CHAPTER II.THE MEETING OF THE MENChristopher Yeoland visited Bear Down on the evening after his meeting with its mistress; but the hour was late when he arrived, and Honor had retired with a headache ere he entered the farm. Even as he reached the front door and lifted his hand to the bell Yeoland changed his mind and strolled round to the kitchen entrance. There he stood for an instant before marching boldly in according to his old custom. A voice fell upon his ear, and for a moment he thought that it must be Mark speaking to himself alone, as was the blind man's wont; but other speech broke in upon the first, and, catching his own name on Cramphorn's tongue, Christopher stood still, laughed silently, and listened.An utterance from Churdles Ash was the first that came distinctly to him."Us o' Little Silver be like the twelve apostles, I reckon—all mazed wi' gert wonder to hear tell of a resurrection.""Awnly theer's a world-wide differ'nce 'tween Lard o' Hosts an' this gormed Jack-o'-lantern," answered Cramphorn. "For my part I'd so soon—maybe sooner—he was wheer us thought him. Born he was to make trouble, an' trouble he'll make while he walks airth. No fay, I can't fox myself into counting this a pleasing thing. He'm takin' up gude room, if you ax me."Christopher, having heard quite enough, himself answered as he came among them—"That's honest, at any rate, Jonah. But I hope you're wrong. I've come back a reformed character—on my solemn word I have. Wait and see."He shook hands with Stapledon first, afterwards with Mark Endicott and the assembled labourers. There fell a moment of awkward silence; then Jonah, who felt some word from him seemed due, knocked out his pipe and spoke before retiring. He contented himself with an expression of regret, but hesitated not to qualify it so extensively that little doubt arose concerning his real opinions."I didn't knaw as you was behind the door, Squire Yeoland, else I might have guarded my lips closer. An' bein' a living sawl—to save or damn accordin' to God's gudeness—'tweern't seemly for me to speak so sharp. Not that offence was meant, an' a man's opinions be his awn; though I trust as you'll order your ways to shaw I'm a liar; an' nobody better pleased than me, though not hopeful, 'cause what's bred in the bone comes out in the flesh. An' I may say you've proved wan thing—if awnly wan: that a sartain party by name of Charity Grepe be a auld, double-dealin' rascal, an' no more a wise woman than my awn darters. So gude-night all."Pinsent and Collins retreated with Mr. Cramphorn, but old Churdles Ash remained to shake hands once again with the wanderer."I be a flat Thomas wheer theer's any left-handed dealings like this here," he said. "Most onbelievin' party as ever was, as well a man may be when the world's so full of evil. But by the hand of you and the speech of you, you'm flesh and blood same as the rest of us. I'm sure I hope, your honour, if you'll take an old man's respectful advice, as you'll bide above ground henceforrard an' do no more o' these dark, churchyard deeds 'mongst Christian folks. It may be very convenient an' common down-long in furrin paarts, but 'tidn' seemly to Little Silver, wheer theer's such a lot o' the risin' generation as looks to 'e for a example.""I'll act as becomes me ever afterwards, gaffer," declared Christopher, whereon, gratified by this promise, Mr. Ash touched his forehead, praised God and the company, and so withdrew.Then Yeoland began his story, and Mark put an occasional question, while Stapledon kept silence until he should have opportunity to speak with the other alone. A necessity for some recognition and utterance of personal gratitude weighed heavy on him. That Christopher desired no such thing he felt assured, but he told himself that a word at least was due, and must be paid, like any other debt. Myles had judged as the wanderer suspected: Yeoland's initial act seemed great to him; this return to life he accounted paltry and an anticlimax beside it. Putting personal bias out of the question, or believing that he did so, Stapledon endeavoured to estimate the achievement from an impartial spectator's standpoint, and so seen this homecoming disappointed him. He did not deny the man his right to return; he only marvelled that he had exercised it. Yet as Christopher, with many an excursus, chattered through his story, and spoke of his native land with manifest emotion, Stapledon wondered no more, but understood, and felt disinterested sympathy. Then he blamed himself for previous harsh criticism, and discovered that the leaven of a personal interest had distorted his point of view. Morbidly he began to think of Honor, and the dominant weakness of his character awoke again. He told himself that Yeoland would find out how perfect was the unanimity between husband and wife; then he gave himself the lie and wondered, with his cold eyes upon Christopher, if the returned wanderer would ever discover that the inner harmony of Honor's married life was not complete at all times.When Yeoland had made an end, Mark asked him concerning his plans for the future, and listened to many projects, both happy and impracticable, for the glorification of Godleigh and the improvement of Little Silver."Clack's going to be my agent. After he practically perjured his immortal soul for me, I cannot do less for him than give him that appointment. And he's a good sportsman, which is so much nowadays."With some element of restraint they discoursed for an hour or more, then Yeoland rose and Myles walked part of the way home with him. Under a night of stars the farmer spoke and said what he accounted necessary in the briefest phrases capable of rendering his sentiments."I want you to know that I understand and I thank you. My gratitude is measured by the worth of what you—you gave me. I can say no more than that.""No need to have said as much. Your voice tells me you don't like saying it, Stapledon, and truly I had no desire to hear it. You see, we could only win her full happiness that way. I knew her character better than you could——""Impossible!""Now, no doubt, but not then, when these things happened. I pictured her with you, and with me. I appreciated your message, but I didn't agree with you. Honestly you have nothing to thank me for. We're on this now and will leave the bones of the thing clean-picked. It was love of the woman—desire to see her happy for all time—that made me act so. You asked her to marry you before you sent your message by Clack. So that showed me you believed that you could achieve her happiness if she let you try. But she would never have married you until she knew that I was out of it. The right thing happened. All's well that ends well. With a past so distinct and defined, it seems to me that the future could hardly look happier. We understand each other so well—we three, thank God. I threshed it all out through many a long, sleepless night, I can tell you. I'm notertium quidcome back into lives that have done with me; I'm not here to ruffle up a tangle already smoothed out by time. You understand that?"Myles agreed with the younger man, and tried to believe him."Of course I understand. Friends we shall always be, and each welcome to the other when our devious ways may cross. Honor is not likely to be sentimental under such curious conditions. She will view this, your return, with the calm self-possession she displays in all affairs of life. It has done her good already, and lifted a cloud. I tell you so frankly. She was haunted. I hear you know all about that. There is no need for you to say what you feel about it. I will take your words as spoken. So here we stand—we three—and our lives must go forward and unfold to the ripening here on this hillside. What then? There is room enough?""Ample, I should imagine. That you should ask the question is a little astonishing. But I understand you better than you think. You can't help the defiance in your tone, Stapledon; you can't wholly hide the hardness in your voice. D'you think I don't know what's cutting you so deep when you look at me and remember that night? Forgive me. I have paid for it with grey hairs.""You mistake. I should be a fool to blame you seriously for that. Merely evil fortune. Evil fortune was overdue in my life. I had been waiting long for reverses. You were the unconscious instrument.""Your old, sombre creed, whose god is the law of chance. Anyhow, you and your wife shall find no truer friend than Christopher Yeoland in the years to come."They shook hands and separated, the one perfectly happy and contented that this ordeal was over; the other already in a cloud of cares with his face lifted to meet troubles still invisible. The one saw a smooth and sunlit road ahead of him—a road of buds and flowers and singing birds; the other stood among pitfalls past numbering, and the way was dreary as well as dangerous.As he returned home, Myles stopped and looked over a gate to set his thoughts in order. Whereupon he made discoveries little calculated to soothe or sustain him in this hour. First he found that lack of knowledge alone was responsible for his commotion—lack of knowledge of his wife; and secondly, reviewing his recent conversation with Christopher, he very readily observed a note in it unfamiliar to himself. This man's advent aroused an emotion that Myles had read of and heard about, but never felt. Upon the threshold of renewed intercourse, and despite so many friendly words, Stapledon recognised the thing in his heart and named it. He was jealous of Yeoland's return, and his discovery staggered him. The fact felt bad enough; the position it indicated overwhelmed him, for it shone like an evil light on the old fear; it showed that the understanding he boasted between himself and Honor by no means obtained. Herein lay his trial and his terror. No cloudless marital life could receive this miasma into its atmosphere for an instant, for jealousy's germ has no power to exist where a man and a woman dwell heart to heart.Great forces shook Stapledon; then he roused himself, fell back upon years of self-discipline, shut the floodgates of his mind, and told his heart that he was a fool."The man shall be my friend—such a friend as I have never had yet," he said aloud to the night. "I will weary him with my friendship. He is honest, and has sacrificed his life for me. It is the vileness of human nature, that hates benefits received, which works in me against him. And if it pleases Fate to send me another child, this man, who believes in God, shall be its godfather."His determination comforted Stapledon, and he passed slowly homeward conscious of a battle won, strong in the belief that he had slain a peril at its birth. He told himself that the word "jealousy" rang unreal and theatrical, in presence of his wife's slumber.CHAPTER III.FLAGS IN THE WINDGodleigh forest was paying its debt to the Mother in good gold, and a myriad leaves flew and whirled aloft, tumbled and sailed downwards, rustled and hustled over the green grass, dropped amongst the forest boughs, floated away on Teign's bosom, eddied in sudden whirlwinds at gates and wind-swept gaps of the woodlands. The summer glory was extinguished once again, the tree-top life was ended for another generation of foliage; and now, final livery of russet or crimson won, the leaves fell and flew at the will of a wild wind, or waited in some last resting-place for latter rains, for alchemy of frost and for the sexton worm. Their dust is the food of the whole earth, and to the blind and patient roots, twisting gigantically at the hidden heart of things, they return obedient. For to them they owe every aerial happiness in gleaming dawns, every joy of the moonlight and starlight and deep nocturnal dews, song of birds and whisper of vernal rain, cool purple from shadows of clouds and all the glorious life of a leaf—of each small leaf that joins its particular jewel to the green coronet of summer.Little Silver took a holiday from the affairs of working-day life on the occasion of the Squire's official return to Godleigh Park, and the day was set aside for rejoicing and marked with a white stone. A great banquet under canvas formed the staple attraction; the grounds were thrown open, and Christopher invited his small world to lunch with him in a noble marquee tricked out with flags and streamers. But the season and the day proved out of harmony with campestral merry-making. Nature's October russets, pale gold and red gold, killed the crude bunting colours; a high wind rollicked and raved through the woods and over the waste places; the great tents and the lesser creaked and groaned, billowed and bent; yet those driven from them by fear were sent back by heavy squalls of rain. The autumnal equinox welcomed Yeoland roughly to his home; but happily he drove under the triumphal arch of laurel and oak before an envious gust sent it sprawling; happily also the increasing wind blew the sky clean towards nightfall, though the rockets that then shrieked aloft chose perilous, unexpected places for their descent, and the bonfire was abandoned, for its conflagration must have threatened every rick of hay within half a mile east of it. Upon the whole, however, this celebration was counted successful, though one uncanny incident marred the day. At earliest dawn Mr. Brimblecombe discovered that some genius unknown had decorated the Yeoland mausoleum with heavy wreaths of autumn flowers and evergreens; but even the least imaginative recognised that such accentuation of the tomb at this moment showed a triumph of wrong-headedness.Upon that great occasion did Henry Collins, whose patience, even in affairs of the heart, was almost reptilian, avail himself of the general holiday. And when Sally Cramphorn, who still philandered with him, though fitfully, promised that she would take a walk by his side after the feasting, Henry believed that the moment for speech was come at last. He had debated the form of his proposition for several months, and the girl's attitude now naturally led him to suspect an agreeable termination to his protracted sufferings. The time was that of eating and drinking, and Sally, who perceived that Mr. Gregory Libby, from his standpoint as carver at the head of one of the tables in the banqueting tent, viewed her position beside Collins with concern, hastened her meal and shortened it. Then, as soon as possible upon the speech-making, she took Henry by the arm and led him forth very lovingly under the nose of the other man. Together they proceeded through the woods, and the graciousness which she exhibited while Gregory's eye was yet upon her, diminished a little. Still the woman felt amiably disposed to her innocent tool, and even found it in her heart to pity him somewhat, for she guessed what now awaited her. Mr. Collins walked slowly along, with some strain and creaking of mental machinery as he shook his thoughts and ideas into order. He passed with Sally under pine trees, and at length found a snug spot sheltered from the wind."Us might sit here 'pon the fir-needles," suggested Henry."'Tis damp, I doubt," answered his companion, thinking of her best gown."Then I'll spread my coat for 'e. I want to have a tell along with you, an' I caan't talk travellin'. 'Tis tu distractin', an' what I've got to say'll take me all my power, whether or no."He spread his black broadcloth without hesitation, and Sally, appreciating this compliment, felt she could not do less than accept it. So she plumped down on Henry's Sunday coat, and he appeared to win much pleasure from contemplation of her in that position. He smiled to himself, sighed rather loudly, and then sat beside her. Whereupon his tongue refused its office and, for the space of two full minutes, he made no remark whatever, though his breathing continued very audible."What be thinking 'bout?" asked Sally suddenly."Well, to tell plain truth, I was just taking pleasure in the idea as you'd ordained to sit 'pon my jacket. 'Twill be very comfortin' to me to call home as you've sat on un every time I put un on or off.""If 'twas awnly another party!" thought the girl. "Doan't be such a fule," she said."That's what everybody have been advisin' me of late," he answered calmly, without the least annoyance or shame. "'Tis the state of my mind. Things come between me an' my work—a very ill-convenient matter. But, whether or no, I'll be proud of that coat now."She sat comfortably beside him, and presently, after further silence, Henry lolled over towards her, and, taking a straw, sought with clumsy pleasantry to stick it into her hand under the white cotton glove which she was wearing."What be about?" she asked sharply. "Go along with 'e! Doan't 'e knaw me better than to think I be so giddy?"Thus repulsed, Mr. Collins apologised, explained that in reality he did know Sally better, that his action was one of pure inadvertence, and that he admired her character by special reason of its sobriety. Silence again overtook them, and, while Sally fidgeted impatiently, the man's owl eyes roamed from off her face to the woods, from the woodland back again to her. He stuffed his pipe slowly, then returned it to his pocket; he sighed once or twice, tied up his boot-lace, and cleared his throat. After a painful pause the woman spoke again."Be us at a funeral or a junketing? You look for all the world as if you'd catched something hurtful. Wheer's your manners? What's in your mind now?"Henry gulped, and pointed to an oak immediately opposite them—a great tree bound about in a robe of ivy."Was just considerin' 'bout thicky ivydrum, an' what gude sneyds for scythe-handles her'd make.""Then you'd best to bide here with your scythe-handles, an' I'll go back-along to the company. I didn't come out to sit an' stare at a ivybush if you did.""Doan't 'e be so biting against me, woman!" said Collins indignantly. "I be comin' to it so fast as I can, ban't I? 'Tedn' so easy, I can assure 'e. Maybe chaps as have axed a score o' females finds speech come quick enough; but I've never spoke the word to wan afore in all my life; an' 'tis a damn oneasy job; an' I ban't gwaine to be hurried by you or any other."Sally appeared awed at this outburst. She suddenly realised that Mr. Collins was a man, a big one, a strong one, and an earnest one."Sorry I took you up tu quick, I'm sure. I didn't knaw as you felt so deep.""If I could have trusted pen an' ink, I should have written it out for 'e," he answered, "but my penmanship's a vain thing. I'll have the handkercher out of that pocket you'm sittin' on, if 'tis all the same to you. Theer's a dew broke out awver my brow."She rose and passed to him a large red handkerchief. Then he thanked her, mopped his face, and continued—"When fust I seed you, I felt weak by reason of your butivul faace, an' the way you could toss hay an' keep so cool as a frog. An' I will say that the laugh of you was very nigh as fine as a cuckoo's song. Then I got to see what a gude gal you was tu, an' how you scorned all men-folk—'cept Libby."These words he added hastily, as he saw her colour rising."Libby, I do allow, you gived your countenance to, though, if I may say it, ban't no gert sign of love to see a chap in two minds between such a piece as you an' your sister. But I never looked at no other but you—not even when I was up to Exeter. An' if you see your way to keep comp'ny along wi' me, God's my judge you'll never be sorry you done it. I be a man as stands to work an' goes to church Sundays when let alone. An' I'd trust you wi' every penny of the money an' ax for no more'n a shillin' here an' theer. An' I'd stand between you an' your faither, as doan't 'pear to be so fond of you of late as he used to be."Sally moved uneasily, for he had echoed a recent, dim suspicion of her own."Best let that bide," she said. "If my faither likes Margery better'n what he do me, that's his business, not yours.""'Tis a fault in him, however," answered Henry. "You'm worth ten thousand o' she; an' he'll live to find it out yet. He'm grawin' auld an' tootlish, I reckon, else he'd never set her up afore you.""She'm a crafty twoad," declared the other gloomily. "I knaw she'm clever'n what I be, but flesh an' blood counts for somethin'. He sees me twice to her wance—Gregory do; an', whether or no, the man's free as ban't achsually married."Mr. Collins grew warm again, to see the drift of his lady's thoughts, and endeavoured to bring her conversation back to the matter in hand."Ban't for me to speak nothin' 'gainst Libby or any other man. An' 'twouldn't be fair fightin' if I said what I'd say wi' pleasure to the faace of un if he was here; but I want 'ess' or 'no' for myself, an' I do pray, my dear woman, as you'll consider of it afore you decide.""Ban't no need, an' thank you kindly, I'm sure," said Sally. "But you must look some plaace else than me, Henery; an' I'm sure you'll find many so gude, an' plenty better."He sat silent, staring and sniffing."Doan't 'e cry 'bout it," she said."I ban't cryin'—merely chap-fallen," he answered, "an' theer's none 'pon the airth so gude as you that ever I see; an' I do wish as you'd take your time an' not be so sudden. I can wait—I can wait if theer's a shade of doubt in your mind. Ess fay, I can wait weeks, an' months, an' years, so easy as a tree, for you to decide. But do 'e take a bit of time. 'Tis cruel short just to say 'no,' after all as I've felt for 'e so long."She accepted the alternative, half from pity, half from policy. Any hint of an understanding might galvanise the cold-blooded Libby into action."Wait then," she said, "an' us'll see what time sends.""Thank you, I'm sure—cold comfort, but a thought better'n nought. Now, if you'll rise up off my coat I might get 'e a few braave filbert nuts; then us'll join the people."Sally dusted the coat and helped its master into it. They then returned towards the central festivity, and upon the way, at the bend of a narrow path, came suddenly upon Christopher Yeoland, Honor and her husband, Mark Endicott, with his arm in that of Mr. Scobell, Doctor Clack, and other local celebrities and men of leading in the neighbourhood."Lard! how can us pass all this mort o' gentlefolks an' me that down-daunted," moaned Henry; but his companion, secure in her pretty face and trustful of her best gown, felt quite equal to the ordeal."So easy as they can pass us," she answered. "They'm awnly men an' women when all's said, an' us be so gude as them, 'pon a public holiday or in church. I mind a time when Squire Yeoland never passed me by wi'out a civil word, an' I shouldn't wonder if he didn't now for all his riches."She was right. Observing that no parent accompanied her and recollecting her blue eyes very well, Christopher stopped."Ah, Sally, glad to see you again. Not married yet—eh? But going to be, I'll warrant. That's your man? Lucky chap. And remember, the day of the wedding I've got twenty pounds for you to make the cottage vitty."Miss Cramphorn blushed and murmured something, she knew not what, while Henry, now safely past his betters, shook at these bold words. Then the company proceeded, and Myles Stapledon, recollecting when these two had last met, mused upon the nature of the man, while Honor chid him."That's the way you'll send your money spinning, by putting a premium on improvident marriages. Ask Mr. Scobell what he thinks of such folly.""A sentiment. I've always liked Sally. I kissed her once and her father saw me. Myles will tell you about that. Not that she ever liked me much—too good a judge of character, I expect."Meantime Mr. Collins and his companion passed back to the tents and flags, and as they did so Henry could not refrain from commenting upon the squire's handsome promise."Did you hear what the man said?" he asked."Not being deaf, I did," answered Sally with evasion. "A wonnerful offer. Twenty pound! An' just for to make a place smart.""Best to find a maid as won't keep 'e hanging round. 'Tis mere gapes-nestin' for you to wait for me—a wild-goose chase for sartain.""I hope not.""Twenty pounds ban't much arter all's said.""Not to your faither, as he be a snug man enough by accounts; but 'tis tidy money to the likes of me—big money to come in a heap an' all unearned. Not as I'd want it. You should have every penny-piece if you'd awnly—""I doan't want to hear no more 'pon that head. I've promised to think of it, an' I ax you not to speak another word till I tell you to.""'Twas the thought of the money that carried me away like, an' I'll be dumb from to-day, I do assure 'e."Somewhat later they met Mr. Cramphorn, but it was significant of a lessened interest in his elder daughter that Jonah, instead of reproaching her for thus walking apart with one of the other sex, merely called to Collins and bid him bring his strength where it was needed to brace the tackle of a tent.CHAPTER IV.DRIFTINGWith return of winter some temporary peace descended upon Myles, and, looking back, he felt ashamed at the storm and stress of spirit that Yeoland's resurrection had awakened in him. For a season, as life returned to its level progress, he truly told himself that he viewed the friendship between his wife and her old lover without concern, because it was natural and inevitable. Honor's very frankness and ingenuous pleasure in the wanderer's company shamed a jealous attitude. Some men, indeed, had gone further and blessed Yeoland's home-coming. Certainly that event was in no small measure responsible for Honor's renewed physical welfare, and the excitement acted kindly upon a temperament that found food in novelty and desired sweep and play of change for her soul's health. Stapledon's wife was well again, and soon she discovered that life could still be full and sweet. Into a sort of lulled contentment he therefore sank, and proclaimed to himself that all was well, that the existence of the three, lived under present relations, was natural and seemly. He checked impatience at the expeditions planned, listened to Christopher's endless designs with respect to Godleigh, advised him and endured from him the old, extravagant conceits and jesting, specious views of life. Yet the glamour was off them now, and they only wearied Myles. He believed at first that Yeoland must be a changed man; but very soon he found no such thing had happened.Nevertheless, some parity of tastes obtained, as of old, in divers directions. Again they walked for many miles together, each occupied with Nature from his own standpoint; and again they met in the dawn hour that possessed like fascination for both. At such times, under grey winter light, shrewd and searching, what was best in the men stood first, and they almost understood one another; but when they met, smudged by long hours of the toilsome day, and especially when they found each other in common company of Honor, both lacked the former sympathy.As for Christopher, he heartily appreciated Myles at this period, and found the farmer's common sense a valuable antidote to the somewhat too spacious ideas of Doctor Clack in matters concerning betterment of Godleigh. And not seldom did Yeoland rejoice, with a single eye, that his old love had such a steadfast rock upon which to establish her life.In his relations with Honor he had been a little astonished to find the fact of her marriage not recognised by his nature, as it was by his conscience. That Nature could dare to be herself surprised him, when her wave throbbed through his being now and again upon some rare, sweet note of voice or tinkle of laughter. At such emotional moments he complimented the character and heroic attributes of Myles, with a vigour so crude that Honor might have suspected had not she echoed the sentiment from her heart. She never wearied of her husband's praises, and had no discernment as to what prompted Christopher's sudden overflowings of admiration. The man's return, as in the first instance of his own juxtaposition with Myles, served to alter Honor's inner attitude towards her husband. It seemed, in a sense, as she had fancied of old, that these two were the complement each of the other.And a result was that his wife became more to Stapledon as the weeks passed. Gradually—but not so gradually that he failed to observe it—there came an increase of consideration in small matters, a new softness in her voice, a deeper warmth in her kisses. He marked her added joy in life, noted how she let her happiness bubble over to make him more joyful; and at first he was filled with satisfaction; and next he was overclouded with doubt. He tried to ascertain why her old lover's return should increase Honor's liking for her husband; he laboured gloomily upon a problem altogether beyond his calibre of mind to solve. He failed to see that the subtle change in his wife extended beyond him to the confines of her little world, that some higher graciousness was bred of it, that the least planet of which she was the sun now reaped new warmth from her accession of happiness. He puzzled his intelligence, and arrived, through long fret and care, at an erroneous solution. Utterly unable to appraise the delicate warp and poise of her humours, or gauge those obscure escapements that control happiness in the machinery of a woman's mind, Stapledon came to pitiful and mistaken conclusions that swept from him all content, all security, all further peace. At the glimmer of some devil's lantern he read into Honor's altered bearing an act of deliberate simulation. He denied that this advent of the other could by any possibility possess force to deepen or widen her affection for him; and he concluded, upon this decision, that the alteration must be apparent, not real. Such was the man's poor speed in the vital science of human nature. Next, he strove to explain the necessity for her pretence, with the reason of it; and so he darkened understanding, fouled his own threshold with fancied danger, and passed gradually into a cloudy region of anxiety and gloom. Excuse for speech or protest there was none; yet, unable to discern in Honor's frank awakening to everyday life and her renewed healthful bearing towards all her environment an obvious purity of mind and thought, he suffered his agitation to conquer him. He lived and waited, and sank into a chronic watchfulness that was loathsome to him. His fits of moody taciturnity saddened his wife and astonished her above measure, for it seemed that the old love of natural things was dead in him. In truth, his religion of the Moor—his dogma of the granite and vast waste places—failed him at this pinch. His gods were powerless and dumb—either that, or the heart of him had grown deaf for a season.His unrest appeared, but the inner fires were hidden very completely. Then Mark Endicott, who knew that Myles was disordered, and suspected the tissue of his trouble, approached him, burrowed to his secret, and held converse thereon through some hours of a stormy night in January.Stapledon at first evaded the issue, but he confessed at length, and, when invited to name the exact nature of his disquiet, merely declared the present position to be impossible in his judgment."We can't live with the balance so exact," he said. "I feel it and know it. Honor and this man loved one another once, and the natural attraction of their characters may bring them to do so again, now that such a thing would be sin.""A big word—'sin,'" answered Mr. Endicott. "If that's all your trouble, the sooner you let sunshine into your mind again the better. Honor's an Endicott, when all's said, though maybe one of the strangest ever born under that name. I'm astonished to hear that this is the colour of your mind. And the man—queer though he is, too, and unlike most men I've met with—yet he's not the sort to bring trouble on a woman, last of all this woman.""You prose on, uncle, not remembering what it felt like to feel your blood run hot at a woman's voice," answered Myles with unusual impatience and a flash of eye. "I give him all the credit you desire and more; I know he is honourable and upright and true. What then? Highest honour has broken down before this temptation. He is made of flesh and blood after all, and a man can't live within a span of a woman he loves and be happy—not if that woman belongs to somebody else. I don't assert that his love still exists, yet it's an immortal thing—not to be killed—and though he thinks he has strangled it—who can say? It may come to life again, like he did.""You judge others by your own honest character; but I'm not so certain. If there is a man who could live platonically beside a woman he loves, that man might be Yeoland. There's something grotesque in him there—some warp or twist of fibre. Remember how well content he was in the past to remain engaged to her without rushing into her arms and marrying her. He's cold-blooded—so to call it—in some ways. I've known other such men.""It's contrary to nature.""Contrary to yours, but temperaments are different Don't judge him. There may be a want in him, or he may possess rare virtues. Some are ascetic and continent by disposition and starve Nature, at some secret prompting of her own. I don't say he is that sort of man, but he may be. Certainly his standpoint is far less commonplace than yours.""I caught him kissing a pretty milkmaid once, all the same; and that after he was engaged to Honor," answered the other gloomily."Exactly. Now you would not do such a thing for the world, and he would make light of it. Beauty merely intoxicates some men; but intoxicated men do little harm as a rule. He's irresponsible in many ways; yet still I say the husband that fears such a man must be a fool.""I can't suppose him built differently to other people.""Then assume him to be the same, and ask yourself this question: Seeing what he did for love of her, and granting he loves her still, has he come back to undo what he did? Would he change and steal her now, even if he had the power to do so? What has he done in the past that makes you dream him capable of such a deed in the future?""I don't say that he dreams that such a thing is possible. Probably the man would not have returned into the atmosphere of Honor if he had dimly contemplated such an event. But I see nothing in his character to lift him above the temptation, or to make me rest sure he will be proof against it. There's a danger of his opening his eyes too late to find the thing which he doubtless believes impossible at present an accomplished fact.""What thing?""Why, the wakening again of his love for her, the returned knowledge that his life is empty and barren and frost-bitten without her. He felt that once. What more natural than that, here again, he should feel it redoubled in the presence of his own good fortune in every other direction?""If such a suspicion crossed his mind, he would depart from Godleigh. That I do steadfastly believe. Understand, your welfare would not weigh with him; but Honor's happiness—I feel more assured of it—is still more to him than his own.""I know—I know; yet how easily a man in love persuades himself that a woman's vital welfare and real happiness depends upon him.""Now we argue in a circle, and are at the starting-point again. Yeoland believed so thoroughly that she would be happier with you than with him that he actually blotted himself out of her life, and, when he heard she would not marry you while he lived, let it be known that he was dead. Solely for her sake he played that cumbrous prank.""That is so; yet remember what you told me years ago. Then you honestly believed that this man, from the depths of his own peculiar nature, understood Honor better than anybody else in the world did. You thought that, and you are seldom wrong about people. So perhaps he has come to that conclusion too. If I was the wrong husband for her——""I never said such a thing.""No, because I never asked you; but if it was so, what more likely than that he has discovered it since his return? At any rate he may think that this is the case—though I dispute it with all my heart—and he may feel his sacrifice was vain. Then, what more likely than that he should ask himself if it is too late to amend the position?"Mr. Endicott's face expressed absolute surprise and some scorn for the speaker."Do I hear Myles Stapledon? Where have you sucked poison since last we spoke together? You, who live in the fresh air and enjoy the companionship of natural beasts and wholesome lives, to spin this trash! And wicked trash, too, for what right have you to map out evil roads for other people to follow? What right have you to foretell a man's plan and prophesy ill? Have done with this dance of Jack-o'-lanterns, and get upon the solid road again. Look in your wife's character. No need to go further than that for ointment to such a wound as you suffer from. You have let jealousy into the house, Myles, and the reek of it and the blight of it will make your life rotten to the marrow if you don't set to work and cleanse the chamber again. I know they are happy together; but you've got to face that. I know she's better for his coming, and you've got to face that too. These are subtle things, and if you can't understand them, put them behind you. All this is false fire, and you're in a ferment of windy misery brewed inside you—just wind, because the home-coming of this native has upset your digestion. You ought to feel some shame to harbour such a pack of imps. Time was when a breath of air from Cosdon Beacon would have blown them back to their master. How they got in I can't say; for it's not part of your real character to make trouble. You're like the ploughboy who builds a ghostie with a sheet and turnip and only frightens himself. Get this weed out of your heart at any cost. Burn it out with the caustic of common sense; and trust me, blind as I am, to be quick enough to smell the smoke that tells of fire. I mean in this matter. Honor's only less to me than she is to you. And I know the truth about her as sure as I know the sound of her voice and the things it says, and the secrets it lets out, apart from the words her tongue speaks.""She's said many a queer thing on the subject of a man and his wife and their relations each to the other. I cannot easily forget them.""It's her wide, healthy frankness in every affair of life that might set you at rest, if you were not, as I hint to you, a fool.""If I were a fool, it might. I know she holds the tie lightly. Any conventional sort of bondage angers her. I won her by a trick—not of my hatching, God knows—yet none the less a trick.""You'd make Job lose his patience—you, that I thought a man of ideas as fresh and wholesome as the west wind! Can't you see this cuts both ways? She's yours till death parts you, so have done whining. You're stirring hell-broth, that's what you're doing, and if you let Honor catch a sight of the brew, there will be some real, live trouble very likely. You, to break out like this! Well, it shows how true the saying runs: that every man, from Solomon down, is mad when the wind sets in one quarter. Now you've found your foul-weather wind, and it's like to blow you into some play-acting if you don't pull yourself up. You're the luckiest man on the whole countryside, if you could only see it so. Be patient, and put your faith in your wife, where it should be, and go your old gait again.""I'll try your remedy—ignore the thing, banish it, laugh at it.""Laugh at yourself; if you could only learn to do that, there'd be hope for you. And take another point to your comfort. We're all agreed that Yeoland's no hypocrite, whatever else he may be. Three days since I had speech with him, and your name was on his lips, and he rejoiced that you were his friend and Honor's husband. He does not dream that his return to life has either gladdened her or troubled you. He only sees her now pretty much as she was when he went away. He hasn't seen what you and I have—her sorrows. But, remember that Honor's real happiness rests with you—nobody else—and she knows it, and trusts to you for it. Nobody can ever take your place, and if she glimpses a serious change in you, she'll soon be down in the mouth, and, as like as not, a lie-abed again.""She has seen a change. She has asked me what was amiss.""Then stir yourself, and make a giant's effort before she finds out more than you want her to know. I'm glad I spoke to you to-night—wish I had sooner; but it's not too late. You've had tangles to untie in your character before to-day—puzzles to pick—dirty corners to let the light in upon. Who hasn't? And you're not the one to fear such work, I should reckon. So set about it, and the Lord help you."Myles Stapledon rose and took the old man's hand."Thank you," he said. "You've done me good, and I'll try to be worthy of your advice. I don't quite know what this place would be without you, Uncle Endicott.""Quieter, my son—that's all. I'm only a voice. Words are poor things alongside actions. The great deeds of the world—the things achieved—are not chattered by the tongue, but rise out of sweat, and deep, long silences. Yet I've given you advice worth following, I do think, though, seeing that your blind spot looks like jealousy, what I've bid you do may be harder than you imagine. So much more credit if you do it."Neither spoke again, and Stapledon, taking the candle, soon went to his bed; but Mark sat on awhile over his knitting in the dark, while the crickets chirruped fearlessly about the dim and dying peat.
CHAPTER II.
THE MEETING OF THE MEN
Christopher Yeoland visited Bear Down on the evening after his meeting with its mistress; but the hour was late when he arrived, and Honor had retired with a headache ere he entered the farm. Even as he reached the front door and lifted his hand to the bell Yeoland changed his mind and strolled round to the kitchen entrance. There he stood for an instant before marching boldly in according to his old custom. A voice fell upon his ear, and for a moment he thought that it must be Mark speaking to himself alone, as was the blind man's wont; but other speech broke in upon the first, and, catching his own name on Cramphorn's tongue, Christopher stood still, laughed silently, and listened.
An utterance from Churdles Ash was the first that came distinctly to him.
"Us o' Little Silver be like the twelve apostles, I reckon—all mazed wi' gert wonder to hear tell of a resurrection."
"Awnly theer's a world-wide differ'nce 'tween Lard o' Hosts an' this gormed Jack-o'-lantern," answered Cramphorn. "For my part I'd so soon—maybe sooner—he was wheer us thought him. Born he was to make trouble, an' trouble he'll make while he walks airth. No fay, I can't fox myself into counting this a pleasing thing. He'm takin' up gude room, if you ax me."
Christopher, having heard quite enough, himself answered as he came among them—
"That's honest, at any rate, Jonah. But I hope you're wrong. I've come back a reformed character—on my solemn word I have. Wait and see."
He shook hands with Stapledon first, afterwards with Mark Endicott and the assembled labourers. There fell a moment of awkward silence; then Jonah, who felt some word from him seemed due, knocked out his pipe and spoke before retiring. He contented himself with an expression of regret, but hesitated not to qualify it so extensively that little doubt arose concerning his real opinions.
"I didn't knaw as you was behind the door, Squire Yeoland, else I might have guarded my lips closer. An' bein' a living sawl—to save or damn accordin' to God's gudeness—'tweern't seemly for me to speak so sharp. Not that offence was meant, an' a man's opinions be his awn; though I trust as you'll order your ways to shaw I'm a liar; an' nobody better pleased than me, though not hopeful, 'cause what's bred in the bone comes out in the flesh. An' I may say you've proved wan thing—if awnly wan: that a sartain party by name of Charity Grepe be a auld, double-dealin' rascal, an' no more a wise woman than my awn darters. So gude-night all."
Pinsent and Collins retreated with Mr. Cramphorn, but old Churdles Ash remained to shake hands once again with the wanderer.
"I be a flat Thomas wheer theer's any left-handed dealings like this here," he said. "Most onbelievin' party as ever was, as well a man may be when the world's so full of evil. But by the hand of you and the speech of you, you'm flesh and blood same as the rest of us. I'm sure I hope, your honour, if you'll take an old man's respectful advice, as you'll bide above ground henceforrard an' do no more o' these dark, churchyard deeds 'mongst Christian folks. It may be very convenient an' common down-long in furrin paarts, but 'tidn' seemly to Little Silver, wheer theer's such a lot o' the risin' generation as looks to 'e for a example."
"I'll act as becomes me ever afterwards, gaffer," declared Christopher, whereon, gratified by this promise, Mr. Ash touched his forehead, praised God and the company, and so withdrew.
Then Yeoland began his story, and Mark put an occasional question, while Stapledon kept silence until he should have opportunity to speak with the other alone. A necessity for some recognition and utterance of personal gratitude weighed heavy on him. That Christopher desired no such thing he felt assured, but he told himself that a word at least was due, and must be paid, like any other debt. Myles had judged as the wanderer suspected: Yeoland's initial act seemed great to him; this return to life he accounted paltry and an anticlimax beside it. Putting personal bias out of the question, or believing that he did so, Stapledon endeavoured to estimate the achievement from an impartial spectator's standpoint, and so seen this homecoming disappointed him. He did not deny the man his right to return; he only marvelled that he had exercised it. Yet as Christopher, with many an excursus, chattered through his story, and spoke of his native land with manifest emotion, Stapledon wondered no more, but understood, and felt disinterested sympathy. Then he blamed himself for previous harsh criticism, and discovered that the leaven of a personal interest had distorted his point of view. Morbidly he began to think of Honor, and the dominant weakness of his character awoke again. He told himself that Yeoland would find out how perfect was the unanimity between husband and wife; then he gave himself the lie and wondered, with his cold eyes upon Christopher, if the returned wanderer would ever discover that the inner harmony of Honor's married life was not complete at all times.
When Yeoland had made an end, Mark asked him concerning his plans for the future, and listened to many projects, both happy and impracticable, for the glorification of Godleigh and the improvement of Little Silver.
"Clack's going to be my agent. After he practically perjured his immortal soul for me, I cannot do less for him than give him that appointment. And he's a good sportsman, which is so much nowadays."
With some element of restraint they discoursed for an hour or more, then Yeoland rose and Myles walked part of the way home with him. Under a night of stars the farmer spoke and said what he accounted necessary in the briefest phrases capable of rendering his sentiments.
"I want you to know that I understand and I thank you. My gratitude is measured by the worth of what you—you gave me. I can say no more than that."
"No need to have said as much. Your voice tells me you don't like saying it, Stapledon, and truly I had no desire to hear it. You see, we could only win her full happiness that way. I knew her character better than you could——"
"Impossible!"
"Now, no doubt, but not then, when these things happened. I pictured her with you, and with me. I appreciated your message, but I didn't agree with you. Honestly you have nothing to thank me for. We're on this now and will leave the bones of the thing clean-picked. It was love of the woman—desire to see her happy for all time—that made me act so. You asked her to marry you before you sent your message by Clack. So that showed me you believed that you could achieve her happiness if she let you try. But she would never have married you until she knew that I was out of it. The right thing happened. All's well that ends well. With a past so distinct and defined, it seems to me that the future could hardly look happier. We understand each other so well—we three, thank God. I threshed it all out through many a long, sleepless night, I can tell you. I'm notertium quidcome back into lives that have done with me; I'm not here to ruffle up a tangle already smoothed out by time. You understand that?"
Myles agreed with the younger man, and tried to believe him.
"Of course I understand. Friends we shall always be, and each welcome to the other when our devious ways may cross. Honor is not likely to be sentimental under such curious conditions. She will view this, your return, with the calm self-possession she displays in all affairs of life. It has done her good already, and lifted a cloud. I tell you so frankly. She was haunted. I hear you know all about that. There is no need for you to say what you feel about it. I will take your words as spoken. So here we stand—we three—and our lives must go forward and unfold to the ripening here on this hillside. What then? There is room enough?"
"Ample, I should imagine. That you should ask the question is a little astonishing. But I understand you better than you think. You can't help the defiance in your tone, Stapledon; you can't wholly hide the hardness in your voice. D'you think I don't know what's cutting you so deep when you look at me and remember that night? Forgive me. I have paid for it with grey hairs."
"You mistake. I should be a fool to blame you seriously for that. Merely evil fortune. Evil fortune was overdue in my life. I had been waiting long for reverses. You were the unconscious instrument."
"Your old, sombre creed, whose god is the law of chance. Anyhow, you and your wife shall find no truer friend than Christopher Yeoland in the years to come."
They shook hands and separated, the one perfectly happy and contented that this ordeal was over; the other already in a cloud of cares with his face lifted to meet troubles still invisible. The one saw a smooth and sunlit road ahead of him—a road of buds and flowers and singing birds; the other stood among pitfalls past numbering, and the way was dreary as well as dangerous.
As he returned home, Myles stopped and looked over a gate to set his thoughts in order. Whereupon he made discoveries little calculated to soothe or sustain him in this hour. First he found that lack of knowledge alone was responsible for his commotion—lack of knowledge of his wife; and secondly, reviewing his recent conversation with Christopher, he very readily observed a note in it unfamiliar to himself. This man's advent aroused an emotion that Myles had read of and heard about, but never felt. Upon the threshold of renewed intercourse, and despite so many friendly words, Stapledon recognised the thing in his heart and named it. He was jealous of Yeoland's return, and his discovery staggered him. The fact felt bad enough; the position it indicated overwhelmed him, for it shone like an evil light on the old fear; it showed that the understanding he boasted between himself and Honor by no means obtained. Herein lay his trial and his terror. No cloudless marital life could receive this miasma into its atmosphere for an instant, for jealousy's germ has no power to exist where a man and a woman dwell heart to heart.
Great forces shook Stapledon; then he roused himself, fell back upon years of self-discipline, shut the floodgates of his mind, and told his heart that he was a fool.
"The man shall be my friend—such a friend as I have never had yet," he said aloud to the night. "I will weary him with my friendship. He is honest, and has sacrificed his life for me. It is the vileness of human nature, that hates benefits received, which works in me against him. And if it pleases Fate to send me another child, this man, who believes in God, shall be its godfather."
His determination comforted Stapledon, and he passed slowly homeward conscious of a battle won, strong in the belief that he had slain a peril at its birth. He told himself that the word "jealousy" rang unreal and theatrical, in presence of his wife's slumber.
CHAPTER III.
FLAGS IN THE WIND
Godleigh forest was paying its debt to the Mother in good gold, and a myriad leaves flew and whirled aloft, tumbled and sailed downwards, rustled and hustled over the green grass, dropped amongst the forest boughs, floated away on Teign's bosom, eddied in sudden whirlwinds at gates and wind-swept gaps of the woodlands. The summer glory was extinguished once again, the tree-top life was ended for another generation of foliage; and now, final livery of russet or crimson won, the leaves fell and flew at the will of a wild wind, or waited in some last resting-place for latter rains, for alchemy of frost and for the sexton worm. Their dust is the food of the whole earth, and to the blind and patient roots, twisting gigantically at the hidden heart of things, they return obedient. For to them they owe every aerial happiness in gleaming dawns, every joy of the moonlight and starlight and deep nocturnal dews, song of birds and whisper of vernal rain, cool purple from shadows of clouds and all the glorious life of a leaf—of each small leaf that joins its particular jewel to the green coronet of summer.
Little Silver took a holiday from the affairs of working-day life on the occasion of the Squire's official return to Godleigh Park, and the day was set aside for rejoicing and marked with a white stone. A great banquet under canvas formed the staple attraction; the grounds were thrown open, and Christopher invited his small world to lunch with him in a noble marquee tricked out with flags and streamers. But the season and the day proved out of harmony with campestral merry-making. Nature's October russets, pale gold and red gold, killed the crude bunting colours; a high wind rollicked and raved through the woods and over the waste places; the great tents and the lesser creaked and groaned, billowed and bent; yet those driven from them by fear were sent back by heavy squalls of rain. The autumnal equinox welcomed Yeoland roughly to his home; but happily he drove under the triumphal arch of laurel and oak before an envious gust sent it sprawling; happily also the increasing wind blew the sky clean towards nightfall, though the rockets that then shrieked aloft chose perilous, unexpected places for their descent, and the bonfire was abandoned, for its conflagration must have threatened every rick of hay within half a mile east of it. Upon the whole, however, this celebration was counted successful, though one uncanny incident marred the day. At earliest dawn Mr. Brimblecombe discovered that some genius unknown had decorated the Yeoland mausoleum with heavy wreaths of autumn flowers and evergreens; but even the least imaginative recognised that such accentuation of the tomb at this moment showed a triumph of wrong-headedness.
Upon that great occasion did Henry Collins, whose patience, even in affairs of the heart, was almost reptilian, avail himself of the general holiday. And when Sally Cramphorn, who still philandered with him, though fitfully, promised that she would take a walk by his side after the feasting, Henry believed that the moment for speech was come at last. He had debated the form of his proposition for several months, and the girl's attitude now naturally led him to suspect an agreeable termination to his protracted sufferings. The time was that of eating and drinking, and Sally, who perceived that Mr. Gregory Libby, from his standpoint as carver at the head of one of the tables in the banqueting tent, viewed her position beside Collins with concern, hastened her meal and shortened it. Then, as soon as possible upon the speech-making, she took Henry by the arm and led him forth very lovingly under the nose of the other man. Together they proceeded through the woods, and the graciousness which she exhibited while Gregory's eye was yet upon her, diminished a little. Still the woman felt amiably disposed to her innocent tool, and even found it in her heart to pity him somewhat, for she guessed what now awaited her. Mr. Collins walked slowly along, with some strain and creaking of mental machinery as he shook his thoughts and ideas into order. He passed with Sally under pine trees, and at length found a snug spot sheltered from the wind.
"Us might sit here 'pon the fir-needles," suggested Henry.
"'Tis damp, I doubt," answered his companion, thinking of her best gown.
"Then I'll spread my coat for 'e. I want to have a tell along with you, an' I caan't talk travellin'. 'Tis tu distractin', an' what I've got to say'll take me all my power, whether or no."
He spread his black broadcloth without hesitation, and Sally, appreciating this compliment, felt she could not do less than accept it. So she plumped down on Henry's Sunday coat, and he appeared to win much pleasure from contemplation of her in that position. He smiled to himself, sighed rather loudly, and then sat beside her. Whereupon his tongue refused its office and, for the space of two full minutes, he made no remark whatever, though his breathing continued very audible.
"What be thinking 'bout?" asked Sally suddenly.
"Well, to tell plain truth, I was just taking pleasure in the idea as you'd ordained to sit 'pon my jacket. 'Twill be very comfortin' to me to call home as you've sat on un every time I put un on or off."
"If 'twas awnly another party!" thought the girl. "Doan't be such a fule," she said.
"That's what everybody have been advisin' me of late," he answered calmly, without the least annoyance or shame. "'Tis the state of my mind. Things come between me an' my work—a very ill-convenient matter. But, whether or no, I'll be proud of that coat now."
She sat comfortably beside him, and presently, after further silence, Henry lolled over towards her, and, taking a straw, sought with clumsy pleasantry to stick it into her hand under the white cotton glove which she was wearing.
"What be about?" she asked sharply. "Go along with 'e! Doan't 'e knaw me better than to think I be so giddy?"
Thus repulsed, Mr. Collins apologised, explained that in reality he did know Sally better, that his action was one of pure inadvertence, and that he admired her character by special reason of its sobriety. Silence again overtook them, and, while Sally fidgeted impatiently, the man's owl eyes roamed from off her face to the woods, from the woodland back again to her. He stuffed his pipe slowly, then returned it to his pocket; he sighed once or twice, tied up his boot-lace, and cleared his throat. After a painful pause the woman spoke again.
"Be us at a funeral or a junketing? You look for all the world as if you'd catched something hurtful. Wheer's your manners? What's in your mind now?"
Henry gulped, and pointed to an oak immediately opposite them—a great tree bound about in a robe of ivy.
"Was just considerin' 'bout thicky ivydrum, an' what gude sneyds for scythe-handles her'd make."
"Then you'd best to bide here with your scythe-handles, an' I'll go back-along to the company. I didn't come out to sit an' stare at a ivybush if you did."
"Doan't 'e be so biting against me, woman!" said Collins indignantly. "I be comin' to it so fast as I can, ban't I? 'Tedn' so easy, I can assure 'e. Maybe chaps as have axed a score o' females finds speech come quick enough; but I've never spoke the word to wan afore in all my life; an' 'tis a damn oneasy job; an' I ban't gwaine to be hurried by you or any other."
Sally appeared awed at this outburst. She suddenly realised that Mr. Collins was a man, a big one, a strong one, and an earnest one.
"Sorry I took you up tu quick, I'm sure. I didn't knaw as you felt so deep."
"If I could have trusted pen an' ink, I should have written it out for 'e," he answered, "but my penmanship's a vain thing. I'll have the handkercher out of that pocket you'm sittin' on, if 'tis all the same to you. Theer's a dew broke out awver my brow."
She rose and passed to him a large red handkerchief. Then he thanked her, mopped his face, and continued—
"When fust I seed you, I felt weak by reason of your butivul faace, an' the way you could toss hay an' keep so cool as a frog. An' I will say that the laugh of you was very nigh as fine as a cuckoo's song. Then I got to see what a gude gal you was tu, an' how you scorned all men-folk—'cept Libby."
These words he added hastily, as he saw her colour rising.
"Libby, I do allow, you gived your countenance to, though, if I may say it, ban't no gert sign of love to see a chap in two minds between such a piece as you an' your sister. But I never looked at no other but you—not even when I was up to Exeter. An' if you see your way to keep comp'ny along wi' me, God's my judge you'll never be sorry you done it. I be a man as stands to work an' goes to church Sundays when let alone. An' I'd trust you wi' every penny of the money an' ax for no more'n a shillin' here an' theer. An' I'd stand between you an' your faither, as doan't 'pear to be so fond of you of late as he used to be."
Sally moved uneasily, for he had echoed a recent, dim suspicion of her own.
"Best let that bide," she said. "If my faither likes Margery better'n what he do me, that's his business, not yours."
"'Tis a fault in him, however," answered Henry. "You'm worth ten thousand o' she; an' he'll live to find it out yet. He'm grawin' auld an' tootlish, I reckon, else he'd never set her up afore you."
"She'm a crafty twoad," declared the other gloomily. "I knaw she'm clever'n what I be, but flesh an' blood counts for somethin'. He sees me twice to her wance—Gregory do; an', whether or no, the man's free as ban't achsually married."
Mr. Collins grew warm again, to see the drift of his lady's thoughts, and endeavoured to bring her conversation back to the matter in hand.
"Ban't for me to speak nothin' 'gainst Libby or any other man. An' 'twouldn't be fair fightin' if I said what I'd say wi' pleasure to the faace of un if he was here; but I want 'ess' or 'no' for myself, an' I do pray, my dear woman, as you'll consider of it afore you decide."
"Ban't no need, an' thank you kindly, I'm sure," said Sally. "But you must look some plaace else than me, Henery; an' I'm sure you'll find many so gude, an' plenty better."
He sat silent, staring and sniffing.
"Doan't 'e cry 'bout it," she said.
"I ban't cryin'—merely chap-fallen," he answered, "an' theer's none 'pon the airth so gude as you that ever I see; an' I do wish as you'd take your time an' not be so sudden. I can wait—I can wait if theer's a shade of doubt in your mind. Ess fay, I can wait weeks, an' months, an' years, so easy as a tree, for you to decide. But do 'e take a bit of time. 'Tis cruel short just to say 'no,' after all as I've felt for 'e so long."
She accepted the alternative, half from pity, half from policy. Any hint of an understanding might galvanise the cold-blooded Libby into action.
"Wait then," she said, "an' us'll see what time sends."
"Thank you, I'm sure—cold comfort, but a thought better'n nought. Now, if you'll rise up off my coat I might get 'e a few braave filbert nuts; then us'll join the people."
Sally dusted the coat and helped its master into it. They then returned towards the central festivity, and upon the way, at the bend of a narrow path, came suddenly upon Christopher Yeoland, Honor and her husband, Mark Endicott, with his arm in that of Mr. Scobell, Doctor Clack, and other local celebrities and men of leading in the neighbourhood.
"Lard! how can us pass all this mort o' gentlefolks an' me that down-daunted," moaned Henry; but his companion, secure in her pretty face and trustful of her best gown, felt quite equal to the ordeal.
"So easy as they can pass us," she answered. "They'm awnly men an' women when all's said, an' us be so gude as them, 'pon a public holiday or in church. I mind a time when Squire Yeoland never passed me by wi'out a civil word, an' I shouldn't wonder if he didn't now for all his riches."
She was right. Observing that no parent accompanied her and recollecting her blue eyes very well, Christopher stopped.
"Ah, Sally, glad to see you again. Not married yet—eh? But going to be, I'll warrant. That's your man? Lucky chap. And remember, the day of the wedding I've got twenty pounds for you to make the cottage vitty."
Miss Cramphorn blushed and murmured something, she knew not what, while Henry, now safely past his betters, shook at these bold words. Then the company proceeded, and Myles Stapledon, recollecting when these two had last met, mused upon the nature of the man, while Honor chid him.
"That's the way you'll send your money spinning, by putting a premium on improvident marriages. Ask Mr. Scobell what he thinks of such folly."
"A sentiment. I've always liked Sally. I kissed her once and her father saw me. Myles will tell you about that. Not that she ever liked me much—too good a judge of character, I expect."
Meantime Mr. Collins and his companion passed back to the tents and flags, and as they did so Henry could not refrain from commenting upon the squire's handsome promise.
"Did you hear what the man said?" he asked.
"Not being deaf, I did," answered Sally with evasion. "A wonnerful offer. Twenty pound! An' just for to make a place smart."
"Best to find a maid as won't keep 'e hanging round. 'Tis mere gapes-nestin' for you to wait for me—a wild-goose chase for sartain."
"I hope not."
"Twenty pounds ban't much arter all's said."
"Not to your faither, as he be a snug man enough by accounts; but 'tis tidy money to the likes of me—big money to come in a heap an' all unearned. Not as I'd want it. You should have every penny-piece if you'd awnly—"
"I doan't want to hear no more 'pon that head. I've promised to think of it, an' I ax you not to speak another word till I tell you to."
"'Twas the thought of the money that carried me away like, an' I'll be dumb from to-day, I do assure 'e."
Somewhat later they met Mr. Cramphorn, but it was significant of a lessened interest in his elder daughter that Jonah, instead of reproaching her for thus walking apart with one of the other sex, merely called to Collins and bid him bring his strength where it was needed to brace the tackle of a tent.
CHAPTER IV.
DRIFTING
With return of winter some temporary peace descended upon Myles, and, looking back, he felt ashamed at the storm and stress of spirit that Yeoland's resurrection had awakened in him. For a season, as life returned to its level progress, he truly told himself that he viewed the friendship between his wife and her old lover without concern, because it was natural and inevitable. Honor's very frankness and ingenuous pleasure in the wanderer's company shamed a jealous attitude. Some men, indeed, had gone further and blessed Yeoland's home-coming. Certainly that event was in no small measure responsible for Honor's renewed physical welfare, and the excitement acted kindly upon a temperament that found food in novelty and desired sweep and play of change for her soul's health. Stapledon's wife was well again, and soon she discovered that life could still be full and sweet. Into a sort of lulled contentment he therefore sank, and proclaimed to himself that all was well, that the existence of the three, lived under present relations, was natural and seemly. He checked impatience at the expeditions planned, listened to Christopher's endless designs with respect to Godleigh, advised him and endured from him the old, extravagant conceits and jesting, specious views of life. Yet the glamour was off them now, and they only wearied Myles. He believed at first that Yeoland must be a changed man; but very soon he found no such thing had happened.
Nevertheless, some parity of tastes obtained, as of old, in divers directions. Again they walked for many miles together, each occupied with Nature from his own standpoint; and again they met in the dawn hour that possessed like fascination for both. At such times, under grey winter light, shrewd and searching, what was best in the men stood first, and they almost understood one another; but when they met, smudged by long hours of the toilsome day, and especially when they found each other in common company of Honor, both lacked the former sympathy.
As for Christopher, he heartily appreciated Myles at this period, and found the farmer's common sense a valuable antidote to the somewhat too spacious ideas of Doctor Clack in matters concerning betterment of Godleigh. And not seldom did Yeoland rejoice, with a single eye, that his old love had such a steadfast rock upon which to establish her life.
In his relations with Honor he had been a little astonished to find the fact of her marriage not recognised by his nature, as it was by his conscience. That Nature could dare to be herself surprised him, when her wave throbbed through his being now and again upon some rare, sweet note of voice or tinkle of laughter. At such emotional moments he complimented the character and heroic attributes of Myles, with a vigour so crude that Honor might have suspected had not she echoed the sentiment from her heart. She never wearied of her husband's praises, and had no discernment as to what prompted Christopher's sudden overflowings of admiration. The man's return, as in the first instance of his own juxtaposition with Myles, served to alter Honor's inner attitude towards her husband. It seemed, in a sense, as she had fancied of old, that these two were the complement each of the other.
And a result was that his wife became more to Stapledon as the weeks passed. Gradually—but not so gradually that he failed to observe it—there came an increase of consideration in small matters, a new softness in her voice, a deeper warmth in her kisses. He marked her added joy in life, noted how she let her happiness bubble over to make him more joyful; and at first he was filled with satisfaction; and next he was overclouded with doubt. He tried to ascertain why her old lover's return should increase Honor's liking for her husband; he laboured gloomily upon a problem altogether beyond his calibre of mind to solve. He failed to see that the subtle change in his wife extended beyond him to the confines of her little world, that some higher graciousness was bred of it, that the least planet of which she was the sun now reaped new warmth from her accession of happiness. He puzzled his intelligence, and arrived, through long fret and care, at an erroneous solution. Utterly unable to appraise the delicate warp and poise of her humours, or gauge those obscure escapements that control happiness in the machinery of a woman's mind, Stapledon came to pitiful and mistaken conclusions that swept from him all content, all security, all further peace. At the glimmer of some devil's lantern he read into Honor's altered bearing an act of deliberate simulation. He denied that this advent of the other could by any possibility possess force to deepen or widen her affection for him; and he concluded, upon this decision, that the alteration must be apparent, not real. Such was the man's poor speed in the vital science of human nature. Next, he strove to explain the necessity for her pretence, with the reason of it; and so he darkened understanding, fouled his own threshold with fancied danger, and passed gradually into a cloudy region of anxiety and gloom. Excuse for speech or protest there was none; yet, unable to discern in Honor's frank awakening to everyday life and her renewed healthful bearing towards all her environment an obvious purity of mind and thought, he suffered his agitation to conquer him. He lived and waited, and sank into a chronic watchfulness that was loathsome to him. His fits of moody taciturnity saddened his wife and astonished her above measure, for it seemed that the old love of natural things was dead in him. In truth, his religion of the Moor—his dogma of the granite and vast waste places—failed him at this pinch. His gods were powerless and dumb—either that, or the heart of him had grown deaf for a season.
His unrest appeared, but the inner fires were hidden very completely. Then Mark Endicott, who knew that Myles was disordered, and suspected the tissue of his trouble, approached him, burrowed to his secret, and held converse thereon through some hours of a stormy night in January.
Stapledon at first evaded the issue, but he confessed at length, and, when invited to name the exact nature of his disquiet, merely declared the present position to be impossible in his judgment.
"We can't live with the balance so exact," he said. "I feel it and know it. Honor and this man loved one another once, and the natural attraction of their characters may bring them to do so again, now that such a thing would be sin."
"A big word—'sin,'" answered Mr. Endicott. "If that's all your trouble, the sooner you let sunshine into your mind again the better. Honor's an Endicott, when all's said, though maybe one of the strangest ever born under that name. I'm astonished to hear that this is the colour of your mind. And the man—queer though he is, too, and unlike most men I've met with—yet he's not the sort to bring trouble on a woman, last of all this woman."
"You prose on, uncle, not remembering what it felt like to feel your blood run hot at a woman's voice," answered Myles with unusual impatience and a flash of eye. "I give him all the credit you desire and more; I know he is honourable and upright and true. What then? Highest honour has broken down before this temptation. He is made of flesh and blood after all, and a man can't live within a span of a woman he loves and be happy—not if that woman belongs to somebody else. I don't assert that his love still exists, yet it's an immortal thing—not to be killed—and though he thinks he has strangled it—who can say? It may come to life again, like he did."
"You judge others by your own honest character; but I'm not so certain. If there is a man who could live platonically beside a woman he loves, that man might be Yeoland. There's something grotesque in him there—some warp or twist of fibre. Remember how well content he was in the past to remain engaged to her without rushing into her arms and marrying her. He's cold-blooded—so to call it—in some ways. I've known other such men."
"It's contrary to nature."
"Contrary to yours, but temperaments are different Don't judge him. There may be a want in him, or he may possess rare virtues. Some are ascetic and continent by disposition and starve Nature, at some secret prompting of her own. I don't say he is that sort of man, but he may be. Certainly his standpoint is far less commonplace than yours."
"I caught him kissing a pretty milkmaid once, all the same; and that after he was engaged to Honor," answered the other gloomily.
"Exactly. Now you would not do such a thing for the world, and he would make light of it. Beauty merely intoxicates some men; but intoxicated men do little harm as a rule. He's irresponsible in many ways; yet still I say the husband that fears such a man must be a fool."
"I can't suppose him built differently to other people."
"Then assume him to be the same, and ask yourself this question: Seeing what he did for love of her, and granting he loves her still, has he come back to undo what he did? Would he change and steal her now, even if he had the power to do so? What has he done in the past that makes you dream him capable of such a deed in the future?"
"I don't say that he dreams that such a thing is possible. Probably the man would not have returned into the atmosphere of Honor if he had dimly contemplated such an event. But I see nothing in his character to lift him above the temptation, or to make me rest sure he will be proof against it. There's a danger of his opening his eyes too late to find the thing which he doubtless believes impossible at present an accomplished fact."
"What thing?"
"Why, the wakening again of his love for her, the returned knowledge that his life is empty and barren and frost-bitten without her. He felt that once. What more natural than that, here again, he should feel it redoubled in the presence of his own good fortune in every other direction?"
"If such a suspicion crossed his mind, he would depart from Godleigh. That I do steadfastly believe. Understand, your welfare would not weigh with him; but Honor's happiness—I feel more assured of it—is still more to him than his own."
"I know—I know; yet how easily a man in love persuades himself that a woman's vital welfare and real happiness depends upon him."
"Now we argue in a circle, and are at the starting-point again. Yeoland believed so thoroughly that she would be happier with you than with him that he actually blotted himself out of her life, and, when he heard she would not marry you while he lived, let it be known that he was dead. Solely for her sake he played that cumbrous prank."
"That is so; yet remember what you told me years ago. Then you honestly believed that this man, from the depths of his own peculiar nature, understood Honor better than anybody else in the world did. You thought that, and you are seldom wrong about people. So perhaps he has come to that conclusion too. If I was the wrong husband for her——"
"I never said such a thing."
"No, because I never asked you; but if it was so, what more likely than that he has discovered it since his return? At any rate he may think that this is the case—though I dispute it with all my heart—and he may feel his sacrifice was vain. Then, what more likely than that he should ask himself if it is too late to amend the position?"
Mr. Endicott's face expressed absolute surprise and some scorn for the speaker.
"Do I hear Myles Stapledon? Where have you sucked poison since last we spoke together? You, who live in the fresh air and enjoy the companionship of natural beasts and wholesome lives, to spin this trash! And wicked trash, too, for what right have you to map out evil roads for other people to follow? What right have you to foretell a man's plan and prophesy ill? Have done with this dance of Jack-o'-lanterns, and get upon the solid road again. Look in your wife's character. No need to go further than that for ointment to such a wound as you suffer from. You have let jealousy into the house, Myles, and the reek of it and the blight of it will make your life rotten to the marrow if you don't set to work and cleanse the chamber again. I know they are happy together; but you've got to face that. I know she's better for his coming, and you've got to face that too. These are subtle things, and if you can't understand them, put them behind you. All this is false fire, and you're in a ferment of windy misery brewed inside you—just wind, because the home-coming of this native has upset your digestion. You ought to feel some shame to harbour such a pack of imps. Time was when a breath of air from Cosdon Beacon would have blown them back to their master. How they got in I can't say; for it's not part of your real character to make trouble. You're like the ploughboy who builds a ghostie with a sheet and turnip and only frightens himself. Get this weed out of your heart at any cost. Burn it out with the caustic of common sense; and trust me, blind as I am, to be quick enough to smell the smoke that tells of fire. I mean in this matter. Honor's only less to me than she is to you. And I know the truth about her as sure as I know the sound of her voice and the things it says, and the secrets it lets out, apart from the words her tongue speaks."
"She's said many a queer thing on the subject of a man and his wife and their relations each to the other. I cannot easily forget them."
"It's her wide, healthy frankness in every affair of life that might set you at rest, if you were not, as I hint to you, a fool."
"If I were a fool, it might. I know she holds the tie lightly. Any conventional sort of bondage angers her. I won her by a trick—not of my hatching, God knows—yet none the less a trick."
"You'd make Job lose his patience—you, that I thought a man of ideas as fresh and wholesome as the west wind! Can't you see this cuts both ways? She's yours till death parts you, so have done whining. You're stirring hell-broth, that's what you're doing, and if you let Honor catch a sight of the brew, there will be some real, live trouble very likely. You, to break out like this! Well, it shows how true the saying runs: that every man, from Solomon down, is mad when the wind sets in one quarter. Now you've found your foul-weather wind, and it's like to blow you into some play-acting if you don't pull yourself up. You're the luckiest man on the whole countryside, if you could only see it so. Be patient, and put your faith in your wife, where it should be, and go your old gait again."
"I'll try your remedy—ignore the thing, banish it, laugh at it."
"Laugh at yourself; if you could only learn to do that, there'd be hope for you. And take another point to your comfort. We're all agreed that Yeoland's no hypocrite, whatever else he may be. Three days since I had speech with him, and your name was on his lips, and he rejoiced that you were his friend and Honor's husband. He does not dream that his return to life has either gladdened her or troubled you. He only sees her now pretty much as she was when he went away. He hasn't seen what you and I have—her sorrows. But, remember that Honor's real happiness rests with you—nobody else—and she knows it, and trusts to you for it. Nobody can ever take your place, and if she glimpses a serious change in you, she'll soon be down in the mouth, and, as like as not, a lie-abed again."
"She has seen a change. She has asked me what was amiss."
"Then stir yourself, and make a giant's effort before she finds out more than you want her to know. I'm glad I spoke to you to-night—wish I had sooner; but it's not too late. You've had tangles to untie in your character before to-day—puzzles to pick—dirty corners to let the light in upon. Who hasn't? And you're not the one to fear such work, I should reckon. So set about it, and the Lord help you."
Myles Stapledon rose and took the old man's hand.
"Thank you," he said. "You've done me good, and I'll try to be worthy of your advice. I don't quite know what this place would be without you, Uncle Endicott."
"Quieter, my son—that's all. I'm only a voice. Words are poor things alongside actions. The great deeds of the world—the things achieved—are not chattered by the tongue, but rise out of sweat, and deep, long silences. Yet I've given you advice worth following, I do think, though, seeing that your blind spot looks like jealousy, what I've bid you do may be harder than you imagine. So much more credit if you do it."
Neither spoke again, and Stapledon, taking the candle, soon went to his bed; but Mark sat on awhile over his knitting in the dark, while the crickets chirruped fearlessly about the dim and dying peat.