Chapter II A Pessimist
Three days before Christmas and an hour before dusk, Mr. Shillabeer, gun in hand, called at Coombeshead Farm, and Constance Stanbury opened the door for him.
“I’m that finger-cold,” he said, “that I thought as I might make so free as to drop in and warm myself a bit afore going back.”
“And welcome. Come in; come in. My husband will be home in a few minutes, so you’ll have a bit of male company. We women be that chuckle-headed.”
“No, no! Won’t hear you run yourself down,” said the ‘Dumpling,’ gallantly. “There’s no better company in these parts than your company, and very few women be in it for sense alongside of you.”
“Tea or cider?” she asked.
“A drop of tea, if ’tis making. And I’ll leave a bird, if you’ll please to accept it. The plovers are on the Moor very plenty. A hard winter’s in store.”
“Each be harder than the last nowadays,” she answered. “And thank you, I’m sure. A plover’s pretty eating, but too good for the likes of us.”
“Don’t you say that. You’m like me—take yourself too humble; but ’tis a mistake. People in the world always pull us a peg lower than our own conceit of ourselves. So we should screw up a peg higher—to be ready for ’em. How’s Margaret? You’ll never hear no two opinions about her—such an angel as she be.”
“Yes,” admitted Constance; “and I’m much feared that she’s got more in common with the angels than us could wish. ’Tis coming over me worse and worse; and over her, too, poor lamb.”
“What ever do you mean?” he asked. Then he walked to the fire, removed his right gaiter and rubbed his huge leg where the strap had pressed too hardly upon it.
“My Madge is not like every girl you meet,” said Mrs. Stanbury.
“Wish there was more of the same pattern.”
“And I’m terrible jealous for her—I’ll fight the world for her, like a hen with one chick; because her vartues are her own, and her faults she got from me.”
“Faults!—who ever heard tell of her faults?”
“I take no credit in her beautiful goodness,” continued the mother. “But I take shame in her softness. Too soft and gentle and yielding she is for this world, and the people in it. And, as her parent, I’m savage—savage as a wild cat, down in my secret heart—when I see people don’t understand. ’Tis me they ought to blame, not she.”
Mr. Shillabeer stared. His fingers were spread and a saucer of tea smoked upon them.
“You do amaze me; but I’ll make bold to say you’m all wrong for once. ’Tis her softness that people take joy in. Always wanting to do for others—always putting herself on one side.”
“A few may see her goodness,” admitted Mrs. Stanbury; “but what’s the use of that if them nearest to her can’t see? Her own husband haven’t got no patience with her now and again; and, mind you, I don’t blame him—such a common-sense, hard man as him. And Rhoda the same. ’Tis their natures to take a practical stand.”
“Don’t be downcast,” urged the publican. “Drink a dish of your own tea and look on the bright side. ’Tis rather odd I should say that, seeing I’ve never been known to look on the bright side myself since my wife died. David’s a very good chap, and nobody thinks higher of him than me; but he’s just an everyday man—wise and businesslike and honest. There’s nought in him would make Margaret a beautifuller character than she is. Us don’t want for her to be hard and business-like, I’m sure.”
“’Tis what her husband wants is the thing, not what we want,” explained Mrs. Stanbury.
“If he wants finer than she, he wants better bread than is made with wheat,” declared the old prize-fighter; “and if he can’t see the shining vartue and wonder of that woman’s heart, he must be blind as well as busy.”
“All very well; but Margaret’s to blame too,” declared the other.
“Never—nowhere. ’Tis always your way to give everybody best but your own.”
“To say ‘blame’ is too strong a word, perhaps; but you must think how ’tis from her husband’s point of view. No children. Oh, Shillabeer, ’tis a dreadful thing! Just that might have made all right, and just that won’t happen. Nought worse could have fallen out—nought worse than that. A very terrible misfortune every way. To Ditsworthy I know they take an awful serious view of it. Naturally they would do so. And when I see that mother of a quiverful coming, I wish I could sink into the earth! Her eye brims over with reproaches, though never a word she says.”
“This is all silly nonsense you’m talking,” declared Mr. Shillabeer, strapping up his gaiter again. “Never did I hear such foolishness. Good Lord, han’t there enough childer in the world? Take comfort, I beg of you.”
Bartholomew Stanbury entered at this moment and was glad to see the publican.
“Heard your fowling-piece banging away up over,” he said, “and hoped as you might perhaps drop in ’pon the road back. Well, here’s Christmas again, and like to be a soft one after all. The weather’s changing.”
“A busy Christmas in the village,” said Reuben; “but nothing out of the common offering to happen, I believe.”
“Don’t you be too sure of that, ‘Dumpling.’ What would you say to another fight?”
“No, no, Stanbury. No more fighting. You mean your son Bart and that chap Mattacott. They be galled against each other without a doubt, along of a she; but fight—no. Mattacott’s ten year older than your boy. Bart couldn’t hit a man whose hair be turning grey.”
“That’s what I said. Still, they long to be at each other.”
“They’ll have to settle their difference some other way. No more fighting if I can prevent it. You mustn’t suppose I’m what I was—far from it. I look at life quite different now. All’s vanity, as the Preacher saith. I may give up ‘The Corner House’ afore the world’s much older, neighbour.”
“Good Lord! what’s come to you?” exclaimed the farmer.
“What come to Bendigo,” said Mr. Shillabeer solemnly. “I’ve had the Light, Stanbury. Make no mistake: when the Light does come it shows up everything in a manner very different to what we’ve seen it before.”
“Well,” said Bartholomew, “don’t let it turn you out of ‘The Corner House.’ Beer have got to be sold, and there’s nothing in the Law and the Prophets against keeping an inn and giving good money’s worth, same as you’ve always been famed to do.”
But Shillabeer doubted. Having drunk another cup of tea, he rose, wished the Stanburys a Merry Christmas in a mournful voice, and disappeared. Constance shook her head when he was gone and declared that a great change began to creep over the old man.
“Mark me, he’s breaking up,” she said. “He’s casting away all his old opinions and growing more and more religious-minded and low-spirited. Nought would surprise me. I’ve seen it happen before. He’ll be a teetotaller yet, and then he’ll go melancholy mad so like as not.”
Her husband protested.
“Such a one you are for looking on the cloudy side! There’s too much good sense in the man for any such thing as teetotalism to overtake him. A moderate drinker always, and won’t serve anybody beyond the twinkling eye stage. Why, he’ve made bitter enemies by withholding liquor where any other man wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Where’s Margaret to? She was coming over, wasn’t she?”
“Yes,” said his wife. “But ’tis nearly dark. She’ll have changed her mind or been hindered.”
Half an hour later Bart arrived, and he was able to explain his sister’s absence.
“She’s took ill,” he said. “I met Rhoda back by Lowery. Madge have a cold on the chest—nought to name, but enough to keep her in against this fog. I’m feared they won’t be able to go up to Ditsworthy for Christmas now, unless she mends very quick.”
At his first word Mrs. Stanbury began to be busy. Under the lofty mantelshelf before the fire there hung a row of little linen bags, and in them were various simples culled through vanished spring and summer. They contained elder-flowers, marjoram, thyme, sorrel, and calamint. She selected ingredients and took them to the table.
“Us must see to this afore she gets worse,” declared Constance; and soon she was preparing a decoction of herbs.
Her son had further news.
“They’m saying to Sheepstor that Bartley Crocker’s off,” he announced with his mouth full.
“Off where?” asked Mr. Stanbury.
“To foreign parts. ’Twas always thought he might go when his mother died. They do say he’s cruel sweet on Rhoda Bowden, but I don’t think she’s of the same mind.”
“I’ve heard Madge say that she would much like it to fall out,” declared Mrs. Stanbury; “but, for my part, Rhoda don’t look to be seeking a husband. She’s different to her kind, and I don’t see her either wife or mother.”
Bart was reminded of another maiden and he sighed, put his hand to his chin, and looked into vacancy with a very lack-lustre expression.
“Shillabeer was here afore you comed home,” said his father; “and he says you’m too young to stand up to Mattacott. You’d kill the man.”
“I may yet,” declared Bart gloomily. “Anyway I can’t wait like this much longer. No more can he. She won’t say which ’tis to be, and the strain of mind is getting a bit too sharp. Something’s got to go scat afore long—either him or me—or her.”
“She ought to decide, no doubt,” admitted his mother. “But I hope you ban’t hopeful, Bart, for I’m not. T’other’s better off than you and wiser; and Jane West has found it out, of course.”
“He may be wiser, or he may not be,” answered Bart. “Anyway I’m too wise to wait till Doomsday; and so I’ve told her; and she’s going to decide afore the New Year.”
“She’ll take Timothy Mattacott,” repeated his mother. “Stanburys ban’t no good at competing with other people. No more was my family—they always went under; and now they’ve gone under altogether, for I’m the last of ’em.”