Chapter XIV: A Lunar Rainbow

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, _'tis_ life. 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 a _lusus naturæ_ as 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.