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.” “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 “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. “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.” “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?” “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 “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 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. “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 “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. |