Chapter VIII The Round Robin
Before they slept that night Myles had expressed deep sorrow to Honor for his utterances and declared contrition.
“The suffering is mine,” he said; “to look back is worse for me than for you.”
His wife, however, confessed on her side to a fault, and blamed herself very heartily for a lapse, not in her love, but in her thoughtfulness and consideration. She declared that much he had spoken had been justified, while he assured her that it was not so.
The days passed, and health returned to Myles; upon which Christopher Yeoland, believing the recent difficulty dead, very speedily banished it from his mind, met Stapledon as formerly in perfect friendship, never let him know that he had heard of the tribulation recorded, and continued to lead a life quite agreeable to himself, in that it was leavened from time to time by the companionship of Honor.
Spring demanded that Myles should be much upon the farm, and the extent of his present labours appeared to sweep his soul clean again, to purify his mind and purge it of further disquiet. All that looked unusual in his conduct was an increased propensity toward being much alone, or in sole company of his dogs; yet he never declined Honor’s offers to join him.
She had not failed to profit vitally by the scene in the sick-room, yet found herself making no return to peace. Now, indeed, Honor told herself that her husband’s state was more gracious than her own; for there began dimly to dawn upon her heart the truth of those things that Myles had hurled against her in the flood of his wrath. She divined the impossible persistence of this divided love, and she felt fear. She was sundered in her deepest affections, and knew that her peace must presently suffer, as that of Myles had already suffered. Her peculiar attitude was unlike that of her husband or the other man. She saw them both, received a measure of worship from both, and grew specially impatient against the silent, pregnant demeanour of Mark Endicott. His regard for her was steadily diminishing, as it seemed, and he took some pains that she should appreciate the fact.
It grew slowly within her that the position was ceasing to be tenable for human nature, and not seldom she almost desired some shattering outburst to end it. She was greatly puzzled and oftentimes secretly ashamed of herself; yet could she not lay a finger on the point of her offending. Nevertheless she missed some attributes of a good wife, not from the conventional standpoint, which mattered nothing to her, but from her own standard of right-doing.
Meantime, behind the barriers now imperceptibly rising and thickening between man and wife, behind the calm and masklike face that he presented to the world, Myles Stapledon suffered assault of storm upon storm. He knew his highest ambitions and hopes were slipping out of reach; he marked with punctuations of his very heart’s throb the increasing loneliness and emptiness of his inner life; and then he fought with himself, while his love for Honor waxed. In process of time he came gradually to convince himself that the problem was reduced to a point. She loved Christopher Yeoland better than she loved him, or, if not better, then, at least, as well. She did not deny this, and never had. Life with him under these circumstances doubtless failed every way, because his own temperament was such that he could not endure it placidly. He doubted not that his wife went daily in torment, that she saw through him to the raging fire hidden from all other eyes. He gave her credit for that perspicacity, and felt that her existence with him, under these circumstances, must be futile. He then convinced himself that her life, if spent with Christopher, would be less vain. Through dark and hidden abodes of agony his soul passed to this decision; he tried to make himself feel that he loved her less by reason of these things; and finally he occupied thought upon the means by which he might separate himself from her and pass out of her life.
In the misty spring nights, under budding woodland green, or aloft in the bosom of silence upon the high lands, he wandered. A dog was his companion always, and his thoughts were set upon the magic knife, that should cut him clean out of his wife’s existence with least possible hurt to her. By constitution, conviction, instinct, the idea of suicide was vile to him. He had spoken of the abstract deed without detestation in Mark Endicott’s company, had even admitted the possibility of heroic self-slaughter under some circumstances; but faced with it, he turned therefrom to higher roads, not in fear of such a course, but a frank loathing rather, because, under conditions of modern life, and with his own existence to be justified, he held it impossible to vindicate such a step. And that door closed; he thought of modern instances, and could recall none to serve as a precedent for him. He turned, then, to consider the mind of Christopher Yeoland, and endeavoured to perceive his point of view. Blank failure met him there; but the thought of him clenched Stapledon’s hand, as it often did at this season, and he knew that hate was growing—a stout plant of many tendrils—from the prevalent fret and fever of his mind. He worked early and late to starve this passion, but toil was powerless to come between his spirit and the problem of his life for long.
His tribulation he concealed, yet not the outward marks of it. The eyes of the farm were bright, and it was natural that he should be the focus of them all. There came a night when Myles and his wife were gone to Chagford at the wish of others, to lend weight in some parochial entertainment for a good cause. Mr. Endicott was also of the party, and so it chanced that the work-folk had Bear Down house-place to themselves. The opportunity looked too good to miss, and their master was accordingly discussed by all.
“Some dark branch of trouble, no doubt,” said Henry Collins. “Time was when he would smoke his pipe and change a thought with the humblest. Now he’s such a awnself man, wi’ his eyes always turned into his head, so to say.”
“Broody-like,” declared Churdles Ash; “an’ do make his friends o’ dumb beasts more’n ever, an’ looks to dogs for his pleasure.”
“Ess; an’ wanders about on moony nights, an’ hangs awver gates, like a momet to frighten pixies, if wan may say so without disrespect,” continued Collins.
“A gert thinker he’ve grawed of late,” said Cramphorn; “an’ if I doan’t knaw the marks of thought, who should?”
“Sure a common man might ’most open a shop with the wisdom in his head,” admitted Sam Pinsent; and Jonah answered—
“He ban’t wise enough to be happy, however. A red setter’s a very gude dog, but no lasting company for a married man—leastways, he shouldn’t be. Theer’s somethin’ heavy as a millstone round his neck, an’ dumb beasts can’t lift it, fond of ’em as he is. The world’s a puzzle to all onderstandin’ people; yet theer’s none amongst us havin’ trouble but can find a wiser man than hisself to lighten the load if he’ll awnly look round him. Theer’s Endicott, as have forgot more of the puzzle of life than ever Stapledon knawed; an’ theer’s Ash, a humble man, yet not without his intellects if years count for anything; an’ me, as have some credit in company, I b’lieve. Ess, theer’s auld heads at his sarvice, yet he goes in trouble, which is written on his front and in his eyes. Best man as ever comed to Endicott’s tu, present comp’ny excepted.”
“Theer’s nought as we could do for his betterment, I s’pose?” asked Gaffer Ash. “I’ve knawed chaps quick to take fire at any advice, or such bowldaciousness from theer servants; but if you go about such a deed in the name of the Lard, nobody of right honesty can say nothin’ against you. Now theer’s a way to do such a thing, an’ that is by an approach all together, yet none forwarder than t’others. Then, if the man gets angry, he can’t choose no scapegoat. ’Tis all or none. A ’round robin’ they call the manifestation. You puts a bit of common sense, or a few gude Bible thoughts in the middle, an’ writes your names about, like the spokes of a cart-wheel, or the rays of the sun sticking out all around. So theer’s nothin’ to catch hold of against them as send it.”
“Seein’ we doan’t knaw wheer the shoe pinches, the thing be bound to fail,” said Pinsent. “If us knawed wheer he was hit, I be sure auld blids like you an’ Jonah would have a remedy, an’ belike might find the very words for it in the Scriptures; but you caan’t offer medicine if you doan’t know wheer a body’s took to.”
“’Tis the heart of un,” said Cramphorn. “I’m allowed an eye, I think, an’ I’ve seed very clear, if you younger men have not, that this cloud have drifted awver him since Squire Yeoland comed to his awn—an’ more’n his awn. Stapledon be out o’ bias wi’ the world here an’ theer no doubt.”
“I’m sure they’m gert friends, sir, an’ awften to be seed abroad of a airly mornin’ together ’pon the lands,” piped in Tommy Bates.
“Shut your mouth, bwoy, till us axes your opinion,” retorted Jonah. “An’ come to think on’t, seein’ the nature of the argeyment, you’d best clear out of this an’ go to bed.”
“Let un listen to his betters,” said Mr. Ash. “’Tis right he should, for the less he listens to men as a bwoy, the bigger fule he’ll be come he graws. ’Tis a falling out contrary to all use,” he continued. “Missis was set ’pon squire fust plaace; then, second place, he died; an’, third place, she married t’other; fourth place, he comed to life; an’ fifthly an’ lastly, ’pon this thumb of mine, he graws rich as Solomon, an’ bides in pomp an’ glory to Godleigh again.”
“An’ they’m awften about together, drivin’ an’ walkin’ for that matter; though God, He knaws I’d be the last to smell a fault in missis,” said Jonah.
“Damn bowldacious of the man, however,” declared Pinsent.
“’Tis so; an’ all of a piece wi’ his empty life, fust to last; an’ that’s what’s makin’ Myles Stapledon go heavy an’ forget to give me an’ others ‘Gude-marnin’’ or ‘Gude-evenin’,’ ‘cordin’ to the time of day. He thinks—same as I do—that theer’s a sight tu much o’ Yeoland in the air; an’ yet he’s that worshipful of his wife that, though maybe she frets him, he’d rather grizzle hisself to fiddle-strings than say a word to hurt her. ‘Mazin’ what such a wonnerful woman sees in that vain buzz-fly of a man.”
“You’m right, no doubt, Jonah,” assented Ash. “An’ if ’tis as you say, an’ we’m faaced wi’ the nature of the ill, us might do our little in all gude sarvice an’ humbleness towards the cure.”
“The cure would be to knock that cockatrice ’pon the head an’ scat his empty brains abroad wance for all. Then the fule would have to be buried fair an’ square, wi’ no more conjuring tricks,” declared Jonah Cramphorn.
“You’m an Auld Testament man, for sartain!” admitted Collins in some admiration.
“Fegs! So he be; but these here ain’t Auld Testament days,” said Churdles Ash; “an’ us caan’t taake the law in our awn hands, no matter how much mind we’ve got to it. ’Tis a New Testament job in my judgment, an’ us’ll do a ’round robin’ to rights, an’ set out chapter an’ verse, an’ give the poor sawl somethin’ very high an’ comfortin’ to chew ’pon. Truth to tell, he’s a thought jealous of his lady’s likin’ for t’other. I mean no rudeness, an’ if I doan’t know my place at fourscore, when shall I? But so it seems; an’ the fact thraws un back ’pon dogs an’ his awn devices, which is very bad for his brain.”
“What’s the gude o’ texts to a jealous man, whether or no?” asked Jonah scornfully.
“Every gude; an’ even a bachelor same as me can see it. Fust theer’ll be the calm process o’ handlin’ the Word an’ lookin’ up chapter an’ verse, each in turn; then the readin’, larnin’, markin’, an’ inwardly digestin’; then, if we pick the proper talk, he’ll come to a mood for Christ to get the thin end of the wedge in wi’ un. An’ so us’ll conquer in the name of the Lard.”
“’Pears to me as a bloody text or two wouldn’t be amiss. I’d like to fire the man up to go down-long to Christopher Yeoland an’ take a horse-whip to un, an’ tan the hide off un. Theer’s nought cools a lecherous heart like a sore carcase,” growled Jonah, reverting to his Old Testament manner.
Then Mr. Collins created a diversion.
“I won’t have no hand in it anyways,” he said. “’Tis a darned sight tu perilous a deed to come between a man and wife, even with a text of Scripture, ’specially when you call home how hard ’tis to find lasting work. Us might all get the sack for it; an’ who’d pity us?”
“All depends ’pon how ’tis done. Wi’ a bit of round writin’ the blame doan’t fall nowheers in partickler.”
“’Tis the wise ch’ice of words such a contrivance do depend on; an’ what more wise than Paul?” inquired Jonah Cramphorn. “I read the seventh of Romans to my wife ’pon our wedding night, and never regretted it. He hits the nail on the head like a workman; an’ if theer’s trouble arter, the chap will be fallin’ out wi’ an anointed apostle, not us. Ess, I be come round to your opinion, Ash. Us had better send it than not. You wouldn’t have had the thing rise up in your head if Providence didn’t mean us to do it.”
“Might be safer to send it wi’out names, come to think of it,” suggested Collins; but Gaffer Ash scorned the cowardly notion.
“Wheer’s the weight of that? No more’n a leaf in the wind wi’out names. No sensible pusson would heed advice, gude or ill, as comed so. ’Tis awnly evil-doers as be feared to sign an’ seal their actions.”
“Us might send it to she, instead of he,” suddenly suggested Cramphorn. “Her’s more to us, God bless her; an’ a woman’s better able to brook such a thing. She doan’t see how this here do ’pear to other people, else she’d never give the chap as much as ‘Gude-marnin’’ again. An’ her’ll be fust to mark the righteous motives to the act. Gimme the big Bible from the dresser-drawer, Tom Bates; an’ then go to your bed. Us doan’t want a green youth like you in the document.
“A dangerous thing to give advice wheer it ban’t axed,” mused Pinsent; “an’ specially to your betters.”
“So dangerous that I’ll have no part nor lot in it,” declared Henry. “The dear lady’s temper ban’t what it was, so your darter tells me, Cramphorn; an’ you’ve got a mother an’ sister to keep, Samuel, so you’d best to bide out of it along wi’ me.”
Mr. Cramphorn was turning over the leaves of an old Bible thoughtfully.
“Paul’s amazin’ deep versed in it, seemin’ly,” he said. “’Pears as he was faaced wi’ just such a evil when he wrote an’ warmed up they Corinthians. Listen to this here. ‘An’ unto the married I command, yet not I, but the Lard, Let not the wife depart from her husband: But an’ if she depart, let her remain unmarried.’”
“Awften had a mind ’pon that scripture myself,” declared Mr. Ash.
“An’ lower down he’s at ’em again. Hark to this: ‘Art thou bound to a wife? seek not to be loosed. Art thou loosed from a wife? seek not a wife.’ I reckon most men doan’t need to be told that last. Then theer’s another bracing word further on. Parson Scobell preached ’pon it awnly last month. Ephesians, fifteenth of five: ‘See then that ye walk circumspectly, not as fules, but as wise.’”
“Tu strong for a lady,” said Mr. Ash.
“Not so, Churdles. I’m the last to say or set a hand to any awver-bitter speech. ’Tis what her wants to awpen her butivul eyes, an’ shaw her the right road, same as them ’twas fust writ for. An’ here—same chapter: ‘Wives, submit yourselves to your awn husbands, as unto the Lard.’ Ban’t tawld to submit theerselves to young, flauntin’ bachelors, you see; an’ then it says how women should hold theer awn men in special reverence.”
“Theer’s the twinge, an’ I’d have ’e put that in for sartain,” declared Churdles. “If her reverenced un, her wouldn’t go about in high-wheeled, cranky dog-carts with t’other. Ess, put that down; together wi’ any light hint against the lust of the flaish, so long as you can find it set out in parlour language.”
Mr. Cramphorn took pencil and paper to his task; and Gaffer Ash, with the help of a round candlestick, drew a shaky circle in the middle of a sheet of foolscap. “Our names will all stick around,” he said; “an’ in the midst Jonah will set chapter an’ verse. Perhaps ten verses might be enough to right the wrong, an’ if you’m quick, Cramphorn, us’ll get it in a henvelope an’ addressed to missis, then slip it off to bed an’ leave the manifestation ’pon the table against her comes home.”
“More respectful to send it through the post,” ventured Collins; and Churdles admitted that it might be so.
“P’raps you’m right theer, Henery. Ess, for sure you be; an’ you’m gwaine into Chaggyford wi’ the cart fust thing to-morrow, so you can post it theer; then ’twill come wi’ all the dignity of the mail,” he said.
Jonah finished his pious task and wrote his name; Churdles Ash, who had only learned to write in middle-age, set down a shaky signature, half schoolboy’s, half senile in its wavering line; Pinsent wrote a laboured but well-regulated hand, and Mr. Collins also subscribed, yet with such uneasiness that one might have imagined he was signing his own death-warrant.
“Even now I’d like to hear Maister Endicott ’pon it,” he murmured. “If he was against it, I’d never willingly countenance the step.”
“He’m wan of the family; an’ whenever was it knawn as a female gived credit to them of her awn blood for sense?” inquired Jonah. “Why, ’tis last thing they think of. No; us o’ the land will send this here for gude or evil. We’m doin’ our duty an’ shan’t be no worse thought of. She’m a wonnerful woman—a queen among ’em at her best—always was so—an’ she’ll think the better of us for this transaction.”
“She’m just the sort to put a bit on our wages if the ’round robin’ worked to her betterment—a most grateful woman,” said Sam Pinsent, who from doubt had suddenly sprung to the extremity of hope.
“Ess—an’ if her didn’t, he would, so like as not,” declared Gaffer Ash. “If this sets all right an’ makes ’em happy an’ sensible an’ onderstandin’, in the name of the Lard and of Paul, how much smoother ’twill be for all parties!”
“An’ if all works well an’ nobody don’t do nothin’,” suggested Pinsent, “it might be a question whether us shouldn’t send in another to remind ’em of theer well-wishers. However, that’s in the future.”
“’Twould be like sendin’ in a bill, an’ not to be dreamt of,” answered Cramphorn. “’Tis awnly a small-fashioned mind as would think of such a thing.”
Pinsent retorted; but at that moment footsteps and voices warned the company. Pipes were relighted; the Bible was placed in the dresser-drawer; wide innocence sat upon each brown face; and, like lead within the breast pocket of Henry Collins, reposed the ’round robin’ destined, as all hoped, to such notable issues.