Chapter VI Love of Man
Mr. Gregory Libby, to whom circumstance denied any opportunity of close investigation, at length came upon a conclusion respecting the daughters of Jonah Cramphorn, and allowed his judgment to be unconsciously influenced by his desire. That is to say he arrived at a mistaken decision because the balance of his feeble, physical emotions weighed toward Sally. She was the eldest and the fairest; he concluded, therefore, that she enjoyed the greater proportion of her parent’s regard, and must the more materially benefit under his will in time to come. He braced himself for the crucial question, and it happened that he did so but two days after a very significant symposium at Endicott’s, during which Mr. Cramphorn occupied the position of chief speaker, and his daughters were the principal theme of conversation. From discussion upon these primitive maids, and their father’s opinion concerning them, discourse had truly ranged to higher subjects; but not before Jonah made definite statements of a sort that deeply moved one among his listeners.
Behind the obscurity blown from a clay tobacco-pipe, Henry Collins sat, round-eyed and wretched. He gasped with most unselfish sorrow for the girl he loved, and committed to memory certain surly assertions of Mr. Cramphorn concerning her, with a purpose to forewarn Sally of the fate her future held. For Jonah spoke definitely and doggedly. He weighed the merits of his own daughters with Spartan frankness, and, arriving at judgment, declared Margery’s filial conduct a lesson to Little Silver, regretted Sally’s indifference and independence of manners, and concluded with complacent hints that his knowledge of human nature was not wont to be at fault, and that she best able to administer wisely his worldly wealth should have it as a just reward, when he passed beyond need of cottage or savings bank.
These utterances Libby heard too late, but Cramphorn’s elder daughter became acquainted with them immediately after they were spoken, thanks to the enterprise of Henry Collins. He felt it his duty to the woman that she should be put in possession of such gloomy predictions, while yet power might lie with her to falsify them.
“Afore the whole comp’ny he said it,” declared Henry; “an’ he’m a man as knaws no shadder of turning most times. An’ he haven’t got the wisdom of a mouse neither—not in this matter; so it’ll surely happen, onless you fall in wi’ his ways more an’ knock onder oftener than what you do.”
“I’ve seed it comin’, an’ he’m a cruel wretch,” answered Sally with many pouts. “An’ her’s worse—my sister, I mean. Sly minx, she’ve plotted an’ worked for it wi’ low onderhand ways—cooing to un; an’ glazin’ at un when he talked, as if he was King Solomon; an’ spendin’ her pence in pipes for un; an’ findin’ his book-plaaces to church—‘Struth! I could wring her neck, an’ ’tis more’n likely I shall do it wan day.”
“But he doan’t knaw—Libby, I mean—though he’s sartain to hear soon; an’ your faither won’t tell Margery for fear she should give awver fussin’ ’bout arter un, when she knaws his will’s writ an’ signed an’ can’t be called back. So I comed to say that I doan’t care a feather for all his money, an’ I loves you better’n ever—better’n better now he’m set against ’e.”
“Ess, I knaw all that; and doan’t ’e tell this tale to nobody else; an’ bid them others, as heard my auld beast of a faither, to keep it in an’ tell nobody. Wance Libby knaws, ’tis——”
“All up. Ess, so ’tis, Sally; an’ doan’t that shaw ’e what fashion o’ dirt the man’s made of? Do ’e want a chap to marry you for what you take to un in your hand? Do ’e——”
“Doan’t ax no more questions now, theer’s a dear sawl. I ban’t in no fettle to answer ’em, an’ I be sore hurt along o’ this. A gude darter as I’ve been tu. An’ her—no better’n a stinging long-cripple—a snake as’ll bite the hand that warms it. I wish I was dead, I do. Go away, caan’t ’e? I doan’t want your ’ankersher. Let my tears alone, will ’e? I wish they was poison. I’d mingle ’em wi’ her food—then us would see. Go—go away! Be you deaf? I’ll scream my heart out in a minute if you bide theer!”
Collins, desiring no such catastrophe, made haste to disappear; and such is the rough-and-tumble of things that chance willed this dramatic moment for the entrance of Gregory Libby. Big with fate he came from hedge-trimming, and shone upon Sally’s grief like the sun of June upon a shower. She was sobbing and biting her red lips; and he, with the dignity of toil yet manifested about him, dropped his sickle, flung off his gloves, led Sally behind a haystack, and bid her sit down and relate her sorrow.
“Just gwaine to take my bit of dinner,” he said; “so you can tell while I eat. What’s the matter? You’m wisht, an’ your butivul cheeks be all speckly-like wi’ cryin’.”
She swallowed her tears, sucked her lips, and smiled through the storm.
“Nought—a flea kicked me. Sit here an’ I’ll pull down a bit o’ dry out o’ the stack for ’e.”
“Ban’t awften them wonnerful butcher-blue eyes o’ yourn shed tears, I’m sure,” he mumbled with his mouth full; “but we’ve all got our troubles no doubt. An’ none more’n me. I’m that lonesome wi’out mother to do for me. I never thought as I’d miss her cookin’ an’ messin’ ’bout the house so much. An’ what’s money wi’out a woman to spend it—to spend it on me, I mean?” he added hastily. “I want a wife. A gude woman stands between a man an’ all the li’l twopenny-ha’p’ny worrits as his mind be tu busy tu trouble ’bout. I want a useful gal around me, an’ wan as’ll take the same view of me what mother done.”
“You’m a marryin’ man for sartain.”
“I be. An’ I’ve thought an’ thought on it till I got the ’eadache; an’ my thoughts doan’t go no further’n you, Sally.”
“Lard, Gregory dear!”
“True’s I’m eatin’ onions. I’ve been figuring you up for years. An’ now I knaw we’m likely to be a very fitting man an’ wife. You knawed mother; and you knaw me, as ban’t a common man ezacally, so say the word.”
“Oh, Gregory! An’ I thought you was after my sister!”
“She’m a very gude gal, an’ a very nice gal tu,” said Mr. Libby with his usual caution. “No word against her would I say for money. An’ if you wasn’t here, I’d sooner have her than any other. A brave, bowerly maiden wi’ butivul hands to her, an’ a wonnerful onderstandin’ way, an’——”
“Ess, but ’tis me you love—me—not her?”
“Ban’t I tellin’ you so? I say it in cold blood, after thinkin’ ’pon it, to an’ from, for years. An’ I’ll tell you how mother treated me, for you couldn’t do no better’n what she did. She onderstood my habits perfect.”
“God knaws I’ll make ‘e a gude wife, Greg. An’ no call to tell me nothin’ of that ’bout your mother, ’cause I’ll be more to ‘e than she; an’ I’ll think for ‘e sleepin’ an’ wakin’, an’ I’ll work for ’e to my bones, an’ love the shadow of ’e.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so, Sally, though mother’s ways was very well considered. The thing be to make up your mind as I’m in the right all times, as a thinking man mostly is.”
“I knaw you will be; an’ a gude husband, as’ll stand up for me against all the world, an’ see I ban’t put upon or treated cruel.”
“I will do so. An’ ’tis odds if I’ll let ’e do any work at all arter you’m wedded to me—work ’cept about my house, I mean.”
“No, for ’twill take me all my time workin’ for ’e, an’ makin’ your home as it should be.”
“Kiss me,” he said suddenly, “an’ kiss me slow while I take my full of it. Theer’s blood ’pon your lips! You’ve bited ’em. What’s fretted ‘e this marnin’? Not love of me, I warn ’e?”
“’Twas, then—just love of you, Greg; an’ fear that the fallin’ out of cruel things might make ’e turn away from me.”
He patted her cheek and stroked it; then her neck; and then her plump bosom.
“So butivul an’ fat as a pattridge you be! An’ I’m sure I love ’e tremenjous; an’ nothin’ shall never part us if you say so.”
“Then all my tears was vain, an’—an’ I’ll grow a better woman an’ say longer prayers hencefarrard—for thanksgivings ’cause I’ve got ’e.”
“’Tis a gude match for you, Sally; an’ I do trust as you’ll never make me to regret I spoke.”
“Never, never; an’ you’ll never love nobody else, will ’e?”
“Not so long as you’m a gude wife an’ a towser to work. My mind was always temperate ’an sober towards petticoats, as be well knawn.”
“Oh, I could sing an’ dance for sheer joy, I could! An’ so chapfallen just afore you comed. But what’s a faither to a lover—’specially such a sour faither as mine?”
“Doan’t you quarrel wi’ Cramphorn, however,” said Gregory; “he’m the last man as I’d have you fall out with.”
“Quarrel! I never quarrel with nobody. But he ban’t like you—even-tempered an’ fair. A wan-sided, cranky man, faither. I be his eldest, yet Margery’s put afore me. He can’t see through her dirty, hookem-snivey tricks an’ lying speeches. I be straight an’ plain, same as you, an’ he hates me for it.”
Mr. Libby’s heart sank low.
“Hates you? D’you say your faither hates you?”
“Well, the word ban’t big enough seemin’ly. I can tell you now, because we’m tokened, an’ my heart shan’t never have no secret from you. But he likes Margery best because she foxes him, an’ fules him, an’ tells him he’s a wonder of the world; an’ he believes it. An’ Collins says as he’ve awpenly gived out that she’m to have all his gudes an’ his money. Why for do ’e give awver lovin’ me?”
For Mr. Libby’s arm, which was round Sally’s waist, fell away from that pleasant circumference, and an expression of very real misery spread over his face to the roots of his yellow hair.
“‘His gudes an’ his money’?” he asked, in a faint voice, that sounded as though he had been frightened.
“Ess. Why, you’m as if somebody had suddenly thrawed a bucket of water awver ’e! Doan’t think I care ’bout his money now. You’ll have to make him chaange his mind bimebye. When you’m my husband, you’ll have to tackle faither an’ see he doan’t cut me away.”
The man’s brain went cold. Desire had vanished out of his eyes, and Sally might have been a stone beside him. He flung away the remainder of his luncheon, and uttered a hearty oath or two.
“’Tis a damned oncomely thing, an’, as it takes two to a quarrel, theer’s some fault your side as well as his, I reckon. What be the reason as Margery’s more to him than you—his eldest?”
“Because she’m a lyin’ slammockin’ female twoad—that’s the reason; an’ he caan’t see through her.”
There was a moment of heavy silence; then Gregory Libby spoke.
“Doan’t say nothin’ ’bout what we’ve planned out to-day. Doan’t tell nobody. Time enough come Spring.”
“Say nought! I’d like to go up ’pon top the hill an’ sing out my gude fortune for all ears to hear!”
“No, bide quiet. Us’ll let ’em have the gert surprise of it in church. None shall knaw till we’m axed out some Sunday marnin’.”
“’Twill bust upon ’em like thunder. I lay Margery will faint if she’m theer.”
“An’ us’ll have the laugh of ’em all.”
“’Tis as you please, Greg.”
“An’ you’ll take your oath not to tell?”
“Not even mistress?”
“Certainly not she.”
“Nor yet Missis Loveys?”
“So soon tell all Little Silver.”
“You might let me just whisper it to my awn sister. ’Twill be a cruel stroke if her hears it fust afore all the people to church.”
“If you say a syllable of it to Margery, ’tis off!” declared Mr. Libby, and with such earnestness did he speak that the girl was alarmed, and made hasty assurances.
“Very well, I promise an’ swear, since I must. But how long be I to go dumb? Remember, ’tis tu gert a thing for a woman to keep hid for long. You’m cruel, Greg, lovey, to ax it. I’ll have to blaze it out soon or bust with it.”
“Wait my time. It ban’t to be awver-long, that I promise ’e.”
“Kiss me again, Greg; an’ cuddle me.”
“You take your dyin’ oath?”
“Ess, I said so.”
“Very well; now I must go back to my work.”
Presently they separated, and Sally, full of her secret, walked upon air through a golden world, with her hot heart’s core aglow, while Mr. Libby bit his hare-lip, employed many coarse words for the benefit of the hedge he hacked at, and put a spite and spleen into each stroke that soon blunted his bill-hook. He was now faced with a problem calling for some ingenuity. He yearned to know how he might retrieve his error, and get well free of Sally before approaching her sister upon the same errand. Where to turn for succour and counsel he knew not. “If mother was awnly alive for ten minutes!” he thought. As for another ancient dame, Charity Grepe, she—publicly exposed as a fraud and delusion by Jonah Cramphorn—had found her occupation gone in earnest, and now reposed at Chagford poor-house. There was none to help the unhappy orphan in his trouble. The matter looked too delicate for masculine handling; and even Gregory had sense to perceive that it would be easy for others to take a wrong attitude before his dilemma and judge him harshly. Then came an inspiration to this lack-lustre son of the soil.
“No pusson else but she heard me tell her,” he reflected. “Theer’s awnly her word for it, an’ I’ll up an’ say ’tis a strammin’ gert lie, an’ that she was mazed or dreamin’, an’ that I wouldn’t marry her for a hunderd sovereigns! I’ll braave her to her faace, if it comes to that. Folks’ll sooner believe a man than a woman most times; an’ if I ban’t spry enough to awver-reach a fule of a outdoor farm-gal on such a matter, ’tis pity.”