Chapter VII: Plain Speaking

A peace of unusual duration brooded over the dwelling of Philip Weekes; for his wife had gone to market on Saturday morning, but instead of returning home, according to her custom, in time for Sunday dinner at Lydford, she continued at Plymouth until the evening.

He basked in silence like a cat in the sun; but a few friends were coming to drink tea, and Susan already made preparations for the event.

Elsewhere, Sarah Jane, who was spending the day at Lydford, sat in a secret place with Jarratt Weekes and heard the things that she expected to hear.

The old castle was not opened to visitors on Sunday, but Jarratt kept the keys, and, after dinner, took Sarah to his fortress and offered her marriage within its mediæval walls. She wore her blue dress; he held himself a grade above those men who habitually don black upon the seventh day, and was attired in a mustard-coloured tweed suit.

"We'll come aloft," he said. "There's a window opens to the west, and I've put a seat there for visitors to sit in and look around. 'Tis out of sight of the street, and will shield you from the east wind that's blowing."

He offered to assist her up the wooden stairway, but she made as though she did not see and followed him easily.

Presently they sat together, and he sighed and twirled his gold watch-chain in a fashion to catch her eye. She noted his well-shaped and strong hand.

"I dare say you think I'm a happy man, Sarah Jane," he began abruptly.

"I don't think anything about you," she answered; "but all the same, you ought to be. Why not? Everything goes well with you, don't it? Mr. Huggins met me in the village as I came along. He says that you've bought Widow Routleigh's beautiful house at the corner, and only wait for her to die to go into it. And the new leat will run right through the orchard."

"So it will. But don't think that was a chance. I worked it all out and knew the water must come that way. I'd bought the ground, at my own price, before the old woman even guessed the water was coming. I say this to show you how far I look ahead."

"Of course you do--like Mrs. Weekes. You've got her great cleverness, no doubt."

"That's true, and I could give you many instances if you wanted them. But, all the same, there's much worth having that money won't buy. Ban't the root of all good, as some think, any more than 'tis the root of all evil, as other fools pretend--chiefly them as lack it. Money's all right, but not all-powerful. You, for instance--I know you well enough to know that money don't count for everything with you."

Sarah Jane plucked a spray of sweet wormwood that grew out of the wall within reach of her hand. She bruised it and passed its pale gold and silver thoughtfully under her nose.

"I'd dearly like to have money," she said.

"You would?"

"Dearly. I'd sooner have a hoss of my own to ride than most anything I can think of."

"A very fine idea, no doubt. And very fine you'd look upon one."

She smelt the wormwood, then flung it through the window and turned to him.

"But I wouldn't sell myself for that. I've never thought out the subject of money, and maybe never shall. Faither's always on about it; but 'tis only a sort of shadowy fancy in his mind, like the next world, or China, or any other place beyond his knowledge. Money's just a big idea to him and me. But I doubt if we had it, whether we should know how ever to manage it."

"Your father's no better than a wild man," said Jarratt impatiently. "So full of foggy hopes and opinions--nought practical about any of 'em. Now I'm nothing if not practical; and more are you. 'Tis that I've felt about you ever since you was wife-old. But what d'you think of me? People have an idea nobody could make much cash in a place the size of Lydford. Let 'em think so. But I tell you, Sarah Jane, that 'tis often the smallest stream holds the biggest trout. And I tell you another thing: I love you with all my heart and soul. There's nobody like you in the world. You're a rare woman, an' pretty as a picture to begin with; but that ban't all. You've got what's more than good looks, and wears better, and helps a busy man on his way. You'd not hinder a husband, but back him up with all your strength. Never was a body with less nonsense about her. In fact, I've been almost frightened sometimes, to think how awful little nonsense there is about your nature--for so young a woman. It comes of living up-along wi' nought but natural things for company. There's no lightness nor laughter up there."

He stopped for breath; but she did not speak. Then he proceeded.

"Not that I blame you for being so plain-spoken. 'Tis often the best way of all, an' saves a deal of precious time. And time's money. You only want a little more experience of the ways of people, to shine like a star among common women, who sail with the wind and always say what they think you'll best like to hear. But that's nought. The thing I want to say is that I love you, Sarah Jane, and there's nothing in life I'd like better than to make a beautiful home for you, with every comfort that my purse can afford in it. And a horse you certainly shall have; an' I'll teach you how to ride him. You're a thought too large for a pony, but a good upstanding cob--and a pleasant sight 'twould be."

"Nobody could say fairer, I'm sure."

"Then will you have me? I'm not good enough, or anywheres near it. Still, as men go, in these parts, you might do worse--eh?"

"A lot worse. What does your mother think about it?"

"She would sooner I married you than anybody--'if I must marry at all.' That was her view."

"Why marry at all, Jarratt Weekes? Ban't you very comfortable as you are?"

"Not a very loverly question," he said, somewhat ruefully. "I'm afraid you don't care much about me, Sarah Jane."

"I don't like your eyes," she answered. "I like the rest of you very well. And, after all's said, you can't help 'em."

"There 'tis!" he exclaimed, half in admiration, half in annoyance. "What girl on God's earth but you would say a thing like that to a man that's offering marriage to her? To quarrel with my eyes be a foolish trick all the same. You might so well blame my hair, or my ears, or my hands."

"Your hand is a fine, strong-shaped sort of hand."

"Take it then," he cried, "and keep it; an' give me yours. Let me run my life for you evermore; and for your good and for your betterment. I'm tired of running it for myself. I never knew how empty a man's life can be--not till I met you; and there's the cottage, crawled over with honeysuckle, and the swallows' nests under the eaves, and the lovely orchard and all! All waiting your good pleasure, Sarah Jane, the moment that old woman drops."

"I don't reckon I could marry you--such a lot goes to it. Still, I'll be fair to you and take a bit of time to think it over."

"You've got two strings to your bow, of course--like all you pretty women?"

"No, I haven't. Yet--well, there's a man I've seen a few times lately. And I do take to him something wonderful. There's that about him I've never felt in no other man. Only, so far as I know, he don't care a button for me. He may be tokened, come to think of it. I never heard him say he wasn't. I never thought of that!"

She sat quite absorbed by this sudden possibility, while Jarratt Weekes stared angrily at her.

"You'll puzzle me to my dying day," he growled. "If any other female could talk such things, we'd say it was terrible unmaidenly in her; but you--naked truth's indecent in most mouths--it seems natural to yours. Not that I like you the better for it."

"He's a huge man, and works at Ruddyford. He's been drawing peat these last few days, and I've had speech with him, an' gived him cider thrice. To see him drink!"

"Damn him and his cider!" said Weekes, irritably. "A common labourer! You really ought to pride yourself a thought higher, Sarah Jane. What would your poor mother have said?"

"She done exactly the same herself. And a prettier woman far than me when she was young. For faither's often told me so. He's raised himself since he was married. So might this chap. All the same, I don't know whether he gives me a thought when I'm out of his sight."

"I think of nought but you--all day long."

"And widows' houses, and a few other things! Of course you do. You haven't got up in the world by wasting your time."

"Say 'yes,' and be done with it, Sarah."

"I'll leave it for a round month, then I'll tell you."

"You'll leave it--just to see what this hulking lout on the Moor may do."

"Yes. But he's not a lout. I'm certainly not going to take you till I know if he cares for me. If he does, I'll have him, for he's made me feel very queer--so queer that it can't be anything but love. And if he don't ax inside six weeks, I'll take you."

"You're the sort to go and tell him to ask you," he said, bitterly.

"No, no! I won't do that. I'm a very modest woman really, though you don't seem to think so. I'll not run after him."

"You're mad to dream of such a thing."

"Very likely; but there 'tis. Now us had better go back-along. I promised Mr. Weekes to pour out tea for him this evening afore I went home."

"I'll walk back with you."

"No need. Father's going to meet me on the old tram-line. He's down to Lake to-day."

They returned to the cottage of Philip Weekes, and found the company assembled.

There were present a very ancient, wrinkled man with a thin, white beard, called Valentine Huggins. As happens sometimes, he had out-lived his Christian name, and an appellation, proper to youth, seemed so ridiculous applied to a veteran of fourscore that nobody ever called him by it but one or two of his own generation, who did not mark the humour. Mr. Huggins was the oldest inhabitant of Lydford, and could count numerous grandchildren, though his own sons and daughters were nearly all dead. Adam Churchward, the schoolmaster, and his daughter Mary completed the gathering. He was large, hairless, ponderous, and flatulent; she nearly approached beauty, but her mouth was thin, and her voice served to diminish the pleasure given by her bright, dark face. The tone of it sounded harsh and rough, and when she spoke two little deep lines at their corners increased the asperity of her lips.

"I suppose we may say, in the words of the harvest hymn, that 'all is safely gathered in,'" remarked Mr. Churchward, as he drank his tea. "A good harvest, the work-folk tell me--or, rather, their children." He lifted his protuberant, short-sighted and rather silly eyes upward, to the conventional angle of piety.

"A very good harvest, I believe," admitted Philip, "and good all round--so the missis brought word from market last week."

"I trust the operations of sale and barter have been all that you could wish," added Mr. Churchward.

"Nothing to grumble at--very good markets," declared Philip, "though my partner never will admit it. Still, figures speak, and though she may pretend to lose her temper, I always know. Her pretences ban't like the real thing."

"No pretence about it when Aunt Hepsy's in a right-down tantara of a rage," said Susan.

"An unusual name--a Scriptural name," remarked the schoolmaster. "Has the significance of the name of 'Hephzibah' ever struck your mind, neighbour? It means, 'my delight is in her.'"

"So I've been told," answered the husband, drily. Indeed, his tone silenced the other, and, perceiving that he had apparently struck a wrong note of suggestiveness, Philip made haste to speak again.

"Nobody ever had a more suitable name, I'm sure. This house wouldn't be this house without her."

Jarratt Weekes and Sarah Jane now returned, and the subject was dropped by implicit understanding.

"I hope your great son, William, be well," said Sarah to the schoolmaster.

"Very well indeed, I thank you," he answered. "I could wish he had a little of his parent's zeal for toil, but he lacks it."

"Why for did he give up his shop work?" she asked.

"To be honest, it was rather undignified. For my son to fill that position was not quite respectful to me. He insisted upon it, but after a time, as I expected, found the duties irksome. I was not sorry when he changed his mind and returned to his painting."

"All the same, he's eating his head off now," said Mary Churchward.

"I shouldn't say that," declared William's father. "He helps me with the elder scholars. I have little doubt that some outlet for his artistic energies may soon be forthcoming. He has even an idea of going abroad."

"Do they still call him the 'Infant'?" asked Mr. Weekes.

"I believe so. How time flies with those who work as we do! _Tempus fugit_, I'm sure. It seems only yesterday that he was really an infant. In these arms the physician placed him some hours after his birth, with the remark that never had he introduced a fatter boy into the world."

"So I've heard you say," answered the huckster. "Give Mary another cup of tea, please, Sarah Jane."

"Yes," continued Mr. Churchward. "At first I had reason to believe that William would develop very unusual intellects. His childhood was rich in evidences of a precocious mind. But it seemed, in the race between brain and body, that after a struggle the physical being out-distanced the mental spirit. If I am becoming too subtle, stop me. But you may have observed that men above six feet high are seldom brilliantly intelligent."

"I know a chap who is, however," said Sarah Jane. "A young man bigger than your son, Mr. Churchward, but a very great thinker in his way--so my father says."

Mr. Churchward raised his eyebrows incredulously, and at the same moment bowed.

"Bill's sharp enough, and father knows it," said Mary Churchward. "He's horrid lazy; that's all that's the matter with him. If he had to work, 'twould be a very good thing for him."

"The questions that child used to ask me!" continued Adam. "Why, I believe it is allowed that I can reply to most people--am I right, Huggins?"

"Never yet knowed you to be floored," replied Mr. Huggins, in an aged treble. "There's the guts of a whole libr'y of books packed behind your gert yellow forehead, schoolmaster."

"Thank you, Huggins," said Mr. Churchward, with dignity. "Thank you. Truth has always been your guiding star since I have known you, and though your words are homely, they come from the heart. Pass me the sally-lunns, Susan, and I'll tell you a good thing Will said when he was no more than seven years old."

Mr. Churchward selected a cake, nibbled it, then waved it.

"Stop me if I have narrated this narrative before. I was giving the child a lesson in divinity. Indeed, at one time I had thoughts of the calling for him, but his mind took another turn."

"He don't believe in nothing now--nothing at all," said Mary, "except himself."

"You wrong him there. He is a Christian at heart, if I am any student of character. But as a child, he indulged in curious doubts. 'God made all things, I suppose, father?' he asked me on the occasion I speak of. 'Yes, my little man, He did indeed,' I answered. 'He made hell then?' he asked. 'Surely,' I admitted. 'Was it for Mr. Satan and his friends, so that they would all be comfy together?' he asked. 'No doubt that they should be together; but far from "comfy,"' I replied; 'and take good care, my child, that it shall never be said of you that you are one of those friends.' Now is not that a remarkable instance of juvenile penetration?"

"An' very good answers you made the nipper, I'm sure," said Mr. Weekes.

Here Jarratt changed the subject abruptly, and conversation ranged over matters more generally interesting than the schoolmaster's son.

"The water will be into Lydford come June next or a little later, they tell me," said the keeper of the castle. "I was showing the head engineer over the ruin last week--for all the times he'd been here he'd never seen it--and there's no doubt at all that the work will be done by next spring."

"Then I must begin to think of our preparations," answered Adam. "You may be aware that I am responsible for the idea that something of an exceptional nature shall be carried out to mark the arrival of the water. I mentioned it to the vicar two or three months ago, and he--well, if I may say so, he showed a coldness."

"Always is cold unless he thinks of a thing himself," said Jarratt.

"I'm afraid you have hit off his character in a nutshell. However, I am not to be shaken where I think the good of Lydford is concerned. 'It's a year too soon to begin thinking of it,' said the vicar to me; but I explained that these things must be taken in time and carefully thought out. 'Do it yourself then, since you're so set upon it,' he said. 'Then you'll have no objection to my proceeding in the matter, your reverence?' I asked, 'for I should like everything _ex cathedrâ_ and in order.' 'Oh, do what you like, only don't let it be anything ridiculous,' he answered, in his unkind, off-hand style. 'I'm not the man to bring ridicule on Lydford or myself, I believe,' I replied, in my haughty way."

"Had him there," chuckled Mr. Huggins.

"And with that I just bowed myself out."

"Us'll do it without troubling him, then," declared Philip Weekes. "The matter's very safe in your hands, neighbour."

"I think it is. Without self-praise--a thing I have never been accused of--I think it is. My own idea is matured, but I am quite prepared to hear that a better one is forthcoming."

"You should call a meeting and have a committee," suggested Jarratt.

"My idea was to have the committee without the meeting. For instance--we here assembled--why can't we elect a committee?"

"'Twill be too hole-and-corner," said Jarratt.

"Not at all, not at all. This is neither a hole nor yet a corner, but the house of one of the burgesses of Lydford. We represent various interests. I stand _in propriâ personâ_ for advancement and intellectual attainments, and the arts and sciences, and such-like; Jarratt Weekes is for business and mercantile pursuits and commerce; Mr. Huggins--well, he's the oldest inhabitant. 'Twould be a very right and proper thing to have him on the committee."

"Should like nothing better, souls," declared Mr. Huggins. "Talk I won't, but there must be some to listen."

"We ought to have a few more--seven or eight in all," said the younger Weekes. "Then we'll get through a scheme of some sort and hear what you've got to say, schoolmaster."

"The vicar will be very like to put his spoke in it if your ideas don't meet his views," suggested Philip, and Mr. Churchward's large pendulous cheeks flushed a delicate pink at the idea.

"I'm sorry to hear you say that. I hope you're wrong. He gave me a free hand, remember."

Presently the company separated. Mr. Huggins was going by Sarah Jane's way, and he walked beside her; the Churchwards went to evening worship; Jarratt disappeared with his own anxious heart; and Mr. Weekes, hiding all evidence of inward thought, harnessed his pony and drove off to Lydford, to meet the train which was bringing his wife and her baskets home from Plymouth.