Chapter XIII: Part 13

David made efforts to rouse his mother-in-law from her invincible distrust--both of herself and her blood in the veins of the next generation. They talked apart after the meal, and she, as her custom was, doubted her son’s ability to fight the world successfully for a wife and possible children.

"A very good son, I can assure you--never a better. But whether he’ll prove a husband of any account, I’m sure I couldn’t say," she murmured.

"Of course he will," answered the other. "You don’t know what a clever chap Bart is. Jane’s a very lucky woman; and she knows it well enough, and her family know it well enough, even if you don’t."

It was an amiable fiction with Margaret’s husband that she was largely responsible for his success in life. He often solemnly declared that but for her at the helm, he should never have prospered as was the case, and certainly never have won the great prize at Tavistock. This statement he would make repeatedly, despite his wife’s protests and Rhoda’s silences. He made it now to Mrs. Stanbury.

"Look at Madge," he said. "If she’s such a splendid wife, why are you afeared that Bart won’t be a splendid husband? Madge took after you; Bart takes after his father. Why, where should I be if it wasn’t for Madge? Not where I stand, I can tell you. She’s the corner-stone of the house, and always has been, and always will be. You ought to believe what people tell you about your children."

"’Tis very well to know you think so," she admitted; "all the same, a mother’s eye can’t overlook the defects."

"Not in your case, seemingly; but ’tis just what a mother’s eye be cleverest at doing as a rule," declared he.

"’Tis no good pretending with yourself, as you do," she answered. "You think our Madge have helped you to greatness, and if love and worship could bring you up top, you’d be right. But it can’t. You was too strong and steady a man to want any woman’s help."

"No, no--never was such a man as that," her son-in-law answered, and firmly believed it. "Madge has helped me to take big views," he continued. "Why, there’s no work that we do can taste so good as the work we do for other people. Your daughter teached me that."

The afternoon advanced and Margaret entered the parlour to say that tea was ready in the kitchen.

Bart and Jane comported themselves with high indifference under the ordeal of this entertainment. They had accepted the good wishes and the chaff; they had eaten heartily and departed together as soon as dinner was done.

"They won’t be back for tea. They don’t want no tea," declared Mr. Stanbury. "Why, they’ve even got to naming the day! ’Twill be Martin West’s turn to find the spread and give the party this time; and if he does all I did for you and Madge, David, I shall be surprised--though he’s a richer man than me by a good few pound, I warrant you."

Talk ran on the new romance; then Rhoda reminded David that a Princetown man was to see him that evening within an hour from the present time. He rose at once and prepared to depart. But Margaret did not accompany him.

"I shan’t be back afore supper," she said. "Bartley Crocker’s coming up presently. He won’t see my father and mother no more, for his time is getting short. So I shall bide here till he’s been and gone."

"He’s so dark about dates," declared David. "We all want to give him a bit of a dinner at ’The Corner House’--a real good send-off; and there’s a little subscription started to get the man a remembrance. But he’s not in very good spirits now the time’s so near; and he rather wants to escape without any fuss. However, if you have the chance, try and find out exactly when he’s going, Madge. He’ll tell you the secret. The date is fixed, I expect. Try and worm it out of him; and fetch him along to supper, if he’ll come."

She promised and David departed with Rhoda.

Bartley Crocker appeared in the valley as they went their way; and he saw them going, but they did not see him.

His sister’s affairs now largely occupied young Bowden’s mind, because the future, from her standpoint, was difficult. He, however, did not quite comprehend the moody and irritable spirit which Rhoda had of late developed. It fell out, indeed, that this taciturnity and self-absorption caused David first uneasiness and then mild annoyance. Rhoda had ceased to be herself. She was not interested in the future. She spoke of going out of his life. She showed no enthusiasm in any direction, and her attitude to Margaret he had secretly resented on several occasions. He deplored it to Margaret herself, but she had begged him not to think of it again, and declared it a matter of no account. She could afford to be large-minded now, for she believed that Rhoda would soon be gone from her home for ever. As for David, he supposed this unsettled and cloudy weather of his sister’s mind to be caused entirely by the forthcoming great upheaval in her life, and the extreme difficulty of deciding on a plan of action. That she had finally refused Crocker and determined to stop in England, he knew; but whether she intended to accompany him and Madge to Tavistock, or return to Ditsworthy, he did not know. None knew--not even the woman herself. Her brother attributed Rhoda’s darkness to the trouble of decision; yet it surprised him that she should find decision so difficult. She was one who usually made up her mind with swiftness and seldom departed from a first resolution. But, for once, she appeared unequal to the task of concluding upon any form of action. The truth of Rhoda’s difficulties he could not know; and in his ignorance he revealed a little impatience. Observing this disquiet, she believed that the time had at last come to speak. She knew the danger and perceived that the one thing she cared for in life--her brother’s regard--might be imperilled by such a step; but as he, in his turn, now began openly to resent her implicit attitude to Margaret, some decisive action was called for.

And Rhoda upon that homeward walk proposed to speak, to put her discomfort and fear before him, and to trust his affection and wisdom to tide them all over a terrible difficulty. What might have fallen out had she done so cannot be estimated. In the result she never spoke, for there fell an interruption and she was still casting about for the first word, when her brother, Napoleon, rode up on a pony. He had come from Ditsworthy to ’Meavy Cot,’ and his attire marked some haste, for he wore his Sunday coat and waistcoat, but had taken off his trousers and substituted workday garments of corduroy.

"Just been to your place," he shouted as he approached them. "Farther was took bad in the night, and he’s a lot worse to-day and reckons he may die of it. And Joshua’s gone for doctor, and mother’s in a proper tantara. And faither wants for you and Rhoda to come up this moment."

For an instant they stood, aghast and smitten.

"What’s took him?" asked David.

"His breathing, and he’s all afire and can’t let down a morsel of food. You’d better get on this pony and go right up along, David."

"I suppose I had. Chap from Princetown will have his walk for his pains; but it can’t be helped."

Napoleon dismounted and David took his place. "You’ll come on, you two, after me," he said. "Best to go across through Dennycoombe wood. Please God, ’tis of no account. Faither’s so strong and never knoweth ache or pain; therefore what may be a small thing would seem worse to him than it really is."

He started and then turned back again.

"When you pass Coombeshead, just run in, Nap, and tell Margaret what’s happened. I may be back home to-night, or I may not be. And bid her remember the calves."

"I shall be back for that," said Rhoda. "I shall go back to-night in any case."

"All right then," concluded David. Then he galloped off and soon disappeared.

His sister and the boy tramped without speech together until, glowing like the bright fur of a wolf all grey and russet, Dennycoombe wood rose before them, flung on the distant side of Sheep’s Tor in evening light.

"I’ll wait for you by the gate yonder," said Rhoda. "Your nearest way from here be to the left. Don’t you stop talking, mind: you may be useful up at home. Just tell Madge what’s fallen out and then come after me."

"I can travel twice so fast as you," answered the boy. "No call for you to wait. I’ll over-get you long afore ’tis dark."

He left her and she went forward, passed under Down Tor, crossed the stream and skirted the great wood beyond. She reached the gate and stopped for her brother as she had promised: but he did not come, and presently she went her way through the edge of the trees. Then suddenly, going on silent feet, she heard voices at hand. A great stone towered there and in a moment she understood that her sister-in-law and Bartley Crocker were on one side of it, and knew not that she was upon the other. She guessed that the man had taken leave of the party at Coombeshead Farm and that Margaret had departed with him.

This indeed had happened. Bartley made but a short stay at the Stanburys’ and Madge left when he did. They were now sitting together and talking.

Rhoda listened but could not hear more than a chance word intermittently.

"Your husband wanted to give me a spread and a send-off in the old-fashioned way, but, somehow, I’ve no stomach for any such thing just at present," declared Mr. Crocker.

"’Tis natural you shouldn’t have."

"I shall write to David. I can’t stand all these good-byes, and all the leave-taking business."

"’Tis crushing to think you’re so nearly gone."

"But mind you keep the secret of the day and tell none, Madge--till I’m off. Those I care for shall hear from me--t’others don’t matter. There’s nothing left to keep me but you, and I can’t make you happier by staying."

"Don’t say that."

"Not really I can’t. We’re beginning new lives in new places--you and me."

"So we are in a way."

"What does Rhoda do?"

"She can’t make up her mind seemingly. She’s very sad."

"She’s very mad, if you ask me. I wish to God some man could find how to sweeten her mind. And you’re sad because she is. I knew it the moment I heard your voice half an hour ago."

"’Tis wonderful to think how you can always tell by my tone of voice how ’tis with me! But then there’s nobody like you for understanding us women. You’d have made a rare husband for the right one, Bartley."

"Yes; and the right one--well, perhaps I’ll find her over the water. ’Tis the day after to-morrow I go. I sail off from Plymouth, so that’s all easy and straight-forward."

"Be the _Shamrock_ a good big ship?"

"Big enough for my fortunes."

"We must see one another once more, Bartley."

"Of course we must, Madge."

They moved forward as they spoke, and Rhoda saw Bartley kiss Margaret and observed that her sister-in-law was weeping. Then came hasty feet and Napoleon appeared. He shouted from a distance.

"She ban’t there! She’s gone! I waited a bit and had a dollop of figgy pudden and told ’em the bad news about faither."

"Hullo!" said Bartley to Rhoda. "You!" He looked blankly at her, but she ignored him and turned to Margaret. Hate was in her voice. She spoke quickly and waited for no reply, then moved on with her brother.

"Napoleon have been to seek you at your father’s farm, Margaret Bowden, but you was better employed seemingly. My father is took very ill indeed, and your husband be gone up over to him. You’d best get home--if you can spare the time to think of your home. I shall be back by night, but David may not be able to come."

She swept on her way and left them staring at each other. Margaret was dishevelled and the shock of this meeting had dried her tears.

"Good Lord! that’s bad luck. She saw me kiss you, I’ll swear," murmured Bartley. "And now she’ll believe there’s another married woman in the case! Will she tell David?"

"What if she does? I’ll tell him myself. D’you think he’d care?"

"Shall I go after her and explain?"

"No," she answered. "Let her be."

"It’s time I was off anyhow. But poor old Elias! ’Very ill indeed,’ she said. I hope he’s not booked. Can’t think of Ditsworthy without him."

They talked a little longer and Mr. Crocker was glad that there had come distraction for Margaret’s mind. She deeply felt parting from him, for he had bulked largely in her life, and he too had enjoyed her loyal friendship and owed her much, though her labours on his behalf were all fruitless. But now the moment was come in which they must part; and he knew that the parting was probably eternal. He did not, however, intend that she should know it. He lied glibly about coming over to ’Meavy Cot’ on the following day; then he talked of other matters, and then, when they had drifted down to Nosworthy bridge, pretended to be amazed at the time.

"I must be pushing back in a hurry. My boxes go off first thing to-morrow. And I daresay I shall get up to Ditsworthy after dark and may have a tell with David there. But if Rhoda has already told him she saw me kissing you--!"

"He’d laugh. He’s not the sort to mind that between me and you."

"I know he isn’t. I was only joking."

She revealed extreme solicitude for his future.

"You’ll take all care of yourself wherever you be; and you’ve promised, on your word of honour, to come home and see old friends inside five year."

"On my word of honour. And you’ve got to write, and keep me up in the news, and tell me all about the house at Tavistock and everywhere else that’s interesting."

He shook hands and moved off quickly, while she, too, went on her way. But, when her back was turned, he stood still and took his last look; for, despite promises, the man had no intention to see her again. His ship was to start after noon on the following day, and he meant to leave Sheepstor at dawn of the morrow.

Now Margaret swiftly faded into the dusk, and he went forward, subdued and as melancholy as his spirit allowed.

"So good and brave a woman as ever walked this earth," he said to himself. "God send me such another; but ’tis hardly likely."

For her sake he made time that night to go to Ditsworthy and speak with David; and the following evening--at the hour in which he had promised to visit ’Meavy Cot’ for a final farewell--he was aboard and watching Devon fade swiftly along the edge of the sea. A shadow lay above the grey, rolling ridges; and then that shadow sank out of his eyes for ever.

But Bartley Crocker belonged to the order of lighter spirits who can close the book of their past without a pang; and he did so now.

*CHAPTER XII*

*RHODA AND MARGARET*

When Rhoda returned from Ditsworthy, she stated briefly that a doctor had seen Mr. Bowden and declared there was no immediate cause for uneasiness. David, however, proposed to stop for the night and help his mother.

The women supped silently--each angered with the other; and then happened that which loosed the flood-gates of Rhoda’s passion and precipitated a deed which, since the recent meeting in the wood, she had strongly considered. She had changed her mind with regard to David; and now, instead, it had come to her as a reasonable thing to attack Margaret directly. But she hesitated to do so until the latter unconsciously provoked her. Rhoda had not spoken to David of the meeting with Madge and Bartley Crocker; but now David’s wife returned to the subject and awoke anger in Rhoda, so that she lost self-control and spilled out all the bitterness of her mind.

"Since your father’s not in danger, one has time for one’s own thoughts again," said Madge, "and they are dark enough for the minute. You looked terrible surprised in Dennycoombe wood a bit ago, and you was terrible rude to me; but why for I don’t know. You puzzle me sometimes, Rhoda. Can’t you even feel that ’tis sad the man who loved you so well be going so far ways off?"

"The sooner the better."

"You’re heartless, I do believe."

"You make up for it, if I am."

"I suppose you’re shocked because I kissed him. Did you tell David? I lay he didn’t pull a very long face about it. But what’s come over me? To think of me talking in this loud, wild way! Forgive me, Rhoda. I meant nothing. You can’t help being what you are, and feeling what you feel, any more than I can. I’m not myself to-night. I shall miss him cruel, and I don’t care who knows it."

The other kept silence. Her colour had gone and her breast was rising and falling rapidly. Anger put a strain on her lungs and called for air.

"Oh, Rhoda," cried Madge feebly, "why didn’t you take him? Nobody will ever love you like that again; and nobody will ever understand you so well as Bartley did. You were a fool--a fool not to take him. Now look at it--your life all useless and nowhere to turn, unless you come to Tavistock with us. Think better of it even now. Go to him to-morrow; keep him here afore ’tis too late and he’s gone."

Then the other rose to her feet, and spoke slowly, and crushed the slighter creature for ever.

"So you’ve sunk to that! You can dare to sit there and say that openly to me. I’m to marry him--I’m to drag myself through the dirt of that man’s life, so that you can have him always at your elbow!!"

Margaret stared, and in her turn grew pale.

"What are you saying or thinking?" she cried. "Are you out of your mind?"

"If I am, I’ve had enough to make me. But I’m sane enough--for my brother’s sake. I’ve kept sane all these cruel, cursed months, while you’ve gone your way, and forgotten yourself, and disgraced his name. Hear me, I say! Don’t you shout, for I can shout louder than you. What I tell be God’s truth; and if you don’t confess it, I’ll do it for you. D’you think I don’t know what men are? Nine in ten be of the same beastly pattern; and this man’s the worst of all, for he’s a liar and a thief, and he came to me with his false tales, but his mind was always running on you; and he came to David and pretended to be his friend and--and--"

She caught her breath and Margaret spoke swiftly.

"What do you accuse me of?"

"I accuse you of being unfaithful and untrue to my brother; and right well you know it is so. I’ve watched--I know--and I’m not the only one. My sister Dorcas--clever enough in evil she be--she knows it too. And belike a many others among that knave’s friends, for he’s the sort to rob a woman of her all, and then laugh to men about it. Maybe all the world knows it but David’s self. I say you’ve sinned against my brother, and I say he must know it--now--now--afore he begins at Tavistock. And, please God, he’ll put you away from him, and choose rather to live his life maimed alone, than with a foul wretch like you under his roof."

"These are hideous lies--you’re dreaming--you’re mad to say such things. You--you to come to an honest wife with this filthy story! ’Tis you shall be cast out--’tis you.--Oh, my God! to think that I should hear such words uttered against me by another woman!"

Madge’s brief flash of fight died even as she spoke. She was not fashioned to carry the battle with a high hand. She began to think of her husband.

"You shall say this to David and see where you find yourself," she continued. "Is not a man’s wife nearer to him than a sister? Will he believe you rather than me? Will he believe Dorcas rather than Bartley Crocker himself? That you--you, Rhoda, of all women, could sting me so! That you--you we thought so pure and clean as newly-fallen snow--could invent such a thing! That you, who know me so well and my love and worship of David.... Oh, Rhoda, I’m sorry for you!"

"Be sorry for yourself. Well--and too well--I know you. I had to spy. I ban’t ashamed of it. There was nothing else but to tell him and let him spy. And I couldn’t do that till I knew. ’Tis all of a piece--all clear to any human mind--foul or fair. God judge me if I was quick to think evil. I was slow to do it. I fought not to believe it. I tried heart and soul not to see it. But you took good care I should see it. Wasn’t you always after him? Didn’t you meet him in secret places scores of times? How could I not see? And him coming to me; and you pretending to want me to take him. Yet ’twas no pretence neither, for ’twould have suited you both well enough. And David, working day and night, and trusting you, and always ready at a word to pleasure you. That proud of you and hungry for your happiness-- But it’s ended now. It ended to-day when I saw you in the wood. Not that I’ve not seen you kissing him afore--fawning on his hand, by God! I’ve watched--yes--and seen enough to know all I didn’t see. And he’s going to know it too--David. He’s got to know for his own honour’s sake, and he shall."

"Will he believe it? Never! May God strike me here afore you, and kill me slow the awfullest way that ever woman died, if by thought or deed I’ve been false to him."

"Ah! Even so the man talked, and he’s alive yet. But the A’mighty won’t forget either of you. You add lies to lies as he did. But I know they’re lies. You needn’t talk as if I was a fool; I know him well enough--none better. Did such as him--lecherous-minded beast that he was--dance about in lonely woods and secret places with you for nothing? If an angel from heaven told me you was honest I’d not believe it. And I’m stronger than you think--stronger far than you--with David, I mean. He knows I’m single-minded, anyway. He knows I’ve got no thought or hope in the whole world except his good. He knows right well that I’ve been a kind sister to you, and never done anything but strive for your happiness as well as his. Till now--till now. And he’ll believe me; for he knows that I couldn’t lie if I was tortured for speaking the truth. And I am tortured--tortured as never a woman was tortured yet. But he’s got to hear it; and he shall hear it afore that man goes. And, as for you, whether he believes me or you, God’s my eternal judge but I’ll never ope my mouth to you again as long as I live."

She said no more and went up to her room. Margaret waited a while and then followed her; but Rhoda’s door was locked and she refused to answer when the other spoke.

Then the wife descended and sat with companionship of her thoughts. She lived through many hours of poignant grief. Again and again she fell away stricken by her own heart; but she returned as often to the theme; she strove to pierce the problem and see what her sister-in-law could mean. How was it possible that such transparent innocence as Margaret’s could from any standpoint look so vile? The bitterest enemy was powerless to throw one shadow over her friendship with Bartley Crocker; and yet here was her brother’s sister frenzied with this fearful idea, and speaking of it as a fact proved beyond question. Rhoda believed in it as surely as she believed in her own life. She was prepared to stake her future and David’s love for her upon it. She was going to separate Margaret from David, or herself from David, forever. One or other event must inevitably happen.

A thousand plans of action rushed through the wife’s brain, and their number defeated their varied purposes. Her native timidity served her ill now. She did nothing but sit and think and reconstruct the past. She remembered all the meetings with Bartley and their many plots and plans to win Rhoda for him. She recollected the most intimate conversations, when her nature or his formed the subject of their speech. She had once kissed his hand in a sudden impulse, when he announced the means to cure her mother. But she did not recall a single perilous or dangerous pass between them; for indeed no such thing had ever existed. Their regard was based on close and lifelong understanding and friendship. There never had been a reciprocal passage of passion, even in the days of her freedom. Her regard was the regard of an ordinary woman for her favourite brother--an affection absolutely untinged by any conscious sexual emotion whatsoever. Even at that, she had not loved him as Rhoda loved David. She was not cast in the great mould of Rhoda--great if unfinished.

At waste of night she began to perceive that she could be no match for Rhoda. Her instinct of self-preservation inclined her first to David, then to Bartley, and then to her father’s home. She determined at last to rest until day, and sought her bed. She lighted a match in the dark after a sleepless hour. It went out before she could reach a candle, and she was struck by the trivial phenomenon that, long after the match was extinguished, its light shone in her eyeballs and throbbed in the gloom like fiery rings until the impression waned. She rose an hour before dawn and dressed and descended. Then she went out and breathed the chill morning wind. As yet it was quite dark. Looking up, she saw that a candle burned in Rhoda’s room. Some subtle psychological instinct crushed her spirit before the spectacle of that woman’s steadfast and unsleeping watch. An impulse to get away from Rhoda overpowered Margaret. She returned, fetched her sun-bonnet, and hastened off without any fixed purpose of destination.

When David’s sister came down before six o’clock, the house was empty. She, too, had passed through storms; she also had faltered at the hour when life’s pulses beat lowest and midnight sets its dead weight upon human hearts. She had longed to rise and get into the air; but she was determined not to lose sight of Margaret until David came home. Yet for a time she had lost consciousness and slept awhile at edge of dawn. And during those fitful slumbers, Margaret had departed.

The day found Rhoda assured of her own action, though the result of it she could not foretell; but thus to have thrust matters upon their climax was a relief to her, and she felt only interested further to learn the extent of David’s future sufferings and her power to lessen them.

That Margaret had disappeared did not much astonish her. She doubted not that her sister-in-law was gone to have the first speech with David. Rhoda reviewed her own knowledge of facts and prepared her own statement. She perceived that she herself must come vilely out of it, as a spy and informer; but she kept her intentions and object in view, and believed that, suffer as he must, David would not lose sight of her motives. Her only desire was that her brother’s home might be cleansed--at any cost to its inhabitants. She thirsted to speak to David and hear his voice.

Yet, when she saw him coming alone through the morning, her thoughts flashed along another train, and she held her peace until a more fitting time for speech. And this she did because she guessed that something vital had happened to Margaret--something which must justify her attitude and sweep away the last shadow of doubt.

Then her brother surprised her mightily; for, when she told him that Margaret had gone from the house before daylight, he seemed but little astonished to hear it.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*THE SEARCH*

More for thought of Margaret than the sick master of Ditsworthy, had Crocker climbed to the Warren House upon his last evening at Sheepstor. He asked to see David, spent half an hour with him, and spoke explicitly of Rhoda, of his final failure to win her, and of the attitude that she had adopted towards him during that interview.

"God knows I wish her nought but good," he said; "and first and best that her mind should be cleansed of things she’s heard from some unknown enemy and believes against me. She’s got it in her head that I’m a worthless blackguard, born to make trouble. When she met me with your wife in Dennycoombe wood, a few hours since, she spoke as if I’d no business to be talking to Margaret. I say this for Margaret’s sake; because, before saying ’good-bye,’ I kissed Margaret, and your sister saw me do so, and went white with passion. There’s that about kissing she can’t forgive or forget, seemingly. But I’m off to-morrow and don’t want to leave any trouble behind me."

David nodded.

"You must allow for Rhoda. She’s terrible fretted and has got a deal on her mind just now," he said.

"That’s true enough; and she’s often right; and I’m a fashion of man not worthy to name in the same breath with her. I only mention these things for your sake and Margaret’s. Your sister is cruelly wrong about me, anyway, and maybe time will show her so. Only she mustn’t be wrong about Madge. Me and Madge did very often meet, and even in secret, if you like. But why? Not to hide anything from anybody but Rhoda herself. Madge was very wishful for me to have Rhoda, and again and again we planned and plotted together what she could do, and what I could do, to bring it about. You understand that?"

"Why, yes; Margaret always told me about it of course."

"But perhaps Rhoda didn’t see what we wanted to be together for behind her back. A stupid muddle sure enough, and nothing but Madge wanting to do her and me a good turn was the cause of it. You clear her mind for her the first minute you can, David. And if she’s had a row with Margaret, make ’em be friends again. Only you can do it."

Thus he spoke, and the other saw all clearly.

"Rhoda’s been unlike herself a good while," he answered. "And now I begin to see daylight. Of course, if she had some wild, silly fancies against you, and people have been telling her that you’re not straight, she may have been vexed and anxious that you saw so much of my wife. For my sake she’d have felt so. But why she should have believed anything against you, or who spoke against you--that I can’t say. However, your character is safe with me. I’ll soon have it out and let loose some common sense into her brains. You must allow a bit for unmarried girls like her. They can’t see life whole, and they get wrong opinions about men’s minds. She’s wise as need be every other way; but where men and women combined are the matter, she never can take proper views. She’s jealous for me without a doubt--maybe because I was never known to be jealous for myself: too busy for that. And why should I be with a wife like mine?"

"You may well ask it. Madge would rather die than think an evil thought, let alone do an evil deed, against you. As for Rhoda--she beats me. Most of the man-hating sort be ugly and a bit hard at the angles; but she--she’s as pretty as any wife you ever saw in the world. The Lord may send her a husband yet! And mind you let me know if it happens, for I’d like to give her a wedding present worth having."

They parted then.

"Well, good luck to you," said the elder; "and don’t forget to let us home-staying chaps have a sight of you again presently, when a few years be past and you’ve started on your fortune."

"And all good wishes to you, David; and, for a last kindness, I’ll ask you to get Madge to see my Aunt Susan Saunders sometimes and cheer her up. She badly wanted for me to take her along to Canada--poor old lady; but of course I couldn’t do that--such a wanderer as I shall be till I find that place that pleases me."

Thus it came about that when David returned to his home and heard that Madge was not there, he felt no intense astonishment. He doubted not that sharp words had passed and that his wife had left Rhoda until he should come home. For the time, however, he kept silence. He determined to speak to Rhoda and Madge together when the latter reappeared. He felt certain that she had gone to Coombeshead; and he also believed that she would stop with her parents until he went to fetch her.

"Put on the griddle and cook me a bit of meat for breakfast," he said to Rhoda. "I’m very hungry, along of having sat up most of the night with father. He’s come well through it. He slept off and on, and feels he’s safe this morning. I shall go up again later, when Madge be back."

He ate, then started to Coombeshead; but his wife was not there, neither had any news been received concerning her. Then he walked across to Sheepstor, but none had seen or heard of Margaret. He called at ’The Corner House’ to drink, and stopped there a while. But his mind was now much agitated. He soon set off for Ditsworthy; and he prayed as he went that there his increasing fears for Madge might be laid at rest.

It was after noon when he arrived at his father’s house, to learn that the doctor had pronounced Mr. Bowden better. But no news of Margaret greeted him. His twin brothers were just setting out for Princetown, to procure certain medical comforts for their father. Now they went as far as Coombeshead with David, and there he left them and returned again to the Stanburys. Still they had heard nothing. In grave alarm the husband went home, but Margaret was not there. Night now approached, and the man braced himself to set about systematic search and summon responsible aid.

Rhoda had left a hot meal for him and he ate it quickly; but she herself had departed. A pencilled note explained that she had gone to seek Margaret at certain farms where chance might have led her. David now much desired to cross-question Rhoda closely as to the matters that fell between her and Margaret on the preceding evening; but for the present this was impossible. He was just about to set off, give the alarm, and institute search parties, when the twins, Samson and Richard, suddenly appeared together and brought news.

* * * * *

When David’s wife left her home before dawn, she walked aimlessly onward until thought worked with her and directed her footsteps to a definite goal. The first note of light in the sky presently beckoned her, and unconsciously she set her feet in that direction. She moved along eastward by the leat, where it raced down a steep place under Cramber Tor; and she reflected between three courses. Her first thought was to seek David before all others, tell him what Rhoda was going to tell him, and explain the truth. Then she feared. The day broke very cold and dawn chilled her and lowered her spirit. Next she considered of Bartley; and it seemed a wise thing to seek him and go to David with him. Finally she thought of her father, and wondered whether wisest action might not take her to her old home. It was a father’s and a brother’s part to fight this battle for her. They would stand before David, man to man, and refute the infamy that Rhoda had prepared for his ears. But some mood led to Bartley Crocker before the rest. She turned presently and set her face to Sheepstor. And thus it happened that standing near the village, on high ground above it, she actually saw the early departure of her friend. He drove swiftly away under her eyes, and she was powerless to reach him now or to communicate with him. He had promised to see her again that evening; but doubtless to escape emotional leave-takings and an elaborate departure he had planned this secret exit. She did not blame him; but now that he was irrevocably gone, she doubted terribly for herself and asked herself what next must happen. She did not fear David, but she greatly feared Rhoda. She knew her husband’s estimate of Rhoda, and she suspected that in a deliberate contest between them he might lean to the stronger nature. He had never been jealous or shown the shadow of such an instinct, and that thought comforted her; but Rhoda was very strong, and if Rhoda was not mad, then she must be armed with arguments to support her awful belief. Margaret had nothing but denials--and Bartley was gone. Perhaps, against the lying testimony that Rhoda possessed, and doubtless believed, her bare denial would prove all too weak. She amazed herself to find how calmly she considered the sudden situation--a situation that yesterday she would have fainted to consider. Now, looking at the empty road when Bartley’s vehicle had left it, she felt that salvation lay in one direction alone. She must see David before Rhoda could see him. He would return that morning; therefore her safest course was to go home swiftly, lie hidden by the way, and intercept him as he came along. She set off again, and as she returned, became conscious of physical hunger. But the sensation passed and she pressed forward until her home appeared. She came back in time to find herself too late; for she saw her husband descend the hill to ’Meavy Cot’ and enter the house while yet she was half a mile distant.

Now active fear got hold upon Margaret. In spirit she heard Rhoda’s voice; she listened to the indictment; she pictured David’s incredulity. He would surely start to see Bartley Crocker on the instant; and he would find Bartley gone for ever. And then? Her thoughts turned again to her own people. She cried out from her heart for protection. Her mental weakness gained upon her as she grew physically more feeble. Her legs trembled under her. She turned, and crouched, and crept behind a wall, that no chance eye from ’Meavy Cot’ might see her aloft on the hill. Then she started to go to Coombeshead, and ran some distance until she grew suddenly weak and was forced to sit and rest herself for fear of fainting. David would doubtless guess that she had gone home. He would follow; he was certain to be upon the way now, and he must overtake her long before she reached Coombeshead. Increasing terror and decreasing reason threw her into a shivering sweat. She jumped up and left the road to Coombeshead, and so in reality avoided David, who had now set out for the farm of the Stanburys. She actually saw him pass within a hundred yards of her, and she rejoiced at her escape. Then, when he had gone by, she went forward to Crazywell and hid there, in deep gorse brakes not far distant from the water. Here she was safe enough for the present. She drank from a spring, and then sat on a stone until she grew very cold.

The time for useful thought or a sensible decision was past; the critical hours, when this woman’s humble intellect might have led her to salvation, had gone by. Now she stood weak every way--physically reduced, mentally depressed and fear-stricken. She had declined upon a state which found her a prey to unreal terrors, phantom-driven, pervious to the secret evils of heredity. These intrinsic ills, latent in her blood and brain, now found their vantage, and presently reduced the daughter of Constance Stanbury to a condition of peril. It was in this pitiful case, as she wandered some hours later near Crazywell, that there came to her two children, and she had speech with them. She was light-headed; but they did not know it. They stared at the things she said and thought that brother David’s wife was making very queer jokes.

Samson and Richard, with their basket carried between them, staggered steadily homewards through thickening dusk. They wondered which of the luxuries in the basket their father would eat first; and they rather envied him his collapse, when they considered the attractive nature of these prescriptions. Then they came suddenly upon Margaret standing by the gorse-brakes. She started and was about to dive into cover, like a frightened beast or bird, when she recognised the boys.

"Hullo!" cried Samson. "Why, ’tis Madge! Whatever be you doing up here all by yourself?"

She stared at them as they set down their basket and rested their arms.

"Oh, Lord, these good things be heavy!" declared Richard.

"Have ’e got a bit of meat there, Dicky?" she asked, her nature crying for food.

"I should just think we had. A half of a calf’s head for soup, and three bottles of jelly, and a bottle of wine. I wish I was faither!"

"And grapes, took out of a barrel of sawdust," said Samson.

"A long journey for your little legs; but nought to mine," she said. "You must know, you boys, that I be going to set out on a journey myself as far as from here to the stars--or further."

They laughed at the idea.

"Be you? And what’ll David say?" asked Richard.

"He’ll understand very well. ’Tis for him I shall do it. I lay he’ll be glad."

"Why don’t he go along with you?"

"Not yet; but he’ll come after some day."

"Where’s your luggage to?" asked the practical Samson.

"Don’t want none--no luggage--no money--no ticket--only a pinch of courage. Mr. Shillabeer taught me the way. If you’ve out-lived your usefulness, ’tis better to make room for better people. And there’s no such thing as wrong-doing, Dick, because God A’mighty, being all-powerful, won’t let it happen. You and Samson might think as you do wrong sometimes."

"So they tell us," admitted Samson.

"Not you--you’re God’s children and can’t no more do wrong than the birds and the angels."

"That’s worth knowing," said Richard.

"Nor yet me: I must do what I must, and the journey’s got to be took. Because I may be useful in one place, though I can’t be in another.... ’Tis a bitter cruel thing to be misunderstood, Samson."

"So it is--as I said last time Joshua gave me a lacing and found out after ’twas Nap," he answered.

"When might you start?" asked Richard.

"There’s nought to keep me--my usefulness be ended. But I’m that terrible hungry."

"I should go home along and have a bit of supper first."

"No, no, Sam. Good-byes be such sad things. Better I go without ’em. Bartley, he went off without, and he was wise. But I see’d him set out. All the same, his journey’s but a span long to mine."

The boys were puzzled. They talked together.

"Might us give her a biscuit--one of them big uns?" whispered Richard; but Samson refused.

"No. ’Twill be found out, and of course they’ll say we ate it."

"Where do ’e set out from?" asked Richard.

"From this here pool."

"Funny place to go on a journey from," said Samson. "’Tis my belief you’m having a game with us."

Margaret shook her head.

"Never no more," she said. "We’ve played many and many a good game--you two and me. But they all be ended now. I’m going to new usefulness somewhere long ways off--terrible busy I’ll be, without a doubt; and you be both growing into men, and busy too. But don’t you forget me, you boys--because I never will forget neither of you."

"You talk as if you wasn’t going to come back," said Richard. "I’m sure David would make a terrible fuss if you was to go for long."

"But Rhoda won’t," added Samson. "Rhoda don’t like you overmuch. For that matter, she don’t like anything but David and dogs. Me and Dick don’t set no store by Rhoda, do we, Dick?"

"No," said Richard. "We do not."

"I’ll come back--I’ll come back to watch over David," said Madge suddenly. "Yes, I won’t bide away altogether. I couldn’t. But not same as I am now--not a poor, broken-hearted, useless good-for-nothing, as have worn out her welcome in the world. I’ll be a shining, joyous thing then--winged like a lark, and so sweet a singer too."

"You can sing very nice, and always could," said Dick graciously.

"I’d sing to you boys now, but there’s no time. Be it night or morning with us? I’m sure I couldn’t say, for I’ve been up and about these days and days."

"They’m looking for you, come to think of it," said Samson suddenly. "David was up over after dinner."

"Was he kind or cross?"

"Neither--but a good bit flurried seemingly."

"He don’t know about the journey, you see. I’m afraid he’ll be sorry--after. He’ll be sorry, won’t he, Dicky?"

"He’ll be terribly vexed without a doubt," declared Richard. "In fact, if I was you, I’d change your mind. You oughtn’t to do nothing without telling him--ought her, Samson?"

"No, her oughtn’t," answered his brother.

"You two--two at a birth," she said. "Got together and born together! ’Tis a very beautiful thing--a beautiful thing, sure enough. You’m one--not two at all--one in heart and thought and feeling, one in your little joys and fears and hopes. And even so I’d thought to be with David. But I wasn’t strong enough and understanding enough for that. He’s too much above me. And us had no childer, you see. There comed no babby to my bosom, and so--there ’tis--the usefulness and hope of me all gone--a withered, worn-out blossom as never set no fruit. And when the flower be fallen, ’tis all over and forgot. My mother knowed best, you see. She always feared it wouldn’t come to good. How right she was!"

"What silly old rummage you do talk," said Richard. "Never heard the like! Why for don’t you go home? Didn’t Madge ought for to go home, Sam?"

"Yes, she did," said Samson, "this instant. She’m mazed, I believe."

"Pisgies been at her, I reckon," hazarded his brother.

"I’m going home," she answered. "On my solemn word of honour, as a living Christian, I’m going home; and if I’m there afore them I care about--what’s the odds? Only there’s no marrying nor giving in marriage there. Won’t Rhoda be happy then! But I tell you two witty boys that I’m wickedly wronged, and the world will know it. I won’t stoop to defend myself--I’m above that; but my God will defend me, and you must defend me--both of you. ’Tis a very cruel thing to tell lies against the innocent--them as never did you harm--them as only thought and planned always to better you and bring you happiness. And wasn’t my sorrow large enough, the black sorrow of the women that never rock cradles--but she must--? .... you’ll always have a good word for me, Richard--won’t ’e?--if ’tis only for the sake of the fun we’ve had."

"So we will then," said Dick. "And if anybody says anything against you, me and Sam won’t suffer it. Because you’re a jolly good sort and always have been. Never was one like you for cake--never."

Samson pulled at Richard’s sleeve in the gathering gloom.

"Us had better go," he whispered.

"Us must go now," repeated Dicky to Margaret.

"Good-bye then, and God bless you both--such little men as you be growing! Yet ’tis cruel not to give me a bite from your basket. I’m faint for want of food--God’s my judge but I am."

"Can’t, for fear of catching it. You’ll do best to go back home," advised Samson.

"I shall be there afore you are. ’Tis beautiful to be there first of all, to welcome all the rest as they come in one after t’other, like homing pigeons. If they only knowed ... if they only knowed how dearly I’ve loved ’em all--Rhoda, too. I tried so hard to make her a happy woman. But they will come to know at journey’s end. And she’ll know then. ’Twill all be burning light then, with nothing hid and the last heartache lifted."

They took their basket and crept off. In the dark they stopped and listened. She was singing.

"Never knowed her like that afore," said Richard. "I’ve a good mind to take back a biscuit for her and chance what they’ll say. She’s terrible leery[#] and terrible queer."

[#] Hungry.

"Us had better get home and tell about her."

They pushed on for a quarter of a mile, and then Samson had another idea.

"We’m nearer ’Meavy Cot’ than anywheers," he said. "Us had better go and tell David. ’Tis his job to look after Madge, I should think--him being her husband."

"’I’m cruel tired," answered Richard; "and as ’tis we shall catch it pretty hot for being such a deuce of a time."

"’We’ll leave the basket here, and just run down and then come back for it. And as to catching it, we shall catch it worse if we don’t tell David, and he comes to hear about it after Madge has sloped off."

"You go, and I’ll bide here and keep guard over the basket," suggested Dick; but Samson would not have this.

"No," he answered firmly, "I’m not going without you. You know very well us can’t do nought apart."

They left the basket on the top of a wall and turned back and reached ’Meavy Cot.’ Then they told David that Madge was by Crazywell, and much to their disappointment, he seized his hat and rushed from the house before they had time to give any description of their remarkable conversation with her. Rhoda was not in, and finding themselves alone, the boys sought the larder and ventured to eat heartily. Then they went on their way, cheered at consciousness of well-doing and the reward of well-doing.

All that David had heard was how his brothers had met with Madge by Crazywell. More he did not stop to learn; and when some time afterwards he stood by the pool, tramped its shores and shouted Margaret’s name until the hollowed cup of the little tarn echoed, he judged that the children had been mistaken in the darkness and imagined that some other was Madge. Because he saw no sign of her and heard no answer to his cries. For a time he wandered through the night and splashed along the fringes of the pool; then he abandoned the search, groped his way upwards, and returned home.

His wife, however, had been within sound of his voice. Through the locked portals of a sleeping ear his cries had reached and wakened her. When Samson and Richard were gone, she sang a hymn about the joys of heaven; and then nature made a sudden and imperious appeal for sleep. She had not slumbered for forty hours, and now, succumbing swiftly, lay down under the gorse and sank into oblivion.

Anon her husband’s voice reached her brain, and roused her consciousness. His loud summons, filtering through the sleep-drenched avenues of her brain, begot happy dreams therein. She smiled and wakened. Then she heard him calling in the darkness, and sudden terrors bound her hand and foot. His voice, lifted in deep anxiety, to her seemed laden with wrath. Her dismantled mind hid the truth and turned the man’s cry into a sinister threat. Therefore she cowered motionless, breathless, like a bird that sees a hawk at hand, until he was gone, and silence returned.

She slept no more, but it was not until midnight that her wounded intellect again roused itself. Then chance, quickening propensities that had for ever remained asleep in another environment, swept the woman to action.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*DAVID AND RHODA*