"THE REST IS EASY"
Ben Bamsey survived his illness and had to thank a very pains-taking
doctor and most devoted nurses for his life. He was unconscious for
four and twenty hours, and during the fortnight that followed the
crisis remained so weak, that it seemed he could never regain
strength sufficient to move a hand. Then he began to recover. He
prospered very slowly, but there were no relapses, and the definite
disaster left by his illness remained unknown to the sufferer himself
until the end of his days. Nor did other people perceive it until
some months had elapsed. The physician was the first to do so, but
he did not speak of it directly, rather leaving Ben's own circle to
discover the change and its extent. The doctor had feared early; but
it was not a fear he could impart.
Meantime it became known to those who had already bidden farewell to
the master of Green Hayes that he would live; and not one of all
those known to Mr. Bamsey but rejoiced to learn the good news.
On a day some time after Christmas, while yet the sick man's fate was
undetermined and it could not be said that he was out of danger,
Lawrence Maynard went down to Green Hayes, that he might learn the
latest news. Life ran evenly at Falcon Farm and Mr. Stockman's first
interest at present was his kinsman. Now Lawrence brought a
partridge, with directions from Joe that it was to be made into broth
for Mr. Bamsey.
He saw Ben's wife and heard the morning's news, that her husband was
now safe and would recover.
Faith looked haggard and pale, and Maynard expressed a fear that the
ordeal must have been very severe. She admitted it, but declared
that such relief as all now felt would be a tonic and swiftly restore
them.
"We're about beat," she said, in her usual placid fashion. "We've
worked hard and, between us, we've saved my husband with the doctor's
help. That man's a miracle. I've got a very great respect for him.
You'd best to come in and rest yourself before you go back."
He entered, in secret hope of seeing Dinah, whom he had not met for
several weeks. Once, however, she had written him a brief note to
say that she was well.
Faith Bamsey spoke of Ben and praised his fortitude.
"If he'd wavered, or thrown up the sponge for an hour, he'd have
died; but so long as he kept consciousness he determined to live, and
even when he thought and felt positive he must go, he never gave up
doing the right thing. He won't be the same man, however; we mustn't
expect that. He'll be in his bed for a month yet and can't hope to
go down house for six weeks. He mustn't think to go out of doors
till spring and the warm weather; then it remains to be seen how much
of his nature he gets back."
She entertained Maynard for half an hour, while he drank a cup of
tea. She did not share Jane's suspicion and dislike of him and felt
no objection to the idea of his wedding Dinah and removing her from
Lower Town. She was almost minded in his quiet and inoffensive
presence to raise the question, and went so far as to tell him Dinah
had driven to Ashburton that afternoon. But he showed no apparent
interest in the fact and Faith did not continue on the subject. She
could be generous, however, in the blessed light of Ben's promised
recovery, and she admitted that Dinah had been of infinite value in
the sick-room. Indeed Mrs. Bamsey did not hide from herself that
Dinah had doubtless made the difference between life and death for
her husband; and since she desired above all things that Ben should
live, some of her dislike was softened for the time. She wished her
away very cordially, but knew the hour of Dinah's departure must now
be protracted indefinitely, for no question could at present be put
to her foster-father.
With her personal anxieties ended, Faith Bamsey found it possible to
consider other people again.
"I've never had time to think of what Enoch Withycombe's death meant
yet," she said, "because it brought such a terrible time to us. But
now us can lift up our heads and look round at other folk again and
inquire after the neighbours. Melinda was down axing after my
husband a bit ago, but I didn't see her. Jerry comes and goes. I
hope Melinda gets over it. To nurse a father all them years and then
lose him, must have left her stranded in a manner of speaking."
"Mrs. Honeysett comes to see Miss Susan and farmer sometimes."
"I warrant. Would you say Cousin Joe be looking in that direction
now she's free?"
Maynard shook his head.
"I wouldn't. I don't reckon Mr. Stockman will marry again. He's
very comfortable."
"Yes--one of them whose comfort depends on the discomfort of somebody
else, however."
"So people seem to think. It's a hard home for Miss Susan; but it's
her life, and if she's not a cheerful sort of woman, you can't say
she's much downcast."
"No--she dursn't be cast down. He wouldn't stand cast-down people
round him. Mind to say I'm greatly obliged for the bird, and I hope
Ben will eat a slice or two presently. I'll come up over and drink a
dish of tea with them afore long. I'm properly withered for want of
fresh air."
"I dare say you are, ma'am."
"I saw Enoch Withycombe last week," she said. "The old man was
standing down in the Vale, not far from the kennels--just where you'd
think he might be. And always seeing him lying down, as we did, it
gave me quite a turn to mark how tall his ghost was."
To see a dead man had not astonished Faith; but the unremembered
accident of his height had done so.
"How did he look, Mrs. Bamsey?" asked Maynard.
"I couldn't tell you. The faces that I see never show very clear.
You'm conscious it is this man, or this woman. You know, somehow,
'tis them, but there's always a fog around them. They don't look the
same as what living people look."
"The haunted house that adjoins Mrs. Honeysett's is taken at last,"
he said. "Mr. Chaffe has been up over a good bit putting it to
rights, and they've stripped the ivy and are going to put on a new
thatch. It's a very good house really, though in a terrible state,
so Mr. Chaffe told master."
"I've heard all about it," she answered. "There's a new gardener
come to Buckland Court--a widow man with a young daughter. And he
don't care for ghosts--one of the modern sort, that believe naught
they can't understand. And as they can't understand much, they don't
believe much. So he's took it."
"Harry Ford, he's called," added Lawrence. "A man famous for
flower-growing, I believe."
"I'm glad then. I hate for houses to stand empty."
He asked after Jerry.
"I met your young people back-along, and I'm afraid Miss Jane have
put me in her black books--why for I don't know very well. I suppose
they'll wed come presently?"
Again Mrs. Bamsey was tempted to speak, but felt it wiser not to do
so. She ignored Maynard's first remark and replied to the second.
"Yes; they'll be for it now no doubt. After Easter perhaps; but not
till my husband is strong enough to be at the church and give Jane
away of course. Jerry's come into a bit of money since his father
died. They must have their ideas, but they're close as thieves about
the future. All I can hear is that they be wishful to go away from
here come they're married."
"Folk like to make a change and start life fresh after that."
"I suppose they do."
He talked a little longer and it was impossible for Faith to feel
dislike or anger. Had he come between her son and his betrothed--had
he been responsible for the unhappy break, she would have felt
differently; but she knew that he was not responsible and she
perceived that if he indeed desired to marry Dinah, the circumstance
would solve difficulties only ignored by common consent during her
husband's illness. She had not heard what John said to Dinah in the
sick-room and supposed that now her son must appreciate the
situation, since he had quite ceased to speak of Dinah. His purpose,
avowed in a passion, had not overmuch impressed Dinah herself, for it
was outside reason and she doubted not that Johnny would be ashamed
of such foolish threats in a cooler moment. But, none the less, she
meant to warn Lawrence and now an opportunity occurred to do so.
For Maynard availed himself of Mrs. Bamsey's information, and hearing
that Ben's foster-daughter was gone to Ashburton, knew the way by
which she would return home and proceeded on that way. He had not
seen her since the Sunday afternoon at Lizwell Meet; neither had he
written to her, doubting whether it might be wise to do so and
guessing that her whole life for the present was devoted to the
sufferer.
He left Mrs. Bamsey now and presently passed the workshops of Arthur
Chaffe at Lower Town, then sank into the valley. By the time he
reached New Bridge, Dinah had also arrived there and he carried her
parcels for half a mile and returned beside the river.
She was beyond measure rejoiced to see him and he found her worn and
weary from the strain of the battle; but its victorious issue went
far already to make her forget what was passed. She talked of Mr.
Bamsey and gave Maynard details of the sick-room and the alternate
phases of hope and despair that had accompanied the illness. To her
these things bulked large and filled her thoughts; but he was well
content, because Dinah adopted an implicit attitude to him that
indicated beyond doubt her settled consciousness of their relation.
She spoke as though they were lovers of established understanding.
She seemed to take it for granted that only an uncertain measure of
time separated them.
This much she implied from the moment of their meeting and presently,
when they approached the parting place, she became personal.
"Don't think, for all I'm so full of dear foster-father, that you've
been out of my thoughts, Lawrence," she said. "You was there all the
time--the last thing in my mind when I went to get an hour or two of
sleep, and the first thing when I woke. You ran through it all; and
once or twice when he was rambling, he named your name and said you
was a very good sort of man--civil and thoughtful and peace-loving.
And I told him you were; and he hoped we'd come together, for he said
he could trust me with you. He wasn't far from himself when he said
it, but only I heard; and whether he ever named you in his fever
dreams when I wasn't there--to Jane, or Mrs. Bamsey--I don't know.
They never let on about it and so I hope he didn't."
"I've just seen his wife," he said. "She's long ways happier for
this great recovery. She's sensible enough. She looked a few
questions, but didn't ask them, and you're not bound to answer looks."
Then Dinah told him of John's threats and how he had again begged her
to wed.
"I felt things was at a climax then; and I told him straight out that
I knew what love was at last. I was gentle and kind to the poor
chap; but he wasn't gentle and kind to me. He wanted to know the
man, and that, of course, I couldn't tell him, though dearly I longed
to. But things being as they are, I can't name you, Lawrence, though
'tis terrible hateful to me I can't. I said to Johnny 'twas no odds
about the man for the present, and then he lost his temper and swore
he'd find him out and do all manner of wicked deeds to him. Only his
rage, of course, and nothing to trouble about, but so it is and I
meant for you to know."
He considered and she spoke again.
"It makes me mad to think all we are to each other have got to be
hid, as if we was ashamed of it instead of proud--proud. But Cousin
Joe would abide by the letter against the spirit no doubt. He'd tell
everybody you was married if we blazed out we were tokened; and now
Mr. Withycombe's dead, there's not any in the Vale that would
understand."
"Certainly there is not, Dinah--or beyond the Vale I reckon."
"All's one," she said. "In my eyes you're a free man, and just as
right to find a mate as a bird in a tree. Yes, you are. I know what
marriage means now, and I know what our marriage will mean. For that
matter we are married in heart and soul."
"It's good to hear you say so," he answered. "My love's so true as
yours, Dinah; but there's more mixed with it."
"Away with what be mixed with it! I won't have naught mixed with it,
and no thought shall think any evil into it, Lawrence. You couldn't
think evil for that matter; but men be apt, seemingly, to tangle up a
straight thought by spinning other thoughts around it. And I won't
have that. What be your thoughts that you say are mixed with the
future? Can you name them? Can you think 'em out loud in words and
look in my face while you do? I lay you can't! But, for that
matter, I've been thinking too. And what I think mixes with what I
feel, and makes all the better what I feel."
In her eagerness Dinah became rhetorical.
"I was turning over that widow at Barnstaple," she said--"the woman
called Courtier, married to a dead man. And I was wondering why I
thought twice of her even while I did so; for what be she to me? Not
so much as the grass on the field-path I walk over. And what be she
to you more than the dead? Be she real, Lawrence? Be she more real
and alive to you than Gilbert Courtier, in his grave, beyond sight
and sound of living men for evermore? Let the dead lie. You'm
alive, anyway, and free in the Eye of God to marry me. And what
matters except how soon, and when, and where?"
"You're a brave wonder," he said, "and the man you can love, who
would miss you, must be a bigger fool than me. What's left be my
work--and a glorious bit of work I reckon."
"Easy enough anyway."
"For the things to be done, easy enough I doubt not; for the things
to be thought, none so easy. Them that sweep fearless to a job, like
you, have got to be thought for. And love quickens a man and makes
him higher and deeper and better--better, Dinah--than himself--if
love's got any decent material to work upon and the man's any good.
And pray God that will turn out to be so in my case. A bit ago, when
first I came here, I'd have gone bare-headed into this--same as you
want to. But I've larned a lot from a dead man since I came to
Falcon Farm. Withycombe looked deeper into life than me, being
taught by his master and his own troubles and also out of books so to
do. He steadied me here and there, and maybe it was for this great
business that the words were put in his mouth. And it's that that be
mixed with what I feel for you. God knows it don't lessen the love;
but it--how shall I say--it lifts it a bit--into sharper air than a
man breathes easy. I ban't going to be selfish if I can help it.
We're young and the world's before us. But afore we come together, I
want you to be so strong and sure-footed that nothing shall ever
shake you after, and naught that man can do or say----"
"Oh, my dear heart!" she cried, "what do you think I'm made of?"
"I know--I know. It's what I be made of, Dinah darling. I've got to
find that out."
"Let me show you then. You don't frighten me, Lawrence. I know what
you're made of, and I know if I know naught else, you won't be a
finished thing till you share what I'm made of. We be halves of one
whole as sure as our Maker fashioned the parts; and that you
know--you must know. And I tell you the rest is easy, and you know
it's easy so well as me."
He said no more. In her present mood it must have only hurt to do
so, and every human inclination, every reasonable argument, every
plea of common sense and justice prompted him to acquiesce
whole-heartedly. But something other than reason possessed his mind
at that particular hour. For the moment he could not smother
thoughts that were selfless and engaged with Dinah only.
After a silence he answered her last words.
"Yes, I know it," he said. "If the rest goes that way, then the rest
is easy enough."
"What other way can it go, unless like our ways to-night--mine up one
hill--alone--yours up another hill--alone?"
"Never, by God! I'm only a man."
"And my man! My man!"
They talked a little longer, then parted, where they had parted on a
previous great occasion. But they did not part until Maynard had
made her promise to meet him again and that quickly.
"You'll be a lot freer now," he said.
"I shall and I shan't too, because all the fighting for foster-father
have made me closer than ever to him somehow. There's such a lot of
different loves in the world seemingly. I love the dear old man with
my whole heart--every bit of it. He can't do nor say nothing I don't
love him for--he's an old saint. And I love you with my whole heart
too, Lawrence. I properly drown in love when I think of you; and I
can almost put my arms round you in my thoughts, and feel we ain't
two people at all--only one."
They kissed and went their ways, and he considered all that she had
said even to the last word. The thought of these things in
themselves rejoiced him. To run away with Dinah and vanish from this
environment would not be difficult. Indeed he had already traversed
the ground and considered the details of their departure. He would
give notice a month before they disappeared, and while his going
might be orderly enough, Dinah's must be in the nature of a surprise.
He considered whether they should leave in such a manner that their
names would not be associated afterwards; but it seemed impossible to
avoid that. It mattered little and not at all to her. In any case
the details were simple enough; there was nothing whatever to prevent
their departure when they chose to depart. To Canada, or Australia,
they might go when they willed, and he had retraced the old ground
and reconsidered the question of state-aided passages and his own
resources, which were ample for the purpose.
But not with these things was Maynard's mind occupied when he left
Dinah. He was not a man of very complex character, and the
independence of thought that had marked the chief action of his life
had never been seriously challenged until now. He had been guided by
reason in most questions of conduct and never recognised anything
above or outside reason in the action that led him to desert his wife
on their wedding day; but that same quality it was that now
complicated reason and made him doubt, not for his own sake or well
being, not of the future opened for him by the immense new experience
of loving Dinah, but by the consequences of such a future for Dinah
herself. Here reason spoke with a plain voice. His wits told him
that no rational human being could offer any sort of objection to
their union; and the tribal superstitions that might intervene, based
on the creed morals under which his nation pretended to exist, did
not weigh with him. What did was the law of the land, not the
religion of the land. Under the law he could not marry Dinah, and no
child that might come into the world as a result of their union would
be other than a bastard. That would not trouble her; and, indeed,
need not trouble anybody, for since Gilbert Courtier, as Dinah had
said, no longer existed for them, and was now beyond reach as
completely as though indeed he lay in his grave, there could be none
to rise and question a marriage entered into between him and
Dinah--in Canada, or elsewhere. But there were still the realities
and, beyond them, a certain constituent of his own character which
now began to assert itself. There persisted in his soul a something
not cowardly, but belonging to hereditary instincts of conscience,
mother-taught, through centuries. It made Lawrence want to have all
in order, conformable to the laws of the world and his own deeply
rooted sense of propriety. He had no desire to run with the hare and
hunt with the hounds: he knew that for nothing you can only get
nothing, but he longed, before all else, that the inevitable might
also be the reputable, and that no whisper in time to come should
ever be raised against his future wife. The desire rose much above a
will to mere safety. It was higher than that and, indeed, belonged
to Maynard's ethical values and sense of all that was fitting and
good of report among men and women. It echoed the same influence and
radical conception of conduct that had made him leave his wife on his
wedding day; and the fact that no such considerations controlled
Dinah, the truth that she regarded the situation on a plane of more
or less material reality and felt no sympathy with his shadowy
difficulties, promised to increase them. He hardly saw this himself
yet, but though he felt that she was right, yet doubted, in that
secret and distinctive compartment of his inner self, whether she
might be wrong. He was, for the moment, divided between agreeing
with her utterly and feeling that he must allow no natural instinct
and rational argument to let him take advantage of her. And when he
looked closer into this, a new difficulty arose, for how could he
ever make Dinah understand this emotion, or set clearly before her
comprehension what he himself as yet so dimly comprehended?
Her grasp of the situation was clear and lucid. From the moment when
she had said in the teashop, "D'you call that being married?" he
guessed how she was going to feel, and how she would be prepared to
act. Nor would the suggested confession to dead Enoch Withycombe
have made any difference to Dinah, whatever view the old hunter might
have held. Dinah's heart was single, and while now Maynard longed
with a great longing to find his own heart seeing eye to eye with
hers in every particular, he knew that it did not, and he could not
be sure that it ever would. He regarded the situation as lying
entirely between her and himself, and entertained no thought of any
possibility that others might complicate it, either to retard, or
determine the event. She had, indeed, told him of John Bamsey's
threats, but to them he attached no importance. From within and not
from without must the conclusion be reached.