Beacon Hargate knew perfectly well the reason of the battle, and Bertha was mightily disdainful and indignant over both her lovers, who, to her fancy, had disgraced themselves and her. Six days after the fight John Thistlewood’s business for once in a way, as well as his inclination, took him to Fellowes’s farm, and there Bertha (who for very shame had not quitted the house since Sunday) first saw the result of the fray. The stalwart farmer’s face was discoloured, and, in places, still swollen. She saw the wicked handiwork of Lane Protheroe, and vowed within herself that she would see that dreadful young man no more. She could have cried for pity of poor Mr. Thistlewood, who had been thus shamefully treated for the crime of being faithful in love.
If John had known it, he had at this instant the best chance of being taken as Bertha’s husband he had ever had, or was like to find. But he was shamefaced about the matter, as heroes not uncommonly are with regard to their achievements, and was disposed to think himself at an even unusual disadvantage.
Bertha stifled in her heart whatever tender sentiments Protheroe had inspired, and was prepared to pass him whenever she might meet him with such a manner as should indicate her new opinion of him beyond chance of mistake. Thistlewood had appeared on the Saturday, and on the Monday the fates threw her younger lover in her way. She discerned him from a distance, herself unseen. His figure dipped down into the hollow, and she could not see him again until they met at some turning or other of the tortuous lane. If pride had not forbidden it she could have turned to fly homewards, but she hardened her heart and went on until his footsteps sounded clearly on the stony road.
Then he turned the corner, and she lifted one glance of superb disdain which melted suddenly under a terror-stricken pity. For this hero was worse battered than Number One had been, and one of those eyes, which had used to be so expressive and eloquent, was decorated by a shade.
‘Oh, Lane!’ cried the girl, clasping her hands, and turning white with pity.
‘Did I frighten you, my dear?’ said Lane. ‘It’s nothing. It’ll all be right in a day or two.’
‘I hope so,’ she answered, recovering herself, and seizing on principle before it made away for ever. ‘I wish you to know that I think you have behaved very disgracefully, and I hope you will never speak to me again.’
‘Why,’ said Lane, ‘that’s hard measure, Bertha; and as for behaving disgracefully—if a man threatens to punch your head you must give him the chance to punch it. That’s man’s law, anyhow, whether it’s woman’s or not.’
‘I am sure Mr. Thistlewood is no quarreller,’ said Bertha, with great dignity and severity of demeanour. ‘It takes no great penetration to guess who began it.’
‘There’s one thing I will say for him,’ returned Lane; ‘he’s a truth-telling fellow, to the best of my belief. Ask him who began it. He’ll tell you. Not that I should take any particular blame or shame for having begun it myself, but since that’s how you look at it, dear—why, I should like you to be satisfied.’