Maynard was astonished. He had not given Thomas credit for much wit or power of observation. Nor had he ever concerned himself with the inner life of the farm as it affected Susan.
"Would you say Miss was put upon?" he asked.
"God's light!" swore Mr. Palk. "And be you a thinking man and can ask that? Have you got eyes? If Orphan Dinah had to work like her, would you ax me if she was put upon?"
The challenge disturbed Lawrence, for it seemed that Thomas had observation that extended into the lives of his neighbours—a gift the younger man had not guessed.
"What's Miss Waycott to do with it?" he asked.
"Naught. Nobody's got nothing to do with it but master. And he's got everything to do with it; and he's a tyrant and a damned slave-driver, and treats her no better than a plough, or a turnip cutter."
They were silent and Thomas asked a question.
"Have you ever heard tell they port-wine marks be handed down from generation to generation, worse and worse?"
"No, I never did."
"I heard Stockman tell Melindy Bamsey they was."
"I dare say it might be so."
"And yet again, when the subject come up at Ashburton, a publican there said that if a man or woman suffered from such a thing they was doomed never to have no children at all. He said he'd known a good few cases."
"A woman might," answered Lawrence, "because, if they're afflicted that way, they'd be pretty sure to bide single. But it would be a nice question if a marked man couldn't get childer. I wouldn't believe anybody but a doctor on that subject."
Thomas turned this over for ten minutes without answering. Then the subject faded from his mind and he flushed another.
"What about our rise?" he said.
"We'll hear after Easter."
They discussed the probable figure. Maynard seemed not deeply interested; but Palk declared that his own future movements largely depended upon Mr. Stockman's decision.
Dinah could not think of her foster-father all the way home. Though deeply concerned, her thoughts left him fitfully to concentrate on Lawrence Maynard. She felt a little puzzled at a streak of mental helplessness that seemed to have appeared in him. Just where it appeared most vital that he should know his own mind, she could not help feeling he did not. He groped, instead of seeing the way as clearly as she did. For him, what he had to tell her seemed serious; for her, as she now considered it, the fact that Mr. Stockman knew Maynard was married sank in significance. She found that it was only because Lawrence regarded it as grave, that she had done so. That it made a simple situation more complex she granted; but it did not alter the situation; and if it was impossible to be married at Buckland, there would be no difficulty, so far as she could see, in being married elsewhere.
She had examined the situation more deeply, however, before she reached home and perceived that Lawrence, after all, was not groping, but rather standing still before a very definite obstacle. They could not be married at Buckland; but could they be married anywhere else without first vanishing far beyond reach and hearing of Buckland? For him that was easy; for her impossible, unless she deliberately cut herself off from her foster-father and, not only that, but prevented him from knowing where she might be. For it was idle to tell him, or anybody, that she had married Maynard, while Mr. Stockman could report from Maynard's own lips that he was already married.
Now indeed Dinah's soul fainted for a few moments. She hated things hid; she loved events to be direct and open; but already some need for hiding her thought, if not her actions, had become imperative and now she saw a complication arising that she had never taken into account: the collision between Lawrence and Ben Bamsey. What might be right and honest enough to her and her lover—what was already clean and clear in her mind, and would, she did not doubt, be presently equally clean and clear to Lawrence—must emphatically be neither righteous nor thinkable to the generation of Mr. Bamsey. None else indeed mattered; but he did. Great vistas of time began to stretch between her and her lover. He retreated; but the gathering difficulties did not daunt her since the end was assured.
For a season life was now suspended at the bedside of an old man, and Dinah returned home to plunge at once into the battle for her foster-father's existence. It was a battle fought unfairly for her, and not until the end of it did Dinah discover the tremendous effect of her exertions on her own vitality; for she was in a position false and painful from the first, being called at the will of one very sick to minister to him before his own, and to suffer from the effects of his unconscious selfishness, under the jealousy of the other women who were nearer to him.
Ben rapidly became very ill indeed, with congestion of the lungs, and for a time, while in the extremity of suffering, his usual patient understanding deserted him and facts he strove to keep concealed in health under conditions of disease appeared. They were no secret to Faith Bamsey and she was schooled to suffer them, being able the easier so to do, because she was just and knew the situation was not Dinah's fault. Indeed they created suffering for the girl also. But to Jane, her father's now unconcealed preference for Dinah, his impatience when she was absent and his reiterated desire to have her beside him, inflamed open wounds and made her harsh. Her mother argued with her half-heartedly, but did not blame her any more than she blamed Dinah. She knew her husband's armour was off, and that he could not help extending a revelation of the truth beyond her heart, where she had hoped it was hidden; but she was human and the fact that everybody, thanks to Jane, now knew that she and her own child were less to Benjamin than his foster-daughter, distressed her and sometimes clouded her temper.
One only stood for Dinah and strove to better the pain of her position. Tossed backward and forward still, now, when at last he was minded to accept the situation and admit to his own mind the certainty he could never win her, a ray of hope flushed wanly out of the present trouble; a straw offered for him to clutch at. John Bamsey came to Green Hayes daily, to learn how his father did, and he heard from Jane how Dinah was preferred before his mother or herself. Then inspired by some sanguine shadow, he took Dinah's part, strove to lessen the complication for her and let her know that he understood her difficulties and was opposing his sister on her account.
He quarrelled with Jane for Dinah's sake and told Dinah so; and she perceived, to her misery, how he was striving yet again to win her back at any cost. Thus another burden was put upon her and she found that only in the sick-room was any peace.
Mr. Bamsey much desired to live, and proved a good patient from the doctor's point of view. A professional nurse, however, he would not have and, indeed, there was no need. All that could be done was done, and it seemed that the crisis was delayed by the sleepless care of those who tended him. He was not unreasonable and sometimes solicitous both for his wife and Dinah. He desired that they should take their rest and often demanded Jane's attention, for the sake of the others; but, as he reached the critical hours of his disease, his only cry was for Dinah and his only wish appeared to be that he should hold her hand. Thus sometimes she had to sit beside him while his wife did nurse's work. The torture was sustained; and then came a morning when, still clear in his mind, Mr. Bamsey felt that he might not much longer remain so. He then expressed a wish for his family to come round him, while he detailed his purposes and intentions.
John was also present at this meeting, and when Dinah desired to leave them together, he and not his father bade her stop.
"You're one of us," he said. "Sit where you are and don't leave go his hand, else he'll be upset."
The sufferer had little to say.
"'Tis all in my will," he told them. "But I'm wishful to speak while I can; and if mother has got anything against, there's time to put it right. All mine is hers for her life—all. But I'll ax her, when each of you three come to be married, to hand each five hundred pounds. That won't hurt her. She'll bide here, I hope; and presently, when Jane weds, it would be very convenient if Jerry was to come here and go on with the farm. But if mother wants to leave here, then she can sublet. And when mother's called, the money's to be divided in three equal portions for Dinah and John and Jane."
He stopped, panting.
"Heave me up a bit, Dinah," he said.
Nobody spoke and he looked into their faces.
"Well?" he asked impatiently.
"That will do very right and proper, my dear," answered Faith. "Don't you think no more about it. A just and righteous will I'm sure."
But Jane had left the room and her father observed it.
"Have that woman anything against?" he asked.
"No, no—a very just and righteous will," repeated his wife soothingly. "I could wish you'd trusted me with the capital, father; but there—I'm content."
"I put you first, Faith."
"I've put you first for five and twenty years."
"You ban't content?"
"Well content. Rest now. Us'll go and leave you with Dinah Waycott."
She tried to resist using Dinah's surname, but could not. Then she left the room.
"I've done what I thought was my duty, John," said Mr. Bamsey.
"You've never done less. I'm very willing that Dinah should share. So's mother I'm sure."
"Try and get a bit of sleep now, my old dear," said Dinah. "And thank you dearly—dearly for thinking on me; but—no matter, you get off if you can. Will you drink?"
He nodded and she gave him some warm milk.
"I'll drop the blind," she said and did so.
In her thoughts was already the determination to forego any legacy under any circumstances. She longed to tell Jane that she meant to do so.
Mr. Bamsey shut his eyes and presently dozed. The steam kettle made a little chattering in the silence, but the sick man's breathing was the loudest sound in the room.
He slept, though Dinah knew that he would not sleep long. To her concern John began talking of what had passed.
He proceeded in undertones.
"Don't think I don't approve what father's done. I do; and I wish to God you'd take two-thirds—mine as well as your own—in fulness of time. Which you would do, Dinah, if you came to me. Why can't you see it?"
"Why can't you, John?"
"What is there for me to see? Nothing, but that you don't know your own mind. Haven't I been patient enough, waiting for you to make it up? What's the good of going on saying you don't love me, when you know I've got love enough for me and you both? Can't you trust me? Can't you judge the size of what I feel for you, by the line I've took for very near a year? You loved me well enough back-along, and what did I ever do to choke you off? You can't tell me, because you don't know. Nobody knows. You bide here, and you understand I'm not changed and won't be blown away by all the rumours and lies on people's tongues; and you can let me live on in hell—for what? You don't know If you had a reason, you'd be just enough to grant I ought to hear it."
"Don't say that, Johnny. You never asked me for a reason more than I gave you from the first. I told you on New Bridge that I was bitter sorry, but I found my feeling for you was not the sort of love that can make a woman marry a man. And that was the sole reason then. And that reason is as good now as ever it was."
"It's no reason to anybody who knows you like what I do. Haven't you got any pity, or mercy in you, Dinah? Can you go on in cold blood ruining my life same as you are doing—for nothing at all? What does a woman want more than the faithful love and worship of a clean, honest man? Why did you stop loving me?"
"I never began, John; and if you say that reason's not enough, then—then I'll give you another reason. For anything's better than going on like this. To ask me for pity and mercy! Can't you see what you're doing—you, who was so proud? D'you want a woman to give herself up to you for pity and mercy? Be you sunk to that?"
"I'm sunk where it pleased you to sink me," he said; "and if you knew what love was, pity and mercy would rise to your heart to see anybody sinking that you could save."
"I do know what love is," she answered. "Yes, I know it now, though I never did till now. When I begged you to let me go, I didn't know anything except what I felt for you wasn't what it ought to be; but, since then, things are different; and I do well know what love is."
"That's something. If you've larned that, I'll hope yet you'll come to see what mine is."
"You can't love a man because he loves you, John. You may be just as like to love a man who hates you, or love where mortal power can't love back—as in your case. Where I've got now be this: I do love a man."
"You thought you loved me. Perhaps you're wrong again and was right before."
"I love a man, and he loves me; and nothing on God's earth will ever keep us apart unless it's death."
"So you think now. I've heard some talk about this and gave them that told it the lie. And I'm most in the mind to give you the lie. I can't forget all you've said to me. It's hard—it's horrible, to think you could ever speak such words to anybody else."
She smiled.
"I don't want to be cruel; I don't want to be horrible, John. But what I've ever said to you was naught—the twitter of a bird—the twaddle of a child. How could I talk love to you, not knowing love? You never heard love from me, because I didn't know the meaning of the word till long after us had parted for good and all. Find a woman that loves you—you soon might—then you'll hear yourself echoed. I never echoed you, and that you know very well, because I couldn't."
"Who is he?"
She expected this and was prepared. None must know that she loved Lawrence Maynard—least of all John Bamsey. He would be the first to take his news red hot to Falcon Farm and Joe Stockman. The necessity for silence was paramount; but she voiced her own desire when she answered.
"I wish to Heaven I could tell you, Johnny. Yes, I do. I'd like best of all to tell you, and I'll never be quite, quite happy, I reckon, until you've forgiven me for bringing sorrow and disappointment on you. 'Tis not the least of my hopes that all here will forgive me some day; for I couldn't help things falling out as they have, and I never wanted to be a curse in disguise to foster-father, or any of you, same as I seem to be. You can't tell—none of you—how terrible hard it is; and God's my judge, I've often wished this dear old man could have turned against me, and hated me, and let me go free. But he wouldn't send me out and I couldn't go so long as he bade me stop."
"You're wriggling away from it," he said. "Who's the man? If there's any on earth have the right to know that much, it's me."
"So you have—I grant it. And if it ever comes to be known, you'll be the first to hear, John. But it can't be known yet awhile, for very good reasons. My life's difficult and his life's difficult—so difficult that it may never happen at all. But I pray God it will; and it shall if I can make it happen. And more I can't tell you than that."
"You hide his name from me then?"
"What does his name matter? I've only told you so much for the pity you ask. I needn't have gone so far. But I can see what knowing this ought to do for you, John, and I hope it will. You understand now that I care for a man as well, heart and soul and body, as you care for me. And for Christ's sake let that finish it between us. I hate hiding things, and it's bitter to me to hide what I'm proud of—far prouder of than anything that's ever happened to me in all my born days. So leave it, and if there's to be pity and mercy between us—well, you're a man, and you can be pitiful and merciful now, knowing I'm in a fix, more or less, and don't see the way out at present. It's a man's part to be merciful, so be a man."
The turning point had come for him and he knew that his last hope was dead. This consciousness came not gradually, but in a gust of passion that banished the strongest of him and exalted the weakest. Hate would now be quickly bred from the corpse of his obstinate desires, and he knew and welcomed the thought.
"Yes," he said, "you'm right; it's for men to be merciful. No woman ever knew the meaning of the word. So I'll be a man all through—and there's more goes to a man than mercy for them that have wickedly wronged him."
He forgot where he stood and raised his voice.
"And I'll find him—maybe I know where to look. But I'll find him; and there won't be any mercy then, Dinah Waycott. 'Tis him that shall answer for this blackguard robbery. I can't have you; but, by God, I'll have the price of you!"
He woke his father, and Ben, choking, coughed and spat. Then he heaved himself on his arms and pressed his shoulders up to his ears to ease the suffocation within.
Dinah ministered to him and John went from the sick-room and from the house.
Ben Bamsey survived his illness and had to thank a very pains-taking doctor and most devoted nurses for his life. He was unconscious for four and twenty hours, and during the fortnight that followed the crisis remained so weak, that it seemed he could never regain strength sufficient to move a hand. Then he began to recover. He prospered very slowly, but there were no relapses, and the definite disaster left by his illness remained unknown to the sufferer himself until the end of his days. Nor did other people perceive it until some months had elapsed. The physician was the first to do so, but he did not speak of it directly, rather leaving Ben's own circle to discover the change and its extent. The doctor had feared early; but it was not a fear he could impart.
Meantime it became known to those who had already bidden farewell to the master of Green Hayes that he would live; and not one of all those known to Mr. Bamsey but rejoiced to learn the good news.
On a day some time after Christmas, while yet the sick man's fate was undetermined and it could not be said that he was out of danger, Lawrence Maynard went down to Green Hayes, that he might learn the latest news. Life ran evenly at Falcon Farm and Mr. Stockman's first interest at present was his kinsman. Now Lawrence brought a partridge, with directions from Joe that it was to be made into broth for Mr. Bamsey.
He saw Ben's wife and heard the morning's news, that her husband was now safe and would recover.
Faith looked haggard and pale, and Maynard expressed a fear that the ordeal must have been very severe. She admitted it, but declared that such relief as all now felt would be a tonic and swiftly restore them.
"We're about beat," she said, in her usual placid fashion. "We've worked hard and, between us, we've saved my husband with the doctor's help. That man's a miracle. I've got a very great respect for him. You'd best to come in and rest yourself before you go back."
He entered, in secret hope of seeing Dinah, whom he had not met for several weeks. Once, however, she had written him a brief note to say that she was well.
Faith Bamsey spoke of Ben and praised his fortitude.
"If he'd wavered, or thrown up the sponge for an hour, he'd have died; but so long as he kept consciousness he determined to live, and even when he thought and felt positive he must go, he never gave up doing the right thing. He won't be the same man, however; we mustn't expect that. He'll be in his bed for a month yet and can't hope to go down house for six weeks. He mustn't think to go out of doors till spring and the warm weather; then it remains to be seen how much of his nature he gets back."
She entertained Maynard for half an hour, while he drank a cup of tea. She did not share Jane's suspicion and dislike of him and felt no objection to the idea of his wedding Dinah and removing her from Lower Town. She was almost minded in his quiet and inoffensive presence to raise the question, and went so far as to tell him Dinah had driven to Ashburton that afternoon. But he showed no apparent interest in the fact and Faith did not continue on the subject. She could be generous, however, in the blessed light of Ben's promised recovery, and she admitted that Dinah had been of infinite value in the sick-room. Indeed Mrs. Bamsey did not hide from herself that Dinah had doubtless made the difference between life and death for her husband; and since she desired above all things that Ben should live, some of her dislike was softened for the time. She wished her away very cordially, but knew the hour of Dinah's departure must now be protracted indefinitely, for no question could at present be put to her foster-father.
With her personal anxieties ended, Faith Bamsey found it possible to consider other people again.
"I've never had time to think of what Enoch Withycombe's death meant yet," she said, "because it brought such a terrible time to us. But now us can lift up our heads and look round at other folk again and inquire after the neighbours. Melinda was down axing after my husband a bit ago, but I didn't see her. Jerry comes and goes. I hope Melinda gets over it. To nurse a father all them years and then lose him, must have left her stranded in a manner of speaking."
"Mrs. Honeysett comes to see Miss Susan and farmer sometimes."
"I warrant. Would you say Cousin Joe be looking in that direction now she's free?"
Maynard shook his head.
"I wouldn't. I don't reckon Mr. Stockman will marry again. He's very comfortable."
"Yes—one of them whose comfort depends on the discomfort of somebody else, however."
"So people seem to think. It's a hard home for Miss Susan; but it's her life, and if she's not a cheerful sort of woman, you can't say she's much downcast."
"No—she dursn't be cast down. He wouldn't stand cast-down people round him. Mind to say I'm greatly obliged for the bird, and I hope Ben will eat a slice or two presently. I'll come up over and drink a dish of tea with them afore long. I'm properly withered for want of fresh air."
"I dare say you are, ma'am."
"I saw Enoch Withycombe last week," she said. "The old man was standing down in the Vale, not far from the kennels—just where you'd think he might be. And always seeing him lying down, as we did, it gave me quite a turn to mark how tall his ghost was."
To see a dead man had not astonished Faith; but the unremembered accident of his height had done so.
"How did he look, Mrs. Bamsey?" asked Maynard.
"I couldn't tell you. The faces that I see never show very clear. You'm conscious it is this man, or this woman. You know, somehow, 'tis them, but there's always a fog around them. They don't look the same as what living people look."
"The haunted house that adjoins Mrs. Honeysett's is taken at last," he said. "Mr. Chaffe has been up over a good bit putting it to rights, and they've stripped the ivy and are going to put on a new thatch. It's a very good house really, though in a terrible state, so Mr. Chaffe told master."
"I've heard all about it," she answered. "There's a new gardener come to Buckland Court—a widow man with a young daughter. And he don't care for ghosts—one of the modern sort, that believe naught they can't understand. And as they can't understand much, they don't believe much. So he's took it."
"Harry Ford, he's called," added Lawrence. "A man famous for flower-growing, I believe."
"I'm glad then. I hate for houses to stand empty."
He asked after Jerry.
"I met your young people back-along, and I'm afraid Miss Jane have put me in her black books—why for I don't know very well. I suppose they'll wed come presently?"
Again Mrs. Bamsey was tempted to speak, but felt it wiser not to do so. She ignored Maynard's first remark and replied to the second.
"Yes; they'll be for it now no doubt. After Easter perhaps; but not till my husband is strong enough to be at the church and give Jane away of course. Jerry's come into a bit of money since his father died. They must have their ideas, but they're close as thieves about the future. All I can hear is that they be wishful to go away from here come they're married."
"Folk like to make a change and start life fresh after that."
"I suppose they do."
He talked a little longer and it was impossible for Faith to feel dislike or anger. Had he come between her son and his betrothed—had he been responsible for the unhappy break, she would have felt differently; but she knew that he was not responsible and she perceived that if he indeed desired to marry Dinah, the circumstance would solve difficulties only ignored by common consent during her husband's illness. She had not heard what John said to Dinah in the sick-room and supposed that now her son must appreciate the situation, since he had quite ceased to speak of Dinah. His purpose, avowed in a passion, had not overmuch impressed Dinah herself, for it was outside reason and she doubted not that Johnny would be ashamed of such foolish threats in a cooler moment. But, none the less, she meant to warn Lawrence and now an opportunity occurred to do so.
For Maynard availed himself of Mrs. Bamsey's information, and hearing that Ben's foster-daughter was gone to Ashburton, knew the way by which she would return home and proceeded on that way. He had not seen her since the Sunday afternoon at Lizwell Meet; neither had he written to her, doubting whether it might be wise to do so and guessing that her whole life for the present was devoted to the sufferer.
He left Mrs. Bamsey now and presently passed the workshops of Arthur Chaffe at Lower Town, then sank into the valley. By the time he reached New Bridge, Dinah had also arrived there and he carried her parcels for half a mile and returned beside the river.
She was beyond measure rejoiced to see him and he found her worn and weary from the strain of the battle; but its victorious issue went far already to make her forget what was passed. She talked of Mr. Bamsey and gave Maynard details of the sick-room and the alternate phases of hope and despair that had accompanied the illness. To her these things bulked large and filled her thoughts; but he was well content, because Dinah adopted an implicit attitude to him that indicated beyond doubt her settled consciousness of their relation. She spoke as though they were lovers of established understanding. She seemed to take it for granted that only an uncertain measure of time separated them.
This much she implied from the moment of their meeting and presently, when they approached the parting place, she became personal.
"Don't think, for all I'm so full of dear foster-father, that you've been out of my thoughts, Lawrence," she said. "You was there all the time—the last thing in my mind when I went to get an hour or two of sleep, and the first thing when I woke. You ran through it all; and once or twice when he was rambling, he named your name and said you was a very good sort of man—civil and thoughtful and peace-loving. And I told him you were; and he hoped we'd come together, for he said he could trust me with you. He wasn't far from himself when he said it, but only I heard; and whether he ever named you in his fever dreams when I wasn't there—to Jane, or Mrs. Bamsey—I don't know. They never let on about it and so I hope he didn't."
"I've just seen his wife," he said. "She's long ways happier for this great recovery. She's sensible enough. She looked a few questions, but didn't ask them, and you're not bound to answer looks."
Then Dinah told him of John's threats and how he had again begged her to wed.
"I felt things was at a climax then; and I told him straight out that I knew what love was at last. I was gentle and kind to the poor chap; but he wasn't gentle and kind to me. He wanted to know the man, and that, of course, I couldn't tell him, though dearly I longed to. But things being as they are, I can't name you, Lawrence, though 'tis terrible hateful to me I can't. I said to Johnny 'twas no odds about the man for the present, and then he lost his temper and swore he'd find him out and do all manner of wicked deeds to him. Only his rage, of course, and nothing to trouble about, but so it is and I meant for you to know."
He considered and she spoke again.
"It makes me mad to think all we are to each other have got to be hid, as if we was ashamed of it instead of proud—proud. But Cousin Joe would abide by the letter against the spirit no doubt. He'd tell everybody you was married if we blazed out we were tokened; and now Mr. Withycombe's dead, there's not any in the Vale that would understand."
"Certainly there is not, Dinah—or beyond the Vale I reckon."
"All's one," she said. "In my eyes you're a free man, and just as right to find a mate as a bird in a tree. Yes, you are. I know what marriage means now, and I know what our marriage will mean. For that matter we are married in heart and soul."
"It's good to hear you say so," he answered. "My love's so true as yours, Dinah; but there's more mixed with it."
"Away with what be mixed with it! I won't have naught mixed with it, and no thought shall think any evil into it, Lawrence. You couldn't think evil for that matter; but men be apt, seemingly, to tangle up a straight thought by spinning other thoughts around it. And I won't have that. What be your thoughts that you say are mixed with the future? Can you name them? Can you think 'em out loud in words and look in my face while you do? I lay you can't! But, for that matter, I've been thinking too. And what I think mixes with what I feel, and makes all the better what I feel."
In her eagerness Dinah became rhetorical.
"I was turning over that widow at Barnstaple," she said—"the woman called Courtier, married to a dead man. And I was wondering why I thought twice of her even while I did so; for what be she to me? Not so much as the grass on the field-path I walk over. And what be she to you more than the dead? Be she real, Lawrence? Be she more real and alive to you than Gilbert Courtier, in his grave, beyond sight and sound of living men for evermore? Let the dead lie. You'm alive, anyway, and free in the Eye of God to marry me. And what matters except how soon, and when, and where?"
"You're a brave wonder," he said, "and the man you can love, who would miss you, must be a bigger fool than me. What's left be my work—and a glorious bit of work I reckon."
"Easy enough anyway."
"For the things to be done, easy enough I doubt not; for the things to be thought, none so easy. Them that sweep fearless to a job, like you, have got to be thought for. And love quickens a man and makes him higher and deeper and better—better, Dinah—than himself—if love's got any decent material to work upon and the man's any good. And pray God that will turn out to be so in my case. A bit ago, when first I came here, I'd have gone bare-headed into this—same as you want to. But I've larned a lot from a dead man since I came to Falcon Farm. Withycombe looked deeper into life than me, being taught by his master and his own troubles and also out of books so to do. He steadied me here and there, and maybe it was for this great business that the words were put in his mouth. And it's that that be mixed with what I feel for you. God knows it don't lessen the love; but it—how shall I say—it lifts it a bit—into sharper air than a man breathes easy. I ban't going to be selfish if I can help it. We're young and the world's before us. But afore we come together, I want you to be so strong and sure-footed that nothing shall ever shake you after, and naught that man can do or say——"
"Oh, my dear heart!" she cried, "what do you think I'm made of?"
"I know—I know. It's what I be made of, Dinah darling. I've got to find that out."
"Let me show you then. You don't frighten me, Lawrence. I know what you're made of, and I know if I know naught else, you won't be a finished thing till you share what I'm made of. We be halves of one whole as sure as our Maker fashioned the parts; and that you know—you must know. And I tell you the rest is easy, and you know it's easy so well as me."
He said no more. In her present mood it must have only hurt to do so, and every human inclination, every reasonable argument, every plea of common sense and justice prompted him to acquiesce whole-heartedly. But something other than reason possessed his mind at that particular hour. For the moment he could not smother thoughts that were selfless and engaged with Dinah only.
After a silence he answered her last words.
"Yes, I know it," he said. "If the rest goes that way, then the rest is easy enough."
"What other way can it go, unless like our ways to-night—mine up one hill—alone—yours up another hill—alone?"
"Never, by God! I'm only a man."
"And my man! My man!"
They talked a little longer, then parted, where they had parted on a previous great occasion. But they did not part until Maynard had made her promise to meet him again and that quickly.
"You'll be a lot freer now," he said.
"I shall and I shan't too, because all the fighting for foster-father have made me closer than ever to him somehow. There's such a lot of different loves in the world seemingly. I love the dear old man with my whole heart—every bit of it. He can't do nor say nothing I don't love him for—he's an old saint. And I love you with my whole heart too, Lawrence. I properly drown in love when I think of you; and I can almost put my arms round you in my thoughts, and feel we ain't two people at all—only one."
They kissed and went their ways, and he considered all that she had said even to the last word. The thought of these things in themselves rejoiced him. To run away with Dinah and vanish from this environment would not be difficult. Indeed he had already traversed the ground and considered the details of their departure. He would give notice a month before they disappeared, and while his going might be orderly enough, Dinah's must be in the nature of a surprise. He considered whether they should leave in such a manner that their names would not be associated afterwards; but it seemed impossible to avoid that. It mattered little and not at all to her. In any case the details were simple enough; there was nothing whatever to prevent their departure when they chose to depart. To Canada, or Australia, they might go when they willed, and he had retraced the old ground and reconsidered the question of state-aided passages and his own resources, which were ample for the purpose.
But not with these things was Maynard's mind occupied when he left Dinah. He was not a man of very complex character, and the independence of thought that had marked the chief action of his life had never been seriously challenged until now. He had been guided by reason in most questions of conduct and never recognised anything above or outside reason in the action that led him to desert his wife on their wedding day; but that same quality it was that now complicated reason and made him doubt, not for his own sake or well being, not of the future opened for him by the immense new experience of loving Dinah, but by the consequences of such a future for Dinah herself. Here reason spoke with a plain voice. His wits told him that no rational human being could offer any sort of objection to their union; and the tribal superstitions that might intervene, based on the creed morals under which his nation pretended to exist, did not weigh with him. What did was the law of the land, not the religion of the land. Under the law he could not marry Dinah, and no child that might come into the world as a result of their union would be other than a bastard. That would not trouble her; and, indeed, need not trouble anybody, for since Gilbert Courtier, as Dinah had said, no longer existed for them, and was now beyond reach as completely as though indeed he lay in his grave, there could be none to rise and question a marriage entered into between him and Dinah—in Canada, or elsewhere. But there were still the realities and, beyond them, a certain constituent of his own character which now began to assert itself. There persisted in his soul a something not cowardly, but belonging to hereditary instincts of conscience, mother-taught, through centuries. It made Lawrence want to have all in order, conformable to the laws of the world and his own deeply rooted sense of propriety. He had no desire to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds: he knew that for nothing you can only get nothing, but he longed, before all else, that the inevitable might also be the reputable, and that no whisper in time to come should ever be raised against his future wife. The desire rose much above a will to mere safety. It was higher than that and, indeed, belonged to Maynard's ethical values and sense of all that was fitting and good of report among men and women. It echoed the same influence and radical conception of conduct that had made him leave his wife on his wedding day; and the fact that no such considerations controlled Dinah, the truth that she regarded the situation on a plane of more or less material reality and felt no sympathy with his shadowy difficulties, promised to increase them. He hardly saw this himself yet, but though he felt that she was right, yet doubted, in that secret and distinctive compartment of his inner self, whether she might be wrong. He was, for the moment, divided between agreeing with her utterly and feeling that he must allow no natural instinct and rational argument to let him take advantage of her. And when he looked closer into this, a new difficulty arose, for how could he ever make Dinah understand this emotion, or set clearly before her comprehension what he himself as yet so dimly comprehended?
Her grasp of the situation was clear and lucid. From the moment when she had said in the teashop, "D'you call that being married?" he guessed how she was going to feel, and how she would be prepared to act. Nor would the suggested confession to dead Enoch Withycombe have made any difference to Dinah, whatever view the old hunter might have held. Dinah's heart was single, and while now Maynard longed with a great longing to find his own heart seeing eye to eye with hers in every particular, he knew that it did not, and he could not be sure that it ever would. He regarded the situation as lying entirely between her and himself, and entertained no thought of any possibility that others might complicate it, either to retard, or determine the event. She had, indeed, told him of John Bamsey's threats, but to them he attached no importance. From within and not from without must the conclusion be reached.
John Bamsey now threatened to run his head into folly. He was an intelligent man; but out of the ferment that had so long obscured his vision and upset his judgment, there had been developed a new thing, and a part of him that chance might have permitted to remain for ever dormant, inert and harmless, was now thrust uppermost. He developed a certain ferocity and a sullen and obstinate passion bred from sense of wrong, not only towards Dinah, but the unknown, who had supplanted him with her. For that he had been supplanted, despite her assurance to the contrary, John swore to himself. Thus, indeed, only could Dinah's defection be explained; and only so could he justify his purpose and determination to treat this interloper evilly and rob him, at any cost, of his triumph. He built up justification for himself, therefore, and assured himself that he was right, as a man of character, in taking revenge upon his unknown enemy. He convinced himself easily enough and only hesitated farther because his rival continued to be a shadow, to whom his sister alone was prepared to put a name. She resolutely swore that Maynard was the man, and she declared that her father had mentioned him and Dinah together, more than once, when rambling in his fever dreams.
This brought John, from a general vague determination to stand between Dinah and any other man, to the necessity for definite deeds that should accomplish his purpose; and when he considered how to turn hate into action, he perceived the difficulty. But the folly and futility he declined to recognise, though his reason did not omit to force them upon him and declare that any violence would be vain.
There was still a measure of doubt whether Maynard might be the culprit, and while now practically convinced, John took occasion, when next at Falcon Farm, to satisfy himself and learn whether Susan, or her father, could add certainty to his suspicion. It seemed impossible that, if such an intrigue were progressing, Joe Stockman should have failed to observe it.
He inquired, therefore, and learned more than he expected to learn.
John ascended from his work at dusk of a March evening. The sky was clear and the wind, now sunk, had blown from the north all day. The weather had turned very cold again after a mild spell, and already, under the first stars, frost was thrusting its needles out upon the still woodland pools.
From Hazel Tor arrived young Bamsey, and though tea was done at Falcon Farm, Susan brewed another pot and Joe listened to Johnny and spoke very definitely upon the subject of his concern.
"You say there's a murmur come to your ear that Orphan Dinah be tokened in secret, John; and as for that I know naught. It's a free country and she's a right to be married if the thought pleasures her; but when you ax if my cowman be the other party to the contract, then you ax me what another busy-body here and there have already axed, and I can say to you what I've said to them. Melindy was also wondering, and more than her; but I'll tell you most certain sure. Lawrence Maynard is a very understanding chap and I admire his parts and consider him, between ourselves, as about the best I've ever had in my employment. He thinks a lot of me also, as I happen to know, and he don't keep no secrets from me. 'Tis his fancy, perhaps, that I've got my share of intellects and know enough to be useful to the rising generation; but so it is, and he've come to me many a time with such cares as the young have got to face, being gifted with the old-fashioned idea that the wisdom of the old may be worth the trouble of hearing. That's a tip for you, Johnny, I dare say. And I can tell you that Maynard, though a kindly and reasonable creature, as would do any man, woman, or child a good turn, have no thought whatever of marrying. He's not for marriage—that's a cast-iron certainty; and you might so soon think Thomas Palk would venture—or even sooner. Tom have a poor pattern of mind that inclines him to discontent. My reading of him is that he might take the plunge if he was to find a big enough fool to go in with him."
"I wouldn't say that," argued Susan. "Thomas ain't blind to women, father. I've heard him say things as showed he marked their ways."
"Mark their ways the male must," replied Joe. "Their ways be everywhere, and they are half of life, and we admire 'em, according as they do their appointed duty, or shiver at 'em, when they get off the rails and make hateful accidents for the men, as often happens. But that's neither here nor there, and, be it as it will, of one thing you can clear your mind, Johnny. If there's any man after Dinah, it ain't my cowman, no more than it's my horseman, or anybody else I know about."
"He may be throwing dust in your eyes, however," argued John Bamsey.
"My eyes be growing dim, worse luck, along of using 'em to work as I would year after year—just for love of work; but they ain't so dim that the rising generation can throw dust in 'em yet. And now, since you seem so busy about it, let me ax in my turn what it matters to you anyway? We've all granted you had very hard luck, because Dinah changed her mind; but she did, as women be built to do, so what's the matter with you, and why be you making this upstore about her and her plans?"
"Because no living man shall have her while I'm above ground," answered the younger. "She's ruined my life, for nothing but cold-blooded wickedness and without any decent reason. And there is a man, and I'll find him. And Jane says it's Maynard."
"Then Jane's a damned little fool," answered Joe; "and you're a damned big one, if you can talk like that."
"It's wicked, John," declared Soosie-Toosie. "You ought to let the dead past bury the dead, I'm sure. And Jane is wicked too, and didn't ought to want for other women to be miserable, now she's going to be happy herself."
"'Tis a bee in your bonnet, John; and you'd best to get it out afore it stings you into foolishness," advised Joe. "You're talking evil nonsense and very well you know it. You mustn't think to spoil a woman's hopes of a home because she ain't got no use for yours. Be there only one girl in the world? Don't you properly tumble over the wenches every time you go into Ashburton? If you want to be married, set about it, and whatever you do, mind your own business, and don't talk about marring the business of other people—else you'll end by getting locked up."
Soosie-Toosie also rated the sufferer.
"And you brought up as you was, John," she said. "And thought to be the cleverest young man out of Lower Town. There's no rhyme nor reason in any such bad thoughts; and even if it was Lawrence Maynard, what quarrel have you got with him? Dinah's free and all the world to choose from, and if she's found a man she likes better'n she liked you, 'tis very ill-convenient for you to thrust between 'em. And no man worth his salt would stand it."
"Don't you talk," he answered roughly. "You don't know nothing about what it is to love and then be robbed. Love, such as I had for Dinah, be a thing too big for you neuter women to understand, and it's no more sense than a bird twittering for you to say anything on the subject. Dinah was mine, and if she's gone back on that, she's the wicked one, not me; and I'll do what I will."
"Don't you call Soosie-Toosie names anyhow," warned Joe. "She tells you the truth, John, and you'm making a very silly show of yourself—so funny as clown in a circus, my dear. And most men would laugh at you. But me and Susan are much too kind-hearted to do that. And as to Soosie being a neuter creature, that's great impertinence in you and I won't have it. And thank God there are neuter creatures, to act as a bit of a buffer sometimes between the breeders and their rash and wilful deeds. A pity there ban't more of 'em, for they're a darned sight more dignified and self-respecting than most of the other sort, and they do more good in the world nine times out of ten. You pull yourself together, John, else no decent girl will have any use for you. They want balance and common sense in a man, and something they can look up to and trust. All of which you had; so you get back to your proper mind and mend your manners and your way of speech."
"What better than that Dinah should come by a husband and get out of Green Hayes?" asked Susan. "You know very well it would be a good thing for all parties, and, I dare say, you'd very soon feel better yourself if she was out of your sight for good and all. And if there's a man ready and willing, it would be a most outrageous deed for you, or anybody, to try and stop it."
"Never heard better sense," declared Joe. "That's turning the other cheek that is; and if you find a female that's half as fine a Christian as Soosie—neuter or no neuter—you'll get more luck than you deserve."
John, however, was not minded to yield. He talked nonsense for half an hour, explained that he had been wickedly wronged and marvelled that they were so frosty and narrow as not to see it. He opened a spectacle of mental weakness, and when he was gone, Joe took somewhat gloomy views of him.
"Us'll hope the poison will work out," said Susan. "But who could have thought it was there?"
"I look deeper," answered her father. "Yesternight I met Chaffe, and he whispered to me, under oaths of secrecy, which you'll do well to keep, Susan, that Ben Bamsey won't never be the same again. His body's building up, but Arthur, who's very understanding and quick, fears that Ben's brain have took a shock from this great illness and be weakened at the roots. It weren't, even in his palmy days, what you might call a first class brain. He was a sweet-tempered, gentle creature with no great strength of mind, but so kindly and generous, that none troubled whether he had big intellects or no. Sometimes he did rage up wildly against injustice and wrong; and perhaps, if we understood such things, we should find he hadn't handed down to John such good wits and clear sight as we thought he had. Johnny was always excitable and a terror to a poacher and doubtful blade. And now it looks as if he was going to be a terror to himself—if nobody else."
"He'm so unforgiving," said Susan. "If he goes on like this, folk will very soon think they see why Dinah threw him over. 'Tis so silly to be obstinate over such a job. Surely, when a female tells a man she haven't got no use for him, that did ought to be a plain hint of her feelings."
"There be them whose memories are merciless," said Mr. Stockman. "God pity that sort, for they need it. If your memory's so built that it can't pass by a slight, or wrong, or misfortune, you have a hell of a life and waste a lot of brain stuff and energy. They can't help it; they stand outside time and it don't act on 'em. There are such people; but they're as rare as madmen—in fact hate, or love, that won't die decent is a form of madness; and that's how it is with Johnny."
"He ought to pray about it, didn't he? A parlous, withering thing for the chap."
"So it is, and I wish he could get it drawed out, like we draw out a bad tooth. For such torments foul the mind, and naught does it quicker than love carried beyond reason. That's one thing you'll always have to be thankful for, Soosie—one among many, I hope—that you was never tangled up with a man. 'Neuter' the rude youth called you; but that ain't the word, and even if it was, there can't be no sting to it seeing the shining angels of God be all neuters and our everlasting Creator's a neuter Himself."
"'Tis quite enough to have a soul; and you can't be a neuter ezacally if you've got that," said Susan.
"More you can then. And every human woman should take her consolation out of the thought," declared Joe. "Even the caterpillars turn into winged creatures, and when a left female be disposed to envy the wives and mothers, let her remember she's as safe for her wings and crown as the best of 'em and safer than many; and more likely to be happy up over when her time comes; for the larger the family, the more chance for black sheep among 'em; and where's the woman in heaven will have such peace as you, if she's always fretting her immortal soul out over some lost boy or girl in t'other place?"
These consolations, however, awoke no answering enthusiasm in Soosie-Toosie.
"I've heard Melindy say she didn't miss a family; but nature's nature," she answered, "and 'tis a great event to have bred an immortal creature, whether or no."
"When you say 'Melindy,' you lead my thoughts into another direction," declared the farmer. "To be plain, she's in my mind. She'll be a terrible lonely one for the future—unless—— In fact I'm turning it over."
This matter interested Soosie-Toosie more than most, for her own views were clear. She would have welcomed Mrs. Honeysett at Falcon Farm and believed that, from her personal point of view, such an advent must be to the good; but she felt by no means so sure whether it would result in happiness for her father.
"I could, of course, have her for the asking, if that was all that stood to it," mused Joe. "She'd come, and there's another here and there who'd come. Then I say to myself, 'What about you?'"
"No, you needn't say that. Your good's mine and I'm very fond of Melindy. She'd suit me down to the ground, father. You need only think of yourself; and the question is whether the sudden strain of another wife would interfere with your liberty."
"I know. You may be sure I shall look all round it. I've been married; but marriage in youth is far ways different from wedding in sight of seventy. If I was a selfish sort of man, I might take the step—for my own convenience—like David, and a good few since him; but I put you first, Soosie, and I'm none too sure whether a character like Melinda might not cut the ground from under your feet."
"She wouldn't do that. I know my place. But, of course, it would be terrible sad to me if she was to cut the ground from under yours, father."
"She's wonderful," admitted Joe. "But, on the whole, she ain't wonderful enough to do that. My feet be a lot too sure planted for any woman to cut the ground from under 'em, Soosie. However, 'tis a bootless talk—feet or no feet. I'm only mentioning that she'd come if I whistled—just a pleasant subject to turn over, but no more."
He smiled at his own power and Susan admired him.
"She would come, not being a fool and knowing the man you are; and if you want her, you can put out your hand and take her; but there's a lot would go with Melinda besides herself, if you understand me."
"What?" asked Mr. Stockman.
"I don't mean her bit of money; I mean her strong character and far reaching ideas and steadfast opinions."
"And think you I don't know all that? But such a man as me might very well rub off the edges of a woman's mind where they was like to fret."
Thus Joe, albeit he had not the smallest present intention of offering marriage to Melinda, liked to ponder on the thought that this fine woman would take him. The idea tickled his fancy, and Susan knew it; but she had not the discernment to perceive that it was only an idea—a vision from which her father won greater entertainment than the reality could promise.
An observer of life has remarked that it is pleasanter to meet such men as owe us benefits, than those to whom we owe them. When, therefore, Thomas Palk appeared one Saturday afternoon in the workshop of Arthur Chaffe at Lower Town, the carpenter, guessing he came for gratitude, was pleased to see him. It was a half holiday, but Mr. Chaffe ignored such human weaknesses. He held that the increased demand for shorter working hours was among the most evil signs of the times, failing to appreciate the difference between working for yourself and other people in this regard.
Thomas plunged into an expression of gratitude immediately while the carpenter proceeded with his business.
"We've got our rise, master, and Mr. Stockman named your name and said we had to thank you for the size of the lift—me and Maynard, that is. And hearing that, I felt it was duty to do it."
"And thank you also, Thomas. Few remember such things. Joe's a wonderful man and, like yourself, ain't above giving credit to them who earn it."
"He wouldn't have gone so far single-handed."
"Don't say that. I only pushed him along the road he was taking. The employer be always reluctant to see things are worth what they'll fetch, except when he's selling his own stuff. But the Trades Unions be bent on showing them. A world of changes, as poor Enoch used to say. Not that he had much use for Trades Unions. He'd read about the Guilds of the old days and held they was powerfuller and better for some things. And they thought of the workmanship: Trades Unions only think of the worker. What I call workmanship, such as you see in this shop, I hope, be a thing of the past, save among old men like me. But the joy of making be gone."
"There's some things have got to be done right and not scamped, however."
"True; the work on the land must be done right, or the face of the earth will show it. There's only one right way to drive a furrow, or milk a cow. You can't scamp and 'ca'canny' when you'm milking a cow, Thomas. But the joy of the workmanship be gone out of work in the young men. Wages come between them and the work of their hands, and while the bricklayer jaws to the hodman, the bricks go in anyhow. Patience be the first thing. Human nature's human nature, and 'tis no use wanting better bread than's made of wheat."
"If everybody was patient," said Mr. Palk, "then the hosses, and even the donkeys, would come into their own no doubt. But patience be too often mistook for contentment; and when the masters think you'm content, they be only too pleased to leave it at that."
"Yet impatience is the first uprooter of happiness," argued Mr. Chaffe. "Take a little thing like habits. Only yesterday a particular nice, clean old woman was grumbling to me because her husband's simple custom was to spit in the fire when he was smoking; and sometimes he'd miss the fire. A nasty vexation for her no doubt; but not a thing as ought to cast a shadow over a home. Our habits are so much a part of ourselves, that it never strikes us we can worry our friends with 'em; but if you consider how the habits of even them you care about often fret you, then you'll see how often your little ways fret them."
"No doubt 'tis well to be patient with your neighbour's habits, so long as they'm honest," admitted Mr. Palk.
"Certainly; because if you don't, you'll set him thinking and find you'll get as good as you give. Patience all round be the watchword, Tom, and it would save a power of friction if it was practised. Nobody knows where his own skeleton pinches but himself, and to rate folk harshly may be doing a terrible cruel thing and touching a raw the sufferer can't help."
"Like Ben Bamsey," said the horseman. "'Tis whispered he've grown tootlish since his famous illness. That'll call for patience at Green Hayes."
"True love's always patient, my dear. Yes, the poor old man be sinking into the cloud, and the only bright thought is that he won't know it, or suffer himself. But them with brains will suffer to see him back in childhood. Yet he was always a childlike man and none the worse for it. The light's growing dim, and doctor says he'll fade gradual till he don't know one from another. And then, such is human nature, his family will change gradual too, and forget what he was, and come slow and sure to think of him as a thing like the kettle, or washing day—just a part of life and a duty and not much more."
"Better he'd died."
"You mustn't say that. He may very like have a stroke and go soon, doctor says; but he'll live so long as he's useful here to his Maker. He'll be a reminder and a lesson and a test of character. His wife will see he don't come to be just a shadow, like a picture on the wall—so will I, so far as I can. He's been a very great friend of mine and always will be, wits or no wits."
Mr. Palk, impressed with these opinions, was inspired to ask a question that had long troubled him. He had never made a very close confident of Maynard, feeling the man too young, and also doubting his ideas on various topics; but here was a Christian of general esteem and one older than himself. He debated the point while a silence fell, save for the noise of Arthur's plane.
"Tell me this," he said suddenly. "By and large would you reckon that if a man sees a wrong thing being done—or what seems a wrong thing in his eyes—did he ought to seek to right it? It ain't his business in a manner of speaking; and yet, again, wrong be everybody's business; and yet, again, others might say it weren't a wrong at all and the man's judgment in fault to say it was wrong."
Arthur cast down his plane and pondered this somewhat vague proposition. But his quick mind, even while considering the case, found a subconscious way of also speculating as to what lay behind it. He knew everybody's affairs and was familiar with a rumour that Maynard secretly paid court to Dinah Waycott. For some reason he suspected that this might be in the mind of Maynard's fellow-worker.
"You put the question very well, Tom, and yet make it a bit difficult to answer," he said. "For it ain't a straight question, but hemmed about with doubt. If you was to say you saw wrong being done and asked me if you ought to try and right it, than I should answer you that it was your bounden duty to try to right it and not let anything come between. But you ban't sure in your mind if it is wrong being done, so that's the point you've got to fasten on and clear up; and until I know more of the facts of the case, I couldn't say more than that you must be sure afore you set about it."
Thomas Palk considered this speech and did not immediately reply, while Arthur spoke again.
"Have you heard anybody else on the subject, or be it a thing only come to your own notice? Mind I don't want to know a word about it—only to help you, or, if it ain't you yourself, whoever it may be."
"It is me," answered the other. "And I see what I take to be a wrong thing going on. I don't feel no doubt myself; but I can't say as anybody else but me seems to see it. And if I was to up and say I thought so, which I ban't at all feared to do, I might open his eyes, or I might not."
"Would you be harming anybody if it was took in a wrong spirit?"
"It didn't ought to."
"There's no anger to it, nor nothing like that, Thomas?"
"Not a bit. I'm very friendly disposed to all concerned."
"Mind—don't you answer if you don't want; but is there a woman in it, Thomas?"
Mr. Palk considered.
"If there was?"
"Then be terrible careful."
"There is—and that's all I be going to tell you," answered Mr. Palk, growing a little uneasy.
The carpenter doubted not that here lay direct allusion to Dinah and Lawrence; but he had no motive, beyond inherent curiosity, for going farther into that matter then. Indeed, he saw the gathering concern of Mr. Palk and sought only to put him at his ease.
"You're not a boy," he said. "And you have got plenty of experience of human nature and a Christian outlook. I should fall back on my religion if I was you, Tom, for you can trust that to lead over the doubtfullest ground. You're not a joker-head, as would rush in and make trouble along of hasty opinions; and if you think what's doing be wrong, and if you think a word in season might do good and make the mistaken party hesitate afore he went on with it, then, in my judgment, you'd do well and wisely to speak. But keep the woman in your mind and do naught to hurt her."
Mr. Palk expired a deep breath of satisfaction at this counsel.
"So be it," he said. "I'll do it; and for the sake of a female it will be done."
"Then you won't have it on your conscience, whether or no, Thomas."
"'Tis my conscience be doing of it," said Mr. Palk; "it can't be nothing else."
Nevertheless he felt a measure of doubt on this point. His motives were beyond his own power of analysis.
"I might come and let you know the upshot one day," he said.
"You'll be welcome, and all the more so if I can do you a good turn," promised Mr. Chaffe; then Thomas went his way.
There now awaited him a very formidable deed; but he was determined not to shrink from it, while still quite unable to explain to himself the inspiration to anything so tremendous.
Circumstances swept Thomas to action sooner than he had intended and, though slow of wits, he was quickened to grasp an opportunity and essay his difficult and dangerous adventure. He had convinced himself that conscience must be the mainspring of the enterprise and assured his mind that, with such a guide, he might feel in no doubt of the result. Even if he failed and received the reward that not seldom falls to well doing, he would be able to sustain it when he considered his motives.
There came an occasion on which Joe Stockman declared himself to be ill in the tubes; and as the fact interfered with certain of his own plans, it caused him much depression and irritation. Indeed he was greatly troubled at the passing weakness and took care that Falcon Farm should share his own inconvenience. He railed and was hard to please. He reminded Palk and Maynard of their rise and hoped they would not imitate the proletariat in general and ask for more and more, while doing less and less. He criticised and carped; and while the men suffered, his daughter endured even more than they. It was possible for Lawrence and Thomas to escape to their work, and since Joe held the open air must not for the present be faced, they were safe for most of their time; but Soosie-Toosie found herself not so happily situated and when, after dinner on a wet and stormy day in early May, her father decided that he must have a mustard and linseed poultice that night, a bottle of brown sherry and a certain lozenge efficacious for the bronchial tubes, despite the atrocious weather, she gladly consented to make the journey to Ashburton.
"'Tis too foul for you to go. Better let me," ventured Thomas, when the need arose; but Mr. Stockman negatived his proposal.
"The weather's mending as any fool can see," he said, "and if it comes on worse, you'd best to take a cab home, Susan. 'Twill be the doctor to-morrow if I ban't seen to; and Lord He knows how such as me can pay doctors, with wages up and prices down same as now."
"I'm wishful to go," answered his daughter. "You bide close by the fire and I'll be gone this instant moment. Washing up can bide till I come back."
"If the pony wasn't in sight of foaling, you could have took the cart," answered Joe; "but that's outside our powers to-day. And I wouldn't ax you if I didn't think a breath of air would do you good. I know what 'tis to pine for it."
"It will do me good," she answered, and soon was gone, through lanes where the mad, spring wind raved and flung the rain slantwise and scattered fields and roads with young foliage torn off the trees.
Thomas Palk saw her go and his heart grew hard. He proceeded with his work for an hour, then the ferment within him waxed to boiling point and he prepared to strike at last. He went indoors, changed his wet jacket and entered the kitchen, where Joe sat sighing and gurgling over the fire with a tumbler of hot whisky and water beside him.
"You!" he said. "God's light! Be you feared of the weather too?"
"You know if I'm feared of weather, master. But I be taking half an hour off. There's naught calling for me special and I'm going over some weak spots in the stable timber where we want fresh wood. The big plough hoss chews his crib and us must run a bit of sheet tin over it I reckon; and there's dry rot too. But I want a word, and I'll be very much obliged to you if you'll bear with me for a few minutes."
"I bear with life in general, including you, Thomas; so speak and welcome," answered Mr. Stockman, "though I hope it's nothing calling for any great feats of mind on my part. When I get a cold in the tubes, it withers my brain like a dry walnut for the time being."
Thomas felt rather glad to know this. It might mean that his master was less able to flash retort.
"No, no," he said. "I couldn't put no tax upon your brain—ain't got enough myself. 'Tis a small matter in one sense and yet in another a large matter. Lookers on see most of the game, as they say; and though I ban't no nosey-poker, and far too busy a man, I hope, to mind any business but my own, yet, there 'tis: I live here and I can't but see us did ought to have another female servant under this roof."
"And why for, Thomas, if you'll be so good as to explain?" asked Mr. Stockman.
"Now we be coming to it," answered the horseman. "And I beg you in Christian charity to take it as it is meant—respectful and as man to master. But there 'tis: the reason why for we want another woman here is that there be a lot too much for one woman to do. And that means, as I see it, that Miss Stockman's doing the work of two women. And such things be easily overlooked, especially in her case, because she's a towser for work and don't know herself that she's got far too much upon her. She's just slipped into it, and 'tis only by looking at the affair from outside you see it is so; and through nobody's fault in particular but just by chance; yet certainly she's doing more than a human creature ought; for her work's never ended. You say you done the work of ten in your palmy days, master, so perhaps it don't fret you to see her doing the work of two at least; but the female frame ban't built to do more than a fair day's work, and in my humble opinion, as a friend of the family and proud so to be, Miss Susan's toiling a lot harder than be safe for her health; and I feel cruel sure as some day the strain will tell and she'll go all to pieces, like a worn-out engine. Not that she'd ever grumble. This very day she'll be properly drowned out afore she comes home; and I dare say will be too busy working at you when she comes back to put off her wet clothes, or think of herself. But there it is; I do believe she moils and toils beyond the limit, and I point it out and hope you'll take it as 'tis meant, from a faithful servant of the family. And if it was the other way round and I had a girl I was making work too heavy—from no unkindness, but just because I'd got used to it—if it was like that and you called my attention to it, I'd be very thankful, master."