"Not I. What is it to me? They've been seen together in lonely places, that's all—no harm, of course—still——"
The other blazed out and his voice rose.
"You're a dirty-minded man to say these things to me, and 'tis far off from friendship that makes you say them! Quick to think evil—and wish evil. To cloud the fair name of a man's wife—because she's a fool——"
"Don't be a fool yourself! I'm clouding nobody and nothing. I'm only telling you that——"
"Tell me no more!" roared Daniel.
"If I did, perhaps you wouldn't make such a silly row," answered Jarratt, hot in his turn. "Why, you great stupid lout, what is it to me if she's his mistress? I don't care a damn—I——"
Brendon cut him short, made a loud, inarticulate sound like an animal, and struck the smaller man to the earth. He hit Weekes with his right fist full upon the forehead; and the blow dropped the castle-keeper backwards, and deprived him of consciousness.
Daniel shouted at the prone figure, raved at him and cursed him. Any chance beholder had fled with fear, under the impression that a maniac rioted there. The passion-storm was terrific, and for a time Brendon seemed not responsible. Then his wrath gradually passed, and both the conscious and unconscious men came to their senses. Weekes recovered, sat up, then stood up unsteadily, and looked round for his hat and stick. Daniel immediately left him and went upon his way.
That night Brendon told his wife what he had done, and she listened while he spoke at length. He cast no blame upon her; but very sternly he bade her be more mindful of herself henceforth; and he warned her with terrible earnestness that he would hold it no sin to destroy any man who injured him in his most sacred possession. His great self-control on this occasion impressed her more than rage would have done, and she uttered no protest when he told her of a fixed intention to leave Ruddyford.
"You're right to go," she declared.
"John Prout threatened to have me turned off for speaking rudely of the master this morning," he said. "Well, I'll go without being turned off. I can stop no more after this, and I won't. Don't think I'm angered with you or with him. I'm not. I scorn to be. 'Tis only that knave that has angered me by his evil lie. This won't end here. He'll have the law of me for what I've done and disgrace me, be sure of that. I must suffer what I must suffer: my conscience is perfectly at peace about that. He got less than he deserved."
But time passed, and Jarratt Weekes made no sign. So far as Brendon could judge, none even heard of the encounter. At any rate, it did not reach his ear again. It was said that the horse of Mr. Weekes had lifted its head suddenly, and given him a pair of black eyes while he was stooping over its neck.
The folk often called at the cottage of Philip Weekes, for, despite her loquacity, Hephzibah was known for a woman of judgment, and her friends, with practice, had learned to pick the grains of sense from that chaff of words in which it whirled.
On an evening some time after the reported accident to her son, Mrs. Weekes sat in the midst of a little company, for several men had dropped in on various errands.
Her kitchen reeked with tobacco-smoke. Philip and Mr. Huggins were side by side on a settle by the fire; Mr. Churchward occupied a chair near the table, and Mrs. Weekes herself sat beside it darning stockings. A bottle of sloe gin stood on a tray near her.
The schoolmaster thought more highly of Hephzibah than did she of him; but since Jarratt had chosen his daughter, she was always civil.
The talk ran on Adam's son.
"He has succeeded in getting a pictorial effort hung at a public exhibition in Plymouth," said Mr. Churchward. "They are holding a picture show there—all West Country artists; and I confess I am gratified to hear that William has been chosen. I think of taking Mary down to see it presently. Perhaps, if we selected the market-day, you would join us, Mrs. Weekes?"
"Likely!" she answered. "Me trapsing about looking at pictures, and my stall——there, you men! Guy Fawkes and good angels! And you go about saying you've got all the sense! I could wish your son might find something better to do, I'm sure, for there's no money to it, and never will be."
"The art of photography will be a serious stroke to the painters of pictures, no doubt," admitted Mr. Churchward. "Yet such things have not the colours of nature which the artist's brush produces—nor have they the life."
"As to life," she answered, "there's a proper painted picture down to Plymouth in a shop near the market—the best picture as ever I see in all my days. Two mice gnawing a bit of Stilton cheese. Life! Why,'tislife. You can pretty near smell the cheese. And only two pound ten, for the ticket's on it. If you want life, there you are; but it have been in that window a year to my certain knowledge. Nobody wants it, and nobody wants your son's daubs. He'd much better give over and burn all his trash."
"He can't, my dear woman. 'Tis in his blood—he must be painting, like I must be teaching and you must be selling. We're built on a pattern, Mrs. Weekes, and that pattern we must work out against all odds. William is alusus naturæas one may say—a freak of nature."
"I'm sorry for you," answered she. "There's nought to be proud of, anyhow. Where's the cleverness in fashioning things that ban't worth more in open market than the dirt pies the childer make in the road? Better paint houses, and get paid, than paint pictures and get nought."
"'Tis a most curious thing that such a huge man as the 'Infant' do always paint such little pickshers," said Mr. Huggins. "Why—them things what Noah Pearn have got hanging up in the bar parlour ban't bigger than a sheet of writing paper. Yet, from the tremendous size of the man, you'd have thought he'd have taken a public-house signboard at the very least."
"Size in matters of pictorial art is nothing, Valentine," explained the schoolmaster. "Some of the biggest books and pictures have been written and painted by the smallest men of their inches you could imagine."
"All the same, give me they whacking pickshers you see hanging outside a circus," said Mr. Huggins. "In my time I've marked pickshers to the full so large as a rick-cloth, all a-flaming with tigers and spotted leopards and wild men, till you might think you was walking straight into them savage, foreign places where such things come from. If William could paint like that, I doubt he'd make a fortune."
"He would scorn to do it, Val. However, you are quite right when you say they would produce more money, for such is life. People don't want——"
Philip Weekes rose.
"There's somebody knocking at the door," he said.
"Susan, I expect," answered his wife. "My stars, the airs and graces of these giglet girls nowadays! What d'you think? She's started an evening out! And Mr. Woodrow—more shame to him—never raised any objection; and now, of a Thursday, she puts on her little silly frills and feathers, and goes off on her own account, Lord knows where, like a grown-up person! But I told him, as her aunt, that she had to be in by half after nine. And that she does do—else I'll have her back here again."
It was not Susan, but John Prout, who now entered. "Just dropped in for a tell and a pipe afore I go homeward," he explained. "Been seeing master, and it have cast me down."
"He's a deal better, in my opinion," said Philip. "Livelier like, and I should say he'd put on flesh. Anyway he's going to leave Lydford come spring, for Jarratt means to be in his house afore Lady Day."
Mr. Prout nodded and filled his pipe. At the same moment Jarratt Weekes himself entered.
"Hullo!" he said. "Have 'e got a party?"
"'Tis your mother's ripe wisdom, Jar, as draws us men," answered Mr. Huggins.
"An' her ripe sloe gin, I reckon. Has anybody seed Mrs. Brendon? My wife tells me that she's in Lydford to-night."
"I seed her at tea-time," answered Philip. "She was going up to visit Billy Long's wife—her that broke her leg in the gorge last August."
"Then I'll go that way myself," declared the younger Weekes. "I want a word with her."
"Tell her to call here, then, please; 'tis a rough night. Us'll go home-along together," said John Prout.
"She don't want you," answered Hephzibah.
"I know that; but I want her. She's as strong as a man, and I ban't now, worse luck. Sarah Jane will give me an arm up over White Hill, where the wind will be blowing a hurricane to-night. I had to go down in a hurry to Little Lydford on foot, and I'm cruel weary."
Mrs. Weekes poured out a large wine-glass of cordial for him.
"How's Mr. Woodrow?" she asked.
"Just been there. There's things troubling him. Even to me he was a thought short—distracted like. Wouldn't talk business, and sent me off almost afore I'd sat down. There's something on his mind without a doubt."
"His health?"
"Not that. I judge he's better if anything. But he's terrible lonely."
"Vicar's son often goes in to have a talk, I believe," said Philip.
"Vicar would stop it if he knowed, however. Mr. Woodrow's opinions are very queer, so 'tis rumoured," declared Mr. Huggins.
Prout sighed, drank his sloe gin, with many thanks to the giver. Then he rose painfully.
"I won't stop, for if I get stiff 'twill be a grief to my bones going home. If you don't mind, Jarratt, I'll go along with you."
"What I want to say to Sarah Jane's a matter of a little business touching her better half," the castle-keeper explained.
"So you shall, then. I'll walk out of earshot. But the night gets worse, and we'd better be on our way, if I'm to make as far as Ruddyford at all. I ought to have ridden, but I'd been on my pony all morning, and he was tired too."
They departed into rough weather. The moon was rising through a scud of light thin cloud, and fine rain, swept by the wind, drove out of the west.
"What will Hilary Woodrow do when he leaves my place?" asked Weekes.
"Don't know no more than you," answered the other.
They went to the house of Billy Long, and found that Sarah Jane had left it an hour before.
"She's half-way home now, no doubt," said Prout. "Well, I'll be going, Jarratt. I'll tell her you want to see her."
"And tell her unbeknownst to her husband, please. There's no harm brewed, I need not tell you that; but he's a peppery chap and his temper sometimes obscures his wits."
"It does. He talks of going away now."
"Going away! I hadn't heard that."
Mr. Prout proceeded. Then an idea struck Jarratt.
"You'm weary—see here; if we cross my orchard, behind the cottage, you'll save more than a quarter of a mile. 'Tis trespassing, so long as Woodrow rents the place, but he'll pardon the owner; anyway, he'll pardon you."
"Anything to save a few yards. I'd ask master for a shakedown here, but they'd be frighted out of their wits at Ruddyford if I didn't come back."
"Shall I see if I can get somebody to drive you out?"
"No, no; I can do it, if I go slow and steady. Us'll walk through the orchard certainly."
"Don't speak near the back-side of the house, then, else he'll hear you, and think 'tis people stealing the apples."
They went silently through the orchard, but the wind concealed lesser sounds and panted loudly overhead. Then they passed under a lighted window that faced upon their way. The blind was drawn down, but a bright beam shot along one side. On the impulse of the moment Weekes peeped in.
"Reading one of his eternal books, I'll wager," he whispered.
Then every muscle tightened. He glared and grinned out of the darkness into the light, and fell back with a great gasp. His mind worked quickly. Prout had plodded on, and Weekes now hastened after him.
"Come back, come back," he said. "'Tis worth a few steps. 'Twill do your heart good—quick!"
The other found himself dragged to the window before he knew what Jarratt meant. His face was thrust to the aperture at the blind edge. He could not choose but see. The whole incident occupied but a second, and John Prout fell back and nearly dropped upon the grass. His stick left his fingers: both his hands went up over his face.
"Ban't true—ban't true!" he groaned.
Jarratt Weekes picked up his stick and hastened the old man away.
"True as hell-fire," he said. "And never fool yourself to think you haven't seen it; for you have."
He laughed.
"Thank the Lord I waited," he went on. "This was worth waiting for! This be worth chewing over too! I shan't be in no hurry now! I'll bide a thought longer still. Keep up, my old chap! Your master's got a bit of life in him after all—eh?"
The other pushed off the arm that had supported him.
"Go—go, for God's sake," he cried. "And if you're a man, forget——"
"The beauty of it is, that if he'd not quarrelled with me, I should never have found this out," said Weekes gleefully. "You know so much, John, that I'll tell you a bit more now. 'Twasn't my horse, but Daniel Brendon's leg-o-mutton fist, that blacked my eyes and turned my face yellow and blue a bit ago. He felled me with a blow that might have killed me, because I warned him that his wife saw too much of yonder man. And if he'd not done it, I should not have wanted words with the woman, and never been here to-night. So he's brewed his own drink. D'you mark how God works in the world, Prout?"
He laughed again, and, waiting for no answer, vanished upon his way.
The old man remained trembling and irresolute. Then he turned again and went back and stood opposite Hilary Woodrow's dwelling under the rain. For twenty minutes he waited; then the church clock struck half-past nine, and Susan, with a youth holding an umbrella over her head, arrived. Her friend put down the umbrella, kissed Susan twice, then shook hand with her, and then departed. She entered the house, and a moment later Sarah Jane left it by a back entrance, and slipped into the road.
"Be that Mrs. Brendon?" Prout called out.
She stopped, and he approached her.
"Why, John, whatever are you doing down here? Lucky we met. I can give you an arm up-over. 'Tis a fierce night, seemingly."
Through the wild weather they passed, presently breasted White Hill, and bent to the tremendous stroke of the wind. Fierce thin rain drove across the semi-darkness, and where a rack of cloud was torn wildly into tatters, the hunter's moon seemed to plough and plunge upon her way, through the stormy seas of the sky. The wind whistled, but the heath was wet, and the dead heather did not utter the musical, tinkling note that the east wind's besom rings from it.
Mr. Prout was very silent.
"Be I travelling too fast for you?" she asked him.
"No, no," he answered.
"I'll ax you not to tell Dan that I went to see the master to-night," she said.
He did not reply.
"Dan don't understand him like you and me do," she continued.
"For God's sake don't talk," he begged. "There's a cruel lot on my mind."
"And on mine, for that matter. I'm a wicked, joyful woman, John Prout!"
For some time silence fell between them as they were thrust before the wind.
"Oh, my God, what a terrible, beautiful world it is!" she cried suddenly. "But cruel difficult sometimes."
He could not speak to her.
"D'you know what's going to happen?" she asked. "I mustn't tell Daniel, but I must tell somebody or 'twill kill me. Mr. Woodrow—he thinks the wide world of dear Daniel. He puts him first—first afore all in his mind."
Mr. Prout groaned, and she extended her hand to him.
"I do wish you'd take my arm, John. This be too heavy work for your weak legs."
He took it. He longed to speak and pray her for her own sake, and for his master's sake, to keep Brendon to his resolution. His master was the uppermost thought.
"Mr. Woodrow's going to write a will," said Sarah Jane. "I prayed him not; I prayed him not to think of death, or any such thing. His be a very beautiful, generous life, John."
"Oh, woman, why was you let come into it?"
"I love him, John."
"Don't—don't, for Christ's sake, tell these things. I can't bear 'em."
"I love him—because he loves me, but more because he loves Dan so much. He mustn't die—he——"
"Leave it—shut your mouth, or I won't say what I'll answer. God's over all—let me cling to that. I'd cut my heart out for him—but—there, never you speak to me about him again—never—never. I wish I had died afore to-night."
"Don't take on. I'll pay if—— You won't tell Dan I was with him. 'Twould spoil all—Dan being what he is. And you won't say a word of this great news. He's to speak to Daniel himself. What joy for Daniel! How he'll bless his God—eh, John?"
Prout dragged himself helplessly and silently beside her. Then a wonderful spectacle appeared above them in the firmament.
From the depth of the northern heavens there sprang an immense halo of colourless light, where the moon shone upon unnumbered particles of flying rain. Wan, yet luminous, flung with one perfect sweep upon the storm, it endured—the only peaceful thing in that wild world of tumultuous cloud and clamouring wind. The arch of the lunar rainbow threw its solemn and radiant span across the whole earth from west to east. It framed all Dartmoor, and one shining foot seemed to sink upon the Severn Sea, while the other marked the places of the dawn.
They stood and stared a moment; then both were nearly blown off their legs and driven forward by the sudden buffet of the gale.
"Heaven be over all, like that beautiful silvery bow above our heads," she cried loud in his ear.
"There's no rainbow for me," he answered. "And there didn't ought to be for you, woman."
"How do I know? I only know my heart be merry when I think on Daniel. Who can do wrong that brings joyfulness to good people?"
He groaned again and she misunderstood.
"Don't take on so and be sad for master. There's happiness even for him in the world still—here and there; and happiness is God's gift, I suppose. None else can give it to a man—so my Dan says. Them as bring it be the messengers—only the messengers. All the same, I hate only Heaven to be thanked when a man or woman does a brave, lovely thing."
"Won't you never be like other females?" he asked. "Seeing what your husband is, God help the reckoning."
"Leave it so," she answered, "and say nought to nobody. You know nothing more than that I love the man—so do you—for pity—and for his gentle thoughts—and for his loneliness—aye, and for his own self too. I'll say that to you. He's a good man. He does countless good things; you know that. Don't torment yourself for him—or me. Forget you met me to-night. Here's the stepping-stones, an' the moon hidden, just when we wanted the light most. Take hold of my hand. I'm stronger far than you."
They crossed the water carefully, and the great shape of Daniel Brendon loomed up ahead.
"At last!" he shouted. "I beginned to think you was night-foundered in the storm. Did you see that wonder in the sky a bit ago?"
Once more Sarah Jane spoke swiftly to Prout before they reached the other.
"Mind this too," she said. "There's the joy of giving, John. 'Tis a dear joy to give! Hilary Woodrow knows that—so do I—none better than him and me."
The old man drew a grief-stricken breath, and left her with her husband.
Even Joe Tapson expressed regret when Daniel Brendon decided to leave Ruddyford, and let his decision become known. All begged him to reconsider the step; all bluntly asked where he expected to find more satisfactory employment, a happier home, and equal money. Prout had been among those who urged him most strenuously to reconsider his determination. Then shone the lunar rainbow, and from that hour the head man was silent.
Three days later Daniel, after long brooding, set off to do two things. He meant to visit Jarratt Weekes and express contrition for his recent violence; and he intended to call upon his master, that he might give notice of his approaching departure from Ruddyford.
Joe met him on the way, saw that Daniel wore Sunday clothes, guessed his mission, and made a final appeal.
"Don't you be a fool, Dan. A man's only worth what he'll fetch, as you ought to know. I withstood you so long as I could do it, and, to this day, I don't reckon you be worth a penny more in open market than what I be myself; because, though I've but one eye, it sees further than the two of many men I could name; and though you've got larger muscles upon you than me, yet I won't grant your brains be ahead of mine by an inch. However, he thought different, and he's the purse, so 'tis for us to mind our own business and keep our opinions in check. I've long larned to do that."
"You mistake me, Joe," answered the other. "My money's all right, and the place is all right, and I shall be mighty sorry to go from you all—you as much as any man, for in your way you've taught me a great deal worth knowing. But life have got an inside and an outside to it; an' 'tis the inside of mine I ban't too pleased with. More than good wages and good friends go to peace of mind."
"Well, I hope he'll make you change your ideas, for I'm sure he'll try."
"The more he tries, the steadfaster shall I stand."
"More fool you, then. However, go your way. I know a chap who'd be very wishful to fill your shoes, an' a very willing boy, though 'twill be like David coming to do Goliath's work."
Brendon called at Adam Churchward's and learned from Jarratt's wife that he was at Lydford Castle.
"'Tis his last season there," she said; "for he've grown too big a man for that small work now, and his time's better worth. I wanted to make him give it up long ago, but he don't like dropping sure money, even though 'tis small money. However, they've appointed young Teddy Westover to succeed him—old Westover's grandson."
"I'm much obliged to you," answered Daniel. "I'll seek him there."
Presently, as a party left the ruin, Brendon met Weekes, and asked to be allowed to speak to him.
Jarratt hid his heart and consented to listen. He nodded gravely while Brendon apologized, explained that he had acted from worthy motives, and added that he had told nobody—not even his wife—of the outrage put upon him by Daniel.
"I'm sorry to God," said Brendon. "I was wrong every way to smite you. Whether you was right to speak what you did, I won't say. I don't know. I only know that I'd no right to answer so. And I ask you to forgive an erring man. I was shaken from my hold on the Lord—surprised away from it by the shock of what you said. You were wrong in your opinion—that I do steadfastly know; but none the less—— But I ban't here to make any excuses. I'm sorry to the heart, and I beg you to forgive me."
"I will do so, Daniel Brendon."
"Thank you. There's another thing. I've got a five-pound note here. I heard as you kept your bed for two days. That means I did more than hurt you. I robbed you of money. Please to take this. 'Tis a sign that you forgive me properly if you take it."
He held out the note and Weekes extended his hand quickly, then drew it back.
"I was off work three days, to be exact. But five pounds for three days would be ten for a week. That's five hundred and twenty for the year."
"Ban't it enough?"
Weekes laughed.
"That's a home question; however, since you want to do the honest thing, I won't stand in your way."
He took out a heavy leather purse and put the note into it.
"Now we'll cry quits. Don't let this go no further."
Weekes shook hands and left Daniel abruptly; but the big man felt satisfied. He held that, save for his own lasting regret, the matter was now concluded. He continued to be ashamed of himself when he reflected upon it; but he ceased to feel any pity for Jarratt Weekes, and he could not satisfy himself that the other's motives had been pure.
Now Daniel called upon his master and found him at home.
"I came because of the rain," he said. "I knew 'twould hold you to the house."
Hilary was writing, and held his hand for silence. Then he finished a page and blotted it. Various papers littered his desk, and, among others, lay a large one, rolled up and tied round the middle with pink tape.
"Good-morning, Dan. This is a funny coincidence. I sent for you an hour ago. You missed my messenger."
"I met no messenger."
Woodrow rose and took his pipe from the mantelshelf.
"Let's have your business first, then you shall know mine. Sit down. We don't see one another often enough. I wish you'd come more frequently."
Brendon took a chair and put his soft black hat under it.
"'Tis harder to speak afore those kind words, master. And yet—I've got to do it. I want to go—I must go. This is to give notice, please. I'll suit your convenience, of course. Perhaps after Christmas. I'm mighty sorry for many reasons. Still, 'twill be the best thing."
An expression of real pain crossed the face of Hilary Woodrow.
"How can you say this, Daniel? Don't you care more than that for me? I thought—why, good God—I hold you dearer than almost anybody in the world! You're far, far more to me than a servant. You—a friend—to say this! You, my right hand, to ask to be cut off!"
"I know you set store by me. I know how good you've been—yet—we can't say all we know. You mustn't think 'tis a small thing; you mustn't think I'm not grateful, master. I owe you far more than 'tis in my power to pay. I pray for you. 'Tis all I can do—all the poor can do for the rich—to pray for 'em. My work's nought. That's the everyday business between man and man. For that you pay, and pay well. But prayer's beyond. I tell you this because, afore I go, I want you to know I'm more than just a strong man working for wages."
"You shall not go! This is a matter far beyond the farm, or the welfare of the farm. You are a great deal to me. You are an example to me and to all of us. While you have prayed for me, I—I haven't prayed, since I know of nothing to pray to that has ears to hear—but I've done what I could—according to my lights."
"I know that. You've been good and generous to me. There's nothing—nothing I can say against you."
"I can't part with you, Dan. I won't believe the reason is beyond explanation. Be honest with me—absolutely. Tell me why this idea has come to you. You're at a point far more vital in your career than you think for. Don't leave any shadow or uncertainty. Be dead straight about it, Dan."
Brendon did not answer, but he struggled fiercely with himself. He was a great-hearted man, and now, within sound of his master's voice, in sight of his earnest eyes, his reason dwindled somewhat.
Suddenly he blurted out the truth.
"Jarratt Weekes told me a while ago that you saw too much of Sarah Jane. I believe that he said it without malice. He thought so—like as not others do."
A great expiration left the lungs of Woodrow.
"Too much of her! No, Dan—not too much of her—not enough; but too much of this dirty little village and the mean-minded vermin that live in it! Nobody could see too much of Sarah Jane—any more than they could see too much of the sun in the sky, or hear too much of the song of the birds. I don't see enough of her—or of you. How glad I am you had the pluck to speak!"
"One thing I must ask of you—to take no step against Weekes. I've punished him. I nearly broke his neck when he said it. I knew 'twas a lie; but, of course, I can't live where 'tis possible to tell such lies."
"You'll never get beyond the reach of falsehood in this world, Dan. Lying is woven into the fabric of all human life—part of the regular pattern. We should be like the beasts that perish if we did not lie. Civilized existence rests on a bedrock of lying. 'Tis the cement that keeps every state together; the first necessity of conscious existence. Only Nature can work without falsehood. The lie is as old as human language. If men said what they thought, the world's work would stand still. Try it—yet I wouldn't ask you to do that. Why should I wish my best friend to have nought but enemies?"
"I won't live where 'tis possible to tell this lie," repeated Brendon.
"If you believed the lie—then I should be the first to ask you to be gone. Happily you don't. I've not got much heart, Brendon; but the little I have would break if I thought you did not care for me. If there is a thing that I've hoped and planned and rejoiced to plan in this fading life of mine, it is your future."
"My future! That's God's work to plan—not yours."
"I know it is. But in one of these conversations I held with your wife, which have shocked this low-minded rascal, she said a fine thing to me, Dan. She said, 'All good things come from my man's God. You can't have no good without His hand be in it. And men and women are His messengers to carry the goodness of God up and down in the world and show it.'"
"That's true enough. Nothing new, surely?"
"It was new to me. If there's a God, Daniel, He is a good God. I'll grant you so much. And if good comes to any man, 'tis his God that sends it. I suppose you believe that?"
"Where else can good come from? Man's heart don't imagine it. Man's heart don't breed it."
"Then you're answered, for into my heart has long since come the wish to do you good. I desire it, and I am thankful that I can perform it. I wish you to have power, because you understand how to use power wisely; and content, because you are the only man I ever met who understood that content is higher than happiness."
"You've done all you could, and I have thanked you."
"And thanked your God, I warrant?"
"Yes—Him first."
"It's good to thank Him, I suppose?"
"It's right—it's natural—'tis all we can give Him—our thanks and worship."
"Then take my hand, Daniel, and say I've cleared this cloud. Don't make my sad life sadder by going out of it. Don't say I may not sometimes see and speak with Mrs. Brendon. If you had a beautiful and rare flower in your garden, you would not deny other people the sight of it. 'Tis a parallel case every way. She is a remarkable woman, full of high qualities. I ask you to be my close friend henceforth, Brendon. It would seem a strange thing for a master to ask of his man. Yet I do it. Prout is my friend and I want you too, because you are much more to me than good old John, or any other man on earth."
He stopped and coughed, then rose, took a wisp of paper from a china jar, and re-lighted his pipe.
Brendon did not speak. Woodrow's words troubled him at one moment, gratified him at the next; now the farmer said a thing that made him start, and, before he had grasped it, the quick, nervous voice passed on and uttered some word that could not fail to soften his heart.
"Say you'll stop, Dan," continued Hilary Woodrow. "Say you'll stop, before I come to my affair. 'Twill spoil all if you cleave to this determination. 'Twill make the thing I have plotted all dust and ashes. Yet I won't influence you with it. I won't influence you save to say this: I'm not going to be in the land of the living more than a few years at best; but you'll cloud those years for me, Daniel, if you go; and as sure as your God's watching you to-day, you'll be sorry afterwards, if you stick to this determination."
He turned to the window, and smoked and looked out into the little street.
For a minute or two neither spoke. Then Brendon bent for his hat, picked it up, and rose.
"Since you put it that way, and say so solemnly that 'tis in my power to better your life by stopping, then I'll stop, master. Don't think I wanted to go, but for what I told you. 'Twas the only thing in the world that would have took me. But since 'tis false, I'll spurn it. My God's Self's a jealous God, but—there 'tis—I'll fight to be large-minded—I'll stop——"
Woodrow did not speak, but his eyes were damp when he turned from the window and came back to the table. A strange conflict of emotions filled his spirit, choked his throat, seethed upward to his brain, and sunk downward to his heart. His admiration and even affection for Daniel were genuine enough at that moment; and he rejoiced at the thing that he was about to do. But not for an instant did he mourn the thing that he had done.
He could not speak immediately.
He took the other's hand and shook it very warmly. Then he picked up the packet on the table, dragged the tape off, and gave it to Brendon.
"Read," he said.
The giant, amazed at such emotion, stared dumbly out of his dark, dog-like eyes, opened the packet and knit his brows to peruse the calligraphy.
Woodrow walked about the room while Daniel read his will. It was short, and took but three minutes. Then Brendon put the paper on the table again.
"Tell me one thing," he said. "Be you sure that to do this is not to wrong some other—somebody of your own kin who have a right to it all? Can you swear that?"
"None has a right. I'm alone in the world. My kin are remote and nothing to me. They are well-to-do, and have no anxiety. You must keep John Prout easy and comfortable until he dies, and also his sister—that's the only condition."
"I can't bring it home to my mind. 'Tis too much to happen to a man. I don't know what to say."
"Say you're my friend, that's all I want you to say."
"'Your friend'! This is not friendship. This is a thing greater than friendship. I know how to thank my God; I don't know what to say to you, master."
"Not master. Thank me by calling me 'master' no more. Thank me by seeing me oftener—both of you. Talk to me. Tell me all you believe, and why you believe it. Help me, if you can. Perhaps your God will look to it that you pay me so well that my gift shall be dross to your gold. Stranger things have happened. I'd dearly like to believe in a world beyond this, Daniel, before I go to find out for myself. Now be off for a while. Good-bye—friend Daniel."
"Good-bye. I be dumb still—in a maze. I'm surely dreaming this."
"Tell nobody—not a soul except your wife. But ask her not to mention it."
Brendon went away entranced, and was nearly run over at the corner of the street by a waggon laden with straw. The carter laughed at him.
"Ban't often us catches you mooning about in the middle of the road!" he said.
Daniel climbed White Hill presently and looked down at Ruddyford. Then his eyes atoned for his lack of imagination, and helped him to understand and realize the prodigious thing that had happened.
This place would be his own. He would be master presently, and his child would follow him. It rushed upon him in a wave—drowned him almost, so that he panted for air. His mind turned to Woodrow, and, with heart and soul, he hoped that the farmer might enjoy length of days. He determined with himself that evermore he would add to his prayer for Woodrow that it might please God to let him see Truth before he died. He thought of himself being allowed to make Woodrow a Christian.
For a while he gazed, then considered Sarah Jane's joy. Suddenly his mind turned back to Hilary, and next he turned his body back also. He began to understand at last; he yearned to go before the giver again and say a little of what he felt. As for God, Dan believed that he was in His presence all the time. An under-current of thanksgiving rose from his soul, like smoke of incense.
Words from his favourite, Isaiah, ran through his head as he swept with great strides back to Lydford:
"That He may do His work, His strange work; and bring to pass His act, His strange act," the man kept repeating.
But the strange act went far deeper than Daniel conceived. Of the strange act, strange thoughts were bred in one man's spirit; and when he was alone, Woodrow pondered long of the amazing complexity of his own motives during the past few days, and of the impress stamped upon present thought and future resolution by this actual conversation with the husband of Sarah Jane. He was moved to find how little he had pretended, how much he had felt; how largely grain of truth mingled with the seed of falsehood sown by him upon Brendon's heart in that hour.
The chapel of the Luke Gospellers was full, and their pastor won his usual attention. With very considerable ability, through a ministry of some ten years, he had lifted his congregation along with himself to wider thinking. A tolerance rare amid the sects of Christianity belonged to him, and he had imparted something of it to those who suffered him to lead them.
"How great is man, and how small," said the preacher, as he drew to the close of his address. "How much he has grasped at; how little he can hold. He measures the journeys of the stars and the paths of comets, marked for them through utmost space by the God that made them; but he cannot measure the limit of the growing grass-blade or the breadth of the petal of a budding flower. He predicts when the earth's shadow will fall upon the moon; but he cannot foretell when the next raindrop will fall upon the earth. His intellect has reached out into the universe and read rightly among the laws of it; but the way of the wind and the birth of the cloud, the advent of the frost and the appointed day of the storm—these are hidden from him. So also with his conscious nature and his power to do and to withstand; he is sublime and pitiful at a breath; and his greatness and littleness interwoven, appear on every public page of his history and in every private tablet of his heart."
He exhorted them to know themselves, to read their souls by the light of the Word of God; he told them that within the spectrum of that light were rays that could reach to the darkest, secretest chambers of the human spirit, and search and purify and sweeten them.
They listened, were uplifted according to the measure of their understanding, and went home in the brightness of the teacher's earnest words. Then life and the fret of it came between; and some of the seed perished immediately, and some was scorched at the springing.
Agg and Joe Tapson walked together on their way back to Ruddyford, and behind them came Sarah Jane, Daniel, and their little boy.
Tapson had already dismissed the service, and was grumbling to Walter Agg. They did not know the truth concerning Brendon and the future of the farm; but of late, in certain directions, Daniel was still further advanced, and even Agg felt it hard, because he did not understand.
"He's bewitched Woodrow, if you ax me," said Joe. "'Tis the evil eye over again. Farmer can't call his soul his own now. He don't seem to care a groat for the place. Thicky big monster be always right. Why, if he wanted to pull down the house and build it again to a new pattern, I believe it would be done. Prout's no more good than a bird on a tree; though he used to hold his own very well. Now he always says 'ditto' to Brendon."
"Not that Brendon be what he exactly was, all the same," argued Agg. "He's much gentler and easier, despite his uplifting. He don't order anybody about, and he's always got a good word for a good job well done."
"I know that and I grant it. But who be he to pat us on the back so masterful? I don't want his praise any more than his blame. Damn it all! I was getting my shilling a day afore the man was born!"
"'Tis just pushfulness have raised him up."
"Why don't I go and pat him on the back and say, 'Well done, Brendon!'? I've as much right to patronize him as what he have me," continued Joe.
The other laughed.
"Well, why don't you? 'Tis beyond words to explain these things. But there 'tis. He's above us—got there somehow—how, I don't know—had to do it by vartue of what's in him."
"He may come down again, however."
"I hope not. He's a good man, and grows larger-hearted and gentler as he grows older. His child have done a great deal to his character, as I dare say you've marked."
"We've a right to be jealous of him, all the same. There's no justice in it. If I came along with great ideas, who'd listen to me?" asked Mr. Tapson.
"That's it," answered Walter Agg very placidly. "That's just it. You and me don't get great ideas. Us never think of anything worth a lump of peat. All the same, Joe, I'll tell you this: me and Peter Lethbridge was feeling much like you do a bit back. And I had a tell with Prout on the subject, and he said a thing worth remembering in my judgment. He said, 'Don't envy the man, souls; never envy nobody. 'Tis only God in heaven knows if a human creature's to be envied or not. No fellow-man can tell. How should they, for which among us can say from hour to hour whether even our own lot be good or evil?' That's what he spoke to me, and there's sense in it. King or tinker may come a cropper, but the tinker's up soonest. Not much could happen to me or you—especially you, with your wife dead and no children. Your ill fortune's behind you; and, when all's said, us ought not to make another man's good luck our bad luck. 'Tis a mean-minded thing, though common."
Elsewhere Daniel imparted a great ambition to Sarah Jane.
"I do wish that he could hear Matherson."
When either spoke indefinitely now, the other knew that Hilary Woodrow was meant.
"I believe he'd come if you made a favour of it," she answered.
"I'd ask minister to do something out of the common. Not that he don't put every ounce of his power into his preaching every week. But if I said 'Here's a soul coming to listen to you as be wandering—lost,' minister might be lifted to something special."
"He'd come for you."
"For you more likely. 'Twould be worth the effort before he goes away, for 'tis pretty certain now he won't stop here through winter. He's going to London again, just for the day, to hear what the doctor says. He's better, I believe myself. There's been a lot more heart and life in him of late, to my mind."
"You're going in to-night to have a pipe along with him, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am."
"Then ask him—as a favour to you—to come to a service. Can't hurt him—so large-minded as he is—blames nobody."
"I'll ask him—and yet, I won't. He knows there'd be such a lot of meaning in it if I asked him. He'd think 'twas a deep-laid plot against his opinions. You ask him next time you see him. Say that you'd like him to hear Mr. Matherson. Let the thing come as a surprise, not a planned attack. If I say anything, he'll know he's to be preached at, and that would anger him. But you're lighter-handed. You ban't so deadly in earnest as I am."
"I'll say 'tis to please me, then, not you."
"Do so. It should be true too. You ought to be pleased to get him to come."
Brendon now went disarmed. Even his natural instincts were lulled. Sarah Jane did sometimes see the master, and often brought messages from him to her husband or to Prout. Daniel also, at Hilary's express desire, came twice weekly to smoke with him after the day's work was over. Brendon was a man capable of great gratitude. His fortune had worked largely upon that superficial crust of his character revealed to fellow-men; and, more than this: the sun of his great worldly success had warmed his heart to the core, sweetened his inner nature, made him happier, smothered something of the canine jealousy that belonged to him as an ingredient of character. His trust in God had led to a rarer thing and taught him to trust man also. He was gentler than of old, for he found pity in his mind at the sight of those less fortunate than himself. He felt no personal land-hunger, and, had it been in his power, would have insured full term of years to his master; but upon his child henceforth he looked with respect, as one born to possessions. The unconscious Gregory Daniel already bulked in his parent's eyes as an owner of property. He longed for another boy and carefully planned small Gregory's education.
Sarah Jane went to see Woodrow a few days later, and they spoke intimately together—first of her and then of himself.
"Don't put off going to see your doctor till the weather turns."
"I have been."
"Never!"
"Yes—last Monday; and back again on Wednesday."
"'Twas good news, I hope?"
"Yes, I think so. Only I must go down to the sea for the winter. He will let me stop near at hand. I mean to take rooms at Dawlish. I shall be within reach there. You'll have to invent reasons for coming to see me sometimes."
"You wasn't no worse?"
"Not worth mentioning. I'll be all right down there. But it's rather like going into exile."
They spoke long about his health, his food, his winter clothes. She thought of these things, and had made him buy thicker and warmer garments.
Presently she asked him to come to the chapel of the Luke Gospellers.
"Mr. Matherson is a wonderful man, and that learned. The stars and the trees and the lightning come into his sermons. I do think you'd like them. As broad as charity he is—nought frights him."
"There are two Books," said Hilary; "and whether one was written by God is doubtful; but, God granted, there's no doubt about the other. Even Mr. Matherson won't deny who wrote the Book of Nature. And I'm glad he's not fool enough to forbid sane people from reading in it. But for me to hear him—would you have me play the hypocrite?"
"Why do you say that? There's no deceit. Ban't no harm to listen. Your conscience wouldn't say 'no' to that. You've often said you'd deny the light to none. He might change you."
"I only want to be changed when I feel death peeping at me by night. It might be very awkward for both of us if I was changed."
"I'm not thinking of that, but after. 'Twould be good to believe in a life beyond. You've often said so yourself."
"How many secrets will be carried on into that life—there is such a life, I wonder?"
"Some, for certain—ours for one."
He laughed.
"And yet they say all will come to light then."
She shook her head resolutely.
"We must keep it safe through all eternity."
"There's God."
"What then? He don't want to turn Daniel's heaven into hell. Too large-hearted for that. He'll never tell it."
"Perhaps you and I won't be there, Sarah Jane."
"We shall be there. What would Daniel's heaven be without me, or you, for that matter?"
"You've set Dan's God a big puzzle. However, there will be no marrying or giving in marriage in heaven."
"Maybe not. But there's brains in heaven. Angels ban't bird-witted as well as bird-winged. Suppose the first thing my husband heard when he comed to die was that I'd done—the thing I have done? What would eternity be to him then? You know him—you can tell."
"He'd have larger views then."
"Daniel's Daniel. 'Twould be fire in his bones instead of marrow, for ever and ever. But God won't tell him, Hilary."
"I wouldn't trust God, all the same—not if I believed in God."
"'Twould be too cruel; and Dan thanking God so deep and pure and earnest every day and every night—and praying for you."
"May his God bless him a thousandfold."
"He has—through you."
"He's a grand character in his way. Prosperity has sweetened him, so that he'd pick an insect out of his path nowadays rather than put any creature to pain."
"He's all for letting the world share the good that's come to him. And why shouldn't he thank God, Hilary? God's brought the good. I'll cleave to that—else how can I live?"
"Then so will I," he said. "God's my judge, but I'll believe in God too! Yet—yet once—not so long ago neither—I knew a lovely woman that claimed goodness rather hotly for man, and hated the sky to have all the praise when pleasant things were done!"
He looked out of the window, then he caressed her.
"I've changed from that," she said. "I clung to it awhile—then it gived way somehow. 'Tis easier to—to put it on God. All the same, I almost hate a man when he calls himself a lowly worm, as Daniel often does. And I know well that God don't like us to cry bad wares neither. Bain't no compliment to Him, anyway."
"Give man—and woman—the praise still. I like your old way best. You're a wonderful darling, and my whole life; and I'll think just what you please; and I'll come to hear your minister next Sunday—even that I'll do—for you and Daniel. Tell him that you nearly made me promise. Then he'll surely say a word next time we meet; and I'll relent and appear among the faithful! Is there a penitent's bench?"
Despite a promise, Hilary Woodrow did not visit the chapel of the Luke Gospellers. He caught a chill and kept the house for a fortnight. Then he decided that he must go immediately into the milder climate of the coast, and left Lydford for Dawlish. John Prout accompanied him and stopped for a few days.
At last the patience of Mary Weekes was rewarded, and she became mistress of the ivy-clad house, and the orchard, and the sweet water from the Moor that ran through her husband's little domain.
A child was to be born to her, and she felt glad that her own house would see the event. Susan still remained as maid-of-all-work; but she let it be understood that her services could not be depended upon for more than a year at the utmost. Then a certain square-built youth, called Bobby Huggins, one of Valentine's many grandchildren, intended to marry her. A cottage and a wife would be within his reach at the expiration of that time; and all men admitted that Bobby's deserts embraced both. He was an under-gamekeeper, and no more promising and steadfast spirit had ever shone in the great family of Huggins.
It happened that the patriarch himself called on Philip Weekes three days after Christmas, and accepted Hephzibah's invitation to stop and eat a mouthful.
"Master ban't home yet," she said; "though I believe I've made it clear to him for the last forty year that one o'clock's the dinner-hour in this house. But there—time be a word to him. 'Time was made for slaves,' he said once to me, in one of his particular foolish moments. 'Go along with you, you silly old monkey!' I answered him. 'Time was made for humans, and we was no more expected to waste it like water, same as you do, than we was meant to waste corn and food and greenstuff and money.' But there—you know him. A watch he carries, but ain't got no more use for it than if he walked in New Jerusalem, where night and day will be done away with for evermore. Us'll begin, Mr. Huggins."
They ate and drank; then Philip joined them.
"I'm glad to see you," he said. "And I wish you a very happy New Year, Val, and a good few more yet."
"Thank you, thank you," answered the veteran. "I hope so too, I'm sure, for the balance of comfort in going on living be still my side, and will be while I've got such a rally of friendly neighbours wishing me to live. This be pretty drinking, sure enough. What do'e call it, Mrs. Weekes, if I ban't making a hole in my manners to ax?"
"'Tis broth made from the rames[1] of the Christmas goose," said Mrs. Weekes. "For richness there's nought like goose-bone soup—dripping with fatness, you might say. The very smell of it is a meal."
[1]Rames—skeleton.
Presently Philip pressed Mr. Huggins to take a slice of cold plum-pudding, but the guest reluctantly refused.
"Daren't do it, though with all the will in the world, my dears," he declared. "Hot plum-pudding be death, but cold's damnation—using the word in its Bible sense. When you'm up home fourscore, such things must be passed by. Not but what I've had my share, and ate it without fear till seventy; but there's nowhere age tells crueller than in the power of the frame to manage victuals. Well I mind the feast when my granddarter, Hester—now Mrs. Gill—was married. Gill was to work at a wine merchant's in them days, and his master give him a bottle of glittering wine."
"Champagne, no doubt," said Mrs. Weekes.
"So it was then; and nothing would do but I must top up my other beverages with a glass of it, when it came to be taken at the end of the feast. Next day I wasn't hungry till four in the afternoon! ''Tis age upon me,' I said to myself. 'Tis the sure hand of age. Time was when I could have tossed off a quart of that frothy rubbish an' thought no more of it than a cup of tea; now the organs is losing their grip of liquid food, an' any fancy drinking defies them.' 'Tis the same with solids. If I was to partake of that Christmas pudden, 'twould harbour, like a cannon-ball, under the small ribs on my left side and stick there, very likely, till the spring, unless doctor could dislodge it."
"'Tis a bad thing to have the inner tubes out of order—nobody knows that better'n what I do," confessed Mrs. Weekes. "My unfortunate spasms be all owing to some lifelong failure in the tubes."
"Through peppermint comes salvation, however," murmured Philip.
He had just uttered this great truth when Susan rushed wildly upon them, and in doing so precipitated one of those identical agitations her aunt had just deplored.
"Lord save us, you little fool!" cried Philip. "Bursting into a room so—all endwise, like a frightened fowl! Don't you know your aunt better?"
"'Tis cousin Mary—she's took. Jar's gone for doctor, and Mrs. Taverner's along with her, and of course I come for Aunt Hepsy."
"Took! So like as not you're lying. 'Tis a fortnight afore the time."
"Don't know nothing about that," answered Susan. "But took she is—for good or evil—so you'd better come, I reckon. Anyway, she cried out for you the moment she got bad."
"A pretty darling, and well she might!" said Mrs. Weekes. "Thank the watching Lord she's in her own house, and the schoolmaster ain't there to add another terror to the scene."
"He is there," answered Susan. "He's in the parlour, calculating exactly how long 'twill be in minutes afore Dr. Hext can get up from Bridgetstowe."
"Us'll soon havehimout, anyhow," said Hephzibah. "Fetch down my grey shawl and black bonnet, and the basket as you'll find in the corner of my bedroom, Susan. All be there that's called for."
"One of the fore-handed ones, you," said Mr. Huggins with admiration.
"I believe so," she answered. "You've got to be fore-handed in matters of body and soul, Valentine Huggins; and them as ban't, get left behind in this world and forgot in the next."
She kicked off her slippers and drew on a pair of elastic-sided boots which stood by the fire. Then Susan brought her shawl and bonnet.
"Take the basket and I'll be after you," said Mrs. Weekes. "And as for you, Philip, you'll do well to wash up, bank the fire, put the kettle on the hob just near, to catch heat without boiling, and then come across to Jarratt's to see if there's anything I can set you upon. And, for the sake of pride, put a little more uprightness into your bearing. You slouch like a bachelor—always have; and yet afore another morning, if God so wills, you'll be a grandfather."
She whirled away, and the men were left alone. Mr. Huggins mopped his forehead.
"Lord, what a masterpiece among women! Don't she often bring the perspiration out on your brow?" he asked.
"Not now," answered Mr. Weekes. "I'm long past that."
Towards night the market woman's prophecy came true, and Philip was permitted to hold a granddaughter in his arms. The grandmother had saved the situation in her own opinion, and she only returned home, utterly exhausted in mind and body, at midnight. But Philip was even later, and the kitchen clock had rattled the hour of two before he left his son and returned to his wife. She slept heavily, but he ventured to wake her.
"Thought you'd like to know they be going to call the child 'Hephzibah,'" he said.
She uttered sleepy sounds.
"Jar's idea, I lay. I'm glad."
"'Twas my idea—I would have it," answered Philip.
"Mary's prettier, however. Better you hadn't interfered. But there'll be plenty of others. A long family they'll get, mark me. Don't you talk no more. I'm three parts dead to-night, and I wish you hadn't woke me."
He felt a wound and sighed. He had expected a little praise.
Sarah Jane was among the first who came to visit the new mother. She said many kind things of the child, spent an hour with secret thoughts in the house where Hilary Woodrow had lived, and then departed homeward again.
The day was stern and fresh. Easterly winds blew over the cradle of the New Year, and February had not thus far emptied her usual libation upon the earth. The Moor slept in the colours of mourning, and the wind seemed to bite into the very granite and shrivel up the humble life that dwelt thereon. Hazes hid the horizon, but the adjacent hills stood darkly out, clean-cut against the steel-grey sky. Lyd shrilled along her ways and beside the water a carrion crow or two sat with feathers puffed out. They rose heavily as Sarah Jane approached to cross the stepping-stones. Then, under Doe Tor, a man met her. He was riding a rough horse and bound for home; but now he stopped, and turned, and went back a part of the way to Ruddyford beside her.
"I've just been seeing Mary," she said. "I'm sure you're very fortunate. Nobody never had a braver li'l one."
"How are you?" he asked. "Why, 'tis six months since I've seed 'e—to speak to—or more."
"Very well, thank you."
"And your man and your youngster?"
"Well as possible."
He looked down at her and thought of the past, and smiled to himself.
"'Tis funny to you, no doubt, being in my house again. You must have missed Mr. Woodrow a bit, I should think."
"'Twas funny."
"What's the news of him? Do you ever go down to Dawlish to have a chat with him?"
Sarah Jane remembered that this man warned her husband against Woodrow. From that moment her attitude towards him had changed. And she had just heard another thing from his wife. Mary was anxious that Sarah Jane should be her child's godmother and Jarratt refused to permit it. He gave no reasons, but explained that he wished others to fill that position. This fact Brendon's wife had learned within the hour from her friend.
"Daniel and Mr. Prout go down from time to time and bide a night or two. I haven't," she said.
"Of course not. Yet I'm sure you miss him."
"Yes, I do."
"I never could see much in the man myself."
"You wouldn't. You'd never understand why anybody could overpay you for your house. To you that would be a fool's trick. No doubt you despise him for paying more for a thing than 'twas worth."
He laughed and shook his head.
"Oh no, Sarah Jane. That didn't surprise me at all, I assure you. He had his reasons. It suited—his health very well. 'Twas money well spent from his point of view; and well earned from mine. A lucky man—a very lucky man."
She disliked his tone with its suggestion of insolent superiority.
He leant over and patted her shoulder, whereupon she started indignantly away.
"Needn't be cross with me, my dear," he said. "Why, bless your life, I feel that intimate—however, since you're not in an amiable mood seemingly, I'll go my way. Give my respects to Daniel. He's calling out for rain, I suppose."
She stopped and turned on him almost fiercely.
"Why for wouldn't you let me be godmother to your li'l girl?"
"Oh—that's it! What the mischief did Mary want to tell you that for? No offence, no offence at all, and you mustn't take it so. The reason—and yet I'm not sure if you'd understand. You're so out of the common, you know—such a large mind—so—how shall I put it now? 'Tis the difference betwixt you and your husband—the difference in your way of thinking. I'm a Christian man, Sarah Jane; but you—I ban't quite sure that you're a Christian woman; so all's said. But don't be angry about it; and don't tell Daniel, for 'twill only hurt his feelings, you see."
"Don't you think it. He can read me like print, and he knows I'm a better pattern of Christian than what you be, anyway. 'Tis a slight you've put on me—not that I care a straw what you think of me."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Why should you care? But I wouldn't hurt you for anything, Sarah Jane—much too fond of you for that. I know your virtues—nobody better. If you'd like to be god-mother, you shall, bless your large heart! And don't try to quarrel with me, because I'll never let you. Them beautiful eyes—they make the sky ashamed these cold days!"
He rode away before she could answer, and left her in doubt of his meaning. The words he said were nothing, but the easy familiarity of his tone exasperated her. She determined with herself that now, even if pressed to be his child's godmother, she would refuse.
And Jarratt Weekes, returning to Lydford, met another of the Ruddyford folk. He was passing with a nod, when John Prout stopped him. The ponies rubbed noses, and then Prout turned and rode for a while beside the other.
"Funny I should chance on you," said Jarratt. "I've just been having speech along with Sarah Jane Brendon. 'Tis the salt of life to me to see that woman carry her lovely head so high—knowing what I know."
"Weekes," answered the old man, "I want to pray you by all that you hold sacred, by the prosperity that's yours, by your wife and by your child, and by your God—yes, by your God—to let this pass over. Forget it you can't—no more can I—but don't let it be a part of your life, or your thoughts. Don't let it enter into your mind, as a thing to be used. Which of us can live his whole life with the blind up? 'Twas a fatal accident, and I'm not saying a word against sin—my hair be the greyer for it—but—oh, man, don't harbour it; don't hug it, for God's sake—same as you be doing now. I know—I know. I read it in your face every time you and me meet in company. I——"
"Stop," interrupted Weekes. "You're wasting your wind, Prout. And you're quite mistaking me. Everyone of us, if we keep our eyes open, hoard a harvest in our memories and collect all sorts of things gleaned up out of the world. Some of the gatherings may be useful, some may not be useful. You never know. A man's memory be like a woman's boxes—full of all sorts; and the wisest man keeps all in order, so as he'll know where to put his finger on anything if he wants it. He may die without using some of the things stored up—or he may find he needs 'em in a hurry any minute. That's how 'tis with me."
"What sort of Christian be that who hoards what he knows another creature would dearly wish destroyed? You mean to strike these people when the time comes and you hunger for the chance to do it."
"Not a bit. I'm in no hurry to roll 'em over, I do assure you. 'Live and let live' is a very good motto. And 'Let sleeping dogs lie' be another worth remembering. But as to laughing at a good joke—that I always shall do. And the cream of the joke is the fix you be in. For if you wasn't here, I should have no witness; but since you be here, I can blow Brendon to the devil when I like. 'Tis amusing in itself to feel so much stronger than that very strong chap."
"He's never wronged you—more have they—her and the master."
"How do you know that?"
"You'd never do it as a Christian man, Jarratt Weekes."
"As a Christian man I ought to do it. 'Twould be a good Christian deed, surely, to let the light in on that darkness, and so save the woman's soul alive. But it might be a tragical mess if it got out: that I'm free to grant; and I've no intention whatever of saying a word. I'm a very patient man, and can stand hard knocks as well as most. We'll wait and watch, and see what sort of friend Brendon will be to me presently. I've just offered Sarah Jane to be my baby's gossip; so you see I don't harbour no ill-will against the dear creature herself—who could? So long, and keep warm against this piercing wind. Good men are scarcer every day, John Prout!"