Chapter VI Virgo — Libra
A moon at full rolled hugely up over the Moor edge, outlined a black peat wall and by chance made a brilliant background for an atom of life that was there. Here Rhoda’s kitten rested on an August night after great hunting of moths; and the planet threw a golden frame around it.
Rhoda herself, sitting alone at hand in the presence of her mistress, the moon, perceived this accidental conjunction and noticed her little pet dark against the immensity of the bright dead world now ascending. Rhoda sat with her hands folded in her lap and watched the red-gold rise. The moon and the kitten, for some subtle reason, alike comforted her. One rose clear of the horizon, and the other vanished. The work of the first was to diffuse a warm and wondrous stain upon the cloudless air; to permeate the earth’s atmosphere with fleeting radiance and then, swimming upwards, to cool the passing heat of ruddy colour she had created and to supersede this glow with a pale rain of silver-grey light. It poured down into the silence and spread pools and patches of misty pearl upon the ebony of the waste. The work of the second was to come to Rhoda, stick up its little tail, pad in her lap, purr with infant heartiness, and, lifting its nose, mirror the moon in a pair of phosphorescent green eyes. So from both she won good and had sense to see that the stars in heaven and the beasts of earth might each minister after their fashion to such a soul as hers. They soothed her; but they did not advance her reflections or help to solve the gathering difficulties that conscience cast into her path. She was troubled and knew not where to turn. She stated the situation again and again to herself, but no light fell upon the picture from anywhere. Her belief was that her brother’s wife saw far too much of another man. That the man in question wanted to marry Rhoda herself was an added complication; and from that fact, she judged that Margaret must be fonder of Bartley Crocker than he could be of her. Her mind was not constituted to weigh very subtly the shades and half shades of this situation, or appraise the extent of its danger. She concerned herself with David and busied her spirit to consider only her duty towards him. Indifference toward Margaret of late tightened into dislike. Secretly she had always felt impatient with the other’s softness; but since that softness began to lead David’s wife astray, she became alarmed and angered. She retraced the general attitude of her brother and could see nothing in it at all unreasonable. He was very busy, very hard-working, very ambitious. He treated Margaret much as Elias Bowden treated his wife; and Rhoda believed that her mother was always happy and contented. But it could not be said that David’s wife was particularly happy. Rhoda often broke upon her, when entering the house suddenly, and at such times Margaret would put on cheerfulness in haste, as a surprised bather might put on a garment.
What then was this woman to do? She had a high sense of duty and that sense had now begun to torment her. It was impossible to formulate any charge against Crocker or against Margaret. Yet she blamed the man not a little, for she believed that he ought to know better than seek the society of Margaret so frequently. Again justice reminded her that Madge made no secret of the meetings. Some, indeed, she might have had—perhaps many—which were never reported; but of others (and others which Rhoda had not seen) she spoke freely afterwards; and she often asked David if she might invite Bartley to Meavy Cot.
Rhoda remembered that Bartley and her sister-in-law had been children together and that they had known each other all their lives. Herein was comfort, but reflection dashed it. At one time most certainly they had not felt the mere close friendship of brother and sister; for it was an open secret that Crocker had asked Margaret to be his wife within a few days of David’s engagement. But the thinker did not permit this view long to discomfort her. She strove with native resolution to look at the position in a clean and reasonable light. David himself had said that Bartley and Margaret were like brother and sister. He exhibited not a shadow of uneasiness; and if he felt no concern, why should she do so? This argument, however, broke down; because Rhoda knew much more than David. He went about his business and it absorbed him. Margaret was always at home to welcome him; everything was waiting as he wished it; his whispered word was law, and his wife anticipated his very thought and remembered chance utterances and desires in a way that often surprised and gratified him. Rhoda could not blame Margaret’s attitude to David, and she could not for an instant blame David in the amount of time and consideration he devoted to his wife. Upon her estimate it seemed ample and generous.
She considered the brother and sister theory of Bartley’s friendship with Margaret and resolved to cleave thereto with all her strength. She reminded herself of what she felt for David; she was very fair; she perceived that even as she and David thought and felt alike, with such mysterious parity of instinct and judgment that they often laughed when they simultaneously uttered the selfsame words, so Margaret and Bartley Crocker were certainly built on a similar pattern. They too looked at life through the same eyes; they too doubtless arrived at similar conclusions. The side issue of this man’s regard for herself recurred in the weft of Rhoda’s thought; but she drew it out. That relation was beyond the present problem and did not influence her decision. She had twice dismissed the man, and doubtless her second refusal would be taken by him as final.
She came to a conclusion with herself and decided to do nothing but watch. Such a task pained her to reflect upon; but there was none to whom she could speak, for she had none to be regarded in any light of close friendship but her brother. Her father, her mother, her elder sister were of no account. Therefore she determined to wait and watch as a duty to David. She hoped that a brief period of such work would bring peace back to her mind; and she went about it with a rising gorge, in doubt whether to be ashamed of herself or not.
But it happened, only two days later, that opportunity to modify this plan offered and David himself gave it to her. Thankfully she took it, and after a conversation to which he opened the way, Rhoda felt a happier woman than she had felt for many weeks.
He was mending some garden tools in his outhouse at dark and called for another candle. She carried it to him and stopped with him while he worked. The man was in a very good temper and happened to wax enthusiastic over his life and his wife.
“’Tis borne in upon me more and more, Rhoda, that I have better luck than I deserve. Me—such a stand-off chap—yet I’m always treated civil and respectful and taken as a serious and important sort of person. Sometimes, looking back, I can hardly believe it all. But I suppose ’tis my gert power of holding to work does it.”
“’Tis because you’m a straight man and never known to go from truth and honesty by a hair,” she said. “People see that your word’s your bond, and that you set truth higher than gain. You deserve all you get or ever will get—and more.”
“Like you to say it; and well you know that my good is your good, Rhoda.”
Then he praised his wife. His admiration was genuine but mechanical.
“What with you and her—Margaret—I’ve got a lot more than falls to most. Needn’t say nought about you: we’re one; but she’s different. She can’t see so deep and far off as we do; but she can feel more; and she trusts me; and I’m proud of the simplicity of her. Never wants no figures nor nothing. Never asks no questions. Leaves her life in my hands as trusting as the dogs are with you. And ever thinking for me. I said a bit ago as I dearly loved cold rabbit pie, made after mother’s way. Well, the pie to-night was like the Ditsworthy pies. I thought for sure ’twas a present from home; but not a bit of it. She went up-along two days ago and larned the trick of it. If only—but ’twould be mean in me even to name it with such a woman—”
“If only what? All the same, I know. There’s compensations against childer, David. Leave that and go on feeling grateful for her goodness; and—and wake up to a bit more too.”
She spoke suddenly and with no little feeling. An inspiration had come to her—a brilliant thought greater and finer far than her recent solitary imaginings under the moon.
“‘Wake up’!” he exclaimed. “Whatever do you mean, Rhoda? If I’m not wide awake, who is?”
Her ideas struggled within her. She strove to say the right thing, yet almost despaired. He waited during her silence, then spoke again.
“Don’t think I’m not grateful to God for such a good wife. I love her more than she knows, or ever will know. I’m even down about her sometimes, when I think she don’t know. Yet what more can I do? If there’s anything, ’tis your bounden duty to tell me.”
He made the way clear; yet she felt a doubt that if she did speak, he might take it ill. She was frightened—an emotion so rare that she did not recognise it and feared that some physical evil must be threatening her.
“I saw Simon Snell not long since,” she said. “Didn’t mention it at the time, for ’twasn’t interesting, except to me; but I will now. He gave me a lift on my way to Buckland and said a good few very sensible things, as his manner is. He told me of a saying he heard made by that Screech that married Dorcas. Screech was speaking of you and your wife, and he said you was like a moulting cock and hen sometimes—both down on your luck and didn’t know what was the matter.”
David laughed.
“So much for that then. I’ll tell you how that happened. I fell in with the man—we’re friends of a sort now—and chanced to talk of children. I may have just hinted I was sorry to be without ’em. But that was all. He’s jealous of me as a matter of fact. He’s getting on pretty well too; but he don’t get on as quick as me; and he’s handicapped by his mother and his children.”
“He spoke of Margaret, too, however.”
“What he may have heard her say I can’t guess. Nought against her home, that I will swear. Of course, ’tis only human nature to have our up and down moments.”
“No doubt that spiteful woman—Dorcas I mean—would be quick to make mischief if ’twas in her power,” declared Rhoda.
“It isn’t. There’s no power on God’s earth powerful enough to make mischief between me and Madge.”
“Then look after her closer,” said his sister.
It was out and she expected a shower of exclamations and questions. But they did not come. David dropped a hammer, stood up, and replied. He had not wholly understood.
“I will,” he answered. “I’ll think this very night how to give her a bit of a treat. ’Tis natural, without a cradle in the house, she’s moped. Us must make it up to her a little, Rhoda. Such towsers for work as you and me forget sometimes that some natures call for a little play as well. I’ll look closer after her pleasure and such like. We’ll go to Tavistock revel. I hadn’t thought to do it; but we’ll all take a whole holiday and not do a stroke of work for the day. At least no more than we’m bound to do.”
“I mean all the time, David, not just for a day.”
“Fancy your saying this to me! And now I’ll surprise you too. You ban’t the first who has talked like this. Crocker did the very same a bit ago, and I took it as kind in him, for I’m that sort of man. I’m not a jealous chap—too sensible for that. But if ’twas known what I felt for Madge, I dare say people, that see me so busy and wrapped up in getting on, might wonder. Even you don’t quite see it, Rhoda. Still, this I will say I blame myself as I did before. I’m not one to think I’m always right; and love should out, not lie asleep in the heart. ’Tis nought unless you see it and let it work all the time, as you say.”
“Don’t for God’s sake, talk like that,” she begged earnestly. “Who am I to lecture you? What do I know of love? What do I want to know of it? I only care for you and your good, else I wouldn’t have said this much.”
She was thinking more of what he had just spoken than what she herself was saying. Bartley Crocker had taken her brother to task on this identical theme! She gasped with secret amazement at such extraordinary news. Doubtless this meant that Crocker and Margaret— Here she barred her own thoughts. She refused to examine what such a fact could mean.
Her brother made an end of his work.
“Now I’m going in to have a tell with Madge,” he said. “You come too.”
But Rhoda refused.
“I’m for a walk. ’Tis a fair night.”
They parted; he returned to his house; she loosed two dogs and went off on to the Moor.
David lighted his pipe and sat by his fire. Margaret was working at the table. For a time he kept silence, and then she spoke.
“What are you thinking on, dear heart? I hope all be going well at Tavistock?”
“I wasn’t troubling about Tavistock,” he answered. “I was thinking what a wonder you be, and how you spoil me, and how I’m not worth it—such a man as me.”
“David!”
“To think as you went to Ditsworthy about rabbit pies! ’Tis things like that make me wonder.”
Her face shone and she set down her work and came to him.
“’Twas nought; but ’tis lovely to know you marked it and was pleased,” she said.
“I don’t mark enough,” he answered. “I’m that set on driving ahead, and making a bit of a splash, and getting up in the world for you—for you, Madge,—that I forget here and there. Don’t gainsay me. Too well I know it in my leisure moments.”
“You shan’t say so. ’Tis all along of me being so small-minded and not looking on ahead like you do, but living in the stupid every-day things. I know they don’t matter; and I know what you feel to me; and ’tis for me to see things with your eyes, not for you to see ’em with mine.”
“’Tis for me to set higher store by the every-day things,” he declared. “’Tis for me to value better the home you keep always sweet and ready for me; and the food you cook, and the hundred little odd worries and bothers many married men have to face, but me never. You don’t bring no trouble to me; but you’m always ready and willing to hear my troubles. I can’t expect you to understand when I talk about figures and such like. Such things ban’t your part. But you’m always ready with your bright eyes to be glad and rejoice when good comes; and ’tis for me to be glad and rejoice in lesser things when you tell me about ’em. I don’t let you know how clever I think you. And you always hold yourself so cheap that ’tis my duty to lift you up in your own conceit, for if you thought half so well of yourself as I think of you, you’d be the proudest woman in England, Madge.”
She sat on his lap and put her arms round his neck and kissed him.
“’Tis like life to me to hear you say such things,” she answered. “Though too well I know how little I deserve ’em. I wish I was a better, cleverer sort to lend a hand with high matters like figures and work and sheep. But I’m only useful here.”
“Us will each stick to our own share of the load,” he said. “We’m both doing our part pretty well, I believe; and so long as you never forget that I mark your cleverness and love you better every day of your life, the rest don’t matter. I’ve been a thought too buried in my own hopes of late, and I own it and I’m sorry for it. But my eyes was opened half an hour agone, and I want you to forgive me, Madge. ’Twas only seeming, mind you; but I doubt it looked real and it’s made you down-daunted, as well it may have; and I’m truly sorry for it.”
“You’ve a deal more to forgive than me. Many men would fling it in my face every day of my life as I’d brought ’em no family.”
“I’m not that sort, and I’m hopeful in that matter as in every other. Put that out of your mind, same as I do. Man plants, but God gives the increase. I’ve found out—all my life so far—that, if we do our part, He’s very willing to do His. And if He holds back—that’s His business and not for His creatures to fall foul of. Who knows best?”
She tightened her arms round him and her tears flowed.
“Doan’t ’e cry,” he said, “unless ’tis for happiness. And I’ll speak yet further, Madge, since I’m confessing my sins to-night. There’s another that must have credit for this useful talk betwixt me and you.”
Her thoughts leapt to Hartley Crocker; but she did not speak.
“I was saying to Rhoda a minute ago in the shed, that ’twas just like you to go up to Ditsworthy for the secret of mother’s rabbit pies. And then she—Rhoda, I mean—told me a thing or two I ought to have found out for myself.”
“I know right well Rhoda loves me dearly. Whatever—” began his wife; then she broke off.
“Of course—like every other mortal. And she’s a woman, and soft too—though not like you. She’s content with me as I am, but you’re not; and there’s no reason why you should be. You’re right to ask for a bit of worship from me; and the hard thing is you should have to ask.”
“I never—never did, David. I was content too—always content, and proud of you always.”
“I know. You didn’t ask with your lips. But maybe you asked another way; and I didn’t see the question till—till others in the past, and again to-day, put it afore me. I’m a contrite man. I’m—”
She put her hand over his mouth.
“You’re a million times too fine and great for me. And I won’t hear another word. There ban’t a happier she on Dartmoor this minute than me!”
“Look here,” he said. “I’ll tell you what: we’ll have a lark next week. There’s a revel to Tavistock and we’ll all go—you and Rhoda and me. Would you like it?”
“Dearly, and—d’you think, David, that we might ax Bartley Crocker to come? For his own sake and for Rhoda’s?”
“Ax him an’ welcome. But I’m afraid ’tis all up. She’s actually against him now, I should judge, and at best she merely kept an open mind. She never cared a straw about the man, and never will. I’m sorry for him, because he’s very fond of her; but I’m not sorry for her.”
“I am. Any woman with a good husband must be sorry for them who haven’t got one.”
“But ’tis no use thinking about it. She’ll die an old maid unless something very different from Crocker comes along. I met poor Snell but yesterday and asked him how the world wagged with him. And he said as he saw his way clearer than ever he had, owing to a talk with Rhoda. Rhoda of all people! ‘Glad you see what a sensible woman she is,’ I told him, and he swore he’d always seen it, but never more than when she told the risks of marriage were greater than the gains. ‘I’m off it for evermore,’ he says; ‘and so be she—I’ve got her word.’ Never a man was more relieved in his mind, I should reckon.”
“Nonsense!” declared Margaret. “She’s young for her years, and maidens all talk like that. I won’t believe it yet awhile. I won’t even believe that Bartley’s not the man. I see a lot of him and none knows him better. He’s gained a deal of sense and patience of late. He’s a kind-hearted, gentle creature, and she’d soon wake up to know what happiness really meant if she’d take him.”
“She’s happy enough in her own way.”
“I hope ’tis so; yet how can such a lone life be happy?”
“The heron be so happy as the starling,” said David; “though one’s his own company most times and t’other goes in flocks. She needn’t trouble you. However, since you still think it may be, I’ll forget a thing here and there and help you, though ’tis against my own wish in a way. Of course Rhoda’s good is as much to me as my good have always been to her. I want her to be a happy woman and a married woman too, if Mr. Right comes along. But all the same, I can’t think whatever I should do if Bartley Crocker was to win her and take her off to Canada.”
“The thing is to make her happy,” answered his wife. “Before all else I want to do it. We’re as happy as birds. ’Tis for us, one way or another way, to fill her cup fuller.”
“We’ll do what we may,” he replied. “At least be sure that no man nor woman cares for her more than we do.”
“And poor Bartley—don’t leave him out. He mustn’t be left out,” she said.
His mind for the moment was on another issue.
“I’ll grant in one particular she’s not too happy,” he remarked suddenly. “And that’s over Dorcas. I’m not speaking a word for Dorcas. She behaved very badly and she’s very well out of it, with a lot more luck than she deserves. Screech isn’t what I thought him, and I’ve admitted I was wrong in my opinion of him; but Rhoda can’t pardon her. I’m feared to say much, though she knows, for that matter, that I go so far as to nod to Dorcas now, and give her ‘good-morning’ or ’good-night’ when we meet. But Rhoda won’t budge an inch. I suppose ’tis out of our power, Madge, to soften her a little bit in that quarter?”
“I’ve tried full often, but I’ll gladly try again,” she answered. “And you’re right and put your finger on the sore place, no doubt. You can see so deep into people, David. For certain ’tis being out with her own flesh and blood that makes Rhoda wisht and mournful. But we’ll try yet again to bring ’em together. I know ’tis a great thorn in Dorcas, though she pretends not to care about it.”