Chapter XXIII: In a Sick-Room

Dinah could not think of her foster-father all the way home. Though deeply concerned, her thoughts left him fitfully to concentrate on Lawrence Maynard. She felt a little puzzled at a streak of mental helplessness that seemed to have appeared in him. Just where it appeared most vital that he should know his own mind, she could not help feeling he did not. He groped, instead of seeing the way as clearly as she did. For him, what he had to tell her seemed serious; for her, as she now considered it, the fact that Mr. Stockman knew Maynard was married sank in significance. She found that it was only because Lawrence regarded it as grave, that she had done so. That it made a simple situation more complex she granted; but it did not alter the situation; and if it was impossible to be married at Buckland, there would be no difficulty, so far as she could see, in being married elsewhere.

She had examined the situation more deeply, however, before she reached home and perceived that Lawrence, after all, was not groping, but rather standing still before a very definite obstacle. They could not be married at Buckland; but could they be married anywhere else without first vanishing far beyond reach and hearing of Buckland? For him that was easy; for her impossible, unless she deliberately cut herself off from her foster-father and, not only that, but prevented him from knowing where she might be. For it was idle to tell him, or anybody, that she had married Maynard, while Mr. Stockman could report from Maynard's own lips that he was already married.

Now indeed Dinah's soul fainted for a few moments. She hated things hid; she loved events to be direct and open; but already some need for hiding her thought, if not her actions, had become imperative and now she saw a complication arising that she had never taken into account: the collision between Lawrence and Ben Bamsey. What might be right and honest enough to her and her lover--what was already clean and clear in her mind, and would, she did not doubt, be presently equally clean and clear to Lawrence--must emphatically be neither righteous nor thinkable to the generation of Mr. Bamsey. None else indeed mattered; but he did. Great vistas of time began to stretch between her and her lover. He retreated; but the gathering difficulties did not daunt her since the end was assured.

For a season life was now suspended at the bedside of an old man, and Dinah returned home to plunge at once into the battle for her foster-father's existence. It was a battle fought unfairly for her, and not until the end of it did Dinah discover the tremendous effect of her exertions on her own vitality; for she was in a position false and painful from the first, being called at the will of one very sick to minister to him before his own, and to suffer from the effects of his unconscious selfishness, under the jealousy of the other women who were nearer to him.

Ben rapidly became very ill indeed, with congestion of the lungs, and for a time, while in the extremity of suffering, his usual patient understanding deserted him and facts he strove to keep concealed in health under conditions of disease appeared. They were no secret to Faith Bamsey and she was schooled to suffer them, being able the easier so to do, because she was just and knew the situation was not Dinah's fault. Indeed they created suffering for the girl also. But to Jane, her father's now unconcealed preference for Dinah, his impatience when she was absent and his reiterated desire to have her beside him, inflamed open wounds and made her harsh. Her mother argued with her half-heartedly, but did not blame her any more than she blamed Dinah. She knew her husband's armour was off, and that he could not help extending a revelation of the truth beyond her heart, where she had hoped it was hidden; but she was human and the fact that everybody, thanks to Jane, now knew that she and her own child were less to Benjamin than his foster-daughter, distressed her and sometimes clouded her temper.

One only stood for Dinah and strove to better the pain of her position. Tossed backward and forward still, now, when at last he was minded to accept the situation and admit to his own mind the certainty he could never win her, a ray of hope flushed wanly out of the present trouble; a straw offered for him to clutch at. John Bamsey came to Green Hayes daily, to learn how his father did, and he heard from Jane how Dinah was preferred before his mother or herself. Then inspired by some sanguine shadow, he took Dinah's part, strove to lessen the complication for her and let her know that he understood her difficulties and was opposing his sister on her account.

He quarrelled with Jane for Dinah's sake and told Dinah so; and she perceived, to her misery, how he was striving yet again to win her back at any cost. Thus another burden was put upon her and she found that only in the sick-room was any peace.

Mr. Bamsey much desired to live, and proved a good patient from the doctor's point of view. A professional nurse, however, he would not have and, indeed, there was no need. All that could be done was done, and it seemed that the crisis was delayed by the sleepless care of those who tended him. He was not unreasonable and sometimes solicitous both for his wife and Dinah. He desired that they should take their rest and often demanded Jane's attention, for the sake of the others; but, as he reached the critical hours of his disease, his only cry was for Dinah and his only wish appeared to be that he should hold her hand. Thus sometimes she had to sit beside him while his wife did nurse's work. The torture was sustained; and then came a morning when, still clear in his mind, Mr. Bamsey felt that he might not much longer remain so. He then expressed a wish for his family to come round him, while he detailed his purposes and intentions.

John was also present at this meeting, and when Dinah desired to leave them together, he and not his father bade her stop.

"You're one of us," he said. "Sit where you are and don't leave go his hand, else he'll be upset."

The sufferer had little to say.

"'Tis all in my will," he told them. "But I'm wishful to speak while I can; and if mother has got anything against, there's time to put it right. All mine is hers for her life--all. But I'll ax her, when each of you three come to be married, to hand each five hundred pounds. That won't hurt her. She'll bide here, I hope; and presently, when Jane weds, it would be very convenient if Jerry was to come here and go on with the farm. But if mother wants to leave here, then she can sublet. And when mother's called, the money's to be divided in three equal portions for Dinah and John and Jane."

He stopped, panting.

"Heave me up a bit, Dinah," he said.

Nobody spoke and he looked into their faces.

"Well?" he asked impatiently.

"That will do very right and proper, my dear," answered Faith. "Don't you think no more about it. A just and righteous will I'm sure."

But Jane had left the room and her father observed it.

"Have that woman anything against?" he asked.

"No, no--a very just and righteous will," repeated his wife soothingly. "I could wish you'd trusted me with the capital, father; but there--I'm content."

"I put you first, Faith."

"I've put you first for five and twenty years."

"You ban't content?"

"Well content. Rest now. Us'll go and leave you with Dinah Waycott."

She tried to resist using Dinah's surname, but could not. Then she left the room.

"I've done what I thought was my duty, John," said Mr. Bamsey.

"You've never done less. I'm very willing that Dinah should share. So's mother I'm sure."

"Try and get a bit of sleep now, my old dear," said Dinah. "And thank you dearly--dearly for thinking on me; but--no matter, you get off if you can. Will you drink?"

He nodded and she gave him some warm milk.

"I'll drop the blind," she said and did so.

In her thoughts was already the determination to forego any legacy under any circumstances. She longed to tell Jane that she meant to do so.

Mr. Bamsey shut his eyes and presently dozed. The steam kettle made a little chattering in the silence, but the sick man's breathing was the loudest sound in the room.

He slept, though Dinah knew that he would not sleep long. To her concern John began talking of what had passed.

He proceeded in undertones.

"Don't think I don't approve what father's done. I do; and I wish to God you'd take two-thirds--mine as well as your own--in fulness of time. Which you would do, Dinah, if you came to me. Why can't you see it?"

"Why can't you, John?"

"What is there for me to see? Nothing, but that you don't know your own mind. Haven't I been patient enough, waiting for you to make it up? What's the good of going on saying you don't love me, when you know I've got love enough for me and you both? Can't you trust me? Can't you judge the size of what I feel for you, by the line I've took for very near a year? You loved me well enough back-along, and what did I ever do to choke you off? You can't tell me, because you don't know. Nobody knows. You bide here, and you understand I'm not changed and won't be blown away by all the rumours and lies on people's tongues; and you can let me live on in hell--for what? You don't know If you had a reason, you'd be just enough to grant I ought to hear it."

"Don't say that, Johnny. You never asked me for a reason more than I gave you from the first. I told you on New Bridge that I was bitter sorry, but I found my feeling for you was not the sort of love that can make a woman marry a man. And that was the sole reason then. And that reason is as good now as ever it was."

"It's no reason to anybody who knows you like what I do. Haven't you got any pity, or mercy in you, Dinah? Can you go on in cold blood ruining my life same as you are doing--for nothing at all? What does a woman want more than the faithful love and worship of a clean, honest man? Why did you stop loving me?"

"I never began, John; and if you say that reason's not enough, then--then I'll give you another reason. For anything's better than going on like this. To ask me for pity and mercy! Can't you see what you're doing--you, who was so proud? D'you want a woman to give herself up to you for pity and mercy? Be you sunk to that?"

"I'm sunk where it pleased you to sink me," he said; "and if you knew what love was, pity and mercy would rise to your heart to see anybody sinking that you could save."

"I do know what love is," she answered. "Yes, I know it now, though I never did till now. When I begged you to let me go, I didn't know anything except what I felt for you wasn't what it ought to be; but, since then, things are different; and I do well know what love is."

"That's something. If you've larned that, I'll hope yet you'll come to see what mine is."

"You can't love a man because he loves you, John. You may be just as like to love a man who hates you, or love where mortal power can't love back--as in your case. Where I've got now be this: I do love a man."

"You thought you loved me. Perhaps you're wrong again and was right before."

"I love a man, and he loves me; and nothing on God's earth will ever keep us apart unless it's death."

"So you think now. I've heard some talk about this and gave them that told it the lie. And I'm most in the mind to give you the lie. I can't forget all you've said to me. It's hard--it's horrible, to think you could ever speak such words to anybody else."

She smiled.

"I don't want to be cruel; I don't want to be horrible, John. But what I've ever said to you was naught--the twitter of a bird--the twaddle of a child. How could I talk love to you, not knowing love? You never heard love from me, because I didn't know the meaning of the word till long after us had parted for good and all. Find a woman that loves you--you soon might--then you'll hear yourself echoed. I never echoed you, and that you know very well, because I couldn't."

"Who is he?"

She expected this and was prepared. None must know that she loved Lawrence Maynard--least of all John Bamsey. He would be the first to take his news red hot to Falcon Farm and Joe Stockman. The necessity for silence was paramount; but she voiced her own desire when she answered.

"I wish to Heaven I could tell you, Johnny. Yes, I do. I'd like best of all to tell you, and I'll never be quite, quite happy, I reckon, until you've forgiven me for bringing sorrow and disappointment on you. 'Tis not the least of my hopes that all here will forgive me some day; for I couldn't help things falling out as they have, and I never wanted to be a curse in disguise to foster-father, or any of you, same as I seem to be. You can't tell--none of you--how terrible hard it is; and God's my judge, I've often wished this dear old man could have turned against me, and hated me, and let me go free. But he wouldn't send me out and I couldn't go so long as he bade me stop."

"You're wriggling away from it," he said. "Who's the man? If there's any on earth have the right to know that much, it's me."

"So you have--I grant it. And if it ever comes to be known, you'll be the first to hear, John. But it can't be known yet awhile, for very good reasons. My life's difficult and his life's difficult--so difficult that it may never happen at all. But I pray God it will; and it shall if I can make it happen. And more I can't tell you than that."

"You hide his name from me then?"

"What does his name matter? I've only told you so much for the pity you ask. I needn't have gone so far. But I can see what knowing this ought to do for you, John, and I hope it will. You understand now that I care for a man as well, heart and soul and body, as you care for me. And for Christ's sake let that finish it between us. I hate hiding things, and it's bitter to me to hide what I'm proud of--far prouder of than anything that's ever happened to me in all my born days. So leave it, and if there's to be pity and mercy between us--well, you're a man, and you can be pitiful and merciful now, knowing I'm in a fix, more or less, and don't see the way out at present. It's a man's part to be merciful, so be a man."

The turning point had come for him and he knew that his last hope was dead. This consciousness came not gradually, but in a gust of passion that banished the strongest of him and exalted the weakest. Hate would now be quickly bred from the corpse of his obstinate desires, and he knew and welcomed the thought.

"Yes," he said, "you'm right; it's for men to be merciful. No woman ever knew the meaning of the word. So I'll be a man all through--and there's more goes to a man than mercy for them that have wickedly wronged him."

He forgot where he stood and raised his voice.

"And I'll find him--maybe I know where to look. But I'll find him; and there won't be any mercy then, Dinah Waycott. 'Tis him that shall answer for this blackguard robbery. I can't have you; but, by God, I'll have the price of you!"

He woke his father, and Ben, choking, coughed and spat. Then he heaved himself on his arms and pressed his shoulders up to his ears to ease the suffocation within.

Dinah ministered to him and John went from the sick-room and from the house.