Chapter XIII The Search
More for thought of Margaret than the sick master of Ditsworthy, had Crocker climbed to the Warren House upon his last evening at Sheepstor. He asked to see David, spent half an hour with him, and spoke explicitly of Rhoda, of his final failure to win her, and of the attitude that she had adopted towards him during that interview.
“God knows I wish her nought but good,” he said; “and first and best that her mind should be cleansed of things she’s heard from some unknown enemy and believes against me. She’s got it in her head that I’m a worthless blackguard, born to make trouble. When she met me with your wife in Dennycoombe wood, a few hours since, she spoke as if I’d no business to be talking to Margaret. I say this for Margaret’s sake; because, before saying ‘good-bye,’ I kissed Margaret, and your sister saw me do so, and went white with passion. There’s that about kissing she can’t forgive or forget, seemingly. But I’m off to-morrow and don’t want to leave any trouble behind me.”
David nodded.
“You must allow for Rhoda. She’s terrible fretted and has got a deal on her mind just now,” he said.
“That’s true enough; and she’s often right; and I’m a fashion of man not worthy to name in the same breath with her. I only mention these things for your sake and Margaret’s. Your sister is cruelly wrong about me, anyway, and maybe time will show her so. Only she mustn’t be wrong about Madge. Me and Madge did very often meet, and even in secret, if you like. But why? Not to hide anything from anybody but Rhoda herself. Madge was very wishful for me to have Rhoda, and again and again we planned and plotted together what she could do, and what I could do, to bring it about. You understand that?”
“Why, yes; Margaret always told me about it of course.”
“But perhaps Rhoda didn’t see what we wanted to be together for behind her back. A stupid muddle sure enough, and nothing but Madge wanting to do her and me a good turn was the cause of it. You clear her mind for her the first minute you can, David. And if she’s had a row with Margaret, make ’em be friends again. Only you can do it.”
Thus he spoke, and the other saw all clearly.
“Rhoda’s been unlike herself a good while,” he answered. “And now I begin to see daylight. Of course, if she had some wild, silly fancies against you, and people have been telling her that you’re not straight, she may have been vexed and anxious that you saw so much of my wife. For my sake she’d have felt so. But why she should have believed anything against you, or who spoke against you—that I can’t say. However, your character is safe with me. I’ll soon have it out and let loose some common sense into her brains. You must allow a bit for unmarried girls like her. They can’t see life whole, and they get wrong opinions about men’s minds. She’s wise as need be every other way; but where men and women combined are the matter, she never can take proper views. She’s jealous for me without a doubt—maybe because I was never known to be jealous for myself: too busy for that. And why should I be with a wife like mine?”
“You may well ask it. Madge would rather die than think an evil thought, let alone do an evil deed, against you. As for Rhoda—she beats me. Most of the man-hating sort be ugly and a bit hard at the angles; but she—she’s as pretty as any wife you ever saw in the world. The Lord may send her a husband yet! And mind you let me know if it happens, for I’d like to give her a wedding present worth having.”
They parted then.
“Well, good luck to you,” said the elder; “and don’t forget to let us home-staying chaps have a sight of you again presently, when a few years be past and you’ve started on your fortune.”
“And all good wishes to you, David; and, for a last kindness, I’ll ask you to get Madge to see my Aunt Susan Saunders sometimes and cheer her up. She badly wanted for me to take her along to Canada—poor old lady; but of course I couldn’t do that—such a wanderer as I shall be till I find that place that pleases me.”
Thus it came about that when David returned to his home and heard that Madge was not there, he felt no intense astonishment. He doubted not that sharp words had passed and that his wife had left Rhoda until he should come home. For the time, however, he kept silence. He determined to speak to Rhoda and Madge together when the latter reappeared. He felt certain that she had gone to Coombeshead; and he also believed that she would stop with her parents until he went to fetch her.
“Put on the griddle and cook me a bit of meat for breakfast,” he said to Rhoda. “I’m very hungry, along of having sat up most of the night with father. He’s come well through it. He slept off and on, and feels he’s safe this morning. I shall go up again later, when Madge be back.”
He ate, then started to Coombeshead; but his wife was not there, neither had any news been received concerning her. Then he walked across to Sheepstor, but none had seen or heard of Margaret. He called at ‘The Corner House’ to drink, and stopped there a while. But his mind was now much agitated. He soon set off for Ditsworthy; and he prayed as he went that there his increasing fears for Madge might be laid at rest.
It was after noon when he arrived at his father’s house, to learn that the doctor had pronounced Mr. Bowden better. But no news of Margaret greeted him. His twin brothers were just setting out for Princetown, to procure certain medical comforts for their father. Now they went as far as Coombeshead with David, and there he left them and returned again to the Stanburys. Still they had heard nothing. In grave alarm the husband went home, but Margaret was not there. Night now approached, and the man braced himself to set about systematic search and summon responsible aid.
Rhoda had left a hot meal for him and he ate it quickly; but she herself had departed. A pencilled note explained that she had gone to seek Margaret at certain farms where chance might have led her. David now much desired to cross-question Rhoda closely as to the matters that fell between her and Margaret on the preceding evening; but for the present this was impossible. He was just about to set off, give the alarm, and institute search parties, when the twins, Samson and Richard, suddenly appeared together and brought news.
When David’s wife left her home before dawn, she walked aimlessly onward until thought worked with her and directed her footsteps to a definite goal. The first note of light in the sky presently beckoned her, and unconsciously she set her feet in that direction. She moved along eastward by the leat, where it raced down a steep place under Cramber Tor; and she reflected between three courses. Her first thought was to seek David before all others, tell him what Rhoda was going to tell him, and explain the truth. Then she feared. The day broke very cold and dawn chilled her and lowered her spirit. Next she considered of Bartley; and it seemed a wise thing to seek him and go to David with him. Finally she thought of her father, and wondered whether wisest action might not take her to her old home. It was a father’s and a brother’s part to fight this battle for her. They would stand before David, man to man, and refute the infamy that Rhoda had prepared for his ears. But some mood led to Bartley Crocker before the rest. She turned presently and set her face to Sheepstor. And thus it happened that standing near the village, on high ground above it, she actually saw the early departure of her friend. He drove swiftly away under her eyes, and she was powerless to reach him now or to communicate with him. He had promised to see her again that evening; but doubtless to escape emotional leave-takings and an elaborate departure he had planned this secret exit. She did not blame him; but now that he was irrevocably gone, she doubted terribly for herself and asked herself what next must happen. She did not fear David, but she greatly feared Rhoda. She knew her husband’s estimate of Rhoda, and she suspected that in a deliberate contest between them he might lean to the stronger nature. He had never been jealous or shown the shadow of such an instinct, and that thought comforted her; but Rhoda was very strong, and if Rhoda was not mad, then she must be armed with arguments to support her awful belief. Margaret had nothing but denials—and Bartley was gone. Perhaps, against the lying testimony that Rhoda possessed, and doubtless believed, her bare denial would prove all too weak. She amazed herself to find how calmly she considered the sudden situation—a situation that yesterday she would have fainted to consider. Now, looking at the empty road when Bartley’s vehicle had left it, she felt that salvation lay in one direction alone. She must see David before Rhoda could see him. He would return that morning; therefore her safest course was to go home swiftly, lie hidden by the way, and intercept him as he came along. She set off again, and as she returned, became conscious of physical hunger. But the sensation passed and she pressed forward until her home appeared. She came back in time to find herself too late; for she saw her husband descend the hill to ‘Meavy Cot’ and enter the house while yet she was half a mile distant.
Now active fear got hold upon Margaret. In spirit she heard Rhoda’s voice; she listened to the indictment; she pictured David’s incredulity. He would surely start to see Bartley Crocker on the instant; and he would find Bartley gone for ever. And then? Her thoughts turned again to her own people. She cried out from her heart for protection. Her mental weakness gained upon her as she grew physically more feeble. Her legs trembled under her. She turned, and crouched, and crept behind a wall, that no chance eye from ‘Meavy Cot’ might see her aloft on the hill. Then she started to go to Coombeshead, and ran some distance until she grew suddenly weak and was forced to sit and rest herself for fear of fainting. David would doubtless guess that she had gone home. He would follow; he was certain to be upon the way now, and he must overtake her long before she reached Coombeshead. Increasing terror and decreasing reason threw her into a shivering sweat. She jumped up and left the road to Coombeshead, and so in reality avoided David, who had now set out for the farm of the Stanburys. She actually saw him pass within a hundred yards of her, and she rejoiced at her escape. Then, when he had gone by, she went forward to Crazywell and hid there, in deep gorse brakes not far distant from the water. Here she was safe enough for the present. She drank from a spring, and then sat on a stone until she grew very cold.
The time for useful thought or a sensible decision was past; the critical hours, when this woman’s humble intellect might have led her to salvation, had gone by. Now she stood weak every way—physically reduced, mentally depressed and fear-stricken. She had declined upon a state which found her a prey to unreal terrors, phantom-driven, pervious to the secret evils of heredity. These intrinsic ills, latent in her blood and brain, now found their vantage, and presently reduced the daughter of Constance Stanbury to a condition of peril. It was in this pitiful case, as she wandered some hours later near Crazywell, that there came to her two children, and she had speech with them. She was light-headed; but they did not know it. They stared at the things she said and thought that brother David’s wife was making very queer jokes.
Samson and Richard, with their basket carried between them, staggered steadily homewards through thickening dusk. They wondered which of the luxuries in the basket their father would eat first; and they rather envied him his collapse, when they considered the attractive nature of these prescriptions. Then they came suddenly upon Margaret standing by the gorse-brakes. She started and was about to dive into cover, like a frightened beast or bird, when she recognised the boys.
“Hullo!” cried Samson. “Why, ’tis Madge! Whatever be you doing up here all by yourself?”
She stared at them as they set down their basket and rested their arms.
“Oh, Lord, these good things be heavy!” declared Richard.
“Have ’e got a bit of meat there, Dicky?” she asked, her nature crying for food.
“I should just think we had. A half of a calf’s head for soup, and three bottles of jelly, and a bottle of wine. I wish I was faither!”
“And grapes, took out of a barrel of sawdust,” said Samson.
“A long journey for your little legs; but nought to mine,” she said. “You must know, you boys, that I be going to set out on a journey myself as far as from here to the stars—or further.”
They laughed at the idea.
“Be you? And what’ll David say?” asked Richard.
“He’ll understand very well. ’Tis for him I shall do it. I lay he’ll be glad.”
“Why don’t he go along with you?”
“Not yet; but he’ll come after some day.”
“Where’s your luggage to?” asked the practical Samson.
“Don’t want none—no luggage—no money—no ticket—only a pinch of courage. Mr. Shillabeer taught me the way. If you’ve out-lived your usefulness, ’tis better to make room for better people. And there’s no such thing as wrong-doing, Dick, because God A’mighty, being all-powerful, won’t let it happen. You and Samson might think as you do wrong sometimes.”
“So they tell us,” admitted Samson.
“Not you—you’re God’s children and can’t no more do wrong than the birds and the angels.”
“That’s worth knowing,” said Richard.
“Nor yet me: I must do what I must, and the journey’s got to be took. Because I may be useful in one place, though I can’t be in another.... ’Tis a bitter cruel thing to be misunderstood, Samson.”
“So it is—as I said last time Joshua gave me a lacing and found out after ’twas Nap,” he answered.
“When might you start?” asked Richard.
“There’s nought to keep me—my usefulness be ended. But I’m that terrible hungry.”
“I should go home along and have a bit of supper first.”
“No, no, Sam. Good-byes be such sad things. Better I go without ’em. Bartley, he went off without, and he was wise. But I see’d him set out. All the same, his journey’s but a span long to mine.”
The boys were puzzled. They talked together.
“Might us give her a biscuit—one of them big uns?” whispered Richard; but Samson refused.
“No. ’Twill be found out, and of course they’ll say we ate it.”
“Where do ’e set out from?” asked Richard.
“From this here pool.”
“Funny place to go on a journey from,” said Samson. “’Tis my belief you’m having a game with us.”
Margaret shook her head.
“Never no more,” she said. “We’ve played many and many a good game—you two and me. But they all be ended now. I’m going to new usefulness somewhere long ways off—terrible busy I’ll be, without a doubt; and you be both growing into men, and busy too. But don’t you forget me, you boys—because I never will forget neither of you.”
“You talk as if you wasn’t going to come back,” said Richard. “I’m sure David would make a terrible fuss if you was to go for long.”
“But Rhoda won’t,” added Samson. “Rhoda don’t like you overmuch. For that matter, she don’t like anything but David and dogs. Me and Dick don’t set no store by Rhoda, do we, Dick?”
“No,” said Richard. “We do not.”
“I’ll come back—I’ll come back to watch over David,” said Madge suddenly. “Yes, I won’t bide away altogether. I couldn’t. But not same as I am now—not a poor, broken-hearted, useless good-for-nothing, as have worn out her welcome in the world. I’ll be a shining, joyous thing then—winged like a lark, and so sweet a singer too.”
“You can sing very nice, and always could,” said Dick graciously.
“I’d sing to you boys now, but there’s no time. Be it night or morning with us? I’m sure I couldn’t say, for I’ve been up and about these days and days.”
“They’m looking for you, come to think of it,” said Samson suddenly. “David was up over after dinner.”
“Was he kind or cross?”
“Neither—but a good bit flurried seemingly.”
“He don’t know about the journey, you see. I’m afraid he’ll be sorry—after. He’ll be sorry, won’t he, Dicky?”
“He’ll be terribly vexed without a doubt,” declared Richard. “In fact, if I was you, I’d change your mind. You oughtn’t to do nothing without telling him—ought her, Samson?”
“No, her oughtn’t,” answered his brother.
“You two—two at a birth,” she said. “Got together and born together! ’Tis a very beautiful thing—a beautiful thing, sure enough. You’m one—not two at all—one in heart and thought and feeling, one in your little joys and fears and hopes. And even so I’d thought to be with David. But I wasn’t strong enough and understanding enough for that. He’s too much above me. And us had no childer, you see. There comed no babby to my bosom, and so—there ’tis—the usefulness and hope of me all gone—a withered, worn-out blossom as never set no fruit. And when the flower be fallen, ’tis all over and forgot. My mother knowed best, you see. She always feared it wouldn’t come to good. How right she was!”
“What silly old rummage you do talk,” said Richard. “Never heard the like! Why for don’t you go home? Didn’t Madge ought for to go home, Sam?”
“Yes, she did,” said Samson, “this instant. She’m mazed, I believe.”
“Pisgies been at her, I reckon,” hazarded his brother.
“I’m going home,” she answered. “On my solemn word of honour, as a living Christian, I’m going home; and if I’m there afore them I care about—what’s the odds? Only there’s no marrying nor giving in marriage there. Won’t Rhoda be happy then! But I tell you two witty boys that I’m wickedly wronged, and the world will know it. I won’t stoop to defend myself—I’m above that; but my God will defend me, and you must defend me—both of you. ’Tis a very cruel thing to tell lies against the innocent—them as never did you harm—them as only thought and planned always to better you and bring you happiness. And wasn’t my sorrow large enough, the black sorrow of the women that never rock cradles—but she must—?.... you’ll always have a good word for me, Richard—won’t ’e?—if ’tis only for the sake of the fun we’ve had.”
“So we will then,” said Dick. “And if anybody says anything against you, me and Sam won’t suffer it. Because you’re a jolly good sort and always have been. Never was one like you for cake—never.”
Samson pulled at Richard’s sleeve in the gathering gloom.
“Us had better go,” he whispered.
“Us must go now,” repeated Dicky to Margaret.
“Good-bye then, and God bless you both—such little men as you be growing! Yet ’tis cruel not to give me a bite from your basket. I’m faint for want of food—God’s my judge but I am.”
“Can’t, for fear of catching it. You’ll do best to go back home,” advised Samson.
“I shall be there afore you are. ’Tis beautiful to be there first of all, to welcome all the rest as they come in one after t’other, like homing pigeons. If they only knowed... if they only knowed how dearly I’ve loved ’em all—Rhoda, too. I tried so hard to make her a happy woman. But they will come to know at journey’s end. And she’ll know then. ’Twill all be burning light then, with nothing hid and the last heartache lifted.”
They took their basket and crept off. In the dark they stopped and listened. She was singing.
“Never knowed her like that afore,” said Richard. “I’ve a good mind to take back a biscuit for her and chance what they’ll say. She’s terrible leery4 and terrible queer.”
“Us had better get home and tell about her.”
They pushed on for a quarter of a mile, and then Samson had another idea.
“We’m nearer ‘Meavy Cot’ than anywheers,” he said. “Us had better go and tell David. ’Tis his job to look after Madge, I should think—him being her husband.”
“‘I’m cruel tired,” answered Richard; “and as ’tis we shall catch it pretty hot for being such a deuce of a time.”
“‘We’ll leave the basket here, and just run down and then come back for it. And as to catching it, we shall catch it worse if we don’t tell David, and he comes to hear about it after Madge has sloped off.”
“You go, and I’ll bide here and keep guard over the basket,” suggested Dick; but Samson would not have this.
“No,” he answered firmly, “I’m not going without you. You know very well us can’t do nought apart.”
They left the basket on the top of a wall and turned back and reached ‘Meavy Cot.’ Then they told David that Madge was by Crazywell, and much to their disappointment, he seized his hat and rushed from the house before they had time to give any description of their remarkable conversation with her. Rhoda was not in, and finding themselves alone, the boys sought the larder and ventured to eat heartily. Then they went on their way, cheered at consciousness of well-doing and the reward of well-doing.
All that David had heard was how his brothers had met with Madge by Crazywell. More he did not stop to learn; and when some time afterwards he stood by the pool, tramped its shores and shouted Margaret’s name until the hollowed cup of the little tarn echoed, he judged that the children had been mistaken in the darkness and imagined that some other was Madge. Because he saw no sign of her and heard no answer to his cries. For a time he wandered through the night and splashed along the fringes of the pool; then he abandoned the search, groped his way upwards, and returned home.
His wife, however, had been within sound of his voice. Through the locked portals of a sleeping ear his cries had reached and wakened her. When Samson and Richard were gone, she sang a hymn about the joys of heaven; and then nature made a sudden and imperious appeal for sleep. She had not slumbered for forty hours, and now, succumbing swiftly, lay down under the gorse and sank into oblivion.
Anon her husband’s voice reached her brain, and roused her consciousness. His loud summons, filtering through the sleep-drenched avenues of her brain, begot happy dreams therein. She smiled and wakened. Then she heard him calling in the darkness, and sudden terrors bound her hand and foot. His voice, lifted in deep anxiety, to her seemed laden with wrath. Her dismantled mind hid the truth and turned the man’s cry into a sinister threat. Therefore she cowered motionless, breathless, like a bird that sees a hawk at hand, until he was gone, and silence returned.
She slept no more, but it was not until midnight that her wounded intellect again roused itself. Then chance, quickening propensities that had for ever remained asleep in another environment, swept the woman to action.
Notes
4 Hungry.