"So I say my self," answered the huckster; "and another thing: I ought to have a bit of commission from Jarratt, if this goes through. A lot of these little bits of business I do for him, off and on, but I never get a half-crown from the man."
"If it goes through, us ought to be thought upon, certainly," admitted his wife; "but what with his marriage next year, and that bad debt to Sourton, and one thing and another, Jar won't be flinging his money about over-free just now."
Hilary Woodrow returned home at Christmas. In the meantime he had heard from Jarratt Weekes and agreed to take his cottage at Lydford for an indefinite period.
The farmer conversed at length with John Prout, but told him little respecting his adventures in London, or in Kent. His health appeared to be entirely satisfactory, but Hilary explained that he had received certain medical warnings. His lungs were not strong. His physician did not object to a winter spent in Devonshire, but advised that the master of Ruddyford should seek a milder home than the Moor until spring returned.
"In soft weather I shall ride up every day," explained Woodrow; "but when the frost is heavy, or we're getting nothing but rain, I shall keep down below."
It was arranged that he should go into Jarratt's house immediately after Christmas, and, to her immense satisfaction, Susan secured the post of Hilary's servant. Her aunt managed this, and duly impressed upon the maiden that here was the opportunity of a lifetime. Let her but cook and order the simple household in a manner to suit Mr. Woodrow, and her fortune must unquestionably be made, so Mrs. Weekes assured her; but, on the other hand, if she failed to satisfy an unexacting bachelor, then her case was hopeless, and she must never expect to achieve the least success in service or in life. To Susan's face Hephzibah expressed the most fearful doubts; behind her back she assured the neighbours that her niece was well suited to the post.
"Have I been a-training of her four years for nought?" she asked. "A flighty wench, I grant you, and full of faults as any other young thing, but she can stand to work and take care of herself very well; and she've always got me to fall back upon for advice and teaching, seeing I'm but fifty yards away."
Of Hilary's inner life, while absent from his home, John Prout naturally heard nothing, and it was a woman, not a man, who shared the farmer's confidence. He had striven to seek escape of mind from Sarah Jane in the society of other women; and he had failed. He spent very little time in London, and found himself glad to quit it again. His old enjoyment thereof was dead. The place offended him, choked him, bored him. He had no desire towards any of its pleasures while there. Instead, he grew anxious about his health.
In Kent he found himself happier, yet the conditions of agriculture, rather than any personal relations with kindred, occupied his days. The hops gave him much interest. His cousins and their friends found him cold and indifferent. Sarah Jane's image haunted his loneliness, and her picture in his mind's eye was a lovelier and more tangible thing to him than the living shapes of the amiable young women he met. He had devoted a day to purchasing the silver cup for Sarah Jane's baby; and on return home he had pleased Daniel greatly by his attitude towards the infant.
"I would have offered to be a godparent," he explained to Brendon; "but you must take the will for the deed. With my views I could not have done so, and you would not have desired it. Nevertheless, I wish your child every good. 'Twill be a pleasant thing presently to have a little one about the place; and it should make us all younger again."
Brendon was gratified, and since his master henceforth adopted extreme care in his approach to Sarah Jane, relations proceeded in a manner very satisfactory to all.
But fierce fires burnt in both men out of sight. One's natural jealousy and suspicion kept him keenly alive to every shadow on the threshold of his home's honour; the other knew now with absolute knowledge that Brendon's wife was the first and greatest thought in his mind. Passionately he desired her. He believed that his own life was not destined to be lengthy, and his interests largely narrowed to this woman. Of late ethics wearied him. He was impressed with the futility of the eternal theme. For a season he sickened of philosophy and self-restraint. He found Sarah Jane lovelier, sweeter, more distracting every way than when he left her. At Ruddyford no opportunity offered to see her alone. Then, as he knew they must when taking the Lydford cottage, chances began to occur.
She often came with the butter for Mrs. Weekes, and Friday was a fever day for Woodrow, until he saw her pass his dwelling on the way to the village.
Once they spoke at some length together, for he was riding back to the farm for an hour or two. The time was dry and cold. A powder of snow scattered the ground, but the air braced, though the grey north spoke of heavier snow to come.
"You never asked me about all my adventures when I was away, Sarah Jane," he said. "I had such a number of things to tell you, but unkind fate seems to make it impossible for me to talk to the one person in the world I love to talk to."
"What silliness! I'm sure John Prout's a better listener than me."
"Prout's an old woman—you're a young one. That's the difference. He bothers over my health as if he was my mother. You don't let that trouble you, Sarah Jane?"
"Indeed but I do. 'Twas only a bit agone, at your gate, I was asking Susan if you took your milk regular, and ate your meat as you should. And when she said what a poor feeder you was, I blamed her cooking, and told her I'd bring a recipe or two from Tabitha, who knows the things you like. And I did."
"If you're hungry one way, you've no appetite another. Let me tell you about myself. We always want to talk of ourselves when we're miserable, and only care to hear about other people when we're happy. I went to seek peace and I found none. Nobody comforted me—nobody knew how to. Nobody knew Sarah Jane, and that was the only subject that could interest me."
"Doan't 'e begin that foolishness again. I had hoped so much as you might have found a proper maiden to love you and marry you."
"Who can love me? No, I don't ask that now. But—oh, Sarah Jane, I do ask you to see me sometimes—only very seldom—so that I may hear your voice and look into your eyes."
"Dan——"
"Is it my fault? Can you help loving your husband or your child? Can I help loving you? No—don't look wild and wretched, as if you thought you were going to be caught in a thunderstorm. I do love you, and only you; and my love for you is the only thing that kept me from going mad in London. You can buy sham love there, and sham diamonds, and sham everything. Shams are on sale to suit all purses. Once, when first I went there, I enjoyed them—not now. There's only one real love and one real woman in the world now. But don't be frightened, Sarah Jane. The knights of old loved just as I love you—a love as sweet and clean and honest, as reason is sweet and clean and honest. I only want to make you happier. The happier you are, the happier I shall be. You can't be angry with me for wanting to make you and yours happy. You might see me sometimes. It would be to lengthen my days if you would."
"Daniel——"
"I guess what you're going to say. He's not satisfied with things as they are. Well, leave that for the moment. He's safe enough. Safer and luckier than he knows."
"I wasn't thinking of that. I was thinking what he would say if he heard you."
"Don't tell him. Never make a man miserable for nothing. Another man couldn't understand me. But a woman can. You can, and you do. You're not angry with me. You couldn't be. You haven't the heart to be angry with me. Think what a poor wretch I am. I saw you once before you were married. I actually saw you up at Dunnagoat cottage. Saw you and went away and forgot it! 'Twas a sin to have seen you and forgotten you, Sarah Jane; but I'm terribly punished."
"What wild nonsense you tell whenever you meet me!"
"It was after that woman jilted me. I had no eyes then for anything or anybody. I was blind and you were hidden from me, though I looked into your face."
"Enough to make you hate all of us. She must have been a bad lot—also a proper fool."
They talked in a desultory manner and he spoke with great praise of her husband and promised fair things for the future. Then he returned to her and strove to be personal, and she kept him as much as possible to the general incidents of his visit to Kent. He told her of the cousins there, and described them, and explained how they were mere shadows compared with the reality of her. He spoke of the crops, of the orchards, strawberry-beds, osier-beds, and green hop-bines, whose fruit ripened to golden-green before the picking. But to return from the fertile garden to the stony wilderness was the work of a word; and before she could prevent it, Daniel's wife found herself again upon his lips.
Under White Hill he left her, and she went straight homeward, while he made a wide detour and rode into the farm near two hours later.
That day John Prout found his master vigorous and cheerful. He detailed the fact gladly, and they asked themselves why it was; but only Sarah Jane guessed, and she did not enlighten them.
She could not, and the necessity for a sort of secrecy hurt her. She thought very long and deeply upon the subject, but saw no answer to Woodrow's arguments. He had frankly told her that he loved her; and while her mind stood still at the shock, he had asked her how it was possible to blame him for so doing. He had gone away into the world that he might seek peace, and he had found none. Instead, she had filled his sleeping and waking thoughts, and the mere memory of her had proved strong enough to stand as a sure shield and barrier between him and all other women. His love was an essence as pure and sweet as the air of the Moor. He had solemnly sworn it; and she dwelt on that, for it comforted her. She retraced other passages of their conversation, and marked how again and again it returned to her. And not only her did he discuss, but her husband also, and her child, and the future welfare of them all.
She fought with herself and blamed herself for being uneasy and cast down. What made her fearful? Why did sex move her to suspicion before his frank protestations? He was a very honest and truth-loving man. He hated hypocrisy, and cant, and the letter that killed; he stood for the spirit that quickened; he longed to see the world wiser, happier and saner. Such a fellow-creature was not to be feared or mistrusted.
She told herself that she ought to love him, as he loved her; and presently she assured herself that she did do so. He was a gentleman, delicate of speech, earnest, and—his eyes were beautiful to her. She found herself dwelling upon his outward parts, his gaze, his features, his thin, brown hands.
Prosperity must spring out of Woodrow's regard for Daniel, otherwise the professed friendship was vain. She assured herself of this; then she endeavoured to lift the problem of her mind into the domain of religion. Her husband worked hard to make her religious; now she brought her difficulties on to that higher plane, and strove to find more light upon them.
Nothing hurt her here. Religion, as she understood it, spoke clearly and did not reprove her. She must love her neighbour as herself, and seek to let a little of her own full cup of happiness flow over to brighten the hearts of those less blessed. The sole difficulty was in her teacher, not in her guides. How would Daniel approve such a large policy? She asked him. But she did not ask him quite honestly. She knew it, and she was very unhappy afterwards. And then she told herself that the end had justified the means; and then she doubted. And so the first real sorrow of her life dawned, became for a season permanent, and shamed her in her own eyes.
"I met Mr. Woodrow to-day, Daniel," she said, "and walked a bit beside his horse as I came back from Lydford. I thought once he was going to begin about you, and hoped to hear the good news that he meant to lift you up at last; but he didn't actually say it. Only he asked me to see him sometimes when I brought in the butter of a Friday—just to bring news of Ruddyford."
"Well, you do, don't you? If there's any message, Prout always sends it by you—by you, or anybody that happens to be going in."
"Yes; only I generally see Susan, or leave the message with Hephzibah. But Mr. Woodrow said he'd like me to call myself if he was in. And my first thought was 'no'; then I saw he was so much in earnest, that I said 'yes.'"
"You'll do no such thing, and 'twas very bold for him to ask it, or you to grant."
"Of course I won't, if you don't like; but listen a minute, Daniel. He was kinder about you than ever I remember him to be. 'Don't you fear for your husband,' he said. 'I'm a quiet man, but I'm wide awake. I know him. I know him better than Prout knows him, though Prout's never tired of praising him. Leave your husband's future in my hands. I mean to make the man in my own good time.' That's actually what he said, Dan. And he knew very well that I should tell you."
Brendon thought awhile.
"That's very good news, and a great weight off my mind," he answered. "But why did he tell you? Let him tell me, if 'tis true. And that's neither here nor there, so far as your seeing him goes. Anyway, I forbid you to call at his house again."
The inevitable thing happened, and, after numerous evasions, Sarah Jane consented to meet Hilary Woodrow, that he might talk to her without restraint or fear of any eavesdropper.
Not until many months had passed did she agree to his petition; then, on a day when the year again turned to autumn, they met beside the river at a lonely place known as Kit's Steps.
The farmer had found Jarratt's cottage suit him extremely well, and, moved by more motives than he declared, continued to rent it. For a month only, during high summer, he returned to Ruddyford; but afterwards, though he rode over twice or thrice a week to his farm, Hilary dwelt in Lydford. Meantime Jarratt Weekes had married Mary Churchward, and since the master of Ruddyford offered him a very generous rent for the cottage, Mr. Churchward's son-in-law, as a man of business, felt not justified in refusing. For a further term of a year he let his house, and by arrangement, lived with the schoolmaster during that period. His wife little liked the plan, but was not consulted. Jarratt, however, promised her that in the following June, at latest, she should occupy her own dwelling; and with that undertaking Mary had to be content.
Now, on an afternoon of September, Sarah Jane came to Kit's Steps to pick blackberries and meet Hilary Woodrow.
Here Lyd drops through a steep dingle, over a broken wall of stone; and then, by pools and shallows and many a little flashing fall, descends with echoing thunder into the fern-clad gloom of the gorge beneath.
At Kit's Steps the river gushes out from a cleft in the rock, and her waters, springing clear of the barrier, sweep down in a fan-shaped torrent of foam, all crimped and glittering, like a woman's hair. But the waterfall is white as snow, and, like snow, seems to pile itself upon a deep pool beneath. Hence Lyd curls and dances away all streaked and beaded with light. Bound about, shaggy brakes of furze and thorn drop by steep declivities to stream-side, and the grey crags that tower above are decked with oak and rowan and ash. At the cleft whence the stream leaps out, a curtain of moss hangs down, and great wealth of ferns and lush green things prosper. Briars dance in the fall; and now they spring aloft, as the weight of the water leaves them, and now are caught by the sparkling torrent and bent again. The dark rocks, eternally washed by spray, shine like black glass; at autumn time the lesser gorses flame; cushions of heather creep to the edge of the low precipices and fledge each boulder; while loud upon the ear there sounds the roar of tumbling Lyd. It is a place cheerful in sunshine, solemn at evening or under the darkness of storm; but always singular and always beautiful. No spirit of fear or sorrow haunts it, despite the myth of one whose griefs were ended here on a day forgotten.
KIT'S STEPS.KIT'S STEPS.
Hilary was first at the Steps, and found a sheltered spot under an oak tree, where mossy stones made an easy couch. Here impatiently he awaited Sarah Jane; and at length she appeared with a basket half full of ripe blackberries.
At first she was uneasy; but he quickly made her forget the adventure of the moment, by interesting her mind with other matters.
"You ought to begin by praising me," he said, "for being so exceedingly good when I was at Ruddyford. I only spoke to you thrice all through that long month. At what a cost I avoided you, you'll never guess!"
"I was the happier that you did. I thought you was growing sensible—about things."
"Sarah Jane, there's no sense nor sanity for me away from you. I never knew, till I went away to London, what you were to me. I said to myself, 'She interested me in women again, because she's so lovely'; but it wasn't that at all. I soon found out you yourself interested me, and only you. The light dawned, and first I feared; then I feared no more. Now I glory in loving you. It is far and away the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"Was this what you wanted to say? It only makes me miserable—Hilary."
"Thank you for calling me that."
"You made me promise to."
"I didn't make you. We can't make our gods do what we want. We can only pray to them. What a curse it is that we weren't born under a different star, Sarah Jane. For me, I mean. If your fearless mind had only been taught otherwise—but that's vain to regret now."
"Always the same with you—trying to teach me things too hard for me, and mix up right and wrong."
"But I don't do anything of the sort. Right is a great deal to me. In this matter right and wrong are not the problem at all. I'm only mourning custom and convention—not the clash of right and wrong."
The sexual relation had never occupied this woman's mind apart from marriage. Now he made it do so, and very leisurely, very carefully, explained what he meant by "custom." His manner was light and bantering; none the less, he revealed to her his own deep interest in this discussion. He was a special pleader. He laughed at religious interference in this connection; told her that it was an outcome of yesterday; that foreign races shared wives and husbands; that where life was easy, many men had many wives; where life was hard, one woman might take several spouses.
"Marriage laws," he said, "have always been a matter of physical propriety and convenience. Temperature and latitude, the food supply, the possibilities of population, and the dearly bought wisdom of the community, have regulated it—not any false nonsense about right and wrong."
He told her nothing that was untrue; but everything he said was an indirect petition, and she knew it. She was not shocked at the facts he placed before her; indeed, they interested her; but she refused to let him influence her own opinion. She contrasted Hilary's information with the fierce and fiery ideas of her husband on the subject. Between the two her own mind, through forces of education, inclined to Daniel; yet she saw no great horror in a wider freedom.
"'Tis wonderful how opposite men's thoughts can be," she said. "You and my husband do look at life almost as differently as the people you be telling about. 'Tis all one to you, so long as folk do what's good to themselves, without hurting other folk; but to him—why, the very name of evil be evil's self! Yesternight he was talking to a tramp who took one of your turnips; and Daniel saw him. And he said that, according to Christ, to look over a hedge with hunger after a root was as bad as pulling and eating it."
"Doesn't it scorch you, living with such a narrow spirit?"
"'Twould scorch me to make him unhappy."
"That you must never do, Sarah Jane."
He began to talk again of the subject in his mind. But she begged him to desist.
"Leave it," she said. "What's the sense of telling me all these curious things about the way people go into marriage? Our way is so good as any, surely?"
"I only want to enlarge your ideas, and prove my argument: that there's no right and wrong in the matter, only the question of fitness and custom. You're too large-minded to care a button for peddling quibbles. But leave it, if you like. What you want to do, before all else, is to make your husband happy; and so do I. Then we'll talk of that, for there we quite agree."
"Thank you," she said. "'Tis more to me than anything."
"And you'll feel a little kind to me for coming to it?"
"Yes, I will. I always feel kind to you, because I'm sorry for you."
"Then 'tis my turn to thank you; and from my heart I do. You know why I'm going to talk of Daniel?"
"For honesty, and because he deserves it."
"Yes—and for love, and because you wish it."
"That spoils all, Mr. Woodrow."
"Call me Hilary, or I'll not go on. There's one more thing you must remember—in fairness to me. All good comes from God—doesn't it? Grant Daniel is right about a God, and you'll grant all good comes from Him."
"Why can't you say that good things come out of us ourselves? So you have said before to-day."
"And so I say again. But we must think with your husband's mind over this. If I lift him up a bit—what then?"
"He'll thank God for certain."
"Exactly. He'll be the better for advancement—body and soul. He's got a bit peevish of late. Success will sweeten him and make him a gentler man."
"He feels he's not made enough of at Ruddyford."
"Well, I promote him. I answer his prayers."
"And perhaps his God will pay you well. For Dan's very likely right."
"That's the point—I'm coming to that. I expect no payment—not from God; because I happen to know that God is an idea and not a fact. Therefore——"
"What?"
He was silent awhile. Her face changed, and he saw that she had caught his meaning. He gave her no time to dwell upon it then, but plunged into another subject suddenly.
"Nothing can happen that is not for good—if your husband is right. Always remember that, Sarah Jane. God rules everything and rules everything wisely and perfectly. Therefore, whatever you do, you are working out His pattern—whether you are making the world happier or more miserable. Now I'll ask you one question about something altogether different. Last Sunday I read the story of David and Uriah and Uriah's wife. You know it?"
"Yes, of course."
"Have you ever thought about it?"
"Only to be terrible sorry for the woman. 'Tis awful to think what she must have suffered if she loved her husband."
"I'm always sorry for Uriah. 'Twas a cruel way out of the difficulty. If I had been David I should have lifted that noble soldier's head high in the world, and studied his ambitions, and striven to make his life happier."
"David knowed the man better maybe. He reckoned 'twould be safer to put him out of the way—perhaps even kinder, too—if he was such another as my man."
"Don't think it. David had merely to keep Uriah ignorant. Many things, not the least evil in themselves, only become so by the revelation of them. Prevent those who will think them wrong from hearing of them, and no harm is done. I love another man's wife. Well and good. Is that a crime? Can I help it by an effort of will? Suppose that other man's wife is sorry for me, and fond of me too? Suppose that she finds me interesting, and useful to enlarge her mind, and helpful to throw light on the difficulties of life owing to my long years of study? Is that wrong of her? Can she help it? Can you help it, Sarah Jane?"
"I'll never come to you no more, then. I can help that, anyway."
"No, you can't help even that. You must come to me if you love—Daniel. I'm his destiny. I'm the maker of his future. His light shall shine, and he shall be a happy man, and do good and great work in the world long after I'm dead and gone. I'm only the poor means, yet vital. A stone counts for less than the tool it sharpens; but the steel couldn't do its work without the stone. You—you are your husband's light, and his life, and his salvation. You shall give him his heart's desire if——"
He broke off, was silent a moment, then asked a question.
"What would Bathsheba have said if David had put it so?"
"Depends on the sort she was. Might was right for her, poor woman. She had no choice."
"She'd have spoken according to the reality of her love for Uriah," he said positively. "She'd have said, 'I am in the hands of my God, and if good things may come to my husband through me, 'tis my joy and glory as a loving wife to take them to him.' Can God do wrong?"
He stopped and looked at her.
Her bosom panted and she grew weeping-ripe.
"Never—never, wrong or right. 'Tis cruel to put it so. He'd rather cut my throat with his own hand. He'd——"
"But think—so much for so little. I want so little, and yet not little, for I ask what's worth more than all the money I've got in the world. Kiss me—once, Sarah Jane—only once—and I'll do more for your husband than his highest dreams or hopes. For love of him kiss me—not for love of me. Would I ask you to do an evil thing? Is it evil to put new life into a very sorrowful man and purify every drop of blood in an unhappy heart? Is it evil to make the sick whole again at a touch? Didn't Daniel's Lord and Master do as much a thousand times——?"
She stared and turned pale, save for her lips. Twin tears glittered in her eyes. He put his arm round her swiftly and kissed her. For the briefest moment he held her, then he leapt to his feet and drew a great breath.
"If I did that often, I, too, should believe in God!" he said.
A moment later he had hurried away, and she sat solitary and tearful there for nearly an hour.
Through intervals of wild uncertainty the things that he had spoken returned to her memory, and she clutched at them, like the drowning at straws. To her husband and his opinions she also turned. The outlook of neither man was admirable to her now. She sickened at both surveys, and wished herself a maiden again.
Then, with great yearning, she yearned after Daniel, and rose and hurried off to her home. Before she reached it her husband actually met her. Upon White Hill he came, with his face to Lydford, and when she stood by his side he stopped and helped himself from her basket.
"Brave berries, sure enough," he said. "I wish I could carry 'em back for 'e; but Tommy Bates runned over five minutes agone with a message from farmer. He wants to see me at once, and I mustn't waste a moment. Can't say what's in the wind, I'm sure."
He went his way, and Sarah Jane returned to Ruddyford. As she arrived, a little boy came out. Tommy Bates had just enjoyed a good tea, and the jam that had smeared his bread left many traces about his mouth.
"Mr. Woodrow catched sight of me in the street by the post-office, an' ordered me to come out-along and tell Mr. Brendon as he wanted him this very minute," explained the child.
Tabitha Prout, despite her general contempt of the married state and those duties that belonged to it, awoke into a very active love for Mrs. Brendon's baby; and Gregory Daniel, doubtless appreciating the importance of having Tabitha upon his side, did all that he could to increase this regard. So it came about that when the little boy's mother was called away, as sometimes happened for a few hours at a time, the child found a friend in the old maid. She enjoyed to have the baby beside her at Ruddyford kitchen, and Daniel foretold that, as soon as the infant could steer a steady course from his mother's cottage to the farm, Tabitha would quickly find him a nuisance.
Brendon returned from his master in a very happy and exalted frame of mind. To Sarah Jane only he imparted his news; and it was not until nightfall that he did so. Then he chose the curious form of a prayer for his intelligence, and while they knelt together and he prayed aloud, as his custom occasionally was, she heard for the first time, in her husband's thanksgiving to Heaven, how Hilary Woodrow had kept his promise.
"O Almighty Father, I thank Thee for touching this man's heart to lift me up and advance my earthly welfare. And I pray Thee to be on my side always, that I may do wisely with Thy good gifts and turn more and more to Thee and trust Thee. And let me do worthy work and never bate my mind from thinking how to help Ruddyford and advance the prosperity of Mr. Woodrow. I thank Thee humbly, O God, for all Thy mercies, through Jesus Christ. Amen."
Before she slept he told his wife that Hilary had added ten shillings a week to his money.
"I must go on as I'm going, so he said," explained Daniel; "but his eyes are opened at last. I gathered from him that he quite understood what I am here. I must give him time, and all will come right. It's a lot of money, and better things in store, I do think. 'Tis the beginning of great blessings, Sarah Jane."
She expressed her delight; but when another morning came and the man awakened, like a joyful giant, to run his course, it was not only happiness, but the cloudy pain of a memory unhappy that dawned in his wife's spirit. Two different emotions pressed down upon her heart: remorse at the thing never to be recalled, and wonder at the price. The remorse waned and the wonder grew.
She mourned and rejoiced and went on with her life, into which henceforth Hilary Woodrow intruded.
Then her abstracted soul was rudely shaken out of itself, for one day there came running from the Moor a boy with an evil message. He had been picking whortleberries near the peat-works, when a man hailed him, and, approaching the ruin, he encountered Mr. Friend.
"He's cruel bad, seemingly. In a great heat—so he tells me. I was to let Mrs. Brendon know as he was ill. He'm short of victuals, and drink, too, and I was to say as if you could bring up a drop of spirits in a bottle, no doubt 'twould soon put him right. And I was to have sixpence, please, for coming. He hadn't got any small money by him for the moment; but he said he'll pay you back presently."
In ten minutes Sarah Jane was hastening over the Moor, and soon afterwards Daniel, carrying a basket, set out after her. He had visited the farm and collected such things as Tabitha advised. The man made light of his load, however, and soon overtook Sarah Jane.
"Don't you fret," he said. "You know what he is. The wonder is he haven't been struck down a score of times ere this. So careless of hisself as a child. 'Tis a bit of a tissick on the lungs, I reckon. Us'll soon have him to rights again."
"If he'm bad, I shall bide along with him, Dan. I can't leave him here—not for anything in the world."
"Of course not. I shouldn't ax it. Very like I'll bide too. If we think he's bad enough for a doctor, I'll go off for one myself."
She thanked him gratefully, and they spoke on indifferent subjects to calm their hearts. Sarah Jane hesitated not to praise Hilary Woodrow for his recent action. Indeed, she felt they owed him a very real debt of gratitude, and said so many times.
"You're almost too affectionate and kind to everybody," her husband declared. "Pushed so far as you push it, 'tis weakness."
"How can that be, Daniel? Even you hold it right to love your neighbour as yourself."
"You can strain that into foolishness," he answered. "And you are prone to do it. 'Tis a sort of gush in you. You mean nought—yet there 'tis. See how you look at a tramp that comes begging, and how Tabitha Prout looks at him. She tells the truth in her eyes, and shows her contempt of the rascal; you look as if you doted on his lazy carcase, and would gladly pour out the fat of the larder for him."
"I know 'tis so. I be fond of my kind—just because they be my kind, I think. I like 'em all—men, women, childern."
"So you should do—in a general spirit of religion, because they are made in God's image."
"No!" she said vehemently. "Not that—not that. Because they are made in mine!"
He showed discontent.
"You won't come to see the truth, talk as I may."
"Look at the night when you heard our good news," she answered. "That shows the difference betwixt us. You was thanking God so deep and true, that you hadn't a thought for Mr. Woodrow. You was so wrapped up in heaven that you never seemed to think 'twas a man on earth—a creature like yourself—that had lifted you up. All the credit went to God Almighty—all. Not a drop to farmer. Can't us poor human souls have a bit of praise when our hearts are generous and we do good things?"
So she argued in all honesty and out of a passionate abstract love for her kind. At that moment she forgot the circumstances and the nature of the bargain. She only begged that her husband should bestow a little of his gratitude on his earthly master.
"As for that, a good human being be only the middle-man between God and us," he said. "The Book says all good comes from Him, and only from Him. Same as evil comes from the Prince of Evil into man's heart."
"Then what be we but a pack of dancing dolls with them two—God an' the Dowl—fighting for the strings? Is that all you'd make of us? Is that all you'd make of me? You'll live to know different, Daniel."
"You fly away so," he said. "Of course there's Free Will, an' a very great subject 'tis; an' Mr. Matherson be going to preach upon it next Sunday, I'm glad to say. So I hope we'll both win a bit of light when he does."
Sarah Jane said no more. Strange thoughts, not wholly unhappy, worked in her heart, and she felt frank joy to think that, though Daniel Brendon had not paid Hilary for his kindness, somebody had done so.
So the husband and wife each failed to grasp the reality of the other. While she thus reflected, he was busying himself with how to earn this handsome increase of salary. A dozen plans began to develop in his mind. Only the inertia of old routine and custom still opposed his various enterprises. But now had dawned a promise of power, and he was full of hope.
They reached the mournful habitation of Gregory Friend to find him very ill. He sat by his fire with a couple of sacks over his shoulders, and complained of great pain in the lower chest and back, with difficulty of breathing.
"It came on two days ago, and I thought I'd throw it off, as I have many an ache before," he said. "But it gained on me. Then this morning, with light, I began to wonder what I'd better do, for I felt some deep mischief had got hold upon me. I put on my clothes and thought to try and get down to Ruddyford, as the shortest road to people. But by good chance there came a boy picking hurts, and no doubt he reached you."
They spoke together for five minutes. Then Daniel started for Bridgetstowe to get a doctor, and Sarah Jane attended to her father. She got him out of his clothes and into bed; she built a big wood fire that set the moisture glimmering on the walls of Gregory's hovel; she heated water and made him drink a stiff glass of hot spirits; and she set about a dish of broth, the ingredients of which Daniel had brought in the basket. Mr. Friend revived presently, but his pain was considerable and he found it difficult to breathe.
"Give me some more brandy," he said. "It lifts up the strength. I did ought to have a plaster put upon my back without a doubt, for I mind a man up here being took just like this. And they put a fiery plaster on him and drawed the evil out."
"There's nought but bread to make it of," said Sarah Jane. "Or else peat."
His eyes brightened.
"That's a good thought—a capital idea! Fetch a bit of the soft and make it red-hot in a saucepan, and 'twill be a very useful thing—better than mustard, very like."
She did her best, and presently Mr. Friend, with a mass of hot peat pressed against his side in a piece of Sarah Jane's flannel petticoat, declared himself much easier.
"'Tis life every way," he said. "This be a great discovery, and very like, if doctors come to know about it, 'twill go further than all they bird-witted engineers to set Amicombe Hill up again."
He stuck to it that the peat was doing him immense good. He drank a little broth when Sarah Jane brought it to him. Then he wandered in his speech, and then for a time he kept silence.
"Better for certain—better for certain now," he said at intervals.
Presently he asked after his grandchild.
"Must have him up here a lot next summer when the weather's good," he said.
He seemed easier presently, and his daughter had leisure to think of herself. She loved him dearly, and, since marriage, the gentleness and simplicity of his character had more impressed her than formerly. Before, she had no experience by which to measure his virtues. Now, with a larger knowledge of men and life, she could appreciate the single-hearted Gregory, sympathize with him and perceive the pathos of his life and futile hope.
She talked to him now very openly of her own secret tribulations and the difficulties of late forced upon her by her husband's master.
"He's lifted Daniel up, father; and Daniel have thanked God ever since; but—but 'tis me he ought to thank."
Then she proceeded, told her father of the scene at Kit's Steps, and asked him to help her.
"Do nothing to anger Daniel," he said. "You're playing with death and worse. This can't come to good, and I only hope to God you haven't gone too far already. That man Brendon as—as—build me up another hot poultice, will 'e, while I talk?—Brendon is a lion of the Lord; and he'd be a lion on his own account if anything happened to cross him in his den. Have 'e ever marked his eyes, Sarah Jane? But of course you have. They glow sometimes in the dimpsy light, like a dog's do glow. When you see that in a human's eyes, it means that, down under, there's a large share of burning fire in 'em. If Dan thought that he'd been wronged, not heaven or earth would stand between him and payment."
He began to cough and held his hands to his head.
"'Tis like red-hot wires going through the brain," he said. "But 'twill be better presently. I'm in a proper heat now. I've been praying to God to fetch out the sweat on me. Now the peat have done it."
"Don't talk no more, dear father. Bide quiet a bit an' try an' see if you can't sleep."
"So I will, then; but there's two things I must say first. One is that you must go away from Ruddyford. Mark me, 'tis life or death if the wind's in that quarter and Woodrow's after you. He's a desperate sort of man because he've got nobody to think of but himself—no family to consider—no wife or child—nothing. You must go—go—far ways off, where he can't come at you."
He stopped, and shut his eyes. Then, when Sarah Jane hoped that he slept, her father spoke again.
"The other thing is my knife—the famous one wi' the ivory handle and long, narrer blade, that I use when I do my chemical work. It have a history. My uncle fetched it from a foreign land, and it be made of a steel called Damascus—the best in the world; and there's gold letters let into it in a foreign tongue. 'Tis in the works, along with a few other things, Sarah Jane. My watch be there—not that 'tis any use, for it haven't gone for a year. Still, if the worst comes, I'd like little Greg to have 'em from me—also the shares in the Company. He'll live to see them a useful bit of money. And the rest must go to you and Dan."
"Don't—don't be talking. You've got to get well again quick," she said. Then she took away his plaster and brought another hot from the saucepan.
"A great invention," he said. "A great invention. If I'm spared, the thing shall be known far and wide afore long."
He dozed between fits of coughing, and moved uneasily in a semi-dream. Then came the sound of a galloping horse, and Sarah hastened to the door.
"Can't be doctor yet, unless by happy fortune Dan ran across him," she said.
But it was not the doctor. The bearded and grave countenance of Mr. Henry Norseman met Sarah Jane's eyes.
"Just met Brendon," he explained, "and hearing that Mr. Friend was in peril, I come up so hard as my hoss would go, to see if I could comfort him. I've been light at more death-beds than one in my time, including my own father's, and often a word helps the wanderer in the Valley."
"He'm not in the Valley, or anywheres near it," answered the woman stoutly. "But come in by all means. If you could bide with him a little, I'll look about, and set his living chamber in order, and try to make an egg pudding for him."
Mr. Norseman, who knew Gregory and his daughter but slightly, now dismounted, tethered his horse, and presently sat by the sufferer; while Sarah Jane, glad of the opportunity, worked hard to make the dismal hole that was her father's home a little clean and a little comfortable.
"Very kind of you to call, I'm sure," said Mr. Friend, when his daughter had gone. "Don't tell her yet, for I may be wrong; but I'm very much afraid 'tis all up with me. 'Tis awful deep in me. I got properly wetted two days ago, and went to sleep afore the fire."
"Where there's life there's hope," said Mr. Norseman. "But you're wise to face it. I wish you'd been more of a church-worshipper, Friend."
"Well, well. I've worked hard and tried to do my duty."
"But more goes to life than that. What are man's days without faith? Here you've lived for years, more like a wild savage of the woods than a devout Christian. I wish you'd planned your life wiser, Friend, I do indeed."
"So do I. So do all. So will yourself, when you'm down."
"As to that, I think I can look forward in hope. But you—you see, you put this life first always. Your thoughts ran upon making a fortune out of fuel in this world. You never thought about making a fortune in the next, I'm afraid."
Gregory laughed painfully.
"Plenty of free fuel where you think I'm going," he said.
Mr. Norseman was hurt.
"You ought not to jest about a sacred subject—never—and least of all at a time like this," he answered. "You're wise to face it—as we all should—but not in a ribald spirit. Don't die with a jest on your lips, Gregory Friend."
The other moved and groaned, but with present misery not in future fear.
"For your comfort I can tell you that hell's not what it was," said Henry Norseman kindly. "The more understanding way with respect to it, so parson says, is to believe that it won't last for ever. 'Tis a noble discovery, if true. No man was better pleased to hear the sermon he preached about it than I was. I can say that honestly. If hell's only a matter of centuries and not eternity—think what an uplifting thought for a death-bed! I don't say you're on your death-bed, Friend, and I hope you're not. But some day you will be for certain. And 'tis a great thought that the Lord may be found so forgiving that He'll abolish the place of torment once and for all—so soon as justice have been done. Justice first, of course. Even you, as can't be called a church member, or even chapel—very likely a thousand years will see you through it—or less."
"God is Love, my mother used to tell," said the sufferer.
"And for that reason we have a right to be hopeful," declared the churchwarden. "And I'm for limiting hellfire heart and soul; though, I warn you, everybody ban't of the same opinion. 'Tis justice against love weighed in the balance of the Almighty Mind; and ban't for us worms to say which will come out top."
Sarah Jane returned a little later, and found her father somewhat agitated.
"This man reckons I shan't have more than a thousand years in hell, if I'm lucky, Sarah," he said. "'Twas kind of him to come and lift my thoughts. And I said that I'd like to be buried up here 'pon Amicombe Hill, in the peat; but he reckons 'twould be against high religion."
"A most profane wish without a doubt," answered Mr. Norseman; "and as a Christian man, let alone other reasons, I shall object to it."
Gregory's daughter looked at him, then she turned to her father. "Try and eat a little bit of this, dear heart," she said. "'Twill strengthen you, I'm sure."
A moment later she drew herself up, regarded Mr. Norseman, and pointed to the entrance with a simple gesture.
"And you—you that could talk of hell to this poor stricken man, whose good life don't harbour one dark hour—you, that can bring your poor church stuff to my father—I'll ax you to leave him if you please. When he dies—and may it be far off from him—he'll go where the large, gentle hearts go—to the God that made him and that watches over the least. He's done man's work and been faithful. He's been loving and kind to all. Not here, nor in heaven, can any harsh word be spoke against my dear, dear father."
Mr. Norseman pulled his black beard and began to get annoyed.
"This isn't at all the way that Brendon would speak," he said—from the door.
"No," she answered. "He's a man, and strong in the arm. He wouldn't speak: he'd do. He'd take you by the neck and fling you back into Lydford—and your horse after you."
"You'll be sorry for this disgraceful behaviour," said the churchwarden. "'Tisn't a nice way to treat a religious person who rides four miles out of his way to comfort the sick."
"Rides four mile out of his way to bring hell-fire to a better man than himself," she retorted hotly; then Mr. Norseman turned his back and went to his horse.
Gregory chid Sarah Jane, but she would not let him talk, renewed his poultices and strove to make him eat and drink. He could, however, do neither, and he was wandering in his speech and partly unconscious before another hour had passed.
Time stretched interminably, and not until the evening of the day did a medical man arrive on horseback.
He had guessed from Daniel's description of the case what was amiss, and had directed Brendon to bring certain things to the peat-works as quickly as possible.
Sarah Jane watched while the physician made his examination. Then he took her into the other room, and told her that her father was dying.
Jarratt Weekes came into his father's home with an item of news.
"That old madman at the peat-works—Gregory Friend—is about done for," he announced. "I met Brendon yesterday, running about for a doctor. I couldn't feel too sorry myself, and angered him. 'Wouldn't you do as much for your father-in-law?' he asked me; and I thought of Adam Churchward, and said I wouldn't."
"A man didn't ought to marry his wife's family," admitted Mrs. Weekes. "But you'm too hard without a doubt. Well, if Friend be going, there's an end of the peat-works for evermore. 'Twill be the last breath of life out of the place."
"All the same," said her son, "there's no call for that long-limbed man to reprove me, as if I was a creature not made of flesh and blood. He's so dreadful serious—can't see any light play of the mind."
"A deadly earnest creature, no doubt," admitted his mother. "I wonder if Sarah Jane will be any the better for Gregory's going? Probably not. But come to think of it, they've had their luck of late. Her man's getting what I should call fancy wages myself."
"He's worth it," ventured Philip Weekes. "The things he does—Joe Tapson was telling me. Even Joe, who's a jealous man, and didn't take at all kindly to Daniel's rise—even Joe admits that he's a wonder."
"Bah!" said Jarratt. "He's not half so wonderful as a three-horse-power steam engine, and can't do half the work of it."
"You're wrong there," answered his father. "He's got plenty of brains in his head, and Prout himself has let it be known that them alterations he begged to be allowed to make will certainly be for the better, though he stood out against them at the time."
"We're friends now, anyway," continued his son. "I'm not saying he's not a very useful man; but I do say, and always shall, that he wasn't good enough for Sarah Jane."
"Us don't want to hear her name no more," declared his mother—"not on your lips, that is. 'Tis Mary now, and she's a proper girl too. Where she got her wits from I never can make out. 'Twasn't from her mother, for the poor soul was only moon to schoolmaster's sun, and hadn't more sense than, please God, she should have. That gert, hulking chap, William, as paints his silly little pictures, be so like his mother in character as two peas, though he carries his father's body."
"Mary hasn't got no higher opinion of 'em than you have," declared Jarratt. "She can suffer her father, but not the 'Infant.' She'm twice the man he is."
"For my part, I'd sooner do with him than schoolmaster," answered Hephzibah. "Lord save us—such an empty drum never was. Why, to hear his great, important voice, you'd think he'd met a lion in the path. Moses—when he comed down from the Mount—couldn't have felt more full of news. And what do it all come to? Nothing at all—save that he's just drunk a dish of tea round the corner with some other old fool; or that one of the school-childer's got the mumps; or some such twaddle."
"Not that us should seek to set Mary against her own father, however," said Philip mildly.
"Be quiet, you mouse of a man!" answered his wife. "Who wants to set children against parents, I should like to know? If a child be set against parents, 'tis the silly parents' own fault—as you ought to understand—nobody better."
The family met again that night, and Susan, coming across from Mr. Woodrow's for some butter, brought the expected news with her.
"Mr. Gregory Friend was took off about midday," she said. "I met young Billy Luke—him as he apprenticed to Mr. Medland, the undertaker. He knowed all about it. They be building his coffin this minute, and 'twill be taken up to-morrow morning; and 'tis ordained that poor Mr. Friend shall be drove on the trolley that he used to work up and down the line with his peat."
"Quite right," said Mr. Weekes. "For that matter, there's no other way they could fetch him down. Well, well—who'd have thought of him going?"
"They've allowed Mr. Brendon to have the corpse took to the vicarage; and the funeral party will walk from there; and he's to be buried Friday; and two wreaths have come in already, if you'll believe it," continued Susan. "One from them people at High Down, that Mr. Friend did use to keep in firing free of cost; and one from somebody unknown."
"Us will do the same," declared Philip. "There should be some Michaelmas daisies near out, but I haven't looked at the front garden for a fortnight."
"If you had," said Mrs. Weekes, "you'd have found that owing to your mazed foolishness in leaving the gate open a while back, Huggins' cow got in, an' the daring hussy ate our Machaelmas daisies down to the roots afore I could force her out again. All the same, we'll do something, else Sarah Jane won't send us a memorial card; and I like to see them black-edged cards stuck in the parlour looking-glass. They be good for us, and remind us that a time will come when they'll be printing ours."
"Leave that to me," said Philip. "Not your card—God forbid!" he added hastily, "but the wreath. I thought well of poor Friend—very well—a most hopeful creature. 'Twas only back-along, at his grandchild's christening, that me and him had a great tell over things in general."
"If 'tis a boughten wreath, I'd be wishful to put a shilling from my savings to it," said Susan. "I'm terrible fond of Sarah Jane, and she'll be cruel sad for him."
They rolled the morsel of other folks' sorrow upon their tongues.
Mrs. Weekes surprised nobody by deciding to attend the interment. A funeral was an event she rarely denied herself, if it was possible to be present. She found the ceremony restful and suggestive.
"You and me will go, Jar," she said. "You can't come, master, because you'll have to be on your rounds against market-day. But Jar and me will stand for the family."
"And me," said Susan. "I can borrow a bit of black easily from a lot of girls."
"I want to go," began Philip. "I really want to go. As a rule funerals ban't all to me they are to you, my dear; but this is out of the common. Yes, I must ax of you to let me go, out of respect to poor Friend."
Thereupon Mrs. Weekes took the opportunity and her voice rose to a familiar and penetrating pitch.
"Nought to you if we starve," she began. "You—amusing yourself on Friday of all days—and the people along your beat waiting and wondering, and coming down on us next week for damages; and me going empty-handed to market Saturday, to be the laughing-stock of Devon and Cornwall; and——"
Here Philip, with deprecatory attitudes, withdrew.
For once the man stood firm, and having started on his rounds at dawn upon the burial day of Gregory Friend, he was able to pay final respect to the peat-master and be numbered with the mourners.
Their company was small, but among them stood one most unexpected. Hilary Woodrow had sent a wreath the night before, and its beauty occasioned comment and admiration among those who saw it; but that he should come to the funeral was a great surprise. Come he did, however, and attended the opening portion of the service; but he did not join the party in the churchyard.
Brendon waited to see the grave filled; then he returned to his wife. She went with her little boy to the house of Mrs. Weekes after the funeral; and there he presently found her.
Hephzibah insisted on Sarah Jane drinking a glass of brown sherry, while the child ate a sponge-cake.
"Pale sherry-wine be right at a funeral—not dark," said the market-woman; "but, at times like this, the right and wrong of such a small thing really don't count for much to a sad heart." Then she turned to Gregory, the child.
"You darling boy! Behaved so beautiful, he did, with his curls a-shining like gold over his poor little black coat! 'Tis one in ten thousand, as I said from the first. I could wish vicar had read the lesson himself, instead of letting schoolmaster do it. But Churchward's always turned on to the lessons nowadays. 'Tis like a bumble-bee reading, to my ear. And Farmer Woodrow there too! Fancy that!"
Sarah Jane nodded. She had suffered very bitter grief in this loss, but she showed little of it except to her husband. Only he knew the extent and depth of her sorrow. He had asked her not to come to the funeral, but she chose to do so. Pale and dry-eyed, Sarah Jane endured. Of her sorrow very little appeared. She lacked her husband's faith, and strove with poor success to pass the barrier, or see herself in her father's arms when life's day was done.
She drank the wine and brushed the crumbs from her baby's frock and face.
"He wrote Daniel a very beautiful letter—Mr. Woodrow, I mean. He don't think about death like my husband do; but the letter made even Dan think. 'Twas deep, lovely language," she said.
"He'll be meat for the grave himself if he ban't careful," answered Mrs. Weekes. "A poor, starved frame and hungry eyes, though there's a wonderful gentlemanly hang about his clothes. Something be burning him up in my opinion—we all mark it. Jarratt says 'tis his harmful ideas about religion; I say 'tis a decline. I told the man so to his face last week, when I went over to see Susan; and he laughed in his gentle way, and said he was all right. Still, I don't like his look—more don't John Prout."
Sarah Jane listened, but she knew a good deal more about Hilary Woodrow than any other living creature save himself. Little by little there had risen an intimacy between them—not of the closest, yet of a sort beyond friendship. She met him by appointment, now here, now there. To this extent she lived a double life, since Brendon heard nothing of these occasions. Woodrow talked of going away for the winter, but she knew that he would never do so. The days when he did not see her were blank days to him. He often spoke warmly of Brendon and of the future that he designed for him. He longed to make her presents, but could not. Now thinking upon almost the last words that her father had spoken to her, Sarah Jane determined to throw herself upon Hilary's goodness and honour. But she reckoned without his passion.
That night, while Brendon slept beside her, she turned and turned sleepless, with a wet handkerchief rolled up in her hands. She mused upon the dear dust in the churchyard, and the living man beside her, and of that other who thought waking, and dreamed sleeping, of none but her. How did she regard him?
For a month after her father's death Hilary Woodrow spared her, and she appreciated his self-denial. But during the days he saw her not he revealed a constant and steady thought for her. He had continued speech with Daniel, and Sarah Jane noted that Brendon's enthusiasm for his master grew as Woodrow's trust in him increased. Then she saw Hilary again herself, and his flame leapt the fiercer for their weeks of separation.
A year passed by and little happened to mark it. Then full store of incident fell upon the dwellers at Ruddyford Farm.
It is to be recorded to the credit of Jarratt Weekes that, in the bitter difference which now happened between him and Daniel Brendon, he was not altogether at fault. Nevertheless an underlying element of malignity mingled with his attitude. In giving of advice, subtle personal satisfaction often lurks; yet sometimes the emotion belongs merely to that implicit sense of superiority felt by the critic over the criticized. When Weekes met Brendon on an autumn day and plunged into the most dangerous subject that he could have chosen, he did so quite awake to the delicacy; but he did so from motives at any rate largely blent with good. He was now himself happily married, for Mary Churchward, despite a harsh voice and a hard nature, had plenty of sense, and proved practical and patient. Jarratt's feeling to Brendon and his wife was mainly friendly, and if some sub-acid of memory still tinged thought, that recollection had largely faded. To sum up, if his motives in this encounter were mingled, he meant no lasting evil, but rather lasting good from his action. That Daniel might smart a little he guessed, and the fact did not cause him any regret. Frankly, he was glad of it. The giving of this advice would lift him above the lesser man, and, by so doing, help him to win back a little self-esteem. As for the upshot of his counsel, he felt very certain that it must tend to benefit the other and establish him more securely in his home and its vital relations. Since he acted in profound ignorance of Brendon's own character, his conscience was clear, and his mind free to state the case with all the force and tact at his command. He told himself that he was doing his duty; but his deed, none the less, had a relish that duty usually lacks.
Under any circumstances danger must attend the operation—how great Weekes did not guess; and in the event, the added circumstance of Daniel's mood had to be reckoned with. This precipitated the catastrophe with terrific suddenness.
When they met, Brendon's dark star was up. Matters were contrary at the farm, and a thing, little to be expected, had happened in the shape of a quarrel between Daniel and John Prout. Their master was the subject, and a word from the younger man brought sharp rebuke upon him.
"'Tis all tom-foolery about his being ill," said Daniel. "He's as tough as any of us. 'Tis laziness that keeps him mooning about with his books down at Lydford—that's my opinion."
But Prout flashed out at this, and, for the first time, the other saw him in anger.
"Tom-fool yourself!" he said; "and never you open your mouth to chide your betters in my hearing again, for I won't stand it. You ought to know wiser. You to speak against him! If you had half his patience and half his brain power, you might presume to do it; but you haven't: you've got nought but the strength of ten men and a very unsettled temper to make it dangerous. I'm sorry for you—you that pose for a righteous man and mistrust them as be set over you. What do you know about the sufferings of the body? When do a cough rack you of nights and rheumatics gnaw your bones like a hungry dog? Don't you dare to say a disrespectful word of Mr. Woodrow again, for I'll have you away if you do! After the master he's been to you—lifting you above the rest and making you free of the farm to work where you will, as if 'twas your own. Dear, dear!—'tis a bad come-along-of-it, and I'm greatly disappointed in you, my son."
RUDDYFORD.RUDDYFORD.
His anger waned towards the end of this speech, as his words testified; but Brendon, having heard, hesitated and showed self-control. He was bitterly hurt at this tremendous reproof, yet he perceived that it was justified from Mr. Prout's standpoint. He did not seek to set himself right. His first anger died out when John reminded him of the things that the master had done for him. He apologized, but in a half-hearted manner; and then, with darkness of spirit, betook himself about his business.
It was necessary that morning that he should go into Bridgetstowe, and through a wet autumnal Moor he walked, passed under Doe Tor, and presently reached the little Lyd, where she foamed in freshet from the high lands.
The springs had burst, and the wilderness was traversed with a thousand glittering rillets. In the deep coombs and wherever a green dimple broke the stony slopes of the hills, water now leapt and glittered. Traced to their sources, the springs might be found beginning in little bubbling cauldrons, from which, through a mist of dancing sand, they rose out of the secret heart of the granite. Then, by winding ways, they fell, and the green grass marked their unfamiliar passing with beads of imprisoned light on every blade. It was the death-time of heath and furze, the springtime of moss, lichen and fungus. Quaint fleshy caps and hoods—some white and grey, some amber and orange-tawny—spattered the heath; and many mosses fell lustrously in sheets and shone in pads and cushions. The great lycopodium spread green fingers through the herbage, and his little lemon spires of fruit thrust upward in companies and groups. Beside him the eye-bright still blossomed; the whortle's foliage turned to scarlet; and in the marsh the bog mosses made splendid mosaic of delicate and tender colours. At river's brink the seed-cases of the asphodel burnt, like a scarlet flame; the sky-coloured bells of the least campanula still defied death; and the later gentian grew and lifted purple blossoms from the glimmering grass.
Daniel Brendon crossed Lyd by the stepping-stones and met with Jarratt Weekes. They walked along together, and the elder man happened to speak of a matter then in the other's thoughts.
"I suppose you know Mr. Woodrow's going at last? My wife says she can't live with her father no more, and she's right; so I've had to say that I must have the cottage empty after Christmas. What's he going to do?"
"Can't tell you," answered the other. "There's a general opinion that he's not strong and didn't ought to spend his winters up here."
"I reckon we shouldn't have heard about his health if he'd been a poor man. He's well enough to do everything he wants to do. Have 'e marked that?"
Daniel nodded.
"All the same, we mustn't judge people by their looks," he said. "I was thinking much as you do only an hour agone—and saying it too. But I got a pretty sharp rap over the knuckles from Prout for my pains. Ban't our business, after all. He's a very good master—never heard of a better."
"And a very good payer. I've nothing to grumble at. Only a man's wife must be his first thought. Mrs. Weekes wants to go into the house."
"Us married ones can afford to laugh at the bachelors," declared Daniel.
"So us can—though the bachelors have been known to pay back the compliment sometimes, and make us a laughing-stock. When I was married, kind-hearted people whispered 'twas the rasp wedding with the nutmeg-grater. That's the sort of gentlemanly thing one's friends say behind one's back. But I think it has been proved different. My wife's a wonder in her way—got all my mother's sense without her tongue."
"You're lucky for certain. I'm glad Sarah Jane and her be such good friends."
"So am I, and—and friendship's nothing if it won't—— Look here, may I say a thing to you on a delicate subject, Brendon? Will you promise not to be angered if I do it?"
"If you speak of friendship, who can be angered?" asked Daniel. "What delicate subject should you have to speak to me about?"
"The tenderest a man can touch to a neighbour. But from pure goodwill I speak it. You'll judge that when you hear me. A man doesn't strain friendship and say ticklish things for fun. 'Tis only out of kind feeling for you and Sarah Jane that I'm going to say it."
"Better leave her out," said Daniel. "Her welfare's the same as mine. She've not got any good away from my good. If you do me a friendly turn, you'll be doing the same to she."
"I can't leave her out. She's the matter."
Brendon stopped and stared.
"What be you talking about?"
"About Sarah Jane. There it is. I told you 'twas a delicate matter. If you won't stand it, I'll leave it alone."
"Go on," said Brendon shortly. His voice had changed, and Weekes noticed it.
"Don't be angry for nought. It's a free country, and I've a right to my opinions, I suppose. I say again, 'twas a great act of friendship in me to touch this thing at all; but if you're going to take it in an evil spirit, I'll stop. 'Tis no better than the old saying of Lydford Law—when they hanged a man first and tried him afterwards—for you to speak in that tone of voice, and command me to go on, as if I was a servant and you the master."
"What do you want, then?"
"I want you to understand that I'm not doing this because I like it. I know the gravity of what I'm going to say; but I'm not a word-of-mouth friend, but a real one—where a man will let me be. So I say to you that unwise things are being done—not by Sarah Jane—not for a moment—but by Hilary Woodrow."
"I must ask you to name them."
Weekes did not answer immediately. Then he went to the heart of the matter, so far as he knew it.
"They walk together. They meet—accident on her part, no doubt; but not on his. Yet could he meet her if he hadn't fixed to do it? 'Tisn't wrong, of course; but 'tisn't wise."
"You've been watching Sarah Jane?"