DISCOVERY
Circumstances swept Thomas to action sooner than he had intended and,
though slow of wits, he was quickened to grasp an opportunity and
essay his difficult and dangerous adventure. He had convinced
himself that conscience must be the mainspring of the enterprise and
assured his mind that, with such a guide, he might feel in no doubt
of the result. Even if he failed and received the reward that not
seldom falls to well doing, he would be able to sustain it when he
considered his motives.
There came an occasion on which Joe Stockman declared himself to be
ill in the tubes; and as the fact interfered with certain of his own
plans, it caused him much depression and irritation. Indeed he was
greatly troubled at the passing weakness and took care that Falcon
Farm should share his own inconvenience. He railed and was hard to
please. He reminded Palk and Maynard of their rise and hoped they
would not imitate the proletariat in general and ask for more and
more, while doing less and less. He criticised and carped; and while
the men suffered, his daughter endured even more than they. It was
possible for Lawrence and Thomas to escape to their work, and since
Joe held the open air must not for the present be faced, they were
safe for most of their time; but Soosie-Toosie found herself not so
happily situated and when, after dinner on a wet and stormy day in
early May, her father decided that he must have a mustard and linseed
poultice that night, a bottle of brown sherry and a certain lozenge
efficacious for the bronchial tubes, despite the atrocious weather,
she gladly consented to make the journey to Ashburton.
"'Tis too foul for you to go. Better let me," ventured Thomas, when
the need arose; but Mr. Stockman negatived his proposal.
"The weather's mending as any fool can see," he said, "and if it
comes on worse, you'd best to take a cab home, Susan. 'Twill be the
doctor to-morrow if I ban't seen to; and Lord He knows how such as me
can pay doctors, with wages up and prices down same as now."
"I'm wishful to go," answered his daughter. "You bide close by the
fire and I'll be gone this instant moment. Washing up can bide till
I come back."
"If the pony wasn't in sight of foaling, you could have took the
cart," answered Joe; "but that's outside our powers to-day. And I
wouldn't ax you if I didn't think a breath of air would do you good.
I know what 'tis to pine for it."
"It will do me good," she answered, and soon was gone, through lanes
where the mad, spring wind raved and flung the rain slantwise and
scattered fields and roads with young foliage torn off the trees.
Thomas Palk saw her go and his heart grew hard. He proceeded with
his work for an hour, then the ferment within him waxed to boiling
point and he prepared to strike at last. He went indoors, changed
his wet jacket and entered the kitchen, where Joe sat sighing and
gurgling over the fire with a tumbler of hot whisky and water beside
him.
"You!" he said. "God's light! Be you feared of the weather too?"
"You know if I'm feared of weather, master. But I be taking half an
hour off. There's naught calling for me special and I'm going over
some weak spots in the stable timber where we want fresh wood. The
big plough hoss chews his crib and us must run a bit of sheet tin
over it I reckon; and there's dry rot too. But I want a word, and
I'll be very much obliged to you if you'll bear with me for a few
minutes."
"I bear with life in general, including you, Thomas; so speak and
welcome," answered Mr. Stockman, "though I hope it's nothing calling
for any great feats of mind on my part. When I get a cold in the
tubes, it withers my brain like a dry walnut for the time being."
Thomas felt rather glad to know this. It might mean that his master
was less able to flash retort.
"No, no," he said. "I couldn't put no tax upon your brain--ain't got
enough myself. 'Tis a small matter in one sense and yet in another a
large matter. Lookers on see most of the game, as they say; and
though I ban't no nosey-poker, and far too busy a man, I hope, to
mind any business but my own, yet, there 'tis: I live here and I
can't but see us did ought to have another female servant under this
roof."
"And why for, Thomas, if you'll be so good as to explain?" asked Mr.
Stockman.
"Now we be coming to it," answered the horseman. "And I beg you in
Christian charity to take it as it is meant--respectful and as man to
master. But there 'tis: the reason why for we want another woman
here is that there be a lot too much for one woman to do. And that
means, as I see it, that Miss Stockman's doing the work of two women.
And such things be easily overlooked, especially in her case, because
she's a towser for work and don't know herself that she's got far too
much upon her. She's just slipped into it, and 'tis only by looking
at the affair from outside you see it is so; and through nobody's
fault in particular but just by chance; yet certainly she's doing
more than a human creature ought; for her work's never ended. You
say you done the work of ten in your palmy days, master, so perhaps
it don't fret you to see her doing the work of two at least; but the
female frame ban't built to do more than a fair day's work, and in my
humble opinion, as a friend of the family and proud so to be, Miss
Susan's toiling a lot harder than be safe for her health; and I feel
cruel sure as some day the strain will tell and she'll go all to
pieces, like a worn-out engine. Not that she'd ever grumble. This
very day she'll be properly drowned out afore she comes home; and I
dare say will be too busy working at you when she comes back to put
off her wet clothes, or think of herself. But there it is; I do
believe she moils and toils beyond the limit, and I point it out and
hope you'll take it as 'tis meant, from a faithful servant of the
family. And if it was the other way round and I had a girl I was
making work too heavy--from no unkindness, but just because I'd got
used to it--if it was like that and you called my attention to it,
I'd be very thankful, master."
"Capital, Thomas," said Mr. Stockman. "Never heard your tongue flow
so suent afore. You go on and say all you feel called to say, then
I'll answer you, if you'll allow me."
"That's all," answered Palk. "And I hope all well inside civility
and my place. And, as man to man, I do pray you won't be put about
nor yet feel I've said a word beyond my duty."
Joe appeared quite unangered and indeed only mildly interested. He
sipped at his glass; then lighted his pipe and drew at it for half a
minute before he replied.
"Every man has a right to do and say what he feels to be his duty,
Thomas. And women likewise. It's a free country in fact--or so we
pretend--and I should be very sorry to think as you, or Maynard, or
the boy even, was bound to endure my tyrant manners and customs a
minute longer than your comfort could put up with 'em. But that cuts
both ways, don't it? An all-seeing eye like yours will grant that?"
"I ain't got an all-seeing eye, master. 'Tis only the point of view.
And of course we could go if we was wishful to go, which we are not
I'm sure. But a man's daughter be different. She can't go very
well, can she?"
"She cannot," admitted Mr. Stockman. "And I've yet to hear she's
fretting to do so. This place is her home, and she's stood at her
father's right hand ever since he was doomed to widowhood. And I may
be wrong, of course, but I've always laboured under the opinion she
loved her parent and was proud and pleased to be the crown of his
grey hairs. She can't well desert me, as you say. But in your case,
Thomas, the position is a bit otherwise. You can go when you please,
or when I please. 'Tis well within your power to seek other work,
where your kind heart won't be torn watching a daughter do her duty
by a sick father; and 'tis well within my power to wish you to go.
And I do wish it. I'm wishing it something tremendous this moment."
Mr. Stockman smiled genially and continued.
"In a word, fine chap that you are and a willing worker, with good
methods and worthy of my praise--which you've had--I'm going to get
along without you now, and so we'll part Monday month, if you please.
And delighted I shall be to give you a right down good character for
honesty and sound understanding--where the hosses are concerned."
Mr. Palk had not expected this. He was much bewildered.
"D'you mean it, master?" he asked, with eyes not devoid of alarm.
"I do, my dear. I never meant anything with a better appetite. A
great loss, because with one like me--old and stricken before my
time, along of working far too hard, which was a foolish fault in my
generation--it was a comforting thing to feel I'd got a hossman in
you worthy of the name. You be the pattern of a good, useful sort,
that's dying out--worse luck. But when you said you wasn't a
nosey-poker, Thomas, you said wrong, I'm afraid; and a meddlesome
man, that has time to spare from the hosses for the women, and
thrusts in between parent and child, be very much against the grain
with me. And though, of course, you may be quite right, and know
better how to treat and cherish a grown-up daughter than a stupid
creature like me--and you a bachelor--yet even the worm will turn,
Thomas. And, worm though I am, I be going to venture to turn.
You're great on the point of view; and so will I be: and, from my
point of view, I can see you haven't got enough work to do in this
little place. You must go in the world and find a bigger and a
harder job, that won't leave you time for other people's business,
which at best be a kicklish task and avoided by men of much wits as a
rule."
"I meant well, master."
"And don't you always mean well? Why, you're the most well-meaning
man, after myself, I ever had the luck to meet, Thomas. But you've
fixed a gulf to-day, and I feel terrible sure we shan't suit each
other no more. So we'll part friends Monday month."
Joe spoke with far greater cordiality than when raising Mr. Palk's
wages six weeks before. He beamed graciously on Thomas and lighted
his pipe again.
"The talk be at an end now, because I mustn't strain my tubes," he
said. "And I'll beg you not to return to the subject. Both me and
my God are very well satisfied with the way I brought up
Soosie-Toosie, and so's she; and if she feels there's anything on
this earth I can do for her, to make her home a happier place, rest
assured she'll ax me herself. She's my master-jewel and always will
be, though she'll never know all I've done for her, because no child
ever can know the heights and depths of a good father's love. 'A
good father,' mark me, Thomas."
"Monday month then, master?"
"If quite convenient to yourself."
Then Palk went out into storm and gathering dusk. The woods of
Buckland waved grey through the gloaming and rain swept them heavily.
The wind shouted over the granite crown of the Beacon; sheep and
cattle had crept down from the high land and stood in the shelter of
walls and woods.
Thomas considered with himself. He was in a state as perturbed as it
was possible for such a stolid spirit to be; but he remembered that
the innocent cause of this revolution was now returning heavy laden
up the long hill from the market town.
He decided that he would go and meet Susan. His upheaval took the
form of increased solicitude for Miss Stockman.
"She shall hear the fatal news from me--not him," he reflected.
He set off and presently sighted the woman tramping up the hill in
the rain. Under the wild weather and fading light, she looked like
some large, bedraggled moth blown roughly about. Her basket was full
and her left arm held a parcel in blue paper. It was the only spot
of colour she offered. They met, greatly to her surprise.
"Good Lord!" she said. "Have father put more chores on you? Be you
going to Ashburton?"
"I am not," he answered. "I came out with my big umbrella to meet
you."
She was fluttered.
"How terrible kind! But 'tis no odds. I be bone-wet."
Nevertheless, Mr. Palk unfurled a large, faded, glass-green umbrella
over her.
"Give me the basket," he said, "and I'll walk betwixt you and the
weather. I come for more reasons than one, Susan. Something's
happened while you were to town and I'd sooner you heard it from me
than him."
"Nought gone wrong with father?"
"That's for others to say. But something have gone parlous wrong
with me."
She started and hugged her blue paper parcel closer. It contained
the bottle of brown sherry.
"I hope not, I'm sure."
"In a word, I'm sorry to say I leave Falcon Farm Monday month. It
have fallen with a terrible rush upon me--and my own fault too. I
can't tell you the reason, but so it is. The master's sacked me; and
every right to do so, no doubt, in his own eyes."
Miss Stockman stood still and panted. Her face was wet with rain;
her hair touzled; her hat dripping.
"Be you saying truth?" she asked, and fetched a handkerchief from her
pocket and dried her face.
"Gospel. I done a thing as he took in a very unkind spirit I'm sorry
to say."
The blue parcel trembled.
"Going--you? Never!"
"Monday month it have got to be."
"Why for? What have you gone and done? It must have been something
properly fearful, for he thought the world of you, behind your back."
"To my face, however, he did not--not this evening. And as to what I
done, I hope he won't feel called to name it in your ear. It was a
very dangerous task, as I reckoned when I started on it; but I felt
drove--Lord knows why! I meant well, but that don't amount to much
when you fail. No doubt he'll get somebody he likes better; and he
won't withhold a good character neither."
"This be a cruel come-along-of-it," she said blankly. "I couldn't
have heard nothing to trouble me more, Thomas. You was the bestest
we've ever had to Falcon Farm--and kindness alive."
"Thank you I'm sure. We've been very good friends. And why not?"
"I can't picture you gone. 'Twas a rit of temper. I'll speak to
father."
"Don't you do that. There weren't no temper, nor yet language. He
meant it and he's an unchanging man."
"Whatever did he say? What did you do? I will know! It shan't be
hid. Perhaps 'tis only his tubes fretting him."
"No--nothing to do with his tubes. He was well within his rights.
Not that I'll allow he was right, however."
"Why can't you tell me what it is then? If you want to stop--but
perhaps you don't?"
He considered.
"I never thought to go, and I never wanted to go less than what I do
at this minute, seeing you cast down. I be very much obliged to you
in a manner of speaking for not wanting me to go."
She looked up drearily at him and sniffed.
"We never know our luck," she said. "Not you, but me."
To his intense amazement he perceived that Susan was shedding tears.
She shook her head impatiently and it was not rain that fell from her
face. If a small fire can kindle a great one, so surely may a drop
of water swell into a river.
Light began to dawn in the mind of the man and it much astonished him
by what it revealed there. He was, in fact, so astounded by the
spectacle that he fell into silence and stared with mental eyes at
the explanation of the mysteries that had long puzzled him. His next
remark linked past with present.
"Be damned if I don't begin to know now why for I done this!" he said
with a startled voice. "I've wondered for weeks and weeks what was
driving me on, and I couldn't put no name to it, Susan; but 'tis
coming out in me. Shut your mouth a minute and let me think."
She kept silence and they plodded on. At the top of the hill a gust
caught the umbrella and it was in peril. Thomas turned it against
the wind.
"Come under the lew side of the hedge," he said. "I thought 'twas
conscience driving at me--but I begin to see it weren't. There's a
wonder happening. Fetch in here under the trees a minute."
She followed him through a gap at the summit of the hill and they
left the road for the partial shelter of spruce firs. They escaped
the wind, but the rain beat from the branches upon Mr. Palk's
umbrella.
"You're a woman of very high qualities and a good bit undervalued in
your home--so it seems to me. You're the light of the house, but
'twas left for others to find that out seemingly--not your father.
He's a man with a soft tongue, but a darned hard heart--to say it
respectful."
"I'm naught and less than naught. But I was always pleased to
pleasure you," she answered.
"The light of the house," he repeated. "And 'tis the light be far
more to the purpose than the candlestick. I can speak to you
straight, Susan, because I'm ugly as sin myself and not ashamed of
it. I didn't have the choosing of my face, and my Maker didn't ax me
what I'd like to look like come I grew up. And same with you. But
you be a living lesson to us other plain people, and show us that the
inside may be so fine no thinking man would waste a thought on the
outside."
Susan was not concerned with his philosophy: she had fastened on a
question of fact.
"You're not particular ugly, Thomas. I've seen scores plainer.
You've got a very honest face and nice grey eyes if I may say so."
"Certainly you may say so, and I'm very well content as you've been
to the trouble to mark the colour of my eyes. 'Tis a way women have.
They always know the colour of their friends' eyes. And if my face
be honest in your opinion, that's good news also. And as for your
eyes, if they was in a prettier setting, they'd well become it."
Susan grew a dusky red, but kept to the point.
"If you can say such things as that, surely you can tell me why
you're going?"
"I meddled--I--but leave the subject. 'Tis all dust and ashes afore
what's stirring in my head now--now I know why I meddled. You'd like
me to bide at Falcon Farm seemingly?"
"I should then. You've got nice ways, and--and you've always been
amazing pitiful to me."
"Where would your father be if you left him?"
"I'll never leave him. He knows that."
"How old might you be?"
"Thirty-five--thirty-six come October."
"Some say port-wine marks are handed down, and again some say they
are not. And if you was to hand it down, you'd hand down what's
better too, I shouldn't wonder."
She did not answer, but gasped and stared in front of her.
"Look here," he said. "Now I see so plain why for I done this, why
the mischief shouldn't you? 'Twas done because I've risen up into
loving you, Susan! I want you--I want to marry you--I'll take my
dying oath I do. It have just come over me like a flap of lightning.
Oh, hell!"
The bottle of wine had trembled dangerously in Soosie-Toosie's arm
before; now it dropped, broke on a stone, and spread its contents at
their feet. The sweet air suddenly reeked of it. But Susan ignored
the catastrophe.
"Me! Me! My God, you must be mad!"
"If so, then there's a lot to be said for being mad. But I ain't. I
see the light. I've been after you a deuce of a time and never
grasped hold of it. I didn't think to marry. In fact my mother was
the only woman I ever cared a cuss about till I seed you. And no
doubt, for your part you've long despaired of the males; but you'm a
born wife, Susan; and you might find me a very useful pattern of
husband. I love you something tremenjous, and I should be properly
pleased if you could feel the same."
"'Tis beyond dreaming," she said regarding him with wild eyes. "'Tis
beyond belief, Thomas."
"It may be," he admitted, "but not beyond truth. We can make it a
cast-iron fact; and 'tis no odds who believes it, so long as it
happens."
"You be above yourself for the minute. Your face is all alight.
Best to think it over and go to church and let a Sunday pass. I
can't believe you really and truly mean it."
"God's truth I do then."
"Father--did I ought to put love of you afore love of him, Thomas?"
"Certainly you did ought, and you've got the Bible behind you. If
you love me, then you did ought to put me afore every damn thing, and
cleave to me for ever after. Say you'll do it, like a dear woman. I
want to hear you say it, Susan. 'Twill cheer me up a lot, because
I've never had the sack afore in my life and don't like the taste of
it. I be feeling low, and 'twill be a great thing to get back on
farmer afore I go to bed to-night."
She was suspicious at once.
"You ban't doing this out of revenge, however?" she asked.
"For naught but love--that I'll swear."
"To be loved by a fine man--a go-by-the-ground creature like me!"
"And never no female better fit for it."
"I'll take you, Thomas; but if you change your mind after you've
slept on it, I shan't think no worse of you. Only this I'll say, I
do love you, and I have loved you a longful time, but paid no
attention to it, not understanding."
"Then praise the Lord for all His blessings, I'm sure."
He held her close in his arms and they kissed each other. She clung
to him fervently.
"Now, if you'll take the basket, I'll go back and buy another bottle
of sherry wine," she said.
"Not at all. But we mustn't shatter the man at one blow. He'll want
more than pretty drinking when he hears about this. I'll traapse
down for another bottle, and you go home under my umbrella; and
change every stitch on you, and drink something hot, else you might
fall ill."
"Ah! That's love! That's love!" she said, looking up at him
wet-eyed.
"No--only sense. I'll show 'e what love be so soon as I know myself.
You get home, and say as you dropped your bottle and was just going
back for another when I met you, on my way to Ashburton, and offered
to get it. And on the whole us'll keep the fearful news for a few
days till he's well again. 'Twill be more merciful."
"You'm made of wisdom, Tom. 'Tis a great relief to keep it from
father a bit till I've got used to the thought."
"Kiss me again then," he answered, and put his arms round her once
more.
"There's a brave lot of 'e to cuddle whether or no."
"'Tis all yours I'm sure, if you really want it, dear Thomas."
"I be coming to want it so fast as I can, woman!"