Derrick had had a great deal to think about of late. Affairs at the mines had been troublesome, as usual, and he had been often irritated by the stupidity of the men who were in authority over him. He began to feel, moreover, that an almost impalpable barrier had sprung up between himself and his nearest friend. When he came to face the matter, he was obliged to acknowledge to himself that there were things he had kept from Grace, though it had been without any positive intention of concealment And, perhaps, being the sensitive fellow he had called him, Grace had felt that there was something behind his occasional abstraction and silence, and had shrunk within himself, feeling a trifle hurt at Derrick's want of frankness and confidence.
Hardly a day passed in which he did not spend some short time in the society of his Pythias. He rarely passed his lodgings without dropping in, and, to-night, he turned in on his way from the office, and fell upon Grace hard at work over a volume of theology.
“Lay your book aside,” he said to him. “I want to gossip this evening, old fellow.”
Grace closed his book and came to his usual seat, smiling affectionately. There was a suggestion of feminine affectionateness in his bearing toward his friend.
“Gossip,” he remarked. “The word gossip——
“Oh,” put in Derrick, “it's a woman's word; but I am in a womanish sort of humor. I am going to be—I suppose, one might say—confidential.”
The Reverend Paul reddened a little but as Derrick rather avoided looking at him he did not observe the fact.
“Grace,” he said, after a silence, “I have a sort of confession to make. I am in a difficulty, and I rather blame myself for not having come to you before.”
“Don't blame yourself,” said the Curate, faintly. “You—you are not to blame.”
Then Derrick glanced up at him quickly. This sounded so significant of some previous knowledge of his trouble, that he was taken aback. He could not quite account for it.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Is it possible that you have guessed it already?”
“I have thought so—sometimes I have thought so—though I feel as if I ought almost to ask your pardon for going so far.”
Grace had but one thought as he spoke. His friend's trouble meant his friend's honor and regard for himself. It was for his sake that Derrick was hesitating on the brink of a happy love—unselfishly fearing for him. He knew the young man's impetuous generosity, and saw how under the circumstances, it might involve him. Loving Anice Barholm with the full strength of a strong nature, Derrick was generous enough still to shrink from his prospect of success with the woman his friend had failed to win.
Derrick flung himself back in his chair with a sigh. He was thinking, with secret irritation, that he must have felt even more than he had acknowledged to himself since he had in all unconsciousness, confessed so much.
“You have saved me the trouble of putting into words a feeling I have not words to explain,” he said. “Perhaps that is the reason why I have not spoken openly before. Grace,”—abruptly,—“I have fancied there was a cloud between us.”
“Between us!” said Grace, eagerly and warmly. “No, no! That was a poor fancy indeed; I could not bear that.”
“Nor I,” impetuously. “But I cannot be explicit even now, Grace—even my thoughts are not explicit. I have been bewildered and—yes, amazed—amazed at finding that I had gone so far without knowing it. Surely there never was a passion—if it is really a passion—that had so little to feed upon.”
“So little!” echoed Grace.
Derrick got up and began to walk across the floor.
“I have nothing—nothing, and I am beset on every side.”
There was something extraordinary in the blindness of a man with an absorbing passion. Absorbed by his passion for one woman, Grace was blind to the greatest of inconsistencies in his friend's speech and manner. Absorbed in his passion for another woman, Derrick forgot for the hour everything concerning his friend's love for Anice Barholm.
Suddenly he paused in his career across the room.
“Grace,” he said, “I cannot trust myself; but I can trust you, I cannot be unselfish in this—you can. Tell me what I am to do—answer me this question, though God knows, it would be a hard one for any man to answer. Perhaps I ought not to ask it—perhaps I ought to have decision enough to answer it myself without troubling you. But how can I? And you who are so true to yourself and to me in other things, will be true in this I know. This feeling is stronger than all else—so strong that I have feared and failed to comprehend it. I had not even thought of it until it came upon me with fearful force, and I am conscious that it has not reached its height yet. It is not an ignoble passion, I know. How could a passion for such a creature be ignoble? And yet again, there have been times when I have felt that perhaps it was best to struggle against it. I am beset on every side, as I have said, and I appeal to you. Ought love to be stronger than all else? I used to tell myself so, before it came upon me—and now I can only wonder at myself and tremble to find that I have grown weak.”
God knows it was a hard question he had asked of the man who loved him; but this man did not hesitate to answer it as freely as if he had had no thought that he was signing the death-warrant of all hopes for himself. Grace went to him and laid a hand upon his broad shoulder.
“Come, sit down and I will tell you,” he said, with a pallid face.
Derrick obeyed his gentle touch with a faint smile.
“I am too fiery and tempestuous, and you want to cool me,” he said. “You are as gentle as a woman, Grace.”
The Curate standing up before him, a slight, not at all heroic figure in his well worn, almost threadbare garments, smiled in return.
“I want to answer your question,” he said, “and my answer is this: When a man loves a woman wholly, truly, purely, and to her highest honor,—such a love is the highest and noblest thing in this world, and nothing should lead to its sacrifice,—no ambition, no hope, no friendship.”
“I dunnot know what to mak' on her,” Joan said to Anice, speaking of Liz. “Sometimes she is i' sich sperrits that she's fairly flighty, an' then agen, she's aw fretted an' crossed with ivvery-thing. Th' choild seems to worrit her to death.”
“That lass o' Lowrie's has made a bad bargain, i' takin' up wi' that wench,” said a townswoman to Grace. “She's noan one o' th' soart as 'll keep straight. She's as shallow as a brook i' midsummer. What's she doin' leavin' th' young un to Joan, and gaddin' about wi' ribbons i' her bonnet? Some lasses would na ha' th' heart to show theirsens.”
The truth was that the poor weak child was struggling feebly in deep water again. She had not thought of danger. She had only been tired of the monotony of her existence, and had longed for a change. If she had seen the end she would have shrunk from it before she had taken her first step. She wanted no more trouble and shame, she only wanted variety and excitement.
She was going down a by-lane leading to the Maxy's cottage, and was hurrying through the twilight, when she brushed against a man who was lounging carelessly along the path, smoking a cigar, and evidently enjoying the balmy coolness of the summer evening. It was just light enough for her to see that this person was well-dressed, and young, and with a certain lazily graceful way of moving, and it was just light enough for the man to see that the half-frightened face she lifted was pretty and youthful. But, having seen this much, he must surely have recognized more, for he made a quick backward step. “Liz!” he said. “Why, Liz, my girl!” And Liz stood still. She stood still, because, for the moment, she lost the power of motion. Her heart gave a great wild leap, and, in a minute more, she was trembling all over with a strange, dreadful emotion. It seemed as if long, terrible months were blotted out, and she was looking into her cruel lover's face, as she had looked at it last. It was the man who had brought her to her greatest happiness and her deepest pain and misery. She could not speak at first; but soon she broke into a passion of tears. It evidently made the young man uncomfortable—perhaps it touched him a little. Ralph Landsell's nature was not unlike Liz's own. He was invariably swayed by the passing circumstance,—only, perhaps, he was a trifle more easily moved by an evil impulse than a good one. The beauty of the girl's tearful face, too, overbalanced his first feeling of irritation at seeing her and finding that he was in a difficult position. Then he did not want her to run away and per-haps betray him in her agitation, so he put out his hand and laid it on her shoulder.
“Hush,” he said. “Don't cry. What a poor little goose you are. Somebody will hear you.”
The girl made an effort to free herself from his detaining hand, but it was useless. Light as his grasp was, it held her.
“Let me a-be,” she cried, sobbing petulantly. “Yo' ha' no reet to howd me. Yo' were ready enow to let me go when—when I wur i' trouble.”
“Trouble!” he repeated after her. “Wasn't I in trouble, too? You don't mean to say you did not know what a mess I was in? I'll own it looked rather shabby, Liz, but I was obliged to bolt as I did. I hadn't time to stay and explain. The governor was down on us, and there'd have been an awful row. Don't be hard on a fellow, Lizzie. You're—you're too nice a little girl to be hard on a fellow.”
But Liz would not listen.
“Yo' went away an' left me wi'out a word,” she said; “yo' went away an' left me to tak' care o' mysen when I could na do it, an' had na strength to howd up agen th' world. I wur turned out o' house an' home, an' if it had na been fur th' hospytal, I might ha' deed i' th' street. Let me go. I dunnot want to ha' awt to do wi' yo'. I nivver wanted to see yore face agen. Leave me a-be. It's ower now, an' I dunnot want to get into trouble agen.”
He drew his hand away, biting his lip and frowning boyishly. He had been as fond of Liz as such a man could be. But she had been a trouble to him in the end, and he had barely escaped, through his cowardly flight, from being openly disgraced and visited by his father's wrath.
“If you had not gone away in such a hurry, you would have found that I did not mean to treat you so badly after all,” he said. “I wrote to you and sent you money, and told you why I was obliged to leave you for the time, but you were gone, and the letter was returned to me. I was not so much to blame.”
“Th' blame did na fa' on yo',” said Liz. “I tell yo' I wur turnt out, but—it—it does na matter now,” with a sob.
Now that she was out of his reach, he discovered that she had not lost all her old attractions for him. She was prettier than ever,—the shawl had slipped from her curly hair, the tears in her eyes made them look large and soft, and gave her face an expression of most pathetic helplessness,—and he really felt that he would like to defend, if not clear himself. So, when she made a movement as if to leave him, he was positively anxious to detain her.
“You are not going?” he said. “You won't leave a fellow in this way, Lizzie?”
The old tone, half caressing, half reproachful, was harder for the girl to withstand than a stronger will could comprehend. It brought back so much to her,—those first bright days, her poor, brief little reign, her childish pleasures, his professed love for her, all her lost delight. If she had been deliberately bad, she would have given way that instant, knowing that she was trifling on the brink of sin once more. But she was not bad, only emotional, weak and wavering. The tone held her one moment and then she burst into fresh tears.
“I wunnot listen to yo',” she cried. “I wunnot listen to yo'. I wunnot—I wunnot,” and before he had time to utter another word, she had turned and fled down the lane back toward Joan's cottage, like some hunted creature fleeing for life.
Joan, sitting alone, rose in alarm, when she burst open the door and rushed in. She was quivering from head to foot, panting for breath, and the tears were wet upon her cheeks.
“What is it?” cried Joan. “Lizzie, my lass, what ails yo'?”
She threw herself down upon the floor and hid her face in the folds of Joan's dress.
“I—ha'—I ha' seed a ghost, or—summat,” she panted and whimpered. “I—I met summat as feart me.”
“Let me go and look what it wur,” said Joan. “Was it i' th' lane? Tha art tremblin' aw o'er, Lizzie.”
But Liz only clung to her more closely.
“Nay—nay,” she protested. “Tha shall na go. I'm feart to be left—an'—an' I dunnot want yo' to go. Dunnot go, Joan, dunnot.”
And Joan was fain to remain.
She did not go out into the village for several days after this, Joan observed. She stayed at home and did not even leave the cottage. She was not like herself, either. Up to that time she had seemed to be forgetting her trouble, and gradually slipping back into the enjoyments she had known before she had gone away. Now a cloud seemed to be upon her. She was restless and nervous, or listless and unhappy. She was easily startled, and now and then Joan fancied that she was expecting something unusual to happen. She lost color and appetite, and the child's presence troubled her more than usual. Once, when it set up a sudden cry, she started, and the next moment burst into tears.
“Why, Liz!” said Joan, almost tenderly. “Yo' mun be ailin', or yo' hannot getten o'er yo're fright yet. Yo're not yoresen at aw. What a simple little lass yo' are to be feart by a boggart i' that way.”
“I dunnot know what's the matter wi' me,” said Liz, “I dunnot feel reet, somehow. Happen I shall get o'er it i' toime.”
But though she recovered herself somewhat, she was not the same girl again. And this change in her it was that made Joan open her heart to Anice. She saw that something was wrong, and noted a new influence at work even after the girl began to go out again and resume her visits to her acquaintances. Then, alternating with fretful listlessness, were tremulous high spirits and feverish fits of gayety.
There came a day, however, when Joan gained a clue to the meaning of this change, though never from her first recognition of it until the end did she comprehend it fully. Perhaps she was wholly unconscious of what narrower natures experience. Then, too, she had little opportunity for hearing gossip. She had no visitors, and she was kept much at home with the child, who was not healthy, and who, during the summer months, was constantly feeble and ailing.
Grace, hearing nothing more after the first hint of suspicion, was so far relieved that he thought it best to spare Joan the pain of being stung by it.
But there came a piece of news to Joan that troubled her.
“Theer's a young sprig o' one o' th' managers stayin' at th' 'Queen's Arms,'” remarked a pit woman one morning. “He's a foine young chap, too—dresses up loike a tailor's dummy, an' looks as if he'd stepped reet square out o' a bandbox. He's a son o' owd Landsell's.”
Joan stopped a moment at her work.
“Are yo' sure o' that?” she asked, anxiously.
“Sure he's Mester Landsell's son? Aye, to be 'sure it's him. My mester towd me hissen.”
This was Liz's trouble, then.
At noon Joan went home full of self-reproach because sometimes her patience had failed her. Liz looked up with traces of tears in her eyes, when Joan came in. Joan did not hesitate. She only thought of giving her comfort. She went and sat down in a chair near by—she drew the curly head down upon her lap, and laid her hand on it caressingly.
“Lizzie, lass,” she said; “yo' need na ha' been afeard to tell me.”
There was a quick little pant from Liz, and then stillness.
“I heard about it to-day,” Joan went on, “an' I did na wonder as yo' wur full o' trouble. It brings it back, Liz, I dare say.”
The pant became a sob—the sob broke into a low cry.
“Oh, Joan! Joan! dunnot blame me—dunnot. It wur na my fault as he coom, an'—an' I canna bear it.”
Even then Joan had no suspicion. To her mind it was quite natural that such a cry of pain should be wrung from the weak heart. Her hand lost its steadiness as she touched the soft, tangled hair more tenderly than before.
“He wur th' ghost as yo' seed i' th' lane,” she said. “Wur na he?”
“Aye,” wept Liz, “he wur, an' I dare na tell yo'. It seemit loike it tuk away my breath, an' aw my heart owt o' me. Nivver yo' blame me, Joan—nivver yo' be hard on me—ivverything else is hard enow. I thowt I wur safe wi' yo'—I did fur sure.”
“An' yo'aresafe,” Joan answered. “Dost tha' think I would turn agen thee? Nay, lass; tha'rt as safe as th' choild is, when I hold it i' my breast. I ha' a pain o' my own, Liz, as 'll nivver heal, an' I'd loike to know as I'd held out my hond to them as theer is healin' fur. I'd thank God fur th' chance—poor lass—poor lass—poor lass!” And she bent down and kissed her again and again.
The night school gained ground steadily. The number of scholars was constantly on the increase, so much so, indeed, that Grace had his hands inconveniently full.
“They have dull natures, these people,” said the Reverend Harold; “and in the rare cases where they are not dull, they are stubborn. Absolutely, I find it quite trying to face them at times, and it is not my fortune to find it difficult to reach people, as a rule. They seem to have made up their minds beforehand to resent what I am going to say. It is most unpleasant. Grace has been working among them so long that, I suppose, they are used to his methods; he has learned to place himself on a level with them, so to speak. I notice they listen to, and seem to understand him. The fact is, I have an idea that that sort of thing is Grace's forte. He is not a brilliant fellow, and will never make any particular mark, but he has an odd perseverance which carries him along with a certain class. Riggan suits him, I think. He has dropped into the right groove.”
Jud Bates and “th' best tarrier i' Riggan” were among the most faithful attendants. The lad's fancy for Anice had extended to Grace. Grace's friendly toleration of Nib had done much for him. Nib always appeared with his master, and his manner was as composed and decorous as if rats were subjects foreign to his meditations. His part it was to lie at Jud's feet, his nose between his paws, his eyes twinkling sagaciously behind his shaggy eyebrows, while occasionally, as a token of approval, he wagged his tail. Once or twice, during a fitful slumber, he had been known to give vent to his feelings in a sharp bark, but he never failed to awaken immediately, with every appearance of the deepest abasement and confusion at the unconscious transgression.
During a visit to the Rectory one day, Jud's eyes fell upon a book which lay on Anice's table. It was full of pictures—illustrations depicting the adventures and vicissitudes of a fortunate unfortunate, whose desert island has been the paradise of thousands; whose goat-skin habiliments have been more worthy of envy than kingly purple; whose hairy cap has been more significant of monarchy than any crown. For the man who wore these savage garments has reigned supreme in realms of romance, known only in their first beauty to boyhood's ecstatic belief.
Jud put out his hand, and drawing the gold and crimson snare toward him, opened it. When Anice came into the room she found him poring over it. His ragged cap lay with Nib, at his feet, his face was in a glow, his hair was pushed straight up on his head, both elbows were resting on the table. He was spelling his way laboriously, but excitedly, through the story of the foot-print on the sand. Anice waited a moment, and then spoke:
“Jud,” she said, “when you can read I will give you 'Robinson Crusoe.'”
In less than six months she was called upon to redeem her promise.
This occurred a few weeks after Craddock had been established at the lodge at the Haviland gates. The day Anice gave Jud his well-earned reward, she had a package to send to Mrs. Craddock, and when the boy came for the book, she employed him as a messenger to the park.
“If you will take these things to Mrs. Craddock, Jud, I shall be much obliged,” she said; “and please tell her that I will drive out to see her to-morrow.”
Jud accepted the mission readily. With Nib at his heels and “Robinson Crusoe” under his arm, three miles were a trivial matter. He trudged off, whistling with keen delight. As he went along he could fortify himself with an occasional glance at the hero and his man Friday. What would he not have sacrificed at the prospect of being cast with Nib upon a desert island?
“Owd Sammy” sat near the chimney-corner smoking his pipe, and making severe mental comments upon the conduct of Parliament, then in session, of whose erratic proceedings he was reading an account in a small but highly seasoned newspaper. Sammy shook his head ominously over the peppery reports, but feeling it as well to reserve his opinions for a select audience at The Crown, allowed Mrs. Craddock to perform her household tasks unmolested.
Hearing Jud at the door, he turned his head.
“It's yo', is it?” he said. “Tha con coom in. What's browten?”
“Summat fur th' missis fro' th' Rectory,” Jud answered, producing his parcel; “Miss Anice sent me wi' it.”
“Tak' it to th' owd lass, then,” said Sammy. “Tak' it to her. Tha'lt find her in th' back kitchen.”
Having done as he was bidden, Jud came back again to the front room. Mrs. Craddock had hospitably provided him with a huge sandwich of bread and cheese, and Nib followed him with expectant eyes.
“Sit thee down, lad,” said Sammy, condescendingly. “Sit thee down, tha'st getten a walk both afore and behind thee. What book 'st getten under thy arm?”
Jud regarded the volume with evident pride and exultation.
“It's Robyson Crusoe, that theer is,” he answered.
Sammy shook his head dubiously.
“Dunnot know as I ivver heerd on him. He's noan scripter, is he?”
“No,” said Jud, repelling the insinuation stoutly; “he is na.”
“Hond him over, an' let's ha' a look at him.”
Jud advanced.
“Theer's picters in it,” he commented eagerly. “Theer's one at th' front. That theer un,” pointing to the frontispiece, “that theer's him.”
Sammy gave it a sharp glance, then another, and then held the book at arm's length, regarding Robinson's goat-skin habiliments over the rims of his spectacles.
“Well, I'm dom'd,” he exclaimed. “I'm dom'd, if I would na loike to see that chap i' Riggan! What's th' felly getten on?”
“He's dressed i' goat-skins. He wur cast upon a desert island, an' had na owt else to wear.”
“I thowt he must ha' been reduced i' circumstances, or he'd nivver ha' turnt out i' that rig less he thowt more o' comfort than appearances. What wur he doin' a-casting hissen on a desert island? Wur he reet i' th' upper story?”
“He wur shipwrecked,” triumphantly. “Th' sea drifted him to th' shore, an' he built hissen a hut, an' gettin' goats an' birds, an'—an' aw sorts—an'—it's the graideliest book tha ivver seed. Miss Anice gave it me.”
“Has she read it hersen?”
“Aye, it wur her as tellt me most on it.”
Sammy turned the volume over, and looked at the back of it, at the edges of the leaves, at the gilt-lettered title.
“I would na be surprised,” he observed with oracular amiability. “I would na be surprised—if that's th' case—as theer's summat in it.”
“That as I've towd thee is nowt to th' rest on it,” answered Jud in enthusiasm. “Theer's a mon ca'd Friday, an' a lot o' fellys as eats each other—cannybles they ca' 'em——”
“Look tha here,” interposed Craddock, his curiosity and interest getting the better of him. “Sit thee down and read a bit. That's something as I nivver heard on—cannybles an' th' loike. Pick thee th' place, an' let's hear summat about th' cannybles if tha has na th' toime to do no more.”
Jud needed no second invitation. Sharing the general opinion that “Owd Sammy” was a man of mark, he could not help feeling that Crusoe was complimented by his attention. He picked out his place, as his hearer had advised him, and plunged into the details of the cannibal feast with pride and determination. Though his elocution may have been of a style peculiar to beginners and his pronunciation occasionally startling in its originality, still Sammy gathered the gist of the story. He puffed at his pipe so furiously that the foreign gentleman's turbaned head was emptied with amazing rapidity, and it was necessary to refill it two or three times; he rubbed his corduroy knees with both hands, occasionally he slapped one of them in the intensity of his interest, and when Jud stopped he could only express himself in his usual emphatic formula—
“Well, I am dom'd. An' tha says, as th' chap's name wur Robyson?”
“Aye, Robyson Crusoe.”
“Well, I mun say, as I'd ha' loike to ha' knowed him. I did know a mon by th' name o' Robyson onct, but it could na ha' been him, fur he wur na mich o' a chap. If he'd a bin cast o' a desert island, he would na had th' gumption to do aw that theer—Jem Robyson could na. It could na ha' been him—an' besides, he could na ha' writ it out, as that theer felly's done.”
There was a pause, in which Craddock held his pipe in his hand reflectively—shaking his head once more.
“Cannybles an' th' loike too,” he said. “Theer's a soight o' things as a mon does na hear on. Why,Inivver heard o' cannybles mysen, an' I am na considert ignorant by th' most o' foak.” Then, as Jud rose to go, “Art tha fur goin'?” he asked. “Weil, I mun say as I'd loike to hear summat more about Robyson; but, if tha mun go, tha mun, I suppose. Sithee here, could tha coom again an' bring him wi' thee?”
“I mowt; I dunna moind the walk.”
“Then thee do it,” getting up to accompany him to the gates. “An' I'll gi'e thee a copper now an' then to pay thee. Theer's summat i' a book o' that soart. Coom thee again as soon as tha con, an' we'll go on wi' the cannybles.”
“What's th' lad been readin' to thee, Sammy?” asked Mrs. Craddock entering the room, after Jud had taken his departure.
“A bit o' litterytoor. I dunnot know as tha'd know what th' book wur, if I towd thee. Tha nivver wur mich o' a hand at litterytoor. He wur readin' Robyson Crusoe.”
“Not a tract, sure-ly?”
“Nay, that it wur na! It wur th' dairy o' a mon who wur cast upo' a desert island 'i th' midst o' cannybles.”
“The dairy?”
“Nay, lass, nay,” testily, “not i' th' sense yo' mean. Th' dairy wur o' th' litterairy soart. He wur a litterairy mon.”
“Cannybles an' th' loike,” Sammy said to himself several times during the evening. “Cannybles an' th' loike. Theer's a power o' things i' th' universe.”
He took his pipe after supper and went out for a stroll. Mental activity made him restless. The night was a bright one. A yellow harvest moon was rising slowly above the tree-tops, and casting a mellow light upon the road stretching out before him. He passed through the gates and down the road at a leisurely pace, and had walked a hundred yards or so, when he caught sight of two figures approaching him—a girl and a man, so absorbed that they evidently had not noticed him. The girl was of light and youthful figure, and the little old red shawl she wore over her head was pushed aside, and showed curly hair lying upon her brow. It was plain that she was uneasy or frightened, for, as soon as she was near enough, her voice reached him in a tone of frightened protest.
“Oh, dunnot!” she was saying, “I conna bear it I dunnot want to hear yo', an'—an' I will na. Yo' moight ha' let me be. I dunnot believe yo'. Let me go whoam. I'll nivver coom again,” and then she broke out crying.
Craddock looked after them as they passed from sight.
“Theer's trouble there,” he said, eagerly. “A working lass, an' a mon i' gentlemen's cloas. Dom sich loike chaps, say I. What would they think if workin' men ud coom meddlin' wi' theer lasses? I wish I'd had more toime to see th' wench's face.”
Not a pleasant road to travel at any time—the high road to Riggan, it was certainly at its worst to-night.
Between twelve and one o'clock, the rain which had been pouring down steadily with true English pertinacity for two days, was gradually passing into a drizzle still more unpleasant,—a drizzle that soaked into the already soaked clay, that made the mud more slippery, that penetrated a man's clothing and beat softly but irritatingly against his face, and dripped from his hair and hat down upon his neck, however well he might imagine himself protected by his outside wrappings. But, if he was a common traveller—a rough tramp or laborer, who was not protected from it at all, it could not fail to annoy him still more, and consequently to affect his temper.
At the hour I have named, such a traveller was making his way through the mire and drizzle toward Riggan,—a tramp in mud-splashed corduroy and with the regulation handkerchief bundle tied to the thick stick which he carried over his shoulder.
“Dom th' rain;—dom th' road,” he said.
It was not alone the state of the weather that put him out of humor.
“Th' lass,” he went on. “Dom her handsome face. Goin' agin a chap—workin' agin him, an' settin' hersen i' his road. Blast me,” grinding his teeth—“Blast me if I dunnot ha' it out wi' her!”
So cursing, and alternating his curses with raging silence, he trudged on his way until four o'clock, when he was in sight of the cottage upon the Knoll Road—the cottage where Joan and Liz lay asleep upon their poor bed, with the child between them.
Joan had not been asleep long. The child had been unusually fretful, and had kept her awake. So she was the more easily awakened from her first light and uneasy slumber by a knock on the door. Hearing it, she started up and listened.
“Who is it?” she asked in a voice too low to disturb the sleepers, but distinct enough to reach Lowrie's hearing.
“Get thee up an' oppen th' door,” was the answer. “I want thee.”
She knew there was something wrong. She had not responded to his summons for so many years without learning what each tone meant. But she did not hesitate.
When she had hastily thrown on some clothing, she opened the door and stood before him.
“I did not expect to see yo' toneet,” she said, quietly.
“Happen not,” he replied. “Coom out here. I ha' summat to say to yo'.”
“Yo' wunnot come in?” she asked.
“Nay. What I ha' to say mowt waken th' young un.”
She stepped out without another word, and closed the door quietly behind her.
There was the faintest possible light in the sky, the first tint of dawn, and it showed even to his brutal eyes all the beauty of her face and figure as she stood motionless, the dripping rain falling upon her; there was so little suggestion of fear about her that he was roused to fresh anger.
“Dom yo'!” he broke forth. “Do yo' know as I've fun yo' out?”
She did not profess not to understand him, but she did not stir an inch.
“I did na know before,” was her reply.
“Yo' thowt as I wur to be stopped, did yo'? Yo' thowt as yo' could keep quiet an' stond i' my way, an' houd me back till I'd forgetten? Yo're a brave wench! Nivver moind how I fun yo' out, an' seed how it wur—I've done it, that's enow fur yo'; an' now I've coom to ha' a few words wi' yo' and settle matters. I coom here toneet a purpose, an' this is what I've getten to say. Yo're stubborn enow, but yo' canna stop me. That's one thing I ha' to tell yo', an here's another. Yo're hard enow, an' yo're wise enow, but yo're noan so wise as yo' think fur, if yo' fancy as a hundred years ud mak' me forget what I ha' made up my moind to, an' yo're noan so wise as yo' think fur, if yo' put yoursen in my road. An' here's another yet,” clinching his fist. “If it wur murder, as I wur goin' to do—not as I say it is—but if it wur murder itsen an' yo' wur i' my way, theer mowt be two blows struck i'stead o' one—theer mowt be two murders done—an' I wunnot say which ud coom first—fur I'll do what I've set my moind to, if I'm dom'd to hell fur it!”
She did not move nor speak. Perhaps because of her immobility he broke out again.
“What!” he cried. “Yo''hangin' on to gentlemen, an' doggin' 'em, an' draggin' yoursen thro' th' dark an' mire to save 'em fro' havin' theer prutty faces hurt, an' getten theer dues!Yo''creepin' behind a mon as cares no more fur yo' than he does for th' dirt at his feet, an' as laughs, ten to one, to know as yo're ready to be picked up or throwed down at his pleasure!Yo''watchin' i' th' shade o' trees an' stoppin' a mon by neet as would na stop to speak to yo' by day. Dom yo'! theer were na a mon i' Riggan as dare touch yo' wi' a yard-stick until this chap coom.”
“I've listened to yo',” she said. “Will yo' listen to me?”
He replied with another oath, and she continued as if it had been an assent.
“Theer's a few o' them words as yo've spoken as is na true, but theer's others as is. It's true as I ha' set mysen to watch, an' it's true as I mean to do it again. If it's nowt but simple harm yo' mean, yo' shanna do it; if it's murder yo' mean—an' I dunnot trust yo' as it is na—if it's murder yo' mean, theer's yo' an' me for it before it's done; an' if theer's deathly blows struck, the first shall fa' onme. Theer!” and she struck herself upon her breast. “If I wur ivver afraid o' yo' i' my loife—if I ivver feared yo' as choild or woman, dunnot believe me now.”
“Yo' mean that?” he said.
“Yo' know whether I mean it or not,” she answered.
“Aye!” he said. “I'm dom'd if yo' dunnot, yo' she-devil, an' bein' as that's what's ailin' thee, I'm dom'd if I dunnot mean summat too,” and he raised his hand and gave her a blow that felled her to the ground; then he turned away, cursing as he went.
She uttered no cry of appeal or dread, and Liz and the child slept on inside, as quietly as before. It was the light-falling rain and the cool morning air that roused her. She came to herself at last, feeling sick and dizzy, and conscious of a fierce pain in her bruised temple. She managed to rise to her feet and stand, leaning against the rough gate-post. She had borne such blows before, but she never felt her humiliation so bitterly as she did at this moment. She laid her brow upon her hand, which rested on the gate, and broke into heavy sobs.
“I shall bear th' mark for mony a day,” she said. “I mun hide mysen away. I could na bear furhimto see it, even tho' I getten it fur his sake.”
It had been some time since Derrick on his nightly walks homeward had been conscious of the presence of the silent figure; but the very night after the occurrence narrated in the last chapter, he was startled at his first turning into the Knoll Road by recognizing Joan.
There was a pang to him in the discovery. Her silent presence seemed only to widen the distance Fate had placed between them. She was ready to shield him from danger, but she held herself apart from him even in doing so. She followed her own path as if she were a creature of a different world,—a world so separated from his own that nothing could ever bridge the gulf between them.
To-night, Derrick was seized with an intense longing to speak to the girl. He had forborne for her sake before, but to-night he was in one of those frames of mind in which a man is selfish, and is apt to let his course be regulated by his impulse. Why should he not speak, after all? If there was danger for him there was danger for her, and it was absurd that he should not show her that he was not afraid. Why should she interpose her single strength between himself and the vengeance of a man of whom he had had the best in their only encounter? As soon as they had reached the more unfrequented part of the road, he wheeled round suddenly, and spoke.
“Joan,” he said.
He saw that she paused and hesitated, and he made up his mind more strongly. He took a few impetuous steps toward her, and seeing this, she addressed him hurriedly.
“Dunnot stop,” she said. “If—if yo' want to speak to me, I'll go along wi' yo'.”
“You think I'm in danger?”
He could not see her face, but her voice told him that her usual steady composure was shaken—it was almost like the voice of another woman.
“Yo' nivver wur i' more danger i' yo're loife.”
“The old danger?”
“Th' old danger, as is worse to be feared now than ivver.”
“And you!” he broke out. “Youinterpose yourself between that danger and me!”
His fire seemed to communicate itself to her.
“Th' harm as is meant to be done, is coward's harm,” she said, “an' will be done i' coward's fashion—it is na a harm as will be done yo' wi' fair warnin', i' dayleet, an' face to face. If it wur, I should na fear—but th' way it is, I say it shanna be done—it shanna, if I dee fur it!” Then her manner altered again, and her voice returned to its first tremor. “It is na wi' me as it is wi' other women. Yo' munnot judge o' me as yo' judge o' other lasses. What mowtn't be reet fur other lasses to do, is reet enow fur me. It has na been left to me to be lass-loike, an' feart, an'—an' modest,” and she drew her breath hard, as if she was forced to check herself.
“It has been left to you,” he burst forth, “it has been left to you to stand higher in my eyes than any other woman God ever made.”
He could not have controlled himself. And yet, when he had said this, his heart leaped for fear he might have wounded her or given her a false impression. But strange to say, it proved this time that he had no need for fear.
There was a moment's silence, and then she answered low.
“Thank yo'!”
They had gone some yards together, before he recovered himself sufficiently to remember what he had meant to say to her.
“I wanted to tell you,” he said, “that I do not think any—enemy I have, can take me at any very great disadvantage. I am—I have prepared myself.”
She shuddered.
“Yo' carry—summat?”
“Don't misunderstand me,” he said quickly. “I shall not use any weapon rashly. It is to be employed more as a means of warning and alarm than anything else. Rigganites do not like firearms, and they are not used to them. I only tell you this, because I cannot bear that you should expose yourself unnecessarily.”
There was that in his manner which moved her as his light touch had done that first night of their meeting, when he had bound up her wounded temple with his handkerchief. It was that her womanhood—her hardly used womanhood, of which she had herself thought with such pathetic scorn—was always before him, and was even a stronger power with him than her marvellous beauty.
She remembered the fresh bruise upon her brow, and felt its throb with less of shame, because she bore it for his sake.
“Promise me one thing,” he went on. “And do not think me ungracious in asking it of you—promise me that you will not come out again through any fear of danger for me, unless it is a greater one than threatens me now and one I am unprepared to meet.”
“I conna,” she answered firmly. “I conna promise yo'. Yo' mun let me do as I ha' done fur th' sake o' my own peace.”
She made no further explanation, and he could not persuade her to alter her determination. In fact, he was led to see at last, that there was more behind than she had the will or power to reveal to him; something in her reticence silenced him.
“Yo' dunnot know whatIdo,” she said before they parted. “An' happen yo' would na quoite understand it if yo' did. I dunnot do things lightly,—I ha' no reason to,—an' I ha' set my moind on seein' that th' harm as has been brewin' fur long enow, shanna reach wheer it's aimed. I mun ha' my way. Dunnot ask me to gi'e it up. Let me do as I ha' been doin' fur th' sake o' mysen, if fur no one else.”
The truth which he could not reach, and would not have reached if he had talked to her till doomsday, was that she was right in saying that she could not give it up. This woman had made no inconsequent boast when she told her father that if deadly blows fell, they must fall first upon herself. She was used to blows, she could bear them, she was fearless before them,—but she could not have borne to sit at home, under any possibility of wrong being done to this man. God knows what heavy sadness had worn her soul, through the months in which she had never for a moment flinched from the knowledge that a whole world lay between herself and him. God knows how she had struggled against the unconquerable tide of feeling as it crept slowly upon her, refusing to be stemmed and threatening to overwhelm her in its remorseless waves. She was only left endurance—yet even in this there was a gladness which she had in nothing else. She could never meet him as a happier woman might, but she could do for him what other women could not do—she could brave darkness and danger, she could watch over him, if need be; if the worst came to the worst, she could interpose herself between him and violence, or death itself.
But of all this, Fergus Derrick suspected nothing. He only knew that while she had not misinterpreted his appeal, some reason of her own held her firm.