V
“There was a great deal of rejoicing,” Malory continued, “in the Pennistan household over the engagement. Nancy and her husband came for a three days’ visit. I was glad to see my Daphnis and Chloe again, and to discover that all the sweets of marriage which I had described to Ruth were living realities in these two. They seemed insatiable for each other’s presence. Their attitude towards Ruth and Leslie was parental; nay, grandfatherly; nay, ancestral! Experience and patronage transpired through the cracks of their benison. Ruth was annoyed, but I was greatly amused.
“It had been arranged that the wedding should take place almost immediately. Why delay? I am sure that Leslie Dymock was hungering to get his wife away to his own home. And Ruth? She accepted every happening with calm, avoided me—I supposed that she was shy, and left her to herself—was gentle and affectionate to Leslie, took a suitable interest in the preparations of her wedding. I was, on the whole, satisfied. I did not believe that she was much in love with Leslie Dymock, in fact I was inclined to think that she regretted her handsome blackguard, but I believed that her evident fondness for Dymock would develop with their intimacy, and that the bud would presently break out into the full-blown rose.
“As for him, he would not have exchanged his present position with an archangel.
“I asked Amos what had become of Westmacott.
“‘Over at his place, like a wild beast in a cave,’ he replied with a grin.
“‘Is he coming to the wedding?’
“‘Oh, ay, if he chooses.’
“I now became concerned for my own future. Life at the Pennistans’ without Ruth would, I foresaw, be less agreeable although not actually unbearable. She and I had worked together in a harmony I could scarcely hope to reproduce with the hired girl who was to take her place, for you must realise that although I have only reported to you our conversations on the more human subjects of life, our everyday existence had been made up of hours of happy work and mutual interest. I seriously thought of leaving, and said as much to Dymock.
“Some days afterwards that good young man came to me.
“‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said, ‘of your leaving and of your not liking, as you told me, to go away from the Weald till after next spring. Now I’ve a proposal to make to you,’ and he told me of a cottage near his own place, with five acres, enough to support hens, pigs, and a cow, whose tenant had recently died. He suggested to me that I should rent this small holding for a year. ‘And you can walk over o’ nights, and have a bit of supper with us,’ he added hospitably.
“The matter was adjusted, and I told Ruth with joy that I should be within half a mile of her in her new life. I was grieved to see that she first looked taken aback, then dismayed, then irritated. I say that I was grieved, but presently I found occasion to be glad, for I reflected that if she thus resented the disturbance of her solitude with her husband it could only be on account of her growing fondness for him, and as I could not now revoke my tenancy I resolved that I would at least be a discreet neighbour.
“How smugly satisfied we all were at that time! I feel ashamed for myself and for the others when I think of it.
“The first indication I had that anything was wrong came about a week before Ruth’s wedding, when, walking down a lane near Pennistans’ driving home the cattle, I passed Rawdon Westmacott. We were by then near November, so the evening was dark, and I was not sure of the man’s identity until we had actually crossed. Then I saw his sharp face, and recognised the subtly Oriental lilt of his walk. He looked angry when he saw that I was myself, and not one of the herdsmen he no doubt expected. I wondered what the fellow was doing on Pennistan’s land.
“The weather was bitterly cold, all the leaves were gone from the trees, and the fat, wealthy Weald was turned to a scarecrow presentment of itself. Instead of the blue sky and great white clouds like the Lord Mayor’s horses, a hard sulphur sky greeted me in the early mornings, with streaks of iron gray cloud on the horizon, and a lowering red disc of sun. Underfoot the ground was frosty, and the frozen mud stood up in little sharp ridges. As it thawed during the day the clay resumed its slimy dominion, and I had to exchange my shoes for boots, as the clay pulled my shoes off my heels.
“It was now two days before the wedding, and I sought out Ruth to make her my humble present. Never mind what it was. I had got her an extra present, which, I told her, was my real offering, and I gave her the case, and she opened it on a pair of big brass ear-rings. She got very white.
“‘You can wear them now,’ I said, ‘Leslie at least isn’t jealous of me, and here is the rest,’ and I gave her the coloured scarf.
“She took it from my hand, never thanking me or saying a word, but looking at me steadily, and put the scarf round her throat.
“I added my good wishes; Heaven knows they were sincere.
“‘Tell me you’re happy, Ruth, and I shall be filled with gladness.’
“‘I’m happy,’ she said dully.
“‘And you’re fond of Leslie?’
“‘Yes,’ she said with such sudden emphasis that I was startled, ‘all that you said about him is true; he is kind and valiant, a man with whom any woman should be happy. I am glad that I have learnt how good he is. I am fonder of him than of my brothers.’
“I thought that a strange comparison, but not wholly a bad one.
“I tried to be hearty.
“‘I am so pleased, Ruth, and my vanity is gratified, too, for I almost think you might have passed him by but for me.’
“‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I would have passed him by.’
“‘By God, Ruth!’ I burst out, ‘he is a lucky fellow. Do you know that you are a very beautiful woman?’
“She swayed as though she were dizzy for a moment.
“‘I must go,’ she said then, ‘and I haven’t said thank you, but I do thank you.’
“She paused.
“‘You have taught me a great deal. I have learnt from you what men like Leslie Dymock have a right to expect from life.’
“‘And you will give it him?’ I asked.
“She bowed her head.
“‘I will try.’
“Now I thought that a very satisfactory conversation, and I went about my work, for beasts must be fed and housed, weddings or no weddings, with a singing heart that day. If, somewhere, a tiny worm of jealousy crawled about on the floor-mud of my being, I think I bottled it very successfully into a corner. I was not jealous of Dymock on account of Ruth; no, not exactly; but jealous only as one must be jealous of two young happy things when one remembers that, much as one values one’s independence, one is not the vital life-spark of any other human being on this earth. There must be moments when the most liberty-loving among us envy the yoke they fly from.
“I clapped a cow on her ungainly shallow flanks as I tossed up her bedding, and said to her, ‘You and I, old friend, must stick together, for if man can’t have his fellow-creatures to love he must return to the beasts.’ She turned her glaucous eye on me as she munched her supper. Then I heard voices in the shed.
“‘Rawdon! if dad sees you....’
“And Westmacott’s hoarse voice.
“‘I’ll chance that, but, by hell, Ruth, you shall listen to me. They think you’re going to marry that lout, but as I’m a living man you shan’t. I’ll murder him first. I swear before God that if you become that man’s wife I’ll make you his widow.’
“I stood petrified, wondering what I should do. It was night, and pitch dark inside the shed, but as I looked over the back of my cow down the line of stalls in which the slow cattle were lazily ruminating, I saw two indistinct figures and, beyond them, the open door, the night sky, and an angry moon, the yellow Hunter’s moon, rising behind the trees.
“Ruth spoke again.
“‘Rawdon, don’t talk too loud. I’ll stay, yes, I’ll stay with you; only dad’ll kill you if he finds you here.’
“‘I’ve been up every night to find you,’ Westmacott said in a lower voice. ‘I’ve hung about hoping you’d come out. Ruth, you don’t know. I’m mad for you.... You’re my woman. What business have you to go with bloodless men? You come with me, and I’ll give you all you lack. I’ll be good to you, too, I swear I will. I’ll not drink; no, on my word, it’s the thought of you that drives me to it. Ruth!’
“He put out his arms and tried to seize her, but she recoiled and stood holding on to the butt-end of a stall.
“‘Hands off me, Rawdon.’
“‘You’re very particular,’ he sneered; and then, changing his tone, ‘Come, child, you’re just ridiculous. I know you better than that. Have you forgotten the day we drove to Tonbridge market? you wasn’t so nice then.’
“‘I disremember,’ she said stolidly, but under her stolidity I think she was shaken.
“‘You don’t disremember at all. There’s fire in you, Ruth, there’s blood; that’s why I like you. You’re shamming ladylike. I’ve got that gent with his accursed notions to thank, I suppose.’
“This reminded me with a start of my own identity. I could not stay eavesdropping, so I made up my mind and stepped out into the passage between the stalls.
“Westmacott and Ruth cried simultaneously,—
“‘Who’s that?’
“‘Mr. Malory!’
“‘This is a bad hour for you, sir,’ said Westmacott to me.
“I knew that I must not quarrel with him.
“‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘I had no intention of spying on you and was only doing my ordinary work in here. I will go if you, Ruth, wish me to go.’
“‘No,’ said Westmacott, ‘go, and tell them all I’m here? Not much. You’ve heard enough now to know I want Ruth. You’ve always known it. I’ve always wanted her, and I mean to have her. Who are you, you fine gentleman, that you should stand in my way? I could crush your windpipe with my finger and thumb.’”
I pictured that grotesque scene in that dark, smelly shed, among the ruminating cattle, and those two antagonistic men with the girl between them.
“I turned to Ruth,” said Malory, “and asked her frigidly what she wanted me to do? Should I attack the fellow? or give the alarm? or was it by her consent that he was there? Again she did not speak and he answered for her.
“‘I’m here by her consent, she’s had a note from me, and she answered it, and here she is. Isn’t it true?’ he demanded of her.
“‘It is quite true,’ she said, speaking to me.
“I was hurt and disappointed.
“‘Then I will go, as it appears to be an assignation.’
“‘No,’ said Ruth, ‘wait. You said you had had your finger on the pulse of my affairs ever since you came here, and now you must follow them out to the end. I am not a bit afraid of your turning me away from the path I’ve chosen.’
“Weak! I had thought her. As I stood there like a bereft and helpless puppet between those two dark figures, I felt myself a stranger and a foreigner to them, baffled by the remoteness of their race. They were of the same blood, and I and Leslie Dymock were of a different breed, tame, contented, orderly, incapable of abrupt resolution. Weak! I had thought her. Well, and so she had been, indolently weak, but now, like many weak natures, strong under the influence of a nature stronger than her own. So, at least, I read her new determination, for I did not believe in a well of strength sprung suddenly in the native soil of her being. I perceived, rather, a spring gushing up in the man, and pouring its torrent irresistibly over her pleasant valleys. I thought her the mouthpiece of his thunder. At the same time, something in her must have risen to merge and marry with the force of his resolve. Who knows what southern blood, what ancient blood, what tribal blood, had stirred in her from slumber? what cry of the unknown, unseen wild had drawn her towards a mate of her own calibre? An absurd joy rushed up in me at the thought. I flung a dart of sympathy to Leslie Dymock, but he, like those slow-chewing cattle, was of the patient, long-suffering sort whose fate is always to be cast aside and sacrificed to the egoism of others. I forgot my homily on marriage, and the pictures I had drawn of Ruth and Dymock in their happy home with their quiverful of robust and flaxen children. I forgot the sinful lusts of Rawdon Westmacott. Yes, I lost myself wholly in the joy of the mating of two Bohemian creatures, and in Ruth’s final justification of herself.
“‘I want you,’ continued Ruth, in the same even, relentless voice, ‘to stand by Leslie whatever may come to him, and to show him that he’s a happier man for losing me....’
“I heard Westmacott in the darkness give a snarl of triumph.
“‘You’re determined, then?’ I said to Ruth. ‘You’ve not had much time to make up your mind, or wasted many words over it, since I surprised you here.’
“‘Time?’ she said, ‘words? A kettle’s a long time on the fire before it boils over. I know I’m not for Leslie Dymock, I know it this evening, and I’ve known it a long while though I wouldn’t own it. I’m going, and I want to be forgotten by all at home.’
“I was moved—by her homely little simile, and by the anguish in her voice at her last sentence.
“‘I don’t dissuade you,’ I said. ‘Dymock must recover, and if you and your cousin love one another....’
“Westmacott broke in bitterly,—
“‘Say! You seem to have missed the point....’
“‘Rawdon!’ Ruth spoke with a passion I, even I, had not foreseen. ‘Rawdon, I forbid you to say another word.’
“He grumbled to himself, and was silent.
“I looked at her during the pause in which she waited threateningly for signs of rebellion on his part, and I found in her face, lit by the light of the Hunter’s moon, the strangest conflict that ever I saw on a woman’s face before. I read there distress, soul-shattering and terrible, but I also read a determination which I knew no argument could weaken. She was unaware of my scrutiny, for her eyes were bent on Westmacott. Her glance was imperious; she knew herself to be the coveted woman for whose possession he must fawn and cringe; she knew that to-night she could command, if for ever after she would have to obey. I read this knowledge, and I read her distress, but above all I read recklessness, a wild defiance, which alarmed me.
“‘I’ve said what I want to say,’ she added. ‘You’ve thought me a meek woman, Mr. Malory, you’ve told me so, and so I am, but I seem to have come to a fence across my meekness, and I know neither you nor any soul on earth could hold me back. It’s never come to me before like this. Maybe it’ll never come again. Maybe you’ve helped me to it. There’s much I don’t know, much I can’t say ...’ her ignorant spirit struggled vainly for speech. I was silent, for I knew that elemental forces were loose like monstrous bats in the shed which contained us.
“‘Am I to say good-bye?’ I asked.
“She swayed over towards me, as though the strength of her body were infinitely inferior to the strength of her will. She put her hands on my shoulders and turned me, so that the light of the yellow moon fell on my face.
“She said then,—
“‘Kiss me once before I go.’
“Rawdon started forward.
“‘No, damn him!’
“She laughed.
“‘Don’t be a fool, Rawdon, you’ll have me all your life.’
“I kissed her like a brother.
“‘Bless you, my dear, may you be happy. I don’t know if you’re wise, but I dare say this is inevitable, and things are not very real to-night.’
“There was indeed something absurdly theatrical about the shed full of uneasily shifting cattle, and that great saffron moon—shining, too, on the empty arena of Cadiz.
“I left them standing in the shed, and got into the house by the back door; with methodical precision I replaced the key under the mat where, country-like, it always lived.”
I felt in my own mind that much remained which had not been satisfactorily explained, but when Malory resumed after a moment’s pause, it was to say,—
“I don’t know that there is very much more to tell. I came down at my usual hour the next morning, and found no signs of commotion about the farm. As a matter of fact, I caught sight of nobody but a stray labourer or so as I went my rounds. I moved in a dull coma, such as overtakes us after a crisis of great excitement; a dull reaction, such as follows on some deep stirring of our emotions. Then as I went in to breakfast, I saw Mrs. Pennistan moving in the kitchen in her habitual placid fashion, and Amos came in, rubbing his hands on a coarse towel, strong and hearty in the crisp morning. The old grandmother was already in her place by the fire, her quavering hands busy with her toast and her cup of coffee. Everything wore the look I had seen on it a hundred times before, and I wondered whether my experience had not all been a dream of my sleep, and whether Ruth would not presently arrive with that flush I had learnt to look for on her cheeks.
“‘Where’s Ruth?’ said Mrs. Pennistan as we sat down.
“‘She’ll be in presently, likely,’ said Amos, who was an easy-going man.
“Her mother grumbled.
“‘She shouldn’t be late for breakfast.’
“‘Come, come, mother,’ said Amos, ‘don’t be hard on the girl on her wedding-eve,’ and as he winked at me I hid my face in my vast cup.
“Then Leslie Dymock burst in, with a letter in his hand, and at the sight of his face, and of that suddenly ominous little piece of white paper, the Pennistans started up and tragedy rushed like a hurricane into the pleasant room.
“He said,—
“‘She’s gone, read her letter,’ and thrust it into her father’s hand.
“I wish I could reproduce for you the effect of that letter which Amos read aloud; it was quite short, and said, ‘Leslie. I am going away because I can’t do you the injustice of becoming your wife. Tell father and mother that I am doing this because I think it is right. I am not trying to write more because it is all so difficult, and there is a great deal more than they will ever know, and I don’t think I understand everything myself. Try to forgive me. I am, your miserable Ruth.’
“I cannot tell you,” said Malory, who, as I could see, was profoundly shaken by the vividness of his recollection, “how moved I was by the confusion and distress of those strangely disquieting words. I could not reconcile them at all with the picture I had formed of two kindred natures rushing at last together in a pre-ordained and elemental union. I rose to get away from the family hubbub, for I wanted to be by myself, but on the way I stopped and looked at the mice in their cage among the red geraniums. They were waltzing frantically, as though impelled by a sinister influence from which there was no escape.”