Ned went off through the orchards, while his mother-in-law, scarce knowing what she did, gave the children their tea.
Under the trees Mr. Dolbear padded up and down. He was in no fear for Mary, but suffering the extremity of anxiety as to the sex of the coming child.
“My wife’s run away from me, Tom,” he said.
“Have she? Fancy! The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the Name. I never did like Medora, and you’ll bear me out. Where’s she run then?”
“I don’t know. She’s gone with Jordan Kellock, the vatman.”
“God’ll see to it—trust Him, and don’t take the law in your own hands.”
They talked for ten minutes; then a child appeared at the gate by the house. It was Milly, Mr. Dolbear’s favourite.
“The news be come,” cried Tom, and ignoring Dingle, he hastened to his daughter, while Ned departed. The first shock was over and his deep disgrace and bitter wrong began to grind into him. So far he had kept amazingly temperate. But he was to experience many moods before he slept that night.
Meantime Milly in tears broke bad news to the farmer.
“There’s another beastly little girl come,” she piped, and her father gazed tragically at her and turned silently to his home. Lydia met him at the door.
“Did Ned tell you of this awful misfortune?” she asked.
“No,” he answered. “Milly told me, and I say here and now that it’s an outrage and undeserved.”
But Dolbear had no room in his mind for Medora. The children were all cast down and some wept.
“I must go and comfort the woman,” said Mary’s husband. “She’ll feel this only less than I do. And I should like to hear parson justify it—not that he could. Just a piece of saucy cruelty against them who’ve done nought to deserve it. That’s what it is.”
“Don’t you go souring her mind against the baby,” urged Lydia. “That wouldn’t be kind after all her trouble and patience. Say you’re pleased, Tom, and cheer her up.”
“’Twould only be a lie if I did and nobody would know it better than her. I’ll go up and forget myself and comfort her as best I can—and God’s my judge, Lydia, I won’t have no more children.”
“Don’t you say what you’ll be sorry for.”
“I mean it. Them that plant the seed have a right to call the crops in my opinion; and there did ought to be fair give and take between the creature and his Creator. There weren’t no rhyme nor reason in planting another girl on me, and I ain’t going to be the plaything of the Almighty no more—and more shan’t Mary. We’ve done—through no fault of our own neither.”