Mrs. Belworthy it was who first penetrated the false pretence and mockery of the new understanding. Upon the strength of that discovery she communicated in secret with Timothy Chave, and bade him cultivate patience and be of good cheer despite the darkness of appearances. Sarah, indeed, shewed by no sign that she desired to turn from her bargain again; but the emptiness and aridity of these renewed relations could not be hidden. Even John grasped the truth after a fortnight of hollow lovemaking. He tried to reawaken the old romance, to galvanise a new interest into the old hopes and plans; but Sarah’s simulation too often broke down despite her best endeavours. Tears filled her eyes even while she clung most fiercely to him; her parents murmured their regrets that John should persist in ruining her life. Indeed, Mrs. Belworthy did more than murmur; she took an occasion to speak strongly to the cowman; yet he shut his eyes to the truth and blundered blindly on, straining every nerve and racking his brain to discover means whereby Sarah might be won back to the old simple ways, to her former humility of ambition and simplicity of thought. But any restoration of the past conditions was impossible, for her mind had much expanded in Timothy’s keeping; and this fact did Aggett, by slow and bitter stages, at length receive and accept. With heart the sorer for his temporary flicker of renewed happiness, he tore himself from out a fool’s paradise and abandoned hope and Sarah once for all.
“’Tis vain to make believe any more,” he said to her. “God knows you’ve tried your hardest, but you ban’t built to throw dust in a body’s eyes. Your bread’s a-been leavened wi’ tears these many days, an’ your heart’s in arms against the falling out of things. ’Tis natural as it should be so. We’ve tried to come together again an’ failed. Us can do no more now.”
“Leave ’e I won’t; if you beat me away from ’e like a dog, like a dog I’ll come back again.”
“Leave me you must, Sally. I ban’t gwaine to spoil your butivul life for all time wi’ my love, though you come wi’ open arms an’ ax me to. Go to un free, an’ take my solemn word as I’ll rage against him no more. I’ll know you’m happy then; an’ that must be my happiness. I’ll never forget you comed twice to me o’ your own free will.”
“You’m a gude man—a gert saintly man—an’ God knows why I be so pitiful weak that anything born should have come between us, once I’d promised.”
“Many things comes between the bee an’ the butt, the cup an’ the lip, men an’ women folks an’ their hopes o’ happiness. Please God you’ll fare happy wi’ him.”
“I don’t deserve it, if theer’s any justice in the sky.”
“Theer ban’t to my knowledge. Pray God He’ll be gude to ’e—then I’ll forgive the man. An’ the world won’t come to me for his character whether or no.”
She protested and wept; he was firm. For a little hour his lofty mood held and he completed the final act of renunciation before he slept. Knowing full well that Chave would never hear the truth from Sarah, he laid wait for him that night and met him in Postbridge at a late hour.
The men stood side by side in the empty, naked road that here crossed Dart by a pack-saddle bridge. The night was rough and cold but dry, and the wind wailing through naked beeches, the river rattling harshly over its granite bed, chimed in unison with the recent sorrow of Timothy’s heart. When Sarah announced her determination, the youth had threatened self-destruction and foretold madness. Neither one thing nor the other happened, but he was sufficiently miserable and his sufferings had by no means grown blunted on this night as he plodded wearily through the village.