In the evening of Kellock’s catastrophe, Philander Knox saw Ned Dingle, who was working in his garden at the time.

“Heard the latest?” he asked.

“The latest for me is that Mr. Trenchard will take me back if I like to come.”

“No, the latest for you is that Jordan Kellock’s lost his stroke.”

Ned dropped a packet of seeds.

“Has he, by God! That’s the best news I’ve heard for a good bit.”

“You’re glad, but you won’t be glad if you think over it.”

Knox explained the circumstances, and told the tale of Jordan’s failure.

“Poor devil,” said Ned. “I can’t say I’m sorry all the same. It won’t last. He’ll get it back, no doubt, and perhaps he’ll see now he can’t go playing fast and loose with people, same as he did, and not get a facer himself sometimes. I told him I wasn’t going to divorce my wife, and no doubt that’s bowled him over.”

“You’ve done very well so far, in my opinion,” declared Mr. Knox. “You’ve conducted the affair in a high-class way, and you and me know where we stand; but he don’t, and more does she.”

“I’m in your hands,” answered Ned. “I begin to find better every day you’re right, Knox. And what did she do when she heard he was down and out?”

“Took a very proper line,” answered Philander. “Some, feeling what she feels and knowing that she’d done with him, for evermore, whatever happened, would have left him to stew in his own juice; but Medora, having a very fine pride, would have despised herself for any such littleness as that. I see as clear as day what was in her mind. She said to herself, ‘I’ve been a silly fool, and so has he. We were lost to sense and reality, and acted in a mad and improper manner. In fact, we’ve been everything we could be, except wicked, and silliness is often punished worse than wickedness. But, though Kellock richly deserved to lose his stroke, it’s as much my fault as his own that he has done so, and I’m too sporting to turn my back on him at such a moment. If he’s ruined, then it’s my hard duty to share his trouble, and I won’t be a rat and quit a sinking ship. That’s not the sort of woman Ned Dingle married.’ So Medora argued, no doubt—not knowing, of course, what you’ve said to Kellock. So she went to him, and they’ve gone to Totnes this evening along with Ernest Trood to see a doctor. Thus you see, for her proper and womanly behaviour, Medora will be rewarded—as we sometimes are if we do rightly—sooner or later.”

“How rewarded?” asked Ned.

“Why, by hearing presently from the man that you’re not going to divorce her. She plays her part to him and cheers him up and takes a hopeful view of the disaster, and so on; and then she hears what brought it all about—your strong line. Of course, to her ear—she being now a contrite creature with the scales fallen from her eyes—the fact that you wouldn’t set her free to marry him was the best music she could hear. She’ll know with you taking that line, she’ll be free of Kellock for evermore, and able to set about her own salvation in fear and trembling. And that, no doubt, is what she’ll do, for having paid for girlish faults, she’ll now cultivate her womanly virtues and become as fine a creature in mind as she is in body, and rise to be worthy of our admiration again.”Ned listened to this long speech while he sowed carrots.

“These things don’t happen by chance,” concluded Knox. “A man like you bends fate to his own purpose; and fate, being a female, does a lot more for them that drive her than them that spoil her. You stand in a very strong position now, and the lucky thing is that the strong can be merciful to the weak without losing their self-respect.”

“I’ll see Kellock,” promised Ned. “I’ll see him to-morrow and hear what he’s got to say about it.”

“A very good thought, but let your mind dwell on Medora a bit before you do. You think so clear and see so straight that you won’t make any mistake in that quarter. You’ve got to remember how it looks to Kellock so far, and whether it looks right to him, or whether it do not. Now Kellock only knows as yet that you don’t put away Medora; and that means he can’t marry her, so this brother and sister racket must end. As for Mrs. Dingle, she’s done with the masculine gender, and, of course, she may have told Kellock so—I can’t say as to that. But you see him by all means.”

They talked till dusk fell, then Mr. Knox departed and Ned considered all he had said, with the imputations proper to Philander’s words. He had trusted largely to the vatman of late, and found himself in agreement with his sentiments on all occasions, for Knox was treating Ned with rare diplomacy.

Next morning, Jordan himself anticipated his visitor, and as Ned set out to see him, he appeared at Ashprington. He wore holiday attire, looked pale, and was somewhat nervous.

They met at the gate of Dingle’s house, and Ned spoke.

“Come in the house, and you can speak first—no, I will.”

They entered the little parlour and sat down opposite each other.

“I hear you’ve lost your stroke. I suppose to find what I meant to do was a bit too shattering. No doubt you’ll get it back. I’ve no wish to come between you and your livelihood; but when you and my wife hatched this bit of wickedness, you didn’t stop to think whether it would play hell with my nerves; and if you’d known it would, that wouldn’t have changed you.”

“That’s quite true,” admitted Kellock, “and, I may tell you, it’s come home to me pretty sharp before you said it. As for me, I may get my stroke again, or I may not; and if I don’t, I shall never blame you—I shall blame myself. Those that think they stand, often get a fall, and I’m not too proud to confess to you that that’s what has happened to me.”

“Serve you right.”

“I don’t matter any more. What matters is Medora, and I shall be greatly obliged if you’ll allow me to speak a few words on that subject.”

“The fewer the better.”

“I come from myself, understand. She knows nothing about it. I didn’t ask her, because if she’d said ‘no,’ I couldn’t have come. And she might have forbid.”

“Well, get on with it.”

“It’s very difficult, and I beg you’ll make allowances for a man who has done wrong and done you wrong, too. You’ll probably say that I’m only changed since you told me you weren’t going to divorce Medora. That’s true in a way, but not all true. I’ve learned a great deal I didn’t know from Medora, but I’ve only come now to talk about her. The question is how you feel about her.”

“That’s my business, not yours.”

“I don’t know that, because as you feel, so I must do. I recognise my obligations sharp enough, and she is the first of them if you ordain she is to be. I’ve thought a lot about it you may be sure, and I’ve recognised one thing fairly clearly—I did before you struck this blow. I’m not a marrying man, Mr. Dingle.”

“Nobody ever thought you were but that fool.”“It wasn’t her fault. We were both wrong—that’s all. And I want to say this. I wouldn’t marry Medora now if I could, because I’ve been brought to see I shouldn’t make her happy. A brother I’m prepared to be; but for her own sake, and for her future, I wouldn’t marry her if I could now, because I should be doing her a wrong. Of course, you’ll say I’m putting this on because you won’t let me marry her; but I swear to you that I’d begun to feel it before.”

“That lets you out then—with your tail between your legs. And what price her?”

“That’s why I’ve called this morning. I can’t say anything to Medora until I’ve spoken to you, because it’s clear that what I must do depends upon you. If you’ve done with her, then I shall support her and be as good a brother as I know how to be.”

“Have you ever seen the man who would take a woman back after these games? Would you, if you was me?”

“I’d think a lot before I refused, if I was you. Knox tells me that it’s a very uncommon case, but quite in keeping with my character. You understand, I’ve said nothing to Medora. Of course, she knows what the price is she’s got to pay. The appearance of evil is as bad in this case as evil itself; so she’s doomed if you doom her, but saved if you save her. Would it be asking too much to ask you to see her?”

“I have seen her.”

“Not since she knew the situation. We often learn a lesson when it’s too late to profit by the knowledge, and it’s for you to judge if that will be the case with Medora. I’m only raising the question, and I don’t want to fill her head with false hopes. She’s been too much of a lady to say anything out; but she’s shown her feelings on the subject in a good many ways.”

“She’s fed up with you, in fact?”

“Yes; I believe that is so. In a way, to use a homely sort of illustration, what we did was to keep company—no more than that; and that showed her very clear I’m not the right company; and it’s shown me, as I say, I’m not a marrying man. So there it is. I can promise you your wife will want for nothing, and I shall regard her destiny as in my hands in future, if you’re off her for good. And if you change your mind and divorce her, I’ll swear it won’t be me that marries her. That you can take on oath. I’ll tell her so to-day.”

Kellock rose to go, and Ned remained silent and seated.

“Remember, if you do see her, you’ll see a wiser and sadder woman,” the vatman ventured to add.

“No doubt. You’d make anybody sadder and wiser. When are you going to try for your stroke again?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nobody will pity you when they hear how you lost it.”

“You’ll find Mrs. Dingle along with her people at Priory Farm if you want her. She means to come to my lecture next week; but not if you’ve any objection, of course. And I beg you to understand that I’m heartily sorry for what I’ve done, and I’m punished a lot worse than you could punish me. To lose my stroke is nought; to lose my self-respect is everything.”

“You’ll get ’em both back—such an amazing creature as you,” said Dingle dourly.

Then Kellock went away, and the man who had listened to him little guessed at his soreness of spirit. Jordan indeed had the satisfaction of clearing his soul and confessing his weakness and failure; but he suffered ample degradation and discomfort under his right-doing. Nor did he believe that his end was likely to be gained. Doubting, he had taken his proposal to Ashprington; still doubting, he returned. Indeed, he felt sure from Ned’s attitude, both to him and Medora, that the girl would remain on his hands. A subtler man had felt every reason to hope from Dingle’s blunt comments, but he read nothing behind them. He only believed that he had eaten dirt for nought; yet he did not regret his confession of wrong; for his bent of mind was such that he knew he must have made it sooner or later.

The future looked dark and sad enough. He was confused, downcast. Even the thought of the lecture had no present power to cheer him. But he told himself that he had done his duty to Medora, and suspected that, had she heard his appeal to her husband, she might have thanked him.

And elsewhere Dingle pondered the problem. Curiously enough, only a point, which had seemed unimportant to anybody else, held his mind. Kellock had said Medora was changed, and such is human inconsistency, that whereas Ned had told himself for six months he was well rid of a bad woman, now the thought that he might receive back into his house a reformed character annoyed him. If he wanted anybody, it was the old Medora—not the plague, who left him for Kellock, but the laughter-loving, illusive help-mate he had married. He did not desire a humbled and repentant creature, ready to lick his boots. He was very doubtful if he really wanted anybody. Once the mistress of any man, he would never have thought of her again except to curse her; but she never had been that. She had doubtless shared Jordan’s exalted ideals. That was to her credit, and showed she honoured her first husband and the stock she sprang from.