"He'll be meat for the grave himself if he ban't careful," answered Mrs. Weekes. "A poor, starved frame and hungry eyes, though there's a wonderful gentlemanly hang about his clothes. Something be burning him up in my opinion—we all mark it. Jarratt says 'tis his harmful ideas about religion; I say 'tis a decline. I told the man so to his face last week, when I went over to see Susan; and he laughed in his gentle way, and said he was all right. Still, I don't like his look—more don't John Prout."

Sarah Jane listened, but she knew a good deal more about Hilary Woodrow than any other living creature save himself. Little by little there had risen an intimacy between them—not of the closest, yet of a sort beyond friendship. She met him by appointment, now here, now there. To this extent she lived a double life, since Brendon heard nothing of these occasions. Woodrow talked of going away for the winter, but she knew that he would never do so. The days when he did not see her were blank days to him. He often spoke warmly of Brendon and of the future that he designed for him. He longed to make her presents, but could not. Now thinking upon almost the last words that her father had spoken to her, Sarah Jane determined to throw herself upon Hilary's goodness and honour. But she reckoned without his passion.

That night, while Brendon slept beside her, she turned and turned sleepless, with a wet handkerchief rolled up in her hands. She mused upon the dear dust in the churchyard, and the living man beside her, and of that other who thought waking, and dreamed sleeping, of none but her. How did she regard him?

For a month after her father's death Hilary Woodrow spared her, and she appreciated his self-denial. But during the days he saw her not he revealed a constant and steady thought for her. He had continued speech with Daniel, and Sarah Jane noted that Brendon's enthusiasm for his master grew as Woodrow's trust in him increased. Then she saw Hilary again herself, and his flame leapt the fiercer for their weeks of separation.

CHAPTER XIII
BURSTING OF THE SPRINGS

A year passed by and little happened to mark it. Then full store of incident fell upon the dwellers at Ruddyford Farm.

It is to be recorded to the credit of Jarratt Weekes that, in the bitter difference which now happened between him and Daniel Brendon, he was not altogether at fault. Nevertheless an underlying element of malignity mingled with his attitude. In giving of advice, subtle personal satisfaction often lurks; yet sometimes the emotion belongs merely to that implicit sense of superiority felt by the critic over the criticized. When Weekes met Brendon on an autumn day and plunged into the most dangerous subject that he could have chosen, he did so quite awake to the delicacy; but he did so from motives at any rate largely blent with good. He was now himself happily married, for Mary Churchward, despite a harsh voice and a hard nature, had plenty of sense, and proved practical and patient. Jarratt's feeling to Brendon and his wife was mainly friendly, and if some sub-acid of memory still tinged thought, that recollection had largely faded. To sum up, if his motives in this encounter were mingled, he meant no lasting evil, but rather lasting good from his action. That Daniel might smart a little he guessed, and the fact did not cause him any regret. Frankly, he was glad of it. The giving of this advice would lift him above the lesser man, and, by so doing, help him to win back a little self-esteem. As for the upshot of his counsel, he felt very certain that it must tend to benefit the other and establish him more securely in his home and its vital relations. Since he acted in profound ignorance of Brendon's own character, his conscience was clear, and his mind free to state the case with all the force and tact at his command. He told himself that he was doing his duty; but his deed, none the less, had a relish that duty usually lacks.

Under any circumstances danger must attend the operation—how great Weekes did not guess; and in the event, the added circumstance of Daniel's mood had to be reckoned with. This precipitated the catastrophe with terrific suddenness.

When they met, Brendon's dark star was up. Matters were contrary at the farm, and a thing, little to be expected, had happened in the shape of a quarrel between Daniel and John Prout. Their master was the subject, and a word from the younger man brought sharp rebuke upon him.