One Day At Arle | Page 4

i' Arle as isna more to me now than tha art," she
said, "Some on 'em be honest, an' I conna say that o' thee. Tha canst get
thee gone or I'll go mysen. Tha knows't me well enow to know I'll ne'er
f orgie thee for what tha's done. Aye"--with the passionate
hand-wringing again--"but that wunnot undo it."
He rose and came to her, trembling like a man with the ague.
"Yo' dunnot mean that theer, Meg," he said slowly. "You dunnot mean
it word fur word. Think a bit."
"Aye, but I do," she answered him, setting her white teeth, "word fur
word."

"Think again, wench." And this time he staggered and caught hold of
the door-post. "Is theer nowt as'll go agen th' wrong? I've lived wi'thee
nigh a year, an' I've loved thee twenty--is theer nowt fur me? Aye, lass,
dunnot be too hard. Tha was allus harder than most womankind; try an'
be a bit softer like to'rds th' mon as risked his soul because he wur a
mon an' darena lose thee. Tha laid thy head on my shoulder last neet.
Aye, lass--lass, think o' that fur one minnit."
Perhaps she did think of it, for surely she faltered a little--what woman
would not have faltered at such a moment?--but the next, the memory
of the sunny, half-boyish face she had clung to with so strong a love
rushed back upon her and struck her to the heart. She remembered the
days when her life had seemed so full that she had feared her own bliss;
she remembered the gallant speeches and light-hearted wiles, and all at
once she cried out in a fierce, impassioned voice: "I'll ne'er forgie thee,"
she said--"I'll ne'er forgie thee to th' last day o' my life. What fur should
I? Tha's broke my heart, thou villain--tha's broke my heart." And the
next minute she had pushed past him and rushed into the house.
For a minute or so after she was gone the man stood leaning against the
door with a dazed look in his pale face. She meant what she said: he
had known her long enough to understand that she never
forgave--never forgot. Her unbroken will and stubborn strength had
held her to enmities all her life, and he knew she was not to be won by
such things as won other women. He knew she was harder than most
women, but his dull nature could not teach him how bitter must have
been the life that rendered her so. He had never thought of it--he did not
think of it now. He was not blaming her, and he was scarcely blaming
himself. He had tried to make her happy and had failed. There were two
causes for the heavy passion of misery that was ruling him, but neither
of them was remorse.
His treachery had betrayed him, and he had lost the woman he had
loved and worked for. Soul and body were sluggish alike, but each had
its dull pang of weight and wretchedness.
"I've come to th' eend now surely," he said, and, dropping into her seat,
he hid his face.

As he sat there a choking lump rose in his throat with a sudden click,
and in a minute or so more he was wiping away hot rolling tears with
the back of his rough hand.
"I'm forsook somehow," he said--"aye, I'm forsook. I'm not th' soart o'
chap to tak' up wi' th' world. She wur all th' world I cared fur, an' she'll
ne'er forgie me, for she's a hard un--she is. Aye! but I wur fond o' her! I
wonder what she'll do--I do wonder i' my soul what she's gettin' her
mind on!"
It did not occur to him to call to her or go and see what she was doing.
He had always stood in some dull awe of her, even when she had been
kindest, and now it seemed that they were too far apart for any
possibility of approach at reconciliation. So he sat and pondered
heavily, the sea air blowing upon him fresh and sweet, the sun shining
soft and warm upon the house, and the few common flowers in the strip
of garden whose narrow shell walks and borders he had laid out for her
himself with much clumsy planning and slow labor.
Then he got up and took his rough working-jacket over his arm.
"I mun go down to th' Mary Anne," he said, "an' work a bit, or we'll
ne'er get her turned o'er afore th' tide comes in. That boat's a moit o'
trouble." And he sighed heavily.
Half-way to the gate he stopped before a cluster of ground honeysuckle,
and perhaps for the first time in his life was conscious of