about his own experiences, or earlier existence,
though she had invited him to do so.
"Where's Johnny?" asked the visitor.
"Fairing--or so he said; but if truth's known I expect he's to work.
He often gives out he's away when he isn't. He's catched a chap once
or twice like that."
"Ah! He knows his business. I expect he's down on the water
somewhere. I should have guessed, now, you would have been up to his
plans and going to take him his dinner by the river presently."
Dinah was rather aghast at this pleasantry. It argued an intimate
knowledge of lovers' ways on the part of the other.
"You might think so," she said. "And often I have for that matter.
But we're out--my fault, too."
"Never!"
"Yes--and that's why I say I'm under the weather."
"Well, Miss Susan wants Mrs. Bamsey to lend her the cheese press.
We're going to have a try at cheese-making. Mr. Stockman's got an
idea the thing be well worth trying; and Miss Susan wants to come
over and have a tell about it and learn Mrs. Bamsey's wisdom. And
the clutch of chickens be ready for you."
"Didn't you hear me say I was under the weather?"
"Twice. Yes. Sorry. It'll come right. Lovers' quarrels be naught."
"What have you heard Cousin Joe say about me and Johnny?"
"D'you want to know?"
"I do then."
"He says you're not treating John fair, and that it's a very black
mark against you not fixing up the wedding."
"So it is, and nobody knows it better than me."
"You've got your reasons, no doubt."
"God knows if I have."
He said nothing, and she asked a curious question.
"Be you faithful, Mr. Maynard?"
"I hope so."
"I can talk to you. Funnily enough I've wanted to talk to you for a
month, but held off. And now's the chance. I can trust you?"
He was a little uneasy.
"Don't you tell me anything you'll be sorry for."
"I'll tell you this. Johnny's sworn he won't see me no more till I
name the day. And his people are on his side--very properly. And
why don't I name the day? Can you answer that?"
"No, I can't--nor anybody else but your own self I should think."
"What's love like?"
"You did ought to know."
"So I did; and that's the trouble. I did ought to know; but I don't.
Only I know this bitter clear: I'm not in love with Johnny. And it's
hurting me and it's wrong."
He was sorry for her, but not astonished to learn the truth. Indeed
he had already guessed it. Others also suspected it. Susan had
spoken plainly on the subject one night to her father.
"'Tis whispered you took him for Mr. Bamsey's sake."
"No, I can't be let off like that. I wouldn't have done that, though
it helped me to decide, of course. But I took him, because I thought
I did love him, and now, after keeping company just on a year, I know
I do not. Now you're a man that understands things."
"Don't you fancy that. None on God's earth is more puzzled about
things than me. I've had a puzzling life I may tell you."
"I haven't. Till now my life's been as clear as sunshine. But
now--now I'm up against a pretty awful thing, and it's cruel hard to
make up my mind. Was you ever really in love?"
"Never mind me."
"Was you ever in doubt, I mean?"
"Never."
"I don't ask for rudeness, but reason. There's nobody you can ask in
my life, because they be all biased. I'm not thinking of myself--God
judge me if I am. I'm just wondering this: Can I be the right down
proper good wife Johnny deserves to have if I don't love him? And
the question that's so hard is, ought I to marry him not loving him?
Not because of my feelings, but because of his future. Think if you
was him, and loved a woman as truly as he loves me, and you had to
say whether you'd marry her and chance the fact she didn't love you,
or, knowing she didn't, would give her up."
"That's not how it is, though. Johnny don't know you don't love him.
He don't know what you're feeling. I judge that by what he says,
because he often drops in and talks openly, finding all on his side."
"What would you do?"
"If I wanted to marry a woman and she'd said 'yes,' but afterwards
found herself mistook, I shouldn't love her no more."
"Then you don't know much about love."
"Very likely I don't."
"It's a selfish thing. If I was in love, I'd be like Johnny--and
worse. A proper tigress I expect."
"Are you in love?"
"No, I swear I'm not. Not with anybody. I've growed up, you see,
since I said 'yes' to John. I was a child, for all my years, when I
said it. Growing up ain't a matter of time; it's a matter of chance.
Some people never do grow up. But I have, and though I don't know
what it would be like to fall in love, I know parlous well I'm not,
and never was. And it comes back just to what I said. Would it be
better for Johnny to marry him not loving him, because I've promised
to do so, or would it be better for him if I told him I wasn't going
to? That's the question I've got to decide."
"You'll decide right," he said. "And you don't want other people's
views. You know."
"I know what I'd like to do; but just because my own feeling is
strong for telling him I won't marry him, I dread it. Of course
he'll say I'm only thinking of myself."
"You can't be sure what he'll say."
"Yes, I can: I know him."
"If he knew you didn't love him----"
"He'd only say he'd larn me how to later. But he wouldn't believe
it."
"If you was to hold off much longer, he'd chuck you perhaps."
"Never. I'm his life. He says it and he means it."
"But to marry him would be your death?"
She nodded.
"Yes, I think."
"Perhaps you're wrong, however."
"Very likely. My first thought was to tell him how it was with me
and leave it to him. But I know what he'd do. He'd only laugh at me
and not take it serious, or let me off."
"You are thinking for yourself then?"
"I suppose I am."
"It's natural. You've got your life to live."
"Be sporting," she said. "Don't think of me and don't think of him.
Put us out of your mind and just say what you'd do if you was me."
He felt a little moved for her. It is pathetic to see a resolute
creature reduced to irresolution. The manhood in him inclined
Lawrence to take her part against the man. It seemed an awful thing
that her life should be ruined, as it must be if she married one she
did not love. He liked Dinah better than Johnny, for the latter's
arrogance and rather smug and superior attitude to life at large did
not attract Maynard.
"It's never right under any circumstances for a woman to marry a man
she does not love," he said.
"You think so?"
"I do--I'm positive."
"Even if she's promised?"
"Your eyes are opened. You promised because you thought you loved
him. Now you know right well you don't. A proper man ought to bend
to that, however much it hurts. And if you still think it's your
duty to marry him, I say duty's not enough to marry on."
"It's hurting me fearfully, and there's something awful wrong about
it. They want me away from here--Mrs. Bamsey and Jane--that's
natural too. Though why I'm confiding in you I don't know.
Something have drove me to do it. But I know you'll be faithful."
"I wish I could help you, miss. I can only say what I think."
"You have helped me I reckon. You've helped me a lot. I was half in
a mind to go and see Enoch Withycombe; but he's old, and the young
turn to the young, don't they?"
"I suppose they do; though I dare say the old know best, along of
experience."
"The old forget a lot. They always begin by telling you they
remember what it was to be young themselves; but they don't. They
can't. Their blood runs slower; they're colder. They've changed
through and through since they were young. They can't remember some
things."
"I dare say they can't."
"Will you come for a walk with me one day and show me that stone you
was telling about--the face?"
"You remember that?"
"Yes; you was going to say more about it the last Sunday you was
here; then you shut up rather sudden."
The idea of a walk with Dinah had certainly never entered Maynard's
head. He remained silent.
"D'you think it would be wrong, or d'you only think it would be a
nuisance?" she asked.
"It's a new notion to me. I'd like to pleasure you and it wouldn't
be a nuisance--far from it I'm sure; but as to whether it would be
wrong--it would and it wouldn't I fancy. It couldn't be wrong in
itself; but seeing you're tokened to another man, you're not free to
take walks with Dick, Tom, or Harry. No doubt you see that."
"John wouldn't like it?"
"Certainly he wouldn't. You know that."
"Would you mind my walking with another man if you was engaged to me?"
"Yes, I should, very much indeed; especially if I was in the same fix
that John Bamsey is."
"Poor John. There's such a thing as liking a man too well to love
him, Mr. Maynard."
"Is there?"
"I'm beginning to feel--there--I've wasted enough of your time. You
won't go for a walk with me?"
"I'd like to go for a walk with you."
"I'll ask you again," she said. "Then, whether I marry John, or
don't marry John, there'll be no reason against."
"I quite understand."
"To see that face on the stone. You'll find Mr. Chaffe in his
workshop. Holidays are naught to him. Good-bye. Truth oughtn't to
hurt honest people, ought it?"
"Nothing hurts like truth can, whether you're honest, or whether
you're not."
He went forward turning over with mild interest the matter of the
conversation. He was little moved that she should have asked him to
go for a walk. From any other young woman such a suggestion had been
impressive; but not from her. He had noticed that she was never
illusive and quite unpractised in the art of lure, or wile. The
stone he had mentioned was a natural face carved by centuries of
time, on the granite rocks of Hey Tor, some miles away. He had
mentioned it in answer to a remark from Benjamin Bamsey, and then,
for private but sufficient reasons he had dropped the subject. His
connection with the stone belonged to a time far past, concerning
which he was not disposed to be communicative. That she should have
remembered it surprised him. But perhaps the only thing that had
really interested her was the fact he dropped the subject so suddenly.
He fell to thinking on his own past for a time, then returned to
Dinah. That she could confide in him inclined him to friendship. He
admired her character and was sorry for the plight in which she found
herself. He hoped that she might drop Bamsey and find a man she
could love. He was aware that her position in her step-father's
house held difficulties, for the situation had often been discussed
at Falcon Farm. Whether she decided for John, or against him, it was
probably certain she would leave Green Hayes; and that would mean
distress for Benjamin Bamsey. He was sorry for all concerned, but
not inclined to dwell over-much on the subject. His own thoughts
were always enough for him, and his experience had tended somewhat to
freeze the sources of charity and human enthusiasm at the fount. He
was not soured, but he was introspective to the extent that the
affairs of his fellow creatures did not particularly challenge him.
Thus it was left for Thomas Palk to see the truth of the situation at
Falcon Farm; Lawrence had never troubled to realise it for himself.
It seemed improbable that he would be woven into the texture of other
lives again. Indeed, he had long since determined with himself that
he would never be.
Arthur Chaffe was making a coffin.
"The dead can wait for no man," he said. "A poor old widow; but I'm
under her command for the moment; and she shall have good work."
Lawrence told the matter of the hurdles and Mr. Chaffe promised to do
what he could.
"Joe treats time with contempt," he declared. "He did ought to have
told me long ago; but I always reckon with the likes of him. I think
for a lot of people and save them from their own slow wits. Not that
Stockman's got slow wits. His wits serve him very well indeed, as no
doubt you've found."
"He's a good farmer and a kind-hearted sort of man."
"So he is, so he is. You'll not hear me say a word against him."
"Yet a few do."
"They do. But mind you, when he says he worked as a young man, it's
true. He did work and took a long view, so now you find him as he
is. But he never loved work for itself, same as I do. Work never
was meat and drink to him; and when it had got him what he wanted, he
was very well content to play and let others work for him. And
knowing well what work means, nobody he employs will ever deceive him
on the subject."
"He sees that we earn our money. But he's fair."
"Ah! To be fair with your neighbour is a great gift. Few are, and
who shall wonder? Now Joe's a man who takes a generous view of
himself. But 'tis better to be hard on yourself and easy with other
people--don't you think?"
"A fine thing, to be hard on yourself, no doubt," admitted Lawrence.
"Yes, and them who are hardest on themselves will often be easiest
with their neighbours. But that's a high position to reach, and few
can."
"It's very easy in my opinion not to judge other people. But when
life demands you to judge, then the trouble begins."
"When our own interest comes in, we often make a mess of it and judge
wrong," admitted Mr. Chaffe. "And what I always say to anybody in a
fix is this: to get outside the question and think how it would be if
it was all happening to somebody else. If you've got the sense to do
that, you'll often be surprised to find the light will shine. And
you'll often be surprised, also, to find how much smaller the thing
bulks, if you can wriggle out of it yourself and take a bird's-eye
view."
"I expect that's true."
"Oh yes, it's true. I've proved it. A thing happens and you're chin
deep in it. Then you say to yourself, 'Suppose I was dead and
looking down on this job from my heavenly mansion, how would it seem
then?' And if you've got the intellects to do it, then you often get
a gleam of sense that you never will while you're up against the
facts and part of 'em. It's like the judge trying a case, without
having any interest in it beyond the will that right shall be done."
"Men haven't the gift for that."
"They have not; yet even to try to do it stills passion and breeds
patience and helps religion."
"Very good advice, no doubt."
"This coffin will go along early to-morrow morning, and I'll bring
half the hurdles this week in two or three loads; and tell Joe the
price be up a thought since last year. He knows that as well as I
do."
Maynard noted the instructions in a little pocket-book and presently
departed. He took a meal of bread and cheese and cider at the inn
hard by, then set out on an extended round, walked to Widecombe,
tramped the Moors, watched the swaleing fires, that now daily burned
upon them, and did not return home until the hour of milking.