Medora’s native instinct, to fight for her own hand at the expense of the community, now held some strife with her appreciation of what Kellock had done and suffered on her account. At first a sense of justice strove to remind her of their relations and of Jordan’s views with respect to her and her future. She was, in fact, as he had declared, his paramount thought and first object in life. And this he felt without any diminution of his personal ambitions. But he had supposed, and she had given him every reason to suppose, that his ambitions and hers were one; that she desired nothing better than to help him in his propagandist work. During the earliest days of their association in London, this had been her purpose and assurance; but it was so no longer. The artificial existence with Kellock had knocked all the poetry out of their relation, and his aspirations now found her averse. Because Kellock could not understand what made life worth living to her, Medora’s interest and loyalty alike were withered.

Yet now she put up a struggle for him and it lasted longer than might have been expected. Indeed, it endured for twenty-four hours, until the morning following upon a sleepless night. Then her chivalry and general vague sense of her obligations went down before what she believed, perhaps rightly, was her common sense. She began to see, with a dazzle of conviction, that Kellock was not at all the husband for her; but her woman’s wit put it differently: she assured her soul that she was not the wife for Kellock. This step once taken, those that followed were exceedingly swift, and they appeared first in a conversation, not with the man she desired to meet, but with another. For the present she concealed her new impressions from her family, but on the following Sunday, Mr. Knox came to tea, and was pleasant and agreeable, according to his custom. Tom and Mary Dolbear, gratified to observe the large philosophy with which he had taken his defeat, welcomed him and forgot the hard things they had said and thought about him.

Then, as the hour came for the visitor to return home, Medora made an excuse to accompany him. She was going into Dene to see Daisy Finch and have supper with her and her mother—so she said; and together they went their way.

She wasted no time with Mr. Knox, and having told him what she hungered to tell, changed her mind about Daisy Finch, and went home again. Upon the whole, Mr. Knox disappointed her at this meeting, yet looking back over their conversation, she felt not sorry it had taken place, though her face burned a little when she considered the full weight of some of the vatman’s remarks. He did not spare her; but she began to get accustomed to hard words now, and her sagacity told Medora that where there was blame, there was hope. To be past censure is to be past forgiveness.

She began at once to Mr. Knox upon the subject of her husband, and her second sentence indicated the vast strides that her ambition had made. The whole picture of Medora’s future in her own eyes was now changed. The new vision looked wild indeed, and made even Medora wince a little to hear it in her own tongue; yet it did not astonish Philander as much as she imagined, though she had reached it sooner than he expected her to do so.

“You see Mr. Dingle sometimes, don’t you, Mr. Knox?” began Medora.

“I do, my dear, and you mustn’t object if I say I think very well of him. Curiously enough I think a lot of Mr. Kellock, too. Each have got very good points in his way, and you can learn from them as well as teach them. Of course, it’s a ticklish business being friends with both, but so I am, and hope to continue.”

“For God’s sake, then, implore of Ned not to divorce me! Oh, Mr. Knox, you’re wise and old, but you may still remember what it was to be young. Everything’s gone if he divorces me—everything. I’ve been pixy-led, fooled—yes, I have. And I’ve ruined two good men, through no fault of theirs, or mine. It wasn’t Kellock’s fault, nor yet Ned’s; and I’ll swear on my knees it wasn’t mine—not altogether, because something not myself drove me and blinded me and dazed me.”

“That’s moonshine, Medora. You’re not going to make anybody believe that; and don’t you try—else there’ll be the devil to pay. It was your fault—the fault of your character—because a woman and her character must be one. But I grant this; if we can’t go outside our characters, and our characters are us and control all we do and think, then, being yourself from no fault of your own, you’re not to blame in a sense. Then, again, that won’t wash either, because if nobody can do anything outside their characters, then nobody’s ever to blame in themselves for anything they do, and there’s no such thing as wickedness in the world. Which is nonsense and moonshine again, because we very well know the world’s full of wickedness. So it’s no good saying, or fooling yourself to think, that you’ve not been very wicked indeed, because you have. However, like a lot of bigger people than you, you’ve got less, so far, than you deserve, because the punishment never does fit the evil deed, any more than the reward fits the good one, except in fairy tales. In other words, Kellock, being what he is—a man of the highest possible conduct, with a frosty nature to help it—has saved your bacon so far. You know what I mean. Therefore, there’s a ray of hope—not very bright, in my opinion, still, a ray.”“Thank Heaven you think so,” said Medora.

“It’s only my opinion, mind, and I may very likely be wrong; but I’m a man that sees hope very often where another cannot. A wonderful eye for hope I’ve got. And if your husband knew all the facts and heard—not that you’d been pixy-led, but that you was properly ashamed of your infamous, hard-hearted, senseless, worthless way of going on, and meant to do better for evermore—luck offering, and the Lord helping—if he heard that, it’s just on the cards he might give it a second thought. I don’t say he would. I wouldn’t in his case—not for a moment; but he’s himself—an amazingly large-minded man. So, out of regard for your mother, Medora, I’ll venture to touch the subject.”

“I’ll bless your name for evermore if you do.”

“Allow yourself no hope, however. You’ve got to think of Jordan Kellock, and I tell you frankly I wouldn’t move in this matter if I didn’t reckon he was utterly mistaken in his opinion of you.”

“He is, he is, Mr. Knox! I’m far ways less than what he fancied.”

“You are; but don’t waste your time eating dirt to me, though you ought to do it all round, no doubt, and heap ashes on your head.”

“I know I ought; and Jordan’s going to see Ned on Monday evening, so if you, in your great wisdom, could talk to my husband first—”

“I will do so,” promised Mr. Knox, and he kept his word. It happened, therefore, that when the hour arrived for the meeting of Kellock and Dingle, much had fallen out beyond the former’s knowledge.

Jordan had, of course, been left with plenty to think about by Medora, but since the future was accomplished in his judgment, and its details only a matter of time, he was concerned with far larger questions than agitated her mind. His thoughts ran on to the day when they would be married and their lives mingle happily, to run henceforth in a single channel. He had never felt fear of that day after once winning her; and he had, until this moment, enjoyed full confidence that they were one in thought and ambition already, only waiting for the completion and crowning of marriage to establish their unity in the face of the world. But Medora had shaken the ingredients of this conviction at their last meeting, and Jordan felt uneasy. If she could speak so strongly on the subject of his lecture, what might she not presently say on the subject of his life? A disloyal thought once crossed his mind; something whispered that her objection to hearing the lecture was humbug. The voice hinted that from no conviction did Medora hold back, since she had already explicitly accepted his fixed principles, and avowed herself their supporter. The voice furthermore ventured to suggest that fixed principles and the lady were never to be mentioned in one breath by any rational observer. But Kellock protested against such insinuations, and continued to seek a reason for her refusal. He could find none, and was forced to accept her own. He was constrained to believe that she actually had changed her opinions, and the reflection that she must never be expected to support him with unqualified enthusiasm cast Jordan down. He did not despair of Medora, but felt that he would be called to do all over again what he had hoped was already done. He must convince her that he was right and weary not until she had come over to his views. After marriage, her mind would gradually take its colour from him, if the operation were conducted painlessly. He satisfied himself that this would happen, and had thought himself into a contented spirit when he went to see Dingle.

Ned said little, and the interview was extraordinary. It did not take long, yet sent Kellock reeling out into the night bewildered, shocked, with the whole scheme of his future existence threatened, and no immediate possibility to retrieve the position.

“You’ve come, then,” began Mr. Dingle. “Well, a good bit has happened since I saw you last, and, things being what they are here, it looks rather as if I might return to the Mill.”

“I hadn’t heard nothing of that,” answered Jordan.

“You needn’t mention it; but Mr. Trenchard is quite willing if I see no objection—so Ernest Trood tells me—and I imagine you’d have nothing to say against it.”

“As to that, your plans are not my business. Of course, that might alter my own plans.”

“Well, your plans are not my business. In fact, we needn’t trouble much about each other in any case.”

Jordan reflected.

“No, it wouldn’t be natural, though I bear no malice, and I hope you don’t,” he said.

“Have I shown malice?” asked the beaterman. “Have I taken this outrage in a malicious spirit?”

“You have not.”

“I’ve taken it lying down, and you know it; and I dare say, at the bottom of your heart, you’ve been more than a bit surprised sometimes to see how I held in.”

“You’re a thinking, reasonable being.”

“Were you? You’re not surprised at the line I took, because I did pretty much what you would have done if the positions had been reversed, and I had run away with your wife. But I should have thought you had wit to marvel a bit how a man like me took it so tame. If I could knock you into the water for advising me to be kinder to her, didn’t it ever strike you I might have done even a bit more when you stole the woman?”

“As to that, I’ve understood up to the present you meant to do a bit more. It was made clear to me you were going for damages along with the divorce.”

“I thought of it, and I could have got them, no doubt; but what held my hand off you when this happened, holds it still. I’m not going to claim damages.”

Kellock was silent for some moments, arguing with himself whether he ought to thank Ned for this concession, or not. He decided against so doing; but felt it right to explain.

“You might think I ought to thank you for that. But I don’t, because, if I did, it would be admitting you had waived what was your right. But I deny you had any right to do such a thing as to try and take my money. Your wife left you of her own free will, and on her own judgment, and came to me, and though the law—”

“We needn’t worry about nonsense like that,” interrupted Ned. “I’ve got a bigger thing than that to say. You’re so great upon defying the law, and getting everything your own way, and you know so much better than everyone else, the law included, how life should be run, and how we should all behave, that you’ve rather defeated your own object, Kellock. I dare say some people would think it funny what I’m going to say; but you won’t. In fact, you’ve been hoist with your own bomb, as the saying is, and the reason I didn’t go to quod for you is just your own defiance of law. You saved yourself some ugly punishment at the time; but only to get worse at the finish. So what happened was you disobeyed the law, not me.”

“This is all a foreign language to me,” answered Jordan.

“Is it? Well, you’ll see the English of it in half a minute. The good of three people hangs to this, and when I tell you that in my opinion all three will be the losers by your marrying Medora, perhaps you’ll begin to see where I’m getting.”

“As to that, you’ll do well to mind your own business. I can brook no interference from you between me and Medora.”

“It isn’t so much what you can brook, as what is going to happen. You’ve taken a very high-minded line about Medora, Kellock—so wonderful high-minded, in fact, that you’ve got left altogether. You deserve to have a halo and a pair of wings for what you’ve done—so Philander Knox said, and I quite agree. But you don’t deserve to have Medora. And you’re not going to have Medora. You said, ‘I’ll treat this woman with all proper respect, and all that, till I can marry her’; and that showed you to be a very decent man according to your own lights; and when I heard about it, I spared you; but there’s another side. I can’t divorce Medora now, because I’ve got nothing to divorce her for—see? You might think I ought to help you to hoodwink the law in the matter, for the sake of honour and decency—things for which the law has got no use. And I would willingly enough for some people, but not for you. Because what you’ve done shows a lot of other things—chief being that Medora and you never would get on, really—not as husband and wife. Even as brother and sister, there’s been a lot of friction lately, so I hear; and what would it be if you were married? So, you see, when I say you don’t deserve Medora, Kellock, I’m not saying anything particular unkind. In fact, the truth is that a man with your nice and superior opinions can’t marry another man’s wife—not according to law. You ought to have thought of that.”

“It’s not too late.”

“Oh, yes, it is—much too late. You can’t go wrong now, even if you thought of such a thing; which you never could. You’re damned well out of it in fact; and the longer you live, the better you’ll be pleased with yourself, I dare say. The divorce laws may be beneath contempt and only fit for gorillas; but, while they are the laws, you’ve got to abide by ’em.”

Jordan Kellock stared with round, horrified eyes. Even in his dismay and grief he could wonder how the simple Ned had reached this high present standpoint, and was able to address him like a father lecturing a child. He began to recognise the hand of Mr. Knox.

Now he pulled himself together, rose, and prepared to be gone.

“I can only imagine that others have helped you to this extraordinary decision, Dingle.”“I don’t deny it. I never was one to think I could run my own show, or play a lone hand. A pity you didn’t feel the same. A lone hand always comes to grief. You talk to Philander Knox about this. He’s a great admirer of yours. But he’s looked at it from the outside, as a student of character. He’s got no axe to grind about it.”

“And Medora?”

“I don’t care a cuss about her. As to her line, you’d better inquire at headquarters. I haven’t seen her again, and don’t much want to.”

“This flings her on to the mercy of society, Dingle.”

“Well, society won’t eat her. Society’s pretty merciful, so far as I can see. You talk it over with her, and get her views of the situation—whatever they may be.”

“I’ll only ask one question. Does she know that you don’t intend to divorce her?”

“She does not. I only decided myself half an hour before you called.”

“Is it possible for me to prevail with you to change your mind, Mr. Dingle?”

“No; because with your views of what’s straight and honourable, you won’t try. You know I can’t divorce her. Why? Because you was too good and clean a man to make it possible. So long. Just you think over all I’ve said. You don’t know your luck yet, but you will.”

Jordan Kellock went out into the darkness, and he staggered like a man in drink. He tottered down the hill from Ashprington, and intended to start then and there for Cornworthy and Medora; but he found himself physically unequal to any such pilgrimage. His knees shook and his muscles were turned to wool. He walked to the inn, ascended to bed, and lay phantom-ridden through the hours of an interminable night. The shock of what he had heard was so great that his mind was too stunned to measure it. A situation, that demanded deepest reflection by its own horror, robbed him of the power to reflect. He lay and panted like a wounded animal. He could not think by reason of the force of his feelings. He could only lick his smarting wounds. Then he fell into genuine grief for Medora’s plight. Actual physical symptoms intruded. He found his eyes affected and strange movements in his heart and stomach. His hands shook in the morning, and he cut himself shaving—a thing that he had not done for years. He could not eat, yet suffered from a sensation of emptiness. Daylight by no means modified his sense of loss and chaos. It found him before all things desirous to see Medora; but, by the time he was up and dressed, this purpose failed him for a season, and his thoughts were occupied with Knox. Then he turned again to Medora, and felt that life must be suspended until he could see her and break to her what had happened. It was now too late to visit Cornworthy until the day’s work should be done, and remembering how often work had saved a situation, solved a problem and helped him through difficult hours, Kellock proceeded to the Mill, and was thankful to be there. He felt that labour would calm his nerves, restore his balance, and assist him, before the evening came, to survey his situation in the light of this convulsion. He found himself entirely interested in what Medora would do; and he believed that he knew. His heart bled for her.

Thus absorbed, he reached the vat. He was engaged upon the largest sheets of drawing-paper at the time—work calling for more than average lifting power and muscular energy—and he was glad that now, for a while, work must take the first demand upon mind and body alike.

The vats were full, and the machinery hummed overhead; coucher and layer stood at their places, and Jordan, slipping his deckle upon the mould, grasped it with thumb on edge, and sank it into the pulp.

Elsewhere Knox, Robert Life and others had taken up their positions at the breast of the vats with their assistants about them, and the work of paper-making went on its immemorial way.

Then that happened that was long remembered—an incident of interest and concern for the many, a tragedy for the one. Kellock brought up his mould, and instead of proceeding with the rhythmic actions to right and left—those delicate operations of exquisite complexity where brain telegraphed to muscle, and motor and sensory nerves both played their part in the completion of the “stroke”—instead of the usual beautiful and harmonious gestures that drained the mould and laid a sweet, even face of paper upon it, he found forces invisible at his elbows and an enemy still more terrible within. His brain hung fire; a wave of horrible doubt and irresolution swept over him. It ran through the physical parts engaged—his arms and breast muscles and the small of his back. He stared at the mould, turned and washed off the faulty sheet he had created, and made an attempt at a jest to Harold Spry, who was watching, all eyes.

“Where are my wits, Harold?” he said. Then he took a deep breath, and dipped the mould again.

Spry and the layer watched sympathetically. To their eyes there seemed no failure as Kellock drew up his load; but he knew. A condition of tremendous tension raised his heart-beat to a gallop, and his eyes grew misty. He gasped like a drowning man, and felt the sweat beading on his forehead.

“I’ll—I’ll just get a breath of air and come back,” he said, dropped the mould, and went out of the shop. Spry washed the mould, then he walked down the line of vats and spoke to Knox. A man came from the engine house with a message, and Ernest Trood also entered with some information for Robert Life. What he heard made him hasten out of doors to find Kellock sitting up on a form at the entrance of the vat house with his head in his hands.

“What’s the matter, my son?” asked Trood, kindly enough; but a look at Jordan told him all he feared to hear.

The young man’s expression had changed, and there was fear in his eyes, as though they had just mirrored some awful thing. The resolute, closely-knit Kellock seemed to have fallen to pieces. Every limb indicated the nerve storm under which he suffered. Trood was experienced, and knew the danger. He believed that Kellock had given in too soon.

“Fight—fight like hell!” he said. “Don’t run away from it. Don’t give it time to get into you. Come back now, lad—this minute. At your age, it’s nothing—just indigestion, or a chill about you. If you let it fester, you’ll go from bad to worse, and very like have to knock off for six months before you look at a mould again.”

“It’s no good—it’s gone,” said the younger man; but he obeyed, and followed Trood into the vat house.

Knox had warned the rest to ignore the sufferer, and no man took any notice of Kellock as he returned.

Spry was waiting, and greeted him cheerfully.

“You’re all right again—your eyes are all right,” he said.

Trood turned his back on Kellock, and everybody was at work as usual. He made a tremendous effort with himself, called up his utmost resolution, smiled and nodded to Spry, who was whistling, gripped his deckle to the mould, and then strove to think of something else, pursue his business in the usual mechanical fashion, and let his unconscious but highly trained energies pursue their road.

But it was not to be. Some link had strained, if not broken, in the complexus of brain and nerve and muscle. Perfect obedience was lacking; a rebel had crept into the organism. For once, the man’s expressionless face was alive with expression; for once his steady and monotonous voice vibrated.

“It’s all up,” he said to Harold Spry.

Then he put down the mould.

Trood was beside him in an instant, and Knox came also. Elsewhere those who had no love for Kellock talked under their breath together. Others, who came and went, took the news.Trood made the vatman try again; but only once. He saw in a moment that the breakdown could not be bluffed; the fault in the machine was too deep.

Jordan put on his coat, and Trood arranged to drive him to Totnes presently to see a doctor. The young man was calm, but his will power appeared suspended. He looked into the faces of his companions for any ray of comfort; and the fact that he could do so was testimony to his collapse.

He went back to “The Waterman’s Arms” presently; and through the Mill like lightning flashed the news that Kellock had lost his stroke.