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diff --git a/old/55468-0.txt b/old/55468-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3e6318d..0000000 --- a/old/55468-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11494 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Storm in a Teacup, by Eden Phillpotts - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Storm in a Teacup - -Author: Eden Phillpotts - -Release Date: August 31, 2017 [EBook #55468] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORM IN A TEACUP *** - - - - -Produced by MWS, David E. Brown and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - - - STORM IN A TEACUP - - - [Illustration] - - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS - ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO - - MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED - LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA - MELBOURNE - - THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. - TORONTO - - - - - STORM IN A TEACUP - - BY - EDEN PHILLPOTTS - - Author of - “Old Delabole,” “Brunel’s Tower,” etc. - - - New York - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - 1919 - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1919 - BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - - - Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1919. - - - - - CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I BOW CREEK 1 - - II MAGIC PICTURES 8 - - III PRIORY FARM 14 - - IV A NEW VATMAN 26 - - V THE RAG HOUSE 30 - - VI THE MARTYR 40 - - VII THE BLUE MARK 51 - - VIII ASSAULT AND BATTERY 62 - - IX THE OLD PRIORY 73 - - X THE LETTER 87 - - XI LYDIA’S DAY 98 - - XII MEDORA’S NIGHT 113 - - XIII IN LONDON 122 - - XIV THE DRYING LOFTS 132 - - XV GOING UP CORKSCREW HILL 139 - - XVI AT “THE WATERMAN’S ARMS” 149 - - XVII TRAGEDY IN THE SIZING ROOM 159 - - XVIII NED HEARS MR. KNOX 170 - - XIX EMOTIONS OF MEDORA 181 - - XX PHILANDER’S FATE 192 - - XXI THE PROTEST 207 - - XXII A TEST FOR JORDAN KELLOCK 220 - - XXIII THE WISDOM OF PHILANDER 229 - - XXIV NED AND MEDORA 239 - - XXV THE EXPLANATION 249 - - XXVI THE STROKE 258 - - XXVII THE DOCTOR 271 - - XXVIII THE CONFESSION 279 - - XXIX THE BARGAIN 286 - - XXX FIRE BEACON HILL 297 - - - - -STORM IN A TEACUP - - - - -CHAPTER I - -BOW CREEK - - -How musical are the place names on the tidal water of Dart. Tuckenhay -and Greenway, Stoke Gabriel and Dittisham, Sharpham and Duncannon—a -chime of bells to the native ear that knows them. - -To-day autumn rainbows burnt low on the ferny hills and set their -russet flashing. Then hailstorms churned the river into a flurry -and swept seaward under a grey cowl. They came with a rush of wind, -that brought scarlet leaves from the wild cherry and gold dust from -the larch; but soon the air cleared and the sun returned, while the -silver fret of the river’s face grew calm again to mirror far-off -things. Easterly the red earth arched low on the blue sky; west spread -cobweb-grey orchards, their leaves fallen, their last of apples still -twinkling—topaz and ruby—among the lichens of their ancient boughs. -Then broad, oaken hangers met the beech scrub and the pale oak foliage -was as a flame dancing above the red-hot fire of the beeches. Their -conflagrations blazed along the tideway and their reflected colour -poured down over the woods into the water. - -Then elm trees rolled out along the river, and above them, in billows -mightier than they, sailed the light-laden clouds, that seemed to lift -another forest, bossed and rounded as the elm trees, and carry up their -image into the sky. But the cloud glory was pale, its sun touched -summits faint against the ardour of the earthborn elms. - -At water’s brink, above Stoke Gabriel’s little pier and gleam of white -and rose-washed cots, black swine were rooting for acorns; while -westerly an arm of Dart extended up Bow Creek through such sunlight as -made the eyes throb and turn to the cool shadows. Another silver loop -and Duncannon cuddled in an elbow of the river; then, higher yet, the -hills heaved along Sharpham’s hanging woods turned from the sun. The -immense curtain of trees faced north in tapestry of temperate tones -painted with purple and grey and the twilight colours of autumn foliage -seen through shadows. The ash was already naked—a clean skeleton -against the dun mass of dying foliage—and other trees were casting -down their garments; but the firs and spruce made rich contrast of blue -and green upon the sere. - -Beyond Sharpham, long river flats rolled out, where plover and gulls -sat on tussocks of reed, or rush, and curlew wheeled and mewed -overhead. Then opened a point, where, robbed of colour, all mist-laden, -amid gentle passages of receding banks and trees, there lifted the -church tower of Totnes, with Dartmoor flung in a dim arc beyond. - -So Dart came, beside old, fern-clad wharves, through sedge-beds and -reed ronds to the end of her estuary under the glittering apron of a -weir. Then the pulse of the sea ceased to beat; the tide bade farewell, -and the salmon leapt from salt to fresh. - -Worthy of worship in all her times and seasons; by her subtleties and -sleights, her sun and shadow; by her laughter and coy approaches; -by her curves and colours; her green hills and delight of woods -and valleys; by her many voices; her changing moods and little -lovelinesses, Dart is all Devon and so incomparably England. - -A boat moved on Bow Creek, and in it there sat two men and a young -woman. One man rowed while his wife and the other man watched him. -He pulled a long, powerful stroke, and the little vessel slipped up -the estuary on a tide that was at flood, pondering a moment before the -turn. The banks were a blaze of autumn colour, beneath which shelving -planes of stone sank down to the water. The woman twirled an umbrella -to dry it from the recent storm. She was cold and shivered a little, -for though the sun shone again, the north wind blew. - -“I’m fearing we oughtn’t to have come, Medora,” said the man who sat -beside her. - -“Take my coat,” advised Medora’s husband. “It’s dry enough inside.” - -He stopped rowing, took off his coat and handed it to his wife, who -slipped it over her white blouse, but did not thank him. - -Medora Dingle was a dark-faced girl, with black hair and a pair of -deep, brown eyes—lovely, but restless—under clean, arched eye-brows. -Her mouth was red and small, her face fresh and rosy. She seemed -self-conscious, and shivered a little more than was natural; for she -was strong and hearty enough in body, tall and lithe, one who laboured -six days a week and had never known sickness. Two of her fingers were -tied up in cotton rags, and one of the wounds was on her ring finger so -that her wedding ring was not visible. - -Presently Edward Dingle put down the oars. - -“Now you can take it on, old chap,” he said, and then changed places -with his companion. The men were very unlike, but each comely after -his fashion. Dingle was the bigger—a broad-shouldered, loose-limbed -youth of five-and-twenty, with a head rather small for his bulk, -and a pleasant laughter-loving expression. He was fair and pretty -rather than handsome. His features were regular, his eyes blue, his -hair straw-coloured and curly. A small moustache did not conceal his -good-humoured mouth. His voice was high-pitched, and he chattered -a great deal of nothing. He was a type of the slight, kindly man -taken for granted—a man whose worth is under-valued by reason of his -unimportance to himself. He had a boundless good nature combined with a -modest mind. - -Jordan Kellock stood an inch or two shorter than Dingle and was a -year or two older. He shaved clean, and brushed his dark, lustreless -hair off his high forehead without parting it. Of a somewhat sallow -complexion, with grey, deliberate eyes and a clean-cut, thin-lipped -mouth, his brow suggested idealism and enthusiasm; there was a light in -his solemn eyes and a touch of the sensitive about his nose. He spoke -slowly, with a level, monotonous accent, and in this also offered an -abrupt contrast to his companion. - -It seemed that he felt the reality of life and was pervious to -impressions. He rowed with less mannerism, and a slower stroke than his -friend; but the boat moved faster than it had with Dingle at the oars, -for Kellock was a very strong man, and his daily work had developed his -breast and arms abnormally. - -“A pity now,” said Ned, “that you didn’t let me fetch your thick coat, -Medora, like I wanted to.” - -“You ought to have fetched it,” she answered impatiently. - -“I offered, and you said you didn’t want it.” - -“That’s like you. Throw the blame on me.” - -“There’s no blame to it.” - -“You ought to have just brought the thing and not bothered me about -it,” she declared. - -Then her husband laughed. - -“So I ought,” he admitted; “but it takes a man such a hell of a time to -know just what he ought to do where a woman’s concerned.” - -“Not where his wife’s concerned, I should think.” - -“Hardest of all, I reckon.” - -“Yes, because a wife’s truthful most times,” replied Medora. “It’s no -good her pretending—there’s nothing to gain by it. Other women often -pretend that a man’s pleasing them, when he’s not—just for politeness -to the stupid things; but a man’s wife’s a fool to waste time like -that. The sooner she trains her husband up to the truth of her, the -better for him and the better for her.” - -They wrangled a little, then Ned laughed again. - -“Now Jordan will let on you and me are quarrelling,” he said. - -Thus challenged, the rower answered, but he was quite serious in his -reply. - -“Last thing I should be likely to do—even if it was true. A man and -his wife can argue a point without any feeling, of course.” - -“So they can,” declared Medora. “And a proud woman don’t let even a -friend see her troubles. Not that I’ve got any troubles, I’m sure.” - -“And never will have, I hope,” answered Kellock gravely. - -The creek began to close, and ahead loomed a wharf and a building -standing upon it. The hills grew higher round about, and the boat -needed steering as her channel became narrower. - -“Tide’s turning,” said Ned, and for answer, the rower quickened his -stroke. - -They passed the wharf, where a trout stream from a coomb ran into the -estuary, then, ascending to the head of the boatable waters, reached -their destination. Already the tide was falling and revealing weedy -rocks and a high-water mark on either bank of the creek. To the right -a little boathouse opened its dark mouth over the water, and now they -slipped into it and came ashore. - -Medora thanked Jordan Kellock warmly. - -“Don’t you think I didn’t enjoy it because I got a bit chilly after the -hailstorm,” she said. “I did enjoy it ever so much, and it was very -kind of you to ask me.” - -“The last time we’ll go boating this year,” he answered, “and it was a -good day, though cold along of the north wind. But the autumn woods -were very fine, I’m sure.” - -“Properly lovely—poetry alive you might call them.” - -“So I thought,” he answered as he turned down his sleeves and presently -put on his coat and tie again. The coat was black and the tie a subdued -green. - -Ned made the boat ship-shape and turned to his wife. - -“A good smart walk up the hill will warm you,” he said. - -She hesitated and whispered to him. - -“Won’t you ask Jordan to tea?” - -“Why, certainly,” he answered aloud. “Medora’s wishful for you to come -to tea, old man. So I hope you will.” - -“I should have liked to do it,” replied Kellock; “but I’ve promised to -see Mr. Trenchard. It’s about the moulds for the advertisements.” - -“Right. He’ll want me, too, I reckon over that job.” - -“He will without a doubt. In fact it’s more up to you than me. -Everything depends on the pulp.” - -“So it does with all paper,” declared Ned. - -“True enough. The beaterman’s master. For these fancy pictures for -exhibition you’ve got to mix stuff as fine as clear soup—just the -contrary of what you may call real paper.” - -“Are you coming, Ned?” asked Medora. “I’ve got to get over to mother -to-morrow and I don’t want to go with a cold.” - -“Coming, coming,” he said. “So long, Jordan.” - -“Good-bye till Monday,” answered the other. Then he stood still and -watched the young couple tramp off together. - -He gazed thoughtfully and when they disappeared up a steep woodland -path, he shook his head. They were gone to Ashprington village, where -they dwelt; but Mr. Kellock lived at Dene where the trout stream -descended from the hills to the river. He crossed from the boat-house -by a row of stepping-stones set athwart the creek; then he turned to -the left and soon found himself at the cottage where he lodged. - -This man and Dingle had both loved Medora Trivett, and for some time -she had hesitated between them. But Ned won her and the loser, taking -his defeat in a large and patient spirit, continued to remain good -friends with both. - -Mr. Kellock knew, what everybody guessed, that after a year of -marriage, the pair were not happy together, though why this should be -so none could at present determine. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -MAGIC PICTURES - - -Stopping only to wash his hands and brush his hair, Kellock left his -rooms and hastened up the coomb, where towered immense congeries of -buildings under the slope of the hills. Evening sunshine fell over the -western height which crowned the valley, and still caught the upper -windows of the factory; but the huge shadow quickly climbed upward as -the sun set. - -A small house stood at the main gate of Dene Paper Mill, and at the -door sat a man reading a paper and smoking his pipe. - -It was Mr. Trood, foreman of the works. - -“Guvnor’s asking for you, Kellock,” he said. “Five o’clock was the -time.” - -Jordan hurried on to the deserted mills, for the day was Saturday -and work had ceased at noon. Threading the silent shops he presently -reached a door on an upper floor, marked “Office,” knocked and was told -to enter. - -On the left of the chamber sat a broad-shouldered man writing at a -roll-top desk; under the windows of the room, which faced north, -extended a long table heaped with paper of all descriptions and colours. - -The master twisted round on his office chair, then rose and lighted a -cigarette. He was clean-shaved with iron-grey hair and a searching but -genial expression. His face shone with intelligence and humour. It was -strong and accurately declared the man, for indomitable perseverance -and courage belonged to Matthew Trenchard. - -His own success he attributed to love of sport and love of fun. These -pursuits made him sympathetic and understanding. He recognised his -responsibilities and his rule of conduct in his relations with the -hundred men and women he employed was to keep in closest possible -touch with them. He held it good for them and vital for himself that -he should know what was passing in their minds; for only thus could he -discover the beginning of grievances and destroy them in the egg. He -believed that the longer a trouble grew, the more difficult it was to -dissipate, and by establishing intimate relations with his staff and -impressing upon them his own situation, his successes and his failures, -he succeeded in fixing unusual bonds. - -For the most part his people felt that Trenchard’s good was their -own—not because he said so, but because he made it so; and save for -certain inevitable spirits, who objected on principle to all existing -conditions between capital and labour, the workers trusted him and -spoke well of him. - -Kellock was first vatman at Dene, and one of the best paper makers in -England. Both knew their worth and each was satisfied with the other. - -“I’ve heard from that South American Republic, Kellock,” said Mr. -Trenchard. “They like the new currency paper and the colour suits them.” - -“It’s a very fine paper, Mr. Trenchard.” - -“Just the exact opposite of what I’m after for these advertisements. -The public, Kellock, must be appealed to by the methods of Cheap Jack -at the fair. They love a conjuring trick, and if you can stop them -long enough to ask ‘how’s it done?’ you often interest them and win -them. Now samples of our great papers mean nothing to anybody but the -dealers. The public doesn’t know hand-made paper from machine-made. -What we’ve got to do is to show them—not tip-top paper, but a bit of -magic; and such a fool is the public that when he sees these pictures -in water-mark, he’ll think the paper that produces them must be out of -the common good. We know that it’s not ‘paper’ at all in our sense, -and that it’s a special brew for this special purpose; but the public, -amazed by the pictures, buys our paper and doesn’t know that the better -the paper, the more impossible such sleight of hand would be upon it. -We show them one thing which awakes their highest admiration and causes -them to buy another!” - -All this Jordan Kellock very well understood, and his master knew that -he did; but Trenchard liked to talk and excelled in lucid exposition. - -“That’s right,” said the vatman; “they think that the paper that can -take such pictures must be good for anything; though the truth is that -it’s good for nothing—but the pictures. If there was any quality to -the pulp, it could never run into such moulds as these were made in.” - -He began to pick up the impressions of a series of large, exhibition -water-marks, and hold them to the windows, that their transparent -wonders might be seen. - -“Real works of art,” he said, “with high lights and deep shadows -and rare half tones and colour, too, all on stuff like tissue. The -beaterman must give me pulp as fine as flour to get such impressions.” - -“Finer than flour, my lad. The new moulds are even more wonderful. It -is no good doing what your father did over again. My father beat my -grandfather; so it’s my duty to beat him—see?” - -“These are wonderful enough in all conscience.” - -“And for the Exhibition I mean to turn out something more wonderful -still. Something more than craft—real art, my friend. I want the -artists. I want them to see what our art paper for water-colour work -is. They don’t know yet—at least only a handful of them.” - -“But this is different. The pulp to do this sort of thing must be as -thin as water,” said Kellock. - -“Fibre is the first consideration for paper that’s going to be as -everlasting as parchment; but these water-mark masterpieces are _tours -de force_—conjuring tricks as I call them. And I want to give the -public a conjuring trick more wonderful than they’ve ever seen in paper -before; and I’m going to do it.” - -“No paper maker ever beat these, Mr. Trenchard,” declared Kellock. He -held up large sheets of the size known as “elephant.” They appeared -to be white until illuminated; then they revealed shades of delicate -duck-green, sunrise yellow, dark blue, light blue and umber. - -A portrait by Romney of Lady Hamilton shone through the first, and -the solidity of the dark masses, the rendering of the fabric and the -luminous quality of the flesh were wonderfully translated by the -daylight filtering through. - -“There can be no painted pictures like these,” said Matthew Trenchard -stoutly. “And why? Because the painter uses paint; I use pure daylight, -and the sweetest paint that ever was isn’t a patch on the light of day. -Such things as these are more beautiful than pictures, just because the -living light from the sky is more beautiful than any pigment made by -man.” - -Kellock was too cautious to agree with these revolutionary theories. - -“Certainly these things would be very fine to decorate our windows, if -we didn’t want to look out of them,” he admitted. - -Then he held up a portrait of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. - -“Pure ultramarine blue, you see,” commented the master, “and the light -brings out its richness, though if you looked at the paper, you’d be -puzzled to find any blue in it. That’s because the infinitely fine -atoms of the colour would want a microscope to see their separate -particles. Yet where the pulp sank to the depths of the mould, they -collected in millions to give you those deep shadows.” - -Kellock delayed at the copy of a statue: the Venus Victrix from -Naples—a work which certainly reproduced the majesty of the original -in a rounded, lustrous fashion that no reproduction on the flat could -echo. - -“We can’t beat that, though it is fifty years old,” declared Kellock. - -“We’re going to, however; and another statue is my idea. Marble comes -out grandly as you see. I’m out for black and white, not colour. I’ve -an idea we can get something as fine as the old masters of engraving, -and finer.” - -“The vatman is nought for this work,” confessed Kellock. “He makes -paper in his mould and that’s all there is to it—whether for printing, -or writing, or painting. The man who matters is him who makes the -mould.” - -“But we can help him; we can experiment at the vat and in the beating -engine. We can go one better in the pulp; and the stroke counts at the -vat. I reckon your stroke will be invaluable to work the pulp into -every cranny of such moulds as I’m thinking about.” - -“I’ll do my best; so will Dingle; but how many men in England are there -who could make such moulds as these to-day?” - -“Three,” replied Trenchard. “But I want better moulds. I’m hopeful that -Michael Thorn of London will rise to it. I go to see him next week, and -we put in a morning at the British Museum to find a statue worthy of -the occasion.” - -“I can see a wonderful thing in my mind’s eye already,” declared -Kellock. - -“Can you? Well, I never can see anything in my mind’s eye and rest -content for an hour, till I set about the way to see it with my body’s -eye.” - -“We all know that, Mr. Trenchard.” - -“Here’s my favourite,” declared the other, holding up a massive head of -Abraham Lincoln. “Now that’s a great work in my judgment and if we beat -that in quality, we shall produce a water-mark picture worth talking -about.” - -“You ought to show all these too,” said Jordan Kellock. - -“I shall—if I beat them; not if they beat me,” replied the other. -“I wanted you to see what my father and grandfather could do, so that -you may judge what we’re up against. But they’re going to be beaten at -Dene, or else I’ll know the reason why.” - -“It’s good to see such things and worth while trying to beat them,” -answered the vatman. - -“To improve upon the past is the business of every honest man in my -opinion,” declared Trenchard. “That’s what we’re here for; and that’s -what I’ve done, I believe, thanks to a lot of clever people here who -have helped me to do it and share what credit there may be. But I don’t -claim credit, Ned. It’s common duty for every man with brains in his -head to help push the craft along.” - -“And keep its head above water,” added the listener. - -Matthew Trenchard eyed him doubtfully and lighted another cigarette. - -“Yes,” he admitted rather reluctantly. “You’re right. Hand-made paper’s -battling for its life in one sense—like a good many other hand-made -things. But the machine hasn’t caught us yet and it will be a devil of -a long time before it does, I hope.” - -“It’s for us not to let it,” said Jordan—a sentiment the paper master -approved. - -“I’m fair,” he said, “and I’m not going to pretend the machine isn’t -turning out some properly wonderful papers; and I’m not going to say it -isn’t doing far better things than ever I thought it would do. I don’t -laugh at it as my grandfather did, or shake my head at it as my father -used. I recognise our craft is going down hill. But we ain’t at the -bottom by a long way; and when we get there, we’ll go game and die like -gentlemen.” - -They talked awhile longer; then the dusk came down, Kellock departed -and Trenchard, turning on an electric light, resumed his writing. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -PRIORY FARM - - -From Dene a mighty hill climbs southward to Cornworthy village. “The -Corkscrew” it is called, and men merciful to their beasts choose a -longer and more gradual ascent. But not a few of the workers engaged -at the paper mill tramped this zig-zag steep six days out of every -seven, and among these Lydia Trivett, the mother of Medora, could boast -twenty years of regular perambulation. Only on rare occasions, when -“Corkscrew” was coated with ice, did she take the long detour by the -little lake above the works. - -She had lived at Ashprington until her husband died; then she and her -daughter came to live with her brother, Thomas Dolbear, of Priory Farm. -He was a bachelor then; but at forty he wedded; and now Medora had her -own home, while her mother still dwelt with Mr. Dolbear, his wife, -Mary, and their increasing family. - -Lydia was a little brisk woman of fifty—the mistress of the rag house -at the mills. She was still comely and trim, for hard work agreed with -her. A very feminine air marked her, and Medora had won her good looks -from her mother, though not her affectation, for Mrs. Trivett was a -straightforward and unassuming soul. She had much to pride herself -upon, but never claimed credit in any direction. - -Priory Farm stood under a great slope of orchard and meadow, upon the -crown of which the priory ruins ascended. The farm was at the bottom -of a hill, and immediately opposite climbed the solitary street of -Cornworthy village capped by the church. The church and the old -Cistercean ruin looked across the dip in the land at each other. - -Now, on Sunday afternoon, Lydia, at the garden gate of her brother’s -house, started off six children to Sunday school. Five were girls and -one was a boy. They ranged from twelve years old to three; while at -home a two year old baby—another girl—remained with her mother. Mary -Dolbear expected her tenth child during the coming spring. Two had died -in infancy. She was an inert, genial mass of a woman, who lived only -for her children and the business of maternity. Her husband worshipped -her and they increased and multiplied proudly. Their house, but for -Lydia’s sleepless ministrations, would have been a pigstye. They were -indifferent to dirt and chose to make all things subservient to the -demands of their children. - -“The cradle rules the world, so enough said,” was Tom Dolbear’s -argument when people protested at the chaos in which he lived. He was -a stout man with a fat, boyish face, scanty, sandy hair and a narrow -forehead, always wrinkled by reason of the weakness of his eyes. He had -a smile like a baby and was indeed a very childish man; but he knew his -business and made his farm suffice for his family needs. - -In this house Lydia’s own room was an oasis in a wilderness. There one -found calm, order, cleanliness, distinction. She trusted nobody in it -but herself and always locked the door when she left for work. - -It was regarded as a sacred room, for both Mary and her husband -reverenced Lydia and blessed the Providence that had sent her to them. -They treated her with the greatest respect, always gave way to her and -recognised very acutely the vital force she represented in the inert -and sprawling domesticity of their establishment. Once, when an idea -was whispered that Tom’s sister might leave him, Mary fell absolutely -ill and refused to eat and drink until she changed her mind and -promised to stay. - -To do them justice they never took Lydia for granted. Their gratitude -flowed in a steady stream. They gave her all credit and all admiration, -and went their philoprogenitive way with light hearts. - -Now Mrs. Trivett watched her nieces and nephew march together in their -Sunday best along the way to Sunday school. Then she was about to shut -the wicket and return up the garden path, when a man appeared on the -high road and a fellow worker at the Mill accosted her. - -Nicholas Pinhey was a finisher; that is to say the paper passed -through his hands last before it left the works. With the multifarious -processes of its creation he had nothing to do; but every finished -sheet and stack of sheets touched his fingers before it entered the -world, and he was well skilled in the exacting duties of his own -department. - -He was a thin, prim bachelor of sixty—a man of nice habits and -finicking mind. There was much of the old maid in him, too, and he -gossiped inordinately, but never unkindly. He knew the life history, -family interests and private ambitions of everybody in the Mill. He -smelt mystery where none existed and much feared the modern movements -and threats of labour. Especially was he doubtful of Jordan Kellock and -regarded him as a dangerous and too progressive spirit. - -His interest in other people’s affairs now appeared; for he had come -to see Lydia; he had climbed “The Corkscrew” on Sunday from most -altruistic motives. - -“The better the day the better the deed,” he said. “I’ve walked over -for a cup of tea and a talk, because a little bird’s told me something -I don’t much like, Mrs. Trivett, and it concerns you in a manner of -speaking.” - -“You always keep to the point, Mr. Pinhey; and I dare say I know what -the point is for that matter. Come in. We can talk very well, because -we shall be alone in a minute.” - -Nicholas followed her into the parlour, a room of good size on the left -hand side of the entrance. They surprised Mrs. Dolbear nodding beside -the fire. She liked Mr. Pinhey, but she was glad of the excuse to leave -them and retire to her own room. - -She shook hands with the visitor, who hoped she found herself as well -as could be expected. - -“Oh, yes,” she said. “I take these things from whence they come. I feel -no fear except in one particular.” - -“I won’t believe it,” he declared. “You’ve got the courage to fight -lions and the faith to move mountains. We all know that. If the women -in general would come to the business of the next generation with -your fearless nature, we might hear less about the decrease of the -population.” - -“It’s not my part I trouble about; it’s the Lord’s,” explained Mrs. -Dolbear. “If I have another girl, it’ll break Tom’s heart. Six maids -and one boy is the record so far, though of the two we’ve buried, one -was a boy. And such is my perfect trust in myself, if I could choose -what I want from the Almighty at this moment, it would be two men -children.” - -“Magnificent!” said Mr. Pinhey. - -“I take Lydia to witness I speak no more than the truth,” replied the -matron. “But these things are out of our keeping, though Tom read in a -paper some time since a remarkable verdict, that if a woman with child -ate enough green stuff, she might count on a boy.” - -“That’s a painful subject,” said Lydia, “and you’d better not talk -about it, Polly.” - -“It was painful at the time,” admitted Mrs. Dolbear, “because Tom’s one -of they hopeful men, who will always jump at a new thing like a trout -jumps at a fly. And what was the result? From the moment he hit on that -cussed paper, he fed me more like a cow than a creature with a soul. -’Twas green stuff morning, noon and night—lettuce and spinach—which -I hate any time—and broccoli and turnip tops and spring onions and -cauliflower and Lord knows what mess till I rebelled and defied the -man. I didn’t lose my temper; but I said, calm and slow, ‘Tom,’ I said, -‘if you don’t want me to be brought to a bed of cabbage next September, -stop it. God’s my judge,’ I said, ‘I won’t let down another herb of the -field. I want red meat,’ I told him, ‘or else I won’t be responsible.’ -He argued for it, but I had my way and Lydia upheld me.” - -“And what was the result in the family line if I may venture to ask?” -inquired Mr. Pinhey. - -“The result in the family line was Jane Ethel,” answered Mrs. Dolbear; -“and where is Jane Ethel now, Lydia?” - -“In her little grave,” answered Mrs. Trivett. - -Her sister-in-law immediately began to weep. - -“Don’t you cry, my dear, it wasn’t your fault. The poor baby was born -with death in her eyes, as I always said.” - -Mrs. Dolbear sighed and moved ponderously across the room. She was -short and broad with a touzled head of golden hair and a colourless -face. But her smile was beautiful and her teeth perfect. - -“I dare say you’ll want to talk before tea,” she suggested; “and I’ll -go and have a bit of a sleep. I always say, ‘where there’s sleep, -there’s hope.’ And I want more than most people, and I can take it any -time in the twenty-four hours of the clock.” - -She waddled away and Mrs. Trivett explained. - -“Polly’s a proper wonder for sleep. It’s grown into a habit. She’ll -call out for a nap at the most unseasonable moments. She’ll curl up -anywhere and go off. We shan’t see her again till supper I shouldn’t -wonder. Sit you down and tell me what you come for.” - -“The work you must do in this house!” said Mr. Pinhey. - -“I like work and this is my home.” - -“A home I suppose, but not what I should call an abiding place,” -hazarded the man. - -“I don’t want no abiding place, because we know, if we’re Christians, -that there’s no abiding place this side of the grave.” - -“You take it in your usual high spirit. And now—you’ll forgive me if -I’m personal, Mrs. Trivett. You know the man that speaks.” - -“You want to better something I’m sure, else you wouldn’t be here.” - -“It is just as you say: I want to better something. We bachelors look -out on life from our lonely towers, so to say, and we get a bird’s eye -view of the people; and if we see a thing not all it might be, ’tis our -duty in my opinion to try and set it right. And to be quite frank and -in all friendship, I’m very much afraid your Medora and her husband -ain’t heart and soul together as they should be. If I’m wrong, then -thank God and enough said. But am I wrong?” - -Mrs. Trivett considered some moments before answering. Then she replied: - -“No, Nicholas Pinhey, you’re not wrong, and I wish I could say you -were. You have seen what’s true; but I wouldn’t say the mischief was -deep yet. It may be in our power to nip it in the bud.” - -“You grant it’s true, and that excuses me for touching it. I know my -manners I hope, and to anybody else I wouldn’t have come; but you’re -different, and if I can prevail upon you to handle Medora, I shall feel -I have done all I can do, or have a right to do. In these delicate -cases, the thing is to know where the fault lies. And most times it’s -with the man, no doubt.” - -“I don’t know about that. It isn’t this time anyway.” - -Mr. Pinhey was astonished. - -“Would you mean to say you see your own daughter unfavourable?” he -asked. - -“You must know the right of a thing if you want to do any good,” -declared Lydia. “Half the failure to right wrong so far as I can see, -is owing to a muddled view of what the wrong is. I’ve hung back about -this till I could see it clear, and I won’t say I do see it clear yet.” - -“I speak as a bachelor,” repeated Mr. Pinhey, “and therefore -with reserve and caution. And if you—the mother of one of the -parties—don’t feel you can safely take a hand, it certainly isn’t for -anybody else to try.” - -“As a matter of fact, I was going to do something this very day. My -daughter’s coming to tea and I mean to ask her what the matter is. -She’s not prone to be exactly straight, is Medora, but seeing I want -nothing but her good, I hope she’ll be frank with me.” - -The man felt mildly surprised to hear a mother criticise her daughter -so frankly. - -“I thought a child could do no wrong in its parents’ eyes,” he said. - -“Depends on the parent, Mr. Pinhey. If you want to help your child, -’tis no use beginning by taking that line. If we can do wrong, as God -knows we can, so can our children, and it’s a vain sort of love to -suppose they’re perfect. Medora’s got a great many good qualities, but, -like other pretty girls, she’s handicapped here and there. A right -down pretty girl don’t know she’s born most times, because everybody -in trousers bows down before her and helps to shut reality out of her -life.” - -“It’s the same with money,” surmised Nicholas. “Let a young person -have money and they look at the world through tinted glasses. The -truth’s hidden from them, and some such go to their graves and never -know truth, while others, owing to chance, lose the stuff that stands -between them and reality and have a very painful wakening. But as to -beauty—you was a woman to the full as fair as your girl—yet look how -you weathered the storm.” - -“No,” answered Lydia, “I never had Medora’s looks. In her case life’s -been too smooth and easy if anything. She had a comfortable home with -Tom here after her father died; and then came along a choice of two -good men to wed her and the admiration of a dozen others. She was in -two minds between Kellock and Dingle for a while; but her luck held and -she took the right one.” - -“Are you sure of that?” - -“Yes—for Medora. That’s not to say that Jordan Kellock isn’t a -cleverer chap than my son-in-law. Of course he is. He’s got more -mind and more sight. He has ideas about labour and a great gift of -determination; and he’s ambitious. He’ll go a long way further than -Ned. But against that you can set Ned’s unshakable good temper and -light heart. It’s grander for a man to have a heavy heart than a light, -when he looks out at the world; but they heavy-hearted, earnest men, -who want to help to set life right, call for a different fashion of -wife from Medora. If such men wed, they should seek women in their -own pattern—the earnest—deadly earnest sort—who don’t think of -themselves, or their clothes, or their looks, or their comforts. They -should find their helpmates in a kind of female that’s rare still, -though they grow commoner. And Medora ain’t that sort, and if she’d -took Kellock she’d have been no great use to him and he’d have been no -lasting use to her.” - -“Dear me!” murmured Mr. Pinhey, “how you look into things.” - -“Ned’s all right,” continued Mrs. Trivett. “He’s all right, for Medora; -and she ought to be all right for him. He loves her with all his heart -and, in a word, she doesn’t know her luck. That’s what I must try and -show her if I can. It’s just a sort of general discontent about nothing -in particular. You can’t have it both ways. Ned’s easy and likes a bit -of fun. He’s a good workman—in fact above the average, or he wouldn’t -be where he is. As a beaterman you won’t find his better in any paper -mill; but it ends there. He does his work and he’s reached his limit. -And away from work, he’s just a schoolboy from his task. He’s light -hearted and ought to be happy; and if she is not, he’ll worry a great -deal. But he won’t know what’s the matter, any more than Medora -herself.” - -Mr. Pinhey’s conventional mind proceeded in its natural groove. - -“To say it delicately, perhaps if a child was to come along it would -smooth out the crumpled rose-leaves,” he suggested. - -“You might think so; but it isn’t that. They both agree there. They -don’t like children and don’t want them.” - -“Well, I should be the last to blame them, I’m sure. It may not be true -to nature, but it’s true to truth, that the young married couples ain’t -so keen about families as they used to be.” - -“Nature’s at odds with a good deal we do,” answered Lydia. “Time -was when a quiver full of young ones seemed good to the people. But -education has changed all that. There’s selfishness in shirking a -family no doubt; but there’s also sense. And the better the education -grows, the shorter the families will.” - -They talked on until Medora herself arrived and the children came back -from Sunday school. Then Mrs. Trivett and a maid prepared the tea and -Mr. Pinhey, against his inclination, shared the meal. He noticed that -Medora was kind to the little ones, but not enthusiastic about them. -His own instincts made him shrink before so much happy and hungry youth -feeding heartily. The children scattered crumbs and seemed to create an -atmosphere of jam and a general stickiness around them. They also made -a great deal of noise. - -Their mother did not appear and when Nicholas asked for their father, -the eldest daughter told him that Mr. Dolbear was gone out for the day -with his dogs and a ferret. - -He whispered under his breath, “Ferreting on the Sabbath!” - -After tea he took leave and returned home. Then Medora and her mother -went into the orchard with the children, and Mrs. Trivett, wasting no -words, asked her daughter what was vexing her. - -“Say as much or as little as you please, my dear—nothing if I can’t -help you. But perhaps I can. It looks as though everybody but Ned sees -there’s something on your mind. Can’t you tell me what it is—or better -still, tell him?” - -Medora flushed. - -“There’s nothing the matter that can be helped,” she said. “Ned can’t -help being himself, I suppose, and if anybody’s talking, they ought to -be ashamed. It’s a cowardly, mean thing.” - -“It’s not cowardly, or mean to want to put a wrong right and make -people better content. But nobody wants to interfere between husband -and wife, and the people are very fond of you both as you well know. -You say ‘Ned can’t help being himself.’ Begin there, then. You’ve been -married a year now and you didn’t marry in haste either. He was what he -is before you took him. He hasn’t changed.” - -“I didn’t think he was such a fool, if you must know,” said Medora. - -“What d’you mean by a fool?” - -“Simple—like a dog. There’s nothing to Ned. Other men have character -and secrets and a bit up their sleeve. They count, and people know -they ain’t seeing the inside of them. Ned’s got no inside. He’s a boy. -I thought I’d married a man and I’ve married a great boy. I’m only -telling you this, mind. I’m a good wife enough; but I’m not a brainless -one and I can’t help comparing my husband to other men.” - -“You always compare everything you’ve got to what others have got,” -answered Lydia. “When you was a tiny child, you’d love your toys till -you saw the toys of other children. Then you’d grow discontent. At -school, if you took a prize, it was poisoned, because some other girl -had got a prettier book than you; and everybody else’s garden was -nicer than ours; and everybody else had better furniture in their -houses and better pictures on their walls and better clothes on their -backs. And now it’s your husband that isn’t in it with other people’s -husbands. Perhaps you’ll tell me, Medora, what husbands round about -can beat Ned for sense and cheerfulness and an easy mind and the other -things that go to make a home comfortable.” - -“Everybody isn’t married,” answered Medora. “I don’t look round and -compare Ned to other husbands. I’ve got something better to do. But I -can’t help seeing with all his good nature and the rest of it that he’s -a slight man—not a sort for woman to repose upon as something with -quicker wits—stronger, more masterful than herself.” - -“Like who?” asked Mrs. Trivett. - -“Well—I’m only speaking to you, mother—take yesterday. Jordan Kellock -asked us to go for a row in the gamekeeper’s boat and see the river—me -and Ned. And we went; and how could I help seeing that Jordan had the -brains? Nothing he said, for he’s a good friend and above smallness; -but while Ned chattered and laughed and made a noise, there was Jordan, -pleasant and all that; but you felt behind was strength of character -and a mind working and thinking more than it said; while my husband was -saying more than he thinks. And I hate to hear him chatter and then, -when he’s challenged, climb down and say he sees he was wrong.” - -“You’ve got to take the rough with the smooth in human nature, Medora. -And it’s a bit staggering to hear you mention Kellock, of all men, -seeing the circumstances. If you feel like that, why didn’t you take -Kellock when you could?” - -Medora’s reply caused her mother consternation. - -“God knows why I didn’t,” she said. - -The elder gave a little gasp and did not answer. - -“It’s wrong when you have to correct your husband in front of another -man,” continued Medora; “but I’ve got my self respect I believe—so -far—and I won’t let Ned say foolish things before people and let -others think I’m agreeing with him. And if I’ve spoken sharp when -men or women at the works heard me, Ned’s got himself to thank for -it. Anyway Jordan knows I’m not without brains, and I’m not going to -pretend I am. I laughed at Ned in the boat yesterday, and he said after -that he didn’t mind my laughing at him, but he wouldn’t have it before -people.” - -Mrs. Trivett left the main issue as a subject too big for the moment. - -“You ought not to laugh at him before Mr. Kellock,” she said; “because -he’s one of them serious-minded men who don’t understand laughter. I’ve -seen a man say things in a light mood that had no sting in them really, -yet one of the humourless sort, listening, didn’t see it was said for -fun, and reported it after and made trouble. Kellock’s a solemn man and -would misread it if you scored off Ned, or said some flashy thing that -meant nought in truth. You know what I mean.” - -They had strolled to the top of the orchard now, where the children -were playing in the Priory ruin. And here at dusk they parted. - -“We’ll leave it till we can have another talk,” said Lydia; “seemingly -there’s more to talk about than I thought. Be patient as well as proud, -Medora. And don’t feel so troubled about Ned that you haven’t got no -spare time to look into your own heart and see if you’re satisfied -with yourself. Because very often in my experience, when we’re seeing -misfortune and blaming other people, if we look at home, we’ll find the -source of the trouble lies with ourselves and not them.” - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -A NEW VATMAN - - -A man stood on the crown of a limestone quarry, where it bit into the -slope of a green hill. Perched here, three hundred feet above the -valley bottom, a varied scene spread round about, but he was only -concerned with the other side of the coomb and the great pile of Dene -Paper Mill that stood over against him. - -On his left opened the creek heavily fringed with trees. Mud banks -oozed out upon it and the river channel twinkled in the midst of them. -The beholder saw that the sea ascended to this rural scene, bringing -its weeds and shells to the little beaches and its birds to the air. -From this inlet, the great valley broke and pointed west. It expanded -and widened among such rolling green steeps as that upon which the -stranger stood, and the heights were capped at the skyline, here by -clumps of Scotch fir; here, by spinneys of oak and elm; here, by arable -or pasture. Rows of small houses lay among the orchards in the bottom, -where a stream wound, and the methodical ordering of those tenements -marked a sharp contrast with the irregular and older cottages round -them. They were the homes of busy people drawn hither for one purpose, -and above them towered the great hive wherein they worked. The Mill -spread under a knoll of trees on the hillside and shone out grey and -blue against the autumn colour of the hanging woods behind it. - -Wide roofs glittered with glass and the northern face rose finely -with tier on tier of windows outlined in red brick. Lesser buildings -supported the mass to right and left and a clock-tower and weather-vane -surmounted the whole. The architectural form, piled without design -through the accretion of years, had yet taken a dignified and -significant completeness. It was stern and plain, but not ugly and -meaningless. Its shape, with outstretched wings and uplifted turret, -like a head, suggested a sentient organism that could well fight -for itself and protect its interests. It seemed not aggressive, but -watchful; no tyrant to destroy, but a potent, receptive and benevolent -over-lord of the green valley, which it had indeed modified and -awakened, but not robbed of its distinction and beauty. - -The building must have been imposing on a plain, but the hills rolling -round about tended to dwarf its size by their immense contours. Under -some lights indeed the Mill bulked greater than the surrounding scene -and to the meditative mind far transcended the inert matter heaved and -heaped around it; but to-day Nature was clad in glory and no building -built with hands could compete against her splendour of blue sky, -emerald green grass lands and autumn groves of beech and oak. Seen in -this brilliant setting Dene Mill was an impression of restrained grey -and silver. Broad lights and shadows brooded over it and sunshine found -the roofs but not the face of the buildings. Yet no sobriety marked the -mass. It never brooded or sulked, unless the sky lowered and dropped -darkness upon it. There was joy in the feathers of steam that leapt, -and laughter in the broad golden weather-vane above the clock-tower. -Labour pursued in this rural valley seemed to offer some hope of -lessened asperity. Eyes weary with work might lift to the windows and -mirror green and gracious things—meadows climbing and orchards and -thatched roofs; or shorn stubbles spreading like cloth of gold upon the -shoulders of the eastern hills. - -The beholder marked the people moving about the many mouths of the -great hive beneath him, and being a man apt to link impressions, he -guessed that the Mill had been built of the stone from the quarry that -gaped at his feet. The rift in the hill extended to a road at the -valley bottom, then sprang trees to fill the space between, so that -the works beyond seemed bowered in foliage on all sides and framed in -thinning boughs. - -A bell rang and the people streamed away—men and women—in a little -thin trickle, like beads irregularly scattered on a thread. Here and -there the line was brightened by a flash of colour from a bright sun -bonnet, or gown. The watcher descended now, gained the road below, then -climbed the other side to the Mill. - -He was a middle-aged, good-looking man, with a round face, hair turning -grey, and black, rather shifty eyes. Humour homed on his countenance -and merriment and cunning shared his expression. He carried a large, -brown paper bundle and wore a new, homespun suit, a paper collar, a -sky-blue tie and a cloth cap. - -As he passed Mr. Trood’s house at the entrance of the works and -proceeded towards them, looking round about him, there emerged the -master, and the new-comer guessed that he was so. - -He touched his hat therefore and said: - -“You’ll be the boss, I reckon.” - -“Right—and what do you want?” - -“Work, Mr. Matthew Trenchard.” - -It was not strange to see a wandering paper maker. The body of these -men is small; they know their own value and, being always precious, can -count upon making a change with safety. They are sought and a first -rate workman need be in no fear of not winning a welcome where hand -paper continues to be manufactured. - -“What department?” asked Trenchard. - -“A vatman, if so be you’re wanting a good one.” - -“I’m always wanting a good vatman. We’ve got three of the best in -England here.” - -“Take me and you’ll have four,” said the man. - -Trenchard laughed and looked at him. - -“Why are you changing?” he asked. - -“Tired of a town. I come from the midlands; but I want to be in the -country, and knowing about Dene Works, I thought I’d come down and -offer.” - -They were standing opposite Mr. Trood’s house at the main gate and the -master turned and knocked at the door. Trood himself appeared. - -“A vatman,” said Trenchard. - -“By name, Philander Knox,” explained the stranger. “I must tell you,” -he added, “that I’ve got rather a queer stroke at the vat. People laugh -to see me with a mould; but they don’t laugh when they see the paper.” - -“We shan’t quarrel with your stroke if we don’t with your sheet,” said -Trood. “I’m for a nice, easy stroke myself, because it goes farther -and faster; but we all know no two men have the same stroke. We’ve got -a man now with a stroke like a cow with a musket; but his paper’s all -right.” - -“You can come for a week on trial,” declared Trenchard. “Begin -to-morrow if you’re agreeable to terms. We’re very busy. This is Mr. -Trood, our foreman.” - -He went homewards and left the others together, while Mr. Knox produced -his credentials. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THE RAG HOUSE - - -The place where Lydia Trivett worked and controlled the activities -of twenty other women was a lofty, raftered hall lighted from the -north by a row of windows under which the sorters sat. In the midst -of the chamber the material was piled in huge, square bales covered -with sacking. The parcels came from all parts of Europe, where linen -and cotton rag could be obtained; and before they were handled, the -contents entered a thresher for preliminary dusting. The thresher -throbbed and thundered within a compartment boarded off from the -workshop. Here in a great wooden case, a roller with iron-shod teeth -revolved, while above this lower, moving wheel, fixed prongs stood -similarly armed, so that their teeth passed between each other at every -turn. Here spun the rags and whirled and tossed, while the dust of -France, Belgium, England, Ireland, Scotland was sucked away from them. -Every rag that entered Dene Mill was subjected to this rough initial -embrace, where Alice Barefoot, a tall, strong woman, attended the -thresher. She was herself of the colour of dust, with a high complexion -and lion-coloured hair, tied up in a yellow kerchief. She prided -herself on doing man’s work and, indeed, accomplished her heavy labours -very completely. The dusted rag she piled in tall baskets, stopped the -thresher, then opened the door of the chamber and bore the rag out to -the sorters. They sat each before her lattice with the material heaped -at her left. The practised workers dealt very swiftly with the stuff, -running it between their hands and knowing its composition by touch. -Wool or silk sometimes intruded, but was flung aside, for only cotton -passed to the empty baskets at each woman’s right. The workers were -clad in white overalls and their heads were covered with white caps and -bonnets. Wonderful cleanliness marked them and the atmosphere of the -brightly lighted shop was clear despite the flocculent material that -passed through it. - -For purity of air and water, chemicals and working hands is a vital -matter to the paper maker. Every operation must needs be as cleanly as -sleepless precaution can make it. - -From the mountain of rags on her left the sorter plucked material and -picked it over the lattice, an open wire-work sieve spread before -her. Standing beside it was a short upright knife used to cut the -rags and sever from them the buttons, hooks and eyes, whalebones -and other extraneous additions that had belonged to their earlier -incarnations. These knives were made from old steel scythes worn too -thin for husbandry, but here answering a final purpose of value. The -hones hummed from time to time, for the busy knives needed constant -sharpening. Their cutting edge turned away from the workwoman and to it -she brought the material—fragments of every garment ever manufactured -from spun cotton. - -The history of many a single rag had been a feminine epic, from its -plucking in a far off cotton field to its creation, use, adventures, -triumphs, tragedies and final dissolution. Here they were from the dust -heaps of a continent, from the embracing of bodies noble and simple, -high and low, young and old, sweet and foul. - -Their tags and buttons were swiftly cut away and each grille exhibited -a strange assortment of trophies—pearl and glass, metal and foil, -whalebone and indiarubber. Even so many foreign substances escaped the -sorters, to be captured at a later period in the purification of the -rag. - -The women sat back to back and there was little speech among them. -Their hands twinkled in a sort of rhythmic measure from right to left -and left to right. Then, as their baskets were filled, came Alice -Barefoot to carry them away and pile fresh accumulations from the -thresher. - -To-day the work was old rag; but sometimes a consignment of fragments -and overplus from the collar and shirt factories arrived clean and -white. Out of them had garments been cut and the remnants needed -nothing but shortening and dismemberment upon the knives and picking -over for coloured threads, or rubbish that hang about them. - -Here reigned Lydia and herself worked at a lattice with the rest. She -had only come to the Mill when her husband died; but her skill proved -great and her influence greater. Blind-folded she could have done her -sorting and separated by touch the cotton, or linen, from any other -textile fabric. She was clad in a big white garment and had wrapped -her head and neck in a pale blue handkerchief so that her face only -appeared. - -Next to her sat a girl, and sometimes they spoke. - -Daisy Finch was a big blonde maiden, a friend of Medora’s; and -concerning Medora the pair kept up a fitful conversation. But Lydia’s -eyes were about her while her hands swiftly ran through the rags. She -marked all that was going on from her place at the end of the row, and -sometimes cried out a direction, or word of admonition. - -“She don’t tell me nothing,” said Daisy. “She just leaves you with -a sort of general feeling she ain’t happy, then she’ll turn it off -and say, ‘talk of something else,’ though all the time we haven’t -been talking of anything in particular. Of course it ain’t anybody’s -business.” - -“Nobody’s and everybody’s,” declared Lydia; “but nobody’s in the sense -that you can meddle directly in it.” - -“They was made for each other you might say—such a laughing thing as -Medora used to be.” - -“You never know who’s made for each other till they come to be fit -together. And then life wears down the edges with married people most -times, like it do with a new set of false teeth. Keep her good luck -before Medora. Remind her, when you get a chance, how fortunate she -is. Life’s gone so easy with her that she takes for granted a lot she -ought to take with gratitude.” - -“It’s just a passing worry I dare say,” suggested Daisy. “When she -forgets herself, she’ll often laugh and chatter in the old way.” - -“Well, she’s fonder of you than most, so you help her to forget herself -as often as you can.” - -Daisy promised to do so and the elder thanked her. - -When the bell rang, they stopped work, and while some, Lydia among -them, went to their baskets for dinner, most flung off their overalls, -donned hats and jackets and hurried home. - -As for Mrs. Trivett, she stopped in the shop, ate her meal, then -produced a newspaper and read while others talked. - -The day was fine and warm and many groups took their food together in -the sun round about the Mill. - -Outside the vat house were Jordan Kellock and Robert Life, another -vatman, while the new-comer, Philander Knox, ate his dinner beside -them. On a bench at hand, Medora and Ned shared the contents of their -basket, and the talk ran up and down. - -Mr. Knox had won permanent employment without difficulty. Indeed he -proved a paper maker of the first rank, and while Mr. Trood deprecated -Knox’s very unusual stroke, he admitted that the result was as good as -possible. - -Of this matter they were now speaking. - -“Ernest Trood is a great formalist,” said Kellock. “He believes in what -you may call tradition and a sort of stroke that you’d say was the -perfection of the craft. But you can’t make a man to a model. You can -show him another man who works on a good pattern—no more.” - -“The stroke comes just like every other stroke, whether it’s cricket, -or billiards, or shooting, I reckon,” said Ned Dingle. “It comes, or -else it don’t come. Take me: I’ve tried a score of times to make -paper; but I can’t do it. I can’t get the stroke. But you might have an -apprentice new to it and find, after a month or two, he’d prove himself -in the way to be a paper maker.” - -Mr. Knox, who had already won a friendly greeting from his new -associates, in virtue of an amiable character and humorous disposition, -admitted that the vatman was born, not made. - -“And you may very near say as much for the beaterman,” he added. “I -never want to see better pulp than you send down to the vat room, Ned -Dingle.” - -“’Tis the life and soul of the paper to have such pulp as yours, Ned,” -confirmed Kellock, and the beater was pleased. Praise always excited -Ned and made him chatter. - -“I don’t know what there is to it—just thoroughness no doubt and a -keen eye and no scamping of the tests. I take a lot more tests than -most beaters I reckon,” he said. - -They discussed their craft and Ned told how for the purposes of -the new water-mark pictures destined for a forthcoming exhibition, -extraordinary pulp would be necessary. - -“Soft as milk it will have to be,” he declared. - -“I’ve seen the like,” said Knox. “Stuff you’d think couldn’t hold -together. It’s got to find every tiny crevice of the mould; but such -pulp takes the dyes exceeding well.” - -“Our dyes are Trenchard’s secret,” answered Dingle. “He’s a great -chemist, as a paper master needs to be. I’d give a lot to look in the -laboratory; but only Trood goes there.” - -“A very understanding foreman is Ernest Trood,” admitted Mr. Knox; then -he turned to Medora. - -“How’s they fingers?” he asked. - -“Better,” she said. “You knock your fingers about rattling them against -the crib.” - -“The fingers always suffer,” he admitted. “For my part I shake when -there’s a spell of very hot pulp for the thick papers. I’m feared of my -life the skin will go somewhere and put me out of action for a bit. If -some man could invent a possible glove, many a tender-skinned vatman -would bless him. But a glove would kill the stroke no doubt.” - -Dingle pressed more food from their basket on Medora and the well meant -action apparently annoyed her. What passed between them was not heard, -save the last words. - -“Don’t be a fool,” she said. “Can’t I have my own way even in that?” - -“Hush!” replied Ned. “Have it as you will.” - -But she grew angry; her face lowered and she pressed her lips together. - -The others joked and Mr. Knox offered Medora a piece of pie. - -“Hard hearted devil, you are, Dingle,” he exclaimed. “To eat the cheese -and offer your poor girl the bread.” - -Medora jumped up and at the same moment Daisy Finch came along to seek -her. They departed together and strolled from the works up the valley. - -But Ned Dingle was evidently disturbed. His face had fallen and he lit -his pipe and went slowly after the women. - -“Take my tip and leave her alone,” shouted Knox; then he caught sight -of Kellock’s perturbed countenance and turned to him. - -“Aren’t they good friends?” he asked. - -“Of course they are—none better.” - -“Sometimes a bit of chaff makes a breeze end in laughter,” said the -elder; “and sometimes it don’t.” - -“Chaff’s a ticklish thing,” answered Jordan. - -“To you it might be, because you’re one of the serious sort, that never -see much to laugh at in anything,” retorted Philander; “but that’s your -loss. Alice Barefoot in the rag house is the same. Can’t see a joke and -mistook my fun yesterday for rudeness. I might have known by her eye -she weren’t a laughter-loving creature. But Mrs. Dingle can laugh.” - -“She laughs when there’s anything to laugh at,” said Kellock drily. - -“The art is to find something to laugh at in everything,” explained -Philander Knox. “And married people ought to practice that for their -own salvation more than any.” - -“How is it you ain’t married?” asked Robert Life. He was a man of few -words and his wife worked in the glazing house with Medora. - -“For the very good reason that my wife’s dead,” replied Mr. Knox. She’s -left me for a better place and better company—a very excellent wife -according to her lights, and I missed her.” - -“I dare say you’ll find another here,” suggested a man who had come -along a minute before. It was Henry Barefoot, Alice’s brother, the -boilerman—an old sailor, who had drifted into the Mill when his -service days were done. - -“If I do, Henry, it won’t be your sister, so don’t throw out no hopes,” -answered Knox. - -Henry laughed. - -“No man ever offered for her and no man ever will,” he declared. “Her -pride is to do man’s work and she never will do woman’s—not if all the -men in Devon went on their knees to her.” - -“I’ve known others the same,” declared Philander. “They’re neuter bees, -to say it kindly, and they hum so terrible sorrowful over their toil -that the male give ’em a wide berth. Duty’s their watchword; and they -do it in a way to make us common people hate the word.” - -“That’s Alice. You know the sort seemingly,” said Henry. - -“I’ve met with ’em. They are scattered about. I used to pity ’em till -I found there wasn’t no need. They’re quite satisfied with themselves -for the most part, but seldom satisfied with other people.” - -“Alice is a withering woman, though a very good housekeeper and looks -after me very well,” said Mr. Barefoot. - -“As housekeepers they can’t be beaten,” admitted the other. “But Mrs. -Dingle is a very different pattern—a pretty creature—prettiest -I’ve seen for a month of Sundays. They pretty women are exacting in -marriage, because nine times out of ten they’ve been spoiled before. -She looks to me as though she wanted something she ain’t got.” - -“Dingle don’t know what she wants, for in a minute of temper he told me -so,” said Mr. Life. - -“Don’t he? Then you tell him to be quick and find out,” advised -Philander, “because with a rare piece like that, if he don’t, some -other young fellow very likely will.” - -Then Kellock spoke, for this sentiment seemed outrageous to him. - -“How can you say such an indecent thing!” he exclaimed. “A man of your -age ought to know better.” - -“A man of your age perhaps don’t,” answered Mr. Knox. “And yet you’re -old enough to know the meaning of a pretty girl. But I’m afraid you’re -one of those chaps that’s had some useful things left out of him, -Kellock. You ain’t called ‘Jordan’ for nothing I expect. No doubt you -wouldn’t wish to comfort Mrs. Dingle; but then you’re not everybody, -and other young men might feel called to cheer her up—no more than -that of course. And why you should flush so red and use the word -‘indecent’ to such a decent man as me, I can’t guess.” - -“You would if you knew more about it, however,” said Henry Barefoot. -“You ain’t up in our history yet, else you’d understand that Kellock -here was one of the ‘also ran’ lot after Medora Dingle. No offence, -Jordan—of course such things can’t be hid.” - -“You oughtn’t to talk about such private matters, Barefoot,” answered -Kellock calmly, “and a conversation like this is improper, and for my -part I don’t wish to hear any more of it. No self-respecting man would -pry into such a delicate subject.” - -“Who’s prying?” asked Philander. “I merely say, from my knowledge of -human beings in general, that if a pretty young woman’s not happy -and her husband hasn’t got the trick to make her so, ’tis almost any -odds some other chap will come along and have a try. That’s what -would happen in most Christian countries anyway—whether Devonshire’s -different I don’t know, being a stranger to these parts.” - -“We men mind our own business in Devonshire,” said Kellock, and Knox -answered promptly. - -“Then I’m right,” he said, “because a pretty girl down on her luck is -every man’s business.” - -“She’ll get a fright I dare say,” prophesied Robert Life. “I’ve known -more than one young married woman, restless like, who ran a bit of -risk; but as a rule their eyes are opened in time and the husband makes -good.” - -Kellock, heartily loathing this conversation, left the others, and when -he was gone, Life explained to Mr. Knox the situation. - -“Another man might be dangerous,” said Henry Barefoot, “for by all -accounts Medora liked him very well and was in two minds to the last -which she’d take. But Kellock’s a good and sober creature and a great -respecter of law and order. You can trust him not to break out.” - -“You speak as a bachelor and your sister’s brother, Henry,” answered -Philander. “Where there’s a woman and a man that once loved her, you -can no more trust either of ’em not to break out than you can trust a -spring in autumn. Kellock’s clearly a virtuous soul, and he certainly -won’t break out if he can help it. You can see by his eyes he’s not -a lady’s man, and never will be in any large and generous sense. But -so much the more danger, for where that sort dines they sleeps when -love’s the trouble. Let them love once and they’ll love for ever, no -matter what happens; and if she was fool enough to go playing about -with him, she might overthrow him to his own loss in the long run.” - -These forebodings were cut short by the work bell and Mr. Knox, -expressing a hope that he might be mistaken, shook out his pipe and -followed Robert back into the vat room. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -THE MARTYR - - -On a Saturday afternoon full of sunshine was presented the rich but -simple picture of Ashprington village under conditions of autumn. The -hamlet lay on a slope under a hillcrest and through it fell steep paths -by meadow and orchard past the cottages to Bow Bridge far distant in -the vale. - -Crowning Ashprington rose the church-tower of uniform grey, -battlemented, with a great poplar standing on its right, and a yew tree -throwing shadow upon the western porch. Then fell the land abruptly, -and the whole foreground was filled with an apple orchard, that rippled -to the churchyard walls and spread a rich cloth of scarlet and gold -around them. - -At this hour the tree-foundered village seemed oppressed and smothered -with falling leaves. Its over-abundant timber mastered the place and -flung down foliage in such immense masses that the roads and alleys, -drinking fountain, little gardens subtending the street and the roofs -of the cottages were all choked with them. - -But it was a dry and joyous hour, the latter rains had yet to fall and -submerge Ashprington in mud and decay. Virginian creeper flamed on the -house fronts and dahlias, michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums still -flaunted in the gardens. - -Through this cheerful scene came Miss Finch and Medora Dingle with -their baskets to pick blackberries. Medora’s home was a stone’s throw -from the church and they now crossed the churchyard to enter certain -fields beyond it. - -The well-kept sward spread level with the arms of the apple trees over -the wall, for the ground fell sharply from the graveyard to the orchard -below; and now, at the limits of the burial place, cider apples fell on -the graves and spattered their mounds and flat surfaces with gold. - -Daisy stopped at a tomb and removed a windfall of fruit from the broken -marble chips that covered it. - -“That’s old Mr. Kellock,” she said. “He wouldn’t like them there, would -he—such a thrifty old man as he was.” - -“And such a tidy one,” added Medora. - -“He was Mr. Jordan’s grandfather and left him all his money I believe,” -continued Daisy; but her friend knew more about that matter than she -did. - -“He hadn’t anything to leave over and above his cottage. That was left -to Jordan Kellock and he sold it, not wanting to be troubled with house -property. It wasn’t worth much.” - -They passed through the shining fruit trees and stopped to admire them; -then Medora, since Mr. Kellock had been mentioned, felt she might -return to that subject. - -“I often wonder what he’ll do,” she said. “You feel that he won’t be -content to stop at Dene all his life.” - -“Why not?” asked Daisy. “He’s got proper good money and is a big man -here.” - -“He’d be a big man anywhere,” answered Medora. “It isn’t only a matter -of wages with him,” she added. “Of course we know as a vatman he’s one -of the best in England, and makes as good paper as there is in the -world, I suppose. But he’s got more to him than that, Daisy. He’s not -content with being prosperous and well-thought of. He thinks great -thoughts and has great ambitions. I dare say the people here don’t see -that, for he’s a cut above the most of them.” - -“He is,” admitted Daisy. “There’s something, I don’t know what about -him; but it makes me uncomfortable with him.” - -“That’s just his greatness acting on you,” explained Medora. “I felt -like that once too, but he did me the kindness to explain himself.” - -“We all know he would have given all he’d got to marry you.” - -“Don’t speak about that. At any rate I understand him better than any -other woman—or man for that matter. And though it wasn’t to be, I -understand him still; and I know he’s out for big things sooner or -later. He’ll make a mark in the world of labour some day.” - -Daisy looked with admiration at Medora. - -“I’m sure I shouldn’t know what to answer if he talked to me about such -deep subjects,” she said. “But then you’re married, and you’ve always -got a man in the house to help your brain power.” - -Medora, secretly nettled at the preposterous suggestion of Ned -enlarging her mental outlook, turned to the blackberries and felt a -helpless disappointment that even her friend should guess so little -of her difficulties and troubles. For now she began day by day to -weave round herself and her married life a hollow and false tissue of -imaginary tribulations and trials supposed to be sprung from her union -with Edward Dingle. Medora set about a sort of histrionics inspired -by nothing but her own vague unrest and her own amazing ignorance of -reality. Even to herself she could not explain this futile experiment -in emotions, yet she persisted and presently, finding certain of her -circle were deceived, and even hearing words of pity on a woman’s -lips, she deluded herself as to the truth of her gathering misfortunes -and assured her conscience that the disaster came from without and -not within. For at first, in the perpetration of this stupid pose, -conscience pricked before Ned’s puzzled eyes; but presently, when -a silly woman told Medora that she was a martyr, this nonsense of -her own brewing seemed indeed the bitter drink life had set to her -lips. She echoed and amplified the notion of martyrdom. It was just -what she wanted to excuse her own folly to herself. From accepting -the idea, she soon began to credit it. To win the full flavour of -the make-believe this was necessary. Then developed the spectacle of -a masquerading woman, herself creating the atmosphere in which she -desired her world to see her suffer and shine. - -As all who acquire a taste for martyrdom, Medora proved amazingly -ingenious in plaiting the scourges and selecting the members of the -inquisition from her own household. She had reached a preliminary stage -in this weak-minded pastime and enjoyed it exceedingly. Ned was much -mystified; but the attitude of Ned mattered little. Her real object and -the goal of the game lay far beyond Ned. Whereunto all this would lead, -Medora did not know; and she told herself that she did not care. - -The day was to add a considerable scene to her unfolding drama, though -Mrs. Dingle did not guess it when she set out. She had no premonition -of the interesting adventure that awaited her when presently she -drifted, by hedgerows and lanes, somewhat westward of Ashprington, upon -the high road to Totnes. - -They were filling their baskets, and for a time Medora had forgotten -all about herself and was taking a healthy interest in Daisy’s -suspicions concerning a young man who worked at Dene Mill, when a -bicycle bell warned them and there flashed along upon his way home, -Jordan Kellock. - -He stopped and they showed him their blackberries and invited him to -help himself. Then, together they walked homeward and Medora became -concerned to part from Daisy if possible. An opportunity occurred ere -long and when the elder pointed out that Miss Finch would gain half a -mile by a short cut, her friend took the hint. - -“My basket’s heavy and you’ve got company, so I’ll go this way home,” -said Daisy with great tact. Then she bade them good-bye and descended a -steep lane to Bow Bridge. - -Immediately she had gone, Medora’s manner changed from cheerfulness to -a more pensive mien. - -“Sometimes it’s so hard to pretend you’re happy,” she explained. - -“I’m sorry you’ve got to pretend,” he answered. - -He had fought awhile against any sort of secret understanding with -Medora, but something of the kind now existed, though Jordan could not -have explained how it had come about. It seemed not unnatural, however, -because he knew the woman so well and felt so supremely interested in -her happiness. He believed, in his youthful inexperience, that he might -be able to help both Ned and Medora by virtue of his brains and good -sense; and he imagined that his championship of Medora, so to call it, -emanated entirely from his own will to right and justice. Had anybody -hinted to him that Medora was amusing herself with this very delicate -material, he must have refused to believe it. He believed in her good -faith as he believed in the stars, and he trusted himself completely -for a man above the power of temptation. Indeed, as yet he had felt -none. - -To-day, however, the young woman went further than she had ventured to -go. - -“I can talk to you, Jordan, and I often thank God I can,” she said, -“because there’s nobody else on earth—not one who understands me like -you do.” - -Not in the ear of him who really understands her does a woman ever -confess to be understood; but the listener quite agreed with Medora and -believed the truth of what she asserted. - -“If thought and true friendship could make me understand, then I do,” -he answered. “Ned’s such a real good chap at heart that—” - -“He’s not,” she said positively. “To my bitter grief I know he’s not. -Like you, I thought so, and I made myself go on thinking so, for -loyalty; but it’s no good pretending that any more. He’s deceived you -as he has me. He’s not good hearted, for all his laughter and noise, -else he wouldn’t persecute me.” - -“Don’t say that.” - -“I’m not going into details,” declared Medora, quite aware that there -were no details to go into; “but he’s that rough and harsh. Loses his -temper if you look at him. He wasn’t like you, and showed me everything -about himself when we were courting. He hid the things that matter, and -if I’d known then half, or a quarter, of what I know now, I wouldn’t -have taken him, Jordan.” - -“Don’t say that,” he begged again. - -“I’ve got to say it. And I’ll say more. It’s a relief to speak where -your honesty is known, and no false meaning is put to your words. I’ll -say this, that I made a dreadful mistake, and every year that goes over -my head will show it clearer. I can bear it, of course. We women are -built to suffer and keep our mouths shut. It’s only men that run about -with their troubles. Yes, I can bear it, Jordan, and I shall bear it to -my grave; but it’s hard for a girl of my age to look ahead through all -the years of her life and see nothing but dust and ashes. And though -I’m brave enough to face it, I’m too frank and open-natured to hide it, -and the bitter thing is that people guess that I’m not happy.” - -“Don’t put it as strongly as that, Medora. Don’t actually say you’re an -unhappy woman.” - -“You’re either happy, or else you’re not—at any rate, when you’re -young,” she said. “I see the old get into a sort of frozen condition -sooner or later, when they’re neither one nor the other, being sunk to -a kind of state like a turnip in ground; but the young are different. -They feel. Why, Daisy, only a few minutes ago, saw my mind was -troubled, though I tried ever so to hide it. You know people know it.” - -“I won’t deny that. Everybody’s more or less sorry. But between husband -and wife, of course, no wise man or woman ventures to come.” - -“Yes, they do,” she answered. “My own mother for one. Kindness made -alive to everybody else no doubt, but not to me. She doesn’t blame my -husband anyway, so she must blame me, I suppose.” - -“I wouldn’t say that. It may be no matter for blame—just the point of -view. The great thing is to get at a person’s point of view, Medora.” - -“And don’t I try? Don’t I interest myself in Ned? I’ve got a brain, -Jordan.” - -“I know that very well.” - -“And I can’t help seeing only too bitter clear, that my husband’s not -interested in anything that wants brains to it. He’s all for sport and -talk and pleasure. I like to think about interesting subjects—human -nature and progress, and the future of labour, and so on. And if I try -to talk about anything that really matters, he just yawns and starts -on shooting birds and football. For the less brains a person has got, -the more they want to be chattering. I’ve married a boy in fact, when I -thought I’d married a man; and my charge against Ned is that he hid the -truth of himself from me, and made me think he was interested in what -interested me, when he was not.” - -She had mentioned the subjects which she knew attracted Jordan. It was -indeed his wearisome insistence on such things that had made her turn -of old to the less intelligent and more ingenuous Dingle. In reality -she had no mind for abstractions or social problems. - -“As we grow older, we naturally go for the subjects that matter,” said -Kellock. “I’ve always wanted to leave the world better than I found it, -you know, Medora.” - -“And so you will—you’re built to do it,” declared she. “And I shall -watch you do it, Jordan. And though I’ve lost it all, I shall see some -other woman at your right hand helping you to make a name in the world. -And I shall envy her—yes, I shall. I can say that to you, because I -can trust you never to repeat it.” - -“You shake me up to the roots of my being when you talk like this,” he -assured her. “Oh, my God, Medora, it seems a cruel sort of thing that -just at the critical time, and before it was too late, you couldn’t -have seen and felt what you see and feel now. It was bad enough then. -You’ll never know or guess what I felt when you had to say ‘no’ to -me. But I had one thing to keep me going then—the certainty you were -too clever to make a mistake. I said to myself a million times: ‘She -knows best; she knows that Dingle will make her a happier woman than I -could.’ But now—now—when you say what you’ve said. Where am I now?” - -They talked in this emotional strain for ten minutes, and she wove with -native art a web of which both warp and woof were absurdly unreal. Her -nature was such that in a task of this sort she succeeded consummately. -By a thousand little touches—sighs, looks, and shakes or droops of -the head—she contributed to her comedy. She abounded in suggestions. -Her eyes fell, her sentences were left unfinished. Then came heroic -touches, and a brave straight glance with resolution to take up the -staggering weight of her cross and bear it worthily to the end. - -Medora was charming, and in her subconscious soul she knew that -her performance carried conviction in every word and gesture. She -revelled in her acting, and rejoiced in the effect it occasioned on -the listener. Long ago, Kellock had set her, as she guessed, as a -lovely fly in amber, never to change, though now for ever out of his -reach. He had accepted his loss, but he continued to regard her as -his perfect woman, and she cherished the fact as a great possession. -Perhaps, had it been otherwise, she had not entered upon her present -perilous adventure; but she knew that Jordan Kellock was a knight of -weak causes, and one who always fought for the oppressed, when in his -power to do so; and now she had created a phantom of oppression, which -his bent of mind and attitude to herself prevented him from recognising -as largely unreal. - -Kellock was young; he had loved Medora in the full measure of a -reserved nature, and to-day she deluded him to the limit of his -possibilities. Her complete triumph indeed almost frightened her. For a -few moments he became as earnestly concerned as on the great occasion -when he had asked her to marry him. Then she calmed the man down, and -told him that he must not waste his time on her troubles. - -“It’s selfish of me to tell you these things—perhaps it’s wrong,” -she said, truly enough; but he would not grant that. His emotion was -intense; his pain genuine. Her intuition told her that here was a man -who might err—if ever he erred—in just such a situation as she was -creating. She was surprised to find the ease with which it was possible -to rouse him, and felt this discovery enough for that day. She grew -elated, but uneasy at the unexpected power she possessed. Her sense of -humour even spoke in a still, small voice, for humour she had. - -Chance helped her to end the scene, and, a hundred yards from home, Ned -himself appeared with his gun over his shoulder and a hare in his hand. - -Dingle was in cheerful spirits. - -“A proper afternoon I’ve had,” he said. “Ernest Trood asked me to go -out shooting along with him and some friends, and we’ve enjoyed sport, -I promise you. A rare mixed bag. We began in the bottom above the -Mill, and got a woodcock first go off, and then we worked up and had a -brace and a half of partridges, a brace of pheasants, and a hare, and -eight rabbits. I knew what you’d like, Medora, and I took a partridge, -and the hare for my lot. I shot them, and four rabbits and one of the -pheasants.” - -“What a chap for killing you are,” said Jordan, while Ned dragged a -partridge from his pocket and handed it to his wife. - -Nobody loved nice things better than she, but she took the bird -pensively and stroked its grey and russet feathers. - -“Poor little bird, your troubles are ended,” she said. Then she -assumed a cheerful air, which struck Jordan as unspeakably pathetic. - -“I’ve been busy, too. Look at my blackberries.” - -Ned praised the blackberries, and in his usual impulsive fashion -offered Kellock the hare; but Jordan declined it. - -“Thrown away upon me,” he said. - -“Come and help us to eat it one night then,” suggested Dingle, and -Medora echoed his wish. - -“I’m sure you’re very kind. I’ll come up to supper any evening, if you -mean it.” - -Then he mounted his bicycle and rode off down the hill. - -“He came along from Totnes, while Daisy and I were picking -blackberries, and he stopped and would carry my basket for me,” she -explained. - -“He looked a bit down in the mouth, didn’t he?” - -“He was. He’s such a man to feel other people’s troubles.” - -“Whose? Not yours, I should hope?” - -She laughed. - -“Good powers, no! I’m not one to tell my troubles—you know that, or -ought to. I’m a proud woman, whatever you may be. It isn’t personal -things, but general questions that bother him. Poverty and want and -injustice, and all that. I cheered him up, and tried to make him -forget.” - -“He’ll do better to leave such subjects alone,” said Dingle. “The woes -of the world in general ain’t his job; and if he tries to make them his -job, he may find it won’t pay him to do so.” - -“That’s your pettifogging opinion; but if every man in good employment -was as selfish as you, the poor might remain poor for ever,” she -answered. - -“Well, don’t you be a fool, anyway, there’s a dear. You’ve got to look -after me, not the poor in general. And nobody can look after me better -than you, when you please. It’s a choice between beer and tea this -minute, so choose which I’m to have.” - -“Tea,” she said. “If you can be patient for a little.” - -They went in together, and he was pleased to find Medora amiable and -willing, though ignorant that her good temper sprang not from his -inspiration. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -THE BLUE MARK - - -From the rag house, through trap doors, the rag descended from Lydia -and her fellow workers to a huge object like a mowing machine. The rags -came to this monster and passed through its whirling knives. Then, -having been clipped pretty small, they were carried on an endless -ribbon up again to the magnet. Two great magnetized rollers revolved, -and, in a dingy niagara, every fraction of the old rag tumbled over -them, to run an electric gauntlet and receive a challenge. The bossy -rollers were even quicker than the women’s fingers, and a fraction of -metal, however small, responded to their attraction instantly. There -was a click and instead of falling with its neighbours, the offending -rag found itself arrested and pilloried on a boss. It clung to the -roller, and, as the cylinder turned, became de-magnetized again and -fell in a place apart. The danger to future processes was thus lessened -materially and but little foreign matter in shape of metal escaped to -be a nuisance later on. - -To the duster then came the harassed rag and in open wire barrels amid -revolving wooden prongs it was whirled round and round and further -cleansed. - -Then to Henry Barefoot it went, and Henry always declared that in his -hands the material received first serious treatment. - -“The rag don’t know it’s born till it gets to the boilerman,” he was -wont to say. - -The boiler-house lay under an arched roof of corrugated iron. It was -a damp place, full of hot air and the heavy scent of washing. The -steam thinned and feathered away through holes in the roof. In the -floor were deep square hollows and here the boilers revolved, with -a solemnity proper to their size. They were huge metal receptacles -capable of holding a ton each; and when the rag was packed, with water -and alkalies to cleanse it, the loaded giant turned ponderously over -and over, churning the mass for three or four hours. Then the seething -clouts were dragged forth, their pollutions drained away and further -stages of lustration entered upon. - -Thus far the rag had come under rough control and reign of law. By air -and water and chastening of many blows it was reduced to a limp and -sodden condition, amenable to discipline, more or less prepared for the -tremendous processes between its final disintegration as rag and its -apotheosis as paper. - -A paper man will tell you he turns “old shirts into new sheets”: and -that indeed is what he does; but a long and toilsome journey lies -between the old shirt and its apotheosis. - -Henry Barefoot was a placid man, as long as the rag came to him exactly -when he wanted it. Under ordinary circumstances he accomplished his -part in the great machine as obscurely as any invisible wheel, or -steam pipe. But if the women delayed, or he was “hung up,” as he put -it, then his chivalry broke down and he swore long and loud at those -who interfered with his activities. At such times he became tragic and -exceedingly profane. He expanded and broke into uncouth gestures and -simian scowls. He appealed to Heaven in these great moments and asked -of the sky why women had been created. Sometimes his sister, Alice, was -sent for from the thresher to pacify him, and when she failed, Lydia -Trivett, at the sound of Henry’s roaring in the boiler-house, would -slip from her lattice and strive to calm his fury. - -The women had fled before him at one of these explosions and Alice -having also failed, approached Mrs. Trivett and begged her to -intervene. - -She went, to find Mr. Barefoot standing with steam about him and his -hand lifted to the corrugated iron roof above his grey head. - -“Oh, my God, my God!” he said. “What have I done to be the prey of a -lot of worthless females—” - -“Your rag’s waiting, Henry,” interrupted Lydia. - -“His rag’s out, I should think,” said a woman from behind Lydia. “An -evil-speaking toad—always blasting us. And how can we help it?” - -“You know very well, Henry, there must be a hitch sometimes with such a -lot of dirty rag,” explained Lydia. “We’ve all got to keep going, and -it’s no more good or sense cussing us than it is for them in the engine -house to cuss you. And men wouldn’t do this work half as well as women, -as you’d very soon find if we were gone. And it’s a very ill-convenient -thing for you to lose your temper, and nobody will be sorrier than you -in an hour’s time.” - -As the rag now awaited him, Henry subsided. - -“It’s a plot against me,” he said, “and I’ve no quarrel with you, -Lydia. It ain’t your department. It’s they baggering women at the -magnet, and they want for me to get the sack as I very well know. But -they’ll get fired themselves—every trollop of ’em—afore I shall.” - -“They don’t want you to get fired. Why should they? What have you done -to them? Why, you haven’t even asked one of ’em to marry you,” said -Lydia. - -“No—they needn’t hope that,” he answered. “I’ve seen too much of woman -since I came here ever to want one for my own.” - -So the breeze subsided and Henry filled his empty boiler, growling -himself back to his usual calm the while. It was characteristic of -him that between these dynamic discharges, he preserved an amiable -attitude to those among whom he worked, and when a storm had passed, he -instantly resumed friendly relations. - -Within an hour of this scene, when dinner time came, he descended to -the ground floor and cautioned two girls who were skipping off down a -flight of steps that led from the rag house to the ground below. - -“Don’t you go so fast,” he said. “When slate steps are wet with rain, -they’re beastly slippery, and some day one of you maidens will fall and -break yourselves.” - -Mrs. Trivett put on her old black bonnet, for she was going out -to dinner with another woman; but as she prepared to depart, her -son-in-law met her. - -“It’s important,” he said. “I want half an hour with you, mother, and -I dare say Mrs. Ford won’t mind if you go along with her to-morrow -instead.” - -Mrs. Ford made no difficulty and Lydia returned to the rag house with -Ned, who brought his meal with him. - -“I’ve got a tid-bit for you here,” he explained. “A bit of jugged hare -which you’ll like. And I wouldn’t trouble you but for a very good -reason.” - -They sat in a corner among some rag bales, beyond earshot of others who -were eating their meal in the rag house. - -“Where’s Medora?” asked Mrs. Trivett. - -“She’s having dinner in the glazing room to-day. So I took the -opportunity. It’s about her I want to talk. But eat first. I don’t want -to spoil the jugged hare.” - -He brought out a small pudding basin containing the delicacy and his -mother-in-law ate heartily and declared the dish very good. - -“Medora can cook, whatever she can’t do,” said Lydia. - -“There’s nothing she can’t do,” he answered; “but there’s a damned lot -of things she won’t do. And that’s the trouble to me. Time was when we -saw alike every way and never had a word or a difference of opinion; -but that time’s past seemingly, and I want to know why; and if you -know, I wish you’d tell me. It’s all in a nutshell so far as I can -see. What am I doing to vex her? God’s my judge I don’t know. I’m the -same as I always have been. A chap like me don’t change. I only want -to be patient and cheerful and go on with my life as I’m going. It’s -her that’s changed. She used to love a bit of fun and laughter and be -friendly and easy-going and jolly and kind. That’s what she was when -I married her anyway. But she’s changed and I’m getting fairly fed -up, because I don’t know of any fault in myself to explain it. If I’d -pretended to be different from what I am before we were married and -deceived her in anything, then she’d have a case against me. But nobody -can say I did. She knew just what I was, and I thought I knew just what -she was.” - -“You did, Ned,” said Mrs. Trivett earnestly. “You take my word that you -did know just what she was. And what she was, she is still under her -skin. She can’t change really, any more than you can, or anybody else. -She took you because you suited her and she knew she’d be happy with -you. And what’s happening to her just now is a passing thing calling -for patience. Women have their funny moods and whims—Medora like the -rest.” - -“I grant that, but how long is it going to last? I know they get queer -in their heads sometimes, but she’s down in the mouth always now. I -can’t pleasure her, do what I may, and the things that always delighted -her a year ago bore her now. Damn it! She looks at me sometimes as if -she was a schoolmistress and I was a wicked boy.” - -“It’s like this with her; and it’s the same with lots of people who -have had nothing but a good time all their lives. Instead of knowing -their luck, they take their luck to be just the usual state of things, -and they don’t look round and see the scores of people without their -good fortune: they only fancy that other people are more fortunate -than them. They get so bored with the good that they begin to picture -something better. Everybody wants better bread than is made of wheat -sometimes, and especially them that have never tasted worse. We, that -have had to eat barley bread, know our luck—t’others don’t. The thing -for you is to be patient. You’re all right and you’re going on all -right so far as I can tell. I’ll take your word of that and I very -well understand your difficulties. But you’re a man and you’ve got the -brains.” - -“She says not,” he answered. “That’s one of the nice things I’m called -to hear now. She didn’t quarrel with my sense or my nonsense a year -ago. Now she says right out that she wishes I had more intellects. -Not a very nice thing to hear. I might be a stone-breaker, or a -hedge-tacker with no sense at all.” - -“Be patient with her. It’s a whim, and what’s responsible for it I -don’t know more than you. But it will pass. She can’t go on pretending -she’s an unhappy woman—” - -“No, and she shan’t,” he said. “I’m only a human man myself, and it’s a -proper outrage for her to make out she’s being bullied and evil treated -by a chap that worshipped the ground under her feet and would again. -She’s mean, mother.” - -“No, Ned, she’s foolish; she ain’t mean.” - -“She is mean. List to this. Two night ago Kellock came to supper with -us—to help eat that jugged hare—and the talk was serious to death, -as it always is with him—him being such a serious man. And presently, -among a lot of other soaring notions, Medora wondered what was the -height of bliss. And she said the height of bliss was to feel she was -doing good, noble work in the world and helping to make people happier.” - -Mrs. Trivett sniffed, but did not respond. - -“Well,” continued Ned, “I didn’t say nothing to that, though it sounded -a bit thin to me; but Kellock declared it was a very grand thought, and -for his part the height of bliss was to feel you’d got a move on, and -was leaving a mark and doing solid spade work, that would lift the next -generation to more happiness. And, of course, Medora purred over that. -And then she asked me what my height of bliss was—in a pitying tone of -voice, as though she and Jordan belonged to another world. Well, I said -my height of bliss was lying in my new bath-room of a Saturday night, -with the hot water up to my chin, thinking of my savings in the bank.” - -“You didn’t, Ned!” - -“I did—just to give ’em a shake up. And just to remind Medora I built -that bath-room on to my house—not because I wanted it, but because she -did. Well, I knew Kellock wouldn’t see the joke, because he ain’t built -to; but, damn it—I did think Medora would. I expected she’d laugh -and lighten up the talk a bit. But not her. She pulled a long face, -and said I ought to be ashamed to confess such ideas. And that was -mean—you can’t deny it.” - -“It was,” admitted Medora’s mother. “Her sense of fun’s deserted her; -or else she’s hiding it of a purpose.” - -“Another thing,” grumbled Mr. Dingle, “that same night when Kellock -was gone, I got a bit angered with her, God forgive me, and I took her -rough by the arm, and it left a bit of a blue mark on her skin. I very -nearly went on my knees for sorrow after, and she forgave me, and made -it up. Well, you’d think a decent woman would have kept her sleeve down -for a day or two till the mark was gone; but I went to speak to her in -the glazing room yesterday, and there was her forearm bare for all the -women to see, and the chaps at the presses. And when they asked her -how she came by it, as they did, she made a business of not telling -them—which, of course, did tell them. And that was mean, too.” - -Mrs. Trivett looked anxious, and put her hand on his arm. - -“Don’t you knock her about, Ned. I know how aggravating a woman can be; -but don’t you do that. I’m not standing up for her, and I’ll talk to -her again and try to show her what she’s doing; but don’t you give her -a shadow of excuse for this silliness, because, in her present mood, -she’ll be very quick to take advantage of it. I know you very well, and -I was properly glad when Medora took you and not the other, because I -knew her, too, and felt she’d be happier with you in the long run. But -I only say again, be patient until seventy times seven, there’s a good -man, for that’s all you can do about it at present.” - -“So I will then,” he promised, “and we’ll leave it at that. And if -you’ll take your chance to talk sense to her, I’ll be a good bit -obliged.” - -The rain had ceased, and Lydia went out for a breath of air, while Ned -lighted his pipe and accompanied her. A good few of the workers were -at hand, and Mr. Knox, seeing Mrs. Trivett and her son-in-law, joined -them. Kellock passed, but did not stop, and Philander Knox praised him. - -“Now, there’s a chap that’ll go far—either here or somewhere else,” -he said. “Most of you Devon people I’ve yet met with are pretty -easy-going, like myself; but that man is not. He’s more than a paper -maker. Dingle here, and Life, and old Pinhey, the finisher, and Trood -are content to go on their way, and leave other people to do the same. -Kellock is not.” - -“He’s got ideas,” said Lydia. - -“He has. I’ve took a room in the same house where he lodges, and I’ve -heard him air his notions. They’re commonplace talk where I come from, -but a bit ahead of the times in the West Country. We middle-aged folk -ain’t interested in ’em, but the rising generation is. He told me -straight out that we ought to have shop stewards in the Mill.” - -“Not at all,” said Dingle. “We don’t want nothing of that here.” - -“A burning mind for the rights of labour,” continued Knox, “and though -you may think we don’t want shop stewards, and I may think so, and the -boss may think so, shop stewards are a sign of the times, and they’ll -come everywhere before long.” - -“I hope not,” said Lydia. - -“And shop stewardesses,” added Philander; “and if that happened, you’d -have to rise to it, Mrs. Trivett, for the good of the young women.” - -Lydia laughed. - -“They might be wanted in some places—not here,” she said. “We all -work very comfortably and steady, and there’s none discontented in my -department, that I know about.” - -“Just because you’re the head of it and are a very clever and human -sort of woman,” answered Mr. Knox. “You’ve got the touch, and you -understand the nature of the female and how to keep her in a good -temper, and how to get a fair day’s work for a good day’s wages.” - -Ned left them at this juncture, and Mr. Knox proceeded. Much to her -surprise he praised Mrs. Trivett in good set terms. - -“Well, well!” she said. “It ain’t often I hear my virtues mentioned, -and I’m afraid you’ve named a good few I can’t lay claim to. Women’s -only a greater puzzle than men, in my experience, and I don’t pretend -that I know half that goes to either sort.” - -“Character is a great mystery,” he added. - -“So it is then, and I don’t want to look farther than at home to know -it.” - -Mrs. Trivett was speaking to herself rather than Philander in this -speech; she did not design any confession, but he appeared to guess -what was in her mind. Indeed, he did, for he had seen her in company -with Dingle, which was an unusual incident at the Mill, and he heard -much of the rumour that Ned and his wife were out. He had also heard -of the blue mark on Medora’s arm, from Mr. Pinhey, whose operations as -finisher took place in the glazing room. - -“And if there’s a blue mark on her arm, who knows what marks there may -be hidden elsewhere?” murmured Mr. Pinhey, with horrified eyes, behind -his spectacles. - -“As a man once married, though without a family, I can understand -that,” answered Knox to Lydia. “And if I may say so, I venture -respectfully to sympathise with what’s in your mind. I’ve heard about -Mrs. Dingle, and nothing but kindness, for I’m sure everybody likes -her, though not as well as they like you. And if it’s not pushing in, -which is the last thing I would do, I should be interested to know -if, between Kellock and her husband, she took the right one in your -opinion.” - -Mrs. Trivett felt some concern that a newcomer should have learned so -much of the family history. But he spoke with such propriety that she -could not be annoyed. She liked Mr. Knox, and found him, as everybody -else did, a good-natured and amiable person. It was true that Mr. Trood -had said that Knox was “downy,” but his downiness had not yet appeared -to simpler eyes. - -She parried his question. - -“You know them both—what do you think?” - -“I know them, but I can’t say I know her,” he answered. “However, I -know her mother, if I may say so, without offence, and if Mrs. Dingle -favours you, then I’d say without hesitation that she chose the right -party.” - -“She’s like me and not like me,” explained Lydia. “I was pretty near -what she is at her age.” - -“Better looking, I expect,” he interrupted. - -“No, nothing like so fine—just a little go-by-the-ground woman, same -as I am now. But in character, not unlike her. And if I’d had so good a -time as she has had, no doubt I should have made the same mistakes and -not known reality better than her.” - -“You can have too much reality,” declared Philander. “Most of us poor -people have such a deuce of a lot of reality that we get tired of it. -There’s thousands for that matter that never have anything else; and -reality ain’t fattening if you belong to the labouring classes. But if -she’d took Jordan Kellock, then she’d have known what reality was, and -very likely gone down under it, like a mole under a cart wheel. He’s a -wonderful good, earnest man—worth all the rest of us put together, -I dare say; but as a husband for a young, pretty, laughter-loving -woman—no. He ain’t built that way, and if your Medora finds that -Dingle isn’t all she dreamed—as what man is after the gilt’s off the -gingerbread?—then let her be sure she’d have done still worse along -with Kellock.” - -Mrs. Trivett was moved, and nodded vigorously. “Very good sense, and -you echo me,” she answered. “I’ve thought much the same. You’re an -understanding man, and kind-hearted seemingly, and have been married -yourself, so you see things in a large spirit. I think my girl took the -right one.” - -“Then she did, for you’d make no mistake,” declared Knox. “And if the -right one, then we can trust time to prove it. I’m a great believer in -the marriage state myself. It’s a power for good most times, and so I -hope you found it.” - -But Mrs. Trivett was not prepared for any further confidences on this -occasion. She did not answer his question, though she expressed herself -a believer in marriage. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -ASSAULT AND BATTERY - - -In the engine house a small, hump-backed man sat picking over the -masses of wet rag brought to him by Henry Barefoot from the boilers. -For, despite the sorters and the magnet, enemies to paper still lurked -in the sodden rag, and the little man ran the sloppy stuff through his -fingers, extracting from time to time fragments of rubber, whalebone, -pearl, and other substances. - -The engine house was a lofty chamber on two floors, with windows that -faced the west. Here, Ned Dingle reigned, and half a dozen men worked -under him. Much happened to the rag before it came to Ned, for after -its final picking, it was washed again, and broken before the beater -turned it into pulp. When the little hump-backed man had passed it, -the rag was set revolving with water in oval, lead-lined breakers. -On one side the washer, like a steamer’s paddle-wheel, churned in a -bladed barrel, so that the rag was not only cleaned again, but also -torn to the smallest fragments; on the other side a drum of brass wire -sucked away the dirty water, while from the upper end clean water was -perpetually spurting in. Round and round the rag revolved for three -hours, by which time its character had changed entirely. It was, in -fact, rag no more, but a substance like curds: “half stuff,” or rag -transformed and half-way to its final stages. - -From the breakers the pulpy mass left the engine house for a time, -and sojourned in the bleaching tanks beneath. It flowed down through -pipes to a subterranean chamber, where the air was sharp with the -smell of chemicals, and twelve great, gaping wells ranged round a -narrow passage way. Here came the “half stuff” to repose on beds of -Delabole slate, and endure the operations of the bleach for half a day -or more. Then the liquid was drained off, the snow-white, solid masses -forked out on to little trolleys, and so returned to Ned Dingle in the -engine house. Again it revolved until the bleach was thoroughly washed -out of it, for it is a principle of great paper making that the less -chemicals, the better the pulp; and now perfected, washed, broken and -bleached, the material came to the beater for final dissection. - -The beaters’ engines were oval in form and resembled the breakers. They -stood upon the lower floor of the engine house, and each communicated -directly with the breaker above it, and the vat room far beneath. From -final washing, the pulp flowed directly to Mr. Dingle, and, as before, -revolved, and was churned by a paddle-wheel set with fine knives. Ned -controlled it, and on his judgment depended the quality of the pulp -that would presently flow down to Kellock, Knox, and the other vatmen. - -He was explaining the process to a young man, who had just been -promoted to his assistant from the breakers above. - -“It’s got to meet every test that experience can bring against it, -Jacob,” he said. “And if it did not, I should mighty soon hear of it.” - -He regulated the churning wheel with a footplate, and presently, -satisfied that the mass, which was now like fine cream after revolving -in the beating tank for many hours, had reached perfection, Ned took a -test to satisfy himself. - -Two hand-bowls, or dippers, he lifted, scooped up a few ounces of the -pulp, then mixed it with pure water, and flung the liquid backwards -from one dipper to the other, pouring off and adding fresh water until -what was left in his bowl resembled water barely stained with soap. The -pulp was now so diluted that it needed sharp eyes to see anything in -the water at all; but Dingle, taking it to the window, set it slowly -dribbling away over the edge of the bowl, and as it flowed, the liquid -revealed tiny fragments and filaments all separate, and as fine as -spider’s thread. The spectacle of these attenuated fibres of cotton -told the beaterman that his engine was ready and the pulp sufficiently -fine. The masses of rag, once linen and lace, and every sort of textile -fabric woven of cotton, had become reduced to its limit of tenuity, and -was now far finer stuff than in the cotton pod of its creation. It had -been beaten into countless millions of fibrils, long and short, and all -so fine as to need sharpest scrutiny of human eye to distinguish them. - -Jacob—a future beaterman—followed Ned’s operations closely; then he -made a test himself and watched the cotton gossamer flow over the edge -of his bowl. - -“And next week,” declared Ned, “something finer still has got to be -made—so fine that I shall have to borrow a pair of spectacles to see -it—good as my eyes are. And that’s the pulp for the Exhibition moulds. -It’s to be a record—such paper as never before was made in the world. -But this is just ordinary, first class rag pulp—stuff that will last -till doomsday if properly handled. Now it’s going down to Knox’s vat.” - -He sent a boy to the vat room to warn Philander that a re-inforcement -was about to descend. Then he sought a square shaft in the corner of -the engine house, took off the lid and revealed an empty, lead-lined -box, having six holes at the bottom. Each was securely stopped and all -communicated with the great chests that held the pulp for the paper -makers below. - -He opened one hole, drew a valve from the beating engine and allowed it -slowly to empty into the box. The white mass sank away out of it; there -was a gurgle and a splash of air from the valve as the engine emptied; -while with a wooden rake Ned scraped the last of the pulp to the -aperture, whence it ran to the box above the chests in the vat room. - -“No. 4 chest is being filled, so it’s No. 4 hole I’ve opened in the -box,” he explained. “Now it’s all run down very quick you see, and my -beater is empty.” - -Then the breaker above disgorged another load of “half stuff” into the -beater, and after he had used a beating roll, he set the paddle-wheel -going again and the new consignment revolved on its way. - -Ned took a keen interest in his work and though he might be casual and -easy-going in all other affairs of life, it was clear that he could be -serious enough over the operations of the beater. He was very thorough -and never left anything to chance. Opportunity for initiative did not -enter into his labours; but the hard and fast lines of perfection he -followed with keen application, and it was his fair boast that he had -never sent bad pulp to the vatmen. Though a mechanical calling, Ned did -not approach it in a mechanical spirit. It was his particular gift and -privilege to feel a measure of enthusiasm in the craft, and he prided -himself upon his skill. - -Novelty now awaited him, for the pulp presently to be made would differ -in quality from the familiar material. The beating it to an impalpable -fineness would be his work. The pulp was also to be dyed with new -tinctures, not used until now. - -For not only snowwhite material descended to the vat room. The dyeing -was a part of Mr. Dingle’s operation in many cases, and the various -colours of foreign currency papers went into the stuff during its -sojourn in the beaters. - -Dingle, satisfied with his pupil, put on his coat when the dinner bell -rang, the steam pulses of the works subsided and the power stopped. -He took his basket and descended a long flight of steps to the vat -room, where Kellock, Life and the other paper makers had just knocked -off work. Others joined them, for the vast and airy vat room was a -favourite place for dinner; but Medora did not come. For several weeks -now she had ceased to meet Ned at the hour of the mid-day meal. The -fact was, of course, noted and debated behind Dingle’s back; but none -spoke of it in front of him. - -The change in Medora at this stage of her existence was obvious enough -to all; while that which marked her husband did not appear so clearly. -The reason had been easy to see, though few knew enough about them to -see it. Medora, while really disingenuous, revealed her tribulation, -because she desired everybody to perceive it; while Ned, naturally an -open and simple creature, endeavoured with the instinct of a decent -male to hide his worries from the public eye. He failed, however, -because he was not built to play a part, while Medora succeeded to -perfection. Thus she created an impression of secret woes that did not -really exist, while Ned attempted to conceal anxieties which were real -enough. His temper suffered under a strain that he was not created to -endure, for his wife’s attitude, having first puzzled him, began to -anger him. He lost his temper with her on certain occasions and her -sublime patience under his rough tongue by no means turned his wrath -from her. For nothing is more maddening, if you are the smiter, than to -have the other cheek turned to you by a sufferer, who displays obvious -gusto at your chastisement. Ned soon saw that Medora liked him to be -violent and brutal. It was meat and drink to her to see him in a rage. -He guessed, and not wrongly, that if he had beaten her, she must have -relished the pain—not for itself, but for the exquisite pleasure of -relating her sufferings to other people afterwards. - -She was changed, as any woman is who for pleasure or profit plays a -part. Indeed many persist in such histrionics when profit has long -ceased, for simple artistic delight at the impersonation. It is natural -to prefer a rôle which we can perform to perfection, before others -wherein we are not so effective. - -The suffering and wronged and ill-treated heroine proved an -impersonation that suited Medora’s temperament exactly, and having once -assumed it, she promised to persist in it beyond the limits of her -husband’s patience. She would doubtless tire sooner or later, since it -is the instinct of every actor to desire new parts and new successes; -but she was not going to tire of it while she made such a hit, won so -much attention and created such a dramatic and exciting atmosphere -about her. In fact Medora now felt herself to be the centre of her own -little stage, and the experience so much delighted her that it was -difficult sometimes to retain the air of crushed, Christian resignation -proper to the character. - -But the situation she had created out of nothing real, now developed -and began to take unto itself dangerous elements of reality. Such -theatricals do not stand still, and instead of subsiding, as Lydia -hoped it would, Mrs. Dingle’s objections and grievances, woven of -gossamer at first, began to grow tougher. She guessed that she would -catch more than herself in these elaborate reticulations, and she -persisted until she found another was becoming entangled also. - -At first, to do her justice, Medora hesitated here. But she could not -pour her woes into Kellock’s ears without a reaction from him, and his -attitude towards her confession naturally influenced her. For, while -some of her elders suspected, according to the measure of their wits, -that Medora was acting, one man saw no shadow of deception. Every word -rang true on his ear, for circumstances combined hopelessly to hoodwink -him. His own serious nature, from which any powers of illusion or -sleight were excluded, read nothing but the face value into Medora’s -woeful countenance and the word value into her hopeless speeches. Not -for him to answer mock heroics with banter, or reply to burlesque with -irony. Had he been made of different stuff, he might have saved Medora -from herself at this season; but being himself, the admirable man was -terribly perturbed and indeed found himself beset with sore questions -and problems from which both his character and personal attitude to -the girl precluded escape. For he loved her, and the fact that she -was an unhappy woman did not lessen his love; while, beyond that, his -altruistic instincts must have brought him into a delicate complication -in any case when once invited to participate. And now he did enter, -with motives that could not honestly be considered mixed, for he was -thus far influenced only by a conviction that it might be possible to -help both sufferers to a better understanding. He knew that he enjoyed -a far larger measure of intellect than Ned, and he felt that to shirk -an effort for Medora’s sake would be cowardly. He had indeed convinced -himself that it was his duty to act. - -He proceeded to tackle Ned, but he approached the task without the -attitude of mind vital to success. For success in such a ticklish -matter demanded in Kellock a standpoint of absolute impartiality. He -must, if he were to do any good whatever, come to Dingle with a mind -as open and unprejudiced as possible; whereas, though he knew it not, -Jordan’s mind by no means stood in that relation to the pair. Had it -done so, he had probably not interfered; for in truth it could not -be altruism alone that prompted him to the step he was now about to -take, but a very active and sincere sympathy for Medora in her alleged -griefs. He believed her with all his heart and he had a great deal more -concern for Mrs. Dingle’s point of view, which he accepted, than for -her husband’s, which he had neither heard nor considered. - -The men had eaten their dinner, and Ned, out of a cheerful demeanour, -which he brought from his work, presently sank into taciturnity. From -no will to do so, but powerlessness to prevent it, he showed those -about him that his thoughts were not pleasant. Indeed the most casual -had noticed that he was of late only himself in the engine house, and -that nothing but work sufficed to take him out of himself. Away from -it, he brooded and did not chatter and jest as of old. - -To-day he was more than usually abstracted and Kellock seized the -opportunity. Ned’s meal was finished in ten minutes and when he began -to stuff his pipe, the other asked him to come for a stroll up the -valley. - -“Let’s go up to the ponds and see if there are any birds about, Ned,” -he said. - -A little surprised, since the bird that interested Kellock was unknown, -Ned nevertheless agreed to take a walk. - -“Certainly,” he answered. “Me and Trood flushed a woodcock there -yesterday, and I dare say on Saturday Trood will bring him down. He’s a -mark on a woodcock—never misses ’em.” - -They strolled together up the valley where it fell gently to the Mill. - -A quarter of a mile above the works the coomb narrowed to a -bottle-neck, through which a water-fall came down. The road wound -through this gap and on one side of it rose old, blue limestone -quarries, their jagged scarps and ridges fledged with gorse and oak -scrub; while on the other side of the water a limestone bluff ascended, -weathered to fine colour, and above it towered Scotch firs and ivy-clad -beeches that followed the foot of the hill and flung their arms around -a little mere, lying in the hollow of the undulating land. - -In spring this cup shone emerald green; but now the place was grey and -silver. Alders and sallows towered black against the bright water; -sedges and reed mace had huddled into tangle of russet and amber. They -brightened where the sun touched them and burned over the placid lake, -while the highest colour note was a spindle tree, whereon hung its -harvest of pink and orange fruit, though all the leaves were fled. The -flame of it cast a brilliant reflection into the face of the mirror -below; and as Ned and Jordan approached by a winding way, that skirted -the mere, coot and moorhen scuttled off leaving double trains behind -them, widening out upon the waters. - -Here it was that Kellock broached the great matter at his heart; and -because it was at his heart, whereas he imagined it solely in his head, -he found within the space of two minutes that he had made a very -grievous mistake. - -Beside the lake spoke Jordan, while Ned had his eyes in the sedges and -distant mud flats for a woodcock. - -“It’s about your wife I wanted to say a word, and I know we’re too good -friends for you to object. You see, Ned, when you look at the past—” - -“To hell with the past,” answered Dingle shortly. “It’s the future I -look at. You take my tip and keep out of this—specially seeing you -wanted her yourself once.” - -“I must speak,” answered the vatman mildly, “and just for that -reason, Ned. When she took you, you’ll remember I followed a very -self-respecting line about it. But at your wish—at your wish, Ned—I -kept my friendship for Medora and you; and it’s out of that friendship -I want to say I think things might be bettered.” - -“She’s been washing our dirty linen for your pleasure then?” - -“Not at all. But—” - -“God damn it!” burst out the other. “Ain’t there to be any peace left -in the world? You get out of this and keep out of it, or—” - -“Don’t be silly, Ned,—listen.” - -“To you? Not much. There’s some hooken-snivey going on here by the -looks of it. Blast you—there—that’s my answer to you!” - -Dingle, in a white-hot passion, swung his arm, hit Kellock on the side -of his head with a tremendous blow and knocked him down. They were on -the edge of the lake and Medora’s champion rolled over and fell into -water ten feet deep. He was stunned and sank, then came to the surface -again. - -Ned’s rage vanished with the blow, for now he saw in a moment the -gravity of the situation. Kellock appeared to be unconscious and would -certainly drown if left in the water. - -The man on the bank flung himself upon his stomach, leant over, gripped -his victim by the collar and dragged him breast high under the bank. In -this position Kellock came at once to his senses. - -“I’m sorry—I’m cruel sorry,” said Dingle. “Lift up your hands and put -’em round my neck—then I’ll heave you out.” - -Kellock opened his eyes and panted, but did nothing for a moment. - -“For God’s sake make an effort—I can’t help you else. Get your arms -round my neck, Jordan.” - -The other obeyed and in a few moments he was safe. Ned fished his cap -out of the water, wrung it and handed it to him. - -“I’m bitter sorry—my cursed temper.” - -Kellock sat down for a moment and pressed the water out of his clothes. -He was quite calm. - -“I dare say it was natural,” he answered. “If you’d but listened—” - -“You can’t listen to things if you’re in hell. Take my arm. No good -biding here. I’ll see you to your house. You can have the law of me. -I deserve it. I’m no bloody good to anybody in the world now-a-days. -Better I was locked up, I reckon.” - -“Don’t talk rot. We’re all learners. You’ve learned me something -anyway. See me home. I’m dazed, but I shall be all right in a minute. -And don’t let on about this. I shall say I slipped on the edge of the -water and fell in and bruised my head—just an accident and my fault. -And so it was my fault.” - -“I won’t have that. You rub it in. I’ve earned it. I shall tell the -people what I am, if you don’t.” - -“That won’t do,” answered the other. “Think of me as well as yourself -in that matter. You’re popular; I’m not; and if they hear you’ve -knocked me into the water, they’ll say there was a reason for it.” - -Dingle did not answer, but he knew this to be true. - -“Least said soonest mended then.” - -“For your wife’s sake, Ned.” - -“Leave her out, please. I’m in your debt and I shan’t forget it.” - -They met some women returning to the works and lied to them. All -expressed great concern. Then Ned brought Kellock to his rooms and -begged him to drink some spirits which he refused to do. - -“Mind we tell the same tale about this,” said Jordan. “I fell in and -you grabbed me from the bank and brought me ashore. After all it’s the -truth, so far as it goes.” - -Dingle agreed and then returned to his work; while the injured man, -though in considerable pain, only waited to change his clothes and then -hastened back to the Mill, to explain his accident and be chaffed for -his carelessness. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -THE OLD PRIORY - - -There was none to drag up the melancholy blossoms of Medora’s woe -and display the fact that they had no roots; but she kept them alive -nevertheless; and since she was tickled to persist in folly by the -increasing interest created from her alleged sufferings, she woke up -to find those sufferings real at last. She had now earned a great -deal of pity and won a reputation for patience and endurance. She had -also awakened a certain measure of feeling against Ned, which was -inevitable, and now conditions which she had implied, knowing at the -bottom of her heart they did not exist, began to develop in reality. -The man was not built to watch Medora’s histrionics in patience for -ever, and she found him growing harsh and rough. - -Then there was no more play-acting for Medora. Outraged in every -instinct, her sense of humour dead and her self-consciousness morbidly -hypertrophied, she began to hate the man she had married. The cause of -his changed attitude she forgot; and the bad usage for which she had -deliberately played, when it came she resented with all her soul. Now -she ceased to be a wife to him and daily threatened to leave him. - -A series of incidents more or less painful led to the threshold of -complete estrangement and Medora was always ahead of her husband and -always a good stage farther advanced to the final rupture than was he. -Indeed he never knew until the climax burst upon him that it was so -near. He did wrong things at this season, was hard when he should have -been gentle, and allowed himself brutalities of speech and action. -But again and again after such ebullitions, he was contrite, abased -himself and implored Medora to help him to a better comradeship and -understanding. - -Each sought to confide, and Ned confided in Medora herself, while she -went elsewhere. Her interest was rapidly shifting and her husband’s -efforts at reconciliation meant nothing now. For the time being she -heartily loathed him, and the sound of his voice in the house, and -the fall of his foot. Yet between his furies he had struggled hard to -restore their friendship. He had confessed the incident with Kellock -and described to Medora how, in his passion that anybody should presume -to come between them, even with good advice, he had turned on the -vatman, knocked him into the water and then pulled him out again. - -“He meant well; but it shows what a state I’m in that I could do it. He -forgave me quickly enough, but I couldn’t forgive myself. And I only -tell you, Medora, to show what a perilous and unnatural frame of mind -I’ve got to. It’s all so properly cruel—as if some unseen devil had -poked his claws into our affairs and was trying to tear ’em apart. And -God knows I’ll do any mortal thing that man can do to right it.” - -She was, however, much more interested in the disaster to Kellock. - -“What did he say that made you try to murder him?” she asked. - -“I didn’t try to murder him—I only shut his mouth. So I don’t know -what he was going to say. He admitted I was right anyway, and that it -was not his place to interfere.” - -“Nobody’s got the right to talk sense to you seemingly.” - -“I’m not telling you this for you to begin on me again,” he said. “I’m -telling you to show you what you’re doing and what you’ve done to my -temper. If anybody had told me a year ago I’d forget myself and knock a -man down for trying to do me a good turn, I’d never have believed it. -Yet such is my state that I did so. And since then I’ve asked Jordan to -speak about the thing and give me any advice he could; but he’s told me -frankly the time has passed for that. He won’t speak now. He forgave -me for knocking him into the water; but I can see with half an eye he -don’t want any more to do with me.” - -Medora, well knowing why this was, yet pretended not to know. - -“You must ask yourself for a reason then and no doubt your conscience -will find it, Ned. We must cut a loss before long—you and me—for I -don’t want to die under this. I can’t stand very much more and I dare -say you feel the same.” - -“What d’you mean by ‘cut a loss’?” he asked. - -But after any pregnant remark of this description, Medora temporised -for a time and preferred to be indefinite. - -“I don’t know what I mean,” she answered. “There’s times when I wish I -was out of it, young as I am. I can suffer and suffer of course. I’m -strong and there’s no limit to my endurance. But I’m beginning to ask -myself ‘why?’ And for that matter there are one or two others asking me -the same question.” - -“No doubt,” he said. “The woman’s always right if her face is pretty -enough. You’ve got the art always to be in the right, and there’s only -one on God’s earth, and that’s me, who knows you’re wickedly in the -wrong quite as often as I am. It’s your wrongs in other people’s mouths -that made me do wrong; and when you saw me setting out with all my -heart to be patient and win you back again, you set yourself wickedly -to work to break down my patience and egg me on. Again and again you’ve -kept at me till I’ve gone too far and done evil; and then you’ve run -about everywhere and let everybody know what a coward and brute I am.” - -“That’s the way you talk,” she said, “and I can only listen with my -heart broken. You say these things for no reason but to make me angry, -and as to patience, even you will grant, if there’s any justice left -in you, that my patience has never broke down from the first. And when -the people have talked, I’ve laughed it off and put a bright face on -it.” - -“Yes, I know that bright face—as though you were saying, ‘you see I’m -an angel already and only want the wings.’” - -“Oh, your tongue!” she answered. “To think that ever you could scourge -a good wife with such bitter, biting words.” - -Then she wept and he cursed and went out. It was a scene typical of -others; but from the moment that Medora heard of Kellock’s immersion -she could not rest until she had let him know she knew it. They were -meeting now unknown to Dingle, for though Jordan at first protested -against any private conference, Medora quickly over-ruled him. For -a month she had made it clear that only the wisdom of Mr. Kellock -was keeping her sane; and he believed it. Nor was this altogether -untrue, for Medora, now genuinely miserable, began to seek increasing -sustenance and support from her old lover. - -As in the case of all her other schemes for entertainment and -exaltation, she crept to this and let it develop slowly. As the rift -between her and Ned grew wider, the gap narrowed between her and Jordan -Kellock. At each meeting she decreased the distance between them, yet -never by definite word or deed appeared to be doing so. Kellock himself -did not realise it. He knew the fact and taxed his own conscience with -it at first; but then for a time his conscience left him in doubt as -to his duty, until in the light of Medora’s increasing sufferings, it -spoke more distinctly and chimed dangerously with his inclination. - -His whole life was dominated by this great matter. It had become -personal and he wrestled with his difficulties by day and night. Medora -was one of those women who have a marvellous power of influencing -other judgments. She had a fatal gift to waken dislike and distrust -of another person in the mind of a third. She had already created -aversion for Ned in the minds of several women; now Jordan, despite -his own reason, felt himself beginning to hate Dingle as heartily -as Medora appeared to do. He fought this emotion for a time; but -found it impossible any longer to maintain an impartial attitude. -He told himself that it was only false sentiment to pretend farther -impartiality. Justice demanded antagonism to Ned in the future—not -because Medora had once been Jordan’s whole hope and desire and was now -herself unhappy and friendless; but because, as an honest man, Kellock -could not longer be impartial. - -His views of life were changing; his orderly mind was beginning to -suspect that strong action might be necessary. Justice was the word -most often on his lips; and yet knowing that he loved Medora, he was -intelligent enough to perceive that inclination might be deluding him -and making apparently simple what, in reality, was complex. For a time -he hesitated; then came a day when he met Medora by appointment and -felt it impossible to stand outside her life any longer. She, indeed, -forced his hand and made it clear that she was going to take definite -steps for her own salvation. - -Medora, on her way to Priory Farm one Sunday afternoon, had arranged to -meet Kellock at the ruins of the building that gave the farm its name. -Here they would be safe from any interruption. - -The fragment of masonry crowned Mr. Dolbear’s orchard on the summit of -the hill that fell into Cornworthy. Here, heaved up against the sky -in its ivy mantle, stood the meagre remains of an old priory, one of -the smaller houses of the Austin nuns, founded by the Norman lords of -Totnes. - -It consisted of a great gateway with a roof vaulted, ribbed and bossed, -and a lesser entrance that stood to the north of the first. They -pierced the mass and bore above them a chamber, of which only the floor -and ruined walls remained. It was reached by a stair, where stone -steps wound in the thickness of the wall and opened on to the crown -of the ruin fifty feet above. The space aloft was hung with polypody -and spleenwort in the chinks of its crumbling mortar, and ivy knots -seemed to hold the mass together. A whitethorn had found foothold -and rose above the central block of stone. Through a ruined aperture -facing east, one might see the orchard sloping to the valley bottom and -Cornworthy’s scattered dwellings, ascending on the farther hill. The -picture, set in the grey granite frame of the priory window, revealed -thatched houses grouped closely, with land sweeping upwards on either -side, so that the hamlet lay in a dingle between the breasts of the -red earth. The land climbed on beyond the village and threw a hogged -back across the sky. Here were broad fallows and hedgerows where the -leafless elms broke the line with their grey skeletons. To this exalted -but secret place, Medora and Kellock were come. He had indeed been -there some time when she arrived. - -“If you sit here,” he said, “you’re out of the wind.” - -“We’re safe now,” she answered. “And ’twas like you to put yourself -about and tramp all this way. But I’ve got to be terrible careful, -Jordan, for if my husband thought I’d any friends working for me and -thinking for me, I don’t know what awful thing he’d do against me. Nuns -used to live here in past ages,” she continued. “Oh, my God! I wish I’d -been one of them. Then I should have spent my days in peace and be at -rest now.” - -“Sit down and let’s use our time as best we can,” he advised. - -“Time—time—I want for time to end. For two pins I’d jump out of that -window and end all time so far as I’m concerned.” - -“You mustn’t talk or think like that, or else I shall fear I can’t be -any use. I tell you, before God, that my life’s all centred in you and -your troubles now. I shan’t have no peace till you have peace.” - -“I’ll live for you then; and that’s about all I want to live for any -longer,” declared Medora. She felt in a theatrical mood and Ned’s -recent confession enabled her to speak with a great oncoming of warmth -and emotion. Her perception had fastened upon it from the first and -measured its value. - -And now in the Priory ruin, she made the most of the matter. She had -worked it up and found it a tower of strength. - -“I know what happened,” she said. “You hid it, Jordan, like the man you -are; but he told me how he knocked you into the water—cruel devil.” - -“I’m sorry he told you.—I asked him not to.” - -“He wanted me to see what he could do, and would do again, and will do -again. He properly hates me now, and I shall soon be going in fear of -my life—I know that well enough. Not that I care much for my life; but -it’s awful to live with a tiger.” - -“You don’t mean that, Medora?” - -“I do then. He’s far ways different from what he was, or what -anybody thinks. He may pretend in the works; but he’s got the temper -of a devil; and sometimes I wish he’d strike and finish me; and -sometimes—I’m young and I don’t like to think of dying—sometimes I -say to myself I’ll make a bolt for it and go out into the world and -chance it. The world would be kinder than him and anyway it couldn’t be -crueller.” - -“This is fearful—fearful,” he exclaimed. “I can’t stand you saying -these things, Medora.” - -“I wouldn’t if they weren’t true. It can’t go on. I hate to distress -you, but there’s not a soul in the world cares a button what becomes -of me but you. I’m punished for the past I suppose. I deserve it. -I took that cruel tyrant when I might have took you—there, don’t -listen to me. I’m mad to-day.” She worked herself into tears and wept -convulsively, while he stared helplessly out at the world. His mind -moved. He could not stand her continued suffering, and the confession -and assurance of danger inspired him to thoughts of action. Something -must be done. She was in evident peril now. Any day might bring the -awful news of a disaster beyond repair. Such things were in every -newspaper. Not for an instant did he doubt the critical nature of the -situation. He hated to think Medora must presently return home to sleep -under the same roof as her husband. To his order of mind the situation -appealed with the uttermost gravity, for not an inkling of the true -Medora tinctured his impression and he was as ignorant of the true -Ned. He trusted the woman absolutely and he loved her. He steadfastly -believed now that the most precious life in the world to him was in -torment and in danger. She had, under dreadful stress of emotion as it -appeared, more than once expressed her regret at the fatal step in the -past. She had mourned frankly and explicitly at taking Dingle, when she -might have married Kellock himself. - -Here then was the tremendous problem for him; and so pressing and -immediate did it appear, that the young man was driven out of his usual -level attitude of mind and customary deliberation before the demands of -life. For the moment his future ambitions and purposes were lost: he -was only urged by the instant necessity to decide what might best be -done for Medora’s sake. Immense prospects opened before him—knightly -deeds, and unconventional achievements calling for great efforts and an -indifference to all commonplace, social standards. - -He was prepared at a future time to make war upon society for the sake -of his class, if the occasion demanded it. He fully intended presently -to stand forth with the protagonists of labour and fight for socialism. -He anticipated that battle and was educating and priming himself for -it. As yet the great revolt belonged to the future and there his -ultimate ambition lay; but now an immediate personal appeal confronted -him—a matter in which he himself and his own happiness were deeply -involved. And more than himself, for he felt that Medora’s future now -hung in the balance. Her destiny waited on him. - -But he did not tell Medora the result of his reflections. For the -moment he bade her be of good cheer and trust him. - -While she sobbed, he considered and then, feeling it was time to speak, -comforted her. - -“I’m glad you’ve told me all this,” he said. “It shows you know where -you can put your faith. And since you come to me with it, Medora, I’ll -make it my business. I’m only a human man and I loved you with all my -heart, and I do love you with all my heart still, and now the case is -altered. I should never have thought of you again—not in that way—if -your married life had turned out all right; but as it’s turned out all -wrong, then it’s up to me to come into your life again. May I do so?” - -“You’re the only thing in my life,” she said, drying her eyes. -“Everything else makes me want to end it—yes, I’ve thought often of -that, Jordan. But I’ll thankfully put myself in your hands and be -patient a bit longer if you tell me to.” - -“It ain’t a case for waiting,” he said. “It’s a case for doing. I don’t -know what fear is myself, and more did you till he made you. It looks -very much to me as if you’d have to come to me, Medora.” - -“Oh, my God—could you?” - -“Yes, I could, and I will.” - -“Think of yourself—it’s like your bravery to put me first and I’d be -your slave and live for you and thank Heaven for its blessings; but I -don’t want to ruin your life, you good, brave man.” - -“Nobody can ruin your life but yourself,” he answered, “and if I save -your life, it won’t be to ruin my own. Say you’d like it to be so and -leave the rest to me. I mean it, Medora.” - -A dream that had often filled the girl’s waking thoughts suddenly -promised to come true and for a moment she was frightened. But only for -a moment. She hardly hesitated. Here was romance, fame, the centre of -the stage—everything. She knew very well that she could trust him, and -if ever she loved and adored the impassive vatman it was at this moment. - -She took his hand and pressed her lips to it. - -“Like it!” she cried. “It would be heaven on earth—heaven on earth. -And God’s my judge you shan’t repent it. I’ll live for you and die for -you.” - -“So be it, Medora. It’s done.” - -He put his arms round her and kissed her. Then both felt a secret -desire to be alone and consider the magnitude of the decision. He -voiced this wish. - -“We’ll part now,” he said. “You go down to your mother and I’ll go -home. Be quite easy in your mind and cheerful and content. Leave the -rest to me. I’ll write to you to-night after I’ve gone all through it. -It ain’t so difficult as it sounds if we back each other up properly. -I’ll see you get the letter to-morrow out of sight of everybody at the -works. Be round by the vat house half after eleven. You’ve got a man to -deal with—remember that.” - -“God bless you,” she answered very earnestly. “I’m yours now, and -never, never shall you repent of it, Jordan. You can trust me same as I -trust you in everything.” - -They descended the winding stair of the ruin and then parted. Medora -went down through the orchard to her mother’s home at Priory Farm, -while Kellock, climbing through the hedge, presently set his face to -Dene and strolled down the Corkscrew Lane with his mind full of the -future. He found that thought persisted in drifting away from Medora to -her husband. He had just told her that she had a man to deal with; and -now it was impressed on Kellock that he, also, had to deal with a man. - -Meantime Ned’s wife reached the farm, and before she did so, she bathed -her eyes at a little stream under the orchard hedge. - -She appeared in an unusually contented frame of mind and Lydia was -glad to see her so. Another guest had arrived, for Philander Knox, at -Mrs. Trivett’s invitation, visited Priory Farm. A friendship had sprung -up between him and the widow, for modest though Lydia might be, she -could not fail to perceive her company was agreeable to Mr. Knox. He -would listen to her opinions in a flattering manner and often expressed -surprise to mark how her sense chimed with his experience. His own -philosophy and general outlook on life were approved by Mrs. Trivett -and on this occasion she had invited him to drink tea at Priory Farm -and meet her brother and his family. - -He had come and, as all who first penetrated into the life of the -farm, found himself bewildered by its complications. The children, the -mother, and the helpless father appeared to revolve as a system of -greater and lesser planets around the steadfast sun of Lydia. She moved -in the chaos as though it were her proper environment—“like a ship in -a storm,” as Mr. Knox afterwards told her. - -Philander had designed to enliven the tea with humorous chatter. He -wished to impress Mr. Dolbear and his wife favourably, for he was a -sociable person and anxious to increase the number of friends in his -new home; but he found a meal at Priory Farm no occasion for much -intercourse or advancement of amenities. It proved a strenuous and -rather exasperating affair. The children dominated the tea and the tea -table. They chattered until they had eaten all they could and departed; -then, when the visitor hoped that his opportunity had come, he found, -instead, that their mother took up the conversation and discussed the -vanished youngsters one by one. She lingered over each as a gardener -over his treasures, or a connoisseur over his collection. They were an -incomparable group of children, it appeared; and what puzzled Philander -was to find that Lydia enjoyed the subject as much as Mary herself. She -also knew the children by heart and was evidently devoted to each and -all of them. - -Tom Dolbear said very little, but enjoyed listening. His brood rejoiced -him and he lived now in hope of another boy. - -It was Medora who strove to change the subject and allow Bobby and -Milly and Clara and Jenny and the rest to drop out of the conversation. - -“Mr. Knox will be sick to death of your babies, Aunt Polly,” she said. - -“Far from it,” he declared. “A finer, hopefuller family I never wish to -see.” - -Mr. Dolbear then invited Philander to come into the garden and smoke, -but finding the ladies were not prepared to accompany them, he declined. - -“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll rest here until I must get going,” -he answered. “I’m not used to your hills yet and they weary my legs a -lot. Never a great walker—after the way of town birds that have lived -all their lives by a tram line.” - -So he sat and smoked, while Lydia cleared the tea things and Medora -helped her. - -With Mrs. Trivett there were few opportunities for speech. She came -and went and worked. Then the dusk fell and the younger Dolbears were -brought in to go to bed. Medora nursed the baby for a time and her -mother noticed that she was more than usually cheerful. - -Knox then declared that he must be going home and offered to escort -Medora. She agreed and having thanked Tom for his hospitality and hoped -that he might be privileged to accept it again at some future time, he -took his leave. On the way home he spoke to his companion. - -“Your mother’s a wonderful woman, Mrs. Dingle,” he said. “I see these -things from the outside and I’m properly astonished at her cleverness.” - -“So she is,” admitted Medora. “But I wish she wouldn’t work so hard all -the same. She does her day at the Mill and then comes back home and -instead of getting her proper rest—well, you see what it is.” - -“She’s like the mainspring of a watch,” declared Philander. “’Tis a -most delicate contrivance, yet all depends upon it; and if I may say -so, as an outsider, you can see with half an eye that her relations -depend upon her for everything.” - -“They do—they do. If anything happened to mother, I don’t know what -would become of Aunt and Uncle—let alone all the children.” - -“They don’t know their luck,” he said, and Medora agreed with him. - -“I’m glad you see it. I’ve often thought that—so have other people. My -mother at Priory Farm is like a cheese-cake in a pigstye.” - -“Strong, but not too strong. She must have great affection for them to -stand it.” - -“Once a man offered for mother,” said Medora; “and, at the first -whisper of it, Uncle Tom and Aunt Polly pretty well went on their knees -to her not to leave them.” - -“I can well believe it. It didn’t come to anything, however?” - -“No, no—mother’s not for another husband.” - -“If anything might make her think upon such a change, it would be that -household surely.” - -“No,” answered Medora. “It’s just that helpless household that would -make her sacrifice herself. Duty’s her God. She’s mother to all those -children—more their mother than Aunt Polly in a way—for my aunt is so -busy bringing them into the world, that she’s got to leave all the rest -of the work to other people.” - -Mr. Knox shook his head. - -“It’s contrary to nature that such a fine woman as Mrs. Trivett should -hide her light under that bushel,” he asserted. “It’s a very selfish -thing to let her slave and wear her fingers to the bone like that; but -it often happens so. A husband and wife with a long family always seem -to fasten on some good-natured, kindly creature and drag her in their -house to be a slave to their children. There’s no selfishness like the -selfishness of a pair with a long quiver. They’ll fairly batter the -life out of anybody who’s fool enough to lend a hand; and the more such -a person does for the other woman’s children, the more she may do. But -I should hope your mother was too proud to let herself be used as a -nursemaid to her own nieces.” - -“She’s never proud where children are concerned,” answered Medora. -“She’ll stop there till she’s worn out.” - -“A very gloomy picture and I hope you’re wrong, Mrs. Dingle,” he -answered. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE LETTER - - -In the vat house there took place the transformation from liquid to -solid, from pulp to paper, from a gruel-like, tenuous compound to a -substance strong enough to stand strain of many pounds and last for -centuries. - -Here was the largest building in the Mill—a very lofty, brightly -lighted, airy hall, from whose open roof descended electric lights -hanging above each vat. A steady whirr and throb of noisy engines made -a din here, but the vatmen and their couchers were used to it and could -hear themselves speak through the familiar riot. - -To the right, elevated under the roof, stood the range of chests—huge, -round vessels, like little gasometers, into which the pulp descended -from Ned Dingle when he had perfected it. There were eight of these fat -monsters ranged in a row, and from them flowed the material to the vats -as it was needed. The vats stood on the floor of the chamber—large, -wide-mouthed troughs heated by steam from within. For the pulp is warm -for the vatman, and some of the finest and most enduring papers demand -such a high temperature that an operative’s hands are blistered and -boiled at his work. Beside each vat is a hand-box of cold water, to dip -and refresh the vatman’s fingers when the need arises. - -Within the vat revolves the “hog,” a toothed roller, which keeps the -heavy pulp mixed and moving, and prevents any settlement of the fibre. - -On stages before the breasts of the vats stood the paper makers, and -the wooden bands against which they leaned were polished with the -friction of their aprons. Their tools were two—the mould—a flat, -rectangular tray, or sieve, of copper wire as fine as gauze, with the -water-mark let in upon it to tell the story of the future paper, and -the deckle—a light wood and metal frame of four sides which fitted -exactly over the mould and lifted an edge all round it to hold the -pulp. The moulds varied from the size of two open sheets of notepaper, -to great squares of “double elephant,” the noblest stuff the Mill -produced. Moulds for these immense pieces once immersed in the pulp, -called for great physical power to draw them cleanly and steadily back -from the clinging fluid with their weight of material spread upon them. - -Kellock was making “double elephant” in a mighty mould. With his thumbs -firmly set on the deckle edge, he lowered the tray into the snow-white -pulp, sloping it towards him as he did so. He put it in, sank it flat -under the pulp and drew it out again with one beautiful, rhythmic -movement. - -The pulp sucked hard at the great mould, to drag it to the depths, -but the man’s strength brought it steadily forth; and then he made -his “stroke”—a complicated gesture, which levelled and settled the -pulp on the mould and let the liquid escape through the gauze. Kellock -gave a little jog to the right and to the left and ended with an -indescribable, subtle, quivering movement which completed the task. It -was the work of two seconds, and in his case a beautiful accomplishment -full of grace and charm. He stood easily and firmly while every muscle -of breast and arm, back and loins played its appointed part in the -“stroke.” - -Mr. Trood often stood and watched Jordan for the pleasure of the sight. -It was the most perfect style he had ever seen. He was a theorist and -calculated that Kellock produced the very greatest amount of physical -power for the least possible expenditure of muscular loss; while -others, who made as good paper as he, squandered thousands of pounds -of dynamical energy by a stroke full of superfluous gesture. But the -stroke is never the same in any two vatmen. It develops, with each -artificer’s knowledge of the craft, to produce that highly co-ordinated -effort embraced in the operation of making a sheet of paper. - -Mr. Knox operated at the next vat and offered an object lesson. He did -the same things that Kellock did; dipped his mould, drew it to him, -brought it squarely out, jogged to right and left and gave that subtle, -complex touch of completion; yet in his achievement a wholly different -display met the observer. It seemed that he performed a piece of -elaborate ritual before the altar of the vat. - -He bowed his head to right and left; he moved his tongue and his knees; -he jerked his elbows and bent his back over the trough as a priest -consecrating the elements of some sacramental mass. Then he bowed and -nodded once more and the created sheet emerged from his mould. The -effect was grotesque, and seen at a little distance a stranger had -supposed that Mr. Knox was simply playing the fool for the amusement of -his coucher and layer; but in reality he was working hard and making as -fine and perfect paper as Kellock himself. His muscles were tuned to -his task; he had lifted his sheer weight of forty tons or more by the -end of the day and was none the worse for it. Nor could he have omitted -one gesture from his elaborate style without upsetting everything and -losing his stroke. - -So the transformation became accomplished and the millions of linen -and cotton fibres scooped on to the mould ran into a thin mat or wad, -which was a piece of paper. Why all these fragile and microscopic -atoms should become so inter-twisted and mingled that they produce -an integral fabric, it is difficult to understand; but this was the -result of the former processes; and those to come would change the -slab of wet, newly created stuff—now no more than a piece of soaked -blotting-paper—to the perfected sheet. - -His stroke accomplished and the sediment levelled on the mould, Kellock -brought his mould to the “stay”—a brass-bound ledge on his left hand. -He lifted the deckle from it as he did so and the full mould was drawn -up the stay to the “asp,” where his coucher stood. Then Kellock clasped -the deckle on to his second mould, now returned from the coucher, and -dipped again, while his assistant, taking the full mould from the asp, -turned it over on to the accumulating pile of sheets rising on his -plank. Then he ran the empty mould back along the bridge to Kellock’s -hand and drew to himself the next full mould now waiting for him on the -stay. - -So the process was endlessly repeated, and when the coucher’s pile -of paper, with woollen welts between each new sheet, had grown large -enough, it was removed, drawn away on a little trolley, which ran upon -rails down the centre of the vat house, and taken to a press. Here the -mass under a steady strain showed that the new sheets were still half -water, for a fountain poured and spurted away on every side as the -lever was turned. - -From this initial pressing each pile came back to the place of its -creation and the layer, the third worker in the trinity at each vat, -separated the paper from the woollens between the sheets and handed the -felts back to the coucher as he needed them for his own task. The three -men worked together like a machine with rhythmic action and wonderful -swiftness. Then came the interval; the din of the machinery ceased for -a while and the vatmen washed their hands. - -Each manual craft leaves its own marks, by which one skilled may tell -a worker’s business, and the paper maker’s hands are deeply corned and -calloused along the palms and joints. They are his stock in trade and -he takes the utmost care of them, for a bleeding corn, or cut, or any -wound instantly disables him and he cannot tend the vat until they are -sound again. - -At this moment Robert Life was out of action, with a sore on his -thumb, and employed for the time at other labour; but he joined the -men in the dinner hour and shared a discussion concerning the supreme -disaster which may fall to the vatman’s lot. - -“Did you ever lose your stroke?” asked Life of Mr. Knox. “I’ve heard of -men that did—and never got it back no more.” - -“May it never happen to you, Robert,” answered the elder, “for anything -more dreadful and shattering you can’t imagine. Yes, I lost my stroke -eight years ago; and I can remember every item of the tragedy as if it -was yesterday.” - -“Along of illness?” asked Life, “or your own fault?” - -“As I’m among friends,” replied Philander, “I’ll confess that it was -my own fault. I tell you these things as a warning to you younger men. -It was whiskey. I’d go on the burst sometimes, though never what you’d -call a drinker. But I held an opinion it was better to have a fair -wallow in it now and again with teetotal intervals, than to be always -drinking, you see; and once I overdid it and lost my stroke. I came -to the vat and dipped, but the touch was gone. I tried and failed and -washed off again and again; but I couldn’t make paper. They came round -me and said hopeful things, and I stood like a stuck pig among ’em and -the sweat poured down my face. Then I dropped the mould and sneaked -away and felt as if the end of the world had come. For I knew bitter -well that often and often the stroke once lost is never got back.” - -“You got yours back, however?” - -“In my terror I signed the pledge and promised the Almighty a lot of -very fine things if He’d be merciful and let me regain my skill. My -self-respect was gone and I’d have grovelled to God, or anybody who -could help me. My foreman was a very good chap and understood the -nature of the disaster. He cheered me and felt so positive sure I -should get it back, that I began to think I should myself. For in such -case half the battle is to have cheerful, hopeful people about you, -who’ll make light of the tragedy and say it’s going to be all right. -The moral effect of that helps you to hope against hope and recover -your nerve, when you come to try again. It’s all nerve really, and if -you can get back your nerve, then you’ll probably get back your stroke.” - -“At the third trial I got mine back anyway, and ’twas a very fine -example of the best in human nature to see how my coucher and layer -shook hands with me when I made my first sheet and how glad my fellow -vatmen were about it.” - -“And did you keep all your good promises?” asked Kellock. - -“For practical purposes, yes,” answered Philander. “I improved a good -bit after that adventure and never went on the burst again. The pledge, -however, I did not keep, because by experiment I found I could work -better on beer than water; but spirits are a thing of the past. I don’t -drink more than a whiskey or two a week now-a-days.” - -Kellock, at one stage in his secret thoughts at this season, had found -his heart faint somewhat, for by temperament thus far he had been -a thinker rather than a doer. His work ended, his leisure had been -largely devoted to the welfare of his class, and he doubted not that he -would turn a great part of his energies to labour questions and even -abandon paper-making for a political career some day. Such was his -dream; but for the present that had been swept aside. - -Thoughts of his own future gave him no lasting uneasiness. Whether -he stopped at Dene, or went elsewhere, after running away with Mrs. -Dingle, mattered nothing to him. His skill commanded a ready market -and he could get work for the asking. He guessed, indeed, that Medora -must desire to live as far from the haunts of her tragedy as possible; -but he also knew that Matthew Trenchard would wish to keep him if -he could. A more pressing problem concerned the future of Medora’s -husband. Kellock’s orderly mind above all things would have liked to go -to Ned, state the case clearly, prove to him that he was never destined -to make his wife a happy woman and frankly suggest a change of partners -for Medora. He was actually tempted to do this, and even went so far as -to suggest it to Mrs. Dingle; but she, hiding a secret amazement at any -enterprise so unromantic, assured him that such an action could only -serve greatly to complicate their future if it did not actually ruin -their plans altogether. - -“If he was like you,” she said, “and could listen to sense it might -work; but you don’t want to get your head broken, Jordan, and that’s -all that would happen. The more he knows he’s wrong and being wicked -to me, the more he’d fight to keep me. He’s got into a horrible way -of torturing me now. He properly feeds on my sufferings I believe. -It’s now or never, for he’s breaking me down and I shan’t be company -for any man much longer. Don’t think I want to make a scene, or add -difficulties to your life. God knows I only want to be your right hand, -and help you, and work as best I can for all the noble things you mean -to do. But before that happens, you’ve got to play the hero a bit I’m -afraid, and meet his brute force with your bravery and courage.” - -In fact Medora would not have missed the necessary theatricals for the -world, and a peaceful interchange of husbands did not at all appeal to -her. She had no desire to forego the excitement or the fame. She had -thought a thousand times of the hum at the Mill when her place knew -her no more, and there came the news that she had left her husband for -a better and greater man. Probably she loved Kellock after a fashion; -certainly she believed she did. In the unreal atmosphere that she now -breathed, it seemed to her that Kellock was about to play Perseus to -her Andromeda; but she had no wish that the matter should be settled -amicably with the dragon. Jordan must do his part; otherwise her rôle -would be lessened and reduced below the dignity proper to it. - -Since Ned was to blame for everything, reason demanded that retribution -fall upon him. Only so could justice—poetical or otherwise—be done. -If her departure were not to inflict adequate punishment upon him, then -the salt was out of the situation. To Kellock this sounded vindictive, -but he could not deny that it was human and natural. He remembered that -Medora must not be expected to consider Ned’s feelings; though secretly -he wished that she had been able to do so. - -But Medora was out for blood and her carnivorous instincts extended -even to Kellock himself. He too must suffer, that she might complete -her performance with due triumph. She pictured Jordan ostracised and -turning to her for comfort and support. She saw herself doubted, -misunderstood, but presently triumphing over everybody. She imagined -Kellock lifted to heights unattainable without her steadfast aid. She -felt a boundless confidence in her own intelligence and inspiration to -help him. But he must certainly run away with her as a preliminary. He -must outrage convention, focus all eyes and appear in the lurid light -that beats on people who have the courage to do such things. She told -him so and assisted at the simple preliminaries. - -He was about to take a fortnight’s holiday and it was decided that -a day after he left Dene, Medora would join him at Newton Abbot and -proceed to London with him. - -He agreed to this arrangement as the most seemly, and together they -concocted the letter which Mr. Dingle would receive by post on the -morning of Medora’s disappearance. She invited Jordan to assist her in -this composition, but was sorry afterwards that she had done so, for -her lover differed from her on certain particulars and deprecated the -writing of several things that she desired to write. - -They planned the communication in the secrecy of the Priory ruin on -a Sunday afternoon, and it was some time before the man had produced -a clean draft for Medora to take away and copy. She wished to insert -a demand, couched somewhat insolently, that Mr. Dingle would divorce -his wife as swiftly as possible; but Kellock forbade this, because he -felt that advice to Ned under such circumstances was undignified and -altogether improper. - -“You can’t do that,” he said. “You must be reasonable and take it in a -high-minded way. It’s for you to tell him what you’re going to do and -the reason; but it ain’t for you to tell him what he’s got to do. You -can safely leave that to him. You see in these cases, when they get in -the papers, that a man and woman always go to an hotel together; and -when that’s proved, the other man divorces her as a matter of course. -That’s all there is to it.” - -At other points also he declined to support Medora’s wishes. She had -designed some rather flagrant sentiments for this letter and felt that -her action needed them. It was to be the letter of her life and, as -she said, it had become her first wish to make Dingle feel what he had -made her feel. But Kellock was calm and collected upon the subject, and -finding composition of the letter awakened very considerably passion in -Medora, he begged her to let him draft it and accept his idea of what -such a document should be. - -“It may be read in open Court some day,” he said—a possibility that -cheered her. - -She agreed therefore and hid her disappointment at what she regarded as -a very colourless indictment. Jordan’s idea was something as lifeless -as a lawyer’s letter, but equally crushing in its cold and remorseless -statement of fact. Not a shadow of emotion marked it. There was nothing -but the statement that finding she failed to please or satisfy her -husband, and knowing their continued union could only destroy their -happiness and self-control and self-respect, therefore—for both their -sakes—Medora had decided to leave Ned and cast in her lot with -Jordan Kellock, who was willing and anxious to make her his wife. -Neither anger nor sorrow appeared in this communication as it left -Kellock’s hands. - -She took the letter and thanked him gratefully for helping her. Then -they tore up into very tiny fragments the various attempts before the -finished article and so parted—not to meet again until they met for -ever. - -And Medora, when alone, read his letter again and liked it less than -before. That night her husband was out and she began her transcription, -but when it came actually to copying Kellock’s sentences, their -icy restraint began to annoy her. She stopped once or twice to ask -herself how it was possible for any human being to write in a manner -so detached. First she praised him for such amazing power and such -remarkable reserve; then she reminded herself that this was to be her -letter to her husband, not Jordan’s. Jordan proposed to write himself -from London. She wondered a great deal what Jordan’s letter would be -like. If the letter he had written for her made her shiver, surely -the letter he wrote for himself would be a freezing matter. She told -herself that Kellock was a saint. She felt uneasily proud of him -already. She kept his heroism in her mind, and felt proud of herself, -too, that such a man was willing to let her share his future, brilliant -as it must certainly be. - -But the letter—her letter—stuck. She began arguing with herself about -it. She told herself that it was not her style and Ned would know it. -Obviously Ned must not suppose that Kellock had written the letter. -She noted down a few sentences of the sort of letter she would have -written without anybody’s assistance—the letter she had dreamed of -writing—and it pleased her much. She found such a flow of words as -seemed proper to the tremendous occasion. They glittered and flashed -like knives. Invective and self-justification shared the burning pages. -She surprised herself at the force and vigour of the phrases. Turning -again to Kellock’s composition, she now found it hopelessly inadequate -as compared with her own. It was true that she had promised Jordan -to post it; but she changed her mind and determined to despatch her -own production, as better suited to the parting, far more forcible, -far more dramatic and far more the sort of letter she pictured Ned as -showing to other people, after the blow had fallen. - -She paltered with the situation to the extent of writing another letter -embodying a part of Kellock’s. And then she copied this, and copied it -again. She destroyed the debris, including Kellock’s original draft, -and left one letter perfect in every way—an exceedingly outrageous -production. - -She sealed it up and next morning assured herself that, for all -practical purposes, it was the letter Kellock had designed. From a -decision to tell him that she had added a phrase or two, she doubted -whether it was worth while. Finally she determined not to tell him that -she had altered the letter. - -“It’s no good making needless complications,” she thought. - -She was very happy and excited. She lived in a dream for a week, and -the reality of the things she had decided to do lay altogether outside -her calculations and anticipations. - -Probably her greatest joy at this juncture centred, not so much in -the happiness she had planned for herself and Jordan, as the thought -of what people would say at Dene about their flight. She felt that to -be invisible among her acquaintances on the morning of her departure, -would have been even a greater delight than the first day in London -with her future husband. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -LYDIA’S DAY - - -Lydia Trivett always remembered the seventeenth day of March as the -most remarkable anniversary in her career. For upon that day she -experienced such a succession of extraordinary and unexpected shocks -and strains, that, looking back afterwards, she marvelled how any human -mind was strong enough to endure them and not break down under such -massive and accumulated provocation. - -Enough adventures overtook Lydia on the seventeenth of March to suffice -a well balanced woman for ten years. - -The day was Sunday and opened without incident; but hardly had Mrs. -Trivett got her brother’s children off to church, when Tom Dolbear -descended from his wife with the news that he was going for the doctor -and calling for the nurse. - -“To-day makes or mars me,” he said. “If ’tis another girl, Lydia, I -don’t know how I’ll bear up against it.” - -“Be hopeful,” she urged. “There’s a law called the law of averages, so -Mr. Knox tells me, and according to that, a boy’s very nearly certain.” - -But Mr. Dolbear did not understand. - -“Tell the man he’s a fool then,” he answered as he laced up his boots. -“Children can’t be regulated by law, though it’s just like the cussed -conceit of lawyers to think they can. And God help us if they could -ordain these things, for they’d drive tidy hard bargains I’ll warrant.” - -“’Tis a law of nature, not of lawyers,” explained his sister. “I don’t -know nothing about it myself, but the common sense is that after such -a lot of girls, you’ve a right to expect a boy, and no doubt so it will -be.” - -He departed and Lydia went to Mary. She was in no way concerned for -her, because Mrs. Dolbear managed these matters very successfully and -with the least possible trouble to herself. Nature invariably smiled -upon her and her present anxiety merely echoed her husband’s. - -“God send it’s a man-child, or else I shan’t hear the last of it,” she -murmured. - -All was ready to welcome the new-comer and in half an hour Mrs. -Dolbear’s ally, Mrs. Damerell from the village, joined her. The -children came home from church and Lydia gave them their dinner and -told them that a new brother or sister was about to arrive. They shared -the family ambition and prayed Aunt Lydia to let it be a brother. - -“I think it will be,” she said, “but that’s for God to decide.” - -“Nobody don’t want no more girls,” declared the eldest daughter, and -her aunt told her not to speak so. - -“’Tisn’t what we want; ’tis what our Father in Heaven wants, Milly. And -if He sends father and mother a little girl, we must welcome it just so -hearty as you and your sisters were welcomed in your turn.” - -Mr. Dolbear was restless, but he ate as good a dinner as usual and -then, having heard that all was going well, went into the orchard with -his pipe. The children were despatched to Sunday school and presently -an old doctor arrived, visited Mary and then joined the farmer under -the apple trees. - -“A matter of form,” he said. “I come as a matter of form, Tom.” - -Mr. Dolbear enquired as to the law of averages, and the medical man -advised him to set no faith upon it. - -“When you’re dealing with the statistics and the population as a whole, -such things work out pretty regular, I grant you,” he explained, “but -when you’re dealing with one woman, who has got into a habit, then -it’s not wise to indulge in general principles. Habit is stronger than -anything but death, Tom; and though you may fairly hope for a son, I -may say in sporting language that the betting is a shade against.” - -“You think ’twill be a girl, doctor?” - -“I do—not long odds, but about two to one.” - -Within doors Lydia was standing reading a letter with shaking hands, -while silent, strained, staring, humped up in the chair opposite her, -sat Ned Dingle. He had come from Ashprington, burst in upon her while -she was helping a maiden to wash up, ordered her to follow him to the -parlour and then broken the fatal news. - -“She’s gone—run away—Medora,” he said. “She rose afore I was awake -this morning, and when I came down house, I got this to breakfast. The -post-man brought it, just as I was wondering what the mischief had -become of her. Read it.” - -He handed Lydia Medora’s epistle and sat and watched her while she read -it. He did not interrupt but kept his eyes on her face and gnawed his -knuckles as she read. - -When she had finished, she let the fatal sheet fall on the ground and -took off her glasses. Then she bent down and picked up the letter. - -“A cheerful, damned sort of thing for a husband to get,” said Ned. -“Going to marry Kellock, you see.” - -“As to that, she’ll marry Kellock when you please and not before,” -answered Lydia quietly. “I don’t know what to say to you, Ned. This -is beyond anything. I never guessed for a moment she’d sink to such -wickedness. God’s my judge I didn’t know she was having any truck with -that man.” - -The nurse looked in. - -“Where’s doctor?” she asked. - -“In the orchard with Mr. Dolbear,” answered Lydia. Mrs. Damerell -departed and she turned again to Ned. - -“It’s an insulting letter. I’m terribly shocked. I don’t pretend to -understand the rising generation, my dear. After they grow out of -childhood, they get too deep for me. But I couldn’t have thought any -daughter of mine and my husband’s would ever have done this.” - -“It’s all very plain to understand now,” he answered. “She wanted that -man and she couldn’t chuck me without some sort of excuse, so she -worked up this idea, that I was a brute and tormenting her to death and -so on. Then she made Kellock believe it; and though he kept perfectly -straight, so far as I know, while he thought Medora was happily married -to me, as soon as she began about me being a cruel devil that made her -life hell and all that, then Kellock no doubt believed her. Why, he -went so far as to lecture me a while back along, and I knocked him in -the water for doing so. I’ll swear he had no thought to run away with -her then—unless he’s the biggest traitor that ever walked the earth. -But he ain’t that sort. I simply can’t see that man doing this job.” - -“I’m glad you can keep so cool and sensible, Ned. Nothing’s gained -by getting angered, though I’m angered I promise you, and anger’s a -righteous thing sometimes. I’m struck to the heart over this; and if -I’d thought for an instant ’twas in her wicked mind even as a shadow, -I’d have given you due notice. But I never dreamed it. I’ve talked -to her again and again and tried to show her sense; but she’s doomed -herself by her own nature.” - -“The mischief is I couldn’t read her,” answered Mr. Dingle. “Not that -I didn’t at first. She married me for love—no other reason—and for -the first six months—nay ten—of our life together, I read her like a -book. But after that she changed. And she got stranger and stranger, -as we went on, till be damned if I didn’t find myself living with a -different woman! And, mind this, I was never rough nor harsh to her, -till she’d egged me on to being so. I put up with a devil of a lot and -kept my temper in a manner that surprised myself if not her; but she -was out to make me lose it, because, till I did so, the things she -wanted to happen couldn’t. And after a bit I did lose it. Who wouldn’t? -Yet God’s my judge I was never very much enraged with her, because I -always felt she was play-acting and making believe half the time; and -that had a funny side; and sometimes it amused me more than it angered -me. And above that was the sure knowledge that any open quarrel would -be an unmanly thing and might lead to lasting trouble; and above that, -again, was the fact that I loved Medora well. I never ceased to love -her in her maddest tantrums. - -“Then comes this letter, and I can assure you it’s a bolt from the -blue. And yet it’s all unreal somehow—I can’t grasp it home to me. I -can’t believe it. I could almost laugh and say to myself it’s a dream -and I shall wake up alongside Medora any minute.” - -His face was full of pain, as yet he showed more stunned surprise than -anger. - -“I knew her so well—think of it,” he went on. “She must have her bit -of fun and her bit of flattery; and she got both with me. But him—good -God Almighty—she turned him down once for all eighteen months ago, -and she told me why in very good plain words. And now she’s gone to -him. Yet he’s not changed. He can’t change. There’s men I can see -her with perhaps—though none as easy as I can see her with me—but -him—Kellock—he’ll never satisfy her. It’s impossible.” - -“You’re right there,” said Lydia. “My daughter’s not the sort to be -content to shine with her husband’s reflected light. The little fool -wants to be somebody herself. It’s vanity quite as much as wickedness -has made her do this. But she won’t shine with Kellock anyway; and -after doing such a hateful, wicked thing, he won’t shine either. His -light’s out now in the eyes of all self-respecting, honourable people.” - -“No, it isn’t,” he answered. “It will make a deuce of a lot of -difference to Medora, but not to him, because he’s the sort that don’t -let any outward thing alter their inward disposition. He’s thought it -all out. He knows there’s not half a dozen men in the kingdom can make -paper like him, and so he’s safe and beyond any punishment whatever he -does. He’s done nothing the law can touch him for. And when I touch -him, the law will be on his side against me.” - -Ned was still amazingly calm. Indeed his self-control astonished her. - -“So far I don’t know what’s happening,” he proceeded. “I don’t know -where they are, or what they have planned. I’m keeping an open mind. I -shall see him presently. I may swing for him yet; or I may find—Lord -knows what I may find. It’s all hidden so far.” - -“I feel as if I was twenty years older for this news—older and broken -too,” said Lydia. “If there was time, I’d weep a river for this, and -I shall yet; but not now. There’s a baby coming upstairs, and you -can’t think of two things to once and do ’em both justice. I’ll see -you to-morrow in the dinner hour. Perhaps you’ll hear more by then. -Kellock was a man very nice on speech, as well as manners. He’ll feel -it’s up to him to—there, what am I saying?—the strangeness! Well may -you say as though you was in a dream. So I feel; and I won’t throw up -hope either. God often waits till the very last minute afore He throws -the light of truth into a mind. He may prevail with Medora, and so I -wouldn’t say nothing yet—nothing to nobody.” - -“I’m dazed,” he told her. “I scarce know what I’ve been doing since -breakfast. Here’s your children coming back from Sunday school. I’ll be -gone. It’s a bad job—an ugly, cruel job; but grasp hold of this tight, -and whether you tell or whether you do not tell, remember the fault -weren’t mine. I never treated her bad, not yet bullied her, nor played -tyrant upon her; and if she said I did, she was a liar; and if ever I -handled her rough, I was sorry after; and the worst ever I did weren’t -a twentieth part of what she deserved.” - -“I know all that,” said Lydia; then the children clattered down the -passage with shrill questions: “Be the baby come?” “Be it a boy?” “Oh, -say ’tis a boy, Aunt Lydia!” - -Ned went off through the orchards, while his mother-in-law, scarce -knowing what she did, gave the children their tea. - -Under the trees Mr. Dolbear padded up and down. He was in no fear for -Mary, but suffering the extremity of anxiety as to the sex of the -coming child. - -Ned told him the news. - -“My wife’s run away from me, Tom,” he said. - -“Have she? Fancy! The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be -the Name. I never did like Medora, and you’ll bear me out. Where’s she -run then?” - -“I don’t know. She’s gone with Jordan Kellock, the vatman.” - -“God’ll see to it—trust Him, and don’t take the law in your own hands.” - -They talked for ten minutes; then a child appeared at the gate by the -house. It was Milly, Mr. Dolbear’s favourite. - -“The news be come,” cried Tom, and ignoring Dingle, he hastened to his -daughter, while Ned departed. The first shock was over and his deep -disgrace and bitter wrong began to grind into him. So far he had kept -amazingly temperate. But he was to experience many moods before he -slept that night. - -Meantime Milly in tears broke bad news to the farmer. - -“There’s another beastly little girl come,” she piped, and her father -gazed tragically at her and turned silently to his home. Lydia met him -at the door. - -“Did Ned tell you of this awful misfortune?” she asked. - -“No,” he answered. “Milly told me, and I say here and now that it’s an -outrage and undeserved.” - -“I’m thinking of Medora, Tom.” - -But Dolbear had no room in his mind for Medora. The children were all -cast down and some wept. - -“I must go and comfort the woman,” said Mary’s husband. “She’ll feel -this only less than I do. And I should like to hear parson justify -it—not that he could. Just a piece of saucy cruelty against them -who’ve done nought to deserve it. That’s what it is.” - -“Don’t you go souring her mind against the baby,” urged Lydia. “That -wouldn’t be kind after all her trouble and patience. Say you’re -pleased, Tom, and cheer her up.” - -“’Twould only be a lie if I did and nobody would know it better than -her. I’ll go up and forget myself and comfort her as best I can—and -God’s my judge, Lydia, I won’t have no more children.” - -“Don’t you say what you’ll be sorry for.” - -“I mean it. Them that plant the seed have a right to call the crops in -my opinion; and there did ought to be fair give and take between the -creature and his Creator. There weren’t no rhyme nor reason in planting -another girl on me, and I ain’t going to be the plaything of the -Almighty no more—and more shan’t Mary. We’ve done—through no fault of -our own neither.” - -He ascended to a weary and apologetic partner who shared his view of -the situation. - -“It’s the living daps of the last,” she said. “A nice little, heavy -girl; but I can’t do no more, Tom; I can’t fight against Providence.” - -“No you can’t,” he declared, “and what’s more, you shan’t. You’ve -broke the law of averages by all accounts; and that’s about the limit. -And Somebody shall see that two can play at that game in the future. -Providence have shut down on the boys; and I’ll shut down on the girls. -It ain’t going to be all one way.” - -Mrs. Dolbear shed tears, but she shared his indignation and did not -blame his attitude to the baby. - -Mrs. Damerell was shocked. - -“I wouldn’t open my mouth so wide if I was you, farmer,” she answered. -“Who are you to dictate what you want? Here’s a fine female child come -into the world, to be your right hand and the joy of your life for all -you know to the contrary. I’m sure I never yet saw a pair receive a -child in such a way, since the day that Honor Michelmore got one with -no thumbs and cussed God. But in your case, Nature have always done -her part to the full, and you’re saying things you didn’t ought, Mr. -Dolbear.” - -“If you’re so pleased with it, you’d better take it home with you,” -he answered. “It never can be no favourite of mine now, and I won’t -pretend different.” - -Beneath Lydia was seeking to allay the disappointment of the family. - -“I shouldn’t wonder if she was the nicest little sister any of you ever -had, my dears. A proper little fairy very likely, and the one you’ll -all like best.” - -They vowed it never could be and Milly said: “Father hates her a’ready, -so I be going to do the same.” - -Then Mrs. Trivett preached very seriously against this inhuman spirit -and was still preaching when there came Philander Knox. - -“I thought the better the day the better the deed,” he explained, “and -I hoped your young people would be going to church after their tea, so -I might have a yarn with you.” - -“Very kind of you, I’m sure. Perhaps you’ll be able to distract my -brother’s mind a thought. He’s very much under the weather. And I dare -say it would be a good thing if a few of you was to go to church.” - -Milly, who loved church, but did not often attend evening service, was -pleased at this plan and she took her younger sisters with her. Tom -came down, smoked a pipe and grew calmer in the company of Mr. Knox; -Lydia put the other children to bed—for the present the penultimate -baby was in her room—and then Philander’s opportunity arrived, and -after Mr. Dolbear had gone up the village, he enjoyed Lydia’s society -for half an hour before interruption came. - -She told him what had happened to Medora and he wondered, while he -discussed the tragedy, whether it might not, after all, help rather -than hinder his own designs. - -“At first sight,” he said, “the human instinct is always to say that -anything out of the common must be wrong; but that’s only our natural -cowardice and love of letting life alone. And I, for one, am not going -to say that because a woman changes husbands, or a man changes wives, -it follows they are doing the wrong thing. Often a pinch of pluck -will break a partnership to the advantage of both parties, and it’s a -darned sight better than shaking their chains and making a nuisance -of themselves in the face of the people. An unhappy marriage is a bad -advertisement for the institution, and a man like me, who believes -heart and soul in marriage, is always sorry to see an unhappy marriage -go on.” - -“But if every young pair who quarrelled before their first child came -was to part like this, the world couldn’t go on. Those that God have -joined let no man put asunder.” - -“No man can,” he answered. “You needn’t worry about that. If God -joins up a man and woman, man can’t put ’em asunder, nor yet anything -else. They’re one body and soul till death parts ’em. But because a -pair marry, it don’t follow that God have had anything to do with it. -There’s a lot of other institutions besides God. We make mistakes in -all walks of life and in none oftener than in marriage. And in my -opinion it’s one of the things, like any other partnership, that God -don’t specially take under His protection. Love is a trick of nature, -and Nature says to herself, ‘if at first you don’t succeed, try -again.’ Nature’s trying again with your daughter, Mrs. Trivett.” - -She sighed. - -“I wish to Heaven as Nature had left her alone then, for she was -married to a good man, and whatever she feels about him, there’s no -doubt he was ready and willing enough to love her to the end of his -life.” - -“It often happens,” he answered, “and of course that sort of parting’s -the saddest, where one party don’t want to part and t’other does. When -both are fed up, then they can break loose with self-respect and mutual -applause; but if one’s got to run away from the other, then the case is -altered. But no doubt Ned Dingle will rise to it. He’s clever enough -to know that it’s useless keeping a wife if she’s breaking her heart -to escape. The fact that Medora has done this venturesome act and gone -to another man, will show your son-in-law the game’s up. If she’d just -gone off on her own, he might have hunted after her and won her back -perhaps—if he wanted her back; but since she’s gone with somebody else -and is ready to face all that means—well, that leaves her husband in -no doubt of her meaning, don’t it?” - -“None whatever,” admitted Lydia. “You’ve got a brain, Mr. Knox, so -perhaps you’ll tell me what you think of Kellock. She was divided -between ’em in the past and decided for Ned—wisely as I thought, -because it always seemed to me that Jordan Kellock was too wrapped up -in reading and learning and high views about labour to make a young -woman happy. If you’d asked me, I should have said it weren’t in him to -run away with another man’s wife. I should have thought he was such a -well-drilled man in his mind that he’d have stopped loving Medora the -moment he heard she was going to marry Dingle.” - -“Kellock,” answered Philander Knox, “is all you say; but he’s young -and he’s got a romantical turn, though it takes the practical shape of -wanting to better the world at large. That’s all true, but he’s short -of thirty still, and, under thirty, you never can say with certainty a -man is complete in his make-up. He loved her, and if he thought she’d -took a fatal mistake and married the wrong one, and if she told him -so, as no doubt she did, then it’s not out of his character to find -himself loving her again. And the instinct to fight the cause of the -weak, which is a part of the man, wouldn’t be any less strong because -he happened to love the weak party for herself. So it all fits in very -natural so far, and your daughter may trust Kellock to champion her and -be very tender and jealous and all that. He’ll treat her well without a -doubt.” - -“And what sort of a husband will he make for my girl?” - -“That I can’t say,” answered Knox. “For the reason that I don’t know -what your girl wants. If Ned didn’t suit her, then as Kellock’s just -the opposite of him in every way, perhaps he will.” - -“Ned did suit her—that’s the shocking thing,” declared Lydia. “He -suited her so perfectly that he suited her too well, if you can -understand that. There was all sunshine and no shade, and Medora, so -far as I can see, instead of blessing her good luck got sick of so much -uneventful happiness, like a child gets sick of too much barley-sugar. -Then she turned by a sort of restless instinct to find a bit of change. -Of course she’s said for months that she was miserable; but she -invented most of her misery in my opinion.” - -“Very interesting, and no doubt you know. But we middle-aged people can -always see the young looking for trouble. ’Tis part of their natural -curiosity and daring. They don’t know they’re born in fact, and that’s -a thing you can’t teach a person. Each has got to learn it themselves. -And some never do. We’ll watch and pray, Mrs. Trivett. That’s about all -we can do for the young. And now I’ll tell you what I came about. And -I’ll also promise that, so far as it lies in my power, I’ll befriend -Medora if she comes back here.” - -“She can’t come back—she can’t do that.” - -“Leave her—you never know what the young can do, and what they can’t -do. I’m here about you, not her. We’ve not known each other above six -months, but knowledge of our fellow creatures ain’t a matter of time. -’Tis understanding of character and like to like and so on. Another, -finding you in trouble to-day, would hold off no doubt. But, just -because you are in trouble, I’m going to hold on and say what I came -to say. I respect and admire you very much out of the common, Mrs. -Trivett, and I feel that it’s a crying shame to see you in this rabbit -hutch, living the life of a maid-of-all-work for other people, when you -ought to be the mistress of your own home. I say you ought to have a -man to work for you, and look after you, and not let you toil and wear -your fingers to the bone, either here, over your brother’s children, or -in the rag shop. Your sense of justice must cry out against it, and so -it ought and I feel it very much to heart. You drew me, from the first -minutes I set eyes on you, for I saw all that you were and found, as I -knew you better, you were even better than I thought. And, in a word, -if you’ll throw over these Dolbears and come to me, I can promise a -very faithful and friendly husband and one who will make it his first -business and pleasure in life to give you a good time. ’Tis thought -silly of a man over fifty-two to speak of love; but rest assured that -such a man knows a darned sight more about it than green youth. You’ve -had a good husband and I’ve had a good wife, according to her lights; -then what’s to prevent us joining forces if you think half so well of -me as I do of you?” - -Lydia was inconsequent. - -“If anybody had told me when I opened my eyes this morning what the day -was going to bring forth,” she said, “God’s my judge I shouldn’t have -had the heart, or courage to put on my clothes.” - -“Yes, you would,” he answered. “You’re the sort to meet all that comes -steadfast and patient, with the pluck of an army. You’d have rose up as -usual. And what about it?” - -“Nothing on earth is farther from my thoughts at present than a -second,” she answered. “I regard myself as an old woman.” - -“Only because you live among all these messy children. You’re not old: -you’re in your prime, and if you was to rest your flesh a bit, instead -of wearing it out morning, noon and night, you’d very soon be surprised -to find what a comely creature you’d find yourself.” - -“That’s all past. Duty is duty and God’s found the work to do.” - -“God’s also found me,” answered Mr. Knox, “and you must weigh me along -with everything else. And if, as I see in your face, your inclination -is to say ‘no,’ then I beg you’ll not say it—at any rate not this -evening. You’re far too nice to decide the future career of a fellow -creature, let alone your own, without turning it over fairly in your -mind. I didn’t ask you to say ‘yes,’ all of a minute, because this is -sprung upon you—you expected no such thing; but though I didn’t count -on ‘yes,’ Lydia, I’m equally determined not to hear ‘no.’ So you can -think all round it, and I wish you’d got more time to do so. However -you’re a fair woman—fair and just to all but yourself—so I very well -leave it at that for the present.” - -“To think a good-looking, clever man like you should have looked at a -little every-day woman like me!” she said. - -“You won’t be every day no more if you’re Mrs. Knox,” he promised. “Far -from it. You should go in a carriage and pair if it could be done, and -though I can’t promise that, I can promise a nice house, and a bit of -garden, and a professed cook to look after the kitchen and do your -bidding. Think upon it.” - -“Don’t hope, however; ’tis a very unlikely thing that I should change -my state with so many calls.” - -“Come to your own conclusions anyway,” he said. “I know what human -nature is very well and I know what you are in this house. But don’t -let selfishness on the part of other people decide you against me. -That would be very unfair to me, and you can’t be unfair to a man that -thinks of you as I do.” - -“I’ll do nothing unfair to you, Mr. Knox. In fact I’ll do nothing at -all for the present. My sister-in-law mustn’t hear a word in her weak -state, or the consequences might be bad; and my brother’s cast down -also, and so am I. In fact trouble’s everywhere.” - -“Regard me as the silver lining to the cloud then. I quite see it was -a bit of a staggerer this coming to-day of all days; but at any rate -you know now you’ve got a valuable friend. And such I shall remain, -whatever happens. Now, no doubt, you’re itching to get supper for -all them brats, so I’ll go my way. And I pray God’s blessing on your -thoughts, Lydia—I do indeed.” - -“Thank you,” she replied. “Yes, you go now. I can’t stand no more, else -I shall break down—a thing I’m never known to do. I dare say I’ll see -you at the works to-morrow. And don’t say nothing about Medora.” - -“Trust me,” he answered. “My one hope will be to help you in that -quarter if I can. Don’t you despair. It may straighten out yet, though -where two men and a woman’s the matter, there’s seldom more than one -chance in fifty that things will come right.” - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -MEDORA’S NIGHT - - -In a rowan-red gown and her best hat, Medora had left Ashprington while -it was yet twilight of morning. She carried only a light travelling -basket made of cane, for she took little more than the clothes on her -back. She proposed to begin the new life in new clothes, which would be -bought in London. Even her wedding ring was left behind and she told -herself that she would not wear such a thing again until Jordan Kellock -set it on her finger. - -She met him as they had arranged, at Newton Abbot, and together they -proceeded to London. He was serious on the journey and extraordinarily -solicitous for Medora’s mental and physical comfort. She told him all -that she had done and he explained his own purposes. At Bristol he -got her a cup of tea and a piece of cake. They had enjoyed privacy so -far; but now others entered the carriage and they could talk no more. -So Mrs. Dingle fell back on her thoughts and pictured the sequence of -events at home, while Kellock read a newspaper. Her heart beat high -when London was reached and the train plunged into Paddington. - -“I’m afraid we must practice a little guile, Medora,” he said as they -walked down Praed Street, Jordan carrying their luggage; “but as little -as possible.” - -They proceeded to Edgeware Road, where the man knew a small hotel. - -“Keep on your gloves for the moment,” he advised. “The first thing I -shall do to-morrow will be to buy you a wedding ring.” - -“We are married,” declared Medora. “Already I feel as properly married -to you as I can be.” - -But he soared to no such imaginative heights. - -“Marriage is marriage,” he answered. “We must possess our souls in -patience.” - -He spoke as though he were not going to find this difficult. Indeed he -was nervous and anxious to have certain preliminaries completed. At the -“Edgeware Arms” Kellock asked for two bedrooms with a firm voice and -registered their names as “Mr. and Mrs. Jordan Kellock, from Totnes, -Devonshire.” - -They went upstairs together, led by a boy who carried Medora’s -travelling basket and the man’s leather portmanteau. The bedrooms -adjoined and Kellock invited Medora to choose her room. He then left -her luggage there and went into the other himself. - -She unpacked with some emotion and wondered when he would come in to -see her; but he did not come. She put on a pair of shoes and a white -blouse. She washed and did her hair again, for it was untidy. Then she -sat down to wait. Presently he knocked at the outer door. - -“Are you coming to supper?” he asked, and she rose and joined him. - -“Are you rested? I’m afraid you must be sinking.” - -“I’m quite all right. Is your room nice?” - -“Very comfortable. You don’t mind them adjoining?” - -“Why should I?” - -“There’s certainly no reason,” he admitted. - -They supped together cheerfully and he made her drink hot soup. He was -a teetotaller but Medora asked for some beer. - -“I dare say I’ll get used to giving it up soon,” she said. “In fact I -mean to. Where I can be like you, Jordan, I shall be. But I’m used to a -glass for supper and I’m extra tired to-day.” - -He ordered a small bottle of Bass and under the stimulant she grew -happy and confidential. She talked a great deal. - -“I didn’t think I should have been able to eat a bit,” she said, “but I -never enjoyed a meal more.” - -“Nor me,” he answered. “When you’ve done, we’ll go and sit in the -writing room. That’ll be empty, and we can chat. But I know you’re -dog-tired, so I shan’t let you stop up long.” - -The smoking room looked more attractive to Medora. There was a haze -in the air and a tang of cigar about the portal. A chink of glass and -sound of laughter might be heard there. She would have liked to be -seen sitting by Mr. Kellock in some comfortable corner, while he too -smoked a cigar and drank some whiskey and soda perhaps, or one of the -bright drinks in very little glasses. But she blamed herself for the -wish. There must be no small fancies of this sort. Her triumph would -never be displayed in public smoking rooms. She must realise that from -the first. As though to mark the austere heights on which henceforth -she would move, Jordan led the way to an empty writing room silent and -dark. A decayed fire was perishing in the grate. He fumbled for an -electric light and turned it on. Then he shut the door and drew an arm -chair to the remains of the fire for her. He took a light chair and -placed it opposite her. - -“Here we can talk in private,” he said. - -She looked at a sofa, but he failed to perceive her glance. - -“To-morrow,” he told her, “I begin the day by writing to Mr. Trenchard -and your husband.” - -“For God’s sake don’t call him that any more. You’ll be telling me I’m -Mrs. Dingle in a minute.” - -“As a matter of fact you are, Medora. We mustn’t dream beautiful dreams -yet. We’ve got to face reality till we alter reality.” - -“My life’s not been reality so far—only a nightmare.” - -“Reality is nothing more than a question of time now. In fact you may -say it’s begun, Medora.” - -“Yes, indeed, Jordan dear. You can’t guess what heaven it is to me to -know I’m in your strong hands. I’ve come to rest after being tossed by -cruel storms—to rest in your arms.” - -“I hope I’ll prove all you think me. I want to have the future clear -and the past off our minds; and then we’ll just enjoy ourselves and -have a bit of good fun.” - -She wondered what his idea of good fun would be. But she was not yet -feeling much like fun. While the evening wore on and the fire went out -and Kellock’s level voice proceeded to indicate the future as he hoped -and desired it to be, she began to feel cold and depressed. - -“I shall inform Mr. Trenchard that I will return, or leave as he -prefers. It really doesn’t matter to me; because, thank God, my ability -makes me independent. Of course if you don’t want to go back, I -shouldn’t think of doing so; but you do want to.” - -“Yes, I want to. I like the country.” - -“That will mean that your—that Mr. Dingle leaves.” - -“So he should; but he’s just the man not to see it.” - -“Obviously he must leave, or I must. I bear him a very bitter grudge -for his cruelty to you, and I’m not going to pretend that I care about -his future.” - -“I should hope not, Jordan.” - -“Far from it. Wrong done to you was wrong done to me. At least that is -what it amounts to now. My feeling to Dingle will be the feeling of the -strong to the weak, Medora. He must go if you wish to stop. Of course -I’ve got very different ideas from him.” - -“I should hope you had.” - -“For instance, I wouldn’t let my wife work as he let you work.” - -She yawned presently and he exclaimed that he must not keep her up any -longer. - -“You put everything out of your mind and go to bed,” he advised. -“Would you like a cup of tea or anything before you go?” - -“Not if you wouldn’t,” she said. - -But he explained that he never took anything after his supper, and that -the lighter his last meal, the better he slept. - -So she left him. He clasped her right hand in both his and shook it -affectionately for some seconds; but he did not kiss her. - -“I shall turn in pretty soon myself,” he said. “But it’s not above ten -o’clock yet. I’ll stop here and draft out those letters—that’ll save -time to-morrow.” - -She went upstairs and presently, for curiosity, tried the door between -her room and his. It was open and she went in. Through a Venetian blind -slants of electric light from the street illuminated the chamber; but -that did not show enough, so Medora turned on the light and looked for -evidence of Jordan. They were starkly simple: a brush and comb on the -dressing table, a shaving brush and a tooth brush and a nail brush -and sponge on the washing-stand. Upon his bed lay a night shirt and -against the door hung his overcoat and black squash hat and dark blue -silk neckerchief. A few newspapers and books on economic and industrial -subjects he had also brought. In a drawer of a chest of drawers were -some collars and socks and two blue flannel shirts. - -What Medora expected to see she did not know, but what she did see -depressed her. She put out the light and went back to her own room. -Then all manners of doubts and wonders occupied her mind and her first -purpose was to undress and get into bed as fast as possible before the -man came upstairs. She hesitated about locking the door between them -and decided to do so. His importunities would be rather delightful and -human. For she felt that the humanity of Jordan was what she hungered -and thirsted for. She adored his chivalry and wonderful tenderness -and forethought; she perceived what a white knight he was—all these -manifestations were duly recorded and valued. But now—surely it was -her turn to reward a spirit so rare and worthy of reward? - -She was soon in bed with her light out; and presently she heard him -arrive and saw a streak of illumination beneath the intervening door. -She listened and heard him take off his boots and put them outside his -door. But at last he flicked off his light and pulled up the Venetian -blind. She remembered that he had told her he always slept with his -blind up. - -Her heart beat hard now and her ears strained for the next sound. It -was not, however, the door-handle that creaked, but Kellock’s bed. -There was a squeak and jolt followed by silence. - -The unwonted noise of the streets kept Medora awake and she became the -prey of thoughts that grew more and more unpleasant. A brief peace -sank over London, but bells beating the hour would not let her sleep. -During the small hours and with vitality at low ebb, her mind sank into -a region of nervous gloom. For the moment her triumph became divested -of all its brilliance and there was thrust upon her very forcibly -the other aspect of such action as she had taken. She considered her -mother and Ned. For some reason, and not a little to her annoyance, -thought took the bit in its teeth respecting Ned and absolutely refused -to dwell on the black side of him. As a matter of fact Medora proved -too weary to pretend any longer. She was now disarmed; the sleight -of her own creation, which had risen as a sort of shield between her -and reality, for the present fell; and she found that her reflections -obstinately refused to follow the line she had of late persisted in. -The mind that she had drilled to think as she wished, for once in a way -threw off allegiance and refused to be loyal to Medora’s impersonation. -Instead it stumbled painfully but with determination along the way -of truth and reduced her to despair by persistently bringing before -her vision pictures of good days with Ned and memories from the past -wherein he figured to advantage. - -She tossed and turned, grew very sorry for herself and finally centred -her thoughts on Kellock. She considered his chaste attitude to the -present situation rather absurd. Then she fell to wondering whether -this delicate matter did not more properly belong to her. He was so -high-minded where she was concerned—a miracle of tender refinement. -For a long time she resisted an inclination to go to him, but presently -persuaded herself that it would be the truest kindness to do so. Her -own nature prompted her strongly to seek comfort from him, for she -was exceedingly miserable now and awake with a hateful alertness. She -thought it was more than probable that he lay on the other side of the -wall similarly enduring. Surely if she went to him, an everlasting bond -would be established between them and their union sealed gloriously -by her initiative. He was just that subtle man to appreciate such -an evidence of her perfect trust. Still some voice in her argued -contrariwise and not until a clock chimed three did Medora decide. Then -she made a dash for him. - -She unlocked the door between their rooms, opened it gently and found -Kellock lying peacefully asleep with the wan light from his bared -window irradiating the chamber. The window was open and the room -felt exceedingly cold. She had not wakened him and for a moment she -hesitated and even went so far as to creep half-way back to the door. - -He looked very pale and very handsome asleep. He slumbered easily with -a pleasant, happy expression upon his face. She fastened upon it and -told herself that he was glad to have won her and more than strong -enough to keep her for ever. She longed to be close to him and feel his -arms round her. A man so strong and physically splendid could not lack -for fire. It only awaited Medora’s awakening, and she was in a mood to -wake it. If she was to sleep at all that night, she must sleep with -him, she told herself. - -Perhaps even now a whisper warned her; but she was beyond warning. She -wanted him and bent down and kissed him on the mouth. - -“My darling dear, I can’t sleep alone,” she said. “Why didn’t you come -to me?” - -He started up instantly, and she saw him break from sleep to waking and -stare with half-seeing eyes as round as an owl’s. He grew exceedingly -white and his jaw fell. From an expression of content and peace, his -countenance became miserable and rather idiotic. It is not too much -to say that as soon as he found himself awake with Medora in her -nightdress beside him, he grew frightened. - -“Good God—what’s the matter?” he asked in a hollow voice. - -“I’m the matter,” she answered. “I can’t be martyred all night. I want -to come and sleep beside you.” - -Then his face grew suddenly red with a wave of blood and he was as wide -awake as Medora herself. - -He did not mince his words. - -“Go back to bed, Medora, at once! You don’t know what you’re doing. -You’re dreaming—sleep-walking—surely. You mean it innocently. I’ll -explain in the morning. Please, please go—instantly, Medora.” - -She stared at him, stood upright and did not immediately obey his -command to depart. - -“We don’t want to look back at this great thing we have done and feel -any shadow upon it,” he declared. “We want to be able to look into -each other’s faces and know that we have nothing whatever, before God -or man, to reproach ourselves with. We’ve started on the highest plane -and we’ll keep on the highest plane. You understand me. Indeed the -beautiful thing has always been that we do understand each other so -perfectly. So—please, Medora.” - -She did not answer, but obeyed. Burning and shaking to her very bones -she vanished and slammed the door behind her; then she leapt into her -bed and huddled under the clothes in a fury. But she did not hate -herself long; she hated Kellock. It took Medora till five o’clock -in the morning to cool down. An incident contributed to return of -calm, because, after she had left him, the man turned on his electric -light—she saw it under the door. And apparently he kept it on. She -could also hear him walking about. It was clear therefore that she had -disturbed him a good deal. - -“I wonder he didn’t turn over and go to sleep again,” she reflected -bitterly. - -It was long before she forgave him. - -“Even if he didn’t want me, he oughtn’t to have said so,” reflected -Medora. “He ought to have pretended he was glad. To send me away like a -naughty school child after all I’ve done for him!” - -She determined that he must be punished and decided that she would not -get up at all next day, but stop in her room and pretend to be ill. -And in a thousand other ways she would punish him also. He should see -that she could be as frosty as he. Indeed he had frozen her effectually -now. And she told herself that it would be a very long time before she -thawed again. - -She slept heavily at last, and when she was called, found that her -will to hit back had weakened. By daylight she perceived that nothing -was to be gained in quarrelling with Jordan. He had said that he would -explain in the morning and she felt it would be better to hear him. -She smouldered still and resented her experience extremely; but she -was ready when he knocked at her door and they went down to breakfast -together. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -IN LONDON - - -Jordan Kellock made no allusion whatever to Medora’s nocturnal -aberration as they ate together, but directed her as to his taste in -tea and was very anxious to know her own likes and dislikes in matters -of food. - -“I’ll write final copies of my letters,” he said, “then we’ll go out -and get the ring.” - -Could it be possible, she wondered, that a ring made any difference to -his mind? It seemed too childish; yet even the cleverest men retained a -streak of the boy. It was from the eternal boy, as exemplified in Ned, -that she had escaped. Was Kellock going to be boyish also? He had never -shown any sign of it. - -She need not have feared. - -He did not ask Medora to read the letters to Mr. Trenchard and Ned -Dingle; but he had finished them and posted them by ten o’clock and -then they set out. - -He knew London and took Medora to the British Museum first. She had -waited for him to speak about the previous night, while he, apparently, -expected her to do so. She had changed her views as to his punishment -and believed that she had quite forgiven him. But this was not the case -and before the end of the day he found it out. - -At the Museum he surprised her by the extent of his knowledge. She had -heard enough by the time they went to lunch and better liked the Park, -where they sat for a while in the afternoon. Medora saw wealth and -beauty and power pass by while Kellock commented. - -“That’s the sort of thing we’re out to alter,” he said. But she was not -feeling in a socialistic mood. - -“Why?” she asked. “Why shouldn’t there be beautiful horses and -beautiful clothes in the world?” - -“It isn’t the horses and clothes. It’s where they come from, Medora. -The horses are bred for money, and the clothes are spun and made for -money. But who makes the money? Do the people that ride the horses and -wear the clothes make it? No—you and I make it. The workers make it. -You and I have just as much right to ride in a carriage as the Queen of -England. - -“The wealth of the world is exploited,” he explained, “and the result -is poverty and superfluity. The world could get on perfectly well -without those horses and those clothes—yes, and those people; but it -couldn’t get on without us. We’re carrying on the work of civilisation, -not those dolls and puppets toying together. Poverty and wealth are -the result of the same vicious factor in our social system. They are -interdependent and spring from the same rotten roots. Banish poverty -and you do away with hunger and ignorance and misery and immorality -and other ills, all of which spring from it. And there’s only one -way to banish poverty, and that’s to banish wealth. Then you get a -self-respecting order of humanity instead of the present arrangement. -If the nation’s rich, the people are rich. It all comes back to brain -power, and the moment labour is strong enough in brain power, the rest -follows. The Trade Unions are only a first little instalment. In fact -they’re almost past their work now. We’ve gone beyond them. Syndicalism -says good-bye to the poor and good-bye to the rich. Then we shall get -face to face with reality.” - -“And what becomes of all these handsome, dashing, prosperous people -then?” she asked. - -“Nothing worse than what becomes of us. They will be left with a great -deal more than they deserve, because they’ve never lifted their fingers -to help the real good of the world. The revolution in this country, -when it comes, will be bloodless—merely a readjustment in conformity -with reason and justice. We’re out against the system, not against the -individual which battens on it. When we make war on rats and sparrows -and wood pigeons, we’re not quarrelling with the individual rat or -sparrow, but against the class. They’ve got to go, because they’re -unsocial and harm the community and take for themselves what was grown -and garnered for their betters. And that’s what the classes are doing. -They take for themselves what was earned by their betters.” - -“Why are we their betters?” - -“Because we justify our existence and they do not. Our lives are a -round of work; their lives are a round of luxury and pleasure. We earn -the money and they spend it. We save and they waste. Do they spend it -on the community? No. They spend it on themselves.” - -“They’re taxed and all that.” - -“So are we. And taxing is a wrong system anyway. All sources of wealth -ought to pour straight into the State and return to everybody in the -shape of dignified conditions of life. Money is the source of all -evil to people and it ought not to be handled by people, but by the -State. If you once knock the idea of money out of the human mind and -teach it to think in different values and occupy itself, not with mean -necessities and still meaner luxuries and possessions, but the things -of the soul—then you get on a higher plane at once.” - -But she was more interested in things as they were. A man or two -obviously admired her, and the fact that she sat beside Kellock did not -seem to prevent their open admiration. This cheered her and put her -into good spirits. - -“How cheeky the gentlemen are,” she said. “They don’t seem to have any -manners at all. They look at you that bold, as if they’d known you all -their lives.” - -“Because they’re rich and know that money is power. These silk-hatted -brutes have got nothing better to do than to make eyes at every pretty -woman they pass. Many of them have never done a stroke of honest work -in their lives, and never intend to. They are lower than the tom cats -and yet—that’s the amazing thing—satisfied with themselves—pleased -with themselves—and treated as decent members of society by the -trash like them. I’d have them breaking stones if I could, instead of -insulting women with their goggling eyes.” - -“I dare say some of them are dukes and earls, if we only knew it,” said -Medora. - -“Very likely indeed,” he admitted; “they’re pretty much what you’d -expect dukes and earls to be.” - -But even Medora felt this was crude. - -“There’s plenty of good men among the Upper Ten,” she assured him. “You -think if a chap isn’t born in the gutter, he can’t be any good.” - -This was the first of a succession of little snubs; though Jordan -hardly felt them at the time. But looking back afterwards, he realised -that Medora had her opinions and that, apparently, they did not always -echo his own. - -He invited her to end the day where she pleased, and she chose a music -hall. - -Here he was obviously and painfully ill at ease; and he was also -surprised to see the extent of Medora’s enjoyment. He felt absolute -astonishment to hear her laugh so heartily at comic songs on the old -familiar lines, and still more amazed that sentimental ditties of the -most puling description should have power to move her. She, for her -part, could not fail to see that the entertainment cast him down. Not -an item of the programme appealed to him and the smoke made him cough. - -As they came out, he hoped she had enjoyed it. - -“How could I with you so glum?” she asked. - -“I wasn’t glum. That sort of thing rather misses me—that’s all. I’ve -not got the bent of mind for it.” - -“You’re so clever, you never see anything to make you wonder, and so -wise, you never see anything to make you laugh,” she said. - -His eyes grew rather round, but Medora was smiling and had not meant -the speech to be acerb. - -“I see plenty to make me wonder in London. Who doesn’t? And I like -a good joke; but these stage people didn’t seem funny to me. And -honestly, the longer I live, the less I see to laugh at in the world, -for a thinking man with high resolves to better things. People laugh -for two reasons, I believe: to throw their neighbours off the scent of -the truth; or else because they are rattle-pated, light-minded fools, -with no more in them than an empty pot. The ‘empties’ make the most -noise, don’t they? All the same, I like to hear you laugh, because you -laugh honest and it means you’re happy. And God knows if there’s one -thing I want to make happy before everybody on earth, it’s you, Medora.” - -She relented before this speech and took his arm. He was gallant -and very jealous for her. He was also very tender and gentle. She -acknowledged his consideration as they sat at supper; but he spoiled -all by explaining the very special reason for his care and attention. - -“The position is a most delicate one,” he said, “and naturally I must -do nothing to make it more so. You’re at the mercy of the world now, in -a manner of speaking, Medora—a defenceless creature—not maid, wife -or widow, as they say. And so it’s up to me to be extra awake and very -quick to champion you in every way I can think.” - -Medora felt that if this were indeed the case, Jordan and not she might -be said to stand in the limelight. She, in fact, must remain as much in -the shade as possible. But he proceeded and explained his future course -of action. It surprised her exceedingly. - -“Talking of that and all I owe you for coming to me, you may be sure -I shall pay the debt in a proper manner, Medora. I honour you far too -much to treat you with anything but the greatest respect and delicacy, -I hope; and I certainly would demean myself, or you, to live with -you as a husband till we’re married. But let the world think as it -pleases—which is mostly evil—we shall know what we really are, and -we’ll always be—a self-respecting, high-minded pair. It’s easy enough -to be better than the world thinks you, because it judges others by -itself and the mass of people have a very base standard. The law -itself is disgusting and bestial in this matter. It sticks to the old, -shameful conditions and demands adultery before divorce. So there must -be evidence of that—we’re ordered to sink to furnishing evidence -of it; but we’re made of much too fine stuff to sink to the heathen -reality. We’re a cut above the dirty law—you and me. We want to live -our future lives on a plane of mutual respect and admiration. We don’t -mean all the future to be spoiled by the memory of human weakness.” - -He made no other allusion to the previous night and Medora’s wonderful -eyes bent upon him with apparent adoration, while her wonderful heart -grew a little hard. She remembered that she had been married and he -never had. - -“You’re a saint,” she said. - -“Oh, no—only a clean-minded, honourable man, Medora.” - -She fell asleep gently hating him that night; but after many hours of -dreamless slumber, she awoke in better spirits and found herself loving -Kellock again. He was a hero and somewhat abnormal, as heroes must be; -but, after all, she was a heroine, and should therefore find no supreme -difficulty in rising to the heights on which he moved. She saw indeed -that this would be necessary if she wished to be happy. - -She met him radiantly next morning and he found her mood easy and -humble. He knew a man at Doulton’s Pottery, and when he suggested going -to see the famous works, she agreed. - -“We shall be among our own sort there,” he said. “It will be good for -us. I don’t think sitting in Hyde Park watching the rich was good for -us. I may have said a bit more than I meant about them. They’re not all -worthless wasters, of course, and it’s quite true what you said, that -there may be a bit of class prejudice in me.” - -“No, there isn’t—not a scrap,” she answered. “And if there is, they -deserve it. Nobody looks all round things like you do. You’ll live to -see it all altered no doubt, and do your bit to help alter it.” - -“If I had my way, them that don’t work shouldn’t eat,” he declared. -“Work’s the saving of mankind, and you can’t be healthy-minded if you -sit and look on at life, any more than you can be healthy-bodied if you -take no exercise. We all owe a lot to every one else, and them that -won’t pay that debt and want to take all and give nought, are wicked -enemies to the State.” - -At Doulton’s Medora was genuinely interested, and best she liked the -painting rooms. - -“That’s beautiful work,” she said. “If I’d been brought up to that, -I’d have joyed in it, because there’s something to show for it, and -you’d know the flowers and ribbons you painted was brightening up other -people’s homes. But my work—just shifting paper and putting the zinc -between the sheets for the glazing rollers—there’s nothing to it.” - -“Don’t you say that. All necessary work is fine if it’s done well, same -as you did it. But there’ll be no more of that sort of work for you. -Your place will be at home; and I shouldn’t be content for you just to -do housewife’s work neither, Medora. You’re going to be my right hand -and look after my papers and help me with the big things I hope to -do—not in the Mill, but out of it.” - -“I never shall be clever enough.” - -“Yes, you will. You’ll come to it when you get a grasp of all the -questions we’re out to solve. You’ll begin at the beginning, where I -did, and master the theory of socialism—the theories I should say, -because it’s a science that’s in the making and clever men are still -working out the details. There’s a lot of difference of opinion, -and so far as I can see, our leaders—the ‘intellectuals,’ as they -are called—don’t see eye to eye by any means yet. They’re all for -universal democracy, of course, and the government of the people by the -people and the redistribution of wealth and the uplift of the worker -and so on; but they differ as to how it’s to be done and how the mass -is to be brought out of slavery to the promised land. In fact no two of -’em think the same, strange to say.” - -“It’s a big subject,” said Medora blankly. - -“It’s the only subject.” - -“I lay you’ve thought it all out.” - -“I’ve got my ideas, and in our evenings I shall put ’em before you and -read you a lot I’ve written about it. We’ll go over it together, and -you’ll bring your own wits to work on it when you’ve mastered all the -different opinions.” - -“I wish I was half as clever as you think,” she said. - -“You don’t know what you can do till you try. The first thing is to get -interested in it and let it soak into you. Once you feel like I do, -that it is the only thing that really matters for the race, then you’ll -properly live for it.” - -“I expect I shall,” replied Medora, with a fainting soul. - -“There’s noble women giving up their lives to it, and I hope you’ll be -one of them some day.” - -She began to experience the discomfort of the mountain climber, who -ascends into more rarefied air than he is accustomed to breathe. It was -not until she had enjoyed a good lunch and a bottle of lemonade that -Medora felt lighter-hearted. - -They went to no more music halls, but Jordan took her to a play of -Shakespeare and a concert. They also visited the Mint, the Tower of -London and the Zoological Gardens. At the last she was interested -and happy. He improved every occasion. On one afternoon they went -to a meeting of the Labour Party and heard great lights discuss the -Internationale. Kellock flamed with enthusiasm afterwards and talked -ceaselessly till bed time. She had never seen him so excited. She -retired with a headache, bewildered and bored to tears. - -Of personal matters the only interest centred in a communication from -Mr. Trenchard. As for Dingle, he did not answer Jordan’s letter. Nor -did he come to see Jordan, as Medora half hoped he might. She trusted -that some emotional scenes were to occur in the future; but if drama -lay in store for her, it would doubtless be at Dene, not in London. - -She wrote to her mother justifying her conduct; but Lydia did not reply. - -“I’ve lost mother,” said Medora, after three days’ silence. “She’s -not going to answer that nice letter I showed you. In fact I’ve lost -everybody but you. And I’d lose them all a hundred times over for you, -Jordan.” - -“We must be patient,” he said. “We know we’re right, and those -that know they’re right can afford to be patient. The rest will be -brought to see it in process of time. They must be educated to the -truth. Everything depends on education, Medora. It works through -everything—in private affairs and public affairs alike. Ignorance -makes all the trouble in the world; and once the spread of education -brings the light, then we get a move on and see our way clear. It is -for you and me to show the people that we are sure of ourselves and set -them the example of how to behave.” - -“We’ll live it down,” said Medora. - -“No; we’ve got nothing to live down,” he declared. - -“It’s for them to live down their ignorance of the case. And it is for -us to help them to do it and show them, day by day, that we were right -and they were wrong. But you can’t do big things without suffering big -things. I warn you there will be a lot at first who will side against -us—the sort that judge by the outside, as most do.” - -“I dare say we’ll be sent to Coventry.” - -“They may cabal against us like that. But the harder the opposition, -the greater the triumph when we show them what we are. We must look to -each other for our comfort and support and to our own hearts and good -conscience. I’m not afraid for myself. A man can weather anything if -he knows he is right. But for a tender creature like you, all full of -nerves and that, it will be harder. But you may trust me to be pretty -wide awake on your behalf, Medora. I’ll be sleepless to shield you and -come between you and every hard word. I’ll fight for you, I promise -you.” - -“I know that,” she said. “The pinch will be before we’re married. -Afterwards they’ll soon calm down.” - -Her affection and trust were unbounded. She believed that he would -fight for her, and she looked forward not a little to seeing him do so. - -Through the atmosphere of the Metropolis, the people at Dene shrank -a little. She was prepared to return with a mind enlarged and a -perspective widened. No doubt she and Jordan would come to London -themselves some day, when he took his place among the leaders. But in -the meantime she would not for anything have missed the return to her -native village. Her new clothes alone must have sufficed to dictate -this step. He, too, at her wish, had bought some new clothes, and -though he hesitated at her choice, which led to rather more radiant -colours than Kellock was wont to wear, yet he told himself, very truly, -that in such a matter no principle was involved. He also felt that it -became him to fall in with his future wife’s wishes when and where it -was possible and reasonable to do so. - -They visited the Arts and Crafts Exhibition, where the new Dene -water-mark pictures created daily admiration, completed their holiday -and so returned; and their homecoming was anticipated in various ways, -showing, though ignorance is the root of all evil, as Jordan never -wearied of declaring, that even ignorant hearts may soar to heights of -distinguished humanism. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -THE DRYING LOFTS - - -A dozen great piles of “water leaf” had come up from the vat room to -the hand presses, and here the paper, from which tons of crystal water -had already been expressed below, under new and tremendous pressure -yielded still more. Indeed, with half a dozen men bearing on the levers -of the presses, the “water leaf,” that had appeared so dry, beaded and -glittered and then exuded further rivulets of moisture. For the last -turn of the screw a great beam was thrust into the press and as many -men as could get purchase upon it lent their united strength. Ernest -Trood, passing through the pressing room, gave a hand, and a stack of -newly made paper was subjected to such strain that one had thought it -must disintegrate beneath it. - -Here, under this tremendous impost, the grain mark, or pattern imparted -to each sheet by the felts at the first pressing in the vat room, was -removed. - -For the drying lofts the paper was next destined and hither Ernest -Trood now found himself summoned by a messenger. Mr. Trenchard desired -to speak with him. - -The drying lofts were enormous airy chambers that ascended to an -unceiled roof. Through the twilight gloom of these apartments, -the sheets of paper, large and small, glimmered, hanging aloft in -multi-coloured reams like fairy washing; pink and blue, yellow and -snow-white. The paper seemed to make dim rainbows aloft, where it -ascended tier on tier in many thousands of separate pieces. Every sheet -was suspended over ropes, strung across transverse beams on light -scaffolding, that filled the lofts and ascended into the dark dome of -the roof. Above them spun drying fans, to expel the exhausted air and -suck away the moisture exuding from the masses of paper; while on the -floors beneath there wound and twisted an elaborate system of hot-air -pipes, which raised the temperature at will. - -Drying is a process that demands watchfulness and judgment, for wet -paper suspended here on the tackle does not respond in all its parts -simultaneously. From the deckle edge it dries inward and the last spot -to dry is the centre of each sheet. The dry workers, with a hand-tool -like a T square, hang their sheets over the russet, cow-hair ropes; -then when the rope is loaded, pull it aloft; but the art of drying lies -in the regulation of heat and air. The heat is great, yet regular; -every operation is ordered for cleanliness and purity, so that not a -speck of dust may fall to mar a sheet. - -Here came Matthew Trenchard upon a question of temperature. The talk -concerned technical details of ventilation and did not take long, since -Trood and his master seldom differed. But there was a more doubtful -human problem upon which Trenchard desired to learn Trood’s opinion. - -“I’ve heard from Kellock,” he said, “and before I answer him, I want to -hear you speak—also Pinhey.” - -“It’s not likely that Nicholas Pinhey and me would say the same,” -answered Ernest. “We differ where we can on most subjects, and shall on -this, I reckon.” - -“He won’t influence me—more will you,” answered Trenchard. “You and -I will probably think alike, as we’re used to do. What I want from -Nicholas has to do with Mrs. Dingle, who works in the glazing house—or -did. Let’s go into the flat room and I’ll send for him.” - -The flat room was another chamber for paper drying. Hither came -the great sheets of “double elephant” and “imperial”—precious and -wonderful papers for the artist and draughtsman, that could not be hung -over a rope or creased. They rested upon beds of webbing, which were -lifted one above the other and offered free access to the warm air that -plied through them. Here dried noble sheets of a quality that rejoiced -the painter who touched their surface, and felt their solid texture. - -Nicholas Pinhey, spotless and trim, with shining spectacles and a white -apron, appeared and Mr. Trenchard briefly stated the situation. He -was carrying a “cross,” the little tool used to hang the paper on the -lines, and he tapped his points against the wall of the flat room as he -uttered them. - -“It seems Kellock, who is on holiday, has run away with Mrs. Dingle. -I’ve just heard from him stating the facts as far as they may be -supposed to concern me. He doesn’t seem to think it is anybody’s -business but his own.” - -“A man may be ill and not know it,” said Mr. Pinhey, “and he may be -suffering from the sickness of sin and not know it. But we know it.” - -“I’m not a sin-doctor—I’m a paper maker, Nicholas. And the sole -question for me is whether Kellock comes back, or does not. He writes -very decently, says he is prepared to justify his conduct if I feel it -is any concern of mine, and adds that he will be well pleased to return -if I want him.” - -“Don’t let him slip, for the Lord’s sake,” begged Ernest Trood. “You’ll -wait a month of Sundays before you’ll get another vatman in the same -street as him. Vatmen will be as rare as curates very soon. He’s a -most orderly chap and a rare worker, which the clever ones often are -not, and a great believer in discipline. You may be sure, according to -his lights, that he’s done the best for all parties in this matter of -Medora Dingle.” - -“How can you, Trood?” asked Mr. Pinhey indignantly. “And you call -yourself a Christian man, for I’ve heard you do it.” - -“The mistake you make, Nicholas, is to drag religion into a lot of -things where it don’t belong,” answered Trood. - -“There’s nothing where religion don’t belong,” declared the finisher, -“and if that was understood and religion applied to every problem of -living and working and dying, this world would be different from what -it is.” - -“The question is, of course, Ned Dingle,” explained Trenchard. “I don’t -want to back up one man against the other or interfere in any way over -their domestic affairs. I’m not here to probe and pry, but to make -paper along with the rest of you. Both Ned and Jordan are very good -fellows; but it’s quite clear they won’t see alike in this matter.” - -“Don’t be too sure,” advised Mr. Trood. “Least said soonest mended, and -for all anybody can swear to the contrary it may be a put-up thing. -Of course Ned would have to pretend a lot of temper in that case—to -blind the public eye; because if it got out that Kellock had agreed -to take over his wife for the better happiness and understanding of -all parties, the Law would step in very quick and queer their pitch. -If these things were settled by common sense, the Law would lose -money—the last thing it ever loses. But it may be like that—Kellock -being such a shrewd and long-sighted man. So I should just keep Jordan -and let Dingle say what he’s going to do. Ned’s not showing more -feeling, so far, than the case demands. He may be thanking God in -secret and be quite as religious-minded as Nicholas could wish.” - -“It’s generally known of course,” said Trenchard. - -“Such things can’t be hid and didn’t ought to be,” replied Mr. Pinhey. -“We’re a very high-toned lot here for the most part, and me and Trood -have something to do with that I believe; and I should be very sorry if -he was to pander to evil.” - -“Nobody’s pandering to evil, Nicholas,” explained Matthew Trenchard. -“But business is business and will continue to be so. I don’t lose -Kellock if I can help it; but Dingle’s a very good man, too, and I wish -to consider him.” - -“Dingle’s nothing to Kellock,” asserted Trood; “and I shouldn’t for an -instant say Kellock was all wrong and Dingle all right. Women don’t run -away from their husbands for nothing. I believe Ned’s been knocking her -about, and she was divided between them in the past, and now, finding -she backed the wrong one, she’s gone over to the other. It seems to be -a private affair in my opinion.” - -“Sin’s never a private affair. It’s everybody’s affair and ought to be -everybody’s enemy,” said Pinhey. - -“Then let nature take its course,” suggested Ernest Trood. “Let Dingle -divorce her in a respectable way, and let us spare their feelings all -we can.” - -“Obviously they can’t both stop here after this,” observed Trenchard, -“and if Kellock comes back, Dingle will go.” - -“You’ll be putting a premium on vice if you agree to that, Mr. -Trenchard.” - -“There’s no vice in it, Nicholas,” answered Trood. “It’s like an old -woman to talk that way. You know very well indeed that Jordan Kellock’s -not a vicious person.” - -“I know very well he is, then. And them as don’t go to church, or -chapel, like him, have nothing to stand between them and temptation. -And this is the result.” - -Trenchard laughed at Pinhey. - -“That’s where the shoe pinches—eh, Nicholas? But we mustn’t be -narrow-minded because we live in a narrow valley. That’s what I tell -others besides you. Kellock is a man of high feelings and great ideals. -I don’t agree with much that he dreams; but I know this: that the -dreamer who makes his dreams come true is the salt of the earth. He’s -very young and he’s got a mighty lot to learn—and he’ll learn it. -Whether he has the brains to go far I can’t say, but at present he’s -very valuable to me and as he’s willing to come back, I take him back. -As for Ned, I shall see him to-day and hear all that he cares to tell -me. I’m heartily sorry for his troubles; but he’s a sane sort of chap, -too, and no doubt has come to some conclusion about the future.” - -“That only leaves the woman then,” said Trood. - -“She’ll go in any case,” declared the master. - -“I won’t answer for the glazing room if she don’t,” promised Mr. -Pinhey. “In a manner of speaking, after five-and-twenty years there, -I may be said to set the tone of the glazing room, Mr. Trenchard, and -if she were to come into it again and take her place at the crib, the -other women, if I know ’em, would rise up and depart.” - -“Not them, Nicholas. You don’t know women if you think that. Women -don’t cut off their noses to spite their faces in my experience.” - -“You can’t touch pitch and not be defiled, Ernest.” - -“Who wants to touch pitch? The girl ain’t pitch; and if she were, she’s -not the sort to influence anybody. Just a silly, everyday, selfish -creature, vain of her good looks and with no more sense than, please -God, she should have. The mystery is that Lydia Trivett, who’s made of -sense, should have put none into her child.” - -“She’ll go as a matter of course,” repeated Matthew Trenchard. “Her own -feeling would decide that question. I hate interfering with anybody -here, Pinhey, and because a great many of you pay me the compliment to -consult me about your private affairs, that’s no reason why I should -ever go into them on my own account.” - -“But when those that work under you do wrong, then, as their employer -and leader, I submit in all civility it’s up to you to learn them -right,” argued Nicholas. “It’s putting a bonus on sin if Kellock stops -here.” - -Trood snorted and called Pinhey a fool; but Trenchard spoke gently to -him. - -“I admire your clean and resolute religious views of life, if I don’t -always share them,” he answered; “but we mustn’t be self-righteous, -Nick, and we mustn’t think our own standard of conduct covers all the -ground. You wait till we know more about it. Sin’s like conscience, a -matter of education, Nicholas, and what’s sin in one man is no sin at -all in another. We mustn’t fling the first stone too readily, because -few of us have got the judicial mind, or the impartial and unprejudiced -outlook, or the knowledge of the facts that belong, or ought to belong, -to the judgment seat.” - -“We can all read the Scriptures,” answered Mr. Pinhey firmly, “and if -our judgment is founded on the Word, Mr. Trenchard, it is founded on -the Rock of Ages, with Whom is no shadow of turning. And I don’t say -I’ll stop under the same roof as an adulterer, I don’t indeed.” - -“You’ll do your duty, Nicholas; I’m sure of that,” answered the other, -and Pinhey, sighing profoundly, went his way. - -“There’s no fool like a pious fool,” said Trood scornfully, “and I hope -to Heaven you’ll let Kellock stop. Beatermen, like Dingle, are got -again, but such vatmen as Jordan Kellock are not.” - -“I know that mighty well, Ernest, and just for that reason we must -look sharp into it and not let self-interest bend us into anything -wrong. With some men I’d fire them on a job like this and have no more -words about it; but Kellock’s different. He’s honourable, so far as my -experience goes, and scrupulous in small things—a straight man every -way. He has himself well in hand and he’s got ambitions. He would -hardly have done such a grave thing as this on foolish impulse. But I -don’t want to be prejudiced for him any more than against him. I’ll -leave it till I’ve heard Ned.” - -“And don’t you let Dingle turn you from him,” begged Ernest. “It stands -to reason that Dingle won’t have much good to say of him. Whatever he -feels in secret, he must curse Kellock openly. In my opinion you ought -to hear Kellock also on his own defence, before you sack him.” - -“Perhaps I ought; and perhaps I will,” answered the other. “I shan’t -lose Kellock if it’s in right and reason to keep him. Send Ned to me -after dinner at one o’clock.” - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -GOING UP CORKSCREW HILL - - -Below Bow Bridge a row of narrow-headed stepping-stones are regularly -placed across the river with their noses pointing up stream. The -current sets thin lines of light trickling away, where the stones break -its surface. Above the crossing, trees overhang the water and throw -shadows to break the white sheen of stickles and the flash of foam; -beneath the stepping-stones the channel widens and flows forward to the -estuary. A dead tree had fallen here and upon one bough, overhanging -a still pool, sat a kingfisher, like a spark of blue fire against the -grey and umber colours spread round him. Beyond, where the stream -bent eastward, there rose a fir-clad hill, and at water’s brink stood -cottages with irregular thatched roofs. Their white-washed faces -represented the highest light of the scene and were a centre and focus -for that rural picture. - -Beside the stepping-stones Ned Dingle sat and smoked his pipe. The -water at his feet had run fine after a spell of dry weather, and there -was only the motion of the lazy stream, broken now and then by a small -fish. White ducks paddled close by in a shallow, where the afternoon -sunshine turned the water to liquid amber and made the birds golden -bright. - -Ned thought of an autumn day, when he had landed not far off with -Kellock and Medora at the boathouse; and he retraced all the months -between. He was in melancholy mood and as yet had not determined on his -future actions; but he had seen Matthew Trenchard, given notice and -left the Mill. - -The master was sympathetic and friendly. He accepted the situation and -on this Saturday, as Dingle awaited others at the stepping-stones, the -beaterman reflected that his activities at Dene were ended. He was now -about to seek work elsewhere. On Monday, Kellock would return, and Mrs. -Trivett reported that Jordan had already taken rooms for the present at -“The Waterman’s Arms,” a little inn standing up the valley between Dene -and Ashprington, at Bow Bridge. - -Dingle still failed to grasp the extent of the disaster that had -overtaken him. His moods alternated between wrath and grief and -bewilderment at his loss. Mrs. Trivett supported him frankly and she -introduced an element of mystery into the scandal, for she continued -to declare it was not in Kellock’s character to do this thing. Even -the fact that he had done it was powerless to alter her reiterated -assertion. She never greatly blamed Kellock, even when others pointed -out that men do not run away with other men’s wives on compulsion; and -one fact she never ceased to dwell upon, which comforted Dingle in a -negative sort of fashion. - -She repeated her assurance this evening; for now there came to Dingle, -Lydia and the girl, Daisy Finch, Medora’s friend. They were at leisure, -since the day was Saturday, and they had joined him by appointment to -fulfil a certain task. Mrs. Trivett, unaware of Medora’s sentiments on -the subject, had suggested that her daughter’s things should be moved -from Ned’s house and taken to “The Waterman’s Arms,” there to await -her, and Ned agreed. His purpose was to leave no trace of Medora in his -house; and soon there would be no trace of him either, for he was about -to seek work elsewhere and doubted not to find it. - -As they ascended the hill to Ashprington, Lydia repeated her assurance. -She had good private reasons for uttering more ferocious sentiments -than perhaps she felt. - -“It can’t be that he’ll ever make her happy,” she said. “It’s out of -that man’s power to do it. And not only I say so, for Philander Knox, -who is very understanding, said so, last week without any promptings -from me. He said so from his knowledge of Kellock, while I say so from -my knowledge of my child. And so I tell you, Ned, as I’ve told you -before, that you’ll be very properly revenged, without lifting your -hand to anybody.” - -“I shall do what I shall do,” he answered, “and I don’t know more than -you what I shall do. I may take forty shillings or a month out of the -man yet. Some days I feel like that; other days I do not. For all she’s -done I know this: I understand your blasted daughter better than ever -Kellock will.” - -“Mr. Knox says they’ll both get their punishment and he hopes you’ll -let ’em be. And if you did, that would be the worst punishment. In -Philander’s opinion there’s no call for anybody to interfere, because -let ’em alone and they’ll punish each other to their dying day. That’s -the terrible picture he paints of it.” - -“I’ll never understand,” he answered. “I’ll never know what choked her -off me. There must have been secret enemies at work lying against me -I reckon. But she could never put a case against me worth its weight -in words, and to the last I didn’t dream what she was up to. A base, -treacherous bit of play-acting I call it. And to crown all by that -beastly letter.” - -“If you could believe in such things, I’d say Medora had the evil eye -put upon her and was ill-wished into this,” said Daisy. “Such a girl as -she was—so happy, and so fond of an outing, and so fond of cheerful -company; and used to be so fond of Ned, I’m sure, for when you was -first married, she was always telling me how she cared for you. Then -the change came over her like bad weather. What did Jordan Kellock say, -Ned, if I may ask?” - -“There’s no secrets. The letter’s like the man—cut and dried. Nobody -else on God’s earth could have written it I should think. He feels that -Medora made a mistake, but that it needn’t be fatal to all three of us; -and that, as we all respect ourselves, and are responsible members of -society, we can put the mistake right in a reasonable and dignified -sort of way. Never a word of shame. He seems to think he’s only got to -state the facts, as he sees them, for me to fall in with them. He says, -of course, my first thought will be consideration for Medora, so that -her sensitive and delicate nature may be spared as much as possible. -He feels quite sure that he can leave the subject in my hands, and -assures me that he will do everything possible to assist me. That’s the -divorce of course. Medora wasn’t so nice in her letter. She ordered me -to divorce her sharp. But even so, I’d sooner have her insults than -his civility. Civility by God! From him. She’d worked herself up to a -pitch of temper when she wrote that trash, and let out the poison he’s -put into her mind. She’s a damned silly woman and that’s all there is -to her; but faithless, worthless wretch that she is, I can forgive her -easier than him. I don’t feel as if I wanted to shoot her, or cut her -throat, or anything like that. My feeling to her is beyond my power to -put into words at present, though no doubt it will clear itself. But I -see him clear enough for a foul hypocrite—smug and sly and heartless. -He’s played for his own hand for a year and slowly worked her up to the -outrage she’s put on me. In fact I don’t see how I can very well help -breaking his neck, when it comes to the point.” - -“It ain’t for me to stand up for him against you,” admitted Lydia. “All -the same, my instinct tells me to pray you not to be rough, Ned. You’ve -got right on your side, and it’s easier in some ways to suffer wrong -than commit it.” - -“Depends what you call wrong,” he answered. “If Kellock thought it no -wrong to kindiddle my wife away from me, why should I think it wrong -to get back a bit of my own? Men have killed men for less than this, -and a jury of husbands have said they wasn’t guilty. I may not be the -sort to kill anybody; but I’ll let him that bleats such a lot about -self-respect see I’ve got my self-respect as well as he has, and mean -to act according. It’s all in the air—I don’t know what I shall do. -I’ve got to make him eat his self-respect somehow and show him what he -is; and that’s a long way different from what he thinks he is. I’ll -make ’em look a pair of fools sooner or later—if no worse.” - -“So you will then; and take it in a high spirit and do nought to make -yourself look a fool,” urged Lydia; but he declared that it was too -late for that. - -“I look a fool all right,” he said. “I’m not such a sand-blind sort of -man that I don’t know very well what I look like. People always laugh -at a chap in my fix. Let ’em. Perhaps I shall laugh too presently. -The difference between me and that man is that I can stand a bit of -laughter; but he couldn’t. Laughter would kill him. He’d stand up to -blame and hard words and curses. He likes ’em—he told me so—because -it shows his ideas go deep and fret people’s accepted opinions. Every -reformer must make enemies, or he’s not doing his job right—so he -said to Knox one day, and I heard him. But laughter and scorn and -contempt—that’s different.” - -They reached Ned’s house and, for his sake, set about their painful -task with resolution. - -“It’s like as if we was going through a dead woman’s things,” whispered -Daisy to Mrs. Trivett and the elder agreed. - -“She is dead as far as poor Ned’s concerned,” she answered. “And if -anything on earth could shame her to death, surely it will be to see -all her clothes and everything she’s got in the world waiting for her -when she arrives.” - -Daisy, however, argued for her friend while they collected her garments -and tied them in brown paper parcels. - -“I don’t want to say a word against Mr. Dingle, but all the same no -such dreadful thing could have happened if he’d been the right one. -There’s always two sides to every trouble and there must be excuses -that we don’t know about.” - -Mrs. Trivett admitted this. - -“There’s always excuses for everybody that we don’t know about, Daisy. -We all do things we can’t explain—good as well as bad; and if we can’t -explain ourselves to ourselves, then it’s right and reasonable as we -shouldn’t be too sure we can explain other people.” - -They made parcels of everything that belonged to Medora, then Ned -brought to them a work-box, two pictures in frames and a sewing-machine. - -“These have all got to go also,” he said. “And this lot you’d better -give her when you see her. It’s her trinkrums and brooches and such -like.” - -He gave Mrs. Trivett a little box which she put in her pocket without -speaking. - -Another woman joined them. She was Ned’s old aunt, who had come to -him to keep his house as long as he should remain in it. She talked -venomously of Medora. - -Presently they carried the parcels down the lane to the foot of the -hill and left them at “The Waterman’s Arms,” in a little parlour on -one side of the entrance. Then Ned went home and Daisy Finch and Mrs. -Trivett returned to Dene. There the girl left Lydia, and the latter, -after a cup of tea with a neighbour, prepared to climb the Corkscrew -Hill and return to Cornworthy. - -Then it was that she found a man waiting for her and Philander Knox -appeared. - -“I knew your movements,” he said, “and I knew that you’d be setting out -for the farm just about now, so I thought as I’d keep you company up -the hill. For I always find, going up the Corkscrew, that it’s easier -travelled in company.” - -She was gratified. - -“You’re a kind soul and I’m very glad, if you’ve got nothing better to -do. My thoughts ain’t pleasant companions to-night, Mr. Knox.” - -“They should be,” he answered, “for your thoughts can’t bully you, nor -yet accuse you of things left undone, or done ill, like most of us have -got to suffer from them. You can face your thoughts same as you can -face your deeds, with a good conscience all the time.” - -“Who can? I can’t. I’m cruel vexed now. That slip of a child, Daisy -Finch, have been showing me that I may have been too hard on my -own daughter. And yet—how can one feel too hard? ’Tisn’t as if I -didn’t know Ned Dingle. But I do. He’s took this in a very Christian -spirit—so far. I’d never have thought for a moment he’d have held in -so well, or been such a gentleman over it. Some people might almost -think he didn’t care and didn’t feel it; but he does—with all his -heart he does. He couldn’t speak when I left him just now.” - -“That’s true—he certainly does feel it properly. But it’s a very -peculiar case, along of Kellock being the man he is. I haven’t got to -the bottom of the thing yet. As a rule I’m not great on other people’s -business, as you know, but in this case, along of my hopes where you’re -concerned, Lydia, I take this to be a part of my business; and I’m -going to get to the bottom of it by strategy and find out what made him -take her away from Ned.” - -“It don’t much matter now. The past is past and it won’t help us to -know more than we know.” - -“You can’t say that. You can read the future in the past if you’ve got -understanding eyes. And I haven’t hid from you I’m far from hopeful -about the future, because I can’t see them two suiting each other -through a lifetime. They won’t.” - -“So you said.” - -They stood to rest at a bend in the tremendous hill. Mr. Knox dabbed -his brow with a red cotton handkerchief. - -“This blessed mountain brings the beads to the forehead every time I -come up to it,” he declared. “You’re a wonder; you hop up like a bird.” - -“I’m Devonshire—born to hills.” - -“You can’t have valleys without ’em.” - -“That’s true. We’ve all got to take the rough with the smooth, and the -steep with the level.” - -“To take the rough smoothly is the whole art of living,” declared -Philander, “and I thought I was pretty clever at it till I met you. But -you can give us all a start and a beating. Well, this may or may not be -a likely moment to come back to the all important question; but impulse -guides right as often as wrong, and if I’m wrong there’s no harm done I -hope. Have you had time to turn it over, or have you been too busy?” - -“I owed it to you to turn it over,” she answered after a short pause. -“You’ve got as much right to go on with your life as I have to go on -with mine. Time don’t stand still because men and women are in two -minds.” - -“If you’re in two minds—” - -“I don’t say that; yet I don’t deny it. I have thought about you. -You’re a good chap and very restful to the nerves; and your sense, -coming on the foolishness of some people, shows up in a bright light.” - -“You’ve hardly seen a twinkle of it yet, Lydia. I don’t want to blow my -own trumpet, or nothing like that; but with all my faults, you’d find -the sense was here, and the patience.” - -“You’re a marrying sort of man, no doubt, and you’ve got all the -makings of a good, restful husband—I see that too. But I reckon you -haven’t looked round far enough yet. There’s a lot against me. I ain’t -a free woman by any manner of means, and you don’t want to be saddled -with my troubles. That’s the worse of marriage in my opinion. A man -says, ‘I take the woman and not her family,’ and the woman says the -same; but things don’t fall out like that in life. There’s always the -families, and nobody can escape from ’em.” - -“True, but we can be very good friends with our relations without -doing nursemaid’s work for ’em as well as our own work. ’Tis time you -stopped working altogether in my opinion, and had a bit of rest and -comfort to your life—such a dignified creature as you are by nature. -The farm gets stuffier and stuffier and you can’t deny it. It will tell -on your health and break you down. So why not do as I beg of you and -come to me?” - -“Have you ever thought of that nice woman, Alice Barefoot?” asked Lydia -suddenly, and Mr. Knox stopped dead, stared at her through the gloaming -and mopped his head and neck again. - -“Good God! What d’you mean?” - -“A woman without a care or encumbrance and—” - -“Stop,” he said. “That’s not a worthy remark, and I’ll start to forget -and forgive it, if you please, this moment. If you just think all -that goes to such a speech as that, you’ll be sorry you made it. A -man tells you he loves you, and you say ‘Try next door.’ That’s bad -enough in itself; but there’s more to it and worse even than that. For -it means either you don’t know Alice, or you don’t know me. You ought -to understand perfectly well that a woman like her is no more use to -me than a Red Indian. And you do know it; and if you’d thought half a -minute, you’d never have let yourself say such a wild and unkind and -silly thing as that. It shows a very great lack of interest in me—far -less interest than I thought you felt in fact. I’m shook, Lydia; I -thought we understood each other better.” - -“She’s a fine and a good woman,” said Mrs. Trivett feebly. - -“Good she may be, in a bleak sort of way; fine she is not and you know -it. Besides, surely at my time of life a man wants a mind, if he’s -got one himself. No doubt you think the world of Alice Barefoot; but -even you ain’t going to argue she’s got more mind than would go on a -three-penny piece and leave a margin.” - -“I’m sorry—I was quite wrong,” confessed Lydia. - -“You were, and since you’re sorry, enough said. I’ll resume another -time. Here’s the top and I won’t go no farther to-night. You ain’t -yourself, I’m afraid.” - -“Do please come and have a glass of cider. Tom thinks the world of you, -Philander.” - -“That’s better. If you say ‘come,’ then of course I’ll come. But don’t -let there be any false pretences about it. We’ve all got to pretend -a lot in this world; but I ain’t going to pretend nothing about Tom -Dolbear. I don’t visit at Priory Farm for his company, but for yours; -and, if God wills, I’ll get you out of it sooner or later, Lydia.” - -“He don’t suspect nothing like that,” she said. - -“He does not—that’s certain, else he wouldn’t offer me his cider or -anything else. But a time is at hand when he’ll have to face it—and -his wife also. Most women would have seen through it by now; but she’s -always asleep, or half asleep, while you do her work.” - -“Poor Mary,” said Mrs. Trivett. - -“Her doom is coming near I hope and trust,” he answered. “You’re not -doing right at all in standing between that woman and her duty. You -come to me, and then she’ll find that she’s only got time to sleep -eight hours in the twenty-four; and she’ll also find the meaning of a -family.” - -They proceeded together and Knox presently smoked a pipe with Tom; but -he seemed not as amiable as usual and contradicted the farmer’s opinion -flatly on more than one occasion. - -Mr. Dolbear, however, thought very highly of the vatman and doubted not -that Mr. Knox was right. - -“I learn from you,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -AT “THE WATERMAN’S ARMS” - - -A measure of argument arose between Abel Hayman and his wife, master -and mistress of “The Waterman’s Arms.” He had held that to receive -Medora and Kellock was quite impossible, while she took a contrary -opinion, and her word was law. - -“Morals is morals, and business is business,” said Mrs. Hayman, “and -I know Jordan Kellock by reputation, and his reputation is all it -should be. Dingle will get a bill of divorcement and they’ll be married -according to law; and if they don’t come to us, they’ll go to the ‘Ring -of Bells,’ so enough said.” - -Mr. Hayman relented at sound of “The Ring of Bells,” and was ready to -welcome the guests when they arrived. - -It seemed strange to Medora, who had passed the little inn by the -bridge so many times, to enter the door and find it her home for a -season. It was a cool and restful spot, and the private rooms, facing -the stream, were removed some way from the bar. A yellow rose straggled -over the face of the building and in the garden were old world flowers, -now pushing up to renewed life—columbines and bleeding hearts, orange -lilies and larkspurs. - -Medora arrived weary, and Kellock, to his own surprise, proved nervous -and found himself wishing very heartily that his first day at work was -ended. He knew not what might be in store for him, and Medora, who was -not in a happy mood, had, in the train, deplored the fact that they -were returning. Nothing would have disappointed her more than not to -do so; yet she meant it at the moment when she said it, for who does -not often contradict his own deep-seated desire and side, as it were, -against himself at some passing whim from within, or inspiration from -without? - -When she found all her clothes and possessions waiting for her, Medora -fell very silent, and Jordan puzzled to know how they should have come -there. - -“I told my mother where we were going to stop,” she explained, “but, of -course, I never said nothing about my clothes. I didn’t regard them as -mine no more—nor yet the ornaments.” - -“They meant well. You needn’t wear them.” - -Their supper was laid in a little parlour on one side of the private -entrance, and when Medora descended, she found Mrs. Hayman turning up -the lamp. - -“You’ll be tired, my dear, I expect,” said the elder, “and Mr. Kellock -also. Shall I send in bottled beer or draught?” - -“We shan’t want nothing in that way. Yes, I will too—I’ll have a Bass, -Mrs. Hayman; but he won’t—he’s teetotal. Was it my mother brought my -things?” - -“She did—her and Daisy Finch. And your mother’s coming over to see you -to-morrow morning. I was to be sure and tell you.” - -“I suppose it have made a bit of stir, Mrs. Hayman?” - -“What have, my dear?” - -“Me, running away with Mr. Kellock.” - -“Not that I have heard of. There’s such a lot of running away -now-a-days. Though, as a man said in the bar a few nights ago, there -ain’t much need for most women to run. They can go their own pace, -so long as it takes ’em away from their lawfuls. Take my own niece. -She married a wheelwright, and ran away with a carpenter six months -after. And when she did, far the happiest of them three people was -the wheelwright. Yet the guilty pair, so to call ’em, thought he’d do -dreadful things; they didn’t draw a breath in comfort till they’d got -to Canada, and put the ocean between. Marriage, in fact, ain’t what it -was. In my opinion it won’t stand the strain much longer. It was never -built to endure against such facilities for getting about and seeing -new faces as the people have now—let alone the education. These here -life-long partnerships—however, no doubt you know all about it. I’m a -very broad-minded woman myself, and never throw a stone, though I don’t -live in a glass house, for me and my husband are two of the lucky ones. -I’ve never wished for no change, and God help him if he’d shown any -feeling of that sort.” - -Medora little liked the assumption that her achievement was an affair -of every day. - -“Few have got the courage and self-respect to do it,” she said. - -“’Tain’t that. It’s selfishness in some cases, and just common sense in -others. We small people are much freer to act than the upper sort. And -as divorce costs a mint of money, there’s thousands and thousands fling -up all hope of an orderly release, and part, and go their own way, and -live respectable lives that make the Church properly yelp and wring its -hands. But the Church is powerless against the Law, so my husband says; -and the Law takes very good care to keep the whip-hand and make divorce -a great source of income for lawyers. However, Dingle is a prosperous -man, and no doubt he’ll run to it and do the needful. The trouble in -these cases is the children, and lucky that don’t arise this time. ’Tis -a very great thing in my view that a woman should have her children by -the man she prefers.” - -“Who wants children?” asked Medora. “They’re nothing but a curse and a -nuisance most times. Me and Mr. Kellock want to do important things in -the world, Mrs. Hayman.” - -“If you can think of anything more important than getting a brace of -good healthy children, I’d be glad to know what it is,” answered the -landlady. “I speak without prejudice in that matter, never having -had none myself. But that’s no fault of ours—merely the will of -Providence, and nothing more puzzling or outrageous ever happened, for -I was one of seven and Abel one of ten; and yet God willed me barren—a -good mother blasted in the bud, you might say. I sometimes wish the -Almighty would let Nature take its course a bit oftener.” - -Medora was glad that Kellock arrived at this moment. - -“I’m going to have a glass of beer, Jordan,” she said. “I’m properly -tired to-night, and I shan’t sleep if I don’t.” - -He answered nothing, for she had promised to give up stimulant. Then -Mrs. Hayman went to fetch their supper. - -Medora enjoyed familiar Devon food, ate well, and slept well enough -presently in a comfortable feather bed, with the murmur of Bow River -for a lullaby. - -The next day was Sunday, and Mrs. Trivett duly arrived, to be received -in the little parlour. Medora kissed her, and Kellock offered to shake -hands; but he found that Lydia was far from cordial. She kissed Medora -coldly, and ignored the man. - -“I felt it my duty to see you, Medora,” she began, “because I don’t -want for you, nor yet Mr. Kellock, to be under any doubt about my -feelings. I think you’ve done a very evil and ill-convenient thing, -and I’d like to know what would become of the world if everybody was -to break their oaths and make hay of their marriage lines, same as you -have.” - -Medora quoted from Mrs. Hayman, and Kellock ventured to think that each -case ought to be judged on its own merits. - -“I quite understand I’m in a very delicate position so far as you’re -concerned. I don’t expect you to take my side in the matter, though I’m -quite confident that in a year’s time, Mrs. Trivett, you’ll see this is -a blessing in disguise. And I tell you that Medora’s husband that was, -abused his rights, so that it was up to me, who loved and respected -Medora, to rescue her from him. Because, if she’d stopped under his -cruel tyranny much longer, she’d have lost everything that makes life -worth living for man or woman.” - -“And where did you get this news from? Where did you hear Ned Dingle -was a cruel tyrant, and all the rest of it?” - -“On the best possible authority surely. I had it from Medora herself.” - -There was a pause, then Lydia proceeded. - -“Yesterday, at Ned’s wish—at his wish, mind—me and Daisy Finch went -to his house and packed up every stitch belonging to my daughter—every -tiniest thing that was hers—and brought ’em here for her comfort. You -wouldn’t call that a cruel thing, would you?” - -“You might have saved yourself the trouble, because Mr. Kellock -wouldn’t let me wear them even if I wanted to,” said Medora. “It shows -his nice feeling against my late husband’s coarse feeling—as if any -proper thinking man could suppose I wanted anything about me to remind -me of the bitter past. I’ve got everything new from London.” - -“A pity you couldn’t have got a new—however, I’m not here to lecture -you. I’m your mother. I’ve only a few things to say.” - -“How’s Mr. Dingle took it?” asked Medora. - -“Like a Christian, so far, and will, I hope, to the end.” - -“Will he see me?” enquired Kellock. “He didn’t answer my letter.” - -“I can’t tell as to that. Like the rest of us, he was a lot surprised -that you could come back here after a thing like this. And Mr. Knox -said your point of view was beyond his experience. He wondered if you -expected to see a triumphal arch put up. But Ned feels more like an -ordinary, decent person, I reckon. He’s going. He’s left the Mill, and -he’s going to put up his house for sale.” - -“If he’s took it like a Christian, as you say, perhaps he’ll go -farther still,” suggested Kellock. “There’s only one house in these -parts that’s like to suit Medora and myself; but perhaps Dingle’s -house—?” - -His dry mind saw nothing impossible about the idea, but Lydia stared at -him. - -“What on earth are you made of?” she asked. - -“It sounds unreasonable to you? But, if you think of it, there’s -nothing unreasonable really. If we’re all going to carry this through -in a high-minded way, there’s no more reason why I shouldn’t buy, or -rent, Dingle’s house than anybody else.” - -“Except me,” said Medora. “And mother’s right there. I wonder -at you thinking of such a thing, and putting me in such a false -position—seeing his ghost at every corner, and hearing him whistling -at every turn. You haven’t got no imagination, Jordan. I wouldn’t go -back to that house or cross the threshold, not if it was built of gold -with diamond windows.” - -“I stand corrected,” answered Kellock mildly. “As for imagination, -Medora, you mustn’t think I lack for that. I’ve got my vision, else I -shouldn’t have done what I have done, or be going to do what I hope to -do; but I grant that while the house is only bricks and mortar to me, -like another, it means more to you—a prison and a place of torment.” - -“Tom-foolery!” said Lydia. “Nobody ever tormented Medora but her own -silly self, and if you’d got half the sense you think you’ve got, -Jordan Kellock, you’d have found that out long ago. However, you will -find it out; and I say it before her, for I’d never say a word behind -her back that I’d fear to say to her face. You’ve took her at her own -valuation.” - -“No—no,” he replied, flushing. “I take her at a much higher valuation -than her own. I want to put her in a place worthy of her, where she -can expand, and be herself, and reveal what she really is. I want for -Medora to show the world all that’s hid in her. She doesn’t know -herself yet; but I know her, and I’m going to help her to let the world -see what she is. And I hope as you’re not for us, at any rate, you -won’t be against us, Mrs. Trivett.” - -“If anybody had told me you’d ever do a thing like this, I wouldn’t -have believed them,” she answered. “I’m not going to pretend to you, or -Medora either, that I’m on your side. I think you’ve done a very wicked -thing, and what beats me, and will always beat me, is how such a man as -you could have done it.” - -“But I don’t think I’ve done a wicked thing, Mrs. Trivett. I only ask -you not to judge. It’s no good talking or explaining all the thousand -and one points that decided me. I only ask you to give me credit -on the strength of my past, and to understand I’m no headstrong, -silly creature who dashes at a thing on impulse, regardless of the -consequences to the community at large. Nobody can say of me I haven’t -got a proper respect for the community.” - -“It’s her husband you ought to have respected I should think.” - -“You mustn’t ask that. When I remember the way he treated Medora, -I can’t respect Mr. Dingle. Otherwise these things wouldn’t have -happened. I admit I love Medora and always did do; but I can honestly -say that if Medora had been nothing to me, I should none the less have -tried to save her from such a fate, for common good feeling to humanity -at large. Being as she was and finding, as she did, that she could love -me, of course that simplified it and made it possible for me to put her -in the strong and unassailable position of my future wife.” - -“Stuff and nonsense,” answered Lydia. “You think all this, and I -suppose you really believe all this; but you’re blinded by being in -love with my daughter. However the mischief’s done now. Only I want -you both to understand that you’ll get no sympathy from me—or anybody -else.” - -“We don’t want no sympathy,” declared Medora. “We’ve got each other -and we don’t expect a little country place like this to understand.” - -Jordan dwelt upon a word that Mrs. Trivett had spoken. - -“You say ‘the mischief is done,’ but I can’t allow that. No mischief is -done at all—far from it. The mischief would have been if Medora and -her husband had been bound to stop together—chained together against -all their proper feelings and against all decency. But for them to -separate like responsible beings was no mischief.” - -“And it’s up to him to get on with it,” added Medora. “We’ve done our -share and took the law in our hands, because we were fearless and knew -we were right; and more we can’t do until he acts.” - -“Has he moved in the matter, Mrs. Trivett?” enquired Kellock. “I can -supply his lawyer with the necessary data.” - -Lydia flushed. - -“No; he’s done nothing to my knowledge. He’s got to think of himself -and his future work.” - -“He’ll be reasonable I’m sure. The world being what it is—a very -critical place—I’m exceedingly jealous for Medora’s good name.” - -“In common decency and duty I should think he ought to feel the same,” -said Medora. “He can’t martyr me no more and the least he can do is to -set me free the first moment possible. He’s took ten years off my life -and my looks; and that’s about enough.” - -“No, he hasn’t,” returned her mother. “You’re looking a lot better than -you deserve to look, and as to decency and duty, there’s nobody here -will come to you to learn about either. You’re no more a martyr than -anybody else. Ned’s the martyr, and it ill becomes you to talk of him -in that hateful tone of voice.” - -Kellock was much pained and Medora began to cry. - -“I do implore you—I do implore you, Mrs. Trivett, to think about this -subject on a lofty plane. God’s my judge I have taken as high a line -about this as I knew how to take. We’ve looked at it in a religious -spirit and had every respect for our own characters and every respect -for Mr. Dingle. That’s the truth about it. I don’t want to preach or -explain how we saw our duty, because in your present biased frame of -mind, you wouldn’t believe me; but I may say that Medora is a sacred -object in my eyes—just as sacred as anybody else’s property is -sacred—and I’d no more treat her with less reverence and honour than -I always did before and after she married, than I’d treat any other -woman. I’m not going to do anything on which I could look back with a -sigh, or her with a blush. We’re not that sort by any means.” - -“I should hope not,” murmured Medora. “We’re a lot too proud to explain -ourselves to such people as live here; we move on a higher walk of -conscience than what they do, but all I know is that Jordan’s a saint -and they’re not worthy to black his boots or tie the laces.” - -Through tears she spoke. - -“No, I’m not a saint; but I’m a reasonable man and know what’s due to -my reputation and my peace of mind,” declared Mr. Kellock, “and knowing -that, I abide by it and don’t risk losing the only thing that matters, -and don’t put myself in such a position that Medora shall ever think -less of me than she does now.” - -“I think more of you—more of you every minute of my life!” sobbed -Medora. - -“So there it is, Mrs. Trivett,” summed up the man. “I’m glad you called -and I wish it was in my power to make you see the light in this matter. -But we shall appeal to the future and we’re not in the least afraid of -the verdict of posterity. There’s no support like the consciousness of -right. In fact for my part I’d never take on anything, big or little, -if I didn’t feel to the bed-rock of my conscience it was right. And one -thing you can be quite sure about, and that is that your daughter is as -safe in my hands as it is humanly possible for her to be.” - -Mrs. Trivett looked at him helplessly and then at her weeping child. - -“You’re one too many for me, Jordan Kellock,” she said. “You’ve thrown -over every law and gone the limit so far as I can see; and yet you talk -about your honour and Medora’s as the only thing you really care about. -You’re beyond me, both of you, and I think I’ll wish you good evening.” - -“I feel perfectly sure that light will come into your mind as the -future unfolds itself, Mrs. Trivett.” - -“I hope so,” she answered; “but your idea of light and mine ain’t the -same and never will be—unless you change.” - -“There’s no shadow of changing with me,” he answered. “Medora’s the -first thing in my life henceforth and, though you don’t agree with -us, I hope you’ll reach a frame of mind when you’ll respect us as we -respect ourselves.” - -“You might stop to tea, mother,” suggested Medora, but Mrs. Trivett -declined. - -“I don’t want to talk no more,” she said, “so I’ll go; and you needn’t -think I’m an enemy or anything of that. I’m your mother, Medora, and -I’m about the most puzzled mother living this minute.” - -Lydia went away deeply mystified and disliking Kellock more than when -she had come. Yet she told herself it was folly to dislike him. He was -no hypocrite, and though his sentiments had seemed ridiculous in any -other mouth, they were really proper to his. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -TRAGEDY IN THE SIZING ROOM - - -Jordan Kellock accepted the attitude of the Mill to his achievement -with as little emotion as possible. He concealed his own feelings, and -since he did not attach great importance to the opinions of his fellow -workers, their jests or silence were alike indifferent to him. He was -conscious of well-doing and felt no doubt that the future would serve -amply to justify his action. - -He worked as usual and presently discovered that neither Ernest Trood, -the foreman, nor Matthew Trenchard himself proposed to discuss his -private affairs with him. The master never mentioned it, and when he -met Kellock, shook hands with his usual large friendliness and trusted -the vatman had enjoyed his holiday. - -“You went to the Exhibition I hope?” he asked. And Jordan replied that -he had done so. - -“Our pictures made a proper sensation,” he declared. “I stood by and -watched the public for an hour, and the people were more astonished at -our water-mark pictures than anything in the show.” - -“You shall see what the press said,” replied Trenchard. “We’ve had very -good notices about it and far beyond the trade too. Art papers have -taken up water-marks and pointed out what I told you long ago, that the -craft ought to have a great future.” - -Of Medora nothing was said, but Trood mentioned her briefly a few days -later. He took Kellock aside. - -“It’s official, and no more,” he remarked. “But I suppose you stand for -Mrs. Dingle now, and are going to marry her as soon as it can be done?” - -“That is so, Trood.” - -“Well, she went away without warning, and forfeits her money -accordingly. You know the law on that subject.” - -“That’s all right,” said Kellock. “She didn’t mean nothing uncivil or -improper, but the circumstances required her to act as she did.” - -Trood nodded and left him. In common with most of the other responsible -men in the Mill, he never addressed Kellock on the subject of Medora. -Jordan noticed this, and felt that though people abstained from -comment, his action had created a body of opinion that was to some -extent unfriendly. None hesitated to regret the departure of Ned -Dingle, and none attempted to conceal that regret in the presence -of Kellock. A few men refused to recognise him farther, and when he -saluted them as usual, cut him. Robert Life was one of these, and he -found that those who came immediately under the influence of Nicholas -Pinhey—the men at the glazing rollers—had been imbued with particular -animosity. There Medora herself had worked. - -As for her, she lived through a familiar experience, and discovered -that anticipation is greater than reality, both for good and evil. She -had built up a very elaborate picture of her return to Dene, and of -the attitude of her circle. It was a vision wherein she occupied the -centre, as a being mysterious and arresting, a figure to challenge -hatred, or enthusiasm, a compelling heroine, who might provoke furious -enemies, or win loyal friends, but could by no possibility leave anyone -indifferent. She had pictured herself as the protagonist, the cynosure, -the paramount object of interest. When she walked abroad in her London -clothes, all eyes would be upon her, and she would move among them, -gentle, indifferent, inscrutable, her secrets hidden, herself doubtless -a subject of ceaseless and heated discussion. - -But she missed the least consciousness of creating a sensation; she -even missed the unpleasantness which she had designed to endure so -finely, that Jordan might see the superb stuff of which she was really -made. The limelight of public attention was wanting, and her return -fell almost as flat as when she had come home from her honeymoon -with Ned Dingle. So far as Medora could see, nobody really cared a -button about her. She met with the same experiences as Jordan, but -took them differently. He returned to his occupation and, in the full -tide of work, was able to keep his mind free of his private affairs, -and find other interests among his fellow craftsmen. But Medora had -no distraction during this period. She possessed not even a house to -look after, until Kellock found a house. Following on the first clash -with her fellow creatures, and the discovery that some were amiable as -usual, and some unprepared to recognise her, or have anything more to -do with her, Medora began to be unspeakably bored with life and this -flat anticlimax. The spring days dragged, and she knew not how to fill -them. But her partner, perceiving this, set her a variety of tasks, and -she found herself making notes for him from books, and copying extracts -out of speeches delivered by the leaders of labour’s cause. At first -she performed her tasks with energy, and Kellock praised her devotion; -but he blamed her handwriting, which was very indifferent. - -“Some day I’ll run to a typewriter,” he had promised. - -The matter upon which he occupied her quite failed to interest Medora. -It was dreary in itself and depressing in all that it implied, because -their future, so far as she could see, held mighty little promise of -much comfort or prosperity, if Jordan proposed to devote his life to -these thorny and controversial subjects. It was magnificent, and might -mean fame for him after he was dead; but promised remarkably little fun -for Mrs. Kellock in the meantime. - -Daisy Finch proved faithful and often came to see Medora at “The -Waterman’s Arms.” She believed that the opposition need not be taken -seriously. - -“It’s only a nine days’ wonder,” declared Daisy. “When you’re married -to Mr. Kellock, everybody will come round.” - -Then Miss Finch plunged into her own affairs. She was betrothed to -Kellock’s coucher at the Mill, one Harold Spry. - -“And your mother thinks he’s a very sensible man, and we’re going into -Paignton on Saturday, by the motor bus for him to buy me a proper -engagement ring.” - -“He’s a very good coucher, for I’ve heard Jordan say so; and I know -he’s very nice looking, and I’m very glad about it, Daisy. It’s good -news, for certain.” - -“I never encouraged him, I’m sure,” declared Miss Finch, “but I always -felt greatly addicted to him in a manner of speaking, Medora.” - -“I hope you’ll be happy, but don’t hurry it; get to know each other’s -natures well, and all that. And if you find you can’t agree about -anything that’s vital to happiness, then part before it’s too late,” -said her friend. “It isn’t given to every girl to do what I did, Daisy. -You want a rare lot of courage, and the power to rise superior to the -world against you.” - -“He agrees with me in everything,” said Daisy. - -“They always begin like that. But I feel you’re going to be one of the -happy ones.” - -“And you, too, I hope soon.” - -“There are greater things than happiness, I find,” confessed Medora, -“though like all young creatures, I used to put happiness first and -last. But if you’ve got much in the way of brains, you can’t be happy -for long. Jordan very soon learned me that.” - -“Surely to God he’s going to make you happy?” asked Daisy. - -“Oh, yes, but it’s the happiness of people at large he’s out for. He’s -got a great mind and thinks in numbers, not in individuals, even though -one of them’s his wife. That may sound sad to you.” - -“It do,” said Daisy. - -“But it isn’t really. It makes you forget yourself—in time. I shall -rise to it as I age, and I’m ageing fast.” - -“I don’t want to forget myself,” said Daisy, “and I’m sure Mr. Spry -wouldn’t let me if I did. He’s death on spoiling me.” - -“Be happy while you can,” advised Medora. “And bring your young man to -supper one night.” - -They talked of the works, for despite the larger interests of Kellock, -Medora still found the politics of the Mill her chief subject. - -“Do you think they’d be nasty if I was to go in one day on some -pretence and see ’em?” she asked. - -Daisy considered. - -“You’d be welcome for your mother’s sake in the rag house,” she -answered; “but I wouldn’t go in your own shop, if I was you. I dare say -it’s jealousy, but the women in the glazing shop—it’s old Pinhey’s -fault largely, I believe. He’s a religious old devil.” - -“For some things I’d almost like to be back again,” declared Medora. -“Just for the minute, till we’ve got a house and so on, I’m at a loose -end. I do a lot of writing for Jordan, and he finds me very useful, -and is going to get me a typewriter. But just for the minute—it would -distract my mind. There’s nothing small about Mr. Trenchard—he’d let -me come back, I reckon.” - -Daisy did not venture an opinion, and the talk returned to Harold -Spry. But from that day, Medora’s determination to go into the works -increased. She did not tell Jordan, suspecting that he would have -forbidden such an experiment, nor did she mention the matter to her -mother; but she decided that she would stroll in some day. - -Ned Dingle had not yet left Dene, and once she passed him returning -home from Totnes. He took no notice of her, and she hesitated whether -to speak, but perceived that he desired no such thing, for he hurried -past. She stole one glance under her eyelids at him, and thought he -looked much as usual. He stared straight in front of him, and blushed -as he passed her. - -She mentioned the incident to Kellock. - -“I haven’t seen him yet,” he said. “He hasn’t got work to his liking, -so Knox tells me. I’m waiting to hear from him.” - -Two days later, Medora took her courage in her hands, and went up to -the Mill at eleven o’clock, while work was in full swing. She had -considered where to go, and decided that she would drop into the -vat room and speak to Jordan about some trivial matter. She took an -addition to his dinner in the shape of an orange. But having actually -arrived, an inspiration led her to the sizing room. Thither came the -paper from the drying lofts, and the simple work was done by little -girls. No sharp word or unpleasant attitude of mind was likely to reach -her there. - -She entered unseen, and passed through the dim and odorous chambers -where the sizerman, old Amos Toft, mixed the medium. Here, in two -steaming vats, Amos melted his gelatine, made of buffalo hide, and -added to the strong-smelling concoction those ingredients proper to -the paper to be sized. Trade secrets controlled the mixture, but alum -contributed an important factor, for without it, the animal compound -had quickly decayed. - -In the sizing room a narrow passage ran between long troughs. The place -steamed to its lofty, sunny roof, and was soaked with the odour of the -size. Through the great baths of amber-coloured liquid there wound an -endless wool blanket, and at one end of each great bath sat two little -girls with stacks of dry paper beside them. They disposed the sheets -regularly two together on the sizing felt, and the paper was drawn into -the vats and plunged beneath the surface. For nearly three minutes it -pursued its invisible way, and presently, emerging at the other end, -was lifted off by other young workers and returned to the drying lofts -again. - -Little Mercy Life, the vatman’s daughter, was sizing some pretty, -rose-coloured sheets, and Medora admired them. - -“Well, Mercy, how are you?” she asked, and the child smiled and said -she was very well. - -“What lovely paper! And how are you, Nelly? How’s your sister?” - -“To home still,” said Mercy’s companion, “but the doctor says she’ll -get well some day.” - -An impulse brought the orange out of Medora’s pocket. - -“Here’s something for you,” she said. “You can share it between you -presently.” - -They thanked her, and chatted happily enough about their work and play. -Medora told them that she had been in London, and interested them with -what she saw at the Zoological Gardens. - -“My! To think!” said Mercy. “I thought squirrels was always red.” - -A few adults passed through the sizing house, among them Mr. Trood. He -hesitated, seemed surprised to see her, but said “good morning,” not -unpleasantly, and hoped she was all right. - -“I dare say you half wish you were back again, Medora?” he asked, and -she jumped at the suggestion and told him that she often did. - -“Just peeped in for the pleasure of seeing friends,” she said. - -He went his way and Medora was about to leave the children and seek -Kellock, when an adventure very painful befell her. - -For old Amos Toft belonged to the tribe of Mr. Pinhey. He was inflamed -with indignation at the spectacle of Medora contaminating youth, and -departed presently that he might tell Mrs. Life, in the glazing shop, -what was happening. Whereupon, Mercy Life, the elder, leapt from -her stool at the crib, and much incensed, hastened to her child’s -protection. - -Medora greeted her with a smile, but it vanished before the other’s -sharp challenge. - -They were talking of primroses at the time, for Nelly and Mercy had -plucked a great bunch on Sunday and promised to bring some to Medora. -They were to come to tea with her when they could. - -“Here—I’ll thank you to get out of this, Mrs.—whatever you call -yourself!” began the angry woman. - -“What’s the matter with you?” asked Medora, “and who are you to tell me -what I’m to do? Where’s your manners?” - -The other snorted scornfully. - -“You brazen-faced thing,” she cried. “Yes, a front of brass to come -here, or show your face among honest women I should think. But you -can’t have it both ways. You can’t be a friend for children and give -’em oranges—give it back, Mercy—and be a scarlet woman both. And I -won’t have you talking to my child anyway.” - -Medora adopted a superior tone. She took the orange from the girl and -addressed her. - -“I’m sorry you’ve got such a fool for a mother, Mercy. And I hope when -you grow up, you’ll have more sense than she has.” - -Then she addressed Mrs. Life. - -“How little you understand,” she said. “I’m sorry for you being such a -narrow-minded creature. I always thought you was one of the sensible -sort. And you needn’t fear for your little girl. I was only asking her -to come to tea and bring me some primroses.” - -She marched out, regardless of Mrs. Life’s reply, and went to seek -Jordan who was at his vat making big paper. He handled a heavy mould -and passed over snow-white sheets to his coucher, who turned them on -to the felt with extreme care. Jordan became very nervous at sight -of Medora, but she felt quite at ease among the men and none in the -vat room quarrelled with her. She congratulated Harold Spry on his -engagement and told him that Daisy was a treasure. Then she gave -Kellock the orange and watched him. - -But Medora was only hiding herself. Her heart flamed and her -indignation at the recent affront burned fiercely within her. Her -sole purpose at that moment was to get level and more than level with -Mrs. Life, whose husband worked at the vat next to Jordan’s, and she -now turned on him unwisely and addressed him. He was employed with -brilliant, orange-coloured pulp and making currency paper. - -“You tell your wife to be broader-minded, Robert Life,” she said -suddenly, and he stared at her. - -“She’s broad-minded enough for me and all God-fearing creatures I -believe,” he answered. “If you want to keep on the narrow path, you’ve -got to be narrow-minded about some things, young woman.” - -This was too much for Kellock. His pale face flushed. He set down his -mould, dried his hands and beckoned to Medora. - -“I want to speak to you for five minutes,” he said and they moved -together into the open space outside the vat house. But she gave him no -time to speak. She poured out her wrongs in a flood. - -“It’s up to you now,” she said. “This isn’t going on. I’m not going to -have my life made a burden by every beastly, cross-grained cat in Dene -for you, or anybody. An ignorant creature like her to call me a bad -woman! That’s the limit.” - -“You must be patient,” he said. “You shouldn’t have come, Medora. It -was a very doubtful thing to do. You must allow for people. We’ve -talked all this out before.” - -“If we’ve done right, we’ve done right,” she answered; “and if we’ve -done right, it isn’t for me to sit down under insult, or for you to let -me be insulted. I was born a fighter and you say you was; and if so, -you’d best to begin with fighting your future wife’s enemies.” - -“That’s all right,” he admitted. “But I ask you to be reasonable. It -wasn’t reasonable to come here and face the women.” - -“I didn’t face the women then. I didn’t go near ’em. I was only asking -a child or two to come into tea. Then that sour slattern, Mercy Life, -flew at me as if I’d come to poison her little girl. And I want to know -what you’re going to do about it; and I’ve a right to know.” - -“Keep calm, keep calm and go home, Medora. Go back to the ‘Arms.’ We’ll -talk about it to-night. It’s hard waiting, but—” - -“I won’t wait. I’ve no right to be asked to wait.” - -“Well, as to that, we’ve got to wait. You say it’s up to me. But you -know different.” - -“I’ll drown myself if there’s much more of it—God’s my judge,” vowed -Medora, then she went her way as the bell rang the dinner hour. - -Kellock felt deeply perturbed, and was glad of the interval, for he -could not have resumed his work just then. He ate his meal alone and -then wandered up the valley with painful thoughts for companions. That -Medora could have done so foolish and inconsiderate a thing surprised -him harshly. It was part of his illusion concerning her that she was -a girl of unusual reasoning powers and excellent mental endowments. -Once or twice, indeed, she had said and done what cast a shadow on -this conviction; but never had she indicated the possibility of such a -futile act as this. That she should have come to the Mill at her own -inclination appeared flagrantly foolish. - -But that evening, in face of her tears and hysterical emotion, he -undertook to anticipate the position and hasten the solution if -possible. Not, indeed, until he promised to seek out Ned Dingle and -demand action from him, did Medora recover. Then she was herself again, -humble and grateful and penitent and full of admiration for Jordan. - -“You’re so large-minded and look at things with a male grasp and a -male’s power of waiting,” she said, “but you can’t expect that from -me. You must make allowances, Jordan. I suffer a lot more than you do, -because I’ve got such a power of feeling and I’m cruel proud.” - -“I’m properly jealous for you,” he answered, “and I’d come between -every breath of scandal and you if I could. But we must allow for human -nature and prejudice.” - -“And jealousy,” she said. - -“We must allow for the outlook of every-day people and give ’em as -little chance to scoff as possible. I’ll put it to Mr. Dingle the first -minute I can; and you must do your part, Medora, and lie low till I’ve -seen him and shown him his duty.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -NED HEARS MR. KNOX - - -Kellock thought twice about going to see Ned Dingle, for instinct told -him that what might seem a reasonable course to such a reasonable being -as himself, would possibly appear in another light to Medora’s husband. -But he reflected that, as the more intelligent and better educated man, -it was his place to act. Even should Dingle use violence, that much he -must be prepared to face, if by so doing he could advance the situation -between them. - -Ned was still at his house, and, on an evening in early April, when -the trees of Ashprington were washed with green again and the white -blossoms of the pears opened ghostly to the embrace of the east wind, -Jordan called. - -Ned himself opened the door. - -“You!” he said. “What the hell do you want? I’ve kept off you—God -knows how. Are you asking for it?” - -“I want to do what’s right, Mr. Dingle. I haven’t come for any less -reason. I beg you’ll let me speak to you.” - -Ned breathed through his nostrils and did not reply immediately. At -last he answered. - -“To do what’s right! You’ll never do what’s right, because you’re a -hypocrite, and all your talk about helping labour and the rest of it -is humbug and lies coming from a thing like you. You’re the worst sort -of man—the sort that does his dirty work behind a lot of cant and -pretended virtue and honesty. The gutter’s too good for you.” - -“I can see your point of view; but after her letter, you ought to -think different. I say nothing about mine; but hers was all it ought to -be under the circumstances.” - -“You dare to say that? All it ought to be? Did you read it?” - -“Yes, I did.” - -“And thought it right for her to say I was ‘a godless beast’ where she -was concerned?” - -“She never said nothing like that, Mr. Dingle.” - -“Come in then,” said the other shortly. “You come in and sit down and -read what she said.” - -They went into the kitchen, and Ned lighted a candle. Then he took out -his pocket book, produced Medora’s letter, and flung it on the table. - -“Read that, please.” - -Kellock obeyed, and his face grew long. It was clear that Medora had -not sent the letter they concocted so carefully together in the Priory -ruin. He put it down. - -“Was that the only letter you got from her, if I may ask?” - -“It was.” - -“I never heard nothing about this letter.” - -“You’re lying I expect when you say that.” - -“Indeed, I am not. I never lie. This letter was evidently the result -of temper. She never meant it. It’s a sort of play-acting—all females -indulge in it.” - -“She meant every word. But you’re right, there’s a lot of play-acting -about the whole business. She’s been play-acting ever since she was -born, and now she’ll damned soon find that’s ended. Life with you won’t -be play-acting.” - -“It will not,” answered Kellock. “I promise her that. But she’s no -dreamer. If you’ll be so patient as to listen to me, I’d like to speak -a few words for her and myself. That letter is not Medora—not what she -is now. She shall say she’s sorry, and write in her present frame of -mind, which is very different.” - -“She’ll be sorry all right. That won’t be a lie anyway.” - -“I venture to ask you to look ahead, Mr. Dingle. There’s no doubt, -owing to one thing and another, you and her wouldn’t have settled -down into a happy husband and wife. That’s not to cast any reflection -on you, or her either. You wasn’t made for each other as we all -thought, myself included, when she took you. But owing to differences -of character and such like, she fretted you by her nature, which she -couldn’t alter, and you treated her harsh according to your nature, -which you couldn’t change. There it was, and her spirit told her you -and her must part. She meant to go I solemnly assure you. She’d made -up her mind to do that; and finding it was so—that’s where I came -in. I thought she was right, for her self-respect and yours, to leave -you, and knowing that she would then be free in every real sense, I, -who had loved her in the past, felt it was no wrong to you under the -circumstances, to love her again. But I’ll say this, and I hope you’ll -believe it: if I had thought Medora was wrong, I wouldn’t have taken -her part. You’ll remember I spoke to you as an outsider, and only for -your good, when you knocked me in the water. I’d no thought of having -Medora for my wife till after that happened. But when she made me see -clearly she was a martyred creature, then I took a different line. And -that’s how we stand.” - -“Play-acting still,” answered the other. “It’s all play-acting, and a -wicked, heartless piece of work; and you know it. And a brainless piece -of work too, for all you think you’re such a smart pair. You see I’m -calm. I’m not taking you by the scruff of your neck and battering your -head against that wall, as I well might do. I may yet; but I’ll answer -you first. You knew Medora, and knew she was a mass of airs and graces, -and humbug; and you knew me, and therefore you ought to have known, -when she said I was a tyrant and a brute, that she was lying. But -you fooled yourself and took her word and made yourself believe her, -because you wanted her. You lusted after another man’s wife, and all -your fine opinions went to hell under the temptation, when you found -you could get her so easy.” - -“Don’t say that; I beg you not to put it in that way. I’m not that sort -of man.” - -“I judge of a man by what he does, not by what he says. That’s what -you’ve done, and that’s what you’ll pay for sooner or late.” - -“A time will come when you’ll withdraw that, Mr. Dingle. It’s a cruel -libel on my character and you’ll live to know it. At present I’m only -wishful to do things decently and in order, and I’ll ask you again to -look forward. I should be very glad to know, please, when you’re going -to go on with this? I venture to think you ought to move in the matter.” - -“You beat anything I’ve ever heard of,” said Dingle. “What are you made -of—flesh and blood, or stone? To tell me my duty!” - -“Why not, if you don’t see it? I’m not thinking of myself—only the -situation as it affects her.” - -“And I’m thinking of it as it affects me. I’ve been pretty badly -damaged in this racket—the lawyer’s made that clear to me. I shall get -it out of you somehow—how I don’t know at present. You can clear now, -and I shan’t come to you to decide what I’m going to do about it—or -to that wicked, little fool either. Yes, a wicked, little fool—that’s -what she is—and she’ll look at home presently, when you’ve knocked the -life out of her, and find it out for herself.” - -Kellock rose and prepared to depart. - -“I’m sorry I called if it was only to anger you,” he said. - -“Yes; and you’ll be sorry for lots of things presently I shouldn’t -wonder. You’re a fool too, come to think of it—that’s part of my -revenge I reckon—to know you, who thought yourself so wonderful, are -only a young fool after all.” - -So the interview ended and Kellock went his way outwardly unruffled but -inwardly perturbed. He had never considered the possibility of Dingle -doing anything in the way of damages. He had, in fact, thought far too -little about Dingle. Ned was a man of no force of character and he had -assumed that he would proceed upon the conventional lines proper to -such cases. But Ned’s very weakness now grew into a danger, because he -was evidently in the hands of a lawyer and might be easily influenced -by a stronger will than his own. The law would probably not learn the -real human facts of the situation as between Ned and Medora. The law -never did go into these subtleties of character upon which such things -depended. Superficially the law might hold him, what he—Kellock—was -so far from being, and perhaps actually punish him in his pocket—an -event that had not entered his calculations. Did Dingle make any such -claim, it would certainly be his place to plead against it, or get a -lawyer to do so for him. He felt anxious, for he feared the law and -knew it to be a terribly costly matter to defend the most righteous -cause. - -And meantime Ned received another caller, who knew Kellock better than -he did, and left him with some curious information to consider. Indeed -it was not Jordan’s own visit that threw any new light on Jordan, but -that of an older man. Philander Knox now arrived to see Dingle on -private business. - -Philander, true to his philosophic and tolerant attitude, had not -evinced any unfriendly feelings towards Kellock on his return to the -vat house, and the paper makers, who were all junior to Mr. Knox, -followed his lead with the exception of Robert Life, who took his -wife’s view of the situation. Thus it came about that finding Knox to -be impartial and knowing him for a large-minded man, only puzzling -when he displayed humour, which Kellock did not understand, Jordan had -to some extent confided in him and revealed various facts concerning -his opinions and his relations with Medora. These, while imparted in -confidence, possessed none the less very considerable significance and -Philander was now tempted to use his information. - -It depended on the trend of his conversation with Dingle whether he -would do so, for he called upon his own affairs and had no intention, -when he arrived, to touch those of other people. - -He came by appointment on the subject of Dingle’s house. - -“I’d like it very well,” he said, “and I’d close to-night if I was in a -position to do so; but though hopeful as my custom is, for hope costs -nothing, I’m not able yet to close definitely.” - -“There’s one or two after it, I must tell you.” - -“I know. But I’ll make a bargain. To let the house is, of course, a -certainty. Houses are so few in these parts that a fine quality of -house like this don’t go begging very long; but if you’ll stand by and -give me first refusal for a clear month, I’ll pay you two quid down on -the nail for the privilege.” - -Dingle considered. - -“All right,” he said. “That’s a bargain. There’s nothing settled and -I’d be very well pleased for you to have the house. But what are you -waiting for?” - -“That’s private,” answered Philander bringing out his purse and -depositing two sovereigns. “I’m waiting for another party to come to a -decision on a certain subject. If it goes right, I’ll take your house; -if it don’t, then I shan’t have no use for it.” - -Dingle nodded. - -“I guess your meaning,” he said. “As for me, I’m marking time, though I -can’t much longer. I must go on with my work and I’ve got a very good -offer for Liverpool; but I don’t see myself in a town somehow. And -there’s people at Ivybridge could do with me; but the money’s less. I’m -all over the shop, to be honest. Of course it won’t go no farther. But -I can trust you. I keep a stiff upper-lip, being a man; but this have -knocked the stuffing out of me. I don’t care what becomes of me really, -though of course I pretend I’m all right.” - -Knox nodded. - -“You’ve took a very proper line in the opinion of me and Mrs. Trivett,” -he said. “Mrs. Trivett shares your feelings about it. As for me, I’m -properly sorry, because one can’t do nothing to help. She’s done for -herself now, and she’ll smart long after you’ve done smarting, if -that’s any consolation.” - -“I know; but I don’t want her to smart particular,” said Ned. “She’s -been sinned against—took at her own ridiculous valuation. She had to -be herself, poor wretch; but the more I think of it—I ain’t sure now -if it wouldn’t be best to break that man’s neck, Knox. Yes, I reckon -I’ll go to Liverpool. I don’t want to bide here within a few miles of -her. A clean break’s the best. How’s the new beaterman going on?” - -“None too well. Trenchard don’t like him and Trood hates him. He -told Trood to mind his own business last week; and coming from -Bulstrode—Bulstrode’s his name—to the foreman, that was a startler. -In fact Trood won’t be himself till Bulstrode’s gone now. He’s a doomed -man you may say. Then there was a little affair with Trenchard too. -He wants some more of the advertisements made—the pictures—and he -explained the pulp to Bulstrode, and Bulstrode, good though he is at -everyday work, have a rigid mind and said he was there to make paper -pulp, not do conjuring tricks. An unyielding sort of man in fact; and -though of course he’s doing what he’s told as well as he can, he don’t -like it, and no doubt he’ll soon be gone.” - -“He was here a bit ago—Kellock, I mean,” said Ned. “I often wonder -how I keep my hands off the man that’s ruined my home; but so far I -have. There’s something uncanny to him. He ain’t human, Knox. He’s got -a something else in him that puts him outside the run of humans. A bit -of fish or frog. I ain’t frightened of smiting him; I may come to it; -but I can’t explain. He’s not like other people. I always feel he’s an -image—a machine made to look and talk like a man.” - -“I understand that. If another chap had done this, I should have -expected you to go for him; but I quite see the case is altered with -Kellock. Because you feel he’s not stuffed with the same stuffing as -most of us. Stop me if I’m on dangerous ground; but such a man has -the qualities of his failings. He’s got a properly absurd side—like -all such owl-like people, who never laugh. He’s a crank and amazingly -ignorant in some directions. If he don’t approve of the law, he won’t -obey it. He puts religion and morals higher than law; but he brews his -own religion and don’t know in his innocence that religion in this -country always does what the State tells it. You’d think religion might -up and speak to the law, in the name of its Master sometimes. Kellock -pointed that out. He would do things and talk to the law if he had -the power, because he’s fearless and doesn’t waste his energy, but -concentrates. He said, speaking of natural children, that under our -laws they were treated with wicked injustice. He said to me about it, -‘If the Archbishop of Canterbury got up in the House of Lords and said -that it was a black, damnable disgrace to England to have such a law -blotting the Statute Book and leaving us behind Scotland and Germany -and America—if he did that, all men and women of good will would -support him and the State would have to end the loathsome scandal.’ But -I told him to hope nothing either from bishops or lawyers. ‘The man who -alters that infamous law will be somebody bigger than either one or -t’other,’ I told Kellock. ‘He’ll be a brave man, ashamed to face both -ways and sit on the fence for his own safety; and he’ll be a man who -knows that mankind wasn’t made for the lawyers, but the lawyers for -mankind.’ There are such men still, thank God.” - -“Kellock ain’t human, so how should he care for the ways of the world? -It’s a blind to his villainy.” - -“I’ve had a good deal of speech with him of late and heard his -opinions. He’s dead sure he’s right. It’s all in a nutshell. He had to -rescue your wife from you, and now he’s as jealous for her as a hen -with one chick. It’s damned hard to look at the situation from his -point of view, Dingle—hard for me or anybody—and impossible for you; -but he sees it in a certain way and no doubt she’s helped him to do -so. And now he won’t have a breath on her name and feels he’s got to -stand between her and the rest of the world. He smarts worse than she -does when hard things are said. He’s a lot more high strung than your -wife herself. In fact he’s so delicate about her that he’d rather die -than leave her in a false position. It’s an attitude that would be cant -in most chaps, but coming from him you’re bound to believe it. It may -be part fish or frog, as you say; but so it is. Of course nobody who -didn’t know him would believe it; but I do believe it.” - -“Believe what?” asked Dingle. - -“Believe she’s not married to him.” - -“That’s certain while she’s married to me.” - -“I don’t mean that. I mean Kellock’s not all a man, as I’ve just said. -You may say he’s a bit of a saint, or you may say he’s only half baked; -but say what you like, the fact remains he’s different from other men -and his opinions guide his conduct, which is a lot more than opinions -always do. He’s told me that she’s not his wife in any sort of way—far -too much respect for her and himself. That’s gospel you may be sure, -for he’d rather die than lie.” - -“She’ll soon get fed up with that,” said Dingle. - -“Sooner than him I dare say; but so it is, and I’m glad to let you know -it. I shook him by telling him he was a child in these things and that -the law would refuse to let you divorce Mrs. Dingle, if it knew he was -not fulfilling its requirements. But he’s got a feeling of contempt -for the divorce laws which, of course, every decent man must share—a -feeling of contempt which extends to the lawyers who live by them, and -the parsons who like ’em. I give him all credit there.” - -“And how do these fine ideas strike my wife that was?” asked Ned. -“Because if I knew anything about her in her palmy days, she was built -of quite different mud from that.” - -“How it strikes her I can’t tell you, because her opinions are hid from -me. Perhaps Mrs. Trivett’s heard her views upon the subject. She may -not agree with Kellock; but more likely he’s made her do so—especially -seeing it won’t pay her to have any other opinions than his in future.” - -“He’ll never break her in, Knox.” - -“He will, give him time. There’s something about him that makes weaker -wills go down sooner or late. He’s like the tide. He will come on. -He’ll settle her all right.” - -“She deserves what she’ll get anyway.” - -“If she do, she’s one in a thousand,” answered Knox, “for in my -experience we always get more or less than we deserve, never a fair, -honest deal. You can’t tell what she’s going to get, but you can bet -your boots it won’t be what she deserves. Be it as it will, you’re in -the position of Providence to both of them; because whatever she may -think about it, we know what he does. He’s in your hand—to make, or -mar, so far as Medora’s concerned. I tell you for friendship, and to a -man like myself, who loves a joke, these things are funny in a manner -of speaking.” - -“The question is if they’re true.” - -“They’re true as sure as Kellock is true. Make no mistake about that.” - -“Well, I’m not the sort to stab in the dark, though that’s how they -served me. But I don’t feel no particular call to put myself out of the -way for either of ’em. You can’t get this job through for nothing, and -I’ve got no spare cash for the minute.” - -“They chose their own time to run; they must await yours for the rest,” -admitted Mr. Knox. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -EMOTIONS OF MEDORA - - -When Jordan returned to Medora, by a quality of our common nature -which he would have been the first to deprecate, he was not entirely -sorry to bring her unpleasant news. To himself he said that a trial -of her patience would be good for her character, and so explained his -own frame of mind; but the truth was different. He had heard something -concerning Medora which annoyed him and made him anxious; and the -result of his annoyance was that he imparted painful facts without any -very great regret. It was true that they affected him as well as his -future wife, but his nature was qualified to bear them far better than -was hers. - -“I am a great deal hurt,” he began, as they sat together in their -little parlour at the inn. - -“You were bound to be,” she answered. “And you might have been hurt in -body as well as in mind. It’s something if he’s enough broken in to -treat you properly.” - -“As to that, he did. I’ll come to him. But what’s hurt me, Medora, a -long way worse than anything Mr. Dingle had to say has got to do with -you.” - -“If you’ve been believing his lies—” - -“It ain’t so much his lies as yours. I’m not one to use hard words as a -rule. But it’s your letter to him.” - -“Well, what about it?” - -“I’ve read it—that’s all.” - -She realised the significance of this and blushed hotly. - -“Why didn’t you send the letter I helped you to write?” he asked. - -“Because—because when you’re boiling with injustice and wicked -injury—when I read it, I saw it was you and not me. He’d have known -you wrote it, yet it was to be my letter; so I made it mine and told -him the ugly truth about himself, which you’d been careful not to do. -According to your letter, there was no reason why I should leave him -at all that I could see. It was that nice and cool. But I was going to -do things that you don’t do when you’re nice and cool, so I told him -the truth straight out, as he deserved to hear it. It’s no good mincing -your meaning with a man like him.” - -“You told me you’d sent our letter, however.” - -“I couldn’t when I came to read it. It was a silly letter.” - -“Well, I’m not one to go back to the past, because it’s generally a -waste of time, Medora. It would have been honester if you’d told me the -truth. Your letter was pretty hot, certainly.” - -“I hope he found it so.” - -“He did, and unfortunately he’s kept it. If he’d been wiser than he is, -he’d have burned it; instead of that he’s letting it burn him, if you -understand me. From the look of the letter, I should say he’d read it a -great many times and the result is that he’s still in a very bad frame -of mind.” - -“What frame of mind did you think he’d be in? We can’t all keep a hand -on ourselves, like you.” - -“I hoped that time enough had passed over him to steady him. But I -can’t honestly say it has. He made some curious remarks. I thought once -he was going to let himself go and fly at me. But I kept my eye on him -and never raised my voice. There’s plenty of good qualities in him.” - -“I’m glad you’re so pleased with him,” she said, growing hot again. -“Naturally you think well of a man who’s used me so kindly!” - -“No, I’m not much pleased with him. In fact, quite the reverse, -Medora. There’s good in everybody—that’s all I mean. But he’s got no -good will to us.” - -“Thank God for that then!” - -“You needn’t thank God in too much of a hurry. In a word, he’s going to -take his own time about this business. He’s done nothing so far.” - -“Done nothing!” gasped Medora. - -“Nothing whatever.” - -“That’s my letter—the coward.” - -“I shouldn’t have said so to you; but I’m glad you’re clever enough to -see it, Medora. Yes, your letter no doubt. You can’t have anything for -nothing in this world, and as you gave yourself the pleasure of telling -him what you thought of him, he’ll give himself the pleasure apparently -of making us pay for your fun.” - -“‘Fun’! A lot you know about fun.” - -“You wrote what you thought would hurt; and I expect it did hurt; and -the result, so far as I can see, is a very nasty and obstinate frame of -mind in Mr. Dingle. I won’t tell you all he said, though he was more -respectful to you than me. But he hasn’t done with it by a lot and -he’ll very likely ask for heavy damages.” - -“What does that mean?” - -“My money, Medora.” - -“Could he sink to that?” - -“It wouldn’t be sinking from his point of view. It ain’t regarded as -sinking by the law. The idea certainly hadn’t struck me till I heard -him on the subject; but I dare say it will happen. It’s within his -power.” - -“Doesn’t that show I said nothing in my letter he didn’t deserve? A man -who’d do that—” - -Medora felt a shadow of dislike towards Jordan. It was not the first -time that any suspicion of such an alarming sensation had coloured her -thoughts before his temperate statements and unimpassioned speeches. -Was he never to let himself go? But she fled from her impatience as -from a supreme danger. Kellock must be her hero, or nothing. She must -continue to see in him her salvation and her tower of strength; she -must let him feel and understand the reverence, the adoration in which -she held him and his superb sacrifice on the altar of the conventions. -For such a man the things that he had done were greater far than they -had been in the case of others. He had his future to think of as well -as Medora’s. He must not be allowed off his pedestal in her regard for -an instant. She realised that, and perceived how her own peace of mind -depended entirely on keeping him there. Her histrionic gifts were again -to be called to her assistance. - -Watchfully she would guard her own mind against any doubt of Jordan’s -essential qualities. His virtue and valour culminated, of course, in -the heroism that had run away with her and rescued her from her dragon. -The only weak and unintelligent action impartial judges might have -brought against Kellock must be to Medora his supreme expression of -masterful will and manly humanity. Even granting his love, indifferent -spectators had criticised Kellock most for believing Medora at all, -or allowing the assurances of such a volatile person to influence him -upon such a crucial matter. His real heroism and distinction of mind -was lost upon Medora; the achievements she valued in him belonged to -his weakness of imagination and a lack of humour destined to keep him -a second class man. He belonged to the order of whom it may be said -that they are “great and good,” not that they are “great.” But the good -qualifies—even discounts—the great. - -While Jordan had to be supported on his pillar at any cost if Medora’s -position was to be endurable, conversely it was necessary to preserve -her acute sense of Ned Dingle’s evil doing. There must be no slackening -of her detestation there; and that it now became necessary to practise -a large patience with Jordan and take no farther steps to impress upon -him her scorn of one so mean and base as Ned, quite distracted Medora. -Herein Kellock’s composure at first mystified her until he made clear -the need for it. - -“To reasonable minds like yours and mine,” he said, “no doubt it does -appear rather improper that we should have to be worldly wise about Mr. -Dingle. But, though the wisdom of the world is foolishness in the mind -of most clean thinking and honourable men, Medora, especially in a case -like this, yet I don’t see that we can do anything. We must just bend -to the law and mark time, I suppose. I don’t go so far as to say we -should demean ourselves to cultivate Mr. Dingle and be humble to him, -or anything like that; but it’s no good going out of the way to vex him -more than we are bound to do; because, the law, being what it is—all -on his side seemingly, we’re more or less powerless and quite in his -hands. It’s abominably wrong it should be; but we’ve got to recognise -the world as it is, and pay it the hypocrisy that virtue owes to vice -sometimes. In fact we’ve got to keep our nerve and lie low and wait for -him. And being what he is—hard and up against us and still smarting -under what happened—he may not be moved to do right all in a minute.” - -“He’s making fools of us in fact—that’s his low revenge,” said Medora. - -“He may think so in his ignorance, but he’s wrong. Only two people can -make fools of us,” answered Jordan, “and that’s we ourselves. We’ve -took the high line and we’re safe accordingly. All he’ll get out of -delay is the pangs of conscience; and what’s more he’ll put himself -wrong with the rest of the world.” - -“That’s some comfort,” said Medora. “They smart most who smart last, I -reckon. All the same it’s a blackguard thing on his part.” - -“The law moves a lot slower than human passion,” he explained, “and -though we say hard speeches against it, there is some advantage in -a machine that can’t be got to gallop as fast as man’s hate. It may -happen that, as time goes on, he’ll come to see that it’s a very -unmanly thing to talk about damages, because when it comes to that, -what price the damage he inflicted on your heart and nature? Many a -woman would have gone down under the persecution, and it was only your -own fine spirit and bed-rock pluck and courage that kept you from doing -so.” - -Medora approved these opinions, for praise was her favourite food, and -had Kellock understood the powers of flattery, he had always succeeded -in calming her tempests and exacting patience and obedience. But he -loved her and his love saw her in roseal light as a rule. He forgave -her little turpitudes and bitternesses and ebullitions, for was it not -natural that one who had so cruelly suffered should sometimes betray -those human weaknesses from which none is free? - -And for her, if the man had only been a husband to her, nothing on -earth would have shaken her resolution, or weakened her will power. But -that he was not, and her state of widowhood proved exceedingly painful -to one of Medora’s sanguine temperament, though this was the last -thing in her heart she could confess to Kellock. She panted in fact -for a lover sometimes; yet the consciousness that Jordan never panted -for anything of the sort made it impossible to hint at such a human -weakness. - -She found the line of least resistance was humble surrender to -Kellock’s high qualities. She abased her spirit at thought of his -sacrifice and really saw aright in the question of his love for her. -About that she could not make any mistake, for she had a mind quick -enough in sundry particulars and sufficiently realised that she had -won a man who would never fail her—a tower of strength—even though -the tower threw rather a heavy shadow. Her own nature was subdued to -what it had to work in; she wandered far from herself under these -excitations. She was, indeed, so little herself that she did not want -to be herself any more. But that ambition could not last. She felt -herself moving sometimes—the love of laughter and pleasure, the need -for stimulus, the cry for something to anticipate with joy. There was -no room for these delights, at any rate at present, in the purview of -Kellock. He continued solemn and staid, patient and wise, sometimes -quite inscrutable. He was magnificent, but not life—as Medora saw -life. Living with Jordan almost suggested living in church; and church -never had been Medora’s life, but rather an occasional interlude, -depending for its charm on the clothes she was wearing at the time. She -became a good deal depressed at this season and wept many secret tears. - -Then a little relaxation offered of the mildest. Mrs. Trivett was able -to report that Mary Dolbear and her husband had forgiven Medora, and -she and Kellock were invited to tea at Priory Farm. - -He agreed to go and assured her that here promised the beginning of -better times. - -“The people are coming to see the light of truth,” he said. “You can -always count on the natural good feeling of your fellow creatures, -Medora, if you’ll only be patient with them and give them time.” - -They arrived upon a Sunday afternoon in Spring and Jordan improved the -occasion as they walked through the green lanes. - -“The Spring teaches us that nothing is an end to itself, but everything -a beginning to something else,” he said. “You realise that more in the -Spring than the Summer, or Winter, and yet it’s just as true all the -year round.” - -“I’m sure it is,” said Medora. - -“And so with our present situation. It’s not complete in itself.” - -“Good Lord, no; I hope not.” - -“But just a becoming.” - -“It’s becoming unbearable if you ask me.” - -“No; we can stand it, because our position is impregnable. We can -afford to be patient; that’s the fine thing about rectitude: it can -always be patient. Wrong-doing can’t. Perhaps he’s spoken to your -mother on the subject. If he has not, then I shall feel it will soon be -my duty to see him again, Medora.” - -She was silent and presently, as they topped the hill and reached the -Priory ruins in Tom Dolbear’s orchard, Jordan spoke again. - -“That crowing cock reminds me of something I thought on in the night,” -he said; and Medora, glad that the ruin had not put him in recollection -of the last time they were there, expressed interest. - -“You think a lot at night, I know,” she said. - -“It was a bird in the inn yard crowing, and I thought how wise men are -like the cock and crow in the night of ignorance to waken up humanity. -But nobody likes to be woke up, and so they only get a frosty greeting -and we tell them to be quiet, so that we may sleep again.” - -“A very true thought, I’m sure,” she answered, smothering a yawn. Then, -as they entered the orchard by a side gate, a child or two ran to meet -Medora. At tea Mrs. Dolbear expressed tolerant opinions. - -“I judge nobody,” she said. “More does my husband. I only hope you’ll -soon put it right, so as not to give evil-disposed people the power to -scoff. However, of course, that’s not in your power. Ned Dingle will -suit his own convenience no doubt, and you must try and bear it best -way you can.” - -“There’s no difficulty as to that,” declared Medora, “knowing we’re in -the right.” - -“You bluffed it through very well by all accounts,” said Tom Dolbear; -“but you can’t defy the laws of marriage and expect the people as a -whole to feel the same to you. However, you’ll live it down no doubt.” - -Medora asked her mother whether Ned had taken further steps and Lydia -did not know. - -“Not to my knowledge,” she said. “He’s not one to do anything he’ll -regret. He’s thinking of damages against Mr. Kellock, and I believe his -lawyer’s of the same mind.” - -“Is he going to leave here?” - -“When he’s suited. Not sooner, I think.” - -“Knox is after his house, I hear, and has got the first refusal for -it,” said Tom Dolbear. “There’s a man in a hundred—Knox, I mean. -That’s what I call a philosopher sort of man—looks ahead and sees the -future’s only an echo of the past. So nothing he hears surprises him. -We are very much alike in our opinions. What he wants with a house I -don’t know, however. He may think to marry again, which would account -for it.” - -“I should hope Mr. Dingle would be gone pretty soon,” said Kellock. -“It’s a bit callous him stopping, I think, things being as they are. -It would be better for all parties if he went off in a dignified way, -before the decree is pronounced.” - -“I dare say he thought it was a bit callous when you bolted with his -wife,” answered Mrs. Dolbear. “Least said soonest mended, if you ask -me, young man.” - -Whereupon Medora, who was nursing the new baby, hated it suddenly and -handed it back to its mother. - -“If you’re going to talk like that, Aunt Polly,” she said, “it wasn’t -much good us coming.” - -“Yes, it was,” returned Mrs. Dolbear, “if only to hear sense. You must -be large-minded, or else you’re lost, and instead of quarrelling with -everybody who thinks you’ve done wrong, which will take you all your -time, Medora, better be sensible and sing small and tread on nobody’s -corns more than you can help. We’ve forgiven you for your dear mother’s -sake, and when you’re married to Mr. Kellock, you will be welcome here -and treated without any thought of the past. And so will he; and if -that isn’t Christianity made alive, I should like to know what is.” - -Mrs. Dolbear was so pleased with her own charity that neither Medora -nor Jordan had the heart to argue about it. Indeed argument would have -been wasted on Mary’s intelligence. She made Medora nurse the new baby -again, and consideration of the infant occupied her. - -“After your mother she has been called,” said Mrs. Dolbear, “and her -name’s the brightest thing about her so far. She’s healthy and seems -to have a live and let live sort of nature.” - -“She’s got lovely blue eyes,” said Medora. - -“They’ll fade, however,” explained her aunt. “Most of my children have -blue eyes to start with, but it ain’t a fast colour and can’t stand -the light. If you look at my husband’s eyes, you’ll see they be a very -pale, washed-out blue; and the children mostly take after him.” - -Lydia, her daughter and Mr. Kellock presently went for a walk before -supper. As a treat, Billy, Milly, Clara and Jenny Dolbear accompanied -them, and Tom himself started with the party. But he disappeared at the -“Man and Gun,” and they proceeded alone to the churchyard, that Lydia -might put some flowers on a new-made grave. - -The evening light brought out detail in the great grey tower above -them. Seed of fern had found the ledges and run little lines of dim -green along them. Over the battlements a white image of a cock hung for -weather-vane. The churchyard extended so that the evening sun flung -the shadows of the gravestones upon neighbour mounds, and Mrs. Trivett -pointed this out. - -“All his life long Noah Peeke darkened his daughter’s life,” she said, -“and now you see his slate flings a shadow on her grave, poor woman.” - -She put her nosegay on the raw-grass-clods built up over the sleeping -place of Miss Peeke, and removed some dead flowers. Then they climbed -the hill and extended their ramble with the children running on before. - -“My friend, Nancy Peeke, was father-ridden,” explained Lydia. “She -sacrificed herself to her widowed father, and though a good few offered -for her, she never left him. He reigned over her like a proper tyrant, -but he never saw what he was doing and wasn’t grateful to the day she -closed her eyes. By that time it was too late to do much herself; and -he ruled from the grave you may say, because up to her last illness, -what her father would have done was always the ruling passion in her. -It worked unconsciously; but it worked. He ruined her life so far as -we can say it. However, she’s at peace now. Death’s only a King of -Terrors to the living. He can’t fright her no more—nor her father -can’t neither.” - -“Take care people don’t say the same of you,” warned Medora. “You’re -Aunt Polly’s drudge at present, and many people know it quite well and -think it a shameful thing at your age—nobody more than Mr. Knox; and -when Jordan understands about it, he’ll protest as much as I do.” - -But Mrs. Trivett never allowed conversation personal to herself if she -could prevent it. - -Now she challenged Kellock, who had been very silent, and made him -talk. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -PHILANDER’S FATE - - -Medora’s mother found increasing matter for agitation in the attitude -of Ned Dingle. She had seen him twice and urged the need of action. She -had even offered to give him all her small savings towards the legal -cost of the operation. And then he had startled and shocked her a good -deal by two statements, neither of which Lydia had expected. - -“All in good time,” he had said. “I don’t feel any particular call to -hurry myself on their account. Plenty of time when I’ve settled my new -job. As to the cost, it would be particular hard if you, of all people, -was called to part on such a subject, and I wouldn’t allow it for a -moment. But when I do start on to it, my lawyer thinks I can bring a -pretty hot case against Kellock for damages; so I dare say I shall -knock expenses out of him, and a bit over. And the harder his savings -are hit, the better every right thinking person will be pleased.” - -So he had spoken, and two days later had disappeared from Ashprington, -and left no direction behind him. Where he was gone and whether he -would return, none knew. Kellock deplored the delay and Medora bitterly -resented it. She was very unhappy and her troubles now occupied her -mother’s mind. Mrs. Trivett felt chiefly concerned to approach Ned -Dingle again. - -“If he’s down Ivybridge way, at the paper mills there, I might go and -see him,” she said to Philander Knox in the luncheon hour; but Mr. Knox -either could not or would not assist Lydia to find her son-in-law. - -“I don’t know where he’s gone,” he answered, “and I shouldn’t worry in -that matter, because you can’t alter it, or turn Ned Dingle from his -plans, whatever they may be. On the whole, I should back him to do the -fair thing in his own time. You can’t expect him to go out of his way -for them.” - -“He wants to punish them seemingly,” said Lydia. “He told me the harder -Kellock was hit, the better people would be pleased. In fact he’s -getting a bit of his own back, I suppose, or thinks he is.” - -“In this case, it’s all or none,” answered Mr. Knox. “He can’t get a -bit of his own back, and he can’t call it his own if it’s ceased to be -his own. The subject’s wrapped in mystery, Lydia Trivett, and only time -will hatch what’s really in Ned’s mind.” - -“He oughtn’t to keep them on tenterhooks like this,” she said; but -Philander felt no call to criticise Mr. Dingle. - -“He’ll suit himself, and why not? I’ve given him a bit of useful -advice. Whether he’ll take it or not I can’t of course, say; but don’t -you fret, that’s all. Medora’s broke up a bit, I fancy. She’s just -beginning to see in a dim sort of way she’s not everybody. Being your -daughter, I’m willing to offer friendship; but if she’s going to thrust -me out of your thoughts, then she’ll have one more enemy than she’s got -at present, I warn you of that.” - -“You mustn’t talk so, my dear man, if you please,” said Mrs. Trivett. -“My daughter’s affairs and your affairs are two different things, and -you needn’t fear I’m forgetting all you’ve told me. You must let me -have the full fortnight I bargained for last week. But you’re on my -mind too—working underground like a mole—and though I may not exactly -see you at it, there’s the marks of you. In fact I do think of you a -lot, and if it’s any comfort to you, I’ve dreamed of you once or twice.” - -“In a friendly way, I hope?” - -“Quite friendly. We was shopping in a great shop, and I was carrying a -lot of parcels.” - -“I don’t believe in dreams,” he said. “Give me reality, and make up -your mind. Above all things don’t be influenced against me by—well, -you know. That’s where the danger lies, in my opinion, and you’ll be -going under your character if you let sentiment and silliness and a -barrow-load of other people’s children come between you and your duty -to yourself—not to mention me. Because I warn you, Lydia, that the -grand mistake you make is that you forget your duty to yourself. A lot -of good Christians do that; though your duty to yourself is quite as -much a part of righteousness as your duty to your neighbour. We’re told -to love our neighbour as ourselves, I believe, not better. And there’s -another side; by doing that woman’s work, and coming between her and -the lawful consequences of that litter of children, you’re not doing -her any good, but harm. You’re ruining her character, and helping her -to live a lazy life. You’ve taught her and your brother to take you -as an every-day creature, and all as much in the course of nature as -their daily bread, whereas the truth is that you are that rare thing, -an angel in the house, and your qualities are clean hidden from their -stupid eyes. It’s making a couple naturally selfish, ten times more so; -and that’s what you unselfish people bring about so often as not. You -toil and moil and work your fingers to the bone doing your duty, as you -think, when half the time you’re only doing somebody else’s duty. And -what’s the result? You’re not even respected for it. You’re taken for -granted—that’s all the reward you get—you’re taken for granted—never -a nice thing at best. And I tell you that you’re up against justice -to me and yourself, Lydia. For though we’ve not known each other a -year yet, there’s that in our natures that belongs to each other. It -would be a very proper thing to happen, and we should be teaching your -brother’s family a very simple but valuable lesson, which is that to -have anything for nothing in this world is robbery.” - -“All as true as true,” she answered. “I never find myself questioning -your sense, and I quite admit there’s often nobody so properly selfish -as your unselfish sort. I’ve seen them play the mischief with other -people’s lives, and create a very mistaken state of security in other -people’s houses.” - -“Once grasp that, and I shall live in hope,” said Philander. “Let each -man do his own work is a very good rule, because if you’re always -helping others, there’s a tidy chance your own job’s not being properly -done; and though you might argue that your own work here isn’t hurt -by what you do at Priory Farm, it’s quite possible that other work is -hurt. I mean the time for thought and self-improvement, and—in fact, -me. For I’ve a fair call upon your time under the present conditions, -and though it’s all right for Mrs. Dolbear to know you’re putting years -on to your life before you’ve lived them, it isn’t all right for your -true friends to hear about; and it isn’t all right for your Maker, Who -certainly never intended you for a nurse-maid at fifty odd years of -age—or for a rag-sorter, either. You’re ripe for higher things, and -there’s independence and peace waiting for you.” - -“I’m going to think of it,” said Lydia. “For many reasons I’d like it, -Philander Knox. You suit me very well, because you’ve got sense and -character, and we seem to think alike in a lot that matters. You’ve -made me fond of you, and I trust you. In fact, there’s such a lot -that looks promising about it, that, for that reason, one can’t help -mistrusting it. Life teaches anybody to doubt the bright side of a -thing till you’ve weighed it fairly against the dark side.” - -“This hasn’t got no dark side,” he declared; “and if you’re honest, the -longer you look at it, the brighter it will shine. So be fair to us -both. Trust your own brain-power; I can’t give you better advice than -that.” - -She promised, and that evening, though she had hardly meant to be so -prompt, Lydia raised the question among her relations. Accident led to -this, and threw so forcible a commentary on the conversation with Mr. -Knox, that the matter sprang to her lips unsummoned, and surprised -herself. Yet voiced in the kitchen of Priory Farm, from behind a pile -of the children’s mending, Lydia’s tremendous statement struck even -herself as almost impossibly shocking and heartless. - -Jenny had just suffered from an attack of croup and Lydia, of course, -took the sick child into her own room, as Tom Dolbear would not let -Mary do so. - -“I must have my night’s rest, or else I can’t do my day’s work,” he -said, and his wife agreed with him. - -“I know Lydia will take Jenny, won’t you, dear Lydia? Jenny’s that fond -of you, too. And there’s no peace for me and Tom like the peace when -the childer are along with you. Because then we know they’re put first.” - -This evening Jenny would not go to sleep and Lydia had run up and down -stairs once or twice. Then she went into a room where Milly and Clara -slept—to find them also awake and clamouring for biscuits. Having fed -and silenced them, she returned to the pile of mending. - -It was a rough, wet night and Mr. Dolbear sat and smoked by the fire, -while his wife drowsed on the other side of the hearth. The last baby -was asleep in its cradle near her. - -Tom told of a successful stroke at Totnes market and was pleased with -himself. - -“The year’s begun well,” he said. “I ain’t one to count my chickens -before they’re hatched, but I never had such lambs in my life and the -quality’s as high as the numbers.” - -“And no more than you deserve,” said his wife; “rewards come where -they are due, and such a man as you did ought to be looked after. Oh, -dear—there’s Jenny again, I’m afraid, Lydia.” - -Mrs. Trivett departed a third time and presently returned. - -“A little bit of temper, I’m afraid. She’s crying out for an orange to -suck, and that’s the last thing she can have.” - -“I wouldn’t call it temper,” argued Jenny’s mother. “No child of mine -have got what you’d call temper, Lydia.” - -“That’s where we don’t agree then,” answered her sister-in-law. “I’m -fond of Jenny, as you well know; but what she’s got to fight against is -temper, in my opinion. We mustn’t spoil her.” - -“If that happens, it won’t be me, nor yet her father that does the -harm,” declared Mary placidly. “Where children come, you’ll generally -find that wisdom is sent to manage them, and I do think that Tom and me -know something about how to manage our own.” - -“It’s so long ago since you had your daughter to bring up, that very -like you’ve forgotten the early stages, Lydia,” suggested Tom. - -“And in any case, though God knows I’d never have whispered it to you -if you hadn’t said Jenny suffered from temper—in any case, when you -look at Medora, you can’t be none too sure your way of upbringing was -the best,” murmured Mrs. Dolbear. - -Mrs. Trivett smiled to herself and threaded another needle. She knew -Mary very well and was not in the least concerned for this little -flash. It meant nothing whatever. Mary was a worm who only wriggled -if one of her progeny was trodden on. There was another shout from -Jenny and Lydia took no notice, while both Tom and Mary looked at her -inquiringly. - -Then she spoke. - -“I never like to trouble you people about my own affairs, because, -naturally, you’ve got no time to think about a humble person like me.” - -“Don’t say that, Lydia,” said her brother. “Ain’t you one of us and -ain’t our good your good?” - -“Yes; but it’s borne in on me, Tom, we can’t live for other people. -I’ve got my own life to live too. I’ve got my work, and I earn my -living just as much as you do.” - -“Meanwhile that sick child’s yowling her head off,” said Mary sadly. - -“She said she hated me last time I went up, so I can’t go up again,” -declared Mrs. Trivett, “not till she’s asleep.” - -“A child’s a child,” replied the mother, “and if you’re going to take -that line about ’em—” - -She rose ponderously and lumbered from the room. - -“You’ve hurt her feelings,” grumbled Tom. “What’s the matter with you -this evening, Lydia? If anybody’s vexed you, best to have it out and -not sulk over it.” - -“Funny I should be in hot water with you and Polly to-night,” answered -Mrs. Trivett. “But you ought to choose your words cleverer, Tom. I -don’t sulk, my dear, whatever my faults.” - -“I stand corrected,” answered Mr. Dolbear instantly. “God knows I’ve -no wish to quarrel with you, Lydia—no, nor would Polly. We’ve got a -great respect for you. As for our children—but you know what you are -to them. And we feel that nothing’s too good for you; and if I could -afford to let you live here without paying your seven and six-pence a -week, I’d thankfully let you—thankfully. But with such a family as -mine—” - -“For some things, however, if you had a paid woman to look after the -children, it might suit their mother better. She’d feel freer to speak -her mind.” - -“Certainly not,” he answered. “We don’t want no hirelings about the -children—not while we’ve got you. We couldn’t trust anybody like we -trust you; and Polly would never be the same woman, or get her needful -share of rest and peace with a lesser than you. And some day, I hope -to make you free of everything, and not let any money question arise -between us.” - -“I’m not worrying about my keep, Tom. Whatever else he may be, Jordan -Kellock has got a very good respect of me, and though I shall never -like him as well as Ned, yet he’s an honourable, upright man according -to his lights and I can trust him. Indeed he’s gone so far as to say -he’d like me to lead a different life; for he’s the same as Dingle -there: he doesn’t think it’s a very wise thing for an elderly woman to -be quite so busy as I am.” - -“Like his damned impertinence! And what does he mean by that, Priory -Farm, or the Mill?” - -Mrs. Dolbear returned at this moment; she was fretful. - -“I don’t know whatever you’ve done to Jenny. A proper tantarra the poor -maid’s in.” - -“I told her she couldn’t have another orange to-night, that’s all.” - -“Listen to this!” burst out Tom. “That blasted Kellock has been saying -Lydia’s over-worked!” - -“Who by?” asked his wife. - -“That’s just what I want to know.” - -“If he means the Mill, he’s right, I believe,” continued Mary. “I’ve -often wished she’d see her way to give up that troublesome work in the -rag house and stop here with us, in comfort and ease, with our little -ones to play with her.” - -“Or I might marry again and have a home of my own,” suggested Lydia. -“I’m the independent sort, Mary, and I often think it would be wiser to -do that than stop along with you as a lodger.” - -There was a moment of silence, then Mr. Dolbear flung his clay pipe -upon the hearth with such fury that it splintered into a thousand -fragments. - -“What in hell’s happened to-day?” he almost shouted. “Here I come home -with good news—great news, you may say—and instead of sharing our -pleasure and being glad, for the children’s sake if not for ours, that -I’ve had a stroke of luck, you do every damned thing you can think of -to pour cold water on it!” - -“My dear Tom, don’t be a fool,” answered Lydia calmly. “You and Polly -are getting so wrapped up in number one, that you can’t imagine anybody -having any interest or thought outside this house and the welfare of -you and your children. But the world goes on outside Priory Farm, and -I say again, it’s come to be a question with me whether I’m doing the -best I can do in the world by stopping here. A question of duty, mind. -I may tell you both that some very straight things have been spoke to -me of late, and I can’t pretend they haven’t got a lot of truth in -’em—perhaps more than the man who spoke them thought. For looking -back, as I have a good bit since this business of Medora, I see only -too bitter clear that it’s possible to be too unselfish and to spoil -young folk and unfit them for the battle of life by coming between them -and their duty. That’s what I did with Medora, as you reminded me just -now, Polly, and that’s my inclination with your little ones; and I’m -growing very doubtful if I’m not thinking of my own inclinations, or -personal desires, more than what’s right.” - -“Either you’re mad, Lydia, or you’ve been talking to somebody that’s -mad,” declared Tom furiously. “This is about the most shattering speech -I’ve ever heard from you, and for cruelty and unreason I never heard -the like. Look at my wife—ain’t that enough? If she’d seen a spectrum, -she couldn’t have gone whiter in the gills—and her chin’s dropped and -all her teeth showing. And if such a shock ain’t enough to turn her -milk sour and poison that baby, then I’m a fool.” - -Indeed Mrs. Dolbear had changed colour and did look extremely -frightened. - -“I know what you’re hinting at, Lydia,” she said, “and I can only -tell you if you was to do such a thing as to leave your brother at -a time like this, after you’d practically promised to help me with -his family—if you were to go on some selfish pretext and marry some -creature and lose your comfortable home and your fame for sense—if -you did that, you’d never have another peaceful moment from your -conscience.” - -“And you’d never deserve to have one,” added Tom. “Looked at on high -grounds, Lydia, it don’t bear thinking on for a second, and well you -know it. Bring your religion to bear on it, woman, and you’ll feel a -good pinch of shame, I shouldn’t wonder.” - -“That’s what I’m doing, if you could see it,” answered Lydia. “It’s -only a matter for religion, so far, and the welfare of the young -folk. I’m thinking for them and their characters. It would be a poor -come-along-of-it, Tom, if years hence you and Polly was to turn round -and say that I had marred your children’s natures.” - -“We’re the best judge of that,” he answered. “And if we’re satisfied -with your way of handling the children, whose business is it to put all -these wicked ideas in your head? God’s truth! I never heard of such -impudence. And you, at your age—as if you didn’t know what was duty -and what was not. Perhaps ’tis thought you spoil us as well as our -children, and give everything and get nothing in exchange?” - -He snorted with indignation when Lydia admitted that this was actually -the case. - -“Some do think so for that matter,” she confessed. - -Her brother honestly felt this to be an undeserved blow. He had built -up a very different picture of Lydia’s existence and believed that her -privileges at Priory Farm at least balanced any advantages that accrued -from her presence. This, however, was what Mary understood very much -better than Tom. She dwelt under no delusion on the subject and fully -appreciated the significance of her sister-in-law in the cosmic scheme. - -“If that’s the sort of thing outsiders say and you believe, then the -sooner you’re gone from my roof, the better pleased I shall be,” -shouted Mr. Dolbear. “I was under the impression that after your -husband died, Lydia, you turned to me for comfort and put me first -henceforth, and felt that this was a blessed haven for your middle age. -But, of course, if I’m wrong and you’re only a slave and I’m only a -slave-driver, then—” - -He stopped, for Mary did an uncommon thing and suddenly burst into an -explosion of noisy tears. - -“There!” said Mr. Dolbear tragically, “look at your work!” - -“It ain’t Lydia,” wept the other, “it’s you. I never was so cut to the -heart in all my life, and I can’t stand much more of it. Lydia’s as -much a part of this house as the door handles, and dearer to me, next -to my children and you, than anything on God’s earth; and when you talk -of her going away from us, you might as well talk of cutting off my -leg. We’re three in one and one in three, you and Lydia and me, and the -man or woman who came between us would be doing the devil’s work and -ought to be treated according.” - -“There’s a heart!” said Mr. Dolbear. “If that ain’t offering the other -cheek, Lydia—” - -“No,” continued Mary, drying her eyes, “there’s some sorrows I could -face, if it was the will of God, but the sorrow of living my life -without Lydia’s wisdom and help, and the light of her countenance—I -couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t be responsible. I know all she is in this -house, and though you in your manly way—which is to be annoyed when -you get a surprise you don’t like—though you, Tom, may foolishly -think Priory Farm could go on without Lydia, that only shows the gulf -there’s fixed between the male and female mind. I know Lydia’s the -lynch pin to our cart, and so do my girls, down to that innocent infant -in the cradle, if she could talk; and so do Lydia herself, for though -modest as a violet, she’s far too witty to misunderstand a thing like -that. And if I thought any evil influence was upon Lydia to make her -restless, I’d go on my knees to God to touch her heart and keep it in -the old pattern; and I’d stop on ’em till He had.” - -Here Mary wept again and Tom, impressed by so much emotion, moderated -his warmth. - -“If I said anything over and above, I’m sorry,” he declared. “But when -I get a shock, it nearly always loosens my tongue; and to think that -evil disposed persons have been poisoning Lydia’s mind against her own -is a bit beyond reason and justice.” - -“If we’re falling short in our duty and undervaluing you, Lydia, you -must tell us,” added Mary, “for we’re not the sort to fail in gratitude -I should hope. We may not voice our thanks; but God knows if they’re in -our prayers or not.” - -Then Lydia spoke. - -“It’s nothing like that. It’s only a natural difference of opinion. -There’s a man wants to marry me, and he can’t be blamed, looking at me -from his romantical point of view, for thinking he’d like to see me in -my own home.” - -Heavy silence followed, and only a cricket behind the oven broke it. - -Mrs. Dolbear’s heart sank. She was prepared to go to any possible -extremes of conduct rather than lose Lydia. Without Mrs. Trivett, her -own life must inevitably become a far more complicated and strenuous -matter than she desired. - -“It’s not for us to advise you,” she said, “but I hope the Almighty -will help you out of temptation, Lydia, for anything more dreadful and -unbecoming than that couldn’t happen to you.” - -“I dare say you’re right, Mary.” - -“I don’t tell you this for selfishness, nor yet because you’d leave a -house of mourners and break a lot of young, innocent hearts, if you was -to go. I tell you this, because I do believe your high nature wouldn’t -brook another man, or return into the wedded state with comfort after -all these widowed years of freedom. I can’t see you happy so; and I -can’t see any nice man wishing to take you out of this house.” - -Lydia rose to retire. - -“As to that, Polly, it’s all the point of view. Nobody can fairly -quarrel with the man. He’s all right.” - -“I’m sure I hope you don’t think of it all the same, after hearing my -wife, Lydia,” murmured Tom, now subdued. - -“I must think of it. I owe it to him. I’m sorry you can’t trust a woman -of my age to behave sensibly; but I dare say that’s natural. Only be -sure I’ve no wish to give either of you a pang. You know what I think -of you and the children, and how happy I’ve been to see them come into -the world so full of promise and hope. And if you look back, Polly, -you’ll see I’ve always tried to be on the side of discipline and sense, -and never lost a chance to strengthen your hand and win all proper -obedience for you and Tom.” - -“We know all that,” answered her brother. “You mustn’t think because -I’m a man of slow speech that my heart’s slow likewise. Far from it. I -like for everything to go smooth and peaceful; I hate change; and if -changes are coming, all I can say is I haven’t deserved ’em and more’s -my poor wife.” - -“Good night, Lydia. God bless you,” said Mary, mopping her eyes. Then -Mrs. Trivett left them and retired to the peace of her own sanctum. It -was true that Jenny at present shared this ark, but Jenny had at last -gone to sleep and Lydia meditated without interruption about her future. - -She came to a preliminary conclusion that, for once, duty was not -directly involved. It seemed at a first glance that her own inclination -might reasonably be considered, and that no choice between right and -wrong awaited her. To marry was a very reasonable step, whatever Mary -might say, for she was not old, and Mr. Knox could be trusted to make -a worthy spouse and treat her with all due respect and consideration. -She liked him and felt it quite possible to share his life and devote -herself to his comfort and welfare. But to refuse him would be no more -difficult than to accept him. Her present life, that looked so grey -seen from the outside, was agreeable enough to her. She loved work and -she loved children, especially her brother’s children. She had been -largely responsible for their up-bringing and they owed much to her. -Moreover they loved her quite as much as their mother. Indeed she was -the sun to their mother’s moon, and she very well knew what a disaster -her departure must be in the eyes of Milly and Bobby, Jenny and Clara. - -Nor could she well see her own life separated from theirs. She had -not decided when she went to sleep, but there was little doubt in her -subconscious mind as to how she would decide. Mary’s attitude had -also influenced her. The real terror in Mary’s eyes, when the threat -of departure broke upon her, Lydia could not easily forget. She dwelt -on these things and did not allow her sister-in-law’s craft, or her -brother’s anger and selfishness to influence her. - -As for Mr. and Mrs. Dolbear, they lay awake till dawn, racking their -brains to devise means by which Lydia might be preserved alive to them. - -“One thing’s certain in my mind,” said Tom. “We know the man; and that -ought to be a tower of strength. There’s no doubt it’s Philander Knox, -and all his sucking up to us and pretended friendship is now explained.” - -“We must get at him—for Lydia’s sake,” declared Mary. “She shan’t be -trapped to her doom by an unknown creature like that if I can prevent -it.” - -“There’s surely something beastly to the man,” asserted Tom, -“otherwise, after he’d once seen what my sister was in this house, he’d -have understood it was a vain and selfish plot to try and get her out -of it.” - -“She’s always talking about the greatest good to the greatest number,” -added Mary, “and now ’tis for her to practise what she preaches. Here -there’s ten want her; and is one doubtful male, come from Lord knows -where, to count against all her nearest and dearest? God forbid!” - -“Well, I hope she’ll see it like that; and if she don’t, we must make -it our business to queer that man’s pitch. If you and me, working -heart and soul for our children and the family in general, can’t get -this foreigner on the run, we’re not what I think we are.” - - * * * * * - -Next morning Mary was far too indisposed to rise, and before she went -to work, Lydia took her up a cup of tea and three slices of toast and -butter. - -“I’ve decided, Mary,” she said, “and if it’s any comfort to you to know -it, I may tell you that I shall stop here.” - -Whereupon Mary wept again, held Mrs. Trivett’s hand and kissed it. - -“Blessed be your name,” she gurgled, “and may God’s reward meet the -case, Lydia. I’d give you all the kingdoms of earth if they was mine.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -THE PROTEST - - -At one end of the glazing house—a lofty and bright workroom at the -top story of the Mill—stood the dry press, to which the choice papers -demanding extra finish came after glazing. Here they were piled between -heavy slabs of hot metal and subject to great pressure; but the primal -business of glazing had already been done between metal rollers. A -range of these presented the principal object in this workshop. - -Girls prepared the paper for the rollers, and Medora had once been of -this cheerful and busy throng. Hither came the paper from its final -drying after the size bath, and the workers stood with a heap of sheets -on one side of them and a little stack of polished zinc plates on the -other. With her left hand each girl snatched a sheet of paper, with -her right a plate of zinc; and then she inter-leaved the paper with -the metal until a good wad rose in her crib. The paper was now ready -for the glazing rollers, and men, who tended these massive machines, -ran the sheets and zinc wads between the steel rollers, backward and -forward twice and thrice under tremendous strain. Then what was dim and -lustreless reappeared with a bright and shining surface, and the sheets -returned again to the girls, who separated zinc and paper once more. - -Mr. Pinhey had often preached on this text—indeed his simile was worn -threadbare, though he repeated it to every new-comer in the glazing -house and rolling room. - -“With paper as with humans,” he would say, “nothing like a sharp pinch -to bring out the polish; that is if a man’s built of stuff good enough -to take a polish. Of course some are not; we know that only too well.” - -The distinctive sounds in this great shop were three and did he hear -them, a paper maker with his eyes shut would know exactly where he was. -First, the steady thud of the plates on the side of the wooden cribs; -next, the ceaseless rustle and hiss of the paper flying between the -girl’s hands as it is laid upon the zinc or snatched off it; and lastly -the rumble of the rolling machines sounding a bass as they grip the -piles of paper and metal and squeeze them up and down. - -The very precious papers went to the dry press; but the mass of them -passed directly to the sorters, who graded all stock into three -qualities—perfect, less perfect, and inferior. No inferior paper -ever left Dene Mill. It was pulped again; but could not aspire to the -highest standard having once sunk beneath it. - -And lastly it came to Mr. Pinhey—the finisher—who seemed a figure -conceived and planned for this lofty purpose. Spick and span in his -snowy apron, with delicate hands and quick eyes behind their shining -glasses, he moved spotless through the mountains and masses of the -finished article; he passed amid the ordered blocks magisterially—a -very spirit of purity who reigned over the reams and called them -by their names. Wove and laid Imperial, Super-royal, Medium, Demy, -Foolscap and Double Foolscap were all included. Here towered orange -and old rose sections; here azure and ultramarine; here sea green, -here opaline pink and every delicate shade of buff and cream, to the -snowy whiteness of the great papers and mightiest sheets. From fairy -note to “double elephant” ranged Mr. Pinhey’s activity. He worked among -the papers, great and small, and put the last touch of perfection and -completeness before they passed away into the larger world. - -But to-day Nicholas was concerned with a little affair outside the -province of the finisher. On a sheet of palest pink, a sheet that -seemed actually itself to blush at the delicacy of its task, Mr. Pinhey -had written a few sentences in his happiest manner and was handing it -round the shop, that men and women might set their names thereto. He -told everybody that he much disliked such an appeal and protest, but -that his sense of propriety made it necessary, for conscience sake, to -proceed. He was honest in this assurance and did not deceive himself. -Some of his co-workers, who declined to sign, thought that Mr. Pinhey -was conducting his cathartic mission from private motives, not of -the highest, and frankly told him so; but they were wrong. The man -steadfastly believed that religion demanded his action. He had debated -the problem for many weeks and at last come to the conclusion that a -strong step must be taken. - -The fact that Jordan Kellock should continue to earn his living at -Dene Mill, while he lived in sin out of it, had become a mental -possession with Mr. Pinhey. He believed that such a situation must -be an active challenge to Providence, a perpetual blister to the -Everlasting Intelligence on Whose watchful keeping that human hive -depended. It seemed to Nicholas that this negation of right could not -go on for ever, and he presently convinced himself that what appeared -to be nobody’s business, was in reality everybody’s business. He -suspected that many of the more sober and God-fearing agreed with -him, and he knew that, so far as the glazing house was concerned, the -majority always agreed as a matter of course with his views. Only -the irreligious or low-minded ever questioned him, and when they had -committed that error, he did not rest until he had got them out of his -department. - -And now he had drafted an appeal to Mr. Trenchard and was procuring all -possible signatures for it. - -It began “We the undersigned,” and it expressed a pious conviction that -the presence of Jordan Kellock in the vat house was a source of danger -to the prosperity of the Mill, and a threat to the spiritual stability -of younger people, who would see in his support and encouragement an -indication that morals counted for less than professional ability and -that skill and craft were rated higher than a right way of living and -scrupulous obedience to Divine precept. - -He was pleased with the composition, but took no credit to himself. -He felt that his hand had been guided when he wrote it, and believed -that every word was in the right place by a direct act of inspiration. -And now he desired the largest number of signatures possible—from the -heads of departments for choice. Unhappily there were strong forces -opposed to Nicholas and he knew that not only would the foreman, -Ernest Trood, refuse to sign, but he might influence others against -so doing. Neither could Medora’s mother be easily approached, though -she had always represented a force for good. He decided, however, to -invite Lydia’s opinion. She could at least see the other side, and Mr. -Pinhey felt that she would not misunderstand a man of his repute if he -discussed the painful subject on the plane where he habitually moved. -For he, too, very constantly spoke of “moving on a plane,” even as the -unregenerate Kellock was used to do. Indeed, they had no little in -common—a fact that came to Mr. Pinhey’s shocked ear on this identical -day. - -During the dinner hour, fountain-pen in hand, Nicholas proceeded upon -his task, nerved thereto by most exalted sentiments. The certainties -all signed with gusto; but among the doubtful attestors, Mr. Pinhey was -disappointed to find few prepared to support him. Lydia he approached, -where she sat reading a newspaper in her workroom. Indeed her thoughts -were far from the printed page, but she opened it from force of habit -until the work bell rang again. - -“I’ll thank you to read this, Mrs. Trivett,” said Nicholas, as he -presented his blushing manifesto. “You may for a moment doubt whether -I ought to ask you, of all people, to sign it. I’ve been advised not. -But we’re old friends, I believe, and I know you’ll never quarrel with -the man who does his duty, even if you don’t see his duty with the same -eyes as him.” - -“Duty’s often a doubtful matter,” she said, “and we mistake inclination -for duty sometimes. You can easily hoodwink yourself about duty, -Nicholas.” - -She read the protest and gave it back to him and shook her head. - -“Do as you think right,” she said. “But don’t ask me to sign that. -You’ll guess without being told what a sad thing this is for a mother; -but I’m not going to take sides this time of day. I’ve told them what -I think about it and how I’ve suffered over it, and I’ve told other -people also; but there’s nothing gained that I can see by this. There’s -more in it than meets the eye, and Jordan Kellock is the sort of man to -feel the punishment of his own conscience much sharper than the voice, -or vote, of his fellow men.” - -“‘Conscience!’” exclaimed Mr. Pinhey. “How can you say that the man who -does a thing like that have got a conscience, Mrs. Trivett?” - -“Because I know he has—so do you if you’ll think. There’s very few -so fussy and nice about life and its duties and bearings as Jordan -Kellock. We all know what he is; and until this happened, nobody -respected him more than you. And now he’s done a thing that your -conscience and mine don’t approve. But remember this, he’d never have -done it if his own conscience hadn’t supported him.” - -“It was the devil getting the better of his conscience,” argued -Nicholas. “He was always weak, because he was self-righteous, though -Lord knows, seeing his foggy religious opinions, none had less reason -to be. He had got his own theory of morals seemingly, and since it -didn’t come out of the Word, it was worthless as you’d expect. So when -the trial came and your daughter—” - -“Leave it, there’s a good man. I’m not going to argue upon it. I hope -they’ll soon be properly married and this sad business allowed to pass -by and be forgot. For the minute it’s up to Ned Dingle, and I’ve been -bitter sorry for him, and he knows all I think about it; but there’s no -more can be done to right the wrong and ease people who feel like you, -till Ned does it.” - -“Your heart is speaking against your morals, Lydia, if I may say so.” - -“You may say what you like, of course.” - -“You can’t rise to the thought that it is painful for some of us to -earn our living under the same roof as that man?” - -“No,” she said. “I’ve never met the man or woman so bad that I couldn’t -work under the same roof with them.” - -He shrugged his shoulders. - -“It’s doubtfully Christian to be so large-minded in my opinion,” he -said. “Do the other women up here think the same?” - -“Alice Barefoot will sign; but her brother, Henry, will not.” - -“Being an old sailor, no doubt he won’t,” said Mr. Pinhey. He won Miss -Barefoot’s support, however, and then skirmished in the neighbourhood -of the vat house. Jordan was not there, and after Mr. Life had appended -his signature and Harold Spry, Kellock’s coucher, had declined to do -so, Nicholas approached Philander Knox. - -“I don’t know your exact opinions,” he said; “but I should be glad if -you can feel on this subject with most of us serious people. You know -the facts and feel it oughtn’t to go on, I expect—that is if you take -life seriously, as no doubt you do.” - -“The thing is to take other people’s lives seriously and your own -pretty light,” said Knox. “That’s the best way, because it keeps your -sense of proportion about fair, Pinhey.” - -Nicholas liked these problems, but was doubtful here. - -“Do you mean as a matter of morals?” he asked. - -“No—as a matter of business,” replied Philander. “Because if you put -yourself first always, your fellow creatures will be mighty quick to -put you second, or third, or out of the running altogether. Nobody -bores people worse than the man who is always thinking about himself. -But if you show a proper interest in others and their hopes and fears -and likes and dislikes, then the better sort will gladly give as well -as take. If you want anything for nothing in this world, you won’t get -it; but the more you give, the more you’ll receive, in my experience. -In the matter of giving don’t stint and don’t squander; and don’t give -where you’ll get nothing back of course—that’s foolish.” - -Mr. Pinhey shook his head. - -“Worldly wise, not heavenly wise,” he declared. “Be so good as to read -this document, Knox, and let me have the pleasure of seeing you sign -it. It’s the elder people I want to do so. In fact I’m not showing it -to the young ones. Better such things should not enter their innocent -minds.” - -Mr. Knox read Kellock’s indictment and grinned. - -“What do you know of sin, you old caterpillar?” he asked very rudely. -“Good powers, my man, d’you see what you’re doing? You’re shaving with -a blunt razor over another chap’s wounds. Blow out reason’s candle if -you like to walk without light; but don’t from your darkness presume to -show other people their road. That’s damned impertinent and only makes -the other sort cuss.” - -Mr. Pinhey shrank resentfully. - -“If you make reason your guide,” he said, “God help you, Philander -Knox. And—” - -“Tear it up—tear it up and save Trenchard the trouble, Pinhey. Be -guided by a man who’s moved in a larger world than yourself.” - -“A larger and a wickeder world, if you can talk like that about sin,” -answered Nicholas, who had grown pinker than his paper. - -“I’m not talking about sin. I’d as soon talk about sin to a bluebottle -as you. You’re one of the born good sort, you are, and the funny thing -is that you’ve worked in the same business with Kellock all these years -and years and don’t know he’s the same order of creation as yourself. -Why, my dear man, he might be your son!” - -“This is too much and I won’t stand it,” answered Mr. Pinhey. “I ask -you to recall that, Knox; or I won’t know you from this hour forward.” - -“Don’t be fussy. We’re both well past our half century and can air our -opinions without getting cross. I mean that Kellock is a serious-minded -chap with a strong character and steadfast opinions. He’s just as -anxious to leave the world better than he found it as you are. And he -means to do so; and very likely, if he’s not too deadly in earnest -and too narrow in his virtues, he may. You must grant him his good -character, Pinhey, and then ask yourself whether a man with his past -would have done this without what seemed good and high reasons. I’m not -saying he was right for a minute; but I’m saying he weighed it in all -its bearings and from his mistaken and inexperienced point of view made -this big error.” - -“And aren’t we here to show him his error?” - -“No, we can’t show it to him. You wouldn’t convince him if you talked -for a month from your point of view. Sit tight—that’s all you’ve got -to do. I believe he’s made a big mistake and I believe he’ll see it for -himself before he’s six months older. But let his own nature work and -don’t say more till you know more. What looks like wickedness to one -man’s eye may seem goodness to another man’s.” - -Mr. Pinhey had now grown calm. - -“Then I won’t waste more of your time,” he answered. “You speak, I -suppose, what you believe according to reason; but I wouldn’t say you -were a very good advertisement even for reason, Knox. I know your eyes -will be opened about that man sooner or later. I can only trust that -he’s one by himself. I stand on the old paths and I believe most of us -here do the same. But if we’re going to set up Kellock and his ways as -a model, then I don’t see myself what’s to become of civilisation, or -religion either.” - -He departed, completed his rounds and confessed to disappointment at -the result. Still he had mustered a respectable following and the -document he left at Matthew Trenchard’s private house that evening -was signed by twenty-eight men and women in more or less responsible -positions. - -To his everlasting surprise and indignation, Mr. Pinhey never heard of -the protest again. He might as well have dropped it into the Dart, or -posted it on the west wind. - -A week passed and nothing happened. Nicholas had met the master -frequently and found him just as usual—cheery, practical, busy. He -fumed in secret. He told Robert Life and old Mr. Amos Toft, who mixed -the size, that were it not for the fact that he only wanted a year to -qualify for his pension, he would resign. - -Mrs. Trivett and Philander Knox discussed the matter on an occasion -when they met at close of work. It was the day on which Lydia had to -announce her decision with respect to her admirer, and they both knew -the time had come. - -“We’ll give the Corkscrew a miss and go round the pond,” he said. “You -can’t talk climbing that Jacob’s ladder of a hill—at least I can’t.” - -Her heart sank, for she had desired to make the painful interview -as brief as possible. But the event proved that Lydia need not have -feared, for Mr. Knox took her black news in an unexpected spirit. - -They spoke first, however, of Medora and Jordan Kellock. - -“I never heard the like,” said Lydia. “It shows the danger of doing -such things and not counting the cost. They was so wrapped up in -their own affairs that they never saw it takes three people to make a -divorce, and now that injured man is opening their eyes. It’s all as -wrong as wrong can be, yet where are you going to put the blame?” - -“I’m not going to put the blame anywhere,” answered Mr. Knox. “There’s -a lot too much meddling, in my opinion, and if they’re only left alone, -those three people may work out their own salvation in their own way. -I’m fed up with ’em: one would think the welfare of Dene hung on their -capers. To hear old Pinhey, you’d say it depended on our opinion -about ’em whether we’d ever get to heaven ourselves. Where you can’t -help, don’t worrit. They’re all right; but what about me? This is the -appointed time, Lydia, and I hope I may add that this is the day of -salvation.” - -She jumped at the suggestion to lighten her refusal. - -“I expect you may; and you’ll look back at this evening and feel you -are better a free man. Yes, you must regard yourself as free, please—I -couldn’t do it—I couldn’t take another. I’m fond of you, if that is -anything, and I’m proud you could have a fancy for me; for a reminder -that I’m a woman, coming from such a man as you, naturally makes me a -bit above myself. But my life’s run into a mould, you see. It’s found -its channel, like a river does; and it’s made its bed. I say again I -like you—I even love you, if the word ain’t nonsense at fifty; but -I’ve seen my duty clear since we spoke about it. I couldn’t fairly -leave my sister-in-law and brother. ’Twould be like taking a screw out -of a machine. The screw ain’t much in itself but a lot depends upon it.” - -“You won’t marry me, you mean?” - -“Won’t ain’t the word. I’d be very pleased to be your wife if I was a -free party, but in a sense I’m not free. You can’t be in two places at -once, like a flash of lightning, and I can’t keep house for you and -look after Mary’s family and do my bit at Priory Farm. And it amounts -to this—my brother, when he heard what was afoot, made it very clear -that Priory Farm simply couldn’t get on without me. That may seem a -vain thing to you; but it’s the truth—absurd, I dare say; but they’re -built like that. You, on the contrary, would get on without me well -enough.” - -“Speak for yourself, but not for me,” he said, “and not for your -brother, Tom, and his mate. Rabbits in a hutch have got to be looked -after, I grant, but you mustn’t believe everything you hear—even from -Tom Dolbear. Answer this: if you died to-morrow, what would happen at -Priory Farm? Why, my dear woman, in six weeks they’d have somebody -in your place who looked after the children all her time; and they’d -wonder why they never thought of that before. We won’t argue about it, -however. When you say ‘duty,’ I’m dumb, of course. But tell me this -before we drop the subject: would you marry me if things were otherwise -and your sense of duty didn’t come between?” - -Mrs. Trivett was immensely relieved to find how quietly he had taken -his reverse. - -“Of course I would,” she said. “You’re one of the best, and if it -hadn’t been that I’d got to work out my life same as I’m doing, I’d -have been glad enough to come to you. People at our time of day have -got judgment, if ever they’re going to have it, and in my opinion we -should have made a well-matched pair enough. But such good things are -not for me. I’ve been happily married once, and can’t expect it again.” - -He continued to be quite restrained. - -“I venture to think you’re about as wrong as you can be, Lydia, and -your usual good sense has gone astray. But I know duty’s your guiding -star, and I’m happy to think duty changes its shape from time to time, -like most other human contrivances.” - -“I’ll always try to do it, my dear man, however it looks.” - -“You will—that’s why I’m keeping so quiet now, instead of breaking out -and making a noise and lowering myself in your opinion. The beauty of -a woman like you is that you’re steadfast—a slave, if not a martyr to -what you think right. That being so, I take your word for the minute, -and leave the rest to Providence.” - -She was puzzled, but very glad he could be so gentle with her. - -“You’ve took it like the wise man you are,” she said. “I might have -known you would; but I was afraid you wouldn’t.” - -“I haven’t took it,” he answered. “There are some things you don’t -take, and this is one of them. I’ve a great trust in the future, Lydia -Trivett. The future, though it plays many people false, have always -treated me in a very sportsmanlike and trustworthy manner so far.” - -“That’s because you make your future just the same as you make your -paper, and leave nothing to chance.” - -“You never spoke a truer word,” he answered. “I’m not going to brag -before the event; but if ever I was properly interested in a bit of my -future, it’s now; and if I can get the pattern right, and stamp my will -and purpose upon it, I dare say you’ll be a good bit surprised yet.” - -She became uneasy. - -“Don’t you meddle with fate, however. That’s not our work,” she said. - -“And what would you be inclined to call ‘fate’?” he asked. - -“Well,” she answered, “in a manner of speaking, you might call ‘fate’ -my dear brother, Tom, and his wife. And I’ll ask you not to touch them, -Philander.” - -“I promise that. That wouldn’t be playing the game,” he admitted. “I’d -be very sorry if they had anything to do with my future, Lydia. You -might as well try to carve butter, or a turnip, into an enduring thing. -I shall treat your brother and his wife the same as I’ve always treated -them. For the present, we’ll just go on as we’re going, please—good -friends, and nothing more. I’ve a right to ask that.” - -“I wish you’d take ‘no’ for an answer, however.” - -“There’s nothing final about anything in this world except death, my -dear. While she’s alive it’s never too late for a woman to change her -mind. And if you did, it would be very unfortunate if I was in such a -position I couldn’t listen to you. You may ask me to marry you, yet, -Lydia—if Providence so wills it—though not leap year, I believe.” - -She laughed, and such was his amiability that he saw her all the way -home. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -A TEST FOR JORDAN KELLOCK - - -Philander Knox combined with his level temper and tolerant philosophy -an element of shrewdness which those with whom his lot was now cast -failed to appreciate. He was no intriguer for choice, nor might he -be called inquisitive; but if the occasion demanded it and his own -interests were involved, Philander found himself quite prepared to -employ his latent gifts. He was cunning, with that peculiar sort of -craft that often belongs to expansive and genial natures; he could, -in fact, be exceedingly sly and even unscrupulous within certain -limits. Now the need for active operations on his own behalf began to -be obvious to Mr. Knox. Finding that she cared for him, he had not -the smallest intention of losing Lydia. He felt her argument against -matrimony beneath serious consideration; but he knew that to her the -reasons for his rejection were grave and sufficient, and he did not -propose any counter-attack on the front of his reverse. - -He preferred a more circuitous response. He devoted a great deal of -time to the subject and then took an occasion to see Medora. That he -might do so, he would spend his leisure by the river and smoke his pipe -there out of working hours. For some time he failed; but then came a -day when he saw her returning to “The Waterman’s Arms” from the village -and greeted her. - -Always glad to hear a kindly voice and aware that Knox had become -a friend of her family, Medora smiled upon the vatman. He appeared -gloomy, however, and their conversation began by his confessing his -private tribulations. - -“You’ve got a heart,” he said, “and you are one of the brave sort that -stand up to life and go through with a thing like a good plucked one, -even though you know you’ve made a mistake. Well, such show sympathy -for their neighbours, Medora, so I’m sure you’ll be sorry to hear I’ve -had a great disappointment.” - -The other guessed what it was. - -“Mother won’t marry you!” - -“So she says; but on a very poor excuse in my opinion. Such a sensible -woman might have found a better reason for turning me down. In fact -she would—if there’d been a better reason; but the truth is there’s -no reason at all. Therefore, though she thinks I’m rejected, I don’t -regard myself as in that position—not yet.” - -A love so venerable in her eyes did not interest Medora, but she mildly -wondered at him. - -“I’m sure I can’t think how you old people can run after each other and -drive each other miserable, when you see what a beastly mess we young -people make of love,” she said. - -“Ah! You speak with a good deal of feeling. But we old people—as you -call us, rather thoughtlessly, Medora—we old people don’t take you -children for a model. We’ve been through those stages, and what we -understand by love ain’t what you understand by it. We’ve forgotten -more than you know. I should have thought now that Kellock—a man so -much older than his years—might have given you a glimpse of the beauty -and steadfastness of what we’ll call middling to middle-aged love, -Medora?” - -“Perhaps he has.” - -“Don’t his ideas appeal to you as a bit lofty and high class—as -compared with your first’s notion of it for instance?” - -She looked sharply at Mr. Knox, but did not answer. He put the question -moodily and appeared not interested in an answer. Indeed he proceeded -without waiting for her to speak. - -“There’s two sorts of women, and you can divide them like this—the -sort of women men go to when they want to grumble about their wives, -and the other sort. A man knows by instinct whether he’ll get a tender -hearing, or whether he won’t.” - -“I didn’t know decent men did grumble about their wives,” said Medora. - -“Didn’t you? Oh, yes, they do—even the best, sometimes. If decent -women can grumble about their husbands—you, for example—why shouldn’t -decent men?” - -“I haven’t got a husband at present,” said Medora sharply, “so you -needn’t drag me in.” - -“The sensible way you look facts in the face is very much to be -admired,” he answered. “There’s a lot of girls, if they’d done what -you’ve done, would bury their heads in the sand, like the ostrich, -and think it was all right. But you don’t let the truth escape you. I -admire you for that. In a way, it’s true you haven’t got a husband at -present, but on the other hand, you have.” - -“I won’t pretend; I never will pretend,” she answered, pleased at his -praise. “I do look things in the face, as you say, though nobody gives -me credit for it, and I’m not going to call Mr. Kellock my husband till -he is.” - -“I wasn’t thinking so much about him as Mr. Dingle. You’re that -fearless that you won’t be afraid of the fact that under the law he’s -your husband still, monstrous though it may sound.” - -Medora nodded. She did not resent the statement, but asked a curious -question. - -“How does he find himself?” she inquired, and it was Mr. Knox’s turn to -be surprised. But he showed no astonishment. - -“To be plain, he’s suffered a lot. I’ve got the pleasure of being -his friend, because he knows I’m a man who keeps himself to himself, -and doesn’t push in where angels fear to tread. He’s given me -his confidence, and I find this has been a very cruel facer for -Dingle—knocked him out altogether. He’ll get over it some day, as a -brave man should. But he’s got a warm heart, and he’ll never be quite -the same again—naturally.” - -“If he’s suffered, so have I,” said Medora, “and if you’re in his -confidence, I may tell you that I want all my pluck and a bit over -sometimes. I knew more or less what I was going to face; but I didn’t -know all.” - -“No woman ever does know all when she takes over a man. It cuts both -ways, however. Kellock didn’t know all when he ran away with you.” - -“Know all! No, he don’t know all. He don’t know half what I thought he -knew, and what I’d a right to think he knew.” - -“Dear me!” said Mr. Knox. “Don’t he, Medora?” - -“I’m speaking in confidence, I hope?” - -“That be sure of. I’m old enough to be your father, and shall -faithfully respect your secrets, just as I respect Mr. Kellock’s, or -Ned’s, or anybody’s.” - -“Sometimes I think my life’s going to turn into one long Sunday now,” -she said. - -“That’s a good sign, because it shows you’re grasping the stern truth; -and it shows Jordan’s breaking you in. Once you’re broken in, Medora, -you and him will come together in a real understanding spirit. No doubt -the first stages are rather painful to a handsome, clever bit like you, -with dashing ideas, and the memory of what life was with Ned; but only -give Kellock time, and the past will grow dim, and you’ll get used to -the everlasting Sunday idea. I greatly admire Kellock, because he never -changes. He’ll be a bit monotonous at first compared with the past, -but he’ll wear. You’ll feel you’re always living in cold, bitter clear -moonlight with Kellock; and I dare say you’ll miss the sunshine a bit -for ten years or so; but gradually you’ll get chilled down to his way. -And once you’ve settled to it, you’ll hate the sunshine, and come to be -just a wise, owl-eyed sort, same as him.” - -Medora could not conceal a shiver. - -“You’ve voted for moonlight and cold water against sunshine and a glass -of sparkling now and again—and, no doubt, you’re right, Medora.” - -She turned on him passionately. - -“Don’t—don’t, for God’s sake!” she cried. “What d’you think I’m made -of—ice?” - -“Not yet. You can’t change your happy nature all in a minute. It’ll -come over you gradual—like the salt over Lot’s wife. You naturally -want to know what Ned’s going to do about it, and I’ve been at him -on that score—because your mother’s asked me to. She don’t like the -present doubt and delay, and so on. It’s uncomfortable, and makes the -unrighteous scoff.” - -“If he wants us to eat dirt—” - -“No, no, nothing like that. Ned’s a gentleman, but these things have -shaken him. He’ll make up his mind presently, but he wants to act for -the best—for your sake. Not for Jordan’s, but for yours. There’s a -lot goes to such a thing as you’ve done, and you want to be a student -of character before you decide about it. Ned don’t mean to let his -feelings run away with him. He’s got to think of your future.” - -“Then why has he sunk to damages against Mr. Kellock?” - -“Don’t believe anything you hear yet. I happen to know that Ned has not -settled upon that question. He’s very large-minded, as you’ll remember.” - -“That would be the last straw, I should think.” - -“You can’t fairly quarrel with him, even if he do shake a bit of cash -out of your husband to be. I’m sure I should have. You may never -know now all that you were to Ned; but I know, and he knows. He’s -been wonderful, in my opinion, and, with your great imagination, you -ought to see how wonderful. If he didn’t kill Kellock, why was it? -Out of regard for himself? Not a chance! Ned’s fearless, as the male -should be, and would hang for Kellock to-morrow—especially seeing -he’s got no particular interest in going on living himself, owing to -his shattering loss. No, Medora; he didn’t spare your future husband -because he was frightened of letting daylight into him; he spared him -because he knew you loved him better than anything on earth. You put -that in your pipe and smoke it, my dear. And take heart from it also; -for if Ned wouldn’t sink to Kellock’s life, you may bet your pretty -shoes he wouldn’t touch his money. Now I must get back.” - -“There’s a lot more I’d like to say, however. When you do find a fellow -creature that understands, which isn’t often, your soul craves to -speak,” said Medora. - -“Another time, perhaps. But mind this. Be fair. You’re so brave, I -see, that you can afford to be fair to all parties—friends and foes, -so to call ’em. And you know a fine character when you see it, I’m -sure,” concluded Philander vaguely; then he sped away, leaving the girl -anxious both to hear and tell more. She did not comprehend Mr. Knox in -the least, but perceived he was friendly. There was, moreover, a human -ring in his voice that heartened her, and she felt the contrast keenly -when she returned to the level tones and unimpassioned serenity of -Jordan Kellock. - -But for once she did see Kellock taken out of himself, and in a frame -of mind enthusiastic and excited. - -There came that evening a man to visit him from Totnes. He was an -earnest and serious-minded person, well known to Jordan, and in his -leisure he did secretarial work for the local branch of the Independent -Labour Party. Upon that organisation, in the opinion of Kellock, the -hope and future prosperity of his class now hung. By its activities -alone salvation might presently be welcomed. And now his friend, acting -as mouth-piece of the party, invited Kellock to deliver a lecture at -Totnes, on “Our Aims and Hopes.” It was understood that county men of -authority in the movement would be present, and Kellock did not need -his fellow politician to point out that herein their side designed the -young vatman an opportunity to show what he was good for. - -“You’ll jump at it, of course, and do your very best. It may be -worth a lot to you if you get ’em. Lawson and Jenkins will be there -from Plymouth, and very likely Sawdye, from Newton. I’ll beat up the -Totnes crowd. Give ’em an hour of your hottest stuff, and keep the -shop-stewards to the front. We want to get a move on the unions all -round. They’re growing a bit mouldy in their ideas; but Labour can’t -stand still for them.” - -“The trades unions were made for Labour, not Labour for trades unions,” -declared Kellock. - -“That’s right; you rub that into them.” - -The young man stayed to supper, and he and Kellock soared to heights -that Medora had not yet imagined. Jordan was full of life, and -displayed a vivacity that he had never displayed in conversation on his -private affairs. It was clear that nothing personal would ever light -such fires. They were reserved for the cause and the cause alone. - -When the man from Totnes had departed, Kellock addressed Medora. - -“You may say that this is the biggest thing that has ever happened to -me,” he began. “I didn’t expect it yet, and I must confess I’m a good -bit gratified.” - -“So it seems,” she said. - -“Yes; because the people who are running our show in Devon are very -jealous, naturally, that we shall give a good account of ourselves. -There’s a feeling in some quarters that nothing much in the way -of fighting intellect comes from the West Country. Londoners and -Northerners think it’s a sort of Turkish bath all the time down here—a -place for holidays and Devonshire cream and playing about. So if I’m to -be reported, as I shall be, that means a pretty good advertisement and -a pretty high compliment. It’s come sooner than I expected, and I must -rise to it, Medora.” - -“You ain’t frightened to get up and talk to a crowd of men?” - -“Not if I know I’m saying the right thing. I’d be frightened to do it -if I wasn’t dead sure I was right, and that my ideas—our ideas—will -rule the world before I’m an old man; but they will. I must prepare my -speech with my heart and soul. Everything must give way to it.” - -“Including me, I suppose?” she said. - -“You’re in what they call another category, Medora. You are part of my -own life—personal to me as I’m personal to you and, of course, our -private affairs mean a lot to us.” - -“I’m glad you think that.” - -“But this belongs to the world of ideas—to our souls and our highest -ambitions—what we’re born for, so to speak. I include you in it, -Medora.” - -“You needn’t then,” she said, “because though it may appear a small -thing to you, my highest ambition at present is to know when I shall be -a married woman.” - -“Don’t talk in that tone of voice,” he said. “I feel all that, too, and -you know I do, and I’m not going to sit down under it much longer; but -that’s in another category, as I tell you. It won’t bring it any nearer -talking. I’ll see, or write, to Mr. Dingle before much longer, if he -doesn’t set to work; but in the meantime this affair will call for all -my thought and attention out of business hours.” - -“Perhaps it would be a convenience to you if I went and lived somewhere -else?” - -His forehead wrinkled. - -“When you say things like that, I never can be sure if you mean them -for satire, or not,” he answered. “If you’re meaning it for satire, -you’re wrong, Medora, and I blame you; but if you really mean it, out -of consideration to my time, then I can assure you there’s no need for -you to go. In fact, you’ll type the lecture, I hope. It’s going to be -quite as much to you as to me, I’m sure.” - -“How can it be? You’re so thick-skinned. What’s the good of lectures -to a person who’s living my life? You don’t care. You’ve got your work -and your ambitions, and you’ll have the honour and glory, if there is -any. But where do I come in? Who am I? What am I?” - -“My future wife, I should think. You can’t accuse me of anything wrong -in that category, Medora.” - -“I’m not accusing you; I’m past all that. I’ll try to copy you. I’ll be -patient. If you say you’ll see Mr. Dingle, or write to him—” - -“I shall see him. He’s coming back, so I hear, to Ashprington.” - -Then he returned to his lecture, and, with the ardour of youth, did not -sleep that night until he had roughed out a general plan and placed the -heads of his composition clearly before him. - -Long after Medora had gone to bed and the little inn was asleep, Jordan -scribbled on, and surprised himself at the compass of his thoughts. He -was amazed to hear the clock strike two, and put away his books and -papers at once. - -He could recollect no previous occasion in his life on which he had -been awake at two o’clock in the morning. He fell asleep longing to -read what he had written to Medora, for he felt dimly sometimes that -he was more outside her life and its interests than he should be; -and since he could never rejoice her on any material base of trivial -pleasures, he must make good his claim by force of intellect and a -future far above that which the average working man could promise. - -But he also intended to bend the bow in reason, let life have its say, -and their home its domestic happiness. He believed that, when they were -married, they would soon become everything in the world to one another. - -He went to sleep in a very happy, exalted frame of mind, and felt that -life had taken an unexpected stride in the right direction. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -THE WISDOM OF PHILANDER - - -When Ned Dingle returned home, his future still unsettled, he had the -privilege of an early visit from Mr. Knox. - -They sat in Ned’s small kitchen garden, and Philander advised him to -plant his peas. - -“Damn the peas,” said Ned. “Listen to me. I was as good as booked at -Ivybridge when I got your letter telling me to hang on. What’s the good -all the same? I don’t know why for I should have listened to you, but I -know you’ve got sense, and so I left it for the minute. I can’t go back -to Trenchard, if that’s what you meant.” - -“I meant a lot of things,” answered the elder. “I think so deuced -highly of you, Dingle, that you’ve got on my mind more than any man -ever did before, and I’m very wishful, for more reasons than one, to do -you a turn. For the minute, however, it rests with you.” - -“I know it does. I’m fed up with hearing that. Well, I’m going on with -it. I’m going to get the heaviest damages the law will give me out of -that swine.” - -“Good—so far as it goes. And if things weren’t exactly as they are, I -should say ditto. But it’s a very peculiar case, quite contrary to my -experience, and it calls for a pinch of patience yet. Nobody has any -right to dictate to you, because you’re a man of good judgment, and I -reckon you’ve done dead right so far, and kept your nerve better than I -should, or many older men with less intellects; but don’t you spoil the -ship for a hap’p’oth of tar, Ned. It’s paid you so mighty well to wait -and hang off, that it may pay you better still to go on waiting.” - -“It only hurts her—it don’t hurt him. They’ll say I’m bullying a -woman, next, and putting him in the right.” - -“Only the ignorant would talk like that. But I know your mother-in-law, -and I also know Medora. The females of that family want very careful -handling, Ned; and in confidence, I may tell you that Mrs. Trivett is -being very carefully handled—by me. But Medora is not being carefully -handled—quite the contrary. Kellock don’t understand the female -mind—how could he with a face like his?” - -“What’s that to me?” - -“That’s the question. Not that I want an answer. I’m only wishful to -put certain facts before you.” - -“How did she ever think, in her silliest moments, that man would have -any lasting use for her?” - -“He got on her blind side, I suppose; for even a remarkable woman, like -Medora, has her blind side. Who hasn’t? But the interesting thing for -you—and only for you—to consider, is that Medora sees straight again.” - -“That’s her mother says that. I don’t believe it. She’s a lot too -conceited to admit that she made an infernal fool of herself. She’d -rather go miserable to her grave than give herself away.” - -“You naturally think so, having no idea what a power there is in the -clash of opposite characters. Medora is proud, and has a right to -be, because she is beautiful and very fine stuff, given the right -nature to mould her. And she thought—mistaken girl—because you were -easy and good tempered, and liked to see her happy, that you weren’t -strong enough. That’s why, in a moment of youthful folly, she went -over to Kellock, before she knew anything whatever about the man’s -true character. Now, of course, she finds her mistake. And don’t think -I’m getting this from Mrs. Trivett. One wouldn’t take her opinion, -being the girl’s mother. No, I had it from Medora herself. I happened -by chance to meet her, and gave her ‘good day,’ for I don’t make -other people’s quarrels mine; and we had a bit of a yarn; and I won’t -disguise from you, Ned, that I saw the punishment was fitting the crime -all right. She’s got a good brain, and every day that passes over her -head is enlarging that brain. She’ll be a valuable wife for somebody -some day; but not for Kellock. She sees Kellock now in the cold light -of truth. She don’t run him down, or anything rude like that; but she -just talks about him and his character like a sister might. My word, -she’s clever! She said that living with Kellock would be like living -in moonlight. Did you ever hear a sharper thought? That just describes -it. And where’s the woman that wants to live in moonlight? You see, -she knows. She didn’t come to Kellock without experience of the other -thing. After you, of course, a cold creature like him is like milk -after treble X. I feel it myself. Not a word against Kellock, mind -you—he was utterly misled, and came a cropper, too; but he’s got -the virtues of his failings, and being ice, he behaved as such, and -has always treated her just the same as he’d have treated his maiden -aunt—except he’d have kissed his aunt, but not Medora. So I put it -before you, and leave you to turn over the peculiar circumstances, Ned. -As I say, the punishment is going on very steady, and your tactics -couldn’t be beat in my judgment. They deserve to suffer; and she does; -and if Kellock weren’t so darned busy about what matters to him more, -he’d be suffering too.” - -“He will, when I knock all his savings out of him.” - -“No, he won’t—that would only hit her. He’s got no use for money. -He don’t want more than the clothes he stands up in. But it ain’t my -business to bother you about what you’re very well equal to manage -yourself. I really came for quite a different reason, and that’s the -Mill. Bulstrode is going. He can’t stick Ernest Trood, and Trood can’t -stick him. It happened yesterday, and in a month from now we must have -a new beaterman. You might not have heard that. Not that you’ll come -back, of course; but in your wanderings you may have heard of somebody?” - -“No, I haven’t. I must fix myself up now.” - -“It’s a thousand pities things are as they are, but if I was you, I’d -mark time a little longer, if you can afford to do so. And don’t forget -the peas. They ought to be in. You may not be here to eat them; but, on -the other hand, you may.” - -“As to that, how about you?” asked Dingle. - -“There again, I’m not in a position to close for the house yet.” - -“If she’s said ‘no,’ she means ‘no,’ Knox. Mrs. Trivett don’t change.” - -“More don’t the weather-cock, Ned; but the wind does. It all comes -back to patience, and, thank God, you and me are both patient and -far-sighted men—else we shouldn’t stand so firm on our feet as we do. -Now I’ll bid you good-night. And have a talk with Mr. Trenchard one -day. There’s wells of good sense in that man. The more I see of him, -the more I find in him. He’s got more brains in his little finger than -we can boast of in our whole heads. And a warm heart also.” - -Philander withdrew, and went very thoughtfully homeward. He felt sure -that Dingle would consider his remarks, and hesitated once or twice -about returning and adding another touch; but he decided that nothing -more need be said for the present. - -On the following day, to her surprise, he sought Mrs. Trivett in the -dinner hour. - -“Fear nothing,” he said, “and go on with your food. I haven’t come to -spoil it; but you know very well your good’s mine, and it happens that -I’ve got an idea.” - -“You’re very kind,” she answered. “I don’t feel, however, I’ve any -right to your ideas—not now. But you rise above a little thing like -that, and you’ll probably live to know I was right.” - -“It was the exception that proves the rule,” declared Mr. Knox. “You’re -nearly always right, though in refusing me you were wrong. But let that -pass. I’m considering your point of view. What’s in my mind now is not -you, but your daughter.” - -“I’m going to see her this evening. She’s wrote me a letter asking me -for God’s sake to come and have a cup of tea. There’s no doubt this -waiting is getting on her nerves. It’s very improper.” - -“You’ll be surprised at what I’m going to say; but yesterday I had a -remarkable conversation with your son-in-law. There’s a lot more in -that man than he gets credit for.” - -“He’s behaved very well, I grant you—amazing well; but it’s more than -time he went on with it. He didn’t ought to treat them like a cat -treats a mouse.” - -“He’s not that sort. He looks far beyond anything like that. He looks -all round the subject in a way that surprised me. Have no fear he won’t -do right.” - -“It won’t be right in my opinion to take damages out of Kellock—that’s -revenge.” - -“Well, he’s only human. But what I’m coming to is this. Ned has got a -very righteous down on Kellock, and feels no need to show mercy there, -for Kellock showed him none; but he don’t feel the same to Medora.” - -“Since when?” asked Mrs. Trivett. “He felt the same to her all right -last time I saw him.” - -“But not now. His mind worked at Ivybridge, and he turned over the -situation. And, in a word, if Kellock is going to save his skin and -be let off, he’ll have to thank Medora for it. I’m saying a delicate -thing, of course, and to anybody less wise than you, I wouldn’t say -it, because I should be laughed at; but I do believe, if Medora could -see Dingle while there’s yet time, and afore he’s loosed his lawyer, -Kellock might escape damages. What do you think? Should you say Medora -and Ned might speak?” - -“Medora would speak to him if she thought she could serve Jordan -Kellock, I dare say; but whether he’d listen I don’t know.” - -“In my opinion, if Medora would speak, he’d listen. It ought, however, -to be done by stealth. Neither one nor the other must know they’re -going to meet. Then it would surprise them both, and Medora might get -round him.” - -“There’s no danger in it for Medora, you reckon?” - -“None; I’ve heard him on the subject. He may dress her down and tell -her a bit of the truth about her conduct, and he may use some very -harsh words to her; but more he would not do, and if she took it in a -humble spirit, I dare say she’d come out top and get him to drop the -damages when he divorces her.” - -Mrs. Trivett considered. - -“I don’t see any harm could come of it, even if no good did,” she -replied, after a pause. “I’ll sound Medora. She’d be glad to do Kellock -a turn, naturally.” - -“I hope she still feels confident about Kellock. I can’t say she spoke -with great warmth about the man last time I met her; but that was a -passing cloud, I expect. He’s going to give a lecture, and set the -world right, at Totnes, presently, he tells me. I’ve promised to be -there.” - -When some hours later, Mrs. Trivett started to take tea with her -daughter, Medora met her by the river, and revealed a restless and -melancholy mood. - -Lydia sighed, and walked beside her. - -“Well, what’s the best news with you, my dear?” she asked. - -“There’s no best,” she answered. “We’re just waiting, and I’m ageing -and growing into a fright before my time.” - -“The typewriter’s come, Jordan tells me.” - -“Yes; it’s come. I’m writing out his speech. But the minute I’ve made a -clean sheet, he alters it all and messes it about. It’s getting on his -nerves, I believe, and I’ll swear it’s getting on mine. I don’t hear -anything else, morning, noon, and night.” - -“It’s distracting his mind.” - -“Yes; he can’t think of more than one thing at a time, Jordan can’t. -I’m just a machine now, like the typewriter. I told him yesterday I -didn’t hold with some of his opinions about labour, and he couldn’t -have been more surprised if the typewriter had spoken to him.” - -“I shouldn’t argue about his views if I was you, Medora. They’re his -life, in a manner of speaking.” - -“I shall argue about ’em if I choose. He’d think no better of me if I -humbly said ditto to all he says. He goes a lot too far, and he’d take -the shirts off the backs of the rich, if he could. He reads it over -and over, and I very near stamp sometimes. Nothing will ever make me -a socialist now. I dare say I might have been if he’d gone about it -different; but now now. And, anyway, I’m not going to be the echo to -Jordan, just because he takes it for granted I must be.” - -“He’s found a house, he tells me.” - -“He has, but he wants to beat down the rent a bit. He’s afraid of his -life that Dingle’s going to have his savings out of him.” - -“That’s as may be. I dare say he’ll do no such thing. It wouldn’t be -like Ned.” - -“Life’s properly dreadful for me—that’s all I know about it.” - -“I dare say it is. You’ve got to wait the will of other people now, -Medora; and it’s a thing you never much liked doing.” - -“But I’m not friendless—I’m not friendless,” she said fiercely. “To -hear Jordan talk, you’d think he’s the only thing that stands between -me and the streets; and I won’t have it. People don’t hate me—not all -of them. But you’d imagine that, without Jordan, there’d be no place on -earth for me now.” - -“I thought he was very gentle and proper in his treatment,” said Mrs. -Trivett. - -“I can’t explain. I only mean that he seems to think that if it wasn’t -for his watchful care, and coming between me and every wind that blows, -I’d be torn to pieces by my fellow creatures. And what about him? If I -did wrong, what about him?” - -“It’s rather late in the day to talk like that.” - -“I want him to see all the same that I’m not a lone, friendless, -outcast creature, without anyone to care for me. I don’t like to be -championed by him, as if I was a fallen woman, and he was a saint. I -won’t have it, I tell you. I’m not a fallen woman any more than he’s a -fallen man, and I want him to know the world isn’t against me any more -than it’s against him.” - -Lydia was surprised. - -“This all seems silly nonsense to me,” she said. “If you had anything -to do, you’d not waste time worrying over things like that.” - -“You can’t understand, mother. It’s like being patronised in a sort -of way, and Jordan shan’t patronise me. At any rate, I want to come -to Priory Farm for a bit—just to show him I’m not dependent on him, -and have got a few good relations in the world. Surely, I might do -that—just for a week or two—till he has got this blessed lecture off -his mind? I know all he is, and I love the ground he walks on; but, -along of one thing and another, he’s not quite taking me in the right -spirit for the moment, and I do think it would be a very wise thing -if I was to come to you for a week or so. Please let me. They won’t -mind there. They’d do anything you wished. It would show Jordan in a -ladylike way, without any unpleasantness, that I’m somebody still.” - -“Surely to God, you don’t want to leave him?” asked Lydia. - -“Leave him? No—I’ve had enough of leaving people. He’s everything -to me, and I’d lay down my life for him, I’m sure; but just for the -minute, even with him, I feel I’ve got to fight for myself a bit. It -wouldn’t be a bad thing for him to see what his life is without me. If -I go, he’ll miss me at every turn, and he’ll think a bit more of me -when I come back.” - -“But you say he thinks too much of you as it is, and fusses more than -he need.” - -“He thinks too much and too little. I can’t explain—there’s no words -to it. But let it go. I ask to come and spend a bit of time at Priory -Farm. Surely you’ll let me do that? I’m getting so thin and low that I -believe I’ll die if I’ve got to worry much longer. A week or two with -you will set me up, and make me braver. My nerves are all on edge.” - -Medora was tearful and agitated. Probably her mother understood -her better than she pretended. Kellock was not unctuous, but -utterly humourless, and, in the matter of Medora, he did sometimes -unconsciously take a line that suggested the stained-glass attitude. -It was as much her fault as his, for, at an earlier stage in their -companionship, she had never tired of telling him how she appreciated -his sacrifices, his noble patience, and chivalric support of herself. A -man without sense of proportion could not fail to be influenced by such -assurances from the woman he loved. - -“You shall come certainly,” said Lydia, “and there’s no need to take on -and let things fret you to fiddlestrings. It’ll happen right presently. -It may be a good thing for you to stop at Cornworthy for a while.” - -She remembered Philander’s suggestion that Medora might, with -advantage, see Ned. It would be possible to arrange such a meeting at -Cornworthy perhaps; and if Medora prevailed with Mr. Dingle to renounce -his threat of claiming damages, that must be to the good. - -She promised her daughter that she should come, drank tea with her, -and left her happier than she had been for a long time. - -“It’s not so much for myself as for Jordan,” declared Medora. “It’ll -be good for him and open his eyes a bit to hear I’m going to Uncle and -Aunt Dolbear on a visit. They forgave him and all that; but I don’t -think he knows they are friendly enough to have me at Priory Farm, and -it will be right that he should know it. There’s other reasons, too. If -I can escape from going to his lecture, it will be a blessing. He’ll -make a rare fuss; but if I once get to Priory Farm, I can fall ill, or -something to avoid it.” - -Lydia went home in a melancholy mood after this interview, and her -daughter’s unrest descended upon her. - -She could not understand the relations between Kellock and Medora. They -appeared to be extraordinary, as far as Medora was concerned, and the -more Mrs. Trivett considered the various reports, the less able was she -to put a cheerful interpretation upon them. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -NED AND MEDORA - - -When Lydia asked that Medora might come to stop at the farm, Mary and -Tom spoke simultaneously, for each hastened to be the first to accord -permission. - -They had suffered acute anxieties concerning Mrs. Trivett’s possible -departure, and when she told them that she had determined to remain, -nothing was good enough for her. - -In their joy and relief they grovelled before Lydia, heaped compliments -upon her, and declared that never for a moment had they entertained the -least doubt concerning her decision, even while, with every thankful -word and exultant exclamation, they revealed the depth of their past -anxiety and height of their vanished fear. She saw through it, and only -left them uneasy in one particular. - -Mr. Knox, so Lydia explained, had taken his disappointment in a -spirit of great self-restraint, and behaved with such magnanimity and -understanding that when he desired the continued friendship of Mrs. -Trivett, she could not deny it. - -“For that matter, I’m proud to have him for a friend,” she said. “He’s -full of sense, and as he’s prepared to offer friendship to me and mine, -I’m prepared to accept it, and you mustn’t mind if he comes to tea of a -Sunday sometimes, and such like.” - -“He wouldn’t allude to the past, or anything like that, I hope?” asked -Mr. Dolbear doubtfully. “Because, in his rage at his loss, he might be -tempted to give me and my wife the blame; and if he did that, I should -round on him, and there’d be a scene.” - -“Fear nothing of the sort,” replied his sister. “You may take it -from me it won’t happen. In fact, I went into it, and I’ve got his -undertaking never to say one word to you or Polly on the subject. And -he’s a man you may say whose word is his bond.” - -“Then let him come,” decided Tom. “If he’s got that bee out of his -bonnet, I don’t want to quarrel with him. I never doubted his sense, -save in that fatal matter.” - -“He’s got a nice hand with the children, too,” said Mary. “I will say -that for him; and where a child of mine takes, you may generally trust -the party.” - -In the matter of Medora, there was no difficulty; nor did Jordan make -any. Medora, in fact, felt a shadow of disappointment that he agreed so -willingly. It was only a lesser grievance than refusal had been. - -She made a great business of her petition, but he made no business -whatever of granting it. - -“You’ve got the lecture through now,” he said, “and there won’t be no -need for another copy yet, if at all, and you’ve heard me deliver it so -often that I’ll be glad for you to go and get a rest. Then you’ll come -back all the fresher to it, and to the actual night, when I give it at -Totnes a fortnight hence. Go, by all means, and I’ll come over to tea -on Sunday.” - -So Medora, who would have wearied Heaven with her griefs, had he -questioned the plan, now flushed that he approved it. - -“One would think you was glad to get rid of me,” she said. - -“Who’d think so?” he asked. “It’s a good idea, and will give you a bit -of a rest.” - -“And you, too, perhaps?” - -“I don’t want a rest; but life’s been getting on your nerves above a -bit lately, and the calm of the farm and the fun of the children, and -being with your mother, and so on—it’s to the good, Medora. And soon, -I hope, we’ll know something definite, so that this suspense can end. -It’s bad for you, and I should think the man was enough of a man to -know he’s doing a mean and cowardly thing to hang it up like this any -longer. So you go, and rest quietly; and as I told you, if he doesn’t -proceed soon, I shall approach him again with an ultimatum.” - -“It’s him that will have the ultimatum, I should think.” - -So Medora went to Priory Farm, and since she knew very well how to -please her aunt, made a point of doing so. Indeed, Mrs. Dolbear -considered she was much improved. - -“I never thought she would rise to children,” said Mary to her -sister-in-law, “but of late, I may say, there’s hope in that direction. -She’s more patient and quicker to see danger threatening a child. There -was a time I wouldn’t have trusted her too far with Milly or Bobby, -let alone Jenny; but all that’s altered. She may even be a good mother -herself yet in fulness of time.” - -Indeed, Medora shone at the farm, and displayed consideration for other -people that might hardly have been predicted even by the sanguine. Mary -Dolbear was one who gave everybody ample opportunities to be unselfish, -and Medora not only perceived these opportunities, but took them. She -had changed, and none realised how much better than Lydia. But still -the wisdom of any meeting between her daughter and Ned seemed doubtful. -She hesitated to bring it about, and was still hesitating when chance -accomplished it. - -Medora had been at Cornworthy for ten days and once Jordan came to tea -during that time. He was full of some alterations in his lecture, but -brought no news of interest to his future wife. - -Then she went for a walk by the ponds above the Mill, where emerald -reflections of alder and willow and birch were washed over the silver -surface of the little mere, and a great wealth of green leapt again -above the mats and tussocks of the sedge and rush. Golden kingcups -flashed along the shallows, and bluebells wove their light into the -banks above the water. - -Medora was actually engaged in the innocent business of picking flowers -when she came plump upon Ned. They met at a narrow beach running into -the lake under a limestone crag; and he, too, was there on pleasure, -for he was fishing. Strangely enough, each was possessed with the same -idea, and seemed to think it necessary to explain to the other the -situation in which they stood revealed. - -Ned scowled and started; Medora blushed. While he stared, she spoke, -without any preliminaries and as though no terrific events separated -them. It seemed as if the trivial accident of being there picking -flowers demanded first consideration. - -“You mustn’t think I’m here for pleasure,” she said. “I’m only killing -time. We’ve got to wait your will, and I’ve got to go on living as best -as I can. We’re at your mercy.” - -He, too, fastened on the moment. - -“As to that, same here. It’s true I’m fishing, but only to kill time, -same as you. I’m not in any mood for pleasure, I can tell you, woman.” - -“I dare say not,” she answered. “People often fall back on little -things when big things are hanging over them. I know how you feel, -because I feel the same.” - -“You don’t know how I feel,” he answered. “And don’t you dare to say -you do, please. What do you know about feeling? You’re the senseless -rubbish that can hurt others, but you’re not built to suffer yourself -more than a stinging nettle.” - -She felt no pang of anger at his rough challenge. After Kellock’s -steadfast voice, the ferocious accents of Ned were rather agreeable -than not. His tone for once was deep, as an angry bull. She liked it, -and thought he looked exceedingly well. - -“As long as he don’t throw me in the water, I’ll speak to him,” thought -Medora. - -Ned expected a stinging reply to his preliminary challenge, but she -did not answer it. Instead, she spoke of an utter triviality. - -“What d’you think’s in my mind—to show how little things get hold -on you? The first thing that come in it when I saw you so close was -pleasure, because I was wearing a pink sunbonnet—that being your -favourite colour for me. But Mr. Kellock don’t know what I wear.” - -He started with genuine astonishment. - -“What in thunder be women made of? You can babble like that and pick -flowers, and be a hen devil all the time?” - -“If I am a hen devil, then I’m in the proper place for devils, and -that’s hell,” she said. “D’you think a woman can’t pick flowers and -wear pink and yet be broken to pieces heart and soul?” - -“So you ought to be. You was always playing at being a martyr, and now -you damned well can be one. And I hope you are. The trouble with you -was that I spoiled you and fooled you to the top of your bent, and let -you bully-rag me, and never turned round and gave you a bit of the -naked truth yourself.” - -“I know it,” she said. “You were a great deal too fond of me for my -good, Ned, and if you hadn’t loved me so well, I dare say you’d have -been a better husband.” - -“I couldn’t have been a better husband,” he answered, “and if you’d -been made of decent stuff, you’d have known it. Not that I didn’t see -the ugly truth about you—I did; but I hoped and hoped that with time -you’d get more sense, and so I held my tongue and held on.” - -“How I wish you’d told me my faults, Ned.” - -“You oughtn’t to want telling. If you’d got any conscience, which you -never had, you’d have seen your faults and suffered from ’em, as you -ought. For one thing, you were greedy as the grave, and that envious -that you didn’t like anybody else to have anything you lacked. If you -saw a worm on the ground, you wished you was a bird. ’Twas always so. -Everybody else was better off than you, and had got nicer cats and -gardens and husbands and everything. A filthy jealousy it was that made -you miserable, when you ought to have been happy, and tempted you off -to try your luck with this thing, that’s only a machine, not a man. -Some chaps would have took you two and smashed your heads together -like egg-shells, as you deserved; but I’m above anything like that. -You thought I was a fool; but I wasn’t such a fool as to do that. You -wrecked me, but I wasn’t going to wreck you.” - -“I’ve wrecked myself, more likely,” said Medora. - -“I don’t know nothing about that. Whatever you get won’t be half what -you deserve.” - -Ned appeared to have changed for the better in Medora’s eyes. The -harsher were his words, the better she liked them. Here was real -martyrdom. The emotion of this suffering became a luxury. She wept, but -was not in the least unhappy. - -“I’ve ruined two very fine men—that’s what I’ve done,” said Medora. -She flung down her kingcups and bluebells, and sat on a stone and -covered her face with her pocket-handkerchief. - -He looked at her fiercely, and rated her from a savage heart. - -“Crocodile tears! You never even cried like a decent woman, from your -heart, because you haven’t got a heart.” - -“Don’t say that,” she said. “Your heart can’t break if you haven’t got -one, and mine’s broken all right now. With all my dreadful faults, I’m -human—only too much so. I know what I’ve done, and what I’ve lost.” - -“And what you’ve won, too—a lunatic, that will very likely end on the -gallows as a traitor to the country, or some such thing.” - -“No, he won’t,” she replied. “He’s too dull for that.” - -“You can call him dull, can you?” - -“You’ve no right to make me talk about him,” answered she; “all the -same, honesty’s no crime, and I say he’s a dull man, because anybody -with only one idea is dull.” - -“Yes, no doubt; if you’re not his one idea yourself, you find him dull. -And when you were my only idea, you still wanted more—always wanted -more—more than you had of everything but trouble; and now you’ve -brewed that for yourself. And what d’you mean, when you say you’ve -ruined his life as well as mine?” - -Medora enjoyed the lash of his scornful voice. - -“You’ll kill me if you speak so harsh,” she said. “I meant—I meant—I -don’t know what I meant. Only it’s clear to me that I shan’t make him -the wife he thinks I shall.” - -“That’s true for once. You’re no wife for any man. And as for him, he -don’t want a flesh and blood woman for his partner, and if you hadn’t -thrown yourself at his head, like a street-walker, he’d never have -taken you. The shamelessness—the plotting—the lies. When you grasp -hold of what you’ve done, you ought to want to drown yourself.” - -“I may do it sooner than you think for,” she answered. “Rub it in—I -deserve it; but don’t fancy I’m not being paid worse coin than any word -of yours. I’m only a woman—not much more than a girl, you may say; and -I’ve done you bitter wrong, but there’s always two sides to everything, -and justice will be done to me—in fact, it’s begun. You say Kellock -never wanted a flesh and blood woman, and that’s true—truer than -you know. So you can see what my future’s going to be. Once you’re -free, you can find a better and prettier and wiser creature than me -to-morrow; but I’m done for to the end of my life. He’s much too good -for me—I know that—so were you—far too good; but there it is. I’m -done for—down and out, as you would say. He’ll go and live in a town -presently. Think of me in a town!” - -“Sorry for yourself always—and never for nobody else.” - -“I’m sorry for everybody that ever I was born. I don’t want to bring -any more trouble on people; and very like, I may find the best way is -to drop into the water some night, and let the river carry my poor dust -out to sea.” - -“You haven’t the pluck to do that,” he said. “Anyway, you belong to him -now, and have got to play the game and stick to him.” - -They argued for some time, the man minatory and harsh, the woman -resigned. But once he amused her. Then Ned harked back to her threat. - -“You talk of being down on your luck, and suicide, and all that -twaddle. But you never looked better in your life. You’re bursting with -health.” - -“I’m not,” she cried indignantly. “You’ve no right to say it. And if I -am, what about you? You’re a lot fatter and handsomer than ever you was -in my time.” - -“That’s a lie,” he said, “and you needn’t think I’m made of stone, -though you are.” - -“If I’m a stone, ’tis a rolling one,” she answered, “and that sort -don’t gather no moss. I’m glad I’ve met you, Ned, because I’m very -wishful for you to know, for your peace of mind, I’m not happy—far, -far from it. You deserve to know that. You made me laugh just now, I -grant, and that’s the first time I’ve laughed since I left you—God -judge me, if it isn’t. The very first time, and the sound was so -strange that it made me jump.” - -“Laugh? You haven’t got much to laugh at I should say.” - -“That’s true. I’ll never laugh no more. I wouldn’t laugh when I -might—now it’s too late.” - -“It’s never too late for anything for one of your sort. And when you -say you’re a rolling stone, I reckon you tell the truth for once. And -things that roll go down hill, remember that. Hell knows where you’ll -roll to before you finish.” - -“It won’t be your fault, Ned. You’ve got nothing to blame yourself -with,” she answered humbly, and he judged wrongly of what was in her -mind. - -“You’d better send Kellock along to me,” he said. “The business is in -hand, and I may tell you, I meant to hit him as hard as I knew how. -But there’s two sides to that, and in the long run what kept me from -getting a gallows out of him is the same that’s going to keep me from -getting damages. And that’s you.” - -“I’m not worthy to black your boots, Ned,” declared Medora. - -“No, and more’s he—more’s he; mind that. You thought he was the -clever, strong man—the sort of man would be a tower of strength to -any woman, and all the rest of it; and now you know, or you jolly -soon will know, that he’s only a tower of strength for himself—not -for you. A man like him wants a woman to match him, and if you ask -yourself if you match him, and answer yourself honest, if you can, then -you’ll answer that you don’t and never will. You can send him to me at -my convenience. He can call o’ Monday at half-after eight—then I’ll -decide about it.” - -“Thank you, Ned. It’s more than we deserve, I dare say. I don’t care -much what happens now if you can forgive me. I suppose you can’t, but -it would mean a lot to me if you could.” - -“You think I’ve got something to forgive, then? That’s surprising. I -thought ’twas all the other way.” - -“So did I,” she answered, “but I know better now. I shouldn’t be -suffering like I am if I’d done right.” - -“You can do right and still suffer,” he answered, “and now be off, and -send the man to me.” - -Medora, again weeping freely, and leaving her bunch of flowers on -the ground at his feet, departed without any more words. For once, -her tears were real and her sorrows genuine. They were genuine, yet -contained a measure of sweetness, and comforted her by their reality. -This was an order of grief that she had not known. She persisted in -it for a long time, after she had gone out of his sight, and found a -sunny spot among the bluebells. There she sat and heaped reproaches -on her head; and self-blame was a sensation so novel that it soothed -instead of crushed her. But this phase passed in contemplation of Ned. -He had changed in some mysterious way. He was formidable, masculine—a -thing infinitely superior to herself. Could she dare to say that Ned -was now superior to Kellock? She fled from that thought as from chaos; -but it pursued her; it made to itself feet and wings, and clung to her -mind. She resisted, but it stuck like a burr. Ned was surely translated -into something fine and admirable; while Kellock, now about to be a -conqueror, had waned almost to a second-rate being in Medora’s vision. - -A sensation of physical sickness overtook her before this horrible -discovery; for what could such a conclusion do but wreck her future -utterly and hopelessly? If Kellock were to fall from his pedestal, who -was left? - -And a hundred yards off, still buried in the thoughts sprung from this -remarkable conversation, Ned set up his rod, cast out ground bait, and -began to fish for dace and perch. His mind, however, was far from his -float, and presently his eyes followed Medora, as she moved pensively -along the road on the other side of the pond. She would tell Kellock to -come and see him, and then Ned would—he did not know what he would do. - -His thoughts turned to Philander Knox and their last interview. Medora -had said nothing to contradict the vatman’s assurances. Indeed, she -had implicitly supported them. And she was obviously changed. She had -apparently enough proper feeling to be miserable; but whether that -misery was pretended, or sprang from her conscience, or arose from -her futile conjunction with Kellock under the present unsupportable -conditions, Ned could not determine. He examined his own emotions -respecting Medora, and found that she had slightly modified them. He -despised her, and began even to pity her, since, on her own showing, -she was having a bad time. But was she ever built to have a good time? -Dingle doubted it. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - -THE EXPLANATION - - -After the medley of emotions awakened by her meeting with her husband, -no solid foundation remained to Medora’s mind. Indeed, everything solid -seemed to crumble before the apparition of Ned so close; before all the -little familiar marks of him, his mannerisms, his vibrant voice, his -virility, the flushing colour on his cheeks, the masculine sound and -sight of him. Against that vision, which haunted her pillow at Priory -Farm, arose the spectacle of Kellock—the difference between a stout, -shadow-casting man and one himself a shadow. Kellock was a great hero -still (she clave to that), but none the less he had become something -spectral for her. Ned she knew—her recent meeting reminded her how -well; but Kellock she did not know, and from that long night of thought -there emerged one steadfast emotion: she began to cease to want to -know. Perception of this startling indifference frightened Medora. It -was half-past four o’clock in the morning, and an early thrush already -sang when she made this discovery. She shivered at such a sentiment, -set it down to hunger, and so arose and descended to the larder. She -ate and slept, and in the morning told her mother of the talk with -Dingle. - -They walked together to Dene, and before Lydia went to the rag house, -she had heard disquieting things. It was not the facts that concerned -her, for they were to the good. That Ned wished to see Kellock and -had determined not to claim damages, comforted Mrs. Trivett, for that -argued an intention on Ned’s part to be done with the matter, and -take such steps as should enable her daughter to marry at the earliest -opportunity permitted by law; but it was Medora’s attitude to Dingle -that surprised her, and as she reached the Mill, she voiced her -astonishment. - -“You’ll keep me ’mazed to my dying day, I reckon,” she said. “My own -daughter, and yet never, never do you do, or say, or look at things how -I should expect.” - -“What’s the matter now then?” - -“It’s right you should feel obliged to your late husband—I’m not -wondering at that. But now—just because you talked to him, and he -behaved like the man he is, and spoke sense and didn’t break your neck, -as some men might—just because of that, you seem to have turned round -and—and—well, to hear you this morning one would think you and Ned—” - -Medora quite understood. - -“Funny you should say that. I know just what you mean. It came over me -in the night. I got looking back a lot, and I couldn’t help feeling, -when he stood there talking to me in the old way—I couldn’t help -feeling that he’d got his side after all. I dare say I didn’t quite -understand his point of view, or how I looked from it. You’ve got to -be fair, mother. It was as if all that fearful time, when we drifted -apart, had been ruled out for the minute, and we were back at the -starting place. I took all he said in a very proper and patient spirit; -and if you ask him, he’ll tell you I did. And he didn’t mince words -either. And I very much wish for you to see him as soon as you can, and -tell him that I greatly value his advice, and that my eyes were opened -for the first time to my fatal conduct. And, being a fair woman, I’ve -got to admit that I used him badly, along of some weakness in myself -I never knew was there; and I think he was more kind about it than I -deserved. Please see he hears that.” - -“And what price, Jordan?” asked Mrs. Trivett. - -“This has nothing to do with Jordan. I’m going to see him now and -explain that he must visit Ned at once; and I hope he’ll feel properly -grateful to Ned for his goodness to me. He ought.” - -Lydia’s head swam. - -“Don’t you see, mother, that Ned is—?” - -“I don’t see nothing,” answered Mrs. Trivett. “This is all beyond me. -You’re right to be obliged to him—well you may be; but, for God’s -sake, don’t go blowing Ned’s trumpet to your future husband, else—” - -“I’m not going to be narrow-minded about Ned,” answered Medora calmly. -“You can leave it to me. I shall certainly tell Jordan the way I was -treated.” - -As a matter of fact, Medora had quite forgotten the way she had been -treated. For reasons far beyond her power to explain—since it was her -quality to avoid directness at any cost—she ignored and put out of her -mind the very harsh things Mr. Dingle had said. She banished them, and -chose rather to dwell on what she regarded as the spirit and general -essence created by their meeting. Detail might be dismissed, and it was -very characteristic of Medora that when, presently, she met Jordan in -the dinner hour, and took him up the valley, and rested her eyes on the -spot beside the lake where she had listened to Mr. Dingle, she created -a suggestion of that interview for the benefit of Kellock amazingly -unlike the real thing. - -The vatman ate his bread and cheese as he walked beside her and saw her -on the way homeward to her own meal. - -“When are you coming back?” he asked. “I’ve got the lecture dead right -now, and I’d like to run it over once more. I’ve learned the typewriter -myself too, and can give you a start and a beating at it.” - -“It’s wonderful to me how you can fasten on a thing like that, while -all my future hangs in the balance,” she said. “I’ve got a bit of -startling news, Jordan. I ran on top of Mr. Dingle yesterday. I was -just picking a bunch of flowers and wondering when something would -happen when—there he was.” - -“D’you mean he stopped you?” - -“He did. I was shrinking past the man; but that wouldn’t do. He spoke, -and I couldn’t believe my ears, for I’d got to think he was my black -angel, naturally enough. But instead of anything like that, he let the -dead past bury the past in a very gentlemanly manner.” - -“Did he?” - -“Yes, and I stood in a dream to hear his familiar voice, just friendly -and kind.” - -“‘Friendly and kind!’” exclaimed Kellock. “When was he ever friendly -and kind to you?” - -“Before—before we fell out. It was like going back to the old, old -days, before he turned on me and drove me to you.” - -“He’s learned his lesson then. That’s to the good. But what had he to -say to you? It’s for us to talk to him now. And it’s for him to act, -not to talk.” - -“He knows all that. Anything like the reasonableness of the man you -never heard. I couldn’t believe my ears. He’s not going to do anything -wrong—far from it. He wants to see you on Monday evening at half-past -eight, please.” - -“Does he?” - -“Yes. He’s turned it all over in his mind, and seen his mistakes and -regrets the sad past.” - -“How do you know he does?” - -“He said so, and, with all his faults, he’s quite as truthful as you -are, Jordan. And to show it, he’s not going to do anything about -damages. He feels that wouldn’t be right. He’s a very just man. He -didn’t only say things I was glad to hear either. He told me some -bitter truths. He said that I’d never be the right wife for you, -Jordan.” - -“And you let him?” - -“No, I didn’t. I wasn’t going to hear that, of course. But he’s got -a brain—more than we thought—and he said that to a man of your -disposition—but if I’m going to vex you, I’ll leave that alone. Only -don’t think he spoke unkindly. And when you consider what it meant to -him my leaving him—” - -“What did he say about my disposition?” interrupted Kellock. “I’ve a -right to know that before I see him, Medora.” - -“He said that you’ve got a mind far above women—that a wife to you -would be less than what a wife is to an ordinary man. Because you’re -all intellect and great thoughts for the welfare of everybody, so that -the welfare of one, even your own wife, would be a small thing by -comparison.” - -“How little he knows!” - -“So I told him.” - -She proceeded and surprised Kellock further. - -“D’you mean,” he asked presently, “that he could stop you in the open -road and talk like this and say all these wise things, as if he was -your brother? It’s contrary to nature, and I don’t understand it.” - -“More did I,” she answered. “I felt in a dream about it. He might have -been a brother. That’s the very word. And last night, as I lay and -thought, it came into my head in a very curious way that between you -and him as things are, I’ve got two brothers and no husband at all. And -God knows, Jordan, if it wouldn’t be better to leave it at that, and -let me go free. For if I could win the respect of two such men as you -and him by stopping as I am and being wife of neither, it might turn -out a lot better for all three of us.” - -He stared in deep amazement. He flung away the remains of his meal and -stood still with his mouth open. - -“Are all women like you?” he said. “Upon my soul, I wonder -sometimes—but this—it’s all so unlike what goes on in a man’s -mind—where are we? Where are we? You always seem to leave me -guessing.” - -“I don’t suppose I can make you see, dear Jordan. I’ve had hours and -hours to think about it. You come to it fresh. Of course, it sounds -strange to you for the minute. You must allow for the surprise. I’m -only a woman, and, what with one thing and another, I’ve been that -driven and harried lately that my mind is all in a whirl. It’ll come -right no doubt. He’s not going to claim damages. That’s one certainty, -and that ought to comfort you. And I think when you see him, at his -orders—” - -“‘His orders’?” - -“Well, my dear man, do be reasonable. You jump down my throat so! It’s -no good questioning every word I say. It makes me despair. I haven’t -got your flow of language, and if I can’t pick my words, you needn’t -quarrel about them.” - -“I’m not picking a quarrel, Medora; I’m only saying there’s no question -of his orders. I’ll see him certainly.” - -“And thank him, I should hope. I dare say he’d have had a lot of money -out of you.” - -“As to thanking him—however, it’s no good arguing. Leave that for the -present. You can trust me to take the right line with Mr. Dingle. When -are you coming back? They’re going to meet me about the house if I can -take it for three years.” - -“Three years is a long time, Jordan. You might want to go to London -before that. I dare say your lecture will get you into notice.” - -His eye brightened. Here at last was solid ground. - -“You’ll be back at the inn before then. There’s a pretty good lot -coming. I rather want to rehearse it to you and a man or two from the -Mill one evening.” - -“I’ll come back, of course, the minute I can; but—I want to tell you, -Jordan, I’m not coming to the lecture. I’ve got my reasons.” - -Again he was left without foothold. - -“Not coming to my lecture, Medora?” - -“No. You always said we must help and not hinder each other, and that -marriage is a co-operation, or nothing. And I’m sure it’s better, where -we don’t think alike, to respect each other’s opinions and go our own -way.” - -“What d’you mean? You’ve said you see eye to eye with me in everything. -You’ve never questioned the substance of the lecture.” - -“It wasn’t for me to question it. But I don’t agree with a lot of it.” - -“Since when?” - -“Since first I heard it. I wasn’t brought up to feel everybody’s equal, -and I don’t believe they are.” - -“I don’t say they are. What I say is—” - -“I know what you say, Jordan. It’s no good arguing. You’d hate me if I -was false and pretended anything.” - -“Where do you disagree then?” - -“Oh, I don’t believe in fighting and taking their money from people. -I want peace. If you could see what my life is in this storm of doubt -and uncertainty, if you could sympathise with a woman in my position -who has given up so much, then you’d surely understand that I’ve got no -heart for all these theories and ideas at present.” - -“You’re getting away from the point,” he said. “I can’t argue with -you because you won’t stick to the subject. I do sympathise—all the -time—every minute; but my lecture doesn’t belong to our private -affairs. It doesn’t alter them, or delay them. I’m going on with that -as quick as Dingle will let me. But I want you to come to the lecture. -I ask it, and I expect it.” - -“You haven’t any right to do that. I don’t ask you to come to church, -so you oughtn’t to ask me to come to your lecture. We must be -ourselves, and where we don’t agree, we mustn’t be afraid to say so.” - -“This is their work at the farm,” he declared. “Your uncle’s a -benighted, ignorant man, and my ideas terrify him, and so he’s tried to -influence you. And I’m sorry to find he has succeeded.” - -“Not at all. Uncle Tom would influence nobody; and if you think he’d -influence me, that shows you don’t respect me as you ought, or give me -credit for my brains—though you’ve praised them often enough.” - -“I give you credit for everything. You’re half my life, and the best -half, I should hope. And I trust you to change your mind about this, -Medora. It’s the biggest thing that’s ever happened to me, and I think -if you turn it over, you’ll see you ought to be there.” - -“I thought I was the biggest thing that had ever happened to you. -However—” - -“Leave it—don’t decide yet. I’m proud. I wouldn’t have you come, -of course, if it’s not going to interest you. Whether you agree, or -whether you don’t, I should have thought my first public appearance -would mean a lot to you—me being what I am to you.” - -“It does mean a lot—so much that I’d be so cruel nervous that—” - -“But you said the reason—” - -“Oh dear,” she said, “if you knew how you’re making my head ache, -Jordan. Leave it alone, for God’s sake. I’ll come, of course, if you’re -going to make it a personal thing.” - -“Not if you don’t feel it a personal thing. Come back to me soon, and -we’ll have a good long talk about it. There mustn’t be any difference -between us. We’re too much to each other for anything like that. And -don’t see Mr. Dingle again, please, Medora, till I have.” - -“I’m not likely to see him again.” - -They had walked round to the top of the “Corkscrew” by this time, and -now the bell sounded below that told the dinner hour was ended. - -“I must be gone,” he said. “Fix your day for coming back, Medora, and -Mrs. Trivett will tell me to-morrow. The sooner the better.” - -“I want to come as quickly as they’ll let me,” she answered. - -Doubt and care were in the young man’s eyes. A rare emotion touched -him, and there was something yearning in his voice as he stood and held -her hands. - -“Don’t let any shadow rise between us,” he begged. - -“Of course not; why should it?” - -He put his arms round her, and to her surprise kissed her. - -“Good-bye—take care of yourself and come back quickly. I won’t bother -you about the lecture any more,” he promised. - -Then he ran down the hill, and Medora watched him go. She was -regretting the kiss. When she had hungered for kisses, they did not -come. Such a thing now was insipid—fruit over-ripe, doubtful as a -delicacy past its season. She believed that she had frightened him into -this display of emotion. His promise not to trouble her again about the -lecture was also a sign of weakness. She thawed, and felt almost sorry -for him. Jordan was growing fainter, it seemed to her. His outlines -began to blur even after a few days’ absence from him. An overpowering -desire to see Ned again oppressed her. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - -THE STROKE - - -Medora’s native instinct, to fight for her own hand at the expense -of the community, now held some strife with her appreciation of -what Kellock had done and suffered on her account. At first a sense -of justice strove to remind her of their relations and of Jordan’s -views with respect to her and her future. She was, in fact, as he had -declared, his paramount thought and first object in life. And this -he felt without any diminution of his personal ambitions. But he had -supposed, and she had given him every reason to suppose, that his -ambitions and hers were one; that she desired nothing better than to -help him in his propagandist work. During the earliest days of their -association in London, this had been her purpose and assurance; but it -was so no longer. The artificial existence with Kellock had knocked -all the poetry out of their relation, and his aspirations now found -her averse. Because Kellock could not understand what made life worth -living to her, Medora’s interest and loyalty alike were withered. - -Yet now she put up a struggle for him and it lasted longer than might -have been expected. Indeed, it endured for twenty-four hours, until the -morning following upon a sleepless night. Then her chivalry and general -vague sense of her obligations went down before what she believed, -perhaps rightly, was her common sense. She began to see, with a dazzle -of conviction, that Kellock was not at all the husband for her; but -her woman’s wit put it differently: she assured her soul that she was -not the wife for Kellock. This step once taken, those that followed -were exceedingly swift, and they appeared first in a conversation, not -with the man she desired to meet, but with another. For the present she -concealed her new impressions from her family, but on the following -Sunday, Mr. Knox came to tea, and was pleasant and agreeable, according -to his custom. Tom and Mary Dolbear, gratified to observe the large -philosophy with which he had taken his defeat, welcomed him and forgot -the hard things they had said and thought about him. - -Then, as the hour came for the visitor to return home, Medora made an -excuse to accompany him. She was going into Dene to see Daisy Finch and -have supper with her and her mother—so she said; and together they -went their way. - -She wasted no time with Mr. Knox, and having told him what she hungered -to tell, changed her mind about Daisy Finch, and went home again. Upon -the whole, Mr. Knox disappointed her at this meeting, yet looking back -over their conversation, she felt not sorry it had taken place, though -her face burned a little when she considered the full weight of some -of the vatman’s remarks. He did not spare her; but she began to get -accustomed to hard words now, and her sagacity told Medora that where -there was blame, there was hope. To be past censure is to be past -forgiveness. - -She began at once to Mr. Knox upon the subject of her husband, and her -second sentence indicated the vast strides that her ambition had made. -The whole picture of Medora’s future in her own eyes was now changed. -The new vision looked wild indeed, and made even Medora wince a little -to hear it in her own tongue; yet it did not astonish Philander as much -as she imagined, though she had reached it sooner than he expected her -to do so. - -“You see Mr. Dingle sometimes, don’t you, Mr. Knox?” began Medora. - -“I do, my dear, and you mustn’t object if I say I think very well of -him. Curiously enough I think a lot of Mr. Kellock, too. Each have -got very good points in his way, and you can learn from them as well -as teach them. Of course, it’s a ticklish business being friends with -both, but so I am, and hope to continue.” - -“For God’s sake, then, implore of Ned not to divorce me! Oh, Mr. -Knox, you’re wise and old, but you may still remember what it was to -be young. Everything’s gone if he divorces me—everything. I’ve been -pixy-led, fooled—yes, I have. And I’ve ruined two good men, through -no fault of theirs, or mine. It wasn’t Kellock’s fault, nor yet Ned’s; -and I’ll swear on my knees it wasn’t mine—not altogether, because -something not myself drove me and blinded me and dazed me.” - -“That’s moonshine, Medora. You’re not going to make anybody believe -that; and don’t you try—else there’ll be the devil to pay. It was your -fault—the fault of your character—because a woman and her character -must be one. But I grant this; if we can’t go outside our characters, -and our characters are us and control all we do and think, then, being -yourself from no fault of your own, you’re not to blame in a sense. -Then, again, that won’t wash either, because if nobody can do anything -outside their characters, then nobody’s ever to blame in themselves for -anything they do, and there’s no such thing as wickedness in the world. -Which is nonsense and moonshine again, because we very well know the -world’s full of wickedness. So it’s no good saying, or fooling yourself -to think, that you’ve not been very wicked indeed, because you have. -However, like a lot of bigger people than you, you’ve got less, so far, -than you deserve, because the punishment never does fit the evil deed, -any more than the reward fits the good one, except in fairy tales. In -other words, Kellock, being what he is—a man of the highest possible -conduct, with a frosty nature to help it—has saved your bacon so -far. You know what I mean. Therefore, there’s a ray of hope—not very -bright, in my opinion, still, a ray.” - -“Thank Heaven you think so,” said Medora. - -“It’s only my opinion, mind, and I may very likely be wrong; but I’m a -man that sees hope very often where another cannot. A wonderful eye for -hope I’ve got. And if your husband knew all the facts and heard—not -that you’d been pixy-led, but that you was properly ashamed of your -infamous, hard-hearted, senseless, worthless way of going on, and meant -to do better for evermore—luck offering, and the Lord helping—if he -heard that, it’s just on the cards he might give it a second thought. -I don’t say he would. I wouldn’t in his case—not for a moment; but -he’s himself—an amazingly large-minded man. So, out of regard for your -mother, Medora, I’ll venture to touch the subject.” - -“I’ll bless your name for evermore if you do.” - -“Allow yourself no hope, however. You’ve got to think of Jordan -Kellock, and I tell you frankly I wouldn’t move in this matter if I -didn’t reckon he was utterly mistaken in his opinion of you.” - -“He is, he is, Mr. Knox! I’m far ways less than what he fancied.” - -“You are; but don’t waste your time eating dirt to me, though you ought -to do it all round, no doubt, and heap ashes on your head.” - -“I know I ought; and Jordan’s going to see Ned on Monday evening, so if -you, in your great wisdom, could talk to my husband first—” - -“I will do so,” promised Mr. Knox, and he kept his word. It happened, -therefore, that when the hour arrived for the meeting of Kellock and -Dingle, much had fallen out beyond the former’s knowledge. - -Jordan had, of course, been left with plenty to think about by Medora, -but since the future was accomplished in his judgment, and its details -only a matter of time, he was concerned with far larger questions -than agitated her mind. His thoughts ran on to the day when they -would be married and their lives mingle happily, to run henceforth -in a single channel. He had never felt fear of that day after once -winning her; and he had, until this moment, enjoyed full confidence -that they were one in thought and ambition already, only waiting for -the completion and crowning of marriage to establish their unity in -the face of the world. But Medora had shaken the ingredients of this -conviction at their last meeting, and Jordan felt uneasy. If she could -speak so strongly on the subject of his lecture, what might she not -presently say on the subject of his life? A disloyal thought once -crossed his mind; something whispered that her objection to hearing -the lecture was humbug. The voice hinted that from no conviction did -Medora hold back, since she had already explicitly accepted his fixed -principles, and avowed herself their supporter. The voice furthermore -ventured to suggest that fixed principles and the lady were never -to be mentioned in one breath by any rational observer. But Kellock -protested against such insinuations, and continued to seek a reason for -her refusal. He could find none, and was forced to accept her own. He -was constrained to believe that she actually had changed her opinions, -and the reflection that she must never be expected to support him with -unqualified enthusiasm cast Jordan down. He did not despair of Medora, -but felt that he would be called to do all over again what he had hoped -was already done. He must convince her that he was right and weary not -until she had come over to his views. After marriage, her mind would -gradually take its colour from him, if the operation were conducted -painlessly. He satisfied himself that this would happen, and had -thought himself into a contented spirit when he went to see Dingle. - -Ned said little, and the interview was extraordinary. It did not take -long, yet sent Kellock reeling out into the night bewildered, shocked, -with the whole scheme of his future existence threatened, and no -immediate possibility to retrieve the position. - -“You’ve come, then,” began Mr. Dingle. “Well, a good bit has happened -since I saw you last, and, things being what they are here, it looks -rather as if I might return to the Mill.” - -“I hadn’t heard nothing of that,” answered Jordan. - -“You needn’t mention it; but Mr. Trenchard is quite willing if I see no -objection—so Ernest Trood tells me—and I imagine you’d have nothing -to say against it.” - -“As to that, your plans are not my business. Of course, that might -alter my own plans.” - -“Well, your plans are not my business. In fact, we needn’t trouble much -about each other in any case.” - -Jordan reflected. - -“No, it wouldn’t be natural, though I bear no malice, and I hope you -don’t,” he said. - -“Have I shown malice?” asked the beaterman. “Have I taken this outrage -in a malicious spirit?” - -“You have not.” - -“I’ve taken it lying down, and you know it; and I dare say, at the -bottom of your heart, you’ve been more than a bit surprised sometimes -to see how I held in.” - -“You’re a thinking, reasonable being.” - -“Were you? You’re not surprised at the line I took, because I did -pretty much what you would have done if the positions had been -reversed, and I had run away with your wife. But I should have thought -you had wit to marvel a bit how a man like me took it so tame. If I -could knock you into the water for advising me to be kinder to her, -didn’t it ever strike you I might have done even a bit more when you -stole the woman?” - -“As to that, I’ve understood up to the present you meant to do a bit -more. It was made clear to me you were going for damages along with the -divorce.” - -“I thought of it, and I could have got them, no doubt; but what held my -hand off you when this happened, holds it still. I’m not going to claim -damages.” - -Kellock was silent for some moments, arguing with himself whether he -ought to thank Ned for this concession, or not. He decided against so -doing; but felt it right to explain. - -“You might think I ought to thank you for that. But I don’t, because, -if I did, it would be admitting you had waived what was your right. -But I deny you had any right to do such a thing as to try and take -my money. Your wife left you of her own free will, and on her own -judgment, and came to me, and though the law—” - -“We needn’t worry about nonsense like that,” interrupted Ned. “I’ve -got a bigger thing than that to say. You’re so great upon defying the -law, and getting everything your own way, and you know so much better -than everyone else, the law included, how life should be run, and how -we should all behave, that you’ve rather defeated your own object, -Kellock. I dare say some people would think it funny what I’m going to -say; but you won’t. In fact, you’ve been hoist with your own bomb, as -the saying is, and the reason I didn’t go to quod for you is just your -own defiance of law. You saved yourself some ugly punishment at the -time; but only to get worse at the finish. So what happened was you -disobeyed the law, not me.” - -“This is all a foreign language to me,” answered Jordan. - -“Is it? Well, you’ll see the English of it in half a minute. The good -of three people hangs to this, and when I tell you that in my opinion -all three will be the losers by your marrying Medora, perhaps you’ll -begin to see where I’m getting.” - -“As to that, you’ll do well to mind your own business. I can brook no -interference from you between me and Medora.” - -“It isn’t so much what you can brook, as what is going to happen. -You’ve taken a very high-minded line about Medora, Kellock—so -wonderful high-minded, in fact, that you’ve got left altogether. You -deserve to have a halo and a pair of wings for what you’ve done—so -Philander Knox said, and I quite agree. But you don’t deserve to -have Medora. And you’re not going to have Medora. You said, ‘I’ll -treat this woman with all proper respect, and all that, till I can -marry her’; and that showed you to be a very decent man according to -your own lights; and when I heard about it, I spared you; but there’s -another side. I can’t divorce Medora now, because I’ve got nothing to -divorce her for—see? You might think I ought to help you to hoodwink -the law in the matter, for the sake of honour and decency—things for -which the law has got no use. And I would willingly enough for some -people, but not for you. Because what you’ve done shows a lot of other -things—chief being that Medora and you never would get on, really—not -as husband and wife. Even as brother and sister, there’s been a lot -of friction lately, so I hear; and what would it be if you were -married? So, you see, when I say you don’t deserve Medora, Kellock, -I’m not saying anything particular unkind. In fact, the truth is that -a man with your nice and superior opinions can’t marry another man’s -wife—not according to law. You ought to have thought of that.” - -“It’s not too late.” - -“Oh, yes, it is—much too late. You can’t go wrong now, even if you -thought of such a thing; which you never could. You’re damned well out -of it in fact; and the longer you live, the better you’ll be pleased -with yourself, I dare say. The divorce laws may be beneath contempt -and only fit for gorillas; but, while they are the laws, you’ve got to -abide by ’em.” - -Jordan Kellock stared with round, horrified eyes. Even in his dismay -and grief he could wonder how the simple Ned had reached this high -present standpoint, and was able to address him like a father lecturing -a child. He began to recognise the hand of Mr. Knox. - -Now he pulled himself together, rose, and prepared to be gone. - -“I can only imagine that others have helped you to this extraordinary -decision, Dingle.” - -“I don’t deny it. I never was one to think I could run my own show, or -play a lone hand. A pity you didn’t feel the same. A lone hand always -comes to grief. You talk to Philander Knox about this. He’s a great -admirer of yours. But he’s looked at it from the outside, as a student -of character. He’s got no axe to grind about it.” - -“And Medora?” - -“I don’t care a cuss about her. As to her line, you’d better inquire at -headquarters. I haven’t seen her again, and don’t much want to.” - -“This flings her on to the mercy of society, Dingle.” - -“Well, society won’t eat her. Society’s pretty merciful, so far -as I can see. You talk it over with her, and get her views of the -situation—whatever they may be.” - -“I’ll only ask one question. Does she know that you don’t intend to -divorce her?” - -“She does not. I only decided myself half an hour before you called.” - -“Is it possible for me to prevail with you to change your mind, Mr. -Dingle?” - -“No; because with your views of what’s straight and honourable, you -won’t try. You know I can’t divorce her. Why? Because you was too good -and clean a man to make it possible. So long. Just you think over all -I’ve said. You don’t know your luck yet, but you will.” - -Jordan Kellock went out into the darkness, and he staggered like a man -in drink. He tottered down the hill from Ashprington, and intended to -start then and there for Cornworthy and Medora; but he found himself -physically unequal to any such pilgrimage. His knees shook and his -muscles were turned to wool. He walked to the inn, ascended to bed, -and lay phantom-ridden through the hours of an interminable night. -The shock of what he had heard was so great that his mind was too -stunned to measure it. A situation, that demanded deepest reflection -by its own horror, robbed him of the power to reflect. He lay and -panted like a wounded animal. He could not think by reason of the -force of his feelings. He could only lick his smarting wounds. Then he -fell into genuine grief for Medora’s plight. Actual physical symptoms -intruded. He found his eyes affected and strange movements in his -heart and stomach. His hands shook in the morning, and he cut himself -shaving—a thing that he had not done for years. He could not eat, yet -suffered from a sensation of emptiness. Daylight by no means modified -his sense of loss and chaos. It found him before all things desirous -to see Medora; but, by the time he was up and dressed, this purpose -failed him for a season, and his thoughts were occupied with Knox. -Then he turned again to Medora, and felt that life must be suspended -until he could see her and break to her what had happened. It was now -too late to visit Cornworthy until the day’s work should be done, and -remembering how often work had saved a situation, solved a problem and -helped him through difficult hours, Kellock proceeded to the Mill, and -was thankful to be there. He felt that labour would calm his nerves, -restore his balance, and assist him, before the evening came, to -survey his situation in the light of this convulsion. He found himself -entirely interested in what Medora would do; and he believed that he -knew. His heart bled for her. - -Thus absorbed, he reached the vat. He was engaged upon the largest -sheets of drawing-paper at the time—work calling for more than average -lifting power and muscular energy—and he was glad that now, for a -while, work must take the first demand upon mind and body alike. - -The vats were full, and the machinery hummed overhead; coucher and -layer stood at their places, and Jordan, slipping his deckle upon the -mould, grasped it with thumb on edge, and sank it into the pulp. - -Elsewhere Knox, Robert Life and others had taken up their positions at -the breast of the vats with their assistants about them, and the work -of paper-making went on its immemorial way. - -Then that happened that was long remembered—an incident of interest -and concern for the many, a tragedy for the one. Kellock brought up his -mould, and instead of proceeding with the rhythmic actions to right -and left—those delicate operations of exquisite complexity where -brain telegraphed to muscle, and motor and sensory nerves both played -their part in the completion of the “stroke”—instead of the usual -beautiful and harmonious gestures that drained the mould and laid a -sweet, even face of paper upon it, he found forces invisible at his -elbows and an enemy still more terrible within. His brain hung fire; a -wave of horrible doubt and irresolution swept over him. It ran through -the physical parts engaged—his arms and breast muscles and the small -of his back. He stared at the mould, turned and washed off the faulty -sheet he had created, and made an attempt at a jest to Harold Spry, who -was watching, all eyes. - -“Where are my wits, Harold?” he said. Then he took a deep breath, and -dipped the mould again. - -Spry and the layer watched sympathetically. To their eyes there seemed -no failure as Kellock drew up his load; but he knew. A condition of -tremendous tension raised his heart-beat to a gallop, and his eyes grew -misty. He gasped like a drowning man, and felt the sweat beading on his -forehead. - -“I’ll—I’ll just get a breath of air and come back,” he said, dropped -the mould, and went out of the shop. Spry washed the mould, then he -walked down the line of vats and spoke to Knox. A man came from the -engine house with a message, and Ernest Trood also entered with some -information for Robert Life. What he heard made him hasten out of doors -to find Kellock sitting up on a form at the entrance of the vat house -with his head in his hands. - -“What’s the matter, my son?” asked Trood, kindly enough; but a look at -Jordan told him all he feared to hear. - -The young man’s expression had changed, and there was fear in his -eyes, as though they had just mirrored some awful thing. The -resolute, closely-knit Kellock seemed to have fallen to pieces. Every -limb indicated the nerve storm under which he suffered. Trood was -experienced, and knew the danger. He believed that Kellock had given in -too soon. - -“Fight—fight like hell!” he said. “Don’t run away from it. Don’t give -it time to get into you. Come back now, lad—this minute. At your age, -it’s nothing—just indigestion, or a chill about you. If you let it -fester, you’ll go from bad to worse, and very like have to knock off -for six months before you look at a mould again.” - -“It’s no good—it’s gone,” said the younger man; but he obeyed, and -followed Trood into the vat house. - -Knox had warned the rest to ignore the sufferer, and no man took any -notice of Kellock as he returned. - -Spry was waiting, and greeted him cheerfully. - -“You’re all right again—your eyes are all right,” he said. - -Trood turned his back on Kellock, and everybody was at work as usual. -He made a tremendous effort with himself, called up his utmost -resolution, smiled and nodded to Spry, who was whistling, gripped his -deckle to the mould, and then strove to think of something else, pursue -his business in the usual mechanical fashion, and let his unconscious -but highly trained energies pursue their road. - -But it was not to be. Some link had strained, if not broken, in the -complexus of brain and nerve and muscle. Perfect obedience was lacking; -a rebel had crept into the organism. For once, the man’s expressionless -face was alive with expression; for once his steady and monotonous -voice vibrated. - -“It’s all up,” he said to Harold Spry. - -Then he put down the mould. - -Trood was beside him in an instant, and Knox came also. Elsewhere those -who had no love for Kellock talked under their breath together. Others, -who came and went, took the news. - -Trood made the vatman try again; but only once. He saw in a moment that -the breakdown could not be bluffed; the fault in the machine was too -deep. - -Jordan put on his coat, and Trood arranged to drive him to Totnes -presently to see a doctor. The young man was calm, but his will power -appeared suspended. He looked into the faces of his companions for any -ray of comfort; and the fact that he could do so was testimony to his -collapse. - -He went back to “The Waterman’s Arms” presently; and through the Mill -like lightning flashed the news that Kellock had lost his stroke. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - -THE DOCTOR - - -As soon as Mrs. Trivett heard the bad news she stopped work, explained -to her second in command the gravity of the situation, and hastened -home as fast as she could go to Medora. Now or never might her daughter -show what she was worth, and she felt that her girl’s place should be -beside the sufferer. Duty and love alike prompted in that direction; -indeed, Medora herself appeared to view the disaster with her mother’s -eyes. - -“Good Lord! Lost his stroke! Poor man,” she cried. “I must go to him. -Is he ill? Have you seen him? What was the cause of it? Does he say -what he’s going to do about it?” - -“I haven’t seen him. He’s gone back to the inn, and Mr. Trood takes him -into Totnes presently to the doctor. And it’s your place to go along -with them in my opinion.” - -Medora’s mind moved swiftly. She knew that Kellock was to have seen Ned -Dingle on the previous evening, and eagerly she awaited information of -what had happened at that meeting. Jordan intended to have come over -to Priory Farm after working hours; but now she could hear even sooner -than she expected. - -“I shan’t leave him if he’s very bad,” said Medora. - -“In no case, better or worse, will you leave him,” declared Lydia. -“This is a fearful thing to overtake a vatman, and you, of all people, -ought to be at his side to cheer him and encourage him and help him to -hope. It’s a nervous breakdown along of all this waiting and trouble.” - -“More likely the lecture,” suggested Medora. “Small wonder if his -lecture is got on his mind and upset him. And he was to see Ned -yesterday. Perhaps Ned said something to do it.” - -Lydia sighed. - -“Things be come to a climax, seemingly. Mr. Knox whispered to me that -Ned might have a bit of good news for Kellock. On the other hand, -perhaps he had not. Any way, your good is Jordan’s good, and his evil -is your evil now; so you’d best to get to him as quick as you can, and -stop with him if he wishes you to do so, as he doubtless will.” - -In a couple of hours Medora sat at “The Waterman’s Arms.” She expected -an emotional meeting, and indeed felt emotional. For a time Jordan’s -sufferings weighed with her, and she found sympathy wakening for him. -But he appeared much as usual, and while gratified at her swift return, -held himself well in hand and made no great parade of his misfortune. - -“Mother properly scared me to death,” explained Medora. “I do hope to -God it’s not as bad as she said. How d’you feel, dear? You look pale.” - -“I feel all right in myself.” - -“It’s that lecture. Why don’t you give it up?” - -“No, Medora. It’s nothing to do with the lecture. I can think of the -lecture calmly enough. I’m very glad you came so quick. It’s a comfort -to me first, and second, I’ve got a lot to tell you. You must brace -yourself, for it’s bad news.” - -“More?” - -“What has lost me my stroke happened last night, Medora. I saw Mr. -Dingle, and I heard more than enough to put any man off his stroke.” - -“You don’t mean to say he’s going to take your money?” - -“My money! Good powers, what’s that? He can have my money to the last -penny if he likes. It’s far worse. I hate to say it—it’s enough to -kill any pure woman—it’s very nearly killed me, I believe; but -you’ve got to hear it, Medora, though it sweeps away the firm ground -from under our feet and leaves us without any foothold. He—he won’t -divorce you!” - -She exhibited ample concern at this intelligence. Indeed, she very -nearly fainted in earnest, and Kellock, who only observed the physical -shock, doubted not that it sprang from emotion entirely creditable to -Medora. - -“You can guess what I felt and how I tried to bring him to a better -frame of mind. But he’s a different man from what he used to be. I -couldn’t believe I was listening to Dingle. Changed into something -outside his real character. It shows how weak natures can be -influenced. Others have been getting at him—enemies to us for certain. -It’s a cruel, wicked thing, and it knocked me out, as you see. But I’m -not concerned with myself. I’ve got to think of you, Medora, and the -future—our future. Of course, what really hurts the soul of man or -woman is what they inflict upon themselves; but all the same—there it -is—if he don’t divorce you, where are we?” - -“Where we were,” she said, and strove to make her voice sufficiently -mournful. But she guessed that it would be difficult to discuss this -tremendous information without sooner or later revealing her true -sentiments. - -“Don’t let’s talk about it for the present,” she continued. “The future -will take care of itself—it always does. For the minute, I’m only -troubled about your health and happiness, Jordan. Whatever comes of -this, we’ve been through a great experience, and the end of it all is -this shock to your nerves.” - -“‘The end of it all,’ Medora?” - -“I mean, so far as we’ve got. You are the only one to think about for -the minute—not me and not Dingle. The first thing is your health and -strength, and I’m not going to leave you again, Jordan, till you’re set -up, and find yourself as clever as ever you were.” - -“If you come to the lecture, that would go a long way to quieting my -nerves.” - -“Of course I’ll come. I always meant to come. It was only a bit of -temper saying I wouldn’t—I never thought not to come. But will you be -well enough to give it?” - -“Oh, yes. This flurry arose from causes outside the lecture, and quite -outside _the_ Cause. You understand?” - -“Yes,” she answered. “I do understand, and I’m thankful for it, Jordan; -because I know very well it means much more to you than your own trade. -And our little lives are as nothing to the big things in your mind.” - -“If I never made paper again,” he assured her, “it would be less—far -less—of a grief and disaster to me than if I was shut off from taking -my part in the great struggle for Labour.” - -“You’ll do both; you’ll do both. It’s only a passing shock. You’ll -forget all about it, I hope, and be at work again as well as ever in a -few days.” - -“I don’t think so, Medora. As far as that goes, I believe it’s serious. -I haven’t had time to collect my thoughts yet, and it’s no good -worrying till I’ve seen the doctor; but I’m none too hopeful. If the -stroke once goes, it wants a lot of careful nursing to get it back, and -often enough it’s gone for good.” - -“Only with men who drink, and that kind of thing. Such a one as you—a -saint—and strong in body and mind, and healthy every way—of course it -will come back.” - -“We must be frank with ourselves,” he said. “We must tell the doctor -the truth. My stroke was shocked away. And sometimes what’s shocked -away can only be shocked back.” - -“That’s an idea,” said Medora. - -She was always quick to fasten on ideas and his words made her -thoughtful for a moment. She registered his statement for future -consideration, then flowed on again. She was cheerful, sympathetic, -and full of consolation. Indeed, presently, as Kellock grew grateful, -she began to think she might be overdoing the part. For it was, if not -wholly, at least in large measure an impersonation now. She was acting -again, and she played with a purpose and exceeding concern to touch the -right note, but avoid overemphasis upon it. Kellock appeared to be in -two minds, and he looked at her and held her hand. - -“I want to say something,” he declared presently; “but I won’t. I’ll -keep it off, because I’m not very strong for the moment, and the spoken -word once spoken remains. This is a great crisis all round. I hope good -will come out of trouble, as it often does. We’ve had enough to shake -us cruelly to-day—both of us—and I won’t add to it. And what’s in my -thoughts may look different to-morrow, so I’ll keep it there.” - -“Don’t think any more about anything,” she begged him. “Just let your -mind rest, or talk about the lecture. And don’t you think, whatever -happens, and whatever is in store for me, that it is going to lessen -your great future. Perhaps it was the strangeness of your ideas that -made me shrink from them.” - -He began to discuss his ruling passion. She kept him easily to that. - -Presently they ate together, and when Ernest Trood drove up in a -dog-cart, lent by Mr. Trenchard, he found Kellock calm and contented. -Medora sat behind, and joined in the conversation as they trotted -through the green lanes to Totnes. - -The master had sent cheering messages to Jordan, and hoped to see him -on the following day. - -“He’s not a bit troubled,” said Trood. “He reckons that with a man of -your fine physique and constitution—a man that lives the life you -lead—this is a flea-bite—just a shake-up along of some trifle. And if -you’ve got to chuck it and go away for six weeks even, he’s not going -to trouble about it.” - -“Like him,” said Kellock. “But it won’t be any question of six weeks, -or six days, Ernest. I’ve got a feeling about this that I shall be -right in twenty-four hours, or not at all. I’m not letting it get on my -nerves, you understand. If it’s gone, it’s gone. There’s plenty of work -for me in the world, whether at the vat, or somewhere else.” - -“Never heard better sense,” answered the foreman. “All the same, don’t -you throw up the sponge—that would be weak. You must remember you’re a -great paper maker, Jordan, and there are not any too many of ’em left -in England now-a-days. So it’s up to every man that’s proud of his -business to stick to it.” - -“You take that to heart, Jordan,” advised Medora. “Not that there isn’t -greater work in the world than paper-making—we all know that.” - -“No, we don’t know anything of the sort,” answered Trood. “Don’t you -talk nonsense, Medora, because I won’t hear it. Paper stands for -civilisation, and the better the paper, the higher the civilisation. -You’d soon see that if anything happened to spoil paper and raise the -price of rag. If the quality of paper goes down, that’s a sure sign the -quality of civilisation’s doing the same. By its paper you can judge a -nation, and English paper, being the best in the world, helps to show -we’re first in the world. And if a man like Kellock was to hide his -light under a bushel, his conscience would very soon tell him about it.” - -Jordan smiled at Mr. Trood’s enthusiasm. - -“I love my work,” he said, “and should never give it up, unless it gave -me up, Ernest, but for one reason—that I could do something better.” - -“That you never would, if they made you king of England,” replied -the foreman. “You’d never be so good at anything else as you are at -paper-making, because you’ve got the natural genius for the job. That’s -your gift—and you may lecture or you may stand on your head, or do any -other mortal thing, but you won’t do it as well as you do your work at -the vat.” - -The doctor found not much amiss with Jordan. He heard all particulars, -and made a searching examination of the patient’s fine frame. - -“Never saw a healthier, or more perfect man,” he declared. “You’re a -long way above the average, and as healthy as a ten year old. Muscles -hypertrophied a bit—you’d be muscle-bound in fact for any other work -but your own; but your organs are as sound as a bell; there’s nothing -whatever to show why you’ve broken down. It would be cruelty to animals -to give you physic. What d’you drink and smoke?” - -“I drink water, doctor. I don’t smoke.” - -“Might have known it. Well, go away for a fortnight. Run up to -Dartmoor, and walk ten miles a day, or twenty, if you like. Then you’ll -be all right. This breakdown must have been mental, seeing it was -nothing else. Have you got anything on your mind?” - -“Yes, I have.” - -“Get it off then, and you’ll be all right.” - -Kellock nodded. - -“Thank you very much. I shall soon see a way, I hope.” - -“Let a way come then; don’t worry to find it. Don’t worry about -anything. Go up to Dartmoor—Dartmoor’s a very good doctor—though his -fees get higher every year, they tell me. I seem to know your name, by -the way. Where did I see it?” - -“Posted up perhaps, doctor. I’m going to give a lecture here next week.” - -“Ah—so it was. Socialism—eh? Is the lecture getting on your nerves?” - -“No, not at all. But I hope it’ll get on other people’s. I look forward -to it.” - -“Well, get to Dartmoor, and if your stroke doesn’t come back when you -return, see me again.” - -Kellock repeated his interview exactly, and Mr. Trood was much -gratified. They went home in the best of spirits, and that evening -Medora devoted to Jordan. He became more and more distracted and -pre-occupied, however. She avoided personal subjects, and wanted him to -read the lecture aloud; but this he would not do. - -“Now that you are going to hear it,” he said, “I’ll let you off till -then.” - -He declared himself tired and went to his bed before ten o’clock. But -he did not sleep. He had much thinking to do, and many hours elapsed -before he arrived at any conclusion. His mind was entirely occupied -with Medora, and her future caused him to pass through deep anxieties -and fruitless regrets. Her loyal attitude that day had moved him much, -for he supposed that Dingle’s decision must have come upon her with -force at least as crushing as it had fallen on himself. Yet how bravely -she had borne it, how unselfishly she had put it away from her, and -devoted herself to him and his tribulations! Doubtless now, alone, she -too considered the gravity of the situation, and lay awake in distress. - -He had a human impulse to go and comfort her, to declare that nothing -mattered while they shared their great love, to explain that since -Dingle would not legally release her, they must take the law into their -own hands. But another, and far more characteristic line of thought -developed, and in the dominating and directing forces awakened by it, -he followed his natural bent, and at last arrived at a decision. He -perceived his duty towards Medora, albeit action appeared impossible -until he had spoken with her. Yet, to put the matter before Medora -might defeat his object, for there could be no doubt that Medora was -his, heart and soul. He felt, therefore, that he must, after all, act -without her knowledge, for he believed that if she knew his purpose, -she would strive to prevent it. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - -THE CONFESSION - - -In the evening of Kellock’s catastrophe, Philander Knox saw Ned Dingle, -who was working in his garden at the time. - -“Heard the latest?” he asked. - -“The latest for me is that Mr. Trenchard will take me back if I like to -come.” - -“No, the latest for you is that Jordan Kellock’s lost his stroke.” - -Ned dropped a packet of seeds. - -“Has he, by God! That’s the best news I’ve heard for a good bit.” - -“You’re glad, but you won’t be glad if you think over it.” - -Knox explained the circumstances, and told the tale of Jordan’s failure. - -“Poor devil,” said Ned. “I can’t say I’m sorry all the same. It won’t -last. He’ll get it back, no doubt, and perhaps he’ll see now he can’t -go playing fast and loose with people, same as he did, and not get a -facer himself sometimes. I told him I wasn’t going to divorce my wife, -and no doubt that’s bowled him over.” - -“You’ve done very well so far, in my opinion,” declared Mr. Knox. -“You’ve conducted the affair in a high-class way, and you and me know -where we stand; but he don’t, and more does she.” - -“I’m in your hands,” answered Ned. “I begin to find better every day -you’re right, Knox. And what did she do when she heard he was down and -out?” - -“Took a very proper line,” answered Philander. “Some, feeling what -she feels and knowing that she’d done with him, for evermore, whatever -happened, would have left him to stew in his own juice; but Medora, -having a very fine pride, would have despised herself for any such -littleness as that. I see as clear as day what was in her mind. She -said to herself, ‘I’ve been a silly fool, and so has he. We were lost -to sense and reality, and acted in a mad and improper manner. In -fact, we’ve been everything we could be, except wicked, and silliness -is often punished worse than wickedness. But, though Kellock richly -deserved to lose his stroke, it’s as much my fault as his own that he -has done so, and I’m too sporting to turn my back on him at such a -moment. If he’s ruined, then it’s my hard duty to share his trouble, -and I won’t be a rat and quit a sinking ship. That’s not the sort of -woman Ned Dingle married.’ So Medora argued, no doubt—not knowing, of -course, what you’ve said to Kellock. So she went to him, and they’ve -gone to Totnes this evening along with Ernest Trood to see a doctor. -Thus you see, for her proper and womanly behaviour, Medora will be -rewarded—as we sometimes are if we do rightly—sooner or later.” - -“How rewarded?” asked Ned. - -“Why, by hearing presently from the man that you’re not going to -divorce her. She plays her part to him and cheers him up and takes -a hopeful view of the disaster, and so on; and then she hears what -brought it all about—your strong line. Of course, to her ear—she -being now a contrite creature with the scales fallen from her eyes—the -fact that you wouldn’t set her free to marry him was the best music she -could hear. She’ll know with you taking that line, she’ll be free of -Kellock for evermore, and able to set about her own salvation in fear -and trembling. And that, no doubt, is what she’ll do, for having paid -for girlish faults, she’ll now cultivate her womanly virtues and become -as fine a creature in mind as she is in body, and rise to be worthy of -our admiration again.” - -Ned listened to this long speech while he sowed carrots. - -“These things don’t happen by chance,” concluded Knox. “A man like you -bends fate to his own purpose; and fate, being a female, does a lot -more for them that drive her than them that spoil her. You stand in a -very strong position now, and the lucky thing is that the strong can be -merciful to the weak without losing their self-respect.” - -“I’ll see Kellock,” promised Ned. “I’ll see him to-morrow and hear what -he’s got to say about it.” - -“A very good thought, but let your mind dwell on Medora a bit before -you do. You think so clear and see so straight that you won’t make -any mistake in that quarter. You’ve got to remember how it looks to -Kellock so far, and whether it looks right to him, or whether it do -not. Now Kellock only knows as yet that you don’t put away Medora; and -that means he can’t marry her, so this brother and sister racket must -end. As for Mrs. Dingle, she’s done with the masculine gender, and, of -course, she may have told Kellock so—I can’t say as to that. But you -see him by all means.” - -They talked till dusk fell, then Mr. Knox departed and Ned considered -all he had said, with the imputations proper to Philander’s words. -He had trusted largely to the vatman of late, and found himself in -agreement with his sentiments on all occasions, for Knox was treating -Ned with rare diplomacy. - -Next morning, Jordan himself anticipated his visitor, and as Ned set -out to see him, he appeared at Ashprington. He wore holiday attire, -looked pale, and was somewhat nervous. - -They met at the gate of Dingle’s house, and Ned spoke. - -“Come in the house, and you can speak first—no, I will.” - -They entered the little parlour and sat down opposite each other. - -“I hear you’ve lost your stroke. I suppose to find what I meant to do -was a bit too shattering. No doubt you’ll get it back. I’ve no wish to -come between you and your livelihood; but when you and my wife hatched -this bit of wickedness, you didn’t stop to think whether it would play -hell with my nerves; and if you’d known it would, that wouldn’t have -changed you.” - -“That’s quite true,” admitted Kellock, “and, I may tell you, it’s come -home to me pretty sharp before you said it. As for me, I may get my -stroke again, or I may not; and if I don’t, I shall never blame you—I -shall blame myself. Those that think they stand, often get a fall, and -I’m not too proud to confess to you that that’s what has happened to -me.” - -“Serve you right.” - -“I don’t matter any more. What matters is Medora, and I shall be -greatly obliged if you’ll allow me to speak a few words on that -subject.” - -“The fewer the better.” - -“I come from myself, understand. She knows nothing about it. I didn’t -ask her, because if she’d said ‘no,’ I couldn’t have come. And she -might have forbid.” - -“Well, get on with it.” - -“It’s very difficult, and I beg you’ll make allowances for a man who -has done wrong and done you wrong, too. You’ll probably say that I’m -only changed since you told me you weren’t going to divorce Medora. -That’s true in a way, but not all true. I’ve learned a great deal I -didn’t know from Medora, but I’ve only come now to talk about her. The -question is how you feel about her.” - -“That’s my business, not yours.” - -“I don’t know that, because as you feel, so I must do. I recognise my -obligations sharp enough, and she is the first of them if you ordain -she is to be. I’ve thought a lot about it you may be sure, and I’ve -recognised one thing fairly clearly—I did before you struck this blow. -I’m not a marrying man, Mr. Dingle.” - -“Nobody ever thought you were but that fool.” - -“It wasn’t her fault. We were both wrong—that’s all. And I want to say -this. I wouldn’t marry Medora now if I could, because I’ve been brought -to see I shouldn’t make her happy. A brother I’m prepared to be; but -for her own sake, and for her future, I wouldn’t marry her if I could -now, because I should be doing her a wrong. Of course, you’ll say I’m -putting this on because you won’t let me marry her; but I swear to you -that I’d begun to feel it before.” - -“That lets you out then—with your tail between your legs. And what -price her?” - -“That’s why I’ve called this morning. I can’t say anything to Medora -until I’ve spoken to you, because it’s clear that what I must do -depends upon you. If you’ve done with her, then I shall support her and -be as good a brother as I know how to be.” - -“Have you ever seen the man who would take a woman back after these -games? Would you, if you was me?” - -“I’d think a lot before I refused, if I was you. Knox tells me that -it’s a very uncommon case, but quite in keeping with my character. You -understand, I’ve said nothing to Medora. Of course, she knows what the -price is she’s got to pay. The appearance of evil is as bad in this -case as evil itself; so she’s doomed if you doom her, but saved if you -save her. Would it be asking too much to ask you to see her?” - -“I have seen her.” - -“Not since she knew the situation. We often learn a lesson when it’s -too late to profit by the knowledge, and it’s for you to judge if that -will be the case with Medora. I’m only raising the question, and I -don’t want to fill her head with false hopes. She’s been too much of a -lady to say anything out; but she’s shown her feelings on the subject -in a good many ways.” - -“She’s fed up with you, in fact?” - -“Yes; I believe that is so. In a way, to use a homely sort of -illustration, what we did was to keep company—no more than that; and -that showed her very clear I’m not the right company; and it’s shown -me, as I say, I’m not a marrying man. So there it is. I can promise you -your wife will want for nothing, and I shall regard her destiny as in -my hands in future, if you’re off her for good. And if you change your -mind and divorce her, I’ll swear it won’t be me that marries her. That -you can take on oath. I’ll tell her so to-day.” - -Kellock rose to go, and Ned remained silent and seated. - -“Remember, if you do see her, you’ll see a wiser and sadder woman,” the -vatman ventured to add. - -“No doubt. You’d make anybody sadder and wiser. When are you going to -try for your stroke again?” - -“I don’t know.” - -“Nobody will pity you when they hear how you lost it.” - -“You’ll find Mrs. Dingle along with her people at Priory Farm if you -want her. She means to come to my lecture next week; but not if you’ve -any objection, of course. And I beg you to understand that I’m heartily -sorry for what I’ve done, and I’m punished a lot worse than you could -punish me. To lose my stroke is nought; to lose my self-respect is -everything.” - -“You’ll get ’em both back—such an amazing creature as you,” said -Dingle dourly. - -Then Kellock went away, and the man who had listened to him little -guessed at his soreness of spirit. Jordan indeed had the satisfaction -of clearing his soul and confessing his weakness and failure; but he -suffered ample degradation and discomfort under his right-doing. Nor -did he believe that his end was likely to be gained. Doubting, he had -taken his proposal to Ashprington; still doubting, he returned. Indeed, -he felt sure from Ned’s attitude, both to him and Medora, that the girl -would remain on his hands. A subtler man had felt every reason to hope -from Dingle’s blunt comments, but he read nothing behind them. He only -believed that he had eaten dirt for nought; yet he did not regret his -confession of wrong; for his bent of mind was such that he knew he -must have made it sooner or later. - -The future looked dark and sad enough. He was confused, downcast. Even -the thought of the lecture had no present power to cheer him. But he -told himself that he had done his duty to Medora, and suspected that, -had she heard his appeal to her husband, she might have thanked him. - -And elsewhere Dingle pondered the problem. Curiously enough, only a -point, which had seemed unimportant to anybody else, held his mind. -Kellock had said Medora was changed, and such is human inconsistency, -that whereas Ned had told himself for six months he was well rid of -a bad woman, now the thought that he might receive back into his -house a reformed character annoyed him. If he wanted anybody, it was -the old Medora—not the plague, who left him for Kellock, but the -laughter-loving, illusive help-mate he had married. He did not desire -a humbled and repentant creature, ready to lick his boots. He was very -doubtful if he really wanted anybody. Once the mistress of any man, -he would never have thought of her again except to curse her; but she -never had been that. She had doubtless shared Jordan’s exalted ideals. -That was to her credit, and showed she honoured her first husband and -the stock she sprang from. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - -THE BARGAIN - - -Through bright moonlight, that made the young leaves diaphanous and -melted on the grass lands in grey mist, men and women were walking home -to Ashprington from Totnes. Not less than five-and-twenty had gone from -the Mill to hear Jordan Kellock’s lecture on socialism; and as they -trudged homeward they discussed it. - -He had surprised all his listeners and many were full of enthusiasm -before the future he indicated; but some were angry; some went in -doubt. The younger men were with him and the older could not deny that -there was reason and pitiless justice behind his demands. The women who -heard him wondered at the ease with which he had spoken and held his -audience. They were impressed with the applause that had greeted his -sentiments and judged that he must have right on his side to have won a -reception so enthusiastic. - -Henry Barefoot, the boilerman, walked by Ernest Trood, while Harold -Spry and Daisy Finch listened to them. - -“It’s got to come,” declared Barefoot. “We used to talk of these -problems in the merchant marine twenty-five years ago, and we knew then -that things weren’t right; but our generation was dumb, because our -brains weren’t educated to pull together. We ate our mouldy biscuits -and rancid salt pork and shivered in a gale of wind, because we knew -the ship’s bottom was rotten; and we cussed the owners out of their -snug beds ashore to hell; but we was driven cattle, you may say—had to -go on with it—because there was nothing else for sailor men to do. But -our children have gone to school. That’s the difference.” - -“And the rich men sent ’em there, Henry,” said Mr. Trood. - -“They did, because they hadn’t any choice, Ernest. If they’d known what -would come of it, they’d have kept ’em out of school and left the poor -man’s children to fill the rich men’s pockets, instead of giving them -their birthright of education. ’Twasn’t squire and parson sent ’em to -school, but those who had a fairer sense of justice; and long-headed -chaps like Kellock are the result.” - -“He’s got a lot to learn, however. There’s no such things as equality -and never can be. Because men ain’t born equal, Henry.” - -“He don’t argue that, Mr. Trood,” explained Spry. “He argues that we -are handicapped out of the hunt from the start. He says, ‘let all start -fair’; he don’t say all can win.” - -“Yes, he does,” returned Trood. “He says all should win. He tells us -that a man’s intellect is an accident, and that, in justice, them -with big brains should give their superfluity to the fools, so as all -should share and share alike. And that’s not human nature. Am I, that -have worked like a slave to win my position and put all my heart and -soul into paper-making from my youth up, to go and seek that lazy dog -I sacked last week and say: ‘You’re a damned, worthless waster, but -here’s half my wages’?” - -“I grant he was out there,” admitted Barefoot. “‘The race is to the -strong,’ but socialism don’t seem to see that. Given a fair start for -all and food and clothes and education, then the good boy gets his -chance; but even if that was so, as things are he’d never be allowed to -compete with the gentleman’s son.” - -“Yes, he would,” answered Trood. “There’s nothing in the world, even as -it’s run now, to stop brains. There’s boys who were charity school boys -thirty years ago that the world listens to very respectfully to-day. -But Kellock’s let a lot of class hatred come into his talk, and hatred -breeds hatred. Never a man wanted power more than him, but his sort -go the wrong way to work with their bluster and threats. They don’t -help: they’re out for blood. We’re a very fair country at heart and -under our constitution we’ve grown to be the finest people on earth. -So, naturally, as a whole, the nation don’t want the Constitution swept -away till we can get a better. The socialists have no traditions, and -don’t agree among themselves yet, and I for one wouldn’t trust people -that scoff at tradition and want to be a law to themselves. They would -be a great danger, Henry, and if we got all to pieces like that and in -sight of civil wars and revolution, we should throw ourselves open to -attack from our enemies. Then, while we were wrangling how to govern -ourselves, we’d damn soon find England was going to be governed by -somebody else.” - -“There’s plenty of hungry eyes on the British Empire no doubt,” allowed -Mr. Barefoot. - -“Plenty; and if our army and navy got bitten with this stuff, it would -be good-bye to everything. And that wouldn’t suit Kellock’s friends.” - -“And be it as it will,” said Daisy Finch, “a paper mill isn’t a -charity. Those that run the Mill have got to live, I suppose.” - -“Yes, Daisy,” admitted Trood; “but we must be fair to this Kellock, -though I’m far from supporting what he says. The ills are as he -stated them; the remedies are not as he stated ’em. He argues that -the workman’s work should no more be his whole life than work is his -master’s whole life. Because Capital buys a man’s working hours, it -doesn’t buy his life and liberties. Outside his work, he’s as much -right to enjoy being alive as his employer. A machine looks very -different from the owner’s point of view and the worker’s. The owner’s -the master of the machine; the worker is its slave; and it’s on the -worker the machine puts the strain, not on the owner. So we have got -to consider our working hours in relation to our lives as a whole, -and balance work against life, and consider how our labour affects our -existence. A six hour day at a machine may be a far greater tax on a -man or woman than an eight hour day at the desk, or the plough. You’ve -got to think of the nervous energy, which ain’t unlimited.” - -“That’s so,” admitted Barefoot. “Life’s the only adventure we can -hope for, and I grant you there ought to be more to it. ’Tis all this -here speeding up, I mistrust. The masters see the result of ‘speeding -up,’ and think it’s all to the good according; but it’s we feel the -result, and I can tell you I’m never more cranky and bad-tempered and -foul-mouthed than after one of them rushes. The strain is only pounds, -shillings and pence to the masters; but it’s flesh and blood and nerves -to us; because it’s us have got to fight the machines, not them.” - -“A very true word, Henry. Kellock’s out for security, and whether -you’re a socialist or whether you’re not, you can’t deny security is -the due of every human creature. Until the highest and lowest alike are -born into security, there’s something wrong with the order of things.” - -“Yet the greater number of the nation have no more security than a -bird in a bush. Let us but lose our health, and where are we?” asked -Barefoot. - -“And if a machine is going to make us lose our health,” argued Spry, -“then to hell with the machine.” - -“We want shorter hours and better money,” explained Ernest Trood, “and -that can only be won if the masters also get better money. And for such -a result we must look to machines.” - -Then Daisy Finch asked a question. - -“Who were those stern-looking men in black ties listening to the -lecture?” she inquired. - -“From Plymouth, I believe,” answered her sweetheart. “They meant -business, and they applauded Kellock at the finish.” - -“They see a likely tool to help their plots,” said Mr. Trood. “I hope -he’ll get his stroke back and drop this Jack-o’-lantern job. There’s -quite enough at it without him.” - -“He don’t think so,” answered Barefoot. “He wants to be in the -movement, and may rise to be a leader some day. They socialists are as -ambitious as anybody at heart.” - -Harold and Miss Finch, weary of the subject, slowed their gait, fell -back, and presently turned to their own affairs. Then a trap passed, -driven by Mr. Tom Dolbear, from Priory Farm. He had brought his sister -and Medora to the lecture, and was now taking them home again. With -them travelled Mr. Knox. - -The farmer alone found no good word for the things they had listened to. - -“Just the gift of the gab,” he said. “If you can talk easy, you’re -tempted to do so, at the expense of work.” - -“Talking is working when you’re out for a cause,” explained Knox. -“Kellock’s not a talker in the way we are. In fact, a very silent man, -and thinks a great deal more than he talks; but with practice and a -bit of exercise to strengthen his voice, he’d be as good as any of the -talking brigade; and though you may not agree with him, you can’t deny -he’s got the faith to move mountains. He’s preaching a gospel that -Labour’s perfectly ready and willing to hear, and he’ll be an easy -winner presently, because it’s half the battle won to tell people the -things they’ll welcome. Everybody was with him from the start, and the -harder he hit, the better they liked it.” - -“I didn’t think Totnes had gone so radical now-a-days,” said Mrs. -Trivett. - -“More it has,” declared Mr. Dolbear. “That wasn’t Totnes. ’Twas no more -than a handful of discontented people, who don’t know what they want.” - -“Make no mistake as to that,” answered Knox. “The brains of Totnes -was there—the thinking ones that ain’t satisfied; and they do know -what they want very well indeed; and Kellock’s talk only said what -the others feel. He’s got a gift in my opinion, and I’m with him more -than half the way. If you allow for ignorance and impatience of youth, -and so on—if you grant all that, there’s still enough left to make a -reputation. He’ll never be a happy man, but he’ll make his mark and -have the satisfaction of being somebody in the labour world. He’s got -the touch.” - -Medora considered curiously with herself under the night. Her own -changed attitude surprised her most. She had heard the applause and -riot that greeted Jordan’s speech. She had seen him stand there, -self-contained and strong and successful, before three hundred people. -She had marked his power to impress them, and awaken enthusiasm. She -had seen older men than himself lifted to excitement by his speech. She -had noted how many men and women pressed forward to shake hands with -him when he had finished. She remembered the chairman’s praise. All -these things had actually filled her dreams of old. She had prophesied -to him that such events would some day happen, and that his power -must become known, given the opportunity. And now, far sooner than -either had expected such a thing, it had come and justified Medora’s -prophecies. She wondered whether Kellock was remembering all she had -foretold. As for herself, she looked at him now as at a picture that -hung in somebody else’s parlour. She witnessed the sunrise of his first -triumph, but found herself perfectly indifferent and not desirous of -one ray of reflected light. Her mind had passed from Kellock to other -interests, and if she were ever to be a contented woman, it would not -be Kellock who achieved that consummation. - -“Jordan was to attend a meeting of his branch after the lecture,” she -said to Knox. “I expect after such a success as that, they’ll want him -to give the lecture somewhere else.” - -“I’m thinking of the effect on his nature,” answered Knox. “And I -believe all that applause will be a better tonic than Dartmoor, and -make the man well.” - -“You think it will fetch his stroke back again?” asked Mrs. Trivett. - -“That’s just what I do think, Lydia. He’ll be walking on air after such -a triumph as that. He’ll fear nothing when he comes back to the vat, -and all will go right.” - -Then, Mr. Knox, for private ends, and suspecting he had praised Kellock -enough, turned on the lecture, and began to display its fallacies and -errors. For Medora’s benefit he examined the young man, and declared -that his address revealed the defects of his qualities. But he need not -have been at the trouble to occupy himself thus; Medora knew a great -deal more about the real Jordan than it was possible for Mr. Knox to -know. - -She listened, but took no more part in the conversation. They proceeded -down the steep lane into Ashprington presently, and at Ned Dingle’s -home, Knox, to their surprise, bade Mr. Dolbear draw up. - -“I’m going in here,” he said. “So I’ll wish you all ‘good night.’” - -Dingle, who knew the party was to pass, stood at his outer gate -smoking. Only Lydia addressed him. - -“Good night, Ned,” she said, and he answered: - -“Good night, mother.” - -Then the trap proceeded and Mr. Dolbear permitted himself to speak -rather spitefully of Philander Knox. - -“He ain’t sound, that man,” he declared. “He wants to run with the hare -and hunt with the hounds. You don’t know where to have him in argument, -the truth being he ain’t much in earnest about anything in my opinion.” - -But Tom Dolbear modified this view before many days were passed. -Indeed, had he listened to the conversation then proceeding between -Philander and Mr. Dingle, he must have found himself confronted sharply -and painfully with mistaken judgment; and Mr. Knox himself did not -guess at the important events destined to fall out before he slept -that night. That certain things were presently to happen; that he would -pluck his own occasions out of them and win a reward worthy of all his -pains, he believed; but he did not know how near these things might -be. Nor did he imagine how swiftly his own particular problems were -destined to be solved. Now Medora’s husband played into his hand with -unexpected perception. - -They spoke first concerning the lecture, and Ned heard without -enthusiasm of its success. - -“No doubt the only thing that concerns you is why your wife went,” said -Knox, “and I may tell you she went because she’d promised to go. It -bored her stiff, same as it did Mrs. Trivett. They’ve got no use for -the new paths, and Medora’s just as much of a Tory at heart as you or -her mother, though she wouldn’t own to it. That’s all over, any way. -They’ve parted in a dignified fashion, and I’ve done the best day’s -work I ever have done in helping you to see the peculiar circumstances -and putting the truth before you. Not that even my great efforts would -have saved the situation if you hadn’t believed me; but that was your -stronghold: you knew I was telling truth. In fact, it’s one of those -cases where knowledge of the truth has helped the parties through the -storm, and I’ll be thankful to my dying day you was large-minded enough -to receive and accept it. It was a great compliment to me that you -could trust me, and a great advertisement to your brain power.” - -“It’s all your work and I don’t deny you the praise,” answered Ned. -“Of course, if things had been otherwise from what they are, nothing -would have come of it; but as the facts are what we understand, then -I’m half in a mind to take Medora back. I dare say the people will -think I’m a silly, knock-kneed fool to do so; but those who know the -truth would not. There’s only one thing will prevent me, and that’s the -woman herself. I’ll see her presently, and if she comes out of it in a -decent spirit, then what I say may happen. But if there’s a shadow of -doubt about it in her mind, then we’ll stop as we are. It pretty much -depends upon her now.” - -“In that case I congratulate you, because her spirit is contrite to the -dust, and never, if she lives to be a hundred, will she fail of her -duty again. She’ll be a pattern to every married woman on earth for the -rest of her life, no doubt. The highest and best she prays for is to be -forgiven by you; but she don’t dare to hope even that; and if she found -she was more than forgiven, then her gratitude would rise to amazing -heights, no doubt.” - -“Well it might,” declared Dingle, and the other spoke again. - -“Yes; and none better pleased than me; but though I hadn’t thought -we’d got nearly so far as this yet awhile, now I see that we have, I -must speak a word more, Ned. What I’m going to say now is a terrible -delicate thing; and yet, late though the hour is, this is the appointed -time. Give me a spot of whiskey and switch off from yourself to me for -five minutes.” - -“I was coming to you. I’m not blind, and I see very clearly what I owe -you in this matter. You’ve took a deal of trouble, and I’m grateful, -Knox, and so will everybody else be when they understand.” - -“I’m very glad you feel it so,” answered Philander, “because it’s true. -I have took a lot of trouble, Ned, and I’ve spared no pains to bring -this about, because well I knew from my experience of life that it -was the best that could possibly happen for all concerned. And once -convinced them two were innocent as babes, I set myself to save the -situation, as they say. And I’ve helped you to do so; and it ain’t a -figure of speech to say I’m well paid by results. But that’s not all -there is to it. There was something up my sleeve too. I had another -iron in the fire for myself. In a word, you can pay me handsome for all -my trouble if you’ll recognise that and lend me a hand in a certain -quarter. Need I say what quarter? As you know, Mrs. Trivett’s very much -addicted to me, and she’d marry me to-morrow if a mistaken call of -duty didn’t keep her in that breeding pen known as Priory Farm. Well, I -put it to you whether you won’t help me same as I helped you. One good -turn deserves another—eh?” - -“I’d go to the end of the world to help you, Knox. But what can I do?” - -“You don’t see? I’ll tell you then. It sounds a bit strong, but it’s -safe enough and it’ll do the trick. Above all you needn’t feel a speck -of fear, because your mother-in-law has a very fine affection for me, -and to marry me will really be a great delight to her—that I assure -you.” - -“What must I do then?” - -“Merely tell Medora you don’t look at her again unless Mrs. Trivett -changes her name to Mrs. Knox. I’m not asking a difficult or -troublesome thing. In fact, you needn’t lift a finger in the matter. -You can safely leave it to Medora. She’ll praise God on her knees for a -month of Sundays when she hears the grand ideas in your mind, and when -you state the condition—there you are: she’ll be on to her mother like -a flame of fire, and Lydia will mighty soon see her duty.” - -Ned Dingle laughed. - -“Lord, you’re a deep one!” he said. - -“Not me. Far from it. Just ordinary common sense, and a great natural -regard for Medora’s mother. Mind, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t a dead -cert.” - -“It shall be done,” answered the younger man. “You’re a double chap, -Knox, though you do claim to be so simple, and I’d rather have you for -a friend than an enemy.” - -“I’ll be your friend as long as I live, I promise you—and your wife -also. A very good father-in-law you’ll find me.” - -They went to the door together and as Knox was about to depart, there -came a swift foot down the lane. It was Jordan Kellock on his homeward -way. - -He stopped, seeing the men at the gate. - -“I was going to call first thing to-morrow, Mr. Dingle,” he said, “but -since you’re here I can speak now.” - -“And give me an arm afterwards,” declared Knox. For the moon had set -and it was very dark. - -“Only this: the leaders liked what I said to-night, and they liked -how I said it. In a word they have offered me propaganda work. I’m to -travel about and have my headquarters in London. My life’s begun in -fact. I tell you this, because now you’re free to go back to the Mill, -for I shall not.” - -“Giving up paper-making?” asked Philander. - -“Yes, Knox. I shall never touch a mould again.” - -“Then you’ll never know if you’ve lost your stroke, or get it back.” - -“All’s one now. There’s only Mrs. Dingle to consider. Have you been -able to make up your mind in that matter yet, Mr. Dingle?” - -“I have,” said Ned; “but she don’t know it and I’ll thank you not to -tell her. That’s my job.” - -“Thank God,” said Kellock. - -“And Knox,” added Ned. “But for him there’s no shadow of doubt things -would have happened differently. But as luck would have it you confided -in him, and so did I; and being what he is, he puts his intellects into -the thing and saved us.” - -“I shan’t forget it,” said Kellock. - -“And we shan’t forget you,” declared Knox. “You’re all three mighty -well out of this, and though you’ve been an amazing ass, yet there was -a fine quality in your foolishness that saved the situation. You’ve all -got peace with honour in fact; and may you profit by your lesson and -your luck.” - -Then Knox and Kellock set off down the hill together. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - -FIRE BEACON HILL - - -Free horizons stretched about the grassy summit of Fire Beacon, a -culminating ridge above Dart. - -It ascended from a glorious ambit of hill and valley, moor and sea; -and on this silvery noon of early summer, light rained out of the -zenith and echoed in the scattered cloud argosies that sailed from -the north to seaward. Under them spread a mosaic of multicoloured -fields netted with hedges and knotted with copses or spinneys, grey -hamlets and little thorpes. The million breasts of Artemis Devonia -undulated beneath the shining patchwork and faded into distance over -many leagues of sunkissed weald and wold, until they rippled dimly -to the foothills and forest edges of Dartmoor, where the high lands -were flung hugely out from east to west. To-day the Moor shone full of -delicate colour under the sun. It rose and fell in a lustrous opaline -sky line of gentle salients; it melted at the magic of the universal -light and seemed no more than a delicate veil of grey and azure -imposed transparently upon the brighter blue above it. From Hey Tor to -Rippon it rolled, to Buckland and Holne Moor, with shadowy glimpses of -Hameldon and remote Cosdon; to Dean Moor and Harford, by Eastern Beacon -and Western Beacon, Lee Moor and Shell Top and far border heights that -brooded through the milky hazes of the west. - -Beneath Fire Beacon lay the clustered dwellings of East Cornworthy, -and beyond them, deep in the heart of the land, shone Dart where there -bent away Bow Creek above Stoke Gabriel. The river wound argent through -a dimple of the bending hills, while easterly, by broad passages of -woodland and fallow, opened the ways to the sea. Tor Bay stretched -there with white Torquay glittering pearly under her triple hills; -and far beyond them, touched through the haze by a falling sunshaft, -glimmered the headlands eastward, cliff beyond cliff, where the red -sandstone of Devon gave to the golden oolites of Dorset. Then ranged -the sea-line and rolled wide waters soaked with light, whereon the -clouds not only flung down their shadows, but poured their reflections -also, so that the sea was radiant as the land. - -Fire Beacon bore hay, and as the wind rippled the distant waters, so -here, through ripening grass, over sparkling white daisies and russet -sorrel, it ran and swept and sent a lustre, that danced upon the hill -and stroked the herbage with fitful waves of light. A cuckoo called -from an elm top and overhead wheeled the gulls to link earth and sea -together. - -Hither climbed a party of four holiday makers, of whom two were -middle-aged and two were young. The more youthful pair walked some -hundred yards ahead and bore between them a hamper; their elders -breasted the great hill more leisurely and stopped sometimes upon the -way. Once, where a grassy dip in the hedge bank invited them to do so, -they sat down to rest for a while. - -Ned and Medora reached the crown of Fire Beacon and sought a place for -their picnic under the nearest hedge. They found it presently, but -waited until Lydia and Philander should arrive and approve. - -Perfect understanding appeared to obtain between the husband and wife. -Medora was attired in a pre-Kellock gown, which Mr. Dingle had always -admired. Indeed she had given the garments that came from London -to Daisy Finch. She had been highly ingenious in returning to the -old régime at every minute particular, and in banishing to the void -any evidence of the inter-regnum. She came back to Ned sufficiently -contrite and sufficiently grateful and thankful. Her tact had been -sharpened by tribulation, and remembering very well what was good -to her husband, she wasted not much time on tears of repentance or -promises of future well doing. She let her luck take the form of -joyousness—which suited Dingle best. Her gratitude assumed the most -agreeable shape from his point of view, for she exhibited such delight -in her home and such radiant happiness in his company that he found -himself content. Nor, for once, was there any simulation on Medora’s -part. She felt the satisfaction she expressed. She appreciated the -extent of her remarkable good fortune and desired nothing more than a -return to the life she had under-valued. They were for the moment not -talking of themselves, but Medora’s mother. - -“Poor dear! You may say that Aunt Mary and Uncle Tom pretty well -cast her out,” said Mrs. Dingle. “A proper shame I call it, and a -proper lesson not to work your fingers to the bone for other people’s -children. You’d think mother was a traitor to ’em, instead of the best -friend they ever had, or will have—selfish creatures.” - -“Well, you’ve done her a very good turn by getting her out of that -house. Knox will know how to value such a fine woman, though it’s -contrary to nature that two old blades like them should feel all -younger people feel, I suppose.” - -“He feels enough not to let mother work in the Mill any more,” said -Medora. - -“And you know you need not, if you don’t want.” - -“I do, you dear. But I’m only too jolly thankful to be back there -and that’s the truth. I’d sooner be there than anywhere, because I’m -nearer to you all day, and we can eat our dinner together. But mother’s -different and Mr. Knox has very dignified ideas how she should live at -her age.” - -“You say ‘at her age,’ but be blessed if this racket hasn’t knocked -years off her,” said Ned. “I can quite imagine a man of half a century -old might think her good-looking.” - -By a curious coincidence Philander was stating the same opinion half -a mile down the hill. Indeed Lydia’s face seemed a palimpsest to Mr. -Knox, and through more recent writings, to her countenance there -would still come a twinkle from the past and a flash and flush, that -penetrated thirty years of Time’s caligraphy and seemed to recreate her -features, even to a little curl at the corner of her under-lip, that -belonged to youth and had been delicious then. - -Mr. Knox perceived these things. - -“Dammy, you’re growing younger under my very eyes, Lydia,” he said. - -She laughed. - -“Tom didn’t think so,” she answered. “He said that for an aged woman—” - -“Get him out of your mind,” said Mr. Knox. “The forties are often very -unmerciful to the fifties—a trick of human nature I can’t explain.” - -“I know I’m younger; and it’s largely along of you, Philander, but not -all. You can understand how the thought of them two up there have made -me younger. I never dreamed they could come together again—not in my -most hopeful moments.” - -“That’s because you didn’t know how short a distance they’d really -fallen apart.” - -“’Tis too good to be true. I’m frightened of it.” - -“Not you,” he said. “You never was frightened of anything and never -will be.” - -“For that matter there is a dark side,” explained Lydia, “and I’m -almost glad there is in a way, because if there wasn’t, the whole story -would be contrary to nature and would tumble down like a pack of cards.” - -“There’s no dark side, and I won’t have you say there is, Lyddy. Why -shouldn’t the Lord hatch a piece of happiness for four humans once in -a way, if He’s got a mind to do it?” - -“It ain’t the Almighty; it’s my people at Priory Farm. I heard some -bitter things there I do assure you.” - -“I’ll bet you did,” said Mr. Knox. “I can see ’em at you. And I can -also very well guess what they said about me.” - -“Especially Mary. I never heard her use such language, and I never -saw her so properly awake before. But I was glad after, because when -she called you a crafty old limb of the Dowl, that got my fighting -spirit up and they heard a home truth or two. I thought they were very -different stuff.” - -“If you take people as you find ’em, you’ll make friends,” answered -Mr. Knox; “but if you take people as you fancy ’em, you will not. No -doubt folk are very flattered at first to find our opinion of ’em is as -high as their opinion of themselves. But that don’t last. We can’t for -long think of any fellow creature as highly as he thinks of himself. -The strain’s too great, and so, presently, we come down to the truth -about our friend; and he sees we know it and can’t forgive us. So the -friendship fades out, because it was built on fancy and not on reality. -That’s what happens to most friendships in the long run.” - -“I suppose I never got quite a true picture of my brother’s wife,” -admitted Lydia. - -“You did not. And what’s hurting her so sharp for the minute and making -her so beastly rude is—not so much your going, as your knowing the -truth about her. But don’t you fret. They’ll cringe presently. I dare -say they’ll be at our wedding yet.” - -“I wish I could think so,” she answered. “But it ought to come right, -for, after all, I’m a mother too, and what choice had I when Ned got me -in a corner like that?” - -“Not an earthly,” declared Mr. Knox. - -They joined Ned and Medora presently. The view was nothing to any -of them, but the elders welcomed the breeze at hill top. Their talk -concerned the wedding. - -“A very Christian spirit in the air,” Philander asserted. “Even -Nicholas Pinhey has forgiven me, thanks to your mother, Medora. He -dropped in on Saturday, and he said, ‘You called me a caterpillar, not -so very many weeks ago, Mr. Knox,’ and I answered, ‘I’m afraid you’re -right.’ And he said, ‘Yes; and when you done so, I thought it was a -case of “Father, forgive him, for he knows not what he sayeth.”— And I -wish you to understand that I forgive it and forget it also, out of -respect for Mrs. Trivett. The man that Mrs. Trivett thinks good enough -to marry must have some virtues hidden from common eyes,’ said Nicholas -to me.” - -“And Mercy Life’s forgiven me,” said Medora. “I wouldn’t let her have -any peace till she did. And Alice Barefoot passes the time of day even! -That’s thanks to mother of course.” - -“They’re getting up a fine wedding present for mother in the rag -house,” announced Ned. “It’s a secret, but Henry Barefoot told me. It’s -going to take the shape of a tea service, I believe.” - -“I can’t see myself away from the rag house,” murmured Mrs. Trivett. - -“You couldn’t see yourself away from Priory Farm, mother,” said Medora. - -“’Tis a want of imagination in you, Lydia,” declared Mr. Knox. “You’ll -say you can’t see yourself married to me next. But that you certainly -will see inside a month from Sunday.” - -They spoke of various matters that interested them; then Mr. Knox -mentioned Kellock. - -“Strange that a man born and bred under the apple trees of Ashprington -should show these gifts. A great paper maker; and as if that was not -enough, a power of talk and a talent for politics. Not that he’ll ever -be half as good in his new line as he was in his old. A man can’t rise -to be first class at two crafts.” - -“The Labour Party will swallow him up, and we shan’t hear no more about -him, I expect,” said Lydia. - -“That’s it. He hadn’t the very highest gifts to deal with his fellow -men—not the touch of genius—too deadly serious and narrow. You feel -about that sort a very proper respect; but you’d a long sight sooner -live with their statues than themselves. ’Tis always uncomfortable -living with heroes—even little tin ones—but when time has took ’em -and just kneaded what good they’ve done into the common wealth of human -progress—then we can feel kindly to their memories.” - -“Ope the hamper, Ned,” said Lydia. - - - THE END - - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - Text in italics is surrounded by underscores: _italics_ - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained. - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Storm in a Teacup, by Eden Phillpotts - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORM IN A TEACUP *** - -***** This file should be named 55468-0.txt or 55468-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/4/6/55468/ - -Produced by MWS, David E. 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