Chapter II The Meeting of the Men
Christopher Yeoland visited Bear Down on the evening after his meeting with its mistress; but the hour was late when he arrived, and Honor had retired with a headache ere he entered the farm. Even as he reached the front door and lifted his hand to the bell Yeoland changed his mind and strolled round to the kitchen entrance. There he stood for an instant before marching boldly in according to his old custom. A voice fell upon his ear, and for a moment he thought that it must be Mark speaking to himself alone, as was the blind man’s wont; but other speech broke in upon the first, and, catching his own name on Cramphorn’s tongue, Christopher stood still, laughed silently, and listened.
An utterance from Churdles Ash was the first that came distinctly to him.
“Us o’ Little Silver be like the twelve apostles, I reckon—all mazed wi’ gert wonder to hear tell of a resurrection.”
“Awnly theer’s a world-wide differ’nce ’tween Lard o’ Hosts an’ this gormed Jack-o’-lantern,” answered Cramphorn. “For my part I’d so soon—maybe sooner—he was wheer us thought him. Born he was to make trouble, an’ trouble he’ll make while he walks airth. No fay, I can’t fox myself into counting this a pleasing thing. He’m takin’ up gude room, if you ax me.”
Christopher, having heard quite enough, himself answered as he came among them—
“That’s honest, at any rate, Jonah. But I hope you’re wrong. I’ve come back a reformed character—on my solemn word I have. Wait and see.”
He shook hands with Stapledon first, afterwards with Mark Endicott and the assembled labourers. There fell a moment of awkward silence; then Jonah, who felt some word from him seemed due, knocked out his pipe and spoke before retiring. He contented himself with an expression of regret, but hesitated not to qualify it so extensively that little doubt arose concerning his real opinions.
“I didn’t knaw as you was behind the door, Squire Yeoland, else I might have guarded my lips closer. An’ bein’ a living sawl—to save or damn accordin’ to God’s gudeness—‘tweern’t seemly for me to speak so sharp. Not that offence was meant, an’ a man’s opinions be his awn; though I trust as you’ll order your ways to shaw I’m a liar; an’ nobody better pleased than me, though not hopeful, ’cause what’s bred in the bone comes out in the flesh. An’ I may say you’ve proved wan thing—if awnly wan: that a sartain party by name of Charity Grepe be a auld, double-dealin’ rascal, an’ no more a wise woman than my awn darters. So gude-night all.”
Pinsent and Collins retreated with Mr. Cramphorn, but old Churdles Ash remained to shake hands once again with the wanderer.
“I be a flat Thomas wheer theer’s any left-handed dealings like this here,” he said. “Most onbelievin’ party as ever was, as well a man may be when the world’s so full of evil. But by the hand of you and the speech of you, you’m flesh and blood same as the rest of us. I’m sure I hope, your honour, if you’ll take an old man’s respectful advice, as you’ll bide above ground henceforrard an’ do no more o’ these dark, churchyard deeds ’mongst Christian folks. It may be very convenient an’ common down-long in furrin paarts, but ’tidn’ seemly to Little Silver, wheer theer’s such a lot o’ the risin’ generation as looks to ’e for a example.”
“I’ll act as becomes me ever afterwards, gaffer,” declared Christopher, whereon, gratified by this promise, Mr. Ash touched his forehead, praised God and the company, and so withdrew.
Then Yeoland began his story, and Mark put an occasional question, while Stapledon kept silence until he should have opportunity to speak with the other alone. A necessity for some recognition and utterance of personal gratitude weighed heavy on him. That Christopher desired no such thing he felt assured, but he told himself that a word at least was due, and must be paid, like any other debt. Myles had judged as the wanderer suspected: Yeoland’s initial act seemed great to him; this return to life he accounted paltry and an anticlimax beside it. Putting personal bias out of the question, or believing that he did so, Stapledon endeavoured to estimate the achievement from an impartial spectator’s standpoint, and so seen this homecoming disappointed him. He did not deny the man his right to return; he only marvelled that he had exercised it. Yet as Christopher, with many an excursus, chattered through his story, and spoke of his native land with manifest emotion, Stapledon wondered no more, but understood, and felt disinterested sympathy. Then he blamed himself for previous harsh criticism, and discovered that the leaven of a personal interest had distorted his point of view. Morbidly he began to think of Honor, and the dominant weakness of his character awoke again. He told himself that Yeoland would find out how perfect was the unanimity between husband and wife; then he gave himself the lie and wondered, with his cold eyes upon Christopher, if the returned wanderer would ever discover that the inner harmony of Honor’s married life was not complete at all times.
When Yeoland had made an end, Mark asked him concerning his plans for the future, and listened to many projects, both happy and impracticable, for the glorification of Godleigh and the improvement of Little Silver.
“Clack’s going to be my agent. After he practically perjured his immortal soul for me, I cannot do less for him than give him that appointment. And he’s a good sportsman, which is so much nowadays.”
With some element of restraint they discoursed for an hour or more, then Yeoland rose and Myles walked part of the way home with him. Under a night of stars the farmer spoke and said what he accounted necessary in the briefest phrases capable of rendering his sentiments.
“I want you to know that I understand and I thank you. My gratitude is measured by the worth of what you—you gave me. I can say no more than that.”
“No need to have said as much. Your voice tells me you don’t like saying it, Stapledon, and truly I had no desire to hear it. You see, we could only win her full happiness that way. I knew her character better than you could——”
“Impossible!”
“Now, no doubt, but not then, when these things happened. I pictured her with you, and with me. I appreciated your message, but I didn’t agree with you. Honestly you have nothing to thank me for. We’re on this now and will leave the bones of the thing clean-picked. It was love of the woman—desire to see her happy for all time—that made me act so. You asked her to marry you before you sent your message by Clack. So that showed me you believed that you could achieve her happiness if she let you try. But she would never have married you until she knew that I was out of it. The right thing happened. All’s well that ends well. With a past so distinct and defined, it seems to me that the future could hardly look happier. We understand each other so well—we three, thank God. I threshed it all out through many a long, sleepless night, I can tell you. I’m no tertium quid come back into lives that have done with me; I’m not here to ruffle up a tangle already smoothed out by time. You understand that?”
Myles agreed with the younger man, and tried to believe him.
“Of course I understand. Friends we shall always be, and each welcome to the other when our devious ways may cross. Honor is not likely to be sentimental under such curious conditions. She will view this, your return, with the calm self-possession she displays in all affairs of life. It has done her good already, and lifted a cloud. I tell you so frankly. She was haunted. I hear you know all about that. There is no need for you to say what you feel about it. I will take your words as spoken. So here we stand—we three—and our lives must go forward and unfold to the ripening here on this hillside. What then? There is room enough?”
“Ample, I should imagine. That you should ask the question is a little astonishing. But I understand you better than you think. You can’t help the defiance in your tone, Stapledon; you can’t wholly hide the hardness in your voice. D’you think I don’t know what’s cutting you so deep when you look at me and remember that night? Forgive me. I have paid for it with grey hairs.”
“You mistake. I should be a fool to blame you seriously for that. Merely evil fortune. Evil fortune was overdue in my life. I had been waiting long for reverses. You were the unconscious instrument.”
“Your old, sombre creed, whose god is the law of chance. Anyhow, you and your wife shall find no truer friend than Christopher Yeoland in the years to come.”
They shook hands and separated, the one perfectly happy and contented that this ordeal was over; the other already in a cloud of cares with his face lifted to meet troubles still invisible. The one saw a smooth and sunlit road ahead of him—a road of buds and flowers and singing birds; the other stood among pitfalls past numbering, and the way was dreary as well as dangerous.
As he returned home, Myles stopped and looked over a gate to set his thoughts in order. Whereupon he made discoveries little calculated to soothe or sustain him in this hour. First he found that lack of knowledge alone was responsible for his commotion—lack of knowledge of his wife; and secondly, reviewing his recent conversation with Christopher, he very readily observed a note in it unfamiliar to himself. This man’s advent aroused an emotion that Myles had read of and heard about, but never felt. Upon the threshold of renewed intercourse, and despite so many friendly words, Stapledon recognised the thing in his heart and named it. He was jealous of Yeoland’s return, and his discovery staggered him. The fact felt bad enough; the position it indicated overwhelmed him, for it shone like an evil light on the old fear; it showed that the understanding he boasted between himself and Honor by no means obtained. Herein lay his trial and his terror. No cloudless marital life could receive this miasma into its atmosphere for an instant, for jealousy’s germ has no power to exist where a man and a woman dwell heart to heart.
Great forces shook Stapledon; then he roused himself, fell back upon years of self-discipline, shut the floodgates of his mind, and told his heart that he was a fool.
“The man shall be my friend—such a friend as I have never had yet,” he said aloud to the night. “I will weary him with my friendship. He is honest, and has sacrificed his life for me. It is the vileness of human nature, that hates benefits received, which works in me against him. And if it pleases Fate to send me another child, this man, who believes in God, shall be its godfather.”
His determination comforted Stapledon, and he passed slowly homeward conscious of a battle won, strong in the belief that he had slain a peril at its birth. He told himself that the word “jealousy” rang unreal and theatrical, in presence of his wife’s slumber.