Front matter (continued 7)

The lesser William Screech was found to have escaped with no worse hurt than fright and bruises. He was soon in his mother's arms, and she handed him on to his grandmother. Dorcas thanked Rhoda and told the elder Mrs. Screech to depart; then, the opportunity being a good one, she descended into the road herself, set her face, shook her red fringe out of her eyes, and resolutely overtook Rhoda, who had hastened forward.

"Stop, if you please," she said. "It's a free country and you've no right to deny speech to any civil-spoken creature. I want to speak to you, and I'll be obliged if you'll listen for a minute. You can't refuse to hear me."

Even at this moment Rhoda was struck by the calm authority in her younger sister's voice. She spoke as the superior woman, with all the weight of a husband, a family, and a home behind her. The aggressive personality of Dorcas was something new.

"I don't want to have aught to do with you," said Rhoda.

"Nor I with you," answered the other. "But we've all got to do a lot of things we don't like in this world--you and me among the rest."

"Speak then," said the elder. She had not stood face to face with her sister for some years, and now she marked that Dorcas looked better far than of old. She had filled into neat matronly lines; her eyes were stronger; her gift of ready words was still with her.

"'Tis this: I'm weary of the scandal between us. I'm looked up to and treated proper by other women, and 'tis a wonder to them all why you hold off as you do. I don't want your friendship, God knows, nor yet your good word; but civility I've a right to ask for, and 'tis a beastly, obstinate wickedness in you that refuses it. Here, but three days since, Madge comed in and said how hard she'd tried again to make you see different, but not a kindly thought to your own flesh and blood have you got. A minute agone, if you'd known 'twas my child you'd picked up, no doubt you'd have let the poor little toad drop again. And Madge says you won't make friends and be civil, even on the outside, out of respect to everybody; and I'll ask you why and thank you to tell me."

Rhoda lacked the usual armoury of women. Her mind moved slowly; her words did the like. She made no instant answer, but looked down into the angry eyes of Mrs. Screech and noticed her hands were wet and puffy.

"'Tis washing-day with you, I see," she said in a mechanical voice. Why she made this remark she had not the least idea. It was certainly not meant as an offence; but Dorcas held such irrelevance as rude.

"Never mind whether 'tis my washing-day or not. Please to answer me and give me a reason for what you'm doing year after year. I suppose you think 'tis terrible fine to stick your vartuous nose up in the air, and pretend you'm a holy saint and not a common woman. Terrible fine, no doubt--and terrible foolish--like many other terrible fine things be. Don't you judge your betters so free, and sneer at every woman who does her first duty in the world and helps the world along; but look at home a bit and see what a nasty-minded, foul-thinking creature you be, without enough charity to keep your brains sweet. You was very fond of bally-ragging me in the old days, when I was a stupid girl and didn't know what I was born for; but you shan't come it over me no more, and I warn you not to try."

Her voice was shrill, and Rhoda, listening to the sound, perceived another whom marriage had made a shrew.

"What's the use of this noise?" she asked coldly. "You can't make me have aught to do with you or your children, and I refuse to do it. 'Tis playing with the past to ask the reason. You know the reason. I never would speak, and never will speak to any woman who does what you did. I'm jealous for women, and the like of you, that makes them a scorn and a laughing-stock, should be cast out by all right-minded females. Then such things as you did wouldn't be done no more."

"No! If the women were like you, there'd mighty soon be no more women--nor men neither--a poor, unfinished thing--like a frost-bitten carrot--good for nought. You to talk to me out of your empty life! You to say I'm not fit company for people--me as be bringing brave boys and girls into the world, while you look after puppies and lambs! Why, damn you, you be no more than a useless lump of flesh, as might so well be underground as here! You--out of your empty, silly life--to talk to me in my full, busy days! I spit at you; and if you think to punish me, then I'll punish you too. I can bite so well as bark; and if you ban't on your knees pretty soon, I'll have you and David by the ears--then we'll see what becomes of you!"

Mrs. Screech suggested a woman suffering under too much alcohol. But she was merely drunk with anger. Her sister's calm attitude and patient indifference to this attack did not help to soothe her. Rhoda looked at the sun, and Dorcas knew that she was judging the time of day.

"You'll call for the hours to move a bit faster afore long," she said. "Don't you think you can insult me and my husband, year 'pon year like this, and not smart for it. We know very well how to hit back, and if it hadn't been for a better woman than you, I'd have done it a long time ago. I don't forget how you boxed my ears once, because I knowed how to love a man. You'd have better axed me what the secret was and begged to know it. But you think you've got no use for a man; and they've got no use for you and never will have--as you'll live to find out. And I'll sting you to the quick now--now--this instant moment, if you don't say you'm sorry for the past and promise on your honour to treat me and mine decent in future. I warn you to mind afore you speak."

A malignant light shone over the face of Dorcas. She set her teeth and panted at her own great wrongs, while she waited for the other to speak.

"You can't hurt me," said Rhoda, "and you know it."

"Can't I? We'll see then! God defend the world from white virgins like you--that's what I say. A holy terror you are; and we're all to be brought up for judgment, I suppose--to have our heads chopped off, because we dare to be made of flesh and blood instead of dead earth. Pure and clean--is it? What you call pure. All the same, the likes of you does things, and thinks things, us married women would blush to do and think."

"If that's all you want to say, I'll thank you to get out of my road," answered the other.

"'Tisn't all, as it happens. I'm going to talk of Bartley Crocker now, and then you can take away something to think about yourself, you frozen wretch! I suppose, in your pride, you fancy he's after you all these days, and comes because he wants to marry you--wants to marry a lump of granite! 'Tisn't you he thinks about, or cares about, or ever will; 'tis one whose shoes you ban't worthy to black--or David either. Between you she'd be like to die of starvation, I reckon; and who shall blame her if she does take her hungry heart to somebody, else? You and him--good God! 'tis like living between two ice images--enough to kill the nature in any creature higher than a dog. And she knows it, and a good few more--Bartley Crocker among the number--knows it. Belike Madge grows tired of being moss to his stone, and working her fingers raw for such as you and her husband. And even your precious David ban't the only man in the world. And so a decent chap like Bartley comes along, an old friend that knows a little about girls and what they feel like, and knows they be different from sheep and heifers. Hear that! 'Tis not for you the man seeks your house. He uses your name like a blind. He laughs at you and your airs and graces. He's got no use for you and never will have. They meet here and there and everywhere--and why not? 'Fallen woman' be the word for me, I suppose. 'Tis you be the fallen woman; and to call you woman is too good for you! You never was a woman; but Madge is, and I hope to God you'll wake one day to find she've had pluck and sense enough to leave you and David and run for it with a better man. You may stare your owl's eyes out of your head. But you've got it now, and you've earned it."

Dorcas stopped, panting from her tirade, and passed her sister and disappeared without more speech. Rhoda, left alone, stood quite still for a little while; then she proceeded on her business. Not a shadow of anger clouded her mind, only dreadful dismay at the things she had heard. She was not galled for herself; she did not wince at the foul torrent loosed upon her. It passed over her harmlessly. But her thoughts busied themselves entirely with David. That Dorcas should thus have supported her own fears, and driven home her own cloudy suspicions and terrors, struck Rhoda dumb. Here was the thing that she had hidden and suffered to gnaw her breast without a sign, now shouted on the loud, vulgar tongue of the world, as represented by Dorcas. Here was the secret that she had suspected, and searched out in fear and trembling, blurted coarsely for any ear.

A period of increased happiness had recently passed over 'Meavy Cot,' and Madge, who appeared to hide her emotions no more than a bird, went singing and cheerful through it. Then matters drifted into the old ways. Now much of hope deferred was upon David's mind and some abstraction and silence clouded the home again, for the Tavistock appointment remained still a matter of uncertainty. But the circumstance chiefly in Rhoda's thoughts at this moment was the attitude of her brother to Bartley Crocker.

Their relations had grown more and more friendly of late. Crocker often came uninvited to 'Meavy Cot,' and David always appeared well pleased to see him. When the younger was not by, her brother often spoke of him, and both he and Margaret endeavoured to make Rhoda share their high opinion. From Madge she had always turned impatiently away; but to David she had listened and not seldom wondered that he and she--who found themselves thinking alike in most questions of life and character--should differ so widely upon the subject of this man. The reason was now easy to discover: she knew the truth and her brother did not. Her judgment was confirmed. Then, upon this appalling conclusion, came doubt and deepest perplexity. Why should such a woman as Dorcas be right? Her evil heart might have invented the whole story with no purpose but to torture and torment. Rhoda had next reluctantly to consider Crocker himself and his bearing when they met.

If he was acting a lie, he was acting it well. He had made it clear half a hundred times, though without offering another formal proposal, that he would be rejoiced and thankful above measure if she threw in her lot with him, and married him, and accompanied him to Canada. She asked herself what would happen if she accepted him. Her thoughts grew more and more difficult. She reached the lowest depth of discomfort that life had shown her.

CHAPTER VIII

UNDER THE TREES

There is a lonely wood where Meavy hides upon her way and whence her waters cry like siren voices from copse and thicket and the darkness under great trees. Hither she passes, amid mossy stones and through secret places curtained by green things. At the feet of Lether Tor there rise forests of oak and beech; and here, by day and night, through all times and seasons, two songs are mingling. The melodies change as the singers do; but they never cease. In summer the shrunken river tinkles to the murmur of the leafy canopy above it, and her voices ascend fitfully to meet the whisper of the leaf and the sigh of the larch; in winter the legions of the branch have vanished and naked woodland and swollen stream make wilder music. Then the trees lend their lyres to the north wind, and the rocks beneath utter strange cries that combine their choral measures with fierce throbbing of the forest harps above. The foliage fallen, Lether Tor's grey castles and jagged slopes are visible, lifted against the west and seen through a lattice of innumerable boughs. Behind this mountain sinks the sun, now in an orange-tawny aureole above the purple, and now wrapped with sullen, lifeless cloud; now upon the clearness of summer twilights, and now through the flaming arms of a red mist.

To-day, in August, this haunt of Meavy was a nest of light and cool shadows dappled together, a tent of leaves--dark overhead, where the sky filled the fretwork of the tree-tops, and alive at the forest edge with a glory of gold, where sunshine poured through loops and ragged, feathered fringes of translucent foliage. The leaves formed a commonwealth of song and gladness and harmonious concessions. Each integral of the arboreal courts advanced the same beauty, lifted to the same zephyr, glittered to the same sun and moon, drank life from the same dew, trembled to the same threat of autumn and of death. Beneath, through rifts in the bosom of the wood, the blue-green brake-fern shone and panted out her fragrance on the hillside. A colour contrast very vivid was thus offered through the frames of the forest; and beyond this region of rock-strewn fern there spread a haze of light and darkness--of indigo and silver blended about the shaggy knees of Lether Tor where it lifted to the sky.

Through the midst of the dingle under shadows, yet with her breast bared to those amber shafts of sunshine that fell upon it, came Meavy, with many a curl and turn and leisurely dawdling in deep pool. Fern fronds, fingered with light, bent over the face of the water; fresh-coloured flowers of agrimony rose above; flash of golden-rod and the seeding spires of foxgloves mingled there; while a ripple of filched fire from the sun-shaft broke the glass of each smooth pool, and heaven's blue was also reflected from many a rift in the veil of the leaves. Bramble and woodrush spanned the stream and nodded, linked together with a spider's trembling web; by broken, subterranean channels the river held her way; light, sobered into half light where moss sponges soaked crystal water and golden sunshine together, penetrated through the heaviest shade; darkness only dwelt in the deepest rifts and crannies and upon the black, submerged vegetation of the rocks. Out of these mysteries arose new songs and whispers, where the stream slid stealthily forth from her secret places and the hidden homes of unseen things that she also blessed and forgot not. Here the sun stars, catching upon her convex ripples, were reflected and thrown upward, to dance and flash unexpected brightness into gloom, or set wonderful radiance upon the under-face of leaves.

Life, in shape of bird and beast and fish, prospered here; and glittering insects--ichneumons, that hung motionless like golden beads in some beam of light; butterflies, that came and went; and long-legged spiders and great ants--likewise justified themselves. The trees were garlanded with ivy, polypody, and many mosses, that hung in festoons and fell even to the dim, moist river-ways, where shy flowers blossomed in shade, and the filmy fern spread its small loveliness upon the stone.

Here, at the hour near summer twilight, when life ranges at full stress and passion before rest, one may see, in the low red light that pierces to each inviolate place, some vision of the shepherd god aglowing; and through the wail of insects, under the melody of ripple and frond, there steals sweet warbling of the syrinx at Pan's own puckered lips. Music full of the unfulfilled he plays--music fraught with world sorrow and world joy. Now it is mellow as the dying day, now tender and triumphant as the dawn; but it is never satisfied; it is never satisfying; because it whispers of precious things felt but not known; it hungers after the ultimate mystery; it thirsts for the secrets behind the sunset.

At one spot in this wood a young beech leapt from a rock, and the earth cushion which supported it hung over the river. A little precipice fell beneath to water's edge, and the whole force of Meavy struck here and leapt on again, crested with light. It was a human haunt and suited well a soul who went between sadness and fitful happiness, who declared herself reconciled and contented, yet knew that it was not so. Hither Margaret often came and found a temple of peace. She brought sorrow and doubt here; and sometimes the glen lifted it; and sometimes she departed again not happier than she came.

To-day she sat with her back to the beech; and two others shared these precincts with her. One reclined at her feet; the other watched unseen.

Prospects of important employment kept David Bowden much from home at this season. The matter was now as good as accomplished and it appeared certain that, with the new year, he would leave Dartmoor and enter the service of a cattle-breeder at Tavistock. Such a position opened possibilities far better than the man could have expected at his present work. With mingled feelings Margaret contemplated the change; and she met with Crocker on two or three occasions at this period during her husband's prolonged absence. She made no secret of these appointments, yet it came about that one most vitally interested did not always hear of them; because Rhoda had of late lapsed into a very saturnine vein and eschewed converse with her sister-in-law. Madge, therefore, judging that her affairs were of no consequence or interest to Rhoda, kept them to herself. They were at 'Meavy Cot' alone together and, in all kindness, the wife had proposed that Rhoda should take this opportunity of David's absence and herself visit Ditsworthy for a day or two. Mrs. Bowden had expressed a desire to this effect and the opportunity seemed good. But Rhoda curtly refused. Her dogs might be trusty guardians for the hearth and home of 'Meavy Cot'; but they could not guard the mistress of it or protect her from herself.

The elder woman stopped therefore, and, the more suspicious for this invitation to depart, watched in secret.

She was watching now, while Margaret and Bartley, under the beech, sat close together and talked like kind-hearted children about the welfare of another person. He had great information for her and promised to lift a sustained cloud of darkness from her mind.

"What'll you give me for the best piece of news you've heard this year?" he asked; and she replied that she had nothing in the world to give anybody but good-will.

"If I could give you Rhoda, I would," she said; "but nobody can give her to you save herself."

"I've made a great discovery--or so good as made it," he answered. "'Twas out of Tim Mattacott of all people that I got a clue. Him and Maunder are well-meaning, harmless men, and in the bar--at Shillabeer's--three days ago--I heard them talking together. They were at my elbow and I couldn't help listening to a few words. After that I didn't blame myself for listening to a few more. It's all about your brother Bart and Jane West, and your mother."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Why, there's been a plot, and I'm after the ringleader. I may or may not find him, but one thing is clear, and that's all that matters. Somebody--not Mattacott himself but a friend of his--has tried to help him to get Jane West away from Bart."

"It looks as if they had succeeded too," said Margaret; "for Bart tells me the girl won't say 'yes' and won't say 'no.'"

"There it is! 'Twas a deep idea to stop her once and for all. How, d'you think? By letting her hear the Voice of Crazywell call out Bart's name! 'Twas planned very clever that she and Bart should actually hear it on Christmas Eve; and they would have done so, but for the fog that kept 'em to the road. Instead, as luck would have it, your mother of all people, hears the Voice. And now, as far as I can gather, those in the secret--or some of them--hearing how she's taking on, begin to be a bit uneasy--as well they may."

"Oh, Bartley!"

"'Tis true; but we must go to work witty and catch the sinner himself. 'Sinner' I call him, yet that's too strong a word belike. All that really matters is for you to tell your mother 'twas nonsense, and that a man lay hid by the pool, and that 'twas never meant to fret her to fiddle-strings about it."

Margaret jumped to her feet.

"Sit down," he said. "Can't let you off like this before I've been here two minutes. We'll go up over to Coombeshead together presently. Must talk a bit first. An hour more or less won't make no difference to your mother."

She sat by him and put her hand on his arm. Then she bent and kissed his hand impulsively.

"You've paid me after all!" he laughed.

"I'd give you your heart's desire and the keys of heaven, if I could," she answered. "This is the best fortune that's come to me for many, many a long day; and I bless you for bringing it."

"Thought you'd be pleased. But tell 'em to say nought yet. I'm putting my mind into it, for I've got nothing to do now but twiddle my thumbs and wait till I can decently go to her--Rhoda--for the third and last time of asking. I doubt 'tis a vain thing, though. She likes me less and less, I believe."

"I hope not; but this I know: she likes me less and less."

"You!"

"Yes--for reasons I can't fathom. Either that, or she've got some deep matter on her mind that keeps her more than common silent. With David away the nights be cruel. Sometimes 'tis all I can do to help crying out and begging her, for pity, to open her mouth. I get off to bed so soon as I can; and so like as not, when I'm gone up, she'll go abroad again and keep out, Lord knows where, till long after midnight."

"I don't call it respectable," said Bartley, shaking his head with pretence of disapproval. "I really don't, Madge. I wish I could meet her on one of these moony walks. Perhaps she'd listen to reason then--if she didn't set her pack of dogs on me!"

"'Tis hard to live so close to a fellow-creature and understand her so little."

"I understand her well enough--if she'd only believe it," he said.

For a moment they lapsed into silence. Then he plucked a long grass-blade and began to tickle her ear. She shook her head and laughed. A bright thought came to her mind.

"I heard by letter from David this morning. The matter's settled. He'll be bailiff of the great breeding farm--everything under him--the actual head man under the master. I feel very proud about it, for it shows how high the people rate him."

"And well they may. You could trust him with the Bank of England. Never was such a dead straight, lofty-minded man in the world before."

"I like you to praise him. He thinks such a lot of you. He's even been at Rhoda about you too."

"What will she do if you go to Tavistock? I reckon 'tis the thought of that more than me, or anything else, is making her down on her luck."

"I was hopeful 'twould perhaps turn her more to you. She could never live in Tavistock."

"No," he said, "that's a certainty. She wants more room than a town can give her. You're right, Madge: this must make her think a bit more of me. Canada, or here, or the North Pole--'tis all one to me if she'll come. And if she says 'no' again, then I'm off alone--to the Dominion. Why I'm drawn that way I hardly know. But I am."

"Third time's lucky. How I hope it will be!"

"If she cared for me, even half as much as you do, I'd win her."

"If she knew what a rare good chap you are, you'd win her, or any woman."

"You're always too easy with me," he said. "Lucky you didn't marry me: you would have spoilt me utterly--not that there was much to spoil. Yet I daresay we should have jogged along very comfortable."

"Who knows? Perhaps none too well, Bartley."

"Perhaps not. We're too much alike," he declared.

"In many things we are."

"But the weak help the weak. You'll see a pair of bryony stems twirl round each other, and so do far better and go farther than ever they could single-handed."

"'Twould be the blind leading the blind--you and me together. The oak's more good to the ivy than anything soft like itself."

"Pity I haven't a bit of David's iron in me," he confessed.

"It is," she admitted. "A pity I haven't too."

"And a pity he haven't got a bit of my--"

She nodded strong assent.

"That's pity too," she said. "That's what I've wished many and many a time--just like a silly creature to wish what can't be. 'Tis worse than a child crying for the moon to want a man's nature changed."

"Yet half the people spend their time wanting the other half to change," he told her.

Again there was a pause and then he spoke.

"So long as it's well with you, I don't care."

"Well enough--if I could see it," she said.

"If you could see it!"

"I mean if I could feel it."

"If you don't feel it, then 'tisn't well."

"It can't be well because we've got no family. 'Tis a grievance--and a just grievance. But yet 'tis well with me none the less, Bartley. The real way to be happy is never to look at home too much. Perhaps, better still, never to look at home at all. By 'home' I mean a person's own heart. Keep out of that and always be busy for other people. Then you haven't time to be miserable."

He shook his head.

"We've all got time for that; there's always the night," he answered. "Nature gives us the night time for sleep, and life takes a big slice out of it for trouble."

"I ought to understand him by now. But 'tis the ups and downs I never can get used to," she explained. "My dear man will be a husband in a thousand now and again, and I'll thank God in my prayers and say to myself as he understands my poor feeble nature at last, and that we never shan't see a cloud again; then he's off and hidden away behind himself for months at a time, and I can't win a smile from him or hardly a good word."

"He's so ambitious."

"No doubt 'tis that. 'Twas Rhoda herself got him into his good way last time; and a right glad week we had of it. Then there came all this over his mind. Somehow he can't bring himself to ask my advice over anything bigger than his own clothes. He lets me choose them, bless him. That's something."

"And jolly smart he always looks. But mind this, Madge, you talk of ups and downs. That's no hardship--'tis the natural, healthy state, like the ebb of the river in summer drought and the seasons coming round one after the other. You can't have ups without downs, and if you want one you must brave the other."

"I don't want neither," she said. "I'd sooner far we kept at a steady jog-trot and got closer to each other every year we lived, and saw with the same eyes, and felt with one heart."

"Things balance out pretty fair. That sort be comfortable, but 'tis terrible tame work. If you don't fall out, you never make it up, and my experience of females is that almost the best part of the fun with 'em is making it up. They like it as much as we do too."

"Marriage is different."

"Nought keeps the air of marriage sweeter than a good healthy breeze now and again."

"You talk as one outside. You know nothing at all about it!"

"I'll kiss you in a minute--and not on the hand neither!" he laughed. "And 'twill be for punishment, not payment, if you can say such hard things to me. No, I'm not married, worse luck; but you oughtn't to throw it in my face like that, for 'tis no fault of mine, I'm sure."

"I'd be happier than any woman ever was on Dartmoor, I do think, if she'd take you."

"You've done all you could--so's David. But there's no more in your power. If I can't rise to the skill to win her, then so much the worse for me."

"Come and do a kind thing," she said suddenly. "Come and explain to my dear mother this wonder you've found out. Nobody but you ever would have been so clever as to do it."

"And may I come home and have supper with you and Rhoda afterwards as a reward?"

"And welcome," she answered.

"There's a moon and everything. I wish to God she'd let me go out walking in the dark with her afterwards."

"Perhaps she might. She took walks with Mr. Snell."

"Not by moonlight? No--no, 'tis all waste of time and hope and sense. But, good Lord! if she's so frosty under the summer sun, what must she be in moonlight? Freezing cold enough to make a man's heart stand still!"

"Perhaps 'tis all the other way and the dark hours soften her," suggested Margaret.

They rose and she brushed his back, which was covered with scraps of leaf and moss.

Presently they moved away together towards Coombeshead; and then from her lair in a brake fifty yards distant, Rhoda departed to return home. Their speech had been entirely hidden from her, but their actions were all observed; and their actions, unlit by the spirit that informed them, left her soul dark.

Mr. Crocker, on second thoughts, decided that he would not sup at 'Meavy Cot' until David came back, and Madge went her way alone after bringing large comfort and peace to Mrs. Stanbury. She was full of the incident when she came back to Rhoda, and gave her silent and sceptical listener the true account of the meeting by Meavy.

CHAPTER IX

DARKNESS AT 'THE CORNER HOUSE'

As time advanced even the least observant took note of an increasing gloom that hung over Reuben Shillabeer. It fluctuated but set steadily in upon him. He grew more silent and more fanatical where matters of religion formed the topic. He talked of giving up 'The Corner House.' He declared that had it been in his power, he would long since have emulated the bold Bendigo and preached to his fellow men.

"I can't do that, along of having no flow of words," said Mr. Shillabeer moodily. "Speech in the pulpit manner have been denied to me. All the same, I may have done more for the Lord than any of you men know about."

He addressed a Saturday night bar and reduced most of those who listened to an embarrassed silence.

"'Tis things like that we don't expect and have a right to object to in a public house," declared Mr. Screech afterwards. "We come here for peace and quietness and a pint. At this rate 'the Dumpling' will very soon want to end the evening with a prayer meeting; and I for one shall be very glad when he goes and us get a cheerfuller pattern of publican there."

Many were of Billy's mind. Two potmen in succession left 'The Corner House' owing to the depressed atmosphere of that establishment; the regular guests held serious meetings to discuss the situation. Some were for strong measures; others held the evil must soon cure itself.

"Either the poor soul will go melancholy mad and have to be taken from among us--and 'twill ask for half a dozen strong men to do it--or else the cloud will pass off," explained Mr. Moses. "Be it as 'twill, we can't go on like this. I advise that we wait till the turn of the year; and then, if nothing happens, we'll make a regular orderly deputation, with me and Mr. Bowden as ringleaders, and wait upon Sir Guy Flamank and explain to him that 'The Corner House' under Shillabeer isn't what it should be."

"'Twould be better far," Ernest Maunder had said, "if the man would be as good as his word and retire. If we can urge him without unkindness to do so, he might get calmer and easier in his mind in private life."

"Not him," prophesied Screech. "Take the life and company and stir of the bar from him, and he'd become a drivelling old mump-head in six months. As 'tis he may be seen half a dozen times in a week sitting on his wife's grave, when he ought to be to work in his house."

"Mr. Merle have said the same," admitted Charles Moses. "To me the man said it. 'I don't like to have poor Shillabeer in the churchyard so often,' was his word. 'Tisn't seemly for the people to observe him with his hand over his face and his hat off beside him sitting there. To display his grief in this manner, after nearly fifteen years, is not true to nature, and I feel very alarmed about it.' That was what his reverence said to me; and I answered that he echoed my very thought."

"The man wants to be lifted to more wholesome ideas," declared Mr. Maunder. "Nobody can say of me that I'm against the Bible; but there's times and seasons--a time for everything and everything in its time--as the Book says itself, I believe; but he thrusts Scripture into conversation and peppers talk with texts till free speech be smothered. He ought to go--to say it without feeling."

And meantime the anti-social instinct in Shillabeer, filtering by secret ways through the old man's brain, took another turn and led him upon a road none had foreseen. Vaguely at first he glimpsed it, and on his declining years a dark short cut to peace suddenly yawned.

The first glimpse of this haunting evil that now crept upon the old prize-fighter was revealed to a woman; and on the occasion Mr. Shillabeer not only shocked her with a thought, but astonished her by a confession.

First, however, there came dark words between them, as happens at the meeting of unhappy and restless spirits. Then Margaret Bowden, for it was she, learnt the man's simple secret. It argued some unexpected cunning in him that he could have pursued his purpose and also hidden it; and the circumstance taken in conjunction with the present theme, made her fear for his sanity. Not the subject so much startled her as its existence in this particular man's brain. She listened, was surprised to find how reasonable his arguments seemed, yet strove with all her wits to refute them.

One day on his way back from Princetown Mr. Shillabeer noted the smoke rising from 'Meavy Cot' under Black Tor. He had never seen David Bowden's home and the opportunity was a good one. He left the main road, therefore, and soon reached the house. David happened to be away, and Rhoda was also out. But Margaret made the visitor welcome, hastened the hour of tea-drinking, and insisted that he should stop for it.

"As nice a house as one might wish for," he said. "And I'd like to say that I'm among them that wish all joy and good fortune and good luck to your husband. He's one of the fortunate ones, and well he deserves to be. I suppose it won't be long now afore he takes up the new work?"

"We go after the winter," she answered.

"A position of great trust. 'Tis wonderful to me to think that when I first come to Sheepstor he was a little fellow in a lamb's-wool coat, as wanted his mother's hand to help him over the rough ground. And I've lived to see him rise into manhood, and show his valour in the ring, and take a wife, and now stand up among leading people and rise to be the right hand of one of the richest personages in the county."

"Very wonderful, as you say. Yet not wonderful neither. 'Tis David that is wonderful--not the things as happen to him. Given such a man, he was bound to get up top."

"True," declared Mr. Shillabeer, passing his cup to be refilled; "the very same thought often came in my mind when my wife was alive. She was the wonder, and I was sure to be lucky and fortunate when I married her. But death's stronger than the most wonderful life that ever was lived. She went and took her luck with her; and her gone, I sank again to be a common man. And when you feel puffed up, Margaret, always remember that death lies behind every hedge and makes ready the gun trigger for this man, the flood for that; the weak lynch-pin here, and the mad dog there. Another thing as you may have noticed; 'tis always the usefulest be picked off. Heaven's terrible jealous of a real valuable man. It ain't got no need of the rogues and wastrels no more than we have; but if a male or female be doing for the Lord with both hands, so often as not the Lord says, 'That's the very man or woman I want for such and such a bit of real high work.' And they'm cut down like the grass of the field."

"Yes," she said. "The Lord harvests His own way, Mr. Shillabeer; and because a beautiful, useful life goes, ban't for us to mourn, but to say 'twas needed for higher things."

"And another point I'd have you to know," he added. "I ban't at all sure if the right of private judgment be withheld either. Parson will tell you, and most people will also tell you, that 'tis a very bad come-along-of-it for a human creature to say 'I ban't wanted no more and so I'll be off;' but I won't go so far as that myself. I've tried to look at this matter with the eyes of God A'mighty, and I've done it."

She stared at him.

"You'm surprised," he said; "but listen to me. I'm a man of many troubles and griefs, and I hope you'll never see half a quarter the sorrows I have. Still as the sparks fly upwards, so you'll have your share and know what it is to suffer."

"Yes, for certain."

"But don't you ever suppose that we're put here for nought but suffering and nought but happiness. I tell you, Margaret, that suffering and happiness be both beside the great question."

"We're put here for usefulness," she said, and he eagerly agreed with her.

"The very word! Trouble or joy be an accident--always a matter of chance. You can see it everywhere. There's wise and sensible people wading through nought but trouble and opening their eyes on it at every sun up; and there's born fools sailing along in nought but fine weather; and so you get men like me full of doubt and darkness, because we can't trust our own wisdom; and fools such as--but I won't name no names--thinking themselves terrible clever and giving themselves terrible airs because they suppose their good be a matter of their own making, instead of simple kind fortune."

"I suppose things come out pretty fair all round in the long run," she said. "If you've got money, you miss childer; if you've got love you miss luck; if you've got health--"

"As to health, nought matters less than that," declared Mr. Shillabeer.

"You speak as one who never had an ache or pain," she said.

"Bah!" he answered, "this carcase be less to me than the bones the crows have plucked beside the way. I've reached a high pitch of mind now when I could drive a red-hot needle through the calf of my leg and care nought for the pang. D'you think these things matter to a man who have been hammered into a heap of bruised, senseless flesh four different times in his life like what I have? 'Tis the inner pain that hurts me, and if I was canker-bitten and racked with every human ill, I'd laugh at it all, if only my wife had been spared to sit beside me and hold my hand. Things ban't fairly planned here. You say they are, but it isn't so. I know 'tis a common speech on easy tongues, but it won't stand the test of workaday life. Happy people may say it to calm their consciences if they be having an extra good life, but 'tisn't true, and never was true. Things ban't fair all round--nothing like it."

"No, they're not," she confessed. "'Tis just a foolish parrot speech. I know they're not fair as well as you do really."

"Then I go on to my argeyment," said Reuben. "Granted the Lord, for His own secret ends, ban't concerned to play fair with us, then, being a just God, He must let us right the balance and use our own judgment where we have the power. If even you--with all your big share of good luck--allow on second thoughts that things don't fall fair, how much more must the most of people feel it so?"

"My luck--" she began, and stopped, but her tone indicated she was about to demur, and he invited her to do so.

"There again," he said, "we can only speak what we see, but what we see ban't always the truth. The outside ban't a glass pane to show the inside, but more often a clever door to hide it. I say in my haste how that none ever had more luck to her share than you. Well, I've no right to say that. Perhaps I'm wrong."

"In a way, yes. David, you must know, is a great man now, and 'tisn't the least of a loving woman's hardships to see her husband growing great and herself biding little."

"Good Lord! what a silly point of view!" said he. "Ban't you bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh? How the deuce can the man grow great and leave you behind?"

"I can't explain," she said. "But 'tis so--off and on. Sometimes he catches sight of me in his life, if you understand, and remembers me, and we have precious days. Then again he loses sight of me for a bit. I tell you these things, because you be such a big-hearted, understanding man, Mr. Shillabeer."

"I am," he said. "'Tis my sole vartue to be so. But my usefulness is nearly over. So we come back to that usefulness we started with."

"Your usefulness ban't ended, I'm very sure."

"'Tis only ourselves know about that. A thinking creature, unless he's growing old and weak in the head, knows very well when his usefulness be coming to an end. Old I may be growing, but my mind is clear enough, and it tells me that my work's pretty nearly done. Think if 'twas you, Margaret, and them you loved best was in heaven, and there come into your mind the certainty that there was nought to keep you an hour from them--what would you do?"

"Wait the Lord's time."

"What happens must be in the Lord's time, and can't fall out in any other time. But if the thought comes into your heart to join the dead, ban't it the Lord as sent the thoughts; and if you do join 'em, can it be done without the Lord's wish and will?"

"Of course nothing can happen without the Lord permits, because He's all-powerful and wills nought but good."

"That's all I want for you to see. And it follows--don't it?--that if the still small voice tells me I may go home, the way be clear?"

"Go home!"

"To the home that's waiting where my woman be. I'm home-sick for it--terrible home-sick. And the thought have come very strong of late that there's nothing left to bide for. And a simple thing--such a simple thing! 'Tis merely putting something between you and the air of heaven for a brief minute--a drop of water, or a rope round your throat. Or, if your nature goes against that way, you can let the immortal soul out through a hole--"

His great eyes stared into vacancy, and she gazed with horrified interest at him.

"To kill yourself! Oh, dear Mr. Shillabeer, what are you saying?"

"You may call it killing," he said, "but I don't. I call it opening the half-hatch of the door and going home. They say self-slaughterers be mad mostly--at least, so 'tis brought in most times by a crowner's jury of busy men--men as don't care a button about the job, but want to get back to their work. But I tell you 'tis no mark of weak intellects to do it. A cowardly deed it may be sometimes, but a coward isn't daft as a rule. And now and then 'tis the bravest thing a man can do, and now and then the wisest."

"Never--never!"

"You wait till you've seen life move into the middle time, or lost what's better than life. Keep your own opinions, but don't grow narrow, and don't tell me that the still small voice ever whispered a lie to a Christian man. Usefulness ended, 'tis our place to seek a new bit of ground again where we can be useful anew; and if this world have done with us, who's to say the next won't be very glad of a new workman?"

"But not to go like that, surely?"

"I tell you the Lord's over all," he answered again solemnly. "The Lord chooses the fly for the fish, and hedge-sparrow for the hawk, and the mouse for the owl. The Lord comes to me by night, and He says, 'Shillabeer,' and I say, 'I be listening, Lord.'"

Margaret shivered, yet felt no fear of him.

"And then," he continued, "the Lord says 'They've done with you, Shillabeer; they want a cheerfuller, hopefuller pattern of man;' and I say, ''Tis so, Lord; I read it in their faces.'"

He broke off suddenly and spoke of other things.

"D'you mind when holy words sprang up on the gates and lintels round about--like corn springs after rain? 'Twas my work! You're the first to know it, and I must ax of you to keep it dark 'till I'm gone to my reward. But 'twas my thought and deed. By night I'd do it; and of lonely grey evenings; and often afore the sun was up. I've walked with God, woman!"

"And much good those texts in the lone places did. I know they warmed my heart more than once, Mr. Shillabeer."

"Yes, they did a power of good. I could see that."

"To think you was never found out!"

"The Lord hid me. 'Twas His idea, not mine. Every idea be the Lord's first; and the cleverest things we can do be planned out by Him and then slipped into a man's intellects, like we post a letter or whisper into a ear."

"But the wicked thoughts?"

"Good men don't get 'em. Proper-thinking people don't let 'em in. Be the God of Hosts going to suffer a humble, faithful servant like me to be pestered with Satan's nonsense at my time of life? Would that be a fair thing? If a man ban't done with the Devil when he's in sight of seventy, 'tis a bad lookout for him. And God's nearly always been a fair sportsman, you mind."

"Somebody far wiser and cleverer than me ought to hear about this," she declared. "I do think and believe you're terribly wrong."

He shook his great head impatiently.

"No, no. I'm in the right. I met Mr. Merle in the churchyard, when I was sitting beside my wife's bones a bit ago, and he walked over and had a tell with me; and I axed him if our inner thoughts come from God--just to see what he'd say. He answered that every good and perfect thought comed from the Father of Gifts. So there you are. What is it--this thing driving me to be gone? Why, 'tis the voice of Heaven calling me--just like you yourself might call the cows home off the moor at milking time."

"You make a terrible mistake."

He held up his hand.

"Say not a word, my dear. 'Tis no better than speaking against the Master of all flesh to tell me I've heard wrong. My wife's in Heaven. I've got her that loved me best among the angels at the Throne of Grace. Belike she's just fretting her spirit with cruel impatience because I hang fire. You might think, perhaps, that there wasn't no great haste, eternity being what it is. But if you loved your husband like my wife loved me, you'd know eternity's self was none too long for us to be together again. There's only one little thing that makes me hang back."

"'Tis the Word of God."

"Not a bit. 'Tis the way of man. I'm very doubtful of parson Merle--not as a righteous creature before Heaven; but he's human, and he's a terrible narrow thinker here and there. If I take myself off, 'tis so like as not he'll get some bee in his bonnet and withhold the burial service or maim it over me, like he did when Pritchard hung himself. Not that that would trouble me very greatly; but supposing that he wouldn't let my bones go beside hers? Such a thing happening would turn me into a wandering ghost till Doom without a doubt."

"Don't give him the chance. Think a very great deal about it," she urged. "You may be all wrong in your opinions, dear Mr. Shillabeer, and right well I know you are. Perhaps, if you was to pray about it to Christ, He'd show you how awful mistaken you was. And as for usefulness, there's no more useful and well thought on man among us."

"I've done my duty, and my duty's done," he said.

"Promise me not to do anything till you've talked to me again," she urged. "At least you might do that. I knew your wife, and she loved me."

"Yes, my wife was very fond of you when you was a child," he said. "I'll do your bidding that far then. You speak what be put into you to speak, no doubt. Now I look at you, there's sense as well as sadness in your face. I hope the sense will bide and the sadness lift in God's good time."

The old man departed, and that night Margaret told David of all that she had heard and the condition of Reuben Shillabeer's mind. He took the matter very seriously and resolved to be busy on the sufferer's behalf.

"I can ill spare the time," he said. "But for a neighbour in such a fix our own affairs must be put aside. I'll go to doctor at Tavistock to-morrow the first thing. He's a rare sportsman and a very keen man. 'Twas him that stood referee in the fight. 'Tis time he took the poor old chap in hand; and Shillabeer's got high respect for him and will trust him I hope, if he goes about his work clever."

David was not surprised to hear the secret of the texts.

"As a matter of fact amongst a few of us--my father and me and others--'twas an open secret," he said. "Father himself first guessed it. But we didn't say a word for fear of vexing poor old 'Dumpling.' 'Twas a harmless thing, and very likely it did good now and again."

CHAPTER X

THIRD TIME OF ASKING

The circumstances and necessities of Bartley Crocker's wooing were peculiar, because one-sided. Rhoda naturally never assisted him; indeed, many carefully laid plans for meeting were consciously frustrated by her when she chanced to learn them. At last, however, thanks to Margaret's aid, opportunity fell for a final proposal, and Bartley used it to the best of his power. A day came when David drove Madge over to Tavistock to look at certain houses, and Rhoda stopped at home.

Her own plans began to be very doubtful now, and choice lay before her of returning to her father or continuing to live with David. Her love had made light even of Tavistock; but, in a town, Rhoda's occupation would be gone: at such a place she must cease to justify existence. Her greatest sorrow was reached at thought of living away from David; and a second emotion, only less disturbing, made decision doubly difficult. The apparent complications and secrets of her sister-in-law's life had first alarmed Rhoda, and now they angered her. She read the facts in the light of her own wisdom, and her wisdom led her wide of the mark. She believed that Crocker was using alleged love of her as a pretence and excuse for very different affection. Some such dim thought had long haunted her, and it remained for Dorcas and her brutal speeches to convince Rhoda that she did Margaret no wrong by the suspicion. In sober truth Rhoda had felt shame upon herself when first the fear arose; but then came her hidden watches, the spectacle of familiar meetings and the vigorous word of Mrs. Screech. She knew that Dorcas loved Madge and had not spoken to injure David's wife. Her sister, indeed, evidently approved; and the circumstance convinced Rhoda that her opinion of Dorcas was correct.

And now, upon restless loneliness, came Crocker knowing that he would find her alone. He sneered at himself for a fool as he knocked at the door of 'Meavy Cot'; but he had sworn to ask her thrice and would not go from his word, though the vanity of troubling her a third time was very clear to him.

After noon on a late autumn day did Bartley call, and Rhoda, not guessing who it was that knocked, but thinking it to be one of her brothers, who was due from Ditsworthy, cried out, "Come in!"

She was eating her dinner of a baked potato, bread, cold mutton, and a glass of water; and she leapt up as Mr. Crocker appeared.

"Go on," he said. "Please go on--or I'll walk about outside till you've finished, if you'd rather I did."

"I thought 'twas my brother," she said. "I've done my food. David's not at home, if you want him."

"I know," he answered. "I've come to see the only one who was at home; and that's yourself."

She stood by the table. Her mind moved swiftly. She sought to find some advantage in this meeting; but she could not think what to say. David was her sole thought, and how best to serve him she knew not.

"It's a long time since I had a chance to speak to you," said the visitor, "and I'm afraid, from your looks, you wouldn't have given me the chance even now if you hadn't been caught and cornered. But there's no need for you to grudge ten minutes of talk. 'Twill be the last time--unless there's a glimmer of another sort of feeling in you."

Her way of escape seemed to lie through this man's departure alone. She hated every tone of his voice and wished that he was dead.

"If you're going out of it, 'twill be by the blessing of God for all in this house," she answered.

He started and his colour changed to pale.

"A glimmer of another sort of feeling with a vengeance!" he said. "But not the sort I was still fond fool enough to hope for. You shall talk, since you're so fired to do it, and I'll listen. Yes, I'm going. And you won't come?"

Her silence spoke scornfully.

"Well," he continued, "I'm paid what I deserve, I suppose: I've made you loathe me instead of love me. It's bad luck, for I've felt for three years--however, such queer things often happen."

"You never loved a woman like a decent man, for 'tisn't in you to do it," she said. "You think you hide yourself; but you don't. You're evil all through, and the touch of you is evil."

"Why do you say these harsh things? What have I done but court you like an honest man and a patient one?"

"Ask yourself--not me. Ask yourself what you've been doing, and plotting, and amusing yourself about of late. Ask yourself who 'tis you meet in this place and that!"

"Well, I never! So you've been interested in me all the time! Interested enough to care what I was doing and thinking about. By all right understanding that ought to mean you cared a bit for me. Women don't spy on a man, save for love or hate. And hate me you can't without a cause, though you speak and look as if you did. If I thought you were jealous--but that's too good to be true. Who is it? Out with it.' At least I've a right to know who 'tis that I meet so secret while you peep at us."

He bantered her and cared little that she grew rosy and furious; for he knew it was all over now and that they would probably never speak together again.

"You ask that and pretend--and pretend!" she burst out. "As if it might be a score of women! But I know, and 'twasn't for love nor yet hate that I watched you--not for love of you or her anyway."

"Come now--no puzzles! Then I'm after another man's sweetheart on the quiet. Is that it? Well, who is she? I've a right to know in the face of such a charge."

"You're after another man's wife," she said, and faced him without flinching. But still he laughed.

"You maidens! What hen dragons of virtue you are, to be sure. 'Another man's wife'--eh? Then no wonder you look a thought awry at me. Poor fellow! He's terribly wronged, to be sure. Have you told him what I'm doing? Or are you in love with this other chap?"

"Go," she said furiously. "You know the truth in your wicked heart, and I know it, and it's devilish in you to take it like this. I'll suffer no more of you; I'll never breathe the same air with you no more;--and them I care about shan't, if I can help it. You ought to be torn in a thousand pieces by honest men and women--vile thing that you are!"

He sat down calmly and patted a dog that rose from the hearth and growled at him in some uneasiness before Rhoda's fury.

"Can't leave you like this--must understand what you're driving at," he declared.

"Then I'll go," she said. "What do you take me for? Have you sunk so low that you don't know a clean-minded creature when you meet one? I'm not a fool, and I am not blind; and I've seen too well what's been doing of late; therefore I warn you to be gone afore the storm is let loose on you."

"No fear of missing the storm while you're about. And off I shall be ere long now. There's nothing more to keep me, since you've gone out of your wits. All the same, I believe you've thrust yourself under the law for such talk as this. To tell me I'm going wrong with a married woman! Damn it all, Rhoda, what nasty thoughts have crept into your head? Why don't you name her and have done with it? 'Tis bad enough to know you hate me; but hear this: May the Almighty find and finish me where I sit if--"

"Don't!" she cried out. "Don't take His name here and belike leave your stricken dust rooted in that chair for me to watch till others come! I'll hear no oath and I'll name no names. I know you--I've seen it--I've heard it--heard it from another as quick to do evil as ever you was."

"By God, this is too bad!" he cried, leaping up. "You--you to accuse me of loose conduct and wrong-doing! Look to your eyes that have seen what never happened; and your ears that have listened to lies; and your tongue too--your tongue that can talk thus to a man who loved you truly and uprightly and has kept as straight as yourself from the day he loved you and longed for you! You can't love me and I don't blame you there. You can't love me; but is that a just reason why you should lie about me? See to yourself, Rhoda, and you'll find a bitter weed in your own heart that's better out and away. And threaten no more neither. You may drag me as deep as you please through the dirt that's got into your mind--God help you; but don't drag some innocent woman through it. Anyway, you'll never see my face again--spy as you may--for I shall be gone for good in a month or two."

She did not answer and he abruptly left her. He was very angry, very startled, and very shocked that she could believe and repeat such a monstrous error. He cast about for some ground in reason, and examined his life. He could only think of the meetings with Margaret Bowden; but that these were actually what Rhoda referred to did not even occur to him. He had, as a matter of fact, travelled recently as far as Plymouth with a woman, but she was Rhoda's own widowed sister from Ditsworthy, and it seemed impossible that she could refer to her.

He puzzled to know what this assault might mean; but apart from these unexpected circumstances attending her refusal, the final negative was all that mattered. That she believed him a libertine soon ceased to trouble Hartley. His anger swiftly vanished before the immediate interest of the future. Nothing remained but to follow his previous plans and depart. He had only waited for Rhoda and now the coast was clear. Before he reached home, he had finally determined to leave England early in the new year.

CHAPTER XI

BAD NEWS OF MR. BOWDEN

Mrs. Stanbury's habit of mind died hard, even after the truth concerning the Voice at Crazywell had been impressed upon her. Slowly she appreciated the great fact that neither her husband nor her son might longer be considered as under sentence of death; but often still she woke in fear or rose in gloom, while yet her mind retained only the past terror and forgot the more recent joy. Billy Screech had explained to Bartley; and since Bartley was of opinion that no real blame attached to anybody, and that the plot was perfectly reasonable in its original purpose--all things being fair in love--the matter soon blew over. Bart, indeed, declared that Mattacott and Billy ought to pay the doctor's bill for his mother; but they were not of his mind, and Mr. Stanbury, who, despite stout assurances of indifference, felt really much relieved when the truth appeared, very gladly met this charge. The immediate result of the event was a decision on the part of Jane West. Bart, having safely emerged from these supernatural threats of extinction, found her in the most oncoming spirit, and they were now definitely engaged to be married.

With the turn of another year this fact became generally known, and there fell a Sunday in late January when the party from 'Meavy Cot' visited Coombeshead and assisted at a formal meal given in honour of Bart's betrothed.

David made efforts to rouse his mother-in-law from her invincible distrust--both of herself and her blood in the veins of the next generation. They talked apart after the meal, and she, as her custom was, doubted her son's ability to fight the world successfully for a wife and possible children.

"A very good son, I can assure you--never a better. But whether he'll prove a husband of any account, I'm sure I couldn't say," she murmured.

"Of course he will," answered the other. "You don't know what a clever chap Bart is. Jane's a very lucky woman; and she knows it well enough, and her family know it well enough, even if you don't."

It was an amiable fiction with Margaret's husband that she was largely responsible for his success in life. He often solemnly declared that but for her at the helm, he should never have prospered as was the case, and certainly never have won the great prize at Tavistock. This statement he would make repeatedly, despite his wife's protests and Rhoda's silences. He made it now to Mrs. Stanbury.

"Look at Madge," he said. "If she's such a splendid wife, why are you afeared that Bart won't be a splendid husband? Madge took after you; Bart takes after his father. Why, where should I be if it wasn't for Madge? Not where I stand, I can tell you. She's the corner-stone of the house, and always has been, and always will be. You ought to believe what people tell you about your children."

"'Tis very well to know you think so," she admitted; "all the same, a mother's eye can't overlook the defects."

"Not in your case, seemingly; but 'tis just what a mother's eye be cleverest at doing as a rule," declared he.

"'Tis no good pretending with yourself, as you do," she answered. "You think our Madge have helped you to greatness, and if love and worship could bring you up top, you'd be right. But it can't. You was too strong and steady a man to want any woman's help."

"No, no--never was such a man as that," her son-in-law answered, and firmly believed it. "Madge has helped me to take big views," he continued. "Why, there's no work that we do can taste so good as the work we do for other people. Your daughter teached me that."

The afternoon advanced and Margaret entered the parlour to say that tea was ready in the kitchen.

Bart and Jane comported themselves with high indifference under the ordeal of this entertainment. They had accepted the good wishes and the chaff; they had eaten heartily and departed together as soon as dinner was done.

"They won't be back for tea. They don't want no tea," declared Mr. Stanbury. "Why, they've even got to naming the day! 'Twill be Martin West's turn to find the spread and give the party this time; and if he does all I did for you and Madge, David, I shall be surprised--though he's a richer man than me by a good few pound, I warrant you."

Talk ran on the new romance; then Rhoda reminded David that a Princetown man was to see him that evening within an hour from the present time. He rose at once and prepared to depart. But Margaret did not accompany him.

"I shan't be back afore supper," she said. "Bartley Crocker's coming up presently. He won't see my father and mother no more, for his time is getting short. So I shall bide here till he's been and gone."

"He's so dark about dates," declared David. "We all want to give him a bit of a dinner at 'The Corner House'--a real good send-off; and there's a little subscription started to get the man a remembrance. But he's not in very good spirits now the time's so near; and he rather wants to escape without any fuss. However, if you have the chance, try and find out exactly when he's going, Madge. He'll tell you the secret. The date is fixed, I expect. Try and worm it out of him; and fetch him along to supper, if he'll come."

She promised and David departed with Rhoda.

Bartley Crocker appeared in the valley as they went their way; and he saw them going, but they did not see him.

His sister's affairs now largely occupied young Bowden's mind, because the future, from her standpoint, was difficult. He, however, did not quite comprehend the moody and irritable spirit which Rhoda had of late developed. It fell out, indeed, that this taciturnity and self-absorption caused David first uneasiness and then mild annoyance. Rhoda had ceased to be herself. She was not interested in the future. She spoke of going out of his life. She showed no enthusiasm in any direction, and her attitude to Margaret he had secretly resented on several occasions. He deplored it to Margaret herself, but she had begged him not to think of it again, and declared it a matter of no account. She could afford to be large-minded now, for she believed that Rhoda would soon be gone from her home for ever. As for David, he supposed this unsettled and cloudy weather of his sister's mind to be caused entirely by the forthcoming great upheaval in her life, and the extreme difficulty of deciding on a plan of action. That she had finally refused Crocker and determined to stop in England, he knew; but whether she intended to accompany him and Madge to Tavistock, or return to Ditsworthy, he did not know. None knew--not even the woman herself. Her brother attributed Rhoda's darkness to the trouble of decision; yet it surprised him that she should find decision so difficult. She was one who usually made up her mind with swiftness and seldom departed from a first resolution. But, for once, she appeared unequal to the task of concluding upon any form of action. The truth of Rhoda's difficulties he could not know; and in his ignorance he revealed a little impatience. Observing this disquiet, she believed that the time had at last come to speak. She knew the danger and perceived that the one thing she cared for in life--her brother's regard--might be imperilled by such a step; but as he, in his turn, now began openly to resent her implicit attitude to Margaret, some decisive action was called for.

And Rhoda upon that homeward walk proposed to speak, to put her discomfort and fear before him, and to trust his affection and wisdom to tide them all over a terrible difficulty. What might have fallen out had she done so cannot be estimated. In the result she never spoke, for there fell an interruption and she was still casting about for the first word, when her brother, Napoleon, rode up on a pony. He had come from Ditsworthy to 'Meavy Cot,' and his attire marked some haste, for he wore his Sunday coat and waistcoat, but had taken off his trousers and substituted workday garments of corduroy.

"Just been to your place," he shouted as he approached them. "Farther was took bad in the night, and he's a lot worse to-day and reckons he may die of it. And Joshua's gone for doctor, and mother's in a proper tantara. And faither wants for you and Rhoda to come up this moment."

For an instant they stood, aghast and smitten.

"What's took him?" asked David.

"His breathing, and he's all afire and can't let down a morsel of food. You'd better get on this pony and go right up along, David."

"I suppose I had. Chap from Princetown will have his walk for his pains; but it can't be helped."

Napoleon dismounted and David took his place. "You'll come on, you two, after me," he said. "Best to go across through Dennycoombe wood. Please God, 'tis of no account. Faither's so strong and never knoweth ache or pain; therefore what may be a small thing would seem worse to him than it really is."

He started and then turned back again.

"When you pass Coombeshead, just run in, Nap, and tell Margaret what's happened. I may be back home to-night, or I may not be. And bid her remember the calves."

"I shall be back for that," said Rhoda. "I shall go back to-night in any case."

"All right then," concluded David. Then he galloped off and soon disappeared.

His sister and the boy tramped without speech together until, glowing like the bright fur of a wolf all grey and russet, Dennycoombe wood rose before them, flung on the distant side of Sheep's Tor in evening light.

"I'll wait for you by the gate yonder," said Rhoda. "Your nearest way from here be to the left. Don't you stop talking, mind: you may be useful up at home. Just tell Madge what's fallen out and then come after me."

"I can travel twice so fast as you," answered the boy. "No call for you to wait. I'll over-get you long afore 'tis dark."

He left her and she went forward, passed under Down Tor, crossed the stream and skirted the great wood beyond. She reached the gate and stopped for her brother as she had promised: but he did not come, and presently she went her way through the edge of the trees. Then suddenly, going on silent feet, she heard voices at hand. A great stone towered there and in a moment she understood that her sister-in-law and Bartley Crocker were on one side of it, and knew not that she was upon the other. She guessed that the man had taken leave of the party at Coombeshead Farm and that Margaret had departed with him.

This indeed had happened. Bartley made but a short stay at the Stanburys' and Madge left when he did. They were now sitting together and talking.

Rhoda listened but could not hear more than a chance word intermittently.

"Your husband wanted to give me a spread and a send-off in the old-fashioned way, but, somehow, I've no stomach for any such thing just at present," declared Mr. Crocker.

"'Tis natural you shouldn't have."

"I shall write to David. I can't stand all these good-byes, and all the leave-taking business."

"'Tis crushing to think you're so nearly gone."

"But mind you keep the secret of the day and tell none, Madge--till I'm off. Those I care for shall hear from me--t'others don't matter. There's nothing left to keep me but you, and I can't make you happier by staying."

"Don't say that."

"Not really I can't. We're beginning new lives in new places--you and me."

"So we are in a way."

"What does Rhoda do?"

"She can't make up her mind seemingly. She's very sad."

"She's very mad, if you ask me. I wish to God some man could find how to sweeten her mind. And you're sad because she is. I knew it the moment I heard your voice half an hour ago."

"'Tis wonderful to think how you can always tell by my tone of voice how 'tis with me! But then there's nobody like you for understanding us women. You'd have made a rare husband for the right one, Bartley."

"Yes; and the right one--well, perhaps I'll find her over the water. 'Tis the day after to-morrow I go. I sail off from Plymouth, so that's all easy and straight-forward."

"Be the Shamrock a good big ship?"

"Big enough for my fortunes."

"We must see one another once more, Bartley."

"Of course we must, Madge."

They moved forward as they spoke, and Rhoda saw Bartley kiss Margaret and observed that her sister-in-law was weeping. Then came hasty feet and Napoleon appeared. He shouted from a distance.

"She ban't there! She's gone! I waited a bit and had a dollop of figgy pudden and told 'em the bad news about faither."

"Hullo!" said Bartley to Rhoda. "You!" He looked blankly at her, but she ignored him and turned to Margaret. Hate was in her voice. She spoke quickly and waited for no reply, then moved on with her brother.

"Napoleon have been to seek you at your father's farm, Margaret Bowden, but you was better employed seemingly. My father is took very ill indeed, and your husband be gone up over to him. You'd best get home--if you can spare the time to think of your home. I shall be back by night, but David may not be able to come."

She swept on her way and left them staring at each other. Margaret was dishevelled and the shock of this meeting had dried her tears.

"Good Lord! that's bad luck. She saw me kiss you, I'll swear," murmured Bartley. "And now she'll believe there's another married woman in the case! Will she tell David?"

"What if she does? I'll tell him myself. D'you think he'd care?"

"Shall I go after her and explain?"

"No," she answered. "Let her be."

"It's time I was off anyhow. But poor old Elias! 'Very ill indeed,' she said. I hope he's not booked. Can't think of Ditsworthy without him."

They talked a little longer and Mr. Crocker was glad that there had come distraction for Margaret's mind. She deeply felt parting from him, for he had bulked largely in her life, and he too had enjoyed her loyal friendship and owed her much, though her labours on his behalf were all fruitless. But now the moment was come in which they must part; and he knew that the parting was probably eternal. He did not, however, intend that she should know it. He lied glibly about coming over to 'Meavy Cot' on the following day; then he talked of other matters, and then, when they had drifted down to Nosworthy bridge, pretended to be amazed at the time.

"I must be pushing back in a hurry. My boxes go off first thing to-morrow. And I daresay I shall get up to Ditsworthy after dark and may have a tell with David there. But if Rhoda has already told him she saw me kissing you--!"

"He'd laugh. He's not the sort to mind that between me and you."

"I know he isn't. I was only joking."

She revealed extreme solicitude for his future.

"You'll take all care of yourself wherever you be; and you've promised, on your word of honour, to come home and see old friends inside five year."

"On my word of honour. And you've got to write, and keep me up in the news, and tell me all about the house at Tavistock and everywhere else that's interesting."

He shook hands and moved off quickly, while she, too, went on her way. But, when her back was turned, he stood still and took his last look; for, despite promises, the man had no intention to see her again. His ship was to start after noon on the following day, and he meant to leave Sheepstor at dawn of the morrow.

Now Margaret swiftly faded into the dusk, and he went forward, subdued and as melancholy as his spirit allowed.

"So good and brave a woman as ever walked this earth," he said to himself. "God send me such another; but 'tis hardly likely."

For her sake he made time that night to go to Ditsworthy and speak with David; and the following evening--at the hour in which he had promised to visit 'Meavy Cot' for a final farewell--he was aboard and watching Devon fade swiftly along the edge of the sea. A shadow lay above the grey, rolling ridges; and then that shadow sank out of his eyes for ever.

But Bartley Crocker belonged to the order of lighter spirits who can close the book of their past without a pang; and he did so now.

CHAPTER XII

RHODA AND MARGARET

When Rhoda returned from Ditsworthy, she stated briefly that a doctor had seen Mr. Bowden and declared there was no immediate cause for uneasiness. David, however, proposed to stop for the night and help his mother.

The women supped silently--each angered with the other; and then happened that which loosed the flood-gates of Rhoda's passion and precipitated a deed which, since the recent meeting in the wood, she had strongly considered. She had changed her mind with regard to David; and now, instead, it had come to her as a reasonable thing to attack Margaret directly. But she hesitated to do so until the latter unconsciously provoked her. Rhoda had not spoken to David of the meeting with Madge and Bartley Crocker; but now David's wife returned to the subject and awoke anger in Rhoda, so that she lost self-control and spilled out all the bitterness of her mind.

"Since your father's not in danger, one has time for one's own thoughts again," said Madge, "and they are dark enough for the minute. You looked terrible surprised in Dennycoombe wood a bit ago, and you was terrible rude to me; but why for I don't know. You puzzle me sometimes, Rhoda. Can't you even feel that 'tis sad the man who loved you so well be going so far ways off?"

"The sooner the better."

"You're heartless, I do believe."

"You make up for it, if I am."

"I suppose you're shocked because I kissed him. Did you tell David? I lay he didn't pull a very long face about it. But what's come over me? To think of me talking in this loud, wild way! Forgive me, Rhoda. I meant nothing. You can't help being what you are, and feeling what you feel, any more than I can. I'm not myself to-night. I shall miss him cruel, and I don't care who knows it."

The other kept silence. Her colour had gone and her breast was rising and falling rapidly. Anger put a strain on her lungs and called for air.

"Oh, Rhoda," cried Madge feebly, "why didn't you take him? Nobody will ever love you like that again; and nobody will ever understand you so well as Bartley did. You were a fool--a fool not to take him. Now look at it--your life all useless and nowhere to turn, unless you come to Tavistock with us. Think better of it even now. Go to him to-morrow; keep him here afore 'tis too late and he's gone."

Then the other rose to her feet, and spoke slowly, and crushed the slighter creature for ever.

"So you've sunk to that! You can dare to sit there and say that openly to me. I'm to marry him--I'm to drag myself through the dirt of that man's life, so that you can have him always at your elbow!!"

Margaret stared, and in her turn grew pale.

"What are you saying or thinking?" she cried. "Are you out of your mind?"

"If I am, I've had enough to make me. But I'm sane enough--for my brother's sake. I've kept sane all these cruel, cursed months, while you've gone your way, and forgotten yourself, and disgraced his name. Hear me, I say! Don't you shout, for I can shout louder than you. What I tell be God's truth; and if you don't confess it, I'll do it for you. D'you think I don't know what men are? Nine in ten be of the same beastly pattern; and this man's the worst of all, for he's a liar and a thief, and he came to me with his false tales, but his mind was always running on you; and he came to David and pretended to be his friend and--and--"

She caught her breath and Margaret spoke swiftly.

"What do you accuse me of?"

"I accuse you of being unfaithful and untrue to my brother; and right well you know it is so. I've watched--I know--and I'm not the only one. My sister Dorcas--clever enough in evil she be--she knows it too. And belike a many others among that knave's friends, for he's the sort to rob a woman of her all, and then laugh to men about it. Maybe all the world knows it but David's self. I say you've sinned against my brother, and I say he must know it--now--now--afore he begins at Tavistock. And, please God, he'll put you away from him, and choose rather to live his life maimed alone, than with a foul wretch like you under his roof."

"These are hideous lies--you're dreaming--you're mad to say such things. You--you to come to an honest wife with this filthy story! 'Tis you shall be cast out--'tis you.--Oh, my God! to think that I should hear such words uttered against me by another woman!"

Madge's brief flash of fight died even as she spoke. She was not fashioned to carry the battle with a high hand. She began to think of her husband.

"You shall say this to David and see where you find yourself," she continued. "Is not a man's wife nearer to him than a sister? Will he believe you rather than me? Will he believe Dorcas rather than Bartley Crocker himself? That you--you, Rhoda, of all women, could sting me so! That you--you we thought so pure and clean as newly-fallen snow--could invent such a thing! That you, who know me so well and my love and worship of David.... Oh, Rhoda, I'm sorry for you!"

"Be sorry for yourself. Well--and too well--I know you. I had to spy. I ban't ashamed of it. There was nothing else but to tell him and let him spy. And I couldn't do that till I knew. 'Tis all of a piece--all clear to any human mind--foul or fair. God judge me if I was quick to think evil. I was slow to do it. I fought not to believe it. I tried heart and soul not to see it. But you took good care I should see it. Wasn't you always after him? Didn't you meet him in secret places scores of times? How could I not see? And him coming to me; and you pretending to want me to take him. Yet 'twas no pretence neither, for 'twould have suited you both well enough. And David, working day and night, and trusting you, and always ready at a word to pleasure you. That proud of you and hungry for your happiness-- But it's ended now. It ended to-day when I saw you in the wood. Not that I've not seen you kissing him afore--fawning on his hand, by God! I've watched--yes--and seen enough to know all I didn't see. And he's going to know it too--David. He's got to know for his own honour's sake, and he shall."

"Will he believe it? Never! May God strike me here afore you, and kill me slow the awfullest way that ever woman died, if by thought or deed I've been false to him."

"Ah! Even so the man talked, and he's alive yet. But the A'mighty won't forget either of you. You add lies to lies as he did. But I know they're lies. You needn't talk as if I was a fool; I know him well enough--none better. Did such as him--lecherous-minded beast that he was--dance about in lonely woods and secret places with you for nothing? If an angel from heaven told me you was honest I'd not believe it. And I'm stronger than you think--stronger far than you--with David, I mean. He knows I'm single-minded, anyway. He knows I've got no thought or hope in the whole world except his good. He knows right well that I've been a kind sister to you, and never done anything but strive for your happiness as well as his. Till now--till now. And he'll believe me; for he knows that I couldn't lie if I was tortured for speaking the truth. And I am tortured--tortured as never a woman was tortured yet. But he's got to hear it; and he shall hear it afore that man goes. And, as for you, whether he believes me or you, God's my eternal judge but I'll never ope my mouth to you again as long as I live."

She said no more and went up to her room. Margaret waited a while and then followed her; but Rhoda's door was locked and she refused to answer when the other spoke.

Then the wife descended and sat with companionship of her thoughts. She lived through many hours of poignant grief. Again and again she fell away stricken by her own heart; but she returned as often to the theme; she strove to pierce the problem and see what her sister-in-law could mean. How was it possible that such transparent innocence as Margaret's could from any standpoint look so vile? The bitterest enemy was powerless to throw one shadow over her friendship with Bartley Crocker; and yet here was her brother's sister frenzied with this fearful idea, and speaking of it as a fact proved beyond question. Rhoda believed in it as surely as she believed in her own life. She was prepared to stake her future and David's love for her upon it. She was going to separate Margaret from David, or herself from David, forever. One or other event must inevitably happen.

A thousand plans of action rushed through the wife's brain, and their number defeated their varied purposes. Her native timidity served her ill now. She did nothing but sit and think and reconstruct the past. She remembered all the meetings with Bartley and their many plots and plans to win Rhoda for him. She recollected the most intimate conversations, when her nature or his formed the subject of their speech. She had once kissed his hand in a sudden impulse, when he announced the means to cure her mother. But she did not recall a single perilous or dangerous pass between them; for indeed no such thing had ever existed. Their regard was based on close and lifelong understanding and friendship. There never had been a reciprocal passage of passion, even in the days of her freedom. Her regard was the regard of an ordinary woman for her favourite brother--an affection absolutely untinged by any conscious sexual emotion whatsoever. Even at that, she had not loved him as Rhoda loved David. She was not cast in the great mould of Rhoda--great if unfinished.

At waste of night she began to perceive that she could be no match for Rhoda. Her instinct of self-preservation inclined her first to David, then to Bartley, and then to her father's home. She determined at last to rest until day, and sought her bed. She lighted a match in the dark after a sleepless hour. It went out before she could reach a candle, and she was struck by the trivial phenomenon that, long after the match was extinguished, its light shone in her eyeballs and throbbed in the gloom like fiery rings until the impression waned. She rose an hour before dawn and dressed and descended. Then she went out and breathed the chill morning wind. As yet it was quite dark. Looking up, she saw that a candle burned in Rhoda's room. Some subtle psychological instinct crushed her spirit before the spectacle of that woman's steadfast and unsleeping watch. An impulse to get away from Rhoda overpowered Margaret. She returned, fetched her sun-bonnet, and hastened off without any fixed purpose of destination.

When David's sister came down before six o'clock, the house was empty. She, too, had passed through storms; she also had faltered at the hour when life's pulses beat lowest and midnight sets its dead weight upon human hearts. She had longed to rise and get into the air; but she was determined not to lose sight of Margaret until David came home. Yet for a time she had lost consciousness and slept awhile at edge of dawn. And during those fitful slumbers, Margaret had departed.

The day found Rhoda assured of her own action, though the result of it she could not foretell; but thus to have thrust matters upon their climax was a relief to her, and she felt only interested further to learn the extent of David's future sufferings and her power to lessen them.

That Margaret had disappeared did not much astonish her. She doubted not that her sister-in-law was gone to have the first speech with David. Rhoda reviewed her own knowledge of facts and prepared her own statement. She perceived that she herself must come vilely out of it, as a spy and informer; but she kept her intentions and object in view, and believed that, suffer as he must, David would not lose sight of her motives. Her only desire was that her brother's home might be cleansed--at any cost to its inhabitants. She thirsted to speak to David and hear his voice.

Yet, when she saw him coming alone through the morning, her thoughts flashed along another train, and she held her peace until a more fitting time for speech. And this she did because she guessed that something vital had happened to Margaret--something which must justify her attitude and sweep away the last shadow of doubt.

Then her brother surprised her mightily; for, when she told him that Margaret had gone from the house before daylight, he seemed but little astonished to hear it.

CHAPTER XIII

THE SEARCH

More for thought of Margaret than the sick master of Ditsworthy, had Crocker climbed to the Warren House upon his last evening at Sheepstor. He asked to see David, spent half an hour with him, and spoke explicitly of Rhoda, of his final failure to win her, and of the attitude that she had adopted towards him during that interview.

"God knows I wish her nought but good," he said; "and first and best that her mind should be cleansed of things she's heard from some unknown enemy and believes against me. She's got it in her head that I'm a worthless blackguard, born to make trouble. When she met me with your wife in Dennycoombe wood, a few hours since, she spoke as if I'd no business to be talking to Margaret. I say this for Margaret's sake; because, before saying 'good-bye,' I kissed Margaret, and your sister saw me do so, and went white with passion. There's that about kissing she can't forgive or forget, seemingly. But I'm off to-morrow and don't want to leave any trouble behind me."

David nodded.

"You must allow for Rhoda. She's terrible fretted and has got a deal on her mind just now," he said.