Chapter IX: A Hungry Man

Hilary Woodrow returned home at Christmas. In the meantime he had heard from Jarratt Weekes and agreed to take his cottage at Lydford for an indefinite period.

The farmer conversed at length with John Prout, but told him little respecting his adventures in London, or in Kent. His health appeared to be entirely satisfactory, but Hilary explained that he had received certain medical warnings. His lungs were not strong. His physician did not object to a winter spent in Devonshire, but advised that the master of Ruddyford should seek a milder home than the Moor until spring returned.

"In soft weather I shall ride up every day," explained Woodrow; "but when the frost is heavy, or we're getting nothing but rain, I shall keep down below."

It was arranged that he should go into Jarratt's house immediately after Christmas, and, to her immense satisfaction, Susan secured the post of Hilary's servant. Her aunt managed this, and duly impressed upon the maiden that here was the opportunity of a lifetime. Let her but cook and order the simple household in a manner to suit Mr. Woodrow, and her fortune must unquestionably be made, so Mrs. Weekes assured her; but, on the other hand, if she failed to satisfy an unexacting bachelor, then her case was hopeless, and she must never expect to achieve the least success in service or in life. To Susan's face Hephzibah expressed the most fearful doubts; behind her back she assured the neighbours that her niece was well suited to the post.

"Have I been a-training of her four years for nought?" she asked. "A flighty wench, I grant you, and full of faults as any other young thing, but she can stand to work and take care of herself very well; and she've always got me to fall back upon for advice and teaching, seeing I'm but fifty yards away."

Of Hilary's inner life, while absent from his home, John Prout naturally heard nothing, and it was a woman, not a man, who shared the farmer's confidence. He had striven to seek escape of mind from Sarah Jane in the society of other women; and he had failed. He spent very little time in London, and found himself glad to quit it again. His old enjoyment thereof was dead. The place offended him, choked him, bored him. He had no desire towards any of its pleasures while there. Instead, he grew anxious about his health.

In Kent he found himself happier, yet the conditions of agriculture, rather than any personal relations with kindred, occupied his days. The hops gave him much interest. His cousins and their friends found him cold and indifferent. Sarah Jane's image haunted his loneliness, and her picture in his mind's eye was a lovelier and more tangible thing to him than the living shapes of the amiable young women he met. He had devoted a day to purchasing the silver cup for Sarah Jane's baby; and on return home he had pleased Daniel greatly by his attitude towards the infant.

"I would have offered to be a godparent," he explained to Brendon; "but you must take the will for the deed. With my views I could not have done so, and you would not have desired it. Nevertheless, I wish your child every good. 'Twill be a pleasant thing presently to have a little one about the place; and it should make us all younger again."

Brendon was gratified, and since his master henceforth adopted extreme care in his approach to Sarah Jane, relations proceeded in a manner very satisfactory to all.

But fierce fires burnt in both men out of sight. One's natural jealousy and suspicion kept him keenly alive to every shadow on the threshold of his home's honour; the other knew now with absolute knowledge that Brendon's wife was the first and greatest thought in his mind. Passionately he desired her. He believed that his own life was not destined to be lengthy, and his interests largely narrowed to this woman. Of late ethics wearied him. He was impressed with the futility of the eternal theme. For a season he sickened of philosophy and self-restraint. He found Sarah Jane lovelier, sweeter, more distracting every way than when he left her. At Ruddyford no opportunity offered to see her alone. Then, as he knew they must when taking the Lydford cottage, chances began to occur.

She often came with the butter for Mrs. Weekes, and Friday was a fever day for Woodrow, until he saw her pass his dwelling on the way to the village.

Once they spoke at some length together, for he was riding back to the farm for an hour or two. The time was dry and cold. A powder of snow scattered the ground, but the air braced, though the grey north spoke of heavier snow to come.

"You never asked me about all my adventures when I was away, Sarah Jane," he said. "I had such a number of things to tell you, but unkind fate seems to make it impossible for me to talk to the one person in the world I love to talk to."

"What silliness! I'm sure John Prout's a better listener than me."

"Prout's an old woman--you're a young one. That's the difference. He bothers over my health as if he was my mother. You don't let that trouble you, Sarah Jane?"

"Indeed but I do. 'Twas only a bit agone, at your gate, I was asking Susan if you took your milk regular, and ate your meat as you should. And when she said what a poor feeder you was, I blamed her cooking, and told her I'd bring a recipe or two from Tabitha, who knows the things you like. And I did."

"If you're hungry one way, you've no appetite another. Let me tell you about myself. We always want to talk of ourselves when we're miserable, and only care to hear about other people when we're happy. I went to seek peace and I found none. Nobody comforted me--nobody knew how to. Nobody knew Sarah Jane, and that was the only subject that could interest me."

"Doan't 'e begin that foolishness again. I had hoped so much as you might have found a proper maiden to love you and marry you."

"Who can love me? No, I don't ask that now. But--oh, Sarah Jane, I do ask you to see me sometimes--only very seldom--so that I may hear your voice and look into your eyes."

"Dan----"

"Is it my fault? Can you help loving your husband or your child? Can I help loving you? No--don't look wild and wretched, as if you thought you were going to be caught in a thunderstorm. I do love you, and only you; and my love for you is the only thing that kept me from going mad in London. You can buy sham love there, and sham diamonds, and sham everything. Shams are on sale to suit all purses. Once, when first I went there, I enjoyed them--not now. There's only one real love and one real woman in the world now. But don't be frightened, Sarah Jane. The knights of old loved just as I love you--a love as sweet and clean and honest, as reason is sweet and clean and honest. I only want to make you happier. The happier you are, the happier I shall be. You can't be angry with me for wanting to make you and yours happy. You might see me sometimes. It would be to lengthen my days if you would."

"Daniel----"

"I guess what you're going to say. He's not satisfied with things as they are. Well, leave that for the moment. He's safe enough. Safer and luckier than he knows."

"I wasn't thinking of that. I was thinking what he would say if he heard you."

"Don't tell him. Never make a man miserable for nothing. Another man couldn't understand me. But a woman can. You can, and you do. You're not angry with me. You couldn't be. You haven't the heart to be angry with me. Think what a poor wretch I am. I saw you once before you were married. I actually saw you up at Dunnagoat cottage. Saw you and went away and forgot it! 'Twas a sin to have seen you and forgotten you, Sarah Jane; but I'm terribly punished."

"What wild nonsense you tell whenever you meet me!"

"It was after that woman jilted me. I had no eyes then for anything or anybody. I was blind and you were hidden from me, though I looked into your face."

"Enough to make you hate all of us. She must have been a bad lot--also a proper fool."

They talked in a desultory manner and he spoke with great praise of her husband and promised fair things for the future. Then he returned to her and strove to be personal, and she kept him as much as possible to the general incidents of his visit to Kent. He told her of the cousins there, and described them, and explained how they were mere shadows compared with the reality of her. He spoke of the crops, of the orchards, strawberry-beds, osier-beds, and green hop-bines, whose fruit ripened to golden-green before the picking. But to return from the fertile garden to the stony wilderness was the work of a word; and before she could prevent it, Daniel's wife found herself again upon his lips.

Under White Hill he left her, and she went straight homeward, while he made a wide detour and rode into the farm near two hours later.

That day John Prout found his master vigorous and cheerful. He detailed the fact gladly, and they asked themselves why it was; but only Sarah Jane guessed, and she did not enlighten them.

She could not, and the necessity for a sort of secrecy hurt her. She thought very long and deeply upon the subject, but saw no answer to Woodrow's arguments. He had frankly told her that he loved her; and while her mind stood still at the shock, he had asked her how it was possible to blame him for so doing. He had gone away into the world that he might seek peace, and he had found none. Instead, she had filled his sleeping and waking thoughts, and the mere memory of her had proved strong enough to stand as a sure shield and barrier between him and all other women. His love was an essence as pure and sweet as the air of the Moor. He had solemnly sworn it; and she dwelt on that, for it comforted her. She retraced other passages of their conversation, and marked how again and again it returned to her. And not only her did he discuss, but her husband also, and her child, and the future welfare of them all.

She fought with herself and blamed herself for being uneasy and cast down. What made her fearful? Why did sex move her to suspicion before his frank protestations? He was a very honest and truth-loving man. He hated hypocrisy, and cant, and the letter that killed; he stood for the spirit that quickened; he longed to see the world wiser, happier and saner. Such a fellow-creature was not to be feared or mistrusted.

She told herself that she ought to love him, as he loved her; and presently she assured herself that she did do so. He was a gentleman, delicate of speech, earnest, and--his eyes were beautiful to her. She found herself dwelling upon his outward parts, his gaze, his features, his thin, brown hands.

Prosperity must spring out of Woodrow's regard for Daniel, otherwise the professed friendship was vain. She assured herself of this; then she endeavoured to lift the problem of her mind into the domain of religion. Her husband worked hard to make her religious; now she brought her difficulties on to that higher plane, and strove to find more light upon them.

Nothing hurt her here. Religion, as she understood it, spoke clearly and did not reprove her. She must love her neighbour as herself, and seek to let a little of her own full cup of happiness flow over to brighten the hearts of those less blessed. The sole difficulty was in her teacher, not in her guides. How would Daniel approve such a large policy? She asked him. But she did not ask him quite honestly. She knew it, and she was very unhappy afterwards. And then she told herself that the end had justified the means; and then she doubted. And so the first real sorrow of her life dawned, became for a season permanent, and shamed her in her own eyes.

"I met Mr. Woodrow to-day, Daniel," she said, "and walked a bit beside his horse as I came back from Lydford. I thought once he was going to begin about you, and hoped to hear the good news that he meant to lift you up at last; but he didn't actually say it. Only he asked me to see him sometimes when I brought in the butter of a Friday--just to bring news of Ruddyford."

"Well, you do, don't you? If there's any message, Prout always sends it by you--by you, or anybody that happens to be going in."

"Yes; only I generally see Susan, or leave the message with Hephzibah. But Mr. Woodrow said he'd like me to call myself if he was in. And my first thought was 'no'; then I saw he was so much in earnest, that I said 'yes.'"

"You'll do no such thing, and 'twas very bold for him to ask it, or you to grant."

"Of course I won't, if you don't like; but listen a minute, Daniel. He was kinder about you than ever I remember him to be. 'Don't you fear for your husband,' he said. 'I'm a quiet man, but I'm wide awake. I know him. I know him better than Prout knows him, though Prout's never tired of praising him. Leave your husband's future in my hands. I mean to make the man in my own good time.' That's actually what he said, Dan. And he knew very well that I should tell you."

Brendon thought awhile.

"That's very good news, and a great weight off my mind," he answered. "But why did he tell you? Let him tell me, if 'tis true. And that's neither here nor there, so far as your seeing him goes. Anyway, I forbid you to call at his house again."