Melinda stood at her door and spoke to her neighbour, Mr. Harry Ford, the gardener. He was a red-whiskered man of fifty, and he and Mrs. Honeysett viewed life somewhat similarly.
"You bad creature," she said, "working in your garden o' Sunday!"
This was the sort of remark on which Harry never wasted speech. He went on with his digging.
"I wish the second early potatoes were coming up so well at the Court as they are here in my little patch," he remarked. "But they haven't got the nice bit o' sand in the soil as we have."
He rested a moment.
"How's Jerry going on?" he asked. "Have it come right?"
"No, I'm sorry to say; and yet not sorry neither. She's keeping all this up because he vexed her Easter Monday. They was at Ashburton revel together and she says he took a drop too much and very near ran the trap over Holne Bridge and broke her neck coming home. And he says no such thing. But the real trouble is about the blessed shop Jane wants to start at Ashburton after marriage. She's for a tobacco shop, and Jerry wants for it to be green-grocer's, where he can do his part. My own belief is that Jane Bamsey's getting tired of Jerry. If the wedding had gone through when it was ordained, all might have been well; but owing to Ben Bamsey's illness and sad downfall after, 'twas put off. I never much liked her I may tell you, no more didn't my father."
"He must have been a bit of a wonder—a very clever man they say."
"He was a clever man."
"Did he believe in the ghost in my house, Mrs. Honeysett?"
"He did not—no more than you do."
He paused and looked at her. Melinda appeared more than usually attractive. She was in her Sunday gown—a black one, for she still mourned her parent; but she had brightened it with some mauve satin bows, and she wore her best shoes with steel buckles.
"There is a ghost in the house, however," declared the gardener.
"Never!"
"Yes—the ghost of a thought in my mind," he explained.
"Ideas do grow."
"If they stick, then they grow. Now I'll ax you a question, and you've no call to answer it if you don't want. You might say 'twas a hole in my manners to ax, perhaps."
"I'm sure you wouldn't make a hole in your manners, Mr. Ford."
"I hope not. 'Tis this, then. What might the late Mr. Withycombe have thought of Farmer Stockman up the hill?"
Melinda parried the question.
"Well, you never can say exactly what one man thinks of another, because time and chance changes the opinion. A man will vex you to-day and please you next week. Sometimes what he does and says is contrary to your opinions, and then again, he may do or say something that brings him back to you."
"He liked him and didn't like him—off and on? But he'd made up his mind in a general way about his character?"
"I suppose he had."
"I know he had."
"How should you know?"
"Because I was at the trouble to find out."
"Fancy!"
"Yes. I sounded a man here and there. I went to Chaffe, the carpenter."
"Arthur Chaffe knew father very well and respected him, though he didn't hold with his opinions about religion."
"Religion I never touch—too kicklish a subject. But I spoke to Chaffe, and being friendly disposed to me—and why not?—he said a thing I might be allowed to name to you in confidence."
"Certainly," said Melinda, "if it's nothing against my father."
"Far from it. And I hope you'll take it as 'tis meant."
"I always take everything like that."
"That's right then. Well, Chaffe, knowing me for a pretty quiet man and a hater of gossip, told me the late fox-hunter saw very clear you'd go to Joe Stockman after he was took——"
"How could he?"
"Well, I don't know how he could. But he did. And though too tender to whisper it in your ear, he told Chaffe that he was sorry!"
"Good Lord, you surprise me!"
"No business of mine, you'll say. And yet I felt somehow that if your father—such a man as him—felt sorry, there was a reason why for he should. And I won't deny but I told Chaffe he ought to mention it to you. He wouldn't, because he said the thing was too far gone."
"What's gone too far?"
"You know best. But people have ears and Stockman's got a tongue."
Mrs. Honeysett showed annoyance, while Harry returned to his potatoes.
"You're telling me what I know, however," she said.
He purposely misunderstood.
"You knew your good father didn't care for Mr. Stockman at bottom?"
"I know he's talking."
"The only thing that matters to know is your own mind, not what's in other people's, or in his."
At this moment a black-coated figure appeared on the high road and, much to Mr. Ford's regret, turned up the lane to the cottages.
"Talk of——!" he said.
It was Mr. Stockman.
"He's coming here and—and—I hoped something weren't going to happen for the minute," confessed Melinda; "but now I reckon it may be."
"Well, if you're in doubt, nobody else is," said Mr. Ford striking boldly. "Farmer's sounding his victory far and near—not a very witty thing to do when an old man's after a young woman."
Melinda ignored the compliment and viewed the approaching figure with impassive features.
"He's cut the ground from under his own feet as to his age," she answered, "for if you cry out you're old before your time, of course people must believe you."
Mr. Ford could not answer for Stockman was within earshot.
He showed a holiday humour, but reproved Harry.
"Working o' Sunday!" he said.
"There's all sorts o' work, master," replied the gardener. "I dare say now that the better the day the better the deed holds of your job so well as mine."
"You're a sharp one! And how's Melinda?"
"Very well," she said. "You wasn't to church this morning."
"I was not. I meant coming down the hill again this afternoon, to drink a dish of tea with you, if you please; and though twice up and down the hill be naught to me, yet I shirked it."
They went in together.
"Where's Jerry?" he asked.
"Mooning down to Green Hayes on the chance of getting things right."
"Good. He'll fetch her round; though I doubt she's worth it."
"So do I."
"However, I'm not here, as you'll guess, about your brother. The time has come, Melinda."
"You've let 'em name the day then—Susan and Thomas?"
"No such thing; but they'll be naming it themselves pretty soon. They'll be away in a month or two I expect. And I want for the house to be swept and garnished then. I want a lot done. I've suffered a great deal of undeserved trouble in that quarter, and there's wicked words being said about my treatment of my child. The people have short memories."
"There's wicked words being said about a lot of things. It's been said, for instance, up and down the Vale, that you've told a score you be going to marry me, Joe. That's a proper wicked thing, I should think."
He was much concerned.
"Good God! What a nest of echoes we live in! But there it is. When a thing's in the air—whether 'tis fern seed, or a bit of scandal, or a solemn truth, it will settle and stick and grow till the result appears. No doubt the general sense of the folk, knowing how I've felt to you for years, made up this story and reckoned it was one of they things that Providence let out before the event. Marriages be made in Heaven they say, Melinda."
"But they ain't blazed abroad on earth, I believe, afore both parties choose to mention it."
"Most certainly not; but if you move in the public eye, people will be talking."
"Yes, they will, if they be started talking. I met Ann Slocombe to Lower Town three days agone and she congratulated me on my engagement to you."
"Who the devil's Ann Slocombe?"
"She's a woman very much like other women. And I told her it was stuff and nonsense, and far ways from anything that had happened, or was going to happen."
"No need to have said that, I hope. 'Tis the curious case of——"
"'Tis the curious case of talking before you know," said Melinda tartly. "What would you have thought if I'd told people you'd gone down to Brixham, to offer yourself to a woman there?"
"God's my judge I——"
Mr. Stockman broke off.
"This is very ill-convenient, Melinda, and quite out of tune with me and the day, and what's in my mind. If I've spoke of you with great affection to one or two tried friends—friends now no more—then I can only ax you to overlook their freedom of speech. I've been in a very awkward position for a long time, and made of justice as you are, you must see it. For look how things fell out. First, just as I was coming to the great deed and going to ax you to be mistress of Falcon Farm, there happened your dear father's grievous illness and his death. Well, I couldn't jump at you with my heart in my hand, while you was crying your eyes out and feeling your fearful loss. And then, just as the clouds were lifting and the way clear, what happened? My misguided girl takes this false step. And that cut two ways. First there was the disaster itself, and then, in a flash, I saw that if I came to you on top of it, enemies—not you, yourself, I well knew that—enemies would be bitter quick to say I was doing it from no honour and respect to you, but to suit my own convenience, because Susan was off. So I held away, because I saw that you'd be put in a false position, with your inclination—so I hope—on one side, and your proper woman's pride on the other. And now I see what a quandary it was, and how I've let you in for these painful adventures—all from too much nice feeling, seemingly."
"You can make a case, of course, but——"
"Let me finish. I ban't here to argue, Melinda. We've known each other a good long time now and it have been the bright ray in a troublous life, your friendship for me. We looked at things from the same point of view, and took high opinions, and laughed when we ought to laugh, and was serious in due season. And good men are scarce and good women far scarcer. And there never was and never will be a better woman than you. And it would be a second spring to me to have such a one at my right hand. I want you, not for this or that accident of life as have fallen upon me; but I want you just the same as I have wanted you any time these ten years. I couldn't speak till your father was gone, and I couldn't speak after, and in solemn truth, being a man of pretty nice feelings, I couldn't speak an hour before this instant moment. So you must sweep such trifles out of your mind and come to the question with no bias, but just your honest feelings to me and your memory of the past. So there it lies, my dear."
Mrs. Honeysett hesitated a few moments before replying—not because she was in any doubt as to her answer, but from a native sense that all must be done decently and in order.
Joe made the best of the situation and probably, had Melinda's attitude to him remained unchanged, a look back into memory, as he suggested, might have won the day for Mr. Stockman. She was conscious that a year ago she would have pardoned his errors of egotism. She even suspected that, as things were, they did not really lie at the root of the matter. But the root of the matter extended into new ground. Here, however, she could not pursue it. She only told herself that she would never marry Mr. Stockman now; and while sharing his opinion, that her little grievances were really unimportant and not worthy of being offered as a reason for refusal, she only considered how, without them, she might gracefully decline. She let her tongue go and trusted to chance. Then she suddenly saw a way and took it.
"Us have had a very fine friendship indeed, Joe," she admitted, "and, in my humble opinion, it would be a terrible mistake to spoil it this way. For say what you may, friendship ain't love and love ain't friendship; and I do feel, betwixt me and you, it might be a sad pity to lose the substance for the shadow."
"You talk as if love would end friendship, instead of double it, Melinda," he answered; but he was quick-minded and he knew the woman meant to decline him. The thought immeasurably troubled Mr. Stockman, for he had assumed success to be certain. He had, indeed, already proceeded far beyond this point and planned his future with Melinda. He argued now and made a very strenuous effort to prove that there is no friendship like that of married people. He argued, also, that such an understanding as had obtained between him and Melinda since his wife's death was sufficient foundation for a very perfect and distinguished union.
She admitted that it might be so, but declined the experiment. She held that love too often endangered and weakened friendship, even if it did not actually destroy it; and she told him frankly, but with all consideration, that her friendship and admiration for him did not tend in that direction.
"I'm very much addicted to you, Joe, and you've been a big figure in my life for years, and will so continue I hope; but marriage with you don't draw me. You've been like an elder brother to me, and I hope you'll see your way to remain like that. But 'twould spoil all if we went into marriage. And, in a word, I couldn't do it, because my feelings don't respond."
"This is a very painful shock to me," he answered. "Somehow, such was you to me and, as I thought, me to you, that I felt the step could only be a matter of time; and what's more, Melinda, you never did nothing to make me feel otherwise—quite the contrary in fact. I don't say you—however, we'll not go into that side. You know what I mean."
"I do; and we will go into it, Joe, and have done with it. If you think I encouraged you——"
"What do you think?"
"Never—God's my judge! I was very proud of being your friend, and I got plenty of wisdom and good advice from you; and you often took a hint from me also. But nothing tender ever passed between us—never."
"That depends on what you call tenderness. To the seeing eye and feeling heart there may be a world of tenderness in a glance, Melinda, or in a silence, or in a handshake. I did most honestly believe you felt more than friendship for me, just as I have long felt more than friendship for you. And I showed as much, by a lot of touches that a quick woman like you couldn't have mistook. No, no, Melinda, that won't do. You knew."
"I'll take the blame, then, if you think I ought."
"Don't talk of blame. Consider if you ain't making a mistake. You're simply wasted single, and here's a tidy sort of man offering; and all his is yours, from the hour you say 'yes.' Weigh it. I know only too well what I'll lose if you don't come to me. In fairness, then, you did ought to consider if you don't lose pretty heavy too."
"Of course, of course. To lose your friendship would be a very great disaster for me, Joe. It's been a steadfast and lasting thing, and I should feel a cruel lot was gone if that was gone. But if it is to be a choice—— No; leave it as 'tis between us, my dear man. Let's be friends and forget this. I'll get 'e a cup of tea."
"As to friends, you don't quite see what you're doing yet, I'm afraid. You'm acting in an astonishing way that throws down the past, Melinda, and makes you like the rough and tumble of women—them with no fixed views and opinions, as don't know their own mind—if they've got minds to know. I'll be off instanter, Melindy, and leave you in hope that you'll think this thing out and find you're on the edge of a terrible mistake. I never thought I'd misunderstood you like this. Indeed, if I had fancied there was a doubt, I should have probably been too proud to offer at all."
He rose and prepared to depart.
Mrs. Honeysett, glad that he remained calm, was also thankful that he should go.
"I'll never lose sight of you in my mind, or in my prayers," she said.
"I came in full sail," he answered; "now I go off like a ship without a mast, or a rudder. It'll puzzle me to my dying day how you could be so harsh."
He left her in deep dejection, which warmed to anger before he had reached home. He convinced himself that Melinda had played him false. For years there had been an implicit understanding in his mind that he had but to put forth his hand to take. And he had been tender and abounded in the little "touches" he mentioned. These Melinda had perfectly comprehended and even appreciated. Nay, she had repaid them in kind. The effect of her refusal was bad. Mr. Stockman saw his stable world reeling about him. He had barely recovered from the shock of Susan's engagement and now, after carefully rebuilding his future environment and allowing himself to dwell philosophically on the bright side of it, he found all in ruins and further necessity for fresh plans.
And that same evening, after supper, when Thomas Palk and Susan had crept out for a walk, Lawrence Maynard came to the master of Falcon Farm and gave notice.
"There's no hurry," he said. "I'm at your service, master, so long as you want me; but I've made up my mind to leave England in the autumn and see a bit of the world before it's too late. I think to go by Michaelmas, or a bit after—to Australia very like—and take up land."
To Maynard's amazement Joe turned upon him with something almost of fury. His cowman knew not of Joe's earlier reverse and all that he had that day been called to endure.
"What—what are you telling me? You going too? You ungrateful devil! You thankless, selfish toad! What have I done—what on God's earth have I done—to be turned down and flouted and tormented at every step of my life in this way? A man whose every act and thought be kindness for other people; and now every man's hand be against me! Persecution I call it; and you—you, who have had to thank me for far more than goes between master and man; you, as I have offered friendship to, and trusted and treated more like a son than a servant! You ought to be shamed to the marrow in your bones to think to leave me—an old, careworn, ill-used wretch with one foot in the grave and all the world turning its back on him."
"Don't—don't!" said Lawrence. "Don't take on like that. There's no hurry for a few months. I've been very proud and grateful for all you've done for me, Mr. Stockman."
"Get out of my sight," answered the other. "There's no honesty, nor honour, nor plain dealing left in man or woman, so far as I can see. It's a hell of a world, and I wish a good few people as I could name, yourself included, had never come into it. My lines have fallen in shameful places, and if I wasn't too old, I'd shake the dust off my shoes against Buckland and everybody in it."
Then Maynard retreated and left Joe panting heavily and staring into the kitchen fire.
He had gone to bed when Susan returned, and she and Tom and Maynard mumbled in low voices for an hour while the latter described his experience. To Stockman's daughter this outburst signified far more than it did to either of the men, for she guessed upon what business her father had been employed that afternoon, and now knew that a terrible disappointment must have overtaken him. She wept half the night on his account and mourned not a little on her own; for Joe's failure must inevitably increase her personal difficulties and double the future problems of Thomas and herself.
Under the first grey of dawn, Maynard posted a letter in the empty wrens' nest and then proceeded down the hill to Lower Town. He was on an errand from Falcon Farm to Mr. Chaffe, and then he would proceed to a farm on the moor, about the purchase of two heifers. For Stockman had long since found that Lawrence knew as much concerning cattle as himself. The present arrangements had been made before the cowman gave notice, and his latest letter to Dinah chronicled the fact that he had done so. He answered also her last note. The letter-box worked well and many communications had been exchanged. Dinah's were full of love and ardour. Her plans amused him. They shared one determination; to take nothing with them. They would sail from Plymouth for Australia presently and they would be married at Sydney as soon as possible after landing. Maynard's money was more than enough and their passages would be state-aided. Preliminaries were complete and there remained only to fix their place of meeting and date of sailing. Then they would simultaneously disappear.
Mr. Chaffe was already in his workshop when Maynard appeared.
"Early birds both!" said he. "I know what you've come about, however. Joe wants me to look into his stables, where the dry rot have got, and see how much must come out and be made good."
"That's right, Mr. Chaffe."
"I've been waiting and expecting it since Palk made the sad discovery. But no doubt your master has his mind pretty full of greater things."
"He has, I'm afraid. And it's making him fall short of his usual sense here and there."
"A man full of sense, however."
"So I've always found him, and full of human kindness also. I've a lot to thank him for—a very good friend to me. But a few days agone I gave notice, because I'm going farther afield before I'm too old, and he took it very bad indeed."
"My! You going too? Where?"
"To Australia. I want to see a bit of life and start fresh."
"And Joe didn't like it?"
"No; but he'll easily find a new cowman. There's nothing to get so savage about that I can see."
"He'd come to look at you as part of his show. No doubt, falling on his other troubles—— But he knows where to look for comfort I should hope. After all, it's but a passing thing. I always say that we who live in a Vale ought to know what a vale means. Life's gone a thought too flowing and easy with Joe. This is all meant to make him think of Beyond."
"Thought of the next world don't make trouble anything less than trouble."
"It ought then."
"Look after this world and the next will look after itself, Mr. Chaffe."
"A very dangerous opinion, Maynard, and I'm sorry you think so. It shows a weakness in you. That ain't the Christian standpoint and you know it."
"Your views are behind the times perhaps."
"Far from it: they're ahead of the times. It's the still, small voice ain't heard in these days. The world knows its noisiest men, not its greatest; and so it don't know its Saviour—not even yet."
"Life's life, Mr. Chaffe, and what you hold runs counter to life. It's no sense preaching earthly misery to humans, because they're built to hate misery and seek happiness."
"I don't preach misery. I only preach that happiness must be looked for in the next world, not this one. It don't belong here and never will."
Maynard shook his head.
"I've thought of these things and I see your Church standing between man and a lot of lawful happiness. Let the Church help to clear up the cruel mess in this world."
"Then join the brotherhood of God and do your share."
"Only the brotherhood of man can do it. Justice ain't the possession of you Church people alone. And while you demand such a lot of injustice, you'll only lose your friends. Take marriage. You won't let marriage be a human thing, nor yet divorce. You let marriage be a trap for people—easy to get in, impossible to get out—then you've got the face to say it's God's will—the God of love and mercy!"
"I'm sorry to hear you talk in this wicked way, and I know where you learnt such bad learning," answered Arthur. "But Enoch Withycombe wouldn't say those things now, Maynard. He's in the Light now, and it would make him a very sad man to hear you."
"I didn't get my opinions from him. I only keep my eyes open and see how life goes; and I know there's hundreds and hundreds of poor people living in misery to-day, because you say God brought 'em together, instead of the Devil."
"We'll talk about this another time. I must try to open your eyes if I can. You stand on very dangerous ground and your little bit o' learning's like a Jack o' Lantern—it'll land you in a bog if you don't watch it. John Bamsey's much the same, only his doubts take him in another direction. The mischief with you young men is that you think your own twopenny-halfpenny opinions matter; and in his case, he lets a small thing like his own experience poison his life and spoil his Christian outlook."
"Your own experience isn't a small thing," argued Lawrence, but the carpenter declared personal experience a very trumpery matter.
"Only the weak mind will let the things that happen to it influence conscience and the knowledge of right and wrong," he said. "Our faith is founded on a Rock, remember, and our bad luck and earthly frets and cares did only ought to make us cling the stouter to that Rock."
They talked but did not convince each other. Then Lawrence went his way, leaving in the mind of Mr. Chaffe considerable uneasiness. In the carpenter's knowledge there were not a few who professed similar opinions, and it greatly saddened him to see the younger generation slipping away from the faith of its fathers. He held that no sound democracy was possible without religion, and to hear young men say that religion had no more to do with democracy than football, was a serious grief to him.
Meantime there had happened behind Lawrence Maynard's back a thing of much import. Though the hour was still early, two people entered the lane through the woods some fifty minutes after he had descended it, and their arrival synchronised at the region of the ivy bank and the wrens' nest. A few seconds more would have seen Jerry Withycombe past the spot, on his way to work in the valley; but chance so willed it that, as he rounded a bend on his way, he saw beneath him, but still far distant, a woman's sun-bonnet, and he recognised its faded blue. She with whom his melancholy thoughts were concerned was evidently approaching, and the fact that she should be out so early, and on the way she knew he must be travelling to his work, created sudden, deep emotion in the woodman. His quarrel with Jane bulked larger in his eyes than in hers. She continued to be obdurate about a trifle, from no opinion that the trifle really mattered, but because it gave her a sense of freedom and a loophole if she so desired. She continued to be really fond of Jerry, and it wanted no great change of mind to bring them together. Indeed she proposed ere long to make it up. And now it seemed as though she were about to do so, and had put herself to trouble and risen early to meet him on his way.
A few moments, however, brought large disappointment for the man. At sight of the sun-bonnet, he had backed and waited to watch. Now he quickly perceived the approaching figure was not Jane's slim shape, but Dinah's ampler proportions. He was cast down from a great hope and scowled at the innocent Dinah. Then a ray of light shot his darkness, for it occurred to him that Dinah might be a messenger of good tidings. At any rate the sun-bonnet was Jane's—picked up haphazard no doubt, when Dinah set forth.
He waited and watched a few moments before proceeding, then marked Dinah stop and do a strange thing. She had not come to seek him it seemed after all; but something she sought and something she found.
In truth the lover of Lawrence was there to leave a letter. She did not expect one and was the more delighted to find the note left an hour before. Jerry saw her peep about, to be sure she was alone, then go to the green bank, insert her hand and bring out a small white object from the ivy. She stood and evidently read a letter. Still he held back, in great wonder at this scene. Dinah next produced something from her own pocket, opened it and appeared to write. She was adding a few words to the note that she had brought. She then put it in the nest and was quickly gone again down the hill.
Jerry waited till Dinah had disappeared; then, having marked the spot where she stood, he shouldered his frail and proceeded. Already he had a suspicion of the truth and presently made cautious search under the ivy-curtain. Nothing rewarded him until he found the old nest and a piece of paper therein. It was folded closely but conveyed no information on the outside. He held it in his hand a few moments and his mind worked in a selfish direction. Here was an item of tremendous interest to one person. He did not doubt that the letter was intended for a man, and felt very sure the fact proved his own sweetheart's assurance: that Dinah was secretly engaged, if not married. His thoughts were with Jane, and it seemed to him that chance had now thrown him an admirable opportunity to win her back. For such a secret as this would be meat and drink to her. Nor need it hurt Dinah. Jerry had not the slightest desire to hurt anybody; but he felt that his information might be well worth Jane's forgiveness; and if Dinah were indeed courting a local man, no harm could befall either her, or him, by the fact of their secret escaping. There might be a good joke in it: that anything to distress and confound the secret lovers could spring from his discovery he did not guess.
To him, then, this post office of Dinah and an unknown appeared a great and delightful find, capable of doing him a very good turn. It meant a triumph for Jane—a sort of triumph she would appreciate; but it also meant a bargain that should recover Jane's friendship before completion.
To find the unknown man would be easy now; indeed Jerry guessed that he had only to open the letter to learn it; but that was not an action possible to him. He restored the folded paper to its place, marked the spot very carefully and was content to leave the rest to Jane. She would have to see him, and that for the moment she declined to do; but he proposed to himself a visit after his day's work and doubted not that, if he pressed it forcibly enough, she might consent. Failing that, he would have to proceed single-handed with his inquiry. He felt sure enough that Jane had all along been right in her conviction that Maynard was the man, and he already anticipated her triumph if this should prove to be so.
That night he called at Green Hayes and it was Dinah who answered his knock. Jerry felt uncomfortable, but salved his conscience and invited her friendship.
She, knowing very well why he was come, left him and returned to the kitchen.
"Jerry wants to see you half a minute, Jane," she said. "He won't keep you, but he's got something to say as you must hear. It's a wonderful thing, he says, and will interest you a lot."
Jane, however, showed no immediate inclination to respond.
"Like his cheek," she said. "Didn't I tell the know-naught fool that when I wanted him I'd let him know?"
"Well, he wants you. And he's bursting with news seemingly. He begged me very earnest to ask you to see him."
"Perhaps his patience is out," said Mrs. Bamsey. "Perhaps he's come to give you up, Jane."
"No," she said. "I ban't feared of that. I only want him to see sense over a little matter here and there. If we are to be married in the autumn, he's got to understand about a few things."
Jane's secrets were secrets no longer. Her dream of a shop at Ashburton was now common knowledge.
"Go to him then. You've kept it up long enough if you really want him," said her mother.
"What should he have to tell me, except he's come round to my views?" asked Jane.
"Perhaps he has," replied Dinah.
Jane rose, dropped a story book and went out. There was a mumble of voices. Then Dinah and Faith heard her go down the garden path with Jerry.
"Thank goodness that's over," said Dinah. "Now you'll have peace, Mrs. Bamsey."
"I don't know," answered the elder. "They're not really well suited. Jane did ought to have taken a town man."
"She'll break him in to bricks and mortar after a bit," prophesied Dinah. "They love each other properly enough."
"If that was so, there'd be no talk of breaking in," said Jane's mother.
Meantime Jerry had spoken.
"It's very kind of you to see me," he said, "and you won't regret it. I've got a great piece of news for you, and it's a triumph for you, Jane, and if you agree to come round and make it up and be same as you was, I'll tell you."
"What's the great news you'd be likely to hear?"
"I didn't hear it: I found it out. And it'll be a lot more to you than me for that matter."
They talked like children.
"Very well then I'll hear it."
"And be friends?"
"I'll be friends, if it's such great news as you say."
"No; that means you'll go back on it after. You must be friends. And we'll regard it still open about the shop. And you needn't fear my news ain't great. 'Tis a triumph for you, and everybody will say so."
Jane's triumphs were few. She considered. She had not the faintest idea of the matter in his mind, yet was glad to be close to him again and hear his voice.
"All right then," she said. "The shop can wait."
"Will you come out for an hour? Then you shall see something, as well as hear tell about it."
She turned, picked up the sun-bonnet that Dinah had donned in the morning, and followed him.
He made her kiss him and then they went up the hill as he told his story in every particular.
"And why for I've fetched you out," he said, "is because you shall see it with your own eyes."
She was deeply interested.
"And 'tis greatly to your credit," declared Jerry, "for you've seen through it from the first, like the clever one you are. 'Tis a feather in your cap, Jane."
"It fits in very suent," she answered, "because Maynard's given warning and be off presently; and if 'tis him, then no doubt they'll be off together. And God knows that won't trouble me."
"Why all this secret business?" asked Jerry. "There's no law against 'em marrying if they want to. What be they shamed of?"
"Can't you see that? The man who's after Dinah must know all about the past and how she served John. He's feared of John. My brother's took this like any proud man would. He's not going to have his name dragged in the dirt and take his wicked wrongs lying down."
Jerry was concerned.
"You don't mean to tell me this is any business of John's? Surely to God he's got sense enough to——?"
"You can leave John," she said, to calm his anxiety. "I'm not one to make trouble I'm sure. I'm only telling you. The chap after Dinah is afeared of John, and that's why they're keeping it close hid. What other reason can they have?"
"Then I do beg you'll respect their secret plans so far," urged Jerry. "I'm not telling you this for any mischief against anybody. I only wanted for you to have the pleasure of finding yourself in the right; and I thought 'twould be a bit of fun to let everybody know of it, and surprise Dinah and him and have a laugh at 'em—all friendly and well meaning. But if you tell me Johnny still means to be evil disposed to anybody as looks at Dinah, then the case is altered, for that means trouble."
But Jane was not prepared to lose the salt of the adventure for Jerry, or anybody. She kept her intentions secret, however.
"John's not a fool. I didn't mean that he'd do anything. What could he do? I only meant that the man, whoever he is, feels frightened of him. Of course there's no reason why he should be. Only a coward would be. So he's fair game anyway."
"If 'tis to be a laughing matter, I'll go on—not else," vowed Jerry; but she assured him that nothing but laughter would end the incident in any case.
They climbed the hill and he picked up his marks; then bade Jane light matches while he hunted for the nest. It was quickly found; she put her hand in and drew out Dinah's letter deposited that morning.
"He haven't come for it yet," said Jerry. "So us had better be moving, for he might be on his way this minute."
But Jane delayed and held the letter in her hand.
"If he only comes by night, we shall never find out who it is," she answered. "And you've been a very clever chap indeed, Jerry; and the rest you can leave with me. And don't you fear no trouble—of course not."
There was an obvious desire in her mind; but she guessed what Jerry would think of it and so kept it hidden and returned the letter to the nest.
"Well, you're a great wonder to find this out," she said, "and I'll keep my word and be friends. Don't you whisper a word to a soul yet. Leave it to me."
"No, no—this is your bit of fun," he declared. "They'll puzzle like fury to know how it slipped out, and us'll all roar with laughter at 'em I expect."
Indeed, he laughed in anticipation.
"Hush!" she said. "The man may be on his way now. I'll see you Sunday afternoon. And I'll find out for sure who the chap is by then, if I've got to hide and watch for him."
Jerry was overjoyed and embraced her.
"Sunday, then, and thank God we'm all right again, and us must never fall out no more, Jane; and I shall always feel kindly to these people, whether or no, because they've done this good deed for us."
Then they parted, each promising the other to keep a sharp look out on any passer-by. Jerry went his way in the best possible spirits and Jane started to run down the hill. But she did not run far and after her lover was out of the way, she stole back. She had kept his box of matches and now did a thing Jerry had probably forbidden. Not perhaps that his objection might have stopped her, but Jane's mind moved swiftly. Before all else it was desirable to find out the man, and she felt that nobody but a fool would waste time in detective operations while so simple an expedient as opening a letter offered. She had observed that Dinah's missive was merely folded, not sealed, and now she returned to the nest, found it and satisfied herself. Jane's honesty reached a point that amply soothed conscience. She had no intention to read the letter: that she would have held an improper action; but if the first words indicated the recipient, as she doubted not they would, then a great deal of time and trouble might be saved.
Jane opened the letter, having first listened that no approaching footfall broke the silence. Then she struck another match, read the words, "My darling Man," and hesitated. The match went out and she stood with the letter in her hand. Experience told her, from her own occasional communications to Jerry, that one might begin with an endearing but vague term and yet, at some later point in one's communication, mention the loved object by name. Dinah's large, free handwriting was easily seen and Jane considered that it would be possible to skim the letter, without really reading it, on the chance of finding the information she desired. This astute reasoning was rewarded, for, on the second sheet, as her eyes flickered along the lines, the name "Lawrence" very clearly appeared. Then she stopped, dropped her match, folded the letter carefully, restored it to its place and was gone.
"There's only one 'Lawrence' in these parts," thought Jane. Her reflections were now entirely with her brother. She did not echo Jerry's wish, that the matter should end in laughter, and clever though Jane was in some directions, there was a streak of malevolent idiocy about her in others. She now cherished a vague opinion that the man ought to suffer for his secret love-making. She despised him for a coward and rejoiced to think that John might do something drastic in the matter. That Maynard should be called upon to suffer seemed entirely reasonable to Jane; while as far as Dinah was concerned, she panted with delight that her little schemes were now to be made as public as the bird's-nest she had trusted with them. She hated Dinah and had always done so. Anything therefore that could make Dinah miserable must commend itself to Jane.
"And she shall know who she's got to thank, too," reflected the maiden; "there wouldn't be much in it for me if she didn't hear who'd found her out."
Full of these unamiable intentions Jerry's sweetheart returned home and announced that she and her lover were reconciled.
"Thank the Lord for that, then," cried Dinah. "And don't you give him a chance to quarrel again. 'Tis good time lost, Jane."
"You mind your own love affairs," answered the other tartly. "Us all know you've got 'em; but be too shamed of 'em, seemingly, to make 'em public."
With this crushing response Jane retired while Dinah stared after her.
"Don't mind the girl," said Faith Bamsey. "You be such a woman of mystery since you went off about your affairs, that you mustn't quarrel with people if they fling their words at you."
"I don't want to quarrel with anybody, Mrs. Bamsey," answered Dinah.
Susan and Thomas were returning from church, where they had sat solemnly together and heard their banns called for the first time of asking. Mr. Stockman, informed that this would happen, declined to go; indeed of late he had worshipped but seldom, permitting personal trials to check his devotions. The betrothed pair discussed Susan's father on the way home and Palk held it an impropriety that Mr. Stockman should not have been present.
"Out of respect to you, he did ought to have been there," he said; "and it's a very oneasy thing; because the next we shall hear may be that he won't come to the wedding neither."
"He's a regular Job for the minute—first one thing took and then another, till I dare say he feels the Lord have turned from him," murmured Susan.
"Not at all. Naught have overtook him that ain't well inside the common lot. Look at the items—firstly, his daughter gets engaged to be married to his hossman—a thing that ought to rejoice him instead of cast him down; secondly, his cowman gives notice—a thing that may happen to any farmer; and thirdly, yonder woman won't take him."
Thomas pointed where, fifty yards ahead of them, Melinda and her brother were walking home from church.
Soosie-Toosie nodded mournfully.
"There's no doubt. And that's a very harsh blow for father anyway. He'd always counted he could fall back on Melinda, like you put by a nest egg for the rainy day. And I'm a good bit disappointed in that quarter—quite as much as father in fact. But you mustn't whisper it, Tom; because of course the world ain't supposed to know father offered and got turned down."
"Other people won't pretend if we do," answered Mr. Palk. "He blew the trumpet about it himself, and everybody well understands that Mrs. Honeysett refused him."
"I'd give a fortune to know why," answered Joe's daughter. "Some day I'll ax her, I shouldn't wonder. Meantime I'd very much like to talk to her on another subject; and that's us."
"We must go on our appointed way. We don't want no outside opinions."
They overtook Melinda, and while Thomas talked with Jerry, the women fell back and Susan spoke of private affairs. She explained her gathering difficulties and Melinda listened with a good deal of sympathy.
"'Tis very undignified of your father, Susan—more like a naughty, disappointed child, than a man with fame for sense. I allow for him, because a good few things have happened to shake him; yet, so far as you and Mr. Palk are concerned, it did ought to be all joy and gladness."
"So it ought; but far from it," answered the other. "Father's got to such a pass now that when I tell him I'm wishful to name the day, he dares me to do so."
"Very wilful and unkind, and something ought to be done about it," declared Mrs. Honeysett. "I've been thinking a good deal on Joe lately, as I dare say you can guess; and no doubt you know very well why he came to see me a fortnight agone, Soosie. But I don't forget the past and I don't want to lose his friendship, nor yet yours. And I've thought a lot about you and him."
They lagged and mumbled together for some time; but it was clear that Melinda's views commended themselves much to Susan, and when they joined Jerry and Thomas at the turn to Mrs. Honeysett's house, Joe Stockman's daughter thanked her friend gratefully for some inspiring suggestions.
She talked without ceasing to Tom all the way home, and he listened and nodded and declared there might be a good deal in it.
"'Tis a great thought," he said, "and if you feel kind to it, then I might. Us'll see—'tis a rod to hold over the man, because it be full time for your father to find out where he stands."
"'Tis a sort of bargain of course," admitted Susan; "but you wouldn't call it a one-sided bargain."
"Not at all. It lets him out so as he can save his face before the folk. And it shows him what good-tempered creatures you and me are."
Thomas thought it might be possible to speak at the end of that day.
"I'll ax him to have a spot out of my bottle to-night," he said, "and if he condescends so far as to do so, then I'll open on him—not otherwise."
Mr. Palk was disappointed, however, for during the evening there came in John Bamsey to supper.
He appeared to be in a good temper and hid the object of his visit until after the meal was ended. He spoke chiefly of his own work on the river, and then of his father. Mr. Bamsey had sunk to be the mere husk of a man and his son frankly hoped that he might soon pass away.
"To know he was dead wouldn't be half so wisht as to see him alive like this," he said.
John was tactful with regard to Susan and Thomas. Indeed, he congratulated them out of earshot of Cousin Joe, and hoped it would be all right. To Maynard he was civil and no more.
Then, when opportunity came to do so, unheard by anybody else, he asked Mr. Stockman to walk out and smoke a pipe as he had something private to tell him. Joe was bored, for no affairs but his own interested him at this moment; but he obliged the younger, and through a warm, thundery night they strolled upon the Beacon. For a time the elder uttered general grievances and when he mentioned Lawrence Maynard, John struck in.
"That's why I wanted to get you away from them. There's a bit of news about Maynard; but perhaps you know it. And when it's out, he's got to reckon with me."
"Maynard's a very disappointing chap," declared the farmer. "Never did I like a man better, and never did I treat a man better, and I'm quite reasonable in that quarter when I say this is no ordinary case of a hand giving notice. He's outside his right to do any such thing with me; for I've been as good as a father to him for very near two years, and he well knew I never counted upon his going, and he's got no justice or honesty in him to do so."
"No, there's not much honesty or justice in him. And I dare say you wondered why he was going."
"I wondered certainly."
"I'll tell you. He's going to be married, and he couldn't dare to be married here, because he knew that he'd got me to reckon with. So he's planned it on the quiet, and he'll disappear presently no doubt; and then somebody else will disappear too. And that's Dinah Waycott."
Mr. Stockman was much agitated.
"Good powers! D'you know what you're saying, John?" he asked.
"Very well indeed. And I'll tell you how it was; but I don't want Maynard to know his dirty job be found out, and I'll beg you to keep dumb about it till things are a bit forwarder. I can get forty shillings or a month out of him, and give him a damned good hiding and disgrace him for his underhand, blackguard conduct—stealing another man's girl—but I want to do a bit more than that if it's in my power. And so long as you're not on his side no more, you'll be the best one to help me. I'd do a lot to break this off and punish Dinah, same as she punished me; and why not? She deserves it quite so well as him."
"Begin at the beginning," said Joe. "Tell me what you know. I'm your side without a doubt in this matter. There's a lot hid here you don't understand, and, for the credit of human nature, I hope you're wrong. This may be something that you've given ear to, out of ill feeling against Orphan Dinah. You must be terrible sure of your ground, for there's very good reasons why you ought to be mistaken. But if you're right, then you be the tool of Providence and it's well you came to me."
Johnny, who had learned everything from Jane, told the story with only one addition contrary to facts. Jane lied in a minor particular and concealed the incident of looking into Dinah's letter. Instead she declared that she had hidden herself, and watched, and seen Maynard come for the letter and leave another on the following evening in late dusk. The conclusion amounted to the same thing.
Joe was deeply impressed.
"I always held him a bit sly," he said, "and I've lived to find him ungrateful and hard-hearted where I'd every right to expect something very different. He struck me at the very moment when a decent man would have scorned to do so, with all my own troubles thick upon me. But this is something a lot deeper than his conduct to me, and even a lot worse."
"I'm glad you think so," answered John. "I'm very glad you see he's a secret, cowardly sort of one. He kindiddled Dinah away from me no doubt; and very like it is Providence, as you say; and if you don't think he ought to marry her, then I hope you'll help me to prevent it."
Johnny felt exalted. He had not expected much from his visit to his kinsman; he had even feared that Joe might already know the facts and attach no importance to them; but it seemed that Mr. Stockman was quite of John's opinion. Indeed he declared so.
"I certainly think they ought not to marry," he answered. "And I think a great deal more than that. Keep your mouth shut close for the present. There's plenty of time—unless."
"When's the man going?"
"No date be fixed."
"My mother was put out when Dinah went off a bit ago. She got the idea from Jane that Dinah had gone to be married then. But when they taxed her, she swore she had not."
"She couldn't tell a lie if she was paid to," declared Mr. Stockman, "and Maynard certainly weren't in that, because he was here and I saw him every day about his business. We must rest the blame on the right pair of shoulders. And it'll break 'em without a doubt. But we'd best to go careful. Don't you take a step alone. How many know?"
"Only Jane and Jerry and me."
"Maynard don't suspect?"
"Neither of 'em—they couldn't."
"Then tell your sister and Withycombe to keep dumb as mice for the minute; and so will I. This is a very serious thing indeed—and a great shock to me. To think he was that sort!"
John was pleased but mystified. He failed to see why this event should make so tremendous an impression on Mr. Stockman.
"I'm very glad you think it is so bad," he said. "I was in a bit of doubt if you'd take my side."
"As to sides," answered Joe, "I'm going to take the side of right, which is no more than to say I'll do my duty. And that looks pretty clear. I dare say you are a bit astonished, but understand me. I'm not making your quarrel mine, and I don't hold at all with your talk about forty shillings or a month out of Lawrence Maynard. This goes a very great deal deeper than forty shillings or a month, I may tell you. I'll say no more for the minute; but I shan't do naught till I've seen you again. Only keep this in mind: Maynard ain't planning this hookem snivey job and doing it all in secret, because he's afraid of you, but because he's afraid of me."
Johnny became more and more puzzled. It was clear, however, that he had won a powerful friend and might now hope to strike a harder stroke than any with his fist.
"So long as you be going to queer the man's pitch, and punish him, and get Dinah away from him, I don't care a damn," he said. "If Dinah finds out; but perhaps he's made her think——"
"Yes; he's made her think a lot, and he's told her a great many dark and devilish falsehoods—that's very clear indeed," answered Joe.
"And if her eyes be opened, she may come back to sense yet!" cried the sanguine youth. "Shame will show her the truth perhaps."
Mr. Stockman did not answer. He was occupied with his own reflections.
"This shakes me to the vitals," he declared presently. "I thought I knew pretty well all there was to that man; and I knew less than naught. If anybody had said he was a wicked scoundrel, I'd have denied and defied it; but——"
They had descended from the Beacon and were walking on the Buckland road. Then Joe stopped.
"You go your way now," he said, "and leave me to put this together. You do naught and I'll do naught for the minute. But there may not be any too much time. He was going at Michaelmas. 'Tis certain now that's a blind. He'll take French leave presently and we've got to be before him. Come to supper o' Wednesday, John. Then us'll see how it looks. That poor woman—as honest a creature as ever stepped."
"If he's up to any tricks——"
"He is, by God! Now I'll leave you. And be so silent as the grave till you see me again."
Deeply wondering and greatly rejoicing at his success, John Bamsey went down the hill, while Mr. Stockman turned and slowly ascended. His excitement gave way to listlessness presently, for this discovery and the subsequent sensation could not advance Joe's own problems. He considered for a moment whether any course existed by which advantage could accrue to himself out of Maynard's position; but he saw none.
A trap from Ashburton descended, flashing its lights through the leafy darkness of the road; and when the ray illuminated Mr. Stockman, he heard a woman's voice bid the driver pull up. It was Mrs. Honeysett who spoke, and she seized an opportunity to relieve the existing painful conditions. For she had not seen Joe since she declined him; but here was an excuse and she took it.
"You'll be wondering what I'm doing at this time of night," she said, "but I can't pass you."
Then she alighted and a man alighted with her.
"Just been to Ashburton to meet my brother, Robert," she explained. "You remember him. He's home for a bit at last."
A huge figure towered in the gloom over Joe and a heavy hand grasped his own.
"I remember you," said the farmer, "but I forgot you were such a whacker. Sailed all the Seven Seas, I suppose, since you was last to Buckland?"
"He's two inches taller than what dear father was," declared Melinda, relieved to find Mr. Stockman in a humour apparently amiable. "Robert's going to take a nice rest along with me. In fact he doubts sometimes if he'll go back to sea at all."
"No, no—I don't doubt that," answered the sailor. "But I be going to give work a rest."
"And find a wife, if he can," continued Melinda. "Us must help him, Joe."
"I always swore as I'd marry a maiden from the Vale," said Robert Withycombe.
"The puzzle will be to find one, I tell him," laughed Melinda "I know a likely girl all the same, and so does Mr. Stockman, Bob."
Joe guessed to whom she referred, and it showed him that Melinda knew nothing of the threatened tragedy.
"I reckon you mean Orphan Dinah," he said. "Well and why not? A very sensible young woman. The man that gets her will be lucky."
"They'd be a proper pair and I hope Bob will think well of her. But he must be warned that she's already changed her mind in one quarter."
"That's not against her," replied Joe. "That shows strength of character and she had every right to do so. I only hope I know another woman who'll be wise enough to change her mind."
Before this veiled attack, Melinda was silent and Robert spoke.
"My girl, when she comes along, won't have no time to change her mind. She've got to marry me and be quick about it. Then us must find a little house to Southampton, or else Plymouth."
Stockman, with certain ideas moving in his head, issued an invitation.
"Perhaps you'll be in luck—who knows? I'd pleasure you for your sister's sake, because she and me are very good friends, and I hope always will be. You come to supper o' Wednesday, Robert, and bring Jerry along with you. I don't ax you, Melinda—not this time. I want to have a tell with your brothers; mind you make 'em come."
"Come and welcome," promised Robert, while his sister wondered what might be behind this invitation. They parted; the trap with the sailor and his kit-bag rolled down the hill and Joe proceeded home. He was gloomy and his thoughts concerned themselves with Melinda, but not hopefully. All had changed with her refusal. Even if she did, indeed, find herself in a mood to accept him on another invitation, it would never be the same to Mr. Stockman. He did not care for her enough to let any future 'yes' make him forget the grave rebuff already suffered. Indeed he did not very much want her now. Like a skeleton between them must ever persist the recollection of her refusal. He only realised the attractive features of the old arrangement at the moment when it was about to end, and he still smouldered with intense heat when he reflected on his daughter's marriage. In the light of this evening's revelation he was disposed to add another sin to those upon the head of Lawrence Maynard. It occurred to him that the cowman might have had a hand in Susan's romance and urged Thomas forward upon his hateful course. He began to be convinced that Lawrence had inspired Thomas, possibly for private ends hidden from Joe. He suspected that these men had made a cat'spaw of him, and since Thomas was certainly not equal to any such task single-handed, to the subtler Maynard might chief blame be assigned.
He found himself hating Maynard and taking grim satisfaction in the thought Lawrence had over-reached himself. Here, at any rate, was an outlet for Mr. Stockman's pent-up indignation. One man should have justice at his hands, and if the downfall of Maynard indirectly smote Palk, or even changed his determination, so much the better. Joe indeed always hoped that something might happen even at the last moment to upset the marriage of Susan, and he would have stuck at no reasonable means of doing so. He had assured himself long ago that, for her own sake, such a step must be taken if the least opportunity occurred.
Now force was ranged against force, and while Dinah and Lawrence Maynard matured the final details of their exodus, half a dozen men had become aware of their secret enterprise and were concerned to upset it in the name of right. Only the manner of doing so offered material for argument. The situation was reached on the Wednesday night of Joe's supper party, for when John Bamsey duly arrived to learn the secret, he was surprised to find Jerry Withycombe and his brother, Robert, also of the company. Mr. Stockman had so far accepted the inevitable that his friends might discuss Susan's approaching wedding in his presence, and to-night Robert Withycombe chaffed Mr. Palk and Susan while he ate. Presently, indeed, he drank to their united bliss and challenged the rest of the company to do so. Thomas was gratified and Susan felt much moved to see her father humbly drink the toast with the rest. Then the diplomatic Joe asked Robert if he had called at Green Hayes, and what he thought of Jerry's future wife.
Robert praised Jane very heartily.
"She's a bowerly piece," he said, "and clever as they make 'em. What the devil she finds in this chap I can't guess; but love's blind no doubt. I shall see 'em hitched up afore I go."
"And yourself, too, by all accounts," said Mr. Palk.
"'Tis odds he won't find nobody good enough," declared Jerry. "He fancies himself something cruel, because he's sailed pretty near round the world."
"There's one good enough for any living man at Green Hayes," asserted Mr. Stockman. "Have you seen Orphan Dinah, Robert?"
"I have, and I ain't wishful to talk on that subject in public—not yet," answered the sailor guardedly.
"He's hit—he's hit!" cried Joe. Then he remembered that Johnny was present and turned with a great show of innocence to Maynard, who took his supper with the rest.
"Here's a man that knows Dinah Waycott, and have took a walk or two with her for that matter. And a very clever man too, and I'm terrible sorry he's going to leave me. What would you say of Orphan Dinah, Lawrence?"
Maynard was unruffled.
"Lucky the man who gets her," he answered; "she's one in a thousand."
The talk ranged and John grew more and more impatient to know when vital matters would be reached; but he perceived that Mr. Stockman could not speak before the company. After supper Maynard disappeared and then, when his daughter had cleared away, Joe beckoned John and took him outside.
"I don't trust my family circle in this matter," he said, "and so we'll light our pipes and go out. 'Tis a moony night and to walk a mile after supper is a very good rule, thought I don't practise it. Call them two men. They've got to know so well as you."
In ten minutes Thomas and Susan had Falcon Farm to themselves, while Joe, with John and the Withycombe brothers, strolled through a still and moonlit night.
Then he told them that Lawrence was married, and had run away from his wife.
"That's how we stand, neighbours. Maynard's a secret sort of man in most of his dealings, but when he came here, he found me not lacking in friendship, and he told me that much about himself. And I thought the better of him for it; because it's often the wisest and properest thing that parties can do, to put a few leagues between self and partner, if marriage be poisoning 'em both. He weren't to blame for that, so far as I can tell; indeed, I upheld the man in his action; but now the case is altered, and we may be pretty sure the fault was his and some innocent creature have already suffered at his hands. And there's no reason why another should.
"It's all clear enough now. He remembered, no doubt, that he'd told me his secret, and so he's running this job on the quiet and have doubtless forged good reasons for Dinah's ear why they should bolt presently, instead of proclaiming the thing like decent people would. It's because Maynard be married that he's doing this; and now good chance puts the secret into the hands of honest men and we must act according. I always leave a rogue to Providence myself, and never yet found I could do anything better than what Providence done; but in this case there's a victim, and the victim can be saved, thank God."
They talked and poured their indignation into the moonlight. Johnny abounded in drastic suggestions. He desired, above all, to face Maynard with Dinah, then let her hear the truth and beat the cowman before her. But one, who as yet knew the least of Dinah, raised a question.
"How if he's told her and she's willing to chance it and don't care?" asked Robert.
Mr. Stockman protested.
"You little understand the sort she is. She'd die rather than sink to such a deed. No; he's caught her with a parcel of lies, and he merits a pretty good punishment no doubt. You might say the loss of her will be punishment enough; but there's more to it than that I dare say."
"By God, yes!" vowed Johnny.
"If he's catched and headed off in time, the law can't touch him," said Robert.
"Then 'tis for us to take the law in our own hands," added Johnny, "and we will."
Joe warned him.
"All in good time," he answered. "It's life or death for Dinah, and therefore we be called to act; but what we shall do and how we shall both save her and be evens with this rogue will take some planning. Rough justice must be done I grant. He must have rope enough to hang himself with, and he must get the surprise of his life presently; but we must be clever, else we'll spoil all. I've got ideas, but he's a downy chap and nobody must do anything to make him smell a rat."
They abounded in suggestions and Johnny pointed a danger.
"While we're talking and planning," he said, "they may give us the slip any night and be out of reach and vanished off the earth so far as we're concerned. And I say this: 'tis time we knowed what was in their letters. They be keeping apart very clever indeed, so as nobody should link up their names, though my sister always swore they was up to something; but they write, and Jane has watched Dinah go up for a letter more'n half a dozen times; and now it's time we know what's doing, else we'll get left."
"To look into a knave's letters to frustrate his tricks be no crime, I reckon," admitted Robert Withycombe. "What d'you say, Mr. Stockman?"
They all agreed that to read the secret correspondence was permissible, for Dinah's sake. Indeed Joe held that this had become a duty.
Robert expressed sorrow for her; but he knew the situation with respect to John Bamsey and did not, therefore, say much. His own emotions to Dinah, if any had been yet awakened, cooled rapidly. He had no mind to seek a maiden so much involved.
They parted presently; but John was going to tell Jane the truth that night, and impose upon her the task of reading letters when she could, to gather what definite information of Maynard's plans they might contain.
"I hate for Jane to do anything so mean," declared Jerry, "but I see it did ought to be done."
"It ain't mean, my son; it's for the sake of justice, and to come between Dinah and living death," explained Joe.
Then the younger men went their way to Buckland, and John, leaving the brothers there, started for home. He passed Maynard on the way and guessed that he had left, or brought, a letter. Much he longed to challenge him, and fully he intended to play an active part in the future proceedings; but he hid his secret knowledge, and said 'Good night' and passed down the hill, while the unsuspecting cowman, who had just posted a letter to Dinah, responded with friendly voice.
But Maynard did not overtake his master, and hearing Tom's slow voice droning in the kitchen with thin interjections from Soosie-Toosie, he retired on returning home.