Chapter XIV From Words to Blows
Honor by no means enjoyed such easy sleep as her husband after the thunderstorm; indeed it can scarcely be said concerning her night’s rest that it held slumber. The tempest and a belief that Myles was alone in its midst, brought very real terror to her; nor did she win much comfort from her uncle’s reiterated assurance that no ill could touch Myles Stapledon upon Dartmoor.
“Return he won’t for certain until morning,” declared the blind man. “Full of thought he went his way and forgot to raise a weather eye until suddenly surprised by the storm. Its loosened torrents cut him off on the high land and drowned his way home, no doubt; but whatever part of the waste he’s upon, ’tis familiar ground to him, and he’ll know the nearest way to shelter and doubtless take it.”
In his mind, however, the speaker felt a cloud. He was alarmed rather for the storm that he believed might have burst within Stapledon’s heart than for any chance accident of sudden tempest from without. Quite ignorant of the last phase of the other’s trial; unaware that Myles had passed the point of highest peril and now approached happiness once more, old Endicott only suspected that this man had reached the climax of his tribulation, and believed Stapledon’s long and lonely expedition was undertaken that he might wrestle with his fate and determine some final choice of way. Herein he judged rightly, but he knew not the modified enigma that lay before Myles upon that journey to the desert, and remained wholly unaware that the major problem stood solved. Thought upon the matter took Endicott along dark ways; he remembered words spoken long ago; and for once a mind usually most luminous in appraisement of human actions, deviated from the truth. Such a mistake had mattered little enough; for Mark was no harbinger of gloomy suspicions, and never word of his had made sorrow more sad or deepened any wound; but a time came when his conviction, supported by apparent evidence, was confirmed in his own mind; and from thence cruel chances willed that it should escape from him to another’s keeping, should hasten night over a life scarcely advanced to its noon.
A morning of almost extravagant splendour followed upon the storm, and the soaked world under sunshine fortified human spirits unconsciously, wakened hopes and weakened fears in the breast of Honor. She walked out before breakfast, and upon the way back to Bear Down met Christopher Yeoland.
He was full of his own concerns, for the lightning had fallen upon Godleigh, slain certain beasts, and destroyed two ancient trees; but, hearing of Stapledon’s absence, Christopher forgot his troubles, mentioned various comforting theories, and promised to ride far afield after breakfast upon the Moor.
“He’ll probably come back a roundabout way and drive from Moreton,” said Yeoland; “but there’s a ghost of a chance that he may walk direct, after having put in a night at a cot or one of the miners’ ruins. In that case he’ll be starving and wretched every way. So I’ll take a flask and some sandwiches. Poor beggar! I’m sorry for him; still he knows the Moor as well as we know our alphabet, so there’s very little need for anxiety.”
But the news of the thunderbolt in Godleigh Park by no means tended to make Honor more content, and she returned home in tribulation despite the sunshine. After breakfast she went out alone, and Christopher, true to his promise, made a wide perambulation on horseback; while others, who had planned no special pleasure for their holiday, also assisted the search, some upon ponies and some upon foot. Yet no news had reached Bear Down by midday, and then Christopher Yeoland arrived, after a ride of twenty miles.
“A good few wanderers I met and accosted—Moor men out to look after their beasts and see what harm last night was responsible for—but I saw nothing of Myles,” he said. “Gone far down south, depend upon it. He’ll be here in the course of the evening. And it’s rum to see the flocks, for the storm has washed them snow-white—a beautiful thing. The hills are covered with pearls where the sheep are grazing. You can count every beast in a flock three miles off.”
Yeoland lunched at the farm, then trotted homeward; but Collins and Pinsent, though they had travelled far that morning, set out again after dinner, being privately pressed to do so by Mark Endicott.
Elsewhere, true to his word, the man Gregory Libby repaired to riverside that he might meet Sally and her sister, and settle that great matter, once and for all, at a spot quite bathed in sunlight and little framed to harbour broils, though an ideal tryst for lovers. Libby was first to arrive, and after waiting for five minutes a twinge of fear shadowed his mind. The deed before him looked difficult and even dangerous at this near approach. Gregory, therefore, decided to slink by awhile and hide himself where he might note the sisters’ arrival without being immediately observed. They would doubtless prove much amazed each at sight of the other; they would demand an explanation; and then he would come forth and confront them.
He concealed himself with some care, put out his pipe, that the reek of it might not betray him, and settled down to watch and hear from a position of personal safety.
Sally was the first to arrive—very hot and somewhat out of spirits, as it seemed, because the way was rough for a woman, and her green Sunday dress had suffered among the bilberries, while a thorn still smarted in her hand. Libby saw her sit down, ruefully regard her gown, and then fall to sucking at her wounded finger.
There followed a period of silence, upon which broke a slow rustle, and Sally’s eyes opened very widely as another woman, cool and collected, appeared within the glade. But Margery also became an embodiment of surprise as her sister rose and the two confronted each other. Then it was that a heartless rascal, from his secure concealment, felt disposed to congratulate himself upon it. He stood two inches shorter than Sally Cramphorn, and he realised that in her present formidable mood the part he had planned might prove difficult to play.
“Merciful to me! What be you doin’ in this brimbley auld plaace?” asked the elder girl abruptly.
“My pleasure,” answered Margery with cold reserve. “’Pears you’ve comed a rough way by the looks of you. That gown you set such store by be ruined wi’ juice of berries.”
‘“Your pleasure’! Then perhaps you’ll traapse off some place else for your pleasure. I’m here to meet a—a friend of mine; an’ us shaan’t want you, I assure ’e.”
Margery stared, and her face grew paler by a shade.
“By appointment—you—here? Who be it, then, if I may ax?”
“You may not. Mind your awn business.”
“I will do, so soon as I knaw it. Awnly it happens as I’m here myself to meet a friend, same as you—an’—an’—is it Henery Collins you’m come to see? You might tell me if ’tis.”
“Shaan’t tell you nothin’—shaan’t underman myself to talk to ‘e at all. I’m sick of ‘e. You’m spyin’ ’pon me, an’ I won’t have it.”
“Spyin’ on a fule! Do ’e thinks I care a farthin’-piece what you do or what trash you meet? I’ll be plain, anyways, though you’m ’shamed of your company whoever ’tis, by the looks of it. I’m here to meet Greg Libby; so I’ll thank you to go!”
“Him?”
“Ess—him. He’s a right to ax me to meet him wi’out your leave, I s’pose?”
“No fay, he haven’t! No right at all, as I’ll soon larn him.”
Margery blazed.
“An’ why for not, you gert haggage of a woman? Who be you to have the man ’pon your tongue—tell me that?”
“Who be I? I be his gal, that’s who I be—have been for months.”
“You damn lyin’ cat! Your man! He’m mine—mine! Do ’e hear? An’ us be gwaine to be axed out in church ’fore summer’s awver.”
“Gar! you li’l pin-tailed beast—dreamin’—that’s what you be—sick for un—gwaine mad for un! We’m tokened these months, I tell ’e; an’ he’ll tell ’e same.”
Awed by such an exhibition, and amazed at rousing greater passions in others than he himself was capable of feeling, Gregory sank closer and held his breath.
“’Tis for you to ax him, not me, you blowsy gert female,” screamed Margery, now grown very white. “Long he’s feared you was on a fule’s errand. He knaws you, an’ the worth of you. An’ he an’ faither’s friends again, thanks to me. An’ he’m not gwaine to marry a pauper woman when he can get one as’ll be well-to-do. You—you—what’s the use of you but to feed pigs an’ wring the necks of fowls for your betters to eat? What sober man wants a slammockin’ gert awver-grawn——?”
A scream of agony cut short the question, for Sally beside herself at this outburst, and but too conscious through her rage that she heard the truth, set her temper free, flew at her sister like a fiend, and scratched Margery’s face down from temple to chin with all the strength of a strong hand and sharp nails. Blood gushed from this devil’s trident stamped into a soft cheek, and the pain was exquisite; then the sufferer, half blinded, bent for a better weapon, picked up a heavy stone, and flung it at close quarters with her best strength. It struck Sally fairly over the right eye, and, reeling from this concussion, she staggered, held up for a moment, then gave at knee and waist and came down a senseless heap by the edge of the water.
Margery stared at this sudden work of her hands; she next made some effort to wipe the blood off her face, and then hastened away as fast as she could. Mr. Libby also prepared to fly. For the unconscious woman at his feet he had no thought. He believed that Sally must be dead, and the sole desire in his mind was to vanish unseen, so that if murder had been done none could implicate him. He determined not to marry Margery, even if she escaped from justice, for he feared a temper so ferocious upon provocation. Gregory, then, stole away quickly, and prepared to perambulate round the farm of Batworthy, above the scene of this tragic encounter, and so return home secretly.
But circumstances cut short his ambition and spoiled his plan. When Margery left her sister, she had not walked far before chance led her to Henry Collins. He was on the way to the Moor once again, that he might pursue search for Stapledon, when Margery’s white face, with the hideous wales upon it, her shaking gait and wild eyes, arrested him. He stopped her and asked what had happened.
“I’ve fought my sister an’ killed her,” she said; “killed her dead wi’ a gert stone. She’m down to the river onder Batworthy Farm; an’ if ’twas to do awver again, I’d do it.”
He shrank from her, and thought of Sally with a great heart-pang.
“Wheer be she? For God’s love tell me quick.”
“Down below the fishing notice-board, wi’ her head in the watter. She’m dead as a nail, an’ I’m glad ’twas I as cut her thread, an’ I’m——”
But he heard only the direction and set off running. So it came about that Gregory Libby had not left the theatre of the tragedy five minutes when Collins reached it, and saw all that made his life worth living lying along procumbent beside Teign. One of Sally’s arms was in the river, and the stream leapt and babbled within six inches of her mouth. Her hair had fallen into the water, and it turned and twisted like some bright aquatic weed a-gleaming in the sun.
Even as Henry approached the woman moved and rolled nearer the river; but its chill embrace helped to restore consciousness, and she struggled to her side, supported herself with one arm and raised the other to her head.
Mr. Collins praised the Almighty. He cried—
“God’s grace! God’s gudeness! Her ban’t dead! Glory be to Faither, Son an’ Ghost—her’m alive—poor, dear, darlin’ maid!”
Then he fished Sally from the stream, and hugged her closer to himself than necessary in the act. Next he set her with her back against a tree, and presently she opened her eyes and sighed deeply, and gazed upon Henry with a vacant stare. Then Sally felt warm blood stealing from her forehead to the corner of her mouth, and put up her hand to the great contusion above her eye, and remembered. Collins, seeing that her eyes rolled up, and fearing another fainting fit for her, dipped his Sunday handkerchief in the river and wiped her face.
“A gashly auld bruise, sure enough; but it haven’t broke your head bones, my dear woman; you’ll recover from it by the blessing o’ the Lard.”
She became stronger by degrees, and memory painted the picture of the past with such vivid colours that a passionate flush leapt to her cheek again.
“Blast him! The dog—the cruel wretch—to kindiddle me so—an’ play wi’ her same time. What had I done but love him—love him wi’ all my heart? To fling us together that way, so us might tear each other to pieces! I wish I could break his neck wi’ my awn hands, or see him stringed up by it. I’ll—I’ll—wheer’s Margery to? Not gone along wi’ him?”
“No. I met her ’pon the way to home. She reckons she’ve killed you.”
“An’ be happy to think so, no doubt. I sclummed her faace down—didn’t I?”
“Doan’t let your rage rise no more. You’ve had a foot in the graave for sartain. Be you better? Or shall I carry ’e?”
She rose weakly, and he put his arm around her and led her away. They moved along together until, coming suddenly above the ridge of the hill, Mr. Libby appeared within two hundred yards of them. He had made his great detour, and was slipping stealthily homeward, when here surprised.
Sally saw him and screamed; whereupon he stopped, lost his nerve, and, turning, hastened back towards the Moor.
“Theer! the snake! That’s him as fuled me an’ brawk my heart, an’ wouldn’t care this instant moment if I was dead!”
“’Tis Greg Libby,” said Collins, gazing at the retreating figure with great contempt. “A very poor fashion o’ man as I’ve always held.”
But Sally’s mind was running forward with speed.
“Did you ever love me?” she asked suddenly, with her eyes on the departing hedge-tacker.
“You knaw well enough—an’ allus shall so long as I’ve got sense.”
“Then kill him! Run arter un, if it takes e’ a week to catch un, an’ kill un stone dead; an’ never draw breath till you’ve a-done it.”
Mr. Collins smiled like a bull-dog and licked his hands.
“You bid me?”
“Ess, I do; an’ I’ll marry you arter.”
“Caan’t kill un, for the law’s tu strong; but I’ll give un the darndest dressin’ down as ever kept a man oneasy in his paarts for a month o’ Sundays. If that’ll comfort ’e, say so.”
“Ess—’twill sarve. Doan’t stand chatterin’ ’bout it, or he’ll get off.”
Henry shook his head.
“No, he won’t—not that way. The man’s afeared, I reckon—smells trouble. He’s lost his small wits, an’ gone to the Moor, an’ theer ban’t no chance for escape now.”
“Let un suffer same as he’ve made me—smash un to pieces!”
“I’ll do all that my gert love for ’e makes reasonable an’ right,” said Collins calmly. Then he took off his coat and soft hat, and asked Sally if she was strong enough to carry them back to the farm for him.
“’Tis the coat what you sat upon to Godleigh merry-making, an’ I wouldn’t have no harm come to it for anything.”
She implored Henry to waste no more time, but hurry on the road to vengeance; for Mr. Libby was now a quarter of a mile distant, and his retreating figure already grew small. Collins, however, had other preparations to make. He took a knife from his pocket, went to a blackthorn, hacked therefrom a stout stick, and spoke as he did so.
“Doan’t you fret, my butivul gal. Ban’t no hurry now. Us have got all the afternoon afore us. ’Tis awnly a question of travellin’. Poor gawk—he’ve gone the wrong way, an’ theer won’t be no comin’ home till I’ve had my tell about things. You go along quick, an’ get Mrs. Loveys to put a bit of raw meat to your poor faace; an’ I’ll march up-along. ’Twill be more’n raw meat, or brown paper’n vinegar, or a chemist’s shop-load o’ muck, or holy angels—to say it wi’out disrespect—as’ll let Greg lie easy to-night. Now I’m gwaine. Us’ll have un stugged in a bog directly minute, if he doan’t watch wheer he’m runnin’ to, the silly sawl.”