Now thundered upon John Aggett the full flood of his griefs at highest water-mark.  Until this time hopes had alternated with fears, possibilities of recovered joy with the thought of utter loss.  Then he had possessed Sarah’s promises and the consciousness that in his hands, not another’s, lay the future.  But now John had departed out of her life for good and all, and the great act of self-renunciation was complete.  To the highest-minded and noblest soul something in the nature of anti-climax must have followed upon this action.  That one capable of so great a deed and such unselfish love possessed ample reserves of self-command and self-control to live his life henceforward on the same high plane by no means followed.  Having by his own act insured the highest good for the woman he loved, John Aggett’s subsequent display sank far below that standard and indeed embraced a rule of life inferior to his usual conduct.  A supreme unconcern as to what might now await him characterised his actions.  As a lighthouse lamp illuminates some horror of sea and stone, so his notable deed shone in a sorry p. 66setting, for John Aggett’s existence now sank as much below its usual level of indifferent goodness as his relinquishment of Sarah Belworthy, for love of her, had risen above it.  Until the present his attachment to the girl and hope of happiness had made him a hard-working man, and since his engagement he had laboured with the patience of a beast and counted weariness a delight as the shillings in his savings-box increased.  Now incentive to further work was withdrawn, he abated his energies, lacking wit to realise that upon sustained toil and ceaseless mental occupation his salvation might depend.  His final departure from Bellever Barton was brought about as the result of a curious interview with his master.

To Farmer Chave, young Timothy, now reestablished with Sarah, had come to break the news of his betrothal.  But no parental congratulation rewarded the announcement.  Mr. Chave knew every man and woman in Postbridge, and was familiar with the fact that the blacksmith’s daughter had long been engaged to his cowman.  That his son and heir should favour a labourer’s sweetheart was a galling discovery and provoked language of a sort seldom heard even in those plain-speaking times.  Finally the father dismissed his son, bade him get out of sight and conquer his calf-love once and for all or hold himself disinherited.  A little later he acted on p. 67his own shrewd judgement and held converse with Sarah’s original suitor.

John was milking as the farmer entered his cow-yard, and a flood of sunlight slanted over the low byre roofs and made the coats of the cattle shine ripe chestnut red.

“Evenin’ to ’e, Aggett.  Leave that job an’ come an’ have a tell wi’ me.  I wants to speak to ’e.”

“Evenin’, maister.  I’ll milk `Prim’ dry, ’cause she do awnly give down to me.  Milly can do t’others.”

Farmer Chave waited until the cow “Prim” had yielded her store, then he led the way to an empty cow-stall—dark, cool and scented by its inhabitants.  Across the threshold fell a bar of light; without, a vast heap of rich ordure sent forth delicate sun-tinted vapour; close at hand the cows stood waiting each her turn, and one with greatly distended udder lowed to the milkmaid.

“Look you here, Jan Aggett, you’m for marryin’, ban’t ’e?  Didn’t you tell me when I took you on as a you was keepin’ company wi’ blacksmith’s purty darter?”

“’Twas so, then.”

“Well, I’m one as likes to see my hands married an’ settled an’ getting childer ’cordin’ to Bible command.  What’s your wages this minute?”

“You’m on a wrong tack, maister.  Sarah p. 68Belworthy an’ me be out.  Theer’s nought betwixt us more.”

Mr. Chave affected great indignation at this statement.

“’Struth!  Be you that sort?”

John reflected a moment before answering.  He suspected his master must know the truth, but could not feel certain, for Mr. Chave’s manner suggested absolute ignorance.

“Us changed our minds—that’s all.”

“You say so!  When a girl changes her mind theer’s generally another string to her bow.  Either that, or she’s tired of waiting for the fust.”

“It might be ’twas so,” said John, falling into the trap laid for him.  “A maid like her can’t be expected in reason to bide till such as me can make a home for her.  I doan’t blame her.”

“Well, if that’s the trouble, you can go right along to her this night an’ tell her theer’s no cause to keep single after Eastertide.  Yeo and his wife do leave my cottage in Longley Bottom come then, an’ instead of raisin’ your wages as I meant to do bimebye, I’ll give ’e the cot rent free.  A tidy li’l place tu, I warn ’e, wi’ best part of an acre o’ ground, an’ only half a mile from the village.  Now be off with ’e an’ tell the girl.”

Aggett gasped and his eyes dimmed a moment before the splendid vision of what might have been.  p. 69It took him long to find words and breath to utter them.  Then he endeavoured to explain.

“You’m a kind maister, God knows, an’ I’d thank ’e year in an’ year out wi’ the sweat o’ my body for such gudeness.  But the thing can’t be, worse luck.  Best I tell ’e straight.  ’Tis like this: Sally have met another chap—a chap built o’ softer mud than what I be.  An’ he’m more to her than me, an’—”

“God A’mighty!  An’ you stand theer whining wi’ no more spirit than a auld woman what’s lost her shoe-string!  A chap hath kindiddled the maid from ’e?  Another man hath stole her?  Is that what you mean?”

John grew fiery red, breathed hard and rubbed his chin with a huge fist.

“Ban’t the man I cares a curse for.  ’Tis the girl.”

“Rubbishy auld nonsense!  ’Tis woman’s play to show ’e the worth of her.  They’m built that way an’ think no man can value ’em right unless he sees they’m for other markets so well as his.  Do ’e know what that vixen wants ’e to do?  Why, she’s awnly waiting for ’e to give t’other chap a damn gude hiding!  Then she’ll cuddle round again—like a cat arter fish.  I know ’em!”

John’s jaw dropped before this sensational advice.  Now he was more than ever convinced that his master knew nothing of the truth.  It appeared to him p. 70the most fantastic irony that a father should thus in ignorance condemn his son to such a sentence.  Then Aggett put a question that shewed quickening of perception.

“If ’twas your own flesh an’ blood, what would ’e say?”

“Same as I be sayin’ now.  Burned if I’d blame any man for sticking to his own.”

“It be your son,” declared John, shortly.

“I know it,” answered the other.  “That’s why I’m here.  You’m not the fule you look, Jan, an’ you know so well as I can tell ’e this match ban’t seemly nohow.  I ban’t agwaine to have it—not if the Lard Bishop axed me.  An’ I tell you plain an’ plump—me being your master—that you must stop it.  The girl’s your girl, an’ you must keep her to her bargain.  An’ you won’t repent it neither.  Marry her out of hand an’ look to me for the rest.  An’ if a word’s said, send him as sez it to me.  I’ll soon shut their mouths.”

“Ban’t the folks—’tis her.  She do love your son wi’ all her heart an’ soul—an’ he loves her—onless he’s a liar.”

“Drivel!  What does he know about love—a moon-blind calf like him?  I won’t have it, I tell ’e.  He’s gone his awn way to long!  Spoiled by his fule of a mother from the church-vamp[70] onward till he’ve p. 71come to this bit of folly.  It’s not to be—dost hear what I say?”

“I hear.  Go your ways, maister, an’ prevent it if you can.  I’ll not meddle or make in the matter.  Sally Belworthy have chosen, an’ ban’t me as can force her to change her mind.”

“More fule her.  An’ between the pair of ’e, she’ll find herself in the dirt.  ’Tis in a nutshell.  Will ’e take the cottage an’ make her marry you?  I lay you could if you was masterful.”

“Never—ban’t a fair thing to ax a man.”

“Best hear me through ’fore you sez it.  If you’m against me in this, you can go to hell for all I care.  If you won’t help me to keep my son from disgracing me an’ mine, you’m no true man, an’ I doan’t want ’e any more to Bellever Farm.  ’Tis a wife an’ a home rent free ’pon wan side, an’ the sack on the other.  So you’d best to make choice.”

“I’ll go Saturday.”

“Of all the ninnyhammers ever I saw!  You gert yellow-headed cake, can’t you see you’m spoilin’ your awn life?  Or was it that t’other side offered ’e better terms?  If that’s so, you won’t get ’em, because Tim Chave’ll be a pauper man the day he marries wi’out my leave.”

The farmer stormed awhile longer, but presently he stamped off and Aggett returned to his mother.  Then, as he had angered Mr. Chave, so did his own p. 72parent enrage him.  She protested at his folly, and implored him to carry out his master’s wish while opportunity remained to do so.  He was strong against it until the old woman went on her knees to him and wept.  Then he lost his temper and cursed the whole earth and all thereon for a cruel tangle that passed the understanding of man to unravel.

Later in the evening he revisited the village and before ten o’clock returned intoxicated to his home.