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Chapter 2

Principles of Programming and Software Engineering

1 /** findGCD – Find the greatest common divisor of two integers.

* This method takes two positive integer parameters, and finds the
* largest positive integer that divides into both without remainders.
* For example, the GCD of 42 and 30 is 6.
* Precondition: a >= 1 and b >= 1.
* Postcondition: a % gcd == 0 and
* b % gcd == 0 and
* for all x where a % x == 0 and b % x == 0,
* gcd is the largest such x.
*/

2 Use a class Money that stores the number of dollars and cents as private data
members. When declaring new objects or changing the data of existing ones, the
class methods should ensure that if the number of cents exceeds 99, the number
of dollars and cents are changed to represent the monetary amount in its most
reduced form.

public static main (String args[])

{
Money itemCost = new Money(dollars, cents);
Money amountPaid = new Money(d, c);
Money change = getChange(itemCost, amountPaid);
change.display();
}

public static Money getChange(Money price, Money payment)

// ----------------------------------------------------------------
// Computes the change remaining from purchasing an item costing
// price when paying with payment.
// Preconditions: price and payment are objects of class Money and
// have been initialized to their desired values.
// Postconditions: returns an object of class Money representing the
// change to be received. If price < payment, the amount owed is
// returned as a negative value.
// ----------------------------------------------------------------
3a /** incrementHour – add 1 hour to a Time object.
* The question asks us to increment the time by one day. But since we only
* store hours, minutes, and seconds, changing the day would have no effect.
* Instead, let’s consider the problem of advancing the time by 1 hour, which
* is something we would have to do once a year for daylight saving time.
* The interesting case to consider is wrapping around to the next day, since
* the hour 23+1 would have to be represented as 0. Note the 24-hour clock.
*
* Precondition: The parameter t is a Time object with appropriate attribute
* values of hour, minute, second within their proper ranges.
* We assume that a copy constructor exists for the Time class.
* Postcondition: Return value is a Time object representing a time 1 hour
* after t.
*/

3b public static void incrementHour(Time t) {

Time newTime = new Time(t);

int hour = t.getHour();

if (hour == 23)
newTime.setHour(0);
else
newTime.setHour(hour + 1);

return newTime;
}

// Throughout this program, corrected errors have been identified.

// 1. Bad idea to have "import java.io.*". Just import what you use.
// 2. Also, need to import classes from other packages besides io.
import java.io.FileNotFoundException;
import java.io.FileInputStream;
import java.util.Scanner;

// 3. The keyword class is not supposed to be capitalized.

// 4. It's good style to capitalize the name of a class.
public class CountWord {

// 5. There is no need to have string constants for user prompts.

// 6. The example code forgot the "[]" before args.
// 7. A comment describing the entire program should be in javadoc,
// which appears before and not after the main() header.
/** Purpose: To count the number of occurrences of a word in a
* text file. The user provides both the word and the text file.
*/
public static void main(String [] args) {

// 8. We should prompt the user for the file name before

// grabbing the input.
// 9. Console input comes from System.in, not System.out.
// 10. It is better style to begin variable name with lowercase
// letter.
System.out.print("Enter the name of the text file: ");
 Scanner input = new Scanner(System.in);
String fileName = input.nextLine();

Scanner fileInput = null;

// 11. It's good style to indent the body of a try block.

// 12. If we can't open the file, program should halt, or
// we could ask user to re-enter file name.
// 13. The File class is not very helpful at reading text files.
// Let's instead try FileInputStream.
try {
fileInput = new Scanner(new FileInputStream(fileName));
} catch (FileNotFoundException e) {
e.printStackTrace();
System.exit(1);
}

// Use anything but a letter as a delimiter

fileInput.useDelimiter("[^a-zA-Z]+");

// 14. Again, we need to print prompt before grabbing input.

System.out.print("Enter the word to be counted in the file: ");
String word = input.next();

// 15. We should also indent bodies of loops and if-statements.

// 16. We should use meaningful identifiers,
// e.g. instances instead of color
// 17. We should be consistent about what identifier we use to
// refer to the word we read from the input file.
// 18. The count of words should be declared and initialized
// before this loop.
// 19. It's not necessary to print out all the words we
// encounter in the file, except for debugging.
int instances = 0;
while (fileInput.hasNext()) {
String fileWord = fileInput.next();
// System.out.println(fileWord);
if (word.equalsIgnoreCase(fileWord)) {
instances++;
}
}

fileInput.close();

// 20. There should be space before the word 'appeared',

// and a space after 'file' to make the output look good.
// 21. It would be desirable to print 'time' in the singular
// if the value of instances is 1.
if (instances == 1)
System.out.println("The word " + word + " appeared once in " +
"the file " + fileName);
else
System.out.println("The word " + word + " appeared " + instances +
" times in the file " + fileName);
}
}
5a We need to design a Person class. A Person possesses a list of friends, who are other Person objects. A
Person needs to have the ability (i.e. method) to extend a friend request to another Person, and this method
needs the ability to accept or reject the friend request. Finally, a Person needs to be able to send a message
to all friends.

5b At a minimum, the Person class will have three attributes: a name (String), a collection of friends (could be
implemented as array of Person), and a buffer containing the message(s) from friends (a single String, or
array of String).

The Person class should have a constructor. A Person begins with a name but no friends and a blank
message buffer.

Instance methods:
First, we need sendRequest(Person p), which identifies whether Person p can be friends with me. If this
method returns true, then we need to add p to the list of my friends, and make sure p adds me to the list of
his/her friends. For simplicity, let’s assume that a friend request will always be honored, unless a person
has reached some arbitrary maximum number. In this case, we need to have access to the number of
friends p has.

Second, we need findNumberFriends( ) to help us implement sendRequest( ). This is an implementation

detail inside sendRequest( ), so we don’t need to make this public.

We need an addFriend(Person p) method, so that the other person can add me to his/her list of friends.

We need sendMessage(String s), which broadcasts a message to all my friends. Each of my friends needs
to append this message string into his/her buffer of messages.

Finally, we need some way of modifying the buffer of one of my friends, so we do this with a
setBuffer(String s). This is an implementation detail inside sendMessage( ), so this does not need to be
made public.

5c Person
-------------------------------------------
- name: string
- friends: array of Friend
- buffer: string
-------------------------------------------
+ sendRequest(in p: Person) { query }
- findNumberFriends( ) { query }
+ addFriend(in p: Person)
+ sendMessage(in s: string)
- setBuffer(in s: string)

6 Automobile
--------------------------------------
- make: string
- model: string
- year: integer
- licencePlate: string
- mileage: integer
- gallons: double
 - location: string
--------------------------------------
+ getMake( ) { query }
+ getModel( ) { query }
+ getYear( ) { query }
+ getLicencePlate( ) { query }
+ getMileage( ) { query }
+ buyGas(in gallons: double)
+ drive(in gallons: double, in miles: integer)
+ getLocation( ) { query }
+ setLocation( ) { query }

Person
- name: string
- address: string
- ID: integer
+ getName( ) { query }
+ getAddress( ) { query }
+ getID( ) { query }

Course
- title: string Student
Faculty - code: string - campusAddress: string
- department: string - meetingTime: string - major: string
- salary: double 1 * + getCampusAddress( )
+ getDepartment ( ) + getTitle( ) { query } 1 *
{query}
{ query } + getCode( ) { query } + getMajor( ) { query }
- getSalary( ) { query} + getMeetingTime( ) + addCourse( in c:Course)
+ addCourse(in { query } + dropCourse(in c:Course)
c:Course )

Pass q rem Verify rem >= 0 Verify num = q * den + rem

Initially 0 17 true 17 = 0 * 17 + 17, which is true
1 1 13 true 17 = 1 * 4 + 13, which is true
2 2 9 true 17 = 2 * 4 + 9, which is true
3 3 5 true 17 = 3 * 4 + 5, which is true
4 4 1 true 17 = 4 * 4 + 1, which is true

9a Precondition: The array is nonempty, the elements are numerical, and each value in the array is in the
appropriate range of values for the application (e.g. 0 to 100).
 Postcondition: The method will return the average of the array elements.

9b Precondition: The height and weight are positive real numbers.

Postcondition: The method will return a positive real number representing the corresponding BMI.

9c Precondition: The loan amount and interest rate will be positive real numbers. The number of months will
be a positive integer. In particular, the interest rate will be expressed as a number of percent that loans are
typically quoted at: for example the number 5.0 will mean the annual interest rate is 5%.

Postcondition: The method will return the value of the loan payment.

10 Yes, an assertion statement can help isolate bugs. For example, you can verify that the preconditions to a
method are satisfied. If they are not, then you can conclude that a bug exists before the method was called.
Also, if the postcondition of a method guarantees some property of a return value (e.g. that it is positive),
then this can be checked as well.

11 This is an infinite loop. The loop will never terminate because the condition will always be true.

12 Transaction
----------------------------
- date: string
- time: string
- amount: double
- isChecking: boolean
-----------------------------
+ getDate( ) { query }
+ getTime( ) { query }
+ getAmount( ) { query }
+ getType( ) { query }

13 The value of numItems might be zero, negative, or larger than the size of the array. We should throw an
exception in case the value of numItems is out of range.

We should also take a step back and ask ourselves if we really need a method that averages the first
numItems values of an array. If the only time we ever average an array is to average all of its elements,
then this second parameter isn’t even necessary. Note that an array already has a built-in length
attribute.

14 a. The value of i is between 10 and 100, inclusive.

b. The value of product is the product of these i factors: 1 * 3 * 15 * … * (2i – 1).

c. The value of p is ac.

15 The value of sum is the sum of all of the positive values among the first index values in array item.
16 public class ex1_8
{
public static void main (String[] args)
{
int n = 5;
int square = 1;
for (int i = 1; i <=n; i++)
{
square = i * i;
System.out.println(square);
}
}
}

17 The bug is in the while loop:

a.) Output is The floor of the square root of 64 is 7.

b.) The while loop condition should be

while(temp1 <= X)

Debugging involves printing the values of temp1, temp2 and result at the top of the loop.

c.) Supply user prompts and check the value of x to ensure that it is greater than 0.

18 A loan application can be broken down into these steps:

Get information about borrower

Name
Address
SSN
Residential history
For each of the places where borrower has lived over the last several years:
Get the start/end dates, address, name of landlord, amount of rent / mortgage info.
Employment history
For each of the jobs the borrower has had over the last several years:
Get the start/end dates worked, job title and name of the boss.
Balance sheet
Ask borrower to enumerate assets and liabilities.
Cash flow
Ask borrower to indicate sources and amounts of income, and current debt payments.
Get information about loan
Down payment, if applicable
Amount desired
Duration of loan
Interest rate
Loan process
Compute borrower’s net worth.
Compute borrower’s net cash flow per month.
What is the borrower’s credit score?
Can the borrower afford the monthly payment?
Does the borrower have a good credit history?
 Does the borrower have enough of a cushion to avoid missing a payment?

19

import java.util.Scanner;

public class Exercise0219 {

public static void main(String [] args) {
boolean needInput = true;
Scanner kbd = new Scanner(System.in);

int age = -1;

while (needInput) {
System.out.print("Please enter age: ");

try {
age = Integer.parseInt(kbd.nextLine());
}
catch(NumberFormatException e) {
System.out.println("Error: age should be integer.");
continue;
}

if (age < 0 || age > 122)

System.out.println("Not a realistic value for age.");
else
needInput = false;
}
}
}
Other documents randomly have
different content
above the cows a comforted man, yet, in the hours of night, fear
and foreboding gripped his heart again and frank terror at the
shadow of an awful catastrophe made him toss and sweat in the
darkness. Twice he rose and prayed childish prayers that his mother
had taught him. They were nothing to the purpose, yet he trusted
that they might call the Almighty’s attention to him and his
difficulties. So he lay awake and scratched his head and puzzled his
scanty brains with what the future held hidden.
As for Timothy, the splendid twilight vision of Sarah in her red array
was by no means dimmed by the subsequent appearance of his own
fair kinswoman. A first fiery love had dawned in him, and the
romantic circumstances attending its awakening added glamour to
the charm of mystery. Already he almost granted Gammer Gurney a
measure of the powers she pretended to. Aggett’s statement had
iced his ardour for a while; but a bitter-sweet yearning and unrest
grew again after the cowman was gone—grew gigantic to the
shutting out of all other things feminine; and Sarah’s grey eyes, not
his little cousin’s, were the lamps that lighted Timothy’s midnight
pillow.
In the morning he gave himself great store of practical and sensible
advice. He told himself that he was too good a sportsman to
interfere with another’s game and poach on another’s preserve; and
he assured himself that he was too excellent a son to fall in love with
a blacksmith’s daughter and sadden his mother’s declining days. He
laughed at himself, and, when he met John after breakfast, spoke no
more of the incident. He grew self-righteous toward noon and was
secretly proud of himself for having withstood the fascination of
Sarah Belworthy’s face and voice with such conspicuous ease. He
told his conscience that the fancy was already dead; he felt that it
would be interesting to meet the girl again; and he assured himself
that her image in full, garish daylight must doubtless fall far below
the perfection that it suggested half veiled under coming darkness.
During that afternoon he marvelled a little at his own restlessness,
then sought occupation and decided that it would be well to have his
horse’s shoes roughed. He knew under this explicit determination
lurked implicit desire to see the father of Sarah Belworthy, but he did
not give his mind time to accuse him. He looked to his horse
himself; he was very busy and whistled and addressed those he
knew about him, as he trotted down to the smithy, feebly trying to
deceive himself.
A black cavern gaped out on the grey day, and from within came
chime of anvil and hoarse breath of bellows. But it was not the
spluttering soft red-hot iron that caught Tim’s eye. A lurid figure
appeared and disappeared like magic as each pulse of the bellows
woke a flame that lighted up the forge. This vision now gleamed in
the blaze, then faded as the fire faded, and Timothy knew it for his
pixie queen of the preceding night. Such an unexpected incident
unnerved him; for a brief moment he thought of riding on; but he
had already drawn rein and now dismounted, his heart throbbing like
the fire.
Sarah had brought her father some refreshments from home, and
was amusing herself, as she had often done before, with the great
leathern bellows, while a lad worked at the anvil and the smith
rested from his labour and ate and drank.
Smith Belworthy gloried more than common in two possessions; his
daughter and his bass viol. Sometimes he mentioned one first,
sometimes the other. To-day, having greeted Tim with great
friendship and not forgetting the incident of the previous night, he
bid Sarah step forward, much to her mortification, and drew young
Chave’s attention to her as though she had been some item in an
exhibition.
“My darter, young sir, Sally by name. Theer’s a bowerly maid for ’e!
An’ so gude as she’m purty; an’ so wise as she’m gude most times.
Awnly eighteen year auld, though all woman, I assure ’e. But
tokened, maister—tokened to a sandy-headed giant by name of Jan
Aggett—her awnly silly deed, I reckon.”
“The best fellow in the world,” said Timothy.
“Maybe, but who be gude enough for the likes o’ she? My li’l rose of
Sharon her be; an’ the husband as I’d have chose should have been
somebody, ’stead of nobody. But theer she is, an’ I lay you’ve never
seed a purtier piece in all your travels, have ’e now?”
The blacksmith grinned affectionately, held Sarah’s arm in his grimy
grip and surveyed his daughter as he had gazed upon some prize
beast or a triumph of the anvil.
“Doan’t heed un,” burst out Sally, her grey eyes clouded, and her
face as red as her gown. “Never did no girl have such a gert gaby of
a faither as me. His wan goose be a royal swan, an’ he do reckon all
the countryside must see wi’ his silly eyne an’ think same as him—
fond auld man!”
The cold light of day and the forge-glow struck her face alternately
as she moved. Young Chave was a man and not a stock or a stone.
Therefore he seized the hour and answered her remark.
“You shouldn’t blame your father for telling the truth, young
mistress,” he said. “Even though it suit you not to hear it. Yet when
’tis so pleasant and so generally accepted, it might well be agreeable
to you.”
“Theer’s butivul scholar’s English,” chuckled Mr. Belworthy; “theer’s
high gen’leman’s language, an’ the case in a nutshell!”
Sarah grew shy and uncomfortable. Angry she could not be before
Tim’s compliments, and how to answer him without contradicting
him she did not know. So she turned to her father instead.
“Be gwaine to eat an’ drink up your food or ban’t ’e, faither?”
“All in gude time. I’ve got to rough the young gen’leman’s horse’s
shoes fust.”
“Be in no hurry,” said Tim. “I can wait awhile.”
“I can’t then,” declared Sarah, ungraciously, and so marched off in a
fine flutter of mingled emotions.
Mr. Belworthy looked up from the hoof between his knees and
winked with great significance at Timothy.
“Kittle cattle—eh? Look at the walk of her! Theer ban’t another girl
this side Dartymoor as travels like that. ’Tis light as a bird, an’ you’d
doubt if her’d leave a footprint ’pon new-fallen snow.”
“So Diana walked,” declared Tim.
“Did her? A Plymouth maiden, I s’pose?” asked Mr. Belworthy, with
simulated indifference.
“No—a goddess of ancient times—just a moonbeam shadow, you
know. Not a splendid flesh and blood beauty like your daughter.”
There was no sound but the rasping of the file; then Belworthy
spoke again.
“Tokened to a man as’ll never rise much beyond Bellever Barton cow
yard—that’s the mischief of it. Her, as might have looked so high,
seein’ as the body of her an’ the faace of her be what they be. Not
a word ’gainst the chap, mind. Brains is the gift of God, to be given
or held back according to His gude pleasure.”
“Such a clever girl, too, I’ll warrant. What did she see in John
Aggett, I wonder?”
“Clever in a way, though not so full of wit as my cheel might have
been prophesied. Me bein’ generally reckoned a man of might on
the bass viol Sundays. But Sally’s just Sally, an’ I wouldn’t change
an eyelash of her. Power over musical instruments ban’t given to
women-kind, I reckon; though for plain singin’ wi’ other maidens in a
plaace o’ worship, she’m a tower o’ strength. An’ she be just a
polished corner o’ the temple prayer-times, no matter what
gentlefolks comes theer. As to why she took on wi’ Jan, I lay her
couldn’t give ’e reasons any more’n me. But so ’tis, an’ though it
mayn’t never come to axing out in church, yet lovers be stubborn in
their awn conceits. An’ so—you being Farmer Chave’s awn son an’
heir—might, if you was that way minded, up an’ say a word for Jan.”
“So I will then. He’s a right good fellow.”
“’Tis the season o’ herald angels, when hearts are warm, you see.
An’ six shillin’ a week do taake a terrible long time to goody. Of
course, Jan gets cider, an’ corn at market price tu; yet wi’out offence
’tis tail corn most times an’ not stomachable—stuff as doan’t harden
muscle.”
“My father would never give his men tail corn,” cried Timothy,
indignantly.
“Wouldn’t he? Then I was wrong. I wouldn’t go against un for all
the tin hid on Dartymoor. But theer ’tis. I doan’t see how the man’s
gwaine to save against a wife an’ fam’ly unless his wage be
bettered. An’ I don’t want to see my darter grow into an auld virgin
mumphead while he’s tryin’ to scrape brass enough to give her a
home. ’Tis wisht work such waitin’.”
“I’ll not forget John Aggett. He’s a very well-meaning man, and
honest, and a splendid shot.”
“So he is then, an’ a gude shot as you say, though I’ll allus be sorry
as he brought down my li’l bird.”
“If she loves him, ’twill fall out all right, you know, Belworthy.”
“If love could taake the place o’ victuals an’ a stone cottage an’ a
snug peat hearth, it might fall out right; but I’m sorry for the
maiden’s love as have got to burn at full pitch o’ heat year arter year
wi’ marriage no nearer. ’Tis a withering thing for a girl to love on,
knawin’ in her secret heart as each winter doan’t pass awver her for
nought but leaves its awn touch o’ coldness an’ greyness. She hides
it from the man, o’ course—from everyone else tu, for that matter,—
but ’tis with her all the seasons through an’ dims her eye, an’
furrows her smooth young forehead at night-times unbeknawnst to
them that love her best.”
Timothy doubted not that the blacksmith spoke truth, then he
trotted off up the hill, and without set purpose overtook Sarah on
her way home. Her voice and the frankness of her face thrilled him
as she smiled shyly, her temper gone. Again she chid him for
listening to her parent’s nonsense, and he tried to assume a friendly,
fatherly manner toward her, and failed. The girl made his blood
burn and his hand shake on his horse’s mane. His breath came
short, his eyes grew bright, and only with difficulty did he arrest a
frantic, reckless petition for a kiss at any cost. Perhaps such an
abrupt and volcanic climax had been best; but he restrained himself,
swallowed his ardour and became humble before her. Seeing that
she preferred this attitude, he sank to servility; then, rating him for
wasting his time and her own, she turned away hard by her cottage
door, and he, without formal farewell, walked his horse onward all a-
dreaming. Sarah, too, was not unmoved, but she hid her emotion
and was glad that neither her mother’s nor any other pair of eyes
had seen her with young Chave.
Timothy met the third party to that unfolding drama as he
proceeded on to the Moor. Then came John Aggett with an anxious
face looking out upon the world above his pale beard. The labourer
stopped Tim, and in broken sentences—like a child that wrestles to
describe new things within his experience but beyond his vocabulary
—strove clumsily to express a mental upheaval which he lacked
words to display. He made it clear, however, that he was in a great
turmoil of mind and much driven by fear of appearances in
connection with Gammer Gurney’s predictions of the previous night.
“I be just come from speech with the old woman, and can’t say as
’twas sense or yet nonsense I got out of her. She kept a close watch
on her lips, ’peared to me; but her eyes threatened bad things an’
her weern’t at ease. ‘What will happen, will happen,’ she sez to me;
an’ at the fust utterance it seemed a deep sayin’, yet, come to think
on’t, ’twas a thing known so well to me as she.”
“Why did you go to her?” enquired Timothy, knowing without need
of answer.
“’Bout last night. Couldn’t banish it from my head what her said as
to your sweetheart. So I went an’ telled her how you met my Sarah
an’ axed if that comed in the spell, seein’ the girl were tokened to
another man. An’ she said as it might be or might not be, because
the spoken word remained an’ was no more to be called back again
than last year’s primrosen. Then I axed her what her view of it
might be, an’ she up an’ said what I told ’e; ‘What will happen, will
happen.’ Arter that I grew hot an’ said any fule knowed so much,
an’ she turned round ’pon me like a dog you’ve trod on by mistake,
an’ her eyes glinted like shinin’ steel, an’ I reckoned she was gwaine
to awverlook me theer an’ then. So I cleared out of it.”
“What happens, happens, because it must. That’s all right enough,
John. And things won’t fall out differently because we take thought
and pine about ’em.”
“I be keepin’ comp’ny, an’ it may be a sort o’ state as blinds the
eyes,” said Aggett, humbly. “I trust ’e in this thing—you’m a
gen’leman, an’ wiser’n me, as be a mere zawk for brains alongside
you. But theer ’tis, she’m my awn maid, an’ if the ’mazin’ butivul
looks of her have fired ’e, then, as you’m a gude man, so I pray
you’ll be at trouble not to see her no more. ’Tis very well to say
what must fall, must; but the future did ought to be a man’s sarvant,
I reckon, not his master.”
“That’s not philosophic, John.”
“Anyway, if theer’s danger in my maid to you, then turn your back
upon her. I sez it wi’ all respects as man to master; an’ as man to
man, I’ll say more, an’ bid you be a man an’ look any way but that.
Ess fay, I sez it, though not worthy to hold a cannel to ’e. An’ what’s
more, I trust ’e.”
To Timothy’s relief John did not delay for an answer to his
exhortation, but proceeded upon his way. So they parted, by
curious chance, at that spot where to-day there rise the mound and
aged thorn. The Moor was of a uniform and sullen iron colour under
a sky of like hue but paler shade. The north wind still blew, but the
clouds were lower, denser and heavy with snow. Even as Aggett
went down the hill and his rival proceeded upward, there came
fluttering out of the grey the first scattered flakes of a long-delayed
downfall. They floated singly, wide-scattered on the wind; others
followed; here a monstrous fragment, undulating like a feather,
capsized in the invisible currents of the air. Then the swarm
thickened and hurried horizontally in puffs and handfuls. The clean
black edges of the distant Moor were now swept and softened with a
mist of falling snow; aloft, thicker and faster, came the flakes,
huddling and leaping out of nothingness and appearing as dark grey
specks against the lighter sky. Presently indication of change
marked the world, and a glimmer of virgin white under on-coming
gloom outlined sheep tracks and made ghostly the grey boulders of
the Moor. By nightfall the great snow had fairly begun, and blinding
blizzards were screaming over the Moor on the wings of a gale of
wind.

CHAPTER V
Before the snows melted and the first month of the new year had
passed by, John Aggett and his master’s son were friends no more.
Of Timothy it may be recorded that he fought fiercely, then with
waning strength, and finally succumbed and lost his battle. By slow
degrees his intimacy with Sarah grew. Neither sought the other; but
love dragged them together. The man hid it from his small world, or
fancied that he did so; the girl blushed in secret and knew that what
she had mistaken for love was mere attachment—an emotion as far
removed from her affection for Timothy as the bloodless
moonbeams from the flush of a rosy sunrise. A time came, and that
quickly, when she could deceive herself no longer, and she knew that
her life hung on her lover, while the other man was no more than a
sad cloud upon the horizon of the future.
Frosts temporarily retarded the thaw, and Timothy and Sarah walked
together at evening time in a great pine wood. A footpath, ribbed
and fretted with snakelike roots, extended here, and moving along it
they sighed, while the breath of the great trees bore their
suspirations aloft into the scented silence. One band of orange light
hung across the west and the evening star twinkled diamond-bright
upon it, while perpendicularly against the splendour sprang the lines
of pine trunks, dimmed aloft with network of broken and naked
boughs, merging above into a sombre crown of accumulated
foliage. Cushions of dead needles were crisp under foot and the
whisper of growing ice tinkled on the ear.
“’Tis vain to lie—at least to you an’ to myself. I love ’e, Tim; I love ’e
wi’ all my poor heart—all—all of it.”
Her breath left her red lips in a little cloud and she hung her head
hopelessly down.
“God can tell why such cruel things happen, dearest. Yet you loved
him too—poor chap.”
“Never. ’Tis the difference ’tween thinkin’ an’ knowin’—a difference
wide as the Moor. I never knowed love; I never knowed as theer
was such a—but this be wicked talk. You’ve winned the solemn
truth out o’ me; an’ that must content ’e. I never could ax un to
give me up—him so gude an’ workin’ that terrible hard to make a
home for me.”
“What will the home be when you’ve got it? Some might think it
was better that one should suffer instead of two.”
“I couldn’t leave him, out of pity.”
“You must think of yourself, too, Sarah—if not of me. I hate saying
so, but when your life’s salvation hangs on it, who can be dumb?
John Aggett’s a big-hearted, honest man; yet he hasn’t our deep
feelings; it isn’t in him to tear his heart to tatters over one woman as
I should.”
“Us can’t say what deeps a man may have got hid in him.”
“Yes, but we can—in a great measure. John’s not subtle. He’s made
of hard stuff and sensible stuff. I’ll fathom him at any rate. It must
be done. He shall know. God forgive me—and yet I don’t blame
myself very much. I was not free—never since you came into my
life and filled it up to the brim. He saw the danger. I confess that.
He warned me, an’ I bade him fear nothing. I was strong in my own
conceit. Then this happened. The thing is meant to be; I know it at
the bottom of my being. It was planned at creation and we cannot
alter it if we would.”
“’Tis well to say that; but I reckon poor Jan thought the same?”
“I’ll see him; I’ll speak with him man to man. He must give you up.
Oh, if I could change places with him and find myself a labourer just
toiling to make a home for you, I’d thank the Lord on my knees!”
“I wish I’d never seen either of ’e, for I’ve awnly made the both of ’e
wretched men. Better I’d never drawed breath than bring this gert
load of sorrow upon you an’ him.”
“You can’t help it; you’re innocent, and the punishment must not fall
upon your shoulders. You love me better than Aggett; and that he
must know in justice to himself—and us.”
“Then his life be ruined an’ his cup bitter for all time.”
“I don’t think so, Sarah. You misjudge him. And even if this must
be so, it is only Fate. I will speak to him to-night.”
“Leave it a little while. I’m fearful to trembling when I think of it.
’Tis I must tell him, not you. ’Tis I must tell him I’m not faithful an’
beg for forgiveness from him. An’ if he struck me down an’ hurted
me—if he killed me—I’d say ’twas awnly fair punishment.”
“He never would lift a finger, even in his rage.”
“Jan? Never—never. A fiery soul, but so soft-hearted as a li’l cheel.
Ess fay, ’tis from me he should hear it, if he must.”
“It would be better that I should do this.”
Before they reached the stile, that stood under the great beech tree,
each loving coward had prayed the other to leave the task alone;
and finally both promised to do nothing for a short space. Then into
the light they came, and Sarah, glancing upward, saw dim letters
and a lovers’ knot like sad eyes staring from the tree trunk.
As a matter of fact, there existed no great need to impress the
situation upon John Aggett. The man, if slow-witted, was not blind,
and, indeed, agile enough of intellect where Sarah was concerned.
For many days he had hesitated to read the change in her. His visits
to her had been marked by gloomy fits of taciturnity, by short
speeches, abrupt leave-takings, by distrust in his eyes, by rough
mumbled sentences she could not catch, by outbursts of affection,
by sudden hugs to his heart, by searching, silent scrutiny of her
features and numberless reiterations of one question. He never
wearied to hear her declare that she loved him; his only peace of
mind was in the moments of that assurance daily repeated; and he
approached to absolute subtlety in appraisement of Sarah’s voice
and vocal inflection as she made answer. Until the present, her
affirmation of love had rung truly upon his ear; now he felt a
shadow behind the words and steeled himself to the change. Her
lips said one thing; her voice and eyes another. He grew slowly to
believe the signs and to realise that she loved him no more, or if a
little, so little that she did not mind lying to him.
Over this earthquake in his life he brooded bitterly enough, yet the
stroke of it, upon first falling, was in some measure broken by his
knowledge of Timothy’s interview with Gammer Gurney. A fatalistic
resignation arose from this recollection and manifested itself, for the
brief space of a week, in John’s attitude to his fate. But as the
nature of all he had lost and how he had lost it beat upon his brain,
a great agony of reality soon caused him to brush the white witch
and her predictions out of the argument; they were factors too trivial
to determine the careers of men and women; and thus, from
beneath the smoke of his brief apathy appeared a consuming fire,
and the man’s passionate nature cried for a speedy and definite end
to his torments.
Work upon the land was suspended under frost; but from the great
barn in Bellever Barton came daily a hurtling of flails where
threshing of barley kept the hands busy for many hours in each brief
day. The flails gleamed like shooting stars across the dusty
atmosphere of the barn, and when the sunlight entered, a sort of
delicate golden cloud hung in the air, only to sink slowly away upon
cessation of labour. Timothy Chave, too, laboured here. For
something to occupy him he swung a flail with the rest, and made
the old hands think better of themselves and their skill within sight
of his clumsy efforts. Then it happened that Aggett, awake to an
opportunity, suddenly desisted from work, pulled on his coat and
accosted his rival. But he spoke for Tim’s ear alone and challenged
no general attention.
“Set down your drashel an’ come an’ speak wi’ me a minute t’other
side the yard.”
“Certainly, John, if you wish it.”
A moment later the meeting that Sarah had dreaded came about;
but the results of it were of a sort not to have been anticipated.
Aggett went straight to the point of attack and his temper suffered
from the outset before the more cultured man’s attitude and
command of words.
“You knaw full well what I’ve got to say before I sez it, I judge. I
see in your face you know, Timothy Chave.”
“Yes, I do. It’s about Sarah. Things that must happen, must
happen. I’m glad you’ve broached this subject, Aggett. Well, it
stands thus; we are not our own masters always, unfortunately.”
“You can say that an’ look me in the face calm as a stone, arter what
passed between us six weeks ago?”
“Six weeks—is that all?”
“Ess fay, though more like six years to me—six years o’ raging,
roasting hell. Why do ’e bide here? Why do ’e take walks along wi’
she—skulking in the woods away from honest eyes like a fox?
You’ve lied to me—”
“Don’t speak quite so loud, John. I cannot help the past. It was not
my doing. I never sought out Sarah. We are all tools in the hand of
Fate or Providence, or whatever you like to call it; we are puppets
and must dance to the tune God is pleased to play. We’re not free,
any of us—not free to make promises or give undertakings. Doesn’t
this prove that we’re slaves to a man? I love Sarah Belworthy with
all my heart and soul. That is not a sin. There is nothing in the
world for me but her. I’m frank enough to you now; and if I lied
before, it was because I thought I could control what was to come.
I tried to keep my word. I turned from her path many times. I
begged to be allowed to go away from the Moor, but my father
would not suffer me to change my mind again. I swear I did my
best; but loving is another matter. I might as easily have promised
not to breathe as not to love her.”
“Words! An’ her—an’ me—?”
“It’s cursedly hard. God knows I don’t find it easy to answer you.
But think: picture yourself in her place. Imagine that you found a
woman you loved better than Sarah.”
“’Tis allus lifting of the burden on to other folks’ shoulders wi’ you. I
ban’t agwaine to imagine vain things at your bidding. Dost hear
me? I want the plain truth in plain speech. But that’s more’n you
could give me, I reckon. The question I’ve got to ax, my girl’s got to
answer. An’ I call her ‘my girl,’ yet, until I hear from her awn lips she
ban’t my girl no more. Then—then—Christ knaws what—”
“If there’s any sort of satisfaction on earth, I’d give it to you. I know
better than you can tell me that I’m a weak man. And I’ve hated
myself for many days when I thought of you; but there it is—a fact
beyond any mending.”
“Get out of her life, if you’re honest, an’ doan’t whine to me ’bout
things being beyond mendin’! Go! Turn your back on her an’ let the
dazzle of ’e fade out of her eyes an’ out of her mind. You knaw so
well as me, that it ban’t beyond mendin’. She promised to marry me
’fore ever she seed the shadow of you; an’ you knawed it from the
fust moment you set eyes on her; an’ yet you went on an’ sinked
from manhood into this. You’m a whole cowardice o’ curs in the skin
o’ one man, damn you!”
“You do right to curse. You will never feel greater contempt for me
than I do for myself. I cannot go away. It is impossible—wholly
above my strength. And the position is beyond mending, despite
what you say—both for Sarah and for me. It is no crime in her to
love me; the fault is mine, and if I had sworn on my hope of
salvation to you, I should have broken my oath as I did my promise.
Measure my punishment—that is all you can do; and I won’t flinch
from it.”
“She loves you—better’n what she do me? It’s come to that; an’ you
ax me to measure your punishment! You pitiful wretch! You know
you’m safe enough now. She loves you better’n me. Theer’s your
safety. ‘Struth! I could smash your bones like rotten wood, an’ you
know it; but she loves you better’n me; an’ who be I to crack her
painted china wi’ my rough cloam? I doan’t love her no less—
anyways not so little as to bruise you, an’ that you knowed afore you
spoke. Get out o’ my sight an’ may worse fall on you than ever I
would bring. May the thing you’ve done breed an’ bite an’ sap the
heart out of ’e like a canker worm; may it bring thorns to your roses,
an’ death to your hopes, an’ storms to your skies; may it fill your cup
wi’ gall an’ bend your back afore your time an’ sting you on your
death-bed. May it do all that, an’ more, so as you’ll mind this hour
an’ know if I’d scatted your lying brains abroad an’ killed ’e, ’twould
have been kinder than to let you live!”
“I have deserved your hardest words; but forgive her—now that you
yield her up; forgive her if ever you loved her, for the fault was none
of hers.”
“You can think for her, can ’e? You can stand between me an’ her to
shield her against the man as would have faced fire an’ water an’ all
hell’s delights for her ever since she was a li’l dinky maid! You ax
me to forgive her—you? Christ A’mighty! she’m a lucky woman to
have a man of your metal to stand up for her against me!”
“I didn’t mean that, Aggett; only I feared—”
“Doan’t I love her tu, you smooth-faced fule? Do ’e think one hair of
her ban’t so precious to me as to you? Do ’e think because she’ve
took your poison I’m mazed tu? I’ve got to live my life wi’out her;
I’ve got to bide all my days wi’out her—that’s enough. But she’d
have loved me still if she could. Ban’t her sin that you poured magic
in her cup; ban’t her sin that she won’t wear glass beads no more
now she thinks she’ve found a strong o’ di’monds.”
“You’re a better man than I am, John; you make me see what I’ve
done; you make me wish I was dead.”
“Liar! Don’t prate no more to me. I hate the filthy sight of ’e, an’
the sound of thy oily tongue. I’d swing for ’e to-morrow, an’ keep
my last breath to laugh with; but for she. Tell her—no, that I’ll do
myself. I’ll tell her; an’ no call for you to fear as your fine name will
get any hard knocks. I’ll never soil my mouth with it more arter to-
day.”
He departed, and the other, in misery and shame, stood and
watched him return to the threshing-floor. Yet, as the unhappy spirit
who has sacrificed his life to a drug and creeps through shame and
contumely back and back to the poison, counting nothing as vital
that does not separate him therefrom, so now the man felt that
Sarah Belworthy was his own and told himself that his honour, his
self-respect, his fair repute were well lost in exchange for this
unexampled pearl.

CHAPTER VI
At nightfall John Aggett visited the cottage of the Belworthys, but
Sarah was from home for the day and he had a few words with her
mother instead. That astute woman was well informed of affairs,
and the romance now proceeding had long been the salt of her life,
though she pretended no knowledge of it. In common with her
husband, she hoped for glory from a possible union between the cot
of Belworthy and the homestead of the Chaves. But these ambitions
were carefully hidden from sight. All the smith said, when the
matter was whispered, amounted to a pious hope that the Lord
would look after his own—meaning Sarah; but presently it behooved
both parents to stir in the matter, when they learned of the
subsequent meeting between their daughter and John Aggett. A
very unexpected determination on the girl’s part resulted from that
occasion, and the matter fell out in this way.
Before seeing John again, Sally had lengthy speech with her new
sweetheart, and he, a little dead to the danger of so doing, detailed
at length his conversation with the cowman and explained the
complete nature of his rival’s renunciation. This narrative set
Timothy in a somewhat sorry light, and the fact that he
unconsciously bore himself as a victor added to the unpleasant
impression conveyed. Had Tim declared his own sorrow and shame,
blamed himself and acknowledged John’s greatness with
wholehearted or even simulated praise, the girl had accepted the
position more readily; but as it was, young Chave, whose fear of
rousing her pity for John rendered him less eloquent upon that
theme than he felt disposed to be, by this very reticence and
oblivion touching the other’s profound sorrow, awoke that pity he
desired to stifle. Indeed, his story moved Sarah unutterably. While
her love for Tim was the light of her life, yet at this juncture her
nature forced her to turn to the first man, and now she held herself
guilty of wickedness in her treatment of him. An instinct toward
abstract justice, rare in women, uplifted her in this strait; the
stricken man clung to her mind and would not be banished. Even
before Timothy’s subsequent abasement and self-accusations, she
could not forget the past or live even for an hour in the joy of the
present. The very note of triumph in her loved one’s voice jarred
upon her. It was, therefore, with feelings painfully mingled and
heart distracted by many doubts that Sarah met John Aggett at last.
He was harsh enough—harsh to brutality—and for some subtle
reason this attitude moved her to the step he least expected.
Softness and kind speech might have sent Sarah weeping to Timothy
after all; but the ferocity, despair and distraction of the big flaxen
man confirmed her in a contrary course of action. She put her
hands into his, cried out that, before God, she was his woman for all
time, and that his woman she would remain until the end. John
Aggett strangled his reason upon this loving declaration—as many a
stronger spirit would have done. He told himself that his gigantic
love might well serve for them both; he caressed the wanderer in
love and called upon Heaven to hear his thanksgivings. New rosy-
fledged hope sprang and soared in his heart at this unhoped
blessing, and for a few blissful days light returned to his face,
elasticity to his step. He had steeled his soul to part with her; he
had told himself the worst of the agony was over, but in reality the
girl had come back into his life again before the real grief of his loss
had bitten itself into his mind. Now, despite the inner whisper that
told him his joy rested on the most futile foundations possible, he
took her back as he had resigned her—in a whirlwind of emotion.
And he assured himself that, having once yielded her up, neither
men nor God could reasonably ask him to do so again.
Mrs. Belworthy it was who first penetrated the false pretence and
mockery of the new understanding. Upon the strength of that
discovery she communicated in secret with Timothy Chave, and
bade him cultivate patience and be of good cheer despite the
darkness of appearances. Sarah, indeed, shewed by no sign that
she desired to turn from her bargain again; but the emptiness and
aridity of these renewed relations could not be hidden. Even John
grasped the truth after a fortnight of hollow lovemaking. He tried to
reawaken the old romance, to galvanise a new interest into the old
hopes and plans; but Sarah’s simulation too often broke down
despite her best endeavours. Tears filled her eyes even while she
clung most fiercely to him; her parents murmured their regrets that
John should persist in ruining her life. Indeed, Mrs. Belworthy did
more than murmur; she took an occasion to speak strongly to the
cowman; yet he shut his eyes to the truth and blundered blindly on,
straining every nerve and racking his brain to discover means
whereby Sarah might be won back to the old simple ways, to her
former humility of ambition and simplicity of thought. But any
restoration of the past conditions was impossible, for her mind had
much expanded in Timothy’s keeping; and this fact did Aggett, by
slow and bitter stages, at length receive and accept. With heart the
sorer for his temporary flicker of renewed happiness, he tore himself
from out a fool’s paradise and abandoned hope and Sarah once for
all.
“’Tis vain to make believe any more,” he said to her. “God knows
you’ve tried your hardest, but you ban’t built to throw dust in a
body’s eyes. Your bread’s a-been leavened wi’ tears these many
days, an’ your heart’s in arms against the falling out of things. ’Tis
natural as it should be so. We’ve tried to come together again an’
failed. Us can do no more now.”
“Leave ’e I won’t; if you beat me away from ’e like a dog, like a dog
I’ll come back again.”
“Leave me you must, Sally. I ban’t gwaine to spoil your butivul life
for all time wi’ my love, though you come wi’ open arms an’ ax me
to. Go to un free, an’ take my solemn word as I’ll rage against him
no more. I’ll know you’m happy then; an’ that must be my
happiness. I’ll never forget you comed twice to me o’ your own free
will.”
“You’m a gude man—a gert saintly man—an’ God knows why I be so
pitiful weak that anything born should have come between us, once
I’d promised.”
“Many things comes between the bee an’ the butt, the cup an’ the
lip, men an’ women folks an’ their hopes o’ happiness. Please God
you’ll fare happy wi’ him.”
“I don’t deserve it, if theer’s any justice in the sky.”
“Theer ban’t to my knowledge. Pray God He’ll be gude to ’e—then
I’ll forgive the man. An’ the world won’t come to me for his
character whether or no.”
She protested and wept; he was firm. For a little hour his lofty
mood held and he completed the final act of renunciation before he
slept. Knowing full well that Chave would never hear the truth from
Sarah, he laid wait for him that night and met him in Postbridge at a
late hour.
The men stood side by side in the empty, naked road that here
crossed Dart by a pack-saddle bridge. The night was rough and cold
but dry, and the wind wailing through naked beeches, the river
rattling harshly over its granite bed, chimed in unison with the recent
sorrow of Timothy’s heart. When Sarah announced her
determination, the youth had threatened self-destruction and
foretold madness. Neither one thing nor the other happened, but he
was sufficiently miserable and his sufferings had by no means grown
blunted on this night as he plodded wearily through the village.
Aggett, moving out of the darkness, recognised his man and spoke.
“Come you here—on to the bridge,” he said abruptly. “Theer us’ll be
out o’ the way o’ the world, an’ can sit ’pon the stones an’ I can say
what’s to say.”
“There is nothing to talk about between us. If you knew how much
I have suffered and am still suffering, you’d spare me more words.”
“Aw jimmery! You’m a poor whinin’ twoad—too slack-twisted for any
full-grown woman, I should have reckoned. But your luck be in.
She comed back to me for duty; now she’m gwaine back to you for
love.”
“Does she know her own mind, John?”
“Ess fay, an’ allus did arter you come.”
Now Aggett briefly explained the events of the past fortnight and his
own determination concerning Sarah, while the younger man felt his
blood wake from its sleep and race again through his veins. His
treasure had not been lost and life was worth living yet. He had tact
sufficient to make no comments upon the story. He spared John
Aggett many words. But he gazed once or twice at the other’s
heaving breast and wild eyes and told himself that the cowman was
a being altogether beyond his power to understand. Then he crept
away as quickly as he could and did not sleep until he had spoken
with Sarah. On this occasion his account of events was framed in
words of most meek and humble sort. He awarded Aggett full
measure of praise, while upon himself he heaped sufficient obloquy,
feeling that he could very well afford to do so as a price for this
return to paradise.

CHAPTER VII
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
setting, 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 his 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 Belworthy 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. It 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 the 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 come 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 parent 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.

CHAPTER VIII
From that day forward John Aggett exhibited a spectacle of reckless
indifference to circumstances and a manner of life lightened only by
occasional returns to sobriety and self-command. As to how it fared
with Timothy and Sarah he cared not. Others ceased to speak of
the matter in his presence, and thus it happened that he went in
ignorance of events for the space of five weeks. During that period
he loafed at the “Green Man” Inn until his money was spent, then
returned to dwell with his mother.
Meantime Timothy Chave’s romance was prospering ill, despite his
rival’s endeavour to make the way easy. Other obstacles now
confronted him, and though Sarah was happy and well content to
live in the delight of each hour with her lover, Tim found delay less
easily borne and struggled to change Mr. Chave’s attitude toward his
desires. But it proved useless, and the young man chafed in vain.
He assured Sarah that his father was merely an obstinate elder and
would surely be won to reason in good time; but the full significance
of her engagement with Timothy, as his father viewed it, she did not
know and never would have heard from Tim’s lips. There happened,
however, an accidental meeting between Sarah and Farmer Chave
himself, and this brushed all mystery or doubt from the girl’s mind,
opened her eyes to the gravity of Tim’s actions and left her face to
face with the truth.
One day Sarah, on foot, with her face set homeward, observed
Farmer Chave riding back from Widecombe to Postbridge on a big
bay horse. He saw her, too, eyed her narrowly and slackened speed,
while she wished the road might open and swallow her from his
sight. But there was no escape, so she curtseyed and wished Mr.
Chave a very good evening. He returned the salute and seeing, as
he believed, a possibility of setting all right on the spot by one great
master-stroke, attempted the same.
“Ah, my girl, Belworthy’s darter, ban’t ’e? A peart maid an’ well
thought on, I doubt not. Be you gwaine home-along?”
Sarah’s heart fluttered at this genial salutation. “Ess, maister,” she
said.
“Then I’ll lighten your journey. I haven’t got the double saddle, but
you’m awnly a featherweight an’ can ride pillion behind me an’ save
your shoes.”
The mode of travel he suggested was common enough in those
days, but such a proposal from Tim’s father frightened Sarah not a
little. Her first thought was for herself, her second for her
sweetheart, and she nerved herself to refuse the farmer’s offer.
“I’m sure you’m very kind, sir, but—”
“No ‘buts.’ Here’s a stone will make a splendid upping stock, an’
`Sharky’ can carry the pair of us without knowing his load be
increased. Up you get! Theer’s plenty of room for my fardels in
front o’ the pommel. Us won’t bate our pace for you, I promise.
Now jump! Whoa, bwoy! Theer we are. Just put your arms around
my flannel waistcoat an’ doan’t be shy. ’Tis well I met ’e, come to
think on’t, for I wanted a matter o’ few words.”
Soon they jogged forward, the big horse taking little account of
Sarah’s extra weight. At length they crossed Riddon Ridge and
passed Dart at a ford, where Sarah had to hold up her toes out of
the reach of the river. Then, as they rode along the foothills of
Bellever, the farmer spoke suddenly.
“My life’s been wisht of late days along wi’ taking thought for my son
Tim. You’ve heard tell of un? You see, ’tis my wish to have un
mated wi’ his cousin. But I’m led to onderstand as theer’s a maiden
up-long he thinks he likes better; an’ her name’s same as yours,
Sarah Belworthy.”
“Oh, Maister Chave, I do love un very dear, I do.”
“So you done to that yellow man, Jan Aggett.”
“’Tweern’t the same. When Maister Timothy comed, I seed
differ’nt.”
“Doan’t shake an’ tremble. You’ll never have no reason to fear me.
Tell me how ’twas. Jan gived ’e up—eh?”
“Ess, he did.”
“Why for?”
“For love of me.”
“Ah! Now that was a brave fashion deed. I allus thought a lot of
the man, an’ I’m sorry you’ve sent un to the Devil, wheer they tell
me he’s bound of late days.”
“He’m a gude man, an’ I wish to God as something could be done to
bring him back in the right road.”
“Ess fay! An’ you’m the one as would have to look the shortest
distance to find a way to do it, Sarah. A gude example that man, for
all his foolishness since. Loved ’e well enough to leave ’e—for your
own gude, he did—eh?”
“God bless him for doin’ it.”
“Why doan’t ’e go back to him?”
“I cannot, I cannot now.”
“Well, man’s love be greater than woman’s by the look of it. What
girl would have done same as that man done? What girl would give
up a man for love of him, an’ even leave un for his gude? Not one
as ever I heard tell of.”
“Many an’ many would for that matter. What’s a sacrifice if your love
be big enough?”
“Be yours? That’s the question I’d ax ’e.”
Sarah’s heart sank low; Mr. Chave felt her shiver and the hands
clasped over his thick waistcoat tremble. Looking down, he saw her
fingers peeping out of woollen mittens; and upon one, sacred to the
ring, a small gold hoop appeared with a coral bead set therein.
Sarah did not answer the last pointed question, and Farmer Chave
continued:—
“I know you’ve promised to be wife to my son some day, an’ I know
he’ve taken partickler gude care to hide from you my view of the
question. But you must hear it, for your awn sake as well as his an’
mine. I’ve nothin’ against you, Sarah, nothin’, an’ less than nothin’,
for I like you well an’ wish to see you so gude as you’m purty an’ so
happy as you’m gude; but I know my son for a lad of light purposes
an’ weak will an’ wrong ambitions. Ban’t enough iron in un; an’ the
maid I’m set on for un have got a plenty backbone to make up for
his lack. Her he’s to wed in fulness o’ time, if I’ve any voice left in
affairs; an’ if he doan’t, ’tis gude-bye to Bellever for him, an’ gude-
bye to more’n that. So theer he stands, Sarah, an’ you’d best to
hear what it means. Maybe you thought you was makin’ choice
between a labourin’ man an’ a gentleman, between a pauper an’ a
young chap wi’ his pockets full o’ money. But ban’t so, I assure ’e.
’Tis the gentleman’ll be the pauper if he marries you; but John
Aggett—why, I offered un my cottage in Longley Bottom free o’ rent
from the day as your banns was axed in marriage wi’ un to
Widecombe Church! That’s the man as gived ’e up for love of ’e.
An’ ban’t you so strong as him?”
“Tu gude he was—tu gude for the likes o’ me.”
“Well, as to t’other, though he’s my son, blamed if I think he’s gude
enough. But that’s neither here nor theer. The question ban’t what
sort of love he’s got for you; but what sort you’ve got for him. Do ’e
follow my meanin’? I doan’t storm or rave, you see—tu wise for
that. I only bid you think serious whether your feeling for Timothy’s
the sort to ruin him, or to save him from ruin. ’Tis a hard choice for
’e, but we’m all faaced wi’ ugly puzzles ’pon the crossways o’ life.
Now you know my ’pinions, you’ll do what’s right, or you’m not the
girl I think ’e.”
“I must give un up for all time?”
“Best not put it that way. Doan’t drag my rascal of a bwoy in the
argeyment. Say to yourself, ‘I must mate him as I promised to mate
—him that’s wastin’ his life an’ gwaine all wrong for love o’ me.’ ’Tis
plain duty, woman, looked at right. Not that I’d rob ’e of the
pleasure of knowin’ you’d done a gert deed if you gived Tim up; but
t’other’s the man as you’ve got to think of; an’, if you do this gude
thing, ’tis just similar as he done for you. Wi’ Jan Aggett be your
happiness wrapped up, if you could see it. An’ Jan’s much more like
to go well in marriage harness than my son be, or I doan’t know
carater.”
“I’ll try, I’ll try. It’s more than I’ve heart or strength for, but I’ll try,
Maister Chave. I’ll try to do right by both of them.”
“Who could say fairer? An’ here’s the lane to blacksmith’s, so I’ll
drop ’e. An’ give your faither my respects an’ tell un I want un to-
morrow to the farm.”
After Sarah had dismounted the farmer spoke again.
“Take to heart what I’ve said to ’e, an’ remember that to please me
won’t be a bad action from a worldly side. Go back to Jan Aggett,
Sarah Belworthy; that’s my advice to you, an’ angels from heaven
couldn’t give ’e no better, ’cause theer ban’t room for two ’pinions.
Now let me hear what metal you’m made of, an’ that afore the week
be out. So gude night.”
The man trotted off with knees stiff and elbows at right angles to his
body; the girl entered her home; and that night, tossing and turning
wearily, thrice she decided to give up her lover and thrice
determined to take no definite step until she had again seen and
spoken with Timothy. But her heart told her that such a course was
of all the weakest. Presently she assured herself that many plans
might be pursued and that wide choice of action lay before her.
Then John Aggett chiefly occupied her thoughts. To go back to him
now appeared absolutely impossible. He had given her up, at a cost
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