Front matter (continued 6)

"All very well; but Margaret's to blame too," declared the other.

"Never--nowhere. 'Tis always your way to give everybody best but your own."

"To say 'blame' is too strong a word, perhaps; but you must think how 'tis from her husband's point of view. No children. Oh, Shillabeer, 'tis a dreadful thing! Just that might have made all right, and just that won't happen. Nought worse could have fallen out--nought worse than that. A very terrible misfortune every way. To Ditsworthy I know they take an awful serious view of it. Naturally they would do so. And when I see that mother of a quiverful coming, I wish I could sink into the earth! Her eye brims over with reproaches, though never a word she says."

"This is all silly nonsense you'm talking," declared Mr. Shillabeer, strapping up his gaiter again. "Never did I hear such foolishness. Good Lord, han't there enough childer in the world? Take comfort, I beg of you."

Bartholomew Stanbury entered at this moment and was glad to see the publican.

"Heard your fowling-piece banging away up over," he said, "and hoped as you might perhaps drop in 'pon the road back. Well, here's Christmas again, and like to be a soft one after all. The weather's changing."

"A busy Christmas in the village," said Reuben; "but nothing out of the common offering to happen, I believe."

"Don't you be too sure of that, 'Dumpling.' What would you say to another fight?"

"No, no, Stanbury. No more fighting. You mean your son Bart and that chap Mattacott. They be galled against each other without a doubt, along of a she; but fight--no. Mattacott's ten year older than your boy. Bart couldn't hit a man whose hair be turning grey."

"That's what I said. Still, they long to be at each other."

"They'll have to settle their difference some other way. No more fighting if I can prevent it. You mustn't suppose I'm what I was--far from it. I look at life quite different now. All's vanity, as the Preacher saith. I may give up 'The Corner House' afore the world's much older, neighbour."

"Good Lord! what's come to you?" exclaimed the farmer.

"What come to Bendigo," said Mr. Shillabeer solemnly. "I've had the Light, Stanbury. Make no mistake: when the Light does come it shows up everything in a manner very different to what we've seen it before."

"Well," said Bartholomew, "don't let it turn you out of 'The Corner House.' Beer have got to be sold, and there's nothing in the Law and the Prophets against keeping an inn and giving good money's worth, same as you've always been famed to do."

But Shillabeer doubted. Having drunk another cup of tea, he rose, wished the Stanburys a Merry Christmas in a mournful voice, and disappeared. Constance shook her head when he was gone and declared that a great change began to creep over the old man.

"Mark me, he's breaking up," she said. "He's casting away all his old opinions and growing more and more religious-minded and low-spirited. Nought would surprise me. I've seen it happen before. He'll be a teetotaller yet, and then he'll go melancholy mad so like as not."

Her husband protested.

"Such a one you are for looking on the cloudy side! There's too much good sense in the man for any such thing as teetotalism to overtake him. A moderate drinker always, and won't serve anybody beyond the twinkling eye stage. Why, he've made bitter enemies by withholding liquor where any other man wouldn't have thought twice about it. Where's Margaret to? She was coming over, wasn't she?"

"Yes," said his wife. "But 'tis nearly dark. She'll have changed her mind or been hindered."

Half an hour later Bart arrived, and he was able to explain his sister's absence.

"She's took ill," he said. "I met Rhoda back by Lowery. Madge have a cold on the chest--nought to name, but enough to keep her in against this fog. I'm feared they won't be able to go up to Ditsworthy for Christmas now, unless she mends very quick."

At his first word Mrs. Stanbury began to be busy. Under the lofty mantelshelf before the fire there hung a row of little linen bags, and in them were various simples culled through vanished spring and summer. They contained elder-flowers, marjoram, thyme, sorrel, and calamint. She selected ingredients and took them to the table.

"Us must see to this afore she gets worse," declared Constance; and soon she was preparing a decoction of herbs.

Her son had further news.

"They'm saying to Sheepstor that Bartley Crocker's off," he announced with his mouth full.

"Off where?" asked Mr. Stanbury.

"To foreign parts. 'Twas always thought he might go when his mother died. They do say he's cruel sweet on Rhoda Bowden, but I don't think she's of the same mind."

"I've heard Madge say that she would much like it to fall out," declared Mrs. Stanbury; "but, for my part, Rhoda don't look to be seeking a husband. She's different to her kind, and I don't see her either wife or mother."

Bart was reminded of another maiden and he sighed, put his hand to his chin, and looked into vacancy with a very lack-lustre expression.

"Shillabeer was here afore you comed home," said his father; "and he says you'm too young to stand up to Mattacott. You'd kill the man."

"I may yet," declared Bart gloomily. "Anyway I can't wait like this much longer. No more can he. She won't say which 'tis to be, and the strain of mind is getting a bit too sharp. Something's got to go scat afore long--either him or me--or her."

"She ought to decide, no doubt," admitted his mother. "But I hope you ban't hopeful, Bart, for I'm not. T'other's better off than you and wiser; and Jane West has found it out, of course."

"He may be wiser, or he may not be," answered Bart. "Anyway I'm too wise to wait till Doomsday; and so I've told her; and she's going to decide afore the New Year."

"She'll take Timothy Mattacott," repeated his mother. "Stanburys ban't no good at competing with other people. No more was my family--they always went under; and now they've gone under altogether, for I'm the last of 'em."

CHAPTER III

THE VOICE FROM THE POOL

Mr. Billy Screech found himself more than usually busy on the eve of Christmas Day; but when three o'clock came he abandoned his work and set off into the Moor. A dismal enterprise lay before him, and bad weather made the prospect worse; but he had promised, and failure to keep his promise would upset others and lessen Billy's credit. Therefore he went, and presently, ascending above Kingsett Farm, reached Crazywell where it stared up out of the waste, like a blind eye in a black socket. Silence and desolation haunted the pool. It seemed an hour indeed when secret spirits might wake from sleep, rise, strike the leaden face of the waters, and bring terror to mankind. A heavy and hushed trance held the pool. But little wind blew; no cloud stirred in the grey vault of heaven; but beneath at earth level, fog crept leisurely along in streaks and hung motionless in patches. Even Billy--hardened unbeliever though he was--felt some slight uneasiness as he sank down into the hollow cup of Crazywell. The threatening mist made him both glad and fearful. It would certainly help the dramatic force of the thing to be done; but it might also increase in density and cause him to lose his way home. He turned up his coat collar, found a clump of furze near the water's brink, and settled there. All had fallen out as Mr. Screech desired, and presently Jane West and Bart Stanbury would pass that way on the road to Princetown for some Christmas shopping. Only one fear existed in the watcher's mind. If the mists increased in density, Bart might hesitate to take his sweetheart this way, but prefer to tramp round by road.

Billy had hidden himself beneath the principal footpath near the pool, and he knew that the travellers must pass by him. It was certain that he would not be called upon to wait long. He practised to himself once or twice, and as he had suffered from a cold in his throat for some days, the voice of Mr. Screech promised to be sufficiently sepulchral.

But the day grew more dark and more still. A lifeless, listless gloom haunted the spot, a blank despondency that reached even Billy's nerves, dashed his spirit, and made him long heartily to be away. Then came the crawling tentacles of the fog, and they stole over the brim of Crazywell and thrust here and there, like some blind, live creature feeling for food. They poured down into the hollow presently and crept over the water at the bottom. Half an hour passed and the vapour increased in density. It hung drops of moisture on the thorns of the furze and spread a glimmering dew over Billy's hairy face and ragged eyebrows; it struck cold; it entered his sore throat and promised to silence his voice altogether.

"If they ban't here pretty spry, I shan't be able to croak no louder than a frog," thought Mr. Screech.

He determined to give Bart and Jane fifteen minutes more. If they had not passed by during that time, he would leave the pool. It seemed pretty certain that the plot had failed. Billy had no watch, but he began to count slowly up to sixty, and each of these instalments represented one minute. The gloom increased, and unconsciously he hastened his counting. And then he heard voices and knew that the man and woman were passing, high above him in the fog. They shuffled slowly along and both spoke, but the plotter could not hear their words. He was quite safe from possibility of observation and so rose and descended to the sandy shore of the pool. Then he lifted up his voice and astonished himself, for his words rose and reverberated in the fog with a strange resonance, quite proper to the supernatural creature that might be supposed to live in Crazywell.

"Bartholomew Stanbury! Bartholomew Stanbury!" he cried.

Then he heard a woman's thin shriek up aloft in the grey mist; and a man's voice answered:

"By God! who's down theer?"

But Billy made no reply to the question. He hastened to the further side of the pit and crawled up on to the Moor; then he ran for a couple of hundred yards, struck the Kingsett road and so got home, by Lether Tor Bridge, as swiftly as possible.

Meantime a woman had fainted above Crazywell and a man was stirring himself wildly to restore her. It was neither Bart Stanbury nor Jane West who had been shocked at the message from the pool, but Bart's mother and father. The young couple were far away, tramping in close communion along the highroad; but Constance and her husband had been to see sick Madge and take her and David their Christmas gift and good wishes. They were returning from Meavy Cot, and it was upon their ears--where they moved slowly-fog-foundered above Crazywell--that this mournful doom had fallen from invisible lips beneath.

Mrs. Stanbury sank before the shock. She had just time to make her husband understand that it was the spirit of Crazywell who thus addressed them, before she lost consciousness. Bartholomew, too concerned for her to trouble about his own fate, gathered moisture from the heath, wetted her forehead and loosened her gown. But it was long before she recovered. She sat and shivered for half an hour upon a stone, and only by slow stages and with much assistance was able to reach her home.

It had grown dark before man and wife returned to Coombeshead and Bartholomew got his partner to bed. She had suffered a terrific nerve shock and was incoherent until a late hour. Then she became intelligent, and her native pessimism thus fortified, broke loose in the small hours of Christmas morning.

"Never out of my sight shall you go--God's my judge! You mustn't seek to do it, Bartholomew. Your time's drawn down to within twelve month, and us must spend it hand-in-hand to the end. Oh, that awful voice! And for me to hear the name--me of all people! God A'mighty never did a crueller thing; and if I'd knowed we was going back along by the pool, I'd rather have walked the soles out of my boots and the flesh off my feet than do it. Your name of all names, and it might have been any other man's. But you are chosen. If they'd only take me--not that I can bide after you, Bartholomew. Mark me, I shall be after you long afore you know your way about in the next world."

Mr. Stanbury, albeit a man without superstition, had also suffered not a little under the tragedy of the day. He had always laughed at the pool until now; but this was not a laughing matter. He could trust his ears and it was impossible to deny that a very extraordinary voice, hardly to be called human, had shouted his name up through the mist from Crazywell. It struck him also that the words actually ascended from the face of the water.

"Things look a bit black," he admitted, "and I'm powerful sorry I've scoffed at thicky water; but I ban't gwaine to throw up the sponge yet, my old dear, and no more must you. If 'tis the Powers of Darkness live in the pool, then we must call in the Powers of Light to fight against 'em. God in Heaven's the only Party who knows when I be going to be took off, and 'tis a gert question in my mind whether He'd let it out to this here queer thing that lives in Crazywell--like a toad in a tree-stump. What do you say, Bart?"

Their son had returned and was in great trouble at this evil news.

"I say that I'd better tell Jane not to come here for her Christmas dinner," he answered. "Mother won't be up for any high jinks to-morrow. She won't even be good for getting over to worship. She's white as a dog's tooth still. Why, there ban't hardly a spark of nature left in her. And as for the voice, I've no patience with such things. I'd have gone down and pulled the spirit's damned nose if I'd been there, same as I would any other man's. I don't believe a word of it, and faither's right: God A'mighty wouldn't let no vagabond ghosts poke about on Christmas Eve of all times--just afore the birthday of the Lord--to frighten God-fearing, respectable people with their nonsense. If 'tis a spirit, 'tis a bad one; and I wouldn't care no more for a bad tankerabogus than I would for a bad man.

"If us can get to church in the morn, I'll ax parson Merle afterwards," said Mr. Stanbury. "For my part, I won't pretend I like it; but all the same, I've got a right to make a fight for it; and if parson be of your view, Bart, that I oughtn't to care a button about it, then I won't care."

"What's the use of telling like that?" asked Mrs. Stanbury fretfully. "How be twenty parsons going to overrule a voice like what we heard a bit ago? Oh, my God! my flesh creams to the bones when I call back them awful sounds."

"'Twas more like a parrot than a human," said Bartholomew.

"And there'll be some such way to explain it," declared the son. "I'll wager that Mr. Merle will laugh the whole story to scorn."

"How's that going to mend it, even if he do?" asked Constance. "Time enough to laugh when next year be dead and your father's still living. But it can't be. He's got to leave us and I want for to know what becomes of me then?"

She relapsed into a condition of hysterical emotion, and her husband sat up with her all night.

In the morning Bart went for the doctor and also explained to Jane West that the hoped-for meeting at dinner could not take place.

A medical man reached the fastness of Coombeshead before midday and found Mrs. Stanbury suffering from shock. He was interested and sympathetic. He drove Bart home to his surgery six miles off, and, at evening, Constance took her physic and soon slept in peace.

Bart and his father were in the habit henceforth of regarding that occasion as the most mournful Christmas Day within their memories; and when the adventure began to be known a little later, their friends deeply sympathised with them and were divided in their opinions. Some secretly hoped that the solemn tradition of the pool would be upheld, and felt that it would be better for Mr. Stanbury to pass away than that the great mystery and glory of Crazywell should vanish. Others flouted the spirit and agreed with Bart that no sane person should take this meddlesome hobgoblin seriously.

Elsewhere Christmas Day brought other discomforts. Mr. Screech and his wife and children spent the anniversary at Ditsworthy; but they went reluctantly as a substitute for David and Rhoda. This spoilt the pleasure of Dorcas, and both she and her husband were glad to be home again. They criticised everybody at the Warren House in an unfriendly spirit, and Dorcas could find nothing genial to say even of her own mother. Indeed, none of her own had ever been forgiven for their initial adverse attitude in the matter of Billy. With her father alone could Mrs. Screech be said to remain on good terms.

And while the Screech family were able to go to Ditsworthy, owing to the enforced absence of David and his household, Christmas passed pleasantly at Meavy Cot. Margaret did not know of her mother's misfortune, and as her own health now mended again, she much enjoyed the day. Moreover, there came a visitor, for David invited the lonely Bartley to share the feast, and Mr. Crocker, after hesitating between his duty to his Aunt Susan Saunders and his duty to himself, finally felt the opportunity of seeing Rhoda must be taken, in justice to his own future plans and ambitions. He went, therefore, and added to Margaret's pleasure, but failed to advance his personal cause.

The dinner was a great success, and Hartley, quite unconscious that every jest he made was damaging his most cherished hope, excelled himself in merriment, and kept David and Madge in much laughter. Rhoda's amusement, however, was at the best but frosty. She could not forget the past, and when she looked at Mr. Crocker she did not see an unstable, good-natured, and kindly spirit, mentally incapable of sustained sorrow, but a man whose mother had but lately died, and who found it possible to laugh and utter futile jests before the grass was grown upon her grave. She allowed for no extenuating circumstances; she forgot that Nannie Crocker's end was a release for which to be thankful. She only saw an orphaned son playing the fool; and that he could do so now, to the accompaniment of a good dinner, did not surprise her; for had he not done the same upon the day after his mother's death? She remembered what she had seen upon the island above Nosworthy Bridge; and she hardened her heart against Bartley and his humour. Rhoda had been influenced in other directions also by that unfortunate incident. To explain Margaret's share in it with credit to Margaret was impossible. Her brother's wife must have known that Mrs. Crocker had just died; indeed, the man had doubtless gone to tell her so. And Madge's apparent reply was to conduct herself like a silly and irresponsible child. Such an action frankly disgusted Rhoda, and she was deeply offended and shocked at it. The emotion waxed with time and even made her uneasy. She believed that with no man living, other than her husband, might a woman permit herself such pleasantries. The past looked more and more unseemly in Rhoda's eyes. It lessened her respect for Margaret, and unconsciously she showed it. Yet when Margaret, whose sensitive nature was lightning-quick to mark such a change of attitude, asked her sister-in-law how she had offended, Rhoda could not bring herself to speak. She evaded the question, but made some general allusions, hoping thereby to remind Madge of her recent folly. She failed, however, for David's wife did not see the application of a theory of man's lightness to herself or to Mr. Crocker.

And now, at this inauspicious hour, and fired thereto by a successful dinner and an excellent opportunity, the lover offered himself again. Chance so to do was deliberately made by Madge. She planned with David to leave her sister-in-law and the visitor, and, before Rhoda could avoid the trap, Bartley and she were alone together in the parlour.

"Keep Bartley in good spirits till I come back, Rhoda," said Margaret suddenly; "I must take my medicine, else doctor will be vexed when he calls again."

She hurried off, and as David had already gone out, man and maid found themselves alone.

Rhoda frowned; Bartley pulled himself together and wished he had taken half-a-pint less of the bottled porter.

Each in secret heart was planning speech, and Rhoda, not guessing that he had ever again thought of her as a wife, after her definite reply to his proposal, wondered now if she might reprove Mr. Crocker himself for his folly on the island. Her object was not the welfare of the man. She was thinking a little for Margaret and a great deal for David. She knew surely what David must have said had he crossed the bridge when she did. But to speak to David about it appeared impossible, for he brooked no criticism of Margaret even from her; and to approach Madge seemed equally out of the question in Rhoda's view. But here was an opportunity to speak directly to the offender himself; for it could not but be that Bartley had led Margaret into the lapse of self-respect with the sandwiches.

Rhoda's mind swiftly traced this path, and she was preparing to speak when her companion began to talk. His conversation related to a very different matter, and for some time the woman found little opportunity.

Mr. Crocker had picked up a photograph album and was gazing at the picture of the Bowden family taken at Tavistock in their full and imposing completeness before David's marriage.

"My word!" he said, "that's a proper piece of work sure enough. Let's see--father and mother--boys of all sizes, your married sister, you and David, and Dorcas and Joshua. I hope you've made it up with Dorcas, Miss Rhoda?"

She flushed.

"You'll do well to mind your own business," she said.

He shut the book and put it on the table. It rested upon a red and yellow wool mat, and he was careful to place it exactly in the middle.

"You're right," he answered. "When aren't you right? I oughtn't to have said that. It's not my place to dictate to you--quite the reverse. I'm sorry."

She did not reply and he spoke again.

"But my own business is different. I can mind that, and it's time I thought a bit more about it. Not that 'tis ever out of my thoughts really; yet life comes between a man and his deepest desires sometimes, and life--and death--has stood between me and the first business of my life lately."

"Has it?" she said in an indifferent voice.

"You know it has, Rhoda. You know what I've been through. You came to the graveside of my dear mother at my express wish--"

"'Twas at your aunt's wish--not yours."

"Anyway you came, and not being blind, you must have known what putting her into the ground meant to me."

She stared at him coldly, but did not speak. The grief that Bartley had displayed above his mother's coffin when it sank to earth was real enough. He had mourned her then from his heart. But while Rhoda watched the man weep on that mournful occasion, there had filled her mind, not sympathy at his present real grief, but sheer amazement at his past equally real levity. It was quite beyond her mental endowment to understand how the same man could laugh on the day after his mother's death, and weep at the ceremony of her interment.

Her thoughts now hardened her heart. She guessed that he was about to be personal and prepared to waste no consideration upon him.

"You'll be gone out of England soon, I suppose. What's Miss Saunders going to do?"

"Lord knows. My Aunt Susan's been rather difficult since mother died. She wants to go to Canada with me; but--well, my mind's set on somebody else."

"You'll never find anybody to care for you like she will."

"Shan't I? That's bad news," he said. "And, what's more, I'll make so bold as to question it. Why should I waste time and beat about the bush? Look back a bit--to that day on the leat path, Rhoda. Well, a lot's happened since then; but nothing has happened to my great love of you except it's grown stronger and stronger. And you, Rhoda? Don't say that you never thought of it again. Perhaps you blame me for holding off so long; but you see how I was placed. Couldn't go on with it and mother fading out day by day."

In the light of her knowledge she believed that this statement was untrue. At best the hypocrisy of it offended her. The man who played with Madge on the island was surely not the man to let his mother's last illness interfere with love-making.

But she did not comment upon this side of the question. She did not comment at all, but waited for him to make an end.

"And now, though you might think I was too near her still, yet I know it isn't so. And I ask you to remember what I said before, and answer me different. You're more to me than all the rest of the world put together, and I'm sure that I could make you a happy woman. I've watched you, like a cat watches a mouse, these many months. I've followed your ways and learned your fancies. David's self don't know so much about you as I do--all I know of your beautiful, brave nature and likes and dislikes--down to the walks by night with nought but the moonbeams and your own thoughts for company. And you--can't you feel a bit too, and picture your life along with me away over the water? Can't you see yourself mistress of such a place as you've heard me tell about to David? Can't you let me love you and make you my dear wife, Rhoda? For God's sake think about it, and don't say 'no' again. I'll wait your pleasure; I'll not hurry you. Take a year to say 'good-bye' to Dartmoor if you like; or stop on Dartmoor if you like; and I'll gladly stop too, if you say the word; but oh, Rhoda Bowden, do marry me and find what it is to have a husband who worships your shadow!"

He stood over her as he spoke, while she sat motionless and looked out of the window. Now she saw David returning and was glad. But her quick ears heard Margaret stop him outside, and husband and wife went into the kitchen together.

"Say 'yes' and have done with it," begged Bartley.

She was thinking, but not of him. It occurred to her that Margaret had planned the entire incident. Her thoughts retraced many past events, and she wondered how much more Margaret might have planned. Then she asked herself the reason.

Her sustained silence made the lover speak again; but she was so interested in side views of the situation that the central fact seemed unimportant. To him, however, nothing else mattered; and her answer to one who had just asked her to marry him, struck the man as extraordinary.

"Don't be dumb, unless silence is to give consent," he said; then she came to herself, looked at him blankly, and shook her head.

"Good God! Is that all your answer?" he asked.

"That's all," she replied.

"Why--why--why? What's between us? I'm frank to you; be frank with me, Rhoda. It's now or never. Say everything in your mind to say. Leave nothing unsaid. What is it between us? What's the bar? Can it be got over or broken down? Where do I fail? Can I mend it? Can I change anything--every thing to please you better? Don't fear to hurt me. Anything is better than refusal."

"You're too light-minded," she said. "And, even if you wasn't, I shouldn't care about you. You're not the sort of man that I like."

"What sort do you like then? Tell me, and I'll try to be that sort."

She did not answer the question, but reproved him for the past. It occurred to her again that by protesting now against the incident on the island she might prevent any such folly in the future. She was only considering David--not Margaret, and not the man before her.

"Too light-minded," she repeated, "and I'll tell you for why I say it. On the day after your mother died, you met my sister-in-law and it chanced that I saw you together. She don't know it and needn't. But you'd better know. The man who could play child's tricks at such a time wouldn't be trusted by any woman, I should think."

He wrinkled his forehead and endeavoured to remember.

"Whatever did you see that shocked you so much?"

She told him and he shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm afraid I can't expect to make you understand that. Perhaps no woman that ever I met but Madge would understand it. Don't let that come between us. Be just. Moods and whims and silliness after a long cruel strain may happen to men as well as women."

"Well, I despise the men, or women either, who could sink to such things."

"You were at my mother's funeral. You know if I felt her loss or not."

"Things are as they are," she answered calmly. "'Tis no good us telling any more. My brother and his wife want to come in the parlour, and we're keeping 'em out."

Bartley rose.

"I'll be off then. And mark this: you'll have to listen to me once more yet before I go. No man worth the name would take 'no' for an answer under thrice."

"Better save your time. You'll never make me feel different to you. We're not built to look alike or feel alike at any point. The sooner you know that the better."

"Bid 'em good-bye for me and try to think different."

He offered his hand and she took it.

"I'll never think different so long as I can think at all," she said.

He departed, and Margaret and David saw him go and knew that he had failed.

Madge sighed for him; her husband showed no emotion.

"Come what may come, 'twill be best," he declared. "Rhoda knows her own mind; and that's more than half the maidens do nowadays."

They returned to her and found her sweeping the hearth.

"Mr. Crocker have gone," she said. "I was to bid you good-bye from him."

Elsewhere the baffled suitor tramped through Dartmoor under conditions of setting sunlight and approaching darkness. Strong winds had scattered the fog of the preceding evening and now a gale shouted along the heath and drove the clouds before it. Flashes of light broke through the west and, like golden birds, floated upward over the dark bosoms of the hills. They reached the ragged summits of the land, revealed the granite there, then seemed to take wing into the sky.

CHAPTER IV

POINTS OF VIEW

The folk were coming to church, and some walked by road; some drove from distant hamlets; some tramped by sheep-tracks and rough pathways over wide spaces of heath and stone. Down through outlying farms that stretch tentative fields into the Moor; down past gorse-clad banks and great avenues of beeches; down past Kit Tin Mine--busy then, but empty and silent now; down into the valley bottom, drawn by the thin bell music from the tower above the trees, came the family of the Bowdens. It was smaller than of old. But the boys were growing; Napoleon and Wellington had become responsible persons in the scheme of life at Ditsworthy, and even the twins could be trusted to work without a ruling eye upon them. Mr. Bowden and his wife came to pray upon this early summer noon. Of women there were only two left at Ditsworthy; therefore Sarah and her daughter Sophia had to take Sunday at church alternately; and to-day the widow stopped at home to cook the dinner. With the Bowdens came other of the people. Susan Saunders appeared beside her nephew; but he saw her to the entrance only; there he stopped and talked with a knot of men. Among them was David Bowden. He, however, stayed not long outside and soon joined his family and Rhoda. She was already seated between Joshua and her father in the Bowden pew. Charles Moses was finding seats for chance visitors; Reuben Shillabeer, who never missed Sunday service, sat in his corner, having just handed four collecting dishes to those who would presently carry them through the congregation. He was a sidesman now, and Mr. Merle held the old prize-fighter in high esteem as a valuable example to the young men.

Mr. Screech arrived with his elder child. Mattacott met him and they talked apart. Their conversation concerned Timothy himself. Jane West had ceased to smile on Mattacott since the winter; yet there was no report of any engagement between her and Bart Stanbury. The appearance of Timothy's rival cut this conversation short. He came with his father and mother. The men entered and Mrs. Stanbury spoke to Mr. Crocker.

"Be Margaret gone in?" she asked.

"No," he said. "She's home to-day. David and Rhoda are here. Madge hasn't come."

Mrs. Stanbury sighed with dismay.

"There! And I want particular for to see her. Now whatever shall I do?"

"Come and see her," suggested Bartley. "I'll be very pleased to walk along with you. I'm not going in. The weather's too fine to miss two hours of it, and I shan't taste another English June for many a long day--perhaps never."

Constance considered, and then, the matter being of some urgency, consented.

"I'll just go into the church and tell master I'm stepping over to see Margaret. And I shall have to get my dinner there. Everything's locked up at Coombeshead till evening. We was all going to take our meat along with Mr. Moses to-day; but my men can do so, and I'll ask Madge for a bit."

So it fell out, and Hartley, quite to his satisfaction, escorted Mrs. Stanbury to 'Meavy Cot.'

First he chattered about his own hopes and disappointments; then he interested himself in his companion's affairs.

"Yes, I must be gone. No good staying here in sight of that girl--only makes me savage and good for nothing."

"A pity she won't take you; but she'll never take anybody. She's cut out for the single state," declared Constance.

"How can you say that? Was ever a finer woman seen in Sheepstor?"

"Womanhood's a matter of heart, not body, my dear. To the eye she's female, to the mind she's male--that, or neither one nor t'other. I know all about her through my daughter. Not that I don't wish with all my heart you could have her, and take her long ways off. Not a word of unkindness do I mean; but 'twould be better every way, and better for Madge if she lived somewhere else."

"Yes--I understand that," he said. "David never can be everything to Madge while he thinks such a deuce of a lot of Rhoda. They're all good friends, however."

"Good friends enough. But 'tisn't the home it might be. You don't see, and strangers don't see; but I see, because my mother's eyes can't be blinded."

"I see too--I know very well what you mean."

"If you do, then say nought," she answered; "for 'tisn't for you--nor me neither--to stand between a man and his wife. D'you know what Madge said to me last week? I grant she was down when she said it; but she's down too often now. She said, 'Life was sunshine with only a little cloud three year agone; now it's cloud with only a little sunshine, mother.' Not a very nice thing for me to hear. But it didn't astonish me. We're an unlucky race, I must tell you. Whether luck comes through the blood, or through some dark powers outside us, I don't know yet; 'tis a very real thing, and some has it from the cradle and some never gets a pinch of it. Stanburys don't."

But Crocker was thinking of Margaret Bowden.

"I'm terrible sorry to hear you tell this about her. She keeps such a stiff upper lip before the world and looks out with such cheerful eyes, that I never guessed 'twas quite as bad. Yet now you say it, I mind the signs."

"Keep out of it, however, and go away. You can't do no good if Rhoda won't have you."

"Don't be sure of that. I was a lot of use once. I might again."

Mrs. Stanbury was mildly surprised.

"Seeing David's good sense and patience, I won't say 'tis impossible to do anything. But David be David, and even if he had the will to alter, how can he do it, more'n the leopard his spots? There's nothing you can put your hand upon and say 'there's the evil'; and yet 'tis clear enough. They've drifted apart through having no family. 'Tis all said in that word."

Mr. Crocker sighed and felt a moment of real sorrow.

"If she'd married me," he said, "'twould have saved us both a lot of bother."

The other did not answer and they proceeded some distance silently.

Then he turned the conversation to Mrs. Stanbury herself.

"This is telling on you too. You're not all you might be, I'm sure. I wish it was in my power to do you a good turn."

"Like you to say it. Many have to thank you for a good turn. But 'tis outside human strength to help me. I've run against the Powers of Darkness; I've heard Crazywell tell how my husband is to go inside the year."

"Does he believe it?"

"I don't know. He won't talk about it. He's very careful of hisself, and he gets a bit short if I run on about it; so we've agreed to let the matter drop. All the same it's aged him, and God knows how many years it has took off my life."

Mr. Crocker was interested.

"I only heard about it from David. There may be some sort of explanation."

"How can there be? 'Tis like a thunderbolt hung over us. Bart's the only one who takes no account of it."

"It might be him just so likely as his father," said the man. "Why are you so positive 'twas your husband the voice meant? They're both called 'Bartholomew.'"

Mrs. Stanbury stood still, stared at him, and then sank down suddenly in the hedge.

"But--but that can't surely be? The one's 'Bart' always," she gasped out.

"To other people; but if this was some magic thing from another world, you couldn't expect it to care about nicknames."

"Oh, my God! where do we all stand now?" cried out Mrs. Stanbury. "Nobody ever thought of that afore!"

"One person did, if not others; and that person's Jane West," he answered. "I saw her a bit ago and asked her--out of kindness to Bart--why she held off and didn't take him. I know only too well what 'tis to be hanging about with your heart telling you not to take 'no' for an answer and your head telling you that you're a fool. And Jane said that, so far as it went, she'd decided between Mattacott and Stanbury. 'But,' she said, 'though I'm addicted to Bart and like him very well, 'tis no use taking the man if he'm going to die afore next Christmas.' 'Twas only by the merest chance she and Bart didn't hear the voice themselves, for they went up to Princetown shopping that very afternoon, and nothing but the fog made 'em go round by road."

But Mrs. Stanbury heard none of these words. She had never connected this catastrophe with her son; neither had Bart himself done so. Jane West, however, inspired thereto by Mr. Mattacott, perceived the real significance of the situation, and she proposed to wait until time showed whether father or son was to fall. Now Mrs. Stanbury was herself faced with this hideous complication, and it struck her almost as harshly as the original blow had done. Her weak mind whirled; she became incoherent and spoke without sense.

"Leave it, for God's sake," urged the man. "You'll go mad at this gait. One thing be just as absurd as t'other. Some innocent fool saw your husband through the fog and shouted to him--perhaps just wished him a merry season or some such thing--and then went on his way and thought no more of it. Be sure you'll hear the truth soon or late, and you'll live to see your men as well and hearty next January as they are now."

"You mean kindly to say these things," she answered. "But 'tis vain, and you'll know it afore the year's gone."

"Well, give God Almighty a chance," he urged. "'Tis you will be dead, not them, if you go on so."

They reached 'Meavy Cot' and found Margaret. Her mother sat down, took off her bonnet and rested, while Madge stood a few minutes at the gate with Mr. Crocker before he started homeward.

"Try and cheer her up," he said. "'Tis that damned nonsense about the voice at Crazywell. She'll fret herself into her grave over it if this goes on."

They discussed the matter for a while; then Madge spoke of Bartley himself.

"Don't know what to be at," he said. "My life's stuck for the minute. I can't ask her again yet, and I'm not going till I have. Just once more. But the thing is to know what to be doing meantime--how to get a bit forwarder. How is she?"

"She's all right--silenter than ever to me, though. Sometimes I think she's judging me rather hardly and don't reckon I'm a very good wife for David."

"I'm sure that can't be. She's a long way too sensible to imagine any such nonsense."

"She may be right, all the same. I don't know what it is; I wouldn't even name it to anybody but you and mother; but sometimes I feel as if there was a door between me and David, and sometimes he tries to open it, and I'm sure I'm always trying to, but it keeps shut."

"Stuff!" he repeated. "You're such a parcel of nerves, Madge--like poor Mrs. Stanbury. You mustn't let yourself think such things. David's wrapped up heart and soul in you, and if 'tisn't his way to show all he feels, that's only to say he's a Bowden. They are built on that fashion. You must try and look at life more with his eyes. He's a rare man and I envy him his tremendous power of sticking to a thing till he's got through with it. His ideas are big, not little; I can see that, and you ought to see it. You and me are a bit too much alike there, and 'tis our luck not to be rated at our real value in consequence. But we mustn't repay in the same coin. Because David don't quite understand you, and Rhoda don't understand me, we, who are nimbler-witted than them, mustn't be cross. They may not see the truth of us and all the virtues that we've got--and we've both got a rare lot in my opinion--but we do see the truth of them, and so we must be patient with their characters."

It was a new light to the woman, and she perceived the wisdom under his jesting manner.

"If he'd only let me into his secrets!" she said.

"You must be content with mine," he answered. "David lets you into his good fortune and tells you when he's drawn a prize. But the bother and battle he keeps to himself."

"He doesn't," she answered. "I'd forgive that. But he tells Rhoda. Again and again I've known them to break off a subject when I came along--as if I was a baby."

"Try to think 'tis out of their kindness they do it."

"I have tried; but I know different. David don't believe in me--that's the bitterness of my life in a word, Hartley. He don't trust me like he trusts Rhoda."

"Then tell him so. Let him see what he's losing by keeping you out. And I believe, come to think of it, that might be good advice to myself too. With Rhoda I mean. How would it be if I took a bit of counsel with her, Madge--asked her advice, like David does, and treated her like a man instead of a girl? Would that work?"

She considered.

"It would work, no doubt, as far as her being civil went. If you asked her questions, she'd answer 'em; and if you asked her opinion she'd give it. Whether 'twould lead to anything further, I can't tell. We've drifted apart a bit of late, and I see it clear enough without seeing the reason for it. However, I daresay I'm to blame too. No doubt I don't look at life from their point of view all I might. But I wish--I wish to God she'd take you--as much for my sake as her own."

The woman's unusual bitterness impressed him.

"Follow my advice and have a good talk with David. Thresh it out and open his eyes a bit. If you see from his point of view, as you will now, then 'tis but fair he should see from yours; and if he can't see your side single-handed, then you must help him. We'll meet again afore long and I'll tell you what comes of my new idea. Perhaps we shall both be lucky!"

He left her and she returned to her mother.

Mrs. Stanbury was absorbed in the dreadful new problems raised by Bartley Crocker's theory of the voice. She explained these complications to Margaret, and her daughter strove to comfort her without success.

CHAPTER V

END OF A ROMANCE

Rhoda Bowden was walking over Yennadon Down, a broad tract of common above the gorges of Meavy. Great spaces stretched beneath her and a still higher and mightier wilderness heaved upward beyond the river and the forests to the east. There Ringmoor extended, and its lone miles basked in unclouded sunshine. Beneath lay Sheepstor and Meavy, each crowned by a church tower; while beyond rolled out long leagues of Devon to the margins of the sea. But Rhoda's eyes were on the ground and she moved with less than her usual steady purpose. An empty cartridge met her glance and some small grey object that fluttered in the mouth of it led her to stop and pick up the fragment. The cartridge was old and weather-worn; the live creature that had found this convenient receptacle was a large and dusky moth. For a moment Rhoda felt interested, then, perceiving that this insect had laid many eggs within the empty cartridge, she shuddered slightly and flung the moth and its nursery away; because maternity on such a scale seemed loathsome to her even in an insect.

She was on her way to Buckland of the Monks with a message from David, and she welcomed the long and lonely day promised by this task, for not a few matters lay heavy on her mind. Rhoda's responsibilities were growing beyond power of control.

But the anticipated hours of reflection were largely curtailed, for when she returned to the highway nigh Dousland Barn, a light cart overtook her and the driver was Simon Snell. His face indicated the most profound surprise. He smiled, hesitated, gave her 'good-morning,' proceeded on his way, then changed his mind again, pulled up and alighted.

"What a terrible coorious thing as me and you should both be bound out along like this--on the very same day too!" he said.

"So 'tis then, and I hope you're well. Us haven't met this longful time."

"I was coming over one Sunday this summer," he declared; "but now will do just so well. I be going out to Vartuous Lady Mine to spend the day along with my brother James and his wife. You might not have heard me tell much about him, perhaps? I've took a day off--by permission, of course--and I'm carrying 'em a gift, because they'm not very well-to-do, I'm sorry to say."

"I'm going to Buckland Monachorum for David."

"Well, I never! What could have falled out better? I very nearly drove by you; because I said to myself, 'Perhaps it might be too pushing in me to offer to give her a lift.' But I'm very glad I didn't, and I hope you'll accept of a seat till I leave your road. 'Tis a fainty sort of day, with thunder offering, in my opinion."

"Thank you, I should be very glad if you've got room."

"Room enough. I'm taking my brother half a pig as we killed last week, and his wife a bunch of they white Mary lilies, what grow to a miracle in our garden. People stop and stare at 'em. And if you'll sit alongside me--if it isn't making too bold--"

She ascended and they proceeded together.

"There'll be a thunderstorm afore long, as you say," she remarked.

"I quite agree. And how be you faring? You'm looking purty middling; and I be purty middling, and so's my mother, thank God, though she was into her seventy-fourth year last month."

"I'm all right."

"I ban't too close to you, I hope?"

She shook her head. She felt comfortable and easy with him, as usual, but her heart beat no quicker for his voice or the inquiring gaze of his great mild eyes.

"My brother was married afore I comed acquainted with you. He's a gamekeeper and his wife has a child every second year. For my part I think they're unlucky; but their way is to trust the Lord to look after the childer. But I'm not sure. By the same token you might not know that you've got another nephew. Your sister, Mrs. Screech, had a son yesterday betwixt six and seven of the evening. Screech comed in to smoke a pipe when 'twas all over. A very clever job, I hear, and the child to be called after your father."

"I don't want to know nothing about it, thank you."

"Beg pardon, I'm sure."

He was silenced for some time. Then he observed that Rhoda had a finger tied up.

"I do hope as you haven't hurt yourself," he said.

"Nothing at all. A dog bit through when he was playing."

"They will, and yet mean no harm."

She considered with herself whether this man could be of any use to her, and she decided that he could not. It was in any case almost impossible to state her difficulties. She found it hard to put them into words even in thought, where an idea, though it cannot live away from the symbols of words, yet develops without any coherent sentences and reasoned speech. To tell to another what was in her mind had as yet been beyond her power; and to mention the difficulty to Mr. Snell, even if possible, must have proved a futile task. Her instinct assured her that his mind was no more built to speak wisdom on sex questions than her own. She reflected thus, while he, employed upon a different matter, wondered vaguely if he might arrange another walk with her; whether it was worth while to do so; and whether, even if she accepted the invitation, he really desired such a thing.

Presently she uttered a generality which bore obliquely upon his own ideas.

"What a terrible difficult world it do seem to become, if you'm married! And even if you'm thrown much against married people, you can't escape it. If you care a lot about folk, you'm bound to feel for 'em, I suppose."

"I quite agree--never heard a truer word," he said. "'Tis the worst of being fond of people that, if they get in a mess, it makes you feel uncomfortable. You can't escape from that."

"The fewer we care about, the more peace we have, seemingly."

"Exactly so. I've thought that very thought, and I've often thanked God that, after my mother, and my brother, and my brother's wife, and one of my nephews, there's nobody in the world I should shed a tear for if they was took."

She nodded, and he suddenly perceived that this was one of the speeches wherein he had failed of perfect tact. Yet to modify it needed some courage.

"I should say one other--one other, if I may make so bold," he added.

She did not answer and he considered before continuing. Then he decided that he could not leave the matter there. Yet he was cautious.

"You mustn't think the worse of me for it. I don't mean anything by it to cause you any uneasiness. But you're the one, Miss Rhoda. I should certainly be very vexed if anything happened to you."

"Thank you, I'm sure, Mr. Snell."

"Don't," he said. "These things don't merit thanks. I've never told a lie, and so I won't hold my reason back. I think a lot of your character: that's why I should be sorry if harm happened to you."

"We've understood each other very well, I believe."

"Very well indeed; and you've taught me a lot about the female sex. And, but for you, I don't suppose I should ever have knowed anything at all about them. I may tell you, owing to your large understanding, that I've often considered about the sense of marrying. But I'm sure I don't know. When you look round--the heart sinks."

"Yes, it does."

Mr. Snell did look round, and the beautiful woman roused some faint, feeble flicker of his anæmic passion.

"I grant you that the wedded state as shown by other people--and yet I won't go so far as Bartley Crocker do."

"How far's that then?"

"Mind, don't you say it against him. I've no wish to be thought a tale-bearer. But, in open speech at the bar of Shillabeer's public-house, he said that though you hear of happy marriages, you never see them. Now that's too far-reaching--eh?"

"Not much. He's not far out, I reckon."

"Well, you know better than me; but, begging pardon for mentioning her again, your own sister is as happy as a bird. And I really don't say it's impossible to be happy with a home of your own."

"The right ones never meet. I'd warn every man and woman against it for my part."

With this speech Rhoda quite extinguished the paltry flicker in Mr. Snell's broad bosom. He looked rather frightened. He stroked his beard. At heart he felt a sort of relief that even the shadow of disquiet was now banished in the light of her plain statement.

"If that's your opinion, 'tis no part for a common man like me to say a word against it," he answered. "Sometimes--I won't deny it--I've thought, in uplifted moments, that the married state with such a meek nature as mine--and then again, however--"

"I speak what I know; but nobody can be sure they're right, I suppose. What do you think about it?" asked Rhoda. But why she gave him this loophole she knew not. Her interest in Mr. Snell was at a low ebb to-day, and her own thoughts filled her spirit to the exclusion of all else. Still she was always content with him. He appeared to her to be a sensible and responsible man whose opinion was better worth having than that of most people.

"Now you ask a poser," declared Simon, "for my own opinion on such a high subject be very unsettled. In fact, I'd a long ways sooner go by yours, and if you, of all females, feel as marriage be too doubtful in the upshot, then I'd so soon, if not sooner, take your word for it. And I may say that I will. There's nothing so restful as having your mind made up for you by a better one. And I can't say the men I know--they'm all for it in a general way--bring up very strong arguments. There's Amos Prouse tokened now, and he goes about properly terrified, so far as I can see; and there's Mattacott, from being an even-tempered man, turned so sour as a sloe, because Jane West keeps him on the tenterhooks. To keep company is certainly a very bad state; and you can't be married without going through it; so that's another reason against."

"I shall never marry," she said.

"Then no more shan't I," he declared. "And 'tis a troublesome weight off the mind to hear you say that."

"Better not go by me, however."

"'Tis just you and no other I would go by. Because--well, now since you've spoken and never been known to go from your word--the coast be clear for me and I feel so light as a lark in the air. If you'd said as you were for it, then my manhood would have--well, God knows what might have overtook me; for at such times a man gets into a raging fever and be ready to fight creation for the female, as the savage beasts do. But you've said it; and I quite agree. I know you'm right, and I say ditto to it. And we'll see t'others dashing into it, but 'twill be nought to us."

"It looks to me as if the useful people be often the single ones," she said.

"There again! What good sense! 'Tis the very height of sense! And Paul's on our side too. Better to marry than to burn, he says in his large wisdom. But better not to marry if you'm perfectly cool and contented, same as what I be, year in, year out."

She did not answer and he spoke again.

"Still, mind this. If it had been otherwise with you, it would have been otherwise with me. Never was a manlier man in his instincts of self-preservation than me, as my mother will tell you. And if by chance I'd fallen upon a creature of the female sex as appeared to be looking to me to share life with her, then I doubt it might have happened. But not now. If she comed along now it would be too late. Because I've had walks along with you in my time, and we've been terrible close, and we've understood each other as well as any two people could."

"I suppose we have."

"I tell you this, because you've given your word you ain't going to marry," he concluded; and nothing more was said until they reached a lane that broke from the main road. Then Mr. Snell pulled up.

"Here's my way. You must get down now. You go straight on. I shall be back after eight o'clock, and will bide here till a quarter past if I can help you home."

"No. I'll be back long afore that, I hope."

So the lifeless, bloodless abortion of a romance passed stillborn from between them, unregretted by either. They often met in after life, and they were always friendly within their natural limitations; but marriage never again rose as the most dim possibility on the horizon of the man.

He permitted her to alight without assistance. They talked a while longer before separating, and conversation drifted to David and his wife.

"I hear the people air their opinions and I say nothing--that being the way of least trouble seemingly," declared Mr. Snell. "But certainly now and again very outrageous speeches be spoke. Take Screech, for instance. He's no fool, Screech isn't. But he have a very coarse way of putting things, to my mind. His wife--begging pardon for mentioning her--was saying something about her brother David. I've forgot what it was, except that it weren't flattering, and Screech, he ups and says, 'Them two'--meaning David and Mrs. Bowden--'them two,' he says, 'be like a moulting cock and hen--that down on their luck, and all about nought, for the man's prospering and getting home the money with both fists.' 'Twas a vulgar thing to say, and I went so far as to tell him so."

"You might have told him he was a liar too," said Rhoda. "When did anybody ever see David down on his luck, even if he was? He don't carry his heart in his hand. A cheerful and a steadfast man always; and if my sister-in-law be not cheerful nor steadfast--that's another matter, and the fault's not David's. I tell you this because you've got sense and was never known to make mischief."

"And never shall, please God!"

"What does an evil thing like Screech know about David?"

"Nought--less than nought. He allowed that, for in my cautious way, I went so far as to ax for chapter and verse, when he said your brother and his wife weren't happy. 'I don't know nothing about 'em and don't want to,' he said in his coarse style; 'but a good few eyes be open round these parts, and 'tis very well marked they go different roads when out of sight of each other.' It might become you to mention it, or it might not. You know best, living along with them."

Rhoda hesitated but said nothing. The inclination to confide in Mr. Snell was not revived.

"Thank you for telling me. But whether I'll name it--"

"Don't mention me if you do," said Mr. Snell. "'Tis only to you I'd have said as much as I have said--out of respect to the family. And now I must be going on."

They shook hands and parted. He returned to his cart and, the lane leading up a hill, went slowly forward. His horse sagged at his collar and the thill chains clanked. With each step forward Simon's body jolted on the board. One leg of the quartered pig also waved spasmodically, and the candid lilies powdered their purity with golden pollen.

Thus it came about that Snell left the woman's thoughts where he found them. She tramped forward full of the matter of Margaret; she did her business; ate some bread and butter and drank some milk; started for home again. But, returning by way of Horrabridge, she was detained awhile and she did not ascend a steep hill out of Walkhampton on her return journey until the evening. Her brother, who had gone to Okehampton, was combining business and pleasure in a ride across Dartmoor. He would not come back until late, and it was understood that Rhoda herself might not be expected home before him. She, however, pursued her direct way under the acclivities of Black Tor while yet it was light, and looking down into the valley, the raw blue patch of the roof of 'Meavy Cot' stared up a mile distant and smoke surmounted it. At nearer approach Rhoda saw Madge and a man come out of the cottage. They went off in the direction of Coombeshead and they walked close together and talked very earnestly. She altered her way somewhat, to get nearer to them, and was able to make sure of Margaret's companion. At first she trusted that he had been her brother Bart; but it was Mr. Crocker with whom Madge proceeded and with whom she kept such close converse.

Rhoda went back, took the key of the door from a secret hiding-place, where it was always hidden for the first home-comer, and entered the cottage. A litter of tea things stood on the table and Bartley had evidently partaken of that meal.

And on the road to Coombeshead farm David's wife and David's friend were talking with profound interest not of Rhoda and not of David--but concerning Constance Stanbury. That day, early after noon, Crocker had met Madge's father in trouble and had taken a message to the doctor for him, that he might the quicker return to his wife. Mrs. Stanbury had quite succumbed to her nerves again and was suffering much terror and horror through the hours of night. Her agitation culminated in what Mr. Stanbury held to be "a fit," and he felt that the unfortunate, haunted woman again needed medical care to help her fight these superstitious fears.

Mr. Crocker gladly conveyed an urgent message to the physician, and soon afterwards he walked to Meavy Cot, that he might tell Madge. To his satisfaction he found her alone, accepted her invitation, drank tea with her, and then accompanied her to learn how her mother fared.

Now they talked of this curse that had fallen upon the old woman's life, and Crocker tried hard to conceive some possible way of relief. The truth was hidden from them and he did not for an instant suspect it; but the thought and care of both were entirely centred upon this subject, and for a time every other interest remained in abeyance while they strove to hit on some device by which Mrs. Stanbury might be comforted. Bartley suggested a visit from Mr. Merle; and Madge declared such an idea to be quite vain.

But Rhoda Bowden knew nothing of these facts. It was not until night, when Margaret returned and David also came home, that she heard the truth from her sister-in-law. And her inclination was to disbelieve at least a part of it.

CHAPTER VI

VIRGO--LIBRA

A moon at full rolled hugely up over the Moor edge, outlined a black peat wall and by chance made a brilliant background for an atom of life that was there. Here Rhoda's kitten rested on an August night after great hunting of moths; and the planet threw a golden frame around it.

Rhoda herself, sitting alone at hand in the presence of her mistress, the moon, perceived this accidental conjunction and noticed her little pet dark against the immensity of the bright dead world now ascending. Rhoda sat with her hands folded in her lap and watched the red-gold rise. The moon and the kitten, for some subtle reason, alike comforted her. One rose clear of the horizon, and the other vanished. The work of the first was to diffuse a warm and wondrous stain upon the cloudless air; to permeate the earth's atmosphere with fleeting radiance and then, swimming upwards, to cool the passing heat of ruddy colour she had created and to supersede this glow with a pale rain of silver-grey light. It poured down into the silence and spread pools and patches of misty pearl upon the ebony of the waste. The work of the second was to come to Rhoda, stick up its little tail, pad in her lap, purr with infant heartiness, and, lifting its nose, mirror the moon in a pair of phosphorescent green eyes. So from both she won good and had sense to see that the stars in heaven and the beasts of earth might each minister after their fashion to such a soul as hers. They soothed her; but they did not advance her reflections or help to solve the gathering difficulties that conscience cast into her path. She was troubled and knew not where to turn. She stated the situation again and again to herself, but no light fell upon the picture from anywhere. Her belief was that her brother's wife saw far too much of another man. That the man in question wanted to marry Rhoda herself was an added complication; and from that fact, she judged that Margaret must be fonder of Bartley Crocker than he could be of her. Her mind was not constituted to weigh very subtly the shades and half shades of this situation, or appraise the extent of its danger. She concerned herself with David and busied her spirit to consider only her duty towards him. Indifference toward Margaret of late tightened into dislike. Secretly she had always felt impatient with the other's softness; but since that softness began to lead David's wife astray, she became alarmed and angered. She retraced the general attitude of her brother and could see nothing in it at all unreasonable. He was very busy, very hard-working, very ambitious. He treated Margaret much as Elias Bowden treated his wife; and Rhoda believed that her mother was always happy and contented. But it could not be said that David's wife was particularly happy. Rhoda often broke upon her, when entering the house suddenly, and at such times Margaret would put on cheerfulness in haste, as a surprised bather might put on a garment.

What then was this woman to do? She had a high sense of duty and that sense had now begun to torment her. It was impossible to formulate any charge against Crocker or against Margaret. Yet she blamed the man not a little, for she believed that he ought to know better than seek the society of Margaret so frequently. Again justice reminded her that Madge made no secret of the meetings. Some, indeed, she might have had--perhaps many--which were never reported; but of others (and others which Rhoda had not seen) she spoke freely afterwards; and she often asked David if she might invite Bartley to Meavy Cot.

Rhoda remembered that Bartley and her sister-in-law had been children together and that they had known each other all their lives. Herein was comfort, but reflection dashed it. At one time most certainly they had not felt the mere close friendship of brother and sister; for it was an open secret that Crocker had asked Margaret to be his wife within a few days of David's engagement. But the thinker did not permit this view long to discomfort her. She strove with native resolution to look at the position in a clean and reasonable light. David himself had said that Bartley and Margaret were like brother and sister. He exhibited not a shadow of uneasiness; and if he felt no concern, why should she do so? This argument, however, broke down; because Rhoda knew much more than David. He went about his business and it absorbed him. Margaret was always at home to welcome him; everything was waiting as he wished it; his whispered word was law, and his wife anticipated his very thought and remembered chance utterances and desires in a way that often surprised and gratified him. Rhoda could not blame Margaret's attitude to David, and she could not for an instant blame David in the amount of time and consideration he devoted to his wife. Upon her estimate it seemed ample and generous.

She considered the brother and sister theory of Bartley's friendship with Margaret and resolved to cleave thereto with all her strength. She reminded herself of what she felt for David; she was very fair; she perceived that even as she and David thought and felt alike, with such mysterious parity of instinct and judgment that they often laughed when they simultaneously uttered the selfsame words, so Margaret and Bartley Crocker were certainly built on a similar pattern. They too looked at life through the same eyes; they too doubtless arrived at similar conclusions. The side issue of this man's regard for herself recurred in the weft of Rhoda's thought; but she drew it out. That relation was beyond the present problem and did not influence her decision. She had twice dismissed the man, and doubtless her second refusal would be taken by him as final.

She came to a conclusion with herself and decided to do nothing but watch. Such a task pained her to reflect upon; but there was none to whom she could speak, for she had none to be regarded in any light of close friendship but her brother. Her father, her mother, her elder sister were of no account. Therefore she determined to wait and watch as a duty to David. She hoped that a brief period of such work would bring peace back to her mind; and she went about it with a rising gorge, in doubt whether to be ashamed of herself or not.

But it happened, only two days later, that opportunity to modify this plan offered and David himself gave it to her. Thankfully she took it, and after a conversation to which he opened the way, Rhoda felt a happier woman than she had felt for many weeks.

He was mending some garden tools in his outhouse at dark and called for another candle. She carried it to him and stopped with him while he worked. The man was in a very good temper and happened to wax enthusiastic over his life and his wife.

"'Tis borne in upon me more and more, Rhoda, that I have better luck than I deserve. Me--such a stand-off chap--yet I'm always treated civil and respectful and taken as a serious and important sort of person. Sometimes, looking back, I can hardly believe it all. But I suppose 'tis my gert power of holding to work does it."

"'Tis because you'm a straight man and never known to go from truth and honesty by a hair," she said. "People see that your word's your bond, and that you set truth higher than gain. You deserve all you get or ever will get--and more."

"Like you to say it; and well you know that my good is your good, Rhoda."

Then he praised his wife. His admiration was genuine but mechanical.

"What with you and her--Margaret--I've got a lot more than falls to most. Needn't say nought about you: we're one; but she's different. She can't see so deep and far off as we do; but she can feel more; and she trusts me; and I'm proud of the simplicity of her. Never wants no figures nor nothing. Never asks no questions. Leaves her life in my hands as trusting as the dogs are with you. And ever thinking for me. I said a bit ago as I dearly loved cold rabbit pie, made after mother's way. Well, the pie to-night was like the Ditsworthy pies. I thought for sure 'twas a present from home; but not a bit of it. She went up-along two days ago and larned the trick of it. If only--but 'twould be mean in me even to name it with such a woman--"

"If only what? All the same, I know. There's compensations against childer, David. Leave that and go on feeling grateful for her goodness; and--and wake up to a bit more too."

She spoke suddenly and with no little feeling. An inspiration had come to her--a brilliant thought greater and finer far than her recent solitary imaginings under the moon.

"'Wake up'!" he exclaimed. "Whatever do you mean, Rhoda? If I'm not wide awake, who is?"

Her ideas struggled within her. She strove to say the right thing, yet almost despaired. He waited during her silence, then spoke again.

"Don't think I'm not grateful to God for such a good wife. I love her more than she knows, or ever will know. I'm even down about her sometimes, when I think she don't know. Yet what more can I do? If there's anything, 'tis your bounden duty to tell me."

He made the way clear; yet she felt a doubt that if she did speak, he might take it ill. She was frightened--an emotion so rare that she did not recognise it and feared that some physical evil must be threatening her.

"I saw Simon Snell not long since," she said. "Didn't mention it at the time, for 'twasn't interesting, except to me; but I will now. He gave me a lift on my way to Buckland and said a good few very sensible things, as his manner is. He told me of a saying he heard made by that Screech that married Dorcas. Screech was speaking of you and your wife, and he said you was like a moulting cock and hen sometimes--both down on your luck and didn't know what was the matter."

David laughed.

"So much for that then. I'll tell you how that happened. I fell in with the man--we're friends of a sort now--and chanced to talk of children. I may have just hinted I was sorry to be without 'em. But that was all. He's jealous of me as a matter of fact. He's getting on pretty well too; but he don't get on as quick as me; and he's handicapped by his mother and his children."

"He spoke of Margaret, too, however."

"What he may have heard her say I can't guess. Nought against her home, that I will swear. Of course, 'tis only human nature to have our up and down moments."

"No doubt that spiteful woman--Dorcas I mean--would be quick to make mischief if 'twas in her power," declared Rhoda.

"It isn't. There's no power on God's earth powerful enough to make mischief between me and Madge."

"Then look after her closer," said his sister.

It was out and she expected a shower of exclamations and questions. But they did not come. David dropped a hammer, stood up, and replied. He had not wholly understood.

"I will," he answered. "I'll think this very night how to give her a bit of a treat. 'Tis natural, without a cradle in the house, she's moped. Us must make it up to her a little, Rhoda. Such towsers for work as you and me forget sometimes that some natures call for a little play as well. I'll look closer after her pleasure and such like. We'll go to Tavistock revel. I hadn't thought to do it; but we'll all take a whole holiday and not do a stroke of work for the day. At least no more than we'm bound to do."

"I mean all the time, David, not just for a day."

"Fancy your saying this to me! And now I'll surprise you too. You ban't the first who has talked like this. Crocker did the very same a bit ago, and I took it as kind in him, for I'm that sort of man. I'm not a jealous chap--too sensible for that. But if 'twas known what I felt for Madge, I dare say people, that see me so busy and wrapped up in getting on, might wonder. Even you don't quite see it, Rhoda. Still, this I will say I blame myself as I did before. I'm not one to think I'm always right; and love should out, not lie asleep in the heart. 'Tis nought unless you see it and let it work all the time, as you say."

"Don't for God's sake, talk like that," she begged earnestly. "Who am I to lecture you? What do I know of love? What do I want to know of it? I only care for you and your good, else I wouldn't have said this much."

She was thinking more of what he had just spoken than what she herself was saying. Bartley Crocker had taken her brother to task on this identical theme! She gasped with secret amazement at such extraordinary news. Doubtless this meant that Crocker and Margaret-- Here she barred her own thoughts. She refused to examine what such a fact could mean.

Her brother made an end of his work.

"Now I'm going in to have a tell with Madge," he said. "You come too."

But Rhoda refused.

"I'm for a walk. 'Tis a fair night."

They parted; he returned to his house; she loosed two dogs and went off on to the Moor.

David lighted his pipe and sat by his fire. Margaret was working at the table. For a time he kept silence, and then she spoke.

"What are you thinking on, dear heart? I hope all be going well at Tavistock?"

"I wasn't troubling about Tavistock," he answered. "I was thinking what a wonder you be, and how you spoil me, and how I'm not worth it--such a man as me."

"David!"

"To think as you went to Ditsworthy about rabbit pies! 'Tis things like that make me wonder."

Her face shone and she set down her work and came to him.

"'Twas nought; but 'tis lovely to know you marked it and was pleased," she said.

"I don't mark enough," he answered. "I'm that set on driving ahead, and making a bit of a splash, and getting up in the world for you--for you, Madge,--that I forget here and there. Don't gainsay me. Too well I know it in my leisure moments."

"You shan't say so. 'Tis all along of me being so small-minded and not looking on ahead like you do, but living in the stupid every-day things. I know they don't matter; and I know what you feel to me; and 'tis for me to see things with your eyes, not for you to see 'em with mine."

"'Tis for me to set higher store by the every-day things," he declared. "'Tis for me to value better the home you keep always sweet and ready for me; and the food you cook, and the hundred little odd worries and bothers many married men have to face, but me never. You don't bring no trouble to me; but you'm always ready and willing to hear my troubles. I can't expect you to understand when I talk about figures and such like. Such things ban't your part. But you'm always ready with your bright eyes to be glad and rejoice when good comes; and 'tis for me to be glad and rejoice in lesser things when you tell me about 'em. I don't let you know how clever I think you. And you always hold yourself so cheap that 'tis my duty to lift you up in your own conceit, for if you thought half so well of yourself as I think of you, you'd be the proudest woman in England, Madge."

She sat on his lap and put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

"'Tis like life to me to hear you say such things," she answered. "Though too well I know how little I deserve 'em. I wish I was a better, cleverer sort to lend a hand with high matters like figures and work and sheep. But I'm only useful here."

"Us will each stick to our own share of the load," he said. "We'm both doing our part pretty well, I believe; and so long as you never forget that I mark your cleverness and love you better every day of your life, the rest don't matter. I've been a thought too buried in my own hopes of late, and I own it and I'm sorry for it. But my eyes was opened half an hour agone, and I want you to forgive me, Madge. 'Twas only seeming, mind you; but I doubt it looked real and it's made you down-daunted, as well it may have; and I'm truly sorry for it."

"You've a deal more to forgive than me. Many men would fling it in my face every day of my life as I'd brought 'em no family."

"I'm not that sort, and I'm hopeful in that matter as in every other. Put that out of your mind, same as I do. Man plants, but God gives the increase. I've found out--all my life so far--that, if we do our part, He's very willing to do His. And if He holds back--that's His business and not for His creatures to fall foul of. Who knows best?"

She tightened her arms round him and her tears flowed.

"Doan't 'e cry," he said, "unless 'tis for happiness. And I'll speak yet further, Madge, since I'm confessing my sins to-night. There's another that must have credit for this useful talk betwixt me and you."

Her thoughts leapt to Hartley Crocker; but she did not speak.

"I was saying to Rhoda a minute ago in the shed, that 'twas just like you to go up to Ditsworthy for the secret of mother's rabbit pies. And then she--Rhoda, I mean--told me a thing or two I ought to have found out for myself."

"I know right well Rhoda loves me dearly. Whatever--" began his wife; then she broke off.

"Of course--like every other mortal. And she's a woman, and soft too--though not like you. She's content with me as I am, but you're not; and there's no reason why you should be. You're right to ask for a bit of worship from me; and the hard thing is you should have to ask."

"I never--never did, David. I was content too--always content, and proud of you always."

"I know. You didn't ask with your lips. But maybe you asked another way; and I didn't see the question till--till others in the past, and again to-day, put it afore me. I'm a contrite man. I'm--"

She put her hand over his mouth.

"You're a million times too fine and great for me. And I won't hear another word. There ban't a happier she on Dartmoor this minute than me!"

"Look here," he said. "I'll tell you what: we'll have a lark next week. There's a revel to Tavistock and we'll all go--you and Rhoda and me. Would you like it?"

"Dearly, and--d'you think, David, that we might ax Bartley Crocker to come? For his own sake and for Rhoda's?"

"Ax him an' welcome. But I'm afraid 'tis all up. She's actually against him now, I should judge, and at best she merely kept an open mind. She never cared a straw about the man, and never will. I'm sorry for him, because he's very fond of her; but I'm not sorry for her."

"I am. Any woman with a good husband must be sorry for them who haven't got one."

"But 'tis no use thinking about it. She'll die an old maid unless something very different from Crocker comes along. I met poor Snell but yesterday and asked him how the world wagged with him. And he said as he saw his way clearer than ever he had, owing to a talk with Rhoda. Rhoda of all people! 'Glad you see what a sensible woman she is,' I told him, and he swore he'd always seen it, but never more than when she told the risks of marriage were greater than the gains. 'I'm off it for evermore,' he says; 'and so be she--I've got her word.' Never a man was more relieved in his mind, I should reckon."

"Nonsense!" declared Margaret. "She's young for her years, and maidens all talk like that. I won't believe it yet awhile. I won't even believe that Bartley's not the man. I see a lot of him and none knows him better. He's gained a deal of sense and patience of late. He's a kind-hearted, gentle creature, and she'd soon wake up to know what happiness really meant if she'd take him."

"She's happy enough in her own way."

"I hope 'tis so; yet how can such a lone life be happy?"

"The heron be so happy as the starling," said David; "though one's his own company most times and t'other goes in flocks. She needn't trouble you. However, since you still think it may be, I'll forget a thing here and there and help you, though 'tis against my own wish in a way. Of course Rhoda's good is as much to me as my good have always been to her. I want her to be a happy woman and a married woman too, if Mr. Right comes along. But all the same, I can't think whatever I should do if Bartley Crocker was to win her and take her off to Canada."

"The thing is to make her happy," answered his wife. "Before all else I want to do it. We're as happy as birds. 'Tis for us, one way or another way, to fill her cup fuller."

"We'll do what we may," he replied. "At least be sure that no man nor woman cares for her more than we do."

"And poor Bartley--don't leave him out. He mustn't be left out," she said.

His mind for the moment was on another issue.

"I'll grant in one particular she's not too happy," he remarked suddenly. "And that's over Dorcas. I'm not speaking a word for Dorcas. She behaved very badly and she's very well out of it, with a lot more luck than she deserves. Screech isn't what I thought him, and I've admitted I was wrong in my opinion of him; but Rhoda can't pardon her. I'm feared to say much, though she knows, for that matter, that I go so far as to nod to Dorcas now, and give her 'good-morning' or 'good-night' when we meet. But Rhoda won't budge an inch. I suppose 'tis out of our power, Madge, to soften her a little bit in that quarter?"

"I've tried full often, but I'll gladly try again," she answered. "And you're right and put your finger on the sore place, no doubt. You can see so deep into people, David. For certain 'tis being out with her own flesh and blood that makes Rhoda wisht and mournful. But we'll try yet again to bring 'em together. I know 'tis a great thorn in Dorcas, though she pretends not to care about it."

CHAPTER VII

A SHARP TONGUE

Timothy Mattacott and his life-long friend, Ernest Maunder, walked and talked together. The latter was on duty, but since the way led over an open space skirted with wild and empty land, the constable relaxed his official manner and gave ear to Mattacott.

"I ban't too easy," confessed the elder man; "for it's rumoured that along of that silly business on Christmas Eve, when Screech hollered out Stanbury's name in the fog to Crazywell, and the wrong people heard him, that Mrs. Stanbury's going out of her mind. Something ought to be done."

"Something certainly ought to be done," admitted Maunder. "You couldn't say strictly that it comes under the head of law, else I should take steps; but we must consider of it before the woman gets worse."

"I don't want to anger Screech, for he took a lot of trouble, and 'twasn't his fault that Jane didn't hear the voice. For that matter, 'twas as good as if she had done, and she's holding off even now from Bart Stanbury, as Screech foretold me she would do. But I don't get no forwarder with her, and 'tis only an evil postponed from my point of view, because she's plainly told me that she likes Bart better than me, and she's only waiting to see if there was anything in that voice, or if 'twas all nonsense and stuff."

"In other words," said Mr. Maunder, "if the man lives over into next year, which, of course, he will do, then she'll take him."

"Yes, exactly so. If he died she'd have me, but on no other terms."

"I'm afraid then, to say it kindly, Tim, the game's up," declared Ernest. "You see, the man ban't going to die, and you'm harrying his mother silly for nought. If I may venture to advise, I'd urge for you to let it out and give her up."

"I don't mind for myself, but there's Billy Screech."

"If you've lost her, 'tis no good keeping up these hookem-snivey doings. Nought's gained by it. To use craft, though foreign to my nature, I hope, in a general way, I should advise that Screech lets the thing out sudden. He might pretend that he's just heard tell about it, and his wife could tell Mrs. Stanbury's daughter, Margaret Bowden. Then 'twould be all right in a day, and the poor creature might recover her senses and rest in peace."

"As 'tis," explained Timothy, "she's in a double mess, which we never thought upon--no, not the cleverest among us--for she can't tell whether 'tis her son or her husband be going to drop. And she goes in fear according."

"It oughtn't to be. It mustn't be," declared the other. "'Tis unworthy and improper; and though I couldn't say 'twas an actual crime against law, yet 'tis a very indecent situation, and if the poor creature was to go mad, you'd feel a heavy load on your conscience, Timothy, even though Billy Screech may be so built as not to care."

"Yes, I should," admitted Mr. Mattacott; "and something must be done--especially so, since I've lost the woman. 'Tis very vexatious in her, for she's as near as damn it said 'yes' a score of times."

"You'll do better to look elsewhere, whether or no. Them uncertain creatures afore marriage are often uncertain afterwards, and then they be the very mischief," said Ernest. "And as for wits, upon my life I don't think Mrs. Stanbury's the only one that's tottering. 'Twouldn't maze me any day to hear as Reuben Shillabeer had to be handled. That man's not what he was."

"He hath a wandering eye, I grant you."

"More than that, and worse than that. 'Tis my business, in its higher branches, to take thought of what be passing in a man's brain, Timothy, and oft of late I've marked the 'Dumpling' waver in his speech and break off and lose the thread."

"Have you now!"

"True as I'm here on duty. He don't fix his intellects as he used."

"He's always down--I grant that. 'The Corner House' ban't very lively nowadays."

"He is down, and that's a sign of a screw loose. Say nought, however, for 'twould be libel and land you in trouble; but mark me, the poor fellow changes from his old self, though never a cheerful creature since his wife went."

They overtook a woman and both saluted Rhoda Bowden. She had just crossed Lether Tor bridge, and was proceeding by the road to Lowery. They talked concerning Mr. Shillabeer a while longer, and then Mr. Maunder mentioned Dorcas and her children. Whereupon from urbanity Rhoda lapsed into silence, soon bade them good-day, and turned off the main road into a lane. They passed on, and having left the track, Rhoda pursued the way she had chosen. It wound to her right, skirted a quarry on Lowery Tor, and returned to the main thoroughfare half a mile beyond. The detour was of no account, and yet, owing to this trivial incident, there happened presently an event that set rolling deep waves along the shore of chance.

The rough footpath led directly behind Mr. Billy Screech's cottage, and just as Rhoda was speeding by with her eyes turned from the place, the eldest child of Dorcas--a boy of more than three years old--fell headlong out of the hedge at her feet. The accident looked serious. For a moment her nephew lay motionless and silent, then he began to utter piercing screams and cry for his mother. The noise stilled Rhoda's alarm and brought Dorcas flying from her cottage, with her mother-in-law after her. When they arrived at the hedge Rhoda had picked up her sister's first-born, and was endeavouring to calm it.