Chapter XI Bad News of Mr. Bowden
Mrs. Stanbury’s habit of mind died hard, even after the truth concerning the Voice at Crazywell had been impressed upon her. Slowly she appreciated the great fact that neither her husband nor her son might longer be considered as under sentence of death; but often still she woke in fear or rose in gloom, while yet her mind retained only the past terror and forgot the more recent joy. Billy Screech had explained to Bartley; and since Bartley was of opinion that no real blame attached to anybody, and that the plot was perfectly reasonable in its original purpose—all things being fair in love—the matter soon blew over. Bart, indeed, declared that Mattacott and Billy ought to pay the doctor’s bill for his mother; but they were not of his mind, and Mr. Stanbury, who, despite stout assurances of indifference, felt really much relieved when the truth appeared, very gladly met this charge. The immediate result of the event was a decision on the part of Jane West. Bart, having safely emerged from these supernatural threats of extinction, found her in the most oncoming spirit, and they were now definitely engaged to be married.
With the turn of another year this fact became generally known, and there fell a Sunday in late January when the party from ‘Meavy Cot’ visited Coombeshead and assisted at a formal meal given in honour of Bart’s betrothed.
David made efforts to rouse his mother-in-law from her invincible distrust—both of herself and her blood in the veins of the next generation. They talked apart after the meal, and she, as her custom was, doubted her son’s ability to fight the world successfully for a wife and possible children.
“A very good son, I can assure you—never a better. But whether he’ll prove a husband of any account, I’m sure I couldn’t say,” she murmured.
“Of course he will,” answered the other. “You don’t know what a clever chap Bart is. Jane’s a very lucky woman; and she knows it well enough, and her family know it well enough, even if you don’t.”
It was an amiable fiction with Margaret’s husband that she was largely responsible for his success in life. He often solemnly declared that but for her at the helm, he should never have prospered as was the case, and certainly never have won the great prize at Tavistock. This statement he would make repeatedly, despite his wife’s protests and Rhoda’s silences. He made it now to Mrs. Stanbury.
“Look at Madge,” he said. “If she’s such a splendid wife, why are you afeared that Bart won’t be a splendid husband? Madge took after you; Bart takes after his father. Why, where should I be if it wasn’t for Madge? Not where I stand, I can tell you. She’s the corner-stone of the house, and always has been, and always will be. You ought to believe what people tell you about your children.”
“’Tis very well to know you think so,” she admitted; “all the same, a mother’s eye can’t overlook the defects.”
“Not in your case, seemingly; but ’tis just what a mother’s eye be cleverest at doing as a rule,” declared he.
“’Tis no good pretending with yourself, as you do,” she answered. “You think our Madge have helped you to greatness, and if love and worship could bring you up top, you’d be right. But it can’t. You was too strong and steady a man to want any woman’s help.”
“No, no—never was such a man as that,” her son-in-law answered, and firmly believed it. “Madge has helped me to take big views,” he continued. “Why, there’s no work that we do can taste so good as the work we do for other people. Your daughter teached me that.”
The afternoon advanced and Margaret entered the parlour to say that tea was ready in the kitchen.
Bart and Jane comported themselves with high indifference under the ordeal of this entertainment. They had accepted the good wishes and the chaff; they had eaten heartily and departed together as soon as dinner was done.
“They won’t be back for tea. They don’t want no tea,” declared Mr. Stanbury. “Why, they’ve even got to naming the day! ’Twill be Martin West’s turn to find the spread and give the party this time; and if he does all I did for you and Madge, David, I shall be surprised—though he’s a richer man than me by a good few pound, I warrant you.”
Talk ran on the new romance; then Rhoda reminded David that a Princetown man was to see him that evening within an hour from the present time. He rose at once and prepared to depart. But Margaret did not accompany him.
“I shan’t be back afore supper,” she said. “Bartley Crocker’s coming up presently. He won’t see my father and mother no more, for his time is getting short. So I shall bide here till he’s been and gone.”
“He’s so dark about dates,” declared David. “We all want to give him a bit of a dinner at ‘The Corner House’—a real good send-off; and there’s a little subscription started to get the man a remembrance. But he’s not in very good spirits now the time’s so near; and he rather wants to escape without any fuss. However, if you have the chance, try and find out exactly when he’s going, Madge. He’ll tell you the secret. The date is fixed, I expect. Try and worm it out of him; and fetch him along to supper, if he’ll come.”
She promised and David departed with Rhoda.
Bartley Crocker appeared in the valley as they went their way; and he saw them going, but they did not see him.
His sister’s affairs now largely occupied young Bowden’s mind, because the future, from her standpoint, was difficult. He, however, did not quite comprehend the moody and irritable spirit which Rhoda had of late developed. It fell out, indeed, that this taciturnity and self-absorption caused David first uneasiness and then mild annoyance. Rhoda had ceased to be herself. She was not interested in the future. She spoke of going out of his life. She showed no enthusiasm in any direction, and her attitude to Margaret he had secretly resented on several occasions. He deplored it to Margaret herself, but she had begged him not to think of it again, and declared it a matter of no account. She could afford to be large-minded now, for she believed that Rhoda would soon be gone from her home for ever. As for David, he supposed this unsettled and cloudy weather of his sister’s mind to be caused entirely by the forthcoming great upheaval in her life, and the extreme difficulty of deciding on a plan of action. That she had finally refused Crocker and determined to stop in England, he knew; but whether she intended to accompany him and Madge to Tavistock, or return to Ditsworthy, he did not know. None knew—not even the woman herself. Her brother attributed Rhoda’s darkness to the trouble of decision; yet it surprised him that she should find decision so difficult. She was one who usually made up her mind with swiftness and seldom departed from a first resolution. But, for once, she appeared unequal to the task of concluding upon any form of action. The truth of Rhoda’s difficulties he could not know; and in his ignorance he revealed a little impatience. Observing this disquiet, she believed that the time had at last come to speak. She knew the danger and perceived that the one thing she cared for in life—her brother’s regard—might be imperilled by such a step; but as he, in his turn, now began openly to resent her implicit attitude to Margaret, some decisive action was called for.
And Rhoda upon that homeward walk proposed to speak, to put her discomfort and fear before him, and to trust his affection and wisdom to tide them all over a terrible difficulty. What might have fallen out had she done so cannot be estimated. In the result she never spoke, for there fell an interruption and she was still casting about for the first word, when her brother, Napoleon, rode up on a pony. He had come from Ditsworthy to ‘Meavy Cot,’ and his attire marked some haste, for he wore his Sunday coat and waistcoat, but had taken off his trousers and substituted workday garments of corduroy.
“Just been to your place,” he shouted as he approached them. “Farther was took bad in the night, and he’s a lot worse to-day and reckons he may die of it. And Joshua’s gone for doctor, and mother’s in a proper tantara. And faither wants for you and Rhoda to come up this moment.”
For an instant they stood, aghast and smitten.
“What’s took him?” asked David.
“His breathing, and he’s all afire and can’t let down a morsel of food. You’d better get on this pony and go right up along, David.”
“I suppose I had. Chap from Princetown will have his walk for his pains; but it can’t be helped.”
Napoleon dismounted and David took his place. “You’ll come on, you two, after me,” he said. “Best to go across through Dennycoombe wood. Please God, ’tis of no account. Faither’s so strong and never knoweth ache or pain; therefore what may be a small thing would seem worse to him than it really is.”
He started and then turned back again.
“When you pass Coombeshead, just run in, Nap, and tell Margaret what’s happened. I may be back home to-night, or I may not be. And bid her remember the calves.”
“I shall be back for that,” said Rhoda. “I shall go back to-night in any case.”
“All right then,” concluded David. Then he galloped off and soon disappeared.
His sister and the boy tramped without speech together until, glowing like the bright fur of a wolf all grey and russet, Dennycoombe wood rose before them, flung on the distant side of Sheep’s Tor in evening light.
“I’ll wait for you by the gate yonder,” said Rhoda. “Your nearest way from here be to the left. Don’t you stop talking, mind: you may be useful up at home. Just tell Madge what’s fallen out and then come after me.”
“I can travel twice so fast as you,” answered the boy. “No call for you to wait. I’ll over-get you long afore ’tis dark.”
He left her and she went forward, passed under Down Tor, crossed the stream and skirted the great wood beyond. She reached the gate and stopped for her brother as she had promised: but he did not come, and presently she went her way through the edge of the trees. Then suddenly, going on silent feet, she heard voices at hand. A great stone towered there and in a moment she understood that her sister-in-law and Bartley Crocker were on one side of it, and knew not that she was upon the other. She guessed that the man had taken leave of the party at Coombeshead Farm and that Margaret had departed with him.
This indeed had happened. Bartley made but a short stay at the Stanburys’ and Madge left when he did. They were now sitting together and talking.
Rhoda listened but could not hear more than a chance word intermittently.
“Your husband wanted to give me a spread and a send-off in the old-fashioned way, but, somehow, I’ve no stomach for any such thing just at present,” declared Mr. Crocker.
“’Tis natural you shouldn’t have.”
“I shall write to David. I can’t stand all these good-byes, and all the leave-taking business.”
“’Tis crushing to think you’re so nearly gone.”
“But mind you keep the secret of the day and tell none, Madge—till I’m off. Those I care for shall hear from me—t’others don’t matter. There’s nothing left to keep me but you, and I can’t make you happier by staying.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Not really I can’t. We’re beginning new lives in new places—you and me.”
“So we are in a way.”
“What does Rhoda do?”
“She can’t make up her mind seemingly. She’s very sad.”
“She’s very mad, if you ask me. I wish to God some man could find how to sweeten her mind. And you’re sad because she is. I knew it the moment I heard your voice half an hour ago.”
“’Tis wonderful to think how you can always tell by my tone of voice how ’tis with me! But then there’s nobody like you for understanding us women. You’d have made a rare husband for the right one, Bartley.”
“Yes; and the right one—well, perhaps I’ll find her over the water. ’Tis the day after to-morrow I go. I sail off from Plymouth, so that’s all easy and straight-forward.”
“Be the Shamrock a good big ship?”
“Big enough for my fortunes.”
“We must see one another once more, Bartley.”
“Of course we must, Madge.”
They moved forward as they spoke, and Rhoda saw Bartley kiss Margaret and observed that her sister-in-law was weeping. Then came hasty feet and Napoleon appeared. He shouted from a distance.
“She ban’t there! She’s gone! I waited a bit and had a dollop of figgy pudden and told ’em the bad news about faither.”
“Hullo!” said Bartley to Rhoda. “You!” He looked blankly at her, but she ignored him and turned to Margaret. Hate was in her voice. She spoke quickly and waited for no reply, then moved on with her brother.
“Napoleon have been to seek you at your father’s farm, Margaret Bowden, but you was better employed seemingly. My father is took very ill indeed, and your husband be gone up over to him. You’d best get home—if you can spare the time to think of your home. I shall be back by night, but David may not be able to come.”
She swept on her way and left them staring at each other. Margaret was dishevelled and the shock of this meeting had dried her tears.
“Good Lord! that’s bad luck. She saw me kiss you, I’ll swear,” murmured Bartley. “And now she’ll believe there’s another married woman in the case! Will she tell David?”
“What if she does? I’ll tell him myself. D’you think he’d care?”
“Shall I go after her and explain?”
“No,” she answered. “Let her be.”
“It’s time I was off anyhow. But poor old Elias! ‘Very ill indeed,’ she said. I hope he’s not booked. Can’t think of Ditsworthy without him.”
They talked a little longer and Mr. Crocker was glad that there had come distraction for Margaret’s mind. She deeply felt parting from him, for he had bulked largely in her life, and he too had enjoyed her loyal friendship and owed her much, though her labours on his behalf were all fruitless. But now the moment was come in which they must part; and he knew that the parting was probably eternal. He did not, however, intend that she should know it. He lied glibly about coming over to ‘Meavy Cot’ on the following day; then he talked of other matters, and then, when they had drifted down to Nosworthy bridge, pretended to be amazed at the time.
“I must be pushing back in a hurry. My boxes go off first thing to-morrow. And I daresay I shall get up to Ditsworthy after dark and may have a tell with David there. But if Rhoda has already told him she saw me kissing you—!”
“He’d laugh. He’s not the sort to mind that between me and you.”
“I know he isn’t. I was only joking.”
She revealed extreme solicitude for his future.
“You’ll take all care of yourself wherever you be; and you’ve promised, on your word of honour, to come home and see old friends inside five year.”
“On my word of honour. And you’ve got to write, and keep me up in the news, and tell me all about the house at Tavistock and everywhere else that’s interesting.”
He shook hands and moved off quickly, while she, too, went on her way. But, when her back was turned, he stood still and took his last look; for, despite promises, the man had no intention to see her again. His ship was to start after noon on the following day, and he meant to leave Sheepstor at dawn of the morrow.
Now Margaret swiftly faded into the dusk, and he went forward, subdued and as melancholy as his spirit allowed.
“So good and brave a woman as ever walked this earth,” he said to himself. “God send me such another; but ’tis hardly likely.”
For her sake he made time that night to go to Ditsworthy and speak with David; and the following evening—at the hour in which he had promised to visit ‘Meavy Cot’ for a final farewell—he was aboard and watching Devon fade swiftly along the edge of the sea. A shadow lay above the grey, rolling ridges; and then that shadow sank out of his eyes for ever.
But Bartley Crocker belonged to the order of lighter spirits who can close the book of their past without a pang; and he did so now.