Chapter V End of a Romance
Rhoda Bowden was walking over Yennadon Down, a broad tract of common above the gorges of Meavy. Great spaces stretched beneath her and a still higher and mightier wilderness heaved upward beyond the river and the forests to the east. There Ringmoor extended, and its lone miles basked in unclouded sunshine. Beneath lay Sheepstor and Meavy, each crowned by a church tower; while beyond rolled out long leagues of Devon to the margins of the sea. But Rhoda’s eyes were on the ground and she moved with less than her usual steady purpose. An empty cartridge met her glance and some small grey object that fluttered in the mouth of it led her to stop and pick up the fragment. The cartridge was old and weather-worn; the live creature that had found this convenient receptacle was a large and dusky moth. For a moment Rhoda felt interested, then, perceiving that this insect had laid many eggs within the empty cartridge, she shuddered slightly and flung the moth and its nursery away; because maternity on such a scale seemed loathsome to her even in an insect.
She was on her way to Buckland of the Monks with a message from David, and she welcomed the long and lonely day promised by this task, for not a few matters lay heavy on her mind. Rhoda’s responsibilities were growing beyond power of control.
But the anticipated hours of reflection were largely curtailed, for when she returned to the highway nigh Dousland Barn, a light cart overtook her and the driver was Simon Snell. His face indicated the most profound surprise. He smiled, hesitated, gave her ‘good-morning,’ proceeded on his way, then changed his mind again, pulled up and alighted.
“What a terrible coorious thing as me and you should both be bound out along like this—on the very same day too!” he said.
“So ’tis then, and I hope you’re well. Us haven’t met this longful time.”
“I was coming over one Sunday this summer,” he declared; “but now will do just so well. I be going out to Vartuous Lady Mine to spend the day along with my brother James and his wife. You might not have heard me tell much about him, perhaps? I’ve took a day off—by permission, of course—and I’m carrying ’em a gift, because they’m not very well-to-do, I’m sorry to say.”
“I’m going to Buckland Monachorum for David.”
“Well, I never! What could have falled out better? I very nearly drove by you; because I said to myself, ‘Perhaps it might be too pushing in me to offer to give her a lift.’ But I’m very glad I didn’t, and I hope you’ll accept of a seat till I leave your road. ’Tis a fainty sort of day, with thunder offering, in my opinion.”
“Thank you, I should be very glad if you’ve got room.”
“Room enough. I’m taking my brother half a pig as we killed last week, and his wife a bunch of they white Mary lilies, what grow to a miracle in our garden. People stop and stare at ’em. And if you’ll sit alongside me—if it isn’t making too bold—”
She ascended and they proceeded together.
“There’ll be a thunderstorm afore long, as you say,” she remarked.
“I quite agree. And how be you faring? You’m looking purty middling; and I be purty middling, and so’s my mother, thank God, though she was into her seventy-fourth year last month.”
“I’m all right.”
“I ban’t too close to you, I hope?”
She shook her head. She felt comfortable and easy with him, as usual, but her heart beat no quicker for his voice or the inquiring gaze of his great mild eyes.
“My brother was married afore I comed acquainted with you. He’s a gamekeeper and his wife has a child every second year. For my part I think they’re unlucky; but their way is to trust the Lord to look after the childer. But I’m not sure. By the same token you might not know that you’ve got another nephew. Your sister, Mrs. Screech, had a son yesterday betwixt six and seven of the evening. Screech comed in to smoke a pipe when ’twas all over. A very clever job, I hear, and the child to be called after your father.”
“I don’t want to know nothing about it, thank you.”
“Beg pardon, I’m sure.”
He was silenced for some time. Then he observed that Rhoda had a finger tied up.
“I do hope as you haven’t hurt yourself,” he said.
“Nothing at all. A dog bit through when he was playing.”
“They will, and yet mean no harm.”
She considered with herself whether this man could be of any use to her, and she decided that he could not. It was in any case almost impossible to state her difficulties. She found it hard to put them into words even in thought, where an idea, though it cannot live away from the symbols of words, yet develops without any coherent sentences and reasoned speech. To tell to another what was in her mind had as yet been beyond her power; and to mention the difficulty to Mr. Snell, even if possible, must have proved a futile task. Her instinct assured her that his mind was no more built to speak wisdom on sex questions than her own. She reflected thus, while he, employed upon a different matter, wondered vaguely if he might arrange another walk with her; whether it was worth while to do so; and whether, even if she accepted the invitation, he really desired such a thing.
Presently she uttered a generality which bore obliquely upon his own ideas.
“What a terrible difficult world it do seem to become, if you’m married! And even if you’m thrown much against married people, you can’t escape it. If you care a lot about folk, you’m bound to feel for ’em, I suppose.”
“I quite agree—never heard a truer word,” he said. “’Tis the worst of being fond of people that, if they get in a mess, it makes you feel uncomfortable. You can’t escape from that.”
“The fewer we care about, the more peace we have, seemingly.”
“Exactly so. I’ve thought that very thought, and I’ve often thanked God that, after my mother, and my brother, and my brother’s wife, and one of my nephews, there’s nobody in the world I should shed a tear for if they was took.”
She nodded, and he suddenly perceived that this was one of the speeches wherein he had failed of perfect tact. Yet to modify it needed some courage.
“I should say one other—one other, if I may make so bold,” he added.
She did not answer and he considered before continuing. Then he decided that he could not leave the matter there. Yet he was cautious.
“You mustn’t think the worse of me for it. I don’t mean anything by it to cause you any uneasiness. But you’re the one, Miss Rhoda. I should certainly be very vexed if anything happened to you.”
“Thank you, I’m sure, Mr. Snell.”
“Don’t,” he said. “These things don’t merit thanks. I’ve never told a lie, and so I won’t hold my reason back. I think a lot of your character: that’s why I should be sorry if harm happened to you.”
“We’ve understood each other very well, I believe.”
“Very well indeed; and you’ve taught me a lot about the female sex. And, but for you, I don’t suppose I should ever have knowed anything at all about them. I may tell you, owing to your large understanding, that I’ve often considered about the sense of marrying. But I’m sure I don’t know. When you look round—the heart sinks.”
“Yes, it does.”
Mr. Snell did look round, and the beautiful woman roused some faint, feeble flicker of his anæmic passion.
“I grant you that the wedded state as shown by other people—and yet I won’t go so far as Bartley Crocker do.”
“How far’s that then?”
“Mind, don’t you say it against him. I’ve no wish to be thought a tale-bearer. But, in open speech at the bar of Shillabeer’s public-house, he said that though you hear of happy marriages, you never see them. Now that’s too far-reaching—eh?”
“Not much. He’s not far out, I reckon.”
“Well, you know better than me; but, begging pardon for mentioning her again, your own sister is as happy as a bird. And I really don’t say it’s impossible to be happy with a home of your own.”
“The right ones never meet. I’d warn every man and woman against it for my part.”
With this speech Rhoda quite extinguished the paltry flicker in Mr. Snell’s broad bosom. He looked rather frightened. He stroked his beard. At heart he felt a sort of relief that even the shadow of disquiet was now banished in the light of her plain statement.
“If that’s your opinion, ’tis no part for a common man like me to say a word against it,” he answered. “Sometimes—I won’t deny it—I’ve thought, in uplifted moments, that the married state with such a meek nature as mine—and then again, however—”
“I speak what I know; but nobody can be sure they’re right, I suppose. What do you think about it?” asked Rhoda. But why she gave him this loophole she knew not. Her interest in Mr. Snell was at a low ebb to-day, and her own thoughts filled her spirit to the exclusion of all else. Still she was always content with him. He appeared to her to be a sensible and responsible man whose opinion was better worth having than that of most people.
“Now you ask a poser,” declared Simon, “for my own opinion on such a high subject be very unsettled. In fact, I’d a long ways sooner go by yours, and if you, of all females, feel as marriage be too doubtful in the upshot, then I’d so soon, if not sooner, take your word for it. And I may say that I will. There’s nothing so restful as having your mind made up for you by a better one. And I can’t say the men I know—they’m all for it in a general way—bring up very strong arguments. There’s Amos Prouse tokened now, and he goes about properly terrified, so far as I can see; and there’s Mattacott, from being an even-tempered man, turned so sour as a sloe, because Jane West keeps him on the tenterhooks. To keep company is certainly a very bad state; and you can’t be married without going through it; so that’s another reason against.”
“I shall never marry,” she said.
“Then no more shan’t I,” he declared. “And ’tis a troublesome weight off the mind to hear you say that.”
“Better not go by me, however.”
“’Tis just you and no other I would go by. Because—well, now since you’ve spoken and never been known to go from your word—the coast be clear for me and I feel so light as a lark in the air. If you’d said as you were for it, then my manhood would have—well, God knows what might have overtook me; for at such times a man gets into a raging fever and be ready to fight creation for the female, as the savage beasts do. But you’ve said it; and I quite agree. I know you’m right, and I say ditto to it. And we’ll see t’others dashing into it, but ’twill be nought to us.”
“It looks to me as if the useful people be often the single ones,” she said.
“There again! What good sense! ’Tis the very height of sense! And Paul’s on our side too. Better to marry than to burn, he says in his large wisdom. But better not to marry if you’m perfectly cool and contented, same as what I be, year in, year out.”
She did not answer and he spoke again.
“Still, mind this. If it had been otherwise with you, it would have been otherwise with me. Never was a manlier man in his instincts of self-preservation than me, as my mother will tell you. And if by chance I’d fallen upon a creature of the female sex as appeared to be looking to me to share life with her, then I doubt it might have happened. But not now. If she comed along now it would be too late. Because I’ve had walks along with you in my time, and we’ve been terrible close, and we’ve understood each other as well as any two people could.”
“I suppose we have.”
“I tell you this, because you’ve given your word you ain’t going to marry,” he concluded; and nothing more was said until they reached a lane that broke from the main road. Then Mr. Snell pulled up.
“Here’s my way. You must get down now. You go straight on. I shall be back after eight o’clock, and will bide here till a quarter past if I can help you home.”
“No. I’ll be back long afore that, I hope.”
So the lifeless, bloodless abortion of a romance passed stillborn from between them, unregretted by either. They often met in after life, and they were always friendly within their natural limitations; but marriage never again rose as the most dim possibility on the horizon of the man.
He permitted her to alight without assistance. They talked a while longer before separating, and conversation drifted to David and his wife.
“I hear the people air their opinions and I say nothing—that being the way of least trouble seemingly,” declared Mr. Snell. “But certainly now and again very outrageous speeches be spoke. Take Screech, for instance. He’s no fool, Screech isn’t. But he have a very coarse way of putting things, to my mind. His wife—begging pardon for mentioning her—was saying something about her brother David. I’ve forgot what it was, except that it weren’t flattering, and Screech, he ups and says, ‘Them two’—meaning David and Mrs. Bowden—’them two,’ he says, ’be like a moulting cock and hen—that down on their luck, and all about nought, for the man’s prospering and getting home the money with both fists.’ ’Twas a vulgar thing to say, and I went so far as to tell him so.”
“You might have told him he was a liar too,” said Rhoda. “When did anybody ever see David down on his luck, even if he was? He don’t carry his heart in his hand. A cheerful and a steadfast man always; and if my sister-in-law be not cheerful nor steadfast—that’s another matter, and the fault’s not David’s. I tell you this because you’ve got sense and was never known to make mischief.”
“And never shall, please God!”
“What does an evil thing like Screech know about David?”
“Nought—less than nought. He allowed that, for in my cautious way, I went so far as to ax for chapter and verse, when he said your brother and his wife weren’t happy. ‘I don’t know nothing about ’em and don’t want to,’ he said in his coarse style; ‘but a good few eyes be open round these parts, and ’tis very well marked they go different roads when out of sight of each other.’ It might become you to mention it, or it might not. You know best, living along with them.”
Rhoda hesitated but said nothing. The inclination to confide in Mr. Snell was not revived.
“Thank you for telling me. But whether I’ll name it—”
“Don’t mention me if you do,” said Mr. Snell. “’Tis only to you I’d have said as much as I have said—out of respect to the family. And now I must be going on.”
They shook hands and parted. He returned to his cart and, the lane leading up a hill, went slowly forward. His horse sagged at his collar and the thill chains clanked. With each step forward Simon’s body jolted on the board. One leg of the quartered pig also waved spasmodically, and the candid lilies powdered their purity with golden pollen.
Thus it came about that Snell left the woman’s thoughts where he found them. She tramped forward full of the matter of Margaret; she did her business; ate some bread and butter and drank some milk; started for home again. But, returning by way of Horrabridge, she was detained awhile and she did not ascend a steep hill out of Walkhampton on her return journey until the evening. Her brother, who had gone to Okehampton, was combining business and pleasure in a ride across Dartmoor. He would not come back until late, and it was understood that Rhoda herself might not be expected home before him. She, however, pursued her direct way under the acclivities of Black Tor while yet it was light, and looking down into the valley, the raw blue patch of the roof of ‘Meavy Cot’ stared up a mile distant and smoke surmounted it. At nearer approach Rhoda saw Madge and a man come out of the cottage. They went off in the direction of Coombeshead and they walked close together and talked very earnestly. She altered her way somewhat, to get nearer to them, and was able to make sure of Margaret’s companion. At first she trusted that he had been her brother Bart; but it was Mr. Crocker with whom Madge proceeded and with whom she kept such close converse.
Rhoda went back, took the key of the door from a secret hiding-place, where it was always hidden for the first home-comer, and entered the cottage. A litter of tea things stood on the table and Bartley had evidently partaken of that meal.
And on the road to Coombeshead farm David’s wife and David’s friend were talking with profound interest not of Rhoda and not of David—but concerning Constance Stanbury. That day, early after noon, Crocker had met Madge’s father in trouble and had taken a message to the doctor for him, that he might the quicker return to his wife. Mrs. Stanbury had quite succumbed to her nerves again and was suffering much terror and horror through the hours of night. Her agitation culminated in what Mr. Stanbury held to be “a fit,” and he felt that the unfortunate, haunted woman again needed medical care to help her fight these superstitious fears.
Mr. Crocker gladly conveyed an urgent message to the physician, and soon afterwards he walked to Meavy Cot, that he might tell Madge. To his satisfaction he found her alone, accepted her invitation, drank tea with her, and then accompanied her to learn how her mother fared.
Now they talked of this curse that had fallen upon the old woman’s life, and Crocker tried hard to conceive some possible way of relief. The truth was hidden from them and he did not for an instant suspect it; but the thought and care of both were entirely centred upon this subject, and for a time every other interest remained in abeyance while they strove to hit on some device by which Mrs. Stanbury might be comforted. Bartley suggested a visit from Mr. Merle; and Madge declared such an idea to be quite vain.
But Rhoda Bowden knew nothing of these facts. It was not until night, when Margaret returned and David also came home, that she heard the truth from her sister-in-law. And her inclination was to disbelieve at least a part of it.