Chapter X A Man of Courage
Sally Cramphorn found the secret of her happiness hard to hide, and as the weeks lengthened into months and Libby still bid her hold her peace, yet would give no definite reason for the imposed silence, she grew somewhat restive. He refused to discuss dates, and declared that a year at least ought to pass in order that each should thoroughly understand the other before irrevocable matrimony. Under these circumstances Sally found her engagement fall something flat. She was in no haste to marry, but importunate that the world might learn of her good fortune; and finally, after a decided difference or two upon the question, Gregory realised that definite steps must be taken, and at once. First he thought of telling Sally, with frankness, how he had made a mistake, and was of opinion that, by reason of wide disparity in their dispositions, she could be no bride for him; but, to do Gregory justice, all manner of sincerity he consistently abstained from, and, in the present case, more than a candid bearing seemed necessary. To throw Sally over before her face called for full measure of courage, and any such step, until he was thoroughly established in Margery’s good graces, must be highly dangerous. So Libby assured himself. He determined, therefore, first to propose to Sally’s younger sister, win to his side the strength of her personality and the bitterness of her tongue, then explain his mistake to Margery and leave her wit to solve and escape from present entanglement with the wrong woman.
For once Mr. Libby acted speedily upon a decision, sought out the other maiden, lured her from the sheltering radius of the farm, and proceeded with his proposal after a plan very similar to that which had conquered Sally.
“It’s took me a long time—I may say years—to make up my mind,” he said, chewing a blade of grass and glancing sideways at the rather hard profile of Margery; “but I do think as you’m the best maid in Little Silver, cautious though I am by nature. Ess, a wife’s a solemn thought, yet you come nearer my fancy than any gal ever I seed or heard tell of, Margery Cramphorn. You’ve got a warm heart, as would make any man happy, I should reckon; an’ to cut a long story short, I’ve ordained to marry you, if you’m willin’.”
For answer Margery began to cry; but she let him kiss her, so he knew that the response was favourable.
“Doan’t blubber about it. ’Tis a joyful thing; an’ I’m sure I’m mazed wi’ gladness to think as you can care for me. An’ I hope as your love be big enough to last.”
“Always, always, till we’m auld mumpheads—so long as ever I can see an’ move an’ love—so long I’ll do for you an’ fight for you, dear Gregory.”
“Caan’t say no fairer, an’ I b’lieve you mean it. An’ the whole beauty of married life lies in the woman putting the man fust—so my mother said; ’cause he’m the bread-winner an’ must be thought of all times. An’ you might remember my mother’s ways wi’ me—a very gude, comforting, proper woman. I ban’t a horse for strength, an’ comfort I must have.”
“Which you shall have—love an’ worship always, dear Gregory; an’ I’m a proud maiden to think such a rich man as you could look to me for a helpmate. An’ you shan’t never be sorry; an’ faither do set me higher’n Sally, so come presently I’ll bring ’e more’n myself.”
“That’s no odds. A chap in love doan’t heed no such things as them; but theer’s wan point as I ban’t ezacally clear on touchin’ Sally. I can’t say nothin’ now; but—but next time we meet, I’ll tell you how it stands—a mystery like. She’m a gude gal, no doubt, but tu apt to run away with ideas an’ misread a man’s intentions, an’ take for facts things what she’ve dreamed in her sleep, I reckon. But bide till next Monday, then I’ll make it clear. Now we’ll just love each other an’ tell about marryin’.”
“Oh, Greg, I do blush to think of it. An’ I’ve longed for ’e, out o’ sight, all these years an’ years! Won’t her be raw—Sally? Her always thought as she was the favoured piece.”
“Ban’t seemly in a woman to set her mind ’pon a chap so outrageous. But let her bide. Now, when shall us be man an’ wife? An’ what fashion wall-hangings would ’e like to the cottage-parlour? For it must be done again, ’cause theer’s beastly grease ’pon it, wheer my mother’s head got against the wall on Sundays. She used to fall asleep regular in a auld armchair, then roll to the left out o’ the chair till the wall stopped her head. Done it for years. An’ her recipes I’ve kept, an’ the wan for herby-pie you’d best larn by heart, for ’tis favourite food o’ mine.”
“I will, Greg. You know how I can cook.”
“Wi’ a tender-stomached man, same as me, you’ll have to put your heart into the cooking.”
“So I will then.”
He squeezed her slowly until she gasped.
“You’m strong enough, I reckon, however,” she said. “Your arm be like a bar of steel around me!”
“’Tis love as hardens the sinews. I’ve a gert gift for lovin’, an’ if a man couldn’t love the likes o’ you, he’d be a poor, slack-baked twoad, for sartain. I’m lucky to get ‘e, an’ I knaw it, an’ us’ll be a happy couple, I lay—me a-doin’ man’s work an’ makin’ gude money, an’ you ’bout the house, so thrifty an’ savin’ that us shall graw rich ’fore we knaw it, an’ p’raps come to keep a servant for you to order here an’ theer. An’ me wi’ my awn hoss an’ trap, so like as not, to drive to cattle-shows an’ junketings, an’ taake my plaace in the world.”
“An’ I’ll sit beside ’e an’ look down at the walkers.”
“You’ll be home-along wi’ the childer more like. That’s the mother’s plaace. But us be lookin’ a thought tu far forrard now. Wait till Bank Holiday anyway; then I’ll meet ’e quiet by the river—down where Batworthy fishing right ends. ’Tis a private an’ peaceful plaace; an’ theer you must fix the day.”
“So I will then, an’ a proud woman I am, an’ a true wife I’ll make you; Lard’s my judge.”
“Mother——” began Mr. Libby; but he changed his mind and declared that it was now time to turn homewards.
At Bear Down he left his new love, after cautioning her by all holy things to keep their secret, and, ten minutes later, met his old sweetheart returning from Chagford. Sally was heavily laden and in a bad temper. Indeed Mr. Libby’s procrastination seemed enough to try any woman who heartily worshipped him. Now he offered to carry her parcels up the steep hill to the farm, and such unwonted civility soothed her not a little. Presently they rested awhile in the gathering twilight, and Gregory, with cynic satisfaction, kissed Sally’s red lips while yet he tasted Margery’s caresses. The experience fired him, and a wave of fancied courage held his soul. He told himself that he was the strong, resolute spirit into whose hand destiny had thrust the welfare of these simple maids. He laughed to think what soft wax they were under his control. Then he determined to put Sally out of her misery at once. He began a sentence to that end; but he changed his mind as her blue eyes fell full and honest upon him. After which she travelled the old, weary ground and clamoured for a definite understanding and definite date, superior to all self-respect in her importunity.
“How long be I to go dumb, anyways? An’ how long be I to wait? Us doan’t grow no younger, an’ you’m five-an’-thirty come September. Ban’t fair, I reckon, an’ theer’s more in it than I can guess, for you’m like no sweetheart ever I heerd tell ’bout. So cold as a newt seemin’ly. But if your love’s gone poor, then best to say so. If you’m shamed of me or you’ve changed your mind——”
The opportunity was an excellent one, but Gregory’s courage had evaporated. Moreover, there came into his head an inspiration. It occurred to him—while removed from such an event by distance—that it would be an exciting incident to invite Sally to the streamside also, to confront the sisters and clear up the situation once for all. The vision of himself between the tearful twain was pleasing rather than not. He saw himself the centre of an impressive scene.
“I’ll play the man,” he reflected; “an’ set her down handsome afore her sister. ’Tis awnly her word against mine, an’ Margery’ll believe me quick enough, for ’tis her interest so to do.”
Upon this heroic resolution he spoke.
“I doan’t say as you’m not in the right, Sally, to ax for somethin’ plain. Us’ll come to a fixture next Monday, as be a holiday. You meet me wheer Batworthy fishing right do end, down in the valley onder the roundy-poundies on the hill, at three o’clock in the afternoon by my watch, an’ us’ll settle up ’bout the axing out in church an’ such like.”
The girl could scarcely believe her ears.
“Really! ’Tis ’most tu gude to be true.”
“I mean it. Ess fay, I begin to want a wife ’bout the place.”
“I’ll come down-long, then, Monday afternoon, rain or shine.”
“Very well. An’ now I’ll bid you gude-night. Mind the spot an’ doan’t keep me waitin’; but if ’tis pourin’ cats an’ dogs I shaan’t be theer, for I’ve got to be careful of my paarts, bein’ a bit naish, as you knaw.”
“Bless ’e, dear Greg; ’tis gert news to me. An’ you’ll never be sorry for it, wance I’m Mrs. Libby—that I’ll swear.”
“Theer’s awnly wan gal as be the wife for me,” he said, and grinned at his own wit.
So they parted; and while Sally went home all gladness, forgetting the weight of her parcels in the lightness of her heart, Gregory moved down the hill occupied with a curious reflection.
“Theer’ll be a ‘mazin’ tempest o’ words between ’em, I doan’t mind a red rage, but I’m always terrible afeared of a white wan. Sally’ll go so fiery as sunset, an’ use crooked language, no doubt; but that’s nothin’. Awnly I couldn’t cross t’other. Her turns ash-colour when her’s vexed, an’ her tongue’s sharper’n a razor. ’Twill be a gert battle to watch an’ a very fine study of female character, no doubt.”