CHAPTER XTHIRD TIME OF ASKINGThe circumstances and necessities of Bartley Crocker's wooing were peculiar, because one-sided. Rhoda naturally never assisted him; indeed, many carefully laid plans for meeting were consciously frustrated by her when she chanced to learn them. At last, however, thanks to Margaret's aid, opportunity fell for a final proposal, and Bartley used it to the best of his power. A day came when David drove Madge over to Tavistock to look at certain houses, and Rhoda stopped at home.Her own plans began to be very doubtful now, and choice lay before her of returning to her father or continuing to live with David. Her love had made light even of Tavistock; but, in a town, Rhoda's occupation would be gone: at such a place she must cease to justify existence. Her greatest sorrow was reached at thought of living away from David; and a second emotion, only less disturbing, made decision doubly difficult. The apparent complications and secrets of her sister-in-law's life had first alarmed Rhoda, and now they angered her. She read the facts in the light of her own wisdom, and her wisdom led her wide of the mark. She believed that Crocker was using alleged love of her as a pretence and excuse for very different affection. Some such dim thought had long haunted her, and it remained for Dorcas and her brutal speeches to convince Rhoda that she did Margaret no wrong by the suspicion. In sober truth Rhoda had felt shame upon herself when first the fear arose; but then came her hidden watches, the spectacle of familiar meetings and the vigorous word of Mrs. Screech. She knew that Dorcas loved Madge and had not spoken to injure David's wife. Her sister, indeed, evidently approved; and the circumstance convinced Rhoda that her opinion of Dorcas was correct.And now, upon restless loneliness, came Crocker knowing that he would find her alone. He sneered at himself for a fool as he knocked at the door of 'Meavy Cot'; but he had sworn to ask her thrice and would not go from his word, though the vanity of troubling her a third time was very clear to him.After noon on a late autumn day did Bartley call, and Rhoda, not guessing who it was that knocked, but thinking it to be one of her brothers, who was due from Ditsworthy, cried out, "Come in!"She was eating her dinner of a baked potato, bread, cold mutton, and a glass of water; and she leapt up as Mr. Crocker appeared."Go on," he said. "Please go on--or I'll walk about outside till you've finished, if you'd rather I did.""I thought 'twas my brother," she said. "I've done my food. David's not at home, if you want him.""I know," he answered. "I've come to see the only one who was at home; and that's yourself."She stood by the table. Her mind moved swiftly. She sought to find some advantage in this meeting; but she could not think what to say. David was her sole thought, and how best to serve him she knew not."It's a long time since I had a chance to speak to you," said the visitor, "and I'm afraid, from your looks, you wouldn't have given me the chance even now if you hadn't been caught and cornered. But there's no need for you to grudge ten minutes of talk. 'Twill be the last time--unless there's a glimmer of another sort of feeling in you."Her way of escape seemed to lie through this man's departure alone. She hated every tone of his voice and wished that he was dead."If you're going out of it, 'twill be by the blessing of God for all in this house," she answered.He started and his colour changed to pale."A glimmer of another sort of feeling with a vengeance!" he said. "But not the sort I was still fond fool enough to hope for. You shall talk, since you're so fired to do it, and I'll listen. Yes, I'm going. And you won't come?"Her silence spoke scornfully."Well," he continued, "I'm paid what I deserve, I suppose: I've made you loathe me instead of love me. It's bad luck, for I've felt for three years--however, such queer things often happen.""You never loved a woman like a decent man, for 'tisn't in you to do it," she said. "You think you hide yourself; but you don't. You're evil all through, and the touch of you is evil.""Why do you say these harsh things? What have I done but court you like an honest man and a patient one?""Ask yourself--not me. Ask yourself what you've been doing, and plotting, and amusing yourself about of late. Ask yourself who 'tis you meet in this place and that!""Well, I never! So you've been interested in me all the time! Interested enough to care what I was doing and thinking about. By all right understanding that ought to mean you cared a bit for me. Women don't spy on a man, save for love or hate. And hate me you can't without a cause, though you speak and look as if you did. If I thought you were jealous--but that's too good to be true. Who is it? Out with it.' At least I've a right to know who 'tis that I meet so secret while you peep at us."He bantered her and cared little that she grew rosy and furious; for he knew it was all over now and that they would probably never speak together again."You ask that and pretend--and pretend!" she burst out. "As if it might be a score of women! But I know, and 'twasn't for love nor yet hate that I watched you--not for love of you or her anyway.""Come now--no puzzles! Then I'm after another man's sweetheart on the quiet. Is that it? Well, who is she? I've a right to know in the face of such a charge.""You're after another man's wife," she said, and faced him without flinching. But still he laughed."You maidens! What hen dragons of virtue you are, to be sure. 'Another man's wife'--eh? Then no wonder you look a thought awry at me. Poor fellow! He's terribly wronged, to be sure. Have you told him what I'm doing? Or are you in love with this other chap?""Go," she said furiously. "You know the truth in your wicked heart, and I know it, and it's devilish in you to take it like this. I'll suffer no more of you; I'll never breathe the same air with you no more;--and them I care about shan't, if I can help it. You ought to be torn in a thousand pieces by honest men and women--vile thing that you are!"He sat down calmly and patted a dog that rose from the hearth and growled at him in some uneasiness before Rhoda's fury."Can't leave you like this--must understand what you're driving at," he declared."Then I'll go," she said. "What do you take me for? Have you sunk so low that you don't know a clean-minded creature when you meet one? I'm not a fool, and I am not blind; and I've seen too well what's been doing of late; therefore I warn you to be gone afore the storm is let loose on you.""No fear of missing the storm while you're about. And off I shall be ere long now. There's nothing more to keep me, since you've gone out of your wits. All the same, I believe you've thrust yourself under the law for such talk as this. To tell me I'm going wrong with a married woman! Damn it all, Rhoda, what nasty thoughts have crept into your head? Why don't you name her and have done with it? 'Tis bad enough to know you hate me; but hear this: May the Almighty find and finish me where I sit if--""Don't!" she cried out. "Don't take His name here and belike leave your stricken dust rooted in that chair for me to watch till others come! I'll hear no oath and I'll name no names. I know you--I've seen it--I've heard it--heard it from another as quick to do evil as ever you was.""By God, this is too bad!" he cried, leaping up. "You--you to accuse me of loose conduct and wrong-doing! Look to your eyes that have seen what never happened; and your ears that have listened to lies; and your tongue too--your tongue that can talk thus to a man who loved you truly and uprightly and has kept as straight as yourself from the day he loved you and longed for you! You can't love me and I don't blame you there. You can't love me; but is that a just reason why you should lie about me? See to yourself, Rhoda, and you'll find a bitter weed in your own heart that's better out and away. And threaten no more neither. You may drag me as deep as you please through the dirt that's got into your mind--God help you; but don't drag some innocent woman through it. Anyway, you'll never see my face again--spy as you may--for I shall be gone for good in a month or two."She did not answer and he abruptly left her. He was very angry, very startled, and very shocked that she could believe and repeat such a monstrous error. He cast about for some ground in reason, and examined his life. He could only think of the meetings with Margaret Bowden; but that these were actually what Rhoda referred to did not even occur to him. He had, as a matter of fact, travelled recently as far as Plymouth with a woman, but she was Rhoda's own widowed sister from Ditsworthy, and it seemed impossible that she could refer to her.He puzzled to know what this assault might mean; but apart from these unexpected circumstances attending her refusal, the final negative was all that mattered. That she believed him a libertine soon ceased to trouble Hartley. His anger swiftly vanished before the immediate interest of the future. Nothing remained but to follow his previous plans and depart. He had only waited for Rhoda and now the coast was clear. Before he reached home, he had finally determined to leave England early in the new year.CHAPTER XIBAD NEWS OF MR. BOWDENMrs. Stanbury's habit of mind died hard, even after the truth concerning the Voice at Crazywell had been impressed upon her. Slowly she appreciated the great fact that neither her husband nor her son might longer be considered as under sentence of death; but often still she woke in fear or rose in gloom, while yet her mind retained only the past terror and forgot the more recent joy. Billy Screech had explained to Bartley; and since Bartley was of opinion that no real blame attached to anybody, and that the plot was perfectly reasonable in its original purpose--all things being fair in love--the matter soon blew over. Bart, indeed, declared that Mattacott and Billy ought to pay the doctor's bill for his mother; but they were not of his mind, and Mr. Stanbury, who, despite stout assurances of indifference, felt really much relieved when the truth appeared, very gladly met this charge. The immediate result of the event was a decision on the part of Jane West. Bart, having safely emerged from these supernatural threats of extinction, found her in the most oncoming spirit, and they were now definitely engaged to be married.With the turn of another year this fact became generally known, and there fell a Sunday in late January when the party from 'Meavy Cot' visited Coombeshead and assisted at a formal meal given in honour of Bart's betrothed.David made efforts to rouse his mother-in-law from her invincible distrust--both of herself and her blood in the veins of the next generation. They talked apart after the meal, and she, as her custom was, doubted her son's ability to fight the world successfully for a wife and possible children."A very good son, I can assure you--never a better. But whether he'll prove a husband of any account, I'm sure I couldn't say," she murmured."Of course he will," answered the other. "You don't know what a clever chap Bart is. Jane's a very lucky woman; and she knows it well enough, and her family know it well enough, even if you don't."It was an amiable fiction with Margaret's husband that she was largely responsible for his success in life. He often solemnly declared that but for her at the helm, he should never have prospered as was the case, and certainly never have won the great prize at Tavistock. This statement he would make repeatedly, despite his wife's protests and Rhoda's silences. He made it now to Mrs. Stanbury."Look at Madge," he said. "If she's such a splendid wife, why are you afeared that Bart won't be a splendid husband? Madge took after you; Bart takes after his father. Why, where should I be if it wasn't for Madge? Not where I stand, I can tell you. She's the corner-stone of the house, and always has been, and always will be. You ought to believe what people tell you about your children.""'Tis very well to know you think so," she admitted; "all the same, a mother's eye can't overlook the defects.""Not in your case, seemingly; but 'tis just what a mother's eye be cleverest at doing as a rule," declared he."'Tis no good pretending with yourself, as you do," she answered. "You think our Madge have helped you to greatness, and if love and worship could bring you up top, you'd be right. But it can't. You was too strong and steady a man to want any woman's help.""No, no--never was such a man as that," her son-in-law answered, and firmly believed it. "Madge has helped me to take big views," he continued. "Why, there's no work that we do can taste so good as the work we do for other people. Your daughter teached me that."The afternoon advanced and Margaret entered the parlour to say that tea was ready in the kitchen.Bart and Jane comported themselves with high indifference under the ordeal of this entertainment. They had accepted the good wishes and the chaff; they had eaten heartily and departed together as soon as dinner was done."They won't be back for tea. They don't want no tea," declared Mr. Stanbury. "Why, they've even got to naming the day! 'Twill be Martin West's turn to find the spread and give the party this time; and if he does all I did for you and Madge, David, I shall be surprised--though he's a richer man than me by a good few pound, I warrant you."Talk ran on the new romance; then Rhoda reminded David that a Princetown man was to see him that evening within an hour from the present time. He rose at once and prepared to depart. But Margaret did not accompany him."I shan't be back afore supper," she said. "Bartley Crocker's coming up presently. He won't see my father and mother no more, for his time is getting short. So I shall bide here till he's been and gone.""He's so dark about dates," declared David. "We all want to give him a bit of a dinner at 'The Corner House'--a real good send-off; and there's a little subscription started to get the man a remembrance. But he's not in very good spirits now the time's so near; and he rather wants to escape without any fuss. However, if you have the chance, try and find out exactly when he's going, Madge. He'll tell you the secret. The date is fixed, I expect. Try and worm it out of him; and fetch him along to supper, if he'll come."She promised and David departed with Rhoda.Bartley Crocker appeared in the valley as they went their way; and he saw them going, but they did not see him.His sister's affairs now largely occupied young Bowden's mind, because the future, from her standpoint, was difficult. He, however, did not quite comprehend the moody and irritable spirit which Rhoda had of late developed. It fell out, indeed, that this taciturnity and self-absorption caused David first uneasiness and then mild annoyance. Rhoda had ceased to be herself. She was not interested in the future. She spoke of going out of his life. She showed no enthusiasm in any direction, and her attitude to Margaret he had secretly resented on several occasions. He deplored it to Margaret herself, but she had begged him not to think of it again, and declared it a matter of no account. She could afford to be large-minded now, for she believed that Rhoda would soon be gone from her home for ever. As for David, he supposed this unsettled and cloudy weather of his sister's mind to be caused entirely by the forthcoming great upheaval in her life, and the extreme difficulty of deciding on a plan of action. That she had finally refused Crocker and determined to stop in England, he knew; but whether she intended to accompany him and Madge to Tavistock, or return to Ditsworthy, he did not know. None knew--not even the woman herself. Her brother attributed Rhoda's darkness to the trouble of decision; yet it surprised him that she should find decision so difficult. She was one who usually made up her mind with swiftness and seldom departed from a first resolution. But, for once, she appeared unequal to the task of concluding upon any form of action. The truth of Rhoda's difficulties he could not know; and in his ignorance he revealed a little impatience. Observing this disquiet, she believed that the time had at last come to speak. She knew the danger and perceived that the one thing she cared for in life--her brother's regard--might be imperilled by such a step; but as he, in his turn, now began openly to resent her implicit attitude to Margaret, some decisive action was called for.And Rhoda upon that homeward walk proposed to speak, to put her discomfort and fear before him, and to trust his affection and wisdom to tide them all over a terrible difficulty. What might have fallen out had she done so cannot be estimated. In the result she never spoke, for there fell an interruption and she was still casting about for the first word, when her brother, Napoleon, rode up on a pony. He had come from Ditsworthy to 'Meavy Cot,' and his attire marked some haste, for he wore his Sunday coat and waistcoat, but had taken off his trousers and substituted workday garments of corduroy."Just been to your place," he shouted as he approached them. "Farther was took bad in the night, and he's a lot worse to-day and reckons he may die of it. And Joshua's gone for doctor, and mother's in a proper tantara. And faither wants for you and Rhoda to come up this moment."For an instant they stood, aghast and smitten."What's took him?" asked David."His breathing, and he's all afire and can't let down a morsel of food. You'd better get on this pony and go right up along, David.""I suppose I had. Chap from Princetown will have his walk for his pains; but it can't be helped."Napoleon dismounted and David took his place. "You'll come on, you two, after me," he said. "Best to go across through Dennycoombe wood. Please God, 'tis of no account. Faither's so strong and never knoweth ache or pain; therefore what may be a small thing would seem worse to him than it really is."He started and then turned back again."When you pass Coombeshead, just run in, Nap, and tell Margaret what's happened. I may be back home to-night, or I may not be. And bid her remember the calves.""I shall be back for that," said Rhoda. "I shall go back to-night in any case.""All right then," concluded David. Then he galloped off and soon disappeared.His sister and the boy tramped without speech together until, glowing like the bright fur of a wolf all grey and russet, Dennycoombe wood rose before them, flung on the distant side of Sheep's Tor in evening light."I'll wait for you by the gate yonder," said Rhoda. "Your nearest way from here be to the left. Don't you stop talking, mind: you may be useful up at home. Just tell Madge what's fallen out and then come after me.""I can travel twice so fast as you," answered the boy. "No call for you to wait. I'll over-get you long afore 'tis dark."He left her and she went forward, passed under Down Tor, crossed the stream and skirted the great wood beyond. She reached the gate and stopped for her brother as she had promised: but he did not come, and presently she went her way through the edge of the trees. Then suddenly, going on silent feet, she heard voices at hand. A great stone towered there and in a moment she understood that her sister-in-law and Bartley Crocker were on one side of it, and knew not that she was upon the other. She guessed that the man had taken leave of the party at Coombeshead Farm and that Margaret had departed with him.This indeed had happened. Bartley made but a short stay at the Stanburys' and Madge left when he did. They were now sitting together and talking.Rhoda listened but could not hear more than a chance word intermittently."Your husband wanted to give me a spread and a send-off in the old-fashioned way, but, somehow, I've no stomach for any such thing just at present," declared Mr. Crocker."'Tis natural you shouldn't have.""I shall write to David. I can't stand all these good-byes, and all the leave-taking business.""'Tis crushing to think you're so nearly gone.""But mind you keep the secret of the day and tell none, Madge--till I'm off. Those I care for shall hear from me--t'others don't matter. There's nothing left to keep me but you, and I can't make you happier by staying.""Don't say that.""Not really I can't. We're beginning new lives in new places--you and me.""So we are in a way.""What does Rhoda do?""She can't make up her mind seemingly. She's very sad.""She's very mad, if you ask me. I wish to God some man could find how to sweeten her mind. And you're sad because she is. I knew it the moment I heard your voice half an hour ago.""'Tis wonderful to think how you can always tell by my tone of voice how 'tis with me! But then there's nobody like you for understanding us women. You'd have made a rare husband for the right one, Bartley.""Yes; and the right one--well, perhaps I'll find her over the water. 'Tis the day after to-morrow I go. I sail off from Plymouth, so that's all easy and straight-forward.""Be theShamrocka good big ship?""Big enough for my fortunes.""We must see one another once more, Bartley.""Of course we must, Madge."They moved forward as they spoke, and Rhoda saw Bartley kiss Margaret and observed that her sister-in-law was weeping. Then came hasty feet and Napoleon appeared. He shouted from a distance."She ban't there! She's gone! I waited a bit and had a dollop of figgy pudden and told 'em the bad news about faither.""Hullo!" said Bartley to Rhoda. "You!" He looked blankly at her, but she ignored him and turned to Margaret. Hate was in her voice. She spoke quickly and waited for no reply, then moved on with her brother."Napoleon have been to seek you at your father's farm, Margaret Bowden, but you was better employed seemingly. My father is took very ill indeed, and your husband be gone up over to him. You'd best get home--if you can spare the time to think of your home. I shall be back by night, but David may not be able to come."She swept on her way and left them staring at each other. Margaret was dishevelled and the shock of this meeting had dried her tears."Good Lord! that's bad luck. She saw me kiss you, I'll swear," murmured Bartley. "And now she'll believe there's another married woman in the case! Will she tell David?""What if she does? I'll tell him myself. D'you think he'd care?""Shall I go after her and explain?""No," she answered. "Let her be.""It's time I was off anyhow. But poor old Elias! 'Very ill indeed,' she said. I hope he's not booked. Can't think of Ditsworthy without him."They talked a little longer and Mr. Crocker was glad that there had come distraction for Margaret's mind. She deeply felt parting from him, for he had bulked largely in her life, and he too had enjoyed her loyal friendship and owed her much, though her labours on his behalf were all fruitless. But now the moment was come in which they must part; and he knew that the parting was probably eternal. He did not, however, intend that she should know it. He lied glibly about coming over to 'Meavy Cot' on the following day; then he talked of other matters, and then, when they had drifted down to Nosworthy bridge, pretended to be amazed at the time."I must be pushing back in a hurry. My boxes go off first thing to-morrow. And I daresay I shall get up to Ditsworthy after dark and may have a tell with David there. But if Rhoda has already told him she saw me kissing you--!""He'd laugh. He's not the sort to mind that between me and you.""I know he isn't. I was only joking."She revealed extreme solicitude for his future."You'll take all care of yourself wherever you be; and you've promised, on your word of honour, to come home and see old friends inside five year.""On my word of honour. And you've got to write, and keep me up in the news, and tell me all about the house at Tavistock and everywhere else that's interesting."He shook hands and moved off quickly, while she, too, went on her way. But, when her back was turned, he stood still and took his last look; for, despite promises, the man had no intention to see her again. His ship was to start after noon on the following day, and he meant to leave Sheepstor at dawn of the morrow.Now Margaret swiftly faded into the dusk, and he went forward, subdued and as melancholy as his spirit allowed."So good and brave a woman as ever walked this earth," he said to himself. "God send me such another; but 'tis hardly likely."For her sake he made time that night to go to Ditsworthy and speak with David; and the following evening--at the hour in which he had promised to visit 'Meavy Cot' for a final farewell--he was aboard and watching Devon fade swiftly along the edge of the sea. A shadow lay above the grey, rolling ridges; and then that shadow sank out of his eyes for ever.But Bartley Crocker belonged to the order of lighter spirits who can close the book of their past without a pang; and he did so now.CHAPTER XIIRHODA AND MARGARETWhen Rhoda returned from Ditsworthy, she stated briefly that a doctor had seen Mr. Bowden and declared there was no immediate cause for uneasiness. David, however, proposed to stop for the night and help his mother.The women supped silently--each angered with the other; and then happened that which loosed the flood-gates of Rhoda's passion and precipitated a deed which, since the recent meeting in the wood, she had strongly considered. She had changed her mind with regard to David; and now, instead, it had come to her as a reasonable thing to attack Margaret directly. But she hesitated to do so until the latter unconsciously provoked her. Rhoda had not spoken to David of the meeting with Madge and Bartley Crocker; but now David's wife returned to the subject and awoke anger in Rhoda, so that she lost self-control and spilled out all the bitterness of her mind."Since your father's not in danger, one has time for one's own thoughts again," said Madge, "and they are dark enough for the minute. You looked terrible surprised in Dennycoombe wood a bit ago, and you was terrible rude to me; but why for I don't know. You puzzle me sometimes, Rhoda. Can't you even feel that 'tis sad the man who loved you so well be going so far ways off?""The sooner the better.""You're heartless, I do believe.""You make up for it, if I am.""I suppose you're shocked because I kissed him. Did you tell David? I lay he didn't pull a very long face about it. But what's come over me? To think of me talking in this loud, wild way! Forgive me, Rhoda. I meant nothing. You can't help being what you are, and feeling what you feel, any more than I can. I'm not myself to-night. I shall miss him cruel, and I don't care who knows it."The other kept silence. Her colour had gone and her breast was rising and falling rapidly. Anger put a strain on her lungs and called for air."Oh, Rhoda," cried Madge feebly, "why didn't you take him? Nobody will ever love you like that again; and nobody will ever understand you so well as Bartley did. You were a fool--a fool not to take him. Now look at it--your life all useless and nowhere to turn, unless you come to Tavistock with us. Think better of it even now. Go to him to-morrow; keep him here afore 'tis too late and he's gone."Then the other rose to her feet, and spoke slowly, and crushed the slighter creature for ever."So you've sunk to that! You can dare to sit there and say that openly to me. I'm to marry him--I'm to drag myself through the dirt of that man's life, so that you can have him always at your elbow!!"Margaret stared, and in her turn grew pale."What are you saying or thinking?" she cried. "Are you out of your mind?""If I am, I've had enough to make me. But I'm sane enough--for my brother's sake. I've kept sane all these cruel, cursed months, while you've gone your way, and forgotten yourself, and disgraced his name. Hear me, I say! Don't you shout, for I can shout louder than you. What I tell be God's truth; and if you don't confess it, I'll do it for you. D'you think I don't know what men are? Nine in ten be of the same beastly pattern; and this man's the worst of all, for he's a liar and a thief, and he came to me with his false tales, but his mind was always running on you; and he came to David and pretended to be his friend and--and--"She caught her breath and Margaret spoke swiftly."What do you accuse me of?""I accuse you of being unfaithful and untrue to my brother; and right well you know it is so. I've watched--I know--and I'm not the only one. My sister Dorcas--clever enough in evil she be--she knows it too. And belike a many others among that knave's friends, for he's the sort to rob a woman of her all, and then laugh to men about it. Maybe all the world knows it but David's self. I say you've sinned against my brother, and I say he must know it--now--now--afore he begins at Tavistock. And, please God, he'll put you away from him, and choose rather to live his life maimed alone, than with a foul wretch like you under his roof.""These are hideous lies--you're dreaming--you're mad to say such things. You--you to come to an honest wife with this filthy story! 'Tis you shall be cast out--'tis you.--Oh, my God! to think that I should hear such words uttered against me by another woman!"Madge's brief flash of fight died even as she spoke. She was not fashioned to carry the battle with a high hand. She began to think of her husband."You shall say this to David and see where you find yourself," she continued. "Is not a man's wife nearer to him than a sister? Will he believe you rather than me? Will he believe Dorcas rather than Bartley Crocker himself? That you--you, Rhoda, of all women, could sting me so! That you--you we thought so pure and clean as newly-fallen snow--could invent such a thing! That you, who know me so well and my love and worship of David.... Oh, Rhoda, I'm sorry for you!""Be sorry for yourself. Well--and too well--I know you. I had to spy. I ban't ashamed of it. There was nothing else but to tell him and let him spy. And I couldn't do that till I knew. 'Tis all of a piece--all clear to any human mind--foul or fair. God judge me if I was quick to think evil. I was slow to do it. I fought not to believe it. I tried heart and soul not to see it. But you took good care I should see it. Wasn't you always after him? Didn't you meet him in secret places scores of times? How could I not see? And him coming to me; and you pretending to want me to take him. Yet 'twas no pretence neither, for 'twould have suited you both well enough. And David, working day and night, and trusting you, and always ready at a word to pleasure you. That proud of you and hungry for your happiness-- But it's ended now. It ended to-day when I saw you in the wood. Not that I've not seen you kissing him afore--fawning on his hand, by God! I've watched--yes--and seen enough to know all I didn't see. And he's going to know it too--David. He's got to know for his own honour's sake, and he shall.""Will he believe it? Never! May God strike me here afore you, and kill me slow the awfullest way that ever woman died, if by thought or deed I've been false to him.""Ah! Even so the man talked, and he's alive yet. But the A'mighty won't forget either of you. You add lies to lies as he did. But I know they're lies. You needn't talk as if I was a fool; I know him well enough--none better. Did such as him--lecherous-minded beast that he was--dance about in lonely woods and secret places with you for nothing? If an angel from heaven told me you was honest I'd not believe it. And I'm stronger than you think--stronger far than you--with David, I mean. He knows I'm single-minded, anyway. He knows I've got no thought or hope in the whole world except his good. He knows right well that I've been a kind sister to you, and never done anything but strive for your happiness as well as his. Till now--till now. And he'll believe me; for he knows that I couldn't lie if I was tortured for speaking the truth. And I am tortured--tortured as never a woman was tortured yet. But he's got to hear it; and he shall hear it afore that man goes. And, as for you, whether he believes me or you, God's my eternal judge but I'll never ope my mouth to you again as long as I live."She said no more and went up to her room. Margaret waited a while and then followed her; but Rhoda's door was locked and she refused to answer when the other spoke.Then the wife descended and sat with companionship of her thoughts. She lived through many hours of poignant grief. Again and again she fell away stricken by her own heart; but she returned as often to the theme; she strove to pierce the problem and see what her sister-in-law could mean. How was it possible that such transparent innocence as Margaret's could from any standpoint look so vile? The bitterest enemy was powerless to throw one shadow over her friendship with Bartley Crocker; and yet here was her brother's sister frenzied with this fearful idea, and speaking of it as a fact proved beyond question. Rhoda believed in it as surely as she believed in her own life. She was prepared to stake her future and David's love for her upon it. She was going to separate Margaret from David, or herself from David, forever. One or other event must inevitably happen.A thousand plans of action rushed through the wife's brain, and their number defeated their varied purposes. Her native timidity served her ill now. She did nothing but sit and think and reconstruct the past. She remembered all the meetings with Bartley and their many plots and plans to win Rhoda for him. She recollected the most intimate conversations, when her nature or his formed the subject of their speech. She had once kissed his hand in a sudden impulse, when he announced the means to cure her mother. But she did not recall a single perilous or dangerous pass between them; for indeed no such thing had ever existed. Their regard was based on close and lifelong understanding and friendship. There never had been a reciprocal passage of passion, even in the days of her freedom. Her regard was the regard of an ordinary woman for her favourite brother--an affection absolutely untinged by any conscious sexual emotion whatsoever. Even at that, she had not loved him as Rhoda loved David. She was not cast in the great mould of Rhoda--great if unfinished.At waste of night she began to perceive that she could be no match for Rhoda. Her instinct of self-preservation inclined her first to David, then to Bartley, and then to her father's home. She determined at last to rest until day, and sought her bed. She lighted a match in the dark after a sleepless hour. It went out before she could reach a candle, and she was struck by the trivial phenomenon that, long after the match was extinguished, its light shone in her eyeballs and throbbed in the gloom like fiery rings until the impression waned. She rose an hour before dawn and dressed and descended. Then she went out and breathed the chill morning wind. As yet it was quite dark. Looking up, she saw that a candle burned in Rhoda's room. Some subtle psychological instinct crushed her spirit before the spectacle of that woman's steadfast and unsleeping watch. An impulse to get away from Rhoda overpowered Margaret. She returned, fetched her sun-bonnet, and hastened off without any fixed purpose of destination.When David's sister came down before six o'clock, the house was empty. She, too, had passed through storms; she also had faltered at the hour when life's pulses beat lowest and midnight sets its dead weight upon human hearts. She had longed to rise and get into the air; but she was determined not to lose sight of Margaret until David came home. Yet for a time she had lost consciousness and slept awhile at edge of dawn. And during those fitful slumbers, Margaret had departed.The day found Rhoda assured of her own action, though the result of it she could not foretell; but thus to have thrust matters upon their climax was a relief to her, and she felt only interested further to learn the extent of David's future sufferings and her power to lessen them.That Margaret had disappeared did not much astonish her. She doubted not that her sister-in-law was gone to have the first speech with David. Rhoda reviewed her own knowledge of facts and prepared her own statement. She perceived that she herself must come vilely out of it, as a spy and informer; but she kept her intentions and object in view, and believed that, suffer as he must, David would not lose sight of her motives. Her only desire was that her brother's home might be cleansed--at any cost to its inhabitants. She thirsted to speak to David and hear his voice.Yet, when she saw him coming alone through the morning, her thoughts flashed along another train, and she held her peace until a more fitting time for speech. And this she did because she guessed that something vital had happened to Margaret--something which must justify her attitude and sweep away the last shadow of doubt.Then her brother surprised her mightily; for, when she told him that Margaret had gone from the house before daylight, he seemed but little astonished to hear it.CHAPTER XIIITHE SEARCHMore for thought of Margaret than the sick master of Ditsworthy, had Crocker climbed to the Warren House upon his last evening at Sheepstor. He asked to see David, spent half an hour with him, and spoke explicitly of Rhoda, of his final failure to win her, and of the attitude that she had adopted towards him during that interview."God knows I wish her nought but good," he said; "and first and best that her mind should be cleansed of things she's heard from some unknown enemy and believes against me. She's got it in her head that I'm a worthless blackguard, born to make trouble. When she met me with your wife in Dennycoombe wood, a few hours since, she spoke as if I'd no business to be talking to Margaret. I say this for Margaret's sake; because, before saying 'good-bye,' I kissed Margaret, and your sister saw me do so, and went white with passion. There's that about kissing she can't forgive or forget, seemingly. But I'm off to-morrow and don't want to leave any trouble behind me."David nodded."You must allow for Rhoda. She's terrible fretted and has got a deal on her mind just now," he said."That's true enough; and she's often right; and I'm a fashion of man not worthy to name in the same breath with her. I only mention these things for your sake and Margaret's. Your sister is cruelly wrong about me, anyway, and maybe time will show her so. Only she mustn't be wrong about Madge. Me and Madge did very often meet, and even in secret, if you like. But why? Not to hide anything from anybody but Rhoda herself. Madge was very wishful for me to have Rhoda, and again and again we planned and plotted together what she could do, and what I could do, to bring it about. You understand that?""Why, yes; Margaret always told me about it of course.""But perhaps Rhoda didn't see what we wanted to be together for behind her back. A stupid muddle sure enough, and nothing but Madge wanting to do her and me a good turn was the cause of it. You clear her mind for her the first minute you can, David. And if she's had a row with Margaret, make 'em be friends again. Only you can do it."Thus he spoke, and the other saw all clearly."Rhoda's been unlike herself a good while," he answered. "And now I begin to see daylight. Of course, if she had some wild, silly fancies against you, and people have been telling her that you're not straight, she may have been vexed and anxious that you saw so much of my wife. For my sake she'd have felt so. But why she should have believed anything against you, or who spoke against you--that I can't say. However, your character is safe with me. I'll soon have it out and let loose some common sense into her brains. You must allow a bit for unmarried girls like her. They can't see life whole, and they get wrong opinions about men's minds. She's wise as need be every other way; but where men and women combined are the matter, she never can take proper views. She's jealous for me without a doubt--maybe because I was never known to be jealous for myself: too busy for that. And why should I be with a wife like mine?""You may well ask it. Madge would rather die than think an evil thought, let alone do an evil deed, against you. As for Rhoda--she beats me. Most of the man-hating sort be ugly and a bit hard at the angles; but she--she's as pretty as any wife you ever saw in the world. The Lord may send her a husband yet! And mind you let me know if it happens, for I'd like to give her a wedding present worth having."They parted then."Well, good luck to you," said the elder; "and don't forget to let us home-staying chaps have a sight of you again presently, when a few years be past and you've started on your fortune.""And all good wishes to you, David; and, for a last kindness, I'll ask you to get Madge to see my Aunt Susan Saunders sometimes and cheer her up. She badly wanted for me to take her along to Canada--poor old lady; but of course I couldn't do that--such a wanderer as I shall be till I find that place that pleases me."Thus it came about that when David returned to his home and heard that Madge was not there, he felt no intense astonishment. He doubted not that sharp words had passed and that his wife had left Rhoda until he should come home. For the time, however, he kept silence. He determined to speak to Rhoda and Madge together when the latter reappeared. He felt certain that she had gone to Coombeshead; and he also believed that she would stop with her parents until he went to fetch her."Put on the griddle and cook me a bit of meat for breakfast," he said to Rhoda. "I'm very hungry, along of having sat up most of the night with father. He's come well through it. He slept off and on, and feels he's safe this morning. I shall go up again later, when Madge be back."He ate, then started to Coombeshead; but his wife was not there, neither had any news been received concerning her. Then he walked across to Sheepstor, but none had seen or heard of Margaret. He called at 'The Corner House' to drink, and stopped there a while. But his mind was now much agitated. He soon set off for Ditsworthy; and he prayed as he went that there his increasing fears for Madge might be laid at rest.It was after noon when he arrived at his father's house, to learn that the doctor had pronounced Mr. Bowden better. But no news of Margaret greeted him. His twin brothers were just setting out for Princetown, to procure certain medical comforts for their father. Now they went as far as Coombeshead with David, and there he left them and returned again to the Stanburys. Still they had heard nothing. In grave alarm the husband went home, but Margaret was not there. Night now approached, and the man braced himself to set about systematic search and summon responsible aid.Rhoda had left a hot meal for him and he ate it quickly; but she herself had departed. A pencilled note explained that she had gone to seek Margaret at certain farms where chance might have led her. David now much desired to cross-question Rhoda closely as to the matters that fell between her and Margaret on the preceding evening; but for the present this was impossible. He was just about to set off, give the alarm, and institute search parties, when the twins, Samson and Richard, suddenly appeared together and brought news.
CHAPTER X
THIRD TIME OF ASKING
The circumstances and necessities of Bartley Crocker's wooing were peculiar, because one-sided. Rhoda naturally never assisted him; indeed, many carefully laid plans for meeting were consciously frustrated by her when she chanced to learn them. At last, however, thanks to Margaret's aid, opportunity fell for a final proposal, and Bartley used it to the best of his power. A day came when David drove Madge over to Tavistock to look at certain houses, and Rhoda stopped at home.
Her own plans began to be very doubtful now, and choice lay before her of returning to her father or continuing to live with David. Her love had made light even of Tavistock; but, in a town, Rhoda's occupation would be gone: at such a place she must cease to justify existence. Her greatest sorrow was reached at thought of living away from David; and a second emotion, only less disturbing, made decision doubly difficult. The apparent complications and secrets of her sister-in-law's life had first alarmed Rhoda, and now they angered her. She read the facts in the light of her own wisdom, and her wisdom led her wide of the mark. She believed that Crocker was using alleged love of her as a pretence and excuse for very different affection. Some such dim thought had long haunted her, and it remained for Dorcas and her brutal speeches to convince Rhoda that she did Margaret no wrong by the suspicion. In sober truth Rhoda had felt shame upon herself when first the fear arose; but then came her hidden watches, the spectacle of familiar meetings and the vigorous word of Mrs. Screech. She knew that Dorcas loved Madge and had not spoken to injure David's wife. Her sister, indeed, evidently approved; and the circumstance convinced Rhoda that her opinion of Dorcas was correct.
And now, upon restless loneliness, came Crocker knowing that he would find her alone. He sneered at himself for a fool as he knocked at the door of 'Meavy Cot'; but he had sworn to ask her thrice and would not go from his word, though the vanity of troubling her a third time was very clear to him.
After noon on a late autumn day did Bartley call, and Rhoda, not guessing who it was that knocked, but thinking it to be one of her brothers, who was due from Ditsworthy, cried out, "Come in!"
She was eating her dinner of a baked potato, bread, cold mutton, and a glass of water; and she leapt up as Mr. Crocker appeared.
"Go on," he said. "Please go on--or I'll walk about outside till you've finished, if you'd rather I did."
"I thought 'twas my brother," she said. "I've done my food. David's not at home, if you want him."
"I know," he answered. "I've come to see the only one who was at home; and that's yourself."
She stood by the table. Her mind moved swiftly. She sought to find some advantage in this meeting; but she could not think what to say. David was her sole thought, and how best to serve him she knew not.
"It's a long time since I had a chance to speak to you," said the visitor, "and I'm afraid, from your looks, you wouldn't have given me the chance even now if you hadn't been caught and cornered. But there's no need for you to grudge ten minutes of talk. 'Twill be the last time--unless there's a glimmer of another sort of feeling in you."
Her way of escape seemed to lie through this man's departure alone. She hated every tone of his voice and wished that he was dead.
"If you're going out of it, 'twill be by the blessing of God for all in this house," she answered.
He started and his colour changed to pale.
"A glimmer of another sort of feeling with a vengeance!" he said. "But not the sort I was still fond fool enough to hope for. You shall talk, since you're so fired to do it, and I'll listen. Yes, I'm going. And you won't come?"
Her silence spoke scornfully.
"Well," he continued, "I'm paid what I deserve, I suppose: I've made you loathe me instead of love me. It's bad luck, for I've felt for three years--however, such queer things often happen."
"You never loved a woman like a decent man, for 'tisn't in you to do it," she said. "You think you hide yourself; but you don't. You're evil all through, and the touch of you is evil."
"Why do you say these harsh things? What have I done but court you like an honest man and a patient one?"
"Ask yourself--not me. Ask yourself what you've been doing, and plotting, and amusing yourself about of late. Ask yourself who 'tis you meet in this place and that!"
"Well, I never! So you've been interested in me all the time! Interested enough to care what I was doing and thinking about. By all right understanding that ought to mean you cared a bit for me. Women don't spy on a man, save for love or hate. And hate me you can't without a cause, though you speak and look as if you did. If I thought you were jealous--but that's too good to be true. Who is it? Out with it.' At least I've a right to know who 'tis that I meet so secret while you peep at us."
He bantered her and cared little that she grew rosy and furious; for he knew it was all over now and that they would probably never speak together again.
"You ask that and pretend--and pretend!" she burst out. "As if it might be a score of women! But I know, and 'twasn't for love nor yet hate that I watched you--not for love of you or her anyway."
"Come now--no puzzles! Then I'm after another man's sweetheart on the quiet. Is that it? Well, who is she? I've a right to know in the face of such a charge."
"You're after another man's wife," she said, and faced him without flinching. But still he laughed.
"You maidens! What hen dragons of virtue you are, to be sure. 'Another man's wife'--eh? Then no wonder you look a thought awry at me. Poor fellow! He's terribly wronged, to be sure. Have you told him what I'm doing? Or are you in love with this other chap?"
"Go," she said furiously. "You know the truth in your wicked heart, and I know it, and it's devilish in you to take it like this. I'll suffer no more of you; I'll never breathe the same air with you no more;--and them I care about shan't, if I can help it. You ought to be torn in a thousand pieces by honest men and women--vile thing that you are!"
He sat down calmly and patted a dog that rose from the hearth and growled at him in some uneasiness before Rhoda's fury.
"Can't leave you like this--must understand what you're driving at," he declared.
"Then I'll go," she said. "What do you take me for? Have you sunk so low that you don't know a clean-minded creature when you meet one? I'm not a fool, and I am not blind; and I've seen too well what's been doing of late; therefore I warn you to be gone afore the storm is let loose on you."
"No fear of missing the storm while you're about. And off I shall be ere long now. There's nothing more to keep me, since you've gone out of your wits. All the same, I believe you've thrust yourself under the law for such talk as this. To tell me I'm going wrong with a married woman! Damn it all, Rhoda, what nasty thoughts have crept into your head? Why don't you name her and have done with it? 'Tis bad enough to know you hate me; but hear this: May the Almighty find and finish me where I sit if--"
"Don't!" she cried out. "Don't take His name here and belike leave your stricken dust rooted in that chair for me to watch till others come! I'll hear no oath and I'll name no names. I know you--I've seen it--I've heard it--heard it from another as quick to do evil as ever you was."
"By God, this is too bad!" he cried, leaping up. "You--you to accuse me of loose conduct and wrong-doing! Look to your eyes that have seen what never happened; and your ears that have listened to lies; and your tongue too--your tongue that can talk thus to a man who loved you truly and uprightly and has kept as straight as yourself from the day he loved you and longed for you! You can't love me and I don't blame you there. You can't love me; but is that a just reason why you should lie about me? See to yourself, Rhoda, and you'll find a bitter weed in your own heart that's better out and away. And threaten no more neither. You may drag me as deep as you please through the dirt that's got into your mind--God help you; but don't drag some innocent woman through it. Anyway, you'll never see my face again--spy as you may--for I shall be gone for good in a month or two."
She did not answer and he abruptly left her. He was very angry, very startled, and very shocked that she could believe and repeat such a monstrous error. He cast about for some ground in reason, and examined his life. He could only think of the meetings with Margaret Bowden; but that these were actually what Rhoda referred to did not even occur to him. He had, as a matter of fact, travelled recently as far as Plymouth with a woman, but she was Rhoda's own widowed sister from Ditsworthy, and it seemed impossible that she could refer to her.
He puzzled to know what this assault might mean; but apart from these unexpected circumstances attending her refusal, the final negative was all that mattered. That she believed him a libertine soon ceased to trouble Hartley. His anger swiftly vanished before the immediate interest of the future. Nothing remained but to follow his previous plans and depart. He had only waited for Rhoda and now the coast was clear. Before he reached home, he had finally determined to leave England early in the new year.
CHAPTER XI
BAD NEWS OF MR. BOWDEN
Mrs. Stanbury's habit of mind died hard, even after the truth concerning the Voice at Crazywell had been impressed upon her. Slowly she appreciated the great fact that neither her husband nor her son might longer be considered as under sentence of death; but often still she woke in fear or rose in gloom, while yet her mind retained only the past terror and forgot the more recent joy. Billy Screech had explained to Bartley; and since Bartley was of opinion that no real blame attached to anybody, and that the plot was perfectly reasonable in its original purpose--all things being fair in love--the matter soon blew over. Bart, indeed, declared that Mattacott and Billy ought to pay the doctor's bill for his mother; but they were not of his mind, and Mr. Stanbury, who, despite stout assurances of indifference, felt really much relieved when the truth appeared, very gladly met this charge. The immediate result of the event was a decision on the part of Jane West. Bart, having safely emerged from these supernatural threats of extinction, found her in the most oncoming spirit, and they were now definitely engaged to be married.
With the turn of another year this fact became generally known, and there fell a Sunday in late January when the party from 'Meavy Cot' visited Coombeshead and assisted at a formal meal given in honour of Bart's betrothed.
David made efforts to rouse his mother-in-law from her invincible distrust--both of herself and her blood in the veins of the next generation. They talked apart after the meal, and she, as her custom was, doubted her son's ability to fight the world successfully for a wife and possible children.
"A very good son, I can assure you--never a better. But whether he'll prove a husband of any account, I'm sure I couldn't say," she murmured.
"Of course he will," answered the other. "You don't know what a clever chap Bart is. Jane's a very lucky woman; and she knows it well enough, and her family know it well enough, even if you don't."
It was an amiable fiction with Margaret's husband that she was largely responsible for his success in life. He often solemnly declared that but for her at the helm, he should never have prospered as was the case, and certainly never have won the great prize at Tavistock. This statement he would make repeatedly, despite his wife's protests and Rhoda's silences. He made it now to Mrs. Stanbury.
"Look at Madge," he said. "If she's such a splendid wife, why are you afeared that Bart won't be a splendid husband? Madge took after you; Bart takes after his father. Why, where should I be if it wasn't for Madge? Not where I stand, I can tell you. She's the corner-stone of the house, and always has been, and always will be. You ought to believe what people tell you about your children."
"'Tis very well to know you think so," she admitted; "all the same, a mother's eye can't overlook the defects."
"Not in your case, seemingly; but 'tis just what a mother's eye be cleverest at doing as a rule," declared he.
"'Tis no good pretending with yourself, as you do," she answered. "You think our Madge have helped you to greatness, and if love and worship could bring you up top, you'd be right. But it can't. You was too strong and steady a man to want any woman's help."
"No, no--never was such a man as that," her son-in-law answered, and firmly believed it. "Madge has helped me to take big views," he continued. "Why, there's no work that we do can taste so good as the work we do for other people. Your daughter teached me that."
The afternoon advanced and Margaret entered the parlour to say that tea was ready in the kitchen.
Bart and Jane comported themselves with high indifference under the ordeal of this entertainment. They had accepted the good wishes and the chaff; they had eaten heartily and departed together as soon as dinner was done.
"They won't be back for tea. They don't want no tea," declared Mr. Stanbury. "Why, they've even got to naming the day! 'Twill be Martin West's turn to find the spread and give the party this time; and if he does all I did for you and Madge, David, I shall be surprised--though he's a richer man than me by a good few pound, I warrant you."
Talk ran on the new romance; then Rhoda reminded David that a Princetown man was to see him that evening within an hour from the present time. He rose at once and prepared to depart. But Margaret did not accompany him.
"I shan't be back afore supper," she said. "Bartley Crocker's coming up presently. He won't see my father and mother no more, for his time is getting short. So I shall bide here till he's been and gone."
"He's so dark about dates," declared David. "We all want to give him a bit of a dinner at 'The Corner House'--a real good send-off; and there's a little subscription started to get the man a remembrance. But he's not in very good spirits now the time's so near; and he rather wants to escape without any fuss. However, if you have the chance, try and find out exactly when he's going, Madge. He'll tell you the secret. The date is fixed, I expect. Try and worm it out of him; and fetch him along to supper, if he'll come."
She promised and David departed with Rhoda.
Bartley Crocker appeared in the valley as they went their way; and he saw them going, but they did not see him.
His sister's affairs now largely occupied young Bowden's mind, because the future, from her standpoint, was difficult. He, however, did not quite comprehend the moody and irritable spirit which Rhoda had of late developed. It fell out, indeed, that this taciturnity and self-absorption caused David first uneasiness and then mild annoyance. Rhoda had ceased to be herself. She was not interested in the future. She spoke of going out of his life. She showed no enthusiasm in any direction, and her attitude to Margaret he had secretly resented on several occasions. He deplored it to Margaret herself, but she had begged him not to think of it again, and declared it a matter of no account. She could afford to be large-minded now, for she believed that Rhoda would soon be gone from her home for ever. As for David, he supposed this unsettled and cloudy weather of his sister's mind to be caused entirely by the forthcoming great upheaval in her life, and the extreme difficulty of deciding on a plan of action. That she had finally refused Crocker and determined to stop in England, he knew; but whether she intended to accompany him and Madge to Tavistock, or return to Ditsworthy, he did not know. None knew--not even the woman herself. Her brother attributed Rhoda's darkness to the trouble of decision; yet it surprised him that she should find decision so difficult. She was one who usually made up her mind with swiftness and seldom departed from a first resolution. But, for once, she appeared unequal to the task of concluding upon any form of action. The truth of Rhoda's difficulties he could not know; and in his ignorance he revealed a little impatience. Observing this disquiet, she believed that the time had at last come to speak. She knew the danger and perceived that the one thing she cared for in life--her brother's regard--might be imperilled by such a step; but as he, in his turn, now began openly to resent her implicit attitude to Margaret, some decisive action was called for.
And Rhoda upon that homeward walk proposed to speak, to put her discomfort and fear before him, and to trust his affection and wisdom to tide them all over a terrible difficulty. What might have fallen out had she done so cannot be estimated. In the result she never spoke, for there fell an interruption and she was still casting about for the first word, when her brother, Napoleon, rode up on a pony. He had come from Ditsworthy to 'Meavy Cot,' and his attire marked some haste, for he wore his Sunday coat and waistcoat, but had taken off his trousers and substituted workday garments of corduroy.
"Just been to your place," he shouted as he approached them. "Farther was took bad in the night, and he's a lot worse to-day and reckons he may die of it. And Joshua's gone for doctor, and mother's in a proper tantara. And faither wants for you and Rhoda to come up this moment."
For an instant they stood, aghast and smitten.
"What's took him?" asked David.
"His breathing, and he's all afire and can't let down a morsel of food. You'd better get on this pony and go right up along, David."
"I suppose I had. Chap from Princetown will have his walk for his pains; but it can't be helped."
Napoleon dismounted and David took his place. "You'll come on, you two, after me," he said. "Best to go across through Dennycoombe wood. Please God, 'tis of no account. Faither's so strong and never knoweth ache or pain; therefore what may be a small thing would seem worse to him than it really is."
He started and then turned back again.
"When you pass Coombeshead, just run in, Nap, and tell Margaret what's happened. I may be back home to-night, or I may not be. And bid her remember the calves."
"I shall be back for that," said Rhoda. "I shall go back to-night in any case."
"All right then," concluded David. Then he galloped off and soon disappeared.
His sister and the boy tramped without speech together until, glowing like the bright fur of a wolf all grey and russet, Dennycoombe wood rose before them, flung on the distant side of Sheep's Tor in evening light.
"I'll wait for you by the gate yonder," said Rhoda. "Your nearest way from here be to the left. Don't you stop talking, mind: you may be useful up at home. Just tell Madge what's fallen out and then come after me."
"I can travel twice so fast as you," answered the boy. "No call for you to wait. I'll over-get you long afore 'tis dark."
He left her and she went forward, passed under Down Tor, crossed the stream and skirted the great wood beyond. She reached the gate and stopped for her brother as she had promised: but he did not come, and presently she went her way through the edge of the trees. Then suddenly, going on silent feet, she heard voices at hand. A great stone towered there and in a moment she understood that her sister-in-law and Bartley Crocker were on one side of it, and knew not that she was upon the other. She guessed that the man had taken leave of the party at Coombeshead Farm and that Margaret had departed with him.
This indeed had happened. Bartley made but a short stay at the Stanburys' and Madge left when he did. They were now sitting together and talking.
Rhoda listened but could not hear more than a chance word intermittently.
"Your husband wanted to give me a spread and a send-off in the old-fashioned way, but, somehow, I've no stomach for any such thing just at present," declared Mr. Crocker.
"'Tis natural you shouldn't have."
"I shall write to David. I can't stand all these good-byes, and all the leave-taking business."
"'Tis crushing to think you're so nearly gone."
"But mind you keep the secret of the day and tell none, Madge--till I'm off. Those I care for shall hear from me--t'others don't matter. There's nothing left to keep me but you, and I can't make you happier by staying."
"Don't say that."
"Not really I can't. We're beginning new lives in new places--you and me."
"So we are in a way."
"What does Rhoda do?"
"She can't make up her mind seemingly. She's very sad."
"She's very mad, if you ask me. I wish to God some man could find how to sweeten her mind. And you're sad because she is. I knew it the moment I heard your voice half an hour ago."
"'Tis wonderful to think how you can always tell by my tone of voice how 'tis with me! But then there's nobody like you for understanding us women. You'd have made a rare husband for the right one, Bartley."
"Yes; and the right one--well, perhaps I'll find her over the water. 'Tis the day after to-morrow I go. I sail off from Plymouth, so that's all easy and straight-forward."
"Be theShamrocka good big ship?"
"Big enough for my fortunes."
"We must see one another once more, Bartley."
"Of course we must, Madge."
They moved forward as they spoke, and Rhoda saw Bartley kiss Margaret and observed that her sister-in-law was weeping. Then came hasty feet and Napoleon appeared. He shouted from a distance.
"She ban't there! She's gone! I waited a bit and had a dollop of figgy pudden and told 'em the bad news about faither."
"Hullo!" said Bartley to Rhoda. "You!" He looked blankly at her, but she ignored him and turned to Margaret. Hate was in her voice. She spoke quickly and waited for no reply, then moved on with her brother.
"Napoleon have been to seek you at your father's farm, Margaret Bowden, but you was better employed seemingly. My father is took very ill indeed, and your husband be gone up over to him. You'd best get home--if you can spare the time to think of your home. I shall be back by night, but David may not be able to come."
She swept on her way and left them staring at each other. Margaret was dishevelled and the shock of this meeting had dried her tears.
"Good Lord! that's bad luck. She saw me kiss you, I'll swear," murmured Bartley. "And now she'll believe there's another married woman in the case! Will she tell David?"
"What if she does? I'll tell him myself. D'you think he'd care?"
"Shall I go after her and explain?"
"No," she answered. "Let her be."
"It's time I was off anyhow. But poor old Elias! 'Very ill indeed,' she said. I hope he's not booked. Can't think of Ditsworthy without him."
They talked a little longer and Mr. Crocker was glad that there had come distraction for Margaret's mind. She deeply felt parting from him, for he had bulked largely in her life, and he too had enjoyed her loyal friendship and owed her much, though her labours on his behalf were all fruitless. But now the moment was come in which they must part; and he knew that the parting was probably eternal. He did not, however, intend that she should know it. He lied glibly about coming over to 'Meavy Cot' on the following day; then he talked of other matters, and then, when they had drifted down to Nosworthy bridge, pretended to be amazed at the time.
"I must be pushing back in a hurry. My boxes go off first thing to-morrow. And I daresay I shall get up to Ditsworthy after dark and may have a tell with David there. But if Rhoda has already told him she saw me kissing you--!"
"He'd laugh. He's not the sort to mind that between me and you."
"I know he isn't. I was only joking."
She revealed extreme solicitude for his future.
"You'll take all care of yourself wherever you be; and you've promised, on your word of honour, to come home and see old friends inside five year."
"On my word of honour. And you've got to write, and keep me up in the news, and tell me all about the house at Tavistock and everywhere else that's interesting."
He shook hands and moved off quickly, while she, too, went on her way. But, when her back was turned, he stood still and took his last look; for, despite promises, the man had no intention to see her again. His ship was to start after noon on the following day, and he meant to leave Sheepstor at dawn of the morrow.
Now Margaret swiftly faded into the dusk, and he went forward, subdued and as melancholy as his spirit allowed.
"So good and brave a woman as ever walked this earth," he said to himself. "God send me such another; but 'tis hardly likely."
For her sake he made time that night to go to Ditsworthy and speak with David; and the following evening--at the hour in which he had promised to visit 'Meavy Cot' for a final farewell--he was aboard and watching Devon fade swiftly along the edge of the sea. A shadow lay above the grey, rolling ridges; and then that shadow sank out of his eyes for ever.
But Bartley Crocker belonged to the order of lighter spirits who can close the book of their past without a pang; and he did so now.
CHAPTER XII
RHODA AND MARGARET
When Rhoda returned from Ditsworthy, she stated briefly that a doctor had seen Mr. Bowden and declared there was no immediate cause for uneasiness. David, however, proposed to stop for the night and help his mother.
The women supped silently--each angered with the other; and then happened that which loosed the flood-gates of Rhoda's passion and precipitated a deed which, since the recent meeting in the wood, she had strongly considered. She had changed her mind with regard to David; and now, instead, it had come to her as a reasonable thing to attack Margaret directly. But she hesitated to do so until the latter unconsciously provoked her. Rhoda had not spoken to David of the meeting with Madge and Bartley Crocker; but now David's wife returned to the subject and awoke anger in Rhoda, so that she lost self-control and spilled out all the bitterness of her mind.
"Since your father's not in danger, one has time for one's own thoughts again," said Madge, "and they are dark enough for the minute. You looked terrible surprised in Dennycoombe wood a bit ago, and you was terrible rude to me; but why for I don't know. You puzzle me sometimes, Rhoda. Can't you even feel that 'tis sad the man who loved you so well be going so far ways off?"
"The sooner the better."
"You're heartless, I do believe."
"You make up for it, if I am."
"I suppose you're shocked because I kissed him. Did you tell David? I lay he didn't pull a very long face about it. But what's come over me? To think of me talking in this loud, wild way! Forgive me, Rhoda. I meant nothing. You can't help being what you are, and feeling what you feel, any more than I can. I'm not myself to-night. I shall miss him cruel, and I don't care who knows it."
The other kept silence. Her colour had gone and her breast was rising and falling rapidly. Anger put a strain on her lungs and called for air.
"Oh, Rhoda," cried Madge feebly, "why didn't you take him? Nobody will ever love you like that again; and nobody will ever understand you so well as Bartley did. You were a fool--a fool not to take him. Now look at it--your life all useless and nowhere to turn, unless you come to Tavistock with us. Think better of it even now. Go to him to-morrow; keep him here afore 'tis too late and he's gone."
Then the other rose to her feet, and spoke slowly, and crushed the slighter creature for ever.
"So you've sunk to that! You can dare to sit there and say that openly to me. I'm to marry him--I'm to drag myself through the dirt of that man's life, so that you can have him always at your elbow!!"
Margaret stared, and in her turn grew pale.
"What are you saying or thinking?" she cried. "Are you out of your mind?"
"If I am, I've had enough to make me. But I'm sane enough--for my brother's sake. I've kept sane all these cruel, cursed months, while you've gone your way, and forgotten yourself, and disgraced his name. Hear me, I say! Don't you shout, for I can shout louder than you. What I tell be God's truth; and if you don't confess it, I'll do it for you. D'you think I don't know what men are? Nine in ten be of the same beastly pattern; and this man's the worst of all, for he's a liar and a thief, and he came to me with his false tales, but his mind was always running on you; and he came to David and pretended to be his friend and--and--"
She caught her breath and Margaret spoke swiftly.
"What do you accuse me of?"
"I accuse you of being unfaithful and untrue to my brother; and right well you know it is so. I've watched--I know--and I'm not the only one. My sister Dorcas--clever enough in evil she be--she knows it too. And belike a many others among that knave's friends, for he's the sort to rob a woman of her all, and then laugh to men about it. Maybe all the world knows it but David's self. I say you've sinned against my brother, and I say he must know it--now--now--afore he begins at Tavistock. And, please God, he'll put you away from him, and choose rather to live his life maimed alone, than with a foul wretch like you under his roof."
"These are hideous lies--you're dreaming--you're mad to say such things. You--you to come to an honest wife with this filthy story! 'Tis you shall be cast out--'tis you.--Oh, my God! to think that I should hear such words uttered against me by another woman!"
Madge's brief flash of fight died even as she spoke. She was not fashioned to carry the battle with a high hand. She began to think of her husband.
"You shall say this to David and see where you find yourself," she continued. "Is not a man's wife nearer to him than a sister? Will he believe you rather than me? Will he believe Dorcas rather than Bartley Crocker himself? That you--you, Rhoda, of all women, could sting me so! That you--you we thought so pure and clean as newly-fallen snow--could invent such a thing! That you, who know me so well and my love and worship of David.... Oh, Rhoda, I'm sorry for you!"
"Be sorry for yourself. Well--and too well--I know you. I had to spy. I ban't ashamed of it. There was nothing else but to tell him and let him spy. And I couldn't do that till I knew. 'Tis all of a piece--all clear to any human mind--foul or fair. God judge me if I was quick to think evil. I was slow to do it. I fought not to believe it. I tried heart and soul not to see it. But you took good care I should see it. Wasn't you always after him? Didn't you meet him in secret places scores of times? How could I not see? And him coming to me; and you pretending to want me to take him. Yet 'twas no pretence neither, for 'twould have suited you both well enough. And David, working day and night, and trusting you, and always ready at a word to pleasure you. That proud of you and hungry for your happiness-- But it's ended now. It ended to-day when I saw you in the wood. Not that I've not seen you kissing him afore--fawning on his hand, by God! I've watched--yes--and seen enough to know all I didn't see. And he's going to know it too--David. He's got to know for his own honour's sake, and he shall."
"Will he believe it? Never! May God strike me here afore you, and kill me slow the awfullest way that ever woman died, if by thought or deed I've been false to him."
"Ah! Even so the man talked, and he's alive yet. But the A'mighty won't forget either of you. You add lies to lies as he did. But I know they're lies. You needn't talk as if I was a fool; I know him well enough--none better. Did such as him--lecherous-minded beast that he was--dance about in lonely woods and secret places with you for nothing? If an angel from heaven told me you was honest I'd not believe it. And I'm stronger than you think--stronger far than you--with David, I mean. He knows I'm single-minded, anyway. He knows I've got no thought or hope in the whole world except his good. He knows right well that I've been a kind sister to you, and never done anything but strive for your happiness as well as his. Till now--till now. And he'll believe me; for he knows that I couldn't lie if I was tortured for speaking the truth. And I am tortured--tortured as never a woman was tortured yet. But he's got to hear it; and he shall hear it afore that man goes. And, as for you, whether he believes me or you, God's my eternal judge but I'll never ope my mouth to you again as long as I live."
She said no more and went up to her room. Margaret waited a while and then followed her; but Rhoda's door was locked and she refused to answer when the other spoke.
Then the wife descended and sat with companionship of her thoughts. She lived through many hours of poignant grief. Again and again she fell away stricken by her own heart; but she returned as often to the theme; she strove to pierce the problem and see what her sister-in-law could mean. How was it possible that such transparent innocence as Margaret's could from any standpoint look so vile? The bitterest enemy was powerless to throw one shadow over her friendship with Bartley Crocker; and yet here was her brother's sister frenzied with this fearful idea, and speaking of it as a fact proved beyond question. Rhoda believed in it as surely as she believed in her own life. She was prepared to stake her future and David's love for her upon it. She was going to separate Margaret from David, or herself from David, forever. One or other event must inevitably happen.
A thousand plans of action rushed through the wife's brain, and their number defeated their varied purposes. Her native timidity served her ill now. She did nothing but sit and think and reconstruct the past. She remembered all the meetings with Bartley and their many plots and plans to win Rhoda for him. She recollected the most intimate conversations, when her nature or his formed the subject of their speech. She had once kissed his hand in a sudden impulse, when he announced the means to cure her mother. But she did not recall a single perilous or dangerous pass between them; for indeed no such thing had ever existed. Their regard was based on close and lifelong understanding and friendship. There never had been a reciprocal passage of passion, even in the days of her freedom. Her regard was the regard of an ordinary woman for her favourite brother--an affection absolutely untinged by any conscious sexual emotion whatsoever. Even at that, she had not loved him as Rhoda loved David. She was not cast in the great mould of Rhoda--great if unfinished.
At waste of night she began to perceive that she could be no match for Rhoda. Her instinct of self-preservation inclined her first to David, then to Bartley, and then to her father's home. She determined at last to rest until day, and sought her bed. She lighted a match in the dark after a sleepless hour. It went out before she could reach a candle, and she was struck by the trivial phenomenon that, long after the match was extinguished, its light shone in her eyeballs and throbbed in the gloom like fiery rings until the impression waned. She rose an hour before dawn and dressed and descended. Then she went out and breathed the chill morning wind. As yet it was quite dark. Looking up, she saw that a candle burned in Rhoda's room. Some subtle psychological instinct crushed her spirit before the spectacle of that woman's steadfast and unsleeping watch. An impulse to get away from Rhoda overpowered Margaret. She returned, fetched her sun-bonnet, and hastened off without any fixed purpose of destination.
When David's sister came down before six o'clock, the house was empty. She, too, had passed through storms; she also had faltered at the hour when life's pulses beat lowest and midnight sets its dead weight upon human hearts. She had longed to rise and get into the air; but she was determined not to lose sight of Margaret until David came home. Yet for a time she had lost consciousness and slept awhile at edge of dawn. And during those fitful slumbers, Margaret had departed.
The day found Rhoda assured of her own action, though the result of it she could not foretell; but thus to have thrust matters upon their climax was a relief to her, and she felt only interested further to learn the extent of David's future sufferings and her power to lessen them.
That Margaret had disappeared did not much astonish her. She doubted not that her sister-in-law was gone to have the first speech with David. Rhoda reviewed her own knowledge of facts and prepared her own statement. She perceived that she herself must come vilely out of it, as a spy and informer; but she kept her intentions and object in view, and believed that, suffer as he must, David would not lose sight of her motives. Her only desire was that her brother's home might be cleansed--at any cost to its inhabitants. She thirsted to speak to David and hear his voice.
Yet, when she saw him coming alone through the morning, her thoughts flashed along another train, and she held her peace until a more fitting time for speech. And this she did because she guessed that something vital had happened to Margaret--something which must justify her attitude and sweep away the last shadow of doubt.
Then her brother surprised her mightily; for, when she told him that Margaret had gone from the house before daylight, he seemed but little astonished to hear it.
CHAPTER XIII
THE SEARCH
More for thought of Margaret than the sick master of Ditsworthy, had Crocker climbed to the Warren House upon his last evening at Sheepstor. He asked to see David, spent half an hour with him, and spoke explicitly of Rhoda, of his final failure to win her, and of the attitude that she had adopted towards him during that interview.
"God knows I wish her nought but good," he said; "and first and best that her mind should be cleansed of things she's heard from some unknown enemy and believes against me. She's got it in her head that I'm a worthless blackguard, born to make trouble. When she met me with your wife in Dennycoombe wood, a few hours since, she spoke as if I'd no business to be talking to Margaret. I say this for Margaret's sake; because, before saying 'good-bye,' I kissed Margaret, and your sister saw me do so, and went white with passion. There's that about kissing she can't forgive or forget, seemingly. But I'm off to-morrow and don't want to leave any trouble behind me."
David nodded.
"You must allow for Rhoda. She's terrible fretted and has got a deal on her mind just now," he said.
"That's true enough; and she's often right; and I'm a fashion of man not worthy to name in the same breath with her. I only mention these things for your sake and Margaret's. Your sister is cruelly wrong about me, anyway, and maybe time will show her so. Only she mustn't be wrong about Madge. Me and Madge did very often meet, and even in secret, if you like. But why? Not to hide anything from anybody but Rhoda herself. Madge was very wishful for me to have Rhoda, and again and again we planned and plotted together what she could do, and what I could do, to bring it about. You understand that?"
"Why, yes; Margaret always told me about it of course."
"But perhaps Rhoda didn't see what we wanted to be together for behind her back. A stupid muddle sure enough, and nothing but Madge wanting to do her and me a good turn was the cause of it. You clear her mind for her the first minute you can, David. And if she's had a row with Margaret, make 'em be friends again. Only you can do it."
Thus he spoke, and the other saw all clearly.
"Rhoda's been unlike herself a good while," he answered. "And now I begin to see daylight. Of course, if she had some wild, silly fancies against you, and people have been telling her that you're not straight, she may have been vexed and anxious that you saw so much of my wife. For my sake she'd have felt so. But why she should have believed anything against you, or who spoke against you--that I can't say. However, your character is safe with me. I'll soon have it out and let loose some common sense into her brains. You must allow a bit for unmarried girls like her. They can't see life whole, and they get wrong opinions about men's minds. She's wise as need be every other way; but where men and women combined are the matter, she never can take proper views. She's jealous for me without a doubt--maybe because I was never known to be jealous for myself: too busy for that. And why should I be with a wife like mine?"
"You may well ask it. Madge would rather die than think an evil thought, let alone do an evil deed, against you. As for Rhoda--she beats me. Most of the man-hating sort be ugly and a bit hard at the angles; but she--she's as pretty as any wife you ever saw in the world. The Lord may send her a husband yet! And mind you let me know if it happens, for I'd like to give her a wedding present worth having."
They parted then.
"Well, good luck to you," said the elder; "and don't forget to let us home-staying chaps have a sight of you again presently, when a few years be past and you've started on your fortune."
"And all good wishes to you, David; and, for a last kindness, I'll ask you to get Madge to see my Aunt Susan Saunders sometimes and cheer her up. She badly wanted for me to take her along to Canada--poor old lady; but of course I couldn't do that--such a wanderer as I shall be till I find that place that pleases me."
Thus it came about that when David returned to his home and heard that Madge was not there, he felt no intense astonishment. He doubted not that sharp words had passed and that his wife had left Rhoda until he should come home. For the time, however, he kept silence. He determined to speak to Rhoda and Madge together when the latter reappeared. He felt certain that she had gone to Coombeshead; and he also believed that she would stop with her parents until he went to fetch her.
"Put on the griddle and cook me a bit of meat for breakfast," he said to Rhoda. "I'm very hungry, along of having sat up most of the night with father. He's come well through it. He slept off and on, and feels he's safe this morning. I shall go up again later, when Madge be back."
He ate, then started to Coombeshead; but his wife was not there, neither had any news been received concerning her. Then he walked across to Sheepstor, but none had seen or heard of Margaret. He called at 'The Corner House' to drink, and stopped there a while. But his mind was now much agitated. He soon set off for Ditsworthy; and he prayed as he went that there his increasing fears for Madge might be laid at rest.
It was after noon when he arrived at his father's house, to learn that the doctor had pronounced Mr. Bowden better. But no news of Margaret greeted him. His twin brothers were just setting out for Princetown, to procure certain medical comforts for their father. Now they went as far as Coombeshead with David, and there he left them and returned again to the Stanburys. Still they had heard nothing. In grave alarm the husband went home, but Margaret was not there. Night now approached, and the man braced himself to set about systematic search and summon responsible aid.
Rhoda had left a hot meal for him and he ate it quickly; but she herself had departed. A pencilled note explained that she had gone to seek Margaret at certain farms where chance might have led her. David now much desired to cross-question Rhoda closely as to the matters that fell between her and Margaret on the preceding evening; but for the present this was impossible. He was just about to set off, give the alarm, and institute search parties, when the twins, Samson and Richard, suddenly appeared together and brought news.