Indeed matters of some moment for Joe awaited him, for the time brought his thoughts sharply back to himself. Susan hastened to pour out his evening drink when he came back, and Thomas, who always rose to his feet when his master entered the kitchen, now asked if he might be permitted to say a few words.
He spoke and Susan fluttered about in the background, while Joe listened and sipped from a glass of spirits and water.
"You see things be risen to a crisis," began Tom, "and I feel very much that the time's ripe for an understanding. It's mournful to keep on like this, and to-day, by the post, there came a very fine offer of work for me to a gentleman's farm nigh Exeter. Everything done regardless, and good money and a cottage. So now's the appointed time to speak, and Susan and me feel very wishful to pleasure you, and we've come by an idea."
"Go on then. It don't much matter putting your ideas before me, as I'm not axed to influence them. You'll do as you want to do."
"No," said Thomas; "in reason we want to do your will if it can be done. You've been very harsh of late, master, and, of course, I can well understand your feelings about losing Susan. But I never shall see why you was so cruel rude about it. You may treat people like dirt, if you do it kindly, and they won't mind; but if you call 'em dirt, then they get a bit restive; and restive I've got, and so have she. But here it is—an offer in a very friendly spirit; and we haven't come to it without a lot of thinking and balancing the bright side against the dark. And, on the whole, for Susan and me it's a bright thought, and we hope you may think so too."
"But there's one little thing, father," began Susan, and Mr. Palk stopped her.
"Leave all to me," he said, "I'll set it out. There's several little things for that matter, and if the master don't see his way, so be it. First, there's what we be offering, and next there's the conditions to set against it. And we offer to stop after we'm married and to go on just as usual. As a son-in-law I know you've got no use for me; but as a hossman, you've been suited. And as a hossman I'll willingly bide and do all I know regular and steadfast for the same money as I'm getting now. And I pray God, if that happened, you'd come to find me a good son-in-law likewise. And that means your darter bides at your right hand so long as you want her there. And I'll go farther than that. I'll say if at any time in the next five years you take a wife and want us away, we'll go."
"I wish it too, with all my heart, father," declared Susan. "I'd be lost away from you, and worriting all the time to know whose hands you were got in. And marrying Thomas won't make no difference, except there'll be two to think about you instead of one."
Mr. Stockman puffed his pipe and showed by no expression that he appreciated the proposal.
"I'll give you this credit," he said, "I dare say you mean well."
"No two people ever meant better, father."
"And now for the powder. I expect that, even if I was to see my way, you've got a barrelful of ugly things you'll demand. And I tell you at once that it just hangs on a razor-edge whether the idea be good enough as it stands, without any conditions to it at all. I should have conditions also, and one of them would be that you undertook to stop and not change your minds after a year, or bolt off and leave me at your own will."
"Never," answered Susan. "It's understood we don't go unless you wish it."
"And now your conditions, Palk, if you please."
"There ain't no powder about 'em, but only right and reason," said Thomas, "and be it as 'twill, there's only three of 'em. Firstly, that we have a proper, human wedding, all joyous and cheerful, with you smiling and a few neighbours to the spread after, and a nice send off; secondly, that we be allowed ten clear days for a honeymoon round about somewhere; and thirdly, and lastly, that Susan, when she comes home, be allowed a virgin girl under her, to help the labour of the house. Just a maid-of-all-work, as any other married woman would have for her dignity. That's all we ask, master, and I do hope you may be brought to see there's nothing to it but will make for your comfort and satisfaction. Susan you know, and you've often said she was the light of the house, and she wants so to continue; and I do believe, when you get to know me better and see how I go on and how I treat Susan, that you'll come to feel a kinder feeling for me also."
"Don't say 'no' without thinking over it and giving us the benefit of your wisdom, dear father," pleaded Soosie-Toosie, her large eyes fixed upon him.
"I never say 'no' to anything, without thinking it over, Susan. 'Tis all the other way, and I'm prone to give people the benefit of the doubt too often. I'll turn this over. You've put the case very clear. We shall see. I'm one for the long view, as you know. I'll look all round it."
Joe Stockman decided that he must submit to the propositions of Thomas and his daughter. He declared that the decision was marked solely by affection for Susan, and a determination that his son-in-law should have every opportunity to show his worth under the new conditions. He also let it be known how this arrangement was his own idea and, indeed, mentioned it in several quarters as a fact, before he informed the lovers that he was agreeable. This matter settled, Joe, who was really much gratified and relieved, modified his gloom, and to the surprise of those most concerned, proceeded with his part of the contract in a spirit not unamiable. He planned a substantial entertainment for the wedding-day, permitted Susan to secure a maid, and decreed that the honeymoon might last a fortnight.
All progressed smoothly; the farmer became affable to everybody, including Mr. Palk, and made no opposition to the minor details of housekeeping and general control that the marriage would involve.
"I've drawed the sting of the trouble," he confessed to himself.
And then, two days before the wedding, he received certain secret information concerning the matter of Lawrence Maynard. He expected it, for during the same week Maynard had specified a date for leaving.
Then came the vital news from Jane, who dipped into the secret letter-box from time to time and skimmed the lover's letters to glean facts. These she had now learned, and they embraced the time of departure and details concerning it.
Thus Jane and John, with the Withycombe brothers and Mr. Stockman, heard what was planned, and the younger conspirators now waited for Joe to determine what actions should be taken. For him zest had already dwindled out of the adventure. He had secured a new cowman and the maid-of-all-work was skilled in the dairy; therefore Joe felt satisfied, so far as his own comfort and welfare were concerned. But there remained Dinah to be saved, and various courses of action offered themselves, the simplest being to make all publicly known at once.
Joe, however, decided to take another party into the secret before any final action, and he was inspired to do so by the visit of Arthur Chaffe, who arrived at this time, to look into the matter of the dry rot in the stables.
They met and conversed on various subjects, beginning, English fashion, with the weather; but the weather was not a topic that Arthur ever permitted to waste his time.
"An early autumn," said Joe. "The leaves be falling in the topmost trees a'ready."
"I wish one old leaf would fall," answered the carpenter. "It's among the saddest things I've known that Ben Bamsey lives on—a poor spectrum and shadow of his former self. A very harrowing thing for all concerned, and I've prayed on my knees daily, for a month now, that it may please God to take him. What a man prays for will show you the measure of his wits, Joe, and the nature of his character; and for my part I've always made it a habit to pray for others more than for myself, and found it a very good rule."
"No doubt, no doubt, Arthur. But most people have looked upon Ben as dead ever since last spring. There's only the outer case of the man left: the works be gone. And a good thing here and there. He's took from some shocks and surprises. Run your eye over this job and see what's to be done, then I'll have a tell with you about something else that calls for a lot of brain power. Right must be done in a certain quarter; but the question is how best to do it."
Chaffe proceeded, and when he had settled the matter of the dry rot, he spoke of the approaching wedding and declared his immense satisfaction that Soosie-Toosie would stop with her father.
"It's like your good sense, and there's no doubt at all you've done a wise thing. And Thomas Palk's mind be opening out very well I find. He's a very good man and, in your hands, though old for a learner, can't fail to enlarge. In fact I'm very glad about it, and so's everybody. You'd have missed her, of course, and she'd have felt a lost creature away from you."
"So I believe, and so I acted," answered Joe; "and now list to me, Arthur, and face a very critical affair. 'Tis understood you don't mention it again to a living soul for the minute; but I'll ask you to give it your full attention. I'll tell you now, and after a bit of dinner, which you'll take with me, please, you can say what you think about it."
Mr. Chaffe protested at stopping for dinner. He was desperately busy and begged to be allowed to return home; but Joe would not suffer it.
"No," he said, "a soul be in the balance, Arthur, and I never yet heard you put your work before the welfare of a soul."
"If a soul's the matter, you must speak and I must hear," answered the old man; and then he listened to the story, from the moment of Maynard's arrival at Falcon Farm up to the present and the secret flight, planned to take place within ten days.
"Maynard goes from me," concluded Joe, "and the next morning he meets Orphan Dinah at Shepherd's Cross, on Holne Moor. From there they get down to the in-country, take train for Plymouth, at Brent I expect, and sail that night, or the next day, to Australia. A very simple and easy plan if it wasn't interfered with; but of course it ain't going to happen, and the question is how best to stop it in a righteous and seemly fashion."
Mr. Chaffe was much concerned.
"Who can say he's ever fathomed man or woman?" he asked. "This throws a light into darkness, Joe, and shows me many things that have troubled me. Not about Dinah, for she's above board and a good Christian by nature and upbringing; but about Maynard. He's foxed her into this dark and dangerous deed, and I'll be bold to say the blame's on his shoulders only, though nothing ought to have made her agree to run away unbeknownst from her friends. That shows a lightness; but no doubt the man have made her love him, and love blinds the best. There's a lot to thank God for, however. You can see Providence looking far ahead as usual. For if Maynard hadn't confided the truth to you years ago, we should never have known, and he'd have brazened it out and committed bigamy in our midst no doubt."
"He would—the rascal; and I feel his crime did ought to be punished, whether it succeeds or not. He's tried to do a blackguard act, and it is for us just men to make him feel his proper reward and chasten the wretch—if only for his future salvation. But seeing that I've fallen out with him already in a manner of speaking, when he gave notice, I'm in the position where it wouldn't become me to smite him, because people would say it was revenge. And so I put it to you, who stand for nothing but the cause of religion and justice."
Mr. Chaffe nodded.
"A very proper line to take. And I might, of course, go in my turn to higher ones. You see it's a matter for State and Church both, Joe. This man be out to break the law and ruin an innocent and trusting woman; and he's also flouting righteousness and planning a great sin. We must rise to the proper answer; and my feeling would be to take a line on our own, if I can think of the right one. And if I can't, then we must hand it over to the lawful authorities."
"No," said Mr. Stockman. "In my view that would be paltry. We've got to keep the man and woman apart and read him a sharp and bitter lesson. That's well in our power without going to the police. They couldn't lock him up if he hadn't done the crime, so it's for us to make justice on the spot and fall on the man like the trump of doom, just when he thinks he's triumphed. That's how I see it. And we don't give him no long drawn out punishment, but just crush him, like you'd crush a long-cripple,* and leave him to his bad conscience. And as for Dinah, when she finds out the size of her danger and sees the brink she was standing on, she'll soon forget her troubles, in thankfulness to God for her great escape."
* "Long-cripple"—viper.
"It calls for a fine touch," declared Arthur. "There's no doubt our duty stands before us, Joe, and, at a first glance, I'm minded to see with you, that this feat is within our power and we needn't call for no outside aid. The thing is to know just how to strike. Your idea of falling on the man like the crack of doom be good on the whole. But we mustn't overdo it, or forget we're sinful creatures ourselves. He's got a fearful punishment afore him in any case, apart from what we may do, because he loses Dinah just at the very moment when he thinks he's got her safe for evermore. And that's enough to go on with for him. But the right thought will certainly come to my mind, since we be acting in the name of religion."
"I'm all for mercy as a rule," answered Stockman; "but not in this case. Mercy's barred out, because of Maynard's wickedness."
"There don't seem no very loud call for mercy certainly, when you think of the far-reaching thing he's led the poor girl into. No; we may stop at justice I reckon. I'll brood upon it, Joe. I see the line, I believe; but I'll take it afore my Maker. We want a bit of physical force—we may even have to handle him, as I see it."
"D'you think so?"
"Yes. For the sake of argument, would John Bamsey and the Withycombe brothers be strong enough to withstand him?"
Joe believed they might be.
"If they surprised the man, they would. Robert Withycombe's a huge, strong chap. What be in your mind?"
"Wait till it takes a clearer shape. Put by the thought till after the wedding. That must be all happiness and joy; and when that's well over and the happy pair are away, we'll turn to Maynard. We must come to it with clean hands, Joe, as humble, willing tools of Providence. Us mustn't allow ourselves no evil hate, or anything like that, but just feel but for the grace of God us might have been tempted and fallen into the pit ourselves. There's a bright side, even for him, and I hope in time he'll live to see what we saved him from."
"We must have a masterpiece of cleverness, and I'll think too," added Mr. Stockman. "Don't squeak, Arthur; don't tell a living soul about it. We must just teel a trap for the beggar and catch him alive. And we must spare Dinah all we can."
"As to Dinah," answered Mr. Chaffe, "if what I see rising up in my mind be the right course, we may have to give Dinah a pinch also. I quite agree she must be spared all shame if possible; but I always go the way I'm led by the still small voice, Joe; and if the ideas creeping in me blaze out and command to be followed, then very like Dinah may have to be in it—for her own good. You must remember that Dinah's only a part of human nature, and we can read her feelings very clear when this bursts upon her."
"How can we?" asked Joe. "I never can read any woman's feelings very clear at any time. They never feel about anything same as we do, and their very eyes ban't built to look at the shape and colour of things as ours be. They're a different creation in fact, and 'tis folly to pretend they ain't."
"A different creation, no," answered Arthur. "They feel and suffer same as us, and Dinah Waycott, afore this great downfall, will take the ordinary course of human nature. Her Christianity will help her to keep a tight hand on herself; but, being a woman, she'll want to give Lawrence Maynard a bit of her mind, and he'll deserve it and didn't ought to be spared it."
Mr. Stockman was rather impressed.
"By God, that's true," he said. "And I'm rather glad you thought of it and not me, Arthur. For if I'd hit on that, people would without doubt have said 'twas the poison of revenge working in me. But coming from you, of course it can be no more than justice. It's just a thing a bachelor might have hit upon. The average married man would have felt a twinge of mercy, and only your high sense of justice would screw you up to such a pitch."
"Nothing be done yet," answered Mr. Chaffe. "And if my thoughts look too harsh in your eyes presently, I'll willingly tone 'em down where possible. But often the surgeon as ban't feared to cut deep be the best to trust. We've got to save the man's soul alive, and seeing the size of the wound upon it and the danger in which he stands, we should be weak to botch our work for the sake of sparing him, or ourselves pain. For that's what mercy to the wicked often comes to, Joe. We forgive and forget for our own comfort far too often, and let a sinner off his medicine, only because we don't like to see the ugly face he makes over it."
"In fact, mercy would be weakness and false kindness," admitted Joe. "And if we want a couple more strong men presently, I know the proper ones. We must all be ministers of right in this matter, and I'm glad of your clear head and high opinions. For now I know we shall come through with credit to ourselves and the respect of the people."
"There again, we must take care our feet don't slip," answered Mr. Chaffe. "It may hap that this ain't a case for the people. As a lesson and warning it may have to be told about, for the sake of the young; but, against that, we may find, for Dinah's sake, that it might not be convenient to make it a public affair. And now we'll put this away for the Lord to work on, Joe. Be sure it won't slumber nor sleep, but take the shape He wills in our hands. We'll talk of the wedding now for ten minutes afore I be off. How would you like a triumphant arch over the lichgate to church? It can very easy be done."
"No," said Mr. Stockman. "I'm going through with it as a father should, Arthur, and we're to have a very fine meal, with a pastry-cook from Ashburton to prepare it and serve it. I'm doing my part, and I'm giving Susan away in church, and I've asked all the neighbours, including five outlying friends of Palk's. But, between you and me and without unkindness, I feel no temptation to lose my head about what's going to happen. I don't hunger for large diversions, nor yet triumphant arches over the lichgate, nor anywhere else. I want for it to be over and them back home, so as I may see how it's going on and what measure of peace and comfort I can count upon in the future. The time for triumphant arches be when a pair have stood each other ten years, and can still go on with it."
"Keep your nerve and give 'em every fair chance and trust God," said Mr. Chaffe.
"Be sure of that," answered Joe. "I only wish I felt so sure that, hunting in a couple, they'll do their duty to me so well as I shall do mine to them."
A kindly spirit might have been moved somewhat to observe Soosie-Toosie's wonder and delight when wedding presents began to appear before her marriage. She could hardly remember being the recipient of any gift in her life, and she felt amazed, almost prostrate, under the sense of obligation awakened by a tea-set from Green Hayes, a metal teapot and milk jug from Melinda, a "History of Palestine," with coloured pictures from Mr. Chaffe, and other presents only less handsome. Thomas, too, was remembered by former friends, and the kinsmen of the Stockmans, who dwelt at Barnstaple, sent Susan an eider-down quilt of fiery scarlet and green, which she secretly determined should comfort the couch of her father when winter returned. This gift inspired Mr. Palk.
They had not yet decided where the fortnight's holiday should be spent, and he suggested that Barnstaple would serve the purpose.
"Then I could be introduced to your relations," he said.
"And so could I," added Susan, "because I've never seen 'em in my life, and father haven't seen 'em for twenty years—have you, father?"
Joe admitted that he had not, but the eider-down quilt impressed him and he held it desirable that the families might be better acquainted. He was not in the least proud of Mr. Palk; yet, upon the whole, he thought it well that his daughter should come within reach of her relatives. The honeymoon was therefore fixed for Barnstaple.
Lawrence Maynard's gift took a practical form. He did not design to carry anything from England but his money and a few clothes. The remainder of his property, including a small chest of good tools, a tin trunk, and a pair of leggings, some old clothes and some boots, he gave to Thomas, who accepted them gladly.
"Us wish you very well, though Joe do not," said Mr. Palk, "and I hope some day, when you've got time, you'll write to me and tell about Australia—especially how hosses be out there."
The wedding was well attended and Melinda, who came over in the morning to help Soosie-Toosie with her new dress, declared that the bride, in a steel-blue gown and a large white hat with a white feather in it, had never looked so well. Mr. Palk was also clad in blue, of another shade. His wedding garment was of ultramarine shot with a yellow thread, and he wore a yellow tie with a green shamrock sprigged upon it. The best man came from Newton Abbot. He was older by many years than the bridegroom, but he had merry eyes and a merry face and declared a score of times that he had known Mr. Palk from childhood, and that an honester man didn't walk.
From Buckland Court came Susan's bridal bouquet of orchids and white roses, which Mr. Ford carried up the evening before and himself immersed in a jug of water for the night. A pair of distinguished candlesticks and a clock came from the Court also, greatly to the gratification of Mr. Stockman; while his landlord sent Susan a cheque for ten pounds.
At the wedding were the family of Withycombes (the sailor had given Susan two amazing shells from the other end of the world); while from Green Hayes came John and Jane Bamsey and their mother. Dinah was with them at church, but did not attend the wedding breakfast, asking rather to return to her foster-father at home. Those who understood were not surprised to learn her wish to do so. Mr. Chaffe was present and also enjoyed the banquet. No less than fifteen sat down, and they openly declared in each other's ears that Joe had "spread himself" in a very handsome manner.
One speech only was made, and Arthur proposed the health of bride and bridegroom in an oration which made Soosie-Toosie shed a few tears despite herself. Then Thomas was held back, as he rose with the rest to drink his own everlasting happiness; and his wife cut the cake, declaring it was a terrible pity to spoil such a pretty thing.
They drove off in their blue attire presently, and the last seen of them was Mr. Palk waving his new grey wide-awake from one window of the wedding chariot and Susan fluttering a handkerchief from the other.
Many curious eyes rested on Maynard during the course of the meal, but he was innocent of the fact and preserved a cheerful demeanour. Those who watched him mused, according to the measure of their intelligence, as to what was proceeding in his mind; but none guessed; all the conspirators rather found in his brown face and dark eyes evidences of a devious and lawless spirit hiding itself for its own purposes. He was in reality considering how far different would his own doubtful nuptials be in a strange land amid strange faces.
When the entertainment was at an end and most of the wedding guests had gone, with expressions of their gratitude, certain men, by arrangement, drifted away together. Maynard, in the farmyard milking the cows, saw Mr. Stockman with Mr. Chaffe and a few others saunter over the autumnal moor and sit presently together upon a flat ledge of rocks under the Beacon.
And there it was that Arthur learned the last news concerning Maynard, the date of his departure and the hour at which, upon the day following, he would meet Dinah at their last tryst. He himself had come primed with an inspiration as to what should be done.
"Jane's thankful to God she haven't got to do no more hateful spying," said Jerry Withycombe. "But there it is. He meets her at Shepherd's Cross somewhere after six o'clock on the morning after he goes off from here."
"And at the cross the man must face his outraged fellow creatures," declared Mr. Chaffe. "And when Dinah comes, she shall see and hear the bitter truth. All be clear in my mind's eye now and I see a very high and solemn deed, which must be done in the spirit of justice only—else it will fail. We be the instruments, and if any man have any hate or ill will towards the evil doer rather than the evil deed, then he'd better stand down and let another take his place. For Maynard have got to be handled, and when he fights against us, as he will, with the whole force of his baffled wickedness, we must act without passion and feel no more rage in our hearts than the Saviour did when he cast the devil out of a poor, suffering creature. We must be patient under Maynard's wrath."
"'Tis a young man's job," said Joe, after Arthur had described his dramatic purpose, "and we can very well leave it to them. Us older blades needn't be called to be there at all, I reckon."
"I wouldn't say there was any cause for you to be," answered Arthur, "but I shall certainly be there. It's my duty; I be the voice that will reach his heart and his conscience, I hope, when the rough work's done and the blow has fallen. And there's the woman to be thought upon also. One has to consider this matter from every point of view. I shall take Orphan Dinah back to her home, when all is over, and she understands how the Lord has looked after her."
"'Tis a matter of the man's fighting powers," said Robert Withycombe. "No doubt I could manage him with Jerry's help; but I reckon we don't want a scrap and a lot of blood about, or broken heads. Be we three men—Jerry and John and me—strong enough to make him yield without a dust up?"
"And why not a dust up?" asked Johnny; but Arthur admonished him.
"If you feel like that, you'd best not to come, Bamsey," he said. "I tell you again that all's spoiled if we don't carry this thing out in a proper manner. Robert be perfectly right. The man had far better feel he is up against a force beyond his strength to oppose. We don't want no painful scene to spoil the dignity. And if you three ban't equal to it, we must get in somebody else. But not police; I'm very wishful to keep professional people out of this."
"All depends on him," said Mr. Stockman. "If he was to put up a fight, then there'd be temper and hard knocks and fur flying, no doubt. You want to drop on the man like a flap of lightning; but if it's going to be a rough and tumble first, and him perhaps escaping after all, then I say get another pair of hands, so as he will see it's no good opposing you, even if he wants to. He must be faced with such force as will make him throw up the sponge at once and take what you mean to give him. He must feel 'tis just as vain to make a fuss about it as a man feels when he makes up and knows he's going to be hanged inside the hour."
"I wish we was going to hang him," whispered John to Jerry.
They decided that it would be wise to add a powerful member to their number, in order that Maynard would be prevented from making any unseemly effort to evade his punishment.
"Abel Callicott will do very nice," said John. "He's a prize-fighter and he's to Ashburton now. If I tell him we're out to punish a rogue, and Robert here tells him too, he'll understand there's no cowardice meant, or nothing like that, and he'll help. The man wouldn't waste his time trying to fight or trying to run away then."
"They prize-fighters are generally good-tempered creatures and often religious," admitted Mr. Chaffe. "If he'll come in the right frame of mind, well and good. But don't let there be no mistake. We must all be on the spot and out of sight before they arrive. In fact, to be safe, us will do wisely to get up over the night before. I pray it may be fine weather, else it will be as painful to our bodies as our minds. We'll foregather at Shepherd's Cross and we must leave a good margin of time for fear of accidents."
They talked thoughtfully and seriously. Arthur Chaffe lifted the minds of them to the high issue involved and the gravity of what they purposed. They worked objectively with the facts and had no subjective glimmering of the reasons that lay behind the facts in the lives of those about to commit this deed. Here was a married man deceiving a single woman—a frank situation, that left no place in the argument for any extenuations. Dinah they knew, and they believed their knowledge precluded the possibility of such a character consenting to live in sin under any possible circumstances. The man they did not know; but it was enough that he had planned this wickedness. One who could plot thus had put himself beyond the pale.
Their attitude was entirely to be commended, and each felt worthy of the occasion. Joe Stockman and John Bamsey alone might have been accused of mixed motives, and certainly the master of Falcon Farm would not have admitted them. As for John, in the atmosphere of the conference, even he abated something of his fire—at least openly. In secret he trusted that Maynard would fight, and that it might be his privilege to administer a quietus. But, indeed, no great possibility in this direction offered, since there must be four men to one in any case. Johnny abandoned much thought of the man, therefore, and centred on the future of the woman.
For the rest, Robert and Jerry merely proposed to do what now appeared a duty; while as for Mr. Chaffe, no more placable spirit ever planned how to chasten a sinner for his own good. He was much pleased with what he had arranged, yet desired no credit afterwards.
"We must be silent, neighbours, when all is done," he said. "Each man will take his part, and when it is over, we will keep our mouths shut and put it behind us. 'Unto God be the praise'; we don't want none."
The new cowman came on the day before Maynard left Falcon Farm and Mr. Stockman was satisfied with his ability and intelligence. And then came the moment when Joe shook hands and bade Lawrence farewell. All animosity had died, for the elder was not vindictive. He pictured the experiences that awaited his old servant and found it in his heart to be sorry for him. Only thought of the enormity of the deed he had so deliberately planned steeled Mr. Stockman.
"I shall hear tell of you, no doubt," were the last words that he said at parting.
To Holne went Maynard, put up with an acquaintance for that night, and, at five o'clock on the following morning, set out to meet Dinah at Shepherd's Cross, a mediæval monument that marked a forgotten monkish way of old. There Dinah, whose departure was designed to be secret, would meet him, and together they would descend to Brent, where neither was known, and so reach Plymouth, whence their steamer sailed that night.
The morning dawned fine and touched with frost. The wind blew gently from the east. There was no sting in it, but it created an inevitable haze, and distance quickly faded under its blue-grey mantle, while at hand all shone clear and bright in the sunrise fires. The heavy dew of a cloudless night was not yet dried off the herbage, and the grass, nibbled to a close and springy velvet by sheep and rabbits, spread emerald green between the masses of heather and furze, where the lover climbed Dene Moor. Still the autumn heath shone with passages of colour; but into the rich pink of a month earlier had crept a russet warmth, where innumerable heather bells passed to death with a redness that drowned the purple. As yet this new colour was genial in tone, shone in the sunlight and glowed along the reaches of the fading fern; but a time approached when from ruddy to sere the countless blossoms must sink. Then the light would fade and the flowers wither, till winter winds tinkled in their grey inflorescence and sang the song of another dying year. Now only the splendour of their passing and the pale gold, where brake died in patches amid the standing fern, prophesied changes to come. A few raddled sheep browsed their morning meal and made harmony with the bright colours of the dawn, while Maynard, stooping, picked up the wing feather of a carrion crow and reflected that this was the last black plume he would ever find to clean his pipe on Dartmoor. He was sorry to leave it, but had found no time for regret until this moment. Life had passed so swiftly and demanded so much thought and contrivance of late, that only now he spared a few minutes to consider all that he was leaving, and how much had been good and precious to him. He had formed a hazy and nebulous picture of his future environment, but knew that it could in no way resemble this. He guessed that he must often look back, and doubted whether his future scene of life would entirely take the place of the one he was about to leave. But he remembered Dinah's attitude and her expressed joy that the Vale should be left behind them and all things become new.
Now he centred upon her and again thin shadows crept through his mind. For good or evil they had listened to their own hearts alone; but he still found questions asking themselves and doubts limning deep in his soul when he thought of her; he still felt a smoulder of indignation in himself that this cup should be forced upon them. There was an ingredient of bitterness, a dumb question why fate should have called him and Dinah to do a thing against which he rebelled, and the doing of which was an outrage upon her love of truth and directness. She might make light of the burden, but he resented the fact that she was called to bear it. Such is the force of inherited conviction and tradition that he could not, as she had done, discredit and dismiss his past as an empty dream. She honestly so regarded Maynard's story; otherwise he knew she would never have come to him; but it was only for his sake that she made the sacrifice, and he felt it a cruel fact that any sacrifice should be called for from her. His past was real enough, and the shadow must fall on her and the children to be born of her. That the world would never see the shadow, or know of its existence, did not matter. For him and his wife it could never vanish. Even yet he did not perceive that no shadow whatever existed for Dinah. The thing that still haunted him like a fog, like the robe of the east wind hanging on the skirts of the moor, must, he felt, be appreciated by her also, and might, indeed, grow more solid and real for her in the future. Regret for the inevitable thus found a place in his mind despite his reason, because it sprang from foundations other than his reason.
Swinging forward with an ash sapling in his right hand and a leathern portmanteau in his left, Lawrence presently saw his goal ahead. Sunshine played over the blue hazes and touched the grey summit of Shepherd's Cross, where the ancient stone stood erect and solitary on the heath. It reared not far distant from rough, broken ground, where Tudor miners had streamed the hillside for tin in Elizabethan days. The relic glimmered with lichens, black and gold and ash colour. Upon its shaft stuck red hairs, where roaming cattle had rubbed themselves. It stood the height of a tall man above the water worn trough at its foot, and the cross was still perfect, with its short, squat arms unbroken, though weathered in all its chamfering by centuries of storm.
Here he sat down, knit his brows to scan the northern slope of the hill, whereon Dinah must presently appear, and wondered how far she might have already tramped upon her way. He had found his own climb from Holne shorter than he imagined and was at their place of meeting before the time.
Then, suddenly, behind him he heard feet shuffling and turned to see five men spring up from their hiding-places at hand. They were familiar faces that he saw, and for a moment no suspicion that they were here upon his account entered the mind of Maynard. It occurred to him that Shepherd's Cross might be a meeting-place for hounds at this early hour. Yet he did not know that cub-hunting was yet begun. And then he marked behind the four now beside him, the tall, thin figure of Arthur Chaffe—one who would certainly attend no meet of hounds.
He was not left long in doubt. The men brought ropes. They closed round him, as he rose to confront them, caught his arms, dragged him to the cross and, with the celerity of executioners, quickly had him fast bound by ankles and wrists against the granite—crucified thereto with his arms extended upon the arms of the cross and a dozen coils of rope about his shoulders, trunk and legs. John Bamsey handled one wrist and saw that his cords bit.
Here was Mr. Chaffe's inspiration; that the erring man should be lifted on the Christian emblem of salvation, for his heart to be taken by storm, and for Dinah to behold the great event. He apprehended a wondrous purification in Maynard as the result of this punishment and he hoped thai he himself might have time to say the necessary words and utter a trumpet note in the sinner's ear before his victim reached Shepherd's Cross.
The men had come by night and hidden as near the tryst as possible. Now they completed their work and stood off, some grinning, some scowling, at the prisoner. His hat had fallen and his ash sapling and his leather bag lay together where he had sat. The light of day shone upon his bare head and he stared at the faces round him, still dazed and silent before the terrific surprise of their attack. But though he said nothing, others spoke freely enough and some chaffed and some derided.
"You didn't think you was going to get chained up this morning, you dirty, runaway dog!" said John Bamsey, while Robert Withycombe laughed.
"You ban't the first thief as have found yourself on a cross—eh, my bold hero? Not but what a cross be almost too holy a sign to rope such a scamp upon."
"You—you that thought you could fox an honest woman and turn her away from an honest man! You wicked lying trash, as ought to have the skin tanned off your bones!" roared John.
But the thunder did not make Maynard shrink. He turned his head to the veteran and spoke.
"What does this mean, Mr. Chaffe?" he asked.
Jerry Withycombe began to answer him, but John took the words out of his mouth. Jerry was too mild for this occasion.
"It means that I happened to find the wrens' nest, and I told about it, and John's sister found 'twas you plotting against Orphan Dinah and——"
"It means that all the world knows you're a married man, you blasted wretch," stormed Johnny. "It means you kindiddled the woman away from me with lies and cunning and thought to get her out of England and ruin her, and then, no doubt, fling her off, like you flung off your lawful wife. It means you're found out for what you are—the scum of the earth. And she's going to know it, and see you where you stand, and hear where your filthy plots and wickedness was going to land her. And if she don't sclow down your face for you when she knows and tear your damned eyes out, she ought to!"
Maynard looked at the furious man, but did not answer. Then Mr. Chaffe intervened.
"That'll do, John Bamsey," he said. "Us have carried out our work in a high spirit so far and we don't want no crooked language."
"Crooked language be the right sort for crooked deeds I reckon," declared Mr. Callicott, the prize-fighter—a sturdy and snake-headed youth who had assisted the others. "If it's true this bloke's married and was going to run away and do bigamy with an innocent girl, then you can't talk too coarse to him, I reckon."
"You're right to be angered, but righteous wrath must keep its temper, Callicott," explained Arthur. "Now hear me talk to the man and show him how it is with him. He be dazed, as you see, and stares through us and looks beyond, as if we was ghosts."
"He knows very well we ban't ghosts," said Jerry.
"You see him," continued Mr. Chaffe, as though he were lecturing on a specimen—"you see him in the first flush of his surprise—gazing out at the risen sun and too much knocked over even to make a case."
"What sort of case should he make—a man that meant to seduce another chap's sweetheart?" asked John Bamsey.
"If he haven't already," suggested Mr. Callicott.
"Hear me, and let him hear me," answered Arthur; and then he turned to Maynard.
"You ask why we have laid in wait for you and done this," he said. "But you know why we have done it only too well, you bad man, and the true wonder in your mind is to guess how we found out. For well you knew that when honest God-fearers were led by Providence to discover what you was up to, they'd stop it in the name of the Lord. Don't stare into the sky, nor yet over the hill for that poor woman, as you meant to destroy body and soul. Just you turn your wits to me, Lawrence Maynard, and listen; and then tell me before God, if you've got any just quarrel with any man among us. And this is what you done—you knowing you was married and had a wife you'd thrown over. You come here and make a woman care for you; but since your watchful Maker has already opened your mouth, so that your master heard you was married, you know you couldn't pretend to wed her honest before men, but must hatch lies for her and make a plot. And her love was quick, no doubt, to think nothing you could do or say was wrong, so she consented to follow you to foreign parts, where her shame might be hid and where she'd be in your power—to cherish or to desert according as your fancy took you. For well you understood that she could never be no more than your leman and at your mercy. That's what you planned, poor man; but God in His might chose different, and willed to give you up to your fellow creatures and led this young Jerry Withycombe to find your secret, so we learned what you was going to do. And it is my work and ordinance that you stand here now tied to the Cross of your Redeemer, Lawrence Maynard. And may the cross enter into your heart and save your soul alive yet. And then you'll see we five Christians be the willing instruments of Heaven, and have put ourselves to this hard task for love of humanity and in the spirit of our Master. We be here, not only to save Dinah, but to save you; and you can say 'Amen' to that, and I hope your Father in Heaven will touch your hard heart to bend and see what we've saved you from."
"In fact you're getting out of it a damned sight softer than you deserve, and a damned sight softer than you would if I had my way," growled Bamsey; but the sailor stopped him.
"Shut up, John, and let Mr. Chaffe talk," he said. "What he tells be very fine, and us must follow his lead and take a high hand with the man."
"We're all sinners," continued Arthur, "and nobody more so than you, John Bamsey, so I'll beg you hold in and let me do my part."
Then he droned on to the roped cowman.
"Evils must come, but woe be to them that bring them, and you've shown me in the past that you're a thinking creature with all your intellects, and now you see where your doubtful thoughts and lawless opinions have brought you. And I hope it will be a case of 'Go and sin no more,' in the words of the Saviour of us all, Maynard. All things go round and round, you must know. The worm gnaws the nettle that the butterfly may rise up into the sunshine; and the butterfly rises up into the sunshine that the worm may gnaw the nettle; but we, as have immortal souls, be called to deny and defy nature, and lead captivity captive, and trample on the adder and the basilisk. All which things you knew very well, yet set your face to add to the evil of the world to please your own base passions. And you didn't care that a young and harmless woman, who was God's business quite as much as you yourself—you didn't care where you dragged her down, so long as you got what you wanted, and defied principalities and powers, and lied to your own better nature just the same as you lied to her."
"The woman be coming," said Robert Withycombe. His sailor's eyes had seen Dinah still far distant. She was clad in a brick-red gown—her best—and carried a basket of yellow, woven cane that made a bright spot on the heath.
"Yes," said Arthur Chaffe. "Like a lamb to the slaughter the virgin cometh, Lawrence Maynard; and I hope 'tis your voice she will hear, telling how God hath watched over her, and how right and religion have won another victory on this glad morning."
But the prisoner preserved an obstinate silence. He seemed to be rapt away out of sight or sound of Mr. Chaffe and the rest. His eyes rested on Dinah; his ears appeared to be sealed for any attention he paid to his captors. Arthur drew his wind and the others spoke.
"He's waiting for her to come," said Mr. Callicott. "He be going to say his say afore the woman and don't care a damn for you, master."
"He'm in a dream," murmured Jerry. "I don't believe he's hearing what Mr. Chaffe be pouring at him."
Then Dinah, who had long seen the group, made haste and dropped her basket and hastened to Maynard, ignoring the rest.
Her face was scarlet and she could hardly speak for the throbbing of her heart.
"Lawrence—Lawrence—what's this?" she asked. "What have they done?"
She had left her home before dawn, unknowing that another was awaking also at Green Hayes and had heard her go. Her last act was to slip into Benjamin Bamsey's room, where he slept alone, and kiss the unconscious old man upon his temple. Then she had gone; and Jane had heard her do so and seen the vague shadow of her descend the garden path and vanish into the farm yard. Mrs. Bamsey was kept in ignorance of Dinah's plans, but when morning came and they sat at breakfast, her daughter informed her of all that had happened and told her that she might expect to see her father's foster-daughter return with Mr. Chaffe in an hour or two. Faith Bamsey took the revelation calmly enough and showed no great emotion; while Jane roamed restlessly through the morning and desired to see Jerry and hear of what had happened on the moor.
Now, in answer to Dinah, Maynard, who was suffering physical pain from his position and his bonds, answered very quietly, while the men round the pair listened to him.
"They have done what they thought was right, Dinah. They found out that we were going to leave England together, and they heard from Mr. Stockman that I was married. And they took a natural view and thought I was deceiving you as to that. So they laid in wait and tied me here, until you heard the truth."
"I know the truth," she said. "I know a deeper truth than any they can know. I know that in God's sight——"
"Stop!" cried Arthur Chaffe. "Listen to me, Orphan Dinah, and thank Heaven on your knees that your fellow creatures have saved you from the evil to come."
She looked at all of them with a flaming indignation.
"Did you set 'em to this dirty task—old as you are? Did you think so badly of this man that you supposed he would try to do me harm? Did you think there was no other side? Did you plot behind his back, when you'd found out our simple secrets? Did you plan this cruel insult and disgrace for one that never harmed you or anybody?"
"He harmed us all, Dinah, and I beg you'll keep your temper," answered Arthur. "You're talking far ways short of sense and you don't know what we saved you from."
"Be you shadows, or real people, you grinning men?" she asked, turning upon the others. "Do you know what you've done in your clumsy, brutal strength? Do you know you've wronged and tortured a man whose boots you ain't worthy to black?"
"Hear the truth and don't be an idiot!" answered John Bamsey.
"'Truth'! What do you know of the truth? You—shallow, know-naught creatures, that go by spoken words and make words stand for truth? It's a lie to say he's wedded. Is every man wedded that's married? Have none of you ever seen married people that never felt or knew the meaning of marriage? 'Tis for pity to the likes of you, beyond the power of understanding, that we took these pains; and now we shan't run away behind your backs, but go before your faces—a parcel of zanies, that think because a thing be said it must be true."
"Let the man speak," said Mr. Chaffe. "I command that you speak, Lawrence Maynard. The woman's beside herself and dead to reason. 'Tis your bounden duty to speak for yourself."
"Loose him then and he'll speak fast enough," cried Dinah. "Who be you—a cowardly, hulking pack of ignorant clods to lay fingers on him! If you had sense and decency and any proper Christianity in you, you'd have gone to work very different and spared me this wicked outrage, and him too. You'd have come to us and bid us speak. What do you make us? Loose him, I tell you—ban't one among you man enough to understand that I know all there is to know about this—that it's my work we're going, my work—me that loves him and worships him, and knows the big-hearted, patient, honourable chap he is. God! If you could see yourselves as I see you—meddling, nasty-minded bullies, you'd sink in the earth. Loose him and then listen to him. You're not worth the second thought of a man like him."
Lawrence spoke quietly to Robert Withycombe.
"You see how it is. Don't keep me trussed here no longer. I'm in pain and no good can come of it. If you care to listen, then I'll speak. I'm very glad to let you know how things are, for you've got a credit for sense; so has Mr. Chaffe."
"It's a free country," said Mr. Callicott, "You chaps seem as if you'd made trouble where there isn't none. Pity you didn't look into this first and play your games after."
He opened a knife to sever the ropes that held Maynard. None attempted to stop him save John, and then the sailor came between.
"Cut him loose, Callicott."
Mr. Chaffe was deeply dismayed and made an effort to save the position.
"Orphan Dinah," he said, "for the love of your Saviour, and your foster-father, and right and religion, come home with me this minute. I can't believe what you say, for you know not what you say. Does the man deny he's married? That's all I want to know; and if he is, then do you mean to tell me you're going to live with him? There it is in brutal words and——"
"The brutal words are yours, because you're bound up in words and know naught about the truth of what this means, Arthur Chaffe," answered Maynard, who now stood free. "Do you think two people who have set out to share their lives for evermore, didn't count the cost every way? Believe me, we did, so understand that what seems wicked to you, ban't wicked to us. I don't count, but Dinah does. She knows every single word of the truth, and may I die on this stone if she doesn't."
"Come," said Dinah. "We're not called to lay our hearts bare for these men. Let 'em know there's as good and honourable and Christian people in the world as themselves; and if I, knowing far, far deeper than they know, am content and proud to be your wife in God's sight for ever and ever, who else matters, and who else shall judge? You be no more than the buzzing of gnats to us, and there's no power in one of you to sting this man, or me."
"Think, think what you're doing, Dinah," pleaded Mr. Chaffe.
"And haven't I thought, and don't I know a million times more than you can, or ever will? Understand before we go. This man was never false to any woman—never—never. He don't know the meaning of falseness. He never looked at me, John Bamsey, till I'd left you, and I never thought of him till long, long after I was free. And when I loved him, he told me he could not marry me—and why—and I saw that it was moonshine and only a pair of weak, worthless creatures would be frightened and part for that—only cowards feared of their neighbour and the laws—laws that selfish Christians bleat about and want kept, because to torture other people won't hurt their comfort, or cloud their homes. What do you know of marriage—one of you? What do you know of the dark, deadly things that may come between people and separate 'em far as heaven from hell, while parsons and lawyers and old bachelors and old women want 'em chained together to rot—for Christ's sake! Look deeper—look deeper!"
While the men stood silent, Maynard picked up his stick and bag and Dinah's basket.
Mr. Chaffe had sunk upon a stone and was wiping his eyes with a red pocket handkerchief.
"You!" he said. "You brought up in a Christian home by God-fearing people, Dinah!"
"And fear God I always shall; but not man," she answered scornfully. "Did these chaps do this because they feared God? Ask them!"
She took her package from Maynard and he spoke.
"Have no fear that any harm be done to righteousness," he said. "No woman knows her duty to her Maker better than this woman, or her duty to her neighbour. If ever I was in doubt, and I have been, my doubts be cleared afore what you men have done to-day, and I thank you for that. You've shown how paltry it was to doubt, I reckon, and I doubt no more. I be the better and stronger for seeing your minds, you well-meaning chaps! My life and thought and worship belong to Dinah; and where no secrets are hid, there's no blame counted against us, and never will be, I hope."
They turned their backs upon the listeners and went away side by side; they moved among the stones and bushes until they sank out of sight and vanished for ever from that company.
"To hell with them!" said John, "and curse all women for the sake of that blasted woman!"
But the rest did not share his passion. Only Mr. Chaffe mourned; the others were impressed at what they had heard and the prize-fighter was amused.
"A pretty parcel we look," said Callicott, "bested by that calm man and quick-tongued woman. And be damned if I ban't their side. We don't know naught about it, and if we did very like we'd praise 'em for a bit of pluck. Anyway she knows what she's doing all right."
"If the Lord can read their hearts, it evidently don't much matter to them that we can't," declared Robert Withycombe; "and be it as it will, if he was a Turk, or Indian, the man could have two wives and no harm done. And if there's only one Almighty, Mr. Chaffe, why for should He hold it a parlous crime for us to do what a chap across the water can do every day of the week?"
But Arthur Chaffe was too stricken to argue. He stared in great grief after the vanished man and woman.
"My God, why hast Thou forsaken them?" he moaned.
They parted presently and went their different ways, leaving Shepherd's Cross with the sunlight on its face and the severed ropes about its foot.
Though, before the event, Mr. Chaffe had enjoined secrecy in the matter of Lawrence Maynard, yet, since the affair fell out so contrary, none obeyed him. It made a good story, and though many who heard it shared Arthur's concern, none sank into such a deep dejection as he over this trial and failure of faith. Jane Bamsey shared John's indignation that both parties had won their way; while her mother mourned with Mr. Chaffe over Dinah's downfall. For the rest Robert Withycombe and Callicott, the boxer, related their experience in many ears, and more laughed than frowned who heard them.
The attitude of Joe Stockman was defined in a conversation held a week later with Melinda.
She came to Falcon Farm in a condition somewhat nervous, for she had great news for Joe and felt doubtful how he would take it. She had accepted the hand of Harry Ford in marriage and acknowledged to herself that propriety demanded Mr. Stockman should be the first to know her decision.
She brought a bouquet for Susan, who was returning that evening with her husband.
"Everybody's beginning a new life seemingly," said Mrs. Honeysett. "And I was wishful to know your view touching Orphan Dinah, because as you think in that matter, so shall I."
But this diplomacy was wasted.
"No, no—you don't think like what I do—let's have no pretences, Melinda. And as to my late cowman, if the new one ain't so clever with women, he's quite so clever with cows. Chaffe have been up here wringing his hands, and your brother, the sailor, have told me the tale also; and on the whole I dare say it will be all right for Dinah. She come out very clear, so Robert says. They was both in deadly earnest and now they are gone beyond reach of prayers or cusses alike, and I don't wish 'em no harm. If the time had to come again, I'd keep my mouth shut about it. Anyway they'll be married as far as words can marry 'em, when they get to Australia; and if the world thinks you're married, that's all that matters."
"So Mr. Ford says. He's took a pretty large-minded view. In fact nobody don't wish 'em any harm, except Jane Bamsey and her brother."
"And you be going to marry the gardener, Melinda?"
She started.
"I thought you was to be the first, after my family, to hear it, Joe."
"So I was. Robert told me last night."
"I do hope you'll feel kindly to us."
"Red to red—eh? Fire to fire when a red woman marries a red man; because it's well known when red loves red—however, I'm not one to cry danger afore it's in sight. Live and let live is my motto, and never more than now, when my own days be running out so fast."
"Don't say that, Joe."
Mr. Stockman's age had in fact leapt up by a decade since Melinda's refusal to marry him. He now spoke of himself as a man of seventy-five and intended to behave as such, save in the matter of his own small pleasures. He was not really regretful of the situation as it had developed, and knew exceedingly well that he would be more comfortable with Soosie-Toosie than he could have been with a wife. But he intended to get something—indeed, a good deal—out of pending changes, and designed a programme for his son-in-law that embraced more work and larger responsibility. That Thomas would be equal to the coming demands he also felt assured.
Joe spoke of him now.
"We must be reasonable to age. Justice the married pair will be prepared to do me; but damn it, when you be in sight of seventy-five and feel older, along of trial and disappointments, you've a right to a bit more than justice from the rising generation; and I mean to have it."
"Of course you will."
"As to you, I'll be your friend as before, Melinda, and Ford must understand I am so. There's something in me that holds out the hand of friendship again and again until seventy-times seven; and in your case, though it's turning the other cheek to the smiter, still I do it."
"A proper living Christian, as we all know," declared Mrs. Honeysett, much relieved. She talked for some time and presently left, filled with admiration for Joe's sentiments.
Then came home Susan and her husband in the best of spirits, to be gratified in their turn by the amiability of their welcome. They had often debated what form it would take, and forgot that Mr. Stockman had suffered the unexampled experience of being without his daughter for a fortnight.
Both were deeply interested in the story of Lawrence and Dinah; but while Soosie-Toosie ventured to hope that the right thing had happened, Thomas took a contrary opinion.
"Two wrongs don't make a right," he said, "nor yet two hundred. I speak as a man who now knows the dignity of the married state, and I think they've done a very wicked deed and will be punished for it. She's a lost creature in my opinion."
"Why for, Thomas?" asked Mr. Stockman.
"Because marriage be the work of the Lord upon two human hearts," said Mr. Palk; "and when they have clove together by the plan of their Maker, they be one and can no more be set apart by any human contrivance than the growing grain from the young corn. Be God likely to make a mistake and bring two people together unless He knew they was made for each other? 'Tis only our wicked craving for novelty makes us think there's misfits."
"If us all waited till your age, no doubt there wouldn't be so many," admitted Joe, "and so long as the law don't make love a part of marriage, so long there'll be failures. But we must be merciful to circumstances so far as we can. Many marry each other as was never intended to do so by their Creator, and when such wants to part, it may often be that He'd like to see 'em allowed to do so afore the man cuts the woman's throat, or she puts poison in his tea."
"But if marriage wears like ours will, then give God the credit," suggested Mrs. Palk.
"'Tis a magnificent state in my opinion," declared Thomas, "and there'll be no shadow of turning with me and Susan. We be wonderful addicted to each other a'ready."
"Take that woman to Barnstaple," added his wife. "There was a case, father. Her husband left her more'n seven years ago and was thought to have lost his reason and killed himself, which no doubt he did do. She tried her bestest to find the man high and low, but couldn't, and a bit after the seven years were over, Mrs. Courtier called upon the law to say she was free. And the law done so. And she married a publican while we was there, and Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Stockman went to the wedding, for everybody was well content about it. 'Twas a great affair."
"Charity covers a multitude of sins, no doubt," said Thomas, "and charity may cover him and her; but it won't cover their children—not if the Church and the Law can help it."
"The law can't act unless you set it in motion," explained Joe, "and so far as we know, the man's real wife will never hear what he's done."
"And if Mrs. Courtier, why not Maynard?" continued Soosie-Toosie. "And if I'd known of these adventures, I'd have sent the paper to Lawrence—to cheer him up; because he was a good man in his way and wouldn't have done evil to Orphan Dinah, or anybody."
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