THE NEST
Joe Stockman, like a stricken animal, hid himself from his fellow men
at this season; yet it was not curious that he should conceal his
tribulation from fellow men, because he knew that sympathy must be
denied. To run about among the people, grumbling because his
daughter had found a husband, was a course that Joe's humour told him
would win no commiseration. He was much more likely to be
congratulated on an unexpected piece of good luck. Even Melinda,
with every kindly feeling for him, proved not able to show regret;
and if she could not, none might be looked for elsewhere. But he
made it evident to those chiefly involved that he little liked the
match; he declined to see any redeeming features and went so far as
to say that the countryside would be shocked with Susan for leaving
her father under such circumstances. To his surprise he could not
shake her as at first he had hoped to do. She was meek, and
solicitous for his every wish as usual; she failed not to anticipate
each desire of his mind; she knew, by long practice, how to read his
eyes without a word; but upon this one supreme matter she showed
amazing determination.
She did not speak of it; neither did Thomas, and when his master, who
had failed for the moment to get a new horseman worthy of Falcon
Farm, invited Palk to stop another month, he agreed to do so. But
Thomas grumbled to Maynard when they were alone, and at the same time
heard something from Lawrence that interested him.
They were hoeing the turnips together and the elder spoke.
"There's no common decency about the man in my opinion," he said.
"Goodjer take him! He's like a sulky boy and pretends that facts
ban't facts, while every day of the week shows they are. And
patience is very well, but it don't make you any younger. Here I've
pleased him by promising to stop another month, and when I did that,
I had a right to think it would break down his temper and stop the
silly rummage he talks about a thankless child and so on. You know
how he goes on--chittering at me and Susan, but never to us--just
letting out as if he was talking to the fire, or the warming-pan on
the wall--of course for us to hear."
"He's took it very hard no doubt. Of course it's a shatterer. He
didn't know his luck; and when you suddenly see your luck, for the
first time just afore it's going to be taken away from you, it makes
you a bit wild," explained Lawrence.
"Let him be wild with himself then, and cuss himself--not us. Look
at it--I meet his convenience and go on so mild as Moses, working
harder than ever, and all I get be sighs and head-shakings; and you
always see his lips saying 'sarpent' to himself every time you catch
his eye. It's properly ondacent, because there's duties staring the
man in the face and he's trying his damnedest to wriggle out of 'em!"
"What duties?"
"Why, his daughter's wedding, I should think! Surely it's up to him,
whatever he feels against it, to give the woman a fatherly send off.
Not that I care a cuss, and should be the better pleased if he wasn't
there glumping and glowering and letting all men see he hated the
job; but Susan be made of womanly feeling, and she reckons he did
ought to come to the church and give her away, all nice and suent,
same as other parents do. And after that there ought to be a rally
of neighbours and some pretty eating and drinking, and good wishes
and an old shoe for luck when us goes off to the station man and
wife. And why the hell not?"
"I dare say it will work out like that. You must allow for the
shock, Tom. He'd got to rely on you and your future wife like his
right and left hand; and to have the pair of you snatched away
together---- He's a man with a power of looking forward and, of
course, he can see, in a way you can't, what he'll feel like when you
both vanish off the scene."
"You be always his side."
"No, no--not in this matter, anyway. I know very well what you feel
like, and nobody wishes you joy better than me. You've got a grand
wife, and I've always thought a lot of you myself as you know. But
'tis just the great good fortune that's fallen to you makes it so
much the worse for him. He knows what he's losing, and you can't
expect him to be pleased. He'll calm down in a week or two."
"Let the man do the same then and take another. There's a very fine
woman waiting for him."
"There is; and he'll take her no doubt; but there again, he knows
that you can't have anything for nothing."
"He had his daughter for nothing."
"Yes, and got used to it; but he won't have Melinda Honeysett for
nothing. A daughter like Susan gives all and expects no return; a
wife like Mrs. Honeysett will want a run for her money. And Joe
knows mighty well it will have to be give and take in future."
"Quite right too."
"There's another thing hanging over master. It won't seem much
compared with you going. But I'm off before very long myself."
"By gor! You going too!"
"In the fall I reckon."
"When he hears that, he'll throw the house out of windows!"
"Not him. I'm nobody."
"If it's all the same to you, I'd be glad if you didn't break this to
Stockman till our job's a thought forwarder," said Thomas. "He can
only stand a certain amount. You was more to him than me really.
This will very like turn him against human nature in general, and if
he gets desperate, he may disgrace himself."
"I shan't speak just yet."
"We was much hoping--Soosie and me--that he'd go bald-headed for
Melinda before this--if only to hit back. Because, if he done that,
he might cut my future wife out of his will you see. And, in his
present spirit of mind, I believe it would comfort him a lot to do
so--and tell me he had."
"No, no--he wouldn't lower himself like that. And as for Mrs.
Honeysett, I reckon he's to work in that quarter. He can't strike
all of a sudden, of course, because the people would say he'd only
done it for his own convenience; but he'll be about her before long I
expect. He's been saying in a good few places that he must marry
now."
"He named her name at Green Hayes to my certain knowledge," said
Thomas, "and Mrs. Bamsey heard him do so; and she told Arthur Chaffe,
the carpenter; and he told his head man; and he told me. And he said
more. He said that Arthur Chaffe had marked that Joe had lost a lot
of his old bounce and weren't by no means so charming as he used to
be."
"There's no doubt this job has upset him a lot."
"Then where's his religion? He did ought to remember he can't go
sailing on and have everything his own way all his life, no more than
anybody else."
They hoed together shoulder to shoulder, then reached the end of
their rows and turned again.
"There's a religious side no doubt," admitted Maynard. "And we never
feel more religious, if we're religious-minded at all, than after a
stroke of good fortune; and never less so than after a stroke of bad.
And I'm telling you what I know there, because I've been called to go
into such things pretty close. There's nothing harder than to break
away from what you was taught as a child. 'Tis amazing how a thing
gets rooted into a young mind, and how difficult it may be for the
man's sense to sweep it away come he grows up."
Mr. Palk, however, was not concerned with such questions.
"I don't want to break away from nothing," he said. "I only want for
Stockman to treat me and his daughter in a right spirit. And what I
say is, if his religion and church-going, not to name his common
sense, can't lead him right, it's a very poor advertisement for his
boasted wisdom."
"So it would be; but he'll come round and do right, only give him
time," answered Lawrence.
"And what's in your mind?" asked Thomas presently, as he stood up to
rest his back. "Have you got another billet in sight?"
"No. I much want to get abroad. It's always been a wish with me to
see a foreign country."
"A very fine idea. I'd so soon do the same as not; but I heard a
chap say that you find the land pretty near all under machinery if
you go foreign. And I shouldn't care to quit hosses at my time of
life."
"There's your wife to think on. She'd never like to put the sea
between her and her father."
"As to that," answered Palk, "it's going to be largely up to him. If
he carries on like what he's doing now, he'll have to pay for it;
because the woman's only a human woman and she haven't deserved this
conduct. Why, God's light! if she'd stole his money-box and set the
house on fire he couldn't take it no worse!"
These things were heard by another pair of ears in the evening of
that day, for then Maynard saw Dinah again. But much passed between
the lovers before they reached the subject of Susan and Thomas.
Maynard had been deeply interested to hear of Dinah's sudden
departure, of which she had told him nothing, and he had puzzled ever
since learning the fact mentioned by Melinda Honeysett. For he did
not guess her purpose, or her destination, and the fact that she had
gone away only served to explain her need for money. She let him
know, however, before they met, and that without any word; for during
her absence, there came a picture postcard to Lawrence--a coloured
picture of Barnstaple parish church; and that told him everything.
He trusted her, but knew her forthright ways and felt very anxious to
see her again. The date and place for their next meeting had been
fixed between them at their last conversation, and as he had heard
that Dinah was returned, he knew that she would keep the appointment.
He brooded for hours upon her action and inclined to a shadow of
regret that she should have taken it, yet the fact did not astonish
him, looking back at their last meeting; for had Dinah asked
permission to go, he would not have suffered it in his mood at the
time. That she knew; and yet she had gone. He recognised the
immense significance of her action and the time seemed interminable
until the dusk of that day, when he was free. The night came mild
and grey with a soft mist. Their meeting place was a gate in a lane
one mile from Green Hayes among the woods ascending to Buckland.
There it had been planned they should join each other for the last
time before one, or both, disappeared from the Vale.
Maynard felt a curious sense of smallness as he went to the tryst.
He seemed to be going to meet somebody stronger, more resolute, more
steadfast of spirit than himself. Surely Dinah had done the things
that would have better become him to do. And yet he could not blame
himself there, for it would have been impossible for him to set foot
in the town where, no doubt, his wife still lived. He had wearied
himself with futile questions, impossible to answer until Dinah
should meet him, and there was nothing left but intense love and
worship for her in Maynard's mind when they did meet. If she had any
sort of good news, so much the better; but if she had none, he yet
had good news for her. He had banished the last doubt during her
absence and now told himself that not moral sensibility, but moral
cowardice had ever caused him to doubt. He had probed the equivocal
thing in him and believed that its causes were deep down in some
worthless instinct, independent of reason. She should at least find
him as clear and determined as herself at last. He had decided for
Australia, and the question of their separate or simultaneous
disappearance was also decided. She had to hear to-night that they
could not leave England together for her credit's sake. The details
of their actions were also defined. He had planned a course that
would, he hoped, suit Dinah well enough, though as yet he knew not
whether any word of hers might modify it.
She was waiting for him and came into his arms with joy. She guessed
that her postcard had revealed her adventure and began by begging for
forgiveness. This he granted, but bade her talk first.
"It's made me long to go out in the world," she said. "Just this
taste. I've never seemed to understand there was anything beyond
Ashburton and Lower Town; but now I've gone afield and seen miles and
miles of England, and I've met people that never heard of the Vale.
Say you ban't cross again, my dear heart. You know very well why I
went. It rose up on me like a flame of fire--to make sure. I told
'em at Green Hayes I had some business up the country and they think
I went to be married--Jane's idea that was. She's positive sure I'm
married, though I've told her in plain words I'm not. Of course they
be curious, but I couldn't tell a lie about it. So I said
'business.'"
"Never mind them. I won't swear I'd have said 'no' if you'd asked
me, Dinah--not if I'd thought twice. It was a natural, needful
point, and you grasped it quicker than I did, and no doubt made up
your mind while I was maundering on about the law. I saw all that
after I got your card. But I couldn't have gone myself."
"It was my work and I've done it; and I wish more had come of it.
But nothing has. I took a room in a little inn near the station and
tramped about and found her shop in the best part of the town. A big
place with fine windows--a dairy and creamery and refreshment room.
Just 'Courtier' over the windows, in big, gold letters, and a few
maidens inside and--tea. I marked her, of course, the minute I saw
her. She's in the shop herself--rather grand, but not above lending
a hand when they're busy. She's up in the world. They knew about
her at the inn where I stopped, and told me the story. They said her
husband went mad on the honeymoon and disappeared off the earth. I
went to the shop three times and had my tea there, and the second
time there was a man at the counter talking to her. But he didn't
look much of it. So there it is. She's going on with her life just
as you thought, and making money; and what the people see, I saw, and
what they don't see, or know, is no matter. But she was quite
pleased with herself--a cheerful woman to the eye. You can tell that
much.
"She's worn well I should think. She's a pretty woman; but she's
hard and her voice is hard. She wouldn't have no mercy on people
under her. She drove her maidens in the shop and was down on 'em if
they talked much to customers. At my inn she was spoke very well of
and thought a bit of a wonder. You was forgot. They said it was
thought you killed yourself. And now that the seven years are up,
some fancied she might marry again, but others didn't think she ever
would, being too independent. A man or two they mentioned; but the
opinion I heard most was that she never wanted to change. I couldn't
ax too much about her, of course."
So Dinah told her tale.
"I wish it had been different," she went on. "I hoped all sorts of
things--that I'd find her married again, or gone, or, perhaps dead.
But there she is, so large as life, and I shouldn't think she'd ever
marry for love, but she might for money, or for getting a bit more
power. I didn't feel to hate her in the least, or anything like
that. I felt sorry for her in a way, knowing what she'd missed, and
I thought, if it had been different, what a big man you might be by
now. But you'll be bigger some day along with me. And so we know
where we are, Lawrence."
He asked various questions, which she answered, and he observed how
absolutely indifferent Dinah found herself before the facts. She
evidently recognised no relationship whatever between the husband and
wife. From the adventures at Barnstaple she returned to the present,
and he let her talk on, waiting to speak himself till she had
finished.
She had been away nine days and returned to find Jane fallen out with
Jerry Withycombe. Mr. Bamsey had recognised her on her return and
called her by name and made her sit beside him for a long time. But
the next morning he had forgotten her again. Faith Bamsey had also
thought Dinah must have disappeared to be married, but believed her
when she vowed it was not so. John Bamsey was away for the time,
doing bailiff's work up the river above Dartmeet.
Then he told her of his determination and greatly rejoiced her, save
in one particular.
"We don't go together," he said, "and the details will very soon
clear themselves; but there must be no shadow on your memory, here or
anywhere, when you're gone. I give Joe notice presently and go to
Australia, to get the home ready. You find work and, for a bit, keep
that work. Then you leave it for London, or a big town, where ships
sail from, and your passage is took and you come along. That leaves
them guessing here, and none can ever say a word against you. But so
sure as we go together, then Stockman tells everybody that I'm a
married man, and the harm's done."
"You do puzzle me!" she answered. "You can't get this bee out of
your bonnet, Lawrence--such a clever chap as you, too. What in
fortune's name does it matter what Cousin Joe says about you, or what
the people believe about me? I know you're not married, and when I
wed you I shall be your one and lawful wife. Who else is there--now
foster-father be gone? That was the only creature on earth I could
hurt, and he's past hurting, poor old dear. I like your plan all
through but there. I'm going when you go, and half the joy of my
life would be lost if I didn't sail along with you in the ship. That
I do bargain for. Oh, I wish it was to-morrow we were running away!"
"I hate to run."
"I love it--yes, I do, now. I wish to God I wasn't going to lose
sight of you again. But it won't be for long."
They spoke of the details and he pointed out that her plan must
increase the difficulties somewhat, yet she would take no denial.
"What's all this fuss for? False pride," she said. "You've got to
think for me the way I want you to think, not the way you want to
think. If we know we're right, why should we fret if all the rest of
the world thought different? I'm hungry and thirsty to go and be in
a new world with you. I want you and I want a new world. And you
will be my new world for that matter."
"I know that."
"Together then. 'Twould spoil all any other way. 'Twould be small
any other way. 'Twould be cringing to the Vale."
He laughed.
"I can't keep you here in the rain all night. The next thing is our
post office--from now on."
"Promise about my going with you."
"That means thinking over all the plans again."
"Think them over again then; and I'll help. And I've found the post
office. List!"
They kept silence for half a minute, but Dinah had only heard a
night-bird.
"'Tis here!" she said, "twenty yards down the lane. I found it in
the spring--a wrennys' nest hid under the ivy on the bank. No better
place. 'Tis empty now and snug as need be."
He accompanied her to the spot, lit matches and examined the proposed
post office. It was safe enough, for the snug, domed nest lay
completely hidden under a shower of ivy, and Dinah had only
discovered it by seeing the little birds pop in when they were
building.
Lawrence doubted; it seemed a frail receptacle for vital news; but it
was dry and as safe as possible.
"I'd thought to put a tobacco tin under a stone somewhere," he said,
"but perhaps this couldn't be beat."
He took careful note of it and marked the exact spot as well as he
could in the dark. A sapling grew in the hedge opposite and he took
his knife and blazed the bark behind, where only he, or Dinah, would
find the cut.
"There'll be a letter for you in a few days," she said, "for I know
I've forgot a thousand things; and when your new plans be finished,
you'll write 'em for me."
"We must go slow and steady," he answered. "I've got to give Joe
warning presently, and I don't mean to be out of work longer than I
can help. When we know what we're going to do to the day, then I'll
speak; and he won't like it none too well. He's terrible under the
weather about Susan."
He told her the Falcon Farm news, with details which she had not
heard.
"I'm sorry for Cousin Joe, but mighty glad for Susan, and I'm coming
up one day to supper to congratulate her--why not?"
"It will be something just to look at you across the table," he said,
"but we'd best speak little to each other."
Dinah grew listless as the moment for leave-taking came. Her mood
was shadowed.
"I know it's right and wise to keep apart now," she told him. "And I
know we can never have none of the old faces round us when we're
married, and none of the little pleasures that go with old friends.
But I am sorry. It's small, but I am sorry."
"So am I, for your sake," he answered. "And it's not small. It's
natural. This is the only home you know, and the only folks you know
are in it. And most are kindly and good. It only looks small
against the bigger thing of being together for evermore. The time
won't be long. 'Twill slip away quicker than you'll like I guess.
And there's plenty of new friends waiting for us down under."
"It's cruel of life," she cried. "It's hard and cruel of life to
make love like ours so difficult. Open air, daylight creatures, like
us, to be called to plot and scheme and hide against the frozen
silliness of the world. Just the things I hate most. And now we
must trust the house a little bird have made with things that we'd
both be proud to shout from the church steeple!"
"I know every bit what you're feeling. I feel it too--I hate it more
than you do--knowing what you are. It will soon be over."
"I'll come up and look at you anyhow," said Dinah. "That won't shock
the people; and I dare say, now that Susan knows what it is to love a
man--but don't you fear. I won't kiss you even with my eyes,
Lawrence."
"Susan wouldn't see nothing for that matter," he said. "Love be a
dour pastime for her and Palk as things are. They be like us in a
way--frightened to look at each other under that roof."
"But firm," she said. "Cousin Joe ain't going to choke Susan off it?"
"Not him. She'll take Thomas, so sure as you take me."
Dinah was cheerful again before he left her.
"When we'm married, I'll always be wanting to kiss you afore the
people," she said, "just for the joy of doing it openly."
Then they parted, to meet no more in secret until they should never
part again.
He half regretted her determination to sail with him, as he tramped
home; yet he felt in no mind to argue the point. In his present
spirit, sharing her indignation that his fellow men would thrust him
away from Dinah for ever if they could, he cared little more than she
for what their world might say and think when they had vanished from
it for a larger.