45885	----	Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. Words printed in italics are marked with underlines: _italics_. [Illustration: LYDFORD GORGE (_Page 24_)] DARTMOOR Described by Arthur L. Salmon Pictured by E. W. Haslehust BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY _Blackie & Son's "Beautiful" Series_ Beautiful England Bath and Wells Bournemouth and Christchurch Cambridge Canterbury Chester and the Dee The Cornish Riviera Dartmoor Dickens-Land The Dukeries The English Lakes Exeter Folkestone and Dover Hampton Court Hastings and Neighbourhood Hereford and the Wye The Isle of Wight The New Forest Norwich and the Broads Oxford The Peak District Ripon and Harrogate Scarborough Shakespeare-Land Swanage and Neighbourhood The Thames Warwick and Leamington The Heart of Wessex Winchester Windsor Castle York Beautiful Scotland Edinburgh The Shores of Fife Loch Lomond, Loch Katrine, and the Trossachs The Scott Country Beautiful Ireland Connaught Leinster Munster Ulster Beautiful Switzerland Chamonix Lausanne and its Environs Lucerne Villars and Champery _Printed and bound in Great Britain_ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Facing Page Lydford Gorge _Frontispiece_ Wistman's Wood 8 Two Bridges 16 Ockery Bridge, near Princetown 20 Clapper Bridge, Postbridge 24 Brent Tor 29 Tavy Cleave 33 Widecombe on the Moor 40 Dartmeet 48 A Moorland Track, the Devil's Bridge 53 Stone Avenue, near Merrivale 56 A Dartmoor Stream 60 [Illustration: DARTMOOR] Dartmoor is a fine-sounding name, and no one would wish to displace it; yet in one sense it is a misleading and inappropriate designation of the great central Devonshire moorland. The moorland is not distinctively the moor of the Dart, any more than of the Teign, the Tavy, or the Ockment; it is the cradle-land of rivers, and there is no obvious reason why the Dart should have assumed such supremacy. But there is historic fitness about the title. It is probable that the Saxons first became acquainted with Dartmoor from the fertile district known as the South Hams, watered by the beautiful reaches of the Dart from Totnes to its mouth. The wide intermediate waste that lay between the North and the South Hams was a region of mystery to them, and they associated it with this swift, sparkling stream that issued from its cleaves and bogs. Whatever its actual population may have been, imagination would people it with spirits and demons; while it needed no imagination to supply the storms, the blinding fogs and rains, the baying wolves that haunted its recesses. They were content to retain its old Celtic name for the river, and they applied this name to the moor as well; it became the moor of the Dart. The name Dart, supposed to be akin to Darent and Derwent, is almost certainly a derivative from the Celtic _dwr_, water. The moorland itself is a mass of granite upheaved in pre-glacial days, weathered by countless centuries into undulating surfaces, pierced by jagged tors, and interspersed with large patches of bog and peat-mire. This is the biggest granitic area in England, the granite extending for about 225 square miles; though that which is known as Dartmoor Forest (never a forest in our accepted meaning of the word) is considerably smaller, having been much encroached upon by tillage and enclosure. There is a further protrusion of granite on the Bodmin Moors, and again as far west as Scilly; while Lundy, in the Bristol Channel, belongs almost entirely to the same formation. Beneath the mire and peat, which are the decaying deposits of vegetable matter, lies a stratum of china-clay, which is worked productively to the south of the moors, and still more largely in Cornwall. The average height of the moorland is about 1500 feet, rising in places to a little over 2000. This elevation is exceeded in Wales, in the Lake District, and in Scotland; and nowhere does Dartmoor appear actually mountainous, one reason being that the plateau from which we view its chief eminences is always well over 1000 feet above sea level, and thus a great portion of the height is not realized. But we realize it to some extent when we notice the speed of the moorland rivers; they do not linger and dally like Midland streams, they run and dash and make a perpetual music of their motion. In winter they are strong enough to make playthings of the rough lichened boulders that confront their course; and in the hottest summers they never run dry--the mother-breast of Dartmoor has always ample nourishment. Though there is a lessening in the body of the rivers, and perhaps a surface-drought of the bogs, the moors are never really parched; drovers from the Eastern counties sometimes bring their flocks hither in a summer of great heat, to feed on Dartmoor turfs when their own home-pastures would be arid. Yet the central moor is more like a desolate waste than a pasture. Its rugged turfy surface is scattered with small and large fragments of granite, sometimes "clitters" of weather-worn boulders, sometimes masses that look as though prehistoric giants had been playing at bowls. Often strange and fantastic in shape, as twilight steals on, or the weird gloom of moorland fog, they seem to become animated; they are pixies, brownies, the ghosts of old vanished peoples; wherever we gaze they start before us; prying figures seem to be hiding behind them, ill-wishing us, or eager to lure us into desolate solitudes. The wind sighs with solitary tone through the rough grasses and tussocks; at this height its evening breath is chill even in summer. Some of the stones are shattered monuments of dead men; some perhaps had a religious significance that the world has forgotten. The loneliness of the moor is often a charm, but it can become oppressive and terrible if our mood is not buoyant. In places like these the strongest mind might yield to superstition. We seem to be in a region of the primal world, where ploughshare has never passed nor kindly grain sprung forth for the nourishment of man. [Illustration: WISTMAN'S WOOD (_Page 13_)] But we do not come to Dartmoor for traces of the earliest man in England; for these we must go to Kent's Cavern, Torquay, or to Brixham, not to the moors. Tokens of habitation on Dartmoor only begin with Neolithic times, and are by no means continuous. At one time there must have been a thick population; but Celt and Saxon have left little trace on the moors, and the Romans none at all. Though the Celts may have conquered the Iberian tribes here, they probably neither exterminated nor entirely dispossessed them. They were content with the fringes of the wilderness, leaving the rest to the mists, the wolves, and the lingering older race. It was man of the New Stone Age who first peopled this upland, leaving remains of his hut-dwellings, his pounds, dolmens, and menhirs, his kistvaens and his cooking-holes. Numerous as the remains are still, they were once far more so; they have been broken up or carted away for road-mending, for gateposts and threshold stones, for building, for "new-take" or other walls, and for any other purpose to which granite can be applied. This central highland may have become a refuge of the later Stone-men against invaders of better equipment: all the traces of camps are on the borders, defensive against an external enemy; within is no sign of anything but peaceful pastoral occupation and tin-streaming. Place names, of field or of farm, enable us to infer the former existence of primitive relics: wherever there is a Shilstone (shelf stone) or a Bradstone (broad stone) we may be sure there was once a dolmen or cromlech; wherever there is a Langstone or Longstone we guess at a menhir or standing-stone. These early inhabitants of the moor had advanced far from the condition of the rude cave folk; they built themselves low circular huts, generally clustered within pounds (enclosures whose chief purpose here seems to have been the protection of cattle; some of the pounds were clearly for cattle alone). At Grimspound, near Hookner Tor, are traces of twenty-four huts, enclosed in a double wall 1500 feet in circumference. The huts had low doorways, and usually platforms for domestic purposes, with hearthstones and cooking-holes. The food to be cooked was placed in the hole, sometimes in a coarse clay pot, sometimes without, together with red-hot stones from the hearth. Near Postbridge as many as fifteen pounds can be traced, while at Whit Tor are other numerous traces. Those at Grimspound evidently belong to the Bronze Age; like different periods of architecture, the Stone and Metal Ages very much overlapped. At first the burial of these people was in dolmens, like the fine specimen at Drewsteignton; later, cremation became the fashion, and the smaller kistvaen, or stone chest, was used. The kistvaen was covered by cairns or heaps of stones, probably placed there in tribute to the dead: there are many relics of such on the moors, as in Cornwall, but they have usually been scattered or mutilated, and the contents rifled by seekers after buried treasure. The stone-circles on the moor are, of course, entirely dwarfed by Stonehenge, but when the problem of the greater is solved we shall know that of the lesser; at present we can only conjecture. The Scaur Hill circle on Gidleigh Common is a good specimen, being about ninety-two feet in diameter; near it are several stone-rows or alignments. Dartmoor is famous for these lines of standing-stones, which are generally connected with places of burial; the longest, on Staldon, starting from a circle, runs for over two miles. These, together with the single stones or menhirs, were probably intended as memorials of persons or events, and may also have been used as places of gathering; but their religious significance, if any, can have been little more than a primitive ancestor-worship. At a later period the menhirs were often converted into crosses, and as such they are common in Devon and Cornwall. Other tokens of the early inhabitants are to be found in the signs of tin-working, but here we have to be careful in assigning dates; much tin-mining was done in the Middle Ages, and it is not always easy to distinguish between traces that date from many years before Christ and those that belong only to the fourteenth or the fifteenth century. The advance in methods of working and in mode of living was very slight, and it is quite possible to confuse a rude hut of the medieval tinners with one of prehistoric origin. We cannot positively state what period of the Bronze Age saw the dawn of tin-working on Dartmoor, but their place in the oldest folklore gives the "tinkards" a great antiquity. The metal was streamed, or washed from the beds of the moorland rivers, cast in rough ingots, and carried on pack horses to the Stannary or mintage towns, where it was stamped and taxed. Parts of the old trackways still remain, often paved; and it was for the use of the pack-horses that the characteristic clapper-bridges were constructed, like those of Dartmeet, Postbridge, and elsewhere. These bridges are quite modern when we compare them with the stone-circles and kistvaens. There was a kind of guild or early trade union between the miners of Devon and Cornwall, reminiscent of the time when both belonged to "West Wales"; and a relic of the old jurisdiction is the Stannary Court still meeting at Truro. After the Christian era we learn little or nothing of Dartmoor till the time of the Plantagenets, though we can gather a good deal about its border towns. The wild beasts that haunted its desolate recesses brought it some repute as a hunting-ground, and it was not included in King John's act of disafforestation. We must not be led by the term Dartmoor Forest to suppose that the moors were ever covered with woodland--certainly not within historic days; for long centuries they can only have been an almost treeless waste, with patches of trees like the surviving stunted oaks of Wistman's Wood. But the borders and some of the river valleys are beautifully wooded. It must be confessed that the rarest beauty of the moorland belongs to its fringes, around what may be called the gateways of the moor; in the interior there is the charm of broad expanse, the glorious colour of heather, ling, and gorse, and occasionally a grand desolation of mist and tempest that may almost strike dismay. A guidebook writer has spoken of Dartmoor as "the quintessence of unlovely dreariness"; and perhaps there is some justification for his words in the immediate neighbourhood of Princetown, the solitary town of the moorland proper. In size Princetown is only a village, with a population permanently increased by the presence of about a thousand convicts and their warders; and it may be feared that a majority of visitors to the place, reaching it by train from Yelverton, are drawn by a curiosity to see the prison. They are rewarded by little but a sight of the grim bare walls. Lovers of the moor have never looked with favour either at the prison or at the tortuous little railway line that climbs to it, however much this line may be admired as a feat of engineering; but we must accept the presence of the railway ungrudgingly, for it is a fine convenience for all who wish to reach the central regions of Dartmoor. The wise visitor comes to Princetown in order to get away from it as soon as possible--to get to Two Bridges, and Crockern Tor, long the open-air parliament-place of the tinners--and to find himself in a tract of lonely country perhaps more thickly studded with immemorial remains than any other in the kingdom. The prison itself is about 1500 feet above sea level; and Great Mis Tor, a mile or so to the north, is 1760 feet. It will be realized that if this and other tors rose sheer from a low-lying plain, their height would be much more appreciable. It was Tyrwhitt, Warden of the Stannaries, who suggested that a prison should be built here, to receive the prisoners of war who were crowding the seaports; and the work was begun in 1806. Tyrwhitt lived at Tor Royal, where he entertained the Prince Regent; and tradition suggests that the Prince brought his usual habits of gaiety and dissipation when he thus visited the moorland. Americans as well as Frenchmen suffered the dismal hospitality of the gaol here, as we are reminded by one of Mr. Phillpotts's novels. Of course, the new settlement was named in honour of the Regent. A few portions, such as the granite gateway with its motto _Parcere Subjectis_, belong to the original buildings; and the inn "The Plume of Feathers" was built by Frenchmen. A writer has spoken of Dartmoor Prison as an example of the power of moral force, as the convicts far outnumber the honest men; but it may be supposed that bolts and bars, and the firearms of the warders, have something to say in the matter. Even with these there are occasional attempts at escape or mutiny. When the war with France came to an end the young settlement was likely to lapse into complete decay; but in 1855 it was converted into the present convict station. The problem of dealing wisely with crime has not yet been solved; and the best that can be said for Princetown is that it is undoubtedly healthy, in spite of its bitter cold in winter; and in some sort it may be regarded as a compulsory sanatorium. Whether the moral effects are as good as the physical must be left for students of punishment to decide. Whether characters are reclaimed or no, there is an effort to reclaim the moor, which is the typical stony ground of the parable; and the gradual enclosure of parts that were formerly public is a result. But at a step we can pass from present unlovely realities to the remote and traditional. In Fox Tor Mire, which has been partially drained but has still some ugly patches of bog, we come upon the supposed tomb of Childe the Hunter, a kistvaen, while not far off is Childe's Cross. The familiar legend tells how Childe of Plymstock was hunting on Dartmoor when he was separated from his companions in a snowstorm. He killed his horse and crept into its warm carcass to keep himself from freezing, but the expedient proved of no avail, though it apparently gave him time to scribble a kind of will on a stone, to the effect that-- "Who finds and brings me to my grave My lands at Plymstock he shall have". Laws regarding the witnessing of wills seem to have had no operation in those days. Tidings of his death reaching Tavistock, the monks of the abbey immediately set forth to recover the body and so inherit the estate; but it seems that they were nearly forestalled by the townsmen, and it was only by the craft of the monks, who threw a hasty bridge across the Tavy, that they reached the abbey without having to contest their capture. Some say that their competitors in the race for Childe's body were the monks of Buckland, not the folk of Tavistock. Whatever we may think of the legend, it is certain that the manor of Plymstock was attached to Tavistock Abbey from the time of the Conquest to the Dissolution. [Illustration: TWO BRIDGES (_Page 19_)] Another local tradition is that of Fitz's Well, by the Blackabrook. It is stated that Fitz of Fitzford, with his good lady, was pixy-led while crossing the moors, and could by no means find the right path. At length they came to this well, and hastened to refresh themselves. No sooner had they drunk of the water than a veil seemed removed from their eyes; they recognized where they were, and reached home in safety. Probably the well had long been esteemed holy, though no name of a saint survives in connection with it. In gratitude Fitz enclosed the spring and placed an inscribed stone above it. Something strange is also told of the pool Classenwell, sometimes called Clakeywell or Crazywell, which is a mile or two south of Princetown. This pool is certainly more like a lake than the better-known Cranmere, which is little better than a peat bog. Its extent of water is about an acre, lying in a hollow where were formerly mine-workings. The superstitious used to assert that this dismal pond had a voice with which it announced the names of all moor folk who were about to die. Those who passed dreaded to hear the mysterious announcement, always fearing that their own names might be cried. It cannot be doubted that winds intruding to the desolate hollow might produce weird sounds from the water, especially at night; there is a mystery and solemnity about night sounds at all times, and such things have fostered many wild myths. Here, as at Cranmere, there is a legend of a doomed spirit who howls in the darkness, like the Tregeagle of Cornwall; and here also was a belief that the pool was bottomless. There is also a touch of history here: Piers Gaveston, hiding on Dartmoor during his exile from Court, is said to have consulted the oracle of Classenwell, who foretold his fate in ambiguous language which he misinterpreted. The cry of this pool reminds us of the cry of the Dart itself--its call for the human life that it demands each year-- "River of Dart, O River Dart, Every year thou claimest a heart". A story tells how a farm lad named Jan Coo was lured to his death by this calling of the river. It is true that when the wind blows strongly down the Dart valley a strange, strangled kind of cry comes from the gorge, which at night-time is well calculated to strike a chill to the soul of the lonely passer. But the wind on Dartmoor can do more than this; it has given us a phantom-chase like that of the Harz Mountains, and the Wish-hounds that hunt the spirits of unchristened babes across the moors. There is a story of a farmer riding home to Chagford from Widecombe. He heard the demon huntsman pass with his yelling hounds. Perhaps the man had indulged too freely at the village inn; certainly he dared to hail the hunter and ask what sport. "Whatever the sport, you shall have your share," came back the answer; and what he imagined to be a haunch of venison was hurled into his arms. But when he reached home, and his wife brought a light, they found that the supposed game was the dead body of their own little child. But the moor is not always desolate and haunted; its streams are not always wild dashing torrents, nor do they always trickle through black and treacherous bog. To know the moorland thoroughly we must know it in all its moods. A passing cloud or a glorious sunset can work marvellous transformations. Two Bridges is a good spot to begin the acquaintance. A bare road runs across the open down to a gentle hollow, where it dips, passes a narrow stream, and ascends again. The slopes around are almost as smooth as if their formation was of chalk, not granite; this might be a corner of the Sussex Downs but for the jagged tors that dream in the blue haze of the horizon. Stand for a few minutes on the bridge and let the spirit of the place steal into your heart; listen to the message of the Dart as it babbles beneath the arches. Brook and nothing more it is at present. But a reverie on the roadway is liable to be disturbed by a sudden dash of dust and savour of petrol. We may be driven from the road by the invasive motor car, but there are still the footpaths and the tameless moorland. Descending to the small stretch of meadow that borders the stream above the bridge, in a few moments we seem far removed from disconcerting evidences of a civilization that is always in a hurry. [Illustration: OCKERY BRIDGE, NEAR PRINCETOWN (_Page 22_)] We are by the side of a free moorland water, gliding and gurgling and whispering through a valley-bed of rugged and weeded crags, with trees that make a chequered network of the sunlight. It is a paradise of coolness and peace, where there are mossy boulders on which we can rest, or couches of fern and turf on which we can lie. The constant yet changeful music of the waters is in our ears; our eyes are soothed by the sweet umbrage of the branches, conveying the light with an alchemy that transmutes it into a green-tinged wine. Sometimes the water takes an amber tint, coloured by the fragments of rock that in almost any part form stepping-stones from side to side. In winter no such passage would be easy; the brook becomes an angry torrent, leaping with foam and impetuous fury down the rock-strewn gorge: but that which at times can become a relentless giant, at other times is like a playful nursling; the child prattles where sometimes the Titan thunders. There are miniature cascades and tiny waterfalls; the stones that are nothing to the swollen winter stream now cause its baby current to swerve and deviate, seeking for fissures that permit its flowing. It is delightful to lave one's feet in the clear tide, but the weeded stones are slippery and the bed of the stream is rough; this is no quiet sandy brooklet that children may wade in. It does not dally, but flows with a swift current of life. Many of our typical English streams are almost or quite voiceless in their course; we have to bend our heads to catch the low monotone of their flowing. But here is no pastoral brook meandering through meadowy lowlands; it runs with a gush and a tinkle; even in hot days, when the current is slender, there is always spirit and vigour about it. For an angler there is something even better: trout lurk in some of the deeper holes. Truly the desolation of the moor is not to be found by its riversides, unless it be in their boggy cradles. Here by the young Dart is a plentiful growth of trees and luxuriance of plant life; the boulders are draped with weeds and water-mosses. There is variety also in the colouring of the lichens; and in their due season who shall describe the glory of the flaming ferns, the gold of the gorse, the purples of ling and heather? This is the moor and the river in their gentler aspects; there are times when both become a fierce passion, a wild dream, almost a horror. It is impossible as well as undesirable to mention all the prehistoric remains that cluster so thickly on the central moorland. This is not a guidebook, and there are excellent publications, such as the writings of Mr. Crossing and the Rev. S. Baring-Gould, in which all necessary details are given. For one of the most typical features, the clapper-bridges, we cannot claim the greatest antiquity, as the surviving specimens are on the pack-horse routes, and not on the moor's more ancient trackways. There was one at Two Bridges, but it has gone; and, still nearer to Princetown, there is one over the Ockery, a rugged structure of unwrought boulders, to which later parapets have been added. The true Dartmoor bridge has no parapet. One of the finest is at Postbridge, in the very heart of the moor; there are others at Teign Head and Dartmeet. In these bridges the huge "clappers" or blocks of granite lie absolutely unmorticed. Two of the horizontal blocks at Postbridge are about fifteen feet in length. At Scaur Hill there is a bridge of a single massive boulder. Though essentially characteristic of Dartmoor, there are similar bridges elsewhere, as at Torr Steps over the Exmoor Barle, and in the Peak district. Another special interest attaches to Postbridge: it is here that the ghostly and indistinct Lych Way starts on its route to Lydford church. By this track in old days burial parties carried their dead to Lydford, which is still the parish church of a larger section of the moorland. Before the year 1260 Lydford had to be resorted to for all religious purposes; from that date permission was given to inhabitants of the eastern moors to use the church of Widecombe. In days before education had done something to kill picturesque imaginings, it is not surprising that many a phantom cortege was supposed to wend its way along this haunted track; and the moor folk were very careful not to pass that way alone at night-time. But the ghosts have been laid now, or men's eyes are sealed by their incredulity; the only night-haunters of Dartmoor are mist, and rain, and storm. In making a tour of the border villages it is natural to begin with Lydford, the mother-parish, which, with an extent of 56,333 acres, claims to be the largest parish in England. Lydford boasts of importance even as far back as the Roman invasion, but this is very dubious; there is no sign of anything Roman either at Lydford or on the moorland. The town was burnt by the Danes in 997, when they also destroyed Tavistock Abbey. It is certain that Lydford ranked high among the Stannary towns, and was a place of consequence. Its castle, dating from soon after the Conquest, is by no means imposing in its present appearance, but as a Stannary prison it had a terrible reputation. The summary justice executed by the mining and forest authorities gave rise to the term "Lydford law", which was something worse than what we now understand as lynch law. Browne, the Tavistock poet, says: "I oft have heard of Lydford law, How in the morn they hang and draw, And sit in judgment after"; but it is said that even this swift treatment was better than being cast into Lydford prison. [Illustration: CLAPPER BRIDGE, POSTBRIDGE (_Page 22_)] We have to come to Lydford to find a patron saint for Dartmoor. The moor is scarce in saints, but here in the dedication of the church we find a very suitable patron in the Celtic St. Petrock, who came to Cornwall in the sixth century and founded churches at Padstow and Bodmin. There are other dedications of his on the moor borders. The present church is Perpendicular, but there are traces of a far earlier, possibly Celtic, building. The epitaph to the watchmaker Routleigh in the churchyard should be noticed. Lydford is very beautifully situated, and its ravine, down which the Lyd tumbles through steep wooded clefts, is a perpetual charm. There are two cascades, but that of Kitt's Steps is not so fine as it was once, owing to mining operations. Those who like to make comparisons may see a resemblance between Lydford Gorge and the famous Devil's Bridge of Wales, and they will probably have to admit that the Welsh scene is the grander; but Lydford is very lovely for all that, and its stream is a true child of the moorland. This ravine of the Lyd was once infested by a gang of vicious savages known as the Gubbins. There have been similar reversions to primitive barbarism even within the past century, people inhabiting mud huts and living chiefly by robbing the moormen of their cattle. It is probable that the Doones of Exmoor, though glorified by Blackmore, were simply robbers of this rude type. Lydford also has a story of a traveller whose horse once cleared the gorge at a leap, the bridge having fallen; the rider, unconscious of his peril, was thus borne to safety across the roaring torrent of the chasm. But the summer visitor must not expect to find the Lyd a roaring torrent. There are some fine tors near Lydford, though not the highest of the moorland. Brent Tor is singularly picturesque, and is a notable landmark by reason of the Early England church on its summit. The hill was fortified in early times, traces of stone and earthwork remaining; and there is a legend, as so often with high-standing churches, that the devil resented the church being built on what he considered his special domain, but was discomfited by the erection being placed under the patronage of St. Michael. The rock itself is volcanic, so that the Prince of Darkness had a reason for deeming it his private property. The church is said to have been built as a thankoffering for deliverance from the sea. Those who reach it have to do so by a steep and stony path, which we may take, if we will, as a symbol; and it is often difficult to stand in the graveyard because of the fierce winds that beat upon it. In times of storm it might be easy to imagine that St. Michael and the spirits of darkness were waging their ancient conflict. Not many worshippers in England can boast that they attend a church 1130 feet above sea level; but the church at Princetown is higher still. Perhaps it is not surprising that a more accessible church has been built at North Brent Tor, yet after coming here it would seem like a lapse in manhood to attend the other. As we get northward of Lydford we approach the region of Dartmoor's greatest heights. At Bairdown, near Hare Tor, there is a finely-placed monolith or menhir; but the view from Great Lynx Tor is more impressive than any prehistoric remains can be, and includes both the English and the Bristol Channels. Mist and rain may often obscure the outlook, but there are clear times when the waters beyond Plymouth Sound can be seen to the south, while to the north glimmers the Severn Sea where it meets the Atlantic Ocean. The two highest tors lie beyond Lynx--Yes Tor and High Willhayes; both of these, though High Willhayes has a slight advantage, are well over 2000 feet. The grand Tavy Cleave, one of the famous beauty spots of the moor, is just south of Amicombe Hill. The Tavy, one of the many rivers that spring from the morasses around Cranmere, here tumbles--in summer a cooling stream, in winter an impetuous torrent--among scattered boulders and crags at the foot of the bare hills. Very different is this scene from Lydford Gorge, but far more typically moorland. There is no woodland here, but the gaunt flanks of granite upheavals, and a restless stream gushing through stark lichened rocks. Grim summits cap the ravine; below are bogs that in wet seasons may be formidable. Of the peril of losing one's way on Dartmoor we learn something when we come to Amicombe Hill. Here are the stones known as Bronescombe's Loaf and Cheese, which call to memory an adventure of Bronescombe, Bishop of Exeter in the thirteenth century, whose tomb is in the Cathedral. He was much beloved of the people, and the part that he plays in folklore proves how strongly he impressed his personality upon them. It is said that the bishop and his chaplain lost their way in crossing the moorland, and at last found themselves on Amicombe Hill. Tired and hungry, the former said to his companion: "Our Master, when tempted in the wilderness, was offered bread created from the stones. If the same offer was made to me, I doubt if I could refuse." "Bread with a hunch of cheese as well," suggested the equally hungry chaplain. "Ah," sighed the bishop, "I could not hold out against bread and cheese!" While he was still speaking, a limping moorman suddenly appeared, with a wallet on his back, and the chaplain eagerly asked if he had any food to give them. "Aye," replied the man, "I have some bread and cheese--naught else." "Give it to us, my son," exclaimed the bishop. "I will repay thee well." But the stranger answered that he desired no payment; he only asked that the bishop would alight from his pony and doff his cap, saluting him as master. The bishop was about to comply, when his comrade noticed that one of the stranger's feet had a curious appearance. In great alarm he cried to the bishop, who hurriedly made the sign of the cross. Immediately the stranger vanished, and the loaf and cheese that he had produced were converted into the stones that we see here. [Illustration: BRENT TOR (_Page 26_)] It is a fashion to go to Cranmere, and even to leave a card as proof that the visit has been paid; but the bogs and mires that surround it always make the approach difficult--in wet seasons dangerous; and except as the source of so many Devon rivers the spot is really unattractive. It is never more than a marshy pool, and sometimes scarcely that. Dartmoor is one of the rainiest spots in England, its height being swept by the moisture-laden winds from both seas; and the rainfall is held in its high-lying hollows by peat bogs. Every hollow is like a granite cup, and where there is not the immediate granite, there is the equally impervious china-clay of its denudations; these basins are perpetually fed by rain or mists, and the rivers thus born never run dry. From the actual pool of Cranmere rises the West Ockment, while the East Ockment, the Tavy, the Dart, the Taw, and the Teign spring from morasses or quags in its neighbourhood. No other spot in the kingdom gives birth to so many rivers of importance--important for their great beauty though only slightly for their navigation. On the moor itself they are rapid streams, sometimes peat-stained, yet always limpid; and this rapidity, especially after rainfall, goes with them to their estuaries, bringing sometimes sudden and dangerous risings of tide. The general Dartmoor watershed is southward; all the streams but the Ockments and the Taw flow to the English Channel. Teignmouth, Dartmouth, Plymouth, are watered by Dartmoor rivers. Though the mother and nurse of these rivers, Cranmere is disappointing; yet it has loomed large in local folklore. Like Dosmare of the Bodmin Moors, it has been supposed to be bottomless; and the fate of doomed spirits has been to drain it with a leaky shell. One tale is of an old farmer who, after death, here had to expiate his misdoings. His ghost was so troublesome that it took seven parsons to secure it. Being changed into a colt by their pious spells, a servant lad was told to lead him to Cranmere pool, take off the halter, and leave the place instantly, without glancing back. The boy obeyed all the instructions but the last; and on looking back he received a parting kick from the colt, which then plunged into the pool in the form of a ball of fire. We are indebted to the Ockment Rivers for the name of Okehampton (in Domesday the name is Ochementone), which is perhaps the best centre from which to explore the northern moorland. But the peacefulness and to some extent the security of the district have been affected by the fact that ninety acres of land are leased for the use of the Royal Horse and Field Artillery, whose practice has sometimes jeopardized unwary tourists. Happily the character of Dartmoor saves it from becoming a huge camp and review-ground, like Salisbury Plain; but it needs some patriotism to forgive such military occupation as we find at Okehampton and elsewhere. The ruins of the castle, on the site of a Celtic settlement, are well placed above the river, surrounded by trees whose foliage is a delight after the barren uplands. Every lover of beauty appreciates the difference between a wooded district and a treeless waste; and this is usually the emphatic distinction between the central moor and its borders. It was a real privilege that allowed some of the French prisoners to reside at Okehampton instead of at Princetown, and a few of their tombs will be found in the churchyard here, so long after it has ceased to matter. There is older tradition here also. Those who are abroad at night-time will do well to avoid meeting the ghostly equipage of Lady Howard, which drives nightly between the castle and Fitzford. Lady Howard was a much-married woman, daughter of the unhappy Fitz of Fitzford, and her last husband was the infamous Richard Grenville, who sullied a name otherwise greatly ennobled. She chose to retain the title of her third husband, and under this designation popular fancy has dealt very unkindly with her. Her doom is to drive each night to Okehampton Castle in her coach made of dead men's bones--the bones of her murdered husbands, as slander tells; and her phantom hound plucks a single blade of grass from the castle mound. When all the grass has been plucked, her doom will cease. An old Devonshire ballad tells us of her: "My ladye's coach hath nodding plumes, The driver hath no head; My ladye is an ashen white, As one that long is dead". It is considered ill-omened to meet this lady, and those who would avoid doing so, as well as evade the firing, may find a pleasant refuge at Belstone, at Sticklepath, or at South Zeal. Belstone has a tor of 1568 feet in height, and also some standing-stones named the Nine Maidens, with their fallen piper. The girls were thus doomed and changed into stone as a punishment for dancing on Sunday. Though their piper is displaced and mutilated, they still dance each day at noon--for those whose faith is equal to the demand. Belstone is one of several "Bels" in the Dartmoor country, such as Bellever and Bel Tor, but we have yet to learn that they have any connection with Baal, in spite of all the nonsense that has been talked. [Illustration: TAVY CLEAVE (_Page 27_)] At Sticklepath, a charmingly pretty village with beautiful flower-gardens, there is a holy well with a curiously inscribed stone; while at South Zeal, near a quaint belfry, is an interesting wayside cross. There are some delightful old houses in the neighbourhood, usually manorial in their origin and now turned into farms, such as North Wyke, West Wyke, and Wykington. It is from this side that the ascent of Cosdon Beacon is often made--Cosdon, sometimes called Cawsand, being noted for the fine stone-rows and other immemorial relics to be found on its slopes. The Beacon has been introduced to literature by novels of Mr. Baring-Gould and Mr. Phillpotts. We are reminded also of fiction--the familiar pages of _Westward Ho!_--by the name of the Oxenham Arms, preserving the memory of a famous old Devon family, the Oxenhams, with their tradition of the white bird. By whatever way we pass from Okehampton or South Tawton to Chagford, we are delayed on all sides by numberless spots of beauty or interest. The main road, which branches to Exeter, is served by a motor bus from Moreton, but familiarity with the moorland can never be gained by proceeding along a highroad, whether on foot or awheel. Many as are the remaining standing-stones, circles, and pounds, those that have been destroyed were far more numerous; but the finest monument of the "old people" is rarely as attractive as the natural beauties that surround many of them, and only the professed antiquarian will care to examine them all with patient study. To most of us they are only bare stones. They are so ancient that the human interest has died from them. But we find this human touch at such places as Wonson manor house, now a farm, where an ace of diamonds painted on the woodwork of a bedroom reminds us of a former squire, who had it placed there in order that he might curse it each night for the ruin it had brought him in his gambling. Gidleigh, which is near, stands high, and has a fine park of oak, birch, and mountain-ash, with ferns and whortles in a rock-strewn undergrowth. Its colouring is especially rich in the fall of the year, with the lovely fading of ferns, the purple of heath, and the red of berries. The North Teign dashes foamingly below, fretful and rock-thwarted. This is really a more beautiful spot than ever was the Holy Street Mill that Creswick and other artists painted; plenty of picturesque mills may be found throughout the country, but scenes of such loveliness are rare. The rhododendrons in bloom add much to the beauty of Gidleigh, which also boasts a small castle with whose ruinous walls the ash trees have incorporated themselves. At Teign Head (not quite the head of the river) is one of the moorland's clapper bridges; but Leigh Bridge, where the two Teigns meet, though of the common single-arch type, is more charming because its surroundings are wooded. The two rivers unite before reaching Chagford, and beyond that modernized and popular little resort the Teign passes out of the confines of the moor altogether. But at Fingle Bridge, one of the most famous Devon beauty-spots, something of moorland wildness still remains. Almost the whole course of the Teign is of remarkable beauty. It here passes the fine trees of Whiddon Park till it comes to a ravine every yard of which seems to be prehistoric dust. There are earthworks and camps on both sides; while not far off is the great dolmen or cromlech of Drewsteignton, near the small Bradmere pool. Ancient camps are not common on the actual moorland, but we find them here at the fringe: those Bronze Age moormen appear to have been peaceable among themselves, and only to have raised entrenchments against external enemies. Possibly this lovely valley of the Teign saw a desperate struggle between tribes of an early and a newer civilization, one of the primitive race-strifes that shaped our people. Now it is a haunt of the country-lover and the tourist, many of whom deplore that the banks and hollows have been denuded of their rarer ferns by the depredations of thoughtless visitors. But nothing has killed the charm of the tumbling torrent, the stained massy boulders, the pools and shallows. It is little wonder that Chagford has become a popular holiday place; yet its miry condition in winter was best expressed by the pithy comment of its sarcastic neighbours--"Chaggy-vord--Good Lord!" The "Three Crowns", of which Kingsley spoke as a "beautiful old mullioned and gabled Perpendicular inn", was once a manor house. From Chagford we reach the open moorland by climbing Tincombe (Teigncombe) Hill, and we must follow the South Teign if we wish to examine the Fernworthy circle or the Grey Wethers. But we shall probably be more attracted by what was once a genuine moor town, as its name implies. Moreton Hampstead, no longer properly on the moor, though it once was, is the starting-place of the single true road that leads across Dartmoor, passing Two Bridges on its way to Buckland, Tavistock, and Plymouth. The ancient central trackway, which is far older, being connected with the Fosseway, also ran from Moreton. Though linked to great roads from the shires, there is nothing to show that the Romans ever used this track, or that they ever entered Dartmoor at all. Perhaps Moreton is an even better centre for visiting the moor than Chagford, and it is quite as attractive in itself, with its interesting but despoiled church, and its fine arcaded almshouses, dating from 1637. The inhabitants, however, deplore the loss of their old "dancing-tree", an elm growing from the mutilated base of a granite cross. This tree was supposed to be over 300 years old, and it succumbed a few years since to age and many infirmities. Balls and concerts were given on a platform built on the massive branches. The tree has received literary honour in Blackmore's _Christowell_. It is from Moreton that we can best reach Grimspound, with its twenty-four hut-circles. The pound encloses about four acres, surrounded by a double wall of granite blocks. Scattered in the neighbourhood are other hut-circles, barrows, and stone alignments. Bowerman's Nose (Celtic _veor-maen_, or great stone) is nearer to Manaton; it is a natural freak of weathered granite, 40 feet in height, standing at an elevation of about 1300 feet above sea level. Many foolish conjectures have been magnified into supposed fact by those who have taken this and other Dartmoor features to be the work of man. Manaton itself, with its own tor rising behind the church, is a beautiful little village, rendered more lovely by the River Bovey. It is the fall of the Becka brook into the Bovey that provides the popular Becky Falls; but in summer, as Mr. Baring-Gould says, this is rather a water trickle than a waterfall; in autumn and winter, when fewer visitors see it, the stream is a turbulent torrent. Not far distant is the beautiful Lustleigh Cleave, which though not on the moor is thoroughly moorland in its character and its antiquities. So hugely piled are the boulders at its foot that the river is generally quite out of sight, to be heard but not seen. But to get to a typical moorland parish we must not linger at Lustleigh; we must go out to Widecombe, and by whatever road we reach it we shall understand the sad fate of Tom Pearce's old mare. Widecombe is in a hollow surrounded by heights and tors (it must be understood that the word tor is only used where the granite actually protrudes from the soil). Bel, Rippon, and Hey Tors are on one side, Hamildon Down on the other. The valley, which is only low in comparison with the surrounding hills, was much worked in days out of date by the tin-streamers, and there is a plentiful growth of pines and sycamores above the traces they left. The village is a small thing, but it looms large in moorland traditions, not only because of its famous sheep fair, nor because its church is the finest on Dartmoor, but because the Devil himself paid the spot some very personal attentions at one time, and indeed was once reported to have lived here. It was on an October Sunday in the year 1638 that a stranger riding through Poundsgate enquired the way to Widecombe, and, being given a drink, it was noticed that the liquor actually hissed as it passed down his throat. The folk were gathered at afternoon service when there came on a great darkness, followed, as Prince tells us, by a "terrible and fearful thunder, like the noise of many guns, accompanied with dreadful lightning, to the great amazement of the people, the darkness still increasing that they could not see each other". Ere long there came an extraordinary flame, filling the church with a "loathsome smell like brimstone", and a ball of fire fell through the roof. The folk all dropped terror-stricken to the floor. A large beam hurled itself down between the parson and the clerk, yet neither was hurt; others were less fortunate, four being killed and sixty-two injured. At last a man ventured to propose: "Shall we go out from the church?" but the parson answered: "Let us make an end of prayer, for it is better to die here than in another place". There is little in the present building to recall this terrible visitation, in which it is clear that a most violent thunderstorm has assumed a permanent place in Devonshire folklore; but its story is told in a versified narrative hanging on the tower wall. This tower, though certainly struck by lightning on the occasion, was not destroyed; and it remains, reaching the height of 120 feet, a model of impressive Perpendicular. The woodwork of the roof is also excellent, and the surviving pictured panels show how fine the screen was before being cut down in 1827. So large a church seems to indicate a thicker population in early days, perhaps when the tin working was at its best; and it is stated that the tower itself was erected voluntarily by successful tinners. At the September fair there is still a lively gathering of moor sheep, moor horses, and moormen, and the chatter has a rich Devonian intonation, with a delightful smack of the soil. Widecombe is one of the so-called Venville parishes, Venville being a word of doubtful origin (sometimes written Wangfield), which probably signifies a kind of feudal tenure. These parishes were freehold with certain attached services, and their inhabitants had a prescriptive right to all uses of the moorland except those of "vert and venison"--that is, of gathering green wood or killing the deer. There was never much green wood to gather on the moor itself, and the deer have long since departed, unless when one occasionally wanders over from Exmoor. The moorland proper, technically the Forest, is surrounded by commons, outside which are the Venville parishes; and these commons were formerly of far wider extent, having been sadly curtailed by "newtakes" and enclosures, sometimes by the authorities of the Duchy, sometimes by lords of the different manors, sometimes by moor-settlers themselves. A small fee is demanded by the Duchy for all cattle pastured on the moor by outsiders, the cattle of the moormen grazing free; and there are periodical "drifts", when each Venville proprietor claims his own, and "foreigners" have to pay the tax. [Illustration: WIDECOMBE ON THE MOOR (_Page 38_)] We are reminded of London by the dedication of Widecombe Church, which is to St. Pancras; and thoughts of the metropolis again come to us at Hey Tor, which provided granite for London and Waterloo Bridges. These eastern heights, Rippon and Hey Tors, are not so lofty as those of the north-west, but they both command very fine views. It is magnificent to see sunset flame across the moors from this eastern borderland. Patches of cultivation, open moorland dotted with sheep, lovely river-valleys, and wide undulations of heather and gorse fade into horizons of the westward summits. There is always the changeful charm of atmosphere. The scene may be of vast, glorious peacefulness, but it is great also when there is the confusion of cloud-strife, rain raking the hillsides--when the spirit of the moor is abroad in storm and darkness, when colour is quenched in wet and driving wrack. It is easy then to picture the moor as the phantasmal haunt of lost races. Dartmoor has many moods, variable as the soul of man--sometimes of gentle pensiveness and dreaming, touched with sentiment, sometimes of fierce striving passion or inconsolable woe, sometimes of desolation deepened to despair. In all these there is a quality of the unconventional and untamed, a sense of the nearness of mystery, the brooding of the unseen, the force of powers that we sometimes feel to be in profoundest sympathy with our own longings and imaginings, sometimes in the most vexed antagonism. Here, as elsewhere, we find very much what we bring, but we find it intensified, vivified; it may lure us as a kindly home, or repel us as a desert. Even the repulsion has its own manner of charm, because it braces us to self-assertion and manhood. It was from this Hey Tor side of the moorland that William Howitt once looked forth upon Dartmoor. He tells us: "My road wound up and up, the heather and the bilberry on either hand shewing me that cultivation had never disturbed the soil they grew in; and one sole woodlark from the far-ascending forest to the right filled the wild solitude with his autumnal note. At that moment I reached an eminence, and at once saw the dark crags of Dartmoor high aloft before me, and one large solitary house in the valley beneath the woods. So fair, so silent, save for the woodlark's note and the moaning river, so unearthly did the whole scene seem, that my imagination delighted to look upon it as an enchanted land, and to persuade itself that that house stood as it would stand for ages, under the spell of silence but beyond the reach of death and change." This was written three-quarters of a century since, before nature had begun greatly to inspire our prose writers; and for its period it is very creditable. In poetry we have made no progress; but in the prose literature of nature--that is to say, of natural scenes viewed under human emotion--it is an immense step from the writings of William Gilpin and Richard Warner, and even of Howitt, to those of George Borrow and Richard Jefferies. Even in prose it had been the poets, Gray and Wordsworth, who had shown the way, very slowly followed. Warner was an enterprising and intelligent traveller, and visited many parts of the south and west from his Bath home, long before the time of railways. It is interesting to notice how he was daunted by Dartmoor. Overnight he had decided to walk from Lydford to Two Bridges, though the idea of "travelling twelve miles over a desolate moor, wild as the African Syrtes, without a single human inhabitant or regular track, had something in it very deterring". Next morning it actually deterred. "As the trial approximated, my resolution, like Acres' courage, gradually oozed away, and before breakfast was finished I had dropped the idea, and determined to take a circuitous route by Oakhampton." His landlord had just told him how the body of a dead sailor had been discovered in a lonely spot, where it must have lain for weeks; and Warner's discretion proved greater than his valour. But we need not sneer at him. It is still easy to be lost on Dartmoor. Those who are fond of logan-stones may find some in this district: there is one at Lustleigh, a fine one on Rippon, and others elsewhere. Some of them no longer "log" satisfactorily, and certainly none are connected with Druidic or other ceremonial. They are natural formations, like the rock-basins and the tors themselves. It is more interesting to pass on to one of the loveliest portions of the moorland border, that which is watered by the Rivers Dart after their junction at Dartmeet. We have already seen the West Dart at Two Bridges, and the East Dart should be explored at least to Postbridge. It is especially beautiful where it is joined by the Walla, at the foot of Yes Tor. Dartmeet is a small settlement of houses, and deserves to be popular, for while quite on the moorland it has none of the desolate aspect that some persons find depressing, and those who love woods can get them to perfection around Holne and Buckland. Tourists who have been up the river from Dartmouth to Totnes are inclined to think that they know the Dart; they are as much mistaken as those who think they know the Wye when they have been to Symond's Yat. To know the Dart its moorland recesses must be explored, where the stream is in its fresh impetuous youth; below Totnes, though its banks are undoubtedly lovely, it has become chastened and sobered. At the junction of the Wallabrook with the Dart is a very fine view of Yar Tor, near which is the luxuriant Brimpts plantation. The meeting of the two Darts is in a low rock-strewn gorge, to appreciate which the roadway must be left. Near is the Coffin-stone, with its inscribed crosses, used as a resting-place for the dead on their way to burial. It is said that when a man of notorious wickedness was being carried to his grave, his coffin as usual was rested on this stone, and a flash of fire struck downward from a passing cloud, consuming the body and splitting the solid rock. The cleft remains as a proof. The rocks of this district are frequently of metallic substance, and are often struck by lightning; perhaps this kills the romance of the legend. Buckland-in-the-Moor, so called to distinguish it from other Bucklands, is not strictly on the moorland at all, and is cradled in woodland; it is a very small, delightful village, close to the united Webburns, which join the Dart below. The river here flows in most tortuous fashion under the beautiful woods of Buckland Drive and Holne Chase. Holne Cot has a place in literature as the birthplace of Charles Kingsley, in 1819, but he left it when an infant. Another literary remembrance is the birth of the dramatist Ford at Ilsington, and Tavistock had a true poet in William Browne; but it must be confessed that the literary glories of the moorland are not great, and Carrington, its special poet, is quite a third-rate writer. There has been no Wordsworth to interpret Dartmoor. We have to come to modern fiction, in the books of Mr. Baring-Gould and Mr. Phillpotts, for anything like an adequate literary treatment; and even in this department there has been no _Lorna Doone_. At Holne and Buckland may be found some of the most luxuriant woodland of the moor-borders, yellow with dense primroses in the spring. On both sides of the river there are rich woods of birch and oak and fir, while in the valley through which the Dart runs are fertile succulent marshes, beautified with bogbeans, asphodels, and sundews, and with the exquisite _Osmunda regalis_ flourishing where, happily, it is very difficult to reach. In parts the river flows through ivied crags, above which hang clusters of mountain-ash. There are prehistoric remains at Holne and at Hembury, but it is difficult to think of the past where the present is of such insistent charm. Moor, woodland, river, stone-strewn waste and fertile pasture here meet, with no discord or violent contrast, but harmonized by a reconciling atmosphere of beauty. The churches both at Buckland and Holne have very interesting screens, and at Holne is a finely-carved wooden pulpit. Though it can scarcely be said to belong to the moors, Ashburton is a good starting-point for the examination of the eastern moorlands. Here and at Buckfastleigh are the only remains of the once extensive Devon woollen manufactures; and Ashburton was also at one time a Stannary town. It has a good church and many interesting associations, but we cannot linger either here or at Buckfast, where a settlement of Benedictines has restored the old abbey. There is a great temptation to stay awhile at Dean Prior for the sake of Robert Herrick, one of England's sweetest lyrists, who was twice vicar here, being presented by Charles I in 1629, dispossessed at the Commonwealth, and reinstated at the Restoration. He abused the neighbourhood so heartily in his verse that it is surprising he should have accepted the living a second time; but perhaps he said a little more than he meant. The exact spot of his burial in the churchyard is unknown. Some of Herrick's lyrics are so lovely that even Devonians must forgive him, though he wrote: "O men, O manners; now and ever known To be a rocky generation, A people currish, churlish as the seas, And rude almost as rudest savages; With whom I did and may re-sojourn when Rocks turn to rivers, rivers turn to men". As he returned voluntarily to this exile, we must imagine the miracle to have taken place, or perhaps his own heart had been tamed by his adversity. The southern moor is watered by beautiful but less familiar rivers than those of the west and east; the Avon, the Erme, the Yealm have all their own charm, and are as genuinely children of Dartmoor as the Teign, the Dart, or the Tavy. Probably the best centre for this district is South Brent, where there is a church that has been badly treated by restoration. Brent Hill, rising to about 1000 feet, must not be confused with Brent Tor. Both are strikingly conspicuous hills, but this southern height no longer boasts its chapel dedicated to St. Michael. The hill is a fine landmark for a large extent of country. The Avon, sometimes called the Aune, is a beautiful river, but its source in the treacherous mire of Aune Head is very dismal. [Illustration: DARTMEET (_Page 44_)] It may be worth while to tell a story told of Aune Mire by Mr. Baring-Gould, for the authenticity of which we must hold him responsible. A man was making his way through the bog "when he came on a top-hat reposing, brim downwards, on the sedge. He gave it a kick, whereupon a voice called out from beneath, 'What be you a-doin' to my 'at?' The man replied, 'Be there now a chap under'n?' 'Ees, I reckon,' was the reply, 'and a hoss under me likewise.'" This is a fair representation of the swallowing capacity of Dartmoor mires, and they should certainly be avoided by any strangers without an expert guide. The Avon on its southward course passes the old Abbots' Way, the track of the monks from Buckfast to Tavistock. A good deal of the path can still be traced. Approaching Shipley Bridge, the river becomes very lovely, shadowed by Shipley and Black Tors, and flowing beneath a bridge of single span among rocks, trees, and ferns. Not many tourists come hither, and the result is greater wealth of specimens--mountain and lady ferns, false maidenhair, various hart's tongues. The beautiful situation of Didworthy might make one in love with farming; and there are numberless remains here for those who wish to be in touch with the "old people". This is one aspect that is always present, from end to end of Dartmoor--the silent tokens of vanished peoples; they may be absolutely intrusive if we choose, or they may blend, scarcely noticed, with the natural features of their surroundings. Some persons will come and think of nothing else; but to those who come with wider purpose the old stones and memorials give a hint of far-off human interest, softening the harshness of the wilder scenes, and enriching the gentler with a touch of pathos. The solitude of places where man has been is always different from that of untrodden wildernesses. The Avon runs beneath another lovely bridge when it comes to South Brent, which is locally noted for its fairs and pannier market, and is a favourite resort with excursionists from Plymouth. The curious winding streets of the little town are in perfect accord with their setting. At Wrangaton, not far distant, are the links of the South Devon Golf Club; but this is only one of the many opportunities that golfers have of exercising their sport on Dartmoor or in its immediate neighbourhood. It is fairly evident that a considerable section of the public to-day will go nowhere unless accompanied by its golf clubs, and certainly the game often introduces these people to much beautiful scenery that they might otherwise miss. They must decide themselves as to which is the real attraction. There are several other river sources not far from that of Avon--Erme Head, Yealm Head, Plym Head; this cluster of bogs almost rivals the cradle of rivers at Cranmere. The Erme valley and plains are thickly strewn with prehistoric relics and traces of old tin workings; but, well populated as this district must once have been, it is now one of the most lonely and desolate parts of the moorland. Dreary as the Erme may be at its source, however, it develops to great beauty during its brief course to the sea, issuing at Mothecombe, in a series of windings and wooded reaches, with a swiftness of tide that tells its moorland birth. The general public makes the river's acquaintance at Ivybridge; otherwise it is by no means a familiar stream. At Harford, which is practically a moorland parish, we have a church dedicated to St. Petrock, like those of South Brent and Lydford, emphasizing his claim to be the patron of Dartmoor. The chief heights in this region are the Three Barrows, Staldon, and Sharp Tor. Perhaps the most remarkable of the moor's stone avenues starts from a circle on Stall Moor, and terminates with a kistvaen not far from Aune Head. There are other stone rows near, all of which have been partially despoiled, but less so than elsewhere; the mystery of their significance remains unsolved. Ugborough Beacon and Butterton Hill, both about 1200 feet in height, stand like southern sentinels of the moorland to the east of Harford. On the slopes of Sharp Tor is a stunted wood, very like Wistman's. Westward, near Cornwood, is the ravine of the River Yealm, known as Awns and Dendles, which it is best not to visit on Plymouth's early-closing day or on Bank Holidays. It is a pity that popularity should mean vulgarizing, for it is right that every lovely spot should be accessible to the greatest possible number of those who can appreciate it. The qualification is an important one; nothing is gained by the thronging to such scenes of those whose tastes are best met by entertainment pavilions and roundabouts. Besides which, the conscienceless tripper is a terror to all who love ferns, and there are still some rarities to be found in the Yealm valley. Near Cornwood is Fardell, once a manor of the Raleighs; and though Sir Walter was not born here he undoubtedly paid the spot many visits. The place is also interesting because of a stone discovered here, bearing Ogham inscriptions supposed to prove the extent of the Irish invasion somewhere about the sixth century, when Devon and Cornwall were overrun by saints and chieftains from the green island. There are a number of attractive manor houses in this part of the moorland's fringe, together with some fine heights, such as Pen Beacon and Shell Tor, rising to about 1500 feet. But there is no particular charm in the china-clay works of Lee Moor--an industry which may be studied on a larger scale in the St. Austell district of Cornwall. China-clay, or kaolin, is a detritus of granite, much used for pottery and in the preparation of calicoes; partly also for the supposed white sugar of confectionery and in cheap adulterated flours. The neighbourhoods of its workings are as white as those of coal are black, and in this respect china-clay must be given the preference; but neither tends to beautify a district. [Illustration: A MOORLAND TRACK, THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE] None of the lovely rivers already mentioned water a town of any great importance; but when we come to the Plym it is different. The Plym is not the most beautiful of Dartmoor streams, but it has given its name to Plymouth, and Plymouth has imposed its own title on the three towns which united form the supreme naval and industrial centre of the west country. Other western seaports have decayed rather than advanced--they have deteriorated at least in their relative importance; but Plymouth has advanced and is still advancing. In no sense does it belong to Dartmoor, but the Plym and the Tavy, whose waters go to swell Plymouth Sound, are both genuine children of the moorland. The Plym, rising not far from the Yealm, makes its way to its junction with the Meavy through a grand ravine, overshadowed by the Dewerstone. Before reaching the Dewerstone, however, the river passes under the Cadover (or Cadaford) Bridge, and from this circumstance there has been some dispute as to whether the true name of the stream should not be the Cad. Carrington gave it this name, but he cannot be taken as an authority; and it is probable that the _cad_ in Cadover is simply a corruption of the Celtic word _coed_, or wood, and has nothing to do with the river at all. From Cadover to Shaugh Bridge are some wonderfully beautiful scenes, banks strewn with granite fragments amidst tangled undergrowth. The Dewerstone towering above is appropriately the haunt of a demon huntsman of the moors, who careers abroad on stormy nights with his fierce-eyed baying wish-hounds. Whether we pursue the Meavy upward from the bridge or follow the united rivers through the exquisite Bickleigh vale, there is much loveliness; but there are times when Bickleigh valley is too popular to be pleasant, unless our chief study is human nature. We can best study human nature in the towns; and we do not want to be pursued by its noisier manifestations amid scenes that call for the sympathetic presence of peace. Shaugh Prior, finely placed on the border of the moorland, is entirely delightful, as also is Meavy, with its famous oak, twenty-five feet in girth, and its village cross. Lovers of such things will specially notice the old font-cover of the church at Shaugh. There is also a notable cross on the slope of Ringmore Down, over eight feet in height, the tallest on the moor. One of the pleasantest spots of this corner of Dartmoor is the village of Sheepstor, a familiar sight from the railway to all who are making the journey to Princetown by train. It lies at a little distance from the rail, but the Burrator reservoir here constructed for the supply of Plymouth, in the bed of an ancient lake, probably draws more curious visitors than do the beauty and interest of its surroundings. Sheepstor Church has been unhappily restored, to the sad detriment of its exquisite screen, enough of which has been preserved to tell of its original glory. The tor itself rises finely above the clustering cottages of the village, and a cavern called the Pixies' Cave is shown as the refuge of one of the Elford family during the Civil War. It is said that he lay concealed here, somewhat in the manner of the Baron Bradwardine's concealment in Scott's _Waverley_, while the Roundhead troopers were closely searching his house and grounds, at Langstone by Burrator. Having won the affection of the peasantry, they kept his secret and provided him with food. It is said that he occupied his enforced leisure by painting the sides of the cave, but no traces of painting can now be seen. The cave is difficult to find, and nothing but treachery could have revealed the hiding-place. It is not stated whether Elford's presence drove out the pixies to whom the cavern really belonged; but in case they still remain it is well to remember the usual etiquette of leaving a pin or some other small gift. Pixies seem to be as easily pleased as are the patron saints of some holy wells. A remarkable story is told by Mrs. Bray as to the manner in which the cholera reached Sheepstor during the terrible visitation of 1832. A man of supposed poverty died, with his wife and children, at Plymouth, where the plague was raging fiercely, and their home was visited by two brothers, with small hope of picking up anything valuable. To their surprise a large sum in cash was found, and the brothers fought together over the dead bodies in order to possess it. While fighting, they were disturbed by the police, and one of the two, having actually assumed some of the clothes of the dead man, took refuge in a cottage at Sheepstor. Strangely enough, he escaped the infection himself, but it was taken by the two worthy cottagers, and they both died. Their little boy, thus orphaned, carried word to Tavistock that his parents had both died and that he had been left alone with the dead. It was considered so remarkable that the cholera should have visited so healthy a spot, and especially people of such known cleanliness, that an enquiry was instituted and the story came out. [Illustration: STONE AVENUE, NEAR MERRIVALE] Before leaving Sheepstor something should be said of the fine stone rows and other remains at Drizzlecombe, but it is impossible here to give full attention to these numerous relics. We find a reminder of the Elford family in the name of Yelverton, a corruption of Elford-town. Yelverton and Dousland have both become popular with residents and visitors, having the convenience of rail and commanding a district of great beauty. But, attractive as they are, neither can claim to be on the moorland, nor can this claim be made by Tavistock itself, though that town boasts of being the "western gate of Dartmoor". There is a rich supply of beauty and of delightful associations at Tavistock, but it was never a moor town. Here and at Buckland Monachorum are many traces of the two rival abbeys, of which Tavistock was far the more ancient and the more wealthy. Both spots have memories of Francis Drake, and at Tavistock there is an admirable statue. Buckland and Buckfast, being both Cistercian, had much communication; and the influence of these three abbeys was great in preserving the moorland trackways, setting up crosses for the guidance of travellers, and keeping the moor open to a gradual course of civilization. They were also centres of art and culture at a period when such things were at a discount, and in this respect we can never be too grateful to the old monastic settlements. Whether or not we class them among those good things whose corruption is worst, they were undoubtedly good in their day. We find around Dartmoor as elsewhere that the monks chose their localities well, with a keen eye for natural beauty and the advantages of water. We may infer also that they ventured across Dartmoor when other men were chary of crossing it, and their faith had certainly the courage of its convictions. If we meet their ghosts along the Abbots' Way by night we need not fear that they will be other than kindly. If they are ghosts now, there was a time when they drove forth ghosts themselves, and when they converted pagan monuments into symbols of the religion of love. It would be very pleasant to linger about Tavistock, with its bright river that we met in our rambles from Lydford; but the moorland calls us. There is another lovely river, the Walla or Walkham (Walkham is probably Walla-combe), which lures us to one of the most fascinating regions of Dartmoor. The poet Browne, after the fashion of his time, wrote a narrative of the "loves of the Walla and the Tavy" in his _Britannia's Pastorals_; but in spite of much freshness of natural description his verses are tedious if taken in large doses, and we can leave this would-be classic legend out of the question. The stream has a typically moorland character as it flows from its source at Lynch Tor, to wind around the foot of the noble Great Mis Tor and pass beneath Merrivale Bridge. The tors of this district are approaching their greatest height, and Mis Tor, a true mother of storms, is one of the most magnificent. Merrivale bridge is on the highroad from Tavistock to Princetown, little frequented since the opening of the railway, and surely there are few finer bits of road in the kingdom than that which here crosses the valley of the Walla, at the base of this grand tor. Whether lying in open sunshine or raked with fog and cloud, Mis Tor is always impressive, apart altogether from the rock-basins, pounds, and hut-circles that surround it. Northward of the bridge is Staple Tor; southward, nearer to the small village of Sampford Spiney, are the Vixen and Pu tors. The Vixen is a curious mass of weathered granite, taking almost any shape that the view-point and the imagination of the spectator may suggest. At Sampford there is a good Perpendicular church, and a picturesque granite-mullioned farmhouse that was once a manor. There is another good church at Walkhampton, and a fourteenth-century church-house, now the inn. Those who are attracted to Whitchurch Down by reason of its golf links, belonging to the Tavistock Club, will see one of the most impressive old crosses of the moorland; and their sport may be combined not only with the bracing air of a high altitude but with fine views of Dartmoor and of east Cornwall. The beauty of the Walkham River is continued to its junction with the Tavy near the disused copper mine of the Virtuous Lady. Whitchurch proves its antiquity by being the _Wicerce_ of Domesday. Its church, thus clearly dating from before the Conquest, has the lovely screen rescued by the Earl of Devon from the ill-advised restoration at Moreton Hampstead. North of Peter Tavy, a charming village in the beautiful Tavy vale, is Whit Tor, with perhaps the best walled encampment of the moorland. There are other old-world relics, such as the Langstone menhir. And so we arrive once more at Lydford. Surely there can be few spots of such comparatively small size that so teem with interest and fascination as Dartmoor. In the number of its prehistoric remains it is only equalled by parts of Cornwall, and their preservation is owing to thinness of modern population. We may imagine that most of England was once scattered with similar traces of dead peoples, but in most places these have been eradicated by successive waves of population. Dartmoor has been left in solitude, and though its few inhabitants have done their best to remove or mutilate the immemorial monuments, enough have been overlooked to furnish us with a wide treasure ground. But where the antiquarian will come to measure and dig and conjecture, the artist, the poet, the lover of nature will find many other things to allure. The sportsman will also come here, especially the angler, who finds excellent trout, though the fish are not often large. Perhaps happily, only the few main roads are available for motor traffic, but during the summer these are much frequented; there are also many excursion cars and chars-à-bancs to the more popular beauty-spots, starting from places like Moreton, Chagford, Bovey Tracey, or coming from towns far beyond the moor borders. The cyclist who does not mind dismounting at times has a wider area, and cycling on Dartmoor is not so bad as its reputation. There are some really fine stretches of road; what the rider needs is discrimination and good brakes. But he who truly wins the freedom of the moors is the pedestrian--a species not quite extinct, though discredited and often discomforted. He should come here on what we may call the divine adventure, the quest of beauty; and even on lonely Dartmoor he will find the human touch not absent. [Illustration: A DARTMOOR STREAM] Whoever comes, if his eyes be open, will see tracts of primitive mother earth, untamed and unsophisticated. He will see what Devon was before it was cultivated; he will be in a haunt of strange traditions, lingering superstitions, wild fancies. Perhaps when cold clammy fogs blot out the undulations and tors, a chill will strike to the heart; Dartmoor is no kindly nurse to those who have lost their way or those who are overtaken by snowfall. He who comes here must lean on his own resources; he will not be pampered and guided; he must fend for himself. Nature, as Jefferies was fond of saying, does not care for man; he is an alien, exiled by the very civilization of which he is so proud; he can do less for himself than the birds and beasts. Yet the illusion that nature does care is at times very strong; we cannot thrust it wholly from our hearts, and if we regard the earth as but the outward symbol, a mood, a thought, of some inscrutable power, we are not wrong in deeming that she responds to our deepest impulses and cravings. It is glorious poetry and it need not be bad philosophy to dream of a Being "whose dwelling is the light of setting suns"; and he who has seen a sunset flaming across Dartmoor has seen the heavens opened. He can learn also the insignificance of any single individual or race, and yet the undying importance of each if all are a part of the Godhead. Peoples have lived and died here long centuries since, leaving no memorial but grey stones; but the heather and ling are still wonderful, the gorse runs in patches of gold, the rivers sing perpetually among their lichen-stained boulders, and the soul of beauty that is ever mysterious is undying. Such is Dartmoor, one of the few remaining tracts of uncultivated England; a region not easy to tame, offering small reward to the farmer, but rich repayment to the lovers of beauty, wildness, antiquity. There is nothing quite like it elsewhere, unless it be the Bodmin Moors of Cornwall, where the same granite asserts itself again. There is loveliness of a different sort on the moors of Yorkshire and around the Peak--on the Wiltshire, Dorset, and Sussex Downs, on the high lands or in the New Forest of Hampshire, and at spots like Hindhead in Surrey. There is still a different beauty in the fen country and the land of the Broads. But Dartmoor has its own character, which it does not surrender to a casual acquaintance; it has a reserve and depth of individuality, to be won only by slow confidence. There are strong characteristics also among the moor folk; but here a change has been in progress. It is useless to come now expecting to find a superstitious and credulous peasantry. When a district is haunted by tourist and artist, when cars and brakes unload crowds of chattering sightseers, something of the outside world comes with them; and modernism has other more subtle avenues of approach. The cheap daily paper penetrates to these solitudes, and brings with it other things that are cheap. It may leave its readers still credulous and still ignorant; but the nature of the ignorance and the credulity have altered--and perhaps not wholly for the better. There is loss as well as gain. The old traditions have passed from the minds of the people to the guidebooks. Pixies and wish-hounds and spells are now usually only mentioned in jest where they were formerly whispered of in grim earnest. But the beauty of the moorland changes not, and it is its beauty that is our real concern. We can spare the traditions while the loveliness remains. 
3070	----	The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle CONTENTS Chapter 1--Mr. Sherlock Holmes Chapter 2--The Curse of the Baskervilles Chapter 3--The Problem Chapter 4--Sir Henry Baskerville Chapter 5--Three Broken Threads Chapter 6--Baskerville Hall Chapter 7--The Stapletons of Merripit House Chapter 8--First Report of Dr. Watson Chapter 9--The Light Upon The Moor Chapter 10--Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson Chapter 11--The Man on the Tor Chapter 12--Death on the Moor Chapter 13--Fixing the Nets Chapter 14--The Hound of the Baskervilles Chapter 15--A Retrospection Chapter 1 Mr. Sherlock Holmes Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as a "Penang lawyer." Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch across. "To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.," was engraved upon it, with the date "1884." It was just such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to carry--dignified, solid, and reassuring. "Well, Watson, what do you make of it?" Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of my occupation. "How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your head." "I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of me," said he. "But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitor's stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of it." "I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my companion, "that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man, well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of their appreciation." "Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!" "I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot." "Why so?" "Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking with it." "Perfectly sound!" said Holmes. "And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.' I should guess that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has possibly given some surgical assistance, and which has made him a small presentation in return." "Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back his chair and lighting a cigarette. "I am bound to say that in all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own small achievements you have habitually underrated your own abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt." He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way which earned his approval. He now took the stick from my hands and examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes. Then with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with a convex lens. "Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his favourite corner of the settee. "There are certainly one or two indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis for several deductions." "Has anything escaped me?" I asked with some self-importance. "I trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?" "I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance. The man is certainly a country practitioner. And he walks a good deal." "Then I was right." "To that extent." "But that was all." "No, no, my dear Watson, not all--by no means all. I would suggest, for example, that a presentation to a doctor is more likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt, and that when the initials 'C.C.' are placed before that hospital the words 'Charing Cross' very naturally suggest themselves." "You may be right." "The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our construction of this unknown visitor." "Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand for 'Charing Cross Hospital,' what further inferences may we draw?" "Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!" "I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has practised in town before going to the country." "I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look at it in this light. On what occasion would it be most probable that such a presentation would be made? When would his friends unite to give him a pledge of their good will? Obviously at the moment when Dr. Mortimer withdrew from the service of the hospital in order to start in practice for himself. We know there has been a presentation. We believe there has been a change from a town hospital to a country practice. Is it, then, stretching our inference too far to say that the presentation was on the occasion of the change?" "It certainly seems probable." "Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the staff of the hospital, since only a man well-established in a London practice could hold such a position, and such a one would not drift into the country. What was he, then? If he was in the hospital and yet not on the staff he could only have been a house-surgeon or a house-physician--little more than a senior student. And he left five years ago--the date is on the stick. So your grave, middle-aged family practitioner vanishes into thin air, my dear Watson, and there emerges a young fellow under thirty, amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor of a favourite dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff." I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his settee and blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling. "As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you," said I, "but at least it is not difficult to find out a few particulars about the man's age and professional career." From my small medical shelf I took down the Medical Directory and turned up the name. There were several Mortimers, but only one who could be our visitor. I read his record aloud. "Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon. House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital. Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology, with essay entitled 'Is Disease a Reversion?' Corresponding member of the Swedish Pathological Society. Author of 'Some Freaks of Atavism' (Lancet 1882). 'Do We Progress?' (Journal of Psychology, March, 1883). Medical Officer for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow." "No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said Holmes with a mischievous smile, "but a country doctor, as you very astutely observed. I think that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As to the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable, unambitious, and absent-minded. It is my experience that it is only an amiable man in this world who receives testimonials, only an unambitious one who abandons a London career for the country, and only an absent-minded one who leaves his stick and not his visiting-card after waiting an hour in your room." "And the dog?" "Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master. Being a heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle, and the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible. The dog's jaw, as shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in my opinion for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff. It may have been--yes, by Jove, it is a curly-haired spaniel." He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the recess of the window. There was such a ring of conviction in his voice that I glanced up in surprise. "My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?" "For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our very door-step, and there is the ring of its owner. Don't move, I beg you, Watson. He is a professional brother of yours, and your presence may be of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!" The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had expected a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two keen, gray eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional but rather slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers frayed. Though young, his long back was already bowed, and he walked with a forward thrust of his head and a general air of peering benevolence. As he entered his eyes fell upon the stick in Holmes's hand, and he ran towards it with an exclamation of joy. "I am so very glad," said he. "I was not sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I would not lose that stick for the world." "A presentation, I see," said Holmes. "Yes, sir." "From Charing Cross Hospital?" "From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage." "Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking his head. Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment. "Why was it bad?" "Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your marriage, you say?" "Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopes of a consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home of my own." "Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all," said Holmes. "And now, Dr. James Mortimer ------" "Mister, sir, Mister--a humble M.R.C.S." "And a man of precise mind, evidently." "A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the shores of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and not ------" "No, this is my friend Dr. Watson." "Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in connection with that of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you have any objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull, sir, until the original is available, would be an ornament to any anthropological museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull." Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. "You are an enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in mine," said he. "I observe from your forefinger that you make your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one." The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as agile and restless as the antennae of an insect. Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the interest which he took in our curious companion. "I presume, sir," said he at last, "that it was not merely for the purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the honour to call here last night and again to-day?" "No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am myself an unpractical man and because I am suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highest expert in Europe ------" "Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?" asked Holmes with some asperity. "To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur Bertillon must always appeal strongly." "Then had you not better consult him?" "I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I have not inadvertently ------" "Just a little," said Holmes. "I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my assistance." Chapter 2 The Curse of the Baskervilles "I have in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. James Mortimer. "I observed it as you entered the room," said Holmes. "It is an old manuscript." "Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery." "How can you say that, sir?" "You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give the date of a document within a decade or so. You may possibly have read my little monograph upon the subject. I put that at 1730." "The exact date is 1742." Dr. Mortimer drew it from his breast-pocket. "This family paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three months ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I may say that I was his personal friend as well as his medical attendant. He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this document very seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end as did eventually overtake him." Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it upon his knee. "You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s and the short. It is one of several indications which enabled me to fix the date." I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script. At the head was written: "Baskerville Hall," and below in large, scrawling figures: "1742." "It appears to be a statement of some sort." "Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the Baskerville family." "But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon which you wish to consult me?" "Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be decided within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is intimately connected with the affair. With your permission I will read it to you." Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking voice the following curious, old-world narrative:-- "Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down with all belief that it occurred even as is here set forth. And I would have you believe, my sons, that the same Justice which punishes sin may also most graciously forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may be removed. Learn then from this story not to fear the fruits of the past, but rather to be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not again be loosed to our undoing. "Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless man. This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts, but there was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour which made his name a byword through the West. It chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter of a yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate. But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name. So it came to pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with five or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down upon the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and brothers being from home, as he well knew. When they had brought her to the Hall the maiden was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long carouse, as was their nightly custom. Now, the poor lass upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the singing and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville, when he was in wine, were such as might blast the man who said them. At last in the stress of her fear she did that which might have daunted the bravest or most active man, for by the aid of the growth of ivy which covered (and still covers) the south wall she came down from under the eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three leagues betwixt the Hall and her father's farm. "It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his guests to carry food and drink--with other worse things, perchance--to his captive, and so found the cage empty and the bird escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons and trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all the company that he would that very night render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the wench. And while the revellers stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or, it may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that they should put the hounds upon her. Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his grooms that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the hounds a kerchief of the maid's, he swung them to the line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor. "Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable to understand all that had been done in such haste. But anon their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed which was like to be done upon the moorlands. Everything was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols, some for their horses, and some for another flask of wine. But at length some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started in pursuit. The moon shone clear above them, and they rode swiftly abreast, taking that course which the maid must needs have taken if she were to reach her own home. "They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. 'But I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.' So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a great fear was on them, but they still followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been right glad to have turned his horse's head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last upon the hounds. These, though known for their valour and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them. "The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may guess, than when they started. The most of them would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of those great stones, still to be seen there, which were set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon the heads of these three daredevil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their days. "Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever since. If I have set it down it is because that which is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that many of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence, which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy Writ. To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend you, and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted. "[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John, with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their sister Elizabeth.]" When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire. "Well?" said he. "Do you not find it interesting?" "To a collector of fairy tales." Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket. "Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent. This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date." My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:-- "The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over the county. Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville Hall for a comparatively short period his amiability of character and extreme generosity had won the affection and respect of all who had been brought into contact with him. In these days of _nouveaux riches_ it is refreshing to find a case where the scion of an old county family which has fallen upon evil days is able to make his own fortune and to bring it back with him to restore the fallen grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is well known, made large sums of money in South African speculation. More wise than those who go on until the wheel turns against them, he realized his gains and returned to England with them. It is only two years since he took up his residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how large were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement which have been interrupted by his death. Being himself childless, it was his openly expressed desire that the whole country-side should, within his own lifetime, profit by his good fortune, and many will have personal reasons for bewailing his untimely end. His generous donations to local and county charities have been frequently chronicled in these columns. "The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of those rumours to which local superstition has given rise. There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to imagine that death could be from any but natural causes. Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind. In spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the husband acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper. Their evidence, corroborated by that of several friends, tends to show that Sir Charles's health has for some time been impaired, and points especially to some affection of the heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour, breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression. Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of the deceased, has given evidence to the same effect. "The facts of the case are simple. Sir Charles Baskerville was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking down the famous Yew Alley of Baskerville Hall. The evidence of the Barrymores shows that this had been his custom. On the 4th of May Sir Charles had declared his intention of starting next day for London, and had ordered Barrymore to prepare his luggage. That night he went out as usual for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in the habit of smoking a cigar. He never returned. At twelve o'clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still open, became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in search of his master. The day had been wet, and Sir Charles's footmarks were easily traced down the Alley. Half-way down this walk there is a gate which leads out on to the moor. There were indications that Sir Charles had stood for some little time here. He then proceeded down the Alley, and it was at the far end of it that his body was discovered. One fact which has not been explained is the statement of Barrymore that his master's footprints altered their character from the time that he passed the moor-gate, and that he appeared from thence onward to have been walking upon his toes. One Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on the moor at no great distance at the time, but he appears by his own confession to have been the worse for drink. He declares that he heard cries, but is unable to state from what direction they came. No signs of violence were to be discovered upon Sir Charles's person, and though the doctor's evidence pointed to an almost incredible facial distortion--so great that Dr. Mortimer refused at first to believe that it was indeed his friend and patient who lay before him--it was explained that that is a symptom which is not unusual in cases of dyspnoea and death from cardiac exhaustion. This explanation was borne out by the post-mortem examination, which showed long-standing organic disease, and the coroner's jury returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence. It is well that this is so, for it is obviously of the utmost importance that Sir Charles's heir should settle at the Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly interrupted. Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall. It is understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville, if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville's younger brother. The young man when last heard of was in America, and inquiries are being instituted with a view to informing him of his good fortune." Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket. "Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death of Sir Charles Baskerville." "I must thank you," said Sherlock Holmes, "for calling my attention to a case which certainly presents some features of interest. I had observed some newspaper comment at the time, but I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several interesting English cases. This article, you say, contains all the public facts?" "It does." "Then let me have the private ones." He leaned back, put his finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial expression. "In doing so," said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of some strong emotion, "I am telling that which I have not confided to anyone. My motive for withholding it from the coroner's inquiry is that a man of science shrinks from placing himself in the public position of seeming to indorse a popular superstition. I had the further motive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would certainly remain untenanted if anything were done to increase its already rather grim reputation. For both these reasons I thought that I was justified in telling rather less than I knew, since no practical good could result from it, but with you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank. "The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near each other are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other men of education within many miles. Sir Charles was a retiring man, but the chance of his illness brought us together, and a community of interests in science kept us so. He had brought back much scientific information from South Africa, and many a charming evening we have spent together discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot. "Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that Sir Charles's nervous system was strained to the breaking point. He had taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly to heart--so much so that, although he would walk in his own grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon the moor at night. Incredible as it may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung his family, and certainly the records which he was able to give of his ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has asked me whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever seen any strange creature or heard the baying of a hound. The latter question he put to me several times, and always with a voice which vibrated with excitement. "I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some three weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had descended from my gig and was standing in front of him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder, and stare past me with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round and had just time to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be a large black calf passing at the head of the drive. So excited and alarmed was he that I was compelled to go down to the spot where the animal had been and look around for it. It was gone, however, and the incident appeared to make the worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with him all the evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion which he had shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative which I read to you when first I came. I mention this small episode because it assumes some importance in view of the tragedy which followed, but I was convinced at the time that the matter was entirely trivial and that his excitement had no justification. "It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. His heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in which he lived, however chimerical the cause of it might be, was evidently having a serious effect upon his health. I thought that a few months among the distractions of town would send him back a new man. Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend who was much concerned at his state of health, was of the same opinion. At the last instant came this terrible catastrophe. "On the night of Sir Charles's death Barrymore the butler, who made the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me, and as I was sitting up late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within an hour of the event. I checked and corroborated all the facts which were mentioned at the inquest. I followed the footsteps down the Yew Alley, I saw the spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to have waited, I remarked the change in the shape of the prints after that point, I noted that there were no other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and finally I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched until my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers dug into the ground, and his features convulsed with some strong emotion to such an extent that I could hardly have sworn to his identity. There was certainly no physical injury of any kind. But one false statement was made by Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were no traces upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I did--some little distance off, but fresh and clear." "Footprints?" "Footprints." "A man's or a woman's?" Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost to a whisper as he answered:-- "Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!" Chapter 3 The Problem I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a thrill in the doctor's voice which showed that he was himself deeply moved by that which he told us. Holmes leaned forward in his excitement and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which shot from them when he was keenly interested. "You saw this?" "As clearly as I see you." "And you said nothing?" "What was the use?" "How was it that no one else saw it?" "The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave them a thought. I don't suppose I should have done so had I not known this legend." "There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?" "No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog." "You say it was large?" "Enormous." "But it had not approached the body?" "No." "What sort of night was it?' "Damp and raw." "But not actually raining?" "No." "What is the Alley like?" "There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and impenetrable. The walk in the centre is about eight feet across." "Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?" "Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either side." "I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a gate?" "Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor." "Is there any other opening?" "None." "So that to reach the Yew Alley one either has to come down it from the house or else to enter it by the moor-gate?" "There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end." "Had Sir Charles reached this?" "No; he lay about fifty yards from it." "Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer--and this is important--the marks which you saw were on the path and not on the grass?" "No marks could show on the grass." "Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?" "Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the moor-gate." "You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket-gate closed?" "Closed and padlocked." "How high was it?" "About four feet high." "Then anyone could have got over it?" "Yes." "And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?" "None in particular." "Good heaven! Did no one examine?" "Yes, I examined myself." "And found nothing?" "It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there for five or ten minutes." "How do you know that?" "Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar." "Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But the marks?" "He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I could discern no others." Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an impatient gesture. "If I had only been there!" he cried. "It is evidently a case of extraordinary interest, and one which presented immense opportunities to the scientific expert. That gravel page upon which I might have read so much has been long ere this smudged by the rain and defaced by the clogs of curious peasants. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, to think that you should not have called me in! You have indeed much to answer for." "I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without disclosing these facts to the world, and I have already given my reasons for not wishing to do so. Besides, besides --" "Why do you hesitate?" "There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of detectives is helpless." "You mean that the thing is supernatural?" "I did not positively say so." "No, but you evidently think it." "Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several incidents which are hard to reconcile with the settled order of Nature." "For example?" "I find that before the terrible event occurred several people had seen a creature upon the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville demon, and which could not possibly be any animal known to science. They all agreed that it was a huge creature, luminous, ghastly, and spectral. I have cross-examined these men, one of them a hard-headed countryman, one a farrier, and one a moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of this dreadful apparition, exactly corresponding to the hell-hound of the legend. I assure you that there is a reign of terror in the district, and that it is a hardy man who will cross the moor at night." "And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be supernatural?" "I do not know what to believe." Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "I have hitherto confined my investigations to this world," said he. "In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you must admit that the footmark is material." "The original hound was material enough to tug a man's throat out, and yet he was diabolical as well." "I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists. But now, Dr. Mortimer, tell me this. If you hold these views, why have you come to consult me at all? You tell me in the same breath that it is useless to investigate Sir Charles's death, and that you desire me to do it." "I did not say that I desired you to do it." "Then, how can I assist you?" "By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who arrives at Waterloo Station"--Dr. Mortimer looked at his watch--"in exactly one hour and a quarter." "He being the heir?" "Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young gentleman and found that he had been farming in Canada. From the accounts which have reached us he is an excellent fellow in every way. I speak not as a medical man but as a trustee and executor of Sir Charles's will." "There is no other claimant, I presume?" "None. The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir Charles was the elder. The second brother, who died young, is the father of this lad Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville strain, and was the very image, they tell me, of the family picture of old Hugo. He made England too hot to hold him, fled to Central America, and died there in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I meet him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire that he arrived at Southampton this morning. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you advise me to do with him?" "Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?" "It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every Baskerville who goes there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure that if Sir Charles could have spoken with me before his death he would have warned me against bringing this, the last of the old race, and the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet it cannot be denied that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak country-side depends upon his presence. All the good work which has been done by Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is no tenant of the Hall. I fear lest I should be swayed too much by my own obvious interest in the matter, and that is why I bring the case before you and ask for your advice." Holmes considered for a little time. "Put into plain words, the matter is this," said he. "In your opinion there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for a Baskerville--that is your opinion?" "At least I might go the length of saying that there is some evidence that this may be so." "Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it could work the young man evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A devil with merely local powers like a parish vestry would be too inconceivable a thing." "You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would probably do if you were brought into personal contact with these things. Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that the young man will be as safe in Devonshire as in London. He comes in fifty minutes. What would you recommend?" "I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry Baskerville." "And then?" "And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my mind about the matter." "How long will it take you to make up your mind?" "Twenty-four hours. At ten o'clock to-morrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will be much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will be of help to me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you." "I will do so, Mr. Holmes." He scribbled the appointment on his shirtcuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair. "Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir Charles Baskerville's death several people saw this apparition upon the moor?" "Three people did." "Did any see it after?" "I have not heard of any." "Thank you. Good morning." Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward satisfaction which meant that he had a congenial task before him. "Going out, Watson?" "Unless I can help you." "No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to you for aid. But this is splendid, really unique from some points of view. When you pass Bradley's, would you ask him to send up a pound of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be as well if you could make it convenient not to return before evening. Then I should be very glad to compare impressions as to this most interesting problem which has been submitted to us this morning." I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my friend in those hours of intense mental concentration during which he weighed every particle of evidence, constructed alternative theories, balanced one against the other, and made up his mind as to which points were essential and which immaterial. I therefore spent the day at my club and did not return to Baker Street until evening. It was nearly nine o'clock when I found myself in the sitting-room once more. My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had broken out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the light of the lamp upon the table was blurred by it. As I entered, however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of strong coarse tobacco which took me by the throat and set me coughing. Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressing-gown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around him. "Caught cold, Watson?" said he. "No, it's this poisonous atmosphere." "I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it." "Thick! It is intolerable." "Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I perceive." "My dear Holmes!" "Am I right?" "Certainly, but how?" He laughed at my bewildered expression. "There is a delightful freshness about you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to exercise any small powers which I possess at your expense. A gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his boots. He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man with intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not obvious?" "Well, it is rather obvious." "The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. Where do you think that I have been?" "A fixture also." "On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire." "In spirit?" "Exactly. My body has remained in this arm-chair and has, I regret to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to Stamford's for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I could find my way about." "A large scale map, I presume?" "Very large." He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. "Here you have the particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in the middle." "With a wood round it?" "Exactly. I fancy the Yew Alley, though not marked under that name, must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you perceive, upon the right of it. This small clump of buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters. Within a radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a very few scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the narrative. There is a house indicated here which may be the residence of the naturalist--Stapleton, if I remember right, was his name. Here are two moorland farm-houses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the great convict prison of Princetown. Between and around these scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then, is the stage upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help to play it again." "It must be a wild place." "Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to have a hand in the affairs of men ----" "Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural explanation." "The devil's agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not? There are two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether any crime has been committed at all; the second is, what is the crime and how was it committed? Of course, if Dr. Mortimer's surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of our investigation. But we are bound to exhaust all other hypotheses before falling back upon this one. I think we'll shut that window again, if you don't mind. It is a singular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to the length of getting into a box to think, but that is the logical outcome of my convictions. Have you turned the case over in your mind?" "Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day." "What do you make of it?" "It is very bewildering." "It has certainly a character of its own. There are points of distinction about it. That change in the footprints, for example. What do you make of that?" "Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that portion of the alley." "He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. Why should a man walk on tiptoe down the alley?" "What then?" "He was running, Watson--running desperately, running for his life, running until he burst his heart and fell dead upon his face." "Running from what?" "There lies our problem. There are indications that the man was crazed with fear before ever he began to run." "How can you say that?" "I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across the moor. If that were so, and it seems most probable, only a man who had lost his wits would have run from the house instead of towards it. If the gipsy's evidence may be taken as true, he ran with cries for help in the direction where help was least likely to be. Then, again, whom was he waiting for that night, and why was he waiting for him in the Yew Alley rather than in his own house?" "You think that he was waiting for someone?" "The man was elderly and infirm. We can understand his taking an evening stroll, but the ground was damp and the night inclement. Is it natural that he should stand for five or ten minutes, as Dr. Mortimer, with more practical sense than I should have given him credit for, deduced from the cigar ash?" "But he went out every evening." "I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor-gate every evening. On the contrary, the evidence is that he avoided the moor. That night he waited there. It was the night before he made his departure for London. The thing takes shape, Watson. It becomes coherent. Might I ask you to hand me my violin, and we will postpone all further thought upon this business until we have had the advantage of meeting Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning." Chapter 4 Sir Henry Baskerville Our breakfast-table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in his dressing-gown for the promised interview. Our clients were punctual to their appointment, for the clock had just struck ten when Dr. Mortimer was shown up, followed by the young baronet. The latter was a small, alert, dark-eyed man about thirty years of age, very sturdily built, with thick black eyebrows and a strong, pugnacious face. He wore a ruddy-tinted tweed suit and had the weather-beaten appearance of one who has spent most of his time in the open air, and yet there was something in his steady eye and the quiet assurance of his bearing which indicated the gentleman. "This is Sir Henry Baskerville," said Dr. Mortimer. "Why, yes," said he, "and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that if my friend here had not proposed coming round to you this morning I should have come on my own account. I understand that you think out little puzzles, and I've had one this morning which wants more thinking out than I am able to give it." "Pray take a seat, Sir Henry. Do I understand you to say that you have yourself had some remarkable experience since you arrived in London?" "Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes. Only a joke, as like as not. It was this letter, if you can call it a letter, which reached me this morning." He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all bent over it. It was of common quality, grayish in colour. The address, "Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel," was printed in rough characters; the postmark "Charing Cross," and the date of posting the preceding evening. "Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Hotel?" asked Holmes, glancing keenly across at our visitor. "No one could have known. We only decided after I met Dr. Mortimer." "But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there?" "No, I had been staying with a friend," said the doctor. "There was no possible indication that we intended to go to this hotel." "Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your movements." Out of the envelope he took a half-sheet of foolscap paper folded into four. This he opened and spread flat upon the table. Across the middle of it a single sentence had been formed by the expedient of pasting printed words upon it. It ran: "As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor." The word "moor" only was printed in ink. "Now," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "perhaps you will tell me, Mr. Holmes, what in thunder is the meaning of that, and who it is that takes so much interest in my affairs?" "What do you make of it, Dr. Mortimer? You must allow that there is nothing supernatural about this, at any rate?" "No, sir, but it might very well come from someone who was convinced that the business is supernatural." "What business?" asked Sir Henry sharply. "It seems to me that all you gentlemen know a great deal more than I do about my own affairs." "You shall share our knowledge before you leave this room, Sir Henry. I promise you that," said Sherlock Holmes. "We will confine ourselves for the present with your permission to this very interesting document, which must have been put together and posted yesterday evening. Have you yesterday's Times, Watson?" "It is here in the corner." "Might I trouble you for it--the inside page, please, with the leading articles?" He glanced swiftly over it, running his eyes up and down the columns. "Capital article this on free trade. Permit me to give you an extract from it. 'You may be cajoled into imagining that your own special trade or your own industry will be encouraged by a protective tariff, but it stands to reason that such legislation must in the long run keep away wealth from the country, diminish the value of our imports, and lower the general conditions of life in this island.' What do you think of that, Watson?" cried Holmes in high glee, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. "Don't you think that is an admirable sentiment?" Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an air of professional interest, and Sir Henry Baskerville turned a pair of puzzled dark eyes upon me. "I don't know much about the tariff and things of that kind," said he; "but it seems to me we've got a bit off the trail so far as that note is concerned." "On the contrary, I think we are particularly hot upon the trail, Sir Henry. Watson here knows more about my methods than you do, but I fear that even he has not quite grasped the significance of this sentence." "No, I confess that I see no connection." "And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very close a connection that the one is extracted out of the other. 'You,' 'your,' 'your,' 'life,' 'reason,' 'value,' 'keep away,' 'from the.' Don't you see now whence these words have been taken?" "By thunder, you're right! Well, if that isn't smart!" cried Sir Henry. "If any possible doubt remained it is settled by the fact that 'keep away' and 'from the' are cut out in one piece." "Well, now--so it is!" "Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything which I could have imagined," said Dr. Mortimer, gazing at my friend in amazement. "I could understand anyone saying that the words were from a newspaper; but that you should name which, and add that it came from the leading article, is really one of the most remarkable things which I have ever known. How did you do it?" "I presume, Doctor, that you could tell the skull of a negro from that of an Esquimau?" "Most certainly." "But how?" "Because that is my special hobby. The differences are obvious. The supra-orbital crest, the facial angle, the maxillary curve, the --" "But this is my special hobby, and the differences are equally obvious. There is as much difference to my eyes between the leaded bourgeois type of a Times article and the slovenly print of an evening half-penny paper as there could be between your negro and your Esquimau. The detection of types is one of the most elementary branches of knowledge to the special expert in crime, though I confess that once when I was very young I confused the Leeds Mercury with the Western Morning News. But a Times leader is entirely distinctive, and these words could have been taken from nothing else. As it was done yesterday the strong probability was that we should find the words in yesterday's issue." "So far as I can follow you, then, Mr. Holmes," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "someone cut out this message with a scissors--" "Nail-scissors," said Holmes. "You can see that it was a very short-bladed scissors, since the cutter had to take two snips over 'keep away.'" "That is so. Someone, then, cut out the message with a pair of short-bladed scissors, pasted it with paste--" "Gum," said Holmes. "With gum on to the paper. But I want to know why the word 'moor' should have been written?" "Because he could not find it in print. The other words were all simple and might be found in any issue, but 'moor' would be less common." "Why, of course, that would explain it. Have you read anything else in this message, Mr. Holmes?" "There are one or two indications, and yet the utmost pains have been taken to remove all clues. The address, you observe is printed in rough characters. But the Times is a paper which is seldom found in any hands but those of the highly educated. We may take it, therefore, that the letter was composed by an educated man who wished to pose as an uneducated one, and his effort to conceal his own writing suggests that that writing might be known, or come to be known, by you. Again, you will observe that the words are not gummed on in an accurate line, but that some are much higher than others. 'Life,' for example is quite out of its proper place. That may point to carelessness or it may point to agitation and hurry upon the part of the cutter. On the whole I incline to the latter view, since the matter was evidently important, and it is unlikely that the composer of such a letter would be careless. If he were in a hurry it opens up the interesting question why he should be in a hurry, since any letter posted up to early morning would reach Sir Henry before he would leave his hotel. Did the composer fear an interruption--and from whom?" "We are coming now rather into the region of guesswork," said Dr. Mortimer. "Say, rather, into the region where we balance probabilities and choose the most likely. It is the scientific use of the imagination, but we have always some material basis on which to start our speculation. Now, you would call it a guess, no doubt, but I am almost certain that this address has been written in a hotel." "How in the world can you say that?" "If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen and the ink have given the writer trouble. The pen has spluttered twice in a single word, and has run dry three times in a short address, showing that there was very little ink in the bottle. Now, a private pen or ink-bottle is seldom allowed to be in such a state, and the combination of the two must be quite rare. But you know the hotel ink and the hotel pen, where it is rare to get anything else. Yes, I have very little hesitation in saying that could we examine the waste-paper baskets of the hotels around Charing Cross until we found the remains of the mutilated Times leader we could lay our hands straight upon the person who sent this singular message. Halloa! Halloa! What's this?" He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon which the words were pasted, holding it only an inch or two from his eyes. "Well?" "Nothing," said he, throwing it down. "It is a blank half-sheet of paper, without even a water-mark upon it. I think we have drawn as much as we can from this curious letter; and now, Sir Henry, has anything else of interest happened to you since you have been in London?" "Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not." "You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?" "I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime novel," said our visitor. "Why in thunder should anyone follow or watch me?" "We are coming to that. You have nothing else to report to us before we go into this matter?" "Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting." "I think anything out of the ordinary routine of life well worth reporting." Sir Henry smiled. "I don't know much of British life yet, for I have spent nearly all my time in the States and in Canada. But I hope that to lose one of your boots is not part of the ordinary routine of life over here." "You have lost one of your boots?" "My dear sir," cried Dr. Mortimer, "it is only mislaid. You will find it when you return to the hotel. What is the use of troubling Mr. Holmes with trifles of this kind?" "Well, he asked me for anything outside the ordinary routine." "Exactly," said Holmes, "however foolish the incident may seem. You have lost one of your boots, you say?" "Well, mislaid it, anyhow. I put them both outside my door last night, and there was only one in the morning. I could get no sense out of the chap who cleans them. The worst of it is that I only bought the pair last night in the Strand, and I have never had them on." "If you have never worn them, why did you put them out to be cleaned?" "They were tan boots and had never been varnished. That was why I put them out." "Then I understand that on your arrival in London yesterday you went out at once and bought a pair of boots?" "I did a good deal of shopping. Dr. Mortimer here went round with me. You see, if I am to be squire down there I must dress the part, and it may be that I have got a little careless in my ways out West. Among other things I bought these brown boots--gave six dollars for them--and had one stolen before ever I had them on my feet." "It seems a singularly useless thing to steal," said Sherlock Holmes. "I confess that I share Dr. Mortimer's belief that it will not be long before the missing boot is found." "And, now, gentlemen," said the baronet with decision, "it seems to me that I have spoken quite enough about the little that I know. It is time that you kept your promise and gave me a full account of what we are all driving at." "Your request is a very reasonable one," Holmes answered. "Dr. Mortimer, I think you could not do better than to tell your story as you told it to us." Thus encouraged, our scientific friend drew his papers from his pocket, and presented the whole case as he had done upon the morning before. Sir Henry Baskerville listened with the deepest attention, and with an occasional exclamation of surprise. "Well, I seem to have come into an inheritance with a vengeance," said he when the long narrative was finished. "Of course, I've heard of the hound ever since I was in the nursery. It's the pet story of the family, though I never thought of taking it seriously before. But as to my uncle's death--well, it all seems boiling up in my head, and I can't get it clear yet. You don't seem quite to have made up your mind whether it's a case for a policeman or a clergyman." "Precisely." "And now there's this affair of the letter to me at the hotel. I suppose that fits into its place." "It seems to show that someone knows more than we do about what goes on upon the moor," said Dr. Mortimer. "And also," said Holmes, "that someone is not ill-disposed towards you, since they warn you of danger." "Or it may be that they wish, for their own purposes, to scare me away." "Well, of course, that is possible also. I am very much indebted to you, Dr. Mortimer, for introducing me to a problem which presents several interesting alternatives. But the practical point which we now have to decide, Sir Henry, is whether it is or is not advisable for you to go to Baskerville Hall." "Why should I not go?" "There seems to be danger." "Do you mean danger from this family fiend or do you mean danger from human beings?" "Well, that is what we have to find out." "Whichever it is, my answer is fixed. There is no devil in hell, Mr. Holmes, and there is no man upon earth who can prevent me from going to the home of my own people, and you may take that to be my final answer." His dark brows knitted and his face flushed to a dusky red as he spoke. It was evident that the fiery temper of the Baskervilles was not extinct in this their last representative. "Meanwhile," said he, "I have hardly had time to think over all that you have told me. It's a big thing for a man to have to understand and to decide at one sitting. I should like to have a quiet hour by myself to make up my mind. Now, look here, Mr. Holmes, it's half-past eleven now and I am going back right away to my hotel. Suppose you and your friend, Dr. Watson, come round and lunch with us at two. I'll be able to tell you more clearly then how this thing strikes me." "Is that convenient to you, Watson?" "Perfectly." "Then you may expect us. Shall I have a cab called?" "I'd prefer to walk, for this affair has flurried me rather." "I'll join you in a walk, with pleasure," said his companion. "Then we meet again at two o'clock. Au revoir, and good-morning!" We heard the steps of our visitors descend the stair and the bang of the front door. In an instant Holmes had changed from the languid dreamer to the man of action. "Your hat and boots, Watson, quick! Not a moment to lose!" He rushed into his room in his dressing-gown and was back again in a few seconds in a frock-coat. We hurried together down the stairs and into the street. Dr. Mortimer and Baskerville were still visible about two hundred yards ahead of us in the direction of Oxford Street. "Shall I run on and stop them?" "Not for the world, my dear Watson. I am perfectly satisfied with your company if you will tolerate mine. Our friends are wise, for it is certainly a very fine morning for a walk." He quickened his pace until we had decreased the distance which divided us by about half. Then, still keeping a hundred yards behind, we followed into Oxford Street and so down Regent Street. Once our friends stopped and stared into a shop window, upon which Holmes did the same. An instant afterwards he gave a little cry of satisfaction, and, following the direction of his eager eyes, I saw that a hansom cab with a man inside which had halted on the other side of the street was now proceeding slowly onward again. "There's our man, Watson! Come along! We'll have a good look at him, if we can do no more." At that instant I was aware of a bushy black beard and a pair of piercing eyes turned upon us through the side window of the cab. Instantly the trapdoor at the top flew up, something was screamed to the driver, and the cab flew madly off down Regent Street. Holmes looked eagerly round for another, but no empty one was in sight. Then he dashed in wild pursuit amid the stream of the traffic, but the start was too great, and already the cab was out of sight. "There now!" said Holmes bitterly as he emerged panting and white with vexation from the tide of vehicles. "Was ever such bad luck and such bad management, too? Watson, Watson, if you are an honest man you will record this also and set it against my successes!" "Who was the man?" "I have not an idea." "A spy?" "Well, it was evident from what we have heard that Baskerville has been very closely shadowed by someone since he has been in town. How else could it be known so quickly that it was the Northumberland Hotel which he had chosen? If they had followed him the first day I argued that they would follow him also the second. You may have observed that I twice strolled over to the window while Dr. Mortimer was reading his legend." "Yes, I remember." "I was looking out for loiterers in the street, but I saw none. We are dealing with a clever man, Watson. This matter cuts very deep, and though I have not finally made up my mind whether it is a benevolent or a malevolent agency which is in touch with us, I am conscious always of power and design. When our friends left I at once followed them in the hopes of marking down their invisible attendant. So wily was he that he had not trusted himself upon foot, but he had availed himself of a cab so that he could loiter behind or dash past them and so escape their notice. His method had the additional advantage that if they were to take a cab he was all ready to follow them. It has, however, one obvious disadvantage." "It puts him in the power of the cabman." "Exactly." "What a pity we did not get the number!" "My dear Watson, clumsy as I have been, you surely do not seriously imagine that I neglected to get the number? No. 2704 is our man. But that is no use to us for the moment." "I fail to see how you could have done more." "On observing the cab I should have instantly turned and walked in the other direction. I should then at my leisure have hired a second cab and followed the first at a respectful distance, or, better still, have driven to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there. When our unknown had followed Baskerville home we should have had the opportunity of playing his own game upon himself and seeing where he made for. As it is, by an indiscreet eagerness, which was taken advantage of with extraordinary quickness and energy by our opponent, we have betrayed ourselves and lost our man." We had been sauntering slowly down Regent Street during this conversation, and Dr. Mortimer, with his companion, had long vanished in front of us. "There is no object in our following them," said Holmes. "The shadow has departed and will not return. We must see what further cards we have in our hands and play them with decision. Could you swear to that man's face within the cab?" "I could swear only to the beard." "And so could I--from which I gather that in all probability it was a false one. A clever man upon so delicate an errand has no use for a beard save to conceal his features. Come in here, Watson!" He turned into one of the district messenger offices, where he was warmly greeted by the manager. "Ah, Wilson, I see you have not forgotten the little case in which I had the good fortune to help you?" "No, sir, indeed I have not. You saved my good name, and perhaps my life." "My dear fellow, you exaggerate. I have some recollection, Wilson, that you had among your boys a lad named Cartwright, who showed some ability during the investigation." "Yes, sir, he is still with us." "Could you ring him up?--thank you! And I should be glad to have change of this five-pound note." A lad of fourteen, with a bright, keen face, had obeyed the summons of the manager. He stood now gazing with great reverence at the famous detective. "Let me have the Hotel Directory," said Holmes. "Thank you! Now, Cartwright, there are the names of twenty-three hotels here, all in the immediate neighbourhood of Charing Cross. Do you see?" "Yes, sir." "You will visit each of these in turn." "Yes, sir." "You will begin in each case by giving the outside porter one shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings." "Yes, sir." "You will tell him that you want to see the waste-paper of yesterday. You will say that an important telegram has miscarried and that you are looking for it. You understand?" "Yes, sir." "But what you are really looking for is the centre page of the Times with some holes cut in it with scissors. Here is a copy of the Times. It is this page. You could easily recognize it, could you not?" "Yes, sir." "In each case the outside porter will send for the hall porter, to whom also you will give a shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings. You will then learn in possibly twenty cases out of the twenty-three that the waste of the day before has been burned or removed. In the three other cases you will be shown a heap of paper and you will look for this page of the Times among it. The odds are enormously against your finding it. There are ten shillings over in case of emergencies. Let me have a report by wire at Baker Street before evening. And now, Watson, it only remains for us to find out by wire the identity of the cabman, No. 2704, and then we will drop into one of the Bond Street picture galleries and fill in the time until we are due at the hotel." Chapter 5 Three Broken Threads Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of detaching his mind at will. For two hours the strange business in which we had been involved appeared to be forgotten, and he was entirely absorbed in the pictures of the modern Belgian masters. He would talk of nothing but art, of which he had the crudest ideas, from our leaving the gallery until we found ourselves at the Northumberland Hotel. "Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting you," said the clerk. "He asked me to show you up at once when you came." "Have you any objection to my looking at your register?" said Holmes. "Not in the least." The book showed that two names had been added after that of Baskerville. One was Theophilus Johnson and family, of Newcastle; the other Mrs. Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, Alton. "Surely that must be the same Johnson whom I used to know," said Holmes to the porter. "A lawyer, is he not, gray-headed, and walks with a limp?" "No, sir; this is Mr. Johnson, the coal-owner, a very active gentleman, not older than yourself." "Surely you are mistaken about his trade?" "No, sir! he has used this hotel for many years, and he is very well known to us." "Ah, that settles it. Mrs. Oldmore, too; I seem to remember the name. Excuse my curiosity, but often in calling upon one friend one finds another." "She is an invalid lady, sir. Her husband was once mayor of Gloucester. She always comes to us when she is in town." "Thank you; I am afraid I cannot claim her acquaintance. We have established a most important fact by these questions, Watson," he continued in a low voice as we went upstairs together. "We know now that the people who are so interested in our friend have not settled down in his own hotel. That means that while they are, as we have seen, very anxious to watch him, they are equally anxious that he should not see them. Now, this is a most suggestive fact." "What does it suggest?" "It suggests--halloa, my dear fellow, what on earth is the matter?" As we came round the top of the stairs we had run up against Sir Henry Baskerville himself. His face was flushed with anger, and he held an old and dusty boot in one of his hands. So furious was he that he was hardly articulate, and when he did speak it was in a much broader and more Western dialect than any which we had heard from him in the morning. "Seems to me they are playing me for a sucker in this hotel," he cried. "They'll find they've started in to monkey with the wrong man unless they are careful. By thunder, if that chap can't find my missing boot there will be trouble. I can take a joke with the best, Mr. Holmes, but they've got a bit over the mark this time." "Still looking for your boot?" "Yes, sir, and mean to find it." "But, surely, you said that it was a new brown boot?" "So it was, sir. And now it's an old black one." "What! you don't mean to say----?" "That's just what I do mean to say. I only had three pairs in the world--the new brown, the old black, and the patent leathers, which I am wearing. Last night they took one of my brown ones, and to-day they have sneaked one of the black. Well, have you got it? Speak out, man, and don't stand staring!" An agitated German waiter had appeared upon the scene. "No, sir; I have made inquiry all over the hotel, but I can hear no word of it." "Well, either that boot comes back before sundown or I'll see the manager and tell him that I go right straight out of this hotel." "It shall be found, sir--I promise you that if you will have a little patience it will be found." "Mind it is, for it's the last thing of mine that I'll lose in this den of thieves. Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you'll excuse my troubling you about such a trifle----" "I think it's well worth troubling about." "Why, you look very serious over it." "How do you explain it?" "I just don't attempt to explain it. It seems the very maddest, queerest thing that ever happened to me." "The queerest perhaps----" said Holmes, thoughtfully. "What do you make of it yourself?" "Well, I don't profess to understand it yet. This case of yours is very complex, Sir Henry. When taken in conjunction with your uncle's death I am not sure that of all the five hundred cases of capital importance which I have handled there is one which cuts so deep. But we hold several threads in our hands, and the odds are that one or other of them guides us to the truth. We may waste time in following the wrong one, but sooner or later we must come upon the right." We had a pleasant luncheon in which little was said of the business which had brought us together. It was in the private sitting-room to which we afterwards repaired that Holmes asked Baskerville what were his intentions. "To go to Baskerville Hall." "And when?" "At the end of the week." "On the whole," said Holmes, "I think that your decision is a wise one. I have ample evidence that you are being dogged in London, and amid the millions of this great city it is difficult to discover who these people are or what their object can be. If their intentions are evil they might do you a mischief, and we should be powerless to prevent it. You did not know, Dr. Mortimer, that you were followed this morning from my house?" Dr. Mortimer started violently. "Followed! By whom?" "That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell you. Have you among your neighbours or acquaintances on Dartmoor any man with a black, full beard?" "No--or, let me see--why, yes. Barrymore, Sir Charles's butler, is a man with a full, black beard." "Ha! Where is Barrymore?" "He is in charge of the Hall." "We had best ascertain if he is really there, or if by any possibility he might be in London." "How can you do that?" "Give me a telegraph form. 'Is all ready for Sir Henry?' That will do. Address to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What is the nearest telegraph-office? Grimpen. Very good, we will send a second wire to the postmaster, Grimpen: 'Telegram to Mr. Barrymore to be delivered into his own hand. If absent, please return wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel.' That should let us know before evening whether Barrymore is at his post in Devonshire or not." "That's so," said Baskerville. "By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who is this Barrymore, anyhow?" "He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead. They have looked after the Hall for four generations now. So far as I know, he and his wife are as respectable a couple as any in the county." "At the same time," said Baskerville, "it's clear enough that so long as there are none of the family at the Hall these people have a mighty fine home and nothing to do." "That is true." "Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles's will?" asked Holmes. "He and his wife had five hundred pounds each." "Ha! Did they know that they would receive this?" "Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about the provisions of his will." "That is very interesting." "I hope," said Dr. Mortimer, "that you do not look with suspicious eyes upon everyone who received a legacy from Sir Charles, for I also had a thousand pounds left to me." "Indeed! And anyone else?" "There were many insignificant sums to individuals, and a large number of public charities. The residue all went to Sir Henry." "And how much was the residue?" "Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds." Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I had no idea that so gigantic a sum was involved," said he. "Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, but we did not know how very rich he was until we came to examine his securities. The total value of the estate was close on to a million." "Dear me! It is a stake for which a man might well play a desperate game. And one more question, Dr. Mortimer. Supposing that anything happened to our young friend here--you will forgive the unpleasant hypothesis!--who would inherit the estate?" "Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles's younger brother died unmarried, the estate would descend to the Desmonds, who are distant cousins. James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in Westmoreland." "Thank you. These details are all of great interest. Have you met Mr. James Desmond?" "Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles. He is a man of venerable appearance and of saintly life. I remember that he refused to accept any settlement from Sir Charles, though he pressed it upon him." "And this man of simple tastes would be the heir to Sir Charles's thousands." "He would be the heir to the estate because that is entailed. He would also be the heir to the money unless it were willed otherwise by the present owner, who can, of course, do what he likes with it." "And have you made your will, Sir Henry?" "No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I've had no time, for it was only yesterday that I learned how matters stood. But in any case I feel that the money should go with the title and estate. That was my poor uncle's idea. How is the owner going to restore the glories of the Baskervilles if he has not money enough to keep up the property? House, land, and dollars must go together." "Quite so. Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind with you as to the advisability of your going down to Devonshire without delay. There is only one provision which I must make. You certainly must not go alone." "Dr. Mortimer returns with me." "But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend to, and his house is miles away from yours. With all the good will in the world he may be unable to help you. No, Sir Henry, you must take with you someone, a trusty man, who will be always by your side." "Is it possible that you could come yourself, Mr. Holmes?" "If matters came to a crisis I should endeavour to be present in person; but you can understand that, with my extensive consulting practice and with the constant appeals which reach me from many quarters, it is impossible for me to be absent from London for an indefinite time. At the present instant one of the most revered names in England is being besmirched by a blackmailer, and only I can stop a disastrous scandal. You will see how impossible it is for me to go to Dartmoor." "Whom would you recommend, then?" Holmes laid his hand upon my arm. "If my friend would undertake it there is no man who is better worth having at your side when you are in a tight place. No one can say so more confidently than I." The proposition took me completely by surprise, but before I had time to answer, Baskerville seized me by the hand and wrung it heartily. "Well, now, that is real kind of you, Dr. Watson," said he. "You see how it is with me, and you know just as much about the matter as I do. If you will come down to Baskerville Hall and see me through I'll never forget it." The promise of adventure had always a fascination for me, and I was complimented by the words of Holmes and by the eagerness with which the baronet hailed me as a companion. "I will come, with pleasure," said I. "I do not know how I could employ my time better." "And you will report very carefully to me," said Holmes. "When a crisis comes, as it will do, I will direct how you shall act. I suppose that by Saturday all might be ready?" "Would that suit Dr. Watson?" "Perfectly." "Then on Saturday, unless you hear to the contrary, we shall meet at the 10:30 train from Paddington." We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave a cry, of triumph, and diving into one of the corners of the room he drew a brown boot from under a cabinet. "My missing boot!" he cried. "May all our difficulties vanish as easily!" said Sherlock Holmes. "But it is a very singular thing," Dr. Mortimer remarked. "I searched this room carefully before lunch." "And so did I," said Baskerville. "Every inch of it." "There was certainly no boot in it then." "In that case the waiter must have placed it there while we were lunching." The German was sent for but professed to know nothing of the matter, nor could any inquiry clear it up. Another item had been added to that constant and apparently purposeless series of small mysteries which had succeeded each other so rapidly. Setting aside the whole grim story of Sir Charles's death, we had a line of inexplicable incidents all within the limits of two days, which included the receipt of the printed letter, the black-bearded spy in the hansom, the loss of the new brown boot, the loss of the old black boot, and now the return of the new brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove back to Baker Street, and I knew from his drawn brows and keen face that his mind, like my own, was busy in endeavouring to frame some scheme into which all these strange and apparently disconnected episodes could be fitted. All afternoon and late into the evening he sat lost in tobacco and thought. Just before dinner two telegrams were handed in. The first ran:-- "Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall.--BASKERVILLE." The second:-- "Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but sorry, to report unable to trace cut sheet of Times.--CARTWRIGHT." "There go two of my threads, Watson. There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you. We must cast round for another scent." "We have still the cabman who drove the spy." "Exactly. I have wired to get his name and address from the Official Registry. I should not be surprised if this were an answer to my question." The ring at the bell proved to be something even more satisfactory than an answer, however, for the door opened and a rough-looking fellow entered who was evidently the man himself. "I got a message from the head office that a gent at this address had been inquiring for 2704," said he. "I've driven my cab this seven years and never a word of complaint. I came here straight from the Yard to ask you to your face what you had against me." "I have nothing in the world against you, my good man," said Holmes. "On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you will give me a clear answer to my questions." "Well, I've had a good day and no mistake," said the cabman, with a grin. "What was it you wanted to ask, sir?" "First of all your name and address, in case I want you again." "John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough. My cab is out of Shipley's Yard, near Waterloo Station." Sherlock Holmes made a note of it. "Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who came and watched this house at ten o'clock this morning and afterwards followed the two gentlemen down Regent Street." The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed. "Why, there's no good my telling you things, for you seem to know as much as I do already," said he. "The truth is that the gentleman told me that he was a detective and that I was to say nothing about him to anyone." "My good fellow, this is a very serious business, and you may find yourself in a pretty bad position if you try to hide anything from me. You say that your fare told you that he was a detective?" "Yes, he did." "When did he say this?" "When he left me." "Did he say anything more?" "He mentioned his name." Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me. "Oh, he mentioned his name, did he? That was imprudent. What was the name that he mentioned?" "His name," said the cabman, "was Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than by the cabman's reply. For an instant he sat in silent amazement. Then he burst into a hearty laugh. "A touch, Watson--an undeniable touch!" said he. "I feel a foil as quick and supple as my own. He got home upon me very prettily that time. So his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it?" "Yes, sir, that was the gentleman's name." "Excellent! Tell me where you picked him up and all that occurred." "He hailed me at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square. He said that he was a detective, and he offered me two guineas if I would do exactly what he wanted all day and ask no questions. I was glad enough to agree. First we drove down to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there until two gentlemen came out and took a cab from the rank. We followed their cab until it pulled up somewhere near here." "This very door," said Holmes. "Well, I couldn't be sure of that, but I dare say my fare knew all about it. We pulled up half-way down the street and waited an hour and a half. Then the two gentlemen passed us, walking, and we followed down Baker Street and along ----" "I know," said Holmes. "Until we got three-quarters down Regent Street. Then my gentleman threw up the trap, and he cried that I should drive right away to Waterloo Station as hard as I could go. I whipped up the mare and we were there under the ten minutes. Then he paid up his two guineas, like a good one, and away he went into the station. Only just as he was leaving he turned round and he said: 'It might interest you to know that you have been driving Mr. Sherlock Holmes.' That's how I come to know the name." "I see. And you saw no more of him?" "Not after he went into the station." "And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" The cabman scratched his head. "Well, he wasn't altogether such an easy gentleman to describe. I'd put him at forty years of age, and he was of a middle height, two or three inches shorter than you, sir. He was dressed like a toff, and he had a black beard, cut square at the end, and a pale face. I don't know as I could say more than that." "Colour of his eyes?" "No, I can't say that." "Nothing more that you can remember?" "No, sir; nothing." "Well, then, here is your half-sovereign. There's another one waiting for you if you can bring any more information. Good night!" "Good night, sir, and thank you!" John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes turned to me with a shrug of his shoulders and a rueful smile. "Snap goes our third thread, and we end where we began," said he. "The cunning rascal! He knew our number, knew that Sir Henry Baskerville had consulted me, spotted who I was in Regent Street, conjectured that I had got the number of the cab and would lay my hands on the driver, and so sent back this audacious message. I tell you, Watson, this time we have got a foeman who is worthy of our steel. I've been checkmated in London. I can only wish you better luck in Devonshire. But I'm not easy in my mind about it." "About what?" "About sending you. It's an ugly business, Watson, an ugly dangerous business, and the more I see of it the less I like it. Yes, my dear fellow, you may laugh, but I give you my word that I shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street once more." Chapter 6 Baskerville Hall Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready upon the appointed day, and we started as arranged for Devonshire. Mr. Sherlock Holmes drove with me to the station and gave me his last parting injunctions and advice. "I will not bias your mind by suggesting theories or suspicions, Watson," said he; "I wish you simply to report facts in the fullest possible manner to me, and you can leave me to do the theorizing." "What sort of facts?" I asked. "Anything which may seem to have a bearing however indirect upon the case, and especially the relations between young Baskerville and his neighbours or any fresh particulars concerning the death of Sir Charles. I have made some inquiries myself in the last few days, but the results have, I fear, been negative. One thing only appears to be certain, and that is that Mr. James Desmond, who is the next heir, is an elderly gentleman of a very amiable disposition, so that this persecution does not arise from him. I really think that we may eliminate him entirely from our calculations. There remain the people who will actually surround Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor." "Would it not be well in the first place to get rid of this Barrymore couple?" "By no means. You could not make a greater mistake. If they are innocent it would be a cruel injustice, and if they are guilty we should be giving up all chance of bringing it home to them. No, no, we will preserve them upon our list of suspects. Then there is a groom at the Hall, if I remember right. There are two moorland farmers. There is our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I believe to be entirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we know nothing. There is this naturalist, Stapleton, and there is his sister, who is said to be a young lady of attractions. There is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor, and there are one or two other neighbours. These are the folk who must be your very special study." "I will do my best." "You have arms, I suppose?" "Yes, I thought it as well to take them." "Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you night and day, and never relax your precautions." Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage and were waiting for us upon the platform. "No, we have no news of any kind," said Dr. Mortimer in answer to my friend's questions. "I can swear to one thing, and that is that we have not been shadowed during the last two days. We have never gone out without keeping a sharp watch, and no one could have escaped our notice." "You have always kept together, I presume?" "Except yesterday afternoon. I usually give up one day to pure amusement when I come to town, so I spent it at the Museum of the College of Surgeons." "And I went to look at the folk in the park," said Baskerville. "But we had no trouble of any kind." "It was imprudent, all the same," said Holmes, shaking his head and looking very grave. "I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go about alone. Some great misfortune will befall you if you do. Did you get your other boot?" "No, sir, it is gone forever." "Indeed. That is very interesting. Well, good-bye," he added as the train began to glide down the platform. "Bear in mind, Sir Henry, one of the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr. Mortimer has read to us, and avoid the moor in those hours of darkness when the powers of evil are exalted." I looked back at the platform when we had left it far behind, and saw the tall, austere figure of Holmes standing motionless and gazing after us. The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and I spent it in making the more intimate acquaintance of my two companions and in playing with Dr. Mortimer's spaniel. In a very few hours the brown earth had become ruddy, the brick had changed to granite, and red cows grazed in well-hedged fields where the lush grasses and more luxuriant vegetation spoke of a richer, if a damper, climate. Young Baskerville stared eagerly out of the window, and cried aloud with delight as he recognized the familiar features of the Devon scenery. "I've been over a good part of the world since I left it, Dr. Watson," said he; "but I have never seen a place to compare with it." "I never saw a Devonshire man who did not swear by his county," I remarked. "It depends upon the breed of men quite as much as on the county," said Dr. Mortimer. "A glance at our friend here reveals the rounded head of the Celt, which carries inside it the Celtic enthusiasm and power of attachment. Poor Sir Charles's head was of a very rare type, half Gaelic, half Ivernian in its characteristics. But you were very young when you last saw Baskerville Hall, were you not?" "I was a boy in my 'teens at the time of my father's death, and had never seen the Hall, for he lived in a little cottage on the South Coast. Thence I went straight to a friend in America. I tell you it is all as new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I'm as keen as possible to see the moor." "Are you? Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your first sight of the moor," said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the carriage window. Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood there rose in the distance a gray, melancholy hill, with a strange jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some fantastic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time, his eyes fixed upon it, and I read upon his eager face how much it meant to him, this first sight of that strange spot where the men of his blood had held sway so long and left their mark so deep. There he sat, with his tweed suit and his American accent, in the corner of a prosaic railway-carriage, and yet as I looked at his dark and expressive face I felt more than ever how true a descendant he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and masterful men. There were pride, valour, and strength in his thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his large hazel eyes. If on that forbidding moor a difficult and dangerous quest should lie before us, this was at least a comrade for whom one might venture to take a risk with the certainty that he would bravely share it. The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all descended. Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with a pair of cobs was waiting. Our coming was evidently a great event, for station-master and porters clustered round us to carry out our luggage. It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was surprised to observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly men in dark uniforms, who leaned upon their short rifles and glanced keenly at us as we passed. The coachman, a hard-faced, gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were flying swiftly down the broad, white road. Rolling pasture lands curved upward on either side of us, and old gabled houses peeped out from amid the thick green foliage, but behind the peaceful and sunlit country-side there rose ever, dark against the evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills. The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on either side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart's-tongue ferns. Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light of the sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed over a narrow granite bridge, and skirted a noisy stream which gushed swiftly down, foaming and roaring amid the gray boulders. Both road and stream wound up through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir. At every turn Baskerville gave an exclamation of delight, looking eagerly about him and asking countless questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon the country-side, which bore so clearly the mark of the waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation--sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles. "Halloa!" cried Dr. Mortimer, "what is this?" A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor, lay in front of us. On the summit, hard and clear like an equestrian statue upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark and stern, his rifle poised ready over his forearm. He was watching the road along which we travelled. "What is this, Perkins?" asked Dr. Mortimer. Our driver half turned in his seat. "There's a convict escaped from Princetown, sir. He's been out three days now, and the warders watch every road and every station, but they've had no sight of him yet. The farmers about here don't like it, sir, and that's a fact." "Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can give information." "Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing compared to the chance of having your throat cut. You see, it isn't like any ordinary convict. This is a man that would stick at nothing." "Who is he, then?" "It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer." I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had taken an interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of the crime and the wanton brutality which had marked all the actions of the assassin. The commutation of his death sentence had been due to some doubts as to his complete sanity, so atrocious was his conduct. Our wagonette had topped a rise and in front of us rose the huge expanse of the moor, mottled with gnarled and craggy cairns and tors. A cold wind swept down from it and set us shivering. Somewhere there, on that desolate plain, was lurking this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a wild beast, his heart full of malignancy against the whole race which had cast him out. It needed but this to complete the grim suggestiveness of the barren waste, the chilling wind, and the darkling sky. Even Baskerville fell silent and pulled his overcoat more closely around him. We had left the fertile country behind and beneath us. We looked back on it now, the slanting rays of a low sun turning the streams to threads of gold and glowing on the red earth new turned by the plough and the broad tangle of the woodlands. The road in front of us grew bleaker and wilder over huge russet and olive slopes, sprinkled with giant boulders. Now and then we passed a moorland cottage, walled and roofed with stone, with no creeper to break its harsh outline. Suddenly we looked down into a cup-like depression, patched with stunted oaks and firs which had been twisted and bent by the fury of years of storm. Two high, narrow towers rose over the trees. The driver pointed with his whip. "Baskerville Hall," said he. Its master had risen and was staring with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. A few minutes later we had reached the lodge-gates, a maze of fantastic tracery in wrought iron, with weather-bitten pillars on either side, blotched with lichens, and surmounted by the boars' heads of the Baskervilles. The lodge was a ruin of black granite and bared ribs of rafters, but facing it was a new building, half constructed, the first fruit of Sir Charles's South African gold. Through the gateway we passed into the avenue, where the wheels were again hushed amid the leaves, and the old trees shot their branches in a sombre tunnel over our heads. Baskerville shuddered as he looked up the long, dark drive to where the house glimmered like a ghost at the farther end. "Was it here?" he asked in a low voice. "No, no, the Yew Alley is on the other side." The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face. "It's no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him in such a place as this," said he. "It's enough to scare any man. I'll have a row of electric lamps up here inside of six months, and you won't know it again, with a thousand candle-power Swan and Edison right here in front of the hall door." The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the house lay before us. In the fading light I could see that the centre was a heavy block of building from which a porch projected. The whole front was draped in ivy, with a patch clipped bare here and there where a window or a coat-of-arms broke through the dark veil. From this central block rose the twin towers, ancient, crenelated, and pierced with many loopholes. To right and left of the turrets were more modern wings of black granite. A dull light shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys which rose from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single black column of smoke. "Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!" A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open the door of the wagonette. The figure of a woman was silhouetted against the yellow light of the hall. She came out and helped the man to hand down our bags. "You don't mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry?" said Dr. Mortimer. "My wife is expecting me." "Surely you will stay and have some dinner?" "No, I must go. I shall probably find some work awaiting me. I would stay to show you over the house, but Barrymore will be a better guide than I. Good-bye, and never hesitate night or day to send for me if I can be of service." The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned into the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us. It was a fine apartment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and heavily raftered with huge balks of age-blackened oak. In the great old-fashioned fireplace behind the high iron dogs a log-fire crackled and snapped. Sir Henry and I held out our hands to it, for we were numb from our long drive. Then we gazed round us at the high, thin window of old stained glass, the oak panelling, the stags' heads, the coats-of-arms upon the walls, all dim and sombre in the subdued light of the central lamp. "It's just as I imagined it," said Sir Henry. "Is it not the very picture of an old family home? To think that this should be the same hall in which for five hundred years my people have lived. It strikes me solemn to think of it." I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he gazed about him. The light beat upon him where he stood, but long shadows trailed down the walls and hung like a black canopy above him. Barrymore had returned from taking our luggage to our rooms. He stood in front of us now with the subdued manner of a well-trained servant. He was a remarkable-looking man, tall, handsome, with a square black beard and pale, distinguished features. "Would you wish dinner to be served at once, sir?" "Is it ready?" "In a very few minutes, sir. You will find hot water in your rooms. My wife and I will be happy, Sir Henry, to stay with you until you have made your fresh arrangements, but you will understand that under the new conditions this house will require a considerable staff." "What new conditions?" "I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a very retired life, and we were able to look after his wants. You would, naturally, wish to have more company, and so you will need changes in your household." "Do you mean that your wife and you wish to leave?" "Only when it is quite convenient to you, sir." "But your family have been with us for several generations, have they not? I should be sorry to begin my life here by breaking an old family connection." I seemed to discern some signs of emotion upon the butler's white face. "I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife. But to tell the truth, sir, we were both very much attached to Sir Charles, and his death gave us a shock and made these surroundings very painful to us. I fear that we shall never again be easy in our minds at Baskerville Hall." "But what do you intend to do?" "I have no doubt, sir, that we shall succeed in establishing ourselves in some business. Sir Charles's generosity has given us the means to do so. And now, sir, perhaps I had best show you to your rooms." A square balustraded gallery ran round the top of the old hall, approached by a double stair. From this central point two long corridors extended the whole length of the building, from which all the bedrooms opened. My own was in the same wing as Baskerville's and almost next door to it. These rooms appeared to be much more modern than the central part of the house, and the bright paper and numerous candles did something to remove the sombre impression which our arrival had left upon my mind. But the dining-room which opened out of the hall was a place of shadow and gloom. It was a long chamber with a step separating the dais where the family sat from the lower portion reserved for their dependents. At one end a minstrel's gallery overlooked it. Black beams shot across above our heads, with a smoke-darkened ceiling beyond them. With rows of flaring torches to light it up, and the colour and rude hilarity of an old-time banquet, it might have softened; but now, when two black-clothed gentlemen sat in the little circle of light thrown by a shaded lamp, one's voice became hushed and one's spirit subdued. A dim line of ancestors, in every variety of dress, from the Elizabethan knight to the buck of the Regency, stared down upon us and daunted us by their silent company. We talked little, and I for one was glad when the meal was over and we were able to retire into the modern billiard-room and smoke a cigarette. "My word, it isn't a very cheerful place," said Sir Henry. "I suppose one can tone down to it, but I feel a bit out of the picture at present. I don't wonder that my uncle got a little jumpy if he lived all alone in such a house as this. However, if it suits you, we will retire early to-night, and perhaps things may seem more cheerful in the morning." I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed and looked out from my window. It opened upon the grassy space which lay in front of the hall door. Beyond, two copses of trees moaned and swung in a rising wind. A half moon broke through the rifts of racing clouds. In its cold light I saw beyond the trees a broken fringe of rocks, and the long, low curve of the melancholy moor. I closed the curtain, feeling that my last impression was in keeping with the rest. And yet it was not quite the last. I found myself weary and yet wakeful, tossing restlessly from side to side, seeking for the sleep which would not come. Far away a chiming clock struck out the quarters of the hours, but otherwise a deathly silence lay upon the old house. And then suddenly, in the very dead of the night, there came a sound to my ears, clear, resonant, and unmistakable. It was the sob of a woman, the muffled, strangling gasp of one who is torn by an uncontrollable sorrow. I sat up in bed and listened intently. The noise could not have been far away and was certainly in the house. For half an hour I waited with every nerve on the alert, but there came no other sound save the chiming clock and the rustle of the ivy on the wall. Chapter 7 The Stapletons of Merripit House The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface from our minds the grim and gray impression which had been left upon both of us by our first experience of Baskerville Hall. As Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast the sunlight flooded in through the high mullioned windows, throwing watery patches of colour from the coats of arms which covered them. The dark panelling glowed like bronze in the golden rays, and it was hard to realize that this was indeed the chamber which had struck such a gloom into our souls upon the evening before. "I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to blame!" said the baronet. "We were tired with our journey and chilled by our drive, so we took a gray view of the place. Now we are fresh and well, so it is all cheerful once more." "And yet it was not entirely a question of imagination," I answered. "Did you, for example, happen to hear someone, a woman I think, sobbing in the night?" "That is curious, for I did when I was half asleep fancy that I heard something of the sort. I waited quite a time, but there was no more of it, so I concluded that it was all a dream." "I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was really the sob of a woman." "We must ask about this right away." He rang the bell and asked Barrymore whether he could account for our experience. It seemed to me that the pallid features of the butler turned a shade paler still as he listened to his master's question. "There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry," he answered. "One is the scullery-maid, who sleeps in the other wing. The other is my wife, and I can answer for it that the sound could not have come from her." And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after breakfast I met Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun full upon her face. She was a large, impassive, heavy-featured woman with a stern set expression of mouth. But her tell-tale eyes were red and glanced at me from between swollen lids. It was she, then, who wept in the night, and if she did so her husband must know it. Yet he had taken the obvious risk of discovery in declaring that it was not so. Why had he done this? And why did she weep so bitterly? Already round this pale-faced, handsome, black-bearded man there was gathering an atmosphere of mystery and of gloom. It was he who had been the first to discover the body of Sir Charles, and we had only his word for all the circumstances which led up to the old man's death. Was it possible that it was Barrymore after all whom we had seen in the cab in Regent Street? The beard might well have been the same. The cabman had described a somewhat shorter man, but such an impression might easily have been erroneous. How could I settle the point forever? Obviously the first thing to do was to see the Grimpen postmaster, and find whether the test telegram had really been placed in Barrymore's own hands. Be the answer what it might, I should at least have something to report to Sherlock Holmes. Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that the time was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk of four miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a small gray hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to be the inn and the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the rest. The postmaster, who was also the village grocer, had a clear recollection of the telegram. "Certainly, sir," said he, "I had the telegram delivered to Mr. Barrymore exactly as directed." "Who delivered it?" "My boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore at the Hall last week, did you not?" "Yes, father, I delivered it." "Into his own hands?" I asked. "Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not put it into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore's hands, and she promised to deliver it at once." "Did you see Mr. Barrymore?" "No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft." "If you didn't see him, how do you know he was in the loft?" "Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is," said the postmaster testily. "Didn't he get the telegram? If there is any mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain." It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was clear that in spite of Holmes's ruse we had no proof that Barrymore had not been in London all the time. Suppose that it were so--suppose that the same man had been the last who had seen Sir Charles alive, and the first to dog the new heir when he returned to England. What then? Was he the agent of others or had he some sinister design of his own? What interest could he have in persecuting the Baskerville family? I thought of the strange warning clipped out of the leading article of the Times. Was that his work or was it possibly the doing of someone who was bent upon counteracting his schemes? The only conceivable motive was that which had been suggested by Sir Henry, that if the family could be scared away a comfortable and permanent home would be secured for the Barrymores. But surely such an explanation as that would be quite inadequate to account for the deep and subtle scheming which seemed to be weaving an invisible net round the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that no more complex case had come to him in all the long series of his sensational investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the gray, lonely road, that my friend might soon be freed from his preoccupations and able to come down to take this heavy burden of responsibility from my shoulders. Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running feet behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned, expecting to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a stranger who was pursuing me. He was a small, slim, clean-shaven, prim-faced man, flaxen-haired and lean-jawed, between thirty and forty years of age, dressed in a gray suit and wearing a straw hat. A tin box for botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and he carried a green butterfly-net in one of his hands. "You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson," said he, as he came panting up to where I stood. "Here on the moor we are homely folk and do not wait for formal introductions. You may possibly have heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of Merripit House." "Your net and box would have told me as much," said I, "for I knew that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know me?" "I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me from the window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the same way I thought that I would overtake you and introduce myself. I trust that Sir Henry is none the worse for his journey?" "He is very well, thank you." "We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir Charles the new baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking much of a wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a place of this kind, but I need not tell you that it means a very great deal to the country-side. Sir Henry has, I suppose, no superstitious fears in the matter?" "I do not think that it is likely." "Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the family?" "I have heard it." "It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here! Any number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a creature upon the moor." He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to read in his eyes that he took the matter more seriously. "The story took a great hold upon the imagination of Sir Charles, and I have no doubt that it led to his tragic end." "But how?" "His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog might have had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy that he really did see something of the kind upon that last night in the Yew Alley. I feared that some disaster might occur, for I was very fond of the old man, and I knew that his heart was weak." "How did you know that?" "My friend Mortimer told me." "You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he died of fright in consequence?" "Have you any better explanation?" "I have not come to any conclusion." "Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" The words took away my breath for an instant, but a glance at the placid face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no surprise was intended. "It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr. Watson," said he. "The records of your detective have reached us here, and you could not celebrate him without being known yourself. When Mortimer told me your name he could not deny your identity. If you are here, then it follows that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is interesting himself in the matter, and I am naturally curious to know what view he may take." "I am afraid that I cannot answer that question." "May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself?" "He cannot leave town at present. He has other cases which engage his attention." "What a pity! He might throw some light on that which is so dark to us. But as to your own researches, if there is any possible way in which I can be of service to you I trust that you will command me. If I had any indication of the nature of your suspicions or how you propose to investigate the case, I might perhaps even now give you some aid or advice." "I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend, Sir Henry, and that I need no help of any kind." "Excellent!" said Stapleton. "You are perfectly right to be wary and discreet. I am justly reproved for what I feel was an unjustifiable intrusion, and I promise you that I will not mention the matter again." We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from the road and wound away across the moor. A steep, boulder-sprinkled hill lay upon the right which had in bygone days been cut into a granite quarry. The face which was turned towards us formed a dark cliff, with ferns and brambles growing in its niches. From over a distant rise there floated a gray plume of smoke. "A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit House," said he. "Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to my sister." My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry's side. But then I remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his study table was littered. It was certain that I could not help with those. And Holmes had expressly said that I should study the neighbours upon the moor. I accepted Stapleton's invitation, and we turned together down the path. "It is a wonderful place, the moor," said he, looking round over the undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged granite foaming up into fantastic surges. "You never tire of the moor. You cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains. It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious." "You know it well, then?" "I have only been here two years. The residents would call me a newcomer. We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my tastes led me to explore every part of the country round, and I should think that there are few men who know it better than I do." "Is it hard to know?" "Very hard. You see, for example, this great plain to the north here with the queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observe anything remarkable about that?" "It would be a rare place for a gallop." "You would naturally think so and the thought has cost several their lives before now. You notice those bright green spots scattered thickly over it?" "Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest." Stapleton laughed. "That is the great Grimpen Mire," said he. "A false step yonder means death to man or beast. Only yesterday I saw one of the moor ponies wander into it. He never came out. I saw his head for quite a long time craning out of the bog-hole, but it sucked him down at last. Even in dry seasons it is a danger to cross it, but after these autumn rains it is an awful place. And yet I can find my way to the very heart of it and return alive. By George, there is another of those miserable ponies!" Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges. Then a long, agonized, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful cry echoed over the moor. It turned me cold with horror, but my companion's nerves seemed to be stronger than mine. "It's gone!" said he. "The mire has him. Two in two days, and many more, perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the dry weather, and never know the difference until the mire has them in its clutches. It's a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire." "And you say you can penetrate it?" "Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can take. I have found them out." "But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?" "Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands cut off on all sides by the impassable mire, which has crawled round them in the course of years. That is where the rare plants and the butterflies are, if you have the wit to reach them." "I shall try my luck some day." He looked at me with a surprised face. "For God's sake put such an idea out of your mind," said he. "Your blood would be upon my head. I assure you that there would not be the least chance of your coming back alive. It is only by remembering certain complex landmarks that I am able to do it." "Halloa!" I cried. "What is that?" A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it came. From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then sank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur once again. Stapleton looked at me with a curious expression in his face. "Queer place, the moor!" said he. "But what is it?" "The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for its prey. I've heard it once or twice before, but never quite so loud." I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing stirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which croaked loudly from a tor behind us. "You are an educated man. You don't believe such nonsense as that?" said I. "What do you think is the cause of so strange a sound?" "Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It's the mud settling, or the water rising, or something." "No, no, that was a living voice." "Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming?" "No, I never did." "It's a very rare bird--practically extinct--in England now, but all things are possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be surprised to learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last of the bitterns." "It's the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my life." "Yes, it's rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the hill- side yonder. What do you make of those?" The whole steep slope was covered with gray circular rings of stone, a score of them at least. "What are they? Sheep-pens?" "No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoric man lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived there since, we find all his little arrangements exactly as he left them. These are his wigwams with the roofs off. You can even see his hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity to go inside. "But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?" "Neolithic man--no date." "What did he do?" "He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for tin when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Look at the great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes, you will find some very singular points about the moor, Dr. Watson. Oh, excuse me an instant! It is surely Cyclopides." A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an instant Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed in pursuit of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the great mire, and my acquaintance never paused for an instant, bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the air. His gray clothes and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made him not unlike some huge moth himself. I was standing watching his pursuit with a mixture of admiration for his extraordinary activity and fear lest he should lose his footing in the treacherous mire, when I heard the sound of steps, and turning round found a woman near me upon the path. She had come from the direction in which the plume of smoke indicated the position of Merripit House, but the dip of the moor had hid her until she was quite close. I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had been told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor, and I remembered that I had heard someone describe her as being a beauty. The woman who approached me was certainly that, and of a most uncommon type. There could not have been a greater contrast between brother and sister, for Stapleton was neutral tinted, with light hair and gray eyes, while she was darker than any brunette whom I have seen in England--slim, elegant, and tall. She had a proud, finely cut face, so regular that it might have seemed impassive were it not for the sensitive mouth and the beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her perfect figure and elegant dress she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon a lonely moorland path. Her eyes were on her brother as I turned, and then she quickened her pace towards me. I had raised my hat and was about to make some explanatory remark, when her own words turned all my thoughts into a new channel. "Go back!" she said. "Go straight back to London, instantly." I could only stare at her in stupid surprise. Her eyes blazed at me, and she tapped the ground impatiently with her foot. "Why should I go back?" I asked. "I cannot explain." She spoke in a low, eager voice, with a curious lisp in her utterance. "But for God's sake do what I ask you. Go back and never set foot upon the moor again." "But I have only just come." "Man, man!" she cried. "Can you not tell when a warning is for your own good? Go back to London! Start to-night! Get away from this place at all costs! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word of what I have said. Would you mind getting that orchid for me among the mares-tails yonder? We are very rich in orchids on the moor, though, of course, you are rather late to see the beauties of the place." Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us breathing hard and flushed with his exertions. "Halloa, Beryl!" said he, and it seemed to me that the tone of his greeting was not altogether a cordial one. "Well, Jack, you are very hot." "Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare and seldom found in the late autumn. What a pity that I should have missed him!" He spoke unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced incessantly from the girl to me. "You have introduced yourselves, I can see." "Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him to see the true beauties of the moor." "Why, who do you think this is?" "I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville." "No, no," said I. "Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My name is Dr. Watson." A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face. "We have been talking at cross purposes," said she. "Why, you had not very much time for talk," her brother remarked with the same questioning eyes. "I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being merely a visitor," said she. "It cannot much matter to him whether it is early or late for the orchids. But you will come on, will you not, and see Merripit House?" A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the farm of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into repair and turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded it, but the trees, as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and nipped, and the effect of the whole place was mean and melancholy. We were admitted by a strange, wizened, rusty-coated old manservant, who seemed in keeping with the house. Inside, however, there were large rooms furnished with an elegance in which I seemed to recognize the taste of the lady. As I looked from their windows at the interminable granite-flecked moor rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could not but marvel at what could have brought this highly educated man and this beautiful woman to live in such a place. "Queer spot to choose, is it not?" said he as if in answer to my thought. "And yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do we not, Beryl?" "Quite happy," said she, but there was no ring of conviction in her words. "I had a school," said Stapleton. "It was in the north country. The work to a man of my temperament was mechanical and uninteresting, but the privilege of living with youth, of helping to mould those young minds, and of impressing them with one's own character and ideals, was very dear to me. However, the fates were against us. A serious epidemic broke out in the school and three of the boys died. It never recovered from the blow, and much of my capital was irretrievably swallowed up. And yet, if it were not for the loss of the charming companionship of the boys, I could rejoice over my own misfortune, for, with my strong tastes for botany and zoology, I find an unlimited field of work here, and my sister is as devoted to Nature as I am. All this, Dr. Watson, has been brought upon your head by your expression as you surveyed the moor out of our window." "It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little dull--less for you, perhaps, than for your sister." "No, no, I am never dull," said she, quickly. "We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting neighbours. Dr. Mortimer is a most learned man in his own line. Poor Sir Charles was also an admirable companion. We knew him well, and miss him more than I can tell. Do you think that I should intrude if I were to call this afternoon and make the acquaintance of Sir Henry?" "I am sure that he would be delighted." "Then perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so. We may in our humble way do something to make things more easy for him until he becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. Will you come upstairs, Dr. Watson, and inspect my collection of Lepidoptera? I think it is the most complete one in the south-west of England. By the time that you have looked through them lunch will be almost ready." But I was eager to get back to my charge. The melancholy of the moor, the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which had been associated with the grim legend of the Baskervilles, all these things tinged my thoughts with sadness. Then on the top of these more or less vague impressions there had come the definite and distinct warning of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such intense earnestness that I could not doubt that some grave and deep reason lay behind it. I resisted all pressure to stay for lunch, and I set off at once upon my return journey, taking the grass-grown path by which we had come. It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut for those who knew it, for before I had reached the road I was astounded to see Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side of the track. Her face was beautifully flushed with her exertions, and she held her hand to her side. "I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson," said she. "I had not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop, or my brother may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am about the stupid mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir Henry. Please forget the words I said, which have no application whatever to you." "But I can't forget them, Miss Stapleton," said I. "I am Sir Henry's friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine. Tell me why it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should return to London." "A woman's whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or do." "No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remember the look in your eyes. Please, please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton, for ever since I have been here I have been conscious of shadows all round me. Life has become like that great Grimpen Mire, with little green patches everywhere into which one may sink and with no guide to point the track. Tell me then what it was that you meant, and I will promise to convey your warning to Sir Henry." An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her face, but her eyes had hardened again when she answered me. "You make too much of it, Dr. Watson," said she. "My brother and I were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him very intimately, for his favourite walk was over the moor to our house. He was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over the family, and when this tragedy came I naturally felt that there must be some grounds for the fears which he had expressed. I was distressed therefore when another member of the family came down to live here, and I felt that he should be warned of the danger which he will run. That was all which I intended to convey. "But what is the danger?" "You know the story of the hound?" "I do not believe in such nonsense." "But I do. If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take him away from a place which has always been fatal to his family. The world is wide. Why should he wish to live at the place of danger?" "Because it is the place of danger. That is Sir Henry's nature. I fear that unless you can give me some more definite information than this it would be impossible to get him to move." "I cannot say anything definite, for I do not know anything definite." "I would ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton. If you meant no more than this when you first spoke to me, why should you not wish your brother to overhear what you said? There is nothing to which he, or anyone else, could object." "My brother is very anxious to have the Hall inhabited, for he thinks it is for the good of the poor folk upon the moor. He would be very angry if he knew that I have said anything which might induce Sir Henry to go away. But I have done my duty now and I will say no more. I must get back, or he will miss me and suspect that I have seen you. Good-bye!" She turned and had disappeared in a few minutes among the scattered boulders, while I, with my soul full of vague fears, pursued my way to Baskerville Hall. Chapter 8 First Report of Dr. Watson From this point onward I will follow the course of events by transcribing my own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes which lie before me on the table. One page is missing, but otherwise they are exactly as written and show my feelings and suspicions of the moment more accurately than my memory, clear as it is upon these tragic events, can possibly do. BASKERVILLE HALL, October 13th. MY DEAR HOLMES,--My previous letters and telegrams have kept you pretty well up to date as to all that has occurred in this most God-forsaken corner of the world. The longer one stays here the more does the spirit of the moor sink into one's soul, its vastness, and also its grim charm. When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all traces of modern England behind you, but on the other hand you are conscious everywhere of the homes and the work of the prehistoric people. On all sides of you as you walk are the houses of these forgotten folk, with their graves and the huge monoliths which are supposed to have marked their temples. As you look at their gray stone huts against the scarred hill-sides you leave your own age behind you, and if you were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the low door fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you would feel that his presence there was more natural than your own. The strange thing is that they should have lived so thickly on what must always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian, but I could imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried race who were forced to accept that which none other would occupy. All this, however, is foreign to the mission on which you sent me and will probably be very uninteresting to your severely practical mind. I can still remember your complete indifference as to whether the sun moved round the earth or the earth round the sun. Let me, therefore, return to the facts concerning Sir Henry Baskerville. If you have not had any report within the last few days it is because up to to-day there was nothing of importance to relate. Then a very surprising circumstance occurred, which I shall tell you in due course. But, first of all, I must keep you in touch with some of the other factors in the situation. One of these, concerning which I have said little, is the escaped convict upon the moor. There is strong reason now to believe that he has got right away, which is a considerable relief to the lonely householders of this district. A fortnight has passed since his flight, during which he has not been seen and nothing has been heard of him. It is surely inconceivable that he could have held out upon the moor during all that time. Of course, so far as his concealment goes there is no difficulty at all. Any one of these stone huts would give him a hiding-place. But there is nothing to eat unless he were to catch and slaughter one of the moor sheep. We think, therefore, that he has gone, and the outlying farmers sleep the better in consequence. We are four able-bodied men in this household, so that we could take good care of ourselves, but I confess that I have had uneasy moments when I have thought of the Stapletons. They live miles from any help. There are one maid, an old manservant, the sister, and the brother, the latter not a very strong man. They would be helpless in the hands of a desperate fellow like this Notting Hill criminal, if he could once effect an entrance. Both Sir Henry and I were concerned at their situation, and it was suggested that Perkins the groom should go over to sleep there, but Stapleton would not hear of it. The fact is that our friend, the baronet, begins to display a considerable interest in our fair neighbour. It is not to be wondered at, for time hangs heavily in this lonely spot to an active man like him, and she is a very fascinating and beautiful woman. There is something tropical and exotic about her which forms a singular contrast to her cool and unemotional brother. Yet he also gives the idea of hidden fires. He has certainly a very marked influence over her, for I have seen her continually glance at him as she talked as if seeking approbation for what she said. I trust that he is kind to her. There is a dry glitter in his eyes, and a firm set of his thin lips, which goes with a positive and possibly a harsh nature. You would find him an interesting study. He came over to call upon Baskerville on that first day, and the very next morning he took us both to show us the spot where the legend of the wicked Hugo is supposed to have had its origin. It was an excursion of some miles across the moor to a place which is so dismal that it might have suggested the story. We found a short valley between rugged tors which led to an open, grassy space flecked over with the white cotton grass. In the middle of it rose two great stones, worn and sharpened at the upper end, until they looked like the huge corroding fangs of some monstrous beast. In every way it corresponded with the scene of the old tragedy. Sir Henry was much interested and asked Stapleton more than once whether he did really believe in the possibility of the interference of the supernatural in the affairs of men. He spoke lightly, but it was evident that he was very much in earnest. Stapleton was guarded in his replies, but it was easy to see that he said less than he might, and that he would not express his whole opinion out of consideration for the feelings of the baronet. He told us of similar cases, where families had suffered from some evil influence, and he left us with the impression that he shared the popular view upon the matter. On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House, and it was there that Sir Henry made the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton. From the first moment that he saw her he appeared to be strongly attracted by her, and I am much mistaken if the feeling was not mutual. He referred to her again and again on our walk home, and since then hardly a day has passed that we have not seen something of the brother and sister. They dine here to-night, and there is some talk of our going to them next week. One would imagine that such a match would be very welcome to Stapleton, and yet I have more than once caught a look of the strongest disapprobation in his face when Sir Henry has been paying some attention to his sister. He is much attached to her, no doubt, and would lead a lonely life without her, but it would seem the height of selfishness if he were to stand in the way of her making so brilliant a marriage. Yet I am certain that he does not wish their intimacy to ripen into love, and I have several times observed that he has taken pains to prevent them from being _tête-à-tête_. By the way, your instructions to me never to allow Sir Henry to go out alone will become very much more onerous if a love affair were to be added to our other difficulties. My popularity would soon suffer if I were to carry out your orders to the letter. The other day--Thursday, to be more exact--Dr. Mortimer lunched with us. He has been excavating a barrow at Long Down, and has got a prehistoric skull which fills him with great joy. Never was there such a single-minded enthusiast as he! The Stapletons came in afterwards, and the good doctor took us all to the Yew Alley, at Sir Henry's request, to show us exactly how everything occurred upon that fatal night. It is a long, dismal walk, the Yew Alley, between two high walls of clipped hedge, with a narrow band of grass upon either side. At the far end is an old tumble-down summer-house. Half-way down is the moor-gate, where the old gentleman left his cigar-ash. It is a white wooden gate with a latch. Beyond it lies the wide moor. I remembered your theory of the affair and tried to picture all that had occurred. As the old man stood there he saw something coming across the moor, something which terrified him so that he lost his wits, and ran and ran until he died of sheer horror and exhaustion. There was the long, gloomy tunnel down which he fled. And from what? A sheep-dog of the moor? Or a spectral hound, black, silent, and monstrous? Was there a human agency in the matter? Did the pale, watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say? It was all dim and vague, but always there is the dark shadow of crime behind it. One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last. This is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to the south of us. He is an elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and choleric. His passion is for the British law, and he has spent a large fortune in litigation. He fights for the mere pleasure of fighting and is equally ready to take up either side of a question, so that it is no wonder that he has found it a costly amusement. Sometimes he will shut up a right of way and defy the parish to make him open it. At others he will with his own hands tear down some other man's gate and declare that a path has existed there from time immemorial, defying the owner to prosecute him for trespass. He is learned in old manorial and communal rights, and he applies his knowledge sometimes in favour of the villagers of Fernworthy and sometimes against them, so that he is periodically either carried in triumph down the village street or else burned in effigy, according to his latest exploit. He is said to have about seven lawsuits upon his hands at present, which will probably swallow up the remainder of his fortune and so draw his sting and leave him harmless for the future. Apart from the law he seems a kindly, good-natured person, and I only mention him because you were particular that I should send some description of the people who surround us. He is curiously employed at present, for, being an amateur astronomer, he has an excellent telescope, with which he lies upon the roof of his own house and sweeps the moor all day in the hope of catching a glimpse of the escaped convict. If he would confine his energies to this all would be well, but there are rumours that he intends to prosecute Dr. Mortimer for opening a grave without the consent of the next-of-kin, because he dug up the Neolithic skull in the barrow on Long Down. He helps to keep our lives from being monotonous and gives a little comic relief where it is badly needed. And now, having brought you up to date in the escaped convict, the Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Frankland, of Lafter Hall, let me end on that which is most important and tell you more about the Barrymores, and especially about the surprising development of last night. First of all about the test telegram, which you sent from London in order to make sure that Barrymore was really here. I have already explained that the testimony of the postmaster shows that the test was worthless and that we have no proof one way or the other. I told Sir Henry how the matter stood, and he at once, in his downright fashion, had Barrymore up and asked him whether he had received the telegram himself. Barrymore said that he had. "Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?" asked Sir Henry. Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time. "No," said he, "I was in the box-room at the time, and my wife brought it up to me." "Did you answer it yourself?" "No; I told my wife what to answer and she went down to write it." In the evening he recurred to the subject of his own accord. "I could not quite understand the object of your questions this morning, Sir Henry," said he. "I trust that they do not mean that I have done anything to forfeit your confidence?" Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so and pacify him by giving him a considerable part of his old wardrobe, the London outfit having now all arrived. Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me. She is a heavy, solid person, very limited, intensely respectable, and inclined to be puritanical. You could hardly conceive a less emotional subject. Yet I have told you how, on the first night here, I heard her sobbing bitterly, and since then I have more than once observed traces of tears upon her face. Some deep sorrow gnaws ever at her heart. Sometimes I wonder if she has a guilty memory which haunts her, and sometimes I suspect Barrymore of being a domestic tyrant. I have always felt that there was something singular and questionable in this man's character, but the adventure of last night brings all my suspicions to a head. And yet it may seem a small matter in itself. You are aware that I am not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in this house my slumbers have been lighter than ever. Last night, about two in the morning, I was aroused by a stealthy step passing my room. I rose, opened my door, and peeped out. A long black shadow was trailing down the corridor. It was thrown by a man who walked softly down the passage with a candle held in his hand. He was in shirt and trousers, with no covering to his feet. I could merely see the outline, but his height told me that it was Barrymore. He walked very slowly and circumspectly, and there was something indescribably guilty and furtive in his whole appearance. I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony which runs round the hall, but that it is resumed upon the farther side. I waited until he had passed out of sight and then I followed him. When I came round the balcony he had reached the end of the farther corridor, and I could see from the glimmer of light through an open door that he had entered one of the rooms. Now, all these rooms are unfurnished and unoccupied, so that his expedition became more mysterious than ever. The light shone steadily as if he were standing motionless. I crept down the passage as noiselessly as I could and peeped round the corner of the door. Barrymore was crouching at the window with the candle held against the glass. His profile was half turned towards me, and his face seemed to be rigid with expectation as he stared out into the blackness of the moor. For some minutes he stood watching intently. Then he gave a deep groan and with an impatient gesture he put out the light. Instantly I made my way back to my room, and very shortly came the stealthy steps passing once more upon their return journey. Long afterwards when I had fallen into a light sleep I heard a key turn somewhere in a lock, but I could not tell whence the sound came. What it all means I cannot guess, but there is some secret business going on in this house of gloom which sooner or later we shall get to the bottom of. I do not trouble you with my theories, for you asked me to furnish you only with facts. I have had a long talk with Sir Henry this morning, and we have made a plan of campaign founded upon my observations of last night. I will not speak about it just now, but it should make my next report interesting reading. Chapter 9 (Second Report of Dr. Watson) THE LIGHT UPON THE MOOR BASKERVILLE HALL, Oct. 15th. MY DEAR HOLMES,--If I was compelled to leave you without much news during the early days of my mission you must acknowledge that I am making up for lost time, and that events are now crowding thick and fast upon us. In my last report I ended upon my top note with Barrymore at the window, and now I have quite a budget already which will, unless I am much mistaken, considerably surprise you. Things have taken a turn which I could not have anticipated. In some ways they have within the last forty-eight hours become much clearer and in some ways they have become more complicated. But I will tell you all and you shall judge for yourself. Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went down the corridor and examined the room in which Barrymore had been on the night before. The western window through which he had stared so intently has, I noticed, one peculiarity above all other windows in the house--it commands the nearest outlook on the moor. There is an opening between two trees which enables one from this point of view to look right down upon it, while from all the other windows it is only a distant glimpse which can be obtained. It follows, therefore, that Barrymore, since only this window would serve the purpose, must have been looking out for something or somebody upon the moor. The night was very dark, so that I can hardly imagine how he could have hoped to see anyone. It had struck me that it was possible that some love intrigue was on foot. That would have accounted for his stealthy movements and also for the uneasiness of his wife. The man is a striking-looking fellow, very well equipped to steal the heart of a country girl, so that this theory seemed to have something to support it. That opening of the door which I had heard after I had returned to my room might mean that he had gone out to keep some clandestine appointment. So I reasoned with myself in the morning, and I tell you the direction of my suspicions, however much the result may have shown that they were unfounded. But whatever the true explanation of Barrymore's movements might be, I felt that the responsibility of keeping them to myself until I could explain them was more than I could bear. I had an interview with the baronet in his study after breakfast, and I told him all that I had seen. He was less surprised than I had expected. "I knew that Barrymore walked about nights, and I had a mind to speak to him about it," said he. "Two or three times I have heard his steps in the passage, coming and going, just about the hour you name." "Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to that particular window," I suggested. "Perhaps he does. If so, we should be able to shadow him, and see what it is that he is after. I wonder what your friend Holmes would do, if he were here." "I believe that he would do exactly what you now suggest," said I. "He would follow Barrymore and see what he did." "Then we shall do it together." "But surely he would hear us." "The man is rather deaf, and in any case we must take our chance of that. We'll sit up in my room to-night and wait until he passes." Sir Henry rubbed his hands with pleasure, and it was evident that he hailed the adventure as a relief to his somewhat quiet life upon the moor. The baronet has been in communication with the architect who prepared the plans for Sir Charles, and with a contractor from London, so that we may expect great changes to begin here soon. There have been decorators and furnishers up from Plymouth, and it is evident that our friend has large ideas, and means to spare no pains or expense to restore the grandeur of his family. When the house is renovated and refurnished, all that he will need will be a wife to make it complete. Between ourselves there are pretty clear signs that this will not be wanting if the lady is willing, for I have seldom seen a man more infatuated with a woman than he is with our beautiful neighbour, Miss Stapleton. And yet the course of true love does not run quite as smoothly as one would under the circumstances expect. To-day, for example, its surface was broken by a very unexpected ripple, which has caused our friend considerable perplexity and annoyance. After the conversation which I have quoted about Barrymore, Sir Henry put on his hat and prepared to go out. As a matter of course I did the same. "What, are you coming, Watson?" he asked, looking at me in a curious way. "That depends on whether you are going on the moor," said I. "Yes, I am." "Well, you know what my instructions are. I am sorry to intrude, but you heard how earnestly Holmes insisted that I should not leave you, and especially that you should not go alone upon the moor." Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder with a pleasant smile. "My dear fellow," said he, "Holmes, with all his wisdom, did not foresee some things which have happened since I have been on the moor. You understand me? I am sure that you are the last man in the world who would wish to be a spoil-sport. I must go out alone." It put me in a most awkward position. I was at a loss what to say or what to do, and before I had made up my mind he picked up his cane and was gone. But when I came to think the matter over my conscience reproached me bitterly for having on any pretext allowed him to go out of my sight. I imagined what my feelings would be if I had to return to you and to confess that some misfortune had occurred through my disregard for your instructions. I assure you my cheeks flushed at the very thought. It might not even now be too late to overtake him, so I set off at once in the direction of Merripit House. I hurried along the road at the top of my speed without seeing anything of Sir Henry, until I came to the point where the moor path branches off. There, fearing that perhaps I had come in the wrong direction after all, I mounted a hill from which I could command a view--the same hill which is cut into the dark quarry. Thence I saw him at once. He was on the moor path, about a quarter of a mile off, and a lady was by his side who could only be Miss Stapleton. It was clear that there was already an understanding between them and that they had met by appointment. They were walking slowly along in deep conversation, and I saw her making quick little movements of her hands as if she were very earnest in what she was saying, while he listened intently, and once or twice shook his head in strong dissent. I stood among the rocks watching them, very much puzzled as to what I should do next. To follow them and break into their intimate conversation seemed to be an outrage, and yet my clear duty was never for an instant to let him out of my sight. To act the spy upon a friend was a hateful task. Still, I could see no better course than to observe him from the hill, and to clear my conscience by confessing to him afterwards what I had done. It is true that if any sudden danger had threatened him I was too far away to be of use, and yet I am sure that you will agree with me that the position was very difficult, and that there was nothing more which I could do. Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had halted on the path and were standing deeply absorbed in their conversation, when I was suddenly aware that I was not the only witness of their interview. A wisp of green floating in the air caught my eye, and another glance showed me that it was carried on a stick by a man who was moving among the broken ground. It was Stapleton with his butterfly-net. He was very much closer to the pair than I was, and he appeared to be moving in their direction. At this instant Sir Henry suddenly drew Miss Stapleton to his side. His arm was round her, but it seemed to me that she was straining away from him with her face averted. He stooped his head to hers, and she raised one hand as if in protest. Next moment I saw them spring apart and turn hurriedly round. Stapleton was the cause of the interruption. He was running wildly towards them, his absurd net dangling behind him. He gesticulated and almost danced with excitement in front of the lovers. What the scene meant I could not imagine, but it seemed to me that Stapleton was abusing Sir Henry, who offered explanations, which became more angry as the other refused to accept them. The lady stood by in haughty silence. Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in a peremptory way to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance at Sir Henry, walked off by the side of her brother. The naturalist's angry gestures showed that the lady was included in his displeasure. The baronet stood for a minute looking after them, and then he walked slowly back the way that he had come, his head hanging, the very picture of dejection. What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed to have witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend's knowledge. I ran down the hill therefore and met the baronet at the bottom. His face was flushed with anger and his brows were wrinkled, like one who is at his wit's ends what to do. "Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped from?" said he. "You don't mean to say that you came after me in spite of all?" I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to remain behind, how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed all that had occurred. For an instant his eyes blazed at me, but my frankness disarmed his anger, and he broke at last into a rather rueful laugh. "You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe place for a man to be private," said he, "but, by thunder, the whole country-side seems to have been out to see me do my wooing--and a mighty poor wooing at that! Where had you engaged a seat?" "I was on that hill." "Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother was well up to the front. Did you see him come out on us?" "Yes, I did." "Did he ever strike you as being crazy--this brother of hers?" "I can't say that he ever did." "I dare say not. I always thought him sane enough until to-day, but you can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in a strait-jacket. What's the matter with me, anyhow? You've lived near me for some weeks, Watson. Tell me straight, now! Is there anything that would prevent me from making a good husband to a woman that I loved?" "I should say not." "He can't object to my worldly position, so it must be myself that he has this down on. What has he against me? I never hurt man or woman in my life that I know of. And yet he would not so much as let me touch the tips of her fingers." "Did he say so?" "That, and a deal more. I tell you, Watson, I've only known her these few weeks, but from the first I just felt that she was made for me, and she, too--she was happy when she was with me, and that I'll swear. There's a light in a woman's eyes that speaks louder than words. But he has never let us get together, and it was only to-day for the first time that I saw a chance of having a few words with her alone. She was glad to meet me, but when she did it was not love that she would talk about, and she wouldn't have let me talk about it either if she could have stopped it. She kept coming back to it that this was a place of danger, and that she would never be happy until I had left it. I told her that since I had seen her I was in no hurry to leave it, and that if she really wanted me to go, the only way to work it was for her to arrange to go with me. With that I offered in as many words to marry her, but before she could answer, down came this brother of hers, running at us with a face on him like a madman. He was just white with rage, and those light eyes of his were blazing with fury. What was I doing with the lady? How dared I offer her attentions which were distasteful to her? Did I think that because I was a baronet I could do what I liked? If he had not been her brother I should have known better how to answer him. As it was I told him that my feelings towards his sister were such as I was not ashamed of, and that I hoped that she might honour me by becoming my wife. That seemed to make the matter no better, so then I lost my temper too, and I answered him rather more hotly than I should perhaps, considering that she was standing by. So it ended by his going off with her, as you saw, and here am I as badly puzzled a man as any in this county. Just tell me what it all means, Watson, and I'll owe you more than ever I can hope to pay." I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I was completely puzzled myself. Our friend's title, his fortune, his age, his character, and his appearance are all in his favour, and I know nothing against him unless it be this dark fate which runs in his family. That his advances should be rejected so brusquely without any reference to the lady's own wishes, and that the lady should accept the situation without protest, is very amazing. However, our conjectures were set at rest by a visit from Stapleton himself that very afternoon. He had come to offer apologies for his rudeness of the morning, and after a long private interview with Sir Henry in his study, the upshot of their conversation was that the breach is quite healed, and that we are to dine at Merripit House next Friday as a sign of it. "I don't say now that he isn't a crazy man," said Sir Henry; "I can't forget the look in his eyes when he ran at me this morning, but I must allow that no man could make a more handsome apology than he has done." "Did he give any explanation of his conduct?" "His sister is everything in his life, he says. That is natural enough, and I am glad that he should understand her value. They have always been together, and according to his account he has been a very lonely man with only her as a companion, so that the thought of losing her was really terrible to him. He had not understood, he said, that I was becoming attached to her, but when he saw with his own eyes that it was really so, and that she might be taken away from him, it gave him such a shock that for a time he was not responsible for what he said or did. He was very sorry for all that had passed, and he recognized how foolish and how selfish it was that he should imagine that he could hold a beautiful woman like his sister to himself for her whole life. If she had to leave him he had rather it was to a neighbour like myself than to anyone else. But in any case it was a blow to him, and it would take him some time before he could prepare himself to meet it. He would withdraw all opposition upon his part if I would promise for three months to let the matter rest and to be content with cultivating the lady's friendship during that time without claiming her love. This I promised, and so the matter rests." So there is one of our small mysteries cleared up. It is something to have touched bottom anywhere in this bog in which we are floundering. We know now why Stapleton looked with disfavour upon his sister's suitor--even when that suitor was so eligible a one as Sir Henry. And now I pass on to another thread which I have extricated out of the tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs in the night, of the tear-stained face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the secret journey of the butler to the western lattice window. Congratulate me, my dear Holmes, and tell me that I have not disappointed you as an agent--that you do not regret the confidence which you showed in me when you sent me down. All these things have by one night's work been thoroughly cleared. I have said "by one night's work," but, in truth, it was by two nights' work, for on the first we drew entirely blank. I sat up with Sir Henry in his rooms until nearly three o'clock in the morning, but no sound of any sort did we hear except the chiming clock upon the stairs. It was a most melancholy vigil, and ended by each of us falling asleep in our chairs. Fortunately we were not discouraged, and we determined to try again. The next night we lowered the lamp, and sat smoking cigarettes without making the least sound. It was incredible how slowly the hours crawled by, and yet we were helped through it by the same sort of patient interest which the hunter must feel as he watches the trap into which he hopes the game may wander. One struck, and two, and we had almost for the second time given it up in despair, when in an instant we both sat bolt upright in our chairs, with all our weary senses keenly on the alert once more. We had heard the creak of a step in the passage. Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the distance. Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out in pursuit. Already our man had gone round the gallery, and the corridor was all in darkness. Softly we stole along until we had come into the other wing. We were just in time to catch a glimpse of the tall, black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded, as he tip-toed down the passage. Then he passed through the same door as before, and the light of the candle framed it in the darkness and shot one single yellow beam across the gloom of the corridor. We shuffled cautiously towards it, trying every plank before we dared to put our whole weight upon it. We had taken the precaution of leaving our boots behind us, but, even so, the old boards snapped and creaked beneath our tread. Sometimes it seemed impossible that he should fail to hear our approach. However, the man is fortunately rather deaf, and he was entirely preoccupied in that which he was doing. When at last we reached the door and peeped through we found him crouching at the window, candle in hand, his white, intent face pressed against the pane, exactly as I had seen him two nights before. We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to whom the most direct way is always the most natural. He walked into the room, and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from the window with a sharp hiss of his breath and stood, livid and trembling, before us. His dark eyes, glaring out of the white mask of his face, were full of horror and astonishment as he gazed from Sir Henry to me. "What are you doing here, Barrymore?" "Nothing, sir." His agitation was so great that he could hardly speak, and the shadows sprang up and down from the shaking of his candle. "It was the window, sir. I go round at night to see that they are fastened." "On the second floor?" "Yes, sir, all the windows." "Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry, sternly; "we have made up our minds to have the truth out of you, so it will save you trouble to tell it sooner rather than later. Come, now! No lies! What were you doing at that window?" The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his hands together like one who is in the last extremity of doubt and misery. "I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a candle to the window." "And why were you holding a candle to the window?" "Don't ask me, Sir Henry--don't ask me! I give you my word, sir, that it is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it. If it concerned no one but myself I would not try to keep it from you." A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the trembling hand of the butler. "He must have been holding it as a signal," said I. "Let us see if there is any answer." I held it as he had done, and stared out into the darkness of the night. Vaguely I could discern the black bank of the trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for the moon was behind the clouds. And then I gave a cry of exultation, for a tiny pin-point of yellow light had suddenly transfixed the dark veil, and glowed steadily in the centre of the black square framed by the window. "There it is!" I cried. "No, no, sir, it is nothing--nothing at all!" the butler broke in; "I assure you, sir ----" "Move your light across the window, Watson!" cried the baronet. "See, the other moves also! Now, you rascal, do you deny that it is a signal? Come, speak up! Who is your confederate out yonder, and what is this conspiracy that is going on?" The man's face became openly defiant. "It is my business, and not yours. I will not tell." "Then you leave my employment right away." "Very good, sir. If I must I must." "And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may well be ashamed of yourself. Your family has lived with mine for over a hundred years under this roof, and here I find you deep in some dark plot against me." "No, no, sir; no, not against you!" It was a woman's voice, and Mrs. Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her husband, was standing at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt might have been comic were it not for the intensity of feeling upon her face. "We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it. You can pack our things," said the butler. "Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It is my doing, Sir Henry--all mine. He has done nothing except for my sake and because I asked him." "Speak out, then! What does it mean?" "My unhappy brother is starving on the moor. We cannot let him perish at our very gates. The light is a signal to him that food is ready for him, and his light out yonder is to show the spot to which to bring it." "Then your brother is --" "The escaped convict, sir--Selden, the criminal." "That's the truth, sir," said Barrymore. "I said that it was not my secret and that I could not tell it to you. But now you have heard it, and you will see that if there was a plot it was not against you." This, then, was the explanation of the stealthy expeditions at night and the light at the window. Sir Henry and I both stared at the woman in amazement. Was it possible that this stolidly respectable person was of the same blood as one of the most notorious criminals in the country? "Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother. We humoured him too much when he was a lad, and gave him his own way in everything until he came to think that the world was made for his pleasure, and that he could do what he liked in it. Then as he grew older he met wicked companions, and the devil entered into him until he broke my mother's heart and dragged our name in the dirt. From crime to crime he sank lower and lower, until it is only the mercy of God which has snatched him from the scaffold; but to me, sir, he was always the little curly-headed boy that I had nursed and played with, as an elder sister would. That was why he broke prison, sir. He knew that I was here and that we could not refuse to help him. When he dragged himself here one night, weary and starving, with the warders hard at his heels, what could we do? We took him in and fed him and cared for him. Then you returned, sir, and my brother thought he would be safer on the moor than anywhere else until the hue and cry was over, so he lay in hiding there. But every second night we made sure if he was still there by putting a light in the window, and if there was an answer my husband took out some bread and meat to him. Every day we hoped that he was gone, but as long as he was there we could not desert him. That is the whole truth, as I am an honest Christian woman, and you will see that if there is blame in the matter it does not lie with my husband, but with me, for whose sake he has done all that he has." The woman's words came with an intense earnestness which carried conviction with them. "Is this true, Barrymore?" "Yes, Sir Henry. Every word of it." "Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your own wife. Forget what I have said. Go to your room, you two, and we shall talk further about this matter in the morning." When they were gone we looked out of the window again. Sir Henry had flung it open, and the cold night wind beat in upon our faces. Far away in the black distance there still glowed that one tiny point of yellow light. "I wonder he dares," said Sir Henry. "It may be so placed as to be only visible from here." "Very likely. How far do you think it is?" "Out by the Cleft Tor, I think." "Not more than a mile or two off." "Hardly that." "Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to carry out the food to it. And he is waiting, this villain, beside that candle. By thunder, Watson, I am going out to take that man!" The same thought had crossed my own mind. It was not as if the Barrymores had taken us into their confidence. Their secret had been forced from them. The man was a danger to the community, an unmitigated scoundrel for whom there was neither pity nor excuse. We were only doing our duty in taking this chance of putting him back where he could do no harm. With his brutal and violent nature, others would have to pay the price if we held our hands. Any night, for example, our neighbours the Stapletons might be attacked by him, and it may have been the thought of this which made Sir Henry so keen upon the adventure. "I will come," said I. "Then get your revolver and put on your boots. The sooner we start the better, as the fellow may put out his light and be off." In five minutes we were outside the door, starting upon our expedition. We hurried through the dark shrubbery, amid the dull moaning of the autumn wind and the rustle of the falling leaves. The night air was heavy with the smell of damp and decay. Now and again the moon peeped out for an instant, but clouds were driving over the face of the sky, and just as we came out on the moor a thin rain began to fall. The light still burned steadily in front. "Are you armed?" I asked. "I have a hunting-crop." "We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said to be a desperate fellow. We shall take him by surprise and have him at our mercy before he can resist." "I say, Watson," said the baronet, "what would Holmes say to this? How about that hour of darkness in which the power of evil is exalted?" As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. The baronet caught my sleeve and his face glimmered white through the darkness. "My God, what's that, Watson?" "I don't know. It's a sound they have on the moor. I heard it once before." It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. We stood straining our ears, but nothing came. "Watson," said the baronet, "it was the cry of a hound." My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice which told of the sudden horror which had seized him. "What do they call this sound?" he asked. "Who?" "The folk on the country-side." "Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should you mind what they call it?" "Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it?" I hesitated but could not escape the question. "They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles." He groaned and was silent for a few moments. "A hound it was," he said, at last, "but it seemed to come from miles away, over yonder, I think." "It was hard to say whence it came." "It rose and fell with the wind. Isn't that the direction of the great Grimpen Mire?" "Yes, it is." "Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson, didn't you think yourself that it was the cry of a hound? I am not a child. You need not fear to speak the truth." "Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. He said that it might be the calling of a strange bird." "No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be some truth in all these stories? Is it possible that I am really in danger from so dark a cause? You don't believe it, do you, Watson?" "No, no." "And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it is another to stand out here in the darkness of the moor and to hear such a cry as that. And my uncle! There was the footprint of the hound beside him as he lay. It all fits together. I don't think that I am a coward, Watson, but that sound seemed to freeze my very blood. Feel my hand!" It was as cold as a block of marble. "You'll be all right to-morrow." "I don't think I'll get that cry out of my head. What do you advise that we do now?" "Shall we turn back?" "No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will do it. We after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not, after us. Come on! We'll see it through if all the fiends of the pit were loose upon the moor." We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of the craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning steadily in front. There is nothing so deceptive as the distance of a light upon a pitch-dark night, and sometimes the glimmer seemed to be far away upon the horizon and sometimes it might have been within a few yards of us. But at last we could see whence it came, and then we knew that we were indeed very close. A guttering candle was stuck in a crevice of the rocks which flanked it on each side so as to keep the wind from it and also to prevent it from being visible, save in the direction of Baskerville Hall. A boulder of granite concealed our approach, and crouching behind it we gazed over it at the signal light. It was strange to see this single candle burning there in the middle of the moor, with no sign of life near it--just the one straight yellow flame and the gleam of the rock on each side of it. "What shall we do now?" whispered Sir Henry. "Wait here. He must be near his light. Let us see if we can get a glimpse of him." The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over the rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was thrust out an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed and scored with vile passions. Foul with mire, with a bristling beard, and hung with matted hair, it might well have belonged to one of those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on the hillsides. The light beneath him was reflected in his small, cunning eyes which peered fiercely to right and left through the darkness, like a crafty and savage animal who has heard the steps of the hunters. Something had evidently aroused his suspicions. It may have been that Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to give, or the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking that all was not well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked face. Any instant he might dash out the light and vanish in the darkness. I sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the same. At the same moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and hurled a rock which splintered up against the boulder which had sheltered us. I caught one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly- built figure as he sprang to his feet and turned to run. At the same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke through the clouds. We rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was our man running with great speed down the other side, springing over the stones in his way with the activity of a mountain goat. A lucky long shot of my revolver might have crippled him, but I had brought it only to defend myself if attacked, and not to shoot an unarmed man who was running away. We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we soon found that we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him for a long time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck moving swiftly among the boulders upon the side of a distant hill. We ran and ran until we were completely blown, but the space between us grew ever wider. Finally we stopped and sat panting on two rocks, while we watched him disappearing in the distance. And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to go home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low upon the right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony statue on that shining back-ground, I saw the figure of a man upon the tor. Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes. I assure you that I have never in my life seen anything more clearly. As far as I could judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin man. He stood with his legs a little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite which lay before him. He might have been the very spirit of that terrible place. It was not the convict. This man was far from the place where the latter had disappeared. Besides, he was a much taller man. With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to the baronet, but in the instant during which I had turned to grasp his arm the man was gone. There was the sharp pinnacle of granite still cutting the lower edge of the moon, but its peak bore no trace of that silent and motionless figure. I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it was some distance away. The baronet's nerves were still quivering from that cry, which recalled the dark story of his family, and he was not in the mood for fresh adventures. He had not seen this lonely man upon the tor and could not feel the thrill which his strange presence and his commanding attitude had given to me. "A warder, no doubt," said he. "The moor has been thick with them since this fellow escaped." Well, perhaps his explanation may be the right one, but I should like to have some further proof of it. To-day we mean to communicate to the Princetown people where they should look for their missing man, but it is hard lines that we have not actually had the triumph of bringing him back as our own prisoner. Such are the adventures of last night, and you must acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I have done you very well in the matter of a report. Much of what I tell you is no doubt quite irrelevant, but still I feel that it is best that I should let you have all the facts and leave you to select for yourself those which will be of most service to you in helping you to your conclusions. We are certainly making some progress. So far as the Barrymores go we have found the motive of their actions, and that has cleared up the situation very much. But the moor with its mysteries and its strange inhabitants remains as inscrutable as ever. Perhaps in my next I may be able to throw some light upon this also. Best of all would it be if you could come down to us. In any case you will hear from me again in the course of the next few days. Chapter 10 Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson So far I have been able to quote from the reports which I have forwarded during these early days to Sherlock Holmes. Now, however, I have arrived at a point in my narrative where I am compelled to abandon this method and to trust once more to my recollections, aided by the diary which I kept at the time. A few extracts from the latter will carry me on to those scenes which are indelibly fixed in every detail upon my memory. I proceed, then, from the morning which followed our abortive chase of the convict and our other strange experiences upon the moor. OCTOBER 16TH.--A dull and foggy day with a drizzle of rain. The house is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and then to show the dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver veins upon the sides of the hills, and the distant boulders gleaming where the light strikes upon their wet faces. It is melancholy outside and in. The baronet is in a black reaction after the excitements of the night. I am conscious myself of a weight at my heart and a feeling of impending danger--ever present danger, which is the more terrible because I am unable to define it. And have I not cause for such a feeling? Consider the long sequence of incidents which have all pointed to some sinister influence which is at work around us. There is the death of the last occupant of the Hall, fulfilling so exactly the conditions of the family legend, and there are the repeated reports from peasants of the appearance of a strange creature upon the moor. Twice I have with my own ears heard the sound which resembled the distant baying of a hound. It is incredible, impossible, that it should really be outside the ordinary laws of nature. A spectral hound which leaves material footmarks and fills the air with its howling is surely not to be thought of. Stapleton may fall in with such a superstition, and Mortimer also; but if I have one quality upon earth it is common-sense, and nothing will persuade me to believe in such a thing. To do so would be to descend to the level of these poor peasants, who are not content with a mere fiend dog but must needs describe him with hell-fire shooting from his mouth and eyes. Holmes would not listen to such fancies, and I am his agent. But facts are facts, and I have twice heard this crying upon the moor. Suppose that there were really some huge hound loose upon it; that would go far to explain everything. But where could such a hound lie concealed, where did it get its food, where did it come from, how was it that no one saw it by day? It must be confessed that the natural explanation offers almost as many difficulties as the other. And always, apart from the hound, there is the fact of the human agency in London, the man in the cab, and the letter which warned Sir Henry against the moor. This at least was real, but it might have been the work of a protecting friend as easily as of an enemy. Where is that friend or enemy now? Has he remained in London, or has he followed us down here? Could he--could he be the stranger whom I saw upon the tor? It is true that I have had only the one glance at him, and yet there are some things to which I am ready to swear. He is no one whom I have seen down here, and I have now met all the neighbours. The figure was far taller than that of Stapleton, far thinner than that of Frankland. Barrymore it might possibly have been, but we had left him behind us, and I am certain that he could not have followed us. A stranger then is still dogging us, just as a stranger dogged us in London. We have never shaken him off. If I could lay my hands upon that man, then at last we might find ourselves at the end of all our difficulties. To this one purpose I must now devote all my energies. My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my plans. My second and wisest one is to play my own game and speak as little as possible to anyone. He is silent and distrait. His nerves have been strangely shaken by that sound upon the moor. I will say nothing to add to his anxieties, but I will take my own steps to attain my own end. We had a small scene this morning after breakfast. Barrymore asked leave to speak with Sir Henry, and they were closeted in his study some little time. Sitting in the billiard-room I more than once heard the sound of voices raised, and I had a pretty good idea what the point was which was under discussion. After a time the baronet opened his door and called for me. "Barrymore considers that he has a grievance," he said. "He thinks that it was unfair on our part to hunt his brother-in-law down when he, of his own free will, had told us the secret." The butler was standing very pale but very collected before us. "I may have spoken too warmly, sir," said he, "and if I have, I am sure that I beg your pardon. At the same time, I was very much surprised when I heard you two gentlemen come back this morning and learned that you had been chasing Selden. The poor fellow has enough to fight against without my putting more upon his track." "If you had told us of your own free will it would have been a different thing," said the baronet, "you only told us, or rather your wife only told us, when it was forced from you and you could not help yourself." "I didn't think you would have taken advantage of it, Sir Henry--indeed I didn't." "The man is a public danger. There are lonely houses scattered over the moor, and he is a fellow who would stick at nothing. You only want to get a glimpse of his face to see that. Look at Mr. Stapleton's house, for example, with no one but himself to defend it. There's no safety for anyone until he is under lock and key." "He'll break into no house, sir. I give you my solemn word upon that. But he will never trouble anyone in this country again. I assure you, Sir Henry, that in a very few days the necessary arrangements will have been made and he will be on his way to South America. For God's sake, sir, I beg of you not to let the police know that he is still on the moor. They have given up the chase there, and he can lie quiet until the ship is ready for him. You can't tell on him without getting my wife and me into trouble. I beg you, sir, to say nothing to the police." "What do you say, Watson?" I shrugged my shoulders. "If he were safely out of the country it would relieve the tax-payer of a burden." "But how about the chance of his holding someone up before he goes?" "He would not do anything so mad, sir. We have provided him with all that he can want. To commit a crime would be to show where he was hiding." "That is true," said Sir Henry. "Well, Barrymore --" "God bless you, sir, and thank you from my heart! It would have killed my poor wife had he been taken again." "I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson? But, after what we have heard I don't feel as if I could give the man up, so there is an end of it. All right, Barrymore, you can go." With a few broken words of gratitude the man turned, but he hesitated and then came back. "You've been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the best I can for you in return. I know something, Sir Henry, and perhaps I should have said it before, but it was long after the inquest that I found it out. I've never breathed a word about it yet to mortal man. It's about poor Sir Charles's death." The baronet and I were both upon our feet. "Do you know how he died?" "No, sir, I don't know that." "What then?" "I know why he was at the gate at that hour. It was to meet a woman." "To meet a woman! He?" "Yes, sir." "And the woman's name?" "I can't give you the name, sir, but I can give you the initials. Her initials were L. L." "How do you know this, Barrymore?" "Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning. He had usually a great many letters, for he was a public man and well known for his kind heart, so that everyone who was in trouble was glad to turn to him. But that morning, as it chanced, there was only this one letter, so I took the more notice of it. It was from Coombe Tracey, and it was addressed in a woman's hand." "Well?" "Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would have done had it not been for my wife. Only a few weeks ago she was cleaning out Sir Charles's study--it had never been touched since his death--and she found the ashes of a burned letter in the back of the grate. The greater part of it was charred to pieces, but one little slip, the end of a page, hung together, and the writing could still be read, though it was gray on a black ground. It seemed to us to be a postscript at the end of the letter, and it said: 'Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o clock. Beneath it were signed the initials L. L." "Have you got that slip?" "No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we moved it." "Had Sir Charles received any other letters in the same writing?" "Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his letters. I should not have noticed this one, only it happened to come alone." "And you have no idea who L. L. is?" "No, sir. No more than you have. But I expect if we could lay our hands upon that lady we should know more about Sir Charles's death." "I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came to conceal this important information." "Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble came to us. And then again, sir, we were both of us very fond of Sir Charles, as we well might be considering all that he has done for us. To rake this up couldn't help our poor master, and it's well to go carefully when there's a lady in the case. Even the best of us ----" "You thought it might injure his reputation?" "Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it. But now you have been kind to us, and I feel as if it would be treating you unfairly not to tell you all that I know about the matter." "Very good, Barrymore; you can go." When the butler had left us Sir Henry turned to me. "Well, Watson, what do you think of this new light?" "It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker than before." "So I think. But if we can only trace L. L. it should clear up the whole business. We have gained that much. We know that there is someone who has the facts if we can only find her. What do you think we should do?" "Let Holmes know all about it at once. It will give him the clue for which he has been seeking. I am much mistaken if it does not bring him down." I went at once to my room and drew up my report of the morning's conversation for Holmes. It was evident to me that he had been very busy of late, for the notes which I had from Baker Street were few and short, with no comments upon the information which I had supplied and hardly any reference to my mission. No doubt his blackmailing case is absorbing all his faculties. And yet this new factor must surely arrest his attention and renew his interest. I wish that he were here. OCTOBER 17TH.--All day to-day the rain poured down, rustling on the ivy and dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convict out upon the bleak, cold, shelterless moor. Poor devil! Whatever his crimes, he has suffered something to atone for them. And then I thought of that other one--the face in the cab, the figure against the moon. Was he also out in that deluged--the unseen watcher, the man of darkness? In the evening I put on my waterproof and I walked far upon the sodden moor, full of dark imaginings, the rain beating upon my face and the wind whistling about my ears. God help those who wander into the great mire now, for even the firm uplands are becoming a morass. I found the black tor upon which I had seen the solitary watcher, and from its craggy summit I looked out myself across the melancholy downs. Rain squalls drifted across their russet face, and the heavy, slate-coloured clouds hung low over the landscape, trailing in gray wreaths down the sides of the fantastic hills. In the distant hollow on the left, half hidden by the mist, the two thin towers of Baskerville Hall rose above the trees. They were the only signs of human life which I could see, save only those prehistoric huts which lay thickly upon the slopes of the hills. Nowhere was there any trace of that lonely man whom I had seen on the same spot two nights before. As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer driving in his dog-cart over a rough moorland track which led from the outlying farmhouse of Foulmire. He has been very attentive to us, and hardly a day has passed that he has not called at the Hall to see how we were getting on. He insisted upon my climbing into his dog-cart, and he gave me a lift homeward. I found him much troubled over the disappearance of his little spaniel. It had wandered on to the moor and had never come back. I gave him such consolation as I might, but I thought of the pony on the Grimpen Mire, and I do not fancy that he will see his little dog again. "By the way, Mortimer," said I as we jolted along the rough road, "I suppose there are few people living within driving distance of this whom you do not know?" "Hardly any, I think." "Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials are L. L.?" He thought for a few minutes. "No," said he. "There are a few gipsies and labouring folk for whom I can't answer, but among the farmers or gentry there is no one whose initials are those. Wait a bit though," he added after a pause. "There is Laura Lyons--her initials are L. L.--but she lives in Coombe Tracey." "Who is she?" I asked. "She is Frankland's daughter." "What! Old Frankland the crank?" "Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons, who came sketching on the moor. He proved to be a blackguard and deserted her. The fault from what I hear may not have been entirely on one side. Her father refused to have anything to do with her because she had married without his consent, and perhaps for one or two other reasons as well. So, between the old sinner and the young one the girl has had a pretty bad time." "How does she live?" "I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance, but it cannot be more, for his own affairs are considerably involved. Whatever she may have deserved one could not allow her to go hopelessly to the bad. Her story got about, and several of the people here did something to enable her to earn an honest living. Stapleton did for one, and Sir Charles for another. I gave a trifle myself. It was to set her up in a typewriting business." He wanted to know the object of my inquiries, but I managed to satisfy his curiosity without telling him too much, for there is no reason why we should take anyone into our confidence. To-morrow morning I shall find my way to Coombe Tracey, and if I can see this Mrs. Laura Lyons, of equivocal reputation, a long step will have been made towards clearing one incident in this chain of mysteries. I am certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent, for when Mortimer pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent I asked him casually to what type Frankland's skull belonged, and so heard nothing but craniology for the rest of our drive. I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing. I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous and melancholy day. This was my conversation with Barrymore just now, which gives me one more strong card which I can play in due time. Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet played ecarté afterwards. The butler brought me my coffee into the library, and I took the chance to ask him a few questions. "Well," said I, "has this precious relation of yours departed, or is he still lurking out yonder?" "I don't know, sir. I hope to heaven that he has gone, for he has brought nothing but trouble here! I've not heard of him since I left out food for him last, and that was three days ago." "Did you see him then?" "No, sir, but the food was gone when next I went that way." "Then he was certainly there?" "So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who took it." I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and stared at Barrymore. "You know that there is another man then?" "Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor." "Have you seen him?" "No, sir." "How do you know of him then?" "Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more. He's in hiding, too, but he's not a convict as far as I can make out. I don't like it, Dr. Watson--I tell you straight, sir, that I don't like it." He spoke with a sudden passion of earnestness. "Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no interest in this matter but that of your master. I have come here with no object except to help him. Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don't like." Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his outburst, or found it difficult to express his own feelings in words. "It's all these goings-on, sir," he cried at last, waving his hand towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor. "There's foul play somewhere, and there's black villainy brewing, to that I'll swear! Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry on his way back to London again!" "But what is it that alarms you?" "Look at Sir Charles's death! That was bad enough, for all that the coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night. There's not a man would cross it after sundown if he was paid for it. Look at this stranger hiding out yonder, and watching and waiting! What's he waiting for? What does it mean? It means no good to anyone of the name of Baskerville, and very glad I shall be to be quit of it all on the day that Sir Henry's new servants are ready to take over the Hall." "But about this stranger," said I. "Can you tell me anything about him? What did Selden say? Did he find out where he hid, or what he was doing?" "He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one, and gives nothing away. At first he thought that he was the police, but soon he found that he had some lay of his own. A kind of gentleman he was, as far as he could see, but what he was doing he could not make out." "And where did he say that he lived?" "Among the old houses on the hillside--the stone huts where the old folk used to live." "But how about his food?" "Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him and brings him all he needs. I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey for what he wants." "Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of this some other time." When the butler had gone I walked over to the black window, and I looked through a blurred pane at the driving clouds and at the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees. It is a wild night indoors, and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor. What passion of hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk in such a place at such a time! And what deep and earnest purpose can he have which calls for such a trial! There, in that hut upon the moor, seems to lie the very centre of that problem which has vexed me so sorely. I swear that another day shall not have passed before I have done all that man can do to reach the heart of the mystery. Chapter 11 The Man on the Tor The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapter has brought my narrative up to the 18th of October, a time when these strange events began to move swiftly towards their terrible conclusion. The incidents of the next few days are indelibly graven upon my recollection, and I can tell them without reference to the notes made at the time. I start then from the day which succeeded that upon which I had established two facts of great importance, the one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of Coombe Tracey had written to Sir Charles Baskerville and made an appointment with him at the very place and hour that he met his death, the other that the lurking man upon the moor was to be found among the stone huts upon the hill-side. With these two facts in my possession I felt that either my intelligence or my courage must be deficient if I could not throw some further light upon these dark places. I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about Mrs. Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remained with him at cards until it was very late. At breakfast, however, I informed him about my discovery, and asked him whether he would care to accompany me to Coombe Tracey. At first he was very eager to come, but on second thoughts it seemed to both of us that if I went alone the results might be better. The more formal we made the visit the less information we might obtain. I left Sir Henry behind, therefore, not without some prickings of conscience, and drove off upon my new quest. When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the horses, and I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to interrogate. I had no difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central and well appointed. A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as I entered the sitting-room a lady, who was sitting before a Remington typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome. Her face fell, however, when she saw that I was a stranger, and she sat down again and asked me the object of my visit. The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme beauty. Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and her cheeks, though considerably freckled, were flushed with the exquisite bloom of the brunette, the dainty pink which lurks at the heart of the sulphur rose. Admiration was, I repeat, the first impression. But the second was criticism. There was something subtly wrong with the face, some coarseness of expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some looseness of lip which marred its perfect beauty. But these, of course, are after-thoughts. At the moment I was simply conscious that I was in the presence of a very handsome woman, and that she was asking me the reasons for my visit. I had not quite understood until that instant how delicate my mission was. "I have the pleasure," said I, "of knowing your father." It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it. "There is nothing in common between my father and me," she said. "I owe him nothing, and his friends are not mine. If it were not for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts I might have starved for all that my father cared." "It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have come here to see you." The freckles started out on the lady's face. "What can I tell you about him?" she asked, and her fingers played nervously over the stops of her typewriter. "You knew him, did you not?" "I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If I am able to support myself it is largely due to the interest which he took in my unhappy situation." "Did you correspond with him?" The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazel eyes. "What is the object of these questions?" she asked sharply. "The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that I should ask them here than that the matter should pass outside our control." She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last she looked up with something reckless and defiant in her manner. "Well, I'll answer," she said. "What are your questions?" "Did you correspond with Sir Charles?" "I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his delicacy and his generosity." "Have you the dates of those letters?" "No." "Have you ever met him?" "Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He was a very retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth." "But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did he know enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you say that he has done?" She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness. "There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and united to help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate friend of Sir Charles's. He was exceedingly kind, and it was through him that Sir Charles learned about my affairs." I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapleton his almoner upon several occasions, so the lady's statement bore the impress of truth upon it. "Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?" I continued. Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again. "Really, sir, this is a very extraordinary question." "I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it." "Then I answer, certainly not." "Not on the very day of Sir Charles's death?" The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was before me. Her dry lips could not speak the "No" which I saw rather than heard. "Surely your memory deceives you," said I. "I could even quote a passage of your letter. It ran 'Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o'clock.'" I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by a supreme effort. "Is there no such thing as a gentleman?" she gasped. "You do Sir Charles an injustice. He did burn the letter. But sometimes a letter may be legible even when burned. You acknowledge now that you wrote it?" "Yes, I did write it," she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrent of words. "I did write it. Why should I deny it? I have no reason to be ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. I believed that if I had an interview I could gain his help, so I asked him to meet me." "But why at such an hour?" "Because I had only just learned that he was going to London next day and might be away for months. There were reasons why I could not get there earlier." "But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to the house?" "Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelor's house?" "Well, what happened when you did get there?" "I never went." "Mrs. Lyons!" "No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I never went. Something intervened to prevent my going." "What was that?" "That is a private matter. I cannot tell it." "You acknowledge then that you made an appointment with Sir Charles at the very hour and place at which he met his death, but you deny that you kept the appointment." "That is the truth." Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never get past that point. "Mrs. Lyons," said I, as I rose from this long and inconclusive interview, "you are taking a very great responsibility and putting yourself in a very false position by not making an absolutely clean breast of all that you know. If I have to call in the aid of the police you will find how seriously you are compromised. If your position is innocent, why did you in the first instance deny having written to Sir Charles upon that date?" "Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn from it and that I might find myself involved in a scandal." "And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy your letter?" "If you have read the letter you will know." "I did not say that I had read all the letter." "You quoted some of it." "I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as I said, been burned and it was not all legible. I ask you once again why it was that you were so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letter which he received on the day of his death." "The matter is a very private one." "The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation." "I will tell you, then. If you have heard anything of my unhappy history you will know that I made a rash marriage and had reason to regret it." "I have heard so much." "My life has been one incessant persecution from a husband whom I abhor. The law is upon his side, and every day I am faced by the possibility that he may force me to live with him. At the time that I wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learned that there was a prospect of my regaining my freedom if certain expenses could be met. It meant everything to me--peace of mind, happiness, self-respect--everything. I knew Sir Charles's generosity, and I thought that if he heard the story from my own lips he would help me." "Then how is it that you did not go?" "Because I received help in the interval from another source." "Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?" "So I should have done had I not seen his death in the paper next morning." The woman's story hung coherently together, and all my questions were unable to shake it. I could only check it by finding if she had, indeed, instituted divorce proceedings against her husband at or about the time of the tragedy. It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not been to Baskerville Hall if she really had been, for a trap would be necessary to take her there, and could not have returned to Coombe Tracey until the early hours of the morning. Such an excursion could not be kept secret. The probability was, therefore, that she was telling the truth, or, at least, a part of the truth. I came away baffled and disheartened. Once again I had reached that dead wall which seemed to be built across every path by which I tried to get at the object of my mission. And yet the more I thought of the lady's face and of her manner the more I felt that something was being held back from me. Why should she turn so pale? Why should she fight against every admission until it was forced from her? Why should she have been so reticent at the time of the tragedy? Surely the explanation of all this could not be as innocent as she would have me believe. For the moment I could proceed no farther in that direction, but must turn back to that other clue which was to be sought for among the stone huts upon the moor. And that was a most vague direction. I realized it as I drove back and noted how hill after hill showed traces of the ancient people. Barrymore's only indication had been that the stranger lived in one of these abandoned huts, and many hundreds of them are scattered throughout the length and breadth of the moor. But I had my own experience for a guide since it had shown me the man himself standing upon the summit of the Black Tor. That then should be the centre of my search. From there I should explore every hut upon the moor until I lighted upon the right one. If this man were inside it I should find out from his own lips, at the point of my revolver if necessary, who he was and why he had dogged us so long. He might slip away from us in the crowd of Regent Street, but it would puzzle him to do so upon the lonely moor. On the other hand, if I should find the hut and its tenant should not be within it I must remain there, however long the vigil, until he returned. Holmes had missed him in London. It would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run him to earth, where my master had failed. Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, but now at last it came to my aid. And the messenger of good fortune was none other than Mr. Frankland, who was standing, gray-whiskered and red-faced, outside the gate of his garden, which opened on to the high road along which I travelled. "Good-day, Dr. Watson," cried he with unwonted good humour, "you must really give your horses a rest, and come in to have a glass of wine and to congratulate me." My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly after what I had heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I was anxious to send Perkins and the wagonette home, and the opportunity was a good one. I alighted and sent a message to Sir Henry that I should walk over in time for dinner. Then I followed Frankland into his dining-room. "It is a great day for me, sir--one of the red-letter days of my life," he cried with many chuckles. "I have brought off a double event. I mean to teach them in these parts that law is law, and that there is a man here who does not fear to invoke it. I have established a right of way through the centre of old Middleton's park, slap across it, sir, within a hundred yards of his own front door. What do you think of that? We'll teach these magnates that they cannot ride roughshod over the rights of the commoners, confound them! And I've closed the wood where the Fernworthy folk used to picnic. These infernal people seem to think that there are no rights of property, and that they can swarm where they like with their papers and their bottles. Both cases decided, Dr. Watson, and both in my favour. I haven't had such a day since I had Sir John Morland for trespass, because he shot in his own warren." "How on earth did you do that?" "Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay reading--Frankland v. Morland, Court of Queen's Bench. It cost me 200 pounds, but I got my verdict." "Did it do you any good?" "None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I had no interest in the matter. I act entirely from a sense of public duty. I have no doubt, for example, that the Fernworthy people will burn me in effigy to-night. I told the police last time they did it that they should stop these disgraceful exhibitions. The County Constabulary is in a scandalous state, sir, and it has not afforded me the protection to which I am entitled. The case of Frankland v. Regina will bring the matter before the attention of the public. I told them that they would have occasion to regret their treatment of me, and already my words have come true." "How so?" I asked. The old man put on a very knowing expression. "Because I could tell them what they are dying to know; but nothing would induce me to help the rascals in any way." I had been casting round for some excuse by which I could get away from his gossip, but now I began to wish to hear more of it. I had seen enough of the contrary nature of the old sinner to understand that any strong sign of interest would be the surest way to stop his confidences. "Some poaching case, no doubt?" said I, with an indifferent manner. "Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important matter than that! What about the convict on the moor?" I started. "You don't mean that you know where he is?" said I. "I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure that I could help the police to lay their hands on him. Has it never struck you that the way to catch that man was to find out where he got his food, and so trace it to him?" He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfortably near the truth. "No doubt," said I; "but how do you know that he is anywhere upon the moor?" "I know it because I have seen with my own eyes the messenger who takes him his food." My heart sank for Barrymore. It was a serious thing to be in the power of this spiteful old busybody. But his next remark took a weight from my mind. "You'll be surprised to hear that his food is taken to him by a child. I see him every day through my telescope upon the roof. He passes along the same path at the same hour, and to whom should he be going except to the convict?" Here was luck indeed! And yet I suppressed all appearance of interest. A child! Barrymore had said that our unknown was supplied by a boy. It was on his track, and not upon the convict's, that Frankland had stumbled. If I could get his knowledge it might save me a long and weary hunt. But incredulity and indifference were evidently my strongest cards. "I should say that it was much more likely that it was the son of one of the moorland shepherds taking out his father's dinner." The least appearance of opposition struck fire out of the old autocrat. His eyes looked malignantly at me, and his gray whiskers bristled like those of an angry cat. "Indeed, sir!" said he, pointing out over the wide-stretching moor. "Do you see that Black Tor over yonder? Well, do you see the low hill beyond with the thornbush upon it? It is the stoniest part of the whole moor. Is that a place where a shepherd would be likely to take his station? Your suggestion, sir, is a most absurd one." I meekly answered that I had spoken without knowing all the facts. My submission pleased him and led him to further confidences. "You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before I come to an opinion. I have seen the boy again and again with his bundle. Every day, and sometimes twice a day, I have been able--but wait a moment, Dr. Watson. Do my eyes deceive me, or is there at the present moment something moving upon that hill- side?" It was several miles off, but I could distinctly see a small dark dot against the dull green and gray. "Come, sir, come!" cried Frankland, rushing upstairs. "You will see with your own eyes and judge for yourself." The telescope, a formidable instrument mounted upon a tripod, stood upon the flat leads of the house. Frankland clapped his eye to it and gave a cry of satisfaction. "Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes over the hill!" There he was, sure enough, a small urchin with a little bundle upon his shoulder, toiling slowly up the hill. When he reached the crest I saw the ragged uncouth figure outlined for an instant against the cold blue sky. He looked round him with a furtive and stealthy air, as one who dreads pursuit. Then he vanished over the hill. "Well! Am I right?" "Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have some secret errand." "And what the errand is even a county constable could guess. But not one word shall they have from me, and I bind you to secrecy also, Dr. Watson. Not a word! You understand!" "Just as you wish." "They have treated me shamefully--shamefully. When the facts come out in Frankland v. Regina I venture to think that a thrill of indignation will run through the country. Nothing would induce me to help the police in any way. For all they cared it might have been me, instead of my effigy, which these rascals burned at the stake. Surely you are not going! You will help me to empty the decanter in honour of this great occasion!" But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in dissuading him from his announced intention of walking home with me. I kept the road as long as his eye was on me, and then I struck off across the moor and made for the stony hill over which the boy had disappeared. Everything was working in my favour, and I swore that it should not be through lack of energy or perseverance that I should miss the chance which fortune had thrown in my way. The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the hill, and the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on one side and gray shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon the farthest sky-line, out of which jutted the fantastic shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor. Over the wide expanse there was no sound and no movement. One great gray bird, a gull or curlew, soared aloft in the blue heaven. He and I seemed to be the only living things between the huge arch of the sky and the desert beneath it. The barren scene, the sense of loneliness, and the mystery and urgency of my task all struck a chill into my heart. The boy was nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me in a cleft of the hills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the middle of them there was one which retained sufficient roof to act as a screen against the weather. My heart leaped within me as I saw it. This must be the burrow where the stranger lurked. At last my foot was on the threshold of his hiding place--his secret was within my grasp. As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton would do when with poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, I satisfied myself that the place had indeed been used as a habitation. A vague pathway among the boulders led to the dilapidated opening which served as a door. All was silent within. The unknown might be lurking there, or he might be prowling on the moor. My nerves tingled with the sense of adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand upon the butt of my revolver and, walking swiftly up to the door, I looked in. The place was empty. But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false scent. This was certainly where the man lived. Some blankets rolled in a waterproof lay upon that very stone slab upon which Neolithic man had once slumbered. The ashes of a fire were heaped in a rude grate. Beside it lay some cooking utensils and a bucket half-full of water. A litter of empty tins showed that the place had been occupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyes became accustomed to the checkered light, a pannikin and a half-full bottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middle of the hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon this stood a small cloth bundle--the same, no doubt, which I had seen through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy. It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of preserved peaches. As I set it down again, after having examined it, my heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay a sheet of paper with writing upon it. I raised it, and this was what I read, roughly scrawled in pencil:-- Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey. For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinking out the meaning of this curt message. It was I, then, and not Sir Henry, who was being dogged by this secret man. He had not followed me himself, but he had set an agent--the boy, perhaps--upon my track, and this was his report. Possibly I had taken no step since I had been upon the moor which had not been observed and reported. Always there was this feeling of an unseen force, a fine net drawn round us with infinite skill and delicacy, holding us so lightly that it was only at some supreme moment that one realized that one was indeed entangled in its meshes. If there was one report there might be others, so I looked round the hut in search of them. There was no trace, however, of anything of the kind, nor could I discover any sign which might indicate the character or intentions of the man who lived in this singular place, save that he must be of Spartan habits and cared little for the comforts of life. When I thought of the heavy rains and looked at the gaping roof I understood how strong and immutable must be the purpose which had kept him in that inhospitable abode. Was he our malignant enemy, or was he by chance our guardian angel? I swore that I would not leave the hut until I knew. Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing with scarlet and gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patches by the distant pools which lay amid the great Grimpen Mire. There were the two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there a distant blur of smoke which marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two, behind the hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was sweet and mellow and peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as I looked at them my soul shared none of the peace of nature but quivered at the vagueness and the terror of that interview which every instant was bringing nearer. With tingling nerves, but a fixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess of the hut and waited with sombre patience for the coming of its tenant. And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp clink of a boot striking upon a stone. Then another and yet another, coming nearer and nearer. I shrank back into the darkest corner, and cocked the pistol in my pocket, determined not to discover myself until I had an opportunity of seeing something of the stranger. There was a long pause which showed that he had stopped. Then once more the footsteps approached and a shadow fell across the opening of the hut. "It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson," said a well-known voice. "I really think that you will be more comfortable outside than in." Chapter 12 Death on the Moor For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the world. "Holmes!" I cried--"Holmes!" "Come out," said he, "and please be careful with the revolver." I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone outside, his gray eyes dancing with amusement as they fell upon my astonished features. He was thin and worn, but clear and alert, his keen face bronzed by the sun and roughened by the wind. In his tweed suit and cloth cap he looked like any other tourist upon the moor, and he had contrived, with that cat-like love of personal cleanliness which was one of his characteristics, that his chin should be as smooth and his linen as perfect as if he were in Baker Street. "I never was more glad to see anyone in my life," said I, as I wrung him by the hand. "Or more astonished, eh?" "Well, I must confess to it." "The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you. I had no idea that you had found my occasional retreat, still less that you were inside it, until I was within twenty paces of the door." "My footprint, I presume?" "No, Watson; I fear that I could not undertake to recognize your footprint amid all the footprints of the world. If you seriously desire to deceive me you must change your tobacconist; for when I see the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know that my friend Watson is in the neighbourhood. You will see it there beside the path. You threw it down, no doubt, at that supreme moment when you charged into the empty hut." "Exactly." "I thought as much--and knowing your admirable tenacity I was convinced that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach, waiting for the tenant to return. So you actually thought that I was the criminal?" "I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out." "Excellent, Watson! And how did you localize me? You saw me, perhaps, on the night of the convict hunt, when I was so imprudent as to allow the moon to rise behind me?" "Yes, I saw you then." "And have no doubt searched all the huts until you came to this one?" "No, your boy had been observed, and that gave me a guide where to look." "The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt. I could not make it out when first I saw the light flashing upon the lens." He rose and peeped into the hut. "Ha, I see that Cartwright has brought up some supplies. What's this paper? So you have been to Coombe Tracey, have you?" "Yes." "To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?" "Exactly." "Well done! Our researches have evidently been running on parallel lines, and when we unite our results I expect we shall have a fairly full knowledge of the case." "Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here, for indeed the responsibility and the mystery were both becoming too much for my nerves. But how in the name of wonder did you come here, and what have you been doing? I thought that you were in Baker Street working out that case of blackmailing." "That was what I wished you to think." "Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!" I cried with some bitterness. "I think that I have deserved better at your hands, Holmes." "My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to me in this as in many other cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if I have seemed to play a trick upon you. In truth, it was partly for your own sake that I did it, and it was my appreciation of the danger which you ran which led me to come down and examine the matter for myself. Had I been with Sir Henry and you it is confident that my point of view would have been the same as yours, and my presence would have warned our very formidable opponents to be on their guard. As it is, I have been able to get about as I could not possibly have done had I been living in the Hall, and I remain an unknown factor in the business, ready to throw in all my weight at a critical moment." "But why keep me in the dark?" "For you to know could not have helped us, and might possibly have led to my discovery. You would have wished to tell me something, or in your kindness you would have brought me out some comfort or other, and so an unnecessary risk would be run. I brought Cartwright down with me--you remember the little chap at the express office--and he has seen after my simple wants: a loaf of bread and a clean collar. What does man want more? He has given me an extra pair of eyes upon a very active pair of feet, and both have been invaluable." "Then my reports have all been wasted!"--My voice trembled as I recalled the pains and the pride with which I had composed them. Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket. "Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and very well thumbed, I assure you. I made excellent arrangements, and they are only delayed one day upon their way. I must compliment you exceedingly upon the zeal and the intelligence which you have shown over an extraordinarily difficult case." I was still rather raw over the deception which had been practised upon me, but the warmth of Holmes's praise drove my anger from my mind. I felt also in my heart that he was right in what he said and that it was really best for our purpose that I should not have known that he was upon the moor. "That's better," said he, seeing the shadow rise from my face. "And now tell me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons--it was not difficult for me to guess that it was to see her that you had gone, for I am already aware that she is the one person in Coombe Tracey who might be of service to us in the matter. In fact, if you had not gone to-day it is exceedingly probable that I should have gone to-morrow." The sun had set and dusk was settling over the moor. The air had turned chill and we withdrew into the hut for warmth. There, sitting together in the twilight, I told Holmes of my conversation with the lady. So interested was he that I had to repeat some of it twice before he was satisfied. "This is most important," said he when I had concluded. "It fills up a gap which I had been unable to bridge, in this most complex affair. You are aware, perhaps, that a close intimacy exists between this lady and the man Stapleton?" "I did not know of a close intimacy." "There can be no doubt about the matter. They meet, they write, there is a complete understanding between them. Now, this puts a very powerful weapon into our hands. If I could only use it to detach his wife----" "His wife?" "I am giving you some information now, in return for all that you have given me. The lady who has passed here as Miss Stapleton is in reality his wife." "Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of what you say? How could he have permitted Sir Henry to fall in love with her?" "Sir Henry's falling in love could do no harm to anyone except Sir Henry. He took particular care that Sir Henry did not make love to her, as you have yourself observed. I repeat that the lady is his wife and not his sister." "But why this elaborate deception?" "Because he foresaw that she would be very much more useful to him in the character of a free woman." All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspicions, suddenly took shape and centred upon the naturalist. In that impassive, colourless man, with his straw hat and his butterfly-net, I seemed to see something terrible--a creature of infinite patience and craft, with a smiling face and a murderous heart. "It is he, then, who is our enemy--it is he who dogged us in London?" "So I read the riddle." "And the warning--it must have come from her!" "Exactly." The shape of some monstrous villainy, half seen, half guessed, loomed through the darkness which had girt me so long. "But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you know that the woman is his wife?" "Because he so far forgot himself as to tell you a true piece of autobiography upon the occasion when he first met you, and I dare say he has many a time regretted it since. He was once a schoolmaster in the north of England. Now, there is no one more easy to trace than a schoolmaster. There are scholastic agencies by which one may identify any man who has been in the profession. A little investigation showed me that a school had come to grief under atrocious circumstances, and that the man who had owned it--the name was different--had disappeared with his wife. The descriptions agreed. When I learned that the missing man was devoted to entomology the identification was complete." The darkness was rising, but much was still hidden by the shadows. "If this woman is in truth his wife, where does Mrs. Laura Lyons come in?" I asked. "That is one of the points upon which your own researches have shed a light. Your interview with the lady has cleared the situation very much. I did not know about a projected divorce between herself and her husband. In that case, regarding Stapleton as an unmarried man, she counted no doubt upon becoming his wife." "And when she is undeceived?" "Why, then we may find the lady of service. It must be our first duty to see her--both of us--to-morrow. Don't you think, Watson, that you are away from your charge rather long? Your place should be at Baskerville Hall." The last red streaks had faded away in the west and night had settled upon the moor. A few faint stars were gleaming in a violet sky. "One last question, Holmes," I said, as I rose. "Surely there is no need of secrecy between you and me. What is the meaning of it all? What is he after?" Holmes's voice sank as he answered:---- "It is murder, Watson--refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder. Do not ask me for particulars. My nets are closing upon him, even as his are upon Sir Henry, and with your help he is already almost at my mercy. There is but one danger which can threaten us. It is that he should strike before we are ready to do so. Another day--two at the most--and I have my case complete, but until then guard your charge as closely as ever a fond mother watched her ailing child. Your mission to-day has justified itself, and yet I could almost wish that you had not left his side. Hark!" A terrible scream--a prolonged yell of horror and anguish--burst out of the silence of the moor. That frightful cry turned the blood to ice in my veins. "Oh, my God!" I gasped. "What is it? What does it mean?" Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his dark, athletic outline at the door of the hut, his shoulders stooping, his head thrust forward, his face peering into the darkness. "Hush!" he whispered. "Hush!" The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence, but it had pealed out from somewhere far off on the shadowy plain. Now it burst upon our ears, nearer, louder, more urgent than before. "Where is it?" Holmes whispered; and I knew from the thrill of his voice that he, the man of iron, was shaken to the soul. "Where is it, Watson?" "There, I think." I pointed into the darkness. "No, there!" Again the agonized cry swept through the silent night, louder and much nearer than ever. And a new sound mingled with it, a deep, muttered rumble, musical and yet menacing, rising and falling like the low, constant murmur of the sea. "The hound!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson, come! Great heavens, if we are too late!" He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I had followed at his heels. But now from somewhere among the broken ground immediately in front of us there came one last despairing yell, and then a dull, heavy thud. We halted and listened. Not another sound broke the heavy silence of the windless night. I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man distracted. He stamped his feet upon the ground. "He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late." "No, no, surely not!" "Fool that I was to hold my hand. And you, Watson, see what comes of abandoning your charge! But, by Heaven, if the worst has happened, we'll avenge him!" Blindly we ran through the gloom, blundering against boulders, forcing our way through gorse bushes, panting up hills and rushing down slopes, heading always in the direction whence those dreadful sounds had come. At every rise Holmes looked eagerly round him, but the shadows were thick upon the moor, and nothing moved upon its dreary face. "Can you see anything?" "Nothing." "But, hark, what is that?" A low moan had fallen upon our ears. There it was again upon our left! On that side a ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff which overlooked a stone-strewn slope. On its jagged face was spread-eagled some dark, irregular object. As we ran towards it the vague outline hardened into a definite shape. It was a prostrate man face downward upon the ground, the head doubled under him at a horrible angle, the shoulders rounded and the body hunched together as if in the act of throwing a somersault. So grotesque was the attitude that I could not for the instant realize that that moan had been the passing of his soul. Not a whisper, not a rustle, rose now from the dark figure over which we stooped. Holmes laid his hand upon him, and held it up again, with an exclamation of horror. The gleam of the match which he struck shone upon his clotted fingers and upon the ghastly pool which widened slowly from the crushed skull of the victim. And it shone upon something else which turned our hearts sick and faint within us--the body of Sir Henry Baskerville! There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar ruddy tweed suit--the very one which he had worn on the first morning that we had seen him in Baker Street. We caught the one clear glimpse of it, and then the match flickered and went out, even as the hope had gone out of our souls. Holmes groaned, and his face glimmered white through the darkness. "The brute! the brute!" I cried with clenched hands. "Oh Holmes, I shall never forgive myself for having left him to his fate." "I am more to blame than you, Watson. In order to have my case well rounded and complete, I have thrown away the life of my client. It is the greatest blow which has befallen me in my career. But how could I know--how could l know--that he would risk his life alone upon the moor in the face of all my warnings?" "That we should have heard his screams--my God, those screams!--and yet have been unable to save him! Where is this brute of a hound which drove him to his death? It may be lurking among these rocks at this instant. And Stapleton, where is he? He shall answer for this deed." "He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew have been murdered--the one frightened to death by the very sight of a beast which he thought to be supernatural, the other driven to his end in his wild flight to escape from it. But now we have to prove the connection between the man and the beast. Save from what we heard, we cannot even swear to the existence of the latter, since Sir Henry has evidently died from the fall. But, by heavens, cunning as he is, the fellow shall be in my power before another day is past!" We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body, overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster which had brought all our long and weary labours to so piteous an end. Then, as the moon rose we climbed to the top of the rocks over which our poor friend had fallen, and from the summit we gazed out over the shadowy moor, half silver and half gloom. Far away, miles off, in the direction of Grimpen, a single steady yellow light was shining. It could only come from the lonely abode of the Stapletons. With a bitter curse I shook my fist at it as I gazed. "Why should we not seize him at once?" "Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary and cunning to the last degree. It is not what we know, but what we can prove. If we make one false move the villain may escape us yet." "What can we do?" "There will be plenty for us to do to-morrow. To-night we can only perform the last offices to our poor friend." Together we made our way down the precipitous slope and approached the body, black and clear against the silvered stones. The agony of those contorted limbs struck me with a spasm of pain and blurred my eyes with tears. "We must send for help, Holmes! We cannot carry him all the way to the Hall. Good heavens, are you mad?" He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. Now he was dancing and laughing and wringing my hand. Could this be my stern, self-contained friend? These were hidden fires, indeed! "A beard! A beard! The man has a beard!" "A beard?" "It is not the baronet--it is--why, it is my neighbour, the convict!" With feverish haste we had turned the body over, and that dripping beard was pointing up to the cold, clear moon. There could be no doubt about the beetling forehead, the sunken animal eyes. It was indeed the same face which had glared upon me in the light of the candle from over the rock--the face of Selden, the criminal. Then in an instant it was all clear to me. I remembered how the baronet had told me that he had handed his old wardrobe to Barrymore. Barrymore had passed it on in order to help Selden in his escape. Boots, shirt, cap--it was all Sir Henry's. The tragedy was still black enough, but this man had at least deserved death by the laws of his country. I told Holmes how the matter stood, my heart bubbling over with thankfulness and joy. "Then the clothes have been the poor devil's death," said he. "It is clear enough that the hound has been laid on from some article of Sir Henry's--the boot which was abstracted in the hotel, in all probability--and so ran this man down. There is one very singular thing, however: How came Selden, in the darkness, to know that the hound was on his trail?" "He heard him." "To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man like this convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he would risk recapture by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he must have run a long way after he knew the animal was on his track. How did he know?" "A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that all our conjectures are correct --" "I presume nothing." "Well, then, why this hound should be loose to-night. I suppose that it does not always run loose upon the moor. Stapleton would not let it go unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would be there." "My difficulty is the more formidable of the two, for I think that we shall very shortly get an explanation of yours, while mine may remain forever a mystery. The question now is, what shall we do with this poor wretch's body? We cannot leave it here to the foxes and the ravens." "I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can communicate with the police." "Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far. Halloa, Watson, what's this? It's the man himself, by all that's wonderful and audacious! Not a word to show your suspicions--not a word, or my plans crumble to the ground." A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull red glow of a cigar. The moon shone upon him, and I could distinguish the dapper shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. He stopped when he saw us, and then came on again. "Why, Dr. Watson, that's not you, is it? You are the last man that I should have expected to see out on the moor at this time of night. But, dear me, what's this? Somebody hurt? Not--don't tell me that it is our friend Sir Henry!" He hurried past me and stooped over the dead man. I heard a sharp intake of his breath and the cigar fell from his fingers. "Who--who's this?" he stammered. "It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown." Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme effort he had overcome his amazement and his disappointment. He looked sharply from Holmes to me. "Dear me! What a very shocking affair! How did he die?" "He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks. My friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry." "I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy about Sir Henry." "Why about Sir Henry in particular?" I could not help asking. "Because I had suggested that he should come over. When he did not come I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his safety when I heard cries upon the moor. By the way"--his eyes darted again from my face to Holmes's--"did you hear anything else besides a cry?" "No," said Holmes; "did you?" "No." "What do you mean, then?" "Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom hound, and so on. It is said to be heard at night upon the moor. I was wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound to-night." "We heard nothing of the kind," said I. "And what is your theory of this poor fellow's death?" "I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off his head. He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and eventually fallen over here and broken his neck." "That seems the most reasonable theory," said Stapleton, and he gave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. "What do you think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" My friend bowed his compliments. "You are quick at identification," said he. "We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came down. You are in time to see a tragedy." "Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend's explanation will cover the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to London with me to-morrow." "Oh, you return to-morrow?" "That is my intention." "I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences which have puzzled us?" Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An investigator needs facts, and not legends or rumours. It has not been a satisfactory case." My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner. Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me. "I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it would give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified in doing it. I think that if we put something over his face he will be safe until morning." And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton's offer of hospitality, Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to return alone. Looking back we saw the figure moving slowly away over the broad moor, and behind him that one black smudge on the silvered slope which showed where the man was lying who had come so horribly to his end. Chapter 13 Fixing the Nets "We're at close grips at last," said Holmes as we walked together across the moor. "What a nerve the fellow has! How he pulled himself together in the face of what must have been a paralyzing shock when he found that the wrong man had fallen a victim to his plot. I told you in London, Watson, and I tell you now again, that we have never had a foeman more worthy of our steel." "I am sorry that he has seen you." "And so was I at first. But there was no getting out of it." "What effect do you think it will have upon his plans now that he knows you are here?" "It may cause him to be more cautious, or it may drive him to desperate measures at once. Like most clever criminals, he may be too confident in his own cleverness and imagine that he has completely deceived us." "Why should we not arrest him at once?" "My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action. Your instinct is always to do something energetic. But supposing, for argument's sake, that we had him arrested to-night, what on earth the better off should we be for that? We could prove nothing against him. There's the devilish cunning of it! If he were acting through a human agent we could get some evidence, but if we were to drag this great dog to the light of day it would not help us in putting a rope round the neck of its master." "Surely we have a case." "Not a shadow of one--only surmise and conjecture. We should be laughed out of court if we came with such a story and such evidence." "There is Sir Charles's death." "Found dead without a mark upon him. You and I know that he died of sheer fright, and we know also what frightened him; but how are we to get twelve stolid jurymen to know it? What signs are there of a hound? Where are the marks of its fangs? Of course we know that a hound does not bite a dead body and that Sir Charles was dead before ever the brute overtook him. But we have to prove all this, and we are not in a position to do it." "Well, then, to-night?" "We are not much better off to-night. Again, there was no direct connection between the hound and the man's death. We never saw the hound. We heard it; but we could not prove that it was running upon this man's trail. There is a complete absence of motive. No, my dear fellow; we must reconcile ourselves to the fact that we have no case at present, and that it is worth our while to run any risk in order to establish one." "And how do you propose to do so?" "I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons may do for us when the position of affairs is made clear to her. And I have my own plan as well. Sufficient for to-morrow is the evil thereof; but I hope before the day is past to have the upper hand at last." I could draw nothing further from him, and he walked, lost in thought, as far as the Baskerville gates. "Are you coming up?" "Yes; I see no reason for further concealment. But one last word, Watson. Say nothing of the hound to Sir Henry. Let him think that Selden's death was as Stapleton would have us believe. He will have a better nerve for the ordeal which he will have to undergo to-morrow, when he is engaged, if I remember your report aright, to dine with these people." "And so am I." "Then you must excuse yourself and he must go alone. That will be easily arranged. And now, if we are too late for dinner, I think that we are both ready for our suppers." Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes, for he had for some days been expecting that recent events would bring him down from London. He did raise his eyebrows, however, when he found that my friend had neither any luggage nor any explanations for its absence. Between us we soon supplied his wants, and then over a belated supper we explained to the baronet as much of our experience as it seemed desirable that he should know. But first I had the unpleasant duty of breaking the news to Barrymore and his wife. To him it may have been an unmitigated relief, but she wept bitterly in her apron. To all the world he was the man of violence, half animal and half demon; but to her he always remained the little wilful boy of her own girlhood, the child who had clung to her hand. Evil indeed is the man who has not one woman to mourn him. "I've been moping in the house all day since Watson went off in the morning," said the baronet. "I guess I should have some credit, for I have kept my promise. If I hadn't sworn not to go about alone I might have had a more lively evening, for I had a message from Stapleton asking me over there." "I have no doubt that you would have had a more lively evening," said Holmes drily. "By the way, I don't suppose you appreciate that we have been mourning over you as having broken your neck?" Sir Henry opened his eyes. "How was that?" "This poor wretch was dressed in your clothes. I fear your servant who gave them to him may get into trouble with the police." "That is unlikely. There was no mark on any of them, as far as I know." "That's lucky for him--in fact, it's lucky for all of you, since you are all on the wrong side of the law in this matter. I am not sure that as a conscientious detective my first duty is not to arrest the whole household. Watson's reports are most incriminating documents." "But how about the case?" asked the baronet. "Have you made anything out of the tangle? I don't know that Watson and I are much the wiser since we came down." "I think that I shall be in a position to make the situation rather more clear to you before long. It has been an exceedingly difficult and most complicated business. There are several points upon which we still want light--but it is coming all the same." "We've had one experience, as Watson has no doubt told you. We heard the hound on the moor, so I can swear that it is not all empty superstition. I had something to do with dogs when I was out West, and I know one when I hear one. If you can muzzle that one and put him on a chain I'll be ready to swear you are the greatest detective of all time." "I think I will muzzle him and chain him all right if you will give me your help." "Whatever you tell me to do I will do." "Very good; and I will ask you also to do it blindly, without always asking the reason." "Just as you like." "If you will do this I think the chances are that our little problem will soon be solved. I have no doubt----" He stopped suddenly and stared fixedly up over my head into the air. The lamp beat upon his face, and so intent was it and so still that it might have been that of a clear-cut classical statue, a personification of alertness and expectation. "What is it?" we both cried. I could see as he looked down that he was repressing some internal emotion. His features were still composed, but his eyes shone with amused exultation. "Excuse the admiration of a connoisseur," said he as he waved his hand towards the line of portraits which covered the opposite wall. "Watson won't allow that I know anything of art, but that is mere jealousy, because our views upon the subject differ. Now, these are a really very fine series of portraits." "Well, I'm glad to hear you say so," said Sir Henry, glancing with some surprise at my friend. "I don't pretend to know much about these things, and I'd be a better judge of a horse or a steer than of a picture. I didn't know that you found time for such things." "I know what is good when I see it, and I see it now. That's a Kneller, I'll swear, that lady in the blue silk over yonder, and the stout gentleman with the wig ought to be a Reynolds. They are all family portraits, I presume?" "Every one." "Do you know the names?" "Barrymore has been coaching me in them, and I think I can say my lessons fairly well." "Who is the gentleman with the telescope?" "That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served under Rodney in the West Indies. The man with the blue coat and the roll of paper is Sir William Baskerville, who was Chairman of Committees of the House of Commons under Pitt." "And this Cavalier opposite to me--the one with the black velvet and the lace?" "Ah, you have a right to know about him. That is the cause of all the mischief, the wicked Hugo, who started the Hound of the Baskervilles. We're not likely to forget him." I gazed with interest and some surprise upon the portrait. "Dear me!" said Holmes, "he seems a quiet, meek-mannered man enough, but I dare say that there was a lurking devil in his eyes. I had pictured him as a more robust and ruffianly person." "There's no doubt about the authenticity, for the name and the date, 1647, are on the back of the canvas." Holmes said little more, but the picture of the old roysterer seemed to have a fascination for him, and his eyes were continually fixed upon it during supper. It was not until later, when Sir Henry had gone to his room, that I was able to follow the trend of his thoughts. He led me back into the banqueting-hall, his bedroom candle in his hand, and he held it up against the time-stained portrait on the wall. "Do you see anything there?" I looked at the broad plumed hat, the curling love-locks, the white lace collar, and the straight, severe face which was framed between them. It was not a brutal countenance, but it was prim, hard, and stern, with a firm-set, thin-lipped mouth, and a coldly intolerant eye. "Is it like anyone you know?" "There is something of Sir Henry about the jaw." "Just a suggestion, perhaps. But wait an instant!" He stood upon a chair, and, holding up the light in his left hand, he curved his right arm over the broad hat and round the long ringlets. "Good heavens!" I cried, in amazement. The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the canvas. "Ha, you see it now. My eyes have been trained to examine faces and not their trimmings. It is the first quality of a criminal investigator that he should see through a disguise." "But this is marvellous. It might be his portrait." "Yes, it is an interesting instance of a throwback, which appears to be both physical and spiritual. A study of family portraits is enough to convert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation. The fellow is a Baskerville--that is evident." "With designs upon the succession." "Exactly. This chance of the picture has supplied us with one of our most obvious missing links. We have him, Watson, we have him, and I dare swear that before to-morrow night he will be fluttering in our net as helpless as one of his own butterflies. A pin, a cork, and a card, and we add him to the Baker Street collection!" He burst into one of his rare fits of laughter as he turned away from the picture. I have not heard him laugh often, and it has always boded ill to somebody. I was up betimes in the morning, but Holmes was afoot earlier still, for I saw him as I dressed, coming up the drive. "Yes, we should have a full day to-day," he remarked, and he rubbed his hands with the joy of action. "The nets are all in place, and the drag is about to begin. We'll know before the day is out whether we have caught our big, lean-jawed pike, or whether he has got through the meshes." "Have you been on the moor already?" "I have sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown as to the death of Selden. I think I can promise that none of you will be troubled in the matter. And I have also communicated with my faithful Cartwright, who would certainly have pined away at the door of my hut, as a dog does at his master's grave, if I had not set his mind at rest about my safety." "What is the next move?" "To see Sir Henry. Ah, here he is!" "Good morning, Holmes," said the baronet. "You look like a general who is planning a battle with his chief of the staff." "That is the exact situation. Watson was asking for orders." "And so do I." "Very good. You are engaged, as I understand, to dine with our friends the Stapletons to-night." "I hope that you will come also. They are very hospitable people, and I am sure that they would be very glad to see you." "I fear that Watson and I must go to London." "To London?" "Yes, I think that we should be more useful there at the present juncture." The baronet's face perceptibly lengthened. "I hoped that you were going to see me through this business. The Hall and the moor are not very pleasant places when one is alone." "My dear fellow, you must trust me implicitly and do exactly what I tell you. You can tell your friends that we should have been happy to have come with you, but that urgent business required us to be in town. We hope very soon to return to Devonshire. Will you remember to give them that message?" "If you insist upon it." "There is no alternative, I assure you." I saw by the baronet's clouded brow that he was deeply hurt by what he regarded as our desertion. "When do you desire to go?" he asked coldly. "Immediately after breakfast. We will drive in to Coombe Tracey, but Watson will leave his things as a pledge that he will come back to you. Watson, you will send a note to Stapleton to tell him that you regret that you cannot come." "I have a good mind to go to London with you," said the baronet. "Why should I stay here alone?" "Because it is your post of duty. Because you gave me your word that you would do as you were told, and I tell you to stay." "All right, then, I'll stay." "One more direction! I wish you to drive to Merripit House. Send back your trap, however, and let them know that you intend to walk home." "To walk across the moor?" "Yes." "But that is the very thing which you have so often cautioned me not to do." "This time you may do it with safety. If I had not every confidence in your nerve and courage I would not suggest it, but it is essential that you should do it." "Then I will do it." "And as you value your life do not go across the moor in any direction save along the straight path which leads from Merripit House to the Grimpen Road, and is your natural way home." "I will do just what you say." "Very good. I should be glad to get away as soon after breakfast as possible, so as to reach London in the afternoon." I was much astounded by this programme, though I remembered that Holmes had said to Stapleton on the night before that his visit would terminate next day. It had not crossed my mind, however, that he would wish me to go with him, nor could I understand how we could both be absent at a moment which he himself declared to be critical. There was nothing for it, however, but implicit obedience; so we bade good-bye to our rueful friend, and a couple of hours afterwards we were at the station of Coombe Tracey and had dispatched the trap upon its return journey. A small boy was waiting upon the platform. "Any orders, sir?" "You will take this train to town, Cartwright. The moment you arrive you will send a wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, in my name, to say that if he finds the pocket-book which I have dropped he is to send it by registered post to Baker Street." "Yes, sir." "And ask at the station office if there is a message for me." The boy returned with a telegram, which Holmes handed to me. It ran: "Wire received. Coming down with unsigned warrant. Arrive five-forty.--LESTRADE." "That is in answer to mine of this morning. He is the best of the professionals, I think, and we may need his assistance. Now, Watson, I think that we cannot employ our time better than by calling upon your acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons." His plan of campaign was beginning to be evident. He would use the baronet in order to convince the Stapletons that we were really gone, while we should actually return at the instant when we were likely to be needed. That telegram from London, if mentioned by Sir Henry to the Stapletons, must remove the last suspicions from their minds. Already I seemed to see our nets drawing closer around that lean-jawed pike. Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and Sherlock Holmes opened his interview with a frankness and directness which considerably amazed her. "I am investigating the circumstances which attended the death of the late Sir Charles Baskerville," said he. "My friend here, Dr. Watson, has informed me of what you have communicated, and also of what you have withheld in connection with that matter." "What have I withheld?" she asked defiantly. "You have confessed that you asked Sir Charles to be at the gate at ten o'clock. We know that that was the place and hour of his death. You have withheld what the connection is between these events." "There is no connection." "In that case the coincidence must indeed be an extraordinary one. But I think that we shall succeed in establishing a connection after all. I wish to be perfectly frank with you, Mrs. Lyons. We regard this case as one of murder, and the evidence may implicate not only your friend Mr. Stapleton, but his wife as well." The lady sprang from her chair. "His wife!" she cried. "The fact is no longer a secret. The person who has passed for his sister is really his wife." Mrs. Lyons had resumed her seat. Her hands were grasping the arms of her chair, and I saw that the pink nails had turned white with the pressure of her grip. "His wife!" she said again. "His wife! He is not a married man." Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "Prove it to me! Prove it to me! And if you can do so --!" The fierce flash of her eyes said more than any words. "I have come prepared to do so," said Holmes, drawing several papers from his pocket. "Here is a photograph of the couple taken in York four years ago. It is indorsed 'Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur,' but you will have no difficulty in recognizing him, and her also, if you know her by sight. Here are three written descriptions by trustworthy witnesses of Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur, who at that time kept St. Oliver's private school. Read them and see if you can doubt the identity of these people." She glanced at them, and then looked up at us with the set, rigid face of a desperate woman. "Mr. Holmes," she said, "this man had offered me marriage on condition that I could get a divorce from my husband. He has lied to me, the villain, in every conceivable way. Not one word of truth has he ever told me. And why--why? I imagined that all was for my own sake. But now I see that I was never anything but a tool in his hands. Why should I preserve faith with him who never kept any with me? Why should I try to shield him from the consequences of his own wicked acts? Ask me what you like, and there is nothing which I shall hold back. One thing I swear to you, and that is that when I wrote the letter I never dreamed of any harm to the old gentleman, who had been my kindest friend." "I entirely believe you, madam," said Sherlock Holmes. "The recital of these events must be very painful to you, and perhaps it will make it easier if I tell you what occurred, and you can check me if I make any material mistake. The sending of this letter was suggested to you by Stapleton?" "He dictated it." "I presume that the reason he gave was that you would receive help from Sir Charles for the legal expenses connected with your divorce?" "Exactly." "And then after you had sent the letter he dissuaded you from keeping the appointment?" "He told me that it would hurt his self-respect that any other man should find the money for such an object, and that though he was a poor man himself he would devote his last penny to removing the obstacles which divided us." "He appears to be a very consistent character. And then you heard nothing until you read the reports of the death in the paper?" "No." "And he made you swear to say nothing about your appointment with Sir Charles?" "He did. He said that the death was a very mysterious one, and that I should certainly be suspected if the facts came out. He frightened me into remaining silent." "Quite so. But you had your suspicions?" She hesitated and looked down. "I knew him," she said. "But if he had kept faith with me I should always have done so with him." "I think that on the whole you have had a fortunate escape," said Sherlock Holmes. "You have had him in your power and he knew it, and yet you are alive. You have been walking for some months very near to the edge of a precipice. We must wish you good-morning now, Mrs. Lyons, and it is probable that you will very shortly hear from us again." "Our case becomes rounded off, and difficulty after difficulty thins away in front of us," said Holmes as we stood waiting for the arrival of the express from town. "I shall soon be in the position of being able to put into a single connected narrative one of the most singular and sensational crimes of modern times. Students of criminology will remember the analogous incidents in Godno, in Little Russia, in the year '66, and of course there are the Anderson murders in North Carolina, but this case possesses some features which are entirely its own. Even now we have no clear case against this very wily man. But I shall be very much surprised if it is not clear enough before we go to bed this night." The London express came roaring into the station, and a small, wiry bulldog of a man had sprung from a first-class carriage. We all three shook hands, and I saw at once from the reverential way in which Lestrade gazed at my companion that he had learned a good deal since the days when they had first worked together. I could well remember the scorn which the theories of the reasoner used then to excite in the practical man. "Anything good?" he asked. "The biggest thing for years," said Holmes. "We have two hours before we need think of starting. I think we might employ it in getting some dinner and then, Lestrade, we will take the London fog out of your throat by giving you a breath of the pure night air of Dartmoor. Never been there? Ah, well, I don't suppose you will forget your first visit." Chapter 14 The Hound of the Baskervilles One of Sherlock Holmes's defects--if, indeed, one may call it a defect--was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his full plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment. Partly it came no doubt from his own masterful nature, which loved to dominate and surprise those who were around him. Partly also from his professional caution, which urged him never to take any chances. The result, however, was very trying for those who were acting as his agents and assistants. I had often suffered under it, but never more so than during that long drive in the darkness. The great ordeal was in front of us; at last we were about to make our final effort, and yet Holmes had said nothing, and I could only surmise what his course of action would be. My nerves thrilled with anticipation when at last the cold wind upon our faces and the dark, void spaces on either side of the narrow road told me that we were back upon the moor once again. Every stride of the horses and every turn of the wheels was taking us nearer to our supreme adventure. Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driver of the hired wagonette, so that we were forced to talk of trivial matters when our nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation. It was a relief to me, after that unnatural restraint, when we at last passed Frankland's house and knew that we were drawing near to the Hall and to the scene of action. We did not drive up to the door but got down near the gate of the avenue. The wagonette was paid off and ordered to return to Coombe Tracey forthwith, while we started to walk to Merripit House. "Are you armed, Lestrade?" The little detective smiled. "As long as I have my trousers I have a hip-pocket, and as long as I have my hip-pocket I have something in it." "Good! My friend and I are also ready for emergencies." "You're mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes. What's the game now?" "A waiting game." "My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place," said the detective with a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy slopes of the hill and at the huge lake of fog which lay over the Grimpen Mire. "I see the lights of a house ahead of us." "That is Merripit House and the end of our journey. I must request you to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper." We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound for the house, but Holmes halted us when we were about two hundred yards from it. "This will do," said he. "These rocks upon the right make an admirable screen." "We are to wait here?" "Yes, we shall make our little ambush here. Get into this hollow, Lestrade. You have been inside the house, have you not, Watson? Can you tell the position of the rooms? What are those latticed windows at this end?" "I think they are the kitchen windows." "And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?" "That is certainly the dining-room." "The blinds are up. You know the lie of the land best. Creep forward quietly and see what they are doing--but for heaven's sake don't let them know that they are watched!" I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall which surrounded the stunted orchard. Creeping in its shadow I reached a point whence I could look straight through the uncurtained window. There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton. They sat with their profiles towards me on either side of the round table. Both of them were smoking cigars, and coffee and wine were in front of them. Stapleton was talking with animation, but the baronet looked pale and distrait. Perhaps the thought of that lonely walk across the ill-omened moor was weighing heavily upon his mind. As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while Sir Henry filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair, puffing at his cigar. I heard the creak of a door and the crisp sound of boots upon gravel. The steps passed along the path on the other side of the wall under which I crouched. Looking over, I saw the naturalist pause at the door of an out-house in the corner of the orchard. A key turned in a lock, and as he passed in there was a curious scuffling noise from within. He was only a minute or so inside, and then I heard the key turn once more and he passed me and re-entered the house. I saw him rejoin his guest, and I crept quietly back to where my companions were waiting to tell them what I had seen. "You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?" Holmes asked, when I had finished my report. "No." "Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any other room except the kitchen?" "I cannot think where she is." I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a dense, white fog. It was drifting slowly in our direction, and banked itself up like a wall on that side of us, low, but thick and well defined. The moon shone on it, and it looked like a great shimmering ice-field, with the heads of the distant tors as rocks borne upon its surface. Holmes's face was turned towards it, and he muttered impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift. "It's moving towards us, Watson." "Is that serious?" "Very serious, indeed--the one thing upon earth which could have disarranged my plans. He can't be very long, now. It is already ten o'clock. Our success and even his life may depend upon his coming out before the fog is over the path." The night was clear and fine above us. The stars shone cold and bright, while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft, uncertain light. Before us lay the dark bulk of the house, its serrated roof and bristling chimneys hard outlined against the silver-spangled sky. Broad bars of golden light from the lower windows stretched across the orchard and the moor. One of them was suddenly shut off. The servants had left the kitchen. There only remained the lamp in the dining-room where the two men, the murderous host and the unconscious guest, still chatted over their cigars. Every minute that white woolly plain which covered one half of the moor was drifting closer and closer to the house. Already the first thin wisps of it were curling across the golden square of the lighted window. The farther wall of the orchard was already invisible, and the trees were standing out of a swirl of white vapour. As we watched it the fog-wreaths came crawling round both corners of the house and rolled slowly into one dense bank, on which the upper floor and the roof floated like a strange ship upon a shadowy sea. Holmes struck his hand passionately upon the rock in front of us and stamped his feet in his impatience. "If he isn't out in a quarter of an hour the path will be covered. In half an hour we won't be able to see our hands in front of us." "Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?" "Yes, I think it would be as well." So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it until we were half a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea, with the moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and inexorably on. "We are going too far," said Holmes. "We dare not take the chance of his being overtaken before he can reach us. At all costs we must hold our ground where we are." He dropped on his knees and clapped his ear to the ground. "Thank God, I think that I hear him coming." A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. Crouching among the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank in front of us. The steps grew louder, and through the fog, as through a curtain, there stepped the man whom we were awaiting. He looked round him in surprise as he emerged into the clear, starlit night. Then he came swiftly along the path, passed close to where we lay, and went on up the long slope behind us. As he walked he glanced continually over either shoulder, like a man who is ill at ease. "Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cocking pistol. "Look out! It's coming!" There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the heart of that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yards of where we lay, and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what horror was about to break from the heart of it. I was at Holmes's elbow, and I glanced for an instant at his face. It was pale and exultant, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. But suddenly they started forward in a rigid, fixed stare, and his lips parted in amazement. At the same instant Lestrade gave a yell of terror and threw himself face downward upon the ground. I sprang to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind paralyzed by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from the shadows of the fog. A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish be conceived than that dark form and savage face which broke upon us out of the wall of fog. With long bounds the huge black creature was leaping down the track, following hard upon the footsteps of our friend. So paralyzed were we by the apparition that we allowed him to pass before we had recovered our nerve. Then Holmes and I both fired together, and the creature gave a hideous howl, which showed that one at least had hit him. He did not pause, however, but bounded onward. Far away on the path we saw Sir Henry looking back, his face white in the moonlight, his hands raised in horror, glaring helplessly at the frightful thing which was hunting him down. But that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears to the winds. If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we could wound him we could kill him. Never have I seen a man run as Holmes ran that night. I am reckoned fleet of foot, but he outpaced me as much as I outpaced the little professional. In front of us as we flew up the track we heard scream after scream from Sir Henry and the deep roar of the hound. I was in time to see the beast spring upon its victim, hurl him to the ground, and worry at his throat. But the next instant Holmes had emptied five barrels of his revolver into the creature's flank. With a last howl of agony and a vicious snap in the air, it rolled upon its back, four feet pawing furiously, and then fell limp upon its side. I stooped, panting, and pressed my pistol to the dreadful, shimmering head, but it was useless to press the trigger. The giant hound was dead. Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen. We tore away his collar, and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when we saw that there was no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been in time. Already our friend's eyelids shivered and he made a feeble effort to move. Lestrade thrust his brandy-flask between the baronet's teeth, and two frightened eyes were looking up at us. "My God!" he whispered. "What was it? What, in heaven's name, was it?" "It's dead, whatever it is," said Holmes. "We've laid the family ghost once and forever." In mere size and strength it was a terrible creature which was lying stretched before us. It was not a pure bloodhound and it was not a pure mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of the two--gaunt, savage, and as large as a small lioness. Even now, in the stillness of death, the huge jaws seemed to be dripping with a bluish flame and the small, deep-set, cruel eyes were ringed with fire. I placed my hand upon the glowing muzzle, and as I held them up my own fingers smouldered and gleamed in the darkness. "Phosphorus," I said. "A cunning preparation of it," said Holmes, sniffing at the dead animal. "There is no smell which might have interfered with his power of scent. We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for having exposed you to this fright. I was prepared for a hound, but not for such a creature as this. And the fog gave us little time to receive him." "You have saved my life." "Having first endangered it. Are you strong enough to stand?" "Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready for anything. So! Now, if you will help me up. What do you propose to do?" "To leave you here. You are not fit for further adventures to-night. If you will wait, one or other of us will go back with you to the Hall." He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly pale and trembling in every limb. We helped him to a rock, where he sat shivering with his face buried in his hands. "We must leave you now," said Holmes. "The rest of our work must be done, and every moment is of importance. We have our case, and now we only want our man. "It's a thousand to one against our finding him at the house," he continued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path. "Those shots must have told him that the game was up." "We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened them." "He followed the hound to call him off--of that you may be certain. No, no, he's gone by this time! But we'll search the house and make sure." The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room to room to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met us in the passage. There was no light save in the dining-room, but Holmes caught up the lamp and left no corner of the house unexplored. No sign could we see of the man whom we were chasing. On the upper floor, however, one of the bedroom doors was locked. "There's someone in here," cried Lestrade. "I can hear a movement. Open this door!" A faint moaning and rustling came from within. Holmes struck the door just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flew open. Pistol in hand, we all three rushed into the room. But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiant villain whom we expected to see. Instead we were faced by an object so strange and so unexpected that we stood for a moment staring at it in amazement. The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the walls were lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that collection of butterflies and moths the formation of which had been the relaxation of this complex and dangerous man. In the centre of this room there was an upright beam, which had been placed at some period as a support for the old worm-eaten baulk of timber which spanned the roof. To this post a figure was tied, so swathed and muffled in the sheets which had been used to secure it that one could not for the moment tell whether it was that of a man or a woman. One towel passed round the throat and was secured at the back of the pillar. Another covered the lower part of the face, and over it two dark eyes--eyes full of grief and shame and a dreadful questioning--stared back at us. In a minute we had torn off the gag, unswathed the bonds, and Mrs. Stapleton sank upon the floor in front of us. As her beautiful head fell upon her chest I saw the clear red weal of a whiplash across her neck. "The brute!" cried Holmes. "Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle! Put her in the chair! She has fainted from ill-usage and exhaustion." She opened her eyes again. "Is he safe?" she asked. "Has he escaped?" "He cannot escape us, madam." "No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir Henry? Is he safe?" "Yes." "And the hound?" "It is dead." She gave a long sigh of satisfaction. "Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! See how he has treated me!" She shot her arms out from her sleeves, and we saw with horror that they were all mottled with bruises. "But this is nothing--nothing! It is my mind and soul that he has tortured and defiled. I could endure it all, ill-usage, solitude, a life of deception, everything, as long as I could still cling to the hope that I had his love, but now I know that in this also I have been his dupe and his tool." She broke into passionate sobbing as she spoke. "You bear him no good will, madam," said Holmes. "Tell us then where we shall find him. If you have ever aided him in evil, help us now and so atone." "There is but one place where he can have fled," she answered. "There is an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire. It was there that he kept his hound and there also he had made preparations so that he might have a refuge. That is where he would fly." The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window. Holmes held the lamp towards it. "See," said he. "No one could find his way into the Grimpen Mire to-night." She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes and teeth gleamed with fierce merriment. "He may find his way in, but never out," she cried. "How can he see the guiding wands to-night? We planted them together, he and I, to mark the pathway through the mire. Oh, if I could only have plucked them out to-day. Then indeed you would have had him at your mercy!" It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the fog had lifted. Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the house while Holmes and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville Hall. The story of the Stapletons could no longer be withheld from him, but he took the blow bravely when he learned the truth about the woman whom he had loved. But the shock of the night's adventures had shattered his nerves, and before morning he lay delirious in a high fever, under the care of Dr. Mortimer. The two of them were destined to travel together round the world before Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty man that he had been before he became master of that ill-omened estate. And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular narrative, in which I have tried to make the reader share those dark fears and vague surmises which clouded our lives so long and ended in so tragic a manner. On the morning after the death of the hound the fog had lifted and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the point where they had found a pathway through the bog. It helped us to realize the horror of this woman's life when we saw the eagerness and joy with which she laid us on her husband's track. We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of firm, peaty soil which tapered out into the widespread bog. From the end of it a small wand planted here and there showed where the path zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those green-scummed pits and foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while a false step plunged us more than once thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft undulations around our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as we walked, and when we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was tugging us down into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was the clutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that someone had passed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of cotton grass which bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting. Holmes sank to his waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and had we not been there to drag him out he could never have set his foot upon firm land again. He held an old black boot in the air. "Meyers, Toronto," was printed on the leather inside. "It is worth a mud bath," said he. "It is our friend Sir Henry's missing boot." "Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight." "Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set the hound upon the track. He fled when he knew the game was up, still clutching it. And he hurled it away at this point of his flight. We know at least that he came so far in safety." But more than that we were never destined to know, though there was much which we might surmise. There was no chance of finding footsteps in the mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in upon them, but as we at last reached firmer ground beyond the morass we all looked eagerly for them. But no slightest sign of them ever met our eyes. If the earth told a true story, then Stapleton never reached that island of refuge towards which he struggled through the fog upon that last night. Somewhere in the heart of the great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the huge morass which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel-hearted man is forever buried. Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he had hid his savage ally. A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled with rubbish showed the position of an abandoned mine. Beside it were the crumbling remains of the cottages of the miners, driven away no doubt by the foul reek of the surrounding swamp. In one of these a staple and chain with a quantity of gnawed bones showed where the animal had been confined. A skeleton with a tangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among the debris. "A dog!" said Holmes. "By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. Poor Mortimer will never see his pet again. Well, I do not know that this place contains any secret which we have not already fathomed. He could hide his hound, but he could not hush its voice, and hence came those cries which even in daylight were not pleasant to hear. On an emergency he could keep the hound in the out-house at Merripit, but it was always a risk, and it was only on the supreme day, which he regarded as the end of all his efforts, that he dared do it. This paste in the tin is no doubt the luminous mixture with which the creature was daubed. It was suggested, of course, by the story of the family hell-hound, and by the desire to frighten old Sir Charles to death. No wonder the poor devil of a convict ran and screamed, even as our friend did, and as we ourselves might have done, when he saw such a creature bounding through the darkness of the moor upon his track. It was a cunning device, for, apart from the chance of driving your victim to his death, what peasant would venture to inquire too closely into such a creature should he get sight of it, as many have done, upon the moor? I said it in London, Watson, and I say it again now, that never yet have we helped to hunt down a more dangerous man than he who is lying yonder"--he swept his long arm towards the huge mottled expanse of green-splotched bog which stretched away until it merged into the russet slopes of the moor. Chapter 15 A Retrospection It was the end of November and Holmes and I sat, upon a raw and foggy night, on either side of a blazing fire in our sitting-room in Baker Street. Since the tragic upshot of our visit to Devonshire he had been engaged in two affairs of the utmost importance, in the first of which he had exposed the atrocious conduct of Colonel Upwood in connection with the famous card scandal of the Nonpareil Club, while in the second he had defended the unfortunate Mme. Montpensier from the charge of murder which hung over her in connection with the death of her step-daughter, Mlle. Carére, the young lady who, as it will be remembered, was found six months later alive and married in New York. My friend was in excellent spirits over the success which had attended a succession of difficult and important cases, so that I was able to induce him to discuss the details of the Baskerville mystery. I had waited patiently for the opportunity, for I was aware that he would never permit cases to overlap, and that his clear and logical mind would not be drawn from its present work to dwell upon memories of the past. Sir Henry and Dr. Mortimer were, however, in London, on their way to that long voyage which had been recommended for the restoration of his shattered nerves. They had called upon us that very afternoon, so that it was natural that the subject should come up for discussion. "The whole course of events," said Holmes, "from the point of view of the man who called himself Stapleton was simple and direct, although to us, who had no means in the beginning of knowing the motives of his actions and could only learn part of the facts, it all appeared exceedingly complex. I have had the advantage of two conversations with Mrs. Stapleton, and the case has now been so entirely cleared up that I am not aware that there is anything which has remained a secret to us. You will find a few notes upon the matter under the heading B in my indexed list of cases." "Perhaps you would kindly give me a sketch of the course of events from memory." "Certainly, though I cannot guarantee that I carry all the facts in my mind. Intense mental concentration has a curious way of blotting out what has passed. The barrister who has his case at his fingers' ends, and is able to argue with an expert upon his own subject finds that a week or two of the courts will drive it all out of his head once more. So each of my cases displaces the last, and Mlle. Carére has blurred my recollection of Baskerville Hall. To-morrow some other little problem may be submitted to my notice which will in turn dispossess the fair French lady and the infamous Upwood. So far as the case of the Hound goes, however, I will give you the course of events as nearly as I can, and you will suggest anything which I may have forgotten. "My inquiries show beyond all question that the family portrait did not lie, and that this fellow was indeed a Baskerville. He was a son of that Rodger Baskerville, the younger brother of Sir Charles, who fled with a sinister reputation to South America, where he was said to have died unmarried. He did, as a matter of fact, marry, and had one child, this fellow, whose real name is the same as his father's. He married Beryl Garcia, one of the beauties of Costa Rica, and, having purloined a considerable sum of public money, he changed his name to Vandeleur and fled to England, where he established a school in the east of Yorkshire. His reason for attempting this special line of business was that he had struck up an acquaintance with a consumptive tutor upon the voyage home, and that he had used this man's ability to make the undertaking a success. Fraser, the tutor, died however, and the school which had begun well sank from disrepute into infamy. The Vandeleurs found it convenient to change their name to Stapleton, and he brought the remains of his fortune, his schemes for the future, and his taste for entomology to the south of England. I learned at the British Museum that he was a recognized authority upon the subject, and that the name of Vandeleur has been permanently attached to a certain moth which he had, in his Yorkshire days, been the first to describe. "We now come to that portion of his life which has proved to be of such intense interest to us. The fellow had evidently made inquiry and found that only two lives intervened between him and a valuable estate. When he went to Devonshire his plans were, I believe, exceedingly hazy, but that he meant mischief from the first is evident from the way in which he took his wife with him in the character of his sister. The idea of using her as a decoy was clearly already in his mind, though he may not have been certain how the details of his plot were to be arranged. He meant in the end to have the estate, and he was ready to use any tool or run any risk for that end. His first act was to establish himself as near to his ancestral home as he could, and his second was to cultivate a friendship with Sir Charles Baskerville and with the neighbours. "The baronet himself told him about the family hound, and so prepared the way for his own death. Stapleton, as I will continue to call him, knew that the old man's heart was weak and that a shock would kill him. So much he had learned from Dr. Mortimer. He had heard also that Sir Charles was superstitious and had taken this grim legend very seriously. His ingenious mind instantly suggested a way by which the baronet could be done to death, and yet it would be hardly possible to bring home the guilt to the real murderer. "Having conceived the idea he proceeded to carry it out with considerable finesse. An ordinary schemer would have been content to work with a savage hound. The use of artificial means to make the creature diabolical was a flash of genius upon his part. The dog he bought in London from Ross and Mangles, the dealers in Fulham Road. It was the strongest and most savage in their possession. He brought it down by the North Devon line and walked a great distance over the moor so as to get it home without exciting any remarks. He had already on his insect hunts learned to penetrate the Grimpen Mire, and so had found a safe hiding-place for the creature. Here he kennelled it and waited his chance. "But it was some time coming. The old gentleman could not be decoyed outside of his grounds at night. Several times Stapleton lurked about with his hound, but without avail. It was during these fruitless quests that he, or rather his ally, was seen by peasants, and that the legend of the demon dog received a new confirmation. He had hoped that his wife might lure Sir Charles to his ruin, but here she proved unexpectedly independent. She would not endeavour to entangle the old gentleman in a sentimental attachment which might deliver him over to his enemy. Threats and even, I am sorry to say, blows refused to move her. She would have nothing to do with it, and for a time Stapleton was at a deadlock. "He found a way out of his difficulties through the chance that Sir Charles, who had conceived a friendship for him, made him the minister of his charity in the case of this unfortunate woman, Mrs. Laura Lyons. By representing himself as a single man he acquired complete influence over her, and he gave her to understand that in the event of her obtaining a divorce from her husband he would marry her. His plans were suddenly brought to a head by his knowledge that Sir Charles was about to leave the Hall on the advice of Dr. Mortimer, with whose opinion he himself pretended to coincide. He must act at once, or his victim might get beyond his power. He therefore put pressure upon Mrs. Lyons to write this letter, imploring the old man to give her an interview on the evening before his departure for London. He then, by a specious argument, prevented her from going, and so had the chance for which he had waited. "Driving back in the evening from Coombe Tracey he was in time to get his hound, to treat it with his infernal paint, and to bring the beast round to the gate at which he had reason to expect that he would find the old gentleman waiting. The dog, incited by its master, sprang over the wicket-gate and pursued the unfortunate baronet, who fled screaming down the Yew Alley. In that gloomy tunnel it must indeed have been a dreadful sight to see that huge black creature, with its flaming jaws and blazing eyes, bounding after its victim. He fell dead at the end of the alley from heart disease and terror. The hound had kept upon the grassy border while the baronet had run down the path, so that no track but the man's was visible. On seeing him lying still the creature had probably approached to sniff at him, but finding him dead had turned away again. It was then that it left the print which was actually observed by Dr. Mortimer. The hound was called off and hurried away to its lair in the Grimpen Mire, and a mystery was left which puzzled the authorities, alarmed the country-side, and finally brought the case within the scope of our observation. "So much for the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. You perceive the devilish cunning of it, for really it would be almost impossible to make a case against the real murderer. His only accomplice was one who could never give him away, and the grotesque, inconceivable nature of the device only served to make it more effective. Both of the women concerned in the case, Mrs. Stapleton and Mrs. Laura Lyons, were left with a strong suspicion against Stapleton. Mrs. Stapleton knew that he had designs upon the old man, and also of the existence of the hound. Mrs. Lyons knew neither of these things, but had been impressed by the death occurring at the time of an uncancelled appointment which was only known to him. However, both of them were under his influence, and he had nothing to fear from them. The first half of his task was successfully accomplished but the more difficult still remained. "It is possible that Stapleton did not know of the existence of an heir in Canada. In any case he would very soon learn it from his friend Dr. Mortimer, and he was told by the latter all details about the arrival of Henry Baskerville. Stapleton's first idea was that this young stranger from Canada might possibly be done to death in London without coming down to Devonshire at all. He distrusted his wife ever since she had refused to help him in laying a trap for the old man, and he dared not leave her long out of his sight for fear he should lose his influence over her. It was for this reason that he took her to London with him. They lodged, I find, at the Mexborough Private Hotel, in Craven Street, which was actually one of those called upon by my agent in search of evidence. Here he kept his wife imprisoned in her room while he, disguised in a beard, followed Dr. Mortimer to Baker Street and afterwards to the station and to the Northumberland Hotel. His wife had some inkling of his plans; but she had such a fear of her husband--a fear founded upon brutal ill-treatment--that she dare not write to warn the man whom she knew to be in danger. If the letter should fall into Stapleton's hands her own life would not be safe. Eventually, as we know, she adopted the expedient of cutting out the words which would form the message, and addressing the letter in a disguised hand. It reached the baronet, and gave him the first warning of his danger. "It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of Sir Henry's attire so that, in case he was driven to use the dog, he might always have the means of setting him upon his track. With characteristic promptness and audacity he set about this at once, and we cannot doubt that the boots or chamber-maid of the hotel was well bribed to help him in his design. By chance, however, the first boot which was procured for him was a new one and, therefore, useless for his purpose. He then had it returned and obtained another--a most instructive incident, since it proved conclusively to my mind that we were dealing with a real hound, as no other supposition could explain this anxiety to obtain an old boot and this indifference to a new one. The more outre and grotesque an incident is the more carefully it deserves to be examined, and the very point which appears to complicate a case is, when duly considered and scientifically handled, the one which is most likely to elucidate it. "Then we had the visit from our friends next morning, shadowed always by Stapleton in the cab. From his knowledge of our rooms and of my appearance, as well as from his general conduct, I am inclined to think that Stapleton's career of crime has been by no means limited to this single Baskerville affair. It is suggestive that during the last three years there have been four considerable burglaries in the West Country, for none of which was any criminal ever arrested. The last of these, at Folkestone Court, in May, was remarkable for the cold-blooded pistoling of the page, who surprised the masked and solitary burglar. I cannot doubt that Stapleton recruited his waning resources in this fashion, and that for years he has been a desperate and dangerous man. "We had an example of his readiness of resource that morning when he got away from us so successfully, and also of his audacity in sending back my own name to me through the cabman. From that moment he understood that I had taken over the case in London, and that therefore there was no chance for him there. He returned to Dartmoor and awaited the arrival of the baronet." "One moment!" said I. "You have, no doubt, described the sequence of events correctly, but there is one point which you have left unexplained. What became of the hound when its master was in London?" "I have given some attention to this matter and it is undoubtedly of importance. There can be no question that Stapleton had a confidant, though it is unlikely that he ever placed himself in his power by sharing all his plans with him. There was an old manservant at Merripit House, whose name was Anthony. His connection with the Stapletons can be traced for several years, as far back as the schoolmastering days, so that he must have been aware that his master and mistress were really husband and wife. This man has disappeared and has escaped from the country. It is suggestive that Anthony is not a common name in England, while Antonio is so in all Spanish or Spanish-American countries. The man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself, spoke good English, but with a curious lisping accent. I have myself seen this old man cross the Grimpen Mire by the path which Stapleton had marked out. It is very probable, therefore, that in the absence of his master it was he who cared for the hound, though he may never have known the purpose for which the beast was used. "The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they were soon followed by Sir Henry and you. One word now as to how I stood myself at that time. It may possibly recur to your memory that when I examined the paper upon which the printed words were fastened I made a close inspection for the water-mark. In doing so I held it within a few inches of my eyes, and was conscious of a faint smell of the scent known as white jessamine. There are seventy-five perfumes, which it is very necessary that a criminal expert should be able to distinguish from each other, and cases have more than once within my own experience depended upon their prompt recognition. The scent suggested the presence of a lady, and already my thoughts began to turn towards the Stapletons. Thus I had made certain of the hound, and had guessed at the criminal before ever we went to the west country. "It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was evident, however, that I could not do this if I were with you, since he would be keenly on his guard. I deceived everybody, therefore, yourself included, and I came down secretly when I was supposed to be in London. My hardships were not so great as you imagined, though such trifling details must never interfere with the investigation of a case. I stayed for the most part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut upon the moor when it was necessary to be near the scene of action. Cartwright had come down with me, and in his disguise as a country boy he was of great assistance to me. I was dependent upon him for food and clean linen. When I was watching Stapleton, Cartwright was frequently watching you, so that I was able to keep my hand upon all the strings. "I have already told you that your reports reached me rapidly, being forwarded instantly from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey. They were of great service to me, and especially that one incidentally truthful piece of biography of Stapleton's. I was able to establish the identity of the man and the woman and knew at last exactly how I stood. The case had been considerably complicated through the incident of the escaped convict and the relations between him and the Barrymores. This also you cleared up in a very effective way, though I had already come to the same conclusions from my own observations. "By the time that you discovered me upon the moor I had a complete knowledge of the whole business, but I had not a case which could go to a jury. Even Stapleton's attempt upon Sir Henry that night which ended in the death of the unfortunate convict did not help us much in proving murder against our man. There seemed to be no alternative but to catch him red-handed, and to do so we had to use Sir Henry, alone and apparently unprotected, as a bait. We did so, and at the cost of a severe shock to our client we succeeded in completing our case and driving Stapleton to his destruction. That Sir Henry should have been exposed to this is, I must confess, a reproach to my management of the case, but we had no means of foreseeing the terrible and paralyzing spectacle which the beast presented, nor could we predict the fog which enabled him to burst upon us at such short notice. We succeeded in our object at a cost which both the specialist and Dr. Mortimer assure me will be a temporary one. A long journey may enable our friend to recover not only from his shattered nerves but also from his wounded feelings. His love for the lady was deep and sincere, and to him the saddest part of all this black business was that he should have been deceived by her. "It only remains to indicate the part which she had played throughout. There can be no doubt that Stapleton exercised an influence over her which may have been love or may have been fear, or very possibly both, since they are by no means incompatible emotions. It was, at least, absolutely effective. At his command she consented to pass as his sister, though he found the limits of his power over her when he endeavoured to make her the direct accessory to murder. She was ready to warn Sir Henry so far as she could without implicating her husband, and again and again she tried to do so. Stapleton himself seems to have been capable of jealousy, and when he saw the baronet paying court to the lady, even though it was part of his own plan, still he could not help interrupting with a passionate outburst which revealed the fiery soul which his self-contained manner so cleverly concealed. By encouraging the intimacy he made it certain that Sir Henry would frequently come to Merripit House and that he would sooner or later get the opportunity which he desired. On the day of the crisis, however, his wife turned suddenly against him. She had learned something of the death of the convict, and she knew that the hound was being kept in the out-house on the evening that Sir Henry was coming to dinner. She taxed her husband with his intended crime, and a furious scene followed, in which he showed her for the first time that she had a rival in his love. Her fidelity turned in an instant to bitter hatred and he saw that she would betray him. He tied her up, therefore, that she might have no chance of warning Sir Henry, and he hoped, no doubt, that when the whole country-side put down the baronet's death to the curse of his family, as they certainly would do, he could win his wife back to accept an accomplished fact and to keep silent upon what she knew. In this I fancy that in any case he made a miscalculation, and that, if we had not been there, his doom would none the less have been sealed. A woman of Spanish blood does not condone such an injury so lightly. And now, my dear Watson, without referring to my notes, I cannot give you a more detailed account of this curious case. I do not know that anything essential has been left unexplained." "He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death as he had done the old uncle with his bogie hound." "The beast was savage and half-starved. If its appearance did not frighten its victim to death, at least it would paralyze the resistance which might be offered." "No doubt. There only remains one difficulty. If Stapleton came into the succession, how could he explain the fact that he, the heir, had been living unannounced under another name so close to the property? How could he claim it without causing suspicion and inquiry?" "It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too much when you expect me to solve it. The past and the present are within the field of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard question to answer. Mrs. Stapleton has heard her husband discuss the problem on several occasions. There were three possible courses. He might claim the property from South America, establish his identity before the British authorities there and so obtain the fortune without ever coming to England at all; or he might adopt an elaborate disguise during the short time that he need be in London; or, again, he might furnish an accomplice with the proofs and papers, putting him in as heir, and retaining a claim upon some proportion of his income. We cannot doubt from what we know of him that he would have found some way out of the difficulty. And now, my dear Watson, we have had some weeks of severe work, and for one evening, I think, we may turn our thoughts into more pleasant channels. I have a box for 'Les Huguenots.' Have you heard the De Reszkes? Might I trouble you then to be ready in half an hour, and we can stop at Marcini's for a little dinner on the way?" 
21357	----	Nic Revel; A White Slave's Adventures in Alligator Land, by George Manville Fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ Nic Revel is brought up on a small landed estate in Devon. The date is somewhere in the middle of the nineteenth century. There is a very good salmon pool on the estate, but it is often used by poachers, which greatly annoys the Revel family. Eventually they have a great fight there, in which they had arranged to be supported by men from a vessel of the Royal Navy. Nic is wounded and is mistaken for a poacher by the naval party, who press-gang the poachers. When they reach America, Nic is still hardly conscious, and not capable of much work. All the less able poachers are then sold by the ship to an American slave dealer, who sells them to a settler who lives a long way up a river. After a journey to the farm they find that they are given very hard work to do, and not fed very well. And of course Nic and one of the poachers, who has become a good friend of his, want to get back to Devon. After many trials and tribulations they eventually escape. George Manville Fenn is a master of suspense, and this book is a very good example of his work. ________________________________________________________________________ NIC REVEL; A WHITE SLAVE'S ADVENTURES IN ALLIGATOR LAND, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. CAPTAIN REVEL IS CROSS. "Late again, Nic," said Captain Revel. "Very sorry, father." "Yes, you always are `very sorry,' sir. I never saw such a fellow to sleep. Why, when I was a lad of your age--let's see, you're just eighteen." "Yes, father, and very hungry," said the young man, with a laugh and a glance at the breakfast-table. "Always are very hungry. Why, when I was a lad of your age I didn't lead such an easy-going life as you do. You're spoiled, Nic, by an indulgent father.--Here, help me to some of that ham.--Had to keep my watch and turn up on deck at all hours; glad to eat weavilly biscuit.-- Give me that brown bit.--Ah, I ought to have sent you to sea. Made a man of you. Heard the thunder, of course?" "No, father. Was there a storm?" "Storm--yes. Lightning as we used to have it in the East Indies, and the rain came down like a waterspout." "I didn't hear anything of it, father." "No; you'd sleep through an earthquake, or a shipwreck, or--Why, I say, Nic, you'll soon have a beard." "Oh, nonsense, father! Shall I cut you some bread?" "But you will," said the Captain, chuckling. "My word, how time goes! Only the other day you were an ugly little pup of a fellow, and I used to wipe your nose; and now you're as big as I am--I mean as tall." "Yes; I'm not so stout, father," said Nic, laughing. "None of your impudence, sir," said the heavy old sea-captain, frowning. "If you had been as much knocked about as I have, you might have been as stout." Nic Revel could not see the common-sense of the remark, but he said nothing, and went on with his breakfast, glancing from time to time through the window at the glittering sea beyond the flagstaff, planted on the cliff which ran down perpendicularly to the little river that washed its base while flowing on towards the sea a mile lower down. "Couldn't sleep a bit," said Captain Revel. "But I felt it coming all yesterday afternoon. Was I--er--a bit irritable?" "Um--er--well, just a little, father," said Nic dryly. "Humph! and that means I was like a bear--eh, sir?" "I did not say so, father." "No, sir; but you meant it. Well, enough to make me," cried the Captain, flushing. "I will not have it. I'll have half-a-dozen more watchers, and put a stop to their tricks. The land's mine, and the river's mine, and the salmon are mine; and if any more of those idle rascals come over from the town on to my grounds, after my fish, I'll shoot 'em, or run 'em through, or catch 'em and have 'em tied up and flogged." "It is hard, father." "`_Hard_' isn't hard enough, Nic, my boy," cried the Captain angrily. "The river's open to them below, and it's free to them up on the moors, and they may go and catch them in the sea if they want more room." "If they can, father," said Nic, laughing. "Well, yes--if they can, boy. Of course it's if they can with any one who goes fishing. But I will not have them come disturbing me. The impudent scoundrels!" "Did you see somebody yesterday, then, father?" "Didn't you hear me telling you, sir? Pay attention, and give me some more ham. Yes; I'd been up to the flagstaff and was walking along by the side of the combe, so as to come back home through the wood path, when there was that great lazy scoundrel, Burge, over from the town with a long staff and a hook, and I was just in time to see him land a good twelve-pound salmon out of the pool--one of that half-dozen that have been lying there this fortnight past waiting for enough water to run up higher." "Did you speak to him, father?" "Speak to him, sir!" cried the Captain. "I let him have a broadside." "What did he say, father?" "Laughed at me--the scoundrel! Safe on the other side; and I had to stand still and see him carry off the beautiful fish." "The insolent dog!" cried Nic. "Yes; I wish I was as young and strong and active as you, boy. I'd have gone down somehow, waded the river, and pushed the scoundrel in." He looked at his father and smiled. "But I would, my boy: I was in such a fit of temper. Why can't the rascals leave me and mine alone?" "Like salmon, I suppose, father," said the young man. "So do we--but they might go up the river and catch them." "We get so many in the pool, and they tempt the idle people." "Then they have no business to fall into temptation. I'll do something to stop them." "Better not, father," said Nic quietly. "It would only mean fighting and trouble." "Bah!" cried Captain Revel, with his face growing redder than usual. "What a fellow to be my son! Why, sir, when I was your age I gloried in a fight." "Did you, father?" "Yes, sir, I did." "Ah! but you were in training for a fighting-man." "And I was weak enough, to please your poor mother, to let you be schooled for a bookworm, and a man of law and quips and quiddities, always ready to enter into an argument with me, and prove that black's white and white's no colour, as they say. Hark ye, sir, if it was not too late I'd get Jack Lawrence to take you to sea with him now. He'll be looking us up one of these days soon. It's nearly time he put in at Plymouth again." "No, you would not, father," said the young man quietly. "Ah! arguing again? Why not, pray?" "Because you told me you were quite satisfied with what you had done." "Humph! Hah! Yes! so I did. What are you going to do this morning-- read?" "Yes, father; read hard." "Well, don't read too hard, my lad. Get out in the fresh air a bit. Why not try for a salmon? They'll be running up after this rain, and you may get one if there is not too much water." "Yes, I might try," said the young man quietly; and soon after he strolled into the quaint old library, to begin poring over a heavy law-book full of wise statutes, forgetting everything but the task he had in hand; while Captain Revel went out to walk to the edge of the high cliff and sat down on the stone seat at the foot of the properly-rigged flagstaff Here he scanned the glittering waters, criticising the manoeuvres of the craft passing up and down the Channel on their way to Portsmouth or the port of London, or westward for Plymouth, dreaming the while of his old ship and the adventures he had had till his wounds, received in a desperate engagement with a couple of piratical vessels in the American waters, incapacitated him for active service, and forced him to lead the life of an old-fashioned country gentleman at his home near the sea. CHAPTER TWO. A WET FIGHT. The Captain was having his after-dinner nap when Nic took down one of the rods which always hung ready in the hall, glanced at the fly to see if it was all right, and then crossed the garden to the fields. He turned off towards the river, from which, deep down in the lovely combe, came a low, murmurous, rushing sound, quite distinct from a deep, sullen roar from the thick woodland a few hundred yards to his right. "No fishing to-day," he said, and he rested his rod against one of the sturdy dwarf oaks which sheltered the house from the western gales, and then walked on, drawing in deep draughts of the soft salt air and enjoying the beauty of the scene around. For the old estate had been well chosen by the Revels of two hundred years earlier; and, look which way he might, up or down the miniature valley, there were the never-tiring beauties of one of the most delightful English districts. The murmur increased as the young man strode on down the rugged slope, or leaped from mossy stone to stone, amongst heather, furze, and fern, to where the steep sides of the combe grew more thickly clothed with trees, in and amongst which the sheep had made tracks like a map of the little valley, till all at once he stood at the edge of a huge mass of rock, gazing through the leaves at the foaming brown water which washed the base of the natural wall, and eddied and leaped and tore on along its zigzag bed, onward towards the sea. From where he stood he gazed straight across at the other side of the combe, one mass of greens of every tint, here lit up by the sun, there deep in shadow; while, watered by the soft moist air and mists which rose from below, everything he gazed upon was rich and luxuriant in the extreme. "The rain must have been tremendous up in the moor," thought the young man, as he gazed down into the lovely gully at the rushing water, which on the previous day had been a mere string of stony pools connected by a trickling stream, some of them deep and dark, the haunts of the salmon which came up in their season from the sea. "What a change! Yesterday, all as clear as crystal; now, quite a golden brown." Then, thinking of how the salmon must be taking advantage of the little flood to run up higher to their spawning-grounds among the hills, Nic turned off to his right to follow a rugged track along the cliff-like side, sometimes low down, sometimes high up; now in deep shadow, now in openings where the sun shot through to make the hurrying waters sparkle and flash. The young man went on and on for quite a quarter of a mile, with the sullen roar increasing till it became one deep musical boom; and, turning a corner where a portion of the cliff overhung the narrow path, and long strands of ivy hung down away from the stones, he stepped out of a green twilight into broad sunshine, to stand upon a shelf of rock, gazing into a circular pool some hundred feet across. Here was the explanation of the deep, melodious roar. For, to his right, over what resembled a great eight-foot-high step in the valley, the whole of the little river plunged down from the continuation of the gorge, falling in one broad cascade in a glorious curve right into the pool, sending up a fine spray which formed a cloud, across which, like a bridge over the fall, the lovely tints of a rainbow played from time to time. It was nothing new to Nic, that amphitheatre, into which he had gazed times enough ever since he was a child; but it had never seemed more lovely, nor the growth which fringed it from the edge of the water to fifty or sixty feet above his head more beautiful and green. But he had an object in coming, and, following the shelf onward, he was soon standing level with the side of the fall, gazing intently at the watery curve and right into the pool where the water foamed and plunged down, rose a few yards away, and then set in a regular stream round and round the amphitheatre, a portion flowing out between two huge buttresses of granite, and then hurrying downstream. Nic was about fifteen feet above the surface of the chaos of water, and a little above the head of the pool; while below him were blocks of stone, dripping bushes, and grasses, and then an easy descent to where he might have stood dry-shod and gazed beneath the curve of the falling water, as he had stood scores of times before. But his attention was fixed upon the curve, and as he watched he saw something silvery flash out of the brown water and fall back into the pool where the foam was thickest. Again he saw it, and this time it disappeared without falling back. For the salmon, fresh from the sea, were leaping at the fall to gain the upper waters of the river. It was a romantic scene, and Nic stood watching for some minutes, breathing the moist air, while the spray began to gather upon his garments, and the deep musical boom reverberated from the rocky sides of the chasm. It was a grand day for the fish, and he was thinking that there would be plenty of them right up the river for miles, for again and again he saw salmon flash into sight as, by one tremendous spring and beat of their tails, they made their great effort to pass the obstacle in their way. "Plenty for every one," he said to himself; "and plenty left for us," he added, as he saw other fish fail and drop back into the foam-covered amber and black water, to sail round with the stream, and in all probability--for their actions could not be seen--rest from their tremendous effort, and try again. All at once, after Nic had been watching for some minutes without seeing sign of a fish, there was a flash close in to where he stood, and a large salmon shot up, reached the top of the fall, and would have passed on, but fortune was against it. For a moment it rested on the edge, and its broad tail and part of its body glistened as a powerful stroke was made with the broad caudal fin. But it was in the air, not in the water; and the next moment the great fish was falling, when, quick as its own spring up, there was a sudden movement from behind one of the great stones at the foot of the fall just below where Nic stood, and the salmon was caught upon a sharp hook at the end of a stout ash pole and dragged shoreward, flapping and struggling with all its might. The efforts were in vain, for its captor drew it in quickly, raising the pole more and more till it was nearly perpendicular, as he came out from behind the great block of dripping stone which had hidden him from Nic, and, as it happened, stepped backward, till his fish was clear of the water. It was all the matter of less than a minute. The man, intent upon his fish--a magnificent freshly-run salmon, glittering in its silver scales--passed hand over hand along his pole, released his right, and was in the act of reaching down to thrust a hooked finger in the opening and closing gills to make sure of his prize in the cramped-up space he occupied, when the end of the stout ash staff struck Nic sharply on his leg. But the man did not turn, attributing the hindrance to his pole having encountered a stone or tree branch above his head, and any movement made by Nic was drowned by the roar of the fall. The blow upon the leg was sharp, and gave intense pain to its recipient, whose temper was already rising at the cool impudence of the stout, bullet-headed fellow, trespassing and poaching in open daylight upon the Captain's grounds. Consequently, Nic did take notice of the blow. Stooping down as the end of the pole wavered in the air, he made a snatch at and seized it, gave it a wrench round as the man's finger was entering the gill of the salmon, and the hook being reversed, the fish dropped off, there was a slight addition to the splashing in the pool, and then it disappeared. The next moment the man twisted himself round, holding on by the pole, and stared up; while Nic, still holding on by the other end, leaned over and stared down. It was a curious picture, and for some moments neither stirred, the poacher's not ill-looking face expressing profound astonishment at this strange attack. Then a fierce look of anger crossed it, and, quick as thought, he made a sharp snatch, which destroyed Nic's balance, making him loosen his hold of the pole and snatch at the nearest branch to check his fall. He succeeded, but only for a moment, just sufficient to save himself and receive another heavy blow from the pole, which made him lose his hold and slip, more than fall, down to where he was on the same level with his adversary, who drew back to strike again. But Nic felt as if his heart was on fire. The pain of the blows thrilled him, and, darting forward with clenched fists, he struck the poacher full in the mouth before the pole could swing round. There was the faint whisper of a hoarse yell as the man fell back; Nic saw his hands clutching in the air, then he went backward into the boiling water, while the end of the pole was seen to rise above the surface for a moment or two, and then glide towards the bottom of the fall and disappear. For the current, as it swung round the pool, set towards the falling water on the surface, and rushed outward far below. Nic's rage died out more quickly than it had risen, and he craned forward, white as ashes now, watching for the rising of his adversary out somewhere towards the other side; while, as if in triumphant mockery or delight at the danger having been removed, another huge salmon leaped up the fall. CHAPTER THREE. A GAME OF TIT FOR TAT. "I'd have pushed him in." Captain Revel's threat flashed through his son's brain as the young man stood staring wildly over the agitated waters of the pool, every moment fancying that he saw some portion of the man's body rise to the surface; but only for it to prove a patch of the creamy froth churned up by the flood. It was plain enough: the man had been sucked in under the falls, and the force of the falling water was keeping him down. He must have been beneath the surface for a full minute now--so it seemed to Nic; and, as he grew more hopeless moment by moment of seeing him rise, the young man's blood seemed to chill with horror at the thought that he had in his rage destroyed another's life. Only a short time back the shut-in pool had been a scene of beauty; now it was like a black hollow of misery and despair, as the water dashed down and then swirled and eddied in the hideous whirlpool. Then it was light again, and a wild feeling of exultation shot through Nic's breast, for he suddenly caught sight of the man's inert body approaching him, after gliding right round the basin. It was quite fifty feet away, and seemed for a few moments as if about to be swept out of the hollow and down the gully; but the swirl was too strong, and it continued gliding round the pool, each moment coming nearer. There was no time for hesitation. Nic knew the danger and the impossibility of keeping afloat in foaming water like that before him, churned up as it was with air; but he felt that at all cost he must plunge in and try to save his adversary before the poor fellow was swept by him and borne once more beneath the fall. Stripping off his coat, he waited a few seconds, and then leaped outward so as to come down feet first, in the hope that he might find bottom and be able to wade, for he knew that swimming was out of the question. It was one rush, splash, and hurry, for the water was not breast-deep, and by a desperate effort he kept up as his feet reached the rugged, heavily-scoured stones at the bottom. Then the pressure of the water nearly bore him away, but he managed to keep up, bearing sidewise, and the next minute had grasped the man's arm and was struggling shorewards, dragging his adversary towards the rugged bank. Twice-over he felt that it was impossible; but, as the peril increased, despair seemed to endow him with superhuman strength, and he kept up the struggle bravely, ending by drawing the man out on to the ledge of stones nearly on a level with the water, where he had been at first standing at the foot of the fall. "He's dead; he's dead!" panted Nic, as he sank upon his knees, too much exhausted by his struggle to do more than gaze down at the dripping, sun-tanned face, though the idea was growing that he must somehow carry the body up into the sunshine and try to restore consciousness. Comic things occur sometimes in tragedies, and Nic's heart gave a tremendous leap, for a peculiar twitching suddenly contracted the face beside which he knelt, and the man sneezed violently, again and again. A strangling fit of coughing succeeded, during which he choked and crowed and grew scarlet, and in his efforts to get his breath he rose into a sitting position, opened his eyes to stare, and ended by struggling to his feet and standing panting and gazing fiercely at Nic. "Are you better?" cried the latter excitedly, and he seized the man by the arms, as he too rose, and held him fast, in the fear lest he should fall back into the whirlpool once more. That was enough! Pete Burge was too hardy a fisher to be easily drowned. He had recovered his senses, and the rage against the young fellow who had caused his trouble surged up again, as it seemed to him that he was being seized and made prisoner, not a word of Nic's speech being heard above the roar of the water. "Vish as much mine as his," said the man to himself; and, in nowise weakened by his immersion, he closed with Nic. There was a short struggle on the ledge, which was about the worst place that could have been chosen for such an encounter; and Nic, as he put forth all his strength against the man's iron muscles, was borne to his left over the water and to his right with a heavy bang against the rocky side of the chasm. Then, before he could recover himself, there was a rapid disengagement and two powerful arms clasped his waist; he was heaved up in old West-country wrestling fashion, struggling wildly, and, in spite of his efforts to cling to his adversary, by a mighty effort jerked off. He fell clear away in the foaming pool, which closed over his head as he was borne in turn right beneath the tons upon tons of water which thundered in his ears, while he experienced the sudden change from sunshine into the dense blackness of night. "How do you like that?" shouted the man; but it was only a faint whisper, of which he alone was conscious. There was a broad grin upon his face, and his big white teeth glistened in the triumphant smile which lit up his countenance. "I'll let you zee." He stood dripping and watching the swirling and foaming water for the reappearance of Nic. "Biggest vish I got this year," he said to himself. "Lost my pole, too; and here! where's my cap, and--?" There was a sudden change in his aspect, his face becoming full of blank horror now as he leaned forward, staring over the pool, eyes and mouth open widely; and then, with a groan, he gasped out: "Well, I've done it now!" CHAPTER FOUR. NIC WILL NOT SHAKE HANDS. History repeats itself, though the repetitions are not always recorded. A horrible feeling of remorse and despair came over the man. His anger had evaporated, and putting his hands to the sides of his mouth, he yelled out: "Ahoy, there! Help--help!" Again it was a mere whisper in the booming roar. "Oh, poor dear lad!" he muttered to himself. "Bother the zammon! Wish there waren't none. Hoi, Master Nic! Strike out! Zwim, lad, zwim! Oh, wheer be ye? I've drowned un. Oh, a mercy me! What have I done?-- Hah! there a be." There was a plunge, a splash, and a rush against the eddying water, with the man showing a better knowledge of the pool, from many a day's wading, than Nic had possessed. Pete Burge knew where the shallow shelves of polished stones lay out of sight, and he waded and struggled on to where the water was bearing Nic round in turn. Then, after wading, the man plunged into deep water, swam strongly, and seized his victim as a huge dog would, with his teeth, swung himself round, and let the fierce current bear him along as he fought his way into the shallow, regained his footing, and the next minute was back by the ledge. Here he rose to his feet, and rolled and thrust Nic ashore, climbed out after him, and knelt in turn by his side. "Bean't dead, be he?" said the man to himself. "Not in the water long enough. Worst o' these here noblemen and gentlemen--got no stuff in 'em." Pete Burge talked to himself, but he was busy the while. He acted like a man who had gained experience in connection with flooded rivers, torrents, and occasional trips in fishing-boats at sea; and according to old notions, supposing his victim not to be already dead, he did the best he could to smother out the tiny spark of life that might still be glowing. His fine old-fashioned notion of a man being drowned was that it was because he was full of water. The proper thing, then, according to his lights, must be to empty it out, and the sooner the better. The sea-going custom was to lay a man face downward across a barrel, and to roll the barrel gently to and fro. "And I aren't got no barrel," muttered Pete. To make up for it he rolled Nic from side to side, and then, as his treatment produced no effect, he seized him by the ankles, stood up, and raised the poor fellow till he was upside down, and shook him violently again and again. Wonderful to relate, that did no good, his patient looking obstinately lifeless; so he laid him in the position he should have tried at first-- extended upon his back; and, apostrophising him all the time as a poor, weakly, helpless creature, punched and rubbed and worked him about, muttering the while. "Oh, poor lad! poor dear lad!" he went on. "I had no spite again' him. I didn't want to drownd him. It weer only tit for tat; he chucked me in, and I chucked him in, and it's all on account o' they zammon.--There goes another. Always a-temptin' a man to come and catch 'em--lyin' in the pools as if askin' of ye.--Oh, I say, do open your eyes, lad, and speak! They'll zay I murdered ye, and if I don't get aboard ship and zail away to foreign abroad, they'll hang me, and the crows'll come and pick out my eyes.--I zay.--I zay lad, don't ye be a vool. It was on'y a drop o' watter ye zwallowed. Do ye come to, and I'll never meddle with the zammon again.--I zay, ye aren't dead now. Don't ye be a vool. It aren't worth dying for, lad. Coom, coom, coom, open your eyes and zit up like a man. You're a gentleman, and ought to know better. I aren't no scholard, and I didn't do zo.--Oh, look at him! I shall be hanged for it, and put on the gibbet, and all for a bit o' vish.--Zay, look here, if you don't come to I'll pitch you back again, and they'll think you tumbled in, and never know no better. It's voolish of ye, lad. Don't give up till ye're ninety-nine or a hundred. It's time enough to die then. Don't die now, with the sun shining and the fish running up the valls, and ye might be so happy and well." And all the while Pete kept on thumping and rubbing and banging his patient about in the most vigorous way. "It's spite, that's what it is," growled the man. "You hit me i' th' mouth and tried to drownd me, and because you couldn't you're trying to get me hanged; and you shan't, for if you don't come-to soon, sure as you're alive I'll pitch you back to be carried out to zea.--Nay, nay, I wouldn't, lad. Ye'd coom back and harnt me. I never meant to do more than duck you, and Hooray!" For Nic's nature had at last risen against the treatment he was receiving. It was more than any one could stand; so, in the midst of a furious bout of rubbing, the poor fellow suddenly yawned and opened his eyes, to stare blankly up at the bright sun-rays streaming down through the overhanging boughs of the gnarled oaks. He dropped his lids again, but another vigorous rubbing made him open them once more; and as he stared now at his rough doctor his lips moved to utter the word "Don't!" but it was not heard, and after one or two more appeals he caught the man's wrists and tried to struggle up into a sitting position, Pete helping him, and then, as he knelt there, grinning in his face. Nic sat staring at him and beginning to think more clearly, so that in a few minutes he had fully grasped the position and recalled all that had taken place. It was evident that there was to be a truce between them, for Pete Burge's rough countenance was quite smiling and triumphant, while on Nic's own part the back of his neck ached severely, and he felt as if he could not have injured a fly. At last Nic rose, shook himself after the fashion of a dog to get rid of some of the water which soaked his clothes, and looked round about him for his cap, feeling that he would be more dignified and look rather less like a drowned rat if he put it on. Pete came close to him, placed his lips nearly to his ear, and shouted, "Cap?" Nic nodded. "Gone down the river to try and catch mine for me," said the man, with a good-humoured grin, which made Nic frown at the insolent familiarity with which it was said. "You'll have to buy me another one, Master Nic," continued the man, "and get the smith to make me a noo steel hook. I'll let you off paying for the pole; I can cut a fresh one somewheres up yonder." "On our grounds?" cried Nic indignantly, speaking as loudly as he could. "Well, there's plenty, aren't there, master? And you've lost mine," shouted back the man, grinning again. "You scoundrel!" cried Nic, who was warming up again. "I shall have you up before the Justices for this." "For what?" said the man insolently. "For throwing me into the pool." "Zo shall I, then," shouted the man. "It was only tit for tat. You zent me in first." "Yes; and I caught you first hooking our salmon, sir." "Tchah! much my zammon as your own, master. Vish comes out of the zea for everybody as likes to catch them." "Not on my father's estate," cried Nic. "You've been warned times enough." "Ay, I've heerd a lot o' talk, master; but me and my mates mean to have a vish or two whenever we wants 'em. You'll never miss 'em." "Look here, Pete Burge," cried Nic; "I don't want to be too hard upon you, because I suppose you fished me out of the pool after throwing me in." "Well, you've no call to grumble, master," said the man, grinning good-humouredly. "You did just the zame." "And," continued Nic, shouting himself hoarse, so as to be heard, and paying no heed to the man's words, "if you faithfully promise me that you'll never come and poach on my father's part of the river again, I'll look over all this, and not have you before the Justices." "How are you going to get me avore the Justice, Master Nic?" said the man, with a merry laugh. "Send the constable, sir." "Tchah! he'd never vind me; and, if he did, he dursen't tackle me. There's a dozen o' my mates would break his head if he tried." "Never mind about that," cried Nic. "You promise me. My father warned you only yesterday." "So he did," said the man, showing his teeth. "In a regular wax he was." "And I will not have him annoyed," cried Nic. "So now then, you promise?" "Nay, I shan't promise." "Then I go straight to the constable, and if I do you'll be summoned and punished, and perhaps sent out of the country." "What vor?--pulling you out when you was drownding?" "For stealing our salmon and beating our two keepers." "Then I'd better have left you in yonder," said the man, laughing. "You mean I had better have left you in yonder, and rid the country of an idle, poaching scoundrel," cried Nic indignantly. "But there, you saved my life, and I want to give you a chance. Look here, Pete Burge, you had better go to sea." "Yes, when I like to try for some vish. Don't ketch me going for a zailor." "Will you give me your word that you will leave the fish alone?" "Nay; but I'll shake hands with you, master. You zaved my life, and I zaved yourn, so we're square over that business." "You insolent dog!" cried Nic. "Then I'll go straight to the Justice." "Nay; you go and put on zome dry clothes. It don't hurt me, but you'll ketch cold, my lad. Look here, you want me to zay I won't take no more zammon." "Yes." "Then I won't zay it. There's about twenty of us means to have as many fish out o' the river as we like, and if anybody, keepers or what not, comes and interveres with us we'll pitch 'em in the river; and they may get out themzelves, for I'm not going in after they. Understand that, master?" "Yes, sir, I do." "Then don't you set any one to meddle with us, or there may be mischief done, for my mates aren't such vools as me. Going to give me a noo steel hook?" "No, you scoundrel!" "Going to zhake hands?" "No, sir." "Just as you like, young master. I wanted to be vriends and you won't, so we'll be t'other. On'y mind, if there's mischief comes of it, you made it. Now then, I'm going to walk about in the sun to get dry, and then zee about getting myself a noo cap and a hook." "To try for our salmon again?" The fellow gave him a queer look, nodded, and climbed up the side of the ravine, followed by Nic. At the top the man turned and stared at him for a few moments, with a peculiar look in his eyes; and the trees between them and the falls shut off much of the deep, booming noise. "Well," said Nic sharply, "have you repented?" "Nothing to repent on," said the man stolidly. "On'y wanted to zay this here: If you zees lights some night among the trees and down by the watter, it means vishing." "I know that," said Nic sternly. "And there'll be a lot there--rough uns; so don't you come and meddle, my lad, for I shouldn't like to zee you hurt." The next minute the man had disappeared among the trees, leaving Nic to stand staring after him, thinking of what would be the result if the salmon-poachers met their match. CHAPTER FIVE. THE CAPTAIN CANNOT LET IT REST. "Hullo, Nic, my boy; been overboard?" The young man started, for he had been thinking a good deal on his way back to the house. His anger had cooled down as much as his body from the evaporation going on. For, after all, he thought he could not find much fault with Pete Burge. It would seem only natural to such a rough fellow to serve his assailant as he had himself been served. "And he did save my life afterwards, instead of letting me drown," thought Nic, who decided not to try to get Pete punished. "I'll give him one more chance," he said; and he had just arrived at this point as he was walking sharply through the trees by the combe, with the intention of slipping in unseen, when he came suddenly upon his father seated upon a stone, and was saluted with the above question as to having been overboard. "Yes, father," he said, glancing down at his drenched garments, "I've been in." "Bah! you go blundering about looking inside instead of where you're steering," cried the Captain. "Aren't drowned, I suppose?" Nic laughed. "Well, slip in and get on some dry things. Look alive." Nic did not want to enter into the business through which he had passed, so he hurried indoors, glad to change his clothes. Then, as the time went on he felt less and less disposed to speak about his adventure, for it seemed hard work to make an effort to punish the man who had, after all, saved his life. About a fortnight had passed, when one morning, upon going down, he encountered his father's old sailor-servant, who answered his salute with a grin. "What are you laughing at, Bill?" asked Nic. "They've been at it again, sir." "What! those scoundrels after the salmon?" "Yes, sir; in the night. Didn't you hear 'em?" "Of course not. Did you?" "Oh yes, I heerd 'em and seed 'em too; leastwise, I seed their lights. So did Tom Gardener." "Then why didn't you call me up?" cried Nic angrily. "'Cause you'd ha' woke the Captain, and he'd have had us all out for a fight." "Of course he would." "And he was a deal better in his bed. You know what he is, Master Nic. I put it to you, now. He's got all the sperrit he always did have, and is ripe as ever for a row; but is he fit, big and heavy as he's growed, to go down fighting salmon-poachers?" "No; but we could have knocked up Tom Gardener and the other men, and gone ourselves." "Oh!" ejaculated the old sailor, laughing. "He'd have heared, perhaps. Think you could ha' made him keep back when there was a fight, Master Nic?" "No, I suppose not; but he will be horribly angry, and go on at you fiercely when he knows." "Oh, of course," said the man coolly. "That's his way; but I'm used to that. It does him good, he likes it, and it don't do me no harm. Never did in the old days at sea." "Has any one been down to the river?" "Oh yes; me and Tom Gardener went down as soon as it was daylight; and they've been having a fine game." "Game?" "Ay, that they have, Master Nic," said the man, laughing. "There's no water coming over the fall, and the pool was full of fish." "Well, I know that, Bill," cried Nic impatiently; "but you don't mean to say that--" "Yes, I do," said the man, grinning. "They've cleared it." "And you laugh, sir!" "Well, 'taren't nowt to cry about, Master Nic. On'y a few fish." "And you know how particular my father is about the salmon." "Oh, ay. Of course I know; but he eats more of 'em than's good for him now. 'Sides, they left three on the side. Slipped out o' their baskets, I suppose." Nic was right: the Captain was furious, and the servants, from William Solly to the youngest gardener, were what they called "tongue-thrashed," Captain Revel storming as if he were once more rating his crew aboard ship. "They all heard, Nic, my boy," he said to his son. "I believe they knew the scoundrels were coming, and they were too cowardly to give the alarm." This was after a walk down to the pool, where the water was clear and still save where a little stream ran sparkling over the shelf of rock instead of a thunderous fall, the gathering from the high grounds of the moors. "I'm afraid they heard them, father," said Nic. "Afraid? I'm sure of it, boy." "And that they did not like the idea of your getting mixed up in the fight." "Ah!" cried the Captain, catching his son by the shoulder; "then you knew of it too, sir? You wanted me to be kept out of it." "I do want you to be kept out of any struggle, father," said Nic. "Why, sir, why?" panted the old officer. "Because you are not so active as you used to be." "What, sir? Nonsense, sir! A little heavy and--er--short-winded perhaps, but never better or more full of fight in my life, sir. The scoundrels! Oh, if I had been there! But I feel hurt, Nic--cruelly hurt. You and that salt-soaked old villain, Bill Sally, hatch up these things between you. Want to make out I'm infirm. I'll discharge that vagabond." "No, you will not, father. He's too good and faithful a servant. He thinks of nothing but his old Captain's health." "A scoundrel! and so he ought to. Wasn't he at sea with me for five-and-twenty years--wrecked with me three times?--But you, Nic, to mutiny against your father!" "No, no, father; I assure you I knew nothing whatever about it till I came down this morning." "And you'd have woke me if you had known?" "Of course I would, father." "Thank you, Nic--thank you. To be sure: you gave me your word of honour you would. But as for that ruffian Bill Solly, I'll blow him out of the water." "Better let it rest, father," said Nic. "We escaped a bad fight perhaps. I believe there was a gang of fifteen or twenty of the scoundrels, and I'd rather they had all the fish in the sea than that you should be hurt." "Thank you, Nic; thank you, my boy. That's very good of you; but I can't, and I will not, lie by and have my fish cleared away like this." "There'll be more as soon as the rain comes again in the moors, and these are gone now." "Yes, and sold--perhaps eaten by this time, eh?" "Yes, father; and there's as good fish in the sea." "As ever came out of it--eh, Nic?" "Yes, father; so let the matter drop." "Can't help myself, Nic; but I must have a turn at the enemy one of these times. I cannot sit down and let them attack me like this. Oh, I'd dearly like to blow some of 'em out of the water!" "Better put a bag of powder under the rock, father, and blow away the falls so that the salmon can always get up, and take the temptation away from these idle scoundrels." "I'd sooner put the powder under my own bed, sir, and blow myself up. No, Nic, I will not strike my colours to the miserable gang like that. Oh! I'd dearly like to know when they are going to make their next raid, and then have my old crew to lie in wait for them." "And as that's impossible, father--" "We must grin and bear it, Nic--eh?" "Yes, father." "But only wait!" CHAPTER SIX. PLOTS AND PLANS. The rain came, as Nic had said it would, and as it does come up in the high hills of stony Dartmoor. Then the tiny rills swelled and became rivulets, the rivulets rivers, and the rivers floods. The trickling fall at the Captain's swelled up till the water, which looked like porter, thundered down and filled the pool, and the salmon came rushing up from the sea till there were as many as ever. Then, as the rainy time passed away, Captain Revel made his plans, for he felt sure that there would be another raid by the gang who had attacked his place before, headed by Pete Burge and a deformed man of herculean strength, who came with a party of ne'er-do-weels from the nearest town. "That rascal Pete will be here with his gang," said the Captain, "and we'll be ready for them." But the speaker was doing Pete Burge an injustice; for, though several raids had been made in the neighbourhood, and pools cleared out, Pete had hung back from going to the Captain's for some reason or another, and suffered a good deal of abuse in consequence, one result being a desperate fight with Humpy Dee, the deformed man, who after a time showed the white feather, and left Pete victorious but a good deal knocked about. So, feeling sure that he was right, Captain Revel made his plans; and, unwillingly enough, but with the full intention of keeping his father out of danger, Nic set to work as his father's lieutenant and carried out his orders. The result was that every servant was armed with a stout cudgel, and half-a-dozen sturdy peasants of the neighbourhood were enlisted to come, willingly enough, to help to watch and checkmate the rough party from the town, against whom a bitter feeling of enmity existed for depriving the cottagers from getting quietly a salmon for themselves. The arrangements were made for the next night, a stranger having been seen inspecting the river and spying about among the fir-trees at the back of the pool. But no one came, and at daybreak the Captain's crew, as he called it, went back to bed. The following night did not pass off so peacefully, for soon after twelve, while the watchers, headed by the Captain and Nic, were well hidden about the pool, the enemy came, and, after lighting their lanthorns, began to net the salmon. Then a whistle rang out, a desperate attack was made upon them, and the Captain nearly had a fit. For his party was greatly outnumbered. The raiders fought desperately, and they went off at last fishless; but not until the Captain's little force had been thoroughly beaten and put to flight, with plenty of cuts and bruises amongst them, Nic's left arm hanging down nearly helpless. "But never mind, Nic," said the Captain, rubbing his bruised hand as he spoke. "I knocked one of the rascals down, and they got no fish; and I don't believe they'll come again." But they did, the very next night, and cleared the pool once more, for the watchers were all abed; and in the morning the Captain was frantic in his declarations of what he would do. To Nic's great delight, just when his father was at his worst, and, as his old body-servant said, "working himself into a fantigue about a bit o' fish," there was a diversion. Nic was sitting at breakfast, getting tired of having salmon at every meal--by the ears, not by the mouth--when suddenly there was the dull thud of a big gun out at sea, and Captain Revel brought his fist down upon the table with a bang like an echo of the report. "Lawrence!" he cried excitedly. "Here, Nic, ring the bell, and tell Solly to go and hoist the flag." The bell was rung, and a maid appeared. "Where's Solly?" cried the Captain angrily. "Plee, sir, he's gone running up to the cliff to hoist the flag," said the girl nervously. "Humph! that will do," said the Captain, and the maid gladly beat a retreat.--"Not a bad bit of discipline that, Nic. Wonder what brings Lawrence here! Ring that bell again, boy, and order them to reset the breakfast-table. He'll be here in half-an-hour, hungry. He always was a hungry chap." The maid appeared, received her orders, and was about to go, when she was arrested. "Here, Mary, what is there that can be cooked for Captain Lawrence's breakfast?" "The gardener has just brought in a salmon he found speared and left by the river, sir." The Captain turned purple with rage. "Don't you ever dare to say salmon to me again, woman!" he roared. "No, sir; cert'n'y not, sir," faltered the frightened girl, turning wonderingly to Nic, her eyes seeming to say, "Please, sir, is master going mad?" "Yes; tell the cook to fry some salmon cutlets," continued the Captain; and then apologetically to his son: "Lawrence likes fish." As the maid backed out of the room the Captain rose from the table. "Come along, my boy," he said; "we'll finish our breakfast with him." Nic followed his father into the hall, and then through the garden and up to the edge of the cliff, passing William Solly on his way back after hoisting the flag, which was waving in the sea-breeze. "Quite right, William," said the Captain as the old sailor saluted and passed on. "Nothing like discipline, Nic, my boy. Ha! You ought to have been a sailor." The next minute they had reached the flagstaff, from whence they could look down at the mouth of the river, off which one of the king's ships was lying close in, and between her and the shore there was a boat approaching fast. As father and son watched, it was evident that they were seen, for some one stood up in the stern-sheets and waved a little flag, to which Nic replied by holding his handkerchief to be blown out straight by the breeze. "Ha! Very glad he has come, Nic," said the Captain. "Fine fellow, Jack Lawrence! Never forgets old friends. Now I'll be bound to say he can give us good advice about what to do with those scoundrels." "Not much in his way, father, is it?" said Nic. "What, sir?" cried the Captain fiercely. "Look here, boy; I never knew anything which was not in Jack Lawrence's way. Why, when we were young lieutenants together on board the _Sovereign_, whether it was fight or storm he was always ready with a good idea. He will give us--me--well, us--good advice, I'm sure. There he is, being carried ashore. Go and meet him, my boy. I like him to see that he is welcome. Tell him I'd have come down myself, but the climb back is a bit too much for me." Nic went off at a trot along the steep track which led down to the shore, and in due time met the hale, vigorous, grey-haired officer striding uphill in a way which made Nic feel envious on his father's behalf. "Well, Nic, my boy," cried the visitor, "how's the dad? Well? That's right. So are you," he continued, gazing searchingly at the lad with his keen, steely-grey eyes. "Grown ever so much since I saw you last. Ah, boy, it's a pity you didn't come to sea!" Then he went on chatting about being just come upon the Plymouth station training men for the king's ships, and how he hoped to see a good deal now of his old friend and his son. The meeting between the brother-officers was boisterous, but there was something almost pathetic in the warmth with which they grasped hands, for they had first met in the same ship as middies, and many a time during Captain Lawrence's visits Nic had sat and listened to their recollections of the dangers they had gone through and their boyish pranks. William Solly was in the porch ready to salute the visitor, and to look with pride at the fine, manly old officer's greeting. He made a point, too, of stopping in the room to wait table, carefully supplying all wants, and smiling with pleasure as he saw how the pleasant meal was enjoyed by the guest. "We were lying off the river late last night, but I wouldn't disturb you," he said. "I made up my mind, though, to come to breakfast. Hah! What delicious fried salmon!" "_Hur-r-ur_!" growled Captain Revel, and Solly cocked his eye knowingly at Nic. "Hallo! What's the matter?" cried the visitor. "The salmon--the salmon," growled Captain Revel, frowning and tapping the table. "De-licious, man! Have some?--Here, Solly, hand the dish to your master." "_Bur-r-ur_!" roared the Captain. "Take it away--take it away, or I shall be in another of my rages, and they're not good for me, Jack--not good for me." "Why, what is it, old lad?" "Tell him, Nic--tell him," cried Captain Revel; and his son explained the cause of his father's irritation. "Why, that was worrying you last time I was here--let me see, a year ago." "Yes, Jack; and it has been worrying me ever since," cried Captain Revel. "You see, I mustn't cut any of the scoundrels down, and I mustn't shoot them. The law would be down on me." "Yes, of course; but you might make the law come down on them." "Can't, my lad. Summonses are no use." "Catch them in the act, make them prisoners, and then see what the law will do." "But we can't catch them, Jack; they're too many for us," cried the Captain earnestly. "They come twenty or thirty strong, and we've had fight after fight with them, but they knock us to pieces. Look at Solly's forehead; they gave him that cut only a few nights ago." The old sailor blushed like a girl. "That's bad," said the visitor, after giving the man a sharp look. "What sort of fellows are they?" "Big, strong, idle vagabonds. Scum of the town and the country round." "Indeed!" said the visitor, raising his eyes. "They thrash you, then, because you are not strong enough?" "Yes; that's it, Jack. Now, what am I to do?" "Let me see," said the visitor, tightening his lips. "They only come when the pool's full of salmon, you say, after a bit of rain in the moors?" "Yes; that's it, Jack." "Then you pretty well know when to expect them?" "Yes; that's right." "How would it be, then, if you sent me word in good time in the morning? Or, no--look here, old fellow--I shall know when there is rain on the moor, and I'll come round in this direction from the port. I'm cruising about the Channel training a lot of men. You hoist a couple of flags on the staff some morning, and that evening at dusk I'll land a couple of boats' crews, and have them marched up here to lay up with you and turn the tables upon the rascals. How will that do?" Solly forgot discipline, and bent down to give one of his legs a tremendous slap, while his master made the breakfast things dance from his vigorous bang on the table. "There, Nic," he cried triumphantly; "what did I say? Jack Lawrence was always ready to show the way when we were on our beam-ends. Jack, my dear old messmate," he cried heartily, as he stretched out his hand--"your fist." CHAPTER SEVEN. THE CAPTAIN WILL "WHERRIT." Captain Lawrence spent the day at the Point, thoroughly enjoying a long gossip, and, after an early dinner, proposed a walk around the grounds and a look at the river and the pool. "What a lovely spot it is!" he said, as he wandered about the side of the combe. "I must have such a place as this when I give up the sea." "There isn't such a place, Jack," said Captain Revel proudly. "But I want you to look round the pool.--I don't think I'll climb down, Nic. It's rather hot; and I'll sit down on the stone for a few minutes while you two plan where you could ambush the men." "Right," said Captain Lawrence; and he actively followed Nic, pausing here and there, till they had descended to where the fall just splashed gently down into the clear pool, whose bigger stones about the bottom were now half-bare. "Lovely place this, Nic, my boy. I could sit down here and doze away the rest of my days. But what a pity it is that your father worries himself so about these poaching scoundrels! Can't you wean him from it? Tell him, or I will, that it isn't worth the trouble. Plenty more fish will come, and there must be a little grit in every one's wheel." "Oh, I've tried everything, sir," replied Nic. "The fact is that he is not so well as I should like to see him; and when he has an irritable fit, the idea of any one trespassing and taking the fish half-maddens him." "Well, we must see what we can do, my boy. It ought to be stopped. A set of idlers like this requires a severe lesson. A good dose of capstan bar and some broken heads will sicken them, and then perhaps they will let you alone." "I hope so, sir." "I think I can contrive that it shall," said the visitor dryly. "I shall bring or send some trusty men. There, I have seen all I want to see. Let's get back." He turned to climb up the side of the gorge; and as Nic followed, the place made him recall his encounter with Pete Burge, and how different the pool looked then; and, somehow, he could not help hoping that the big, bluff fellow might not be present during the sharp encounter with Captain Lawrence's trusty men. "Hah! Began to think you long, Jack," said Captain Revel; and they returned to the house and entered, after a glance seaward, where the ship lay at anchor. Towards evening Solly was sent to hoist a signal upon the flagstaff, and soon after a boat was seen pulling towards the shore. Then the visitor took his leave, renewing his promise to reply to a signal by sending a strong party of men. Nic walked down to the boat with his father's friend, and answered several questions about the type of men who came after the salmon. "I see, I see," said Captain Lawrence; "but do you think they'll fight well?" "Oh yes; there are some daring rascals among them." "So much the better, my dear boy. There, good-bye. Mind--two small flags on your signal-halyards after the first heavy rain upon the moor, and you may expect us at dusk. If the rascals don't come we'll have another try; but you'll know whether they'll be there by the fish in the pool. They'll know too--trust 'em. Look, there's your father watching us--" and he waved his hand. "Good-bye, Nic, my dear boy. Good-bye!" He shook hands very warmly. Two of his men who were ashore joined hands to make what children call a "dandy-chair," the Captain placed his hands upon their shoulders, and they waded through the shallow water to the boat, pausing to give her a shove off before climbing in; and then, as the oars made the water flash in the evening light, Nic climbed the long hill again, to stand with his father, watching the boat till she reached the side of the ship. "Now then, my boy," said the old man, "we're going to give those fellows such a lesson as they have never had before." He little knew how truly he was speaking. "I hope so, father," said Nic; and he was delighted to find how pleased the old officer seemed. The next morning, when Nic opened his bedroom window, the king's ship was not in sight; and for a week Captain Revel was fidgeting and watching the sky, for no rain came, and there was not water enough in the river for fresh salmon to come as far as the pool. "Did you ever see anything like it, Nic, my boy?" the Captain said again and again; "that's always the way: if I didn't want it to rain, there'd be a big storm up in the hills, and the fall would be roaring like a sou'-wester off the Land's End; but now I want just enough water to fill the river, not a drop will come. How long did Jack Lawrence say that he was going to stop about Plymouth?" "He didn't say, father, that I remember," replied Nic. "Then he'll soon be off; and just in the miserable, cantankerous way in which things happen, the very day he sets sail there'll be a storm on Dartmoor, and the next morning the pool will be full of salmon, and those scoundrels will come to set me at defiance, and clear off every fish." "I say, father," said Nic merrily, "isn't that making troubles, and fancying storms before they come?" "What, sir? How dare you speak to me like that?" cried the Captain.--"And you, Solly, you mutinous scoundrel, how dare you laugh?" he roared, turning to his body-servant, who happened to be in the hail. "Beg your honour's pardon; I didn't laugh." "You did laugh, sir," roared the Captain--"that is, I saw you look at Master Nic here and smile. It's outrageous. Every one is turning against me, and I'm beginning to think it's time I was out of this miserable world." He snatched up his stick from the stand, banged on the old straw hat he wore, and stamped out of the porch to turn away to the left, leaving Nic hesitating as to what he should do, deeply grieved as he was at his father's annoyance and display of temper. One moment he was for following and trying to say something which would tend to calm the irritation. The next he was thinking it would be best to leave the old man to himself, trusting to the walk in the pleasant grounds having the desired result. But this idea was knocked over directly by Solly, who had followed his master to the porch, and stood watching him for a few moments. "Oh dear, dear! Master Nic," he cried, turning back, "he's gone down the combe path to see whether there's any more water running down; and there aren't, and he'll be a-wherriting his werry inside out, and that wherrits mine too. For I can't abear to see the poor old skipper like this here." "No, Solly, neither can I," said Nic gloomily. "It's his old hurts does it, sir. It aren't nat'ral. Here he is laid up, as you may say, in clover, in as nice a place as an old sailor could end his days in." "Yes, Solly," said Nic sadly; "it is a beautiful old place." "Ay, it is, sir; and when I cons it over I feel it. Why, Master Nic, when I think of all the real trouble as there is in life, and what some folks has to go through, I asks myself what I've ever done to have such good luck as to be safely moored here in such a harbour. It's a lovely home, and the troubles is nothing--on'y a bit of a gale blowed by the skipper now and then along of the wrong boots as hurts his corns, or him being a-carrying on too much sail, and bustin' off a button in a hurry. And who minds that?" "Ah! who minds a trifle like that, Solly?" sighed Nic. "Well, sir, you see he does. Wind gets up directly, and he talks to me as if I'd mutinied. But I don't mind. I know all the time that he's the best and bravest skipper as ever lived, and I'd do anything for him to save him from trouble." "I know you would, Solly," said Nic, laying a hand upon the rugged old sailor's shoulder. "Thank ye, Master Nic; that does a man good. But look here, sir; I can't help saying it. The fact is, after his rough, stormy life, everything here's made too easy for the skipper. He's a bit worried by his old wounds, and that's all; and consekens is 'cause he aren't got no real troubles he wherrits himself and makes quakers." "Makes quakers?" said Nic wonderingly. "Sham troubles, Master Nic--wooden guns, as we call quakers out at sea or in a fort. Strikes me, sir, as a real, downright, good, gen-u-wine trouble, such as losing all his money, would be the making of the Captain; and after that he'd be ready to laugh at losing a few salmon as he don't want. I say, Master Nic, you aren't offended at me for making so bold?" "No, Solly, no," said the young man sadly. "You mean well, I know. There, say no more about it. I hope all this will settle itself, as so many troubles do." Nic strolled out into the grounds and unconsciously followed his father, who had gone to the edge of the combe; but he had not walked far before a cheery hail saluted his ears, and, to his great delight, he found the Captain looking radiant. "Nic, my boy, it's all right," he cried; "my left arm aches terribly and my corns are shooting like mad. Well, what are you staring at? Don't you see it means rain? Look yonder, too. Bah! It's of no use to tell you, boy. You've never been to sea. You've never had to keep your weather-eye open. See that bit of silvery cloud yonder over Rigdon Tor? And do you notice what a peculiar gleam there is in the air, and how the flies bite?" "Yes--yes, I see all that, father." "Well, it's rain coming, my boy. There's going to be a thunderstorm up in the hills before many hours are past. I'm not a clever man, but I can tell what the weather's going to be as well as most folk." "I'm glad of it, father, if it will please you." "Please me, boy? I shall be delighted. To-morrow morning the salmon will be running up the river again, and we may hoist the signal for help. I say, you don't think Jack Lawrence has gone yet?" "No, father," said Nic; "I do not." "Why, Nic?--why?" cried the old sailor. "Because he said to me he should certainly come up and see us again before he went." "To be sure; so he did to me, Nic. I say, my boy, I--that is--er-- wasn't I a little bit crusty this morning to you and poor old William Solly?" "Well, yes; just a little, father," said Nic, taking his arm. "Sorry for it. Change of the weather, Nic, affects me. It was coming on. I must apologise to Solly. Grand old fellow, William Solly. Saved my life over and over again. Man who would die for his master, Nic; and a man who would do that is more than a servant, Nic--he is a friend." CHAPTER EIGHT. THE CAPTAIN'S PROPHECY. Before many hours had passed the Captain's words proved correct. The clouds gathered over the tors, and there was a tremendous storm a thousand feet above the Point. The lightning flashed and struck and splintered the rugged old masses of granite; the thunder roared, and there was a perfect deluge of rain; while down near the sea, though it was intensely hot, not a drop fell, and the evening came on soft and cool. "Solly, my lad," cried the Captain, rubbing his hands, "we shall have the fall roaring before midnight; but don't sit up to listen to it." "Cert'n'y not, sir," said the old sailor. "Your watch will begin at daybreak, when you will hoist the signal for Captain Lawrence." "Ay, ay, sir!" "And keep eye to west'ard on and off all day, to try if you can sight the frigate." "Ay, ay, sir!" "And in the course of the morning you will go quietly round and tell the men to rendezvous here about eight, when you will serve out the arms." "Ay, ay, sir." "The good stout oak cudgels I had cut; and if we're lucky, my lad, we shall have as nice and pleasant a fight as ever we two had in our lives." "Quite a treat, sir," said the old sailor; "and I hope we shall be able to pay our debts." The Captain was in the highest of glee all the evening, and he shook his son's hand very warmly when they parted for bed. About one o'clock Nic was aroused from a deep sleep by a sharp knocking at his door. "Awake, Nic?" came in the familiar accents. "No, father. Yes, father. Is anything wrong?" "Wrong? No, my boy; right! Hear the fall?" "No, father; I was sound asleep." "Open your window and put out your head, boy. The water's coming down and roaring like thunder. Good-night." Nic slipped out of bed, did as he was told, and, as he listened, there was the deep, musical, booming sound of the fall seeming to fill the air, while from one part of the ravine a low, rushing noise told that the river must be pretty full. Nic stood listening for some time before closing his window and returning to bed, to lie wakeful and depressed, feeling a strange kind of foreboding, as if some serious trouble was at hand. It was not that he was afraid or shrank from the contest which might in all probability take place the next night, though he knew that it would be desperate-- for, on the contrary, he felt excited and quite ready to join in the fray; but he was worried about his father, and the difficulty he knew he would have in keeping him out of danger. He was in this awkward position, too: what he would like to do would be to get Solly and a couple of their stoutest men to act as bodyguard to protect his father; but, if he attempted such a thing, the chances were that the Captain would look upon it as cowardice, and order them off to the thick of the cudgel-play. Just as he reached this point he fell asleep. Nic found the Captain down first next morning, looking as pleased as a boy about to start for his holidays. "You're a pretty fellow," he cried. "Why, I've been up hours, and went right to the falls. Pool's full, Nic, my boy, the salmon are up, and it's splendid, lad." "What is, father?" "Something else is coming up." "What?" "Those scoundrels are on the _qui vive_. I was resting on one of the rough stone seats, when, as I sat hidden among the trees, I caught sight of something on the far side of the pool--a man creeping cautiously down to spy out the state of the water." "Pete Burge, father?" cried Nic eagerly. "Humph! No; I hardly caught a glimpse of his face, but it was too short for that scoundrel. I think it was that thick-set, humpbacked rascal they call Dee." "And did he see you, father?" "No: I sat still, my boy, and watched till he slunk away again. Nic, lad, we shall have them here to-night, and we must be ready." "Yes, father, if Captain Lawrence sends his men." "Whether he does or no, sir. I can't sit still and know that my salmon are being stolen. Come--breakfast! Oh, here's Solly.--Here, you, sir, what about those two signal flags? Hoist them directly." "Run 'em up, sir, as soon as it was light." "Good. Then, now, keep a lookout for the frigate." The day wore away with no news of the ship being in the offing, and the Captain began to fume and fret, so that Nic made an excuse to get away and look out, relieving Solly, stationing himself by the flagstaff and scanning the horizon till his eyes grew weary and his head ached. It was about six o'clock when he was summoned to dinner by Solly, who took his place, and Nic went and joined his father. "Needn't speak," said the old man bitterly; "I know; Lawrence hasn't come. We'll have to do it ourselves." Nic was silent, and during the meal his father hardly spoke a word. Just as they were about to rise, Solly entered the room, and the Captain turned to him eagerly. "I was going to send for you, my lad," he said. "Captain Lawrence must be away, and we shall have to trap the scoundrels ourselves. How many men can we muster?" "Ten, sir." "Not half enough," said the Captain; "but they are strong, staunch fellows, and we have right on our side. Ten against twenty or thirty. Long odds; but we've gone against heavier odds than that in our time, Solly." "Ay, sir, that we have." "We must lie in wait and take them by surprise when they're scattered, my lads. But what luck! what luck! Now if Lawrence had only kept faith with me we could have trapped the whole gang." "Well, your honour, why not?" said Solly sharply. "Why not?" "He'll be here before we want him." "What?" cried Nic. "Is the frigate in sight?" "In sight, sir--and was when you left the signal station." "No," said Nic sharply; "the only vessel in sight then was a big merchantman with her yards all awry." "That's so, sir, and she gammoned me. The skipper's had her streak painted out, and a lot of her tackle cast loose, to make her look like a lubberly trader; but it's the frigate, as I made out at last, coming down with a spanking breeze, and in an hour's time she'll be close enough to send her men ashore." The Captain sprang up and caught his son's hand, to ring it hard. "Huzza, Nic!" he cried excitedly. "This is going to be a night of nights." It was. CHAPTER NINE. READY FOR ACTION. "That's about their size, Master Nic," said Solly, as he stood in the coach-house balancing a heavy cudgel in his hand--one of a couple of dozen lying on the top of the corn-bin just through the stable door. "Oh, the size doesn't matter, Bill," said Nic impatiently. "Begging your pardon, sir, it do," said the old sailor severely. "You don't want to kill nobody in a fight such as we're going to have, do ye?" "No, no; of course not." "There you are, then. Man's sure to hit as hard as he can when his monkey's up; and that stick's just as heavy as you can have 'em without breaking bones. That's the sort o' stick as'll knock a man silly and give him the headache for a week, and sarve him right. If it was half-a-hounce heavier it'd kill him." "How do you know?" said Nic sharply. "How do I know, sir?" said the man wonderingly. "Why, I weighed it." Nic would have asked for further explanations; but just then there were steps heard in the yard, and the gardener and a couple of labourers came up in the dusk. "Oh, there you are," growled Solly. "Here's your weepuns;" and he raised three of the cudgels. "You may hit as hard as you like with them. Seen any of the others?" "Yes," said the gardener; "there's two from the village coming along the road, and three of us taking the short cut over the home field. That's all I see." "Humph!" said Solly. "There ought to be five more by this time." "Sick on it, p'r'aps," grumbled the gardener; "and no wonder. We are." "What! Are you afraid?" cried Nic. "No, sir, I aren't afraid; on'y sick on it. I like a good fight, and so do these here when it's 'bout fair and ekal, but every time we has a go in t'other side seems to be the flails and we only the corn and straw. They're too many for us. I'm sick o' being thrashed, and so's these here; and that aren't being afraid." "Why, you aren't going to sneak out of it, are you?" growled Solly. "No, I aren't," said the gardener; "not till I've had a good go at that Pete Burge and Master Humpy Dee. But I'm going to sarcumwent 'em this time." "Here are the others coming, Bill," cried Nic.--"What are you going to do this time?" he said to the gardener. "Sarcumwent 'em, Master Nic," said the man, with a grin. "It's no use to hit at their heads and arms or to poke 'em in the carcass--they don't mind that; so we've been thinking of it out, and we three's going to hit 'em low down." "That's good," said Solly; "same as we used to sarve the black men out in Jay-may-kee. They've all got heads as hard as skittle-balls, but their shins are as tender as a dog's foot." Just then five more men came up and received their cudgels; and directly after three more came slouching up; and soon after another couple, and received their arms. "Is this all on us?" said one of the fresh-comers, as the sturdy fellows stood together. "Ay, is this all, Master Nic?" cried another. "Why?" he said sharply. "Because there aren't enough, sir," said the first man. "I got to hear on it down the village." "Ah! you heard news?" cried Nic. "Ay, sir, if you call such ugly stuff as that news. There's been a bit of a row among 'em, all along o' Pete Burge." "Quarrelling among themselves?" "That's right, sir; 'cause Pete Burge said he wouldn't have no more to do with it; and they've been at him--some on 'em from over yonder at the town. I hear say as there was a fight, and then Pete kep' on saying he would jyne 'em; and then there was another fight, and Pete Burge licked the second man, and then he says he wouldn't go. And then there was another fight, and Pete Burge licked Humpy Dee, and Humpy says Pete was a coward, and Pete knocked him flat on the back. `I'll show you whether I'm a coward,' he says. `I didn't mean to have no more to do wi' Squire Revel's zammon,' he says; `but I will go to-night, for the last time, just to show you as I aren't a cowards,' he says, `and then I'm done.'" "Ay; and he zays," cried another man from the village, "`If any one thinks I'm a coward, then let him come and tell me.'" "Then they are coming to-night?" cried Nic, who somehow felt a kind of satisfaction in his adversary's prowess. "Oh, ay," said the other man who had grumbled; "they're a-coming to-night. There's a big gang coming from the town, and I hear they're going to bring a cart for the zammon. There'll be a good thirty on 'em, Master Nic, zir; and I zay we aren't enough." "No," said Nic quietly; "we are not enough, but we are going to have our revenge to-night for all the knocking about we've had." "But we're not enough, Master Nic. We're ready to fight, all on us--eh, mates?" "Ay!" came in a deep growl. "But there aren't enough on us." "There will be," said Nic in an eager whisper, "for a strong party of Jack-tars from the king's ship that was lying off this evening are by this time marching up to help us, and we're going to give these scoundrels such a thrashing as will sicken them from ever meddling again with my father's fish." "Yah!" growled a voice out of the gloom. "Who said that?" cried Nic. "I did, Master Nic," said the gardener sharply; "and you can tell the Captain if you like. I say it aren't fair to try and humbug a lot o' men as is ready to fight for you. It's like saying `rats' to a dog when there aren't none." "Is it?" cried Nic, laughing. "How can that be? You heard just now that there will be about thirty rats for our bulldogs to worry." "I meant t'other way on, sir," growled the man sulkily. "No sailor bulldogs to come and help us." "How dare you say that?" cried Nic angrily. "'Cause I've lived off and on about Plymouth all my life and close to the sea, and if I don't know a king's ship by this time I ought to. That's only a lubberly old merchantman. Why, her yards were all anyhow, with not half men enough to keep 'em square." "Bah!" cried Solly angrily. "Hold your mouth, you one-eyed old tater-grubber. What do you mean by giving the young master the lie?" "That will do, Solly," cried Nic. "He means right. Look here, my lads; that is a king's ship, the one commanded by my father's friend; and he has made her look all rough like that so as to cheat the salmon-gang, and it will have cheated them if it has cheated you." A cheer was bursting forth, but Nic checked it, and the gardener said huskily: "Master Nic, I beg your pardon. I oughtn't to ha' said such a word. It was the king's ship as humbugged me, and not you. Say, lads, we're going to have a night of it, eh?" A low buzz of satisfaction arose; and Nic hurried out, to walk in the direction of the signal-staff, where the Captain had gone to look out for their allies. "Who goes there?" came in the old officer's deep voice. "Only I, father." "Bah!" cried the Captain in a low, angry voice. "Give the word, sir--`Tails.'" "The word?--`Tails!'" said Nic, wonderingly. "Of course. I told you we must have a password, to tell friends from foes." "Not a word, father." "What, sir? Humph, no! I remember--I meant to give it to all at once. The word is `Tails' and the countersign is `Heads,' and any one who cannot give it is to have heads. Do you see?" "Oh yes, father, I see; but are the sailors coming?" "Can't hear anything of them, my boy, and it's too dark to see; but they must be here soon." "I hope they will be, father," said Nic. "Don't say you hope they will be, as if you felt that they weren't coming. They're sure to come, my boy. Jack Lawrence never broke faith. Now, look here; those scoundrels will be here by ten o'clock, some of them, for certain, and we must have our men in ambush first--our men, Nic. Jack Lawrence's lads I shall place so as to cut off the enemy's retreat, ready to close in upon them and take them in the rear. Do you see?" "Yes, father; excellent." "Then I propose that as soon as we hear our reinforcement coming you go off and plant your men in the wood behind the fall. I shall lead the sailors right round you to the other side of the pool; place them; and then there must be perfect silence till the enemy has lit up his torches and got well to work. Then I shall give a shrill whistle on the French bo'sun's pipe I have in my pocket, you will advance your men and fall to, and we shall come upon them from the other side." "I see, father." "But look here, Nic--did you change your things?" "Yes, father; got on the old fishing and wading suit." "That's right, boy, for you've got your work cut out, and it may mean water as well as land." "Yes, I expect to be in a pretty pickle," said Nic, laughing, and beginning to feel excited now. "But do you think the sailors will find their way here in the dark?" "Of course," cried the Captain sharply. "Jack Lawrence will head them." "Hist!" whispered Nic, placing his hand to his ear and gazing seaward. "Hear 'em?" Nic was silent for a few moments. "Yes," he said. "I can hear their soft, easy tramp over the short grass. Listen." "Right," said the Captain, as from below them there came out of the darkness the regular _thrup_, _thrup_ of a body of men marching together. Then, loudly, "king's men?" "Captain Revel?" came back in reply. "Right. Captain Lawrence there?" "No, sir; he had a sudden summons from the port admiral, and is at Plymouth. He gave me my instructions, sir--Lieutenant Kershaw. I have thirty men here." "Bravo, my lad!" cried the Captain. "Forward, and follow me to the house. Your men will take a bit of refreshment before we get to work." "Forward," said the lieutenant in a low voice, and the _thrup_, _thrup_ of the footsteps began again, not a man being visible in the gloom. "Off with you, Nic," whispered the Captain. "Get your men in hiding at once. This is going to be a grand night, my boy. Good luck to you; and I say, Nic, my boy--" "Yes, father." "No prisoners, but tell the men to hit hard." Nic went off at a run, and the lieutenant directly after joined the Captain, his men close at hand following behind. CHAPTER TEN. A NIGHT OF NIGHTS. Nic's heart beat fast as he ran lightly along the path, reached the house, and ran round to the stable-yard, where Solly and the men were waiting. "Ready, my lads?" he said in a low, husky voice, full of the excitement he felt. "We'll go on round to the back of the pool at once. The sailors are here, thirty strong, with their officer; so we ought to give the enemy a severe lesson.--Ah! Don't cheer. Ready?--Forward. Come, Solly; we'll lead." "Precious dark, Master Nic," growled the old sailor in a hoarse whisper. "We shan't hardly be able to tell t'other from which." "Ah! I forgot," cried Nic excitedly. "Halt! Look here, my men. Our password is `Tails,' and our friends have to answer `Heads.' So, if you are in doubt, cry `Tails,' and if your adversary does not answer `Heads' he's an enemy." "Why, a-mussy me, Master Nic?" growled Solly, "we shan't make heads or tails o' that in a scrimble-scramble scrimmage such as we're going to be in. What's the skipper thinking about? Let me tell 'em what to do." "You heard your master's order, Solly," replied Nic. "Yes, sir, of course; but this here won't do no harm. Look here, my lads; as soon as ever we're at it, hit hard at every one who aren't a Jack. You'll know them." Nic felt that this addition could do no harm, so he did not interfere, but led on right past the way down to the falls, which had shrunk now to a little cascade falling with a pleasant murmur, for the draining of the heavy thunder-showers was nearly at an end, and the pool lay calm enough in the black darkness beneath the overhanging rocks and spreading trees--just in the right condition for a raid, and in all probability full of salmon. All at once the old sailor indulged in a burst of chuckles. "Hear something, Bill?" said Nic. "No, my lad, not yet; I was on'y thinking. They was going to bring a cart up the road yonder, waren't they?" "Yes; one of the men said so," replied Nic. "Well, we're a-going to give 'em something to take back in that cart to-night, my lad," whispered the man, with another chuckle; "and it won't be fish, nor it won't be fowl. My fingers is a-tingling so that I thought something was the matter, and I tried to change my stick from my right hand into my left." "Well, what of that?" said Nic contemptuously; "it was only pins and needles." "Nay, Master Nic, it waren't that. I've been a sailor in the king's ships and have had it before. It was the fighting-stuff running down to the very tips of my fingers, and they wouldn't let go." "Hush! don't talk now," whispered Nic; "there may be one or two of the enemy yonder." "Nay, it's a bit too soon for 'em, sir; but it'll be as well to keep quiet." The narrow paths of the tangled wilderness at the back of the pool were so well known to all present that their young leader had no difficulty in getting them stationed by twos and threes well down the sides of the gorge on shelves and ledges where the bushes and ferns grew thickly, from whence, when the poachers were well at work, it would be easy to spring down into the water and make the attack. For the flood had so far subsided now that the worst hole was not above five feet deep, and the greater part about three, with a fairly even bottom of ground-down rock smoothed by the pebbles washed over it in flood-time. Here it was that the salmon for the most part congregated, the new-comers from the sea taking naturally to the haunts of their forerunners from time immemorial, so that poacher or honest fisher pretty well knew where he would be most successful. Nic chose a central spot for himself and Solly, some four feet above the level of the black water, and after ranging his men to right and left he sat down to wait, with all silent and dark around, save for the murmur of the water and the gleaming of a star or two overhead, for besides this there was not a glint of light. Still, the place seemed to stand out before him. Exactly opposite, across the pool, was the narrow opening between the steep rocks on either side; and he knew without telling that as soon as the poachers began their work his father would send some of his active allies into the bed of the stream lower down, to advance upward, probably before the whistle was blown. "And then the scoundrels will be in a regular trap before they know it," thought Nic, as he strained his ears to catch the sound of the sailors being stationed in their hiding-places; but all was still save the soft humming roar of the falling water plunging into the pool. An hour passed very slowly, and Nic's cramped position began to affect him with the tingling sensation known as pins and needles; this he did not attribute to the movement of his nerve-currents eager to reach his toes and fill him with a desire to kick his enemies, but quietly changed his position and waited, trembling with excitement, and longing now to get the matter over, fully satisfied as he was that his friends were all in position and ready for the fray. At last! There was a sharp crack, as if someone had trodden upon a piece of dead-wood away up to the right. Then another crack and a rustling, and an evident disregard of caution. "Come along, my lads," said a low, harsh voice; and then there was a splash, as if a man had lowered himself into the water. "They had enough of it last time, and won't come this, I'll wager. If they do, we're half as many again, and we'll give 'em such a drubbing as'll stop 'em for long enough." "Needn't shout and holloa," said another voice from the side. "Keep quiet. We don't want to fight unless we're obliged." "Oh no, of course not!" said the man with the harsh voice mockingly. "If we do have to, my lads, two of you had better take Pete Burge home to his mother." There was a low laugh at this, and Pete remained silent as far as making any retort was concerned, but directly after Nic felt a singular thrill run through him as the man said softly: "Three of you get there to the mouth and drop the net across and hold it, for the fish will make a rush that way. Don't be afraid of the water. Shove the bottom line well round the stones, and keep your feet on it. A lot got away last time." There was the sound of the water washing as men waded along the side of the great circular pool, and then the whishing of a net being dropped down and arranged. "Ha, ha!" laughed a man; "there's one of 'em. Come back again' my legs. He's in the net now. Can't get through." "Now then," cried the harsh-voiced fellow; "open those lanthorns and get your links alight, so as we can see what we're about." "Not zo much noise, Humpy Dee," said Pete sharply, as the light of three lanthorns which had been carried beneath sacks gleamed out over the water, and the light rapidly increased as dark figures could be seen lighting torches from the feeble candles and then waving their sticks of oakum and pitch to make them blaze, so that others could also start the links they carried. At first the light was feeble, and a good deal of black smoke arose, but soon after over a dozen torches were burning brightly, showing quite a little crowd of men, standing in the black water, armed with hooks and fish-spears, and each with a stout staff stuck in his belt. The scene was weird and strange, the light reflected from the cliff-like sides of the pool seeming to be condensed upon the surface; and the faces of the marauders gleamed strangely above the flashing water, beginning to be agitated now by the startled salmon; while rising upward there was a gathering cloud of black, stifling smoke. "Ready there with that net," cried Humpy Dee, a broad-shouldered, dwarfed man, whose head was deep down between his shoulders. "Ay, ay!" came from the mouth of the pool. "Less noise," cried Pete angrily. "Here, you, Jack Willick, and you, Nat Barrow, go up towards the house and give us word if anyone's coming, so as we may be ready." "To run?" snarled Humpy Dee. "Stop where you are, lads. If the old squire meant to come with his gang he'd ha' been here afore now, and--" _Phee-yew_! The Captain's shrill silver whistle rang out loudly at this instant, and Nic and his men grasped their cudgels more tightly. "Now for it, lads," he shouted, and he sprang from his ledge into the water and made at Humpy Dee. CHAPTER ELEVEN. A BLACK NIGHT. Nic's cry was answered by a loud cheer from his men, which seemed to paralyse the enemy--some thirty strong, who stood staring, the torch-bearers holding their smoky lights on high--giving the party from the Point plenty of opportunity for picking their men, as they followed their leader's example and leaped into the pool. This caused a rush of the fish towards the lights for the most part, though many made for the gap to follow the stream, shooting against the net, which was held tightly in its place. "There, go home, you set of ugly fools, before you're hurt," cried the deformed man, with a snarl like that of a wild beast. "What! You will have it? Come on, then. Hi, there! hold the links higher, and let us see their thick heads. Give it to 'em hard." Emboldened by old successes, two wings of the gang whipped out their sticks and took a step or two forward, to stand firm on either side of the deformed man, who was a step in front. The next minute the fray had commenced, Nic leading off with a tremendous cut from his left at Humpy Dee's head. For the young man's blood was up; he was the captain of the little party, and he knew that everything depended upon him. If he fought well they would stand by him to a man, as they had shown before. If, on the other hand, he seemed timid and careful, they would show a disposition to act on the defensive. That would not do now, as Nic well knew. His object was to make a brave charge and stagger the enemy, so that they might become the easier victims to panic when they found that they were attacked by a strong party in the rear. _Crack_! went Nic's stout stick, as he struck with all his might; and _crick_, _crick_, _crack_, _crash_! went a score or more, mingled with shouts of defiance. But Nic's cudgel did not give forth its sharp sound from contact with the leader's head, for he had to do with a clever cudgel-player as well as one who had often proved his power as a tricky wrestler in contests with the best men of the neighbouring farthest west county. Nic's blow was cleverly caught on as stout a cudgel, and the next moment his left arm fell numb to his side. He struck savagely now, making up for want of skill by the rain of blows he dealt at his adversary, and thus saved himself from being beaten down into the water at once. But it was all in vain. On the other hand, though his men did better, being more equally matched they did not cause the panic Nic had hoped for, and the enemy kept their ground; while the torches spluttered, blazed, and smoked, and to the spectators the amphitheatre during those few brief moments looked wild and strange as some feverish dream. But, as before said, Nic's brave efforts were all in vain. His muscles were too soft and green, and he was, in addition to being young, no adept in the handling of a stick. He fought bravely, but he had not the strength to keep it up against this short, iron-muscled, skilful foe. He was aware of it only too soon, for his guard was beaten down, and he saw stars and flashes of light as he received a sharp blow from his adversary's stick. Then he felt himself caught by the throat, and by the light of one of the torches he saw the man's cudgel in the act of falling once more for a blow which he could only weakly parry, when another cudgel flashed by, there was a crack just over his head, and Humpy Dee uttered a yell of rage. "You coward!" he roared. "Take that!" and quick as a flash Nic made out that he struck at some one else, and attributed the side-blow in his defence to Solly, who was, he believed, close by. At that moment a loud, imperious voice from somewhere in front and above shouted, so that the rocks echoed: "Hold hard below there!" Nic involuntarily lowered his cudgel and stood panting, giddy, and sick, listening. "Yah! never mind him," roared Humpy. "You, Pete, I'll pay you afterwards." "Now, boys, down with you." "The poachers' companions," cried one of Nic's men, and they stepped forward to the attack again, when a pistol-shot rang out and was multiplied by the rocky sides of the arena, making the combatants pause, so that the voice from above was plainly heard: "Below there, you scoundrels! Surrender in the king's name. You are surrounded." "Brag, my lads!" roared Humpy Dee. "Stand to it, boys, and haul the beggars out." There was a moment's pause, just enough for the next words to be heard: "At 'em, lads! You've got 'em, every man." A roaring cheer followed, and Nic saw the torches through the cloud that seemed to be thickening around them. He could hear shouts, which grew louder and fiercer. There was the rattle of cudgels, savage yells seemed to be bellowed in his ears, and he felt himself thrust and struck and hauled here and there as a desperate fight went on for his possession. Then, close at hand, there was a deafening cheer, a tremendous shock, the rattle of blows, and he was down upon his knees. Lastly, in a faint, dreamy way, he was conscious of the rush of cold water about his face, in his ears the thundering noise of total immersion, with the hot, strangling sense of drowning; and then all was blank darkness, and he knew no more. CHAPTER TWELVE. A STRANGE AWAKENING. Another storm seemed to have gathered in Dartmoor--a terrible storm, which sent the rain down in sheets, which creaked and groaned as they washed to and fro, and every now and then struck against the rocks with a noise like thunder. Great stones seemed to be torn up and thrown here and there, making the shepherds shout as they tried to keep their flocks together under the shelter of some granite for, while down by the falls at the salmon-pool the water came over as it had never come before. Nic had a faint recollection of his fight with Humpy Dee, and of some one coming to take his part, with the result that they were all tangled up together till they were forced beneath the water. This must have separated them, so that he was quite alone now, being carried round and round the pool, rising and falling in a regular way, till he came beneath the falls, when down came the tons of water upon his head, driving him beneath the surface, to glide on in the darkness, feeling sick and half-suffocated, while his head burned and throbbed as if it would burst. It did not seem to matter much, but it appeared very strange; and this must be drowning, but it took such a long time, and went on and on, repeating itself in the same way as if it would never end. That part of it was very strange, too--that light; and it puzzled Nic exceedingly, for it seemed to be impossible that he should be going round and round in the salmon-pool, to be sucked under the falls, and feel the water come thundering upon his head with a crash and creak and groan, and in the midst of it for a lanthorn to come slowly along till it was quite close to him, and voices to be heard. After seeing it again and again, he felt that he understood what it was. He had been drowned, and they were coming with a lanthorn to look for his body; but they never found it, though they came and stood talking about him over and over again. At last he heard what was said quite plainly, but he only knew one voice out of the three that spoke, and he could not make out whose that was. The voice said, "Better, sir, to-day;" and another voice said, "Oh yes, you're getting all right now: head's healing nicely. The sooner you get up on deck and find your sea-legs the better." "Oh, I shall be all right there, sir." "Been to sea before?" "In fishing craft, sir--often. But would you mind telling me, sir, where we're going?" "Oh, you'll know soon enough, my lad. Well: America and the West Indies." "This must be a dream," thought Nic; and he was lying wondering, when the light was suddenly held close to him, and he could see over his head beams and planks and iron rings and ropes, which made it all more puzzling than ever. Then a cool hand touched his brow, and it seemed as if a bandage was removed, cool water laved the part which ached and burned, and a fresh bandage was fastened on. "Won't die, will he, sir?" said the voice Nic knew but could not quite make out. "Oh no, not now, my lad. He has had a near shave, and been none the better for knocking about in this storm; but he's young and healthy, and the fever is not quite so high this morning.--Hold the light nearer, Jeffs.--Hallo! Look at his eyes; he can hear what we say.--Coming round, then, my lad?" "Yes," said Nic feebly, "round and round. The falls will not come on my head any more, will they?" _Crash_--_rush_! and Nic groaned, for down came the water again, and the young man nearly swooned in his agony, while a deathly sensation of giddiness attacked him. "Head seems to be all right now," said the third voice. "Yes, healing nicely; but he ought to have been sent ashore to the hospital." "Oh, I don't know. Bit of practice." The roar and rush ceased, and the terrible sinking sensation passed off a little. "Drink this, my lad," said a voice, and Nic felt himself raised; something nasty was trickled between his lips, and he was lowered down again, and it was dark, while the burning pain, the giddiness, and the going round the pool and under the falls went on over and over in a dreamy, distant way once more. Then there was a long, drowsy space, and the sound of the falls grew subdued. At last Nic lay puzzling his weary, confused head as to the meaning of a strange creaking, and a peculiar rising and falling, and why it was that he did not feel wet. Just then from out of the darkness there was a low whistling sound, which he recognised as part of a tune he had often heard, and it was so pleasant to hear that he lay quite still listening till it ended, when he fell asleep, and seemed to wake again directly, with the melody of the old country ditty being repeated softly close at hand. "Who's that?" he said at last; and there was a start, and a voice--that voice he could not make out--cried: "Hullo, Master Nic! glad to hear you speak zensible again." "Speak--sensible--why shouldn't I?" "I d'know, zir. But you have been going it a rum 'un. Feel better?" "Feel--better. I don't know. Who is it?" "Me, sir." "Yes, yes," cried Nic querulously; "but who is it?" "Pete Burge, sir." "Pete--Burge," said Nic thoughtfully, and he lay very still trying to think; but he could not manage it, for the water in the pool seemed to be bearing him along, and now he was gliding up, and then down again, while his companion kept on talk, talk, talk, in a low murmur, and all was blank once more. Then a change came, and Nic lay thinking a little more clearly. "Are you there, Pete Burge?" he said. "Yes, I'm here, master." "What was that you were saying to me just now?" "Just now?" said the man wonderingly. "Well, you do go on queer, zir. That was the day afore yes'day. But I zay, you are better now, aren't you?" "Better? I don't know. I thought I was drowned." "Poor lad!" said Pete softly; but it seemed to sting Nic. "What do you mean by that?" he said feebly. "Zorry for you, master." "Why?" "'Cause you've been zo bad." "Been so bad?" said Nic thoughtfully. "Why have I been so bad? It's very strange." Pete Burge made no reply, and there was silence again, till it was broken by Nic, who said suddenly: "Have you been very bad too?" "Me, zir? Yes, horrid. Thought I was going to the locker, as they call it. Doctor zaid I ought to have been took to the hospital." "Were you nearly drowned?" said Nic after a pause, during which he had to fight hard to keep his thinking power under control. "Was I nearly drowned, zir?" said the man, with a low chuckle. "Zeems to me I was nearly everythinged. Head smashed, chopped, choked, and drowned too." Nic was silent again, for he could not take in so many ideas as this at once, and it was some minutes before he could collect himself for another question. "But you are better now?" "Oh yes, zir, I'm better now. Doctor zays I'm to get up to-morrow." "The doctor! Was that the doctor whom I heard talking yesterday?" "Yes: two of 'em; they've pulled uz round wonderful. You frightened me horrid, master, the way you went on, and just when I was most bad. You made me feel it was all my fault, and I couldn't zleep for thinking that if you died I'd killed you. But I zay, master, you won't die now, will you?" "How absurd!" said Nic, with a weak laugh. "Of course not. Why should I die now?" "Ah, why indeed, when you're getting better?" There was another silence before Nic began again. "I've been wondering," he said, "why it is that we can be going round the salmon-pool like this, and yet be lying here talking about the doctor and being bad." "Ay, 'tis rum, sir." "Yes, it puzzles me. Look here; didn't we have a fight with you and your men to-night?" "We had a big fight, sir; but it waren't to-night." "But it's quite dark still, and I suppose it's my head being giddy that makes me feel that we're going up and down." "Oh no, it aren't, zir," said the man, laughing; "we're going up and down bad enough. Not zo bad as we have been." "And round and round?" "No; not going round, master." "But where are we?" said Nic eagerly. "Ah, that puzzles you, do it, zir? Well, it puzzled me at first, till I asked; and then the doctor zaid we was in the cockpit, but I haven't heard any battle-cocks crowing, and you can't zee now, it's zo dark. Black enough, though, for a pit." "Cockpit--cockpit!" said Nic. "Why, that's on board ship." "To be zure." "But we are not on board ship?" "Aren't we?" said the man. "I--I don't understand," cried Nic after a pause. "My head is all confused and strange. Tell me what it all means." Pete Burge was silent. "Poor lad!" he said to himself; "how's he going to take it when he knows all?" "You do not speak," said Nic excitedly. "Ah! I am beginning to think clearly now. You came with the men after the salmon?" "Ay, worse luck. I didn't want to, but I had to go." "Come," said Nic sharply. "To-night, wasn't it?" "Nay. It's 'bout three weeks ago, master." This announcement, though almost a repetition, seemed to stun Nic for the time; but he began again: "We had a desperate fight, didn't we?" "Worst I was ever in." "And--yes, I remember; we were struggling in the pool when the sailors came." "That's it, master; you've got it now." "But your side won, then, and I'm a prisoner?" "Nay; your side won, master." "How can that be?" cried Nic. "'Cause it is. They was too many for uz. They come down like thunder on uz, and 'fore we knowed where we was we was tied up in twos and being marched away." "Our side won?" said Nic, in his confusion. "That's right, master. You zee, they told Humpy Dee and the rest to give in, and they wouldn't; so the zailor officer wouldn't stand no nonsense. His men begun with sticks; but, as our zide made a big fight of it, they whips out their cutlashes and used them. I got one chop, and you nearly had it, and when two or three more had had a taste of the sharp edge they begun to give in; and, as I telled you, next thing we was tied two and two and marched down to the river, pitched into the bottoms of two boats, and rowed aboard a ship as zet zail at once; and next night we was pitched down into the boats again and hoisted aboard this ship, as was lying off Plymouth waiting to start." "Waiting to sail?" "That's right, master! And I s'pose she went off at once, but I was too bad to know anything about it. When I could begin to understand I was lying here in this hammock, and the doctor telled me." "One moment. Where are the others?" "All aboard, sir--that is, twenty-two with uz." "Some of our men too?" "Nay, zir; on'y our gang." "But I don't understand, quite," said Nic pitifully. "I want to know why they have brought me. Tell me, Pete Burge--my head is getting confused again--tell me why I am here." "Mistake, I s'pose, sir. Thought, zeeing you all rough-looking and covered with blood, as you was one of us." Nic lay with his head turned in the speaker's direction, battling with the horrible despairing thoughts which came like a flood over his disordered brain; but they were too much for him. He tried to speak; but the dark waters of the pool were there again, and the next minute he felt as if he had been drawn by the current beneath the fall, and all was mental darkness and the old confusion once more. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. WILLIAM SOLLY HAS THOUGHTS. It would have been better, perhaps, for Nic Revel if he had not heard the result of the plan to get help from Captain Lawrence's ship and its disastrous results for him. For Pete Burge's narrative was correct enough, save that he made an omission or two, notably the fact that he was captured while making a brave effort to save Nic from the savage blows being dealt out to him by Humpy Dee, who was trying to visit upon his head the disappointment he felt through the failure of the raid. It was from finding Nic, helplessly insensible, being carried off by Pete that in the dark the sailors took the young man for one of the party they were to attack; and hence it was that he was tied fast to his injured companion, carried down the hill-slope to the river, bundled into the boat with the other prisoners, and carried off, there being no further communication held with the shore. Captain Lawrence knew nothing till long afterwards about Nic being missing, and the long, long search made for him in the pool; two of the men, when questioned later on during the inquiry, having seen him go down in the fierce struggle. But no one, during the confusion which ensued, had seen him rise again; for it was somewhere about that time that those who bore torches, and saw that the fight was going against them, dashed them down into the water, hoping the darkness would cover their escape. The Captain, in the triumphant issue of the encounter, had stood to see the prisoners all bound, and soon after, upon not finding his son, accepted Solly's suggestion that Nic had walked down to see the prisoners off, and perhaps gone on board to thank the officer for his help. The next morning the ship was gone, and a horrible dread assailed master and man as to Nic's fate. Then came the information from the two labourers who had taken part in the defence and the search, every inch of the pool and river being examined, till the suspicion became a certainty that Nic had been swept down the river and carried out to sea, the cap he wore having been brought in by one of the fishermen who harboured his boat in the mouth of the stream. But Captain Revel did not rest content with this: in his agony he communicated with Captain Lawrence, who came on at once, and confessed now to his old friend why, when his help was asked, he had jumped at the idea. They wanted men for one of the ships bound for Charleston and the West Indies, the pressgangs having been very unsuccessful; and as the salmon-poachers were described to him as being strong, active fellows, the idea struck him that here was a fine opportunity for ridding the neighbourhood of a gang of mischievous ne'er-do-weels--men who would be of service to their country, and henceforth leave his old brother-officer in peace; while any of them not particularly suitable could be easily got rid of among the sugar and tobacco plantations. "Then," said Captain Revel, "you have sent them away?" "Yes; they sailed the next night. It was rather a high-handed transaction; but the service wanted them badly, and we can't afford to be too particular at a time like this." "But do you think it likely that my poor boy was among the prisoners?" "Impossible," said the Captain. "If he were--which is not in the least likely--all he had to do was to speak and say who he was. But absurd! I should have known, of course." "But after he was on board the other vessel?" "My dear old friend," said Captain Lawrence sympathetically, "I shrink from dashing your hopes, but I feel how unjust it would be to back you up in the idea that he may have gone with the impressed men. He is a gentleman, and an English officer's son, and he would only have to open his lips to any one he encountered, and explain his position, to be sent home from the first port he reached." "Yes, yes, of course," said the Captain bitterly; "and I shall never see my poor boy again." Captain Lawrence was so uneasy about his friend that he went back to the boat and sent her off to the ship, returning afterwards to the house, bitterly regretting that he had sent his men ashore and allowed himself to be tempted into making a seizure of the poachers. Captain Revel was seated in his arm-chair when Captain Lawrence re-entered the house, looking calm, grave, and thoughtful. His friend's coming made him raise his head and gaze sorrowfully; then, with a weary smile, he let his chin drop upon his breast and sat looking hard at the carpet. "Come, Revel, man," cried Captain Lawrence, "you must cheer up. We sailors can't afford to look at the black side of things." "No, no; of course not," said the stricken man. "I shall be better soon, Jack; better soon. I'm getting ready to fight it." "That's right; and before long you will have the boy marching into the room, or else sending you a letter." "Yes, yes," said Captain Revel, with a sad smile, and in a manner totally different from that which he generally assumed, "he'll soon come back or write." "But, poor fellow! he does not think so," said Captain Lawrence to himself, as Nic's father relapsed into thoughtful silence. "Solly, my lad," said the visitor, when he felt that he must return to his vessel, "your master has got a nasty shock over this business." "Ay, ay, sir; and he aren't the only one as feels it. I ought never to ha' left Master Nic's side; but he put me in my station, and, of course, I had to obey orders." "Of course, my lad. Here, we must make the best of it, and hope and pray that the boy will turn up again all right." Solly shook his head sadly. "Ah, don't do that, my man," cried Captain Lawrence. "You a sailor, too. There's life in a mussel, Solly. A man's never dead with us till he is over the side with a shot at his heels." "That's true, sir," said the old sailor; "but, you see, I'm afraid. There was some fierce fighting over yonder in the pitch-dark, where the lights waren't showing. Sticks was a-going awful. If my poor boy got one o' they cracks on his head and went beneath, there was plenty o' water to wash him out o' the pool and down the river." "Yes; but hope for the best, man; hope for the best. Remember the bit of blue that comes in the wind's eye often enough when we're in the worst part of a gale." "Ay, sir, that's what I do--hope for the best, and that if my poor young master, who was as fine a lad as ever stepped, is done for, I may some day find out who it was that hit that blow, and pay it back." "No, Solly," said Captain Lawrence sternly. "An English sailor does not take revenge in cold blood for what was done in hot. Never! There, I must get off, and in a few days I hope to be back to see my old friend again. Meanwhile, I know he's in good hands, and that he would not wish to be watched over by any one better than William Solly, his old companion in many a trouble of the past." "It's very kind o' you to say so, sir," said Solly humbly. "I only speak the truth, my man," said the visitor. "I have seen a great deal, and Captain Revel has told me more, about what a faithful servant you have been to him. Do all you can to comfort him, for he is terribly changed." The tears were in old Solly's eyes, and there seemed to be a kink in his throat, as he said huskily: "Awful, sir. I was a-saying on'y the other day, when the skipper was wherriting hisself about losing a few salmon, and raging and blowing all over the place, that he wanted a real trouble to upset him, and that then he wouldn't go so half-mad-like about a pack o' poachers working the pool. But I little thought then that the real bad trouble was coming so soon; and it has altered him, sewer-ly. Poor Master Nic--poor dear lad! Seems on'y t'other day as I used to carry him sittin' with his little bare legs over my two shoulders, and him holding on tight by my curly hair. Yes, sir, you look; it is smooth and shiny up aloft now, but I had a lot o' short, curly hair then, just like an old Calabar nigger's. And now, on'y to think of it." "No, don't think of it, my lad, for we are not certain, and we will not give up hope. There, good-bye, Solly, my man. Shake hands." "Shake--hands, sir--with you, cap'n?" "No, not with the captain, but with the man who looks upon you as an old friend." The next minute Solly was alone, rubbing his fist first in one eye and then in the other, twisting the big bony knuckle of his forefinger round so as to squeeze the moisture out. "Well now," he said, "just look at that! What an old fool I am! Well, if I didn't know as them there drops o' mystur' was 'cause o' my poor lad Master Nic, I should ha' thought it was all on account o' what Cap'n Lawrence said. `Friend!' he says. Well, I like that. I s'pose it's 'cause I've allus tried to do my dooty, though I've made a horful muddle on it more'n once." CHAPTER FOURTEEN. FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT. The next time the doctor came below to see his patients he examined Pete Burge. "Humph!" he ejaculated. "Lucky for you, my man, that you have such a thick skull. You'll do now; but you've had a narrow escape. There, you can go up on deck every day a bit, but keep out of the sun; it's very hot, and getting hotter. It will do you more good than stopping down in this black hole." "Thank ye, master," said Pete; and he lay still in his hammock, waiting for the doctor to go on deck before getting out and beginning to dress. "Look here," said the doctor; "you are not off the sick-list yet, and you will come down and look after this lad till he is fit to go up.-- Well, how are you, my lad?--Hold that light closer," he continued, turning to his assistant. "Humph! fever stronger.--Has he been talking to you--sensibly?" "Yes, zir," replied Pete. "A good deal muddled at first, but he began asking questions at last." "What about?" "Didn't know how he come here, and I had to tell him." "Yes! What then?" "Give a zort of a groan, zir, and been talking to hisself ever zince." "Humph! Poor wretch," muttered the doctor, and he gave some instructions to his assistant before turning once more to Pete: "Look here, you had better stay with your mate when you are not on deck. If he gets worse you can fetch me." "Where shall I find you, zir?" asked Pete. "Ask one of the men." Pete began to dress as soon as he was alone, and found that it was no easy task on account of a strange feeling of giddiness; but he succeeded at last, and stepped to Nic's hammock and laid a cool hand upon the poor fellow's burning brow. Then he went on deck, glad to sit down right forward in the shade cast by one of the sails and watch the blue water whenever the vessel heeled over. The exertion, the fresh air, and the rocking motion of the ship produced a feeling of drowsiness, and Pete was dropping off to sleep when he started into wakefulness again, for half-a-dozen men came up a hatchway close at hand, with the irons they wore clinking, to sit down upon the deck pretty near the convalescent. Pete stared as he recognised Humpy Dee and five other partners in the raid. "There, what did I tell you?" said the first-named, speaking to his companions, but glaring savagely at Pete the while. "There he is. I allus knowed it. He aren't in irons. It was his doing. Give warning, he did, and they brought the sailor Jacks up. It was a regular trap." "What do you mean?" said Pete wonderingly. "What I say. I always knew you'd turn traitor and tell on us." "You don't know what you're talking about," cried Pete. "Look here, lads." The men he addressed uttered a low growl and turned from him in disgust. "Oh, very well," said Pete bitterly; "if you like to believe him instead of me, you can." "I told you so," went on Humpy Dee, whose countenance looked repulsive now from a patch of strips of sticking-plaster upon his forehead; "and he says I don't know what I'm talking about." "That's right," said Pete; "you don't." "Maybe; but I do now. Look ye here, Pete Burge; it's your doing that we're here. Nearly the whole lot on us took--there, you can see some of 'em sailors now. Pressed men. They took the pick of us; but we're not good enough, we're not, while you're to be a bo'sun, or some'at o' that sort, you expect. But you won't, for, first chance I get, Pete Burge, I'm going to pitch you overboard, or put a knife in your back; so look out." "You don't know what you're talking about," said Pete again, for nothing better occurred to him; and as the charge seemed to have gone home for truth with the other unfortunates, one and all embittered by sickness, injuries, and confinement in irons below deck, Pete sulkily did as they did, turned away, confident that Humpy Dee's threat would not be put in force then; for a marine was standing sentry over them, till the men in irons were marched below, Pete finding that, as one on the sick-list, he was free to go up or down when he liked. During the next fortnight the man puzzled himself as to what was to become of them. He had seen others of his companions often enough, going about their duties; but every one turned from him with a scowl of dislike, which showed that the charge Humpy had made had gone home, and that all believed he had betrayed them. The consequence was that he passed much of his time below decks, and preferred to come up for his breath of fresh air after dark, passing his time beside Nic's hammock, thinking what he ought to do about him, and making up his mind what it was to be as soon as the poor fellow grew better and fully recovered his senses. "I'll tell the doctor then," he said to himself. "There's no good in telling him now, for if I did they'd take him away and put him in a cabin, where it would only be lonezome for him and for me too; and no one would wait on him better than I do." But Nic did not get better, as Pete wished, nor yet as the doctor essayed to make him. "It has got on his brain, poor fellow," said that gentleman one day, when the patient was able to walk about, apparently nearly well, but his mind quite vacant. He talked, but the past was quite a blank. "But he'll get it off, won't he, zir?" said Pete, who felt the time to speak had come. "Some day, my lad. I dare say his memory will come back all of a sudden when he is stronger and better able to bear his trouble; so perhaps it's all a blessing for him in disguise." There was so much in this that Pete felt that it was not the time to speak yet. "What good can it do him till he can think?" he said to himself. "It will only be like me losing a mate as can be a bit o' comfort, now every one's again' me. I mean to stick to him till he can speak out and tell 'em as I didn't inform again' the others." So Pete held his tongue, and being so much below, was almost forgotten, save by the men of the watches who had to bring the two sick men their rations; and finally he left it till it was too late. For he awoke one morning to find that they were in port in a strange land, and in the course of the morning the word was passed to him and his unfortunate companion to "tumble up." "Here, master," he said to Nic; "you're to come up." Nic made no objection, but suffered himself to be led on deck, where he stood, pale and thin, the wreck of his former self, blinking in the unwonted light, and trying to stare about him, but in a blank way, ending by feeling for and clinging to Pete's arm. Very little time was afforded the latter for looking about, wondering what was to happen next; all he saw on deck was a group of marines and about a couple of dozen of the sailors doing something to one of the boats, while the officers were looking on. The next minute his attention was taken by the beautiful country spreading out beyond the shore, a quarter of a mile away across the sparkling waters of the harbour. But there was something else to take his attention during the next minute, for there was the clanking of irons, and he saw Humpy Dee and his five companions marched up from below to be called to where he was standing with Nic. The poachers looked repellent enough as they followed Humpy Dee's example, and scowled at the pair who had come up from the sick bay, and seemed to receive little sympathy from those who were looking on. Then there was an order given by one of the officers, and the crew of the boat climbed quickly in, while the marines came up behind the prisoners. "They're going to take us ashore," thought Pete excitedly, and the idea had hardly been grasped, before a couple of old hats were handed to him and his companion by the sergeant of marines. "They're going to put uz with Humpy and that lot," said Pete to himself excitedly; "and I must speak now." He spoke. It was hurriedly and blunderingly done, and the officer whom he addressed looked at him frowningly. "What!" he cried; "this man is not one of you--one of the gang taken that night?" "No, master; he's a gentleman, and took by mistake." Humpy Dee's eyes flashed, and he burst into a coarse laugh. "Silence, you scoundrel!--How dare you?" cried the officer angrily. "Couldn't help it, master," growled Humpy. "Make a horse laugh to hear such gammon." "What! Do you say that what he tells me is not true?" "It is true, master," cried Pete, "every word--" "All lies," snarled the poacher savagely. "He was in the fight, and got hurt. He's one of us. That Pete Burge peached on us, and brought the sailor Jacks on us; and he wants to get out of it to let us go alone. Lies, captain; all lies." "What do you say, my men?" said the officer sternly, turning to Humpy's companions. "Same as he does," cried the pressed men in chorus. "And you?" cried the officer, turning to Nic. "Are you one of this fellow's comrades?" "No, master, he aren't," cried Pete; "he aren't, indeed. He's nought to me. He's--" "Silence, sir!" roared the officer. "You, sir," he continued, turning to Nic, "speak out. Are you one of this fellow's comrades?" Nic looked at him blankly, and there was silence on the deck, as the various groups stood there in the burning sunshine. "Well, sir, why don't you answer?" cried the officer. Nic's answer was in dumb-show, for, poor fellow, he did not grasp a word. He knew that the man by his side had been with him a great deal, and nursed and helped him, speaking soothingly when he was at his worst--every one else seemed strange; and without a word he smiled sadly in Pete's face and took hold of his arm. "That will do," said the officer, who had his orders to carry out. "In with them!" The marines laid their hands on Nic's and Pete's shoulders, while the sergeant signed to the others to climb into the boat; Humpy Dee turning, as he got in last, to give Pete a savage look of triumph. Pete turned sharply to the marine who was urging him to the side. "Tell me, mate," he whispered quickly; "just a word. Where are we going to be took?" The marine glanced swiftly aside to see if it was safe to answer, and then whispered back: "Off to the plantations, I s'pose. There, keep a good heart, lad. It aren't for ever and a day." The plantations--to work as a kind of white slave for some colonist far-away. Pete, in his ignorance, only grasped half the truth; but that half was bad enough to make him sink down in the boat as it was lowered from the davits, put his lips close to Nic's ear, and groan more than say: "Oh, Master Nic, lad, what have you done?" Then the boat kissed the water; the order was given; the oars fell with a splash; and, as the men gave way, Pete Burge darted a wild look about him, to find Humpy Dee just at his back, glaring malignantly, and as if about to speak, as he leaned forward. But no word came, for the marine sergeant clapped a hand upon his shoulder and thrust him back. "All right," said Humpy Dee; "my time'll come bimeby. Better than being a pressed man, after all." Nic had been a long while in the darkness below deck, and his eyes were feeble; but, as the boat glided on rapidly towards the shore, they became more accustomed to the light, and he gazed wonderingly about in his confused state, seeing nothing of the trouble ahead, only the fact that he was approaching the far-stretching, sun-brightened shore. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. HUMPY DEE'S LITTLE THREATS. However much he might have been disposed to make a fresh appeal on his companion's behalf, Pete had no opportunity; for, upon the boat being run alongside of a roughly-made wharf, he and the others were hurried out and marched away to a kind of warehouse, and the care of them handed over to some people in authority, by whom they were shut-in, glad of the change from the broiling sun outside to the cool gloom of the interior, lit only by a grated window high up above the door, from which the rays streamed across the open roof, leaving the roughly-boarded floor in darkness. After a few minutes the eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and the men seated themselves upon the empty chests and barrels lying about, Pete securing one for Nic, who sat down mechanically, with his head thrown back so that he could gaze at the light. Pete contented himself with the rough floor, where he half-lay, listening to his companions in misfortune, half-a-dozen yards away, as they talked over their position and wondered where they were to go--to a man keeping aloof from Pete, the traitor they accredited with bringing them to their present state. The men were better informed than Pete had been, his stay in company with Nic and the dislike in which he was held by his old companions having kept him in ignorance of facts which they had picked up from the sailors. And now Pete gradually grasped in full that of which he had previously only had an inkling--that the pick of the prisoners had been reserved for man-o'-war's-men, those who were considered unsuitable having been reserved for handing over to the colonists. This was in accordance with a custom dating as far back as the days of Cromwell, the Protector being accredited with ridding himself of troublesome prisoners by shipping them off to the plantations as white slaves, most of them never to return. "Well," said Humpy Dee aloud, in the course of conversation, "I suppose it means work." "Yes," said another; "and one of the Jacks told me you have to hoe sugar-cane and tobacco and rice out in the hot sun, and if you don't do enough you get the cat." "If any one tries to give me the lash," growled Humpy, "he'll get something he won't like." "They'll hang you or shoot you if you try on any games, old lad," said another of the men. "Maybe, if they can," said Humpy, with a laugh. "Perhaps we may be too many for them. I mean to take to the woods till I can get taken off by a ship." "Ah, who knows?" said another. "I aren't going to give up. Place don't look so bad. See that river as we come up here?" "Of course," growled Humpy. "Well, I dare say there'll be salmon in it, same as there is at home." "Tchah!" cried Humpy; "not here. This is foreign abroad man. You'll get no salmon now." "Well, any fish'll do," said another of the men. "The place don't look bad, and anything's better than being shut down below them decks. 'Nough to stifle a man. I know what I'm going to do, though, along with them as like to join me." "You're going to do what I tells you," said Humpy Dee sourly; "I'm going to be head-man here; and if you don't you'll find yourself wishing you hadn't been born." The man growled something in an undertone, and Humpy made an offer at him as if to strike, causing his companion in misfortune to flinch back to avoid the expected blow. "Look here, boys," said Humpy; "if every one here's going to try to do things on his own hook we shall do nothing, so what you've got to do is to stick by me. We're not going to be sold here like a gang o' black slaves." "But we are sold," said the man who had shrunk away. "Never mind that; we're not going to work, then," said Humpy. "We're going to slip off into the woods, get to that there river, and do something better than spear or bale out salmon. We're going to take the first boat we see and get round to the coast, and then keep along till we find a ship to take us off." "Well, that's what I meant," said the other man. "Then you'll be all right," said Humpy. So far, without paying attention, Pete had heard every word, and his blood began to course faster through his veins at the thought of escaping and helping Nic back to his friends; but, though he strove hard, not another word reached his ears; for Humpy leaned forward and began speaking in a hoarse whisper, his companions bending towards him, as he said with a peculiar intensity: "We've got to get back home, lads, and not stop here to rot in the sun to make money for whoever's bought us; but there's something to do first." "What?" said one of the men, for Humpy Dee had stopped and sat in the gloom, glaring savagely at the farther side of the place. "Wait, and you'll hear," was the reply; and there was another pause, during which Nic uttered a low, weary sigh, and let himself fall sideways, so that his head sank in Pete's lap, and, utterly exhausted, he dropped off to sleep. "You know how it all was," Humpy went on at last. "I aren't going to name no names, but some 'un was jealous-like o' me, and wanting to take the lead always; and, when he found he couldn't, he goes and blabs to the young master yonder. Well, we're not going to take him back--we've not going to tell him how we're going to do it." "Have told him. Spoke loud enough," said the man who had received the rebuff. Humpy leaned towards him, and with a peculiar, savage air, said in a husky whisper: "Look here, mate; there's only room for one to lead here. If you aren't satisfied you can go and sit along with them two and sham sick, like Pete Burge has all through the voyage." "Well, don't bite a man's head off," said the other. "Who wants to lead?" "You do, or you wouldn't talk like a fool. Think I'm one, mates?--think I'm going to do as I said, and let him go and blab, so as to get into favour here? That's just what I don't mean to do." "Then what are you going to do?" said his fellow-prisoner; but for a few moments Humpy only glared at him without speaking. At last, though, he whispered: "I mean for us to go off together and get free; and as for some one else, I mean for us all to give him something to remember us by afore we go." CHAPTER SIXTEEN. HUMAN CATTLE. The prisoners had been sitting in the dark warehouse-like place for some hours, Nic sleeping soundly, and Pete watching and listening to his companions in misfortune, judging from their behaviour that he was to be treated as an outcast, but caring little, for he was conscious of having been true to them in their nefarious doings. "Let them think what they like," he said to himself. "Humpy has got that into their heads, and if I talk to them for a week they won't believe me." Then he began to muse upon the subject which forms seven-eighths of a prisoner's thoughts--how he and Nic were to escape, and whether it would be possible to get to a boat and float down the river of which they had had a glimpse, and of which he had heard his companions speaking, when suddenly there was the deep, heavy barking of a dog, followed by that of two more; and, as he listened, the sounds came nearer and nearer, in company with the shuffling of feet. Voices were heard too, and directly after there was a loud snuffling sound and a deep growling, as the dogs they had heard thrust their noses under the big door, tore at it, and growled savagely, till a fierce voice roared: "Come here! Lie down!" and there was a crack of a whip, and a sharp yelp to indicate that one of the dogs had received a blow. Directly after there was the rattle of a big key in the lock, the bolt snapped back, and the door was thrown open, to fill the place with the glow of the afternoon sunshine; and three great hounds bounded in, to rush at once for the prisoners and begin snuffing at them, growling loudly the while. "Call those dogs off, Saunders," said a stern voice, as the entrance was darkened by the figures of a group of men. "In a moment," was the reply, made by a tall, active-looking man, "They only want to know the new hands, and their flavour.--Here: down, boys!" The speaker accompanied his order with a sharp crack of the whip, and the dogs came back unwillingly from the groups seated on the floor. "Take care," said the first speaker; "that man has a knife." Pete turned sharply, to see that a knife-blade was gleaming in Humpy Dee's hand. "Knife, has he?" said the man addressed as Saunders, and he stepped forward to where Humpy was crouching down. "Give me that knife," he said sharply. "I don't want to be eat by dogs," said Humpy in a low, surly tone. "Give me that knife," was reiterated sternly, "or I set the dogs to hold you while I take it away." Humpy hesitated for a moment and glared in the speaker's eyes; but he read there a power which was too much for him, and he closed the blade with a snap and slowly held it up. The man snatched it from him with his left hand, and the next instant there was a sharp whish through the air and a smart crack, as the stinging lash of a whip fell across Humpy's shoulder, making him utter a yell of rage. "Saunders, Saunders!" said the first speaker reproachfully. "All right, Mr Groves; I know what I'm about," said the man sharply. "That fellow was armed with a knife which he must have stolen from one of the sailors; and he was ready to use it. The sooner a savage brute like that is taught his position here the better for him. You have done your part and handed the scoundrels over to me, so please don't interfere." The first speaker shrugged his shoulders, and turned to a couple of men who were carrying a basket and a great pitcher; while Saunders went on sharply: "You hear what I am saying, my lads; so understand this: You have been sent out here from your country because you were not fit to stay there; and you will have to serve now up at your proprietor's plantation. Behave yourselves, and you will be well fed, and fairly treated over your work; but I warn you that we stand no nonsense here. The law gives us power to treat you as you deserve. Our lives are sacred; yours are not--which means, as Mr Groves here will tell you, that if you venture to attack any one you will be shot down at sight, while I may as well tell you now that we shall fire at any man who attempts to escape." Pete's head gave a throb, and his hand glided slowly to Nic's and held it tightly. "When you get up to the plantation you will see for yourselves that you cannot get away, for you will have jailers there always ready to watch you or hunt you down. There are three of them," he continued, pointing to the dogs which crouched on the warehouse floor, panting, with their long red tongues out and curled up at the ends. At their master's gesture the sagacious animals sprang up and gazed eagerly in his face. "Not now, boys; lie down.--Ah, what's that?" he cried sharply, and the dogs made a movement as if to rush at the prisoners, for Humpy leaned sideways and whispered to his nearest companion: "More ways than one o' killing a dog." "Talking about the dogs," said the other surlily. "You are making yourself a marked man, my friend. Take care. Who are these--the two who have been in hospital, Mr Groves?" "I suppose so," was the reply. "What's the matter with you?" said the overseer--for such he proved to be--addressing Pete. "Jump up." Pete softly lifted Nic's head from his knee and rose quickly. "Was cut down, sir," said Pete; "but I'm getting better fast now." "Good job for you. Now, you, sir; wake up." The overseer raised the whip he held, to make a flick at Nic as he lay soundly asleep; but Pete stepped forward to save his companion, and in bending over him received the slight cut himself without flinching, though the lash made him feel as if he had been stung. "He has been a'most dead, zir," said Pete sharply; "but he's getting better now fast. Hasn't got his zenses, though." "Wake him up, then," said the overseer sharply; "and you can get your meal now.--Here, my lads, bring that stuff here and serve it out." Pete obeyed the order given, and began by gently shaking Nic, who made no sign. Pete shook him again more firmly, starting violently the next moment, for, unnoticed, one of the great hounds had approached him and lowered its muzzle to sniff at the prostrate man. Pete's first instinctive idea was to strike fiercely at the savage-looking intruder, but fortunately he held his hand and bent over his companion wonderingly, and hardly able to believe what he saw; for as the dog nuzzled about Nic's face, the young man, partly aroused by the shaking, opened his eyes, looked vacantly at the brute for some moments, and then, as if his intellectual powers were returning, he smiled, the animal stopping short and staring down at him closely. "Well, old fellow," he said gently; "whose dog are you?" Pete looked up sharply, and saw that every one's attention was centred on the basket and pitcher, the two men serving out the provisions and their two superiors looking on. Then he glanced back again, to see in horror that Nic had raised his hand to the dog's muzzle, and followed that up by taking hold of and passing the animal's long, soft ears through his hand. Pete would have seized the dog, but he felt paralysed by the thought that if he interfered he might make matters worse; and then his heart seemed to rise in his throat, for the great hound uttered a deep, short bark, which had the effect of bringing the others to its side. "Quiet, you, sirs!" cried their master, but he did not turn his head, and the three dogs now pressed round Nic, the first planting his fore-paws on the young man's chest, blinking at him with his jaws apart and the long red tongue playing and quivering between the sets of keen milk-white teeth, evidently liking the caresses it received, and of which the other two appeared to be jealous, for they suddenly began to whimper; and then the first threw up its head, and all three broke into a loud baying. "Quiet, there!" roared Saunders, and he turned sharply now, saw what had taken place, and came back cracking his whip. "Ah!" he shouted. "Get back! How dare you?" The dogs growled, stood fast, and barked at him loudly. "Good boys, then!" cried Saunders. "Yes, it's all right; you've found him. There, that will do." The dogs began to leap and bound about the place, while their master turned to Pete. "Why didn't you call me?" he said. "Have they bitten him?" "No; haven't hurt him a bit," said Pete quietly. "Lucky for him," said the man. "There, you see what they're like, and know what you have to expect--What?" "I said, are they your dogs?" Pete stared, for it was Nic who spoke, perfectly calmly, though in a feeble voice. "Yes," replied Saunders. "Why?" "I could not help admiring them. They are magnificent beasts." "I am glad you like them, sir," said Saunders, with a mocking laugh; and he turned and strode away, to order the men to take some of the food they had brought to the other two prisoners, leaving Nic gazing after him. "Rather brusque," he said, half to himself, and then he passed his hand over his eyes, drew a long, deep, restful breath, and turned over as if to go to sleep again; but he started up on his elbow instead as he encountered Pete's face, and a look of horror and dislike contracted his own. "You here?" he said wonderingly. "Hush! Don't speak aloud, dear lad," whispered Pete excitedly. "Dear lad?" "Master Nic Revel, then. You haven't quite come-to yet. You don't remember. You were took bad again after being bad once--when you asked me questions aboard ship, and I had to tell you." "Taken bad--aboard ship?" "Here you are; catch hold," said a voice close to them; and one of the men handed each half a small loaf, while his companion filled a tin mug that must have held about half-a-pint, and offered it to Nic. The young man had let the great piece of bread fall into his lap, but the gurgling sound of the water falling into the mug seemed to rouse a latent feeling of intense thirst, and he raised himself more, took the vessel with both hands and half-drained it, rested for a few moments, panting, and then drank the rest before handing the tin back with a sigh of content. "No, no; hold it," said the man sharply; and Nic had to retain it in his trembling hands while it was refilled. "There, give it to your mate," said the water-bearer. The two young men's eyes met over the vessel in silence, Nic's full of angry dislike, Pete's with an appealing, deprecating look, which did not soften Nic's in the least. "Well, why don't you take it?" said the man with the pitcher. "Don't seem to kinder want it now," replied Pete hoarsely. "Drink it, man, and don't be a fool. You'll be glad of it long before you get there. Sun's hot yet, and the water's salt for miles, and then for far enough brackish." Nic looked at the speaker wonderingly, for the blank feeling seemed to be coming with the forerunner of the peculiar sensation of confusion which had troubled him before, and he looked from one to the other as if for help; while Pete took the mug and drained it, but contented himself with slipping his bread inside the breast of his shirt, and stood looking down at Nic, whose lips parted to speak, but no words came. "Seem decent sort of fellows," said the water-bearer, as he turned off towards the door with his companion; and the dogs rose to follow them, sniffing at the basket. "Yes, poor beggars!" said the other. "Whatever they've been up to in the old country, they've got to pay pretty dearly for it now." Nic's hearing was acute enough now, and he heard every word. "Here, you," he gasped painfully. "Call them back." "What for, Master Nic?" said Pete in an appealing whisper. "Don't; you mustn't now. Ask me for what you want." "I want to know what all this means," panted the young man. "Why am I here? What place is this? I'm not--I will know." "No, no; don't ask now, Master Nic," whispered Pete. "You aren't fit to know now. I'm with you, my lad, and I swear I won't forsake ye." "You--you will not forsake me?" said Nic, with a look of horror. "Never, my lad, while I've got a drop o' blood in my veins. Don't-- don't look at me like that. It waren't all my fault. Wait a bit, and I'll tell you everything, and help you to escape back to the old country." "To the old country!" whispered Nic, whose voice was panting again from weakness. "Where are we, then?" "Amerikee, among the plantations, they say." "But--but why? The plantations? What does it mean?" "Work," said Saunders, who had come up behind them. "Now then, look sharp, and eat your bread. You'll get no more till to-morrow morning, and in less than half-an-hour we shall start." "Start?" cried Nic huskily, as he clapped his hands to his head and pressed it hard, as though he felt that if he did not hold on tightly his reason would glide away again. "Yes, man, start," said Saunders. "Can you two fellows row?" "He can't, sir; he's too weak," cried Pete eagerly; and the overseer's face contracted. "But I can. Best man here with an oar. I can pull, sir, enough for two." "I'll put you to the proof before you sleep," said the overseer sharply. "Now, Mr Groves, I'm at your service. I suppose I have some papers to sign?" "Yes," said the agent, and he led the way, while the overseer followed, closing the door, placing a whistle to his lips and blowing a shrill note which was answered by a deep baying from the dogs. "Escape!" muttered Nic wildly. "Plantations! Why, I shall be a slave!" "No, no, my lad; don't take it like that. I'll help you to get away." "Will ye?" growled Humpy Dee, coming towards them. "Then I tells that chap next time he comes. I splits on you as you splits on we; so look out, I say, both of you; look out!" "It's a lie, Master Nic--a lie," cried Pete fiercely. "I swear to you, I never--" Pete caught at the young man's arm as he spoke, and then loosened it with a groan, for, with a look of revulsion, Nic cried hoarsely: "Don't touch me; don't come near me. Wretch--villain! This is all your work." "And so say we, my fine fellow," cried Humpy Dee, whose eyes sparkled with malignant joy. "His doing, every bit, 'cept what you put in, and for that you've got to take your share the same as us. And all because a few poor fellows wanted a bit o' salmon. Hor, hor, hor! I say, take it coolly. No one won't believe ye, and you may think yourself lucky to get off so well." Nic turned from the man with a look of disgust, and sat up, resting his throbbing head in his hands; while, as Humpy Dee went back to his companions, whistling as he went, Pete threw himself upon the floor, watching him, with his hands opening and shutting in a strange way, as if they were eager to seize the brutal ruffian by the throat. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. CHAINS AND SLAVERY. Pete calmed down after a while, and began to feel a bit sulky. He had common-sense enough to begin looking at the state of affairs from a matter-of-fact point of view, and he lay conning the position over. "Just as he likes," he said. "He pitches me over, and won't have any more to do with me. Well, it aren't no wonder, zeeing what I've been. Wonder what made me turn so zoft and zilly about him! Zeeing how hard it was for him to be zarved as he was, and then hooked off along with us." "Dunno that it's any worse for him than it is for me," he muttered; "but zeemed to feel a bit sorry about him, poor lad!--there I go again: poor lad! No more poor lad than I be. Got it into my thick head that it was nice to help him while he was so bad, and that, now our lads have pitched me overboard, we was going to be mates and help one another. But we aren't, for he's pitched me overboard too." "Well," muttered Pete, with a bitter laugh, "I can zwim as well as most on 'em, and I shan't hurt much; and as for him, he must take his chance with the rest on us. He's got his wits back again, and don't zeem like to go wool-gathering again; and, if he's sharp, he'll speak up and make that t'other man understand it's all a blunder about him being sent off along o' we. But there, he wants to go his own fashion, zo he must. But if I was him I should kick up a dust before we start, and have myself zent back home by the next ship." He glanced in the gloom at where Nic was seated, and a feeling of sorrow for the poor fellow filled him again; but after the rebuff he had received he fought it off, and began to watch Humpy Dee and the others, as they sat together talking in a low tone, and then to meditate on their position towards himself. "They're half-afraid of Humpy," he thought, "and he's made 'em think that I zet the sailors at them. If I go on talking till it's a blue moon they won't believe me, zo things must go their own way, and zome day they'll find Humpy out; on'y I'm not going to let him do as he likes with me. This isn't going to be a very cheerful zort of life out here; but, such as it is, it's better than no life at all; zo I aren't going to let him pitch me into the river or down some hole, or knock me on the head, or stick a knife into me. That won't do. It's murder--leastwise it is at home; p'raps it aren't out here. Zeems not after the way that chap talked about shooting us down and zetting them dogs at us. Why, one of 'em's stronger than us, and a zet-to wi' one of 'em wouldn't be nice. Bit of a coward, I s'pose, for I can't abide being bitten by a dog." "Best thing I can do will be to slip off first chance; for I zeem, what with Humpy and these folk, to have dropped into a nasty spot. Dessay I can take care of myself, and--nay, that won't do; zeem sneaky-like to go and leave that poor lad, for I do zort o' like him. Wonderful how they dogs took to him. Nay, that aren't wonderful. Got a lot o' zense, dogs have. Allus zeem to take to zick people and little tiny children, and blind folk too. How they like them too!" At that moment there was a deep baying sound not far-away, and Pete had not long to wait before there were steps, the door was unlocked and thrown open, and the overseer entered, accompanied by the dogs, and followed by a party of blacks, one of whom carried a roughly-made basket. They were big, muscular fellows, and shiny to a degree whenever the light caught their skins, a good deal of which was visible, for their dress consisted of a pair of striped cotton drawers, descending half-way to the knee, and a sleeveless jacket of the same material, worn open so that neck and breast were bare. The dogs barked at the prisoners, and repeated their examination by scent, ending by going well over Nic, who made no attempt to caress them, nor displayed any sign of fear, but sat in his place stolidly watching the proceedings, the dogs ending their nasal inspection by crouching down and watching him. The overseer was alone now, and his first proceeding was to take his stand by the black, who had set down the heavy basket, and call Humpy Dee to come forward, by the name of Number One. The man rose heavily, and this seemed to be a signal for the three hounds to spring to their feet again, making the man hesitate. "Them dogs bite, master?" he said. "Yes; they'll be at your throat in a moment if you make the slightest attempt to escape," said the overseer sharply. "Who's going to try to escape?" grumbled Humpy. "You are thinking of it, sir," said the overseer. "Mind this," he continued--drawing the light jacket he wore aside and tapping his belt, thus showing a brace of heavy pistols--"I am a good shot, and I could easily bring you down as you ran." "Who's going to run?" grumbled Humpy. "Man can't run with things like these on his legs." "I have seen men run pretty fast in fetters," said the overseer quietly; "but they did not run far. Come here." Humpy shuffled along two or three steps, trailing his irons behind him, and the overseer shouted at him: "Pick up the links by the middle ring, sir, and move smartly." He cracked his whip, and a thrill ran through Nic. Humpy did as he was told, and walked more quickly to where the overseer stood; but before he reached him the herculean black who stood by his basket, which looked like a coarsely-made imitation of the kind used by a carpenter for his tools, clapped a hand upon the prisoner's shoulder and stopped him short, making Humpy turn upon him savagely. "Ah!" roared the overseer, as if he were speaking to one of the dogs. Humpy was overawed, and he stood still, while the black bent down, took a ball of oakum out of the basket, cut off about a foot, passed the piece through the centre ring of the irons, and deftly tied it to the prisoner's waist-belt. Then, as Nic and Pete watched, the action going on fascinating them, the black made a sign to one of his companions, who dropped upon his knees by the basket, took out a hammer, and handed it to the first black. Then the kneeling man lifted out a small block of iron, which looked like a pyramid with the top flattened, clapped it on the floor, and the first black began to manipulate Humpy as a blacksmith would a horse he was about to shoe, dragging him to the little anvil with one hand, using the hammer-handle to poke him into position with the other. "Going to take off his irons," thought Pete, and the same idea flashed across Nic's mind. He was mistaken. Another black stepped up, as if fully aware of what was necessary, and stood behind Humpy, ready to hold him up when necessary; for the second black now seized one of the prisoner's ankles, lifted his foot on to the little anvil, and the first examined the rivet, grunted his dissatisfaction, and Humpy's foot was wrenched sidewise by one man, who held the rivet upon the anvil, while his leader struck it a few heavy blows to enlarge the head and make it perfectly safe. This done, Humpy was marched nearer the door, scowling savagely at having had to submit to this process; but he grinned his self-satisfaction as he saw his companions brought forward in turn for their irons to be examined--one to have them replaced by a fresh set, which were taken from the basket, and whose rings were tightly riveted about his ankles, the rivets of the old ones being quite loose. The men were ranged near the entrance, which, at a look from the overseer, was now guarded by the three unoccupied blacks. "Now you," said the overseer to Pete, who rose from where he sat alone and approached the anvil with a curious sensation running through him. "Why didn't they iron you?" said the overseer harshly. "Wounded and sick," replied Pete gruffly. "Ah, well, you are not wounded and sick now.--He's a big, strong fellow, Sam. Give him a heavy set." The big black showed his fine set of white teeth. A set of fetters was taken from the basket, and with Pete's foot held in position by the second black--a foot which twitched and prickled with a strong desire to kick--the first ring was quickly adjusted, a soft iron rivet passed through the two holes, and then the head was rested upon the little block of iron, and a few cleverly-delivered blows from the big black's hammer spread the soft iron out into a second head, and the open ring was drawn tight. The second ankle-ring was quickly served in the same way, and the centre link was lifted and tied to the prisoner's waist-belt, Pete turning scarlet, and wiping the perspiration from his dripping brow from time to time. "Over yonder with the others!" There was a movement among the men at the door as this order was given, and Pete winced; but even a man newly fettered can still feel pride, and the poor fellow determined that his old comrades should not think he was afraid of them. He walked boldly up to take his place, meeting Humpy's malignant look of triumph without shrinking, and turning quickly directly after with a feeling of pity as he heard the overseer summon Nic to take his place in turn. "Now's your time, my lad," Pete said to himself. "Speak out like a man, and if you ask me to, I'll back you up--I will." He looked on excitedly, wondering whether Nic's wits were still with him, as but so short a time ago they had only returned to him like a flash and then passed away, leaving him, as it were, in the dark. It was very still in the hot, close place, and every word spoken sounded strangely loud in the calm of the late afternoon. "Lighter irons," said the overseer to the big black; and there was the clinking sound of the great links as the man handed the fetters from the basket. "And him not shrinking," thought Pete. "Give me quite a turn. He can't understand." The big black took the fetters and balanced them in his hand, looking at his superior as much as to say, "Will these do?" The overseer took a step or two forward and grasped the chain, to stand holding it, gazing frowningly the while at Nic, who met his gaze without blenching. "Why don't you speak--why don't you speak?" muttered Pete. "Can't you see that now's your time?" "You've been bad, haven't you?" said the overseer roughly. Nic raised his hand slowly to his head and touched the scar of a great cut on one side, the discoloration of a bruise on the other. "But quite well again now?" Nic smiled faintly. "I am weak as a child," he replied. "Humph! Yes," said the overseer, and he threw the chain upon the floor. Pete, who had been retaining his breath for some moments, uttered a faint exclamation full of relief. "But why didn't he speak out and tell him?" For a few moments his better feelings urged him to speak out himself; but he shrank from exposing both to the denials of the other men again, and stood frowning and silent. Then the chance seemed to be gone, for the overseer gave the young prisoner a thrust towards the others, and Nic walked towards them straight for where Pete was waiting. Then he raised his eyes, saw who was standing in his way, and he went off to his right, to stop beside Humpy Dee, while a feeling of resentment rose hotly in Pete's breast. "Oh, very well," he muttered to himself; "it's no business of mine." The next minute the overseer gave a sharp order; the big black raised the basket and put himself at the head of the prisoners; the other slaves took their places on either side, and the overseer followed behind with the dogs, which began to bound about, barking loudly for a minute or two, and then walked quietly as the party left the gloomy warehouse behind. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. HUMPY DEE'S PLAN GOES "A-GLEY." It all seemed to Nic like part of some terrible dream, for a strange struggle was going on in his weakened brain, where reason seemed to come and go by pulsations. One minute everything appeared to be real, the next it was dream-like; and he was so convinced that in a short time he would wake up that he walked quietly on side by side with one of the negroes, taking notice of the place, which seemed to be a port, with the beginnings of a town dropped down in a scattered fashion a short distance from the mouth of a river. The houses were of timber, and to each there was a large, roughly fenced-in piece of cultivated ground, with some trees standing, while others had been cut down, leaving the blackened stumps in all directions. It was a strange mingling of shed, shipbuilding-yard, and store, for many of the erections and their surroundings wore all the aspect of barns. As the little party now tramped on, with the prisoners' fetters giving forth a dull, clanking sound, the aspect of the place grew more and more rustic, the people who stopped to stare fewer, till, as they reached a large boarded house, evidently nearly new, and against whose rough fence a farmer-like man, in a damaged straw hat, was leaning, gazing intently at the prisoners. All beyond seemed trees and wild growth, amidst which the river made a curve, and the trampled track looked more green. Nic looked half-wonderingly at the man leaning upon the fence, and felt that he was going to speak in commiseration of his plight; but the next moment his hopes were dashed, for the settler shouted: "How are you, Master Saunders? How's the Gaffer?" "All well," said the overseer, with a nod. "Seems a nice, tidy, strong-limbed lot you've got there, master." "Oh yes; pretty well." "Some of all sorts. That's an ugly one," continued the farmer, pointing to Humpy Dee, and mentally valuing him as if he were one in a herd of cattle. "But I daresay he can work." "He'll have to," said the overseer, and Nic saw that each black face wore a grin, while Humpy was scowling savagely. "Yes, I should like a lot such as that. 'Member me to the Gaffer. Tell him to look in if he comes to town." "Yes," thought Nic as they passed on; "it must be a dream, and I shall wake soon." It grew more and more dream-like to him as the track was followed among the trees till a rough landing-place was reached, formed by some huge stakes driven down into the mud, with heavy planks stretched over to them, and others laid across. The reddening sun was turning the gliding water to gold, as it ran up the river now, for the flood-tide was running fast; and as they drew nearer, Nic caught sight of what looked like the launch of some large vessel swinging by a rope fastened to an upright of the landing-stage. Just then one of the blacks uttered a peculiar, melodious cry, the great dogs bounded on to the stage and began to bark, and a couple of blacks, dressed like those about him, sprang up in the boat, where they had been lying asleep, and began to haul upon the now unfastened rope to draw the craft up to the stage. Nic's head was throbbing again, and the unreality and novelty of the scene increased. "I shall wake soon," he said to himself. "How strange it is!" For at that moment, as the boat came abreast, he saw one of the great dogs leap from the stage, run to the stern, and sit down, the others following and joining it behind the seat provided with a back rail. It seemed to be no new thing to the blacks, for the huge fellow who had acted as smith stepped down into the boat, followed by his assistant, walked aft, and deposited his bag with the dogs, and then stooped down and drew from under the side-seat a couple of muskets, one of which he handed to his assistant, both examining their priming, and then seating themselves one on either side of the boat, with their guns between their legs, watching the embarkation. "You next," said the overseer to Pete; and the prisoner walked to the edge, made as if to leap, but checked himself and climbed down, feeling that the other way would have been risky, weighted as his legs were by the shackles. "Help your young mate," said the overseer roughly; and Pete's eyes flashed as he stood up and held out his hand to Nic, who shrank from the contact as his wrist was caught. Then he descended feebly into the boat, and then had to be helped right forward, to sit down close to one of the blacks who was now holding on to the woodwork with a boat-hook. The other prisoners followed awkwardly enough in their irons, and took the places pointed out to them by one of the blacks who had been in charge of the boat. As the second of the party took his place next to Pete, he hung down his head and whispered: "Humpy says we're to make a dash for it and take the boat." Pete started; but the man, under the pretence of adjusting his irons, went on, with his head nearly in his comrade's lap: "T'others know. We shall push off into the stream, where he can't hit us with his pistols, and we can soon pitch the niggers overboard." "Silence, there!" shouted the overseer. The other men descended, and exchanged glances with their companions-- glances which Pete saw meant "Be ready!"--and his blood began to dance through his veins. Should he help, or shouldn't he? Yes; they were his fellows in adversity, and it was for liberty: he must--he would; and, with his heart beating hard, he prepared for the struggle, feeling that they must succeed, for a blow or two would send the men by them overboard, and a thrust drive the boat gliding swiftly up-stream, the man with the boat-hook having enough to do to hold on. "Young Nic Revel don't zeem to understand," thought Pete; "but he couldn't help us if he did." He had hardly thought this when, in obedience to an order from the overseer, the last man, Humpy Dee, tramped clumsily to the edge and seemed to hesitate, with the result that there was a sharp bark from one of the dogs right astern, and a chill ran through Pete's burning veins. "I forgot the dogs!" he said to himself. "Get down, fool!" cried the overseer, and he struck at the hesitating prisoner with the whip. It was all a feint on the part of Humpy to gain time and carry out his plan. He winced as the whip-lash caught him on his leg, and then, instead of descending slowly, leaped down right upon the black who held the boat to the stage by the hook. It was cleverly done, and acted as intended, for the black was driven over the side, and the prisoner's weight gave the boat the impetus required, sending it a little adrift into the stream, which began to bear it away, but not before the result of a little miscalculation had made itself evident. For Humpy Dee had not allowed for the weight and cumbersomeness of his fetters; neither had he given them credit for their hampering nature. He had leaped and suddenly thrust the black overboard, to hang clinging to the boat-hook; but he had been unable to check himself from following; and, as the boat yielded to his weight and thrust, he seemed to take a header over the bow, there was a tremendous splash, and the water was driven over those seated forward. The two blacks astern leaped up, and the overseer uttered a cry of rage; the water closed over Humpy Dee's head, while the dogs set up a chorus of baying as the boat glided steadily away. CHAPTER NINETEEN. "WHAT'LL MASSA SAY?" The scene taking place before him acted strangely upon Nic. It seemed to rouse him from his dreamy state, and awakened him to a wild pitch of excitement. He sprang to his feet, and was on the point of springing overboard to the man's help; but a touch from Pete upon the shoulder was enough: he sank down beneath its pressure, weak and helpless as a child. "What are you going to do?" whispered Pete. "Are you mad?" "Help! Save him! Can you stand like that and see the man drown before your eyes?" "What can I do, lad?" growled Pete angrily. "If I go over after him, it's to drown myself. These irons'll stop a man from zwimming, and take one to the bottom like a stone." "Ay, ay; ye can't do 'un," growled one of the other prisoners, in whom the desire for escaping died out on the instant. "Sit still, lad; sit still." But Pete stood with staring eyes, gazing wildly at the place where his enemy had disappeared; the veins in his forehead swelled, his lips parted, and he panted as he drew his breath, looking ready at any moment to leap overboard and make an effort to save his old companion's life. Meanwhile the overseer was shouting orders to his blacks ashore as well as to those in the boat, which was gliding faster up the stream, and the men laid down their guns and picked up and put out a couple of oars, the dogs barking frantically the while. "Pete Burge," whispered one of the men, "we must make friends now. Here's our chance; shall we take it?" "No, no," cried Pete furiously, but without taking his eyes from where Humpy had disappeared. "I cannot bear it," panted Nic to himself, as he once more sprang up; and before he could be stayed he dived out of the boat, rose, and struck out for the landing-stage. Pete shouted at him in his agony, and jumped overboard to save him, forgetting what was bound to happen, and going down like a stone, feet foremost, but rising to the surface again, to fight gallantly in spite of the weight of his irons, and strive to overtake Nic, who, unencumbered, was some yards away. But it proved to be as Pete had foreseen; there was the gallant will and the strength to obey it, but it was merely a spasmodic force which only endured a minute or two. Then the brave young swimmer's arms turned, as it were, to lead, the power to breast the strong current ceased, and he remained stationary for a moment or two, before being gradually borne backward, his efforts ceasing; while the men in the boat watched him and Pete, who, with the water quite to his nostrils, was swimming with all his strength, but only just able to keep the heavy fetters from dragging him to the bottom. "Two more on us going," said one of the men. "Here, Bob; come and help. You stop and grab 'em as soon as they're near." The man and the comrade he had addressed scrambled over the thwarts towards where the two blacks were rowing hard, but hardly holding the heavy boat against the powerful tide; and as soon as the fetters clanked, the dogs barked savagely and leaped up to meet them; but as the intelligent beasts saw the men seize a couple of oars and thrust them over the sides, they stopped short, panting. "All the better for you," growled one of the men to the dog glaring at him, "for I'd ha' choked you if you'd come at me.--Pull away, blackies." The additional oars had the right effect, for as the four men pulled with all their might the boat began to stem the current and shorten the distance between it and the two drowning men. But, in spite of his great strength, Pete was being mastered by the heavy weight of the irons, and was getting lower and lower in the water; while Nic's arms had ceased to move, and he was drifting with the tide. "Keep up; strike out, lads," cried the man in the bows, in agony. "We're coming fast now." It was not the truth, for the heavy boat was moving very slowly against the swift tide, and the swimmers' fate seemed to be sealed, as the man reached back, got hold of another oar, and thrust it out over the bows, ready for Pete to grasp as soon as he came within reach. "We shall be too late," groaned the man, with all his enmity against Pete forgotten in those wild moments of suspense. "Here, look out for the oar. Pete, lad, swim back. Oh! poor lad, he can't hear me. He's drownin'--he's drownin'." Pete could not hear, and if he had heard during his frantic efforts to reach Nic, he would not have heeded, for there was no room in the man's brain in those wild moments for more than that one thought--that he must save that poor, weak fellow's life. It takes long to describe, but in the real action all was condensed into less than a minute. Pete, who fought wildly, frantically, to keep his head above water, fought in vain, for his fettered legs were fast losing their power, and he was being drawn gradually lower and lower, till, after throwing his head back to gasp for a fresh breath, he straightened his neck again, with the water at his eyes, and saw that what he could not achieve the current had done for him. He made a wild, last effort, and caught with one hand at the arm just within reach; his fingers closed upon it with a grip of iron, and another hand caught desperately at his hair. Then the water closed over the pair, joined together in a death-grip, and the tide rolled them unresistingly up the stream. "Pull, pull!" yelled the man in the bows, as he reached out with his oar; but he could not touch the place where he saw the figures disappear. Quick as thought, though, and with the clever method of one accustomed to the management of a fishing-boat, the man changed his tactics. He laid the oar over the prow, treating the iron stem as a rowlock, and gave a couple of strokes with all his might, pulling the boat's head round, and bringing it well within reach of the spot where Nic's back rose and showed just beneath the surface. Then, leaving the oar, the man reached over, and was just in time to get a good hold, as the oar dropped from the bow into the river, and he was almost jerked out of the boat himself. "Hold hard, lads, and come and help," he yelled. The help came; and, with the dogs barking furiously and getting in every one's way, Nic and Pete, tightly embraced, were dragged over into the bottom of the boat, the blacks, as soon as this was done, standing shivering, and with a peculiar grey look about the lips. At that moment there was a distant hail from the landing-stage, and the big smith pulled himself together and hailed in reply. "Ah, look!" he cried; "you white fellow lose one oar. Quick, sharp! come and pull. Massa Saunders make trebble bobbery if we lose dat." The oars were seized, and with two of the prisoners helping to row, the oar was recovered from where it was floating away with the tide, the others trying what they could do to restore the couple, who lay apparently lifeless; while the dog which had behaved so strangely earlier in the day stood snuffing about Nic, ending by planting his great paws upon the poor fellow's chest, licking his face two or three times, and then throwing up his muzzle to utter a deep-toned, dismal howl, in which the others joined. "Say, um bofe dead," groaned the big smith. "Pull, boy; all pull you bess, and get back to the massa. Oh, lorimee! lorimee! what massa will say along wi' dat whip, all acause we drown two good men, and couldn't help it a bit. Oh, pull, pull, pull! Shub de boat along. What will massa say?" CHAPTER TWENTY. FISHING FOR MEN. Those with the boat had been too much occupied in their own adventure to heed what had taken place at the landing-stage; and, even had they glanced in that direction, the distance the swift tide had carried them up-stream would have made every movement indistinct. But busy moments had passed there, for the overseer was a man of action, and prompt to take measures toward saving the life of the drowning man. For a human life was valuable in those early days of the American colonies, especially the life of a strong, healthy slave who could work in the broiling sunshine to win the harvest of the rich, fertile soil. So, as the boat drifted away, he gave his orders sharply, and the black slaves, who had stood helplessly staring, rushed to the help of their companion, who was hanging by the boat-hook, half in the water, afraid to stir lest the iron should give way and the tide carry him off to where, as he well knew, there were dangers which made his lips turn grey with dread. The help came just as the poor fellow was ready to lose his hold and slip back into the river, and in another minute he was shivering on the stage. "Take hold of that boat-hook," cried the overseer, speaking with his eyes fixed upon one spot, where the water ran eddying and forming tiny whirlpools, and not daring to look round for fear of losing sight of the place where it seemed to him that his white slave had gone down like a stone; and this had kept him from giving much heed to the proceedings in the boat. One of the men seized the pole and waited for the next order. "He went down there," cried the overseer, pointing. "Sound with the pole, and try how deep it is." The man obeyed, the pole touching the muddy bottom about four feet below the surface. "That's right; jump in," cried Saunders. The man started, and then remained motionless, gazing piteously at his companions. "Do you hear? Quick!" roared the overseer. "There big 'gator, sah--'gator gar, sah," cried the man piteously. "Bah! In with you," cried the overseer fiercely, and he cracked his whip, with the result that the man lowered the pole again, and then half-slipped, half-jumped down into the water, which rose breast-high, and he had to hold on by the boat-hook to keep himself from being swept away. But the next moment he steadied himself. "There, wade out," cried Saunders; "quick, before it is too late. Quick, sir; do you hear?" He cracked his whip loudly as he spoke, and the man raised the pole after separating his legs to increase his support, as he leaned to his left to bear against the rushing tide, which threatened to sweep him from his feet. Then, reaching out, he thrust down the boat-hook again to get another support before taking a step farther from the staging. But it was in vain. The water deepened so suddenly that as he took the step the water rose to his nostrils, and he uttered a yell, for the current swept him from his feet to fall over sidewise, and the next moment lay, as it were, upon the surface, with only one side of his face visible; but he was not borne away. The other blacks, and even the overseer, stared in wonder, for there the man lay, with the tide rushing by him, anchored, as it were, in the stream, rising and falling gently like a buoy for a few moments before beginning to glide with the current. "It's of no use," said the overseer sharply; "the hound's dead before now. Clumsy fool! Two of you jump in, and one reach out to get hold of Xerxes; we must give the new fellow up." The men shrank, but they obeyed, lowering themselves into the water and joining hands, one of them taking hold of the end of the staging, while the other waded a step or two and reached out, as he clung to his fellow's extended hand till he was just able to get hold of the cotton jacket. That was sufficient; the black was drawn a trifle shoreward, and then came more and more, as if dragging with him whatever it was that had anchored him to the bottom. That mystery was soon explained, for the pole of the boat-hook, to which the poor fellow clung, appeared level with the surface, and as the drag was increased more and more of the pole appeared, till all three were close up to the piles; after which first one and then another climbed out to drag at the long stout staff, till, to the surprise of all, they found that what it was hitched into was the clothes of Humpy Dee, who had lain nearly where he had sunk, anchored by the weight of his irons, in some hole where the pressure of the current was not so great as at the surface. In another minute the heavy figure had been hauled upon the platform, to lie there apparently dead; while the blacks began, after their homely, clumsy fashion, to try and crush out any tiny spark of life which might remain, and kept on rolling the heavy body to and fro with all their might. "It's no good, boys," said the overseer, frowning down at the prisoner. "Keep on for a bit, though;" and he turned away to watch the coming of the boat, just as Pete sat up, looking dazed and strange, and Nic rose to his knees, and then painfully seated himself in his old place. "Better than I thought for," muttered the overseer. "One gone instead of three--pull, boys," he shouted. The blacks needed no telling, for they were exerting themselves to the utmost, and in a few minutes one of the blacks on the landing-stage caught the prow with the hook, and the boat was drawn alongside of the woodwork, the dogs having quietly settled themselves in their place behind the stern seat as soon as the two half-drowned men had shown signs of recovery. The overseer scanned the two dripping figures hard, uttered a grunt, and turned once more to where the blacks were busy still with the heavy figure of Humpy Dee, which they were rolling and rubbing unmercifully, with the water trickling between the boards, and the sunset light giving a peculiarly warm glow to the man's bronzed skin. "Well," cried the overseer, "is he quite dead?" "No, sah; am t'ink he quite 'livo," said one of the blacks. "Eh? What makes you think that?" "Him bit warm, massa--and just now him say _whuzz_, _whuzz_ when we rub um front." "No," said the overseer; "impossible. He was under the water too long. Here, what are you doing?" The black had laid his ear against the patient's breast, but he started up again. "Lissum; hear whever him dead, massa. You come, put your head down heah, and you hear um go _wob_, _wob_ berry soffly." Saunders bent down and laid his head against the man's bull-throat, to keep it there for a few moments. "No go _wob_, _wob_, sah?" cried the black. "You two and me gib um big shake. Um go den." "No, no; let him be," cried the overseer; and the blacks looked on in perfect silence till their tyrant rose slowly to his feet, scowling. "Clumsy brute," he said, "causing all this trouble and hindrance. Nearly drowned two men. There, two of you take him by his head and heels and drop him in." "Tie big 'tone to um head first, massa?" "What!" roared the overseer, so sharply that the black jumped to his feet. "What do you mean?" "Make um go to de bottom, sah, and neber come up no more." "Bah! you grinning black idiot. Didn't you tell me he was alive?" "Yes, sah; quite 'livo, sah." "Drop him in the boat, then, and hurry about it, or we shan't get up to the farm before the tide turns. There, four of you take him; and you below there, ease him down. Don't let him go overboard again, if you want to keep whole skins." The men seized the heavy figure by the hands and legs, and bearing it quite to the edge, lowered it down to the others, room being made at the bottom of the boat, where it was deposited with about as much ceremony as a sack of corn. Then, in obedience to another order, the blacks descended, and the overseer stepped down last, to seat himself with his back to the dogs; while the smith and his assistant once more took up their guns and their places as guards. Then the boat was pushed off. Four of the blacks seized the oars, the boat's head swung round, and the next minute, with but little effort, she was gliding rapidly up the muddy stream. It was dangerous work to begin talking, but as Nic sat there in silence, with his head growing clearer, and gazing compassionately at the prostrate figure, two of the prisoners put their heads together and began to whisper. "Close shave for old Humpy," said one. "Think he'll come round again?" "Dunno; but if he does, I'm not going to help in any more games about going off. This job has made me sick." "He won't want you to; this must have pretty well sickened him if he comes to." "Mind what you're saying. That there black image is trying to hear every word." "He can't understand. But I say, the gaffer didn't know how it happened, after all. Thought it was an accident." "So it was," said the other man, with a grim smile, "for old Humpy. Here, Pete, old man, how are you now?" Pete looked at the speaker in wonder, then nodded, and said quietly: "Bit stiff and achey about the back of the neck." "Mind shaking hands, mate?" said the man in a faint whisper. "What for?" said Pete sourly. "'Cause I like what you did, mate. It was acting like a man. But we're not friends over that other business of splitting on us about the salmon." "Better wait a bit, then, my lad," said Pete. "It aren't good to shake hands with a man like me." "But I say it is," said the other with emphasis. "The way you went overboard with them heavy irons on, to try and save young master here, sent my heart up in my mouth." Nic, who had sat listening moodily to the whispered conversation, suddenly looked up in a quick, eager way. "Say that again," he whispered huskily. "Say what agen?" "Did Pete Burge jump in to save my life?" "Course he did--like a man." "Oh!" gasped Nic, turning to look Pete wonderingly in the face. "Silence there!" roared the overseer savagely. "Do you think you've come out here for a holiday, you insolent dogs?" At the last words the three animals behind the speaker took it to themselves, and began to bark. "Down! Quiet!" roared the overseer, and the barking of the dogs and his loud command came echoing back from a wood of great overhanging trees, as the boat now passed a curve of the river. Nic glanced at the overseer, then to right and left of him, before letting his eyes drop on the swiftly-flowing river, to try and think out clearly the answers to a couple of questions which seemed to be buzzing in his brain: "Where are we going? How is this to end?" But there was no answer. All seemed black ahead as the rapidly-coming night. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. IN ALLIGATOR LAND. As the night grew darker, and Nic sat in the forepart of the boat in his drenched clothes, which at first felt pleasantly cool, and then by degrees grew colder until he shivered, his head grew clearer and he became more himself. He was able to grasp more fully his position and how hardly fate had dealt with him. It was clear enough now; he had been sent off in that terrible blunder as one of the salmon-poachers; and he was there, sold or hired to one of the colonists, to work upon a plantation until he could make his position known to some one in authority, and then all would be right. He felt that it would be of no use to appeal to this brutal slave-driver who had him and his fellow-unfortunates in charge. What he had to do was to wait patiently and make the best of things till then. His head was rapidly growing so clear now that he could piece the disconnected fragments of his experience together, few as they were, and broken up by his sufferings from the injuries he had received; and, as he sat there in the darkness, he became more calm, and rejoiced in the thought that he was growing stronger, and would, without doubt, soon be fully recovered and able to act. Till then he made up his mind to wait. When he had arrived at this point he began to think about his position in connection with the rough ne'er-do-wells who were his companions. He shivered involuntarily at the thought of being in such close touch with men of this class; but he softened a little as he dwelt upon the fact that, bad as he was, Pete Burge had behaved bravely, and that he had to thank him for twice-over saving his life. He might have said three times, but he was unaware of the patient attention he had received from the man during the feverish hours produced by his contusions and wound. But, still, there was a feeling of revulsion which made him shrink from contact with one whom he felt to be the cause of all his sufferings, and he hardened himself against the man more than against the others. Then, with a sigh of relief, he cast all thoughts of self away, after coming to the conclusion that, as soon as his father realised what had happened, he would never rest till the authorities had had him found and brought back, even if a ship was purposely despatched. For this thought was very comforting. He had only to wait, he felt, little thinking that the old Captain was lying in peril of his life from the genuine trouble which had come upon him, as he mourned over the loss of the son whom he believed to be dead, and for the recovery of whose body he had offered a heavy reward to the fishermen. For he said to Solly, "One of these days they will find him cast up on the shore." It was very dark; the cloudy sky seemed to be hanging low over the heads of those in the boat, as the men rowed on till the overseer made a change in his crew; the four blacks who had been rowing taking the places of those who had been guards and steersman, while the rowers took the muskets in turn. The fresh crew pulled steadily and well, and the boat glided on along the winding river, whose banks grew more and more wooded until they seemed to be going through a thick forest, whose closely-growing trees formed dense, high walls, above which there was a strip of dark, almost black, sky. Then another change was made, just when Nic was suffering from a fresh anxiety; for after he had proved to himself, by kneeling in the boat and touching him, that Humpy Dee was alive and regaining consciousness, his companions had suddenly grown very quiet, and the dread had assailed Nic that the man was dead, for he had been left to take his chance as far as the overseer was concerned; and when twice-over the prisoners had begun to trouble themselves about their comrade's state, Nic setting the example by kneeling down to raise Humpy's head, a stern command came from the stern of the boat, and this threat: "Look here, you fellows; if I hear any more talking or shuffling about there I shall fire." Nic felt that the man would act up to his threat; but after a time, when a groan came from Humpy, the whispering and movements recommenced in the efforts made to succour the sufferer. "I don't speak again," roared the overseer; and Nic started and shuddered, but felt fiercely indignant the next moment as he heard the ominous _click_! _click_! of a pistol-lock from out of the darkness astern. At last came the order for a fresh change of rowers, and four of the captives went climbing over the thwarts, with their irons clanking and striking against the seats as they took their places, all being men who had been accustomed to the handling of an oar. Nic took advantage of the noise to sink upon his knees beside Humpy in the bottom of the boat to try if he could not do something for him; he was no longer the hated, brutal ruffian, but a suffering fellow-creature. As Nic felt about in the dark he found that the man had somehow shifted his position and slightly rolled over, so that his face was partly in the water which had collected for want of baling; and doubtless, in his helpless, semi-insensible state, but for Nic's efforts, Humpy Dee's career would after all have been at an end. It was only a fresh instance of how strangely we are all dependent upon one another, and the way in which enemies perform deeds which they themselves would previously have looked upon as impossible. And without doubt big, brutal Humpy Dee would have stared in wonder, could he have opened his eyes in daylight, to see what took place in the pitch-darkness--to wit, the feeble, suffering young man, whom he had struck down and tried to drown in the Devon salmon-pool, kneeling in the wash-water, making a pillow of his knees for his companion's rough, coarse head. Still, for hours this was Nic's position, while the boat was rowed by the white slaves along the winding river, until another change was made, the blacks taking the oars, when Pete, being the first of the rowers to come back to his seat, found what had taken place, and insisted upon relieving Nic of his task. "On'y to think of it, zur," he said; "on'y to think o' your doing o' that, and you so bad!" Nic said nothing, but had to be helped back to his seat, the position he had occupied having cramped him; and then once more he sat gazing at the great black wall opposite to him as the blacks sent the boat along, till suddenly, about midnight, there was heard a deep bark from somewhere ashore. The three dogs, which had been curled up asleep, sprang to their feet and answered in chorus, when another chorus rose from the right and came nearer and nearer. Then the black wall on the same side dropped away, and amidst the baying of the great hounds the boat's speed was slackened, and it was turned into a narrow creek. Here the oars were laid in, and progress was continued for about a hundred yards by a couple of the blacks poling the boat along towards a light which suddenly appeared, the bearer hailing and coming alongside to begin talking to the overseer. It was dark enough still; but another lanthorn was brought, the prisoners were ordered to step out, and were then marched to a barn-like place, where, as they entered a door, Nic felt the soft rustling of Indian-corn leaves beneath his feet. "In with you, boys," cried the overseer; and the three dogs, and the others which had saluted them, scampered in. "Watch 'em, boys, and give it to them if they try to get away. There, lie down." The man held up the lanthorn he had taken as he spoke, and Nic saw that seven of the great hounds settled themselves in a heap of leaves close to the door, while quite a stack was close to where he was standing with his companions. "There's your bed, my lads," cried the overseer. "You heard what I said. Lie down, all of you, at once. There will be a sentry with a musket outside, and you can guess what his orders are." The man strode out; the door was banged to, there was the noise of a big bar being thrown across and the rattling of a padlock, followed by the clink of fetters as their wearers lay down in the heap of sweet-smelling corn-stalks and leaves; and for a few moments no one spoke. Nic had sunk down in the darkness, glad to be in a restful posture, and began to wonder whether Humpy Dee had been carried in by the blacks, for he had been one of the first to leave the boat, and had seen hardly anything by the light of the lanthorns. "Poor wretch!" he sighed. "I hope he is not dead." Just then one of the other men said, in the broad Devon burr: "Zay, lads, bean't they going to give uz zum'at to eat?" "Brakfus-time," said another. "Zay, Humpy, how is it with ye? Not thuzty, are you? Oughtn't to be, after all that water." "I'm going to make zumun pay for all this," came in the man's familiar growl. "Why didn't you get hold o' me and pull me in? Zet o' vools. Had your chance; and we might ha' got away." "Why, it was all your fault," said another. "We was waitin' for you. What did you go and stop zo long under water for?" "Did I?" said Humpy confusedly. "Course you did. We was too good mates to go and leave you behind." There was a heavy bang at the door, as if from the butt of a musket, and the dogs leaped up and began to growl. "Lie down, boys," cried a thick voice, the words sounding as if spoken through a big keyhole. "An' I say, you chaps, look heah; de massa say you make a row in dah I got to shoot." "All right, blackie," said one of the prisoners; "don't shoot. Good-night, boys. I'm going to sleep." Just at that moment Nic started, for there was a snuffling noise close to him, the leaves rustled, and he felt the hot breath of one of the dogs on his face. But it was a friendly visit, for the great brute turned round two or three times to trample down the dense bed of leaves, and settled itself into a comfortable curve, with its big head upon the poor fellow's chest, making Nic wonder whether it was the dog which had been friendly before. He risked it: raising his hand, he laid it gently between the animal's soft ears, and there was a low muttering sound that was a big sigh of satisfaction, not a growl; and Nic felt as if the companionship of the dog was pleasant in his terrible loneliness and despair. It was warm and soothing, too, and seemed like the beginning of something hopeful-- he knew not what. Then he began to think of home, and a sensation of prayerful thankfulness came over him as he felt that his head was growing clearer. The next minute all trouble, pain, and weariness were forgotten in a deep and dreamless sleep. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. REACHING THE PLANTATION. A deep growl and a loud burst of barking roused Nic Revel from his deep sleep, free from fever, calm and refreshed, to lie listening to the dogs, wondering what it all meant. The sun was up, and horizontal rays were streaming in between ill-fitting boards and holes from which knots had fallen consequent upon the shrinking of the wood. There was a feeling of cool freshness in the air, too, that was exhilarating; but for a few moments Nic could not make out where he was. Then the slight confusion passed away, as he heard the rustling of leaves, and turned to see his companions stirring and yawning, while at the same moment a dog's great head was butted at him as if its owner were a playful sheep, and it then drew back, swinging its tail slowly from side to side. The next minute the heavy bar was swung down, the great padlock rattled, and the door was drawn open, to let in a flood of light, followed by the two blacks who had fitted on the irons, but who now bore a huge loaf of bread and a pitcher of water; while two more blacks, each shouldering a musket, closed in behind them, to stand as if framed in the doorway. "Heah, jump up," cried the big smith. "Make has'e; eat your brakfas' 'fore you go to de boat." As he spoke he turned an empty barrel with its head upward, banged the loaf down upon it, drew a knife from its sheath in his belt, and counted the prisoners over with the point of the blade. He then drew a few imaginary lines upon the top of the loaf, paused to rub his woolly head with the haft, looking puzzled and as if cutting the loaf into as many pieces as there were prisoners bothered him, and ended by making a dash at his task. He cut the loaf in half, then divided it into quarters, and went on working hard as he made these eighths, and finally sixteenths. By this time the top of the barrel was covered. "Now, den, 'tan' in a row," he cried importantly. The men scowled, but they were hungry, and obeyed, the black sticking the point of his knife into the chunks he had cut, and handing a piece to each in turn, beginning with Humpy Dee, who did not seem any the worse for his immersion, and ending with Nic. After this he began again with Humpy, went down the line again, and had begun for the third time when it suddenly struck him that there would not be enough to go round, and he snatched the piece back. Humpy Dee uttered a furious growl, and made a step forward to recover it; but the big black presented the point of the knife at him and shouted: "Ah, what dat? You back, sah, 'fore set de dog at you." Humpy growled like one of the beasts, and resumed his place in the line, and the black went on calmly dividing the remaining pieces, distributed them, and called up the dogs to catch what remained. The water was then passed round, the blacks went off leaving the sentries in position, and the prisoners sat amongst the Indian-corn leaves, to eat their breakfast ravenously enough. Before they had finished, the barking of the dogs announced the coming of the overseer, who came in, whip in hand, to run his eye over his prisoners, nodding his satisfaction as he saw that he was not going back minus any of them, and went out again. Then, as Nic sat eating the remainder of his bread, the entry was darkened a little, and he saw a couple of women peer in--one a middle-aged, comely body, the other a young girl. There was a pitying expression upon their faces; and, obeying a sudden impulse, Nic stood up to go to speak to them, for it seemed to him that his chance had come. But at his first movement Humpy Dee leaped up, with his fetters clinking, to intercept him, a sour look upon his face, and the frightened women ran away. "No, you don't," growled Humpy; "not if I knows it, m'lad." "You, sah--you go back and eat your brakfas', sah," came from the door; and Humpy turned sharply, to see that their guards were standing, each with his musket steadied against a doorpost, taking aim at him and Nic. "Yah, you old pot and kettle," cried Humpy scornfully; "you couldn't hit a haystack;" but he went back to his place and sat down, Nic giving up with a sigh and following his example. Half-an-hour after the overseer was back with the dogs, the order was given, and the prisoners marched out, to find the blacks waiting. Nic saw now that there was a roomy log-house, fenced round with a patch of garden; and in a group by the rough pine-wood porch a burly-looking man was standing with the two women; and half-a-dozen black slaves were at the far end of the place, each shouldering a big clumsy hoe, and watching, evidently with the greatest interest, the prisoners on their way to the boat. In his hasty glance round, Nic could see that the farm was newly won from the wilderness, and encumbered with the stumps of the great trees which had been felled, some to be used as logs, others to be cut up into planks; but the place had a rough beauty of its own, while the wistful glances that fell upon him from the occupants of the porch sent a thrill through his breast, and raised a hope that if ever he came that way he might find help. But his heart sank again as his eyes wandered to the black labourers, and then to a couple of huge dogs similar to those which followed behind with the overseer; for he knew that he was among slave-owners, and in his despondency he could not help asking himself what chance he would have, an escaped prisoner, if he tried to get away. He had little time for thought, but he took in the surroundings of the place quickly, noting that the house and out-buildings stood well raised upon a mound, round one side of which the creek they had turned into ran; while through the trees some little distance away there was the river, and across it the forest, rising from the farther bank, not black and forbidding now, but beautiful in the early morning sunshine. The overseer shouted a hearty good-bye to the people by the porch, and there was a friendly reply, as they marched on to where the boat lay fastened to a stump; the dogs sprang in to retake their places, barking their farewell to the others which trotted down to look on; a big basket of provisions was next put on board by the smith and his assistant, and then the prisoners were sent forward to their old places, Pete glancing once at Nic, whose eyes were wandering here and there; but Nic avoided the glance. "Now you, sir," cried the overseer; "don't stand staring about. In with you." Nic obeyed as soon as there was room, and the overseer took his place astern. A minute later they were being poled along the creek, which was here and there overarched by the spreading boughs of the trees, and soon after they were out in the main stream, with the blacks rowing steadily in water which seemed to be very slack; the little settlement was seen as a bright spot for a few minutes, and then disappeared behind the trees, which began upon the left bank, and became once more a great green wall to shut out everything else. And then hour after hour the boat was rowed onward, the river winding far less than on the previous evening, and seeming to form a highroad into the interior, upon which they were the only travellers. It varied little in its width at first, but towards afternoon Nic noted that it was beginning to narrow considerably; but it ran always through forest. As thoughts of escape would intrude, and the poor fellow scanned the banks, he quickly grasped the fact that if an attempt were made it must be by the river, for the forest on either side seemed to be impassable, and how far it ran inland was impossible to say. A change was made every hour or so, the prisoners taking their turn with the oars; and before the morning was far advanced the overseer ordered Nic into one of the places, watching him intently as he obeyed and fell into stroke at once, rowing hard for a few minutes in the hot sunshine without a murmur. Then all at once the trees on the bank began to sail round, the oar slipped from his hand, and he fell backward into Pete's arms. When he opened his eyes again he was sitting forward in the bottom of the boat, with one of the blacks supporting him and splashing water from over the side in his face, while the overseer stood looking down grimly. "You needn't take another turn," he said gruffly; "I wanted to see whether you could do your share." The rest of the day Nic sat watching their progress, a good deal of it through the gloomy shades of a great swamp, through which the river ran at times almost in twilight, the faint current being marked by the difference in colour and the freedom from the vegetation which marked the waters of the great lagoon spreading away to right and left among the trees, which grew and fell and rotted as far as eye could penetrate. The vegetation, was rich, but it seemed to be that of a dying forest which had been inundated by the stream, for bank there was none. Huge cypresses stood out at every angle, many having fallen as far as they could, but only to be supported by their fellows. And as the boat went swiftly on in obedience to the sturdily-tugged oars, Nic forgot his troubles in wonder at the strangeness of the scene through which he passed, for it was dreary, horrible, and beautiful all in one. Rotting vegetation supplied the rich, muddy soil from which rose vine and creeper to climb far on high, and then, finding no further support, throw themselves into the air, to hang and swing where the bright sunshine penetrated. Wherever it was shadowy the trees were draped with hanging curtains of moss; while all around Nic looked down vistas of light and shade, whose atmosphere was now golden, now of a score of different delicious greens. There was something so new and strange about the swamp that it had a fascination for Nic, and he was leaning over the bows, resting his chin upon his hand, when he had his first glance at one of its inhabitants; for, as the boat was being steered past a moss-covered, rotting stump, the gnarled wood suddenly seemed to become animated, a portion of it rising a little and then gliding away with a heavy splash into the water. Before he could realise what it was, there was another movement just beyond, and this time he made out plainly enough the gaping mouth, prominent eyes, and rugged back of a great alligator, followed by its waving tail, as it dived down from a cluster of tree-roots out of sight. After this the reptiles became common enough, for the swamp swarmed with them, and Nic realised that it might be a strangely-perilous task to make his way through the forest unless provided with a boat. The men whispered to themselves as the reptiles scuttled about in their eagerness to escape, and shook their heads; and as Nic turned from observing them to gaze aft he became conscious of the fact that the overseer was watching them with a grim smile upon his lips, reading their thoughts respecting the dangers of an attempt to escape. The dogs were evidently familiar with the sight of the reptiles, rarely paying any heed to them save when the boat approached quietly and aroused a sleeper, which in its surprise raised its great jaws menacingly, when one of the dogs would set up the hair about its neck, growl, and make a savage snap at the reptile; and after a while the prisoners grew in turn accustomed to the loathsome-looking creatures. "But we might seize the boat," thought Nic, "in the case of no help coming;" and he sat there more and more grasping the fact that after all he might be forced to depend upon the aid and companionship of those around him, and be compelled to master the dislike and repulsion which they inspired. Another stoppage at a woodland farm for the night, and then on again for a fresh day's toil as monotonous as the last. At the different changes made, the rowers left their oars dripping with perspiration, for the swamp seemed breathless and the heat intense; but towards evening a faint breeze sprang up, and instead of its growing darker there was a lightening in the appearance of the place; the setting sun sent a red glow among the trees, and then they passed out of the forest into a lovely, dreamy, open country, stretching for miles and miles towards where a range of hills ran right across their course, beyond which, pale orange by the fading light, another range of greater height appeared. Soon after they passed the mouth of a clear stream, and at the end of another mile the boat was turned suddenly off to their right into a little river of the clearest water, which ran meandering through a lightly-wooded slope rising towards the hills; and as Nic was gazing at the fairy-like scene, whose atmospheric effects seemed, even in his despondent state, far more beautiful than anything he had ever seen at home, the boat swept round a curve whose banks were thickly set with trees, and once more there was a human habitation in sight, in the shape of a well-built, farm-like house upon a knoll, and the agitation amongst the dogs warned the prisoners that here was their resting-place for the night. The next minute, as the dogs were barking, the boat was steered close inshore, and the brutes bounded over into the shallow water, to scramble up the bank, and set off as fast as they could go towards the house, from which figures could be seen issuing; and at last, as Nic scanned the signs of cultivation around, the growing crops roughly fenced, and the out-buildings, the thought struck him that this might be their destination. While he was wondering whether this were so, the boat was run into a little creek only big enough to let it pass for about a couple of hundred yards before it grounded where a track came down to some posts; and as the boat was secured to one of these the overseer sprang ashore to meet a tall, sun-browned, grey-haired man, whose keen eyes were directed towards the bows of the boat. "Back again, then, Saunders!" he said sharply. "Well, what sort of a lot do they seem?" "Rough, but strong," replied the overseer; "all but one young fellow who has been knocked about, but he seems as if he'll soon come round." "Like so many horses or bullocks," said Nic to himself bitterly, "and I am the one with broken knees." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. NIC'S APPEAL. "This, then, is my owner," thought Nic, scanning the settler narrowly as he stood apart talking in a quick, decisive manner to the overseer, who seemed to treat him with great respect, while the blacks stood apart waiting for their orders. These were not long in coming, for the man turned sharply upon them. "Clear the boat," he said; and the blacks ran to the bows, a couple of them holding the vessel steady while the prisoners stepped clanking out, to stand in a row on the bank, with their new master scanning them sharply. "Here, Saunders," he said, "why is that boy not in irons?" "That is the sick one, sir. Weak as a rat." "Oh!--Here, what's the matter with you, boy?" cried the settler. "No disease, have you?" "No, sir," said Nic, speaking out firmly, for his time seemed to have come. "I was beaten about the head, and received a wound from a cutlass on the night these men were seized during an outrage, and--" "That will do. I don't want a sermon," said the settler brutally. "Nor I to preach one, sir; but I was seized with these men by mistake." "Ah, yes," said the settler, frowning; "some bad mistakes of this sort are made. That will do." "But I appeal to you, sir. I was hurried on board a ship while stunned, and I only recovered my senses when I reached this place." "Then you were a long time without them, my lad; but you are wrong." "I do not understand you, sir." "Well, I'll tell you," said the settler, sharply. "You lost your senses before you got into trouble." "I was only defending my father's property, sir," cried Nic passionately. "I am a gentleman--a gentleman's son." "Yes, we get a good many over here in the plantation, my lad; they are the biggest scamps sent over to rid the old country of a nuisance; but we do them good with some honest work and make decent men of them." "But I assure you, sir, I am speaking the truth. I appeal to you, men. Tell this gentleman I was not one of your party." "Hor, hor," roared Humpy, derisively. "What a sneak you are, Nic Revel. Take your dose like we do--like a man." "I appeal to you, Pete Burge. Tell this gentleman that I was brought out here by mistake." "Yes, it was all a mistake, master," cried the man. Humpy roared with laughter again. "Don't you believe him, master," he cried; "that there Pete Burge is the biggest liar we have in our parts. He'd say anything." "Men, men!" cried Nic, wildly, to the others; "speak the truth, for Heaven's sake." "Course we will," cried Humpy quickly. "It's all right, master. Don't you show more favour to one than another. We was all took together after a bit o' poaching and a fight. Youngster there got a crack on the head which knocked him silly, and he's hatched up this here cockamaroo story in his fright at being sent out. Do him good--do all on us good, and we're all glad to ha' got with such a good master; aren't we, lads?" "That will do," said the settler. "You have got too much grease on your tongue, my man." "But, sir," cried Nic. "Silence!" "You will let me write to my friends?" "We don't want you to write to us, mate," cried Humpy grinning; "we can't none on us read. You can tell us what you want to say." "Silence, you, sir," said the settler, sternly; "I keep a cat here, and that man who saw to your irons knows how to use it. Hold your tongue, once for all." "Oh, all right master; I on'y--" "Silence!" Humpy gave his mouth a slap, as if to shut it, and the settler turned to Nic. "Look here, young man," he said; "I have only your word for your story, and it seems likely enough to be as your fellow-prisoner says, something hatched up from fear. You are sent out here for your good." "You don't believe me, sir?" cried Nic, wildly. "Not a word of it," replied the settler. "We get too much of that sort of thing out here. Every man, according to his own account, is as innocent as a lamb. You were sent out of your country, and came in a king's ship. You are assigned to me for a labourer, and if you--and all of you," he cried, turning to the others, "behave well, and work well, you'll find me a good master. You shall be well fed, have decent quarters and clothes, and though you are slaves I won't make slaves of you, but treat you as well as I do my blacks. Look at them; they're as healthy a set of men as you can see." The blacks grinned and seemed contented enough. "That's one side of the case--my part," continued the settler; "now for the other. I've had a deal of experience with such men as you are, and I know how to treat them. If you play any pranks with me, there's the lash. If you attack me I'll shoot you down as I would a panther. If you try to escape: out north there are the mountains where you'll starve; out south and east there is the swamp, where the 'gators will pull you down and eat you, if you are not drowned or stifled in the mud; if you take to the open country those bloodhounds will run you to earth in no time. Do you hear?" he said meaningly, "run you to earth; for when they have done there'll be nothing to do but for some of my blacks to make a hole for you and cover you up. Now, then, you know what's open to you. Your country has cast you out; but we want labour here; and, rough and bad as you are, we take you and make better men of you." "Thank ye, master," cried Humpy; "that's fair enough, mates." The settler gave him a look which made the man lower his eyes. "Now then," said the settler, "I am going to begin, and begin fairly with you.--Samson." "Yes, massa," cried the big black. "Take off their irons.--And if you all behave yourselves you'll never have to wear them again." The basket was at hand; the assistant brought out the little anvil, and the task of filing and then drawing out the rivets began, with the dogs looking on. "As for you, my lad," said the settler, "I can see you look weak and ill; you can take it easy for a few days till you get up your strength." "But you will make some inquiries, sir?" pleaded Nic. "Not one, boy. I know enough. I take the word of the king's people; so say no more." He turned his back upon his white slave, and it was as if the old confusion of intellect had suddenly come back: Nic's brain swam, black specks danced before his eyes, and he staggered and would have fallen but for Pete Burge's arm, as the man caught him and whispered: "Hold up, Master Nic; never say die!" CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. PETE'S APPEAL. "Aren't you a bit hard on me, Master Nic?" said Pete, busy at his task in the plantation of hoeing the weeds, which seemed to take root and begin to grow again directly they were cut down. He did not look up, but spoke with his head bent over his work, conscious as he was that they might be keenly watched. "I have said nothing harsh to you," said Nic coldly. "No, zir; but I thought that when you got a bit better, zeeing as we're both in the zame trouble, working together like them niggers, you might ha' got a bit more friendly." "Friendly!" said Nic bitterly. "I don't mean reg'lar friendly, but ready to say a word to a man now and then, seeing how he wants to help you." "You can't help me," said Nic sadly. "I seem to be tied down to this weary life for always, and for no fault of mine--no fault of mine." "And it's no fault o' mine, Master Nic. You don't believe it, but I couldn't help coming that night; and I did try all I could to keep Humpy Dee from hurtin' you." "Don't talk about it, please." "No, zur, I won't; but you're hot and tired. You haven't got your strength up yet, though you are a zight better. Wish I could do all the work for you. Here, I know." They were hoeing a couple of rows of corn, and Pete was some feet ahead of his companion, who looked at him wonderingly, as, after a quick glance round, he stepped across and back to where Nic was toiling. "Quick," he said, "you get on to my row and keep moving your hoe and resting till I ketch up." "But--" began Nic. "Quick," growled Pete fiercely; and he gave the lagger a sharp thrust with his elbow. "If they zee us talking and moving, old Zaunders'll come across." That meant a fierce bullying, as Nic knew, and he hesitated no longer, but stepped into Pete's row. "I don't like this; it is too full of deceit," said Nic. "You will be blamed for not doing more work." "Nay; I shan't," replied Pete, "because I shall work harder. We're a-going to do it this way; they won't notice it, and if I keep pulling you up a bit level with me it'll make your work easier." "But I have no right to let you." "'Taren't nought to do wi' you; it's for the zake of the old country. When you get stronger and more used to the hoeing you'll do more than I can, p'raps, and help me." For the prisoners had been compelled to settle down at the plantation; and men who had never been used to regular hard toil, but had lived by fishing and salmon-spearing, and any odd task which offered, now slaved away among the sugar-canes or the Indian-corn, the rice cultivation being allotted to the blacks. The settler had kept his word as to the behaviour to his white servants, treating them with what he considered stern justice; but every effort Nic had made to obtain a hearing failed, the last producing threats which roused the young man's pride, and determined him to fight out the cruel battle as fate seemed to have ordained. Three months had passed since the boat reached the place that night, and there had been little to chronicle, for the prisoners' life had been most monotonous, embraced as it was in rising early, toiling in the plantation in the hot sunshine all the day, with the regular halts for meals, and the barn-like shed at night, with the men's roughly-made bunks, a blanket, and a bag of husks of Indian-corn. The life suited Nic, though, for after the first fortnight he rapidly began to gain strength, and soon after he was sent out with the rest of the men. There had been no open trouble; the prisoners shared the same building, and their meals were served out to them together; but there was a complete division between them which was kept up whenever possible; and one day out in the field Pete began about it to Nic, who took no heed of either party. "Zee Humpy Dee look at me, Master Nic?" said Pete. "Yes." "Know why, don't you?" "No." "You do: I telled you. He zays, as you heered, that I set the zailors on 'em to get 'em brought out here." Nic said nothing. "He means to kill me one o' these days. He'll hit me on the head, or pitch me into the river, or zomething; and the others won't interfere." Nic looked up at the speaker quickly. "Comes hard on me," continued Pete. "I never done nothing, and they keeps me off, and don't speak; and you don't, Master Nic, zo I zeem all alone like. It makes me feel zometimes as if I must make mates o' the blacks, but I s'pose they wouldn't care for me. Wish I'd got drowned." Nic raised his head to look in the man's face; but the old trouble rankled in his breast. His heart would not go out to him, fellow-sufferers though they were. It was so several times over, Pete trying hard to show what goodwill he could under their painful circumstances; but it was not until that day out in the corn-rows, when Pete helped him with his work at a time when the heat was trying his barely-recovered strength, that Nic felt that perhaps there was some truth in the man's story. At any rate, he was showing himself repentant if guilty, and the prisoner recalled how Pete had nursed him and without doubt had saved his life. Pete went on hoeing till he had worked level with Nic, and then he worked harder to get as far ahead as he could before slipping back to his own row, for Nic to return to his with once more a good start, and a feeling of gratitude for his companion's kindness, which softened his voice next time he spoke, and delighted Pete, who began talking at once. "Know where they keep the boat, Master Nic?" he said, as they worked away. "No. Do you?" A few hours earlier Nic would have said, "No," and nothing more. "Think I do," said Pete, brightening up. "I mean to get it out of the niggers zomehow. We never zee it go after they've been out in it. They tie it up at night, and next morning it's always gone." "Yes," said Nic; "I have noticed that." "It's that Zamson and old Xerxes who take it away zomewhere in the night, and walk or zwim back." "Very likely, Pete." "Yes, Master Nic; that's it; but keep on hoeing. I've laid awake nights thinking about it, for we must have that boat. I don't mean Humpy Dee and his lot when I zay `we,' because you will go off wi' me if I zee a chance?" "I--I think not, Pete." "Master Nic!" "Well, yes, then; I will." "Hab, my lad; you zeem to ha' put life into a man. There's zummat to live for now. I've thought and thought till I've felt zick; but that's the on'y way. I could risk running for it; but there's the dogs--the dogs--Pst! look out!" The warning was needed, for there were steps coming in their direction, and directly after the overseer strode up. "I thought so," he said; "I've had my eye on you--you scoundrel! Every now and then your hoe has stopped, and I could tell from your manner that you were talking, and wasting your time. Here are you a good six feet behind this weak young fellow. Get on, and catch up to him." Nic felt stunned, and he turned to speak and exculpate his fellow-slave; but there was such an agonised, imploring look in Pete's eyes that he was silent, and felt compelled to join in the little deception. "Yes," said the overseer, "a good six feet behind you, my lad, when it ought to be the other way on. Get on, you, sir, get on." "Yes, zur; zoon pull up, zur." "Zur and zoon!" cried the overseer. "Bah! what a savage burr you have." He went on, followed by one of the two dogs which accompanied him, the other hanging back to look up at Nic with its tail wagging slowly, till its absence was noticed and a shrill whistle rang out, which fetched it along with a rush, doubtless caused by recollections of the whip. "Oh, Pete!" whispered Nic reproachfully. "It's all right, lad," said the man, laughing merrily. "What a game it was. I didn't mind a bit." "I did." "Then don't, Master Nic, zur. I can't have you wear yourself out. We've got to 'scape, my lad, and the boat's the thing; but if you could get t'other two dogs as friendly as that one, we'd make for the woods. But anyhow, you've got to grow as strong as me; we can't do nothing without. Master Nic--" "Yes." "If it was the last words I'd got to zay, I did fight for you that night, and it waren't my fault you was took." "I begin to believe it now, Pete," was the reply. "Do, zur: do try hard. I aren't a bragger, Master Nic, but it's just truth what I zay. I want to get you back again to the old country; and I can't think o' nought else night or day. If I can get you off, and come with you, o' course I should like; but if I can't, and I can get you off--there, I'll lie down and die to do it, lad. But look here, we must only trust ourselves. If the other lot, who are making some plan of their own, knew it, they'd tell upon us and spoil us. Master Nic, can't you believe in me!" Nic was silent for a few moments as he turned to look in the man's eyes. "Yes," he said at last; "I do believe in you." "And you'll trust me, zur?" Again there was a momentary hesitation before Nic answered, "Yes." "Hoe, Master Nic, hoe," whispered Pete excitedly; "he's been watching us, and he's sent the dogs at us for not being at work." As proof thereof the two fierce-looking brutes came rushing down one of the rows, open-mouthed, and Pete raised his hoe as if to strike. "Me first, Master Nic," panted Pete. "I aren't afeared. Let him do what he likes after; I'll kill one or both on 'em before they shall touch you." At that moment there was a savage growling from the dogs not thirty yards away, and they came rushing at the poor fellows as hard as they could tear. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. A LURKING PERIL. In obedience to the order which had despatched them, the two well-trained bloodhounds of the overseer tore on till they were about to bound upon the prisoners, when a sharp, shrill whistle arrested their rush on the instant, and they stopped, growling fiercely, their white teeth menacing, and their eyes red, as with a smouldering fire. The next moment a different note was blown from a distance, a shrill, chirruping note which made the dogs turn and bark. Then one of them set off at a steady trot, while the other, as if its duty were done, approached Nic in the most friendly way, with its tail waving from side to side. The whistle chirruped again, and the dog gave vent to a sharp bark, as much as to say, "All right, I'm coming--" and bounded after its companion. "Well, we're out of that job, Master Nic. I did wonder at that dog coming at you zo fierce." "Set at me, Pete," said Nic quietly, "and education was stronger than nature. Keep on working now, and pray let me do my hoeing myself." Pete grunted, and was silent, as he chopped away with his hoe till a horn was blown up at the house, when the tools were shouldered, and, hot and weary, the two companions trudged back to their barrack, to partake of their evening meal together, Humpy Dee and his party sitting quite aloof, for the feud was stronger than ever. From that day a change seemed to have come over Nic. It was partly due to the feeling of returning health, but as much to his growing belief in Pete's sincerity, and to the conviction that under the fellow's rough shell there was an earnest desire to serve him and help him to escape from his terrible position. The despondency to which he had given way seemed cowardly now, and as the days rolled on he worked as one works who is determined to make the best of his position. All the same, though, he joined heart and soul with Pete in the plans made for getting away. Drawn closer together as they were now, the subject was more and more discussed, and in the long talks they had in whispers of a night, they could not help dwelling on the difficulties they would have to encounter even if they did manage to escape. "But we will, Master Nic; you zee if we don't. They both talk about shooting us, and that zets me up. I don't want to hurt anybody; but when a man zays he's going to fire at me as if I was a wild beast, I don't feel to mind what I do to him. Don't you be downhearted; we shall do it yet." "But," said Nic, "it is the getting taken in a ship if we manage to find our way to the coast." "If we find our way? We've on'y to get that boat. The river will show us the way down to the zea; and as to getting away then, all we've got to do is to try and find a ship that wants men." "They will not take us, Pete; we shall be looked upon as criminals." "Not if the skipper wants men," said Pete, laughing softly. "Long as a man can work hard, and is strong, and behaves himself, he won't ask any questions." The time went on, and there seemed to be no likelihood of any captain asking questions; for in spite of keeping a sharp watch, neither Nic nor Pete could obtain the information they wanted. The boat seemed to disappear in the most mysterious way after being used by the settler or his overseer, and Nic grew more and more puzzled, and said so to his companion. "Yes, it gets over me zometimes, Master," said Pete; "but one has no chance. You see, there's always people watching you. It aren't as if it were on'y the masters and the dogs, and the niggers who are ready to do anything to please old Zaunders; there's old Humpy Dee and the others. Humpy's always on the lookout to do me a bad turn; and he hates you just as much. He's always thinking we're going to get away, and he means to stop it." "And this all means," said Nic, with a sigh, "that we must be content to stay as we are." "Don't mean nothing o' the kind," said Pete shortly. "It's a nice enough place, and there's nothing I should like better than staying here a bit, if we could go about the river and swamp and woods, fishing and shooting, and hunting or trapping; but one gets too much zun on one's back, and when it's always chopping weeds with a hoe, and the weeds grow faster than you can chop, one gets tired of it. Pretty country, Master Nic; most as good as home, only zun is a bit too warm." Nic sighed. "That's 'cause you wants to write letters and get 'em sent, Master Nic, I know; but don't you worry 'bout that. You can't send letters here like you do at home, so it aren't no use to worry about what you can't do. Worry 'bout finding the boat, dear lad; that's better than letters." "I have worried about it," said Nic, "but it is of no use till we get a chance to go and wander about to try and discover where it is kept." "And that the skipper and old Zaunders won't let us do, you zee," said Pete quietly. "They're a wicked pair, both on 'em. Might let us loose a bit on Zundays; but not they. Zunday and week-days all the zame. They've got us, and they mean to have their penn'orth out on us. Never thought as I should have all my strength turned into sugar for some one else to eat. There, work away; old Humpy's watching us, and he'll go and tell the skipper we're hatching eggs." Nic smiled, for his companion's good temper and patience were contagious, but he could not repress a sigh from time to time as he thought of home; and the beauty of the country, the waving fields of tasselled Indian-corn or beautiful sugar-cane, with the silver river beyond, the glorious slopes leading up to the distant blue mountains, and the gloomy, green, mysterious attraction of the swampy forest enhancing its attractions to an explorer, did not compensate for the absence of liberty, though Nic was fain to confess that the plantation would have been a glorious place for a few months' visit. The blacks were not friendly, as Nic soon found; but he attributed it to the stern orders they had received; but now and then one or another made a little advance, by offering, on the sly, fish or flesh in the shape of bird or 'possum which he had caught or trapped during the moonlight nights. For Saunders seemed to pay no heed to the black slaves slipping away of a night on some excursion. "'Nuff to make a man wish for a kettle o' tar, or a pot o' black paint," said Pete one day. "What for, sir? Just to put on a coat of it, and change the colour of one's skin. They'd treat us better than they do. Makes me wish I was a nigger for a bit, so long as I could wash white when I got away." "Master Nic," said Pete one night when they were alone in their bunks, "I aren't going to share that bit o' 'possum." "What bit of 'possum?" asked Nic, as he lay listening to the low murmur arising from where Humpy Dee was talking to his fellow-prisoners, who were all chewing some tobacco-leaf which the former had managed to secrete. "Why, you know; that bit old Zamson give me, wrapped up in one o' them big leaves." "Oh yes; I had forgotten. Eat it, then; I don't mind." "Likely, aren't it?" grumbled Pete. "Good as it smells, for them black fellows do know how to cook a thing brown and make it smell nice. Can't you zee what I mean?" "No." "Want it for the dogs. I'm going to slip off after that boat as soon as it's a bit later." "Impossible, Pete. Don't try; you'll be shot at. There is sure to be one of the blacks outside the door with a musket." "Let him stop there, then. I aren't going by the door." "How, then?" "Climb up here to where I've got a couple o' them split wooden tiles-- shingles, as they call 'em--loose." "But you can't climb up there." "Can't I? Oh yes, my lad. There's them knot-holes, and I've got some pegs cut as fits into 'em, ready to stand on. I can get up easy enough." "But the dogs?" "Well, I smuggled a knife and sharpened it up, and it's tied to my leg in a sheath I made out of a bit o' bamboo cane." "But it would be madness to fight the poor brutes, and the noise would bring out Saunders with a gun." "Just what I thought, my lad," said Pete, laughing softly; "so I went on the other tack this month past." "I don't understand you, Pete." "I'll tell you, then, my lad," said Pete softly. "I made up my mind to get you back to the old country, and the on'y way to do it seems to be to make friends." "Make friends?" "That's it. Way that big dog, Gripper, took to you zet me thinking. If he was zet at you he'd lay hold, 'cause he's been taught to obey orders. He wouldn't want to, no more than a soldier might want to shoot a man; but if it was orders he'd do it. Well, I've thought a deal about them dogs, and dogs is dogs--eh, Master Nic?" "Of course," said the young man, smiling to himself. "And dogs has got zweet tooths, Master Nic; on'y the sugar they likes is a bit o' salt." "You mean you wanted that piece of roast 'possum to give the dogs if they came at you." "That's right, Master Nic. If old Zaunders was shouting 'em on, they wouldn't take no notice of the meat; but if he waren't there they'd be friends at once, and eat it. So I'm ready for 'em if they comes after me." "And you're going to try if you can find where they keep the boat to-night?" "_Sn-n-n-ork_!" said Pete, pinching his arm, and as the deep, low, snoring went on, Nic grasped the reason. For there was a faint rustling of the dry corn-leaves, which stopped, and went on again in the utter darkness, while beyond it the low murmur of talking continued. "The talking kept on to cover Humpy's movements," thought Nic. "He has heard us, and is coming to listen." Pete snored again, moved uneasily, and began to mutter in a low tone: "Couldn't throw Humpy Dee?" he said. "Let you see. Better wrastler than him. _Snore--snurrk_!" The rustling ceased, and then went on again. "Where's that there moog o' zyder, lads?" muttered Pete in a dull, stupid way. "Where's the huff-cap?" Then he smacked his lips, and said "Hah!" softly, turned himself over, yawned, and began to snore, keeping it up steadily, while the rustling went on; but it sounded now as if the man who made it was retiring. Nic listened, with every nerve on the strain, while Pete kept on the snoring, and a minute later he made out clearly enough that Humpy Dee had returned to his companions, and distinctly heard the change in the conversation, as the man whispered the result of his investigation. Pete's snore was lower now, and sounded as if it would last; but it did not, for the next moment Nic was conscious that his comrade was leaning over him; a pair of lips touched his ear, and a voice whispered: "He thinks he's clever, but we can be too sharp for him." "Don't talk any more," whispered Nic softly, "or he'll come back." "Right," said Pete, and the snoring recommenced. And as Nic lay there in the darkness, thinking over his companion's words, and feeling that it would have been madness to have made any attempt to leave the barrack-like shed, with watchful enemies both within and without, and the certainty in his mind that Humpy Dee's intention was to betray Pete so as to get him flogged for attempting to escape, the snoring went on, with a strange lulling effect. He had toiled hard that day in the burning sunshine, and had lain down after his supper with that pleasant sensation of weariness which comes to the healthy and strong; and he had been feeling a glow of satisfaction and thankfulness for the full recovery of all his faculties, when Pete had spoken as he did. It was not surprising, then, that the heavy breathing of his companion should have the effect it had, and that, just when he was in the midst of pleasant thoughts of the possibility of escape, he should suddenly pass from extreme wakefulness into deep sleep, in which he saw the red cliffs of Devon again, with the sparkling sea, and listened to the soft murmur of the falls low down in the combe. Back home once more. Then he opened his eyes with a start. "I've been asleep," he said to himself, as he listened to Pete's heavy breathing; "not for many minutes, though," he mused; and then he wondered and stared, for he could see the cracks and knot-holes of the wooden building against the grey dawn of the rapidly-coming day. "Why, I must have been asleep for hours and hours!" he mentally ejaculated. Proof came the next moment that it must have been eight hours at least, for the dull booming bellow of the great conch shell blown by one of the blacks rang out, and Pete started up in his bunk to stare at Nic and rub his calf softly. "Had a good night, Pete?" said the lad. "Tidy," said the man softly; "but one o' the dogs had me by the leg." "What! Surely you didn't go?" "Ay, but I did. He let go, though, when he smelt the roast meat. Smelt better than raw." "Pete!" ejaculated Nic, in his surprise. "Now then, rouse up, all on you," shouted Humpy Dee, "or they'll be sending in the dogs for us, and the cat for some one else." "Oh," thought Nic, as a pang of agony shot through him; "that wretch must have been on the watch." CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. PETE THINKS HE HAS FOUND IT. In the morning, as the eternal hoeing went on, Pete found his opportunity for telling of his adventures during the night. Humpy Dee had evidently heard nothing. "Keep at it, Master Nic," he said; "this here stuff's growed up zo that there's no telling when they're coming on to you. It's all right though, now." "Tell me, then, quickly. You got out?" "Zure I did. I meant to, and had a good long night of it." "And you're sure the dog hasn't hurt you much?" "Nay, on'y a pinch; I had the meat ready to shove in his face, But there aren't much to tell you." "I was afraid so. We must be patient, Pete, and live on hope." "Can't live on hope, master. Hope's on'y the salt as makes the rest o' life tasty. Want zome'at else as well. But don't you be down. We've got to get away, and we'll do it afore we've done." "Then you found out nothing?" "Oh yes, I did," said Pete dryly. "I found out that it didn't matter which way I went there waren't what I wanted." "You mean the boat?" "That's right, master. I went as far as I could get along the river one way, and it waren't there; and I went as far as I could get t'other way, and it waren't there. Old Zam must get in and paddle it right away zomewheres. There now, if I haven't found it after all!" "What! Where it is hidden?" "I believe I have; zeemed to turn it over and find it under this here clod I'm breaking up with the hoe. Wish I'd looked when we was aboard." "Looked at what?" "Her bottom. She's got a big bung-hole in her zomewhere, and he must pole her along into a deep part, and take the bung out, and let her fill and zink. Then he zinks the painter with a stone." "But she wouldn't sink, Pete." "Oh yes, she would, with ballast enough, sir; and all we've got to do now is to find out where she is." Nic shook his head sadly, for he was not convinced. "Don't you do that, my lad; that's not the way to get home. Maybe I'm wrong, but I think I'm right, and I dare zay, if we knowed where to look, she's just close handy zomewhere. Zay, Master Nic, s'pose I get old Zamson down and kneel on his chest, and pull out my knife. I could show my teeth and look savage, and pretend I was going to cut his head off if he didn't tell me. That would make him speak--eh?" "Yes, to Saunders; and you would be punished, and we should be worse off than ever." "That's about it, sir. I'm afraid I did no good last night." Pete chopped and broke clods, and muttered to himself in a way which suggested that he was by no means satisfied with his investigations. Then all at once he said: "What do you zay to our going quietly down to the water some night, dropping in, and zwimming for it?" "Into the jaws of the great alligators, Pete?" "Didn't think o' that. Could hear 'em, too, as I walked along. One whacker went off from just under my feet once. I 'most fell over him, and he roared out like a bull calf. I thought he meant my legs. No, we couldn't do that, Master Nic. We must get hold o' that boat. I'll have another try to-night." "Better not," said Nic. "Some of the others will hear you." "And old Humpy be on'y too glad to get me in a row. Well, I mean to have it zomehow." But Pete did not go upon any nocturnal excursion that night. Nature was too much for him. He dropped asleep, and did not wake till the conch shell sounded its braying note; and Nic rose once more to go to his labour in the fields, asking himself if it was not all a dream. The next time the settler came that way the young man made an appeal to him for permission to send off a letter to some one in authority; but the angry refusal he received, coupled with a stern order to go on with his work, taught him plainly enough not to place any confidence in obtaining his liberty through his employer, so he tried to move the overseer the next time he came by. Nic fared worse. "Look here, my lad," said Saunders; "your country said you were better out of it, and we've taken you, and mean to try and make something decent of you. We're going to do it, too." "But that was all a mistake, sir, as I told you," pleaded Nic. "And this is a bigger one. Who is to believe your word? Get on with your work, and if you worry me again with your whining I'll shorten your rations, and keep you on the hardest jobs about the plantation." "It's of no use, Pete," said Nic as soon as he could speak unobserved; "there is nothing to hope for here. We must escape somehow, or else die in trying." "That's sense, Master Nic, all but the last part. I don't see any fun in dying for ever so long. I'm going out to-night to find that boat, and if I do, next thing is to zave up some prog and be off. There's one thing to do, though, 'fore we start." "What's that?" "Borrow a couple o' guns and some powder and shot." "Impossible, Pete. No; I think I could manage it." "How, my lad? It has bothered me." "There are two ways. Get at the guns one day when Samson is cleaning them; or else creep to the house some hot night, risk all, and climb in by one of the windows. I think in time I shall know whereabouts they are kept." "Risk getting zeen and shot?" "We must risk something, Pete," said Nic quietly. "It is for liberty. I should leave it to the last moment, and get them when the boat was all ready; then, if I were heard there would be somewhere to make for, and once afloat we should be safe. But there, we have not found out where the boat is yet." "And," said Pete thoughtfully, "there's zomething else we haven't took count of." "What's that?" said Nic eagerly. "The dogs, my lad; the dogs!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. A FIGHT WITH MORPHEUS. Nic had no faith in his companion's notions about the boat lying sunk in the creek or river; but as the time wore on he could suggest no better idea. Still, he did find out where the guns were kept one day when, in company with a man of Humpy Dee's party, he was ordered up to help in stowing some bales of tobacco-leaf in a kind of store at the back of the low wooden building. The work was pretty hard, but Nic hardly felt it, for in going to and fro he had to pass an open door which led into the place used by the settler and Saunders for their dining and sitting room. It was a very rough spot, and the furniture was all home-made--that is to say, it was manufactured by the blacks. But Nic hardly heeded its contents after seeing a series of hooks driven into the wall, and upon each pair a musket, with powder-flask and bullet-pouch attached. He could think of nothing else as he walked away, for these weapons meant a supply of food if he and Pete took to the woods, and that night he communicated the discovery to his companion. "It ought to be easy to borrow a couple of them," said Pete quietly--"zome night when the two gaffers are asleep. On'y one thing to hinder it, as I zee, for I don't believe they shut themselves up, feeling as they do that we're under lock and key." "What is to prevent me creeping in and getting them, Pete?" "Dogs," said the man quietly. "Now, if we was at home I could walk into Plymouth and go to a druggist's shop, and for twopence buy zomething I knows of as would zend those dogs to sleep till we'd done what we wanted; but there aren't no shops in the woods here." "And we haven't found the boat, Pete." "And we haven't found the boat, my lad. But here's a little bit of a tool here I've got for you at last. Better one than mine. One of the blacks had been cutting up zome meat with it yesterday, and left it out on the bench--forgetted all about it--they're good ones at forgetting; and zo I scrambled back and got hold of it, sharpened it up at the point, and made a wooden sheath for it, so as you can wear it in your belt under your shirt." "A knife!" whispered Nic excitedly as Pete thrust the weapon into his hand. "No; I don't want to shed blood." "I didn't say it was to kill men with, did I? S'pose one of them dogs had you by the throat, wouldn't it be useful then? or to kill a deer out in the woods? or skin a 'possum? Might even be useful to stick into a 'gator's throat. Better take it, master." Nic's hand closed upon the handle of the keen blade, and he transferred it to his belt; when, as the hard sheath pressed against his side, he felt that, after all, it was one step towards liberty. The next morning Pete told him that he had had another good hunt by the river-side, going as far as he dared, but without result. "And 'twix' you and me, Master Nic, I suppose it's being a bit of a coward, but I dursen't go no more. I aren't afraid o' things you can see; but when you're down by the water o' nights listening to the strange birds making queer noises, and the big bats whuzzing round you, to say nothing of the 'gators walloping about at the edge, and other gashly things zeeming to be lying wait for you, it's a bit too much for me." "It must be very nervous work, Pete." "Last night about settled me that we must go right up-country or through the woods, for I trod on a big snake, and felt it twissen round my leg. Ugh! I don't mind a conger, because, even if he bites you, it's on'y a bite, and it gets well; but a snake! Why, they tell me--leastwise one of the blacks did--as a bite from one of the rattlesnakes'll finish you off in 'bout an hour." "But you were not bitten?" "S'pose not, and I've been thinking since I must ha' trod on the gashly thing's head. Anyhow it did scare me, and I mean to chop every one I zee while I'm hoeing. I have killed four since we've been here." "You must not try it again, Pete," said Nic. "Then we shall have to take to the woods, master, for I don't zee any chance o' getting the boat." That day, while the two prisoners were hoeing together, the settler came round, stood watching them for a time, and then came nearer and examined their work, saw nothing to complain of, but still being dissatisfied, he turned upon Pete. "Here, you get chattering too much with this lad," he cried; "be off across to the long corn-field behind the house and join that gang. Work with them, and send black Jupe here to take your place." "Yes, master," said Pete quietly; and as he shouldered his hoe and the settler walked away, he made an offer at him with the hoe, when one of the dogs growled savagely. Suspicious of danger, the settler turned sharply, to see Pete slouching away with his eyes on the ground; so, after an angry word or two at the dog, the master went on again, leaving Nic hoeing away, thinking how dreary the days would pass if he were to have no better companionship than that of the black. Half-an-hour passed before the slave came slowly along the row Nic was hoeing--for the waving growth completely shut them from sight--and upon reaching his fellow-prisoner's side he made a few scrapes with his hoe and then stopped, with his black face shining as he showed his teeth. "You had better go on with your work," said Nic quietly; "the master will be back." "Not a day, sah," said the black. "Him going get boat and go up ribber 'long o' Massa Saunder." Nic looked at the man sharply as he uttered the word _boat_. Wouldn't it be possible to hear from him where the boat was kept? "Berry hot. Take four boy row de boat, and tell Sam and Zerks load de gun and shoot ebbery white body who done work." "Ah!" said Nic. "Dat so, sah," said the man, laughing. "No shoot black fellow." He said no more, but went on chopping away in the hot sunshine far faster than Nic could manage, and the intense heat did not seem to affect him. For it was so hot that the prisoner felt exhausted, early as it was in the day, the tall growth around keeping off the breeze. But he worked away, with the perspiration streaming down his face, thinking what an opportunity this would be for taking to the woods or the open country, but with his heart sinking as he dwelt upon the possibility of Humpy Dee and the others fighting against such a plan from pure malice. And besides, Pete was not there to discuss the matter. There were the armed blacks, too, and the dogs. Nic went to the end of his row, turned, and worked away back, forgetful of his black companion, till he was half-way along the return row, when a peculiar sound startled him, and stepping aside among the canes, his heart gave a big throb, for the black seemed to have fallen from exhaustion. The next minute he smiled, for he realised that the man was fast asleep. And how hot it was! Nic's throat was dry, his tongue parched, while only some three hundred yards from where he toiled there was the green band of cane and reed jungle, and just beyond that the bright, cool waters of the river. Oh, if he could only be where he could lie down and take one long, deep draught! The thought of it increased his thirst. Well, why not? The black had shown him that there was no danger. Their tyrants had started in the boat by now, or the idle rascal would not have lain down so coolly to sleep, and this terrible thirst-- "Oh, I must go and have a drink," muttered Nic wearily; and then, laying down his hoe, he walked swiftly to the end of the row, turned at right angles along by the ditch which divided the field from the next field, and, satisfied that he could not be seen from the house, kept on and on, startled more than once by the rustle of a gliding snake, till the narrow patch of jungle was reached, and he plunged into it, to force his way along to the edge of the river. The reeds and dense water-growth ended suddenly, and he was about to peer out, up and down, to make sure that he was not seen, thinking the while of how easy escape seemed, when he drew back and stood watching with starting eyes. But it was not at the alligator six feet long which lay between him and the gliding river, nor yet at that other, a dozen yards away, sunning itself at the surface of the water; but at the black woolly head of a swimmer nearly at the other side, making easily and well for the mouth of an overhung creek nearly opposite to where Nic crouched, and quite regardless of the dangerous reptiles which might be near. The feeling of thirst died out as Nic watched, seeing that there was a way of escape after all by the river; for if that man dared trust himself to swim in open daylight to the other side, surely he and Pete might venture, even if the place did swarm with reptiles? Nic's heart beat with a strange feeling of satisfaction. Here, then, was one of his unfortunate companions taking advantage of the master's absence to escape. Why was not Pete there to join him, and they might all get away together? In another minute Nic would have been on his way back to try and get speech with Pete, and tell him what he had seen. He might, he thought, elude Samson's watchfulness, when, to his astonishment, the man reached the farther shore, stepped out, and shook himself, when Nic felt that he must be dreaming, for it was Samson himself. The next minute Nic saw him plunge into the thick growth overhanging the narrow creek and disappear. "Left his musket behind because he felt doubtful about getting it across," thought Nic, and once more he was about to hurry back, when a strange rustling sound caught his ear, followed by the rattle as of a pole; and directly after the mystery of the boat's hiding-place was laid bare, for it glided out from among the waving canes, and there was Samson standing upright, dipping the pole first on one side, then on the other, sending the boat across as it glided down with the stream, passed the watcher, and evidently was being directed for the other creek. "Poor old Pete, how glad he'll be!" thought Nic. "That's it, plain enough; kept over there because they think no one would dare to swim across; but we dare." "Dare we?" said Nic to himself the next minute, as he saw an unusually large alligator make a swirl in the water and dart by; and he shuddered as the thought occurred to him that, though the reptiles might not touch the blacks, with a white man it might mean something very different. "Ugh! you little beast," he muttered, as there was a rustle in the moist patch of jungle, and he caught sight of the loathsome blunt muzzle of what looked like a monstrous eft staring hard at him, not a couple of yards distant. A quick movement sent the reptile scuffling away; then there was a splash, and forgetful entirely of his thirst, Nic hurried back, feeling a lingering doubt as to whether the settler or his overseer might not have been to the field during his absence, as they were certainly not gone. But upon reaching the place where he had left his hoe, there it lay with the handle too hot to hold, and the slave close at hand, shining and happy, fast asleep, with his mouth open, and the red lips attracting the flies, as if it were some huge ugly red blossom from which they might sip. That day seemed as if it would never come to an end. But at sunset the conch shell was blown, and the black started up, just as Nic straightened his weary back, and came slowly towards him down the row he had hoed. "Um tink um been fass 'sleep, sah," said the black, grinning. "You tell Mass' Saunder? No, you not tell um, and me shut de eye nex' time you go 'sleep." "I shan't tell tales," said Nic good-humouredly. "But I say, do you ever think about running away?" "Run away? What for? No use run away. Set dogs to catch you 'gain. An' if dogs not catch um, where run to? Plantations all alike." "To you," thought Nic. "Yes; where could he run to--back to Africa? What then? Only to be caught and sold again. Poor wretch! Worse off than I. There is no pleasant Devon for him to reach, as we must and will reach it some day. Yes, there are slaves far worse off than I. What can the dear old dad have thought when he found me gone? There is only one answer to that," said Nic, with a weary sigh--"that I was drowned in the pool struggle and swept out to sea." The next minute Pete came into sight, and their eyes met, Nic giving the man so long and intent a look that he did not see Humpy Dee watching him, only that Pete's face worked a little, as if he grasped the fact that his companion had some news to impart. But they had no chance of communicating then, for Samson and Xerxes were ready to count them as they went up to their shed; the dogs looking on and trotting about busily, as if helping two black shepherds by rounding up their flock. It was hard work to eat that night, and the evening meal seemed more than ever to resemble a mash prepared for fattening cattle such as they seemed to be. But Nic felt that food meant strength when the time for escaping came, and he forced himself to devour his portion as if ravenously. The night soon came there, and they were locked up once more, Nic eagerly waiting for the chance to tell all he knew. As he lay in his bunk listening, it was evident, from the low, guarded tone in which their companions talked, that they were in ignorance of the fact that their masters were absent, and all was very still outside, till one of the men spoke out angrily. Then a bang on the door from the butt of a musket, followed by a burst of deep-toned barking, told plainly enough that proper precautions were taken, Samson's voice coming loudly and hoarsely with an order to keep quiet and lie down before he had to shoot. "But there's light ahead," thought Nic; and he waited till he thought he could communicate his news to Pete; but, to his disgust, the deep, low breathing close at hand told that he was asleep. "Worn out with his weary toil last night," thought Nic. "Well, I'll keep watch to-night until he wakes, and tell him then." But hour after hour went sluggishly by, with the watcher trying to think out the plan by which they could escape in the easiest way. In spite of the excitement produced by the knowledge that a door was open by which they could get away, there was a hindrance to his thoughts coming clearly. That long day's toil in the burning sun made his plans run together till they were in a strange confusion; and at last he was swimming the river to reach the boat, when a dozen of the reptiles which haunted the water seemed to be tugging at him to drag him down, barking fiercely the while. Then he started up, to find that he had been fast asleep, and that the dogs were barking loudly because of their master's return. "What's the row about?" Nic heard Humpy Dee growl. "Then I was right," said another of the men. "The gaffers have been off somewhere, and have just come back. I thought so, because neither of them showed up in the fields after quite early." "Why didn't you tell me?" growled Humpy; and he whispered to his companions very earnestly. Just then the voices of the settler and the overseer were heard talking to Samson; the dogs came smelling about the door, and the sentry spoke loudly to them to get away. Then by degrees all grew silent again, and a rustling sound told Nic that Pete was moving in his bunk. "Couldn't help it, lad," he whispered; "I was zo worn out, I went off fast. You've got zome'at to tell me?" "Yes." "I knowed it; but if I'd had to save my life I couldn't ha' kep' my eyes open. What is it?" Nic told him, whispering earnestly in his excitement. "What a vool--what a vool!" whispered Pete. "On'y to think o' me never thinking o' that. Then it's all right, Master Nic. We can just get together enough prog to last us, borrow the guns, pick out the night that zuits us, and then go quietly off." "But would you dare to swim across the river--the alligators?" "Yes," said Pete; "if they was twice as big; and if they touch me--well, they'll find out what an edge and point I've given my knife. It's all right, Master Nic, and I'm glad it's you as found out the way." "Hist!" whispered Nic, laying a hand on the man's mouth. For there was a rustling not far from where they lay; and Nic felt as if a hand were catching at his throat, for the thought came to thrill him through and through that Humpy Dee had crept nearer to hear what, in their eager excitement, they had said; and if he had heard-- Pete put it this way: "If he knows, the game's at an end." Nic slept little more that night; not that he and Pete talked again about their plans, but because his brain was full of the momentous question: Had their treacherous companion heard? CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. THE TIME AT LAST. It was nervous work during the next few days, neither Nic nor Pete daring to take any step towards making their escape, for the feeling was strong upon both that they were in their enemy's hands, and that he was only waiting his time before betraying them to the overseer. "That's his way, Master Nic, and it always was. Once he had a grudge agen a man he'd never forgive him," said Pete one night, "and he'd wait his chance to serve him out. I never liked Humpy, and he never liked me; zo, after all, it was six o' one and half-a-dozen o' the other." "I can't help thinking that we are worrying ourselves about nothing, Pete," replied Nic. "It's a case of the guilty conscience needing no accuser." "That it aren't, sir," said the man sturdily. "I aren't going to believe you've got any guilty conscience, and there aren't nothing worse on mine than a bit o' zalmon." Nic smiled in the darkness, and Pete went on: "Well, if you think like that, Master Nic, let's risk it. Old Humpy's cunning enough, but p'raps two heads'll be better than one, and we can beat him. What do you zay to trying, then?" "Anything is better than this terrible suspense, Pete," said Nic. "I did manage to bear my fate before, but the thought now of that boat lying ready to carry us down the river is too much for me, and there are moments when I feel as if I must say to you, `Come on; let's run down to the river and dash in, risking everything.'" "What! and them zee us go, Master Nic?" "Yes; I am getting desperate with waiting." "Wouldn't do, my lad. They'd chivvy us, them and the blacks and Humpy and t'others. Why, bless you, nothing old Humpy would like better." "I'm afraid so." "That's it, zir, whether you're 'fraid or whether you bean't. And s'posing we got the boat, what then, zir? Them seeing us and going along by the bank shooting at us." "We might lie down, Pete." "Yes; and they'd send in half-a-dozen niggers to zwim to the boat and bring it ashore. What do you say to that, zir?" "That I'm half-mad to propose such a thing," replied Nic. "Talk lower, zir. I can't hear old Humpy; but let's be on the lookout." "Better give up all thought of getting away," said Nic despondently. "Bah! Never zay die, Master Nic. Why, there's the old place at home seeming to hold out its finger to us, beckoning-like, and zaying `Come,' and once I do get back, you'll never ketch me meddling with no one's zalmon again. But look here, zir, we thought it all out before, and I don't see as we can better it." "I feel hopeless, Pete." "And I feel as if I've got 'nough o' that stuff in me for both. Wish we could be hoeing together again, so as we could talk it over." "I wish so too, Pete." "It aren't half so pleasant hoeing along with the blacks as it is with you, zir." "Thank you, Pete," said Nic, smiling to himself. "I aren't got nought agen 'em. They can't help having black skins and them thick lips, and they're wonderful good-tempered. Just big children, that's what they are. Fancy a man being a zlave and ready to zing and dance 'cause the moon zhines, ready to go out hunting the coons and 'possums as if there was nothing the matter." "It's their nature to be light-hearted," said Nic. "Light-hearted, zir? Why, there's one o' the gang along with me as allus seems as if you were tickling him. Only to-day he drops hisself down and rolls about in the hot sun, and does nothing but laugh, just because he's happy. Why, I couldn't laugh now if I tried." "Wait, Pete; perhaps you may again some day." "I want to laugh to-morrow night, zir." "What?" "When we've got a couple o' guns aboard that boat, and we're going down the river," whispered Pete excitedly. "I can laugh then." "We couldn't do it, Pete." "We could, zir, if we zaid we would." "There is the risk of that man watching us and telling." "He'd better!" growled Pete. "Look here, zir; let's have no more shilly-shallying. Say you'll go to-morrow night, and risk it." "Why not wait for a good opportunity?" "'Cause if we do it mayn't never come." "But food--provisions?" said Nic, whose heart was beginning to throb with excitement. "Eat all we can to-morrow, and chance what we can get in the woods, or go without a bit. I'd starve two days for the sake of getting away. Will you risk it, zir?" For answer Nic stretched out his hand and grasped Pete's, having his own half-crushed in return. "That settles it, then," whispered Pete hoarsely. "Zave a bit of bread-cake if you can. May come in useful. To-morrow night, then." "To-morrow night." "Are you two going to keep on talking till to-morrow morning?" growled a deep voice. "Zum on us want a bit o' sleep. Look here, mates; I'm going to speak to the gaffer to-morrow, to ax if them two chatterin' old women can't be put somewheres else." Nic turned cold, and Pete uttered a deep sigh, for if this were done they would, he knew, have to begin making their plans again. But hope cheered them both as the next day dawned and passed on without incident. Humpy Dee's was evidently only an empty threat, and as evening drew on Nic's excitement increased, and with it came a sensation of strength such as he had not enjoyed for months. It was as if his companion had endowed him with a portion of his own elastic temperament, and success was going to attend their efforts. All the weary despondency had passed away, and in imagination Nic saw the boat floating down the river towards the sea, where, hope whispered, it must be very easy to find some British ship whose captain would be ready to listen to their unhappy story, and let them hide on board till he set sail, and then let them work their passage home. "For," argued Nic now in his excitement, "no Englishman could be so hardhearted as to refuse help to a white slave." He saw nothing of Pete after they had started for their day's work, their duties taking them to different parts of the plantation; but that was no more than he expected, and he toiled away with his hoe, telling himself that this was the last time he would handle it, for they would-- they must--escape; and he wondered now that he could have hesitated so long, and have let the notion that Humpy Dee was quietly trying to undermine them act like a bugbear. One thing was difficult, though, and that was to eat heartily in readiness for what might be a long fast. Nic ate all he could force down, however, and hid away the rest. But how long that hot day seemed, before the darkness closed in and the strange sounds began to rise from the woods and river! Never had all these sounded so loudly before; and when at last Nic lay down in his rustling bunk, and the place had been locked and the black sentry placed at the door, it seemed to the listener as if the great goat-suckers were whirring about just outside, and the bull-frogs had come in a body to the very edge of the woods and up the ditches of the plantation to croak. Humpy Dee and his companions were talking together; the black sentry yawned, and began to hum an air to himself; and soon after the voices of the settler and the overseer passed, discussing some plan in connection with the crops; but Nic did not hear either of the dogs bark, neither did the one which had shown friendliness towards him come snuffling about the entrance of the low shed. "Why doesn't Pete say something?" thought Nic, who began to wonder at the silence of his companion, not a word having passed since they met at the rough supper; and now, for the first time that day, Nic's heart sank a little, for it seemed to him that his fellow-plotter had shrunk from the risks they would have to encounter--risks which might mean being shot at, worried by the dogs, dragged down by the alligators to a horrible death, perhaps fever and starvation in the swamp, or being drowned at sea, if they reached the river's mouth, and were swept away by one of the fierce currents along the shore. It meant waiting two hours at least before they could begin their attempt; but still Nic wanted to get rid of the oppression which troubled him, and to feel that they really were going to make their escape; but the murmuring of their companions' voices went on, and still Pete made no sign. At last Nic could contain himself no longer. He was all eagerness now; and, if they were not going to make the attempt, he wanted to know the worst. He spoke in a whisper: "Pete, Pete!" "Phew! how hot--how hot!" muttered the man. "Pete!" whispered Nic again. "I wish you wouldn't keep on talking," said Pete loudly. "You know how it set them grumbling last night." Nic drew a deep breath through his teeth, as he lay there in the hot, oppressive darkness. They were not going, then. It was the way with a man of Pete's class to pick a quarrel upon some other subject when he wanted to find an excuse and back out of an arrangement. "Ay, you had a narrow escape on it," said one of the men surlily. "Old Humpy was pretty nigh going to the gaffer to-day." "It's all over," thought Nic, as a feeling of bitterness ran through him. Only four-and-twenty hours earlier he had been ready to give up and accept his position. Then Pete had touched the right chord in his nature, and roused him up to a readiness to run any risk, and make a brave dash for liberty; while now the man seemed to have shrunk back into his shell, and to be completely giving up just when the call was about to be made upon his energies. At another time Nic might have argued differently; but, strung up as he had been, his companion's surly indifference was crushing, and it seemed that the wild, exciting adventures of the night were to give place to a cowardly, sordid sleep. "If anything big is to be done, one must depend upon one's-self," thought Nic at last; and, angry with the whole world, bitter at his own helplessness, as he felt how mad it would be to attempt the venture alone, he turned over in his bunk, throwing out one hand in the movement, and it came in contact with Pete's, to be gripped fast. In an instant the blood was dancing through his veins, and a choking sensation as of impending suffocation troubled him; the arteries in his temples beat painfully, and he lay breathing hard. For it was to be after all, and this conduct was his companion's way of showing him that it was better to lie in silence, waiting till the time arrived for commencing their task. Nic lay there listening to the low murmur of his fellow-prisoners' voices and the chorus of strange sounds from the forest and river; and in the stillness of the night, every now and then, a faint splash came plainly to where he lay, sending a thrill through him, as he thought that, if all went well, before very long he might be swimming across the river, running the gauntlet of the horrible-looking reptiles, and his left hand stole down to his belt to grasp the handle of the sharpened knife, while he wondered whether the skin of the alligators would be horny or tough enough to turn the point. How long, how long it seemed before all was perfectly still in the long, low shed, and not a sound could be heard outside but the faint humming noise made by the black sentry! Then all at once there were steps. Some one had come up, and in a low whisper Nic heard the words: "All right?" "Yes, massa." Then the steps passed away again, and Pete gripped Nic's hand as he lay straining his hearing to try and ascertain whether the overseer had entered the house; but the barking or croaking of reptiles was the only sound. Another hour must have passed, and then Nic's blood rushed through his veins, for a hand touched his again lightly, and seemed to seek for the other. Directly after he felt a hot breath upon his face, and lips to his ear, uttering the one word: "Come!" CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. FOR LIFE AND LIBERTY. Before Nic Revel's mental sight the difficulties rose like a great black rock, but he did not shrink. He rose softly from his bunk, striving hard to keep the corn-stalks from crackling, and felt Pete as the man took a couple of steps from his sleeping-place and stood with his face to the back of the shed. Then, in the midst of a very faint rustling, Nic knew that his companion had thrust a couple of pegs into the knot-holes in the stout planks, and raised himself by hand and foot till he could softly draw the wooden shingles of the roof aside, and the cool, moist air of the night came down. Then for a moment or two Nic saw a bright star, which was blotted out by something dark as the faint rustling continued. Nic turned to listen, but all was well within the shed. He could hear the deep breathing of sleepers, and the low humming song of the sentry outside the door. "How long will it be?" thought Nic, who was trembling with excitement; but the suspense was soon over. All at once there was a dull sound, such as might be made by two bare feet alighting on the earth outside, and he knew that his turn had come. He was lightly enough clothed, merely in short-sleeved, striped cotton shirt, and breeches which did not reach the knee, and his feet were bare, so that there was nothing to hinder his efforts as he reached up till he could place one foot upon the first peg. Then, seeking for the other, he seized it in his hand, and drew himself into a standing position upon the first, reached up to the rafters, drew himself farther up till he could rest his foot on the second peg and pass his head and shoulders through the hole in the roof; then, resting a hand on either side, he drew his legs through, turned and lowered himself down, and dropped upon the ground almost without a sound. It was intensely dark, but every step was familiar enough, and there was no need for words: their plans had been too well made. But as they moved off towards the house, one thought was in both minds as presenting the greatest obstacle they had to dread: Where were the dogs? If loose, and their approach were heard, the great brutes would set up a fierce baying directly, preliminary to a savage attack; and then-- They neither of them cared to reckon more in advance than that, and went softly on, to receive proof directly that the dogs were not loose, for there came from the back of the house the rattle of a chain being drawn over wood, followed by a low, muttering growl, as if one of the animals was uneasy. This ceased directly; and, treading cautiously, Nic went straight up to the front of the building, feeling as if, at any moment, he might see the flash of a musket and hear its roar. But the place was dark and still, and the croaking and other sounds which came in chorus were quite loud enough to drown their light footsteps as they approached. The door was closed, but the two long, low windows in the veranda proved to be open; and, as Nic approached the one upon his right and listened, he could distinctly hear the heavy breathing of a sleeper. He drew cautiously back, to come in contact with Pete, who was taken by surprise at the sudden movement made. Then they stood with hearts thumping against their ribs, feeling certain that they must have been heard; but not a sound followed. After waiting nearly a minute, a fresh movement was made, Nic stepping softly to the window on his left, the perspiration streaming down his face, for the heat was intense. He listened here, with Pete close behind, but all was still, the window wide open to admit the air; and he knew that all he had to do was to pass softly in, take down a couple of the guns, passing one out at a time through the window to Pete, beat a retreat, and then all would be as easy as possible. It was only cool, quiet action--that was all; but Nic for a time could not move, only stand there, breathing heavily, in the full expectation of hearing his companion say something to urge him on. Pete did not stir: he felt that he must trust to his companion's common-sense, and leave him to act as was best. Then the power to act seemed to come, and Nic softly grasped the window-sill, passed one leg in, then the other, and stood upon the bare floor, fully expecting to hear a bullet whiz past his head, even if it did not strike. But he could hear nothing; the house might have been unoccupied; and, drawing a deep breath, he acted quickly now, turned to his left, raised his hands, and pressed forward till they touched one of the weapons hanging upon the wall. A sudden feeling of elation now came over him, for it all seemed to be so astonishingly easy, as he stepped softly to the window to pass out a musket with its flask and pouch, feeling it taken from his hand directly. The next minute he was in front of the other pieces, and took down a second musket, felt that the flask and pouch were attached to it, and, with his pulses hard at work, he was about to make for the window when every drop of blood in his veins seemed to stand still. For there was a sharp, angry oath, a quick start, and the overseer, who had been sleeping upon a rough couch, rose to a sitting position. It was too dark for Nic to make out anything more than a shadowy figure within ten feet of him; and he stood as if petrified, holding the musket, meaning to use it as a club at the first attack; one which seemed to be strangely deferred, for the figure sat as if staring at him in astonishment. How long this pause lasted it is impossible to say, but to the intruder it seemed like minutes before he heard a faint rustling movement as if the overseer was about to lie down again. "He can't see me," thought Nic. "It is too dark." Then his heart seemed to stand still again, as the horrible thought occurred that the rustling meant getting something out of a pocket, and that something must be a pistol. Instinct taught the listener that to save his life he must spring at his enemy before he could take aim, and, nerving himself for a leap forward to dash the musket he held upon the man's face, he was almost in the act of bounding across the room when there was a low gurgling sound, and his nerves and muscles relaxed, for he realised the fact--the overseer had awoke suddenly from some nightmare-like dream, and it was no pistol he had taken out, but a flask of spirits. It was plain enough now--the gurgling of the flask, the smack of the lips in the darkness, and the long, satisfied breath taken, before the bottle was replaced and its owner sank back upon his couch. In another minute the breathing had grown deeper and sounded stertorous; and, without pausing longer, Nic stepped to the window, handed out the gun, and felt it taken quickly from his hands. Just then there was a faint muttering which almost paralysed Nic, who turned to meet an attack; but none came, and in another instant or two he had slipped out of the window and was following Pete, who had handed back one gun, with the warning to beware of the dogs. Pete's stooping figure was just visible as Nic followed, him in silence till they were about a hundred yards away, making for the spot where the boat was hidden, when one of the dogs barked loudly. "Mustn't stop to load," whispered Pete. "Let's get to the water, and then they can't take up the scent." They hurried on, listening the while; but the dog quieted down again; and with his spirits rising, Nic closed up alongside of his companion. "That was a near touch, master," whispered Pete. "I waited ready to jump in and help you, for I zomehow thought it was too dark in there for him to zee you, and you hadn't made any noise. Lucky for him he lay down again." Nic made no reply, but he thought a great deal; and no more was said till they had crossed a couple of the great fields and knew by the sounds they heard that they must be close to the long, low band of reedy growth which ran by the river-side. "You lead now, my lad," whispered Pete. "Get as nigh as you can to where you think the creek is on the other side." "It is so dark," whispered Nic; "but I think we are right." He went to the front, assailed by a horrible doubt now that he had taken the wrong way, and was some distance farther up the river; but, as he bent down to part the low growth, to peer through over the dark water, there was a scuffle and a splash, telling of some reptile taking flight, and he shrank back. But he hardly heeded it, for he had dimly made out a solitary tree across the river, some eighty or a hundred yards away, which he had marked down for bearings. "This is the place, Pete," he whispered. "If you stand here and look across, the creek is a little way up to the right." "That is good, my lad; I was beginning to be feared that we should have to wait for daylight, and be missed. Now then, take my gun and the tackle, and while I'm gone you load both on 'em." "While you are gone?" whispered Nic excitedly. "You are not going; I know the way, and I'll fetch the boat." "That you don't, Master Nic," said the man sturdily. "That there water's full o' them great brutes, and one of 'em might pull you down." "I know it is; and one of them might pull you down." "He'd be zorry for it if he did, for I'd zoon zend my knife through his carcass. It's my job, zir, and I'm going." "I tell you I know just where it is, and I'm going to fetch it." "That you aren't, zir. I won't have you risk it." "Then we'll swim the river together, Pete." "And what about the guns?" "Leave them on the bank, and come back and fetch them." "Never find 'em again in the darkness and hurry, my lad. Now, do be zensible." "I'm master, and I order you to stay." "Which you aren't master, zir, for we're both zlaves, and if you talk so loud you'll be bringing down the dogs and I'm off." Almost before Nic could realise it, Pete had slipped across the narrow space, lowered himself into the water, and swum away, leaving his companion horrified at the sounds he heard. For directly after the man had struck out there was a tremendous wallowing splash, which Nic felt certain had been caused by some monstrous reptile; and he crouched there grasping the guns, with a chilly perspiration breaking out over his brow. It was some minutes before he thought of the loading, and when he did he could not follow out his instructions for listening and staring across the dark, gliding water, which was full of life, startling him with the belief that Pete had been attacked when some louder splash than usual came from the direction the man had taken. Then the horrible thought came that the poor fellow had been seized the moment he plunged in, and that that loud wallowing noise was when he was dragged underneath. For, though he listened so hard, there was nothing to prove that his comrade was still swimming across the river; and his heart sank at the thought of what would be a most horrible death. Everything served to depress him more as he crouched there in the enforced inaction; he could hear rustlings in the low water-growth as of reptiles creeping along, the splashes in the river, and all about him the croaking, hooting, and barking of the nocturnal creatures which made the place their home; while, as if these were not sufficient, there was the dread of pursuit, with their enemies hounding on the savage dogs, which might spring upon him at any moment. "Not without giving notice, though," he said to himself. "What a nervous coward all this has made me! Why, the hounds would begin to bay as soon as they took up the scent." He listened again; but all was still save a splash or two, and he bitterly repented that they had not thought of some signal--a whistle or the like--to give warning that the river had been successfully crossed. "He would do it," thought Nic, trying to be firm. "He is a splendid swimmer. Why, it was wonderful what I believe he did when he tried to save me--in irons, too." Nic paused for a few moments longer to listen to the splashing which went on; and then, recalling once more his companion's words, he prepared to load the muskets. But the first he tried proved to be loaded, and, on replacing the ramrod and opening the pan, he found the priming all right. The next proved to be in the same condition; and, once more laying the pieces down, he crouched with his ear near the water to listen to the lapping and splashing which went on. But there was nothing that he could interpret to mean the movement of an oar or pole on a boat, and his heart began to sink again lower and lower, till wild thoughts arose about his companion's fate. He would not give harbour to the suggestion that he had been dragged down by the reptiles, but fancied that the boat might be securely padlocked, or that Pete had got it out, and, not knowing the force of the stream, had been swept away past where he should have landed, and with so big and heavy a boat he might not be able to get back. If this were the case Pete would escape, and he would have to go back to his prison. "No, he would not forsake me," muttered Nic, with a strange glow about his heart as he thought of the man's fidelity to his cause; and he had just come to this conclusion when he heard a rustling behind him as of some creature creeping up. It was forgotten, though, the next moment, for unmistakably there was the sound of an oar whishing about in the water, as if someone had it over the stern and, fisherman fashions was sculling the boat towards the bank. Then for a moment Nic was doubtful, for the sound ceased. "It was one of the alligators," he muttered through his teeth, "and the poor fellow--" There was a faint chirrup off the river, and once more Nic's heart beat wildly as he answered the signal. Then the sculling began again, the rustling was repeated somewhere behind where Nic crouched, and he felt for the muskets to take them up. "Whatever it is, I shall be aboard in a moment or two," he thought, with a strangely wild feeling of exultation; for he heard the oar drawn in, the head of the boat suddenly appeared close at hand, and it was run into the muddy, reedy bank a couple of yards away, while Pete leaped ashore with the painter. "Now!" cried a loud voice, when, with a rush, half-a-dozen men sprang upon them from the bed of reeds and a fierce struggle began. CHAPTER THIRTY. MAKING FRIENDS OF ENEMIES. The struggle was very fierce but short. Nic fought his best, and, in spite of the excitement, wondered at his strength. He was encouraged, too, by Pete, whom he heard raging and tearing about; and, hard pressed as he was, he yet had a thought for his companion. "Never mind me, Master Nic," he shouted. "Zwim for it--the boat. Never mind me." Then his voice was smothered, and there was the sound of a heavy fall, but the struggle went on. "Hold on!" came the voice of the overseer, giving his orders; and then that of the settler: "Give in, you scoundrels!" he raged out. Then fiercely, "Hold their heads under water, boys, if they don't give in." "All done now, sah," panted Samson, with his lips close to Nic's head, for he was across his prisoner's chest, and a couple of the blacks were holding his legs. "Yes, we must give up, Master Nic," cried Pete. "I've got five loads o' black stuff sitting on me." "Have you your whip with you, Saunders?" cried the settler. "No, sir; I wish I had. But it is hanging by the door, and we can give them a better taste by daylight." "You use it on him," roared Pete fiercely, "and I'll kill you." "Silence, you scoundrel!" cried the settler, "or I'll have you gagged as well as ironed. I warned you both of what would happen if you tried to escape." "Lucky for them I let loose the black dogs instead of the brown," cried the overseer. "We should not have had the trouble of taking them back. Tie their hands behind their backs, Samson, and have the irons ready as soon as we get to the house." "Got no rope, sah." "What!" cried the settler. "Why didn't you bring some, you black fool?" "No time, sah," said the black humbly. "Soon as dat ugly ruffyum, Humpy, come knock at door and say dey 'scape, Zerk call me quite sharp, an' I come tell you, and dey fetch de boy and have 'em back. Me no t'ink 'bout no rope, sah; on'y t'ink dey go swim for de boat and catch 'em first." "Quite right," said the settler more calmly. "There, one of you go in front of each man, and two others take fast hold of a wrist on each side. Cock your pistols, Saunders." There was a sharp clicking sound. "Walk behind that big scoundrel, and if he makes the slightest attempt to escape send a bullet through him. I'll look after this one. Pity we didn't stop to loose the dogs. Ready?" "Iss, sah," came from Samson, as Nic felt a strong hand like a live handcuff upon each wrist. "Lead on, then." "You be very careful, please, massa; no make mistake and shoot dis boy." "Oh yes, I'll take care." The march back began, and at the second step Nic felt that a cold ring of iron had been pressed between his shoulders--the pistol-muzzle resting upon his skin where the shirt had been torn down from neck to waist. He could not suppress a shiver, for the heat and passion of the struggle had passed away, leaving him weary, aching, and depressed. But in a few minutes the pistol-muzzle was withdrawn, it being awkward for the holder to walk over the rough ground and keep it there; and the prisoner marched on between his black warders as patiently as Pete in front, thinking perhaps the same ideas. For he felt that they had not taken warning by the hints they had received. Humpy Dee had been on the watch, and, in his malignity, let them get away before giving notice to the sentry, that they might be caught, ironed, and flogged, or perhaps meet their death in the struggle. But Nic had yet to find that Humpy Dee's designs were deeper than this. The walk back was not long enough for a hundredth part of the bitter thoughts that crowded into Nic Revel's brain; neither would they have got a hearing had the distance been a thousand times the length, on account of the one dominant horror which filled his brain: "Will they flog us?--will they flog us?" That question was always repeating itself, and, when the prisoner heard Pete utter a low groan, he was convinced that the poor fellow was possessed by similar thoughts. Only so short a time before that they had left their quarters, and now they were back in the darkness, their plans crushed, and only the punishment to look forward to. "Now, Sam, be sharp with a couple of lanthorns and those irons," cried the overseer. "Iss, sah." "Prisoners been quiet?" whispered the settler to the sentry. "Iss, sah, berry quiet; all fass asleep;" and the man let his musket fall down upon the ground with an ominous thud as, in obedience to an order, he unlocked the shed-door and lowered the huge bar before drawing it open. "Now then," muttered the overseer, "how long is he going to be with that lanthorn? Here, in with them, boys; but don't loose your hold till I tell you." Nic and Pete were hurried on; and, as soon as they were inside, the settler and his lieutenant stood in the doorway, pistol in hand, while Nic's face was involuntarily turned in the direction of the corner where Humpy Dee's bunk lay, in the full expectation of hearing some bantering sneer. But the man made no sign, and directly after the _pad_, _pad_ of Samson's feet was heard, and a faint light threw up the figures of those at the doorway. Then Samson's big black face appeared, lit up by the lanthorns he swung, one in each hand. "I take in de light, sah, and den go fetch de irons?" "Yes; look sharp," cried Saunders. He made way for the black to pass, and the man raised one of the lanthorns to hang it upon a hook. He did not do this, but raised the other lanthorn and hurriedly took a few steps in the direction of the bunks, to begin shouting directly: "Hyah!" he cried, "whar dem oder white fellow? You, Zerk, what you go and done wid de oder man?" "What!" roared the settler and the overseer in a breath as they rushed forward, pistol in hand. "All gone, sah," cried Samson, beginning to tremble. "Bah! you 'most fass 'sleep," cried Xerxes, who had come in at the call of his companion; "dey all tuck under de corn-'talk." "You black idiot!" roared the overseer, turning upon the sentry so savagely that the man's knees began to knock together; he let go his hold of his musket, and it fell on the floor with a thud, followed by a flash and an explosion, while the man escaped a knockdown blow by ducking. "Here, quick!" cried the settler, who had seized one of the lanthorns from Samson and convinced himself that the other prisoners had taken advantage of the hole made by Pete, and, as soon as the chase began, climbed quietly out in turn. "All of you follow. Pick up that musket and load it again, you black fool!" "No 'top clap irons on dese two, sah?" cried Samson. "No. Here, Saunders, fetch another musket. Samson, you and Nero guard these two while we're gone; and if you let them escape I'll shoot you." "No, no," said Saunders quickly; "I'll manage them. We want all our men. Here, Sam; go and let loose the dogs." "But these two?" cried the settler impatiently. "Well, the dogs will watch them." "We want them, man, to track the other scoundrels." "We can do that ourselves. They followed us, for a hundred pounds, and have taken the boat by now." The settler uttered a furious oath and stamped his foot. "Sharper than we are," he roared. "Yes, that is right." Just then the dogs, newly set at liberty, came bounding up, followed by Samson; and the overseer went up to the two prisoners. "There, lie down in your kennels," he snarled. "We shall not be long, and it depends upon yourselves whether we find you when we come back. I warn you that if you move the hounds will tear you to pieces." "Saunders!" whispered the settler. "Their lives will be in their own hands, sir," cried the overseer warmly. "Let me have my own way, please; it is the only thing to do." The settler shrugged his shoulders, and the blacks all stood there round-eyed and staring, while the two unfortunates lay down in their bunks, and the overseer called up the dogs and bade them couch. "Watch," he said fiercely, and a deep-toned growl arose. "Stay there and watch." "Now, sir," he said coldly, "the sooner we are off the better. Out with you, boys, and bring the lights." The blacks ran out, the settler followed, and the overseer went to the door last. "I've warned you," he said fiercely, as he turned to face the prisoners. "Make the slightest movement, and those hounds will be at your throats and rend you limb from limb. Good dogs, then--watch," he shouted; then he banged the door, locked and barred it, and just then the settler's voice was heard at a little distance. "Here, Saunders," he cried; "two of the loaded muskets have been taken from the hooks." "Hor, hor!" laughed Pete savagely; "just found that out?" He ceased, for three dogs sprang to their feet, uttering a furious barking trio which made his heart seem to leap to his throat. In the intense desire to save himself, Nic sprang up into a sitting position and spoke quickly and gently, calling to the dog which had shown a friendly disposition towards him from the first. "Don't do that, Master Nic," said Pete hoarsely. But even as the man spoke the dog was upon Nic's bunk, whining, pawing at him, and thrusting its great muzzle in his hand, uttering the while a low, eager bark. The others barked too, and, as if in imitation of their companion, made at Nic as well, favouring him with their clumsy caresses, and ending by sitting close up to him, panting loudly. "Have they killed you, Master Nic?" whispered Pete hoarsely, eliciting a fierce growl from one of the brutes. "Quiet," cried Nic loudly, and the growling ceased; while the next moment from out of the darkness a great head began to nestle upon his shoulder. "Good dog, then!" cried Nic, patting and stroking its head. "There, I think you may venture to talk, Pete." "Do you, zir? If I waren't beginning to think they'd done for you. Aren't you hurt, then?" "No; they are used to us now, and I don't think there's anything to fear. Look here; do you dare to reach out your hand and pat him?" "No, zir; I'm too great a coward. I was always feared of a dog's bite; not of the dog." Nic was silent for a few moments, and then he began to pat first one dog and then another heavily, the great brutes submitting to the familiarities evidently with satisfaction, one of them beginning to bound about the shed, and returning to be caressed again. "You order me to come close and pat one of 'em, Master Nic, and I will," said Pete hoarsely. "Come on, then." The man drew a deep breath and made the venture, with so much success attending it that he tried it upon the others. "Master Nic," he whispered excitedly, "what do you think of that?" "Of what?" "Here's one of 'em licking my face. Oh, I zay, it don't mean tasting me first to zee whether I'm good, do it?" "No; the poor brutes believe we are friends, I suppose, from being shut up with us. But, Pete, they've all gone off after the others. Couldn't we try to escape again?" "Nay; t'others have got the boat." "But the high ground yonder, or the woods?" "Nay; they'd hunt us down with the dogs. The beggars would go at us if they hounded 'em on." Nic was silenced for a few moments, and he sat with a dog on either side and his arms on their necks. "But we could get out again; the shingles must be off the roof." "Yes; that's how Humpy and the others got out, zir. They must ha' known all our plans." "Let's creep out, then; the dogs couldn't follow." "S'pose not, zir; but they'd make howl enough to bring the gaffers back to lay 'em on our scent. I don't think it's any use to try. I'd face it and the dogs too with my knife; they never took it away from me. Did they take yourn?" "I don't know, Pete. No: here it is." "And it would be too hard on you to have to face 'em. Best not to try. We had our go and missed; p'raps we'd better take what they give us and not grumble." "Impossible, Pete. I'd rather face the dogs than the lash. But I don't believe they'd hurt us now." "P'raps not, zir," said Pete sadly. "This here one's as playful as a puppy. He's 'tending to bite my arm, but he don't hurt a bit." There was silence again for a few minutes, during which time Nic sat with his heart beating hard, listening to the familiar sounds which came from the forest, while the passionate desire to flee grew and grew till it swept everything before it. "Pete," he cried at last, "we must escape. Better starve in the woods than lead such a life as this. We shall be flogged to-morrow, and it will kill me, I know." "The dogs'll hunt us down if we go, lad, and we shall get it worse. Better face what we've got to have." "I will not; I cannot, Pete. The way is open, man. Let's try for our liberty before these wretches come back." "Zay the word, then, Master Nic; but the dogs is friends now, as long as we're quiet; they won't let us go." "Ah, I know!" cried Nic wildly. "Why didn't I think of it before?" "Think of what, zir?" "This. Perhaps they might attack us if they thought they were going to be left." "That's zo." "And if we got away they'd be laid on our track." "O' course, zir." "Then we will not give Saunders the chance." "I dunno what you mean, zir; but I'm ready for anything you tell me to do. What is it?" "Take the dogs with us, man. I believe they'll follow us now." "Take 'em with us?" panted Pete. "Why, o' course! I never thought o' that. But we can't, Master Nic; we're locked in." "The roof's open. Look here, Pete; I'm going to climb out at once. The dogs will begin to bay at this, but as soon as I'm on the roof, ready to drop down, you get up, put your hands against the boards, and lay a-back. Then I'll call them. They'll scramble up, and I'll help them through. You come last." "Think they'll do it?" said Pete, panting like one of the hounds. "I'm sure they will." "Be worse than the flogging," cried Pete excitedly; "they'll tear all the skin off my back. But I don't care; I'm ready. They'll leave the bones." "Ready, then?" cried Nic. "The moment there's room make a back for the dogs." The eager talking excited the great animals, and they began to sniff at the speakers and growl; but Nic's blood was up, and he was ready to risk an attack on the chance of his scheme succeeding. "A dog is a dog, whether it's here or at home, and I know their nature pretty well." The next moment he was proving it by leaping to his feet. "Hey, boys, then!" he cried loudly; "the woods--a run in the woods!" The dogs sprang round him, and began leaping up, barking excitedly. "Come on, then," he shouted, though his heart leaped with a choking sensation at his mouth; and, scrambling up to the opening by means of the pegs, he was the next minute squeezing himself through, the dogs bounding up at him as he went, and nearly causing him to fall. For one moment he felt he was being dragged back, and shuddered at the thought of what might happen if the excited animals got him down. But the dread passed away as quickly as it had come. He tore off another of the shingles to widen the opening, and shouted down into the shed: "Come on, then. Come on." Already the hounds were growing savage in their disappointment, and baying and growling with tremendous clamour, as they kept on leaping over each other and dropping back. But at the words of encouragement from above one of them awoke to the fact that there was a step all ready in the darkness, and, leaping upon it, the great creature reached up, got its paws on the sides of the opening, scrambled through without help from Nic, as he sat on the roof, and leaped down. That was enough; the others followed quickly, and the next minute Pete was up, seated by Nic's side, the dogs now leaping at them from below, barking loudly. "Hurt?" panted Nic. "Not a bit. Durst us jump down?" "We must," cried Nic firmly; and, shouting to the dogs, he lowered himself down, dropped to the ground, and was followed by Pete. "Hie on, boys! Forward, then!" cried Nic, as the dogs leaped and bounded around him, and he began to trot away from the river. "Which way?" said Pete, who was as excited now as his companion. "Wherever the dogs lead us," replied Nic. "Anywhere away from this slavery and death. Forward, then, boys! Hie on!" The dogs ceased barking and began dashing on through the plantation leading to the nearest wood. The hunt was up, and Nic had rightly weighed their nature. They were off in chase of something; that was enough, and the two men followed, feeling that at last they were on the highroad to freedom, with their most dreaded enemies turned to friends. "Master Nic," said Pete hoarsely as they trotted on, step for step following the sound made by the heavy dogs, "I aren't never been a 'ligious sort of a chap, but would it be any harm if, instead o' kneeling down proper, I was to try and say a prayer as we run?" "Harm, Pete?" cried Nic, with a wild, hysterical ring in his voice; "it could not be. Why, I've been praying for help ever since I leaped down among those savage beasts. I could not have ventured but for that." Sound travels far during the night, and, though the fugitives were not aware of it, their attempt to escape was known. For, just when the dogs were free of the shed and were baying their loudest, the settler, at the head of his men, turned to Saunders: "Hear that?" he said hoarsely. "Yes. They've risked it, and the dogs are running them down. Well, they have only themselves to thank; I wash my hands of it all." The settler shuddered, for his companion's words had brought up a thought that was full of horror; and for a moment he was about to order his blacks to turn back. But just then the overseer whispered: "Keep up, sir; not a sound, please. We shall have them now." "No firing," said the settler quickly; "they will be unarmed." "I don't know that," said the overseer; "but we shall soon know. Hadn't we better deal with them as they deal with us? Hark! the dogs are quiet now. They've got their prisoners, and, if I'm not wrong, in a few minutes we shall have taken ours." "Heah dat, Zerk?" whispered Samson. There was a grunt. "You an' me's gwan to have de arm-ache to-morrow morn' wid all dat lot to flog." "Iss," whispered Xerxes; "and den got to go and bury dem oder one bones." CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. A NIGHT'S MUDDLE. On went the dogs, apparently following the track of some animal; and, as they seemed to be leading the fugitives farther and farther away from the plantation, nothing Nic felt, could be better. For, in spite of the long imprisonment at the settler's place, the knowledge of the prisoners was confined to the river and the clearings about the house. Certainly they had had a view of the distant hills; but all beyond the plantation, save towards the swamp, was unknown land. "We can't do better than go on, Pete," said Nic, after following the dogs for about an hour. "Don't see as we can, zir. They're hunting after zomething they've got the zmell of, and maybe, if we cross their scent, they may begin hunting us; zo I zay let 'em go. You zee, they're mostly kep' chained up in them gashly kennels o' theirs; and they're enjoying a run in the woods. Any idee where we be?" "Not the slightest, Pete; but at any rate we're free." "Till we're ketched again, Master Nic. But I zay, you'll show fight if they should catch up to uz?" "Yes, Pete; I should feel so desperate that I should be ready to die sooner than give up now." "That's me all over, lad," said Pete. "I zay, though; couldn't get to be more friends still wi' the dogs, and make 'em fight for uz, could we?" Nic laughed bitterly, and then stopped short, for the yelping had ceased. "Can you hear the hounds now?" A sharp burst of barking a short distance away told of their direction, and after wandering in and out among the trees for a few minutes, they found the three great creatures apparently waiting for them to come up before starting off again. This went on for a full hour longer, the dogs leading them on and on, evidently getting scent of one of the little animals the blacks hunted from time to time; but from their clumsiness, and the activity of the little quarry, each run being without result. "Where are we now?" said Pete at last, after the yelping of the little pack had ceased. "It is impossible to say," replied Nic. "It is all so much alike here in the darkness that I have felt helpless ever since we started; but we must be many miles away from the plantation, and I hardly know how the night has gone in this excitement; but it must be near morning." "Must be," said Pete, "for my clothes are quite dry again, and I'm getting thirsty. What are we going to do now?" "Keep on, and coax the dogs more and more away. We must not let them go back." "No; that wouldn't do, Master Nic. On'y if they don't ketch anything they'll get hungry, and if they gets hungry they'll grow zavage; and if they grow zavage, what's going to happen then?" "Wait till the trouble comes, Pete," replied Nic; "then we'll see." "That's good zense, Master Nic; and I b'lieve them brutes are lying down and resting zomewhere. Shall I give a whistle?" "Yes; it would do no harm." Pete uttered a low, piping sound such as would be given by a bird, and it was answered by a bark which showed the direction; and, on turning towards it, a minute had not elapsed before they heard the heavy panting of the three animals, which sprang up and came to them, lolling out their tongues to be caressed. "Good old dogs, then," said Nic, patting their heads. "Go on, and take us right away, and when it gets daylight you may all have a good sleep. Hie on, then, boys; hie on! Right away." The dogs threw up their heads, snuffed about a bit, and then started off once more at a steady pace, which soon slowed down, and made the task of following them in the darkness much less difficult. Then all at once one of them uttered a low, whining sound and sprang off a little faster. For the ground was more open here, the trees bigger, and the undergrowth--the great hindrance--scarce. "Better going here, Master Nic, if it waren't for the great roots sticking out. Now, if the day would only break we should be able to zee better what we were doing. My word! if we could only come across a good wild-apple orchard it wouldn't be amiss." "And that we shall not find." "Never mind, zir; we'll find zum'at else--toadstools on the trees, or wild berries, or zomething; and if them dogs don't run down anything good for a roast, why, they don't come up to one of our old Devon lurchers. If this was one of our woods we shouldn't be long without something between our teeth. Don't you be downhearted; I'll find zome'at we can eat." "I am not downhearted, Pete; and, if we can do so in safety, we'll go on walking all day." "That's right; on'y we don't want to run upon no more plantations." "No; we must trust to the wild country, Pete, till we can reach the sea." "And not feel zafe when we get there, zir. Zay, Master Nic, I don't think much of a country where they has zlaves, whether they're white or whether they're black." "Never mind that now, Pete; we have escaped." "And without my having a chance to thrash Humpy Dee, and giving Master Zaunders one for his nob." "Hist! what's that?" whispered Nic, as a peculiar sound came through the trees. "Water!" said Pete excitedly. "The dogs lapping. Come on, zir. My mouth's as if it was full of dust. The very thing we want." The next minute the darkness seemed to be less intense, and in another they were close to a little stream, where the dogs were drinking deeply; but they left the edge as the fugitives came up, shook themselves, and stood by while Pete sought for a place a little higher up. "Here you are, Master Nic," he said. "They might ha' let uz have first go; but I forgive 'em for finding it. Lie down on your face and drink." Nic needed no incitement, and Pete followed his example, both enjoying the sweetest, most refreshing draught that had ever passed their lips. "Hall!" ejaculated Pete as he raised himself into a sitting posture. "Can't drink any more. Hope we aren't zwallowed no young 'gators or a snake; but if we have, zir, it'll be vittles as well as drink, and do uz good." "Ugh! don't talk about it," said Nic. "But where are the dogs?" "Eh? Gone on, I s'pose; and we must trot on too. I'm ready for anything now." "Look, Pete. Yonder's the east." "That's our way then, zir." "And the sun will not be long before it's up. It is getting light fast. Come along and find the dogs. We came up from the left; they will go right on to the right. We should have heard them if they had crossed the stream." "That's right, lad. What a good--" Pete was going to say poacher, but he checked himself--"wood-man you'd have made. Forward, then. It's all open yonder." A minute later they had stopped short, to see the three dogs walking across a clearing, plainly seen in the grey dawn, while to the left the stream had widened out. It was only a momentary pause, and then the fugitives shrank back into cover, chilled to the heart by the dreadful truth. The dogs, quite at home in the neighbouring forest, had taken them a long round, and brought them back to the plantation; and now, wearied out, they were making their way to their kennel at the back of the house and sheds. The night's labour seemed to have been all in vain; and Nic laid his hand upon his companion's shoulder as he said, with a bitter sigh: "Pete, Pete, it is hopeless. We shall never see the old home again." CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. NEVER SAY DIE. "What zay?" cried Pete sharply. "Never zay die, lad. English lads are never beat. Look at that!" He pointed through the trees at where the streamlet widened into the little creek where they had first landed, and Nic rubbed his eyes, refusing to believe in what he saw. But there it was plain enough in the dim, grey dawn--the boat lying tied up to the post; and a great sob rose to the poor fellow's lips, while for a few moments he could not stir. Then a thrill of excitement ran through him as he looked round and saw that the dogs had passed out of sight beyond the long, low shed which had been their jail. It came like a flash to him now what must have taken place--one of those guesses at the truth which hit the mark. He knew that his enemies had dashed off in pursuit of the men who had made for the boat. They must have been overtaken during the night, brought back, and were doubtless at that moment shut up in their old quarters. Nic hurriedly told Pete his impression, and the latter slapped his leg. "That's it," he said, "and zarve 'em right, zir. That's tumbling into the hole you made for zomebody else, isn't it? That's why they've not blown the old shell yet and didn't put the boat back. Been out all night." "Could we make sure by trying to see whether there is any one on guard at the barrack-door?" "Zoon do that, zir," said Pete; and, going down upon hands and knees, he crawled away among the bushes, to be back in a few minutes. "Old Zamson and Zerk both there at the door, zir, with guns." "Then they have caught them," said Nic excitedly. "But the blacks are both sitting down, fast asleep, zir." "Worn out with their night's work, Pete; but the prisoners will be well ironed and safe enough." "Ay, zir, or they'd have had the boat by now." "Now then, can we crawl to it under cover? We must be off at once." "Couldn't on'y crawl half-way, zir, and then it's all open, and we might be shot at if they zaw us from the house. Better make a dash for it at once and chance it." "Come on, then," cried Nic; and they ran as quickly as they could down by the side of the creek, reached the boat in safety, found that the poles and oars were in their places, and jumped in. There was no stopping to untie the rope which ran across the gunwale. Pete's knife flew out and sawed through it in a moment or two. Then one vigorous thrust sent the craft into the stream; but before they had cleared the creek there was a shout, followed by the whiz of a bullet and the report of a musket. "All right; fire away. Shouldn't come back if you was a ridgment of zojers," cried Pete, who was sending the boat along vigorously with the pole. "Lie down, Master Nic; they're going to shoot again." "And leave you there?" cried Nic. "No." Instead of screening himself by the boat's side, Nic seized two oars, got them over the rowlocks, and as soon as they were in the river he began to pull with all his might, watching the figure of Saunders limping slowly down after them and stopping from time to time for a shot; Samson and Xerxes, wakened by the firing, hurrying up, handing him a fresh musket, and reloading each time. "Don't see nothing of the gaffer," said Pete coolly; "he must have been hurt too, or he'd have been after us. There come the blacks. Hear that?" Plainly enough, for the whistle was very shrill, and it was answered by the dogs, which came tearing round the end of the shed to follow the overseer. "Row faster than they can zwim," said Pete, laying down the pole. "Here, give us one oar, Master Nic," he continued; and, taking his seat, the oar was handed to him, and, aided by the current, the boat began to move more swiftly. "Why, there's the gaffer," cried Pete suddenly; and Nic saw that the settler was coming down from the house by the help of a stick, while the dogs stood close by Saunders, barking loudly. "There must have been a desperate fight in the night, Pete," cried Nic. "Look, there are two of the blacks with their heads tied up." "And jolly glad I am, Master Nic. I shouldn't have cried much if they'd all killed one another and left nothing but the bones. There, put that gun away, stoopid; you can't hit us at this distance." The overseer seemed to have thought so too, for he lowered the musket, and Nic just caught sight of him striking savagely with it at the dogs, which began to bay and make rushes at him. But Nic saw no more, for a bend in the river, with a clump of trees thereon, hid the plantation from their sight; while Pete began to sing an old West-country ditty, something about a clever moneyless adventurer who, no matter what task he undertook, always succeeded in getting the best of his adversaries. The words were absurd and often childish, but there was a ring in the familiar old melody that went straight to Nic's heart and brought a strange moisture to his eyes, for it thrilled him with hope, and brought up memories of the far-away home that he began to feel now he might see again. And that feeling of hope drove away the horrible dread and the miserable sensation of weariness, sending vigour through every nerve, and making him bend to his oar to take a full grip of the water and swing back at the same moment as Pete, making the river ripple and plash beneath the bows and driving the boat merrily along, just as if the two fugitives were moved by the same spirit. "Zome zaid a penny, but I zaid five poun'. The wager was laid, but the money not down. Zinging right fol de ree, fol de riddle lee While I am a-zinging I'd five poun' free," chanted Pete in a fine, round, musical bass voice, and the trees on one side echoed it back, while the ungreased rowlocks, as the oars swung to and fro, seemed to Nic's excited fancy to keep on saying, "Dev-on, Dev-on, Dev-on," in cheery reiteration. "Zinging right fol de ree!" cried Pete. "Zay, Master Nic, why don't you join in chorus? You know that old zong." "Ay, Pete, I know it," said Nic; "but my heart's too full for singing." "Nay, not it, lad. Do you good. That's why I began. Mine felt so full that it was ready to burst out, and if I hadn't begun to zing I should ha' broken zomething. I zay, Master Nic, get out o' stroke and hit me a good whack or two with your oar and fisties, right in the back." "What for?" "To waken me up. I'm dreaming, I'm afraid, and I'd rather be roused up than go on in a dream like this. It's zo hearty, you zee, and makes me feel as if I could go on rowing for a month without getting tired." "So do I now, Pete." "Well, that's real, Master Nic. I dunno, though; p'raps it aren't, and I want it cut short. It would be horrid to wake up and find it all zleep-hatching; but the longer I go on the worse I shall be. It's dreaming, aren't it, and we didn't get away?" "You know it is not a dream, Pete," replied Nic. "We have escaped--I mean, we have begun to escape." "Begun, lad? Why, we've half-done it," cried Pete, who was wild with excitement. "Pull away, and let's zhow 'em what West-country muscles can do. Pull lad, pull, and keep me at it, or I zhall be getting up and dancing zailor's hornpipe all over the boat, and without music. Music! Who wants music? My heart's full of music and zinging of home again, and I don't know what's come to my eyes. Master Nic, all this river, and the trees, and fog rising on each zide through the trees, looks zo beautiful that I must be dreaming. Zay, lad, do tell me I ra-ally am awake." "Yes, Pete, awake--wide awake; and I am feeling just the same. My heart's beating with hope as it never beat before." "Hooroar for Master Nic's heart!" cried the big fellow wildly. "Beat away, good old heart, for we're going to do it, and it'll be just as easy as kissing your hand." "We mustn't be too sanguine." "Oh yes, we must, lad. I don't know what being zangwing is, but if it's anything to do with fancying we shall get away, I zay let's be as zangwing as we can. None of your getting into the dumps and `shan't do it' now. We're free, my lad--free; and I should just like to have a cut at any one as zays we aren't. Zlaves, indeed! White zlaves! But I knowed it couldn't last. You can't make a zlave of an Englishman, Master Nic. You may call him one, and put irons on him, or shut him up like zyder in a cask, and hammer the bung in; but zooner or later he'll zend the bung out flying, or burst the hoops and scatter the staves. It was only waiting our chance, and we've got it; and here we are rowing down this here river in the boat, and they may hoe the old plantation themselves. Zay, Master Nic." "Yes, Pete." "Don't it zeem strange what a differ a black skin makes in a man?" "What do you mean--in the colour?" "Nay-ay-ay-ay, lad! I mean 'bout being a zlave. Here's these niggers brought here and made zlaves of, and they zettles down to it as happy-go-lucky as can be. They don't zeem to mind. They eat and drink all they can, and zleep as much as they can, and they do as little work as they can. Why, I zometimes did three times as much hoeing as one o' they in a day; and that aren't bragging." "No, Pete; they took it very easy." "I should just think they did, my lad; and then the way they'd laugh! I never zee any one laugh as they could. I s'pose that's what makes their mouths zo big and their teeth zo white. Gets 'em bleached by opening their mouths zo wide." "Look, Pete!" whispered Nic. "Wasn't that something moving on the right bank?" "Yes; I zee it, Master Nic. Dunno what it was, but it waren't a man on the watch. Zay; they aren't got another boat anywhere, have they?" "Oh no; I feel sure they have not," said Nic sharply. "Then we're all right. This water's running zwift, and we're making the boat move pretty fast. They can't zwim half as fast as we're going, and they've no horses, and the dogs can't smell on the river, even if they made a raft of the trees they've got cut down yonder." "It would take them a day, Pete." "Ay, it would, Master Nic; and going on as we're going, we shall be a long way on at the end of a day." "Yes; we shall be some distance towards the mouth. I begin to think, Pete, that we shall really manage to escape." "Yes, we've done it this time, Master Nic; and we only want a veal-pie, a cold zalmon, a couple o' loaves, and a stone bottle o' zyder, to be 'bout as happy as any one could be." "But do you think we can reach the mouth of the river without being stopped?" "Don't zee who's to stop uz, zir," said Pete coolly. "What we've got to do is to row a steady stroke till we come to a place where we can get zome'at to eat; and then we'll row right out to zea, and get ourselves picked up by the first ship we can board. But we zeem to want that there veal-pie, cold zalmon, two loaves, and the stone bottle." "Yes, we want provisions, Pete. Are you keeping a good, sharp lookout?" "I just am, Master Nic. I'm afraid it's taking zome of the bark off when I look among the trees. But we needn't; nobody can't overtake uz unless we tie the boat up to a tree on the bank and lie down to go to zleep." "And that we shall not even think of doing, Pete." "That's zo, Master Nic. But by-and-by, when the zun gets hot and you're a bit tired, we'll get ashore zomewhere to break off a few good leafy boughs and make a bit of a shelter in the stern of the boat, zo as you can lie down and have a zleep." "Or you, Pete." "When it's my turn, Master Nic. We'll take watch and watch, as the zailors call it, zo as to keep the boat going till we get aboard a ship. I zay, how far do you make it to the landing-place where we come aboard the boat?" "I can't say, Pete," replied Nic. "I was in such a confused state that I have lost all count." "And I aren't much better, zir. You zee, we landed and slept on the road, and that took up time; but I've allowed us three days and nights as being plenty to get down to the zea; and that means tying up to the bank when the river's again' uz--I mean, when we come to where the tide runs, for we should knock ourzelves up trying to pull this heavy, lumbering old boat against the stream." Nic nodded, as he kept on looking anxiously astern; but he said nothing, and they rowed steadily on. "Zay, Master Nic," said Pete suddenly. "Yes." "Getting hot, aren't it?" "Terribly." "Well, I can't zay that, zir, because the zun aren't shining now on a zlave's back; it's on a free man's, and that makes all the differ. But what are you thinking about?" "The possibility of seeing another boat coming round the bend of the river." "It's unpossible, zir. The gaffer hadn't got no other boat to come in. I believe we was the only other planters up the river, and that there'll be no boat till we come to the places where we stayed of a night, and it's a zight nearer the zea. I keep on thinking, though, a deal." "What about--our escaping?" "Nay. It's very queer, Master Nic, and I s'pose it's because I'm zo empty." "Thinking of food, Pete?" said Nic sadly. "Yes, Master Nic. More I tries not to, more I keeps on 'bout veal-pie, cold zalmon, and zyder." "Ah yes, we must contrive to get some provisions after a bit." They rowed on in silence for some time, with the sun gathering power and beating down upon their heads, and flashing back from the surface of the river, till at last Pete said suddenly: "We must run the boat ashore close to those trees, Master Nic, or we shall be going queer in the head for want of cover." "Yes; I feel giddy now, Pete. Do you think we could tie a few leaves together for hats?" "You'll zee, my lad," said the man. "I could do it best with rushes, but I'll work zomething to keep off the zun." The boat was run in under the shade of a tree whose boughs hung down and dipped in the running stream; and as Pete laid in his oar he glanced down over the side and saw fish gliding away, deep down in the transparent water. "Zee um, zir?" said Pete. "Yes; there are some good-sized fish, Pete." "And either of 'em would make uz a dinner if we'd got a line." "And bait, Pete." "Oh, I'll manage a bait, Master Nic. Dessay they'd take a fly, a beetle, or a berry, or a worm, but I aren't got neither hook nor line. I'm going to have one, though, zoon, for the way I'm thinking o' cold zalmon is just horrid. I could eat it raw, or live even, without waiting for it to be cooked. These aren't zalmon, but they're vish." Nic said little, for he could think of nothing but the overseer coming into sight with musket and dogs, and his eyes were constantly directed up the river. But Pete took it all more calmly. He had dragged the boat beneath the shade of the overhanging tree, secured it to one of the boughs with the remains of the rope, several feet having fortunately been passed through the ring-bolt to lie loose in the bottom; and while Nic kept watch he roughed out something in the shape of a couple of basket-like caps, wove in and out a few leaves, and ended by placing them before his companion. "They aren't very han'some, Master Nic," he said, "but they'll keep the zun off. What do you zay now to lying down and having a nap while I take the watch?" "No, no," cried Nic excitedly; "let's go on at once." "I'm ready, Master Nic, but, if you could take both oars, I've been thinking that I could cut off one sleeve of my shirt, loosen and pull out the threads, and then twissen 'em up into a sort o' fishing-line, paying it over with some of the soft pitch here at the bottom of the boat, so as it would hold together a bit." "And what about a fish-hook?" asked Nic. "Ah, that's what bothers me, master. I've been thinking that when we get on into that great big marsh of a place where the river runs through the trees we might stop and vish, for there must be plenty there, or else the 'gators wouldn't be so plentiful. I did zee one big fellow, close to the top, in the clear water where it looked like wine. I thought it was a pike as we come up, and I felt as if I should like to try for him; but how to do it without a hook's more than I can tell. But we must have zomething to eat, Master Nic, or we shall be starved, and never get away after all." "Go on making your line," said Nic thoughtfully. "I'll row." As Nic took both oars Pete unfastened the piece of rope, and the boat began to glide along with the stream, while the latter burst into a low and hearty laugh. "On'y think o' that now, Master Nic. There's no need for me to spoil my shirt when there's a vishing-line half-made, and a hook waiting to be finished." "Where? What do you mean?" cried Nic excitedly. "Why, here in the bows, lad. I've on'y got to unlay this piece o' rope--it's nearly new-- and then I can twist up yards o' line." "But the hook, man--the hook?" "There it be, Master Nic--the ring in the bolt. I've on'y got to zaw it through with my knife, bend it to get it out, and then hammer one part out straight, ready to tie on to the line, and there you are." "But--" "Oh, I know; it won't be as good as a cod-hook, because it won't have no point nor no barb, but I'll tie a big frog or a bit o' zomething on to it, and if I don't yank a vish out with it afore night I never caught a zalmon." Nic winced a little at the word "salmon," but he kept his thoughts to himself and went on rowing; while Pete set to work with such goodwill that he soon had plenty of the rope unlaid, and began to plait the hempen threads into a coarse line, which grew rapidly between his clever fingers. But many hours had passed, and they were gliding through the interminable shades of the cypress swamp before he prepared to saw at the ring. It was Nic who made the next suggestion. "Pete," he said quickly, "why not take the head off the pole? It is very small for a boat-hook, and it is quite bright. There's a hole for you to fasten the line to, and a big pike-like fish might run at it as it is drawn through the water." "Of course it might, lad. Well, that is a good idea. Why waren't I born clever?" Pete set to work at once, and after a great deal of hard work he managed to cut away the wood from the nail-like rivet which held the head on to the shaft, after which a few blows sufficed to break the iron hook away, with the cross rivet still in place, ready to serve as a hold for the newly-made line. "Wonder whether a vish'll take it, Master Nic," said Pete as he stood up in the boat. "Now if it was one o' them 'gators I could lash my knife on to the end of the pole and spear a little un, but I s'pose it wouldn't be good to eat." Nic shook his head. "Might manage one to-morrow, zir, if we don't ketch a vish." Nic shook his head again. "I mean, zir, when we're nex' door to starvation-point. Don't feel as if I could touch one to-day." "Don't talk about the horrible reptiles, Pete," said Nic, with a shudder. "Right, Master Nic, I won't, for horrid they be; and I don't mind telling you that when I zwimmed across to get this boat I was in such a fright all the time that I felt all of a zweat. I don't know whether I was, for it don't zeem nat'ral-like for a man to come all over wet when he's all wet already; but that's how I felt. There we are, then. I'm ready, Master Nic, if you'll go on steady, on'y taking a dip now and then to keep her head straight." He held up the iron hook, which began to spin round, and he chuckled aloud. "I wouldn't be zuch a vool as to throw a thing like that into the water at home, Master Nic," he said, "for no vish would be zuch a vool as to run at it; but out here the vish are only zavages, and don't know any better. That's what I hopes." Nic began to dip an oar now and then, so as to avoid the rotten stumps, snags, and half-fallen trees, as the stream carried them on, so that he had little opportunity for noting the occupants of this dismal swamp; but Pete's eyes were sharp, and he saw a good deal of the hideous, great lizard-like creatures lying about on the mud or upon rotten trunks, with their horny sides glistening in the pencils of light which pierced the foliage overhead, or made sunny patches where, for the most part, all was a dim twilight, terribly suggestive of what a man's fate might be if he overbalanced himself and fell out of the boat. "I believe them great 'gators are zo hungry," said Pete to himself, "that they'd rush at one altogether and finish a fellow, bones and all." At last: "Looks a reg'lar vishy place, Master Nic; zo here goes." Pete gave the bright hook a swing and cast it half-a-dozen yards from the boat to where it fell with a splash, which was followed by a curious movement of the amber-hued water; and then he began to snatch with the line, so as to make the bright iron play about. Then there was a sudden check. "Back water, Master Nic," cried Pete. "I'm fast in zomething." "Yes," said Nic, obeying his order; "you're caught in a sunken tree. Mind, or you'll break your line." "That's what I'm feared on, Master Nic, but it's 'bout the liveliest tree I ever felt. Look where the line's going. I'm feared it's gone." The line was cutting the water and gliding through Pete's fingers till he checked it at the end, when a black tail rose above the surface and fell with a splash, and the line slackened and was hauled in. "Hook aren't gone, zir," said Pete as he drew it over the side. "Rum vishing that there. Why, it were one o' them 'gators, five or six foot long. Let's try lower down." They tried as Pete suggested, and there was another boil in the water, but the hook was drawn in without a touch; and Pete tried again and again, till he felt the glistening iron seized by something which held on fast. "Got him this time, zir," said Pete, with his face lighting up. "It's a vish now. One o' they pike things, and not zo very big." "Haul in quick," cried Nic. It was an unnecessary order, for the line was rapidly drawn close inboard, and Pete lowered one hand to take a short grip and swing his captive out of the water. But he put too much vigour into the effort, and flung his prize right over just as it shook itself clear of the hook, and fell upon the gunwale before glancing off back into the water. No fish, but an alligator about thirty inches long. "Ugh!" ejaculated Pete; "and I thought I'd got a vish. Never mind, Master Nic. We'll have zomething good yet." His companion did not feel hopeful. It was evident that the water swarmed with the reptiles, and in spite of the terribly faint sensation of hunger that was increasing fast, Nic felt disposed to tell his companion to give up trying, when suddenly there was a fierce rush after the glistening hook as it was being dragged through the water, a sudden check, and the water boiled again as Pete hauled in the line, sea fishing fashion, to get his captive into the boat before it could struggle free from the clumsy hook. This time success attended Pete's efforts. He got hold of the line close to the iron, and with a vigorous swing threw his prize into the boat just as the hook came away, leaving the fish to begin leaping about, till Nic stunned it with a heavy blow from the boat-hook pole. "I knowed we should do it, Master Nic," said Pete triumphantly. "There now, aren't it zummat like one of our big pike at home? Now, that's good to eat; and the next game's tie up to the zhore where there's some dry wood, and we'll light a fire." "Yes," said Nic as he bent over their prize. "I suppose it's what they call the alligator-gar, Pete." "Dessay it is, zir; but I don't care what they calls it--Ah, would you?" cried Pete, stamping his bare foot upon the great fish as it made a leap to escape. Nic too was on the alert, and he thrust the ragged head of the pole between the teeth-armed, gaping jaws, which closed upon it fiercely and held on. But Pete's knife was out next moment, and a well-directed cut put the savage creature beyond the power to do mischief. "A twenty-pounder, Master Nic. Wish it were one o' your zalmon. There, I'll zoon clean him, while you run the boat in at a good place." "But how are we to get a fire, Pete?" said Nic anxiously, for an intense feeling of hunger now set in. "I'll zoon show you that, lad," replied Pete; and he did. In a very short time after, by means of a little flint he carried in company with his pocket-knife, the back of the blade, and some dry touchwood from a rotting tree, he soon had a fire glowing, then blazing, for there was dead-wood enough to make campfires for an army. Another quarter of an hour passed, and the big fish was hissing and spluttering on a wooden spit over the glowing embers; and at last they were able to fall to and eat of the whitest, juiciest flesh--as it seemed to them--that they had ever tasted. "Bit o' zalt'd be worth anything now, Master Nic, and I wouldn't turn up my nose at a good thick bit o' bread and butter, and a drop o' zyder'd be better than river water; but, take it all together, I zay as zalmon's nothing to this here, and we've got enough to last uz for a couple or three days to come." "Now for a few big leaves to wrap the rest in," said Nic at last, after they had thoroughly satisfied their hunger. "Right, Master Nic; but I must have a good drink o' water first." "Yes," said Nic, suddenly awakening to the fact that he was extremely thirsty, and he rose to his feet to utter a cry of horror. "Pete--Pete! The boat! the boat!" Pete leaped up and stared aghast, for the action of the running stream had loosened the thin remnants of the rope with which they had moored their boat. These had parted, and the craft was gliding rapidly away, a quarter of a mile down the river. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. A STERN-CHASE. "Oh, why didn't I watch it?" groaned Pete, in agony; and his next glance was along the bank of the river, with the idea of running till opposite the boat. He groaned again as he grasped the fact that he could not run, only walk for two or three yards before the dense tangle of the forest commenced, and progress through that was impossible. "Means zwim for it, Master Nic," he cried, with an attempt at being cheery; "but look here, lad, if you zee me pulled down by them 'gators or vish, let it be a lesson to you. Don't you try the water." Then to himself, as he plunged in: "Why, o' course he wouldn't. What's the good o' saying that?" The water was deep and clear close in to the overhanging bank, and Pete dived out of sight, scaring some occupant of the river, which swept itself away with as much commotion in the water as was caused by the man's dive; but when he rose to the surface, yards away, shook his head, and glanced back over his left shoulder, it was to see Nic's head rise a short distance behind him, for the younger man had followed on the instant. Pete ceased swimming, to allow his companion to come abreast. "Oh, Master Nic!" he cried, "you zhouldn't ha' done that;" and he glanced wildly about him as if expecting to see the rugged head of an alligator rise close by. "Go back, lad; go back. It's on'y one man's work." "Go back? No," said Nic firmly. "We must fight it out, shoulders together, Pete. Come on." Pete gave vent to something like a sob, and his face grew wrinkled; but the next moment he forced a smile. "Well, you're master," he said cheerily; "zo now for it, zir. You zwim lighter than I do, but I'll race you down to the boat. Virst to lay a hand on gunwale wins." "Come on," said Nic, fighting hard to master the horrible feeling that at any moment they might be attacked from beneath by one or other of the fierce creatures which inhabited the stream--Nic's dread being mostly respecting the shark-like gar-fish, which he knew must be abundant. Pete shared his dread, but they both kept their thoughts to themselves as they swam on with strong, steady strokes, their light clothing of shirt and short drawers impeding them but slightly. Life from childhood on the seashore had conduced to making them expert swimmers; the swift stream helped them famously; and, keeping well away towards the middle to avoid the eddies near the shore, they went on steadily after the boat. But this, in its light state, was being swept rapidly on, and had so good a start that for some time the swimmers did not seem to gain upon it in the least, and at last, as the distance still remained about the same, a feeling of despair began to attack them. Pete saw the change in his fellow-swimmer's countenance. "Take it easy, Master Nic. Long ztroke and zlow. We could keep this up all day. On'y got to zwim steady: river does all the work." "We must swim faster, Pete, or we shall never reach the boat," cried Nic. "Nay, lad; if we zwim hard we shall get tired out, and lose ground then. Easy as you can. She may get closer in and be caught by zome of the branches." Nic said no more, but swam on, keeping his straining eyes fixed upon the ever-distant boat, till at last hope began to rise again, for the craft did happen to be taken by the eddy formed by a stream which joined the river, and directly after they saw it being driven towards one of the huge trees which dipped its pendent boughs far out in the water. The feeling of excitement made Nic's breath come thick and fast as he saw the boat brush against the leafage, pause for a few moments, and the young man was ready to utter a cry of joy, but it died out in a low groan, for the boat continued its progress, the twigs swept over it, and the power of the stream mastered. But it was caught again, and they saw it heel over a little, free itself, and then, swaying a little, it seemed to bound on faster than ever. "Never mind, lad," said Pete coolly; "it'll catch again soon." Pete was right; the boat was nearer to the wall of verdure, and it once more seemed to be entangled in some boughs which dipped below the surface and hung there, while the swimmers reduced the distance between them and the boat forty or fifty yards. Then, with a swift gliding motion, it was off again. "That's twice," cried Pete. "Third time does it. Zay, Master Nic, aren't the water nice and cold?" The look which Nic gave the speaker in his despair checked Pete's efforts to make the best of things. "A beast!" he muttered to himself. "I should like to drive my hoof through her planks. Heavy boat? Why, she dances over the water like a cork." At that moment Nic could not suppress a sharp cry, and he made a spasmodic dash through the water. "Eh, my lad, what is it?" cried Pete, who was startled. "One of the great fishes or reptiles made a dash at me and struck me on the leg," gasped Nic. "Nay, nay, don't zay that, lad. You kicked again a floating log. There's hunderds allus going down to the zea." Nic shook his head, and Pete felt that he was right, for the next minute he was swimming on with his keen-edged knife held in his teeth, ready for the emergency which he felt might come; but they suffered no further alarm. Disappointment followed disappointment, and weariness steadily set in; but they swam steadily on, till Nic's strength began to fail. He would not speak, though, till, feeling that he had done all that was possible, he turned his despairing eyes to Pete. Before he could speak the latter cried: "I knowed it, Master Nic, and expected it ever so long past. Now, you just turn inshore along with me; then you shall lie down and rest while I go on and ketch the boat. But how I'm to pull her back again' this zwiff stream, back to you, my lad, is more'n I know." Nic made no reply, but, breathing hard, he swam with Pete to an open spot at the side, and had just strength to draw himself out by a hanging branch, and then drop down exhausted, with the water streaming from him. "No, no; don't leave me, Pete," he cried hoarsely. "Must, my lad, must;" cried the man, preparing to turn and swim away. "You stop there, and I can zee you when I come back." "It is impossible to overtake it. We must try and get down through the trees. You can't do it, I tell you." "Must, and will, my lad," cried Pete. "Never zay die." Nic sank back and watched the brave fellow as he swam away more vigorously than ever. At every stroke Pete's shoulders rose well above the surface, and, to all appearance, he was as fresh as when he started. But there was the boat gliding down the stream, far enough away now, and beginning to look small between the towering trees rising on either side of the straight reach along which Nic gazed; and the watcher's agony grew intense. "He'll swim till he gives up and sinks," said Nic to himself; "or else one of those horrid reptiles will drag him down." He drew breath a little more hopefully, though, as he saw a bright flash of light glance from where Pete was swimming, for it told that the keen knife was held ready in the strong man's teeth; and he knew that the arm was vigorous that would deliver thrust after thrust at any enemy which attempted to drag him down. With the cessation of his exertion, Nic's breath began to come more easily, and he sat up to watch the head of the swimmer getting rapidly farther away, feeling that he had been a hindrance to the brave fellow, who had been studying his companion's powers all the time. But how much farther off the boat seemed still!--far enough to make Nic's heart sink lower and lower, and the loneliness of his situation to grow so terrible that it seemed more than he could bear. For a full half-hour he sat watching the dazzling water, from which the sun flashed, while he was in the shade. Pete had not reached the boat, but he seemed now to be getting very near, though Nic knew how deceptive the distance was, and gazed on, with a pain coming behind his eyes, till all at once his heart leaped with joy, as now he could just make out that the boat was very near the shore, apparently touching some drooping boughs. Then his heart sank again, for he told himself that it was only fancy; and he shivered again as he felt how utterly exhausted Pete must be. Every moment he felt sure that he would see that little, dark speck disappear, but still it was there; and at last the watcher's heart began to throb, for the boat must have caught against those boughs. It was not moving. The watcher would not believe this for a long time, but at last he uttered a cry of joy, followed by a groan; for, though the boat was there, the dark speck which represented Pete's head had disappeared; and, to make the watcher's despair more profound, the boat began to move once more, unmistakably gliding from beside the trees. All was over now, for Nic felt that to struggle longer was hopeless: there was nothing more to be done but lie down and die. He held his hands over his brows, straining his failing, aching eyes to keep the boat in sight as long as he could; and then a strange choking sensation came into his throat, and he rose to his knees, for there was a flash of light from the water close to the boat, and another, and another. There was a strange, indistinct something, too, above the tiny line made by the gunwale, and it could only mean one thing: Pete had overtaken it, climbed in, and the flashes of light came from the disturbed surface of the river. Pete must be trying to row her back to take him up. The intense sensation of relief at knowing that the brave fellow was alive and safe seemed more than Nic could bear. He was already upon his knees. His face was bowed down upon his hands, and for a few minutes he did not stir. At last, with a wave of strength and confidence seeming to run through every fibre of his body, Nic rose up, feeling fully rested; and, as he shaded his eyes once more to gaze down the river at the boat, the cloud of despair had floated away, and the long reach of glistening water looked like the way back to the bright world of hope and love--the way to home; while the thought of lying down there to die was but the filmy vapour of some fevered dream. Pete was coming back to him: there could be no mistake about that, for Nic could see more clearly now, and there were moments when he could distinctly see the flashing of the water when the oars were dipped. "Oh!" cried Nic, with his excitement rising now to the highest pitch, "and there was a time when I looked upon that brave, true-hearted fellow with contempt and disgust. How he is slaving there to send the great, heavy boat along!" Nic watched till his eyes ached; and once more his heart began to sink, for the truth was rapidly being forced upon him that, in spite of Pete's efforts, the boat remained nearly motionless--the poor fellow was exhausting himself in his efforts to achieve the impossible. What to do? Nic was not long in making up his mind. He knew that Pete would try till he dropped back in the boat, and it would have been all in vain. The pair of them could hardly have rowed that heavy boat up-stream, and they were as yet far above the reach of the tide, or Pete might have waited and then come up. There was only one thing to do--go down to him. A minute or two's trial proved to Nic that he could not tear his way through the dense growth on the bank till he was opposite his companion and could hail him to come ashore. There was only one thing to be done--swim down, and that he dared not do without help. But the help was near, and he set to work. He still had his keen knife, and the next moment he was hewing away at a patch of stout canes growing in the water, and as he attacked them he shuddered, for there was a wallowing rush, and he caught a glimpse of a small alligator's tail. He did not stop, though. He knew that he had frightened the reptile, and this knowledge that the creatures did fear men gave him encouragement, making him work hard till he had cut a great bundle, ample to sustain him in the water. This he firmly bound with cane, and when this was done he once more gazed at the distant boat, which did not seem to have moved an inch. How to make Pete grasp the fact that he was coming to join him? For even if he saw something floating down he would never think that it was his companion. This task too was easy. Cutting the longest cane he could reach, he cut off the leafy top, made a notch in what was left, and then inserting the point of his knife in the remaining sleeve of his shirt, he tore it off, ripped up the seam, and after dragging one end down through the knot and slit in the cane, he bound up the end with a strip of cotton, stuck the base firmly in the bundle or truss he had bound together, and so formed a little white flag. "If he sees that he'll know," said Nic triumphantly; and without a moment's hesitation he thrust off from the bank with his cane bundle under one arm, and struck out with the other, finding plenty of support, and nothing more to do than fight his way out to where the stream ran most swiftly. The scrap of white cotton fluttered bravely now and then, as, forcing himself not to think of the dangers that might be around, Nic watched and watched. He soon began to see the boat more distinctly, and in good time made out that his companion in misfortune grasped the position, rowing himself to the nearest drooping tree, making fast to a bough, and then laying in one oar and fixing the other up astern as a signal for his companion's guidance. How short the time seemed then, and how easily Nic glided down, till he became aware of the fact that Pete was leaning over the side, knife in hand, watching eagerly. This sent a shudder through the swimmer, setting him thinking again of the perils that might be near, and how unlikely any effort of Pete's would be to save him should one of the reptiles attack. The dread, however, soon passed off, for Nic's every nerve was strained to force the bundle of canes across the stream, so that it might drift right down upon the boat. He could only succeed in part, and it soon became evident that he would float by yards away; but Pete was on the alert. He cast the boat adrift from where he had secured it to a drooping bough, and giving a few vigorous pulls with one oar, in another minute he had leaned over the bows, grasped his companion's hands, dragged him into the boat, and then, as the buoyant bundle of canes floated away, the poor fellow sank back in the bottom of the boat and lay staring helplessly. "Don't you take no notice o' me, Master Nic," he said hoarsely. "Just put an oar over the ztarn and keep her head ztraight. Zhe'll go down fast enough. We ought to row up to fetch that fish we left, but we couldn't do it, zir; for I'm dead beat trying to get to you--just dead beat." He closed his eyes, and then opened them again as he felt the warm grasp of Nic's hand, smiled at him, till his eyelids dropped again, and then sank into a deep stupor more than sleep. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. WOMAN'S PITY. The sun sank lower and disappeared behind the trees straight away as the boat drifted on; the sky turned of a glorious amber, darkened quickly, and then it was black night, with the eerie cries of the birds rising on either side, and the margins of the swift river waking up into life with the hoarse bellowings and croakings of the reptiles which swarmed upon the banks. Every now and then there was a rush or a splash, or the heavy beating of the water, as some noisome creature sought its prey; and Nic sat there watching and listening, wakeful enough, and always on the alert to catch the breathing of his companion, who for hours had not stirred. "Beat out," said Nic to himself; "utterly exhausted, poor fellow! If I could only feel that it was a natural sleep." He was thoroughly done-up himself, and in spite of his efforts to keep awake, and the dread inspired by the movements of the strange creatures splashing about in the water, and often enough apparently close at hand, he could not keep from dozing off time after time, but only to start up in an agony of fear. He hardly lost consciousness, and at such times the startling noises and movements around him in the darkness seemed to be continued in the wild dreams which instantly commenced. Now in imagination he saw through the transparent darkness some huge alligator making for the boat, where it reared itself up, curved over, and seemed about to seize upon Pete, when he raised the oar with which he was keeping the boat's head straight and struck at the monster with all his might, and in the act awoke. Another time Nic dropped off, to imagine that they were slowly gliding beneath the far-spreading boughs of a gigantic forest tree; and, as they swept on, something soft and heavy suddenly hung down into the boat, began crawling about, and at last stopped its progress by coiling itself round one of the thwarts, and then raising its head high in the air and beginning to dart its tongue, now at Nic, now at the motionless body of Pete, who still lay sleeping soundly. Nic felt powerless, and lay watching the approach of the huge boa, seeing it plainly in spite of the darkness and suffering an agony of horror as he felt that he could not move, but must lie there, quite at the mercy of the powerful reptile, which drew the boat over so much on one side that the water, as it rippled by, rose apparently higher and higher till it was about to pour in. Ripple, ripple, ripple, against the sides, while the boughs of a tree swept over his face, the touch awakening the dreamer, who uttered a low gasp of relief as he realised how much the water and the brushing of the leaves over his face had had to do with the dream from which he had just been roused. Morning at last, with the east all aglow, and the beauties of river and tree sweeping away the horrors of the black night. Pete awoke as if by instinct, and started into a sitting position, to stare hard at his companion. "Why, Master Nic, you aren't never gone and let me sleep all night?" "Indeed, but I have, Pete," replied Nic. "Feel better?" "No, zir. Never felt so 'shamed of myself in my life. Oh dear! oh dear! To think of my doing that! Where are we, zir? 'Most got to that t'other zattlement, aren't uz?" "What! where we rested for the night, Pete? No; I don't think we are near that yet." "Then get nigh we must," cried Pete, putting out his oar. "We've got to find some braxfuss there. What we had yes'day don't zeem to count a bit. I zay, though, you don't think they got another boat and passed us while we were asleep, do you?" "No, Pete," replied Nic, smiling; "and I don't think that we shall dare to land at that plantation lower down. The man there would know we are escaped slaves, and stop us." "He'd better not," said Pete, with a curious look in his eyes. "He's the only man there." "There are several blacks." "Blacks!" cried Pete contemptuously. "I'm not afraid o' them. It's o' no use, Master Nic; I've tried hard to bear it, and I can bear a deal, but when it comes to starvation it's again' my natur'. I must eat, and if he calls twenty blacks to stop me I mean to have zomething, and zo shall you. Why, lad, you look as if you're half-dead wi' want o' zleep and a morsel o' food. Nay, nay; you leave that oar alone, and cover your head up with those leaves while you have a good rest. By that time p'raps we may get a bit o' braxfuss." "I'm not sleepy, Pete," said Nic sadly. "P'raps not, zir; but man must eat and he must zleep, so you lie back in the bottom of the boat. Now, no fighting agen it, zir; you worked all night, zo I must work all day." "Well, I'll lie down for an hour, Pete, for I do feel very weary. As soon as you think an hour's gone, you wake me up." "Right, Master Nic, I will," cried Pete heartily; and after a glance up and down the river, the young man sank back in the bottom of the boat, settled the leafy cap and veil in one over his face to shield it from the sun, and the next minute--to him--he unclosed his eyes to find that Pete was kneeling beside him with a hand on each shoulder as if he had been shaking the sleeper. "Hullo! Yes; all right, Pete, I've had such a sleep. Why, Pete, it must be getting on for noon." "Ay, that it is, my lad; noon to-morrow. But don't bully me, zir; you was zleeping just lovely, and I couldn't waken you. Here we are at that farm-place, and I don't zee the man about, but yonder's the two women." "And the dogs, Pete?" "Nay, don't zee no dogs. Maybe they're gone along wi' the master. Come on, lad; I've tied the boat up to this post, and we'll go up and ask the women yonder to give us a bit o' zomething to eat." The place looked very familiar as Nic glanced round and recalled the time when he reached there, and their departure the next morning, with the looks of sympathy the two women had bestowed. Just as he recalled this he caught sight of the younger woman, who came from the door of the roughly-built house, darted back and returned with her mother, both standing gazing at their visitors as they landed from the boat. "Must go up to the house quiet-like, Master Nic, or we shall scare 'em," said Pete. "Just you wave your hand a bit to show 'em you know 'em. Dessay they 'members we." Nic slowly waved his hand, and then shrugged his shoulders as he glanced down at his thin cotton rags; and his piteous plight made him ready to groan. "We must go up to them as beggars, Pete," he said. "That's right enough for me, Master Nic; but you're a gentleman, zir, and they'll know it soon as you begin to speak. Let's go on, zir. I'm that hungry I could almost eat you." Nic said nothing, but began to walk on towards the house by his companion's side, anxiously watching the two women the while, in the full expectation that they would retreat and shut the door against their visitors. But neither stirred, and the fugitives were half-way to the house, when suddenly there was a growl and a rush. "Knives, Master Nic," cried Pete, for three great dogs came charging from the back of the low shed which had given the slaves shelter on their journey up the river. The dogs had evidently been basking in the sunshine till they had caught sight of the strangers, and came on baying furiously. Nic followed his companion's example and drew his knife, feeling excited by the coming encounter; but before the dogs reached them the two women came running from the door, crying out angrily at the fierce beasts, whose loud barking dropped into angry growls as they obeyed the calls of their mistresses--the younger woman coming up first, apron in hand, to beat off the pack and drive them before her, back to one of the out-buildings, while her mother remained gazing compassionately at the visitors. "Thank you," said Nic, putting back his knife. "Your dogs took us for thieves. We are only beggars, madam, asking for a little bread." "Have you--have you escaped from up yonder?" said the woman, sinking her voice. "Yes," said Nic frankly. "I was forced away from home for no cause whatever. I am trying to get back." "It is very shocking," said the woman sadly, as her daughter came running up breathlessly. "Some of the men they have there are bad and wicked, and I suppose they deserve it; but Ann and I felt so sorry for you when you came that night months ago. You seemed so different." "You remember us, then?" said Nic, smiling sadly. "Oh yes," cried the younger woman eagerly. "But they are hungry, mother. Bring them up to the house; I've shut-in the dogs." "I don't know what your father would say if he knew what we did," said the woman sadly. "It's against the law to help slaves to escape." "It isn't against the law to give starving people something to eat, mother." "It can't be; can it, dear?" said the woman. "And we needn't help them to escape." "No," said Pete; "we can manage that if you'll give us a bit o' bread. I won't ask for meat, missus; but if you give us a bit, too, I'd thank you kindly." "Bring them up, mother," said the girl; "and if father ever knows I'll say it was all my fault." "Yes; come up to the house," said the elder woman. "I can't bear to see you poor white men taken for slaves." "God bless you for that!" cried Nic, catching at the woman's hand; but his action was so sudden that she started away in alarm. "Oh mother!" cried the girl; "can't you see what he meant?" The woman held out her hand directly, and Nic caught it. The next moment he had clasped the girl's hands, which were extended to him; but she snatched them away directly with a sob, and ran into the house, while the mother bade the pair sit down on a rough bench to rest. The girl was not long absent; but when she returned with a big loaf and a piece of bacon her eyes looked very red. "There," she said, setting the provisions before them; "you'd better take this and go, in case father should come back and see you. Don't, please, tell us which way you're going, and we won't look; for we shouldn't like to know and be obliged to tell. Oh!" The girl finished her speech with a cry of horror; for how he had approached no one could have said, but the planter suddenly came up with a gun over his shoulder, and stood looking on as, with a quick movement, Pete snatched at the loaf and thrust it under one arm. "Hullo!" said the man quietly as he looked from one to the other; "where are the dogs?" "I shut 'em up, father, so as they shouldn't hurt these two poor men." "An' s'pose these two poor men wanted to hurt you; what then?" "But they didn't, father," said the girl, as the mother stood shivering. "They were hungry, and only wanted something to eat." "Yes, that's right, master," said Pete stoutly. "We shouldn't hurt no one." "Let's see," said the planter; "I've seen you both before. My neighbour brought you up months ago." "Yes," said Nic firmly; "but he had no right to detain us as slaves." "Humph! S'pose not," said the planter, glancing sharply from one to the other. "So you're both runaways?" "We are trying for our liberty," replied Nic, who was well upon his guard; but the man's reply disarmed him. "Well, it's quite nat'ral," said the planter, with a chuckle. "Hot work hoeing the rows, eh? Took the boat, I s'pose, and rowed down?" "Yes," said Pete gruffly. "Hungry too, eh?" "Yes," said Pete again. "Course you would be. Quite nat'ral. They've give you a bit to eat, I see. Well, then, you'd better come and sit down out o' the sun and eat it, and then be off, for your overseer won't be long before he's down here after you. He's a sharp un, Master Saunders, aren't he?" "Yes; he's sharp enough," said Pete quietly. "He'll be down after you with his dogs, and then, if he catches you, there'll be a big row and a fight, and I don't want nothing o' that sort, my lads. Come on, and bring your bread and meat in here.--Ann, my gal, get 'em a pitcher o' cool, fresh water." "Yes, father," said the girl; and, as the planter turned off to lead the way, Nic caught the lass's eyes; for she began to make quick movements of her lips, and her eyes almost spoke as she pointed towards the river and signed to them to go. Nic gave her an intelligent nod, and followed Pete after the planter into the great, barn-like place which had been their prison for the night when they were there before; but as he passed the door he noticed the great wooden bar turning upon a bolt, and fully realised that the girl's signs were those of warning, for treachery was meant. "Nice and cool in here," said the man. "Sit ye down on the corn-husks there. My gal will soon be back with the water; and I wouldn't be long, if I were you, in case Master Saunders should come down the river, for when he asked me if you two was here I couldn't tell a lie about it, could I?" "No," growled Pete. "That would be a pity." "Ay; it would. But he'd know you was both here by the boat. Where did you tie it up?" "Just at the bottom there, by the trees," said Nic, to whom these words were addressed. "Ah, 'tis the best place," said the man, halting by the door, and standing aside to make room for the young men to pass. "In with you. It's better than being in the hot sun. Seems a bit dark; but it's cooler to have your dinner there. Well," he continued, "why don't you go in? The dogs are not here." "Because it looks like a trap, sir," said Nic firmly. "Do you want to shut us up there, and keep us prisoners till your neighbour comes?" "Yes, I do," cried the planter fiercely as he stepped back, and with one motion brought down and cocked his piece, which he presented at the young man's breast. "In with you both, or I'll shoot you like dogs!" He raised his gun to his shoulder and drew the trigger; but it was too late. Nic had sprung forward, striking up the barrel; and, as the mother and daughter shrieked aloud from the house door, there was a sharp report, which set the dogs baying furiously from the shed in which they were fastened. A short struggle followed, in which the gun was wrested from the planter's hands by Nic, and the next moment Pete had joined in the fray, securing the planter's arms, and then with Nic's help he was dragged and thrown into the great barn. Then the door was banged to and fastened with the bar; and the prisoner began to call and threaten what he would do if his people did not let loose the dogs. What followed would have seemed almost comic to a spectator, for the two women came hurrying up with their fingers stuck in their ears. "Run--run to your boat!" they whispered. "We can't hear what he says now, but we must soon, and then we shall be obliged to let out the dogs." "Oh, mother!" cried the girl, "the blacks will be here directly." "Yes, yes," cried the elder woman, who somehow seemed to have heard that. "Run, then, run, and get away before it is too late." "God bless you both for what you have done for us!" cried Nic. "I pray that you may not get into more trouble on our account." "Oh, father won't hurt me," said the girl; "and he shan't hurt mother. Serve him right for being so cruel. You never did him any harm." "Oh, run, run!" cried the woman, with her fingers still in her ears; and the two young men dashed off to the boat and leapt in, Nic's next action, as Pete unfastened the slight cord, being to fling the gun as far out into the river as he could. "Oh!" cried Pete, "what did you do that for?" as the gun fell with a splash and disappeared. "I was not going to steal the scoundrel's gun," said Nic, seizing an oar. "Well, it wouldn't ha' been any use without powder and zhot," said Pete as he thrust the boat out into the stream. "Good-bye to you both," he shouted, waving his hand to the two women, who stood waving their aprons. "But it seems cowardly, Pete, to go and leave them in the lurch." "Ay, it do, Master Nic; but it only means a rowing for them, and it's life and liberty for us." There was another wave of a white apron as the boat glided out into mid-stream, and Nic responded with his hand. Then trees interposed and hid the house and sheds from view, and the fugitives went on straining at their oars till they felt that their safety was assured, when they relaxed their efforts. "That was close, Master Nic," said Pete. "Treacherous martal. Wish I'd give him a good topper before we zhut the door." "I'm glad you did not, for his wife and daughter's sake," replied Nic. "Poor things! they will suffer for their gentle, womanly compassion towards a pair of poor escaped slaves." "Ay, it was good of 'em, Master Nic. Zees how hungry we were, and fetches that fresh brown loaf, and all that pink-and-white bacon as looks d'licious. Zo, as we're going gently on, and not likely for him to take boat after us, what do you say to staying all that horrid gnawing of our insides with a good bite and sup? But--I say, Master Nic, what did you do with that bacon and bread?" Nic looked sharply up at Pete, and the latter uttered a dismal groan. The bread and bacon had gone, neither knew where, in the struggle, and the landing and encounter had all been for nothing. "Not quite," Nic said later on. They had learned how much gentle compassion existed for the poor white slaves, even in a district where the sight of them was so common. "P'raps so, Master Nic; but I'd give all the compassion in the world just now for a zlice of that bacon and a hunk of bread. What's to be done now, zir?" "Row, Pete, row; and let's try and forget our hunger in the knowledge that we are so far free." "Right, zir; we will. But what about that treacherous hound? Think he's got a boat?" "Sure to have," replied Nic. "Then he'll come after as zoon as he can get help; and if he do--Well, I should be sorry to hurt him, on account of them as was kind to us; but if he does ketch it, mind, Master Nic, it's his fault and not mine." There was no more talking, for both felt morose and weak, their growing sense of hunger making them more and more silent and disinclined to speak. Still, fortune favoured them to a certain extent, for there had been rain somewhere inland, and the stream ran as if it were in flood higher up, so that their rate of progress was swift. As the hours went on and there was no sign of pursuit--no enemies who had made a short cut to the river-bank waiting to fire at them from among the trees--the fugitives grew more and more confident; and when at last they reached another swamp, the alligators appeared to be less monstrous and the gloomy place lost half its forbidding aspect. At last, after endless difficulties, and nearly starved, the tidal part of the river was reached, and, to the delight of both, they found that they had hit exactly the right moment, for the tide was at its height, and stood as if waiting to bear them onward towards the sea. Excitement had kept off all thought of food; but when, after a long journey, they approached the straggling town at nightfall and saw the twinkling lights, an intense desire seized upon both to land as soon as possible and satisfy their needs. "You see, we lost everything, Master Nic, in that struggle. What you looking at, zir?" "You, Pete. I was thinking." "What about, zir?" "About this place. If we land we must go to some house for food; and when we two half-naked, miserable, starved wretches have obtained what we want we shall be asked to pay." "My word!" gasped Pete, ceasing to row. "I never thought of that. And we aren't got any money." "Not a coin." "And they'd want it here just the same as they would at home, though it is a foreign country?" "Of course." "Then I tell you what, Master Nic," said Pete after a long pause; "we must go straight to zomebody and tell 'em how we've been zarved, and ask him to help us." "We should have to tell them everything, Pete." "Of course, zir; downright honest." "And who would believe us at a place like this, where we know that poor wretches are brought to go up to the plantations?" "Oh, hark at him!" sighed Pete. "And I'd been thinking our troubles were over, and we'd got nothing to do but get plenty to eat and a good ship to take us home. You're right, zir; it would be as mad as March hares to go ashore. They'd put us in prison and keep us there till old Zaunders come again with his dogs and guns and niggers to take us back; and when we got to the plantation it would be the lash and short commons, and the hoe again out in the hot sun." "Yes, Pete," said Nic sadly; "that is what I fear." "And you're a deal longer-headed than me, master. It's going and giving ourselves up for the sake of a good dinner. Master Nic!" "Yes, Pete." "Just buckle your belt a bit tighter, two or three holes, like this. That's the way. Now then, take hold of your oar again. We can hold out another day or two on what we can find, while we coast along till we see a ship outward bound somewhere. Sure to be lots. Then we'll row till they see us and pick us up. They won't bring us back, that's for sartain, but to the port they're going to; and of course they can't starve us. Then they'll hand us over to a judge o' some kind, and as soon as he hears your story you'll be all right; and--and--" "Yes, Pete?" "I know I've been a bad un; Master Nic; but I'm going to turn over a new leaf, zir, and never meddle wi' the zalmon again. You'll put in a good word for a poor fellow, won't you?" "A good word for you--for one who has been ready to risk his life again and again to help me? Pete, we have been brothers in our great misfortune, and we must hold together, come what may." "Then take a good grip of your oar, Master Nic, and let's forget being empty by taking our fill of work. Pull away, my lad, right out, and I dessay the tide'll run us along the shore, as it does at home. When the day comes again we shall zoon zee a zhip. We can't give up now. Ready?" "Yes." "Then pull." And in their desperate strait, feeling as they did that they would starve sooner than go back to slavery, those two bent to their oars in the darkness that closed them in, and rowed on with the swift tide. The lights on the shore grew fainter, the tide swifter, and the water became rough; but they rowed on, hungry, exhausted: on and on, ignorant of the set of the tides, of the trend of the coast, and without a drop of fresh water to satisfy their thirst. A mad, mad attempt; but it was for liberty--for all that man holds dear. What wonder that when the day dawned both had sunk forward over their oars and were sleeping heavily, to wake at last with the southern sun beating down upon their heads, and that they gazed at each other in a half-delirious, stupefied way, wondering what had happened and where they were. There was a faint appearance as of a cloud low down on the water far-away, but no cloud overhead, nothing but the burning, blistering sun to send a fierce energy through Nic's veins, which made him keep calling wildly upon Pete to row, row hard, before they were overtaken and dragged back to a white slave's life. Pete's eyes were staring fiercely, and looked bloodshot, while his throat was hot and dry, his brain felt as if on fire; but at every order from Nic he bent down over his oar and pulled and pulled, till his strokes grew more and more wild, and at last, as he made one more desperate than ever, he did not dip the blade, but fell backward from the thwart. Then, after vainly trying to pull with both oars himself, Nic turned to face his companion in misfortune, wondering in his delirium why he was there. The sun went down like a ball of fire on his left, and directly after, as it seemed, rose like a ball of fire on his right. It was that, he felt, which caused all his suffering, and in his rage and indignation he turned upon it fiercely, and then bent down to lap up the sparkling water which tempted him and seemed to promise to allay his awful thirst. He reached down and dipped his hand, but the attitude seemed to send the blood like molten lead running to his brain, and with a weary groan he fell sidewise and rolled over in the bottom of the boat. CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. SAFE AT LAST. "Looks like a ship's longboat, sir; but she's right under the sun, and I can't make her out." "Any one in her?" "No, sir; not a soul." The conversation was between the captain and one of the foremast men of the good ship _Sultan_, bound from a western city with passengers and sugar to the port of Bristol. The wind was very light, and men were up aloft, setting the main top-gallant sail, when the boat was sighted only a little way out of the vessel's course. Then the captain argued, as he took a look at her from the main-top, that a boat like that might be battered, and not worth the trouble of picking up; but, on the other hand, she might; and finally, after taking the first-mate into debate, it was decided to steer a point or two to the west and pick her up. "For who knows what she may have aboard, or what good ship may have been wrecked?" the skipper said to one of the passengers brought on deck by the news of a boat in sight, for such an event broke the monotony of the tedious voyage. As the news spread through the ship the rest of the passengers came on deck, and when the boat was neared, the captain, as he stood inspecting the object through his glass, began to be satisfied that the find was in good condition, and then the announcement came from aloft that there were two bodies lying in the bottom. The excitement now became fierce; one of the ship's boats was swung out on the davits ready for lowering, manned, and dropped, and finally the prize was brought alongside, with its freight still alive, but apparently at their last gasp. Fortunately the captain was a man of old experience in the tropics, and noting that there was neither food nor water on board, he put the right construction upon the poor fellows' condition--that they were dying of hunger and thirst, after escaping from some wrecked or sinking vessel. Merchant captains have a smattering of knowledge, and a medicine chest on board, and there were willing hands to take charge of "the poor shipwrecked men;" but it was a hard fight with the raging fever and delirium from which both suffered, and again and again they were given over, and were still too weak to answer questions when Bristol port was reached, and they were taken to hospital ashore. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was quite a month before the journey home could be taken in the old stage-coach bound from Bristol to Plymouth. But Nic bore it well, for Captain Revel was seated by his side, holding his hand as if afraid that after all his son might slip from his grasp and the old suffering recommence. "It nearly killed me before, my boy," he said piteously, as he urged his son to be careful not to exert himself in the least. "I gave you up for dead, and I was following you fast, Nic, for I don't believe I should have lived another year." "I'll take care, father; never fear," said the young man cheerily, for, though thin and worn, his eyes were brightening, and there were signs of returning health in his cheeks. "I only need a good, quiet rest in the old place, where I can lie and watch the sea, or go down the shady old combe, to listen to the falls and watch the salmon leap." "Ugh! don't talk about the fish," cried the Captain, with a shudder; "they were the cause of all this suffering." "Oh no," said Nic, smiling. "It was all that terrible mistake." "Well, don't let's talk about the past," said the Captain hurriedly; "or only about one thing, my boy. I did want to consult you about that fellow who's up aloft with William Solly." "About Pete, father?" "Yes, the scoundrel! He was as bad as the salmon." "Poor old Pete!" said Nic, smiling. "He saved my life over and over again, father. I want you to take him into your service." "What! that poacher who used to defy us all?" "Poachers make the best keepers, father, when they reform; and Pete has proved himself a good man and true. Will you tell him he is to stay?" "I'll keep a dozen of such fellows if you'll only get strong and well again, my boy," said the old sailor eagerly. "I'll tell him next time we change horses. But I shall never forgive Lawrence." "What, father!" cried Nic, smiling. "Why?" "An old comrade like he has always been, to have such a stupid blunder made by those under his command." "A terrible mistake, father; but, to be quite fair, it was all my doing, and I was hoist with my own petard." "No, no, Nic; you're wrong," said the old man, "and William Solly--an impudent rascal!--was right." "How, father?" "Well, my boy, it was all my fault for making such a fuss about a few salmon. William Solly had the insolence to tell me I made a trouble about nothing, and wanted a real one to do me good. This has been a real one, Nic, and I've suffered bitterly." "But there's fair weather ahead, father." "Please God, my boy," said the old man piously, and with his voice trembling, "and--and there, Nic, I've got you back again, and you will get well, my boy--you will get well, won't you?" "Fast, father," replied Nic, pressing the old man's hand. Nic did mend rapidly in the rest and quiet of his old home, where one day Captain Lawrence, newly returned from a long voyage, came to see his old friend, and heard Nic's adventures to the end. "A bitter experience, my dear boy," he said; "but let's look to the future now: never mind the past." But one day, when the convalescents had been for two months drinking in the grand old Devon air, Nic was rambling through the combe with Pete, both pretty well strong again, when the latter said: "I want to be zet to work now, Master Nic, or to be zent away; for I feel as if I ought to be doing zomething, instead of idling about here." "You've talked like that before, Pete," said Nic, smiling. "Have a little patience, and then you shall begin." "But it zeems zo long, zir. I zay, though, it's rather queer, isn't it, for me to be water bailiff and keeper over the vish as I used to take. Think Humpy Dee and them others will get away and come back again?" "I hope so," said Nic slowly and thoughtfully. "They deserved their punishment, but they will have had enough by now." "Nay, you're a bit too easy, Master Nic. Humpy's a down bad one, and I should like the others to have one year more out yonder, and Humpy too." "Too long for white slaves, Pete," said Nic. "We have suffered with them, and know what the sufferings are; so I forgive them. What say you?" "Zame as you do, Master Nic; o' course, that is, if they don't come back and meddle with our zalmon again--_our zalmon_! That zounds queer, Master Nic, don't it? I can't quite feel as if it's all true." "But it is true, Pete; and we are here safe in the good old home, after what seems now like an ugly dream." "Dinner-bell's rung twice, Master Nic," said William Solly, coming upon them suddenly from behind the trees; "and you can't 'spect to get your strength up proper if you aren't reg'lar at the mess. I run out to look for you, to keep the skipper from--Well, there now--if he aren't come to look for you hisself! Give him a shout, and say you're coming." Nic hailed, and hurried back to meet the old officer, while William Solly turned to Pete: "Come along, messmet; the beef and soft tack's waiting. And so you're going to stop here altogether!" "I s'pose so," said Pete. "And we're to be messmets reg'lar sarving under Captain Revel and Master Nic?" "That's it," said Pete sturdily. "Well," said Solly, "I aren't jealous, for you did the right thing by the young master; so let's shake hands." This was solemnly done, and Solly went on: "As good a skipper as ever stepped a deck, and as fine a boy as ever breathed. Pete, messmet, you've dropped into a snug thing." "Which that zame I know," said Pete gruffly. "But you saved Master Nic's life, and the skipper's too, by bringing the young master back; and I'm glad you're going to stay. So suppose we shakes hands agen?" They did, as if they meant it, too. They did mean it, and somehow a great attachment sprang up between those two men, while as time rolled on Nic smiled more than once on meeting them consulting together about matters connected with the estate, and made Solly wince. At last, after a good deal of hesitation, Solly turned upon his young master. "Beg pardon, sir," he said; "speaking respeckful like--" "What is it?" said Nic, for the man stopped. "Well, sir, you know; and it goes hard on a chap as is doing his dooty and wants to keep things straight." "I still don't understand you, Solly," said Nic. "Well, sir, it's all along o' that there chap, Pete: you never ketch me a-talking to him, and giving him a bit o' good advice about what the skipper likes done, but you grins." "Grins?" "Oh, it's no use to make believe, Master Nic, because you do, and it hurts." "They were not grins," said Nic. "I only smiled because I was glad to see you two such good friends." "Ho!" ejaculated Solly; "that was it, sir? I thought you was grinning and thinking what an old fool I was." "Nothing of the sort." "Well, I'm glad o' that, Master Nic, though it do seem a bit queer that I should take a lot o' notice of a feller as fought agen us as he did. But we aren't friends, sir." "Indeed!" said Nic. "It's on'y that I can't help taking a bit to a man as stood by you as he did over yonder in furren abroad. You see, a man like that's got the making of a good true mate in him." "Yes, Solly, of as good a man as ever stepped." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Two years had passed, when one day Solly watched his opportunity of catching Nic alone in the grounds, and followed him. "Master Nic!" he whispered hoarsely. The young man turned round, and Solly "made a face" at him. That is to say, he shut his left eye very slowly and screwed up the whole of his countenance till it was a maze of wrinkles. "What is it, Solly?" "Pete's over yonder, sir, by the combo, and wants to speak to you." "Oh, very well, I'll go," said Nic, and the old sailor nodded, looked mysterious, slapped his mouth to indicate that it was a secret mission, and hurried away. "What does it all mean?" said Nic to himself. "Why, I do believe Pete is going to tell me that he wants to be married, and to ask if my father will object." He reached the combe, to find Pete, now a fine sturdy-looking Devon man in brown velveteen jacket and leather gaiters, counting the salmon in the pool. Pete turned sharply directly he heard Nic approach, and the serious look in the man's face told that something unusual had occurred. "Morn', Master Nic, zir." "What is it, Pete? Surely you don't mean that we've had poachers again?" "Poachers it be, zir," said the man mysteriously; "but they won't come here again. Master Nic, there's three on 'em come back, and I've zeen 'em." "What! From the plantation?" "Yes, zir; after a long spell of it they managed to give the dogs zome poison stuff they got out of the woods. The blacks told 'em of it. Manshy something it was." "Manchioneel! I know," said Nic. "That's it, zir, and it killed 'em. They got away in a boat--a new un, I s'pose." "I'm glad they escaped, poor fellows," said Nic; "but is that scoundrel Dee with them?" Pete was silent. "Dead, Pete?" "Yes, zir, 'fore we'd been gone two months," said the man gravely. "He went at Zaunders one day with his hoe, and nearly killed him; but the dogs heard the fight, and rushed down." "Ah! the dogs!" cried Nic. "Yes, zir, and what with their worrying and a shot he'd had from Zaunders, it meant a couple o' the blacks with spades, and a grave in the woods." "Horrible!" ejaculated Nic. "Yes, zir, horrible. Humpy allus hated me, and I s'pose I never liked him; but if I'd been there, zir, I'd ha' helped him fight for his life agen them zavage dogs." "I know you would, Pete," cried Nic warmly. "But what about these men-- are they going to stay in the neighbourhood?" "Not they, zir. They belong to the crew of a ship in Plymouth harbour; and zomehow they got to know that I was here. They walked all the way o' purpose to wish me luck and zhake hands and zay they hadn't aught agen me, for they'd found out how it was they was took. It was poor Humpy as made 'em believe it was me. They went back lars night." "Poor Humpy!" said Nic wonderingly. "Well, yes, zir. You zee, he waren't like other men," said Pete simply. "He was born all crooked and out o' shape and ugly, and got teased and kicked about when he was a boy; and I zuppose it made him zour and evil-tempered. Then he grew up stronger than other men, and he got to love getting the better of them as had knocked him about. I dunno, but it allus zeemed zo to me. Well, poor chap, he's dead, and there's an end on it." "Yes," said Nic, gravely repeating the man's words, "there's an end of it." THE END. 
34543	----	http://www.freeliterature.org FURZE THE CRUEL BY JOHN TREVENA AUTHOR OF "A PIXY IN PETTICOATS" AND "ARMINEL OF THE WEST" LONDON ALSTON RIVERS, LTD. BROOKE ST., HOLBORN BARS, E.C. 1907 Almost everywhere on Dartmoor are Furze, Heather, and Granite. The Furze seems to suggest Cruelty, the Heather Endurance, and the Granite Strength. The Furze is destroyed by fire, but grows again; the Heather is torn by winds, but blossoms again; the Granite is worn away imperceptibly by the rain. This work is the first of a proposed trilogy, which the author hopes to continue and complete with "Heather" and "Granite." CONTENTS INTRODUCTORY I. ABOUT THE TAVY FAMILY II. ABOUT BRIGHTLY III. ABOUT PASTOR AND MASTER IV. ABOUT BEETLES V. ABOUT THOMASINE VI. ABOUT VOCAL AND INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC VII. ABOUT FAIRYLAND VIII. ABOUT ATMOSPHERE IX. ABOUT A KNAVE AND A FOOL X. ABOUT THE VIGIL OF ST. GOOSE XI. ABOUT THE FEAST OF ST. GOOSE XII. ABOUT THE OCTAVE OF ST. GOOSE XIII. ABOUT VARIOUS EMOTIONS XIV. ABOUT A STRUGGLE AT THE GATE OF FAIRYLAND XV. ABOUT JUSTICE XVI. ABOUT WITCHCRAFT XVII. ABOUT PASTIMES XVIII. ABOUT AUTUMN IN FAIRYLAND XIX. ABOUT THE GOOD RIGHT HAND OF FELLOWSHIP XX. ABOUT THE PASSOVER OF THE BRUTE XXI. ABOUT WINTER IN REAL LIFE XXII. ABOUT THE PINCH XXIII. ABOUT A HOUSE ON THE HIDDEN LANES XXIV. ABOUT BANKRUPTS XXV. ABOUT SWALING-FIRES XXVI. ABOUT "DUPPENCE" XXVII. ABOUT REGENERATION AND RENUNCIATION FURZE THE CRUEL INTRODUCTORY ABOUT RAINDROPS The river of Tavy is a great mountain-carver. From its mud-holes of Cranmere to the walls of Tavistock it is a hewer of rocks. Thenceforth it becomes a gardener, raising flowers and herbs; it becomes idyllic. It goes into Arcadia. And at last it floats ships of war. There is a story in Hebrew literature of a king called Solomon, a man reputed wise, although a fool with women, who desired to build a temple to his God. There was a tradition which forbade the use of hammer or chisel in the erection of a place of worship, because, according to the Mischna, "Iron is used to shorten life, the altar to prolong it." The stones were not to be hewn. The temple was to be built noiselessly. The narrative suggests that Solomon had the stones cut and shaped at some distance from the building site, which was a decidedly Jesuitical way of solving the problem. Myth suggests that the king sought the aid of Asmodeus, chief of the devils, who told him where he could discover a worm which would split the toughest rock. The introduction of the devil to assist in the building of the temple was no doubt of Persian origin, since Persian thought influenced Hebrew literature just as Grecian thought was later to influence that of Rome. The idea of noiseless building, of an altar created by supernatural powers, of burrowing for minerals and metals without tools, is common to the literature of every country. It is one of the stock tales of folk-lore found everywhere. In one place it is a worm which shatters the mountains; in another a black stone; and in another a herb, such as the innocent forget-me-not, and the various saxifrages of the cottage garden. All the stories agree upon three points: the name of the rock-shatterer signifies irresistible force; it is invariably a small and insignificant object; and it is brought to mankind by a bird. That bird is the cloud; and the worm, pebble, or herb, which shatters mountains is the raindrop. This is the story of the river Tavy, its tors and cleave, just as the pixy grandmother told it to the little round-eyed ones on a stormy night, when the black-winged raven-cloud was bringing the rain over Great Kneeset, and the whist hounds were yip-yip-yipping upon the "deads"-- "It all happened a long time ago, my impets, a very long time ago, and perhaps I shan't be telling you the story quite right. They say the dates are cut upon the Scorhill Rocks. I couldn't make them out the last time I was there, but then my eyes are getting feeble. You know the Scorhill Rocks, my dears? They are just by the Wallabrook, and near our big dancing stone which the silly mortals call a tolmen. You remember how we danced there on All Hallows E'en. What a beautiful night it was, sure 'nuff! And then you went and pinched the farm maids in their beds, and made them dream of their lovers, mischievous young toads! Well, I don't blame ye, my dears. I liked a bit of a gambol when I was a winikin bit of a pisky maid myself. "This old Dartymore was a gurt big solid mountain of granite in those days, my pretties. You can't imagine what it was like then, and I can't either. There was no grass on it, and there were no nice vuzzy-bushes to dance round, and no golden blossoms to play with, and no fern to see-saw on, and no pink heather to go to sleep in--and worse and worse, my dears, there wasn't a single pixy in those days either." "Oh, what a funny old Dartymore!" cried the little round-eyed ones. "It wasn't an old Dartymore, my pets. It was a brand-new one. There were no bullocks or ponies. There were no bogs and no will-o'-the-wisps. There were no stone remains for stupid mortals to go dafty over, for as you and I know well enough most of 'em are no more stone remains than any other rocks, but are just as the wind and rain made them. There was not a single mortal in those days either, and none of the triumphs of their civilisation, such as workhouses, prisons, and lunatic asylums. There was just the sun and the gurt grey mountain, and right upon the top of the mountain was a little bit of jelly shivering and shaking in the wind." "But how did it get there?" cried the little round-eyed ones. "Oh, my loves, you mustn't ask such silly questions. I don't know. Nobody can know. It was there, and we can't say any more. Perhaps there was a little bit of this jelly on the top of every mountain in the world. I can't tell you anything about that. But this little bit on the top of Dartymore was alive. It was alive, and it could feel the wind and the sun, and it would have kicked if it had got any legs to kick with. You will find it all written on the Scorhill Rocks. I couldn't find it, but it must be there, because they say it is. Well, this little bit of jelly shivered away for a long time, and then one day it began to rain. That was a wonderful thing in those days, though we don't think anything of it now. The little bit of jelly didn't like the rain. If it had been a pixy it would have crawled under a toadstool. If it had been a mortal it would have put up its umbrella. But toadstools and umbrellas hadn't been invented. So the poor thing shivered and got wet, because it was a very heavy shower. They say it lasted for several thousand years. While it rained the little bit of jelly was thinking. At last it said to the rain, 'Where do _yew_ come from?' But the rain only replied that it hadn't the least idea. "'What are ye doing?' went on the bit of jelly; and the rain answered, 'Making the world ready for you to live in.' The piece of jelly thought about that for a million years, and then it said to the wind--the rain had stopped, and it was the First Fine Day--'Someone must have made me and put me here. I want to speak to that Someone. Can't you tell me what to do?' "'Ask again in a million years,' said the wind. "'I think I'll go for a walk,' said the piece of jelly. You see, my dears, it was getting tired of sitting still, and besides, it had discovered little bits of things called legs. They had grown while it had been thinking. So it got up, and stretched itself, and perhaps it yawned, and then it went for a long walk. I don't know how long it lasted, for they thought nothing of a few thousand years then; but at last it got back to the top of Dartymore, and found everything changed. The big mountain had been shattered and hewn into cleaves and tors. There were rivers and bogs; grass and fern; vuzzy-bushes and golden blooms. In every part, my dears, the mountain had been carved into tors and cut into gorges; but there were still no pixies, and no mortals. Then the piece of jelly went and looked at itself in the water, and was very much astonished at what it saw. It was a piece of jelly no longer, but a little hairy thing, with long legs and a tail, and a couple of eyes and a big mouth." "Was it the same piece of jelly? What a long time it lived!" cried the little round-eyed ones. They didn't believe a word of the story, and they were going to say so presently. "Well, my pretties, it was, and it wasn't. You see, little bits of it kept breaking off all those years, and they had become hairy creatures with long legs and a tail. Part of the original piece of jelly was in them all, for that was what is called the origin of life, which is a thing you don't understand anything about, and you mustn't worry your heads about it until you grow up. The little hairy creature stood beside the Tavy, and scratched its ear with its foot just like a dog. A million years later it used its hand because it couldn't get its foot high enough, and the wise men said that was a sign of civilisation. It was raining and blowing, and presently a drop of rain trickled down the nose of the little hairy creature and made it sneeze. "'Go away,' said the little hairy creature. 'I wun't have ye tickling my nose.' You see, my dears, it knew the Devonshire dialect, which is a proof that it is the oldest dialect in the world. "'Let me bide. I be fair mazed,' said the Devonshire raindrop. 'I've been drap-drappiting on this old Dartymore for years and years.' "'You bain't no use. You'm only a drop o' rainwater,' said the little hairy thing. "'That's all. Only a drop o' rain-water,' came the answer. 'This gurt big mountain has been worn away by drops o' rain-water. These tors were made by drops o' rainwater. These masses of granite have been split by drops o' rain-water. The river is nought but drops o' rain-water." "'You'm a liar,' said the little hairy thing. You see, my dears, it couldn't believe the raindrop." The little round-eyed ones didn't believe it either. They were afraid to say so because Grandmother might have smacked them. Besides, they knew they would not have to go to bed in the pink heather until she had finished her story. So they listened quietly, and pinched one another, while Grandmother went on-- "It was a long time afterwards. There were bullocks and ponies and plenty of pixies, and the little hairy thing had become what is called a primitive man. Tavy Cleave was very much the same as it is now, and Ger Tor was big and rugged, and Cranmere was full of river-heads. The primitive man had a primitive wife, and there were little creatures with them who were primitive children. They lived among the rocks and didn't worry about clothes. But there was one man who was not quite so primitive as the others, and therefore he was unpopular. He used to wander by himself and think. You will find it all upon the Scorhill Rocks, my dears. One evening he was beside the Tavy, which was known in those days as the Little Water, and a memory stirred in him, and he thought to himself: I was here once, and I asked a question of the wind; and the wind said: 'Ask again in a million years.' Someone must have made me and put me here. I want to speak to that Someone. Then the Little Water shouted; and it seemed to say: 'I have worn away the mountain of granite. I have shattered the rocks. Look at me, primitive man! I have given you a dwelling-place. I was made by the raindrops. The cloud brought the raindrops. And the wind brought you, primitive man. That Someone sent you and the wind together. You want to speak to that Someone. You must seek that Someone in a certain place. Look around you, primitive man!' "So he looked, my dears, and saw what the Little Water had done during those millions of years. On the top of every little mountain it had carved out a tor. They were rough heaps of rock, shapeless, and yet suggesting a shape. They were not buildings, and yet they suggested a building. The primitive man went up on the highest tor, and spoke to that Someone. But, my pretties, I'm afraid you can't understand all this." The little round-eyed ones were yawning dreadfully. Grandmother was getting wearisome in her old age. They thought they would rather be in bed. "The primitive man made himself a hut-circle. You see, my dears, the Little Water had taught him. He had become what is called imitative. When he made his hut-circle he just copied the tors. Later on he copied them on a larger scale and built castles. And then the time came when another man stood beside the Tavy and asked: 'I have had dreams of treasure in the earth. How can I get at that treasure?' "Then the Little Water shouted back: 'Look at me. I have worn away the rocks. I have uncovered the metals. Work in the ground as I have done.' "So the man imitated the river again and worked in the ground, until he found tin and copper; and the river went on roaring just as it does now. You see, my children, there would have been no river if there had been no raindrops; and without the river no tors and cleaves, no vuzzy-bushes and golden blossoms, no ferns or pink heather, no buildings, no mortals, and no pixies. Dartymore would have remained a cold grey mountain of granite, and the piece of jelly would never have become a primitive man if it hadn't rained." "But what is the rain doing now?" cried the little round-eyed ones. "Just the same, my pretties. Making the river flow on and on. And the river is making the cleave deeper, and Ger Tor higher, just as it has always been doing. Only it works so slowly that we don't notice any change. Now you must run away to bed, for it is quite late, and you are gaping like young chickens. Come and kiss your old granny, my dearies, and trot away and have your dew-baths. And when you are tucked up in the pink heather don't be afraid of the black cloud and the raindrops, for they won't harm little pisky boys and maids if they're good. They are too busy wearing away the granite, and cutting the cleaves deeper, and making the mountains higher and our dear old Tavyland stronger and fresher. There, that's all for to-night, my impets. I'll tell ye another story to-morrow." "Funny old thing, G'an'mother," whispered the little round-eyed ones, while they washed their pink toes in the dew. "She'm old and dafty." That's the story of river Tavy and its cleave; not all of it by any means, but the pixy grandmother did not know any more. Nobody knows all of it, except that Someone who sent the wind, which swept up the cloud, which brought the rain, which wetted the piece of jelly, which shivered on the top of the big grey mountain of Dartmoor. The pixy grandmother was right about the primitive man who wanted so much to know things. She was right when she said that the river taught him. He looked about him and he imitated. The river had made him models and he copied them. The tor to which he ascended to speak to that Someone was the first temple and the first altar--made without noise, a temple of unhewn stone, an altar of whole stones over which no man had lifted up any iron. It was the earliest form of religion; a better and purer form than any existing now. It was the beginning of folk-lore. It was the first and best of mysteries: the savage, the hill-top, and the wind; the cloud and the sun; the rain-built temple; the rain-shaped altar. It was the unpolluted dwelling-place which Hebrew literature tried to realise and failed; which philosophers and theocrats have tried to realise and failed; which men are always trying to realise and must always fail, because it is the beginning of things, the awakening of the soul, the birth of the mind, the first cry of the new-born. It is the first of all stories, therefore it cannot die; but the condition can never come again. The story of the rain-shattered rocks must live for ever; but only in the dimly-lighted realm of folk-lore. Thus, in a sense, Peter and Mary, and the other folk to be described in these pages, are the children of the river, the grandchildren of the cloud and the rain. Ages have passed since the cloud first settled upon Dartmoor and the rain descended. Pandora's box has been opened since then, and all the heavenly gifts, which were to prove the ruin of mortals, escaped from it long ago, except hope left struggling in the hinge. What have the ignorant, passionate, selfish creatures in common with the freshness and purity of the wind and rain? Not much perhaps. It is a change from the summit of Ger Tor, with its wind and rain-hewn altar, to Exeter Cathedral, with its wind instrument and iron-cut sculpture--a change for the worse. It is a change from the primitive man, with his cry to the river, to Mary and Peter, and those who defile their neighbours' daughters, and drink to excess. A change for the worse? Who shall tell? Men cast back to primitive manners. The world was young when the properties of the fruit of the vine were discovered; and we all know the name of the oldest profession upon earth. The river of Tavy flows on and on, dashing its rain sea-ward. Go upon the spectral mount of Ger Tor. Let it be night and early spring. Let there be full moonlight also. Hear the water roaring: "I have worn away the mountain of granite. I have shattered the rocks. Look at me, civilised man. I have made you a dwelling-place, but you will not have it. You swarm in your cities like bees in a rotten tree. Come back to the wind and the rain. They will cool your passions. They will heal your diseases. Come back to Nature, civilised man." CHAPTER I ABOUT THE TAVY FAMILY "Coop, coop!" called Mary Tavy. "Cooey, cooey! Aw now, du'ye come, my dear. He be proper contrairy when he'm minded to," she cried to Farmer Chegwidden as she shook a gorse-bush, which was her shepherd's staff, towards a big goose waddling ahead of her in the path of its own selection, and spluttering and hissing like a damp firework. "Did ever see such a goosie?" said Mary. "When I wants 'en to go one way he goes t'other. There he goes, down under, to Helmen Barton. If he lays his egg there they'll keep 'en, and say one of their fowls dropped 'en. He wun't come home till sundown. Contrairiest bird on Dartmoor be Old Sal." "I don't hold wi' old geese," said Farmer Chegwidden. "They'm more trouble than they'm worth. When they gets old they'm artful." "So be volks," said Mary. "Goosies be cruel human. Old Sal knows as much as we. He'm twenty-two years old. He lays an egg every month. He'm the best mother on Dartmoor, and Peter says he shan't die till he've a mind to." By her continued use of the masculine gender any one might have thought Mary was not quite convinced herself as to her goose's sex; but it was not so really. There is nothing feminine on Dartmoor except tom-cats. Mary lived with brother Peter close to the edge of Tavy Cleave, a little way beyond Wapsworthy. There was a rough road from the village of St. Peter Tavy, passing round the foot of Lynch Tor, and ending in a bog half-a-mile further on. Ger Cottage--so named because the most prominent feature of the landscape was Ger, or Gurt, Tor--which was the home of the Tavys, the man and the woman, not the river, nor the cleave, nor the stannary town, nor the two villages of that ilk, appeared amid boulders and furze between the rough road and the gorge cut by the river. The cottage, or to be strictly accurate, the cottages, for Peter and Mary had separate apartments, which was quite right and proper, was, or were, in a situation which a house-agent would have been justified in describing as entirely detached. There was no other dwelling-place within a considerable distance. The windows looked out upon romantic scenery, which has been described in somewhat inflated language, six-syllabled adjectives, and mixed metaphors, as something absolute and unassailable; and has been compared to the Himalayas and Andes by excitable young people under commission to write a certain number of words for cheap guide-book purposes. However, the ravine of the Tavy is perhaps the finest thing of its kind on Dartmoor; and "gentle readers" who go abroad every winter have some reason to feel ashamed of themselves if they have not seen it. When the New Zealander comes to explore England, he will, perhaps,--if he is interested in such things--write letters to such newspapers as may have survived concerning the source of the Tavy. He will probably claim to have discovered some new source which the ignorant and vanished race of Anglo-Saxons never happened on. Most people will say that the Tavy rises at the south side of Cut Hill. Others, who do not wish to commit themselves, will make the safe statement that its source is upon Cranmere. As a matter of fact the Tavy would be a very wise river if it knew its own head. By the time it has assumed any individuality of its own and received its first titled tributary, which is the Rattle Brook, it has come through so many changes, and escaped from such a complicated maze of crevasses, that it would have to be provided with an Ariadne's clue to retrace its windings to its source. In the face of general opinion it seems likely that the Tavy begins its existence rather more than two miles north of its accredited source, at a spot close to Cranmere Pool, and almost within a stone's cast of the Dart. It would be impossible, however, to indicate any one particular fissure, with its sides of mud and dribble of slimy water, and declare that and none other was the river of Tavy in extreme and gurgling infancy. There is no doubt about the Tavy by the time it has swallowed the Rattle Brook and a few streams of lesser importance, and has entered the cleave which it has carved through the granite by its own endless erosion. It is an exceedingly self-assertive river; passing down with a satisfied chuckle in the hot months, when the slabs of granite are like the floors of so many bakers' ovens; and in the winter roaring at Ger Tor, as though it would say, "I have cut through a thousand feet of granite since I began to trickle. I will cut through a thousand more before the sun gets cold." It is a noble little river, this shallow mountain stream, the proudest of all Dartmoor rivers. More romance has gathered around the Tavy than about all the other rivers in England put together, leaving out the Tamar. The sluggish Thames has no romance to compare with that of the Tavy. The Thames represents materialism with its pleasure-boats and glitter of wealth. It suggests big waistcoats and massive watch-chains. The Tavy stands for the spiritual side. Were the god of wine to stir the waters of each, the Thames would flow with beer; good beer possibly, but nothing better; while the Tavy would flow with champagne. The Tavy is the Rhine of England. It was beside the Tavy that fern-seed could be gathered, or the ointment obtained, which opened the eyes of mortals to the wonders of fairyland. It was on the banks of the Tavy that the pixies rewarded girls who behaved themselves--and pinched and nipped those who didn't. Beside the Tavy has grown the herb forget-me-not, which not only restored sight to the blind, but life also to the dead; and the marigold which, when touched early on certain mornings by the bare foot of the pure-minded, gave an understanding of the language of birds. Many legends current upon the big Rhine occur also beside the shallow Tavy. There are mining romances; tales of success, struggles, and failures, from the time of the Phoenicians; tales of battles for precious tin; tales of misery and torture and human agony. That is the dark side of the Tavy--the Tavy when it roars, and its waters are black and white, and there are glaciers down Ger Tor. The tiny Lyd runs near the Rattle Brook, the bloody little Lyd in which the torturers of the stannary prison cleansed their horrible hands. The Rattle Brook knew all about it, and took the story and some of the blood down to Father Tavy; and the Tavy roared on with the evidence, and dashed it upon the walls of Tavistock Abbey, where the monks were chanting psalms so noisily they couldn't possibly hear anything else. That was the way of the monks. Stannary Laws and Tavistock Abbey have gone, and nobody could wish for them back; but the Tavy goes on in the same old way. It is no longer polluted with the blood of tin-streamers, but merely with the unromantic and discarded boots of tramps. The copper-mines are a heap of "deads"; and Wheal Betsey lies in ruin; but the Tavy still brings trout to Tavistock, although there are no more monks to bother about Fridays; and it carries away battered saucepans and crockery for which the inhabitants have no further use. This attention on the part of the townsfolk is not respectful, when it is remembered that the Tavy brought their town into being, named it, and has supplied it always with pure water. It is like throwing refuse at one's godfather. The Tavy is unhappily named, so is its brother the Taw--both being sons of Mother Cranmere--if it is true their names are derived the one from the Gaelic _tav_, the other from the Welsh _taw_. The root word is _tam_, which appears appropriately enough in Thames, and means placid and spreading. The Tavy and the Taw are anything but that. They are never placid, not even in the dog-days. They brawl more noisily than all the other rivers in Devon. Perhaps they were so named on the _lucus a non lucendo_ principle; because it is so obvious they are not placid. The river Tavy has a good deal of property. Wherever it winds it has bestowed its name. The family of Tavy is a very ancient one. It was rich and important once, possessing a number of rights, many valuable mines, much romance, to say nothing of towns abbeys, and castles; but, like most old families, it has decayed, and its property is not worth much now. It possesses Tavy Cleave; the villages of St. Peter and St. Mary (they were twins, exceedingly healthy in their youth, but growing feeble now); Mount Tavy, which is of no importance; Tavystoc, the fortified place upon the Tavy, which has been turned into Tavistock and has become famous, not for its Abbey, nor for its great men, but solely and simply for its Goose Fair; and Mary and Peter Tavy, who were not made of cob, or granite, or water, or tin, or any of those other things which made the fortune of the Tavy family, but were two simple animals of the human race, children of the river out of that portion of Dartmoor which it owns, two ignorant beings who took life seriously enough and were like the heather and gorse which surrounded them. Evolution has accomplished such marvels that Peter and Mary may possibly have been lineally descended from antediluvian heather and gorse; or perhaps Nature had intended them for heather and gorse, and while making them had come across a couple of shop-soiled souls which were not of much use, and had stirred them into the mixture which, after a certain treatment only to be explained by a good deal of medical dog-Latin, resulted in Mary and Peter being brought forth as divine images upon the edge of Tavy Cleave. Peter and Mary were savages, although they would have used strange language had any one called them so. They did not display their genealogical tree upon their cottage wall. Had they done so it would have shown, had it been accurate, that they were descended from the Gubbingses, who, as every man knows, were as disreputable a set of savages as have ever lived. This pedigree would have shown that a certain young Gubbings had once run away with a certain Miss Gubbings to whom he was attached, and with whom he was probably related more or less intimately. Fearing capture, as they had conveyed from the gorge of the Lyd as much of the portable property of their connections as they could conveniently handle, the young couple assumed the name of Tavy from the river beside which they settled. They had a number of little Tavies, who, it was said, founded the villages of Peter Tavy and Mary Tavy, which good Christians subsequently canonised; and who, by intermarriage without much respect for the tie of consanguinity, or for such a form of religious superstition as a marriage service--if, indeed, they had ever heard of such a thing--became in time a rival band of Scythians almost as formidable to law-abiding commoners as their relations in Gubbings Land. Peter and Mary were direct descendants of these pleasant people. They didn't know it, however. It was just as well they were in ignorance, because knowledge of the truth might have turned their heads. The chief of the Gubbings was a king in his own land; therefore Peter and Mary would certainly have boasted that they were of royal blood; and Peter would assuredly have told his neighbours that if every man had his rights he would be occupying the throne of England. He would have gone on acquiring knowledge concerning those things which appertain unto ancient families, and no doubt would have conferred upon himself, although not upon Mary, a coat-of-arms such as a sheep in one quarter, a bullock in another, a bag of gold in the third, and in the fourth a peaceful commoner's head duly decollated, with the motto: "My wealth is in other men's goods." Peter would have become an intolerable nuisance had he known of his royal ancestry. Mary was quite a foot taller than her brother. Peter was like a gnome. He was not much more than four feet in height, with a beard like a furze-bush, a nose like a clothes-peg, and a pair of eyes which had probably been intended for a boar, but had got into Peter by mistake. His teeth were much broken and were very irregular; here a tooth like a tor, there a gap like a cleave. In that respect he resembled his neighbours. Dartmoor folk have singularly bad teeth, and none of them submit to dentistry. They appear to think that defective teeth are necessary and incurable evils. When they are ill they send for the doctor at once; but when they have toothache they grin and bear it. Perhaps they know that dentists are mercenary folk, who expect to be paid for their labours; whereas the doctor who has any claim to respectability works solely for the love of his profession, and is not to be insulted by any proposal of payment. A doctor is a sort of wandering boon-companion, according to the Dartmoor mind. There is nothing he enjoys so much as being called from his bed on a bitter winter's night, to drive some miles across the moor that he may have a pleasant chat with some commoner who feels dull. He will be invited to sit by a smouldering peat-fire, and the proposal, "Have a drop o' cider? you'm welcome," will fall gratefully upon his ears. He will be encouraged to talk about certain ailments, and to suggest remedies for the same. Then he will be pressed to finish the crock of cider, and be permitted to depart. After such hospitality he would be a base-minded man if he made any suggestion of a fee. Peter had often consulted a doctor, but he could not remember ever parting with cash in return for advice. The doctor could not remember it either. Peter generally wore a big leather apron, which began somewhere about the region of his neck and finished at his boots. He had taken it, in a fit of absent-mindedness, out of the blacksmith of Bridestowe's smithy some years ago. He was a bit of a traveller in those days. Peter often boasted of his wanderings. That expedition to Bridestowe was one of them. It would have been six miles across the moor from Tavy Cleave, and yet Peter had made light of it. He had done much greater things. He had put to silence one of those objectionable, well-washed, soft-handed, expensively-dressed creatures who call themselves gentlemen. One of these had described to Peter his wanderings about the world, mentioning such fabulous countries as India, China, Mexico, and Peru. Peter listened in an attitude which expressed nothing if not contempt. He allowed the traveller to go oh some time before crushing him. "I've travelled tu," he said at last. Then, with the manner of one dropping a brick upon a butterfly, he added, "I've been to Plymouth." Peter often mentioned that the traveller had nothing more to say. Peter had been absent-minded when he procured the blacksmith's apron, somewhat after the manner of his early ancestors who had inhabited Lyd Gorge or Gubbings Land. He was liable to such fits. They were generally brought on by beer. One evening Mary had sent him to a farm--or rather he had permitted her to send him--with a can and a string-bag in order that he might receive payment of a debt in the form of ducks' eggs and buttermilk. On the way Peter became absent-minded. The attack was fully developed by the time he reached the farm. He forced the eggs into the can and poured the buttermilk into the string-bag. Mary also must have been made during a fit of Nature's temporary insanity. She had been started as a man; almost finished as one; then something had gone wrong--Nature had poured the buttermilk into the string-bag, so to speak, and Mary became a female to a certain extent. She had a man's face and a man's feet. Larger feet had never scrambled down Tavy Cleave since mastodons had gone out of fashion. The impression of Mary's bare foot in the snow would have shocked a scientist. She was stronger than most men. To see Mary forking fern, carrying furze-reek, or cutting peat was a revelation in female strength. She wore stout bloomers under a short ragged skirt; not much else, except a brown jersey. The skirt was discarded sometimes in moments of emergency. She was flat-chested, and had never worn stays. She was as innocent concerning ordinary female underwear as Peter; more so, perhaps, for Peter was not blind to frills. Mary would probably have worn her brother's trousers sometimes, had it not been for that muddle-headed act of Nature, which had turned her out a woman at the last moment. Besides, Peter was a foot shorter than his sister, and his legs were merely a couple of pegs. Somewhere in his head Peter despised Mary. He did not tell her so, or she might have beaten him with a furze-bush. He was far superior to her. Peter could read, write, and reckon with a dangerous facility. He was also an orator, and had been known to speak for five minutes at a stretch in the bar-room. He had repeated himself certainly, but every orator does that. Peter was a savage who knew just enough to look civilised. Mary was a savage who knew nothing and was therefore humorous. It was education which gave Peter the upper hand, Mary could not assert her superiority over one who read the newspapers, spoke in a bar-room, and described characters on a piece of paper which would convey a meaning to some one far away. Ger Cottage, or the twin huts occupied by the Tavys, had been once hut-circles, belonging to the aboriginal inhabitants of Dartmoor. They were side by side, semi-detached as it were, and the one was Peter's freehold, while the other belonged to Mary. They had the same legal rights to their property as rabbits enjoy in their burrows. Legal rights are not referred to on Dartmoor, unless a foreigner intervenes with a view to squatting. "What I have I hold" is every man's motto. The hut-circles had been restored out of all recognition. They had been enlarged, the walls had been built up, chimneys made, and roofs covered with furze and held in place by lumps of granite had been erected. Peter and Mary were quite independent. Peter was the best housewife, just as Mary was the best farmer. Peter also called himself a handy man, which was merely another way of saying that he was no good at anything. He would undertake all kinds of jobs, ask for a little on account, then postpone the work for a few years. He never completed anything. Mary was the money-maker, and he was really her business-manager. Mary was so ignorant that she never wondered how Peter got his money. It was perfectly simple. Peter would sell a twelve-pound goose at eightpence a pound. When he collected the money it naturally amounted to eight shillings. When he paid it over to Mary it had dwindled to five shillings. "Twelve times eight be sixty," Peter would explain. "Sixty pence be five shilluns." Mary knew no better. Then Peter always asked for a shilling as his commission, and Mary had to give it him. Peter had studied ordinary business methods with some success; or perhaps it came to him naturally. He had some ponies also. There is plenty of money in pony-breeding as Peter practised it. He would go out upon the moor, find a young pony which had not been branded, drive it home without any ostentation, and shut it-up in his linhay. After a time he would set his own brand upon it and let it run loose. When the annual pony-drift came round he would claim it, subsequently selling it at Lydford market for five pounds. Sometimes he would remove a brand, and obliterate all traces of it by searing his own upon the same spot; but he never went to this extreme unless he was hard pressed for money, because Peter had certain religious convictions, and he always felt when he removed a brand that he was performing a dishonest action. The only other member of the Tavy family was Grandfather. He was the reprobate. Peter and Mary had morals of their own, not many, but sufficient for their needs; but Grandfather had none. He was utterly bad; a wheezing, worn-out, asthmatic old sinner, who had never been known to tell the truth. Grandfather was always in Peter's hut. Mary had often begged for him to keep her company at nights, but Peter steadfastly refused to let the old rascal leave his quarters. So Grandfather lived with Peter, and spent his time standing with his back to the wall, wheezing and chuckling and making all sorts of unpleasant noises, as if there was some obstruction on his chest which he was trying always to remove. Grandfather's hands were very loose and shaky, and his face was dreadfully dirty. Peter washed it sometimes, while the old fellow wheezed and groaned. Sometimes Peter opened his chest and examined Grandfather's organs, which he declared were in a perfectly healthy condition. There appeared to be no excuse for Grandfather's mendacious habits. He had got into the way of lying years back, and could not shake it off. Grandfather was well over a hundred years old, and he was not the slightest use except as a companion. Some people would have been afraid of him, because of his unpleasant noises, but Peter and Mary loved him like dutiful grandchildren. They recognised in Grandfather the true Gubbings spirit. He was a weak, sinful creature like themselves. Grandfather had commenced life as a clock, but he had soon given up that kind of work, or something had occurred to turn him from a useful career; just as Peter had been meant for some sort of quadruped, and Mary had been a man up to the last possible moment. Some evil spirit must have entered into Grandfather; a malicious impet from the Tavy river perhaps; or possibly the wild wind of Dartmoor had passed down the cleave one day, to enter Grandfather's chest and intoxicate him for ever. The fact remained that Grandfather was hopelessly bad; he was a regular misanthrope; his ticks were so many curses, his strikings were oaths. He did his best to mislead the two grandchildren, although it didn't matter much, because time is of no account on Dartmoor. "He'm a proper old brute, Gran'vaither," Peter would say sometimes, but never in the old clock's hearing. Mary's mission in life was to breed geese. She had been sent into the world for the express purpose of supplying folk with savoury meat stuffed with sage and onions at Christmas time. She succeeded admirably. She was the best goosewoman on Dartmoor, and her birds were always in demand. One year Peter had obtained a shilling a pound for three unusually fine young birds; but Mary didn't know that. She fattened her geese, and incidentally Peter also. "They'm contrairy birds," observed Farmer Chegwidden, while he smoked and rested himself upon a boulder, watching Mary's efforts to collect her flock. "Never goes the way us want 'em to. Like volks," he added, with philosophic calm. He might have been assisting Mary, only he didn't believe in violent exercise which would not be suitably rewarded. "Volks calls 'en vulish, but they bain't. They'm just vull o' human vices," said Mary, flopping to and fro and waving her furze-bush. "They'm vulish to look at," explained Farmer Chegwidden. "'Tis their artful way. Peter looks vulish tu, and he knows plenty. More'n any of they goosies, I reckon. Coop, coop! Drat the toad! I'll scat 'en." The leader of the feathered choir was off again. Chegwidden could have headed it off, only he had finished his day's work. He managed to summon up the energy to remark, "They gets over the ground surprising, wi' their wings spread." "He'm a proper little brute. I wun't waste no more time over 'en," said Mary, as she wiped her forehead with a bunch of fern. "He'll come home when he've a mind to, and lay his egg in the linny likely, where Peter'll tread on 'en in the morning. Peter be cruel clumsy wi' his boots. Will ye please to step inside, Varmer Chegwidden?" "I mun get home. Got the bullocks to feed." "Fine bullocks tu. I seed 'em down cleave last night. Cooey, cooey! Come along home, my purty angels. Wish ye good-night, Varmer Chegwidden." "Why du'ye call 'em angels?" asked the farmer, making strange sounds of laughter behind his hand. "Aw now, I'll tell ye. There was a lady down along, a dafty lady what painted, and her come to Peter, and her ses, 'I wants they goosies to paint.' Well, us wouldn't have it. Us thought her wanted to paint 'em, one of 'em red, 'nother green likely, 'nother yellow maybe, and it might be bad for their bellies. But us found her wanted to put 'em on a picture. Her had got a mazed notion about the cleave and resurrection, wi' angels flapping over, and her wanted my goosies for angels. Peter ses he didn't know goosies were like angels. Knows a lot, Peter du." "Angels be like gals," declared Chegwidden. "Like them gals to Tavistock what pulls the beer, wi' pert faces and vuzzy hair. That's what angels be like. I've seed the pictures in a Bible." "Aw now. Us couldn't make she out," went on Mary. "The lady said 'twas just the wings her wanted. Her said angels ha' got goosies' wings, and us couldn't say 'em hasn't, 'cause us ain't seed any. Her knew all about it. So Peter druve the goosies down cleave, and her painted 'em for angels sure 'nuff. Us never knew angels has goosies' wings, but the lady knew. Her was sure on't." Mary stalked towards the hut-circles at the head of her row of geese, grave, waddling, self-important, and blissfully unconscious of anything in the nature of sage and onions. There was a touch of humour about the procession. It was not altogether unlike the spectacle to be witnessed in certain country boroughs of the mayor and corporation walking into church. "Goosies be cruel human," said Mary. CHAPTER II ABOUT BRIGHTLY Up the road from Brentor to St. Mary Tavy came Brightly, his basket dragging on his arm. He was very tired, but there was nothing unusual in that. He was tired to the point of exhaustion every day. He was very hungry, but he was used to that too. He was thinking of bread and cheese and cider; new bread and soft cheese, and cider with a rough edge to it. He licked his lips, and tried to believe he was tasting them. Then he began to cough. It was a long, heaving cough, something like that of a Dartmoor pony. He had to put his basket down and lean over it, and tap at his thin chest with a long raw hand. Nobody wanted Brightly, because he was not of the least importance. He hadn't got a home, or a vote, or any of those things which make the world desire the presence of people. He was only a nuisance, who worried desirable folk that he might exist, though the people whom he worried did not ask him to live. Brightly was a purveyor of rabbit-skins. He dealt in rubbish, possibly because he was rubbish himself. He tramped about Dartmoor, between Okehampton and Tavistock, collecting rabbit-skins. When he was given them for nothing he was grateful, but his stock of gratitude was not drawn upon to any large extent. It is not the way of Dartmoor folk to part with even rubbish for nothing. To obtain his rabbit-skins Brightly had to dip his raw hand beneath the scrap of oilcloth which covered his basket, and produce a horrible little red and yellow vase which any decent-minded person would have destroyed at sight. Brightly bore most things fairly well, but when, on one occasion while climbing over the rocks, he had dropped the basket and all the red and yellow vases were smashed to atoms, he had cried. He had been tired and hungry as usual, and knew he had lost the capital without which a man cannot do business. The dropping of that basket meant bankruptcy to Brightly. The dealer in rabbit-skins was not alone in the world. He had a dog, which was rubbish like its master. The animal was of no recognised breed, although in a dim light it called itself a fox-terrier. She could not have been an intelligent dog, or she would not have remained constant to Brightly. Her name was Ju, which was an abbreviation of Jerusalem. One Sunday evening Brightly had slipped inside a church, and somewhat to his surprise had been allowed to remain, although a sidesman was told off to keep an eye upon him and see that he did not break open the empty poor-box. A hymn was sung about Jerusalem the golden, a piece of pagan doggerel concerning the future state, where happy souls were indulging in bacchanalian revels, and over-eating themselves in a sort of glorified dairy filled with milk and honey. The hymn enraptured Brightly, who was, of course, tired and famished; and when he had left the warm church, although without any of the promised milk and honey, he kept on murmuring the lines and trying to recall the music. He could think of nothing but Jerusalem for some days. He went into the public library at Tavistock and looked it up in a map of the world, discovered it was in a country called Palestine, and wondered how many rabbit-skins it would cost to take him there. Brightly reckoned in rabbit-skins, not in shillings and pence, which were matters he was not very familiar with. He noticed that whenever he mentioned the name of Jerusalem the dog wagged her tail, as though she too was interested in the dairy produce; so, as the animal lacked a title, Jerusalem was awarded her. Brightly thought of the milk and honey whenever he called his poor half-starved cur. Presently he thought he had coughed long enough, so he picked up his basket and went on climbing the road, his body bent as usual towards the right. At a distance he looked like the half of a circle. He could not stand straight. The weight of his basket and habit had crooked him like an oak branch. He tramped on towards the barren village of St. Mary Tavy. There was a certain amount of wild scenery to be admired. Away to the right was Brentor and the church upon its crags. To the left were piled the "deads" of the abandoned copper-mines. The name of Wheal Friendship might have had a cheerful sound for Brightly had he known what friendship meant. He didn't look at the scenery, because he was half blind. He could see his way about, but that was all. He lived in the twilight. He wore a big pair of unsightly spectacles with tortoise-shell rims. His big eyes were always staring widely behind the glasses, seeing all they could, which was the little bit of road in front and no more. Brightly was known about that particular part of the moor which he frequented as the Seal. Every one laughed whenever the Seal was mentioned. Brightly's wardrobe consisted chiefly of an old and very tightly-fitting suit of black, distinctly clerical in cut. They had been obtained from a Wesleyan shepherd in exchange for a pair of red and yellow vases to embellish the mantel of the nonconforming parlour. Rain is not unknown upon Dartmoor, and in the neighbourhood of St. Mary Tavy it descends with pitiless violence. Brightly would be quickly saturated, having no means of protecting himself; and then the tight clerical garments, sodden and sleek and shining, would certainly bear some resemblance to the coat of a seal which had just left the sea; a resemblance which was not lessened by his wizened little face and weary shuffling gait. Brightly did not think much while he tramped the moor. He had no right to think. It was not in the way of business. Still, he had his dream, not more than one, because he was not troubled with an active imagination. He tried to fancy himself going about, not on his tired rheumatic legs, but in a little ramshackle cart, with fern at the bottom for Ju to lie on, and a bit of board at the side bearing in white letters the inscription: "A. Brightly. Purveyor of rabbit-skins"; and a lamp to be lighted after dark, and a plank for himself to sit on, and a box behind containing the red and yellow vases. All this splendour to be drawn by a little shaggy pony. What a great man he would be in those days! Starting forth in the morning would be a pleasure and not a pain. Frequently Brightly babbled of his hypothetical cart. He felt sure it must come some day, and so he had begun to prepare for it. He had secured the plank upon which he was to sit and guide the pony, and every autumn he cut some fern to put at the bottom of the cart should it arrive suddenly. The plank he had picked up, and the fern had been cut upon the moor. He had clearly no right to them. The plank had probably slipped out of a granite cart, and the fern belonged to the commoners. There was plenty of it for every one, but, as the commoners would have argued, that was not the point. They had a right to cut the fern, and people like Brightly have no right to anything, except a cheap funeral. Brightly had no business to wander about the moor, which was never made for him, or to kick his boots to pieces against good Duchy of Cornwall granite. All the commoners cheated the Duchy of Cornwall, while they loyally cheered the name of the Duke. They took his granite and skilfully evaded payment of the royalty, and prayed each Sunday in their chapels for grace to continue in honesty; but the fact of their being commoners, some of them having the privilege of the newtake, and others not having the privilege but taking it all the same, made all the difference. They had to assert themselves. When it came to a question of a few extra shillings in the money-box, or even of a few extra pence, minor matters, such as petty tyrannical ordinances of law and Church, could take their seats in a back corner and "bide there." Brightly had no privileges. He had to obey every one. He was only a worm which any one was at perfect liberty to slice in half with a spade. Brightly had a home. The river saw to that; not the Tavy, but the less romantic Taw. Brightly belonged to the Torridge and Taw branch of the family. On the Western side of Cawsand are many gorges in the great cleave cut by the Taw between Belstone and Sticklepath. There narrow and deep clefts have been made by the persistent water draining down to the Taw from the bogs above. In the largest of these clefts Brightly was at home. The sides were completely hidden by willow-scrub, immense ferns, and clumps of whortleberries, as well as by overhanging masses of granite. The water could be heard dripping below like a chime of fairy bells. In winter the cleft appeared a white cascade of falling water, but Brightly's cave was fairly dry and quite sheltered. He was never there by day, and at night nobody could see the smoke of his fire. He had built up the entrance with shaped stones taken from the long-abandoned cots beside the old copper-mines below. The cleft was full of copper, which stained the water a delightful shade of green. Brightly had furnished his home with those things which others had thrown away. He had long ago solved the difficulty of cooking with a perforated frying-pan, and of turning to practical uses a kettle with a bottom like a sieve. Brightly reached the moor gate. On the other side was the long straggling village of St. Mary Tavy. Beside the gate was a heap of refuse. Brightly seated himself upon it, because he thought it was the proper place for him. "I be cruel hungry, Ju," explained Brightly. "So be I," said the dog's tail. "Fair worn to bits tu," went on Brightly. "Same here," said the tail. "Wait till us has the cart," said Brightly cheerily, placing the rabbit-skins upon the dirt beside him. "Us won't be worn to bits then. Us will du dree times the business, and have a cottage and potato-patch, and us will have bread and cheese two times a day and barrel o' cider in the linny. Us will have fat bacon on Sundays tu." Brightly did not know that ambition is an evil thing. It was ridiculous for him to aspire to a cottage and potato-patch, and bread and cheese three times a day. Kindly souls had created stately mansions for such as he. There was one at Tavistock and another in Okehampton; beautiful buildings equipped with all modern conveniences where he could live in comfort, and not worry his head about rabbit-skins, or about Ju, or about such follies as liberty and independence, or about such unnecessary aids to existence as the moorland wind, his river Taw, the golden blossoms of the gorse, the moonlight upon the rocks, and the sweet scent of heather. Brightly was an unreasonable creature to work and starve when a large stone mansion was waiting for him. "Us ha' come a cruel long way, Ju," said the little man, descending from his dream. "Only two rabbit-skins. Business be cruel bad. Us mun get on. This be an awkward village to work. It be all scattery about like." Brightly rose with some alacrity. The moor gate rattled. The hand of the village constable was upon it, and the eyes of that official, who was to Brightly, at least, a far more considerable person than the Lord Chief Justice, were regarding the vagabond with a suspicion which was perfectly natural considering their respective positions. "Good-evening, sir," said Brightly with deep humility. The policeman was not called upon to answer such things as Brightly. He condescended, however, to observe in the severe tones which his uniform demanded: "Best be moving on, hadn't ye?" Brightly agreed that it was advisable. He was well aware he had no right to be sitting upon the heap of refuse. He had probably damaged it In some way. The policeman had his bicycle with him, as he was on his way to Lydford. Brightly stood in a reverential attitude, held the gate open, and touched his cap as the great man rolled by. The constable accepted the service, without thanks, and looked back until the little wanderer was out of sight. Such creatures could be turned to profitable uses after all. They could be made to supply industrious village constables with opportunities for promotion. They could be arrested and charged with house-breaking, rick-burning, or swaling out of season; if such charges could not be supported, they could be summoned for keeping a dog without a licence. The policeman made a note of Brightly, as business was not very flourishing just then. There was the usual amount of illegality being practised by the commoners; but the village constable had nothing to do with that. Commoners are influential folk. A man could not meddle with them and retain his popularity. The policeman had to be polite to his social superiors, and salute the elders of Ebenezer with a bowed head, and wink violently when it was incumbent upon him so to do. Dartmoor has no reason to be proud of St. Mary Tavy, as it is quite the dreariest-looking village upon the moor. Even the river seems to be rather ashamed of it, and turns away as if from a poor relation. St. Peter, over the way, is much more cheerful. They were well-to-do once, these two. They were not only saints, but wealthy, in the good days when the wheals were working and the green stain of copper was upon everything. Now they have come down in the world. The old gentleman lets lodgings, and the old lady takes in washing. They have put away their halos, dropped their saintly prefix, and it is exceedingly improbable that they will ever want them again. They always found it hard work to live up to their reputations; not that they tried very much; but now they are both easy and comfortable as plain everyday folk, neither better nor worse than their neighbours Brentor and Lydford. Peter is a fine, rugged old gentleman; but Mary is decidedly plain with age. There is nothing tender or pleasant about her. She is shamelessly naked; without trees or bushes, and the wheal-scarred moor around is as bald as an apple. The wind comes across her head with the blast of ten thousand bagpipes; and when it rains upon St. Mary--it rains! Brightly knew all about that rain. He had often played the Seal upon that wild road, and had felt the water trickling down his back and making reservoirs of his boots; while people would stand at their windows and laugh at him. Nobody had ever asked him to come in and take shelter. Such an idea would never have occurred to them. Ponies and bullocks were out upon the moor in all weathers, and every winter some died from exposure. Brightly was nothing like so valuable as a pony or bullock, and if he were to die of exposure nobody would be out of pocket. Brightly went from cottage to cottage, but there were no rabbit-skins that day. There seemed to be a rabbit famine just then. Lamps were lighted in windows here and there. When the doors were opened Brightly felt the warmth of the room, smelt the glowing peat and the fragrant teapot, and sometimes saw preparations for a meal. What a wonderful thing it must be, he thought, to have a room of one's own; a hearth, and a mantelpiece holding china dogs, cows with purple spots, and photographs of relations in the Army; a table covered with rare and precious things, such as waxen fruit beneath a dome of glass, woollen mats, and shells from foreign lands; a clock in full working order; a dresser stocked with red and green crockery; and upon the walls priceless oleographs framed in blue ribbon, designed and printed in Austria, and depicting their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall, simpering approvingly at a scarlet Abraham in the act of despatching a yellow Isaac with a bright-blue scimitar. Brightly sighed as each door was closed upon him, and each smoky little paradise disappeared. He was having a run of bad luck. Ju knew all about it. She put what was left of her tail between her legs and shivered. No doubt she wished she had been born into the world a genuine dog, and not a mongrel; just as Brightly sometimes wished he had been born a real human being, and not a poor thing which dealt in rabbit-skins. He reached the top of the village. The road heaved above him, and then came the bare upland. He could do no more that evening. There was no food, or fire, or shelter for him. He knew of a barn in which he could sleep at Brentor, but it was too late to go back there. Darkness was coming on. Brightly did not require to feel in his pocket to discover the state of his finances. He knew he had just twopence. There was a gate beside him, and on the other side a row of very small whitewashed cottages one room high, which had been built for miners in the days when Mary Tavy had been a saint and prosperous; they were then occupied by assorted families. Brightly stumbled through and knocked at the door of the first. It was opened by a young woman nursing a baby; another was hanging to her skirts; a third sprawled under the table; there was a baby in a cradle, another wrapped upon a chair. It appeared to be a congress of babies. The place was crawling with them. It was a regular baby-warren. They had been turned out wholesale. Even Brightly felt he had come to the wrong place, as he asked the extraordinarily fertile female if she would give him a cup of tea and piece of bread for one penny. The answer was in the negative. The woman was inclined to be hysterical, which was not surprising considering her surroundings. She was alone in the house, if she could be called alone when it was hardly possible to step across the floor for babies which were lying about like bees under a lime-tree. Brightly was known as a vagabond. He looked quite the sort of man who would murder her and all the children. She told him to go away, and when he did not move, because he had not heard, she began to scream. "I'll send for policeman if ye don't go. You'm a bad man. Us knows ye. Coming here to scare me, just as I be going to have a baby tu. 'Twill be cross-eyed, poor dear, wi' yew overlooking me. Get along wi' yew, or I'll call neighbours." Brightly begged her pardon in his soft voice and went. He knew it was no use trying the other cottages. The woman with the army of children would only follow from door to door, and describe how he had insulted her. He made his way to the top of the village and sat upon the hedge. Ju crouched beside him and licked his boots. It was a fine evening, only they were too hungry to appreciate it properly. "Us mun get food, or us wun't tramp far in the morning," said Brightly. "This wind du seem to mak' a stomach feel cruel empty." "Makes a dog's stomach empty too, father," said the eloquent tail of Ju. "Us will go to the shop, and get what us can for a penny. Mun keep one penny for to-morrow," said Brightly. He turned his dim eyes towards the road. A horse was trotting up the long hill, and presently he saw it; a big ugly grey with a shaggy coat. Brightly knew who it was approaching him, and had there been time he would have hidden, because he was afraid of the man who rode. "It be Varmer Pendoggat," he whispered. "Don't ye growl, Ju." Possibly the rider would have passed without a word, but the grey horse saw the creatures upon the hedge and shied, crushing the rider's leg against one of the posts opposite. This was unfortunate for Brightly, as it was clearly his fault. Quaint objects with big spectacles and rabbit-skins have no business to sit upon a hedge in the twilight. He had frightened the horse, just as he had frightened the woman with a family. The horse had hurt his master, and Pendoggat was not the sort of man to suffer patiently. There is a certain language which must not be described. It may be heard to perfection in the cheap enclosures at race-meetings, in certain places licensed to sell beer, at rabbit-shoots, and in other places where men of narrow foreheads come together and seem to revert to a type of being which puzzles the scientist, because there is nothing else in the entire animal world quite like it. Pendoggat made use of that language. He had a low forehead, a scowling face, small eyes, which looked anywhere except at the object addressed, bushy black moustache, and high cheek-bones. He never laughed, but when he was angry he grinned, and spittle ran down his chin. He was a strong man; it was said he could pick up a sack of flour with one hand. He could have taken Brightly and broken him up like a rotten stick. Most people were respectful to Pendoggat. The village constable would have retired on a pension rather than offend him. "I be sorry, sir. I be cruel sorry," muttered poor shivering Brightly. "I did bide still, sir, and I told the dog to bide still tu. I hopes you hain't hurt, sir. Don't ye be hard on I, sir. Us have had a bad day, and us be hungry, sir." Pendoggat replied with more of the same language. He tried to destroy Ju with his thick ground-ash, but the wise cur escaped. Then he sidled the horse towards the hedge, and crushed Brightly against its stones. He saw nothing pathetic in the poor thin creature's quivering face and half-blind eyes; but he obtained some enjoyment out of the piping cry for mercy. Brightly thought he was going to be killed, and though he didn't mind that much, he did not want to be tortured. "Don't ye, sir. Don't ye hurt I," he cried. "I didn't mean it, sir. I was biding quiet. You'm hurting I cruel, sir. I'll give ye two vases, sir, purty vases, if yew lets I go." Pendoggat struck his horse, and the animal started back. Brightly reached his raw hand up the hedge and lifted his basket tenderly. It was like losing flesh and blood to part with his vases, but freedom from persecution was worth any ransom. He removed the oil-cloth. What was left of the light softened the hideous ware and made the crude colouring endurable. "Tak' two, sir," said Brightly piteously. "Them's the best, sir." "Give me up the basket," Pendoggat muttered. The shivering little man lifted it. Pendoggat snatched at the handle, pulled out a vase, and flung it against the stone hedge. There was a sharp sound, and then the road became spotted with red and yellow fragments. This was something which Brightly could hardly understand. It was too raw and crude. He stood in the road, with his hands swaying like two pendulums against his thin legs, and wondered why the world had been made and what was the object of it all. There was another crash, and a second shower of red and yellow fragments. Pendoggat had selected his pair of vases, and he was also enjoying himself. He looked up and down, saw there was no one in sight; Dartmoor is a wild and lawless place, and nobody could dictate to him. He was a commoner; master of the rivers and the granite. Brightly said nothing. He lifted a red hand for his basket, which contained what was left of his capital, but Pendoggat only struck the clumsy fingers with his ground-ash. It was darker, but a wild gleam was showing over what had been Gubbings Land. The moon was coming up that way. "I'll learn ye to scare my horse," growled Pendoggat. "I saw you shake your hand at him. I heard you setting on the dog. If I was to give you what you deserve, I'd--" He lifted his arm, and there was another crash, and more flesh and blood were wasted. "Don't ye, sir," cried Brightly bitterly. "It be ruin, sir. I tored they once avore, and 'twas nigh a month 'vore I could start again. I works hard, sir, and I du try, but I've got this asthma, sir, and rheumatism, and I can't properly see, master. I've been in hospital to Plymouth, sir, but they ses I would never properly see. 'Tis hard to start again, master, and I ain't got friends. Don't ye tear any more, master. I'll never get right again." Pendoggat went on smashing the vases. There were not many of them, not nearly enough to satisfy him. The last was shattered, and he flung the basket at Brightly, hitting him on the head, but fortunately not breaking his spectacles. Brightly wanted to be alone; to crawl into the bracken with Ju, and think about many things; only Pendoggat would not let him go. "Hand up those rabbit-skins," he shouted. He was growing excited. Smashing the vases had put passion into him. "I've tramped ten miles for they, master. Sourton to Lydford, and Lydford to Brentor, and Brentor to Mary Tavy. Times be very bad, sir. Ten miles for two rabbit-skins, master." "Hand them up, or I'll break your head." Brightly had to obey. Pendoggat flung the skins across the saddle and grinned. He passed his sleeve across his lips, then put out his arm, seized Brightly by the scarf round his neck, and dragged him near. "If I was to give ye one or two across the head, 'twould learn ye not to scare horses," he said. Brightly shivered a little more, and lifted his wizened face. "Got any money? Tell me the truth, or I'll pull the rags off ye." "Duppence, master. 'Tis all I has now you'm torn the cloam and got my rabbit-skins. If it warn't for the duppence I don't know what me and Ju would du." "Hand it over," said Pendoggat. "I can't, master. I can't," whispered Brightly, gulping like a dying fish. "Hand it over, or I'll strangle ye." Then in a fit of passion he dragged Brightly right across the saddle and tore his pocket open. The two copper coins fell into his hand. He dropped Brightly upon the red and yellow fragments, which cut his raw hands, then hit his horse, and rode on triumphing. He had punished the miserable little dealer in rubbish; and he fancied Brightly would not venture to frighten his horse again. Pendoggat rode up to the high moor and felt the wind. He was about to strike his horse into a canter, when a spectre started out of the gloom, a wizened face reached his knee, an agonised voice cried: "Give I back my duppence, master. Give I back my duppence." Pendoggat shivered. He did not enjoy the sound of that voice, or the sight of that face. He thought of death when he saw that face. Brightly was only one of the mean things of the earth, and mean things make a fuss about trifles. That face and that voice all over the loss of twopence! Probably the wretched thing was mad. Honest men are often frightened when they see lunatics. "Us be cruel hungry, master. Us have eaten nought all day. Us have lost our cloam and our rabbit-skins. Give I back my duppence, master. I'll work for ye to-morrow." Pendoggat hit his horse, and the animal cantered away, and the spectre troubled him no longer. He wiped his chin again and felt satisfied. He had made a poor creature suffer. There was a certain amount of crude pleasure in that thought. But why had that face and voice suggested death, the death of a man who has used his power to deprive a poor wretch of his vineyard? Pendoggat flung the rabbit-skins into the gaping pit of a mine-shaft and cantered on. He was a free man; he was a commoner; the rivers and the rocks were his. Brightly stumbled back to the hedge to reclaim his empty basket. He talked to Ju for a little, and tried to understand things, but couldn't. He would have to start all over again. He discovered a turnip, which had probably rolled out of a cart and was therefore any one's property, and he filled his stomach with that. Ju raked a bone bearing a few sinews out of a rubbish-heap. So they might have done worse. At the top of the village was an old cow-barn. Above was a loft containing a little dry fern. Brightly and Ju lodged there. It was quite away from other buildings, standing well out upon the moor, therefore nobody heard a queer piping voice, singing and feasting on the quaint doggerel far into the night-- "Jerusalem the golden, Wi' milk and honey blest... CHAPTER III ABOUT PASTOR AND MASTER Unpleasant creatures are so plentiful in the world that they cannot be overlooked. Were there only a few they might be ignored; but they throng, they thrust themselves forward, they shout to attract attention, they push the decent-looking out of the way. The ugliest women make the most noise; the ugliest men shove to the front in a crowd; the ugliest insects make their way into bed-chambers. Why Nature made so much ugliness, side by side with so much that is beautiful, only Nature knows. Some countries are made detestable to live in by the presence of hideous creatures. There is the fire-ant of the Amazon valley, which will put human beings to flight. There is the Mygale spider, covered with poisonous red hair, its body the size of a duck's egg, the spread of its legs covering eight inches, which scuttles into a room by moonlight and casts a horrible shadow upon the bed. There is the wolf-spider which, if a man passes near its lair, will leap out and pursue him, and bite him if it can. There are so many of these repulsive things that they cannot be disregarded. Some things can be kept out of the way: abattoirs, operating-theatres, vivisection-hells. People ignore and forget these, because they are not seen; but the man wolf-spider cannot be forgotten, because he leaps out and pursues those that come near his lurking-place. Nothing in the entire system of creation can be more inexplicable than the persistent cruelty of Nature. Death there must be, but Nature resents a painless death. Animals not only kill but torture those which are inferior to them. Mason-wasps deliberately vivisect spiders, which are insects extremely tenacious of life. It is the same all the way along the scale up to and including man. Nature does her work with bloody hands; birth, life, death, become a miserable dabble of blood and passion. Some people shut their eyes to it all; others cannot; others add to it; churches with their tolling bells and black masses revel in the mystic side of it. There is not a person living who has not done an act of cruelty. It is impossible to refrain from it. However kindly the soul may be Nature will whisper bloody messages; and some day there is sure to be a temporary breakdown. In a town the wretched business is not much seen. It lurks in the dark corners, like the Mygale spider, and comes out perhaps at moonlight to cast its shadow upon the bed. On the sparsely inhabited moor it is visible, for it cannot hide away so easily, and it tries less because it is fiercer. It is like the wolf-spider which dashes out in a mad fury. Upon a wild upland passions are fiercer, just as physical strength is greater. Everything seems to suggest the dark end of the scale; the rain is more furious, the clouds are blacker, the wind is mightier, the rivers are colder; Nature is at full strength. She is wild and lawless, and men are often wild and lawless too. Tender lilies would not live upon the moor, and it is no use looking for them. They are down in the valleys. Upon the moor there is the granite, the spiny gorse, the rugged heather. It is no use looking for the qualities of the lily in those men who are made of the granite, and gorse, and heather. Pendoggat was the sort of man who might have melted into tears at hearing a violin played, and then have kicked the performer down a wheal if he asked for a copper. Nature turns out a lot of contradictory work like that. She never troubles to fit the joints together. Had any one told Pendoggat he was a cruel man, he would first of all have stunned the speaker into silence, and then have wondered whatever the man had been driving at. It is a peculiarity of cruelty that it does not comprehend cruelty. No argument will persuade a rabbit-trapper that the wretched animals suffer in the iron jaws of his traps. The man who skins an eel alive, and curses it because it won't keep still, cannot be brought to understand that he is doing anything inhuman. Perhaps he will admit he had never given the subject a thought; more probably he will regard the apostle of mercy as a madman. The only way to enlighten such men is to skin them alive, or compel them to tear themselves to death in an iron trap; and there are, unfortunately, laws to prevent that. The only just law ever made was the _lex talionis_, and Nature recognises that frequently. Pendoggat trapped rabbits in his fields, and if they were not dead when he found them he left them as a rule. The traps were supposed to kill them in time, and the longer they were in dying the longer their flesh would keep. That was the way he looked at it. Quite a practical way. Very likely Pendoggat was of Spanish extraction in spite of his Cornish name. The average Cornishman has a thoroughly good heart, and is, if he be of the true stock, invariably fair. The Cornish man or maid who is dark owes something to foreign blood. There are in Cornwall many men and women so strikingly dark as to attract attention at once; and if their ancestry could be traced back a couple of hundred years it might be found that a Spanish name occurred. While the stout men of Devon were chasing the Armada up channel and plucking the Admiral's feathers one by one, and the patriotic Manacles were doing Cornwall's share by giving the big galleons a hearty welcome, many a shipwrecked sailor found his way into the cottages of fishermen and wreckers, and with the aid of a pocketful of gold pieces made themselves at home. Some possibly were able to return to Spain; others probably seduced their protectors' young women; others were lawfully wedded; others settled down in their new land and took a Cornish name. It is a difficult piece of history to trace, and much must remain pure hypothesis; but it is fairly certain that had there been no Spanish Armada to invade England, and to send Queen Elizabeth to her writing-tablets to reel off a lot of badly-rhymed doggerel in imitation of Master Spenser, there would also have been no Farmer Pendoggat dwelling at Helmen Barton in the parish of Lydford and sub-parish of St. Mary Tavy, as a commoner of Dartmoor and a tenant in name of Elizabeth's descendant the Duke of Cornwall. There was nothing of a sinister nature about the Barton. Even its name meant simply in its original Celtic the place of the high stone; _hel_ being a corruption of _huhel_, and _men_ one of the various later forms of _maen_; just as huhel twr, the high tor, has now become Hel Tor. Wherever people have been given a chance of dragging in the devil and his dwelling-place they have taken it; actuated, perhaps, by the same motive which impelled the old dame to make a profound reverence whenever the name of the ghostly enemy was mentioned, as she didn't know what would be her fate in a future state, so thought it wise to try and propitiate both sides. The Barton was a long low house of granite, damp and ugly. No architect could make a house built of granite look pleasant; no art could prevent the tough stone from sweating. It was tiled, which made it look colder still. Creepers would not crawl up its walls on account of the winds. One half of the Barton was crowded with windows, the other half appeared to be a blank wall. A good many farm-houses are built upon that plan, the stable and loft being a continuation of the dwelling-house, and to all outward appearance a part of it. There was not a tree near the place. The farm was in a fuzzy hollow; above was a fuzzy down. It ought to have been called Furzeland, a name which is borne by a tiny hamlet in mid-Devon, which nobody has ever heard of, where the furze does not grow. The high stone which had named the place--probably a menhir--had disappeared long ago. Some former tenant would have broken it up and built it into a wall. The commoners' creed is a simple one, and runs thus: "Sometimes I believe in God who made Dartmoor. I cling to my privileges of mining, turbary, and quarrying. I take whatever I can find on the moor, and give no man pay or thanks. I reverence my landlord, and straighten his boundary walls when he, isn't looking. The granite is mine, and the peat, and the rivers, and the fish in them, and so are the cattle upon the hills, if no other man can put forward a better claim. No foreign devil shall share my privileges. If any man offers to scratch my back he must pay vor't. Amen." It was fitting that a man like Pendoggat should live among the furze, farm in the furze, fight with the furze. He resembled it in its fierceness, its spitefulness, its tenacity of life; but not in its beauty and fragrance. He brought forth no golden blossoms. There was no thorn-protected fragrance in him. He was always struggling with the furze, without realising that it must defeat him in the end. He burnt it, but up it came in the spring. He grubbed it up, but portions of the root escaped and sent forth new growth. He would reclaim a patch, but directly he turned his back upon it to attack a fresh piece the furze returned. To eradicate furze upon a moor was not one of the labours allotted to Hercules. He would have found it worse than cutting off the heads of the water-snake. Pendoggat had fought for twenty years, and the enemy was still undefeated; he would die, and the gorse would go on; for he was only a hardy annual, and the gorse is a perennial, as eternal as the rivers and the granite. It bristled upon every side of the Barton, the greater gorse as well as the lesser, and it was in flower all the year round, as though boasting of its indomitable strength and vitality. On the west side, where the moorland dipped and made an opening for the winds from Tavy Cleave, a long narrow brake remained untouched to make a shelter for the house. The gorse there was high and thick, and its ropy stems were as big round as a man's wrist. Pendoggat would have grievously assaulted any man who dared to fire that brake. People who talked scandal in the twin villages, namely, the entire population, wondered whether Mrs. Pendoggat was really as respectable as she looked. They decided against her, as they were not the sort of people to give any one the benefit of a doubt. They were right, however, for Annie Pendoggat had no claim to the latter part of her name. She was really Annie Crocker, a degraded member of one of those three famous families--Cruwys and Copplestone being the other two--who reached their zenith before the Norman invasion. She had come to Pendoggat as housekeeper, and could not get away from him; neither could he dismiss her. She was a little woman, with a sharp face and a soft voice; much too soft, people said. She could insult any one in a manner which suggested that she loved them. She had been fond of her master in her snake-like way. She still admired his brute strength, and what she thought was his courage. He had never lifted up his hand against her; and when he threatened to, she would remark in her soft way that the long brake of gorse darkened the kitchen dreadfully, and she thought she would go and set a match to it. That always brought Pendoggat to his senses. It was a quiet life at the Barton. Pendoggat had no society, except that of some minister whom he might bring back to dinner on Sundays. On that day he attended chapel twice. He also went on Wednesday, when he sometimes preached. His sermons were about a cruel God ruling the world by cruelty, and preparing a state of cruelty for every one who didn't attend chapel twice on Sundays and once during the week. He believed in what he said. He also believed he was himself secure from such a punishment; just as certain ignorant Catholics sincerely rely on the power of a priest to forgive their sins. Pendoggat thought that he was free to act as he pleased, so long as he didn't miss his attendances at chapel. If he cheated a man, and missed chapel, his soul would be in danger; but if he attended chapel the sin was automatically forgiven. It was a strange form of theology, but not an uncommon one. Many excellent people tend towards it. Pious old ladies will do all they can to induce young men to attend church. It does not appear to trouble them much if the young men read comic papers, wink at the girls, or slumber audibly, while they are there. The great point has been gained. The young men are in church; therefore they are religious. The young man who goes for a walk to the top of the highest tor to watch the sunset is a vile creature who will be damned some day. The Barton had its parlour, and Pendoggat practised the entire ritual connected with that mysterious apartment. No Dartmoor farm-house would have the slightest pretensions to be regarded as a civilised home without the parlour. Its rites and ceremonies remain unwritten, and yet every farmer knows them, and practises them with the precision of a Catholic priest obeying his rubrics, or with the zeal of an Anglican parson defying his. It must be the best room in the house, and it must be kept locked and regarded as holy ground. The windows must not be opened lest fresh air should enter, and equally dangerous sunlight must be excluded by blinds and curtains and a high bank of moribund plants. The furniture is permitted to vary, with the exception of a few ornaments which must be found in every house as a mark of stability and respectability. There must be a piano which cannot be used for purposes of music, and a lamp which is not to be lighted. Whatever books the house contains must be arranged in a manner pleasing to the householder, and they must never be opened. There is a central table, and upon it recline albums containing photographs of the family at different stages of their careers, together with those of ancestors; and these photographs have little value if they are not yellow and faded to denote their antiquity. In the centre of the table must appear a strange device; a stuffed bird in a glass case, a piece of coral on a mat, or some recognised family heirloom. The pictures must be strongly coloured and should have a religious accent. As Germany has achieved surprising results in the matter of colour, the pictures are usually from that fatherland. Ruined temples on the Nile are a favourite subject; only the temples should resemble dilapidated barns, and the Nile bear a distinct likeness to a duck pond. Upon the mantel must stand a clock which has not gone within living memory, and some assorted crockery which if viewed continuously in a strong light will bring on neuralgia. A copy of a penny novelette, and a sheet of music-hall songs lying about, denote literary and musical tastes; but these are unusual. There is generally a family Bible, used to support a large shell, or a framed photograph of the master in his prime of life; and this is opened from time to time to record a birth, marriage, or death. The pattern of the wall-paper must be decided and easily discernible; scarlet flowers on a yellow background are always satisfactory. The ceremony of entering the parlour takes place usually on Sunday. There is a Greater Entry and a Lesser Entry. The lesser takes place after tea. The master in his best clothes, his face and hands washed, although that point is not always insisted upon, carefully shaven, or with well-groomed beard, as the case may be, his boots removed after the manner of a Mussulman, enters the holy place, sits stiffly upon a chair without daring to lean back lest he should disturb the antimacassar, lights his pipe, and revels in the odour of respectability. He does not really enjoy himself, but after a time he grows more confident and ventures to cross his legs. From time to time he rises, goes out, walks along the passage, and spits out of the front door. The greater entry takes place after chapel. The entire family assemble by the light of the kitchen lamp and say wicked things about their neighbours. Sometimes guests are introduced, and these display independence in various ways, chiefly by leaning back in their chairs and shuffling their boots on the carpet. The ceremonies come to a close at an early hour; the members of the family file out; father, leaving last, locks the door. The parlour is closed for another week. Pendoggat's parlour was orthodox; only more cold and severe than most. The wall-paper was stained with moisture, and the big open fire-place always smoked. The master thought himself better than the neighbouring commoners, and none of them were ever invited to enter his sanctuary. In a way he was their superior. He could write a good hand, and read anything, and he spoke better than his neighbours. It is curious that of two commoners, educated and brought up in exactly the same way, one will speak broad dialect and the other good English. There was naturally very little society for Pendoggat. He lived in his own atmosphere as a philosopher might have done. He encouraged his minister to visit him, but he had a good reason for that. Weak-minded ministers are valuable assets and good advertising agents; for, if their congregations do not exactly trust them, they will at least follow them, which is more than they will do for any one else. The sanctity of the parlour may be violated on weekdays; either upon the occasion of some chapel festival, or when a visitor of higher rank than a farmer calls. When Pendoggat reached the Barton he knew at once that the place was haunted by a visiting body, because the blinds were up. Annie Crocker met him in the yard, which in local parlance was known as the court, and said: "The Maggot's waiting for ye in the parlour. Been there nigh upon an hour. He'm singing Lighten our Darkness by now, I reckon, vor't be getting whist in there, and he'm alone where I set 'en, and told 'en to bide till you come along." "Given him no tea?" said Pendoggat, appearing to address the stones at his feet rather than the woman. That was his usual way; nobody ever saw Pendoggat's eyes. They saw only a black moustache, a scowl, and a moving jaw. "No, nothing," said Annie. "No meat for maggots here. Let 'en go and eat dirt. Bad enough to have 'en in the house. He'm as slimy as a slug." "Shut your noise, woman," said Pendoggat. "Take the horse in, and slip his bridle off." "Tak' 'en in yourself, man," she snapped, turning towards the house. Pendoggat repeated his command in a gentler voice; and this time he was obeyed. Annie led the horse away, and the master went in. The Reverend Eli Pezzack was the Maggot, so called because of his singularly unhealthy complexion. Dartmoor folk have rich red or brown faces--the hard weather sees to that--but Eli was not a son of the moor. It was believed that he had originated in London of West-country parents. He had none of the moorman's native sharpness. He was a tall, clammy individual, with flabby hands dun and cold like mid-Devon clay; and he was so clumsy that if he had entered a room containing only a single article of furniture he would have been certain to fall against it. He was no humbug, and tried to practise what he taught. He was lamentably ignorant, but didn't know it, and he never employed a word of one syllable when he could find anything longer. He admired and respected Pendoggat, making the common mistake with ignorant men of believing physical strength to be the same thing as moral strength. He agreed with those grammarians who have maintained that the eighth letter of the alphabet is superfluous. "Sorry to have kept ye sitting in the dark," said Pendoggat as he entered the parlour. "The darkness has not been superlative, Mr. Pendoggat," said Eli, as he stumbled over the best chair while trying to shake hands. "The lunar radiance has trespassed pleasantly into the apartment and beguiled the time of lingering with pleasant fancies." He had composed that sentence during "the time of lingering," but knew he would not be able to maintain that high standard when he was called on to speak extempore. "'The darkness is no darkness at all, but the night is as clear as the day,'" quoted Pendoggat with considerable fervour, as he drew aside the curtains to admit more moonlight. "True, Mr. Pendoggat," said Eli. "We know who uttered that sublime contemplation." This was a rash statement, but was made with conviction, and accepted apparently in the same spirit. "You know why I asked you to come along here. I'm going to build up your fortune and mine," said Pendoggat. "Let us seek a blessing." Eli tumbled zealously over a leg of the table, gathered himself into a kneeling posture, clasped his clay-like hands, and prayed aloud with fervour and without aspirates for several minutes. When Pendoggat considered that the blessing had been obtained he dammed up the flow of words with a stertorous "Amen." Then they stood upon their feet and got to business. "Seems there's no oil in this lamp," said the master, referring not to the pastor, but to the lamp of state which was never used. "We do not require it, Mr. Pendoggat," came the answer. "We stand in God's light, the moonlight. That is sufficient for two honest men to see each other's faces by." Pendoggat ought to have winced, but did not, merely because he had so little knowledge of himself. He didn't know he was a brute, just as Peter and Mary did not know they were savages. Grandfather the clock knew nearly as much about his internal organism as they did about theirs. "I want money," said Pendoggat sharply. "The chapel wants money. You want money. You're thinking of getting married?" Eli replied that celibacy was not one of those virtues which he felt called upon to practise; and admitted that he had discovered a young woman who was prepared to blend her soul indissolubly with his. The expression was his own. He did not mention what he imagined would be the result of that mixture. "More maggots," Annie Crocker would have said. Annie had been brought up in the atmosphere of the Church, and for that reason hated all pastors and people known as chapel-volk. Pendoggat was the one exception with her; but then he was not an ordinary being. He was a piece of brute strength, to be regarded, not so much as a man, but as part of the moor, beaten by wind, and producing nothing but gorse, which could only be burnt and stamped down; and still would live and rise again with all its former strength and fierceness. Pastor Eli Pezzack was the poor weed which the gorse smothers out of being. "Come outside," said Pendoggat. Eli picked up his hat, stumbled, and wondered. He did not venture to disobey the master, because weak-minded creatures must always dance to the tune piped by the strong. Pendoggat was already outside, tramping heavily in the cold hall. Unwillingly Eli left the parlour, with its half-visible memorials, its photographs, worthless curios, hair-stuffed furniture and glaring pictures; blundering like a bee against a window he followed; he heard Pendoggat clearing his throat and coughing in the court. "Got a stick?" muttered the master. "Take this, then." He gave the minister a long ash-pole. "We're going down Dartmoor. It's not far. Best follow me, or you'll fall." Eli knew he was certain to fall in any case, so he protested mildly. "It is dangerous among the rocks, Mr. Pendoggat." The other made no answer. He went into the stable, and came out with a lantern, unlighted; then, with a curt "Come on," he began to skirt the furze-brake, and Eli followed more like a patient sheep than a foolish shepherd. There is nothing more romantic than a wide undulating region of high moorland lighted by a full moon and beaten by strong wind. The light is enough to show the hills and rock-piles. The wind creates an atmosphere of perfect solitude. The two men came out of the dip; and the scene about them was the high moor covered with moonlight and swept by wind. Pendoggat's face looked almost black, and that of the Maggot was whiter than ever by contrast. "Where are you taking me?" he asked gently. "Need we proceed at this present 'igh velocity, Mr. Pendoggat? I am not used to it. I cannot be certain of my equilibrium." The other stopped. Eli was deep in heather, floundering like a man learning to swim. "You're an awkward walker, man. Lift your feet and plant 'em down firm. You shuffle. Catch hold of my arm if you can't see. We're not going far. Down the cleave--a matter of half-a-mile, but it's bad walking near the river." Eli did not take the master's arm. He was too nervous. He struggled on, tumbling about like a drunken man; but Pendoggat was walking slowly now that they were well away from the Barton. "Sorry to bring you out so late," he said. "I meant to be home earlier, and then we'd have got down the cleave by daylight." "But what are we going to inspect?" cried Eli. "Something that may make our fortunes. Something better than scratching the back of the moor for a living. I'll make a big man of you, Pezzack, if you do as I tell ye." "You are a wonderful man, and a generous man, Mr. Pendoggat," said Eli. Then he plunged heavily into a gorse-bush. Pendoggat dragged him out grimly, almost crying with pain, with a hundred little white bristles in his face and hands. He mentioned this fact with suitable lamentations. "They'll work out. What's a few furze-prickles?" Pendoggat muttered. "Get your hands hard, and you won't feel 'em. Mind, now! there's bog here. Best keep close to me." Eli obeyed, but for all that he managed to step into the bog, and made the ends of his clerical trousers objectionable. They reached the edge of the cleave, and stopped while Pendoggat lighted his lantern. They had to make their way across a wilderness of clatters. The moonlight was deceptive and crossed with black shadows. The wind seemed to make the boulders quiver. Eli looked upon the wild scene, heard the rushing of the river, saw the rugged range of tors, and felt excited. He too felt himself an inheritor of the kingdom of Tavy and a son of Dartmoor. He was going to be wealthy perhaps; marry and rebuild his chapel; do many things for the glory of God. He was quite in earnest, though he was a simple soul. "I lift up mine eyes to the 'ills, Mr. Pendoggat," he said reverently. "Best keep 'em on your feet. If you fall here you'll smash your head." "When I contemplate this scene," went on Eli, with religious zeal undiminished, "so full of wonder and mystery, Mr. Pendoggat, I repeat to myself the inspired words of Scripture, 'Why 'op ye so, ye 'igh 'ills?'" Pendoggat agreed gruffly that the quotation was full of mystery, and it was not for them to inquire into its meaning. Somehow they reached the bottom of the cleave, Eli shambling and sliding down the rocks, tumbling continually. Pendoggat observed his inartistic scramblings with as much amusement as he was capable of feeling, muttering to himself, "He'd trip over a blade o' grass." They came to an old wall overgrown with fern and brambles; just below it was the mossy ruin of a cot, the fire-place still showing, the remains of the wall a yard in width. They were among works concerning which history is hazy. They were in a place where the old miners wrought the tin, and among the ruins of their industry. Perhaps a rich mine was there once. Possibly it was the secret of that place which was guarded so well by the Carthaginian captain, who sacrificed his tin-laden galley to avoid capture by Roman coastguards. The history of the search for "white metal" upon Dartmoor has yet to be learnt. They went cautiously round the ruin, and upon the other side Eli dived across the bleached skeleton of a pony and became mixed up in dry bones. A deep cleft appeared overhung with gorse and willows. Eli would have dived again had not Pendoggat been holding him. They clambered across, then made their way along a shelf of rock between the cliff and the river. Beyond, Pendoggat parted the bushes, and directed the light of his lantern towards what appeared to be a narrow gully, black and unpleasant, and musical with dripping water. "Go on," he said curtly. The minister held back. He was not a brave man, and that black hole in the side of the moor conjured up horrors. "Take my hand, and let yourself down. There's water, but not more than a foot," said Pendoggat. He pushed Eli forward, then caught his collar, and lowered him like a sack. The minister shuddered when he felt the icy water round his legs and the clammy ferns closing about his head. Pendoggat followed. They were in a narrow channel leading towards a low cave. Frogs splashed in front of them. Small streams trickled down a hundred tiny clefts. "This is a very disagreeable situation, Mr. Pendoggat," said Eli meekly. "Come on," said the other gruffly. "I'll show you something to open your eyes. Step low." They splashed on, bent under the arch of the cave, and entered the womb of the moor. Hundreds of feet of solid granite roofed them in. They were out of the wind and moonlight. Pendoggat guided the minister in front of him, keeping him close to the wall of rock to avoid the deep water in the centre. About twenty paces from the entry was a shaft cut at right angles. They went along it until they had to stoop again. "Be'old, Mr. Pendoggat!" cried Eli, with amazed admiration. "Be'old the colours! I have never seen anything so beautiful in my life. What is it? Jewels, Mr. Pendoggat? You don't say they are jewels?" "Pretty, ain't they? More than pretty too. Now you know what I've brought you for," said Pendoggat, as he turned up the light to increase the splendour of the wall. It was a pretty sight for a child, or any other simple creature. The side wall at the end of the shaft was streaked and veined with a brilliant purple and green pattern. These colours were caused by the iron in the rocks acting upon the slate, which was there abundant. Pendoggat knew that well enough. He knew also that the sight would impress the minister. He lifted the lantern, pointed to a streak of pale blue which ran down the rock from the roof to the water, and said gruffly: "You can see for yourself. That's the stuff." "What is it?" whispered the excited pastor. "Nickel. The rock's full of it." "But don't they know? Does anybody know of it?" "Only you and me," said Pendoggat. "Why have you told me? You are a very generous man, but why do you let me into the secret?" "Come outside," said Pendoggat. They went out. Not a word was spoken until they reached the side of the cleave. Then Pendoggat turned upon the minister, holding his arm and shaking it violently as he said: "I've chosen you as my partner. I can trust you. Will you stand in with me, share the risks, and share the profits? Answer now, and let's have done with it." "I must go home and pray over it, Mr. Pendoggat," cried the excited and shivering Eli. "I must seek for guidance. I do not know if it is right for me to seek after wealth. But for the chapel's sake, for my future wife's sake, for the sake of my unborn infants--" "Yes or no," broke in Pendoggat. "We'll finish it before we move." "What can I do?" said Eli, clasping his clay-like hands. "I know nothing of these things. I don't know anything about nickel, except that I have some spoons and forks--" "Don't you see we must get money to work it? You can manage that. You have several congregations. You can persuade them to invest. My name must be kept out of it. The commoners don't like me. I'll do everything else. You can leave the business in my hands. Your part will be to get the money--and you take half profits." "I will think over it, Mr. Pendoggat. I will think and pray." "Make up your mind now, or I get another partner." Pendoggat lifted the glass of the lantern and blew out the light. "Have we the right to work a mine upon the moor?" "Leave all that to me. You get the money. Tell 'em we will guarantee ten per cent. Likely it will be more. It's as safe a thing as was ever known, and it is the chance of your lifetime. Here's my hand." Eli took the hand, and had the gorse-prickles forced well into his. "I'll do my best, Mr. Pendoggat. I know you are an honest and a generous man," he said. CHAPTER IV ABOUT BEETLES There was a whitewashed cottage called Lewside beside the moorland road, and at a window which commanded a view of that road sat a girl with what appeared to be a glory round her face--it was nothing but soft red hair--a girl of seventeen, called Boodles, or anything else sufficiently idiotic; and this girl was learning doggerel and singing-- "'The West wind always brings wet weather, The East wind wet and cold together; The South wind surely brings us rain, The North wind blows it back again.' "And that means it's always raining, which is a lie. And as I'm saying it I'm a liar," laughed Boodles. It was raining then. Only a Dartmoor shower; the sort of downright rain which makes holes in granite and plays Wagner-like music upon roofs of corrugated iron. "There's a bunny. Let me see. That's two buns, one man and a boy, a cart and two horses, three wild ponies, and two jolly little sheep with horns and black faces--all been along the road this afternoon," said Boodles. "Now the next verse-- 'If the sun in red should set. The next day surely will be wet; If the sun should set in grey. The next will be a rainy day.' "That's all. We can't go on lying for ever. I wish," said Boodles, "I wish I hadn't got so many freckles on my nose, and I wish my hair wasn't red, and thirdly and lastly, I wish--I wish my teeth weren't going to ache next week. I know they will, because I've been eating jam pudding, and they always ache after jam pudding; three days after, always three days--the beasts! Now what shall I sing about? Why can't people invent something for small girls to do upon a rainy day? I wish a battle was being fought on the moor. It would be fun. I could sit here and watch all day; and I would cut off bits of my hair and throw them to the victorious generals. What a sell for me if they wouldn't pick them up! I expect they would, though, for father says I'm a boodle girl, and that means beautiful, though it's not true, and I wish it was. Another lie and another wish! And when I'm dressed nicely I am boodle-oodle, and that means more beautiful. And when the sun is shining on my hair I am boodle-oodliest, and that means very beautiful. I suppose it's rather nonsense, but it's the way we live here. We may be silly so long as we are good. The next song shall be patriotic. We will bang a drum and wave a flag; and sing with a good courage-- 'It was the way of good Queen Bess, Who ruled as well as mortal can, When she was stugged, and the country in a mess, She would send for a Devon man.' "Well now, that's the truth. Miss Boodles. The principal county in England is Devonshire, and the principal town is Tavistock, and the principal river is the Tavy, and the principal rain is upon Dartmoor, and the principal girl has red hair and freckles on her nose, and she's only seventeen. And the dearest old man in Devon is just coming along the passage, and now he's at the door, and here he is. Father," she laughed, "why do people ask idiotic questions, like I'm doing now?" "Because they are the easiest," said Abel Cain Weevil, in his gentle manner and bleat-like voice. "I was sitting here one day, and Mary Tavy came along," went on Boodles. "She said: 'Aw, my dear, be ye sot by the window?' And I said: 'No, Mary, I'm standing on my head.' She looked so frightened. The poor thing thought I was mad." "Boodles, you're a wicked maid," said Weevil fondly. "You make fun of everything. Some day you will get your ears pulled." The two were not related, except by affection, although they passed as father and daughter. Boodles had come from the pixies. She had been left one night in the porch of Lewside Cottage, wrapped up in a wisp of fern, without clothing of any kind, and round her neck was a label inscribed: "Take me in, or I shall be drowned to-morrow." Weevil had taken her in, and when the baby smiled at him his eccentric old soul laughed back. He entered into partnership at once with the baby-girl, and she had been a blessing to him. He knew that she had been left in his porch as a last resource; if he had not taken her in she would have been drowned the next day. It was all very pretty to imagine that Boodles had come from the pixies. The truth was nobody wanted her; the unmarried mother could not keep the child, Weevil was believed to be a tender-hearted old fool, so the baby was wrapped in fern and left in his porch; and the tenant of Lewside Cottage lived up to his reputation. Boodles knew her history. She sat at the cottage window every day, watching every one who passed; and sometimes she would murmur: "I wonder if my mother went by to-day." She had once or twice inserted an unpleasant adjective, but then she had no cause to love her unknown parents. Much of her love was given to Abel Cain Weevil; and all of it went out to some one else. The old man was one of those mysteries who crop up in desolate places. Nobody knew where he came from, what he had been, or what he was doing in the region watered by the Tavy. He was poor and harmless. He kept out of every one's way. "Quite mad," said St. Peter. "An honest madman," answered St. Mary. "He had at least the decency to recognise that child, for of course she is his daughter." St. Peter had his doubts. He did not like to think too highly of old Weevil. That was against his principles. He suggested that Weevil intended to make some base use of the girl, and St. Mary agreed. They could generally agree upon such matters. Weevil was quite right to keep out of the world. He was handicapped in every way. There was his name to begin with. He had no objection to Abel, but he saw no necessity in the redundant Cain. It had been given him, however, and he could not escape from it. Every one called him Abel Cain Weevil. The children shouted it after him. As for the name Weevil, it was objectionable, but no worse than many another. It was not improper like some surnames. "An insect, my dear," he explained to Boodles. "A dirty little beetle which lives upon grain." "I'm a weevil too," said she. "So I'm a dirty little beetle." The old man wouldn't allow that. Boodles belonged to the angels, and he told her so with foolish expressions; but she shook her glorious red head at him and declared that beetles and angels had nothing in common. She admitted, however, that she belonged to a delightful order of beetles, and that on the whole she preferred chocolates to grain. The silly old man reminded her that she belonged to the boodle-oodle order of beetles, and so far she was the only specimen of that choice family which had been discovered. A man is eccentric in this world if he does anything which his neighbours cannot understand. He may go out in the garden and cut a cabbage-leaf. That is a sane action. But if he spreads jam on the cabbage-leaf, and eats the same publicly, he is called a madman. Nothing is easier than to be thought eccentric. You have only to behave unlike other people. Stand in the middle of a crowded street and gaze vacantly into the air. Every one will call you eccentric at once, just because you are gazing in the air and they are not. Weevil was mad because he was unlike his neighbours. The adoption of Boodles was not a sane action; even if she were his daughter it was equally insane to acknowledge her with such shameless publicity. A sane person would have allowed Boodles to share the fate of many illegitimate children. They were happy these two, papa Weevil and his Boodles. They had no servant. The girl kept house and cooked. The old man washed up and scrubbed. Boodles knew how to make, not only a shilling, but even the necessary penny go all the way. She was a treasure, good enough for any man; there were no dark spots upon her heart. If she had been made away with one of the best little souls created would have gone back into limbo. No storm disturbed Lewside Cottage, except Dartmoor gales, and as for religion they were sun-worshippers; like most people who come out in fine raiment and glory in the sun, and when it is wet hide indoors, talk of the sun, think of the sun, long for the sun, until he appears and they can hurry out to worship. The savage calls the sun his god in so many words; and the human nature which is in the savage is in the primitive folk of open and desolate places also; it is present in the most civilised of beings, but only those who live on a high moor through the winter know what a day of sunshine means. The sun has places dedicated to him upon Dartmoor. There is Bel Tor and there is Belstone. A tradition of the Phoenician occupation still exists, handed down from the remote time when the sun was directly worshipped. The commoners still believe that good luck will attend the man who shall see the rising sun reflected on the rock-basin of Bellivor. An altar to the sun stood once upon that lonely tor. Weevil worshipped the sun quietly. Boodles offered incense with enthusiasm. She deserved her name when the sun shone upon her radiant head and made a glory round it. When the greater gorse was in flower, and Boodles walked through it hatless, wearing her green frock, she might have been the spirit of the prickly shrub; and like it her head was in bloom all the year round. "Have we got anything for supper, Boodle-oodle?" asked the silly old male beetle. "Ees, lots," said the small golden one. It was not unpleasant to hear Boodles say "ees." She split the word up and made a kind of anthem out of it. The first sound was very soft, a mere whisper, and spoken with closed lips. The rest she sang, getting higher as the final syllable was reached--there were more syllables in the word than letters--then descending at the drawn-out sibilant, and finishing in a whisper with closed lips. "Oh, I forgot," she cried. "No eggs!" They looked at each other with serious faces. In that simple household small things were tragedies. There were no eggs. It was a matter for serious reflection. "Butter?" queried the old man nervously. "Milk? Cheese? Bread?" "Heaps, piles, gallons. The kitchen is full of cheese, and you can't move for bread, and the milk is running over and dripping upon everything like a milky day," said penitent Boodles. "I have been saying to myself: 'Eggs, eggs! Yolks, shells, whites--eggs!' I made puns that I shouldn't forget. I egged myself on. I walked delicately, and said: 'I'm treading on eggs.' I kept on scolding myself, and saying: 'Teach your grandmother to suck eggs.' I reminded myself I mustn't put all my eggs in one basket. Then I went and sat in the window, forgot all about them, and now I'm a bad egg." "Boodles, what shall we do?" said the chief beetle. "I think you ought to torture me in some way," suggested the forgetful one. "Drag me through the furze. Beat me with nettles. Torture would do me a lot of good, I expect, only not too much, because I'm only a baby." That was her usual defence. Whatever happened she was only a baby. She was never likely to grow up. "Don't jest. It is too serious. If I don't have two eggs for my supper I shall have no sleep. I shall be ill to-morrow." "I'll give you two poached kisses," promised Boodles. "I cannot exist on spiritual food alone. I must have my eggs. Custom has made it necessary." "I'll make you all sorts of nice things," she declared. But the eccentric old beetle could not be pacified. He had eggs upon the mind. The produce of the domestic fowl had become an obsession. He explained that if the house had been well stocked with eggs he might have gone without. He would have known they were there to fall back upon if desire should seize him during the silent watches of the night. But the knowledge that the larder was destitute of eggs increased his desire. He would have no peace until the deficiency was made good. "Well," said Boodles resignedly, "it's my fault, so I'll suffer for it. I don't want to hear you screaming for eggs all night. I'll go and get wet for your salvation. I expect Mary can let me have some." Weevil was himself again. He trotted off for the child's boots. He always put her boots on, and took them off when she came in. Boodles was a little sun-goddess, and as such she accepted adoration. It was part of the tribute due to the sun-like head. When the boots were on--each ankle having previously been worshipped as a part of the tribute--she assumed a jacket, packed her hair under a fluffy green hat, stabbed it on four times with long pins, picked up her walking-stick; and was off, Weevil gazing after her adoringly until she passed out of sight. "There goes the pride o' Devon," murmured the silly old man as the green hat vanished. The sight of Boodles took the weather's breath away. It forgot to go on raining; and the sun was so anxious to shine upon her hair that he pushed the clouds off him, as a late slumberer tosses away his blankets, and came out to work a little before evening. It became quite pleasant as Boodles went beside Tavy Cleave. Peter was not visible, but Mary was. She was plodding about in her huge boots with an eye upon her geese, especially upon the chief of the flock. Old Sal, who, as usual, was anxious to seek pastures new. When Boodles came up Mary smiled. She was very fond of the child. Boodles seemed to have been made out of such entirely different materials from the odds and ends which had gone towards her own construction. The little girl's soft flesh was as unlike Mary's tough leather as the white bark of the birch is unlike the rugged bark of the oak. "Well, Mary, how are you?" said Boodles. "I be purty fine, my dear, purty middling fine. Peter be purty fine tu. And how be yew, my dear, and how be the old gentleman? Purty fine yew be, I reckon." "We are splendid," said Boodles. "How is the old goose, Mary?" "Du'ye mean Old Sal, my dear? There he be trampesing 'bout Dartmoor as though 'twas his'n. Aw, he be purty fine, sure 'nuff." "She must be very old," said Boodles. "Aw ees, he be old. He be a cruel old artful toad, my dear," said Mary. "How old is she?" "Well, my dear, he be older than yew. He be twenty-two come next Michaelmas, I'm thinking." "You will never kill her?" said Boodles. "You couldn't, after having her for so long. You won't kill her, will you, Mary?" "Goosies was made to kill. Us keeps 'en whiles they be useful, and then us kills 'en," said Mary. "But twenty-two years old!" cried Boodles. "She would be much too tough to eat." "Aw, my dear life," chuckled Mary. "He wouldn't be tough. I would kill 'en, and draw 'en, and rub a little salt in his belly, and hang 'en up for a fortnight, and he would et butiful, my dear." Boodles laughed delightfully, and said she thought no amount of salt or hanging, to say nothing of sage and onions, could ever make the venerable Sal palatable. "Peter wun't let 'en be killed. Peter loves Old Sal," Mary went on. "He laid sixteen eggs last year, and he'm the best mother on Dartmoor. Aw ees, my dear. He be a cruel fine mother, and Peter ses he shan't die till he've a mind to." Then Boodles got to business and asked Mary for eggs, not those of Old Sal, but the produce of the hen-house. Mary said she would go and search. As it was dirty in that region Boodles declined to go with her. "Please to go inside. There be only Gran'vaither. Go and have a look at 'en, my dear," said Mary, who always referred to Grandfather as if he had been a living soul. "Hit 'en in the belly, and make 'en strike at ye." Boodles went into Hut Circle Number One, which was Peter's residence, and stood in the presence of Grandfather. Obeying Mary's instructions, she hit him "in the belly." The old sinner made weird noises when thus disturbed. He appeared to resent the treatment, as most old gentlemen would have done. He refused to strike, but he rattled himself, and wheezed, and made sounds suggestive of expectoration. Grandfather was a savage like Peter. He was a rough uneducated sort of clock, and he had no passion for Boodles. Pendoggat would have been the man for him. Grandfather would have shaken hands with Pendoggat had it been possible. His own quivering hands were stretched across his lying face, announcing quarter-past nine when it was really five o'clock. Grandfather was a true man of Devon. He had no sense of time. Boodles had nothing but contertipt for the old fellow. Having assaulted him she opened his case. Evidently Grandfather had been drinking. His interior smelt strongly of cider. There were splashes of it everywhere; rank cider distilled from the lees; in one spot moisture was pronounced, suggesting that Grandfather had recently been indulging. Apparently he liked his liquor strong. Grandfather was a picker-up of unconsidered trifles also. He was full of pins; all kinds of pins, bent and straight. Item, Grandfather had a little money of his own; several battered coppers, some green coins which had no doubt been dug up outside, or discovered upon the "deads" beside one of the neighbouring wheals, and there was a real fourpenny-bit with a hole through it. Fastened to the back of the case behind the pendulum was a scrap of sheepskin as hard as wood, and upon it some hand had painfully drawn what appeared to be an elementary exercise in geometry. Boodles frowned and wondered what it all meant. "Here be the eggs, my dear. Twenty for a shillun to yew, and ten to a foreigner," said Mary, standing in the door, making an apron out of her ragged skirt, and blissfully unconscious that she was exposing the sack-like bloomers which were her only underwear. "Twenty-one, Mary. There's always one thrown in for luck and me," pleaded Boodles. "Aw ees. One for yew, my dear," Mary assented. That was the way Boodles got full value for her money. "My dear life! What have yew been a-doing of?" cried Mary with alarm, when she noticed Grandfather's open case. "Aw, my dear, yew didn't ought to meddle wi' he. Grandfather gets cruel tedious if he be meddled with." "I was only looking at his insides," said Boodles. "He's a regular old rag-bag. What are all these things for--pins, coins, coppers? And he's splashed all over with cider. No wonder he won't keep time." "Shet 'en up, my dear. Shet 'en up," said superstitious Mary. "Aw, my dear, don't ye ever meddle wi' religion. If Peter was to see ye he'd be took wi' shivers. Let Gran'vaither bide, du'ye. Ain't ye got a pin to give 'en? My dear life, I'll fetch ye one. Gran'vaither got tedious wi' volks wance, Peter ses, and killed mun; ees, my dear, killed mun dead as door nails; ees, fie 'a did, killed mun stark." Boodles only laughed, like the wicked maid that she was. She couldn't be bothered with the niceties of religion. Peter and Mary were only savages. According to their creed pixies dwelt in Grandfather's bosom; and it was necessary to retain the good-will of the little people, and render the sting of their possible malevolence harmless, by presenting votive offerings and inscribing spells. The rank cider had been provided for midnight orgies, and, lest the pixies should become troublesome when under the influence of liquor, the charm upon the sheepskin had been introduced, like a stringent police-notice, compelling them to keep the peace. "It's all nonsense, you know," said Boodles, as she took the eggs, with the sun flaming across her hair. "The pixies are all dead. I went to the funeral of the last one." Mary shook her head. She did not jest on serious matters. The friendship of the pixies was as much to her as the lack of eggs had been to Weevil. "Anyhow," went on wicked Boodles, "I should put rat-poison in there if they worried me." "Us have been bit and scratched by 'em in bed," Mary declared. "Peter and me have been bit cruel. Us could see the marks of their teeth." "Did you ever catch one?" asked Boodles tragically. "Catch mun! Aw, my dear life! Us can't catch mun." "You could, if you were quick--before they hopped," laughed Boodles. CHAPTER V ABOUT THOMASINE Thomasine sat in the kitchen of Town Rising, sewing. It was a dreary place, and she was alone and surrounded with stone. The kitchen walls were stone; so was the floor. The window looked out upon the court, and that was paved with stone. Beyond was the barn wall, made of blocks of cold granite. Above peeped the top of a tor, and that was granite too. Damp stone everywhere. It was the Stone Age back again. And Thomasine, buried among it all, was making herself a frivolous petticoat for Tavistock Goose Fair. Among undistinguished young persons Thomasine was pre-eminent. She was only Farmer Chegwidden's "help"; that is to say, general servant. Undistinguished young persons will do anything that is menial under the title of "help," which as a servant they would shrink from. To the lower classes there is much in a name. Thomasine knew nothing. She was just a work-a-day girl, eating her meals, sleeping; knowing there was something called a character which for some inexplicable reason it was necessary to keep; dreaming of a home of her own some day, but not having the sense to realise that it would mean a probably drunken husband on a few shillings a week, and a new gift from the gods to feed each year; comprehending the delights of fairs, general holidays, and evenings out; perceiving that it was pleasant to have her waist squeezed and her mouth kissed; understanding also the charm in being courted in a ditch with the temperature below freezing-point. That was nearly all Thomasine knew. Plenty of animals know more. Her conversation consisted chiefly in "ees" and "no." It is not pleasant to see a pretty face, glorious complexion, well-made body, without mind, intellect, or soul worth mentioning; but it is a common sight. It is not pleasant to speak to that face, and watch its vacancy increase. A dog would understand at once; but that human face remains dull. A good many strange thoughts suggest themselves on fair-days and holidays in and about the Stannary Towns. There are plenty of pretty faces, glorious complexions, and well-made bodies surrounded with clothing which the old Puritans would have denounced as immoral; but not a mind, not an intellect above potato-peeling, in the lot. They come into the towns like so many birds of passage; at nightfall they go out, shrieking, many of them, for lack of intelligent speech, and return to potato-peeling. The warmth of the next holiday brings them out again, in the same clothes, knowing just as much as they did before--how to shriek--then the pots and potatoes claim them again. All those girls have undeveloped minds. They don't know it, not having been told, so their minds remain unformed all their lives. The flower-like faces fade quickly, because there is nothing to keep the bloom on. The mind does not get beyond the budding stage. It is never attended to, so it rots off without ever opening. Sometimes one of these girls discovers she has something besides her body and her complexion; or somebody superior to herself impresses the fact upon her; and she uses her knowledge, cultivates her mind, and with luck rises out of the rut. She discovers that her horizon is not limited by pots and potato-peel. Beyond it all, for her, there is something called intelligence. Such girls are few. Most of them have their eyes opened, not their minds, and then they discover they are naked, and want to go away and hide themselves. Thomasine's soul was about the size and weight of a grain of mustard seed. She was a good maid, and her parents had no cause to be sorry she had been born. She had come into the world by way of lawful wedlock, which was something to be proud of in her part of the country, and was living a decent life in respectable employment. She sat in the stone kitchen, and built up her flimsy petticoat, with as much expression on her face as one might reasonably expect to find upon the face of a cow. She could not think. She knew that she was warm and comfortable; but knowledge is not thought. She knew all about her last evening's courting; but she could not have constructed any little romance which differed from that courting. In a manner she had something to think about; namely, what had actually happened. She could not think about what had not happened, or what under different circumstances might have happened. That would have meant using her mind; and she didn't know she had one. Yet Thomasine came of a fairly clever family. Her grandfather had used his mind largely, and had succeeded in building up, not a large, but a very comfortable, business. He had emigrated, however; and it is well known that there is nothing like a change of scene for teaching a man to know himself. He had gone to Birmingham and started an idol-factory. It was a quaint sort of business, but a profitable one. He made idols for the Burmese market. He had stocked a large number of Buddhist temples, and the business was an increasing one. Orders for idols reached him from many remote places, and his goods always gave satisfaction. The placid features of many a squatting Gautama in dim Eastern temples had been moulded from the vacant faces of Devonshire farm-maids. He was a most religious man, attending chapel twice each Sunday, besides teaching in the Sunday-school. He didn't believe in allowing religion to interfere with business, which was no doubt quite discreet of him. He always said that a man should keep his business perfectly distinct from everything else. He had long ago dropped his Devonshire relations. Respectable idol-makers cannot mingle with common country-folk. Thomasine's parents possessed a framed photograph of one of the earlier idols, which they exhibited in their living-room as a family heirloom, although their minister had asked them as a personal favour to destroy it, because it seemed to him to savour of superstition. The minister thought it was intended for the Virgin Mary, but the good people denied it with some warmth, explaining that they were good Christians, and would never disgrace their cottage in that Popish fashion. Innocent of idols, Thomasine went on sewing in her stone kitchen amid the granite. She had finished putting a frill along the hem of her petticoat; now she put one higher up in regions which would be invisible however much the wind might blow, though she did not know why, because she could not think. It was a waste of material; nobody would see it; but she felt that a fair petticoat ought to be adorned as lavishly as possible. She did not often glance up. There was nothing to be seen in the court except the usual fowls. It was rarely an incident occurred worth remembering. Sometimes one stag attacked another, and Thomasine would be attracted to the window to watch the contest. That made a little excitement in her life, but the fight would soon be over. It was all show and bluster; very much like the sparring of two farm hands. "You'm a liar." "So be yew." "Aw well, so be _yew_." And so on, with ever-increasing accent upon the "yew." Not many people crossed the court. There was no right of way there, but Farmer Chegwidden had no objection to neighbours passing through. Whether Thomasine was pretty could hardly be stated definitely. It must remain a matter of opinion whether any face can be beautiful which is entirely lacking in expression, has no mind behind the tongue, and no speaking brain at the back of the eyes. Many, no doubt, would have thought her perfection. She was plump and full of blood; it seemed ready to burst through her skin. She was somewhat grossly built; too wide at the thighs, big-handed, and large-footed, with not much waist, and a clumsy stoop from the shoulders. She waddled in her walk like most Devonshire farm-maids. Her complexion was perfect; so was her health. She had a lust-provoking face; big sleepy eyes; cheeks absolutely scarlet; pouting lips swollen with blood, almost the colour of an over-ripe peach. It was more like paint than natural colouring. It was too strong. She had too much blood. She was part of the exaggeration of Dartmoor, which exaggerates everything; adding fierceness to fierceness, colour to colour, strength to strength; just as its rain is fiercer than that of the valleys, and its wind mightier. Thomasine was of the Tavy family, but not of the romantic branch. Not of the folklore side like Boodles, but of the Ger Tor family, the strong mountain branch which knows nothing and cannot think for itself, and only feels the river wearing it away, and the frost rotting it, and the wind beating it. The pity was that Thomasine did not know she had a mind, which was already fading for want of use. She knew only how to peel potatoes and make herself wanton underwear. Although twenty-two years of age she was still a maid. There were steps upon the stones, and Thomasine looked up. She saw nobody, but sounds came through the open window, a shuffling against the wall of the house, and the stumbling of clumsy boots. Then there was a knock. There was nothing outside, except miserable objects such as Brightly with an empty and battered basket and starving Ju with her empty and battered stomach and her tongue hanging out. They were still trying to do business, instead of going away to some lonely part of the moor and dying decently. It was extraordinary how Brightly and Ju clung to life, which wasn't of much use to them, and how steadfastly they applied themselves to a sordid business which was very far less remunerative than sound and honest occupations such as idol-making. Brightly looked smaller than ever. He had forgotten all about his last meal. His face was pinched; it was about the size of a two-year-old baby's. He looked like an eel in man's clothing. "Any rabbit-skins, miss?" he asked. "No," said Thomasine. Brightly crept a little nearer. "Will ye give us a bite o' bread? Us be cruel hungry, and times be hard. Tramped all day yesterday, and got my cloam tored, and lost my rabbit-skins and duppence. Give me and little dog a bite, miss. Du'ye, miss." "If master was to know I'd catch it," said Thomasine. "Varmer Chegwidden would give I a bite. I knows he would," said Brightly. Chegwidden would certainly have given him a bite had he been present, or rather his sheep-dog would. Chegwidden was a member of the Board of Guardians in his sober moments, and it was his duty to suppress such creatures as Brightly. "I mun go on," said the weary little wretch, when he saw that Thomasine was about to shut the door. "I mun tramp on. I wish yew could ha' given us a bite, miss, for us be going to Tavistock, and I don't know if us can. Me and little dog be cruel mazed." "Bide there a bit," said Thomasine. There was nobody in the house, except Mrs. Chegwidden, who was among her pickle jars and had never to be taken into consideration. Chegwidden had gone to Lydford. The girl had a good heart, and she didn't like to see things starving. Even the fowls had to be fed when they were hungry, and probably Brightly was nearly as good as the fowls. She returned to the door with bread and meat, and a lump of cheese wrapped in a piece of newspaper. She flung Ju a bone as big as herself and with more meat upon it, and before the fit of charity had exhausted itself she brought out a jug of cider, which Brightly consumed on the premises and increased in girth perceptibly. "Get off," said Thomasine. "If I'm caught they'll give me the door." Brightly was not well skilled in expressing gratitude because he had so little practice. He was generally apologising for his existence. He tried to be effusive, but was only grotesque. Thomasine almost thought he was trying to make love to her, and she drew back with her strained sensual smile. "I wun't forget. Not if I lives to be two hundred and one, I wun't," cried Brightly. "Ju ses her wun't forget neither. Us will get to Tavistock now, and us can start in business again to-morrow. Ye've been cruel kind to me, miss. God love ye and bless ye vor't, is what I ses. God send ye a good husband vor't, is what I ses tu." "You'm welcome," said Thomasine. Brightly beamed in a fantastic manner through his spectacles. Ju wagged what Nature had intended to be a tail, and staggered out of the court with her load of savoury meat. Then the door was closed, and Thomasine went back to her petticoat. The girl could not exactly think about Brightly, but she was able to remember what had happened. A starving creature supposed to be a man, accompanied by a famished beast that tried to be a dog--both shocking examples of bad work, for Nature jerry-builds worse than the most dishonest of men--had presented themselves at the door of her kitchen, and she had fed them. She had obeyed the primitive instinct which compels the one who has food to give to those who have none. There was nothing splendid about it, because she did not want the food. Yet her master would not have fed Brightly. He would have flung the food into the pig-sty rather than have given it to the Seal. So it was possible after all that she had performed a generous action which was worthy of reward. It must not be supposed that Thomasine thought all that out for herself. She knew nothing about generous actions. She had listened to plenty of sermons in the chapel, but without understanding anything except that it would be her duty some time to enter hell, which, according to the preacher's account, was a place rather like the top of Dartmoor, only hotter, and there was never any frost or snow. Will Pugsley, with whom she was walking out just then, had summed up the whole matter in one phrase of gloomy philosophy: "Us has a cruel hard time on't here, and then us goes down under." That seemed to be the answer to the riddle of the soul's existence: "having a cruel hard time, and then going down under." Thomasine had never read a book in her life. They did not come her way. Town Rising had none, except the big Bible--which for half-a-century had performed its duty of supporting a china shepherdess wreathing with earthenware daisies the neck of a red and white cow--a manual upon manure, and a ready reckoner. No penny novelette, dealing with such matters of everyday occurrence as the wooing of servant-girls by earls, had ever found its way into her hands, and such fictions would not have interested her, simply because they would have conveyed no meaning. A pretty petticoat and a fair-day; these were matters she could appreciate, because they touched her sympathies and she could understand them. They were some of the things which made up the joy of life. There was so much that was "cruel hard"; but there were pleasures, such as fine raiment and fair-days, to be enjoyed before she went "down under." Thomasine was able to form mental pictures of scenes that were familiar. She could see the tor above the barn. It was easy to see also the long village on the side of the moor. She knew it all so well. She could see Ebenezer, the chapel where she heard sermons about hell. Pendoggat was sometimes the preacher, and he always insisted strongly upon the extremely high temperature of "down under." Thomasine very nearly thought. She almost associated the preacher with the place which was the subject of his discourse. That would have been a very considerable mental flight had she succeeded. It came to nothing, however. She went on remembering, not thinking. Pendoggat had tried to look at her in chapel. He could not look at any one with his eyes, but he had set his face towards her as though he believed she was in greater need than others of his warnings. He had walked close beside her out of chapel, and had remarked that it was a fine evening. Thomasine remembered she had been pleased, because he had drawn her attention towards a fact which she had not previously observed, namely, that it was a fine evening. Pendoggat was a man, not a creeping thing like Brightly, not a lump of animated whisky-moistened clay like Farmer Chegwidden. No one could make people uncomfortable like him. Eli Pezzack was a poor creature in comparison, although Thomasine didn't make the comparison because she couldn't. Pezzack could not make people feel they were already in torment. The minister frequently referred to another place which was called "up over." He reminded his listeners that they might attain to a place of milk and honey where the temperature was normal; and that was the reason why he was not much of a success as a minister. He seemed indeed to desire to deprive his congregations of their legitimate place of torment. What was the use of talking about "up over," which could not concern his listeners, when they might so easily be stimulated with details concerning the inevitable "down under"? Pezzack was a weak man. He refused to face his destiny, and he tried to prevent his congregations from facing theirs. Thomasine looked at the clock. It was time to lift the peat from the hearth and put on the coal. Chegwidden would soon be back from Lydford and want his supper. She admired the petticoat, rolled it up, and put it away in her work-basket. "Dear life!" she murmured. "Here be master, and nothing done." A horseman was in the court, and crossing it. The window was open. The rider was not Chegwidden. It was the master of Helmen Barton, his head down as usual, his eyes apparently fixed between his horse's ears; his head was inclined a little towards the house. Thomasine stood back and watched. A piece of gorse in full bloom came through the window, fell upon the stone floor, and bounded like a small beast. It jumped about on the smooth cement, and glided on its spines until it reached the dresser, and there remained motionless, with its stem, which had been bared of prickles, directed upwards towards the girl like a pointing finger. Pendoggat had gone on. His horse had not stopped, nor had the rider appeared to glance into the kitchen. Obviously there was some connection between Pendoggat, that piece of gorse, and herself, only Thomasine could not work it out. She picked it up. She could not have such a thing littering her tidy kitchen. The sprig was a smother of blossom, and she could see its tiny spears among the blooms, their points so keen that they were as invisible as the edge of a razor. She brought the blooms suddenly to her nose, and immediately one of the tiny spears pierced the skin and her strong blood burst through. "Scat the vuzz," said Thomasine. Iron-shod hoofs rattled again upon the stones, and the light of the window became darkened. Pendoggat had changed his mind and was back again. He tumbled from the saddle and stood there wagging his head as if deep in thought. Supposing she was wanted for something, the girl came forward. Pendoggat was close to the window, which was a low one. She did not know what he was looking at; not at her certainly; but he seemed to be searching for her, desiring her, sniffing at her like an animal. "Du'ye want master, sir? He'm to Lydford," said Thomasine. A drop of blood fell from her nose and splashed on the stone floor between them. She searched for a handkerchief and found she had not got one. There was nothing for it but to use the back of her hand, smearing the blood across her lips and chin. Pendoggat saw it all. He noticed everything, although he had his eyes on the window-sill. "You're a fine maid," he said. "Be I, sir?" said Thomasine, beginning to tremble. Pendoggat was her superior. He was the tenant of Helmen Barton, a commoner, the owner of sheep and bullocks, and married, or at least she supposed he was. She felt somehow it was not right he should say such a thing to her. "Going to chapel Sunday night?" he went on, with his head on one side, and his face as immobile as a mask. "Ees," murmured Thomasine, forgetting the "sir" somehow. The question was such a familiar one that she did not remember for the moment the standing of the speaker. This was the man who had drenched her with hell-fire from the pulpit. "How do ye come home? By the road or moor?" "The moor, if 'tis fine, sir. I walks with Willum." "Young Pugsley?" "Ees, sir." "You're too good for him. You're too fine a maid for that hind. You won't walk with him Sunday night. I'll see you home." "Ees, sir," was all Thomasine could say. She was only a farm-maid. She had to do as she was told. "Going to the fair?" he asked. The answer was as usual. "I'll meet you there. Take you for rides, and into the shows. Got your clothes ready?" The same soft word, which Thomasine made a dissyllable, and Boodles sang as an anthem, followed. Goose Fair was the greatest day in the girl's year, and to be treated there by a man with money was to glide along one of the four rivers of Paradise, only that was not the expression which occurred to Thomasine. Pendoggat reached in and took her hand. It was large with labour, and red with blood, but quite clean. He pulled her towards him. There was nobody in the court; only the unobservant chickens, pecking diligently. A cloud had settled upon the top of the tor, which was just visible above the barn, an angry cloud purple like a wound, as if the granite had pierced and wounded it. Thomasine wondered if it would be fine for Goose Fair. Her sleeve was loose. Pendoggat pressed his fingers under it, and paddled the soft flesh like a cat up to her elbow. "Don't ye, sir," pleaded Thomasine, feeling somehow this was not right. "You're a fine, lusty maid," he muttered. "'Tis time master was back from Lydford, I reckon," she murmured. "You're bloody." "'Twas that bit o' vuzz." He drew her closer, threw his arm clumsily round her neck, dragged her half through the window, kissing her savagely on the neck, lips, and chin, until his own lips were smeared with her blood, and he could taste it. She began to struggle. Then she cried out, and he let her go. "Good blood," he muttered, passing his tongue over his lips. "The strongest and best blood on Dartmoor." Then, he flung himself across his horse, as if he had been drunk, and rode out of the court. CHAPTER VI ABOUT VOCAL AND INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC There was a concert in Brentor village in aid of that hungry creature the Church, which resembles so many tin- and copper-mines, inasmuch as much more money goes into it than ever comes out. Brentor is overdone with churches. There is one in the village, and the little one on the tor outside. Maids like to be married on the tor. They think it gives them a good start in life, but that idea is owing to tradition, which connects Brentor with the worship of Baal. The transition from Paganism to Christianity was gradual, and in many cases the old gods were merely painted up and made to look like new. The statue of Jove was bereft of its thunderbolt, given a bunch of keys, and called Peter; the goddess of love became a madonna; the sun-temple was turned into a church. Where the original idea was lost sight of a legend was invented; such as that of the merchant who, overtaken by a storm when beating for shore, vowed to build a church upon the first point of land which should appear in sight. There is no getting away from sun-worship upon Dartmoor, and no easy way of escape from tradition either. That is why maids like to be sacrificed upon Brentor, even when the wind is threatening to sweep them down its cliffs. Local talent was not represented at the concert. People from Tavistock came to perform; all sorts and conditions of amateurs in evening dress and muddy boots. The room was crowded, as it was a fine evening, and therefore there was nothing to prevent the inhabitants of the two holy Tavys from walking across the moor, and a jabbering cartload had come from Lydford also. There was no chattering in the room. The entire audience became appalled by respectability as represented by gentlemen with bulging shirt-fronts and ladies with visible bosoms. They stared, they muttered hoarsely, they turned to and fro like mechanical figures; but they did not chatter. They felt as if they were taking part in a religious ceremony. The young lady who opened proceedings, after the inevitable duet on the piano--which, to increase the sense of mystery, was called on the practically illegible programme a pianoforte--with a sentimental song, made an error. She merely increased the atmosphere of despondency. When she had finished some of the audience became restless. They were wondering whether the time had come for them to kneel. "Bain't him a cruel noisy thing?" exclaimed Mary, with a certain amount of enthusiasm. "What du'ye call 'en?" she asked a small, dried-up ancient man who sat beside her, while indicating the instrument of music with an outstretched arm. The old man tried to explain, which was a thing he was famous for doing. He was a superannuated school-master of the nearly extinct type, the kind that knew nothing and taught as much, but a brave learned man according to some of the old folk. Peter sat by his sister, trying to look at his ease; and he too listened intently for what school-master had to say. Peter and Mary were blossoming out, and becoming social and gregarious beings. This was the first grand entertainment they had ever attended. Tickets had been given them, or they would certainly not have been there. As Peter had failed in his efforts to sell the tickets they had decided to use them, although dressing for the event was something of an ordeal. Mary had a black hat and a silk dress, both of early Victorian construction, and beneath, her huge nailed boots innocent of blacking. Peter wore a tie under his chin, and a wondrous collar some three inches lower down. The rest of his costume was also early nineteenth century in make, but effectual. He was very much excited by the music, but dreadfully afraid of showing it. "That there box," said Master, with an air of diving deep in the well of wisdom "he'm full o' wires and hammers." "My dear life!" gasped Mary. "Full o' wires and hammers! Du'ye hear, Peter?" Her brother replied in the affirmative, although in a manner which suggested that the information was superfluous. "Volks hit them bones, and the bones dra' on the hammers, and the hammers hit the wires," proceeded Master. "Bain't that artful now?" cried Mary. "Sure 'nuff," agreed Peter, unable to restrain his admiration. "Couldn't ye mak' one o' they? You'm main cruel larned wi' your hands," Mary went on. Peter admitted that was so. Given the material, he had no doubt of his ability to turn out a piano capable of producing that music which his sister described as cruel noisy. "It taketh a scholard to understand how to mak' they things," said Master, with some severity. "See all that carved wood on the front of him? You couldn't du that, and the piano wouldn't mak' no music if 'twasn't for the carved wood. 'Twould mak' a noise, you see, Peter, but not music. 'Tis the noise coming out through the carving what makes the music. Taketh a scholard to du that." "Look at she!" cried Mary violently, as another lady rose to warble. This songster had a good bust, and desired to convince her audience of the fact. "Her ha' grown out of her clothes sure 'nuff. Her can't hardly cover her paps." "Shet thee noise, woman," muttered Peter. "Her be in full evening dress," explained Master. Mary subsided in deep reflection. She knew perfectly well what "full" meant. There were plenty of full days upon Tavy Cleave. It meant a heavy wet mist which filled everything so that nothing was visible. For Mary every word had only one meaning. She could not understand how the word "full" could bear two exactly opposite meanings. The back seats were overflowing. Only threepence was charged there, but seats were not guaranteed. The majority stood, partly to show their independence, chiefly to look as if they had just dropped in, not with any idea of being entertained, but that they might satisfy themselves there was nothing objectionable in the programme. Several men stood huddled together as near the door as possible, showing their disapproval of such frivolity in the usual manner, by standing in antagonistic attitudes and frowning at the performers. Chegwidden was there, containing sufficient liquor to make him grateful for the support of the wall. He had tried to get in for nothing, by explaining that he was a member of the Board of Guardians, and had been from his youth a steadfast opponent of the Church as by law established. These excuses having failed, he had paid the threepence under protest, explaining at the same time that if he heard anything to shock his innocent mind he should demand his money back, visit his solicitor when next in Tavistock with a view to taking action against those who had dared to pervert the public mind, and indite letters to all the local papers. The entertainment committee had a troublesome threepennyworth in Farmer Chegwidden. He had already spent a couple of shillings in liquor, and would spend another couple when the concert was over. That was money spent upon a laudable object. But the threepence demanded for admission was, as he loudly proclaimed, money given to the devil. Near him stood Pendoggat, his head down as usual, and breathing heavily as if he had gone to sleep. He looked as much at home there as a bat flitting in the sunlight among butterflies. Every one was surprised to see Pendoggat. Members of his own sect decided he was there to collect material for a scathing denunciation of such methods from the pulpit of Ebenezer. Chegwidden pushed closer, and asked hoarsely, "What do 'ye think of it, varmer?" "Taking money in God's name to square the devil," answered Pendoggat. "Just what I says," muttered Chegwidden, greatly envying the other's powers of expression. "Immortality! That's what it be, varmer. 'Tis a hard word, but there ain't no other. Dirty immortality!" He meant immorality, but was confused by righteous indignation, the music, and other things. "Can't us do nought?" Chegwidden went on. "Us lets their religion bide. They'm mocking us, varmer. That there last song was blasphemy, and immortality, and a-mocking us all through." Pendoggat muttered something about a demonstration outside later on, to mark their disapproval of such infamous attempts to seduce young people from the paths of rectitude. Then he relapsed into taciturnity, while Chegwidden went on babbling of people's sins. Most of the ill-feeling was due to the fact that the room had been used several years back as a meeting-house, where the pure Gospel had flowed regularly. Chegwidden's father had carried his Bible into a front seat there. Souls had been saved in that room; anniversary teas had been held there; services of song had been given; young couples, whose Nonconformity was unimpeachable, had conducted their amours there; and upon the outside of the door had been scrawled shockingly crude statements concerning such love-affairs, accompanied by anatomical caricatures of the parties in question. It was holy ground, and representatives of a hostile sect were defiling it. Greater evils followed. An eccentric gentleman rose and recited a story about a lady trying to mount an overcrowded street-car, and being dragged along the entire length of a street, chatting to the conductor the while; quite a harmless story, but it made Brentor to grin. Church-people laughed noisily, and even Methodists tittered. Nonconformist maids of established reputations giggled, and their young men cackled like geese. It was in short a laughing audience. The threepenny-bits shivered. Fire from heaven was already overdue. Complete destruction might be looked for at any moment. One nervous old woman crept out. She had heard the doctrine of eternal punishment expounded in that place, and she explained she could remain there no longer and listen to profanity. The performer again obliged; this time with a comic song which set the seal of blasphemy upon the whole performance. Chegwidden turned his face to the wall, moaned, and demanded of a neighbour what he thought of it all. "Brave fine singing," came the unscrupulous answer, which seemed to denote that the speaker had also been carried away by enthusiasm. This was the last straw. Even the lights of Ebenezer were flickering and going out. Chegwidden and Pendoggat appeared to be the only godly men left. The farmer turned upon the irreligious speaker, and crushed him with weighty words. "'Twas here father prayed," he said, in a voice unsteady with grief and alcohol. "Twice every Sunday, and me with 'en, and he've a-shook me in this chapel, and punched my ear many a time when I was cracking nuts in sermon time. Father led in prayer here, and he've a-told me how he once prayed twenty minutes by the clock. Some said 'twas nineteen, but father knew 'twas twenty, 'cause he had his watch in his hand, and never took his eyes off 'en. Never thought he'd do the last minute, but he did. They was religious volks in them days. Father prayed here, I tells ye, and I learnt Sunday-school here, and 'twas here us all learnt the blessed truths of immorality."--again he blundered in his meaning--"and now it be a place for dancing, and singing, and play-acting, and us will be judged for it, and weighed in the balances and found wanting." "Us can repent," suggested the neighbour. Chegwidden would not admit this. "Them what have laughed here to-night won't die natural, not in their beds," he declared. "They'll die sudden. They'll be cut off. They've committed blasphemy, which is the sin what ain't forgiven." Then Chegwidden turned upon the doorkeeper and demanded his money back. He was not going to remain among the wicked. He was going to spend the rest of the evening respectably at the inn. After that the programme continued for a little without interruption. Then a young lady, who had been especially imported for the occasion, obliged with a violin solo. She played well, but made the common mistake of amateurs before a rural audience; preferring to exhibit her command over the instrument by rendering classical music, instead of playing something which the young men could whistle to. It was a very soft piece. The performer bent to obtain the least possible amount of sound from a string; and at that critical moment a loud weary voice startled the religious silence of the room-- "Aw, my dear life! Bain't it a shocking waste o' time?" It was Mary, who was feeling bored. The novelty of the performance had worn off. She was prepared to sit there and hear a good noise. She liked the piano when it was giving forth plenty of crashing chords; but that whining scraping sound was intolerable. It was worse than any old cat. There was some commotion in the front seats, and shocked faces were turned upon Mary, while the performer almost broke down. She made another effort, but it was no use, for Mary continued at the top of her voice-- "Ole Will Chanter had a fiddle like thikky one. Du'ye mind, Peter?" Indignant voices called for silence, but Mary only looked about in some amazement. She couldn't think what the people were driving at. As she was not being entertained there was nothing to prevent her from talking, and it was only natural that she should speak to Peter; and if the folks in front did not approve of her remarks they need not listen. The violinist had dropped her arms in despair; but when she perceived silence was restored she tried again. "Used to play 'en in Peter Tavy church," continued Mary, with much relish. "Used to sot up in the loft and fiddle cruel. Didn't 'en, Master? Don't ye mind ole Will Chanter what had a fiddle like thikky one? His brother Abe sot up wi' 'en, and blowed into a long pipe. Made a cruel fine noise, them two." Mary was becoming anecdotal, and threatening to address the audience at some length, so the violinist had to give up and make way for a vocalist with sufficient voice to drown these reminiscences of a former generation. After the concert there were disturbances outside. One faction cheered the performers; another hooted them. Then a light of Ebenezer kindled into religious fire and hit an Anglican postman in the eye. The response of the Church Militant loosened two Nonconformist teeth. Chegwidden reappeared on horseback, swaying from side to side, holding on by the reins, and raising the cry of down with everything except Ebenezer and liquor-shops. Pendoggat stood aloof, looking on, hoping there would be a fight. He did not mix in such things himself. It was his custom to stand in the background and work the machinery from outside. He liked to see men attacking one another, to watch pain inflicted, and to see the blood flow. Turning to the man whose mouth had been damaged he muttered: "Go at him again." "I'm satisfied," came the answer. "He called you a dirty monkey," lied Pendoggat. The insult was sufficient. The Anglican postman was walking away, having fought a good fight for the faith that was in him, by virtue of two shillings a week for various duties, and his Opponent seizing the opportunity attacked him vigorously from the rear. Peter and Mary watched the conflict, and their savage souls rejoiced. This was better than all the pianos and fiddles in the world. They felt at last they were getting value for their free tickets. Sport was terminated by the sudden appearance of the Maggot. He had been drafting a prospectus of the "Tavy Nickel Mining Company, Limited," and had issued forth to look for the managing director. He stopped the fight and lectured the combatants in spiritual language. He comprehended how the ex-chapel had been desecrated that night by godless people, and he appreciated the zeal which had prompted a member of his congregation to defend its sanctity; but he explained that it was not lawful for Christians to brawl upon the streets. To take out a summons for assault was far holier. The man with the loosened teeth explained that he should do so. It was true he had incited the postman to fight by striking him first; but then he had struck him with Christian charity in the eye, which entailed only a slight temporary discomfort and no permanent loss; whereas the postman had struck him with brutal ferocity on the mouth, depriving him of the services of two teeth; and had moreover added obscene language, as could be proved by impartial witnesses. Pezzack assured him that the teeth Bad fallen in a good cause; men and women had been tortured and burnt at the stake for their religion; and he quoted the acts of Bloody Mary, that bigoted lady who has become the hardy perennial of Nonconformist sermons, with a strong emphasis upon the qualifying, adjective. The champion went away delighted. He had won his martyr's crown, and his teeth were not so very loose after all. A little beer would soon tighten them. The crowd was dwindling away with its grievances. The folks would chatter furiously for a few days; then the affair would drop and be forgotten, and a fresh scandal would fill the vacancy. They would never bite so long as they had liberty to bark. Chegwidden had galloped off across the moor in his usual wild way. Every week he would visit some inn, upon what might have been called his home circuit, and at closing time would commit his senseless body to his horse with the certain hope of being carried home. To gallop wildly over Dartmoor at night might be ranked as an almost heroic action. The horse had brains fortunately. Chegwidden was only the clinging monkey upon its back. The farmer had fallen on several occasions, but had escaped with bruises. One night he would break his neck, or crack his head upon a boulder, and die as he had lived--drunk. Drunkenness is not a vice upon Dartmoor; nor a fault even. It is a custom. The Maggot found Pendoggat. They greeted one another in a fraternal way, then began to walk down from the village. The night was clear ahead of them, but above Brentor, with its church, which looked rather like an exaggerated locomotive in that light, the sky, or "widdicote," as Mary might have called it, was red and lowering. "Well, what about business?" said Pendoggat. "I am not finding it easy, Mr. Pendoggat," said the minister. "Folks are nervous, and, as you know, there is not much money about. But they trust me, Mr. Pendoggat. They trust me," he repeated fervently. "Got any promises?" "A few half-promises. I could do better if I was able to show them the mine. If you would come forward, with your wisdom and experience, I think we should do well. I mentioned that you were interested." "I told you to keep my name out of it," said Pendoggat. "But that is impossible. I cannot tell a lie, Mr. Pendoggat," said Eli, with the utmost deference. "You're suspicious," said the other sharply. "You don't trust me. Say it out, Pezzack." "I do trust you, Mr. Pendoggat. I have given you this 'and," said Eli, extending a clay-like slab. "I have seen with my own eyes the sides of that cave gleaming with precious metal like the walls of the New Jerusalem. I can take your 'and now, and look you in the heye, and say 'ow I trust you. We 'ave prayed side by side, and you 'ave always prayed fair. Now that we are working side by side I know you'll work fair. But I 'ave thought, Mr. Pendoggat, 'ow you seem to be putting too much upon me." "I'll tell you how it is. I'm pushed," Pendoggat muttered. "Nobody knows it, but I'm deep in debt. Do you think I'd be such a fool as to give this find of mine away for nothing, as you might say, unless I'd got to?" he went on sullenly. "I've known of it for years. I've spent days planting willows and fern about the entrance to that old shaft, to close it up and make folk forget it's there. I meant to bide my time till I could get mining folk in London to take it up and make a big thing out of it. I'm a disappointed man, Pezzack. I'm in debt, and I've got to suffer for it." He paused, scowling sullenly at his companion. "My 'eart bleeds for you, Mr. Pendoggat," said simple Eli. He thought that was a good and sympathetic phrase, although he somewhat exaggerated the actual state of his feelings. "I've kept 'em quiet so far," said Pendoggat. "I've paid what I can, and they know they can't get more. But if 'twas known about this mine, and known I was running it, they'd be down on me like flies on a carcase, and would ruin the thing at once. The only chance for me was to look out for a straight man who could float the scheme in his name while I did the work. I knew only one man I could really trust, and that man is you." "It is very generous of you, Mr. Pendoggat," said the buttered Eli. They had reached the railway bridge, and there stopped, being upon the edge of the moor. Beneath them was Brentor station gone to sleep; beyond, in its cutting, that of Mary Tavy. The lines of two rival companies ran needlessly side by side, silently proclaiming to the still Dartmoor night the fact that railway companies are quite human and hate each other like individuals. Pendoggat was looking down as usual, therefore his eyes were fixed upon the rival lines. Possibly he found something there to interest him. "I'll get you some samples. You can take them about with you," he went on. "We'll have a meeting too." "At the Barton?" suggested Eli. "The chapel," said Pendoggat. "Commencing with a prayer-meeting," said Eli. "That is a noble thought, Mr. Pendoggat. We will seek a blessing on the work." "The chapel must be rebuilt," said Pendoggat. "The Lord's work first. Yes, that is right. That is like you, Mr. Pendoggat. I will communicate with some friends in London. I 'ave an uncle who is a retired grocer. He lives at Bromley, Mr. Pendoggat. He will invest part of his savings, I am convinced. He has confidence in me. He had me educated for the ministry. He will persuade others to invest, perhaps." Pendoggat moved forward, and set his face towards the moor. "I must get on," he said. "I'll see you on Sunday. Have something to tell me by then." "Let us seek a blessing before we part," said Pezzack. Pendoggat turned back. He was always ready to obtain absolution. They stood upon the bridge, removed their hats, while Eli prayed with vigour and sincerity. He did not stop until the rumble of the night mail sounded along the lines and the metals began to hum excitedly. The "widdicote" above St. Michael's was still red and lowering. The church might have been a furnace, emitting a strong glow from fires within its tower. CHAPTER VII ABOUT FAIRYLAND By the time Boodles was sixteen she was shaped and polished. Weevil had done what he could; not much, for the poor old thing was neither learned nor rich; and she had gone to Tavistock, where various arts had been crammed into her brain, all mixed up together like the ingredients of a patent pill. Boodles knew a good deal for seventeen; but Nature and Dartmoor had taught her more than the school-mistress. She was a fresh and fragrant child, with no unhealthy fancies; loving everything that was clean and pretty; loathing spiders, and creeping things, and filth in general; and longing ardently already to win for herself a name and a soul a little higher than the beetles. They were presumptuous longings for a child of passion, who did not know her parents, or anything about her origin beyond the fact that she had been thrown out in a bundle of fern, and taken in and cared for by Abel Cain Weevil. At the tender age of fourteen Boodles received her love-wound. It was down by the Tavy, where the water swirls round pebbles and rattles them against its rocks below Sandypark. Her love-affair was idyllic, and therefore dangerous, because the idyllic state bears the same resemblance to rough and brutal life as the fairy-tale bears to the true story of that life. The tales begin with "once upon a time," and end with "they lived happily ever after." The idyllic state begins in the same way, but ends, either with "they parted with tears and kisses and never saw each other again," or "they married and were miserable ever afterwards." Only children can blow idyll-bubbles which will float for a time. Elderly people try, but they only make themselves ridiculous, and the bubbles will not form. People of thirty or over cannot play at fairy-tales. When they try they become as fantastic a sight as an old gentleman wearing a paper hat and blowing a penny trumpet. Shakespeare, who knew everything about human nature that men can know, made his Romeo and Juliet children, and ended their idyll as such things must end. Customs have changed since; even children are beginning to understand that life cannot be made a fairy-tale; and Romeo prefers the football field to sighing beneath a school-girl's balcony; and Juliet twists up her hair precociously and runs amok with a hockey-stick. Still fairy-tales lift their mystic blooms to the moon beside the Tavy, and Boodles had seen those flowers, and wandered among them very delicately. The boy was Aubrey Bellamie, destined for the Navy, and his home was in Tavistock. He had come into the world, amid an odour of respectability, two years before Boodles had crept shamefully up the terrestrial back stairs. All he knew about Boodles was the fact that she was a girl; that one all-sufficient fact that makes youths mad. He knew, also, that her head was glorious, and that her lips were better than wine. He was a clean, pretty boy; like most of the youths in the Navy, who are the good fresh salt of Devon and England everywhere. Boodles came into Tavistock twice a week to be educated, and he would wait at the door of the school until she came out, because he wanted to educate her too; and then they would wander beside the Tavy, and kiss new knowledge into each other's young souls. The fairy-tale was real enough, because real life had not begun. They were still in "once upon a time" stage, and they believed in the happy ending. It was the age of delusion; glorious folklore days. There was enough fire in them both to make the story sufficiently life-like to be mistaken for the real thing. Aubrey's parents did not know of the love-affair then; neither did Weevil. In fairy-tales relations are usually wicked creatures who have to be avoided. So for months they wandered beside the river of fairyland, and plucked the flowers of that pleasant country which were gleaming with idyllic dew. "I can't think why you love my head so," Boodles had protested, when a thunderstorm of affection had partially subsided. "It's like a big tangle of red seaweed. The girls at the school call me Carrots." "I should like to hear them," said Aubrey fiercely; "Darling, it's the loveliest head in the world." And then he went on to talk a lot of shocking nonsense about flowers and sunsets, and all other wondrous flaming things, which had derived their colour and splendour from the light of his sweetheart's head, and from none other source or inspiration whatsoever. "If I was a boy I shouldn't love a girl with red hair. There are such a lot of girls you might love. Girls with silky flaxen hair, and girls with lovely brown hair--" "They are only girls," said Aubrey disdainfully. "Not angels." "Do angels have red hair?" asked Boodles. "Only a very few," said the boy. "Boodles--and one or two others whose names I can't remember just now. It's not red hair, sweetheart. It's golden, and your beautiful skin is golden too, and there is a lot of gold-dust scattered all over your nose." "Freckles," laughed Boodles. "Aubrey, you silly! Calling my ugly freckles gold-dust! Why, I hate them. When I look in the glass I say to myself: 'Boodles, you're a nasty little spotted toad.'" "They are just lovely," declared the boy. "They are little bits of sunshine that have dropped on you and stuck there." "I'm not sticky." "You are. Sticky with sweetness." "What a dear stupid thing!" sighed Boodles. "Let me kiss your lovely pink and white girl's face--there--and there--and there." "Boodles, dear, I haven't got a girl's face," protested Aubrey. "Oh, but you have, my boy. It's just like a girl's--only prettier. If I was you, and you was me--that sounds rather shocking grammar, but it don't matter--every one would say: 'Look at that ugly boy with that boodle-oodle, lovely, _bu_tiful girl.' There! I've squeezed every bit of breath out of him," cried Boodles. There was a certain amount left, as she soon discovered; enough to smother her. "If you hadn't got golden hair, and freckles, I should never have fallen in love with you," declared the boy. "If you were to lose your freckles, if you lost only one, the tiniest of them all, I shouldn't love you any more." "And if you lose that dear girl's face I won't love you," promised Boodles. "If you had a horrid moustache to tickle me and make me sneeze, I wouldn't give you the smallest, teeniest, wee bit of a kiss. Well, you can't anyhow, because you've got to be an admiral. How nice it will be when you are grown up and have a lot of ships of your own." "We shall be married long before then. Boodles, darling," cried the eager boy. "Directly I am twenty-one we will be married. Only five more years." "Such a lot happens in a year," sighed Boodles. "You may meet five more girls far more sunshiny than me, with redder hair and more freckles, since you are so fond of them--" "I shan't. You are the only girl who ever was or shall be." That is how boys talk when they are sixteen, and when they are twenty-six, and sometimes when they are very old boys of sixty; and girls generally believe them. "I wonder if it is right of you to love me," said Boodles doubtfully. The answer was what might have been looked for, and ended with the usual question: "Why not?" "Because I'm only a baby." "You are fourteen, darling. You will be nineteen by the time we are married." Although they were only at the beginning of the story they were already slapping over the pages, anxious to reach the "lived happily ever after" conclusion. Young people are always wanting to hurry on; middle-aged to marktime; old to look back. The freshness of life is contained in the first chapter. Youth is a time of unnatural strength, of insanity, a dancing-round-the-may-pole sort of time. Common-sense begins to come when one has grandchildren. Boodles and Aubrey wandered a thousand times in love's fairyland on the romantic banks of the rattling Tavy, and knew as much during their last walk as upon the first; knew they were in love cleanly and honestly; knew that the joy of life was no myth; but knowing nothing, either of them, concerning Giant Despair, who has his mantle trimmed with lovers' hearts, or the history of the fair maid of Astolat, or the existence of Castle Dolorous. Love is largely a pleasure of the imagination, thus a fairy-tale, and sound practical knowledge sweeps the romance of it all away. The whole of that folly--if the only real ecstatic bliss of life which is called first love be folly--seemed gone for ever. Aubrey was packed off to do his part in upholding the honour of Boodlesland, as his country named itself in his thoughts; and the years that intervened discovered him probably kissing girls of all complexions, girls with every shade of hair conceivable, girls with freckles and without; and being kissed by them. Boys must have their natural food, and if the best quality be not obtainable they must take what offers. In the interval Boodles remained entirely unkissed, and received no letters. She wasn't surprised. His love had been too fierce. It had blazed up, burnt her, and gone out. Aubrey had forgotten her; forgotten those wonderful walks in Tavyland; forgotten her radiant head and golden freckles. It was all over, that romance of two babies. It was Boodles who did not forget; Boodles who had the wet pillow sometimes; Boodles who was constant like the gorse, which is in flower all the year round. No one would call the ordinary Dartmoor postman an angel--his appearance is too much against him--but he does an angel's work. Perhaps there is nothing which quickens the heart of any lonely dweller on the moor so perceptibly as the heavy tread of that red-faced and beer-tainted companion of the goddess of dawn. He leaves curses as well as blessings. He pushes love-letters and bills into the box together. Sometimes he is an hour late, and the miserable watcher frets about the house. Sometimes the wind holds him back. He can be seen struggling against it, and the watcher longs to yoke him to wild horses. There are six precious post-times each week, and the lonely inhabitant of the wilds would not yield one of them to save his soul alive. There was an angel's visit to Lewside Cottage, and a letter for Boodles fell from heaven. The child pounced upon it, rushed up to her room like a dog with a piece of meat, locked the door lest any one should enter with the idea of stealing her prize, gloated upon it, almost rolled upon it. She did not open it for some time. She turned it over, smelt it, pinched it, loved it. Tavistock was blurred across the stamp. There was no doubt about that letter. It was a tangible thing. It did not fade away like morning dew. She opened it at last, but did not dare to read it through. She took bites at it, tasting it here and there; and had every sentence by heart before she settled down to read it properly. So she was still dearest Boodles, and he was the same devoted Aubrey. The child jumped upon her bed, and bit the pillow in sheer animal joy. He had just come home, and was writing to her at once. She wouldn't recognise him because he had become a tough brown sailor, and the girl's face was his no longer. He was coming to see her at once; and they would walk again by the Tavy and be just the same as ever; and swear the same vows; and kiss the same kisses; and be each other's sun and moon, and all the rest of the idyllic patter, which was as sweet and fresh as ever to poor Boodles. For he had been all the world over and discovered there was only one girl in it; and that was the girl with the radiant head, and the golden skin, and the gold-dust upon her nose. He was as true as he always had been, and as he always would be for ever and evermore. Boodles saw nothing mad or presumptuous in that closing sentence. It was just what she would have said. There is no hereafter for young people in their teens; there is an ever and evermore for them. They are like a kitten playing with its own tail, without ever realising that it is its tail. Boodles became at once very light and airy. She seemed to have escaped from the body somehow. She felt as if she had been transformed into a bit of sunshine. She floated down-stairs, lighted up the living-room, wrapped herself round Abel Cain, floated into the kitchen to finish preparations for breakfast, discovered the material nature of her hands by breaking a milk-jug, and then humanity asserted itself and she began to shriek. "Boodle-oodle!" cried old Weevil; "you have been sleeping in the moonshine." "I've broken the milk-jug," screamed Boodles. Weevil came shuffling along the passage. Small things were greatly accounted of in Lewside Cottage. There were most of the ingredients of tragedy in a broken milk-jug. "How did you do it?" he wailed. "It was all because the butter is so round," laughed Boodles. Weevil was frightened. He thought the child's mind had broken too; and that was even more serious than the milk-jug. He stood and stared, and made disjointed remarks about bright Dartmoor moons, and girls who would sleep with their blinds up, and insanity which was sure to follow such rashness. But Boodles only laughed the more. "I'll tell you," she said. "The butter is very round, and I had it on a plate. I must have tilted the plate, and it was roll, butter, roll. First on the table, where it knocked the milk-jug off its legs. Then it rolled on the floor, and out of the door. It's still rolling. I expect it is nearly at Mary Tavy station by now, and it ought to reach Tavistock about ten o'clock at the rate it was going. It's sure to roll on to Plymouth, right through the Three Towns, and then across the Hoe, and about the time we go to bed there will be a little splash in the sea, and that will be the end of the butter, which rolled off the plate, and broke the milk-jug, and started from the top of Dartmoor at half-past eight by the clock in Lewside Cottage, which is ten minutes fast--and that's all I can think of now," gasped Boodles. "My poor little girl," quavered Weevil. "The butter is on the plate in front of you." "Well, it must have rolled back again. It wanted to see its dear old home once more." Weevil began to pick up the fragments of the milk-jug. "There is something wrong with you, Boodle-oodle," he said tenderly. "I don't want you to have any secrets, my dear. You are too young. There was a letter for you just now?" At that the whole story came out with a rush. Boodles could hold nothing back that morning. She told Weevil about the fairy-tale, from the "once upon a time" up to the contents of that letter; and she begged him to play the part of good genie, and with his enchantments cause blissfulness to happen. Weevil was very troubled. He had feared that the radiant head would do mischief, but he had not expected trouble to come so soon. The thing was impossible, of course. Even radiant growths must have a name of some sort. Aubrey's parents could not permit weeds to grow in their garden. There were plenty of girls "true to name," like the well-bred roses of a florist's catalogue, wanting smart young husbands. There was practically no limit to the supply of these sturdy young plants. Boodles might be a Gloire de Devon, but she was most distinctly not in the catalogue. She was only a way-side growth; a beautiful fragrant weed certainly, like the sweet honeysuckle which trails about all the lanes, and is in itself a lovely thing, but is not wanted in the garden because it is too common; or like the gorse, which as a flowering shrub is the glory of the moor, but not of the garden, because it is a rank wild growth. Were it a rare shrub it would be grown upon the lawns of the wealthy; but because it is common it must stay outside. "Boodles, darling, I am so sorry," the old man murmured. "But you mustn't be," she laughed. "Sorry because I'm so happy! You must be a _bu_tiful old daddy-man, and say you are glad. I can't help being in love. It's like the measles. We have to catch it, and it is so much better to go through it when you're young. Now say something nice and let me go. I want to run to the top of Ger Tor, and scream, and run back again." "Oh, dear heaven!" muttered Weevil, playing with the bits of milk-jug. "I can't tell the poor baby, I can't tell it." "Don't be weepy, daddy-dear-heart," murmured Boodles, coming and loving him. "I know I'm only a baby, but then I'm growing fast. I'll soon be eighteen. Such a grown-up woman then, old man! I'll never leave him--that's the trouble, I know. I'll always boil him's eggs, and break him's milk-jugs. Only he must be pretty to Boodles when she's happy, and say he's glad she's got a lovely boy with the beautifullest girl's face that ever was." Weevil unmeshed himself and shuffled away, pelting imaginary foes with bits of milk-jug, blinking his eyes like a cat in the sunshine. He could not destroy the child's happiness. As well expect the painter who has expended the best years of his life on a picture to cut and slash the canvas. Boodles was his own. He had made and fashioned her. He could not extinguish his own little sun. He must let her linger in fairyland, and allow destiny, or human nature, or something else equally brutal, to finish the story. Elementary forces of nature, like Pendoggat, might be cruel, but Weevil was not a force, neither was he cruel. He was only an eccentric old man, and he wanted it to be well with the child. She would have her eyes opened soon enough. She would discover that innocents thrust out on the moor to perish cannot by the great law of propriety take that place in life which beauty and goodness deserve. They must go back; like Undine, coming out with brave love to seek a soul, succeeding at first, but failing in the end, and going back at last to the state that was hers. Poor little bastard Boodles! How mad she was that morning! Weevil hardly noticed that his eggs were hard-boiled. "Darling," he said tenderly, anxious to divert her mind--as if it could be diverted!--"go and see Peter, and tell him we must have that clock. You had better bring it back with you." That clock was a favourite subject of conversation. If had amused Boodles for two years, and it amused her then. It was only a common little clock, or Peter would never have been entrusted with it. Peter, who knew nothing, was among other things a mechanician. He professed his ability to mend and clean clocks. Possibly Grandfather had taught him something. He had studied the old gentleman's internal arrangements all his life, and had, he considered, mastered the entire principle of a clock's construction and well-being. Therefore when Boodles met him one day, and informed him that a little clock in Lewside Cottage was choked with dust and refused to perform its duty, Peter promised he would attend at his earliest convenience, to lay his hand upon it, and restore it to activity. "When will you come?" asked Boodles. "To-morrow," answered Peter. The day came, but not Peter. He was hardly expected, because promises are meaningless phrases in the mouths of Dartmoor folk. In the matter of an eternal "to-morrow" they are like the Spanish peasantry. They always promise upon their honour, but, as they haven't got any, the oath might as well be omitted. When reminded of their solemn undertaking they have a ready explanation. Their conscience would not permit them to come. It is the same when they agree to charge an unsuspecting person so much for duties performed, and then send in a bill for twice the amount. Conscience would not allow them to charge less. The Dartmoor conscience is a beautiful thing. It urges a man to act precisely as he wants to. A month or so passed--the exact period is of no account in such a place--and Boodles saw Peter approaching her. When within sight of her he put out his arm and began to cry aloud. She hurried towards him, afraid that something was wrong; the arm was still extended, and the cry continued. Peter was like an owl crying in the wilderness. Drawing near, he became at last intelligible. "I be coming," he cried. "I be coming to mend the clock." "Now?" asked Boodles. "To-morrow," said Peter. This sort of thing happened constantly. Whenever they came within sight of each other, and Peter called often at the village to purchase pints of beer, the little man would hurry towards Boodles, with his outstretched arm and monotonous cry: "To-morrow." He was always on his way to Lewside Cottage, but something always hindered him from getting there. He did not despair, however. He felt confident that the day would arrive when he would attend in person and restore the clock. It was merely a matter of time. Thus a year went by and the pledge remained unfulfilled. One Sunday evening Boodles went to church, and it so happened that Peter was there also. Peter had just then reasons of his own for wishing to ingratiate himself with the church authorities, and he considered that the appearance of his vile body in a devotional attitude somewhere in the neighbourhood of the pulpit would be of material assistance to his ambition. Peter entered with a huge lantern, the time being winter, and the evening dark--the night rather, for the Dartmoor day in winter is well over by five o'clock--flapped up the aisle with goose-like steps, tumbled into a seat breathing heavily, and making as much noise with his boots as a horse upon cobblestones, banged the lantern down, and gazed about the building with an air of proprietorship. The next thing was to blow out the candle in his lantern. He opened it, and made windy noises which were not attended with success. "Scat 'en," cried Peter boisterously. "When her's wanted to go out her never will, and when her bain't wanted to go out her always du." At that moment Boodles entered. Peter was delighted to see her friendly face. The lantern clattered to the floor, and its master stretched out his arm, and exclaimed in a whisper which would have carried from one side of Tavy Cleave to the other: "I was a-coming yesterday, but I never got as far. Had the tweezers in my trousers, and here they be." He brought out the implement and brandished it in the faces of the congregation. "I'm a-coming to-morrow sure 'nuff." Then he went to work again at the lantern. Peter had not developed the spirit of reverence; and the service was unable to commence until he had finished blowing. When the proceedings were over he followed Boodles out of church and along the road, all the time asserting that the tweezers and his trousers had been inseparable for the last six months, that he had started for Lewside Cottage every day, and something had always cropped up to prevent him from reaching his destination, but that the next day would bring him, wet or fine, upon his word of honour it would. He had been remiss in the past, he owned, but if he failed to attend on Monday morning at half-past eleven punctual, with the tweezers in his trousers, he hoped the young lady and the old gentleman would never trust him again. A few more weeks went by, and then Boodles put the clock into a basket, and came out to the hut-circles. Peter was grievously dismayed. "Why didn't ye tell me?" he said. "I'd ha' come for 'en. I wouldn't ha' troubled yew to ha' brought 'en. If yew had told I there was a clock to mend, I'd ha' come for him all to wance, and fetched him home, and mended him same day." It would have been useless to remind Peter of his promises and his eternal procrastination. He would only have pleaded that he had forgotten all about it. People such as Peter cannot be argued with. Boodles left the clock, and Peter promised it should be cleaned at once, and brought back in a day or two. During the next few months the couple at Lewside Cottage made merry over that clock. Left to himself Peter would have said no more about it, but would simply have added it to his stock of earthly possessions. However, Boodles gave him no peace. Peter could hardly enter the village for the necessity of his existence without being accosted upon the subject; and at last the slumbering fires of mechanism within him kindled into flame. He declared he had never seen such a clock; it was made all wrong; it was not in the least like Grandfather. He explained that it would be necessary to take it entirely to pieces, alter the works considerably, and reconstruct it in accordance with the recognised model, adding such things as weights and pendulum; and that would be a matter of a year's skilled labour. He pointed out, moreover, that the clock was painted green, and that in itself would be sufficient to clog the works, as it was well known that clocks would not keep proper time unless they were painted brown. That was a trade secret. Boodles replied that there was nothing whatever wrong with the works of the clock. It only required cleaning, and she believed she could do it herself. Peter wagged his head in amazement. The folly and ignorance of young maids eclipsed his understanding. The second year came to an end, and the clock was in precisely the same condition as at first. Peter was glad to have it because it made a nice ornament for his section of Ger Cottage. He had only touched it once, and then Mary, who happened to be present, exclaimed: "Dear life, Peter, put 'en down, or you'll be tearing 'en." The tenants of Lewside Cottage had become tired of the endless comedy. So, on that morning when Boodles had her letter, it was the most natural thing in the world for Weevil to suggest that she should go and reclaim their property; and as the girl was longing for the open moor and the sight of Tavy Cleave, which was on the way to fairyland, she went, running part of the way for sheer joy, singing and laughing all the time. The hut-circles were deserted. Mary was out on the "farm," which was a ridiculous scrap of reclaimed moor about the same size as an Italian mountaineer's vineyard; and Peter had gone to the village inn on business. Boodles looked inside. There was Grandfather, ticking in his usual misanthropic way; and there was the uncleaned clock in the centre of the long shelf which ran above the big fire-place. Boodles took it, and ran off, laughing to think of Peter's dismay when he returned and discovered that his mantelshelf lacked its principal ornament. He would think some one had stolen it, and the fright would be a punishment for him. Boodles raced home, put the clock on the kitchen table, opened it, and placing the nozzle of the bellows among the works cleaned them vigorously. When old Weevil came shuffling in the clock was going merrily. "I've done in two minutes what Peter couldn't do in two years," laughed the happy child. Weevil shuffled out. He was in a restless mood. He knew he ought to tell Boodles that she mustn't be happy, only he could not. Somebody or something would have to use her as she had used the clock; blow wildly into her poor little soul, and do for her in two minutes what Weevil would never have done in two years. CHAPTER VIII ABOUT ATMOSPHERE There are secret places among the rocks of Tavy Cleave. The river has many moods; one time in the barren lands, another time in bogland, and then in hanging gardens and woodland. No other river displays such startling Protean changes. The artist always fails to catch the Tavy. He paints it winding between low banks of peat, with blossoms of pink heather dripping into the water; but that is not the Tavy. He presents it as a broiling milk-white torrent, thundering over rocks, with Ger Tor wrapped in cloud, and bronzed bracken springing out of the clefts; but that is not the Tavy. He represents it shaded with rowan and ferns, its banks a fairy carpet of wind-flowers, and suggests a gentle river by removing the lace-like pattern of foam and the big boulders, and painting the water a wonderful green, with here and there a streak of purple; but still he has not caught the Tavy. He goes down from the moor and shows a stately stream, descending slowly a lew valley between hills, partly wooded, partly cultivated; shows the smoke of scattered Bartons mixing lazily with the clouds and going with them sea-ward; shows cattle feeding and bluebells nodding; a general atmosphere that of Amaryllis and her piping shepherd, though the lad is only a dull clod and his pipe is of clay, and Amaryllis has dirty finger-nails; but again the elusive Tavy has escaped somehow. Once more he tries. There is the Tavy, like an ocean flood, coming across mud-flats, mingled with brother Tamar of the border; a dull unromantic Tavy then. The magic mist of bluebells has given way to the blue steel of the railroad, and wooden battleships, their task over, float upon its waters instead of fern-fronds. Not a fairy-tale is to be told, nor any pretty fancy to be weaved there. The pictures go into galleries, and win fame, perhaps; but the river of Tavy chuckles over his rocks, and knows he is not there. It is a river of atmosphere. Only a dream can produce the Tavy; not the written word, nor the painted picture. Unpleasant dreams some of them, like nightmares, but human thought produces them; and human thought is the dirtiest, as well as the noblest, thing created. In one of the secret places among the rocks Pendoggat waited, and Thomasine came to meet him there. She came because she had been told to, and about the only thing that her mind was capable of realising was that she must be obedient. Country girls have to do as they are told. They are nearly as defenceless as the rabbits, and any commoner may trap them as one of his rights. So Thomasine came down among the rocks. She had not been out with Will Pugsley lately, because it was not allowed. She wanted to, but Pendoggat had refused permission. He had indeed gone further, and had threatened to murder her if she went with any other man. Thomasine accepted the inevitable, and told her Will she could not go out with him any more. Pugsley, having saved a little money, desired to spend it upon matrimony, and as he could not have Thomasine he was going about looking for another maid. One would serve his purpose as well as another, so long as she had plenty of blood in her. Such a thing as love without lust was unknown to Pendoggat. His only idea of the great passion was to catch hold of a woman, maul her, enjoy her flesh, and her warmth, and the texture of her clothes; the coarse, crude passion which makes a man ruin himself, and destroy the life of another, for the pleasure of a moment's madness; that same anarchy of mind which has dethroned princes, lost kingdoms, and converted houses of religion into houses of ill-fame. Pendoggat would not have gone mad over Thomasine had she been merely pretty. It was that face of hers, the blood in her, something in the shape of her figure, which had kindled his fire. All men burn, more or less, and must submit; and when they do not it is because Nature is not striving very hard in them. Much is heard of the morality of Joseph; nothing concerning the age or ugliness of Potiphar's wife. These conventional old tales are wiped out by one touch of desire, and nothing remains except the overmastering thing. The trees cannot help budding in spring. Nature compels it, as she compels the desire of the human body also. They were out of the wind. The heavy fragrance of gorse was in the hot air. It was a well-hidden spot, and somewhat weird, a haunted kind of place. The ruins of a miner's cot were close by, and what had been its floor was then a mass of bracken. The stones were covered with flowering saxifrage. There was a scrubby brake here and there, composed of a few dwarf trees, rowan and oaks, only a few feet high, ancient enough but small, because their roots obtained little nutriment from the rock-bedded peat. Their branches twisted in a fantastic manner, reaching across the sky like human limbs contorted with strange agony. They were the sort of trees which force themselves into dreams. Some of them were half dead, green on one side and black upon the other; while the dwarfed trunks were covered with ivy and masses of polypodies; overgrown so thickly with these parasites that the bark was nowhere visible. Such a thickness of moss coated some of the boulders that the hardness of the granite was not perceptible. Beneath the river tumbled; a rough and wild Tavy; the river of rocks, the open, sun-parched region of the high moor; the water clear and cold from Cranmere; and there was a long way to go yet before it reached cover, the hanging trees, and the mossy bogs pink with red-rattles, and the woods white with wind-flowers, and the stretch of bluebell-land, the ferns, bracken, asphodel, and the pleasant winding pathways where fairy-tales and decent love abide, and the little folk laugh at moonlight. "It be a whist old place," Thomasine said; the words, but not the thought, frightened out of her by Pendoggat's rude embrace. Like most girls of her class she was no talker, because she did not know how to put words together. She could laugh without ceasing when the occasion justified it, laughter being with her what tail-wagging is to a dog, the natural expression of pleasure or good-will; but there was not much to laugh at just then. "You haven't told any one about our meetings? They don't know at Town Rising?" said Pendoggat. "No, sir," answered Thomasine. "It wouldn't do for them to know. They'd talk themselves sick. You don't wear much, my maid. Nothing under your blouse. If it wasn't for your fat you'd take cold." He had thrust his hand into the front of her dress, and clutched a handful of yielding flesh. "Don't ye, sir. It ain't proper," entreated Thomasine. She hardly dared to struggle because she was afraid. Instinct told her certain behaviour was not proper, although it had not prevented her from coming to that "whist old place." It was fear which had brought her there. "How would you like to come to the Barton, and be my married wife? I want a fine maid to look after me, and you're a fine lusty sweetheart if ever there was one. 'Tis a job that would suit you, Thomasine. Better than working for those Chegwiddens. I'd find you something better to do than sitting in a cold kitchen, keeping the fire warm. There's a good home and a sober master waiting for you. Better than young Pugsley and twelve shillings a week. Say the word, and I'll have you there, and Nell Crocker can go to the devil." Thomasine did not say the word. She had no conversation at all. She did not know that Pendoggat was giving her the usual fair speech, making her the usual offer, which meant nothing although it sounded so much. She had heard Nell Crocker referred to as Mrs. Pendoggat, never before by her actual name. She had come to meet him, supposing him to be a married man, not because she wanted his company, but because she had to accept it. She could only conclude that he really did love her. Thomasine's ideas of love were simple enough; just to meet a man, and walk with him in quiet places, and sit about with him, and be mauled by him. That was the beginning and end of love according to Thomasine, for after marriage it was all hard work. If a man made a girl meet him in secret places among the rocks, it could only be because he loved her. There could be no other reason. And if a man loved a girl he naturally suggested marriage. The matter was entirely simple. Even she could understand it, because it was elementary knowledge; the sort of knowledge which causes many a quiet moorland nook, and many an innocent-looking back garden, to become some smothered infant's grave. "You'd like to come to the Barton, wouldn't you, my maid?" said Pendoggat in a wheedling tone. "Iss," murmured Thomasine at last. She didn't dare say anything else. She was afraid he would strike her if she struggled. She was staring without much expression at the little dwarfed oaks, and the blood was working vigorously up and down her exposed neck and bosom as though a pump was forcing it. She had a thought just then; or, if not quite a thought, a wish. She wished she had taken a situation which had been offered her at Sourton, and had never come to Town Rising. She felt somehow it might have been better for her if she had gone to Sourton. She might have escaped something, though she hardly knew what. She could not have got into a town, as she was too ignorant and dull for anything better than a moorland Barton. "You've done with young Pugsley?" Pendoggat muttered. He pulled her hair down roughly, hurting her. Thomasine had good brown hair in abundance. He wanted to see it lying on her skin. Anything to add fuel to the fire! "Iss, sir." "That's well. If you and he are seen together there'll be hell," he cried savagely. "You're mine, blood and flesh, and all that's in you, and I'll have you or die for it, and I'd kill the man who tried to get you away from me, as I'd kill you if you played me false and ran off to any one else. You young devil, you--you're as full of blood as a whort is full of juice." While speaking he was half dragging her towards the ruined miner's cot, and there flung her savagely on the fern. * * * * * Much lower down, where the Tavy fretted less, being freer from rocks; where there were trees, and a shelter from the wind, and flowers also in their season, honeysuckles and rose-bays, with fern in great abundance--there could be no fairyland without ferns--and green water oozing from the banks, and a fragrant kind of mist over it all; there, where the river slanted perceptibly towards the lowland, "more down under like," as Peter would have expressed it, two little people were trying to strangle one another with pure affection. They were not pixy-folk. They were only Boodles and her boy going on with the story. They would have been out of place upon the high Tavy, on the rock-strewn side of the cleave, among the ruins of the mines. There was nothing hard or fierce about them. They were children, to be treated with tenderness; kept out of the strong wind; put among the flowers where they could roll and tumble without hurting themselves; wrapped in the clinging mist full of that odour of sweet water and fresh foliage which cannot quickly be forgotten when it has been enjoyed. "I thought I was not going to see you any more," said Boodles with a fine indifference. "Should you have cared very much, sweetheart?" "Not a bit, really. A girl mustn't expect too much from a sailor boy. They are fickle, and keep a sweetheart at every place they stop at. Girls at every port. Red, white, and yellow girls. A whole heap of them!" "But only one all the time," said Aubrey. "One best beautiful girl who makes all the others seem nothing, and that's always the girl he leaves at home and comes back to. You were always in my thoughts, darling." "But you never wrote," murmured she. "I promised mother I wouldn't," he said, with a little hesitation. "Then she does know," cried Boodles quickly. "Well, I think she ought to, because we can't go on being so chummy--" "Lovers," he amended. "No, we can't," she said decidedly. "Your people must know all about it, and like me, and tell me I'm nice enough, if we are going on in the same old way. You see, boy, I had got used to the idea of doing without you, and I don't want to start again, and then your people to say I'm not nice enough. We are growing up now. I'm in long frocks, and--and at our age things begin to get serious," went on the seventeen-year-old girl of the radiant head somewhat dolefully, as if she was rather afraid she was past her prime. "I'm going to take you to see mother. I promised her I would," said Aubrey. "Before going away I told her I was awfully in love with you, and she made me promise not to write, but to see what my feelings were when I came back. And now I've come back, and I love you more than ever, because I love you in a different way. I was only a boy then, and now I am a man, and it is as a man that I love you, and that sweet golden head and your lovely golden face; and if my people behave properly, I shall get a ring, and put it on this little finger--" "You silly boy. That's my right hand," she laughed. "Then there will be only two more years to wait." "I shall be only a baby," sighed Boodles. "Darling, you will be as old as I am now; and I'm nineteen," said Aubrey, with all the dignity and assurance of such longevity. "Fancy such a child with an engagement-ring! It would be absurd!" said Boodles. "I shan't be well off, darling," he said, making the confession with a boy's usual awkwardness. "Then I won't have you," she declared. "I must have a boy with heaps of money, who will give me all the luxuries I have been used to. You know we live very expensively at Lewside. We have a joint of meat every week, and father has two eggs for breakfast, and I have two new frocks every year--I get the stuff and make them myself. If I had a hungry boy to keep, I should want a lot of housekeeping money, though I can make a penny do the work of three halfpence." "Dear Boodles!" "Does that 'dear' mean expensive? Well, I am. Some of the stuff for my frocks costs I don't know how much a yard, and it's no use trying to be pretty to a draper, for you can't smile them down a single penny." "You are very silly, darling. As if I should let you make your own frocks!" "You are much sillier. So silly that you are hardly fit to live. Telling me you won't be well off! I think if it was all over between us now I shouldn't care a bit." They came out upon an open space beside the river. It was clear of trees, and the sun was able to shine upon the girl's head, so Aubrey stopped and took off her hat with reverent hands. She looked up with a pretty smile. He drew her close and they kissed fondly. It was a clean healthy kiss, with less folly in it than most, as sweet as the water, and fresh as the mist; the sort of kiss that makes the soul bud and bring forth blossoms. They had changed a good deal since those days when they had first entered fairyland. There was womanhood in Boodles, and a good deal of the man in Aubrey. They felt the change. It added responsibility, as well as pleasure, to that kiss. In much the same way their appearance had altered. Boodles was rather thinner; she had not quite the same soft, dumpling-like, school-girl cheeks. Aubrey had still the girl's face, but it had become a little hardened and had lost its down. Training and discipline had added self-reliance and determination to his character. They were a pretty pair, little housewife Boodles and her healthy boy. It was a pity they were transgressing the great unwritten law of respectability by loving one another. "The hair hasn't altered much," murmured the radiant child. "Only to become more lovely. It is a deeper gold now, sweetheart--real gold; and before it was trying to be gold but couldn't quite manage it." "This face is just the same to me, except for the nutmeg-graters on the chin and lips. You have been shaving in a hurry, Aubrey." "You know why. I had to come and meet some one." "I think you are such a nice boy, Aubrey," faltered Boodles. Her eyes were so soft just then that he could not say anything. He took the glowing head and placed it on his shoulder, and warmed his lips and his heart with the radiant hair. What a life it would have been if they could have gone on "happy ever after," just as they were then. The first stage of love is so much the best, just as the bud is often more beautiful than the flower. They walked on between the sun and the fragrant mist, having by this time got quite away from the dull, old place called earth. Boodles carried her hat, swinging it by the strings, and placed her other hand naturally on his arm. Aubrey had quite made up his mind by that time about many important matters. He would marry Boodles whatever happened. He was fond of his parents, but he could not permit them to come between him and his happiness. As there was only one girl in the singularly sparsely-populated world a big price must be paid for her. Even nineteen can be determined upon matters of the heart. "You know Mr. Weevil is not my father," she said timidly, hardly knowing why she thought it necessary to make the admission; and then, rather hurriedly, "I am only his adopted daughter." She had to say that. She did not want him to have unpleasant thoughts concerning her origin. She wanted to be perfectly honest, and yet at the same time she dreaded his learning the truth about herself. She did not realise how ill-suited they were from the ordinary social and respectable point of view, although she wanted to justify her existence and to convince him how unwilling she was to deceive. "I am coming to see him soon," said Aubrey at once. He did not give the matter a serious thought either. He was much too young to bother his head about such things, and besides, he supposed that his sweetheart was the daughter of some relation or connection of Weevil's, and that she had been left an orphan in her childhood, and had been adopted as a duty, not as an act of charity, by the eccentric old man. He had very kindly thoughts of Weevil, because he knew that Boodles had been well taken care of, and always worshipped in a devout and proper manner by the tenant of Lewside Cottage. "I have told him all about you," the girl went on. "I am sure he thinks you quite a suitable person to take perpetual charge of his little maid, only he is funny when I talk to him about you. It must be because he doesn't like the idea of getting rid of me." Aubrey supposed that was reasonable enough. He judged Weevil by his own feelings. The idea of losing Boodles would have made him feel "funny" too. "It does seem selfish and ungrateful," the child went on. "To be brought up and petted, and given everything by a dear old man, and then one day to run off with a nice young boy. It's very fickle. I must try and feel ashamed of myself. Still I'm not so wicked as you. If you would leave me alone I should abide with him always--but then you won't! You come and put selfish thoughts into my head. I think you are rather a bad boy, Aubrey." The young sailor would not admit that. He declared he was quite a natural creature; and he reminded Boodles that if she hadn't been so delightful he would not have fallen in love with her. So it was her own fault after all. She said she was very sorry, but she couldn't help it. She too had only behaved naturally. She was not responsible for so much glowing hair and golden skin. Others had done that for her. And that brought her back to the starting-point, and she felt vaguely there was something she ought to say about those unknown persons, only she didn't know what. So she said nothing at all, and they went on wandering beside the river where it was wooded and pleasant, and thought only of the present, and themselves, and how very nice it was to be together; until a jarring note was struck by that disagreeable thing called Nature, who never changes her mood, but works seven long days of spitefulness every week. Aubrey had brought his dog with him, and the little beast had put aside his social instincts in that glorious hunting-ground, and had gone to seek his own pleasures, leaving his master to the enjoyment of his. Just then he returned, somewhat sheepishly, as if afraid he ought to expect a beating, and slunk along at Aubrey's heels. Boodles at once set up a lamentable cry: "Oh, Aubrey! he's got a bun, a poor little halfpenny bun!" The dog had caught a young rabbit about the size of a rat. He dropped it with wicked delight, touched it up with his nose, made the poor little wretch run, then scampered after it, caught and rolled upon it with much satisfaction, shook it, tossed it in the air, made it run again, and captured it as before. He was as happy as a child with a clockwork toy. "Take it away," pleaded Boodles. "It's so horrid. Look at the poor little thing's eyes! It's panting so! If he would kill it at once I wouldn't mind, but I hate to see him torture it." The boy called his dog, who refused to obey, thinking it all a part of the glorious game. He would let Aubrey come near, then make the victim run, and scamper after it. The clockwork was getting out of order. The rabbit was nearly run down. Aubrey caught the dog, took the little creature away, struck it smartly upon the back of its neck, and the rabbit gave a little shriek, some small shivers, and died. Boodles turned away, and felt miserable. "Shall I beat him?" said Aubrey, who was very fond of his dog. "No--please! I don't care now the poor bun is dead. That tiny scream! Oh, you nasty little dog! You are not a bit like your master. Go away. I hate you." "He can't help doing what his nature tells him, dear." "Is it his nature?" wondered Boodles. "I suppose it is, but it seems so funny. He's so gentle and affectionate to us, and so very cruel to another animal. If it is his nature to be gentle and affectionate, why should he be cruel too?" That was too deep for Aubrey, although in his confident boy's fashion he tried to explain it. He said that every animal respects those stronger than itself, and is cruel to those that are weaker. Boodles was not satisfied. She said that was the same thing as saying that affection is due to fear, and that a dog only loves his master because he is afraid of him. She was sure that wasn't true. They did not pursue the subject, however, for at that moment Nature again intervened in her maliceful way. The dog was trotting on ahead, his stump of tail erect, quite happy with himself. Suddenly he yelped, and rushed off into the wood. "Now he's been and trodden on an ants' nest," said Aubrey, with some satisfaction. "Or perhaps he saw a pixy under the bracken," said Boodles. As she spoke Aubrey caught her, swung her back to a sound of furious hissing, and Boodles saw a viper upon a patch of bleached grass, head erect, swaying to and fro, and exceedingly angry at being disturbed. It was a beautiful, as well as a malevolent, creature. Its black zig-zag markings were vivid in the sunlight, and its open mouth was as red as a poppy-leaf. "You were just going to tread upon it," cried the boy. "The poor dog!" lamented Boodles, all her sympathies naturally with the suffering animal. Then she had to be sorry for the reptile, for Aubrey declared it must die, not so much because it had bitten the dog, as because it might have bitten her ankle, and he went and destroyed it with his stick. By that time Boodles was wretched. She felt that most of the pleasure had gone out of their walk. They had been so happy, in a serene atmosphere, and then the weather had changed, as it were, and the cruelty and malevolence of Nature had come along to remind them they had no business to be so happy, and that the place was not an ideal fairyland after all. There was an atmosphere of suffering all around, though they could not always see it, and cruelty in every living thing. Even the sun was cruel, for it was beginning to make the radiant head ache. They went after the dog, and found him much distressed, because he had been bitten in the neck, and swelling had commenced. Living upon Dartmoor, Boodles knew all about viper-bites, and she ordered Aubrey to take the dog back and attend to the wound at once. Then she had to gulp down a lump in her throat and rub her eyes. The weather had changed badly, and things had gone quite wrong. When they had walked in the wood as little children nothing unpleasant had ever happened, or at least they had never noticed anything disagreeable. Now they were grown up, as she thought, all sorts of troubles came to spoil their ramble. The dog had tortured the rabbit; the viper had bitten the dog; Aubrey had killed the viper. The tale of suffering seemed to be running up the scale towards herself. Was there any creature, stronger than themselves, who could be so brutal as to take pleasure in biting or torturing such harmless beings as Aubrey and herself? CHAPTER IX ABOUT A KNAVE AND A FOOL Clever men are either philosophers or knaves; and as the world is crawling with fools the clever men who are philosophers spend their time making laws which will protect the fools from the clever men who are knaves. Sharp practice can only be punished, not stopped, so long as simpletons are willing to give a florin for a purse which they think contains two half-crowns, which is the sort of folly which gives rise to wonder how many men are really rational beings. The fool will believe anything if the knave talks long enough. No sort of folly is too hopeless when there is a clever man at the head of it. Shouting will establish a patent pill, found a new religion, produce a revolution; do any marvel, except make people decent. Pendoggat was a clever man in his own way; and Pezzack would have been a fool anywhere. The minister had piped to others, a little jig of mines and speculations, and some of them had danced in a half-hearted way. In his quaint but sincere fashion he had preached of gold and precious jewels; of bdellium and the onyx stone. It was the doctrine of "get rich" that he proclaimed, and his listeners opened their ears to that as they would scarcely have opened them to any more orthodox message of redemption. "Do good to your body, and your soul will do good to itself," was in effect what Pezzack was teaching, although he didn't know it, and would have been grieved had any one suggested it. He desired to place his listeners in comfortable circumstances, from the retired grocer of Bromley to the Dartmoor widow who had five pounds' worth of pence saved up in a teapot; to take unto himself a helpmeet; last and least--although again he did not put it in that way--to rebuild Ebenezer. So he preached of treasures hidden in the earth, and promised his hearers that every sovereign sown therein would germinate without a doubt, and bring forth in due season a healthy crop of some ten per cents, and some twenty per cents. People did not tumble over one another in any haste to respond. They might not be clever, but they could be suspicious, and they asked at once for particulars, desired to see the good thing for themselves, and some of them wanted the twenty per cent, paid in advance by way of guarantee against loss. There were plenty of wild stories concerning the treasures of the moor. Were there not, upon every side, evidences of the existence of precious minerals in the shape of abandoned mines? There were tales of rich lodes which had been lost, but were sure to be picked up again some day. The mining tradition was strong; but it was notorious that copper and tin could hardly be worked at a profit. Pezzack answered that he had discovered nickel, which was something far better, and his announcement certainly did cause some of the flutter which Pendoggat had looked for. The retired grocer took advantage of an excursion train to Plymouth, ascended upon the moor, and having been sworn to secrecy was conducted by Pendoggat, acting as Pezzack's manager, to the treasure cave, and shown the ripe nickel running down its sides. Pendoggat also knocked off a piece of the wall and appeared to give it to the retired grocer as a sample. What he actually gave him was a fragment of dirty-grey metal, which had not come from that cave or anywhere near it, but had been procured by Pendoggat at some expense, seeing that it really was a sample of nickel. The retired grocer had come down in doubt, but returned converted to Bromley, submitted the sample to an analyst, and subsequently acted foolishly. He was meddling with what he did not understand, which is one of the most attractive things in life. Adulterated groceries he could comprehend, because he had won retirement out of them; but the mining industry was something quite outside his experience. Apparently he thought that nickel could be taken off the sides of a cave in much the same way as blackberries are picked off a hedge. He confided the matter to a few friends, making them swear to say nothing about it; and when they had told all their acquaintances applications for shares in the good thing began to reach the retired grocer, who unfortunately had nothing to occupy his time. He was soon feeling himself a man of some importance, and this naturally assisted him to entertain a very avuncular regard for nephew Pezzack, and a friendly feeling for the "simple countryman Pendoggat" and the precious metal called nickel. He thought of himself as a financial magnate, and subscribed to the _Mining Journal_. He talked no more of prime Dorset, nor did he discuss concerning the most suitable sand to mingle with sugar; but he rehearsed the slang of the money-market instead, remarked that he had struck a gilt-edged security, looked in the paper every morning and observed to his wife that copper was recovering, or that diamonds continued to droop. The head-quarters of the Tavy Cleave Nickel Mining Company were really not upon Dartmoor at all, but at Bromley in a straight little jerry-built street; which was exactly what the "simple countryman Pendoggat" wanted. A meeting of prospective shareholders was held in the chapel, but it turned out a wet stormy evening and very few attended. Brother Pendoggat led in prayer, which took a pessimistic view of things generally; Pezzack delivered an impressive address on the need of more stability in human affairs; and when the party had been worked into a suitable state of enthusiasm, and were prepared to listen to anything, they got to business. The minister was destined to be astounded that evening by his brother in religion and partner in business. Eli told the party what it was there for, which it knew already, and then unfolded his prospectus, as it were, before their eyes, telling them he had discovered a rich vein of nickel, and contemplated forming a small company to work the same. It was to be quite a private affair, and operations would be conducted as unobtrusively as possible. The capital suggested was £500, divided into five-shilling shares. While Eli talked Pendoggat sat motionless, his arms folded, and his eyes upon his boots. "Where's the mine?" asked a voice. Pezzack replied he was not at liberty to say at that stage of the proceedings; but he had brought a sample to show them, which was produced and handed round solemnly, no one examining it with more interest than Pendoggat, who had provided it. Every one declared that it was nickel sure enough, although they had never seen the metal before, and had scarcely an idea between them as to its value or the uses to which it could be put. "Us had best talk about it," suggested one of the party, and every one agreed that was a sound idea, but nobody offered to say anything, until an old farmer arose and stated heavily-- "Us knows there be rich trade under Dartmoor. My uncle, he worked on Wheal Betsey, and he worked on Wheal Virtuous Lady tu, and he told I often there was a plenty of rich trade down under, but cruel hard to get at. He told I that many a time. Wouldn't hardly pay to work, 'twas so hard to get at, he said. Such a main cruel lot o' watter, he said. Fast as they gotten it out back it comed again. That's what he said, but he be dead now." The old fellow sat down with the air of a man who had cleared away difficulties, and the others dragged their boots upon the boards with a melancholy sound. Then some one else rose and asked if water was likely to interfere with the mining of the nickel. Eli replied that there certainly was water, and that announcement brought the old farmer up to say: "It wun't pay to work." He added reasons also, in the same strain as before. An interval of silence followed. A deadlock had been reached. Those present were inclined to nibble, but they all wanted the nickel for themselves. They did not like the idea of taking shares and sharing profits. They wanted to be told the precise locality of the mine, so that they could go and help themselves. Pezzack had nothing more to say. The old farmer had only his former statements about his uncle to repeat; and he did so several times, using the same words. At last Pendoggat got up, began to mumble, and every one leaned forward to listen. Most of them did not like Pendoggat because they were afraid of him; but they believed him to be a man of superior knowledge to themselves, and they were inclined on the whole to follow his leadership. "We all trust the minister," Pendoggat was saying. "He's found nickel, and he thinks there is money to be got out of it. He's right enough. There is nickel. I've found it myself. That sample he had handed round is as good a bit of nickel as ever I saw. But there's not enough of it. We couldn't work it so as to pay expenses. It's on the common too, and we would have to get permission from the Duchy, and pay them a royalty." "Us could get out of that," a voice interrupted. "Them who cracks granite be supposed to pay the Duchy royalties, but none of 'em du." "Mining's different," replied Pendoggat. "The Duchy don't worry to collect their granite royalties. 'Twould cost 'em more trouble than the stuff is worth. There's more money in minerals than in granite. They don't let a mine be started without knowing all about it. Minister has told us what he knows, and we believe him. He won't deceive us. He wouldn't tell a lie to save his life. We are proud of our minister, for he's a good one." "He be," muttered a chorus of approving voices. "Looks like a bishop, sitting up there," exclaimed one of the admirers. "So he du. So he be," cried they all. The meeting was waking up. Eli sat limply, gazing at Pendoggat, very unhappy and white, and looking much more like a large maggot than a bishop. "There's the trouble about the water," Pendoggat went on. "The whole capital would go in keeping that pumped out, and it would beat us in the end. All the money in the world wouldn't keep Tavy Cleave pumped dry. I'm against the scheme, and I've got up to say I won't have anything to do with it. I'm not going to put a penny of my money into any Dartmoor mine, and if I did I should expect to lose it. That's all I've got to say. The minister's not a commoner, and he don't know Dartmoor. He don't know anything about mining either, except what he's picked up from folks. He's a good man, and he wants to help us. But I tell him, and I tell you, there's not enough nickel on the whole of Dartmoor to pay the expense of working it." Pendoggat shambled back into his chair, while his listeners looked at one another and admitted he had spoken wisely, and Eli writhed worm-like, wondering if there could be anything wrong with his ears. He had been prepared to hear a certain amount of destructive criticism; but that the whole scheme should be swept aside by Pendoggat as hopeless was inexplicable. The old farmer seized the opportunity to stand upright and repeat his former observations concerning his uncle, and the wheals, and the "cruel lot o' watter" in them. Then the meeting collapsed altogether. Pendoggat had killed it. The only thing left was the mournful conclusion of a suitable prayer; and then to face the rain and a wild ride homewards. There was to be no local support for the Nickel Mining Company, Limited. Pendoggat's opposition had done for it. The tenant of Helmen Barton had risen several points in the estimation of those present, with the obvious exception of the staggered Pezzack. He had proved himself a bold man and fearless speaker. He had not shrunk from performing the unpleasant duty of opposing his pastor. Eli always looked like a maggot. Now he felt like one. Pendoggat had set his foot upon him and squashed him utterly. He would not be a wealthy man, there was no immediate prospect of matrimony, nor would there be any new Ebenezer, the presence of which would attract a special blessing upon them, and the architecture of which would be a perpetual reproach to that portion of the moor. It was an exceedingly troubled maggot that wriggled up to Pendoggat, when the others had departed, and the door had been fastened against the wind. "This is an appalling catostrophe, Mr. Pendoggat." Eli often blundered over long words, never having learnt derivations. "The most excruciating catostrophe I can remember. I am feeling like chaff scattered by the wind." He was trying to rebuke Pendoggat. He was too much in awe of him to speak more bitterly. Besides, he was a good Christian, and Eli never lost sight of that fact, knowing that as a minister it was his duty not to revile his fellow-creatures more than was necessary. Pendoggat stood under a cold lamp, which cast a cold light upon his black head, and his eyes were upon his boots. Eli stumbled against a chair, and in trying to regain his balance fell against his companion, causing him to lose control over himself for an instant. He struck out his arm and sent Pezzack sprawling among the chairs like an ash-faggot, a prospect of long black coat and big flat boots. Eli did not mind tumbling, because he was used to it, not having been endowed with much sense of gravity. He went about on a bicycle, and was constantly falling off, and cutting fantastic figures in the air, between Brentor and Bridestowe. But just then he had an idea that brute force had been used against him. Pendoggat had struck him, not like the righteous who smite in friendly reproof, but like the heathen who rage together furiously. "Why did you strike me, Mr. Pendoggat?" he muttered, dragging himself to a sitting posture upon a chair and looking whiter than ever. "You cast me aside like a potter's vessel. Your precious palm might have broke my 'ead." "Why can't you stand up, man?" said Pendoggat amicably. "You fell against my arm where I pinched it this morning in the linny door. I couldn't help pushing you away, and maybe I pushed harder than I meant, for you hurt me. You tumbled over your own feet. Not hurt, are ye?" "Yes, Mr. Pendoggat," whispered Eli. It was so silent in that dreary chapel that the least sound was audible. "Not 'ere, not in my body, but in my 'eart; not by the push you gave me, but by the words you 'ave spoken. I stood up to-night, and I spoke like a fool, and I felt like a fool. I was doing the work that you gave me to do, Mr. Pendoggat, and you spoke against me." Eli was growing bold. He had scraped some skin from his leg, and the smart gave him courage. He was feeling bitter also, and life seemed to be a failure just then. There was nothing for it but to grub along and preach the Gospel in poverty, a very laudable existence, but equally unsatisfying. He was waking from a golden dream to discover himself in the cold, just as Brightly dreamed of mythical Jerusalem and remained upon the dungheap. A little more of such treatment and Eli might have developed a tendency towards chronic misanthropy. Pendoggat was amused. He realised that the minister was really suffering, both in body and mind. Eli was like some wretched rabbit in the iron jaws of a trap; and Pendoggat was the one who had set the trap, and was standing over it, able to let the creature out, and intending to do so, but not until a fair amount of suffering had been exacted. Pezzack was as much in his power as the rabbit in the hands of the trapper. He was weak and Pendoggat was strong. Eli was a poor stunted thing grown in a London back yard; Pendoggat was a tough moorland growth. "I reckon you did speak like a fool," he said, while Eli wondered what he was looking at: himself, the floor, or the granite wall with its little beads of moisture glistening in the lamplight. "You put it to them all wrong. If I hadn't stood up they might have got it into their heads you were trying to trick 'em. You spoke all the time as if you didn't know what you were talking about. You're a good preacher, Pezzack, though not outspoken enough, but you're no good at business. You wouldn't make a living outside the pulpit." Eli was crushed again. His anger had departed, and he was nursing his leg and his sorrows patiently. He believed that Pendoggat, with all his roughness, was a man in whom he could trust. The commoner did not come with a smooth smile, canting to his face, then departing to play him false. He behaved like the honest rugged man he was; giving him a rough grasp of the hand, pushing him off harshly when he hurt him, telling him plainly of his faults, chiding him for his folly, speaking that which was in his mind. Eli thought he knew something about human nature, and that knowledge convinced him that if he should refuse to follow Pendoggat he would lose his best friend. Pendoggat might behave like a bear; but there was nothing of the bear about him except the skin. "I was doing my best. I said all I could, but I know my words must 'ave sounded poor and foolish," he said mournfully. "Now it's all over, and I must write to Jeconiah, and tell her we can't be married just yet. It is a cruel blow, but the things of this world, Mr. Pendoggat, are but as dross. The moth corrupteth, and the worm nibbleth, and we are shadows which pass away and come not again." Eli shivered and subsided. He was mournful, and the interior of Ebenezer was as cold as an ice-house. Pendoggat came forward and fastened his hands upon Eli's bony shoulders. He thought it was time to take him out of the trap. The creature was becoming torpid and indifferent to suffering, and there was no more pleasure to be obtained from watching it. Besides, he was hungry, and wanted to get home that his own needs might be satisfied. "We'll do it yet," he said in his low mumbling voice. "We can get along quite well without these folks. They haven't got much money, and if any of 'em had invested a few pounds they would have been after us all the time and given us no rest. We'll rely on your uncle and his friends. I reckon they can invest enough among them to start the affair. I'll pull you through, Pezzack. I'll make a rich man of you yet." Pendoggat was proving his title to be ranked among the clever men who are knaves. He had served himself well that evening; by making the neighbourhood think better of him; by exposing himself to Pezzack as a man of rough honesty; by rejecting local support, which would always have been dangerous, and was after all worth little; and by fastening his hopes upon the grocer of Bromley and his friends, who were a day's journey distant, were worthy ignorant souls, and could not drop in casually to ascertain how affairs were progressing. He had also seen the maggot wriggling in his trap. "Don't write to the maid," Pendoggat went on. "Have her down and marry her. It's safe enough. There will be plenty of money coming your way presently." Eli looked up. He could not see the speaker because Pendoggat was standing behind the chair. The minister could see nothing except the chilly damps of Ebenezer. But his soul was rejoicing. Pendoggat was making the rough places smooth. "I knew you wouldn't deceive me," he said. "You gave me your 'and that night in Tavy Cleave, and told me I could trust you. When you spoke to-night I did not understand, Mr. Pendoggat. I almost thought you were going to leave me destitute. I will write to Jeconiah. I shall tell her you are a generous man." "Why not marry?" muttered Pendoggat. "It will be safe enough. The money will come. I'll guarantee it." "There is no immediate necessity, Mr. Pendoggat," said Eli with ludicrous earnestness. "There has been nothing wrong between us. We are able to wait. But we desire to enter the 'oly estate. We are always talking when we meet of the 'appiness that must be found in that condition. You 'ave always been as good as your word, Mr. Pendoggat. If you can promise me the money will come, I think--I do really think, my dear brother, Jeconiah and me might reasonably be welded together in the bonds of matrimony at a very early date. I might even suggest next month, Mr. Pendoggat." Eli was becoming somewhat incoherent and extravagant in speech. "I'll promise you the money. I'll see you through," said Pendoggat. The minister could hardly put out the lamps, his hands were shaking so. He stumbled out of Ebenezer, shivering with delight, and slobbering with gratitude and benevolence. Pendoggat went on his way alone. He was walking, and the road took him beside Lewside Cottage. Rain was still falling, but he did not feel it because it was being blown against his back. As he came near the cottage he heard a sound of singing. The blinds had not been drawn down, and the lamplight passed across the road to melt into the darkness of the moor. Boodles was singing merrily. She was happy like Eli, and for much the same reason, only she expressed her happiness in a delightful fashion, just because she was a nice little girl, and he was only a poor weak thing of a man. Pendoggat looked in at the window. The child was standing under the lamp, sewing and singing industriously. The light was full upon the radiant head. Opposite the window were some great gorse-bushes, and the yellow blooms with which they were covered came also within the lamplight. The girl's head and the gorse-flowers were somewhat similar in colour. Pendoggat suddenly lifted his stout stick at one of the gorse-bushes, and struck a quantity of the golden blossoms off it. CHAPTER X ABOUT THE VIGIL OF ST. GOOSE Mary's greatest possession was her umbrella, which was no ordinary article, and would have been of little service to the orthodox woman, because she would have lacked strength to raise it aloft in a breeze. When unfurled it covered about as much ground as a military tent, and cast a shade like an oak-tree. Not that Mary often unfurled it. The umbrella was far too precious to be used. She carried it about on those rare occasions when she went abroad, as a sort of symbol of the state of civilisation to which she had attained. It was with her very much what the pastoral staff is to a bishop; a thing unused, but exhibited. Umbrellas are useless things upon Dartmoor, because the wind makes wreckage of them at once. The Marian gamp was a monstrous creation, very old and patched, possibly had been used once as a carriage umbrella, and it was more baggy than its mistress's bloomers. Its stock was made of holly, not from a branch, but a good-sized stem, and a yard of twine was fastened about it to keep the ribs from flapping. Mary carried it usually beneath her arm, and found it always terribly in the way. Grandfather was tacitly admitted to be Peter's property. He had no proprietary interest in the umbrella. Mary never ventured to touch Grandfather, and Peter had not been known to place his hands upon the umbrella. Primitive people like to take their possessions about with them, that they may show others how well off they are. A little servant girl goes out to the revel smothered with all her wearing apparel, winter things on top of summer things, regardless of season, and with all the cut glass in rolled-gold settings stuck about her that she can lay her hands on. Two sisters are able to present a fine show by going out in turn. Annie ventures forth clad with all the property in common, while Bessie stays at home, not much better draped than a Greek statue. Mary took her umbrella about, not because she wanted it, but to convince strangers that she owned something to be proud of. Nobody was jealous. She could have left the umbrella anywhere, and not a soul would have touched it. Peter would have taken Grandfather about with him had it been possible; but as the clock was twice Peter's size, and could not be attached to a brass chain and slung in his waistcoat pocket, it had to remain in Number One, Hut-Circles, and wheeze away the hours in solitude. There was suppressed excitement in New Gubbings Land. Peter was more absent-minded than ever, and Mary was quite foolish. She served up before her brother the barley-meal which her geese did eat, after scattering their own dinner to the birds. It was all because they were going on a long journey. Peter had remained quiescent for years; and, like most men who have travelled much, he felt at last the call of the outer world and the desire to be again in motion. Mary had the same feeling, which was the more strange as she had never travelled. It was the fault of the concert. Since that festival Mary had become unsettled. It had taught her there were experiences which she had not enjoyed. Mary thought she had done a good deal, but as a matter of fact she had never been in a train, nor had she slept a night out of the parish. When Peter said he meant to travel again, Mary declared she was coming too. Peter tried to discourage her, explaining that travelling was expensive, and dangerous also. A hardened wanderer like himself was able to face the risks, but she would not be equal to the strain. It was a terrifying experience to be carried swiftly along the railway, and had frightened him badly the first time. He advised Mary to walk, and let him have the money she would otherwise have squandered. Arguments were useless. Comic songs had ruined Mary's contentment. She was sorry she had not travelled before, and declared she was going to take her umbrella and begin. So they decided to venture to Tavistock to keep the festival of St. Goose. Mary had been to Goose Fair before, walking there and back; and for Peter the experience was nothing. Peter had trodden the streets of Plymouth, and had been long ago to Winkleigh Revel, although he could recall little of that expedition--the morning after the event he remembered nothing--but the certainty that he had made the great journey into the wilds of mid-Devon remained, and there was proof in the presence of a large mug with a tin handle upon the mantelshelf, bearing the touching inscription, "Tak' a drop o' gin, old dear," in quaint lettering, which mug, Peter declared, had come with him from Winkleigh Revel, although any one curious enough to have turned it upside down might have discovered "Manor Hotel, Lydford," stamped underneath. Peter had always felt superior to his sister, apart from the sublime fact of his manhood. He was not only highly educated, but he had travelled, and he feared that if Mary travelled too her eyes would be opened, and she might consider herself his equal. Therefore he had a distinct motive in begging her to bide at home, although his eloquence was in vain, for Mary was going to travel. She stated her intention of walking across the moor to Lydford and catching the train there, which was needless expense, as she might have gone down to St. Mary Tavy station; but she desired to make a great journey, something to boast of in days to come. A vigil suggests sleeplessness, a watching through the night which precedes the day of the feast; and Mary observed the vigil more thoroughly than any nun. Plenty of girls were equally devout at the same time; keeping awake, not because they wanted to, but because excitement rendered sleep impossible. Thomasine observed the vigil, and even Boodles watched and wished the dark gone. It was a long night all over Dartmoor. Even Siberian Princetown was aroused; and those who were being punished for their sins had the additional mortification of knowing that they would be behind prison bars on the day when the greatest saint in the calendar according to the use of Dartmoor, the blatant and waddling St. Goose, was to be honoured by a special service of excursion trains and various instruments of music. Dawn impelled every maid to glance at the chair beside her bed, to be sure that the pixies had not run away with her fair-clothes. Thomasine looked for her completed petticoat, Boodles for her boy's photograph, Mary for her umbrella. There had been no pixy-pranks, and the day came in with a promise of sunshine. There were no lie-a-beds that morning. Even Peter had been restless, and Grandfather possibly noticed that the little man had not snored so regularly as usual. To the dweller in the wilds there is no getting away from fair-day, the great country holiday of the year. Those who would wish to abolish such festivals should remember that country-folk have few pleasures, and the fair is about the last, and is certainly one of the greatest, inducements to keep them on the land. To a large number it is the single outing of the year; a thing to talk about for months before and afterwards; the day of family reunion, when a girl expects to see her parents, the young man meets his brother, and the old folk keep associations going. The fair is to country-folk very much what Christmas is to the better classes. And as for the pleasures they are nothing like so lurid as have been represented. Individuals are vicious; a pleasure-seeking crowd is not. There is a vast deal of drunkenness, and this is by far the worst feature, and one which cannot be eliminated except by compulsory closing of all houses of refreshment, which would be only possible under a Saturnian régime. As evening approaches there is also much of that unpleasantness which is associated with drunkenness, and is described in police-reports as obscene language. The fair-ground is not the best place for highly respectable people. It is the dancing-place of the lower classes; and as such the fair is a success and practically harmless. The girls are out for fun, and when they see a good-looking young man are not above making advances; and the stranger who steps up and introduces himself is sure of a welcome on his face value. It is all free and natural. Nearly every one is the better, and very few are the worse, for the holiday. Liquor is the principal cause of what evils there are. Tavistock Goose Fair after dark is far more respectable than Hyde Park at midnight. Peter and Mary set forth on their walk across the moor to Lydford station, both of them attired in the festive garments which had been last assumed for the concert, Mary's large right hand clutching the umbrella by its ribs, Peter smoking industriously. They made a bee-line for their destination, heedless of mossy bogs, which were fairly firm at that time of the year. There were no rocks to hinder them. It is a bald stretch of moor between St. Mary Tavy and Lydford. Mary was breathing furiously from sheer excitement and nervousness, being dreadfully afraid they would miss the train. There was the station "down under," not more than half-a-mile away, and the train was not due for an hour, but Mary continued on the double. She did not understand mathematics and timetables. Peter trudged behind in a state of phlegmatic calm, natural to an old traveller, who had been to Plymouth by the sea and to Winkleigh on the hill. For some time they had the platform to themselves. Then the moor began to give forth its living: young men and maidens, old men and wives, all going a-fairing, some treating the matter irreverently with unmusical laughter, others regarding the occasion as meet for an austere countenance. Peter was among those who cackled, while Mary was on the side of the anxious. She had to remind herself continually that she was enjoying life, although she would much rather have been at home chasing Old Sal among the furze-bushes. When the signals fell, and the bell rang, and the station began to rumble as the train approached, she clutched Peter and suggested they should return home. "Don't ye get mazed," said Peter crossly. "Come along wi' I." Mary endeavoured to do so, but lost her head entirely when the train drew up, and went on to behave very much like a dog at a fair. She lost sight of her brother, scurried up and down the platform looking for him, and became still more confused when the cry, "Take your seats, please," sounded in her ears. The guard, who was used to queer passengers, took her by the arm with the idea of putting her into a carriage, but Mary defended herself against his designs with her umbrella, and breaking loose endeavoured to join the engine-driver. Meeting with no encouragement there she turned back, and was seized by Peter, who told her plainly she was acting foolishly, and again commanded her to come along with him. Mary obeyed, and everything was going favourably, and they were just about to enter a compartment when the umbrella slipped oat of her nervous hand, bumped upon the edge of the platform, and slid beneath the train. Mary resumed her normal condition at once, caring no longer for train, crowd, or fair, while the fear of travelling ceased to trouble when she perceived that the umbrella had departed from her. She stood upon the platform, and declared with an oath that the system of the railway should work no more until the umbrella had been restored to her hands. Time was of no account to Mary. She refused to enter the train without her umbrella; neither should the train proceed, for she would hold on to it. Peter upheld his sister. The umbrella was a family heirloom. The station-master and guard urged and blasphemed in vain. The homely epithets of the porter were received with contempt and the response, "Us bain't a-going. Us be going to bide." Passengers in the adjoining compartment were perturbed, because it was rumoured among them that the poor woman had dropped a baby beneath the train, and they believed that the officials were contending that there was nothing in the regulations about ordinary humanity, and it was therefore their duty to let the child remain there. The guard and station-master became unpopular. The passengers were in no great hurry to proceed, as they were out for a day's enjoyment; and as for Mary, great was her lamentation for the lost umbrella. "'Tis a little gal, name of Ella," explained a stout commoner with his head out of the window, for the benefit of others in the carriage. "Sounded to me like Bella," replied his wife, differing from him merely as a matter of principle. "There's no telling. They give 'em such fancy names now-a-days," said another excursionist. "Her be screaming cruel," said the stout commoner. "I don't hear 'en," declared his wife. They got along very well together, those two, and made conversation easily, one by offering a statement, the other by differing. "I du," said a young woman in a white frock, which was already showing about the waist some finger-impressions of her young man, who sat beside her. "She'm right underneath the carriage. Don't ye hear she, Ben?" Ben gave a nervous smile, gulped, arranged his tie, which would keep slipping up to his chin, moistened his lips, then parted them to utter the monosyllable which was required. He heard the child screaming distinctly. Having stated as much, he proceeded to record his fingerprints accurately upon the young woman's waist. A farmer from Inwardleigh, who had entered the train at Okehampton, and had slept peacefully ever since, woke up at that moment, looked out, saw the bare moor, remarked in a decided voice that he wouldn't live on Dartmoor for a thousand pounds, and went to sleep again. The stout commoner took up his parable and said-- "There be a little man got out now, and he'm poking about wi' a stick, trying to get the baby out. Did ever hear of trying to get a baby up wi' an ash-stick, woman?" His wife replied that she had never heard of a baby getting underneath a train before, and she thought people ought to be ashamed of themselves getting drunk so early in the morning. "Babies oughtn't to be took to the vair," said the young woman in the white frock. "I shan't tak' mine when I has 'em." This remark caused young man Ben to smile nervously again. The Inwardleigh farmer opened his eyes and wanted to know why the train was motionless. He was getting so thirsty that he could sleep no more. "Us might sing a hymn," he suggested; and proceeded forthwith to make a noise like a chaff-cutting machine, preparatory to describing himself in song as a pure and spotless being whose sins had been entirely washed away. Had he given his face and hands the attention which, according to his own statement, his soul had received, he would have been a more presentable object. The young woman in the white frock knew the hymn, and joined in vigorously, claiming for her soul a whiteness which her dress could not equal. The farmer was so delighted with her singing that he leaned forward and kissed the damsel rapturously. The unhappy Ben dared not remonstrate with his elders and betters, but merely sat and gulped. By this time Peter had dropped his stick beneath the train, where it reposed side by side with the umbrella. "They'm going to run the train back," said the stout commoner. "The baby 'll be dead," remarked his wife cheerfully. She was not going to be depressed upon a holiday. Peter and Mary stood upon the platform, a statuesque, obstinate pair, determined to give the railway company no mercy. It was nothing to them that the train was being delayed. Their property was underneath it, and all the Gubbings blood in them rebelled. "I'll bide till I gets my umbrella. Tak' your mucky old train off 'en," said Mary, wagging her big hand at the men in authority; while Peter added that his intention was also to bide until his ash-stick should be returned to him. Finally the train was backed, the umbrella and stick were recovered, and the savages permitted themselves to be bundled into the first compartment handy, amid laughter from the heads at the windows and profanity from the mouths of the officials. The train drew out of the station, and Mary subsided into a corner and held on tightly, shouting to her brother, "Shet the window, Peter, du'ye. Us may be falling out." Peter tried to explain that would not be easy, but Mary was unable to listen. Her former fears had returned. She clutched her umbrella, trembled, and prayed to the gods of Brentor and the gods of Ebenezer--Mary's religion was a misty affair--for a safe deliverance from the perils of the railway. She had a feeling as if she was about to part with her breakfast. She had also a distinct admiration just then for all those who went down to the towns in trains, and for her brother, who sat calmly upon the cushions--it was a first-class compartment which they had invaded--and spat contentedly upon the carpet. The speed of the train exceeded thirty miles an hour, and poor Mary's bullet head was rolling upon her shoulders. "Aw, my dear life!" she moaned. "I feels as if my belly were running back to home again. Where be us, Peter?" "On the railway," her brother answered, with truth, but without brilliance. The remark was reassuring to Mary, however. She thought the train had got upon the moor somehow and was speeding furiously down a steep place towards destruction upon the rocks. A glance from the window gave no comfort. It was terrible to see the big tors tumbling past like a lot of drunken giants. "Mind what I told ye," observed Peter. "Yew wun't like travelling, I ses. 'Tis easy when yew begins young, but yew be too old to begin." "Us ha' got legs, and us was meant to use 'em. Us was never meant to run abroad on wheels," said Mary. "If ever I gets home, I'll bide." Peter refilled his pipe, and began to boast of his experiences upon sea and land; how he had ventured upon the ocean and penetrated to a far country. Mary had heard it all before, but she had never been so impressed as she was then by her brother's account of his famous crossing of the Hamoaze in a fishing-boat, and his alighting upon the distant shore of Torpoint to stand upon Cornish soil. But while Peter was describing how he had been rocked "cruel and proper" upon the waves of what it pleased him to style the Atlantic, brakes fell heavily upon the wheels, a whistle sounded, and the train dragged itself gradually to a standstill. There was no station in sight. The moor heaved on both sides of the line. Even Peter was at a loss to explain the sudden stoppage for a moment. "The train be broke," said Mary, who was bold now that she had ceased from travelling. "They've run 'en over a nail, and us mun bide till 'em blows the wheels out again." Mary comprehended bicycles, and had contemplated tourists, who were so foolish as to bring their machines upon Dartmoor, pumping away at punctured tyres. Peter did not contradict because he was perturbed. He understood that the train had not broken down; but he believed that an accident was impending. Out of his worldly wisdom he spoke: "It be a collusion, I reckon." Suspiciously Mary demanded an explanation. "'Tis when two trains hit one into t'other," explained Peter, striking his left fist into his right palm. "That be a collusion. Same as if yew was to run into a wall in the dark," he added. The meaning of these words did not dawn upon Mary for some moments. When she did grasp them she made for the door, with the intention of abandoning the railway forthwith; but the train gave a sudden jerk, which threw her upon the seat, and then began to glide back. Peter thrust his head out of the window and perceived they were making for a siding. He and his sister had delayed the train so long that an express which was due to follow had almost caught them up, and had made it necessary for the local train, which has to wait for everything, to get off the main line. Peter did not understand that. Even old travellers make mistakes sometimes. He considered that the situation was desperate. "They'm trying to get away, trying cruel hard," he said drearily. "What be 'em getting away from?" gasped Mary. "T'other train," her brother answered. "Aw, Peter, will 'em du it?" "Bain't hardly likely," said Peter dolefully. "Be t'other train going to run into we?" Peter admitted that it was so, adding: "I told ye to bide to home." "Will us get hurt?" moaned Mary. "Smashed to bits. They newspapers will tell us was cut to pieces," said Peter, in his gloomiest fashion. "How much have ye got in the money-box?" he asked. With prophetic insight Peter perceived that he would be spared. Mary would be destroyed, together with all the other passengers, and Peter naturally was anxious to know the amount of hard cash he was likely to inherit. But Mary gave no heed to the avaricious question. She groaned and rubbed her eyes with the umbrella. It was the umbrella she was thinking of rather than herself. Somehow she could not imagine her own body mangled upon the line; but a melancholy picture of the wrecked umbrella was clear before her eyes. In the next compartment the farmer was still singing hymns, accompanied by a chorus. Mary thought they were praying. This was travelling, enjoying life, a day's pleasure, St. Goose's Day! Mary wished with all her heart she had never left her geese and her hut-circle. In the meantime Peter was keeping her well informed. "They be running the train off on Dartmoor," he explained. "There's a gurt cleave down under, and they be going to run us down that. Us mun get smashed either way." "Why don't us get out and run away?" suggested frightened Mary. As she spoke the train stopped. It was safe in the siding, although the savages did not know that. They supposed that the motive power had failed, or the engine-driver had come to realise that escape was hopeless, and had abandoned the train to secure his own safety. Peter saw a man running along the line. He was only a harmless pointsman going about his business, but Peter supposed him to be the base engine-driver flying for his life, and he told Mary as much. Even Peter's nerve was somewhat shaken by this time. Mary said plainly she should follow the example of the engine-driver. "My legs be as good as his," she cried. "I hain't a-going to bide here and be broke up like an old goosie's egg. I be a-going out." "They'll fine ye," cried Peter. "There be a notice yonder. For trampesing on the line a sum not exceeding forty shilluns--" "Bain't that better than getting smashed to pieces?" shouted Mary. Peter was not sure. He could not translate the phrase "not exceeding," but he had a clear notion that it meant considerably more than forty shillings. Mary was struggling with the door. In another moment she would have opened it, but a terrific interruption occurred. There sounded a wild whistling, and a roar which stunned her, and caused her to fall back upon the seat to prepare hurriedly for her doom, to recall various religious memories and family associations, and to mutter fervently such disjointed scraps of sun-worship and Christianity as: "Our Vaither, hollered be the name, kingdom come. Angels and piskies, long-stones and crosses, glory to 'em all. Amen." Then the express thundered past, shaking everything horribly. The tragedy was soon over, and Peter emerged into the light with worm-like wrigglings. For all his courage and experience he had dived beneath the seat, conscious somehow that any change of position would be better than no change. Everything seemed to have become very quiet all at once. They could hear the wind whistling gently over the moor, and the water splashing below. Mary had no idea what had happened, but she quite believed that Peter's worst fears had been realised, and that the "collusion" had actually occurred. So she groaned, and did not venture to move, and muttered feebly: "I be cut to pieces." "No, you bain't," said Peter cheerfully. "Us got away after all." With a little more encouragement Mary stretched herself, discovered that she and the umbrella were both intact, and from that moment the joy of life was hers again. They had escaped somehow. The express had missed them, and Peter assured her it was not likely to return. He admitted they had gone through a terrifying experience, which was as novel to him as to Mary; and his conclusion of the whole matter was that the engine-driver had undoubtedly saved their lives by cool and daring courage in the presence of fearful danger. "He saw t'other train coming, and got us out o' the way just in time. Yew saw how near t'other train was. Only just missed us," explained Peter. "He'm a cruel larned man," declared Mary. "He ought to be given something. Ought to be fined forty shilluns." Poor Mary was anxious to learn the English language; but when she made use of strange words she betrayed her ignorance. "You means rewarded," Peter corrected out of the depths of his education. "Aw ees," said Mary. "Us will reward 'en wi' a shillun." Peter did not see the necessity. As they were perfectly safe, and as no further advantage could possibly accrue to them from the engine-driver's heroism, he thought they might as well keep the shilling. The train drew out of the siding, continued its journey, and Mary became quite comfortable, even venturing to lean forward and look out of the window, though the telegraph-poles and bridges frightened her at first. They looked as if they were going to run into her, she said. Nothing else eventful happened until they reached Tavistock, although there was a good deal of human nature at work in the adjoining compartment, where the Inwardleigh farmer had exchanged hymn-singing for amorous suggestions, and had proceeded to appropriate the unfortunate Ben's white-frocked young woman to himself. It was especially hard upon the poor young clown, as he had paid for the railway tickets; but he had only a couple of shillings for fairing, and the Inwardleigh farmer had gold in his fob, so the girl naturally preferred to spend the day with the man of well-filled pockets. Weak-minded young bumpkins sometimes murder their sweethearts, and it is not very surprising. Even degenerates get weary of playing the singularly uninteresting part of the worm that is trampled on. "Tavistock! Good Lord!" exclaimed Mary, with great relief, as the train entered the station. She and Peter tumbled out. Such people always tumble out of railway carriages. They merely bang the door open, fall forward, and find their feet somehow. It is easy to tell whether a person is well-bred or not by the way he or she leaves a railway carriage. A young lady comes forth after the manner of a butterfly settling on a flower. The country maid emerges like a falling sack of wheat. Peter and Mary tumbled out, and were considerably astonished not to find a procession of grateful passengers advancing towards the engine to thank the driver for the courage he had displayed in saving their lives. Every one seemed anxious to quit the platform as soon as possible. Peter was shocked to discover so much ingratitude. It was ignorance perhaps, indifference possibly, but to Peter and Mary it seemed utter callousness. They felt themselves capable of something better. So they pushed through the crowd, reached the engine, and insisted upon shaking hands, not only with the driver, but with the fireman also, and thanked them very much for bringing them safely into Tavistock, and for having; avoided the "collusion," which they, the speakers, confessed had at one time appeared to them as inevitable. Peter invited them to come and have a drop of gin, and Mary asked sympathetically after the "volks to home." The men enjoyed the joke immensely. They thought that the quaint couple were thanking them for having backed the train at Lydford in order that Mary might recover her umbrella and Peter his ash-stick. They chaffed them in a subtle fashion, and after a minute's complete mutual misunderstanding bade them farewell with the ironical hope they might some day save them again. Mary was overflowing with generosity. As she and her brother turned away she produced two shillings and instructed Peter to reward the heroes suitably. Peter slipped the shillings unobtrusively into his own pocket. With all his faults he was a strict man of business. CHAPTER XI ABOUT THE FEAST OF ST. GOOSE The cult of the goose, so far as it concerns Tavistock Fair, is gastronomic entirely, and has no religious significance. At dedication festivals of a church some particular saint is flattered with decorations and services, and his existence upon this world at one time is taken for granted. In certain places a few bones are produced for the edification of the faithful, and advertised as the great toe or the jaw of the patron in question. Goose bones are displayed at the "gurt vair" in lieu of the living creature, and they are unmistakably genuine, for there is plenty of sound meat upon them. St. Goose is honoured with the fun of the fair, while he himself is offered up on a charger. The congregation of countryfolk devour their canonised bird, and wash him down with beer and cider. There is not a living goose to be seen about the town, but the atmosphere of the principal street is thick and fragrant with sage and onions. Peter and Mary trod the wide roads as delicately as large boots could, feeling far too nervous to enjoy themselves. Peter would not enter into the pleasure of the fair until he had swallowed several stimulating pints, and even Mary was willing to take a little cordial for the sake of her nerves. It was not so much the noises which disconcerted her--there was plenty of howling wind and roaring water down Tavy Cleave--as their unaccustomed nature. She was not used to steam roundabouts, megaphones, and all the drums and shoutings of the showmen. When Peter proposed an aërial trip upon wooden horses, Mary moved an amendment in favour of light refreshment. Peter could not object to a suggestion so full of sense, so they passed beside the statue of Francis Drake, crossed the road, and were getting clear of the crowd, when a familiar laugh reached their ears, and Mary saw a fresh and happy pair of youngsters. Boodles and Aubrey, in high spirits and good health, laughing at everything merely because they were together for a good long day. Boodles had never looked nicer. West-country beauty is nothing but fair hair and tinted skin; but Boodles was all glorious just then. She was a flame rather than a flower. Her hair had never looked so radiant, or her skin more golden. She was as happy as she could be; and when a girl is like that she has to look splendid, whether she likes it or no. Mary was soon after her, bellowing like a bullock, lunging with the umbrella, shouting! "Aw, Miss Boodles! Aw, my dear! I be come to the vair tu. Me and Peter has come to Goosie Vair. Where be ye going, my dear?" Boodles turned with a look of amazement. She had her flaming hair up, beneath a big straw hat which was trimmed with poppies, and her dainty frock just touched her ankles. She looked so deliciously clean that Mary hardly liked to come near her, and she smelt, not like a chemist's shop, but like the sweet earth after a shower. Mary drew her right hand swiftly across her big tongue, rubbed the palm upon her buttock, and held it out. She always shook hands with Boodles whenever they met. She felt that the civilising contact lent her some of the womanhood which nature had withheld. "It's so jolly!" cried the child. "Such a lovely day, and everything perfect. I'm glad you have come--and Peter too! Aubrey, this is Mary who gives us eggs and butter. She and Peter live upon Tavy Cleave. You know!" Mary cleansed her right hand again. "Why, Where's Peter?" cried Boodles. Peter was already across the road, following his little turned-up nose in the direction of a door which suggested pewters. "He'm thirsty," explained Mary. "Poor Peter!" laughed Boodles. "You must look after him, Mary. Don't bring him home staggery." Mary was not listening. Of course Peter would go home staggery. It was the proper thing to do. How could a man be said to enjoy a fair if he went home sober? Mary was regarding the young man. She was able to reason with a good deal of clearness sometimes. It was not easy to believe that the title _man_ included beings So far apart as Aubrey and her brother, just as she found it hard to understand how the word _woman_ could serve for Boodles and herself. "Bain't he a proper young gentleman?" she exclaimed. "A main cruel butiful young gentleman. Aw ees, my dear! I'd like to kiss a gentleman like yew." Mary had not felt so womanly for a long time. She comprehended there was something in life beyond breeding geese, and cleaning turnips, and bringing the furze-reek home; something that was not for her, because she was too much of a man to be a woman. Their answering laughter did not upset her, although it was in a way expressive of the truth that there could never be any pleasant gilt upon her gingerbread. "It wouldn't do here. Rather too public," said the boy, with a sly look in his blue eyes, squeezing his sweetheart's fingers as he spoke. Boodles had flushed with pleasure. She would rather have heard Aubrey praised than be praised herself. She was quite right when she had declared Aubrey was the prettiest boy ever made. It was obvious even to poor old wooden-faced half-man Mary. Boodles and Aubrey hurried on, representatives of fun and laughter, which were otherwise somewhat wanting. It was too early in the day for excitement. The countryfolk were not yet warmed up; they were reserved, and took the holiday seriously; hanging about the streets with a lost expression, unwilling to change their shillings into pence, oppressed with the idea that it would be necessary soon to enjoy themselves, studiously avoiding the pleasure-ground in order that they might cling to their cash a little longer, and quite content to look on and listen, and welcome acquaintances with prolonged handshakes. The spending of the first penny was difficult; the rest would be easy. There were some who had not a penny to spend, and even they would be happy when the temperature went up. A poor plain girl from some remote village will stand in a puddle all day, and declare when she gets home she has never enjoyed herself so much in her life. It is a sufficient pleasure, for those who live in lonely places, to stand at a corner and stare at a rollicking crowd for a few hours. There was the fair within the town, and the fair without. That within was beside the Tavy and among the ruins of the Abbey; that without was also beside the Tavy, but upon the opposite bank. There was also the business-fair, where beasts were bargained for: ponies, bullocks, pigs, sheep, everything except geese. It was a festival which would have delighted the hearts of Abbot Cullyng's gay monks, who, it is recorded, wore secular garments about the town, divided their time between hunting the deer on Dartmoor and holding drunken suppers in their cells, and cared not at all for religious discipline or black-lettered tomes. Part of the fair is held upon the former site of those monastic buildings, and the ruin of Betsey Grimbal's tower looks down upon more honest pleasures from what was once the Abbey garden. The foundation was despoiled of its gold and silver images, and the drones were smoked out of their nest, centuries ago, and what was their refectory is now by the irony of fate a Unitarian chapel; and St. Goose has become a greater saint than St. Rumon, who was claimed as a bishop of renown by his Church, although secular history suggests no such gentleman ever lived. Certain objects were against the railings of the church, objects neither beautiful nor necessary; Brightly and his mongrel, hungry and business-like as ever. They occupied very little space, and yet they were in the way, principally because they were not pleasant to look upon, being rather like heaps of refuse which the street-cleaners had overlooked. Brightly was not there for the fun of the thing. He did not know the meaning of such words as holiday and pleasure. Had any one given him five shillings, and told him to go and enjoy himself, he would not have known what to do. Both he and Ju were thinner, though that was only interesting as a physiological fact. Brightly held up his ridiculous head and sniffed continually. Ju did the same. The atmosphere was redolent of sage and onions; and they were trying to feed upon it. "Trade be cruel dull," muttered Brightly. Ju did not acknowledge the remark. She had heard it so often, or words to the same effect, that she deemed it unnecessary to respond with a tail-wag. Besides, that sort of thing required energy, and Ju had none to spare. She was wondering, if she followed up that wonderful odour, whether she would obtain gratuitous goose at the other end. "Tie-clips, penny each. Dree for duppence. Butiful pipes, two a penny," sang Brightly; but his miserable voice was drowned by the roundabouts and megaphones. Brightly was celebrating the general holiday by exchanging one form of labour for another. It would have been useless to follow his usual calling of purveyor of rabbit-skins that day, so he had become for the time being a general merchant. He had obtained a trayful of small goods on credit. Brightly had one fault, a grave one in business; he was honest. So far he had sold nothing. He was merely demonstrating the marvellous purchasing powers of a penny. It never occurred to him that he was opposing his miserable little trayful of rubbish to all the booths and pleasures of the great fair. Tie-clips and clay-pipes were all he had to offer in competition with attractions which had delighted kings and princes, if the honesty of the showmen could be accepted as advertised. Even the fat woman admitted that royal personages had pinched her legs. If Brightly had followed the fat lady's example, and declared in a loud enough voice that autocrats smoked nothing but his clay-pipes, and kept their decorations in place with his tie-clips, he might have acquired many pennies. Above the town, where the cattle-fair was in full swing, various hawkers had established themselves; men who looked as if they had been made out of metal, with faces of copper and tongues of brass. One man was giving away gold rings, and if a recipient was not satisfied he threw in a silver watch as well. He couldn't explain why he did such things. It was his evil fate to have been born a philanthropist. He owned he had come to the fair with the idea of selling his goods; but when he found himself among so many happy, smiling people, fine young men, beautiful girls, dear old folks who reminded him of his own parents, all making holiday and enjoying themselves, with the sun shining and Nature at her best, he felt totally unable to restrain his benevolence. He couldn't take their money. It was weak and foolish of him, he knew, but he had to give them the rings and watches, which, as they could see for themselves, had cost him pounds, shillings, and pence, because he wanted to send them home happy. His only idea was to give them a little present so that they would remember him, and tell their friends what a simple and generous creature they had encountered at the fair. So he flowed on, with an eloquence which any missionary would have envied. And then he produced a black bag, and said he wished to draw their attention to something which he must really ask them to buy, not because he wanted their money, but because he knew that people never really valued a thing unless they gave something for it. It was a fatal thing, this philanthropy, but it made him happy to be kind to others. Out of the bag came some more rubbish, and the rascal was soon doing a roaring trade. What chance had Brightly against a metallic creature like that? Higher up the road another gentleman established himself. He was well dressed, his mottled hands were gleaming with immense rings, and his clean-shaven face was as red as rhubarb. He assumed an academic cap and gown, casually informing those who gathered around that he was entitled to do so, as he was not only a man of gentle birth, but a graduate of "one of our oldest universities," and a duly qualified physician also. He stated with emphasis, and a slight touch of cynicism, that he was no philanthropist. He belonged to an overcrowded profession; he had no settled practice; and knowing how unwilling country-people were to come to a medical man until they had to, when it was usually too late, and knowing also how grievously afflicted many of them were with divers diseases, he had decided to come out by the wayside and heal them. It was entirely a matter of business. He was going to cure them of a number of ailments which they were harbouring unawares, and they would pay him a trifling sum in return. He wasn't going to give anything away. He couldn't afford to be generous. He begged the people not to crowd about him so closely, as there was plenty of time, and he would undertake to attend to every one. This man ought to have been a genius, if he hadn't been a rogue. He went on to warn his listeners against quack doctors and patent medicines. They were all frauds, he assured them, and he described in homely language how he had often restored some poor sufferer whose health had been undermined by the mischievous attentions of unqualified impostors. He took a small boy, set him in the midst, and in flowing phrase explained his internal structure. It was the liver which was the origin of disease among men; liver, which caused women to faint, and men to feel run down. Heart disease, consumption, eczema, cold feet, red nose, and a craving for liquor were all caused by an unhealthy liver, and were so many different names for the same disease. So far nobody but himself had discovered any safe cure for the liver. There were a thousand remedies mentioned in the _British Encyclopædia_--possibly he meant pharmacopoeia--but not a genuine medicine among them. He had devoted his life and fortune to discovering a remedy, and he had discovered it; and his listeners should be allowed to benefit by it; for it needed but a glance at their faces to convince him that the liver of every man and woman in that circle was grievously out of order. At that moment Peter and Mary came up, considerably elevated, and gazed with immense satisfaction at the figure in cap and gown, Mary exclaiming in her noisy way: "Aw, Peter! 'Tis a preacher." The quack wiped his hands and face with a silk handkerchief, opened a bag, and producing a small green bottle half full of grimy pellets, continued solemnly; "The result of a life devoted to medical studies, my friends. The one and only liver cure. The triumph of the human intellect; more wonderful than the Pyramids of America; long life and happiness in a small bottle; and the price only one shilling." There was not much demand at first for long life and happiness in bottle form. The listeners had come to Goose Fair to enjoy themselves, not to buy pills. They were all obviously as healthy as wayside weeds. But the artful rogue had only been playing with them so far. He made his living by the gift of a tongue, and so far he had not used it. The time had come for him to terrify them. He removed his cap, threw his shoulders back and his arms out, and lectured them furiously; telling them they were dying, not merely ill, but hovering every one of them on the brink of the grave; that tan of health upon their faces was a deception; it was actually a fatal symptom, a sign of physical degeneracy, a herald of bodily impotence. They were all suffering from liver in some shape or form, and with the majority, he feared, the disease was already too far advanced to be arrested by any treatment, except one only--the little green bottle of pills, which might be theirs for one shilling. He choked them with eloquence for ten minutes, frightening, converting, and making them feel horribly ill. He was irresistible, especially when he spoke with pathos of his devotion for his fellow-creatures, and his pain when he saw them suffering. That man would have made an ideal preacher, if he had known how to speak the truth. Mary listened open-mouthed. A bee flew in, and she spat it out and gasped. For the first time in her life she realised she was in a state of delicate health. The quack advanced to Peter, who was looking particularly despondent, being fully persuaded he had not long to live, and with a grave shake of the head punched him in the body. "Does that hurt?" he asked. "Cruel," said Peter. "Enlarged liver, my friend," said the rogue. "It is not too late to save the patient if he takes the remedy at once. Let me tell you how you feel," and he went on to describe a condition of ill-health, which most of his other hearers felt coming upon themselves also under the potent influence of mere suggestion. "Du'ye feel like that, Peter?" demanded Mary with great anxiety. "I du," said Peter miserably. "So du I," declared Mary. "I feels tired when I goes to bed, just like he ses." "Better have three bottles each," said the friend of mankind. "One arrests the disease, three remove it." That would have meant six shillings, which of course was not to be thought of. Even ill-health was to be preferred to such an expenditure. As Peter reminded his sister, he could almost bury her for that sum. Finally they bought one bottle of pellets. Not even the quack's conviction that Mary was suffering from an undue secretion of bile could persuade them to purchase more. The rogue collected a pound's worth of silver from the circle, and went on his way to capture a fresh lot of gulls; and so the dishonesty and fun of the fair went on side by side; while there was half-blind Brightly, squeezing against the railings of the church, with his ridiculous honesty, and his trayful of pipes and tie-clips which never grew less. Honesty is a money-making policy in the land of Utopia, but not elsewhere; and Utopia means nowhere. Christianity has been preached for nearly two thousand years, and still the man is a fool who leaves his silver-mounted stick outside the door. The next thing was luncheon, as elegant folk have it; or a proper old guzzle, according to Peter. The savages had made up their minds to do the fair properly, and eating was certainly a chief item of the programme. Savoury goose, with plenty of sage and onions, was the dish of the day. Peter put the pills in his pocket, and forgot that his liver was out of order, as Mary ignored the untruth that she suffered from "too much oil." It was useless to try strange words upon her. While she was eating that portion of goose appointed for the day she tried to make her brother explain how the oil had got into her system, but Peter was much too busy to answer. He was guzzling like a monkey, with his face in the plate, half choking in his hurry, gulping, perspiring, gasping with sheer greediness, and splashing in the rich gravy very much as the goose he was feeding on had once flopped through some moorland bog. Boodles and Aubrey went to the Queen's Hotel for their goose dinner; a place where good English fare may still be seen and eaten. Boodles had witnessed the pleasure-fair only, the gay and noisy side of things, and though the debased faces of some of the booth proprietors had alarmed her at first, she had seen nothing actually nasty. Cruelty was not there, or at least it had been out of sight. She did not go upon the other side, where the rogues foregathered, and where beasts were bought and sold; where sheep were penned in a mass of filth, with their mouths open, tasting nothing but heat and dust; where ponies were driven from side to side, half mad with fright, while drovers with faces like a nightmare yelled and waved their hats at them, and brought their cudgels down like hammers upon their sweating flanks; where calves, with big patient eyes protruding with pain and terror, were driven through the crowd by a process of tail-twisting; where fowls were stuffed in crates and placed in the full heat of the sun; and stupid little pigs were kicked on their heads to make them sensible. Boodles saw nothing of that, and it was just as well, for it might have spoilt her day, and have reminded her that, for some cause unexplained, the dominant note of all things is cruelty; from the height of the unknown God, who gives His beings a short life and scourges them through it, to the depth of the invisible mite who rends a still smaller mite in pieces. Living creatures were placed in the world, it is said, to perform the duty of reproducing their species. It seems as reasonable to suggest that their duty is to stamp out some other species; for the instinct of destruction is at least as strong as the instinct of reproduction, making the world a cold place often for the tender-hearted. It was not a cold place for Boodles that day, because she was in a happy state of love and ignorance. She was not worrying herself about Nature, who vivisects most people under the base old plea of physiological research. She and Aubrey went up a sage-and-onion-scented street, into the similarly perfumed hotel, up a flight of stairs fragrant with stuffing, and into a long room, to find themselves in a temple of feasting, with incense to St. Goose streaming upward, and two score famished and rather ill-bred folk licking their lips ostentatiously and casting savage glances at the knives and forks. Everything was on the grand scale. It was just such a meal as the eighteenth-century post-houses gave passengers on the road before railways had come to ruin appetites. It was a true Hogarthian dinner; not a meal to approach with a pingling stomach; not a matter of "a ragout of fatted snails and a chicken not two hours from the shell"; but mighty geese, and a piece of beef as big as a Dartmoor tor--the lusty cook's knees bowed as he staggered in with it--mounds of vegetables, pyramids of dumplings, gravy enough to float a fishing-smack, and beer and cider sufficient to bathe in. The diners were in complete sympathy with the vastness of the feast, being mostly from ravenous Dartmoor. A beefy farmer was voted to the chair, and carved until perspiration trickled down his nose. A gentleman of severe appearance insisted upon saying grace, but nobody took any notice. They were too busy sniffing, and one who had been already helped was making strange noises with his lips and throat. Boodles was laughing at his manners, and pinching Aubrey's hand. "Such fun," she whispered. "Ladies first," cried the carver. "Quite right," gasped the man who had been served first, having snatched the plate from the waiter as he was about to pass him. Then he gaped and admitted an entire dumpling, nearly as big as a cricket-ball, and had nothing else to say, except "Bit more o' that stuffing," for ten minutes. "What am I to do with it?" sighed Boodles, when the heaped plate was set in front of her. "Eat 'en, my dear!" said a commoner, who was wolfing bread until his time came. "'Tis Goosie Vair," he added encouragingly. "Take it, Aubrey," she said, with a slight titter. "Go ahead," he replied. "Eat what you can, and leave the rest." "I wish we were alone," she whispered. "These people are pigs." Had they been alone they would probably have fed off the same plate, and given each other kisses between every mouthful. As it was they could do nothing, except play with each other's feet beneath the table. Everybody else was hard at work. Faces were swollen on every side, and the sounds were more suggestive of a farmyard at feeding time than a party of immortal beings taking a little refreshment. There was no conversation. All that had been done during the time of waiting. "'Tis a butiful day, sure enough," and "A proper fine vair," had exhausted the topics. Boodles was rather too severe when she called the feasters pigs, but they were not pleasant to watch, and they seemed to have lost the divine spark somehow. Philosophers might have wondered whether the species was worth reproducing. The young people soon left the table, and a couple very differently constituted pressed themselves into the vacant places. The others were not half satisfied. Some of them would stuff to the verge of apoplexy, then roll down-stairs, and swill whisky-and-water by the tumblerful. It was holiday; a time of over-eating and over-drinking. They had little self-control. They unbuttoned their clothes at table, and wiped their streaming faces with the cloth. "I'm glad we went to goose dinner, but I shouldn't go again. It was gorging, not eating," said Boodles, as they went along the street. "Let's go and see the living pictures," said Aubrey. "But we've seen them." "We'll go again. Perhaps they will turn on a fresh lot." They liked the living pictures, because the lights were turned down, and they could snuggle together like two kittens and bite each other's fingers. "Then we'll go for a walk--our walk. But no," sighed Boodles; "we can't. It will be time for the ordeal." The fairy-tale was getting on. Ogre time had come. Boodles was to go and drink tea with her boy's parents. "Perhaps we can go our walk later on." "It won't be a real day if we don't," said she. "Our walk" was beside the Tavy, where they had kissed as babies, and loved to wander now that they were children. They thought they were grown up, but that was absurd. People who are in love remain as they were, and never grow up until some one opens the window and lets the cold wind in. "Our walk" was fairyland; a strange and pleasant place after goose dinner and Goose Fair. Brightly was against the railings, and had done no business, although the day was far spent. There was no demand for tie-clips or clay-pipes. Somebody was playing the organ in the church, and Brightly had that music for his dinner. Everybody seemed to be doing well, and he was the one miserable exception. He put up his sharp face, and chirped pathetically: "Wun't ye buy 'em, gentlemen? Tie-clips, penny each. Dree for duppence. Butiful pipes, brave and shiny, two a penny." The roundabout over the way was taking pennies by the bushel; but the roundabout supplied a demand, and Brightly did not. A fat be-ribboned dog passed and snapped at Ju. She took it patiently, having learnt the lesson from her master. Then two young people swept round, and one of them collided with Brightly, and almost knocked his thin figure through the railings. "I beg your pardon," said a bright young voice. "I hope I didn't hurt you." "You'm welcome, sir," said Brightly, wondering what on earth the young gentleman was apologising for. "Why, it's the man with the rabbit-skins. What does he do with them? Now he's selling pipes. Aubrey, I'm going to buy some. Oh, look at the poor little dog! How it shivers! What is the matter with it?" "She'm hungry," explained Brightly. "You look as if you were hungry too," said Aubrey with boyish candour. "I be a bit mazed like, sir," admitted Brightly. "I want some pipes, please--a lot. Don't laugh, Aubrey," said Boodles, looking down on the tray, with moisture in each eye and a frown on her forehead. She had no money to spare, poor child, only a threepenny-bit and four coppers; but she would have parted with the lot to feed the hungry had not Aubrey taken and restrained her charitable little hand. "Give him this," he whispered. "Feed the little dog," said Boodles, as she gave Brightly the coin, which was half-a-crown, as white and big, it seemed to Brightly, as the moon itself. Then they went on, while Brightly was left to see visions and to dream. He called out to tell them they had taken neither pipes nor tie-clips, but his asthmatic voice was drowned as usual by the noises of the fair, and it was quite a different set of faces and figures that went before him. He picked Ju up, tucked her under his arm, and shuffled away to buy food. He had seen the girl's face with pity on it through his big glasses, only dimly, but it was enough to show him what she was; something out of the church window, or out of the big black book they read from, the book that rested upon the wings of a golden goose, or perhaps she had come from the wonderful restaurant called Jerusalem just to show him and Ju there was somewhere or other, either in Palestine or above Dartmoor, some very superior Duke of Cornwall who took a kindly interest in worms, himself, and other creeping things. Brightly stopped, oblivious to holiday-makers, and tried to think of Boodles' name. He found it just as he reached the place where he could obtain a royal meal of scraps for threepence. "Her's a reverent angel, Ju," he whispered. * * * * * Beyond the bridge, which crossed the Tavy near the entrance to the field where the main pleasure-fair was making noises curiously suggestive of a savage war-dance, Thomasine walked slowly to and fro. She had been doing that ever since eleven o'clock, varying the occupation by standing still for an hour or so gazing with patient cow's eyes along the road. Pendoggat had promised to meet her there, and treat her to all the fun of the fair. He had told her not to move from that spot until he arrived, and she had to be obedient. She had been waiting four hours in her best clothes, sometimes shaking the dust from her new petticoat, or wiping her eyes with her Sunday handkerchief, but never going beyond the bridge or venturing into the fair-field. One or two young men had accosted her, but she had told them in a frightened way she was waiting for a gentleman. She had seen her former young man. Will Pugsley, pass with a new sweetheart upon his arm; and although Thomasine was unable to reason she was able to feel miserable. Pendoggat was upon the other side, kicking a calf he had purchased along the road, enjoying himself after his own manner. He had forgotten all about Thomasine, and all that his promise and the holiday meant to her. Besides, Annie Crocker was with him like a sort of burr, clinging wherever he went, and not to be easily shaken off; and she too wanted to be in the fair-field; only, as she kept on reminding him, it was no place for a decent woman alone, and she couldn't go unless he took her. To which Pendoggat replied that she wasn't a decent woman, and if she had been nobody would want to speak to her. They swore at each other in a subdued fashion whenever they found themselves in a quiet corner. "Come on, my love! Come along wi' I, and have a ride on the whirligig," shouted a drunken soldier with a big wart on his nose, staggering up to Thomasine, and grabbing at her arm. The girl trembled, but allowed the soldier to catch hold of her, because she did not know she had a legal right to resist. After all this was a form of courtship, though it was rather rough and sudden. Like many girls of her class Thomasine did not see anything strange in being embraced by a man before she knew what his name was. The soldier dragged her to the parapet of the bridge and kissed her savagely, heedless of the passers-by. Then he began to take her to the fair-ground, swearing at her when she hung back. "I've got to bide here," she pleaded. "I'm waiting for a gentleman." The drunken soldier declared he would smash the gentleman, or any one else, who tried to take his prize from him; but he proved to be a man whose words were mightier than his deeds, for when he saw a big policeman approaching with a question in his eye he abandoned Thomasine and fled. The girl dusted her clothes in a patient fashion and went on waiting. The next local excitement was the arrival of Peter and Mary in a kind of whirlwind, both of them well warmed with excitement and Plymouth gin. Thomasine nodded to them, but they did not see her. Mary had been buying flower-seeds for her garden, a whole packet of sweet-peas and some mignonette. Peter had objected to such folly when he discovered that the produce would not be edible. Their garden was small, and they could not waste good soil for the purpose of growing useless flowers. But Mary was always insisting upon being as civilised as she could. "Miss Boodles du grow a brave lot o' flowers in her garden, and she'm a proper young lady," she said. Mary knew she could not become a proper lady, but she might do her best by trying to grow "a brave lot o' flowers" in her garden. Later Thomasine saw Boodles and Aubrey pass over the bridge, walking solemnly for the first time that day. The little girl was about to be tried by ordeal, and she was getting anxious about her personal appearance. Her shoes were so dusty, and there was a tiny hole in her stocking right over her ankle, and her face was hot, and her hat was crooked. "You did it, Aubrey," she said. She wasn't looking at all nice, and her hair was tumbling, and threatening to be down her back any moment. "And I'm only seventeen, Aubrey. I know they'll hate me." They went up the hill among the green trees; and beneath the wall, where nobody could see them, Aubrey dusted his sweetheart's shoes, and put her hat straight, and guided her hands to where hairpins were breaking loose from the radiant head, and told her she was sweetness itself down to the smallest freckle. "Well, if they are not nice I shall say I'm only a baby and can't help it. And then you must say it was all your fault, because you came and kissed me with your pretty girl's face and made me love it." Thomasine watched Boodles as she went out of sight, trying to think, but not succeeding. She regarded Boodles as a young lady, a being made like herself, and belonging to her species, and yet as different from her as Pendoggat was different from old Weevil. Boodles could talk, and Thomasine could not; Boodles could walk prettily, while she could only slouch; Boodles adorned her clothes, while she could only hang them upon her in a misfitting kind of way. The life of the soul was in the eyes of Boodles; the life of the body in Thomasine's. It was all the difference between the rare bird which is costly, and the common one which any one may capture, had Thomasine known it. She knew nothing except that she was totally unlike the little girl of the radiant head. She did not know how debased she was, how utterly ignorant, and how vilely cheap. She had been accustomed to put a low price upon herself, because the market was overstocked with girls as debased, ignorant, and cheap, as herself; girls who might have been feminine, but had missed it somehow; girls whose bodies cost twopence, and whose souls a brass ring. The Bellamies had a pretty home on the hill above Tavistock overlooking the moor. There was a verandah in front where every fine evening the mistress sat to watch the tors melting in the sunset. She and her husband were both artistic. Aubrey might have been said to be a proof of it. Tea was set out upon the verandah, where Mr. Bellamie was frowning at the crude noises of the fair, while his wife observed the old fashion of "mothering" the cups. They were a fragile couple, and everything about them seemed to suggest egg-shell porcelain--their faces, their furniture, and even the flowers in their garden. It was useless to look for passion there. It would have broken them as boiling water breaks a glass. They never lost their self-control. When they were angry they spoke and acted very much as they did when they were pleased. "Here is the little girl," said Mr. Bellamie in his gentle way. "The red poppies in her hat go well with her hair. Did you see her turn then? A good deal of natural grace there. She does not offend at present. It is a pretty picture, I think." "Beauty and love--like his name. He is always a pretty picture," murmured the lady, looking at her son. "I wish he would not wear that red tie." "It suits on this occasion, with her strong colour. She is quite artistic. The only fault is that she knocks her ankles together while walking. That is said, though I know not why, to be a sign of innocence. She is Titianesque, a combination of rich surface with splendid tints. Not at all unfinished. Not in the least crude." "Mother, here she is!" cried Aubrey, "I had to drag her up the hill. She is so shy." "It's not true," said Boodles. She advanced to Mrs. Bellamie, her golden lashes drooping. Then she put up her mouth quite naturally, her eyes asking to be kissed; and it was done so tastefully that the lady complied, and said: "I have wanted to see you for a long time." "A soft voice," murmured Mr. Bellamie. "I was afraid with that colour it might be loud." "They are very young. It will not last," said the lady to herself. "But she will not do Aubrey any harm." Boodles was soon talking in her pretty sing-song voice, describing all their fun, and saying what a jolly day it had been, and how nice it was to have Aubrey at home, and she hoped he would never be away for so long again, until Mr. Bellamie roused himself and began to question her. The child had to describe Lewside Cottage and her quiet dull life; and it came out gradually--for Boodles was perfectly honest--how poor they were, and the respectable Bellamies were shocked to hear of the numerous housekeeping difficulties, and the limited number of the little girl's frocks, and what was still worse, the fact that old Weevil was no relation; until Mr. Bellamie began to fear that things were getting inartistic, and his fragile wife asked gently whether the child's parents were still living. "I don't know," said Boodles, flushing painfully because she felt somehow she had done wrong. Aubrey could not stand that. He jumped up and tried to choke his sweetheart with small cakes, while Mr. Bellamie began to examine her concerning her favourite pictures, and found she hadn't any, as she had not been east of Exeter, and knew nothing whatever about the big town, which is chiefly in Middlesex and Surrey, and partly in most of the other counties. Mr. Bellamie was rather upset. No girl could be really artistic if she had not seen the picture galleries. He began to feel that it would be necessary either to check Aubrey's amorous propensities or to divert them into some more artistic channel. Mrs. Bellamie had already arrived at much the same conclusion. Girls who know nothing of their parents could not possibly be well-bred, and might easily become a source of danger to those who were. Aubrey, of course, was not of their opinion. While his father was weighing Boodles in the æsthetic balance and finding her wanting, he went round to his mother, passed his arm about her neck, and whispered fervently: "Isn't she sweet? I may get her a ring, mother, mayn't I?" "Don't be foolish, Aubrey," she whispered back. "You are only children." They went soon afterwards, but not back to the fair, which was beginning to be marred by the drunkard and his language; they went into the very different atmosphere of Tavy woods; and there picked up the thread of the story, with the trees and the kind weather about them. But it was not the same somehow. Boodles had been to the gate of Castle Dolorous, had looked inside, and thought she had seen the skulls and bones of the young men and maidens, who had wandered in the woods to hear nightingales and pick the tender grapes of passion, but had been caught instead by the ogre, that he might trim his mantle with their hearts. She began at last to wonder whether it could be a sin to have no recognised parents and no name. Even the mongrel can be faithful, and the hybrid flower beautiful; and in their way they are natural, and for themselves they are loved. But they have no names of their own. The plant may cast back in its seed to the weed stage, and the owner of the mongrel may grow ashamed of it at last. Such a splendid name as Bellamie could hardly be hyphened with a blank. Still Boodles was very young, only a baby, as she said; and she soon forgot the ogre; and they went down by the river and smeared their kisses with ripe blackberries. Aubrey's parents strolled in their garden, and agreed that Miss Weevil's head was perfect. They also agreed that the boy had better fall in love with some one else. "He is so constant. It is what I love in him," said the mother. "He has been devoted to the child always, and now that he is approaching the age when boys do foolish things without consulting their parents, he loves her more than ever. I thought the last time he went away he would come back cured. What a nose she has!" "She is a perfect Romney," said, her husband. "I don't believe she knows her name. Boodles, she told me, means beautiful, and her foster-father is called Weevil. Boodles Weevil does not go at all with Aubrey Bellamie," said the lady. The fragile gentleman agreed that the girl's name violated every canon of art. "If Aubrey will not give her up--" he began, breaking off a twig which threatened to mar the symmetry of the border. "I shall not influence him. It is foolish to oppose young people. Leave them alone, and they usually get tired of each other as they get older. She is a good child. Aubrey is perfectly safe. He may go about with her as much as he likes, but we must see he does not run off with her and marry her." "We had better find out everything that is to be known," said Mr. Bellamie. "I will go and see this old Weevil. He may be a fine old gentleman with a Rembrandt head for all we know. She may be well-born, only it is remarkable that she remembers nothing about her parents. She would be a daughter to be proud of, if she had studied art. She offended slightly in the matter of drapery. I noticed a hole in her stocking, but it might have been caused during the day." "You did not kiss her, I think?" said his wife quickly. "No, certainly not," came the answer. "I don't want you to. Her mouth is pretty." "We must go in," said Mr. Bellamie decisively. "They are beginning to light up the fair. How horribly inartistic it all is!" Peter and Mary were being pushed about in the crowd below, still enjoying themselves, although somewhat past riding on wooden horses, for Mary was stupid and Peter was sleepy and absent-minded. They had followed custom and done the fair thoroughly, and had not forgotten the liquor. It was an unusual thing for Mary to have a head like a swing and a body like a roundabout, but Peter was used to it. He had been throwing at cocoa-nuts, without hitting anything except a man's knee; and for some time he had admired the ladies dancing in very short skirts to the tune of a merry music-hall melody until Mary, who was terribly hampered by her big umbrella, dragged him away from a spectacle so degrading. It was time for them to return home. They got clear of the crowd, and set their faces, as they supposed, towards the station. Thomasine was upon the bridge no longer. She had been joined by Will Pugsley, who had lost sight of his new sweetheart, as they had managed to drift apart in the crowd, and were not likely to meet again. She had probably been picked up by some one and would be perfectly happy with her new partner. Thomasine went off with young Pugsley, and it was only in the natural order of things that she should meet Pendoggat at last, not alone, but accompanied by Annie Crocker. It was unfortunate for Thomasine that she should have Pugsley's arm round her waist, although it was not her fault, as he had placed it there, and she supposed her waist had been made for that sort of thing. It was impossible to tell whether Pendoggat had seen her, as he never looked at any one. It was not a happy holiday for Thomasine, although she did go home between Pugsley and another drunken man, a young friend of his, who ought to have made her feel common, had she been capable of self-examination. It was at the bridge that Peter and Mary went wrong. They ought to have crossed it, only they were so confused they hardly knew what they were doing. It was another bridge of sighs. Lovers, who had probably met for the first time that day, were embracing upon it; and a couple of young soldiers were outraging the clear water of the Tavy by being sick over the parapet. Peter and Mary stumbled on, found themselves in darkness and a lonely road, and soon began to wonder what had become of the town and the station. They had no idea they were walking straight away from Tavistock in the direction of Yelverton. "Here us be!" cried Mary at length. "A lot o' gals in white dresses biding for the train. Us be in time." "There be hundreds and millions of 'em," said Peter sleepily. The road was very dark, but they could see a low wall, and upon the other side what appeared to be a host of dim white figures waiting patiently. They went up to a building and found an iron gate, but the gate was locked, and the house was in darkness. It looked as if the last train had gone, and the station was closed for the night. "Us mun climb the wall," said Mary. She began to shout at the girls in the white dresses: "Open the gate, some of ye. Open the gate." There was no reply from the white figures; only the murmuring of the river, and a dreary rustling of dry autumnal foliage. Peter rubbed his eyes and stared, and put his little peg-nose over the wall. "It bain't the station," he muttered, with a violent belch. "It be a gentleman's garden." "Aw, Peter, don't ye be so vulish. It be vull o' volks biding to go home." They climbed the wall, far too sleepy and intoxicated to know they were in the cemetery; and finding themselves upon soft grass they went to sleep, using the mound of a young girl's grave for their bolster, adding their drunken slumbers to the heavier sleep of those who Mary thought were "biding to go home." About the middle of the night Peter awoke, much refreshed and less absent-minded, and discovered the nature and the dampness of their resting-place. The little man was not in the least dismayed. He aroused Mary with his fist and facetious remarks. "Us be only lodgers. Us bain't come to bide," he said cheerfully. Mary also saw the fun of the thing. It was a fitting climax to her travelling experiences. Without being at all depressed by her surroundings she said: "Aw, Peter! To think us be sleeping among the corpses like." To the novelty of this experience was to be added the fact that she had slept at last outside her native parish. They went back to Tavistock, to find the town at rest, and the fair dark and silent. Returning to the house where they had eaten at midday, they banged upon the door and shouted for sleeping accommodation, which was at last provided. Peter felt a thrill of satisfaction when he comprehended that he was putting up at what he was pleased to style an hotel. While he was examining the furniture, the insecure bed, the chair without a back, the cracked crockery, and all the other essentials of the civilised bedroom, Mary began to shout violently-- "Aw, Peter, du'ye come along and see the light! 'Tis a hot hair-pin in a bottle on a bit o' rope, and yew turns 'en on and off wi' a tap like cider." Peter had to admit that electric light was something startling. He perceived that the same phenomenon occurred in his bedroom, and he was at a loss to account for it. Mary's shouts had alarmed the young slut of a maid who had introduced them to their rooms, and she hurried up to see what was wrong, well accustomed, poor wench, to be on her feet most of the day and night. She found Peter and Mary regarding their luminous bottles with fear and amazement, not venturing to go too close lest some evil should befall them. "Where be the oil?" asked Mary. The ignorant little wench said there wasn't any oil; at least she thought not. She knew nothing about the light, except how to turn it on and off. It had only been put into the house lately, and she confessed it saved her a lot of work. She believed it was expensive, as her master had told her not to waste it. A man had come in one day and hung the little bottles in the rooms, and they had given light ever since when they were wanted. They did not seem to wear out, and nothing was ever put into them. Some telegraph-wires had been put about the house at the same time, but she didn't know what they were for, as they did not appear to have anything to do with the post-office. That was all the little slut could tell them. She demonstrated how easy it was to turn the light on and off. She plunged them into darkness, and restored them to light. She couldn't tell them how it was done, but there was a big barrel in the top attic, and perhaps the light was kept in that. Peter was unable to concur. He had recovered from his first bewilderment, and his learning asserted itself. He considered that the light was natural, like that of the sun. It was merely a matter of imprisoning it within an air-tight bottle; but what he could not understand was where the light went to when the tap was turned. This, however, was nothing but a little engineering problem, which a certain amount of application on his part would inevitably solve. He could make clocks and watches; at least he thought he could, though he had never tried; and the lighting of Ger Cottage with luminous bottles would, he considered, be an undertaking quite within his powers. "Us wun't have no more lamps," he said. "Us will hang up thikky bottles. Can us buy 'em?" he asked the little slut. "There be a shop where they sells 'em, bits o' rope and all. I seed 'em in the window," said the girl. "Us will buy two or dree in the morning," declared Mary. "Can us hang 'em up, du'ye reckon, Peter?" Her brother replied that the task would be altogether beyond her; but it was not likely to present any serious difficulties to him. He promised to hang up one light-giving bottle in his own hut-circle, and another in Mary's. She would pay for the fittings, and he would in return charge her a reasonable sum for his services. The proprietor of the lodging-house made a poor bargain when he took in Peter and Mary. They spent most of the remainder of the night turning the wonderful light on and off, "like cider," as Mary said. CHAPTER XII ABOUT THE OCTAVE OF ST. GOOSE Things had gone wrong with Peter and Mary ever since the festival. Excitement, Plymouth liquors, and ignorance were largely to blame for the general "contrairiness" of things; but the root of the trouble lay in the fact of their refusal to be decent savages; of Peter's claims to be a handy man, and of Mary's desire to be civilised. Old Sal had last been seen wandering towards Helmen Barton; that was the principal grievance. Others were the complete failure of Peter as an electrical engineer; the discovery that nearly a pound's worth of precious shillings had been dissipated at the fair in idle pleasures alone; and the loss of a number of little packages containing such things as tea, sugar, and rice, which Mary had bought in Tavistock and placed, as she thought, in a position of safety. The pills and flower-seeds had proved also a source of trouble. A bottle of almighty pills had been thrust upon Peter for his liver's sake, and Mary had later on acquired packets of sweet-peas and mignonette in order that her garden might be made glorious. The loss of the groceries caused the first lamentation. Mary had a clear recollection of buying them, or at least she remembered paying for them, but beyond that memory did nothing for her. She had no impression of walking about the streets with her arms full of packages; they were not in her pocket, nor had they ever been in Peter's; she could not have left them in the shop; she was ready to swear she had not dropped them. The only possible conclusion was that the pixies had stolen them. Peter the hypocrite grunted at that. Although he offered sacrifice continually to the pixies that dwelt in Grandfather's bosom, he declared there were no such things. School-master had told him they were all dead. Education had in some obscure way shot, trapped, or poisoned the lot. "You'm a gurt vule," was Mary's retort. "Dartmoor be vull o' piskies, allus was, and allus will be. When I was a little maid and went to schule wi' Master, though he never larnt I more than ten fingers and ten toes be twenty, though I allus remembered it, for Master had a brave way of larning young volks--What was I telling, Peter? Aw ees, I mind now. 'Twas when I went to schule wi' Ann Middleweek, her picked up a pisky oven and broke 'en all to bits, 'cause her said the piskies were proper little brutes, and her was beat cruel that night wi' brimmles and vuzzy-bushes 'cause her'd broke the oven, and her was green and blue next day. 'Twas the piskies stole my tea and sugar, sure 'nuff. If I'd ha' spat on 'em, and marked 'em proper wi' a cross betwixt two hearts, they'd ha' been here now." Mary worried so much over her lost groceries that she felt quite ill. As Peter also became apprehensive of the state of his health every time that he looked at the bottle of pills, they decided to take a few. Then Peter went out into the garden to sow the flower-seeds, while Mary tramped over the moor to search for her missing goose. Peter imagined that he had mastered the science of horticulture. At least he would not have accepted advice upon the subject from any one. Vegetables he had grown all his life, and in exactly the same way as they had been grown in his boyhood, and he was quite as successful as his neighbours. He was a ridiculous little man, and in several ways as much of a savage as his ancestors, but he had inherited something from them besides their unpleasant ways. His pretensions to being skilled with his hands and clever with his brain were grotesque enough; but he possessed a faculty which is owned by few, because it is not required by civilised beings, a faculty which to strangers appeared incredible. When a bullock or a pony was pointed out to him, as it stood outlined against the sky on the top of some distant tor, or even as it walked against the dull background of the moor, he would put his hand to his eyes, and almost at once, and always correctly, give the owner's name. He earned several shillings at certain seasons of the year, and could have earned more had he not been lazy, by going out to search for missing animals. Peter was always in demand by the commoners about the time of the drift. Flowers were useless things according to Peter, and concerning their culture he knew nothing. However, Mary insisted upon the seeds being planted, to give her garden a civilised appearance, so Peter set about the task. The packet of sweet-peas had broken in his pocket during the fair, and upon returning he had placed them in a small bottle. The mignonette was his first care. The instructions outside stated that the seed was to be sown "in February, under glass." Peter shook his head at that. February was a long way off, but he went on to argue that if the seed would grow during the winter it was certainly safe to sow it during the far warmer month of October. It was the "under glass" that puzzled him. This was evidently something new in gardening, and Peter objected to new-fangled methods. It occurred to him that the expression might have been intended for "under grass," but that seemed equally absurd. School-master would know, but Peter was not going to expose his ignorance by asking questions. Besides, it would mean a long walk, and Master's cottage possessed the distinct disadvantage of being a considerable distance from the inn. Peter had no idea what sort of a plant mignonette might be, but he supposed it was a foreign growth which managed to flourish upon certain nutritive qualities possessed by glass. There were plenty of bottles in the linhay. Peter broke up a couple with the crowbar, collected the fragments--the instructions omitted to state how much glass--scattered the seeds in an unimportant corner of the garden, strewed the pieces of glass over them, and trod the whole down firmly. Then he dug a trench and buried the sweet-peas. Soon afterwards he began to feel ill; and when Mary returned without news of Old Sal she said she was "cruel sick-like tu." They conferred together, agreed that the trouble was caused by "the oil in their livers," and concluded they had better go on with the pills. Presently they were suffering torments; the night was a sleepless time of groans and invocations; and in the morning they were worse. Peter was the most grievously afflicted, at least he said he was; and described the state of his feelings with the expressive phrase: "My belly be filled wi' little hot things jumping up and down." "So be mine. Whatever be the matter wi' us?" groaned Mary. "They pills. Us ha' took tu many." "Mebbe us didn't tak' enough. Us ha' only took half the bottle, and he said dree bottles for a cure." "Us wun't tak' no more. I'll smash that old bottle on they seeds. 'Twill dung 'em proper," said Peter, shuffling painfully across the floor and reaching for the bottle. A moment later he began to howl. He had discovered something, and terror made him own to it. "Us be dead corpses! Us be pizened! Us ha' swallowed they peas!" he shouted. "Aw, my dear life! Where be the pills, then?" cried Mary. "I've tilled 'em," said Peter. "They be in the garden, and them peas be growing in our bellies." "Aw, Peter, us will die! I be a-going to see Master," groaned Mary. Peter said he should come too. He was afraid to be left alone, with Grandfather ticking sardonically at him, and sweet-peas germinating in his bowels. If it had been only Mary who was suffering he would have prescribed for her; but as he was himself in pain he argued that it would be advisable to seek outside assistance. Master was a "brave larned man," and he would know what ought to be done to save their lives. They made themselves presentable, and laboured bitterly across the moor to St. Mary Tavy village. Master was never out. He lived in a little whitewashed cottage near the road, gazing out of his front window all day, with a heap of books on a little table beside him, and pedantic spectacles upon his nose. He was nearly eighty, and belonged to the old school of dames and masters now practically extinct, an entirely ignorant class, who taught the children nothing because they were perfectly illiterate themselves. Master was held in reverence by the villagers. That pile of books, and the wonderful silver spectacles which he was always polishing with knowing glances, were to them symbols of unbounded knowledge. They brought their letters to the old man that he might read them aloud and explain obscure passages. Not a pig was killed without Master's knowledge, and not a child was christened until the Nestor of the neighbourhood had been consulted. "Please to come in, varmer. Please to sot down, Mary," said Master, as he received the groaning pilgrims into his tiny owlery, "varmer" being the correct and lawful title of every commoner. "Have a drop o' cider, will ye? You'm welcome. I knows you be main cruel fond of a drop o' cider, varmer." Peter was past cider just then. He groaned and Mary moaned, and they both doubled up in their chairs; while Master arranged his beautiful spectacles, and looked at them in a learned fashion, and at last hit upon the brilliant idea that they were afflicted with spasms of the abdomen. "You've been yetting too many worts?" he suggested with kindly sympathy. "Us be tilling peas in our bellies," explained Mary. . Master had not much sense of humour. He thought at first the remark was made seriously, and he began to upbraid them for venturing on such daring experiments. But Mary went on: "Us bought pills to Goosie Vair, 'cause us ha' got too much oil in our livers, and us bought stinking-peas tu. Us ha' swallowed the peas, and tilled the pills. Us be gripped proper, so us ha' come right to wance to yew." Master replied that they had done wisely. He played with his books, wiped his spectacles, and dusted the snuff from his nose with a handkerchief as big as a bath-towel. Then he folded his gnarled hands peacefully across his brass watch-chain, and talked to them like a good physician. "I'll tell ye why you'm gripped," he said. "'Tis because you swallowed them peas instead o' the pills. Du'ye understand what I be telling?" Peter and Mary answered that so far they were quite able to follow him, and Mary added: "A cruel kind larned man be Master. Sees a thing to wance, he du." "Us ha' got innards, and they'm called vowels," Master went on. "Some calls 'em intestates, but that be just another name for the same thing. Us ha' got five large vowels, and two small ones. The large ones be called _a, e, i, o, u_, and the small ones be called _w_ and _y_. I can't tell ye why, but 'tis so. Some of them peas yew ha' swallowed have got into _a_, and some ha' got into _o_, and mebbe some ha' got into _w_ and _y_. Du'ye understand what I mean?" The invalids replied untruthfully that they did, while Peter stated that Master had done him good already. "They be growing there, and 'tis the growing that gripes ye. Du'ye understand that?" continued Master. Peter ventured to ask how much growth might be looked for. "They grows six foot and more, if they bain't stopped," said Master ominously. "How be us to stop 'em?" wailed Mary. "I'll tell ye," said Master. "Yew mun get home and bide quiet, and not drink. Then mebbe the peas will wilt off and die wi'out taking root." "Shall us dig up the pills and tak' some?" Suggested Peter. "Best let 'em bide. They be doing the ground good," said Master. "It bain't nothing serious, varmer," he went on. "Yew and Mary will be well again to-morrow. Don't ye drink and 'twill be all right. The peas will die of what us calls instantaneous combustion. If yew was to swallow anything to pizen 'em 'twould pizen yew tu. Aw now, you might rub a little ammonia on your bellies just to mak' 'em feel uneasy-like. I'll get ye a drop in a bottle. Nothing's no trouble, varmer." "It taketh a scholard to understand it," said Mary. "When he putched a-telling I couldn't sense 'en, but I knows now it bain't serious. A brave larned man be Master. There bain't many like 'en." The invalids were pretty well by that evening. Their pains were departing, and Mary was able to hunt again for Old Sal and bewail her lost groceries, while Peter turned his attention towards establishing electric light into the two hut-circles. He had brought back from Tavistock two little bottles with taps, hairpins, and bits of rope complete, also mystic circles made of china, which, he had been informed, were used for securing the completed article to the roof, and nearly a mile of thin wire, which he had picked up very cheaply, as it was getting rusty. The wire had excited Mary's amazement, but Peter refused to give her any information concerning it. He had enjoyed an instructive conversation with the man in the shop, who perceived that Peter was a savage, but did not on that account refuse to sell him the required articles. Peter asked how the light was made, and the answer "with water," or words to that effect, so stunned him that he heard nothing for the next few moments. If it could be true that fire and heat were made out of water he was prepared to believe anything. The man seemed to be serious and not trying to make a fool of him; for he went on to explain that the light was conveyed from the water by a wire which communicated with the little bottles--he showed Peter that what he had mistaken for a piece of rope was in reality twisted wires--over any distance, although more power would be required if the house to be lighted was far from the water. The word "power" was explained to Peter's satisfaction as meaning a strong current, preferably a waterfall. The entire art of electrical engineering became clear to Peter at once. He remembered how the ignorant little girl in the lodging-house had mentioned the telegraph wires which had been put about the house. The child could not be expected to understand what the wires were for--Peter had not much tolerance for such stupidity--but it was evident, after the shopman's explanation, that those wires communicated with the Tavy and brought the light into the lodging-house from its waters. If the river at Tavistock, which is wide and shallow, could give forth light of such excellent quality, what might not be expected from the rushing torrent of Tavy Cleave? Peter perceived that every difficulty had been smoothed away. "Best tak' they old lamps to the village and sell 'em," he said, with vast contempt for old and faithful servants. "Us ha' done wi' they. Us will ha' lights in our bottles avore to-night." He had hung them up already, one in his own hut, the other in Mary's, and they looked splendid hanging from the beams. "Like a duke's palace," according to the electrician. "Aw ees, I'll sell 'em," said Mary, getting out a bit of sacking to wrap the old lamps in. "Us won't be mazed wi' paraffin and wicks and busted glasses. I'll tak' 'em' to Mother Cobley, and see if her will give us two or dree shilluns for 'em." Mary went off with the lamps, which Peter's science was about to render superfluous, while the little man took up his bundles of wire and stumbled down the cleave, to put the hidden radiance of the Tavy into communication with their humble dwellings. It was very pleasant down by the river that crisp October afternoon; the rich autumnal sun upon the rocks, the bracken in every wonderful tint of brown and gold, the scarlet seed-clumps of bog asphodel, and the trailing red ropes of bramble sprinkled with jetty berries, full of crimson blood like Thomasine's cheeks. It was nearly a month past Barnstaple Fair, and yet the devil had not put his foot upon the blackberries. The devil is supposed to attend Barnstaple Fair in state and tread on brambles as he goes home; which is merely the pleasant Devonshire way of saying that there is generally a frost about Barnstaple Fair week which spoils the fruit. The fairy cult was much prettier than all this demonology, but when education killed the little people there was only the devil to fall back upon; and though education will no doubt kill him in due time it has not done so yet. Peter trampled among the brambles and swore at them because they caught his legs. He saw nothing beautiful in their foliage. It was too common for him to admire. The colours had been like that the year before; they would be the same the year after. Peter appreciated bluebells and primroses because they were soft to walk upon; but the blood-red "brimmles" only pricked his legs and made him stumble; and the golden bracken was only of use in the cow-shed, or in his hut as a floor-litter; and the gracious heather was only good for stuffing mattresses; and the guinea-gold gorse would have been an encumbrance upon the side of the moor had it not been so useful as a thatch for his hut, and a fence for his garden, and a mud-scraper for his boots. Peter, though very much below the ordinary moorman, was artistically like them all--insensible to beauty which is not of the flesh. Not a Dartmoor commoner would pause a moment to regard the sun setting and glowing in a mist upon the tors. Yet a Cornish fisherman would; and a Norman peasant perhaps would take off his hat and cross himself, not so much with a sense of religion, as because there is something in his mind which can respond to the beauty and poetry and romance of the sun in a mist. Possibly, with the Dartmoor commoner, it is his religion which is to blame. His faith is as dark and ugly as the bottom of a well. The Cornish fisherman has his Cymric blood, his instincts, his knowledge of folklore, to help him through. The Norman peasant has the daily help of gleaming vestments, glowing candles, clouds of sun-tinted incense--pretty follies perhaps, but still pretty--the ritual of his mass, and the Angelus bell. But the Dartmoor commoner has little but his hell-fire. In the midst of all the splendour of Tavy Cleave on fire with autumn, Peter the ridiculous unwound a portion of the first roll of wire, and pondered deeply. It seemed absurd even to him to place the end into the water and leave Nature to do the rest; but he couldn't think of any other method. The shopman had distinctly mentioned wire and waterfalls, and both were ready to hand. As Peter went on to consider the matter it became clearer in his mind. The ways of Nature are incomprehensible. There were lightning-conductors, for instance. They were just bits of wire sticking aimlessly into the air, and apparently they caught the lightning, though Peter was not sure what they did with it. To put a piece of wire into a waterfall to attract light could not be more absurd than to erect a bit of wire into space to catch lightning. It was amazing certainly, but Peter had nothing to do with marvels, except to turn them to practical account. Once, when he was ill, a doctor had come to visit him armed with a little instrument which he had put against his chest and had then looked right inside him. Peter knew the doctor had looked inside him, because he was able to describe all that he saw. That was another marvellous thing, almost as wonderful as extracting light and heat from cold water. There was a waterfall lower down, and below it a pool fringed with fern and boiling with foam. It was an ideal spot, thought Peter, so he went there, and after fastening his wire to a stone, dropped it into the pool at the foot of the falls. The silver foam and the coloured bubbles laughed at him, and had Peter been blessed with anything in the form of an imagination, he might have supposed they were inviting him to play with them, and the sunlight made a rainbow out of flying foam. The scene was so full of radiance that Peter easily believed how brilliantly the hairpins in the bottles would presently be glowing. It was a lengthy business laying the wire up the side of the cleave among the boulders, fern, and brambles, and the task was not finished until twilight. The wire was rotten stuff, breaking continually, and had to be fastened together in a score of places. Peter reached the top of the cleave at last, and discovered Mary waiting to inform him in an angry way how Mother Cobley had given her only a shilling for the two lamps, and that only under pressure, because they were old and worn out. Mary wanted light in her bottle at once, as she had to mix the bread and make the goose-feed. "That Old Sal be a proper little brute. He bain't come home, and I can't hear nothing of 'en," she concluded. Peter replied that he would not be able to introduce the light into both huts that evening. Mary would have to wait for hers, for it did not occur to him that it would be possible to illumine Mary's hut before his own. "How be I to work in dimsies?" said Mary. "Can't ye mix bread in my house?" replied Peter. Mary admitted the thing was possible, so she stalked off for the bread-pan, while Peter completed the installation by running the wire through his door, along the roof, and twisting it about the "bit o' rope" holding the little bottle which he fondly imagined would soon be radiant. "Bain't a first-class job, but I'll finish him proper to-morrow," he said. "Turn thikky tap!" cried excited Mary. "Aw, Peter, wun't the volks look yaller when they sees 'en?" The folks were not destined to look yellow, but Peter and Mary were soon looking blue when repeated turning of the tap failed to lighten their darkness. It was not such a simple matter as tapping a cask of cider after all. They turned and twisted until the hut was dark and dreary, but not a farthing's worth of rush-light was produced. "Mebbe the wire's been and broke," suggested Peter hopefully. He lighted his lantern, and they tramped together down the cleave, following the wire all the way to the river and finding it intact. Presumably it was the waterfall which was not doing its duty. They returned to their gloomy huts, the one sorrowful, the other angry. "You'm a gurt dafty-headed ole vule! That's what yew be!" cried the angry one, when they reached the top of the cleave. Peter received this opinion with unwonted humility; and replied as meekly as any Christian martyr: "He be gone wrong somehow. I'll put 'en right to-morrow." "Put 'en right, will ye?" cried Mary scornfully. "How be I to mix bread' and get supper? You'm a proper old horniwink, and I hopes the dogs 'll have ye." These curses aroused Peter. He spat upon the ground, and drew mystic figures with his boot between Mary and himself. Having done what he could to avert the evil, he turned upon Mary and threatened her with the lantern. She continued her insults, having lost her temper completely, not so much because Peter had failed in his electrical engineering, as because she had an idea he had been making a fool of her. They were both ignorant, but one did not know it and was brazen, while the other was aware of it and was sensitive. She went on calling him weird names, and hoping the whist hounds would hunt him, until he lost his temper too. They had never quarrelled so violently before, but Peter was helpless in spite of his big threats, for Mary could have tackled and beaten two men as strong as her little brother. When he came to close quarters she picked him up, lantern and all, cuffed him, carried him into her hut, and snatching up her bulging umbrella whacked him well over the head with it. Peter was immediately overwhelmed, not merely by the umbrella, but with packages which tumbled upon his shoulders, then to the floor, and were revealed to Mary's eyes by the dull gleam of the lantern, which was giving a very different light from that which had been anticipated from what had been the little glass globe hanging from the roof--had been and was not, for Mary had utterly demolished it with an upward sweep of her immense umbrella. "Lord love us all!" she cried, her good-humour returning at once. "If there hain't the tea, and sugar, and t'other things what I bought to Goosie Vair, and thought the piskies had been and took!" CHAPTER XIII ABOUT VARIOUS EMOTIONS Pendoggat stood beneath the penthouse of his peat linhay, looking at a newspaper. The issue was dated Friday, and it contained the news of the week; not the news of the world, which was of no local interest, but a condensed account of the great things begun, attempted, and accomplished in the rural districts of Devon. The name of the parish was printed in big letters, and under it appeared the wonder of the week: how little Willie Whidden, while tramping to school, had picked a ripe strawberry from the hedge; or how poor old Daniel Ashplant had been summoned for drunkenness--P.C. Copplestone stating that defendant had behaved like a madman--and fined half-a-crown, despite his solemn oath and covenant that he had never tasted liquor in his life. Unimportant items, such as the meeting of Imperial Parliament, and a great railway disaster, served as stop-gaps in cases where advertisements just failed to fill the column. Pendoggat was looking for something. The testimony of a Wesleyan minister after twenty years of faithful service, accompanied by his photograph, caught his eye, and he thought he had found what he was searching for. He was astonished to learn that friend and pastor Pezzack was so popular; but when he read on he discovered it was only an advertisement for a nerve tonic. He turned over a page, and at last came upon the heading which he required. The title was that of a small sub-parish north of the moor, celebrated for a recent pronouncement of the curate-in-charge, who had congratulated the inhabitants upon their greatly increased sobriety, as during the late year only forty-seven persons, out of a total population of seventy-two, had been guilty of drunkenness. Printers had blundered and mixed things up rather. A hedge-builder had in the course of his duties come across a hole containing a rabbit, a hedgehog, and a rat; and in the same paragraph the Reverend Eli Pezzack had been safely married to Miss Jeconiah Sampson, with a good deal of bell-ringing, local excitement--the bride being well known in the neighbourhood for her untiring zeal in the matter of chapel teas--and an exhibition of such numerous and costly presents as a pair of brass candlesticks, an American clock, a set of neat doyleys, and an artistic pin-tray. It was one of Pendoggat's peculiarities that he did not smile. His idea of expressing pleasure was to hurt something; just as a boy in moments of excitement may slash at anything with his stick. Pendoggat dropped the paper suddenly, ran at a goose which was waddling across his court, captured the big strong bird, and wrung its neck. He flung the writhing body on the stones and kicked it in his joy. The minister could not side against him now. He had burdened himself with a wife, and there would soon be the additional burden of a child. Pezzack was a free man no longer, and had become dependent upon Pendoggat for food and home and boots. He would have to obey his master and be his faithful dog, have to keep his mouth shut when he discovered that the nickel-mine was a fraud, for his home's sake and his wife's sake. Pendoggat could strip him naked at a stroke. Annie Crocker crossed the court towards the well with a crock in her hand. Pendoggat noticed that her hair was growing grey, and that she was getting slovenly. "Who killed that old goose?" she said, standing and staring at the big white body. "I did," muttered Pendoggat. "You'll have to pay," she said shrilly. "That be Mary Tavy's Old Sal, what she thinks the world of. Killed him, have ye? I wouldn't be you, Farmer Pendoggat, when Mary comes to hear on't. Mary's as good a man as you." "Shut your noise," he growled. "Who's to tell her?" "Who? What's my tongue for? The first time you lift your hand to me Mary knows." Annie carried her crock to the well and lowered the bucket, muttering to herself, and keeping a watchful eye upon the man who kept her; while Pendoggat took the bird by the neck and dragged it towards the furze-brake. He was afraid when he learnt that it was Mary's Old Sal, for Mary was a creature whom he could not tackle. She seemed to him more a power of Nature than a strong hermaphrodite; something like the wind, or the torrential rain, or the storm-cloud. No commoner in his heart disbelieves in witchcraft; and even the girls, who twist a bridal veil across their faces when they are going to be married, know that the face-covering is not an adornment, but a fetish or protection against the "fascination" of the Evil Eye. "Going to bury him!" sneered Annie. "Aye, he bain't the only one in there. Bury him in the vuzz till Judgment, if ye can. The Lord will send fire from heaven one day to consume that vuzz, and all that be hidden shall be revealed. Drag him in by the neck, du'ye? Maybe they'll be dragging you to a hole in the ground avore long." She staggered across the court, splashing water like curses from the crock, and slammed the house door violently. Pendoggat said nothing. He bore with Anne because he was used to her, and because she knew too much about him; but he felt he would murder her some day if he didn't get away. He pushed the dead body of Old Sal as far into the furze as he could with the pole that propped up the washing-line, then went into the linhay, sat down upon the peat, and muttered hoarsely to the spiders in the roof. Two things he required: the return of Pezzack, and winter. He had received through the minister nearly two hundred pounds from the retired grocer and his friends, and he hoped to get more; but Pezzack the secretary was a miserable correspondent without Pendoggat's assistance, and nothing could be done until he came back to resume the duties which were being interfered with by the honeymoon. Frost and snow were also essential for his plans, because the fussy grocer, to whom had been thrown the sop of chairman of the company--a jobbing printer had prepared an ill-spelt prospectus, and the grocer never moved a yard without a pocketful--was continually writing to know how things were going, and Pendoggat wanted snow as an excuse for deferring mining operations until spring. He would have left Dartmoor before then. He was going to take Thomasine with him, and enjoy her youth until his passion for her cooled; and then she could look after herself; and as for Annie, the parish would look after her. He had reckoned on getting five hundred pounds out of the visionary mine, only those respectable people of Bromley were so chary of parting with their money, even though they had Pezzack's unquestioned morality and good character to rely upon. His only fear was lest the grocer should take fright and get it into his head that the mine was a wild-cat scheme. It was hardly likely, as Dartmoor is to Bromley minds an unknown and almost legendary district. "I gave him five pounds of his uncle's money to get married on," Pendoggat muttered, without a trace of humour. "For the next few weeks I'll give him fifteen shillings to live on, and then he may smash, if he can't preach his pockets full." He was more afraid of Annie than any one else. The suspicious nature of women is one of their most animal-like characteristics. There had never lived a man better able to keep a secret than Pendoggat; and yet Annie knew there was something brewing, although he did not guess that she knew. It was a matter of instinct, the same instinct which compels a dog to be restless when, his master is about to go away. The animal knows before his master begins to make any preparation for departure; and by the same faculty Annie knew, or perhaps only guessed, that Pendoggat was meditating how he could leave her. She was in the miserable position of the woman who has lived for the best part of her life with a man without being married to him, having no claim except a sentimental one upon him, but compelled to cling to him for the sake of food and shelter, and because he has taken everything from her whatever of charm and beauty she might have possessed, and left her without the means of attracting an honest man. She had passed as Mrs. Pendoggat for nearly twenty years. Every one in the neighbourhood supposed she was married to her master. Only he and she knew the truth: that her marriage-ring was a lie. Pendoggat was a preacher, and a good one, people said. He was severe upon human frailties. He preached the doctrine of eternal punishment, and would have been the first to condemn those who straightened a boundary wall or led a maid astray. He could not have maintained his position had it been known that she who passed as his wife was actually a spinster. Pendoggat did not know the truth about himself. When in the pulpit religious zeal seized hold upon him, and he spoke from his heart, meaning all that he said, believing it, and trying to impress it upon the minds of his listeners. Outside the chapel his tempestuous passions overwhelmed him. Inside the chapel he could not feel the Dartmoor winds, although he could hear them; but the stone walls shielded him from them. Outside they smote upon him, and there was nothing to protect him. He was a man who lived two lives, and thought he was only living one. His most strongly-marked characteristic, his inherent and incessant cruelty, he overlooked entirely, not seeing it, not even knowing it was there. He could steal a fowl from his neighbour's yard, and quote Scripture while doing it; and the impression which would have remained in his mind was that he had quoted Scripture, not that he had stolen the fowl. When he thought of his conduct towards Pezzack he saw no cruelty in it. The only thought which occurred to him was that the minister was a good man and did his best, but that he, Pendoggat, was the better preacher of the two. It was Thursday; Thomasine's evening out, and her master's day to get drunk. Farmer Chegwidden was regular in his habits. Every Thursday, and sometimes on Saturdays, he went to one of the villages, drank himself stupid, and galloped home like a madman. It was a matter of custom rather than a pleasure. He had buried his father, mother, and sister, on different Thursdays; and it was probably the carousal which followed each of these events which had fixed Thursday in his mind as a day for drowning sorrow. Mrs. Chegwidden was one of the minor mysteries of human life. People supposed that she lived in some shadowy kind of way, and they asked after her health, and wondered what she was like by then; but nobody seemed to have any clear notion concerning her. She was never visible in the court of Town Rising, or in the garden, and yet she must have been there sometimes. She never went to chapel, or to any other amusement. She was like a mouse, coming out timidly when nobody was about, and scuttling into some secret place at the sound of a footfall. She passed her life among pots and pickle-jars, or, when she wanted a change, among bottles and cider-casks, not drinking, or even tasting, but brewing, preserving, pickling all the time. Chegwidden did not talk about her. He always replied, "Her be lusty," if inquiries were made. The invisible lady had no home talk. She was competent to remark upon the weather, and in an occasional burst of eloquence would observe that she was troubled with rheumatism. There are strange lives dragged out in lonely places. No doubt Mrs. Chegwidden had been conceited once; and perhaps the principal cause of her retirement into the dark ways and corners of Town Rising might have been traced to the fact that she was bald. A woman with no hair on her head is a grotesque object. Thomasine was really the mistress of the house, and she did the work well just because she was stupid. She worked mechanically, doing the same thing every day at the same time. Stupid women make the best housekeepers. Thomasine was a useful willing girl, who deserved to be well treated. Her master had not meddled with her. Young Pugsley had been round to the kitchen door after dark since Goose Fair, and had urged Thomasine to wear a ring. The poor girl was willing, but she could not accept the offer, for more than one reason. Young Pugsley was not a bad fellow; not the sort to go about with a revolver in his pocket and an intention to use it if his young woman proved fickle. His wages were rising, and he thought he could get a cottage if Thomasine would let him court her. He admitted he was giving his company to another girl, and should go on with his attentions if Thomasine would not have him. The girl went back into the kitchen and began to cry; and Pugsley shuffled after her in a docile manner and sought to embrace her in the dark; but she pushed him off, with the saying: "I bain't good enough for yew, Will." Pugsley felt the age of chivalry echoing within him as he replied that he was only an everyday young chap, but if he was willing to take her it wasn't for her to have opinions about herself; only he couldn't hang on for ever, and she must make up her mind one way or the other, as he was doing well, getting fourteen shillings now, and with all that money it was his duty to get married, and if he didn't he might get into the way of spending his evenings in the pot-house. Thomasine only cried the more, until at last she managed to find the words of a confession which sent him from her company for ever. On that occasion it was fortunate for the girl that she could not think, because the faculty of reason could have done nothing beyond suggesting to her that the opportunity of leading a respectable life had gone from her, like her sweetheart, never to return. She dressed herself in her best, and went to the old tumble-down linhay on the moor where Brightly had taken shelter after his unfortunate meeting with Pendoggat. She had been told to go there after dark and wait. She did not know whether she was going to be murdered, but she hoped not. She mended her gloves, put on her hat, twisted a feather boa round her neck, though it would be almost as great a nuisance in the wind as Mary's umbrella, but she had nothing else, gave a few tidying touches to the kitchen, and stepped out. It was very dark, and the sharp breeze pricked her hot face and made it smart. She reached the linhay and waited. The place smelt unpleasantly, because beasts driven from the high moor by bad weather had taken shelter there. A ladder led up to a small loft half filled with dry fern except in places where moisture dripped through the roof. It was very lonely, standing on the brow of the hill where the wind howled. A couple of owls were hooting pleasantly at one another. No drearier spot would be found on all Dartmoor. Thomasine felt horror creeping over her, and her warm flesh kept on shuddering. She would not be able to wait there alone for long. Terror would make her disobedient. She wished she had been walking along the sheltered road by Tavy station, with young Pugsley's arm about her waist. It was not an evening to enjoy that bald stretch of moor with its wild wind and gaping wheals. A horse galloped up. The sound of its iron shoes suggested frost, and so did the girl's breathing. She was wondering what her father was doing. He was a village cobbler, and a strict Methodist, fairly straight himself, and without sympathy for sinners. She moved, trod on some filth, and cried out. A man's voice answered and told her roughly to be quiet. Then Pendoggat groped his way in and felt towards her. He had come in an angry mood, prepared to punish the girl, and to make her suffer, for having dared to flaunt with young Pugsley before his eyes in Tavistock. He had brought his whip into the linhay, with some notion of using it, and of drawing the girl's blood, as he had drawn it with the sprig of gorse at the beginning of his courtship. But inside the dreary foul-smelling place his feelings changed. Possibly it was because he was out of the wild wind, sheltered from it by the cracked cob walls, or perhaps he felt himself in chapel; for when he took hold of Thomasine and pulled her to him he felt nothing but tenderness, and the desire in him then was not to punish, nor even to rebuke her, but to preach, to tell her something of the love of God, to point out to her how wicked she had been to yield to him, and how certain was the doom which would come upon her for doing so. These feelings also passed when he had the girl in his arms, feeling her soft neck, her big lips, her hot blood-filled cheeks, and her knees trembling against his. For the time passion went away and Pendoggat was a lover; a weak and foolish being, intoxicated by that which has always been to mankind, and always must be, what the fragrance of the lime-blossom is to the bee. Even Pendoggat had that something in him which theologians say was made in heaven, or at least outside this earth; and he was to know in that dirty linhay, with moisture around and dung below, the best and tenderest moments of his life. He was to enter, if only for once, that wonderful land of perennial spring flowers where Boodles and Aubrey wandered, reading their fairy-tales in each other's eyes. "Been here long, my jewel?" he said, caressing her. Thomasine could see nothing except a sort of suggestion of cobwebby breath and the outline of a man's head; but she could hear and feel; and these faculties were sharpened by the absence of vision. She did not know who the man was. Pendoggat had galloped up to the linhay, Pendoggat had entered and seized her, and then had disappeared to make way for some one else. He had, as it were, pushed young Pugsley into her arms and left them alone together, only her old sweetheart had never caressed her in that way, with a devotional fondness and a kind of religious touch. Pugsley's courtship had been more in the nature of a duty. If she had been his goddess he had worshipped her in a Protestant manner, with rather the attitude of an agnostic going to church because it was right and proper; but now she was receiving the full Catholic ritual of love, the flowers, incense, and religious warmth. This was all new to Thomasine, and it seemed to awaken something in her, some chord of tenderness which had never been aroused before, some vague desire to give a life of attention and devotion to some one, to any one, who would reward her by holding her like that. "Who be ye?" she murmured. "The man who loves you, who has loved you ever since he put his eyes upon you," he answered. "I was angry with you, my beautiful strong girl. You went off with that young fellow at the fair when I'd told you not to. He's not for you, my precious. You are mine, and I am going to have you, and keep you, and bite the life out of you if you torment me. Your mouth's as hot as fire, and your body pricks me like a furze-bush. Throw your arms around me and hold on--hold on as tight as the devil holds us, and let me love you like God loves." He buried his lips in her neck, and bit her like a dog playing with a rabbit. "I waited on the bridge all day," faltered Thomasine, merely making the statement, not venturing a reproof. She wanted to go on, and explain how young Pugsley had forced himself upon her and compelled her to go with him, only she could not find the words. "I couldn't get away from Annie. She stuck to me like a pin," he muttered. "I'm going to get away from her this winter, leave her, go off with you somewhere, anywhere, get off Dartmoor and go where you like. Heaven or hell, it's the same to me, if I've got you." This was all strange language to Thomasine. Passion she comprehended, but the poetry and romance of love, even in the wild and distorted form in which it was being presented, were beyond her. She could not understand the real meaning of the awakening of that tenderness in her, which was the womanhood trying to respond, and to make her, like Boodles, a creature of love, but failing because it could not get through the mass of flesh and ignorance, just as the seed too deeply planted can only struggle, but must fail, to grow into the light. She felt it would be pleasant to go away with Pendoggat if he was going to love her like that. She would be something of a lady; have a servant under her, perhaps. Thomasine was actually thinking. She would have a parlour to keep locked up; be the equal of the Chegwiddens; far above the village cobbler her father, and nearly as good as the idol-maker of Birmingham. That Pendoggat loved her was certain. He would not have lost his senses and behaved as he had done if he did not love her. Thomasine, like most young women, believed as much as she wanted to, believed that men are as good as their word, and that love and brute passion are synonymous terms. Once upon a time she had been taught how to read, write, and reckon; and she had forgotten most of that. She had not been taught that love is like the flower of the Agave: rare, and not always once in a lifetime; that passion is a wayside weed everywhere. Perhaps if she had been taught that she would not have forgotten. "We'll go away soon, my jewel," Pendoggat whispered. "Annie is not my wife--you know that. I can leave her any day. My time at the Barton is up in March, but we'll go before then." "Don't this old place smell mucky?" was all Thomasine had to say. They climbed up the ladder, and sat on the musty fern, which had made a bed for Brightly and his bitch, and Pendoggat continued his pleasant ways. He was in a curious state of happiness, still believing he was with the woman that he loved. The walls of the linhay continued to be the walls of Ebenezer and a shelter against the wind. They embraced and sang a hymn, but softly, lest any chance passer-by should overhear and discover them. Pendoggat knelt upon the fern and prayed aloud for their future happiness, speaking from his heart and meaning what he said. Thomasine was as happy as the fatted calf which knows nothing of its fate. It was on the whole the most successful of her evenings out. She was going to be a respectable married woman after all. Pendoggat had sworn it in his prayer. He could do as he liked with her after that, now that she was his in the sight of Heaven. The dirty linhay was a chapel, and a place of love where they were married in word and deed. Farmer Chegwidden came thundering home from Brentor, flung across his horse like a sack of meal, and almost as helpless. He crossed the railway by the bridge, and his horse began to plunge over the boggy slope of the moor. It was darker, the clouds were hurrying, and the wind was a gale upon the rider's side as he galloped for the abandoned mines, clinging tighter. His horse knew what Thursday-night duty meant. He knew he had to gallop direct for Town Rising with a drunken man upon his back, and that he must not stumble more than he could help. There was no question as to which was the finer animal of the two. They crossed Gibbet Hill, down towards the road above St. Mary Tavy about two hundred yards above the linhay; and there the more intelligent animal swerved to the right, to avoid some posts and a gravel-pit which he could not see but knew were there; but as they came down the lower animal struck his superior savagely upon the ear to assert his manhood, and the horse, in starting aside, stumbled upon a ridge of peat, came to his knees, and Farmer Chegwidden dived across the road with a flourish that an acrobat might have envied. These gymnastics were no new thing, but the farmer had been lucky hitherto and had generally alighted upon his hands. On this occasion his shoulder and the side of his head were the first to touch ground, and he was stunned. The horse, seeing that he could do nothing more, sensibly trotted off towards his stable, and Farmer Chegwidden lay in a heap upon the road after the manner of the man who went down from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell among thieves. There was no good Samaritan about that part of Dartmoor; or, if there was one, he was not taking a walk abroad with the idea of practising his virtues. There was, indeed, no reason why any one should pass that way before morning, as people who live in lonely places require no curfew to send them under cover, and the night was wild with the first big wind of autumn. Still some one did come that way, not a Levite to cross over to the other side, but Peter, to take a keen interest in the prostrate form. Peter had been into the village, like a foolish virgin, to seek oil, and new lamps to put it in. All attempts to install the electric light had continued to prove that there was still something in the science which he had failed to master; and as the evenings were getting long, and the light afforded by the lantern was quite inadequate, Mary had sent him into the village to buy their old lamps back. Mother Cobley the shopwoman said she had sold them, which was not true, but she naturally desired to make Peter purchase new lamps. He had done so under compulsion, and was returning with a lamp under each arm and a bottle of oil in his pocket, somewhat late, as an important engagement at the inn had detained him, when he stumbled across Farmer Chegwidden. He placed his purchases upon the road, then drew near to examine the body closely. "He'm a dead corpse sure 'nuff," said Peter. "Who be ye?" he shouted. As there was neither reply nor movement the only course was to apply a test to ascertain whether the man was living or dead. The method which suggested itself to Peter was to apply his boot, and this he did, with considerable energy, but without success. Then he reviled the body; but that too was useless. "Get up, man! Why don't ye get up?" he shouted. There was no response, so Peter began to kick again; and when the figure refused to be reanimated by such treatment he lost his temper at so much obstinacy and went on shouting: "Get up, man! Wun't ye get up? To hell, man! Why don't ye get up?" It did not appear to occur to Peter that the man could not get up. The next course was the very obvious one of securing those good things which the gods had provided. Farmer Chegwidden had not much money left in his pockets, but Peter discovered it was almost enough to pay for the new lamps. Mary had advanced the money for them, so what Peter gained through the farmer's misfortune was all profit. Then he picked up his lamps, and hurried back to the village to lodge the information of the "dead corpse lying up on Dartmoor" in the proper quarter. He had not been gone long when Pendoggat rode up. Thomasine had hurried back to Town Rising by the "lower town," afraid to cross by the moor in that wind. He too discovered the farmer, or rather his horse did; and he too refused to pass by on the other side. Dismounting, he knelt and struck a match. The wind blew it out at once, but the sudden flash showed him the man's face. Chegwidden was breathing heavily, a fact which Peter had omitted to notice. "Dead drunk! He can bide there," muttered Pendoggat. He got upon his horse and rode on. As he crossed the brow, and reached a point where there was nothing to break the strength of the wind, he pulled his horse round, hesitated a moment, then cantered back. The wind was in his lungs and in his nostrils, and he was himself again, a strong man, not a weak creature in love with a farm-wench, not a singer of hymns nor a preacher of sermons, but a hungry animal to whom power had been given over weak and lesser beings of the earth. He knelt at Chegwidden's side, and tore the clothes off him until he had stripped him naked. He dragged the body to the side of the road and toppled it into the gorse. The clothes he rolled up, took with him, and higher up flung into an old mine-shaft. Then he rode on his way, shouting, fighting with the wind. CHAPTER XIV ABOUT A STRUGGLE AT THE GATE OF FAIRYLAND Old Weevil walked about the moor, because there was no room in the cottage or garden, and whispered to the sun: "I wish she wasn't so happy, I wish she wouldn't laugh so, I wish she wouldn't talk about that boy." A good many other things he wished for. Mr. Bellamie had written to present his compliments to Abel Cain Weevil, Esquire--though the old man was not used to that title--and to announce that he proposed giving himself the pleasure of calling at Lewside Cottage and enjoying a little conversation with its tenant. Weevil guessed how he would blunder through that interview in his simple beetle-hearted way; and then he would have to break his little girl's heart as carefully as he could. After all she was very young, and hearts broken early can be put together again. Plants broken off in the spring grow up as well as ever. It is when they are broken in the late summer that there is no chance, and no time, to mend. "She will feel it--like a butcher's knife," he whispered. "I was wrong to pick her up that night. I ought to have left her. It would have been all over long ago, and she would have been spared the knife. But no, she is too nice, too good. She will do it! She will fight her way through! You'll see, Abel-Cain. You watch her, my old dear! She will beat the Brute yet." He chuckled, snapped his fingers at the sun, waved his hand at Ger Tor, and trotted back to the cottage. Weevil talked in parables with the eccentricity, not of genius, but of habit. His life had been spoilt by "the Brute." He had done what he could to fight the monster until he had realised his utter helplessness. And now his little maid's life was to be spoilt by the Brute, but he thought she would succeed better than he had done, and fight her way out into a more serene atmosphere. Old Weevil's Brute was simply cruelty, the ugly thing that encompassed him. He was a silly old man in many ways. People with an intense kindness for animals are probably freaks of Nature, who has tried to teach them to be cruel, only they have rejected her teaching. Love for animals is, strictly speaking, no part of the accepted religion. Hebrew literature, so far from teaching kindness to animals, as the Koran does, recommends the opposite; and the founder of Christianity in his dealings with animals destroyed them. Fondness for animals began probably when men first admitted beasts into their homes as members of the family, as the Bedouin Arab treated his horse. Such animals developed new traits and advanced towards a far higher state of evolution than they would have attained under natural conditions. With higher intelligence came also a greater sensitiveness to pain. Those animals, such as the horse and dog, who have been brought up with men, and acquired so much from them, have an equal right to be protected by the laws which protect men. Such were some of Weevil's arguments, but perhaps he was mistaken. He had failed signally to impart the doctrine of kindness to animals to his neighbours. He went too far, a common fault among men who are obsessed with a single idea. He attacked the rabbit-trap violently, which was manifestly absurd, and only convinced people that he was mad. He declared that the rabbit, caught and held in the iron jaws of the trap to perish miserably hour by hour, must suffer agonies. He had himself put his finger into such a trap, and was unable to bear the pain more than ten minutes. Naturally people laughed at him. What a fool he must be to put his finger in a trap! It had always been the custom to capture rabbits in that savage way, and if it had been cruel the clergy would have preached against it and the law would have prohibited it. But when Weevil went on to assert that the rabbits had feelings he got beyond them entirely, and they could only shake their heads at him, and feel sorry for his insanity, and despise him for being such a bad sportsman. Even the village constable felt he must draw the line somewhere, and objected to paying any tribute of respect to a dafty old man who went about telling people that rabbits could feel pain. When he met Weevil he grinned, and looked the other way to avoid saluting him. Weevil spent much of his time drafting petitions to Parliament for the abolition of various instruments of torture, but of course nobody would sign them; and he indited lengthy screeds to humane societies upon the same subject, and these were always courteously acknowledged and placed on file for future reference, which was another way of saying that they would not be looked at again. He was himself a member of one society, and some years back had induced it to prosecute a huntsman who had been guilty of gross cruelty to a cat; but as the man was popular, and the master of the hounds was upon the Bench in the company of other sportsmen, the prosecution failed, although the offence was not denied; and old Weevil had his windows broken the next day. After that he quieted down, acknowledging that victory must remain with the strong. He went on preparing his indictments, writing his letters, and drafting his useless petitions; and whenever he discovered a rabbit-trap in his walks he promptly sprung it; and if the river happened to be handy, and nobody was about, that trap disappeared for ever. It was unfortunate for Weevil that he was more eccentric in appearance than in habits. He had a comic face and a nervous smile. The more in earnest he was the more he grinned; and that helped to convince people of his insanity. Then he was a loose character, and had evidently enjoyed a lurid past. People were not going to be lectured by a wicked old fellow, with a face like a rag-doll and a foolish smile, who lived in a small cottage with an illegitimate daughter. Weevil had never openly denied the paternity; he did not want it to be known that Boodles was a child of shame for her own sake; and he was in his heart rather proud to think people believed he was the father of such a radiant little maid. "You must do it," he said, as he trotted into the cottage. "You must prepare the child, Abel-Cain. Don't be a fool now." The little sitting-room was very neat. Boodles was not there, but visible tokens of her industry were everywhere. A big bowl of late heather from the moor, with rowan and dogwood berries from Tavy woods, stood upon the table. A little stocking, rather plentifully darned, was being darned again. A blotting-book was open, and a sheet of paper was upon it, and all that was written on the sheet was the beginning of a letter: "My dearest Boy," that and nothing more. It would have been a pretty little room had it not been for that sheet of paper. The silly old man bent over it, and a very good imitation of a tear splashed upon the "dearest Boy" and blotted it out. "You must not be such an old fool, Abel-Cain," he said, in his kindly scolding voice. Then Boodles came in laughing, with a head like the rising sun. She had been washing her hair, and it was hanging down to dry, and sparkling in the strong light just as the broken granite on Dartmoor sparkles when the sun casts a beam across and seems to fill the path with diamonds. "Oh, what a grumpy face, old man!" she cried. "Such a toothachy face for as butiful a morning as ever was! Have you been cruel and caught a wee mousie and hurt it so much that you couldn't let it go? I think I shall throw away that trap and get a benevolent pussycat instead." Lewside Cottage was infested with mice, very much as Hamelin town was once overrun with rats, and as Weevil could not pipe them into the Tavy he had invested in a humane trap which caught the little victims alive. Then the difficulty of disposing of them arose. Weevil solved it in a simple fashion. He caught a mouse every night and let it go in the morning. In spite of these methods of extermination the creatures continued to increase and multiply. "I was going out this afternoon," said Boodles, tugging at her hair with a comb. "But if you have got one of your umpy-umpy fits I shall stop at home. I want to go, daddy-man, 'cause my boy hasn't got much longer at home, and he says it is nice to have Boodles with him, and Boodles thinks, it is nice too." "Boodle-oodle, my darling," quavered Weevil, "the sun may be shining outside, but it is damp and clammy in here. The Brute has got hold of me again." "No, it isn't clamp and dammy, daddy," she laughed. "It's only a stupid old cloud going by. There are lots of butterflies, if you will look out. See! I can nearly tread upon my hair. Isn't it butiful?" "You must try and grow up, little girl." "Not till I'm twenty," said she. "You mustn't laugh so much, my little maid." "Why, daddy?" she cried quickly. "You mustn't say that. Oh, I don't laugh too much; I couldn't. I'm not always so very happy when I laugh, because it's not always afternoon out with me, but it does us good to make believe, and I thought it helped you to forget things. You telling me I mustn't laugh! You've been and killed a mouse." "They say fair-haired girls don't feel it like the dark-haired ones," muttered Weevil. "What are you talking about?" cried Boodles. She had stopped laughing. The clouds were coming up all round and it was nearly snow time; and there is little laughter in a Dartmoor winter. "Is it the Brute, daddy?" she said sympathetically. "Yes, Boodle-oodle," said the sorrowful old man, with his nervous grin. "It is the Brute." "I wish you could catch him in your trap. You wouldn't let him go," said Boodles, with a little smile. Weevil was kneeling at the table, his comic head jerking from side to side, while his fingers tried to make a paper-boat out of the "dearest Boy" sheet of note-paper. "I want to talk to you, my little maid," he said. "I want to remind you that we cannot get away from the Brute. I came to this lonely cottage to hide from him, because he was making my life miserable. I could not go out without meeting him. But it was no good. Boodles. Doors and bolts won't keep him out. Do you know why? It is because he is a part of ourselves." "Such nonsense," said she. "Silly old man to call yourself cruel." "The Brute is only ourself after all. I cannot put my foot to the ground without crushing some insect. I cannot see the use of it--this prolific creation of things, this waste of life. It drives me nearly mad, tortures me, makes me a brute to myself." "But you're such a--what do you call it?--such a whole-hogger," said the child. "Try and not worry, daddy. You only make yourself wretched, and you make me wretched too, and then you're being cruel to me--and that's how things get cold and foggy," said she. "May I laugh now?" "No, Boodles," he said, quite sternly. "I was cruel when I picked you up that night and brought you in." The girl winced a little. She wanted to forget all about that. "Nature preserves only that she may destroy," he rambled on. "Take the plants--" "I've taken them," broke in Boodles merrily. "Be serious, Boodle-oodle," said the old man, grinning worse than ever. "The one and only duty of the flower is to bear seed, and when it has done that it is killed, and that it may do so Nature protects it in a number of different ways, many of which cause suffering to others. Some plants are provided with thorns, others with stinging-cells, others with poison, so that they shall not be destroyed by animals. These are generally the less common plants. Those that are common are unprotected, because they are so numerous that some are certain to survive. All the plants of the desert have thorns, because vegetation is so scarce there that any unprotected plant would soon be devoured. The rabbit is an utterly defenceless creature among animals, and almost every living thing is its enemy; but lest the animal should cease to survive Nature compels it to breed rapidly. Surely it would have been kinder to have given it the means of protecting itself. I cannot understand it, Boodles. There seems to be no fixed law, no limit to Nature's cruelty, although there is to her kindness. The world is a bloody field of battle; everything fighting for life; a pitiful drama of cowardice right through. I don't know whether I am talking nonsense, Boodles. I expect I am, but I can't speak calmly about these things, I lose control over myself, and want to hit my head against the wall." Boodles slipped her arm about his neck and patted his white whiskers. The paper-boat was a heap of pulp by this time. "Now it's my turn," she said gaily. "Let Boodles preach, and let old men be silent. Dear old thing, there are lots of queer puzzles, and I'm sure it is best to leave them all alone. 'Let 'em bide,' as Mary would say. We can't know much, and it's no use trying. You might as well worry your dear white head about the queer thing called eternity. You start, and you go round, and then you go round again faster until you begin to whirl, and you see stars, and your head aches--that's as far as you can ever get when you think about queer puzzles. And that's all I've got to say. Don't you think it rather a good sermon for a babe and suckling?" "It's no use. She doesn't see what I'm driving at," muttered poor old Weevil. "My hair is nearly dry. I think I'll go and do it up now," said Boodles. "I'm going to wear my white muslin. Shan't I look nice?" "She doesn't know why she looks nice," murmured the silly old man. "It is Nature's cruel trick to make her attract young men. Just as the flowers are given sweetness to attract the fertilising bee. There it is again--no fixed law. Every sweet flower attracts its bees, but it is not every sweet girl who may." "What's all that about bees?" laughed Boodles. "Oh, I forgot! I'm not to laugh." "Boodle-oodle, do try and take things seriously. Do try and remember," he pleaded. "Remember--what?" she said. "We cannot get away from the Brute." "But I'm not going to be grumpy until I have to," she said. "It would be such nonsense. I expect there will be lots of worries later on. I must be happy while I can. Girls ought not to be told anything about unhappiness until they are twenty. There ought to be a law made to punish any one who made a little girl grumpy. If there was you would go to prison, old man." "You must think, Boodles. We are putting it off too long--the question of your future," he said blunderingly. Now he had got at the subject! "I am getting old, I have only an annuity, and there will be nothing for you when I die. I do not know what I shall do without you, but I must send you away, and have you trained for a nurse, or something of the kind. It will be bad to be alone again, with the Brute waiting for me at every corner, but worse to think of you left unprovided for." "My dear daddy-man," sighed Boodles, with wide-open eyes. "So that's the trouble! Aren't you worrying your dear old head about another queer puzzle? I don't think I shall have to work very dreadful hard for my living." "Why not?" said the old man, hoping his voice was stern. "Why?" murmured Boodles prettily. "Well, you know, dear old silly, some one says that my head is lovely, and my skin is golden, and I'm such a jolly nice little girl--and I won't repeat it all, or I might swell up with pride, and you might believe it and find out what an angel you have been keeping unawares--" "Believe," he broke in, catching at the straw as he went down with a gurgle. "You mustn't believe too much, Boodle-oodle. You are so young. You don't in the least know what is going to happen to you." "Of course I know," declared Boodles; "I'm going to marry Aubrey when I'm twenty." "But his parents--" began Weevil, clutching at the edge of the table, and wondering what made it feel so sharp. "They are dears," said Boodles. "Such nice pretty people, and so kind. He is just an old Aubrey, and I expect he had the same girl's face when he fell in love with his wife. She's so fragile, with beautiful big eyes. It's such a lovely house. Much too good for me." "That's just it," he said eagerly, wishing she would not be dense. "It's much too good for you, darling." "Yes, but I don't think you ought to say it," pouted Boodles. "We are ordinary people. I am not quite what the Bellamies would call a gentleman. My father was only a piano-maker," old Weevil faltered, hoping that the girl would think of her unknown parents when she heard him refer to his. "I went to a grammar-school, then became a bank-clerk until I was shelved, partly on account of my grey hairs, but chiefly because I hit the cashier on the head with a ruler for kicking a dog. I could not go into Mr. Bellamie's house, Boodles. It is too good for both of us. There is nothing to be ashamed of in my name, but it is not a genteel one. We are only unimportant beetles, and the Bellamies are big bugs," he said, laughing in spite of his feelings at his joke because it was so seldom that he made one. "Aubrey knows all about it. He doesn't care," declared Boodles, nodding cheerfully. "Besides, I'm not really your daughter anyhow." Weevil gasped at her innocent impertinence. Here he was trying to make her understand that she was a nameless little lady who could not possibly marry any one of gentle birth, and she was calmly suggesting she might be superior to him. It was only a thoughtless remark, but it served to show him that nothing but plain speaking would serve with a girl in love. She looked at everything through Aubrey's eyes; and Aubrey was only a boy who could hardly know his own mind. A boy does not care whether his sweetheart's father is a tinker or a rake; but a man, and an only son, who has reached an age when he can understand what his family and society and his profession demand of him, cares a great deal. There comes a time for every young person when he or she must leave fairyland and go into the world; and the pity of it is they cannot return. They look back, but the gate is shut. It is a gate which opens only one way--to exclude. For every child is born inside. They grow up, and see their children in that pleasant land, and wish they could join them there; but if they could go back they would not be happy, for it would be to them no longer a place of romance and sunshine, but a place of shadow, and dead selves, and memories. It would not be spring, with primroses and bluebells in flower, but a Christmas Eve when the dead life and the dead companions haunt the house, and grim Mother Holle is plucking her geese and dropping the feathers down the chimney. Aubrey at twenty adored Boodles. Aubrey at thirty might worry his head about her parents and her birth-name. Boodles at thirty would be the same as she was then, loving, and wanting nothing else. Weevil was right in some of his theories. Every one must suffer from the Brute, except those who deserve it most. The innocent have to suffer for them. Boodles too was right. It is no use trying to solve queer puzzles. "No, darling; you are not my daughter. I wish you were. I wish you were." "You are too old, daddy-man--at least rather too old," said Boodles gently. "I should have been born when you were past fifty. Why, what's the matter? You are dreadful funny to-day, old man." Weevil had jumped up nimbly, and running to the window poked his head out to gulp into his lungs a good mouthful of air. He ran back to the astonished little girl, took her by the shoulders, shook her severely, grinned at her; then he stumbled back into his chair and began to laugh furiously. "Shall I tell you a story, Boodle-oodle, a beautiful story of a little girl who wasn't what she thought she was, though she didn't know who she was, and didn't care, and wouldn't think, and couldn't listen when people tried to tell her? Shall I tell you all that, darling?" "Not now," gasped Boodles. "I must go and dress. And I shall laugh as much as I like--mean old thing! Telling me I mustn't laugh, and then shaking the house down. Dad, if you go on making explosions you'll bring up rain-clouds, and my afternoon will be spoilt, and so will my frock; and then I shall have to tell you a story of a horrid old man, who wasn't a bit like what he hoped his daughter thought he was, though he didn't know how horrid he was, and didn't care, and wouldn't listen when people tried to tell him. Well, I'll give you a kiss anyhow, though you are mad." "Not daughter," cried the excited old man. "Remember you are not my daughter, Boodles." "I know. You needn't rub it in." "I've got the Brute! I've got him by the neck. He's made me suffer, but I'll pay him now. Run away, darling. Run away and put on your white muslin. Laugh as much as you can, and be as pretty as you like. The Brute shan't touch you. I'll put a muzzle on him. Don't forget to tell them I am not your father. I've got the whole story in my head. Run away, little girl, while I think it out." Boodles was used to these fits, but usually she understood them. They were generally provoked by rabbit-traps. She could not understand this one. Evidently the old man had got hold of something new; but she couldn't stop any longer, as it was nearly time to go down to the Tavy and turn up the stones to look for fairies. Weevil certainly had got hold of something new. When Boodles had gone he jumped up and locked the door. Then he looked at his watch. Mr. Bellamie might arrive at any time; and he was not nearly ready. He began to jump about the room in a most eccentric way, snapping his fingers, and grinning at his comic features in the mantel-glass. "You've got to be a liar, Abel-Cain, the worst liar that ever lived, as big a rogue as your namesake Cain, who murdered your namesake Abel. You're an old man, and you ought not to do it, but if lies can save her from the Brute lies shall. They'll punish you for it when you're dead, but if she is saved no matter, none at all. I shall tell them they ought not to have created the Brute. I won't be afraid of them. Now you mustn't make a mess of it. I'm afraid you will, Abel-Cain. You're a shocking old fool sometimes. Put it all down--write it out, then learn it by heart. The old hands are shaking so. Steady yourself, old fool, for her sake, for the sake of that pretty laugh. Come along now! Abel-Cain _versus_ the Brute. We must begin with the marriage." He pressed his cold hands upon his hot face, and began to scribble tremulously on the paper. "You were married at the age of twenty-five to a girl who was superior to you socially. Her name--let me see--what was her name? You must find one that sounds well. Fitzalan is a good name. You married Miss Fitzalan at--at, why, of course, St. George's, Hanover Square. She's dead now. She died of--of, well, it don't matter; she's dead. We had a daughter, or was it a son? Better keep to one sex, and then there will be no saying hims for hers, and you mustn't get confused, Abel-Cain, you must keep your brain as clear as glass. We had a daughter, and called her--now it must be something easy to remember. Titania is a pretty name. We called her Tita for short, Titania Fitzalan-Weevil That's it! You are doing it, Abel-Cain! Keep it up, you old liar. He'll be here presently. You took the name of Fitzalan-Weevil because it sounded better, but when your wife died you went back to your own. She was buried in Hendon churchyard. You don't know why it should be Hendon. Ah yes, you do, Abel-Cain. Don't you remember how you used to walk along that road on Sundays and holidays, and have some bread and cheese in the little tea-garden at Edgware; and then by Mill Hill and Arkley to Barnet, and back by Hampstead Heath to your lodgings in Kentish Town? That's why your wife was buried in Hendon churchyard. Then Titania was married, a very grand marriage, Hanover Square again. It's a pity you haven't got the press-cuttings, but they are lost--burnt, or something of the sort--and Titania's husband was the youngest son of the Earl of--No, that won't do. You mustn't lie too high, or you'll spoil the story. He was Mr. Lascelles, Harold Lascelles, second son of the late Reverend Henry Arthur Lascelles, sometime rector of St. Michael's, Cornhill, and honorary canon of St. Paul's Cathedral. Drag the clergy in, Abel-Cain. It's respectable. They lived in Switzerland for his health. You remember he was rather delicate, and Titania wasn't very strong either; and Boodles was born there. It's working out fine. You can't be her father, but you can be her grandfather. Boodles was born in Lausanne, at the hotel where Gibbons wrote his history. "Now you come to the mystery; there must be a mystery about Boodles, but it must be respectable, a tragedy in high life, a regrettable incident, not a shameful episode. Titania disappeared. What happened to her nobody knows. You don't know, and Harold doesn't know. She may have gone for a walk in the mountains and never come back, or she may have gone out in a boat on Lake Geneva and been drowned, or she may have been murdered by a madman in a pine-wood. It was all very sad and dreadful, and has naturally cast a cloud over Boodles's life, though she knows nothing about it, as she was scarcely a year old when her mother disappeared. You have never got over it, Abel-Cain, and you don't think you ever will, as Titania was your only child. You couldn't bear to keep any of her photographs, so you destroyed them all. "Now there is Harold. You can't kill him, Abel-Cain. So much mortality might be suspicious, and if you let him marry again that would mean a lot more names to remember. Harold went into the Catholic Church and became a priest. At the present time he is in charge of a mission in British Guiana. That's a good long way off, but you must look it up in the map and make sure where it is." The old man leaned back and mopped his face. He was working under a kind of inspiration, and was afraid it might die out before he had got to the end of the story. Again he plunged into the narrative, and continued-- "Harold didn't know what to do with Boodles. Young Catholic priests cannot be bothered with babies, so he sent her to you, to old grandfather, and asked you to bring her up. He couldn't pay anything, as he had devoted his fortune to building a church and establishing his mission, and besides, you didn't need it in those days, He was a good fellow, Harold, an earnest, devoted man, but you haven't heard anything of him for a long time. You called the child Boodles when she was a baby because it was the sort of name that seemed to suit her, and you have never got out of it. Her real name is--There must be a lot of them. They always have a lot in high life. No girl with a long string of names could be anything but well-born. Her name is Titania Katherine Mary Fitzalan-Lascelles." He read out the list again and again, grinning and crying at the same time, and chuckling joyfully: "There's nothing of the Weevil in her now." "Then there came the smash," he went on, resuming his pen to add the finishing touches to the story. "You lost your money. It was gold-mines. That is quite safe. One always loses money in gold-mines, and you were never much of a man of business, always ready to listen to any one, and so you were caught. You retired with what little you could reclaim from the wreck of your shattered fortunes--that's a fine sentence. You must get that by heart. It would convince any one that you couldn't tell a lie. You retired, broken in health and mind and fortune, to this little cottage on Dartmoor, and you have lived here ever since with Boodles, whom you have brought up to the best of your ability, although you have lacked the means to give her that education to which she is entitled by her name and birth. It is almost unnecessary to add, Abel-Cain," he concluded, "that you have told the child nothing about her parents lest she should become dissatisfied with her present humble position. You are keeping it all from her until she comes of age." It was finished. Weevil stared at the blotted manuscript, jabbered over it, and decided that it was a strong and careful piece of work which would deceive any one, even the proudest father of an only son who was much too precious to be thrown away. He was still jabbering when there were noises outside the door, and he hurried to open it, and discovered Titania Katherine Mary Fitzalan-Lascelles, looking every syllable of her names; her beautiful hair coiled under her poppy-trimmed hat, the white muslin about her dainty limbs, her lips and little nostrils sweet enough to attract bees with their suggestion of honey, and about her that wonderful atmosphere of perfect freshness which is the monopoly of such pretty creatures as herself. "You're looking quite wild, old man. What have you been doing?" she said. "Story-writing. About the little girl who--" "I can't stop to listen. I must hurry. I just came to say good-bye," she said, putting up her mouth. "Be good while I am gone. Don't fall into the fire or play with the matches. You can say if this frock suits me." "If I was a boy I shouldn't bother whether it suited you or not," said Weevil, nodding at her violently. "But as you are only an old daddy-man?" she suggested. "It will do, Boodle-oodle. Sackcloth would look quite as well--on you." "I'll wear sackcloth presently; when Aubrey goes and winter comes," she laughed. Weevil became excited again. He wished she would not make such heedless and innocent remarks. They suggested the possibility of weak points in his amazing story. Another unpleasant idea occurred as he looked at the charming little maid. She was always walking about the moor alone. The Brute might seize her in one of his Protean forms, and she might disappear just as her fictitious mother had done. Weevil had invoked his imagination, and as a result all sorts of ghostly things occurred to his mind to which it had been a stranger hitherto. There were traps lying about for girls as well as rabbits. "Where are you going, little radiance?" he said. "Down by the Tavy. Our walk. We have only one." Boodles answered from the door, and then she went. She had only one walk. On all Dartmoor there was only one. Weevil caught up his manuscript and began to jabber again. She must not have that one walk taken away from her. For two hours he worked, like a student on the brink of an examination, trying to commit his story to memory. Each time he read the fictions they became to him more probable. He scarcely knew himself what a miserable memory he had, but he was well aware how nervous he could be in the presence of strangers, and how liable he was to be confused when any special eccentricity asserted itself. As the time when his visitor might be expected approached he went and put on his best clothes, tidied himself, brushed his hair and whiskers, tried to make himself look less like a Hindoo idol, burnished his queer face with scented soap, and practised a few genteel attitudes before the glass. He hoped somebody had told Mr. Bellamie he was eccentric. Weevil was still poring over his manuscript when the visitor arrived. With a frantic gesture the old man went to admit him. People were not announced in that household. Mr. Bellamie entered with a kindly handshake and a courteous manner; but his impressions were at once unfavourable. Well-bred men tell much by a glance. The grotesque host, the pictures, furniture, and ornaments, were alike inartistic. Mr. Bellamie was a perfect gentleman. He had come merely as a matter of duty to make the acquaintance of the tenant of Lewside Cottage, not because it was a pleasure, but he had received Boodles at his house, and his son's attachment for the little girl was becoming serious. He could not definitely oppose himself to Aubrey's love-making until he had ascertained what manner of people the Weevils were. The pictures and ornaments told him. The cottage represented poverty, but it was hardly genteel poverty. A poor gentleman's possessions proclaim his station as clearly as those of a retired pork-butcher betray his lack of taste. A few good engravings, a shelf or two of classical works, and a cabinet of old china, would have done more for Boodles than all the wild romances of her putative grandfather. "You have a glorious view," said the visitor, turning his back upon art that was degraded and rejoicing in that which was natural. "I have been admiring it all the way up from the station. But you must get the wind in the winter time." "Yes, a great deal of it. But it is very fine and healthy, and we have our windows open most days. Tita insists upon it." "Tita?" questioned Mr. Bellamie, turning and looking puzzled. "I understood that--" "Her name is not Boodles," said Weevil decidedly. "That is only a pet name I gave her when she was a baby, and I have never been able to break myself of it. She is my grand-daughter, Mr. Bellamie, and her name is Titania Katherine Mary Fitzalan-Lascelles," he said, reading carefully from the manuscript. "I think she must have inherited her love of open windows and fresh air from her father, who was the Reverend Henry--no, I mean Harold Lascelles, second son of the Reverend Henry Arthur Lascelles--the late, I should have said--sometime Director of St. Michael's, Cornhill, and minor canon--no, honorary--honorary canon of St. Paul's Cathedral. He was rather delicate and lived in Switzerland a good deal, and died there--no, he didn't, that was Tita's mother. He is in charge of a Catholic mission in British Guiana." Polite astonishment was upon every feature of the visitor's fragile face. He had not come there to talk about Boodles, but to see Weevil and Lewside Cottage, that he might judge for himself whether the girl could by any chance be considered a suitable subject for Aubrey's adoration; to look at the pictures, and make a few conventional remarks upon the view and the weather; then to return home and report to his wife. He had certainly not expected to find Weevil bubbling over with family history, pedigrees, and social intelligence, regarding the child whom he had been led to suppose was not related to him. Mr. Bellamie glanced at Weevil's excited face, at the pencil he held in one hand and at the sheet of paper in the other; and just then he didn't know what to think. Then he said quietly: "I will sit down if I may. That long hill from the station was rather an ordeal. As you have mentioned your--your grand-daughter, I believe you said, you will, I hope, forgive me if I express a little surprise, as the girl--and a very pretty and charming girl she is--came to see us one day, and on that occasion she distinctly mentioned that she knew nothing of her parents." Mr. Bellamie would have murmured on in his gentle brook-like way, but Weevil could not suppress himself. While the visitor was speaking he made noises like a soda-water bottle which is about to eject its cork; and at the first opportunity he exploded, and his lying words and broken bits of story flew all about the room. "Quite true, Mr. Bellamie. Boodles--I mean Tita--was telling you the truth. I have never known her to do the contrary. She has been told nothing whatever of her parents, does not know that her daughter was my mother--" "You mean that her mother was your daughter," interposed the gentle guest. "Yes, Mr. Bellamie, that is what I did mean, but I am rather confused. She does not know that her father is living, nor that her rightful name is Lascelles, nor that her paternal grandfather was the rector of St. Michael's, Cornhill, and prebendary of St. Paul's Cathedral--" "I understood you to say honorary canon," murmured the visitor. "I am not certain," cried the excited old man, who was by no means sure what a prebendary might be. "It is a long time ago, and some of the facts are not very clear in my mind. You can easily find out," he went on recklessly. "The Reverend Canon Lascelles was a very well-known man. He wrote a number of learned books. I believe he refused a bishopric. Let me see. I was telling you about my little maid. I have kept everything from her because I feared she might be upset if she knew the truth and found out who she was. She mightn't be satisfied to go on living in this little cottage with a poor shabby old man like me, if she knew how well born she was. I am going to tell her everything when she is twenty-one, and then she can choose for herself, whether to remain with me, or to join her father if he wants her in British Guiana." "There must be some reason," suggested Mr. Bellamie gently, with another wondering glance at Weevil's surprising aspect. "I am not seeking to intrude into any family secret, but you have introduced this subject, and you must permit me to say that I feel interested in the little girl on account of my son's--er--friendship with her." "I was just coming to it," cried Weevil, exploding again. He was warmed up by this time. He had lost his nervousness, felt he was playing a winning game, and believed he had the story pat. The lies had stuck in his throat at first, as he was a naturally truthful man, but they were coming along glibly now. "You have a right to be told. There is a little mystery about Tita's mother. They were living in Lausanne--Tita was born in the hotel where Gibbings wrote his history--and one day her mother went out and disappeared. She has never been heard of since that day. It is supposed she went for a walk in the mountains. Perhaps she fell down a glacier," he added, brilliantly inspired. "A crevasse," corrected Mr. Bellamie mildly. "It is hardly likely. Lausanne is not quite among the mountains." Weevil had not known that. Hurriedly he suggested a fatal boating trip upon the lake of Geneva, and was relieved when the visitor admitted in a slightly incredulous manner that was more probable. "You have interested me very much," he went on, "and surprised me. You are the girl's grandfather on the mother's side?" "Yes; and now I must tell you something about myself," said Weevil, with a hurried glance at his notes which the visitor could not help observing. "I am not your social equal, Mr. Bellamie, and I cannot pretend to be. I have not enjoyed the advantages of a public-school and university education, but I was left with a fortune from my father, who was a manufacturer of pianos, at an early age, and I then contracted a marriage with a lady who was slightly older than myself, and very much my superior socially, mentally--possibly physically," he added, with another inspiration, as he caught sight of his comic face in the mantel-glass. "Her name was Miss Fitzalan, and we were married at St. George's, Hanover Square." The visitor inclined his head, and did so just in time to conceal a smile. Weevil was overacting the part. He was placing an emphasis on every word. In his excitement he dropped the manuscript, without which he was helpless. It fluttered to Mr. Bellamie's feet, and before Weevil could recover it the visitor had a distinct recollection of having read: "Your wife was buried in Hendon churchyard." It was strange, he thought, that a man should require to make a note of his wife's burying-place. "Titania was our only child," Weevil went on, after refreshing his memory, like a public speaker, with his notes. "She was something like Boodles, only her hair was flaxen, and she was taller and more slim. I am sorry I have not a photograph of her, but after her tragic disappearance I burnt them all. I could not bear to look at them. There was one of her in court dress which you would have liked. Some time after my wife's death I lost my money in gold-mines. It was my own fault. I was foolish, and I listened to the advice of knaves. I came here with what little I could reclaim from the wreck of my shattered fortunes," he said, pausing to notice the effect of that tremendous sentence, and then repeating it with added emphasis. "I settled here, and Father Lascelles, as he was by then, sent me my grandchild and asked me to bring her up as my own. At first I shrank from the responsibility, as I had not the means to educate her as her birth and name require, but I have been given cause every day of my life since to be thankful that I did accept, for she has been the light of my eyes, Mr. Bellamie, the light and the apple of my eyes." Weevil sank into a chair and wiped his face. His task was done, he had told his story; and he fully believed that Boodles was safe and that the Brute was conquered. The visitor was looking into the interior of his hat. He seemed to have found something artistic there. He coughed, and in his gentle well-bred way observed: "Thank you, Mr. Weevil. You have told me a piece of very interesting family history." Weevil detected nothing of a suspicious or ironical nature in that admission. He nursed his knee, and wagged his head, and grinned triumphantly as he replied in a naive fashion: "I took the name of Fitzalan-Weevil after my marriage, because I thought it sounded better, but after I lost my wife and fortune I went back to my own." Mr. Bellamie took another glance round the room, just to make sure he had missed nothing. There might be some little gem of a picture in a dark corner, or a cracked bit of Wedgwood ware, which he had overlooked in the former survey. There might be some redeeming thing, he thought, in the environment which would fit in with the amazing story. The same inartistic features met his eyes: Weevil pictures, Weevil furniture, Weevil carpet and wall-paper. There was nothing to represent the family of Fitzalan or the family of Lascelles. The simple old liar did not know what a powerful advocate was fighting against him, and how his poor little home was giving verdict and judgment against him. The visitor completed his survey, turned his attention to the old man, regarding him partly with contempt and pity, chiefly in admiration. Then he took out his trap and set it cleverly where Weevil could hardly fail to blunder into it. "I think I knew Canon Lascelles a good many years ago," he said in his gentle non-combative voice. "He was a curious-looking man, if I remember rightly. Tall, stooping very much, with a red face which contrasted strangely with his white hair, and he had a trick of snapping his fingers loudly when excited. Do you recognise the portrait?" Old Weevil gasped, said he did, declared it was life-like, and then fumbled for his manuscript. Hadn't he made any notes on that subject? There was nothing to help him in the inky scrawl. He was being examined upon unprepared subjects. So there had been a Canon Lascelles in real life, and Mr. Bellamie had known him. Well, there was nothing for it but to agree to all that was said. His imagination would not work upon the spur of the moment, and if he tried to force it he would be sure to contradict himself or become confused. He replied that he distinctly remembered the Canon's trick of snapping his fingers loudly when excited. "Your daughter married the second son Harold. Of course you knew Philip the eldest. I think his name was Philip?" "Quite right, Mr. Bellamie, quite right. Philip it was. He went into the Army," gasped Weevil. "Surely not," said Mr. Bellamie. "Excuse me for contradicting you, but I know he went into the Navy, and I think he is now a captain. Aubrey will tell me. Very possibly my son has met Captain Lascelles, and may indeed have served under him." Weevil was trying to look contemplative, but succeeding badly. He was digging new ground and striking roots everywhere. There was nothing for it but to admit his mistake. He was old and forgetful. He had probably been thinking of some one else. Of course Philip Lascelles went into the Navy. He had heard nothing of him for years, and was very glad to hear he had risen to the rank of captain. "Then there was a daughter. Only one, I think?" Mr. Bellamie continued, in his pleasant conversational way. "That's right," agreed Weevil, longing to add something descriptive, but not venturing. He was not going to be caught again. "Edith?" suggested the visitor. "I think the name was Edith." "No," cried Weevil determinedly--he could not resist it; "Katherine. She was the godmother of Boodles--Tita, I mean--and the child was named after her." "Yes, it is my mistake this time. Katherine of course," agreed Mr. Bellamie. "But I am certain she was the eldest child, and she married young and went to India. She must have been in India when your grandchild was born." "She came over for the ceremony. Harold was her favourite brother, and when she heard of Tita's birth she came to London as fast as she could," cried Weevil, not realising what a wild thing he was saying. "To London!" murmured Mr. Bellamie. "The child was baptised at St. Michael's, Cornhill?" he added swiftly. "No, in Hendon church." "I thought you said she was born in Lausanne at the Hotel Gibbon?" "So she was," gasped Weevil, perspiring and distraught. "I mean she was buried in Hendon churchyard." "What! the little girl--Boodles!" said Mr. Bellamie, laughing gently. "No, my wife. We were married there." Weevil did not know what he was saying. The pictures and ornaments, which had been his undoing, were dancing about before his eyes. "You are getting confused," said the gentle visitor. "I understood you to say you were married at St. George's, Hanover Square." "Ah, but I used to go to Hendon," said Weevil eagerly, nodding, and grinning, and speaking the truth at last. "I used to walk out there on Sundays and holidays, and have bread and cheese in a tea-garden at Edgware, and then go on by Mill Hill and Arkley and round to Barnet, and back across Hampstead Heath to my lodgings in Kentish Town. I was very fond of that walk, but I couldn't do it now, sir. It would be much too far for an old man like me." Weevil was happy again. He thought he had succeeded in changing the subject, and getting away from the fictitious family of Lascelles. Mr. Bellamie was satisfied too. Canon Lascelles was a fiction with him also. The pictures and furniture had given truthful evidence. Weevil was a fraud, but such a well-meaning pitiable old humbug that the visitor could not feel angry. They had fenced at each other with fictions, and in such delicate play Weevil had not much chance; and his latest and only truthful admission had done for him entirely. Gentlemen of means do not walk up the Edgware Road on Sundays and holidays, and partake of bread and cheese in suburban tea-gardens, and then return to lodgings in Kentish Town. "Thank you for what you have told me," said Mr. Bellamie, rising and looking into his hat; and then, succumbing to the desire to add the final artistic touch: "I understand you to have said that you were married to Miss Fitzalan in Hendon church, and that your daughter married Mr. Harold Lascelles, who disappeared in an unaccountable fashion in Lausanne?" "No, no," cried Weevil despairingly. He was tired and had put aside his manuscript. "I never said that. You have got it quite wrong. I was married to Miss Fitzalan in St. Michael's, Brentor, and our daughter Boodles married Philip Lascelles--captain as he now is--at Hendon, and Tita was baptised in St. George's, Hanover Square, and then went to Lausanne to that hotel where Gubbings wrote his history, and there she disappeared--no, not Boodles, but her mother Tita. But she may be alive still. She may turn up some day." "Then how about Father Lascelles?" suggested Mr. Bellamie. "Why, he married my daughter Tita," said Weevil rather crossly. "And now he is in British Columbia at his mission. He won't come back to England again. Boodles doesn't know of his existence, but I shall tell her when she is twenty-one." The visitor smiled rather sadly, and after a moment's hesitation put out his hand. Old Weevil had been turned inside out, and there was nothing in him but a foolish loving heart. Mr. Bellamie understood the position exactly. There was a mystery about the little girl's birth, and it was probably a shameful one, and on that account the old man had concocted his lying story, not for his own sake, but for hers. Mr. Bellamie could not feel angry at the queer shaking figure, with tragedy inside and comedy on its face. Boodles was his all, the only thing he had to love, and he was prepared to do anything which he thought might ensure her happiness. There was something splendid about his lies, which the visitor had to admire although they had been prepared to dupe him. It was not a highly moral proceeding, but it was an artistic one; and Mr. Bellamie was able to forgive anything that was artistic. "Good-bye," he said, in a perfectly friendly way. "I hope you will come and see me at Tavistock, and look at your tors from my windows." Weevil returned thanks effusively, happy in the belief that he had played his part well; but it was characteristic of him that his thoughts should be for Boodles rather than for himself. "If you would let her come and see you sometimes it would make her happy. It's a dull life for the little maid here, and she is so bright and full of laughter. I think she laughs too much, and to-day I told her so. There is a lot of cruelty in this world, Mr. Bellamie, and I want to keep her from it. The man who makes a little maid miserable deserves all the cruelty that there is, but it shan't touch Boodles if I can put myself before her and keep it off. I could not see her suffer, I couldn't hear her laugh ring false. I would rather see her dead." Mr. Bellamie walked away slowly. He had prepared a mild revenge, but he did not execute it. He had intended to tell Weevil a story of a man who took a dog out to sea that he might drown it; but while fastening a stone to its neck the boat overturned, the man was drowned, while the dog swam safely to shore. He thought Weevil might be able to interpret the parable. But when he heard those last words, and saw the love and tenderness on that queer grinning face, he said no more. He walked away slowly, with his eyes upon the ground. CHAPTER XV ABOUT JUSTICE What luck is nobody can know, but it is certainly a gift to be preferred before natural ability. Luck is that undefinable thing which enables a man to push his head and shoulders well above the crowd. Make him wise it cannot, but no man cares about wisdom if he can only be wealthy. Lucky men pile up big fortunes, and invariably become humbugs in their old age, and assure young men that their affluence is entirely owing to the splendid virtues of application, perseverance, and early rising, which they practised in their youth. No doubt the virtues help, but hard work alone makes no man wealthy, let him toil like Sisyphus. It is luck that lodges the stone on the top of the mountain. The idle apprentice who has luck is far more likely to marry his master's daughter than the industrious apprentice who hasn't it. The clever man and the lucky one start out side by side, but they soon drift apart; the lucky man goes to the right door, the clever man goes to the wrong one; and the end of it is that the clever man writes from his cottage to the lucky man in his mansion, begging the loan of a few pounds to keep the bailiffs out. There is nothing to which a man without luck cannot attain by hard work, except one thing--success. Decidedly there had been no fairy godmothers at Brightly's christening. None of the good things of life had fallen upon him; and yet he possessed those virtues which are supposed to make for wealth; no man could have worked harder or showed more perseverance; and as for early rising it was easy because he had no bed to rise from. Still he could not make a living. The elusive coppers refused to increase and multiply into shillings; and as for sovereigns they were as extinct as dodos. Brightly continued his various progresses with that strict attention to business which had always characterised him, and with the empty stomach which had become a habit; but without any luck. Any one might have mistaken him for a poet. He was working the same old stretch: Meldon, Sourton Down, Bridestowe, Lydford, Brentor, and the Tavys, his basket dragging at his arm, and Ju trotting her poor little life away at his heels. Ju also had been deserted by canine fairy godmothers. Perhaps she too had dreams--of a basket, furnished with soft cushions beside a fire, and perennial plates of bones and biscuits. Brightly had a fresh stock of atrocious yellow vases, thanks to the generosity of the lovers at the fair; and he was hard at work again collecting rabbit-skins; and still encouraged himself by thinking of the glorious time when he would jog contentedly along the stony roads in a little cart neatly littered with fern, with a lamp to be lighted after dark, and the board bearing the inscription: "A. Brightly. Purveyor of rabbit-skins," set forth for all to read. It was not a very lofty ambition, although quite an impossible one. Brightly was getting on in years; his rheumatism and asthma were increasing; so was his blindness; he wept sometimes, but that did not assist his business. Sometimes he thought the time was getting near when he would have to sell his vases and buy two pennyworth of rat-poison. He thought he would do it with rat-poison. Perhaps when he woke up, if he did wake up, he would find himself in Jerusalem among the jugs of milk and honey-pots; and perhaps there would be somebody like Boodles looking at him with the same moist eyes. He could not go into the poorhouse. They would frighten him there, and he would much rather be dead than in that prison. Nature seemed rather to have overreached herself when she created Brightly. What was the use of such a defenceless creature, this sort of human rabbit whom any one could attack? Why turn him out feeble and half blind when he had his living to make? Even the wayside weed is better cared for. When its crown-bud is bitten off by a cow Nature sets to work to repair the injury at once, and the plant grows up as well as ever. Nature did nothing to repair Brightly's injuries. She did not even permit him to enjoy tobacco, that one luxury of the lonely and friendless. Probably she foresaw what a boon tobacco would be to him, so she afflicted him with asthma. Nature delights in thus adding toil to toil and trouble to trouble. It is only in the matter of adding pleasure to pleasure that she is niggardly. Brightly was coming up the moor towards St. Mary Tavy. His face looked smaller and his hands bigger. There was another change, a far more striking one; he was actually well dressed; there was nothing, of course, in the shape of useless accessories, such as shirt or underwear, but the black seal-like raiment had been discarded and a suit of brown cloth had taken its place. He had picked up those clothes while burrowing in a wheal to find shelter from a pitiless downpour. It had been a great find which had rejoiced his heart, for although he was accustomed to make a living by picking up things which other people threw away, he had never before discovered anything half as priceless as a suit of stout garments. It had never occurred to him that they might not have been thrown away, but merely hidden in the wheal, or that he had no right to them, or that it could be dangerous for him to be seen about in them. "Us will pitch here," said Brightly, stopping near the moor gate, and lowering his basket carefully. "It be dinner time, Ju." The little dog wagged at the prospect. Dinner time occurred frequently, but generally without the dinner. She sniffed ravenously at the handkerchief in the corner of the basket, and decided that the menu of the day was cheese, largely rind, but still cheese, a slab of bread, and two onions. It was one of the feast-days. They reposed upon heather, and Brightly made a division of the food, reserving the onions for himself, but allotting Ju a bigger piece of rind as compensation. "You'm a lot littler than I," he explained. "Your belly be filled quicker. It be no good giving yew an onion, 'cause yew wun't yet 'en. Tak' your cheese--don't swallow like that, ye little stoopid! Yew don't get the taste of 'en at all. Yet 'en slow, and tak' a bit o' bread wi' 'en same as I du. Us wun't get no more to-day like enough." The meal was soon over, and then Brightly sat up and began to whistle, while Ju squatted upon the heather, her tongue lolling out, and her poor little mongrel head following every motion of her master's body. Brightly's only recreation was whistling, and he took the pastime seriously. With his pinched face and big round glasses set towards Brentor he piped away as hard as he could; first a ballad which he had heard in an ale-house, then a hymn, and another ballad, and then the favourite of all, Jerusalem the Golden. He whistled them all wrong, but he didn't know it. For the time being he was happy enough, as he was a contented soul, and his chief happiness was to be alone on the moor, which then seemed to be his own property, with the scented garden of heather and gorse about him, and the sweet wind blowing upon his face; and they all seemed to be his own while he was alone. It was only when he saw a cottage, or a farm, or a man approaching him, that he understood they were not his own, but the property of the cottage, or the farm, or the man approaching him, and that he lived only upon sufferance, and might get into trouble for lying on the heather, and smelling the gorse, or for permitting the pleasant wind to blow upon his face. After whistling he began to sing, making, it must be owned, a shocking noise. He did not know the words of the ballads, nor more than a single line of the Wesleyan hymn which children sing in procession upon chapel anniversary day. Brightly had often listened as he tramped by, with his full basket and his empty stomach, but he had never caught the Words because the children gabbled them so in their hurry to get the religious exercises over and attack the cakes and splits. "Jesu, Master, us belongs to yew," he howled discordantly, while Ju howled in dismal agreement, and began to whimper when her master went on to scream about Jerusalem and dairy produce. "I reckon that be the beautifullest tune as ever was sung," commented Brightly, "I'll sing 'en again, Ju, and I'll get 'en right this time. I mun sing him a bit stronger. I reckon the end o' the world can't be over far off, wi' volks got so cruel wicked, and us mun get ready vor't." He folded his hands upon his knees, and was about to resume his noises when the moor gate clicked. Brightly's faculties were as keen as a bat's. He could not see much, but he could sense the approach of danger; and when he heard the gate slam violently, and a thick voice exclaim: "There a' be!" he started up, anxious to get back to his solitude, conscious somehow that unfriendly beings were upon him, to steal his "duppence," and put him out of business by smashing his vases. He stared through his glasses until he distinguished two fat figures, one in uniform, the other in shabby raiment, advancing upon him with threatening movements, one the village constable, the other the village reprobate; and when he saw them, that grim thing called terror descended upon Brightly. He had done nothing wrong so far as he knew, but all the same he could not resist the fear, so he fled away as hard as he could, the basket dragging upon his arm, and Ju trotting at his heels. He knew what it meant to fall into the hands of his fellow-men. Pendoggat had shown him, and most men were Pendoggats to Brightly. He went up the moor towards the top of the village, and the stout constable soon gave up the chase, as he was not used to violent exercise, nor did he receive any extra pay for exerting himself. Besides, he was sure of the man. He wiped his face and told the village reprobate, who was his most obliging servant and had to be, that it was cruel hot, and he'd got that lusty he didn't seem able to run properly, and he thought he would return to the village and prepare for more strenuous deeds with a drop o' cider; and he charged the reprobate to follow Brightly and head him off at the top of the village, and keep him close until he, the constable, should have cooled down and recovered from his fatigue sufficiently to attend in great pomp and arrest the rascal. He reminded the reprobate he must not arrest Brightly because that was not allowed by law; but he was at perfect liberty to knock him down, and trample on him, and inform him that the criminal law of the land was about to spread its net around him. The constable's state of mind regarding the law was peculiar. He had no idea that laws were made to punish crime. He conceived that creatures like Brightly existed to supply the demands of the law. At the head of the village Brightly encountered more man-hunters, but he managed to escape again, although he had to leave his basket behind. Some children soon rifled it, and took the gorgeous vases home to their mothers. With the instinct of the hunted animal the fugitive turned upon his tracks, fled up a side lane, climbed over a hedge, waited until his pursuers had passed, then hurried back for his basket, hoping to reclaim it and get away upon the moor, where he could soon hide himself. But he had not gone far when he saw a vision; the angel again, the angel of Tavistock, the angel from Jerusalem, who had dropped out of the church window and set him up in business with half-a-crown; and she came to meet him in the road, as angels do, with his basket in her hand, and just the same pitiful look in her eyes. There was no church just by, only a little white cottage; but perhaps it was furnished like a church, with coloured windows, booming organ, and a big black book on the outspread wings of a golden goose. "I have got some of the vases. The children have not taken them all," said Boodles. "I saw it from the window. What have you done?" "They knows, your reverent; I don't," gasped Brightly. He didn't know how he ought to address the angel, but he thought "your reverent" might do for the present. He stood upon the road, panting, shivering, and coughing, while Boodles looked at him and tried to laugh, but couldn't. "What a dreadful cough!" she said sorrowfully. "It's asthma, your reverent. I allus has it, and rheumatics tu--just here, cruel, your reverent. I be getting blind. I don't seem able to see you properly," he said, in the voice of one saying his prayers, and half choking all the time. "Don't call me your reverent," said Boodles. "How silly! I--I'm only a little girl." Brightly had always supposed that celestial beings are modest. He only shook his head at that remark. He had seen little girls, and knew quite well what they were like. They didn't have golden skin and a glory about their heads, neither did they drop down suddenly before starving and persecuted beings, to give them half-crowns, and save them from their enemies. "Asthma, rheumatics, and getting blind," he repeated, shattering the words with coughs. He hoped the angel might touch him and heal his infirmities if he told her all about them. She only gave him the basket, and said: "You had better come in and rest. I don't like to hear you cough so. I hope you haven't been stealing anything?" she said reproachfully. "I ain't done nothing--nothing serious," declared Brightly. "I was a-sitting on the heather, singing about Jesus and us belonging to 'en, when policeman comes a-shouting, there 'a be,' and I ran, your reverent. I was that mazed I didn't hardly know what I was doing. They'm after I now, and I ain't done nothing that I knows on. I was a-yetting my bread and cheese and singing. I warn't a-harming a living thing. I warn't a-harming not a butterfly, your reverent." Boodles would have laughed had Brightly been a less pathetic object. She said she believed he was honest, bent to pat Ju, then took them both into the cottage and into the little room where old Weevil was preparing a long screed, to be addressed to some society, and headed: "An Inquiry into the Number of Earthworms mutilated annually by Agricultural Implements." He was very much astonished when he saw Brightly, but became as pitiful as the girl when he had heard the story. "I am sure he speaks the truth," said Boodles for the defence. "I don't care whether it's the truth or a lie. Another poor thing caught by the Brute," muttered Weevil. "We must help him to escape. We will keep him here until dark, and then he can creep away. It's what we are always doing, all of us--trying to creep away from the Brute." Brightly seated himself in a reverential attitude, regarding poor old Weevil as a patriarch, a sort of modern Abraham who had pitched his tent in that part of the country for the benefit of the poor and friendless. He wondered if the patriarch was a prophet also, and could tell him if he would ever attain to the pony and cart; but he had not the courage to ask. "What are those things in your basket?" said Weevil. "Two rabbit-skins, sir. I makes my living out o' they. Least I tries to," added Brightly drearily. "Where have you come from?" "To-day from Lydford, sir. Yesterday from Belstone, round Okehampton, and over Sourton Down. Trade be bad, sir." "How many miles is that?" "Mebbe nearly twenty from Belstone. I went round about like, and pitched to Lydford last night." "Twenty miles for two rabbit-skins. Merciful God!" gasped Weevil. "Amen, sir," said Brightly. "Don't you know what the policeman wants you for?" "I don't, sir. I was a-sitting on the heather when he come, and I ran. I got to the top o' the village, and a lot more of 'em were after I, and I ran again. I got away from 'em, and was a-coming back vor my basket, when the reverent appeared avore I wi' my basket in the reverent's hand." "That's me," said Boodles, demurely and ungrammatically, in answer to Weevil's puzzled look. She was feeding Ju with biscuit, stroking her thin sides at the same time, and making the poor bitch share her master's impressions concerning the pleasant nature of angelic visions. There was a knock upon the door, not the timid knock of a visitor, nor the obsequious knock of a tradesman, but the loud defiant knock of authority. The constable had arrived, full of cider and a sense of duty, and behind him a number of villagers had gathered together, with a sprinkling of children, some of whom had stolen Brightly's vases, and seen him enter Lewside Cottage, and then had run off to spread the news everywhere. "Very sorry, miss," said the policeman, with a polite hiccup. "You've got the man I'm after. Got in when you wasn't looking, likely enough. He'm a bad lot. I've been after him a long time, and now I've got him." "What has he done?" said Boodles, guarding the door, and making signs to Weevil to get Brightly out at the back. "Robbery with violence, attempted murder, and keeping a dog wi'out a licence," said the happy policeman, in the satisfied manner of a fat boy chewing Turkish delight. "You must stand aside, if you plase, miss. Mustn't interfere with the course of law and justice." "It's horrid," cried the child. "I'm sure he has done nothing." "Come away, my maid. We can't do anything," called Weevil tremulously. "The man must go to the Brute. Innocent or guilty, it's all the same. The Brute has us all in turn." Brightly sat in the corner coughing, and beside him Ju huddled, swallowing the last crumbs of biscuit. They were an unlovely but entirely inoffensive pair. A student of human nature would have acquitted the pinched little man of guilt at a glance, but the policeman was not a student of either human nature, law, or morals. He had promotion to consider, and weak and friendless beings like Brightly were valuable assets in a place where opportunities for distinction were few. Brightly had no relations to come behind the constable on a dark night and half murder him. Little difficulties like that compelled him to look the other way when commoners set the law aside. But Brightly and Ju were fair game, and the constable had long regarded them as such. "You come along with me," he said pleasantly, pulling at Brightly's sleeve. "Best come quiet, and I've got to warn ye that anything you ses will be used agin ye. If you tries to get away again 'twill go hard wi' ye." "What ha' I done, sir?" whispered Brightly, lifting his thin face and pathetic spectacles. He was not usually of an inquisitive nature, but he was curious then to learn the particular nature of the villainies he had committed. The policeman winked at Weevil and smiled greasily, meaning to imply that the prisoner was an old hand and a desperate character. "Ain't he a booty?" he said, with professional admiration for a daring criminal. "Wants to know what he's done. Well, I'll tell ye. Thursday night, not last week, but week avore, you set on Varmer Chegwidden as he was a-riding home peaceable across Gibbet Hill, and you pulled 'en off his horse, and stripped the clothes off 'en, and flung 'en into vuzzy-bushes, and purty nigh murdered 'en, and you steals his money and his clothes, and you'm a-wearing his clothes now; and he wants to know what he've been and done," said the policeman, with another wink at Weevil's distressed countenance. "What nonsense!" cried Boodles. "He pull Chegwidden off his horse! Why, Chegwidden could keep him off with two fingers." "He'm one of the artfullest criminals in the country," explained the constable. "How did you get those clothes?" asked the girl, turning towards the accused. "Picked 'en up in a wheal, your reverent," answered Brightly. "Didn't I tell ye?" cried the policeman. "Artful ain't the word for 'en. If 'twasn't for me, and the evidence I got agin him, he'd purty nigh make the magistrates believe he was innocent. Walks about in stolen clothes, he du, and says he never stole 'em. Takes a bit of a bad 'un to du that." Brightly could not understand much about it, but he supposed it was all right. He was evidently a rascal, but he felt almost proud to learn that he had dragged Chegwidden off his horse, although he could not remember having done so. His own impression was that if he had seen Chegwidden approaching he would have fled like a frightened rabbit. He supposed they would not hang him, and anyhow, if they did try, the angel would very likely appear before him and help him to escape, and show him a short-cut to Jerusalem, or tell him how he could get the pony and cart without being accused of having stolen them. He got up, ready to go with the policeman, and Ju rose too and shook herself, knowing nothing of the law. "Where's your dog-licence?" demanded the constable. Brightly looked about in his misery, but his glasses were so dim he could see nothing. He had always been afraid that question would come, and he had often wondered how he should answer it. He had tried again and again to save up for that licence in pennies and halfpence, but it was quite impossible. The sum never reached a shilling. Prosperous commoners could easily obtain exemption orders for their dogs; but a large sum of money was demanded from him, although he had none, for the right to keep his only little friend. "I ain't got no paper, sir," he said. "I've tried time and time, but the pennies wun't keep. I couldn't mak' it up. I'll tell 'en how I tried to save it, sir." Boodles turned to the window and her shoulders began to shake, while old Weevil was using his handkerchief as if he had a cold. The constable was grinning more than ever. After such zeal on his part he considered that his promotion to a more important station was practically assured. "Don't tak' the little dog away, sir; don't ye. I ain't got much, sir, only the basket and bit of oil-cloth to keep the rain off, and the vases, and two rabbit-skins, and four pennies in my pocket, and she, sir. I ain't got nothing else, 'cept an old pan to Belstone Cleave what I cooks in, and a few bits o' cloam, and a blanket I sleeps under. I never stoled the clothes, sir. I picked 'en up in the wheal, and reckoned they'd been thrown away. I'll give 'em back, sir. I'll tak' 'em back to Varmer Chegwidden to wance, sir." The policeman did not listen to that nonsense. He had his duty to think of, and with a loud "Come on here" he fished a bit of rope out of his pocket and tied it round Ju's neck. The dog shrank back, frightened at such roughness, so the man promptly kicked her with his big boot and growled angrily, "Bite me, will ye?" There was a yelp of pain from the poor beast, and the next moment the constable had himself to think of. Brightly lost control over himself. He could bear most things fairly well, but not cruelty to Ju. He flung out his raw hands in a blind sort of way, and one went against the policeman's nose, and the other on his ear, astonishing the fat creature a good deal, but not hurting him in the least, as Brightly's arms had no strength in them. "Assaulting the police," he cried triumphantly, feeling for his note-book, "resisting arrest, and keeping a furious animal not under proper control." "She did not try to bite you," choked Boodles in a tearful manner. "He did not assault you. He was only protecting his dog;" while old Weevil clutched the table, his head nodding wildly as if it was about to fall off, muttering continually, "The Brute! the Brute!" "You had better be careful," the child went on. "We shall come and give evidence against you." The fat constable was more amused than angry at the threat. As if the magistrates would believe a silly old man and a foolish young girl, when he had the crowd of villagers outside to swear that Brightly had knocked him about and Ju had bitten him. Not that the villagers had seen anything, but that would not make much difference, as he could easily tell them what had happened. He had always kept in with them, and winked at their little peccadilloes, and they would not forsake him in the hour of need. On the whole the constable was a much bigger rogue than Brightly. Presently there was a scene upon the road and much laughter. The policeman went before dragging Ju at the end of the rope, and the villagers followed after, enjoying themselves exceedingly. There was not much excitement in their lives, and this was as good as a pony-drift or an otter-hunt, for Brightly had assumed the part of buffoon and was making a fool of himself for their delectation. The policeman did not hold him, as he was unlikely to escape again, and besides, Ju was giving so much trouble. She had to be dragged along over the stones and through the gorse, with her tongue hanging out and the rope chafing her neck, and the policeman found it necessary to kick her frequently because she was "so contrairy like"; while Brightly jumped about like a new kind of frog, his glasses nearly tumbling from his nose, his big useless eyes bulging, and his foolish hands flapping in the air, whining and panting like his dog, and blubbering like a baby. "Give I back my little dog. Don't ye tak' my little dog away, sir. You'm hurting she cruel, and her ain't done nothing. Ah, don't ye kick she, sir. Let she come wi' I, sir. Her will follow I close. Her wun't run away. Her be scared of yew, sir, and you'm hurting she cruel." The villagers applauded these sayings, and tried to encourage Brightly to perform again for their benefit. He was funnier than a dancing-bear, and his dramatic efforts were very much appreciated. "Go at 'en again," they shouted, and Brightly responded nobly. "I'll starve and pinch for the money, sir, if yew lets she go. I'll save 'en up somehow, pennies and duppences, till I gets the seven-and-sixpence for the paper. 'Tis a cruel lot o' money for a hungry man, but I'll get it, sir. I'll work day and night and get it, sir." "Steal it from one of you, likely," shouted the constable, grinning more greasily than ever at the tumultuous laughter which welcomed his subtle humour. He was so delighted at having discovered within him a hitherto unsuspected vein of humour that he tried again, and won instant recognition of his brilliant talent with the inspired witticism, "Walks about in Varmer Chegwidden's clothes, and says he never stole 'em." "Purty near killed varmer tu. Tored 'en off his horse and beat 'en mazed," added the reprobate, who saw no reason why the policeman should have all the jokes. Some of the others regarded Brightly with admiration. He was not only a clever low-comedian, but he was also the most desperate character on all Dartmoor. They were well able to appreciate the spirit of lawlessness because their own careers had been strongly marked with the same peculiarity. He was not exactly their idea of what a criminal ought to be, as in appearance he was little better than a half-starved worm, but the fact remained that he was a criminal, and as such was entitled to receive their admiration and their stones. "Listen to 'en! He'm play-acting again," shouted the reprobate. "Du'ye let I have my little dog, sir. Don't ye tak' she away 'cause I can't pay for the paper," whined Brightly, continuing his strange dance of agony. "I ain't got nothing now, sir. My vases be took, and my basket and rabbit-skins, and her be all I have. I'd ha' paid the fine for she, sir, but trade be cruel dull, and the pennies wun't keep. Don't ye tak' she away, sir. I couldn't go abroad on Dartmoor wi'out she. I'd think and wonder what had come to she, and 'twould hurt I cruel." "You ain't going to tramp about on Dartmoor. You'm going to prison," shouted the witty policeman, while the villagers applauded him again, and Ju struggled, and Brightly went on weeping. Not every one would have enjoyed the spectacle, although the constable and the crowd appreciated it. The rugged little mountains stood about silently, and became tired perhaps of looking on, for they began to mask their heads in mist. Even the sun didn't like it, and rolled himself up in a dark cloud, and came out no more that day. It was autumn, there was a smell of decay in the air, and a sense of sorrow somehow. The dark days were near; the time when warm earth, bright flowers, joy of life, are so unreal, so far away, that it seems sometimes they may not return again. In due course Brightly appeared before the magistrates, as sober a set of justices as ever lived, as learned in law as a row of owls, but carefully driven by a clerk, who kept their heads up, and their feet from stumbling into the ditch. The case was fully stated, and witnesses were called, among them Chegwidden, who had missed several Thursday evenings out, and was then only just well enough to attend the court. He explained that he had been riding home from Brentor on a dark windy night, and had been suddenly attacked, dragged off his horse, and stunned by a blow on the head. He remembered nothing more until he found himself in bed at home. He identified the clothes as his property. In answer to a question he admitted he had seen no one, but the attack had been made suddenly, and the night was very dark. Had he been drinking? Well, he might have taken a glass at Brentor, but not enough to upset him. He was a sober man. Nobody had ever seen him the worse for liquor, although he confessed he was not a teetotaler. Others, who also owned they were not teetotalers, although they were for the most part habitual drunkards, swore that Chegwidden was a sober man, and they had never seen him the worse for liquor. They did not add it was because they had been probably too drunk to see anything. Their evidence was accepted, although the magistrates might have known that it is impossible to obtain evidence which will incriminate a commoner from his own parishioners. They will give evidence against a man of the next parish, but not against one of their own. In such a case perjury is not with them a fault, but a virtue. The members of a parish hang together. They may hate each other, curse each other, fight with each other, but they will not give evidence against one another before outsiders. Brightly lived nowhere apparently, having no parish and no clan; therefore any one was prepared to give evidence against him, more especially as he had attacked one of themselves. His guilt was clear enough. The members of the Bench could not in their hearts believe that he had overpowered a strong man like Chegwidden; but the testimony of the clothes could not be set aside. It was obvious he had stolen them. The constable gave him a bad character. There was no doubt he had been guilty of all kinds of grievous offences, only he was such an artful creature that he had hitherto succeeded in evading the law. He feigned to be asthmatic and half blind in order that he might secure a reputation for inoffensiveness; and he pretended to go about the moor buying rabbit-skins, while it was suspected that his real motive was to steal from farm-houses, or to pass on any information he might acquire in his wanderings to a gang of burglars who had not as yet been apprehended. The constable made up a very pretty story against Brightly. The little man listened and tried not to be amazed. So he had been a rascal all the time and had never known it. No doubt it was true, for the gentlemen said so. He had pleaded not guilty, but he could not be sure about it, and he began to suspect that he must have told them a lie. The chairman, a kindly old gentleman, who had lived long enough to know that it is a pleasant thing to be merciful, was inclined to deal with the case summarily, as it was a first offence; but, unfortunately for Brightly, there was a clergyman upon the Bench, a very able man, who received eight hundred a year for keeping a curate to preach twice on Sundays and perform any little week-day duties that might be required. He objected strongly, stating it was one of the worst cases he had ever known, and certainly not one in which the quality of mercy could be strained. Clemency on their part would be a mistaken kindness, and would assuredly tend to a regrettable increase of the lawlessness which, as he and his brother magistrates were so well aware, prevailed to such an alarming extent in the mid-Devon parishes. They were then given the opportunity of dealing with an individual who was, he feared, though he was sorry to have to say it plainly, one of the pests of civilisation. They were there to do their duty, which was necessarily unpleasant and even painful. They were there, not to yield to a false sentiment, and to encourage vice, but to suppress it by every means in their power. If they did not protect law-abiding people from highwaymen and robbers, of what use were they? He ventured to think, and to say, none whatever. He concluded by stating that he was strongly in favour of committing the prisoner for trial at the Assizes. There was another charge against the miserable Brightly. He had kept a dog without a licence. At that point Boodles stepped forward, with quaint old Weevil at her side, and said in her pretty girlish way that if the magistrates would allow it she would pay for the licence. Brightly began to weep at that, which was a bad thing for him, as only the worst type of cunning criminals venture upon that sort of appeal to the court. Boodles had a little money saved, and she had easily obtained Weevil's permission to spend part of it in this manner. The chairman beamed at her through his glasses, and said she was a very kind-hearted little girl, and he regretted very much they could not take advantage of her generous offer. They appreciated it very much, but he assured her that she was wasting her kindness and sympathy upon an object totally unworthy. It was their duty, he hoped, to encourage generosity; but it was still more their duty just then to punish vice. They thanked her very much, but it was quite impossible for many reasons to encourage her kindness on the prisoner's behalf. He hoped she would devote the money to some more deserving cause. Boodles listened with her head down, sighed very much, and then she and Weevil left the court. The constable's chance had come. He described Ju as a savage and mangy cur, and he offered to produce her for the inspection of their worships. He said the dog had tried to bite him, and he hoped the Bench would issue an order for the animal's destruction. The magistrates conferred together, and the clergyman was soon saying that he had enjoyed a very large experience with dogs, chiefly sporting-dogs he admitted, but he knew that animals which had been associated with criminals were always unpleasant, frequently diseased, and generally ferocious. He should certainly vote in favour of the animal's destruction. Brightly confirmed the worst suspicions of the Bench by his foolish and extravagant conduct. The deliberations were soon over. Brightly was committed for trial, and Ju was sentenced to be destroyed. CHAPTER XVI ABOUT WITCHCRAFT One day Peter went into the village to buy stimulants, and found, when he reached the house of the creaking sign-board, that he was penniless; a serious discovery, because the landlord was an austere man who allowed no "slate." Some people are born thirsty, others have thirstiness thrust upon them, and a third class, to which Peter belonged, acquire thirstiness by toilsome and tedious endeavour. It was a long walk, and the moor, like the bones in the valley, was very dry; there was not a foot of shade, and the wind was parching. Peter had long ago discovered it was easy to acquire thirst by the simple expedient of proceeding as directly as possible to the place where it could be quenched. He would borrow three-halfpence from his sister, or extract it from her box if she was absent, and then make for the village by the nearest route, winning the necessary dryness as he went. On this occasion he had forgotten about money, chiefly because he had not been compelled to borrow or steal from Mary recently, as Chegwidden had unconsciously supplied him with the means for enjoyment. Peter leaned against the wall, and cursed all living creatures and things inanimate. He flattered himself with the belief that he was a man who never wasted time. He had walked from the hut-circles with a definite object, which was twofold: the acquiring of thirst and the quenching of the same. The first part had been attained to perfection, but unfortunately it was the inferior part, it was the laborious side, and the reward was not to come because he had been absent-minded before the event, instead of, as was usually the case, afterwards. He wondered if there was in the immediate neighbourhood any charitable soul who would lend him twopence, not to be repaid. It was a feast-day in the village. Chapel tea and an Ebenezer love-feast were in full swing, for Pezzack and his bride had arrived that day to take up their abode in a cottage which had been freshly whitewashed to symbolise the spotless nature of its new occupants' souls. Children, dressed in their best, had earlier paraded the street with a yellow banner, shrill hymn-screaming, and a box to collect the offerings of the faithful. It had been announced that Pezzack would preside over the tea, and that his bride would pour it out. Eli would recite grace, and all the children would say amen. Later there would be prayer and preaching, when Pendoggat was expected to give further proof of his rough eloquence and of his devotion to the particular form of religion which he favoured and to the pastor who was its faithful and local representative. Then a blessing would be given, and the girls and young men would pair off in the dark and embrace in lonely places. Peter saw signs of the love-feast, and tokens of the refreshments, and the sight increased his thirst. Had beer been on supply within the chapel, instead of rather weak tea, he would probably have experienced a sudden ardour for religion, and have hurried there with incoherent entreaties to be placed on the penitential bench and received into the Wesleyan fold. As the festivities were of an entirely temperate nature, so far as things fluid were concerned, he decided to go and visit school-master. It was not in the least likely that the old man would lend him twopence, but Peter had enough wit to argue that it is often the most unlikely things which happen. Master was sitting at his window, writing a letter to his son in Canada. He welcomed Peter gladly, and at once asked him to spell "turnips." It was a strange question, considering their positions, but Master explained he was getting so old and forgetful, and never could get the simple words right. The long and difficult words he could spell readily enough, but when it came to anything easy he felt so mazed he couldn't seem to think of anything. "I be telling my Jackie how amazing fine the turnips be this fall," he explained. Peter was glad to oblige Master. To help him with such an obscure word would be worth twopence. Slowly and stertorously he spelt it thus: "Turnnups." "B'est sure that's right?" said Master, rather suspiciously. Peter had no doubt whatever. He could spell harder words than that, and with the same accuracy. "Seems to me somehow some spells 'en wi' one _n_," said Master. "Us don't. Us allus spells 'en wi' two," said Peter. "I reckon you'm right. What yew knows I larnt ye," said Master. "I larnt yew and Mary to spell, and I mind the time when yew was a bit of a lad wi' a turned-up nose and squinty eyes. Proper ugly yew was. Didn't I whack they old breeks o' yourn? Aw now, didn't I? Dusted 'em proper, I did. In these council schules what they has now there bain't no beating, but love ye, Peter, in the old village schules us used to whack the lads every day--aye, and the maids tu. There be many a dame about here and Lydford whose buttocks I warmed when her was a maid. Them was brave times, Peter, sure 'nuff." "Better volks tu. Us had Dartmoor to ourselves them days," said Peter, anxious to propitiate the old man. "Mun spell all the words proper when I writes to Jackie. He'm vull o' education," Master went on. "T-u-r-double-n, turnn, n-u-p-s, nups, turnnups. Aw, Peter, yew ain't forgot what I larnt ye." He put down his pen, assumed the mantle of Nestor, and asked: "Can I oblige ye, Peter?" The little man replied that he could, to the extent of twopence. Master became grave and sorrowful, wagged his head, and behaved generally as people will when the integrity of their purse is threatened. "Anything else, Peter--advice, sympathy, loving-kindness, you'm welcome," he answered. "I be a poor man. I was never treated as I deserved, yew mind. If I lends two pennies they don't come back. I be an old man, and I've a-larnt that. They be like little birds, what come to my window in winter for crumbs, and don't come back 'cept for more crumbs. I be advising yew, Peter; don't ye borrow money, I ses. And I be advising myself; don't ye lend it, I ses." This was all very wise, only Peter could not appreciate it. Wisdom slakes no man's thirst. He replied that he had come to the village for sugar, and Mother Cobley at the shop refused to serve him without the money, which he had unfortunately forgotten. He added an opinion of Mother Cobley which was not charitable. Master recited other verses from his book of wisdom. To succeed in trade it was necessary to be severe when people came buying without money. He admitted that Mother Cobley practised severity to the point of ruthlessness, he was not prepared to deny that Mother Cobley would rather permit her closest relations to walk in darkness than advance them one tallow candle to walk by on credit, but he impressed upon Peter the fact that Mother Cobley was a "poor lone widdie" who had to protect herself against the wiles of customers. To sum up the matter: "If yew buys her sugar her wants your twopence. It bain't no profit to she if yew has her sugar and she don't ha' your twopence. It gives she what us calls book-debts, and they be muddlesome and contrairy things." With the ethics of business Peter was not concerned while the thirst was spreading through his body. So far it had been confined to the tongue and throat, but while Master talked it extended its ravages throughout the whole of his system. Peter began to be afraid he would not be able to walk home without liquid assistance. Not the smallest copper coin of the realm could be hoped for from Master; but Peter was something of a strategist, he comprehended there were more ways than one out of his present difficulties, just as there are more ways than one into a house, and an enemy can be attacked from the rear as well as in front. Master certainly refused to advance him twopence, but he could hardly in common charity refuse him what the twopence would have purchased, if he was convinced that the need was urgent. So Peter put a hand to his throat, and made strange noises, and said it was coming on again. "What be the matter?" asked Master. "Hot vuzzy kind o' prickiness all over like. Starts in the throat, and goes all through. I be main cruel sick, Master." "My dear life, but that be serious," cried Master. "What du'ye tak' for 'en, Peter?" "Something cooling. Water will du. Beer be better though." "I ain't got any beer, but I ha' cider, I'll fetch ye some in a mug," said Master. He trotted off, while Peter sat and chuckled, and felt much better. He was not wasting his time after all; neither was he spending any money. When Master returned with a froth-topped cloam Peter adopted something of the reverential attitude of Sir Galahad in the presence of the Sangreal, drank deeply, and when he could see the bottom of the mug declared that the dangerous symptoms had departed from him for a season. Having nothing else to detain him he rose to go, and was at the door when Master called him back. "Purty nigh forgot to tell ye," he said, pointing to a goose-quill erect in a flower-pot upon the window-seat. "Put that feather there to mind me to tell Mary or yew, if so be I saw yew go by. There be volks stopping wi' Betty Middleweek, artist volks, and they'm got a gurt ugly spaniel dog what's been and killed a stray goosie. Betty ses 'tis Mary's Old Sal, and I was to tell ye. Betty ha' got the goosie in her linny. Mary had best go and look at 'en." Peter rubbed his hands and became very convalescent. The heavens were showering favours upon him. Artist folks could afford to pay heavy damages. "I'll go and tell Mary to wance," he said. "Us will mak' 'em pay. Old Sal be worth a sight o' money. Us wouldn't ha' lost she for fifty pound. Thank ye kindly, Master." "Nothing's no trouble, Peter. Hope you'll be better to-morrow," said the kindly old man. Peter brought on another thirst by the haste with which he hurried back to inform his sister that her Old Sal had been destroyed "by artist volks stopping wi' Betty Middleweek, at least not by they, but by a gurt big ugly Spanish dog what belongs to 'em." Mary wasted no time. She did not trouble to attire herself suitably, but merely took a great stick "as big as two years and a dag," as she described it, and set off for the village; while Peter, who had "got the taste," as he described it, determined to help himself from Mary's money-box and follow her later on with a view to continuing the treatment which had benefited him so greatly in Master's cottage. The artists were having their evening meal when Mary arrived and beat heavily upon the door. They were summoned, the body of the goose was brought from the linhay, Mary became coroner and sat upon the defunct with due solemnity. There was no question about its identity. The name of the bird which had been done to death by the dangerous dog was Old Sal beyond all argument. "Aw now, bain't it a pity, a cruel pity, poor Old Sal!" wailed Mary, and would not be comforted until the artist produced his purse and said he was willing to pay, while his wife hovered in attendance to see that he did not pay too much. "He was a booty, the best mother on Dartmoor, and he laid eggs, my dear. Aw ees, a butiful lot o' eggs. He was always a-laying of 'em. And now he'm dead, and wun't lay no more, and wun't never be a mother again. Hurts I cruel to see him lying there. Would rather see Peter lying there than him." "I understand the market price of geese is eightpence a pound," said the artist nervously, awed by the gaunt presence of Mary and her patriarchal staff. "If you will have the bird weighed I will pay you, as I cannot deny that my dog killed it." At that Mary gave an exceeding bitter cry. Eightpence a pound for Old Sal! That was the market price, she admitted, but Old Sal had been unique, a paragon among web-footed creatures, a model for other geese to imitate if they could, the original goose of which all others were indifferent copies, the very excellence and quintessence of ganders. It was impossible to estimate the value of Old Sal in mere cash, although she was willing to make that attempt. It was the perfection of Old Sal's moral character and domestic attainments that Mary dwelt upon. He had been all that a mother and an egg-layer should be. He was---- Words were wanting to express what. He had been the leader of the flock, the guiding star of the young, and the restraining influence of the foolish. The loss was irreparable. Such geese appeared possibly once in a century, and Mary would not live to see the like of her Old Sal again. Then there were the mental and moral damages to be considered. Money could not mend the evil which had been done, although money should certainly be allowed to try. Mary suggested that the experiment might commence with the transfer of five pounds. "This bird is in very poor condition. It is quite thin," said the artist's wife. "Thin!" shouted Mary. "Aw, my dear, du'ye go under avore yew be struck wi' lightning. He'm vull o' meat. Look at 'en, not a bone anywheres. He'm as soft wi' fat as a bog be o' moss, and so cruel heavy I can't hardly lift 'en. Yew don't know a goosie when yew sees one, my dear. Never killed one in your life, I reckon. Aw now, never killed a goosie, and ses Old Sal be thin! He was as good a mother as yew, my dear, and when it comes to laying eggs--" The artist's wife thought it was time to "go under," or at all events to disappear, as Mary was getting excited. At that point Betty Middleweek appeared and whispered to Mary; and at the same time a little boy in quaint costume, with a head two sizes too large, shuffled up the garden path, and stood staring at the defunct goose with large vacant eyes. "He bain't your Old Sal after all," said Betty. "He belongs to Mary Shakerley, and her little Charlie ha' come for him. He saw the dog go after 'en, and he ran away mazed like to tell his mother, but her had gone to Tavistock market, and ha' just come home." "He've only got one eye," piped little Charlie in evidence. Mary examined the dead body. It was that of a one-eyed goose. "Aw now," she said in a disappointed fashion, "I reckon he bain't my Old Sal after all." "I am willing to pay some one. Who is it to be?" asked the artist, who wanted to get back to his food. "Please to pay little Charlie, sir," said Betty Middleweek. "Charlie, come up to the gentleman." "Well, my lad, how much do you want for your goose? Eightpence a pound, is it?" "Dear life!" cried Mary. "He hain't worth eightpence a pound. Look at 'en! He'm a proper old goosie, wi'out a bit o' meat on his bones, and the feathers fair dropping out o' his skin wi' age. He'd ha' scared the dog off if he'd been a young bird, or got away from 'en. My Old Sal would ha' tored any dog to pieces. Don't ye pay eightpence a pound. He hain't worth it. He never laid no eggs, I reckon, and he warn't no good for a mother. He'd ha' died purty soon if that dog o' yours hadn't killed 'en." "You seem to have altered your opinions rather suddenly," said the artist. "Well, I bain't a one-eyed old gander," said Mary. "I knows what goosies ought to be to fetch eightpence a pound, and I can see he ain't got enough meat on him to feed a heckimal. Aw, my dear life, if I can't tell a goosie when I sees him who can?" And off went Mary, striking her big stick noisily on the ground, wiping her nose on the back of her hand, and muttering an epitaph upon the still missing Old Sal, who, she supposed, had been carried off by some evil beast and devoured in the secret places of the moor. It was dark by this time, and the Ebenezer love-feast was over, so far as the eating and drinking and prayer-meeting were concerned. The god of good cheer had been worshipped, and now the goddess of common wayside love was receiving incense. Autumn invariably discovers those hardy perennials of the hedges and ditches--lovers--leaning against gates as if they were tied there. The fields and the moor are too wet to sprawl on, so at the end of October the gate season sets in, and continues until spring dries the grass. The gates are nothing like so damp as the hedges, and are much softer than boundary walls, although the latter are not without their patrons. Lovers are orthodox folk, who never depart from their true religion, or seek to subtract any clause from their creed. The young girl knows that her mother was courted against a gate, and that her grandmother was courted against a gate, so she is quite ready to be courted against a gate. It must be difficult to feel the necessary ardour, when several degrees of frost are nipping their noses, and a regular Dartmoor wind whirls up and down the lanes; but these gate-leaners manage it somehow. Peter was having a pleasant day. He had followed up his success at Master's expense with a little bout at Mary's, and it was with a feeling of unalloyed satisfaction with himself that he started for home, returning thanks after his own manner to the god who presides over beer-houses. The benign influence of malted liquors was over him, stimulating his progress, rendering him heedless of the dark, and impervious to the cold. It was an unpleasant night, not frosty, but choked with clouds, and filled with raw mist. Peter had passed several gates, most of them occupied by couples finishing the day in a devout fashion, but he had said nothing, not even the customary "good-night," because it was not lawful to speak to people when thus privily engaged. Couples are supposed to be invisible while courting, and with the full knowledge of this point of etiquette they usually conduct themselves as if they were. Peter got up upon the moor, where the wind twisted his beard about as if it had been a furze-bush, and made his way beside one of the boundary walls which denoted some commoner's field. It was the usual Dartmoor wall, composed of blocks of granite placed one above the other in an irregular pattern without mud or method, each stone kept in place by the weight of those above it; a wall which a boy could have pulled down quickly one stone at a time, but if unmolested would stand and defy the storms for ever. It was a long wall, and there were three gates in it, but no lovers against them; at least not against the first two. But as Peter approached the last, which was well out on the moor where nobody but himself would be likely to pass that night, he heard voices, or rather one voice, speaking loudly, either in anger or in passion, and he recognised that it was Pendoggat who was speaking. Peter crept up stealthily, keeping close beside the wall, which was just about the height of his nose. When near the gate he went on his hands and knees. The voice had ceased, but he heard kisses, and various other sounds which suggested that if Pendoggat was upon the other side of the wall there was probably a woman with him. Peter crawled closer, lifted himself, placed the grimy tips of his fingers upon the top stones, which were loose and rocking, and peeped over. There was a certain amount of light upon the high moor, enough of a weird ghostly sort of phosphorescence for him to see the guilty couple, Pendoggat and Thomasine. They were quite near, upon the peat, beside one of the granite gate-posts, and directly underneath Peter's nose. The little man grinned to see such sport. The moral side of the affair did not present itself before his barbaric mind. It was the spectacular part which appealed to him. He decided to remain there, and play the part of Peeping Tom. Had Pendoggat been sensible, which was not possible, as sense and passion do not run together, he must have known that the discovery of his liaison with Thomasine could only be a matter of time. The greatest genius that ever lived would find it beyond him to conduct an illicit love-affair in a Dartmoor parish without being found out in the long run. He had employed every ordinary caution. It was not in the least likely that any one would be crossing beside that wall after dark; but the least likely things are those which happen, not only in Dartmoor parishes, but elsewhere. Peter had not stood there long when very ordinary things occurred, all of them unfortunate for him. To begin with, he developed a violent attack of hiccups which could not be restrained. Then the stone to which he was holding kept on rocking and giving forth grating noises. The wind was also blowing pretty strongly; and what with the wind externally and the hiccups within Peter was soon in a bad way. He made up his mind to beat a retreat, but his decision came rather too late. He felt a hiccup approaching more violent than its predecessors; he compressed his lips and held his breath, hoping to strangle it; but Nature was not to be cheated; his lips were forced asunder, the hiccup came, its sound went out into the moor, and at the same moment Peter slipped, grabbed at the stone, and sent it bowling upon the peat on the other side of the wall. He gave a squeal like a frightened rabbit, and with another parting hiccup turned and ran. He did not get far before Pendoggat caught him. Peter was a stumpy little creature with no idea of running; and he was captured at the end of the wall, and received a blow upon the head which nearly stunned him. Pendoggat stood over him, half mad with fury, striking at him again and again; while Peter made quaint noises, half passion and half pain. Suddenly the clouds parted westward, and Pendoggat could see Ger Tor outlined against a liverish patch of night sky. By the same light he saw Peter; and his madness departed, and he became a coward, when he caught a glimpse of the little man's malignant eyes. Peter was his enemy for ever, and he knew it. Neither of them had spoken a word. Pendoggat had growled and spluttered; Peter had choked and mumbled; the river far beneath roared because it was full of rain. These were all incoherent noises. Pendoggat began to slink away, as if he had received the beating, shivering and looking back, but seeing nothing except a dull little heap beside the wall, which seemed to have many hands, all of them scrabbling in the dirt. Peter panted hard, as if he had been hunted across the moor by the whist hounds, and had come there to take shelter; but all the time he went on scraping up the clay, gathering it into a ball, spitting on it, moulding it, and muttering madly from time to time: "You'm him! You'm him!" During those first few moments, after leaving that horrible little man beneath the wall scrabbling with his hands, Pendoggat swore solemnly that he would make Thomasine his wife, swore it to himself, to the God that he believed in, and to her, if only nothing happened. Presently Peter went on towards his home; and in his arms was a fantastic little thing of clay, a thing forked and armed like a human being, a sort of doll. When he got back he cleared the hearthstone, blew the peat into a red smoulder with his mouth, then took the doll, spoke to it solemnly, placed it upon the hottest part of the hearth, and piled the red embers round it. When Mary came in to call him to supper she found Peter sitting in a kind of trance before the hearthstone, and following his gaze she saw the quaint clay doll sitting upright in the centre of the fire, with the red peat gathered into a fiery little hell around it on every side. "Aw, Peter!" she gasped in a tremulous whisper, falling on her knees at his side. "Who be the mommet, Peter? Who be the mommet?" "Varmer Pendoggat," said Peter. CHAPTER XVII ABOUT PASTIMES One cannot help wondering how the early inhabitants of Dartmoor spent their time. Possibly the men found plenty of work for their hands, while the ladies talked of their babies, though they could hardly talk of their clothes. Chapel teas and beer-houses were unknown, and the people may have led a wandering existence, following their cattle and goats from place to place, and merely erecting rough shelters at every pasture ground. It is said that they appeared before the Roman agents, who came to the Cassiterides, which no doubt included the Dartmoor region, to procure the precious white metal, clad in black cloaks, with tunics reaching to their feet, and girdles round their waist. A more unsuitable costume for the moor could not have been devised, but it is probable that they were then in holiday attire. They were simple, taciturn, heavily-bearded men. Of their women nothing is known, because the historians of those days did not trouble themselves about inferior details, and ladies had not then commenced to brawl in the streets for their rights. The numerous hut-circles about the moor were no doubt built by these men, utilised more as temporary sheltering-places than permanent homes, and were possibly regarded as common property. The stone avenues may have been boundaries, and the circles are more likely to be the remains of pounds than the ruins of temples. The lamp of architecture had not then been lighted in Britain, and sun-worship is by its very nature antagonistic to temples. So much is conjecture, and cannot be anything else. Light is reached when we regard the great mounds beside the rivers, and the huge stone slabs which span them; and we know that prehistoric man was a miner, and that he objected to getting his feet wet. These rivers are mere streams to-day, which any one can wade across, and they could not have been larger when the bridges were erected. We know also by the presence of these slabs of granite, and various other stone remains, that the system of the corvée must have been practised upon Dartmoor; a good custom which disappeared centuries ago as an obligation on free people, but is still retained as an obligation on prisoners in such penal establishments as Princetown. The existence of rates for the maintenance of roads is a survival of the corvée in a form of demand upon those who can afford to pay, and not a few who cannot, for the upkeep of roads which many of them do not use; the idea of the rate being that the householder pays a sum which shall exempt him from the labours of the corvée, although without being given the option of offering his labour in lieu of cash. We may safely conjecture that prehistoric men attended to their duties of obligation as well as to their pastoral affairs; and made a little profit at odd times in the form of tin which they bartered for salt, vases, and domestic utensils, with the Roman agents, very much as Brightly, who was their descendant, bartered his vases for rabbit-skins. But what about their pastimes? History and tradition are alike silent on that point. They could not have been making love to their wives all their spare time. There must have been something to take the place of the beer-house, the chapel tea, the sing-songs, the rough-and-ready carnival. If tradition does not exactly speak it gives an echo. We listen to that echo, we put against it our knowledge of human nature, which does not change, and to that we add our experience of the desires, customs, and pastimes of the men who have passed into their places and live upon what was their ground; and then we get near the truth, possibly at the very heart of it. Their pastime was the shedding of blood. They fought together for the mere pleasure of inflicting wounds upon each other. They tortured inoffensive creatures because they were strong, the animals were weak, and the sight of suffering gave them a kind of pleasure. Since that barbaric age more than a thousand years of Christianity have done their civilising and humane work; have taught until there can be surely nothing left to teach; have practised until the virtues would have been pretty well worn out had they been practised less theoretically. And to-day one finds-- There were notices posted all over the place, upon walls and doors and gate-posts, little bills announcing a great pigeon- and rabbit-shoot, with money prizes for the three most successful competitors; the sport to conclude with a big feed at the inn at so much a head, drinks being extra. These shoots are among the most ordinary features of village life upon Dartmoor, and they are usually organised by the landlord of licensed premises, because at the conclusion of the sporting event the men gather together for the feed in a state of feverish excitement and soon drink themselves mad. That sort of thing means a handsome profit for the landlord. The men's passions are gratified, the victualler's pockets are filled, so every one is satisfied, and shoots do not lose in popularity year by year. The event was held in a field upon the side of the moor, and all sportsmen of the district were gathered together, with a few women, and as many children as could possibly get there. It was a great time for the small boys; better than a Sunday-school tea or chapel anniversary; no self-control was required of them at the shoot, they could let themselves go, and release every one of the seven little devils in them. Farmer Chegwidden was there, completely restored to health, though he had an ugly black scar on the side of his head. He was half drunk before proceedings commenced, because he said he could shoot better when in that condition, Pendoggat was there, silent and gloomy, but handling his gun as if he loved it. The old Master was there, tottering about with two sticks, beaming upon every one, and wishing the young men good-luck; and the landlord of the inn, who presided over the safe conveyance of the victims from his barn to the place of massacre, jumped here and there in a wild state of excitement, explaining the programme and issuing instructions to competitors. The constable was there, dropping fatness; and near him Pezzack, with grave and reverend aspect and new clothes, stood and made the thing respectable with his blessing. Two others were there who looked singularly out of place, and stood apart from the noisy crowd, both of them nervous and uncomfortable. They were Boodles and old Weevil. Close to them were crates stuffed full of pigeons, uttering from time to time little mournful notes, and bulging sacks filled with healthy rabbits. "It is so silly," said Boodles, rather petulantly. "You will only be ill. We had much better go away." "I must see it, darling--as much as I can bear. I am going to prepare a petition about these things, and I want to be fair. I must see for myself. It may not be so brutal as I believe it is." "Yes, it is, and worse. I know I shall be ill," said Boodles. "Go home, little girl. There is no reason why you should stay." "I'm not going to leave you," declared Boodles bravely. "Only do let's go further away from those poor things in the sacks. They keep on heaving so." "I must see it all," said the old man stubbornly. "Look the other way." "I can't. It fascinates me," she said. "Willum!" yelled the landlord. "Come along, my lad. Pigeons first. Dra' first blood, Willum." A young man stepped out, smiling in a watery fashion, handling his gun nervously. The landlord plunged his hand into a crate, caught a pigeon by the neck, and dragged it out. The trap was merely a basket with a string fastened to it, and it was placed scarcely a dozen yards from the shooter. "Kill 'en, Willum!" shouted the landlord as he pulled the string. Willum fired and missed. The bird flew straight at him, and with the second shot he broke its wing. The pigeon fell on the grass, fluttering helplessly, and Willum walked up to it with a solemn grin, gave it a kick, then flung it aside to die at its leisure. The small boys pounced upon it, and assisted its departure from the world. "Little devils," murmured Boodles, beginning to bite her handkerchief. "I think we are all devils here," said old Weevil. "This field is full of them. It is the field-day of the Brute, the worship of the Brute, the deification of the Brute." The shoot proceeded, and the men began to get warmed up. Not a single pigeon escaped, because those that got away from the field with the loss of only a few feathers were bound to fall victims to the men who had posted themselves all round with the idea of profiting by the competitors' bad shots. The only man who was perfectly composed was Pendoggat. He shot at the pigeons, and killed them, as if he had been performing a religious duty. Chegwidden, on the other hand, shouted all the time and fired like a madman. The little boys were kept hard at work torturing the maimed birds to death, with much joyous and innocent laughter. "How be ye, Master? Purty fine shooting, I reckon," cried an old crony, hobbling up with a holiday air. "Butiful," said Master. "Us be too old vor't, I reckon." "Us bain't too old to enjoy it," said the old crony, "Sure 'nuff, man. Us bain't too old to enjoy it. 'Tis a brave sight to see 'em shoot." Then there was a pause. The string had been pulled, the basket had tumbled aside, but the pigeon would not stir. Possibly it had been maimed in the crate, or by the rough hand which had dragged it out. Everybody shouted wildly, waving arms and hats, but the bird did nothing except peck at the grass to get a little food into its hungry body. The landlord ran up and kicked it. The pigeon merely fell over, then hopped a little way feebly, but still refusing to fly, so the landlord kicked it again, shouting: "He be contrairy. There be no doing nought wi' 'en." "Tread on 'en, landlord," shouted a voice. "What be I to du?" asked the man whose turn it was to kill. "Shoot 'en on the ground. Shoot 'en, man! Don't let 'en get away. Kill 'en, man!" screamed the landlord. The competitor grinned contentedly, and at a distance of half-a-dozen paces blandly riddled the creature with pellets. This was the funniest thing which had happened yet, and the crowd could not stop laughing for a long time. "Now the rabbits! Fetch out two or dree," shouted the landlord. "Kill 'en quick, lads!" The worthy soul was anxious to have the massacre over, and start the real business of the day at the bar. With the rabbits fun began in earnest. All that had gone before was tame in comparison, for pigeons die quickly, but rabbits continue to run after being shot, and still provide excellent amusement, if the vital parts are untouched. It was not shooting at all; not a particle of skill was required, as the basket was close to the competitor, and he shot immediately the animal began to run, and sometimes before; but it was killing, it was a sort of bloodshed, and nothing more was asked for. Hardly a rabbit was killed cleanly, as the moormen are, as a rule, awkward with the gun. As the creatures invariably ran straight away from the crowd, they were usually shot in the hinder parts, and then would drag themselves on, until they were seized, either by the man who had fired, or by the small boys, and carried back to be flung upon the heap of bodies, some of them dead, and some not. Even feeble old Master entered into the fun of the thing, and begged permission to break a rabbit's neck with his own hands, so that he might still call himself a sportsman. "Come away, daddy. I'm getting queer," said Boodles. Weevil woke from a sort of trance, and shook his head oddly, but said nothing. Power of speech was not his just then. He had hitherto kept himself scrupulously apart from such innocent village pleasures, afraid to trust himself at them, but what he saw quite confirmed what he had believed. It was not sport in any sense of the word. It was mere animal passion and lust for blood. It was love of cruelty, not any ambition to take a prize, which animated the competitors. It would have meant small enjoyment for them had the pigeons been made of clay and the rabbits of clockwork. Because the creatures they shot at could feel, could shed blood, and were feeling pain, were shedding blood, the men were happy; not only happy, but drunk with the passion, and half mad with the lust, of their bloody game. Weevil looked about, fighting down his weakness, which was not then altogether eccentric. He saw the transformed faces of the crowd. Not only the competitors but the spectators had the faces that a London mob of old might have presented, watching the hanging, drawing, and quartering of criminals, and finding the spectacle very much to their taste. They had become so excited as to be inarticulate. They could not make their shoutings intelligible to one another. They were gesticulating like so many Italian drunkards. Their boots were marked with blood, and it was also upon their hands, and smeared upon their faces. Blood was upon the ground too, with other matter more offensive. The ghastly pile of pigeons and rabbits, which were supposed to be done for, was not without motion. Sometimes it heaved; but there was no sound. Two little boys were enjoying a rare game of tug-of-war with a living rabbit. Another youngster was playfully poking out the eyes of a fluttering pigeon. They would make good sportsmen when they grew up. A tiny little fellow, nothing more than a baby, was begging a bigger boy to instruct him in the art of killing rabbits. A little girl was practising the deed upon her own account. The constable who had arrested Brightly looked on and said it was "brave sport." There were other things which Weevil saw, but he did not mention them afterwards, because he tried to forget them; but the sight made him feel faint, not being a sportsman, but a rather ignorant, somewhat foolish, and decidedly eccentric old man. "I think I must go. Boodles," he said feebly. He turned away, and his eyes fell upon the village. There was a church, and there was Ebenezer, and a meeting-house also. Surely so many religious houses were hardly necessary in one small village. Church and chapels dominated the place; and in those buildings a vast amount of theory was preached concerning ancient literature, and a place of morbid imagination called Hell, and a place of healthier imagination called Heaven; and upon that field on the side of the moor the regular worshippers at those buildings were enjoying themselves. There was a failure somewhere, only Weevil had not the sense to find out where. High above were the tors, and it was there, no doubt, that the early inhabitants stood to worship Baal; and there possibly a vast amount of theory was preached concerning the whole duty of man, and a twofold future state; and then the men went down to fight and plunder. It seemed to have been a theoretical religion then. It is a theoretical religion now. Theories have swamped the world, submerging the practical side like the lost Atlantis. It is not religion which compels men to cease from doing murder. It is the fear of vengeance. Boodles and Weevil left the field, pale and miserable. When they were outside the old man went away and was violently sick. They abandoned the field in time, for the men were getting beyond control. When the rabbits were slaughtered they sought for small birds and shot at them until their cartridges were exhausted. Even Pendoggat had lost his self-restraint, although he did not show it like the rest. The smell of blood was in his nostrils, and he wanted to go on killing. He longed to shoot at the men around him. The victims were all dead at last. The happy children had seen to that, and went off home to get their hands and faces washed, tired out with the day's fun. That clever painter of human nature, Hogarth, missed something during his lifetime. He could not have seen a rabbit-shoot in a Dartmoor village. Had he done so, there might have been a fifth plate added to his Four Stages of Cruelty. "I must drink something," said Weevil, when he reached home. "You were right, little maid. I ought not to have gone." "Haunted water, daddy?" suggested Boodles, with a wan little smile. "Yes, darling. I think I have earned it. But not badly haunted." "Just a gentle rapping, not groans and chain-rattling," she said, trying to be merry, having no reason to feel unhappy, as she went for the brandy bottle. That was how the water was to be haunted. Weevil was practically a teetotaler, in a different sense from Farmer Chegwidden, but he sometimes took a suspicion of brandy when he was run down, as then. "Boodle-oodle," he said in a feeble way, after refreshing himself, "you have seen the Brute rampant. What do you think of it?" "I don't think, daddy-man. It's no use when you can't do anything. I just label it a queer puzzle, and put it away along with all the other queer puzzles. And you would be much happier if you would do the same." "I cannot," he groaned. "I suppose those men were enjoying themselves, but what right have they to an enjoyment which makes other people suffer? I say they have no right. Animals have to be killed for food; but what would be done to a butcher who slaughtered his beasts in the middle of the street? Those men were not killing for any purpose apart from the love of killing, and they were doing it publicly. They were mad. They had the faces one sees in a bad dream. And now they have gone to stuff themselves with food, and then they will swill liquor until they are mad again." "Don't," said Boodles. "It's not fair on me. You will be giving me umpy-umpy feelings, and I'm going to see Aubrey to-morrow, and it may be the last time for ages, and I shall feel quite bad enough without having your worries to carry as well. Let's light up, and draw the curtains, and make believe that every one is as nice as we are, and that there are no troubles or worries in the whole wide world." Old Weevil only moaned and shuffled about the room in a miserable fashion. "I can't get rid of the Brute, darling. He sits upon my shoulders and strangles me. Why should these people be outside the law because they are commoners? One hundred years ago you might have seen horrible deeds of cruelty in every London street. There are none to be seen now, because townsfolk have become civilised, and law-makers have recognised that what may please the few is distressing to the many. But in these wild lonely places people may be fiends, and the law does not touch them. It exists for the populous centres, not for the solitudes." "I'm going to get supper. Mind you are good when I come back," said the little housewife quickly. "That is not all," raved the poor old man, still shuffling to and fro, heedless that he was alone. "The cry of the animals goes up to Heaven. There are the ponies and bullocks turned out upon the moor all winter, in weather which would kill the hardiest man, if he was exposed to it, in a few hours. They get no food. There is not a bit of grass for them. Many of them are done to death by cruel weather and starvation. In spring their carcases are found lying upon the moor." CHAPTER XVIII ABOUT AUTUMN IN FAIRYLAND The devil had passed through Tavy woods late that year, and in his path blackberries were blasted, the bracken was scorched, and all the foliage smouldered. He had trampled upon, and burnt, everything; the next time he passed through he would breathe on them and they would rot away. At last he would come with his big bellows; clear the wood out, and scatter a lot of dusty frost about the place to make it look tidy. Directly he was out of the way a busy little body in green would bustle into the woods with a big basket of buds on her arm, and she would stick these buds about upon the honeysuckles and the primroses, and then run away in a snowstorm laughing. Nobody would notice her; she is too small and shadowy, and yet observant folk would know she had been because the plants which had received the buds would smarten up at once. Every one loves the little green fairy, although she is often quite a plain creature, and usually is afflicted with a dreadful cold. She beats the devil and restores all that he has trampled and blown upon. She may often be seen in April, sweeping up the remains of the hoar-frost and attending to her buds, sneezing all the time. People call her Spring in those days. Her cold is quite incurable, but fortunately it does not kill her. Even in fairyland it is not always pretty. Were it so the pleasant place would lose its charm, for it is the dull time which makes the gay time glorious. There is no winter for the little people, just as there is no winter for the flowers; and flowers and fairies are one and the same thing. They go to sleep until the sun comes to wake them up, and tell them it is time to dance and blossom as they did last year. There is a winter, only they know nothing of it. That is why the little people are so much happier than the big ones. When sorrow comes they simply go to sleep. Bigger people are not allowed to do that. "You are going away, Aubrey," said Boodles. "You are going away." She was always saying it, and thinking it when she was not saying it, and dreaming about it when she was not thinking of it. She was playing with a toy upon her finger, a hoop of gold, a little ring which he had given her, whose posy was the usual motto: "Love me and leave me not," and its symbol the pale-blue forget-me-not. Lovers are fond of adding poetry to poetry and piling sentiment upon sentiment. It was not exactly an engagement-ring, but a present, and a promise of the full-flowered ring; just as the crown-buds upon the primroses were a promise of the spring. Boodles was eighteen at last. How slowly the years passed at that age! And the ring with the blue forget-me-nots was a birthday gift, although it was given and received as something more, and put upon a finger which meant much, and worn and fondled as if it meant everything. The girl's radiant hair was up relentlessly, and her frocks trailed for evermore. She was a baby no longer. It was not a happy walk because it was to be their last for a long time, and they could not ramble there without treading upon and bruising some poor little memory; just as the devil had trodden on the blackberries, although the memories were not spoilt; they were the kisses of those first days of first love, and they were immortal memories, birth-marks upon their souls. They had grown up; their bodies were formed, although their minds were not matured; but whatever happened those memories were planted in Tavy woods perennially, and nothing could kill them. Tears would only water them and make them grow more strongly. Their sweet wild fragrance would cling eternally, because the odour was that of deep first love; the one gift, the only gift, which passes direct from the hands of the gods and has no dirt upon it. Somehow Aubrey had never appeared as a perfectly distinct personality to Boodles. Her love was in a mist. He seemed to have come into her life in a god-like sort of way, to have dropped upon her as a child like rain from the clouds, saying: "You thought of me, and I have come." While she went on thinking of him he would remain, but directly she ceased to think he would vanish again. They had simply come together as children and walked about; and now they were grown up children still walking about; and they felt they would like to grow up a little more, then stop growing, but still go on walking about. First love is a marvellous dose of fern-seed. They were content to look at one another, and while two young people remain in that state the gods can give them nothing. But Boodles was going on with her song: "You are going away, Aubrey. You are going away." There was a gate at the end of the wood, and it was something more than the gate of the wood. It opened only one way. Aubrey loved the little girl. He was steadier than most young men and less fickle than most. Even when he was away from Boodles he did not forget her, and when they were together she absorbed him. She was so fresh. He had never met any girl with a tithe of her wonderful spring-like freshness, which suggested the sweet earth covered with flowers and steaming after a shower of warm rain. Boodles seemed to him to be composed of this warm earth, sunshine and rain, with the beauty and sweetness of the flowers added. She had taken him when young, and planted him in her warm little heart, and tended him so carefully that he could not help growing there; and he could not be torn up, for that would have lacerated the heart; the roots were down so deep; and he might not bear transplanting. First love thinks such things, and it is good for the lovers. Life gives them nothing else to equal it. Still Aubrey had his troubles. It was the last walk for some time. He was disobeying his parents, and deceiving them. He had promised not to walk with Boodles again. No boy could have been blessed with kinder parents; but Mr. Bellamie, after his strange visit to old Weevil, and subsequent discussion with his wife, conceived that it was his duty to pull the reins. Aubrey had been allowed a free head long enough, and the old gentleman was afraid he might get the bit between his teeth and run. Boodles was a most delightful child in every way, but she knew nothing about art, and what was far more serious she knew nothing of her parents. Mr. Bellamie spoke plainly to his son; reminded him of the duty he owed his family; told him he had been to see Weevil and that the interview had not been satisfactory; mentioned that the old man either knew nothing of the girl's origin, or had certain reasons for withholding his knowledge; explained that to interfere with his son's happiness was his last wish, and that to interfere with the happiness of others was equally distasteful; and concluded by impressing upon Aubrey, what was true enough, namely, that it was not kind to encourage a young girl to fall in love with him when he could not possibly marry her. The boy had been then sufficiently impressed to give the promise which he was now breaking. He felt he could not help himself; he must see Boodles again, and at least tell her that he would never dream of giving her up, but that his parents were inclined to be nasty about it. Besides, it was the little girl's birthday; or rather what Weevil was pleased to style her birthday, as he could not possibly know the exact day of her birth. Aubrey eased his conscience by reminding himself that he had forgotten to urge the point with his father, and if he had done so the old gentleman would certainly have consented to one more meeting. So he bought the pretty ring for Boodles, met her, and the mischief was done again. When the first stage of their walk was over, and they were getting reasonable, and Boodles had ceased singing her plaintive: "You are going away," Aubrey began to suggest that his father was not in alliance with them; and poor Boodles sighed and wanted to know what evil she had done. "Nothing, darling. But he wants to know something about your parents." "I told him. I don't know anything." "But Weevil must know." Somehow that had not occurred to Boodles. Perhaps Weevil did know, and for reasons of his own had kept the information from her. "I'll ask him," she promised. "But Mr. Bellamie has been to see daddy. Why didn't he ask him?" "Weevil told him he is your grandfather." "You mean my old daddy-man is my grandfather?" cried Boodles, very much astonished. "Why hasn't he told me then?" "Hasn't he?" "Never." Aubrey was too young to care; but he certainly felt suspicions about Weevil, and thoughtlessly expressed them by saying: "I suppose he was telling the truth." "Of course he was," said Boodles. "Old daddy couldn't tell a lie however much he wanted to. It would hurt him so badly he would groan and grunt for a week. What else did he tell your father?" "He didn't say. But, darling, you'll find out." "Oh, Aubrey," she said pathetically. "Do you care?" "Lovely little thing, of course I don't. Your parents must have been the best and nicest people that ever lived, or you wouldn't have been so sweet. But you see, darling, my people worry no end about name and family and all that sort of rubbish, and if they think any one is not what they call well-born they kick up no end of a smother." "Well-born," murmured Boodles. She was beginning to comprehend at last, to recognise the existence of that grim thing called convention, and to feel a sort of misty shadow creeping up the wood. She felt something on one of her fingers, and it seemed to her that the pretty ring, which she loved so much, was trying to work itself off. "Well-born," the child murmured to herself. "Whatever does it mean?" This was what being eighteen meant. Boodles was learning things. "I must have had a father and mother," she said, though in a somewhat dubious manner. Aubrey only hummed something unintelligible, and wished the cloud out of her eyes. "Now I must find out all about them?" "I expect my people would like to know, dear," he said. "If I can't find out, Aubrey?" she went on, in a moist kind of way. "Then you will have to take mine," he said as lightly as he could. Boodles stopped, turned away, began to play with a golden frond of bracken almost as bright as her hair, and began to cry as gently as an April shower. She had been on the point of it all the afternoon; and she persuaded herself it was all because Aubrey was going away, although she knew that wasn't true. It was because she was finding out things. "Don't," she sobbed. "It's doing me good," However, Aubrey took her in his arms and tried to pet her, and that did her as much good as anything, although she went on crying. "Can't give me yours--you silly! They won't be given. They don't want me to love you, they hate me, and your mother kissed me--she did--on my mouth." "Mother is very fond of you, darling. She is really," Aubrey whispered as quickly as he could. "She said you were perfect, and father agreed with her, and said you would be all that a girl could be, if--if--" "Go on," murmured Boodles. "It won't hurt. I've got hold of you. I'm taking all the starch out of your collar." "Never mind what he said." "We don't say good-bye until you have told me. I'll hang on to you. Stop you, perhaps. Oh, Aubrey, you are going away--that's why I'm crying. Your father said I should be a nice little girl, if--go on." "If you had a name," said Aubrey, with an effort. Boodles let him go and stepped back. She looked rather nice, with her eyes in the rain, and her head in the sunshine. "What does that mean, Aubrey?" she said, almost fiercely. "Nothing whatever to me, darling. Don't be silly," he said tenderly. "It's only father's nonsense. He thinks so much of his name because it's a fossilised old concern which has been in the county since Noah. He doesn't want me to marry you, only because he's afraid your people may not have lived about here since Noah. If you went and told him you're a Raleigh or a Cruwys he would lay his pedigree at your feet and ask you to roll on it." "Not well-born. No name," said Boodles, aloud this time. "I think we have been silly babies. I seem to have grown up all at once. Oh, Aubrey, was it you and I who used to walk here--years ago?" He bent and took her face between his hands and kissed the pretty head. "We never bothered about names," sobbed Boodles. "We are not bothering now--at least I'm not. It's all the same to me, darling." "It's not. It can't be. How silly I was not to see it before. If your parents say I'm not--not your equal, you mustn't love me any more. You must go away and forget me. But what am I to do? I can't forget you," she said. "It's not like living in a town, where you see people always passing--living as I do, on the moor, alone with a poor old man who imagines horrors." "Listen, darling." Aubrey was only a boy, and he was nearly crying too. "I'm not going to give you up. I'll tell you the whole truth. My people wanted me not to see you again, but I shall tell them that things have gone too far with us. They won't like it at first, but they must get to like it. I shall write to you every week while I am away, and when I come back I shall tell father we must be married." "I wouldn't, not without his consent. I shall go on loving you because I cannot help it, but I won't marry you unless he tells me I may." "Well, I will make him," said Aubrey. "I know how to appeal to him. I shall tell him I have loved you ever since you were a child, and we were promised to each other then, and we have renewed the promise nearly every year since." "Then he will say you were wicked to make love to the first little red-headed girl you could find, and he will call me names for encouraging you, and then the whole world will explode, and there will be nothing left but lumps of rock and little bits of me," said Boodles, mopping her eyes with his handkerchief. She was getting more cheerful. She knew that Aubrey loved her, and as for her name perhaps it was not such a bad one after all. At all events it was not yet time for the big explosion. "I'm only crying because you are going away," she declared, and this time she decided she meant it. "What a joke it would be if I turned out something great. I would go to Mr. Bellamie and ask him for his pedigree, and turn up my nose when I saw it, and say I was very sorry, but I must really look for something better than his son, though he has got a girl's face and is much prettier than I am. Oh, Aubrey," she cried, with a sudden new passion. "You have always meant it? You will be true to your little maid of the radiant head? I don't doubt you, but love is another of the queer puzzles, all flaming one time, all dead another, and only a little white dust to show for all the flame. The dust may mean a burnt-out heart, and I think that is what would happen if you gave me up." He satisfied her in the usual way, declaring that if they ever were separated it would be by her action, not by his. She would have to unfasten the lover's knot. Then they went on. It was getting late, and the short day was already in the dimsies. They stood beside the gate, saying good-bye, not in two words, but in the old method which never grows musty. They passed on, the gate slammed, and they were outside; only just outside, but already they were lost and could not have found their way back; for the wand of the magician had been waved over "our walk," and fairyland had gone away like smoke to the place where babies come from. Weevil was sitting in the dark, mumbling and moaning, when Boodles came in. He was in the seventh Hell of misery, as he had been for a walk and discovered beneath a hedge a rusty iron trap with its jaws fastened upon the leg of a rabbit. The creature had been caught days before, as decomposition had set in, and as it was only just held by one leg it must have suffered considerably. Such a sight is quite one of the common objects of the country, therefore Weevil ought not to have been perturbed; only in his case familiarity failed to breed indifference. He sat down in the dark, and as soon as the child entered began to quaver his usual grievance: "What right have they to make me suffer? Why may I not go a walk without being tortured? What right have the brutes to torment me so?" "Groaning and grunting again, poor old man," said Boodles cheerfully, rather glad there was no light, as she did not want him to see she had been crying. "You must laugh and be funny now, please, for I've come home dreadful tired, and if you go on worrying I shall begin to groan and grunt too. I'm ready to have my boots taken off." "Don't talk like that. Your throat sounds all lumpy," the old man complained, getting up and groping towards her in the dark. "What have you been doing--quarrelling?" Boodles made noises which were intended to express ridicule, and then said miserably: "Saying good-bye." Weevil knelt upon the carpet and began to unlace the first boot he could find, groaning and grunting again like a professional mourner. "Did it hurt, Boodle-oodle?" he asked tenderly. "Horrid," she sighed. "It made you cry?" "Ees." "That was the Brute, darling. I've warned you of him so often. He doesn't let any of us escape. He shows me rabbits in traps, and he makes you cry. I believe you are crying now." "Not much, daddy. Only a few little tears that were late for the big weep," said Boodles, burrowing her face into a cool cushion. "I want you to laugh. You don't laugh so much now," he complained, drawing the boot off carefully, and then feeling inside to make sure that the foot had not come away too. "One day you said I laughed too much, and I wasn't to do it any more," said a doleful voice. "Ah, but there was a reason for that," said the old man cunningly. "I thought the Brute would be angry if he saw you laughing so much. That was before I took him by the throat and flung him out of the house. He hasn't been here since--not to worry you anyhow," he chuckled. "You must explain that, please, and a lot of other things besides," she said hurriedly, sitting up and trying to locate the exact position of his head. Old Weevil laughed in a silly sort of way. "It's a little personal matter between the Brute and me," he chuckled. "But I come in. I'm the respondent, or whatever you call it. Now I must hear all about it," she said. "You're not old enough. I shan't tell you anything until you are twenty-one." "Yes, you will. I'm not a baby now. I am eighteen, and I feel more--nearly eighty-one to-night. I've got one boot on still, and if you won't answer I'll kick." The old man jumped playfully upon the threatening foot like a kitten upon a ball of wool. "Daddy-man, I'm serious. I'm not laughing a bit. I believe there is another cry coming on, and that will make you groan and grunt dreadful. Is it true you are my grandfather?" The question was out with a rush, and murmuring: "There, I've done it," Boodles put her face back into the cushion, breathing as quickly as any agitated maid who has just received an unexpected offer of marriage. Whatever Weevil was doing she could not think. He appeared to be scrabbling about the floor, playing with her foot. Both of them were glad it was so dark. "Who told you that?" he said. "Aubrey. You told his father. Why haven't you ever told me?" "Boodle-oodle," he quavered, "let me take your other boot off." "The boot can wait. Don't be unkind, daddy," she pleaded. "I've been worried dreadful to-day. Why did you tell Mr. Bellamie you are my grandfather, if you're not?" "I am," cried old Weevil. "Of course I am. I have been your grandfather for a long time, ever since you were born, but I wasn't going to tell you until you were twenty-one." "Why not? Why ever shouldn't I know? Are you ashamed of me?" At that the old man began to throw himself about and make horrible faces in the dark. "I expect you are," Boodles went on. "Mr. Bellamie is ashamed of me. He says I'm not well-born, and I have no name. Aubrey told me this afternoon." "The liar," cried old Weevil. Then he began to cackle in his own grotesque way. He couldn't help being amused at the idea that he should be calling Mr. Bellamie a liar. "How did he know? How did he find that out?" he muttered. "Nobody could have told him. He must have guessed it." "You are my grandfather," Boodles murmured. "Now you must tell me all about my father and mother. I've got to let Mr. Bellamie know," she went on innocently. "I told him. I told him the whole story," cried Weevil. "He sat in this room for an hour, and I gave him the whole history. What a forgetful man he must be. I will write it out and send it him." "Tell me," said Boodles. "How could you say that you picked me up on your doorstep, and never knew where I had come from?" "It's a long story, my darling. I don't fancy I can remember it now." The old man wondered where he had put that precious piece of paper. "Don't squeeze my foot so. Who was my mother? Do you really know who my mother was?" "Tita, we called her that for short, Katherine, Mary--no, that's you. I've got it all written down somewhere. I must tell her the same story. Shall I light the lamp and find it?" "You must remember. Are you my mother's father?" she asked impatiently. "Wait a moment, Boodle-oodle. These sudden questions confuse me so. Mr. Bellamie would know. I told him. Yes, it was your mother. Miss Lascelles was her name, and I married her in Switzerland. We stayed at that hotel where Gubbings wrote his history of the world, and we fell out of a boat on Lake Geneva, and she was never heard of again." "Where was I?" cried Boodles, knowing that impatience would only perplex him more. "You were not born, darling. It was a long time after that when you were born, and your father was Canon Lascelles of Hendon." "Dear old man, don't be so agitated," she said, putting out a hand to stroke his whiskers. "You are so puzzled you don't know what you are saying. How could my mother be drowned before I was born?" "No, no, darling, you misunderstand me. It was my wife who disappeared mysteriously, not your mother." "My mother was your daughter. That's one thing I want to know," said perplexed Boodles. "Tita, we called her Tita for short," he said, glad of one fact of which he was certain. "And my father, Canon Lascelles--really? A real canon, a man with a sort of title?" she cried, with a little joyous gasp. "He's in British Honduras. I think that was the place--" "Alive! My father alive!" cried Boodles. "And you never told me before! Why haven't I seen him? Why doesn't he write to me? Oh, I think you have been cruel to me, telling me those wild stories of how I came to you, keeping the truth from me all these years." Old Weevil sat at her feet, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. He was protecting Boodles, giving her happiness, he thought; but when he heard that cry it suggested to him that his false story might bring her in the end more sorrow than the truth. He could not go back now that he had gone so far. A lie is a rapid breeder of lies; and old Weevil, with his lack of memory, and natural instinct for the truth, was a man singularly ill-fitted for fictions. He had overlooked a great many things in his wild desire to make the child happy. It had never occurred to him that she would feel a natural love for her parents. "I wanted to be kind to you, Boodles," he quavered. "I kept the truth from you because there were good reasons." "What were they?" "I can't tell you, darling," he answered truly. "You must not ask me," he said firmly, because she had touched upon a mystery which his inventive faculties were quite incapable of solving. "And my mother--where is she?" "Oh, she is dead," said Weevil cheerfully. He was not going to have any trouble with the mother, and he was sorry he had not killed the father too. "I told you she was drowned mysteriously." "That was your wife, my grandmother. You are not playing with me? You are not deceiving me?" said Boodles pitifully. "I'm trying to tell you, only it is all mixed up. It happened so long ago, and the Brute has worried me so much since that I don't seem able to remember anything very clearly. Your mother went out of the hotel one day, and never came back." "Where?" "Lausanne, the hotel where--" "But she may be alive still," interrupted the child. "Oh no, darling. Quite impossible. She was never heard of again, and it was nearly thirty years ago." "Don't ramble. You are wandering off again. How could it be thirty years ago, when I'm only just eighteen?" Weevil admitted the difficulty, and replied that he had been thinking just then of his wife. She would keep mixing herself up with the girl's mother. "Now I'm getting at it," said Boodles, with a kind of fierce seriousness. "My mother is supposed to be dead. My father is in British Honduras--" "British Guiana," corrected Weevil. "Are you sure?" "Almost certain. I looked it up on the map. I wish I had that piece of paper," the poor old man muttered. "Well, it does not matter much for the present. You say my mother was Miss Lascelles, and my father was Canon Lascelles; but if my mother was your daughter her name would have been Weevil." "So it was, my dear," he cried, with a new inspiration, "at least it would have been if--if--I mean, darling, my name is really Lascelles, only I changed it to Weevil when I lost my fortune." "Why ever couldn't you have told me all this before? How is it that Canon Lascelles had the same name as you? Was he a relation?" "Yes, darling, first cousin," he faltered, wondering if the story resembled that which he had told to Mr. Bellamie. "So my name is really Lascelles?" "Titania Lascelles. But there are a lot of others. I was nearly forgetting them. You have a whole string of names, but I can't remember them now, except Katherine and Mary--ah, yes, and there was Fitzalan. I never could understand why they called you Fitzalan. I've got them all written down somewhere, and I'll read them to you presently. We called you Tita after your mother, but I got into the way of calling you Boodles, which means beautiful, and have never got out of it." "You told all this to Mr. Bellamie?" asked Boodles excitedly. "I think so. I tried to," said Weevil hopefully. "Then what does he mean by saying I am of low birth and have no name?" she cried indignantly. "Perhaps he did not understand. Perhaps he hadn't grasped it. I tell a story very badly, dear." That point could not be disputed, and the child seized upon it eagerly. There was no telling what wild rambling statements her grandfather might have poured into the ears of Aubrey's father. But she could tell him now she was quite a well-born little dame, and had a splendid name which was all her own, and she was really good enough for Aubrey after all. She put her head back upon the cushion and began to laugh because she was happy, the day was ending nicely, and she believed the story would end nicely too. She had cried because Aubrey was going away and for no other reason; at one time that afternoon she had not been sure of it, she had almost been afraid that the tears had been brought on by Mr. Bellamie's evil suggestions about her birth; but now she knew that she could hold up her nose with the best of them. She was accustomed to Weevil's eccentric language, his contradictions gave her no suspicions; she swallowed the rambling story whole and wanted more. There were so many questions to be asked and answered. She thought she would write to Aubrey and sign herself Titania Lascelles with great flourishes. "I am glad to hear you laughing, Boodles," said Weevil tenderly. The poor old man was far from the laughing mood. He was indeed getting frightened at what he had done, and was wondering how he could carry it on, and how the story would end. Left to himself he would not have told the child anything; but she had caught him in an unguarded moment with a direct question, and he had been forced to answer without time to prepare himself by another rehearsal in private. He had hardly expected her to take things so seriously, forgetting how much the story meant to her, so utterly obsessed was his mind with the one great idea, which was her preservation from the Brute. Love blinds every one. The young it dazzles, like the sun low down on the horizon, so that they see no faults. Into the eyes of the old it flings dust to prevent them from seeing the end of the road. "Now we must light the lamp and have supper," he said drearily, gently removing the child's other boot and pressing her warm little foot in his cold loving hand. "I don't want lamps or suppers," she sighed. "What is that light, over in the corner?" "I think it is the moon shining in between the curtains." "The wind has got up. It's howling. I don't care, for I've got a name. I'm not Boodles Blank any more. I'm tired and happy." "I have given you a little happiness. Boodles?" he quavered. "Heavensfull. You have always been a funny old daddy-man, and now that you are my grand-daddy-man you are funnier than ever. Fancy keeping me in the dark all the time! To-morrow you must tell me everything. What was my mother like? Go on. Tell me a lot about my mother." "I don't know, Boodles--I mean I can't think to-night." Weevil had left her, and was tumbling about the room, knocking himself against things and groaning. He was beginning to understand that his efforts to destroy the Brute might only end by investing him with new powers. But the child was happy, and that was everything; she was singing to herself, and laughing, and thinking of her mother; not the mother who had tied her up in fern and flung her at his door, but the mother who existed only in his fantastic brain. Suppose Mr. Bellamie had found it out. But that was impossible, for nobody knew except that unknown mother and himself. He was doing what was right. His little maid was perfectly happy then. Sufficient for that day was the happiness thereof. There was just one trouble remaining--the problem of Mr. Bellamie's incredulity. Why had he not accepted the story which she was so ready to believe? Eccentric manner and contradictory statements did not explain everything. Mr. Bellamie had no right to put the whole story aside just because it had been badly told. "I can tell you, Boodles. I have just found it out," he cried out of the darkness with a miserable sort of triumph. "There has been a lot of scandal about you, which I have never troubled to answer, and Mr. Bellamie has heard it, and finds it easier to believe than what I told him. There is the Brute again. He makes people prefer scandal to the truth. Nobody knows how you came to me, and so they invented a story to suit them. Everybody knows that story, and as I have not denied it Mr. Bellamie believes it is true. I think I'll write to him to-morrow." "How did I come to you?" asked Boodles. "It's a long story," he faltered. "I can't tell you now because I am feeling so tired. I shall have to think about it all night," he muttered. "Why did you make up that queer story about finding me one night at your door?" "That is true. Your father chose that way of sending you to me," he said lamely. "I kept the truth from you because I was afraid you might not want to stay with me if you knew everything. Your father wished you to be kept in ignorance. I was going to tell you on your twenty-first birthday." "You needn't have told me you thought I was a poor woman's child," she said reproachfully. "I am very sorry, darling. I won't do it again," the poor old creature promised. Boodles jumped up, pattered to the window, and flung aside the curtains. The room was flooded at once with moonlight, and she could feel the wind coming through the chinks. Weevil looked up patiently, and she saw his weary old eyes and wrinkled face, ghastly in that light. It struck her he was looking very worn and ill. "You are dreadful tired," she said very tenderly. "Yes, Boodles, the noise of the wind makes me feel very tired." "I am not Boodles now. That was my baby-name. I am Tita. And the others--Katherine, Mary--what are the rest?" "I don't know, dear. I will try and think to-morrow." "I won't tease you, but there is so much I want to know. Poor great big old grand-daddy-man, you look quite dead." He shuffled towards her, put his arms round her, and began to make noises as if he was in pain. "I am tired and weak. That is all, darling, and the rabbit in the trap made me sick. I am weak and old and very tired, and I know I have done no good in my life. Shut it out, my maid--shut it out." It was the prospect which he wanted shut out. They could see the bare stretch of moor, upon it the moon shining, and over it the wind rushing. There is nothing more dreary than a windy moonlit night upon the moor, filled with its own emptiness of sound, suggestive of wild motion and yet motionless, covered with light that is not light. "It is like a lonely life," said Weevil bitterly. Boodles dropped the curtains and tried to laugh. She did not like the look on the old man's face. "The lonely life has gone," she said. "Now we will have some light." Weevil shuffled after her, muttering to himself: "You have done it, Abel-Cain. You must keep it up. You must hold the Brute off her somehow, or she may have to go out, into the windy moonlight, into the lonely life." CHAPTER XIX ABOUT THE GOOD RIGHT HAND OF FELLOWSHIP One of the creeping-things to be crushed at the forthcoming Assizes was Brightly. Ju had been already stamped out of existence, and it was meet and right that the little man should follow her example, and be placed behind some stone walls where it would be impossible for him to drag lusty farmers from their horses and half-murder them for the sake of their clothes. Brightly had not long to wait in prison. Exeter put on the full panoply of the law during the first week of November; scarlet and gold were flourished; trumpeters and a special preacher brayed; bells clanged, the small grocer and the candle-maker were summoned to serve on the jury, to fail not at their peril, lawyers buzzed everywhere, and a lot of money was spent just because Brightly and a few poor yokels had misconducted themselves. It was a curious sort of net, this Assize net; it was constructed and cast in such a manner that it permitted a lot of coarse fish and golden carp to escape through its meshes, while all the little tadpoles and mud-grubbers were caught and held. One of the coarse fish to swim into the judicial circuit was Pendoggat. He came to Exeter, partly that he might spend a portion of the capital of the Nickel Mining Company, and partly that he might visit the Guildhall to see sinners punished. Pendoggat had a keen sense of justice and a certain amount of dull humour. The Assizes represented to him a foreshadowing of the fiery pleasures of Hell--they were a pleasure to his mind because he was secure from them--and it amused him to think that another man was going to suffer for his wrongdoing. The idea that he was a sinner had never occurred to him. He had stripped Chegwidden, and flung him into the furze, because the wind had swept upon him, urging him to persecute the unconscious man, and he had obeyed. He had not robbed Chegwidden, nor had he stolen his clothes; and that was the principal charge against Brightly. If he had stood up in court, and confessed that he had dragged the farmer from his horse and stolen his clothes, he would have been telling a lie, which would have been painful to him. Brightly was not charged with finding Chegwidden unconscious, stripping the clothes from him, and throwing them down a wheal. Had that been the charge against him Pendoggat would probably have recognised that the purveyor of rabbit-skins was a good Christian, who had learnt the great principles of the gospel, and was willing to sacrifice himself for another. The mind of Pendoggat when it turned towards theology became incomprehensible. The weather was changing into winter and there was a smell of snow upon the moor. Pendoggat had played his game, and so far as he could see had won it. The success was not brilliant, because the people of Bromley had proved to be a stingy set, and the amount of money subscribed for the mining venture did not reach three hundred pounds. The chairman of the company, Pezzack's retired grocer-uncle, who had after repeated failures at last discovered how to spell the word committee, was continually writing to know when the first consignment of ore was to be placed on the market, and, what was of far greater importance, when the first dividend might be expected. Pendoggat as frequently replied, through the agency of Pezzack, that operations could not be commenced until spring, as the climate of Dartmoor was not the same as that of Bromley; but the grocer could not understand, and went on writing. He appeared to think that nickel was like the inferior American and disreputable margarine--which in his business had been labelled respectively prime Cheddar and best butter--and would not keep. The little grocer deserved to lose his money, though he was eminently respectable. His position proved it, as only men of assured respectability can make enough money to retire and purchase a little suburban villa, with such modern improvements as walls one brick thick, roofs of thin plaster, and defective drainage. His front doorstep was whitened daily. His parlour window was heavily curtained, and in it were geraniums and ferns further to attest respectability; and behind the curtains and floral display was a chamber crowded with stately furniture. All was very beautiful in front, and very dirty behind. The display in front was for the benefit of the road. The negligence and dirt behind were only visible from the railway. It was best butter according to the parlour window, and disreputable margarine judging by the testimony of the back-yard. Queer objects of the country had come from all parts of Devon to assert their intelligence as witnesses in the various trials. Peter was a witness in the Brightly case, Peter who had comforted his system with many a pint of beer, paid for with Chegwidden's money, and was then enjoying himself at the expense of the country, although he had taken the opportunity to get his railway fare from Mary. Peter was not only travelling again, but he was principal witness, as he had discovered Chegwidden lying unconscious and fully dressed upon the road; and Peter did not underestimate his importance. Brightly had not been fortunate of late, but luck was to turn his way a little at the trial. No doubt sentences upon small prisoners depend very much upon the state of his lordship's liver. A bottle of corked wine, or a burnt soup, may quite possibly mean another couple of months to the man in the dock. Mercy is supposed to have its lodging somewhere in the bowels, and if they are out of order, or offended by inferior cookery, mercy may conceivably be out of order too. The judge upon this occasion was in a robust state of health. His wine had not been corked, nor had his soup been burnt, and he was quite in the mood to temper the panoply of the law with a playful kind of mercy which presented counsel with several somewhat obsolete jokes and one new pun. When Brightly appeared another pun was instantly forthcoming upon his name. His lordship had at once a kindly feeling for the prisoner who had contributed towards the maintenance of his own reputation as a humorist; and he was soon saying that it was absurd to suppose that such a poor creature could be guilty of robbery with violence against the person of a strong man like Farmer Chegwidden. A very able young barrister defended Brightly at the request of the judge, a youngster recently called, who had every inducement to do his best. That was Brightly's second bit of luck. The health of the judge was perfect, and he had been allotted a strong advocate, although he could not understand why the gentleman took such an interest in him and tried so hard to get him off. The fat constable and the other witnesses were given a melancholy time by the young barrister, who treated them all very much as Pendoggat had treated Chegwidden. He stripped the lies off them and left them shivering in the strangeness of the truth. Peter was a difficult witness at first, but after a few minutes counsel could probably have made him swear that when he had discovered Chegwidden the farmer was undressing himself with a view to taking a bath. "In what condition was he when you found him lying upon the road?" asked counsel. "Mazed," replied Peter. "Same as I be," he muttered. "Was he drunk?" "No," said Peter stoutly. "Do you know a drunken man when you see one?" Peter thought he did, but was not certain. They were common objects, and as long as a man could proceed from one place to another, and shout occasionally, he was, according to Peter, a fairly sober person. "Do you suppose he had fallen from his horse and stunned himself?" "Likely," said Peter. "He'm a cruel hard rider." "You have often seen him galloping over the moor, in what some people might call a reckless way?" "Seen 'en often," said Peter. "Thursday evenings usually?" went on counsel, in a pleasant conversational manner. Peter agreed that it was so. "You know, of course, that it is the farmer's habit on these evenings to frequent some public-house; one night at Lydford, another at Brentor, and so on? There's nothing remarkable about that, but still you are well aware of it?" Peter was. "And you know what he goes there for? Everybody knows that. You know why you go to a public-house. You go to get beer, don't you?" "I du," said Peter with some enthusiasm. "Sometimes there is a glass too much, and you are not quite sure of the way home. That's only human nature. We all have our little failings. When you have that glass too much you might ride 'cruel hard,' as you express it, over the moor, without caring whether you had a spill or not. Probably you would have a tumble. Chegwidden comes off pretty often, I believe?" "More often that he used to du," mumbled Peter, not in the least knowing where he was being led. "Well, that's natural enough. He's getting older and less confident. Perhaps he drinks a bit harder too. A man can hardly find it easy to gallop over the rough moor when he is very drunk. Don't you feel surprised that Chegwidden has never hurt himself badly?" Peter was not flustered then. Counsel was half-sitting on the edge of the table, talking so nicely that Peter began to regard him as an old friend, and thought he would like to drink a few glasses with this pleasant gentleman who, he fancied, had a distinctly convivial eye. "'Tis just witchery," he said in a confidential manner, feeling he was in some bar-room, and the judge might be the landlord about to draw the beer. "He'm got a little charm to his watch-chain, and that makes 'en fall easy like." "I suppose he hadn't got it on that night?" "Forgot 'en, likely," said Peter with some regret, knowing that had Chegwidden been wearing the charm and chain he would have gained possession of them. Counsel smiled at Peter, and the witness grinned back, with a feeling that he was adding to his acquaintances. The next question followed quite naturally-- "I suppose Chegwidden was pretty far gone that night. Now I want you to use your memory, and tell me if you have ever seen him more drunk than he was that night?" "When us gets drunk us comes to a stop like," said Peter thoughtfully. "Us gets no drunker," he explained to his new friend. "You think Farmer Chegwidden had reached that stage? He could hardly have been more intoxicated than he was when you found him?" Peter admitted that the farmer's condition was unquestionably as his friend had stated. "He was dead drunk?" "Mucky drunk," said Peter with a burst of confidence. "You were not astonished, as you know he is an habitual drunkard?" Peter was just going to agree, when he remembered he didn't know the meaning of the word habitual. "He gets drunk frequently. Makes a habit of it," explained counsel. "He du," said Peter, in the emphatic manner which makes for good evidence. "Why did you say just now he was not drunk when you found him?" asked counsel smoothly. Peter's eyes were opened, and he discovered he was not in a bar-room, but in the Guildhall between rows of unsympathetic faces, and his nice young companion was not a friend at all; and he knew also he had been giving evidence against a parishioner. It was useless after that to proceed with the charge against Brightly in its original form; and his advocate then attempted to show that he was equally innocent of theft. Here, however, he failed, and his lordship himself, who felt in the mood to be merciful, could only point out that circumstantial evidence went entirely against the prisoner. He didn't believe that Brightly, was a bad character. A long experience upon the Bench had enabled him to determine fairly accurately between the hardened criminal and the poor man who succumbed to sudden temptation. It was a wild cold night, and the prisoner in his wretched clothes had happened to pass that way, and when he found the drunken and stunned farmer lying upon the road the temptation to strip him of his clothing had been too strong. The subsequent ill-treatment of the senseless man, no doubt to gratify some old grudge, was the unpleasant feature of the case. It was not altogether easy for him to believe that Brightly had worked single-handed. He left the case to the small grocer and the candle-maker with every confidence that they would bring in a verdict in accordance with the evidence, and he hoped that their consciences would direct them aright. The consciences did their work rapidly, Brightly was declared guilty, and the learned judge found that he would not be doing his duty to the country if he sentenced him to less than three months' imprisonment with hard labour. The next case was called, and the police began as usual to complain about the sentence, and to declare that it was no use doing their duty when judges wouldn't do theirs. The prisoner was removed weeping, asking the gentlemen if they wouldn't let him have his little dog, and begging the warder to take his "duppence" and go out to buy him some rat-poison. Brightly had indulged in several fits of play-acting since his committal. He was a dull-witted man, and they could not make him comprehend that he was a criminal of a particularly dangerous type, and his little Ju a furious beast which it had been found necessary to destroy. He was, indeed, so foolish that he failed to grasp the fact that Ju was dead. He was always asking if he mightn't have her to talk to. When they brought him food he would set a portion aside for Ju, and beg the warder to see that she got it. When he sang his hymns he put out his hand and patted the floor, thinking it was Ju. He did not want to go to the wonderful dairy without his little dog. She would like the milk and honey too. He would never have the heart to drive about in the pony-cart, which was sure to come some day if he only waited long enough, unless Ju was squatting upon the fern at the bottom or on the seat beside him. It would be dreary Dartmoor indeed without tail-wagging starving Ju. They could not make him understand that Ju was starving no longer. Since his committal Brightly had failed to benefit from the food, which was the best he had ever eaten in his life, though it was prison fare. He was thinner because he could not feed upon the air and the solitude, or smell the moor, and he was more blind because the healing touch of the sun was off his eyes. He often thought of an evening how beautifully the sun would be shining across Sourton Down, and he wondered if the gentlemen would let him go, just to get a feel of it for a few minutes. Sometimes he thought he could hear the Tavy roaring, but it was nothing but the prison van rumbling in. After sentence Brightly became more foolish, and rambled about his little dog worse than ever. The doctor certified he was totally incapable of undergoing hard labour, and he was removed to the infirmary, where kind people visited him and gave him tracts and hoped he would see the wickedness of his ways before it was too late. At last Brightly began to comprehend that he was a vagabond of the baser sort. All the gentlemen had said so, and they would not have impressed it upon him so frequently if it was untrue. It appeared that he had led a life of vice from his earliest years. It had been wicked to walk about the moor trading in rabbit-skins, and vile to live in a cave upon Belstone Cleave; and he had never known it until then. There was so much that he didn't know. He learnt a lot about literature in his confinement. A lady read portions of the Bible to him, and Brightly found some of it interesting, although he could not understand why the Hebrew gentlemen were always fighting, and his teacher didn't seem able to explain it. Another lady tried to teach him "Jerusalem the Golden," and he responded as well as he could, but the words would not remain in his poor memory, and he always gave a quaint rendering of his own when he tried to repeat the lines. He had the same question for every one: might he have his little dog and talk to her for a bit? At last the doctor made him understand that Ju was dead, and after that Brightly changed. His soul became rusty, as it were, and he did not respond to his teachers. He accepted everything with the same patient spirit, but he showed indifference. He became like a tortoise, and when people stroked his shell he refused to put his head out. It was all owing to the same old fault--he could not understand things. He comprehended that he was a criminal, and it had been fully explained to him that criminals must be kept in confinement because they constitute a danger to other people. But he could not understand what Ju had done that she should be taken away from him and killed. Apparently she too had been a criminal, and much worse than himself; for he had only been sent to prison, while she had been executed. That was what Brightly couldn't understand; but then he was only a fool. Pendoggat left the court after sentence upon Brightly had been pronounced, and began his homeward journey. The trial had pleased him, and satisfied his sense of justice. He was hurrying back because there was a service that evening and he was going to preach. Brightly would make a good subject for his sermon, the man who was alone because he was not fit to dwell with his kind, the man who had been caught in his sins and punished for them. He had always tried to impress his listeners with the fact that every man is sure to suffer for his sins some day; and he believed what he said, and could not understand why people were so dull as to think they would escape. Pendoggat had discovered long ago that every man regards his neighbours as sinners and himself as a saint. He behaved in exactly the same way himself. He would not be punished, because he always made a point of repenting of his sins. He saved himself by prayer and chapel attendances, and every day would insure his soul against fire by reading the Bible. And yet he thought himself different from other people, and was amazed when they had the effrontery to declare that they too were saved, although neighbour This and neighbour That ought to have known they were most assuredly and everlastingly damned. The region of the Tavy was cold and clear; a great change from the low-lying city on the Exe and Greedy where there had been mist and drizzle. As Pendoggat rode up from Lydford he noticed white pools and splashes upon the dark tower and roof of St. Michael's church upon its mount, and his heart warmed at the cold sight. It was to him what the note of the cuckoo is to many, a promise, not of spring, but of the wild days when solitude increases and the bogs become blue glaciers. Winter had come and there would soon be the usual November fall of snow. Pendoggat prepared his discourse as he rode up. The night was coming when no man could work, miners least of all. His was not a cold theology by any means. It contained, indeed, little that was not red-hot. The old-fashioned lake of fire, surrounded by attendants in a uniform of tails and hoofs, armed with pitchforks to keep sinners sizzling and turn them occasionally, was good enough for him. Every one would have to be burnt some time, like the gorse in swaling-time, except himself. Ebenezer was crowded that evening. The week-day services were popular, especially in winter, when the evenings were long, and there was no money for the inn. Chapel upon the moor occupies much the same place in the affections of the parishioners as the music-hall has obtained over the minds of dwellers in big towns; and for much the same reason, everybody likes to be entertained, and praying and hymn-singing are essentially dramatic performances. A warm church or chapel is an attractive place on a winter's evening, when it is dull at home, and there is nothing doing outside. Middle-aged men will always speak lovingly of their village church and its pleasant evening services. They do not remember much about the prayers and hymns; but they have a very clear and tender recollection of the golden-haired girl who used to sit in the next pew but one. Pezzack did not come in until Pendoggat had finished his discourse. He was a sort of missionary, carrying the gospel over many villages, and his unfortunate habit of tumbling from his bicycle kept many a congregation waiting. He entered at last, with a bruised nose and tender ear, and took possession of the reading-desk which his friend and partner had been keeping warm for him; and then in his usual ridiculous fashion he undid Pendoggat's good work by preaching of a pleasant land on the other side of this world of woe. Eli had always been an optimist, and now that he was happily married his lack of a proper religious pessimism became more strongly marked than ever. He would never make a really popular minister while he insisted upon looking at the bright side of things. Many of his listeners thought him frivolous when he spoke of happiness after death. They couldn't think wherever he got his strange ideas from. It seemed as if Pezzack wanted to deprive them of that glowing hell which they had learnt to love at their mother's knee. The congregation melted away quickly to the echo of Eli's blessing, and the friends found themselves alone, to put out the lamps, lock the chapel, and leave everything in order. The minister was elated; they had enjoyed a "blessed hour;" the world was going very well just then; and he longed to clasp Pendoggat by the hand and tell him what a good and generous man he was. He stood near the door, and with the enthusiasm of a minor prophet exclaimed: "'Ow beautiful is this place, Mr. Pendoggat!" A more hideous interior could hardly have been conceived, only the minister was fortunate enough to know nothing about art. Temples of Nonconformity on Dartmoor, as elsewhere, do not conform to any recognised style of architecture, unless it be that of the wooden made-in-Germany Noah's Ark; but Pezzack was able to regard the wet walls and dreary benches through rose-tinted spectacles; or perhaps his bruised eye lent a kind of glamour to the scene. It was certain, however, that Pezzack had never yet seen men or things accurately. He regarded Pendoggat as a saint, and the chapel as a place of beauty. His eyes were apparently of as little use to him as his judgment. A blind man might have discovered more with his finger-tips. "You'll never make a preacher, man," said Pendoggat, as the last light went out. "I'd got them worked up, and then you come and let them down again. Your preaching don't bring them to the sinner's bench. It makes them sit tight and think they are saved." "I can't talk about 'ell. It don't come to me natural," said Eli in his simple fashion. "Sinners ain't saved by kindness. We've got to scare them. If you don't flog a biting horse he'll bite again. You're too soft with them. You want to get manly." "I endeavour to do my duty," said Eli fervently. "But I can't talk to them rough when I feel so 'appy." "Happy, are ye?" muttered Pendoggat, his eyes upon the ground. "My 'appiness is beyond words. I get up 'appy, and I go to bed 'appy, and I eat 'appy. It's 'eaven on earth, Mr. Pendoggat, and when a man's so 'appy he can't talk about 'ell. I owe it all to you, Mr. Pendoggat." "The happiness or hell?" said Pendoggat, with a flash of grim humour. "The wonderful and beautiful 'appiness. My wife and I pray for you every night and morning. We are very comfortable in our little cottage, and when, Mr. Pendoggat," he went on with enthusiasm, "when God sends our first little olive-branch we shall 'ave all that our 'earts can desire. Ah, Mr. Pendoggat, you don't know what a blessed thing it is to be a father." "You don't either," said the other sharply. "I feel it coming upon me. I feel the pride and the glory and the honour of it swelling up in my 'eart and making me 'appy with the world and all that therein is. Amen. I can see myself walking about with it, saying: 'Open your eyes, my dear, and look at the proud and 'appy father of your being.' 'Ow beautiful it all is, Mr. Pendoggat!" Pezzack spoke like a fool. Why such men should swell with pride when they become putative or actual parents is one of the wonders of the universe. Gratification is permissible enough, but not a sense of pride, which implies they have done something marvellous. Pezzack was like a hen cackling because she has laid an egg, and supposing she has accomplished something which entitles her to a chief place among hens, when she has only performed an ordinary function of Nature which she could not possibly have prevented. "You're too soft," muttered Pendoggat, as they turned away from the gloomy box-shaped chapel and began to ascend the silent road. It was a clear night, the stars were large, and the wind was cold enough to convey the idea of heat. There was enough light for them to see the white track crossed ahead by another narrow road cut out of the black moor. By morning there would be a greyness upon everything, and the heather would be covered with frosted gossamers. Pezzack was blowing on his big red hands, and stumbling about as if he had been Farmer Chegwidden. He had never learnt how to walk, and it was getting late to learn. Pendoggat was carrying a huge black Bible, which was almost as cumbersome as Mary's umbrella. He always took it to chapel with him, because it was useful to shake at the doubters and weaker vessels. Big books in sombre bindings generally terrify the young or illiterate, whatever their contents; and a big Bible brandished at a reading-desk suggests a sort of court of appeal to which the preacher is ready to carry his hearers' difficulties. "I think we are going to get some snow," said Eli, falling back naturally upon the state of the weather. "There is a bit on Brentor," said Pendoggat. "Then there will be some on Ger Tor. I must take my wife out to-morrow to look at it. She does not know Dartmoor. It will be a little pleasure for her." The Pezzacks were easily amused. The first sprinkle of snow on Ger Tor was worth going out to see, and could be discussed during the long evening. "It will mean the closing of the mine. There must be a lot of water in it," suggested Eli in a nervous manner, although he was anticipating things rather, seeing that the precious mine had never been opened. "Afraid you won't get your fifteen shillings a week, are ye?" said Pendoggat, in what was for him a pleasant voice. "I don't think of that," lied Eli, stumbling along, with his hands flapping like a pair of small wings. "I am in your 'ands, Mr. Pendoggat, so I am safe. But my uncle writes every week and sends me a mining-paper, and wants to know why we don't throw ourselves about a bit. I think he means by that we ought to be at work. My uncle talks slang, Mr. Pendoggat." "Tell him he's a fool," said Pendoggat curtly. "I 'ave," said Eli meekly. "At least I suggested it, but I think he misunderstood me. He says that if we don't make a start he will come down and make things 'um a bit. I am sorry my uncle uses such expressions. They use funny phrases in Bromley, Mr. Pendoggat." "He can come down if he likes, and you can give him a pick and tell him to mine for himself until the commoners catch him," said Pendoggat pleasantly. "We've done with your uncle. He won't subscribe any more money, and I reckon his friends won't either. We've done our part. We've got the money, nothing like so much as we wanted, but still a good bit, and they can have the nickel, or what they think is nickel, and they can come here and work it till the Duchy asks them what they're after, or till the commoners fling them into the Tavy. Write that to your uncle," said Pendoggat, poking his victim in the ribs with his big Bible. The minister stopped, but his companion went on, so he had to follow, stumbling after him very much as Brightly had followed upon that same road begging for his "duppence." "What do you mean, Mr. Pendoggat? What do you mean?" he kept on saying. "You're a happy man," muttered Pendoggat like a mocking bird. "Got a wife, hoping for a child, manager of a mining company, with a rich fool of an uncle. You're a lucky man, Pezzack." "I'm a 'appy and fortunate man," gasped Eli. "Every one respects you. They think you're a poor preacher, but they know you're honest. It's a fine thing to be honest. You'll be called to a town some day, and have a big congregation to sit under you if you keep honest." "I 'ope so. You're walking so fast I don't seem able to keep up with you." "It's a cold night. Come on, and get warm. How would you feel if people found out you weren't honest? I saw a man sentenced to-day--hard labour, for robbery. How would you feel if you were sentenced for robbery? Gives you a cold feeling, I reckon. Not much chance of a pulpit when you came out. Prison makes a man stink for the rest of his life." "I can't keep up with you, Mr. Pendoggat, unless I run. I haven't enough breath," panted Eli. Pendoggat put the Bible under his arm, turned, caught Eli by the wrist and strode on, dragging the clumsy minister after him. "Mr. Pendoggat, I seem to think some'ow you don't 'ardly know what you are a-doing of." Pezzack was confused and becoming uncertain of grammar. "You'd stand and freeze. Breathe this wind into you and walk like a man. What would you think, I'm asking ye, if you were found guilty of robbery and sent to prison? Tell me that." "I can't think no'ow," sobbed Eli, trying to believe that his dear friend and brother had not gone mad. "Can't think," growled Pendoggat. "See down under! That's where the mine is, your mine, Pezzack, your nickel mine." "You are 'urting my arm, Mr. Pendoggat, my rheumatic arm. Don't go on so fast if you kindly please, for I don't seem able to do it. Yonder ain't my mine, Mr. Pendoggat. It's yours, but I called it mine because you told me to." "Your uncle thinks it's yours. So do his friends. All the business has gone through you. What do they think of me? Who do they think I am?" "Oh, Mr. Pendoggat, I told them you are the manager." "Your man. Your paid servant. Does it pinch here, Pezzack? 'Tis a bit up here, and the moor's rough." "Your 'and pinches, the good right 'and of fellowship," panted Eli. "Don't the words pinch? Suppose the mine fails, where are you? Your uncle will be down on you, and he'll cast you over. You won't see any of his savings, and there's a wife to keep, and children coming, but you're a happy man. We're all happy on a frosty night like this. Come on!" "What are you a-saying? I don't seem to get hold of it. Let me stop, Mr. Pendoggat. I want to wipe the sweat off my face." "Let it bide there. My name don't appear in the mining business. The thing is yours from start to finish, and I'm your man. There will be none more against you if the mine fails, and I'm thrown out of a job. I've got the cash, Pezzack, every penny of it down to the Barton in notes. When are we going to start on the new chapel, minister? We're going to build a new chapel, the finest on the moor. We can't start till the spring. You told your uncle that? The snow's coming. It's in the air now, and I reckon 'tis falling thick on the high tors. We can't build the chapel and get out the nickel while the snow lasts." Pendoggat was walking at a furious pace, devouring the keen wind, his head bent forward, chin upon his chest, lurching from side to side, dragging the minister like a parent hauling a refractory child. "He 'ave lost his senses. He don't know what he's doing with me," Eli panted, becoming for the first time indirect. "We're getting near the top. There will be a fine wind. Do you good, Pezzack. Make a man of you. What do you think of the nickel down under? Pretty good stuff, ain't it? Had it analysed yet? Found out what it's worth a ton? Got permission from the Duchy? I reckon you've done all that. You're a fine business man. You know a good sample of nickel when you see it." "I left it all to you, Mr. Pendoggat. You know all about it." Pezzack tried to say more, something about his feet and rheumatic arm and the perspiration which blinded him, but he had no more breath. Pendoggat's fingers were like a handcuff about his wrist. "Suppose it ain't nickel at all. I never heard of any on Dartmoor. They'll be down on you, Pezzack, for the money, howling at ye like so many wolves, and if you can't pay there's prison. What are you going to say for yourself? You can't drag me into it. If I tell you there ain't a penn'orth of nickel down under you can't touch me. If you had proof against me you couldn't use it, for your own sake. You'd have to keep your mouth shut, for the sake of your wife and the family what's coming. It's a fine thing to have a wife, and a fine thing to be expecting a child, but it's a better thing to be sure of your position. It ain't wise to marry when you're in debt, and when you've got a wife, and are depending upon a man for your living, you can't make an enemy of that man. I reckon we're on top. Bide here a bit and rest yourself." They were on the summit of one of the big rounded hills. The heather was stiff with frost and seemed to grate against their boots. The weather had changed completely while they had been coming up from the chapel. Already the stars were covered over with dense clouds which were dropping snowflakes. There was nothing in sight, and the only sound was the eternal roar of the Tavy in the distance. Helmen Barton was below. The house was invisible, but the smell of its peat fire ascended. Pendoggat was breathing noisily through his nose, while Pezzack stood before him utterly exhausted, his weak knees trembling and knocking against each other, and his mouth open like a dog. "Why have you done this to me, Mr. Pendoggat?" he gasped at length. "To make a man of you. If I have a puppy I make a dog out of him with a whip. When I get hold of a weak man I try to knock the weakness out of him." "Was it because I didn't talk proper about 'ell?" sobbed the frightened minister. "Come on," cried Pendoggat roughly. "Let's have a bout, man. It's a fine night for it. Put out your arms. I'll be the making of you yet. Here's to get your blood warm." He raised his Bible and brought it down on Pezzack's head, crushing his hat in. Eli stumbled aside, crying out: "Oh, Mr. Pendoggat, you don't know what you're doing. 'Itting me with the 'oly word. Let me go home, Mr. Pendoggat. My wife is waiting for me." Pendoggat was too far gone to listen. He followed the wretched man, hitting at him with the big book, driving him along the top of the hill with resounding blows. Eli could not escape; he was unable to run, and he was dazed; he kept on stumbling and bleating, until another good blow on the head settled his business and sent him sprawling into the heather. "Get up, man," shouted Pendoggat. "Get up and make a bout of it;" but Eli went on lying flat, sobbing and panting, and trying to pray for his persecutor. "Get up, or I'll walk on ye with my nailed boots." Eli shambled up slowly like some strange quadruped, found his awkward feet, and stood swaying and moaning before his tormentor, convinced that he was in the hands of a madman, and terribly afraid of losing his life. Pendoggat stood grim and silent, his head down, the Bible tucked reverently beneath his arm, the snow whitening his shoulders. It had become darker in the last few minutes, the clouds were pressing lower, and the sound of the Tavy was more distant than it had been. "'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,'" quoted Pendoggat slowly. "'Tis a cheering text for a whist winter's night." He had finished amusing himself, and now that he was cool again his mind reverted naturally to his religion. Eli could not say anything. It was as much as he could do to stand upright. His clay-like right hand was pressed to his forehead. He was afraid he would fall down a great many times going home. "Shake," said Pendoggat in a friendly way. "Give me the good right hand of fellowship, minister." Eli heard him, comprehended the meaning of the words, and hesitated, partly from inability to act, and partly from unwillingness to respond. He felt he might fall down if he removed the hand from his dazed head. He smiled in a stupid fashion and managed to say: "You 'ave been cruel to me, Mr. Pendoggat. You 'ave used me like a beast." Pendoggat stepped forward, caught the big cold hand in his, pulled it roughly from the minister's forehead, and shook it heartily. Not content with that, he dragged the poor dazed wretch nearer, threw an arm about his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. Perhaps it was the influence of his Spanish blood which suggested the act. Possibly it was a genuine wave of sorrow and repentance. He did not know himself; but the frightened Maggot only groaned and sobbed, and had no caresses to give in return. "'How good and joyful a thing it is, brethren, to dwell together in unity,'" quoted Pendoggat, with the utmost reverence. CHAPTER XX ABOUT THE PASSOVER OF THE BRUTE Mary soon forgave her brother for his failure over the electric light business, and they became as good friends as ever, except when Peter demanded sums of money for services which Mary could not remember he had rendered. Peter had a trick of benefiting himself, and charging the cost to his sister. They were settled for the winter; Peter had turfed up the chinks in the walls, adding a solid plaster of clay; had repaired the thatch of gorse where it had rotted, laying on big stones to prevent the removal of any portion by the gales; and had cut the winter supply of fern. He sent in the bill to Mary, and she had taken it to Master, and Master had put on silver spectacles and golden wisdom and revised the costs so thoroughly, that Peter had to complain he had not received the price of the tobacco smoked during the work of restoration. Mary still mourned for Old Sal, knowing she would never see "the like o' he again," while Peter cooked his mommet and cursed Pendoggat. Peter was a weak little creature, who could only revenge himself by deeds of witchcraft. He was not muscular like his sister, who would have stood up to any man on Dartmoor, and made some of them sorry for themselves before she had done with them. Mary believed in witchcraft, because she was to a certain extent religious; she had been baptised, for instance, and that was an act of witchcraft pure and simple, as it was intended to protect the child from being overlooked by the devil; but, if any man had insulted her, she would not have made a mommet of him, or driven a nail into his footprint; she would have taken her stick, "as big as two spears and a dag," and whacked him well with it. The prospect of winter encouraged Peter to turn his mind towards literary pursuits. There were days of storm and long evenings to be occupied; and the little savage considered he might fill those hours with work for which his talents seemed to qualify him, and possibly bequeath to posterity some abiding monument of his genius. Peter had a weekly paper and studied it well. He gathered from it that people still wrote books; apparently every one wrote thern, though only about one in every hundred was published. Most people had the manuscripts of their books put away in cupboards, linhays, and old teapots, waiting the favourable moment to bring them forth and astonish the world. This was something of a revelation to Peter. Where was his book! Why had he remained so long a mute inglorious scholar? Possibly the commoners who met him in daily intercourse had their books completed and stored away safely in their barns, and he was certainly as learned as any of them. Peter went off to Master, and opened to him the secret of his mind. Master was entirely sympathetic. He gave it as his opinion that any one could write a book. When the art of forming letters of the alphabet had been acquired, nothing indeed remained, except pen, ink, and paper; and, as he reminded Peter, Mother Cobley sold ink at one penny the bottle, while pen and paper could be obtained from the same source for an additional twopence. Genius could therefore startle the world at threepence a head. Peter was profoundly interested. He indicated the big tomes, which Master kept always lying beside him: a copy of the _Arcadia_, a Bible dictionary, a volume of Shakespeare, and a few books of poetry, most of them presents from a former rector long deceased, and suggested that Master was accountable for the lot. The old man beamed through his spectacles, coughed uneasily, and generally assumed that attitude of modesty which is said to be one of the most marked traits of literary men. "You can spell turnips," Master reminded. "Sure 'nuff," said Peter. "I can spell harder words than he. I can spell hyacinth, and he'm a proper little brute." He proceeded to spell the word, making only three mistakes. Master advised him to confine himself for the present to more simple language, and went on to ask what was the style and subject of Peter's proposed undertaking. "I wants yew to tell me," was the answer. Master had an idea that genius ought to be inspired from within and not from without, but he merely answered: "Nothing's no trouble, varmer," and suggested that Peter should compose a diary. "'Tis what a man does every day," he explained. "How he gets up, and how he goes to bed, and how he yets his dinner, and how his belly feels." Peter considered that the idea was brilliant. Such an item as how he drank his beer would certainly prove entertaining, and might very well be original. "Then he ses things about other volk, and about the weather," Master went on. "He puts down all he can think of, so long as it be decent. Mun't put down anything that bain't decent 'cause that would shock volks." "Nothing 'bout Varmer Pendoggat and Chegwidden's maid?" the other suggested, in rather a disappointed voice. "Hark ye, Peter," said Master decidedly, "you had best bide quiet about that. Volks wun't tak' your word against his, and if he purty nigh murders ye no one wun't try to stop 'en. A man bain't guilty till he be found out, and Varmer Pendoggat ain't been found out." "He can't touch I. Mary wun't let 'en, and I've made a mommet of 'en tu," said the little man. "Made a mommet, ha' ye? Aw, man, that be an awful thing to du. It be calling in the devil to work for ye, and the devil wun't work wi'out pay, man. He'll come sure 'nuff, and say to yew: 'I wants your soul, Peter. I've a bought 'en wi' that mommet what yew made.' I be main cruel sorry for yew, Peter." "It be done now," said Peter gloomily. Master wagged his head until his silver spectacles dropped off his nose, added a little wisdom, then returned to his subject. "Yew mun write things what you wun't be ashamed to let folk read. When 'tis a wet day yew ses so, and when it be fine you ses it be butiful. When yew gets thoughts yew puts 'em all down." "What du'ye mean?" asked the aspirant. "Why, you think as how it be a proper feeling when you'm good, and yew ses so. That be a thought." "S'pose yew bain't feeling good?" suggested Peter quite naturally. "Then yew writes about what it feels like to be bad," explained Master. "Yew puts it down this sort o' way: 'I feels bad to-day. I don't mean I feels bad in my body, for that be purty middling, but I feels bad in my soul. It be a cruel pity, and I hopes as how I wun't feel so bad to-morrow.' All them be thoughts, Peter; and that be the way books are written." "Thank ye kindly, master. It be proper easy," said Peter. "You'm welcome, varmer. Nothing's no trouble." Peter bought the articles necessary for fame, and went home. Mary was forking manure, pausing only to spit on her hands; but she stopped for another reason when Peter told her he was going to keep a diary. "What be yew talking about?" she cried, amazed at such folly. "Us ha' got one as 'tis. What du us want wi' another?" Peter had to explain that the business of his diary had nothing to do with such base commerce as cream and butter, but consisted in recording the actions of a blameless life upon a pennyworth of paper for the instruction and edification of those who should come after them. Mary grasped her fork, and told him he was mazed. Peter was not sure that Mary had spoken falsely when he came to test his 'prentice hand. In theory the art of writing was so simple, and consisted in nothing more difficult than setting down what he would otherwise have spoken, adding those gems of thought with which his mind was occasionally enriched under the ennobling influence of moderate beer. But nothing appeared upon the sheet of paper except dirt. Even the simplest art requires practice. Not every man can milk a cow at the first attempt. After much labour he recorded the statement: "This be a buke, and when 'tis dun 'twill be a dairy. All volks write bukes, and it bain't easy till you'm yused to it." There he stopped for the day. As soon as he left the paper all sorts of ideas crowded into his mind, and he hurried back to put them down, but directly he took up the pen his mind was a blank again. The ideas had been swept away like butterflies on a windy day. Mary called him "a proper old vule," and her thought was probably quite as good as any that were likely to occur to him. "'Tis bravish times us lives in. Us mun keep up wi' em," was Peter's answer. The next day he tried again, but the difficulties remained. Peter managed to place on record such imperishable facts as there was snow and more would come likely, and he had got up later than usual, and he and Mary were tolerably well, and the fare for the day was turnips and bacon--he wanted to drag in turnips because he could spell the word, and he added a note to inform posterity that he had taught Master how to do so--but nothing came in the way of thoughts, and without them Peter was persuaded his book could not properly be regarded as belonging to the best order of literature. At the end of his second day of creation Peter began to entertain a certain feeling of respect, if not of admiration, for those who made a living with the pen; but on the third day inspiration touched his brain, and he became a literary soul. The old gentleman who shared his house, so called out of courtesy, as it contained only one room, was making more noise than usual, as if the cold had got into his chest. The diarist kept looking up to peer at Grandfather's worn features, wondering what was wrong, and at last the great idea came to him. "Dalled if Gran'vaither bain't a telling to I," he exclaimed; and then he got up and went cautiously across the room, which was the same thing as going from one side of the house to the other, his boots rustling in the fern which covered the floor. "Be'ye alright, Gran'vaither?" he asked, lapping the old fellow's chest with great respect. He was accustomed to chat with the clock, when alone, as another man higher in the scale of civilisation might have talked to his dog. Peter noticed that it was getting dark around him, although it was still early in the afternoon. "I be cruel sick," a voice answered. Peter cried out and began to shiver. He stared at the window, the panes of which were no longer white, but blue. Something was taking place outside, not a storm, as the moor was unusually silent, and there seemed to be no wind. Peter tried to collect his thoughts into a form suitable for publication. He shivered his way to the other side of the room and wrote laboriously: "Gran'vaither be telling to I. Ses he be cruel sick." Then he had another attack of shivers. "Who was that a telling to I?" he shouted, the noise of his voice making him bolder. "'Twas me," came the answer at once; and Peter gulped like a dying fish, but managed to put it down in the diary. "Who be ye?" he called. "Old Gran'vaither." Peter stood in the fern, biting his fingers and sweating. He was trembling too much to write any more. So Grandfather was a living creature after all. He had always supposed that the clock had a sort of existence, not the same as his own, but the kind of life owned by the pixies, and now he was sure of it. "Why didn't ye tell to I avore?" he asked reproachfully. Grandfather appeared to regard the question as impertinent, as he gave no answer. "Yew was making creepy noises last night. I heard ye," Peter went on, waxing bold. "Seemed as if yew was trying to crawl out o' your own belly." "I was trying to talk," the clock explained. Peter had some more shivers. It seemed natural enough to hear old Grandfather talking, and he tried to persuade himself it was not the voice which frightened him, but the queer blue light that seemed to be filling the hut. He remembered that pixies always go about with blue lanterns, and he began to believe that the surrounding moor was crowded with the little people out for a frolic at his expense. Then he thought he would go for Mary, but remembered she had gone to Lewside Cottage with dairy produce. That reminded him of the diary. What a wonderful work he would make of it now! "Gran'vaither," he called. "Here I be," said the voice. "I knows yew be there," said Peter, somewhat sharply. The old gentleman was not so intellectual as he could have wished. "I wants to know how yew be telling to I?" "Same as yew," said Grandfather. "Yew ain't got no tongue." "I've got a pendulum," said the clock, with a malevolent sort of titter. "Yew'm sick?" asked Peter. "I be that. 'Tis your doing," came the answer. "I've looked after ye fine, Gran'vaither," said Peter crossly. "'Tis that there thing on the hearthstone makes me sick," said the voice. "That be a mommet," said Peter. "I know 'tis. A mommet of Farmer Pendoggat." "What du'ye know 'bout Varmer Pendoggat?" asked Peter suspiciously. "Heard you talk about 'en," Grandfather answered. "Don't ye play wi' witchery, Peter. Smash the mommet up, and throw 'en away." The voice was talking quickly and becoming hoarser. "Undo what you've done if you can, and whatever you du don't ye put 'en in the fire again. If ye du I'll be telling to ye all night and will scare ye proper. I wun't give ye any sleep, Peter." "You'm an old vule, Gran'vaither," said Peter. "I'll get the pixies to fetch ye a crock o' gold if you leaves off witching Pendoggat. I'll mak' 'em fetch ye sovereigns, brave golden sovereigns, Peter." "Where will 'em put the gold?" cried Peter with the utmost greediness. "Bottom o' the well. Let the bucket down to-night, and when you pulls 'en up in the morning the gold will be in the bucket. If it ain't there to-night, look the night after. But it wun't be no good looking, Peter, if you ain't done what I told ye, and you mun put the broken bits o' mommet by the well, so as the pixies can see 'em." "I'll du it," chuckled Peter. "Swear you'll do it?" "Sure 'nuff I'll du it. You'm a brave old Gran'vaither if yew can fetch a crock o' gold into the well." "Good-bye, Peter. I wun't be telling to you again just yet." "Good-bye, Gran'vaither. You'm welcome. I hopes you'll soon be better." The voice did not come again, and Peter was left in the strange light and eerie silence to recover, which he did slowly, with a feeling that he had undergone a queer dream. It was not long before he was telling himself he had imagined it all. Superstitious little savage as he was, he could hardly believe that Grandfather had been chatting with him as one man might have talked to another. As he went on thinking suspicious features presented themselves to his mind. Grandfather's language had not always been correct. He had not talked like a true Gubbings, but more as a man of better education trying to bring himself down to his listener's mode of speech. Then what interest could he feel in Pendoggat that he should plead for the destruction of the mommet? Peter addressed a number of questions to Grandfather upon these subjects, but the old clock had not another word to say. That was another suspicious feature; why should the clock be unable to talk then when it had chatted so freely a few minutes before? Peter rubbed his eyes, declared he was mazed, lighted his lamp, and scribbled the wonderful story in his diary until Mary came back. "Peter," she called at once. "Aw, man, come and look! Us be going to judgment." Peter rose, overflowing with mysticism, but he too gasped when he got outside and saw the moor and sky. Indigo-tinted clouds were rolling slowly down Tavy Cleave, there was apparently no sky, and through rents in the clouds they could see blocks of granite and patches of black moor hanging as it were in space. In the direction of Ger Tor was a column of dark mist rising from the river. On each side of this column the outlook was clear for a little way before the clouds again blotted out everything. Those clouds in front were beneath their feet, and they could hear the roaring of the invisible river still further down. Overhead there was nothing except a dense blue mist from which the curious light, like the glow of pixy lanterns, seemed to be reflected. "I ha' never seen the like," said frightened Mary. "None o' the volks ha' ever seen the like on't. Some of 'em be praying down under, and wanting chapel opened. Old Betty Middleweek be scared so proper that her's paying money what her owes. They ses it be judgment coming. There be volks to the village a sotting wi' fingers in their ear-holes so as they wun't hear trumpets. What shall us du if it be judgment, Peter?" "Us mun bide quiet, and go along wi' the rest. If 'tis judgment us wun't have no burying expenses," said Peter. "I'd ha' gone in and asked Master if 'twas judgment, if I hadn't been so mazed like. He'd ha' knowed. A brave cruel larned man be Master. What happens to we if they blows on the trumpets?" "Us goes up to heaven in a whirlpool and has an awful doom," said Peter hazily. "Us mun go up wi' vull bellies," said practical Mary, marching off to blow at the fire. Peter followed, walking delicately, hoping that witchcraft would come to an end so soon as he had procured the crock of gold. Inside the hut, surrounded with comforting lamplight, he told his sister all about Grandfather's loquacity. Mary was so astounded that she dropped a piece of peat into the pot and placed a turnip on the fire. "Aw, Peter! Telled to ye same as Master might?" she gasped. "Ah, told I to break the mommet and he'd give I gold." Mary sat down, as she could think better that way. She had always regarded Grandfather as a sentient member of the family, but in her wildest moments had never supposed he would arouse himself to preach morality in their own tongue. Things were coming to a pretty pass when clocks began to talk. She would have her geese lecturing her next. She did not want any more men about the place, as one Peter was quite enough. If Grandfather had learnt to talk he would probably proceed to walk; and then he would be like any other man, and go to the village with her brother, and return in the same condition, and be pestering her continually for money. The renaissance of Grandfather was regarded by Mary as a particularly bad sign; and for that reason she decided that it was impossible and Peter had been dreaming. "You'm a liar," he answered in the vulgar tongue. "'Tis down in my buke." This was sufficient evidence, and Mary could only wag her head at it. She had a reverence for things that were written in books. "Be yew going to break the mommet?" she asked; and Peter replied that it was his intention to make yet another clay doll, break it into fragments, and commit the original doll, which was the only one capable of working evil, to the fire as before. Thus he would earn the crock of gold, and obtain vengeance upon Pendoggat also. Pixies were simple folk, who could easily be hoodwinked by astute human beings; and he ventured to propose that the mommet should be baked upon Mary's hearthstone in future, so that Grandfather would see nothing of the operation which had made him sick. Mary remained an agnostic. She could understand Grandfather when he played impish pranks upon them, but when it came to bold brazen speech she could not believe. Peter had been asleep and imagined it all. They argued the matter until they nearly quarrelled, and then Mary said she was going to look about her brother's residence to try and find out whether any one had been playing a joke upon him. They went outside, and were relieved to discover that a change had taken place in the weather. Evidently judgment was not imminent, Betty Middleweek could cease paying her debts, and the chapel could be closed again. The blue light had faded, the clouds were higher, and had turned to ghostly grey. "Aw, Peter, 'tis nought but snow," said Mary cheerfully. "Snow never made Gran'vaither talk avore," Peter reminded her. Mary looked about her brother's little hut without seeing anything unusual. Then she strode around the walls thereof, and her sharp eyes soon perceived a branch of dry furze lying about a yard away from the side of the cot. She asked Peter if he had dropped it there, and he replied that it might have been there for days. "Wind would ha' took it away," said Mary. "There was wind in the night, but ain't been none since. That's been broke off from the linny." At the end of the hut was a small shed, its sides made of old packing-cases, its roof and door composed of gorse twisted into hurdles. The back wall of the cot, a contrivance of stones plastered together with clay, was also the end wall of the linhay. Mary went into the linhay, which was used by Peter as a place for storing peat. She soon made a discovery, and called for the lantern. When it was brought she pulled out a loose stone about the centre of the wall, and holding the lantern close to the hole saw at once a black board which looked like panelling, but was the back of the clock-case. Grandfather stood against that wall; and in the middle of the plank was a hole which had been bored recently. "Go'ye into the hut and ask Gran'vaither how he be," called Mary. Peter toddled off, got before the old clock, and inquired with solicitude: "How be 'ye, Gran'vaither?" "Fine, and how be yew?" came the answer. "Ah," muttered Peter. "That be the way my old Gran'vaither ought to tell." After that they soon stumbled upon the truth. It had been whispered about the place that Peter was dabbling in witchcraft for Pendoggat's detriment; and Annie Crocker had heard the whisper. To inform her master was an act of ordinary enjoyment. He had sworn at her, professed contempt for Peter and all his dolls, stated his intention of destroying them, or at least of obtaining the legal benefit conferred by certain ancient Acts of Parliament dealing with witches; but in his heart he was horribly afraid. He spent hours watching the huts, and when he saw the inhabitants move away he would go near, hoping to steal the clay doll and destroy it; but Peter's door was always locked. At last he hit upon the plan of frightening the superstitious little man by addressing him through the medium of the clock. He thought he had succeeded. Perhaps he would have done so had Mary's keen eyes not detected the scrap of gorse which his departure had snapped from one of the hurdles which made the door of the linhay. Pendoggat might be a strong man physically, able to bully the weak, or bring a horse to its knees, but his mind was made of rotten stuff, and it is the strong mind rather than the stalwart body which saves a man when "Ephraim's Pinch" comes. Pendoggat's knees became wobbly whenever he thought of Peter and his clay doll. When the blue mist had cleared off, snow began to fall in a business-like way, and before the last light had been extinguished in the twin villages the moor was buried. Peter thought he would watch beside the well during the early part of the night, to see the little people dragging up his crock of gold, for he had not altogether abandoned the idea that it had been witchcraft and not Pendoggat which had conferred upon Grandfather the gift of a tongue, but the snow made his plan impossible. He and Mary sat together and talked in a subdued fashion. Peter knitted a pair of stockings for his sister, while Mary mended her brother's boots and hammered snow-nails into the soles. A new mommet had been made, broken up, and its fragments were placed beside the well, while the original doll baked resignedly upon Mary's hearthstone. Pendoggat or pixies the savages were a match for either. It remained calm upon the moor, but the snow continued most of the night with a slight southerly drift, falling in the dense masses which people who live upon mountains have to put up with. In the morning all was white and dazzling; the big tors had nearly doubled in size, and the sides of Tavy Cleave were bulging as though pregnant with little Tavy Cleaves. It was a glorious day, one of those days when the ordinary healthy person wants to stand on his head or skip about like a young unicorn. The sun was out, the sky was as blue as a baby's eyes, and the clouds were like puffs of cigarette smoke. Peter embraced himself, recorded in his work of creation that it was all very good, then floundered outside and made for the well. He shovelled a foot of snow from the cover, wound up the bucket, caught a glimpse of yellow water, and then of something golden, more precious than water, air, or sunshine, brave yellow pieces of gold, five in number, worth one-hundred-and-twenty pints of beer apiece. They were lying at the bottom of the bucket like a beautiful dream. Peter had come into a fortune; his teeth informed him that the coins were genuine, his tongue sent the glad tidings to Mary, his mind indulged in potent flights of travel and dissipation. He had inherited twelve hundred pints of beer. "Aw, Peter," Mary was calling. "There ha' been witches abroad to-night." "They'm welcome," cried Peter. "Look ye here," Mary went on in a frightened voice. "Look ye here, will ye? Here be a whist sight, I reckon." Mary was standing near the edge of the cleave, knee-deep in snow, looking down. When Peter floundered up to her side she said nothing, but pointed at the snow in front. Peter's hilarious countenance was changed, and the five sovereigns in his hand became like so many pieces of ice. The snow ahead was marked with footprints, not those of an animal, not those of a man. The marks were those of a biped, cloven like a cow's hoof but much larger, and they travelled in a perfectly straight line across the moor, and behind them the snow was ruffled occasionally as by a tail. Peter began to blubber like a frightened child. "'Tis him," he muttered. "Aw ees, 'tis him," said Mary, "Us shouldn't meddle wi' mommets and such. 'Tis sure to bring 'en." "He must ha' come up over from Widdecombe in the snow," gasped Peter. "Going beyond?" asked Mary, with a motion of her head. "Ees," muttered Peter. "Us will see which way he took." "T'row the gold away, Peter. T'row 'en away," pleaded Mary. "I wun't," howled Peter. He wouldn't have parted with his six hundred pints of beer for ten thousand devils. They floundered on beside the weird hoof-prints, never doubting who had caused them. It was not the first visit that the devil, who, as Peter had rightly observed, has his terrestrial country house at Widdecombe, had paid to those parts. His last recorded visit had been to Topsham and its neighbourhood half-a-century before, when he had frightened the people so exceedingly that they dared not venture out of their houses even in daylight. That affair had excited the curiosity of the whole country, and although some of the wisest men of the time tried to find a satisfactory solution of the problem they only ended by increasing the mystery. The attractions of the west country have always proved irresistible to his Satanic Majesty. From his country home at Widdecombe-on-the-Moor he had sallied out repeatedly to fight men with their own carnal weapons. He tried to hinder Francis Drake from building his house with the stones of Buckland Abbey, and nobody at that time wondered why he had taken the Abbey under his special protection, though people have wondered since. It was the devil who, disguised as a simple moorman, invited the ambitious parson and his clerk to supper, and then led them into the sea off Dawlish. There can be no doubt about the truth of that story, because the parson and clerk rocks are still to be seen by any one. It was on Heathfield, near the Tavy, that the old market-woman hid the hare that the devil was hunting in her basket, and declared to the gentleman with the tail she had never seen the creature. It was the devil who spoilt the miraculous qualities of St. Ludgvan's well by very rudely spitting in the water; who jumped into the Lynher with Parson Dando and his dogs; and it was the devil who was subdued temporarily by Parson Flavel of Mullion; who was dismissed, again temporarily, to the Red Sea by Parson Dodge of Talland because he would insist upon pulling down the walls of the church as fast as they were built; and who was routed from the house that he had built for his friend the local cobbler in Lamorna Cove by famous Parson Corker of Bosava. Mary and Peter knew these stories and plenty of others. They didn't know that a canon authorising exorcism of the devil is still a part of the law of the established Church, and that most people, however highly educated, are little less superstitious than themselves. The hoof-prints went towards the village, regardless of obstacles. They approached walls, and appeared again upon the other side without disturbing the fresh snow between, a feat which argued either marvellous jumping powers or the possession of wings. Peter and Mary followed them in great fear, until they saw two men ahead engaged in the same occupation, one of them making merry, the other of a sad countenance, the merry man suggesting that a donkey had been that way, the other declaring it was the devil. "Donkeys ain't got split hoofs," he stated; while his companion indicated a spot where the snow was much ruffled and said cheerfully: "'Tis where he swindged his tail." Nearer the village the white moor was dotted with black figures, all intent upon the weird markings, none doubting who had caused them. The visitant had not passed along the street, but had prowled his way across back gardens, taking hedges and even cottages in his stride. Peter and Mary went on, left the majority of villagers, who were lamenting together as if the visitation was not altogether disagreeable to them, and found themselves presently near Lewside Cottage. Boodles was walking in the snow, hatless, her hands clasped together, her face white and frightened, taking no notice of the hoof-prints which went through the garden, but wandering as if she was trying to find her way somewhere, and had lost herself, and was wondering if she would find any one who would put her on the right road. "She'm mazed," said Peter. "Mebbe her saw him go through." "Aw, my dear, what be ye doing?" called Mary. "Nought on your feet, and your stockings vull o' snow. He never come for yew, my dear. He'm a gentleman, and wun't harm a purty maid. Be'ye mazed, my dear?" "Mary," murmured the child very softly, raising both hands to her radiant head. "Come with me. I'm frightened." "Us wun't let 'en touch ye," cried Mary valiantly. "I'll tak' my gurt stick to 'en if he tries." Boodles caught her big hand and held it tightly. She had not even noticed the footprints. She did not know why all the villagers were out, or what they were doing on the moor. "He won't wake," she said. "I have never known him sleep like this. I called him, and he does not answer. I shook him, and he would not move--and his eggs are hard-boiled by this time." "Bide here, Peter," said Mary shortly. Then the big strong hermaphrodite put a brawny arm about the soft shivering little maid, and led her inside the cottage, and up the stairs--how mournful they were, and how they creaked!--and into the quiet little bedroom, with the snow sliding down the window-panes, and the white light glaring upon the bed, where Abel Cain Weevil was lying upon his back, and yet not his back, but its back, for the old man was so very tired that he went on sleeping, though his eggs were hard-boiled and his little girl was terrified. The Brute had passed over in the night, not a very cruel Brute perhaps, and had placed his hand on the old man's mouth and stopped his breathing; and the poor old liar liked it so well he thought he wouldn't wake up again, but would go on sleeping for a long time, so that he would forget the rabbit-traps, and his petitions which nobody would sign, and his letters which had done no good. He had forgotten everything just then, but not Boodles, surely not his little maid, who was sobbing in Mary's savage and tender arms. He could not have forgotten the radiant little girl, and he would go on lying for her in his sleep if necessary, although he had been selfish enough to go away in such a hurry, and leave her--to the lonely life. CHAPTER XXI ABOUT WINTER IN REAL LIFE Old moormen said it was one of the worst winters they could remember, not on account of the cold, but because of the gales and persistent snow. The first fall soon melted, but not entirely; a big splash of white remained on Ger Tor until a second fall came; and when that melted the splash remained, asking for more, and in due time receiving it. People found it hard to get about; some parts of the moor were inaccessible; and the roads were deep in slush when they were not heaped with drifts. It was a bad winter for men and animals; and it made many of the old folk so disgusted with life that they took the opportunity offered them by severe colds to get rid of it altogether. The villages above the Tavy appeared to be deserted during that dreary time. It was a wonder how people hid themselves, for the street was empty day after day, and a real human being crossing from one side to the other was a sight to bring faces to the windows. One face was often at a certain window, a frightened little white face, which had forgotten how to laugh even when some old woman slipped up in the slush, and its eyes would look first on one side, then on the other, generally without seeing anything except the bare moor, which was sometimes black, and sometimes white, and always dreary. Boodles was alone in Lewside Cottage, her only companions the mice which she hated, and the eternal winds which made her shiver and had plucked the roses from her cheeks until hardly a pink petal remained. Boodles was feeling as much alone without old Weevil as Brightly was feeling without Ju. Sometimes she thought she might soon have to go out and tramp a portion of the world like him, and claim her share of open air and space, which was all the inheritance to which she was entitled. To lead a lonely life on Dartmoor is unwholesome at any age; and when one is eighteen and a girl it is a punishment altogether too severe. Boodles had got through the first days fairly well because she was stunned, but when she began to wake up and comprehend how she was placed the horror bred of loneliness and wild winds took hold upon her. The first evil symptom was restlessness. She wandered about the cottage, not doing anything, but feeling she must keep on the move to prevent herself from screaming. She began to talk to herself, softly during the day as if she was rather afraid some one might be listening, and towards evening loudly, partly to assure herself she was safe, partly to drown the tempestuous noises of the wind. Then she fell into the trick of shuddering, of casting quick glances behind, and sometimes she would run into a corner and hide her face, because there were queer shadows in the room, and strange sounds upon the stairs, and the doors shook so, and she seemed to hear a familiar shuffling and a tender voice murmuring: "Boodle-oodle," and she would cover up all the mirrors, dreadfully afraid of seeing a comic old face in them. Sometimes when the wind was roaring its loudest over the moor she would rush up to her bedroom, lock the door, and scream. These were foolish actions, but then she was only eighteen. It was getting on towards Christmas, and at last there was another moonlit night, full of wind and motion; and soon after Boodles had gone to bed she heard other sounds which frightened her so much she could not scream. She crept out of bed, got to the window, and looked out. A man was trying the door, and when he found it secure he went to the windows. The moonlight fell upon Pendoggat's head and shoulders. Boodles did not know of a rumour suggesting that old Weevil had been a miser, and had saved up a lot of money which was hidden in the cottage, but Pendoggat had heard it. She got back to her bed and fainted with terror, but the man failed to get in. The next day she went to see Mary, and told her what had happened. Mary spat on her hands, which was one of her primitive ways when she felt a desire to chastise any one, and picked up her big stick, "I'll break every bone in his body," she shouted. Boodles comprehended what a friend and champion she had in this creature, who had much of a woman's tenderness, and all of a man's strength. To some it might have appeared ridiculous to hear Mary's threats, but it was not so. She was fully as strong as Pendoggat, and there was no cowardice in her. "Aw, my dear," she went on, "yew bain't the little maid what used to come up for eggs and butter. Yew would come up over wi' red cheeks and laughing cruel, and saying to I: 'One egg for luck, Mary,' and I'd give it ye, my dear. If you'd asked I for two or dree I'd ha' given 'em. You'm a white little maid, and as thin getting as thikky stick. Don't ye ha' the decline, my dear. Aw now, don't ye. What will the butiful young gentleman say when he sees you white and thin getting?" "Don't, Mary," cried Boodles, almost passionately; for she dared not think of Aubrey as a lover. Their love-days had become so impossible and unreal. She had written to him, but had said nothing of Weevil's death, afraid he might think she was appealing to him for help; neither had she signed herself Titania Lascelles, nor told him of her aristocratic relations. The story had appeared unreal somehow the morning after, and the old man's manner and audible whispers had aroused her suspicions. She thought it would be best to wait a little before telling Aubrey. "What be yew going to du?" asked Mary, busy as ever, punching the dough in her bread-pan. "I am going to try and hang on till spring, and then see if I can't make a living by taking in boarders," said the child seriously. "Mr. Weevil left a little money, and I have a tiny bit saved up. There will be just enough to pay rent, and keep me, if I am very careful." "Butter and eggs and such ain't going to cost yew nought," said Mary cheerily, though Peter would have groaned to hear her. "Oh, thank you, dear old Mary," said Boodles, her eyes glistening; while the bread-maker went at the dough as if she hated it. "I shall do splendidly," Boodles went on. "I have seen the landlord, and he will let me stay on. Directly the fine weather comes I shall put a card in the window, and I expect I shall get heaps of lodgers. I can cook quite well, and I'm a good manager. I ought to be able to make enough one half of the year to keep me the other half. Of course I shall only take ladies." "Aw ees, don't ye tak' men, my dear. They'm all alike, and you'm a main cruel purty maid, though yew ha' got white and thin. If that young gentleman wi' the butiful face don't come and tak' ye, dalled if I wun't be after 'en wi' my gurt stick," cried Mary, pummelling the dough again. "I asked you not to mention him," said Boodles miserably. "I bain't to talk about 'en," cried Mary scornfully. "And yew bain't to think about 'en, I reckon. Aw, my dear, I've a gotten the heart of a woman, and I knows fine what yew thinks about all day, and half the night, though I mun't talk about it. I knows how yew puts out your arms and cries for 'en. Yew don't want a gurt big house like rectory, and yew don't want servants and railway travelling, but yew wants he, yew wants to hold on to 'en, and know he'm yourn, and shut your purty eyes and feel yew bain't lonesome--" "Oh, Mary!" the child broke in, with something like a scream. Mary left her pan and came and whitened the little girl's head with her doughy fingers, lending the bright hair a premature greyness. "It's the loneliness," cried Boodles. "I thought it would not be so bad when I got used to it, but it's worse every day. I have to run on the moor, and make believe there is some one waiting for me when I get home. It's dreadful to feel the solitude when I go in, to find things just as I left them, to hear nothing except mice nibbling under the stairs; and then I have to go and turn on my windy organ, and try and believe I am amusing myself." "Aw, my dear, yew mustn't talk to I so larned like. You'm as larned as Master," complained Mary. "I'll tell you about my windy organ," Boodles went on, trying to force a little sunshine through what threatened to be steady rain. "With the wind, doors, and windows, I can play all sorts of marches. With my bedroom window open, and the door shut, the wind plays sad music, a funeral march; but when I shut my window, and open the one in the next room, it is loud and lively, like a military march. If I open the sitting-room window, and the one in the passage up-stairs, and shut all the doors, it is splendid, Mary, a coronation march. I hear the procession sweeping up-stairs, and the clapping of hands, and the crowd going to and fro, murmuring ah-ah-ah. But the best of all is when I open what was old daddy's bedroom window, and sit in my own room with the door shut, for the wind plays a wedding-march then, and I can make it loud or soft by opening and shutting my window. That is the march I play every evening till I get the shivers." "She'm dafty getting," muttered Mary, understanding nothing of the musical principle of the little girl's amusement. "Don't ye du it, my dear," she went on. "'Twill just be making you mazed, and us will find ye jumping at the walls like a bumbledor on a window." "I'll try and keep sensible, but there is Christmas, and January, and February. Oh, Mary, I shall never do it," cried Boodles. "I shall be mad before March, which is the proper time for madness." "Get another maid to come and bide wi' ye," Mary suggested. "How can I?" "Mebbe some old dame, who wants a home--" began Mary. "She would be an expense, and she might get drunk, rob me, beat me, perhaps." "Her wouldn't," declared Mary, with a glance at her big stick. "I must go on being alone and making believe," said Boodles. "Won't the butiful young gentleman come and live wi' ye?" said poor Mary, quite thinking she had found a splendid way out of the difficulty. "Silly old thing," sighed Boodles, actually smiling. Then she rose to go, and Mary tramped heavily to her dairy. "Tak' eggs and butter wi' ye," she called. "Aw, my dear, yew mun't starve, or you'll get decline. 'Tis cruel to go abroad on an empty stomach." "I'm not a snake," said Boodles; and at that moment Peter appeared in search of thoughts, heard the conversation, agreed that it was indeed cruel to go abroad on an empty stomach, and went to record the statement in his diary, adding for the sake of a light touch the observation of Boodles that she was not a snake, though Peter could not see the joke. Mary was a busy creature, but she found time that evening to stalk across the moor and down to Helmen Barton, where she banged at the door like the good champion Ethelred, hero of the Mad Trist, until the noise of her stick upon the door "alarummed and reverberated" throughout the hollow. When Annie appeared she was bidden to inform her master that if he ventured again near Lewside Cottage, or dared to frighten "my little maid," she, Mary, would come again with the stick in her hands, and use his body as she had just used his door. When Mary had spoken she turned to go, but the friendless woman called her, feeling perhaps that she too needed a champion, and Mary turned back. "Come inside," said Annie in a strange voice, and Mary went, with the statement that she could not remain as the cows were waiting to be milked. "Been to Lewside Cottage, has he? He'm crazed for money. He'd rob the little maid of her last penny, and pray for her whiles he was doing it," said Annie bitterly. Mary said nothing, but her anger rose, and she spat noisily upon her hands to get a good grip of the stick. "I've been wi' 'en twenty years, and don't know 'en yet I thought once he was a man, but I know he bain't. If yew was to shake your fingers at 'en he'd run." "Yew ha' been drinking, woman," said Mary. "Ah, I've had a drop. There's nought else to live vor. Twenty years, Mary Tavy, he've had me body and soul, twenty years I've been a slave to 'en, and now he've done wi' me." "What's that, woman?" cried Mary, lifting her long stick, and poking at Annie's left hand and the gold ring worn upon it. "That!" cried Annie furiously. "It be a dirty thing, what any man can buy, and any vule of a woman will wear. Ask 'en what it cost, Mary Tavy. A few shilluns, I reckon, the price of a joint o' meat, the price of a pair o' boots. And it ha' bought me for twenty years." "You'm drunk, woman." "Ah, purty fine. Wimmin du main dafty things when they'm drunk. Your brother ha' made a mommet of 'en, and like a vule he went and broke it for a bit o' dirty money." "It bain't broke," said Mary. "Peter made a new mommet, and broke that." "Glory be to God," cried Annie wildly, plucking out some grey hairs that were falling upon her eyes. "I'll tell 'en. 'Twill work, Mary Tavy. The devil who passed over last month will see to it. He never passed the Barton. He didn't want his own. I never knowed a mommet fail when 'twas made right." "Du'ye say he bain't your husband?" Mary muttered, looking at the grey hairs in the woman's hand. "See beyond!" screamed Annie, losing all self-control, pulling Mary to the kitchen window, pointing out. It was a dark cold kitchen, built of granite, with concrete floor. There was nothing to be seen but the big brake of furze, black and tangled, swaying slightly. It was a mighty brake, twenty years untouched, and there were no flowers upon it. The interior was a choked mass of dead growth. "Why don't ye burn 'en, woman?" "Ask 'en. It ain't going to be burnt yet--not yet, Mary Tavy." Annie's voice had fallen to a hoarse whisper. She was half-drunk and half-mad. Those twenty years were like twenty mountains piled upon her. "Look at my white hairs, Mary Tavy. I'm getting a bit old like, and I'm for the poorhouse, my dear. Annie Crocker, spinster--that's me. Twenty years I've watched that vuzz before this window rocking to and fro, like a cradle, my dear, rocking 'em to sleep. Yew know what 'tis to live wi' a man. You'm a fool to first, and a vule always I reckon, but such a vule to first that yew don't know' how to stop 'em coming. Yew think of love, Mary Tavy, and you don't care--and there 'em be, my dear, two of 'em, in the middle o' the vuzz." "Did'st du it?" muttered Mary, standing like a wooden image. "Me! I was young then, and I loved 'em. He took 'em from me when I was weak and mazed. I had to go through it here alone, twice my dear, alone wi' him, and he said they was dead, but I heard 'em cry, twice, my dear, only I was that weak I couldn't move. 'Twas winter both times, and I lay up over, and heard 'en walking on the stones of the court, and heard 'en let the bucket down, and heard 'en dra' it up--and then I heard 'en cursing o' the vuzz 'cause it pricked 'en, and his hands and face was bloody wi' scratches when he come up. I mind it all, though I was mazed--and I loved 'em, my dear." "Preaches in chapel tu," said Mary, a sense of inconsistency occurring to her. "You'm a vule, woman, to tell to me like this." "I've ha' bitten my tongue for twenty years, and I'd ha' bitten it another twenty if he'd used me right. Didn't your brother find 'en wi' Chegwidden's maid? Don't I know he's been wi' she for months, and used she as he've used me? Don't I know he wants to have she here, and turn me out--and spend the price of a pair o' boots on a ring same as this, and buy she wi' that for twenty years?" Mary turned away. It was already dark, the cows were not milked, and would be lowing for her to ease their udders. Annie was beside herself. The barrier of restraint had fallen, and the pent-up feelings of a generation roared out, like the Tavy with its melted snow, sweeping away everything which was not founded upon a rock. "Burn it down, woman," said Mary as she went. "Not till the mommet ha' done its work," screamed Annie. Then she lighted the lantern, and went to the linhay for more cider. When lonely little Boodles got home she saw at once that the cottage had been entered. The sitting-room window had been forced open, and its catch was broken; but Pendoggat had got nothing for his pains. She had hidden the money-box so cunningly that he had failed to find it; and she was glad then that she had seen him prowling about the cottage the night before. She got some screws and made the window fast. Then she cried and had her supper. After that she went to her bed and sobbed again until her head ached, and then she sat up and scolded herself severely; and as the wind was blowing nicely she turned on the wedding march, and while listening to it prattled to herself-- "You mustn't break down, Boodles. It is much too early to do that, for things have not begun to go really badly for you yet. There's enough money to keep things going till summer, if you do without any new clothes, and by the way you mustn't walk too much or you'll wear your boots out, and next summer you will have a nice lot of old maids here for their health, and make plenty of money out of them for your health. I know you are only crying because it is so lonely, but still you mustn't do it, for it makes you thin and white. You had better go and study the cookery-book, and think of all the nice things you will make for the old maids when you have caught them." Boodles never allowed herself to speak upon the subject which was always in her mind, and she tried to persuade herself she was not thinking of Aubrey and Weevil's wild story, although she did nothing else. While she was talking of her prospects she was thinking of Aubrey, though she would not admit it. She had tried once to put six puppies into a small cupboard, but as often as she opened the door to put another puppy in those already inside tumbled out. That was exactly the state her mind was in. When she opened it to think of her prospects, Aubrey, Weevil's story, and her unhappy origin, fell out sprawling at once, and were all over the place before she could catch them again; and when she had caught them she couldn't shut them up. It was absolutely necessary to find something to do, as regulating the volume and sound of the wind by opening or shutting various windows and doors, and turning on what sounded to her like marriage or martial marches, was an unwholesome as well as a monotonous amusement. The child roamed about the cottage with a lamp in her hand, trying to get away from something which was not following. She could not sit down to sew, for her eyes were aching, and she kept starting and pricking her finger. She wandered at last with an idea into what had been Weevil's bedroom. There was an old writing-table there, and she had lately discovered a key with a label attached informing her that it would open the drawers of that table. Boodles locked herself in, lighted two lamps, which was an act of extravagance, but she felt protected somehow by a strong light, and began to dig up the dust and ashes of the old man's early life. Many people have literary stuff they are ashamed of hiding away under lock and key, which they do not want, and yet do not destroy. Every one has a secret drawer in which incriminating rubbish is preserved, although it may be of an entirely innocent character. They are always going to make a clean sweep, but go on putting it off until death can wait no longer; and sorrowing relations open the drawer, glance at its contents, and mutter hurriedly: "Burn it, and say nothing." To know the real man it is only necessary to turn out his secret drawer when he is dead. There was not much stored away in the old writing-table. Apparently Weevil had destroyed all that was recent, and kept much that was old. There was sufficient to show Boodles the truth; that the old man had always been Weevil, that his story to her had been a series of lame lies, that his origin had been a humble one. There were letters from friends of his youth, queer missives suggesting jaunts to the Welsh Harp, Hampstead, or Rosherville, and signed: "your old pal, George," or "yours to the mustard-pot. Art." They were humorous letters, written in slang, and they amused Boodles; but after reading them she could not suppose that Weevil had been ever what one would call a gentleman. A mass of such stuff she put aside for the kitchen fire; and then she came upon another bundle, tightly fastened with string, which she cut, and drawing a letter from the packet she opened it and read-- * * * * * "My own Dearest. I was so very glad to get your letter and I know you are looking forward to have one from me but I am so sorry Dearest you have had such a bad cold. My Dear I hope to sit on your knees and have my arm around your neck some day. I do love you you are my only sweetheart now and I hope I am only yours. Many thanks for sending me your photo which I should be very sorry to part with it. It makes me feel delighted as I am looking forward to be in your Dear arms some day. I am waiting for the time to pass so we shall be together for ever. I sit by the fire cold nights and have my thoughts in you my Dearest. I knit lace when I have no sewing to do. It was very miserable last Sunday but I went to church in the evening but I much rather would like to have been with you. I wish I could reach you to give you a nice kiss. I am always dreaming about you my Love and it is such miserable weather now I will stop in haste with my best love and kisses to my Dear Boy from your loving and true Minnie." * * * * * There was a fat bundle of such letters, written by the same illiterate hand nearly fifty years before, and the foolish old man had kept the rubbish, which had no doubt a sort of wild-flower fragrance once, and had left them at his death. Minnie was evidently a servant girl, hardly Miss Fitzalan of the amazing story, and if the young Weevil of those days had meant it, and had not been indulging in a little back-stairs flirtation, his birth was more humble than Boodles had supposed. He must have meant it, she reasoned, or he would hardly have kept that sentimental rubbish all his life. Another drawer came open, and the child breathed quickly. It was filled with a parcel of books, and a label upon the topmost one bore the word "Boodles." The truth was in that secret drawer, there could be no romancing there, the question of her birth was to be settled once and for all, she could read it in those books, then go and tell Mr. Bellamie who she was. The girl's sad eyes softened when she perceived that the heap of diaries was well thumbed. She did not know that the old man had often read himself to sleep with one of them. The straw, by which she had been, mentally at least, supporting herself since Weevil's death, was quickly snatched away. She saw then, what Mr. Bellamie had seen at once, how that the simple old creature had sought to secure her happiness with lies. The story of the diaries told her little more. It was true she was a bastard; that she had been wrapped in fern, and placed in the porch of the cottage, with a label round her neck like a parcel from the grocer's; that the old man had known as much about her parents as she knew herself. "She cannot be a commoner's child," was written in one of the diaries. "I think she must be the daughter of some domestic servant and a man of gentle birth. She would not be what she is had her father been a labourer or a farmer." Then followed a list of the girls whom Weevil had suspected; but that was of no interest to Boodles. The old man had nursed her himself. There was a little book, _Hints to Mothers_, in the pile, and at the bottom of the drawer was a scrap of the fern in which she had been wrapped, and the horrible label which had been round her baby neck. She gazed, dry-eyed and fascinated, forgetting her loneliness, her sorrow, forgetting everything except that one overmastering thing, the awful injury which had been done to her innocent little self. Now that she knew the truth she would face it. The wind was playing a funeral march just then. "I am an illegitimate child," said Boodles. She stepped before the glass, uncovered it, screamed because she thought she had seen that grotesque old face which servant girl Minnie had longed to kiss fifty years back, recovered herself, and looked. "He said I should be perfect if I had a name," she muttered. She was getting a fierce little tiger-cat, and beginning to show her pretty teeth. "Why am I not a humpback, or diseased in some way, or hideous, if I am an illegitimate child? I am as good as any girl. People in Tavistock turn to look at me, and I know they say: 'What a pretty girl!' Am I to say to every one: 'I am an illegitimate child, and therefore I am as black as the devil himself?' Why is a girl as black as the devil just because no clergyman has jabbered some rubbish at her parents? Oh, Boodles, you pretty love-child, don't stand it," she cried. She flung the towel over the glass, turned to the window, and cast it open to receive the wind. "I am not frightened now. I am wild. Let us have the coronation march, and let me go by while they shout at me, 'bastard.' What have I done? I know that the sins of the parents are visited upon the children, but why should the children stand it? Must they, poor little fools? They must endure disease, but not dishonour. I am not going to stand it. I would go into God's presence, and clench my fists, and say I will not stand it. He allowed me to be born. If matrimony is what people say it is, a sort of sacrament, how is it that children can be born without it?" The wind rushed into the room so violently that she had to shut the window. The lamp-flames were leaping up the glasses. A different tune began and made the tortured little girl less fierce. "I won't be wild any more," she said; but an idea had entered her brain, and she gave it expression by murmuring again and again: "Nobody knows, nobody knows. Only he knew, and he is dead." That was true enough. Only Weevil and her mother knew the truth about her shameful origin. The mother had not been seen that night placing the bundle of fern in the porch. She could not have been seen, as nobody in the neighbourhood knew where Boodles really came from, and the fact that the stories which they had invented about her were entirely false proved their ignorance. Probably nobody knew that her mother had given birth to a child. Boodles thought of that as she walked to and fro murmuring, "Nobody knows." Old Weevil's death might prove to be a blessing in disguise. "I will not stand it," she kept on saying. "I will not bear the punishment of my father's sin. I will be a liar too--just once, and then I will be truthful for ever. I will make up my own story, and it won't be wild like his. I understand it all now. In this funny old world of sheep-people one follows another, not because the one in front knows anything, but just because he is in front; and when the leader laughs the ones behind laugh too, and when the leader says 'how vile,' the ones behind say 'how vile' too. I suppose we are all sheep-people, and I am only different because I have black wool, and I am on the wrong side of the hedge and can't get among the respectable white baa-baas. I won't harm any of them. I will be wicked once, in self-defence, to get this black wool off, and then I'll be a very good white respectable sheep-person ever after. The truth is there," she said, nodding at the little heap of books, "and the truth is going to be burnt." She gathered up the pile and cremated the lot in the kitchen fire. Then she went to bed with a kind of happiness, because she knew that her doubts were cleared away, and that her future depended upon her ability to fight for herself. Her eyes were fully opened by this time because she had left fairyland and got well out into the lane of real life. She knew that "sheep-people" like the most excellent Bellamies, neatly bound and edged in the very best style of respectability, must regard little bastards as a sort of vermin, which it was only kind to tread upon or sweep decorously out of the way. "I am only going to wriggle in self-defence because they are hurting me," she murmured. "If they will be nice to me I will stop wriggling at once and be good for ever. I wouldn't make an effort if I was ugly or humpbacked. I would curl up and die like a horrid spider. But I know I am really a nice girl and a pretty girl; and if they will only give me the chance I will be a good girl--wicked once, and then good, so very good. I expect you are much better than most girls, Boodles, and you mustn't let them call you beastly names," she said; and went off to sleep in quite a conceited state of mind. In the morning there was a letter from Mr. Bellamie, not for Boodles, but for the old man who was dead, and the girl opened it, not knowing who it was from, and learnt a little more of the truth about herself. It was lucky for old Weevil that he was well out of the way. He would probably just as soon have been dead as called upon to answer that letter, though it was kindly enough and delicately expressed and full of artistic touches. Mr. Bellamie adopted a gentle cynicism which would have been too subtle for Weevil's comprehension. He slapped him on the shoulder as it were, chaffing him, reproving him mildly, and saying in effect: "You old rogue, to think that you could fool me with your fairy-tales." He professed to regard the matter as a joke, and then becoming serious, suggested that Weevil would surely see the necessity of keeping Boodles and Aubrey apart in the future. He didn't believe in young men, and Aubrey was a mere boy, entangling themselves with an engagement, and altogether apart from that Boodles, though a pretty and charming girl, was not the partner that he would wish his son to choose. Writing still more plainly, if Aubrey insisted upon marrying the girl it would have to be without his consent. He could not receive Boodles at his house while the mystery of her birth remained unexplained. There was a mystery, he knew, as he had made inquiries. He did not credit what he had been told, but the fact remained that Weevil had increased his suspicions by withholding what he knew. The whole affair was unsatisfactory, and the only satisfactory way out of it would be to keep the young people definitely apart until they had found other interests. Mr. Bellamie concluded by hoping that Weevil was not being troubled by the wild weather and tempestuous winds. It would have been better for Boodles if she had not opened that letter. For her it was the end of all things. Hardly knowing what she was doing, she put on her hat, went out, down to the Tavy, and into the woods. It was not "our walk," but the place where it had been. The big explosion had cleared the walk away; and there was nothing except December damps and mists, sodden ferns, and piles of half-melted snow. The once upon a time stage was very far away then. It was the end of the story, and there was no happy ever after, no merry dance of fairies to the tune of a wedding march, no flowers nor sunshine. All the pleasant things had gone to sleep, and those things which could not sleep were weeping. Boodles fastened her arms about the trunk of a tree which she recognised, and cried upon it; then she lay upon the fern which carried a few memories and cried upon that; and felt her way to the river and cried into that. She could not increase the moisture. The whole wood was dripping and far more tear-productive than herself. The rivers and ferns could not tell her that it was not the end of the story, but only the end of a chapter; for she was merely eighteen, and the big desert of life was beyond with a green oasis here and there. But fairyland was closed. A big fence of brambles ran all round it, and there was a notice board erected to the effect that Boodles would be prosecuted for trespassing if she went inside, though all other children would be welcome. There was the beech-tree where Aubrey and she had once spent an afternoon carving two hearts skewered upon an arrow, though the hearts looked rather like dumplings and the arrow resembled a spade. They had done their best and made a failure. They had tried to tell a story, and had muddled it all up just because they had been interrupted so often. Why couldn't ogres leave them alone so that they could finish the story properly? Boodles got back somehow to her home in the wintry solitude, and wrote what she thought was a callous little note to Mr. Bellamie. Perhaps it did not sound so very callous. Short compositions appeal as long ones seldom do. * * * * * "Mr. Weevil is dead, and has been buried some time, and I am quite alone. I am sorry I opened your letter. Please forgive me. I did not know who it was from. I am going to try and make a living by letting lodgings when the fine weather comes, and I shall be very grateful if Mrs. Bellamie and you will recommend me. I am a good cook, and could make people comfortable. Perhaps you had better not say I am only eighteen, as people might not like to trust me. It is very cold up here, and the wind is dreadful. I hope you and Mrs. Bellamie are quite well. I promise you I will not write to Aubrey again." CHAPTER XXII ABOUT THE PINCH Only well-to-do people, those who have many changes of raiment and can afford to poke the fire expensively, are happy in the winter. For others there are various degrees of the pinch; lack of fuel pinch, want of food pinch, insufficient clothes pinch, or the pinch of desolation and dreariness. To those who dwell in lonely places winter pays no dividends in the way of amusement, and increases the expense of living at the rate of fifty per cent. No wonder they tumble down in adoration when the sun comes. The smutty god of coal, and the greasy deity of oil are served in winter; there is the lesser divinity of peat also. Each brings round a bag and demands a contribution; and those who cannot pay are pinched remorselessly. Mrs. Bellamie sat in her drawing-room, and the fire burnt expensively, and she spread her fragile feet towards it, without worshipping because it was too common, and around her were luxuries on the top of luxuries; and yet she was being pinched. It was not the horrid little note, rather blurred and blotted, lying upon her lap which was administering the pinch directly, but the thoughts brought on by that note. Mrs. Bellamie was opening her secret drawer and turning out the rubbish. She was thinking of the past which had been almost forgotten until that small voice had come from Dartmoor. She had only to turn to the window to see the snow-capped tors. The small voice was crying there and saying: "I am only eighteen, and I am going to try and make a living by letting lodgings. I promise you I will not write to Aubrey again." Those words were so many crabs, pinching horribly; and at the bottom of the secret drawer was a story, not written, because the drawer was the lady's mind, and the story was about a little girl whose father had fallen on evil days; a very respectable father, and a proud gentleman who would not confess to his friends that his position had become desperate, but his family knew all about it for they had to be hungry, and a very hard winter came, and the coal-god sent his bag round as usual and they had nothing to put into it. The father said he didn't want a fire. It was neither necessary nor healthy. He preferred to sit in his cold damp study with a greatcoat on and a muffler round his neck, and shiver. As long as there was a bit of cold mutton in the house he didn't care, and he talked about his ancestors who had suffered privations on fields where English battles had been won, and declared that people of leisure had got into a disgraceful way of coddling themselves; but he kept on coughing, and the little girl heard him and it made her miserable. At last she decided to wrap her morals up, and put them away in the secret drawer, and forget all about them until the time of adversity was over. There was a big house close by, belonging to wealthy friends of theirs, and it was shut up for the winter. After dark the little girl climbed over the railing, found her way to the coal-shed, took out some big lumps, and threw them one by one into her father's garden. It made her dreadfully dirty, but she didn't care, for she had put on her oldest clothes. The next day her father found a fire burning in his study, and he didn't seem angry. Indeed, when the little girl looked in, to tell him it was cold mutton time, he was sitting close to it as if he had forgotten all about the ancestors who had been frozen upon battlefields. She did the same wicked thing that night, and the night after; and her father lost his cough and became cheerful again. This robbery of the rich went on for some time, until one night the little girl slipped while climbing the railing and cut her knee badly, which kept her in bed for some days, while she heard her father grumbling because he had no fire; but he didn't grumble for long, because fine weather came, and his circumstances improved, and a young gentleman came along and said he wanted to be a robber too, and went off with the little coal-thief. It was all so long ago that Mrs. Bellamie found herself wondering if it had ever happened; but there was still a small mark upon her knee which seemed to suggest that she ought to have known a good deal about the little girl who had stolen coals during the days of the great pinch. Some of the wintry mist from Dartmoor had got into the room, and had settled between the lady and the fire, which suddenly became blurred and looked like a scarlet waterfall. Part of the origin of the mist tickled her cheek, and she put up her handkerchief to wipe it away; but the voices went on talking. "I am only eighteen, and I am going to try and make a living by letting lodgings," said the voice from the moor. "Mother, I know I'm young, but I shall never change. I love her with my whole heart." That was a voice from the sea. Mrs. Bellamie rose and went to find her husband. She came upon him engrossed upon the characteristics of Byzantine architecture. "How are you going to answer this?" she said, dropping the note before him like a cold fall of snow. "Does it require any answer?" he said, looking up with a frown. "She must struggle on. She is one out of millions struggling, and her case is only more painful to us because we know of it. We will help her as much as we can, indirectly." "I should like to go and see her. I want to have her here for Christmas," said the lady. "It would be foolish," said Mr. Bellamie. "It would make her unsettled, and more dissatisfied with her lot. She might also get to look upon this house as her home." "I am miserable about her. I wish I had never kissed her. She has kissed me every day since," said the lady. "She is always on my mind, and now," she went on, glancing at the note, "I think of her alone, absolutely alone, a child of eighteen, in a dreary cottage upon the moor, among those savage people." "If you had seen that weird old man--" began her husband. "He is dead, I have seen her, and she haunts me." Perhaps Mrs. Bellamie would not have been haunted if she had never stolen those coals. Adversity breeds charity, and tenderness is the daughter of Dame Want. Love does not fly out of the window when poverty comes in. Only the imp who masquerades as the true god does that. The son of Venus gets between husband and wife and hugs them tighter to warm himself. "I am a descendant of Richard Bellamie," said her husband, getting his crest up like a proud cockatoo, "father of Alice, _quasi bella et amabilis_, who was mother of Bishop Jewel of famous memory. You, my dear, are a daughter of the Courtenays, _atavis editi re gibus_, and royalty itself can boast of blood no better. Let the whole country become Socialist, the Bellamies and Courtenays will stand aloof." Mr. Bellamie smiled to himself. There was a classical purity about his utterance which stimulated his system like a glass of rare wine. "I know," said the lady. "I am referring to my feelings, nothing else." She was still thinking of the coals, and it seemed to her that a certain portion of her knee began to throb. "When it comes to affairs of the heart, even the Bellamies and Courtenays are Socialists," she said archly. Mr. Bellamie did not reply directly to that. He loved his wife, and yet he carried her off, when the days of coal-stealing had been accomplished, as much for her name as anything else. "My dear, let me understand you," he said. "Do you want Aubrey to marry this nameless girl?" "I don't know myself what I want," came the answer. "I only know it is horrible to think of the poor brave child living alone and unprotected on the moor. Suppose one of those rough men broke into her cottage?" This was melodrama, which is bad art, and Mr. Bellamie frowned at it, and changed the subject by saying: "She has promised not to write to Aubrey again." "While he has absolutely refused to give her up," his wife added. "Directly he comes back he will go to her." "I can't think where Aubrey gets it from," Mr. Bellamie murmured. "The blood is so entirely unpolluted--but no, in the eighteenth century there was an unfortunate incident, Gretna Green and a chambermaid, or something of the kind. Young men were particularly reckless in that century. If it had not been for that incident Aubrey would never have run after this girl." "I expect he would," she said. "Then he is tainted. This terrible new democracy has tarred him with its brush," said her husband. "I suppose the end of it will be he will run off with this girl and bring her back married." "There is not the slightest fear of that. The girl would not consent." "Not consent!" cried Mr. Bellamie. "Not consent to marry into our family!" "My dear, there is such a thing as nobility of character, though we don't see much of it, perhaps. I may be allowed to know something of my sex, and I am certain this girl would never marry Aubrey without our consent." "Why, then, she's a good girl. I'll do all that I can for her if she is like that," said Mr. Bellamie cheerfully. "What do you suppose she is doing now? Sobbing herself to death," said his wife. The full-blooded gentleman stirred uneasily. Bad art again. "You are pleading for her, my dear. Most distinctly you are pleading for her. If you are going to side with Aubrey I will give in, of course. I will write to the secretary of the Socialists' League, if there is such a thing, and beg humbly to be enrolled as a member, and I will also state that if the name of Bellamie is too much for them I shall be pleased to adopt that of Tomkins or Jenkins. I cannot permit pride to stand in my way, seeing that my future daughter-in-law has no name at all, unless it is the highly aristocratic one of Smith-Robinson, the father being Smith and the mother Robinson." He spoke with some heat, employing the weapon of cynicism as a perfectly legitimate form of art. "Surely you do not suggest she is an illegitimate child," said his wife, with some horror. "I suggest nothing, my dear, because I know nothing. I have heard all sorts of stories about her--probably lies, like those the old man told me. Understand, please, I cannot see the girl," he went on quickly. "I like her. She is _bella et amabilis_, and if I saw much of her, pity and admiration might make a fool of me. You know me, my dear. I am not heartless, as my words might suggest. I want Aubrey to do well, marry well, rise in his profession. If I went to see the child in her cottage the sight would make me miserable. When I left the old man, after he had choked me with the wildest lot of lies you ever heard, I was sad enough for tears. His heart was so good though his art was so bad. The play upon words was unintentional," he added, with a frown. Mrs. Bellamie said no more, but the coals continued to trouble her, and at last the fire kindled, and she ordered a carriage and drove up on Dartmoor without telling her husband. It was the week before Christmas, and the road was sprinkled with carts passing up and down filled with good things, and the men who drove them were filled with good things too, which made them desire the centre of the road at any price. The lady's carriage was often kept at a walking pace by these human slugs with their fill of sloe-gin. Lewside Cottage was found with difficulty, most of the residents appealed to declaring they had never heard of such a place, but the driver found it at last, and brought the carriage up before the little whitewashed house which looked very wet and dreary amid its wintry surroundings. Mrs. Bellamie shivered as she got out and felt the wind with a sharp edge of frost to it. Somebody else was shivering too, but not with cold. Boodles watched from a corner of one of the windows, and when the lady knocked she wanted to go and hide somewhere and pretend she was miles away. "Perhaps she has come to tell me about old maids for lodgers," she murmured. Then she ran down, opened the door, and straightway became speechless. "I have come to see you, my dear," said the lady. The fact was obvious enough to need no comment, but when people are embarrassed, and have to say something, idiotic remarks serve as well as anything. Boodles tried to reply that she perceived the visitor standing before her in the flesh; but her tongue seemed to occupy the whole of her mouth, and she could only smile and flush. Mrs. Bellamie, finding the conversation left to herself, observed that it was exceedingly cold, while poor Boodles was thinking how hot it was. She knew that her note had brought Mrs. Bellamie, and she was dreadfully afraid the lady was going to be charitable; open her purse and give her half-a-sovereign, or call to the driver to bring in a hamper of food, or perhaps of toys, for Boodles was feeling fearfully young and shy. "If she gives me anything I shall stamp and scream," she thought. "Are you really living here alone?" said Mrs. Bellamie, which was quite as foolish as her other remarks, as she could not possibly have expected to see people of various sizes and complexions tumbling suddenly from the cupboards. "How very dreary it must be for you--dear." The last word was not intended to escape. It was on the tip of the lady's tongue, and rolled off before she could stop it. "Dear" alone sounds much more tender without any possessive pronoun attached, and the sound of it made Boodles attempt to swallow something that felt like a lump of clay in her throat. She knew she would have to howl if that lump got any higher and reached the tear mark. She felt that if she opened her mouth she would begin to cry. It was such an awful and a pleasant thing to have a visitor, and Aubrey's mother; and she was thinking already how terrible it would be when the visitor went away. They went into the little sitting-room. Their breath seemed to fill it with cold steam, for there was no fire, which was a bad thing for Mrs. Bellamie, for she thought at once of the past coal-age and the resemblance of that room to her father's study; and just then Boodles began to cough. It was all over with Mrs. Bellamie. Her secret drawer was wide open, and all that she ought to have been ashamed of was revealed. She was listening again at a certain keyhole, feeling the cold current of air upon her ear, and with it the gentle persistent noise of her proud old father coughing because he hadn't got any fire. She was getting on in life, but her spirit was the same. She would have gone then, and climbed a railing, and stolen coal to give the poor girl a fire. Boodles looked up with a smile, without in the least knowing that her eyes were hungry for a caress. Mrs. Bellamie bent and kissed her, and Boodles promptly wept. "My poor child, how can you sit here in the cold? Why don't you have a fire?" said the lady, who seemed bent on saying foolish things that day. "I--I am so glad to see you," sobbed Boodles, obtaining relief and the use of her tongue. "I would have lighted a fire if I had known you were coming. I only use the kitchen and my bedroom." "Would you like to show me over the cottage?" said the lady, becoming more sensible. "It won't take long," said Boodles. "I am sorry for crying. This is Thursday, isn't it? I lose track of the days rather, but the baker comes Wednesdays and Saturdays, and he came yesterday, and it isn't Sunday, so it must be Thursday. Well, I hadn't cried since Tuesday. Yesterday was a day off." "You poor child," murmured Mrs. Bellamie. "Sometimes I think I ought to keep a record, a sort of rain-gauge," went on Boodles in quite a lively fashion. It was a part of her idea. She was playing her game of "not standing it," and after all she was telling the truth so far. "Monday, three-hundred drops. Tuesday, one-hundred-and-twenty-and-a-half drops. Wednesday, none. Thursday, not over yet. It's like a prescription. I'm all right now, you made me feel funny, as I've never had a civilised visitor before. It is very good of you to come and discover me." Then she took the lady over the tiny house, from the kitchen to her bedroom, taking pride in the fact that it was all very neat, and apologising for the emptiness of the larder by saying that she was only one small girl, and she was well able to live upon air, especially as the wind of Dartmoor was notoriously fattening. "Eating is only one of the habits of civilisation," declared Boodles. "So long as you live alone you never get hungry, but directly you go among other people you want to eat. I have often seen two moormen meet on the road. They didn't want anything while they were alone, but so soon as they caught sight of one another they felt thirsty. May I get you a cup of tea?" "Well, the sight of you has made me thirsty," said Mrs. Bellamie. Then they laughed together and felt better. "Look at this basket," said Boodles, pointing to a familiar battered object covered with a scrap of oilcloth. "It belongs to a poor man who is in prison now. I brought him here because the people were hunting him, and the policeman came and took him for stealing some clothes, though I'm sure he was innocent. Aubrey gave him half-a-crown on Goose Fair Day, and perhaps he bought the clothes with that. Can you buy a suit of clothes for half-a-crown? If you can't, I don't know how these men live. I am keeping the basket for the poor thing, and when they let him out I expect he will come for it." Boodles alluded to Brightly and his basket since they gave her the opportunity of mentioning Aubrey. She wanted to see if the lady would accept the opening, and explain the real object of her visit; but Mrs. Bellamie, who was still respectable, only said that it was rather shocking to think that Boodles had tried to protect a common thief, and then she thought again of the coals, for the theft of which she had never been punished until then. She ought to have been sent to prison too, although she had done much more good than harm in stealing from a wealthy man to give comfort to a poor one. It had made her tender and soft-hearted also. She would never have felt so deeply for Boodles had it not been for that little hiatus of poverty and crime. Rigid honesty has its vices, and some sins have many virtues. Virtues are unpleasant things to carry about in any quantity, like a pocketful of stones; but little sins are cheery companions while they remain little. Mrs. Bellamie was a much better woman for having been once a thief. "Is that clock right?" asked the lady. "I told the driver to come for me at five." Boodles said she hadn't the least idea. There were two clocks, and each told a different story, and she had nothing to check them by. She thought it would be past four as it was getting so dark. She lighted the lamp, and the lady noticed the little hands were getting rather red. When the room was filled with light she noticed more; the girl was quite thin, and she coughed a good deal; nearly all the colour had gone out of her face, and there were lines under her eyes, lines that ought never to be seen at eighteen; her mouth often quivered, and she would start at every sound. Then Mrs. Bellamie heard the wind, and she started too. "My dear, you cannot, you must not, live here alone," she said, shivering at the idea, and the atmosphere. "It would drive me mad. The loneliness, the wind, and the horrible black moor." "I have got to put up with it. I have no friends," said Boodles at once. "I don't know whether I shall pull through, as the worst time is ahead, but I must try. You can't think what it is when the wind is really high. Sometimes in the evenings I run about the place, and they chase me from one room to another." "Not men?" cried the lady in horror. "Things, thoughts, I don't know what they are. The horrors that come when one is always alone. Some nights I scream loud enough for you to hear in Tavistock. I don't know why it should be a relief to scream, but it is." "You must get away from here," said Mrs. Bellamie decidedly. "We will arrange something for you. Would you take a position as governess, companion to a lady--" "No," cried Boodles, as if the visitor had insulted her. "I am not going to prison. I would rather lose my senses here than become a servant. If I was companion to a lady I should take the dear old thing by the shoulders and knock her head against the wall every time she ordered me about. Why should I give up my liberty? You wouldn't. I have got a home of my own, and with lodgers all summer I can keep going." "You cannot do it. You cannot possibly do it," said Mrs. Bellamie. "Will you come and spend Christmas with us?" she asked impulsively. It was a sudden quiver of the girl's mouth that compelled her to give the invitation. "Oh, I should love it," cried Boodles. Then she added: "Does Mr. Bellamie wish it?" The lady became confused, hesitated, and finally had to admit that her husband had not authorised her to speak in his name. "Then I cannot come. It would have been a great pleasure to me, but of course I couldn't come if he does not want me, and I shouldn't enjoy myself in the least if I thought he had asked me out of charity," she added rather scornfully. Mrs. Bellamie only smiled and murmured: "Proud little cat." "Well, I suppose I must be," said Boodles. "Poverty and loneliness sharpen one's feelings, you know. If I was a rich lady I would come and stay at your house, whether Mr. Bellamie wanted me or not. I shouldn't care. But as I am, poor and lonely, and pretty miserable too, I feel I should want to bite and scratch if any one came to do me a favour. Aubrey is not coming home for Christmas then?" she added quickly, and the next instant was scolding herself for alluding to him again. "I mean you wouldn't ask me if he was coming home." The lady asked abruptly for another cup of tea, not because she desired it or intended to drink it, but because her son was the one subject she wanted to avoid. That was the second time Boodles had made mention of him, and the first time the lady had been worried by a pain in her knee, and now she was haunted by the voice which had spoken so lovingly of the little girl when it declared: "I will never give her up." That little girl was standing with the lamplight on her hair, which was as radiant as ever, and with a longing look in her eyes, which had become sad and dreamy and altogether different from the eyes of fun and laughter which she had worn on Goose Fair Day. "Oh, Mrs. Bellamie, do say something," Boodles whispered. The lady began to choke. What could she say that the child would like to hear? "You know I have given him up, at least my tongue has," the girl went on. "But I want to know if he is going to give me up?" "I cannot tell you, my dear," the lady murmured, glancing at the clock. "I think you must know, for he told me he was going to speak to you and his father. My life is quite miserable enough, and I don't want it made worse. It will be much worse if he comes to see me when he returns, and says he is the same as ever, and you are the same as ever. I promise I won't see him again, if he leaves me alone, and I won't marry him without your consent. Does he really love me, Mrs. Bellamie?" "Yes, my dear," the lady whispered. "Do you think that is the carriage?" "It is only the wind. Well, I know he does, but I wanted to hear you say it. What am I to do when he comes home? He will ask me to meet him, and if I refuse he will come up here and want to kiss me. What am I to do? I love him. I have loved him since I was a small child. I am not going to tell him I don't love him to please you or any one. I have done a good deal. I will not do that." "We will beg him not to come and trouble you," said the lady. "But if he does come?" "I think, my dear, it will be best for all of us if you ask him not to come again." That was too much for the little girl. She could hardly be expected to enter into an alliance with Aubrey's parents against herself. She began to breathe quickly, and there was plenty of colour in her cheeks as she replied: "I shall do nothing of the kind. How can you expect me to tell him to go away, and leave me, when I love him? I have got little enough, and only one thing that makes me happy, and you want me to deprive myself of that one thing. If you can deprive me of it you may. But I am not going to torture myself. I have made my promise, and that is all that can be expected from me. Were you never in love when you were eighteen?" The lady rather thought that at the susceptible age mentioned she fell in love with every one, though the disease was only taken in a mild form and was never dangerous. She had a distinct recollection of falling violently in love with a choir boy, who sang like an angel and looked like one, but she had never spoken to him because he was only the baker's son. She had been rather more than twenty when Mr. Bellamie had fallen in love with her blood, and she had been advised to fall in love with his. She had been quite happy, she loved her husband in a restful kind of way, but of the intense passion which lights up the whole universe with one face and form she knew nothing; she hardly believed that such love existed outside fairy-tales; and in her heart she thought it scarcely decent. She had never kissed her husband before marrying him, and she was very much shocked to think that her son had been kissing Boodles. She would have been still more shocked had she seen them together. She would have regarded their conduct as grossly immoral, when it was actually the purest thing on earth. There is nothing cleaner than a flame of fire. Mrs. Bellamie tried to turn the conversation from her son. She was uncomfortable and depressed. The surroundings and the atmosphere pinched her, and she felt she would not have a proper sympathy for Boodles until she was back in her luxurious drawing-room with a fire roaring shillings and pence away up the chimney. She would feel inclined to cry for the girl then, but at the present time, surrounded by winds and Weevil furniture, she felt somewhat out of patience with her. "I came to see if I could do anything for you," she said. "But you are so independent. If I found you a comfortable--" "Situation," suggested Boodles, when she hesitated. "I suppose you wouldn't accept it?" "I should not," said the girl, holding her head up. "The old man who is dead spoilt me for being trodden on. Most girls who go into situations have to grin and pretend they like it, but I should flare up. Thank you all the same," she added stiffly. Mrs. Bellamie looked at the little rebel again and wished she would be more reasonable. It was a very different Boodles from the merry girl who had come to tea with her in Tavistock. The girl looked years older, and the babyish expression had gone for ever. Every month of that lonely life would leave its mark upon her. December had written itself beneath her eyes, and before long January would be signed upon her forehead, and February perhaps would write upon her mind. Mrs. Bellamie saw the little ring of forget-me-nots, and guessed who had given it her; and then she began to wonder whether it was worth while fighting against Nature. Why not let youth and love have their own sweet way, why not ignore the accident of birth, which had made her a Courtenay and Boodles a blank, why let pride straddle across the way to stop the youngsters from getting into the happy land? Little could be gained from preventing happiness, and much might be lost. That was the influence of the coals, burning again, although the fire was dying lower; and then the influence of prosperity and a restful life did their work, and suggested Boodles in her drawing-room as Aubrey's wife, a pretty sight, a graceful ornament; and outside the people talking, as they can talk when they smell the carrion of scandal. "Have you no one to look after you?" she asked. "No guardians? Did your--did Mr. Weevil leave no will?" "He left nothing, except the story of my birth," said Boodles. "I don't know if he left any relations, but if there are any they are entitled to what he left, as I am no connection of his. It would be dreadful for me if there is any one, and they hear of his death." "You know the story of your birth then now?" Mrs. Bellamie suggested. "Yes," said Boodles; "I do." She tossed her head and stood defiant. She was losing her temper, and had already said what she had not intended to say. Having made up her mind "not to stand it," she had prepared a simple story to tell to Aubrey if he asked for it. Old Weevil had really been her grandfather, and her parents had been obscure people of no better station than himself. She was going to tell a lie, one thorough lie, and then be good for ever. She was going to make herself legitimate, that and nothing more, not a very serious crime, she was merely going to supply herself with a couple of parents and a wedding-service, so that she should not be in the position of Brightly and suffer for the sins of others. But the sight of that cold lady was making Boodles mad. She did not know that Mrs. Bellamie had really a tender feeling for her, and it was only her artistic nature which prevented her from showing it. Boodles did not understand the art which strives to repress all emotion. She did not care about anything just then, being persuaded that both the Bellamies were her enemies, and the lady had come with the idea of trying to make her understand what a miserable little wretch she was, fitted for nothing better than a situation where she would be trampled on. She felt she wanted to disturb that tranquil surface, make the placid lady jump and look frightened. Possibly her mind was not as sound as it should have been. The solitude and the "windy organ," added to her own sorrows, had already made a little mark. One of the first symptoms of insanity is a desire to frighten others. So Boodles put her head back, and laughed a little, and said rather scornfully: "I came upon some diaries that he kept, and they told me all about myself. I will tell you, if you care to hear." "I should like to know," said Mrs. Bellamie. "But I think that must be the carriage." "It is," said Boodles, glancing out of the window and seeing unaccustomed lights. "What I have to tell you won't take two minutes. Mine is a very short story. Here it is. One night, eighteen years ago, Mr. Weevil was sitting in this room when he heard a noise at the door. He went out. Nobody was there, but at his feet he found a big bundle of dry bracken. Inside it was a baby, and round its neck was a label on which he read: 'Please take me in, or I shall be drowned to-morrow.' What is the matter, Mrs. Bellamie?" Boodles had her wish. The lady was regarding her already with fear and horror. "Don't tell me you were that child," she gasped. "Why, of course I was. I told you my story was a short one. I have told it you already, for that is all I know about myself, and all Mr. Weevil ever knew about me. But he always thought my father must have been a gentleman." "The carriage is there, I think?" "So you see I am what is known as a bastard," Boodles went on, with a laugh. "I don't know the names of my parents. I was thrown out because they didn't want me, and if Mr. Weevil had not taken me in I should have been treated like a kitten or a rat. I am sorry that he did take me in, as I am alone in the world now." Mrs. Bellamie stood in the doorway, trembling and agitated, her face white and her eyes furious. The coals would not trouble her again. Good Courtenay blood had washed them, and made them as white as her own cheeks. "You let me kiss you," she murmured. "Probably I've poisoned you," said the poor child, almost raving. "My son has made love to you, kissed you, given you a ring." There was a light in the girl's eyes, unnaturally bright. "If you tried to take this ring from me I would kill you." She was guarding it with a shivering hand. "I know what I am, Mrs. Bellamie. I knew before that look in your eyes told me. I know what a beastly little creature I am, to have a gentleman for a father and some housemaid for a mother. I know it was all my own fault. It must have been the wicked soul in me that made them do what was wrong. I know I deserve to be punished for daring to live. I am young, but I have learnt all that; and now you are teaching me more--you are teaching me that if I had been left at your door you would have sent me to my proper place." Mrs. Bellamie was outside, and the driver was assisting her towards the carriage, as it was too dark for her to see. Then the wheels jolted away over the rough road, and down the long hill towards luxury and respectability; and the unlit night pressed heavily upon the moor; and Boodles was lying upon her bed, talking to the things unseen. CHAPTER XXIII ABOUT A HOUSE ON THE HIDDEN LANES Thomasine was sitting in the stone kitchen of Town Rising sewing and trying to think; but the little skeletons of thought that did present themselves were like bad dreams. She had given notice to the Chegwiddens and would be leaving in a few days, not because she wanted to go, but because it had become necessary. Town Rising was a moral place, where nothing lower than drunkenness was permitted, and Thomasine was able to comprehend how much better it was to resign than to be turned out. Pendoggat had found a place for her, not a permanent one as he explained, a place where she would receive no wages, where indeed a premium would be required; there she would pay a certain debt to Nature, and then he would come and take her away. Thomasine was making garments which she smuggled away when any one came to the door. They were ridiculous garments which she could not possibly have worn herself, but perhaps she was making doll's clothes for a charity bazaar, although girls like Thomasine are not usually interested in such things; or she might have been preparing a complete outfit for a certain little person who had benefited her. Pixies of the Tavy are famed for their generosity to servant maids who do their work properly; and the girls have been known to make garments for their benefactors, and spread them out in the kitchen before going to bed, so that the little person could put them on in the night. But the clothes, small though they were, would have been a few sizes too large for pixies, and somewhat too roomy for dolls. Thomasine seemed to be wasting her time and materials; and as a matter of fact she was, although she did not know it because she knew nothing, except that she was not particularly happy. She was trying to think of matrimony while she sewed. All that she knew about it was that the clergyman mentioned a couple by name publicly three Sundays running, and then they went to church, the girl in her fair-clothes, and the man with a white tie which wouldn't fit his collar, and the clergyman read something which made the man grin and the girl respectable. Time was getting on, it was the dull month of February, and the burden of maternity seemed to be much nearer than the responsibilities of matrimony. Thomasine knew nothing of the place she was going into except that her duties would be light, merely to look after an old woman who would in return render her certain services at a critical time. She did not even know where the place was, for Pendoggat was not going to tell her until the last moment. She had seen young Pugsley the previous Sunday, in a hard hat and a suit of new clothes, the trousers turned up twice in order that a double portion of respectability might rest upon him, with close-cropped head, and a bundle of primroses pinned to his coat. He had stepped up, shaken her by the hand in a friendly way, and told her he was going to be married at Easter. He had got the promise of a cottage, and the ceremony would take place early on Easter Monday, and they were going for their honeymoon to St. Thomas's Fair. Thomasine went back crying, because Pugsley was a good sort of young fellow, and it seemed to her she had missed something, though it was not her fault. She had always wanted to be respectable Mrs. Pugsley, only she had been taken away from the young man, and told not to see him again, and farm-maids have to be obedient. Thomasine spent the remainder of her time sewing when she was not occupied with household duties, and then the day came when she was to leave. One of the farm-hands drove her to the station, with her box in the cart behind, and her wages in her pocket. She knew by then where she was going; into the loneliness of mid-Devon. She would much rather have gone home, but that was impossible, for the pious cobbler, her father, would have taken her by the shoulders, placed her outside the door, and have turned the key upon her. If a map be taken, and one leg of a compass placed on the village of Witheridge, the other leg may be extended to a circumference six miles distant, and a wide circle be swept without encountering a railway or cutting more than half-a-dozen good roads, and inside that circle there is not a single town. It is almost unexplored territory, there are no means of transit, and the inhabitants are rough and primitive. Distances there seem great, for the miles are very long ones, and when a call is made to some lonely house the visitor will often be pressed to stay the night, as he would be in Canada or Australia. The map is well sprinkled with names which suggest that the country is thickly populated, but it is not. Many of the names are delusions, more suggestive of the past than the present. A century ago hamlets occupied the sites now covered by a name, but there is nothing left of them to-day except dreary ruins of cob standing in a thicket of brambles or in what was once an apple-orchard. What was formerly the name of a good-sized village is now the title of a farm-house, or one small cottage which would not pay for repairing and must therefore be destroyed when it becomes uninhabitable. It is a sad land to wander through. It suggests a country at the end of its tether which has almost abandoned the struggle for existence, a poverty-stricken country which cannot face the strong-blooded flow of food importations from foreign lands. Even the goods sold in the village shops are of alien manufacture. A hundred little hamlets have given up the struggle in the same number of years, and been wiped, not off the map, but off the land. The country of Devon is like a rosy-cheeked apple which is rotten inside. This region within the circle is densely wooded, and in parts fertile, though the soil is the heavy dun clay which is difficult to work. It is well-watered, and is only dying because there are no markets for its produce and no railways to carry it. It is a country of lanes, so narrow that only two persons can walk abreast along them, so dirty and ill-kept as to be almost impassable in winter, so dark that it is sometimes difficult to see, and so stuffy and filled with flies in hot weather that any open space comes as a relief. These lanes twist everywhere, and out of them branch more lanes of the same dirtiness and width; and if they are followed a gate is sure to be reached; and there, in a dark atmosphere, may be seen a low white house with a gloomy orchard on each side, and behind a wilderness of garden, and in front a court containing crumbling barns of cob and a foul pond; and on the other side of the court the lane goes on into more gloomy depths, towards some other dull and lonely dwelling-place in the rotten heart of Devon. The country would be less sad without these dreary houses which suggest tragedies. Sometimes stories dealing with young women and very young girls reach the newspapers, but not often; the lanes are so dark and twisting, and the houses are so entirely hidden. It is possible to walk along the lanes for miles and to see no human beings; only the ruins of where they lived once, and the decaying houses where they live now. It is like walking through a country of the past. Along one of these lanes Thomasine was taken in a rickety cart ploughing through glue-like mud, and at one of the gates she alighted. There had been a hamlet once where the brambles spread, and its name, which had become the name of the one small house remaining, was Ashland, though the map calls it something else. The tenant was an elderly woman who appeared to find the greatest difficulty in suiting herself with a servant, as she was changing them constantly. She was always having a fresh one, all young girls, and they invariably looked ill when they went away, which was a sure sign that the house was not healthy, and that Mrs. Fuzzey's temper was a vile one. The woman had no near neighbours, though there were, of course, people scattered round about, but they saw nothing suspicious in the coming and going of so many maids. No girl could be expected to stand more than a month or two of Mrs. Fuzzey and her lonely house, especially as some of the girls she engaged were rather smart and well dressed. No one suspected that the mistress of dark little Ashland of the hidden lanes was there solely in the way of business. "How be ye, my dear?" said the lady in an amiable fashion to her new servant, client, or patient, or whatever she chose to regard her as, when the driver after his customary joke: "Here's one that will stop vor a month likely," had been dismissed. "You'm a lusty maid what won't give much trouble, I reckon. You'm safe enough wi' me, my dear. Seems you ha' come a bit early like. Well, most of 'em du. They get that scared of it showing. Not this month wi' yew, I reckon. Be it early next?" "Ees," said Thomasine. "Well, my dear, I'll be a proper mother to ye. 'Twill du ye good to get abroad a bit. Run out and pick up the eggs, and us will ha' tea. Yonder's the hen-roost." Mrs. Fuzzey seemed a pleasant body, but it was all in the way of business. She was a stout woman, with a big florid face, and crisp black hair which suggested foreign extraction. She reared poultry successfully, and was quite broken-hearted when a young chicken met an evil fate and perished, which indicated the presence of a vein of tenderness somewhere, in the region of the pocket probably, as she was usually insensible to the suffering of human beings. Still she did not look the sort of woman who might reasonably be expected to end her life upon the scaffold, if success in business made her careless, or if any of her patrons or clients ventured to risk their own safety by giving information against her. Thomasine was not accustomed to stately interiors and fine furniture, and yet she was astonished at the bareness of the interior of Ashland. Had everything in the place been put up to auction less than five pounds would possibly have bought the lot. There was nothing in the way of luxury, not an article that was unnecessary, except the curtains that hung across the windows for respectability's sake. It was not a home, but a place of business. The mistress had the sense to know she might require to leave in a hurry some day without being allowed time to pack anything, and she saw no advantage in investing her savings in furniture which she would have to leave behind. The garden was at the back, a dark garden, shadowed and gloomy, like an Eastern cemetery. It made a sort of quadrangle, with the house at one end, a jungle-like coppice with bracken and bramble undergrowth at the other, and an orchard on each side; as an additional protection there was a stone hedge round the three sides. There was only one entry and that was from the house. There had been another, a gate leading in from one of the orchards, but Mrs. Fuzzey had closed it up. She did not want people trespassing in her garden. Near the hedge at the back, and in front of the dense coppice, was an old well which had not been used for a long time as the water was supposed to be polluted. It had been practically closed up when Mrs. Fuzzey came into residence, but she had opened it for her own purposes. The water supply of the house came from a well in the court, which was fed either by a spring or by the river Yeo which passed close by. The old well was very deep and contained a good deal of water with a scum on it which fortunately could not be seen, and a smell to it which in hot weather became rather pronounced, as it had not been cleared out for ages and was filled with dead bodies of rats--and other things. But the miasma carried no distance, and there was nobody to complain about it except Mrs. Fuzzey, who didn't mind. Ashland was almost as much out of the way as a farm upon the back blocks of Australia. Nobody ever entered the garden except herself and her maid for the time being. It was in a land where the sanitary inspector ceases from troubling. She did her own gardening, planting her potatoes and onions, being a strong woman well able to wield a spade. She had piled a lot of rocks about the well and made quite a pleasant flower garden there. She was fond of flowers, and in the warm weather would take out a chair and sit beside the well, admiring the beauty of the various saxifrages, creepers, and trailing plants which her efforts had induced to grow. She called it the Grotto. She had penny novelettes sent her regularly, and would devour them greedily as she sat in her garden, being very much addicted to romance and sentiment when it was strong enough; and sometimes she thought it would be agreeable to retire from business and have a husband and family of her own. It was so very dull at Ashland though she was making money. There never had been a Mr. Fuzzey, although she always gave herself the courtesy title of Mrs. Thomasine got on very well with Mrs. Fuzzey and almost liked her. The girl was taken round the garden and the Grotto was pointed out to her with pride, although there was nothing to be seen except wet rocks, sodden plants, and decayed woodwork; but she was informed it would be a place of great beauty in the spring. Indoors there was cleaning to be done, with cooking, dairy-work, and egg-packing. A tradesman's visit was rare, and when one did come it was on foot along the narrow muddy lane, his cart being left far behind at the corner of some road or bigger lane. The evenings would have been fearfully dreary had Mrs. Fuzzey been less entertaining. The lady made and drank sloe-gin in some quantity; and she gave Thomasine a taste for it, with the result that sometimes they laughed a good deal without apparent cause, and the elderly lady became sentimental and embraced Thomasine, and declared that she loved young women, which was natural enough seeing that she made her living out of them. Then she would read selected portions from her latest novelette and weep with emotion. "If ever I come to change my business I'll write bukes," she said one night. "I'd like to sot down every day, and write about young volks making love. I feels cruel soft to think on't. Lord love ye, my dear, there bain't nothing like love. Volks may say what 'em likes, but 'tis the only thing worth living vor. I've never had none, my dear, and I'd like it cruel. You'm had plenty, I reckon. Most o' the maids what comes here ha' had a proper butiful plenty on't, and some of 'em ha' talked about it till my eyes was fair drapping. I cries easy," said Mrs. Fuzzey. Thomasine admitted she had received her share, and rather more than she had wanted. "Yew can't ha' tu much when it comes the way yew wants it," said the lady. "I'm wonderful fond o' these little bukes 'cause 'em gives yew the real thing. I can't abide 'em when they talks about butiful country, and moons a shining, and such like, but when they gets their arms around each other and starts smacking, then I sots down tight to 'en. I can tak' plenty o' that trade. Sets me all of a quiver it du. I ses to myself: 'Amelia'--that's me, my dear--'just think what some maids get and yew don't.' Then I starts crying, my dear. I be a cruel tender woman." The conversation was entirely one-sided, because Thomasine had never learnt to talk. "If ever I got to write one o' these, I'd mind what the maids ha' told me. I'd start wi' love, and I'd end wi' love. I'd ha' nought else. I'd set 'em kissing on the first line, and I'd end 'em, my dear, I'd end 'em proper, fair hugging, my dear," hiccupped Mrs. Fuzzey. The bottle of sloe-gin was getting low, and her spirits were proportionally high. She kissed Thomasine, breathed gin down her back, and lifted up her voice again-- "I loves maids, I du, I loves 'em proper. I loves children tu, innocent little children. I loves 'em all, 'cept when they scream, and then I can't abide 'em. I reckon, my dear, you wouldn't find a tenderer woman than me anywheres. I tells myself sometimes I be tu soft, but I can't help it, my dear." The old swine slobbered over the girl, half-drunk and half-acting, giving her loud-sounding kisses; and Thomasine did not know that most of the girls who had been placed under Mrs. Fuzzey's protection had been used in the same way as long as they would stand it. People have many peculiar ways of easing the conscience; some confess to a priest, some perform charitable works; others, like Mrs. Fuzzey, assume they are rather too good, though they may be vile. The old harridan posed as a tender-hearted being in love with every living creature; and she had read so many ridiculous love-tales and wept over them, and drunk so many bottles of sloe-gin and wept over them, and listened with lamentations to so many amatory details from the young women who had placed themselves under her charge, that she had pretty well persuaded herself she was a paragon of loving-kindness. Thomasine thought she was; but then Thomasine knew nothing. It was rare to see a human being cross the court in front of Ashland. If more than one person passed in a day it was a thing to talk about, and sometimes a whole week went by bringing nobody. The policeman who was supposed to patrol the district had possibly never heard of the place, and had he been told to go there would have wanted a guide. Ashland was more isolated at that time than most of the dead hamlets, because the two farm-houses that stood nearest were empty and dropping to pieces. About half-a-mile beyond the court another dark little lane branched off, and presently it divided into two dark little lanes like rivers of mud flowing between deep banks. They were like the dark corridors of a haunted house; and one of them led to the dead hamlet of Black Hound, now one cob farm-house until lately occupied by Farmer Hookaway who had shot himself the previous autumn; and the other finished up at the dead hamlet of Yeast-beer, which was also one cob farm-house with the thatch sliding off its roof, and this had been tenanted by Farmer Venhay, who had not shot himself but had drowned his bankrupt body in the Yeo. It was a pretty neighbourhood in summer, for the foxgloves were gorgeous, so were the ferns, and the meadow-sweet, irises, ragged-robins and orchids in the marshy fields; but it was sad somehow. It wanted populating. There were too many ruins about, too many abandoned orchards overrun with brambles, too many jagged walls of cob which represented a name upon the map. Once upon a time the folk of Merry England had danced and revelled there. Their few descendants took life tragically, and sometimes put it off in the same way. There was no music for them to dance to. The time passed quickly enough for Thomasine, too quickly because she was frightened. She quite understood why she had become Mrs. Fuzzey's assistant for the time being. She comprehended that it is the duty of every girl to remain respectable, and in a vague way she had grasped the code of morality as it is practised in certain places. It was necessary for girls in her condition to go away and hide themselves, either at home, if her parents would permit it, or if not in lodgings provided for the purpose. She would never be seen, and would not have the doctor, because it was not anything serious, generally measles, or a stubborn cold. When everything was over she could appear again, and get strong and well by taking outdoor exercise; and nobody ever knew what had happened, unless the child, which was always born dead, had been disposed of in a particularly clumsy fashion. As time went on Mrs. Fuzzey became irritable. She said Thomasine would have to pay something extra if she was not quick about her business. Her own affairs were by no means prospering, as she had not received any applications to fill the position of general help when Thomasine had vacated it. The truth of the matter was, as she explained bitterly, girls in country districts were becoming enlightened and imbued with the immoral spirit of the towns, which displayed articles of convenience in the windows of shops professing to be hygienic and surgical drug stores. These things had penetrated to the country, and a knowledge of them had reached even the most out of the way districts. Every small chemist did a large back-room business in such things, and many a girl was taking the precaution of carrying one about in her handkerchief, or when going to church between the leaves of her prayer-book. Mrs. Fuzzey had no hesitation in denouncing the entire system as immoral, and one which conduced towards the destruction of her business which she had built up with so much care and secrecy. The lady had been finding her novelettes dull reading lately. The love interest had not been nearly strong enough for her taste, and she felt that her imagination could have supplied many details that were wanting. In the meantime flowers were springing in the garden, which was on low ground and entirely sheltered from every wind; and one morning Mrs. Fuzzey came in to announce that the Grotto would soon be beautiful, as the white arabis and purple aubrietia were smothered with buds. Soon after that it happened with Thomasine after the manner of women, and she gave birth to twins, both girls. Mrs. Fuzzey was kindness itself while she attended the girl, but when the first had been followed by the second she began to grumble and said she should require another sovereign. She couldn't work for nothing, and she echoed Brightly's frequently expressed complaint that trade was cruel dull. The infants were removed, and then Thomasine gave birth to a third, a boy this time. Mrs. Fuzzey became really angry, and wanted to know if this sort of thing was likely to continue. She knew all about the legend current around Chulmleigh, of the Countess of Devon who met a labourer carrying a basketful of seven infants, which his wife had just given birth to, down to the river that he might dispose of them like kittens, and she thought it possible that Thomasine might be about to emulate that woman's example. Mrs. Fuzzey was not prepared to deal with infants in such quantity, and she stated she should require an additional five pounds to cover extra work and risk. "Have ye purty nigh done?" she asked at length. "Ees," muttered Thomasine faintly. "About time, I reckon. Well, I'll step under and ha' a drop just to quiet my nerves like." Mrs. Fuzzey had her drop, then attended to her professional duties, which did not detain her long, had another drop, which kept her engaged some time, and finally returned and asked the girl how she did. "Proper bad. I reckon I be dying," said Thomasine. Mrs. Fuzzey laughed her to scorn. "You'm as fresh as a trout. Come through it fine, my dear. You can't say I bain't a tender woman," she went on, the various "drops," and the knowledge that the unpleasant part of her work was over, having rendered her amiable. "I know the trade, I du, and I be so soft and gentle that you didn't feel hardly anything. 'Twas lucky for yew, my dear, they sent yew to me. Any old doctor might ha' killed ye. I reckon I'm just about the handiest at the trade a living, and cruel tender tu. Done a lot o' good in my time, I ha'. Saved many a maid just like I've saved yew." Mrs. Fuzzey talked as if she regarded herself eminently qualified for decorations and a pension. "'Tis a pity yew can't claim the bounty," she went on. "But there, it bain't much, only a pound or two, though a little bit be a lot for poor wimmin like yew and me, my dear. 'Twould help yew to pay me, for I can't du all this extra work for nought, wi' times so bad, and maids not coming reg'lar. I can't du it, my dear. Well, I reckon I'll go under and ha' a drop." Mrs. Fuzzey lived on sloe-gin during such days, feeling she required it to strengthen her nerve, or possibly to ease her abnormal conscience. She finished the bottle before she appeared again. It remained as peaceful as ever about Ashland. Nobody passed that day, or the day after; and the dark little lanes hidden away like caves were full of mud and water as they always were at that season of the year. When Thomasine felt better she asked for the infants, and Mrs. Fuzzey, who could not walk without lurching from side to side, cast up her eyes and her hands, and wondered whatever the girl was talking about. "Having dree of 'em and thinking they'm alive, the purty little lambs. They was proper booties, my dear. I could ha' kissed 'em I loved 'em so cruel. I never did see babies I loved so much. I'd like to ha' nursed the purty dears, given 'em baths, dressed 'em, made 'em look fine. But what can ye du wi' dead babies, my dear, 'cept get 'em out o' the way?" "I heard 'em cry," said Thomasine. "Lord love ye, my dear, you'm that mazed yew could fancy anything. 'Twas just the door creaking as I carried 'em out." "Where be 'em?" asked Thomasine. "Safe in the Grotto, my dear. There be a bit o' warm sunshine, and 'tis butiful." "Was 'em all born dead?" "All dree," hiccupped Mrs. Fuzzey with the utmost cheerfulness. "'Tis a good thing for yew. What would an unmarried girl du wi' dree babies?" Thomasine had not considered that point. She could not know that every girl who had occupied that bed before her had asked much the same questions, and had received exactly the same answers. She admitted that it was a good thing, although she had to murmur: "I'd ha' liked to cuddle 'em just once," which was a long speech for Thomasine. She was thankful her ordeal was over, though she wondered what Pendoggat would say when he heard the children were dead. He had often told her how he should love any child that was theirs. Still he could not refuse to marry her now. She would have to get strong again as soon as she could, because she knew he would be waiting for her. The next day Mrs. Fuzzey entered in excellent spirits and half-sober. The sun was shining, she said, and the arabis and aubrietia were in flower among the rocks, and "The Grotto be looking just butiful, my dear." CHAPTER XXIV ABOUT BANKRUPTS Swaling-time had come, red patches of fire flickered every night on Dartmoor, and the furze-prickles crackled in the flames. The annual war between man and the prickly shrub was being waged, and the atmosphere was always clouded and tainted with bitter smoke. Every one seemed to be infected with the idea of furze destruction, from the granite-cracker who as he went to his labours would push the match with which he had just lighted his pipe into some thick brake, to the small boys who begged or stole boxes of matches and went out after dark to make the moor fiery. With those huge bonfires flaming it looked as if not a particle of furze would survive; and yet when summer arrived there would be apparently as much as ever; and not a bush would be killed; only burnt to the ground, and the roots still living in the peat would soon send forth green shoots. People who looked down into the hollow thought Helmen Barton a peaceful place, but they were wrong; there was plenty of passion beneath the surface, and at night often there was noise. It was dark down there; a watcher on the top of the hill might have seen no light, though he could hardly have failed to hear the noise, which was made by a drunken woman railing at a silent man; at least the man appeared to be silent, as his voice did not carry out of the hollow. Possibly he did nothing but mumble. Annie was degenerating rapidly; cider satisfied her no longer; and she went into the village to procure fiercer liquors. Pendoggat had become more reserved, and there was craftiness in his every movement. He kept his temper somehow and refused to answer the woman's taunts, which made her scream louder. He could stand it; he was nearly ready to go; only one little matter was detaining him, and when that was settled he could let himself out in the night, walk down to Tavistock, and the first train westward or eastward--he did not care which--would carry him away. Thomasine had left Mrs. Fuzzey's hospitable roof. Pendoggat had seen her, and at once made the discovery that he loved her no longer. The girl had changed so much; she seemed to have lost her blood, her wonderful ripeness, her soft flesh, and her passion-provoking look. She had become thin and quite unattractive. Pendoggat wondered how he could ever have been so wildly in love with her, and he told her so, adding that his conscience would not permit him to take her away with him, and it would be nothing less than a grievous sin if he married her without love. He admitted he had sinned occasionally in the past, and he did not wish to add to the number of his transgressions. The wretched girl implored him to make her a decent woman, as she called it, to keep his promises, to remember all the oaths that he had sworn. People more than suspected the truth; the Chegwiddens would not have her back and had refused her a character; her father had greeted her with an austere countenance, had opened his Bible and read for her benefit a damnatory verse or two from the Revelations of St. John the Divine, and then had shown her the way out, while her mother had locked the door behind her. Her appearance suggested to them how she had been occupied during her retirement. Measles wouldn't go down with them. She had left Ashland too soon, but Mrs. Fuzzey would not keep her any longer. The old witch had kissed and embraced her, had wheedled every penny of her wages out of her, had declared that she loved her as she had never loved anybody else in her life, and had then told her to get out. She had no place to go to. She hung to Pendoggat, and implored him to remember what had passed between them; but he naturally wanted to forget it. He told Thomasine she was a sinful woman, and when she made a scene he lost his temper, and reminded her that a girl could make a living on the streets of Plymouth if she walked them long enough. Afterwards he had a feeling that he had acted without charity, so he went to chapel and repented, and was forgiven in the usual way. Still he decided he could have nothing more to do with Thomasine. His conscience would not permit it. His thorn in the flesh was Annie, but he let her rave, thinking she would be less dangerous while she barked. The little matter which detained him at the Barton was a mercenary one. He could not leave the furniture for strangers to seize or Annie to profit by. His beasts he had sold already to two different persons, which was not a dishonest act, but merely good business; it was for the two men to settle the question of ownership when they came together. The furniture was not worth much, but he could not leave the place without getting value for it. So he sent for a dealer from Tavistock to come and make him an offer, taking precautions to get Annie out of the way during the time of his visit; but she heard of it, and instinct told her the truth again. One morning a letter came, Annie saw the name on the flap of the envelope, and knew that it was from the dealer. Probably he had bought what few chattels she possessed and had brought with her when she came to live with Pendoggat. She was silent all the morning; it was a dark day, there had been no sun for some time, and a spell of frost had set in; it was black above and white below, a black unbroken sky and a white sheet of frost. She shivered as she crept about the kitchen, listening for the movements of the master. He did not speak to her; when she passed he put his head lower than ever. Later in the day it became difficult to see on account of the smoke. Swaling was going on all round, and there was a choking mist over the Barton, even inside as if the house itself was smouldering. Pendoggat could scarcely breathe. He had become horribly afraid of fire since Peter made the mommet, which he had tried to purchase but had failed because the little savage carried too many wits for him. He determined to get away that night, obtaining what money he could from the mercenary dealer as he went through Tavistock. The atmosphere was getting tainted with things stronger than smoke. He had often wondered whether his conscience would permit him to murder Annie, but he was beginning to fear then she might attempt to murder him. He went out into the court with a feeling that he was trying to escape from a burning building; and Annie followed him without a sound. She saw him standing as if dazed, peering into the smoke, clutching at his breast pocket where the capital of the Nickel Mining Company was hidden in the form of notes. He did not know which way to turn that he might escape from the multitude of little clay dolls which seemed to him to be dancing upon the hills. Then he remembered it was chapel evening. He could not go away until he had been to Ebenezer to seek a blessing and absolution, to give Pezzack one more grasp of the good right hand of fellowship, to remind the congregation of the certainty of hell-fire. He did not see Annie until she came up softly and touched him. "Where be ye going?" she said in a smooth manner, which suggested that she still loved him. "Nowhere," he muttered, wishing the smoke would clear away and make an opening for his escape. "That be a long way," she said, with pleasant humour. "'Tis where I've been going the last twenty years. Reckon I be purty nigh there." He made no reply, only moved away, but she followed, saying: "How about that letter yew had this morning?" "'Tis my business," he said. "Yew never did nought that warn't your business. You'm selling up the home. That's what I ses. You'm going away. Who be going wi' ye?" "Nobody," he muttered. "Hark to 'en," said Annie in the same smooth voice. "He'm going nowhere wi' nobody. I knows some one who be going wi' yew." "You're a liar." "Times I be. I've played a lie for twenty years, and mebbe it comes nat'ral. I reckon I be telling the truth now. When you start some one will be behind yew, and her wun't be dumb neither. Yew took me twenty years ago, and you'm going to tak' me now." "I'm not going away," he said hoarsely. He was afraid of the woman while she was soft and gentle. He had been so crafty and done nothing to arouse her suspicions; at least he thought so; but he was acquainted only with the bodily parts of women, not with their instincts and their minds. "If one of us be a liar it bain't me," said Annie. "What be yew leaving me? When a woman gets past forty her don't want clothes. Her can cover herself wi' her grey hairs, and her don't want a roof over her and food. Only young maids want such. Be I a liar, man?" "Get back into your kitchen," he muttered, still moving away, but she steadily followed. "I've been in the kitchen twenty years, and I reckon I want a change," she answered. "A wife bides in the kitchen 'cause her's willing, and a servant 'cause her has to, but I bain't a wife and I bain't a servant, though volks think I be the one, and yew think I be the other. Be ye going, man? I've got a pair o' boots, a bit worn, but they'll du. Reckon I'll get 'em on." "Get inside and keep your mouth shut," he said roughly. "I bain't going under. Dartmoor be a free place, and my tongue be my own yet. Hit me, man. Pick up thikky stick and hit me wi' 'en. It wun't be the first time you've hit some one weaker than yourself." Pendoggat was losing his temper and seeing red flames in the smoke, though they were not there. If she continued in that soft voice he would strike her, perhaps too hard, and silence her for ever. It was a pity he had not done so before, only his conscience, or fear of the law, had kept him from it. Now she was at his side, pulling at his arm, quite gently, for she was sober and in full possession of her senses, and she was pointing to a side of the Barton where the brake of furze stood, not black, but shrouded in smoke and starched with frost, and she was saying in an amiable voice: "You'm a vule, man. A woman bain't so easy beat. I ses you'm a vule, man, as every man be a vule who gives a woman power over 'en. I bain't a going to follow yew. I can get men to du it vor me. You'm a murderer, man," she said in a caressing way. Pendoggat shrank away, not so much from her, as from her horrible words. She had insulted him before, but never like that. It was true he had committed indiscretions in the past, sins even, but he had always gone to chapel with the big Bible under his arm, and he had always repented in bitterness of spirit, and he had always been forgiven. It was time indeed for him to break away from such a woman. He could not listen to such vile language. A little more of it, and his conscience would permit him to silence her. He began to walk towards the gate of the court, but she was holding on to him and saying: "You'm in a cruel hurry, man, and it bain't chapel time. Twenty years us ha' lived together as man and wife, and now you'm in a hurry to go. Chegwidden's maid can bide 'cause yew don't want she. I can bide 'cause I knows yew wun't get far avore they fetch ye back to hear what I got to say about ye. Tak' thikky stick," she said, picking it up from the lifting-stock and pushing it into his hand. "Mebbe 'twill be a help to ye, mak' yew walk a bit faster, and yew can keep policeman off wi' 'en." He grasped the stick, clenched his teeth, and struck her on the head, across the ear; the first actual blow he had ever given her, and he was only sorry that the stick was so light and small. She screamed once, not so much in anger, as with pain. Her head went dizzy and her ear became red-hot. After the scream she said nothing, but steadying herself went back to the house, into the kitchen, and took down a bottle from the top shelf; while he walked on mumbling towards the gate. The vile creature deserved it because she had called him a murderer. It was not only wicked of her but foolish, because she had no evidence against him, beyond what was hidden in the furze; and those remains would incriminate herself more strongly than him. She never attended to her religious duties, while he was the light and foundation stone of Ebenezer, and nobody could accept her word against his. Still it would be advisable, if possible, to remove every trace of her guilt from that thick brake of furze. To abandon her would be a sufficient punishment. He did not want to get her into more trouble. Out of the smoke two figures advanced towards the Barton gate; a short round man and a tall lean one. Pendoggat hesitated, and would have turned back, for they were strangers, and he could not know what they wanted him for, but he had been seen, one of the men called him by name, and he could not find a way to escape. He went to them, and the stout man became the retired grocer, uncle of Pezzack, chairman of the Nickel Mining Company, while the other was his friend and a principal shareholder. Neither showed friendliness and both were agitated. They were running after their savings and didn't know where to find them. The grocer would not shake hands, but stood struggling to find words. His had not been a liberal education, and had not included lessons in elocution. "It's what I call a dirty business," he shouted, then gasped and panted with rage and fast walking, and repeated the expression, adding blasphemy; while the lean man panted also, and stated that he too called the scheme a dirty business, and added that he had come for satisfaction and a full explanation. Pendoggat was himself again when confronted by these two wise men of Bromley who had been meddling in matters which they didn't understand. The entire company of shareholders would not have terrified him because the nickel mine was Pezzack's affair, not his. People seemed to be in the mood for accusing him of sins which had long ago ceased to weigh upon his conscience. He remarked that he was at a loss to understand why the gentlemen had brought their complaints to him. "What about that dirty mine?" shouted the grocer, although he did not use the adjective dirty, but something less clean. "What about the nickel that you said was going to make our fortunes?" "The minister tells me it is there. He's waiting for fine weather to start," said Pendoggat. "The minister says he knows nothing about it. You put him up to the scheme," said the lean man. Pendoggat shook his head and looked stupid. He did not seem able to understand that. "You've got the money. Every penny of it, and we've come to make you fork out," spluttered the grocer. Pendoggat could not understand that either. "I've been writing every week, and hearing nothing, except always going to begin and never beginning," went on the fat grocer. "I've been worrying till I couldn't sleep, and till there ain't hardly an ounce o' flesh on my bones. I couldn't stand it no longer, and I says to my friend here, I'm a going down to see what their little game is, and my friend said he was coming too, and it's just about time we did come from what my nephew Eli tells me. Says you found this here mine and put him up to getting money to work it. Says he's given the money to you. Says you've been like a madman, and pulled him up here one night, and pretty near punched his blooming head off." Pendoggat made up his mind that the grocer was an untruthful and a vulgar person. All that he said was: "I hope the minister hasn't been telling you that." "Are you going to deny it?" cried the lean man. "I don't understand you, gentlemen," said Pendoggat. "I'll take you down to the mine if you like. I don't know if nickel is to be found there. The minister says there's plenty, and I believed him." The grocer was whirling round and round after the manner of a dancing dervish and huzzing like a monstrous bee. He felt that he was losing his savings, and that sort of knowledge makes a man dance. "What do he know about nickel? He's a minister of the Gospel, not a dirty miner," he howled. "Are you telling us the minister hasn't given you the money?" demanded the other man, who made his living by buying cheap vegetables and turning them out as high-class jam. "Pezzack never told you that, gentlemen. He's treated me fair enough, and paid my wages regular as working manager, and I'm not going to think he's put that tale on you," Pendoggat answered. "He did," shouted the grocer, but in a less fiery manner, because he was impressed by the simple countryman. "He told us he'd given you every penny." "I'll not believe it of him, not till he stands before me, and I hear him say it." "If you ain't got the blooming oof, who has?" cried the vulgar little chairman. "Judge for yourself," Pendoggat answered. "Here am I, a poor man, scratching a bit of moor for my living, and pressed so hard that I've just had to sell my beasts, and now I'm selling most of my furniture to meet a debt. I've a letter in my pocket making me an offer, and you can see it if you like. There's the minister living comfortable, and married, gentlemen, married since this business started and since the money came." "I always wondered what he had to marry on," the grocer muttered. "Go and ask him. Tell him I'll meet him face to face and answer him word for word. I know nothing about mining. If you put a bit of nickel and a bit of tin before me I couldn't tell one from the other. Stay a bit and I'll come with you. It's near chapel time," said Pendoggat, righteous in his indignation. "I'll meet him in the chapel and answer him there." "What about that sample you gave me when I came down before? Knocked it off the wall, you did, before me, and that was nickel, for I had it analysed, and paid the chap five bob for doing it." Pendoggat looked confused and did not have an answer ready. He kicked his boot against the gatepost, and turned away, shaking his head. "Got him there," muttered the jam-maker. "Well, I'll tell you," said Pendoggat roughly. "I wouldn't have said a word if the minister had played fair, but if it's true he's gone against me to save himself I'll tell you. He gave me that bit of stuff and told me what I was to do with it. I didn't know what it was, and I don't know now. I did what I was told to do, and got an extra ten shillings for doing it." The grocer and his friend looked at one another, and the uncle muttered something about the nephew which Eli would have wept to hear. Some one had uttered particularly gross lies to him, and he had an idea Pendoggat was telling the truth. The grocer and jam-maker were men easily deceived by a smooth manner; and Pendoggat's story had impressed them far more than Pezzack's, just because the countryman had a straightforward confession, while the minister rambled and spoke foolishly. "Gave him ten bob for doing it," whispered the jam-maker, nudging the grocer. "I'm ready to come with you, gentlemen," said Pendoggat. It was nearly dark, and by the time they reached the village the chapel doors would be open. Pendoggat knew he must get away that night because he was afraid of Annie. He had struck her at last, and she had been at the liquor ever since. He could hear her screaming in the house; she might get hold of his gun and blaze at him during the night. It was going to be clear and frosty, a good night for a long walk, and the notes were packed away in his pocket. There was only one duty remaining--the unmasking of Pezzack, who apparently had been trying to blacken his character. Annie would quiet down when she found herself alone. She would not follow him, or give information against him; and if she did the one thing he could outwit her, and if she did the other it would go hard with her. "I'll come with you, gentlemen," he repeated. "The soul that sinneth it shall die. That's a true saying, and it comes from the true word." "What about my blooming money, though?" muttered the grocer; while his friend was wondering whether an extra halfpenny on jam would recoup him for his losses. They met no one as they crossed the smoky stretch of moor. It was going to be a hard night, and already the peat felt as unyielding as granite. The grocer slapped his arms across his unwieldy chest, and said it was "a bit parky" in his vulgar way, and longed for his snug jerry-built villa; while his friend agreed that Dartmoor was a place of horror and great darkness, and wished himself back in his gas-scented factory superintending the transformation of carrots into marmalade. They walked in single file along a narrow pony track, Pendoggat leading with his eyes upon his boots. Pezzack was in the chapel when the little party arrived. He was whiter than ever, not altogether with cold, though Ebenezer was like a damp cave by the sea, but with nervousness, with fear of his rotund uncle and dread of the mysterious Pendoggat. He did not know even then whether Pendoggat was his friend or his enemy. He could not explain the fit of madness which had come upon the man that night they had left the chapel together, and had made him use his wretched self so shamefully; but then he could explain nothing, not even a simple text of Scripture. He could only bleat and flounder, and tumble about hurting himself; but he was still a happy man, he told himself. Partner Pendoggat was a rough creature, almost a brute sometimes, but he would not desert him when the pinch came. The visitors did not approve of Ebenezer, and expressed themselves to that effect in disdainful whispers. It was altogether unlike the comfortable tabernacle where the grocer thanked God he was not like other men; and as for the jam-maker he was of the Anglican brood, a sidesman of his church, a distributer of hymn-books, a collector of alms, and all the ways of Nonconformity he utterly abhorred. He settled himself in an Established Church attitude, in a corner with his head lolling against the wall and his legs stretched out; while the grocer adopted the devotional pose of Wesleyanism, sitting upright with his hands folded across his watch-chain and his chin upon his chest. "Brother Pendoggat will lead in prayer," said Eli nervously. The grocer admitted afterwards that the prayer had been strong, and had overlooked few of those weaknesses to which the flesh occasionally succumbs. He especially admired the phrase alluding to honest and respectable tradesmen who after leading a life of integrity in business were able to retire with a blessing upon their labours and devote the remainder of their lives to good works. He was surprised to find a countryman with such a keen insight into human character. Pendoggat prayed also for pastors and teachers, and especially for those shepherds who led members of their flock astray; while Pezzack grew whiter, and the grocer went on nodding his head like a ridiculous automaton. The jam-maker had wrapped himself up in his greatcoat and gone to sleep, so that he should not be defiled by listening to false doctrine. He was a prosperous man and the handful of sovereigns he had lost in "Wheal Pezzack" did not trouble him much. A few florid advertisements would bring them back again. The service came to an end, and Pendoggat rose to address the meeting. He asked the people to remain in their places for a few moments, and he turned to Eli, who was still at the reading-desk, and said, with his eyes upon the walls which were sweating moisture-- "You called a meeting here last summer, minister. You said you had found nickel on Dartmoor, and you wanted to start a company to work it." "No, no," cried Eli, beginning to flap his big hands as if he was learning to fly. He had expected something was going to happen, but not this. "That is not true, Mr. Pendoggat." "Let him talk," muttered the grocer. "Your time's coming." "I say you called a meeting, and I came to it," Pendoggat went on. "There are folks here to-night who came to that meeting, and they will remember what happened. You sent round a sample of nickel, and then I got up and said there was no money in the scheme, and I said I would have nothing to do with it, and I told the others they would be fools if they invested anything in it. I ask any one here to get up and say whether that is true or not." "It was your mine, Mr. Pendoggat. It was your scheme. Oh, Mr. Pendoggat, 'ow can you talk like this, and uncle listening?" cried the miserable Eli. Up got the old farmer, who had been present at the meeting, and said in his rambling way that Pendoggat had spoken nothing but the truth; and he added, for the benefit of the visitors, what his uncle, who had been a miner in the old days, had told him concerning the various wheals, and the water in them, and the difficulty of working them on account of that water. And when he had repeated his remarks, so that there might be no misunderstanding, the grocer sent his elbow into the jam-maker's ribs, and whispered in his deplorable phraseology that his nephew had been up to a blooming lot o' dirty tricks and no error; while the jam-maker awoke, with a curt remark about the increasing protuberance of his wife's bones, and found himself in cold lamp-lighted Ebenezer, looking at Eli's countenance which was beginning to exude moisture like the stones of the walls. "Friends, uncle, and Mr. Pendoggat--" stammered the poor minister, trying to be oratorical; but the grocer only muttered: "Stow your gab and let the man talk." "After the meeting we stopped behind, and you told me you were going to run the mine, and you asked me in this place if I would be your manager," Pendoggat went on. "I said I would if there wasn't any risk, and then you told me you could get the money from friends, from your uncle in Bromley--" Eli cut him off with wailings. It was his peculiarity to be unable to speak with coherence when he was excited. He could only gasp and stammer: "It's not true. It's the other way about. I never 'ad nothing to do with it. You are telling 'orrid, shameful lies, Mr. Pendoggat;" but the grocer muttered audibly: "A dirty rascal," while the jam-maker muttered something about penal servitude which made him smile. "You told me you had an uncle retired from business," said Pendoggat. "A simple old chap you called him, an old fool who would believe anything." The grocer began to splutter like a squib, while his companion laughed beneath his hand, pleased to hear his friend's weaknesses clearly indicated; and Eli, losing all self-control, came tumbling from the desk and sprawled at his relation's feet, sobbing like the weak fool he was, and saying: "Oh, Mr. Pendoggat, 'ow can you talk so shameful? Oh, uncle, I never did." The people behind were standing up and pressing forward, shocked to discover that their minister had been standing on such feet of clay. Pendoggat looked at his watch and smiled. He had judged Pezzack accurately; the weak fool was in his hands. The grocer, scarlet to the tip of his nose, caught his nephew by the neck, shook him, and, forgetting everything but his own losses desecrated the chapel by his mercenary shouts: "Where's my money, you rascal? Give me back my money, every penny of it, or I'll turn you out of house and home, and make a beggar of you." "I 'aven't got it, uncle. I never 'ad a penny of it. I 'anded it over as fast as it come to Mr. Pendoggat, and he 'ave got it now." This was literally true, as the money was in Pendoggat's pocket, but the grocer had formed his own impressions and these were entirely unfavourable to Eli. He went on shaking his nephew, while the jam-maker in moving his foot kicked the bankrupt, and found the operation so soothing to his nerves that he repeated the act with intention. "I ain't got none o' the money. I gave it 'im, and he's been keeping wife and me. I thought he was my friend. He've a shook me by the 'and many a time, and we've been like brothers. I didn't never call you a simple old chap, uncle. I love you and respect you. I've always tried to do my duty, and my wife's expecting, uncle." "You married on my money. Don't tell me you didn't. 'Twas a trick of yours to get married. If you don't pay it back, I'll turn you out, you and your wife, into the street. I'll get a bit of my own back that way, sure as I'm a Christian." "Ask Jeconiah," sobbed Eli. "I've 'ad no secrets from her. She'll tell you I 'aven't touched a penny of your money 'cept what Mr. Pendoggat gave us." The jam-maker kicked again, finding a softer spot, and muttered something about one being as bad as the other, and that if he couldn't find a more likely story he had better keep his mouth shut. Pendoggat stepped forward, took the wretched man by the shoulders, making him shudder, and asked reproachfully: "Why did you tell these gentlemen I have the money?" "God 'elp you, Mr. Pendoggat," moaned Eli. "You have used me for your own ends, and now you turn against me. I don't understand it. 'Tis cruelty that passes understanding. I will just wait and 'ope. If I am not cleared now I shall be some day, I shall be when we stand together before the judgment seat of God. There will be no money there, Mr. Pendoggat, nothing that corrupteth or maketh a lie, only justice and mercy, and I won't be the one to suffer then." Had the grocer been less angry he must have been impressed by his nephew's earnestness. As it was he pushed him aside and said-- "I'll get my own back. Pay us our money, or you go to prison. I'll give you till to-morrow, and if I don't have it before evening I'll get a warrant out." "Oh, 'elp me, Mr. Pendoggat. 'Elp me in the name of friendship, for my poor wife's sake," sobbed Eli. "I'll forgive you," Pendoggat muttered. "I don't bear you any ill-feeling. Here's my hand on it." But Eli wanted no more grasps of good fellowship. He buried his big hands between his knees, and put his simple head down, and wept like a child. The chapel emptied slowly, and the people stood about the road talking of the great scandal. Some thought the minister innocent, but the majority inclined towards his guilt. All agreed that it would be advisable, for the sake of the chapel's reputation, to ask him to accept another pulpit, which was a polite euphemism for telling him to go to the dogs. They did not like Pendoggat, but they believed he had spoken the truth when they remembered how strongly he had opposed the minister when the scheme of the nickel mine was first suggested. The grocer and jam-maker drove away in a rage and a small cart, to put up for the night in Tavistock; and Pendoggat walked away by himself towards the swaling-fires. His time had come. He had only to put a few things together, and then depart through the frosty night to find a new home. But before going he thought it best to make himself absolutely safe by burning the brake of furze, and burying in some secret spot upon the moor what had been hidden there. Before morning Pezzack had fled from his uncle's anger. Always a weak man, he could not face the strong; and so he set the seal of guilt upon himself by flight. He was going to work his way out to Canada, and when he succeeded there, if he did, he would send for his wife. They could think of no better plan. His wife went back to her parents, to become their drudge as before, with the burden of a child to nurse added to her lot. It was a dreary ending to their romance; there was no "happy ever after" for them; but then they were both poor things, and the light of imagination had never shone across their paths. CHAPTER XXV ABOUT SWALING-FIRES Peter sat by his hearthstone and repeated with the monotony of a tolling bell-- "There be a lot o' volks in the world, and some be vulish, and some be artful, but me, Peter, be artful." This was numbered one-hundred-and-seventy, and it was the latest gem from his book of aphorisms; artful meaning in that connection clever, the author having a tendency to use irregular forms of speech. Peter read the thought aloud until most people would have found him tedious; he recited it to every one; he had carried it to Master, and made the old man commit it to memory. Master finally inscribed it, number and all, in his presentation copy of Shakespeare, thinking the sentiment well worthy of being incorporated with the work of the poet, and declared that Peter's literary fame was assured. He added the information that his old pupil was beyond question a philosopher, and Peter agreed, then asked Master for his dictionary. It was an old book, however, and the word was not given, at least not in its proper place, under the letter F; so Peter failed at that time to discover his precise position in the intellectual world. The diary was certainly advancing, as Peter was already in his second pennyworth of paper, and his bottle of ink was on the ebb. Thoughts had been coming so freely of late that interesting details of the daily life were crowded out. He omitted such confidential details as Mary was dunging the potato-patch, or he had just mended his trousers; he filled his pages instead with ingenious reflections which he supposed, and not without some justification, had possibly not occurred to the minds of thinkers in the past. He neglected biography for philosophy, and the fluency with which such aphorisms as "'Tis better to be happy than good" came from his pen, merely confirmed his earlier impression that the manufacture of literary works was child's play. He would not have allowed that he had been assisted by collaboration, even if the meaning of the word had been explained to him; although most of the sentiments which adorned, or rather which blotted, his pages were distorted versions of remarks which had fallen from the lips of Boodles. His work was entirely original in one respect; the style of spelling was unique. Boodles did not know that she had developed into an inspiration, and the poor child was certainly far too miserable to care. She came to Ger Cottage every evening in the dimsies, stopped the night with Mary, and went home in the morning. She followed Mary like a dog, knowing that the strong creature would protect her. Her mind would have gone entirely had she stayed at Lewside during those endless winter evenings and the long nights. She owed her life, or at least her reason, to Mary. There was a good heart under that strong creature's rough hide, a heart as soft and tender as Boodles who clung to her. At first the child had refused to leave Lewside Cottage, but when she screamed, "The shadows are getting awful, Mary; they seem to bite me," the stalwart savage picked her up like a baby, finding her much too light, and stalked over the moor deaf to protest. She made up a little bed for Boodles in the corner of her hut, and every night there was the strange sight of Mary bringing the little girl a glass of hot milk to drink before going to sleep, and singing quaint old ballads to her when she couldn't. Mary had got into the way of asking Boodles for a kiss every night; she said it did her good, and no doubt she spoke the truth. It seemed to give her something she had missed. "But I am ugly now, Mary," said Boodles, in response to her nurse's oft-repeated "purty dear." "That yew bain't," came the decided answer. "You'm butiful. I never saw ye look nothing like so butiful as yew be now." "I feel hideous anyhow," said the child. "I don't believe I can look pretty when I feel ugly." Peter overheard that, put his head on one side in philosophic contemplation, and presently took his pen and wrote: "Bootiful maids what feels ugly still be bootiful. It be contrairy like, but it be true;" and the number of that thought was one-hundred-and-seventy-one. Mary was not far wrong, for Boodles was quite as attractive as ever. She was more womanly, and had put pathos on her face with the little lines and shadows which impelled love for very pity. Her eyes seemed to have become larger, and her pale frightened face, under the radiant hair which had not changed, was fascinating with its restless changes. There was one thing left to her, and she called it everything. Each week the cold weather went away for a few hours, and warm June came round with a burst of flowers and sunshine, and her heart woke up and sang to her; for Aubrey had not forgotten. He wrote to her, though she kept her promise and did not write to him. Every week the question came: "Why don't you write?" and sometimes she thought the letters were getting colder, and then the stage sunshine was turned off and real thunder rolled. He had written to his parents, but they had told him nothing. They didn't even refer to her in their letters. It seemed to him as if she was dead, and he was getting miserable. But she would not break her promise and write; and if consent had been given she could not tell him the truth, send him out of her life for ever, and end those wonderful mornings when the postman came. Aubrey loved her still, that gave her everything, and while his love lasted she was still on the green oasis, and could shut her eyes to the desert, scarred with the bodies of those who had tried to cross it and had fallen in the attempt, the bare desert of life without any sweet water of love, which she would have to try and cross without a guide when he came back and she had told him plainly what she was. She thought it would kill her, for love cannot be removed without altering the entire universe; for with love the sun goes, and the flowers go, and all the pleasant nooks; and there is nothing left but the rocks, the moaning of the sea, the fierce and ugly things, and faces that scowl but never smile. The only perfect happiness is the birth of love; the only absolute misery is the death of it; and it is such a tender growth that one careless word may chill it into death. The three were sitting together in the lamplight, and Peter was giving oral evidence of his inspiration, when there came a knock upon the door, a thing almost without precedent after dark. Boodles shivered because she hated sudden knocks which suggested unpleasant visitors and horrors, while Mary turned from her work and went to the door. Annie was standing there, or staggering rather, a black shawl round her head, her face ghastly. "Please to come in," said Mary. Annie lurched in, and gazed about her wildly. She was sober enough to know what she had come for. She stared at them, then upon the hearthstone where the ceremonial of witchcraft was still being observed; while Peter babbled of great thoughts like a running brook. The door was open, and some of the smoke of the swaling-fires entered, and they could hear the crackling of distant flames. "I reckon yew can tak' 'en off," said Annie hoarsely, pointing to the hearthstone. "He've done his work. All Dartmoor be in flames, and the Barton be in flame tu, I reckon. I flung the lamp into the kitchen and set a match to 'en. Coming wi' me, Mary Tavy? Best come wi' me and see the end on't." "What would I want to come wi' yew for, woman?" said Mary. "Where be the old goose yew was so fond of?" "My Old Sal. He be gone. Mebbe he got stugged, and some old fox come along and took 'en," said Mary. "Stugged was he? I saw 'en stugged," Annie shouted. "Came across Barton court, he did, and the man took 'en, and twisted the neck of 'en, and flung 'en in the vuzz. 'He be Mary's Old Sal,' I ses, but he only swore." Mary spat upon her hands. "He picked up a stick, and hit me on the ear, me, a free woman. I ses to 'en avore, 'If yew lifts your arm at me, Mary knows.'" "I be coming," said Mary. "Me tu," said Peter. There was much for Mary to avenge. Pendoggat had beaten her brother, had terrified Boodles, to say nothing of his attempt to rob her, and now Mary knew he had killed the old goose. She had never ceased to mourn for Old Sal; and Pendoggat had destroyed the leader of her flock out of sheer malice and cruelty. The spirit of the lawless Gubbings entered into Mary as she picked up her staff and made for the door, while Peter shambled after her, a philosopher no longer, but a savage like herself. But Boodles was crying: "Don't leave me, Mary. The shadows will get big and thick and take hold of me." "Aw, don't ye be soft, maid," cried Annie. "Bide here, my dear. Us will lock ye in, and no one shan't touch ye," said Mary. "He may come this way. I can't stay here, with the light of these fires upon the window. I shall scream all the time." "Come along wi' us," said Mary. "Come between Peter and me, my dear. Lord love ye, I'd break the head of any one what touched ye." Peter left the hut-circles last, securing both doors, and dropping the keys in his baggy pocket. Then they set forth, the smoke over them, the fires on each side, and the white frost like snow upon the ground. * * * * * Pendoggat gave a sigh of relief as he descended into the hollow of the Barton and saw nobody, and heard nothing except the crackling of the flames and the furze screaming as the fire rushed through it; for the furze screams when it is burnt like a creature in torment. There was a smell of fire about the house and the heavy stink of paraffin; and in the kitchen he saw the broken lamp, but the fire had gone out; it could not feed upon damp stones. Pendoggat smiled when he saw the kitchen. So Annie was drunk again, which was what he had hoped for, as she was less dangerous in that condition; she could only scream and tumble about, hurting nobody but herself. She would not be able to follow him, and if she picked up his gun she would be more likely to kill herself than him. Probably she was lying in the linhay, or on her bed, hardly conscious, groaning herself to sleep. Everything was in his favour; the whole night was before him, and he had only to finish his work there, then escape through the warm scented smoke. He was feeling sorry for the minister, but the ordeal which Eli had just undergone might prove a blessing, strengthen his character, make a man of him. Annie was not in the house. Perhaps she had gone down to the Tavy to drown herself. Pendoggat shook his head as that idea occurred to him. There could be no hope in the future state for a suicide. Still it was better she should drown herself than obstruct him; and after all she was getting on in years, she would soon be homeless, and would naturally shrink from the workhouse. Pendoggat was not going to judge her harshly, as that would not be right, and she had looked after him well at one time. If she had not been so foolish as to grow elderly, and have grey hairs, he might have remained constant to her. He had destroyed everything in his secret drawer already, so he had only to collect a few things, burn the furze and tidy up there. He fastened up his things into a bundle before remembering that Annie had a bag which was not likely to be of much use to her, so he went and fetched it and packed his things in that. He brought the bag into the court, went to the linhay for a spade, carried it to the edge of the furze, then discovered he had no matches. He went back towards the house, but as he crossed the court a figure came out of the smoke and laughed at him, the figure of a white-faced woman who seemed pleased to see him; and behind her towered another figure, tall and gaunt, the sort of figure which might have made those weird footprints in the snow; and as the smoke drifted upward there were two others in the background, a little girl wrapped up in a big coat, and gnome-like Peter with big beard and turned-up nose like an old man of the moor. Annie said nothing, but only laughed, as a woman will when she feels satisfied. She staggered to one side, and Mary came forward. There was no laughter on her wooden face, and no drunken stupor over her body. She dropped the big stick and it clattered upon the stones of the court. The swaling-fires were all round, and they gave light enough, a weird kind of light which tinted the smoke and made the walls of the Barton red. "Aw, man," cried Mary. "You killed my Old Sal, and I be come to pay ye vor't." Pendoggat went white when he heard that. He could not stand before the wiry creature who seemed to represent no sex, but the cruel principle of natural strength. The trap had snapped upon him and he felt its iron teeth. He had caught others and enjoyed watching their struggles, and now he was caught himself and others were enjoying his struggles. A few yards cut him off from the moor, but there was no way out except by the gate of the court, and Mary was before him. He wondered if Brightly had felt like that when he was running for his liberty with the hand of every man against him. "I never knew the old bird was yours," he muttered; and added: "I'll pay you for him;" but Annie watched him, saw his face, and laughed louder. Mary made an ungainly movement, a sort of lurch as if to collect her strength, then she caught him by the neck. He struggled free and she had him round the body, twisting him like a willow-stick; a big hand came upon his throat and he felt as if water was rushing over his head. He could hear Annie's mad laughter and her jeering voice: "You'm a strong man, they ses. Why don't ye get away? She'm only a woman. Why don't ye throw her off, man?" He began to fight at that, struggling and hitting wildly, but Mary had a certain science as well as strength. She knew an animal's weak points. She struck at them with a fist like a lump of granite, and when he retaliated by hitting her on the face her savage blood seemed to rise before her eyes, and she drove him about the court until his face was bloody. Boodles turned away then, and went to the side of the house between the wall and the brake of furze, half-sick, trying not to give way. She had never felt so horribly alone. Mary, her friend and protector, was a wild beast of the moor, the savage principle of the cruel Nature which was crushing her. The red light of the fire fell upon her radiant head, which resembled it, as if she had been intended to punish Pendoggat, and not Mary, because her head was like fire just as his nature was like furze. All the time she could hear Annie's furious laughter and her mocking voice: "Why don't ye stand up to she, man? Tak' your stick and hit she on the head till she'm mazed. Hit she on the ear, man, same as you hit me. Yew twisted the old goosie's neck easy enough. Why don't ye du the like to she?" "Aw, man, I reckon I've paid ye," gasped Mary. "Two or dree more vor I," shouted little Peter, jumping about the court in riotous joy. Mary was satisfied. She flung the man aside, still holding him by the collar of the coat, which was an old one, as he was too miserly to buy a better. The fabric parted at the seam, and as he fell the coat came asunder and half remained in Mary's hand, the sleeve rending off with the violence of her strength. It was the part containing the pocket which was bulging, and when Mary threw it away Annie snatched it up and tore out the contents, a letter or two, some papers, and the precious roll of notes, which Pendoggat had played for with all his cunning, had ruined the minister for, and finally had won; only Annie was too dazed and mad to know what she was holding. She staggered to the furze, holding the packet above her head, and flung it as far as she could; and it fell in the centre and settled down there invisible among the frosted prickles. Pendoggat watched as he stood half-dazed against the well, wiping the blood from his face, and again thanked his stars which remained propitious. His soul had been thrown into the furze, but he could regain it. Annie's madness had saved him. Had she been more sane and sober she might have discovered what it was she had taken. Nobody knew he had the money even then. His punishment was over. He deserved it for being perhaps unnecessarily hard upon the minister; and now he was not only a free man, but the sin had been wiped away, because he had been punished for it and had suffered for it. The disgrace was nothing, as he would never be seen there again. He edged away towards the furze, and no one stood in his way. He caught up the spade, which he had placed there, and began to hack at the big bushes, trying to make a passage. The swaling-fires above were dying down and the red light was fading from the hollow. "Ah, go in there, man. Go in," muttered Annie, becoming quiet when she saw what he was after. Pendoggat had lost his senses, as men will when their money is taken from them. Had he waited a little, until Mary had gone, and he had got rid of Annie for a time, he might have started for Tavistock presently with nothing lost except honour which was of no value. But he could not wait; he was dazed by Mary's blows; and all the time he fancied he saw that precious packet which contained his future stuck in the furze; and if he could not see it he knew it was there and he must get at it. He went on hacking at the bushes, burrowing his way in, without feeling the prickles; while Mary picked up her stick, turned to Peter, and said she was going home. Then she looked for Boodles, but the girl was not there, and when she started round Annie was not there either. She and Peter were alone in the court, and the furze beyond was convulsed as though a beast had fallen there and was trying to flounder its way out. "He'm mazed, sure 'nuff," said Peter, in a happy voice. The blows which Pendoggat had dealt him were avenged. Peter forgot just then the power of witchcraft which he had invoked by the arts that were in him. Neither he nor Mary remembered the mommet, but Annie had not forgotten. She thought of the little clay doll squatting in the glowing peat, and she seemed to see the fantastic object shaking its head at her and saying: "Who is on my side?" Annie went into the house for something, then passed round the wall, and came upon Boodles standing at the other end of the furze brake, rubbing the frost off the white grass stalks. "Is it all over?" asked the child. "Aw ees, it be done. You'm cold, my dear," whispered Annie hoarsely. "Tak' this, my dear, and warm yourself. You've been out swaling, I reckon." She pushed a box of matches into the girl's hand. "He wun't have it burnt just to spite me. Makes the kitchen so cruel dark I can't see from one side to t'other. Now be the time, for he'm mazed and can't stop us. Sot a match here, my dear." "It's so close to the house," said Boodles. "The house can't burn. 'Tis stone and slates. I don't want 'en to think I did it," said Annie cunningly. "Quick, my dear. Mary be calling ye." Boodles loved swaling expeditions. In the past, furze-burning had been almost her only outdoor pleasure; and, though she was unhappy then, she was very young and the sense of enjoyment remained. That huge brake would make the most glorious blaze she had ever seen. Dropping to her knees she struck a match, hearing Annie gasp once, and then the fire touched the tinder-like masses of dead growth, there was a splutter caused by the frost, a flame darted up, then down, and up again higher; and then there was a roar, and the brake before her became in an instant like an open furnace and she jumped back to save her face and hair. "Oh, it's splendid," she cried. Annie was leaning against the wall screaming, sheltering her face, perhaps from the heat, perhaps from what she might see. "It's done. My God, it's done, and nothing can put it out." Somewhere in those flames a man's voice was shouting horribly. The fire seemed to sweep through with the rapidity of light, but nothing else could be heard except the roaring and the screaming and hissing as the big bushes melted away. Mary came running round, and Annie screamed at her-- "I never done it. I never put the match to 'en." "Aw, my dear, what have ye done?" "I am swaling. Did you ever see such a blaze?" cried innocent Boodles. "Her don't know," screamed Annie. Then she staggered into the court and fell fainting. "The man's in the vuzz," Mary shouted. All the sounds had ceased, and already the great flames were going out, leaving a red smoulder of ashes and big scarlet stems. It seemed to be getting very dark. Boodles did not realise what she had done, and Mary said no more; but Peter shuffled round, understanding it all perfectly, though not in the least ashamed. "'Twas just the mommet," he explained. "Her had to du it 'cause her couldn't help it." Presently they trod over the fiery ground and dragged the body out, without clothes, without hair, without sight; without money also, for the roll of notes had melted away in one touch of those terrible flames. He looked dead, but, like the furze which seemed to be annihilated, he lived. The heart was beating in the man's body, and the roots were alive in the glowing soil. Both would rise again, the one into a fierce prickly shrub; the other into a man destined for the charity of others, scarred, maimed, and blind. There was to be no escape for Pendoggat, no new life for him. Boodles of the fiery head had fulfilled her destiny; had burnt out one malignant moorland growth which had caught so many in its thorns; and had rendered it harmless for ever. CHAPTER XXVI ABOUT 'DUPPENCE' Down the hill from St. Mary Tavy to Brentor came Brightly, most irrepressible of unwanted things, his basket on his arm, feeding on air and sunshine. It was early spring, there were pleasant odours and a fine blue sky, all good and gratuitous. Brightly had been discharged from prison as a man of no reputation, to be avoided by some and trampled on by others. His one idea was to get back to business; rabbit-skins ought to have accumulated, he thought, during' the months of his confinement; there would be a rich harvest awaiting him, which might mean the pony and cart at last, with prosperity and a potato-patch to cheer his closing days. He went for his basket, and it was not until it was slung upon his arm and he had bent himself into the old half-hoop shape to carry it over the moor, that he comprehended its emptiness. Formerly his stomach was empty and the basket was full; now both were empty; and the crushing difficulty of starting afresh without capital was with him again. Brightly determined to subsist for a little on charity, but he soon made the discovery that Samaritanism was no longer included among the Christian virtues. People refused to do business with him on a benevolent basis. They slammed the doors in his face, and called him unpleasant names. They reminded him he had been in prison, as if he had forgotten it; and some of them added an opinion that he had got off far too cheaply. Others said if he came there again they would set the dog on him. Brightly soon became very hungry, and almost longed for the comforts of prison. It had been no easy matter to make a sort of living during those days when he thought himself honest. Now that he knew he was a criminal it appeared impossible. Brightly was in danger of becoming an atheist. He stopped his hymn-singing; verses descriptive of the wonderful dairy were no longer found in his mouth, nor did he use the jingling refrain which concludes: "Jesu, Master, us belongs to yew." What was the use of belonging to some one who did nothing for him? Wise men have puzzled over that question, so it was not surprising if it bewildered poor foolish Brightly. He had been told in the prison that if he prayed for anything it would be granted; and his informer had added it was obviously his duty to pray for honesty. Brightly did nothing of the kind; he prayed for the pony and cart, throwing himself heart and soul into the business, as he had plenty of time. Instead of being a purveyor of rabbit-skins he became a praying machine. He considered that if there was any truth in the theory that prayers are answered, he ought to find the pony and cart awaiting him at the door of the prison. He did see one as he came out, but it could not have been intended for him, as the name upon the board was not A. Brightly, and near it was a man looking like a sweep who would probably have resisted Brightly's claims with every prospect of success. His teacher would have said the prayer was not answered because it was not a proper one, but that would not have helped Brightly in the least. The little man went down the hill sniffing at the sweet wind, but conscious that it was not invigorating as it used to be. The truth of the matter was he was getting tired of life. He had become feeble, his cough was worse, and his eyes troubled him so much that he had to stop often, take off his spectacles, and rub them. But he couldn't rub the darkness away. The eyes were getting bigger than ever because he strained them so, trying to find the road. Sometimes he found himself sinking in a bog; his eyes had never played him such a trick before he became a criminal. As he walked he would look back and whistle or say: "Us will pitch presently." He was always forgetting that Ju had ceased to exist; and when he sat down to rest he would talk to her or stroke the heather beside him. He entered the village of Brentor, but trade remained "cruel dull," so he gave it up and tramped along the road towards the church on the tor. As he went an idea came to him. He must give up the old stretch and try a new one. He might take the eastern side of the moor, Moreton to Ashburton, with the villages between, taking in Widdecombe where the devil dwelt. His old road had been dominated in a sense by St. Michael's Church upon its mount, but the connection had proved of no service to him, and the devil might be a better patron. He could get across to the other side in two days, and perhaps he would find there some one who would give him half-a-crown and set him up in business again. Brightly was not entirely without capital, for Boodles had given him twopence with his basket, saying she was sorry it was so little, but she too was poor. That was another blow to Brightly; the angel had her limitations, and seemed to have lost her power of working wonders for the time. She too looked ill and miserable, and when celestial beings suffered what chance was there for him? Brightly was not going to invest that twopence in the rabbit-skin business, nor did he regard it as the nucleus round which the fund for his pony and cart would gather. He wrapped it up in many changes of paper, vowing not to touch it until he should require food. The time had almost come, he thought, when he should want food, not to stimulate his body, but to cease its action entirely. The twopence was set aside for his funeral as it were, or rather for the rat-poison which would make the funeral necessary. It amused Brightly to think that people would have to spend money upon him when he was dead, though they refused to give him anything while he was living. He left Brentor behind and went along the winding road; and the sun came out so pleasantly he wondered if the gods or human beings would be offended if he whistled. He decided to remain silent, as the constable might be in hiding behind one of the furze-bushes, and he would be sent back to prison for making obscene noises. He knew every yard of the country, though he could see so little of it. Higher up was a big slab of granite, flat and smooth like an altar-tomb, upon which he had often sat and watched the tower of St. Michael's juggling with the big ball of the setting sun. He went up there, and it was not until his boot touched the flat stone that he discovered it was already occupied. A woman was sitting on it. Brightly apologised most humbly for his intrusion, for walking along the road, and for cumbering the face of the earth. He was always meeting people, and he felt he had no right to do so. "You'm welcome," said the woman. Then Brightly opened his nearly useless eyes wider and found that she was Thomasine, the young woman who had been so good to him and Ju, and had fed them when they were starving, and helped them on the way to Tavistock. He had always associated Thomasine with a well-stocked kitchen and food in abundance. She had become mixed up in his mind with Jerusalem, and he had thought of her as presiding over the milk and honey, and ladling them out in large quantities at the back door to hungry men and dogs. And there she was sitting on the big stone looking miserable, with her clothes bedraggled and boots muddy. Brightly began to think hard and to reason with himself. He was not the only miserable creature after all; there were other human things belonging to the neuter gender besides himself. Even the angel was miserable and had confessed to poverty; and not a scrap of food surrounded the former Lady Bountiful of Town Rising. Brightly was in Thomasine's debt, and he was prepared to pay what he owed as well as he could. He was willing to share his twopence with Thomasine; she should have an equal portion of the rat-poison if she was hungry for it; and they could wash the meal down with sweet water from the moor. As for Thomasine, the little dried-up fragment which had once represented a mind responded to Brightly's presence and she recognised a friend. "I be in trouble," she said. Brightly was glad to hear it, though he did not say so. It was good to find a partner who would enter into an alliance with him against the fat constable, the Bench of Magistrates, and all the wigs and ermine of oppression. Here was another Ju, a human being this time, and perhaps she too had been sentenced to be destroyed because she was savage, and was trying to hide from the constable and the crowd. Brightly was prepared to show her all sorts of secret places where she would be safe. "Be yew a criminal tu?" he asked. Thomasine was not sure, but thought she must be. "I be one. I be the worst criminal on Dartmoor," said Brightly, trying to draw himself up and look conceited. He had never done any good in his business, but as a criminal he was entitled to regard himself as a complete success. "I ain't got no friends. My volks wun't ha' me to home, and I've lost my character," said Thomasine. "I never had no friends, nor volks, nor yet character," said Brightly. "You'm the man what went to prison for robbing Varmer Chegwidden," she said, using her memory with some success. "Dree months wi' hard labour," said Brightly proudly. "Yew never done it. I know who done it. 'Twas Varmer Pendoggat," she said. "I thought mebbe I might ha' done it and never knowed," explained Brightly. "Why didn't 'em tak' he then?" "No one knows 'cept me, and I only guesses. He was wi' I just avore I heard master galloping over the moor, and he mun ha' passed master lying in the road. 'Twas no good me speaking. They wouldn't ha' took my word, and he'd ha' killed I if I'd spoke. 'Tis through he I be here now." Adversity had sharpened Thomasine's tongue. She could not remember when she had last made such a lengthy speech. "Where be yew going?" asked Brightly. "Nowheres," said the girl. "Where be yew?" "Anywhere," said Brightly, which meant the same thing. "Shall us get on?" he added. Thomasine accepted the invitation, rose from the stone, and they walked on, up the road and the steep tor, and came out at last beside the church with its tiny burying-place of granite and its weather-beaten gravestones. They sat down to rest upon the edge of the precipice, and Thomasine wanted to know why they had come there. "I wun't never be here again. I used to come up here to whistle and sing, and now I be come to look out for the last time," said Brightly. "I reckon I'll try t'other side o' the moor. Mebbe volks bain't so cruel wicked there." "I reckon 'em be," said Thomasine. "Du ye reckon they'll know I be a criminal?" "Sure 'nuff. Policeman will tell 'em." "My cough be cruel bad got, and I can't hardly see. If I can't mak' a living what be I to du?" asked Brightly. This was much too difficult a question for Thomasine, and she did not attempt to answer it. "B'est hungry?" she asked. "I've ha' been hungry for years and years, 'cept when I was in prison, and then I was hungry for air," said Brightly. "Got any money?" "Duppence." "I ain't got nothing," she said. "Shall us get on?" said the restless little man. He felt business calling him, though he could do nothing with his empty basket. They went back the way they had come, through Brentor village, and towards Lydford, Brightly walking on one side of the road and Thomasine upon the other. The only remark the girl made was: "This bain't the way to Plymouth;" and Brightly replied: "It bain't the place for yew." He had some knowledge of the world, and knew that it could not be well for a girl without home or friends or character to walk about the streets of a big town. They stopped at Lydford, and Thomasine went to a cottage where people dwelt whom she had known in the days of respectability, and they gave her food which she brought out and shared with her companion. They went to the foot of the cascade in the gorge and ate their meal to the subdued murmur of the long white veil of water sliding down the face of the precipice. They were alone in the gorge, where the Gubbingses had once dwelt, as the place is deserted during the early months of the year. "Have ye got a home?" asked Thomasine. "Ees, a proper old cave to Belstone Cleave." "What be I to du?" she murmured. "Come wi' I," said Brightly gallantly. "I be going home." The girl tried to think, but soon gave up in despair. She was barely twenty-three, and her life seemed done already. Her parents had shut the door upon her, and erased her name from the book of life--the family Bible which retained the record of those who were respectable--not so much because she had done wrong as because the man who had led her astray would not marry her. It was quaint logic, but the world reasons that way. She was ready to go with Brightly because he was friendly and she required friendship badly; she hardly looked upon him as a man; he was such a poor incomplete thing; if a man, without the power of sinning like a man. She would go with him to the cave in the cleave, and cook for him, if there was anything to be cooked, with the old frying-pan with a bottom like a sieve. "Ees, I've got a butiful home," muttered ridiculous Brightly with pride. He was regarding Thomasine as the reincarnation of Ju. The little dog had come back to him in the form of a woman. He could talk to her, tell her trade was dull, and he was hungry; could whistle, and sing for her amusement, and pat her gently when she rested upon the heather. She could reply to him in a manner that was better than tail-wagging. Ju had come to the cave gladly and found it homelike, so why not Thomasine? He would not be called on to pay seven-and-sixpence a year for her; but on the other hand she was so big, larger than himself in fact, and he was afraid she would want a lot of food. Brightly became prouder every minute. He had a woman of his own and "duppence" wrapped up in bits of paper. He would not touch his hat to the next man he met on the road. He would stare him in the face and say: "How be ye?" just as if he had been a man himself. "Shall us get on?" he said again. They went on and reached windy Bridestowe that night. Brightly, who knew every building upon that part of the moor, found a shelter for Thomasine in a peat-linhay, and a resting-place for himself in a farmyard. They started off early in the morning, and Brightly produced eggs with the half-apologetic and half-proud explanation: "Us be criminals." He had stolen them. Up to the time of his conviction he had never been a thief, but since leaving prison he had felt it was necessary to live up to his reputation as a desperate character, and so he took anything he could find. Under the oil-cloth of his basket was a feathered fowl, and Thomasine was informed there would be a good supper for her that evening. "Yew stoled 'en?" exclaimed the girl. "Volks wun't give I nothing," said Brightly. "They ses 'you'm a thief,' and 'tis no use being called a thief if yew bain't. Yew fed me and Ju when us was starving, and now I be going to feed yew." They reached the cave, and Brightly produced all his possessions with pride, explaining to his housekeeper that a fire must not be lighted until after dark lest the commoners should see the smoke. The girl shivered at the wretched prospect, but resigned herself; and that night she told Brightly her story, and he told her all about his ambitions, and about the pony and cart which would not come in spite of the vain repetitions which he called prayers. Miserable days followed. The spell of fine weather ceased and frost returned; with it a biting wind which swept across the moor and got into the cave, the outside of which became a pretty piece of architecture with icicles hanging from the rock to the ground like bars of cold steel through which the prisoners gazed into the depths of the gorge. Brightly had become a real criminal at last; and the basket, which had been the symbol of honesty, was then a receiver of stolen goods. He sallied out every day to rob fowl-houses and dairies; to gather articles of clothing from hedges and furze-bushes where they had been put out to dry. His eyes had been opened by necessity and justice; dishonesty was the only way in business; had he practised it from the start he would have obtained all those good things which he had always desired; the cottage and potato-patch, the pony and cart; perhaps his asthma and blindness would have been stayed as well. It would have been better for Brightly had he died in prison; he was living too long, and had become a moral failure, a complete failure now in every sense. One Sunday evening they crept out of their hole in the gorge and went to Sticklepath. Thomasine wanted to hear the pure gospel preached again, and she persuaded Brightly to come with her to the big chapel in the middle of the village that he might have his frosted soul warmed by listening to a realistic account of the place "down under" towards which he was hurrying. A strange preacher arose in the pulpit, an old white-bearded man near the end of his days, and he preached from the text: "I have been young, and now am old, and yet saw I never the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread." He seemed a pious old man, although he could not have been observant, or perhaps he had gone about with his eyes shut, as the psalmist must have done; but he was eloquent, and his words thundered upon the congregation like Dartmoor rain upon a tin roof. When they left the chapel Thomasine was weeping, and Brightly seemed to have become quite blind. Still he could not understand things. He had been righteous, as he had comprehended it, slipping into a church or chapel as often as he dared, and singing "Jerusalem the Golden" at every opportunity. Yet he had been forsaken and had begged his bread; Ju had been taken from him; he had been cast into prison. Who could explain these things? Perhaps he had not endured long enough; if he had held out another year the pony and cart might have been brought to him driven by the angel; but he could not hold out when people would not permit him to do business, and when he was starving. It was too late then to go back and tread the old road, for he had fallen at last, become dishonest in act; and if he went on in his wicked ways the policeman would run him down again; and if he reverted to honesty the poorhouse would claim him. There was only one way out. He must buy a ticket for Jerusalem. It would only cost twopence. They returned to the cave, and Thomasine went on crying. She said she could stand it no longer. The moor was black with storm clouds, a thaw had set in, and water was trickling everywhere. Brightly sat huddled up and moaning. His eyes were nearly useless, and rheumatism racked his poor limbs. He knew that the decree had been given against him, he had been found guilty in the higher court, judgment had been signed against "A. Brightly. Rabbit-skin merchant. Abode Nowhere." "Us mun get on," he said firmly. "I can't bide here," sobbed Thomasine. "Us will walk to-morrow," said Brightly. "I'll go to Plymouth," she said. "Live honest;" he begged. "Don't ye go to the dirty trade." "I wun't," she cried. "I'll live clean if they'll let me. No one knows me there, and I'll get some job mebbe." "I ha' been young, and now I be getting old," said Brightly. "I ha' been righteous tu, and I ha' begged, and I ha' prayed, and got nought." "What be yew going to du?" she asked. "I be coming wi' yew as far as Okehampton. I'll set ye on the road to Plymouth." "Wun't ye come tu?" "'Twould kill me," said Brightly. "I be that blind I'd get run over, and my asthma be got so cruel bad I wouldn't be able to breathe. I reckon I'll stop on Dartmoor." "You'll live honest?" she said. "I wun't tak' what bain't mine no more," Brightly promised. In the morning they set out. It was raining, but they did not notice that. They crossed the Taw river, passed through Belstone, and struck into the lane which would bring them down to the Okehampton road. They had not gone far before they came upon a pony and cart fastened to a gate, belonging to the washerwoman, but the cart was empty and there was no one in sight. It carried a lamp, and a board was at the side revealing the owner's name, and the bottom was covered with fern. Brightly brought his pinched face near the cart, stopped to regard this revelation of his life-long dream, and then he succumbed to the great temptation. He unfastened the pony, climbed into the cart, and drove in majesty up the lane. "What be yew doing?" cried Thomasine in great fear. "It bain't yourn." Brightly did not hear her. He knew at last what it was like to jog along the lane in a little pony-cart, and for five precious minutes he was in dreamland. In that short space of time he completed the allotted span of human existence. He was returning to the littlie cottage in the midst of the potato-patch, after a day of successful work. The cart behind was piled high with rabbit-skins, and in her own little corner Ju was sitting, fat and content. Brightly put up his ridiculous head and whistled "Jerusalem the Golden" for the last time. Then he got down, tied up the pony to another gatepost, and tramped through the mud with Thomasine. In the town they passed a window where a notice was displayed: "Men wanted," and the girl drew his attention to it, but Brightly only coughed. The dream had faded and he had returned to realism. Men were wanted to dig foundations, build houses, work in stone, hairy-armed men who could lift granite, not a poor creeping thing who had hardly the strength to strangle a fluttering fowl. They went through the town, up the long hill on the other side, and near a quarry of red stone they stopped. "It be the way to Plymouth," Brightly said. "Thankye kindly," said Thomasine. "Be yew going back?" "Ees; I be going back," he answered. "Be yew going far?" "A bit o' the way towards Meldon." "Yew ha' got no money," she said pityingly. "I ha' got duppence," he reminded her. "You'll live honest?" she said again. "It wun't be long. I ha' a sort o' choking feeling," he said, putting a raw hand to his throat. "Be ye going down under?" Thomasine was looking over the hedge and between the bare trees. Some way below, beside the river, she could just see the workhouse. "I be a going to walk towards Meldon, and sot by the river. If the pains get bad I'll fall in mebbe." "No," she cried. "Don't ye du that." "Us mun get on," said Brightly, mindful of business. "I wish ye good-bye." They shook hands, and Thomasine began to cry again. She did not like the idea of walking along a lonely road all the way to distant Plymouth. "Thankye kindly," she sobbed. "You'm welcome," said Brightly. They parted, and the little man shuffled back to the town. Upon the bridge which spans the Okement he stopped, and took out the little packet which contained the "duppence." It was a wonderful sum of money, after all, if it would procure for him admission to the celestial dairy, where he could feast, and listen to, an organ playing, and see people dancing; and perhaps Ju would be sitting at his feet, wagging her tail, looking up, and enjoying it all too. It would be better than the wet cave, better than the workhouse, better than going back to prison. He would have to be quick, or they might discover how he had attempted to steal the pony and cart. He seemed to have become quite blind suddenly, and his heart was thumping against his side. He had to feel his way along towards the chemist's, which was the ticket office where he could obtain his twopenny pass into Palestine. There would be no stop on the journey, and they would be certain to let him in. Already he seemed to hear some one like Boodles saying: "Please to step inside, Mr. Brightly. Have a drop o' milk, will ye?" And there was another Boodles coming towards him with the pleasant words: "Be this your little dog, mister? Her's been whining vor ye cruel." Brightly held the precious "duppence" for his fare tightly in his raw hand. He was smiling as he entered the chemist's shop. CHAPTER XXVII ABOUT REGENERATION AND RENUNCIATION Sad-eyed little Boodles stood in the porch of Lewside Cottage holding a letter which the postman had just left. She did not know who it was from, nor did she care, as there was no foreign stamp on the envelope, and the postmark was only unromantic Devonport. Aubrey had not written for a month, and she knew the reason. His parents had told him the truth about her, and he was so horrified that he couldn't even send her a line on a naked postcard as a sort of farewell. Still it was better to have no letter than a cruel one; if he could not write kindly she was glad he didn't write at all. What was supposed to be spring had come round again, and something which used to be the sun was shining, and the woods beside the Tavy were carpeted with patches of blue and yellow which "once upon a time" had been called bluebells and primroses. The ogre had done his work of transformation thoroughly, leaving nothing unchanged. During those days Boodles went about the house so quietly that she wondered sometimes if she was much better than a shadow; she seemed to have lost the power of making pleasant noises; and when she caught sight of herself in the glass as she moved about her bedroom she would say: "There it is again--the ghost!" She told her friends of the hut-circles that the cottage was haunted, and Mary exclaimed: "Aw, my dear, I'll be round wi' my big stick," while Peter rebuked his sister for her folly, pondered the matter deeply, and at last told Boodles he should come in his own good time to "exercise the ghost" with various spells. Peter had fallen into the pernicious habit of using strange words, as he had purchased a cheap dictionary, and made constant use of it. He was developing other evil traits of authorship, having added to his ordinary costume of no collar and leather apron a yard of flimsy material about his neck in the form of a flowing tie. Master had told him philosophers wore such things, and Peter was also contemplating the purchase of a pair of spectacles, not because he required them, but Master declared that no man could possibly appear philosophic unless he regarded men and matters through gold-rimmed circles of glass. Every evening Peter approached Boodles with the utterance: "I be coming. I be coming to-morrow to exercise the ghost." She reminded him of the clock which he had been going to clean for two years, and added: "I'm the ghost," which brought upon her the fierce denunciation of Mary, who still maintained Boodles to be the "most butiful maid that ever was," and now that her Old Sal was no more the most perfect of all living creatures; while Peter went away, not like his apostolic namesake to weep bitterly, but to indite illegible aphorism number three-hundred-and-one dealing with the sad truism that men of wisdom do not receive a proper tribute of respect from the young and foolish. Boodles was afraid of her mysterious letter and did not open it for some time. It might be from some relation of Weevil's, claiming what property he had left; or from her unknown mother concerning the obligations upon daughters to support their parents. At last she pulled the envelope apart, glanced timidly at the signature, and her dread departed, or became lost in astonishment, when the most extraordinary name caught her eye: "yours faithfully, Yerbua Eimalleb." Boodles had a little fun left in her, not much, but enough to let her laugh sometimes. She plunged into the letter, to discover that Miss Eimalleb had only recently come to England, she wanted lodgings on Dartmoor, and having heard of Miss Weevil she was writing to know if she could accommodate her. "I believe you prefer old ladies," Boodles read. "I am not old, indeed I am quite young, and shall be glad to be a companion to you, but I am not well off, so I cannot come unless your charges are very moderate. I have only about £80 a year left me by an aunt, though my parents are still living." "Oh, you darling!" cried Boodles. Then she sat down and began to think. Here was a young girl wanting to come and live with her, and willing to pay; a girl to be her companion and friend, who would go about with her everywhere, help her, comfort her, work with her--what a splendid prospect it was! They would cling together like two sisters, and the winds would not trouble, and the shadows would not terrify, any more; and she could laugh at the windy moonlit nights. The gods were being good to her at last, perhaps because she had been truthful and had not told Mrs. Bellamie the lie she had invented. They had taken the great thing from her because it was obviously impossible that she should have it. Aubrey was gone from her for ever, but surely this was the next best thing; a girl friend to live with her, perhaps to enter into partnership with her. Boodles felt she could face the big desert with a friend to help her, and a companion to depend upon. Love was not for her, but she would have the next best thing, which is friendship. The letter was certainly a remarkable one, the writer's candour being no less extraordinary than her name. It was obvious she was a foreigner, but the signature gave Boodles no clue as to her nationality until she recalled a certain book on Eastern travel which she had once read, where a Persian name--or at least she thought it was Persian--very much like Eimalleb had occurred. "I hope she's not a nigger," Boodles sighed, as her ethnical knowledge was slight and she had no idea what a Persian girl would be like. "Ethiopians have black faces, I'm sure. And she's certain to be a heathen. What fun it will be! She will wake me at some unearthly hour and say: 'Come on, Boodles, we must hurry up to the top of Gar Tor and worship the sun.' I hope she won't have a lot of husbands, though," she went on with a frown. "Don't they do that? Oh no, it's the men have a lot of wives, and they are not Persians, but Mohammedans. I am sure Persians worship fire. Persian cats do, I know. She will kneel before the grate and say her prayers to the coals." Boodles was getting excited. The prospect of a companion was bringing smiles to her face and colour to her cheeks. One young maid would be decidedly more congenial to her than a covey of old ones. She would give up her own bedroom to the Persian girl, and when the cottage was nicely crammed with unquestionable old maids they could sleep together. She was sure her friend wouldn't mind, because she seemed so nice. "She must be an impulsive, warm-hearted girl," Boodles murmured. "Telling me, a perfect stranger, about her private affairs." Then she plunged again into the letter, which was full of astonishing sentences. "Could you meet me on Friday morning at eleven o'clock in Tavy woods?" she read. "There is a gate at the Tavistock side and I would meet you close to that. You are sure to know me, as it is not likely there will be any one else about. I shall wear grey flannel and a plain straw hat. I understand you are not elderly. I think you will like me." "I shall love you," cried Boodles with much decision, laughing joyously at the concluding sentences. "She understands I am not elderly, but I expect she will be astonished when she sees what a very young thing I am. Perhaps I had better make myself look older, wear a rusty black frock trimmed with lace, and a huge flat brooch at my throat, and a bonnet--Boodles, a little black bonnet with a lot of shaking things on it." She ran indoors, singing for the first time since Weevil's death, and sat down to answer the wonderful letter as primly as she could. "I will be at the gate of the wood Friday morning," she wrote. Shall I say weather permitting or God willing? she thought. No, I shall be there anyhow. "I will come whatever happens," she went on, in defiance of gods and thunderbolts. "I am rather a small girl with lots of golden hair, and like you I am quite young. I feel certain I shall like you." This note she fastened up, and addressed to Miss Y. Eimalleb, again exclaiming: "What a name!" at the Post Office, Devonport. When the fit of high spirits had exhausted itself she became unhappy again. It was unfortunate that the foreign girl with the wonderful name should have asked her to come to that gate where she and Aubrey had parted for ever, the gate which was just outside fairyland. All that childish nonsense was over, and the story had finished that day they roamed about the wood, and the gate had closed with unnecessary noise and violence behind them; but still it would be hard for her to wait there, not for Aubrey, but for a stranger. Her new friend would be coming from Tavistock, she supposed, meeting her halfway, just as Aubrey had done. It was quite natural she should do so, but Boodles wished she had appointed any other meeting-place. It cheered her a little to think that the Bellamies had cast aside enough of their respectability to recommend her, as she did not know how the young foreigner could have heard of her except through them. "She cannot be quite a lady, or they would never have sent her to me," was the girl's natural inference. "Perhaps they think foreigners don't count. I do hope she will have a nice English girl's face. If she is a nigger I shall scream and run away." She carried the good news to Ger Cottage, but the savages both expressed their disapproval. Peter, who had travelled to distant lands, such as Exeter and Plymouth, told Boodles that foreigners, by which he meant dwellers in the next parish, were fearful folk with no regard whatever for strangers. Peter did not know anything about Persia, but when Boodles talked about the East he supposed she meant that mythical land of dragons and fairies called Somerset, which was the uttermost limit of his horizon in that direction; and he declared that the folk there were savage and unscrupulous, and spoke a language which no intelligent person could understand. Peter implored Boodles to have nothing to do with such people. While Mary, who had not travelled, except in one memorable instance from Lydford to Tavistock, said regretfully: "It bain't a maid yew wants, my dear, but the butiful young gentleman." Mary was much too outspoken, and was always making Boodles wretched with her blundering attempts at happy suggestions. When Peter was shown the astonishing signature, and had obtained the mastery over it letter by letter, he nearly strangled himself with his abnormal tie, and expressed an opinion that the stranger was coming from absolutely unheard-of places, from the paint-clad aborigines of some land beyond Somerset, although his geography did not extend beyond that county. "Her's a heathen," he cried, without any regard for the fact that he was himself no better. "Her will worship idols." "Aw, my dear, don't ye ha' nought to du wi' she," begged Mary. "I think Persians worship the sun," said Boodles doubtfully. "Aw, bain't 'em dafty?" said Mary scornfully, though she too was a sun-worshipper without being aware of it. "Her will be a canister tu," said Peter lugubriously. "What be that?" asked Mary, who did not profess to know things. "Her will et she, and then mebbe her will come on and et we," explained Peter, with needless apprehension, as the most ravenous cannibal would certainly have turned vegetarian before feasting upon him. Boodles was always rude enough to correct Peter's most obvious errors, though he was so much older than herself, and she did so then, with the usual result that he went away muttering for his dictionary. He looked up cannon-ball, and of course discovered that he had been quite right and she was hopelessly in the wrong. Then he looked up canister, and found that it was a box for holding tea; and when he turned to tea he discovered it was sometimes made of beef, and beef was meat, and meat is what human beings are composed of; and canister was, therefore, a box for containing meat. He had been perfectly right, and the presumption of young maids was intolerable. When Boodles got back to the village she saw the people standing about the street in groups as if they were expecting some one of importance to pass that way. She looked about but could see nothing; the people were almost silent; they did not laugh and spoke only in whispers. She felt as if some calamity was impending, so she hurried indoors and kept away from the windows, as it was rather a bright day for her and she did not want it spoilt; but presently a rumbling sound made her look out, and soon she was shuddering. A black closed vehicle, like a hearse, passed, drawn by two horses; and white-faced grey-haired Annie was seated beside the driver; and then Boodles knew what the people were standing about for. It was to see the vehicle go through on its way down to the workhouse infirmary. Boodles went very white, drew back, and hid her face in her hands. She thought Annie had turned her head and seen her at the window. "Those flames will haunt me all my life," she whispered. "I shall see them jumping about my bed, and hear them roaring--but it wasn't my fault. He must have been a brute. How awful it would have been for me if he had died there." Had she known all the evil that Pendoggat had done she would have felt less guilty and less sorry. She could only comfort herself with the knowledge that it had been Annie rather than herself who had started those terrible and uncontrollable flames. She would not be troubled with either of them again, apart from memory, for the workhouse had received them; one would remain there, crippled and blind, the other would doubtless go on into the world, and try to earn a livelihood for a few years before returning there again in the twilight of her days. That night there was moonlight but no wind, and Boodles awoke in horror, fancying she heard for the second time that rumbling beneath her window, and screamed when she found and felt her body enveloped in flames. She sprang up to discover that she had been frightened by her own glowing hair. She was so sleepy before tumbling into bed that she had neglected to plait it, and it was all over the sheets like fire. "I shall always get these horrors while I am alone," she cried; and then she thought again of the wonderful letter, and the foreign girl with the amazing name whom she was to meet at the gate of the wood on Friday morning, and an intense longing for that strange girl came over her, and she cried aloud to the pale and equally lonely moon: "I hope she is nice. I will pray for her to be nice. The very first thing I shall ask her will be if I may sleep with her." Friday, day of regeneration, came clothed in a white mist, and found the girl asking herself: "Shall I try and make myself look older?" She peeped out, saw the moor shining, and thought she would be natural, and go out upon it young and fresh; dressed in white to suit the mist, like a little bride; and, having decided, she was soon trying to make herself look as sweet as possible. When she had finished, slanting the bedroom glass to take in as much of the picture as it would, she was fairly well satisfied, and was just beginning to sing the old song, "I'm only a baby," when she stopped herself severely with the rebuke that she was only a common person trying to let lodgings. All the spring flowers lifted up their heads and laughed at the lodging-house keeper when she appeared among them--they were really spring flowers that morning--and the real sun smiled, and real singing-birds mocked the little girl in white as she tripped towards the woods, because it appeared to them quite ridiculous that Boodles should relinquish her claims to childhood. The book of fairy-tales had been shut up and put away, thought she; but somehow the young spring things about her would not admit that. Everything in the woods was wide awake and laughing; not crying any more, and saying, lisping, murmuring, whispering: "Here's the happy-ever-after little girl." It was the proper ending of the story, the ending that the gods had written in their manuscript and the compositor-ogres had tried to mar in their wicked way. How could any story end unhappily on such a morning? The yellow patches in the woods were not artificial blobs of colour but real primroses, and the blue patches were bluebells, and the white patches were wind-flowers with warm mist hanging to them; and Boodles was not a mere girl any longer, but the presiding fairy of them all going out to find another fairy to play with. It was not the best ending perhaps, but it was the second best. So she went down to the woods and met another fairy, and they played together happily ever after. The furze, in genial generous mood, showered its blossoms at her feet and said: "Here is gold for you, fairy girl." The Tavy roared on cheerily, and a little cataract said to a conceited whirlpool too young to know how giddy it was: "Isn't that the goddess Flora crossing by the stepping-stones?" And the flowers said: "We are going to have a fine day." Boodles was ascending in the romantic scale. She had started as a lodging-house keeper; then she had become quite a young girl; from that to the fairy stage was only one step; and then at a single bound she became the goddess of flowers; and she went along "our walk" with sunshine for hair, and wind-flowers for eyes, and primroses for skin; and the world seemed very sweet and fresh as if the wonderful work of creation had only been finished that morning at nine o'clock punctually, and Boodles was just going through to see that the gardener had done his work properly. Life at eighteen is glorious and imaginative; sorrows cannot quench its flame. One hour of real happiness makes the young soul sing again, as one burst of sunshine purges a haunted house of all its horror. Boodles was down by Tavy side to bathe in the flowers and wash off the past and the beastly origin of things; the black time of winter, the awful loneliness, the windy nights. She was going to meet a friend, a companion, somebody who would frighten the dark hours away. The past was to vanish, not as if it had never been, but because it really never had been. The story was to begin all over again, as the other one had been conceived so badly that nobody could stand it. The once upon a time stage had come again, and the ogres had agreed not to interfere this time. Boodles baptised herself in dew, and rose from the ceremony only a few hours old. The child's name was Flora; no connection of the poor little thing which had been flung out to perish because nobody wanted it except silly old Weevil, who hated to see animals hurt. Weevil belonged to the other story too, the rejected story, and therefore he had never existed. Nobody had wanted Boodles, which was natural enough, as she was merely a wretched illegitimate brat; but every one wanted Flora. The world would be a dreary place without its flowers. Flora could laugh Mr. Bellamie to scorn; for the sun was her father and the warm earth her mother; and nobody would stop to look at the flowers while she was going by with them all upon her face. * * * * * At last Boodles looked up. She had been sitting on the warm peat just outside the gate until all Nature struck eleven; and the warmth and fragrance of the wood had made her sleepy. Dreams are the natural accompaniment of sleep, and she was dreaming then; for the expected figure was close to her, the figure in grey flannel and a plain straw hat; not elderly certainly, not much older than herself; and it was true enough she would have liked that figure if it had only been real. "Go away," she murmured, rather frightened. "Please go away." There was something dreadfully wrong. It was a nice girl's face that she saw, at least she had often called it so, and it was not black, and the owner of that face was assuredly going to like her very much indeed, although it was hardly a case of love at first sight; for the girl had failed to keep her appointment, the foreign girl with the amazing name was not there, the Persian girl who was to adore the sun and the coals of Lewside Cottage was evidently a deceiver of the baser sort. She had not come, and instead she had sent some one who could not fail to recognise the little girl waiting at the gate of the wood, who was calling her fond names, and actually kissing her, just as if the story was going to end, not in the second best way, but in the most blissful manner possible, with a dance of fairies on Tavy banks and a wedding-march. It was Aubrey who had come to the gate of the wood. "I wish you wouldn't," said Boodles rather sleepily. "I am waiting here for a girl." Then something appeared before her eyes which woke her up; the letter which she had written to Devonport; and she heard a voice saying very close to her ear, so close indeed that the lips were touching it-- "I wrote it, darling. I was afraid you would not come unless I deceived you a little. But I signed it with my own name." "Yerbua Eimalleb--what nonsense!" she sighed. "It is only Aubrey Bellamie written backwards." "Oh, you must not. How could you? It made me so happy. I thought at last I should have a friend, to drive the loneliness away--and now, it is all dark again and miserable. You are sending me back to the creeping, crawling shadows." "I have given up the Navy. I have given up my people, and everything, for the one thing, the best thing, for you," Aubrey said. Boodles put her head down, as if the wind had snapped her slender neck, and he kissed the hair just as he had done at different periods of her life, when she was a very small girl and the radiance was hanging down, and when she was rather a bigger girl and the radiance was up--and now. It was the best kiss of all, a man's kiss, the kiss which regenerated her and renounced all else. "You don't know what you are saying. I am an illegitimate child. You must not give up anything for me." Boodles had forgotten that it was the beginning of a new story. His great act of renunciation staggered her. Everything, birth, name, prospects, respectability, for her. She could not let him, but how was she to resist? She threw the sleep off, and said almost fiercely-- "You must not. The time may come when you will be sorry. I shall be a weight upon you, dragging you down. You might become ashamed of me." "Darling, I have been true to you all my life. I will be true for the rest of it." "I promised your parents I would not." "You promised me, year after year, that you would." Boodles tried to smile. She would have to be false to some one. "I have left my father's house, and I am not going back," Aubrey went on. "It will be terrible for them," she murmured. "It would be worse for you and for me. They have known nothing but happiness all their lives. It is their turn to have a little trouble. They are bringing it upon themselves. I have told them I shall not go back until they are willing to receive my wife." "They will never do that. Oh, Aubrey, you must not marry me. I shall spoil your life." "If I lost you it would be spoilt. I am being selfish after all," he said. "And if you were left alone what would you do?" Boodles said nothing, but the Tavy went roaring by, answering the question for her. "I am going to take you away, darling." He was holding her tightly, and she did not resist much, perhaps because she felt she ought to give up a little to him as he was giving up so much for her. "We will be married at once, and live in a tiny home. I have got it already, at Carbis Bay, looking over St. Ives at the sea, a lovely place where the sun shines. We will have our own boat and go fishing--" "And drown ourselves sometimes," added happy Boodles. "Not till we quarrel, and that will be never." "Look, Aubrey!" she cried, lifting herself, pointing between the bars of the gate into the wood. "There is our walk in a blue mist." The atmosphere of the wood was the colour of bluebells, which stretched in a magic carpet as far as they could see. "Let us go in," he said. "Not yet. Not unless I--Oh, Aubrey, if we go in it will be all over. Do I deserve it? Those winter evenings, the loneliness, the winds," she murmured. "It is all over," he said firmly, with a man's seriousness. "We have to start life now, for I have nobody but you--my little sweetheart, my wife of the radiant head, and the golden skin--" "And the freckles," she said, looking down, without a smile. "They have faded. You are so thin, sweet. You have been indoors too much, out of the sun." "There wasn't any sun; not until to-day," she whispered. "You see, darling, we are alone together." "It is what we wanted always, to be alone. Oh, my boy, I must--I must spoil your life, because I have got you in my heart and you won't go out. You never would leave me alone," she said, looking up with the childlike expression which had come back to her. Aubrey swung the gate open and she went to him. They kissed as they went through, and the gate slammed behind with a pleasant sound. They were inside, surrounded by the blue mist. It seemed to them very warm in there. They went on hand in hand, not speaking just then, not laughing as in the old days; for their eyes were opened, and they understood that life is not a fairy-tale, but a winding path between rocks and cruel furze; and only here and there occurs the Garden of Happiness; only here and there in the whole long path; but the gardens are there, and every one may walk in them if they can only find the way in. "I think you are such a nice boy, Aubrey," said a small voice in sweet school-girl tones. The little girl was feeling ridiculously young and shy again. It seemed absurd to think that she was going to be a bride so soon. They were walking upon the magic carpet of bluebells. The work of regeneration was finished at last; and the world was only a few hours old. THE END 
58355	----	THE THREE BROTHERS BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS AUTHOR OF "THE SECRET WOMAN," "THE AMERICAN PRISONER," "CHILDREN OF THE MIST," ETC. New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1909 _All rights reserved_ COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. Set up and electrotyped. Published January, 1909. _Norwood Press J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, Mass., U.S.A._ TO MY BROTHER HERBERT MACDONALD PHILLPOTTS A SMALL TRIBUTE OF GREAT AFFECTION THE THREE BROTHERS BOOK I CHAPTER I From Great Trowlesworthy's crown of rosy granite the world extended to the moor-edge, and thence, by mighty, dim, air-drenched passages of earth and sky, to the horizons of the sea. A clear May noon illuminated the waste, and Dartmoor, soaking her fill of sunshine, ran over with it, so that Devon's self spread little darker of bosom than the grey and silver of high clouds lifted above her, mountainous under the sun. Hills and plains were still mottled with the winter coat of the heather, and the verdure of the spearing grasses suffered diminution under a far-flung pallor of dead blades above breaking green; but the face of Dartmoor began to glow and the spring gorse leapt like a running flame along it. At water's brink was starry silver of crow-foot, and the heath, still darkling, sheltered sky-blue milk-wort and violet and the budding gold of the tormentil. One white road ran due north-east and south-west across the desert, and round about it, like the tents of the Anakim, rose huge snowy hillocks and ridges silver-bright in the sun. Here the venerable Archæan granites of Dartmoor, that on Trowlesworthy blush to a ruddy splendour, and elsewhere break beautifully in fair colour and fine grain through the coarser porphyritic stone, suffer a change, and out of their perishing constituents emerges kaolin, or china clay. A river met this naked road, and at their junction the grey bridge of Cadworthy saddled Plym. Beyond, like the hogged back of a brown bear, Wigford Down rolled above the gorges of Dewerstone, and further yet, retreated fields and forests, great uplifted plains, and sudden elevations that glimmered along their crests with the tender green of distant larch and beech. The atmosphere was opalescent, milky, sweet, as though earth's sap, leaping to the last tree-tip and bursting bud, exuded upon air the very visible incense and savour of life. Running water and lifting lark made the music of this hour; and at one spot on the desert a girl's voice mingled with them and enlarged the melody, for it was gentle and musical and belonged to the springtime. She sat high on Trowlesworthy, where the rushes chatter and where, to their eternal treble, the wind strikes deep organ music from the forehead of the tor. From the clefts of the rocks around her, where foxes homed sometimes and the hawk made her nest, there hung now russet tassels and tufts of dead lady-fern; and above this rack of the old year sprang dark green aigrettes of the new. Stonecrops and pennyworts also flourished amid the uncurling fronds; aloft, the heath and whortle made curls for the great tor's brow; below, to the girl's feet, there sloped up boulders that shone with fabric of golden-brown mosses and dappled lichens, jade-green and grey. The woodsorrel had climbed hither, and its frail bells and sparkling trefoils glittered on the earth. The sun shone with a thready lustre over the million flattened dead rushes roundabout this place, and its light spread out upon them into a pool of pale gold. Thus a radiance as of water extended here and the wind, fretting all this death, heightened the deception; while the scattered rocks shone brilliantly against so much reflected light and looked like boulders half submerged at the fringe of a glittering sea. The girl laughed and gazed down at her home. It was a squat grey building half-way between the red tor and the distant bridge. It stood amid bright green crofts, and beside it was a seemly hayrick and an unseemly patch of rufous light that stared--hideous as a bloodshot eye--from the harmonious textures of the waste. There a shippen under an iron roof sank to rusty dissolution. Here was Trowlesworthy Farm and a great rabbit warren that extended round about it. Milly Luscombe lived at Trowlesworthy with an uncle and aunt. She was accustomed to work very hard for her living, but for the moment she did not work. She only breathed the breath of spring and talked of love. Beside her sat a sturdy youth with a red face and a little budding flaxen moustache. His countenance was not cast in a cheerful mould. Indeed, he frowned and gazed gloomily out of large grey eyes at the valley beneath him. "I axed father in plain words if I might be tokened to you--of course, that was if you said 'yes'--and he answered as plainly that I might not. You see, he was terrible up in years afore he got married himself, and so he thinks a man's a fool to go into it young." "How old was he then?" "Forty-five to the day. And he's seventy next month, though he don't feel or look anything like so much. He's full of old, stale sayings about marrying in haste and repenting at leisure: and such like. So there it is, Milly." The girl nodded. She was a dark maiden with brown eyes and a pretty mouth. She sniffed rather tearfully and wiped her eyes with the corner of her sun-bonnet. "Belike your father only waited so long because the right one didn't come. When he found your mother, I'm sure he married her quick enough." "No, he didn't. They was tokened when he was forty, and kept company for five years." "That ban't loving," she said. "Of course it ban't! And yet father isn't what you might call a hard man. Far from it, to all but me. A big-hearted, kindly creature and a good father, if he could only understand more. Like a boy in some things. I'm sure I feel a lot older than him sometimes. If 'twas Ned now, he'd be friendly and easy as you please." "What does Mrs. Baskerville say?" "She's on our side, and so's my sisters. Polly and May think the world of you. 'Tisn't as if I was like my brother Ned--a lazy chap that hates the sight of work. I stand to work same as father himself, and he knows that; and when there's anything calling to be done, 'tis always, 'Where be Rupert to?" But lazy as Ned is, he'd let him marry to-morrow." "Mr. Baskerville's frighted of losing you from Cadworthy, Rupert." The young man looked out where a wood rose south of the bridge, and his father's farm lifted its black chimneys above the trees. "He tells me I'm his right hand; and yet refuses, though this is the first thing that ever I've asked him," he said. "Wouldn't he suffer it if you promised him to do as he done, and not marry for five years?" "I'll promise no such thing. Father seems to think 'tis all moonshine, but I shall have another go at him when he comes home next week. Till then I shan't see you no more, for I've promised myself to get through a mighty pile of work--just to astonish him." "The harder you work, the more he'll want you to bide at home," she said. "Not that I mind you working. All the best sort work--I know that." "I must work--no credit to me. I'm like father there. I ban't comfortable if I don't get through a good lump of work in the day." She looked at him with large admiration. "Where's Mr. Baskerville gone to?" "To Bideford for the wrestlin' matches. He always stands stickler when there's a big wrestlin'. Such a famous man he was at it--champion of Devon for nine years. He retired after he was married. But now, just on his seventieth birthday, he's as clever as any of 'em. 'Twas his great trouble, I do believe, that neither me nor Ned ever shaped well at it. But we haven't got his weight. We take after my mother's people and be light built men--compared to father." "Pity May weren't a boy," said Milly. "She's got weight enough." "Yes," he admitted. "She's the very daps of father. She'll be a whacker when she grows up. 'Tis a nuisance for a woman being made so terrible beamy. But there 'tis--and a happier creature never had to walk slow up a hill." Silence fell for a while between them. "We must wait and hope," she declared at last. "I shan't change, Rupert--you know that." "Right well I know it, and more shan't I." "You're just turned twenty-three and I'm eighteen. After all, we've got plenty of time," said Milly. "I hope so. But that's no reason why for we should waste it. 'Tis all wasted till I get you." She put her hand out to him, and he caught it and held it. "It might be a long sight worse," she said. "'Tis only a matter of patience." "There's no need for patience, and there lies the cruelty. However, I'll push him hard when he comes home. Tokened I will be to 'e--not in secret, but afore the nation." "Look!" she said. "Two men riding up over. Go a bit further off, there's a dear." Rupert looked where she pointed, and then he showed no little astonishment and concern. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "If 'tisn't my Uncle Humphrey Baskerville; and Mark along with him. What the mischief sent them here, of all ways? Can't we hide?" But no hiding-place offered. Therefore the young people rose and walked boldly forward. "He's going out to Hen Tor to look at they ruins, I reckon," said Milly. "I met your cousin Mark a bit ago, and he told me his father was rather interested in that old rogues-roost of a place they call Hen Tor House. Why for I can't say; but that's where they be riding, I doubt." Two men on ponies arrived as she spoke, and drew up beside the lovers. The elder exhibited a cast of countenance somewhat remarkable. He was a thin, under-sized man with grey hair. His narrow, clean-shorn face sloped wedge-shaped to a pointed chin, and his mouth was lipless and very hard. Grotesquely large black eyebrows darkened his forehead, but they marked no arch. They were set in two patches or tufts, and moved freely up and down over a pair of rather dim grey eyes. The appearance of dimness, however, was not real, for Humphrey Baskerville possessed good sight. He was sixty-three years old, and a widower. He passed for a harsh, secretive man, and lived two miles from his elder brother, Vivian Baskerville, of Cadworthy. His household consisted of himself, his son Mark, and his housekeeper. "Good morning, Uncle Humphrey," said Rupert, taking the bull by the horns. "You know Milly Luscombe, don't you? Morning, Mark." Mr. Baskerville's black tufts went up and his slit of a mouth elongated. "What's this then?" he asked. "Fooling up here with a girl--you? I hope you're not taking after your good-for-nothing brother?" "Needn't fear that, uncle." "How's Mr. Luscombe?" asked the old man abruptly, turning to the girl. Milly feared nobody--not even this much-feared and mysterious person--and now she turned to him and patted his old pony's neck as she answered-- "Very well, thank you, Mr. Baskerville, and I'm sure he'd hope you are the same." The tufts came down and he looked closely at her. "You playing truant too--eh? Well, why not? 'Tis too fine a day for work, perhaps." "So it is, then. Even your old blind pony knows that." "Only blind the near side," he answered. "He can see more with one eye than many humans can with both." "What's his name, please?" "I don't know. Never gave him one." They walked a little way forward, while Rupert stopped behind and spoke to his cousin Mark. "So you like that boy very much--eh?" said the old man drily and suddenly to Milly. She coloured up and nodded. "Nonsense and foolery!" "If 'tis, I wouldn't exchange it for your sense, Mr. Baskerville." He made a deep grunt, like a bear. "That's the pert way childer speak to the old folk now--is it?" "Even you was in love once?" "Nonsense and foolery--nonsense and foolery!" "Would you do different if you could go back?" He did not answer the question. "I doubt you're too good for Rupert Baskerville," he said. "He's too good for me." "He stands to work--I grant that. But he's young, and he's foolish, like all young things. Think better of it. Keep away from the young men. Work--work--work your fingers to the bone. That's the only wise way. I'm going to look at yonder ruin on the side of Hen Tor. I may build it up again and live there and die there." "What! Leave Hawk House, Mr. Baskerville?" "Why not? 'Tis too much in the world for me and Mark." "'Tis the loneliest house in these parts." "Too much in the world," he repeated. "That's nonsense and foolery, if you like," she said calmly; "I'm sure love-making be all plain common-sense compared to that." He pulled up and regarded her with a grim stare. "I've found somebody to-day that isn't afraid of me, seemingly." "Why for should I be?" "For no reason, except that most others are. What do they all think? I'll tell you; they think I'm wrong here." He tilted up his black wide-awake hat and tapped his forehead. "Surely never! The folk only be frightened of your great wittiness--so I believe. Rupert always says that you are terrible clever." "That shows he's a terrible fool. Don't you mate with a fool, Milly." "I'll promise that anyway, sir." She spoke with perfect self-possession and interested the old man. Then he found that he was interested, and turned upon himself impatiently and shouted to his son. "Come on, boy! What are you dawdling there for?" Mark instantly dug his heels into his pony and followed his father. He was a youthful edition of the elder, with a difference. Humphrey was ill-clad, and Mark was neat. Humphrey's voice was harsh and disagreeable; Mark's was soft and almost womanly. Mark also had a smooth face and heavy eyebrows; but his features were clearer cut, more delicate; his eyes were blue and beautiful. He had a manner somewhat timid and retiring. He was not a cringing man, but a native deference guided him in all dealings with his kind. Before starting, Mr. Baskerville stopped, drew a letter from his pocket, and called to Rupert. "Take this to my brother Vivian, will you? I was going to leave it on the way back, but I'll not waste his time." The youth came forward and took the letter. "Father's away to Bideford--standing stickler for the wrestlin'," he said. "Good God! At his age! Can't an old man of seventy find nothing better and wiser to do than run after childish things like that?" The son was silent, and his uncle, with a snort of deep disdain, rode forward. "'Tis about the birthday," Rupert explained to Milly. "In June father will turn seventy, and there is to be a rare fuss made, and a spread, and all the family to come round him at Cadworthy. Of course, Uncle Nat will come. In fact, 'twas his idea that we should have a celebration about it; but I doubt if Uncle Humphrey will. He'd think such a thing all rubbish, no doubt, for he's against every sort of merry-making. You see how he went just now when I told him father was gone to the wrestlin' matches." "Don't you mind him too much, all the same," said Milly. "He looks terrible grim and says dreadful things, but I don't believe he's half in earnest. I ban't feared of him, and never will be. Don't you be neither." They left the tor and proceeded to the girl's home beneath. The close-cropped turf of the warrens spread in a green and resilient carpet under their feet; and, flung in a mighty pattern upon it, young red leaves of whortleberry broke through and spattered the miles of turf with a haze of russet. Rupert said farewell at the entrance; then he hastened homeward and presently reached his family circle as it was preparing to dine. Hester Baskerville, the wife of Vivian, was a quiet, fair woman of fine bearing and above middle height. She was twenty years younger than her husband, but the union had been a happy and successful one in every respect, and the woman's mild nature and large patience had chimed well with the man's strong self-assertion, narrow outlook, and immovable opinions. Kindness of heart and generosity of spirit distinguished them both; and these precious traits were handed to the children of the marriage, six in number. Ned Baskerville, the eldest son, was considered the least satisfactory and the best looking. Then came Rupert, a commonplace edition of Ned, but worth far more as a responsible being. These men resembled their mother and both lived at home. Young Nathan Baskerville followed. He was a sailor and seldom seen at Cadworthy. The two girls of this family succeeded Nathan. May and Polly were like their father--of dark complexion and inclined to stoutness; while the baby of the household was Humphrey, a youngster of thirteen, called after the dreaded uncle. All save Nat, the sailor, were at table when Rupert entered with his letter, and all showed keenest interest to learn whether Mr. Baskerville of Hawk House had accepted his invitation. Rupert handed the letter to his mother, and she was about to put it aside until her husband's return; but her children persuaded her to open it. "Such a terrible exciting thing, mother," said stout May. "Us never won't sleep a wink till us knows." "I hope to the Lord he isn't coming," declared Ned. "'Twill spoil all--a regular death's head he'll be, and us shan't dare to have an extra drop of beer or a bit of fun after with the girls." Beer and a bit of fun with the girls' represented the limit of Edward Baskerville's ambitions; and he gratified them with determination when opportunity offered. His father was blind to his faults and set him on a pedestal above the rest of the family; but his mother felt concern that her eldest son should be so slight a man. She lived in hope that he might waken to his responsibilities and justify existence. Ned was unusually well-educated, and would do great things some day in his father's opinion; but the years passed, he was now twenty-five, and the only great thing that he had done was twice to become engaged to marry and twice to change his mind. None denied him a rare gift of good looks; and his fine figure, his curly hair, his twinkling eyes and his mouth, when it smiled, proved attractive to many maidens. Mrs. Baskerville left a spoon in the large beef-steak pudding and read her brother-in-law's letter, while a cloud of steam ascended to the kitchen ceiling. "DEAR BROTHER VIVIAN, "You ask me to come and eat my dinner with you on the twenty-eighth day of June next, because on that day you will be up home seventy years old. If you think 'tis a fine thing to find yourself past three score and ten--well, perhaps it is. You can't go on much longer, anyway, and journey's end is no hardship. At a first thought I should have reckoned such a birthday wasn't much to rejoice over; but you're right and I'm wrong. A man may pride himself on getting so well through with the bulk of his life and reaching nigh the finish with so few thorns in his feet and aches in his heart as what you have. I'll come. "Yours faithfully, "HUMPHREY BASKERVILLE." A mournful sound like the wind in the trees went up from Uncle Humphrey's nephews and nieces. "Be damned to him!" said Ned. "Perhaps he won't come after all, when he hears Uncle Nat is coming," suggested May. She was always hopeful. Mrs. Baskerville turned and put the letter on the mantel-shelf behind an eight-day clock. Then she sat down and began to help the pudding. "We must make him as welcome as we can, for father's sake," she said. CHAPTER II The hamlet of Shaugh Prior, a gift to the monks of Plympton in time past, stands beneath Shaugh Moor at the edge of a mighty declivity. The Church of St. Edward lifts its battlemented tower and crocketed pinnacles above a world of waste and fallow. It is perched upon a ridge and stands, supported by trees and a few cottages, in a position of great prominence. The scant beauty that this holy place possessed has vanished under restoration; but there yet remain good bells, while a notable font-cover, cast forth by vanished vandals, is now returned to its use. Round about the church dark sycamores shine in spring, and at autumn drop their patched and mottled foliage upon the dust of the dead. Broad-bosomed fields ascend to the south; easterly a high road climbs to the Moor, and immediately north of Shaugh the slopes of High Down lead by North Wood to Cadworthy Farm and Cadworthy Bridge beyond it. From High Down the village and its outlying habitations may be perceived at a glance. The cots and homesteads converge and cluster in, with the church as the central point and heart of the organisation. Around it dwellers from afar are come to sleep through their eternal night, and a double row of slates, like an amulet, girdles the ancient fane. Here and there flash white marble in the string of grey above the graves of the people; and beside the churchyard wall stand heaped a pack of Time's playing cards--old, thin, and broken slates from graves forgotten--slates and shattered slabs that have fallen away from the unremembered dust they chronicled, and now follow into oblivion the bones they marked. A school, a rectory, 'The White Thorn' inn, and a dozen dwellings constitute Shaugh Prior, though the parish extends far beyond these boundaries; and on this spring day, one thrush warbling from a lilac bush at a cottage door, made music loud enough to fill the hamlet. Undershaugh Farm stood near on the great hill that fell westerly to Shaugh Bridge, at watersmeet in the valley; and upon the land hard by it, two men tramped backward and forward, crossing and re-crossing in the bare centre of a field. They were working over sown mangold and enriching the seed under their feet by scattering upon it a fertile powder. The manure puffed from their hands in little golden clouds under the sunlight. The secret of this mixture belonged to one man, and none grew such mangolds as he could grow. Undershaugh was the property of Nathan Baskerville, innkeeper, and he had let it for twenty years to a widow; but Mr. Baskerville took an active personal interest in the welfare of his property, and Mrs. Priscilla Lintern, his tenant, was very well pleased to follow his advice on all large questions of husbandry and rotation. As did the rest of the world, she knew his worth and wisdom. Nathan Baskerville had original ideas, and these were a source of ceaseless and amicable argument between him and his elder brother, Vivian Baskerville, of Cadworthy. But Mr. Nathan's centre of activity and nidus, from which his enterprises and undertakings took shape and separate being, was 'The White Thorn' public-house. Here, at the centre of the little web of Shaugh Prior, he pursued his busy and prosperous life. Nothing came amiss to him; nothing seemed to fail in his hands. He had a finger in fifty pies, and men followed his lead as a matter of course, for Nathan Baskerville was never known to make a bad bargain or faulty investment. Nor did he keep his good luck to himself. All men could win his ear; the humblest found him kind. He would invest a pound for a day labourer as willingly as ten for a farmer. After five-and-twenty years in Shaugh Prior he had won the absolute trust of his neighbours. All eyes brightened at his name. He was wont to say that only one living man neither believed in him nor trusted him. "And that man, as luck will have it, is my own brother Humphrey," the innkeeper would confess over his bar to regular visitors thereat. "'Tis no great odds, however, and I don't feel it so much as you might think, because Humphrey Baskerville is built on a very uncomfortable pattern. If 'twas only me he mistrusted, I might feel hurt about it; but 'tis the world, and therefore I've got no right to mind. There's none--none he would rely upon in a fix--a terrible plight for a man that. But I live in hopes that I'll win him round yet." The folk condoled with him, and felt a reasonable indignation that this most large-hearted, kindly, and transparent of spirits should rest under his own brother's suspicion. They explained it as the work of jealousy. All Baskervilles had brains, and most were noted for good looks; but both gifts had reached their highest development and culmination in Nathan. He was the handsomest and the cleverest of the clan; and doubtless Humphrey, a sinister and secret character, against whom much was whispered and more suspected, envied his brother's gifts and far-reaching popularity. Nathan was sixty, the youngest and physically the weakest of the three brothers. He had a delicate throat which often caused him anxiety. The men scattering manure upon the mangolds made an end of their work and separated. One took some sacks and the pails used for the fertiliser. Then he mounted a bare-backed horse that stood in a corner of the field, and rode away slowly to Undershaugh. His companion crossed the stream beneath the village, mounted a hill beyond it, and presently entered 'The White Thorn.' He was a well-turned, fair, good-looking youth in corduroys and black leathern leggings. He wore no collar, but his blue cotton shirt was clean and made a pleasant contrast of colour with the brown throat that rose from it. Young Lintern was the widow Lintern's only son and her right hand at Undershaugh. The men in the bar gave him good day, and Mr. Baskerville, who was serving, drew for him half a pint of beer. "Well, Heathman," he said. "So that's done. And, mark me, 'twas worth the doing. If you don't fetch home first prize as usual for they mangolds, say I've forgot the recipe." "'Tis queer stuff," answered the youngster, "and what with this wind blowing, my eyes and nose and throat's all full of it." "'Twill do you no harm but rise a pleasant thirst." Mr. Baskerville had humour stamped at the wrinkled corners of his bright eyes. His face was genial and rubicund. He wore a heavy grey beard, but his hair, though streaked with grey, was still dark in colour. A plastic mouth that widened into laughter a thousand times a day, belonged to him. He was rather above average height, sturdy and energetic. He declared that he had never known what it was to be weary in mind or body. Behind his bar he wore no coat, but ministered in turned-up shirt sleeves that revealed fine hairy arms. Young Ned Baskerville sat in the bar, and now he spoke to Heathman Lintern. "Have one with me, Heathman," he said. "I was going down to your mother with a message, but now you can take it and save me the trouble." His uncle shook his head. "Ah, boy--always the same with you. Anybody as will save you trouble be your friend. 'Tis a very poor look-out, Ned; for let a certain party only get wind of it that you're such a chap for running from work, and he'll mighty soon come along and save you all trouble for evermore." "And who might he be, Uncle Nat?" "Old Nick, my fine fellow! You may laugh, but Tommy Gollop here will bear me out, and Joe Voysey too, won't you, Joe? They be both born and bred in the shadow of the church, and as well up in morals as grave-digging and cabbage-growing. And they'll tell you that the devil's always ready to work for an idle man." "True," said Mr. Gollop. "True as truth itself. But the dowl won't work for nought, any more than the best of us. Long hours, I grant you--never tired him, and never takes a rest--but he'll have his wages; and Ned here knows what they be, no doubt." Ned laughed. "I'm all right," he said. "I shall work hard enough come presently, when it gets to be worth while." Mr. Gollop spoke again. He was a stout man with a little grey beard, a flat forehead, barely indicated under his low-growing, coarse hair, and large brown, solemn eyes. He and his sister were leading figures at Shaugh Prior, and took themselves and their manifold labours in a serious spirit. Some self-complacency marked their outlook; and their perspective was faulty. They held Shaugh Prior as the centre of civilisation, and considered that their united labours had served to place and helped to maintain it in that position. Thomas Gollop was parish clerk and sexton; his sister united many avocations. She acted as pew-opener at the church; she was a sick-nurse and midwife; she took temporary appointments as plain cook; she posed as intelligencer of Shaugh Prior; and what she did not know of every man, woman, and child in the village, together with their ambitions, financial position, private relations, religious opinions, and physical constitutions, was not worth knowing. "At times of large change like this, when we are threatened with all manner of doubts and dangers, 'tis well for every man among us to hold stoutly to religion and defy any one who would shake us," said Mr. Gollop. "For my part I shall strike the first blow, and let it be seen that I'm a man very jealous for the Lord, and the village and the old paths." "What's going to happen?" asked Ned. "You talk as if Doomsday was coming." "Not at all," answered Mr. Gollop. "When Doomsday comes, if I'm still here, I shall know how to handle it; but 'tis the new vicar. A man is a man; and with a strange man 'tis only too terrible certain there will creep in strange opinions and a nasty hunger for novelty." "And what's worse," said Mr. Voysey, "a young man. An old man I could have faced from my sixty-five years without fear; but how can you expect a young youth--full of the fiery silliness of the twenties--to understand that as I've been gardener at the vicarage for forty year, so in right and decency and order I ought to go on being gardener there?" "Have no fear, Joe," said Mr. Baskerville. "If there's one thing among us that Mr. Masterman won't change, 'tis you, I'm sure; for who knows the outs and ins of the garden up the hill like you do?" "'Tis true," admitted Tommy Gollop. "That land is like a human, you might say--stiff and stubborn and got to be coaxed to do its best; and I'm sure he'll very soon see that only Voysey can fetch his beans and peas out of the soil, and that it's took him a lifetime to learn the trick of the place. And I feel the same to the church. If he's got any new-fangled fashion of worship, Shaugh will rise against him like one man. After fifty-two years of the Reverend Valletort, we can't be blown from our fixed ways at a young man's breath; and I'm sure I do hope that he won't want so much as a cobweb swept down, or else there'll be difficulties spring up around him like weeds after rain." "What a pack of mouldy old fossils you are in this place!" said Heathman Lintern. "I'm sure, for my part, I hope the man will fetch along a few new ideas to waken us up. If 'twasn't for Mr. Baskerville here, Shaugh would be forgot in the world altogether. You should hear Jack Head on the subject." But Tommy Gollop little liked such criticism. "You're young and terribly ignorant, and Jack Head's a red radical as ought to be locked up," he answered. "But you'll do well to keep your ignorance from leaking out and making you look a ninny-hammer afore sensible men. Shaugh Prior's a bit ahead of the times rather than behind 'em, and my fear always is, and always will be, that we shall take the bit in our teeth some day and bolt with it. 'Tis no good being too far ahead of the race; and that's why I'm afeared that this young Masterman, when he finds how forward we are, will try to go one better and stir up strife." "Don't think it, Tommy," said Nathan Baskerville. "I've had a good tell with him and find him a very civil-spoken and well-meaning man. No fool, neither. You mustn't expect him to leave everything just as Mr. Valletort left it. You must allow for the difference between eighty-two and twenty-eight, which is Mr. Masterman's age; but, believe me, he's calm and sensible and very anxious to please. He's pleased me by praising my beer, like one who knew; and he's pleased my brother Vivian by praising his riding-cob, like one who knew; and he'll please Joe Voysey presently by praising the vicarage garden; and he'll please you, Thomas, by praising your churchyard." "If he's going to be all things to all men, he'll please none," said Tommy. "We've got no need of one of them easy ministers. Him and me must keep the whip-hand of Shaugh, same as me and the Reverend Valletort used to do. However, the man will hear my views, and my sister's also; because a clear understanding from the start be going to save a world of worry after." "Not married," said Mr. Voysey. "But he've a sister. I hope she ban't one of they gardening sort, so-called, that's always messing round making work and finding things blowed down here or eaten with varmints there. If she's a flower-liking female, 'twill be my place to tell her straight out from the shoulder that flowers won't grow in the vicarage garden, and that she must be content with the 'dendrums in summer time and the foxgloves and such-like homely old stuff." "He was a football player to college and very skilled at it, so Barker told me," said Ned Baskerville. "Then mark me, he'll be for making a club, and teaching the young chaps to play of a Saturday and keeping 'em out of your bar, Mr. Baskerville," declared the parish clerk; "Yes, look at it as you will, there's changes in the air, and I hope we'll all stand shoulder to shoulder against 'em, and down the man afore he gets his foot in the stirrup." "You two--Joe Voysey and you--be enough to frighten the poor soul out of his seven senses afore he's been in the place a week," declared Ned Baskerville. "And I hope for one that Uncle Nat won't go against him; and I know father won't, for he's said this many a day that old Valletort was past his work and ought to be pensioned off." "Your father's not a man for unseemly changes, all the same," declared Tommy; "and if this new young minister was to go in the pulpit in white instead of black, for instance, as the Popish habit is, Vivian Baskerville would be the first to rise up and tell him to dress himself decently and in order." But Ned denied this. "Don't you think you know my father, Tommy, because you don't. If this chap gets up a football club, he'll have father on his side from the first; and he can preach in black or white or pea-green, so long as he talks sense through his mouth, and not nonsense through his nose, like the old one did." "Don't you speak for your father," said Joseph Voysey. He was a very tall and a very thin man, with pale, watery eyes and a scanty beard. Nature had done so much for his long and rather absurd hatchet nose, that there was no material left for his chin. "If I shouldn't talk for my father, who should?" retorted Ned. Then Mr. Voysey descended to personalities and accused the other of irreverence and laziness. The argument grew sharp and Mr. Baskerville was forced to still it. "Come you along and don't talk twaddle, Ned," he said to his nephew. "I'm going down to Undershaugh myself this minute, to see Mrs. Lintern, and you and Heathman will come with me." He called to a pot-boy, turned down his sleeves, took his coat from a hook behind the door, and was ready to start. "When Mr. Masterman does come among us, 'twill be everybody's joy and pride to make him welcome in a kindly spirit," he said. "Changes must happen, but if he's a gentleman and a sportsman and a Christian--all of which he certainly looks to be--then 'twill be the fault of Shaugh Prior, and not the man's, if all don't go friendly and suent. Give and take's the motto." "Yes," admitted Mr. Gollop. "Give nought and take all: that's the way of the young nowadays; and that'll be his way so like as not; and I'll deny him to his face from the first minute, if he seeks to ride roughshod over me, and the church, and the people." "Hear! Hear!" cried Mr. Voysey. "We'll hope he'll have enough sense to spare a little for you silly old blids," said Heathman Lintern. Then he followed the Baskervilles. CHAPTER III Nathan Baskerville, like his brother Humphrey, was a widower. Very early in life he had married a young woman of good means and social position superior to his own. His handsome face and manifold charms of disposition won Minnie Stanlake, and she brought to him a small fortune in her own right, together with the detestation of her whole family. Husband and wife had lived happily, save for the woman's fierce and undying jealousy which extended beyond her early grave. She died childless at eight-and-twenty, and left five thousand pounds to her husband on the understanding that he did not marry again. He obeyed this condition, though it was vain in law, and presently returned to his own people. His married life was spent at Taunton, as a general dealer, but upon his wife's death he abandoned this business and set up another like it at Bath. At five-and-thirty years of age he came back to Devonshire and his native village. Great natural energy kept him busy. He dearly liked to conduct all manner of pettifogging business, and his good nature was such that the folk did not hesitate to consult him upon their affairs. His legal attainments were considered profound, while his shrewd handling of figures, and his personal prosperity, combined to place him on a pinnacle among the folk as a great financier and most capable man of business. He did not lend money at interest, but was known more than once to have helped a lame dog over a stile. Many kind things he did, and no man spoke a bad word of him. People brought him their savings and begged him to invest them according to his judgment. They usually asked for no details, but received their interest regularly, and trusted Nathan Baskerville like the Bank of England. He was in truth a large-hearted and kindly spirit, who found his pleasure in the affection and also in the applause of the people. He liked to figure among them as the first. He loved work for itself and enjoyed the universal praise of his attainments. Mr. Gollop might delude himself into believing that he was the leading citizen of Shaugh; but the master of 'The White Thorn' knew better. Without undue vanity he was not able to hide the fact that he stood above others in the esteem of the countryside. He was not so rich as people thought, and he had not laid foundations of such a fortune as they supposed during the years at Bath; but he fostered the impression and the fame it gave him. It suited better his native idiosyncrasy to tower among smaller men, than to be small amidst his betters. He liked the round-eyed reverence of ploughboys and the curtsey of the school children. The late vicar, a Tory of the early Victorian age, had contrived to let Mr. Baskerville perceive the gulf that existed between them; and that the more definitely because Nathan was a Nonconformist. The publican professed strong Conservative principles, however, and the attitude of the last incumbent of Shaugh had caused him some secret annoyance; but he too hoped that with the advent of a younger man and modern principles this slight disability might vanish. For the rest he rode to hounds, and his attitude in the hunting field was admitted to be exceedingly correct and tactful. He had no known confidant and he seldom spoke about himself. That he had never married astonished many people exceedingly; but it was significant of the genuine affection and esteem entertained for him that none, even when they came to learn of his dead wife's bequest and its condition, ever imputed sordid motives to his celibacy. Five thousand pounds was guessed to be but a small part of Mr. Baskerville's fortune, and, when the matter chanced upon local tongues, men and women alike were quite content to believe that not affection for money, but love for his dead partner, had proved strong enough to maintain Nathan in widowhood. He liked the company of women, and was never so pleased as when doing them a service. For their part they admired him also and wished him well. Mr. Baskerville not only owned 'The White Thorn' and its adjacencies, but had other house property at Shaugh and in the neighbouring parish of Bickleigh. His principal possession was the large farm of Undershaugh; and thither now he proceeded with his nephew, Ned Baskerville, on one side of him and young Heathman Lintern on the other. According to his wont Nathan chattered volubly and suited the conversation to his listeners. "You young chaps must both join the football club, if there is one. I'm glad to think new parson's that sort, for 'tis just the kind of thing we're wanting here. You fellows, and a lot like you, spend too much time and money at my bar to please me. You may laugh, Ned, but 'tis so. And another thing I'd have you to know: so like as not we shall have a rifle corps also. I've often turned my mind on it. We must let this man see we're not all willingly behind the times, but only waiting for a bit of encouragement to go ahead with the best." Ned pictured his own fine figure in a uniform, and applauded the rifle corps; and Heathman did the like. "Ned here would fancy himself a lot in that black and silver toggery the yeomanry wear, wouldn't you, Ned?" "'Tis a very good idea, and would help to make you and a few other round-backed chaps as straight in the shoulders as me," declared Ned complacently. "Well, you may be straight," answered the other with a laugh. "Certainly you've never been known yet to bend your shoulders to work. A day's trout-fishing be the hardest job that ever you've taken on--unless courting the maidens be a hard job." Ned laughed and so did his uncle. "You're right there, Heathman," declared Mr. Baskerville. "A lazy scamp you are, Ned, though your father won't see it; but nobody knows it better than the girls. They like you very well for a fine day and a picnic by the river; but I can tell you this: they're getting to see through you only too well. They don't want fair-weather husbands; but stout, hard fellows, like Heathman here, as have got brains and use 'em, and arms and legs and use 'em." "No more use--you, than a pink and white china joney stuck on a mantelshelf," said Heathman. Whereupon Ned dashed at him and, half in jest, half in earnest, they wrestled by the roadside. Mr. Baskerville looked on with great enjoyment, and helped presently to dust Heathman after he had been cross-buttocked. "That'll show 'e if I'm a pink and white puppet for a mantelpiece," declared Ned. The other laughed and licked a scratch on his hand. "Well done you!" he said. "Never thought you was so spry. But let's have a whole day's ploughing over a bit of the five-acre field to Undershaugh, and see what sort of a man you are in the evening." "Not me," answered the other. "Got no use for the plough-tail myself. Rupert will take you on at that." "To see you wrestle puts me in mind of your father," said Nathan. "This generation can't call home his greatness, and beside him you're a shrimp to a lobster, Ned; but 'twas a grand sight to see him handle a man in his prime. I mind actually getting him up to London once, because I named his name there among some sporting fellows and 'twas slighted. They thought, being my brother, that I held him too high, though he was champion of Devon at the time. But my way is never to say nought with my tongue that I won't back with my pocket, and I made a match for thirty pounds a side for your father. A Middlesex man called Thorpe, from down Bermondsey way, was chosen, and your father came up on a Friday and put that chap on his back twice in five minutes, and then went home again fifteen pound to the good. A very clever man too, was Thorpe, but he never wanted to have no more to do with your father. Vivian weighed over fourteen stone in them days, and not a pound of fat in the lot, I believe. He could have throwed down a tor, I reckon, if he could have got a hold on it. But you fellows be after your mother's build. The best of you--him that's at sea--won't never draw the beam to twelve stone." A tramp stopped Mr. Baskerville, touched his hat and spoke. "You gave me a bit of work harvesting two year ago, master, and you didn't pull much of a long face when I told you I wasn't fond of work as a rule. I'm more broke than usual just for the minute, and rather short o' boot-leather. Can 'e give me a job?" Nathan was famous at making work for everybody, and loafers rarely appealed to him in vain. How such an exceedingly busy man could find it in his heart to sympathise with drones, none knew. It was another of the anomalies of Mr. Baskerville's character. But he often proved good for a square meal, a day's labour and a night's rest, as many houseless folk well knew. "You're the joker who calls himself the 'Duke of Drake's Island,' aren't you?" "The Duke of Drake's Island" grinned and nodded. He was a worthless soul, very well known to the Devon constabulary. "Get up to the village and call at 'The White Thorn' in an hour from now, and ask for me." "Thank you kindly, Mr. Baskerville." "We'll see about that later. I can find a job for you to-night; but it ain't picking primroses." Priscilla Lintern met her landlord at the gate of Undershaugh. They were on terms of intimacy, and nodded to each other in an easy and friendly manner. She had been feeding poultry from a basin, and now set it down, wiped her fingers on her apron, and shook hands with Ned Baskerville. "How be you, then? 'Tis a longful time since you called on us, Master Ned." "I'm clever, thank you; and I see you are, Mrs. Lintern. And I hope Cora and Phyllis be all right too. Heathman here be growing as strong as a lion--ban't you, Heathman?" Mrs. Lintern was a brown, good-looking woman of rather more than fifty. For twenty years she had farmed Undershaugh, and her power of reserve surprised a garrulous village. It was taken by the sensible for wisdom and by the foolish for pride. She worked hard, paid her rent at the hour it was due, as Nathan often mentioned to her credit, and kept her own counsel. Very little was known about her, save that she had come to Shaugh as a widow with three young children, that she was kind-hearted and might have married Mr. Gollop a year after her arrival, but had declined the honour. Her daughters were at dinner when the men entered, and both rose and saluted Ned with some self-consciousness. Phyllis, the younger, was like her mother: brown, neat, silent and reserved; the elder was cast in a larger mould and might have been called frankly beautiful. Cora was dark, with black eyes and a fair skin whose purity she took pains to preserve. She was tall, straight and full in the bosom. Her mouth alone betrayed her, for the lips set close and they were rather thin; but people forgot them when she laughed and showed her pretty teeth. Her laugh again belied her lips, for it was gentle and pleasant. She had few delusions for a maiden, and she worked hard. To Cora belonged a gift of common-sense. The girl lacked sentiment, but she was shrewd and capable. She kept her mother's books and displayed a talent for figures. It was said that she had the brains of the family. Only Mr. Baskerville himself doubted it, and maintained that Cora's mother was the abler woman. Phyllis was lost at all times in admiration of her more brilliant sister, but Heathman did not like Cora and often quarrelled with her. Ned gave his message and asked for a drink of cider. Thereupon Phyllis rose from her dinner and went to fetch it. But young Baskerville's eyes were on Cora while he drank. He had the manner of a man very well accustomed to female society, and long experience had taught him that nine girls out of ten found him exceedingly attractive. His easy insolence won them against their will. Such girls as demanded worship and respect found Ned not so agreeable; but those who preferred the male creature to dominate were fascinated by his sublimity and affectation of knowledge and worldly wisdom. He pretended to know everything--a convincing attitude only among those who know nothing. The talk was of a revel presently to take place at Tavistock. "And what's your gown going to be, Phyllis?" asked Ned. The gown of Phyllis did not interest him in the least, but this question was put as a preliminary to another, and when the younger sister told him that she meant to wear plum-colour, he turned to Cora. "Cora's got a lovely frock--blue muslin wi' little pink roses, and a straw hat wi' big pink roses," said Phyllis. Ned nodded. "I'd go a long way to see her in such a beautiful dress," he said; "and, mind, I'm to have a dance or two with you both. There's to be dancing in the evening--not rough and tumble on the grass, but boards are to be laid down and everything done proper." They chattered about the promised festivity, while Nathan and Mrs. Lintern, having discussed certain farm matters, spoke of another and a nearer celebration. "You see, my brother Vivian and I are of the good old-fashioned sort, and we're bent on the whole family meeting at a square feed, with good wishes all round, on his seventieth birthday. To think of him turned seventy! I can't believe it. Yet Time won't stand still--not even with the busiest. A family affair 'tis to be, and none asked outside ourselves." "Does Mr. Humphrey go? He's not much of a hand at a revel." "He is not; and I thought that he would have refused the invitation. But he's accepted. We shall try our hardest to cheer him up and get a drop of generous liquor into him. I only hope he won't be a damper and spoil the fun." "A pity he's going." "We shall know that better afterwards. 'Twill be a pity if he mars all; but 'twill be a good thing if we overmaster him amongst us, and get him to take a hopefuller view of life and a kinder view of his fellow-creatures." Ned chimed in. "You'll never do that, Uncle Nat. He's too old to change now. And Cousin Mark be going just the same way. He's getting such a silent, hang-dog chap, and no wonder, having to live with such a father. I'd run away if I was him." Nathan laughed. "I believe you'd almost rather work than keep along with your Uncle Humphrey," he said. "'Tis pretty well known I can work when I choose," declared Ned. "Yes," said Heathman, with his mouth full; "and 'tis also pretty well known you never do choose." The elder Baskerville clapped his hands. "One to you, Heathman!" he said. "Ned can't deny the truth of that." But Ned showed no concern. "I shall make up for lost time very easily when I do start," he said. "I've got ideas, I believe, and they go beyond ploughing. I'm like Cora here--all brains. You may laugh, Uncle Nat, but you're not the only Baskerville with a head on your shoulders. I'll astonish you yet." "You will--you will--the day you begin to work, Ned; and the sooner the better. I shall be very glad when it happens." The women laughed, and Cora much admired Ned's lofty attitude. She too had ambitions, and felt little sympathy with those who were content to labour on the soil. She strove often to fire her brother and enlarge his ambitions; but he had the farmer's instinct, enjoyed physical work, and laughed at her airs and graces. "Give me Rupert," said Heathman now. "He's like me--not much good at talking and ain't got no use for the girls, but a towser to work." "The man who ain't got no use for the girls is not a man," declared Ned very positively. "They're the salt of the earth--ban't they, Mrs. Lintern?" She smiled and looked at him curiously, then at his uncle; but she did not answer. "Anyway," continued Ned, "you're out when you say Rupert's like you; for hard worker that he is, he's found time for a bit of love-making." Cora and Phyllis manifested instant excitement and interest at this news. "Who is she? You must tell us," said the elder. "Why, I will; but say nought, for nothing be known about it outside the families, and Rupert haven't said a word himself to me. I reckon he don't guess that I know. But such things can't be hid from my eyes--too sharp for that, I believe. 'Tis Milly Luscombe, if you must know. A very nice little thing too in her way. Not my sort--a bit too independent. I like a girl to feel a man's the oak to her ivy, but----" Uproarious laughter from his uncle cut Ned short. "Mighty fine oak for a girl's ivy--you!" he said. "You wait," repeated the younger. "Anyway, Rupert be sweet on Milly, and father knows all about it, and won't hear of it. So there's thunder in the air for the moment." They discussed this interesting private news, but promised Ned not to retail it in any ear. Then he left them and, with Nathan, returned to the village. Ned, undeterred by Mr. Baskerville's raillery, began loudly to praise Cora as soon as they had passed beyond earshot of the farmhouse-door. "By Jove, she's a bowerly maiden and no mistake! Not her like this side of Plymouth, I do believe. Haven't seen her for a month of Sundays, and she's come on amazing." "She's a very handsome girl without a doubt," admitted Nathan. "And a very clever girl too; but a word in your ear, my young shaver: you mustn't look that way once and for all." "Why not, if I choose? I'm a free man." "You may be--now--more shame to you. But Cora--well, your cousin Mark be first in the field there. A word to the wise is enough. You'll be doing a very improper thing if you look in that quarter, and I must firmly beg you won't, for everybody's sake." "Mark!" "Mark. And a very good chap he is--worth fifty of you." "Mark!" repeated Ned, as though the notion was unthinkable. "I should have guessed that he would rather have run out of the country than lift his eyes to a girl!" CHAPTER IV The Reverend Dennis Masterman was a bachelor. He came to Shaugh full of physical energy and certain hazy resolutions to accomplish notable work among a neglected people. His scholastic career was nugatory, and his intellect had offered no bar to his profession. He was physically brave, morally infirm. Therefore his sister, Alice Masterman, came to support him and share his lot and complement his character. She might indeed fly from cows, but she would not fly from parochial opposition. She was strong where he was weak. They were young, sanguine, and of gentle birth. They enjoyed private means, but were filled with wholesome ardour to justify existence and leave the world better than they found it. Dennis Masterman possessed interest, and regarded this, his first cure, as a stepping-stone to better things. Shaugh Prior was too small for his natural energies and powers of endurance--so he told his sister; but she said that the experience would be helpful. She also suspected that reform might not be a matter of energy alone. One evening, a week after their arrival, they were planning the campaign and estimating the value of lay helpers, when two important visitors were announced. A maiden appeared and informed the clergyman that Thomas Gollop and Eliza Gollop desired to see him. "Show them into the common room," said he; then he twisted a little bronze cross that he wore at his watchchain and regarded Miss Masterman. "The parish clerk and his sister--I wonder if you'd mind, Alice?" he asked. For answer she put down her work. "Certainly. Since you saw Joe Voysey alone and, not only engaged him, but promised he might have a boy for the weeding, I feel--well, you are a great deal too easy, Dennis. Gollop is a very masterful person, clearly, and his sister, so I am told, is just the same. You certainly must not see women alone. They'll get everything they want out of you." "Of course, one wishes to strike a genial note," he explained. "First impressions count for such a lot with common people." "Be genial by all means; I say nothing against that." "Let's tackle them, then. Gollop's a tremendous Conservative, but we must get Liberal ideas into him, if we can--in reason." Dennis Masterman was tall, square-shouldered and clean-shaven. He regarded himself as somewhat advanced, but had no intention of sowing his opinions upon the parish before the soil was prepared. He considered his character to be large-minded, tolerant, and sane; and for a man of eight-and-twenty he enjoyed fair measure of these virtues. His sister was plain, angular, and four years older than Dennis. She wore double eyeglasses and had a gruff voice and a perceptible beard. The Gollops rose as the vicar and his sister appeared. Miss Gollop was shorter and stouter than her brother, but resembled him. "Good evening, your reverence; good evening, miss," said the parish clerk. "This is my sister, Miss Eliza. For faith, hope, and charity she standeth. In fact, a leading light among us, though I say it as should not." Mr. Masterman shook hands with the woman; his sister bowed only. "And what does Miss Gollop do?" asked Dennis. "'Twould be easier to say what she don't do," answered Thomas. "She's butt-woman to begin with, or as you would call it, 'pew-opener.' Then she's sick-nurse to the parish, and she's midwife, and, when free, she'll do chores or cook for them as want her. And she's got a knowledge and understanding of the people round these parts as won't be beaten. She was Mr. Valletort's right hand, wasn't you, Eliza?" "So he said," answered Miss Gollop. She was not self-conscious, but bore herself as Fame's familiar and one accustomed to admiration. She had estimated the force of the clergyman's character from his first sermon, and judged that her brother would be a match for him. Now she covertly regarded Miss Masterman, and perceived that here must lie any issue of battle that might arise. "Do you abide along with your brother, miss, or be you just settling him into the vicarage?" she asked. "I live with him." Miss Gollop inclined her head. "And I'm sure I hope, if I can serve you any way at any time, as you'll let me know." "Thank you. Everybody can serve us: we want help from one and all," said Mr. Masterman. "Ezacally so!" said Thomas. "And you must larn each man's value from those that know it--not by bitter experience. Likewise with the women. My sister can tell you, to threepence a day, what any female in this parish be good for; and as to the men, you'll do very well to come to me. I know 'em all--old and young--and their characters and their points--good and bad, crooked and odd. For we've got some originals among us, and I'm not going to deny it, haven't us, Eliza?" "Every place have," she said. "Might we sit down?" asked the man. "We'm of the bungy breed, as you see, and not so clever in our breathing as we could wish. But we'm here to go through the whole law and the prophets, so to speak, and we can do it better sitting." "Please sit down," answered Dennis. Then he looked at his watch. "I can give you an hour," he said. "But I'm going to ride over to Bickleigh at nine o'clock, to see the vicar there." "And a very nice gentleman you'll find him," declared Thomas. "Of course, Bickleigh be but a little matter beside Shaugh Prior. We bulk a good deal larger in the eyes of the nation, and can hold our heads so much the higher in consequence; but the Reverend Coaker is a very good, humble-minded man, and knows his place in a way that's a high example to the younger clergymen." Miss Masterman cleared her throat, but her voice was none the less gruff. "Perhaps you will now tell us what you have come for. We are busy people," she said. Her brother deprecated this brevity and tried to tone it down, but Thomas accepted the lady's statement with great urbanity. "Miss be right," he answered. "Busy as bees, I warrant--same as me and my own sister here. She don't wear out many chairs, do you, Eliza?" "Not many," said Miss Gollop. "I always say, 'Let's run about in this world; plenty of time to sit down in the next.'" "I may tell you," added Thomas kindly, "that your first sermon went down very suent. From where I sits, along by the font, I can get a good look across the faces, and the important people, the Baskervilles and the Lillicraps and the Luscombes and the Mumfords--one and all listened to every word, and nodded now and again. You'll be glad to know that." "Some thought 'twas a sermon they'd heard afore, however," said Miss Gollop; "but no doubt they was wrong." "Quite wrong," declared Dennis warmly. "It was a sermon written only the night before I preached it. And talking of the font----" "Yes, of course, you've marked the famous font-cover over the holy basin, I suppose?" interrupted Mr. Gollop. "'Tis the joy and pride of the church-town, I assure you. Not another like it in the world, they say. Learned men come all across England to see it--as well they may." The famous font-cover, with its eight little snub-nosed saints and the Abbot elevated in the midst, was a special glory of St. Edward's. "I meant to speak of that," said the clergyman. "The figure at the top has got more than his proper vestments on, Gollop. In fact, he's wrapped up in cobwebs. That is not worthy of us. Please see they are cleaned off." "I hadn't noticed them; but since you say so--I'll look to it myself. Where the vamp-dish be concerned I allow none to meddle. It shall be done; but I must say again that I haven't noticed any cobwebs--not last Sunday. Have you, Eliza?" said Thomas. "No, I have not," answered his sister. "The dirt has clearly been there for months," remarked Miss Masterman. There was a painful pause, during which Miss Gollop gazed at the vicar's sister and then at the vicar. "'Tis a well-known fact that spiders will spin," she said vaguely, but not without intention. The other woman ignored her and turned to Thomas. "Will you be so good as to proceed?" "Yes, and gladly, miss," he answered. "And I'll begin with the Gollops, since they've done as much for this parish as anybody, living or dead. My father was parish clerk afore me, and a very remarkable man, wasn't he, Eliza?" "He was." "A remarkable man with a large faith in the power of prayer, was father. You don't see such faith now, worse luck. But he believed more than even I hold to, or my sister, either. You might say that he wasn't right always; but none ever dared to doubt the high religious quality of the man. But there he was--a pillar of the Church and State, as they say. He used to help his money a bit by the power of prayer; and they fetched childer sick of the thrush to him; and he'd tak 'em up the church tower and hold 'em over the battlements, north, south, east, and west--while he said the Lord's Prayer four times. He'd get a shilling by it every time, and was known to do twenty of 'em in a good year, though I never heard 'twas a very quick cure. But faith moves mountains, and he may have done more good than appeared to human eyes. And then in his age, he very near let a heavy babby drop over into the churchyard--just grabbed hold of un by a miracle and saved un. So that proper terrified the old man, and he never done another for fear of some lasting misfortune. Not but what a few devilish-natured people said that if 'twas knowed he let the childer fall now and again, he'd brisk up his business a hundred per centum. Which shows the evil-mindedness of human nature." "I'll have no gross superstition of that sort here," said Mr. Masterman firmly. "No more won't I," answered Thomas. "'Other times, other manners,' as the saying is. Have no fear. The church is very safe with me and Eliza for watch-dogs. Well, so much for my father. There was only us two, and we never married--too busy for that. And we've done no little for Shaugh Prior, as will be better told you in good time by other mouths than ours." He stopped to take breath, and Miss Masterman spoke. "My brother will tell you that with regard to parish clerks the times are altering too," she said. "And don't I know it?" he answered. "Why, good powers, you can't get a clerk for love or money nowadays! They'm regular dying out. 'He'll be thankful he've got one of the good old sort,' I said to my sister. 'For he'd have had to look beyond Dartymoor for such another as me.' And so he would." "That's true," declared Miss Gollop. "I mean that the congregation takes the place of the clerk in most modern services," continued Miss Masterman. "In point of fact, we shall not want exactly what you understand by a 'clerk.' 'Other times, other manners,' as you very wisely remarked just now." Mr. Gollop stared. "Not want a clerk!" he said. "Woman alive, you must be daft!" "I believe not," answered Miss Masterman. "However, what my brother has got to say regarding his intentions can come later. For the present he will hear you." "If you don't want a clerk, I've done," answered Mr. Gollop blankly. "But I'll make bold to think you can't ezacally mean that. Us'll leave it, and I'll tell my tale about the people. The Lillicraps be a harmless folk, and humble and fertile as coneys. You'll have no trouble along with them. The Baskervilles be valuable and powerful; and Mr. Humphrey and his son is Church, and Mr. Vivian and his family is Church also, and his darters sing in the choir." "We shall manage without women in the choir," said Miss Masterman. "You may think so, but I doubt it," answered Eliza Gollop almost fiercely. "You'll have to manage without anybody in the church also, if you be for up-turning the whole order of divine service!" She was excited, and her large bosom heaved. "Not up-turning--not up-turning," declared the clergyman. "Call it reorganisation. Frankly, I propose a surpliced choir. I have the bishop's permission; he wishes it. Now, go on." "Then the Lord help you," said Thomas. "We'd better be going, Eliza. We've heard almost enough for one evening." "Be reasonable," urged Miss Masterman with admirable self-command. "We are here to do our duty. We hope and expect to be helped by all sensible people--not hindered. Let Mr. Gollop tell us what he came to tell us." "Well--as to reason--I ask no more, but where is it?" murmured Thomas. "'Twas the Baskervilles," he continued, wiping his forehead. "The other of 'em--Nathan--be unfortunately a chapel member; and if you be going to play these here May games in the House of the Lord, I'm very much afeared he'll draw a good few after him. They won't stand it--mark me." "Where do the people at Undershaugh worship? I did not see Mrs. Lintern and her family last Sunday." "They'm all chapel too." Mr. Masterman nodded. "Thank you for these various facts. Is there anything more?" "I've only just begun. But I comed with warnings chiefly. There be six Radicals in this parish, and only six." "Though the Lord knows how many there will be when they hear about the choir," said Eliza Gollop. "I'm an old-fashioned Liberal myself," declared the vicar. "But I hope your Radicals are sound churchmen, whatever else they may be." "Humphrey Baskerville is--and so's his son." "Is that young Mark Baskerville?" "Yes--tenor bell among the ringers. A very uneven-minded man. He's a wonderful ringer and wrapped up in tenor bell, as if 'twas a heathen idol. In fact, he'm not the good Christian he might be, and he'll ring oftener than he'll pray. Then Saul Luscombe to Trowlesworthy Warren--farmer and rabbit-catcher--be a very hard nut, and so's his man, Jack Head. You won't get either of them inside the church. They say in their wicked way they ain't got no need for sleeping after breakfast of a Sunday--atheists, in fact. The other labouring man from Trowlesworthy is a good Christian, however. He can read, but 'tis doubtful whether he can write." "You'll have to go to keep your appointment, Dennis," remarked his sister. "Plenty of time. Is there anything more that's particularly important, Gollop?" "Lots more. Still, if I'm to be shouted down every minute---- I comed to encourage and fortify you. I comed to tell you to have no fear, because me and sister was on your side, and always ready to fight to the death for righteousness. But you've took the wind out of our sails, in a manner of speaking. If you ban't going to walk in the old paths, I'm terrible afraid you'll find us against you." "This is impertinence," said Miss Masterman. "Not at all," answered the clerk's sister. "It's sense. 'Tis a free country, and if you'm going to set a lot of God-fearing, right-minded, sensible people by the ears, the sin be on your shoulders. You'd best to come home, Thomas." Mr. Masterman looked helplessly at his watch. "We shall soon arrive at--at--a _modus vivendi_," he said. "I don't know what that may be, your reverence," she answered; "but if 'tis an empty church, and sour looks, and trouble behind every hedge, then you certainly will arrive at it--and even sooner than you think for." "He's going to give ear to the Radicals--'tis too clear," moaned Thomas, as he rose and picked up his hat. "I can only trust that you two good people do not represent the parish," continued the vicar. "You'll terrible soon find as we do," said Miss Gollop. "So much the worse. However, it is well that we understand one another. Next Sunday I shall invite my leading parishioners to meet me in the schoolroom on the following evening. I shall then state my intentions, and listen to the opinions and objections of every man among you." "And only the men will be invited to the meeting," added Miss Masterman. "'Tis a parlous come-along-of-it," moaned the parish clerk. "I meant well. You can bear me out, Eliza, that I meant well--never man meant better." "Good evening," said Miss Masterman, and left them. "Be sure that we shall soon settle down," prophesied the vicar. "I know you mean well, Gollop; and I mean well, too. Where sensible people are concerned, friction is reduced to a minimum. We shall very soon understand one another and respect one another's opinions." "If you respect people's opinions, you abide by 'em," declared Miss Gollop. "Us shan't be able to keep the cart on the wheels--not with a night-gowned choir," foretold her brother. Then Dennis saw them to the door; they took their leave, and as they went down the vicarage drive, their voices bumbled together, like two slow, shard-borne beetles droning on the night. CHAPTER V Both the yeoman and gentle families of Devon have undergone a wide and deep disintegration during the recent past. Many are swept away, and the downfall dates back beyond the eighteenth century, when war, dice, and the bottle laid foundations of subsequent ruin; but the descendants of many an ancient stock are still with us, and noble names shall be found at the plough-handle; historical patronymics, on the land. The race of Baskerville had borne arms and stood for the king in Stuart times. The family was broken in the Parliamentary Wars and languished for certain centuries; then it took heart and lifted head once more. The three brothers who now carried on their line were doubly enriched, for their father had died in good case and left a little fortune behind him; while an uncle, blessed with some tincture of the gipsy blood that had flowed into the native stock a hundred years before, found Devon too small a theatre for his activities and migrated to Australia. He died a bachelor, and left his money to his nephews. Thus the trio began life under fortunate circumstances; and it appeared that two had prospered and justified existence; while concerning the other little could be affirmed, save a latent and general dislike founded on vague hearsay. They were different as men well could be, yet each displayed strong individuality and an assertive temperament. All inherited some ancestral strength, but disparities existed between their tastes, their judgments, and their ambitions. Vivian Baskerville was generous, self-opinionated, and kind-hearted. He loved, before all things, work, yet, in direct opposition to this ruling passion, tolerated and spoiled a lazy eldest son. From the rest of his family he exacted full measure of labour and very perfect obedience. He was a man of crystallised opinions--one who resented change, and built on blind tradition. Nathan Baskerville had a volatile and swift-minded spirit. He was sympathetic, but not so sympathetic as his manner made him appear. He had a histrionic knack to seem more than he felt; yet this was not all acting, but a mixture of art and instinct. He trusted to tact, to a sense of humour with its accompanying tolerance, and to swift appraisal of human character. Adaptability was his watchword. Humphrey Baskerville personified doubt. His apparent chill indifference crushed the young and irritated the old. An outward gloominess of manner and a pessimistic attitude to affairs sufficed to turn the folk from him. While he seemed the spirit of negation made alive, he was, nevertheless, a steadfast Christian, and his dark mind, chaotic though it continued to be even into age, enjoyed one precious attribute of chaos and continued plastic and open to impressions. None understood this quality in him. He did not wholly understand it himself. But he was ever seeking for content, and the search had thus far taken him into many fruitless places and landed him in blind alleys not a few. These adventures, following his wife's death, had served to sour him in some directions; and the late ripening of a costive but keen intelligence did not as yet appear to his neighbours. It remained to be seen whether time would ever achieve a larger wisdom, patience, and understanding in him--whether considerable mental endowments would ultimately lift him nearer peace and content, or plunge him deeper into despondence and incorrigible gloom. He was as interesting as Nathan was attractive and Vivian, obvious. The attitude of the brothers each to the other may be recorded in a sentence. Vivian immensely admired the innkeeper and depended no little upon his judgment in temporal affairs, but Humphrey he did not understand; Nathan patronised his eldest brother and resented Humphrey's ill-concealed dislike; while the master of Hawk House held Vivian in regard, as an honest and single-minded man, but did not share the world's esteem for Nathan. They always preserved reciprocal amenities and were accounted on friendly terms. Upon the occasion of the eldest brother's seventieth birthday, both Vivian and Nathan stood at the outer gate of Cadworthy and welcomed Humphrey when he alighted off his semi-blind pony. Years sat lightly on the farmer. He was a man of huge girth and height above the average. He had a red moon face, with a great fleshy jowl set in white whiskers. His brow was broad and low; his small, pig-like eyes twinkled with kindliness. It was a favourite jest with him that he weighed within a stone or two as much as his brothers put together. They shook hands and went in, while Mark and Rupert took the ponies. The three brothers all wore Sunday black; and Vivian had a yellow tie on that made disharmony with the crimson of his great cheeks. This mountain of a man walked between the others, and Nathan came to his ear and Humphrey did not reach his shoulder. The last looked a mere shadow beside his brother. "Seventy year to-day, and have moved two ton of sacks--a hundredweight to the sack--'twixt breaksis and noon. And never felt better than this minute," he told them. "'Tis folly, all the same--this heavy work that you delight in," declared Nathan. "I'm sure Humphrey's of my mind. You oughtn't to do such a lot of young man's work. 'Tis foolish and quite uncalled for." "The young men can't do it, maybe," said Humphrey. "Vivian be three men rolled into one--with the strength of three for all his threescore and ten years. But you're in the right. He's too old for these deeds. There's no call for weight-lifting and all this sweating labour, though he is such a mighty man of his hands still." Mr. Baskerville of Cadworthy laughed. "You be such brainy blids--the pair of you--that you haven't got no patience with me and my schoolboy fun. But, then, I never had no intellects like you--all ran into muscle and bone. And 'tis my pleasure to show the young generation what strength be. The Reverend Masterman preached from a very onusual text Sunday, 'There were giants in those days,' it was--or some such words, if my memory serves me. And Rupert and May, as were along with me, said as surely I belonged to the giant race!" He laughed with a loud, simple explosion of ingenuous merriment, and led the way to the parlour. There his wife, in black silk, welcomed her brothers-in-law and received their congratulations. Humphrey fumbled at a parcel which he produced from his breast. He untied the string, wound it up, and put it into his pocket. "'Tis a book as I heard well spoken of," he said. "There's only one Book for you and me, I believe, Vivian; but an old man as I know came by this, and he said 'twas light in his darkness; so I went and bought a copy for you by way of something to mark the day. Very like 'tis all rubbish, and if so you can throw it behind the fire." "Sermons, and good ones without a doubt," answered the farmer. "I'm very fond of sermons, and I'll lay on to 'em without delay and let you know what I think. Not that my opinion of such a thing do count; but I can tell to a hair if they'm within the meaning of Scripture, and that be all that matters. And thank you kindly, I'm sure." "Tom Gollop's got terrible down-daunted about Mr. Masterman," said Nathan. "He says that your parson is a Radical, and will bring down dreadful things on the parish." "Old fool," answered Humphrey. "'Tis just what we want, within the meaning of reason, to have a few of the cobwebs swept away." "But you're a Radical too, and all for sweeping away," argued his eldest brother doubtfully. "I'm for folly and nonsense being swept away, certainly. I'm for all this cant about humility and our duty to our superiors being swept away. I hate to see chaps pulling their hair to other men no better than themselves, and all that knock-kneed, servile rubbish." Nathan felt this to be a challenge. "We take off our hats to the blood in a man's veins, if 'tis blue enough--not to the man." "And hate the man all the time, maybe--and so act a lie when we cap to him and pretend what isn't true." "You go too far," declared Nathan. "I say that we hate anything that's stronger than we are," continued his brother. "We hate brains that's stronger than our own, or pockets that's deeper. The only folk that we smile upon honestly be those we reckon greater fools than ourselves." Vivian laughed loud at this. "What a sharp tongue the man hath!" he exclaimed. "But he's wrong, for all that. For if I only smiled at them who had less brains than myself, I should go glum from morn till night." "Don't say it, father!" cried his wife. "Too humble-minded you be, and always will be." "'Tis only a very wise man that knows himself for a fool, all the same," declared Nathan. "As for Humphrey here, maybe 'tis because men hate brains bigger than their own, as he says, that he hasn't got a larger circle of friends himself. We all know he's the cleverest man among us." Humphrey was about to speak again, but restrained the inclination and turned to his nieces who now appeared. Polly lacked character and existed as the right hand of her mother; but May took physically after Vivian, and represented his first joy and the apple of his eye. She was a girl of great breadth and bulk every way. The beauty of youth still belonged to her clean white and red face, and her yellow hair was magnificent; but it required no prophet to foretell that poor May, when her present colt-like life of physical activity decreased, must swiftly grow too vast for her own comfort or the temptation of the average lover. The youngest of the family--his Uncle Humphrey's namesake--followed his sisters. He was a brown boy, well set up and shy. Of all men he feared the elder Humphrey most. Now he shook hands evasively. "Don't stare at the ceiling and the floor, but look me in the eyes. I hate a chap as glances athwart his nose like that," said the master of Hawk House. Whereat the lesser Humphrey scowled and flushed. Then he braced himself for the ordeal and stared steadily into his uncle's eyes. The duel lasted full two minutes, and the boy's father laughed and applauded him. At last young Humphrey's eyes fell. "That's better," said Humphrey the elder. "You learn to keep your gaze on the eyes of other people, my lad, if you want to know the truth about 'em. A voice will teach you a lot, but the eyes are the book for me--eh, Nathan?" "No doubt there's a deal in that." "And if 'twas followed, perhaps we shouldn't take our hats off to certain people quite so often as we do," added Humphrey, harking back to the old grievance. "What's the good of being respectful to those you don't respect and ought not to respect?" "The man's hungry!" said Vivian. "'Tis starvation making him so crusty and so clever. Come now, ban't dinner ready?" Mrs. Baskerville had departed and Polly with her. "Hurry 'em up," cried Vivian, and his youngest son hastened to do so. Meantime Nathan, who was also hungry, and who also desired to display agility of mind before his elder brother, resumed the argument with Humphrey and answered his last question. "Because we've everything to gain by being civil, and nought to gain by being otherwise, as things are nowadays. Civility costs nothing and the rich expect it of the poor, and gentle expect it of simple. Why not? You can't mar them by being rude; but you can mar yourself. 'The golden rule for a pushing man is to be well thought upon.' That's what our father used to say. And it's sound sense, if you ask me. Of course, I'm not speaking for us, but for the younger generation, and if they can prosper by tact and civility to their betters, why not? We like the younger and humbler people to be civil to us; then why shouldn't they be civil to parson and squire?" "How if parson be no good, and squire a drinker or a rascal?" "That's neither here nor there. 'Tis their calling and rank and the weight behind 'em." "Trash!" said Humphrey sourly. "Let every man be weighed in his own balance and show himself what he is. That's what I demand. Why should we pretend and give people the credit of what they stand for, if they don't stand for it?" "For a lot of reasons----" began Nathan; then the boy Humphrey returned to say that dinner was ready. They sat down, and through the steam that rose from a dish of ducks Humphrey looked at Nathan and spoke. "What reasons?" he said. "For your credit's sake you can't leave it there." "If you will have it, you will have it--though this isn't the time or place; but Vivian must blame you, not me. Life's largely a game of make-believe and pretence, and, right or wrong, we've got to suffer it. We should all be no better than lonely monkeys or Red Indians, if we didn't pretend a bit more than we meant and say a bit more than we'd swear to. Monkeys don't pretend, and what's the result? They've all gone under." They wrangled until the food was on the plates, then Vivian, who had been puffing out his cheeks, rolling his eyes and showing uneasiness in other ways, displayed a sudden irritability. "God damn it!" he cried. "Let's have no more of this! Be the meal to be sarved with no sauce but all this blasted nonsense? Get the drink, Rupert." Nathan expressed instant regret and strove to lift the tone of the company. But the cloud did not pass so easily. Vivian himself soon forgot the incident; his children and his wife found it difficult. The young people, indeed, maintained a very dogged taciturnity and only talked among themselves in subdued tones. May and Polly waited upon the rest between the intervals of their own meal. They changed the dishes and went to and from the kitchen. Rupert and his youngest brother helped them, but Ned did not. Some cheerfulness returned with the beer, and even Humphrey Baskerville strove to assist the general jollity; but he lacked the power. His mind was of the discomfortable sort that cannot suffer opinions, believed erroneous, to pass unchallenged. Sometimes he expressed no more than doubt; sometimes he dissented forcibly to Nathan's generalities. But after Vivian's heat at the beginning of the entertainment, his brother from 'The White Thorn' was cautious, and took care to raise no more dust of controversy. The talk ran on the new vicar, and the master of Cadworthy spoke well of him. "An understanding man, and for my part, though I can't pretend to like new things, yet I ban't going to quarrel for nothing. And if he likes to put the boys in surplices and make the maidens sit with the congregation, I don't see no great harm. They can sing praises to God wi' their noses to the east just so easy as they can facing north." "Well said," declared Humphrey. "I've no patience with such fools as Gollop." "As one outside and after a different persuasion, I can look on impartial," declared Nathan. "And I think with you both that Masterman is a useful and promising man. As for Gollop, he's the sort that can't see further than the end of the parish, and don't want to do so." "For why? He'd tell you there's nought beyond," said Humphrey. "He foxes himself to think that the world can go on without change. He fancies that he alone of us all be a solid lighthouse, stuck up to watch the waves roll by. 'Tis a sign of a terrible weak intellect to think that everybody's changeable but ourselves, and that we only be the ones that know no shadow of changing. Yet I've seen many such men--with a cheerful conceit of themselves too." "There's lots like that--common as blackberries in my bar," declared Nathan. "Old fellows most times, that reckon they are the only steadfast creatures left on earth, while everybody else be like feathers blown about in a gale of change." "Every mortal man and woman be bound to change," answered his brother. "'Tis the law of nature. I'd give nought for a man of hard and fast opinions. Such stand high and dry behind the times." But Vivian would not allow this. "No, no, Humphrey; that won't do. If us wasn't fixed and firm, the world couldn't go on." "Vivian means we must have a lever of solid opinions to lift our load in the world," explained Nathan. "Of course, no grown man wants to be flying to a new thing every day of his life, like the young people do." "The lever's the Bible," declared Humphrey. "I've nought to do with any man who goes beyond that; but, outside that, there's a margin for change as the world grows, and 'tis vain to run your life away from the new facts the wise men find out." "I don't hold with you," declared Vivian. "At such a gait us would never use the same soap or wear the same clothes two years together. If you'm going to run your life by the newspapers, you'm in the same case with the chaps and the donkey in the fable. What father believed and held to, I shall believe and hold to; for he was a better man than me and knowed a lot more." Humphrey shook his head. "If we all thought so, the world would stand still," he replied. "'Tis the very argument pushed in the papers to-day about teaching the young people. 'Tis said they must be taught just what their parents want for 'm to be taught. And who knows best, I should like to know--the parents and guardians, as have finished their learning years ago and be miles behind-hand in their knowledge, or the schoolmasters and mistresses as be up to date in their larning and full of the latest things put into books? There's no standing still with the world any more than there's standing still with the sun. It can't be. Law's against it." "We must have change," admitted Nathan. "For sure we must. 'Tis the only way to keep sweet--like water running forward. If you block it in a pond, it goes stagnant; and if you block your brains, they rot." "Then let us leave it at that," said Vivian's wife. "And now, if you men have done your drink, you can go off and smoke while we tidy up." But there was yet a duty to perform, and Nathan rose and whispered in Humphrey's ear. "I think the time's come for drinking his health. It must be done. Will you propose it?" His brother answered aloud. "Nathan wants for me to propose your good health, Vivian. But I ban't going to. That sort of thing isn't in my line. I wish you nought but well, and there's an end on't." "Then I'll say a word," declared the innkeeper, returning to his place. "Fill your glasses--just a drop more, Hester, you must drink--isn't it to your own husband? And I say here, in this family party, that 'tis a proud and a happy thing to have for the head of the family such a man as our brother--your husband, Hester; and your father, you boys and girls. Long may he be spared to stand up among us and set us a good example of what's brave and comely in man; long may he be spared, I say, and from my heart I bless him for a good brother and husband and father, and wish him many happy returns of his birthday. My love and honour to you, Vivian!" They all rose and spoke after the custom of the clan. "My love and honour to you, brother," said Humphrey. "My love and honour to you, Vivian Baskerville," said his wife. "Love and honour to you, father," murmured the boys and girls. And Mark said, "Love and honour to you, uncle." There was a gulching of liquor in the silence that followed, and Mr. Baskerville's little eyes twinkled. "You silly folk!" he said. "God knows there's small need of this. But thank you all--wife, children, brothers, and nephew. I be getting up home to my tether's end now, and can't look with certainty for over and above another ten birthdays or thereabouts; but such as come we'll keep together, if it pleases you. And if you be drinking, then here's to you all at a breath--to you all, not forgetting my son Nathan that's sailing on the sea." "I'll write to Nat and tell him every blessed word of it, and what we've had for dinner and all," said May. The company grew hilarious and Nathan, leaving them, went to the trap that had brought him from Shaugh Prior and returned with a bottle. "'Tis a pretty cordial," he said, "and a thimbleful all round will steady what's gone and warm our hearts. Not but what they'm warm enough already." The liquor was broached and all drank but Humphrey. "Enough's as good as a feast. And you can saddle my pony, Mark. I'm going home now. I'm glad to have been here to-day; but I'm going now." They pressed him to remain, but he judged the invitation to be half-hearted. However, he was tranquil and amiable at leave-taking. To Rupert he even extended an invitation. Rupert was the only one of his brother's family for whom he even pretended regard. "You can come and see me when you've got the time," he said. "I'll go for a walk along with you and hear what you have to say." Then he rode off, but Mark stopped and finished the day with his cousins. He talked to Rupert and, with secret excitement, heard the opinions of May and Polly on the subject of Cora Lintern. A very glowing and genial atmosphere settled over Cadworthy after the departure of Humphrey Baskerville. Even the nervous Mark consented to sing a song or two. The musical traditions of the Baskervilles had reawakened in him, and on rare occasions he favoured his friends with old ballads. But in church he never sang, and often only went there to ring the tenor bell. Mr. Nathan also rendered certain comic songs, and May played the aged piano. Then there was dancing and dust and noise, and presently the meal called 'high tea.' Hester Baskerville protested at last against her brother-in-law's absurdities, for everybody began to roll about and ache with laughter; but he challenged her criticism. "Clever though you all are," he said, "no woman that ever I met was clever enough to play the fool. 'Tis only the male creature can accomplish that." "No woman ever wanted to, I should hope," she answered; and he retorted triumphantly-- "There you are! There's my argument in a nutshell!" She was puzzled. "What d'you mean by that?" she asked, and, from the standpoint of his nimble wit, he roared. "There you are again!" he said. "I can't explain; but the lack in you be summed in the question." "You'm a hopeless case," she said. "We all laugh at you, and yet couldn't for the life of us tell what on earth 'tis we be laughing at." "That's the very highest art and practice of playing the fool!" he told them. CHAPTER VI Where Wigmore Down descends in mighty shoulders clad with oak, there meet the rivers Plym and Mew, after their diverse journeyings on Dartmoor. The first roars wild and broken from its cradle aloft on the midmost waste, and falls with thunder under Cadworthy and beneath the Dewerstone; the other, as becomes a stream that has run through peaceful valleys by bridges and the hamlets of men, shall be found to wander with more gentle current before she passes into the throbbing bosom of her sister. Above them, on a day in early summer, the hill ascended washed with light, spread hugely for the pomp of the leaf. From Plym beneath, flashing arrowy under their lowermost branches, to the granite tonsure of the hill above, ten thousand trees ascended in a shining raiment of all greens--a garment that fitted close to the contours of each winding ridge, sharp cleeve, and uplifted knoll of the elevation that they covered. Lustrous and shimmering, this forest garb exhibited every vernal tint that nature knows, for upon a prevalent, triumphant fabric of golden-green were cast particular jewels and patterns; against the oaken undertones, where they spread a dappled verdure of amber and carmine, there sprang the tardy ash, shone the rowan's brightness, sparkled the whitethorn at river's brink, and rose the emerald pavilions of the larch. Beeches thrust their diaphanous foliage in veils athwart the shadows; here a patchwork of blue firs added new harmonies to the hill; here the glittering birch reflected light from every tiny leaf; and here the holly's sobriety was broken by inflorescence and infant foliage, young and bright. The forest spread its new-born leaves under a still, grey evening, upon which, suddenly, the sun thrust through before it sank. Shafts of light, falling from west to east upon the planes of the woods, struck out a path of sudden glory along the pine-tops and thrust down in rain of red gold even to the river's face; while on Dewerstone's self, where it towered above the trees and broke the green with grey, this gracious light briefly brooded and flashed genial into dark crevices and hidden nests of birds. The great rock falls by abrupt acclivity to the water; it towers with pinnacle and peak aloft. Planted in the side of the forest it stands veined, scarred; it is fretted with many colours, cut and torn into all manner of fantastic shapes by work of roots and rain, by centuries of storm and the chisel of the lightning. Bedded here, with ivy on its front, the smile of evening for a crown, and the forest like a green sea breaking in foam of leaves around it, the Water Stone stood. Night was already come upon its eaves and cornices; from its feet ascended musical thunder of Plym in a riot of rocks; and aloft, clashing, echoing and re-echoing from scarp and precipice, there rang the cheerful chiming music of unnumbered jackdaws, who made these crags their home. Mark Baskerville, descending into the valley from Shaugh, beheld this scene with understanding. He had been well educated; he was sentimental; he regarded wild Nature in a manner rare amid those born and bred upon her bosom. Beauty did not find him indifferent; old legends gave him joy. He knew the folk-tales of the land and dwelt upon them still with pleasure--an instinct surviving from boyhood, and deliberately suffered to survive. He loved the emotion of awe and cultivated it; he led a life from choice much secluded; he had walked hitherto blind, in so far as women were concerned; but now a woman had entered his life, and Nature shone glorified throughout by the experience. Mark was in love with Cora Lintern; yet this prime fact did not lessen his regard for the earth and the old stories concerning it. He found the things that were good aforetime still good, but changed. His emotions were all sharpened and intensified. His strength was stronger; his weakness was weaker than of yore. She was never out of his thoughts; she made the sunlight warmer, the bird's song sweeter, the night more wonderful. He woke and found himself brave enough to approach her in the deep, small hours of morning; but with dawn came fear, and with day his courage melted. By night also he made rhymes that seemed beautiful to him and brought moisture to his eyes; but when the sun came and he repeated his stumbling periods, he blushed at them and banished them. She was friendly and not averse; but she was clever, and had many friends among young men. Nathan Baskerville rejoiced in her, and often foretold a notable match for Cora. What Mark could offer seemed very little to Mark himself. His father, indeed, was reputed rich; but life at Hawk House revealed no sign of it. They lived hard, and Humphrey Baskerville affected a frugality that would have been unusual in the homes of humbler people. Humphrey had often told his son that he did not know how to spend money; and as for Mark, until the present, he had shared his father's indifference and been well content. But he felt that Cora might be fond of money; and he was glad sometimes that his father spent so little; because, if all went well, there must surely come a time when he would be able to rejoice Cora with great riches. The obstacle, however, he felt to be himself. His distrust of himself was morbid; the folk said that he was frightened of his own voice, and only spoke through the tenor bell of St. Edward's. Now he descended into the shadows of the valley and moved along the brink of Plym, seeking for certain young wood, ripe for cutting. Presently Mark found what he sought, but made no immediate effort to begin work. He flung down a frail which contained a bill-hook and saw. Then he sat upon a rock overhanging the river and buried himself in his own thoughts. A path wound beside the stream, and along it sauntered suddenly the maiden of this man's dream. She looked fair enough and moved in deep apparent unconsciousness of any human presence. But her ignorance was simulated. She had seen young Baskerville pass over the hill; she had known his destination, and by a detour she had entered the valley from below. Now she started and exhibited astonishment. "Mark! Whoever would have thought----! What be you doing here all alone like this--and you not a fisherman?" He stammered, and grew pale. "Fancy meeting; and I might ask what brought you, Cora?" "Oh, just a silly fondness for the river and the trees and my own thoughts. I like being about among the wild things, though I dare say you won't believe it." "Of course, I'll believe it--gladly too. Don't I like being about among 'em better than anything else? I'm very pleased to meet you, I'm sure. There's no lovelier bit of the river than here." "Dewerstone do look fine to-night," she said, glancing up at the crags above them. "It does, then. The Water Stone I always call it, since I read in a book that that was what it meant. 'Tis the great stone by the water, you see. Have you ever heard tell of the Black Hunter, Cora? But perhaps you don't hold with such old wife's tales?" She put him at his ease and assured him that she loved ancient fables and liked to go on believing them, despite her better knowledge. "Just the same as me!" he cried eagerly. "The very thing I do. How wonderful you should feel the same! I know 'tis rubbish, yet I let it go sadly. I'd believe in the pixies, if I could!" "Who was the Black Hunter, if you don't mind telling me?" she asked. "I'll sit here a bit afore I go on, if it won't be to hinder you." "Proud I am, I'm sure," he said. "And as for him, the Black Hunter, that's no more than another name for the Devil himself. 'Twas thought that he'd come here by night with his great, bellowing, red-eyed dogs, and go forth to hunt souls. A coal-black horse he rode; but sometimes he'd set out afoot, for 'tis well remembered how once in the deep snow, on a winter morn, human footprints, along with hoofmarks, were traced to the top of the hill, but not down again!" "The devil flew away with somebody?" "So the old story says. But I like the thought of the little Heath Hounds better. For they hunt and harry old Nick's self. They are the spirits of the young children who die before they are baptised; and the legend hath it that they win to heaven soon or late by hunting the Prince of Darkness. 'Tis the children that we bury with maimed rites upon 'Chrisomers' Hill' in the churchyard. They put that poor woman who killed herself in the same place, because the old parson wouldn't read 'sure and certain hope' over her." But Cora was not interested in his conversation, though she pretended to be. She endeavoured to turn speech into a more personal road. "What have you come here for? I hadn't any idea you ever took walks alone." "I take hundreds--terrible poor hand at neighbouring with people, I am--like my father. But I'm here to work--getting handles for tools. There's no wood for light tools like alder. You know the old rhyme-- 'When aller's leaf is so big as a penny, The stick will wear so tough as any.' That's true enough, for I've proved it." "Set to work and I'll watch you, if I may." "Proud, I'm sure. And I'll see you home after. But there's no haste. I was thinking that bare, dark corner in the garden at Undershaugh might do very nice for ferns--if you'd care----?" "The very thing! How kind to think of it. I love the garden and the flowers. But none else cares about them. D'you think you could get me one of they king ferns? But I suppose that would be too much to ask." "I'll get you more than one." "I'll try to plant 'em then, but I'm not very clever." "I'll come and make a bit of a rockery myself, if--if you like." "'Like!" I should love it. But 'tis very good of you to bother about a stupid girl." "Don't you say that. Far, far from stupid. Never was a cleverer girl, I'm sure." She shook her head and talked about the ferns. Then she became personal. "I've always felt somehow with you; but I suppose it ban't maidenly to say such things--but I've always felt as you understood me, Mark." "Ah!" he said. "And as for me, I've felt--God, He knows what I've felt." The man broke off, and she smiled at him and dropped her eyes. She knew the thing that shared his heart with her, and now spoke of it. "And through you I've got to love tenor bell almost as much as you do. Of a Sunday the day isn't complete till I've heard the beautiful note of your bell and thought of you at the rope. I always somehow think of you when I hear that bell; and I think of the bell when I see you! Ban't that strange?" "'Tis your wonderful quick mind, and you couldn't say anything to please me better." "I wanted to ask you about the bells. I'm so ignorant; but I thought, if 'twasn't silly of me, I'd ask you about 'em. I suppose they'm awful difficult to ring?" "Not a bit. Only wants steady practice. The whole business is little understood, but 'tis simple enough. I've gone into it all from the beginning, and I'm glad--very glad--you care about it. The first thing is for a ring of bells to be in harmony with itself, and founders ought to be free to make 'em so. The bells are never better than when they are broken out of the moulds, and every touch of the lathe, or chip of the chisel, is music lost. The thickness of the sound-bow should be one-thirteenth of the diameter, you must know; but modern bells are made for cheapness. Long in the waist and high in the shoulder they should be for true fineness of sound; but they cast 'em with short waists and flat shoulders now. 'Tis easier to hang and ring them so; but they don't give the same music. My tenor is a wonderful good bell--a maiden bell, as we say--one cast true, that has never had a chip at the sound-bow. 'I call the quick to church and dead to grave,' is her motto. A Pennington bell she is, and no bell-founder ever cast a better. Every year makes her sweeter, for there's nothing improves bell-metal like time." "I suppose it wouldn't be possible for me actually to see the bells?" "It can be done and shall be," he promised. Then he went off again. "I've been in nearly every bell-cot and bell-turret in Devonshire, one time and another, and I've took a hand in change-ringing far and wide; but our ring of six, for its size and weight, can't be beat in the county, and there's no sweeter tenor that I've heard than mine. And I'm very hopeful that Mr. Masterman will take my advice and have our wheels and gear looked to, and the bell-chamber cleaned out. 'Tis the home of birds, and the nest litter lies feet deep up there. The ladder's all rotten too. We ought to have stays and slides; and our ropes are a bit too heavy, and lack tuftings for the sally. I'm hopeful he'll have a care for these things." He prattled on, for it was his subject and always loosed his tongue. She was bored to death, but from time to time, when he feared that he wearied her, she assured him that her interest did not wane and was only less than his own. He showed unusual excitement at this meeting, was lifted out of himself, and talked until grey gloaming sank over the valley and the jackdaws were silent. Then Cora started up and declared that she must return home quickly. "Listening to you has made me forget all about the time and everything," she said. "They'll wonder whatever has befallen me." "I'll see you home," he answered. "'Tis my fault you'll be late, and I must take the blame." "And I've kept you from your work, I'm afraid." "That's no matter at all. To-morrow will do just as well for the alder." He rose and walked beside her. She asked him to help her at one place in the wood, and her cool, firm hand thrilled him. Once or twice he thought to take this noble opportunity and utter the thing in his heart; but he could not bring himself to do it. Then, at her gate, he left her, and they exchanged many assurances of mutual thanks and obligation. He promised to bring the ferns in three days' time, and undertook to spend an evening with the Linterns, build the rockery, and stay to supper with the family afterwards. He walked home treading on air, with his mind full of hope and happiness. Cora had never been so close as on this day; she had never vouchsafed such an intimate glimpse of her beautiful spirit before. Each word, each look seemed to bring her nearer; and yet, when he reflected on his own imperfections, a wave of doubt swept coldly over him. He supped in silence, but, after the meal, he confessed the thoughts in his mind. "Never broke a twig this evening," he said. "Was just going to begin, when who should come along but Cora Lintern." "Has she forgiven parson for turning her out of the choir? Can't practise that side-glance at the men no more now." "She's not that sort, father." "Not with a face like hers? That girl would rather go hungry than without admiration and flattering. A little peacock, and so vain as one." "You're wrong there. I'll swear it. She's very different to what you reckon. Why, this very evening, there she was under the Water Stone all alone--walking along by herself just for love of the place. Often goes there, she tells me." "Very surprised to find you there--eh?" "That she was. And somehow I got talking--such a silent man as me most times. But I found myself chattering about the bells and one thing and another. We've got a lot more in common than you might think." Mr. Baskerville smoked and looked into the fire. "Well, don't be in a hurry. I'm not against marriage for the young men. But bide your time, till you've got more understanding of women." "I'll never find another like her. I'm sure she'd please you, father." "You'll be rich in a small way, as the world goes, presently. Remember, she knows that as well as you do." "She never speaks of money. Just so simple and easily pleased as I am myself, for that matter. She loves natural things--just the things you care about yourself." "And very much interested in tenor bell, no doubt?" "How did you guess that? But 'tis perfectly true. She is; and she said a very kind thing that was very hopeful to me to hear. She said that the bell always put her in mind of me, and I always put her in mind of the bell." "I wonder! And did you tell her what was writ on the bell?" "Yes, I did, father." "And d'you know what she thought?" Mark shook his head. "She thought that the sooner it called you and her to church together, and the sooner it called me to my grave, the pleasanter life would look for her hard eyes." "Father! 'Tis cruel and unjust to say such things." "Haven't I seen her there o' Sundays ever since she growed up? There's nought tells you more about people than their ways in church. As bright as a bee and smart and shining; but hard--hard as the nether millstone, that woman's heart. Have a care of her; that's all I'll say to you." "I hope to God you'll know her better some day, father." "And I hope you will, my lad; and I'll use your strong words too, and hope to God you'll know her better afore 'tis too late." "This is cruel, and I'm bitter sorry to hear you say it," answered the young man, rising. Then he went out and left his father alone. Elsewhere Phyllis Lintern had eagerly inquired of Cora as to the interview with the bellringer. The girls shared many secrets and were close friends. They knew unconsciously that their brother was more to the mother than were they. Heathman adored Mrs. Lintern and never wearied of showing it; but for his sisters he cared little, and they felt no interest in him. Now Phyllis sympathised with Cora's ambitions and romances. "How was it?" she asked. "I warrant you brought him to the scratch!" "'Tis all right," declared her sister. "'Tis so good as done. The word was on his tongue coming up-along in the dimpsy; but it stuck in his throat. I know the signs well enough. However, 'twill slip out pretty soon, I reckon. He's a good sort, though fidgety, but he's gotten lovely eyes. I'll wake him up and smarten him up, too--presently." CHAPTER VII When man builds a house on Dartmoor, he plants trees to protect it. Sometimes they perish; sometimes they endure to shield his dwelling from the riotous and seldom-sleeping winds. Round the abode of Humphrey Baskerville stood beech and pine. A solid old house lurked beneath, like a bear in its grove. People likened its face to the master's--the grey, worn, tar-pitched roof to his hair, and the small windows on either side of the door to his eyes. A few apple trees were in the garden, and currant and gooseberry bushes prospered indifferent well beneath them. Rhubarb and a row of elders also flourished here. The latter were permitted to exist for their fruit, and of the berries Mrs. Susan Hacker, Humphrey's widowed housekeeper, made medicinal preparations supposed to possess value. Hawk House lay under a tor, and behind it the land towered to a stony waste that culminated in wild masses of piled granite, where the rowan grew and the vixen laid her cubs. From this spot one might take a bird's-eye survey of Humphrey Baskerville's domain. Gold lichens had fastened on the roof, and the folk conceited that since there was no more room in the old man's house for his money, it began to ooze out through the tiles. Humphrey himself now sat on a favourite stone aloft and surveyed his possessions and the scene around them. It was his custom in fair weather to spend many hours sequestered upon the tor. Dwarf oaks grew in the clitters, and he marked the passage of the time by their activity, by the coming of migrant birds, by the appearance of the infant foxes and by other natural signs and tokens. Beneath Hawk House there subtended a great furze-clad space flanked with woods. The Rut, as it was called, fell away to farms and fertile fields, and terminated in a glen through which the little Torry river passed upon her way to Plym. Cann Wood fringed the neighbouring heights, and far away to the south Laira's lake extended and Plymouth appeared--faint, grey, glittering under a gauze of smoke. The tor itself was loved by hawks and stoats, crows and foxes. Not a few people, familiar with the fact that Humphrey here took his solitary walks and kept long vigils, would affirm that he held a sort of converse with these predatory things and learned from them their winged and four-footed cunning. His sympathy, indeed, was with fox and hawk rather than with hunter and hound. He admitted it, but in no sense of companionship with craft did he interest himself in the wild creatures. He made no fatuous imputation of cruelty to the hawk, or cunning to the fox. His bent of mind, none the less, inclined him to admire their singlehanded fight for life against long odds; and thus he, too, fell into fallacy; but his opinion took a practical turn and was not swiftly shattered, as such emotions are apt to be, when the pitied outlaw offers to the sentimental spectator a personal taste of his quality. If a hawk stooped above his chickens, he felt a sort of contempt for the screaming, flying fowls--let the hawk help itself if it could--and did not run for his gun. Indeed, he had no gun. As men said of this or that obstinate ancient that he had never travelled in a train, so they affirmed, concerning Humphrey Baskerville, that he had never in his life fired a gun. He sat and smoked a wooden pipe and reflected on the puzzles of his days. He knew that he was held in little esteem, but that had never troubled him. His inquiring spirit rose above his fellow-creatures; and he prided himself upon the fact, and did not see that just in this particular of a flight too lofty did he fail of the landmarks and sure ground he sought. A discontent, in substance very distinguished and noble, imbued his consciousness. He was still seeking solace out of life and a way that should lead to rest. But he could not find it. He was in arms on the wrong road. He missed the fundamental fact that from humanity and service arise not only the first duties of life, but also the highest rewards that life can offer. He had little desire towards his fellow-creatures. His mind appeared to magnify their deficiencies and weakness. He was ungenerous in his interpretation of motives. Mankind awoke his highest impatience. He sneered at his own shortcomings daily, and had no more mercy for the manifold disabilities of human nature in general. In the light of his religion and his learning, he conceived that man should be by many degrees a nobler and a wiser thing than he found him; and this conclusion awoke impatience and a fiery aversion. He groped therefore in a blind alley, for as yet service of man had not brought its revelation to his spirit, or opened the portals of content. He failed to perceive that the man who lives rationally for men, with all thereby involved in his duty to himself, is justifying his own existence to the limit of human capacity. Instead, he fulfilled obligations to his particular God with all his might, and supposed this rule of conduct embraced every necessity. He despised his neighbour, but he despised himself also. Thus he was logical, but such a rule of conduct left him lonely. Hence it came about that darkness clothed him like a garment, and that his kind shunned him, and cared not to consider him. He sat silent and motionless. His gift of stillness had often won some little intimate glimpse of Nature, and it did so now. A fox went by him at close quarters. It passed absorbed in its own affairs, incautious and without fear. Then suddenly it saw him, braced its muscles and slipped away like a streak of cinnamon light through the stones. It made for the dwarf oaks beneath the head of the tor, and the watcher saw its red stern rise and its white-tipped brush jerk this way and that as it leapt from boulder to boulder. A big and powerful fox--so Humphrey perceived; one that had doubtless stood before hounds in his time, and would again. Arrived at the confines of the wood, the brute hurried himself no more; but rested awhile and, with a sort of highwayman insolence, surveyed the object of alarm. Then it disappeared, and the man smiled to himself and was glad that he had seen this particular neighbour. At the poultry-house far below, moved Mrs. Hacker. Viewed from this elevation she presented nothing but a sun-bonnet and a great white square of apron. She wore black, and her bust disappeared seen thus far away, though her capacious person might be noted at a mile. Susan Hacker was florid, taciturn, and staunch to her master. If she had a hero, it was Mr. Baskerville; and if she had an antipathy, Miss Eliza Gollop stood for that repugnance. Of Susan it might be said that she was honest and not honest. In her case, though, she would have scorned to take a crust; she listened at doors. To steal a spoon was beyond her power; but to steal information not intended for her ears did not outrage her moral sense. Her rare triumphs were concerned with Humphrey's ragged wardrobe; and when she could prevail with him to buy a new suit of clothes, or burn an old one, she felt the day had justified itself. Now, through the clitters beneath him, there ascended a man, and Humphrey prepared to meet his nephew. He had marked Rupert speak with Mrs. Hacker and seen her point to the tor. It pleased the uncle that this youth should sometimes call unasked upon him, for he rated Rupert as the sanest and usefulest of his kindred. In a sense Rupert pleased Humphrey better than his own son did. A vague instinct to poetry and sentiment and things of abstract beauty, which belonged as an ingredient to Mark's character, found no echo in his father's breast. "I be come to eat my dinner along with you and fetch a message for Mark," began the young man. "Mr. Masterman's meeting, to tell everybody about the play, will be held in the parish room early next month, and parson specially wants you and Mark to be there. There's an idea of reviving some old-fangled customs. I dare say 'tis a very good idea, and there will be plenty to lend a hand; but I doubt whether Mark will dress up and spout poetry for him--any more than I would." "He means to perform 'St. George' next Christmas and invite the countryside," said Mr. Baskerville. "Well, one man's meat is another man's poison. He's young and energetic. He'll carry it through somehow with such material as lies about him. The maidens will all want to be in it, no doubt." "I think 'tis foolery, uncle." "You think wrong, then. Ban't always foolery to hark back to old ways. He's got his ideas for waking the people up. You and me might say, 'don't wake 'em up'; but 'tisn't our business. It is his business, as a minister, to open their eyes and polish their senses. So let him try with childish things first--not that he'll succeed, for he won't." "Then what's the good of trying?" "The man must earn his money." "Fancy coming to a dead-alive hole like this! Why, even Jack Head from Trowlesworthy--him as works for Mr. Luscombe--even he laughs at Shaugh." "He's a rare Radical, is Head. 'Tis the likes of him the upper people don't want to teach to read or to think--for fear of pickling a rod for themselves. But Head will be thinking. He's made so. I like him." "He laughed at me for one," said Rupert; "and though I laughed back, I smarted under his tongue. He says for a young and strapping chap like me to stop at Cadworthy doing labourer's work for my father, be a poor-spirited and even a shameful thing. He says I ought to blush to follow a plough or move muck, with the learning I've learnt. Of course, 'tis a small, mean life, in a manner of speaking, for a man of energy as loves work like I do." Mr. Baskerville scratched his head with the mouthpiece of his pipe, and surveyed Rupert for some time without speaking. Then he rose, sniffed the air, and buttoned up his coat. "We'll walk a bit and I'll show you something," he said. They set out over Shaugh Moor and Rupert proceeded. "I do feel rather down on my luck, somehow--especially about Milly Luscombe. It don't seem right or fair exactly--as if Providence wasn't on my side." "Don't bleat that nonsensical stuff," said his uncle. "You're the sort that cry out to Providence if you fall into a bed of nettles--instead of getting up quick and looking for a dock-leaf. Time to cry to Providence when you're in a fix you can't get out of single-handed. If you begin at your time of life, and all about nothing too, belike 'twill come to be like the cry of 'Wolf, wolf!' and then, when you really do get into trouble and holloa out, Providence won't heed." "Milly Luscombe's not a small thing, anyway. How can I go on digging and delving while father withstands me and won't hear a word about her?" "She's too good for you." "I know it; but she don't think so, thank the Lord." "Your father's a man that moves in a groove. Maybe you go safer that way; but not further. The beaten track be his motto. He married late in life, and it worked very well; so it follows to his narrow mind that late in life is the right and only time to marry." "I wish you'd tell him that you hold with Milly and think a lot of her. Father has a great opinion of your cleverness, I'm sure." "Not he! 'Tis your uncle Nathan that he sets store by. Quite natural that he should. He's a much cleverer man than me, and knows a lot more about human nature. See how well all folk speak of him. Can't you get him your side? Your father would soon give ear to you if Uncle Nathan approved." "'Tis an idea. And Uncle Nat certainly be kind always. I might try and get him to do something. He's very friendly with Mr. Saul Luscombe, Milly's uncle." "How does Luscombe view it?" "He'll be glad to have Milly off his hands." "More fool him then. For there's no more understanding girl about." "So Jack Head says. Ban't often he's got a good word for anybody; but he's told me, in so many words, that Milly be bang out of the common. He said it because his savage opinions never fluster her." They stood on Hawk Tor, and beneath them stretched, first, the carpet of the heath. Then the ground fell into a valley, where water meadows spread about a stream, and beyond, by woods and homesteads, the earth ascended again to Shaugh Prior. The village, perched upon the apex of the hill, twinkled like a jewel. Glitter of whitewash and rosy-wash shone under the grey roofs; sunlight and foliage sparkled and intermingled round the church tower; light roamed upon the hills, revealing and obscuring detail in its passage. To the far west, above deep valleys, the world appeared again; but now it had receded and faded and merged in tender blue to the horizon. Earth spread before the men in three huge and simple planes: of heath and stone sloping from north to south; of hillside and village and hamlet perched upon their proper crest; of the dim, dreaming distance swept with the haze of summer and rising to sky-line. "That's not small--that's big," said Humphrey Baskerville. "Plenty of room here for the best or worse that one boy can do." But Rupert doubted. "Think of the world out of sight, uncle. This bit spread here be little more than a picture in its frame." "Granted; but the frame's wide enough to cage all that your wits will ever work. You can run here and wear your fingers to the bone without bruising yourself against any bars. Go down in the churchyard and take a look at the Baskerville slates--fifty of 'em if there's one: your grandfather, your great-uncle, the musicker, and all the rest. And every man and woman of the lot lived and died, and suffered and sweated, and did good or evil within this picture-frame." "All save the richest--him that went to foreign parts and made a fortune and sent back tons of money to father and you and Uncle Nat." Humphrey laughed. "Thou hast me there!" he said. "But don't be discontented. Bide a bit and see how the wind blows. I'm not against a man following the spirit that calls him; but wait and find out whether 'tis a true voice or only a lying echo. What does Milly say?" "'Tis Milly have put the thought into me, for that matter. She's terrible large in her opinions. She holds that father haven't got no right to refuse to let us be tokened. She'd come and talk to him, if I'd let her. A regular fear-nothing, she is." "What would she have you do?" "Gird up and be off. She comes of a very wandering family, and, of course, one must allow for that. I've nought to say against it. But they can't bide in one spot long. Something calls 'em to be roaming." "The tribe of Esau." They talked on, and Rupert found himself the better for some caustic but sane counsel. "'Tis no good asking impossibilities from you, and I'm the last to do it," said Humphrey. "There are some things we can't escape from, and our characters are one of them. There's no more sense in trying to run from your character than in trying to run from your shadow. Too often your character is your shadow, come to think on it; and cruel black at that. But don't be impatient. Wait and watch yourself as well as other people. If these thoughts have been put in your head by the girl, they may not be natural to you, and they may not be digested by you. See how your own character takes 'em. I'm not against courting, mind, nor against early marriages; and if this woman be made of the stuff to mix well and close with your own character, then marry her and defy the devil and all his angels to harm you. To take such a woman is the best day's work that even the hardest working man can do in this world. But meantime don't whine, but go ahead and gather wisdom and learn a little about the things that happen outside the picture-frame--as I do." They turned presently and went back to dinner. Rupert praised his uncle, and declared that life looked the easier for his advice. "'Tis no good being called 'The Hawk' if you can't sharpen your wits as well as your claws," said the old man. "Yes--you're astonished--but I know what they call me well enough." "I knocked a chap down last Sunday on Cadworthy bridge for saying it," declared Rupert. "Very thoughtful and very proper to stand up for your family; but I'm not hurt. Maybe there's truth in it. I've no quarrel with the hawks--or the herons either--for all they do eat the trout. By all accounts there was birds to eat trout afore there was men to eat 'em. We humans have invented a saying that possession is nine points of the law; but we never thought much of that when it comed to knocking our weaker neighbours on the head--whether they be birds or men." "You've made me a lot more contented with the outlook, anyway." "I'm glad to hear it. Content's the one thing I'd wish you--and wish myself. I can't see the way very clear yet. Let me know if ever you come by it." "You! Why, you'm the most contented of any of us." "Come and eat, and don't talk of what you know nought," said Mr. Baskerville. They went through the back yard of the homestead presently, where a hot, distinctive odour of pigs saturated the air. As they passed by, some young, very dirty, pink porkers grunted with fat, amiable voices and cuddled to their lean mother, where she lay in a lair of ordure. "That's content," explained Humphrey; "it belongs to brainless things, and only to them. I haven't found it among men and women yet, and I never count to. Rainbow gold in this world. Yet, don't mistake me, I'm seeking after it still." "Why seek for it, if there's no such thing, uncle?" "Well may you ask that. But the answer's easy. Because 'tis part of my character to seek for it, Rupert. Character be stronger than reason's self, if you can understand that. I seek because I'm driven." "You might find it after all, uncle. There must be such a thing--else there'd be no word for it." The older sighed. "A young and hopeful fashion of thought," he said. "But you're out there. Men have made up words for many a fine, fancied thing their hearts long for; but the word is all--stillborn out of poor human hope." He brooded deep into his own soul upon this thought and spoke little more that day. But Mark was waiting for his dinner when they returned, and he and Rupert found themes in common to occupy them through the meal. The great project of the new vicar chiefly supplied conversation. Rupert felt indifferent, but Mark was much interested. "I'm very willing to lend a hand all I can, and I expect the parish will support it," he said. "But as for play-acting myself, and taking a part, I wouldn't for all the world. It beats me how anybody can get up on a platform and speak a speech afore his fellow-creatures assembled." "The girls will like it," foretold Rupert. "Cora Lintern is to play a part," declared Mark; "and no doubt she'll do it amazing well." Rupert was up in arms at once. "I should think they'll ask Milly Luscombe too. She's got more wits than any of 'em." "She may have as much as Cora, but not more, I can assure you of that," answered Mark firmly. He rarely contradicted a statement or opposed an assertion; but upon this great subject his courage was colossal. CHAPTER VIII Mr. Masterman and his sister made more friends than enemies. The man's good-nature and energy attracted his parishioners; while Miss Masterman, though not genial, was sincere. A certain number followed the party of Mr. Gollop and Eliza, yet, as time passed, it diminished. The surplices arrived; the girls were turned out of the choir; but the heavens did not fall. Even the Nonconformists of Shaugh Prior regarded the young vicar with friendliness, and when he called a meeting at the parish room, Mr. Nathan Baskerville and others who stood for dissent, attended it in an amiable spirit. Rumours as to the nature of the proposition had leaked out, and they were vague; but a very general interest had been excited, and when the evening came the vicar, his churchwardens, and friends, found a considerable company assembled. There were present Vivian and Nathan Baskerville, with most of the former's family. Mrs. Lintern and her two daughters from Undershaugh also came; while Heathman Lintern, Ned Baskerville, and other young men stood in a group at the rear of the company. From Trowlesworthy arrived the warrener, Saul Luscombe, his niece, Milly, and his man, Jack Head. People looked uneasy at sight of the last, for he was a revolutionary and firebrand. The folk suspected that he held socialistic views, and were certain that he worked harm on the morals of younger people. Susan Hacker, at her master's wish, attended the meeting and sat impassive among friends. Thomas Gollop and Joe Voysey, the vicarage gardener, sat together; but Miss Gollop was not present, because her services were occupied with the newly-born. A buzz and babel filled the chamber and the heat increased. Jack Head opened a window. Whereupon Mr. Gollop rose and shut it again. The action typified that eternal battle of principle which waged between them. But Vivian Baskerville was on the side of fresh air. "Let be!" he shouted. "Us don't want to be roasted alive, Thomas!" So the window was opened once more, and Head triumphed. Dennis Masterman swiftly explained his desire and invited the parish to support him in reviving an ancient and obsolete ceremonial. "The oldest men among you must remember the days of the Christmas mummers," he said. "I've heard all about them from eye-witnesses, and it strikes me that to get up the famous play of 'St. George,' with the quaint old-world dialogue, would give us all something to do this winter, and be very interesting and instructive, and capital fun. There are plenty among you who could act the parts splendidly, and as the original version is rather short and barren, I should have some choruses written in, and go through it and polish it up, and perhaps even add a character or two. In the old days it was all done by the lads, but why not have some lasses in it as well? However, these are minor points to be decided later. Would you like the play? that's the first question. It is a revival of an ancient custom. It will interest a great many people outside our parish; and if it is to be done at all, it must be done really well. Probably some will be for it and some against. For my part, I only want to please the greater number. Those who are for it had better elect a spokesman, and let him say a word first; then we'll hear those who are against." The people listened quietly; then they bent this way and that, and discussed the suggestion. Some rose and approached Vivian Baskerville, where he sat beside his brother. After some minutes of buzzing conversation, during which Vivian shook his head vigorously, and Nathan as vigorously nodded, the latter rose with reluctance, and the folk stamped their feet. "'Tis only because of my brother's modest nature that I get up," he explained. "As a Church of England man and a leader among us, they very properly wanted for him to speak. But he won't do it, and no more will young Farmer Waite, and no more will Mr. Luscombe of Trowlesworthy; so I'll voice 'em to the best of my power. Though I'm of t'other branch of the Christian Church, yet my friends will bear me out that I've nothing but kind feeling and regard for all of them, and in such a pleasant matter as this I shall do all in my power to help your reverence, as we all shall. For I do think there's none but will make the mummers welcome again, and lend a hand to lift the fun into a great success. Me and my brother and Luscombe, and Waite and Gollop, and Joe Voysey, and a good few more, can well remember the old mumming days; and we'll all do our best to rub up our memories. So what we all say is, 'Go ahead, Mr. Masterman, and good luck to it!'" Applause greeted Nathan. The folk were filled with admiration at his ready turn of speech. He sat down again between Mrs. Lintern and Cora. Everybody clapped their hands. Then came a hiss from the corner where Jack Head stood. "A dissentient voice," declared the clergyman. "Who is that?" "My name is Jack Head, and I be gwaine to offer objections," said the man stoutly. "Better save your wind then!" snapped Mr. Gollop. "You be one against the meeting." Head was a middle-aged, narrow-browed, and underhung individual of an iron-grey colour. His body was long and thin; his shoulders were high; his expression aggressive, yet humorous. He had swift wits and a narrow understanding. He was observant and impressed with the misery of the world; but he possessed no philosophical formulas to balance his observation or counsel patience before the welter of life. He was honest, but scarce knew the meaning of amenity. "One or not won't shut my mouth," he said. "I'm a member of the parish so much as you, though I don't bleat a lot of wild nonsense come every seventh day, and I say that to spend good time and waste good money this way be a disgrace, and a going back instead of going forward. What for do we want to stir up a lot of silly dead foolishness that our grandfathers invented? Ban't there nothing better to do with ourselves and our wits than dress up like a ship-load of monkeys and go play-acting? We might so well start to wassail the apple-trees and put mourning on the bee-butts when a man dies. I'm against it, and I propose instead that Mr. Masterman looks round him and sees what a miserable Jakes of a mess his parish be in, and spends his time trying to get the landlords to----" "Order! Order! Withdraw that!" cried out Mr. Gollop furiously. "How dare this infidel man up and say the parish be in a Jakes of a mess? Where's Ben North?" "I'm here, Thomas," said a policeman, who stood at the door. "You'm a silly old mumphead," replied Jack. "To hear you about this parish--God's truth! I'll tell you this, my brave hero. When the devil was showing the Lord the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of 'em, he kept his thumb on Shaugh Prior, so as none should see what a dung-heap of a place it was." "Order! Order!" cried Miss Masterman shrilly, and Mr. Gollop grew livid. "I appeal to the chair! I appeal to the nation!" he gasped. Then he shook his fist at Jack. "There's no chair--not yet," explained Dennis. "As soon as we decide, I'll take the chair, and we'll appoint a committee to go into the matter and arrange the parts, and so on. The first thing is, are we agreed?" One loud shout attested to the sense of the meeting. "Then, Mr. Head, you're in a minority of one, and I hope we may yet convince you that this innocent revival is not a bad thing," said Dennis. "And further than that, you mustn't run down Shaugh Prior in this company. We've got a cheerful conceit of ourselves, and why not? Don't think I'm dead to the dark side of human life, and the sorrows and sufferings of the poor. I hope you'll all very soon find that I'm not that sort, or my sister either. And the devil himself can't hide Shaugh Prior from the Lord and Saviour of us all, Mr. Head--have no fear of that." "Sit down, Jack, and say you'm sorry," cried Mr. Luscombe. "Not me," replied Head. "I've stated my views at a free meeting, and I'm on the losing side, like men of my opinions always be where parsons have a voice. But me and my friends will be up top presently." "Turn him out, Ben North!" shouted Mr. Gollop; but Ben North refused. Indeed, he was of Jack's party. "He've done nought but say his say, and I shan't turn him out," the policeman answered. "There's nobody in the chair yet, and therefore there's none here with power to command the Law to move." A committee was swiftly formed. It consisted of the clergyman and certain parishioners. Nathan joined it for his family; Mr. Luscombe also joined, and Dennis promised that certain local antiquaries and the lord of the manor would assist the enterprise. "While we are here," he said, "we may as well get the thing well advanced and decide about the characters. All those interested are here, so why not let me read through the old play as it stands? Then we'll settle the parts, and each can copy his or her part in turn." "There's nothing like being fore-handed," admitted Nathan. "Let's have it by all means. We shall want young and old to play, if my memory serves me." "We shall, and a good company to sing the songs that I hope to add. My sister, our organist, will undertake the music." "And right well she'll do it, without a doubt," declared Nathan. "On all hands 'tis admitted how the church music has mended a lot since she took it up." Mr. Masterman then read a version of the old play, and its ingenuous humour woke laughter. "Now," said the vicar when his recital was at an end, "I'll ask those among us who will volunteer to act--ladies and gentlemen--to come forward. Especially I appeal to the ladies. They'll have to say very little." "Only to look nice, and I'm sure that won't cost 'em an effort, for they can't help it," declared Nathan. None immediately rose. Then Ned Baskerville strolled down the room. "Best-looking young man in Shaugh," cried an anonymous voice. "And the laziest!" answered another unknown. There was a laugh and Ned turned ruddy. "Thou'lt never take trouble enough to learn thy part, Ned!" cried Heathman Lintern. "Play Turkish knight, my son," said his father. "Then thou can'st be knocked on the head and die comfortable without more trouble." Others followed Ned, and Mr. Masterman called for Mark. "You'll not desert us, Mark? I shall want your help, I know." "And glad to give it," answered the young man. He grew very hot and nervous to find himself named. His voice broke, he coughed and cut a poor figure. Somebody patted him on the back. "Don't be frighted, Mark," said Vivian Baskerville; "his reverence only wants for you to do what you can. He wouldn't ask impossibilities." Mrs. Baskerville compared her handsome son to stammering Mark and felt satisfied. Cora Lintern also contrasted the young men, and in her bosom was anything but satisfaction. "You needn't act, but you must help in many ways. You're so well up in the old lore--all about our legends and customs," explained the clergyman. "We count on you. And now we want some of the older men among you, and when we've settled them we must come to the ladies. We're getting on splendidly. Now--come--you set a good example, Thomas." "Me!" cried Mr. Gollop. "Me to play-act! Whoever heard the like?" "You must play, Thomas," urged Vivian Baskerville of Cadworthy. "Such a voice can't be lost. What a King of Egypt the man will make!" "I'll do a part if you will, but not else," returned Gollop, and the Baskerville family lifted a laugh at their father's expense. "For that matter I've took the stage often enough," admitted Vivian; "but 'twas to work, not to talk. All the same, if his reverence would like for me to play a part, why, I'm ready and willing, so long as there isn't much to say to it." "Hurrah for Mr. Baskerville!" shouted several present. "And Mr. Nathan must play, too," declared Joe Voysey. "No revel would be complete without him." "If you'll listen I'll tell you what I think," said the clergyman. "I've considered your parts during the last five minutes, and they go like this in my mind. Let's take them in order:-- "St. George, Mr. Ned Baskerville. Will you do St. George, Ned?" "Yes, if you can't find a better," said the young man. "Good! Now the Turkish knight comes next. He must be young and a bit of a fighter. Will you be Turkish knight, Mr. Waite?" He addressed a young, good-looking, dark man, who farmed land in the parish, and dwelt a few miles off. Mr. Waite laughed and nodded. "Right--I'll try." "Well done! Now"--Mr. Masterman smiled and looked at Jack Head--"will Mr. Head play the Bear--to oblige us all?" Everybody laughed, including Jack himself. "The very living man for Bear!" cried Mr. Luscombe. "I command you, Jack, to be Bear!" "You ain't got much to do but growl and fight, Jack, and you're a oner at both," said Heathman. "Well, I've said my say," returned Mr. Head, "and I was in a minority. But since this parish wants for me to be Bear, I'll Bear it out so well as I can; and if I give St. George a bit of a hug afore he bowls me over, he mustn't mind that." "Capital! Thank you, Jack Head. Now, who'll be Father Christmas? I vote for Mr. Nathan Baskerville." Applause greeted the suggestion, but Miss Masterman bent over from her seat and whispered to her brother. He shook his head, however, and answered under his breath. "It doesn't matter a button about his being a dissenter. So much the better. Let's draw them in all we can." "You ought to choose the church people first." "It's done now, anyway," he replied. "Everybody likes the man. We must have him in it, or half the folk won't come." "The King of Egypt is next," said Nathan, after he had been duly elected to Father Christmas. "I say Thomas Gollop here for the part." "I don't play nought," answered Thomas firmly, "unless Vivian Baskerville do. He's promised." "I'll be Giant, then, and say 'Fee-fo-fum!" answered the farmer. "'Twill be a terrible come-along-of-it for Ned here, and I warn him that if he don't fight properly valiant, I won't die." "The very man--the only man for Giant," declared Dennis Masterman. "So that's settled. Now, who's for Doctor? That's a very important part. I suppose your father wouldn't do it, Mark? He's just the wise-looking face for a doctor." "My brother!" cried Vivian. "Good Lord! he'd so soon stand on his head in the market-place as lend a hand in a bit of nonsense like this. Ask Luscombe here. Will you be Doctor, Saul?" But Mr. Luscombe refused. "Not in my line. Here's Joe Voysey--he's doctored a lot of things in his time--haven't you, Joe?" "Will you be Doctor, Joe?" asked Mr. Masterman. But Joe refused. "Too much to say," he answered. "I might larn it with a bit of sweat, but I should never call it home when the time came." "Be the French Eagle, Joe," suggested Mark Baskerville. "You've got but little to say, and St. George soon settles you." "And the very living nose for it, Joe," urged Mr. Gollop. "Very well, if the meeting is for it, I'll be Eagle," assented Mr. Voysey. The part of Doctor remained unfilled for the present. "Now there's the fair Princess Sabra and Mother Dorothy," explained the vicar. "Princess Sabra, the King of Egypt's daughter, will be a novelty, for she didn't come into the old play in person. She doesn't say anything, but she must be there." "Miss Lintern for Princess Sabra!" said Mark. Everybody laughed, and the young man came in for some chaff; but Dennis approved, and Mrs. Lintern nodded and smiled. Cora blushed and Nathan patted Mark on the back. "A good idea, and we're all for it," he said. To Cora, as the belle of the village, belonged the part by right. She was surprised and gratified at this sudden access of importance. Then the vicar prepared to close his meeting. "For Mother Dorothy we want a lady of mature years and experience. The part is often played by a man, but I would sooner a lady played it, if we can persuade one to do so," he said. "Mrs. Hacker! Mrs. Hacker!" shouted a mischievous young man at the back of the hall. "Never," said Susan Hacker calmly. "Not that I'd mind; but whatever would my master say?" "Let my sister play the part," suggested Thomas. "Eliza Gollop fears nought on two legs. She'll go bravely through with it." Mr. Nathan's heart sank, but he could not object. The company was divided. Then, to the surprise of not a few, Mrs. Hacker spoke again. The hated name had dispelled her doubts. "I'll do it, and chance master," she said. "Yes, there's no false shame in me, I believe. I'll do it rather than----" "You're made for the part, ma'am," declared Mr. Nathan, much relieved. "And very fine you'll look. You've got to kiss Father Christmas at the end of the play, though. I hope you don't mind that." "That's why she's going to act the part!" shouted Heathman, and laughter drowned Mrs. Hacker's reply. In good spirits the company broke up, and the young folk went away excited, the old people interested and amused. Merriment sounded on the grey July night; many women chattered about the play till long after their usual hour for sleep; and plenty of coarse jests as to the promised entertainment were uttered at the bar of 'The White Thorn' presently. As for the vicar and his sister, they felt that they had achieved a triumph. Two shadows alone darkened the outlook in Miss Masterman's eyes. She objected to the Nonconformist element as undesirable or unnecessary; and she did not like the introduction of Queen Sabra. "That showy girl is quite conceited enough already," she said. But her brother was young and warm-hearted. "She's lovely, though," he said. "By Jove! the play will be worth doing, if only to see her got up like a princess!" "Don't be silly, Dennis," answered his sister. "She's a rude wretch, and the Linterns are the most independent people in the parish." CHAPTER IX At high summer two men and two maids kept public holiday and wove romance under the great crown of Pen Beacon. From this border height the South Hams spread in a mighty vision of rounded hills and plains; whole forests were reduced to squat, green cushions laid upon the broad earth's bosom; and amid them glimmered wedges and squares of ripening corn, shone root crops, smiled water meadows, and spread the emerald faces of shorn hayfields. It was a day of lowering clouds and illumination breaking through them. Fans of light fell between the piled-up cumuli, and the earth was mottled with immense, alternate patches of shadow and sunshine. Thick and visible strata of air hung heavy between earth and sky at this early hour. They presaged doubt, and comprehended a condition that might presently diffuse and lift into unclouded glory of August light, or darken to thunderstorm. Southerly the nakedness of Hanger Down and the crags of Eastern and Western Beacons towered; while to the east were Quickbeam Hill, Three Barrows, and the featureless expanses of Stall Moor. Northerly towered Penshiel, and the waste spread beyond it in long leagues, whose planes were flattened out by distance and distinguished against each other by sleeping darkness and waking light. A fuliginous heaviness, that stained air at earth's surface, persisted even on this lofty ground, and the highest passages of aerial radiance were not about the sun, but far beneath it upon the horizon. Rupert Baskerville trudged doubtfully forward, sniffing the air and watching the sky, while beside him came Milly Luscombe; and a quarter of a mile behind them walked Mark and Cora Lintern. The men had arranged to spend their holiday up aloft, and Milly was well pleased; but Cora held the expedition vain save for what it should accomplish. To dawdle in the Moor when she might have been at a holiday revel was not her idea of pleasure; but as soon as Mark issued his invitation she guessed that he did so with an object, and promised to join him. As yet the definite word had not passed his lips, though it had hovered there; but to-day Miss Lintern was resolved to return from Pen Beacon betrothed. As for Mark, his hope chimed with her intention. Cora was always gracious and free of her time, while he played the devout lover and sincerely held her above him every way. Only the week before Heathman, obviously inspired to do so, had asked him why he kept off, and declared that it would better become him to speak. And now, feeling that the meal presently to be taken would be of a more joyous character after than before the deed, he stopped Cora while yet a mile remained to trudge before they should reach the top of the tor. "Rest a bit," he said. "Let Rupert and Milly go forward. They don't want us, and we shall all meet in the old roundy-poundies up over, where we're going to eat our dinner." "Looks as if 'twas offering for bad weather," she answered, lifting her eyes to the sky. "I'm glad I didn't put on my new muslin." She sat on a stone and felt that he was now going to ask her to marry him. She was not enthusiastic about him at the bottom of her heart; but she knew that he would be rich and a good match for a girl in her position. She was prone to exaggerate her beauty, and had hoped better things from it than Mark Baskerville; but certain minor romances with more important men had come to nothing. She was practical and made herself see the bright side of the contract. He was humble and she could influence him as she pleased. He worshipped her and would doubtless continue to do so. Once his wife she proposed to waken in him a better conceit of himself and, when his father died, she would be able to 'blossom out,' as she put it to her sister, and hold her head high in the land. There were prospects. Nathan Baskerville was rich also, and he was childless. He liked Mark well, and on one occasion, when she came into the farm kitchen at Undershaugh suddenly, she overheard Nathan say to her mother, "No objection--none at all--a capital match for her." Mark put down the basket that carried their meal and took a seat beside Cora. "'Tisn't going to rain," he said. "I always know by my head if there's thunder in the elements. It gets a sort of heavy, aching feeling. Look yonder, the clouds are levelling off above the Moor so true as if they'd been planed. That's the wind's work. Why, there's enough blue showing to make you a new dress a'ready, Cora." "I'd love a dress of such blue as that. Blue's my colour," she said. "Yes, it is--though you look lovely enough in any colour." "I like to please you, Mark." "Oh, Cora, and don't you please me? Little you know--little you know. I've had it on my tongue a thousand times--yet it seems too bold--from such as me to you. Why, there's none you mightn't look to; and if you'd come of a higher havage, you'd have been among the loveliest ladies in the land. And so you are now, for that matter--only you're hid away in this savage old place--like a beautiful pearl under the wild sea." This had long been Cora's own opinion. She smiled and touched the hair on her hot forehead. "If there comes on a fog, I shall go out of curl in a minute," she said. Then, seeing that this prophecy silenced him, she spoke again. "I love to hear you tell these kind things, Mark. I'd sooner please you than any man living. Perhaps 'tis over-bold in me to say so; but I'm telling nought but truth." "Truth ban't often so beautiful as that," he said slowly. "And 'tis like your brave heart to say it out; and here's truth for your truth, Cora. If you care to hear me say I think well of you, then I care to hear you speak well of me; and more: nobody else's good word is better than wind in the trees against your slightest whisper. So that I please you, I care nothing for all the world; and if you'll let me, I'll live for you and die for you. For that matter I've lived for only you these many days, and if you'll marry me--there--'tis out. I'm a vain chap even to dare to say it; but 'tis you have made me so--'tis your kind words and thoughts for me--little thoughts that peep out and dear little kind things done by you and forgotten by you; but never by me, Cora. Can you do it? Can you sink down to me, or is it too much of a drop? Others have lowered themselves for love and never regretted it. 'Tis a fall for such a bright, lovely star as you; but my love's ready to catch you, so you shan't hurt yourself. I--I----" He broke off and she seemed really moved. She put her hand on his two, which were knotted together; and then she looked love into his straining eyes and nodded. His hands opened and seized hers and squeezed them till she drew in her breath. Then he put his arms round her and kissed her. "Don't move, for God's sake!" he said. "D'you know what you've done?" "Given myself to a dear good chap," she answered. In her heart she was thanking heaven that she had not worn the new muslin dress. "Weather or no weather, he'd have creased it and mangled it all over and ruined it for ever," she thought. They proceeded presently, but made no haste to overtake their companions. Their talk was of the future and marriage. He pressed for an early union; she was in no hurry. "You must learn a bit more about me first," she told him. "Maybe I'm not half as nice as you think. And there's your father. I'm terrible frightened of him." "You need not be, Cora. He's not against early marriage. You must come and see him pretty soon. He'll be right glad for my sake, though he'll be sure to tell me I've had better luck than I deserve." She considered awhile without speaking. "I'm afraid I shan't bring you much money," she said. "What's money? That's the least thing. I shall have plenty enough, no doubt." "What will your father do? Then there's your uncle, Mr. Nathan. He's terrible rich, by all accounts, and he thinks very well of you." "I shall be all right. But I'm a lazy man--too lazy. I shall turn my hand to something steady when we're married." "Such a dreamer you are. Not but what, with all your great cleverness, you ban't worth all the young men put together for brains." "I'm going to set to. My father's often at me about wasting my life. But, though he'd scorn the word, he's a bit of a dreamer too--in his way. You'd never guess it; but he spends many long hours all alone, brooding about things. And he's a very sharp-eyed, clever man. He marks the seasons by the things that happen out of doors. He'll come down off our tor that cheerful sometimes, you wouldn't believe 'twas him. 'Curlew's back on the Moor,' he'll say one day; then another day, 'Oaks are budding'; then again, 'First frost to-night,' or 'Thunder's coming.' His bark is worse than his bite, really." "'Tis his terrible eyes I fear. They look through you. He makes me feel small, and I always hate anybody that does that." "You mustn't hate him. Too many do already. But 'twould be better to feel sorry for him. He's often a very unhappy old man. I feel it, but I can't see the reason, and he says nothing." She pouted. "I wish I hadn't got to see him. Why, his own brother--your Uncle Nathan--even he can't hit it off with him. And I'm sure there must be something wrong with a man that can't get on with Mr. Nathan. Everybody is fond of him; but I've often heard him say----" "Leave it," interrupted Mark. "I know all that, Cora. 'Tis just one of those puzzles that happen. 'Tis no good fretting about anybody else: what you've got to do is to make my father love you. And you've only got to be yourself and he must love you." "Of course I'll do my best." "Give me just one more lovely kiss, before we get over the hill-top and come in sight of them. We're to meet at the 'old men's' camp." She kissed him and then silence fell between them. It lasted a long while until he broke it. "Don't fancy because I'm so still that I'm not bursting with joy," he said. "But when I think of what's happened to me this minute, I feel 'tis too big for words. The thoughts in me can't be spoken, Cora. They are too large to cram into little pitiful speeches." "I'm getting hungry; and there's Milly waving," she answered. "Milly's hungry too, belike." Eastward, under Pen Beacon, lay an ancient lodge of the neolithic people. The circles of scattered granite shone grey, set in foliage and fruit of the bilberry, with lichens on the stone and mosses woven into the grass about them. A semicircle of hills extended beyond and formed a mighty theatre where dawn and storm played their parts, where falling night was pictured largely and moonshine slept upon lonely heights and valleys. In the glen beneath spread Dendles Wood, with fringes of larch and pine hiding the River Yealm and spreading a verdant medley of deep summer green in the lap of the grey hills. Gold autumn furzes flashed along the waste, and the pink ling broke into her first tremble of colourless light that precedes the blush of fulness. The party of four sat in a hut circle and spoke little while they ate and drank. Rupert, unknown to the rest, and much to his own inconvenience, had dragged up six stone bottles of ginger-beer hidden under his coat. These he produced and was much applauded. A spring broke at hand, and the bottles were sunk therein to cool them. They talked together after a very practical and businesslike fashion. Milly and Rupert were definitely engaged in their own opinion, and now when Mark, who could not keep in the stupendous event of the moment, announced it, they congratulated the newly engaged couple with the wisdom and experience of those who had long entered that state. "'Tis a devilish unrestful condition, I can promise you," said Rupert, "and the man always finds it so if the girl don't. Hanging on is just hell--especially in my case, where I can't get father to see with my eyes. But, thank God, Milly's jonic. She won't change." "No," said Milly, "I shan't change. 'Tis you have got to change. I respect your father very much, like the rest of the world, but because he didn't marry till he was turned forty-five, that's no reason why you should wait twenty years for it. Anyway, if you must, so will I--only I shall be a thought elderly for the business by that time. However, it rests with you." "I'm going--that's what she means," explained Rupert. "Jack Head and me have had a talk, and he's thrown a lot of light on things in general. I can't be bound hand and foot to my father like this; and if he won't meet me, I must take things into my own hands and leave home." Mark was staggered at the enormity of such a plan. "Don't do anything in a hurry and without due thought." "Very well for you to talk," said Milly. "You do nought but ring the bells on Sundays, and play at work the rest of the week. Mr. Humphrey won't stand in your way. I suppose you could be married afore Christmas, if you pleased." She sighed at the glorious possibility. "I hope we shall be; but Cora's in no hurry, I'm afraid." "And when I've got work," continued Rupert, "then I shall just look round and take a house and marry; and why not?" "Your father will never let you go. It isn't to be thought upon," declared Mark. "Then he must be reasonable. He appears to forget I'm nearly twenty-four," answered his cousin. Conversation ranged over their problems and their hopes. Then Rupert touched another matrimonial disappointment. "It looks as if we were not to be fortunate in love," he said. "There's Ned terrible down on his luck. He's offered marriage again--to Farmer Chave's second daughter; and 'twas as good as done; but Mr. Chave wouldn't hear of it, and he's talked the girl round and Ned's got chucked." "Serve him right," said Milly. "He jilted two girls. 'Twill do him good to smart a bit himself." "The Chaves are a lot too high for us," asserted Mark. "He's a very well-born and rich man, and his father was a Justice of the Peace, and known in London. He only farms to amuse himself." "'Twas Ned's face, I reckon," said Cora. "They Chave women are both terrible stuck up. Makes me sick to see 'em in church all in their town-made clothes. But fine feathers won't make fine birds of them. They'm both flat as a plate, and a lot older than they pretend. Ned is well out of it, I reckon." "He don't think so, however," replied Rupert. "I've never known him take any of his affairs to heart like this one. Moped and gallied he is, and creeps about with a face as long as a fiddle; and off his food too." "Poor chap," said Cora feelingly. "Even talks of ending it and making away with himself. Terrible hard hit, I do believe." "Your mother must be in a bad way about him," said Milly. "She is. Why, he took mother down to the river last Sunday and showed her a big hole there, where Plym comes over the rocks and the waters all a-boil and twelve feet deep. 'That's where you'll find me, mother,' he says. And she, poor soul, was frightened out of her wits. And father's worried too, for Ned can't go wrong with him. Ned may always do what he likes, though I may not." Cora declared her sympathy, but Mark did not take the incident as grave. "You needn't fear," he assured Ned's brother. "Men that talk openly of killing themselves, never do it. Words are a safety-valve. 'Tis the sort that go silent and cheerful under a great blow that be nearest death." Cora spoke of Ned's looks with admiration and feared that this great disappointment might spoil them; but Milly was not so sympathetic. "If he stood to work and didn't think so much about the maidens, they might think a bit more about him," she said. "He swears he won't play St. George now," added Rupert. "He haven't got the heart to go play-acting no more." "He'll find twenty girls to go philandering after afore winter," foretold Milly. "And if Cora here was to ask him, he'd play St. George fast enough." "'Twill be a very poor compliment to me if he cries off now," declared Cora. "For I'm to be the princess, and 'tis pretended in the play that he's my true lover." "Mark will be jealous then. 'Tis a pity he don't play St. George," said Milly. But Mark laughed. "A pretty St. George me!" he answered. "No, no; I'm not jealous of Ned. Safety in numbers, they say. Let him be St. George and welcome; and very noble he'll look--if ever he's got brains enough in his empty noddle to get the words and remember them." Cora cast a swift side glance at her betrothed. She did not speak, but the look was not all love. Discontent haunted her for a little space. The ginger-beer was drunk and the repast finished. The men lighted their pipes; the girls talked together. Milly congratulated Cora very heartily. "He's a fine, witty chap, as I've always said. Different to most of us, along of being better eggicated. But that modest and retiring, few people know what a clever man he is." These things pleased the other, and she was still more pleased when Milly discussed Mark's father. "I often see him," she said--"oftener than you might think for. He'll ride to Trowlesworthy twice and thrice a month sometimes. Why for? To see my uncle, you might fancy. But that's not the reason. To talk with Jack he comes. Jack Head and me be the only people in these parts that ban't afraid of him. And that's what he likes. You be fearless of him, Cora, or he'll think nought of thee. Fearless and attentive to what he says--that's the rule with him. And pretend nothing, or he'll see through it and pull you to pieces. Him and Jack Head says the most tremendous things about the world and its ways. They take Uncle Saul's breath away sometimes, and mine too. But don't let him frighten you--that's the fatal thing. If a creature's feared of him, he despises it. Never look surprised at his speeches." Cora listened to this advice and thanked the other girl for it. "Why should I care a button for the old man, anyway?" she asked. "If it comes to that, I'm as good as him. There's nought to fear really, when all's said. And I won't fear." The men strolled about the old village and gathered whortleberries; then Rupert judged that the storm that had skulked so long to the north, was coming at last. "We'd best be getting down-along," he said. "Let's go across to Trowlesworthy; then, if it breaks, we can slip into the warren house a bit till the worst be over. "You be all coming to drink tea there," said Milly. "Uncle Saul and Jack Head are away, but aunt be home, and I made the cakes specially o' Saturday." Drifting apart by a half a mile or so, the young couples left the Beacon, climbed Penshiel, and thence passed over the waste to where the red tor rose above Milly Luscombe's home. A sort of twilight stole at four o'clock over the earth, and it seemed that night hastened up while yet the hidden sun was high. The sinister sky darkened and frowned to bursting; yet no rain fell, and later it grew light again, as the sun, sinking beneath the ridges of the clouds, flooded the Moor with the greatest brightness that the day had known. CHAPTER X Some few weeks after it was known that young Mark Baskerville would marry Cora Lintern, a small company drank beer at 'The White Thorn' and discussed local politics in general, and the engagement in particular. The time was three in the afternoon. "They'll look to you for a wedding present without a doubt," said Mr. Gollop to Nathan, who stood behind his bar. "And they'll be right," answered the innkeeper. "I'm very fond of 'em both." "You'll be put to it to find rich gifts for all your young people, however." "That's as may be. If the Lord don't send you sons, the Devil will send you nephews--you know the old saying. Not but what Vivian's boys and girls are a very nice lot--I like 'em all very well indeed. Mark's different--clever enough, but made of another clay. His mother was a retiring, humble woman--frightened of her own shadow, you might say. However, Cora will wake him into a cheerfuller conceit of himself." There was an interruption, for Dennis Masterman suddenly filled the doorway. "The very men I want," he said; then he entered. "Fine sweltering weather for the harvest, your honour," piped an old fellow who sat on a settle by the window with a mug of beer beside him. "So it is, Abel, and I hope there's another month of it to come. Give me half a pint of the mild, will you, Baskerville? 'Tis about the rehearsal I've looked in. Thursday week is the day--at seven o'clock sharp, remember. And I'm very anxious that everybody shall know their words. It will save a lot of trouble and help us on." "I've got mine very near," said Nathan. "So have I," declared Mr. Gollop. "Here I, the King of Egypt, boldly do appear; St. Garge, St. Garge, walk in, my only son and heir!" "Yes, but you mustn't say '_h_eir'; the h isn't sounded, you know. Has anybody seen Ned Baskerville? I heard that he was in trouble." "Not at all," said Nathan. "He's all right--a lazy rascal. 'Twas only another of his silly bits of work with the girls. Running after Mr. Chave's daughter. Like his cheek!" Mr. Masterman looked astonished. "I thought Mr. Chave----" he said. "Exactly, vicar; you thought right. 'Tis just his handsome face makes my nephew so pushing. We be a yeoman race, we Baskervilles, though said to be higher once; but of course, as things are, Ned looking there was just infernal impudence, though his good old pig-headed father, my brother, couldn't see it. He's only blind when Ned's the matter." "'Twas said he was going to jump in the river," declared the ancient Abel. "Nonsense and rubbish!" declared Nathan. "Ned's not that sort. Wait till he sees himself in the glittering armour of St. George, and he'll soon forget his troubles." "We must talk about the dresses after rehearsal. A good many can be made at home." "Be you going to charge at the doors?" asked Mr. Gollop. "I don't see why for we shouldn't." "Yes, certainly I am," answered Dennis. "The money will go to rehanging the bells. That's settled. Well, remember. And stir up Joe Voysey, Thomas. You can do anything with him, but I can't. Remind him about the French Eagle. He's only got to learn six lines, but he says it makes his head ache so badly that he's sure he'll never do it." "I'll try and fire the man's pride," declared Mr. Gollop. "Joe's not a day over sixty-eight, and he's got a very fair share of intellect. He shall learn it, if I've got to teach him." "That's right. Now I must be off." When the vicar was gone Gollop reviewed the situation created by young Masterman's energy and tact. "I never could have foreseen it, yet the people somehow make shift to do with him. It don't say much for him, but it says a lot for us--for our sense and patience. We'm always ready to lend the man a hand in reason, and I wish he was more grateful; but I shouldn't call him a grateful man. Of course, this here play-acting will draw the eyes of the country on us, and he'll get the credit, no doubt; yet 'twill be us two men here in this bar--me and you, Nathan--as will make or mar all." "I'm very glad to help him. He's a good chap, and my sort. Lots of fun in the man when you know him." "Can't say I look at him like that. He's not enough beholden to the past, in my opinion. However, I believe he's woke up a bit to who I am and what my sister is," answered Gollop. "Not your fault if he hasn't." "And another thing--he don't take himself seriously enough," continued the parish clerk. "As a man I grant you he has got nought to take seriously. He's young, and he's riddled with evil, modern ideas that would land the country in ruin if followed. But, apart from that, as a minister he ought to be different. I hate to see him running after the ball at cricket, like a school-child. 'Tisn't decent, and it lessens the force of the man in the pulpit come Sunday, just as it lessened the force of physician Dawe to Tavistock when he took to singing comic songs at the penny readings. Why, 'twas money out of the doctor's pocket, as he lived to find out, too late. When Old Master Trelawny lay dying, and they axed un to let Dawe have a slap at un, he wouldn't do it. 'Be that the man that sang the song about locking his mother-in-law into the coal-cellar?' he axed. 'The same,' said they; 'but he's a terrible clever chap at the stomach, and may save you yet if there be enough of your organs left for him to work upon.' 'No, no,' says old Trelawny. 'Such a light-minded feller as that couldn't be trusted with a dying man's belly.' I don't say 'twas altogether reasonable, because the wisest must unbend the bow now and again; but I will maintain that that minister of the Lord didn't ought to take off his coat and get in a common sweat afore the people assembled at a cricket match. 'Tis worse than David making a circus of himself afore the holy ark; and if he does so, he must take the consequences." "The consequences be that everybody will think a lot better of him, as a manly and sensible chap, wishful to help the young men," declared Mr. Baskerville. "One thing I can bear witness to: I don't get the Saturday custom I used to get, and that's to the good, anyway." Then he looked at his watch and changed the subject. "Mrs. Lintern's daughter is paying a sort of solemn visit to my brother to-day, and they are all a little nervous about it." "He'll terrify her out of her wits," said Mr. Gollop. "He takes a dark delight in scaring the young people." "'Tisn't that, 'tis his manner. He don't mean to hurt 'em. A difficult man, however, as I know only too well." "If he can't get on with you, there's a screw loose in him," remarked the old man, sitting on the settle. "I won't say that, Abel; but I don't know why 'tis that he's got no use for me." "No loss, however," asserted Thomas. "A cranky and heartless creature. The likes of him couldn't neighbour with the likes of us--not enough human kindness in him." "Like our father afore him, and yet harder," explained the publican. "I can see my parent now--dark and grim, and awful old to my young eyes. Well I remember the first time I felt the sting of him. A terrible small boy I was--hadn't cast my short frocks, I believe--but I'd sinned in some little matter, and he give me my first flogging. And the picture I've got of father be a man with a hard, set face, with a bit of a grim smile on it, and his right hand hidden behind him. But I knowed what was in it! A great believer in the rod. He beat us often--all three of us--till we'd wriggle and twine like a worm on a hook; but our uncle, the musicker, he was as different as you please--soft and gentle, like my nephew Mark, and all for spoiling childer with sweeties and toys." Mr. Gollop rose to depart, and others entered. Then Nathan called a pot-man and left the bar. "I promised Mrs. Lintern as I'd go down to hear what Cora had to say," he explained. "I'm very hopeful that she's had the art to win Humphrey, for 'twill smooth the future a good bit for the people at Undershaugh if my brother takes to the wench. You'd think nobody could help it--such a lovely face as she has. However, we shall know how it fell out inside an hour or so." Meanwhile Cora, clad in her new muslin, had faced Humphrey Baskerville, and faced him alone. For her future father-in-law expressly wished this, and Mark was from home on the occasion of his sweetheart's visit. Cora arrived twenty minutes before dinner, and watched Susan Hacker dish it up. She had even offered to assist, but Susan would not permit it. "Better you go into the parlour and keep cool, my dear," she said. "You'll need to be. Master's not in the best of tempers to-day. And your young man left a message. He be gone to Plympton, and will be back by four o'clock; so, when you take your leave, you are to go down the Rut and meet him at Torry Brook stepping-stones, if you please." "Where's Mr. Baskerville?" "Taking the air up 'pon top the tor. He bides there most mornings till the dinner hour, and he'd forget his meal altogether so often as not, but I go to the hedge and ring the dinner bell. Then he comes down." "How can I best please him, Susan?" "By listening first, and by talking afterwards. He don't like a chatterbox, but he don't like young folk to be too silent neither. 'Twill be a hugeous heave-up of luck if you can get on his blind side. Few can--I warn you of that. He's very fond of natural, wild things. If you was to talk about the flowers and show him you be fond of nature, it might be well. However, do as you will, he'll find out the truth of 'e." "I'm all of a tremor. I wish you hadn't told me that." "Mark might have told you. Still, for your comfort it may be said you're built the right way. You'll be near so full-blown as I be, come you pass fifty. He hates the pinikin,[1] pin-tailed sort. Be cheerful, [1] _Pinikin_--delicate. eat hearty, don't leave nothing on your plate, and wait for him to say grace afore and after meat. The rest must fall out according to your own sense and wit. Now I be going to ring the bell." "I half thought that he might come part of the way to meet me." "You thought wrong, then. He don't do that sort of thing." "I wish Mark was here, Susan." "So does Mark. But master has his own way of doing things, and 'tis generally the last way that other people would use." Mrs. Hacker rang the bell, and the thin, black figure of Humphrey Baskerville appeared and began to creep down the side of the hill. He had, of course, met Cora on previous occasions, but this was the first time that he had spoken with the girl since her betrothal. He shook hands and hoped that her mother was well. "A harvest to make up for last year," he said. "You ought to be lending a hand by rights." "I don't think Mr. Baskerville would like for Polly and me to do that. 'Tis too hot," she said. "Nathan wouldn't? Surely he would. Many hands make light work and save the time. You're a strong girl, aren't you?" "Strong as a pony, sir." "Don't call me 'sir.' And you're fond of wild nature and the country--so Mark tells me." "That I am, and the wild flowers." "Why didn't you wear a bunch of 'em then? Better them than that davered[2] rose stuck in your belt. Gold by the look of it--the belt I mean." [2] _Davered_--withered. She laughed. "I'll let you into the secret," she said. "I wanted to be smart to-day, and so I took one of my treasures. You'll never guess where this gold belt came from, Mr. Baskerville?" "Don't like it, anyway," he answered. "Why, 'twas the hat-band round my grandfather's hat! He was a beadle up to some place nigh London; and 'twas an heirloom when he died; and mother gived it to me, and here it is." He regarded the relic curiously. "A funny world, to be sure," he said. "Little did that bygone man think of such a thing when he put his braided hat on his head, I'll warrant." He relapsed into a long silence, and Cora's remarks were rewarded with no more than nods of affirmation or negation. Then, suddenly, he broke out on the subject of apparel long after she thought that he had forgotten it. "Terrible tearing fine I suppose you think your clothes are, young woman--terrible tearing fine; but I hate 'em, and they ill become a poor man's wife and a poor man's daughter. My mother wore her hair frapped back light and plain, with a forehead cloth, and a little blue baize rochet over her breast, and a blue apron and short gown and hob-nailed shoon; and she looked ten thousand times finer than ever you looked in your life--or ever can in that piebald flimsy, with those Godless smashed birds on your head. What care you for nature to put a bit of a dead creature 'pon top of your hair? A nasty fashion, and I'm sorry you follow it." She kept her temper well under this terrific onslaught. "We must follow the fashion, Mr. Baskerville. But I'll not wear this hat again afore you, since you don't like it." "Going to be married and live up to your knees in clover, eh? So you both think. Now tell me what you feel like to my son, please." "I love him dearly, I'm sure, and I think he's a very clever chap, and quite the gentleman in all his ways. Though he might dress a bit smarter, and not be so friendly with the other bellringers. Because they are commoner men than him, of course." "'Quite the gentleman'--eh? What's a gentleman?" "Oh, dear, Mr. Baskerville, you'll spoil my dinner with such a lot of questions. To be a gentleman is to be like Mark, I suppose--kind and quick to see what a girl wants; and to be handsome and be well thought of by everybody, and all the rest of it." "You go a bit too high at instep," he said. "You're too vain of your pretty face, and you answer rather pertly. You don't know what a gentleman is, for all you think yourself a fine lady. And I'll tell you this: very few people do know what a gentleman is. You can tell a lot about people by hearing them answer when you ask them what a gentleman is. Where would you like to live?" "Where 'twould please Mark best. And if the things I say offend you, I'm sorry for it. You must make allowances, Mr. Baskerville. I'm young, and I've not got much sense yet; but I want to please you--I want to please everybody, for that matter." This last remark much interested her listener. He started and looked at the girl fixedly. Then his expression changed, and he appeared to stare through her at somebody or something beyond. Behind Cora the old man did, indeed, see another very clearly in his mind's eye. After a painful silence she spoke again, and her tone was troubled. "I want to say the thing that will please you, if I can. But I must be myself. I'm sorry if you don't like me." "You must be yourself, and so must I," he answered; "and if I'm not liking you, you're loathing me. But we're getting through our dinner very nicely. Will you have any more of this cherry tart?" "No, I've done well." "You've eaten nought to name. I've spoiled your appetite, and you--well, you've done more than you think, and taught me more than you know yourself." She shrugged her shoulders. "Mark says puzzling things like that sometimes." There was another silence. "You ride a pony, don't you?" he asked presently; and the girl brightened up. Mr. Baskerville possessed some of the best ponies on Dartmoor, and sold a noted strain of his own raising. "He's going to make it up with a pony!" thought sanguine Cora. "I do. I'm very fond of riding." "Like it better than walking, I dare say?" "Yes, I do." "And you'd like driving better still, perhaps?" "No, I wouldn't." "What are the strangles?" he asked suddenly and grimly. "It's something the ponies get the matter with them." "Of course; but what is it? How does it come, and why? Is it infectious? Is it ever fatal to them?" She shook her head. "I don't know nothing about things like that." "No use having a pony if you don't understand it. The strangles are infectious and sometimes fatal. Don't forget that." Cora felt her temper struggling to break loose. She poured out a glass of water. "I promise not to forget it," she answered. "Shall I put the cheese on the table for you?? "No, I thank you--unless you'll eat some." "Nothing more, I'm sure." "We'll walk out in the air, then. With your love of nature, you'll like the growing things up on top of my hill. Mark will be back for tea, I think. But maybe you'll not stop quite so long as that." "I'll stop just as long as you like," she said. "But I don't want to tire you." "You've got your mother's patience, and plenty of it, I see. That's a good mark for you. Patience goes a long way. You can keep your temper, too--well for you that you can. Though whether 'tis nature or art in you----" He broke off and she followed him out of doors. Upon the tor he asked her many things concerning the clouds above them, the cries of the birds, and the names of the flowers. The ordeal proved terrible, because her ignorance of these matters was almost absolute. At last, unable to endure more, she fled from him, pleaded a sudden recollection of an engagement for the afternoon, and hastened homeward as fast as she could walk. Once out of sight of the old man she slowed down, and her wrongs and affronts crowded upon her and made her bosom pant. She clenched her hands and bit her handkerchief. She desired to weep, but intended that others should see her tears. Therefore she controlled them until she reached home, and then she cried copiously in the presence of her mother, her sister, and Nathan Baskerville, who had come to learn of her success. The directions of Mark, to meet him at Torry stepping-stones, Cora had entirely forgotten. Nor would she have kept the appointment had she remembered it. In her storm of passion she hated even Mark for being his father's son. Nathan was indignant at the recital, and Mrs. Lintern showed sorrow, but not surprise. "'Twas bound to be difficult," she said. "He sent Mark away, you see. He meant to get to the bottom of her." "A very wanton, unmanly thing," declared Nathan. "I'm ashamed of him." "Don't you take it too much to heart," answered the mother. "Maybe he thought better of Cora than he seemed to do. He's always harsh and hard like that to young people; but it means nought. I believe that Cora's a bit frightened, that's all." "We must see him," said Nathan. "At least, I must. I make this my affair." "'Twill be better for me to do so." "I tried that hard to please the man," sobbed Cora; "but he looked me through--tore me to pieces with his eyes like a savage dog. Nothing was right from my head to my heels. Flouted my clothes--flouted my talk--was angered, seemingly, because I couldn't tell him how to cure a pony of strangles--wanted me to tell the name of every bird on the bough, and weed in the gutter. And not a spark of hope or kindness from first to last. He did say that I'd got my mother's patience, and that's the only pat on the back he gave me. Patient! I could have sclowed his ugly face down with my nails!" Her mother stroked her shoulder. "Hush!" she said. "Don't take on about it. We shall hear what Mark has got to tell." "I don't care what he's got to tell. I'm not going to be scared out of my life, and bullied and trampled on by that old beast!" "No more you shall be," cried Nathan. "He'll say 'tis no business of mine, but everything to do with Undershaugh is my business. I'll see him. He's always hard on me; now I'll be hard on him and learn him how to treat a woman." "Don't go in heat," urged Mrs. Lintern after Cora had departed with the sympathetic Phyllis. "There's another side, you know. Cora's not his sort. No doubt her fine clothes--she would go in 'em, though I advised her not--no doubt they made him cranky; and then things went from bad to worse." "'Tis not a bit of use talking to me, Hester. I'm angered, and naturally angered. In a way this was meant to anger me, I'm afraid. He well knows how much you all at Undershaugh are to me. 'Twas to make me feel small, as much as anything, that he snubbed her so cruel. No--I'll not hear you on the subject--not now. I'll see him to-day." "I shouldn't--wiser far to wait till you are cool. He'll be more reasonable too, to-morrow, when he's forgotten a little." "What is there to forget? The prettiest and cleverest girl in Shaugh--or in the county, for that matter. Don't stop me. I'm going this instant." "It's dangerous, Nat. He'll only tell you to mind your own business." "No, he won't. Even he can't tax me with not doing that. Everything is my business, if I choose to make it so. Anyway, all at Undershaugh are my business." He left her; but by the time he arrived at Beatland Corner, on the way to Hawk House, Nathan Baskerville had changed his mind. Another aspect of the case suddenly presented itself to him, and, as he grew calmer, he decided to keep out of this quarrel, though natural instincts drew him into it. A few moments later, as thought progressed with him, he found himself wishing that Humphrey would die. But the desire neither surprised nor shocked him, for he had often wished it before. Humphrey's life was of no apparent service to Humphrey, while to certain other people it could only be regarded in the light of a hindrance. CHAPTER XI Some days later Mark Baskerville spoke with Mrs. Lintern, and she was relieved to find that Cora's fears had been exaggerated. "He said very little indeed about her, except that he didn't like her clothes and that she had a poor appetite," explained Mark. "Of course, I asked him a thousand questions, but he wouldn't answer them. I don't think he knows in the least how he flustered Cora. He said one queer thing that I couldn't see sense in, though perhaps you may. He said, 'She's told me more about herself than she knows herself--and more than I'll tell again--even to you, though some might think it a reason against her.' Whatever did he mean by that? But it don't much matter, anyway, and my Cora's quite wrong to think she was a failure or anything of that kind. He asked only this morning, as natural as possible, when she was coming over again." These statements satisfied the girl's mother, but they failed to calm Cora herself. She took the matter much to heart, caused her lover many unquiet and anxious hours, and refused point-blank for the present to see Mr. Baskerville. Then fell the great first rehearsal of the Christmas play, and Dennis Masterman found that he had been wise to take time by the forelock in this matter. The mummers assembled in the parish room, and the vicar and his sister, with Nathan Baskerville's assistance, strove to lead them through the drama. "It's not going to be quite like the version that a kind friend has sent me, and from which your parts are written," explained Dennis. "I've arranged for an introduction in the shape of a prologue. I shall do this myself, and appear before the curtain and speak a speech to explain what it is all about. This answers Mr. Waite here, who is going to be the Turkish Knight. He didn't want to begin the piece. Now I shall have broken the ice, and then he will be discovered as the curtain rises." Mr. Timothy Waite on this occasion, however, began proceedings, as the vicar's prologue was not yet written. He proved letter-perfect but exceedingly nervous. "Open your doors and let me in, I hope your favours I shall win. Whether I rise or whether I fall, I'll do my best to please you all!" Mr. Waite spoke jerkily, and his voice proved a little out of control, but everybody congratulated him. "How he rolls his eyes to be sure," said Vivian Baskerville. "A very daps of a Turk, for sartain." "You ought to stride about more, Waite," suggested Ned Baskerville, who had cheered up of recent days, and was now standing beside Cora and other girls destined to assist the play. "The great thing is to stride about and look alive--isn't it, Mr. Masterman?" "We'll talk afterwards," answered Dennis. "We mustn't interfere with the action. You have got your speech off very well, Waite, but you said it much too fast. We must be slow and distinct, so that not a word is missed." Timothy, who enjoyed the praise of his friends, liked this censure less. "As for speaking fast," he said, "the man would speak fast. Because he expects St. George will be on his tail in a minute. He says, 'I know he'll pierce my skin.' In fact, he's pretty well sweating with terror from the first moment he comes on the stage, I should reckon." But Mr. Masterman was unprepared for any such subtle rendering of the Turkish Knight, and he only hoped that the more ancient play-actors would not come armed with equally obstinate opinions. "We'll talk about it afterwards," he said. "Now you go off to the right, Waite, and Father Christmas comes on at the left. Mr. Baskerville--Father Christmas, please." Nathan put his part into his pocket, marched on to the imaginary stage and bowed. Everybody cheered. "You needn't bow," explained Dennis; but the innkeeper differed from him. "I'm afraid I must, your reverence. When I appear before them, the people will give me a lot of applause in their usual kindly fashion. Why, even these here--just t'other actors do, you see--so you may be sure that the countryside will. Therefore I had better practise the bow at rehearsal, if you've no great argument against it." "All right, push on," said Dennis. "We must really be quicker," declared Miss Masterman. "Half an hour has gone, and we've hardly started." "Off I go then; and I want you chaps--especially you, Vivian, and you, Jack Head, and you, Tom Gollop--to watch me acting. Acting ban't the same as ordinary talking. If I was just talking, I should say all quiet, without flinging my arms about, and walking round, and stopping, and then away again. But in acting you do all these things, and instead of merely saying your speeches, as we would, just man to man, over my bar or in the street, you have to bawl 'em out so that every soul in the audience catches 'em." Having thus explained his theory of histrionics Mr. Baskerville started, and with immense and original emphasis, and sudden actions and gestures, introduced himself. "Here come I, the dear old Father Christmas. Welcome or welcome not, I hope old Father Christmas Will never be forgot. A room--make room here, gallant boys, And give us room to rhyme----" Nathan broke off to explain his reading of the part. "When I say 'make room' I fly all round the stage, as if I was pushing the people back to give me room." He finished his speech, and panted and mopped his head. "That's acting, and what d'you think of it?" he asked. They all applauded vigorously excepting Mr. Gollop, who now prepared to take his part. Nathan then left the stage and the vicar called him back. "You don't go off," he explained. "You stop to welcome the King of Egypt." "Beg pardon," answered the innkeeper. "But of course, so it is. I'll take my stand here." "You bow to the King of Egypt when he comes on," declared Gollop. "He humbly bows to me, don't he, reverend Masterman?" "Yes," said Dennis, "he bows, of course. You'll have a train carried by two boys, Gollop; but the boys aren't here to-night, as they're both down with measles--Mrs. Bassett's youngsters." "I'll bow to you if you bow to me, Tom," said Mr. Baskerville. "That's only right." "Kings don't bow to common people," declared the parish clerk. "Me and my pretended darter--that's Miss Cora Lintern, who's the Princess--ban't going to bow, I should hope." "You ought to, then," declared Jack Head. "No reason because you'm King of Egypt why you should think yourself better than other folk. Make him bow, Nathan. Don't you bow to him if he don't bow to you." "Kings do bow," declared Dennis. "You must bow to Father Christmas, Gollop." "He must bow first, then," argued the parish clerk. "Damn the man! turn him out and let somebody else do it!" cried Head. "Let neither of 'em bow," suggested Mrs. Hacker suddenly. "With all this here bowing and scraping, us shan't be done afore midnight; and I don't come in the play till the end of all things as 'tis." "You'd better decide, your reverence," suggested Vivian. "Your word's law. I say let 'em bow simultaneous--how would that serve?" "Excellent!" declared Dennis. "You'll bow together, please. Now, Mr. Gollop." Thomas marched on with an amazing gait, designed to be regal. "They'll all laugh if you do it like that, Tom," complained Mr. Voysey. "Beggar the man! And why for shouldn't they laugh?" asked Jack Head. "Thomas don't want to make 'em cry, do he? Ban't we all to be as funny as ever we can, reverend Masterman?" "Yes," said Dennis. "In reason--in reason, Jack. But acting is one thing, and playing the fool is another." "Oh, Lord! I thought they was the same," declared Vivian Baskerville. "Because if I've got to act the giant----" "Order! order!" cried the clergyman. "We must get on. Don't be annoyed, Mr. Baskerville, I quite see your point; but it will all come right at rehearsal." "You'll have to tell me how to act then," said Vivian. "How the mischief can a man pretend to be what he isn't? A giant----" "You're as near being a live giant as you can be," declared Nathan. "You've only got to be yourself and you'll be all right." "No," argued Jack Head. "If the man's himself, he's not funny, and nobody will laugh. I say----" "You can show us what you mean when you come to your own part, Jack," said Dennis desperately. "Do get on, Gollop." "Bow then," said Mr. Gollop to Nathan. "I'll bow when you do, and not a minute sooner," answered the innkeeper firmly. The matter of the bow was arranged, and Mr. Gollop, in the familiar voice with which he had led the psalms for a quarter of a century, began his part. "Here I, the King of Egypt, boldly do appear, St. Garge! St. Garge! walk in, my only son and heir; Walk in, St. Garge, my son, and boldly act thy part, That all the people here may see thy wondrous art!" "Well done, Tom!" said Mr. Masterman, "that's splendid; but you mustn't sing it." "I ban't singing it," answered the clerk. "I know what to do." "All right. Now St. George, St. George, where are you?" "Along with the girls as usual," snapped Mr. Gollop. As a matter of fact Ned Baskerville was engaged in deep conversation with Princess Sabra and the Turkish Knight. He left them and hurried forward. "Give tongue, Ned!" cried his father. "You walk down to the footlights, and the King of Egypt will be on one side of you and Father Christmas on the other," explained the vicar. "And you needn't look round for the females, 'cause they don't appear till later on," added Jack Head. A great laugh followed this jest, whereon Miss Masterman begged her brother to try and keep order. "If they are not going to be serious, we had better give it up, and waste no more time," she said. "Don't take it like that, miss, I beg of you," urged Nathan. "All's prospering very well. We shall shape down. Go on, Ned." Ned looked at his part, then put it behind his back, and then brought it out again. "This is too bad, Baskerville," complained Dennis. "You told me yesterday that you knew every word." "So I did yesterday, I'll swear to it. I said it out in the kitchen after supper to mother--didn't I, father?" "You did," assented Vivian; "but that's no use if you've forgot it now." "'Tis stage fright," explained Nathan. "You'll get over it." "Think you'm talking to a maiden," advised Jack Head. "Do get on!" cried Dennis. Then he prompted the faulty mummer. "Here come I, St. George----" Ned struck an attitude and started. "Here come I, St. George; from Britain did I spring; I'll fight the Russian Bear, my wonders to begin. I'll pierce him through, he shall not fly; I'll cut him--cut him--cut him----" "How does it go?" "'I'll cut him down,'" prompted Dennis. "Right! "I'll cut him down, or else I'll die." "Good! Now, come on, Bear!" said Nathan. "You and Jack Head will have to practise the fight," explained the vicar; "and at this point, or earlier, the ladies will march in to music and take their places, because, of course, 'fair Sabra' has to see St. George conquer his foes." "That'll suit Ned exactly!" laughed Nathan. Then he marshalled Cora and several other young women, including May and Polly Baskerville from Cadworthy, and Cora's sister Phyllis. "There will be a daïs lifted up at the back, you know--that's a raised platform. But for the present you must pretend these chairs are the throne. You sit by 'fair Sabra,' Thomas, and then the trumpets sound and the Bear comes on." "Who'll play the brass music?" asked Head, "because I've got a very clever friend at Sheepstor----" "Leave all that to me. The music is arranged. Now, come on!" "Shall you come on and play it like a four-footed thing, or get up on your hind-legs, Jack?" asked St. George. "I be going to come in growling and yowling on all fours," declared Mr. Head grimly. "Then I be going to do a sort of a comic bear dance; then I be going to have a bit of fun eating a plum pudding; then I thought that me and Mr. Nathan might have a bit of comic work; and then I should get up on my hind-legs and go for St. George." "You can't do all that," declared Dennis. "Not that I want to interfere with you, or anybody, Head; but if each one is going to work out his part and put such a lot into it, we shall never get done." "The thing is to make 'em laugh, reverend Masterman," answered Jack with firmness. "If I just come on and just say my speech, and fight and die, there's nought in it; but if----" "Go on, then--go on. We'll talk afterwards." "Right. Now you try not to laugh, souls, and I wager I'll make you giggle like a lot of zanies," promised Jack. Then he licked his hands, went down upon them, and scrambled along upon all fours. "Good for you, Jack! Well done! You'm funnier than anything that's gone afore!" cried Joe Voysey. "So you be, for certain," added Mrs. Hacker. "For all the world like my bob-tailed sheep-dog," declared Mr. Waite. "Now I be going to sit up on my hams and scratch myself," explained Mr. Head; "then off I go again and have a sniff at Father Christmas. Then you ought to give me a plum pudding, Mr. Baskerville, and I balance it 'pon my nose." "Well thought on!" declared Nathan. "So I will. 'Twill make the folk die of laughing to see you." "Come on to the battle," said Dennis. "Must be a sort of wraslin' fight," continued Head, "because the Bear's got nought but his paws. Then, I thought, when I'd throwed St. George a fair back heel, he'd get up and draw his shining sword and stab me in the guts. Then I'd roar and roar, till the place fairly echoed round, and then I'd die in frightful agony." "You ban't the whole play, Jack," said Mr. Gollop with much discontent. "You forget yourself, surely. You can't have the King of Egypt and these here other high characters all standing on the stage doing nought while you'm going through these here vagaries." But Mr. Head stuck to his text. "We'm here to make 'em laugh," he repeated with bull-dog determination. "And I'll do it if mortal man can do it. Then, when I've took the doctor's stuff, up I gets again and goes on funnier than ever." "I wouldn't miss it for money, Jack," declared Vivian Baskerville. "Such a clever chap as you be, and none of us ever knowed it. You ought to go for Tom Fool to the riders.[3] I lay you'd make tons more money than ever you will to Trowlesworthy Warren." [3] _The Riders_--a circus. "By the way, who is to be the Doctor?" asked Ned Baskerville. "'Twasn't settled, Mr. Masterman." Dennis collapsed blankly. "By Jove, no! More it was," he admitted, "and I've forgotten all about it. The Doctor's very important, too. We must have him before the next rehearsal. For the present you can read it out of the book, Mark." Mark Baskerville was prompting, and now, after St. George and the Bear had made a pretence of wrestling, and the Bear had perished with much noise and to the accompaniment of loud laughter, Mark read the Doctor's somewhat arrogant pretensions. "All sorts of diseases-- Whatever you pleases: The phthisic, the palsy, the gout, If the Devil's in, I blow him out. * * * * * * "I carry a bottle of alicampane, Here, Russian Bear, take a little of my flip-flap, Pour it down thy tip-tap; Rise up and fight again!" "Well said, Mark! 'Twas splendidly given. Why for shouldn't Mark be Doctor?" asked Nathan. "An excellent idea," declared Dennis. "I'm sure now, if the fair Queen Sabra will only put in a word----" Mark's engagement was known. The people clapped their hands heartily and Cora blushed. "I wish he would," said Cora. "Your wish ought to be his law," declared Ned. "I'm sure if 'twas me----" But Mark shook his head. "I couldn't do it," he answered. "I would if I could; but when the time came, and the people, and the excitement of it all, I should break down, I'm sure I should." "It's past ten o'clock," murmured Miss Masterman to her brother. The rehearsal proceeded: Jack Head, as the Bear, was restored to life and slain again with much detail. Then Ned proceeded-- "I fought the Russian Bear And brought him to the slaughter; By that I won fair Sabra, The King of Egypt's daughter. Where is the man that now will me defy? I'll cut his giblets full of holes and make his buttons fly." "And when I've got my sword, of course 'twill be much finer," concluded Ned. Mr. Gollop here raised an objection. "I don't think the man ought to tell about cutting anybody's giblets full of holes," he said; "no, nor yet making their buttons fly. 'Tis very coarse, and the gentlefolks wouldn't like it." "Nonsense, Tom," answered the vicar, "it's all in keeping with the play. There's no harm in it at all." "Evil be to them as evil think," said Jack Head. "Now comes the song, reverend Masterman, and I was going to propose that the Bear, though he's dead as a nit, rises up on his front paws and sings with the rest, then drops down again--eh, souls?" "They'll die of laughing if you do that, Jack," declared Vivian. "I vote for it." But Dennis firmly refused permission and addressed his chorus. "Now, girls, the song--everybody joins. The other songs are not written yet, so we need not bother about them till next time." The girls, glad of something to do, sang vigorously, and the song went well. Then the Turkish Knight was duly slain, restored and slain again. "We can't finish to-night," declared Dennis, looking at his watch, "so I'm sorry to have troubled you to come, Mrs. Hacker, and you, Voysey." "They haven't wasted their time, however, because Head and I have showed them what acting means," said Nathan. "And when you do come on, Susan Hacker, you've got to quarrel and pull my beard, remember; then we make it up afterwards." "We'll finish for to-night with the Giant," decreed Dennis. "Now speak your long speech, St. George, and then Mr. Baskerville can do the Giant." Ned, who declared that he had as yet learned no more, read his next speech, and Vivian began behind the scenes-- "Fee--fi--fo--fum! I smell the blood of an Englishman. Let him be living, or let him be dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread." "You ought to throw a bit more roughness in your voice, farmer," suggested Mr. Gollop. "If you could bring it up from the innards, 'twould sound more awful, wouldn't it, reverend Masterman?" "And when you come on, farmer, you might pass me by where I lie dead," said Jack, "and I'll up and give you a nip in the calf of the leg, and you'll jump round, and the people will roar again." "No," declared the vicar. "No more of you, Head, till the end. Then you come to life and dance with the French Eagle--that's Voysey. But you mustn't act any more till then." "A pity," answered Jack. "I was full of contrivances; however, if you say so----" "Be I to dance?" asked Mr. Voysey. "This is the first I've heard tell o' that. How can I dance, and the rheumatism eating into my knees for the last twenty year?" "I'll dance," said Head. "You can just turn round and round slowly." "Now, Mr. Baskerville!" Vivian strode on to the stage. "Make your voice big, my dear," pleaded Gollop. "Here come I, the Giant; bold Turpin is my name, And all the nations round do tremble at my fame, Where'er I go, they tremble at my sight: No lord or champion long with me will dare to fight." "People will cheer you like thunder, Vivian," said his brother, "because they know that the nations really did tremble at your fame when you was champion wrestler of the west." "But you mustn't stand like that, farmer," said Jack Head. "You'm too spraddlesome. For the Lord's sake, man, try and keep your feet in the same parish!" Mr. Baskerville bellowed with laughter and slapped his immense thigh. "Dammy! that's funnier than anything in the play," he said. "'Keep my feet in the same parish!' Was ever a better joke heard?" "Now, St. George, kill the Giant," commanded Dennis. "The Giant will have a club, and he'll try to smash you; then you run him through the body." "Take care you don't hit Ned in real earnest, however, else you'd settle him and spoil the play," said Mr. Voysey. "'Twould be a terrible tantarra for certain if the Giant went and whipped St. George." "'Twouldn't be the first time, however," said Mr. Baskerville. "Would it, Ned?" Nathan and Ned's sisters appreciated this family joke. Then Mr. Gollop advanced a sentimental objection. "I may be wrong," he admitted, "but I can't help thinking it might be a bit ondecent for Ned Baskerville here to kill his father, even in play. You see, though everybody will know 'tis Ned and his parent, and that they'm only pretending, yet it might shock a serious-minded person here and there to see the son kill the father. I don't say I mind, as 'tis all make-believe and the frolic of a night; but--well, there 'tis." "You'm a silly old grandmother, and never no King of Egypt was such a fool afore," said Jack. "Pay no heed to him, reverend Masterman." Gollop snarled at Head, and they began to wrangle fiercely. Then Dennis closed the rehearsal. "That'll do for the present," he announced. "We've made a splendid start, and the thing to remember is that we meet here again this day week, at seven o'clock. And mind you know your part, Ned. Another of the songs will be ready by then; and the new harmonium will have come that my sister is going to play. And do look about, all of you, to find somebody who will take the Doctor." "We shall have the nation's eyes on us--not for the first time," declared Mr. Gollop as he tied a white wool muffler round his throat; "and I'm sure I hope one and all will do the best that's in 'em." The actors departed; the oil lamps were extinguished, and the vicar and his sister returned home. She said little by the way, and her severe silence made him rather nervous. "Well," he broke out at length, "jolly good, I think, for a first attempt--eh, Alice?" "I'm glad you were satisfied, dear. Everything depends upon us--that seems quite clear, at any rate. They'll all get terribly self-conscious and silly, I'm afraid, long before the time comes. However, we must hope for the best. But I shouldn't be in a hurry to ask anybody who really matters." CHAPTER XII In a triangle the wild land of the Rut sloped down from Hawk House to the valley beneath, and its solitary time of splendour belonged to Spring, when the great furzes were blooming and the white thorns filled the valley with light. Hither came Mark to keep tryst with Cora beside the stream. He walked not loverly but languid, for his mind was in trouble, and his gait reflected it. To water's brink he came, sat on a familiar stump above Torry Brook, and watched sunshine play over the ripples and a dance of flies upon the sunshine. Looked at in a mass, the insects seemed no more than a glimmering, like a heat haze, over the water and against the background of the woods; but noted closer the plan and pattern of these myriads showed method: the little storm of flies gyrated in a circle, and while the whole cluster swept this way and that with the proper motion of the mass, yet each individual, like planets round the sun, revolved about a definite but shifting centre. The insects whirled round and round, rose and sank again, each atom describing repeated circles; and though the united motion of this company suspended here in air appeared inconceivably rapid and dazzling, yet the progress of each single gnat was not fast. Mark observed this little galaxy of glittering lives, and, knowing some natural history, he considered intelligently the thing he saw. For a moment it distracted him. A warm noon had wakened innumerable brief existences that a cold night would still again. All this immense energy must soon cease and the ephemeral atoms perish at the chill touch of evening; but to Nature it mattered neither more nor less if a dance of nebulæ or a dance of gnats should make an end that night. Countless successions of both were a part of her work. From awful marriages of ancient suns new suns would certainly be born; and out of this midge dance here above the water, potential dances for another day were ensured, before the little system sank to rest, the aureole of living light became extinguished. He turned from the whirl and wail of the gnats to his own thoughts, and found them also revolving restlessly. But their sun and centre was Cora. He had asked her to meet him here, in a favourite and secret place, that he might speak harsh things to her. There was no love-making toward just now. She had angered him once and again. He considered his grievances, strove to palliate them, and see all with due allowance; but his habit of mind, if vague, was not unjust. He loved her passionately, but that she should put deliberate indignities upon him argued a faulty reciprocity of love. Time had revealed that Cora did not care for Mark as well as he cared for her; and that would not have mattered--he held it reasonable. But he desired a larger measure of affection and respect than he had received. Then to his quick senses even the existing affection diminished, and respect appeared to die. These dire shadows had risen out of the rehearsals for the play. Cora's attitude towards other young men first astonished Mark and then annoyed him. He kept his annoyance to himself, however, for fear of being laughed at. Then, thanks to his cousin, Ned Baskerville, and the young farmer, Timothy Waite, he was laughed at, for Cora found these youths better company than Mark himself, and Jack Head and others did not hesitate to rally him about his indifferent lady. "She's more gracious with either of them than with me," he reflected. "Why, actually, when I offered as usual to walk home with her last week, she said yonder man had promised to do so and she need not trouble me!" As he spoke he lifted his eyes where a farm showed on the hills westerly through the trees. Coldstone was a prosperous place, and the freehold of a prosperous man, young Waite, the Turkish Knight of the play. He had seen Cora home according to her wish, and Mark had kept his temper and afterwards made the present appointment by letter. Now Cora came to him, late from another interview--but concerning it she said nothing. On her way from Undershaugh it happened that she had fallen in with Mark's father. The old man rode his pony, and Cora was passing him hastily when he stopped and called her to him. They had not met since the occasion of the girl's first and last visit to Hawk House. "Come hither," he said. "I've fretted you, it seems, and set you against me. I'm sorry for that. You should be made of stouter stuff. Shake hands with me, Cora, please." He held out his hand and she took it silently. "I'll turn and go a bit of your road. If you intend to marry my son, you must make shift to be my daughter, you see. What was it made you so cross that you ran away? But I know--I spoke against your clothes." "You spoke against everything. I felt in every drop of blood in my body that you didn't like me. That's why I had to run." He was silent a moment. Suddenly he pointed to one faint gold torch above their heads, where a single bough of an elm was autumn-painted, and began to glow on the bosom of a tree still green. It stood out shining against the deep summer darkness of the foliage. "What d'you make of that?" he asked. She looked up. "'Tis winter coming again, I suppose." "Yes--winter for us, death for the leaves. I'm like that--I'm frost-bitten here and there--in places. 'Twas a frosty day with me when you came to dinner. I'm sorry I hurt you. But you must be sensible. It's a lot harder to be a good wife than a popular maiden. My son Mark will need a strong-minded woman, not a silly one. The question is, are you going to rise to it? However, we'll leave that. How did you know in every drop of your blood, as you say, that you'd failed to please me?" "I knew it by--oh, by everything. By your eyes and by the tone of your voice. You said you wanted to talk to me." "Well, I did." "You never asked me nothing." "There was no need, you told me everything." "I said nought, I'm sure." "You said all I wanted to hear and told me a lot more than I wanted, or expected, to hear for that matter." "I'm sure I don't understand you, Mr. Baskerville." "No need--no need. That's only to say you're like the rest. They wonder how 'tis they don't understand me--fools that they are!--and yet how many understand themselves? I'll tell you this: you're not the right wife for Mark." "Then I won't marry him. There's quite as good as him, and better, for that matter." "Plenty. Take young Waite from Coldstone Farm, for instance. A strong man he is. My son Mark is a weak man--a gentle character he hath. 'Tis the strong men--they that want things--that alter the face of the world, and make history, and help the breed--not such as Mark. He'd spoil you and bring out all the very worst of you. Such a man as Waite would do different. He'd not stand your airs and graces, and little silly whims and fancies. He'd break you in; he'd tame you; and you'd look back afterwards and thank God you fell to a strong man and not a weak one." "Women marry for love, not for taming," she said. "Some, perhaps, but not you. You ban't built to love, if you want to know the whole truth," he answered calmly. "You belong to a sort of woman who takes all and gives nought. I wish I could ope your eyes to yourself, but I suppose that's beyond human power. But this I'll say: I wish you nothing but good; and the best good of all for such a one as you is to get a glimpse of yourself through a sensible and not unkindly pair of eyes. If you are going to marry Mark, and want to be a happy woman and wish him to be a happy man, you must think of a lot of things beside your wedding frock." "For two pins I wouldn't marry him at all after this," she said. "You'd break any girl's heart, speaking so straight and coarse to her. I ban't accustomed to be talked to so cruel, and I won't stand it." "I do beg you to think again," he said, stopping his pony. "I'm only telling you what I've often told myself. I'm always open to hear sense from any man, save now and again when I find myself in a black mood and won't hear anything. But you--a green girl as haven't seen one glimpse of the grey side yet--why, 'tis frank foolishness to refuse good advice from an old man." "You don't want to give me good advice," she answered, and her face was red and her voice high; "you only want to make me think small things of myself, and despise myself, and to choke me off Mark." "To choke you off Mark might be the best advice anybody could give you, for that matter, my dear; and as to your thinking small things of yourself--no such luck I see. You'll go on thinking a lot of your little, empty self till you stop thinking for good and all. Life ban't going to teach you anything worth knowing, because you've stuffed up your ears with self-conceit and vanity. So go your way; but if you get a grain of sense come back to me, and I shall be very glad to hear about it." He left her standing still in a mighty temper. She felt inclined to fling a stone after him. And yet she rejoiced at the bottom of her heart, because this scene made her future actions easier. Only one thing still held her to Mark Baskerville, and that was his money. The sickly ghost of regard for him, which she was pleased to call love, existed merely as the answer to her own appeal to her conscience. She had never loved him, but when the opportunity came, she could not refuse his worldly wealth and the future of successful comfort it promised. Now, however, were appearing others who attracted her far more. Two men had entered into her life since the rehearsals, and both pleased her better than Mark. One she liked for his person and for his charms of manner and of speech; the other for his masterful character and large prosperity. One was better looking than Mark, and knew far better how to worship a woman; the other was perhaps as rich as Mark would be, and he appealed to her much more by virtue of his masculinity and vigour. Mr. Baskerville had actually mentioned this individual during the recent conversation; and it was of him, too, that Mark considered where he sat and waited for Cora by the stream. But though she felt Timothy Waite's value, yet a thing even stronger drew her to the other man. Ned Baskerville was the handsomest, gallantest, most fascinating creature that Cora had ever known. Chance threw them little together until the rehearsals, but since then they had met often, and advanced far along a road of mutual admiration. Like clove to like, and the emptiness of each heart struck a kindred echo from the other; but neither appreciated the hollowness of the sound. Under these circumstances Humphrey Baskerville's strictures, though exceedingly painful to her self-love, were not unwelcome, for they made the thing that she designed to do reasonable and proper. It would be simple to quote his father to her betrothed when she threw him over. In this temper Cora now appeared to Mark. Had he been aware of it he might have hesitated before adding further fuel to the flames. But he began in a friendly fashion, rose and kissed her. "You're late, Cora. Look here. Sit down and get cool and watch these flies. The merry dancers, they are called, and well they may be. 'Tis a regular old country measure they seem to tread in the air--figure in and cross over and all--just like you do when you go through the old dance in the play." But she was in no mood of softness. "A tidy lot of dancing I'll get when I'm married to you! You know you hate it, and hate everything else with any joy and happiness to it. You're only your father over again, when all's said, and God defend me from him! I can't stand no more of him, and I won't." "You've met him?" said Mark. "I was afraid you might. I'm sorry for that." "Not so sorry as I am. If I was dirt by the road he couldn't have treated me worse. And I'm not going to suffer it--never once more--not if he was ten times your father!" "What did he say?" "What didn't he say? Not a kind word, anyway. And 'tis vain your sticking up for him, because he don't think any better of you than he do of me seemingly. 'Twas to that man he pointed." She raised her arm towards the farm through the trees. "He thinks a lot more of Timothy Waite than he does of you, I can tell you." "I'll talk to father. This can't go on." "No, it can't go on. Life's too short for this sort of thing. I won't be bullied by anybody. People seem to forget who I am." "You mustn't talk so, Cora. I'm terrible sorry about it; but father's father, and he'll go his own rough way, and you ought to know what way that is by now. Don't take it to heart--he means well." "'Heart!' I've got no heart according to him--no heart, no sense, no nothing. Just a dummy to show off pretty clothes." "He never said that!" "Yes, he did; and worse, and I'm tired of it. You're not the only man in the world." "Nothing is gained by my quarrelling with father." "I suppose not; but I've got my self-respect, and I can't marry the son of a man that despises me openly like he does. I won't be bullied by him, I promise you--a cruel hunks he is, and would gore me to pieces if he dared! No better than a mad bull, I call him." "'Tis no good your blackguarding my father, Cora," said Mark. "Perhaps not; and 'tis no good his blackguarding me. Very different to your Uncle Vivian, I'm sure. Always a kind word and a pat on the cheek he've got; and so have your Uncle Nathan." "Uncle Vivian can be hard enough too--as my cousin Rupert that means to marry Milly Luscombe will tell you. In fact, Rupert's going away because he won't stand his father." "Why don't you go away then? If you were worth your salt, you'd turn your back on any man living who has treated me so badly as your father has." "We're in for a row, it seems," answered Mark, "and I'd better begin and get a painful job over. When you've heard me, I'll hear you. In the matter of my father I'll do what a son can do--that I promise you; but there's something on my side too." "Say it out then--the sooner the better." She found herself heartily hating Mark and was anxious to break with him while angry; because anger would make an unpleasant task more easy. "In a word, it's Ned Baskerville and that man over there--Waite. These rehearsals of the play--you know very well how you carry on, Cora; and you know very well 'tisn't right or seemly. You've promised to marry me, and you are my life and soul; but I can't share you with no other man. You can't flirt with Ned while you're engaged to me; you can't ask Waite to see you home of a night while you're engaged to me. You don't know what you're doing." "Why ban't you more dashing then?" she asked. "You slink about so mean and humble. Why don't you take a part in the play, and do as other men, and talk louder and look people in the face, as if you wasn't feared to death of 'em? If you grumble, then I'll grumble too. You haven't got enough pluck for me. Ned's different, and so's t'other man, for that matter. I see how much they admire me; I know how they would go through fire and water for me." "Not they! Master Ned--why--he can roll his eyes and roll his voice; but--there--go on! Finish what you've got to say." "I've only got to say that there's a deal about Ned you might very well copy in my opinion. He's a man, anyway, and a handsome man for that matter. And if you're going to fall out with your father, then you'll lose your money, and----" "I'm not going to fall out with him. You needn't fear that." "Then more shame to you, for keeping friendly with a man that hates me. Call that love! Ned----" "Have done about Ned!" he cried out. "Ned's a lazy, caddling good-for-nought--the laughing-stock of every decent man and sane woman in Shaugh. A wastrel--worthless. You think he's fond of you, I suppose?" "I know he is. And you know it." "Yes, just as fond of you as he is of every other girl that will let him be. Anything that wears a petticoat can get to his empty heart--poor fool. Love! What does he know of that--a great, bleating baby! His love isn't worth the wind he takes to utter it; and you'll very soon find that out--like other girls have--if you listen to him." "He knows what pleases a woman, anyway." "Cora! Cora! What are you saying? D'you want to drive me mad?" He started up and stared at her. "'Twouldn't be driving you far. Better sit down again and listen to me now." "I'll listen to nothing. I'm choking--I'm stifling! To think that you--oh, Cora--good God Almighty--and for such a man as that----" He rushed away frantically and she saw him no more. He had not given her time to strike the definite blow. But she supposed that it was as good as struck. After such a departure and such words, they could not meet again even as friends. The engagement was definitely at an end in her mind, for by no stretch of imagination might this be described as a lovers' quarrel. All was over; she rejoiced at her renewal of liberty and resolved not to see Mark any more, no matter how much he desired it. She flung away the luncheon that she had brought and set off for home, trusting that she might meet Humphrey Baskerville upon the way. She longed to see him again now and repay him for a little of the indignity that he had put upon her. But she did not meet Mark's father. On the evening of the same day a congenial spirit won slight concessions from her. Ned Baskerville arrived on some pretext concerning the play. He knew very well by this time that, in the matter of her engagement, Cora was a victim, and he felt, as he had often felt before in other cases, that she was the only woman on earth to make him a happy man. He despised Mark and experienced little compunction with respect to him. Upon this night Mrs. Lintern was out, and Cora made no objection to putting on her hat and going to the high ground above Shaugh Prior to look at the moon. "'Twon't take above ten minutes, and then I'll see you back," said Ned. They went together, and he flattered her and paid her many compliments and humbled himself before her. She purred and was pleased. They moved along together and he told her that she was like the princess in the play. "You say nought, but, my God, you look every inch a princess! If 'twas real life, I'd slay fifty giants and a hundred bears for you, Cora." "Don't you begin that silliness. I'm sure you don't mean a word of it, Ned." "If you could see my heart, Cora, you'd see only one name there--I swear it." "What about t'other names--all rubbed out, I suppose?" "They never were there. All the other girls were ghosts beside you. Not one of them----" Suddenly near at hand the church bells began to throb and tremble upon the peace of moonlit night. "Mark's out of the way then," said Ned. "Not that I'm afraid of him, or any other man. You're too good for Mark, Cora--a million times too good for him. I'm bound to tell you so." "I'm sick of him and his bell-ringing," she said violently. "Hullo! That's strong," he exclaimed. "So would any maiden be. He puts tenor bell afore me. 'Tis more to him than ever I was. In a word, I've done with the man!" "You splendid, plucky creature! 'Twas bound to come. Such a spirit as yours never could have brooked a worm like him! You're free then?" "Yes, I am." Elsewhere in the belfry Mark rang himself into better humour. The labour physicked his grief and soothed his soul. He told himself that all the fault was his, and when the chimes were still, he put on his coat and went to Undershaugh to beg forgiveness. Phyllis met him. "Cora's out walking," she said. "Out walking! Who with?" he asked. But Phyllis was nothing if not cautious. She had more heart, but not more conscience than her sister. "I don't know--alone, I think," she answered. CHAPTER XIII A day of storm buffeted the Moor. Fitful streaks of light roamed through a wild and silver welter of low cloud; and now they rested on a pool or river, and the water flashed; and now they fired the crests of the high lands or made the ruddy brake-fern flame. Behind Shaugh Moor was storm-cloud, and beneath it, oozing out into the valleys, extended the sullen green of water-logged fields hemmed in with autumnal hedges. Hither came Mark Baskerville on his way to Shaugh, and then a man stopped him and changed his plan. For some time he had neither seen nor heard from Cora, and unable longer to live with this cloud between them, Mark was now on his way to visit her. Consideration had convinced him that he was much in fault, and that she did well to keep aloof until he came penitent back again; but he had already striven more than once to do so, and she had refused to see him. He told himself that it was natural she should feel angered at the past, and natural that she should be in no haste to make up so serious a quarrel. But the catastrophe had now shrunk somewhat in his estimation, and he doubted not that Cora, during the passage of many days, also began to see it in its proper perspective. He did not wholly regret their difference, and certain words that she had spoken still stung painfully when he considered them; but the dominant hunger in his mind was to get back to her, kiss her lips and hear her voice again. He would be very circumspect henceforth, and doubtless so would she. He felt sure that Cora regretted their difference now, and that the time was over-ripe for reconciliation. The next rehearsal would take place upon the following day, and Mark felt that friendly relations must be re-established before that event. He was on his road to see Cora and take no further denial, when her brother met him and stopped him. "Lucky I ran against you," said Heathman; "I've got a letter for you from my sister, and meant to leave it on my way out over to Lee Moor. Coarse weather coming by the look of it." "Thank you," answered Mark. "You've saved me a journey then. I was bound for Undershaugh." Heathman, who knew that he bore evil news, departed quickly, while the other, with true instinct of sybarite, held the precious letter a moment before opening it. It happened that Cora seldom wrote to him, for they met very often; but now, having a difficult thing to say, she sought this medium, and Mark, knowing not the truth, was glad. "Like me--couldn't keep it up no more," he thought. "I almost wish she'd let me say I was sorry first; but she might have heard me say so a week ago, if she'd liked. Thank Heaven we shall be happy again before dark. I'll promise everything in the world she wants to-night--even to the ring with the blue stone she hungered after at Plymouth." He looked round, then the wind hustled him and the rain broke in a tattered veil along the edge of the hill. "I'll get up to Hawk Tor, and lie snug there, and read her letter in the lew place I filled with fern for her," he thought. There was a natural cavern facing west upon this height, and here, in a nook sacred to Cora, he sat presently and lighted his pipe and so came to the pleasant task. He determined that having read her plea for forgiveness, it would be impossible to wait until nightfall without seeing her. "I'll go down and take dinner with them," he decided: then he read the letter:-- "DEAR MARK, "After what happened a little while ago you cannot be surprised if I say I will not marry you. There is nothing to be said about it except that I have quite made up my mind. I have thought about it ever since, and not done nothing in a hurry. We would not suit one another, and the older we grew, the worse we should quarrel. So it will be better to part before any harm is done. You will easily find a quieter sort of girl, without so much spirit as me. And she will suit you better than what I do. I have told my mother that I am not going to marry you. And Mr. Nathan Baskerville, your own uncle, though he is very sorry indeed about it, is our family friend and adviser, and he says it is better we understand and part at once. I hope you won't make any fuss, as _nothing will change me_. And you will have the pleasure of knowing your father will be thankful. No doubt you will soon find a better-looking and nicer girl than me, and somebody that your father won't treat the same as he treated "Yours truly, "CORA LINTERN." Through the man's stunned grief and above the chaos of his thoughts, one paramount and irrevocable conviction reigned. Cora meant what she wrote, and nothing that he had power to say or to do would win her back again. She would never change; she had seen him in anger and the sight had determined her; she had met his father and had felt that such antagonism must ruin her life. He possessed imagination and was able swiftly to feel what life must mean without her. He believed that his days would be impossible henceforth. He read the letter again and marked how she began with restraint and gradually wrote herself into anger. She smarted when she reflected on his father; and he soon convinced himself that it was his father who had driven her to these conclusions. He told himself that he did not blame her. The pipe in his mouth had been given to him by Cora. He emptied it now, put it into its case, rose up and went home. He planned the things to say to his father and determined to show him the letter. Mark desired to make his father suffer, and did not doubt but that he would suffer when this catastrophe came to his ears. Then his father appeared before him, far off, driven by the wind; and Mark, out of his tortured mind, marvelled to think that a thing so small as this dim spot, hastening like a dead leaf along, should have been powerful enough, and cruel enough, deliberately to ruin his life. For he was now obsessed by the belief that his father alone must be thanked for the misfortune. They came together, and Humphrey shouted to be heard against the riot of the wind. His hat was pressed over his ears; the tails of his coat and the hair on his head leapt and danced; his eyes were watering. "A brave wind! Might blow sense into a man, if anything could. What are you doing up here?" "Read that," said the other, and his father stopped and stared at him. Despite the rough air and the wild music of heath and stone, Mark's passion was not hidden and his face as well as his voice proclaimed it. "See what you have done for your only son," he cried. Humphrey held out his hand for the letter, took it and turned his back to the wind. He read it slowly, then returned it to Mark. "She means that," he answered. "This isn't the time to speak to you. I know all that's moving in you, and I guess how hard life looks. But I warn you: be just. I'm used to be misread by the people and care nought; but I'd not like for you to misread me. You think that I've done this." "I know you have--and done it with malice aforethought too. The only thing I've ever loved in life--the only thing that ever comed into my days to make 'em worth living--and you go to work behind my back to take it away from me. And me as good a son to you as my nature would allow--always--always." "As good a son as need be hoped for--I grant that. But show a little more sense in this. Use your brains, of which you've got too many for your happiness, and see the truth. Can a father choke a girl off a man if she loves the man? Was it ever heard that mother or father stopped son or daughter from loving? 'Tis against nature, and nought I could have said, and nought I could have done would have come between her and you--never, if she'd loved you worth a curse. But she didn't. She loved the promise of your money. She loved the thought of being the grey mare and playing with a weak man's purse. She loved to think on the future, when I was underground and her way clear. And that hope would have held with her just as strong after knowing me, as before knowing me. The passing trouble of me, and my straight, sour speeches, and my eyes looking through her into her dirty little heart, wouldn't have turned the girl away from you, if she'd loved you honestly. Why, even lust of money would have been too strong to break down under that--let alone love of man. 'Tis not I but somebody else has sloked[1] her away from thee. And the time will come when you may live to thank your God that it's happened so. But enough of that. I can bear your hard words, Mark; and bitter though 'twill sound upon your ear, I'll tell you this: I'm thankful above measure she's flung you over. 'Tis the greatest escape of your life, and a blessing in disguise--for more reasons than you know, or ever will. And as for him that's done it, nought that you can wish him be likely to turn out much worse than what he'll get if he marries that woman." [1] _Sloked_--enticed and tempted. "Shouldn't I know if 'twas another man? She was friendly and frank with all. She hadn't a secret from me. 'Twas only my own blind jealousy made me think twice about it when she talked with other men." "But she did talk with 'em and you did think twice? And you didn't like it? And you quarrelled -eh? And that was the sense in you--the sense trying to lift you above the blind instinct you'd got for her. Would you have quarrelled for nothing? Are you that sort? Too fond of taking affronts and offering the other cheek, you are--like I was once. You can't blind me. You've suffered at her hands already, and spoken, and this is her slap back at you. No need to drag me in at all then; though I did give her raw sense for her dinner when she came to see me. Look further on than your father for the meaning of this letter. Look to yourself first, and if that don't throw light, look afield." "There's none--none more than another--I'll swear it." "Seek a man with money and with a face like a barber's image and not over-much sense. That's the sort will win her; and that's the sort will suit her. And now I've done." They walked together and said the same things over and over again, as people are prone to do in argument. Then they separated in heat, for the father lost patience and again declared his pleasure at this accident. Whereon Mark cried out against him for a callous and brutal spirit, and so left him, and turned blindly homeward. He did not know what to do or how to fight this great tribulation. He could not believe it. He came back to Hawk House at last and found himself in an angle of the dwelling, out of the wind. Here reigned artificial silence and peace. The great gale roared overhead; but beneath, in this nook, not a straw stirred. He stood and stared at his fallen hopes and ruined plans; while from a dry spot beside the wall, there came to him the sweet, sleepy chirruping of chickens that cuddled together under their mother's wings. CHAPTER XIV While the desolation of Mark Baskerville came to be learnt, and some sympathised with him and some held that Cora Lintern had showed a very proper spirit to refuse a man cursed with such a father, lesser trouble haunted Cadworthy Farm, for the parent of Rupert Baskerville declared himself to be suffering from a great grievance. Vivian was an obstinate man and would not yield to his son's demand; but the situation rapidly reached a climax, for Rupert would not yield either. Night was the farmer's time for long discussions with his wife; and there came a moment when he faced the present crisis with her and strove for some solution of the difficulty. "Unray yourself and turn out the light and come to bed," he said to Mrs. Baskerville. He already lay in their great four-poster, and, solid though the monster was, it creaked when Vivian's immense bulk turned upon it. His wife soon joined him and then he began to talk. He prided himself especially on his reasonableness, after the fashion of unreasonable men. "It can't go on and it shan't," he said. "Never was heard such a thing as a son defying his father this way. If he'd only given the girl up, then I should have been the first to relax authority and tell him he might have her in due season if she liked to wait. But for him to cleave to her against my express order--'tis a very improper and undutiful thing--specially when you take into account what a father I've been to the man." "And he've been a good son, too." "And why not? I was a good son--better than ever Rupert was. And would I have done this? I never thought of marriage till my parents were gone." "Work was enough for you." "And so it should be for every young man. But, nowadays, they think of nought but revels and outings and the girls. A poor, slack-twisted generation. My arm would make a leg for any youth I come across nowadays." "You must remember you'm a wonder, my dear. We can't all be like you." "My own sons ought to be, anyway. And I've a right to demand it of 'em." "Rupert works as hard as a man can work--harder a thousand times than Ned." "I won't have you name 'em together," he answered. "A man's firstborn is always a bit different to the rest. Ned is more given to reading and brain work." She laughed fearlessly and he snorted like a bull beside her. "What are you laughing at?" he said. "At your silliness. Such a sharp chap and so wise as you are; and yet our handsome eldest--why, he can't do wrong! And Lord knows he can't do wrong in my eyes neither. Still, when it comes to work----" "We'll leave Ned," answered the father. "He can work all right, and when you've seed him play St. George and marked his intellects and power of speech, you'll be the first to say what a 'mazing deal of cleverness be hid in him. His mind's above the land, and why not? We can't all be farmers. But Rupert's a born farmer, and seeing as he be going to follow my calling, he ought to follow my example and bide a bachelor for a good ten years more." "She's a nice girl, however." "She may be, or she may not be. Anyway, she's been advising him to go away from home, and that's not much to her credit." "She loves him and hates for him to be here so miserable." "He'll find himself a mighty sight more miserable away. Don't I pay him good money? Ban't he saving and prospering? What the deuce do he want to put a wife and children round his neck for till he's learned to keep his own head above water?" "'Twas Mr. Luscombe's man that's determined him, I do think," declared Hester Baskerville. "Jack Head is just the sort to unsettle the young, with his mischievous ideas. All the same, I wish to God you could meet Rupert. He's a dear good son, and there's lots of room, and for my part I'd love to see him here with Milly. 'Tis high time you was a grandfather." "You foolish women! Let him bide his turn then. The eldest first, I say. 'Tis quite in reason that Ned, with his fashion of mind, should take a wife. I've nought against that----" "You silly men!" she said. "Ned! Why, what sensible girl will look at such a Jack-o'-lantern as him--bless him! He's too fond of all the girls ever to take one. And if he don't throw them over, after a bit of keeping company, they throw him over. If you could but see yourself and him! 'Tis as good as play-acting! 'There's only one lazy man in the world that your husband forgives for being lazy,' said Jack Head to me but yesterday. 'And who might that be?' said I, well knowing. 'Why, Ned, of course,' he answers back." "I must talk to Jack's master. A lot too free of speech he's getting--just because they be going to let him perform the Bear at Christmas. But, when all's said, the wise man makes up his own mind; and that have been my habit from my youth up." "You think so," she answered. "I know so. And Rupert may go. He'll soon come back." "Never, master." "He'll come back, I tell you. He'll find the outer world very different from Cadworthy." "I wish you'd let that poor boy, Mark, be a lesson to you. Your love story ran suent, so you can't think what 'tis for a young thing to be crossed where the heart is set. It looks a small matter to us, as have forgotten the fret and fever, if we ever felt it, but to them 'tis life or death." "That's all moonshine and story-books. And my story ran suent along of my own patience and good sense--no other reason. And I may tell you that Mark have took the blow in a very sensible spirit. I saw my brother a bit ago--Nathan I mean. He was terrible cut up for both of 'em, being as soft as a woman where young people are concerned. But he'd had a long talk with Mark and found him perfectly patient and resigned about it." "The belving[1] cow soonest forgets her calf. 'Tis the quiet sort that don't make a row and call out their misfortunes in every ear, that feel the most. It's cut him to the heart and gone far to ruin his life--that's what it's done. You don't want to have your son in the same case?" [1] _Belving_--bellowing. "Rupert's very different to that. 'Tis his will against mine, and if he disobeys, he must stand the brunt and see what life be like without me behind him. When Nathan went for a sailor, I said nothing. They couldn't all bide here, and 'twas a manly calling. But Rupert was brought up to take my place, owing to Ned's superior brain power; and now if he's going to fling off about a girl and defy me--well, he may go; but they laugh best who laugh last. He'll suffer for it." "I'm much feared nought we can do will change him. That girl be everything to him. A terrible pity, too, for after you, I never knowed a man so greedy of work. 'Sundays! There are too many Sundays,' he said to Ned in my hearing not long since. 'What do a healthy man want to waste every seventh day for?' It might have been you talking." "Not at all," answered her husband. "Very far from it. That's Jack Head's impious opinion. Who be we to question the Lord's ordaining? The seventh's the Lord's, and I don't think no better of Rupert for saying that, hard though it may sometimes be to keep your hands in your pockets, especially at hay harvest." "Well, if you ban't going to budge, he'll go." "Then let him go--and he can tell the people that he haven't got no father no more, for that's how 'twill be if he does go." "Don't you say that, master." "Why for not? Truth's truth. And now us will go to sleep, if you please." Soon his mighty snore thundered through the darkness; but Mrs. Baskerville was well seasoned to the sound; and thoughts of her son, not the noisy repose of her husband, banished sleep. Others had debated these vexed questions of late, and the dark, short days were made darker for certain sympathetic people by the troubles of Mark and the anxieties of his cousin, Rupert. Nathan Baskerville discussed the situation with Mrs. Lintern a week before the great production of 'St. George.' Matters had now advanced and the situation was developed. "That old fool, Gollop!" he said. "He goeth now as if the eye of the world was on him. You'd think Shaugh Prior was the hub of the universe, as the Yankees say, and that Thomas was the lynch-pin of the wheel!" "He's found time to see which way the cat's jumping, all the same," answered Mrs. Lintern. "Full of Ned Baskerville and our Cora now! Says that 'tis a case and everybody knows it." Nathan shrugged his shoulders. "Yes--well, these things can't be arranged for them. The young must go their own road. A splendid couple they make without a doubt. They'll look magnificent in their finery at the revel. But I wish nephew Ned wasn't quite so vain of his good parts." Cora herself entered at this moment, and had that to say which awoke no small interest in her mother. "I've fallen in with Mark," she said; "and I was passing, but he spoke and 'tis all well, I believe. He was very quiet and you might almost say cheerful." "Thank the Lord he's got over it then," answered Nathan; but Mrs. Lintern doubted. "Don't feel too sure of that. He ban't one to wear his heart on his sleeve, anyway." "He's took it surprising well, everybody says," said Cora, in a voice that made the innkeeper laugh. "Poor Mark!--but I see Cora here isn't too pleased that he's weathered the storm so easily. She'd have liked him to be a bit more down in the mouth." "I'm very pleased indeed," she answered. "You never gave better advice than when you bade me write to him. The truth is that he's not made to marry. Tenor bell be enough wife for him." "I wonder who'll ring it when you're wedded," mused Nathan. "No man have touched that bell since my nephew took it up." "Time enough. Not that he'd mind ringing for me, I believe. Such a bloodless thing as he is really--no fight in him at all seemingly." "If you talk like that we shall begin to think you're sorry he took you at your word," said Mr. Baskerville; but Cora protested; and when he had gone, she spoke more openly to her mother. "'Tis a very merciful escape for me, and perhaps for him. I didn't understand my own mind; and since he's took it so wonderful cool, I guess he didn't know his mind either." "You haven't heard the last of him. I've met the like. For my part I'd rather hear he was daft and frantic than so calm and reasonable. 'Tis the sort that keep their trouble out of sight suffer most." "I'd have forgiven him everything but being a coward," declared Cora fiercely. "What's the use of a man that goes under the thumb of his father? If he'd said 'I hate my father, and I'll never see him again, and we'll run away and be married and teach him a lesson,' then I'd have respected him. But not a bit of it. And to take what I wrote like that! Not even to try and make me think better of it. A very poor-spirited chap." Mrs. Lintern smiled, not at the picture of Mark's sorrows, but at her daughter's suggestion, that she would have run away with the young man and married him and defied consequences. "How we fool ourselves," she said. "You think you would have run with him. You wouldn't have run a yard, Cora. The moment you found things was contrary with his father, you was off him--why? Because your first thought always is, and always has been, the main chance. You meant to marry him for his money--you and me know that very well, if none else does." The daughter showed no concern at this attack. "I shan't marry a pauper, certainly. My face is all the fortune you seem like to give me, and I'm not going to fling it away for nought. I do set store by money, and I do long to have some; and so do every other woman in her senses. The only difference between me and others is that they pretend money ban't everything, and I say it is, and don't pretend different." "Milly Luscombe be going to stick to Rupert Baskerville, however, though 'tis said his father will cut him off with a shilling if he leaves Cadworthy." Cora sniffed. "There'll be so much the more for the others then. They Baskerville fathers always seem to stand in the way of their sons when it comes to marrying. Mr. Nathan would have been different if he'd had a family. He understands the young generation. Not that Vivian Baskerville will object to Ned marrying, for Ned told me so." "No doubt he'll be glad for Ned to be prevented from making a fool of himself any more." Mrs. Lintern's daughter flushed. "He's long ways off a fool," she said. "He ban't the man who comes all through the wood and brings out a crooked stick after all. He knows what women are very well." "Yes; and I suppose Mr. Waite knows too?" "He's different to Ned Baskerville. More cautious like and prouder. I'd sooner have Ned's vanity than t'other's pride. What did he want to be up here talking with you for?--Timothy Waite I mean." "No matter." "'Twasn't farming, anyway?" "Might have been, or might not. But, mark this, he's a very shrewd, sensible young man and knows his business, and how to work, and the value of money, and what it takes to save money. He'll wear well--for all you toss your head." "He's a very good chap. I've got nothing against him; but----" "But t'other suits you better? Well, have a care. Don't be in no hurry. Get to know a bit more about him; and be decent, Cora. 'Twouldn't be decent by no means to pick up with him while everybody knows you've just jilted his cousin." "Didn't do no such thing. I've got my side and 'tisn't over-kind in you to use such a word as that," answered her daughter sharply. "However, you never did have no sympathy with me, and I can't look for it. I'll go my way all the same, and if some fine day I'm up in the world, I'll treat you better than you've treated me." But Mrs. Lintern was not impressed by these sentiments. She knew her daughter's heart sufficiently well. "'Twill be a pair of you if you take Ned Baskerville," she said. "And you needn't pretend to be angered with me. You can't help being what you are. I'm not chiding you; I'm only reminding you that you must be seemly and give t'other matter time to be forgot. You owe the other man something, if 'tis only respect--Mark, I mean." "He'll be comforted mighty quick," answered Cora. "Perhaps he'll let his father choose the next for him; then 'twill work easier and everybody will be pleased. As for me, I'm in no hurry; and you needn't drag in Ned's name, for he haven't axed me yet and very like he'd get 'no' for his answer if he did." Mrs. Lintern prepared to depart and Cora spoke again. "And as for Mark, he's all right and up for anything. He chatted free and friendly about the play and the dresses we're going to wear. He's to be prompter on the night and 'tis settled that the schoolmaster from Bickleigh be going to be Doctor, because there's none in this parish will do it. And Mark says that after the play's over, he shall very like do the same as Rupert and leave home." "He said that?" "Yes; and I said, 'None can ring tenor bell like you, I'm sure.' Then he looked at me as if he could have said a lot, but he didn't." "I hope he will go and see a bit of the world. 'Twill help him to forget you," said her mother. "Ned's the only one of 'em knows the world," answered Cora. "He's travelled about a bit and 'tis natural that his father should put him before all the others and see his sense and learning. When parson's voice gave out, Ned read the lessons--that Sunday you was from home--and nobody ever did it better. He's a very clever man, in fact, and his father knows it, and when his father dies, the will is going to show what his father thinks of him." "He's told you so, I suppose?" "Ned has, yes. He knows I'm one of the business-like sort. I'd leap the hatch to-morrow if a proper rich man came along and asked me to." "Remember you're not the first--that's all," said her mother. "If you take him and he changes his mind and serves you like he's served another here and there, you'll have a very unquiet time of it, and look a very big fool." "'Twas all nonsense and lies," she answered. "He made the truth clear to me. He never took either of them girls. They wasn't nice maidens and they rushed him into it--or thought they had. He's never loved any woman until----" Cora broke off. "Shan't tell you no more," she continued. "'Tis no odds to you--you don't care a button--and I shall soon be out of your house, anyhow." "Perhaps; but I shall be a thought sorry for all them at Cadworthy Farm if you take Ned and set up wife along with his family," answered her mother. "Hard as a cris-hawk[2] you be; and you'll have 'em all by the ears so sure as ever you go there." [2] _Cris-hawk_--kestrel. "You ax Mrs. Hester Baskerville if I be hard," retorted Cora. "She'll tell that I'm gentle as a wood-dove. I don't show my claws without there's a good reason for it. And never, unless there is. Anyway, I'm a girl that's got to fight my own battles, since you take very good care not to do a mother's part and help me." "You shall have the last word," answered Mrs. Lintern. CHAPTER XV Some weeks after Christmas had passed, Mr. Joseph Voysey and others met at 'The White Thorn' and played chorus to affairs according to their custom. The great subject of discussion was still the play. It had been enacted twice to different audiences, and it proved but an indifferent success. Everybody agreed that the entertainment promised better than its ultimate performance. At rehearsal all went well; upon the night of the display a thousand mishaps combined to lessen its effect. Joe Voysey summed up to Thomas Gollop, who sat and drank with him. "What with us all being so busy about Christmas, and the weather, and Nathan here getting a cold on his chest and only being able to croak like a frog, and parson losing his temper with Head at the last rehearsal, and other things, it certainly failed. 'Tis a case of least said soonest mended; but I'm keeping this mask of the French Eagle what I wore, for it makes a very pretty ornament hanged over my parlour mantelshelf." "In my judgment," declared Nathan, "'twas Jack Head that played the mischief with the show. After parson cooled him down at rehearsal, I allow he went a bit lighter on his part and didn't act quite so forcible, but well I knew he was saving it up for the night; and so he was. 'Twas all Jack all the time, and even when he was supposed to be dead, he must still keep growling to make the people laugh. He's had a right down row with Mr. Masterman since." "A make-strife sort of man; and yet a cheerful man; and yet, again, a very rebellious man against the powers," said Voysey. "Well, 'tis over and it shows, like everything else do, how much may grow out of little," added Nathan. "Just a bit of fun at Christmas, you'd say, wouldn't leave no very great mark, yet--look at it--how far-reaching." "It's brought the eyes of the county on us, as I said it would," replied the parish clerk. "The Rural Dean was here afterwards and took his luncheon at the vicarage and came to the church to see the font-cover; but Nancy Mumford--maiden to the vicarage--waits at table, and she told my sister that his reverence said to Mr. Masterman that we'd fallen between two stools and that the performance was a sort of a mongrel between a modern pantomime and the old miracle play, and that the masks and such-like were out of order. And Miss Masterman was a bit acid with the Rural Dean and said, to his face, that if he'd only had to see the thing through, as they had, she was sure that he'd be more charitable like about it." "Us shan't have no more play-acting, mark me," foretold Joe Voysey; then others entered the bar, among them being Saul Luscombe from Trowlesworthy and Heathman Lintern. The warrener was on his way home and stayed only for a pint and a few friendly words. "You should hear Jack Head tell about the play," he said. "And he should hear us tell about him," answered Voysey. "Jack, so near as damn it, spoilt the play. In fact, innkeeper here thinks he did do so." "He vows that he saved the whole job from being a hugeous failure. And young farmer Waite swears 'twas Miss Lintern as the Princess that saved it; and Mr. Ned, your nephew, Nathan--he swears 'twas himself that saved it." "And I think 'twas I that saved it," declared Thomas. "However, enough said. 'Tis of the past and will soon be forgot, like a dead man out of mind." "That's where you're wrong, Tom," said Heathman. "You can't forget a thing so easy. Besides, there's all that hangs to it. There's Polly Baskerville, that was one of Cora's maidens in the play, got engaged to be married on the strength of it--to Nick Bassett--him as waited on the Turkish Knight. And now--bigger news still for me and mine. Cora's taken Ned Baskerville!" "I knew it was going to happen," admitted Nathan. "'Tis a very delicate thing, for she's only broken with the man's cousin a matter of a few months. Her mother asked me about it a bit ago." "You've got to remember this," said Heathman. "I should have been the first to make a row--me being Cora's only brother and the only man responsible to look after her. I say I should have been the first to make a row, for I was terrible savage with her and thought it hard for her to throw over Mark, just because his father was an old carmudgeon. But seeing how Mark took it----" "To the eye, I grant you that; but these quiet chaps as hide their feelings often feel a lot more than they show," said Mr. Luscombe. "He was hard hit, and well I know it, for his father told me so," continued Nathan Baskerville. "My brother, Humphrey, in a sort of way, blamed me and Mrs. Lintern, and, in fact, everybody but himself. One minute he said that Mark was well out of it, and the next he got to be very jealous for Mark and told me that people were caballing against his son. I go in fear of meeting my brother now, for when he hears that Cora Lintern is going to take Ned Baskerville, he'll think 'twas all a plot and he'll rage on Mark's account." "'Tis Mark that I fear for," said Heathman; then Gollop suddenly stopped him. "Hush!" he cried, and held up his hand. After a brief silence, however, he begged young Lintern to proceed. "Beg your pardon," he said. "I thought I heard something." "I fear for Mark," continued the other, "because I happen to know that he still secretly hoped a bit. I don't like my sister Cora none too well, and I reckon Mark's worth a million of her, and I told him I was glad to see him so cheerful about it. 'You'm very wise to keep up your pecker, Mark,' I said to the man; 'because she'm not your sort really. I know her better than you do and can testify to it.' But he said I mustn't talk so, and he told me, very private, that he hadn't gived up all hope. Poor chap, I can let it out now, for he knows 'tis all over now. 'While she's free, there's a chance,' he told me. 'I won't never think,' he said, 'that all that's passed between us is to be blown away at a breath of trouble like this.' That's how he put it, and I could see by the hollow, wisht state of his eyes and his nerves all ajolt, that he'd been through a terrible lot." "He'd built on her coming round, poor fellow--eh? That's why he put such a brave face on it then," murmured Nathan. Then Voysey spoke again. "As it happens, I can tell you the latest thing about him," he said. "I was to work two days agone 'pon the edge of our garden, doing nought in particular because the frost was got in the ground and you couldn't put a spade in. But I was busy as a bee according to my wont--tying up pea-sticks I think 'twas, or setting a rat-trap, or some such thing--when who should pass down t'other side of the hedge but Mark Baskerville? Us fell into talk about the play, and I took him down to my house to show him where my grand-darter had stuck the mask what made me into the French Eagle. Then I said there were changes in the air, and he said so too. I remarked as Rupert Baskerville had left Cadworthy and gone to work at the Lee Moor china clay, and he said 'Yes; and I be going too.' 'Never!' I said. 'What'll Mr. Humphrey do without you?' But he didn't know or care. 'Who ever will ring your bell when you're gone?' I asked him, and----" Thomas Gollop again interrupted. "'Tis a terrible queer thing you should name the bell, Joe," he said, "for I'll take my oath somebody's ringing it now!" "Ringing the bell! What be talking of?" asked Heathman. "Why, 'tis hard on ten o'clock." "Yet I'm right." At this moment Saul Luscombe, who had set out a minute sooner, returned. "Who's ago?" he asked. "The bell's tolling." They crowded to the door, stood under the clear stillness of night, and heard the bell. At intervals of a minute the deep, sonorous note throbbed from aloft where the church tower rose against the stars. "There's nobody sick to death that I know about," said Nathan. "'Twill be Mark ringing, no doubt. None touches tenor bell but him." Mr. Luscombe remounted his pony. "Cold bites shrewd after your bar, Nathan. Good night, souls. Us shall hear who 'tis to-morrow." The bell tolled thrice more; then it stopped. "Bide a minute and I'll come back," said Mr. Gollop. "I can't sleep this night without knowing who 'tis. A very terrible sudden seizure, for certain. Eliza may know." He crossed the road and entered his own house, which stood against the churchyard wall. They waited and he returned in a minute. "She knows nought," he said. "Mark dropped in a little bit ago and axed for the key. 'What do 'e want in belfry now, Mr. Baskerville?' she axed him. 'Passing bell,' he said; and Eliza was all agog, of course, for 'twas the first she'd heard of it. 'What's the name?' she said; but he answered nought and went down the steps and away. A minute after the bell began." "'Tis over now, anyway. I'll step across and meet Mark," said Mr. Baskerville. One or two others accompanied him; but there was no sign of the ringer. Then, led by Gollop, they entered the silent church and shouted. "Where be you, Mark Baskerville, and who's dead?" cried Gollop. In the belfry profound silence reigned, and the ropes hanging from their places above, touched the men as they groped in the darkness. "He's gone, anyway," declared Nathan. Then suddenly a man's boot rubbed against his face. The impact moved it a moment; but it swung back heavily again. The innkeeper yelled aloud, while Gollop fetched a lantern and lighted it. Then they found that Mark Baskerville had fastened a length of stout cord to the great rope of the tenor bell at twenty feet above the floor. He had mounted a ladder, drawn a tight loop round his neck, jumped into the air, and so destroyed himself. CHAPTER XVI Certain human dust lay in a place set apart from the main churchyard of St. Edward's. Here newborn babies, that had perished before admission into the Christian faith, were buried, because the ministers of the church felt doubtful as to the salving of these unbaptised ones in another world. The spot was known as 'Chrisomers' Hill,' a name descended from ancient use. By chrisom-cloths were first understood the anointed white garments put upon babes at baptism; and afterwards they came to mean the robes of the newly-baptised. Infants were also shrouded in them if they perished a month after baptism; while a chrisom-child, or chrisomer, signified one who thus untimely died. Among these fallen buds the late vicar of the parish had also buried a woman who took her own life; and Thomas Gollop, nothing doubting but that here, and only here, the body of Mark Baskerville might decently be laid, took it upon himself to dig the grave on Chrisomers' Hill. But the ground was very hard and Thomas no longer possessed his old-time strength of arm. Therefore a young man helped him, and during the intervals of labour, the elder related incidents connected with past interments. Some belonged to his own recollection; others had been handed down by his father. "And touching these childer took off afore the holy water saved 'em, my parent held the old story of the Heath Hounds," concluded Thomas. "And there might be more in it than us later-day mortals have a right to deny. For my father solemnly swore that he'd heard 'em in winter gloamings hurrying through the air, for all the world like a flock of night-flying birds, and barking like good-uns in full cry after the Dowl. 'Tis Satan that keeps 'em out of the joys of Paradise; but only for a time, you must know, because these here babbies never done a stroke of wrong, being too young for it; and therefore, in right and reason, they will be catched up into Heaven at the last." "But no doubt 'tis different if a human takes their own life," said the young man. "Different altogether," declared Mr. Gollop. "To take your own life be to go to a party afore you'm invited--a very presumpshuss and pushing thing, to say the least. No charity will cover it. For argument's sake, we'll say as I cut my throat, and then I stand afore the Throne of Grace so soon as the life be out of me. 'Who be you?' says the A'mighty. 'Thomas Gollop, your Reverence,' says I. Then they fetch the Books and it all comes out that I've took the law of life into my own hands and upset the record and made a far-reaching mess of everything; because you must know you can't live to yourself alone, and if you lay hands on your body, you be upsetting other lives beside your own, and making trouble in the next world so well as this. So down I go to the bad place--and very well I should deserve it. I can't be sure of Masterman, but he'll hardly have the face to treat this rash corpse like a God-fearing creature, I should hope. The parish will ring with it if he do." "Crowner's sitting now over to 'The White Thorn,'" said Tom's assistant. "Yes; and since Jack Head's 'pon the jury, there'll be no paltering with truth. I hate the man and have little good to say of him as a general thing; but there's no nonsense to him, and though he's oftener wrong than any chap I know, he won't be wrong to-day, for he told me nought would shake him. 'Tis the feeble-minded fashion to say that them that kill themselves be daft. They always bring it in so. Why? Because the dust shall cheat justice and get so good Christian burial as the best among us. But Head won't have that. He's all for bringing it in naked suicide without any truckling or hedging. The young man was sane as me, and took his life with malice aforethought; and so he must lie 'pon Chrisomers' Hill with the doubtfuls, not along with the certainties." As he spoke somebody approached, and Nathan Baskerville, clad in black, stood beside them. "I want you, Gollop," he said. "Who are you digging for here? 'Tis long since Chrisomers' Hill was opened." "For Mark Baskerville," answered the sexton stoutly. "'Tis here he's earned his place, and here he'll lie if I'm anybody." Nathan regarded Thomas with dislike. "So old and so crooked-hearted still!" he said. "I'm glad you've had your trouble for your pains, for you deserve it. Poor Mark is to be buried with his mother. You'd better see about it, and pretty quick too. The funeral's the day after to-morrow." "I'll discourse with the reverend Masterman," answered Thomas; "and I'll also hear what the coroner have got to say." "You're a nasty old man sometimes, Gollop, and never nastier than to-day. As to Mr. Masterman, you ought to know what stuff he's made of by this time; and as for the inquest, 'tis ended. The verdict could only be one thing, and we decided right away." "What about Jack Head?" "Jack's not a cross-grained old fool, whatever else he may be," answered the innkeeper. "I convinced him in exactly two minutes that my nephew couldn't have been responsible for what he did. And everybody but a sour and bitter man, like you, must have known it. Poor Mark is thrown over by a girl--not to blame her, either, for she had to be true to herself. But still he won't believe that she's not for him, though she's put it plain as you please in writing; and he goes on hoping and dreaming and building castles in the air. Always dreamy and queer at all times he was--remember that. Then comes the crashing news for him that all is over and the maiden has taken another man. Wasn't it enough to upset such a frail, fanciful creature? Enough, and more than enough. He hides his trouble and his brain fails and his heart breaks--all unseen by any eye. And then what happens? He rings his own passing-bell! Was that the work of a sane man? Poor chap--poor chap! And you'd deny him Christian burial and cast him here, like a dog, with the poor unnamed children down under. I blush for you. See to his mother's grave and try and be larger-hearted. 'Tis only charity to suppose the bitter cold weather be curdling your blood. Now I'm off to my brother Humphrey, to tell him what there is to tell." Then Mr. Nathan buttoned up his coat and turned to the grinning labourer. "Don't laugh at him," he said. "Be sorry for him. 'Tis no laughing matter. Fill up that hole and take down yonder slate at the far end of the Baskerville row, and put everything in order. Our graves be all brick." He departed and Mr. Gollop walked off to the vicarage. A difficult task awaited Nathan, but he courted it in hope of future advantage. He was terribly concerned for his brother and now designed to visit him. As yet Humphrey had seen nobody. Vivian had called at Hawk House the day after Mark's death, but Mrs. Hacker had told him that her master was out. On inquiries as to his state, she had merely replied that he was not ill. He had directed that his son's body should remain at the church, and he had not visited Shaugh again or seen the dead since the night that Mark perished. Now Nathan, secretly hoping that some better understanding between him and Humphrey might arise from this shattering grief, and himself suffering more than any man knew from the shock of it, hastened to visit his bereaved brother and acquaint him with the circumstances of the inquest. Humphrey Baskerville was from home and Nathan, knowing his familiar haunt, proceeded to it. But first he asked Mrs. Hacker how her master fared. The woman's eyes were stained with tears and her nerves unstrung. "He bears it as only he can bear," she said. "You'd think he was a stone if you didn't know. Grinds on with his life--the Lord knows at what cost to himself. He lighted his pipe this morning. It went out again, I grant you; still it shows the nature of him, that he could light it. Not a word will he say about our dear blessed boy--done to death--that's what I call it--by that picture-faced bitch to Undershaugh." "You mustn't talk like that, Susan. 'Twas not the girl's fault, but her cruel misfortune. Be honest, there's a good creature. She's suffered more than any but her mother knows. No, no, no--not Cora. The terrible truth is that Humphrey's self is responsible for all. If he'd met Mrs. Lintern's daughter in a kinder spirit, she'd never have feared to come into the family and never have thrown over poor Mark. But he terrified her to death nearly, and she felt a marriage with such a man's son could never come to good." Mrs. Hacker was not following the argument. Her mind had suffered a deep excitation and shock, and she wandered from the present to the past. "The ups and downs of it--the riddle of it--the indecency of it--life in general, I mean! To think that me and you not above a week agone were dancing afore the public eye--Father Christmas and Mother Dorothy. How the people laughed! And now----" She stared stupidly before her and suddenly began repeating her part in the play. "Here come I, old Mother Dorothy, Fat, fair, plump and commodity. My head is big, my body is bigger: Don't you think I be a handsome old figure?" "And the quality said I might have been made for the part!" "You're light-headed along of all this cruel grief," answered Nathan. "Go in out of this cold wind, Susan, and drink a stiff drop of spirits. I suppose my brother is up on the tor?" "Yes, he's up there; you can see him from the back garden. Looks like an image--a stone among the stones, or a crow among the crows. But the fire's within. He was terrible fond of Mark really, though he'd rather have had red-hot pincers nip him than show it." "I'll go up," declared the innkeeper. He climbed where his brother appeared against the skyline and found Humphrey bleakly poised, standing on a stone and looking into the eye of the east wind. His coat was flapping behind him; his hat was drawn over his eyes; his nose was red and a drop hung from it. He looked like some great, forlorn fowl perched desolate and starving here. "Forgive me for coming, brother, but I hadn't the heart to keep away. You wouldn't see me before; but you must now. Get down to the lew side of these stones. I must speak to you." "I'm trying to understand," answered the other calmly. "And the east wind's more like to talk sense to me than ever you will." "Don't say that. We often court physical trouble ourselves when we are driven frantic with mental trouble. I know that. I've suffered too in my time; though maybe none of the living--but one--will ever know how much. But 'tis senseless to risk your own life here and fling open your lungs to the east wind because your dear son has gone. Remember 'tis no great ill to die, Humphrey." "Then why do you ask me to be thoughtful to live?" "I mean we mustn't mourn over Mark for himself--only his loss for ourselves. He's out of it. No more east wind for him. 'Tis our grief that's left. His grief's done; his carking cares be vanished for ever. You mustn't despair, Humphrey." "And you pass for an understanding man, I suppose? And tell me not to despair. Despair's childish. Only children despair when they break their toys. And grown-up children too. But not me. I never despair, because I never hope. I made him. I created him. He was a good son to me." "And a good man every way. Gentle and kind--too gentle and kind, for that matter. Thank God we're all Christians. Blessed are the meek. His cup of joy is full, and where he is now, Humphrey, his only grief is to see ours." "That's the sort of stuff that's got you a great name for a sympathetic and feeling man, I suppose? D'you mean it, or is it just the natural flow of words, as the rain falls and the water rolls down-hill? I tell you that he was a good man, and a man to make others happy in his mild, humble way. Feeble you might call him here and there. And his feebleness ended him. Too feeble to face life without that heartless baggage!" "Leave her alone. You don't understand that side, and this isn't the time to try and make you. She's hit hard enough." Humphrey regarded his brother with a blazing glance of rage. Then his features relaxed and he smiled strangely at his own heart, but not at Nathan. "I was forgetting," he said. Then he relapsed into silence. Presently he spoke again. "My Mark wasn't much more than a picture hung on a wall to some people. Perhaps he wasn't much more to me. But you miss the picture if 'tis taken down. I never thought of such a thing happening. I didn't know or guess all that was hidden bottled up in him. I thought he was getting over it; but, lover-like, he couldn't think she'd really gone. Then something--the woman herself, I suppose--rubbed it into him that there was no more hope; and then he took himself off like this. For such a worthless rag--to think! And I suppose she'll hear his bell next Sunday without turning a hair." "Don't say that. She's terribly cut up and distressed. And I'm sure none--none will ever listen to his bell like we used to. 'Twill always have a sad message for everybody that knew Mark." "Humbug and trash! You'll be the first to laugh and crack your jokes and all the rest of it, the day that girl marries. And the bell clashing overhead, and the ashes of him in the ground under. Let me choose the man--let me choose the man when she takes a husband!" Nathan perceived that his brother did not know the truth. It was no moment to speak of Cora and Ned Baskerville, however. "I've just come from the inquest," he said. "Of course 'twas brought in 'unsound mind.'" "Of course--instead of seeing and owning that the only flash of sanity in many a life be the resolve and deed to leave it. He was sane enough. No Baskerville was ever otherwise. 'Tis only us old fools, that stop here fumbling at the knot, that be mad. The big spirits can't wait to be troubled for threescore years and ten with a cargo of stinking flesh. They drop it overboard and----" His foot slipped and interrupted the sentence. "Take my arm," said the innkeeper. "I've told Gollop that Mark will lie with his mother." The other seemed suddenly moved by this news. "If I've misjudged you, Nathan, I'm sorry for it," he said. "You know in your heart whether you're as good as the folk think; and as wise; and as worthy. But you catch me short of sleep to-day; and when I'm short of sleep, I'm short of sense, perhaps. To lie with his mother--eh? No new thing if he does. He lay many a night under her bosom afore he was born, and many a night on it afterwards. She was wonderful wrapped up in him--the only thing she fretted to leave. How she would nuzzle him, for pure animal love, when he was a babby--like a cat and her kitten." "He promised her when he was ten years old--the year she died--that he would be buried with her," said Nathan. "I happen to know that, Humphrey." "Few keep their promises to the dead; but he's dead himself now. Burrow down--burrow down to her and put him there beside her--dust to dust. I take no stock in dust of any sort--not being a farmer. But his mother earned heaven, and if he didn't, her tears may float him in. To have bred an immortal soul, mark you, is something, even if it gets itself damned. The parent of a human creature be like God, for he's had a hand in the making of an angel or a devil." "Shall we bring Mark back to-night, or shall the funeral start from the church?" asked Nathan. They had now descended the hill and stood at Humphrey's gate. "Don't worry his bones. Let him stop where he is till his bed's ready. I'm not coming to the funeral." "Not coming!" "No. I didn't go to my wife's, did I?" "Yes, indeed you did, Humphrey." "You're wrong there. A black hat with a weeper on it, and a coat, and a mourning hankercher was there--not me. Bury him, and toll his own bell for him, but for God's sake don't let any useful person catch their death of cold for him. Me and his mother--we'll mourn after our own fashion. Yes, her too: there are spirits moving here for the minute. In his empty room she was the night he finished it. Feeling about she was, as if she'd lost a threepenny piece in the bed-tick. I heard her. 'Let be!' I shouted from my chamber. 'The man's not there: he's dead--hanged hisself for love in the belfry. Go back where you come from. Belike he'll be there afore you, and, if not, they'll tell you where to seek him.'" He turned abruptly and went in; then as his brother, dazed and bewildered, was about to hurry homeward, the elder again emerged and called to him. "A word for your ear alone," he said as Nathan returned. "There's not much love lost between us, and never can be; but I thank you for coming to me to-day. I know you meant to do a kindly thing. My trouble hasn't blinded me. Trouble ban't meant to do that. Tears have washed many eyes into clear seeing, as never saw straight afore they shed 'em. I'm obliged to you. You've come to me in trouble, though well you know I don't like you. 'Twas a Christian thing and I shan't forget it of you. If ever you fall into trouble yourself, come to me, innkeeper." "'Twas worth my pains to hear that. God support you always, brother." But Humphrey had departed. Nathan drifted back and turned instinctively to Undershaugh rather than his own house. Darkness and concern homed there also; Cora had gone away to friends far from the village, and the Linterns all wore mourning for Mark. Priscilla met her landlord and he came into the kitchen and flung his hat on the table and sat down to warm himself by the fire. "God knows what's going to happen," he said. "The man's mind is tottering. Never such sense and nonsense was jumbled in a breath." After a pause he spoke again. "And poor old Susan's half mad too. An awful house of it. Nothing Humphrey may do will surprise me. But one blessed word he said, poor chap, though whether he knew what he was talking about I can't guess. He thanked me for coming to him in trouble--thanked me even gratefully and said he'd never forget it. That was a blessed thing for me to hear, at such a time." The emotional man shed tears and Priscilla Lintern ministered to him. CHAPTER XVII Humphrey Baskerville had sought for peace by many roads, and when the final large catastrophe of his life fell upon him, it found him treading a familiar path. He had conceived, that only by limiting the ties of the flesh and trampling love of man from his heart, might one approximate to contentment, fearlessness, and rest. He had supposed that the fewer we love, the less life has power to torment us, and he had envied the passionless, sunless serenity of recorded philosophers and saints. He was glad that, at a time when nature has a large voice in the affairs of the individual and sways him through sense, he had not incurred the customary responsibilities. Chance threw him but a single child; and when the mother of the child was taken from him, he felt a sort of dreary satisfaction that fate could only strike one more vital blow. He had dwarfed his affections obstinately; he had estimated the power of life to inflict further master sorrows, and imagined that by the death of one human creature alone could added suffering come. So at least he believed before the event. And now that creature was actually dead. Out of the ranks of man, the bullet had found and slain his son. Yet, when Mark sank to the grave and the first storm of his passing was stilled in the father's heart, great new facts and information, until then denied, fell upon Humphrey Baskerville's darkness and showed him that even this stroke could not sever his spirit from its kind. The looked-for deliverance did not descend upon him; the universal indifference did not come. Instead his unrest persisted and he found the fabric of his former dream as baseless as all dreaming. Because the alleged saint and the detached philosopher are forms that mask reality; they are poses only possible where the soul suffers from constitutional atrophy or incurred frost-bite. They who stand by the wayside and watch, are freezing to death instead of burning healthily away. Faulty sentience is not sublime; to be gelded of some natural human instinct is not to stand upon the heights. He who lifts a barrier between himself and life, shall be found no more than an unfinished thing. His ambition for detachment is the craving of disease; his content is the content of unconsciousness; his peace is the peace of the mentally infirm. A complete man feels; a complete man suffers with all his tingling senses; a complete man smarts to see the world's negligences, ignorances, brutalities; he endures them as wrongs to himself; and, because he is a complete man, he too blunders and adds his errors to the sum of human tribulation, even while he fights with all his power for the increase of human happiness. The world's welfare is his own; its griefs are also his. He errs and makes atonement; he achieves and helps others to achieve; he loathes the cloister and loves the hearth. He suffers when society is stricken; he mourns when the tide of evolution seems to rest from its eternal task 'of pure ablution round earth's human shores'; he is troubled when transitory victories fall to evil or ignorance; in fine, he lives. And his watch-tower and beacon is not content, not peace, but truth. He stands as high above the cowardly serenity of any anchorite or chambered thinker, as the star above glimmering and rotten wood in a forest hidden; and he knows that no great heart is ever passionless, or serene, or emparadised beyond the cry of little hearts, until it has begun to grow cold. To be holy to yourself alone is to be nought; a piece of marble makes a better saint; and he who quits the arena to look on, though he may be as wise as the watching gods, is also as useless. Dimly, out of the cloud of misery that fell upon him when his son perished, Baskerville began to perceive and to feel these facts. He had consoled himself by thinking that the only two beings he loved in the whole world were gone out of it, and now waited together in eternity for his own arrival thither. Their battle was ended; and since they were at rest, nothing further remained for him to trouble about. But the anticipated peace did not appear; no anodyne poured into his soul; and he discovered, that for his nature, the isolated mental standpoint did not exist. There could arise no healing epiphany of mental indifference for him. He might be estranged, but to exile himself was impossible. He must always actively hate what he conceived to be evil; he must always suspect human motives; he must always feel the flow and ebb of the human tide. Though his own rocky heart might be lifted above them, the waves of that sea would tune its substance to throb in sympathy, or fret it to beat with antagonism, so long as it pulsed at all. This discovery surprised the man; for he had believed that a radical neutrality to human affairs belonged to him. He attributed the sustained restlessness of his spirit to recent griefs and supposed that the storm would presently disappear; and meantime he plunged into a minor whirlwind by falling into the bitterest quarrel with his elder brother. Nathan indeed he had suffered to depart in peace; but as soon as the bereaved father learned that Vivian's son, Ned, was engaged to Cora, and perceived how it was this fact that had finally killed hope in Mark and induced the unhappy weakling to destroy himself, his rage burst forth against the master of Cadworthy; and when Vivian called upon the evening of the funeral to condole with Humphrey, an enduring strife sprang up between them. "I'm come as the head of the family, Humphrey," began the veteran, "and it ban't seemly that this here terrible day should pass over your head without any of your kith and kin speaking to you and comforting you. We laid the poor young man along with his mother in the second row of the Baskerville stones. My word! as Gollop said after the funeral, 'even in death the Baskervilles be a pushing family!' Our slates stretch pretty near from the church to the churchyard wall now." "Thank you for being there," answered his brother. "I couldn't have gone, because of the people. There was no maiming of the rite--eh?" "Not a word left out--all as it should be. Eight young men carried him, including a farmer or two, and my son Ned, and Heathman Lintern, and also my son Rupert--though where he came from and where he went to after 'twas ended, I don't know, and don't care. He's left me--to better himself--so he thinks, poor fool! A nice way to treat a good father." "You've lost a son, too, then--lost him to find him again, doing man's work. You'll live to know that he was right and you were wrong. But my son--my mind is turned rather rotten of late. After dark I can't get his dead face out of my eyes. Nought terrible, neither--just, in a word, 'dead.' He broke his neck--he didn't strangle himself. He knew what he was about. But there, I see it. Gone--and none knows what he was to me. He never knew himself; and for that matter I never knew myself, neither--till he was gone." "We never do know all other folk mean to us--not until they be snatched off. If anybody had told me how my son Rupert's going would have made such a difference, I'd not have believed it." "Then think of this house. You feel that--you with your store of children and Rupert, after all, but gone a few miles away to go on with his work and marry the proper wife you deny him. But me--nought left--nought but emptiness--no 'Good morning, father'; no 'Good night, father'; no ear to listen; no voice to ask for my advice. And I'd plotted and planned for him, Vivian; I'd made half a hundred little secret plans for him. I knew well the gentle fashion of man he was--not likely ever to make a fighter--and so I'd cast his life in a mould where it could be easy. He'd have come to know in time. But he never did know. He went out of it in a hurry, and never hinted a whisper of what he was going to do. If he'd but given me the chance to argue it out with him!" "We've acted alike, me and you," answered his brother; "and it ban't for any man to dare to say that either of us was wrong. When the young fall into error, 'tis our bounden duty to speak and save 'em if we've got the power. I don't hold with Rupert----" "No need to drag in your affairs. That case is very different. I did not treat my son like a child; I did not forbid him to marry and turn him out of doors." "Stay!" cried Vivian, growing red, "you mustn't speak so to me." "What did you do if it wasn't that? No proud man can stay under the roof where he's treated like a child. But Mark--did I forbid? No. I only made it clear that I despised the woman he'd set his heart on. I only told him the bitter truth of her. If she'd clung to him through all, would I have turned him away or refused him? Never. 'Twould have made no difference. 'Twas not me kept 'em apart--as you are trying to keep apart your son and Saul Luscombe's niece--trying and failing. 'Twas the proud, empty, heartless female herself that left him." "I'll hear nought against her," answered Vivian stoutly. "She's not proud and she's not empty. She's a very sensible woman, and this cruel piece of work has been a sad trouble to her. She left Mark because she felt that you hated her, and would torment her and make her married life a scourge to her back. Any woman with proper sense and self-respect would have done the like. 'Twas you and only you choked her off your son, and 'tis vain--'tis wicked to the girl--to say now that 'twas her fault. But I've not come to speak these things--only I won't hear lies told." "You've heard 'em already, it seems. Who's been telling you this trash? Nathan Baskerville belike?" "As a matter of fact 'tis my son Ned," answered Vivian. "You must surely know how things have fallen out? It happened long afore poor Mark died. Didn't he tell you?" "He told me nought. What should he tell me? Ned he certainly wouldn't name, for he knew of all your brood I like your eldest son least--a lazy, worthless man, as all the world well knows but you." "You shan't anger me, try as you will, Humphrey. I'm here, as your elder brother and the head of the family, to offer sympathy to you in your trouble; and I'll ax you to leave my family alone. Young men will be young men, and as for Ned, if I be the only one that feels as I should feel to him, 'tis because I'm the only one that understands his nature and his gifts. He'll astonish you yet, and all of us. The books he reads! You wait. Soon ripe, soon rotten. He's taking his time, and if he wants a wife, 'tis only in reason that the future head of the family should have a wife; and why not? He shan't have to work as I have worked." "A fool's word! What made you all you are? Work and the love of it. Yet you let him go to the devil in idleness." "If you'd but suffer me to finish my speech--I say that Ned won't work as I have worked--with my limbs and muscles. He's got a brain, and the time be coming when he'll use it." "Never." "Anyway a settled life is the first thing, and the mind free to follow its proper bent. And I don't say 'no' to his marrying, because the case is different from Rupert's, and 'tis fitting that he should do so." "But Rupert must not. And you pass for a just and sensible man!" "'Tis strange--something in the Baskerville character that draws her--but so it is," continued the master of Cadworthy, ignoring his brother's last remark. "In a word, when he found she was free, my Ned took up with Cora Lintern, and she's going to marry him. But 'tis to be a full year from this sad Christmas--I bargained for that and will have it so." "'Going to take him'? Going to take your son!" cried the other. "She is; and I sanction it; for I found her a very different maiden to what you did." "Going to marry Ned! Going from my Mark to your Ned!" "'Twas settled some time ago. Mark knew it, for I myself let it out to him when I met him one day in North Wood. 'Twas but two days afore his last breath, poor fellow. Of course, I thought that he knew all about it, and as it was understood that he had got over his loss very bravely and was cheerful and happy as usual again, I made nothing of the matter, thinking that was the best way to take it." Humphrey stared at him. "Go on--you're letting in the light," he said. "That's all--all save this. When I told Mark that Cora was going to wed his cousin, I saw by his face 'twas news for him. His colour faded away. Then I knew that he hadn't heard about it. Accident had kept it from him till the matter was a week old." "And he said----?" "He just said something stammering like. He was a bit of a kick-hammer in his speech sometimes--nothing to name; but it would overtake him now and again if he was very much excited. I didn't catch just what the words were--something about one of the family having her, I think 'twas." "Then he went and killed himself, and not till then. So 'twas your son after all as settled him--don't roar me down, for I'll be heard. Your son--all his work! He plotted and planned it. And lazy I thought him! And I might have known there's no such thing as laziness of mind and body both. Busy as a bee damning himself--damning himself, I tell you! A shifty traitor, a man to stab other men in the back, a knave and the vilest thing that ever bore our name. And you know it--you know it as well as I do." "By God! this is too much," shouted out Vivian, rising to his feet and towering over the crouching figure opposite him. "What are you made of to say such vile things of an innocent man? You see life all awry; you see---- "I see a hard-hearted, blind old fool," answered the other. "You let your wretched son rob you of justice and reason and sense and everything. Get hence! I'll have no more of you. But your time will come; you'll suffer yet; and this godless, useless brute--this murderer--will murder you yourself, maybe, or murder your love of living at the least. Wait and watch him a little longer. He'll bring your grey hairs with sorrow to the grave afore he's done with you--take my word for that. And as for me, I'll curse him to his dying day, and curse you for breeding him! Wait and watch what you've done and the fashion of man you've let loose on the world; and let them marry--the sooner the better--then his punishment's brewed and there's no escape from the drinking. Yes, let him eat and drink of her, for man's hate can't wish him a worse meal than that." He ceased because he was alone. Vivian had felt a terrible danger threatening him, and had fled from it. "My anger heaved up like seven devils in me," he told his wife afterwards. "If I'd bided a moment longer I must have struck the man. So I just turned tail and bolted afore the harm was done. Not but what harm enough be done. Mad--mad he was by the froth on his lip and the light in his eye, and them awful eyebrows twitching like an angry ape's. 'Twas more a wild beast in a tantrum than a human. 'Tis all over, and no fault of mine. I'll never speak to thicky horrible creature no more so long as I live--never. And I'll not willingly so much as set eyes upon him again." "A very Pharaoh of a man, no doubt," declared Mrs. Baskerville. "The Lord has hardened his heart against us; but He'll soften it in His own good time. Though for that matter 'tis difficult to see how he can be struck again. His all be took from him." Vivian considered this saying, but it did not shake his intention. "He's growed dangerous and desperate, and 'twill be wiser that I see him no more," he answered. "He's flung my sympathy back in my face, and that's a sort of blow leaves a bruise that a long life's self can't medicine." "'Twill come right. Time will heal it," she told him. But he was doubtful. "There may not be time," he said. "The man won't live long at the gait he's going--burning away with misery, he is. And calls himself a Christian! Little enough comfort the poor soul sucks out of Christ." Within a week of this incident Humphrey Baskerville was seeking his brother's society again--a thing of all others least likely to have happened. It fell out that he was walking as usual on the waste above Hawk House, when he saw his nephew Rupert proceeding hastily along the distant road to Cadworthy Farm. The young man noted him, left his way and approached. "'Tis well I met you, uncle," he said. "Young Humphrey's just ridden over to you with a message from mother. Then he came on to me. There's terrible trouble at home--father, I mean. You know what he is for doing heavy work--work beyond his years, of course. He was shifting grain from the loft, and they found him fallen and insensible with a sack on top of him. I hope to God it ban't very bad. Mother sent off for me, for fear it might be a fatal thing. And Humphrey says my name was on father's lips when they laid him to bed after doctor had gone. He said, 'This be Rupert's fault. I be driven to this heavy work along of him leaving me, and now he's killed me.' I'm sure I hope he'll call that back, for 'tis a terrible thing for me to live under if he died." "I'll come along with you," said Mr. Baskerville; "and as to what your father may have spoken in his anger at being stricken down, pay no heed to it. He's like a silly boy over these feats of strength, and he'd have shifted the sacks just the same if you'd been there. The thing he said isn't true, and there's an end on it. He'll be sorry he uttered the word when he's better." They hurried forward and presently stood at the door of Cadworthy. "You'd best knock afore you enter," said the elder. "We're both in disgrace here, and come as strangers. I had a difference with your father last time we met. Ned Baskerville is tokened to that woman that killed Mark. I could not hear and keep dumb. I cursed my brother in my rage, and I owe him an apology." Rupert knocked at the door, and his sister May answered it. Her eyelids were red with tears and her manner agitated. "How's your father?" asked Humphrey. "Very bad, uncle. 'Tis a great doubt if he'll get better, doctor says." "Then be sure he will. I've come to see him." Mrs. Baskerville appeared behind May. She was very pale, but appeared collected. "I'm sorry--terrible sorry," she said. "I've told dear master that I'd sent for Rupert and for you, Humphrey, but he won't see neither of you. 'Tis no good arguing about it in his state; but I pray God he'll change his mind to-morrow." Rupert kissed his mother. "Bear up," he said. "With his strength and great courage he'll weather it, please God. You know where I am--not five mile away. I'll come running the moment he'll see me." "And ask him to forgive his brother. I'm sorry I said the things I did," declared Humphrey Baskerville. A pony cart drove up at this moment and Eliza Gollop alighted from it. She carried a large brown-paper parcel, and a corded box was lifted out after her. "I've come," she said. "Doctor left a message for me as he went back along, and I was ready as usual. How's the poor man going on? I'm afraid you must not be very hopeful--so doctor said on his way back; but where there's life and me there's always hope, as my brother Thomas will have it." Humphrey and his nephew walked slowly away together. At the confines of the farmyard Rupert turned out of the road a little and pointed upwards to a window that faced the east. A white blind was drawn down over it. "That's father's room," he said. CHAPTER XVIII Jack Head entered the bar of 'The White Thorn,' and was glad to find Nathan Baskerville at home. "I don't want to drink, I want to talk," he said. "Then come into my room, Jack," answered the innkeeper, and Mr. Head followed him into a little chamber known as 'Mr. Nathan's office.' "I've got together another five pounds," explained the labourer, "and I know you'll do for me what you do for all--put it by with the rest. We come to you, Mr. Baskerville, and we trust you with our savings, for why? Because you ban't a lawyer. You're the poor man's bank, as I always say, and I only hope you get your fair share of good for all the money you put away to goody for us." "That's all right, Jack." Mr. Nathan produced a ledger and turned over the pages. "This makes twenty to you, and interest three-ten." He wrote a receipt and handed it to the other. "Wish I'd got your 'mazing head for figures; and so I should if I'd been properly eggicated." "I shall have some pretty big money on my hands before long, I'm afraid," said Nathan gloomily. "Doctor called coming back from Cadworthy. 'Tis all over with my poor brother, I'm afraid." "My stars--that mighty man to drop amongst us! Well, he's had a good life and full share of fortune." "His own folly has finished him too--that's the worst of it. Would be doing the young men's work, and did it once too often." "A fall, so they say. But none appear to know the rights seemingly." "Simple enough. Vivian was carrying oats, and slipped his foot on a frosty place. Down he came with the sack on his back. He went insensible; but by the time young Humphrey, who was along with him, had fetched help, Vivian had come to again. He crept in the house and up to his bed. ''Tis nought,' he told 'em, 'just a shake up; I'll be right in the morning.' But he wasn't. He couldn't rise, and felt a lot of pain to the inwards. Doctor won't be sure what's gone, but he reckons that the poor man's ruptured spleen or liver. Anyway, he's going. Fading out fast--and suffering, too." "Such a mountain as him. I suppose they can't reach the evil. And will all his affairs come down on your shoulders?" "That is so. Everything will have to be done by me. The boys know nought of business. He's a rich man--I know that." "A great responsibility, but no doubt you're up to it." "Not that it will be so difficult either," added Nathan, "because all his money was invested pretty much as I advised. His wife is joint executor with me; but she knows nothing. I could have wished he'd drawn my brother Humphrey in and made him responsible; but he never was sure of Humphrey, I'm sorry to say; and, as bad luck would have it, just before Vivian met with this trouble, he had a terrible quarrel with Humphrey--so terrible, in fact, that when Humphrey called, after the accident, farmer wouldn't see him." "Nor his son neither. I took hope from that, for if a man's well enough to keep up such a hatred against his own kin, it looks as if he was likely to get better." "I'm afraid not. I'm going over this afternoon to see him and hear about his will. Please God he'll prove softer. 'Twould be a cruel thing if he clouded his great name for justice at the end by striking from the grave." "Where should he strike?" "Rupert, I mean. He took Rupert's going terrible to heart, and when Rupert wrote very properly last Christmas and offered his father his respects, and said as he meant to marry Saul Luscombe's niece next spring, Hester tells me that my brother pretty well threw the doors out of windows. He went to Tavistock next day, and there's an ugly fear in his wife's mind that he had his will out and tinkered it. I shall ax him this evening, and try to get him to see sense." Elsewhere Hester Baskerville spoke with her husband, and found that he already knew what the doctor had advised her to tell him. "You can spare speech," he said, "I saw it in the man's eyes; and I knew it afore he came, for that matter. I'm not going to get better. I'm going to die." "There's hope still, but not enough to----" "I'm going to die. Where's Eliza Gollop?" "I'll call her." "You'd best to hot up the milk he ordered. I'll try to let it down if I can. And give Eliza pen, ink, and paper." "Don't be writing. Lie still and let her read to you." "You needn't be afraid. My writing was done to Tavistock afore I came to grief. You're all right, and all that have treated me as a father should be treated are all right. There's tons of money. Where's Ned to?" "He's going to ride in to the surgery for the medicine to stop that cruel pain." "Let Humphrey get it. And send Ned to me instead of Eliza Gollop. 'Tis him I want--not her." She pressed his hand and kissed him, and went out. The huge form lay still, breathing slowly. A fly, wakened out of hibernation by the heat of the fire, buzzed about his face. He swore, and his scarlet nightcap bobbed as he moved painfully. Ned came in, little liking to be there. He lacked the spirit and mental courage for such a time. "Kill this blasted fly, will 'e? Then get pen and ink. 'Tis a very old custom in our race, Ned, to write our own epitaphs when we can. I've put mine off and off, along of a silly fancy about doing it; but the time be ripe, and my head's clear." "Don't say things like that, father. You may get better yet. He's going to fetch another doctor to-morrow." "Let him fetch twenty--they can do nought. 'Tis the last back-heel that none ever stand against. I don't grumble. I'm only sorry that 'twas my own son has struck his father. Death don't matter, but 'tis a bitter death to know the fruit of your loins---- His work I was doing: let him know that--his work. An old man doing a young man's work. If Rupert had been here, he'd have been shifting they sacks. Let none deny it. 'Tis solemn truth." Ned knew the extreme falsity of this impression, but he made no effort to contradict his father. "What I done to Tavistock a month agone, I might have undone afore I went," continued the sick man. "But not now--not when I remember 'twas his wickedness has hurried me into my grave. Where be my son Nathan's ship to now?" "Don't know, father." "You ought to know, then. Him that I would see I can't see; and him that would see me I won't see." "You might see him, father, for his peace." "'Peace'! Damn his peace! What peace shall he have that killed his own father? He don't deserve to look upon me again, and he shan't--living nor dead--mark that. Tell your mother that when I'm dead, Rupert ban't to see me. Only the coffin lid shall he see." The old man snorted and groaned. Then he spoke again. "Have you got pen and ink ready?" "Yes, father." "Turn to the first leaf of the Bible, then, and see my date." Ned opened the family register and read the time of his father's birth. "Born June, died January--and just over the allotted span. Let me see, how shall the stone read? There's good things on the Baskerville stones. 'Sacred to the memory of Vivian Baskerville, of Cadworthy Farm, in this parish, yeoman.' You can begin like that." "Shall you say anything about being champion of the west country at wrestling?" asked Ned. "No. That ban't a thing for the grave--at least, perhaps it might be. Your uncle, the great musicker, had a fiddle cut 'pon his stone very clever. If 'twas thought that the silver belt could be copied upon my slate---- But no, let that pass, 'tis but a small matter." "Better leave it to us to think about. Uncle Nathan will know best." "So he will, then. And we must work in a rhyme, for certain; but first, I've got a fine thought to put down." Ned waited, pen in hand; then his father continued to dictate:-- "'What it pleased the great I AM'--capital letters for I AM--'what it pleased the great I AM to give me in shape of a body in eighteen hundred and eighteen, it likewise pleased Him to call home again in eighteen hundred and eighty-nine.' How does that sound?" "Splendid, father." "Now there's the rhyme to follow. I want to work in 'breath' and 'death' if it can be done. You ought to be able to do it, seeing all the learning you've had and what it cost." Ned frowned and puzzled. Then, while Vivian groaned, he had an inspiration, and wrote rapidly. "How's this, father?" he asked. "It just flashed in my mind." Then he read:-- "Three score years and ten I kept my breath; So long I felt no fear of Death." "It goes very well, but I haven't got no more fear of death now than ever I had. You must alter that." Silence fell again and Ned mended his rhyme. "How would this answer?" he asked:-- "Three score years and ten I kept my breath And stood up like a man and feared not Death." "Yes, that's very good indeed. Now us must make two more lines to finish--that is, if we can be clever enough to think of 'em." Ned's pen squeaked and stopped, squeaked and stopped again. He scratched out and wrote for several minutes. "Listen to this, father," he said at length, "'tis better even than the first." He read once more:-- "Yet now I'm gone, my thread is spun, And I know my God will say, 'Well done!'" "The cleverness of it! And didn't I always say you were crammed up with cleverness? But the last line won't do." "'Tis the best of all, father." "Won't do, I tell you. Who be I to know my God will pat me on the back? Little enough to be pleased with--little enough. Put, 'I hope my God will say, "Well done!"'" "You may only hope, but all else know that He will," declared Ned stoutly. As he finished writing Nathan Baskerville entered with the wife of the sufferer. Hester brought a cup of hot milk, but Vivian in his excitement would not taste until the epitaph had been rehearsed. "Ned's thought," he said. "And I helped him. And I shall be proud to lie under it--any man might. Give me the paper." His son handed it to him, and he read the rhyme aloud with great satisfaction. "Three score years and ten I kept my breath, And stood up like a man and feared not Death; Yet now I'm gone, my thread is spun, And I hope my God will say, 'Well done!'" How's that, Nat? So good as the musicker's own in my judgment." "Splendid! Splendid!" declared Nathan. He was much moved. He blew his nose and went to the window awhile. Then, Vivian being relieved and fed, the innkeeper returned to him and sat beside him. Hester Baskerville and her son went out and left the brothers together. "Us'll talk business, Nat," said the sick man presently. "And first I want you to know that you'll have more than your trouble for your pains. 'Tis a common thing with dying people to leave a lot of work behind 'em for somebody to do, and never a penny piece of payment for doing it. But not me. There's fifty pound for you, Nat. I've scrimped in reason all my life. I've----" He was stopped by pain. "Ban't far off, I reckon. Can't talk much more. You'll do all right and proper. I trust my widow and childer to you. My boy Ned be no good at figures, so I look to you." "To the very best of my power I'll do by them all. Leave that now. You're the sort who isn't taken unprepared. I want to say a word about Rupert, if you'll let me." "Not a word--not a breath! That book is closed, not to be opened no more. You don't want to add another pang to my end, do you? Let me forget him. I've forgiven him--that's enough." "'Tisn't to forgive him, my dear Vivian, if you have cut him off with nought." "I'll hear no more!" cried the other. "I'll think no more of him, nor yet of Humphrey. 'Tis they have cruelly and wickedly wronged me. 'Tis Rupert have brought me here, and hastened me into my grave ten years afore the time, and he'll have to answer to his God for it." "Leave it then--leave it and talk of other things. You'll like Ned to take Cora Lintern? You'll like that? And I shall do something for Cora. I'm very fond of her." They talked for half an hour. Then Vivian cried out for his wife and Nathan left him. That evening Dennis Masterman came to see the farmer, and on the following day he called again. None knew what passed between them, but it seemed that by some happy inspiration the clergyman achieved what Vivian Baskerville's wife and brother had failed to do. Dennis had heard, from the master of 'The White Thorn,' that the sick man was passing at enmity with his brother and with his son; but he strove successfully against this determination and, before he left Cadworthy, Vivian agreed to see his relations. The day was already waning when Ned Baskerville himself rode to fetch Rupert, and the lad Humphrey hastened to Hawk House. Eliza Gollop told the sequel to her brother afterwards. "It got to be a race towards the end, for the poor man fell away all of a sudden after three o'clock. Nature gived out, as it will sometimes, like a douted candle. He'd forgot all about everything afore he died. Only his grave stuck in his mind, and I read over the epitaph till I was weary of it. Then he went frightened all of a sudden. 'To think o' me lying there alone among dead folk of evenings, wi' nought but the leather-birds[1] squeaking over the graves,' he said. 'You won't be there, my dear,' I told him. 'You'll be up where there's no sun nor yet moon, bathing for evermore in the light of righteousness.' Then he flickered and he flickered, and wandered in his speech, and the last words I could catch was, 'What's all this pucker about? I shall be my own man again in a day or two.' He was hollow-eyed and his nose growed so sharp as a cobbler's awl, poor dear, and I knowed he'd soon be out of his misery. His wife was along with him when he died, her and the two daughters; and poor Hester--Hester I call her, for she let me use the Christian name without a murmur--she was cut in half listening to his death-rattle o' one side and hoping to hear her son Rupert gallop up 'pon the other. 'Twas a race, as I say; but Rupert had been long ways off to work, and Ned had to find him, and what with one thing and another, his father had been out of the world twenty good minutes afore he came. He runned up the stairs white from the clay-works. But there was only more clay on the bed to welcome him. I left 'em at that sacred moment, as my custom is, and went down house, and was just in time to see Humphrey Baskerville ride up in hot haste on his one-eyed pony. 'How is it with him?' he said, getting off very spry. 'I hope, as he could send for me, that he finds hisself better.' 'Not at all,' I answered him. 'The poor man sent because he was worse, and felt himself slipping away.' 'Then I'd best be quick,' he replied to me; and I broke it to him that 'twas too late. 'He's gone, sir,' I said. 'Like the dew upon the fleece he be gone. Half an hour ago he died, and suffered very little at the end, so far as a mortal but experienced woman can tell you.' He stared slap through me, in that awful way he has, then he turned his back and got up on his beast and rode off without a word or a sign. Lord, He knows what that old pony must have thought of it all. 'Twas sweating and staggering, and, no doubt, full of wonder and rage at being pushed along so fast." [1] _Leather-birds_--bats. END OF FIRST BOOK BOOK II CHAPTER I Upon the highway between Cadworthy and the border village of Cornwood there stands an ancient granite cross. For many years the broken head reposed in the heather; then it was lifted upon the pedestal again and the vanished shaft restored. To north and south the white road sweeps by it; easterly tower Penshiel and Pen Beacon, and westerly rolls Shaugh Moor. Here, upon a day one year after the death of Vivian Baskerville, there met two of his sons, and the conversation that took place between them served roughly to record the development of their affairs, together with the present situation and future interests of the family. Ned Baskerville was riding home from Cornwood, and his brother Rupert, knowing that he must come this way, sat by St. Rumon's Cross, smoked his pipe and waited. The younger had found himself forgotten when his father's will came to be read. It was a pious fiction with Hester Baskerville that her husband had striven, when too late, against his own hasty deed. She believed that near his end the dying man attempted to repair this wrong. She declared that his eyes and his mutterings both spoke to that effect. But the fact of disinheritance was all that remained for Rupert to face, and in his bitterness he had turned from his family and continued to toil at the china-clay works, despite his mother's entreaties and Ned's handsome propositions. Now, however, the case was altered. After nine months of this unwisdom, Milly prevailed with Rupert to go back to Cadworthy and take her with him. His mother was thankful to welcome him home, and Ned did what he might to further the prospect. Rupert stood within sight of marriage, and he and his wife were presently to dwell at Cadworthy. Then control of the farm would be made over by Ned Baskerville to his brother. Now Rupert, in working clothes, sat by the cross. Opportunity to see Ned was not always easy, for the elder lived a life of pure pleasure and occupied much of his time from home. He was only concerned to spend money, but showed no interest in the sciences of administering and making it. He rode up presently, stopped, and, bending over, shook hands with his brother, but did not dismount. "Hullo! Don't often see you smoking and taking your ease. Look at my new mare. Isn't she a beauty? But Lord knows what Uncle Nathan will say when I come down upon him for the cash. And I've got another unpleasant surprise in store for him. I've bought a horse for Cora. It'll be my wedding-present to her, but she may as well have it now." "Pity we couldn't have all been married together; then one fuss and flare up and expense would have done for the lot of us." "I shouldn't have minded; but she didn't take to the idea at all. Wants to have a first-prize wedding all to herself. And about time too. I'm sick of waiting." As a matter of fact Ned had found no difficulty in suspense. With possession of money, life's boundaries considerably enlarged for him, and he became a person of increased importance. Cora was not jealous, and finding Ned extremely generous, she continued content with the engagement. The present year was to see her married, however; but when Nathan Baskerville suggested a triple wedding, Cora objected very strongly. She intended that her nuptials should be in a style considerably grander than those of Milly Luscombe, or Polly Baskerville; but she finally promised Ned to marry him during the following autumn. "A nice mare," admitted Rupert; "she's got a temper, though--won't carry beer. I know the man who used to own her. She very near broke his neck for him the night after Cornwood revel." "The horse isn't foaled that will ever throw me, I believe." "I reckon not. Well, I'm here to meet you, Ned. I want to run over the ground. You hate business so bad that 'tis difficult to talk about it with you; but, all the same, as a man with money you must think a bit." "Uncle Nathan thinks for me. He was paid to. Didn't father leave him fifty pounds to be trustee, or whatever 'tis?" "But you never will look ahead. Uncle Nathan, since that bad bout of health last winter, isn't what he was. Clever enough, I grant; but he has got his own affairs, and his own worries too, for that matter. Everything be safe and proper in his hands; but suppose he fell ill? Suppose he was to die?" "You're such a beggar for supposing. Never meet troubles half-way--that's my rule, and I've found it work very well too. I trust Uncle Nathan like the rest of the world trusts him. I sign his blessed papers and I get my quarter's allowance very regular, with a bit of money over and above when I want it, though he grumbles. I ask for no more but to be allowed to enjoy life as long as I can." "I'm going to do this anyway," said Rupert. "I'll tell you my hopes and plans. 'Tis right and wise to make plans and look ahead and set yourself a task. And my task be to get Cadworthy Farm away from you for my own in twenty years from the time I go there." "I shan't object--be sure of that. 'Tisn't likely I'd make hard terms with my own brother. You go in as my tenant at just what rent you please to pay in reason; and you pay me as much over and above the rent as you can afford till the price of the farm is polished off. And mother stops with you, and May stops with you. Mother has her allowance and May has hers, so they'll be no charge on you. And I stop too--till I'm married." "That's all clear, then." "Yes; and what I'm going to do is this. It seems there are things called sleeping partnerships--jolly convenient things too. All you do is to find a good, safe, established business that wants a bit of cash. And you put your cash in, and just go to the business once in a blue moon and sign your name in a book or two and draw your fees, and there you are! Uncle Nathan's on the look-out for some such a thing for a bit of my money. And I hope it will be in Plymouth for choice, because Cora's frightfully keen to be near Plymouth. She wants to make some decent woman pals, naturally. It's ridiculous such a girl messing about in a hole like Shaugh. She hinted at a shop, but I won't have that for a moment." "All the same, I don't see why you shouldn't try and look out for something that would give you a bit of work. Work won't hurt her or you. You must be pretty well sick of doing nothing by this time, I should think." "Far from it," declared Ned. "I find myself quite contented. I shall turn my hand to work presently. No hurry that I can see. I'm learning a lot, remember that. A great learner I am. The first use of money is to learn the world, Rupert. That's where that old fool at Hawk House has messed up his life. No better than a miser, that man. A spendthrift may be a fool, but a miser always is. And so it comes back to the fact that Uncle Humphrey's a fool, as I always said he was--a fool and a beast both." "He's different enough from Uncle Nathan, I grant you--can't be soft or gentle; but he's no fool, and though he pretends he's not interested in people, he is. Things slip out. Look how he reads the newspapers." "Yet now, for very hatred of all human beings--it can't be for anything else--'tis rumoured he'll leave Hawk House and get away from the sight of roads even. Susan Hacker told mother, not a week agone, that he was getting restless to go farther off. Pity he don't go and stick his head in Cranmere, and choke himself, and leave you and me and a few other dashing blades to spend his money. We ought to be his heirs--all of us. But we shan't see the colour of his cash, mark me." "You won't. He hates your way of life. But he's got no quarrel with the rest of us. You never know with a man like him. I'm going over to him now; and I've got a tale of a chap that's broke his legs. He may give me five shillings for the man's wife. He's done it before to-day. 'Tis in him to do kind things, only there's no easy outlet for 'em. Keeps his goodness bottled up, as if he was afraid of it." "You've got his blind eye, I reckon," said Ned. "It's all up with me anyway. I look t'other way when I pass him. He'll never forgive me for marrying Cora." "Well, you'd best to go on and not keep your horse dancing about no longer." Ned galloped off, and his brother, having sat a little longer by St. Rumon's Cross, rose and struck over Shaugh Moor in the direction of Humphrey Baskerville's dwelling. The old man was expecting his nephew and came upon the waste to meet him. They had not spoken together for many days and Rupert was glad to see the elder again. A year had stamped its record upon Humphrey Baskerville, and the significance of his son's death might now be perceived. Mark's passing left a permanent scar, but the expected callosity of spirit by no means overtook the sufferer. Man, if he did not delight him, bulked upon his mind as the supreme experience. It was an added tribulation that, upon his brother's estrangement and death, one of the few living beings with whom he enjoyed the least measure of intimacy had dropped out of his life. And now he became increasingly sensitive to the opinion of the people and developed a morbidity that was new. Mrs. Hacker was his frank intelligencer, and more than once he smarted to hear her tell how sensible men had spoken ill of him. Now he fell into talk with Rupert and uttered the things uppermost in his mind. "Well enough in body, but sometimes I doubt if my brain's all it used to be. Mayhap in the head is where I'll go first." Rupert laughed. "Not much fear of that, uncle." "You must know," answered the other, "that every man in this life has to suffer a certain amount of injustice. From the king on his throne to the tinker in his garret, there are thorns stuffed in all pillows. Human nature misunderstands itself at every turn, and the closest, life-long friends often catch their secret hearts full of wonder and surprise at each other. But I--I've had more than my share of that. The injustice that's heaped upon me is insufferable at times. And why? Because I don't carry my heart on my sleeve, and won't palter with truth at the world's bidding." "'Tis only fools laugh at you or grumble at you." "You're wrong there," answered Humphrey. "The scorn of fools and the snarl of evil lips are a healthy sign. There are some men and some dogs that I would rather bark at me than not. But how is it that wise men and understanding men hold aloof and say hard things and look t'other way when I pass by?" "Lord knows," answered Rupert. "They'm too busy to think for themselves, I suppose, and take the general opinion that you're rather--rather unsociable. You do many and many a kind thing, but they ban't known." "No I don't. I can't--'tisn't my nature. Kind things are often terrible silly things. Leave your Uncle Nathan to do the kind things. He did a kind thing when my son died; and I felt it. For warmth of heart there never was such another. The trouble that man takes for people is very fine to see. I'm not saying he's wise. In fact, I don't think he is wise. To do other folks' work for 'em and shelter 'em from the results of their own folly is to think you know better than God Almighty." "He's wonderful good, I'm sure. A godsend to my mother. Taken all the business over for her. When father died----" "Leave that. Keep on about his character," said Humphrey. "There's nought so interesting to a man like me as burrowing into human nature and trying the works. Now, in your Uncle Nathan you see one that has the cleverness to make nearly every human being like him and trust him. But how does he get his hold on the heart? Is it by shutting his eyes to what people really are, like I shut my ears to Jack Head's arguments against the Bible; or is it by sheer, stupid, obstinate goodness, that can't see the weakness and folly and wickedness and craft of human beings?" "He puts a large trust in his fellow-creatures," answered Rupert. "He believes everybody is good till he's proved 'em bad." Humphrey nodded. "True enough, and I'll tell you what that means in Nathan. The real secret of sympathy in this world is to be a sinner yourself. There's no end to the toleration and forgiveness and large-mindedness of people, if they know in their own hearts that they be just as bad. A wise man hedges, and never will be shocked at anything--why? Because he says, 'I may be found out too, some day.'" He broke off and his nephew spoke. "I know you're just as kind, really. By the same token I've come begging to-day. A poor Cornwood chap has had a bad accident. Market merry he was and got throwed off his pony. He's in hospital with both legs broke and may not recover, and his wife and four children----" "What about his club?" "He wasn't a member of a club." "What's his name?" "Coombes." "Drunk too? And you ask me to take my money and help that sort of man? But I won't." "Perhaps, in strict justice, he don't deserve it; but----" "Did you ask your Uncle Nathan for him?" "Yes. It shows the difference between you, I suppose." "He gave?" "He gave me ten shillings. There's a nice point to argify about. Which of you was right, Uncle Humphrey--you or Uncle Nat? You can't both be right." "We can both be right and both be wrong," answered the old man. "Uncle Nat was preaching at the chapel a bit ago, afore he had his illness; and me and Milly went to hear him." "He preaches, does he?" "Now and again--to work off his energy, he says. But never no more will he. His voice won't stand it, he says. He chose for his text a question, and he said 'twas a simple and easy thing, afore we took any step in life, to ax ourselves and say, what would the Lord do?" "Simple enough to ask--not so simple to answer." "He seemed to think 'twas as simple to answer as to ask." "His brain isn't built to see the difficulties. Jack Head laughs at all these here Tory Christians. He says that a man can no more be a Tory and a Christian than he can walk on water. He says, flat out, that Christ was wrong here and there--right down wrong. Mind, I don't say so; but Head will argue for it very strong if you'll let him." "Uncle Nat wouldn't hear of that." "Nor would I. I've got as much faith as my brother. And as to what Christ would do or would not do in any given case, 'tis a matter for very close reasoning, because we act only seeing the outside of a puzzle; He would act seeing the inside. To say that we always know what the Lord would do, is to say we're as wise as Him. To go to the Bible for an answer to trouble is right enough though. 'Tis like a story I read in a wise book a few nights agone; for I've taken to reading a terrible lot of books lately. It told how two fellows fell out and fought like a pair of martin-cats over a bit of ground. Each said 'twas his, and presently they carried their trouble to a wise king, as reigned over a near nation, and was always happy to talk sense to anybody who had the time to listen. So to the neighbour kingdom they went, and yet never got to the king at all. And why not? Because, so soon as they were in his land, they found the spirit and wisdom of him working like barm in bread throughout the length and breadth of the place. They saw peace alive. They saw the people living in brotherly love and unity and understanding. They saw the religion of give and take at work. They saw travellers yielding the path to each other; they saw kindness and goodness and patience the rule from the cradle to the grave; and they felt so terrible ashamed of their own little pitiful quarrel that they dursn't for decency take it afore the throne, but made friends there and then and shared the strip of earth between 'em. And so 'tis with the Bible, Rupert: you bring a trouble into the Lord's kingdom and you'll find, in the clear light shining there, that it quickly takes a shape to shame you." "'Tis pretty much what Uncle Nat said in other words. But didn't it ought to make you give me ten shillings for Coombes?" "'Tisn't for us to stand between the State and its work." "But his wife and children?" "The sins of the fathers are visited on the children. Who are we to come between God Almighty and His laws?" Rupert shrugged his shoulders. "Christ Almighty would have done--what?" asked Mr. Baskerville. Rupert reflected. "He'd have done something, for certain. Why, of course! He'd have healed the man's broken legs first!" "And that's what mankind is doing as best it can." "And if the man dies?" "Then the State will look after his leavings." "You're justice itself," said Rupert; "but man's justice be frosty work." "That's right enough. Justice and mercy is the difference between God and Christ. The one's a terrible light to show the way and mark the rock and point the channel through the storm; but 'twill dazzle your eyes if you see it too close, remember. And t'other's to the cold heart what a glowing fire be to the cold body." "And I say that Uncle Nathan's just that--a glowing, Christlike sort of man," declared the younger fervently. "Say so and think so," answered his uncle. "He stands for mercy; and I'll never say again that he stands for mercy, because he knows he'll stand in need of mercy. I'll never say that again. And I stand for justice, and hope I'll reap as I have sowed--neither better nor worse. But between my way and Nathan's way is yet another way; and if I could find it, then I should find the thing I'm seeking." "The way of justice and mercy together, I suppose you mean?" "I suppose I do. But I've never known how to mix 'em and keep at peace with my own conscience. Justice is firm ground; mercy is not. Man knows that very well. We may please our fellow-creatures with it; but for my part, so far as I have got till now, I'm prone to think that mercy be God's work only--same as vengeance is. For us 'tis enough that we try to be just, and leave all else in higher hands. Life ban't a pretty thing, and you can't hide its ugliness by decorating it with doubtful mercies, that may look beautiful to the eye but won't stand the stark light of right." "Justice makes goodness a bit hard at the edges, however," answered his nephew. "And when all's said, if mercy be such treacherous ground, who can deny that justice may give way under us too now and again?" They now stood at the door of Hawk House. "Enter in," said Mr. Baskerville. "You argue well, and there's a lot in what you say. And words come all to this, as the rivers come all to the sea, that we know nothing, outside Revelation. And now let's talk about your affairs. When is your marriage going to be? Has Milly Luscombe said she wants me to come to it? Answer the truth." CHAPTER II Dennis Masterman took the opportunity that offered after a service to meet his parish clerk and perambulate the churchyard. For the vicar's sister had pointed out that the burying-ground of St. Edward's was ill-kept and choked with weeds. Overhead the bells made mighty riot. Two weddings had just been celebrated, and the ringers were doing their best. "With spring here again, this place will be a scandal," said Dennis. "You must set to work in earnest, Gollop, and if it's more than you can do single-handed, you'd better get help." "Hay is hay," answered the other; "and the Reverend Valletort was above any fidgets like what some people suffer from nowadays. He had the churchyard hay as his right in his opinion, and, given a good year, us made a tidy little rick for him. 'All flesh is grass,' he used to say in his wise fashion, 'and grass is not the less grass because it comes off a man's grave.'" "I think differently. To make hay in a churchyard, Thomas, is very bad form, and shows a lack of proper and delicate feeling. Anyway, there's to be a thorough clean-up. We've got a lot of very interesting graves here, and when people come and ask to see the churchyard I don't like wading through a foot of weeds. Where's the famous tomb with the music book and bass viol on it? I wanted to show it to a man only last week, and couldn't find it." Mr. Gollop led the way and indicated a slate amid the Baskerville monuments. "There 'tis. A riddle and an open book; and the book actually had a bit of the Old Hundredth--the music, I mean--scratched on it when first 'twas set up. But time have eaten that off, I believe. He was a fine fiddler in the days afore the organs was put in the church, and then he had to go; and he soon died after the joy of playing on Sundays was taken from him. He made up his verse himself." Mr. Gollop drew back the herbage from this slate and read out the rhyme half hidden beneath. "'Praises on tombs are to no purpose spent, A man's good name is his own monument.' "But a good name don't last as long as a good slate, when all's said. There's Vivian Baskerville's stone, you see. 'Tis a great addition to the row, and cost seven pounds odd. And there lieth the suicide, as should be yonder if justice had been done. But Humphrey Baskerville don't mean to take his place in the family row. Like him, that is. Won't even neighbour with his fellow dust." "You oughtn't to repeat such nonsense, Gollop." "Nonsense or no nonsense, 'tis the truth. Here's the place he's chosen, and bought it, too, right up in this corner, away from everybody; and his gravestone is to turn its back upon t'other dead folk--like he's always turned his back upon the living." Mr. Gollop indicated a lonely corner of the churchyard. "That's where he's going to await the trump." "Well, that's his business, poor man. He's a good Christian, anyway." "If coming to church makes him so, he may be; but Christian is as Christian does in my opinion. Show me a man or beast as be the better for Humphrey Baskerville, and I'll weigh up what sort of Christian he may be." "Judge nobody; but get this place respectable and tidy. No half measures, Gollop. And you'll have to work out all those unknown mounds with a pair of shears. They are running together, and will disappear in a year or two. And that pile of broken slates in the corner had better be carted away altogether. You ought to know the graves they belong to, but of course you don't." "No, I don't, and more don't any other living man. I ban't God Almighty, I believe. 'Tis Miss Masterman have put you on to harrying me out of my seven senses this way, and I wish she'd mind her own business and let me mind mine." "No need to be insolent. I only ask you to mind your own business. If you'd do that we should never have a word." Mr. Gollop grunted rudely. When conquered in argument he always reserved to himself, not the right of final speech, but the licence of final sound. On these occasions he uttered a defiant, raucous explosion, pregnant with contempt and scorn, then he hurried away. At times, under exceptional stress, he would also permit himself an offensive gesture before departing. This consisted in lifting his coat-tail and striking the part of his person that occurred beneath it. But such an insult was reserved for his acquaintance; obviously it might not be exploited against the vicar of the parish. Now Gollop marched off to 'The White Thorn,' and Masterman, turning, found that the man of whom they had recently spoken walked alone not far off. Dennis instantly approached him. It was his wish to know this member of his congregation better, but opportunity to do so had been denied. Now there was no escape for Humphrey Baskerville, because the minister extended his hand and saluted him. "How do you do, Mr. Baskerville? Glad to see you. A pretty pair of weddings, and two very popular young couples, I fancy." Humphrey admitted it. "There's no better or harder working man about here than my nephew Rupert Baskerville," he said. "So I understand. Not much of a church-goer, though, I'm afraid. However, perhaps he'll come oftener now. The bells make the tower shake, I do believe. We've never had the tenor bell rung like your son rang it, Mr. Baskerville." The old man shrugged his shoulders. "I always fancy so; but then, I've a right to fancy so. I was his father. No doubt 'tis folly. One pair of hands can pull a rope as well as another. But 'as the heart thinketh, so the bell clinketh,' though the heart of man is generally wrong. My son would have done his best to-day, no doubt, though such was his nature that he'd sooner toll alone than peal in company." "Are you going to the wedding breakfast?" "Yes; not that they really want me. 'Twas only because the boys and girls wouldn't take 'no' for an answer that I go. I doubt whether they're in earnest. But I'm glad to be there too." "Who was the fine young brown fellow in the Baskerville pew beside Mrs. Baskerville?" "Nathan Baskerville the younger. Called after my brother, the innkeeper. He's just off the sea for a bit." "A handsome man." "He is for certain." "Well, I'm very glad to meet you. I was telling Gollop that our graves are not worthy of us. We must make the churchyard tidier." They had reached the lich-gate and Dennis held Mr. Baskerville's pony while he mounted it. "Thank you," said the elder. "By the way, I've never called at Hawk House, because I've been told you wouldn't care about it." "As to that, 'tisn't whether I'd care or not, 'tis whether you ought to call or not." "You're right. Then come I shall. How about next Friday?" "I shall be there." "I hear you're a great reader, Mr. Baskerville. I might lend you some of my books--and gladly would do so, if you'd care to have them." "Thank you, I'm sure. A kindly thought in you. 'Tis no great art to think kindly; but let the thought blossom out into a deed and it grows alive. Yes, I read a lot now since my son died. Jack Head is a reading man, likewise; but he reads terrible dangerous books. He lent me one and I burnt it. Yes, I burnt it, and told him so." "Probably you were right." "No, I wasn't. He showed me very clearly that I was wrong. You can't burn a book. A bad book once out in the world is like a stone once flung--it belongs to the devil. Not but what Jack Head says many things that can't be answered--worse luck." "I wish he'd bring his difficulties to me." "You needn't wish that. _He's_ got no difficulties. _He's_ going with the wind and tide. 'Tis you, not him--'tis you and me, and the likes of us--that will be in difficulties afore long. I see that plain enough. 'Tis idle to be blind. I shall die a Christian, and so will you, and so belike will your childer, if ever you get any; but all's in a welter of change now, and very like your grandchilder will think 'twas terrible funny to have a parson for a grandfather. Jack Head says they'll put stuffed curates in the British Museum afore three generations." "A free-thought wave," said Dennis. "Be under no concern, Mr. Baskerville. Christianity is quite unassailable. Remember the Rock it's founded on." "'Tis the rock it will split on be the thing to consider. However, if you've got any books that stand for our side, I shall thank you to lend 'em to me. Jack's had it all his own way of late." "I'll bring some," declared Masterman. They parted, and Humphrey trotted off on his pony. Meantime at 'The White Thorn' a considerable gathering had met to discuss the weddings, and Nathan Baskerville, his namesake, the sailor, Heathman Lintern, Joe Voysey, and others enjoyed a morning drink. For some the entertainment was now ended, but not a few had been bidden to the feast at Cadworthy, where a double banquet was planned, and many would soon set out on foot or in market-carts for the farm. "One may hope for nought but good of these here weddings," said Voysey. "There's only one danger in my judgment, and that is for two of the young people to set up living with the bridegroom's mother; but Rupert ban't Hester Baskerville's favourite son, I believe. If he was it certainly wouldn't work. The poor chap would be pulled in two pieces between mother and wife. However, if the mother ban't jealous of him, it may do pretty well." "When Master Ned marries, he'll have to go a bit further off," said the innkeeper. "How is it brother Ned ban't married a'ready?" asked the younger Nathan. "Why, 'tis more than a year agone since I heard from my sister that he was going to marry Heathman's sister, and yet nothing done. I'd make her name the day jolly quick if 'twas me." Heathman laughed and shook his head. "No, you wouldn't, Nat. You don't know Cora. None will hurry her if she's not minded to hurry. Ned has done what he could, and so have I--and so has my mother. But she's in no haste. Likes being engaged and making plans, getting presents, and having a good time and being important." "The autumn will see them married, however," declared Mr. Baskerville. "I've told Master Ned that he'll have to draw in his horns a bit, for he's not made of money, though he seems to think so. 'Twill be his best economy to marry pretty quick and settle down. Never was a man with wilder ideas about money; but Cora's different. She's a woman with brains. He'll do well to hand her over the purse." "She wants to start a shop at Plymouth," said Heathman. "A shop for hats and women's things. But Ned's against it. He says she shan't work--not while he can help it; and as he certainly won't work himself while he can help it, we must hope they've got tons of money." "Which they have not," answered Nathan Baskerville. "And the sooner Ned understands that and gives ear to me, the better for his peace of mind." Mr. Gollop entered at this moment. He was ruffled and annoyed. "That man!" he moaned, "that headstrong, rash man will be the death of me yet. Of course, I mean Masterman. Won't let the dead rest in their graves now. Wants the churchyard turned into a pleasure-ground seemingly. Must be mowing and hacking and tacking and trimming; and no more hay; and even they old holy slates in the corner to be carted off as if they was common stones." "Lie low and do nought," advised Joe Voysey. "'Tis a sort of fever that takes the gentleman off and on. He catches the fit from his sister. She'll be down on me sometimes, with all her feathers up and everything wrong. I must set to that instant moment and tidy the garden for my dear life, till not a blade be out of place. Likes to see the grass plot so sleek as a boy's head after Sunday pomatum. But the way is to listen with all due and proper attention, as becomes us afore our betters, and then--forget it. The true kindness and charity be to let 'em have their talk out, and even meet 'em in little things here and there--if it can be done without loss of our self-respect. But we understand best. Don't you never forget that, Thomas. Where the yard and the garden be concerned, you and me must be first in the land. They be children to us, and should be treated according. We've forgot more than they ever knowed about such things." Others came and went; Joe and Thomas matured their Fabian tactics; Nathan Baskerville, with his nephew and young Lintern, set off in a pony trap for Cadworthy. The bells still rioted and rang their ceaseless music; for these new-made wives and husbands were being honoured with the long-drawn, melodious thunder of a full five-bell 'peal.' CHAPTER III Cora Lintern waited for Ned Baskerville at the fork of the road above Shaugh. Here, in the vicarage wall, the stump of a village cross had been planted. Round about stitchwort flashed its spring stars, and foxgloves made ready, while to the shattered symbol clung ivy tighter than ever lost sinner seeking sanctuary. Upon a stone beneath sat the woman in Sunday finery, and she was beautiful despite her garments. They spoke of untutored taste and a mind ignorantly attracted by the garish and the crude. But her face was fair until examined at near range. Then upon the obvious beauty, like beginning of rust in the leaf, there appeared delicate signs of the spirit within. Her eyes spoke unrest and her mouth asperity. The shadow of a permanent line connected her eyebrows and promised a network too soon to stretch its web, woven by the spiders of discontent, upon her forehead. Cora built always upon to-morrow, and she suffered the fate of those that do so. She was ambitious and vain, and she harboured a false perspective in every matter touching her own welfare, her own desert, and her own position in the world. She largely overrated her beauty and her talents. She was satisfied with Ned Baskerville, but had ceased to be enthusiastic about him. A year of his society revealed definite limitations, and she understood that though her husband was well-to-do, he would never be capable. The power to earn money did not belong to him, and she rated his windy optimisms and promises at their just value. She perceived that the will and intellect were hers, and she knew that, once married, he would follow and not lead. The advantage of this position outweighed the disadvantages. She desired to live in a town, and rather favoured the idea of setting up a shop, to be patronised by the local leaders of rank and fashion. She loved dress, and believed herself possessed of much natural genius in matters sartorial. At present Ned absolutely refused any suggestion of a shop; but she doubted not that power rested with her presently to insist, if she pleased to do so. He was a generous and fairly devout lover. He more than satisfied her requirements in that direction. She had, indeed, cooled his ardour a little, and she supposed that her common-sense was gradually modifying his amorous disposition. But another's common-sense is a weak weapon against lust, and Ned's sensual energies, dammed by Cora, found secret outlet elsewhere. So it came about that he endured the ordeal of the lengthy engagement without difficulty, and the girl wore his fancied sobriety and self-control as a feather in her cap. When she related her achievement to Ned and explained to him how much his character already owed to her chastening influence, he admitted it without a blush, and solemnly assured her that she had changed his whole attitude to the sex. Now the man arrived, and they walked together by Beatland Corner, southerly of Shaugh, upon the moor-edge. Their talk was of the autumn wedding and the necessity for some active efforts to decide their domicile. Cora was for a suburb of Plymouth, but Ned wanted to live in the country outside. The shop she did not mention after his recent strong expressions of aversion from it; but she desired the first step to be such that transition to town might easily follow, when marriage was accomplished and her power became paramount. They decided, at length, to visit certain places that stood between town and country above Plymouth. There were Stoke and Mannamead to see. A villa was Cora's ambition--a villa and two servants. Ned's instincts, on the other hand, led to a small house and a large stable. He owned some horses and took great part of his pleasure upon them. Since possession of her own steed, however, Cora's regard for riding had diminished. It was her way to be quickly satisfied with a new toy. Now she spoke of a 'victoria,' so that when she was married she might drive daily upon her shopping and her visiting. "The thing is to begin well," she said. "People call according to your house, and often the difference between nice blinds and common blinds will decide women whether they'll visit a newcomer or not. With my taste you can trust the outside of your home to look all right, Ned. At Mannamead I saw the very sort of house I'd like for us to have. Such a style, and I couldn't think what 'twas about it till I saw the short blinds was all hung in bright shining brass rods across the windows, and the window-boxes was all painted peacock-blue. 'I'll have my house just like that!' I thought." "So you shall--or any colour you please. And I'll have my stable smart too, I promise you. White tiles all through. I shall have to do a bit myself, you know--looking after the horses, I mean--but nobody will know it." "You'll keep a man, of course?"' "A cheap one. Uncle Nathan went into figures with me last week. He was a bit vague, and I was a bit impatient and soon had enough of it. 'All I want to know,' I told him, 'is just exactly what income I can count upon,' and he said five hundred a year was the outside figure. Then, against that, you must set that he's getting a bit old and, of course, being another person's money, he's extra cautious. He admitted that if I sold out some shares and bought others, I could get pretty near another one hundred a year by it. But, of course, we've got to take a bite out of the money for furnishing and all the rest of it. My idea, as you know, is to invest a bit in a sleeping partnership, but he hasn't found anything of the sort yet, apparently. He's not the man he was at finding a bargain." Here opened a good opportunity for her ambitions, and Cora ventured to take it. "I wish you'd think twice about letting me start a little business. It's quite a ladylike thing, or I wouldn't offer it, but with my natural cleverness about clothes, and with all the time I've given to the fashions and all that--especially with the hats I can make--it seems a pity not to let me do it. You don't want much money to start with, and I should soon draw the custom." "No," he said. "Time enough if ever we get hard up. I'm not going to have you making money. 'Tis your business to spend it. You'll be a lady, with your own servants and all the rest of it. You'll walk about, and pick the flowers in your garden, and pay visits; and if you do have a little trap, you can drive out to the meets sometimes when I go hunting. Why, damn it all, Cora, I should have thought you was the last girl who would ever want to do such a thing!" "That's all you know," she said. "People who keep hat shops often get in with much bigger swells than ever we're likely to know at Mannamead, or Stoke either. They come into the shop and they see, of course, I'm a lady, and I explain that I only keep the shop for fun, and then I get to know them. I'd make more swell friends in my hat shop than ever you do on your horse out fox-hunting." "I know a lot of swells, for that matter." "Ask 'em to come to tea and then you'll see if you know 'em," she said. "'Tis no use for us to be silly. We're poor people, compared to rich ones, and we always shall be, so far as I can see. We must be content with getting up the ladder a bit--and that's all I ask or expect." "I know my place all right, if that's what you mean," answered Ned. "I'm not anxious to get in with my betters, for they're not much use to me. I'm easily satisfied. I want for you to have a good time, and I mean for myself to have a good time. You can only live your life once, and a man's a fool to let worry come into his life if he can escape from it. The great thing in the world is to find people who think as you do yourself. That's worth a bit of trouble; and when you've found them, stick to them. A jolly good motto too." They spilt words to feeble purpose for another half-hour, and then there came an acquaintance. Timothy Waite appeared on his way from Coldstone Farm. He overtook them and walked beside them. "I suppose you don't want company," he said, "but I'll leave you half a mile further on." "We do want company, and always shall," declared Cora. "And yours most of all, I'm sure. We're past the silly spooning stage. In fact, we never got into it, did we, Edward?" "You didn't," said her betrothed, "and as you didn't, I couldn't. Spooning takes two." Mr. Waite remained a bachelor and no woman had ever been mentioned in connection with him. He was highly eligible and, indeed, a husband much to be desired. He enjoyed prosperity, good looks, and a reputation for sense and industry. Cora he had always admired, and still did so. At heart he wondered why she had chosen Ned Baskerville, and sometimes, since the marriage hung fire, he suspected that she was not entirely satisfied of her bargain and might yet change her mind. He would have married her willingly, for there was that in her practical and unsentimental character which appealed to him. He had indeed contemplated proposing when the announcement of young Baskerville's engagement reached him. He met Cora sometimes and always admired her outlook on life. He did so now, yet knowing Ned too, doubted at heart whether the woman had arrested his propensities as completely as she asserted. "The question on our lips when you came along was where we should set up shop," said Ned. "A shop is what I really and truly want to set up," declared Cora; "but Edward won't hear of it--more fool him, I say. He can't earn money, but that's no reason why I shouldn't try to." Mr. Waite entirely agreed with her. "No reason why you shouldn't. If Cadworthy's to be handed over to Rupert and you're going to live in Plymouth, as I hear," he said, "then why not business? There's nothing against it that I know, and there's nothing like it. If I wasn't a farmer, I'd keep a shop. For that matter a farmer does keep a shop. Only difference that I can see is that he has fields instead of cupboards and loses good money through the middleman between him and his customers. I'm going to take another stall in Plymouth market after Midsummer. There's nought like market work for saving cash." "And as nearly half our money will come from the rent that Rupert pays for Cadworthy, we shall be living by a shop in a sense whether you pretend to or not," added Cora. But Ned denied this. He aired his views on political economy, while Waite, who valued money, yet valued making it still more, reduced the other's opinions to their proper fatuity and laughed at him into the bargain. Timothy's contempt for Baskerville was not concealed. He even permitted himself a sly jest or two at the expense of the other's mental endowments; and these thrusts, while unfelt by the victim, stabbed Cora's breast somewhat keenly. Even Timothy's laughter, she told herself, was more sane and manly than Ned's. She fell into her own vice of contrasting the thing she had with the thing she had not, to the detriment of the former. It was an instinct with her to under-value her own possessions; but the instinct stopped at herself--an unusual circumstance. With herself and her attributes of mind and body, she never quarrelled; it was only her environment that by no possibility compared favourably with that of other people. Her mother, her sister, her brother, her betrothed, and her prospects--none but seemed really unworthy of Cora when dispassionately judged by herself. Now she weighed Timothy's decision against Ned's doubt, his knowledge against Ned's ignorance, his sense against Ned's nonsense. She felt the farmer's allusions, and she throbbed with discomfort because Ned did not also feel them and retort upon Mr. Waite in like manner. She told herself that the difference between them was the radical difference between a wise man and a fool. Then she fell back in self-defence of her own judgment, and assured herself that, physically, there could be no comparison, and that Ned had a better heart and would make a gentler husband. Timothy had admired her--she remembered that; but he was caution personified and, while he had considered, Ned had plunged. She strove to see this as a virtue in Ned. Yet Timothy's old attitude to her forbade any slighting of him. She remembered very well how, when he congratulated her on her engagement, he had pointedly praised Ned for one thing alone: his precipitation. A fault at other seasons may be a virtue in the love season. "I thought him not very clever," said Timothy on that occasion; "but now I see he was cleverer than any of us. Because he was too clever to waste a moment in getting what every other chap wanted. We learn these things too late." He said that and said it with great significance. It comforted Cora now to remember the circumstance. Whatever else Ned might not know, he knew a good deal about women; and that would surely make him by so much a better husband. Then her wits told her the opposite might be argued from this premise. She was not enjoying herself, and she felt glad when Waite left them. Anon Ned rallied her for lengthened taciturnity and even hinted, as a jest, that he believed she was regretting her choice. They turned presently and went back over Shaugh Moor to drink tea at the man's home. But upon the threshold Cora changed her mind. She pleaded headache and some anxiety about her health. "I've got a cold coming--else I wouldn't be so low-spirited," she said. "I'll get back through North Wood and go to bed early." He instantly expressed utmost solicitation and concern. "I'll come back with you, then. If you like, I'll put in the pony and drive you," he said. But she would neither of these things. "I shall be all right. You go in and have your tea, and don't trouble. I'll get back by the wood path, and you'll find I shall be better to-morrow." "'Tis that flimsy dress that lets the wind through like a net," he said. "The weather's not right for such clothes as you will wear." But she laughed and told him to mind his own business. Then she kissed him on the cheek and went away. He stood doubtful. First he felt moved to follow her, and then he changed his mind. He knew Cora better than she thought he did, and he was aware that at the present moment she felt perfectly well but desired to be alone. He had not missed the significance of Mr. Waite's views on his sweetheart's mind, though he had failed to appreciate Timothy's sly humour at his own expense. Now, therefore, he let Cora have her will and made no further effort to overtake her. He waited only until she looked back, as he knew she would; then he kissed his hand, turned, and departed. She passed along through the forest homeward, and, when hidden in a silent place, dusted a stone and sat down to think. A wild apple tree rose above her, half smothered in a great ivy-tod. But through the darkness of the parasite, infant sprays of bright young foliage sprang and splashed the gloomy evergreen with verdure. Aloft, crowning this gnarled and elbowed crab, burst out a triumphant wreath of pale pink blossom--dainty, diaphanous, and curled. Full of light and pearly purity it feathered on the bough, and its tender brightness was splashed with crimson beads of the flower-buds that waited their time and turn to open. Higher still, dominating the tree, thrust forth a crooked, naked bough or two. They towered, black, dead, and grim above the loveliness of the living thing beneath. From reflections not agreeable, this good sight attracted Cora and turned the tide of her thoughts. Even here the instinct of business dominated any sentiment that might have wakened in another spirit before such beauty. She gazed at it, then rose and plucked a few sprays of the apple-blossom. Next she took off her hat and began to try the effect of the natural flowers therein. Her efforts pleased her not a little. "Lord! What a hand I have for it!" she said aloud. Then, refreshened by this evidence of her skill, she rose and proceeded to Shaugh. "I know one thing," she thought, "and that is, man or no man, I shall always be able to make my living single-handed in a town. 'Tisn't for that I want a husband. And be it as 'twill, when master Ned finds a lot more money coming in, he'd very soon give over crying out at a shop." CHAPTER IV Humphrey Baskerville still sought to determine his need, and sometimes supposed that he had done so. More than once he had contemplated the possibility of peace by flight; then there happened incidents to change his mind. Of late the idea of a home further from distracting influences had again seemed good to him. More than once he considered the advantages of isolation; more than once he rode upon the Moor and distracted his gloom with visions of imaginary dwellings in regions remote. The folly of these thoughts often thrust him with a rebound into the life of his fellow-beings, and those who knew him best observed a rhythmic alternation in Humphrey. After periods of abstention and loneliness would follow some return to a more sociable style of living. From a fierce hectic of mind that sent him sore and savage into the heart of the wilderness, he cooled and grew temperate again as the intermittent fever passed. And then, when the effort towards his kind had failed by his own ineptitude and the world's mistrust, he retreated once more to suffer, and banished himself behind the clouds of his own restless soul. Humanity has no leisure to decipher these difficult spirits; the pathos of their attempts must demand a philosophic eye to perceive it; and unless kind chance offers the key, unless opportunity affords an explanation, the lonely but hungry heart passes away unfathomed, sinks to the grave unread and unreconciled. Inner darkness turned Baskerville to the Moor again, and he rode--where often he had already ridden: to inspect the ruin of an old dwelling upon the side of a great hill above the waters of Plym. Brilliant summer smiled upon this pilgrimage, and as he went, he fell in with a friend, where Jack Head tramped the high road upon his way to Trowlesworthy. Jack now dwelt at Shaugh, but was head man of Saul Luscombe's farm and rabbit warren. "A fine day," said Humphrey as he slowed his pony. "Yes, and a finer coming," answered the other. Mr. Baskerville was quick to note the militant tone. "Been at your silly books again, I warrant," he said. "There's one book I could wish you'd read along with t'others, Jack. 'Tis the salt to all other books, for all you scorn it." "Bible's a broken reed, master, as you'll live to find out yet." "No, Jack. 'Tis what makes all other writing but a broken reed. A fountain that never runs dry, I promise you. No man will ever get the whole truth out of the Bible." "No, by Gor! Because it ban't there," said the other. "It's there all right--hidden for the little children to find it. You bandage your eyes and then you say you can't see--a fool's trick that." "I can see so far as you. 'Tis you put coloured spectacles on your nose to make things look as you'd have 'em. Your book be played out, master. Let the childer read it, if you like, along with the other fairy tales; but don't think grown men be going to waste their time with it. The whole truth is that the book be built on a lie. There never was no Jehovah and never will be. Moses invented Him to frighten the folk from their naughtiness, same as you invent a scarecrow to frighten the birds from the seed. And the scarecrow works better than Jehovah did, by all accounts." "You talk out of your narrow, bitter books, Jack." "No need to call my books names. That's all your side can do. Why don't they try to answer 'em instead of blackguarding 'em?" "'Tis a great danger to the poor that they begin to think so much." "Don't you say that. Knowledge be the weapon the poor have been waiting for all these years and years. 'Tis the only weapon for a poor man. And what will it soon show 'em? It'll show 'em that the most powerful thing on this earth be the poor. They are just going to find it out; then you rich people will hear of something that will terrible astonish you." "You're a rank Socialist, Jack. I've no patience with you." "There you are: 'no patience!' But that's another thing we men of the soil be going to teach you chaps who own the soil. 'Patience,' you say. There's a time coming when the rich people will have to be mighty patient, I warn you! And if you're impatient--why, 'tis all one to us, for never was heard that any impatient man could stop the tide flowing." "I believe that," said Baskerville grimly. "You'll pay us presently for teaching you, and clothing you, and helping to enlarge your minds. When you're learned enough, you'll turn round, like the snake, and bite the hand that fed you. Gratitude the common soul never knows and never will, whatever else it may learn. Knowledge is poison to low natures, and we ought to have kept you ignorant and harmless." Jack Head stared. "That's a pretty speech!" he said. "That's a good healthy bit of Christian charity--eh? Why for should you ax so much credit for your side? Take me. What's the rich man done for me? A workhouse boy I was." "And look at you now--a prosperous man and saving money. Who fed you and taught you and brought you up? The State. Society saved you; society played mother to you; and now you want to kick her. That's how you'd pay your debts. You take a base and a narrow view--dishonest too. The State have got to look after the rich as well as the poor. Why not? The poor aren't everybody. You're the sort that think no man can be a decent member of society unless he was born in a gutter. Class prejudice 'tis called, and some of the chaps who think they're the salt of the earth, stink of it." "Class be damned," said Mr. Head. "Class is all stuff and nonsense. There are only two classes--good men and bad ones. The difference between a duke and me be difference between a pig with a ring in his nose and another without one. We'm built the same to the last bone in our bodies, and I've got more sense than half the dukes in the kingdom." "And t'other half have got more sense than you," returned the rider. "It's summed up in a word. Class there will be, because class there must be. The poor we have always with us--you know that well enough. Your books, though they deny most things, can't deny that." "Another of your silly Christian sayings. We have got the poor with us--but it won't be always. So long as we have the rich with us, we shall have the poor, and no longer. No longer, master! Finish off the one and you'll finish off t'other. That's a bit of home-grown wisdom, that is got from no book at all." "Wisdom, you call it! And what power is going to root out the rich? How are you clever folk going to alter human nature, and say to this man you shan't save your money and to this man you shall save yours? While some men and women are born to thrift and sense, and some to folly and squandering, there must be rich and poor; and while men are born to hunger for power, there must be war. These things can't be changed. And you can't say where any man can reach to; you can't put up a mark and tell your fellow-man, 'you shan't go higher than that.'" "Granted. You can't say where they shall reach to; but you can say where they shall start from. Half the world's handicapped at the starting-post. I only ax for the race to be a fair one. I only ax for my son to start fair with yours. If yours be the better man, then let him win; but don't let him win because he's got too long a start. That's not justice but tyranny. Give every man his chance and make every man work--that's all I ask. If a man's only got the wits to break stones, then see that he breaks 'em; and let them who can do better and earn better money not grudge the stone-breaker a little over and above what his poor wits earn in the market." "I grant that's good," admitted Baskerville. "Let the strong help the weak. 'Twas Christ found that out, not you Socialists." "'Tis found out anyway," said Jack Head. "And 'tis true; and therefore it will happen and we can't go back on it. And it follows from that law of strong helping weak that nobody ought to be too rich, any more than they ought to be too poor. Let the State be a millionaire a million times over, if you like--and only the State. So long as the hive be rich, no bee is poor." Humphrey did not immediately reply. He was following Head's argument to a still larger conclusion. "And you'd argue that as the strong man can help the weak one, so in time the strong State might help the weak one instead of hindering it, and the powerful of the earth give of their abundance to strengthen the humble and feeble?" "Why not? Instead of that, the great Powers be bristling with fighting men, and all the sinews of the world be wasted on war. And it shows the uselessness of the Book, anyway, that the Christian nations--so-called--keep the biggest armies and the largest number of men idle, rotting their bodies and souls away in barracks and battleships." Baskerville nodded. "There's sense of a lop-sided sort in much that you say, Jack. But 'tisn't the Book that's to blame--'tis the world that misunderstands the Book and daren't go by the Book--because of the nations around that don't go by it." "Then why do they pretend they'm Christians? They know if they went by the Book they'd go down; yet they want to drive it into the heads of the next generation. The child hears his father damning the Government because they ban't building enough men-of-war, and next day when the boy comes home with a black eye, his father turns round and tells him to mind his Bible and remember that the peacemakers be blessed." "I could wish a Government would give Christianity a chance," confessed Mr. Baskerville; "but I suppose 'tis much the same thing as Free Trade--a fine thing if everybody played the game, but a poor thing for one nation if t'others are all for Protection." "That's a lie," answered Mr. Head. "We've shown Free Trade is a fine thing--single-handed we've shown it, and why? Because Free Trade's a strong sword; but Christianity's rusty and won't stand the strain no longer. We've passed that stage; and if we was to start Christianity now and offer the cheek to the smiter--well, he'd damn soon smite, and then where are we?" They chattered on and set the world right according to their outlook, instinct, and understanding. Then the conversation turned into personal channels, and Mr. Baskerville, while admitting the justice of much that Jack asserted, yet blamed him for a certain impatience and bitterness. "If evolution is going to set all right and the unborn will come into a better world, why get so hot?" he asked. "Because I'm a thinking, feeling man," answered the other. "Because I hate to see wrong done in the name of right. And you're the same--only you haven't got as much sense as me seemingly. I'm useful--you only want to be useful and don't see how." "I want to do my part in the world; but just the right way is difficult to choose out among the many roads that offer, Jack. You are positive, and that saves a deal of trouble, no doubt. The positive people go the furthest--for good or evil. But I'm not so certain. I see deeper than you because I've been better educated, though I'm not so clever by nature. Then there's another thing--sympathy. People don't like me, and to be disliked limits a man's usefulness a lot." "That's stuff," answered Jack; "no more than a maggot got in your head. If they don't like you, there's a reason. They'm feared of your sharp tongue, and think 'tis the key to a hard heart. Then 'tis for you to show 'em what they can't see. I'll tell you what you are: you'm a man sitting hungry in a wheat-field, because you don't know and won't larn how to turn corn into bread. That's you in a word." Trowlesworthy was reached and Jack went his way. "You might come and drink a dish of tea some Sunday," said Mr. Baskerville, and the other promised to do so. Then Humphrey proceeded beside the river, and presently ascended a rough slope to his destination. The ruin that alternately drew and repelled him lay below; but for the moment he did not seek it. He climbed to the high ground, dismounted, turned his pony loose, and took his pipe out of his pocket. The great cone of granite known as Hen Tor lies high upon the eastern bank of Plym, between that streamlet and the bog-foundered table-land of Shavercombe beyond. From its crown the visitor marked Cornwall's coastline far-spreading into the west, and Whitsand Bay reflecting silver morning light along the darker boundaries of earth. Spaces of grass and fern extended about the tor, and far below a midget that was a man moved along the edge of the ripe bracken and mowed it down with a scythe. Half a dozen carrion crows took wing and flapped with loud croaking away as Humphrey ascended the tor and sat upon its summit. Again he traversed the familiar scene in his mind, again perceived the difficulties of transit to this place. Occasionally, before these problems, he had set to work obstinately and sought solutions. Once he had determined to rebuild the ruin in the valley, so that he might turn his back on man and make trial of the anchorite's isolation and hermit's bastard peace; but to-day he was in no mood for such experiments; his misanthropic fit passed upon the west wind, and his thoughts took to themselves a brighter colour. Where he sat two roof-trees were visible, separated by the distant height of Legis Tor. Trowlesworthy and Ditsworthy alone appeared, and for the rest the river roamed between them, and flocks and herds wandered upon the hills around. The man still moved below, and long ribbons of fallen fern spread regularly behind him. A foul smell struck on Baskerville's nostrils, and he saw death not far distant, where the crows had been frightened from their meal. He climbed away from the main pile of the tor and sat in a natural chair hollowed from the side of an immense block of granite that stands hard by. He smoked, and his pony grazed. A storm of rain fell and passed. The sun succeeded upon it, and for a little while the moor glittered with moisture. Then the wind dried all again. The old man was now entirely out of tune with any thought of a dwelling here. He did not even descend the hill and inspect the ruin beneath. But he had come to spend the day alone, and was contented to do so. His mind busied itself with the last thing that a fellow-man had said to him. He repeated Jack Head's word over and over to himself. Presently he ate the food that he had brought with him, drank at a spring, and walked about to warm his body. The carrion crows cried in air, soared hither and thither, settled again on the rocks at hand and waited, with the perfect patience of unconscious nature, for him to depart. But he remained until the end of the day. Then occurred a magnificent spectacle. After gold of evening had scattered the Moor and made dark peat and grey rock burn, there rolled up from the south an immense fog, that spread its nacreous sea under the sunset. Born of far-off fierce heat upon the ocean, it advanced and enveloped earth, valley by valley, and ridge by ridge. Only the highest peaks evaded this flood of vapours, and upon them presently sank the sun. His light descending touched many points and uplifted sprays of mist; whereon, like magic, a thousand galleons rode over the pearl and advanced in a golden flotilla upon this fleeting sea. The rare, brief wonder passed, and the sky above it faded; the sun sank; the fog rolled forward--heavy, cold, a burden for the wet wings of night. Humphrey set off, and the carrion crows, full hungry, returned to sup. In Baskerville's mind certain words reverberated still, as they had often done since they were spoken during the morning. They chimed to the natural sounds that had fallen upon his ear throughout the day; they were echoed in the wind and the distant water-murmur; in the cry of birds and call of beasts; in the steady rasping of his pony's teeth through the herbage; and now, in its hoof-beat as it trotted by a sheep-track homeward. And louder than all these repetitions of it, louder than the natural music that seemed to utter the words in many voices, there came the drumming of his own pulse, laden with the same message, and the answering beat of his heart that affirmed the truth of it. "A man sitting hungry in a wheat-field, because you don't know and won't learn how to turn corn into bread." CHAPTER V Milly and her husband Rupert came on a Sunday to drink tea at Hawk House. They found Humphrey from home, but he had left a message with Susan Hacker to say that he would return before five o'clock. "He's got the rheumatics," said Mrs. Hacker. "They have fastened cruel in his shoulder-blades, and he've started on his pony and gone off to see the doctor. Won't have none of my cautcheries, though I know what's good for rheumatics well enough, and I've cured three cases to common knowledge that neither doctor nor that Eliza Gollop could budge, do as they would." Rupert expressed concern, and went out to meet his uncle, while Milly stopped and helped Susan Hacker to prepare tea. "And how do 'e like being married?" asked the elder. "Very well; but not quite so well as I thought to," answered Milly with her usual frankness. "Ah! same with most, though few have the pluck to confess it." "Being married is a very fine thing if you've got such a husband as Rupert; but living along with your husband's people ain't so fine, if you understand me. You see, he's farmer now, and he will have his way--a terrible resolute chap where the land and the things be concerned. But sometimes his mother gets a bit restive at Rupert's orders, and sometimes she says, in her quiet way, as her husband never would have held with this or that. 'Tis a thought awkward now and again, because, you see, Rupert ban't the favourite, and never was." "You side with him, of course?" "Always, and always shall do--right or wrong." "Maybe when Master Ned's married and away Mrs. Baskerville will go easier." "Don't think I'm grumbling. She's a kind woman, but, like all old married folk, seem to think young married folk be only playing at it. The truth is that I haven't got enough to do for the minute." Mr. Baskerville returned in half an hour, and Rupert walked beside him. Then, with some silent suffering, the old man alighted, and a boy took the pony to its stable. "Doctor was out," he said, "so I'll have to trouble you to make up a bit of your ointment after all." "And so I will," answered Susan. "And if you'd gone to that Gollop woman for the beastliness she pretends will cure everything, I'd never have forgiven you. She helped to kill off your brother, no doubt, but that's no reason why you should give her a chance to kill you." "You're all alike," he said; "a jealous generation. But if you can have your physic ready in an hour, so much the better; then Rupert shall give my back a good rub before he goes." Mrs. Hacker was doubtful. "Better I do it," she said. "'Tis the way it's rubbed in makes the cure." "He's stronger and can rub harder," answered the patient. "Uncle Nathan's none too grand, neither," declared his nephew. "Won't say what's amiss, but I do think he's not all he might be. I asked Mrs. Lintern, who knows more about him than anybody, I reckon, and she told me 'twas nothing much in her opinion--only his throat a bit queer." "You and Uncle Nathan ought to have wives to look after you," declared Milly as she poured out tea. "You men be unfinished, awkward things alone. You'm always wanting us at every turn, for one reason or another, and after middle age a man looks a fool half his time if he haven't got a woman for his own. Men do the big things and alter the face of the earth and all that, but what becomes of their clever greatness without our clever littleness?" "Cant!--cant! You all talk that stuff and 'tisn't worth answering. Ask the sailors if they can't sew better than their sweethearts." Mr. Baskerville was in a hard mood and would allow no credit to the sex. He endured his pain without comment, but it echoed itself in impatient and rather bitter speeches. Rupert fell back on other members of the family, and spoke of his uncle, the master of 'The White Thorn.' "The good that man does isn't guessed," he said. "The little things--you'd be surprised--yet 'tisn't surprising neither, for every soul you meet speaks well of him; and a man can't win to that without being a wonder. He's made of human kindness, and yet never remembers the kind things he does--no memory for 'em at all." Humphrey conceded the nobility of this trait, and Milly spoke. "Not like some we could name, who'll give a gift to-day and fling it in your face to-morrow." "There are such. My mother's father was such a one," said Mr. Baskerville. "He never forgot a kindness--that he'd done himself. He checked his good angel's record terrible sharp, did that man." There came an interruption here, and unexpected visitors in the shape of Nicholas Bassett, the young man who had married Polly Baskerville, and Polly herself. Nicholas was nervous and stood behind his wife; Polly was also nervous, but the sight of her brother Rupert gave her courage. Her uncle welcomed her with astonishment. "Wonders never cease," he said. "I didn't count to get a visit from you, Polly, or your husband either. You needn't stand there turning your Sunday hat round and round, Bassett. I shan't eat you, though people here do seem to think I'm a man-eater." "We came for advice," said Polly, "and I made bold to bring Nicholas. In fact, 'twas his idea that I should speak to you." Mr. Baskerville was gratified, but his nature forbade him to show it. "A new thing to come to Uncle Humphrey when you might go to Uncle Nathan," he said. "'Tis just about Uncle Nathan is the difficulty," declared his niece. Then she turned to her husband. "You speak, Nick. You must know that Nick's rather slow of speech, and can't get his words always, but he's improving. Tell Uncle Humphrey how 'tis, Nick." Mr. Bassett nodded, dried a damp brow with a red handkerchief, and spoke. "'Tis like this here," he began. "Under Mr. Vivian Baskerville's will--him being my wife's father--she had five hundred pound." "We all know that," said Rupert. "And May, too." "Well, the law of the will was that the money should be handed over when the girls was wedded, or when they comed to the age of five-and-twenty. Therefore, surely it's clear as my wife ought to have her five hundred--eh?" "Perfectly clear--on the day she married you," said Rupert. "I thought you'd got it, Polly." "But I haven't. There's legal difficulties--so Uncle Nathan says; and he told Nicholas that there was a doubt in his mind whether--what was it, Nick?" "The man said that as trustee for everybody he was very unwilling to disturb the money. He said 'twas out at interest and doing very well; and he said he'd pay us five per centum upon it, which comed to twenty-five pounds a year." "You're entitled to the capital if you want it," declared Mr. Baskerville. "It can't be withheld." "I've been to the man twice since," said Polly's husband, "and he's always terrible busy, or else just going into it in a few days, or something like that. We've had six months' interest on it; but we want the money--at least, half of it--because we've got ideas about leasing a field where we live to Bickleigh, and buying a cow in calf and a lot of poultry. With all Polly's farm cleverness we can do better with a bit of money than leave it in the bank. At least, that's what we think." "Ask Rupert here to help," suggested her uncle. "He's on very good terms with Uncle Nat, and he's a man of business now, and Polly's elder brother, and a right to be heard. No doubt, if he says plain and clear that he wants you to have your money without delay, you'll get it." "I'd leave it till autumn, after Ned's marriage," said Rupert, "then I'd press him to clear things up. Ned will want tons of money then, and I believe Cora Lintern is to have a money present from Uncle Nathan. She got the secret out of her mother, and, of course, told Ned; and now everybody knows. But nobody knows the figure. Therefore, I say Polly had better do nought till the wedding." "Mr. Nathan's temper isn't what it was," said Rupert's wife. "His health be fretting him a lot, I believe." "I wish I had our money, anyhow," declared Mr. Bassett; "but if you say wait till autumn, of course we will do so." Humphrey Baskerville spoke but little. He had fallen into deep private thought upon this news, and now was only aroused by his niece getting up to depart. "I hope you'll forgive us for troubling you," said Polly; "but we've talked it over a thousand times, and we felt we ought to take the opinion of some wiser person. Still, if you say wait, we'll wait." "I didn't say wait," answered her uncle, "and I don't take any responsibility for it. Rupert advised you to wait, not me. If a man owed me twopence under a will--let alone five hundred pound--I'd have it, and wouldn't wait a minute." The young couple departed in a good deal of agitation, and debated this advice very earnestly all the way home; but Rupert stuck to his own opinion, and, when they were gone, chode Humphrey for giving such counsel. "I'm sure such a thing would hurt Uncle Nathan cruelly," he said. "'Tis as much as to say that you don't trust him--don't trust a man who is trusted by the countryside as none ever was before." "Easy to be large-minded about other people's money," answered his uncle. "Only if 'twas yours, and not your sister's, I rather think you'd be a bit less patient with the man that held it from you." Yet another visitor appeared and the family matter was dropped. Mrs. Hacker brought in Mr. Head. "Looks as if the whole countryside was coming here," she declared. "Here's Jack for a cup of tea; and the ointment will be cool enough to use in half an hour." "Hullo, Bear!" said Rupert. "Who'd have thought of seeing you?" "I was axed to tea when I felt in a mind to come," replied Mr. Head; "and here I am, if not in the way. And as to being a bear, I'm the sort that needs a lot of stirring up afore I roar--your wife will back me up in that. How's Mr. Baskerville faring?" "Got the rheumatism," answered Humphrey. "Rupert here be going to rub in some ointment presently." "I hope 'twill break the heart of it, I'm sure. There's nothing worse. It tells us the truth about our parts better than any sermon. I'm not too gay to-day myself. We was at it hammer and tongs in 'The White Thorn' last night--me and your brother. Such a Tory was never seen in the land afore. I very soon settled Tom Gollop and a few others like him, but Mr. Nathan's got more learning and more power of argument. We drank, too--more than usual, owing to the thirstiness of the night and the flow of speech. Quarts I must have took, and when Ben North looked in to say 'twas closing time, nothing would do but a few of us went in your brother's room, after house was shut, and went at it again." "Say you were drunk in a word, Jack," suggested Rupert. "Not drunk, Rupert--still, near it. We all got in sight of it. There's no prophet like the next morning after a wet night. As a man fond of the flesh I say it. And the older you grow, the sharper comes the day after a bust-up. Then Nature gives you a proper talking to, and your heart swells with good resolutions against beer and other things. And then, as soon as you are as right as ninepence--just by keeping those good resolves--blest if Nature don't tumble down what she's set up, and tempt you with all her might to go on the loose again. You can't steady her, though she can mighty soon steady you. Preaches to you one minute, and then starts off to get you into mischief the next. That's her way--no more sense than any other female." "Then so much the less reason to put your trust in her," answered Mr. Baskerville. "She's a poor, untaught, savage thing at best. 'Tis madness to trust her, for nothing is weaker than she." "Nothing is stronger or so strong," declared Jack. "Nature knows what she wants, and she gets what she wants. You can't deny that. She's just, and never does nothing without a reason. Very different to a woman there. She'm digging her claws into your back because you've been doing some foolish thing, I'll warrant." He drank his tea and aired his opinions. But Mr. Baskerville was in no mood for Jack's philosophy. He retired presently with Rupert, stripped to the waist, and endured a great and forcible application of Mrs. Hacker's ointment. The friction brought comfort with it, and he declared himself better as a result. But he did not again descend from his chamber, and presently the three visitors departed together. Mr. Head expressed great admiration for Susan Hacker. "I should like to be better acquaint with that woman," he declared. "For sense in few words there's not her equal about." "If you want to please her, cuss Eliza Gollop," explained Rupert. CHAPTER VI The setting sun burnt upon Dewerstone's shoulder and beat in a sea of light against the western face of North Wood, until the wind-worn forest edge, taking colour on trunk and bough, glowed heartily. Already the first summer splendour was dimmed, for these lofty domains suffered full fret of storm and asperity of season. A proleptic instinct, stamped by the centuries, inspired this wood; it anticipated more sheltered neighbours in autumn, though it lagged behind them in spring. Upon its boughs the last vernal splendour fluttered into being, and the first autumnal stain was always visible. Now beech and larch revealed a shadow in their texture of leaf and needle though August had not passed, for their foliage was born into elemental strife. Here homed the west wind, and the salt south storms emptied their vials; here the last snows lingered, and May frost pinched the young green things. Now roseal and gracious light penetrated the heart of the wood, warmed its recesses, and dwelt upon a grass-grown track that wound through the midst. Toward this path by convergent ways there came a man and woman. As yet half a mile separated them, for they had entered the wood at opposite places; but one desire actuated both, and they moved slowly nearer until they met at a tryst in the deep heart of the trees. Undergrowth rose about them, and their resort was carefully chosen and perfectly concealed. Here oak closely clad the hill, and granite boulders offered an inner rampart against observation. The man and woman were elderly, yet she was still personable, and he retained a measure of unusual good looks. They came to perform a little rite, sacred and secret, an event celebrated these many years, and unknown to any other human beings but themselves. Nathan Baskerville put his arms round Priscilla Lintern and drew her beside him and kissed her. "We shall never find it this year, I'm much afraid," he said. "The time is past. 'Tis always later far than other lilies in the garden, but not so late as this. However, I'll do my best." "No matter for the flower," she answered, "so long as we keep up our custom." A slant flame from the sunset stole deliciously through the dusky hiding-places of the wood, and played on the deep mosses and fern-crowns and the tawny motley of the earth, spread like a coverlet beneath. Here dead litter of leaf and twig made the covering of the ground, and through it sprang various seedling things, presently to bear their part in the commonwealth and succeed their forefathers. The ground was amber-bright where the sunshine won to it, and everywhere stretched ivy and bramble, gleamed the lemon light of malempyre, sparkled green sorrel, and rose dim woodbine that wound its arms around the sapling oaks. Wood-rush and wood-sage prospered together, and where water spouted out of the hill there spread green and ruddy mosses, embroidered with foliage of marsh violet and crowned by pallid umbels of angelica. The silver of birches flashed hard by, and the rowan's berries already warmed to scarlet. Hither after their meeting came the man and woman, and then Nathan, searching sharply, uttered a cry of triumph, and pointed where, at their feet, grew certain dark green twayblade leaves that sprouted from the grass. Here dwelt lilies-of-the-valley--their only wild haunt in Devon--and the man now made haste to find a blossom and present it to his mistress. But he failed to do so. Only a dead spike or two appeared, and presently he gave up the search with some disappointment. "They must have bloomed just when I was ill and couldn't come," he said. "'Tis no matter at all," she answered. "The thought and the meeting here are the good thing. We'll go back into the wood now, further from the path. To me 'tis marvellous, Nat, to think the crafty world has never guessed." "It is," he admitted. "And sometimes in my dark moments--however, we can leave that to-day. We're near at the end of our labours, so far as the children are concerned. Cora was always the most difficult. But the future's bright, save for the cash side. I hope to God 'twill come right afore the wedding; but----" "Go on," she said. "We can't pretend to be so happy as usual this year. Let's face it. I know you're worried to death. But money's nought alongside your health. You're better again; you've shown me that clear enough. And nothing else matters to us." "Yes, I'm all right, I hope. But I'm a bit under the weather. Things have gone curiously crooked ever since Vivian died. I was a fool. I won't disguise that; but somehow my luck seemed so good that a few little troubles never looked worth considering. Then, just before he went, I got into a regular thunderstorm. It blew up against the steady wind of my good fortune, as thunderstorms will. Vivian did me a good turn by dying just when he did--I can't deny it; and everything is all right now--for all practical purposes. The silver mine will be a wonder of the world by all accounts. Still, I've had a good deal to trouble me, and things look worse when a man's sick." "Shall you be giving Polly Bassett her money soon? Heathman tells me her husband's grumbling a bit." "All in good time. When our Cora is married I shall try and fork out a good slice of Vivian's estate. Ned must have the capital he wants, and I've got to find a hundred for Cora's wedding gift." "Why do that yet?" "I'll do it if I have to sell myself up," he said fiercely. "Isn't she my first favourite of our three? Don't I worship the ground she goes on, and love her better than anything in the world after you yourself?" She sighed. "How it weighs heavier and heavier after all these years! And I always thought 'twould weigh lighter and lighter. We were fools to have childer. But for them we could have let the world know and been married, and gived back the five thousand to your wife's people. But not now--never now, for the children's sake, I suppose." "They'll know in good time, and none else. When I come to my end, I'm going to tell 'em I'm their father, according to your wish, and because I've promised you on my oath to do it; but none else must ever know it; and it would be a wiser thing, Priscilla, if you could only see it so, that they didn't either." "They must know, and they shall." "Well, it may be sooner than anybody thinks. The position is clear enough: I might have married and still kept the five thousand, because the lawyers said that my dead wife's wish wouldn't hold water in law; but I didn't know that till 'twas too late, and your first child had come. Then we talked it out, and you was content and so was I. Now there are three of them, and though I'd face the music so brave as you and go to my grave spurned by all men, if necessary, what would better it for them? Nothing short of an Act of Parliament would make 'em legitimate now. I kept the condition of my dead wife, because you urged me to do it and weren't feared of the consequences; but now, though I can make you my lawful wife, I can't make them my lawful children, and therefore surely 'tis better they shall never know they are my children at all?" "'Twas a promise," she said, "and I hold you to it. I'm fixed on it that they shall know." "Very well, so it shall be, then. Only for God's sake look to it for everybody's sake that it don't get out after, and ruin you all. I shouldn't sleep in my grave if I thought the life-long secret was common knowledge." "You can trust them to keep it, I should think." "The girls, yes; but Heathman's so easy and careless." "Suppose you was to marry me even now, Nat, would that help?" "I'll do it, as I've always said I'll do it. But that means I should be in honour bound to pay five thousand to my first wife's people. Well, I can't--I can't at this moment--not a penny of it. Just now I'm a good deal driven. In a year or two I might, no doubt; but there's that tells me a year or two----" He put up his hand to his throat. "You swore to me on your oath that you were better, last time you came down by night." "I was; but--it's here, Priscilla--deep down and---- Maybe 'twill lift again, and maybe it won't. But we must be ready. I'd give my eternal soul if things were a little straighter; but time--plenty of time--is wanted for that, and 'tis just time I can't count upon. I'm not so young as I was, and I've not the head for figures I used to have." "If you don't marry, you've got absolute power to dispose of that five thousand. 'Tis yours, in fact. Yet at best that's a paltry quibble, as you've admitted sometimes." "Leave it," he said. "Don't let this day be nought but cloud. We're married afore God, but not afore man, because to do that would have lost me five thousand pounds. When I die, I've the right to make over that money to you--at least, what's left of it." "That's a certainty for me and Heathman and Phyllis?" "Leave it--leave it," he cried irritably. "You know that what a man can do I shall do. You're more to me than any living thing--much, much more. You're my life, and you've been my life for thirty years--and you will be to the end of my life. I know where I stand and how I stand." "Don't think I'd care to live a day longer than you do, Nat. Don't think I'm careful for myself after you be gone. 'Tis only for your boy and girl as I care to know anything." He took her hand. "I know you well enough--you priceless woman!" he answered. "Let's go a bit further through the forest. Come what may, all's got to be bright and cheerful at Cora's wedding; and after, when they've got their money, I'll have a good go into things with Mr. Popham, my lawyer at Cornwood. He's heard nothing yet, but he shall hear everything. Have no fear of the upshot. I know where I've always trusted, and never in vain." Like two children they walked hand in hand together. For a long time neither spoke, then she addressed him. "You've taught me to be brave and put a bright face on life afore the world, and now I'll not be wanting." "Well I know that. 'Brave!' 'Tis too mild a a word for you. You've come through your life in a way that would maze the people with wonder if they only knew it. So secret, so patient, so clever. Never was heard or known the like. A wonderful wife--a wife in ten thousand." The sun began to sink where Cornwall, like a purple cloud, rose far off against the sky; yet still the undulations of the land, mingling with glory, melted into each other under the sunset, and still North Wood shone above the shadows. But a deep darkness began to stretch upwards into it, where the Dewerstone's immense shade was projected across the valley. At length only the corner of the forest flashed a final fire; then that, too, vanished, and the benighted trees sighed and shivered and massed themselves into amorphous dimness under the twilight. The man and woman stopped together a while longer, and after that their converse ended. They caressed and prepared to go back by different ways into the world. "Come good or evil, fair weather or foul, may we have a few happy returns yet of this day; and may I live to find you the lily-of-the-valley again once or twice before the end," he said. For answer she kissed him again, but could not trust herself to speak. CHAPTER VII Life is a compromise and a concession. According to the measure of our diplomacy, so much shall we win from our fellows; according to our physical endowment, so much will Nature grant. All men are envoys to the court of the world, and it depends upon the power behind them whether they are heard and heeded, or slighted and ignored. To change the figure, each among us sets up his little shop in the social mart and tries to tempt the buyer; but few are they who expose even necessary wares, and fewer still the contemporary purchasers who know a treasure when they see it. An accident now lifted the curtain from Humphrey Baskerville's nature, threw him for a day into the companionship of his kind, and revealed to passing eyes a gleam of the things hidden within him. No conscious effort on his part contributed to this illumination, for he was incapable of making such. His curse lay in this: that he desired to sell, yet lacked wit to win the ear of humanity, or waken interest in any buyer's bosom. Yet now the goods he offered with such ill grace challenged attention. Accident focussed him in a crowd; and first the people were constrained to admit his presence of mind at a crisis, and then they could not choose but grant the man a heart. It happened that on the day before Princetown pony fair Mr. Baskerville's groom fell ill and had to keep his bed; but twenty ponies were already at Princetown. Only Humphrey and his man knew their exact value, and the market promised to be unusually good. His stock represented several hundred pounds, for Mr. Baskerville bred a special strain possessing the Dartmoor stamina with added qualities of speed and style. The irony of chance ordained that one who despised all sport should produce some of the best polo ponies in the West of England. Mr. Baskerville saw nothing for it but to sell by deputy at loss, or withdraw his stock from the fair. He debated the point with Mrs. Hacker, and her common-sense revealed an alternative. "Lord, man alive, what are you frightened of?" she asked. "Can't you go up along, like any other chap with summat to sell, and get rid of your beasts yourself? You did use to do it thirty year ago, and nobody was any the worse, I believe." He stared at her. "Go in a crowd like that and barter my things like a huckster?" "Well, why not? You'm only made of flesh and bone like t'others. You won't melt away. 'Tis just because you always avoid 'em, that they think you give yourself airs, and reckon they ban't good enough company for you." "I don't avoid 'em." "Yes, you do. But you'm not the only honest man in the world, though sometimes you think you are. And if you'd ope your eyes wider, you'd find a plenty others. For my part, if I was paid for it, I couldn't number more rogues in Shaugh than I can count upon the fingers of both hands." "To go up myself! Who'd believe it was me if they saw me?" "They want your ponies, not you; and when it came to paying the price of the ponies, they'd soon know 'twas you then." "I suppose you think I charge too much. Like your impudence! Are you going?" he asked. "Why, of course I'm going. 'Tis my only 'out' for the year." "They'll fancy 'tis the end of the world up at 'Duchy Inn' if I come along and take my place at the ordinary." "No, they won't: they'll be a deal too busy to trouble about you. You go, master, and you'll stand a lot better in your own eyes for going. 'Twill be a great adventure in your life. You'm a deal too much up on the hill there, along with the foxes and other wild things; and you know it." "I haven't the cut for a revel. 'Tis nonsense to think of my going up." "To think of it can't do no harm, anyway," she said. "You think and think, and you'll find 'tis your duty as a sensible creature to go." "Not my duty. 'Twill hurt none if I stay away." "'Twill hurt your pocket. You know right well 'tis the proper thing that you go. And if you do, I'll ax for a fairing. And if you get me one, I'll get you one." "You can put off old age like a garment and be a girl again," he said. "So I can, then. 'Tis your brother sets that wise fashion, not you. He's as lively as a kitten when there's a frolic in the air. And so be I--though all sixty-five. You should have seen me at giglet market in my youth!" He did not answer; but the next morning he appeared shamefaced and clad for the fair. "Well done, you!" cried Mrs. Hacker. "Be you going to drive the black gig? I was riding up in the pony-cart along with Mr. Waite's housekeeper from Coldstone, but----" "You can come with me, if you please. All foolery, and 'tis offering to rain--however, I'm going through with the job now. And mind you don't take too much liquor up there. I know your ways when you get with a lot of silly people." They started presently, and Humphrey made sour remarks at the expense of Susan's bonnet. Then by steep ascent and descent they went their way and fell in with other folk also bound for the festivity. Some they passed and some passed them. Cora Lintern and Ned Baskerville drove together in a flashy, high-wheeled dog-cart; and the sight of Cora brought a cloud upon Mr. Baskerville. She was soon gone, however. The lofty vehicle slipped by with a glitter of wheels, a puff of dust, a shout from Ned as he lifted his whip hand, and a flutter of pale pink and blue where Cora sat in her finery. "Heartless minx!" growled the old man. "A parrot and a popinjay. No loss to the world if that pair was to break their necks together." "Don't you tell such speeches as that, there's a good man," answered Mrs. Hacker. "The mischief with your sort is that you be always crying out nasty things you don't think; which is just the opposite of us sensible people, as only think the nasty things, but take very good care for our credit's sake not to say 'em. None like you for barking; and them as hear you bark take it for granted you bite as well. And when I tell 'em you don't bite, they won't believe it." "Take care I never bite you for so much plain speaking," he said; "and I'll thank you to lay hold on the reins while we walk up this hill; for I want to read a letter. 'Tis about the ponies from a would-be buyer." He read and Mrs. Hacker drove. They traversed the miles of moorland at a slow pace, and not a few who passed them displayed surprise at the spectacle of Mr. Baskerville on his way to the fair. At Devil's Bridge, beneath the last long hill into Princetown, a vehicle from Shaugh overtook them and the Linterns appeared. Heathman was driving, and beside him sat his mother; while at the back of the cart were Nathan Baskerville and Phyllis Lintern. "Hullo! Wonders never cease!" cried the publican. "Good luck and long life to you, Humphrey! Now I couldn't have seen a better sight than this. Hold on! I want to have a talk afore the fair." "If you want to talk, I'll onlight and you do the same," said Nathan's brother. "The women can drive on, and we'll walk into Princetown." Priscilla Lintern and Mrs. Hacker kept their places and drove slowly up the hill side by side; but not before Nat had chaffed Susan and applauded her holiday bonnet. Heathman and his sister walked on together; the brothers remained behind. The younger was in uproarious mood. He laughed and jested and congratulated Humphrey on his courage in thus coming among the people. None would have recognised in this jovial spirit that man who walked not long before with a woman in North Wood, and moved heavily under the burdens of sickness and of care. But to Nathan belonged the art of dropping life's load occasionally and proceeding awhile in freedom. He felt physically a little better, and intended to enjoy himself to-day to the best of his power. Resolutely he banished the dark clouds from his horizon and let laughter and pleasure possess him. "How's your throat?" asked Humphrey. "You don't look amiss, but they tell me you're not well." "I hope it may mend. 'Tis up and down with me. I can't talk so loud as once I could, and I can't eat easy; but what's the odds as long as I can drink? I'm all right, and shall be perfectly well again soon, no doubt. And you--what in the name of wonder brings you to a revel?" "My ponies. There's twenty and all extra good. Chapman goes and falls ill after the ponies was brought up here. The fool would bring 'em though there's no need. Buyers are very well content to come to my paddocks. But custom is a tyrant to the old, and if I didn't send to the sales, Chapman would think something had gone wrong with the world." "I'm right glad you're here, and I hope 'tis the beginning of more gadding about for you. 'Tis men like you and me that lend weight to these meetings. We ought to go. 'Tis our duty." "You're better pleased with yourself than I am, as usual." "We ought to be pleased," answered the other complacently. "We are the salt of the earth--the rock that society is built on." "Glad you're so well satisfied." "Not with myself specially; but I'm very well pleased with my class, and the older I grow the better I think of it." "People be like yonder pool--scum at the top and dirt at the bottom," declared Humphrey. "The sweet water is in the middle; and the useful part of the people be the middle part." "In a way, yes. We of the lower middle-class are the backbone: the nation has to depend on us; but I'm not for saying the swells haven't their uses. Only they'd be nought without us." "It takes all sorts to make a world. But leave that. I ban't up here to talk politics. What does doctor say about your throat?" "Leave that too. I'm not here to talk about my health. I want to forget it for a few hours. The wedding is on my mind just now. Mrs. Lintern and her daughter intend it to be a bit out of the common; and so do I. But the bride's mother's set on it taking place at our chapel, and Hester wants it to be at church. Ned don't care a rush, of course." "It ought to be at church." "Don't see any pressing reason. Toss up, I say." "You should know better than to talk like that. You Dissenters----" "No arguments, Humphrey. But all the same they must be married in church or chapel, and since there's such a division of opinion--I'm anxious to see Ned married. 'Tis more than time and certainly no fault of his that they didn't join sooner. But Cora had her own ideas and----" "Oblige me by not naming either of them. You can't expect me to be interested. Even if they were different from what they are, I should remember the cruel past too keenly to feel anything good towards either of them." "Let the past go. You're too wise a man to harbour unkind thoughts against headstrong youth. Let 'em be happy while they can. They'll have their troubles presently, like the rest of us." "They'll have what they're brewing, no doubt. Empty, heartless wretches--I will say it, feel as you may for Cora." "I hope you'll live to see her better part. She's a sensible woman and a loving one, for all you think not. At any rate, you'll come and see them married, Humphrey?" "You can ask me such a thing?" "Let bygones be bygones." "What was it you wanted to speak to me about?" "Just that--the wedding. I must make it a personal matter. I attach a good deal of importance to it. I'm very interested in the Linterns--wrapped up in them wouldn't be too strong a word for it. I'll confess to you that the mother is a good deal to me--my best friend in this world. I owe a lot of my happiness to her. She's made my life less lonely and often said the word in season. You know what a wise woman can be: you was married yourself." Humphrey did not answer and his brother spoke again. "There's only us two left now--you and me. You might pleasure me in this matter and come. Somehow it's grown to be a feeling with me that your absence will mar all." "Stuff! I've been the death's-head at too many feasts in our family. In a word, I won't do it. I won't be there. I don't approve of either of 'em, and I've not interest enough in 'em now to take me across the road to see them." "If you'll come, the marriage shall be in church. Priscilla will agree if I press it. I can't offer more than that." "I won't come, so leave it." Nathan's high spirits sank for a little while; then Princetown was reached and he left his brother and strove to put this pain from him for the present, as he had banished all other sources of tribulation. He was soon shaking hands with his acquaintance and making merry among many friends. But Humphrey proceeded to the place where his ponies were stalled, and immediately began to transact business with those who were waiting for him. CHAPTER VIII Gipsy blood runs thin in England to-day, but a trickle shall be found to survive among the people of the booth and caravan; and glimpses of a veritable Romany spirit may yet be enjoyed at lesser fairs and revels throughout the country. By their levity and insolence; by their quick heels and dark faces; by the artist in them; by their love of beauty and of music; by their skill to charm money from the pockets of the slow-thinking folk; and by their nimble wits you shall know them. A few mongrels of the race annually find Princetown, and upon days of revel may there be seen at shooting-galleries, 'high-fliers,' and 'roundabouts.' Here they are chaffing the spectators and cajoling pennies from young and old; here, astounding the people by their lack of self-consciousness; here, singing or dancing; here, chafering; here, driving hard bargains for the local ponies; here, changing their doubtful coins for good ones, or raising strife between market-merry folk and prospering from the quarrels of honest men, after the manner of their kind. Two streams of holiday-makers drifted through each other and through the little fair. They passed up and down the solitary street, loitered and chattered, greeted friends, listened to the din of the music, to the altercations of the customers and salesmen, to the ceaseless laughter of children and whinny of the ponies. On either side of that open space spread in the village midst, an array of carts had been drawn up, and against these barricades were tethered various animals which the vehicles had brought. They stood or reposed on litter of fern and straw cast down for them. Here were pigs, flesh-coloured and black, and great raddled rams in a panting row. Amid the brutes tramped farmers and their men. The air was full of the smell of live mutton and swine; and among them--drifting, stopping in thoughtful knots, arguing, and laughing heavily, the slow-eyed yokels came and went. The rams bleated and dribbled and showed in a dozen ways their hatred of this publicity; the pigs cared not, but exhibited a stoic patience. Upon the greensward beside the road stood separate clusters of guarded ponies. Old and young they were, gainly and ungainly, white, black, and brown, with their long manes and tails often bleached to a rusty pallor by the wind and sun. In agitated groups the little creatures stood. Company cried to company with equine language, and the air was full of their squealings, uttered in long-drawn protests or sudden angry explosions. Occasionally a new drove from afar would arrive and trot to its place in double and treble ranks--a passing billow of black and bright russet or dull brown, with foam of tossing manes, flash of frightened eyes, and soft thud and thunder of many unshod hoofs. The people now came close, now scattered before a pair of uplifted heels where a pony, out of fear, showed temper. The exhibits were very unequal. Here a prosperous man marshalled a dozen colts; here his humbler neighbour could bring but three or four to market. Sometimes the group consisted of no more than a mare and foal at foot. Round about were children, who from far off had ridden some solitary pony to the fair, and hoped that they might get the appointed price and carry money home to their parents or kinsfolk. Hanging close on every side to the main business and thrusting in where space offered for a stall, rows of small booths sprang up; while beyond them on waste land stood the merry-go-rounds, spinning to bray of steam-driven organs, the boxing-tent, the beast show and the arena, where cocoanuts were lifted on posts against a cloth. Here worked the wanderers and played their parts with shout and song; but at the heart of the fair more serious merchants stood above their varied wares, and with unequal skill and subtlety won purchasers. These men displayed divergent methods, all based on practical experience of human nature. A self-assertive and defiant spirit sold braces and leather thongs and buckles. His art was to pretend the utmost indifference to his audience; he seemed not to care whether they purchased his goods or no, yet let it be clearly understood that none but a fool would miss the opportunities he offered. A cheap-jack over against the leather-seller relied upon humour and sleight of hand. He sold watches that he asserted to be gold; but he was also prepared to furnish clocks of baser metal for more modest purses. He dwelt upon the quality of the goods, and defied his audience to find within the width and breadth of the United Kingdom such machinery at such a price. He explained also very fully that he proposed to return among them next year, with a special purpose to make good any defective timepieces that might by evil chance lurk unsuspected amid his stock. He reminded them he had been among them during the previous year also, as a guarantee of his good faith. Beyond him a big, brown half-caste sold herb pills and relied upon a pulpit manner for his success. He came with a message of physical salvation from the God of the Christians. He mingled dietetics and dogma; he prayed openly; he showed emotion; he spoke of Nature and the Power above Nature; he called his Maker to witness that nothing but the herbs of the field had gone to make his medicine. He had good store of long words with which to comfort rustic ears. He spoke of 'a palliative,' 'a febrifuge,' and 'a panacea.' He wanted but three-pence for each box, and asserted that the blessing of the Lord accompanied his physic. "Why am I here?" he asked. "Who sent me? I tell you, men and women, that God sent me. We must not carry our light under a bushel. We must not hide a secret that will turn a million unhappy men and women into a million happy men and women. God gave me this secret, and though I would much sooner be sitting at home in my luxurious surroundings, which have come to me as the result of selling this blessed corrective of all ills of the digestion and alimentary canals, yet--no--this world is no place for idleness and laziness. So I am here with my pills, and I shall do my Master's work so long as I have hands to make the medicine and a voice to proclaim it. And in Christ's own blessed words I can say that where two or three just persons are gathered together, there am I in the midst of them, my friends--there am I in the midst of them!" Amid the welter of earth-colour, dun and grey there flashed yellow or scarlet, where certain Italian women moved in the crowd. They sold trinkets, or offered to tell fortunes with the aid of little green parakeets in cages. The blare and grunt of coarse melody persisted; and the people at the booths babbled ceaselessly where they sold their sweetmeats, cakes, and fruit. Some were anchored under little awnings; some moved their goods about on wheels with flags fluttering to attract attention. Old and young perambulated the maze. Every manner of man was gathered here. Aged and middle-aged, youthful and young, grey and white, black and brown, bearded and shorn, all came and went together. Some passed suspicious and moody; some stood garrulous, genial, sanguine, according to their fortunes or fancied fortunes in the matter of sale and barter. And later in the day, by the various roads that stretch north, south, and west from Princetown, droves of ponies began to wend, some with cheerful new masters; many with gloomy owners, who had nothing to show but their trouble for their pains. This spacious scene was hemmed in by a rim of sad-coloured waste and ragged hills, while overhead the grey-ribbed sky hung low and shredded mist. Humphrey Baskerville had sold his ponies in an hour, and was preparing to make a swift departure when accident threw him into the heart of a disturbance and opened the way to significant incidents. The old man met Jack Head and was speaking with him, but suddenly Jack caught the other by his shoulders and pulled him aside just in time to escape being knocked over. A dozen over-driven bullocks hurtled past them with sweating flanks and dripping mouths. Behind came two drovers, and a brace of barking dogs hung upon the flanks of the weary and frightened cattle. Suddenly, as the people parted, a big brute, dazed and maddened by the yelping dogs now at his throat, now at his heels, turned and dashed into the open gate of a cottage by the way. The door of the dwelling stood open and before man or sheepdog had time to turn him, the reeking bullock had rushed into the house. There was a crash within, the agonised yell of a child and the scream of a woman. Then rose terrified bellowings from the bullock, where it stood jammed in a passageway with two frantic dogs at its rear. A crowd collected, and Mr. Baskerville amazed himself by rushing forward and shouting a direction. "Get round, somebody, and ope the back door!" A woman appeared at the cottage window with a screaming and bloody child in her arms. "There's no way out; there's no way out," she cried. "There's no door to the garden!" "Get round; get round! Climb over the back wall," repeated Baskerville. Then he turned to the woman. "Ope the window and come here, you silly fool!" he said. She obeyed, and Humphrey found the injured child was not much hurt, save for a wound on its arm. Men soon opened the rear door of the cottage and drove the bullock out of the house; then they turned him round in the garden and drove him back again through the house into the street. The hysterical woman regarded Mr. Baskerville as her saviour and refused to leave his side. The first drover offered her a shilling for the damage and the second stopped to wrangle with Jack Head, who blamed him forcibly. "'Twas the dogs' fault--anybody could see that," he declared. "We're not to blame." "The dogs can't pay, you silly fool," answered Head. "If you let loose a dog that don't know his business, you've got to look out for the trouble he makes. 'Tis the devil's own luck for you as that yowling child wasn't killed. And now you want to get out of it for nought! There's a pound's worth of cloam smashed in there." The woman, who was alone, sent messengers for her husband, but they failed to find him; then she declared that Mr. Baskerville should assess the amount of her claim and the people upheld her. Thus most reluctantly he was thrust into a sort of prominence. "You was the only one with sense to tell 'em what to do; and so you'd better finish your good job and fix the price of the breakages," said Jack. The man with the bullocks, when satisfied that Humphrey would be impartial and indifferent to either party, agreed to this proposal, and Mr. Baskerville, quite bewildered by such a sudden notoriety, entered the cottage, calculated the damage done, and soon returned. "You've got to pay ten shillings," he said. "Your bullock upset a tray and smashed a terrible lot of glass and china. He also broke down four rails of the balusters and broke a lamp that hung over his head. The doctor will charge a shilling for seeing to the child's arm also. So that's the lowest figure in fairness. Less it can't be." The drover cursed and swore at this. He was a poor man and would be ruined. His master would not pay, and if the incident reached headquarters his work must certainly be taken from him. None offered to help and Humphrey was firm. "Either pay and thank God you're out of it so easily," he said, "or tell us where you come from." The drovers talked together, and then they strove to bate the charges brought against them. Their victim, now grown calmer, agreed to take seven shillings, but Mr. Baskerville would not hear of this. He insisted upon observance of his ruling, and the man with the bullocks at length brought out a leather purse and counted from it seven shillings. To these his companion added three. Then the leader flung the money on the ground, and to accompaniment of laughter and hisses hastened after his stock. The cattle were not for Princetown, and soon both men and their cavalcade plodded onward again into the peace and silence of a mist-clad moor. They cursed themselves weary, kicked the offending dog and, with a brute instinct to revenge their mishap, smote and bruised the head of the bullock responsible for this misfortune when it stopped to drink at a pool beside the road. Humphrey Baskerville won a full measure of applause on this occasion. He took himself off as swiftly as possible afterwards; but words were spoken of approval and appreciation, and he could not help hearing them. His heart grew hot within him. A man shouted after him, "Good for the old Hawk!" Before he had driven off, Nathan Baskerville met him at 'The Duchy Hotel' and strove to make him drink. "A drop you must have along with me," he said. "Why, there's a dozen fellows in the street told me how you handled those drovers. You ought to have the Commission of the Peace, that's what you ought to have. You're cut out for it." "A lot of lunatics," answered the elder. "No presence of mind in fifty of 'em. Nought was done by me. The job might have cost a life, but it didn't, so enough's said. I won't drink. I must get back home." "Did the ponies go off well?" "Very. If you see Susan Hacker, tell her I've gone. The old fool's on one of they roundabouts, I expect. And if she breaks it down, she needn't come back to me for the damages." "A joke! A joke from you! This is a day of wonders, to be sure!" cried Nathan. "Now crown all and come along o' me, and we'll find the rest of the family and the Linterns, and all have a merry-go-round together!" But his brother was gone, and Nathan turned and rejoined a party of ram-buyers in the street. Elsewhere Mrs. Lintern and Mrs. Baskerville walked together. Their hearts were not in the fair, but they spoke of the pending marriage and hoped that a happy union was in store for Ned and Cora. The young couple themselves tasted such humble delights as the fair could offer, but Cora's pleasure was represented by the side glances of other girls, and she regarded the gathering as a mere theatre for her own display. Ned left her now and again and then returned. Each time he came back he lifted his hat to her and exhibited some new sign of possession. Cora affected great airs and a supercilious play of eyebrow that impressed the other young women. She condescended to walk round the fair and regarded this perambulation as a triumph, until the man who sold watches marked her among his listeners, observed her vanity, and raised a laugh at her expense. Then she lost her temper and declared her wish to depart. She was actually going when there came up Milly and her husband, Rupert Baskerville. Ned whispered to his sister-in-law to save the situation if possible, and Milly with some tact and some good fortune managed to do so. Cora smoothed her ruffled feathers and joined the rest of the family at the inn. There all partook of the special ordinary furnished on this great occasion to the countryside. In another quarter Thomas Gollop, Joe Voysey and their friends took pleasure after their fashion. Every man won some sort of satisfaction from the fair and held his day as well spent. Perhaps few could have explained what drew them thither or kept them for many hours wandering up and down, now drinking, now watching the events of the fair, now eating, now drinking again. But so the day passed with most among them, and not until evening darkened did the mist thicken into rain and seriously damp the proceedings. Humphrey Baskerville, well pleased with his sales and even better pleased with the trivial incident of the bullock, went his way homeward and was glad to be gone. His state of mind was such that he gave alms to two mournful men limping slowly on crutches into Princetown. Each of these wounded creatures had lost a leg, and one lacked an arm also. They dragged along a little barrel-organ that played hymns, and their faces were thin, anxious, hunger-bitten. These men stopped Mr. Baskerville, but not to beg. They desired to know the distance yet left to traverse before they reached the fair. "We set out afore light from Dousland, but we didn't know what a terrible road 'twas," said one. "You see, with but a pair o' legs between us, we can't travel very fast." Humphrey considered, and his heart being uplifted above its customary level of caution, he acted with most unusual impulse and served these maimed musicians in a manner that astounded them. His only terror was that somebody might mark the deed; but this did not happen, and he accomplished his charity unseen. "It's up this hill," he said; "but the hill's a steep one, and the fair will be half over afore you get there at this gait." The men shrugged their shoulders and prepared to stump on. "Get in," said Mr. Baskerville. "Get in, the pair of you, and I'll run you to the top." He alighted and helped them to lift their organ up behind, while they thanked him to the best of their power. They talked and he listened as he drove them; and outside the village, on level ground, he dropped them again and gave them half-a-crown. Much heartened and too astonished to display great gratitude, they crawled upon their way while Humphrey turned again. The taste of the giving was good to the old man, and its flavour astonished him. He overtook the drovers and their cattle presently, and it struck him that this company it was who had made the day so remarkable for him. He half determined with himself to stop and speak with them and even restore the money he had exacted; for well he knew the gravity of their loss. But, unfortunately for themselves, the twain little guessed what was in his mind; they still smarted from their disaster, and when they saw the cause of it they swore at him, shook their fists and threatened to do him evil if opportunity offered. Whereupon Mr. Baskerville hardened his heart, kept his money in his pocket and drove forward. CHAPTER IX The sensitive Cora could endure no shadow of ridicule. To laugh at her was to anger her, for she took herself too seriously, the common error of those who do not take their fellow-creatures seriously enough. When, therefore, she committed a stupid error and Ned chaffed her about it, there sprang up a quarrel between them, and Cora, in her wounded dignity, even went so far as to talk of postponing marriage. Nathan Baskerville explained the complication to a full bar; and when he had done so the tide of opinion set somewhat against Ned's future bride. "You must know that Phyllis Lintern has gone away from home, and last thing she did before she went was to ask Cora to look after a nice little lot of young ducks that belonged to her and were coming forward very hopeful. Of course, Cora said she would, and one day, mentioning it to my nephew Rupert's wife, Milly told her that the heads of nettles, well chopped up, were splendid food for young ducks. Wishful to please Phyllis and bring on the birds, what does Cora do but busy herself for 'em? She gets the nettle-tops and chops 'em up and gives 'em to the ducklings; and of course the poor wretches all sting their throats and suffocate themselves. For why? Because she let 'em have the food raw! We all know she ought to have boiled the nettles. And a good few have laughed at her about it and made her a bit savage." "That's no reason, surely, why she should quarrel with her sweetheart. 'Twasn't his fault," declared Jack Head, who was in the bar. "None in the world; but Ned joked her and made her rather snappy. In fact, he went on a bit too long. You can easily overdo a thing like that. And none of us like a joke at our expense to be pushed too far." "It shows what a clever woman she is, all the same," declared Mr. Voysey; "for when Ned poked fun at her first, which he did coming out of church on Sunday, I was by and heard her. What d'you think she said? 'You don't boil thistles for a donkey,' says she, 'so how was anybody to know you boil nettles for a duck?' Pretty peart that--eh?" "So it was," declared Nathan. "Very sharp, and a good argument for that matter. I've bought Phyllis a dozen new birds and nothing more need come of it; but Ned's a bit of a fool here and there, and he hadn't the sense to let well alone; and now she's turned on him." "He'll fetch her round, a chap so clever with the girls as him," said Voysey; whereupon Timothy Waite, who was of the company, laughed scornfully. "How can that man be clever at anything?" he asked. "Here's his own uncle. Be Ned clever at anything on God's earth but spending money, Mr. Baskerville? Come now! An honest answer." "Yes," replied Nathan promptly. "He was never known to fall off a horse." The laugh rose against Timothy, for the farmer's various abilities did not extend to horsemanship. He had been thrown a week before and still went a little lame. "Ned's all right," added Jack Head. "Lazy, no doubt--like everybody else who can be. But he's generous and good-hearted, and no man's enemy. The girl's a fool to keep him dangling. A little more of it and he'll--however, I'll not meddle in other people's business." Mr. Gollop entered at this moment and saw his foe. "Do I hear John Head saying that he don't meddle with other people's business?" asked the sexton. "Gin cold, please. Well, well; since when have Head made that fine rule?" "Drink your gin," said Jack, "and then have another. You ban't worth talking to till you've got a drop of liquor in you. When you're tuned up I'll answer you. How's Masterman getting on? He must be a patient man, or else a terrible weak one, to have you still messing about the church." "Better you leave the church alone," retorted Thomas. "You'd pull down every church in the land if you could; and if it wasn't for men like me, as withstand your sort and defy you, there'd very soon be no law and order in the State." "'Tis your blessed church where there's no law and order," answered Jack. "The State's all right so long as the Liberals be in; but a house divided against itself falleth. You won't deny that. And that's the hobble you Christians have come to. And so much the easier work for my side--to sweep the whole quarrelsome, narrow-minded boiling of you to the devil." "Stop there, Jack!" cried Mr. Baskerville. "No religion in this bar and no politics. You know the rules." "Let him go on," said Gollop gloomily. "There's a bitter truth in what he says. We're not shoulder to shoulder and none can pretend we are. Take Masterman--that man! What did he say only this morning in vestry? 'Gollop,' he said, 'the roots are being starved. If we don't get rain pretty quick there'll be no turnips--no, nor mangolds neither.'" Half a dozen raised their voices in support of this assertion. "That's truth anyway," declared Timothy. "Never knew such a beastly drought at this season. Even rain will not bring the crop up to average weight now. It's beyond nature to do it." "Well, he's going to pray for rain," said Gollop. "Next Sunday we shall ax for 'moderate rain and showers.'" "Well, why not?" asked Nathan. "That's what the man's there for surely." "Why not? Because the glass is up 'pon top of everything, and the wind's in the east steady as a rock. That's why not. You don't want prayer to be turned into a laughing-stock. We don't want our ministers to fly in the face of Providence, do we? To pray for rain at present be equally mad as to pray for snow. 'Tis just courting failure. Then this here man, Jack Head, and other poisonous members, will laugh, like Elijah when he drawed on them false prophets, and say our Jehovah be asleep." "Not me," answered Head. "'Tis your faith be asleep. You've given your side away properly now, my bold hero! So you've got such a poor opinion of your Jehovah that you reckon to ax Him to take the wind out of the east be going too far? But you're right. Your God can't do it. All the same, Masterman's a better Christian than you." "You speak as a rank atheist, Jack," said Timothy Waite. "And what sense there is in you is all spoiled because you're so fierce and sour." "Not me--far from it. We was talking of Jehovah, I believe, and there's no law against free speech now, so I've a right to say my say without being called to order by you or any man. Tom here don't trust his God to bring rain when the glass is set fair; and I say that he be perfectly right--that's all. Gollop ought to have the faith that moves mountains, no doubt; but he hasn't. He can't help feeling terrible shaky when it comes to a challenge. That's the good my side's doing, though he do swear at us. We're making the people common-sensible. Faith have had a long run for its money. Now we're going to give Works a bit of a show. Masterman fawns on Jehovah like a spaniel bitch, and thinks that all this shoe-licking be going to soften the God of the stars. But if there was a God, He'd be made of sterner stuff than man makes Him. We shouldn't get round Him, like a naughty boy round a weak father. In fact, you might so well try to stop a runaway steam-roller by offering it a cabbage-leaf, as to come round a working God by offering Him prayers." "How you can stand this under your roof, Nathan, I'm blessed if I know," grumbled Mr. Gollop. "'Tis very evil speaking, and no good will come to you by it." "Light will shine even on this man afore the end," declared the innkeeper. "God will explain as much as is good for Jack to know. He shows each of us as much as we can bear to see--like He did Moses. If Jehovah was to shine too bright on the likes of Head here, He'd dazzle the man and blind him." "God will explain--eh? That's what you said, Nat. Then why don't He explain? I'm a reasonable man. I'm quite ready and willing to hear. But 'twill take God all His time to explain some of His hookem-snivey tricks played on honest, harmless humans. Let's hear first why He let the snake into the garden at all, to fool those two poor grown-up children. You talk about original sin! 'Tis a dirty lie against human nature. If you're in the right, 'twas your God sent it--stuck the tree under Eve's nose--just as if I put a bunch of poison berries in a baby's hand and said, 'You mustn't eat 'em,' and then left the rest to chance and an enemy. Who'd be blamed if the child ate and died? Why, I should. And jury would bring it in murder--quite right too. Look at your God's blackguard doings against all they peaceful people He set His precious Jews against! Shameful, I call it. Driving 'em out of their countries, harrying 'em, killing 'em by miracles, because He knowed the Jews wasn't good men enough to do it. Chosen people! A pretty choice! He's been judging us ever since He made us; now let's judge Him a bit, and see what His games look like to the eyes of a decently taught Board School boy." "You'll roast for this, John Head, and well you'll deserve it," said Mr. Gollop. "Not I, Thomas. I've just as much right to crack a joke against your ugly, short-tempered Jehovah as you would have to laugh at the tuft of feathers on the end of a pole that foreign savages might call God. There's not a pin to choose betwixt them and you." "We can only hope you'll have the light afore you've gone too far, Jack," said Nathan. "You're getting up home to sixty, and I'm sure I hope God's signal-post will rise up on your path afore you go much further." "'Tis certainly time," answered Head. "And if your God's in earnest and wants to put me right, the sooner He begins the better for us both--for my salvation and His credit." "He's got His holy self-respect, however," argued Gollop. "If I was Him, I'd not give myself a thought over the likes of you. 'Good riddance'--that's what I should say." "If you was God for five minutes I wonder what you'd do, Tom," speculated Joe Voysey. "Give me a new back, I hope. That's the first favour I should ax." "I'd catch you up into heaven, Joe. That's the kindest thing the Almighty could do for you." But Voysey looked doubtful. "If you was to wait till I gived the word, 'twould be better," he said. "Nobody wants to leave his job unfinished." "A good brain gone to rot--that's what's happened to you, Jack," said Nathan sadly. "Lord, He only knows why you are allowed to think such thoughts. No doubt there's a reason for it, since nought can happen without a reason; but the why and wherefore are hid from us common men, like much else that's puzzling. Anyway, we can stick to this--we Christians: though you've got no use for God, Jack, 'tis certain that God's got a use for you; and there may be those among us who will live to see what that use is." "Well, I'm ready for a whisper," declared the free-thinker. "He won't have to tell me twice--if He only makes His meaning clear the first time." They talked a little longer, and then Heathman Lintern came among them. "Be Jack Head here?" he asked. "The chimney to his house have took fire seemingly, and policeman's made a note of it. But 'twas pretty near out when I come by." "Hell!" cried Jack. "That's another five shilling gone!" He left hurriedly to the tune of laughter, and failed to hear Gollop's triumphant final argument. "There! There!" shouted the sexton. "There 'tis--'hell' in his everyday speech! He can't get away from it: 'tis part of nature and a common item--just as natural as heaven. And argue as he pleases, the moment he's took out of himself, the truth slips. Well may he say 'hell'! There's nobody living round here will ever have more cause to say it. And that he'll find long afore I, or another, drop the clod on his bones." CHAPTER X Thanks more to the diplomacy of Nathan Baskerville than Ned's own skill in reconciliation, Cora forgave her lover and their marriage day was fixed. Not a few noticed that the master of 'The White Thorn' held this union much to heart, and indeed appeared more interested in its achievement than any other save Ned himself. A change had come over Nathan and his strength failed him. The affection of his throat gained upon him and his voice grew weaker. He resented allusions to the fact and declared that he was well. Only his doctor and Priscilla Lintern knew the truth; and only she understood that much more than physical tribulation was responsible for the innkeeper's feverish activity of mind and unsleeping energy poured forth in secret upon affairs. The extent of this immense diligence and devotion was hidden even from her. She supposed that a temporary cloud had passed away; and she ceased not, therefore, from begging him to save his powers and so afford himself an opportunity to recover. But the man believed that he was doomed, and suspected that his life could only be held upon uncertain tenure of months. The doctor would not go so far as this gloomy opinion; yet he did not deny that it might be justified. Nathan felt no doubt in his own mind, and he believed that Cora's wedding was the last considerable event of a personal and precious nature that he could hope to see accomplished. Afterwards, but not until he found himself upon his deathbed, the innkeeper designed a confession. Circumstances and justice, as he conceived it, must make this avowal private; but those most interested were destined to know the hidden truth concerning themselves. He had debated the matter with Priscilla, since decision rested with her; but she was of his mind and, indeed, had been the first to suggest this course. Cora's shopping roused all the household of Undershaugh to a high pitch of exasperation. Much to the girl's surprise her mother produced fifty pounds for a wedding outfit, and the bride employed agreeable days in Plymouth while she expended this handsome gift. A house had been taken at Plympton. The face of it was 'genteel' in Cora's estimation; but the back was not. However, the rear premises satisfied Ned, and its position with respect to town and country suited them both. There remained contracts and settlements, in which Nathan Baskerville represented both parties. Ned was generous and indifferent; Cora exhibited interest and a faculty for grasping details. She told herself that it was only reasonable and wise to do so. At any time the reckless Ned might break his neck; at any time the amorous Ned might find her not all-sufficing. No sentiment obscured Cora's outlook. She astounded Nathan Baskerville by the shrewdness of her stipulations. Few prophesied much joy of this marriage, and even Priscilla, albeit Nathan was impatient at her doubts, none the less entertained misgivings. She knew the truth of her daughter, and had long since learned the truth concerning young Baskerville. Those who desired to comfort her foretold that man and wife would go each their own way and mind each their own business and pleasure. Not the most sanguine pretended to suppose that Ned and Cora would unite in any bonds of close and durable affection. The man's mother trusted that Cora's common-sense and practical spirit might serve as a steady strain to curb his slothful nature; but May Baskerville was the only living soul who, out of her warm heart and trusting disposition, put faith in his marriage to lift her brother toward a seemly and steadfast position in the ranks of men. At Hawk House the subject of the wedding might not be mentioned. In consequence renewed coolness had arisen between the brothers. Then came a rumour to Humphrey's ear that Nathan was ill, and he felt concern. The old man had no eye to mark physical changes. He was slow to discern moods or read the differences of facial expression, begot by mental trouble on the one hand and bodily suffering on the other. Now, greatly to his surprise, he heard that Nathan began to be very seriously indisposed. The news came to him one morning a month before Cora's wedding. Heathman Lintern called upon the subject of a stallion, and mentioned casually that Humphrey's brother had lost his voice and might never regain it. "'Tis terrible queer in the bar at 'The White Thorn' not to hear him and to know we never may no more," he said. "He's gone down and down very gradual; but now he can only whisper. 'Tis a wisht thing to lose the power of speech--like a living death, you might say." "When did this happen? I've marked no change, though 'tis a good few weeks now since I spoke with him." "It comed gradual, poor chap." Humphrey rose and prepared on the instant to start for Shaugh. "I must see the man," he said. "We're out for the minute owing to this wedding. But, since he's fallen ill, I must go to him. We'll hope 'tis of no account." They set out together and Heathman was mildly surprised to learn the other's ignorance. "He keeps it so close; but you can't hide your face. We've all marked it. The beard of the man's grown so white as if the snow had settled on it, and his cheeks be drawed too. For my part I never felt nothing in life to make me go down-daunted afore, except when your son Mark died; but, somehow, Nat Baskerville be a part of the place and the best part. I've got a great feeling towards him. 'Tis making us all very uncomfortable. Especially my mother. He talks to her a lot, feeling how more than common wise she be; and she knows a lot about him. She's terrible down over it and, in fact, 'tis a bad job all round, I'm afraid." Humphrey's answer was to quicken his pace. "He kept it from me," he replied. "I suppose he thought I ought to have seen it for myself. Or he might have wrongly fancied I didn't care." "Everybody cares--such a wonderful good sort as him. 'Twill cast a gloom over this blessed wedding. I wish to God 'twas over and done with--the wedding, I mean--since it's got to be." "Why do you wish that?" "Because I'm sick of the thing and that awnself[1] baggage, my sister. God's truth! To watch her getting ready. Everything's got to go down afore her, like the grass afore the scythe. You may work your fingers to the bone and never get a thank you. I had a row with her last night, and she got lashing me with her tongue till I rose up and fetched her a damned hard box on the ear, grown woman though she is. My word, it tamed her too! 'There!' I said. 'That's better than all the words in the dictionary. You keep your snake's tongue between your teeth,' I said. There's no answering her with words, but if her husband has got a pinch of sense, which he hasn't, he'll do well to give her a hiding at the start. It acted like a charm." [1] _Awnself_--selfish. "Don't want to hear nothing about that. They're making their own bed, and 'twill be uneasy lying," said Humphrey. "Leave them, and talk of other things." "Very pleased," answered Lintern. "Ban't a subject I'm fond of. Undershaugh without Cora would be a better place to live in--I know that and I say it. And my mother knows it too; though say it she won't." They talked on various subjects, and Heathman informed Mr. Baskerville that he would soon be a great-uncle. "Rupert's wife be going to have a babby--that's the last news. I heard it yester-eve at 'The White Thorn.'" "Is that so? They might have told me, you'd think. Yet none has. They kept it from me." "Holding it for a surprise; or maybe they didn't think 'twould interest you." "No doubt that was the reason," answered Humphrey. And then he spoke no more, but worked his own thoughts into a ferment of jealous bitterness until the village was reached. Arrived, he took no leave of Heathman, but forgot his presence and hastened to the inn. Nathan was standing at the door in his apron, and the brothers entered together. "What's this I hear?" said Humphrey as they entered the other's private chamber. "Well, I'm ill, to be frank. In fact, very ill. I'd hoped to hide it up till after the wedding; but my voice has pretty well gone, you see. Gone for good. You'll never hear it again. But that won't trouble you much--eh?" "I should have marked something wrong when last we met, no doubt. But you angered me a bit, and angry men are like drunken ones; their senses fail them. I didn't see or hear what had happed to you. Now I look and listen, I mark you're bad. What does the doctor say?" "'Tis what he don't say. But I've got it out of him. He took me to Plymouth a month ago--to some very clever man there. I've talked such a lot in my life that I deserve to be struck dumb--such a chatterbox as I have been." "Is that all?" "For the present. We needn't go beyond that. I shall soon get used to listening instead of talking. Maybe I'll grow wiser for it." "That wasn't all they told you?" Nathan looked round and shut the door which stood ajar behind them. "There's no hiding anything from you that you want to find out. As a matter of fact, I'm booked. I know it. 'Tis only a question of--of months--few or many. They give me time to put things as straight--as straight as I can." "So like as not they lie. You'll do better to go off to London while you may, and get the best opinion up there." "I would, if 'twas only to pleasure you. But that's no use now." "Can you let down your food easy?" Nathan shook his head. "I dare not eat in company no more," he said; "it's here." He put his hand to his throat and then drew it down. "You don't suffer, I hope?" Nathan nodded. "I can tell you, but I trust you not to let it out to any soul. We must have the wedding off cheerful and bright. I shall keep going till then, if I'm careful. Only a month now." "You ought to be lying up close, and never put your nose out this coarse weather." "Time enough. Leave it now. I'm all right. I've had a good life--better than you might think for. I wish for my sake, and knowing that I've got my end in sight, you'd do the last thing you can for me and countenance this wedding. Perhaps I've no right to ask; but if you knew--if you knew how hard life can be when the flesh gives way and there's such a lot left to do and think about. If you only knew----" "You say 'the last thing I can do for you.' Are you sure of that?" A strange and yearning expression crossed the face of the younger man. He stroked his beard nervously and Humphrey, now awake to physical accidents, marked that his hands were grown very thin and his skin had taken on it a yellowish tinge of colour. There was silence between them for some moments. Then Nathan shook his head and forced a smile upon his face. "Nothing else--nothing at all. But it's no small thing that I ask. I know that. You've a right to feel little affection for either of them--Ned or Cora. But my case is different. Cora's mother----" Again he stopped, but Humphrey did not speak. "Cora's mother has been a good friend to me in many ways. She is a clever woman and can keep her own counsel. There's more of Priscilla Lintern in Cora than you might think. You'll never know how terribly Cora felt Mark's death; but she did. Only she hid it close. As to Ned----" He began to cough and suffered evident pain in the process. When the cough ceased it was some time before he could speak. Then, to Humphrey's discomfort, his brother began to weep. "There--there," he said, as one talks to a child. "What I can do, I'll do. God knows this is a harsh shock to me. I didn't dream of such a thing overtaking you. How old are you?" "In my sixty-third year." "Hope despite 'em. They don't know everything. Pray to the Almighty about it. You're weak. You ought to drink, if you can't eat. I'll come to the wedding and I'll give the woman a gift--for your sake and her mother's--not for her own." Nathan, now unnerved, could not reply. But he took his brother's hand and held it. "God bless you for this," he whispered. "If you could but understand me better and believe that with all my black faults I've meant well, I should die easier, Humphrey." "Don't talk about dying. You're a bit low. I haven't forgotten when Mark went. Now 'tis my turn. Why don't you trust me?" "You never trusted me, Humphrey." The other darted a glance and Nathan's eyes fell. "Never--and you were right not to," he added. Humphrey rose. "I'm your brother and your friend. I can't be different to what I am. I don't respect you--never did. But--well--a silly word most times, but I'll use it--I love you well enough. Why shouldn't I? You're my brother--all I've got left. I'm cut up about this. I wish I could lighten your load, and I'm willing to do it if 'tis in my power." "You have. If you come to that wedding I shall die a happy man." "That's nought. Ban't there anything deeper I can do--for you yourself and your peace of mind?" Again Nathan struggled with his desires. But pride kept him silent. He could not tell the truth. "No," he answered at last. "Nothing for me myself." "Or for any other?" The innkeeper became agitated. "No, no. You've done a good day's work. No more for the present. I've not thrown up the sponge yet. Will you take a glass of the old sloe gin before you go?" Humphrey shook his head. "Not for me. When's the wedding?" "Third of November." "I shall be there, and your--Cora Lintern will have a letter from me next week." "You make me a happier man than you know, Humphrey." "Let it rest then. I'll see you again o' Sunday." They parted, and while one put on his hat and hastened with tremulous excitement to Undershaugh, the other breasted the hill homewards, and buttoned his coat to the wind which sent leaves flying in wild companies at the spinney edge by Beatland Corner. The sick man rejoiced upon his way; the hale man went moodily. "I can do no more," said Humphrey to himself. "He's a Baskerville, despite the grip of death on him. Perhaps I was a fool to tell him I didn't respect him. He'll think of it again when he's got time for thought by night, and 'twill rasp home." Following upon this incident it seemed for a season that Nathan's health mended. His disease delayed a little upon its progress, and he even hoped in secret that his brother might be right and the physicians wrong. He flashed with a spark of his old fire. He whispered jokes that woke noisy laughter. In secret he ticked off the days that remained before Ned and Cora should be married. It wanted less than a fortnight to the event, and all was in readiness for it. Humphrey Baskerville had sent Cora twenty pounds, and she had visited him and thanked him personally for his goodness. The old man had also seen Ned, and although his nephew heard few compliments and came from the interview in a very indignant frame of mind, yet it was felt to be well that Humphrey had thus openly suffered the past to be obliterated. Then came a midnight when Priscilla Lintern, lying awake and full of anxious thoughts, heard upon the silence a sound. At first she believed it to be the four feet of some wandering horse as he struck the ground with his hoofs in leisurely fashion, and slowly passed along the deserted road; then she perceived that it was the two feet of a man moving briskly and carrying him swiftly forward. The feet stopped, the outer wicket gate was opened, and some one came to the door. Priscilla's window looked forth from a thatched dormer above, and now she threw it up and leant out. She knew by intuition the name of the man below. "Is that you, Jim?" she asked. "Yes'm. Master's took cruel bad and can't fetch his breath. He knocked me up, and I went first for Miss Gollop, who was to home luckily. Then I comed for you." Mrs. Lintern was already putting on her clothes. "You'd best to go back," she said. "I'll be up over at once, after I've waked up my son and sent him riding for doctor." Fifteen minutes later Heathman, still half asleep, cantered on a pony through a rainy night for medical help, and his mother hastened up to 'The White Thorn,' and steeled her heart for what she might find there. She had long learned to conceal all emotion of spirit, and she knew that under no possible stress of grief or terror would truth have power to escape the prison of her heart. CHAPTER XI The accident of a heavy cold had suddenly aggravated the morbid condition of Nathan Baskerville's throat, and set all doubt of the truth at rest. Often on previous occasions he had anticipated death at short notice, and prepared to face it; but now he trusted fate not to deal the final blow before his daughter's marriage. His only concern was to be on his feet again swiftly, that none of the plans for the wedding should be changed. The doctor warned him that he was very ill, and took the gravest view of his condition; but Nathan, out of a sanguine heart, declared that he would make at least a transient recovery. He obeyed the medical man's directions very carefully, however; he kept his bed and put himself into the hands of the parish nurse. In sombre triumph she came to this important case, and brought with her certain errors of judgment and idiosyncrasies of character that went far to counter-balance real ability begot of experience. She was a good nurse, but an obstinate and foolish woman. No more conscientious creature ruled a sick room or obeyed a doctor's mandate; but she added to her prescribed duties certain gratuitous moral ministrations which were not required by science or demanded by reason. Mrs. Lintern saw Mr. Baskerville often, and sometimes shared the night watches with Eliza Gollop. The latter viewed her attentions to Nathan and her emotion before his suffering with a suspicious eye. But she reserved comment until after the end. The case was not likely to be a long one in her opinion. For one week little happened of a definite character, and during that time Nathan Baskerville saw his relations and several of his more intimate friends. Then ensued a malignant change, and at the dawn of this deterioration, after the doctor had left him, Miss Gollop sat alone with her patient and endeavoured to elevate his emotions. "I've flashed a bit of light on a wandering soul at many a deathbed," she declared; "and I hope I shall be spared to do so at many more. There's not a few men and women that wouldn't hear me in health, but they listened, meek as worms, when the end was in sight, and they hadn't strength left to move an eye-lash. That's the time to drive truth home, Mr. Baskerville, and I've done it. But always cheerful, mind. I'm not the sort to give up hoping." "I'm sure not," he whispered. "Wasn't Christ's first and last message hope?" "Don't you talk. Let me do the talking. Yes, 'twas hope He brought into this hopeless world. But even hope can be trusted too much. You must put your hope in the next world now, not in this one, I'm afraid." "Did he say so?" "Yes--I knew he would. Death was in his eyes when he went out of your chamber. Still, there's plenty of time. Things may mend. He's going to send a new physic." "What's the good of that if I've got to go?" "You'll know presently, my poor man. 'Tis to ease what be bound to creep over you later on." "Bodily pain's nought. Haven't I suffered all that man can suffer?" "No, you haven't--not yet. Don't talk about that part. You shan't suffer while I'm here--not if I can help it in reason, and under doctor's orders. But I won't stray beyond them; I was never known to take anything upon myself, like some of they hospital chits, that call themselves nurses, do." "When is Mrs. Lintern coming?" Eliza's lips tightened. "Very soon, without a doubt; though why, I can't ezacally say. Listen to me a little afore she's here. 'Tis my duty to say these things to you, and you're not one that ever stood between man or woman and their duty." "I'll not see them married now. That's cruel hard after----" "How can you say that? You may be there in the spirit, if not in the flesh. I suppose you ban't one of they godless ones that say ghosts don't walk? Haven't I beheld 'em with these eyes? Didn't I go down to Mrs. Wonnacott at Shaugh Bridge in the dimpsy of the evening two year ago; and didn't I see a wishtness coming along out of they claypits there? 'Tis well known I seed it; and if it weren't the spirit of Abraham Vosper, as worked there for fifty year and then was run over by his own team of hosses and fractured to death in five places, whose spirit was it? So you may be at your nephew's wedding with the best; and, for my part, I shall know you be there, and feel none the less cheerful for it." "So much to do--so many to save--and no strength and no time--no time," he said. The air was dark and hurtling with awful wings for Nathan Baskerville. He heard and saw the storm coming. But others would feel it. He was safe from the actual hurricane, but, by anticipation, dreadfully he endured it now. Death would be no release save from physical disaster. His place was with the living, not with the dead. Cruelly the living must need him presently; the dead had no need of him. Miss Gollop supposed that she read her patient's heart. "'Tis your own soul you must seek to save, Mr. Baskerville. None can save our souls but ourselves. And as for time, thanks to the rivers of blood Christ shed, there's always time for a dip in 'em. You're well thought on. But that's nought. 'Tis the bird's-eye view the Almighty takes that will decide. And our conscience tells us what that view's like to be. 'Tis a good sign you be shaken about it. The best sort generally are. I've seen an evil liver go to his doom like a babby dropping asleep off its mother's nipple; and I've seen a pious saint, such as my own father was, get into a terrible tear at the finish, as if he seed all the devils in hell hotting up against his coming." She ministered to the sick man, then sat down and droned on again. But he was not listening; his strength had nearly gone, his gaiety had vanished for ever. Not a smile was left. The next world at this juncture looked inexpressibly vain and futile. He cared not a straw about it. He was only concerned with his present environment and the significance of passing from it at this juncture. "Run out--all run out!" he whispered to himself. Would there be no final parenthesis of strength to deal with the manifold matters now tumbling to chaos? Was the end so near? He brushed aside lesser things and began to think of the one paramount obligation. "Why don't she come? Why don't she come?" he whispered; but Miss Gollop did not hear him. This was a sort of moment when she felt the call of her faith mighty upon her. She had often inopportunely striven to drag a dying's man's mind away from earth to the spectacle of heaven and the immense difficulty of winning it. "How many houses have you got, Mr. Baskerville?" she asked abruptly; and in a mechanical fashion he heard and answered her. "Six--two here and four at Bickleigh; at least, they can't be called mine, I'm afraid, they're all----" "And you'd give the lot for one little corner in a heavenly mansion--wouldn't you, Mr. Baskerville?" "No doubt--no doubt," he said. "Don't talk for a bit. I'm broken; I'm terrible anxious; I must see---- Give me something to drink, please." While she obeyed him Mrs. Lintern came in. The doctor, who had perceived her tragic interest in the patient, kept her closely informed of his condition, and Priscilla had learned within the hour that Nathan was growing worse. Now she came, and Mr. Baskerville asked Miss Gollop to leave them. "I can't think why," murmured Eliza. "I'm not generally told to go out except afore relations. Still, I can take my walk now instead of this afternoon. And if the new physic comes, don't you give him none, Mrs. Lintern, please. 'Tis very powerful and dangerous, and only for skilled hands to handle." Neither spoke until the nurse had departed. "And I shall be gone exactly twenty minutes and no more," she said. "I've got my reputation, I believe, if some of us haven't; but with chapel people----" The exact problem respecting chapel people she left unstated, and in closing the door behind her made some unnecessary noise. Then Priscilla folded Nathan in her arms and kissed him. He held her hand and shut his eyes while she talked; but presently he roused himself and indicated that the confession to his children must not in safety be longer delayed. "I don't feel particular worse, though I had a bit of a fight for wind last night; but I am worse, and I may soon be a lot worse. They'd better all come to-day--this afternoon." "They shall," she promised. "If that was all--my God, if that was all, Priscilla!" "It is all that matters." "'Tis the least--the very least of it. Dark--dark wherever I turn. Plots miscarried, plans failed, good intentions all gone astray." She thought that he wandered. "Don't talk, 'tis bad for you. If you've got to go, go you must--God pity me without you! But you are all right, such a steadfast man as you. The poor will call you blessed, and your full tale of well-doing will never be told." "Well-meaning, that's all--not well-doing. A dead man's motives don't count, 'tis his deeds we rate him by. He's gone. He can't explain what he meant. Pray for me to live a bit longer, Priscilla. Beg 'em for their prayers at the chapel; beg 'em for their prayers at church. I'm terrible, terrible frighted to go just now, and that's truth. Frighted for those I leave--for those I leave." She calmed him and sought to banish his fears. But he entered upon a phase of mental excitement, deepening to frenzy. He was bathed in sweat and staring fixedly before him when the nurse returned. After noon the man had regained his nerve and found himself ready for the ordeal. A dose of the new drug brought ease and peace. He was astonished and sanguine to feel such comfort. But his voice from the strain of the morning had almost become extinguished. When Priscilla and his children came round him and the family were alone, he bade the woman speak. "Tell them," he said. "I'm not feared to do it, since you wish them to know, but my throat is dumb." Heathman stood at the bottom of the bed and his mother sat beside it. Cora and Phyllis were in chairs by the fire. They looked and saw Mrs. Lintern clasp her hands over Nathan Baskerville's. The act inspired her, and she met the astonished glances of her children. "For all these years," she said, "you've been kept without hearing the truth, you three. You only knew I was a widow, and that Mr. Baskerville was a widower, and that we were friends always, and that he never married again because his dead wife didn't want him to. But there's more to know. After Mrs. Baskerville died, Nathan here found me an orphan girl, working for my living in a china and glass shop at Bath. I hadn't a relation or friend in the world, and he got to love me, and he wanted to marry me. But I wouldn't have it, because, in honour to his wife's relations, if he'd married me he'd have had to give up five thousand pound. And they would have taken very good care he did so. The law was his side, but truth was against it, since his wife gave him the money only if he didn't wed. She couldn't enforce such a thing, but he acted as if she could. I went to live with him, and you three children were born. Then, a bit after, he came back here, and of course I came with him. He's your father, but there's no call for any else to know it but us. I don't care, and never shall care if everybody knows it. A better man won't breathe God's air in this world than your father, and no woman have been blessed with a kinder husband in the eye of the Almighty. But there's you three to think of, and 'twould be against you if this was known now. He didn't even want to tell you; but I was determined that you should know it afore either of us died. And now it's pleased God to shorten your dear father's days; and you've got to hear that he is your father." There was a silence. "I ask them to forgive me," whispered Nathan Baskerville. "I ask my son and my daughters to forgive me for what I've done." "No need for that," answered Priscilla. "Lie down and be easy, and don't get excited." He had sat up and was holding his beard, and stroking it nervously. Mrs. Lintern shook his pillow and took his hand again. Then she looked at her son, who stood with his mouth open, staring at the sick man. His expression indicated no dismay, but immense astonishment. "Well, I'm damned!" he said. "This beats cock-fighting! You my father! And now you'm going to drop out--just when I might have been some use to you. There! what a 'mazing thing, to be sure." "Call him by his right name then--for my sake, Heathman," urged his mother. "Why--good God!--I will for his own," answered the man. "I don't care a curse about such things as laws and all the rest of it. He's been a rare good sort all his life; and no man could have a better father, whichever side the blanket he was got. I'll call him father, and welcome, and I wish to Christ he wasn't going to die." Heathman came and took Nathan's hand, and his mother broke down at his words, buried her face in the counterpane and wept. "Tell them to come over," whispered Mr. Baskerville to his son. "And thank you, and God bless you, son. You've done more than you know to lighten a cruel load." "Come here, you two, and kiss your father," said Heathman. The girls came, and first Phyllis kissed Nathan nervously, and then the touch that he hungered for rested a moment on his cheek. With Cora's kiss the tension subsided; he sank back, and Priscilla drew the sheet up to his beard, and again lifted the pillow. "Now I shall go in some sort of peace, though an erring and a sinful man," he murmured. "If you can forgive me, so will my Saviour. And let this secret be a secret for ever. Remember that, all of you. 'Tis beyond human power to make you legitimate Baskervilles; but Baskervilles you are, and, please God, will lead a better and wiser life than I have led. No need to tell anybody the truth. Forgive your father, and forget him so soon as ever you can; but worship your mother always--to your dying day worship her; protect her and shield her, and stand between her and the rough wind, and be proud of having such a blessed brave woman for a mother." "You needn't tell me that," said Heathman. The other stopped, but held up his hand for silence. After a little rest he proceeded. "The time's coming when she will need all the love and wit you've got among you. 'Tis no good talking much about that, and I haven't the human courage left to meet your hard faces, or tears, or frowns. All I say is, forgive me, and love your mother through thick and thin. All the blame is mine--none of it belongs to her." He held his hand out to Cora. She was sitting on the edge of the bed looking out of the window. "You'll remember, my Cora," he said. "And--and let me hear you call me 'father' just once--if you can bring yourself to do it." "The money, dear father?" she asked. He smiled, and it was the last time that he ever did so. "Like my sensible Cora," he answered. But he did not continue the subject. "You'd best all to go now," declared Priscilla. She rose and looked straight into the eyes of her children each in turn. The girls flinched; the son went to her and kissed her. "Don't you think this will make any difference to me," said Heathman. "You're a damned sight too good a mother for me, whether or no--or for them women either; and this man here--our father, I should say--needn't worrit about you, for I'll always put you afore anything else in the world." "And so will I, mother," said Phyllis. "Of course, we all will," added Cora; "and the great thing must be for us all to keep as dumb as newts about it. 'Twould never do for it to come out--for mother's sake more than ours, even. I don't say it for our sakes, but for mother's sake, and for father's good name, too." "Such wisdom--such wisdom!" said Nathan. "You've all treated me better than I deserved--far better. And God will reward you for such high forgiveness to a wicked wretch. I'll see you all again once before I die. Promise that. Promise you'll come again, Cora." "I will come again," she said; "and please, father, make mother promise on her oath to be quiet and sensible and not run no risks. If it got out now--you never know. We're above such small things, but many people would cold shoulder us if they heard of it. You know what people are." Her mother looked at her without love. The girl was excited; she began to appreciate the significance of what she had heard; her eyes were wet and her voice shook. "I'll be 'quiet and sensible,' Cora Lintern," said the mother. "I've been 'quiet and sensible' for a good many years, I believe, and I shan't begin to be noisy and foolish now. You're quite safe. Better you all go away now and leave us for the present." They departed silently, and, once below, the girls crept off together, like guilty things, to their home, while Lintern dallied in the bar below and drank. He was perfectly indifferent to the serious side of his discovery, and, save for his mother's sake, would have liked to tell the men in the bar all about it. He regarded it rather as a matter of congratulation than not. No spark of mercenary feeling touched his emotion. That he was a rich man's son had not yet occurred to him; but that he was a good man's son and a popular man's son pleased him. Mrs. Lintern suffered no detraction in his eyes. He felt wonder when he considered her power of hiding this secret for so many years, and he experienced honest sorrow for her that the long clandestine union was now to end. The day's event, indeed, merely added fuel to the flame of his affection for her. But it was otherwise with the sisters. Phyllis usually took on the colour of Cora's thought, and now the elder, with no little perspicacity, examined the situation from every point of view. "The only really bright side it's got is that there'll be plenty of money, I suppose. I'd give a sovereign, Phyllis, to see the will. Father--how funny it sounds to say it--poor father was always terrible fond of me, and I've often wondered why for. Now, of course, 'tis easy to explain." "What about the wedding?" asked Phyllis. "'Twill have to be cruel quiet now, I suppose." "Certainly not," answered her sister. "'Twill have to be put off, that's all. I won't have a scrubbly little wedding smothered up in half mourning, or some such thing; but, come to think of it, we shan't figure among the mourners in any case--though we shall be among them really. 'Twill be terrible difficult to help giving ourselves away over this. I think the best thing would be for mother to take the money and clear out, and go and live somewhere else--the further off the better. For that matter, when the will's read, everybody will guess how it is." "Heathman might go on with the public-house." "Yes, he might. But I hope he'll do no such thing," answered her sister. "He's always the thorn in my side, and always will be. Don't know the meaning of the word 'decency.' However, he's not like to trouble us much when we're married. I shan't be sorry to change my name now, Phyllis. And the sooner you cease to be called Lintern, too, the better." "About mother?" "I shouldn't presume to say a word about mother, one way or the other," answered Cora. "I'm not a fool, and I'm not going to trouble myself about the things that other people do; but all the same, I shall be glad to get out of it and start with a clean slate among a different class of people." "What amazing cleverness to hide it all their lives like that," speculated Phyllis. "I'm sure us never would have been so clever as to do it." "It became a habit, no doubt. 'Twas salt to their lives, I reckon, and made 'em all the fonder of each other," declared Cora. "Everyday married life must have looked terrible tame to them--doing what they did. Their time was one long love-making in secret." "I'm awful sorry for mother now, though," continued Phyllis; "because when he dies she can't put on weeds and go and hear the funeral sermon, and do all the things a proper widow does do." "No," admitted her sister; "that she certainly can't. She'll have to hide the truth pretty close from this day forward, that's very clear. She owes that to me--and to you; and I shall see she pays her debt." "She will, of course," replied the other. "She's a terrible brave woman, and always has been. She'll hide it up close enough--so close as we shall, for that matter. Heathman's the only one who's like to let it out. You know what a careless creature he is." Cora frowned. "I do," she said. "And I know there's no love lost between him and me. A coarse man, he is, and don't care what gutter he chooses his friends out of. Take one thing with another, it might be so well to marry Ned at the appointed time, and get it hard and fast." So they talked, and misprized Heathman from the frosty standpoint of their own hearts. Rather than bring one shadow on his mother's fame, the brother of these girls would have bitten out his tongue and swallowed it. CHAPTER XII Nathan Baskerville's bedroom faced the south. A text was nailed upon the wall over his head, and an old photograph of his father stood upon the mantelpiece. To right and left of this memorial appeared trinkets made of shells. A pair of old carriage lamps, precious from association, decorated either end of the mantelshelf. An old print of Niagara Falls, that his mother had valued, was nailed above it. A white curtain covered the window, but there was no blind, for this man always welcomed daylight. On the window-ledge there languished a cactus in a pot. It was a gift under the will of an old dead woman who had tended it and cherished it for twenty years. One easy chair stood beside the bed, and on a table at hand were food and medicine. Many came to see the dying man, and Humphrey Baskerville visited him twice or thrice in every week. More than once Nathan had desired to speak of private matters to his brother, but now he lacked the courage, and soon all inclination to discuss mundane affairs departed from him. There followed a feverish week, in which Nathan only desired to listen to religious conversation. Recorded promises of hope for the sinner were his penultimate interest on earth. He made use of a strange expression very often, and desired again and again to hear the Bible narrative that embraced it. "'This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise,'" he said to Humphrey and to many others. "I cling to that. It was spoken to a thief and a failure." All strove to comfort him, but a great mental incubus haunted his declining hours. His old sanguine character seemed entirely to have perished; and its place was taken by spirits of darkness and of terror. "'The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,'" he said to Eliza Gollop, when she was alone with him. "If I'd marked that better, I might now have got beyond that stage and learned to love Him. But I'm in fear--my life hasn't took me further than that--all's fearful still." "No need in your case, I hope, so far as mortal man can say," she answered. "'Tis natural to be uneasy when the journey's end falls in sight; and we all ought to be. But then comes Christ and casts out fear. You've a right, so far as man can say, to trust Him and fear nought." "But man doesn't know. Yet He forgave the dying thief." "He did so, though us have no right to say whether 'twas a bit of rare kindness in Him, or whether he made a practice of it. But for my part I steadfastly believe that He do forgive everything but the sin against the Holy Ghost. Of course, that's beyond His power, and would never do." Mrs. Lintern spent much time at 'The White Thorn,' and since her visits relieved Eliza of work, she acquiesced in them, while reserving the right of private judgment. Priscilla and her children all saw the sufferer together more than once; and then came a day when Heathman, Cora, and Phyllis took their leave of him. The young man then secreted his emotion and roamed for an hour alone upon the Moor; the girls felt it but little. Cora declared afterwards to Phyllis that since this great confession had been made, her mind dimly remembered her tender youth and a man in it. This man she had regarded as her father. All the children were deceived at an early age. They had, indeed, been led implicitly to suppose that their father died soon after the birth of Phyllis. One last conversation with his brother, Humphrey long remembered. It was the final occasion on which Nathan seemed acutely conscious, and his uneasiness of mind clearly appeared. They were alone, and the elder perceived that Nathan desired and yet feared to make some statement of a personal character. That he might ease the other's mind and open the way to any special conversation he desired, Mr. Baskerville uttered certain general speeches concerning their past, their parents, and the different characteristics of temperament that had belonged to Vivian and themselves. "We were all as opposite as men can be, and looked at life opposite, and set ourselves to win opposite good from it. Who shall say which comes out best? On the whole, perhaps Vivian did. He died without a doubt. There are some men bound to be pretty happy through native stupidity and the lack of power to feel; and there are some men--mighty few--rise as high as happiness, and glimpse content by the riches of their native wisdom. I've found the real fools and the real wise men both seem to be happy. A small brain keeps a man cheerful as a bird, and a big one leads to what's higher than cheerfulness; but 'tis the middle bulk of us be so often miserable. We'm too witty to feed on the fool's pap of ignorance; and not witty enough to know the top of wisdom. I speak for myself in that; but you've been a happy, hopeful man all your days; so belike, after all, you're wiser than I granted you to be." "Me wise! My God! Don't you say that. My happiness was a fool's happiness; my laughter a fool's laughter all the time. At least--not all the time; but at first. We do the mad things at the mad age, and after, when the bill comes in--to find us grown up and in our right minds--we curse Nature for not giving us the brains first and the powers afterwards. Man's days be a cruel knife in the hand of a child. Too often the heedless wretch cuts hisself afore he's learned how to handle it, and carries the scar for ever." "True for you. Nature's a terrible poor master, as I've always said, and always shall. We know it; but who stands up between a young man and his youth to protect him therefrom? We old blids see 'em thinking the same vain things, and doing the same vain things, and burning their fingers and scorching their hearts at the same vain fires; and we look on and grin, like the idiots we are, and make no effort to help 'em. Not you, though--not you. You was always the young man's friend. You never was a young man yourself exactly. An old head on young shoulders you always carried; and so did I." "Don't think it--not of me. 'Tisn't so. No man was madder than me; none was crueller; none committed worse sins for others' backs to bear. The best that any man will be able to say of me a month after I'm in my grave is that I meant well. And maybe not many will even say that. Death's no evil to me, Humphrey, but dying now is a very cruel evil, I assure you. The cloud lies behind, not in front." "So it does with every man struck down in the midst of his work. Shall you write your own verse according to our old custom?" The other shook his head. "No. I'll stick up no pious thought for men to spit upon when they pass my grave. I'd rather that no stone marked it. 'Twill be remembered--in one heart--and that's more than ever I'll deserve." "Don't be downcast. Leave afterwards to me. I think better of you for hearing you talk like this. You tried to brace me against the death of my son; now I'll brace you against your own death. You don't fear the thing, and that's to the good. But, like all busy men, it finds you with a lot of threads tangled, I suppose. That's the fate of every one who tries to do other people's work besides his own, and takes off the shoulders of others what properly belongs there. They'll have to look to their own affairs all round when you go." Nathan's answer was a groan, and with the return of the nurse, Humphrey went away. From that hour the final phases of the illness began; suffering dimmed the patient's mind, and turned his thoughts away from everything but his own physical struggle between the intervals of sleep. His torments increased; his consciousness, flinging over all else, was reduced to its last earthly interest. He kept his eyes and his attention ceaselessly fixed upon one thing so long as his mind continued under his control. Not grief at the past; not concern at the future; not the face of Priscilla, and not the touch of her hand absorbed his intelligence now; but the sight of a small bottle that held the anodyne to his misery. That he steadfastly regarded, and pointed impatiently to the clock upon the mantelpiece when the blessed hour of administration struck. The medicine was guarded jealously by Eliza Gollop, and once, when frenzied at the man's sufferings, Priscilla had sought to administer a dose, the other woman came between and sharply rebuked her. "It's death!" she whispered under her voice. "D'you want to murder him? He's taking just what the doctor allows--the utmost limit." After three days of unutterable grief, Nathan's brother became aware of the situation, and perceived that the end tarried. He debated on this long-drawn horror for a night, and next day spoke to the doctor. He put the case without evasion or obscurity, and the professional man heard him in patience and explained at once his deep sympathy and his utter powerlessness to do more. "He's dying--you grant that?" "Certainly, he's dying--the quicker the better now, poor fellow. The glands are involved, and the end must come tolerably soon." "How long?" "Impossible to say. A few days probably. He keeps his strength wonderfully well." "But it would be better if he didn't? Wouldn't it be better if he died to-night?" "Much--for all our sakes," admitted the physician. "Can't you help him out of it, then?" "Impossible." "Why? You'd do as much for a horse or dog." "My business is to prolong life, not hasten death. The profession recognises no interference of that sort." "Who knows anything about it? A dying man dies, and there's an end." "I cannot listen to you, Mr. Baskerville. We must think of the greatest good and the greatest safety to the greatest number. The law is very definite in this matter, and I have my profession to consider. You look at an individual case; the law looks at the larger question of what is convenient for a State. Your brother is having medicinal doses of morphia as often as it is possible to give them to him without danger to life." "In fact, Nature must kill him her own hard way." "Much is being done to lessen his pain." "But a double dose of your physic would----" "End his life." "How?" "He would become unconscious and in three, or possibly four, hours he would die." "You'd call that murder?" "That is the only name for it as the law stands." "You won't do that?" "No, Mr. Baskerville. I wish I could help him. But, in a word, I have no power to do so." "Is it because you think 'twould be a wrong thing, or because you know 'tis unlawful?" asked the elder. "You might say 'twas impertinent to ask it, as it touches religion; but I'm ignorant and old, and want to know how it looks to the conscience of a learned man like you--you, that have been educated in all manner of deep subjects and the secrets of life." The doctor reflected. He was experienced and efficient; but like many other professional men, he had refused his reason any entrance into the arcanum of his religious opinions. These were of the customary nebulous character, based on tradition, on convention, on the necessity for pleasing all in a general practice, on the murmur of a mother's voice in his childhood. "I am a Christian," he said. "And I think it wrong to lessen by one moment the appointed life of any man." "But not wrong to lengthen it?" "That we cannot do." "Then surely you cannot shorten it, either? Tell me this, sir: why would you poison a dog that's dying, so that its misery may be ended?" "I will not argue about it. The cases are not parallel. Common humanity would, of course, put a period to the agony of any unconscious beast." "But wouldn't free an immortal soul from its perishing dirt?" "No. I am diminishing his pain enormously. I can do no more. Remember, Mr. Baskerville, that our Lord and Master healed the sick and restored the dead to life. He never shortened any man's days; He prolonged them." "I'm answered," replied the elder. "Your conscience is--where it should be: on the side of the law. I'm answered; but I'm not convinced." They parted, and Humphrey found the other's argument not strong enough to satisfy him. He wrestled with the problem for some time and ere long his impression grew into a conviction, his conviction ripened to a resolve. In the afternoon of that day he returned to 'The White Thorn' and found Mrs. Lintern with his brother. Eliza had gone out for a while. Nathan appeared to be half unconscious, but his mind clearly pursued some private train of thought. Priscilla rose from her chair beside the bed and shook hands with Humphrey. Nathan spoke, but not to them. "A mighty man of valour. His burning words melted the wax in a man's ears, I warn you.... Melted the wax in a man's ears.... Melted the wax.... Oh, Christ, help me! Isn't it time for the medicine yet?" He stared at the bottle. It was placed on a bracket in his sight. "What did the doctor say to-day?" asked Humphrey. "Said it was wonderful--the strength. There's nothing to stop him living three or four days yet." "D'you want him to?" "My God, no! I'd--I'd do all a woman could do to end it." Humphrey regarded her searchingly. "Will he come to his consciousness again?" "I asked the doctor the same question. He said he might, but it was doubtful." The sick man groaned. Agony had long stamped its impress on his face. "When is he to have the medicine?" "When Miss Gollop comes back," she said. "There's an hour yet. The Lord knows what an hour is to me, watching. What must it be to him?" "Why, it may be a lifetime to him--a whole lifetime of torment yet before he's gone," admitted Humphrey. "I pray to God day and night to take him. If I could only bear it for him!" Mr. Baskerville knelt beside his brother, spoke loudly, squeezed the sufferer's hand and tried to rouse him. "My physic, Eliza, for your humanity, Eliza--the clock's struck--I heard it--I swear--oh, my merciful Maker, why can't I have it?" He writhed in slow suffocation. "I'll give him his medicine," said Humphrey. "This shan't go on." "She'll make trouble if you do." "I hope not, and it's no great matter if she does." He crossed the room, examined the bottle, took it to the light and poured out rather more than a double dose. He crossed the room with it, heaved a long breath, steadied himself and then put his arm round his brother and lifted him. "Here you are, Nat. You'll sleep awhile after this. 'Twill soon ease you." Nathan Baskerville seized the glass like one perishing of thirst, and drank eagerly. He continued to talk a little afterwards, but was swiftly easier. Presently the drug silenced him and he lay still. Humphrey looked at his watch. "I can tell you," he said. "Because you'll understand. His troubles are ended for ever now. He won't have another pang. I've taken it upon myself. You're a wise and patient woman. You've got other secrets. Better keep this with the rest." He was excited. His forehead grew wet and he mopped it with the sheet of the bed. Priscilla did not reply; but she went on her knees beside Nathan and listened. "At six o'clock, or maybe a bit earlier, he'll stop. Till then he'll sleep in peace. When does Eliza Gollop come back?" "After four." "I'll wait then." "You're a brave man. 'Tisn't many would do so much as that, even for a brother." "Do as you would be done by covers it. 'Tis a disgrace to the living that dying men should suffer worse terror and pain than dying beasts. Terror they must, perhaps, since they can think; but pain--no need for that." "I'll bless you for this to my own last day," she said. She rose then and fetched a chair. She held Nathan's hand. He was insensible and breathing faintly but easily. Suddenly Mrs. Lintern got up and hastened across the room to the medicine bottle. "We must think of that," she said. "Leave it. He's had enough." "He's had too much," she answered. "There's the danger. When that woman comes back she'll know to half a drop what's gone. She guessed the wish in me to do this very thing two days ago. She read it in my eyes, I believe. And God knows the will was in my heart; but I hadn't the courage." "Let her find out." "No--not her. Some--perhaps many--wouldn't matter; but not her." Priscilla took the bottle, lifted it and let it fall upon the floor. It broke, and the medicine was spilled. "There," she said. "That will answer the purpose. You had given him his dose and, putting the bottle back, it broke. I'll send Heathman off quick to Yelverton for another bottle, so it shall be here before the next dose is due. Then you won't be suspected." He listened, and perceived how easily came the devious thought to her swift mind. It did not astonish him that she was skilled in the art to deceive. "I've taken the chances--all of them," he said. "I've thought long about this. I needn't have told you to keep the secret, for it can't be kept. And I don't want it to be kept really. You can't hide it from the nurse. She'll know by the peace of poor Nat here how it is." Priscilla looked again. Profound calm brooded over the busy man of Shaugh Prior. He was sinking out of life without one tremor. "There's an awful side to it," the woman murmured. "There was," he said. "The awfulness was to see Nature strangling him by inches. There's nought awful now, but the awfulness of all death. 'Tis meant to be an awful thing to the living--not to the dying." For half an hour they sat silent. Then Priscilla lifted the clothes and put her hand to Nathan's feet. "He's cold," she said. "Cold or heat are all one to him now." A little later Eliza Gollop returned. She came at the exact hour for administration of the medicine, and she sought the bottle before she took off her bonnet and cloak. "Where--why----?" she cried out. "I gave him his physic a bit ago," said Mr. Baskerville. "The bottle is broke." The nurse hurried to her patient and examined him closely. She perceived the change. "He's dying!" she said. "So he was when you went away." She broke off and panted into anger. "You've--you've--this is murder--I won't stop in the house. I--oh, you wicked woman!" She turned upon Mrs. Lintern and poured out a torrent of invective. Then Humphrey took her by the shoulders and put her out of the room. "You can go," he said. "You'll not be wanted any more." She hastened from the inn and then went off to the vicarage as fast as her legs would carry her. Another half-hour passed and none came to them. From time to time Priscilla put her ear to Nathan's face. "I don't think he's breathing any more," she said. Then came a noise and a grumbling of men's voices below. A violent strife of words clashed in the bar. The day had waned and it was growing dark. "They'll be against you, I'm fearing," said Priscilla. "'Tis of no account. They always are." Presently Dennis Masterman entered the room. "I hear poor Baskerville is going and they can't find his minister. Can I be of any comfort to him?" He made no allusion to the things that he had heard, and Humphrey did not immediately answer him. He was leaning over his brother. Then he took out his watch, opened it, and put the polished inner case to Nathan's lips. "Light a candle and bring it here," he said to Priscilla. She obeyed, and he examined the polished metal. "No stain--he's dead, I suppose." Then Mr. Baskerville turned to the clergyman. "If you can pray, I'll be glad for you to do it." Dennis immediately knelt down; the old man also went slowly on his knees and the weeping woman did the same. "O Almighty God, Who has been pleased to take our brother from his sufferings and liberate an immortal soul from mortal clay, be Thou beside him now, that he may pass over the dark river with his hand in his Saviour's, and enter as a good and faithful servant into the joy of his Lord. And support the sorrows of those who--who cared for him on earth, and help them and all men to profit by the lesson of his charity and lovingkindness and ready ear for the trouble of his fellow-creatures. Let us walk in the way that he walked, and pass in peace at the end as he has passed. And this we beg for the sake of our Mediator and Comforter, our Blessed Lord and Redeemer, Thy Son, Jesus Christ." "Amen," said Mr. Baskerville, "and thank you." He rose, cast one glance at the grief-stricken woman by the bed, then looked upon his brother and then prepared to depart. But he returned for a moment. "Will you do the rest?" he asked of Mrs. Lintern. "Or shall I tell 'em to send?" "No, I daren't. Tell him to send. I must go home," she answered. A loud noise persisted in the bar, but he did not enter it. He took his hat and an old umbrella from the corner of the sick-room, then descended and went out into the night. CHAPTER XIII The doctor who attended Nathan Baskerville in his last illness heard from Eliza Gollop what had been done, and he took a serious view of it. From the standpoint of his opinions Humphrey Baskerville had struck a blow at society and the established order. The physician was sober-minded and earnest. He communicated with the coroner of the district, stated the case impartially and left the official to act as seemed proper to him. But the coroner was also a medical man, and he reduced the problem to its simplest possible dimensions. Death had been hastened by an uncertain measure of time for one who was enduring extreme agony. He judged the case on its own merits, after a rare judicial faculty peculiar to himself. He made no effort to consider its general bearing and tendency; he did not enlarge his survey to the principles involved. His sympathy was entirely on the side of Humphrey Baskerville; he applauded the old man in his heart and declared no inquest necessary. None was therefore held. Those interested in Nathan's end took opposite views, and as for Humphrey himself, he was hidden for a time from the people and did not appear again in public until his brother's funeral. He failed, therefore, to learn the public opinion. Jack Head and those who thought as he did, upheld the action; but not a few shared the faith of Thomas Gollop, openly expressed at the bar of 'The White Thorn' while still the dead master lay above. For two days Nathan kept a sort of humble state, and the folk from far and near enjoyed the spectacle of his corpse. Many tramped ten miles to see him. The humblest people appeared; the most unexpected persons acknowledged debts of unrecorded kindness. He lay in his coffin with a face placid and small behind the bush of his silver beard. Women wept at the sight and took a morbid joy in touching his folded hands. Then he was hidden for ever and carried with difficulty down the narrow and winding stair of the inn. Thomas Gollop dug the grave and Joe Voysey helped him. No younger men assisted them. They felt a sort of sentiment in the matter. "'Tis the last pit I shall open, Joe," said Mr. Gollop; "and for my part, if I had my way, I shouldn't make it very deep. In these cases the law, though slow, is sure, and it may come about that he'll have to be digged up again inside a month to prove murder against that dark, awful man to Hawk House." "'Tis the point of view. I don't look at it quite the same. For my part, in my business, I see a lot of death--not men but plants. And when a bush or what not be going home, I don't stand in the way. 'No good tinkering,' I often says to Miss Masterman, for the silly woman seems to think a gardener can stand between a plant and death. 'The herb be going home,' I says, 'and us can't stay the appointed time.' 'But I don't want it to go home--it mustn't go home,' she'll answer me--like a silly child talking. However, when her back be turned, I do my duty. The bonfire's the place. Jack Head looked over the kitchen-garden wall a bit agone and seed me firing up; and he said, 'Ah, Joe, your bonfire's like charity: it covers a multitude of sins!' A biting tongue that man hath!" Joe chuckled at the recollection, but Gollop was not amused. "A plant and a man are very different," he answered. "Scripture tells us that the fire is the place for the withered branch, but where there's a soul working out its salvation in fear and trembling, who be we worms to stand up and say 'go'?" "It might be the Lord put it in Mr. Baskerville's heart," argued Voysey. "The Lord ban't in the habit of putting murder in people's hearts, I believe." "You didn't ought to use the word. He might have you up if he come to hear it." "I wish he would; I only wish he would," declared Thomas. "Fearless you'd find me, with Eliza's evidence behind me, I can promise you. But not him: he knows too well for that." They stood and rested where Nathan's grave began to yawn beside that of his brother. White marble shone out above Vivian, and not only his farewell verse, but also a palestric trophy representing the old wrestler's championship belt, was carved there. "'Twill make history in more ways than one--this death will," foretold Thomas. "What do you think? Parson's going to help with the funeral!" "Why not?" "'Why not?' You ask that! Nat was a Dissenter and his dissenting minister be going to bury him; but Masterman says, seeing how highly thought upon he was by all parties, that it becomes all parties to be at his grave. And he's going to be there; and if the bishop comed to learn of it, there'd be a flare-up that might shake England in my opinion." "If his reverence says he'll be there, there he'll be." "I don't doubt that. My belief is that all's well knowed at headquarters, and they're giving the man rope enough to hang hisself with. This may be the last straw." Comforted by the reflection, Thomas resumed his labours. "He'll lie cheek by jowl with his brother," he said. "Go easy in that corner, Joe; us'll be getting to the shoulder of Vivian's bricks afore long." The circumstance of Nathan's passing had been received with very real grief by most of his relations. Even distant kindred mourned and not a few of the race, who were strangers to the Baskervilles of Shaugh Prior, appeared at the funeral. Mrs. Baskerville of Cadworthy felt helpless and faced almost with a second widowhood, for all her financial affairs had rested in Nathan's willing hand since her husband died. Her daughters also mourned in very genuine fashion. Their uncle had been kind, helpful, and generous to them. Only Mr. Bassett did not greatly suffer, for now he knew that his wife must inherit her own and hoped, indeed, for some addition under the will of the departed innkeeper. As for Rupert Baskerville, he endured very real grief; but Ned was too concerned with the bearing of this event on his own affairs to feel it deeply. He would now be free to administer his capital as he pleased. Only his mother stood between. One black cloud, however, thrust itself upon his immediate future. His wedding was postponed. Cora insisted upon it, and her mother supported her. Their motives were widely different, but they arrived at the same conclusion. Priscilla hid her grief from all eyes but her son's; while he, less skilled, surprised the folk by his evident sorrow. They failed to understand it, and acute people laughed, judged it to be simulation, and despised the man for his display. Cora and Phyllis neither pretended nor felt grief. The elder had talked her sister round, and they arrived at a perfectly rational conclusion. It was averse from their father. It led them to regard him as a selfish and a cruel man. They considered also that he had deceived himself, and wickedly wronged the unborn that he might perform a far-fetched obligation to the dead. Cora put the case very clearly. "Mother won't see it, and 'tis vain to try to make her; and Heathman won't see it, because he's a fool, and only just misses being weak in his head. But I see it clear enough, and the ugly truth of the man is that for five thousand pounds he was content to let his children come into the world bastards. That's what he did, and I'm not going to pretend I care for him or shall ever respect his memory." "It'll never come out, however," said Phyllis. "I'm sure I hope it won't--not out of my mouth, anyway. But still it is so, and all the money he may have left behind him won't make me feel different." "We shall be rich, I hope, anyway," speculated Phyllis. "I suppose we shall; and that's the only bright thing about it." "'Twill be funny not walking first behind the coffin, and not sitting in the mourners' pew after for the Sunday sermon; and we knowing all the time that's where we ought to be," said the younger; but Cora exploded the theory. "Not at all. We've no right there--not the right of the most distant cousin twenty times removed. Mother was his mistress, and she daren't use the word 'husband' even to us, though I've seen her mouth itching to do it. 'Tis always 'your dear father.' She can't put on a widow's streamers, though it's in her heart to. She'll have to balance her black pretty cautious, I can tell you, if she don't want the people to be staring." "Surely it must all come out if he leaves his money to us." "He'll do it clever," said Cora bitterly. "With all his faults he was clever enough. He didn't hide this--so clever as a lapwing hides her nest--for near thirty years, to let it come out the minute he was dead." "If I was engaged to be married, like what you are, I shouldn't be so nervous," said Phyllis. "As to that, 'twas as well for me that it fell out now and not later. It may mean a bigger establishment after all; and even a bigger wedding, if I put it off till spring." "My word, what'll Ned say?" But Ned's view did not enter as a serious factor into Cora's. "He's all right," she answered. "If I'm content, so's he." Storm heralded the funeral day, and dawn blinked red-eyed from much weeping. It was hoped that further torrents might hold off until after the ceremony, and happily they did so, though intermittent rain fell and the wind stormed roughly out of a sad-coloured south. "'Blessed be the carpse that the rain rains on,'" said Joe Voysey in muffled accents to Jack Head. They were walking under the coffin, and bore it, with the assistance of six other men, to the grave. "Ban't so blessed for them that's alive, however," answered Jack. "The mourners will be lashed out of their skins by the look of it. Death's never so busy as at a funeral." A purple pall spread over the coffin, and while humble men carried the weight of Nathan Baskerville's dust, others of greater repute stood at the corners of the coverlet. They included Mr. Luscombe of Trowlesworthy, Timothy Waite of Coldstone Farm, Heathman Lintern as representing Undershaugh, one Mr. Popham from Cornwood, Nathan's lawyer, and others. Humphrey Baskerville walked beside the coffin as chief mourner, and Hester Baskerville, on her son Ned's arm, followed him with the rest of the family, save Nathan's namesake, who was at sea. Other relations came after them, with Nicholas Bassett, Polly's husband, and Milly, the wife of Rupert. Cora and her mother and her sister were next in the long procession, and half a dozen private carriages stood together beneath the churchyard wall to support a convention and indicate the respect that their owners entertained towards the dead. Flowers covered the pall and stood piled beside the grave. Crosses, wreaths, and various trophies were here, together with many little humble bunches from cottage gardens, and not a few mere gleanings from the hedgerow of scarlet and crimson berries, or the last autumnal splendour of beech and briar. The air was heavy with emotion, and many wept. A congregational minister conducted the service, and the vicar helped him. After the body had sunk to earth and the rite was nearly accomplished, the chief mourners took their last look upon the lid, according to custom. Leaves whirled in the air, and the branches overhead made a mighty sigh and swough in the brief silence. Underfoot was trampled mire and reeking grass. A pushing child slipped in the clay at the grave-mouth, and nearly fell in. She was dragged back by Thomas Gollop and despatched weeping to the rear. Humphrey Baskerville came almost the last to look into the grave, and as others had fallen away from it when he did so, he assumed a momentary prominence. His small, bent, and sombre shape appeared alone at the edge of the cleft-in earth, with flowers piled about his knees. Then suddenly, ominously, cutting its way through the full diapason of the storm-sounds on trees and tower, there crept a different utterance. The wind shouted deep and loud; but this noise was thin and harsh--a hissing, a sharp, shrill sibilation that gained volume presently and spread epidemic into the crowded ranks of the collected men. They were mostly the young who permitted themselves this attack, but not a few of their elders joined with them. The sounds deepened; a groan or two threaded the hisses. Then Baskerville, from his abstraction, awakened to the terrific fact that here, beside his brother's grave, in the eyes of all men, a demonstration had broken out against him. Hands were pointed, even fists were shaken. He could not immediately understand; he looked helplessly into certain angry faces, and then shrank back from the grave to where his relations stood. "What's the meaning of this?" he asked Ned; but the young man turned and pretended not to hear him. Then the truth came hurtling like a missile. Voices shouted at him the words 'murderer' and 'brother-killer.' The fire that lights a mob into one blaze was afoot, and leaping from heart to head. Many for a jest bellowed these insults at him, and thought it good for once to bate so unpopular a creature. A few in honest and righteous rage cried out their wrath. Of such were those who stoned the martyrs to serve their jealous gods. More stones than one now actually did fly, and Humphrey was struck upon the arm. A counter display of feeling ran like a wave against the enemies of the man, and induced a shock in the crowd. Masterman and others laboured to still the gathering storm; women's voices clacked against the gruffer noise of the men. Voysey, with admirable presence of mind, drew some boards over the dead in his grave, that no quick spirit might suddenly fall upon him. The disturbance ended as swiftly as it had begun, for Humphrey Baskerville made a bolt, dashed through the crowd, descended the churchyard steps, and reached the street. A dozen hastened to follow, but Jack Head, Lintern, Waite, Mr. Masterman, and Ben North, the policeman, resisted the rioters, and kept them within the churchyard walls as far as possible. Jack hit so hard that soon he was involved in a battle against odds on his own account. Meantime, with a clod or two whizzing past his head, Humphrey reached the street corner and hastened round it. Here was silence and peace. He stopped, and his brain grew dizzy. Such exertion he had not made for many years. He heard the noise of men and hastened on. A chaos of ideas choked his mind and dammed all play of coherent thought. He had heard a rumour that the thing he had done for his brother was regarded differently by different men, but he knew not that so many were incensed and enraged. The shock of the discovery disarmed him now and left him frantic. He looked forward, and believed that his last hope of reconciliation with humanity was dead. He envied the eternal peace of his brother as he struggled on against the hill homeward. Into the black and water-logged heart of Shaugh Moor he climbed presently, and from exhaustion and faintness fell there. He stopped upon the ground for a few moments; then lifted himself to his hands and knees; then sat down upon a stone and stared down into the theatre of this tragedy. Overhead a sky as wild as his soul made huge and threatening preparations for the delayed tempest. Through the tangled skirts of the darkness westerly there strove and spread great passages of dazzling silver all tattered and torn and shredded out of the black and weltering clouds. For a moment in the midst of this radiance there opened a farewell weather-gleam, where the azure firmament was seen only to vanish instantly. Then the gloom gathered, and huddled up in ridges of purple and of lead. Aloft, from the skirt of the main cumulus, where it swept under the zenith, there hung, light as a veil, yet darker than the sky behind them, long, writhing tentacles, that twisted down and curled in sinister suspension, that waved and twined, and felt hither and thither horribly, like some aerial hydra seeking prey. For a time these curtains of the rain swayed clear of earth; but their progress swept them against it, and they burst their vials upon the bosom of the Moor. The storm shrieked, exploded, emptied itself with howling rage out of the sudden darkness. Then the fury of these tenebrous moments passed; the hurricane sped onward, and the dim wet ray that followed struck down upon a heath whitened with ice for miles. A bitterness of cold and an ice-blink of unfamiliar radiance were thrown upwards from the crust of the hail; but soon it melted, and the waste, now running with a million rivulets, grew dark again. The spectacle must have been impressive to any peaceful mind, but Baskerville saw nothing hyperbolic in the rage of wind and water. The storm cited by Nature was not more tremendous than that tornado now sweeping through his own soul. END OF SECOND BOOK BOOK III CHAPTER I Humphrey Baskerville continued to stalk the stage of life like a lonely ghost, and still obscured from all men and women the secrets of his nature, and the fierce interest of his heart in matters human. The things that he most wished to display he deliberately concealed, as a shy child who makes a toy, and longs to show it, but dares not, yet grows warm to the roots of his being if the treasure is found and applauded. Behind doubts, suspicions and jealousies he hid himself; his tongue was rough; his utterances at the outrage put upon him before the people by his brother's grave were bitter and even coarse. Nor did it abate his concern to know that the hostile explosion was as much simulated as genuine, as much mischievous as meant. It drove him in upon himself; it poisoned his opinion of human wisdom; and for a time he moved through darkest night. Yet this transcendent gloom preceded a dawn; the crisis of his unquiet days approached; and, from the death of Nathan onward, life changed gradually for the man, and opened into a way that until now had been concealed from his scrutiny. There chanced an hour when Humphrey Baskerville rode upon his pony under the high ground above Cornwood. He came by appointment to meet his dead brother's lawyer, and accident had postponed the interview for some weeks. The solicitor desired to see him. There were strange rumours in the air, and it was declared that a very surprising and unexpected condition of things had appeared upon the publican's passing. Humphrey refused to hear even his own relations upon the matter, for he held Nathan's estate no concern of his; but at the urgent entreaties of Mr. Popham, the master of Hawk House now rode to see him. He had, however, already made it clear that he was to be considered in no way responsible for his brother's obligations, and felt unprepared to offer advice or engage himself in any particular. He passed across the shoulder of Pen Beacon, through a wild world of dun-coloured hills, streaked with flitting radiance, and clouded in billowy moisture driven before a great wind. The sky was lowering, and a gale from the Atlantic swept with tremendous power along; but the nature of the scene it struck was such that little evidence of the force displayed could appear to the beholder. Stone and steep and sodden waste stared blindly at the pressure and flinched not. It remained for wandering beast or man to bend before it and reveal its might. On the pelt of the sheep and cattle, or against the figure of a wanderer, its buffet was manifest; and, in the sky, the fierce breath of it herded the clouds into flocks, that sped and spread and gathered again too swiftly for the telling. They broke in billows of sudden light; they massed into darkness and hid the earth beneath them; then again they parted, and, like a ragged flag above a broken army, the clean blue unfurled. Over this majestic desolation suddenly there shot forth a great company of rooks, and the wind drove them before it--whirling and wheeling and tumbling in giddy dives, only to mount again. A joyous spirit clearly dominated the feathered people. They circled and cried aloud in merry exultation of the air. They swooped and soared, rushed this way and that on slanting pinions, played together and revelled in the immense force that drove them like projectiles in a wild throng before it. Even to these aerial things such speed was strange. They seemed to comment in their language upon this new experience. Then the instinct unfathomed that makes vast companies of living creatures wheel and warp together in mysterious and perfect unison, inspired them. They turned simultaneously, ascended and set their course against the wind. But they could make no headway now, and, in a cloud, they were blown together, discomforted, beaten to leeward. Whereupon they descended swiftly to the level of the ground, and, flying low, plodded together back whence they had come. At a yard or two above earth's surface they steadily flapped along, cheated the wind, and for a few moments flashed a reflected light over the Moor with their innumerable shining black bodies and pinions outspread. At a hedge they rose only to dip again, and here Humphrey, who drew up to watch them, marked how they worked in the teeth of the gale, and was near enough to see their great grey bills, their anxious, glittering eyes, and their hurtling feathers blown awry as they breasted the hedge, fought over, and dipped again. "'Tis the same as life," he reflected. "Go aloft and strive for high opinions, and the wind of doubt blows you before it like a leaf. Up there you can travel with the storm, not against it. If you want to go t'other way, you've got to feel along close to earth seemingly--to earth and the manners of earth and the folk of the earth. And hard work at that; but better than driving along all alone." He derived some consolation from this inchoate thought, and suspected a moral; but the simile broke down. His mind returned to Mr. Popham presently, and, taking leave of the Moor, he descended and arrived at the lawyer's house upon the appointed hour. The things that he heard, though he was prepared for some such recital, astounded him by their far-reaching gravity. The fact was of a familiar character; but it came with the acidulated sting of novelty to those involved. An uproar, of which Humphrey in his isolation had heard but the dim echo, already rioted through Shaugh Prior, and far beyond it. "I'll give you a sketch of the situation," said the man of business. "And I will then submit my own theory of it--not that any theory can alter the exceedingly unpleasant facts. It belongs merely to the moral side of the situation, and may help a little to condone our poor friend's conduct. In a word, I do not believe he was responsible." "Begin at the other end," answered Humphrey. "Whether he was responsible or not won't help us now. And it won't prevent honest men spurning his grave, I fancy." Mr. Popham collected his papers and read a long and dismal statement. His client had always kept his affairs closely to himself, and such was the universal trust and confidence that none ever pressed him to do otherwise. He had been given a free hand in the administration of considerable sums; he had invested where he pleased, and for many years had enjoyed the best of good fortune, despite the hazardous character of the securities he affected. "No man was ever cursed with such an incurable gift of hope," explained the lawyer. "All along the line you'll find the same sanguine and unjustifiable methods exhibited. The rate per cent was all he cared about. His custom was to pay everybody four and a half, and keep the balance. But when companies came to grief nobody heard anything about it; he went on paying the interest, and, no doubt, went on hoping to make good the capital. This, however, he seldom appears to have done. There are about forty small people who deposited their savings with him, and there is nothing for any of them but valueless paper. He was bankrupt a dozen times over, and the thing he'd evidently pinned his last hope to--a big South American silver mine--is going the way of the others. Had it come off, the position might have been retrieved; but it is not coming off. He put five thousand pounds into it--not his own money--and hoped, I suppose, to make thirty thousand. It was his last flutter." "Where did he get the money?" "By mortgaging Cadworthy and by using a good deal of his late brother's capital. I mean the estate of Mr. Vivian Baskerville." "He's a fraudulent trustee, then?" "He is. He had already mortgaged all his own property. He was in a very tight place about the time of Mr. Vivian's death, and the money he had to handle then carried him on." "What did he do with his own money? How did he spend that?" "We shall never know, unless somebody comes forward and tells us. I trace the usual expenditures of a publican and other expenses. He always kept a good horse or two, and he rode to hounds until latterly, and subscribed to several hunts. He was foolishly generous at all times. I see that he gave away large sums anonymously--but unfortunately they were not his own. There is no doubt that his judgment failed completely of late years. He was so accustomed to success that he had no experience of failure, and when inevitable failures came, they found him quite unprepared with any reserves against them. To stem the tide he gambled, and when his speculations miscarried, he waded still more deeply. He was engaged in borrowing a large sum of money just before his final illness. Indeed, he came to me for it, for he kept me quite in the dark concerning existing mortgages on his property. But he forgot I should want the title-deeds. He was a devious man, but I shall always believe that he lacked moral understanding to know the terrible gravity of the things he did." "How do we stand now?" "The estate is from six thousand to seven thousand pounds to the bad." "What is there against that?" "The assets are practically nil. About forty pounds at the bank, and the furniture at 'The White Thorn' Inn. Of course, his largest creditor will be Mr. Ned Baskerville, of Cadworthy Farm. I want to say, by the way, that this state of things is quite as much of a surprise to me as to anybody. It is true that I have been his solicitor for twenty years, but my work was nominal. I had no knowledge whatever of his affairs. He never consulted me when in difficulties, or invited my opinion on any subject." "What about the Linterns?" "They have asked to stop at Undershaugh for the present. I fancy Mrs. Lintern was a close friend of your brother's. However, she is not communicative. The mortgagee in that case, of course, forecloses, and will, I think, be contented to let Mrs. Lintern stop where she is." "There was no will?" "I can find none." "Yet I know very well he made one ten years ago. At least, he came to me once rather full of it." "It is very likely that he destroyed it." There was a silence; then Humphrey Baskerville asked a question. "Well, what d'you want of me?" The other shrugged his shoulders. "I leave that to you. You know how much or how little you regard this disaster as a personal one." "It has nothing whatever to do with me. I never lent him a penny. He never asked me to do so." "You don't recognise any obligation?" "Absolutely not a shadow of any such thing." "The family of which you are now head----?" "A sentimental lawyer!" The other laughed. "Not much room for sentimentality--at least, plenty of room, no doubt. Of course, if you don't consider----" He broke off, but his listener did not speak. "It is to be understood I must not ask you to help me?" "Not in any practical way--not with money--certainly not. For the rest, if as a man of business I can be of any service----" "For the sake of the family." "The family is nothing to me--at least, the one hit hardest is nothing to me. He'll have to work for his living now. That's no hardship. It may be the best thing that's befallen him yet." "Very true, indeed. Well, let us leave the main question open. The case has no very unusual features. Occasionally the world trusts a man to his grave, and then finds out, too late, that it was mistaken. It is extraordinary what a lot of people will trust a good heart, Mr. Baskerville. Trust, like hope, springs eternal in the human breast." "Does it? I've never found much come my way. And I'm not strong in trust myself. I felt friendly to Nathan, because he was my own flesh and blood; but trust him--no." "He didn't confide in you?" "Never." Mr. Baskerville rose. "I shall see my relations no doubt pretty soon. I fancy they'll pay me some visits. Well, why not? I'm lonely, and rolling in money--so they think. And--there's a woman that I rather expect to call upon me. In fact, I've bidden her to do so. Perhaps, if she don't, I'll call on her. For the present we can leave it. If there's no money, nobody can hope to be paid. We'll talk more on that later. Who's got Cadworthy?" "Westcott of Cann Quarries. He lent the money on it." "What the devil does he want with it?" asked Mr. Baskerville. "That I can't tell you. Probably he doesn't want it. He's foreclosed, of course. It was only out of friendship and regard for Mr. Nathan that he lent so much money on the place. He tells me that your brother explained to him that it was for a year or so to help Ned; and out of respect for the family he gladly obliged." "Didn't know Westcott was so rich." "You never know who's got the money in these parts. But 'tis safe to bet that it isn't the man who spends most. There's Mr. Timothy Waite, too, he lent Nathan a thousand, six months ago. Some cock-and-bull story your poor brother told him, and of course, for such a man, he gladly obliged. Each that he raised money from thought he was the only one asked, of course." "He was a rogue, and the worst sort of rogue--a chapel-going, preaching, generous-handed, warm-hearted rogue. Such men are the thieves of virtue. 'Tis an infamous story." The lawyer stared, and Humphrey continued. "Such men are robbers, I tell you--robbers of more than money and widows' houses. They are always seeming honest, and never being so. They run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. They get the benefit of being rogues, and the credit of honest men. They are imitation good men, and at heart know not the meaning of real goodness. They have the name of being generous and kind--they are neither. Look what this man has left behind him--blessings turned to curses. All a sham, and a lifelong theft of men's admiration and esteem--a theft; for he won it by false pretences and lived a lie." "He is dead, however." "Yes, he is dead; and I suppose you are the sort who like to palter with facts and never speak ill of the dead. Why should we not tell the truth about those who are gone? Does it hurt them to say it? No; but it may do the living some good to say it. If living knaves see us condoning and forgiving dead ones, will they turn from their knavery any the quicker? We're a slack-twisted, sentimental generation. Justice is the last thing thought of. It's so easy to be merciful to people who have sinned against somebody else. But mercy's slow poison, if you ask me. It rots the very roots of justice." The other shrugged his shoulders. "The first of Christian virtues, Mr. Baskerville, we must remember that. But argument won't alter facts. You don't see your way to do anything definite, so there's an end of it. Of course, there is no shadow of obligation." "You're right. I'll visit you again presently. Meantime you might let me have a copy of the claims. I'm interested in knowing how many fools trusted my dead brother with their money. I should like to know what manner of man and woman put their savings into another man's pocket without security. It seems contrary to human nature." "There's no objection at all. They are all clamouring for their money. And if the South American silver mine had done all that was hoped, not only would they have had their cash, but your brother must have saved his own situation, cleared his responsibilities, and died solvent." "'If.' There's generally a rather big 'if' with a South American anything, I believe." They parted, and Humphrey Baskerville rode home again. Upon the way he deeply pondered all the things that he had heard, and not until he was back at Hawk House did distraction from these thoughts come. Then he found that a woman waited to see him. It was Priscilla Lintern, who had called at his invitation; and now he remembered that he had asked her, and half regretted the act. CHAPTER II Mrs. Lintern arrived by appointment, for while one instinct of his nature pressed Humphrey to evade this problem and take no hand in the solution, another and more instant impulse acted in opposition. He surveyed the sweep of events as they struck at those involved in Nathan's ruin and death; and acting upon reasons now to be divulged, he sent first for the mistress of Undershaugh; because in his judgment her right to consideration was paramount. Even in the act of summoning her, he told himself that these claims were no business of his to investigate; and that he was a fool to meddle. He repudiated responsibility at one breath, and deliberately assumed it with the next. His own motives he did not pause to examine. Introspection irritated him and he turned from his conflicting ideas with impatience. In himself he only saw a very ill-balanced, imprudent, and impertinent person; yet he proceeded. Now came Mrs. Lintern to know what he would have, and he saw her with an emotion of hearty regret that he had invited her. In answer to his first question she assured him that she and her children were well. "I'm afraid putting off the wedding has annoyed your nephew a good bit," she said; "but Cora felt that it was better; and so did I." "Why did you think so?" "Well, your brother held it so much to heart; and he was Ned's uncle. We could only have made a very quiet business of it in decency; and Cora felt 'twould be sad to marry under the cloud of death." "Half the sorrow in the world is wasted on what can't be helped. It's folly to mourn what's beyond altering--just as great folly as to mourn the past. Surely you know that?" "No doubt; but who can help it that's made on a human pattern?" "The world would be a cheerful place if none wept for what can't be altered. There was nothing in reason to stand between us and the wedding. 'Twas my brother's last wish, for that matter." She did not answer and a silence fell between them. He was determined that she should break it, and at length she did so. "Your brother was very fond of Cora. Of course, we at Undershaugh miss him a very great deal." "You would--naturally." "At present the idea is that they get married in spring; and that won't be none too soon, for everything's altered now. They'll have to sell half they bought, and get rid of their fine house and their horses, and much else. This business has entirely altered the future for them, poor things." "Utterly, of course. 'Twill have to be real love to stand this pinch. Better they wait a bit and see how they feel about it. They may change their minds. Both are pretty good at that." She sighed. "They understand each other, I believe. But Ned won't change, whatever Cora does. He's wrapped up heart and soul in her." "He'll have to seek work now." "Yes; he is doing so." "The one thing he's never looked for. Harder to find work than foxes." "He's not good for much." "You say that of your future son-in-law?" "Truth's truth. A harmless and useless man. I can't for the life of me think what he'll find to do." "Nathan would have given him a job--eh? How wonderful he was at finding work for people. And what does Cora think of it all?": "She's a very secret girl." "And Heathman?" "Heathman be going to make my home for me--somewhere. 'Tisn't decided where we go." "You leave Undershaugh, then?" "Yes." "Nathan wouldn't have wished that, I'm sure." "We were to have stopped, but the new owner wants to raise the rent to nearly as much again." "What used you to pay?" She hesitated. Like many people whose position has forced them into the telling of countless lies, she was still tender of truth in trifles. "No matter," he said. "I can guess the figure very easily, and nought's the shape of it." A sinister foreboding flashed through her mind. It seemed impossible to suppose such an innuendo innocent. Miss Gollop had said many offensive things concerning her after Nathan's death; but few had believed them, and still fewer shown the least interest in the subject. It was absurd to suppose that Humphrey Baskerville would trouble his head with such a rumour. "Your brother was generous to all," she answered. "Why, he was. And if charity shouldn't begin at home, where should it?" "He was very generous to all," she repeated. "I've been seeing Mr. Popham to-day." "He's a true kind man, and wishful to do what he can. The rent asked now for Undershaugh is too high, even in the good state we've made it. So I've got to leave." "'Twill be a wrench." "Yes, indeed." "But not such a bad one as his death?" "That's true." He probed her. "Never to see him come down your path with his bustling gait; never to hear the laughter of the man. You held his hand when he went out of life. He loved you--'twas the master passion of him." A flush of colour leapt and spread over her face. She gasped but said nothing. "A cruel thing that he left you as he did." "What was I?" she began, alert and ready to fight at once and crush this suspicion. "What are you saying? We were nothing----" He held up his hand. "A fool's trick--a lifelong fool's trick to hide it--a cruel, witless thing--a wrong against generations unborn--scandalous--infamous--beyond belief in a sane man." "I don't understand you. God's my----" "Hush--hush! I'm not an enemy. You needn't put out your claws; you needn't lie to me. You needn't break oaths to me. It's a secret still; but I know it--only me. You were his mistress, Priscilla Lintern--his mistress and the mother of his children." "He never told you that." "Not he." "Who did tell you?" "Cora told me." "She'd rather have----" "She told me--not in words; but every other way. I knew it the hour she came to see me, after she was engaged to marry my son. She strokes her chin like Nat stroked his beard. Have you marked that? She thinks just like Nat thought in a lot of ways, though she's not got his heart. She's not near so silly as he was. Her voice was the echo to his as soon as I got the clue. Her eyes were his again. She handles her knife and fork just like he was wont to do it; she sets her head o' one side to listen to anybody in the way he did. There's birds do it too--when they gather worms out of the grass. And from that I took to marking t'others. Your second girl be more like you; but Heathman will be nearer his father every day as he gets older. If he growed a beard, he'd be nearer him now. Wait and watch. And he's got his heart. Don't speak till you hear more. From finding out that much, I sounded Nathan himself. Little he guessed it, but what I didn't know, I soon learned from him. Cora was the apple of his eye. She could do no wrong. 'Twas Vivian and Ned over again. He spoke of you very guarded, but I knew what was behind. It came out when he was dying, and he was too far gone to hide it. And let me say this: I'll never forgive him for doing such a wicked thing--never. God may; but I won't. I wouldn't forgive myself if I forgave him. But you--you--dull man as I am, I can see a bit of what your life was." "A better life--a more precious life than mine no woman ever lived." He took a deep breath. Here she tacitly confessed to all that he had declared. She did not even confirm it in words, but granted it and proceeded with the argument. And yet his whole theory had been built upon presumption. If she had denied the truth, he possessed no shadow of power to prove it. "If ever I pitied anybody, I pity you; and I admire you in a sort of left-handed way. You're a very uncommon creature to have hid it in the face of such a village as Shaugh Prior." "What I am he made me. He was a man in ten thousand." "I hope he was. Leave him. Let me say this afore we get on. I don't judge you and, God knows it, I'm alive to this thing from your point of view. You loved him well enough even for that. But there's no will. He had nothing to leave; therefore--unless you've saved money during his lifetime----?" "I don't want you to have anything to do with my affairs, Mr. Baskerville." "As you please. But there are your children to be considered. Now it may very much surprise you to know that I have thought a lot about them. Should you say, speaking as an outsider, that I'm under any obligation to serve them?" The sudden and most unexpected question again startled the blood from Mrs. Lintern's heart. "What a terrible curious man you are! What a question to ask me!" she said. "Answer it, however--as if you wasn't interested in it." "No," she declared presently. "None can say that they are anything to do with you. You wasn't your brother's keeper. They be no kin of yours in law or justice." "In law--no. In justice they are of my blood. Not that that's anything. You're right. They are nought to me. And you are less than nought. But----" He stopped. "Why have you told me that you have found this out?" she asked. "What good can come of it? You'll admit at least 'tis a sacred secret, and you've no right whatever to breathe it to a living soul? You won't deny that?" "There again--there's such a lot of sides to it. You might argue for and against. Justice is terrible difficult. Suppose, for instance, that I held, like Jack Head holds and many such, that 'tis a very improper thing and a treachery to the unborn to let first cousins mate--suppose I held to that? Ought I to sit by and let Cora marry Ned? Now there's a nice question for an honest man. "You were going to let Cora marry your own son." "I don't know so much about that. They were engaged to each other before I found it out, and then, as she soon flung him over, there was no need for me to speak. Now, the question is, shall I let these two of the same blood breed and maybe bring feebler things than themselves into the world?" "This is all too deep for me. One thing I know, and that is you can say nought. You've come to the truth, by the terrible, wonderful brains in your head; but you've no right to make it known." "You're ashamed of it?" She looked at him almost with contempt. "You can ask that and know me, even so little as you do? God's my judge that I'd shout it out from the top of the church tower to-morrow; I'd be proud for the world to know; and so much the louder I'd sing it because he's gone down to his grave unloved and in darkness. It would make life worth living to me, even now, if I could open my mouth and fight for him against the world. Not a good word do I hear now--all curse him--all forget the other side of him--all forget how his heart went out to the sorrowful and sad.... But there--what's the use of talking? He don't want me to fight for him." "If you feel that, why don't you stand up before the people and tell 'em?" "There's my children." "Be they more to you than he was?" "No; but they are next." "I hate deceit. Who'll think the worse of them?" "Who won't?" "None that are worth considering." "You know very little about the world, for all that you are deep as the dark and can find out things hidden. What about my darters? No, it wouldn't be a fair thing to let it out." "I hold it very important." "It shan't be, I tell you. You can't do it; you never would." "You're right. I never would. But that's not to say I don't wish it to come out. For them, mind you, I speak. I leave you out now. I put you first and you say you'd like it known. So I go on to them, and I tell you that for their peace of mind and well-being in the future, 'tis better a thousand times they should start open and fair, without the need of this lie between them and the world." "I don't agree with that. When the truth was told them on his deathbed, 'twas settled it should never go no further." "Wait and think a moment before you decide. What has it been to you to hide the truth all your life?" "A necessity. I soon grew used to it. Nobody was hurt by it. And Nathan kept his money." "Don't fool yourself to think that none was hurt by it. Everybody was hurt by it. A prosperous lie be like a prosperous thistle: it never yet flourished without ripening seed and increasing its own poisonous stock a thousandfold. The world's full of that thistledown. Your children know the truth themselves; therefore I say it should come out. They've no right to stand between you and the thing you want to do. I'll wager Heathman don't care--it's only your daughters." "More than that. Nathan would never have wished it known." "No argument at all. He was soaked in crookedness and couldn't see straight for years afore he died." "I won't have it and I won't argue about it." "Well, your word's law. But you're wrong; and you'll live to know you're wrong. Now what are you going to do? We'll start as though I knew nought of this for the moment." "I stop at Undershaugh till spring. I've got no money to name. We shall settle between ourselves--me and Heathman." "I'll----" He stopped. "No," he said; "I can't promise anything, come to think of it; and I can't commit myself. 'Tis folly to say, 'let the position be as though I didn't know the truth.' It can't be. I do know it, and I'm influenced by it. I'll do nothing at all for any of you unless this comes out. I say that, not because I don't care for my brother's children, but because I do care for them." "I don't want you to do anything. I've got my son. I refuse absolutely to speak. Until my children are all of one mind about it, the thing must be hidden up--yes, hidden up for evermore. I won't argue the right or the wrong. 'Tis out of my hands, and so long as one of them says 'no,' I hold it my duty to keep silent. And, of course, 'tis yours also." "Who knows what my duty would be if Ned was going to marry Cora? I'd sacrifice the unborn to you; but not to your daughter and my nephew. There have been enough tongues to curse that worthless pair already. You don't want their own children to do the same in the time to come? But perhaps I know as much about Cora as you do about Ned. Wait and see if she changes her mind, since he has lost his fortune." Priscilla rose. "I will go now," she said. "Of course, you can't guess how this looks to a woman--especially to me of all women. To find that you knew--and no doubt you thought I'd come here and drop dead afore you of shame." "No, I didn't. If you'd been that sort, I shouldn't have plumped it out so straight. You are a brave creature, and must always have been so. Well, I won't deny you the name of wife in secret--if you like to claim it." She was moved and thanked him. Satisfaction rather than concern dominated her mind as she returned homeward. She felt glad that Nathan's brother knew, and no shadow of fear dimmed her satisfaction; for she was positive that, despite any declared doubts, he would never make the truth public. Her own attitude was even as she had described it. She would have joyed to declare her close companionship, if only to stop the tongues of those who hesitated not to vilify the dead before her. Eliza Gollop had told many stories concerning Mrs. Lintern's attendance in the sick room; but few were interested in them or smelt a scandal. They never identified Priscilla with the vanished innkeeper; they did not scruple to censure Nathan before her and heap obloquy on his fallen head. Often with heart and soul she longed to fight for him; often she had some ado to hide her impotent anger; but a lifetime of dissimulation had skilled her in the art of self-control. She listened and looked upon the angry man or woman; she even acquiesced in the abuse by silence. Seldom did she defend the dead man, excepting in secret against her daughters. CHAPTER III When Cora Lintern returned home she brought with her a resolution. Her intentions were calculated to cause pain, and she carried them so much the quicker to execution, that the thing might be done and the blow struck as swiftly as possible. She revealed her plan to none, and only made it public when he who was chiefly involved had learned it. Ned Baskerville called to see Cora, who had been stopping with friends; and when she had spoken upon general subjects, she made him come out with her to the wintry side of West Down, and there imparted her wintry news. "Have you found anything to do?" was Cora's first question, and he answered that he had not. "People don't understand me," he said. "Here is Rupert talking about labourer's work, as if it was a perfectly decent suggestion to make. My farm's gone, and he seems to think I might offer to stop there under somebody, like he has himself." "You want something better." "Why, of course. I might get a clerkship or some such thing, I should think. A man who has lived my life can't go and dig potatoes. But the difficulty is to get work like that away from towns. I can't be expected to live in a town, and I won't." "Mr. Tim Waite is a friend of the people I've been stopping with," she said. "He's rich and all that. I believe he might find----" "Thank you for nothing, Cora. I'm hardly likely to trouble him, am I?" "Not much use talking like that." "I'll take patronage, if I must, because beggars can't be choosers; but I'll not take it from my inferiors." "'Inferiors'! That's a funny word for you to use. How is Timothy Waite your inferior? I don't see it." "Don't you?" he answered, getting red. "Then you ought to see it. Damn it all, Cora, you're so cold-blooded where I'm concerned. And yet you're supposed to love me and want to marry me." "I'm not a fool, and if 'tis cold-blooded to have a bit of common-sense, then I'm cold-blooded. Though I'm a bit tired of hearing you fling the word in my face. Timothy Waite always was as good a man as you; and why not?" "I should call him a mean, money-grubbing sort of chap myself--close-fisted too. He's not a sportsman, anyway. You can't deny that." "Not much good being generous, if you've got nought to be generous with. And mean he is not. He lent money to your uncle, and never pushed the claim half as hard as many smaller men. I know him a long sight better than you do. And, if you've got any sense left, you'll go to him and ask him if he can help you to find a job. I'm only thinking of you--not myself. I can go into a hat shop any day; but you--you can't do anything. What are you good for? For that matter you don't seem to be able to get a chance to show what you are good for. All your swell hunting friends are worth just what I said they were worth. Now you're down on your luck, they look t'other way." He began to grow angry. "You're the fair-weather sort too, then? One here and there has hinted to me that you were--your brother always said it. But never, never would I stand it from any of them. And now I see that it is so." "No need to call names. The case is altered since Nathan Baskerville ruined you, and I'm not the sentimental kind to pretend different. As we're on this now, we'd better go through with it. You want to marry me and I wanted to marry you; but we can't live on air, I believe. I can't, anyway. It's a very simple question. You wish to marry me so soon as I please; but what do you mean to keep me on? I've got nothing--you know that; and you've got less than nothing, for there's the rent of the house we were to have lived in." "I've let the house and I am looking round. I'm open to any reasonable offer." "What nonsense you talk! Who are you that people should make you offers? What can you do? I ask you that again." "By God! And you're supposed to love me!" "When poverty comes in at the door--you know the rest. I'm not a heroine of a story-book. All very well for you; but what about me? You can't afford to marry, and I can't afford not to; so there it stands. There's only one thing in the world--only one thing--that you can be trusted to earn money at, and that's teaching people to ride horses. And that you won't do. I've thought it out, and you needn't swear and curse; because it's the truth." "Damn it all----" "No good raging. You're selfish, and you never think of me working my fingers to the bone and, very likely, not knowing where to look for a meal. You only want me--not my happiness and prosperity. That's not love. If you loved me, you would have come long since and released me from this engagement, and saved me the pain of all this talk. Nobody ever thinks of me and my future and my anxieties. I've only got my face and--and--you say 'damn' and I'll say it too. Damn--damn--damn--that's thrice for your once; and I hate you thrice as much as you hate me, and I've thrice the reason to. I hate you for being so selfish; and 'tis no good ever you saying you care about me again, because you never did--not really. You couldn't--else you wouldn't have put yourself first always." He started, quite reduced to silence by this assault. She struck him dumb, but his look infuriated her. "You won't make me draw back, so you needn't think it," she cried. "I'm not ashamed of a word I've said. 'Tis you ought to be ashamed. And I'm not sorry for you neither, for you've never once been sorry for me. After the crash, not one word of trouble for my loss and my disappointment did you utter--'twas only whining about your horses, and the house at Plympton, and all the rest of it. Vain cursing of the man in his grave; when you ought to have cursed yourself for letting him have the power to do what he did. I'd have stuck to you, money or no money, if you'd been a different man--I swear that. I'd have taken you and set to work--as I shall now, single-handed--but how can any decent girl with a proper conceit of herself sink herself to your level and become your drudge? Am I to work for us both? Are you going to live on the money I make out of women's bonnets?" "No!" he answered. "Don't think that. I'm dull, I know, and slow-witted. Such a fool was I that I never believed anything bad of a woman, or ever thought an unkind thought of anything in petticoats. But you use very straight English always, and you make your meaning perfectly clear. I know it won't be easy for me to get the work I want. I may be poor for a long time--perhaps always. I'll release you, Cora, if that's what you wish. No doubt I ought to have thought of it; but I'll swear I never did. I thought you loved me, and everything else was small by comparison. If anybody had said 'release her,' I'd have told him that he didn't know what love of woman meant--or a woman's love of man. But you can be free and welcome, and put the fault on my shoulders. They can bear it. Go to Timothy. He's always wanted you." "You needn't be coarse. I'm sick and tired of all you men. You don't know what love means--none of you. And since you say I'm to go, I'll go. And I'll find peace somewhere, somehow; but not with none of you." He laughed savagely. "You've ruined me--that's what you've done. Meat and drink to you, I'll wager! Ruined me worse than ever my uncle did. I could have stood up against that. I did. I'd pretty well got over the pinch of it. Though 'twas far more to me than anybody, I took it better than anybody, and my own mother will tell you so. But why? Because I thought I'd got you safe enough and nothing else mattered. I never thought this misfortune meant that you'd give me the slip. If any man had hinted such a thing, I'd have knocked his teeth down his throat. But I was wrong as usual." "You gave me credit for being a fool as usual." "Never that, Cora. I always knew very well you were clever, but I thought you were something more. You crafty things--all of you! And now--what? 'Twill be said I've jilted another girl--not that the only woman I ever honestly worshipped with all my heart have jilted me." "No need to use ugly, silly words about it. All that will be said by sensible people is that we've both seen reason and cut our coats according to our cloth. The people will only say you've got more wits than they thought. Let it be understood we were of the same mind, and so we both get a bit of credit for sense." "Never!" he burst out passionately. "You're a hard-hearted, cruel devil. You know where the fault is and who's to blame. You think of nought but your own blasted comfort and pleasure, and you never cared no more for me than you cared for my cousin before me. But I'll not hang myself--be sure of that!" She shrugged her shoulders. "You might do worse, all the same," she said. "For you're only cumbering the earth that I can see." Thereupon he swore wild oaths and rushed off and left her on the hillside alone. When he was gone she went her own way, but not to Undershaugh. By deep lanes and field-paths familiar to her she took a long walk, and at the end of it found herself at Coldstone Farm, the abode of Mr. Timothy Waite. He was from home, and she asked for pen and paper that she might leave a note for him. Her communication was short, and when she had written it and sealed it with exceeding care, she set off again for home. Anon Mr. Waite opened it and was much disappointed at the length. But Cora's matter atoned for this shortcoming. "Have settled with N.B. Yours, C." And elsewhere, while she retraced her way from Coldstone, the discarded lover came to a wild conclusion with himself. He steadied his steps, stood at the Moor edge in two minds, then turned and set off for Hawk House. This blow had staggered him, had even awakened him from the fatuous dream in which he passed his days. He had a vague idea that Humphrey might be glad to know of this broken engagement; that it might even put his uncle into a more amiable temper. Ned had been advised by Rupert to see Mr. Baskerville; but had declined to do so until the present time. At Hawk House Mrs. Hacker met him and made no effort to hide astonishment. "Wonders never cease, I'm sure! You, of all men! Master be on the Moor, riding somewheres, but if you want him, you can wait for him. He always comes in at dusk. How's your young woman?" The man was in no mood for talk with Susan and cut her short. "I'll wait, then," he said. "I'll wait in the garden." He walked up and down amid the nut trees for an hour. Then Humphrey returned. Tea was served for them in the kitchen; Susan went out and the way opened for Ned. "You might be surprised to see me," he began; "but though I know you don't like me--natural enough too--still, I'm your eldest nephew, and I felt at a time like this you'd not refuse to let me speak to you." "Speak, and welcome." "Of course, all our lives are turned upside down by this terrible business." "Not all. In these cases 'tis the drones, not the workers, that are hit hardest. If you've got wit enough to understand what you see under your eyes, you'll find that your brother Rupert, for instance, can go on with his life much as before; and scores of others---they've lost a bit of money--cheated out of it by my brother, the late Nathan Baskerville--but it don't wreck them. 'Tis only such as you--accustomed all your life to idle and grow fat on other men's earnings--'tis only such as you that are stranded by a thing like this. I suppose you want to get back into the hive--like t'other drones when the pinch of winter comes--and the world won't let you in?" This uncompromising speech shook Ned and, under the circumstances, he felt that it was more than he could bear. "If you knew what had happened to me to-day, you'd not speak so harsh, Uncle Humphrey," he answered. "I may tell you that I've been struck a very cruel blow in the quarter I least expected it. Cora Lintern's thrown me over." "Cat-hearted little bitch," he said. "And you bleat about a 'cruel blow'! Why, you young fool, escape from her is the best piece of fortune that ever fell to your lot--or is ever likely to. And you ask me to be sorry for you! Fool's luck is always the best luck. You've had better fortune far than ever you deserved if she's quitted you." "You can't look at it as I do; you can't see what my life must be without her." "Eat your meat and don't babble that stuff." Ned shook his head. "Don't want nothing, thank you." "Well, hear me," said Humphrey. "You sought me of your own free will, and so you may as well listen. You've come, because you think I can do you a turn--eh?" "I'm down on my luck, and I thought perhaps that you--anyway, if you can help, or if you can't, you might advise me. I've looked very hard and very far for a bit of work such as I could do; and I've not found it." "The work you can do won't be easily found. Begin at the beginning. You're Godless--always have been." "Let God alone and He'll let you alone--that's my experience," said Ned. "Is it? Well, your experience don't reach far. You've come to the place where God's waiting for you now--waiting, and none too pleased at what you bring afore Him. You're a fool, and though we mourn for a wise man after he's dead, we mourn for a fool all the days of his life. D'you know where that comes from? Of course you don't." "I can mend, I suppose? Anyway, I've got to be myself. Nobody can be different to their own character." "Granted--you can't rise above your own character; but you can easily sink below it. That's what you have done, and your father helped you from the first." "I won't hear you say nothing against him, Uncle Humphrey. Good or bad, he was all goodness to me." "You think so, but you're wrong. Well, I'll leave him. But 'tis vain to judge you too hard when I remember your up-bringing." "All the same, I will say this for myself: when you pull me to pieces, you'll find no wickedness in me worth mentioning. Whatever I may be, I've always behaved like a gentleman and a sportsman, and none will deny it," declared Ned. "The biggest fool can be witty when it comes to excusing his own vices to his conscience," replied the old man. "Fox yourself with that rubbish, if you can, not me. To behave like a gentleman is to be a gentleman, I should think, and I understand the word very different from you. You're a selfish, worthless thing--a man that's reached near to thirty without putting away his childish toys--a man that's grown to man's estate and stature without doing so much good in the world as my blind pony--nay, nor so much good as the worm that pulls the autumn leaves into the wet ground. And you pride yourself on being a gentleman! Better larn to be a man first and a gentleman afterwards." "I've never had no occasion to work till now. Nobody ever asked me to; nobody ever wanted me to. It was natural that I shouldn't. A man can't help his character, and I can't help mine. I hate work and always shall." "That's clear, then. And I can't help my character either. I hate idleness and always shall. Never have I given a loafer a helping hand, and never will I. A man ought to be like Providence and only help those who help themselves." "But I mean to work; I need to work; I must work." "Laziness is a cancer," said Mr. Baskerville. "'Tis just as much a cancer as the human ill we call by that name. And 'tis a modern thing. There's something rotten with the world where any man can live without earning the right to. When next you find yourself caddling about on the Moor wasting your time, take a look at the roundy-poundies--they circles of stones cast about on the hillsides and by the streams. My son Mark knew all about them. They were set up by men like ourselves who lived on the Moor very long ago. Life was real then. Nought but their own sweat stood between the old men and destruction. The first business of life was to keep life in them days. They hunted to live, not for pleasure. They hunted and were hunted. No time to be lazy then. Did they help beggars? Did they keep paupers? No; all had to toil for the common good; and if a man didn't labour, he didn't eat. They had their work cut out for 'em to wring a bare living out of the earth and the creatures on it. No softness of mind or body then. No holidays and pleasurings and revels then. And I'd have it so again to-morrow, if I could. Work and eat; idle and starve--that's what I'd say to my fellow-creatures." "I mean to work; I'm ready for work." "All very well to say that now. You may be ready for work; but what sort of work is ready for you? What can you do? Can you break stones? There's a Cornish proverb hits you this minute: 'Them as can't scheme must lowster.' Your father was very fond of using it--to every lazy body but you. It means that if you haven't the wits to make a living with your brains, you must do it with your hands. It all comes back to work." "I know it does. I keep on telling you I'm ready for it--any amount of it. But not breaking stones. I've got brains in my head, though I know you don't think so. I came to-day to know if you would give those brains a trial. I'm a free man now. Cora has flung me over, so there's no obligation anywhere. I'm free to stand up and show what I'm good for. I've sold my horses and given up hunting already. That's something." "Something you couldn't help. How much did you get for that big bright bay?" "Forty-five guineas." "And gave?" "Seventy. But, of course, I've not got enough capital all told to be much practical use in buying into anything. What I really want is five hundred pounds." "A common want." "And I thought perhaps that you--I thought of it as I came here to see you." "And still you try to make out you're not a fool?" "I can give interest and security." "Yes--like your Uncle Nathan, perhaps. In a word, I'll not do anything. Not a farthing of money and not a hand of help. But----" He stopped as the younger man rose. "I didn't ask for money; I only suggested a loan." "I'll loan no loans to you or any man. But this I will do, because you are the head of our family now, and I don't want anybody to say I helped to cast you lower when you were down. This I will do: I'll double the money you earn." "Double it!" exclaimed Ned. "That's my word; and now the boot's on the other leg, and I'm the fool for my pains, no doubt. But understand me. 'Tis what you _earn_, not what you get. When you come to me and say, 'I've found a job, and I'm paid so much a week for doing it by an independent man,' then I'll double what he gives you. But let there be no hookemsnivey dealings, for I'll very soon find them out if you try it. Let it be figures, let it be horses, let it be clay, let it be stones by the road--I'll double what you earn for five years. By that time, maybe, you'll know what work means, and thank Heaven, that's taught you what it means. Go and find work--that's what you've got to do; go and find what you're worth in the open market of men. And you needn't thank me for what I offer. 'Twill be little enough, I promise you--as you'll find when you come to hear the money value of your earning powers." "All the same I do thank you, and I thank you with all my heart," said Ned: "and perhaps you'll be a bit more astonished than you think for, Uncle Humphrey, when you find what I can do." Then his nephew went away in doubt whether to be elated or cast down. CHAPTER IV An elderly man called Abraham Elford became tenant of 'The White Thorn' after Baskerville's death. He lacked the charm of Nathan, and it was rumoured that the quality of his liquor by no means equalled that provided by the vanished master of the inn; but no choice offered of other drinking houses, and the new publican retained all former patronage. One subject at this season proved rich enough to shut out all lesser matters from conversation, for the wide waves of concern set rolling when Nathan died had as yet by no means subsided. Each day for many days brought news of some fresh disaster to humble folk; and then came another sort of intelligence that gratified the few and angered the many. Mr. Elford and certain of his customers, not directly interested, found the subject of Nathan's affairs exceedingly wearisome and often sought to turn talk into other channels; but not for long could they be said to succeed. Local politics and weather soon lost their power to hold the people; and those disasters spread by the late publican swiftly cropped up again to the exclusion of less pungent concerns. A party of men was assembled at 'The White Thorn' near Christmas time, and they wrangled on over this well-trodden ground until Joe Voysey, who had not suffered, turned to the grey-headed host behind the bar and asked a question. "Did this here fire fail afore you comed, Abraham?" he asked. "'Tis a well-known fact that 'The White Thorn' hearth haven't been cold for a hundred year--peat always smouldering, or else blazing, upon it." "Yes, and a thousand pities," answered the other. "At the time of Mr. Baskerville's death, of course, there was a terrible deal of running about and confusion. And the fire was forgot. I knowed the old saying and was very sorry to see it black out." "What do it matter?" asked Jack Head. He was in a quarrelsome mood and bad company on the occasion. "These silly sayings and fancies are better forgot. Who's the wiser for a thing like that? Probably, when all's said, 'tis a lie. I dare say the fire went out scores of times when Nathan was here, and somebody just lit it again and said nought about it." "That's wrong, Jack," declared Heathman Lintern, who was present. "Mr. Baskerville took a lot of care of the fire and felt very proud of it. A score of times I've heard him tell people about it, and that the fire had never been douted for more than a hundred years." "One thing I know, that if there was such a place as hell, he'd soon meet with a fire as would last longer still," answered Head. "A fire that never will be douted. And right well he'd deserve it." Thomas Gollop found himself in agreement with this ferocity. "You're right there, and there is such a place--have no fear of that, though 'tis your way to scorn it. For my part I say that there couldn't be no justice without it. He devoured widows' houses and stole the bread of the poor--what worse can any man do?" "A man can backbite the dead, and spit out his poison against them as never hurt him in word or deed," answered Heathman Lintern. "'Tis always your way to blackguard them that be out of earshot and the power to answer; and the further a man be away, the louder you yelp. Faults or no faults, the likes of you wasn't worthy to wipe his shoes." "You Linterns--well, I'll say nought," began Jack Head; but the subject was too attractive for him and he proceeded. "If he left your mother any money, it's against the law, and you can tell her so. It wasn't his to leave, and if she got money from him in secret, it's my money--not hers--mine, and many other people's before it's hers. And if she was honest she'd give it back." "You've lost your wits over this," answered Lintern, "and if you wasn't an old man, Jack, I'd hammer your face for mentioning my mother's name in such a way. She never had a penny by him, and the next man that says she did shall get a flea in his ear--old or young." "Let it be a lesson to all sorts and conditions not to trust a Dissenter," said Gollop. "I've known pretty well what they're good for from the first moment they began to lift their heads in the land. They never were to be trusted, and never will be. And as for Nathan Baskerville, he was a double serpent, and I shall tell the truth out against him when and where I please; and why for not?" "You don't know the meaning of truth," began Heathman; "no more don't that old cat, your sister." "Better leave my sister alone, or 'twill be the worse for you," answered the parish clerk. "I'll leave her alone when she leaves my mother alone, and not sooner. She a lying, foul-minded old baggage--not to be trusted in a respectable house--and if I was better to do, I'd have the law of her for the things she's said." "You talk of the law," answered Jack. "You might just so well talk of the prophets. One's as rotten as t'other nowadays. The law's gone that weak that a man's savings can be taken out of his pocket by the first thief that comes along with an honest face; and him powerless. Five-and-thirty pound--that's what he had of mine, and the law looks on and does nought." "Because there's nought for it to do," suggested Mr. Elford. "The law can't make bricks without straw----" "Just what it can do--when it's writing its own bills o' costs," answered Jack. "They'm damn clever at that; but let a rogue rob me of my savings and the law don't care a brass farthing. Why? Because I'm poor." "Is there to be nought declared in the pound?" inquired an old man beside the fire. "He had eight, ten of mine, and I was hopeful us might get back a little, if 'twas only shillings." "You'll see nothing of it, gaffer," declared Head. "There wasn't much more than enough to pay for the man's coffin. And the tears shed at his grave! I laugh when I think of all them gulls, and the parsons, with their long faces, thinking they was burying a good man and a burning light." "A burning light now, if he wasn't afore," said Gollop, returning to his favourite theme. "You're a mean cur at heart, Jack," burst out the dead man's son to Mr. Head. "With all your noise about justice and liberty and right and wrong, none on God's earth can show his teeth quicker and snarl worse if his own bone be took away. You knowed Nathan Baskerville--no one knowed him better than you. And well you know that with all his faults and foolish, generous way of playing with his money and other people's--well, you know there was a big spirit in the man. He meant terrible kindly always. He didn't feather his own nest. For a hundred that curse him now, there's thousands that have blessed him in past years. But 'tis the curses come home to roost and foul a man's grave; the blessings be forgot." The young man's eyes shone and his eloquence silenced the bar for a moment. Jack Head stared. "'Tis Mark Baskerville speaking," he said. "Even so he was used to talk! But I didn't know you was the soft sort too, Heathman. What was Nat to you, or you to Nat, that you can stand up for him and talk this nonsense in the face of facts? Where's my money? When you tell me that, I'll tell you----" "Who knows whether you'm forgot after all, Jack?" interrupted Joe Voysey. "Everybody ban't ruined. There's a few here and there--especially the awful poor people--as have had their money made good." "I know all about that," answered Head; "'tis that fool, the parson. Masterman have no more idea of justice than any other church minister, and he's just picked and chosen according to his own fancy, and made it up to this man and that man out of his own riches." "To no man has he made it up," corrected Gollop. "'Tis only in the case of certain needy females that he've come forward. A widow here and there have been paid back in full. I made so bold as to ask Lawyer Popham about it; but he's not a very civil man, and he fobbed me off with a lawyer's answer that meant nought." "'Tis well knowed to be Masterman, however," said Voysey. "Yes; well knowed to us; but not to the general public. Some think it's the lawyer himself; but that's a wild saying. Last thing he'd do. He'll be out of pocket as it is." At this juncture was presented the unusual spectacle of a woman in the bar of 'The White Thorn,' and Susan Hacker entered. She was known to several present and men liked her. She understood the sex, and could give as good as she got. She expected little in the way of civility or sense from them, and she was seldom disappointed. "Hullo!" cried Head. "Be you on the downward path then, Susan? 'Tis your old man driving you to drink without a doubt!" The abundant woman pushed Jack out of her way and came to the counter. "Don't you pay no heed to that there sauce-box," she said. "And him old enough and ugly enough to know better, you'd think. A drop of gin hot, please. I be finger-cold and I've got to speed home yet." "How's 'the Hawk'?" asked Mr. Voysey. "We all thought when poor old Nathan was took off that he'd come forward with his money bags--knowing the man, didn't we, souls?" This excellent jest awakened laughter till Susan stopped it. She took her drink to the fire, loosed a mangy little fur tippet from her great shoulders and warmed her feet alternately. "A funny old fool you are, Joe--just funny enough to make other fools laugh. And why should Humphrey Baskerville waste his money on a lot of silly people? Which of you would come forward and help him if he was hard up?" "I would," said Jack Head. "With my opinions I'd help any thrifty person let in by this dead man--if I could. But I was let in myself. And you're in the truth to call us fools, for so we were." "It's reason, every way, that your master might think of his brother's good name and right the wrong done by the man who was here afore me," declared Mr. Elford impartially. "Why?" asked Mrs. Hacker. "Why do you say 'tis reason? If 'tis reason for him, 'tis just as much reason for every other man who can afford to mend it." "That's what I say," argued Jack Head, but none agreed with him. "Ban't our business, but 'tis Humphrey Baskerville's," declared the publican. "The dead man was his own brother and his only one. For the credit of the family he ought to come forward, and not leave the parson and other outsiders to do it." "Because your brother does wrong, 'tis no business of yours to right the wrong," answered Mrs. Hacker. "Besides, 'tis well known that charity begins at home." "And stops there," suggested Gollop. "No doubt at Hawk House, you and him be as snug as beetles in the tree bark, while other people don't know where to turn for a roof to cover 'em." "They'd have poor speed if they was to turn to you, anyway," she said. "'Tis like your round-eyed, silly impudence to speak like that of a better man than ever you was or will be, or know how to be. He ban't bound to tell you where he spends his money, I believe; and if you was half as good a man--but there, what can you expect from a Gollop but a grunt? You'm a poor generation, you and your sister--God knows which is the worse." "Bravo, Susan! Have another drop along o' me," cried Heathman Lintern, and she agreed to do so. "What do you know and what don't you know?" asked Head presently. "Be your old party going to do anything or nothing?" "I don't know. But this I do know, that all your wild tales down here about his money be silly lies. We live hard enough, I can promise that, whatever you may think. If every man here spent his money so wise as Humphrey Baskerville, you wouldn't all be boozing in this bar now, but along with your lawful wives and families, helping the poor women to find a bit of pleasure in life. But I know you; you get a shipload of brats and leave their mothers to do all the horrid work of 'em, while you come in here every night like lords, and soak and twaddle and waste your money and put the world right, then go home not fit company for a dog----" "Steady on--no preaching here--rule of the bar," said Mr. Voysey. "You think we're all blanks because you drew a blank, Susan. Yes, a blank you drew, though you might have had me in the early forties." "You! I'd make a better man than you with a dozen pea-sticks," retorted Susan. "And I didn't draw a blank, I drawed Hacker, who'd be here now teaching you chaps to drink, if the Lord had spared him. You can't even drink now--so feeble have you growed. Hacker, with all his faults, was a fine man; and so's Humphrey Baskerville in his way." "Talk on; but talk to the purpose, Susan. What have he done? That's the question. You ain't going to tell me he's done nought," suggested Mr. Head. "I ain't going to tell you nothing at all, because I don't know nothing at all. He wouldn't ax me how to spend his money--nor you neither." "Tell us who he's helping--if anybody," persisted the man. "How is it none haven't handed me back my money? You can mention--if you've got the pluck to do it--that I want my bit back so well as t'others; and mine be quite as much to me as Ned Baskerville's thousands was to him." "Charity begins at home," repeated Susan, "and I'll lay you my hat, though the fog's took the feather out of curl, that if he does anything, 'twill be for his own first. He's that sort, I believe." "They people at Cadworthy?" "Yes. Not that I think he'll do aught; but if he does, 'twill be there. Mrs. Baskerville be taking very unkindly to the thought of leaving. She've lived here all her married life and brought all her childer there. But she've got to go. They're all off after Lady Day. Too much rent wanted by the new owner." "Same with us," said Heathman. "These here men, who have got the places on their hands now, 'pear to think a Dartmoor farm's a gold mine. Me and my mother clear out too." Mrs. Hacker drank again. "And after this glass, one of you chaps will have to see me up over," she said. "We'll all come, if you'll promise another drink at t'other end," declared Heathman; but Susan turned to Jack Head. "You'd best to come, Jack," she declared. He exhibited indifference, but she pressed him and he agreed. "If I've got a man to look after me, there's no hurry," she concluded. "I'm in for a wigging as 'tis." The easy soul stopped on until closing time, and then Mr. Head fulfilled his promise and walked homeward beside her through a foggy night. She rested repeatedly while climbing the hill to the Moor, and she talked without ceasing. Susan was exhilarated and loquacious as the result of too much to drink. Head, however, bore with her and acquired a most startling and unexpected piece of information. He mentioned the attitude of Heathman Lintern and his fiery championship of the dead. "I thought he'd have come across and hit me down, because I told the naked truth about the man. And he denied that his mother was the better by a penny when Nathan died. But how about it when he was alive?" "Truth's truth," answered Susan. "You might have knocked me down with a feather when--but there, what am I saying?" He smelt a secret and angled for it. "Of course, you're like one of the Baskerville family yourself, and I've no right to ask you things; only such a man as me with a credit for sense be different to the talking sort. Truth's truth, as you say, and the truth will out. But Eliza Gollop--of course she knows nothing. She couldn't keep a secret like you or me." Mrs. Hacker stood still again and breathed hard in the darkness. Her tongue itched to tell a tremendous thing known to her; but her muddled senses fought against this impropriety. "Two can often keep a secret that pretty well busts one," said Mr. Head with craft. He believed that Humphrey Baskerville was paying some of his brother's debts; and since this procedure might reach to him, he felt the keenest interest in it. Mrs. Lintern did not concern him. He had merely mentioned her. But Priscilla was the subject which filled Susan's mind to the exclusion of all lesser things, and she throbbed to impart her knowledge. No temptation to confide in another had forced itself upon her until the present; yet with wits loosened and honour fogged by drink, she now yearned to speak. At any other moment such a desire must have been silenced, by reason of the confession of personal wrongdoing that it entailed. Now, however, she did not remember that. She was only lusting to tell, and quite forgot how she had learned. Thus, while Head, to gain private ends, endeavoured to find whether Mr. Baskerville was paying his brother's debts, Susan supposed that his mind ran upon quite another matter: the relations between Priscilla Lintern and Humphrey's dead brother. Mrs. Hacker knew the truth. She had acquired it in the crudest manner, by listening at the door during an interview between Nathan's mistress and her master. This tremendous information had burnt her soul to misery ever since; but a thousand reasons for keeping the secret existed. Her own good name was involved as much as another's. She could not whisper a word for her credit's sake; and a cause that weighed far heavier with her was the credit of Eliza Gollop. Eliza had guessed darkly at what Susan now knew; but as a result of her subterranean hints, Eliza had suffered in the public esteem, for few believed her. To confirm Eliza and ratify her implications was quite the last thing that Mrs. Hacker would have desired to do; and yet such was the magic sleight of alcohol to masquerade in the shape of reason, justice, and right--such also its potency to conceal danger--that now this muddled woman fell. She was intelligent enough to make Jack promise on Bible oaths that he would keep her secret; and then she told him the last thing that he expected to hear. With acute interest he waited to know Humphrey's future intentions respecting his brother's creditors; instead he listened to widely different facts. "I'll tell you if you'll swear by the Book to keep it to yourself. I'll be the better for telling it. 'Tis too large a thing for one woman--there--all that gin--I know 'tis that have loosed my tongue even while I'm speaking. And yet, why not? You're honest. I'm sure I can't tell what I ought to do. You might say 'twas no business of mine, and I don't wish one of 'em any harm--not for the wide world do I." "I'll swear to keep quiet enough, my dear woman. And 'tis your sense, not your thimble of liquor, makes you want to talk to me. If not me, who? I'm the sort that knows how to keep a secret, like the grave knows how to keep its dead. I'm a friend to you and Mr. Baskerville both--his greatest friend, you might say." "In a word, 'tis natural that young Lintern--you swear, Jack--on your Bible you swear that you won't squeak?"[1] [1] _Squeak_--break silence. "I ain't got one; but I'll swear on yours. You can trust me." "'Twas natural as Lintern got vexed down there then, and you was lucky not to feel the weight of his fist. For why--for why? He's Nathan's son! Gospel truth. They'm all his: Cora, t'other girl, and Heathman. The mother of 'em told my master in so many words; and I heard her tell him. I was just going into the room, but stopped at the door for some reason, and, before I could get out of earshot, I'd catched it. There!" "Say you was eavesdropping and have done with it," said Mr. Head. He took this startling news very quietly, and advised Susan to do the like. "The less you think about it, the better. What's done be done. We don't know none of the rights of it, and I'm not the sort to blame anybody--woman or man--for their private actions. 'Tis only Nathan's public actions I jumped on him for, and if Heathman was twice his son, I'd not fear to speak if 'twas a matter of justice." "I didn't ought to have told you, but my mind's a sieve if there's a drop of gin in my stomach. I had to let it go to-night. If I hadn't told you what I knowed, so like as not I'd have told Mr. Baskerville hisself when I got back; and then 'twould have comed out that I'd listened at the door--for I did, God forgive me." Susan became lachrymose, but Jack renewed his promises and left her tolerably collected. The confession had eased her mind, calmed its excitement, and silenced her tongue also. Jack tried to learn more of the thing that interested him personally, but upon that subject she knew nothing. She believed the general report: that Mr. Masterman, by secret understanding with the lawyer, was relieving the poorest of Nathan's creditors; and she inclined to the opinion that her master had no hand in this philanthropy. They parted at the garden wicket of Susan's home, and Mr. Head left her there; but not before she had made him swear again with all solemnity to keep the secret. CHAPTER V As Humphrey Baskerville had pointed out to his nephew Ned, disaster usually hits the weak harder than the strong, and the lazy man suffers more at sudden reverses than his neighbour, who can earn a living, come what trouble may. Rupert and his wife were prepared to seek a new home, and Milly, at the bottom of her heart, suffered less from these tribulations than any of her husband's relations. The blow had robbed him of nothing, since he possessed nothing. To work to win Cadworthy was no longer possible, but he might do as well and save money as steadily elsewhere; and the change in their lives for Milly meant something worth having. In her heart was a secret wish that her coming child might be born in her own home. As for her husband he now waited his time, and did not immediately seek work, because Humphrey Baskerville directed delay. His reason was not given, nor would he commit himself to any promise; but he offered the advice, and Rupert took it. Mrs. Baskerville's grief at leaving her home proved excessive. She belonged to the easy sort of people who are glad to trust their affairs in any capable control, and she suffered now at this sudden catastrophe, even as Ned suffered. She had very little money, and was constrained to look to her sons for sustenance. It was proposed that she and May should find a cottage at Shaugh; but to display her poverty daily before eyes that had seen her prosperity was not good to her. She found it hard to decide, and finally hoped to continue life in a more distant hamlet. All was still in abeyance, and the spring had come. Until Ned's future theatre of toil was certain, his mother would not settle anything. She trusted that he might win a respectable post, but employment did not offer. Hester's youngest son Humphrey had been provided for by a friend, and he was now working with Saul Luscombe at Trowlesworthy. Then came a date within six weeks of the family's departure. The packing was advanced, and still nothing had been quite determined. Ned was anxious and troubled; Rupert waited for his uncle to speak. He knew of good work at Cornwood, and it was decided that his mother and May should also move to a cottage in that churchtown, unless Ned achieved any sort of work within the next few weeks. Then his plans might help to determine their own. At this juncture, unexpectedly on a March evening, came their kinsman from Hawk House, and Rupert met him at the outer gate. "Is your mother here?" asked the rider, and when he heard that the family was within--save Ned, who stayed at Tavistock on his quest--he dismounted and came among them. A litter and disorder marked the house. There were packing-cases in every room; but less than a moiety of Hester's goods would leave her home. She must dwell in a small cottage henceforth, and her furniture, with much of her china and other precious things, was presently destined to be sold. The period of her greatest grief had long passed; she had faced the future with resignation for many months, and returned to her usual placidity. She and her daughter could even plan their little possessions in a new cottage, and smile together again. They had fitted their minds to the changed condition; they had calculated the probable result of the sale, and Mrs. Baskerville, thrown by these large reverses from her former easy and tranquil optimism, had fallen upon the opposite extreme. She now looked for no amelioration of the future, foresaw no possibility of adequate work for Ned, and was as dumb as a wounded horse or cow, even at the tragical suggestion of her son's enlistment. This he had openly discussed, but finding that none exhibited any horror before the possibility, soon dropped it again. To these people came Mr. Baskerville--small, grey, saturnine. His eyes were causing him some trouble, and their rims were grown red. They thought in secret that he had never looked uglier, and he declared openly that he had seldom felt worse. "'Tis the season of the year that always troubles me," he said. "Gout, gravel, rheumatism, lumbagy--all at me together. Nature is a usurer, Hester, as you may live to find out yet, for all you keep so healthy. She bankrupts three parts of the men you meet, long afore they pay back the pinch of dust they have borrowed from her. The rate of interest on life runs too high, and that's a fact, even though you be as thrifty of your powers as you please, and a miser of your vital parts, as I have always been." "Your eyes are inflamed seemingly," said his sister-in-law. "Vivian's went the same once, but doctor soon cured 'em." They sat in the kitchen and he spoke to May. "If you'll hurry tea and brew me a strong cup, I'll thank you. I feel just as if 'twould do me a deal of good." She obeyed at once, and Humphrey, exhibiting a most unusual garrulity and egotism, continued to discuss himself. "For all my carcase be under the weather, my mind is pretty clear for me. Things be going well, I'm glad to say, and you might almost think I---- However, no matter for that. Perhaps it ban't the minute to expect you to take pleasure at any other's prosperity. There's nothing like health, after all. You'll find yourself more peaceful now, Hester, now you know the worst of it?" "Peaceful enough," she said. "I don't blame myself, and 'tis vain to blame the dead. Master trusted his brother Nathan, like you trust spring to bring the leaves. Therefore it was right and proper that I should do the same. 'Twas all put in his hands when Vivian died. Even if I would have, I wasn't allowed to do anything. But, of course, I trusted Nathan too. Who didn't?" "I didn't, never--Rupert will bear me out in that. I never trusted him, though I envied the whole-hearted respect and regard the world paid him. We envy in another what's denied to ourselves--even faults sometimes. Yet I'm pretty cheerful here and there--for me. Have you heard any more said about his death and my hand in it?" "A lot," answered Mrs. Baskerville. "And most understanding creatures have quite come round to seeing your side. Only a man here and there holds out that you were wrong." "I may tell you that the reverend Masterman couldn't find no argument against it. He came to see me not long since. He wouldn't be kept to the case in point, but argued against the principle at large. When I pinned him to Nathan at last, he said, though reluctantly, that he believed he would have done no less for his own brother. That's a pretty good one to me--eh?" "My Uncle Luscombe thinks you did the proper thing," declared Milly. Presently May called them to the table and handed Humphrey his tea. He thanked her. "No sugar," he said, "and you ought not to take none neither, May. Trouble haven't made you grow no narrower at the waist seemingly." The girl tried to smile, and her family stared. Jocosity in this man was an exhibition almost unparalleled. If he ever laughed it was bitterly against the order of things; yet now he jested genially. The result was somewhat painful, and none concealed an emotion of discomfort and restraint. The old man perceived their surprise and returned into himself a little. "You'll wonder how I come to talk so much about my own affairs, perhaps? 'Tisn't often that I do, I believe. Well, let's drop 'em and come to yours. Have you found work, Rupert?" "I can, when you give the word. There's Martin at Cornwood wants me, and mother can come there. We've seen two houses, either of which would suit her and May very well. One, near the church, she likes best. There's a cottage that will fit me and Milly not far off." "Why go and have an expensive move when you can live at Shaugh Prior?" "I've got my feelings," answered the widow rather warmly. "You can't expect me to go there." Mr. Baskerville asked another question. "So much for you all, then. And what of Ned?" "At Tavistock, wearing out his shoe-leather trying to find work." "If he's only wearing out shoe-leather, no harm's done." "He told us what you offered last year, and I'm sure 'twas over and above what many men would have done," declared Ned's mother. "I was safe to offer it," he answered. "'Tis only to say I'll double nought. He's not worth a box of matches a week to any man." "They very near took him on at the riding-school when he offered to go there." "But not quite." "And that gave him the idea to 'list in the horse soldiers. He knows all about it, along of being in the yeomanry." "To enlist? Well, soldiering's man's work by all accounts, though I hold 'tis devil's work myself--just the last mischief Satan finds for idle hands to do." "It would knock sense into Ned, all the same," argued Rupert. "The discipline of it would be good for him, and he might rise." "But he's not done it, you say?" "No," answered Mrs. Baskerville. "He's not done it. I've suffered so much, for my part, that when he broke the dreadful thing upon me, I hadn't a tear left to shed. And the calm way I took it rather disappointed him, poor fellow. He had a right to expect to see me and May, if not Rupert, terrible stricken at such a thought; but we've been through such a lot a'ready that we couldn't for the life of us take on about it. I'm sure we both cried rivers--cried ourselves dry, you might say--when Cora Lintern threw him over; but that was the last straw. Anything more happening leaves us dazed and stupid, like a sheep as watches another sheep being killed. We can't suffer no more." "Even when Ned went out rather vexed because we took it so calm, and said he'd end his life, we didn't do anything--did we, mother?" asked May. "No," answered Hester. "We was past doing or caring then--even for Ned. Besides, he's offered to make a hole in the water so terrible often, poor dear fellow. 'Twas a case where I felt the Lord would look after His own. Ned may do some useful thing in the world yet. He's been very brave over this business--brave as a lion. 'Tis nought to me. I'm old, and shan't be here much longer. But for him and May 'twas a terrible come-along-of-it." "Ned's a zany, and ever will be," declared Humphrey. "Rupert, here, is different, and never was afraid of work. Fortune didn't fall to him, and yet 'twas his good fortune to have to face bad fortune, if you understand that. Money, till you have learned the use of it, be a gun in a fool's hand; and success in any shape's the same. If it comes afore you know the value and power of it, 'tis a curse and a danger. It makes you look awry at life, and carry yourself too proud, and cometh to harm and bitterness. I know, none so well." They did not answer. Then May rose and began to collect the tea things. Humphrey looked round the dismantled room, and his eyes rested on the naked mantelshelf. "Where are all the joanies?"[1] he asked. "You used to have two big china figures up there." [1] _Joanies_--ornaments of glass or china. "Some are packed, and some will go into the sale. They two you mean are worth money, I'm told," explained Mrs. Baskerville. Then the visitor said a thing that much astonished her. "'Twill give you trouble now," he remarked, "but 'twill save trouble in the end. Let me see them put back again." Milly looked at May in wonder. To argue the matter was her first thought; but May acted. "They be only in the next room, with other things to be sold," she said. "You can see them again, uncle, if you mind to." Rupert spoke while she was from the room. "Why don't you buy 'em, uncle? They'd look fine at your place." "Put 'em back on the shelf," answered Mr. Baskerville. "And, what's more, you may, or may not, be glad to know they can stop there. 'Tis a matter of no account at all, and I won't have no talk about it, but you can feel yourself free to stay, Hester, if you'd rather not make a change at your time of life. You must settle it with Rupert and your darter. In a word, I've had a tell with the owner of the farm and he's agreeable." "I know he's agreeable," answered Humphrey's nephew, "but I'm not agreeable to his rent." "If you'd keep your mouth shut till you'd heard me, 'twould be better. I was going to say that Mr. Westcott of Cann Quarries, who foreclosed on the mortgage of this place when your uncle died--Mr. Westcott is agreeable to let me have Cadworthy; and, in a word, Cadworthy's mine." May came in at this moment with the old china figures. She entered a profound silence, and returned the puppets to their old places on the mantelpiece. It seemed that this act carried with it support and confirmation of the startling thing that Hester Baskerville had just heard. Humphrey spoke again. "Past candle-teening, and snow offering from the north. I must be gone. Fetch up my pony, Rupert, and then you can travel a bit of the way back along with me." His nephew was glad to be gone. A highly emotional spirit began to charge the air. Hester had spoken to May, and her daughter, grown white and round-eyed, was trying to speak. "You mean--you mean we can all stop, and Rupert can go on here?" she said at last. "If he thinks it good enough. He'd bought back a bit of the place a'ready, as he thought, from Ned. I can go into all that with him. And for you women--well, you're used to the rounds of Cadworthy, and I'm used to your being here. You've done nought but trust a weak man. I don't want all the blue[2] to be off the plum for you yet. But I waited till now, because you'll see, looking back, that you'll be none the worse for smarting a few months. I've smarted all my life, and I'm not very much the worse, I suppose. So now I'll be gone, and you can unpack when you please." [2] _Blue_--bloom. They could not instantly grasp this great reversal of fortune. "Be you sure?" asked his niece. "Oh, uncle, be you sure?" "Sure and sure, and double sure. A very good investment, with a man like your brother Rupert to work it for me. But let him see the rent's paid on the nail." He rose, and Mrs. Baskerville tried to rise also, but her legs refused to carry her. "Get my salts," she said to Milly; then she spoke to her brother-in-law. "I'm a bit dashed at such news," she began. "It have made my bones go to a jelly. 'Tis almost too much at my age. The old can't stand joy like the young; they'm better tuned to face trouble. But to stop here--to stop here--'tis like coming back after I'd thought I was gone. I can't believe 'tis true. My God, I'd said 'good-bye' to it all. The worst was over." "No, it wasn't," answered Humphrey. "You think 'twas; but I know better. The worst would have come the day the cart waited, and you got up and drove off. Now cheer yourself and drink a drop of spirits. And don't expect Rupert home till late. I'll take him back with me to supper." He offered his hand, and the woman kissed it. Whereupon he uttered a sound of irritation, looked wildly at her, and glared at his fingers as though there had been blood upon them instead of tears. Milly stopped with Mrs. Baskerville; May went to the door with her uncle and helped him into his coat. "I can't say nothing," she whispered. "It won't bear talking about--only--only---- If you knew how I loved mother----" "Be quiet," he answered. "Don't you play the fool too. I let you fret to get your fat down a bit--that was the main reason, I do believe; and now you'll only get stouter than ever, of course. Go back to her, and let's have no nonsense; and, mind, when I come over again, that my house is tidy. I never see such a jakes of a mess as you've got it in." He went out and met Rupert at the gate. "You'd best to come back with me," he said. "I've told them you'll sup at Hawk House. 'Twill give 'em time to calm down. It takes nought to fluster a woman." "'Nought'! You call this 'nought'!" Rupert helped Mr. Baskerville on to his pony and walked beside him. It was now nearly dark, and a few flakes of snow already fell. "Winter have waited for March," said Humphrey; "and I waited for March. You might ask why for I let 'em have all this trouble. 'Twas done for their good. They'll rate what they've got all the higher now that it had slipped from them; and so will you." Rupert said nothing. "Yes," repeated his uncle; "winter waited for the new year, and so did I. And now 'tis for you to say whether you'll stop at my farm or no." "Of course, I'll stop." "No silly promises, mind. This is business. You needn't be thanking me; and in justice we've got to think of that fool, your elder brother. But be it as it will, 'tis Hester's home for her time." "I'll stop so long as my mother lives." "And a bit after, I hope, if you don't want to quarrel with me. But I shall be dead myself, come to think of it. What shall I forget next? So much for that. We'll go into figures after supper." "I know you don't want no thanks nor nothing of that sort," said Rupert; "but you know me pretty well, and you know what I feel upon it. 'Tis a masterpiece of goodness in you to do such a thing." "Say no more. I've killed two birds with one stone, as my crafty manner is. That's all. 'Tis a very good farm, and I've got it cheap; and I've got you cheap--thanks to your mother. I benefit most--my usual way in business." They passed along, and the snow silenced the footfall of horse and man. Near Hawk House came the sudden elfin cry of a screech-owl from the darkness of the woods. "Hush!" said Humphrey, drawing up. "List to that. I'm glad we heard it. A keeper down along boasted to me a week ago that he'd shot every owl for a mile round; but there's a brave bird there yet, looking round for his supper." The owl cried again. "'Tis a sound I'm very much addicted to," explained Mr. Baskerville. "And likewise I'm glad to hear the noise of they kris-hawks sporting, and the bark of a fox. They be brave things that know no fear, and go cheerful through a world of enemies. I respect 'em." "You never kill a snake, 'tis said." "Not I--I never kill nought. A snake's to be pitied, not killed. He'll meddle with none as don't meddle with him. I've watched 'em scores an' scores o' times. They be only humble worms that go upon their bellies dirt low, but they gaze upward for ever with their wonnerful eyes. Belike Satan looked thus when they flinged him out of heaven." "You beat me," said Rupert. "You can always find excuses for varmints, never for men." His uncle grunted. "Most men are varmints," he answered. CHAPTER VI The effect of his financial tribulation on Jack Head was not good. Whatever might have been of Humphrey Baskerville's theories as to the value worldly misfortune and the tonic property of bad luck upon character, in this man's case the disappearance of his savings deranged his usual common-sense, and indicated that his rational outlook was not based upon sure foundations. From the trumpery standpoint of his personal welfare, it seemed, after all, that he appraised life; and upon his loss a native acerbity and intolerance increased. He grew morose, his quality of humour failed him, and his mind, deprived of this cathartic and salutary sense, grew stagnant. At his best Jack was never famed for a delicate choice of time or place when pushing his opinions. Propriety in this connection he took pleasure in disregarding. He flouted convention, and loved best to burst his bombshells where they were most certain to horrify and anger. Following the manner of foolish propagandists, he seldom selected the psychological moment for his onslaughts; nor did he perceive that half the battle in these cases may depend upon nice choice of opportunity. There came an evening, some time after he had learnt the secret of the Lintern family, when Head, returning to Shaugh Prior, fell in with Cora, who walked upon the same road. He had never liked her, and now remembered certain aggressive remarks recently cast at him by her brother. The man was going slower than the woman, and had not meant to take any notice of her, but the somewhat supercilious nod she gave him touched his spleen, and he quickened his pace and went along beside her. "Hold on," he said, "I'll have a tell with you. 'Tisn't often you hear sense, I believe." Cora, for once in a mood wholly seraphic over private affairs, showed patience. "I'm in a bit of a hurry, but I've always got time to hear sense," she said. Thus unexpectedly met, Mr. Head found himself with nothing to say. One familiar complaint at that time running against Cora for the moment he forgot. Therefore he fell back upon her brother. "You might tell Heathman I was a good bit crossed at the way he spoke to me two nights agone. I've as much right to my opinion as him, and if I say that the late Nathan Baskerville was no better than he should be, and not the straight, God-fearing man he made us think--well, I'm only saying what everybody knows." "That's true," she said. "Certainly a good many people know that." "Exactly so. Then why for does he jump down my throat as if I was backbiting the dead? Truth's truth, and it ban't a crime to tell the truth about a man after he's dead, any more than it be while he's alive." "More it is. Very often you don't know the truth till a man's dead. My brother's a bit soft. All the same, you must speak of people as you find them. And Heathman had no quarrel with Mr. Baskerville, though most sensible people had seemingly. He was a tricky man, and nobody can pretend he was honest or straight. He's left a deal of misery behind him." The relationship between Cora and Nathan Baskerville suddenly flashed into Jack's memory. Her remark told him another fact: he judged from it that she could not be aware of the truth. It seemed improbable that Cora could utter such a sentiment if she knew that she spoke of her father. Then he remembered how Heathman certainly knew the truth, and he assumed that Cora must also know it. She was, therefore, revealing her true thoughts, secure in the belief that, since her companion would be ignorant of the relationship between her and the dead, she need pretend to no conventional regard before him. At another time Jack Head might have approved her frankness, but to-day he designed to quarrel, and chose to be angered at this unfilial spirit. Upon that subject his mouth was sealed, but there returned to him the recollection of her last achievement. He reminded her of it and rated her bitterly. "Very well for you to talk of dishonest men and crooked dealings," he retorted. "You, that don't know the meaning of a straight deed--you that flung over one chap and made him hang himself, and now have flung over another. You may flounce and flirt and walk quick, but I'll walk quick too, and I tell you you're no better than a giglet wench--heartless, greedy, good for nought. You chuck Ned Baskerville after keeping him on the hooks for years. And why? Because he came down in the world with a run, and you knew that you'd have to work if you took him, and couldn't wear fine feathers and ape the beastly people who drive about in carriages." Her lips tightened and she flashed at him. "You stupid fool!" she said. "You, of all others, to blame me--you, who were never tired of bawling out what a worthless thing the man was. You ought to be the first to say he's properly punished, and the first to say I'm doing the right thing; and so you would, but just because you've lost a few dirty pounds, you go yelping and snarling at everybody. You're so mighty clever that perhaps you'll tell me why I should marry a pauper, who can't find work far or near, because he's never learnt how to work. Why must I keep in with a man like that, and get children for him, and kill myself for him, and go on the parish at the end? You're so fond of putting everybody right, perhaps you'll put me right." The other was not prepared for this vigorous counter-attack. "Very well for you to storm," he said; "but you only do it to hide your own cowardly nature. You pretended you was in love with him, and took his gifts, and made him think you meant to marry him, and stick up for him for better, for worse; but far from it. You was only in love with his cash, and hadn't got no use for the man. I'm not saying you would do well to marry him for the minute; but to chuck him when he's down----" "You're a one-sided idiot--like most other men," she answered. "'Tis so easy for you frosty creatures, with no more feeling than a frog, to talk about 'love' and 'waiting.' There, you make a sane woman wild! Waiting, waiting--and what becomes of me while I'm waiting? I'm a lovely woman, you old fool, don't you understand what that means? Waiting--waiting--and will time wait? Look at the crows'-feet coming. Look at the line betwixt my eyebrows and the lines from my nose, each side, to the corners of my mouth. Will they wait? No, curse 'em, they get deeper and deeper, and no rubbing will rub 'em out, and no waiting will make them lighter. So easy to bleat about 'faithfulness' and 'patience' if you're ugly as a gorilla and flat as a pancake. I'm lovely, and I'm a pauper, and I've got nought but loveliness to stand between me and a rotten life and a rotten death in the workhouse. So there it is. Don't preach no more of your cant to me, for I won't have it." She was furious; the good things in her mind had slipped for the moment away. While uttering this tirade she stood still, and Mr. Head did the like. He saw her argument perfectly well. He perceived that she had reason on her side, but her impatience and scorn angered him. Her main position he could not shake, but he turned upon a minor issue and made feeble retort. His answer failed dismally in every way. Of its smallness and weakness she took instant advantage; and, further, it reminded her of the satisfactory event that Mr. Head had for the moment banished from her mind. "Hard words won't make the case better for you," he began. "And to be well-looking outside is nought if you're damned ugly inside; and that's what you be; and that's what everybody very well knows by now." She sneered at him. "Parson's talk--and poor at that. If you want to snuffle that sort of trash you'd better ask Mr. Masterman to teach you how. You, of all folk--so wise and such a book-reader! What's the good of telling that to me? 'Tis the outside we see, and the outside we judge by; and, for the rest, you'll do well to mind your own business, and not presume to lecture your betters." "Very grand! Very high and mighty, to be sure. That's how you talked to Humphrey Baskerville, I suppose, and got a flea in your ear for your pains. And I'll give you another. 'Tis the inside that matters, and not the out, though your empty mind thinks different. And mark this: you'll go begging now till you're an old woman; and 'twon't be long before you'll have your age dashed in your face by every female you anger. Yes, you'll go begging now--none will have you--none will take you with your record behind you. An old maid you'll be, and an old maid you'll deserve to be. You just chew the end of that." "What a beast you are!" she retorted. "What a low-minded, cowardly creature to strike a woman so. But you spoke too soon as usual. The likes of you to dare to say that! You, that don't know so much about women as you do about rabbits!" "I know enough about men, anyhow, and I know no man will ever look at you again." "Liar! A man asked me to marry him months ago! But little did I think you'd be the first to know it when we decided that it should be known. He asked, and he was a man worth calling one, and I took him, so you may just swallow your own lies again and choke yourself with 'em. You're terrible fond of saying everybody's a fool--well, 'twill take you all your time to find a bigger one than yourself after to-day. And don't you never speak to me again, because I won't have it. Like your cheek--a common labouring man!--ever to have spoke to me at all. And if you do again, I'll tell Mr. Timothy Waite to put his whip round your shoulders, so now then!" "Him!" "Yes, 'him'; and now you can go further off, and keep further off in future." She hastened forward to carry her news to other ears, and Jack Head stood still until she was out of sight. He felt exceedingly angry, but his anger swiftly diminished, and he even found it possible to laugh at himself before he reached Shaugh Prior. He knew right well that he must look a fool, but the knowledge did not increase his liking for Cora Lintern. He reflected on what he had heard, and saw her making fun of him in many quarters. He even debated a revenge, but no way offered. Once he speculated as to what her betrothed would say if he knew the truth of Cora's paternity; but, to do him justice, not the faintest thought of revealing the secret tempted Jack. "Leave it, and she'll most likely wreck herself with him," he thought. "Waite's a sharp chap, and not easily hoodwinked. So like as not, when he's seen a bit of her mean soul he'll think twice while there's time." Mr. Head began to reflect again upon his own affairs, and, finding himself at the vicarage gate, went in and asked for Dennis Masterman. The rumour persisted, and even grew, that Dennis was paying back certain losses incurred at Nathan Baskerville's death among the poorest of the community. The fact had wounded Mr. Head's sense of justice, and he was determined to throw some light on Masterman's foggy philanthropy. The vicar happened to be in, and soon Mr. Head appeared before him. Their interview lasted exactly five minutes, and Jack was in the street again. He explained his theory at some length, and gave it as his opinion that to pick and choose the cases was not defensible. He then explained his own loss, and invited Mr. Masterman to say whether a more deserving and unfortunate man might be found within the quarters of the parish. The clergyman listened patiently and answered with brevity. "I hear some of the people are being helped, but personally the donor is not known to me. I have nothing to do with it. He, or she--probably a lady, for they do that sort of thing oftenest--is not responsible to anybody; but, as far as I have heard, a very good choice has been made among the worst sufferers. As to your case, Jack, it isn't such a very hard one. You are strong and hale still, and you've got nobody to think of but yourself. We know, at any rate, that Mr. Nathan Baskerville did a lot of good with other people's money. Isn't that what you Socialists are all wanting to do? But I dare say this misfortune has modified your views a little here and there. I've never yet met a man with fifty pounds in the bank who was what I call a Socialist. Good-evening to you, Jack." CHAPTER VII Alice Masterman, the vicar's sister, came in to speak with Dennis after Jack Head had gone. He was composing a sermon, but set it aside at once, for the tone of her voice declared that she could brook no denial. "It's Voysey," she said. "I'm sorry to trouble you about him again, but he's got bronchitis." "Well, send him some soup or something. Has that last dozen of parish port all gone yet?" "I was thinking of another side to it," she confessed. "Don't you think this might be an excellent opportunity to get rid of him?" "Isn't that rather hitting a man when he's down?" "Well, it's perfectly certain you'll never hit him when he's up again. If you only realised how the man robs us--indirectly, I mean. He doesn't actually steal, I suppose, but look at the seed and the thousand and one things he's always wanting in the garden, and nothing to show but weeds." "You must be fair, Alice. There are miles of large, fat cabbages out there." "Cabbages, yes; and when I almost go down on my knees for one, he says they're not ready and mustn't be touched. He caught the cook getting a sprig of parsley yesterday, and was most insolent. She says that if he opens his mouth to her again she'll give warning; and she means it. And even you know that cooks are a thousand times harder to get than gardeners." Dennis sighed and looked at his manuscript. "Funny you should say these things--I'm preaching about the fruits of the earth next Sunday." "The man's maddening--always ready with an excuse. The garden must be swarming with every blight and horror that was ever known, according to him. And somehow I always feel he's being impertinent all the time he's speaking to me, though there's nothing you can catch hold of. Now it's mice, and now it's birds, and now it's canker in the air, or some nonsense; and now it's the east wind, and now it's the west wind--I'm sick of it; and if you ask for an onion he reminds you, with quite an injured air, that he took three into the house last week. There's a wretched cauliflower we had ages ago, and he's always talking about it still, as if it had been a pineapple at least." "I know he's tiresome. I tell you what--wait till he's back, and then I'll give him a serious talking to." "Only two days ago I met him lumbering up with that ridiculous basket he always will carry--a huge thing, large enough to hold a sack of potatoes. And in the bottom were three ridiculous little lettuces from the frame, about as long as your thumb. I remonstrated, and, of course, he was ready. 'I know to a leaf what his reverence eats,' he said; 'and if that woman in the kitchen, miscalled a cook, don't serve 'em up proper, that's not my fault.' He didn't seem to think I ever ate anything out of the garden." "Old scoundrel! I'll talk to him severely. I've had a rod in pickle ever since last year." Dennis laughed suddenly, but his sister was in no laughing mood. "I really can't see the funny side," she declared. "Of course not. There is none. He's a fraud; but I remembered what Travers said last year--you recollect? The thrips and bug and all sorts of things got into the vines, and we asked Travers what was the matter, and he explained what a shameful muddle Voysey had made. Then, when Joe had gone chattering off, saying the grapes were worth five shillings a pound in open market, and that they'd only lost their bloom because we kept fingering them, Travers said he looked as if he was infested with thrips and mealy bug himself. I shall always laugh when I think of that--it was so jolly true." "I hate a man who never owns that he is wrong; and I do wish you'd get rid of him. It's only fair to me. I have but few pleasures, and the garden is one of them. He tramples and tears, and if you venture to ask him to tidy--well, you know what happens. The next morning the garden looks as though there had been a plague of locusts in it--everything has gone." "He ought to retire; but he's saved nothing worth mentioning, poor old fool!" "That's his affair." "It ought to be; but you know well enough that improvidence all round is my affair. We are faced with it everywhere. Head has just been in here. There's a rumour about the poor people that the innkeeper swindled. He took their savings, and there's nobody to pay them back now he's gone. But it seems that here and there those hit hardest--mostly women--have had their money again. Not your work, I hope, Alice? But I know what you do with your cash. Voysey was talking about it a little time ago, and I blamed him for not having saved some money himself by this time. He said, 'Better spend what you earn on yourself than give it to somebody else to save for you.' The misfortunes of the people seemed to have pleased him a good deal. 'We'm mostly in the same box now,' he said; 'but I had the rare sense to spend my brass myself. I've had the value of it in beer and tobacco, if no other way.'" "Detestable old man! And Gollop's no better. Anybody but you would have got rid of them both years and years ago." "They must retire soon--they simply must. They're the two eldest men in the parish." "And, of course, you'll pension them, or some such nonsense." "Indeed, I shall do no such thing. Perhaps this is the end of Voysey. He may see the sense of retiring now." "Not he. He'll be ill for six weeks, and lie very snug and comfortable drawing his money at home; then, when the weather gets to suit him, he'll crawl out again. And everything that goes wrong all through next year will be owing to his having been laid by." "I'll talk to him," repeated her brother. "I'll talk to him and Gollop together. Gollop has pretty well exhausted my patience, I assure you." Miss Masterman left him with little hope, and he resumed his sermon on the fruits of the earth. But next Sunday the unexpected happened, and Thomas Gollop, even in the clergyman's opinion, exceeded the bounds of decency by a scandalous omission. It happened thus. The sexton, going his rounds before morning service, was confronted with an unfamiliar object in the churchyard. A tombstone had sprung up above the dust of Nathan Baskerville. He rubbed his eyes with astonishment, because the time for a memorial was not yet, and Thomas must first have heard of it and made ready before its erection. Here, however, stood what appeared to be a square slate, similar in design to those about it; but investigation proved that an imitation stone had been set up, and upon the boards, painted to resemble slate, was inscribed a ribald obituary notice of the dead. It scoffed at his pretensions, stated the worst that could be said against him, and concluded with a scurrility in verse that consigned him to the devil. Now, by virtue of his office, apart from the fact of being a responsible man enlisted on the side of all that was seemly and decorous, Mr. Gollop should have removed this offence as quickly as possible before any eye could mark it. Thus he would have disappointed those of the baser sort who had placed it there by night, and arrested an outrage before any harm was done by it. But, instead, he studied the inscription with the liveliest interest, and found himself much in sympathy therewith. Here was the world's frank opinion on Nathan Baskerville. The innkeeper deserved such a censure, and Thomas saw no particular reason why he should interfere. He was alone, and none had observed him. Therefore he shuffled off and, rather than fetch his spade and barrow to dig up this calumny and remove it, left the board for others to discover. This they did before the bells began to ring, and when Dennis Masterman entered the churchyard, on his way to the vestry, he was arrested by the sight of a considerable crowd collected about the Baskerville graves. The people were trampling over the mounds, and standing up on the monuments to get a better view. On the outskirt of the gathering was Ben North in a state of great excitement; but single-handed the policeman found himself unable to cope with the crowd. A violent quarrel was proceeding at the centre of this human ring, and Masterman heard Gollop's voice and that of Heathman Lintern. Dennis ordered some yelling choir-boys down off a flat tomb, then pushed his way through his congregation. Parties had been divided as to the propriety of the new monument, and the scene rather resembled that in the past, when Nathan Baskerville was buried. As the vicar arrived, Heathman Lintern, who had lost his self-control, was just knocking Mr. Gollop backwards into the arms of his sister. The man and woman fell together, and, with cries and hisses, others turned on Heathman. Then a force rallied to the rescue. Sunday hats were hurled off and trampled into the grass; Sunday coats were torn; Sunday collars were fouled. Not until half a dozen men, still fighting, had been thrust out of the churchyard, was Dennis able to learn the truth. Then he examined the cause of the riot and listened to Lintern. The young man was bloody and breathless, but he gasped out his tale. A dozen people were already inspecting the new gravestone when Heathman passed the church on his way to chapel with his mother and sisters. He left them to see the cause of interest, and, discovering it, ordered Gollop instantly to remove it. This the sexton declined to do on the ground that it was Sunday. Thereupon, fetching tools, Heathman himself prepared to dig up the monument. But he was prevented. Many of the people approved of the joke and decreed that the board must stand. They arrested Heathman in his efforts to remove it. Then others took his side and endeavoured to drag down the monument. Having heard both Lintern and Gollop, the clergyman read the mock inscription. "D'you mean to say that you refuse to remove this outrageous thing?" he asked the sexton; but Thomas was in no mood for further reprimand. He had suffered a good deal in credit and temper. Now he mopped a bleeding nose and was insolent. "Yes, I do; and I won't break the Fourth Commandment for you or fifty parsons. Who the mischief be you to tell me to labour on the Lord's Day, I should like to know? You'll bid me covet my neighbour's ass and take my neighbour's wife next, perhaps? And, when all's said, this writing be true and a lesson to the parish. Let 'em have the truth for once, though it do turn their tender stomachs." "Get out of the churchyard, you old blackguard!" cried Heathman. "You're a disgrace to any persuasion, and you did ought to be hounded out of a decent village." "Leave Gollop to me, Lintern. Now lend a hand here, a few of you; get this infamous thing away and destroyed before anybody else sees it. And the rest go into church at once. Put on your surplices quick, you boys; and you, Jenkins, tell Miss Masterman to play another voluntary." Dennis issued his orders and then helped to dig up this outrage among the tombs. Thomas Gollop and his sister departed together. Ben North, Lintern, and another assisted Mr. Masterman. Then came Humphrey Baskerville upon his way to church, and, despite the entreaty of the young clergyman that he would not read the thing set up over Nathan's grave, insisted on doing so. "I hear in the street there's been a row about a tombstone to my brother. Who put it there? 'Tis too soon by half. I shall lift a stone to the man when the proper time comes," he said. "It isn't a stone, it's an unseemly insult--an outrage. Not the work of Shaugh men, I hope. I shall investigate the thing to the bottom," answered Dennis. "Let me see. Stay your hand, Lintern." The old man put on his glasses deliberately, and read the evil words. "Tear it down," he said. "That ban't all the truth about the man, and half the truth is none. Quick, away with it! There's my sister-in-law from Cadworthy coming into the gate." The burlesque tombstone was hurried away, and Masterman went into the vestry. Others entered church, and Heathman at last found himself alone. The bells stopped, the organ ceased to grunt, and the service proceeded; but young Lintern was only concerned with his own labours. He ransacked Mr. Gollop's tool-shed adjoining the vestry. It was locked, but he broke it open, and, finding a hatchet there, proceeded to make splinters of the offending inscription. He chopped and chopped until his usual equitable humour returned to him. Then, the work completed, he returned to his father's grave and repaired the broken mound. He was engaged upon this task to the murmur of the psalms, when Jack Head approached and bade him 'good-morning.' "A pretty up-store, I hear. And you in the midst of it--eh?" "I was, and I'd do the same for any chap that did such a beastly thing. If I thought you had any hand in it, Jack----" The other remembered that the son of the dead was speaking to him. "Not me," he answered. "I have a pretty big grudge against Nathan Baskerville that was, and I won't deny it; but this here--insults on his tomb--'tis no better than to kick the dead. Besides, what's the use? It won't right the wrong, or put my money back in my pocket. How did it go--the words, I mean?" "I've forgot 'em," answered Heathman. "Least said, soonest mended, and if it don't do one thing, and that is get Gollop the sack, I shall be a bit astonished." He laughed. "You should 'a' seen the old monkey just now! He was the first to mark this job, and he let it stand for all to see, and was glad they should see it--shame to him." "Wrote it himself so like as not." "Hadn't the wit to. But he left it, and he was well pleased at it. And then, when I ordered him as sexton to take it down, he wouldn't, and so I lost my head and gave him a tap on the ribs, and over he went into his sister's arms, as was standing screeching like a poll-parrot just behind him. Both dropped; then Tom Sparkes hit me in the mouth; and so we went on very lively till Mr. Masterman came." "Wouldn't have missed it for money," said Jack. "But just my luck to be t'other side the village at such a moment." He sat down on a sepulchre and filled his pipe. He knew well why Heathman had thrown himself so fiercely into this quarrel, and he admired him for it. The sight of the young man reminded him of his sister. "So your Cora is trying a third, she tells me?" "Yes; 'tis Tim Waite this time," answered Cora's brother. "I shouldn't envy him much--or any man who had to live his life along with her." "You're right there: no heart--that's what was left out when she was a-making. She told me the news a bit ago, just when I was giving her a rap over the knuckles on account of that other fool, Ned Baskerville. And she got the best of the argument--I'll allow that. In fact, you might say she scored off me proper, for I told her that no decent chap would ever look at her again, and what does she answer? Why, that Tim Waite's took her." "Yes, 'tis so. He and me was talking a bit ago. He'll rule her." "But I got it back on Cora," continued Mr. Head. "I'm not the sort to be beat in argument and forget it. Not I! I'll wait, if need be, for a month of Sundays afore I make my answer; but I always laugh last, and none don't ever get the whip-hand of me for long. And last week I caught up with her again, as we was travelling by the same road, and I gave her hell's delights, and told her the ugly truth about herself till she could have strangled me if she'd been strong enough." "I know you did. She came home in a pretty tantara--blue with temper; and she's going to tell Waite about it. But don't you sing small, Jack; don't you let Timothy bully you." "No man bullies me," said Head; "least and last of all a young man. Waite have too much sense, I should hope, to fall foul of me. But if it comes to that, I can give him better than he'll give me--a long sight better, too." "The Cadworthy people have been a bit off us since Cora dropped Ned," declared Heathman. "No wonder, neither, but my mother's cruel galled about it. 'Twasn't her fault, however. Still, that's how it lies." Mr. Head was examining this situation when the people began to come out of church. He rose, therefore, and went his way, while Heathman also departed. Many returned to the outraged grave, but all was restored to order, and nothing remained to see. CHAPTER VIII Jack Head presently carried his notorious grievances to Humphrey Baskerville, and waited upon him one evening in summer time. They had not met for many weeks, and Jack, though he found little leisure to mark the ways of other people at this season, could not fail to note a certain unwonted cheerfulness in the master of Hawk House. Humphrey's saturnine spirit was at rest for the moment. To-night he talked upon a personal topic, and found evident pleasure in a circumstance which, from the standpoint of his visitor, appeared exceedingly trivial. The usual relations of these men seemed changed, and Mr. Baskerville showed the more reasonable and contented mind, while Jack displayed an active distrust of everything and everybody. "I wanted a bit of a tell with you," he began, "and thought I might come over." "Come in and welcome," answered Humphrey. "I hope I see you pretty middling?" "Yes, well enough for that matter. And you?" "Never better. 'Tis wonnerful how the rheumatics be holding off--along of lemons. You might stare, but 'tis a flame-new remedy of doctor's. Lemon juice--pints of it." "Should have reckoned there was enough lemon in your nature without adding to it." "Enough and to spare. Yet you needn't rub that home to-day. I've heard a thing that's very much pleased me, I may tell you. Last news such a cranky and uncomfortable man as me might have expected." "Wish I could hear summat that would please me, I'm sure," said Jack. "But all that ever I hear of nowadays is other people's good luck. And there's nothing more damned uninteresting after a bit. Not that I grudge t'others----" "Of course you don't--not with your high opinions. You've said to me a score of times that there's no justice in the world, therefore 'tis no use your fretting about not getting any. We must take things as we find them." "And what's your luck, then? More money rolling in, I suppose?" "My luck--so to call it--mightn't look over large to another. 'Tis that my nephew Rupert and his wife want for me to be godfather to their babe. The child will be called after me, and I'm to stand godfather; and I'll confess to you, in secret, that I'm a good deal pleased about it." Jack sniffed and spat into the fire. He took a pipe out of his pocket, stuffed it, and lighted it before he answered. "I was going to say that little things please little minds, but I won't," he began. "If you can find pleasure in such a trifle--well, you'm fortunate. I should have reckoned with all the misery there is in the world around you, that there'd be more pain than pleasure in----" He broke off. "'Tis the thought," explained Mr. Baskerville. "It shows that they young people feel towards me a proper and respectful feeling. It shows that they'd trust me to be a godparent to this newborn child. I know very well that folk are often asked just for the sake of a silver spoon, or a christening mug; but my nephew Rupert and his wife Milly be very different to that. There's no truckling in them. They've thought this out, and reckoned I'm the right man--old as I am. And naturally I feel well satisfied about it." "Let that be, then. If you're pleased, their object be gained, for naturally they want to please you. Why not? You must die sooner or later, though nobody's better content than me to hear you'm doing so clever just at present. But go you must, and then there's your mighty fortune got to be left to something or somebody." "Mighty's not the word, Jack." "Ban't it? Then a little bird tells the people a lot of lies. And, talking of cash, I'm here over that matter myself." But Humphrey was not interested in cash for the moment. "They sent me a very well-written letter on the subject," he continued. "On the subject of the child. 'Twas more respectful to me and less familiar to put it in writing--so they thought. And I've written back a long letter, and you shall hear just how I wrote, if you please. There's things in my letter I'd rather like you to hear." Mr. Head showed impatience, and the other was swift to mark it. "Another time, if 'tis all the same to you," Jack replied. "Let me get off what's on my chest first. Then I'll be a better listener. I ha'n't got much use for second-hand wisdom for the moment." Mr. Baskerville had already picked up his letter; but now he flung the pages back upon his desk and his manner changed. "Speak," he said. "You learn me a lesson. Ban't often I'm wrapped up in my own affairs, I believe. I beg your pardon, Head." "No need to do that. Only, seen from my point, with all my misfortunes and troubles on my mind, this here twopenny-halfpenny business of naming a newborn babby looks very small. You can't picture it, no doubt--you with your riches and your money breeding like rabbits. But for a man such as me, to see the sweat of his brow swept away all at a stroke--nought else looks of much account." "Haven't you got over that yet?" "No, I haven't; and more wouldn't you, if somebody had hit you so hard." "Say your say then, if 'twill do you any sort of good." "What I want to know is this. Why for do Lawyer Popham help one man and not help t'other? Why do this person--I dare say you know who 'tis--do what he's doing and pick and choose according to his fancy? It isn't Masterman or I'd have gived him a bit of my mind about it. And if I could find out who it was, I would do so." "The grievance is that you don't get your bit back? Are you the only one?" "No, I'm not. There's a lot more going begging the same way. And if you know the man, you can tell him from me that he may think he'm doing a very fine thing, but in my opinion he isn't." Mr. Baskerville had relapsed into his old mood. "So much for your sense, then--you that pride yourself such a lot on being the only sane man among us. Have you ever looked into the figures?" "I've looked into my own figures, and they be all I care about." "Exactly so! But them that want to right this wrong have looked into all the figures; and so they know a great deal more about 'em than you do. You're not everybody. You're a hale, hearty creature getting good wages. More than one man that put away money with my brother is dead long ago, and there are women and children to be thought upon; and a bedridden widow, and two twin boys, both weak in the head; and a few other such items. Why for shouldn't there be picking and choosing? If you'd been going to lend a hand yourself and do a bit for charity, wouldn't you pick and choose? Ban't all life picking and choosing? Women and childer first is the rule in any shipwreck, I believe--afloat or ashore. And if you was such a born fool as to trust, because others trusted, and follow the rest, like a sheep follows his neighbour sheep, then I should reckon you deserve to whistle for your money. If this chap, who was fond of my brother and be set on clearing his name, will listen to me, you and the likes of you will have to wait a good few years yet for your bit--if you ever get it at all. You ought to know better--you as would shoulder in afore the weak! And now you can go. I don't want to see you no more, till you've got into a larger frame of mind." "What a cur-dog you be!" said Head, rising and scowling fiercely. "So much for Christian charity and doing to your neighbour as you would have him do to you--so much for all your cant about righteousness. You wait--that's all! Your turn will come to smart some day. And if I find out this precious fool, who's got money to squander, I'll talk a bit of sense to him too. He's no right to do things by halves, and one man's claim on that scamp, your brother, is just as lawful and proper as another man's; and because a person be poor or not poor don't make any difference in the matter of right and wrong." "That's where you're so blind as any other thick-headed beetle," snarled back Humphrey. "For my part I've looked into the figures myself, and I quite agree with Nathan's friend. None has a shadow of reason to question him or to ask for a penny from him. 'Tis his bounty, not your right." "Very easy to talk like that. Why don't you put your fingers in your own pocket and lend a hand yourself? Not you--a sneaking old curmudgeon! And then want people to think well of you. Why the devil should they? Close-fisted mully-grubs that you are! And hark to this, Miser Baskerville, don't you pretend your nephew wants you to stand gossip for his bleating baby to pleasure you. 'Tis because he's got his weather-eye lifting on your dross. Who's like to care for you for yourself? Not a dog. Your face be enough to turn milk sour and give the childer fits." "Get along with you," answered Humphrey. "You--of all men! I could never have believed this--never. And all for thirty-five pounds, fifteen and sevenpence! So much for your wisdom and reason. Be off and get down on your knees, if they'll bend, and ask God to forgive you." Head snorted and swore. Then he picked up his hat and departed in a towering rage. Mr. Baskerville's anger lasted a shorter time. He walked to the window, threw it open, listened to Head's explosive departure and then, when silence was restored, Humphrey himself went to his doorstep and looked out upon the fair June night. Mars and a moon nearly full sailed south together through unclouded skies, and beneath them lay, first, a low horizon, whose contour, smoothed by night's hand into dim darkness, showed neither point nor peak under the stars. Beneath all, valley-born, there shone silver radiance of mist--dense and luminous in the moonlight. Apparently quiescent, this vapour in truth drifted with ghostly proper motion before the night wind, and stole from the water-meadows upward toward the high places of the Moor. Against these shifting passages of fog, laid along the skirts of forest and above the murmuring ways of a hidden river, ascended silhouettes of trees, all black and still against the pearly light behind them. The vapour spread in wreaths and filaments of moisture intermingled. Seen afar it was still as standing water; but to one moving beside it, the mist appeared as on a trembling loom where moonlight wove in ebony and silver. The fabric broke, ravelled, fell asunder, and then built itself up once more. Again it dislimned and shivered into separate shades that seemed to live. From staple of streams, from the cold heart of a nightly river were the shadows born; and they writhed and worshipped--poor, heart-stricken spirits of the dew--love-mad for Selene on high. Only when red Mars descended and the moon went down, did these forlorn phantoms of vapour shrink and shudder and lie closer, for comfort, to the water mother that bore them. Hither, nigh midnight, in a frame of mind much out of tune with the nocturnal peace, passed Jack Head upon his homeward way. His loss had now become a sort of mental obsession, and he found it daily wax into a mightier outrage on humanity. He would have suffered in silence, but for the aggravation of these events whereby, from time to time, one or another of the wounded found his ill fortune healed. Examination might have showed an impartial mind that much method distinguished the process of this alleviation. Those responsible for it clearly possessed close knowledge of the circumstances; and they used it to minister in turn to the chief sufferers. The widows and fatherless were first indemnified; then others who least could sustain their losses. A sane system marked the procedure; but not in the eyes of Mr. Head. First, he disputed the right of any philanthropist to select and single out in such a matter, and next, when defeated in argument on that contention, he fell back upon his own disaster and endeavoured to show how his misfortune was among the hardest and most ill-deserved. That man after man should be compensated and himself ignored, roused Jack to a pitch of the liveliest indignation. He became a nuisance, and people fled from him and his inevitable topic of speech. And now he had heard Humphrey Baskerville upon the subject, and found him as indifferent as the rest of the world. The old man's argument still revolved in Jack's head and, too late, came answers to it. He moved along in the very extremity of rage, and Humphrey might have smarted to hear the things that his former friend thought against him. Then, as ill chance willed, another came through the night and spoke to Head. Timothy Waite went happily upon his homeward way and found himself in a mood as sweet as Jack's was the reverse. For Timothy was love-making, and his lady's ripe experience enabled her to give him many pleasant hours of this amusement. Neither was sentimental, but Cora, accustomed to the ways and fancies of the courting male, affected a certain amount of femininity, and Timothy appreciated this, and told himself that his future wife possessed a woman's charms combined with a man's practical sense. He was immensely elated at the thing he had done, and he felt gratified to find that Miss Lintern made a most favourable impression amid his friends and relations. Now, moved thereto by his own cheerful heart, he gave Jack Head 'good night' in a friendly tone of voice and added, "A beautiful evening, sure enough." The way was overshadowed by trees and neither man recognised the other until Waite spoke. Then Mr. Head, feeling himself within the atmosphere of a happy being, grunted a churlish answer and made himself known. Thereon Timothy's manner changed and he regretted his amenity. "Is that Head?" he asked in an altered tone. "You know my voice, I suppose." "Yes, I do. I want to speak to you. And I have meant to for some time past. But the chance didn't offer, as you don't go to church, or any respectable place; and I don't frequent publics." The other bristled instantly. "What the hell's the matter with you?" he shouted. "Nothing's the matter with me. But there's a lot the matter with you by all accounts, and since you can't keep a civil tongue in your head, it's time your betters took you in hand a bit." Jack stared speechless at this blunt attack. The moon whitened his face, his lean jaw dropped and his teeth glimmered. "Well, I'm damned! 'My betters'--eh?" "Yes; no need for any silly pretence with me. You know what I think of your blackguard opinions and all that rot about equality and the rest. I'm not here to preach to you; but I am here to tell you to behave yourself where ladies are concerned. Miss Lintern has told me what you said to her, and she complained sharply about it. You may think it was very clever; but I'd have you to know it was very impertinent, coming from you to her. Why, if I'd been by, I'd have horsewhipped you. And if it happens again, I will. You're a lot too familiar with people, and seem to think you've a right to talk to everybody and anybody in a free and easy way--from parson downwards. But let me tell you, you forget yourself. I'd not have said these things if you'd been rude to any less person than the young lady I'm going to marry. But that I won't stand, and I order you not to speak to Miss Lintern again. Learn manners--that's what you've got to do." Having uttered this admonition, Mr. Waite was proceeding but Jack stopped him. "I listened to you very patient," he said. "Now you've got to listen to me, and listen you shall. Why, God stiffen it, you bumbling fool! who d'you think you are, and who d'you think any man is? You be china to my cloam, I suppose? And who was your grandfather? Come now, speak up; who was he?" "I'm not going to argue--I've told you what I wish you to do. It doesn't matter who my grandfather was. You know who I am, and that's enough." "It is enough," said Jack; "it's enough to make a toad laugh; but I don't laugh--no laughing matter to me to be told by a vain, puffed-up booby, like you, that I'm not good enough to have speech with people. And that tousled bitch--there--and coming on what I've just heard! If it don't make me sick with human nature and all the breed!" "Be sick with yourself," answered Timothy. "I don't want to be too hard on an uneducated and self-sufficient man; but when it comes to insulting women, somebody must intervene." By way of answer the older man turned, walked swiftly to Waite and struck him on the breast. The blow was a hard one and served its purpose. Timothy hit back and Head closed. "You blackguard anarchist," shouted the farmer. "You will have it, will you? Then take it!" Jack found himself no match for a strong and angry man full twenty-five years his junior, and he reaped a very unpleasant harvest of blows, for the master of Coldstone carried an ash sapling and when he had thrown Mr. Head to the ground he put his foot on him and flogged him heartily without heeding where his strokes might fall. Head yelled and cursed and tried to reach the other's legs and bring him down. A column of dust rose into the moonlight and Timothy's breath panted steaming upon the air. Then, with a last cruel cut across the defeated labourer's shoulders, he released him and went his way. But Head was soon up again and, with a bleeding face, a torn hand and a dusty jacket, he followed his enemy. Rage is shrewd of inspiration. He remembered the one blow that he could deal this man; and he struck it, hoping that it might sink far deeper than the smarting surface-wounds that now made his own body ache. "Devil--coward--garotter!" he screamed out. "You that hit old men in the dark--listen to me!" Waite stopped. "If you want any more, you can have it," he answered. "But don't go telling lies around the country and saying I did anything you didn't well deserve. You struck me first, and if you are mad enough to strike your betters, then you'll find they will strike back." "I'll strike--yes, I'll strike--don't fear that. I'll strike--a harder blow than your evil hand knows how. I'll strike with truth--and that's a weapon goes deeper than your bully's stick. Hear me, and hear a bit about your young lady--'young lady'! A woman without a father--a child got--ax her mother where and how--and then go to blazing hell--you and your nameless female both. I know--I know--and I'll tell you if you want to know. She's Nathan Baskerville's bastard--that's what your 'young lady' is! There's gall for yours. There's stroke for stroke! And see which of us smarts longest now!" Jack took his bruises homeward and the other, dazed at such a storm, also went his way. He scoffed at such malice and put this evil thing behind him. He hastened forward, as one hastens from sudden incidence of a foul smell. But the wounded man had sped a poison more pestilential far than any born of physical cause. The germ thus despatched grew while Waite slept; and with morning light its dimensions were increased. Under the moon, he had laughed at this furious assault, and scorned it as the vile imagining of a beaten creature; but with daylight he laughed no longer. The barb was fast; other rumours set floating after the innkeeper's death now hurtled like lesser arrows into his bosom; and Mr. Waite felt that until a drastic operation was performed and these wounds cleansed, his peace of mind would not return. He debated between the propriety of speaking to Cora about her father, or to Mrs. Lintern on the subject of her husband; and he decided that the latter course would be more proper. CHAPTER IX Susan Hacker and her master sat together in the kitchen. He had lighted his pipe; she was clearing away the remains of a somewhat scanty meal, and she was grumbling loudly as she did so. "Leave it," he cried at length, "or I won't show you the christening mug for Milly's baby. It have come from Plymouth, and a rare, fine, glittering thing it is." "I won't leave it," she answered. "You can't see the end of this, but I can. People know you've got plenty of money, but they don't know the way you're fooling it about, and presently, when you go and get ill, and your bones begin to stick through your skin, 'tis I shall be blamed." "Not a bit of it. They all think I'm a miser, don't they? Let 'em go on thinking it. 'Tis the way of a miser's bones to stick out through his skin. Everybody knows that I live cheap from choice and always have. I hate the time given to eating and drinking." "You've always lived like a labouring man," she admitted. "But of late, here and there, people be more friendly towards you, because you let your folk bide at Cadworthy; and I'm sick and tired of hearing Hester Baskerville tell me you don't eat enough, and Rupert and Milly too. Then there's that Gollop woman and a few other females have said things against me about the way I run this house. And 'tis bad to suffer it, for the Lord knows I've got enough on my mind without their lies." "Get 'em off your mind, then," he answered. "You're a changed woman of late, and I'll tell you what's done it. I only found out myself a bit ago and said nought; but now I will speak. I've wondered these many weeks what had come over you, and three days since I discovered. And who was it, d'you think, told me?" Her guilty heart thumped at Susan's ribs. "Not Jack Head?" she asked. "Jack? No. What does he know about you? Jack's another changed creature. He was pretty good company once, but his losses have soured him. 'Twasn't Jack. 'Twas the reverend Masterman. You've signed the pledge, I hear." "He'd no business to tell," declared Susan. "Yes, I have signed it. I'm a wicked woman, and never another drop shall pass my lips." "'Tis that that's made you cranky, all the same," he declared. "You was accustomed to your tipple and you miss it. However, I'm the last to say you did wrong in signing. When your organs get used to going without, you'll find yourself better company again. And don't worry about the table I keep. I live low from choice, not need. It suits me to starve a bit. I'm the better and cheerfuller for it." But then she took up the analysis and explained to him whence his good health and spirits had sprung. "Ban't that at all. 'Tis what you be doing have got into your blood. I know--I know. You've hid it from all of 'em, but you haven't hid it from me. I don't clean up all the rubbish you make and sift your waste-paper basket for nought. I itch to let it out! But God forgive me, I've let out enough in my time." He turned on her angrily; then fearlessly she met his frown and he subsided. "You're a dangerous, prying woman," he said, "and you ought to be ashamed of yourself." "I'm all that," she admitted; "and shame isn't the word. I'm ashamed enough, and more than ashamed." "If you let out a breath of my little games, I'll pack you off into the street that very day, Susan." She sat down by the fire and took her knitting off the peat box where it was usually to be found. "You needn't fear me," she answered. "I've had my lesson. If ever I tell again what I should not, you may kick me into the gutter." He mused over the thoughts that she had awakened. "I know a mazing deal more about the weaknesses of my brother Nathan now than ever I did while the man was in life," he began. "He was always giving--always giving, whether he had it to give or whether he hadn't. I'm not defending him, but I know what it felt like a bit now. Giving be like drink: it grows on a man the same as liquor does. Nathan ought to have taken the pledge against giving. And yet 'tis just another example of how the Bible word never errs. On the face of it you'd think 'twas better fun to receive than to give. But that isn't so. Once break down the natural inclination, shared by the dog with his bone, to stick to what you've got--once make yourself hand over a bit to somebody else--and you'll find a wonderful interest arise out of it." "Some might. Some would break their hearts if they had to fork out like you've been doing of late." "They be the real misers. To them their stuff is more than food and life and the welfare of the nation. And even them, if we could tear their gold away from them, might thank us after they'd got over the operation, and found themselves better instead of worse without it." "All that's too deep for me," she answered. "The thing that's most difficult to me be this: How do you get any good out of helping these poor folk all underhand and unknown? Surely if a man or woman does good to others, he's a right to the only payment the poor can make him. And that's gratitude. Why won't you out with it and let them thank you?" "You're wrong," he said. "I've lived too many years in the world to want that. I'm a fool here and there, Susan; but I'm not the sort of fool that asks from men and women what's harder to give than any other thing. To put a fellow-creature under an obligation is to have a faith in human nature that I never have had, and never shall have. No, I don't want that payment; I'm getting better value for my money than that." "So long as you're satisfied----" Silence followed and each pursued a private line of thought. Humphrey puffed his pipe; Susan knitted, and her wooden needles tapped and rattled a regular tune. She was wondering whether the confession that she desired to make might be uttered at this auspicious moment. Her conscience tortured her; and it was the weight of a great misery on her mind, not the fact of giving up liquor, that had of late soured her temper. She had nearly strung herself to tell him of her sins when he, from the depths of his being, spoke again. But he was scarcely conscious of a listener. "To think that a man like me--so dark and distrustful--to think that even such a man--I, that thought my heart was cracked for ever when my son died--I, that said to myself 'no more, no more can any earthly thing fret you now.' And yet all the time, like a withered pippin--brown, dry as dust--there was that within that only wanted something--some heat to the pulp of me--to plump me out again. To think that the like of me must have some other thing to--to cherish and foster! To think my shrivelled heart-strings could ever stretch and seek for aught to twine around again! Who'd believe it of such a man as me? God A'mighty! I didn't believe it of myself!" "But I knowed it," said Susan. "You always went hunger-starved for people to think a bit kindly of you; you always fretted when decent folk didn't like you." "Not that--not that now. I wanted their good-will; but I've found something a lot higher than that. To see a poor soul happy is better far than to see 'em grateful. What does that matter? To mark their downward eye uplifted again; to note their fear for the future gone; to see hope creep back to 'em; to watch 'em walk cheerful and work cheerful; to know they laugh in their going once more; that they lie themselves down with a sigh of happiness and not of grief--ban't all that grander than their gratitude? Gratitude must fade sooner or late, for the largest-hearted can't feel it for ever, try as he may. Benefits forgot are dust and ashes to the giver--if he remembers. But none can take from me the good I've won from others' good; and none can make that memory dim." "'Tis a fairy story," murmured Mrs. Hacker. "No," he said, "'tis a little child's story--the thing they learn at a mother's knees; and because I was a growed-up man, I missed it. 'Tis a riddle a generous child could have guessed in a minute; but it took one stiff-necked fool from his adult days into old age afore he did." Susan's mind moved to her purpose, and she knew that never again might fall so timely a moment. She put down her knitting, flung a peat on the fire, and spoke. "You be full of wonderful tales to-night, but now I'll please ask you to listen to me," she began. "And mark this: you can't well be too hard upon me. I've got a pack of sins to confess, and if, when you've heard 'em, you won't do with me no more, then do without me, and send me through that door. I deserve it. There's nought that's bad I don't deserve." He started up. "What's this?" he said. "You haven't told anybody?" "No, no, no. Ban't nothing about your affairs. In a word, I overheard a secret. I listened. I did it out of woman's cursed curiosity. And, as if that weren't enough, I got drunk as a fly down to 'The White Thorn' a while back and let out the truth. And nought's too bad for me--nought in nature, I'm sure." Mr. Baskerville put down his pipe and turned to her. "Don't get excited. Begin at the beginning. What did you hear?" "I heard Mrs. Lintern tell you she was your brother's mistress. I heard her tell you her children was also his." "And you're scourged for knowing it. Let that be a lesson to you, woman." "That's only the beginning. I ban't scourged for that. I'm scourged because I've let it out again." "I'm shocked at you," he answered. "Yes, I'm very much shocked at you; but I'm not at all surprised. I knew as sure as I knew anything that 'twould out. The Lord chooses His own time and His own tool. But that don't make your sin smaller. You're a wicked woman." "I've signed the pledge, however, and not another drop----" "How many of 'em did you tell?" "But one. Of course, I chose the man with the longest tongue. Jack Head saw me up the hill after closing time and--there 'twas--I had to squeak. But I made him swear as solemn as he knowed how that he wouldn't." "He's not what he was. We had a proper row a month ago. I doubt if he'll ever speak to me again. And until he makes a humble apology for what he spoke, I won't hear him." "He swore he wouldn't tell." "Be that as it may, it will be known. It's started and it won't stop." They talked for two hours upon the problems involved in these facts. Then there came a knock at the door and Susan went to answer it. Mr. Baskerville heard a protracted mumble and finally, after some argument, Mrs. Hacker shut the door and returned into the kitchen with a man. It was Jack himself. He explained the reason for his unduly late visit. He was anxious and troubled. He spoke without his usual fluency. "I didn't come to see you," he said. "I waited till 'twas past your hour for going to bed. But knowing that Mrs. Hacker was always later, I thought to speak to her. However, nothing would do but I came in, and here I be." "I'll have nought to say to you, Head--not a single word--until you make a solemn apology for your infernal impudence last time you stood here afore me," said the master of Hawk House, surveying his visitor. "So Susan tells me, and so I will then," replied Jack. "So solemn as ever you like. You was right and I was wrong, and I did ought to have been kicked from here to Cosdon Beacon and back for what I said to you. We'm always punished for losing of our tempers. And I was damn soon punished for losing mine, as you shall hear. But first I confess that I was wrong and ax you, man to man, to forgive me." "Which I will do, and here's my hand on it," said the other. The old men shook hands and Susan wept. Her emotion was audible and Humphrey told her to go to bed. She refused. "I'm in this," she said. "'Tis all my wicked fault from beginning to end, and I'm going to hear it out. I shall weep my eyes blistered afore morning." "Don't begin now, then. If you're going to stop here, be silent," said Humphrey. She sniffed, wiped her face, and then fetched a black bottle, some drinking water, and two glasses. "Light your pipe and say what you feel called upon to say," concluded Humphrey to Mr. Head. "'Tis like this," answered the other. "Every man wants to boss somebody in this world. That's a failing of human nature, and if we ain't strong enough to lord it over a fellow-creature, we try to reign over a hoss or even a dog. Something we have to be master of. Well, long since I marked that, and then, thanks to my understanding and sense, I comed to see--or I may have read it--that 'twas greater far to lord it over yourself than any other created thing." "And harder far," said Humphrey. "Without doubt you'm right. And I set about it, and I had myself in hand something wonderful; and very proud I felt of it, as I had the right to feel." "Then the Lord, seeing you puffed up, sent a hard stroke to try whether you was as clever as you thought you was--and He found you were not," suggested Mr. Baskerville. "I don't care nothing about that nonsense," answered Jack; "and, knowing my opinions, there ain't no call to drag the Lord in. All I do know is that my hard-earned savings went, and--and--well, I got my monkey up about it, and I got out of hand. Yes, I got out of hand. The awful shock of losing my thirty-five pounds odd took me off my balance. For a bit I couldn't stand square against it, and I did some vain things, and just sank to be a common, everyday fool, like most other people." "'Tis a good thing you can see it, for 'twill end by righting your opinion of yourself." "My opinion of myself was a thought too high. I admit it," answered Jack. "For the moment I was adrift--but only for the moment. Now I've come back to my common-sense and my high ideas, I can assure you. But the mischief is that just while I was dancing with rage and out of hand altogether, I did some mistaken things. Enough I had on my mind to make me do 'em, too. But I won't excuse 'em. I'll say, out and out, that they were very wrong. You've agreed to overlook one of those things, and you say you'll forgive me for talking a lot of rubbish against you, for which I'm terrible sorry. So that's all right, and no lasting harm there. But t'other job's worse." Jack stopped for breath, and Susan sighed from the bottom of her immense bosom. Humphrey poured out some gin and water for his guest. Then he helped himself more sparingly. "Here's to you," said Jack. "To drink under this roof is to be forgiven. Now I'll go on with my tale, and tell you about the second piece of work." He related how he had left Hawk House in wrath, how he had met with Timothy Waite; how he had been reproved and how he had hit back both with his fists and his tongue. "He knocked me down and gave me the truth of music with his heavy stick. I hit him first, and I'm not saying anything about what he did, though there may be thirty years between us; but anyway he roused Cain in me and I told him, in a word, that the woman he was going to marry was the natural child of Nathan Baskerville. 'Twas a double offence against right-doing, because I'd promised Susan here not to let it out, and because to tell Waite, of all men, was a cowardly deed against the girl, seeing he meant to marry her. But I'd quarrelled with her already, and tell him I did; and now I tell you." He drank and stared into the fire. For some time Humphrey did not reply; but at last he expressed his opinion. "It all depends on the sort of chap that Waite may prove to be. He'll either believe you, or he won't. If he don't, no harm's done. If he do, then 'tis his character and opinions will decide him. For his own sake we'll trust he'll throw her off, for woe betide the man that marries her; but if he loves her better than her havage, he'll go his way and care nothing. If he looks at it different, and thinks the matter can't rest there, he'll go further. For my part I can't say I care much about it. All I know is that Priscilla Lintern has rare virtues, though she weren't virtuous, and she've lived on no bed of roses, for all the brave way in which she stands up for my late brother. She won't be sorry the murder's out. When she told me--or when I told her--I made it plain that in my opinion this ought to be known. She stood for the children, not herself, and said it never must be known for their sakes. Well, now we shall see who hears it next. As for you two, you've got your consciences, and it ban't for me to come between you and them." "Well, I've told my story, and admitted my failings like a man," said Jack, "and, having done so, I can do no more. My conscience is cleared, and I defy it to trouble me again; and I may add that I'll take mighty good care not to give it the chance. So there you are. And come what may, I can stand to that." "How if they deny it and have you up for libel?" asked Mr. Baskerville; but Jack flouted the idea. "Not them," he said. "Have no fear on that score. I've got this woman for witness, and I've got you. For that matter, even if 'twas known, nobody wouldn't die of astonishment. Since the things Eliza Gollop said after Nathan died, 'twould come as a very gentle surprise, I believe. And, when all's said, who's the worse, except what be called public morals?" Mr. Baskerville nodded. "There's some sense in what you say, Jack. And I'm glad we're friends again. And now I'm going to bed, so I'll ax you to be gone." Head rose, finished his refreshment, and shook Mr. Baskerville's hand. "And I'm the better for knowing as you've been large-minded enough to forgive me," he said. "And as you can, I suppose Susan here can. I know I'm very much in her black books, and I deserve that too, and I'd make it up to her in any way I can--except to marry her. That I never will do for any woman as long as I live." "No, and never will get the chance to," replied Susan; "and I only trust to God 'twill all die out, and we hear no more of it." Head turned at the door and spoke a final word. "It may interest you to know that everybody have had their money now--everybody but me and Thomas Coode, the drunken farmer at Meavy. 'Tis strange I should be put in the same class with Coode; but so it is. However, I've larned my lesson. I shall say no more about that. Think of it I must, being but mortal, but speak I won't." "You'll do well to forget it," answered Mr. Baskerville. "The man, or woman if 'twas one, be probably settled in their mind not to pay you or Coode back--since you're so little deserving." Jack shrugged his shoulders, but kept his recent promise and went out silently. CHAPTER X A jay, with flash of azure and rose, fluttered screaming along from point to point of a coppice hard by Hawk House, and Cora Lintern saw it. She frowned, for this bird was associated in her mind with a recent and an unpleasant incident. Her brother Heathman, whose disparate nature striking against her own produced many explosions, had recently told her that the jay was her bird--showy, tuneless, hard-hearted. She remembered the occasion of this attack, but for the moment had no energy at leisure with which to hate him; for difficulties were rampant in her own path, and chance began to treat her much as she had treated other people in the past. In a word, her lover grew colder. As yet she had no knowledge of the reason, but the fact could not be denied, and her uneasiness increased. He saw somewhat less of her, and he made no effort to determine the time of the wedding. Neither did he invite her to do so. He had come twice to see Mrs. Lintern when Cora was not by, and an account of these visits was reported by her mother. "I don't exactly know why he dropped in either time," said Mrs. Lintern. "He kept talking on everyday matters, and never named your name. 'Twas curious, in fact, the way he kept it out. All business, but nothing about the business of marrying you. Yet there was plenty on his mind, I do believe. I should reckon as he'd come for a special purpose, but finding himself here, it stuck in his throat. He's strong with men, but weak with women. Have he told you of aught that's fretting him?" Her daughter could remember nothing of the sort. Neither did she confess what she did know--that Waite was unquestionably cooler than of old. "'Tis time the day was named," declared Priscilla. "And you'd better suggest it when next you meet with him." But Cora did not do so, because there was much in Timothy's manner that told her he desired no expedition. Some time had now elapsed since last she saw him, and to-day she was going, in obedience to a note brought by a labourer, to meet him at the Rut, half a mile from Coldstone Farm. That he should have thus invited her to come to him was typical of the change in his sentiments. Formerly he would have walked or ridden to her. The tone of his brief note chilled her, but she obeyed it, and was now approaching their tryst at evening time in early September. In a little field nigh Hawk House she heard the purr of a corn-cutting machine. It was clinking round and round, shearing at each revolution a slice from the island of oats that still stood in the midst of a sea of fallen grain. A boy drove the machine, and behind it followed Humphrey Baskerville and Rupert. The younger man had come over to help garner the crop. Together they worked, gathered up the oats, and set them in little sheaves. The waning sunlight gilded the standing oats. Now and then a dog barked and darted round the vanishing island in the midst, for there--separated from safety by half an acre of stubble--certain rabbits squatted together, and waited for the moment when they must bolt and make their final run to death. Cora, unseen, watched this spectacle; then Mrs. Hacker appeared with a tray, on which were three mugs and a jug of cider. The girl was early for her appointment, but she sauntered forward presently and marked Timothy Waite in the lower part of the valley. It was the Rut's tamest hour of late summer, for the brightness of the flowers had ceased to shine; the scanty heath made little display, and autumn had as yet lighted no beacon fire. Stunted thorn trees ripened their harvest, but the round masses of the greater furze were dim; a prevalent and heavy green spread over the Rut, and the only colour contrast was that presented by long stretches of dead brake fern. The litter had been cut several weeks before and allowed to dry and ripen. It had now taken upon itself a dark colour, widely different from the richer, more lustrous, and gold-sprinkled splendour of auburn that follows natural death. The dull brown stuff was being raked together ready for the cart; and Cora, from behind a furze clump, watched her sweetheart carry immense trusses of the bracken and heave them up to the growing pile upon a wain that waited for the load. All she could see was a pair of straight legs in black gaiters moving under a little stack of the fern; then the litter was lifted, to reveal Timothy Waite. Presently he looked at his watch and marked that the time of meeting was nearly come. Whereupon he donned his coat, made tidy his neckcloth, handed his fork to a labourer, and left the working party. He strolled slowly up the coomb along the way that she must approach, while she left her hiding-place and set out to meet him. He shook hands, but he did not kiss her, and he did not look into her eyes. Instead, he evaded her own glance, spoke quickly, and walked quickly in unconscious obedience to his own mental turmoil. "I can't run," she said. "If you want me to hear what you're saying, Timothy, you must go slower, or else sit down in the hedge." "It's terrible," he answered. "It's terrible, and it's made an old man of me. But some things you seem to know from the first are true, and some you seem to know are not. And when first I heard it I said to myself, t 'Tis a damned lie of a wicked and venomous man'; but then, with time and thought, and God knows how many sleepless nights, I got to see 'twas true enough. And why wasn't I told? I ask you that. Why wasn't I told?" Her heart sank and her head grew giddy. She translated this speech with lightning intuition, and knew too well all that it must mean. It explained his increasing coolness, his absences and evasions. It signified that he had changed his mind upon learning the secret of the Linterns. A natural feminine, histrionic instinct made her pretend utmost astonishment, though she doubted whether it would deceive him. "What you're talking about I haven't the slightest idea," she said. "But if you have a grievance, so have I--and more than one. You wasn't used to order me here and there six weeks ago. 'Twas you that would come and see me then; now I've got to weary my legs to tramp to do your bidding." He paid no heed to her protest. "If you don't understand, then you must, and before we part, too. I can't go on like this. No living man could do it. I called twice to see your mother about it, for it seemed to me that 'twas more seemly I should speak to her than to you; but when I faced her I couldn't open my mouth, much as I wanted to do so. She shook me almost, and I'd have been thankful to be shook; but 'tis the craft and cunning of the thing that's too much for me. I've been hoodwinked in this, and no doubt laughed at behind my back. That's what's made me feel as I do now. I waited and hoped on, and loved you for years, and saw you chuck two other men, and found I'd got you at last, and reckoned I was well rewarded for all my patience; and--then--then--this----" "What? This what? Are you mad? What didn't you dare to speak to my mother, and yet you can speak to me? What have I done that's set you against me? What sin have I committed? Don't think I'm blind. I've seen you cooling off clear enough, and for the life of me I couldn't guess the reason, try as I would and sorrow about it as I would. But since you've ordered me here for this, perhaps you'll go straight on and tell me what's all the matter." "I want you to answer me one question. The answer you must know, and I ask you to swear afore your Maker that you'll tell me the truth. Mind this, I know the truth. It's scorched into me like a burn this many a day. But I must hear it from you too, Cora." She guessed his question, and also guessed that in truth lay her last hope. He spoke positively, and she doubted not that he knew. His fear before her mother was natural. She perceived how easily a man might have gone to a woman with this momentous question on his mind, and how naturally the presence of the woman might strike him dumb at the actual meeting. None knew better than Cora how different is the reality of a conversation with a fellow-creature from the imaginary interview formulated before the event. There was but one problem in her mind now--the advantage or disadvantage of truth. She judged that the case was desperate, but that her only hope lay in honesty. "Speak," she said. "And I swear I'll answer nought but the truth--if I know the truth." He hesitated, and considered her answer. He was fond of her still, but the circumstance of this deception, to which he supposed her a party, had gone far to shake his affection. The grievance was that the facts should have been hidden from him after his proposal. He held that then was the time when Cora's paternity should have been divulged. He believed that had he known it then, it would have made small difference to his love. It was not so much the fact as the hiding of the fact that had troubled him. "Who was your father?" he asked at length, and the words burst out of him in a heap, like an explosion. "I know who he was," she answered. "Name him, then." "You see, Timothy, you never asked. I often thought whether there was any reason to tell you, and often and often I felt you ought to know; but you're a wise and far-seeing man, and I wasn't the only one to be thought on. I'd have told you from the first, even at the risk of angering you, but there was mother. I couldn't do it--knowing what she'd feel. I was a daughter afore I was a sweetheart. Would you have done it when you came to think on your mother?" "Name him." "Nathan Baskerville was my father, and my sister's and brother's father. My mother was his wife all but in name, and they only didn't marry because it meant losing money. You understand why I didn't tell you--because of my poor mother. Now you can do as you please. I'm myself anyway, and I'm not going to suffer for another's sins more than I can help. There's no stain on me, and well you know it." "Nathan was your father?" "He was. I suppose Heathman told you. He's threatened to oft enough." "No matter for that. 'Tis so, and 'twas deliberately hidden from me." "'Twas hidden from all the world. And why not? I did no wrong by hiding it, feel as I might. There was four to think of." "'Twasn't hidden from all the world, and 'tisn't hidden. I didn't learn it from Heathman. You've brought this on yourself in a way. If you hadn't quarrelled with a certain man I shouldn't have done so either. Jack Head told me after I'd thrashed him for insulting you; and I suppose if he hadn't I might have gone to church with you, and very likely gone to my grave at last, and never known what you was." "I should have told you when my mother died." "D'you swear that?" "I tell you it is so. I'm going to swear no more at your bidding. 'Tis for me to speak now. You've cut me to the quick to-day, and I doubt if I shall ever get over it. 'Tisn't a very manly way to treat an innocent girl, I should think. However, I forgive everything and always shall, for I love the ground you walk on, and you know it, and 'twasn't from any wish to treat you without proper respect that I hid away this cruel thing. I said to myself, 'It can't hurt dear Tim not to know it, and it would hurt my mother and my sister terribly if 'twas known.' So, right or wrong, I did what I did; and now you're in judgment over me, and I can't--I can't live another moment, dear Timothy, till I know how you feel about it." She had begun in a spirit rather dictatorial, but changed swiftly into this milder appeal when she marked the expression of his face. He was prepared to stand little. From the first she felt almost hopeless that she would have power to move him. "Who told Jack Head?" asked Timothy. "God knows. My brother, I should think. There's none else in the world but mother and Phyllis that knew it." "Others were told, but not me. I was deceived by all of you." "That's not true," she answered as her fighting instinct got the better of tact. "'Twasn't to deceive you not to tell you. All families have got secrets--yours too." "You did wrong to me. 'Tisn't even like as if I was nobody. I come of pretty good havage on my mother's side, and I think a lot of such things." "Well, the Baskervilles----" "Don't be foolish, woman! D'you think I'm ----? There, 'tisn't a case for talk that I can see. The thing be done and can't be undone. I'd have overlooked it, so like as not, if you'd made a clean breast of the truth when I offered for you; but to let me go on blind--I can't forgive that." Perceiving what had hurt him, Cora set herself to lessen the sting as much as possible; but she failed. They talked to no purpose for an hour, while she used every argument that occurred to her, and he opposed to her swift mind and subtle reasoning a blank, impassive wall of sulky anger and wounded pride. It began to grow dark before the conclusion came, and they had walked half-way back to Shaugh. At the top of the hill he left her, and the battle ended in wrath on both sides and a parting irrevocable. Her failure it was that made Cora lose her temper, and when she did so, he, thankful for the excuse, spoke harshly, and absolved his own uneasy spirit for so doing. The final scene was brief, and the woman, wearied in mind and body with her efforts to propitiate him, drew it down upon them. "Why don't you speak out like a man, then?" she said at last. "Why d'you keep growling in your throat, like a brute, and not answering my questions? 'Tis because you can't answer them in right and justice. But one word you've got to find a tongue to, though well you may be shamed to do it. It shan't be said I've thrown you over, if that's the cowardly thing you're playing up for. I promised to marry you, and I would marry you; but you don't want to marry me, it seems, and you've pitched on this paltry thing to get out of it." "'Paltry thing'! You're shameless." "Yes, it is paltry; and everybody would say so; and you'll hear what decent people think of you pretty soon if you throw me over, I can tell you. How can a child help its own father, or see whether its parents be properly married? You're cruel and mad both." "We'll see, then," he answered. "Since you're bent on hearing me speak, I will. And don't pretend as I'm growling and you're not hearing. I'll tell you what I mean, and my words shall be as clear as my mind is about it. I won't marry you now, and I wouldn't if you was all you ought to be. I've had a taste of your tongue this evening that's opened my mind a good bit to what you are. You've shown me a lot more about yourself than you think for. And if I did growl, like a brute, my ears was open and my wits was wide awake, like a man. And I won't marry you, and I've a perfect right not to do so after this." "You dirty coward! No, you shan't marry me, and you shouldn't if you crawled to me across the whole world on your knees, and prayed to me to forgive you. And if you're well out of it, what am I? And don't you think you've heard the last of this, because you have not. I've got good friends and strong friends in the world, though you'd like to fancy as I was friendless and outcast, for men like you to spit on. But I can fight my own battles very well, come to that, as you shall find; and I'll have you up for breach, God's my judge; and if decent men don't bring in proper, terrifying damages against you, I'll ask you to forgive me. Yes, I'll make your name laughed at from one end of the Moor to t'other, as you shall find afore you'm many days older." He stood still before this threat, and, finding that he did not answer, she left him and hastened home. There she blazed her startling news. Cora's own attitude towards the truth was now one of indifference. She raged against her fate, and for the time being could not look forward. Phyllis alone displayed grief. She was engaged to a young baker at Cornwood, and feared for her own romance: therefore she wept and revealed the liveliest concern. But Heathman, perceiving Priscilla's indifference, exhibited the like. It appeared that mother and son were glad rather than regretful at this escape of truth. Mrs. Lintern, however, exhibited exceeding wonder, if little dismay. She was sorry for Cora, but not for herself. "I had a feeling, strong as death in me, that 'twould come to light," she said. "Somehow I always knew that the thing must struggle out sometime. Many and many actually knew it in their hearts, by a sort of understanding--like a dog's reason. And I knew they knew it. But the truth was never openly thrust in my face till he died, and Eliza Gollop spoke it. And, she being what she is, none believed her; and 'twas enough that she should whisper scandal for the better sort to flout her and turn a deaf ear. And now it's out, and the great wonder in me ban't that 'tis out, but who let it out. For the moment it looks as if 'twas a miracle; yet, no doubt, time will clear that too." "I suppose you'll go now," said Cora. "Anyway, if you don't, I shall. There's been nought but trouble and misery for me in this hole from my childhood upward." CHAPTER XI There visited Cadworthy Farm, on a Sunday afternoon, Priscilla Lintern with her son and her younger daughter. They came unexpectedly, though Rupert had told Heathman they would not be unwelcome. May was from home, and the business of preparing tea fell upon Milly Baskerville. Phyllis helped Rupert's wife in this operation, and while they were absent in the kitchen and the men went to the farm, Hester and Priscilla spoke together. The one discussed her son, the other her daughter and herself. "I've been coming over to see you this longful time," said Mrs. Baskerville, "but what with the weather and--and----" "The things that are being said, perhaps?" "No, not them. I'm an old woman now, and if I've not got patience at my age, when shall I get it? Good things have happed to me--better than I deserved--and I'm only sorry for them as have had less fortune. I never pay no heed to stories at any time. My master taught me that." "I merely want to tell you that 'tis all true. For my children's sake I should never have told it, but since it had to come I'm right glad." "I'd rather you spared yourself," said Mrs. Baskerville. "You've had enough to bear, I should reckon. Leave it. I've always felt a very great respect for you, and always shall do so; and I've no wish to hear anything about it. Well I know what men are, and what life is. He was lucky--lucky in you and lucky in his brothers. What he took away from me, Humphrey has given back. Now we'll go on as before. Mr. Waite have thrown your maiden over, I hear. What's she going to do?" "Thank you for being kind," answered Mrs. Lintern. "I've been a good deal astonished to find how easily the people have took this thing. The world's a larger-minded place than I, for one, had any idea of. The neighbours, save here and there, seem to be like you, and reckon that 'tis no business of theirs. My son's terrible pleased that it have got out; and the young man who is going to marry Phyllis don't mean to alter his plans. And your brother is glad also, I suppose, for he wished it. But to Cora, this business of being flung over hit her very hard, and she wanted to bring an action for breach of promise against Timothy. She went to see Mr. Popham about it; only he didn't seem to think she'd get much, and advised her to do no such thing." "Why ban't she along with you to-day?" "She won't go nowhere. She'll be off pretty soon to a milliner's to Plymouth. She wants to clear away from everything so quick as may be." "Natural enough. Let her go in a shop somewhere and begin again. My Ned, I may tell you, have found---- "Work, I hope?" "No. Another girl to marry him. It looks as if it might go through this time, though I can't see him really married after all his adventures with the maidens. 'Tis the daughter of the livery-stable keeper at Tavistock. And she's the only one--and King--that's her father's name--worships the ground she goes on. It's like to happen after Christmas. And Ned's been straight about it, and he've broke in a young horse or two very clever for Mr. King, so I suppose he'll let them wed for the girl's sake. He's there to-day." Mrs. Lintern nodded. "Where's May?" she asked. "Away too?" "Only till evening. She's drinking tea along with her Uncle Humphrey at Hawk House." "A strange man he is." "'Tis strange for any man to be so good." "He first found out about me and his brother. And how d'you reckon? From Cora. His sharp eyes saw her father in her long before Nathan died. I've been to Hawk House since it came out. He was content that Cora had suffered so sharp, and said so." "He thinks a great deal of you and Heathman, however." Milly brought the tea at this moment and called Heathman and Rupert, who were smoking in the farmyard. They appeared, and Milly's baby was carried to join the company. Rupert showed the cup that his godfather had given to the child. The Baskervilles made it clear that they designed no change in their relations with Mrs. Lintern. A sharp estrangement had followed Ned's jilting, but that belonged to the past. Amity reigned, and Milly expressed regret at Mrs. Lintern's determination to leave Shaugh Prior in the following spring. "They'll both be gone--both girls," she explained, "and Heathman here haven't got no need of a wife yet, he says, so he and I shall find a smaller and a cheaper place than Undershaugh." "Cora will marry yet," foretold Rupert. "Third time's lucky, they say." "'Twill be the fourth time," corrected Milly. They ate and drank, and spoke on general subjects; then the Linterns prepared to start, and Priscilla uttered a final word to Hester before the younger people. "I thank you for letting the past go. There was but few mattered to me, and you were the first of them." They departed, and the Baskervilles talked about them. Behind her back, they spoke gently of Priscilla, and old Mrs. Baskerville revealed even a measure of imagination in her speech. "The worst was surely after he sank into his grave and the storm broke," said Hester. "To think she was standing there, his unknown, unlawful wife, yet a wife in spirit, with all a wife's love and all a wife's belief in him. To think that her ear had to hear, and her heart had to break, and her mouth had to be dumb. Gall and vinegar that woman have had for her portion these many days--yet she goes unsoured." "She's got a rare good son to stand by her," declared Rupert. "And so have I," murmured Milly, squeezing the baby who was sucking her breast. "And I've got four," answered Mrs. Baskerville. "Four brave boys--one on sea and three on land. Things be divided curious; but our part is to thank God for what we've got, and not worry because them that deserve more have so much less. That's His work, and the balance will swing true again in His own good time." Elsewhere, upon their journey home, the Linterns fell in with May. She was excited, and turned back and walked beside them for half a mile. "I'm just bursting with news," she said, "and I hope you haven't heard it." "The world be full of news," answered Heathman. "There's a bit down to Shaugh as I meant to tell Rupert just now and forgot, owing to press of other matters. It proves as I'm a prophet too, for I've said this three year that it was bound to happen. And that disgrace in the churchyard over my father's grave have brought it to a climax. I mean Tommy Gollop and that other old rip, Joe Voysey. Both have got the sack! The reverend Masterman have hit out right and left and floored the pair of 'em. Mind you tell Rupert that. 'Twill make him die of laughing. The old boys be showing their teeth too, I promise you." "I'll tell him." "And what was your news?" asked Mrs. Lintern. "Very good; yet perhaps no news neither to many folk who understand things better than me. Yet I'd often thought in my mind that 'twas my uncle Humphrey clearing off Uncle Nathan's----" She stopped, brought to silence by the recollection of their relationship. "Say it," said Priscilla. "I know what's on your lips. Don't fear to say it." "That 'twas Uncle Humphrey made all right," continued May. "And paid back what had been lost. We can't say how it might have gone if Uncle Nathan had lived. No doubt, sooner or late, he'd have done the same, for never would he let man or woman suffer if he could help it. Anyway, all be in the fair way to have their money again. And I asked Lawyer Popham long ago, when he came to Cadworthy, who 'twas, and he wouldn't say; but had no doubt we could guess. And then I asked Susan Hacker, and she wouldn't say, but yet came so near saying that there was little left to know. And to-day I tackled Uncle Humphrey and gave him no peace till 'twas out. 'To please himself' he's done it." She panted for breath, and then continued-- "And there's more yet. 'Twas him paid up my married sister's legacy, and even Ned's not forgot--for justice. And when Uncle Humphrey dies--and far be it off--my brother Rupert's to have Cadworthy! I got that out of him too. But I've solemnly promised not to tell Rupert. He's going to tell him himself." "A useful old fairy, and no mistake," laughed Heathman. "He'll beggar himself afore he's finished, and then you'll all have to set to work to keep him out of the workhouse!" "He said that very thing," answered May, "and Susan said the same. Not that it makes any difference to him, for he hasn't got any comforts round him, and gets savage if you ask him so much as to take a hot brick to bed with him to warm himself in winter." "All these things," said Mrs. Lintern, "have been done for honour of the name. Your folk go back along far--far into the past, and there's never been a cloud between them and honest dealing. But, when Heathman's father was cut off with his work unfinished, it happed that he left no money, and the many things that he had planned all fell short, without his mastermind to pick up the threads and bring them through. Then came Humphrey Baskerville, and for love of his brother and for love of the name, did these good deeds. And to beggar himself in money be nought in the eyes of that man, if he leaves his family rich in credit afore the eyes of the world. Such another was your own father, May; and such another is your brother Rupert; and such another was your cousin Mark. They had their own sight and looked at the world their own way and all saw it different, maybe; but they never saw justice different." "And such be I," declared Heathman. "I can't call myself a Baskerville, and shan't get no thinner for that; but I'm the son of my mother, and she's worth a shipload of any other sort--better than the whole flight of you Baskervilles, May--good though you be. And I'm very well pleased to be kin to you all, if you like, and if you don't like, you can leave it." They parted then, and May returned home. Heathman showed himself highly gratified at what he had heard, and his sister shared his satisfaction. But their mother was sunk deep in the hidden places of her own heart, and they left her alone while they spoke together. CHAPTER XII Joe Voysey walked over one evening to talk with his lifelong friend Thomas Gollop. The gardener felt choked to the throat with injustice, and regarded his dismissal from the vicarage as an outrage upon society; while Mr. Gollop laboured under similar emotions. Both declared that the ingratitude of Dennis Masterman was what principally stung them. To retire into private life caused them no pain; but to have been invited to do so was a bitter grievance. Miss Eliza Gollop chanced to be out, and Thomas sat by the fire alone. His Bible stood on the table, but he was not reading it. Only when Voysey's knock sounded at the cottage door did Thomas wheel round from the fire, open the book and appear to be buried in its pages. He had rather expected a visit from Mr. Masterman, hence these preparations; but when Voysey entered, Thomas modified his devout attitude and shut the Bible again. "I half thought as that wretched man from the vicarage might call this evening," he said. "He won't, then," replied Joe, "for he've got together all they fools who have fallen in with his wish about yowling carols at Christmas. Him and her be down at the schoolroom; and there's row enough rising up to fright the moon." "Carol-singing! I wish the time was come for him to sing to his God for mercy," said Thomas. Then he went to a cupboard and brought out a bottle of spirits. "Have he said anything to you about a pension?" asked Voysey. "No, not yet. I thought he might be coming in about that to-night. My father afore me got a pension--a shilling a day for life--and I ought to have twice as much, in my opinion, though I don't expect it. And when I've got all I can, I'm going to shake the dust off my boots against the man and his church too. Never again, till I'm carried in to my grave, will I go across the threshold--not so long as he be there. I'm going to take up with the Dissenters, and I advise you to do the same." "That woman have told me about my pension," answered Joe--"Alice Masterman, I mean. I won't call her 'Miss' no more, for 'tis too respectful. She've worked on her brother--so she says--to give me three half-crowns a week. But I doubt she had anything to do with it--such a beastly stinge as her. However, that's the money; and who d'you think they've took on? That anointed fool the policeman's brother! He've been learning a lot of silliness down to a nurseryman at Plymouth, and he'm coming here, so bold as brass, and so noisy as a drum, to show what can be done with that garden. And if I don't look over the wall sometimes and have a laugh at him, 'tis pity!" Gollop nodded moodily, but he did not answer. Then Joe proceeded with malevolent glee. "I clear out on the last day of the year," he said; "and if I haven't picked the eyes out of his garden and got 'em settled in my patch afore that day----! She met me taking over a lot of mint plants a bit ago. 'Where be you taking they mint plants?' she said. 'To a neighbour,' I said. 'He wants 'em, and we can spare 'em.' 'You'll ask me, please, before you give things away, Voysey,' she said. And now I ax, humble as a maggot, if I may take this or that to a neighbour afore I move a leaf. And she always says, 'Yes, if we can spare it.' Had her there--eh?" "As for me," said Gollop, "I shall be the last regular right down parish clerk we ever have--unless the good old times come back later. A sexton he must use, since people have got to be buried, but who 'twill be I neither know nor care." "Mind you take the tools," said Joe. "They be fairly your property, and you can sell 'em again if you don't want 'em yourself. I've made a good few shillings that way during the last forty years. But as for leaving the church, I shouldn't do that, because of the Christmas boxes. 'Tis well knowed in Shaugh that your Christmas boxes run into a tidy figure, and some people go so far as to say that what you take at the door, when the bettermost come out after Christmas morning prayer, is pretty near so good as what be dropped in the bags for the offerings." "Lies," declared Thomas. "All envious lies. I never got near what the people thought. Still, I hadn't remembered. That's yet another thing where he'll have robbed me." When Miss Eliza Gollop appeared half an hour later, she was cold and dispirited. "What be you doing in here?" she said to Mr. Voysey. "Having a tell with Thomas. We be both wishing to God we could strike them hateful people to the vicarage. Harm be bound to come to 'em, for their unchristian ways; but me and your brother would like to be in it." "You'll be in it alone, then," she answered; "for this place have gone daft where they're concerned. They can't do no wrong seemingly--except to us. The people babble about him, and even her, as if they was angels that had lost their wings." "'Tis all lax and lawless and going to the dogs," said Thomas. "There's no truth and honesty and manliness left in Shaugh. The man found a human thigh-bone kicking about up under the top hedge of the churchyard yesterday. Lord knows where it had come from. I never seed it nowhere; but he turned on me and said 'twas sacrilege, and I know not what else. 'Where there's churchyards, there'll also be bones,' I said to the fool; 'and if one here and there works to the top, along of the natural heaving of the earth, how can a sexton or any other man help it?' A feeble creature, and making the young men feeble too. Carol-singing! Who wants carols? However, I've done with him. I've stood between him and his folly time and again; but never no more. Let him go." "'Tis a knock-kneed generation," declared Mr. Voysey. "All for comfort and luxury. Tea, with sugar in it, have took the place of the good, honest, sour cider like what every man had in harvest days of old. But now, these here young youths, they say sharp cider turns their innards! It never used to turn ours. 'Tis all of a piece, and the nation's on the downward road, along of too much cosseting." "For my part, I think 'tis more the weakness of mind than the weakness of body that be ruining us," observed Miss Gollop. "As a nurse I see more than you men can, and, as a female, I hear more than you do. And I will say that the way the people have taken these here doings of that scarlet woman to Undershaugh is a sin and a scandal. At first they wouldn't believe it, though I blew the trumpet of truth in their ears from the moment that Dissenter died; but, afterwards, when 'twas known as a fact and the parties couldn't deny it, and Mr. Waite throwed over Cora Lintern, as any respecting man would when he heard the shameful truth--then who came to me and said, 'Ah, you was right, Eliza, and I was wrong'? Not one of 'em! And what's worse is the spirit they've taken it in. Nobody cares, though everybody ought to care!" "Every person says 'tis none of their business," explained Voysey. "More shame to 'em!" declared Thomas. "As if it wasn't the business of all decent men and women. Time was when such an incontinent terror of a woman would have been stoned out of the village in the name of law and righteousness. Yet now, mention the thing where I will, 'tis taken with a heathen calmness that makes my blood boil. And Masterman worst of all, mind! If it wasn't a case for a scorching sermon, when was there one? Yet not a word. And not a word from the Dissenters neither--not in the meeting-house--though 'tis a subject they'm very great against most times. However, I've inquired and I find it has been passed over." "No godly anger anywhere," admitted Eliza, "and not one word of sorrow to me for the hard things what were spoken when I stood up single-handed and told the truth." "Religion be dying out of the nation," summed up Thomas. "My father always said that me and Eliza would live to see antichrist ascend his throne; and it begins to look as if the times were very near ripe for the man. And 'twill be harder than ever now--now I'm driven out from being parish clerk. For I shall have to look on and yet be powerless to strike a blow." They drank in gloomy silence; but Mr. Voysey was not similarly oppressed by the moral breakdown of the times. He strove to bring conversation back to the vicarage, and failing to do so, soon took his leave. After he had gone the brother and sister debated long, and Thomas gave it as his opinion that it would be well for them to leave Shaugh and end their days in a more Christian and congenial atmosphere. "There's nought to keep us now," he said; "all have gone down afore that Masterman, and 'tis something of a question whether such as we ought to bide here, simply as common folk with no more voice in the parish. If we go, the blame lies on his shoulders; but once I make up my mind, I won't stop--not though the people come before me and beg on their bended knees for me to do so." "'Twould be like Adam and Eve being driven out of the Garden if we'm forced to go," declared Eliza. "With this difference, however, that the blame ban't with us, though the punishment may be. There's nobody can say we've ever done wrong here, or gone outside our duty to God or man by a hair. If we go, 'tis them that drive us out will have to pay for their wickedness." "They'll certainly smart, if 'tis only in the long run," confessed Eliza. "'Twill be brought home against them at the appointed time." Thomas nodded drearily. "Cold comfort," he said, "but the only satisfaction there is to be got out of it by us. Yes, I shall go; I shall shake off the dust for a witness. I wish I thought as 'twould choke a party here and there; but, thank God, I know my place. I never offered to do His almighty work, and I never will. I never wanted to call down thunder from heaven on the evil-doer. But 'tis always a tower of faith to a righteous man when he sees the Lord strike. And to them as be weak in faith, 'tis often a puzzle and a temptation to see how long the Lord holds off, when justice cries aloud to Him to rise up and do His worst." CHAPTER XIII At the approach of another Christmas, Humphrey Baskerville stood in the churchyard of St. Edward's and watched two masons lodge the stone that he had raised to his brother Nathan. It conformed to the usual pattern of the Baskerville memorials, and was of slate. The lettering had been cut deep and plain without addition of any ornament. The accidental severity and simplicity of the stone contrasted to advantage with Vivian's ornate and tasteless marble beside it. Dennis Masterman walked across the churchyard presently and, seeing Humphrey, turned and approached. "Good morning," he said. "Glad you've put a slate here. I like them better than these garish things. They are more suited to this grey Moor world of ours." "'Tis a foolish waste to spend money on the dead," answered Mr. Baskerville. "When all the living be clothed and fed, then we can fling away our money over graves. 'Tis only done to please ourselves, not to please them." "You've a right to speak," said the clergyman. "To praise you would be an impertinence; but as the priest of Him we both worship, I rejoice to think of what you have done to clear the clouded memory of this man." Humphrey took no verbal notice of these remarks. He shrugged his shoulders and spoke of the gravestone. "I'll thank you to read what I've put over him, and say whether 'tis not right and just." The other obeyed. After particulars of Nathan's age and the date of his death, there followed only the first verse of the forty-first Psalm-- "Blessed is he that considereth the poor: the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble." "You see," explained Mr. Baskerville, "my brother did consider the poor--and none else. That he made a botch of it, along of bad judgment and too much hope and too much trust in himself, is neither here nor there; for I hold his point of view was well-meaning though mistaken. If we see a man's point of view, it often leads--I won't say to mercy, for that's no business of ours in my opinion--but to the higher justice. To judge by results is worldly sense, but I'm doubtful if 'tis heavenly sense. Anyway, that's how I feel about my brother now, though 'twas only brought home to me after a year of thinking; and as for the end of the text, certainly that happened, because none can doubt the Lord delivered him in the time of trouble. His death was a deliverance, as every death must be, but none more than Nathan's afore the tempest broke." Masterman--knowing as little as the other what Nathan's death had brought to Nathan of mental agony before the end--conceded these points freely. They walked together in the churchyard and spoke of moral topics and religious instruction. At a point in the enclosure, the younger stopped and indicated a space remote from the lodges of the silent people. "You design to lie here--is it not so? Gollop, I remember, told me, a long time ago now." The old man regarded the spot indifferently and shook his head. "I meant it once--not now. We change our most fixed purposes under the battering of the world; and small enough our old thoughts often look, when seen again, after things have happened and years have passed. I'll creep to join my own, if you please. They won't mind, I reckon, if I sink into the pit beside 'em. I'll go by my wife and my son and my brothers. We'll all rise and brave the Trump together, as well as erring man may." The stone was set in its place presently and Mr. Baskerville, well pleased with the result, set off homeward. His tethered pony stood at the gate, and he mounted and went slowly up the hill. CHAPTER XIV "Some say they believe the old saying and some say they don't," declared Mr. Abraham Elford to a thin bar at six o'clock on Christmas Eve; "but for my part I know what I've proved to be true with my own eyes, and I will stick to it that apples picked at wane of moon do shrivel and scrump up cruel. In fact, for hoarding they be no use at all." "And you swear that you've proved that?" asked Mr. Head in his most judicial manner. "You stand there, a man up home sixty years of age, and steadfastly declare that apples gathered when the moon be on the wane do dry up quicker than others that be plucked when it begins to grow?" "Yes, I do," declared the innkeeper. "Don't I tell you that I've proved it? Pick your apples when the moon be first horning, that's my advice." They wrangled upon the question, and missed its real interest as an example of the value of evidence and the influence of superstition and individual idiosyncrasy on all human testimony. Jack scoffed, Abraham Elford grew warm; for who is there that can endure to hear his depositions brushed aside as worthless? Upon this great topic of the shrinking of apples at wane of moon, some sided with Mr. Head; while others, who held lunar influence as a force reaching into dark mysteries of matter and mind, supported the publican. The contention was brisk, and not until it began to interfere with the nightly sale of his liquor, did Elford awake to its danger and stop it. He conceded nothing, but declared the argument must cease. "'Tis Christman Eve," said he, "and no occasion for any short words or sharp sayings. Me and Head both know that we'm right, and mountains wouldn't move either of us from our opinions, so let it be." He lifted a great earthen pot from the fire in the bar parlour. It contained cider with pieces of toast floating in it. "Pretty drinking, as I'm certain sure that one and all of you will say," foretold the host. Apples, however, rose again to be first topic of conversation before this fine wassail, and Jack spoke once more. "Time was, down to the in country, that on this night--or else Old Christman Eve, I forget which--we gawks should all have marched out solemn to the orchards and sung lucky songs, and poured out cider, and fired our guns into the branches, and made all-round heathen fools of ourselves. And why? Because 'twas thought that to do so improved the next year's crop a thousandfold! And when we remember that 'twas no further back than our fathers that they did such witless things, it did ought to make us feel humble, I'm sure." "Don't talk no more about cider, drink it," said Heathman Lintern, who was of the company. "Drink it while 'tis hot, and 'twill warm your bones and soften your opinions. You'm so peart to-night and so sharp at the corners, that I reckon you've got your money back at last." This direct attack reduced Mr. Head to a less energetic and dogmatic frame of mind. "No," he answered. "I have not, and I happen to know that I never shall. Me and the old chap fell out, and I dressed him down too sharp. I was wrong, and I've since admitted it, for I'm the rare, fearless sort that grant I'm wrong the first minute it can be proved against me. Though when a man's built on that large pattern, you may be sure he ban't wrong very often. 'Tis only the peddling, small creatures that won't admit they're mistaken--out of a natural fear that if they once allow it, they'll never be thought right again. But though he's forgiven me, I've strained the friendship. So we live and learn." "Coode's had his money again," said the host of 'The White Thorn.' "He has--the drunken dog? There's only me left," returned Jack. "It wasn't till after he lost his money that he took to swilling, however," declared the innkeeper. "I know him well. The misfortune ruined his character." "His daughter's been paid back, all the same," said Lintern. "She keeps his house, and the old boy gave the money to her, to be used or saved according as she thinks best." "That leaves only me," said Jack. "Me and Rupert was running over the figures a bit ago," continued Heathman. "We made out that the sporting old blade had dropped upwards of six thousand over this job, and we was wondering how much that is out of all he's got." "A fleabite, I reckon," answered Head; but the other doubted it. "Rupert says he thinks 'tis pretty near half of his fortune, if not more. He goes shabbier than ever, and he eats little better than orts for his food." "That's no new thing," said another man as he held a mug for some more of the hot cider; "'twas always so, as Susan Hacker will tell you. My wife have heard her grumbling off and on these ten years about it. His food's poor and coarse, like his baccy and his cider. His clothes be kept on his back till there ban't enough of the web left to hold 'em together any longer. Susan offered an old coat to a tramp once, thinking to get it away afore Baskerville missed it; and the tramp looked it over--through and through, you might say--and he thanked Susan as saucy as you please, and told her that when he was going to set up for a mommet[1] he'd let her know, but 'twouldn't be yet." [1] _Mommet_--scarecrow. "A strange old night-hawk, and always have been," said Head. "Not a man--not even me, though I know him best--can measure him altogether. Never was such a mixture. Now he's so good-natured as the best stone, and you'll go gaily driving into him and then, suddenly, you'll strike flint, and get a spark in your eye, and wish to God you'd left the man alone. He's beyond any well-balanced mind to understand, as I've told him more than once." "Meek as Moses one minute, then all claws and prickles the next--so they tell me," declared Abraham Elford. "But whether 'tis true or not, I can't say from experience," he added, "for the man don't come in here." "And why?" said Heathman. "That's another queer side of him. I axed him that same question, and he said because to his eyes the place was haunted by my father. 'I should see Nathan's long beard wagging behind the bar,' he said to me, 'and I couldn't abide it.'" "He's above common men, no doubt," declared another speaker. "We can only leave him at that. He's a riddle none here will ever guess, and that's the last word about him." Rupert Baskerville came in at this moment and saw Heathman. Both were in Dennis Masterman's carol choir, and it was time that they gathered with the rest at the vicarage, for a long round of singing awaited them. "A mild night and the roads pretty passable," he announced. "We're away in half an hour wi' books and lanterns; but no musickers be coming with us, like in the good old days. Only voices to carry it off." He stopped to drink, and the sight of Jack Head reminded him of a commission. "I want you, Jack," he said. "Come out in the ope-way for half a moment." They departed together, and in a few moments returned. Rupert was laughing, Mr. Head exhibited the liveliest excitement. In one hand he waved three ten-pound notes; with the other he chinked some gold and silver. "Money! Money! Money, souls!" he shouted. "If that baggering old hero haven't paid me after all! Give it a name, boys, drinks round!" They congratulated him and liquor flowed. Head was full of rejoicing. He even exhibited gratitude. "You might say 'twas no more than justice," he began; "but I tell you he's more than just--he's a very generous old man, and nobody can deny it, and I for one would like to do something to pay him back." "There's nought you can do," declared Elford, "but be large-minded about it, and overlook the little smart that always touches a big mind when it's asked to accept favours." "Not a big mind," corrected Rupert. "'Tis only a small mind can't take favours. And the thought of giving that smart would pain my uncle, for he's terrible tender and he's smarted all his life, and knows what 'tis to feel so." "Smart be damned!" said Mr. Head. "There's no smart about getting back your own. I'm only glad that he felt the call to pay; and, though I was kept to the last, I shan't quarrel about that. If Rupert here, as be his nephew and his right hand by all accounts, could hit on a thing for us to do that would please the man, then I say us might do it without loss of credit. There's nobody has anything serious against him, I believe, nowadays, unless it be Abraham here, because he never comes inside his bar." The publican shrugged his shoulders. "I can't quarrel for that," he said, "since he goeth nowhere else either." They considered the possible ways of bringing any satisfaction to Humphrey Baskerville, but could hit on no happy project. Head, indeed, was fertile of ideas, but Rupert found objections to all of them. "If us could only do something that meant a lot of different chaps all of one mind," said Heathman. "The old bird always thinks that the people hate him or laugh at him, and if we could somehow work a trick that showed a score of folk all meaning well to him and thinking well of him for once---- But Lord knows what." Then came an interruption in the shape of Dennis Masterman. He was warm and somewhat annoyed. He turned upon the guilty Rupert and Heathman. "This is too bad, you fellows!" he said. "Here we're all waiting and waiting, and, despite my express wishes, you turn in to drink. I blame you both." They expressed the liveliest regret, and Dennis was speedily mollified when he heard the great argument that had made these men forget the business of the night. "There's no time now," he answered, "but you're in the right to think of such a thing, and, after Christmas, I shall be only too glad to lend a hand. A very admirable idea, and I'm glad you've hit on it." "Just a thimbleful of my wassail, your honour, for luck," said the host, and Masterman, protesting, took the glass handed to him. A sudden and violent explosion from Mr. Head made the clergyman nearly choke in the middle of his drinking. "I've got it!" cried Jack so loudly that the company started. He slapped his leg at the same moment and then danced with exaggerated rejoicing. "Got what? D.T.'s?" asked Heathman. "Go up along to Hawk House! I beg and pray your reverence to go there first of all," urged Jack. "Surely 'tis the very thing. 'Tis just what we was trying to light upon--summat that meant the showing of general friendship--summat that meant a bit of trouble and thought taken for him--all your blessed Christmas vartues put together--goodwill and all the rest of it. If you was to steal up through the garden by the greenside and then burst forth like one man--why, there 'tis! Who can deny 'tis a noble idea? And you can go and holler to the quality afterwards." "Good for you, Jack!" answered Rupert. "And I say ditto with all my heart if Mr. Masterman----" "Come, then," interrupted Dennis. "The night will be gone before we start. We'll go to Hawk House right away. I can't gainsay such a wish, though it's a mile out of the beat we had planned. Come!" The clergyman, with Rupert Baskerville and Heathman Lintern, hurried off, and a few of the younger men, accompanied by Jack Head, followed after them. "I must just pop in my house and lock up this dollop of money," said Jack; "then us'll go up over with the singers to see how the old Hawk takes it. He'll be scared first; and then he'll try to look as if he was going to fling brickbats out of the windows, or set the dogs at us; and all the time we shall very well know that he's bubbling over with surprise to find what a number of respectable people have got to thinking well of him." The crowd of men and boys moved on ahead of Jack and his friends. The shrill cries and laughter of the youngsters and a bass rumble of adult voices wakened night, and a dozen lanterns flashed among the company as they ascended into the silent darkness of Dartmoor. CHAPTER XV Humphrey Baskerville had hoped that his nephew might visit him on Christmas Eve; but he learned that it was impossible, because Rupert had joined the carol-singers, and would be occupied with them on a wide circle of song. After dark he sat alone until near seven o'clock; then Mrs. Hacker returned home and they took their supper together. The meal ended, she cleared it away and settled to her knitting. Talk passed between them not unmarked by sentiment, for it concerned the past and related to those changes the year had brought. On the following day Humphrey was to eat his Christmas dinner at Cadworthy, and Susan hoped to spend the festival with friends in Shaugh. "I've got Heathman and his mother to be of the company," said Mr. Baskerville. "The daughters are both about their own business, and one goes to her sweetheart, and Cora's down to Plymouth, so we shall escape from them and no harm done. But Heathman and his mother will be there. They are rather a puzzle to me, Susan." "No doubt," she replied. "You'll go on puzzling yourself over this party or that till you've puzzled yourself into the workhouse. Haven't you paid all the creditors to the last penny?" "Not so," he answered. "That's where it lies. A man's children and their mother are his first creditors, I should reckon. They've got first call in justice, if not in law. I judge that there's a fine bit of duty there, and the way they look at life--so much my own way 'tis--makes me feel---- I wrote to that bad Cora yesterday. She's working hard, I'm told." Susan sniffed. "So does the Devil," she said. "'Tis all very well for you, I suppose; because when you wake up some morning and discover as you've got nought left in the world but your night-shirt, you'll go about to them you've befriended to seek for your own again--and lucky you'll be if you find it, or half of it; but what of me?" "You'll never want," he declared. "You're the sort always to fall on your feet." "So's young Lintern for that matter. No need to worry about him. He's a lesson, if you like. The man to be contented whatever haps." "I know it. I've marked it. I've learnt no little from him. A big heart and a mighty power of taking life as it comes without fuss. There's a bad side to it, however, as well as a good. I've worked that out. It's good for a man to be contented, but no good for the place he lives in. Contented people never stir up things, or throw light into dark corners, or let air into stuffy places. Content means stagnation so oft as not." "They mind their own business, however." "They mostly do; and that's selfish wisdom so oft as not. Now Jack Head's never content, and never will be." "Don't name that man on Christmas Eve!" said Mrs. Hacker testily. "I hate to think of him any day of the week, for that matter." "Yet him and the east wind both be useful, little as you like 'em. For my part, I've been a neighbour to the east wind all my life and shared its quality in the eyes of most folk--till now. But the wind of God be turning out of the east for me, Susan." "So long as you be pleased with yourself---- And as for content, 'tisn't a vartue, 'tis an accident, like red hair or bow legs. You can't get it, nor yet get away from it, by taking thought." He nodded. "You're in the right there. One man will make more noise if he scratches his finger than another if he breaks his leg. 'Tis part of the build of the mind, and don't depend on chance. Same with misery--that's a matter of character, not condition, I know men that won't be wretched while they can draw their breath; and some won't be happy, though they've got thrice their share of good fortune. No doubt that's how Providence levels up, and gives the one what he can't enjoy, to balance him with the other, who's got nought, but who's also got the blessed power of making happiness out of nought." "You've found the middle way, I suppose," she said; "and, like others who think they're on the sure road to happiness, you be pushing along too fast." "Running myself out of breath--eh? But you're wrong. I'm too cautious for that. If I'm a miser, as the people still think here and there, then 'tis for peace I'm a miser. 'Twas always peace of mind that I hungered and hankered for, yet went in doubt if such a thing there was. And even now, though I seem three-parts along the road to it, I feel a cold fear often enough whether my way will stand all weathers. It may break down yet." "Not while your money lasts," she answered with a short laugh. He followed his own thoughts in silence, and then spoke aloud again. "Restless as the fox, and hungrier than ever he was. Every man's hand against me, as I thought, and mine held out to every man; but they wouldn't see it. None to come to my hearth willingly, though 'twas always hot for 'em; none to look into my meaning, though that meaning was always meant for kindness. But who shall blame any living creature that they thought me an enemy and not a friend? How should they know? Didn't I hide the scant good that was in me, more careful than the bird her nest?" "They be up to your tricks now, anyway; and I've helped to show 'em better, though you may not believe it," declared Susan. "What a long-tongued, well-meaning female could do I've done for you; and I always shall say so." "I know that," he said. "There's no good thing on earth than can't be made better, but one thing. And that's the thing in all Christian minds this night--I mean the thing called love. You know it--you deal in it. Out of your kind soul you've always felt friendly to me, and you saw what I had the wish but not the power to show to others; and you've done your share of the work to make the people like me better. Maybe 'tis mostly your doing, if we could but read into the truth of it." This work-a-day world must for ever fall far short of the humblest ethical ideal, and doubtless even those who fell prostrate at the shout of their Thunder Spirit, or worshipped the sun and the sea in the morning of days, guessed dimly how their kind lacked much of perfection. To them the brooding soul of humanity revealed the road, though little knew those early men the length of it; little they understood that the goal of any faultless standard must remain a shifting ideal within reach of mind alone. At certain points Baskerville darkly suspected weak places in this new armour of light. While his days had, indeed, achieved a consummation and orbicular completeness beyond all hope; while, looking backward, he could not fail to contrast noontide gloom with sunset light, the fierce equinox of autumn with this unfolding period of a gracious Indian summer now following upon it; yet, even here, there fell a narrow shadow of cloud; there wakened a wind not unedged. In deep and secret thought he had drifted upon that negation of justice involved by the Golden Rule. He saw, what every intellect worthy a name must see: that to do as you would be done by, to withhold the scourge from the guilty shoulder, to suffer the weed to flourish in the garden, to shield our fellow-men from the consequence of their evil or folly, is to put the individual higher than society, and to follow a precept that ethics in evolution has long rejected. But he shirked his dilemma: he believed it not necessary to pursue the paradox to its bitter end. The Golden Rule he hypostatised into a living and an omnipresent creed; henceforth it was destined to be his criterion of every action; and to his doubting spirit he replied, that if not practicable in youth, if not convenient for middle age, this principle might most justly direct the performance and stimulate the thought of the old. Thus he was, and knew himself, untrue to the clearer, colder conviction of his reasoning past; but in practice this defection brought a peace so exalted, a content so steady, a recognition so precious, that he rested his spirit upon it in faith and sought no further. Now he retraced his time, and made a brief and pregnant summary thereof for Susan's ear. "'Tis to be spoken in a score of words," he said. "My life has been a storm in a teacup; but none the less a terrible storm for me until I won the grace to still it. Port to the sailor-man be a blessed thing according to the voyage that's gone afore. The worse that, the better the peace of the haven when he comes to it." She was going to speak, but a sound on the stillness of night stopped her. "Hark!" was all she said. Together they rose and went to his outer door. The gibbous moon sailed through a sky of thin cloud, and light fell dimly upon the open spaces, but sparkled in the great darkness of evergreen things about the garden. Earth rolled night-hidden to the southern hills, and its breast was touched with sparks of flame, where glimmered those few habitations visible from this place. A lattice of naked boughs meshed the moonlight under the slope of the hill, and from beneath their shadows ascended a moving thread of men and boys. They broke the stillness with speech and laughter, and their red lantern-light struck to right and left and killed the wan moonshine as they came. "What's toward now?" asked Mr. Baskerville, staring blankly before him. "Why," cried Susan, "'tis the carol-singers without a doubt! They'll want an ocean of beer presently, and where shall us get it from?" "Coming to me--coming to sing to _me_!" he mumbled. "Good God, a thing far beyond my utmost thought is this!" The crowd rolled clattering up, and the woman stayed to welcome them; but the man ran back into his house, sat down in his chair, bent forward to listen and clasped his hands tightly between his knees. Acute emotion marked his countenance; but this painful tension passed when out of the night there rolled the melodious thunder of an ancient tune. "Singing for me!" he murmured many times while the old song throbbed. 
14527	----	CHILDREN OF THE MIST BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS Author of "Down Dartmoor Way," "Some Everyday Folks," "My Laughing Philosopher," "Lying Prophets," etc. 1898 BOOK I--THE BOY'S ROMANCE I THE PIXIES' PARLOUR II A CLEAR UNDERSTANDING III EXIT WILL IV BY THE RIVER V THE INCIDENT OF MR. JOEL FORD VI AN UNHAPPY POET VII LIBATION TO POMONA VIII A BROTHERS' QUARREL IX OUTSIDE EXETER GAOL X THE BRINGING OF THE NEWS XI LOVE AND GREY GRANITE XII A STORY-BOOK XIII THE MILLER'S OFFER XIV LOGIC BOOK II--THE ENTERPRISE I SPRINGTIME II NEWTAKE FARM III OVER A RIDING-WHIP IV DEFEATED HOPES V THE ZEAL OF SAM BONUS VI A SWARM OF BEES VII AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE VIII MR. BLEE FORGETS HIMSELF IX A DIFFERENCE WITH THE DUCHY X CONNECTING LINKS XI TOGETHER XII THROUGH ONE GREAT DAY XIII THE WILL XIV A HUNDRED POUNDS XV "THE ANGEL OF THE DARKER DRINK" XVI BEFORE THE DAWN XVII MISSING BOOK III--HIS GRANITE CROSS I BABY II THE KNIGHT OF FORLORN HOPES III CONCERNING THE GATE-POST IV MARTIN'S RAID V WINTER VI THE CROSS UPREARED VII GREY TWILIGHT BOOK IV--HIS SECRET I A WANDERER RETURNS II HOPE RENEWED III ANSWERED IV THE END OF THE FIGHT V TWO MIGHTY SURPRISES VI THE SECRET OUT VII SMALL TIMOTHY VIII FLIGHT IX UNDER COSDON BEACON X BAD NEWS FOR BLANCHARD XI PHOEBE TAKES THOUGHT XII NEW YEAR'S EVE AND NEW YEAR'S DAY XIII MR. LYDDON'S TACTICS XIV ACTION XV A BATTLE XVI A PAIR OF HANDCUFFS XVII SUSPENSE XVIII THE NIGHT OF JUBILEE CHILDREN OF THE MIST BOOK I THE BOY'S ROMANCE CHAPTER I THE PIXIES' PARLOUR Phoebe Lyddon frowned, and, as an instant protest, twin dimples peeped into life at the left corner of her bonny mouth. In regarding that attractive ripple the down-drawn eyebrows were forgotten until they rose again into their natural arches. A sweet, childish contour of face chimed with her expression; her full lips were bright as the bunch of ripe wood-strawberries at the breast of her cotton gown; her eyes as grey as Dartmoor mists; while, for the rest, a little round chin, a small, straight nose, and a high forehead, which Phoebe mourned and kept carefully concealed under masses of curly brown hair, were the sole features to be specially noted about her. She was a trifle below the standard of height proper to a girl of nineteen, but all compact, of soft, rounded lines, plump, fresh of colour, healthy, happy, sweet as a ripe apple. From a position upon swelling hillsides above the valley of a river, she scanned the scene beneath, made small her eyes to focus the distance, and so pursued a survey of meadow and woodland, yet without seeing what she sought. Beneath and beyond, separated from her standpoint by grasslands and a hedge of hazel, tangled thickets of blackthorn, of bracken, and of briar sank to the valley bottom. Therein wound tinkling Teign through the gorges of Fingle to the sea; and above it, where the land climbed upward on the other side, spread the Park of Whiddou, with expanses of sweet, stone-scattered herbage, with tracts of deep fern, coverts of oak, and occasional habitations for the deer. This spectacle, through a grey veil of fine rain, Phoebe noted at mid-afternoon of a day in early August; and, as she watched, there widened a rift under the sun's hidden throne, and a mighty, fan-shaped pencil of brightness straggled downwards, proceeded in solemn sweep across the valley, and lighted the depths of the gorge beyond with a radiance of misty silver. The music of jackdaws welcomed this first indication of improved weather; then Phoebe's sharp eyes beheld a phenomenon afar off through the momentary cessation of the rain. Three parts of a mile away, on a distant hillside, like the successive discharges of a dozen fowling-pieces, little blotches of smoke or mist suddenly appeared. Rapidly they followed each other, and sometimes the puffs of vapour were exploded together, sometimes separately. For a moment the girl felt puzzled; then she comprehended and laughed. "'Tis the silly auld sheep!" she said to herself. "They 'm shakin 'theer fleeces 'cause they knaw the rain's over-past. Bellwether did begin, I warrant, then all the rest done the same." Each remote member of the flock thus freed its coat from the accumulated moisture of a long rainfall; then the huddled heap, in which they had combined to withstand the weather and show tail to the western storm, began to scatter. With coughs and sneezes the beasts wandered forward again, and pursued their business of grazing. Steadily the promises of the sky multiplied and Phoebe's impatience increased. Her position did not, however, depend for comfort upon the return of sunshine, for she stood out of the weather, where sundry giant rocks to the number of five arose in a fantastic pile. Nature's primal architects were responsible for the Pixies' Parlour, and upon the awful morning of Dartmoor's creation these enormous masses had first been hurled to their present position--outposts of the eternal granite, though themselves widely removed from the central waste of the Moor. This particular and gigantic monument of the past stands with its feet in land long cultivated. Plough and harrow yearly skirt the Pixies' Parlour; it rises to-day above yellow corn, to-morrow amid ripening roots; it crowns the succeeding generations of man's industry, and watches a ceaseless cycle of human toil. The rocks of which it is composed form a sort of rude chamber, sacred to fairy folk since a time before the memory of the living; briars and ivy-tods conceal a part of the fabric; a blackthorn, brushed at this season with purple fruit, rises above it; one shadowed ledge reveals the nightly roosting place of hawk or raven; and marks of steel on the stone show clearly where some great or small fragment of granite has been blasted from the parent pile for the need of man. Multi-coloured, massive, and picturesque, the Parlour, upon Phoebe Lyddon's visit to it, stood forth against the red bosom of naked land; for a fierce summer had early ripened the vanished harvest, and now its place was already ploughed again, while ashes of dead fire scattered upon the earth showed where weed and waste had been consumed after ingathering of the grain. Patches of August blue now lightened the aerial grey; then sunshine set a million gems twinkling on the great bejewelled bosom of the valley. Under this magic heat an almost instantaneous shadowy ghost of fresh vapour rose upon the riparian meadows, and out of it, swinging along with the energy of youth and high spirits, came a lad. Phoebe smiled and twinkled a white handkerchief to him, and he waved his hat and bettered his pace for answer. Soon Will Blanchard reached his sweetheart, and showed himself a brown, straight youngster, with curly hair, pugnacious nose, good shoulders, and a figure so well put together that his height was not apparent until he stood alongside another man. Will's eyes were grey as Phoebe's, but of a different expression; soft and unsettled, cloudy as the recent weather, full of the alternate mist and flash of a precious stone, one moment all a-dreaming, the next aglow. His natural look was at first sight a little stern until a man came to know it, then this impression waned and left a critic puzzled. The square cut of his face and abrupt angle of his jaw did not indeed belie Will Blanchard, but the man's smile magically dissipated this austerity of aspect, and no sudden sunshine ever brightened a dark day quicker than pleasure made bright his features. It was a sulky, sleepy, sweet, changeable face--very fascinating in the eyes of women. His musical laugh once fluttered sundry young bosoms, brightened many pretty eyes and cheeks, but Will's heart was Phoebe Lyddon's now--had been for six full months--and albeit a mere country boy in knowledge of the world, younger far than his one-and-twenty years of life, and wholly unskilled in those arts whose practice enables men to dwell together with friendship and harmony, yet Will Blanchard was quite old enough and wise enough and rich enough to wed, and make a husband of more than common quality at that--in his own opinion. Fortified by this conviction, and determined to wait no longer, he now came to see Phoebe. Within the sheltering arms of the Pixies' Parlour he kissed her, pressed her against his wet velveteen jacket, then sat down under the rocks beside her. "You 'm comed wi' the sun, dear Will." "Ay--the weather breaks. I hope theer'll be a drop more water down the river bimebye. You got my letter all right?" "Ess fay, else I shouldn't be here. And this tremendous matter in hand?" "I thought you'd guess what 't was. I be weary o' waitin' for 'e. An' as I comed of age last month, I'm a man in law so well as larnin', and I'm gwaine to speak to Miller Lyddon this very night." Phoebe looked blank. There was a moment's silence while Will picked and ate the wood-strawberries in his sweetheart's dress. "Caan't 'e think o' nothin' wiser than to see faither?" she said at last. "Theer ban't nothin' wiser. He knaws we 'm tokened, and it's no manner o' use him gwaine on pretendin' to himself 't isn't so. You 'm wife-old, and you've made choice o' me; and I'm a ripe man, as have thought a lot in my time, and be earnin' gude money and all. Besides, 't is a dead-sure fact I'll have auld Morgan's place as head waterkeeper, an' the cottage along with it, in fair time." "Ban't for me to lift up no hindrances, but you knaw faither." "Ess, I do--for a very stiff-necked man." "Maybe 't is so; but a gude faither to me." "An' a gude friend to me, for that matter. He aint got nothing 'gainst me, anyway--no more 's any man living." "Awnly the youth and fieriness of 'e." "Me fiery! I lay you wouldn't find a cooler chap in Chagford." "You 'm a dinky bit comical-tempered now and again, dear heart." He flushed, and the corners of his jaw thickened. "If a man was to say that, I'd knock his words down his throat." "I knaw you would, my awn Will; an' that's bein' comical-tempered, ban't it?" "Then perhaps I'd best not to see your faither arter all, if you 'm that way o' thinkin'," he answered shortly. Then Phoebe purred to him and rubbed her cheek against his chin, whereon the glint vanished from his eyes, and they were soft again. "Mother's the awnly livin' sawl what understands me," he said slowly. "And I--I too, Will!" cried Phoebe. "Ess fay. I'll call you a holy angel if you please, an' God knaws theer 's not an angel in heaven I'd have stead of 'e." "I ban't no angel," said Will gravely, "and never set up for no such thing; but I've thought a lot 'bout the world in general, and I'm purty wise for a home-stayin' chap, come to think on it; and it's borne in 'pon me of late days that the married state 's a gude wan, and the sooner the better." "But a leap in the dark even for the wisest, Will?" "So's every other step us takes for that matter. Look at them grasshoppers. Off they goes to glory and doan't knaw no more 'n the dead wheer they'll fetch up. I've seed 'em by the river jump slap in the water, almost on to a trout's back. So us hops along and caan't say what's comin' next. We 'm built to see just beyond our awn nose-ends and no further. That's philosophy." "Ban't comfortin' if 't is," said Phoebe. "Whether or no, I'll see your faither 'fore night and have a plain answer. I'm a straight, square man, so's the miller." "You'll speed poorly, I'm fearin', but 't is a honest thing; and I'll tell faither you 'm all the world to me. He doan't seem to knaw what it is for a gal to be nineteen year old somehow." Solemnly Will rose, almost overweighted with the consciousness of what lay before him. "We'll go home-along now. Doan't 'e tell him I'm coming. I'll take him unbeknawnst. And you keep out the way till I be gone again." "Does your mother knaw, Will?" "Ess, she an' Chris both knaw I be gwaine to have it out this night. Mother sez I be right, but that Miller will send me packing wi' a flea in my ear; Chris sez I be wrong to ax yet awhile." "You can see why that is; 'she 's got to wait herself," said Phoebe, rather spitefully. "Waitin' 's well enough when it caan't be helped. But in my case, as a man of assured work and position in the plaace, I doan't hold it needful no more." Together the young couple marched down over the meadows, gained the side of the river, and followed its windings to the west. Through a dip in the woods presently peeped the ancient stannary town of Chagford, from the summit of its own little eminence on the eastern confines of Dartmoor. Both Will and Phoebe dwelt within the parish, but some distance from the place itself. She lived at Monks Barton, a farm and mill beside the stream; he shared an adjacent cottage with his mother and sister. Only a bend of the river separated the dwellings of the lovers--where Rushford Bridge spanned the Teign and beech and fir rose above it. In a great glory of clearness after rain, boy and girl moved along together under the trees. The fisherman's path which they followed wound where wet granite shone and ivy glimmered beneath the forest; and the leaves still dripped briskly, making a patter of sound through the underwood, and marking a thousand circles and splashes in the smooth water beneath the banks of the stream. Against a purple-grey background of past rain the green of high summer shone bright and fresh, and each moss-clad rock and fern-fringed branch of the forest oaks sent forth its own incense of slender steam where the sunlight sparkled and sucked up the moisture. Scarce half a mile from Phoebe's home a shining yellow twig bent and flashed against the green, and a broad back appeared through a screen of alder by the water's edge. "'T is a rod," said Will. "Bide a moment, and I'll take the number of his ticket. He 'm the first fisherman I've seen to-day." As under-keeper or water-bailiff to the Fishing Association, young Blanchard's work consisted in endless perambulation of the river's bank, in sharp outlook for poacher and trespasser, and in the survey of fishermen's bridges, and other contrivances for anglers that occurred along the winding course of the waters. His also was the duty of noting the license numbers, and of surprising those immoral anglers who sought to kill fish illegally on distant reaches of the river. His keen eyes, great activity, and approved pluck well fitted Will for such duties. He often walked twenty miles a day, and fishermen said that he knew every big trout in the Teign from Fingle Bridge to the dark pools and rippling steps under Sittaford Tor, near the river's twin birthplaces. He also knew where the great peel rested, on their annual migration from sea to moor; where the kingfisher's nest of fish-bones lay hidden; where the otter had her home beneath the bank, and its inland vent-hole behind a silver birch. Will bid the angler "good afternoon," and made a few general remarks on sport and the present unfavourable condition of the water, shrunk to mere ribbons of silver by a long summer drought. The fisherman was a stranger to Will--a handsome, stalwart man, with a heavy amber moustache, hard blue eyes, and a skin tanned red by hotter suns than English Augusts know. His disposition, also, as it seemed, reflected years of a tropic or subtropic existence, for this trivial meeting and momentary intrusion upon his solitude resulted in an explosion as sudden as unreasonable and unexpected. "Keep back, can't you?" he exclaimed, while the young keeper approached his side; "who 's going to catch fish with your lanky shadow across the water?" Will was up in arms instantly. "Do 'e think I doan't knaw my business? Theer 's my shadder 'pon the bank a mile behind you; an' I didn't ope my mouth till you'd fished the stickle to the bottom and missed two rises." This criticism angered the elder man, and he freed his tailfly fiercely from the rush-head that held it. "Mind your own affairs and get out of my sight, whoever you are. This river's not what it used to be by a good deal. Over-fished and poached, and not looked after, I'll swear." Thus, in ignorance, the sportsman uttered words of all most like to set Will Blanchard's temper loose--a task sufficiently easy at the best of times. "What the hell d' you knaw 'bout the river?" he flamed out. "And as to 'my affairs,' 't is my affairs, an' I be water-bailiff, an' I'll thank you for the number of your ticket--so now then!" "What's become of Morgan?" asked the other. "He 'm fust, I be second; and 't is my job to take the license numbers." "Pity you're such an uncivil young cub, then." "Gimme your ticket directly minute!" "I'm not going to." The keeper looked wicked enough by this time, but he made a great effort to hold himself in. "Why for not?" "Because I didn't take one." "That ban't gwaine to do for me." "Ban't it? Then you'll have to go without any reason. Now run away and don't bleat so loud." "Look here," retorted Will, going straight up to the fisherman, and taking his measure with a flashing eye, "You gimme your ticket number or your name an' address, else I'll make 'e." They counted nearly the same inches, but the angler was the elder, and a man of more powerful build and massive frame than his younger opponent. His blue eyes and full, broad face spoke a pugnacity not less pronounced than the keeper's own finer features indicated; and thus these two, destined for long years to bulk largely each upon the life of the other, stood eye to eye for the first time. Will's temper was nearly gone, and now another sneer set it loose with sudden and startling result. "Make me, my young moorcock? Two more words and I'll throw you across the river!" The two words were not forthcoming, but Will dropped his stick and shot forward straight and strong as an angry dog. He closed before the stranger could dispose of his rod, gripped him with a strong wrestling hold, and cross-buttocked him heavily in the twinkling of an eye. The big man happily fell without hurt upon soft sand at the river's brink; but the indignity of this defeat roused his temper effectually. He grinned nevertheless as he rose again, shook the sand off his face, and licked his hands. "Good Devon, sure enough, my son; now I'll teach _you_ something you never heard tell of, and break your damned fool's neck for you into the bargain!" But Phoebe, who had wandered slowly on, returned quickly at the sound of the scuffle and high words. Now she fluttered between the combatants and rendered any further encounter for the time impossible. They could not close again with the girl between them, and the stranger, his anger holding its breath, glanced at her with sudden interest, stayed his angry growl, suffered rage to wane out of his eyes and frank admiration to appear in them. "Doan't be fighting!" cried Phoebe. "Whatever's the mischief, Will? Do bate your speed of hand! You've thrawed the gentleman down, seemin'ly." "Wheer 's his ticket to then?" "Why, it isn't Miller Lyddon's young maid, surely!" burst out the fisherman; "not Phoebe grown to woman!" A Devon accent marked the speech, suddenly dragged from him by surprise. "Ess, I be Phoebe Lyddon; but don't 'e fall 'pon each other again, for the Lard's sake," she said. "The boy 's as tetchy in temper as a broody hen. I was only joking all the time, and see how he made me pay for my joke. But to think I should remember you! Grown from bud to pretty blossom, by God! And I danced you on my knee last time I saw you!" "Then you 'm wan of they two Grimbal brothers as was to be home again in Chagford to-day!" exclaimed Will. "That's so; Martin and I landed at Plymouth yesterday. We got to Chagford early this morning." Will laughed. "I never!" he said. "Why, you be lodging with my awn mother at the cottage above Rushford Bridge! You was expected this marnin', but I couldn't wait for 'e. You 'm Jan Grimbal--eh?" "Right! And you're a nice host, to be sure!" "'T is solemn truth, you 'm biding under our roof, the 'Three Crowns' bein' full just now. And I'm sorry I thrawed 'e; but you was that glumpy, and of course I didn't know 'e from Adam. I'm Will Blanchard." "Never mind, Will, we'll try again some day. I could wrestle a bit once, and learned a new trick or two from a Yankee in Africa." "You've come back 'mazin' rich they say, Jan Grimbal?" "So, so. Not millionaires, but all right--both of us, though I'm the snug man of the two. We got to Africa at the right moment, before 1867, you know, the year that O'Reilly saw a nigger-child playing with the first Kimberley diamond ever found. Up we went, the pair of us. Things have hummed since then, and claims and half-claims and quarter-claims are coming to be worth a Jew's eye. We're all right, anyway, and I've got a stake out there yet." "You 'm well pleased to come back to dear li'l Chagford after so many years of foreign paarts, I should think, Mr. Grimbal?" said Phoebe. "Ay, that I am. There's no place like Devon, in all the earth, and no spot like Chagford in Devon. I'm too hard grit to wink an eyelid at sight of the old scenes again myself; but Martin, when he caught first sight of great rolling Cosdon crowning the land--why, his eyes were wetted, if you'll believe it." "And you comed right off to fish the river fust thing," said Will admiringly. "Ay, couldn't help it. When I heard the water calling, it was more than my power to keep away. But you're cruel short of rain, seemingly, and of course the season 's nearly over." "I'll shaw you dark hovers, wheer braave feesh be lying yet," promised Will; and the angler thanked him, foretelling a great friendship. Yet his eyes rarely roamed from Phoebe, and anon, as all three proceeded, John Grimbal stopped at the gate of Monks Barton and held the girl in conversation awhile. But first he despatched Will homewards with a message for his mother. "Let Mrs. Blanchard know we'll feed at seven o'clock off the best that she can get," he said; "and tell her not to bother about the liquor. I'll see to that myself." CHAPTER II A CLEAR UNDERSTANDING Monks Barton, or Barton Monachorum, as the farm was called in a Tudor perambulation of Chagford, owed its name to traditions that holy men aforetime dwelt there, performed saintly deeds, and blessed a spring in the adjacent woods, whose waters from that date ever proved a magical medicament for "striking" of sore eyes. That the lands of the valley had once been in monastic possession was, however, probable enough; and some portions of the old farm did in truth rise upon the ruins of a still more ancient habitation long vanished. Monks Barton stood, a picturesque agglomeration of buildings, beside the river. The mill-wheel, fed by a stream taken from the Teign some distance up the valley and here returned again to the parent water, thundered on its solemn round in an eternal twinkling twilight of dripping ferns and green mosses; while hard by the dwelling-house stood and offered small diamond panes and one dormer-window to the south. Upon its whitewashed face three fruit-trees grew--a black plum, a cherry, a winter pear; and before the farmhouse stretched a yard sloping to the river ford, where a line of massive stepping-stones for foot-passengers crossed the water. On either side of this space, walled up from the edge of the stream, little gardens of raspberry and gooseberry bushes spread; and here, too, appeared a few apple-trees, a bed of herbs, a patch of onions, purple cabbages, and a giant hollyhock with sulphur-coloured blossoms that thrust his proud head upwards, a gentleman at large, and the practical countrymen of the kitchen-garden. The mill and outbuildings, the homestead and wood-stacks embraced a whole gamut of fine colour, ranging from the tawny and crimson of fretted brick and tile to varied greys of drying timber; from the cushions and pillows of moss and embroidery of houseleeks and valerian, that had flourished for fifty years on a ruined shippen, to the silver gleam of old thatches and the shining gold of new. Nor was the white face of the dwelling-house amiss. Only one cold, crude eye stared out from this time-tinctured scene; only one raw pentroof of corrugated iron blotted it, made poets sigh, artists swear, and Miller Lyddon contemplate more of the same upon his land. A clucking and grunting concourse of fowls and pigs shared the farmyard; blue pigeons claimed the roof; and now, in the westering light, with slow foot, sweet breath, and swelling udder, many kine, red as the ripe horse-chestnut, followed each other across the ford, assembled themselves together and lowed musically to the milkers. Phoebe Lyddon and John Grimbal still stood at the farm-gate, and they watched, as a boy and an aged man came forward with buckets and stools. Then, to the muffled thud of the water-wheel and the drone and murmur of the river, was added a purr of milk, foaming into tin pails, and sharp, thin monitions from the ancient, as he called the cows by their names and bid them be still. In John Grimbal, newly come from South Africa, this scene awakened a lively satisfaction and delight. It told him that he was home again; and so did the girl, though it seemed absurd to think that Phoebe had ever sat upon his knee and heard his big stories, when as yet he himself was a boy and the world still spread before him unconquered. He mused at the change and looked forward to bringing himself and his success in life before those who had known him in the past. He very well remembered who had encouraged his ambitions and spoken words of kindness and of hope; who also had sneered, criticised his designs unfavourably, and thrown cold water upon his projects. John Grimbal meant to make certain souls smart as he had smarted; but he feared his brother a little in this connection, and suspected that Martin would not assert himself among the friends of his youth, would not assume a position his riches warranted, would be content with too humble a manner of life. As a matter of fact, the ambition of neither extended much beyond a life of peace among the scenes of his childhood; but while the younger traveller returned with unuttered thanksgivings in his heart that he was privileged again to see the land he loved and henceforth dwell amid its cherished scenes, the greater energy and wider ambition of his brother planned a position of some prominence if not power. John was above all else a sportsman, and his programme embraced land, a stout new dwelling-house, preserves of game in a small way, some fishing, and the formation of a new rifle-corps at Chagford. This last enterprise he intended to be the serious business of life; but his mind was open to any new, agreeable impressions and, indeed, it received them at every turn. Phoebe Lyddon awoke a very vital train of thoughts, and when he left her, promising to come with his brother on the following day to see the miller, John Grimbal's impressionable heart was stamped with her pretty image, his ear still held the melody of her voice. He crossed the stepping-stones, sat down upon the bank to change his flies, and looked at the home of Phoebe without sentiment, yet not without pleasure. It lay all cuddled on the bosom of a green hill; to the west stretched meadows and orchard along the winding valley of the river; to the east extended more grass-land that emerged into ferny coombs and glades and river dells, all alive with the light of wild flowers and the music of birds, with the play of dusky sunshine in the still water, and of shadows on the shore. A little procession of white ducks sailed slowly up the river, and each as it passed twisted its head to peer up at the spectator. Presently the drake who led them touched bottom, and his red-gold webs appeared. Then he paddled ashore, lifted up his voice, waggled his tail, and with a crescendo of quacking conducted his harem into the farmyard. One lone Muscovy duck, perchance emulating the holy men of old in their self-communion, or else constrained by circumstance to a solitary life, appeared apart on a little island under the alders. A stranger in a strange land, he sat with bent head and red-rimmed, philosophic eyes, regarding his own breast while sunset lights fired the metallic lustre of his motley. Quite close to him a dead branch thrust upwards from the water, and the river swirled in oily play of wrinkles and dimples beyond it. Here, with some approach to his old skill, the angler presently cast a small brown moth. It fell lightly and neatly, cocked for a second, then turned helplessly over, wrecked in the sudden eddy as a natural insect had been. A fearless rise followed, and in less than half a minute a small trout was in the angler's net. John Grimbal landed this little fish carefully and regarded it with huge satisfaction before returning it to the river. Then, having accomplished the task set by sudden desire,--to catch a Teign trout again, feel it, smell it, see the ebony and crimson, the silver belly warming to gold on its sides and darkening to brown and olive above,--having by this act renewed sensations that had slept for fifteen years, he put up his rod and returned to his temporary quarters at the dwelling of Mrs. Blanchard. His brother was waiting in the little garden to welcome him. Martin walked up and down, smelled the flowers, and gazed with sober delight upon the surrounding scene. Already sunset fires had waned; but the high top of the fir that crowned Rushford Bridge still glowed with a great light on its red bark; an uprising Whiddon, where it lay afar off under the crown of Cranbrook, likewise shone out above the shadowed valley. Martin Grimbal approached his brother and laid his hand upon the fisherman's arm. He stood the smaller in stature, though of strong build. His clean-shaved face had burned much darker than John's; he was indeed coffee-brown and might have been mistaken for an Indian but for his eyes of ordinary slate-grey. Without any pretension to good looks, Martin Grimbal displayed what was better--an expression of such frank benignity and goodness that his kind trusted him and relied upon him by intuition. Honest and true to the verge of quixotism was this man in all dealings with his fellows, yet he proved a faulty student of character. First he was in a measure blinded by his own amiable qualities to acute knowledge of human nature; secondly, he was drawn away from humanity rather than not, for no cynic reason, but by the character of his personal predilections and pursuits. "I've seen father's grave, John," were his first words to his brother. "It's beside the mother's, but that old stone he put up to her must be moved and--" "All right, all right, old chap. Stones are in your line, not mine. Where's dinner? I want bread, not a stone, eh?" Martin did not laugh, but shrugged his shoulders in good-tempered fashion. His face had a measure of distinction his brother's lacked, and indeed, while wanting John's tremendous physical energy and robust determination, he possessed a finer intellect and instinct less animal. Even abroad, during their earlier enterprises, Martin had first provided brains sufficient for himself and John; but an accident of fortune suddenly favoured the elder; and while John took full care that Martin should benefit with himself, he was pleased henceforth to read into his superior luck a revelation of superior intelligence, and from that moment followed his own inclinations and judgment. He liked Martin no less, but never turned to him for counsel again after his own accidental good fortune; and henceforward assumed an elder brother's manner and a show of superior wisdom. In matters of the world and in knowledge of such human character as shall be found to congregate in civilisation's van, or where precious metals and precious stones have been discovered to abound, John Grimbal was undoubtedly the shrewder, more experienced man; and Martin felt very well content that his elder brother should take the lead. Since the advent of their prosperity a lively gratitude had animated his mind. The twain shared nothing save bonds of blood, love of their native land, and parity of ambition, first manifested in early desires to become independent. Together they had gone abroad, together they returned; and now each according to his genius designed to seek happiness where he expected to find it. John still held interests in South Africa, but Martin, content with less fortune, and mighty anxious to be free of all further business, realised his wealth and now knew the limits of his income. The brothers supped in good spirits and Will Blanchard's sister waited upon them. Chris was her "brother in petticoats," people said, and indeed she resembled him greatly in face and disposition. But her eyes were brown, like her dead father's, and a gypsy splendour of black hair crowned her head. She was a year younger than Will, wholly wrapped up in him and one other. A familiarity, shy on Martin's side and patronising in John, obtained between the brothers and their pretty attendant, for she knew all about them and the very cottage in which their parents had dwelt and died. The girl came and went, answered John Grimbal's jests readily, and ministered to them as one not inferior to those she served. The elder man's blue eyes were full of earthy admiration. He picked his teeth between the courses and admired aloud, while Chris was from the room. "'Tis wonderful how pretty all the women look, coming back to them after ten years of nigger girls. Roses and cream isn't in it with their skins, though this one's dark as a clear night--Spanish fashion." "Miss Blanchard seems very beautiful to me certainly," admitted Martin. "I've seen only two maids--since setting foot in Chagford," continued his brother, "and it would puzzle the devil to say which was best to look at." "Your heart will soon be lost, I'll wager--to a Chagford girl, I hope. I know you talked about flying high, but you might be happier to take a mate from--well, you understand." "It's all very well to build theories on board ship about bettering myself socially and all that, but it's rot; I'll be knocked over by one of the country witches, I know I shall,--I feel it. I love the sound of the Devon on their lips, and the clear eyes of them, and the bright skin. 'Tis all I can do to keep from hugging the women, and that's a fact. But you, you cold-blooded beggar, your heart's still for the grey granite and the old ghostly stones, and creepy, lonely places on the Moor! We're that different, you and me." Martin nodded thoughtfully, and, the meal being now ended, both men strolled out of doors, then wandered down to smoke a pipe on Rushford Bridge and listen to the nightly murmur of the river. Darkness moved on the face of land and water; twilight had sucked all the colour away from the valley; and through the deepening monochrome of the murk there passed white mists with shadowy hands, and peeped blind pale eyes along the winding water, where its surface reflected the faded west. Nocturnal magic conjured the least meadow into an unmeasured sea of vapour; awoke naiads in the waters and dryads in the woods; transformed the solemn organ music of great beetles into songs of a roaming spirit; set unseen shapes stirring in the starlight; whispered of invisible, enchanted things, happy and unhappy, behind the silence. A man moved from the bridge as the brothers reached it. Then Will Blanchard, knocking out his pipe and taking a big inspiration, set his face steadily toward Monks Barton and that vital interview with Miller Lyddon now standing in the pathway of his life. He rapped at the farm door and a step came slowly down the stone-paved passage. Then Billy Blee, the miller's right-hand man, opened to him. Bent he was from the small of the back, with a highly coloured, much wrinkled visage, and ginger hair, bleached by time to a paler shade. His poll was bald and shining, and thick yellow whiskers met beneath a clean-shorn chin. Billy's shaggy eyebrows, little bright eyes, and long upper lip, taken with the tawny fringe under his chops, gave him the look of an ancient and gigantic lion-monkey; and indeed there was not lacking in him an ape-like twist, as shall appear. "Hullo! boy Blanchard! An' what might you want?" he asked. "To see Miller." "Come in then; we'm all alone in kitchen, him and me, awver our grog and game. What's the matter now?" "A private word for Miller's ear," said Will cautiously. "Come you in then. Us'll do what we may for 'e. Auld heads be the best stepping-stones young folks can have, understood right; awnly the likes of you mostly chooses to splash through life on your awn damn silly roads." Mr. Blee, whose friendship and familiarity with his master was of the closest, led on, and Will soon stood before Mr. Lyddon. The man who owned Monks Barton, and who there prosperously combined the callings of farmer and miller, had long enjoyed the esteem of the neighbourhood in which he dwelt, as had his ancestors before him, through many generations. He had won reputation for a sort of silent wisdom. He never advised any man ill, never hesitated to do a kindly action, and himself contrived to prosper year in, year out, no matter what period of depression might be passing over Chagford. Vincent Lyddon was a widower of sixty-five--a grey, thin, tall man, slow of speech and sleepy of eye. A weak mouth, and a high, round forehead, far smoother than his age had promised, were distinguishing physical features of him. His wife had been dead eighteen years, and of his two children one only survived. The elder, a boy toddling in early childhood at the water's edge, was unmissed until too late, and found drowned next day after a terrible night of agony for both parents. Indeed, Mrs. Lyddon never recovered from the shock, and Phoebe was but a year old when her mother died. Further, it need only be mentioned that the miller had heard of Will's courting more than once, but absolutely refused to allow the matter serious consideration. The romance was no more than philandering of children in his eyes. "Will--eh? Well, my son, and how can I serve you?" asked the master of Monks Barton, kindly enough. He recrossed his legs, settled in his leather chair, and continued the smoking of a long clay pipe. "Just this, Mr. Lyddon," began Will abruptly. "You calls me your 'son' as a manner o' speech, but I wants to be no less in fact." "You ban't here on that fool's errand, bwoy, surely? I thought I'd made my mind clear enough to Phoebe six months ago." "Look you here now. I be earnin' eighteen shillings a week an' a bit awver; an' I be sure of Morgan's berth as head-keeper presently; an' I'm a man as thinks." "That's brave talk, but what have 'e saved, lad?" inquired Mr. Blee. The lover looked round at him sharply. "I thought you was out the room," he said. "I be come to talk to Miller, not you." "Nay, nay, Billy can stay and see I'm not tu hard 'pon 'e," declared Mr. Lyddon. "He axed a proper question. What's put by to goody in the savings' bank, Will?" "Well--five pounds; and 't will be rose to ten by Christmas, I assure 'e." "Fi' puns! an' how far 's that gwaine?" "So far as us can make it, in coourse." "Doan't you see, sonny, this ban't a fair bargain? I'm not a hard man--" "By gor! not hard enough by a powerful deal," said Billy. "Not hard on youth; but this match, so to call it, looks like mere moonshine. Theer 's nought _to_ it I can see--both childer, and neither with as much sense as might sink a floatin' straw." "We love each other wi' all our hearts and have done more 'n half a year. Ban't that nothing?" "I married when I was forty-two," remarked the miller, reflectively, looking down at his fox-head slippers, the work of Phoebe's fingers. "An' a purty marryin' time tu!" declared Mr. Blee. "Look at me," he continued, "parlous near seventy, and a bacherlor-man yet." "Not but Widow Comstock will have 'e if you ax her a bit oftener. Us all knows that," said the young lover, with great stratagem. Billy chuckled, and rubbed his wrinkles. "Time enough, time enough," he answered, "but you--scarce out o' clouts--why, 't is playin' at a holy thing, that's what 't is--same as Miss Phoebe, when she was a li'l wee cheel, played at bein' parson in her night-gownd, and got welted for it, tu, by her gude faither." "We 'm both in earnest anyway--me and Phoebe." "So am I," replied the miller, sitting up and putting down his pipe; "so am I in earnest, and wan word 's gude as a hunderd in a pass like this. You must hear the truth, an' that never broke no bones. You 'm no more fitted to have a wife than that tobacco-jar--a hot-headed, wild-fire of a bwoy--" "A right Jack-o'-Lantern, as everybody knaws," suggested Mr. Blee. "Ess fay, 'tis truth. Shifting and oncertain as the marsh gallopers on the moor bogs of a summer night. Awnly a youth's faults, you mind; but still faults. No, no, my lad, you've got to fight your life's battle and win it, 'fore you'm a mate for any gal; an' you've got to begin by fightin' yourself, an' breaking an' taming yourself, an' getting yourself well in hand. That's a matter of more than months for the best of us." "And then?" said Will, "after 'tis done? though I'm not allowin' I'm anything but a ripe man as I stand here afore you now." "Then I'd say, 'I'm glad to see you grawed into a credit to us all, Will Blanchard, and worth your place in the order o' things; but you doan't marry Phoebe Lyddon--never, never, never, not while I'm above ground.'" His slow eyes looked calmly and kindly at Will, and he smiled into the hot, young, furious face. "That's your last word then?" "It is, my lad." "And you won't give a reason?" "The reason is, 'what's bred in the bone comes out in the flesh.' I knawed your faither. You'm as volatile as him wi'out his better paarts." "Leave him wheer he lies--underground. If he'd lived 'stead of bein' cut off from life, you'd 'a' bin proud to knaw him." "A gypsy-man and no better, Will," said Mr. Blee. "Not but what he made a gude end, I allow." "Then I'll be up and away. I've spoke 'e fair, Miller--fair an' straight--an' so you to me. You won't allow this match. Then we'll wed wi'out your blessin', an' sorry I shall be." "If that's your tune, my young rascal, I'll speak again! Phoebe's under age, remember that, and so sure as you dare take her a yard from her awn door you'll suffer for it. 'Tis a clink job, you mind--a prison business; and what's more, you 'm pleased to speak so plain that I will tu, and tell 'e this. If you dare to lift up your eyes to my child again, or stop her in the way, or have speech with her, I'll set p'liceman 'pon 'e! For a year and more she 'm not her awn mistress; and, at the end of that time, if she doan't get better sense than to tinker arter a harum-scarum young jackanapes like you, she ban't a true Lyddon. Now be off with 'e an' doan't dare to look same way Phoebe 's walkin', no more, else theer'll be trouble for 'e." "Wonnerful language, an' in a nutshell," commented Billy, as, blowing rather hard, the miller made an end of his warning. "Us'll leave it theer, then, Mr. Lyddon; and you'll live to be sorry ever you said them words to me. Ess fay, you'll live to sing different; for when two 's set 'pon a matter o' marryin', ban't fathers nor mothers, nor yet angels, be gwaine to part 'em. Phoebe an' me will be man an' wife some day, sure 's the sun 's brighter 'n the mune. So now you knaw. Gude night to 'e." He took up his hat and departed; Billy held up his hands in mute amazement; but the miller showed no emotion and relighted his pipe. "The rising generation do take my breath away twenty times a day," said Mr. Blee. "To think o' that bwoy, in li'l frocks awnly yesterday, standin' theer frontin' two aged men wi' such bouldacious language!" "What would you do, Billy, if the gal was yourn?" "Same as you, to a hair. Bid her drop the chap for gude 'n all. But theer 's devil's pepper in that Blanchard. He ain't done with yet." "Well, well, he won't shorten my sleep, I promise you. Near two years is a long time to the young. Lord knaws wheer a light thing like him will be blawed to, come two years. Time 's on my side for certain. And Phoebe 's like to change also." "Why, a woman's mind 's no more 'n a feather in a gale of wind at her time o' life; though to tell her so 's the sure way to make her steadfast." A moment later Phoebe herself entered. She had heard Will depart and now, in a fever of impatience, crept with bright, questioning eyes to her father's chair. Whereupon Mr. Blee withdrew in a violent hurry. No one audibly desired him to do so, but a side-look from the girl was enough. CHAPTER III EXIT WILL Phoebe's conversation with her father occupied a space of time extending over just two minutes. He met her eager eyes with a smile, patted her head, pinched her ear, and by his manner awakened a delicious flutter of hope in the girl before he spoke. When, therefore, Phoebe learned that Will was sent about his business for ever, and must henceforth be wholly dismissed from her mind, the shock and disappointment of such intelligence came as a cruel blow. She stood silent and thunderstruck before Miller Lyddon, a world of reproaches in her frightened eyes; then mutely the corners of her little mouth sank as she turned away and departed with her first great sorrow. Phoebe's earliest frantic thought had been to fly to Will, but she knew such a thing was impossible. There would surely be a letter from him on the following morning hidden within their secret pillar-box between two bricks of the mill wall. For that she must wait, and even in her misery she was glad that with Will, not herself, lay decision as to future action. She had expected some delay; she had believed that her father would impose stern restrictions of time and make a variety of conditions with her sweetheart; she had even hoped that Miller Lyddon might command lengthened patience for the sake of her headstrong, erratic Will's temper and character; but that he was to be banished in this crushing and summary fashion overwhelmed Phoebe, and that utterly. Her nature, however, was not one nourished from any very deep wells of character. She belonged to a class who suffer bitterly enough under sorrow, but the storm of it while tearing like a tropical tornado over heart and soul, leaves no traces that lapse of time cannot wholly and speedily obliterate. On them it may be said that fortune's sharpest strokes inflict no lasting scars; their dispositions are happily powerless to harbour the sustained agony that burrows and gnaws, poisons man's estimate of all human affairs, wrecks the stores of his experience, and stamps the cicatrix of a live, burning grief on brow and brain for ever. They find their own misery sufficiently exalted; but their temperament is unable to sustain a lifelong tribulation or elevate sorrow into tragedy. And their state is the more blessed. So Phoebe watered her couch with tears, prayed to God to hear her solemn promises of eternal fidelity, then slept and passed into a brief dreamland beyond sorrow's reach. Meantime young Blanchard took his stormy heart into a night of stars. The moon had risen; the sky was clear; the silvery silence remained unbroken save for the sound of the river, where it flowed under the shadows of great trees and beneath aerial bridges and banners of the meadow mists. Will strode through this scene, past his mother's cottage, and up a hill behind it, into the village. His mind presented in turn a dozen courses of action, and each was built upon the abiding foundation of Phoebe's sure faithfulness. That she would cling to him for ever the young man knew right well; no thought of a rival, therefore, entered into his calculations. The sole problem was how quickest to make Mr. Lyddon change his mind; how best to order his future that the miller should regard him as a responsible person, and one of weight in affairs. Not that Will held himself a slight man by any means; but he felt that he must straightway assert his individuality and convince the world in general and Miller Lyddon in particular of faulty judgment. He was very angry still as he retraced the recent conversation. Then, among those various fancies and projects in his mind, the wildest and most foolish stood out before him as both expedient and to be desired. His purpose in Chagford was to get advice from another man; but before he reached the village his own mind was established. Slated and thatched roofs glimmered under moonlight, and already the hamlet slept. A few cats crept like shadows through the deserted streets, from darkness into light, from light back to darkness; and one cottage window, before which Will Blanchard stood, still showed a candle behind a white blind. Most quaint and ancient was this habitation--of picturesque build, with tiny granite porch, small entrance, and venerable thatches that hung low above the upper windows. A few tall balsams quite served to fill the garden; indeed so small was it that from the roadway young Blanchard, by bending over the wooden fence, could easily reach the cottage window. This he did, tapped lightly, and then waited for the door to be opened. A man presently appeared and showed some surprise at the sight of his late visitor. "Let me in, Clem," said Will. "I knawed you'd be up, sitting readin' and dreamin'. 'T is no dreamin' time for me though, by God! I be corned straight from seeing Miller 'bout Phoebe." "Then I can very well guess what was last in your ears." Clement Hicks spoke in an educated voice. He was smaller than Will but evidently older. Somewhat narrow of build and thin, he looked delicate, though in reality wiry and sound. He was dark of complexion, wore his hair long for a cottager, and kept both moustache and beard, though the latter was very scant and showed the outline of his small chin through it. A forehead remarkably lofty but not broad, mounted almost perpendicularly above the man's eyes; and these were large and dark and full of fire, though marred by a discontented expression. His mouth was full-lipped, his other features huddled rather meanly together under the high brow: but his face, while admittedly plain even to ugliness, was not commonplace; for its eyes were remarkable, and the cast of thought ennobled it as a whole. Will entered the cottage kitchen and began instantly to unfold his experiences. "You knaw me--a man with a level head, as leaps after looking, not afore. I put nothing but plain reason to him and he flouted me like you might a cheel. An' I be gwaine to make him eat his words--such hard words as they was tu! Think of it! Me an' Phoebe never to meet no more! The folly of sayin' such a thing! Wouldn't 'e reckon that grey hairs knawed better than to fancy words can keep lovers apart?" "Grey hairs cover old brains; and old brains forget what it feels like to have a body full o' young blood. The best memory can't keep the feeling of youth fresh in a man." "Well, I ban't the hot-headed twoad Miller Lyddon thinks, or pretends he thinks, anyway. I'll shaw un! I can wait, an' Phoebe can wait, an' now she'll have to. I'm gwaine away." "Going away. Why?" "To shaw what 's in me. I ban't sorry for this for some things. Now no man shall say that I'm a home-stayin' gaby, tramping up an' down Teign Vale for a living. I'll step out into the wide world, same as them Grimbals done. They 'm back again made of money, the pair of 'em." "It took them fifteen years and more, and they were marvellously lucky." "What then? I'm as like to fare well as they. I've worked out a far-reaching plan, but the first step I've thought on 's terrible coorious, an' I reckon nobody but you'd see how it led to better things. But you 'm book-larned and wise in your way, though I wish your wisdom had done more for yourself than it has. Anyway, you 'm tokened to Chris and will be one of the family some day perhaps when Mother Coomstock dies, so I'll leave my secret with you. But not a soul else--not mother even. So you must swear you'll never tell to man or woman or cheel what I've done and wheer I be gone." "I'll swear if you like." "By the livin' God." "By any God you believe is alive." "Say it, then." "By the living God, I, Clement Hicks, bee-master of Chagford, Devon, swear to keep the secret of my friend and neighbour, William Blanchard, whatever it is." "And may He tear the life out of you if you so much as think to tell." Hicks laughed and shook his hair from his forehead. "You're suspicious of the best friend you've got in the world." "Not a spark. But I want you to see what an awful solemn thing I reckon it." "Then may God rot me, and plague me, and let me roast in hell-fire with the rogues for ever and a day, if I so much as whisper your news to man or mouse! There, will that do?" "No call to drag in hell fire, 'cause I knaw you doan't set no count on it. More doan't I. Hell's cold ashes now if all what you ve said is true. But you've sworn all right and now I'll tell 'e." He bent forward and whispered in the other's ear, whereon Hicks started in evident amazement and showed himself much concerned. "Good Heavens! Man alive, are you mad?" "You doan't 'zactly look on ahead enough, Clem," said Will loftily. "Ban't the thing itself's gwaine to make a fortune, but what comes of it. 'Tis a tidy stepping-stone lead-in' to gert matters very often, as your books tell, I dare say." "It can't lead to anything whatever in your case but wasted years." "I'm best judge of that. I've planned the road, and if I ban't home again inside ten year as good a man as Grimbal or any other I'll say I was wrong." "You're a bigger fool than even I thought, Blanchard." Will's eye flashed. "You 'm a tidy judge of a fule, I grant," he said angrily, "or should be. But you 'm awnly wan more against me. You'll see you 'm wrong like the rest. Anyway, you've got to mind what you've sweared. An' when mother an' Chris ax 'e wheer I be, I'll thank you to say I'm out in the world doin' braave, an' no more." "As you like. It 's idle, I know, trying to make you change your mind." A thin voice from an upper chamber of the cottage here interrupted their colloquy, and the mother of the bee-keeper reminded him that he was due early on the following day at Okehampton with honey, and that he ought long since to be asleep. "If that's Will Blanchard," she concluded, "tell un to be off home to bed. What 's the wisdom o' turning night hours into day like this here?" "All right, mother," shouted Will. "Gude-night to 'e. I be off this moment." Then bidding his friend farewell, he departed. "Doan't think twice o' what I said a minute since. I was hot 'cause you couldn't see no wisdom in my plan. But that's the way of folks. They belittle a chap's best thoughts and acts till the time comes for luck to turn an' bring the fruit; then them as scoffed be the first to turn round smilin' an' handshaking and sayin', 'What did us say? Didn't us tell 'e so from the very beginning?'" Away went the youthful water-keeper, inspired with the prospect of his contemplated flight. He strode home at a rapid pace, to find all lights out and the household in bed. Then he drank half a pint of cider, ate some bread and cheese, and set about a letter to Phoebe. A little desk on a side-table, the common property of himself, his mother, and sister, was soon opened, and materials found. Then, in his own uncial characters, that always tended hopefully upward, and thus left a triangle of untouched paper at the bottom of every sheet, Will wrote a letter of two folios, or eight complete pages. In this he repeated the points of his conversation with Phoebe's father, told her to be patient, and announced that, satisfied of her unfailing love and steadfastness through all, he was about to pass into the wider world, and carve his way to prosperity and fortune. He hid particulars from her, but mentioned that Clement Hicks would forward any communications. Finally he bid her keep a stout heart and live contented in the certainty of ultimate happiness. He also advised Phoebe to forgive her father. "I have already done it, honor bright," he wrote; "'t is a wise man's part to bear no malice, especially against an old grey body whose judgment 'pears to be gone bad for some reason." He also assured Phoebe that he was hers until death should separate them; in a postscript he desired her to break his departure softly to his mother if opportunity to do so occurred; and, finally, he was not ashamed to fill the empty triangles on each page with kisses, represented by triangles closely packed. Bearing this important communication, Will walked out again into the night, and soon his letter awaited Phoebe in the usual receptacle. He felt therein himself, half suspecting a note might await him, but there was nothing. He hesitated for a moment, then climbed the gate into Monks Barton farmyard, went softly and stood in the dark shadow of the mill-house. The moon shone full upon the face of the dwelling, and its three fruit-trees looked as though painted in profound black against the pale whitewash; while Phoebe's dormer-window framed the splendour of the reflected sky, and shone very brightly. The blind was down, and the maiden behind it had been asleep an hour or two; but Will pictured her as sobbing her heart out still. Perhaps he would never see her again. The path he had chosen to follow might take him over seas and through vast perils; indeed, it must do so if the success he desired was to be won. He felt something almost like a catch in his throat as he turned away and crossed the sleeping river. He glanced down through dreaming glades and saw one motionless silver spot on the dark waters beneath the alders. Sentiment was at its flood just then, and he spoke a few words under his breath. "'Tis thicky auld Muscovy duck, roostin' on his li'l island; poor lone devil wi' never a mate to fight for nor friend to swim along with. Worse case than mine, come to think on it!" Then an emotion, rare enough with him, vanished, and he sniffed the night air and felt his heart beat high at thoughts of what lay ahead. Will returned home, made fast the outer door, took off his boots, and went softly up a creaking stair. Loud and steady music came from the room where John Grimbal lay, and Blanchard smiled when he heard it. "'Tis the snore of a happy man with money in his purse," he thought. Then he stood by his mother's door, which she always kept ajar at night, and peeped in upon her. Damaris Blanchard slumbered with one arm on the coverlet, the other behind her head. She was a handsome woman still, and looked younger than her eight-and-forty years in the soft ambient light. "Muneshine do make dear mother so purty as a queen," said Will to himself. And he would never wish her "good-by," perhaps never see her again. He hastened with light, impulsive step into the room, thinking just to kiss the hand on the bed, but his mother stirred instantly and cried, "Who's theer?" with sleepy voice. Then she sat up and listened--a fair, grey-eyed woman in an old-fashioned night-cap. Her son had vanished before her eyes were opened, and now she turned and yawned and slept again. Will entered his own chamber near at hand, doffed for ever the velveteen uniform of water-keeper, and brought from a drawer an old suit of corduroy. Next he counted his slight store of money, set his 'alarum' for four o'clock, and, fifteen minutes later, was in bed and asleep, the time then being a little after midnight. CHAPTER IV BY THE RIVER Clement Hicks paid an early visit to Will's home upon the following morning. He had already set out to Okehampton with ten pounds of honey in the comb, and at Mrs. Blanchard's cottage he stopped the little public vehicle which ran on market-days to the distant town. That the son of the house was up and away at dawn told his family nothing, for his movements were at all times erratic, and part of his duty consisted in appearing on the river at uncertain times and in unexpected localities. Clement Hicks often called for a moment upon his way to market, and Chris, who now greeted her lover, felt puzzled at the unusual gravity of his face. She turned pale when she heard his tremendous news; but the mother was of more Spartan temperament and received intelligence of Will's achievement without changing colour or ceasing from her occupation. Between Damaris Blanchard and her boy had always existed a perfect harmony of understanding, rare even in their beautiful relationship. The thoughts of son and mother chimed; not seldom they anticipated each other's words. The woman saw much of her dead husband reflected in Will and felt a moral conviction that through the storms of youth, high temper, and inexperience, he would surely pass to good things, by reason of the strenuous honesty and singleness of purpose that actuated him; he, on his side, admired the great calmness and self-possession of his mother. She was so steadfast, so strong, and wiser than any woman he had ever seen. With a fierce, volcanic affection Will Blanchard loved her. She and Phoebe alike shared his whole heart. "It is a manly way of life he has chosen, and that is all I may say. He is ambitious and strong, and I should be the last to think he has not done well to go into the world for a while," said Clement. "When is he coming back again?" asked Chris. "He spoke of ten years or so." "Then 'twill be more or less," declared Mrs. Blanchard, calmly. "Maybe a month, maybe five years, or fifteen, not ten, if he said ten. He'll shaw the gude gold he's made of, whether or no. I'm happy in this and not surprised. 'Twas very like to come arter last night, if things went crooked." "'Tis much as faither might have done," said Chris. "'Tis much what he did do. Thank you for calling, Clem Hicks. Now best be away, else they'll drive off to Okehampton without 'e." Clement departed, Chris wept as the full extent of her loss was impressed upon her, and Mrs. Blanchard went up to her son's room. There she discovered the velveteen suit with a card upon them: "Hand over to Mr. Morgan, Head Water-keeper, Sandypark." She looked through his things, and found that he had taken nothing but his money, one suit of working clothes, and a red tie--her present to him on his birthday during the previous month. All his other possessions remained in their usual places. With none to see, the woman's eye moistened; then she sat down on Will's bed and her heart grew weak for one brief moment as she pictured him fighting the battle. It hurt her a little that he had told Clement Hicks his intention and hid it from his mother. Yet as a son, at least, he had never failed. However, all affairs of life were a matter of waiting, more or less, she told herself; and patience was easier to Damaris Blanchard than to most people. Under her highest uneasiness, maternal pride throbbed at thought of the manly independence indicated by her son's action. She returned to the duties of the day, but found herself restless, while continually admonishing Chris not to be so. Her thoughts drifted to Monks Barton and Will's meeting with his sweetheart's father. Presently, when her daughter went up to the village, Mrs. Blanchard put off her apron, donned the cotton sunbonnet that she always wore from choice, and walked over to see Mr. Lyddon. They were old friends, and presently Damaris listened sedately to the miller without taking offence at his directness of speech. He told the story of his decision and Will's final reply, while she nodded and even smiled once or twice in the course of the narrative. "You was both right, I reckon," she said placidly, looking into Mr. Lyddon's face. "You was wise to mistrust, not knawin' what's at the root of him; and he, being as he is, was in the right to tell 'e the race goes to the young. Wheer two hearts is bent on joining, 'tis join they will--if both keeps of a mind long enough." "That's it, Damaris Blanchard; who's gwaine to b'lieve that a bwoy an' gal, like Will an' Phoebe, do knaw theer minds? Mark me, they'll both chaange sweethearts a score of times yet 'fore they come to mate." "Caan't speak for your darter, Lyddon; but I knaw my son. A masterful bwoy, like his faither before him, wild sometimes an' wayward tu, but not with women-folk. His faither loved in wan plaace awnly. He'll be true to your cheel whatever betides, or I'm a fule." "What's the use of that if he ban't true to himself? No, no, I caan't see a happy ending to the tale however you look at it. Wish I could. I fear't was a ugly star twinkled awver his birthplace, ma'am." "'Twas all the stars of heaven, Miller," said the mother, frankly, "for he was born in my husband's caravan in the auld days. We was camped up on the Moor, drawn into one of them roundy-poundies o' grey granite stones set up by Phoenicians at the beginning of the world. Ess fay, a braave shiny night, wi' the li'l windows thrawed open to give me air. An' 'pon Will's come-of-age birthday, last month, if us didn't all drive up theer an' light a fire an' drink a dish of tea in the identical spot! 'Tis out Newtake' way." "Like a story-book." "'Twas Clem Hicks, his thought, being a fanciful man. But I'll bid you gude-marnin' now. Awnly mind this, as between friends and without a spark of malice: Will Blanchard means to marry your maid, sure as you'm born, if awnly she keeps strong for him. It rests with her, Miller, not you." "Much what your son said in sharper words. Well, you'm out o' reckoning for once, wise though you be most times; for if a maiden's happiness doan't rest with her faither, blamed if I see wheer it should. And to think such a man as me doan't knaw wiser 'n two childern who caan't number forty year between 'em is flat fulishness, surely?" "I knaw Will," said Mrs. Blanchard, slowly and emphatically; "I knaw un to the core, and that's to say more than you or anybody else can. A mother may read her son like print, but no faither can see to the bottom of a wife-old daughter--not if he was Solomon's self. So us'll wait an' watch wi'out being worse friends." She went home again the happier for her conversation; but any thought that Mr. Lyddon might have been disposed to devote to her prophecy was for the time banished by the advent of John Grimbal and his brother. Like boys home from school, they dwelt in the present delight of their return, and postponed the varied duties awaiting them, to revel again in the old sights, sounds, and scents. To-day they were about an angling excursion, and the fishers' road to Fingle lying through Monks Barton, both brothers stopped a while and waited upon their old friend of the mill, according to John's promise of the previous afternoon. Martin carried the creel and the ample luncheon it contained; John smoked a strong cigar and was only encumbered with his light fly-rod; the younger designed to accompany his brother through Fingle Valley; then leave him there, about his sport, and proceed alone to various places of natural and antiquarian interest. But John meant fishing and nothing else. To him great woods were no more than cover for fur and feathers; rivers and streams meant a vehicle for the display of a fly to trout, and only attracted him or the reverse, according to the fish they harboured. When the moorland waters spouted and churned, cherry red from their springs in the peat, he deemed them a noble spectacle; when, as at present, Teign herself had shrunk to a mere silver thread, and the fingerling trout splashed and wriggled half out of water in the shallows, he freely criticised its scanty volume and meagre depths. Miller Lyddon welcomed the men very heartily. He had been amongst those who dismissed them with hope to their battle against the world, and now he reminded them of his sanguine predictions. Will Blanchard's disappearance amused John Grimbal and he laughed when Billy Blee appeared red-hot with the news. Mr. Lyddon made no secret of his personal opinion of Blanchard, and all debated the probable design of the wanderer. "Maybe he's 'listed," said John, "an' a good thing too if he has. It makes a man of a young fellow. I'm for conscription myself--always have been." "I be minded to think he've joined the riders," declared Billy. "Theer comed a circus here last month, with braave doin's in the way of horsemanship and Merry Andrews, and such like devilries. Us all goes to see it from miles round every year; an' Will was theer. Circus folk do see the world in a way denied to most, and theer manner of life takes 'em even as far as Russia and the Indies I've heard." "Then there's the gypsy blood in him--" declared Mr. Lyddon, "that might send him roaming oversea, if nothing else did." "Or my great doings are like to have fired him," said John. "How's Phoebe?" he continued, dismissing Will. "I saw her yesterday--a bowerly maiden she's grown--a prize for a better man that this wild youngster, now bolted God knaws where." "So I think," agreed the miller, "an' I hope she'll soon forget the searching grey eyes of un and his high-handed way o' speech. Gals like such things. Dear, dear! though he made me so darned angry last night, I could have laughed in his faace more 'n wance." "Missy's under the weather this marnin'," declared Billy. "Who tawld her I ban't able to say, but she knawed he'd gone just arter feedin' the fowls, and she went down valley alone, so slow, wi' her purty head that bent it looked as if her sunbonnet might be hiding an auld gran'mother's poll." "She'll come round," said Martin; "she's only a young girl yet." "And there 's fish as good in the sea as ever came out, and better," declared his brother. "She must wait for a man who is a man,--somebody of good sense and good standing, with property to his name." Miller Lyddon noted with surprise and satisfaction John Grimbal's warmth of manner upon this question; he observed also the stout, hearty body of him, and the handsome face that crowned it. Then the brothers proceeded down-stream, and the master of Monks Barton looked after them and caught himself hoping that they might meet Phoebe. At a point where the river runs between a giant shoulder of heather-clad hill on one side and the ragged expanses of Whiddon Park upon the other, John clambered down to the streamside and began to fish, while Martin dawdled at hand and watched the sport. A pearly clearness, caught from the clouds, characterised earth as well as air, and proved that every world-picture depends for atmosphere and colour upon the sky-picture extended above it. Again there was movement and some music, for the magic of the wind in a landscape's nearer planes is responsible for both. The wooded valley lay under a grey and breezy forenoon; swaying alders marked each intermittent gust with a silver ripple of upturned foliage, and still reaches of the river similarly answered the wind with hurrying flickers and furrows of dimpled light. Through its transparent flood, where the waters ran in shadow and escaped reflections, the river revealed a bed of ruddy brown and rich amber. This harmonious colouring proceeded from the pebbly bottom, where a medley of warm agate tones spread and shimmered, like some far-reaching mosaic beneath the crystal. Above Teign's shrunken current extended oak and ash, while her banks bore splendid concourse of the wild water-loving dwellers in that happy valley. Meadowsweet nodded creamy crests; hemlock and fool's parsley and seeding willow-herb crowded together beneath far-scattered filigree of honeysuckles and brambles with berries, some ripe, some red; while the scarlet corals of briar and white bryony gemmed every riotous trailing thicket, dene, and dingle along the river's brink; and in the grassy spaces between rose little chrysoprase steeples of wood sage all set in shining fern. Upon the boulders in midstream subaqueous mosses, now revealed and starved by the drought, died hard, and the seeds of grasses, figworts, and persicarias thrust up flower and foliage, flourishing in unwonted spots from which the next freshet would rudely tear them. Insect life did not abundantly manifest itself, for the day was sunless; but now and again, with crisp rattle of his gauze wings, a dragon-fly flashed along the river. Through these scenes the Teign rolled drowsily and with feeble pulses. Upon one bank rose the confines of Whiddon; on the other, abrupt and interspersed with gulleys of shattered shale, ascended huge slopes whereon a whole summer of sunshine had scorched the heather to dry death. But fading purple still gleamed here and there in points and splashes, and the lesser furze, mingling therewith, scattered gold upon the tremendous acclivities even to the crown of fir-trees that towered remote and very blue upon the uplifted sky-line. Swallows, with white breasts flashing, circled over the river, and while their elevation above the water appeared at times tremendous, the abrupt steepness of the gorge was such that the birds almost brushed the hillside with their wings. A sledge, laden with the timber of barked sapling oaks, creaked and jingled over the rough road beside the stream; a man called to his horses and a dog barked beside him; then they disappeared and the spacious scene was again empty, save for its manifold wild life and music. John Grimbal fished, failed, and cursed the poor water and the lush wealth of the riverside that caught his fly at every critical moment. A few small trout he captured and returned; then, flinging down rod and net, he called to his brother for the luncheon-basket. Together they sat in the fern beside the river and ate heartily of the fare that Mrs. Blanchard had provided; then, as John was about to light a pipe, his brother, with a smile, produced a little wicker globe and handed it to him. This unexpected sight awoke sudden and keen appetite on the elder's face. He smacked his lips, swore a hearty oath of rejoicing, and held out an eager hand for the thing. "My God! to think I'll suck the smoke of that again,--the best baccy in the wide world!" The little receptacle contained a rough sort of sun-dried Kaffir tobacco, such as John and Martin had both smoked for the past fifteen years. "I thought it would be a treat. I brought home a few pounds," said the younger, smiling again at his brother's hungry delight. John cut into the case, loaded his pipe, and lighted it with a contented sign. Then he handed the rest back to its owner. "No, no," said Martin. "I'll just have one fill, that's all. I brought this for you. 'T will atone for the poor sport. The creel I shall leave with you now, for I'm away to Fingle Bridge and Prestonbury. We'll meet at nightfall." Thereupon he set off down the valley, his mind full of early British encampments, while John sat and smoked and pondered upon his future. He built no castles in the air, but a solid country house of red brick, destined to stand in its own grounds near Chagford, and to have a snug game-cover or two about it, with a few good acres of arable land bordering on forest. Roots meant cover for partridges in John Grimbal's mind; beech and oak in autumn represented desirable food for pheasants; and corn, once garnered and out of the way, left stubble for all manner of game. Meantime, whilst he reviewed his future with his eyes on a blue cloud of tobacco smoke, Martin passed Phoebe Lyddon farther down the valley. Him she recognised as a stranger; but he, with his eyes engaged in no more than unconscious guarding of his footsteps, his mind buried in the fascinating problems of early British castramentation, did not look at her or mark a sorrowful young face still stained with tears. Into the gorge Phoebe had wandered after reading her sweetheart's letter. There, to the secret ear of the great Mother, instinct had drawn her and her grief; and now the earliest shock was over; a dull, numb pain of mind followed the first sorrow; unwonted exercise had made her weary; and physical hunger, not to be stayed by mental suffering, forced her to turn homewards. Red-eyed and unhappy she passed beside the river, a very picture of a woful lover. The sound of Phoebe's steps fell on John Grimbal's ear as he lay upon his back with crossed knees and his hands behind his head. He partly rose therefore, thrust his face above the fern, saw the wayfarer, and then sprang to his feet. The cause of her tearful expression and listless demeanour was known to him, but he ignored them and greeted her cheerily. "Can't catch anything big enough to keep, and sha'n't until the rain comes," he said; "so I'll walk along with you, if you're going home." He offered his hand; then, after Phoebe had shaken it, moved beside her and put up his rod as he went. "Saw your father this morning, and mighty glad I was to find him so blooming. To my eye he looks younger than my memory picture of him. But that's because I've grown from boy to man, as you have from child to woman." "So I have, and 't is a pity my faither doan't knaw it," answered Phoebe, smarting under her wrongs, and willing to chronicle them in a friendly ear. "If I ban't full woman, who is? Yet I'm treated like a baaby, as if I'd got no 'pinions an' feelings, and wasn't--wasn't auld enough to knaw what love meant." Grimbal's eyes glowed at the picture of the girl's indignation, and he longed to put his arms round her and comfort her. "You must be wise and dutiful, Phoebe," he said. "Will Blauchard's a plucky fellow to go off and face the world. And perhaps he'll be one of the lucky ones, like I was." "He will be, for certain, and so you'd say if you knawed him same as I do. But the cruel waitin'--years and years and years--'t is enough to break a body's heart." Her voice fluttered like bells in a wild wind; she trembled on the brink of tears; and he saw by little convulsive movements and the lump in her round throat that she could not yet regard her lot with patience. She brought out her pocket-handkerchief again, and the man noticed it was all wet and rolled into a ball. "Life's a blank thing at lovers' parting," he said; "but time rubs the rough edges off matters that fret our minds the worst. Days and nights, and plenty of 'em, are the best cure for all ills." "An' the best cure for life tu! The awnly cure. Think of years an' years without him. Yesterday us met up in Pixies' Parlour yonder, an' I was peart an' proud as need be; to-day he's gone, and I feel auld and wisht and all full of weary wonder how I'm gwaine to fare and if I'llever see him again. 'T is cruel--bitter cruel for me." That she could thus pity herself so soon argued a mind incapable of harbouring great sorrow for many years; and the man at her side, without appreciating this fact, yet, by a sort of intuition, suspected that Phoebe's grief, perhaps even her steadfastness of purpose, would suffer diminution before very great lapse of time. Without knowing why, he hoped it might be so. Her voice fell melodiously upon an ear long tuned to the whine of native women. It came from the lungs, was full and sweet, with a shy suddenness about it, like the cooing of wood doves. She half slipped at a stile, and he put out his hand and touched her waist and felt his heart throb. But Phoebe's eyes rarely met her new friend's. The girl looked with troubled brows ahead into the future, while she walked beside him; and he, upon her left hand, saw only the soft cheek, the pouting lips, and the dimples that came and went. Sometimes she looked up, however, and Grimbal noted how the flutter of past tears shook her round young breast, marked the spring of her step, the freedom of her gait, and the trim turn of her feet and ankles. After the flat-footed Kaffir girls, Phoebe's instep had a right noble arch in his estimation. "To think that I, as never wronged faither in thought or deed, should be treated so hard! I've been all the world to him since mother died, for he's said as much to many; yet he's risen up an' done this, contrary to justice and right and Scripture, tu." "You must be patient, Phoebe, and respect his age, and let the matter rest till the time grows ripe. I can't advise you better than that." "'Patient!' My life's empty, I tell 'e--empty, hollow, tasteless wi'out my Will." "Well, well, we'll see. I'm going to build a big red-brick house presently, and buy land, and make a bit of a stir in my small way. You've a pretty fancy in such things, I'll bet a dollar. You shall give me a helping hand--eh? You must tell me best way of setting up house. And you might help me as to furniture and suchlike if you had time for it. Will you, for an old friend?" Phoebe was slightly interested. She promised to do anything in her power that might cause Mr. Grimbal satisfaction; and he, very wisely, assured her that there was no salve for sorrow like unselfish labours on behalf of other people. He left her at the farm-gate, and tramped back to the Blanchard cottage with his mind busy enough. Presently he changed his clothes, and set a diamond in his necktie. Then he strolled away into the village, to see the well-remembered names above the little shop windows; to note curiously how Chagford market-place had shrunk and the houses dwindled since last he saw them; to call with hearty voice and rough greeting at this habitation and that; to introduce himself again among men and women who had known him of yore, and who, for the most part, quite failed to recognise in their bluff and burly visitor the lad who set forth from his father's cottage by the church so many years before. CHAPTER V THE INCIDENT OF MR. JOEL FORD Of Blanchard family history a little more must be said. Timothy Blanchard, the husband of Damaris and father of Will and Chris, was in truth of the nomads, though not a right gypsy. As a lad, and at a time when the Romany folk enjoyed somewhat more importance and prosperity than of late years, he joined them, and by sheer force of character and mother wit succeeded in rising to power amongst the wanderers. The community with which he was connected for the most part confined its peregrinations to the West; and time saw Timothy Blanchard achieve success in his native country, acquire two caravans, develop trade on a regular "circuit," and steadily save money in a small way; while his camp of some five-and-twenty souls--men, women, and numerous children--shared in their leader's prosperity. These earlier stages of the man's career embraced some strange circumstances, chief amongst them being his marriage. Damaris Ford was the daughter of a Moor farmer. Her girlhood had been spent in the dreary little homestead of "Newtake," above Chagford, within the fringe of the great primeval wastes; and here, on his repeated journeys across the Moor, Tim Blanchard came to know her and love her well. Farmer Ford swore round oaths, and sent Blanchard and his caravans packing when the man approached him for his daughter's hand; but the girl herself was already won, and week after her lover's repulse Damaris vanished. She journeyed with her future husband to Exeter, wedded him, and became mistress of his house on wheels; then, for the space of four years, she lived the gypsy life, brought a son and daughter into the world, and tried without avail to obtain her father's forgiveness. That, however, she never had, though her mother communicated with her in fear and trembling; and when, by strange chance, on Will's advent, Damaris Blanchard was brought to bed near her old home, and became a mother in one of the venerable hut circles which plentifully scatter that lonely region, Mrs. Ford, apprised of the fact in secret, actually stole to her daughter's side by night and wept over her grandchild. Now the farmer and his wife were dead; Newtake at present stood without a tenant; and Mrs. Blanchard possessed no near relations save her children and one elder brother, Joel, to whom had passed their parent's small savings. Timothy Blanchard continued a wandering existence for the space of five years after his marriage; then he sold his caravans, settled in Chagford, bought the cottage by the river, rented some market-garden land, and pursued his busy and industrious way. Thus he prospered through ten more years, saving money, developing a variety of schemes, letting out on hire a steam thresher, and in various other ways adding to his store. The man was on the high road to genuine prosperity when death overtook him and put a period to his ambitions. He was snatched from mundane affairs leaving numerous schemes half developed and most of his money embarked in various enterprises. Unhappily Will was too young to continue his father's work, and though Mrs. Blanchard's brother, Joel Ford, administered the little estate to the best of his power, much had to be sacrificed. In the sequel Damaris found herself with a cottage, a garden, and an annual income of about fifty pounds a year. Her son was then twelve years of age, her daughter eighteen months younger. So she lived quietly and not without happiness, after the first sorrow of her husband's loss was in a measure softened by time. Of Mr. Joel Ford it now becomes necessary to speak. Combining the duties of attorney, house-agent, registrar of deaths, births, and marriages, and receiver of taxes and debts, the man lived a dingy life at Newton Abbot. Acid, cynical, and bald he was, very dry of mind and body, and but ten years older than Mrs. Blanchard, though he looked nearer seventy than sixty. To the Newton mind Mr. Ford was associated only with Quarter Day--that black, recurrent cloud on the horizon of every poor man's life. He dwelt with an elderly housekeeper--a widow of genial disposition; and indeed the attorney himself was not lacking in some urbanity of character, though few guessed it, for he kept all that was best in himself hidden under an unlovely crust. His better instincts took the shape of family affection. Damaris Blanchard and he were the last branches of one of the innumerable families of Ford to be found in Devon, and he had no small regard for his only living sister. His annual holiday from business--a period of a fortnight, sometimes extended to three weeks if the weather was more than commonly fair--he spent habitually at Chagford; and Will on these occasions devoted his leisure to his uncle, drove him on the Moor, and made him welcome. Will, indeed, was a favourite with Mr. Ford, and the lad's high spirits, real ignorance of the world, and eternal grave assumption of wisdom even tickled the man of business into a sort of dry cricket laughter upon occasions. When, therefore, a fortnight after young Blanchard's mysterious disappearance, Joel Ford arrived at his sister's cottage for the annual visit, he was as much concerned as his nature had power to make him at the news. For three weeks he stayed, missing the company of his nephew not a little; and his residence in Chagford had needed no special comment save for an important incident resulting therefrom. Phoebe Lyddon it was who in all innocence and ignorance set rolling a pebble that finally fell in thundering avalanches; and her chance word was uttered at her father's table on an occasion when John and Martin Grimbal were supping at Monks Barton. The returned natives, and more especially the elder, had been much at the mill since their reappearance. John, indeed, upon one pretext or another, scarcely spent a day without calling. His rough kindness appealed to Phoebe, who at first suspected no danger from it, while Mr. Lyddon encouraged the man and made him and his brother welcome at all times. John Grimbal, upon the morning that preceded the present supper party, had at last found a property to his taste. It might, indeed, have been designed for him. Near Whiddon it lay, in the valley of the Moreton Road, and consisted of a farm and the ruin of a Tudor mansion. The latter had been tenanted until the dawn of this century, but was since then fallen into decay. The farm lands stretched beneath the crown of Cranbrook, hard by the historic "Bloody Meadow," a spot assigned to that skirmish between Royalist and Parliamentary forces during 1642 which cost brilliant young Sidney Godolphin his life. Here, or near at hand, the young man probably fell, with a musket-bullet in his leg, and subsequently expired at Chagford[1] leaving the "misfortune of his death upon a place which could never otherwise have had a mention to the world," according to caustic Chancellor Clarendon. [1] _At Chagford._ The place of the poet's passing is believed to have been an ancient dwelling-house adjacent to St. Michael's Church. At that date it was a private residence of the Whiddon family; but during later times it became known as the "Black Swan Inn," or tavern (a black swan being the crest of Sir John Whiddon, Judge of Queen's Bench in the first Mary's reign); while to-day this restored Mansion appears as the hostelry of the "Three Crowns." Upon the aforesaid ruins, fashioned after the form of a great E, out of compliment to the sovereign who occupied the throne at the period of the decayed fabric's erection, John Grimbal proposed to build his habitation of red brick and tile. The pertaining farm already had a tenant, and represented four hundred acres of arable land, with possibilities of development; snug woods wound along the boundaries of the estate and mingled their branches with others not more stately though sprung from the nobler domain of Whiddon; and Chagford was distant but a mile, or five minutes' ride. Tongues wagged that evening concerning the Red House, as the ruin was called, and a question arose as to whom John Grimbal must apply for information respecting the property. "I noted on the board two names--one in London, one handy at Newton Abbot--a Mr. Joel Ford, of Wolborough Street." Phoebe blushed where she sat and very nearly said, "My Will's uncle!" but thought better of it and kept silent. Meanwhile her father answered. "Ford's an attorney, Mrs. Blanchard's brother, a maker of agreements between man and man, and a dusty, dry sort of chip, from all I've heard tell. His father and mine were friends forty years and more agone. Old Ford had Newtake Farm on the Moor, and wore his fingers to the bone that his son might have good schooling and a learned profession." "He's in Chagford this very minute," said Phoebe. Then Mr. Blee spoke. On the occasion of any entertainment at Monks Barton he waited at table instead of eating with the family as usual. Now he addressed the company from his station behind Mr. Lyddon's chair. "Joel Ford's biding with his sister. A wonderful deep man, to my certain knowledge, an' wears a merchant-like coat an' shiny hat working days an' Sabbaths alike. A snug man, I'll wager, if 't is awnly by the token of broadcloth on week-days." "He looks for all the world like a yellow, shrivelled parchment himself. Regular gimlet eyes, too, and a very fitch for sharpness, though younger than his appearance might make you fancy," said the miller. "Then I'll pay him a visit and see how things stand," declared John. "Not that I'd employ any but my own London lawyer, of course," he added, "but this old chap can give me the information I require; no doubt." "Ess fay! an' draw you a dockyment in all the cautiousness of the law's language," promised Billy Blee. "'T is a fact makes me mazed every time I think of it," he continued, "that mere fleeting ink on the skin tored off a calf can be so set out to last to the trump of doom. Theer be parchments that laugh at the Queen's awn Privy Council and make the Court of Parliament look a mere fule afore 'em. But it doan't do to be 'feared o' far-reachin' oaths when you 'm signing such a matter, for 't is in the essence of 'em that the parties should swear deep." "I'll mind what you say, Billy," promised Grimbal; "I'll pump old Ford as dry as I can, then be off to London and get such a good, binding deed of purchase as you suggest." And it was this determination that presently led to a violent breach between the young man and his elder. John waited upon Mr. Ford, at Mrs. Blanchard's cottage, where he had first lodged with his brother on their return from abroad, and found the lawyer exceedingly pleasant when he learned the object of Grimbal's visit. Together they drove over to the Red House, and its intending tenant soon heard all there was to tell respecting price and the provisions under which the estate was to be disposed of. For this information he expressed proper gratitude, but gave no hint of his future actions. Mr. Ford heard nothing more for a fortnight. Then he ascertained that John Grimbal was in the metropolis, that the sale of the Red House and its lands had been conducted by the London agent, and that no penny of the handsome commission involved would accrue to him. This position of affairs greatly (and to some extent reasonably) angered the local man, and he did not forgive what he considered a very flagrant slight. Extreme acerbity was bred in him, and his mind, vindictive by nature, cherished from that hour a hearty detestation of John Grimbal. The old man, his annual holiday ruined by the circumstance, went home to Newton, vowing vague vengeance and little dreaming how soon opportunity would offer to deal his enemy a return blow; while the purchaser of the Red House laughed at Ford's angry letters, told him to his face that he was a greedy old rascal, and went on his way well pleased with himself and fully occupied with his affairs. Necessary preliminaries were hastened; an architect visited the crumbling fabric of the old Red House and set about his plans. Soon, upon the ancient foundations, a new dwelling began to rise. The ancient name was retained at Martin's entreaty and the surrounding property developed. A stir and hum crept through the domain. Here was planting of young birch and larch; here clearing of land; here mounds of manure steamed on neglected fallows. John Grimbal took up temporary quarters in the home farm that he might be upon the spot at all hours; and what with these great personal interests, good news of his property in Africa, and the growing distraction of one soft-voiced, grey-eyed girl, the man found his life a full and splendid thing. That he should admit Phoebe into his thoughts and ambitions was not unreasonable for two reasons: he knew himself to be heartily in love with her by this time, and he had heard from her father a definite statement upon the subject of Will Blanchard. Indeed, the miller, from motives of worldly wisdom, took an opportunity to let John Grimbal know the situation. "No shadow of any engagement at all," he said. "I made it plain as a pikestaff to them both. It mustn't be thought I countenanced their crack-brained troth-plighting. 'T was by reason of my final 'Nay' that Will went off. He 's gone out of her life, and she 'm free as the air. I tell you this because you may have heard different, and you mix with the countryside and can contradict any man who gives out otherwise. And, mind you, I say it from no ill-will to the bwoy, but out of justice to my cheel." Thus, to gain private ends, Mr. Lyddon spoke, and his information greatly heartened the listener. John had more than once sounded Phoebe on the subject of Will during the past few months, and was bound to confess that any chance he might possess appeared small; but he was deeply in love and a man accustomed to have his own way. Increasing portions of his time and thought were devoted to this ambition, and when Phoebe's father spoke as recorded, Grimbal jumped at the announcement and pushed for his own hand. "If a man that was a man, with a bit of land and a bit of stuff behind him, came along and asked to court her, 't would be different, I suppose?" he inquired. "I'd wish just such a man might come, for her sake." "Supposing I asked if I might try to win Phoebe?" "I'd desire your gude speed, my son. Nothing could please, me better." "Then I've got you on my side?" "You really mean it? Well, well! Gert news to be sure, an' I be pleased as Punch to hear 'e. But take my word, for I'm richer than you by many years in knawledge of the world, though I haven't seen so much of it. Go slow. Wait a while till that brown bwoy graws a bit dim in Phoebe's eyes. Your life 's afore you, and the gal 's scarce marriageable, to my thinking. Build your house and bide your time." "So be it; and if I don't win her presently, I sha'n't deserve to." "Ess, but taake time, lad. She 'm a dutiful, gude maiden, and I'd be sore to think my awn words won't carry their weight when the right moment comes for speaking 'em. Blanchard's business pulled down the corners of her purty mouth a bit; but young hearts caan't keep mournful for ever." Billy Blee then took his turn on the argument. Thus far he had listened, and now, according to his custom, argued on the popular side and bent his sail to the prevalent wind of opinion. "You say right, Miller. 'T is out of nature that a maid should fret her innards to fiddlestrings 'bout a green bwoy when theer's ripe men waitin' for her." "Never heard better sense," declared John Grimbal, in high good-humour; and from the red-letter hour of that conversation he let his love grow into a giant. A man of old-fashioned convictions, he honestly believed the parent wise who exercised all possible control over a child; and in this case personal interest prompted him the more strongly to that opinion. Common sense the world over was on his side, and no man with the facts before him had been likely to criticise Miller Lyddon on the course of action he thought proper to pursue for his daughter's ultimate happiness. That he reckoned without his host naturally escaped the father's thought at this juncture. Will Blanchard had dwindled in his mind to the mere memory of a headstrong youngster, now far removed from the scene of his stupidity and without further power to trouble. That he could advise John to wait a while until Will's shadow grew less in Phoebe's thought, argued kindness and delicacy of mind in Mr. Lyddon. Will he only saw and gauged as the rest of the world. He did not fathom all of him, as Mrs. Blanchard had said; while concerning Phoebe's inner heart and the possibilities of her character, at a pinch, he could speak with still less certainty. She was a virgin page, unturned, unscanned. No man knew her strength or weakness; she did not know it herself. Time progressed; the leaf fell and the long drought was followed by a mild autumn of heavy rains. John Grimbal's days were spent between the Red House and Monks Barton. His rod was put up; but he had already made friends and now shot many partridges. He spent long evenings in the society of Phoebe and her father at the farm; and the miller not seldom contrived to be called away on these occasions. Billy proved ever ready to assist, and thus the two old men did the best in their power to aid Grimbal's suit. In the great, comfortable kitchen, generally at some distance from each other, Phoebe and the squire of the new Red House would sit. She, now suspecting, was shy and uneasy; he, his wits quickened by love, displayed a tact and deftness of words not to have been anticipated from him. At first Phoebe took fire when Grimbal criticised Will in anything but a spirit of utmost friendliness; but it was vital to his own hopes that he should cloud the picture painted on her heart if he could; so, by degrees and with all the cleverness at his command, he dropped gall into poor Phoebe's cup in minute doses. He mourned the extreme improbability of Blanchard's success, grounding his doubt on Will's uneven character; he pictured Blanchard's fight with the world and showed how probable it was that he would make it a losing battle by his own peculiarities of temper. He declared the remoteness of happiness for Miss Lyddon in that direction to be extreme; he deplored the unstable nature of a young man's affection all the world over; and he made solid capital out of the fact that not once since his departure had her lover communicated with Phoebe. She argued against this that her father had forbidden it; but Mr. Grimbal overrode the objection, and asked what man in love would allow himself to be bound by such a command. As a matter of fact, Will had sent two messages at different times to his sweetheart. These came through Clement Hicks, and only conveyed the intelligence that the wanderer was well. So Phoebe suffered persistent courting and her soft mould of mind sank a little under the storm. Now, weary and weak, she hesitated; now a wave of strength fortified her spirit. That John Grimbal should be dogged and importunate she took as mere masculine characteristics, and the fact did not anger her against him; but what roused her secret indignation almost as often as they met was his half-hidden air of sanguine confidence. He was humble in a way, always the patient lover, but in his manner she detected an indefinable, irritating self-confidence--the demeanour of one who already knows himself a conqueror before the battle is fought. Thus the position gradually developed. As yet her father had not spoken to Phoebe or pretended to any knowledge of what was doing; but there came a night, at the end of November, when John Grimbal, the miller, and Billy sat and smoked at Monks Barton after Phoebe's departure to bed. Mr. Blee, very well knowing what matter moved the minds of his companions, spoke first. "Missy have put on a temperate way of late days it do seem. I most begin to think that cat-a-mountain of a bwoy 's less in her thoughts than he was. She 'm larnin' wisdom, as well she may wi' sich a faither." "I doan't knaw what to think," answered Mr. Lyddon, somewhat gloomily. "I ban't so much in her confidence as of auld days. Damaris Blanchard's right, like enough. A maid 's tu deep even for the faither that got her, most times. A sweet, dear gal as ever was, for all that. How fares it, John? She never names 'e to me, though I do to her." "I'm biding my time, neighbour. I reckon 't will be right one day. It only makes me feel a bit mean now and again to have to say hard things about young Blanchard. Still, while she 's wrapped up there, I may whistle for her." "You 'm in the right," declared Billy. "'T is an auld sayin' that all manner of dealings be fair in love, an' true no doubt, though I'm a bachelor myself an' no prophet in such matters." "All's fair for certain," admitted John, as though he had not before considered the position from this standpoint. "Ay, an' a darter's welfare lies in her faither's hand. Thank God, I'm not a parent to my knowledge; but 'tis a difficult calling in life, an' a young maiden gal, purty as a picksher, be a heavy load to a honest mind." "So I find it," said the miller. "You've forbid Will--lock, stock, and barrel--therefore, of coourse, she 's no right to think more of him, to begin with," continued the old man. It was a new idea. "Come to think of it, she hasn't--eh?" asked John. "No, that's true enough," admitted Mr. Lyddon. "I speak, though of low position, but well thought of an' at Miller's right hand, so to say," continued Mr. Blee; "so theer 't is: Missy's in a dangerous pass. Eve's flesh be Eve's flesh, whether hid under flannel or silk, or shawed mother-naked to the sun after the manner of furrin cannibals. A gal 's a gal; an' if I was faither of such as your darter, I'd count it my solemn duty to see her out of the dangers of life an' tidily mated to a gude man. I'd say to myself, 'Her'll graw to bless me for what I've done, come a few years.'" So Billy Blee, according to his golden rule, advised men upon the road they already desired to follow, and thus increased his reputation for sound sense and far-reaching wisdom. "It's true, every word he says," declared John Grimbal. "I believe it," answered the miller; "though God forbid any word or act of mine should bring wan tear to Phoebe's cheek. Yet, somehow, I doan't knaw but you 'm right." "I am, believe me. It's the truth. You want Phoebe's real happiness considered, and that now depends on--well, I'll say it out--on me. We have reached the point now when you must speak, as you promised to speak, and throw the weight of your influence on my side. Then, after you've had your say, I'll have mine and put the great question." Mr. Lyddon nodded his head and relapsed into taciturnity. CHAPTER VI AN UNHAPPY POET That a man of many nerves, uncertain in temper and with no physical or temporal qualifications, should have won for himself the handsomest girl in Chagford caused the unreflective to marvel whenever they considered the point. But a better knowledge of Chris Blauchard had served in some measure to explain the wonder. Of all women, she was the least likely to do the thing predicted by experience. She had tremendous force of character for one scarce twenty years of age; indeed, she lived a superlative life, and the man, woman, child, or dog that came within radius of her existence presently formed a definite part of it, and was loved or detested according to circumstances. Neutrality she could not understand. If her interests were wide, her prejudices were strong. A certain unconscious high-handedness of manner made the circle of her friends small, but those who did love her were enthusiastic. Upon the whole, the number of those who liked her increased with years, and avowed enemies had no very definite reasons for aversion. Of her physical perfections none pretended two opinions; but the boys had always gone rather in fear of Chris, and the few men who had courted her during the past few years were all considerably her seniors. No real romance entered into this young woman's practical and bustling life until the advent of Clement Hicks, though she herself was the flame of hearts not a few before his coming. Neurotic, sensual, as was Chris herself in a healthy fashion, a man of varying moods, and perhaps the richer for faint glimmerings of the real fire, Hicks yet found himself no better than an aimless, helpless child before the demands of reality. Since boyhood he had lived out of touch with his environment. As bee-keeper and sign-writer he made a naked living for himself and his mother, and achieved success sufficient to keep a cottage roof over their heads, but that was all. Books were his only friends; the old stones of the Moor, the lonely wastes, the plaintive music of a solitary bird were the companions of his happiest days. He had wit enough to torture half his waking hours with self-analysis, and to grit his teeth at his own impotence. But there was no strength, no virile grip to take his fate in his own hands and mould it like a man. He only mourned his disadvantages, and sometimes blamed destiny, sometimes a congenital infirmity of purpose, for the dreary course of his life. Nature alone could charm his sullen moods, and that not always. Now and again she spread over the face of his existence a transitory contentment and a larger hope; but the first contact with facts swept it away again. His higher aspirations were neither deep nor enduring, and yet the man's love of nature was lofty and just, and represented all the religion he had. No moral principles guided him, conscience never pricked. Nevertheless, thus far he had been a clean liver and an honest man. Vice, because it affronted his sense of the beautiful and usually led towards death, did not attract him. He lived too deep in the lap of Nature to be deceived by the pseudo-realism then making its appearance in literature, and he laughed without mirth at these pictures from city-bred pens at that time paraded as the whole truth of the countryman's life. The later school was not then above the horizon; the brief and filthy spectacle of those who dragged their necrosis, marasmus, and gangrene of body and mind across the stage of art and literature, and shrieked Decay, had not as yet appeared to make men sicken; the plague-spot, now near healed, had scarce showed the faintest angry symptom of coming ill. Hicks might under no circumstances have been drawn in that direction, for his morbidity was of a different description. Art to this man appeared only in what was wholesome; it even embraced a guide to conduct, for it led him directly to Nature, and Nature emphatically taught him the value of obedience, the punishment of weakness, the reward for excess and every form of self-indulgence. But a softness in him shrank from these aspects of the Mother. He tried vainly and feebly to dig some rule of life from her smiles alone, to read a sermon into her happy hours of high summer sunshine. Beauty was his dream; he possessed natural taste, and had cultivated the same without judgment. His intricate disposition and extreme sensitiveness frightened him away from much effort at self-expression; yet not a few trifling scraps and shreds of lyric poetry had fallen from his pen in high moments. These, when the mood changed, he read again, and found dead, and usually destroyed. He was more easily discouraged than a child who sets out to tell its parent a story, and is all silence and shamefaced blushes at the first whisper of laughter or semblance of a smile. The works of poets dazed him, disheartened him, and secret ambitions toward performance grew dimmer with every book he laid his hands on. Ambition to create began to die; the dream scenery of his ill-controlled mental life more and more seldom took shape of words on paper; and there came a time when thought grew wholly wordless for him; a mere personal pleasure, selfish, useless, unsubstantial as the glimmer of mirage over desert sands. Into this futile life came Chris, like a breath of sweet air from off the deep sea. She lifted him clean out of his subjective existence, awoke a healthy, natural love, built on the ordinary emotions of humanity, galvanised self-respect and ambition into some activity, and presently inspired a pluck strong enough to propose marriage. That was two years ago; and the girl still loved this weakly soul with all her heart, found his language unlike that of any other man she had seen or heard, and even took some slight softening edge of culture into herself from him. Her common sense was absolutely powerless to probe even the crust of Clement's nature; but she was satisfied that his poetry must be a thing as marketable as that in printed books. Indeed, in an elated moment he had assured her that it was so. During the earlier stages of their attachment, she pestered him to write and sell his verses and make money, that their happiness might be hastened; while he, on the first budding of his love, and with the splendid assurance of its return, had promised all manner of things, and indeed undertaken to make poems that should be sent by post to the far-away place where they printed unknown poets, and paid them. Chris believed in Clement as a matter of course. His honey must at least be worth more to the world than that of his bees. Over her future husband she began at once to exercise the control of mistress and mother; and she loved him more dearly after they had been engaged a year than at the beginning of the contract. By that time she knew his disposition, and instead of displaying frantic impatience at it, as might have been predicted, her tolerance was extreme. She bore with Clem because she loved him with the full love proper to such a nature as her own; and, though she presently found herself powerless to modify his character in any practical degree, his gloomy and uneven mind never lessened the sturdy optimism of Chris herself, or her sure confidence that the future would unite them. Through her protracted engagement Mrs. Blanchard's daughter maintained a lively and sanguine cheerfulness. But seldom was it that she lost patience with the dreamer. Then her rare, indignant outbursts of commonplace and common sense, like a thunderstorm, sweetened the stagnant air of Clement's thoughts and awoke new, wholesome currents in his mind. As a rule, on the occasion of their frequent country walks, Clem and Chris found personal problems and private interests sufficient for all conversation, but it happened that upon a Sunday in mid-December, as they passed through the valley of the Teign, where the two main streams of that river mingle at the foothills of the Moor, the subject of Will and Phoebe for a time at least filled their thoughts. The hour was clear and bright, yet somewhat cheerless. The sun had already set, from the standpoint of all life in the valley, and darkness, hastening out of the east, merged the traceries of a million naked boughs into a thickening network of misty grey. The river beneath these woods churned in winter flood, while clear against its raving one robin sang little tinkling litanies from the branch of an alder. Chris stood upon Lee Bridge at the waters' meeting and threw scraps of wood into the river; Clem sat upon the parapet, smoked his pipe, and noted with a lingering delight the play of his sweetheart's lips as her fingers strained to snap a tough twig. Then the girl spoke, continuing a conversation already entered upon. "Phoebe Lyddon's that weak in will. How far's such as her gwaine in life without some person else to lean upon?" "If the ivy cannot find a tree it creeps along the ground, Chrissy." "Ess, it do; or else falls headlong awver the first bank it comes to. Phoebe's so helpless a maiden as ever made a picksher. I mind her at school in the days when we was childer together. Purty as them china figures you might buy off Cheap Jack, an' just so tender. She'd come up to dinky gals no bigger 'n herself an' pull out her li'l handkercher an' ax 'em to be so kind as to blaw her nose for her! Now Will's gone, Lard knaws wheer she'll drift to." "To John Grimbal. Any man could see that. Her father's set on it." "Why don't Will write to her and keep her heart up and give her a little news? 'Twould be meat an' drink to her. Doan't matter 'bout mother an' me. We'll take your word for it that Will wants to keep his ways secret. But a sweetheart--'tis so differ'nt. I wouldn't stand it!" "I know right well you wouldn't. Will has his own way. We won't criticise him. But there's a masterful man in the running--a prosperous, loud-voiced, bull-necked bully of a man, and one not accustomed to take 'no' for his answer. I'm afraid of John Grimbal in this matter. I've gone so far as to warn Will, but he writes back that he knows Phoebe." "Jan Grimbal's a very differ'nt fashion of man to his brother; that I saw in a moment when they bided with us for a week, till the 'Three Crowns' could take 'em in. I hate Jan--hate him cruel; but I like Martin. He puts me in mind o' you, Clem, wi' his nice way of speech and tender quickness for women. But it's Phoebe we'm speaking of. I think you should write stern to Will an' frighten him. It ban't fair fightin', that poor, dear Phoebe 'gainst the will o' two strong men." "Well, she's had paltry food for a lover since he went away. He's got certain ideas, and she'll hear direct when--but there, I must shut my mouth, for I swore by fantastic oaths to say nothing." "He ought to write, whether or no. You tell Will that Jan Grimbal be about building a braave plaace up under Whiddon, and is looking for a wife at Monks Barton morning, noon, an' evening. That's like to waken him. An' tell him the miller's on t'other side, and clacking Jan Grimbal into Phoebe's ear steadier than the noise of his awn water-wheel." "And she will grow weak, mark me. She sees that red-brick place rising out of the bare boughs, higher and higher, and knows that from floor to attics all may be hers if she likes to say the word. She hears great talk of drawing-rooms, and pictures, and pianos, and greenhouses full of rare flowers, and all the rest--why, just think of it!" "Ban't many gals as could stand 'gainst a piano, I daresay." "I only know one--mine." Chris looked at him curiously. "You 'm right. An' that, for some queer reason, puts me in mind of the other wan, Martin Grimbal. He was very pleasant to me." "He's too late, thank God!" "Ess, fay! An' if he'd comed afore 'e, Clem, he'd been tu early. Theer's awnly wan man in the gert world for me." "My gypsy!" "But I didn't mean that. He wouldn't look at me, not even if I was a free woman. 'T was of you I thought when I talked to Mr. Grimbal. He'm well-to-do, and be seekin' a house in the higher quarter under Middledown. You an' him have the same fancy for the auld stones. So you might grow into friends--eh, Clem? Couldn't it so fall out? He might serve to help--eh? You 'm two-and-thirty year auld next February, an' it do look as though they silly bees ban't gwaine to put money enough in the bank to spell a weddin' for us this thirty year to come. Theer's awnly your aunt, Widow Coomstock, as you can look to for a penny, and that tu doubtful to count on." "Don't name her, Chris. Good Lord! poor drunken old thing, with that crowd of hungry relations waiting like vultures round a dying camel! Never think of her. Money she has, but I sha'n't see the colour of it, and I don't want to." "Well, let that bide. Martin Grimbal's the man in my thought." "What can I do there?" "Doan't knaw, 'zactly; but things might fall out if he got to like you, being a bookish sort of man. Anyway, he's very willing to be friends, for that he told me. Doan't bear yourself like Lucifer afore him; but take the first chance to let him knaw your fortune's in need of mendin'." "You say that! D' you think self-respect is dead in me?" he asked, half angry. There was no visible life about them, so she put her arms round him. "I ax for love of 'e, dearie, an' for want of 'e. Do 'e think waitin' 's sweeter for me than for you?" Then he calmed down again, sighed, returned the caress, touched her, and stroked her breast and shoulder with sudden earthly light in his great eyes. "It 's hard to wait." "That's why I say doan't lose chances that may mean a weddin' for us, Clem. Theer 's so much hid in 'e, if awnly the way to bring it out could be found." "A mine that won't pay working," he said bitterly, the passion fading out of eyes and voice. "I know there 's something hidden; I feel there 's a twist of brain that ought to rise above keeping bees and take me higher than honey-combs. Yet look at hard truth. The clods round me get enough by their sweat to keep wives and feed children. I'm only a penniless, backboneless, hand-to-mouth wretch, living on the work of laborious insects." "If it ban't your awn fault, then whose be it, Clem?" "The fault of Chance--to pack my build of brains into the skull of a pauper. This poor, unfinished abortion of a head-piece of mine only dreams dreams that it cannot even set on paper for others to see." "You've given up trying whether it can or not, seemin'ly. I never hear tell of no verses now." "What 's the good? But only last night, so it happens, I had a sort of a wild feeling to get something out of myself, and I scribbled for hours and hours and found a little morsel of a rhyme." "Will 'e read it to me?" He showed reluctance, but presently dragged a scrap of paper out of his, pocket. Not a small source of trouble was his sweetheart's criticism of his verses. "It was the common sight of a pair of lovers walking tongue-tied, you know. I call it 'A Devon Courting.'" He read the trifle slowly, with that grand, rolling sea-beat of an accent that Elizabeth once loved to hear on the lips of Raleigh and Drake. "Birds gived awver singin', Flittermice was wingin', Mists lay on the meadows-- A purty sight to see. Down-long in the dimpsy, the dimpsy, the dimpsy, Down-long in the dimpsy Theer went a maid wi' me. "Five gude mile o' walkin', Not wan word o' talkin', Then I axed a question And put the same to she. Up-long in the owl-light, the owl-light, the owl-light, Up-long in the owl-light, Theer corned my maid wi' me. "But I wonder you write the common words, Clem--you who be so much tu clever to use 'em." "The words are well enough. They were not common once." "Well, you knaw best. Could 'e sell such a li'l auld funny thing as that for money?" He shook his head. "No; it was only the toil of making it seemed good. It is worthless." "An' to think how long it took 'e! If you'd awnly put the time into big-fashioned verses full of the high words you've got. But you knaw best. Did 'e hear anything of them rhymes 'bout the auld days you sent to Lunnon?" "They sent them back again. I told you 't was wasting three stamps. It 's not for me, I know it. The world is full of dumb singers. Maybe I haven't got even a pinch of the fire that _must_ break through and show its flame, no matter what mountains the earth tumbles on it. God knows I burn hot enough sometimes with great thoughts and wild longings for love and for sweeter life and for you; but my fires--whether they are soul-fires or body-fires--only burn my heart out." She sighed and squeezed his hand, understanding little enough of what he said. "We must be patient. 'T is a solid thing, patience. I'm puttin' by pence; but it 's so plaguy little a gal can earn, best o' times and with the best will." "If I could only write the things I think! But they vanish before pen and paper and the need of words, as the mists of the night vanish before the hard, searching sun. I am ignorant of how to use words; and those in the world who might help me will never know of me. As for those around about, they reckon me three parts fool, with just a little gift of re-writing names over their dirty shop-fronts." "Yet it 's money. What did 'e get for that butivul fox wi' the goose in his mouth you painted 'pon Mr. Lamacraft's sign to Sticklepath?" "Ten shillings." "That's solid money." "It isn't now. I bought a book with it--a book of lies." Chris was going to speak, but changed her mind and sighed instead. "Well, as our affairs be speeding so poorly, we'd best to do some gude deed an' look after this other coil. You must let Will knaw what 's doin' by letter this very night. 'T is awnly fair, you being set in trust for him." "Strange, these Grimbal brothers," mused Clement, as the lovers proceeded in the direction of Chagford. "They come home with everything on God's earth that men might desire to win happiness, and, by the look of it, each marks his home-coming by falling in love with one he can't have." "Shaws the fairness of things, Clem; how the poor may chance to have what the rich caan't buy; so all look to stand equal." "Fairness, you call it? The damned, cynical irony of this whole passion-driven puppet-show--that's what it shows! The man who is loved cannot marry the woman he loves lest they both starve; the man who can give a woman half the world is loathed for his pains. Not that he 's to be pitied like the pauper, for if you can't buy love you can buy women, and the wise ones know how to manufacture a very lasting substitute for the real thing." "You talk that black and bitter as though you was deep-read in all the wickedness of the world," said Chris; "yet I knaw no man can say sweeter things than you sometimes." "Talk! It 's all talk with me--all snarling and railing and whining at hard facts, like a viper wasting its venom on steel. I'm sick of myself--weary of the old, stale round of my thoughts. Where can I wash and be clean? Chrissy, for God's sake, tell me." "Put your hope in the Spring," she said, "an' be busy for Will." In reality, with the approach of Christmas, affairs between Phoebe and the elder Grimbal had reached a point far in advance of that which Clement and Chris were concerned with. For more than three months, and under a steadily increasing weight of opposition, Miller Lyddon's daughter fought without shadow of yielding. Then came a time when the calm but determined iteration of her father's desires and the sledge-hammer love-making of John Grimbal began to leave an impression. Even then her love for Will was bright and strong, but her sense of helplessness fretted her nerves and temper, and her sweetheart's laconic messages, through the medium of another man, were sorry comfort in this hour of tribulation. With some reason she felt slighted. Neither considering Will's peculiarities, nor suspecting that his silence was only, the result of a whim or project, she began to resent it. Then John Grimbal caught her in a dangerous mood. Once she wavered, and he had the wisdom to leave her at the moment of victory. But on the next occasion of their meeting, he took good care to keep the advantage he had gained. Conscious of his own honest and generous intentions, Grimbal went on his way. The subtler manifestations of Phoebe's real attitude towards him escaped his observation; her reluctance he set down as resulting from the dying shadow of affection for Will Blanchard. That she would be very happy and proud and prosperous in the position of his wife, the lover was absolutely assured. He pursued her with the greater determination, in that he believed he was saving her from herself. What were some few months of vague uncertainty and girlish tears compared with a lifetime of prosperity and solid happiness? John Grimbal made Phoebe handsome presents of pretty and costly things after the first great victory. He pushed his advantage with tremendous vigour. His great face seemed reflected in Phoebe's eyes when she slept as when she woke; his voice was never out of her ears. Weary, hopeless, worn out, she prayed sometimes for strength of purpose. But it was a trait denied to her character and not to be bestowed at a breath. Her stability of defence, even as it stood, was remarkable and beyond expectation. Then the sure climax rolled in upon poor Phoebe. Twice she sought Clement Hicks with purpose to send an urgent message; on each occasion accident prevented a meeting; her father was always smiling and droning his desires into her ear; John Grimbal haunted her. His good-nature and kindness were hard to bear; his patience made her frantic. So the investment drew to its conclusion and the barriers crumbled, for the forces besieged were too weak and worn to restore them; while a last circumstance brought victory to the stronger and proclaimed the final overthrow. This culmination resulted from a visit to the spiritual head of Phoebe's dwelling-place. The Rev. James Shorto-Champernowne, Vicar of Chagford, made an appointment to discuss the position with Mr. Lyddon and his daughter. A sportsman of the old type, and a cleric of rare reputation for good sense and fairness to high and low, was Mr. Shorto-Champernowne, but it happened that his more tender emotions had been buried with a young wife these forty years, and children he had none. Nevertheless, taking the standpoint of parental discipline, he held Phoebe's alleged engagement a vain thing, not to be considered seriously. Moreover, he knew of Will's lapses in the past; and that was fatal. "My child, have little doubt that both religion and duty point in one direction and with no faltering hands," he said, in his stately way. "Communicate with the young man, inform him that conversation with myself has taken place; then he can hardly maintain an attitude of doubt, either to the exalted convictions that have led to your decision, or to the propriety of it. And, further, do not omit an opportunity of well-doing, but conclude your letter with a word of counsel. Pray him to seek a Guide to his future life, the only Guide able to lead him aright. I mean his Mother Church. No man who turns his back upon her can be either virtuous or happy. I mourned his defection from our choir some years ago. You see I forget nobody. My eyes are everywhere, as they ought to be. Would that he could be whipped back to the House of God--with scorpions, if necessary! There is a cowardice, a lack of sportsmanlike feeling, if I may so express it, in these fallings away from the Church of our fathers. It denotes a failing of intellect amid the centres of human activity. There is a blight of unbelief abroad--a nebulous, pestilential rationalism. Acquaint him with these facts; they may serve to re-establish one whose temperament must be regarded as abnormal in the light of his great eccentricity of action. Now farewell, and God be with you." The rotund, grey-whiskered clergyman waved his hand; Miller Lyddon and his daughter left the vicarage; while both heard, as it seemed, his studied phrases and sonorous voice rolling after them all the way home. But poor Phoebe felt that the main issues as to conscience were now only too clear; her last anchor was wrenched from its hold, and that night, through a mist of unhappy tears, she succumbed, promised to marry John Grimbal and be queen of the red castle now rising under Cranbrook's distant heights. That we have dealt too scantily with her tragic experiences may be suspected; but the sequel will serve to show how these circumstances demand no greater elaboration than has been accorded to them. CHAPTER VII LIBATION TO POMONA A WINTER moon threw black shadows from stock and stone, tree and cot in the valley of the Teign. Heavy snow had fallen, and moor-men, coming down from the highlands, declared it to lie three feet deep in the drifts. Now fine, sharp weather had succeeded the storm, and hard frost held both hill and vale. On Old Christmas Eve a party numbering some five-and-twenty persons assembled in the farmyard of Monks Barton, and Billy Blee, as master of the pending ceremonies, made them welcome. Some among them were aged, others youthful; indeed the company consisted mostly of old men and boys, a circumstance very easily understood when the nature of their enterprise is considered. The ancients were about to celebrate a venerable rite and sacrifice to a superstition, active in their boyhood, moribund at the date with which we are concerned, and to-day probably dead altogether. The sweet poet[2] of Dean Prior mentions this quaint, old-time custom of "christening" or "wassailing" the fruit-trees among Christmas-Eve ceremonies; and doubtless when he dwelt in Devon the use was gloriously maintained; but an adult generation in the years of this narrative had certainly refused it much support. It was left to their grandfathers and their sons; and thus senility and youth preponderated in the present company. For the boys, this midnight fun with lantern and fowling-piece was good Christmas sport, and they came readily enough; to the old men their ceremonial possessed solid value, and from the musty storehouse of his memory every venerable soul amongst them could cite instances of the sovereign virtue hid in such a procedure. [2] _The sweet poet._ "Wassaile the trees, that they may beare You many a Plum, and many a Peare; For more or lesse fruites they will bring, As you doe give them Wassailing." _Hesperides._ "A brave rally o' neighbours, sure 'nough," cried Mr. Blee as he appeared amongst them. "Be Gaffer Lezzard come?" "Here, Billy." "Hast thy fire-arm, Lezzard?" "Ess, 't is here. My gran'son's carrying of it; but I holds the powder-flask an' caps, so no ruin be threatened to none." Mr. Lezzard wore a black smock-frock, across the breast of which extended delicate and skilful needlework. His head was hidden under an old chimney-pot hat with a pea-cock's feather in it, and, against the cold, he had tied a tremendous woollen muffler round his neck and about his ears. The ends of it hung down over his coat, and the general effect of smock, comforter, gaitered shanks, boots tied up in straw, long nose, and shining spectacles, was that of some huge and ungainly bird, hopped from out a fairy-tale or a nightmare. "Be Maister Chappie here likewise?" inquired Billy. "I'm waitin'; an' I've got a fowling-piece, tu." "That's gude then. I be gwaine to carry the auld blunderbuss what's been in Miller Lyddon's family since the years of his ancestors, and belonged to a coach-guard in the King's days. 'T is well suited to apple-christenin'. The cider's here, in three o' the biggest earth pitchers us'a' got, an' the lads is ready to bring it along. The Maister Grimbals, as will be related to the family presently, be comin' to see the custom, an' Miller wants every man to step back-along arterwards an' have a drop o' the best, 'cordin' to his usual gracious gudeness. Now, Lezzard, me an' you'll lead the way." Mr. Blee then shouldered his ancient weapon, the other veteran marched beside him, and the rest of the company followed in the direction of Chagford Bridge. They proceeded across the fields; and along the procession bobbed a lantern or two, while a few boys carried flaring torches. The light from these killed the moonbeams within a narrow radius, shot black tongues of smoke into the clear air, and set the meadows glimmering redly where contending radiance of moon and fire powdered the virgin snow with diamond and ruby. Snake-like the party wound along beside the river. Dogs barked; voices rang clear on the crystal night; now and again, with laughter and shout, the lads raced hither and thither from their stolid elders, and here and there jackets carried the mark of a snowball. Behind the procession a trampled grey line stretched out under the moonlight. Then all passed like some dim, magic pageant of a dream; the distant dark blot of naked woodlands swallowed them up, and the voices grew faint and ceased. Only the endless song of the river sounded, with a new note struck into it by the world of snow. For a few moments the valley was left empty, so empty that a fox, who had been prowling unsuccessfully about Monks Barton since dusk, took the opportunity to leave his hiding-place above the ducks' pool, cross the meadows, and get him home to his earth two miles distant. He slunk with pattering foot across the snow, marking his way by little regular paw-pits and one straight line where his brush roughened the surface. Steam puffed in jets from his muzzle, and his empty belly made him angry with the world. At the edge of the woods he lifted his head, and the moonlight touched his green eyes. Then he recorded a protest against Providence in one eerie bark, and so vanished, before the weird sound had died. Phoebe Lyddon and her lover, having given the others some vantage of ground, followed them to their destination--Mr. Lyddon's famous orchard in Teign valley. The girl's dreary task of late had been to tell herself that she would surely love John Grimbal presently--love him as such a good man deserved to be loved. Only under the silence and in the loneliness of long nights, only in the small hours of day, when sleep would not come and pulses were weak, did Phoebe confess that contact with him hurt her, that his kisses made her giddy to sickness, that all his gifts put together were less to her than one treasure she was too weak to destroy--the last letter Will had written. Once or twice, not to her future husband, but to the miller, Phoebe had ventured faintly to question still the promise of this great step; but Mr. Lyddon quickly overruled all doubts, and assisted John Grimbal in his efforts to hasten the ceremony. Upon this day, Old Christmas Eve, the wedding-day lay not a month distant and, afterwards the husband designed to take his wife abroad for a trip to South Africa. Thus he would combine business and pleasure, and return in the spring to witness the completion of his house. Chagford highly approved the match, congratulated Phoebe on her fortune, and felt secretly gratified that a personage grown so important as John Grimbal should have chosen his life's partner from among the maidens of his native village. Now the pair walked over the snow; and silent and stealthy as the vanished fox, a grey figure followed after them. Dim as some moon-spirit against the brightness, this shape stole forward under the rough hedge that formed a bank and threw a shadow between meadow and stream. In repose the grey man, for a man it was, looked far less substantial than the stationary outlines of fences and trees; and when he moved it had needed a keen eye to see him at all. He mingled with the moonlight and snow, and became a part of a strange inversion of ordinary conditions; for in this white, hushed world the shadows alone seemed solid and material in their black nakedness, in their keen sharpness of line and limit, while things concrete and ponderable shone out a silvery medley of snow-capped, misty traceries, vague of outline, uncertain of shape, magically changed as to their relations by the unfamiliar carpet now spread between them. The grey figure kept Phoebe in sight, but followed a path of his own choosing. When she entered the woods he drew a little nearer, and thus followed, passing from shadow to shadow, scarce fifty yards behind. Meanwhile the main procession approached the scene of its labours. Martin Grimbal, attracted by the prospect of reading this page from an old Devonian superstition, was of the company. He walked with Billy Blee and Gaffer Lezzard; and these high priests, well pleased at their junior's attitude towards the ceremony, opened their hearts to him upon it. "'T is an ancient rite, auld as cider--maybe auld as Scripture, to, for anything I've heard to the contrary," said Mr. Lezzard. "Ay, so 't is," declared Billy Blee, "an' a custom to little observed nowadays. But us might have better blooth in springtime an' braaver apples come autumn if the trees was christened more regular. You doan't see no gert stock of sizable apples best o' years now--li'l scrubbly auld things most times." "An' the cider from 'em--poor roapy muck, awnly fit to make 'e thirst for better drink," criticised Gaffer Lezzard. "'Tis this way: theer's gert virtue in cider put to apple-tree roots on this particular night, accordin' to the planets and such hidden things. Why so, I can't tell 'e, any more 'n anybody could tell 'e why the moon sails higher up the sky in winter than her do in summer; but so 't is. An' facts be facts. Why, theer's the auld 'Sam's Crab' tree in this very orchard we'm walkin' to. I knawed that tree three year ago to give a hogshead an' a half as near as damn it. That wan tree, mind, with no more than a few baskets of 'Redstreaks' added." "An' a shy bearer most times, tu," added Mr. Lezzard. "Just so; then come next year, by some mischance, me being indoors, if they didn't forget to christen un! An', burnish it all! theer wasn't fruit enough on the tree to fill your pockets!" "Whether 't is the firing into the branches, or the cider to the roots does gude, be a matter of doubt," continued Mr. Lezzard; but the other authority would not admit this. "They 'm like the halves of a flail, depend on it: wan no use wi'out t'other. Then theer's the singing of the auld song: who's gwaine to say that's the least part of it?" "'T is the three pious acts thrawn together in wan gude deed," summed up Mr. Lezzard; "an' if they'd awnly let apples get ripe 'fore they break 'em, an' go back to the straw for straining, 'stead of these tom-fule, new-fangled hair-cloths, us might get tidy cider still." By this time the gate of the orchard was reached; Gaffer Lezzard, Billy, and the other patriarch, Mr. Chapple,--a very fat old man,--loaded their weapons, and the perspiring cider-carriers set down their loads. "Now, you bwoys, give awver runnin' 'bout like rabbits," cried out Mr. Chapple. "You 'm here to sing while us pours cider an' shoots in the trees; an' not a drop you'll have if you doan't give tongue proper, so I tell 'e." At this rebuke the boys assembled, and there followed a hasty gabbling, to freshen the words in young and uncertain memories. Then a small vessel was dipped under floating toast, that covered the cider in the great pitchers, and the ceremony of christening the orchard began. Only the largest and most famous apple-bearers were thus saluted, for neither cider nor gunpowder sufficient to honour more than a fraction of the whole multitude existed in all Chagford. The orchard, viewed from the east, stretched in long lines, like the legions of some arboreal army; the moon set sparks and streaks of light on every snowy fork and bough; and at the northwestern foot of each tree a network of spidery shadow-patterns, sharp and black, extended upon the snow. Mr. Blee himself made the first libation, led the first chorus, and fired the first shot. Steaming cider poured from his mug, vanished, sucked in at the tree-foot, and left a black patch upon the snow at the hole of the trunk; then he stuck a fragment of sodden toast on a twig; after which the christening song rang out upon the night--ragged at first, but settling into resolute swing and improved time as its music proceeded. The lusty treble of the youngsters soon drowned the notes of their grandfathers; for the boys took their measure at a pace beyond the power of Gaffer Lezzard and his generation, and sang with heart and voice to keep themselves warm. The song has variants, but this was their version-- "Here 's to thee, auld apple-tree, Be sure you bud, be sure you blaw, And bring forth apples good enough-- Hats full, caps full, three-bushel bags full, Pockets full and all-- Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hats full, caps full, three-bushel bags full, Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!" Then Billy fired his blunderbuss, and a flame leapt from its bell mouth into the branches of the apple-tree, while surrounding high lands echoed its report with a reverberating bellow that rose and fell, and was flung from hill to hill, until it gradually faded upon the ear. The boys cheered again, everybody drank a drop of the cider, and from under a cloud of blue smoke, that hung flat as a pancake above them in the still air, all moved onward. Presently the party separated into three groups, each having a gunner to lead it, half a dozen boys to sing, and a dwindling jar of cider for the purposes of the ceremony. The divided choirs clashed their music, heard from a distance; the guns fired at intervals, each sending forth its own particular detonation and winning back a distinctive echo; then the companies separated widely and decreased to mere twinkling, torchlit points in the distance. Accumulated smoke from the scattered discharges hung in a sluggish haze between earth and moon, and a sharp smell of burnt powder tainted the sweetness of the frosty night. Upon this scene arrived John Grirnbal and his sweetheart. They stood for a while at the open orchard gate, gazed at the remote illumination, and heard the distant song. Then they returned to discussion of their own affairs; while at hand, unseen, the grey watcher moved impatiently and anxiously. The thing he desired did not come about, and he blew on his cold hands and swore under his breath. Only an orchard hedge now separated them, and he might have listened to Phoebe's soft speech had he crept ten yards nearer, while John Grimbal's voice he could not help hearing from time to time. The big man was just asking a question not easy to answer, when an unexpected interruption saved Phoebe from the difficulty of any reply. "Sometimes I half reckon a memory of that blessed boy still makes you glum, my dear. Is it so? Haven't you forgot him yet?" As he spoke an explosion, differing much in sound from those which continued to startle the night, rang suddenly out of the distance. It arose from a spot on the confines of the orchard, and was sharp in tone--sharp almost as the human cries which followed it. Then the distant lights hastened towards the theatre of the catastrophe. "What has happened?" cried Phoebe, thankful enough to snatch conversation away from herself and her affairs. "Easy to guess. That broken report means a burst gun. One of those old fools has got excited, put too much powder into his blunderbuss and blown his head off, likely as not. No loss either!" "Please, please go and see! Oh, if 'tis Billy Blee come to grief, faither will be lost. Do 'e run, Mr. Grimbal--Jan, I mean. If any grave matter's failed out, send them bwoys off red-hot for doctor." "Stop here, then. If any ugly thing has happened, there need be no occasion for you to see it." He departed hastily to where a distant galaxy of fiery eyes twinkled and tangled and moved this way and that, like the dying sparks on a piece of burnt paper. Then the patient grey shadow, rewarded by chance at last, found his opportunity, slipped into the hedge just above Grimbal's sweetheart, and spoke to her. "Phoebe, Phoebe Lyddon!" The voice, dropping out of empty air as it seemed, made Phoebe jump, and almost fall; but there was an arm gripped round her, and a pair of hot lips on hers before she had time to open her mouth or cry a word. "Will!" "Ess, so I be, alive an' kicking. No time for anything but business now. I've followed 'e for this chance. Awnly heard four day ago 'bout the fix you'd been drove to. An' Clem's made it clear 't was all my damn silly silence to blame. I had a gert thought in me and wasn't gwaine to write till--but that's awver an' done, an' a purty kettle of feesh, tu. We must faace this coil first." "Thank God, you can forgive me. I'd never have had courage to ax 'e." "You was drove into it. I knaw there's awnly wan man in the world for 'e. Ban't nothin' to forgive. I never ought to have left 'e--a far-seein' man, same as me. Blast him! I'd like to tear thicky damned fur off you, for I lay it comed from him." "They were killing me, Will; and never a word from you." "I knaw, I knaw. What's wan girl against a parish full, an' a blustering chap made o' diamonds?" "The things doan't warm me; they make me shiver. But now--you can forgive me--that's all I care for. What shall I do? How can I escape it? Oh, Will, say I can!" "In coourse you can. Awnly wan way, though; an' that's why I'm here. Us must be married right on end. Then he's got no more power over 'e than a drowned worm, nor Miller, nor any." "To think you can forgive me enough to marry me after all my wickedness! I never dreamed theer was such a big heart in the world as yourn." "Why, we promised, didn't us? We'm built for each other. I knawed I'd only got to come. An' I have, at cost, tu, I promise 'e. Now we'll be upsides wi' this tramp from furrin paarts, if awnly you do ezacally what I be gwaine to tell you. I'd meant to write it, but I can speak it better as the chance has come." Phoebe's heart glowed at this tremendous change in the position. She forgot everything before sight and sound of Will. The nature of her promises weakened to gossamer. Her first love was the only love for her, and his voice fortified her spirit and braced her nerves. A chance for happiness yet remained and she, who had endured enough, was strong in determination to win it yet at any cost if a woman could. "If you awnly knawed the half I've suffered before they forced me, you'd forgive," she said. His frank pardon she could hardly realise. It seemed altogether beyond the desert of her weakness. "Let that bide. It's the future now. Clem's told me everything. Awnly you and him an' Chris knaw I'm here. Chris will serve 'e. Us must play a hidden game, an' fight this Grimbal chap as he fought me--behind back. Listen; to-day fortnight you an' me 'm gwaine to be married afore the registrar to Newton Abbot. He 'm my awn Uncle Ford, as luck has it, an' quite o' my way o' thinkin' when I told him how 't was, an' that Jan Grimbal was gwaine to marry you against your will. He advised me, and I'm biding in Newton for next two weeks, so as the thing comes out right by law. But you've got to keep it still as death." "If I could awnly fly this instant moment with 'e!" "You caan't. 'T would spoil all. You must stop home, an' hear your banns put up with Grimbal, an' all the rest of it. Wish I could! Meat an' drink 't would be, by God! But he'll get his pay all right. An' afore the day comes, you nip off to Newton, an' I'll meet 'e, an' us'll be married in a wink, an' you'll be back home again to Monks Barton 'fore you knaw it." "Is that the awnly way? Oh, Will, how terrible!" "God knaws I've done worse 'n that. But no man's gwaine to steal the maid of my choosin' from me while I've got brains and body to prevent it." "Let me look at you, lovey--just the same, just the same! 'Tis glorious to hear your voice again. But this thin coat, so butivul in shaape, tu! You 'm a gentleman by the look of it; but 't is summer wear, not winter." "Ess, 'tis cold enough; an' I've got to get back to Newton to-night. An' never breathe that man's name no more. I'll shaw 'e wat 's a man an' what ban't. Steal my true love, would 'e?--God forgive un, I shaan't--not till we 'm man an' wife, anyway. Then I might. Give 'e up! Be I a chap as chaanges? Never--never yet." Phoebe wept at these words and pressed Will to her heart. "'Tis strength, an' fire, an' racing blood in me to hear 'e, dear, braave heart. I was that weak without 'e. Now the world 's a new plaace, an' I doan't doubt fust thought was right, for all they said. I'll meet 'e as you bid me, an' nothin' shall ever keep me from 'e now--nothing!" "'T is well said, Phoebe; an' doan't let that anointed scamp kiss 'e more 'n he must. Be braave an' cunnin', an' keep Miller from smelling a rat. I'd like to smash that man myself now wheer he stands,--Grimbal I mean,--but us must be wise for the present. Wipe your shiny eyes an' keep a happy faace to 'em, an' never let wan of the lot dream what's hid in 'e. Cock your li'l nose high, an' be peart an' gay. An' let un buy you what he will,--'t is no odds; we can send his rubbish back again arter, when he knaws you'm another man's wife. Gude-bye, Phoebe dearie; I've done what 'peared to me a gert deed for love of 'e; but the sight of 'e brings it down into no mighty matter." "You've saved my life, Will--saved all my days; an' while I've got a heart beating 't will be yourn, an' I'll work for 'e, an' slave for 'e, an' think for 'e, an' love 'e so long as I live--an' pray for 'e, tu, Will, my awn!" He parted from her as she spoke, and she, by an inspiration, hurried towards the approaching crowd that the trampled marks of the snow where she had been standing might not be noted under the gleam of torches and lanterns. John Grimbal's prophecy was happily not fulfilled in its gloomy completeness: nobody had blown his head off; but Billy Blee's prodigality of ammunition proved at last too much for the blunderbuss of the bygone coach-guard, and in its sudden annihilation a fragment had cut the gunner across the face, and a second inflicted a pretty deep flesh-wound on his arm. Neither injury was very serious, and the general escape, as John Grimbal pointed out, might be considered marvellous, for not a soul save Billy himself had been so much as scratched. With Martin Grimbal on one side and Mr. Chapple upon the other, the wounded veteran walked slowly and solemnly along. The dramatic moments of the hour were dear to him, and while tolerably confident at the bottom of his mind that no vital hurt had been done, he openly declared himself stricken to death, and revelled in a display of Christian fortitude and resignation that deceived everybody but John Grimbal. Billy gasped and gurgled, bid them see to the bandages, and reviewed his past life with ingenuous satisfaction. "Ah, sawls all! dead as a hammer in an hour. 'T is awver. I feel the life swelling out of me." "Don't say that, Billy," cried Martin, in real concern. "The blood's stopped flowing entirely now." "For why? Theer's no more to come. My heart be pumping wind, lifeless wind; my lung-play's gone, tu, an' my sight's come awver that coorious. Be Gaffer Lezzard nigh?" "Here, alongside 'e, Bill." "Gimme your hand then, an' let auld scores be wiped off in this shattering calamity. Us have differed wheer us could these twoscore years; but theer mustn't be no more ill-will wi' me tremblin' on the lip o' the graave." "None at all; if 't wasn't for Widow Coomstock," said Gaffer Lezzard. "You 'm tu pushing theer, an' I say it even now, for truth's truth, though it be the last thing a man's ear holds." "Break it to her gentle," said Billy, ignoring the other's criticism; "she'm on in years, and have cast a kindly eye awver me since the early sixties. My propositions never was more than agreeable conversation to her, but it might have come. Tell her theer's a world beyond marriage customs, an' us'll meet theer." Old Lezzard showed a good deal of anger at this speech, but being in a minority fell back and held his peace. "Would 'e like to see passon, dear sawl?" asked Mr. Chapple, who walked on Billy's left with his gun reversed, as though at a funeral. "Me an' him be out, along o' rheumatics keeping me from the House of God this month," said the sufferer, "but at a solemn death-bed hour like this here, I'd soon see un as not. Ban't no gert odds, for I forgive all mankind, and doan't feel no more malice than a bird in a tree." "You're a silly old ass," burst out Grimbal roughly. "There's nothing worth naming the matter with you, and you know it better than we do. The Devil looks after his own, seemingly. Any other man would have been killed ten times over." Billy whined and even wept at this harsh reproof. "Ban't a very fair way to speak to an auld gunpowder-blawn piece, like what I be now," he said; "gormed if 't is." "Very onhandsome of 'e, Mr. Grimbal," declared the stout Chappie; "an' you so young an' in the prime of life, tu!" Here Phoebe met them, and Mr. Blee, observing the signs of tears upon her face, supposed that anxiety for him had wet her cheeks, and comforted his master's child. "Doan't 'e give way, missy. 'T is all wan, an' I ban't 'feared of the tomb, as I've tawld 'em. Us must rot, every bone of us, in our season, an' 't is awnly the thought of it, not the fear of it, turns the stomach. But what's a wamblyness of the innards, so long as a body's sawl be ripe for God?" "A walkin' sermon!" said Mr. Chappie. Doctor Parsons was waiting for Billy at Monks Barton, and if John Grimbal had been brusque, the practitioner proved scarcely less so. He pronounced Mr. Blee but little hurt, bandaged his arm, plastered his head, and assured him that a pipe and a glass of spirits was all he needed to fortify his sinking spirit. The party ate and drank, raised a cheer for Miller Lyddon and then went homewards. Only Mr. Chappie and Gaffer Lezzard entered the house and had a wineglass or two of some special sloe gin. Mr. Lezzard thawed and grew amiable over this beverage, and Mr. Chappie repeated Billy's lofty sentiments at the approach of death for the benefit of Miller Lyddon. "'T is awnly my fearless disposition," declared the wounded man with great humility; "no partic'lar credit to me. I doan't care wan iotum for the thought of churchyard mould--not wan iotum. I knaw the value of gude rich soil tu well; an' a man as grudges the rames[3] of hisself to the airth that's kept un threescore years an' ten's a carmudgeonly cuss, surely." [3] _Rames_ = skeleton; remains. "An' so say I; theer's true wisdom in it," declared Mr. Chapple, while the miller nodded. "Theer be," concluded Gaffer Lezzard. "I allus sez, in my clenching way, that I doan't care a farden damn what happens to my bones, if my everlasting future be well thought on by passon. So long as I catch the eye of un an' see um beam 'pon me to church now an' again, I'm content with things as they are." "As a saved sawl you 'm in so braave a way as the best; but, to say it without rudeness, as food for the land a man of your build be nought, Gaffer," argued Mr. Chapple, who viewed the veteran's withered anatomy from his own happy vantage ground of fifteen stone. But Gaffer Lezzard would by no means allow this. "Ban't quantity awnly tells, my son. 'T is the aluminium in a man's bones that fats land--roots or grass or corn. Anybody of larnin', 'll tell 'e that. Strip the belly off 'e, an', bone for bone, a lean man like me shaws as fair as you. No offence offered or taken, but a gross habit's mere clay and does more harm than gude underground." Mr. Chapple in his turn resented this contemptuous dismissal of tissue as matter of no agricultural significance. The old men went wrangling home; Miller Lyddon and Billy retired to their beds; the moon departed behind the distant moors; and all the darkened valley slept in snow and starlight. CHAPTER VIII A BROTHERS' QUARREL Though Phoebe was surprised at Will Blanchard's mild attitude toward her weakness, she had been less so with more knowledge. Chris Blanchard and her lover were in some degree responsible for Will's lenity, and Clement's politic letter to the wanderer, when Phoebe's engagement was announced, had been framed in words best calculated to shield the Miller's sore-driven daughter. Hicks had thrown the blame on John Grimbal, on Mr. Lyddon, on everybody but Phoebe herself. Foremost indeed he had censured Will, and pointed out that his own sustained silence, however high-minded the reason of it, was a main factor in his sweetheart's sufferings and ultimate submission. In answer to this communication Blanchard magically reappeared, announced his determination to marry Phoebe by subterfuge, and, the deed accomplished, take his punishment, whatever it might be, with light heart. Given time to achieve a legal marriage, and Phoebe would at least be safe from the clutches of millionaires in general. Much had already been done by Will before he crept after the apple-christeners and accomplished his meeting with Phoebe. A week was passed since Clement wrote the final crushing news, and during that interval Will had been stopping with his uncle, Joel Ford, at Newton Abbot. Fate, hard till now, played him passing fair at last. The old Superintendent Registrar still had a soft corner in his heart for Will, and when he learnt the boy's trouble, though of cynic mind in all matters pertaining to matrimony, he chose to play the virtuous and enraged philosopher, much to his nephew's joy. Mr. Ford promised Will he should most certainly have the law's aid to checkmate his dishonourable adversary; he took a most serious view of the case and declared that all thinking men must sympathise with young Blanchard under such circumstances. But in private the old gentleman rubbed his hands, for here was the very opportunity he desired as much as a man well might--the chance to strike at one who had shamefully wronged him. His only trouble was how best to let John Grimbal know whom he had to thank for this tremendous reverse; for that deed he held necessary to complete his revenge. As to where Will had come from, or whither he was returning, after his marriage Joel Ford cared not. The youngster once wedded would be satisfied; and his uncle would be satisfied too. The procedure of marriage by license requires that one of the parties shall have resided within the Superintendent's district for a space of fifteen days preceding the giving of notice; then application in prescribed form is made to the Registrar; and his certificate and license are usually received one clear day later. Thus a resident in a district can be married at any time within eight-and-forty hours of his decision. Will Blanchard had to stop with his uncle nine or ten days more to complete the necessary fortnight, and as John Grimbal's marriage morning was as yet above three weeks distant, Phoebe's fate in no way depended upon him. Mr. Ford explained the position to Will, and the lover accepted it cheerfully. "As to the marriage, that'll be hard and fast as a bench of bishops can make it; but wedding a woman under age, against the wish of her legal guardian, is an offence against the law. Nobody can undo the deed itself, but Miller Lyddon will have something to say afterwards. And there's that blustering blackguard, John Grimbal, to reckon with. Unscrupulous scoundrel! Just the sort to be lawless and vindictive if what you tell me concerning him is true." "And so he be; let un! Who cares a brass button for him? 'T is awnly Miller I thinks of. What's worst he can do?" "Send you to prison, Will." "For how long?" "That I can't tell you exactly. Not for marrying his daughter of course, but for abduction--that's what he'll bring against you." "An' so he shall, uncle, an' I'll save him all the trouble I can. That's no gert hardship--weeks, or months even. I'll go like a lark, knawin' Phoebe's safe." So the matter stood and the days passed. Will's personal affairs, and the secret of the position from which he had come was known only to Clement Hicks. The lover talked of returning again thither after his marriage, but he remained vague on that point, and, indeed, modified his plans after the above recorded conversation with his uncle. Twice he wrote to Phoebe in the period of waiting, and the letter had been forwarded on both occasions through Clement. Two others knew what was afoot, and during that time of trial Phoebe found Chris her salvation. The stronger girl supported her sinking spirit and fortified her courage. Chris mightily enjoyed the whole romance, and among those circumstances that combined to make John Grimbal uneasy during the days of waiting was her constant presence at Monks Barton. There she came as Phoebe's friend, and the clear, bright eyes she often turned on him made him angry, he knew not why. As for Mrs. Blanchard, she had secretly learnt more than anybody suspected, for while Will first determined to tell her nothing until afterwards, a second thought rebuked him for hiding such a tremendous circumstance from his mother, and he wrote to her at full length from Newton, saying nothing indeed of the past but setting out the future in detail. Upon the subject Mrs. Blanchard kept her own counsel. Preparations for Phoebe's wedding moved apace, and she lived in a dim, heart-breaking dream. John Grimbal, despite her entreaties, continued to spend money upon her; yet each new gift brought nothing but tears. Grown desperate in his determination to win a little affection and regard before marriage, and bitterly conscious that he could command neither, the man plied her with what money would buy, and busied himself to bring her happiness in spite of herself. Troubled he was, nevertheless, and constantly sought the miller that he might listen to comforting assurances that he need be under no concern. "'T is natural in wan who's gwaine to say gude-bye to maidenhood so soon," declared Mr. Lyddon. "I've thought 'bout her tears a deal. God knaws they hurt me more 'n they do her, or you either; but such sad whims and cloudy hours is proper to the time. Love for me's got a share in her sorrow, tu. 'T will all be well enough when she turns her back on the church-door an' hears the weddin'-bells a-clashing for her future joy. Doan't you come nigh her much during the next few weeks." "Two," corrected Mr. Grimbal, moodily. "Eh! Awnly two! Well, 't is gert darkness for me, I promise you--gert darkness comin' for Monks Barton wi'out the butivul sound an' sight of her no more. But bide away, theer's a gude man; bide away these coming few days. Her last maiden hours mustn't be all tears. But my gifts do awnly make her cry, tu, if that's consolation to 'e. It's the tenderness of her li'l heart as brims awver at kindness." In reality, Phoebe's misery was of a complexion wholly different. The necessity for living thus had not appeared so tremendous until she found herself launched into this sea of terrible deception. In operation such sustained falsity came like to drive her mad. She could not count the lies each day brought forth; she was frightened to pray for forgiveness, knowing every morning must see a renewal of the tragedy. Hell seemed yawning for her, and the possibility of any ultimate happiness, reached over this awful road of mendacity and deceit, was more than her imagination could picture. With loss of self-respect, self-control likewise threatened to depart. She became physically weak, mentally hysterical. The strain told terribly on her nature; and Chris mourned to note a darkness like storm-cloud under her grey eyes, and unwonted pallor upon her cheek. Dr. Parsons saw Phoebe at this juncture, prescribed soothing draughts, and ordered rest and repose; but to Chris the invalid clung, and Mr. Lyddon was not a little puzzled that the sister of Phoebe's bygone sweetheart should now possess such power to ease her mind and soothe her troubled nerves. John Grimbal obeyed the injunction laid upon him and absented himself from Monks Barton. All was prepared for the ceremony. He had left his Red House farm and taken rooms for the present at "The Three Crowns." Hither came his brother to see him four nights before the weddingday. Martin had promised to be best man, yet a shadow lay between the brothers, and John, his mind unnaturally jealous and suspicious from the nature of affairs with Phoebe, sulked of late in a conviction that Martin had watched his great step with unfraternal indifference and denied him the enthusiasm and congratulation proper to such an event. The younger man found his brother scanning a new black broadcloth coat when he entered. He praised it promptly, whereupon John flung it from him and showed no more interest in the garment. Martin, not to be offended, lighted his pipe, took an armchair beside the fire, and asked for some whiskey. This mollified the other a little; he produced spirits, loaded his own pipe, and asked the object of the visit. "A not over-pleasant business, John," returned his brother, frankly; "but 'Least said, soonest mended.' Only remember this, nothing must ever lessen our common regard. What I am going to say is inspired by my--" "Yes, yes--cut that. Spit it out and have done with it. I know there's been trouble in you for days. You can't hide your thoughts. You've been grim as a death's-head for a month--ever since I was engaged, come to think of it. Now open your jaws and have done." John's aggressive and hectoring manner spoke volubly of his own lack of ease. Martin nerved himself to begin, holding it his duty, but secretly fearing the issue in the light of his brother's hard, set face. "You've something bothering you too, old man. I'm sure of it. God is aware I don't know much about women myself, but--" "Oh, dry up that rot! Don't think I'm blind, if you are. Don't deceive yourself. There's a woman-hunger in you, too, though perhaps you haven't found it out yet. What about that Blanchard girl?" Martin flushed like a schoolboy; his hand went up over his mouth and chin as though to hide part of his guilt, and he looked alarmed and uneasy. John laughed without mirth at the other's ludicrous trepidation. "Good heavens! I've done nothing surely to suggest--?" "Nothing at all--except look as if you were going to have a fit every time you get within a mile of her. Lovers know the signs, I suppose. Don't pretend you're made of different stuff to the rest of us, that's all." Martin removed his hand and gasped before the spectacle of what he had revealed to other eyes. Then, after a silence of fifteen seconds, he shut his mouth again, wiped his forehead with his hand, and spoke. "I've been a silly fool. Only she's so wonderfully beautiful--don't you think so?" "A gypsy all over--if you call that beautiful." The other flushed up again, but made no retort. "Never mind me or anybody else. I want to speak to you about Phoebe, if I may, John. Who have I got to care about but you? I'm only thinking of your happiness, for that's dearer to me than my own; and you know in your heart that I'm speaking the truth when I say so." "Stick to your gate-posts and old walls and cow-comforts and dead stones. We all know you can look farther into Dartmoor granite than most men, if that's anything; but human beings are beyond you and always were. You'd have come home a pauper but for me." "D' you think I'm not grateful? No man ever had a better brother than you, and you've stood between me and trouble a thousand times. Now I want to stand between you and trouble." "What the deuce d' you mean by naming Phoebe, then?" "That is the trouble. Listen and don't shout me down. She's breaking her heart--blind or not blind, I see that--breaking her heart, not for you, but Will Blanchard. Nobody else has found it out; but I have, and I know it's my duty to tell you; and I've done it." An ugly twist came into John Grimbal's face. "You've done it; yes. Go on." "That's all, brother, and from your manner I don't believe it's entirely news to you." "Then get you gone, damned snake in the grass! Get gone, 'fore I lay a hand on you! You to turn and bite _me!_ Me, that's made you! I see it all--your blasted sheep's eyes at Chris Blanchard, and her always at Monks Barton! Don't lie about it," he roared, as Martin raised his hand to speak; "not a word more will I hear from your traitor's lips. Get out of my sight, you sneaking hypocrite, and never call me 'brother' no more, for I'll not own to it!" "You'll be sorry for this, John." "And you too. You'll smart all your life long when you think of this dirty trick played against a brother who never did you no hurt. You to come between me and the girl that's promised to marry me! And for your own ends. A manly, brotherly plot, by God!" "I swear, on my sacred honour, there's no plot against you. I've never spoken to a soul about this thing, nor has a soul spoken of it to me; that's the truth." "Rot you, and your sacred honour too! Go, and take your lies with you, and keep your own friends henceforth, and never cross my threshold more--you or your sacred, stinking honour either." Martin rose from his chair dazed and bewildered. He had seen his brother's passion wither up many a rascal in the past; but he himself had never suffered until now, and the savagery of this language hurled against his own pure motives staggered him. He, of course, knew nothing about Will Blanchard's enterprise, and his blundering and ill-judged effort to restrain his brother from marrying Phoebe was absolutely disinterested. It had been a tremendous task to him to speak on this delicate theme, and regard for John alone actuated him; now he departed without another word and went blankly to the little new stone house he had taken and furnished on the outskirts of Chagford under Middledown. He walked along the straight street of whitewashed cots that led him to his home, and reflected with dismay on this catastrophe. The conversation with his brother had scarcely occupied five minutes; its results promised to endure a lifetime. Meanwhile, and at the identical hour of this tremendous rupture, Chris Blanchard, well knowing that the morrow would witness Phoebe's secret marriage to her brother, walked down to see her. It happened that a small party filled the kitchen of Monks Barton, and the maid who answered her summons led Chris through the passage and upstairs to Phoebe's own door. There the girls spoke in murmurs together, while various sounds, all louder than their voices, proceeded from the kitchen below. There were assembled the miller, Billy Blee, Mr. Chapple, and one Abraham Chown, the police inspector of Chagford, a thin, black-bearded man, oppressed with the cares of his office. "They be arranging the programme of festive delights," explained Phoebe. "My heart sinks in me every way I turn now. All the world seems thinking about what's to come; an' I knaw it never will." "'T is a wonnerful straange thing to fall out. Never no such happened before, I reckon. But you 'm doin' right by the man you love, an' that's a thought for 'e more comfortin' than gospel in a pass like this. A promise is a promise, and you've got to think of all your life stretching out afore you. Will's jonic, take him the right way, and that you knaw how to do--a straight, true chap as should make any wife happy. Theer'll be waitin' afterwards an' gude need for all the patience you've got; but wance the wife of un, allus the wife of un; that's a butivul thing to bear in mind." "'T is so; 't is everything. An' wance we'm wed, I'll never tell a lie again, an' atone for all I have told, an' do right towards everybody." "You caan't say no fairer. Be any matter I can help 'e with?" "Nothing. It's all easy. The train starts for Moreton at half-past nine. Sam Bonus be gwaine to drive me in, and bide theer for me till I come back from Newton. Faither's awnly too pleased to let me go. I said 't was shopping." "An' when you come home you'll tell him--Mr. Lyddon--straight?" "Everything, an' thank God for a clean breast again." "An' Will?" "Caan't say what he'll do after. Theer'll be no real marryin' for us yet a while. Faither can have the law of Will presently,--that's all I knaw." "Trust Will to do the right thing; and mind, come what may to him, theer's allus Clem Hicks and me for friends." "Ban't likely to be many others left, come to-morrow night. But I've run away from my own thoughts to think of you and him often of late days. He'll get money and marry you, won't he, when his aunt, Mrs. Coomstock, dies?" "No; I thought so tu, an' hoped it wance; but Clem says what she've got won't come his way. She's like as not to marry, tu--there 'm a lot of auld men tinkering after her, Billy Blee among 'em." Sounds arose from beneath. They began with harsh and grating notes, interrupted by a violent hawking and spitting. Then followed renewal of the former unlovely noises. Presently, at a point in the song, for such it was, half a dozen other voices drowned the soloist in a chorus. "'T is Billy rehearsin' moosic," explained Phoebe, with a sickly smile. "He haven't singed for a score of years; but they've awver-persuaded him and he's promised to give 'em an auld ballet on my wedding-day." "My stars! 't is a gashly auld noise sure enough," criticised Phoebe's friend frankly; "for all the world like a stuck pig screechin', or the hum of the threshin' machine poor faither used to have, heard long ways off." Quavering and quivering, with sudden painful flights into a cracked treble, Billy's effort came to the listeners. "'Twas on a Monday marnin' Afore the break of day, That I tuked up my turmit-hoe An' trudged dree mile away!" Then a rollicking chorus, with rough music in it, surged to their ears-- "An' the fly, gee hoppee! The fly, gee whoppee! The fly be on the turmits, For 't is all my eye for me to try An' keep min off the turmits!" Mr. Blee lashed his memory and slowly proceeded, while Chris, moved by a sort of sudden mother-instinct towards pale and tearful Phoebe, strained her to her bosom, hugged her very close, kissed her, and bid her be hopeful and happy. "Taake gude heart, for you 'm to mate the best man in all the airth but wan!" she said; "an', if 't is awnly to keep Billy from singing in public, 't is a mercy you ban't gwaine to take Jan Grimbal. Doan't 'e fear for him. There'll be a thunder-storm for sartain; then he'll calm down, as better 'n him have had to 'fore now, an' find some other gal." With this comfort Chris caressed Phoebe once more, heartily pitying her helplessness, and wishing it in her power to undertake the approaching ordeal on the young bride's behalf. Then she departed, her eyes almost as dim as Phoebe's. For a moment she forgot her own helpless matrimonial projects in sorrow for her brother and his future wife. Marriage at the registry office represented to her, as to most women, an unlovely, uncomfortable, and unfinished ceremony. She had as easily pictured a funeral without the assistance of the Church as a wedding without it. CHAPTER IX OUTSIDE EXETER GAOL Within less than twelve hours of the time when she bid Chris farewell Phoebe Lyddon was Phoebe Lyddon no more. Will met her at Newton; they immediately proceeded to his uncle's office; and the Registrar had made them man and wife in space of time so brief that the girl could hardly realise the terrific event was accomplished, and that henceforth she belonged to Will alone. Mr. Ford had his little joke afterwards in the shape of a wedding-breakfast and champagne. He was gratified at the event and rejoiced to be so handsomely and tremendously revenged on his unfortunate enemy. The young couple partook of the good things provided for them; but appetite was lacking to right enjoyment of the banquet, and Will and his wife much desired to escape and be alone. Presently they returned to the station and arrived there before Phoebe's train departed. Her husband then briefly explained the remarkable course of action he designed to pursue. "You must be a braave gal and think none the worse of me. But't is this way: I've broke law, and a month or two, or six, maybe, in gaol have got to be done. Your faither will see to that." "Prison! O, Will! For marryin' me?" "No, but for marryin' you wi'out axin' leave. Miller Lyddon told me the upshot of taking you, if I done it; an' I have; an' he'll keep his word. So that's it. I doan't want to make no more trouble; an' bein' a man of resource I'm gwaine up to Exeter by first train, so soon as you've started. Then all bother in the matter will be saved Miller." "O Will! Must you?" "Ess fay, 't is my duty. I've thought it out through many hours. The time'll soon slip off; an' then I'll come back an' stand to work. Here's a empty carriage. Jump in. I can sit along with 'e for a few minutes." "How ever shall I begin? How shall I break it to them, dearie?" "Hold up your li'l hand," said Will with a laugh. "Shaw 'em the gawld theer. That'll speak for 'e. 'S truth!" he continued, with a gesture of supreme irritation, "but it's a hard thing to be snatched apart like this--man an' wife. If I was takin' 'e home to some lew cot, all our very awn, how differ'nt 't would be!" "You will some day." "So I will then. I've got 'e for all time, an' Jan Grimbal's missed 'e for all time. Damned if I ban't a'most sorry for un!" "So am I,--in a way,--as you are. My heart hurts me to think of him. He'll never forgive me." "Me, you mean. Well, 't is man to man, an' I ban't feared of nothing on two legs. You just tell 'em that 't was to be, that you never gived up lovin' me, but was forced into lyin' and such-like by the cruel way they pushed 'e. Shaw 'em the copy of the paper if they doan't b'lieve the ring. An' when Miller lifts up his voice to cuss me, tell un quiet that I knawed what must come of it, and be gone straight to Exeter Gaol to save un all further trouble. He'll see then I'm a thinking, calculating man, though young in years." Phoebe was now reduced to sighs and dry sobs. Will sat by her a little longer, patted her hands and spoke cheerfully. Then the train departed and he jumped from it as it moved and ran along the platform with a last earnest injunction. "See mother first moment you can an' explain how 't is. Mother'll understand, for faither did similar identical, though he wasn't put in clink for it." He waved his hand and Phoebe passed homewards. Then the fire died out of his eyes and he sighed and turned. But no shadow of weakness manifested itself in his manner. His jaw hardened, he smote his leg with his stick, and, ascertaining the time of the next train to Exeter, went back to bid Mr. Ford farewell before setting about his business. Will told his uncle nothing concerning the contemplated action; and such silence was unfortunate, for had he spoken the old man's knowledge must have modified his fantastic design. Knowing that Will came mysteriously from regular employment which he declined to discuss, and assuming that he now designed returning to it, Mr. Ford troubled no more about him. So his nephew thanked the Registrar right heartily for all the goodness he had displayed in helping two people through the great crisis of their lives, and went on his way. His worldly possessions were represented by a new suit of blue serge which he wore, and a few trifles in a small carpet-bag. It was the past rather than the present or future which troubled Will on his journey to Exeter; and the secret of the last six months, whatever that might be, lay heavier on his mind than the ordeal immediately ahead of him. In this coming achievement he saw no shame; it was merely part payment for an action lawless but necessary. He prided himself always on a great spirit of justice, and justice demanded that henceforth he must consider the family into which he had thus unceremoniously introduced himself. To no man in the wide world did he feel more kindly disposed than to Miller Lyddon; and his purpose was now to save his father-in-law all the annoyance possible. Arrived at Exeter, Will walked cheerfully away to the County Gaol, a huge red-brick pile that scarce strikes so coldly upon the eye of the spectator as ordinary houses of detention. Grey and black echo the significance of a prison, but warm red brick strikes through the eye to the brain, and the colour inspires a genial train of ideas beyond reason's power instantly to banish. But the walls, if ruddy, were high, and the rows of small, remote windows, black as the eye-socket of a skull, stretched away in dreary iron-bound perspective where the sides of the main fabric rose upward to its chastened architectural adornments. Young Blanchard grunted to himself, gripped his stick, from one end of which was suspended his carpet-bag, and walked to the wicket at the side of the prison's main entrance. He rang a bell that jangled with tremendous echoes among the naked walls within; then there followed the rattle of locks as the sidegate opened, and a warder looked out to ask Will his business. The man was burly and of stout build, while his fat, bearded face, red as the gaol walls themselves, attracted Blanchard by its pleasant expression. Will's eyes brightened at the aspect of this janitor; he touched his hat very civilly, wished the man "good afternoon," and was about to step in when the other stopped him. "Doan't be in such a hurry, my son. What's brought 'e, an' who do 'e want?" "My business is private, mister; I wants to see the head man." "The Governor? Won't nobody less do? You can't see him without proper appointment. But maybe a smaller man might serve your turn?" Will reflected, then laughed at the warder with that sudden magic of face that even softened hard hearts towards him. "To be plain, mate, I'm here to stop. You'll be sure to knaw 'bout it sooner or late, so I'll tell 'e now. I've done a thing I must pay for, and 't is a clink job, so I've comed right along." The warder grew rather sterner, and his eye instinctively roamed for a constable. "Best say no more, then. Awnly you've comed to the wrong place. Police station's what you want, I reckon." "Why for? This be County Gaol, ban't it?" "Ess, that's so; but we doan't take in folks for the axin'. Tu many queer caraters about." Will saw the man's eyes twinkle, yet he was puzzled at this unexpected problem. "Look here," he said, "I like you, and I'll deal fair by you an' tell you the rights of it. Step out here an' listen." "Mind, what you sez will be used against you, then." "Theer ban't no secret in it, for that matter." The husband thereupon related his recent achievement, and concluded thus: "So, having kicked up a mort o' trouble, I doan't want to make no more--see? An' I stepped here quiet to keep it out of the papers, an' just take what punishment's right an' vitty for marryin' a maid wi'out so much as by your leave. Now, then, caan't 'e do the rest?" He regarded the warder gravely and inquiringly, but as the red-faced man slowly sucked up the humour of the situation, his mouth expanded and his eyes almost disappeared. Then he spoke through outbursts and shakings of deep laughter. "Oh Lard! Wheerever was you born to?" Will flushed deeply, frowned, and clenched his fists at this question. "Shut your gert mouth!" he said angrily. "Doan't bellow like that, or I'll hit 'e awver the jaw! Do'e think I want the whole of Exeter City to knaw my errand? What's theer to gape an' snigger at? Caan't 'e treat a man civil?" This reproof set the official off again, and only a furious demand from Blanchard to go about his business and tell the Governor he wanted an interview partially steadied him. "By Gor! you'll be the death of me. Caan't help it--honour bright--doan't mean no rudeness to you. Bless your young heart, an' the gal's, whoever she be. Didn't 'e knaw? But theer! course you didn't, else you wouldn't be here. Why, 't is purty near as hard to get in prison as out again. You'll have to be locked up, an' tried by judge an' jury, and plead guilty, and be sentenced, an' the Lard He knaws what beside 'fore you come here. How do the lawyers an' p'licemen get their living?" "That's news. I hoped to save Miller Lyddon all such trouble." "Why not try another way, an' see if you can get the auld gentleman to forgive 'e?" "Not him. He'll have the law in due time." "Well, I'm 'mazin' sorry I caan't oblige 'e, for I'm sure we'd be gude friends, an' you'd cheer us all up butivul." "But you 'm certain it caan't be managed?" "Positive." "Then I've done all a man can. You'll bear witness I wanted to come, won't 'e?" "Oh yes, I'll take my oath o' that. _I_ shaan't forget 'e." "All right. And if I'm sent here again, bimebye, I'll look out for you, and I hopes you'll be as pleasant inside as now." "I'll promise that. Shall be awnly tu pleased to make you at home. I like you; though, to be frank, I reckon you'm tu gnat-brained a chap to make a wife happy." "Then you reckon a damned impedent thing! What d' you knaw 'bout it?" "A tidy deal. I've been married more years than you have hours, I lay." "Age ban't everything; 't is the fashion brains in a man's head counts most." "That's right enough. 'T is something to knaw that. Gude-bye to 'e, bwoy, an' thank you for makin' me laugh heartier than I have this month of Sundays." "More fule you!" declared Will; but he was too elated at the turn of affairs to be anything but amiable just now. Before the other disappeared, he stopped him. "Shake hands, will 'e? I thank you for lightenin' my mind--bein' a man of law, in a manner of speakin'. Ess, I'm obliged to 'e. Of coourse I doan't _want_ to come to prison 'zackly. That's common sense." "Most feel same as you. No doubt you're in the wrong, though the law caan't drop on honest, straightforrard matrimony to my knowledge. Maybe circumstances is for 'e." "Ess, they be--every jack wan of 'em!" declared Will. "An' if I doan't come here to stop, I'll call in some day and tell 'e the upshot of this coil in a friendly way." "Do so, an' bring your missis. Shall be delighted to see the pair of 'e any time. Ax for Thomas Bates." Will nodded and marched off, while the warder returned to his post, and when he had again made fast the door behind him, permitted the full splendor of his recent experience to tumble over his soul in a laughter perhaps louder than any heard before or since within the confines of one of Her Majesty's prisons. CHAPTER X THE BRINGING OF THE NEWS Phoebe meantime returned to Chagford, withdrew herself into her chamber, and feverishly busied brains and hands with a task commended that morning by Will when she had mentioned it to him. The various trinkets and objects of value lavished of late upon her by John Grimbal she made into a neat packet, and tied up a sealskin jacket and other furs in a second and more bulky parcel. With these and a letter she presently despatched a maid to Mr. Grimbal's temporary address. Phoebe's note explained how, weak and friendless until the sudden return of Will into her life, she had been thrown upon wickedness, falsehood, and deceit to win her own salvation in the face of all about her. She told him of the deed done that day, begged him to be patient and forget her, and implored him to forgive her husband, who had fought with the only weapons at his command. It was a feeble communication, and Phoebe thought that her love for Will might have inspired words more forcible; but relief annihilated any other emotion; she felt thankful that the lying, evasion, and prevarication of the last horrible ten days were at an end. From the nightmare of that time her poor, bruised conscience emerged sorely stricken; yet she felt that the battle now before her was a healthy thing by comparison, and might serve to brace her moral senses rather than not. At the tea-table she first met her father, and there were present also Billy Blee and Mr. Chapple. The latter had come to Monks Barton about a triumphal arch, already in course of erection at Chagford market-place, and his presence it was that precipitated her confession, and brought Phoebe's news like a thunderbolt upon the company. Mr. Chapple, looking up suddenly from the saucer that rested upon his outspread fingers and thumb, made a discovery, and spoke with some concern. "Faith, Missy, that's ill luck--a wisht thing to do indeed! Put un off, like a gude maid, for theer 's many a wise sayin' 'gainst it." "What's her done?" asked Billy anxiously. "Luke 'pon her weddin' finger. 'Tis poor speed to put un on 'fore her lard an' master do it, at the proper moment ordained by Scripture." "If she hasn't! Take un off, Miss Phoebe, do!" begged Mr. Blee, in real trepidation; and the miller likewise commanded his daughter to remove her wedding-ring. "An auld wife's tale, but, all the same, shouldn't be theer till you 'm a married woman," he said. Thus challenged, the way was made smooth as possible for the young wife. She went over to her father, walked close to him, and put her plump little hand with its shining addition upon his shoulder. "Faither dear, I be a married woman. I had to tell lies and play false, but't was to you an' Mr. Grimbal I've been double, not to my husband that is. I was weak, and I've been punished sore, but--" "Why, gal alive! what rigmarole 's this? Married--ay, an' so you shall be, in gude time. You 'm light-headed, lass, I do b'lieve. But doan't fret, I'll have Doctor--" "Hear me," she said, almost roughly. "I kept my word--my first sacred word--to Will. I loved him, an' none else but him; an' 'tis done--I've married him this marnin', for it had to be, an' theer's the sign an' token of it I've brought along with me." She drew the copy of the register from her pocket, opened it with trembling fingers, set it before Mr. Lyddon, and waited for him to speak. But it was some time before he found words or wind to do so. Literally the fact had taken his breath. A curious expression, more grin than frown--an expression beyond his control in moments of high emotion--wrinkled his eyelids, stretched his lips, and revealed the perfect double row of his false teeth. His hand went forward to the blue paper now lying before him, then the fingers stopped half way and shook in the air. Twice he opened his mouth, but only a sharp expiration, between a sigh and a bark, escaped. "My God, you've shook the sawl of un!" cried Billy, starting forward, but the miller with an effort recovered his self-possession, scanned the paper, dropped it, and lifted up his voice in lamentation. "True--past altering--'t is a thing done! May God forgive you for this wicked deed, Phoebe Lyddon--I'd never have b'lieved it of 'e--never--not if an angel had tawld me. My awn that was, and my awnly one! My darter, my soft-eyed gal, the crown of my grey hairs, the last light of my life!" "I pray you'll come to forgive me in time, dear faither. I doan't ax 'e to yet a while. I had to do it--a faithful promise. 'T was for pure love, faither; I lied for him--lied even to you; an' my heart 's been near to breakin' for 'e these many days; but you'd never have listened if I'd told 'e." "Go," he said very quietly. "I caan't abear the sight of'e just now. An' that poor fule, as thrawed his money in golden showers for 'e! Oh, my gude God, why for did 'E leave me any childern at all? Why didn't 'E take this cross-hearted wan when t' other was snatched away? Why didn't 'E fill the cup of my sorrer to the brim at a filling an' not drop by drop, to let un run awver now I be auld?" Phoebe turned to him in bitter tears, but the man's head was down on his hands beside his plate and cup, and he, too, wept, with a pitiful childish squeak between his sobs. Weakness so overwhelming and so unexpected--a father's sorrow manifested in this helpless feminine fashion--tore the girl's very heartstrings. She knelt beside him and put her arms about him; but he pushed her away and with some return of self-control and sternness again bid her depart from him. This Phoebe did, and there was silence, while Mr. Lyddon snuffled, steadied himself, wiped his face with a cotton handkerchief, and felt feebly for a pair of spectacles in his pocket. Mr. Chapple, meantime, had made bold to scan the paper with round eyes, and Billy, now seeing the miller in some part recovered, essayed to comfort him. "Theer, theer, maister, doan't let this black come-along-o't quench 'e quite. That's better! You such a man o' sense, tu! 'T was awver-ordained by Providence, though a artful thing in a young gal; but women be such itemy twoads best o' times--stage-players by sex, they sez; an' when love for a man be hid in 'em, gormed if they caan't fox the God as made 'em!" "Her to do it! The unthankfulness, the cold cruelty of it! An' me that was mother an' father both to her--that did rock her cradle with these hands an' wash the li'l year-auld body of her. To forget all--all she owed! It cuts me that deep!" "Deep as a wire into cheese, I lay. An' well it may; but han't no new thing; you stablish yourself with that. The ways o' women 's like--'t was a sayin' of Solomon I caan't call home just this minute; but he knawed, you mind, none better. He had his awn petticoat trouble, same as any other Christian man given to women. What do 'e say, neighbour?" Billy, of opinion that Mr. Chapple should assist him in this painful duty, put the last question to his rotund friend, but the other, for answer, rose and prepared to depart. "I say," he answered, "that I'd best go up-along and stop they chaps buildin' the triumphant arch. 'Pears won't be called for now. An' theer's a tidy deal else to do likewise. Folks was comin' in from the Moor half a score o' miles for this merry-makin'." "'T is a practical thought," said Billy. "Them as come from far be like to seem fules if nothin' 's done. You go up the village an' I'll follow 'e so quick as I can." Mr. Chapple thereupon withdrew and Billy turned to the miller. Mr. Lyddon had wandered once and again up and down the kitchen, then fallen into his customary chair; and there he now sat, his elbows on his knees, his hands over his face. He was overwhelmed; his tears hurt him physically and his head throbbed. Twenty years seemed to have piled themselves upon his brow in as many minutes. "Sure I could shed water myself to see you like this here," said Mr. Blee, sympathetically; "but 't is wan of them eternal circumstances we 'm faaced with that all the rain falled of a wet winter won't wash away. Theer 's the lines. They 'm a fact, same as the sun in heaven 's a fact. God A'mighty's Self couldn't undo it wi'out some violent invention; an' for that matter I doan't see tu clear how even Him be gwaine to magic a married woman into a spinster again; any more than He could turn a spinster into a married woman, onless some ordinary human man came forrard. You must faace it braave an' strong. But that imp o' Satan--that damn Blanchard bwoy! Theer! I caan't say what I think 'bout him. Arter all that's been done: the guests invited, the banns axed out, the victuals bought, and me retracin' my ballet night arter night, for ten days, to get un to concert pitch--well, 't is a matter tu deep for mere speech." "The--the young devil! I shall have no pity--not a spark. I wish to God he could hang for it!" "As to that, might act worse than leave it to Jan Grimbal. He'll do summat 'fore you've done talkin', if I knaw un. An' a son-in-law 's a son-in-law, though he've brought it to pass by a brigand deed same as this. 'T is a kicklish question what a man should do to the person of his darter's husband. You bide quiet an' see what chances. Grimbal's like to take law into his awn hands, as any man of noble nature might in this quandary." The disappointed lover's probable actions offered dreary food for thought, and the two old men were still conversing when a maid entered to lay the cloth for supper. Then Billy proceeded to the village and Mr. Lyddon, unnerved and restless, rambled aimlessly into the open air, addressed any man or woman who passed from the adjacent cottages, and querulously announced, to the astonishment of chance listeners, that his daughter's match was broken off. An hour later Phoebe reappeared in the kitchen and occupied her usual place at the supper-table. No one spoke a word, but the course of the meal was suddenly interrupted, for there came a knock at the farmhouse door, and without waiting to be answered, somebody lifted the latch, tramped down the stone passage, and entered the room. Now Phoebe, in the privacy of her little chamber beneath the thatch, had reflected miserably on the spectacle of her husband far away in a prison cell, with his curls cropped off and his shapely limbs clad convict-fashion. When, therefore, Will, and not John Grimbal, as she expected, stood before her, his wife was perhaps more astonished than any other body present. Young Blanchard appeared, however. He looked weary and hungry, for he had been on his legs during the greater part of the day and had forgotten to eat since his pretence of wedding-breakfast ten hours earlier. Now, newly returned from Exeter, he came straight to Monks Barton before going to his home. Billy Blee was the first to find his voice before this sudden apparition. His fork, amply laden, hung in the air as though his arm was turned to stone; with a mighty gulp he emptied his mouth and spoke. "Gormed if you ban't the most 'mazin' piece ever comed out o' Chagford!" "Miller Lyddon," said Will, not heeding Mr. Blee, "I be here to say wan word 'fore I goes out o' your sight. You said you'd have law of me if I took Phoebe; an' that I done, 'cause we was of a mind. Now we 'm man an' wife, an' I'm just back from prison, wheer I went straight to save you trouble. But theer 's preambles an' writs an' what not. I shall be to mother's, an' you can send Inspector Chown when you like. It had to come 'cause we was of a mind." He looked proudly at Phoebe, but departed without speaking to her, and silence followed his going. Mr. Lyddon stared blankly at the door through which Will departed, then his rage broke forth. "Curse the wretch! Curse him to his dying day! An' I'll do more--more than that. What he can suffer he shall, and if I've got to pay my last shilling to get him punishment I'll do it--my last shilling I'll pay." He had not regarded his daughter or spoken to her since his words at their first meeting; and now, still ignoring Phoebe's presence, he began eagerly debating with Billy Blee as to what law might have power to do. The girl, wisely enough, kept silence, ate a little food, and then went quietly away to her bed. She was secretly overjoyed at Will's return and near presence; but another visitor might be expected at any moment, and Phoebe knew that to be in bed before the arrival of John Grimbal would save her from the necessity of a meeting she much feared. She entered upon her wedding-night, therefore, while the voices below droned on, now rising, now falling; then, while she was saying her prayers with half her mind on them, the other half feverishly intent on a certain sound, it came. She heard the clink, clink of the gate, thrown wide open and now swinging backwards and forwards, striking the hasp each time; then a heavy step followed it, feet strode clanging down the passage, and the bull roar of a man's voice fell on her ear. Upon this she huddled under the clothes, but listened for a second at long intervals to hear when he departed. The thing that had happened, however, since her husband's departure and John Grimbal's arrival, remained happily hidden from Phoebe until next morning, by which time a climax in affairs was past and the outcome of tragic circumstances fully known. When Blanchard left the farm, he turned his steps very slowly homewards, and delayed some minutes on Rushford Bridge before appearing to his mother. For her voice he certainly yearned, and for her strong sense to throw light upon his future actions; but she did not know everything there was to be known and he felt that with himself, when all was said, lay decision as to his next step. While he reflected a new notion took shape and grew defined and seemed good to him. "Why not?" he said to himself, aloud. "Why not go back? Seeing the provocation--they might surely--?" He pursued the idea silently and came to a determination. Yet the contemplated action was never destined to be performed, for now an accident so trifling as the chance glimmer of a lucifer match contributed to remodel the scheme of his life and wholly shatter immediate resolutions. Craving a whiff of tobacco, without which he had been since morning, Will lighted his pipe, and the twinkle of flame as he did so showed his face to a man passing across the bridge at that moment. He stopped in his stride, and a great bellow of wrath escaped him, half savage, half joyful. "By God! I didn't think to meet so soon!" Here was a red-hot raving Nemesis indeed; and Will, while prepared for a speedy meeting with his enemy, neither expected nor desired an encounter just then. But it had come, and he knew what was before him. Grimbal, just returned from a long day's sport, rode back to his hotel in a good temper. He drank a brandy-and-soda at the bar, then went up to his rooms and found Phoebe's letter; whereupon, as he was in muddy pink, he set off straight for Monks Barton; and now he stood face to face with the man on earth he most desired to meet. By the light of his match Will saw a red coat, white teeth under a great yellow moustache, and a pair of mad, flaming eyes, hungry for something. He knew what was coming, moved quickly from the parapet of the bridge, and flung away his pipe to free his hands. As he did so the other was on him. Will warded one tremendous stroke from a hunting-crop; then they came to close quarters, and Grimbal, dropping his whip, got in a heavy half-arm blow on his enemy's face before they gripped in holds. The younger man, in no trim for battle, reeled and tried to break away; but the other had him fast, picked him clean off the ground, and, getting in his weight, used a Yankee throw, with intent to drop Will against the granite of the bridge. But though Blanchard went down like a child before the attack, he disappeared rather than fell; and in the pitchy night it seemed as though some amiable deity had caught up the vanquished into air. A sudden pressure of the low parapet against his own legs as he staggered forward, told John Grimbal what was done and, at the same moment, a tremendous splash in the water below indicated his enemy's dismal position. Teign, though not in flood at the time, ran high, and just below the bridge a deep pool opened out. Around it were rocks upon which rose the pillars of the bridge. No sound or cry followed Will Blanchard's fall; no further splash of a swimmer, or rustle on the river's bank, indicated any effort from him. Grimbal's first instincts were those of regret that revenge had proved so brief. His desire was past before he had tasted it. Then for a moment he hesitated, and the first raving lust to kill Phoebe's husband waned a trifle before the sudden conviction that he had done so. He crept down to the river, ploughed about to find the man, questioning what he should do if he did find him. His wrath waxed as he made search, and he told himself that he should only trample Blanchard deeper into water if he came upon him. He kicked here and there with his heavy boots; then abandoned the search and proceeded to Monks Barton. Into the presence of the miller he thundered, and for a time said nothing of the conflict from which he had come. The scene needs no special narration. Vain words and wishes, oaths and curses, filled John Grimbal's mouth. He stamped on the floor, finding it impossible to remain motionless, roared the others down, loaded the miller with bitter reproaches for his blindness, silenced Mr. Blee on every occasion when he attempted to join the discussion. The man, in fine, exhibited that furious, brute passion and rage to be expected from such a nature suddenly faced with complete dislocation of cherished hopes. His life had been a long record of success, and this tremendous reverse, on his first knowledge of it, came near to unhinge John Grimbal's mind. Storm succeeded storm, explosion followed upon explosion, and the thought of the vanity of such a display only rendered him more frantic. Then chance reminded the raging maniac of that thing he had done, and now, removed from the deed by a little time, he gloried in it. "Blast the devil--short shrift he got--given straight into my hand! I swore to kill him when I heard it; an' I have--pitched him over the bridge and broken his blasted neck. I'd burn in ragin' hell through ten lifetimes to do it again. But that's done once for all. And you can tell your whore of a daughter she's a widow, not a wife!" "God be gude to us!" cried Billy, while Mr. Lyddon started in dismay. "Is this true you'm tellin'? Blue murder? An' so, like's not, his awn mother'll find un when she goes to draw water in the marnin'!" "Let her, and his sister, too; and my God-damned brother! All in it--every cursed one of 'em. I'd like--I'd like--Christ--" He broke off, was silent for a moment, then strode out of the room towards the staircase. Mr. Lyddon heard him and rushed after him with Billy. They scrambled past and stood at the stair-foot while Grimbal glanced up in the direction of Phoebe's room, and then glared at the two old men. "Why not, you doddering fools? Can you still stand by her, cursed jade of lies? My work's only half done! No man's ever betrayed me but he's suffered hell for it; and no woman shall." He raged, and the two with beating hearts waited for him. Then suddenly laughing aloud, the man turned his back, and passed into the night without more words. "Mad, so mad as any zany!" gasped Mr. Blee. "Thank God the whim's took un to go. My innards was curdlin' afore him!" The extravagance of Grimbal's rage had affected Mr. Lyddon also. With white and terrified face he crept after Grimbal, and watched that tornado of a man depart. "My stars! He do breathe forth threatenings and slaughters worse 'n in any Bible carater ever I read of," said the miller, "and if what he sez be true--" "I'll wager 't is. Theer 's method in him. Your son-in-law, if I may say it, be drownded, sure 's death. What a world!" "Get the lanterns and call Sam Bonus. He must stand to this door an' let no man in while we 'm away. God send the chap ban't dead. I don't like for a long-cripple to suffer torture." "That's your high religion. An' I'll carry the brandy, for 't is a liquor, when all 's said, what 's saved more bodies in this world than it 's damned sawls in the next, an' a thing pleasant, tu, used with sense--specially if a man can sleep 'fore 't is dead in un." "Hurry, hurry! Every minute may mean life or death. I'll call Bonus; you get the lanterns." Ten minutes later a huge labourer stood guard over Monks Barton, and the miller, with his man, entered upon their long and fruitless search. The thaw had come, but glimmering ridges of snow still outlined the bases of northern-facing hedges along the river. With infinite labour and some difficulty they explored the stream, then, wet and weary, returned by the southern bank to their starting-point at Rushford Bridge. Here Billy found a cloth cap by the water's edge, and that was the only evidence of Will's downfall. As they clambered up from the river Mr. Lyddon noted bright eyes shining across the night, and found that the windows of Mrs. Blanchard's cottage were illuminated. "They 'm waitin' for him by the looks of it," he said. "What ought us to do, I wonder?" Billy never objected to be the bearer of news, good or ill, so that it was sensational; but a thought struck him at seeing the lighted windows. "Why, it may be he's theer! If so, then us might find Grimbal didn't slay un arter all. 'T was such a miz-maze o' crooked words he let fly 'pon us, that perhaps us misread un." "I wish I thought so. Come. Us can ax that much." A few minutes later they stood at Mrs. Blanchard's door and knocked. The widow herself appeared, fully dressed, wide awake, and perfectly collected. Her manner told Mr. Lyddon nothing. "What might you want, Miller?" "'T is Will. There's bin blows struck and violence done, I hear." "I can tell 'e the rest. The bwoy's paid his score an' got full measure. He wanted to be even with you, tu, but they wouldn't let un." "If he ban't dead, I'll make him smart yet for his evil act." "I warned 'e. He was cheated behind his back, an' played with the same cards what you did, and played better." "Wheer is he now? That's what I want to knaw." "Up in the house. They met on the bridge an' Grimbal bested him, Will bein' weary an' empty-bellied. When the man flinged him in the stream, he got under the arch behind the rocks afore he lost his head for a time and went senseless. When he comed to he crawled up the croft and I let un in." "Thank God he's not dead; but punishment he shall have if theer's justice in the land." "Bide your time. He won't shirk it. But he's hurted proper; you might let Jan Grimbal knaw, 't will ease his mind." "Not it," declared Billy; "he thought he'd killed un; cracked the neck of un." "The blow 'pon his faace scatted abroad his left nostril; the fall brawked his arm, not his neck; an' the spurs t' other was wearin' tored his leg to the bone. Doctor's seen un; so tell Grimbal. Theer's pleasure in such payment." She spoke without emotion, and showed no passion against the master of the Red House. When Will had come to her, being once satisfied in her immediate motherly agony that his life was not endangered, she allowed her mind a sort of secret, fierce delight at his performance and its success in the main issue. She was proud of him at the bottom of her heart; but before other eyes bore herself with outward imperturbability. "You'll keep the gal, I reckon?" she said quietly; "if you can hold hand off Will till he'm on his legs again, I'd thank you." "I shall do what I please, when I please; an' my poor fule of a daughter stops with me as long as I've got power to make her." "Hope you'll live to see things might have been worse." "That's impossible. No worse evil could have fallen upon me. My grey hairs a laughing-stock, and your awn brother's hand in it. He knawed well enough the crime he was committing." "You've a short memory, Miller. I lay Jan Grimbal knaws the reason if you doan't. The worm that can sting does, if you tread on it. Gude-night to 'e." "An' how do you find yourself now?" Billy inquired, as his master and he returned to Monks Barton. "Weary an' sick, an' filled with gall. Was it wrong to make the match, do 'e think, seein' 't was all for love of my cheel? Was I out to push so strong for it? I seem I done right, despite this awful mischance." "An' so you did; an' my feelin's be the same as yours to a split hair, though I've got no language for em at this unnatural hour of marnin'," said Billy. Then in silence, to the bobbing illumination of their lanterns, Mr. Lyddon and his familiar dragged their weary bodies home. CHAPTER XI LOVE AND GREY GRANITE The lofty central area of Devon has ever presented a subject of fascination to geologists; and those evidences of early man which adorn Dartmoor to-day have similarly attracted antiquarian minds for many generations past. But the first-named student, although his researches plunge him into periods of mundane time inconceivably more remote than that with which the archaeologist is concerned, yet reaches conclusions more definite and arrives at a nearer approximation to truth than any who occupy themselves in the same area with manifold and mysterious indications of early humanity's sojourn. The granite upheaval during that awful revolt of matter represented by the creation of Dartmoor has been assigned to a period between the Carboniferous and Permian eras; but whether the womb of one colossal volcano or the product of a thousand lesser eruptions threw forth this granite monster, none may yet assert. Whether Dartmoor first appeared as a mighty shield, with one uprising spike in its midst, or as a target supporting many separate bosses cannot be declared; for the original aspect of the region has long vanished, though our worn and weathered land of tors still shadows, in its venerable desolation, those sublimer, more savage glories manifested ere the eye of man or beast existed to receive an image of them. But the earliest human problems presented by Devon's watershed admit of no sure solution, albeit they date from a time adjacent contrasted with that wherein the land was born. Nature's message still endures for man to read as his knowledge grows; but the records of our primal fellows have grown dim and uncertain as the centuries rolled over them. There exists, however, within the lofty, lonely kingdom of the granite, a chain of human evidences extending from prehistoric ages to the ruined shepherd's cot of yesterday. At many spots a spectator may perceive in one survey the stone ruin of the Danmonian's habitation, and hypaethral temple or forum, the heather-clad debris left by Elizabethan streamers of alluvial tin, the inky peat-ridges from which a moorman has just cut his winter firing. But the first-named objects, with kindred fragments that have similarly endured, chiefly fire imagination. Seen grey at gloaming time, golden through sunny dawns, partaking in those spectral transformations cast upon the moor by the movement of clouds, by the curtains of the rain, by the silver of breaking day, the monotone of night and the magic of the moon, these relics reveal themselves and stand as a link between the present and the far past. Mystery broods over them and the jealous wings of the ages hide a measure of their secret. Thus far these lonely rings of horrent stones and the alignments between them have concealed their story from modern man, and only in presence of the ancient pound, the foundations of a dwelling, the monolith that marked a stone-man's sepulchre, the robbed cairn and naked kistvaen, may we speak with greater certainty and, through the glimmering dawn of history and the records of Britain's earliest foes, burrow back to aboriginal man on Dartmoor. Then research and imagination rebuild the eternal rings of granite and, erecting upon them tall domes of thatch and skins on wattle ribs, conceive the early village like a cluster of gigantic mushrooms, whose cowls are uplifted in that rugged fastness through the night of time. We see Palaeolithic man sink into mother earth before the superior genius of his Neolithic successor; and we note the Damnonian shepherds flourishing in lonely lodges and preserving their flocks from the wolf, while Egypt's pyramids were still of modern creation, and the stars twinkled in strange constellations, above a world innocent as yet of the legends that would name them. The stone-workers have vanished away, but their labour endures; their fabricated flints still appear, brought to light from barrows and peat-ties, from the burrows of rabbits and the mounds of the antiquary mole; the ruins of their habitations, the theatres of their assemblies and unknown ceremonies still stand, and probably will continue so to do as long as Dartmoor's bosom lies bare to the storm and stress of the ages. Modern man has also fretted the wide expanse, has scratched its surface and dropped a little sweat and blood; but his mansion and his cot and his grave are no more; plutonic rock is the only tablet on which any human story has been scribbled to endure. Castles and manor-houses have vanished from the moorland confines like the cloudy palaces of a dream; the habitations of the mining folk shall not be seen to-day, and their handiwork quickly returns to primitive waste; fern and furze hide the robbed cairn and bury the shattered cross; flood and lightning and tempest roam over the darkness of a region sacred to them, and man stretches his hand for what Nature touches not; but the menhir yet stands erect, the "sacred" circles are circles still, and these, with like records of a dim past, present to thinking travellers the crown and first glory of the Moor. Integral portions of the ambient desolation are they--rude toys that infant humanity has left in Mother Nature's lap; and the spectacle of them twines a golden thread of human interest into the fabric of each lonely heath, each storm-scarred mountain-top and heron-haunted stream. Nothing is changed since skin-clad soldiers and shepherds strode these wastes, felt their hearts quicken at sight of women, or their hands clench over celt-headed spears before danger. Here the babies of the stone-folk, as the boys and girls to-day, stained their little mouths and ringers with fruit of briar and whortle; the ling bloomed then as now; the cotton-grass danced its tattered plume; the sphagnum mosses opened emerald-green eyes in marsh and quaking bog; and hoary granite scattered every ravine and desert valley. About those aboriginal men the Moor spread forth the same horizon of solemn enfolding hills, and where twinkle the red hides of the moor-man's heifers through upstanding fern, in sunny coombs and hawthorn thickets, yesterday the stone-man's cattle roamed and the little eyes of a hidden bear followed their motions. Here, indeed, the first that came in the flesh are the last to vanish in their memorials; here Nature, to whom the hut-circle of granite, all clad in Time's lichen livery of gold and grey, is no older than the mushroom ring shining like a necklace of pearls within it--Nature may follow what course she will, may build as she pleases, may probe to the heart of things, may pursue the eternal Law without let from the pigmies; and here, if anywhere from man's precarious standpoint, shall he perceive the immutable and observe a presentment of himself in those ephemera that dance above the burn at dawn, and ere twilight passes gather up their gauze wings and perish. According to individual temperament this pregnant region attracts and fascinates the human spectator or repels him. Martin Grimbal loved Dartmoor and, apart from ties of birth and early memories, his natural predilections found thereon full scope and play. He was familiar with most of those literary productions devoted to the land, and now developed an ambition to add some result of personal observation and research to extant achievements. He went to work with method and determination, and it was not until respectable accumulations of notes and memoranda already appeared as the result of his labours that the man finally--almost reluctantly--reconciled himself to the existence of another and deeper interest in his life than that furnished by the grey granite monuments of the Moor. Hide it from himself he could no longer, nor yet wholly from others. As in wild Devon it is difficult at any time to escape from the murmur of waters unseen, so now the steady flood of this disquieting emotion made music at all waking hours in Martin's archaeologic mind, shattered his most subtle theories unexpectedly, and oftentimes swept the granite clean out of his head on the flood of a golden river. After three months of this beautiful but disquieting experience, Martin resigned himself to the conclusion that he was in love with Chris Blanchard. He became very cautious and timid before the discovery. He feared much and contemplated the future with the utmost distrust. Doubt racked him; he checked himself from planning courses of conduct built on mad presumptions. By night, as a sort of debauch, in those hours when man is awake and fancy free, he conceived of a happy future with Chris and little children about him; at morning light, if any shadow of that fair vision returned, he blushed and looked round furtively, as though some thought-reader's cold eye must be sneering at such presumption. He despaired of finding neutral ground from which his dry mind could make itself attractive to a girl. Now and again he told himself that the new emotion must be crushed, in that it began to stand between him and the work he had set himself to do for his county; but during more sanguine moods he challenged this decision and finally, as was proper and right, the flood of the man's first love drowned menhir and hut-circle fathoms deep, and demanded all his attention at the cost of mental peace. An additional difficulty appeared in the fact that the Blanchard family were responsible for John Grimbal's misfortune; and Martin, without confusing the two circumstances, felt that before him really lay the problem of a wife or a brother. When first he heard of the event that set Chagford tongues wagging so briskly, he rightly judged that John would hold him one of the conspirators; and an engagement to Chris Blanchard must certainly confirm the baffled lover's suspicions and part the men for ever. But before those words, as they passed through his brain, Martin Grimbal stopped, as the peasant before a shrine. "An engagement to Chris Blanchard!" He was too much a man and too deep merged in love to hesitate before the possibility of such unutterable happiness. For his brother he mourned deeply enough, and when the thousand rumours bred of the battle on the bridge were hatched and fluttered over the countryside, Martin it was who exerted all his power to stay them. Most people were impressed with the tragic nature of the unfortunate John's disappointment; but his energetic measures since the event were held to pay all scores, and it was believed the matter would end without any more trouble from him. Clement Hicks entertained a different opinion, perhaps judging John Grimbal from the secrets of his own character; but Will expressed a lively faith that his rival must now cry quits, after his desperate and natural but unsuccessful attempt to render Phoebe a widow. The shattered youth took his broken bones very easily, and only grunted when he found that his wife was not permitted to visit him under any pretence whatever; while as for Phoebe, her wild sorrow gradually lessened and soon disappeared as each day brought a better account of Will. John Grimbal vanished on the trip which was to have witnessed his honeymoon. He pursued his original plans with the modification that Phoebe had no part in them, and it was understood that he would return to Chagford in the spring. Thus matters stood, and when his brother was gone and Will and Phoebe had been married a month, Martin, having suffered all that love could do meantime, considered he might now approach the Blanchards. Ignorantly he pursued an awkward course, for wholly unaware that Clement Hicks felt any interest in Will and his sister beyond that of friendship, Martin sought from him the general information he desired upon the subject of Chris, her family and concerns. Together the two men went upon various excursions to ancient relics that interested them both, though in different measure. It was long before Martin found courage to bring forth the words he desired to utter, but finally he managed to do so, in the bracing conditions that obtained on Cosdon Beacon upon the occasion of a visit to its summit. By this time he had grown friendly with Hicks and must have learnt all and more than he desired to know but for the bee-keeper's curious taciturnity. For some whim Clement never mentioned his engagement; it was a subject as absent from his conversation as his own extreme poverty; but while the last fact Martin had already guessed, the former remained utterly concealed from him. Neither did any chance discover it until some time afterwards. The hut-circles on Cosdon's south-eastern flank occupied Martin's pencil. Clement gazed once upon the drawing, then turned away, for no feeling or poetry inspired the work; it was merely very accurate. The sketches made, both men ascended immense Cosdon, where its crown of cairns frets the long summit; and here, to the sound of the wind in the dead heather, with all the wide world of Northern Devon extended beneath his gaze under a savage sunset, Martin found courage to speak. At first Hicks did not hear. His eyes were on the pageant of the sky and paid tribute of sad thought before an infinity of dying cloud splendours. But the antiquary repeated his remark. It related to Will Blanchard, and upon Clement dropping a monosyllabic reply his companion continued: "A very handsome fellow, too. Miss Blanchard puts me in mind of him." "They're much alike in some things. But though Chris knows her brother to be good to look at, you'll never get Will to praise her. Funny, isn't it? Yet to his Phoebe, she's the sun to a star." "I think so too indeed. In fact, Miss Blanchard is the most beautiful woman I ever saw." Clement did not answer. He was gazing through the sunset at Chris, and as he looked he smiled, and the sadness lifted a little from off his face. "Strange some lucky fellow has not won her before now," proceeded the other, glancing away to hide the blush that followed his diplomacy. Here, by all experience and reason, and in the natural sequence of events Clement Hicks might have been expected to make his confession and rejoice in his prize, but for some cause, from some queer cross-current of disposition, he shut his mouth upon the greatest fact of his life. He answered, indeed, but his words conveyed a false impression. What sinister twist of mind was responsible for his silence he himself could not have explained; a mere senseless monkey-mischief seemed to inspire it. Martin had not deceived him, because the elder man was unused to probing a fellow-creature for facts or obtaining information otherwise than directly. Clement noted the false intonation and hesitation, recollected his sweetheart's allusion to Martin Grimbal, and read into his companion's question something closely akin to what in reality lay behind it. His discovery might have been expected to hasten rather than retard the truth, and a first impulse in any man had made the facts instantly clear; but Clement rarely acted on impulse. His character was subtle, disingenuous, secretive. Safe in absolute possession, the discovery of Martin's attachment did not flutter him. He laughed in his mind; then he pictured Chris the wife of this man, reviewed the worldly improvement in her position such a union must effect, and laughed no more. Finally he decided to hold his peace; but his motives for so doing were not clear even to himself. "Yes," he answered, "but she's not one to give her hand without her heart." These words, from Martin's point of view, embraced a definite assurance that Chris was free; and, as they walked homewards, he kept silence upon this thought for the space of half an hour. The uneasy hopes and black fears of love circled him about. Perhaps his timorous mind, in some moods, had been almost relieved at declaration of the girl's engagement to another. But now the tremendous task of storming a virgin heart lay ahead of him, as he imagined. Torments unfelt by those of less sensitive mould also awaited Martin Grimbal. The self-assertive sort of man, who rates himself as not valueless, and whose love will not prevent callous calculation on the weight of his own person and purse upon the argument, is doubtless wise in his generation, and his sanguine temperament enables him to escape oceans of unrest, hurricanes of torment; but self-distrust and humility have their value, and those who are oppressed by them fall into no such pitiable extreme as that too hopeful lover on whose sanguine ear "No" falls like a thunderbolt from red lips that were already considered to have spoken "Yes." A suitor who plunges from lofty peaks of assured victory into failure falls far indeed; but Martin Grimbal stood little chance of suffering in that sort as his brother John had done. The antiquary spoke presently, fearing he must seem too self-absorbed, but Clement had little to say. Yet a chance meeting twisted the conversation round to its former topic as they neared home. Upon Chagford Bridge appeared Miller Lyddon and Mr. Blee. The latter had been whitewashing the apple-tree stems--a course to which his master attached more importance than that pursued on Old Christmas Eve--and through the gathering dusk the trunks now stood out livid and wan as a regiment of ghosts. "Heard from your brother since he left?" Mr. Lyddon inquired after evening greetings. "I cannot yet. I hope he may write, but you are more likely to hear than I." "Not me. I'm nothing to un now." "Things will come right. Don't let it prey on your mind. No woman ever made a good wife who didn't marry where her heart was," declared Martin, exhibiting some ignorance of the subject he presumed to discuss. "Ah! you was ag'in' us, I mind," said the miller, drawing in. "He said as much that terrible night." "He was wrong--utterly. I only spoke for his good. I saw that your daughter couldn't stand the sight of him and shivered if he touched her. It was my duty to speak. Strange you didn't see too." "So easy to talk afterwards! I had her spoken word, hadn't I? She'd never lied in all her life afore. Strange if I _had_ seen, I reckon." "You frightened her into falsehood. Any girl might have been expected to lie in that position," said Clement coolly; then Mr. Blee, who had been fretting to join the conversation, burst into it unbidden. "Be gormed if I ban't like a cat on hot bricks to hear 'e! wan might think as Miller was the Devil hisself for cruelty instead o' bein', as all knaws, the most muty-hearted[4] faither in Chagford." [4] _Muty-hearted_ = soft-hearted. "As to that, I doan't knaw, Billy," declared Mr. Lyddon stoutly; "I be a man as metes out to the world same measure as I get from the world. Right is right, an' law is law; an' if I doan't have the law of Will Blanchard--" "There's little enough you can do, I believe," said Hicks; "and what satisfaction lies in it, I should like to know, if it's not a rude question?" The old man answered with some bitterness, and explained his power. "William Blanchard's done abduction, according to Lawyer Bellamy of Plymouth; an' abduction's felony, and that's a big thing, however you look 'pon it." "Long an' short is," cut in Billy, who much desired to air a little of his new knowledge, "that he can get a sentence inside the limits of two years, with or without hard labour; at mercy of judge and jury. That's his dose or not his dose, 'cording to the gracious gudeness of Miller." "Will's nearly ready to go," said Clement. "Let his arm once be restored, and he'll do your hard labour with a good heart, I promise you. He wants to please Mr. Lyddon, and will tackle two months or two years or twenty." "Two an' not a second less--with hard labour I'll wager, when all's taken into account." "Why are you so hot, Billy Blee? You're none the worse." "Billy's very jealous for me, same as Elijah was for the Lard o' Hosts," said Mr. Lyddon. Then Martin and Clement climbed the steep hill that lay between them and Chagford, while the miller and his man pursued their way through the valley. CHAPTER XII A STORY-BOOK Despite the miller's explicit declaration, there was yet a doubt as to what he might do in the matter of Will Blanchard. Six weeks is a period of time that has often served to cool dispositions more fiery, purposes more inflexible than those of Mr. Lyddon, and his natural placidity of temperament, despite outbreaks, had begun to reassert itself. Billy Blee, misunderstanding his master in this, suspected that the first fires of rage were now sunk into a conflagration, not so visible, but deeper and therefore more dangerous to the sufferer, if not to other people. He failed to observe that each day of waiting lessened the miller's desire towards action, and he continued to urge some step against Will Blanchard, as the only road by which his master's peace of mind might be regained. He went further, and declared delay to be very dangerous for Mr. Lyddon's spleen and other physical organs. But though humanity still prevented any definite step, Billy's master so far adopted his advice as to see a solicitor and learn what the law's power might be in the matter. Now he knew, as was recorded in the previous chapter; and still Mr. Lyddon halted between two opinions. He usually spoke on the subject as he had spoken to Martin Grimbal and Clement Hicks; but in reality he felt less desire in the direction of revenge than he pretended. Undoubtedly his daughter contributed not a little to this irresolution of mind. During the period of Will's convalescence, his wife conducted herself with great tact and self-restraint. Deep love for her father not only inspired her, but also smoothed difficulties from a road not easy. Phoebe kept much out of sight until the miller's first dismay and sorrow had subsided; then she crept back into her old position and by a thousand deft deeds and proper speeches won him again unconsciously. She anticipated his unspoken desire, brightened his every-day life by unobtrusive actions, preserved a bright demeanour, never mentioned Will, and never contradicted her father when he did so. Thus the matter stood, and Mr. Lyddon held his hand until young Blanchard was abroad again and seeking work. Then he acted, as shall appear. Before that event, however, incidents befell Will's household, the first being an unexpected visit from Martin Grimbal; for the love-sick antiquary nerved himself to this great task a week after his excursion to Cosdon. He desired to see Will, and was admitted without comment by Mrs. Blanchard. The sufferer, who sat at the kitchen fire with his arm still in a sling, received Martin somewhat coldly, being ignorant of the visitor's friendly intentions. Chris was absent, and Will's mother, after hoping that Mr. Grimbal would not object to discuss his business in the kitchen, departed and left the men together. "Sit down," said Will. "Be you come for your brother or yourself?" "For myself. I want to make my position clear. You must not associate me with John in this affair. In most things our interests were the same, and he has been a brother in a thousand to me; but concerning Miss--Mrs. Blanchard--he erred in my opinion--greatly erred--and I told him so. Our relations are unhappily strained, to my sorrow. I tell you this because I desire your friendship. It would be good to me to be friends with you and your family. I do not want to lose your esteem by a misunderstanding." "That's fair speech, an' I'm glad to hear 'e say it, for it ban't my fault when a man quarrels wi' me, as anybody will tell 'e. An' mother an' Chris will be glad. God knaws I never felt no anger 'gainst your brother, till he tried to take my girl away from me. Flesh an' blood weern't gwaine to suffer that." "Under the circumstances, and with all the difficulties of your position, I never could blame you." "Nor Phoebe," said the other warmly. "I won't have wan word said against her. Absolute right she done. I'm sick an' savage, even now, to think of all she suffered for me. I grits my teeth by night when it comes to my mind the mort o' grief an' tears an' pain heaped up for her--just because she loved wan chap an' not another." "Let the past go and look forward. The future will be happy presently." "In the long run 't will for sure. Your brother's got all he wants, I reckon, an' I doan't begrudge him a twinge; but I hope theer ban't no more wheer that comed from, for his awn sake, 'cause if us met unfriendly again, t' other might go awver the bridge, an' break worse 'n his arm." "No, no, Blanchard, don't talk and think like that. Let the past go. My brother will return a wiser man, I pray, with his great disappointment dulled." "A gert disappointment! To be catched out stealin', an' shawed up for a thief!" "Well, forgive and forget. It's a valuable art--to learn to forget." "You wait till you 'm faaced wi' such trouble, an' try to forget! But we 'm friends, by your awn shawm', and I be glad 't is so. Ax mother to step in from front the house, will 'e? I'd wish her to know how we 'm standin'." Mrs. Blanchard appeared with her daughter, and subsequent conversation banished a haunting sense of disloyalty to his brother from Martin's mind. Chris never looked more splendid or more sweet than in that noon, new come from a walk with Clement Hicks. Martin listened to her voice, stayed as long as he dared, and then departed with many emotions breaking like a storm upon his lonely life. He began to long for her with overwhelming desire. He had scarcely looked at a woman till now, and this brown-eyed girl of twenty, so full of life, so beautiful, set his very soul helplessly adrift on the sea of love. Her sudden laugh, like Will's, but softer and more musical, echoed in the man's ear as he returned to his house and, in a ferment, tramped the empty rooms. His own requirements had been amply met by three apartments, furnished with sobriety and great poverty of invention; but now he pictured Chris singing here, tripping about with her bright eyes and active fingers. Like his brother before him, he fell back upon his money, and in imagination spent many pounds for one woman's delight. Then from this dream he tumbled back into reality and the recollection that his goddess must be wooed and won. No man ever yet failed to make love from ignorance how to begin, but the extent and difficulties of his undertaking weighed very heavily on Martin Grimbal at this juncture. To win even a measure of her friendship appeared a task almost hopeless. Nevertheless, through sleepless nights, he nerved himself to the tremendous attempt. There was not so much of self-consciousness in him, but a great store of self-distrust. Martin rated himself and his powers of pleasing very low; and unlike the tumultuous and volcanic methods of John, his genius disposed him to a courtship of most tardy development, most gradual ripening. To propose while a doubt existed of the answer struck him as a proceeding almost beyond the bounds of man's audacity. He told himself that time would surely show what chance or hope there might be, and that opportunity must be left to sneak from the battle at any moment when ultimate failure became too certainly indicated. In more sanguine moods, however, by moonlight, or alone on the high moors, greater bravery and determination awoke in him. At such times he would decide to purchase new clothes and take thought for externals generally. He also planned some studies in such concerns as pleased women if he could learn what they might be. His first deliberate if half-hearted attack relied for its effect upon a novel. Books, indeed, are priceless weapons in the armory of your timid lover; and let but the lady discover a little reciprocity, develop an unsuspected delight in literature, as often happens, and the most modest volume shall achieve a practical result as far beyond its intrinsic merit as above the writer's dream. Martin, then, primed with a work of fiction, prayed that Chris might prove a reader of such things, and called at Mrs. Blanchard's cottage exactly one fortnight after his former visit. Chance favoured him to an extent beyond his feeble powers to profit by. Will was out for a walk, and Mrs. Blanchard being also from home, Martin enjoyed conversation with Chris alone. He began well enough, while she listened and smiled. Then he lost his courage and lied, and dragging the novel from his pocket, asserted that he had bought the tale for her brother. "A story-book! I doubt Will never read no such matter in his life, Mr. Grimbal." "But get him to try. It's quite a new thing. There's a poaching adventure and so forth--all very finely done according to the critical journals." "He'll never sit down to that gert buke." "You read it then, and tell him if it is good." "Me! Well, I do read now and again, an' stories tu; but Will wouldn't take my word. Now if Phoebe was to say 't was braave readin', he'd go for it fast enough." "I may leave it, at any rate?" "Leave it, an' thank you kindly." "How is Will getting on?" "Quite well again. Awnly riled 'cause Mr. Lyddon lies so low. Clem told us what the miller can do, but us doan't knaw yet what he will do." "Perhaps he doesn't know himself," suggested Martin. The name of "Clem," uttered thus carelessly by her, made him envious. Then, inspired by the circumstance, a request which fairly astounded the speaker by its valour dropped on his listener's ear. "By the way, don't call me 'Mr. Grimbal.' I hope you'll let me be 'Martin' in a friendly way to you all, if you will be so very kind and not mind my asking." The end of the sentence had its tail between its legs, but he got the words cleanly out, and his reward was great. "Why, of course, if you'd rather us did; an' you can call me 'Chris' if you mind to," she said, laughing. "'T is strange you took sides against your brother somehow to me." "I haven't--I didn't--except in the matter of Phoebe. He was wrong there, and I told him so,--" He meant to end the sentence with the other's name, only the word stuck in his throat; but "Miss Blanchard" he would not say, after her permission, so left a gap. "He'll not forgive 'e that in a hurry." "Not readily, but some day, I hope. Now I must really go--wasting your precious time like this; and I do hope you may read the book." "That Will may?" "No--yes--both of you, in fact. And I'll come to know whether you liked it. Might I?" "Whether Will liked it?" She nodded and laughed, then the door hid her; while Martin Grimbal went his way treading upon air. Those labourers whom he met received from him such a "Good evening!" that the small parties, dropping back on Chagford from their outlying toil, grinned inquiringly, they hardly knew at what. Meantime, Chris Blanchard reflected, and the laughter faded out of her eyes, leaving them grave and a little troubled. She was sufficiently familiar with lovers' ways. The bold, the uncouth, the humble, and timorous were alike within her experience. She watched this kind-faced man grow hot and cold as he spoke to her, noted the admixture of temerity and fear that divided his mind and appeared in his words. She had seen his lips tremble and refuse to pronounce her name; and she rightly judged that he would possibly repeat it aloud to himself more than once before he slept that night. Chris was no flirt, and now heartily regretted her light and friendly banter upon the man's departure. "I be a silly fule, an' wouldn't whisper a word of this to any but Clem," she thought, "for it may be nothing but the nervous way of un, an' such a chap 's a right to seek a sight further 'n me for a wife; an' yet they all 'pear the same, an' act the same soft sort o' style when they 'm like it." Then she considered that, seeing what friendship already obtained between Clement and Martin Grimbal, it was strange the latter still went in ignorance. "Anyways, if I'm not wrong, the sooner he 'm told the better, for he's a proper fashioned man," she thought. While Chris was still revolving this matter in her mind, Mrs. Blanchard returned with some news. "Postmistress stepped out of the office wi' this as I corned down the village," she said. "'T is from Mrs. Watson, I fancy." Her daughter brought a light, and the letter was perused. "Uncle 's took bad," Mrs. Blanchard presently announced; "an' sends to say as he wants me to go along an' help Sarah Watson nurse un." "Him ill! I never thought he was made of stuff to be ill." "I must go, whether or no. I'll take the coach to Moreton to-morrow." Mrs. Blanchard mentally traversed her wardrobe as she drank tea, and had already packed in anticipation before the meal was ended. Will, on returning, was much perturbed at this bad news, for since his own marriage Uncle Ford had become a hero among men to him. "What's amiss she doan't say--Mrs. Watson--but it's more 'n a fleabite else he wouldn't take his bed. But I hopes I'll have un to rights again in a week or so. 'Mind me to take a bottle of last summer's Marshmally brew, Chris. Doctors laugh at such physic, but I knaw what I knaw." "Wonder if't would better him to see me?" mused Will. "No, no; no call for that. You'll be fit to stand to work by Monday, so mind your business an' traapse round an' look for it. Theer 's plenty doin' 'pon the land now, an' I want to hear you' ve got a job 'fore I come home. Husbands must work for two; an' Phoebe'll be on your hands come less than a couple o' years." "One year and five months and seven days 't is." "Very well. You've got to mind a brace of things meantime; to make a vitty home for her by the sweat of your body, an' to keep your hands off her till she 'm free to come to 'e." "Big things both, though I ban't afeared of myself afore 'em. I've thought a lot in my time, an' be allowed to have sense an' spirit for that matter." "Spirit, ess fay, same as your faither afore you; but not so much sense as us can see wi'out lightin' cannel." "Wonder if Uncle Joel be so warm a man as he'd have us think sometimes of an evenin' arter his hot whiskey an' water?" said Chris. "Don't 'e count on no come-by-chance from him. He's got money, that I knaw, but ban't gwaine to pass our way, for he tawld me so in as many words. Sarah Watson will reap what he's sawed; an' who shall grumble? He 'm a just man, though not of the accepted way o' thinkin'." "Why for didn't he marry her?" asked Will. "Caan't tell'e, more'n the dead. Just a whim. I asked her same question, when I was last to Newton, an' she said 't was to save the price of a licence she reckoned, though in his way of life he might have got matrimony cheap as any man. But theer 't is. Her 's bin gude as a wife to un--an' better 'n many--this fifteen year." "A very kind woman to me while I was biding along with uncle," said Will. "All the same you should have some of the money." "I'm well as I be. An' this dead-man-shoe talk's vain an' giddy. I lay he'm long ways from death, an' the further the better. Now I be gwaine to pack my box 'fore supper." Mrs. Blanchard withdrew, and Chris, suddenly recollecting it, mentioned Martin Grimbal's visit. Will laughed and read a page or two of the story-book, then went out of doors to see Clement Hicks; and his sister, with a spare hour before her while a rabbit roasted, sat near the spit and occupied her mind with thought. Will's business related to himself. He was weary of waiting for Mr. Lyddon, and though he had taken care to let Phoebe know by Chris that his arm was well and strong enough for the worst that might be found for it to do, no notice was taken of his message, no sign escaped the miller. All interested persons had their own theories upon this silence. Mrs. Blanchard suspected that Mr. Lyddon would do nothing at all, and Will readily accepted this belief; but he found it impossible to wait with patience for its verification. This indeed was the harder to him because Clement Hicks predicted a different issue and foretold an action of most malignant sort on the miller's part. What ground existed for attributing any such deed to Mr. Lyddon was not manifest, but the bee-keeper stuck to it that Will's father-in-law would only wait until he was in good employment and then proceed to his confusion. This conviction he now repeated. "He's going to make you smart before he's done with you, if human nature's a factor to rely upon. It's clear to me." "I doan't think so ill of un. An' yet I ban't wishful to leave it to chance. You, an' you awnly, knaw what lies hid in the past behind me. The question is, should I take that into account now, or go ahead as if it never had failed out?" "Let it alone, as it has let you alone. Never rake it up again, and forget it if you can. That's my advice to you. Forget you ever--" "Hush!" said Will. "I'd rather not hear the word, even 'pon your lips." They then discussed the main matter from the opposite vantage-grounds of minds remote in every particular; but no promising procedure suggested itself to either man, and it was not until upon his homeward way that Will, unaided, arrived at an obvious and very simple conclusion. With some glee he welcomed this idea. "I'll just wait till Monday night," he said to himself, "an' then I'll step right down to Miller, an' ax un what's in the wind, an' if I can help his hand. Then he must speak if he's a man." CHAPTER XIII THE MILLER'S OFFER Will, followed his determination and proceeded to Monks Barton on the following Monday evening, at an hour when he knew that Mr. Lyddon would have finished supper and be occupied about a pipe or a game of cards with Mr. Blee. The old men occasionally passed an hour at "oaks" or "cribbage" before retiring, but on this occasion they were engaged in conversation, and both looked up with some surprise when Blanchard appeared. "You--you here again!" said the miller, and his mouth remained slightly open after the words. "You 'm allus setting sober hair on end--blessed if you ain't!" was Billy's comment. Will, for his part, made no introductory speeches, but went straight to the point. "Theer's my arm," he said, thrusting it out before him. "'T is mended so neat that Doctor Parsons says no Lunnon bone-setter could have done it better. So I've comed just to say theer's no call for longer waitin'. 'T was a sportsmanlike thing in you, Miller Lyddon, to bide same as you did; and now, if you'd set the law movin' an' get the job out o' hand, I'd thank you kindly. You see, if they put me in for two year, 't will leave mighty li'l time to get a home ready for Phoebe against the day she comes of age." "You needn't be at any trouble about that." "But I shall be. Do 'e think my wife's gwaine to be any differ'nt to lesser folks? A home she'll have, an' a braave, vitty home, tu, though I've got to sweat blood for it. So if you'd take your bite so soon as convenient, you'd sarve me." "I doan't say you 'm axin' anything onreasonable," said Mr. Lyddon, thoughtfully. "An' what might you think o'doin, when you comes out o' prison?" "First gude work that offers." "Maybe you doan't kuaw that chaps whose last job was on the treadmill finds it uncommon hard to get another?" "Depends what they was theer for, I should reckon, Miller" "Not a bit of it. Gaol-birds is all feathered alike inside clink, an' honest men feathers 'em all alike when they come out," declared Will's father-in-law. "A sheer Cain, as no man will touch by the hand--that's what you'll be," added Billy, without apparent regret. "If that's so," said Will, very calmly, "you'd best to think twice 'fore you sends me. I've done a high-handed deed, bein' forced into the same by happenings here when I went off last summer; but 't is auld history now. I'd like to be a credit to 'e some time, not a misery for all time. Why not--?" He was going to suggest a course of action more favourable to himself than that promised; but it struck him suddenly that any attitude other than the one in which he had come savoured of snivelling for mercy. So he stopped, left a break of silence, and proceeded with less earnestness in his voice. "You've had a matter of eight weeks to decide in, so I thought I might ax'e, man to man, what's gwaine to be done." "I have decided," said the miller coldly; "I decided a week ago." Billy started and his blue eyes blinked inquiringly. He sniffed his surprise and said "Well!" under his breath. "Ess, 't is so, I didn't tell 'e, Blee, 'cause I reckoned you'd try an' turn me from my purpose, which wasn't to be done." "Never--not me. I'm allus in flat agreement with 'e, same as any wise man finds hisself all times." "Well, doan't 'e take it ill, me keepin' it to myself." "No, no--awnly seem' how--" "If it 's all the same," interrupted Will, "I'd like to knaw what you 'm gwaine for to do." "I'm gwaine to do nort, Will Blanchard--nort at all. God He knaws you 've wronged me, an' more 'n me, an' her--Phoebe--worst of all; but I'll lift no hand ag'in' you. Bide free an' go forrard your awn way--" "To the Dowl!" concluded Billy. There was a silence, then Will spoke with some emotion. "You 'm a big, just man, Miller Lyddon; an' if theer was anything could make me sorry for the past--which theer ban't--'t would be to knaw you've forgived me." "He ain't done no such thing!" burst out Mr. Blee. "Tellin' 'e to go to the Dowl ban't forgivin' of 'e!" "That was your word," answered Will hotly, "an' if you didn't open your ugly mouth so wide, an' shaw such a 'mazing poor crop o' teeth same time, me an' Miller might come to onderstanding. I be here to see him, not you." "Gar! you 'm a beast of a bwoy, looked at anyhow, an' I wouldn't have no dealin's with 'e for money," snorted the old man. "Theer we'll leave it then, Blanchard," said Mr. Lyddon, as Will turned his back upon the last speaker without answering him. "Go your way an' try to be a better man; but doan't ax me to forget what 's passed--no, nor forgive it, not yet. I'll come to a Christian sight of it some day, God willin'; but it 's all I can say that I bear you no ill-will." "An' I'm beholden enough for that. You wait an' keep your eye on me. I'll shaw you what's in me yet. I'll surprise 'e, I promise. Nobody in these paarts 'cept mother, knaws what 's in me. But, wi'out boastful words, I'll prove it. Because, Miller, I may assure 'e I'm a man as have thought a lot in my time 'bout things in general." "Ess, you'm a deep thinker, I doan't doubt. Now best to go; an', mind, no dealins wi' Phoebe, for that I won't stand." "I've thought that out, tu. I'll give 'e my word of honour 'pon that." "Best to seek work t'other side the Moor, if you ax me. Then you'll be out the way." "As to that, I'd guessed maybe Martin Grimbal, as have proved a gert friend to me an' be quite o' my way o' thinking, might offer garden work while I looked round. Theer ban't a spark o' pride in me--tu much sense, I hope, for that." The miller sighed. "You've done a far-reachin' thing, as hits a man from all sorts o' plaaces, like the echo in Teign Valley. I caan't see no end to it yet." "Martin Grimbal's took on Wat Widdicombe, so you needn't fule yourself he'll give 'e work," snapped Mr. Blee. "Well, theer be others." And then that sudden smile, half sly, half sweet, leapt to Will's eyes and brightened all his grave face, as the sun gladdens a grey sky after rain. "Look now, Miller Lyddon, why for shouldn't you, the biggest man to Chagford, give me a bit of work? I ban't no caddlin'[5] chap, an' for you--by God, I'd dig a mountain flat if you axed me!" [5] _Caddling_ = loafing, idling. "Well, I be gormed!" gasped Billy. It was a condition, though whether physical or mental he only knew, to which Will reduced Mr. Blee upon every occasion of their meeting. "You hold your jaw an' let me talk to Mr. Lyddon. 'Tis like this, come to look at it: who should work for 'e same as what I would? Who should think for my wife's faither wi' more of his heart than me? I'd glory to do a bit of work for 'e--aye, I would so, high or low; an' do it in a way to make you rub your eyes!" Billy saw the first-formed negative die still-born on his master's lips. He began to cry out volubly that Monks Barton was over-manned, and that scandal would blast every opening bud on the farm if such a thing happened. Will glared at him, and in another moment Mr. Blee might have suffered physically had not the miller lifted his hand and bid both be silent. For a full minute no man spoke, while in Mr. Lyddon's mind proceeded a strange battle of ideas. Will's audacity awakened less resentment than might have been foreseen. The man had bent before the shock of his daughter's secret marriage and was now returning to his customary mental condition. Any great altitude of love or extremity of hate was beyond Mr. Lyddon's calibre. Life slipped away and left his forehead smooth. Sorrow brought no great scars, joy no particular exaltation. This temperament he had transmitted to Phoebe; and now she came into his mind and largely influenced him. A dozen times he opened his mind to say "No," but did not say it. Personal amiability could hardly have overcome natural dislike of Blanchard at such a moment, but the unexpected usually happens when weak natures are called upon to make sudden decisions; and though such may change their resolve again and again at a later date and before new aspects of the problem, their first hasty determination will often be the last another had predicted from them. A very curious result accrued from Mr. Lyddon's mental conflict, and it was reached by an accidental train of thought. He told himself that his conclusion was generous to the extreme of the Christian ideal; he assured himself that few men so placed had ever before acted with such notable magnanimity; but under this repeated mental asseveration there spoke another voice which he stifled to the best of his power. The utterance of this monitor may best be judged from what followed. "If I gave you work you'd stand to it, Will Blanchard?" he asked at length. "Try me!" "Whatsoever it might be?" "Try me. Ban't for me to choose." "I will, then. Come to-morrow by five, an' Billy shall show 'e what's to do." It would be difficult to say which, of those who heard the miller's resolve received it with most astonishment. Will's voice was almost tremulous. "You'll never be sorry, never. I couldn't have hoped such a thing. Caan't think how I comed to ax it. An' yet--but I'll buckle to anything and everything, so help me. I'll think for 'e an' labour for 'e as no hireling that was ever born could, I will. An' you've done a big, grand-fashion thing, an' I'm yours, body an' bones, for it; an' you'll never regret it." The young man was really moved by an issue so unexpected. He had uttered his suggestion on the spur of the moment, as he uttered most things, and such a reception argued a greatness of heart and generosity of spirit quite unparalleled in his experience. So he departed wishing all good on Mr. Lyddon and meaning all good with his whole soul and strength. When he had gone the miller spoke; but contrary to custom, he did not look into Mr. Blee's face while so doing. "You'm astonished, Billy," he said, "an' so be I, come to think of it. But I'm gettin' tu auld to fret my life away with vain strife. I be gwaine to prove un. He'd stand to anything, eh? 'Twas his word." "An' well he might." "Can 'e picture Blanchard cleaning out the pigs' house?" "No fay!" "Or worse?" "Ah!" They consulted, and it presently appeared that Mr. Lyddon deliberately designed to set Will about the most degrading task the farm could furnish. "'Twill sting the very life of un!" said Billy gleefully, and he proceeded to arrange an extremely trying programme for Will Blanchard. "Doan't think any small spite leads me to this way of dealing with un," explained Mr. Lyddon, who knew right well that it was so. "But 'tis to probe the stuff he's made of. Nothing should be tu hard for un arter what he've done, eh?" "You'm right. 'Tis true wisdom to chastise the man this way if us can, an' shake his wicked pride." Billy's genius lent itself most happily to this scheme. He applauded the miller's resolution until his master himself began to believe that the idea was not unjust; he ranged airily, like a blue-fly, from one agglomeration of ordure to another; and he finally suggested a task, not necessary to dwell on, but which reached the utmost height or depth of originality in connection with such a subject. Mr. Lyddon laboured under some shadow of doubt, but he quickly agreed when his man reminded him of the past course of events. "'Tis nothin', when all's said. Who'd doubt if he'd got to choose between that or two year in gaol? He'm lucky, and I'll tell un so come the marnin'." Thus matters were left, and the miller retired in some secret shame, for he had planned an act which, if great in the world's eye, had yet a dark side from his own inner view of it; but Mr. Blee suffered no pang from conscience upon the question. He heartily disliked Blanchard, and he contemplated the morrow with keen satisfaction. If his sharp tongue had power to deepen the wound awaiting Will's self-respect, that power would certainly be exercised. Meantime the youth himself passed homeward in a glow of admiration for Mr. Lyddon. "I'd lay down my life smilin' for un," he told Chris, who was astounded at his news. "I'll think for un, an' act for un, till he'll feel I'm his very right hand. An' if I doan't put a spoke in yellow Billy's wheel, call me a fule. Snarling auld swine! But Miller! Theer's gude workin' religion in that man; he'm a shining light for sartain." They talked late upon this wondrous turn of fortune, then Will recollected his mother and nothing would serve but that he wrote instantly to tell her of the news. "It'll cheer up uncle, tu, I lay," he said. "A letter comed while you was out," answered Chris; "he'm holding his awn, but 'tis doubtful yet how things be gwaine to fare in the upshot." "Be it as 'twill, mother can do more 'n any other living woman could for un," declared Will. CHAPTER XIV LOGIC As Mr. Blee looked out upon a grey morning, the sallows leaping from silver to gold, from bud to blossom, scattered brightness through the dawn, and the lemon catkins of the hazel, the russet tassels of alders, brought light along the river, warmth into the world. A bell beat five from Chagford Church tower, and the notes came drowsily through morning mists. Then quick steps followed on the last stroke of the hour and Will stood by Billy's side in Monks Barton farmyard. The old man raised his eyes from contemplation of a spade and barrow, bid Blanchard "Good morning" with simulated heartiness, and led the way to work, while Will followed, bringing the tools. They passed into a shrubbery of syringa bushes twenty yards distant, and the younger man, whose humour had been exceedingly amiable until that moment, now flushed to his eyes before the spectacle of his labour. "Do 'e mean that Miller's got nothin' for me to do but this?" "Plenty, plenty, I 'sure 'e; but that ban't your business, be it? Theer's the work, an' I'd rather 'twas yourn than mine. Light your pipe an' go ahead. Not a purty job, more 'tis; but beggars mustn't be choosers in this hard world." Billy bolted after these remarks. He heard a growl behind him, but did not look round. Half an hour later, he crept back again by a circuitous route, watched Will awhile unseen, then stole grinning away to milk the cows. The young man, honestly thunderstruck at the task planned for him, judged that thinking would not mend matters, and so began to work quickly without stopping to reflect. But his thoughts could not be controlled, any more than his disposition changed. A growing consciousness of deep and deliberate insult surged up in him. The more he brooded the slower he worked, and finally anger mastered determination. He flung down his spade, saluted a red sunrise with the worst language at his command, and strode down to the river. Here, for some time and until blue smoke began to climb from the kitchen chimney of the farm, Will paced about; then with a remarkable effort returned to his task. He actually started again, and might have carried the matter to completion; but an evil demon was abroad, and Billy, spying the young man at work anew, reappeared. "You'm makin' poor speed, my son," he said, viewing the other's progress with affected displeasure. It proved enough, for Will's smouldering fires were ready to leap at any fuel. "Go to blue, blazing hell!" he cried. "You'm at the bottom of this business, I'll lay a pound. Get out o' my sight, you hookem-snivey auld devil, or I'll rub your dirty ginger poll in it, sure's death!" "My stars! theer's crooked words! Do 'e try an' keep tighter hand on your temper, Blanchard. A man should knaw hisself anyways 'fore he has the damn fulishness to take a wife. An' if you ax me--" Mr. Blee's remarks were here brutally arrested, for the contents of Will's spade saluted his furrowed features, and quite obliterated the old man. He fled roaring, and the other flung his spade twenty yards away, overturned his wheelbarrow, and again strode to the river. He was fairly bubbling and boiling now, nor did the business of cleaning gaiters and boots, arms and hands, restore him to peace. A black pig gazed upon him and grunted as he came up from the water. It seemed to him a reincarnation of Billy, and he kicked it hard. It fled screaming and limping, while Will, his rage at full flood, proceeded through the farmyard on his way home. But here, by unhappy chance, stood Mr. Lyddon watching his daughter feed the fowls. Her husband ran full upon Phoebe, and she blushed in a great wave of joy until the black scowl upon his face told her that something was amiss. His evident anger made her start, and the involuntary action upset her bowl of grain. For a moment she stood motionless, looking upon him in fear, while at her feet fought and struggled a cloud of feathered things around the yellow corn. "If you've done your job, Will, may'st come and shaake Phoebe by the hand," said Mr. Lyddon nervously, while he pretended not to notice the other's passion. "I haven't done it; and if I had, is a scavenger's hand fit to touch hers?" thundered Blanchard. "I thought you was a man to swear by, and follow through thick an' thin," he continued, "but you ban't. You'm a mean, ill-minded sawl, as would trample on your awn flesh an' blood, if you got the chance. Do your awn dirty work. Who be I that you should call on me to wallow in filth to please your sour spite?" "You hear him, you hear him!" cried out the miller, now angry enough himself. "That's how I'm sarved for returnin' gude to his evil. I've treated un as no man else on God's airth would have done; and this is what I gets. He's mad, an' that's to speak kind of the wretch!" The young wife could only look helplessly from one to the other. That morning had dawned very brightly for her. A rumour of what was to happen reached her on rising, but the short-lived hope was quickly shattered, and though she had not seen him since their wedding-day, Phoebe was stung into bitterness against Will at this juncture. She knew nothing of particulars, but saw him now pouring harsh reproaches on her father, and paying the miller's unexampled generosity with hard and cruel words. So she spoke to her husband. "Oh, Will, Will, to say such things! Do 'e love me no better 'n that? To slight dear faither arter all he's forgiven!" "If you think I'm wrong, say it, Phoebe," he answered shortly. "If you'm against me, tu--" "'Against you!' How can you speak so?" "No matter what I say. Be you on his side or mine? 'Cause I've a right to knaw." "Caan't 'e see 'twas faither's gert, braave, generous thought to give 'e work, an' shaw a lesson of gudeness? An' then we meet again--" "Ess fay--happy meetin' for wife an' husband, me up to the eyes in--Theer, any fule can see 'twas done a purpose to shame me." "You're a fule to say it! 'Tis your silly pride's gwaine to ruin all your life, an' mine, tu. Who's to help you if you've allus got the black monkey on your shoulder like this here?" "You'm a overbearin', headstrong madman," summed up the miller, still white with wrath; "an' I've done with 'e now for all time. You've had your chance an' thrawed it away." "He put this on me because I was poor an' without work." "He didn't," cried the girl, whose emotions for a moment took her clean from Will to her father. "He never dreamed o' doin' any such thing. He couldn't insult a beggar-man; an' you knaw it. 'Tis all your ugly, wicked temper!" "Then I'll take myself off, an' my temper, tu," said Will, and prepared to do so; while Mr. Lyddon listened to husband and wife, and his last hope for the future dwindled and died, as he heard them quarrel with high voices. His daughter clung to him and supported his action, though what it had been she did not know. "Caan't 'e see you're breakin' faither's heart all awver again just as 'twas mendin'?" she said. "Caan't 'e sing smaller, if 'tis awnly for thought of me? Doan't, for God's love, fling away like this." "I met un man to man, an' did his will with a gude thankful heart, an' comed in the dawn to faace a job as--" "'Tweren't the job, an' you knaw it," broke in Mr. Lyddon. "I wanted to prove 'e an' all your fine promises; an' now I knaw their worth, an' your worth. An' I curse the day ever my darter was born in the world, when I think she'm your wife, an' no law can break it." He turned and went into the house, and Phoebe stood alone with her husband. "Theer!" cried Will. "You've heard un. That was in his heart when he spoke me so fair. An' if you think like he do, say it. Lard knaws I doan't want 'e no more, if you doan't want me!" "Will! How can you! An' us not met since our marriage-day. But you'm cruel, cruel to poor faither." "Say so, an' think so; an' b'lieve all they tell 'e 'gainst your lawful husband; an' gude-bye. If you'm so poor-spirited as to see your man do thicky work, you choosed wrong. Not that 'tis any gert odds. Stop along wi' your faither as you loves so much better 'n me. An' doan't you fear I'll ever cross his threshold again to anger un, for I'd rather blaw my brains out than do it." He shook and stuttered with passion; his eyes glowed, his lips changed from their natural colour to a leaden blue. He groped for the gate when he reached it, and passed quickly out, heedless of Phoebe's sorrowful cry to him. He heard her light step following and only hastened his speed for answer. Then, hurrying from her, a wave of change suddenly flowed upon his furious mind, and he began to be very sorry. Presently he stopped and turned, but she had stayed her progress by now, and for a moment's space stood and watched him, bathed in tears. At the moment when he hesitated and looked back, however, his wife herself had turned away and moved homewards. Had she been standing in one place, Will's purposes would perchance have faded to air, and his arm been round her in a moment; but now he only saw Phoebe retreating slowly to Monks Barton; and he let her go. Blanchard went home to breakfast, and though Chris discovered that something was amiss, she knew him too well to ask any questions. He ate in silence, the past storm still heaving in a ground-swell through his mind. That his wife should have stood up against him was a sore thought. It bewildered the youth utterly, and that she might be ignorant of all details did not occur to him. Presently he told his wrongs to Chris, and grew very hot again in the recital. She sympathised deeply, held him right to be angry, and grew angry herself. "He 'm daft," she said, "an' I'd think harder of him than I do, but that he's led by the nose. 'Twas that auld weasel, Billy Blee, gived him the wink to set you on a task he knawed you'd never carry through." "Theer's truth in that," said Will; then he recollected his last meeting with the miller's man, and suddenly roared with laughter. "'Struth! What a picter he was! He agged an' agged at me till I got fair mad, an'--well, I spiled his meal, I do b'lieve." His merriment died away slowly in a series of long-drawn chuckles. Then he lighted his pipe, watched Chris cleaning the cups and plates, and grew glum again. "'Twas axin' me--a penniless chap; that was the devil of it. If I'd been a moneyed man wi'out compulsion to work, then I'd have been free to say 'No,' an' no harm done. De'e follow?" "I'm thankful you done as you did. But wheer shall 'e turn now?" "Doan't knaw. I'll lay I'll soon find work." "Theer's some of the upland farms might be wanting harrowin' an' seed plantin' done." "Who's to Newtake, Gran'faither Ford's auld plaace, I wonder?" "'Tis empty. The last folks left 'fore you went away. Couldn't squeeze bare life out of it. That's the fourth party as have tried an' failed." "Yet gran'faither done all right." "He was a wonnerful man of business, an' lived on a straw a day, as mother says. But the rest--they come an' go an' just bury gude money theer to no better purpose than the gawld at a rainbow foot." "Well, I'll go up in the village an' look around before Miller's got time to say any word against me. He'll spoil my market if he can, I knaw." "He'd never dare!" "I'd have taken my oath he wouldn't essterday. Now I think differ'nt. He never meant friendship; he awnly wanted for me to smart. Clem Hicks was right." "Theer's Mr. Grimbal might give 'e work, I think. Go an' ax un, an' tell un I sent 'e." A moment later Chris was sorry she had made this remark. "What be talkin' 'bout?" Will asked bluntly. "Tell un _you_ sent me?" "Martin wants to be friends." "'Martin,' is it?" "He axed me to call un so." "Do he knaw you'm tokened to Clem?" "Caan't say. It almost 'peared as if he didn't last time he called." "Then sooner he do the better. Axed you to call un 'Martin'!" He stopped and mused, then spoke again. "Our love-makin's a poor business, sure enough. I've got what I wanted an', arter this marnin', could 'most find it in me to wish my cake was dough again; an' you--you ain't got what you want, an' ban't no gert sign you will, for Clem's the weakest hand at turnin' a penny ever I met." "I'll wait for un, whether or no," said Chris, fiercely. "I'll wait, if need be, till we'm both tottling auld mumpheads!" "Ess; an' when Martin Grimbal knaws that is so, 'twill be time enough to ax un for work, I dare say,--not sooner. Better he should give Clem work than me. I'd thought of him myself, for that matter." "I've axed Clem to ax un long ago, but he won't." "I'll go and see Clem right away. 'Tis funny he never let the man knaw 'bout you. Should have been the first thing he tawld un." "Perhaps he thought 'twas so far off that--" "Doan't care what he thought. Weern't plain dealin' to bide quiet about that, an' I shall tell un so." "Well, doan't 'e quarrel with Clem. He'm 'bout the awnly friend you've got left now." "I've got mother an' you. I'm all right. I can see as straight as any man, an' all my brain-work in the past ban't gwaine to be wasted 'cause wan auld miller fellow happens to put a mean trick on me. I'm above caring. I just goes along and remembers that people has their failings." "We must make allowance for other folk." "So us must; an' I be allus doin' it; so why the hell doan't they make allowance for me? That's why I boil awver now an' again--damn it! I gets nought but kicks for my halfpence--allus have; an' I won't stand it from mortal man much longer!" Chris kept her face, for Will's views on conduct and man's whole duty to man were no new thing. "Us must keep patient, Will, 'specially with the auld." "I be patient. It 'mazes me, looking back, to see what I have suffered in my time. But a man's a man, not a post or a holy angel. Us wouldn't hear such a deal about angels' tempers either if they'd got to faace all us have." "That's profanity an' wickedness." "'Tis truth. Any fule can be a saint inside heaven; an' them that was born theer and have flown 'bout theer all theer time, like birds in a wood, did ought to be even-tempered. What's to cross'em?" "You shouldn't say such things!" Suddenly a light came into his eyes. "I doan't envy 'em anyway. Think what it must be never to have no mother to love 'e! They 'm poor, motherless twoads, for all their gold crowns an' purple wings." "Will! whatever will 'e say next? Best go to Clem. An' forget what I spoke 'bout Martin Grimbal an' work. You was wiser'n me in that." "I s'pose so. If a man ban't wiser 'n his sister, he's like to have poor speed in life," said Will. Then he departed, but the events of that day were still very far from an end, and despite the warning of Chris, her brother soon stood on the verge of another quarrel. It needed little to wake fresh storms in his breast and he criticised Clement's reticence on the subject of his engagement in so dictatorial and hectoring a manner that the elder man quickly became incensed. They wrangled for half an hour, Hicks in satirical humour, Will loud with assurances that he would have no underhand dealings where any member of his family was concerned. Clement presently watched the other tramp off, and in his mind was a dim thought. Could Blanchard forget the past so quickly? Did he recollect that he, Clement Hicks, shared knowledge of it? "He's a fool, whichever way you look at him," thought the poet; "but hardly such a fool as to forget that, or risk angering me of all men." Later in the day Will called at a tap-room, drank half a pint of beer, and detailed his injuries for the benefit of those in the bar. He asked what man amongst them, situated as he had been, had acted otherwise; and a few, caring not a straw either way, declared he had showed good pluck and was to be commended; But the bulky Mr. Chapple--he who assisted Billy Blee in wassailing Miller Lyddon's apple-trees--stoutly criticised Will, and told him that his conduct was much to blame. The younger argued against this decision and explained, with the most luminous diction at his command, that 'twas in the offering of such a task to a penniless man its sting and offence appeared. "He knawed I was at low ebb an' not able to pick an' choose. So he gives me a starvin' man's job. If I'd been in easy circumstances an' able to say 'Yes' or 'No' at choice, I'd never have blamed un." "Nonsense and stuff!" declared Mr. Chapple. "Theer's not a shadow of shame in it." "You'm Miller's friend, of coourse," said Will. "'Tis so plain as a pike, I think!" squeaked a hare-lipped young man of weak intellect who was also present. "Blanchard be right for sartain." "Theer! If soft Gurney sees my drift it must be pretty plain," said Will, in triumph. "But as 'tis awnly him that does, lad," commented Mr. Chapple, drily, "caan't say you've got any call to be better pleased. Go you back an' do the job, like a wise man." "I'd clear the peat out o' Cranmere Pool sooner!" said Will. And he turned homewards again, wretched enough, yet fiercely prodding his temper when it flagged, and telling himself repeatedly that he had acted as became a man of spirit and of judgment. Then, upon a day sufficiently leaden and dreary until that moment, burst forth sudden splendours, and Will's life, from a standpoint of extreme sobriety in time, instantly passed to rare brightness. Between the spot on the highway where Chris met him and his arrival at home, the youth enjoyed half a lifetime of glorious hopes and ambitions; but a cloud indeed shadowed all this overwhelming joy in that the event responsible for his change of fortune was itself sad. While yet twenty yards from her brother Chris cried the news to him. "He's dead--Uncle--he went quite sudden at the end; an' he'm to lie to Chagford wi' gran'faither an' gran'mother." "Dead! My God! An' I never seed un more! The best friend to me ever I had--leastways I thought so till this marnin'." "You may think so still." "Ess, so I do. A kind man inside his skin. I knawed un better'n most people--an' he meant well when he married me, out of pure love to us both." "He's left nobody no money but Mrs. Watson and you." "If 'tis five pound, 'tis welcome to-day; an' if 'tis five shillin', I'll thank un an' spend it 'pon a ring to wear for un. He was a gude auld blid, an' I'm sorry he's gone." "Will, Uncle's left 'e a thousand pound!" "What! You'm jokin'." "Solemn truth. 'Tis in mother's letter." A rush of joy lighted up the young man's face. He said not a word; then his eyes grew moist. "To think as he could have loved a daft fule like me so well as that! Me--that never done nothin'--no, not so much as to catch a dish of trout for un, now an' again, when he was here." "You couldn't, bein' water-keeper." "What matter for that? I ought to have poached for un, seein' the manner of man he was." He kept silence for a while, then burst out-- "I'll buy the braavest marble stone can be cut. Nobody shall do it but me, wi' doves or anchors or some such thing on it, to make it a fine sight so long as the world goes on." "Theer's plenty room 'pon the auld slate, for that matter," said Chris. "Damn the auld slate! The man shall have white marble carvings, I tell 'e, if I've got to spend half the money buying 'em. He b'lieved in me; he knawed I'd come to gude; an' I'm grateful to un." During the evening Will was unusually silent and much busied with thought. He knew little of the value of money, and a thousand pounds to his mind represented possibilities wholly beyond the real power of that sum to achieve. Chris presently visited the vicarage, and after their supper, brother and sister sat late and discussed the days to come. When the girl retired, Will's thoughts for a moment concerned themselves with the immediate past rather than the future; and then it was that he caught himself blankly before his own argument of the morning. To him the force of the contention, now that his position was magically changed, appeared strong as before. A little sophistry had doubtless extricated him from this dilemma, but his nature was innocent of it, and his face grew longer as the conclusion confronting him became more clear. From his own logic--a mysterious abstraction, doubtless--he found it difficult to escape without loss of self-respect. He still held that the deed, impossible to him as a pauper, might be performed without sacrifice of dignity or importance by a man of his present fortune. So the muddle-headed youth saw his duty straight ahead of him; and he regretted it heartily, but did not attempt to escape from it. Ten minutes later, in his working clothes, he set out to Monks Barton, carrying an old horn lantern that had swung behind his father's caravan twenty years before. At the farm all lights were out save one in the kitchen; but Will went about his business as silently as possible, and presently found the spade where he had flung it, the barrow where he had overthrown it in the morning. So he set to work, his pipe under his nose, his thoughts afar off in a golden paradise built of Uncle Ford's sovereigns. Billy Blee, whose attic window faced out upon the northern side of the farm, had gone to bed, but he was still awake, and the grunt of a wheelbarrow quickly roused him. Gazing into the night he guessed what was doing, dragged on his trousers, and hurried down-stairs to his master. The miller sat with his head on his hand. His pipe was out and the "night-cap" Phoebe had mixed for him long ago, remained untasted. "Guy Fawkes an 'angels! here's a thing! If that Jack-o'-lantern of a bwoy ban't back again. He'm delvin' theer, for all the world like a hobgoblin demon, red as blood in the flicker of the light. I fancied't was the Dowl hisself. But 't is Blanchard, sure. Theer's some dark thought under it, I'll lay, or else he wants to come around 'e again." His master doubted not that Billy was dreaming, but he went aloft and looked to convince himself. In silence and darkness they watched Will at work. Then Mr. Blee asked a question as the miller turned to go. "What in thunder do it mean?" "God knaws, I doan't. The man or bwoy, or whatever you call un, beats me. I ban't built to tackle such a piece as him. He's took a year off my life to-day. Go to your bed, Billy, an' let un bide." "Gormed if I wouldn't like to slip down an' scat un ower the head for what he done to me this marnin'. Such an auld man as me, tu! weak in the hams this ten year." "But strong in the speech. Maybe you pricked him with a bitter word, an'--theer, theer, if I ban't standin' up for the chap now! Yet if I've wished un dead wance, I have fifty times since I first heard tell of un. Get to bed. I s'pose us'll knaw his drift come to-morrow." Mr. Lyddon and Billy retired, and both slept ere Will Blanchard's work was done. Upon its completion he sought the cold nocturnal waters of the river, and then did a thing he had planned an hour before. Entering the farmyard, he flung a small stone at Phoebe's window in the thatch, then another. But the first had roused his wife, for she lay above in wakefulness and sorrow. She peeped out, saw Blanchard, knew him in the lantern light, and opened the window. "Will, my awn Will!" she said, with a throbbing voice. "Ess fay, lovey! I knawed you'd sleep sweeter for hearin' tell I've done the work." "Done it?" "Truth." "It was a cruel, wicked shame; an' the blame's Billy Blee's, an' I've cried my eyes out since I heard what they set you to do; an' I've said what I thought; an' I'm sorry to bitterness about this marnin', dear Will." "'T is all wan now. I've comed into a mort of money, my Uncle Ford bein' suddenly dead." "Oh, Will, I could a'most jump out the window!" "'T would be easier for me to come up-long." "No, no; not for the world, Will!" "Why for not? An' you that lovely, twinklin' in your white gownd, an' me your lawful husband, an' a man o' money! Damned if I ain't got a mind to climb up by the pear-tree!" "You mustn't, you mustn't! Go away, dear, sweet Will. An' I'm so thankful you've forgiven me for being so wicked, dear heart." "Everybody'll ax to be forgiven now, I reckon; but you--theer ban't nothin' to forgive you for. You can tell your faither I've forgived un to-morrow, an' tell un I'm rich, tu. 'T will ease his mind. Theer, an' theer, an theer!" Will kissed his hand thrice, then vanished, and his wife shut her window and, kneeling, prayed out thankful prayers. As her husband crossed Rushford Bridge, his thought sped backward through the storm and sunshine of past events. But chiefly he remembered the struggle with John Grimbal and its sequel. For a moment he glanced below into the dark water. "'T is awver an' past, awver an' past," he said to himself. "I be at the tail of all my troubles now, for theer's nought gude money an' gude sense caan't do between 'em." BOOK II HIS ENTERPRISE CHAPTER I SPRINGTIME Nature, waking at the song of woodland birds to find herself naked, fashioned with flying fingers such a robe of young green and amber, hyacinth and pearl as only she can weave or wear. A scent of the season rose from multitudinous "buds, and bells, and stars without a name"; while the little world of Devon, vale and forest, upland and heathery waste, rejoiced in the new life, as it rang and rippled with music and colour even to the granite thrones of the Moor. Down by the margin of Teign, where she murmured through a vale of wakening leaves and reflected asphodels bending above her brink, the valley was born again in a very pageant of golden green that dappled all the grey woods, clothed branch and bough anew, ran flower-footed over the meadow, hid nests of happy birds in every dell and dingle, and spread luxuriant life above the ruin of the year that was gone. A song of hope filled each fair noon; no wasted energy, no unfulfilled intent as yet saddened the eye; no stunted, ruined nursling of Nature yet spoke unsuccess; no canker-bitten bud marked the cold finger of failure; for in that first rush of life all the earthborn host had set forth, if not equal, at least together. The primroses twinkled true on downy coral stems and the stars of anemone, celandine, and daisy opened perfect. Countless consummate, lustrous things were leaping, mingling, and uncurling, aloft and below, in the mazes of the wood, at the margins of the water. Verdant spears and blades expanded; fair fans opened and tendrils twined; simultaneous showers of heart-shaped, arrow-shaped, flame-shaped foliage, all pure emerald and translucent beryl, made opulent outpouring of that new life which now pulsed through the Mother's million veins. Diaphanous mist wreaths and tender showers wooed the Spring; under silver gauze of vernal rain rang wild rapture of thrushes, laughter of woodpeckers, chime and chatter of jackdaws from the rock, secret crooning of the cushat in the pines. From dawn till dusk the sweet air was winnowed by busy wings; from dawn till dusk the hum and murmur of life ceased not. Infinite possibility, infinite promise, marked the time; and man shared a great new hope with the beasts and birds, and wild violet of the wood. Blood and sap raced gloriously together, while a chorus of conscious and unconscious creation sang the anthem of the Spring in solemn strophe and antistrophe. As life's litany rises once again, and before the thunder of that music rolling from the valleys to the hills, human reason yearly hesitates for a moment, while hope cries out anew above the frosty lessons of experience. For a brief hour the thinker, perhaps wisely, turns from memory, as from a cloud that blots the present with its shadow, and spends a little moment in this world of opal lights and azure shades. He forgets that Nature adorned the bough for other purpose than his joy; forgets that strange creatures, with many legs and hungry mouths, will presently tatter each musical dome of rustling green; forgets that he gazes upon a battlefield awaiting savage armies, which will fill high Summer with ceaseless war, to strew the fair earth with slain. He suffers dead Winter to bury her dead, seeks the wine of life that brims in the chalices of Spring flowers: plucks blade and blossom, and is a child again, if Time has so dealt with him that for a little he can thus far retrace his steps; and, lastly, he turns once more to the Mother he has forgotten, to find that she has not forgotten him. The whisper of her passing in a greenwood glade is the murmur of waters invisible and of life unseen; the scent of her garment comes sweet on the bloom of the blackthorn; high heaven and lowly forget-me-not alike mirror the blue of her wonderful eyes; and the gleam of the sunshine on rippling rivers and dreaming clouds reflects the gold of her hair. She moves a queen who, passing through one fair corner of her world-wide kingdom, joys in it. She, the sovereign of the universe, reigns here too, over the buds and the birds, and the happy, unconsidered life of weald and wold. Each busy atom and unfolding frond is dear to her; each warm nest and hidden burrow inspires like measure of her care and delight; and at this time, if ever, we may think of Nature as forgetting Death for one magic moment, as sharing the wide joy of her wakening world, as greeting the young mother of the year's hopes, as pressing to her bosom the babes of Spring with many a sunny smile and rainbowed tear. Through the woods in Teign Valley passed Clement Hicks and his sweetheart about a fortnight after Lawyer Ford had been laid to rest in Chagford Churchyard. Chris talked about her brother and the great enterprise he had determined upon. She supported Will and spoke with sanguine words of his future; but Clement regarded the project differently. "To lease Newtake Farm is a fool's trick," he said. "Everybody knows the last experiments there. The place has been empty for ten months, and those who touched it in recent years only broke their hearts and wasted their substance." "Well, they weern't such men as Will. Theer's a fitness about it, tu; for Will's awn gran'faither prospered at Newtake; an' if he could get a living, another may. Mother do like the thought of Will being there somehow." "I know it. The sentiment of the thing has rather blinded her natural keen judgment. Curious that I should criticise sentiment in another person; but it 's like my cranky, contrary way. Only I was thinking of Will's thousand pounds. Newtake will suck it out of his pocket quicker than Cranmere sucks up a Spring shower." "Well, I'm more hopeful. He knows the value of money; an' Phoebe will help him when she comes up. The months slip by so quickly. By the time I've got the cobwebs out of the farm an' made the auld rooms water-sweet, I dare say theer'll be talk of his wife joining him." "You going up! This is the first I've heard of it." "I meant to tell 'e to-day. Mother is willing and I'm awnly tu glad. A man's a poor left-handed thing 'bout a house. I'd do more 'n that for Will." "Pity he doesn't think and do something for you. Surely a little of this money--?" "Doan't 'e touch on that, Clem. Us had a braave talk 'pon it, for he wanted to make over two hundred pound to me, but I wouldn't dream of it, and you wouldn't have liked me tu. You 'm the last to envy another's fair fortune." "I do envy any man fortune. Why should I starve, waiting for you, and--?" "Hush!" she said, as though she had spoken to a little child. "I won't hear no wild words to-day in all this gude gold sunshine." "God damn everything!" he burst out. "What a poor, impotent wretch He's made me--a thing to bruise its useless hands beating the door that will never open! It maddens me--especially when all the world's happy, like to-day--all happy but me. And you so loyal and true! What a fool you are to stick to me and let me curse you all your life!" "Doan't 'e, doan't 'e, Clem," said Chris wearily. She was growing well accustomed to these ebullitions. "Doan't grudge Will his awn. Our turn will come, an' perhaps sooner than we think for. Look round 'pon the sweet fresh airth an' budding flowers. Spring do put heart into a body. We 'm young yet, and I'll wait for 'e if 't is till the crack o' doom." "Life's such a cursed short thing at best--just a stormy day between two nights, one as long as past time, the other all eternity. Have you seen a mole come up from the ground, wallow helplessly a moment or two, half blind in the daylight, then sink back into the earth, leaving only a mound? That's our life, yours and mine; and Fate grudges that even these few poor hours, which make the sum of it, should be spent together. Think how long a man and woman can live side by side at best. Yet every Sunday of your life you go to church and babble about a watchful, loving Maker!" "I doan't know, Clem. You an' me ban't everybody. You've told me yourself as God do play a big game, and it doan't become this man or that woman to reckon their-selves more important than they truly be." "A great game, yes; but a cursed poor game--for a God. The counters don't matter, I know; they'll soon be broken up and flung away; and the sooner the better. It's living hell to be born into a world where there's no justice--none for king or tinker." "Sit alongside of me and smell the primrosen an' watch thicky kingfisher catching the li'l trout. I doan't like 'e in these bitter moods, Clem, when your talk's all dead ashes." He sat by her and looked out over the river. It was flooded in sunlight, fringed with uncurling green. "I'm sick and weary of life without you. 'Conscious existence is a failure,' and the man who found that out and said it was wise. I wish I was a bird or beast--or nothing. All the world is mating but you and me. Nature hates me because I survive from year to year, not being fit to. The dumb things do her greater credit than ever I can. The--" "Now, I'll go--on my solemn word, I'll go--if you grumble any more! Essterday you was so different, and said you'd fallen in love with Miss Spring, and pretended to speak to her and make me jealous. You didn't do that, but you made me laugh. An' you promised a purty verse for me. Did 'e make it up after all? I lay not." "Yes, I did. I wasted two or three hours over it last night." "Might 'e get ten shillings for it, like t' other?" "It's not worth the paper it's on, unless you like it. Your praise is better than money to me. Nobody wants any thoughts of mine. Why should they?" "Not when they 'm all sour an' poor, same as now; but essterday you spoke like to a picture-book. Theer's many might have took gude from what you said then." He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and flung it into her lap. "I call it 'Spring Rain,'" he said. "Yesterday the world was grey, and I was happy; to-day the world is all gold, and I'm finding life harder and heavier than usual. Read it out slowly to me. It was meant to be read to the song of the river, and never a prettier voice read a rhyme than yours." Chris smoothed the paper and recited her lover's lyrics. They had some shadow of music in them and echoed Clem's love of beautiful things; but they lacked inspiration or much skill. "'Neath unnumbered crystal arrows-- Crystal arrows from the quiver Of a cloud--the waters shiver In the woodland's dim domain; And the whispering of the rain Tinkles sweet on silver Teign-- Tinkles on the river. "Through unnumbered sweet recesses-- Sweet recesses soft in lining Of green moss with ivy twining-- Daffodils, a sparkling train, Twinkle through the whispering rain, Twinkle bright by silver Teign, With a starry shining. "'Mid unnumbered little leaf-buds-- Little leaf-buds surely bringing Spring once more--song birds are winging; And their mellow notes again Throb across the whispering rain, Till the banks of silver Teign Echo with their singing." Chris, having read, made customary cheerful comment according to her limitations. "'T is just like essterday--butivul grawing weather, but 'pears to me it's plain facts more 'n poetry. Anybody could come to the streamside and see it all for themselves." "Many are far away, pent in bricks and mortar, yearning deep to see the dance of the Spring, and chained out of sight of it. This might bring one glimpse to them." "An' so it might, if you sold it for a bit of money. Then it could be printed out for 'em like t'other was." "You don't understand--you won't understand--even you." "I caan't please 'e to-day. I likes the li'l verses ever so. You do make such things seem butivul to my ear--an' so true as a photograph." Clem shivered and stretched his hand for the paper. Then, in a moment, he had torn it into twenty pieces and sent the fragments afloat. "There! Let her take them to the sea with her. She understands. Maybe she'll find a cool corner for me too before many days are passed." Chris began to feel her patience failing. "What, in God's name, have I done to 'e you should treat me like this?" she asked, with fire in her eyes. "Been fool enough to love me," he answered. "But it's never too late for a woman to change her mind. Leave a sinking ship, or rather a ship that never got properly launched, but, sticking out of its element, was left to rot. Why don't you leave me, Chris?" She stroked his hand, then picked it up and laid her soft cheek against it. "Not till the end of the world comes for wan of us, Clem. I'll love 'e always, and the better and deeper 'cause you 'm so wisht an' unlucky somehow. But you 'm tu wise to be miserable all your time." "You ought to make me a man if anything could. I burn away with hopes and hopes, and more hopes for the future, and miss the paltry thing at hand that might save me." "Then miss it no more, love; seek closer, an' seek sharper. Maybe gude work an' gude money 's awnly waitin' for 'e to find it. Doan't look at the moon an' stars so much; think of me, an' look lower." Slowly the beauty of the hour and the sweet-hearted girl at his elbow threw some sunshine into Clement's moody heart. For a little while the melancholy and shiftless dreamer grew happier. He promised renewed activity in the future, and undertook, as a first step towards Martin Grimbal, to inform the antiquary of that great fact which his foolish whim had thus far concealed. "Chance might have got it to his ears through more channels than one, you would have thought; but he's a taciturn man, asks no questions, and invites no confidences. I like him the better for it. Next week, come what may, I'll speak to him and tell him the truth, like a plain, blunt man." "Do 'e that very thing," urged Chris. "Say we'm lovers these two year an' more; an' that you'd be glad to wed me if your way o' life was bettered. Ban't beggin', as he knaws, for nobody doubts you'm the most book-learned man in Chagford after parson." Together they followed the winding of the river and proceeded through the valley, by wood, and stile, and meadow, until they reached Rushford Bridge. Here they delayed a moment at the parapet and, while they did so, John Grimbal passed on foot alone. "His house is growing," said Clement, as they proceeded to Mrs. Blanchard's cottage. "Aye, and his hearth will be as cold as his heart--the wretch! Well he may turn his hard face away from me and remember what fell out on this identical spot! But for God's gude grace he'd have been hanged to Exeter 'fore now." "You can't put yourself in his shoes, Chris; no woman can. Think what the world looked like to him after his loss. The girl he wanted was so near. His hands were stretched out for her; his heart was full of her. Then to see her slip away." "An' quite right, tu; as you was the first to say at the time. Who's gwaine to pity a thief who loses the purse he's stole, or a poacher that fires 'pon another man's bird an' misses it?" "All the same, I doubt he would have made a better husband for Phoebe Lyddon than ever your brother will." His sweetheart gasped at criticism so unexpected. "You--you to say that! You, Will's awn friend!" "It's true; and you know it as well as anybody. He has so little common sense." But Chris flamed up in an instant. Nothing the man's cranky temper could do had power to irritate her long. Nothing he might say concerning himself or her annoyed her for five minutes; but, upon the subject of her brother, not even from Clem did Chris care to hear a disparaging word or unfavourable comment. And this criticism, of all others, levelled against Will angered her to instant bitter answer before she had time to measure the weight of her words. "'Common sense'! Perhaps you'll be so kind as to give Will Blanchard a li'l of your awn--you being so rich in it. Best look at home, and see what you can spare!" So the lovers' quarrel which had been steadily brewing under the sunshine now bubbled over and lowered thunder-black for the moment, as such storms will. Clement Hicks, perfectly calm now that his sweetheart's temper was gone, marched off; and Chris, slamming the cottage door, vanished, without taking any further leave of him than that recorded in her last utterance. CHAPTER II NEWTAKE FARM Clement Hicks told the truth when he said that Mrs. Blanchard fell something short of her usual sound judgment and sagacity in the matter of Will's enterprise. The home of childhood is often apt enough to exercise magic, far-reaching attraction, and even influence a mind for the most part unsentimental. To Damaris the thought of her son winning his living where her father had done so was pleasant and in accordance with eternal fitness. Not without emotion did she accompany Will to Newtake Farm while yet the proposed bargain awaited completion; not without strange awakenings in the dormant recesses of her memory did Will's mother pass and pass again through the scenes of her earliest days. From the three stone steps, or "upping stock," at the farmhouse door, whereat a thousand times she had seen her father mount his horse, to the environment of the farmyard; from the strange, winding staircase of solid granite that connected upper and lower storeys, to each mean chamber in Newtake, did Mrs. Blanchard's eyes roam thoughtfully amid the ghosts of recollections. Her girl's life returned and the occasional bright days gleamed forth again, vivid by contrast with the prevailing grey. So active became thought that to relieve her mind she spoke to Will. "The li'l chamber over the door was mine," she said; "an' your poor uncle had the next. I can just mind him, allus at his books, to his faither's pride. Then he went away to Newton to join some lawyer body an' larn his business. An' I mind the two small maids as was my elder sisters and comed betwixt me an' Joel. Both died--like candles blawed out roughly by the wind. They wasn't made o' the stuff to stand Dartymoor winters." She paused for a few moments, then proceeded: "Theer, to west of the yard, is a croft as had corn in it wan year, though 'tis permanent grass now, seemin'ly. Your faither corned through theer like a snake by night more'n wance; an' oftentimes I crept down house, shivering wi' fear an' love, to meet him under moonlight while the auld folks slept. Tim he'd grawed to a power wi' the gypsy people by that time; but faither was allus hard against un. He hated wanderers in tents or 'pon wheels, or even sea-gwaine sailor-men--he carried it that far. Then comed a peep o' day when Tim's bonny yellow caravan 'peared around the corner of that windin' road what goes all across the Moor. At the first stirring of light, I was ready an' skipped out; an', to this hour, I mind the last thing as touched me kindly was the red tongue of the sheep-dog. He ran a mile after the van, unhappy-like; then Tim ordered un away, an' he stood in the white road an' held up his paw an' axed a question as plain as a human. So Tim hit un hard wi' a gert stone, an' he yelped an' gived me up for lost, an' bolted home wi' his tail between his legs an' his eye thrawed back full of sadness over his shoulder. Ess fay! I can see the dust puffin' up under his pads in the grey dawn so clear as I can see you." Again she stopped, but only for breath. "They never answered my writings. Faither wouldn't an' mother didn't dare. But when I was near my time, Timothy, reckoning they'd yield then if ever, arranged to be in Chagford when I should be brought to bed. Yet 'twas ordained differ'nt, an' the roundy-poundy, wheer the caravan was drawed up when the moment corned, be just round theer on Metherill hill, as you knaws. So it happened right under the very walls of Newtake. In the stone circle you comed; an' by night arterwards, sweatin' for terror, your gran'mother, as had heard tell of it, sneaked from Newtake to kiss me an' press you to her body. Faither never knawed till long arter; an' though mother used to say she heard un forgive me on his death-bed, 'twas her awn pious wish echoing in her awn ears I reckon. But that's all awver an' done." Mrs. Blanchard now sank into silent perambulation of the deserted chambers. In the kitchen the whitewash was grimy, the ceiling and windows unclean. Ashes of a peat fire still lay upon the cracked hearthstone, and a pair of worn-out boots, left by a tramp or the last tenant, stood on the window-sill. Dust and filth were everywhere, but no indication of dampness or decay. "A proper auld rogue's-roost of dirt 'tis just now," said Will; "but a few pound spent in the right way will do a deal for it." "An' soap an' water more," declared Mrs. Blanchard, escaping from her reverie. "What's to be spent landlord must spend," she continued. "A little whitewash, and some plaster to fill them holes wheer woodwork's poking through the ceiling, an' you'll be vitty again. 'Tis lonesome-like now, along o' being deserted, an' you'll hear the rats galloping an' gallyarding by night, but 'twill soon be all it was again--a dear li'l auld plaace, sure enough!" She eyed the desolation affectionately. "Theer's money in it, any way, for what wan man can do another can." "Aye, I hope so, I b'lieve 'tis so; but you'll have to live hard, an' work hard, an' be hard, if you wants to prosper here. Your gran'faither stood to the work like a giant, an' the sharpest-fashion weather hurt him no worse than if he'd been a granite tor. Steel-built to his heart's core, an' needed to be." "An' I be a stern, far-seein' man, same as him. 'Tis generally knawn I'm no fule; and my heart's grawed hard, tu of late days, along wi' the troubles life's brought." She shook her head. "You'm your faither's son, not your gran'faither's. Tim was flesh an' blood, same as you. T'other was stone. Stone's best, when you've got to fight wi' stone; but if flesh an' blood suffers more, it joys more, tu. I wouldn't have 'e differ'nt--not to them as loves 'e, any way." "I sha'n't change; an' if I did to all the world else, 'twouldn't be to you, mother. You knaw that, I reckon. I'm hopeful; I'm more; I'm 'bout as certain of fair fortune as a man can be. Venwell rights[6] be mine, and theer's no better moorland grazing than round these paarts. The farm-land looks a bit foul, along o' being let go to rack, but us'll soon have that clean again, an' some gude stuff into it, tu. My awn work'll be staring me in the faace before summer; an' by the time Phoebe do come to be mistress, nobody'll knaw Newtake, I promise 'e." [6] _Venwell rights_ = Venville rights. Mrs. Blanchard viewed with some uneasiness the spectacle of valley-born and valley-nurtured Phoebe taking up her abode on the high lands. For herself she loved them well, and the Moor possessed no terrors for her; but she had wit to guess that her daughter-in-law would think and feel differently. Indeed, neither woman nor man might reasonably be blamed for viewing the farm without delight when first brought within the radius of its influence. Newtake stood, a squat and unlovely erection, under a tar-pitched roof of slate. Its stone walls were coated with a stucco composition, which included tallow as an ingredient and ensured remarkable warmth and dryness. Before its face there stretched a winding road of white flint, that climbed from the village, five miles distant, and soon vanished amid the undulations of the hills; while, opposite, steep heathery slopes and grassy coombs ascended abruptly to masses of weathered granite; and at the rear a hillside, whereon Metherill's scattered hut-circles made incursions even into the fields of the farm, fell to the banks of Southern Teign where she babbled between banks of brake-fern and heather. Swelling and sinking solemnly along the sky, Dartmoor surrounded Newtake. At the entrance of the yard stood a broken five-barred gate between twin masses of granite; then appeared a ragged outbuilding or two, with roofs of lichen-covered slate; and upon one side, in a row, grew three sycamores, bent out of all uprightness by years of western winds, and coated as to their trunks with grey lichen. Behind a cowyard of shattered stone pavement and cracked mud stood the farm itself, and around it extended the fields belonging thereto. They were six or seven in number, and embraced some five-and-fifty acres of land, mostly indifferent meadow. Seen from the winding road, or from the bird's-eye elevation of the adjacent tor, Newtake, with its mean ship-pens and sties, outbuildings and little crofts, all huddled together, poverty-stricken, time-fretted, wind-worn, and sad of colour, appeared a mere forlorn fragment of civilisation left derelict upon the savage bosom of an untamable land. It might have represented some forsaken, night-foundered abode of men, torn by earthquake or magic spell from a region wholly different, and dropped and stranded here. It sulked solitary, remote, and forgotten; its black roof frowned over its windows, and green tears, dribbling down its walls in time past, had left their traces, as though even spring sunlight was powerless to eradicate the black memories of winters past, or soften the bitter certainty of others yet to come. The fields, snatched from the Moor in time long past, now showed a desire to return to their wild mother again. The bars of cultivation were broken and the land struggled to escape. Scabious would presently throw a mauve pallor over more than one meadow croft; in another, waters rose and rushes and yellow iris flourished and defied husbandry; elsewhere stubble, left unploughed by the last defeated farmer, gleamed silver-grey through a growth of weeds; while at every point the Moor thrust forward hands laden with briar and heather. They surmounted the low stone walls and fed and flourished upon the clods and peat that crowned them. Nature waved early gold of the greater furze in the van of her oncoming, and sent her wild winds to sprinkle croft and hay-field, ploughed land and potato patch, with thistledown and the seeds of the knapweed and rattle and bracken fern. These heathen things and a thousand others, in all the early vigour of spring, rose triumphant above the meek cultivation. They trampled it, strangled it, choked it, and maddened the agriculturist by their sturdy and stubborn persistence. A forlorn, pathetic blot upon the land of the mist was Newtake, seen even under conditions of sunlight and fair weather; but beheld beneath autumnal rains, observed at seasons of deep snow or in the dead waste of frozen winters, its apparition rendered the most heavy-hearted less sad before the discovery that there existed a human abode more hateful, a human outlook more oppressive, than their own. To-day heavy moorland vapours wrapped Newtake in ghostly raiment, yet no forlorn emotions clouded the survey of those who now wandered about the lifeless farm. In the mind of one, here retracing the course of her maidenhood, this scene, if sad, was beautiful. The sycamores, whose brown spikes had burst into green on a low bough or two, were the trees she loved best in the world; the naked field on the hillside, wherein a great stone ring shone grey through the silver arms of the mist, represented the theatre of her life's romance. There she had stolen oftentimes to her lover, and in another such, not far distant, had her son been born. Thoughts of little sisters rose in the naked kitchen, with the memory of a flat-breasted, wild-eyed mother, who did man's work; of a father, who spoke seldom and never twice--a father whose heavy foot upon the threshold sent his children scuttling like rabbits to hidden lairs and dens. She remembered the dogs; the bright gun-barrel above the chimney-piece; the steam of clothes hung to dry after many a soaking in "soft" weather; the reek of the peat; the brown eyes and steaming nostrils of the bullocks, that sometimes looked through the kitchen window in icy winter twilights, as though they would willingly change their byres for the warmth within. Mrs. Blanchard enjoyed the thought that her son should reanimate these scenes of her own childhood; and he, burning with energy and zeal, and not dead to his own significance as a man of money, saw promises of prosperity on either hand. It lay with him, he told his heart, to win smiling fatness from this hungry region. Right well he knew how it came about that those who had preceded him had failed, missed their opportunities, fooled themselves, and flung away their chances. Evidences of their ignorance stared at him from the curtains of the mist, but he knew better; he was a man who had thought a bit in his time and had his head screwed on the right way, thank God. These facts he poured into his mother's ear, and she smiled thoughtfully, noted the changes time had wrought, and indicated to him those things the landlord might reasonably be expected to do before Will should sign and seal. The survey ended, her son helped Damaris into a little market-cart, which he had bought for her upon coming into his fortune. A staid pony, also his purchase, completed the equipage, and presently Mrs. Blanchard drove comfortably away; while Will, who yet proposed to tramp, for the twentieth time, each acre of Newtake land, watched her depart, then turned to continue his researches. A world of thought rested on his brown face. Arrived at each little field, he licked his pencil, and made notes in a massive new pocketbook. He strode along like a conqueror of kingdoms, frowned and scratched his curly head as problem after problem rose, smiled when he solved them, and entered the solution in his book. For the wide world was full of young green, and this sanguine youth soared lark-high in soul under his happy circumstances. Will breathed out kindness to all mankind just at present, and now before that approaching welfare he saw writ largely in beggarly Newtake, before the rosy dawn which Hope spread over this cemetery of other men's dead aspirations, he felt his heart swell to the world. Two clouds only darkened his horizon then. One was the necessity of beginning the new life without his life's partner; while the other, formerly tremendous enough, had long since shrunk to a shadow on the horizon of the past. His secret still remained, but that circumstance was too remote to shadow the new enterprise. It existed, however, and its recurrence wove occasional gloomy patterns into the web of Will Blanchard's thought. CHAPTER III OVER A RIDING-WHIP Will completed his survey and already saw, in his mind's eye, a brave masque of autumn gold spreading above the lean lands of Newtake. From this spectacle to that of garnered harvests and great gleaming stacks bursting with fatness the transition was natural and easy. He pictured kine in the farmyard, many sheep upon the hills, and Phoebe with such geese, ducks, and turkeys as should make her quite forget the poultry of Monks Barton. Then, having built castles in the air until his imagination was exhausted, Will shut the outer gate with the touch of possession, turned a moment to see how Newtake looked from the roadway, found only the shadow of it looming through the mist, and so departed, whistling and slapping his gaiters with an ash sapling. It happened that beside a gate which closed the moorland precincts to prevent cattle from wandering, a horseman stood, and as the pedestrian passed him in the gathering gloaming, he dropped his hunting-stock while making an effort to open the gate without dismounting. "Bide wheer you be!" said Will; "I'll pick un up an' ope the gate for 'e." He did so and handed the whip back to its owner. Then each recognised the other, and there was a moment of silence. "'Tis you, Jan Grimbal, is it?" asked the younger. "I didn't knaw 'e in the dimpsy light." He hesitated, and his words when they came halted somewhat, but his meaning was evident. "I'm glad you'm back to home. I'll forget all what's gone, if you will. 'Twas give an' take, I s'pose. I took my awn anyway, an' you comed near killing me for't, so we'm upsides now, eh? We'm men o' the world likewise. So--so shall us shake hands an' let bygones be, Jan Grimbal?" He half raised his hand, and looked up, with a smile at the corner of his lip ready to jump into life if the rider should accept his friendship. But Grimbal's response was otherwise. To say little goodness dwelt in this man had been untrue, but recent events and the first shattering reverse that life brought him proved sufficient to sour his very soul and eclipse a sun which aforetime shone with great geniality because unclouded. Fate hits such men particularly hard when her delayed blow falls. Existences long attuned to success and level fortune; lives which have passed through five-and-thirty years of their allotted span without much sorrow, without sharp thorns in the flesh, without those carking, gnawing trials of mind and body which Time stores up for all humanity--such feel disaster when it does reach them with a bitterness unknown by those who have been in misery's school from youth. Poverty does not bite the poor as it bites him who has known riches and afterwards fights destitution; feeble physical circumstances do not crush the congenital invalid, but they often come near to break the heart of a man who, until their black advent, has known nothing but rude health; great reverses in the vital issues of life and fortune fail to obliterate one who knows their faces of old, but the first enemy's cannon on Time's road must ever bring ugly shock to him who has advanced far and happily without meeting any such thing. Grimbal's existence had been of a rough-and-ready sort shone over by success. Philosophy he lacked, for life had never turned his mind that way; religion was likewise absent from him; and his recent tremendous disappointment thus thundered upon a mind devoid of any machinery to resist it. The possession of Phoebe Lyddon had come to be an accepted and accomplished fact; he chose her for his own, to share the good things Fortune had showered into his lap--to share them and be a crowning glory of them. The overthrow of this scheme at the moment of realisation upset his estimate of life in general and set him adrift and rudderless, in the hurricane of his first great reverse. Of selfish temperament, and doubly so by the accident of consistent success, the wintry wind of this calamity slew and then swept John Grimbal's common sense before it, like a dead leaf. All that was worst in him rose to the top upon his trouble, and since Will's marriage the bad had been winning on the good and thrusting it deeper and deeper out of sight or immediate possibility of recovery. At all times John Grimbal's inferior characteristics were most prominently displayed, and superficial students of character usually rated him lower than others really worse than himself, but who had wit to parade their best traits. Now, however, he rode and strode the country a mere scowling ruffian, with his uppermost emotions still stamped on his face. The calamity also bred an unsuspected sensitiveness in him, and he smarted often under the reflection of what others must be thinking. His capability towards vindictiveness proved very considerable. Formerly his anger against his fellow-men had been as a thunder-storm, tremendous but brief in duration; now, before this bolt of his own forging, a steady, malignant activity germinated and spread through the whole tissue of his mind. Those distractions open to a man of Grimbal's calibre presently blunted the edge of his loss, and successful developments of business also served to occupy him during the visit he paid to Africa; but no interests as yet had arisen to obscure or dull his hatred of Will Blanchard. The original blaze of rage sank to a steady, abiding fire, less obviously tremendous than that first conflagration, but in reality hotter. In a nature unsubtle, revenge will not flourish as a grand passion for any length of time. It must reach its outlet quickly and attain to its ambition without overmuch delay, else it shrivels and withers to a mere stubborn, perhaps lifelong, enmity--a dwarfish, mulish thing, devoid of any tragic splendour. But up to the point that John Grimbal had reached as yet, his character, though commonplace in most affairs, had unexpectedly quickened to a condition quite profound where his revenge was concerned. He still cherished the certainty of a crushing retaliation. He was glad he had not done Blanchard any lifelong injury; he was glad the man yet lived for time and him to busy themselves about; he was even glad (and herein appeared the unsuspected subtlety) that Will had prospered and come by a little show of fortune. Half unconsciously he hoped for the boy something of his own experiences, and had determined with himself--in a spirit very melodramatic but perfectly sincere at present--to ruin his enemy if patience and determination could accomplish it. In this mood, with his wrongs sharpened by return to Chagford and his purposes red-hot, John Grimbal now ran against his dearest foe, received the horsewhip from him, and listened to his offer of peace. He still kept silence and Will lowered the half-lifted arm and spoke again. "As you please. I can bide very easy without your gude word." "That's well, then," said the other, in his big voice, as his hands tightened. "We've met again. I'm glad I didn't break your neck, for your heart's left to break, and by the living God I'll break it! I can wait. I'm older than you, but young enough. Remember, I'll run you down sooner or later. I've hunted most things, and men aren't the cleverest beasts and you're not the cleverest man I've bested in my time. You beat me--I know it--but it would have been better for you if you hadn't been born. There's the truth for your country ears, you damned young hound. I'll fight fair and I'll fight to the finish. Sport--that's what it is. The birds and the beasts and the fish have their close time; but there won't be any close time for you, not while I can think and work against you. So now you know. D' you hear me?" "Ess," said Will, meeting the other's fierce eyes; "I hear 'e, an' so might the dead in Chagford buryin'-ground. You hollers loud enough. I ban't 'feared of nothing a hatch-mouthed,[7] crooked-minded man, same as you be, can do. An' if I'm a hound, you 'm a dirty red fox, an' everybody knaws who comes out top when they meet. Steal my gal, would 'e? Gaw your ways, an' mend your ways, an' swallow your bile. I doan't care a flicker o' wildfire for 'e!" [7] _Hatch-mouthed_ = foul mouthed; profane. John Grimbal heard only the beginning of this speech, for he turned his back on Will and rode away while the younger man still shouted after him. Blanchard was in a rage, and would have liked to make a third trial of strength with his enemy on the spot, but the rider vanished and Will quickly cooled as he went down the hill to Chagford. The remembrance of this interview, for all his scorn, chilled him when he reflected on John Grimbal's threats. He feared nothing indeed, but here was another cloud, and a black one, blown violently back from below the horizon of his life to the very zenith. Malignity of this type was strange to him and differed widely from the petty bickerings, jealousies, and strifes of ordinary country existence. It discouraged him to feel in his hour of universal contentment that a strong, bitter foe would now be at hand, forever watching to bring ruin on him at the first opportunity. As he walked home he asked himself how he should feel and act in Grimbal's shoes, and tried to look at the position from his enemy's standpoint. Of course he told himself that he would have accepted defeat with right philosophy. It was a just fix for a man to find himself in,--a proper punishment for a mean act. Arguing thus, from the right side of the hedge, he forgot what wiser men have forgotten, that there is no disputing about man's affection for woman, there is no transposition of the standpoint, there is no looking through another's eyes upon a girl. Many have loved, and many have rendered vivid pictures of the emotion, touched with insight of genius and universally proclaimed true to nature from general experience; but no two men love alike, and neither you nor another man can better say how a third feels under the yoke, estimate his thrall, or foretell his actions, despite your own experience, than can one sufferer from gout, though it has torn him half a hundred times, gauge the qualities of another's torment under the same disease. Will could not guess what John Grimbal had felt for Phoebe; he knew nothing of the other's disposition, because, young in knowledge of the world and a boy still, despite his age, it was beyond him to appreciate even remotely the mind of a man fifteen years older than himself--a man of very different temper and one whose life had been such as we have just described. Home went Blanchard, and kept his meeting secret. His mother, returning long before him, was already in some argument with Chris concerning the disposal of certain articles of furniture, the pristine splendour of which had been worn off at Newtake five-and-thirty years before. At Farmer Ford's death these things passed to his son, and he, not requiring them, had made them over to Damaris. "They was flam-new when first my parents married and comed to Newtake, many a year ago; and now I want 'em to go back theer. They've seed three generations, an' I'd be well pleased that a fourth should kick its li'l boots out against them. They 'm stout enough yet. Sweat went to building of chairs an' tables in them days; now it's steam. Besides, 'twill save Will's pocket a tidy bit." Chris, however, though she could deny Will nothing, was divided here, for why should her mother part from those trifles which contributed to the ample adornment of her cottage? Certain stout horsehair furniture and a piano were the objects Mrs. Blanchard chiefly desired should go to Newtake. The piano, indeed, had never been there before. It was a present to Damaris from her dead husband, who purchased the instrument second-hand for five pounds at a farm sale. Its wiry jingle spoke of evolution from harpsichord or spinet to the modern instrument; its yellow keys, from which the ivory in some cases was missing, and its high back, stained silk front, and fretted veneer indicated age; while above the keyboard a label, now growing indistinct, set forth that one "William Harper, of Red Lion Street, Maker of piano-fortes to his late Majesty" was responsible for the instrument very early in the century. Now Will joined the discussion, but his mother would take no denial. "These chairs and sofa be yours, and the piano's my present to Phoebe. She'll play to you of a Sunday afternoon belike." "An' it's here she'll do it; for my Sundays'll be spent along with you, of coourse, 'cept when you comes up to my farm to spend 'em. That's what I hope'll fall out; an' I want to see Miller theer, tu, after he've found I'm right and he'm wrong." But the event proved that, even in his new capacity as a man of money and a landholder, Will was not to win much ground with Mr. Lyddon. Two circumstances contributed to the continued conflict, and just as Phoebe was congratulating herself and others upon the increasing amity between her father and her husband matters fell out which caused the miller to give up all hope of Will for the hundredth time. First came the occupancy of Newtake at a rent Mr. Lyddon considered excessive; and then followed a circumstance that touched the miller himself, for, by the offer of two shillings more a week than he received at Monks Barton, Will tempted into his service a labourer held in great esteem by his father-in-law. Sam Bonus appeared the incarnation of red Devon earth, built up on solid beef and mutton. His tanned face was framed in crisp black hair that no razor had ever touched; his eyes were deep-set and bright; his narrow brow was wrinkled, not with thought, but as the ape's. A remarkably tall and powerful frame supported Sam's little head. He laboured like a horse and gave as little trouble, triumphed in feats of brute strength, laughed at a day's work, never knew ache or pain. He had always greatly admired Blanchard, and, faced with the tempting bait of a florin a week more than his present wage, abandoned Monks Barton and readily followed Will to the Moor. His defection was greatly deplored, and though Will told Mr. Blee what he intended beforehand, and made no secret of his design to secure Sam if possible, Billy discredited the information until too late. Then the miller heard of his loss, and, not unnaturally, took the business ill. "Gormed if it ban't open robbery!" declared Mr. Blee, as he sat and discussed the matter with his master one evening, "an' the thankless, ill-convenient twoad to go to Blanchard, of all men!" "He'll be out of work again soon enough. And he needn't come back to me when he is. I won't take him on no more." "'Twould be contrary to human nature if you did." "Human nature!" snapped the miller, with extreme irritation. "'Twould puzzle Solomon to say what's come over human nature of late days." "'Tis a nut wi' a maggot in it," mused Billy: "three parts rotten, the rest sweet. An' all owing to fantastic inventions an' new ways of believin' in God wi'out church-gwaine, as parson said Sunday. Such things do certainly Play hell with human nature, in a manner o' speakin'. I reckon the uprising men an' women's wickeder than us, as sucked our mothers in quieter times afore the railroads." "Bonus is such a fule!" said Mr. Lyddon, harking back to his loss. "Yet I thought he belonged to the gude old-fashioned sort." "I told un he was out in his reckoning, that he'd be left in the cold bimebye, so sure as Blanchard was Blanchard and Newtake was Newtake; but he awnly girned his gert, ear-wide girn, an' said he knawed better." "To think of more gude money bein' buried up theer! You've heard my view of all ground wi' granite under it. Such a deal ought to have been done wi' that thousand pound." "Oughts are noughts, onless they've strokes to 'em," declared Billy. "'Tis a poor lookout, for he'm the sort as buys experience in the hardest market. Then, when it's got, he'll be a pauper man, with what he knaws useless for want o' what's spent gettin' it. Theer's the thought o' Miss Phoebe, tu,--Mrs. Blanchard, I should say. Caan't see her biding up to Newtake nohow, come the hard weather." "'Wedlock an' winter tames maids an' beastes,'" said Mr. Lyddon bitterly. "A true saw that." "Ess; an' when 'tis wedlock wi' Blanchard, an' winter on Dartymoor, 'twould tame the daughter of the Dowl, if he had wan." Billy laughed at this thought. His back rounded as he sat in his chair, his head seemed to rise off his lower jaw, and the yellow frill of hair under his chin stood stiffly out. "He's my son-in-law; you 'pear to forget that, Blee," said Mr. Lyddon; "I'm sure I wish I could, if 'twas even now an' again." Thereupon Billy straightened his face and cast both rancour and merriment to the winds. "Why, so he be; an' grey hairs should allus make allowance for the young youths; though I ain't forgot that spadeful o' muck yet, an' never shall. But theer's poison in bwoy's blood what awnly works out of the brain come forty. I'm sure I wish nothing but well to un. He's got his saving graces, same as all of us, if we could but see 'em; an' come what may, God looks arter His awn chosen fules, so theer's hope even for Blanchard." "Cold consolation," said Mr. Lyddon wearily; "but't is all we've got. Two nights since I dreamt I saw un starvin' on a dunghill. 'T was a parable, I judge, an' meant Newtake Farm." CHAPTER IV DEFEATED HOPES Below Newtake Farm the river Teign wound, with many a foaming fall and singing rapid, to confluence with her twin sister in the valley beneath. Here, at a certain spot, above the forest and beneath the farm, stood Martin Grimbal on a bright afternoon in May. Over his head rose a rowan, in a soft cloud of serrated foliage, with clusters of grey-green flower buds already foretelling the crimson to come; about his feet a silver army of uncurling fronds brightened the earth and softened the sharp edges of the boulders scattered down the coomb. Here the lover waited to the music of a cuckoo, and his eyes ever turned towards a stile at the edge of the pine woods, two hundred yards distant from him. The hour was one of tremendous possibilities, because Fate had been occupied with Martin through many days, and now he stood on the brink of great joy or sorrow. Clement Hicks had never spoken to him. During his quarrel with Chris, which lasted a fortnight, the bee-keeper purposely abstained from doing her bidding, while after their reconciliation every other matter in the world was swallowed up for a time in the delight of renewed love-making. The girl, assuming throughout these long weeks that Martin now knew all, had met him in frank and kindly spirit on those occasions when he planned to enjoy her society, and this open warmth awoke renewed heart for Grimbal, who into her genial friendship read promise and from it recruited hope. His love now dominated his spiritual being and filled his life. Grey granite was grey granite only, and no more. During his long walks by pillar-stone, remote row, and lonely circle, Chris, and Chris alone, occupied his brain. He debated the advisability of approaching Will, then turned rather to the thought of sounding Mrs. Blanchard, and finally nerved himself to right action and determined to address Chris. He felt this present heart-shaking suspense must be laid at rest, for the peace of his soul, and therefore he took his courage in his hands and faced the ordeal. That day Chris was going up to Newtake. She had not yet settled there, though her brother and Sam Bonus were already upon the ground, but the girl came and went, busying her fingers with a hundred small matters that daily increased the comfort of the little farm. Her way lay usually by the coomb, and Martin, having learned that she was visiting Will on the occasion in question, set out before her and awaited her here, beside the river, in a lonely spot between the moorland above and the forest below. He felt physically nervous, yet hope brightened his mind, though he tried to strangle it. Worn and weary with his long struggle, he paced up and down, now looking to the stile, now casting dissatisfied glances upon his own person. Shaving with more than usual care, he had cut his chin deeply, and, though he knew it not, the wound had bled again since he left home and ruined both his collar and a new tie, put on for the occasion. Presently he saw her. A sunbonnet bobbed at the stile and Chris appeared, bearing a roll of chintz for Newtake blinds. In her other hand she carried half a dozen bluebells from the woods, and she came with the free gait acquired in keeping stride through long tramps with Will when yet her frocks were short. Martin loved her characteristic speed in walking. So Diana doubtless moved. The spring sunshine had found Chris and the clear, soft brown of her cheek was the most beautiful thing in nature to the antiquary. He knew her face so well now: the dainty poise of her head, the light of her eyes, the dark curls that always clustered in the same places, the little updrawing at the corner of her mouth as she smiled, the sudden gleam of her teeth when she laughed, and the abrupt transitions of her expression from repose to gladness, from gladness back again into repose. She saw the man before she reached him, and waved her bluebells to show that she had done so. Then he rose from his granite seat and took off his hat and stood with it off, while his heart thundered, his eye watered, and his mouth twitched. But he was outwardly calm by the time Chris reached him. "What a surprise to find 'e here, Martin! Yet not much, neither, for wheer the auld stones be, theer you 'm to be expected." "How are you, Chris? But I needn't ask. Yes, I'm fond of the stones." "Well you may be. They talk to 'e like friends, seemingly. An' even I knaw a sight more 'bout 'em now. You've made me feel so differ'nt to 'em, you caan't think." "For that matter," he answered, leaping at the chance, "you've made me feel different to them." "Why, how could I, Martin?" "I'll tell you. Would you mind sitting down here, just for a moment? I won't keep you. I've no right to ask for a minute of your time; but there's dry moss upon it--I mean the stone; and I was waiting on purpose, if you'll forgive me for waylaying you like this. There's a little thing--a big thing, I mean--the biggest--too big for words almost, yet it wants words--and yet sometimes it doesn't--at least--I--would you sit here?" He was breathing rather hard, and his words were tripping. Managing his voice ill, the tones of it ran away from bass to shrill treble. She saw it all at a glance, and realised that Martin had been blundering on, in pure ignorance and pure love, all these weary weeks. She sat down silently and her mind moved like light along the wide gamut of fifty emotions in a second. Anger and sorrow strove together,--anger with Clem and his callous, cynic silence, sorrow for the panting wretch before her. Chris opened her mouth to speak, then realised where her flying thoughts had taken her and that, as yet, Martin Grimbal had said nothing. Her unmaidenly attitude and the sudden reflection that she was about to refuse one before he had asked her, awoke a hysteric inclination to laugh, then a longing to cry. But all the anxious-visaged man before her noted was a blush that waved like auroral light from the girl's neck to her cheek, from her cheek to her forehead. That he saw, and thought it was love, and thanked the Lord in his clumsy fashion aloud. "God be praised! I do think you guess--I do think you guess! But oh, my dear, my dear, you don't know what 's in my heart for you. My little pearl of a Chris, can you care for such a bear of a man? Can you let me labour all my life long to make your days good to you? I love you so--I do. I never thought when the moment came I should find tongue to speak it, but I have; and now I could say it fifty thousand times. I'd just be proud to tie your shoe-string, Chris, my dear, and be your old slave and--Chris! my Chris! I've hurt you; I've made you cry! Was I--was I all wrong? Don't, don't--I'll go--Oh, my darling one, God knows I wouldn't--" He broke off blankly and stood half sorrowful, half joyous. He knew he had no right as yet to go to the comfort of the girl now sobbing beside him, but hope was not dead. And Chris, overcome by this outpouring of love, now suffered very deep sorrow, while she turned away from him and hid her face and wept. The poor distracted fool still failed to guess the truth, for he knew tint tears are the outcome of happiness as well as misery. He waited, open-mouthed, he murmured something--God knows what--then he went close and thought to touch her waist, but feared and laid his hand gently on her shoulder. "Don't 'e!" she said; and he began to understand and to struggle with himself to lessen her difficulty. "Forgive me--forgive me if you can, Chris. Was I all wrong? Then I ought to have known better--but even an old stick like me--before you, Chris. Somehow I--but don't cry. I wouldn't have brought the tears to your eyes for all the world--dense idiot I am--" "No, no, no; no such thing 't all, Martin. 'Tis I was cruel not to see you didn't knaw. You've been treated ill, an' I'm cryin' that such a gude--gude, braave, big-hearted man as you, should be brought to this for a fule of a gal like me. I ban't worthy a handshake from 'e, or a kind word. An'--an'--Clem Hicks--Clem be tokened to me these two year an' more. He'm the best man in the world; an' I hate un for not tellin' 'e--an'--an'--" Chris sobbed herself to the end of her tears; and the man took his trial--like a man. His only thought was the sadness his blunder had brought with it for her. To misread her blush seemed in his humility a crime. His consistent unselfishness blinded him, for an instant at least, to his own grief. He blamed himself and asked pardon and prepared to get away out of her sight as soon as possible. "Forgive me, Chris--I needn't ask you twice, I know--such a stupid thing--I didn't understand--I never observed: but more shame to me. I ought to have seen, of course. Anybody else would--any man of proper feeling." "How could 'e see it with a secret chap like him? He ought to have told 'e; I bid un speak months since; an' I thought he had; an' I hate un for not doing it!" "But you mustn't. Don't cry any more, and forget all about it. I could almost laugh to think how blind I've been. We'll both laugh next time we meet. If you're happy, then I'll laugh always. That's all I care for. Now I know you're happy again, I'm happy, too, Chris--honour bright. And I'll be a friend still--remember that--always--to you--to you and him." "I hate un, I say." "Why, he didn't give me credit for being such a bat--such a mole. Now I must be away. We'll meet pretty soon, I expect. Just forget this afternoon as though it had never been, even though it's such a jolly sunny one. And remember me as a friend--a friend still for all my foolishness. Good-by for the present. Good-by." He nodded, making the parting a slight thing and not missing the ludicrous in his anxiety to spare her pain. He went down the valley, leaving her sitting alone. He assumed a jaunty air and did not look round, but hastened off to the stile. Never in his most light-hearted moments had he walked thus or struck right and left at the leaves and shrubs with such a clumsy affectation of nonchalance. Thus he played the fool until out of sight; then his head came down, and his feet dragged, and his walk and mien grew years older than his age. He stopped presently and stood still, staring upon the silence. Westering sunlight winnowed through the underwood, splashed into its sombre depths and brightened the sobriety of a grey carpet dotted with dead cones. Sweet scents floated downward upon the sad whisper that lives in every pine forest; then came suddenly a crisp rattle of little claws and a tiny barking, where two red squirrels made love, high aloft, amid the grey lichens and emerald haze of a great larch that gleamed like a green lamp through the night of the dark surrounding foliage. Martin Grimbal dropped his stick and flung down his body in the hushed and hidden dreamland of the wood. Now he knew that his hope had lied to him, that the judgment he prided himself upon, and which had prompted him to this great deed, was at fault. The more than common tact and delicacy of feeling he had sometimes suspected he possessed in rare, exalted moments, were now shown vain ideas born from his own conceit; and the event had proved him no more subtle, clever, or far-seeing than other men. Indeed, he rated himself as an abject blunderer and thought he saw how a great overwhelming fear, at the bottom of his worship of Chris, had been the only true note in all that past war of emotions. But he had refused to listen and pushed forward; and now he stood thus. Looking back in the light of his defeat, his previous temerity amazed him. His own ugliness, awkwardness, and general unfitness to be the husband of Chris were ideas now thrust upward in all honesty to the top of his mind. No mock modesty or simulated delicacy inspired them, for after defeat a man is frank with himself. Whatever he may have pretended before he puts his love to the test, however he may have blinded himself as to his real feelings and beliefs before he offers his heart, after the event has ended unfavourably his real soul stands naked before him and, according to his character, he decides whether himself or the girl is the fool. Grimbal criticised his own audacity with scanty compassion now; and the thought of the tears of Chris made him clench one hand and smash it hard again and again into the palm of the other. No passionate protest rose in his mind against the selfish silence of Clement Hicks; he only saw his own blindness and magnified it into an absolute offence against Chris. Presently, as the sunlight sank lower, and the straight stems of the pines glimmered red-gold against the deepening gloom, Martin retraced the scene that was past and recalled her words and actions, her tears, the trembling of her mouth, and that gesture when the wild flowers dropped from her hand and her fingers went up to cover her eyes. Then a sudden desire mastered him: to possess the purple of her bluebell bouquet. He knew she would not pick it up again when he was gone; so he returned, stood in that theatre of Fate beneath the rowan, saw where her body had pressed the grass, and found the fading flowers. Then he turned to tramp home, with the truth gnawing his heart at last. The excitement was over, all flutter of hope and fear at rest. Only that bitter fact of failure remained, with the knowledge that one, but yesterday so essential and so near, had now vanished like a rainbow beyond his reach. Martin's eyes were opened in the light of this experience. John came into his mind, and estimating his brother's sufferings by his own, the stricken man found room in his sad heart for pity. CHAPTER V THE ZEAL OF SAM BONUS Under conditions of spring and summer Newtake Farm flattered Will's hopes not a little. He worked like a giant, appropriated some of that credit belonging to fine weather, and viewed the future with very considerable tranquillity. Of beasts he purchased wisely, being guided in that matter by Mr. Lyddon; but for the rest he was content to take his own advice. Already his ambition extended beyond the present limits of his domain; already he contemplated the possibility of reclaiming some of the outlying waste and enlarging his borders. If the Duchy might spread greedy fingers and inclose "newtakes," why not the Venville tenants? Many besides Will asked themselves that question; the position was indeed fruitful of disputes in various districts, especially on certain questions involving cattle; and no moorland Quarter breathed forth greater discontent against the powers than that of which Chagford was the central parish. Sam Bonus, inspired by his master's sanguine survey of life, toiled amain, believed all that Will predicted, and approved each enterprise he planned; while as for Chris, in due time she settled at Newtake and undertook woman's work there with her customary thoroughness and energy. To her lot fell the poultry, the pair of fox-hound puppies that Will undertook to keep for the neighbouring hunt, and all the interior economy and control of the little household. On Sundays Phoebe heard of the splendid doings at Newtake; upon which she envied Chris her labours, and longed to be at Will's right hand. For the present, however, Miller Lyddon refused his daughter permission even to visit the farm; and she obeyed, despite her husband's indignant protests. Thus matters stood while the sun shone brightly from summer skies. Will, when he visited Chagford market, talked to the grizzled farmers, elaborated his experience, shook his head or nodded it knowingly as they, in their turn, discussed the business of life, paid due respect to their wisdom, and offered a little of his own in exchange for it. That the older men lacked pluck was his secret conviction. The valley folk were braver; but the upland agriculturists, all save himself, went in fear. Their eyes were careworn, their caution extreme; behind the summer they saw another shadow forever moving; and the annual struggle with those ice-bound or water-logged months of the early year, while as yet the Moor had nothing for their stock, left them wearied and spiritless when the splendour of the summer came. They farmed furtively, snatching at such good as appeared, distrusting their own husbandry, fattening the land with reluctance, cowering under the shadow of withered hopes and disappointments too numerous to count. Will pitied this mean spirit and, unfamiliar with wet autumns and hard winters on the high land, laughed at his fellow-countrymen. But they were kind and bid him be cautious and keep his little nest-egg snug. "Tie it up in stout leather, my son," said a farmer from Gidleigh. "Ay, an' fasten the bag wi' a knot as'll take 'e half an hour to undo; an' remember, the less you open it, the better for your peace of mind." All of which good counsel Blanchard received with expressions of gratitude, yet secretly held to be but the croaking of a past generation, stranded far behind that wave of progress on which he himself was advancing crest-high. It happened one evening, when Clement Hicks visited Newtake to go for a walk under the full moon with Chris, that he learnt she was away for a few days. This fact had been mentioned to Clement; but he forgot it, and now found himself here, with only Will and Sam Bonus for company. He accepted the young farmer's invitation to supper, and the result proved unlucky in more directions than one. During this meal Clem railed in surly vein against the whole order of things as it affected himself, and made egotistical complaint as to the hardness of life; then, when his host began to offer advice, he grew savage and taunted Will with his own unearned good fortune. Blanchard, weary after a day of tremendous physical exertion, made sharp answer. He felt his old admiration for Clem Hicks much lessened of late, and it nettled him not a little that his friend should thus attribute his present position to the mere accident of a windfall. He was heartily sick of the other's endless complaints, and now spoke roughly and to the point. "What the devil's the gude of this eternal bleat? You'm allus snarlin' an' gnashin' your teeth 'gainst God, like a rat bitin' the stick that's killin' it." "And why should God kill me? You've grown so wise of late, perhaps you know." "Why shouldn't He? Why shouldn't He kill you, or any other man, if He wants the room of un for a better? Not that I believe parson's stuff more 'n you; but grizzlin' your guts to fiddlestrings won't mend your fortune. Best to put your time into work, 'stead o' talk--same as me an' Bonus. And as for my money, you knaw right well if theer'd been two thousand 'stead of wan, I'd have shared it with Chris." "Easy to say! If there had been two, you would have said, 'If it was only four'! That's human nature." "Ban't my nature, anyway, to tell a lie!" burst out Will. "Perhaps it's your nature to do worse. What were you about last Christmas?" Blanchard set down knife and fork and looked the other in the face. None had heard this, for Bonus, his meal ended, went off to the little tallet over a cattle-byre which was his private apartment. "You'd rip that up again--you, who swore never to open' your mouth upon it?" "You're frightened now." "Not of you, anyway. But you'd best not to come up here no more. I'm weary of you; I don't fear you worse than a blind worm; but such as you are, you've grawed against me since my luck comed. I wish Chris would drop you as easy as I can, for you'm teachin' her to waste her life, same as you waste yours." "Very well, I'll go. We're enemies henceforth, since you wish it so." "Blamed if you ban't enough to weary Job! 'Enemies'! It's like a child talkin'. 'Enemies'! D'you think I care a damn wan way or t'other? You'm so bad as Jan Grimbal wi' his big play-actin' talk. He'm gwaine to cut my tether some day. P'r'aps you'll go an' help un to do it! The past is done, an' no man who weern't devil all through would go back on such a oath as you sweared to me. An' you won't. As to what's to come, you can't hurt a straight plain-dealer, same as me, though you'm free an' welcome to try if you please to." "The future may take care of itself; and for your straight speaking I'll give you mine. Go your way and I'll go my way; but until you beg my forgiveness for this night's talk I'll never cross your threshold again, or speak to you, or think of you." Clement rose from his unfinished food, picked up his hat, and vanished, and Will, dismissing the matter with a toss of his head and a contemptuous expiration of breath, gave the poet's plate of cold potato and bacon to a sheep-dog and lighted his pipe. Not ten hours later, while yet some irritation at the beekeeper's spleen troubled Blanchard's thoughts as he laboured upon his land, a voice saluted him from the highway and he saw a friend. "An' gude-marnin' to you, Martin. Another braave day, sure 'nough. Climb awver the hedge. You'm movin' early. Ban't eight o'clock." "I'm off to the 'Grey Wethers,' those old ruined circles under Sittaford Tor, you know. But I meant a visit to you as well. Bonus was in the farmyard and brought me with him." "Ess fay, us works, I tell 'e. We'm fightin' the rabbits now. The li'l varmints have had it all theer way tu long; but this wire netting'll keep 'em out the corn next year an' the turnips come autumn. How be you fearin'? I aint seen 'e this longful time." "Well, thank you; and as busy as you in my way. I'm going to write a book about the Dartmoor stones." "'S truth! Be you? Who'll read it?" "Don't know yet. And, after all, I have found out little that sharper eyes haven't discovered already. Still, it fills my time. And it is that I'm here about." "You can go down awver my land to the hut-circles an' welcome whenever you mind to." "Sure of it, and thank you; but it's another thing just now--your brother-in-law to be. I think perhaps, if he has leisure, he might be useful to me. A very clever fellow, Hicks." But Will was in no humour to hear Clement praised just then, or suggest schemes for his advancement. "He'm a weak sapling of a man, if you ax me. Allus grumblin', an' soft wi' it--as I knaw--none better," said Blanchard, watching Bonus struggle with the rabbit netting. "He's out of his element, I think--a student--a bookish man, like myself." "As like you as chalk's like cheese--no more. His temper, tu! A bull in spring's a fule to him. I'm weary of him an' his cleverness." "You see, if I may venture to say so, Chris--" "I knaw all 'bout that. 'Tis like your gudeness to try an' put a li'l money in his pocket wi'out stepping on his corns. They 'm tokened. Young people 's so muddle-headed. Bees indeed! Nice things to keep a wife an' bring up a fam'ly on! An' he do nothin' but write rhymes, an' tear 'em up again, an' cuss his luck, wi'out tryin' to mend it. I thought something of un wance, when I was no more 'n a bwoy, but as I get up in years I see the emptiness of un." "He would grow happy and sweeter-hearted if he could marry your sister." "Not him! Of course, if it's got to be, it will be. I ban't gwaine to see Chris graw into an auld maid. An' come bimebye, when I've saved a few hunderd, I shall set 'em up myself. But she's makin' a big mistake, an', to a friend, I doan't mind tellin' 'e 'tis so." "I hope you're wrong. They'll be happy together. They have great love each for the other. But, of course, that's nothing to do with me. I merely want Hicks to undertake some clerical work for me, as a matter of business, and I thought you might tell me the best way to tackle him without hurting his feelings. He's a proud man, I fancy." "Ess; an' pride's a purty fulish coat for poverty, ban't it? I've gived that man as gude advice as ever I gived any man; but what's well-thought-out wisdom to the likes of him? Get un a job if you mind to. I shouldn't--not till he shaws better metal and grips the facts o' life wi' a tighter hand." "I'll sound him as delicately as I can. It may be that his self-respect would strengthen if he found his talents appreciated and able to command a little money. He wants something of that sort--eh?" "Doan't knaw but what a hiding wouldn't be so gude for un as anything," mused Will. There was no animosity in the reflection. His ill-temper had long since vanished, and he considered Clement as he might have considered a young, wayward dog which had erred and brought itself within reach of the lash. "I was welted in my time hard an' often, an' be none the worse," he continued. Martin smiled and shook his head. "Might have served him once; too late now for that remedy, I fear." There was a brief pause, then Will changed the conversation abruptly. "How's your brother Jan?" he asked. "He's furnishing his new house and busy about the formation of a volunteer corps. I met him not long since in Fingle Gorge." "Be you friends now, if I may ax?" "I tried to be. We live and learn. Things happened to me a while ago that taught me what I didn't know. I spoke to him and reminded him of the long years in Africa. Blood's thicker than water, Blanchard." "So 'tis. What did he make of it?" "He looked up and hesitated. Then he shook his head and set his face against me, and said he would not have my friendship as a gift." "He's a gude hater." "Time will bring the best of him to the top again some day. I understand him, I think. We possess more in common than people suppose. We feel deeply and haven't a grain of philosophy between us." "Well, I reckon I've allus been inclined to deep ways of thought myself; and work up here, wi' nothing to break your thoughts but the sight of a hawk or the twinkle of a rabbit's scut, be very ripening to the mind. If awnly Phoebe was here! Sometimes I'm in a mood to ramp down-long an' hale her home, whether or no. But I sweats the longing out o' me wi' work." "The day will soon come. Time drags with me just now, somehow, but it races with you, I'll warrant. I must get on with my book, and see Hicks and try and persuade him to help me." "'Tis like your big nature to put it that way. You'rn tu soft-hearted a man to dwell in a house all alone. Let the dead stones bide, Martin, an' look round for a wife. Theer's more gude advice. Blamed if I doan't advise everybody nowadays! Us must all come to it. Look round about an' try to love a woman. 'T will surprise 'e an' spoil sleep if you can bring yourself to it. But the cuddlin' of a soft gal doan't weaken man's thews and sinews neither. It hardens 'em, I reckon, an' puts fight in the most poor-spirited twoad as ever failed in love. 'Tis a manly thing, an' 'boldens the heart like; an', arter she's said 'Yes' to 'e, you'll find a wonnerful change come awver life. 'Tis all her, then. The most awnself[8] man feels it more or less, an' gets shook out of his shell. You'll knaw some day. Of course I speaks as wan auld in love an' married into the bargain." [8] _Awnself_=selfish. "You speak from experience, I know. And is Phoebe as wise as you, Will?" "Waitin' be harder for a wummon. They've less to busy the mind, an' less mind to busy, for that matter." "That's ungallant." "I doan't knaw. 'Tis true, anyway. I shouldn't have failed in love wi' her if she'd been cleverer'n me." "Or she with you, perhaps?" "P'r'aps not. Anyway as it stands we'm halves of a whole: made for man and wife. I reckon I weern't wan to miss my way in love like some poor fules, as wastes it wheer they might see't wasn't wanted if they'd got eyes in their heads." "What it is to be so wise!" Will laughed joyously in his wisdom. "Very gude of 'e to say that. 'Tis a happy thing to have sense enough. Not but we larn an' larn." "So we should. Well, I must be off now. I'm safe on the Moor to-day!" "Ess, by the looks of it. Theer'll likely come some mist after noon, but shouldn't be very thick." So they parted, Blanchard having unconsciously sown the seed of an ugly crop that would take long in reaping. His remarks concerning Clement Hicks were safe enough with Martin, but another had heard them as he worked within earshot of his master. Bonus, though his judgment was scanty, entertained a profound admiration for Will; and thus it came about, that a few days later, when in Chagford, he called at the "Green Man" and made some grave mischief while he sang his master's praises. He extolled the glorious promise of Newtake, and the great improvements already visible thereon; he reflected not a little of Will's own flamboyant manner to the secret entertainment of those gathered in the bar, and presently he drew down upon himself some censure. Abraham Chown, the police inspector, first shook his head and prophesied speedy destruction of all these hopes; and then Gaffer Lezzard criticised still more forcibly. "All this big-mouthed talk's cracklin' of thorns under a potsherd," hesaid. "You an' him be just two childern playin' at shop in the gutter, an' the gutter's wheer you'll find yourselves 'fore you think to. What do the man _knaw?_ Nothin'." "Blanchard's a far-seein' chap," answered Sam Bonus stoutly. "An' a gude master; an' us'll stick together, fair or foul." "You may think it, but wait," said a small man in the corner. Charles Coomstock, nephew of the widow of that name already mentioned, was a wheelwright by trade and went lame, owing to an accident with hot iron in youth. "Ax Clem," continued Mr. Coomstock. "For all his cranky ways he knaws Blanchard better'n most of us, an' I heard un size up the chap t'other day in a word. He said he hadn't wit enough to keep his brains sweet." "He'm a braave wan to talk," fired back Bonus. "Him! A poor luny as caan't scrape brass to keep a wife on. Blanchard, or me either, could crack un in half like a dead stick." "Not that that's anything for or against," declared Gaffer Lezzard. "Power of hand's nought against brain." "It gaws a tidy long way 'pon Dartymoor, however," declared Bonus. "An' Blanchard doan't set no 'mazin' store on Hicks neither, if it comes to words. I heard un say awnly t'other forenoon that the man was a weak saplin', allus grumblin', an' might be better for a gude hiding." Now Charles Coomstock did not love his cousin Clement. Indeed, none of those who had, or imagined they had, any shadow of right to a place in Mary Coomstock's will cared much for others similarly situated; but the little wheelwright was by nature a spreader of rumours and reports--an intelligencer, malignant from choice. He treasured this assertion, therefore, together with one or two others. Sam, now at his third glass, felt his heart warm to Will. He would have fought with tongue or fist on his behalf, and presently added to the mischief he had already done. "To shaw 'e, neighbours, just the man he is, I may tell 'e that a larned piece like Martin Grimbal ackshually comed all the way to Newtake not long since to ax advice of un. An' 'twas on the identical matter of this same Hicks. Mr. Grimbal wanted to give un some work to do, 'bout a book or some such item; an' Will he ups and sez, 'Doan't,' just short an' straight like that theer. 'Doan't,' he sez. 'Let un shaw what's in un first'; an' t'other nodded when he said it." Having now attested his regard for the master of Newtake, Sam jogged off. He was pleased with himself, proud of having silenced more than one detractor, and as his little brain turned the matter over, his lips parted in a grin. Coomstock meanwhile had limped into the cottage where Clement lived with his mother. He did not garble his news, for it needed no artistic touch; and, with nice sense of his perfect and effective instrument, he realised the weapon was amply sharp enough without whetting, and employed the story as it came into his hand. But Mr. Coomstock was a little surprised and disappointed at his cousin's reserve and self-restraint. He had hoped for a hearty outburst of wrath and the assurance of wide-spreading animosity, yet no such thing happened, and the talebearer presently departed in some surprise. Mrs. Hicks, indeed, had shrilled forth a torrent of indignation upon the sole subject equal to raising such an emotion in her breast, for Clem was her only son. The man, however, took it calmly, or appeared to do so; and even when Charles Coomstock was gone he refused to discuss the matter more. But had his cousin, with Asmodeus-flight, beheld Clement during the subsequent hours which he spent alone, it is possible that the wheelwright had felt amply repaid for his trouble. Not until dawn stole grey along the village street; not until sparrows in the thatch above him began their salutation to the morning; not until Chagford rookery had sent forth a harmonious multitude to the hills and valleys did Clement's aching eyes find sleep. For hours he tossed and turned, now trembling with rage, now prompted by some golden thread in the tangled mazes of his mind to discredit the thing reported. Blanchard, as it seemed, had come deliberately and maliciously between him and an opportunity to win work. He burnt to know what he should do; and, like a flame of forked light against the sombre background of his passion, came the thought of another who hated Blanchard too. Will's secret glowed and gleamed like the writing on the wall; looking out, Hicks saw it stamped on the dark earth and across the starry night; and he wished to God that the letters might so remain to be read by the world when it wakened. Finally he slept and dreamed that he had been to the Red House, that he had spoken to John Grimbal, and returned home again with a bag of gold. When his mother came to call him he was lying half uncovered in a wild confusion of scattered bed-clothes; and his arms and body were jerking as a dog's that dreams. She saw a sort of convulsion pinch and pucker his face; then he made some inarticulate sounds--as it were a frantic negation; and then the noise of his own cry awakened him. He looked wildly round and lifted his hands as though he expected to find them full. "Where is it? Where is it? The bag of money? I won't--I can't--Where is it, I say?" "I wish I knawed, lovey. Dream-gawld, I'm afeared. You've bin lying cold, an' that do allus breed bad thoughts in sleep. 'Tis late; I done breakfast an hour ago. An' Okehampton day, tu. Coach'll be along in twenty minutes." He sighed and dragged the clothes over himself. "You'd best go to-day, mother. The ride will do you good, and I have plenty to fill my time at home." Mrs. Hicks brightened perceptibly before this prospect. She was a little, faded woman, with a brown face and red-rimmed, weak eyes, washed by many years of sorrow to the palest nondescript colour. She crept through the world with no ambition but to die out of the poorhouse, no prayer but a petition that the parish might not bury her at the end, no joy save in her son. Life at best was a dreary business for her, and an occasional trip to Okehampton represented about the only brightness that ever crept into it. Now she bustled off full of excitement to get the honey, and, having put on a withered bonnet and black shawl, presently stood and waited for the omnibus. Her son dwelt with his thoughts that day, and for him there was no peace or pleasure. Full twenty times he determined to visit Newtake at once and have it out with Will; but his infirmity of purpose acted like a drag upon this resolution, and his pride also contributed a force against it. Once he actually started, and climbed up Middledown to reach the Moor beyond; then he changed his mind again as new fires of enmity swept through it. His wrongs rankled black and bitter; and, faint under them, he presently turned and went home shivering though the day was hot. CHAPTER VI A SWARM OF BEES Above Chagford rise those lofty outposts of Dartmoor, named respectively Nattadown and Middledown. The first lies nearer to the village, and upon its side, beneath a fir wood which crowns one spur, spread steep wastes of fern and furze. This spot was a favourite one with Clement Hicks, and a fortnight after the incidents last related he sat there smoking his pipe, while his eyes roved upon the scene subtended before him. The hill fell abruptly away, and near the bottom glimmered whitewashed cots along a winding road. Still lower down extended marshy common land, laced with twinkling watercourses and dotted with geese; while beyond, in many a rise and fall and verdant undulation, the country rolled onwards through Teign valley and upwards towards the Moor. The expanse seen from this lofty standpoint extended like a mighty map, here revealing a patchwork of multicoloured fields, here exhibiting tracts of wild waste and wood, here beautifully indicating by a misty line, seen across ascending planes of forest, the course of the distant river, here revealing the glitter of remote waters damaskeened with gold. Little farms and outlying habitations were scattered upon the land; and beyond them, rising steadily to the sky-line, the regions of the Moor revealed their larger attributes, wider expanses, more savage and abrupt configurations of barren heath and weathered tor. The day passed gradually from gloom to brightness, and the distance, already bathed in light, gleamed out of a more sombre setting, where the foreground still reflected the shadows of departing clouds, like a picture of great sunshine framed in darkness. But the last vapours quickly vanished; the day grew very hot and, as the sky indicated noon, all things beneath Clement's eyes were soaked in a splendour of June sunlight. He watched a black thread lying across a meadow five miles away. First it stretched barely visible athwart the distance green; in half an hour it thickened without apparent means; within an hour it had absorbed an eighth part at least of the entire space. Though the time was very unusual for tilling of land, Hicks knew that the combined operations of three horses, a man, and a plough were responsible for this apparition, and he speculated as to how many tremendous physical and spiritual affairs of life are thus wrought by agents not visible to the beholder. Thus were his own thoughts twisted back to those speculations which now perpetually haunted them like the incubus of a dream. What would Will Blanchard say if he woke some morning to find his secret in John Grimbal's keeping? And, did any such thing happen, there must certainly be a mystery about it; for Blanchard could no more prove how his enemy came to learn his secret than might some urban stranger guess how the dark line grew without visible means on the arable ground under Gidleigh. From these dangerous thoughts he was roused by the sight of a woman struggling up the steep hill towards him. The figure came slowly on, and moved with some difficulty. This much Hicks noted, and then suddenly realised that he beheld his mother. She knew his haunt and doubtless sought him now. Rising, therefore, he hastened to meet her and shorten her arduous climb. Mrs. Hicks was breathless when Clement reached her, and paused a while, with her hand pressed to her side, before she could speak. At length she addressed him, still panting between the syllables. "My heart's a pit-pat! Hurry, hurry, for the Lard's sake! The bees be playin'[9] an' they'll call Johnson if you ban't theer directly minute!" [9] _Playing_ = swarming. Johnson, a thatcher, was the only other man in Chagford who shared any knowledge of apiarian lore with Clement. "Sorry you should have had the journey only for that, mother. 'Twas so unlikely a morning, I never thought to hear of a swarm to-day. I'll start at once, and you go home quietly. You're sadly out of breath. Where is it?" "To the Red House--Mr. Grimbal's. It may lead to the handlin' of his hives for all us can say, if you do the job vitty, as you 'm bound to." "John Grimbal's!" Hicks stood still as though this announcement had turned him into stone. "Ess fay! Why do 'e stand glazin' like that? A chap rode out for 'e 'pon horseback; an' a bit o' time be lost a'ready. They 'm swarmin' in the orchard, an' nobody knaws more 'n the dead what to be at." "I won't go. Let them get Johnson." "'Won't go'! An' five shillin' hangin' to it, an' Lard knaws what more in time to come! 'Won't go'! An' my poor legs throbbin' something cruel with climbin' for 'e!" "I--I'm not going there--not to that man. I have reason." "O my gude God!" burst out the old woman, "what'll 'e do next? An' me--as worked so hard to find 'e--an' so auld as I am! Please, please, Clem, for your mother--please. Theer's bin so little money in the house of late days, an' less to come. Doan't, if you love me, as I knaws well you do, turn your back 'pon the scant work as falls in best o' times." The man reflected with troubled eyes, and his mother took his arm and tried to pull him down the hill. "Is John Grimbal at home?" he asked. "How shude I knaw? An' what matter if he is? Your business is with the bees, not him. An' you've got no quarrel with him because that Blanchard have. After what Will done against you, you needn't be so squeamish as to make his enemies yourn." "My business is with the bees--as you say, mother," he answered slowly, repeating her words. "Coourse 'tis! Who knaws a half of what you knaw 'bout 'em? That's my awn braave Clem! Why, there might be a mort o' gude money for a man like you at the Red House!" "I'll go. My business is with the bees. You walk along slowly, or sit down a while and get your breath again. I'll hurry." She praised him and blessed him, crying after him as he departed,--"You'll find all set out for 'e--veil, an' gloves, an' a couple of bee-butts to your hand." The man did not reply, but soon stumbled down the steep hill and vanished; then five-and-twenty minutes later, with the implements of his trade, he stood at the gate of the Red House, entered, and hastened along the newly planted avenue. John Grimbal had not yet gone into residence, but he dwelt at present in his home farm hard by; and from this direction he now appeared to meet the bee-keeper. The spectacle of Grimbal, stern, grave, and older of manner than formerly, impressed Hicks not a little. In silence, after the first salutation, they proceeded towards an adjacent orchard; and from here as they approached arose an extravagant and savage din, as though a dozen baited dogs, each with a tin kettle at his tail, were madly galloping down some stone-paved street, and hurtling one against the other as they ran. "They can stop that row," said Hicks. "'Tis an old-fashioned notion that it hurries swarming, but I never found it do so." "You know best, though beating on tin pots and cans at such a time's a custom as old as the hills." "And vain as many others equally old. I have a different method to hurry swarming." Now they passed over the snows of a million fallen petals, while yet good store of flowers hung upon the trees. June basked in the heart of the orchard and a delicious green sweetness and freshness marked the moment. Crimson and cream, all splashed with sunlight, here bloomed against a sky of summer blue, here took a shade from the new-born leaves and a shadow from branch and bough. To the eye, a mottled, dimpled glory of apple-blossom spread above grey trunks and twisted branches, shone through deep vistas of the orchard, brightened all the distance; while upon the ear, now growing and deepening, arose one sustained and musical susurration of innumerable wings. "You will be wise to stay here," said Hicks. He himself stopped a moment, opened his bag, put on his veil and gloves, and tucked his trousers inside his stockings. "Not I. I wish to see the hiving." Twenty yards distant a play of light and glint and twinkle of many frantic bees converged upon one spot, as stars numerically increase towards the heart of a cluster. The sky was full of flying insects, and their wings sparkled brightly in the sun; though aloft, with only the blue for background, they appeared as mere dark points filling the air in every direction. The swarm hung at the very heart of a little glade. Here two ancient apple-trees stood apart, and from one low bough, stretched at right angles to the parent stem, and not devoid of leaves and blossoms, there depended a grey-brown mass from which a twinkling, flashing fire leaped forth as from gems bedded in the matrix. Each transparent wing added to the dazzle under direct sunlight; the whole agglomeration of life was in form like a bunch of grapes, and where it thinned away to a point the bees dropped off by their own weight into the grass below, then rose again and either flew aloft in wide and circling flight or rushed headlong upon the swarm once more. Across the iridescent cluster passed a gleam and glow of peacock and iris, opal and mother-of-pearl; while from its heart ascended a deep murmur, telling of tremendous and accumulated energy suddenly launched into this peaceful glade of apple-blossom and ambient green. The frenzy of the moment held all that little laborious people. There was none of the concerted action to be observed at warping, or simultaneous motion of birds in air and fishes in water; but each unit of the shining army dashed on its own erratic orbit, flying and circling, rushing hither and thither, and sooner or later returning to join the queen upon the bough. The glory of the moment dominated one and all. It was their hour--a brief, mad ecstasy in short lives of ceaseless toil. To-day they desisted from their labours, and the wild-flowers of the waste places, and the old-world flowers in cottage gardens were alike forgotten. Yet their year had already seen much work and would see more. Sweet pollen from many a bluebell and anemone was stored and sealed for a generation unborn; the asphodels and violets, the velvet wallflower and yellow crocuses had already yielded treasure; and now new honey jewels were trembling in the trumpets of the honeysuckle, at the heart of the wild rose, within the deep cups of the candid and orange lilies, amid the fairy caps of columbines, and the petals of clove-pinks. There the bees now living laboured, and those that followed would find their sweets in the clover,--scarlet and purple and white,--in the foxgloves, in the upland deserts of the heather with their oases of euphrasy and sweet wild thyme. "Is it a true swarm or a cast?" inquired John Grimbal. "A swarm, without much question, though it dawned an unlikely day for an old queen to leave the hive. Still, the weather came over splendid enough by noon, and they knew it was going to. Where are your butts? You see, young maiden queens go further afield than old ones. The latter take but a short flight for choice." "There they are," said Grimbal, pointing to a row of thatched hives not far off. "So that should be an old queen, by your showing. Is she there?" "I fancy so by the look of them. If the queen doesn't join, the bees break up, of course, and go back to the butt. But I've brought a couple of queens with me." "I've seen a good few drones about the board lately." "Sure sign of swarming at this season. Inside, if you could look, you'd find plenty of queen cells, and some capped over. You'd come across a murder or two as well. The old queens make short work of the young ones sometimes." "Woman-like." Hicks admitted the criticism was just. Then, being now upon his own ground, he continued to talk, and talk well, until he won a surly compliment from his employer. "You're a bee-master, in truth! Nobody'll deny you that." Clement laughed rather bitterly. "Yes, a king of bees. Not a great kingdom for man to rule." The other studied his dark, unhappy face. Trouble had quickened Grimbal's own perceptions, and made him a more accurate judge of sorrow when he saw it than of yore. "You've tried to do greater things and failed, perhaps," he said. "Why, perhaps I have. A man's a hive himself, I've thought sometimes--a hive of swarming, seething thoughts and experiences and passions, that come and go as easily as any bees, and store the heart and brain." "Not with honey, I'll swear." "No--gall mostly." "And every hive's got a queen bee too, for that matter," said Grimbal, rather pleased at his wit responsible for the image. "Yes; and the queens take each other's places quick enough, for we're fickle brutes." "A strange swarm we hive in our hearts, God knows." "And it eats out our hearts for our pains." "You've found out that, have you?" asked John curiously. "Long ago." "Everybody does, sooner or later." There was a pause. Overhead the multitude dwindled while the great glimmering cluster on the tree correspondingly increased, and the fierce humming of the bees was like the sound of a fire. Clement feared nothing, but he had seen few face a hiving without some distrust. The man beside him, however, stood with his hands in his pockets, indifferent and quite unprotected. "You will be wiser to stand farther away, Mr. Grimbal. You're unlikely to come off scot-free if you keep so close." "What do I care? I've been stung by worse than insects." "And I also," answered Clement, with such evident passion that the other grew a little interested. He had evidently pricked a sore point in this moody creature. "Was it a woman stung you?" "No, no; don't heed me." Clement was on guard over himself again. "Your business is with bees"--his mother's words echoed in his mind to the pulsing monotone of the swarm. He tried to change the subject, sent for a pail of water, and drew a large syringe from his bag, though the circumstances really rendered this unnecessary. But John Grimbal, always finding a sort of pleasure in his own torment, took occasion to cross-question Clement. "I suppose I'm laughed at still in Chagford, am I not? Not that it matters to me." "I don't think so; an object of envy, rather, for good wives are easier to get than great riches." "That's your opinion, is it? I'm not so sure. Are you married?" "No." "Going to be, I'll wager, if you think good wives can be picked off blackberry bushes." "I don't say that at all. But I am going to be married certainly. I'm fortunate and unfortunate. I've won a prize, but--well, honey's cheap. I must wait." "D' you trust her? Is waiting so easy?" "Yes, I trust her, as I trust the sun to swing up out of the east to-morrow, to set in the west to-night. She's the only being of my own breed I do trust. As for the other question, no--waiting isn't easy." "Nor yet wise. I shouldn't wait. Tell me who she is. Women interest me, and the taking of 'em in marriage." Hicks hesitated. Here he was drifting helpless under this man's hard eyes--helpless and yet not unwilling. He told himself that he was safe enough and could put a stop on his mouth when he pleased. Besides, John Grimbal was not only unaware that the bee-keeper knew anything against Blanchard, but had yet to learn that anybody else did,--that there even existed facts unfavourable to him. Something, however, told Hicks that mention of the common enemy would result from this present meeting, and the other's last word brought the danger, if danger it might be, a step nearer. Clement hesitated before replying to the question; then he answered it. "Chris Blanchard," he said shortly, "though that won't interest you." "But it does--a good deal. I've wondered, some time, why I didn't hear my own brother was going to marry her. He got struck all of a heap there, to my certain knowledge. However, he 's escaped. The Lord be good to you, and I take my advice to marry back again. Think twice, if she's made of the same stuff as her brother." "No, by God! Is the moon made of the same stuff as the marsh lights?" Concentrated bitterness rang in the words, and a man much less acute than Grimbal had guessed he stood before an enemy of Will. John saw the bee-keeper start at this crucial moment; he observed that Hicks had said a thing he much regretted and uttered what he now wished unspoken. But the confession was torn bare and laid out naked under Grimbal's eyes, and he knew that another man besides himself hated Will. The discovery made his face grow redder than usual. He pulled at his great moustache and thrust it between his teeth and gnawed it. But he contrived to hide the emotion in his mind from Clement Hicks, and the other did not suspect, though he regretted his own passion. Grimbals next words further disarmed him. He appeared to know nothing whatever about Will, though his successful rival interested him still. "They call the man Jack-o'-Lantern, don't they? Why?" "I can't tell you. It may be, though, that he is erratic and uncertain in his ways. You cannot predict what he will do next." "That's nothing against him. He's farming on the Moor now, isn't he?" "Yes." "Where did he come from when he dropped out of the clouds to marry Phoebe Lyddon?" The question was not asked with the least idea of its enormous significance. Grimbal had no notion that any mystery hung over that autumn time during which he made love to Phoebe and Will was absent from Chagford. He doubted not that for the asking he could learn how Will had occupied himself; but the subject did not interest him, and he never dreamed the period held a secret. The sudden consternation bred in Hicks by this question astounded him not a little. Indeed, each man amazed the other, Grimbal by his question, Hicks by the attitude which he assumed before it. "I'm sure I haven't the least idea," he answered; but his voice and manner had already told Grimbal all he cared to learn at the moment; and that was more than his wildest hopes had even risen to. He saw in the other's face a hidden thing, and by his demeanour that it was an important one. Indeed, the bee-keeper's hesitation and evident alarm before this chance question proclaimed the secret vital. For the present, and before Clement's evident alarm, Grimbal dismissed the matter lightly; but he chose to say a few more words upon it, for the express purpose of setting Hicks again at his ease. "You don't like your future brother-in-law?" "Yes, yes, I do. We've been friends all our lives--all our lives. I like him well, and am going to marry his sister--only I see his faults, and he sees mine--that's all." "Take my advice and shut your eyes to his faults. That's the best way if you are marrying into his family. I've got cause to think ill enough of the scamp, as you know and everybody knows; but life's too short for remembering ill turns." A weight rolled off Clement's heart. For a moment he had feared that the man knew something; but now he began to suspect Grimbal's question to be what in reality it was--casual interrogation, without any shadow of knowledge behind it. Hicks therefore breathed again and trusted that his own emotion had not been very apparent. Then, taking the water, he shot a thin shower into the air, an operation often employed to hasten swarming, and possibly calculated to alarm the bees into apprehension of rain. "Do wasps ever get into the hives?" asked Mr. Grimbal abruptly. "Aye, they do; and wax-moths and ants, and even mice. These things eat the honey and riddle and ruin the comb. Then birds eat the bees, and spiders catch them. Honey-bees do nothing but good that I can see, yet Nature 's pleased to fill the world with their enemies. Queen and drone and the poor unsexed workers--all have their troubles; and so has the little world of the hive. Yet during the few weeks of a bee's life he does an amount of work beyond imagination to guess at." "And still finds time to steal from the hives of his fellows?" "Why, yes, if the sweets are exposed and can be tasted for nothing. Most of us might turn robbers on the same terms. Now I can take them, and a splendid swarm, too--finest I've seen this year." The business of getting the glittering bunch of bees into a hive was then proceeded with, and soon Clement had shaken the mass into a big straw butt, his performance being completely successful. In less than half an hour all was done, and Hicks began to remove his veil and shake a bee or two off the rim of his hat. John Grimbal rubbed his cheek, where a bee had stung him under the eye, and regarded Hicks thoughtfully. "If you happen to want work at any time, it might be within my power to find you some here," he said, handing the bee-master five shillings. Clement thanked his employer and declared he would not forget the offer; he then departed, and John Grimbal returned to his farm. CHAPTER VII AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE Billy Blee, who has appeared thus far as a disinterested spectator of other people's affairs, had yet his own active and personal interests in life. Them he pursued, at odd times, and in odd ways, with admirable pertinacity; and as a crisis is now upon him and chance knits the outcome of it into the main fabric of this narrative, Billy and his actions command attention. Allusion has already been made, and that frequently, to one Widow Coomstock, whose attractions of income, and the ancillary circumstance of an ample though elderly person, had won for her certain admirers more ancient than herself. Once butt-woman, or sextoness, of Chagford Church, the lady had dwelt alone, as Miss Mary Reed, for fifty-five years--not because opportunity to change her state was denied her, but owing to the fact that experience of life rendered her averse to all family responsibilities. Mary Reed had seen her sister, the present Mrs. Hicks, take a husband, had watched the result of that step; and this, with a hundred parallel instances of misery following on matrimony, had determined her against it. But when old Benjamin Coomstock, the timber merchant and coal-dealer, became a widower, this ripe maiden, long known to him, was approached before his wife's grave became ready for a stone. To Chagford's amazement he so far bemeaned himself as to offer the sextoness his hand, and she accepted it. Then, left a widow after two years with her husband, Mary Coomstock languished a while, and changed her methods of life somewhat. The roomy dwelling-house of her late partner became her property and a sufficient income went with it. Mr. Coomstock's business had been sold in his lifetime; the money was invested, and its amount no man knew, though rumour, which usually magnifies such matters, spoke of a very handsome figure; and Mrs. Coomstock's lavish manner of life lent confirmation to the report. But though mundane affairs had thus progressed with her, the woman's marriage was responsible for very grave mental and moral deterioration. Prosperity, and the sudden exchange of a somewhat laborious life for the ease and comfort of independence, played havoc with Widow Coomstock. She grew lax, gross in habit and mind, self-indulgent, and ill-tempered. When her husband died her old friends lost sight of her, while only those who had reason to hope for a reward still kept in touch with her, and indeed forced themselves upon her notice. Everybody predicted she would take another husband; but, though it was now nearly eight years since Mr. Coomstock's death, his widow still remained one. Gaffer Lezzard and Billy Blee had long pursued her with varying advantage, and the latter, though his proposals were declined, yet saw in each refusal an indication to encourage future hope. Now, urged thereto by whispers that Mr. Lezzard had grown the richer by three hundred pounds on the death of a younger brother in Australia, Billy determined upon another attack. He also was worth something--less indeed than three hundred pounds; though, seeing that he had been earning reasonably good wages for half a century, the fact argued but poor thrift in Mr. Blee. Of course Gaffer Lezzard's alleged legacy could hardly be a sum to count with Mrs. Coomstock, he told himself; yet his rival was a man of wide experience and an oily tongue: while, apart from any question of opposition, he felt that another offer of marriage might now be made with decorum, seeing that it was a full year since the last. Mr. Blee therefore begged for a half-holiday, put on his broadcloth, blacked his boots, anointed his lion-monkey fringe and scanty locks with pomatum, and set forth. Mrs. Coomstock's house stood on the hill rising into the village from Chagford Bridge. A kitchen garden spread behind it; in front pale purple poppies had the ill-kept garden to themselves. As he approached, Mr. Blee felt a leaden weight about his newly polished boots, and a distinct flutter at the heart, or in a less poetical portion of his frame. "Same auld feeling," he reflected. "Gormed if I ban't gettin' sweaty 'fore the plaace comes in sight! 'Tis just the sinkin' at the navel, like what I had when I smoked my first pipe, five-and-forty years agone!" The approach of another man steadied Billy, and on recognising him Mr. Blee forgot all about his former emotions and gasped in the clutch of a new one. It was Mr. Lezzard, evidently under some impulse of genial exhilaration. There hung an air of aggression about him, but, though he moved like a conqueror, his gait was unsteady and his progress slow. He had wit to guess Billy's errand, however, for he grinned, and leaning against the hedge waved his stick in the air above his head. "Aw, Jimmery! if it ban't Blee; an' prinked out for a weddin', tu, by the looks of it!" "Not yourn, anyway," snapped back the suitor. "Well, us caan't say 'zactly--world 's full o' novelties." "Best pull yourself together, Gaffer, or bad-hearted folks might say you was bosky-eyed.[10] That ban't no novelty anyway, but 't is early yet to be drunk--just three o'clock by the church." [10] _Bosky-eyed_ = intoxicated. Mr. Blee marched on without waiting for a reply. He knew Lezzard to be more than seventy years old and usually regarded the ancient man's rivalry with contempt; but he felt uneasy for a few moments, until the front door of Mrs. Coomstock's dwelling was opened to him by the lady herself. "My stars! You? What a terrible coorious thing!" she said. "Why for?" "Come in the parlour. Theer! coorious ban't the word!" She laughed, a silly laugh and loud. Then she shambled before him to the sitting-room, and Billy, familiar enough with the apartment, noticed a bottle of gin in an unusual position upon the table. The liquor stood, with two glasses and a jug of water, between the Coomstock family Bible, on its green worsted mat, and a glass shade containing the stuffed carcass of a fox-terrier. The animal was moth-eaten and its eyes had fallen out. It could be considered in no sense decorative; but sentiment allowed the corpse this central position in a sorry scheme of adornment, for the late timber merchant had loved it. Upon Mrs. Coomstock's parlour walls hung Biblical German prints in frames of sickly yellow wood; along the window-ledge geraniums and begonias flourished, though gardeners had wondered to see their luxuriance, for the windows were seldom opened. "'It never rains but it pours,'" said Widow Coomstock. She giggled again and looked at Billy. She was very fat, and the red of her face deepened to purple unevenly about the sides of her nose. Her eyes were bright and black. She had opened a button or two at the top of her dress, and her general appearance, from her grey hair to her slattern heels, was disordered. Her cap had fallen off on to the ground, and Mr. Blee noticed that her parting was as a broad turnpike road much tramped upon by Time. The room smelt stuffy beyond its wont and reeked not only of spirits but tobacco. This Billy sniffed inquiringly, and Mrs. Coomstock observed the action. "'Twas Lezzard," she said. "I like to see a man in comfort. You can smoke if you mind to. Coomstock always done it, and a man's no man without, though a dirty habit wheer they doan't use a spittoon." She smiled, but to herself, and was lost in thought a moment. He saw her eyes very bright and her head wagging. Then she looked at him and laughed again. "You'm a fine figure of a man, tu," she said, apropos of nothing in particular. But the newcomer understood. He rumpled his hair and snorted and frowned at the empty glasses. "Have a drop?" suggested Mrs. Coomstock; but Billy, of opinion that his love had already enjoyed refreshment sufficient for the time, refused and answered her former remark. "A fine figure?--yes, Mary Coomstock, though not so fine for a man as you for a woman. Still, a warm-blooded chap an' younger than my years." "I've got my share o' warm blood, tu, Billy." It was apparent. Mrs. Coomstock's plump neck bulged in creases over the dirty scrap of white linen that represented a collar, while her massive bust seemed bursting through her apparel. "Coourse," said Mr. Blee, "an' your share, an' more 'n your share o' brains, tu. He had bad luck--Coomstock--the worse fortune as ever fell to a Chaggyford man, I reckon." "How do 'e come at that, then?" "To get 'e, an' lose 'e again inside two year. That's ill luck if ever I seen it. Death's a envious twoad. Two short year of you; an' then up comes a tumour on his neck unbeknawnst, an' off he goes, like a spring lamb." "An' so he did. I waked from sleep an' bid un rise, but theer weern't no more risin' for him till the Judgment." "Death's no courtier. He'll let a day-labourer go so peaceful an' butivul as a child full o' milk goes to sleep; while he'll take a gert lord or dook, wi' lands an' moneys, an' strangle un by inches, an' give un the hell of a twistin'. You caan't buy a easy death seemin'ly." "A gude husband he was, but jealous," said Mrs. Coomstock, her thoughts busy among past years; and Billy immediately fell in with this view. "Then you'm well rid of un. Theer's as gude in the world alive any minute as ever was afore or will be again." "Let 'em stop in the world then. I doan't want 'em." This sentiment amused the widow herself more than Billy. She laughed uproariously, raised her glass to her lips unconsciously, found it empty, grew instantly grave upon the discovery, set it down again, and sighed. "It's a wicked world," she said. "Sure as men's in a plaace they brings trouble an' wickedness. An' yet I've heard theer's more women than men on the airth when all's said." "God A'mighty likes 'em best, I reckon," declared Mr. Blee. "Not but what 't would be a lonesome plaace wi'out the lords of creation," conceded the widow. "Ess fay, you 'm right theer; but the beauty of things is that none need n't be lonely, placed same as you be." "'Once bit twice shy,'" said Mrs. Coomstock. Then she laughed again. "I said them very words to Lezzard not an hour since." "An' what might he have answered?" inquired Billy without, however, showing particular interest to know. "He said he wasn't bit. His wife was a proper creature." "Bah! second-hand gudes--that's what Lezzard be--a widow-man an' eighty if a day. A poor, coffin-ripe auld blid, wi' wan leg in the graave any time this twenty year." Mrs. Coomstock's frame heaved at this tremendous criticism. She gurgled and gazed at Billy with her eyes watering and her mouth open. "You say that! Eighty an' coffin-ripe!" "Ban't no ontruth, neither. A man 's allus ready for his elm overcoat arter threescore an' ten. I heard the noise of his breathin' paarts when he had brown kitty in the fall three years ago, an' awnly thrawed it off thanks to the gracious gudeness of Miller Lyddon, who sent rich stock for soup by my hand. But to hear un, you might have thought theer was a wapsies' nest in the man's lungs." "I doan't want to be nuss to a chap at my time of life, in coourse." "No fay; 't is the man's paart to look arter his wife, if you ax me. I be a plain bachelor as never thought of a female serious 'fore I seed you. An' I've got a heart in me, tu. Ban't no auld, rubbishy, worn-out thing, neither, but a tough, love-tight heart--at least so 't was till I seed you in your weeds eight year agone." "Eight year a widow! An' so I have been. Well, Blee, you've got a powerful command of words, anyways. That I'll grant you." "'T is the gert subject, Mary." He moved nearer and put down his hat and stick; she exhibited trepidation, not wholly assumed. Then she helped herself to more spirits. "A drop I must have to steady me. You men make a woman's heart go flutterin' all over her buzzom, like a flea under her--" She stopped and laughed, then drank. Presently setting down the glass again, she leered in a manner frankly animal at Mr. Blee, and told him to say what he might have to say and be quick about it. He fired a little at this invitation, licked his lips, cleared his throat, and cast a nervous glance or two at the window. But nobody appeared; no thunder-visaged Lezzard frowned over the geraniums. Gaffer indeed was sound asleep, half a mile off, upon one of those seats set in the open air for the pleasure and convenience of wayfarers about the village. So Billy rose, crossed to the large sofa whereon Mrs. Coomstock sat, plumped down boldly beside her and endeavoured to get his arm round the wide central circumference of her person. She suffered this courageous attempt without objection. Then Billy gently squeezed her, and she wriggled and opened her mouth and shut her eyes. "Say the word and do a wise thing," he urged. "Say the word, Mary, an' think o' me here as master, a-keeping all your damn relations off by word of command." She laughed. "When I be gone you'll see some sour looks, I reckon." "Nothing doan't matter then; 't is while you 'm here I'd protect 'e 'gainst 'em. Look, see! ban't often I goes down on my knees, 'cause a man risin' in years, same as me, can pray to God more dignified sittin'; but now I will." He slid gingerly down, and only a tremor showed the stab his gallantry cost him. "You 'm a masterful auld shaver, sure 'nough!" said Mrs. Coomstock, regarding Billy with a look half fish like, half affectionate. "Rise me up, then," he said. "Rise me up, an' do it quick. If you love me, as I see you do by the faace of you, rise me up, Mary, an' say the word wance for all time. I'll be a gude husband to 'e an' you'll bless the day you took me, though I sez it as shouldn't." She allowed her fat left hand, with the late Mr. Coomstock's wedding-ring almost buried in her third finger, to remain with Billy's; and by the aid of it and the sofa he now got on his legs again. Then he sat down beside her once more and courageously set his yellow muzzle against her red cheek. The widow remained passive under this caress, and Mr. Blee, having kissed her thrice, rubbed his mouth and spoke. "Theer! 'T is signed and sealed, an' I'll have no drawin' back now." "But--but--Lezzard, Billy. I do like 'e--I caan't hide it from 'e, try as I will--but him--" "I knawed he was t'other. I tell you, forget un. His marryin' days be awver. Dammy, the man's 'most chuckle headed wi' age! Let un go his way an' say his prayers 'gainst the trump o' God. An' it'll take un his time to pass Peter when all 's done--a bad auld chap in his day. Not that I'd soil your ears with it." "He said much the same 'bout you. When you was at Drewsteignton, twenty year agone--" "A lie--a wicked, strammin', gert lie, with no more truth to it than a auld song! He 'm a venomous beast to call home such a thing arter all these years." "If I did take 'e, you'd be a gude an' faithful husband, Billy, not a gad-about?" "Cut my legs off if I go gaddin' further than to do your errands." "An' you'll keep these here buzzin' parties off me? Cuss 'em! They make my life a burden." "Doan't fear that. I'll larn 'em!" "Theer 's awnly wan I can bide of the whole lot--an' that's my awn nephew, Clem Hicks. He'll drink his drop o' liquor an' keep his mouth shut, an' listen to me a-talkin' as a young man should. T'others are allus yelpin' out how fond they be of me, and how they'd go to the world's end for me. I hate the sight of 'em." "A time-servin' crew, Mary; an' Clement Hicks no better 'n the rest, mark my word, though your sister's son. 'T is cupboard love wi' all. But money ban't nothin' to me. I've been well contented with enough all my life, though 't is few can say with truth that enough satisfies 'em." "Lezzard said money was nothin' to him neither, having plenty of his awn. 'T was my pusson, not my pocket, as he'd falled in love with." "Burnish it all! Theer 's a shameful speech! 'Your pusson'! Him! I'll tell you what Lezzard is--just a damn evil disposition kep' in by skin an' bones--that's Lezzard. 'Your pusson'!" "I'm afraid I've encouraged him a little. You've been so backward in mentioning the subject of late. But I'm sure I didn't knaw as he'd got a evil disposition." "Well, 't is so. An' 't is awnly your bigness of heart, as wouldn't hurt a beetle, makes you speak kind of the boozy auld sweep. I'll soon shaw un wheer he's out if he thinks you 'm tinkering arter him!" "He couldn't bring an action for breach, or anything o' that, could he?" "At his time of life! What Justice would give ear to un? An' the shame of it!" "Perhaps he misunderstood. You men jump so at a conclusion." "Leave that to me. I'll clear his brains double-quick; aye, an' make un jump for somethin'!" "Then I suppose it's got to be. I'm yourn, Billy, an' theer needn't be any long waitin' neither. To think of another weddin' an' another husband! Just a drop or I shall cry. It's such a supporting thing to a lone female." Whether Mrs. Coomstock meant marriage or Plymouth gin, Billy did not stop to inquire. He helped her, filled Lezzard's empty glass for himself, and then, finding his future wife thick of speech, bleared of eye, and evidently disposed to slumber, he departed and left her to sleep off her varied emotions. "I'll mighty soon change all that," thought Mr. Blee. "To note a fine woman in liquor 's the frightfullest sight in all nature, so to say. Not but what with Lezzard a-pawin' of her 't was enough to drive her to it." That night the lover announced his triumph, whereon Phoebe congratulated him and Miller Lyddon shook his head. "'T is an awful experiment, Billy, at your age," he declared. "Why, so 't is; but I've weighed the subject in my mind for years and years, an 't wasn't till Mary Coomstock comed to be widowed that I thought I'd found the woman at last. 'T was lookin' tremendous high, I knaw, but theer 't is; she'll have me. She 'm no young giglet neither, as would lead me a devil's dance, but a pusson in full blooth with ripe mind." "She drinks. I doan't want to hurt your feelings; but everybody says it is so," declared the miller. "What everybody sez, nobody did ought to believe," returned Mr. Blee stoutly. "She 'm a gude, lonely sawl, as wants a man round the house to keep off her relations, same as us has a dog to keep down varmints in general. Theer 's the Hickses, an' Chowns, an' Coomstocks all a-stickin' up theer tails an' a-purrin' an' a-rubbin' theerselves against the door-posts of the plaace like cats what smells feesh. I won't have none of it. I'll dwell along wi' she an' play a husband's part, an' comfort the decline of her like a man, I warn 'e." "Why, Mrs. Coomstock 's not so auld as all that, Billy," said Phoebe. "Chris has often told me she's only sixty-two or three." But he shook his head. "Ban't a subject for a loving man to say much on, awnly truth 's truth. I seed it written in the Coomstock Bible wan day. Fifty-five she were when she married first. Well, ban't in reason she twald the naked truth 'bout it, an' who'd blame her on such a delicate point? No, I'd judge her as near my awn age as possible; an' to speak truth, not so well preserved as what I be." "How's Monks Barton gwaine to fare without 'e, Blee?" whined the miller. "As to that, be gormed if I knaw how I'll fare wi'out the farm. But love--well, theer 't is. Theer 's money to it, I knaw, but what do that signify? Nothin' to me. You'll see me frequent as I ride here an' theer--horse, saddle, stirrups, an' all complete; though God He knaws wheer my knees'll go when my boots be fixed in stirrups. But a man must use 'em if theer 's the dignity of money to be kept up. 'T is just wan of them oncomfortable things riches brings with it." While Miller Lyddon still argued with Billy against the step he now designed, there arrived from Chagford the stout Mr. Chappie, with his mouth full of news. "More weddin's," he said. "I comed down-long to tell 'e, lest you shouldn't knaw till to-morrow an' so fall behind the times. Widow Coomstock 's thrawed up the sponge and gived herself to that importuneous auld Lezzard. To think o' such a Methuselah as him--aulder than the century--fillin' the eye o' that full-bodied--" "It's a black lie--blacker 'n hell--an' if't was anybody but you brought the news I'd hit un awver the jaw!" burst out Mr. Blee, in a fury. "He tawld me hisself. He's tellin' everybody hisself. It comed to a climax to-day. The auld bird's hoppin' all awver the village so proud as a jackdaw as have stole a shiny button. He'm bustin' wi' it in fact." "I'll bust un! An' his news, tu. An' you can say, when you'm axed, 't is the foulest lie ever falled out of wicked lips." Billy now took his hat and stick from their corner and marched to the door without more words. "No violence, mind now, no violence," begged Mr. Lyddon. "This love-making 's like to wreck the end of my life, wan way or another, yet. 'T is bad enough with the young; but when it comes to auld, bald-headed fules like you an' Lezzard--" "As to violence, I wouldn't touch un wi' the end of a dung-fork--I wouldn't. But I'm gwaine to lay his lie wance an' for all. I be off to parson this instant moment. An' when my banns of marriage be hollered out next Sunday marnin', then us'll knaw who 'm gwaine to marry Mother Coomstock an' who ban't. I can work out my awn salvation wi' fear an' tremblin' so well as any other man; an' you'll see what that God-forsaken auld piece looks like come Sunday when he hears what's done an' caan't do nought but just swallow his gall an' chew 'pon it." CHAPTER VIII MR. BLEE FORGETS HIMSELF The Rev. James Shorto-Champernowne made no difficulty about Billy's banns of marriage, although he doubtless held a private opinion upon the wisdom of such a step, and also knew that Mrs. Coomstock was now a very different woman from the sextoness of former days. He expressed a hope, however, that Mr. Blee would make his future wife become a regular church-goer again after the ceremony; and Billy took it upon himself to promise as much for her. There the matter ended until the following Sunday, when a sensation, unparalleled in the archives of St. Michael's, awaited the morning worshippers. Under chiming of bells the customary congregation arrived, and a perceptible wave of sensation swept from pew to pew at the appearance of more than one unfamiliar face. Of regular attendants we may note Mrs. Blanchard and Chris, Martin Grimbal, Mr. Lyddon, and his daughter. Mr. Blee usually sat towards the back of the church at a point immediately behind those benches devoted to the boys. Here he kept perfect order among the lads, and had done so for many years. Occasionally it became necessary to turn a youngster out of church, and Billy's procedure at such a time was masterly; but of opinion to-day that he was a public character, he chose a more conspicuous position, and accepted Mr. Lyddon's invitation to take a seat in the miller's own pew. He felt he owed this prominence, not only to himself, but to Mrs. Coomstock. She, good soul, had been somewhat evasive and indefinite in her manner since accepting Billy, and her condition of nerves on Sunday morning proved such that she found herself quite unable to attend the house of prayer, although she had promised to do so. She sent her two servants, however, and, spending the time in private between spirtual and spirituous consolations of Bible and bottle, the widow soon passed into a temporary exaltation ending in unconsciousness. Thus her maids found her on returning from church. Excitement within the holy edifice reached fever-heat when a most unwonted worshipper appeared in the venerable shape of Mr. Lezzard. He was supported by his married daughter and his grandson. They sought and found a very prominent position under the lectern, and it was immediately apparent that no mere conventional attendance for the purpose of praising their Maker had drawn Mr. Lezzard and his relations. Indeed he had long been of the Baptist party, though it derived but little lustre from him. Much whispering passed among the trio. Then his daughter, having found the place she sought in a prayer-book, handed it to Mr. Lezzard, and he made a big cross in pencil upon the page and bent the volume backwards so that its binding cracked very audibly. Gaffer then looked about him with a boldness he was far from feeling; but the spectacle of Mr. Blee, hard by, fortified his spirit. He glared across the aisle and Billy glared back. Then the bells stopped, the organ droned, and there came a clatter of iron nails on the tiled floor. Boys and men proceeded to the choir stalls and Mr. Shorto-Champernowne fluttered behind, with his sermon in his hand. Like a stately galleon of the olden time he swept along the aisle, then reached his place, cast one keen glance over the assembled congregation, and slowly sinking upon his hassock enveloped his face and whiskers in snowy lawn and prayed a while. The service began and that critical moment after the second lesson was reached with dreadful celerity. Doctor Parsons, having read a chapter from the New Testament, which he emerged from the congregation to do, and which he did ill, though he prided himself upon his elocution, returned to his seat as the Vicar rose, adjusted his double eyeglasses and gave out a notice as follows: "I publish the banns of marriage between William Blee, Bachelor, and Mary Coomstock, Widow, both of this parish. If any of you know cause, or just impediment, why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is for the first time of asking." There was a momentary pause. Then, nudged by his daughter, who had grown very pale, Gaffer Lezzard rose. His head shook and he presented the appearance of a man upon the verge of palsy. He held up his hand, struggled with his vocal organs and at last exploded these words, sudden, tremulous, and shrill: "I deny it an' I defy it! The wummon be mine!" Mr. Lezzard succumbed instantly after this effort. Indeed, he went down as though shot through the head. He wagged and gasped and whispered to his grandson,-- "Wheer's the brandy to?" Whereupon this boy produced a medicine bottle half full of spirits, and his grandfather, with shaking fingers, removed the cork and drank the contents. Meantime the Vicar had begun to speak; but he suffered another interruption. Billy, tearing himself from the miller's restraining hand, leapt to his feet, literally shaking with rage. He was dead to his position, oblivious of every fact save that his banns of marriage had been forbidden before the assembled Christians of Chagford. He had waited to find a wife until he was sixty years old--for this! "You--_you_ to do it! You to get up afore this rally o' gentlefolks an' forbid my holy banns, you wrinkled, crinkled, baggering auld lizard! Gormed if I doan't wring your--" "Silence in the house of God!" thundered Mr. Shorto-Champernowne, with tones so resonant that they woke rafter echoes the organ itself had never roused. "Silence, and cease this sacrilegious brawling, or the consequences will be unutterably serious! Let those involved," he concluded more calmly, "appear before me in the vestry after divine service is at an end." Having frowned, in a very tragic manner, both on Mr. Blee and Mr. Lezzard, the Vicar proceeded with the service; but though Gaffer remained in his place Billy did not. He rose, jammed on his hat, glared at everybody, and assumed an expression curiously similar to that of a stone demon which grinned from the groining of two arches immediately above him. He then departed, growling to himself and shaking his fists, in another awful silence; for the Vicar ceased when he rose, and not until Billy disappeared and his footfall was heard no more did the angry clergyman proceed. A buzz and hubbub, mostly of laughter, ascended when presently Mr. Shorto-Champernowne's parishioners returned to the air; and any chance spectator beholding them had certainly judged he stood before an audience now dismissed from a theatre rather than the congregation of a church. "Glad Will weern't theer, I'm sure," said Mrs. Blanchard. "He'd 'a' laughed out loud an' made bad worse. Chris did as 't was, awnly parson's roarin' luckily drowned it. And Mr. Martin Grimbal, whose eye I catched, was put to it to help smilin'." "Ban't often he laughs, anyway," said Phoebe, who walked homewards with her father and the Blanchards; whereon Chris, from being in a boisterous vein of merriment, grew grave. Together all returned to the valley. Will was due in half an hour from Newtake, and Phoebe, as a special favour, had been permitted to dine at Mrs. Blanchard's cottage with her husband and his family. Clement Hicks had also promised to be of the party; but that was before the trouble of the previous week, and Chris knew he would not come. Meantime, Gaffer Lezzard, supported by two generations of his family, explained his reasons for objecting to Mr. Blee's proposed marriage. "Mrs. Coomstock be engaged, right and reg'lar, to me," he declared. "She'd gived me her word 'fore ever Blee axed her. I seed her essterday, to hear final 'pon the subjec', an' she tawld me straight, bein' sober as you at the time, as 't was _me_ she wanted an' meant for to have. She was excited t' other day an' not mistress of herself ezacally; an' the crafty twoad took advantage of it, an' jawed, an' made her drink an' drink till her didn't knaw what her was sayin' or doin'. But she'm mine, an' she'll tell 'e same as what I do; so theer's an end on 't." "I'll see Mrs. Coomstock," said the Vicar. "I, myself will visit her to-morrow." "Canst punish this man for tryin' to taake her from me?" "Permit yourself no mean desires in the direction of revenge. For the present I decline to say more upon the subject. If it were possible to punish, and I am not prepared to say it is not, it would be for brawling in the house of God. After an experience extending over forty years, I may declare that I never saw any such disreputable and horrifying spectacle." So the Lezzard family withdrew and, on the following day, Mrs. Coomstock passed through most painful experiences. To the clergyman, with many sighs and tears, she explained that Mr. Lezzard's character had been maligned by Mr. Blee, that before the younger veteran she had almost feared for her life, and been driven to accept him out of sheer terror at his importunity. But when facts came to her ears afterwards, she found that Mr. Lezzard was in reality all he had declared himself to be, and therefore returned to him, threw over Mr. Blee, and begged the other to forbid the banns, if as she secretly learnt, though not from Billy himself, they were to be called on that Sunday. The poor woman's ears tingled under Mr. Shorto-Champernowne's sonorous reproof; but he departed at last, and by the time that Billy called, during the same day, she had imbibed Dutch courage sufficient to face him and tell him she had changed her mind. She had erred--she confessed it. She had been far from well at the time and, upon reconsideration of the proposal, had felt she would never be able to make Mr. Blee happy, or enjoy happiness with him. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Coomstock had accepted both suitors on one and the same afternoon. First Gaffer, who had made repeated but rather vague allusion to a sum of three hundred pounds in ready money, was taken definitely; while upon his departure, the widow, only dimly conscious of what was settled with her former admirer, said, "Yes" to Billy in his turn. Had a third suitor called on that event-ful afternoon, it is quite possible Mrs. Coomstock would have accepted him also. The conversation with Mr. Blee was of short duration, and ended by Billy calling down a comprehensive curse on the faithless one and returning to Monks Barton. He had attached little importance to Lezzard's public protest, upon subsequent consideration and after the first shock of hearing it; but there was no possibility of doubting what he now learned from Mrs. Coomstock's own lips. That she had in reality changed her mind appeared only too certain. So he went home again in the last extremity of fury, and Phoebe, who was alone at the time, found herself swept by the hurricane of his wrath. He entered snorting and puffing, flung his hat on the settle, his stick into the corner; then, dropping into a seat by the fire, he began taking off his gaiters with much snuffling and mumbling and repeated inarticulate explosions of breath. This cat-like splutter always indicated deep feeling in Mr. Blee, and Phoebe asked with concern what was the matter now. "Matter? Tchut--Tchut--Theer ban't no God--that's what's the matter!" "Billy! How can you?" "She'm gwaine to marry t'other, arter all! From her awn lips I've heard it! That's what I get for being a church member from the womb! That's my reward! God, indeed! Be them the ways o' a plain-dealin' God, who knaws what's doin' in human hearts? No fay! Bunkum an' rot! I'll never lift my voice in hymn nor psalm no more, nor pray a line o' prayer again. Who be I to be treated like that? Drunken auld cat! I cussed her--I cussed her! Wouldn't marry her now if she axed wi' her mouth in the dirt. Wheer's justice to? Tell me that. Me in church, keepin' order 'mong the damn boys generation arter generation, and him never inside the door since he buried his wife. An' parson siding wi' un, I'll wager. Mother Coomstock 'll give un hell's delights, that's wan gude thought. A precious pair of 'em! Tchut! Gar!" "I doan't really think you could have loved Mrs. Coomstock overmuch, Billy, if you can talk so ugly an' crooked 'bout her," said Phoebe. "I did, I tell 'e--for years an' years. I went down on my knees to the bitch--I wish I hadn't; I'll be sorry for that to my dying day. I kissed her, tu,--s' elp me, I did. You mightn't think it, but I did--a faace like a frost-bitten beetroot, as 't is!" "Doan't 'e, please, say such horrible things. You must be wise about it. You see, they say Mr. Lezzard has more money than you. At least, so Mrs. Coomstock told her nephew, Clement Hicks. Every one of her relations is savage about it." "Well they may be. Why doan't they lock her up? If she ban't mad, nobody ever was. 'Money'! Lezzard! Lying auld--auld--Tchut! Not money enough to pay for a graave to hide his rotten bones, I lay. Oh, 't is enough to--theer, what 's the use of talkin'? Tchut--Tchut!" At this point Phoebe, fearing even greater extravagances in Mr. Blee's language, left him to consider his misfortunes alone. Long he continued in the profoundest indignation, and it was not until Miller Lyddon returned, heard the news, and heartily congratulated Billy on a merciful escape, that the old man grew a little calmer under his disappointment, and moderated the bitterness and profanity of his remarks. CHAPTER IX A DIFFERENCE WITH THE DUCHY Newtake Farm, by reason of Will's recent occupancy, could offer no very considerable return during his first year as tenant; but that he understood and accepted, and the tribulation which now fell upon him was of his own making. To begin with, Sam Bonus vanished from the scene. On learning, soon after the event, that Bonus had discussed Hicks and himself at Chagford, and detailed his private conversation with Martin Grimbal, Blanchard, in a fury, swept off to the loft where his man slept, roused him from rest, threw down the balance of his wages, and dismissed him on the spot. He would hear no word in explanation, and having administered a passionate rebuke, departed as he had come, like a whirlwind. Sam, smarting under this injustice, found the devil wake in him through that sleepless night, and had there stood rick or stack within reach of revenge, he might have dealt his master a return blow before morning. As usual, after the lapse of hours, Will cooled down, modified his first fiery indignation, and determined, yet without changing his mind, to give Bonus an opportunity of explaining the thing he had done. Chris had brought the news from Clement himself, and Will, knowing that his personal relations with Clement were already strained, felt that in justice to his servant he must be heard upon the question. But, when he sought Sam Bonus, though still the dawn was only grey, he found the world fuller for him by another enemy, for the man had taken him at his word and departed. During that day and the next Will made some effort to see Bonus, but nothing came of it, so, dismissing the matter from his mind, he hired a new labourer--one Teddy Chown, son of Abraham Chown, the Inspector of Police--and pursued his way. Then his unbounded energy led him into difficulties of a graver sort. Will had long cast covetous eyes on a tract of moorland immediately adjoining Newtake, and there being little to do at the moment, he conceived the adventurous design of reclaiming it. The patch was an acre and a half in extent--a beggarly, barren region, where the heather thinned away and the black earth shone with water and disintegrated granite. Quartz particles glimmered over it; at the centre black pools of stagnant water marked an abandoned peat cutting; any spot less calculated to attract an agricultural eye would have been hard to imagine; but Blanchard set to work, began to fill the greedy quag in the midst with tons of soil, and soon caused the place to look business-like--at least in his own estimation. As for the Duchy, he did not trouble himself. The Duchy itself was always reclaiming land without considering the rights and wrongs of the discontented Venville tenants, and Will knew of many a "newtake" besides this he contemplated. Indeed, had not the whole farm, of which he was now master, been rescued from the Moor in time past? He worked hard, therefore, and his new assistant, though not a Bonus, proved stout and active. Chris, who still dwelt with her brother, was sworn to secrecy respecting Will's venture; and so lonely a region did the farm occupy that not until he had put a good month of work into the adjacent waste were any of those in authority aware of the young farmer's performance. A day came when the new land was cleaned, partly ploughed, and wholly surrounded by a fence of split stumps, presently to be connected by wires. At these Chown was working, while Will had just arrived with a load of earth to add to the many tons already poured upon that hungry central patch. He held the tailboard of the cart in his hand and was about to remove it; when, looking up, his heart fluttered a moment despite his sturdy consciousness of right. On the moor above him rode grey old Vogwell, the Duchy's man. His long beard fluttered in the wind, and Will heard the thud of his horse's hoofs as he cantered quickly to the scene, passed between two of the stakes, and drew up alongside Blanchard. "Marnin', Mr. Vogwell! Fine weather, to be sure, an' gude for the peat next month; but bad for roots, an' no mistake. Will 'e have a drink?" Mr. Vogwell gazed sternly about him, then fixed his little bright eyes on the culprit. "What do this mean, Will Blanchard?" "Well, why not? Duchy steals all the gude land from Venwell men; why for shouldn't us taake a little of the bad? This here weern't no gude to man or mouse. Ban't 'nough green stuff for a rabbit 'pon it. So I just thought I'd give it a lick an' a promise o' more later on." "'A lick an' a promise'! You've wasted a month's work on it, to the least." "Well, p'raps I have--though ban't wasted. Do 'e think, Mr. Vogwell, as the Duchy might be disposed to give me a hand?" Will generally tackled difficulties in this audacious fashion, and a laugh already began to brighten his eye; but the other quenched it. "You fool! You knawed you was doin' wrong better'n I can tell you--an' such a plaace! A babe could see you 'm workin' awver living springs. You caan't fill un even now in the drouth, an' come autumn an' rain 't will all be bog again." "Nothing of the sort," flamed out Will, quite forgetting his recent assertion as to the poverty of the place. "Do 'e think, you, as awnly rides awver the Moor, knaws more about soil than I as works on it? 'Twill be gude proofy land bimebye--so good as any Princetown way, wheer the prison men reclaim, an' wheer theer's grass this minute as carries a bullock to the acre. First I'll plant rye, then swedes, then maybe more swedes, then barley; an', with the barley, I'll sow the permanent grass to follow. That's gude rotation of crops for Dartymoor, as I knaw an' you doan't; an' if the Duchy encloses the best to rob our things[11], why for shouldn't we--" [11] _Things_ = beasts; sheep and cattle. "That'll do. I caan't bide here listenin' to your child's-talk all the marnin'. What Duchy does an' doan't do is for higher 'n you or me to decide. If this was any man's work but yours I'd tell Duchy this night; but bein' you, I'll keep mute. Awnly mind, when I comes this way a fortnight hence, let me see these postes gone an' your plough an' cart t' other side that wall. An' you'll thank me, when you've come to more sense, for stoppin' this wild-goose chase. Now I'll have a drop o' cider, if it's all the same to you." Will opened a stone jar which lay under his coat at hand, and answered as he poured cider into a horn mug for Mr. Vogwell-- "Here's your drink; but I won't take your orders, so I tell 'e. Damn the Duchy, as steals moor an' common wheer it pleases an' then grudges a man his toil." "That's the spirit as'll land 'e in the poorhouse, Will Blanchard," said Mr. Vogwell calmly; "and that's such a job as might send 'e to the County Asylum," he added, pointing to the operations around him. "As to damning Duchy," he continued, "you might as well damn the sun or moon. They'd care as little. Theer 'm some varmints so small that, though they bite 'e with all their might, you never knaw it; an' so 't is wi' you an' Duchy. Mind now, a fortnight. Thank 'e--so gude cider as ever I tasted; an' doan't 'e tear an' rage, my son. What's the use?" "'Twould be use, though, if us all raged together." "But you won't get none to follow. 'Tis all talk. Duchy haven't got no bones to break or sawl to lose; an' moormen haven't got brains enough to do aught in the matter but jaw." "An' all for a royal prince, as doan't knaw difference between yether an' fuzz, I lay," growled Will. "Small blame to moormen for being radical-minded these days. Who wouldn't, treated same as us?" "Best not talk on such high subjects, Will Blanchard, or you might get in trouble. A fortnight, mind. Gude marnin' to 'e." The Duchy's man rode off and Will stood angry and irresolute. Then, seeing Mr. Vogwell was still observing him, he ostentatiously turned to the cart and tipped up his load of earth. But when the representative of power had disappeared--his horse and himself apparently sinking into rather than behind a heather ridge--Will's energy died and his mood changed. He had fooled himself about this enterprise until the present, but he could no longer do so. Now he sat down on the earth he had brought, let his horse drag the cart after it, as it wandered in search of some green thing, and suffered a storm of futile indignation to darken his spirit. Blanchard's unseasoned mind had, in truth, scarcely reached the second milestone upon the road of man's experience. Some arrive early at the mental standpoint where the five senses meet and merge in that sixth or common sense, which may be defined as an integral of the others, and which is manifested by those who possess it in a just application of all the experience won from life. But of common sense Will had none. He could understand laziness and wickedness being made to suffer; he could read Nature's more self-evident lessons blazoned across every meadow, displayed in every living organism--that error is instantly punished, that poor food starves the best seed, that too much water is as bad as too little, that the race is to the strong, and so forth; but he could not understand why hard work should go unrewarded, why good intentions should breed bad results, why the effect of energy, self-denial, right ambitions, and other excellent qualities is governed by chance; why the prizes in the great lottery fall to the wise, not to the well-meaning. He knew himself for a hard worker and a man who accomplished, in all honesty, the best within his power. What his hand found to do he did with his might; and the fact that his head, as often as not, prompted his hand to the wrong thing escaped him. He regarded his life as exemplary, felt that he was doing all that might in reason be demanded, and confidently looked towards Providence to do the rest. To find Providence unwilling to help him brought a wave of riotous indignation through his mind on each occasion of making that discovery. These waves, sweeping at irregular intervals over Will, left the mark of their high tides, and his mind, now swinging like a pendulum before this last buffet dealt by Fate in semblance of the Duchy's man, plunged him into a huge discontent with all things. He was ripe for mischief and would have quarrelled with his shadow; but he did worse--he quarrelled with his mother. She visited him that afternoon, viewed his shattered scheme, and listened as Will poured the great outrage upon her ear. Coming up at his express invitation to learn the secret, which he had kept from her that her joy might be the greater, Mrs. Blanchard only arrived in time to see his disappointment. She knew the Duchy for a bad enemy, and perhaps at the bottom of her conservative heart felt no particular delight at the spectacle of Newtake enlarging its borders. She therefore held that everything was for the best, and counselled patience; whereupon her son, with a month's wasted toil staring him in the face, rebelled and took her unconcerned demeanour ill. Damaris also brought a letter from Phoebe, and this added fuel to the flame. Will dwelt upon his wife's absence bitterly. "Job's self never suffered that, for I read 'bout what he went through awnly last night, for somethin' to kill an hour in the evenin'. An' I won't suffer it. It's contrary to nature, an' if Phoebe ban't here come winter I'll go down an' bring her, willy-nilly." "Time'll pass soon enough, my son. Next summer will be here quick. Then her'll have grawin' corn to look at and fine crops risin', an' more things feedin' on the Moor in sight of her eyes. You see, upland farms do look a little thin to them who have lived all their time in the fatness of the valleys." "If I was bidin' in one of them stone roundy-poundies, with nothin' but a dog-kennel for a home, she ought to be shoulder to shoulder wi' me. Did you leave my faither cause other people didn't love un?" "That was differ'nt. Theer s Miller Lyddon. I could much wish you seed more of him an' let un come by a better 'pinion of 'e. 'T s awnly worldly wisdom, true; but--" "I'm sick to death o' worldly wisdom! What's it done for me? I stand to work nine an' ten hour a day, an' not wi'out my share o' worldly wisdom, neither. Then I'm played with an' left to whistle, I ban't gwaine to think so much, I tell 'e. It awnly hurts a man's head, an' keeps him wakin' o' nights. Life's guess-work, by the looks of it, an' a fule's so like to draw a prize as the wisest." "That's not the talk as'll make Newtake pay, Will. You 'm worse than poor Blee to Monks Barton. He's gwaine round givin' out theer ban't no God 't all, 'cause Mrs. Coomstock took auld Lezzard 'stead of him." "You may laugh if you like, mother. 'Tis the fashion to laugh at me seemin'ly. But I doan't care. Awnly you'll be sorry some day, so sure as you sit in thicky chair. Now, as you've nothin' but blame, best to go back home. I'll put your pony in the shafts. 'Twas a pity you corned so far for so little." He went off, his breast heaving, while the woman followed him with her eyes and smiled when he was out of sight. She knew him so well, and already pictured her repentant son next Sunday. Then Will would be at his mother's cottage, and cut the bit of beef at dinner, and fuss over her comfort according to his custom. She went into the farmyard and took the pony from him and led it back into the stall. Then she returned to him and put her arm through his and spoke. "Light your pipe, lovey, an' walk a li'l way along down to the stones on the hill, wheer you was born. Your auld mother wants to talk to 'e." CHAPTER X CONNECTING LINKS Spaces of time extending over rather more than a year may now be dismissed in a chapter. Chris Blanchard, distracted between Will and her lover, stayed on at Newtake after the estrangement, with a hope that she might succeed in healing the breach between them; but her importunity failed of its good object, and there came an August night when she found her own position at her brother's farm grow no longer tenable. The blinds were up, and rays from the lamp shot a broad band of light into the farmyard, while now and again great white moths struck soft blows against the closed window, then vanished again into the night. Will smoked and Chris pleaded until a point, beyond which her brother's patience could not go, was reached. Irritation grew and grew before her ceaseless entreaty on Clement's behalf; for the thousandth time she begged him to write a letter of apology and explanation of the trouble bred by Sam Bonus; and he, suddenly rising, smashed down his clay pipe and swore by all his gods he would hear the name of Hicks mentioned in his house no more. Thus challenged to choose between her lover and her brother, the girl did not hesitate. Something of Will's own spirit informed her; she took him at his word and returned home next morning, leaving him to manage his own household affairs henceforth as best he might. Upon the way to Chagford Chris chanced to meet with Martin Grimbal, and, having long since accepted his offer of friendship, she did not hesitate to tell him of her present sorrow and invite his sympathy. From ignorance rather than selfishness did Chris take Martin literally when he had hoped in the past they might remain friends, and their intercourse was always maintained by her when chance put one in the other's way--at a cost to the man beyond her power to guess. Now he walked beside her, and she explained how only a word was wanting between Will and Clement which neither would speak. Hicks had forgiven Will, but he refused to visit Newtake until he received an apology from the master of it; and Blanchard bore no ill-will to Clement, but declined to apologise for the past. These facts Martin listened to, while the blood beat like a tide within his temples, and a mist dimmed his eyes as the girl laid her brown hand upon his arm now and again, to accentuate a point. At such moments the truth tightened upon his soul and much distressed him. The antiquary had abandoned any attempt to forget Chris, or cease from worshipping her with all his heart and soul; but the emotion now muzzled and chained out of sight he held of nobler composition than that earlier love which yearned for possession. Those dreary months that dragged between the present and his first disappointment had served as foundations for new developments of character in the man. He existed through a period of unutterable despair and loneliness; then the fruits of bygone battles fought and won came to his aid, and long-past years of self-denial and self-control fortified his spirit. The reasonableness of Martin Grimbal lifted him slowly but steadily from the ashes of disappointment; even his natural humility helped him, and he told himself he had no more than his desert. Presently, with efforts the very vigour of which served as tonic to character, he began to wrestle at the granite again and resume his archaeologic studies. Speaking in general terms, his mind was notably sweetened and widened by his experience; and, resulting from his own failure to reach happiness, there awoke in him a charity and sympathy for others, a fellow-feeling with humanity, remarkable in one whose enthusiasm for human nature was not large, whose ruling passion, until the circumstance of love tinctured it, had led him by ways which the bulk of men had pronounced arid and unsatisfying. Now this larger insight was making a finer character of him and planting, even at the core of his professional pursuits, something deeper than is generally to be found there. His experience, in fact, was telling upon his work, and he began slowly to combine with the labour of the yard-measure and the pencil, the spade and the camera, just thoughts on the subject of those human generations who ruled the Moor aforetime, who lived and loved and laboured there full many a day before Saxon keel first grated on British shingle. To Chris did Martin listen attentively. Until the present time he had taken Will's advice and made no offer of work to Clement; but now he determined to do so, although he knew this action must mean speedy marriage for Chris. Love, that often enough can shake a lifetime of morality, that can set ethics and right conduct and duty playing a devil's dance in the victim's soul, that can change the practised customs of a man's life and send cherished opinions, accepted beliefs, and approved dogmas spinning into chaos before its fiery onslaught--love did not thus overpower Martin Grimbal. His old-fashioned mind was no armour against it, and in that the passion proved true; religion appeared similarly powerless to influence him; yet now his extreme humility, his natural sense of justice and the dimensions of his passion itself combined to lead him by a lofty road. Chris desired another man, and Martin Grimbal, loving her to that point where her perfect happiness dominated and, indeed, became his own, determined that his love should bear fruit worthy of its object. This kindly design was frustrated, however, and the antiquary himself denied power to achieve the good action that he proposed, for on visiting Clement in person and inviting his aid in the clerical portions of a considerable work on moorland antiquities, the poet refused to assist. "You come too late," he said coldly. "I would not help you now if I could, Martin Grimbal. Don't imagine pride or any such motive keeps me from doing so. The true reason you may guess." "Indeed! I can do nothing of the sort. What reason is there against your accepting an offer to do remunerative and intellectual work in your leisure hours--work that may last ten years for all I can see to the contrary?" "The reason is that you invited another man's judgment upon me, instead of taking your own. Better follow Will Blanchard's advice still. Don't think I'm blind. It is Chris who has made you do this." "You're a very difficult man to deal with, really. Consider my suggestion, Hicks, and all it might mean. I desire nothing but your welfare." "Which is only to say you are offering me charity." Martin looked at the other quietly, then took his hat and departed. At the door he said a last word. "I don't want to think this is final. You would be very useful to me, or I should not have asked you to aid my labour. Let me hear from you within a week." But Clement was firm in his folly; while, although they met on more than one occasion, and John Grimbal repeated his offer of regular work, the bee-keeper refused that proposal, also. He made some small sums out of the Red House hives, but would not undertake any regular daily labour there. Clement's refusal of Martin resulted from his own weak pride and self-conscious stupidity; but a more subtle tangle of conflicting motives was responsible for his action in respect of the elder Grimbal's invitation. Some loyalty to the man whom he so cordially disliked still inhabited his mind, and with it a very considerable distrust of himself. He partly suspected the reason of John Grimbal's offer of work, and the possibility of sudden temptation provoking from him utterance of words best left unsaid could not be ignored after his former experience at the hiving of the swarm. So he went his way and told nobody--not even Chris--of these opportunities and his action concerning them. Such reticence made two women sad. Chris, after her conversation with Martin, doubted not but that he would make some effort, and, hearing nothing as time passed, assumed he had changed his mind; while Mrs. Hicks, who had greatly hoped that Clement's visit to the Red House might result in regular employment, felt disappointed when no such thing occurred. The union of Mr. Lezzard and Mrs. Coomstock was duly accomplished to a chorus of frantic expostulation on the part of those interested in the widow's fortune. Mr. Shorto-Champernowne, having convinced himself that the old woman was in earnest, could find no sufficient reason for doing otherwise than he was asked, and finally united the couple. To Newton Abbot they went for their honeymoon, and tribulation haunted them from the first. Mrs. Lezzard refused her husband permission to inquire any particulars of her affairs from her lawyer--a young man who had succeeded Mr. Joel Ford--while the Gaffer, on his side, parried all his lady's endeavours to learn more of the small fortune concerning which he had spoken not seldom before marriage. Presently they returned to Chagford, and life resolved itself into an unlovely thing for both of them. Time brought no better understanding or mutual confidence; on the contrary, they never ceased from wrangling over money and Mrs. Lezzard's increasing propensity towards drink. The old man suffered most, and as his alleged three hundred pounds did not appear, being, indeed, a mere lover's effort of imagination, his wife bitterly resented marriage under such false pretences, and was never weary of protesting. Of her own affairs she refused to tell her husband anything, but as Mr. Lezzard was found to possess no money at all, it became necessary to provide him with a bare competence for the credit of the family. He did his best to win a little more regard and consideration, in the hope that when his wife passed away the reward of devotion might be reaped; but she never forgave him, expressed the conviction that she would outlive him by many years, and exhausted her ingenuity to make the old man rue his bargain. Only one experience, and that repeated as surely as Mr. Blee met Mr. Lezzard, was more trying to the latter than all the accumulated misfortune of his sorry state--Gaffer's own miseries appeared absolutely trivial by comparison with Mr. Blee's comments upon them. With another year Blanchard and Hicks became in some sort reconciled, though the former friendship was never renewed. The winter proved a severe one, and Will experienced a steady drain on his capital, but he comforted himself in thoughts of the spring, watched his wheat dapple the dark ground with green, and also foretold exceptional crops of hay when summer should return. The great event of his wife's advent at Newtake occupied most of his reflections; while as for Phoebe herself the matter was never out of her mind. She lived for the day in June that should see her by her husband's side; but Miller Lyddon showed no knowledge of the significance of Phoebe's twenty-first birthday; and when Will brought up the matter, upon an occasion of meeting with his father-in-law, the miller deprecated any haste. "Time enough--time enough," he said. "You doan't want no wife to Newtake these years to come, while I _do_ want a darter to home." So Phoebe, albeit the course of operations was fully planned, forbore to tell her father anything, and suffered the day to drift nearer and nearer without expressly indicating the event it was to witness. CHAPTER XI TOGETHER Though not free from various temporal problems that daily demanded solution, Will very readily allowed his mind a holiday from all affairs of business during the fortnight that preceded his wife's arrival at Newtake. What whitewash could do was done; a carpet, long since purchased but not laid down till now, adorned the miniature parlour; while out of doors, becoming suddenly conscious that not a blossom would greet Phoebe's eyes, Will set about the manufacture of a flower-bed under the kitchen window, bound the plat with neat red tiles, and planted therein half a dozen larkspurs--Phoebe's favourite flower--with other happy beauties of early summer. The effort looked raw and unhappy, however, and as ill luck would have it, these various plants did not take kindly to their changed life, and greeted Phoebe with hanging heads. But the great morning came at last, and Will, rising, with the curious thought that he would never sleep in the middle of his bed again, donned his best dark-brown velveteens and a new pair of leathern gaiters, then walked out into the air, where Chown was milking the cows. The day dawned as brightly as the events it heralded, and Will, knowing that his mother and Chris would be early at Newtake, strolled out to meet them. Over against the farm rose moorland crowned by stone, and from off their granite couches grey mists blushing to red now rose with lazy deliberation and vanished under the sun's kiss. A vast, sweet, diamond-twinkling freshness filled the Moor; blue shadows lay in the dewy coombs, and sun-fires gleamed along the heather ridges. No heath-bell as yet had budded, but the flame of the whins splashed many undulations, and the tender foliage of the whortleberry, where it grew on exposed granite, was nearly scarlet and flashed jewel-bright in the rich texture of the waste. Will saw his cattle pass to their haunts, sniffed the savour of them on the wind, and enjoyed the thought of being their possessor; then his eyes turned to the valley and the road which wound upwards from it under great light. A speck at length appeared three parts of a mile distant and away started Blauchard, springing down the hillside to intercept it. His heart sang within him; here was a glorious day that could never come again, and he meant to live it gloriously. "Marnin', mother! Marnin', Chris! Let me get in between 'e. Breakfast will be most ready by time we'm home. I knawed you d keep your word such a rare fashion day!" Will soon sat between the two women, while Mrs. Blanchard's pony regulated its own pace and three tongues chattered behind it. A dozen brown paper parcels occupied the body of the little cart, for Damaris had insisted that the wedding feast should be of her providing. It was proposed that Chris and her mother should spend the day at Newtake and depart after drinking tea; while Phoebe was to arrive in a fly at one o'clock. After breakfast Chris busied herself indoors and occupied her quick fingers in putting a dozen finishing touches; while Mrs. Blanchard walked round the farm beside Will, viewed with outspoken approval or secret distrust those evidences of success and failure spread about her, and passed the abandoned attempt to reclaim land without a word or sign that she remembered. Will crowed like a happy child; his mother poured advice into his unheeding ears; and then a cart lumbered up with a great surprise in it. True to her intention Mrs. Blanchard had chosen the day of Phoebe 's arrival to send the old piano to Newtake, and now it was triumphantly trundled into the parlour, while Will protested and admired. It added not a little to the solid splendour of the apartment, and Mrs. Blanchard viewed it with placid but genuine satisfaction. Its tarnished veneer and red face looked like an old honest friend, so Will declared, and he doubted not that his wife would rejoice as he did. Presently the cart destined to bring Phoebe's boxes started for Chagford under Ted Chown's direction. It was a new cart, and the owner hoped that sight of it, with "William Blanchard, Newtake," nobly displayed on the tail-board, would please his father-in-law. Meantime, at Monks Barton the great day had likewise dawned, but Phoebe, from cowardice rather than philosophy, did not mention what was to happen until the appearance of Chown made it necessary to do so. Mr. Blee was the first to stand bewildered before Ted's blunt announcement that he had come for Mrs. Blanchard's luggage. "What luggage? What the douce be talkin' 'bout?" he asked. "Why, everything, I s'pose. She 'm comin' home to-day--that's knawn, ban't it?" "Gormed if 'tis! Not by me, anyways--nor Miller, neither." Then Phoebe appeared and Billy heard the truth. "My! An' to keep it that quiet! Theer'll be a tidy upstore when Miller comes to hear tell--" But Mr. Lyddon was at the door and Phoebe answered his questioning eyes. "My birthday, dear faither. You must remember--why, you was the first to give me joy of it! Twenty-one to-day, an' I must go--I must--'tis my duty afore everything." The old man's jaw fell and he looked the picture of sorrowful surprise. "But--but to spring it like this! Why to-day? Why to-day? It's madness and it's cruelty to fly from your home the first living moment you've got the power. I'd counted on a merry evenin,' tu, an' axed more 'n wan to drink your gude health." "Many's the merry evenings us'll have, dear faither, please God; but a husband's a husband. He've been that wonnerful patient, tu, for such as him. 'T was my fault for not remindin' you. An' yet I did, now an' again, but you wouldn't see it. Yet you knawed in your heart, an' I didn't like to pain 'e dwellin' on it overmuch." "How did I knaw? I didn't knaw nothin' 't all 'bout it. How should I? Me grawin' aulder an' aulder, an' leanin' more an' more 'pon 'e at every turn. An' him no friend to me--he 's never sought to win me--he 's--" "Doan't 'e taake on 'bout Will, dearie; you'll come to knaw un better bimebye. I ban't gwaine so far arter all; an' it's got to be." Then the miller worked himself into a passion, dared Chown to take his daughter's boxes, and made a scene very painful to witness and quite futile in its effect. Phoebe could be strong at times, and a life's knowledge of her father helped her now. She told Chown to get the boxes and bade Billy help him; she then followed Mr. Lyddon, who was rambling away, according to his custom at moments of great sorrow, to pour his troubles into any ear that would listen. She put her arm through his, drew him to the riverside and spoke words that showed she had developed mentally of late. She was a woman with her father, cooed pleasantly to him, foretold good things, and implored him to have greater care of his health and her love than to court illness by this display of passion. Such treatment had sufficed to calm the miller in many of his moods, for she possessed great power to soothe him, and Mr. Lyddon now set increased store upon his daughter's judgment; but to-day, before this dreadful calamity, every word and affectionate device was fruitless and only made the matter worse. He stormed on, and Phoebe's superior manner vanished as he did so, for she could only play such a part if quite unopposed in it. Now her father silenced her, frightened her, and dared her to leave him; but his tragic temper changed when they returned to the farm and he found his daughter's goods were really gone. Then the old man grew very silent, for the inexorable certainty of the thing about to happen was brought home to him at last. Before a closed hackney carriage from the hotel arrived to carry Phoebe to Newtake, Miller Lyddon passed through a variety of moods, and another outburst succeeded his sentimental silence. When the vehicle was at the gate, however, his daughter found tears in his eyes upon entering the kitchen suddenly to wish him "good-by." But he brushed them away at sight of her, and spoke roughly and told her to be gone and find the difference between a good father and a bad husband. "Go to the misery of your awn choosin'; go to him an' the rubbish-heap he calls a farm! Thankless an' ontrue,--go,--an' look to me in the future to keep you out of the poorhouse and no more. An' that for your mother's sake--not yourn." "Oh, Faither!" she cried, "doan't let them be the last words I hear 'pon your lips. 'T is cruel, for sure I've been a gude darter to 'e, or tried to be--an'--an'--please, dear faither, just say you wish us well--me an' my husband. Please say that much. I doan't ax more." But he rose and left her without any answer. It was then Phoebe's turn to weep, and blinded with tears she slipped and hurt her knee getting into the coach. Billy thereupon offered his aid, helped her, handed her little white fox terrier m after her, and saw that the door was properly closed. "Be o' good cheer," he said, "though I caan't offer 'e much prospects of easy life in double harness wi' Will Blanchard. But, as I used to say in my church-gwaine days, 'God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.' Be it as 'twill, I dare say theer 's many peaceful years o' calm, black-wearin' widowhood afore 'e yet, for chaps like him do shorten theer days a deal by such a tearin', high-coloured, passionate way of life." Mr. Blee opened the gate, the maids waved their handkerchiefs and wept, and not far distant, as he heard the vehicle containing his daughter depart, Mr. Lyddon would have given half that he had to recall the spoken word. Phoebe once gone, his anger vanished and his love for her won on him like sunshine after storm. Angry, indeed, he still was, but with himself. For Phoebe, curiosity and love dried her tears as she passed upward towards the Moor. Then, the wild land reached, she put her head out of the window and saw Newtake beech trees in the distance. Already the foliage of them seemed a little tattered and thin, and their meagreness of vesture and solitary appearance depressed the spectator again before she arrived at them. But the gate, thrown widely open, was reached at last, and there stood Will and Mrs. Blanchard, Chris, Ted Chown, and the great bobtailed sheep-dog, "Ship," to welcome her. With much emotion poor Phoebe alighted, tottered and fell into the bear-hug of her husband, while the women also kissed her and murmured over her in their sweet, broad Devon tongue. Then something made Will laugh, and his merriment struck the right note; but Ship fell foul of Phoebe's little terrier and there was a growl, then a yelp and a scuffling, dusty battle amid frightened fowls, whose protests added to the tumult. Upon this conflict descended Will's sapling with sounding thuds administered impartially, and from the skirmish the smaller beast emerged lame and crying, while the sheep-dog licked the blood off his nose and went to heel with a red light glimmering through his pale blue eyes. Happiness returned indoors and Phoebe, all blushes and praises, inspected her new home and the preparations made within it for her pleasure. Perhaps she simulated more joy than the moment brought, for such a day, dreamed of through years, was sure in its realisation to prove something of an anti-climax after the cruel nature of all such events. Despite Chris and her ceaseless efforts to keep joy at the flood, a listlessness stole over the little party as the day wore on. Phoebe found her voice not to be relied upon and felt herself drifting into that state between laughter and tears which craves solitude for its exhibition. The cows came home to be milked, and there seemed but few of them after the great procession at Monks Barton. Yet Will demanded her separate praises for each beast. In the little garden he had made, budding flowers, untimely transplanted, hung their heads. But she admired with extravagant adjectives, and picked a blossom and set it in her dress. Anon the sun set, with no soft lights and shadows amidst the valley trees she knew, when sunset and twilight played hide-and-seek beside the river, but slowly, solemnly, in hard, clean, illimitable glory upon horizons of granite and heather. The peat glowed as though it were red-hot, and night brooded on the eastern face of every hill. Only a jangling bell broke the startling stillness then, and, through long weeks afterwards the girl yearned for the song of the river, as one who has long slept by another's side sadly yearns for the sound of their breathing by night, when they are taken away. Phoebe had little imagination, but she guessed already that the life before her must differ widely from that spent under her father's roof. Despite the sunshine of the time and the real joy of being united to her husband at last, she saw on every side more evidences of practical life than she had before anticipated. But these braced her rather than not, and she told herself truly that the sadness at bottom of her heart just then was wholly begotten of the past and her departure from home. Deep unrest came upon her as she walked with her husband and listened to his glad voice. She longed greatly to be alone with him that her heart might be relieved. She wanted his arms round her; she wanted to cry and let him kiss the tears away. Damaris Blanchard very fully understood much that was passing through her daugher-in-law's mind, and she hastened her departure after an early cup of tea. She took a last look at all the good things she had provided for the wedding supper--a meal she declared must not be shared with Will and Phoebe--and so made ready to depart. It was then her turn, and her bosom throbbed with just one dumb, fleeting shadow of fear that found words before her second thought had time to suppress them. "You won't love me no less, eh, Will?" she whispered, holding his hand between hers; and he saw her grey eyes almost frightened in the gloaming. "My God, no! No, mother; a man must have a dirty li'l heart in un if it ban't big enough to hold mother an' wife." She gripped his hand tighter. "Ess fay, I knaw, I knaw; but doan't 'e put your mother first now,--ban't nature. God bless an' keep the both of 'e. 'Twill allus be my prayer." The cart rattled away, Chris driving, and such silence as Phoebe had never known held the darkening land. She noted a yellow star against the sombre ridge of the world, felt Will's arm round her and turned to him, seeking that comfort and support her nature cried out for. Infinitely tender and loving was her husband then, and jubilant, too, at first; but a little later, when Chown had been packed off to his own apartment, with not a few delicacies he had never bargained for, the conversation flagged and the banquet also. The table was laden with two capons, a ham, a great sugared cake, a whole Dutch cheese, an old-fashioned cut-glass decanter containing brown sherry, and two green wine-glasses for its reception; yet these luxuries tempted neither husband nor wife to much enjoyment of them. Indeed Phoebe's obvious lowness of spirits presently found its echo in Will. The silences grew longer and longer; then the husband set down his knife and fork, and leaving the head of the table went round to his wife's side and took her hand and squeezed it, but did not speak. She turned to him and he saw her shut her eyes and give a little shiver. Then a tear flashed upon her lashes and twinkled boldly down, followed by another. "Phoebe! My awn li'l wummon! This be a wisht home-comin'! What the plague's the matter wi' us?" "Doan't 'e mind, dear heart. I'm happy as a bird under these silly tears. But 'twas the leavin' o' faither, an' him so hard, an' me lovin' him so dear, an'--an'--" "Doan't 'e break your heart 'bout him. He'll come round right enough. 'Twas awnly the pang o' your gwaine away, like the drawin' of a tooth." "Everybody else in the world knaws I ought to be here," sobbed Phoebe, "but faither, he won't see it. An' I caan't get un out of my mind to-night, sitting that mournfui an' desolate, wi' his ear deaf to Billy's noise an' his thoughts up here." "If he won't onderstand the ways of marriage, blessed if I see how we can make him. Surely to God, 'twas time I had my awn?" "Ess, dear Will, but coming to-day, 'pon top of my gert joy, faither's sorrow seemed so terrible-like." "He'll get awver it, an' so will you, bless you. Drink up some of this braave stuff mother left. Sherry 't is, real wine, as will comfort 'e, my li'l love. 'Tis I be gwaine to make your happiness henceforward, mind; an' as for Miller, he belongs to an auld-fashioned generation of mankind, and it's our place to make allowances. Auld folk doan't knaw an' won't larn. But he'll come to knaw wan solid thing, if no more; an' that is as his darter'll have so gude a husband as she've got faither, though I sez it." "'Tis just what he said I shouldn't, Will." "Nevermind, forgive un, an' drink up your wine; 'twill hearten 'e." A dog barked, a gate clinked, and there came the sound of a horse's hoofs, then of a man dismounting. Will told the rest of the story afterwards to Mrs. Blanchard. "''Tis faither,' cries Phoebe, an' turns so pale as a whitewashed wall in moonlight. 'Never!' I sez. But she knawed the step of un, an' twinkled up from off her chair, an' 'fore ever the auld man reached the door, 't was awpen. In he comed, like a lamb o' gentleness, an' said never a word for a bit, then fetched out a little purse wi' twenty gawld sovereigns in it. An' us all had some fine talk for more'n an hour, an' he was proper faither to me, if you'll credit it; an' he drinked a glass o' your wine, mother, an' said he never tasted none better and not much so gude. Then us seed un off, an' Phoebe cried again, poor twoad, but for sheer happiness this time. So now the future's clear as sunlight, an' we'm all friends--'cept here an' theer." CHAPTER XII THROUGH ONE GREAT DAY Just within the woods of Teign Valley, at a point not far distant from that where Will Blanchard met John Grimbal for the first time, and wrestled with him beside the river, there rises a tall bank, covered with fern, shadowed by oak trees. A mossy bridle-path winds below, while beyond it, seen through a screen of wych-elms and hazel, extend the outlying meadows of Monks Barton. Upon this bank, making "sunshine in a shady place," reclined Chris, beneath a harmony of many greens, where the single, double, and triple shadows of the manifold leaves above her created a complex play of light and shade all splashed and gemmed with little sun discs. Drowsy noon-day peace marked the hour; Chris had some work in her hand, but was not engaged upon it; and Clement, who lolled beside her, likewise did nothing. His eyes were upon a mare and foal in the meadow below. The matron proceeded slowly, grazing as she went, while her lanky youngster nibbled at this or that inviting tuft, then raced joyously in wide circles and, returning, sought his mother's milk with the selfish roughness of youth. "Happy as birds, they be," said Chris, referring to the young pair at Newtake. "It do make me long for us to be man an' wife, Clem, when I see 'em." "We're that now, save for the hocus-pocus of the parsons you set such store by." "No, I'll never believe it makes no difference." "A cumbrous, stupid, human contrivance like marriage! Was ever man and woman happier for being bound that way? Can free things feel their hearts beat closer because they are chained to one another by an effete dogma?" "I doan't onderstand all that talk, sweetheart, an' you knaw I don't; but till some wise body invents a better-fashion way of joining man an' maid than marriage, us must taake it as 'tis." "There is a better way--Nature's." She shook her head. "If us could dwell in a hole at a tree-root, an' eat roots an' berries; but we'm thinking creatures in a Christian land." She stretched herself out comfortably and smiled up at him where he sat with his chin in his hands. Then, looking down, he saw the delicious outline of her and his eyes grew hot. "God's love! How long must it be?" he cried; then, before she could speak, he clipped her passionately to him and hugged her closely. "Dearie, you'm squeezin' my breath out o' me!" cried Chris, well used to these sudden storms and not averse to them. "We must bide patient an' hold in our hearts," she said, lying in his arms with her face close to his. "'Twill be all the more butivul when we'm mated. Ess fay! I love 'e allus, but I love 'e better in this fiery mood than on the ice-cold days when you won't so much as hold my hand." "The cold mood's the better notwithstanding, and colder yet would be better yet, and clay-cold best of all." But he held her still, and pressed his beard against her brown neck. Then the sound of a trotting horse reached his ears, he started up, looked below, and saw John Grimbal passing by. Their eyes met, for the horseman chanced to glance up as Clement thrust his head above the fern; but Chris was invisible and remained so. Grimbal stopped and greeted the bee-keeper. "Have you forgotten your undertaking to see my hives once a month?" "No, I meant coming next week." "Well, as it happens I want to speak with you, and the present time's as good as another. I suppose you were only lying there dreaming?" "That's all. I'll come and walk along beside your horse." He squeezed his sweetheart's hand, whispered a promise to return immediately, then rose and stumbled down the bank, leaving Chris throned aloft in the fern. For a considerable time John Grimbal said nothing, then he began suddenly,-- "I suppose you know the Applebirds are leaving my farm?" "Yes, Mrs. Applebird told my mother. Going to Sticklepath." "Not easy to get a tenant to take their place." "Is it not? Such a farm as yours? I should have thought there need be no difficulty." "There are tenants and tenants. How would you like it--you and your mother? Then you could marry and be comfortable. No doubt Chris Blanchard would make a splendid farmer's wife." "It would be like walking into paradise for me; but--" "The rent needn't bother you. My first care is a good tenant. Besides, rent may take other shapes than pounds, shillings, and pence." Hicks started. "I see," he said; "you can't forget the chance word I spoke in anger so long ago." "I can't, because it happened to be just the word I wanted to hear. My quarrel with Will Blanchard's no business of yours. The man's your enemy too; and you're a fool to stand in your own light, You know something that I don't know, concerning those weeks during which he disappeared. Well, tell me. You can only live your life once. Why let it run to rot when the Red House Farm wants a tenant? A man you despise, too." "No. I promised. Besides, you wouldn't be contented with the knowledge; you'd act on it." Grimbal showed a lightning-quick perception of this admission; and Hicks, too late, saw that the other had realised its force. Then he made an effort to modify his assertion. "When I say 'you'd act on it,' I mean that you might try to, though I much doubt really if anything I could tell you would damage Blanchard." "If you think that, then there can be no conscientious objection to telling me. Besides, I don't say I should act on the knowledge. I don't say I shall or I shall not. All you ve got to do is to say whether you'll take the Red House Farm at a nominal rent from Michaelmas." "No, man, no. You've met me in a bad moment, too, if you only knew. But think of it--brother and sister; and I, in order to marry the woman, betray the man. That's what it comes to. Such things don't happen." "You re speaking plainly, at any rate. We ought to understand each other to-day, if ever. I'll make you the same offer for less return. Tell me where he was during those weeks--that's all. You needn't tell what he was doing." "If you knew one, you'd find out the other. Once and for all, I'll tell you nothing. By an accidental question you discovered that I knew something. That was not my fault. But more you never will know from me--farm or no farm." "You're a fool for your pains. And the end will be the same. The information must reach me. You're a coward at heart, for it's fear, not any tomfoolery of morals, that keeps your mouth shut. Don't deceive yourself. I've often talked with you before to-day, and I know you think as I do." "What's that to do with it?" "Everything. 'Good' and 'evil' are only two words, and what is man's good and what is man's evil takes something cleverer than man to know. It's no nonsense of 'right' and 'wrong' that's keeping you from a happy home and a wife. What is it then?" Hicks was silent a moment, then made answer. "I don't know. I don't know any more than you do. Something has come over me; I can't tell you what. I'm more surprised than you are at my silence; but there it is. Why the devil I don't speak I don't know. I only know I'm not going to. Our characters are beyond our own power to understand." "If you don't know, I'll tell you. You're frightened that he will find out. You're afraid of him." "It's vain trying to anger me into speaking," answered the other, showing not a little anger the while; "I'm dumb henceforward." "I hope you'll let your brain influence you towards reason. 'Tis a fool's trick to turn your back on the chance of a lifetime. Better think twice. And second thoughts are like to prove best worth following. You know where to find me at any rate. I'll give you six weeks to decide about it." John Grimbal waited, hoping that Hicks might yet change his mind before he took his leave; but the bee-keeper made no answer. His companion therefore broke into a sharp trot and left him. Whereupon Clement stood still a moment, then he turned back and, forgetting all about Chris, proceeded slowly homewards to Chagford, deep in thought and heartily astonished at himself. No one could have prompted his enemy to a more critical moment for this great attack; no demon could have sent the master of the Red House with a more tempting proposal; and yet Hicks found himself resisting the lure without any particular effort or struggle. On the one side this man had offered him all the things his blood and brain craved; on the other his life still stretched drearily forward, and nothing in it indicated he was nearer his ambition by a hair's-breadth than a year before. Yet he refused to pay the price. It amazed him to find his determination so fixed against betrayal of Will. He honestly wondered at himself. The decision was bred from a curious condition of mind quite beyond his power to comprehend. He certainly recoiled from exposure of Blanchard's secret, yet coldly asked himself what unsuspected strand of character held him back. It was not fear and it was not regard for his sweetheart's brother; he did not know what it was. He scoffed at the ideas of honour or conscience. These abstractions had possessed weight in earlier years, but not now. And yet, while he assured himself that no tie of temporal or eternal interest kept him silent, the temptation to tell seemed much less on this occasion than in the past when he took a swarm of John Grimbal's bees. Then, indeed, his mind was aflame with bitter provocation. He affected a cynical attitude to the position and laughed without mirth at a theory that suddenly appeared in his mind. Perchance this steadfastness of purpose resulted, after all, from that artificial thing, "conscience," which men catch at the impressionable age when they have infantile ailments and pray at a mother's knee. If so, surely reason must banish such folly before another dawn and send him hot-foot at daybreak to the Red House. He would wait and watch himself and see. His reflections were here cut short, for a shrill voice broke in upon them, and Clement, now within a hundred yards of his own cottage door, saw Mr. Lezzard before him. "At last I've found 'e! Been huntin' this longful time, tu. The Missis wants 'e--your aunt I should say." "Wants me?" "Ess. 'T is wan o' her bad days, wi' her liver an' lights a bitin' at her like savage creatures. She'm set on seein' you, an' if I go home-along without 'e, she'll awnly cuss." "What can she want me for?" "She 's sick 'n' taken a turn for the wuss, last few days. Doctor Parsons doan't reckon she can hold out much longer. 'Tis the drink--she'm soaked in it, like a sponge." "I'll come," said Hicks, and half an hour later he approached his aunt's dwelling and entered it. Mrs. Lezzard was now sunk into a condition of chronic crapulence which could only end in one way. Her husband had been ordered again and again to keep all liquor from her, but, truth to tell, he made no very sustained effort to do so. The old man was sufficiently oppressed by his own physical troubles, and as the only happiness earth now held for him must depend on the departure of his wife, he watched her drinking herself to death without concern and even smiled in secret at the possibility of some happy, quiet, and affluent years when she was gone. Mrs. Lezzard lay on the sofa in her parlour, and a great peony-coloured face with coal-black eyes in it greeted Clement. She gave him her hand and bid her husband be gone. Then, when Gaffer had vanished, his wife turned to her nephew. "I've sent for you, Clem Hicks, for more reasons than wan. I be gwaine down the hill fast, along o' marryin' this cursed mommet[12] of a man, Lezzard. He lied about his money--him a pauper all the time; and now he waits and watches me o' nights, when he thinks I'm drunk or dreamin' an' I ban't neither. He watches, wi' his auld, mangy poll shakin', an' the night-lamp flingin' the black shadow of un 'gainst the bed curtain an' shawin' wheer his wan front tooth sticks up like a yellow stone in a charred field. Blast un to hell! He'm waitin' for my money, an' I've told un he's to have it. But 'twas only to make the sting bite deeper when the time comes. Not a penny--not a farthing--him or any of 'em." [12] _Mommet_ = scarecrow. "Don't get angry with him. He's not worth it. Tell me if I can help you and how. You'll be up and about again soon, I hope." "Never. Not me. Doctor Parsons be to blame. I hate that man. He knawed it was weakness of heart that called for drink after Coonistock died; an' he let me go on an' on--just to gain his own dark ends. You'll see, you'll see. But that reminds me. Of all my relations you an' your mother's all I care for; because you'm of my awn blood an' you've let me bide, an' haven't been allus watchin' an' waitin' an' divin' me to the bottle. An' the man I was fule enough to take in his dotage be worst of all." "Forget about these things. Anger's bad for you." "Forget! Well, so I will forget, when I ve told 'e. I had the young man what does my business, since old Ford died, awver here last week, an' what there is will be yourn--every stiver yourn. Not the business, of course; that was sold when Coonistock died; but what I could leave I have. You expected nothin,' an' by God! you shall have all!" She saw his face and hastened to lessen the force of the announcement in some degree. "Ban't much, mind, far less than you might think for--far less. Theer's things I was driven to do--a lone woman wi'out a soul to care. An' wan was--but you'll hear in gude time, you'll hear. It concerns Doctor Parsons." "I can't believe my senses. If you only knew what happened to me this morning. And if you only knew what absolute paupers we are--mother and I. Not that I would confess it to any living soul but you. And how can I thank you? Words are such vain things." "Ban't no call to thank me. 'Tis more from hatred of t' others than love of you, when all's said. An' it ban't no gert gold mine. But I'd like to be laid along wi' Coomstock; an' doan't, for God's love, bury Lezzard wi' me; an' I want them words on auld George Mundy's graave set 'pon mine--not just writ, but cut in a slate or some such lasting thing. 'Tis a tidy tomb he've got, wi' a cherub angel, an' I'd like the same. You'll find a copy o' the words in the desk there. My maid took it down last Sunday. I minded the general meaning, but couldn't call home the rhymes. Read it out, will 'e?" Clement opened the desk, and found and read the paper. It contained a verse not uncommon upon the tombstones of the last rural generation in Devon: "Ye standers-by, the thread is spun; All pomp and pride I e'er did shun; Rich and poor alike must die; Peasants and kings in dust must lie; The best physicians cannot save Themselves or patients from the Grave." "Them's the words, an' I've chose 'em so as Doctor Parsons shall have a smack in the faace when I'm gone. Not that he's wan o' the 'best physicians' by a mighty long way; but he'll knaw I was thinking of him, an' gnash his teeth, I hope, every time he sees the stone. I owe him that--an' more 'n that, as you'll see when I'm gone." "You mustn't talk of going, aunt--not for many a day. You're a young woman for these parts. You must take care--that's all." But he saw death in her face while he spoke, and could scarcely hide the frantic jubilation her promise had awakened in him. The news swept him along on a flood of novel thoughts. Coming as it did immediately upon his refusal to betray Will Blanchard, the circumstance looked, even in the eyes of Hicks, like a reward, an interposition of Providence on his behalf. He doubted not but that the bulk of mankind would so regard it. There arose within him old-fashioned ideas concerning right and wrong--clear notions that brought a current of air through his mind and blew away much rotting foliage and evil fruit. This sun-dawn of prosperity transformed the man for a moment, even awoke some just ethical thoughts in him. His reverie was interrupted, for, on the way from Mrs. Lezzard's home, Clement met Doctor Parsons himself and asked concerning his aunt's true condition. "She gave you the facts as they are," declared the medical man. "Nothing can save her. She's had _delirium tremens_ Lord knows how often. A fortnight to a month--that's all. Nature loves these forlorn hopes and tinkers away at them in a manner that often causes me to rub my eyes. But you can't make bricks without straw. Nature will find the game 's up in a few days; then she'll waste no more time, and your aunt will be gone." Home went Clement Hicks, placed his mother in a whirl of mental rejoicing at this tremendous news, then set out for Chris. Their compact of the morning--that she should await his return in the woods--he quite forgot; but Mrs. Blanchard reminded him and added that Chris had returned in no very good humour, then trudged up to Newtake to see Phoebe. Cool and calm the widow stood before Clement's announcement, expressed her gratification, and gave him joy of the promised change in his life. "Glad enough am I to hear tell of this. But you'll act just--eh? You won't forget that poor auld blid, Lezzard? If she'm gwaine to leave un out the account altogether, he'll be worse off than the foxes. His son's gone to foreign paarts an' his darter's lyin'-in--not that her husband would spare a crust o' bread for auld Lezzard, best o' times." "Trust me to do what's right. Now I'll go and see after Chris." "An' make it up with Will while sun shines on 'e. It's so easy, come gude fortune, to feel your heart swellin' out to others." "We are good friends now." "Do'e think I doan't knaw better? Your quarrel's patched for the sake of us women. Have a real make-up, I mean." "I will, then. I'll be what I was to him, if he'll let me. I'll forgive everything that's past--everything and every body." "So do. An' doan't 'e tell no more of them hard sayings 'gainst powers an' principalities an' Providence. Us be all looked arter, 'cording to the unknawn planning of God. How's Mrs. Lezzard?" "She'll be dead in a fortnight--perhaps less. As likely as not I might marry Chris before the next new moon." "Doan't think 'pon that yet. Be cool, an' keep your heart in bounds. 'T is allus the way wi' such as you, who never hope nothing. Theer comes a matter as takes 'em out of themselves, then they get drunk with hope, all of a sudden, an' flies higher than the most sanguine folks, an' builds castles 'pon clouds. Theer's the diggin' of a graave between you and Chris yet. Doan't forget that." "You can't evade solid facts." "No, but solid facts, seen close, often put on a differ'nt faace to what they did far-ways off." "You won't dishearten me, mother; I'm a happy man for once." "Be you? God forbid I should cloud 'e then; awnly keep wise as well as happy, an' doan't fill Chris with tu gert a shaw of pomps an' splendours. Put it away till it comes. Our dreams 'bout the future 's allus a long sight better or worse than the future itself." "Don't forbid dreaming. That's the sole happiness I've ever had until now." "Happiness, you call it? 'T is awnly a painted tinsel o' the mind, and coming from it into reality is like waking arter tu much drink. So I've heard my husband say scores o' times--him bein' a man much given to overhopefulness in his younger days--same as Will is now." Clement departed, and presently found himself with the cooler breezes of the high lands upon his hot forehead. They put him in mind of Mrs. Blanchard again, and their tendency, as hers had been, was to moderate his ardour; but that seemed impossible just now. Magnificent sunshine spread over the great wastes of the Moor; and through it, long before he reached Newtake, Clement saw his sweetheart returning. For a little time he seemed intoxicated and no longer his own master. The fires of the morning woke in him again at sight of her. They met and kissed, and he promised her some terrific news, but did not tell it then. He lived in the butterfly fever of the moment, and presently imparted the fever to her. They left the road and got away into the lonely heather; then he told her that they would be man and wife within a fortnight. They sat close together, far from every eye, in the shade of a thorn bush that rose beside a lonely stone. "Within the very shadow of marriage, and you are frightened of me still! Frightened to let me pick an apple over the orchard wall when I am going through the gate for my own the next moment! Listen! I hear our wedding bells!" Only the little lizard and the hovering hawk with gold eyes saw them. "Our wedding bells!" said Chris. Towards set of sun Hicks saw his sweetheart to her mother's cottage. His ecstatic joys were sobered now, and his gratitude a little lessened. "To think what marvels o' happiness be in store for us, Clem, my awn!" "Yes--not more than we deserve, either. God knows, if there 's any justice, it was your turn and mine to come by a little of the happiness that falls to the lot of men and women." "I doan't see how highest heaven's gwaine to be better than our married life, so long as you love me." "Heaven! Don't compare them. What's eternity if you're half a ghost, half a bird? That's the bribe thrown out,--to be a cold-blooded, perfect thing, and passionless as a musical box. Give me hot blood that flows and throbs; give me love, and a woman's breast to lean on. One great day on earth, such as this has been, is better than a million ages of sexless perfection in heaven. A vain reward it was that Christ offered. It seemed highest perfection to Him, doubtless; but He judged the world by Himself. The Camel-driver was wiser. He promised actual, healthy flesh in paradise--flesh that should never know an ache or pain--eternal flesh, and the joys of it. We can understand that, but where's the joy of being a spirit? I cling to the flesh I have, for I know that Nature will very soon want back the dust she has lent me." CHAPTER XIII THE WILL Agreeably to the prediction of Doctor Parsons, Mrs. Lezzard's journey was ended in less than three weeks of her conversation with Clement Hicks. Then came a night when she made an ugly end; and with morning a group of gossips stood about the drawn blinds, licked their lips over the details, and generally derived that satisfaction from death common to their class. Indeed, this ghoulish gusto is not restricted to humble folk alone. The instinct lies somewhere at the root of human nature, together with many another morbid vein and trait not readily to be analysed or understood. Only educated persons conceal it. "She had deliriums just at the end," said Martha, her maid. "She called out in a voice as I never heard afore, an' mistook her husband for the Dowl." "Poor sawl! Death's such a struggle at the finish for the full-blooded kind. Doctor tawld me that if she'd had the leastest bit o'liver left, he could 'a' saved her; but 'twas all soaked up by neat brandy, leaving nought but a vacuum or some such fatal thing." "Her hadn't the use of her innards for a full fortnight! Think o' that! Aw. dallybuttons! It do make me cream all awver to hear tell of!" So they piled horror upon horror; then came Clement Hicks, as one having authority, and bade them begone. The ill-omened fowls hopped off; relations began to collect; there was an atmosphere of suppressed electricity about the place, and certain women openly criticised the prominent attitude Hicks saw fit to assume. This, however, did not trouble him. He wrote to the lawyer at Newton, fixed a day for the funeral, and then turned his attention to Mr. Lezzard. The ancient resented Clement's interference not a little, but Hicks speedily convinced him that his animosity mattered nothing. The bee-keeper found this little taste of power not unpleasant. He knew that everything was his own property, and he enjoyed the hate and suspicion in the eyes of those about him. The hungry crowd haunted him, but he refused it any information. Mr. Lezzard picked a quarrel, but he speedily silenced the old man, and told him frankly that upon his good behaviour must depend his future position. Crushed and mystified, the widower whispered to those interested with himself in his wife's estate; and so, before the reading of the will, there slowly grew a very deep suspicion and hearty hatred of Clement Hicks. None had considered him in connection with Mrs. Lezzard's fortune, for he always kept aloof from her; but women cannot easily shut their lips over such tremendous matters of news, and so it came about that some whisper from Chris or dark utterance from old Mrs. Hicks got wind, and a rumour grew that the bee-keeper was the dead woman's heir. Facts contributed colour to the suspicion, for it was known that Clement had of late given Chris one or two pretty presents, and a ring that cost gold. His savings were suspected to justify 110 such luxuries; yet that a speedy change in his manner of life might be expected was also manifest from the fact that he had been looking into the question of a new stone cottage, on the edge of the Moor, where the heather in high summer would ripple to the very doors of his beehives. The distrust created by these facts was quickly set at rest, for Mrs. Lezzard sank under ground within four days of her dissolution; then, after the eating of funeral baked meats, those interested assembled in the parlour to hear the will. The crowd whispered and growled, and looked gloomily across at Hicks and the little figure of his mother who had come in rusty black to witness his triumph. Then a young lawyer from Newton adjusted his spectacles, rustled his papers, and poured himself out a glass of grocer's port before proceeding. But his task involved no strain upon him, and was indeed completed within five minutes. Black disappointment, dismay, and despair were the seeds sown by that unimpassioned voice; and at his conclusion a silence as blank as any that reigned in the ears of the dead fell upon those who listened--on those who had hoped so much and were confronted with so little. "The will is remarkably concise. Mrs. Lezzard makes sundry bitter statements which I think none will blame me for not repeating, though all may see them here who desire so to do; she then constitutes Mr. Clement Hicks, her nephew, sole residuary legatee. There is no condition, no codicil; but I have regretfully to add that Mr. Hicks wins little but this barren expression of good-will from the testatrix; for the sufficient reason that she had nothing to leave. She laboured under various delusions, among others that her financial position was very different from what is the case. Upon her first husband's death, Mrs. Coomstock, as she was then, made an arrangement with my late senior partner, Mr. Joel Ford, and purchased an annuity. This absorbed nearly all her capital; the rest she lost in an undesirable speculation of her own choosing. I am amazed at the present extent of her obligations. This dwelling-house, for instance, is mortgaged to her medical man, Doctor Parsons, of Chagford. There is barely money to meet the debts. Some fifty or sixty pounds in my hands will be absorbed by the calls of the estate. Mrs. Lezzard's tastes--I sorrow to say it--were expensive in some directions. There is an item of ten pounds twelve shillings for--for brandy, if I may be pardoned for speaking plainly. The funeral also appears to have been conducted on a scale more lavish than circumstances warranted. However, there should be sufficient to defray the cost, and I am sure nobody will blame Mr. Hicks for showing this last respect to an amiable if eccentric woman. There is nothing to add except that I shall be delighted to answer any questions--any questions at all." A few moments later, the lawyer mounted his dog-cart and rattled off to enjoy a pleasant drive homeward. Then the company spoke its mind, and Mary Lezzard's clay might well have turned under that bitter hornet-buzz of vituperation. Some said little, but had not strength or self-command to hide tears; some cursed and swore. Mr. Lezzard wept unheeded; Mrs. Hicks likewise wept. Clement sat staring into the flushed faces and angry eyes, neither seeing the rage manifested before him, nor hearing the coarse volleys of reproach. Then in his turn he attracted attention; and hard words, wasted on the dead, hurtled like hail round his ears, with acid laughter, and bitter sneers at his own tremendous awakening. Stung to the quick, the lame wheelwright, Charles Coomstock, gloated on the spectacle of Clement's dark hour, and heaped abuse upon his round-eyed, miserable mother. The raw of his own wound found a sort of salve in this attack; and all the other poor, coarse creatures similarly found comfort in their disappointment from a sight of more terrific mortification than their own. Venomous utterances fell about Clement Hicks, but he neither heard nor heeded: his mind was far away with Chris, and the small shot of the Coomstocks and the thunder of the Chowns alike flew harmlessly past him. He saw his sweetheart's sorrow, and her grief, as yet unborn, was the only fact that much hurt him now. The gall in his own soul only began to sicken him when his eye rested on his mother. Then he rose and departed to his home, while the little, snuffling woman ran at his heels, like a dog. Not until he had escaped the tempest of voices, and was hidden from the world, did the bee-keeper allow his own cruel disappointment to appear. Then, while his mother wept, he lifted up his voice and cursed God. As his relations had won comfort by swearing at him, so now he soothed his soul unconsciously in blasphemies. Then followed a silence, and his mother dared to blame him and remind him of an error. "You wouldn't turn the bee-butts when she died, though I begged and prayed of 'e. Oh, if you'd awnly done what an auld woman, an' she your mother, had told 'e! Not so much as a piece of crape would 'e suffer me to tie 'pon 'em. An' I knawed all the while the hidden power o' bees." Presently he left her, and went to tell Chris. She greeted him eagerly, then turned pale and even terrified as she saw the black news in his face. "Just a gull and laughing-stock for the gods again, that's all, Chris. How easily they fool us from their thrones, don't they? And our pitiful hopes and ambitions and poor pathetic little plans for happiness shrivel and die, and strew their stinking corpses along the road that was going to be so gorgeous. The time to spill the cup is when the lip begins to tremble and water for it--not sooner--the gods know! And now all's changed--excepting only the memory of things done that had better been left undone." "But--but we shall be married at once, Clem?" He shook his head. "How can you ask it? My poor little all--twenty pounds--is gone on twopenny-halfpenny presents during the past week or two. It seemed so little compared to the fortune that was coming. It's all over. The great day is further off by twenty pounds than it was before that poor drunken old fool lied to me. Yet she didn't lie either; she only forgot; you can't swim in brandy for nothing." Fear, not disappointment, dominated the woman before him as she heard. Sheer terror made her grip his arm and scream to him hysterically. Then she wept wild, savage tears and called to God to kill her quickly. For a time she parried every question, but an outburst so strangely unlike Chris Blanchard had its roots deeper than the crushing temporary disaster which he had brought with him. Clement, suspecting, importuned for the truth, gathered it from her, then passed away into the dusk, faced with the greatest problem that existence had as yet set him. Crushed, and crushed unutterably, he returned home oppressed with a biting sense of his own damnable fate. He moved as one distracted, incoherent, savage, alone. The glorious palace he had raised for his happiness crumbled into vast ruins; hope was dead and putrid; and only the results of wild actions, achieved on false assumptions, faced him. Now, rising out of his brief midsummer madness, the man saw a ghost; and he greeted it with groan as bitter as ever wrung human heart. Miller Lyddon sat that night alone until Mr. Blee returned to supper. "Gert news! Gert news!" he shouted, while yet in the passage; "sweatin' for joy an' haste, I be!" His eyes sparkled, his face shone, his words tripped each other up by the heels. "Be gormed if ban't a 'mazin' world! She've left nought--dammy--less than nought, for the house be mortgaged sea-deep to Doctor, an' theer's other debts. Not a penny for nobody--nothin' but empty bottles--an' to think as I thought so poor o' God as to say theer weern't none! What a ramshackle plaace the world is!" "No money at all? Mrs. Lezzard--it can't be!" declared Mr. Lyddon. "But it is, by gum! A braave tantara 'mongst the fam'ly, I tell 'e. Not a stiver--all ate up in a 'nuity, an' her--artful limb!--just died on the last penny o' the quarter's payment. An' Lezzard left at the work'us door--poor auld zawk! An' him fourscore an' never been eggicated an' never larned nothin'!" "To think it might have been your trouble, Blee!" "That's it, that's it! That's what I be full of! Awnly for the watchin' Lard, I'd been fixed in the hole myself. Just picture it! Me a-cussin' o' Christ to blazes an' lettin' on theer wasn't no such Pusson; an' Him, wide awake, a-keepin' me out o' harm's way, even arter the banns was called! Theer's a God for 'e! Watchin' day an' night to see as I comed by no harm! That's what 't is to have laid by a tidy mort o' righteousness 'gainst a evil hour!" "You 'm well out of it, sure enough." "Ess, 't is so. I misjudged the Lard shocking, an' I'm man enough to up and say it, thank God. He was right an' I was wrong; an' lookin' back, I sees it. So I'll come back to the fold, like the piece of silver what was lost; an' theer'll be joy in heaven, as well theer may be. Burnish it all! I'll go along to church 'fore all men's eyes next Lard's Day ever is." "A gude thought, tu. Religion's a sort of benefit society, if you look at it, an' the church be the bank wheer us pays in subscriptions Sundays." "An' blamed gude interest us gets for the money," declared Mr. Blee. "Not but what I've drawed a bit heavy on my draft of late, along o' pretendin' to heathen ways an' thoughts what I never really held with; but 't is all wan now an' I lay I'll soon set the account right, wi' a balance in my favour, tu. Seein' how shameful I was used, ban't likely no gert things will be laid against me." "And auld Lezzard will go to the Union?" "A very fittin' plaace for un, come to think on 't. Awver-balanced for sheer greed of gawld he was. My! what a wild-goose chase! An the things he've said to me! Not that I'd allow myself--awuly from common humanity I must see un an' let un knaw I bear no more malice than a bird on a bough." They drank, Billy deeper than usual. He was marvellously excited and cheerful. He greeted God like an old friend returned to him from a journey; and that night before retiring he stood stiffly beside his bed and covered his face in his hands and prayed a prayer familiar among his generation. "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Bless the bed that I lie on, Four cornders to my bed, Four angels overspread Two tu foot an' two tu head, An' all to carry me when I'm dead. An' when I'm dead an' in my graave, An' all my bones be rotten. The greedy worms my flaish shall ate, An' I shall be forgotten; For Christ's sake. Amen." Having sucked from repetition of this ancient twaddle exactly that sort of satisfaction the French or Roman peasant wins from a babble of a dead language over beads, Billy retired with many a grunt and sigh of satisfaction. "It do hearten the spirit to come direct to the Throne," he reflected; "an' the wonder is how ever I could fare for near two year wi'out my prayers. Yet, though I got my monkey up an' let Jehovah slide, He knawed of my past gudeness, all set down in the Book o' Life. An' now I've owned up as I was wrong; which is all even the saints can do; 'cause Judgment Day, for the very best of us, will awnly be a matter o' owning up." CHAPTER XIV A HUNDRED POUNDS The maddening recollection of things done wrought upon Clement Hicks until it bred in him a distracted frenzy and blinded his judgment. He lost all sense of proportion in his endeavour to come at a right course of action, and a mind long inclined towards one road now readily drifted upon it. To recover the position had been quite possible, and there were not wanting those ready and eager to assist him; but at this crisis in his fortune the man lost all power of reflection or self-control. The necessity for instant action clamoured to him through daylight and darkness; delay drove him hourly into a hysterical condition approaching frenzy, and every road to escape save one appeared bolted and barred against him. But, try as he might, his miseries could not be hidden, and Will Blanchard, among others, sympathised very heartily with the great disappointment that had now fallen upon Chris and her sweetheart. His sister's attitude had astonished both him and his mother. They fancied that Blanchards were made of sterner stuff; but Chris went down before the blow in a manner very unexpected. She seemed dazed and unable to recover from it. Her old elastic spirit was crushed, and a great sorrow looked from her eyes. Neither Will nor her mother could rouse her, and so it came about that thinking how best he could play a brother's part, the master of Newtake decided on a notable deed and held that the hour for it must be delayed no longer. He debated the circumstance from every point of view, examined his accounts, inspected the exact figures represented by the remainder of his uncle's legacy and then broke the matter to Phoebe. To his mother he had already spoken concerning the intention, and she approved it, though without knowing particulars. Phoebe, however, happened to be quite as familiar with Will's affairs as Will himself, and while his determination to give Clement and Chris a hundred pounds was easily come at and most cheering to his heart, the necessity of breaking the news to his wife appeared not so easy or pleasant. Indeed, Will approached the task with some trepidation, for a recent event made it doubly difficult. They sat together one night, after six weeks of married life, and he plunged into the matter. "'Tis sad them two being kept apart like this," he said abruptly. "'Tis so. Nobody feels it more'n me. Matters was hard with us, and now they 'm all smooth and the future seems fairly bright, tu." "Very bright," he said stoutly. "The hay's best ever come off my ground, thanks to the manure from Monks Barton; and look at the wurzels! Miller hisself said he've never seed a more promising crop, high or low. An' the things be in prime kelter, tu; an' better than four hunderd pound of uncle's money still left." "Long may it be left, I'm sure. 'Tis terrible work dipping into it, an' I looks at both sides of a halfpenny 'fore I spend it. Wish you would. You'm tu generous, Will. But accounts are that difficult." This was not the spirit of the hour, however. "I was gwaine to say that out of all our happiness an' fortune we might let a little bubble awver for Chris--eh? She'm such a gude gal, an' you love her so dearly as what I do a'most." Phoebe read the project in a flash, but yet invited her husband to explain. "What d'you mean?" she asked distrustfully and coldly. "I can see in your face you knaw well enough. That four-hunderd-odd pound. I've sometimes thought I should have given Chris a bit of the windfall when first it comed. But now--well, theer's this cruel coil failed on 'em. You knaw the hardness of waiting. 'Twould be a butivul thing to let 'em marry an' feel't was thanks to us." "You want to go giving them money?" "Not 'give' 'zactly. Us'll call it a loan, till the time they see their way clearer." Phoebe sighed and was silent for a while. "Poor dears," she said at length. "I feel for 'em in my heart, same as you do; yet somehow it doan't look right." "Not right, Phoebe?" "Not wise, then. Remember what you say the winters be up here--such dreary months with no money coming in and all gwaine out to keep life in the things." "'Tis a black, bitin' business on the high farms--caan't deny that." "Money flies so." "Then let some fly to a gude end. You knaw I'm a hard, keen man where other people be concerned, most times." His wife laughed frankly, and he grew red. "Damn it, Phoebe, doan't you take me like that else you'll get the rough edge of my tongue. 'Tis for you to agree with what I'm pleased to say, not contradict it. I _be_ a hard, keen man, and knaws the value of money as well as another. But Chris is my awn sister, an' the long an' the short is, I'm gwaine to give Clem Hicks a hunderd pound." "Will! It's not reasonable, it's not fair--us working so hard an'--an'--" "They 'm to have it, anyway." Her breath caught in a little, helpless gasp. Without a word she picked up the material in her hands, huddled it up, and thrust it across the table towards him. Then the passion faded out of his face, his eyes softened and grew dreamy, he smiled, and rubbed his brown cheek with the flannel. "My awn, li'l clever woman, as have set about the fashioning of a bairn so soon! God bless 'e, an' bless 'e an' be gude to 'e, an' the wee thing coming!" He put his arm round her and patted her hair and purred softly to her; whereupon she relented and kissed him. "You knaw best, Will, dearie; you nearly allus knaw best; but your heart's bigger 'n your pocket--an' a li'l child do call so loud for the spendin' o' money." "Aye, I knaw, I knaw; 'tis a parent's plaace to stand up for his offspring through fire an' water; an' I reckon I won't be the worst faither as ever was, either. I can mind the time when I was young myself. Stern but kind's the right rule. Us'll bring un up in the proper way, an' teach un to use his onderstandin' an' allus knuckle down 'fore his elders. To tell 'e truth, Phoebe, I've a notion I might train up a cheel better'n some men." "Yes, Will, I think so, tu. But 'tis food an' clothes an' li'l boots an' such-like comes first. A hunderd pounds be such a mort o' money." "'Twill set 'em up in a fair way." "Fifty wouldn't hardly do, p'r'aps?" "Hardly. I like to carry a job through clean an' vitty while I'm on it." "You've got such a big spirit." "As to that, money so spent ban't lost--'tis all in the fam'ly." "Of course 'tis a gude advertisement for you. Folk'll think you'm prosperin' an' look up to you more." "Well, some might, though I doan't 'zactly mean it like that. Yet the putting out o' three figures o' money must make neighbours ope their eyes. Not that I want anybody to knaw either." So, against her judgment, Phoebe was won over, and presently she and her husband made merry at prospect of the great thing contemplated. Will imitated Clement's short, glum, and graceless manner before the gift; Phoebe began to spend the money and plan the bee-keeper's cottage when Chris should enter it as a bride; and thus, having enjoyed an hour of delight the most pure and perfect that can fall to human lot, the young couple retired. Elsewhere defeat and desolation marked the efforts of the luckless poet to improve his position. All thoughts drifted towards the Red House, and when, struggling from this dark temptation, he turned to Martin Grimbal rather than his brother, Fate crushed this hope also. The antiquary was not in Chagford, and Clement recollected that Martin had told him he designed some visits to the doom rings of Iceland, and other contemporary remains of primeval man in Brittany and in Ireland. To find him at present was impossible, for he had left no address, and his housekeeper only knew that he would be out of England until the autumn. Now the necessity for action gained gigantically upon Hicks, and spun a net of subtle sophistry that soon had the poor wretch enmeshed beyond possibility of escape. He assured himself that the problem was reduced to a mere question of justice to a woman. A sacrifice must be made between one whom he loved better than anything in the world, and one for whom he cared not at all. That these two persons chanced to be brother and sister was an unfortunate accident, but could not be held a circumstance strong enough to modify his determination. He had, indeed, solemnly sworn to Will to keep his secret, but what mattered that before this more crushing, urgent duty to Chris? His manhood cried out to him to protect her. Nothing else signified in the least; the future--the best that he could hope for--might be ashy and hopeless now; but it was with the immediate present and his duty that he found himself concerned. There remained but one grim way; and, through such overwhelming, shattering storm and stress as falls to the lot of few, he finally took it. To marry at any cost and starve afterwards if necessary, had been the more simple plan; and that course of action must first have occurred to any other man but this; to him, however, it did not occur. The crying, shrieking need for money was the thing that stunned him and petrified him. Shattered and tossed to the brink of aberration, stretched at frightful mental tension for a fortnight, he finally succumbed, and told himself that his defeat was victory. He wrote to John Grimbal, explained that he desired to see him on the morrow, and the master of the Red House, familiar with recent affairs, rightly guessed that Hicks had changed his mind. Excited beyond measure, the victor fixed a place for their conversation, and it was a strange one. "Meet me at Oke Tor," he wrote. "By an accident I shall be in the Taw Marshes to-morrow, and will ride to you some time in the afternoon.--J.G." Thus, upon a day when Will Blanchard called at Mrs. Hicks's cottage, Clement had already started for his remote destination on the Moor. With some unconscious patronage Will saluted Mrs. Hicks and called for Clement. Then he slapped down a flat envelope under the widow's eyes. "Us have thought a lot about this trouble, mother, an' Phoebe's hit on as braave a notion as need be. You see, Clem's my close friend again now, an' Chris be my sister; so what's more fittin' than that I should set up the young people? An' so I shall, an' here's a matter of Bank of England notes as will repay the countin'. Give 'em to Clem wi' my respects." Then Will suffered a surprise. The little woman before him swelled and expanded, her narrow bosom rose, her thin lips tightened, and into her dim eyes there came pride and brightness. It was her hour of triumph, and she felt a giantess as she stood regarding the envelope and Will. Him she had never liked since his difference with her son concerning Martin Grimbal, and now, richer for certain news of that morning, she gloried to throw the gift back. "Take your money again, bwoy. No Hicks ever wanted charity yet, least of all from a Blanchard. Pick it up; and it's lucky Clement ban't home, for he'd have said some harsh words, I'm thinking. Keep it 'gainst the rainy days up to Newtake. And it may surprise 'e to knaw that my son's worth be getting found out at last. It won't be so long 'fore he takes awver Squire Grimbal's farm to the Red House. What do 'e think o' that? He've gone to see un this very day 'bout it." "Well, well! This be news, and no mistake--gude news, tu, I s'pose. Jan Grimbal! An' what Clem doan't knaw 'bout farmin', I'll be mighty pleased to teach un, I'm sure." "No call to worry yourself; Clem doan't want no other right arm than his awn." "Chris shall have the money, then; an' gude luck to 'em both, say I." He departed, with great astonishment the main emotion of his mind. Nothing could well have happened to surprise him more, and now he felt that he should rejoice, but found it difficult to do so. "Braave news, no doubt," he reflected, "an' yet, come to think on it, I'd so soon the devil had given him a job as Grimbal. Besides, to choose him! What do Clement knaw 'bout farmin'? Just so much as I knaw 'bout verse-writin', an' no more." CHAPTER XV "THE ANGEL OF THE DARKER DRINK" Patches of mist all full of silver light moved like lonely living things on the face of the high Moor. Here they dispersed and scattered, here they approached and mingled together, here they stretched forth pearly fingers above the shining granite, and changed their shapes at the whim of every passing breeze; but the tendency of each shining, protean mass was to rise to the sun, and presently each valley and coomb lay clear, while the cool vapours wound in luminous and downy undulations along the highest points of the land before vanishing into air. A solitary figure passed over the great waste. He took his way northward and moved across Scorhill, leaving Wattern Tor to the left. Beneath its ragged ridges, in a vast granite amphitheatre, twinkled the cool birth-springs of the little Wallabrook, and the water here looked leaden under shade, here sparkled with silver at the margin of a cloud shadow, here shone golden bright amid the dancing heads of the cotton-grass under unclouded sunlight. The mist wreaths had wholly departed before noon, and only a few vast mountains of summer gold moved lazily along the upper chambers of the air. A huge and solitary shadow overtook the man and spread itself directly about him, then swept onwards; infinite silence encompassed him; once from a distant hillside a voice cried to him, where women and children moved like drab specks and gathered the ripe whortleberries that now wove purple patterns into the fabric of the Moor; but he heeded not the cry; and other sound there was none save the occasional and mournful note of some lonely yellowhammer perched upon a whin. Into the prevalent olive-brown of the heath there had now stolen an indication of a magic change at hand, for into the sober monotone crept a gauzy shadow, a tremor of wakening flower-life, half pearl, half palest pink, yet more than either. Upon the immediate foreground it rippled into defined points of blossom, which already twinkled through all the dull foliage; in the middle distance it faded; afar off it trembled as a palpable haze of light under the impalpable reeling of the summer air. A week or less would see the annual miracle peformed again and witness that spacious and solemn region in all the amethystine glories of the ling. Fiercely hot grew the day, and the distances, so distinct through mist rifts and wreaths in the clearness of early morning, now retreated--mountain upon mountain, wide waste on waste--as the sun climbed to the zenith. Detail vanished, the Moor stretched shimmering to the horizon; only now and again from some lofty point of his pilgrimage did the traveller discover chance cultivation through a dip in the untamed region he traversed. Then to the far east and north, the map of fertile Devon billowed and rolled in one enormous misty mosaic,--billowed and rolled all opalescent under the dancing atmosphere and July haze, rolled and swept to the sky-line, where, huddled by perspective into the appearance of density, hung long silver tangles of infinitely remote and dazzling cloud against the blue. From that distant sponge in the central waste, from Cranmere, mother of moorland rivers, the man presently noted wrinkles of pure gold trickling down a hillside two miles off. Here sunshine touched the river Taw, still an infant thing not far advanced on the journey from its fount; but the play of light upon the stream, invisible save for this finger of the sun, indicated to the solitary that he approached his destination. Presently he stood on the side of lofty Steeperton and surveyed that vast valley known as Taw Marsh, which lies between the western foothills of Cosdon Beacon and the Belstone Tors to the north. The ragged manes of the latter hills wind through the valley in one lengthy ridge, and extend to a tremendous castellated mass of stone, by name Oke Tor. This erection, with its battlements and embrasures, outlying scarps and counterscarps, remarkably suggests the deliberate and calculated creation of man. It stands upon a little solitary hill at the head of Taw Marsh, and wins its name from the East Okement River which runs through the valley on its western flank. Above wide fen and marsh it rises, yet seen from Steeperton's vaster altitude, Oke Tor looks no greater than some fantastic child-castle built by a Brobding-nagian baby with granite bricks. Below it on this July day the waste of bog-land was puckered with brown tracts of naked soil, and seamed and scarred with peat-cuttings. Here and there drying turfs were propped in pairs and dotted the hillsides; emerald patches of moss jewelled the prevailing sobriety of the valley, a single curlew, with rising and falling crescendos of sound, flew here and there under needless anxiety, and far away on White Hill and the enormous breast of Cosdon glimmered grey stone ghosts from the past,--track-lines and circles and pounds,--the work of those children of the mist who laboured here when the world was younger, whose duty now lay under the new-born light of the budding heath. White specks dotted the undulations where flocks roamed free; in the marsh, red cattle sought pasture, and now was heard the jingle-jangle of a sheep-bell, and now the cry of bellowing kine. Like a dark incarnation of suffering over this expansive scene passed Clement Hicks to the meeting with John Grimbal. His unrest was accentuated by the extreme sunlit peace of the Moor, and as he sat on Steeperton and gazed with dark eyes into the marshes below, there appeared in his face the battlefield of past struggles, the graves of past hopes. A dead apathy of mind and muscle succeeded his mental exertion and passion of thought. Increased age marked him, as though Time, thrusting all at once upon him bitter experiences usually spread over many years of a man's life, had weighed him down, humped his back, thinned his hair, and furrowed his forehead under the load. Within his eyes, behind the reflected blue of the sky, as he raised them to it, sat mad misery; and an almost tetanic movement of limb, which rendered it impossible for him to keep motionless even in his present recumbent position, denoted the unnatural excitation of his nerves. The throb and spasm of the past still beat against his heart. Like a circular storm in mid-ocean, he told himself that the tempest had not wholly ended, but might reawaken, overwhelm him, and sweep him back into the turmoil again. As he thought, and his eye roved for a rider on a brown horse, the poor wretch was fighting still. Yesterday fixed determination marked his movements, and his mind was made up; to-day, after a night not devoid of sleep, it seemed that everything that was best in him had awakened refreshed, and that each mile of the long tramp across Dartmoor had represented another battle fought with his fate. Justice, Justice for himself and the woman he loved, was the cry raised more than once aloud in sharp agony on that great silence. And only the drone of the shining-winged things and the dry rustle of the grasshoppers answered him. Like the rest of the sore-smitten and wounded world, he screamed to the sky for Justice, and, like the rest of the world, forgot or did not know that Justice is only a part of Truth, and therefore as far beyond man's reach as Truth itself. Justice can only be conceived by humanity, and that man should even imagine any abstraction so glorious is wonderful, and to his credit. But Justice lies not only beyond our power to mete to our fellows; it forms no part of the Creator's methods with us or this particular mote in the beam of the Universe. Man has never received Justice, as he understands it, and never will; and his own poor, flagrant, fallible travesty of it, erected to save him from himself, and called Law, more nearly approximates to Justice than the treatment which has ever been apportioned to humanity. Before this eternal spectacle of illogical austerity, therefore, man, in self-defence and to comfort his craving and his weakness, has clung to the cheerful conceit of immortality; has pathetically credited the First Cause with a grand ultimate intention concerning each suffering atom; has assured himself that eternity shall wipe away all tears and blood, shall reward the actors in this puppet-show with golden crowns and nobler parts in a nobler playhouse. Human dreams of justice are responsible for this yearning towards another life, not the dogmas of religion; and the conviction undoubtedly has to be thanked for much individual right conduct. But it happens that an increasing number of intellects can find solace in these theories no longer; it happens that the liberty of free thought (which is the only liberty man may claim) will not longer be bound with these puny chains. Many detect no just argument for a future life; they admit that adequate estimate of abstract Justice is beyond them; they suspect that Justice is a human conceit; and they see no cause why its attributes should be credited to the Creator in His dealings with the created, for the sufficient reason that Justice has never been consistently exhibited by Him. The natural conclusion of such thought need not be pursued here. Suffice it that, taking their stand on pure reason, such thinkers deny the least evidence of any life beyond the grave; to them, therefore, this ephemeral progression is the beginning and the end, and they live every precious moment with a yearning zest beyond the power of conventional intellects to conceive. Of such was Clement Hicks. And yet in this dark hour he cried for Justice, not knowing to whom or to what he cried. Right judgment was dead at last. He rose and shook his head in mute answer to the voices still clamouring to his consciousness. They moaned and reverberated and mingled with the distant music of the bellwether, but his mind was made up irrevocably now; he had determined to do the thing he had come to do. He told himself nothing much mattered any more; he laughed as he rose and wiped the sweat off his face, and passed down Steeperton through debris of granite. "Life's only a breath and then--Nothing," he thought; "but it will be interesting to see how much more bitterness and agony those that pull the strings can cram into my days. I shall watch from the outside now. A man is never happy so long as he takes a personal interest in life. Henceforth I'll stand outside and care no more, and laugh and laugh on through the years. We're greater than the Devil that made us; for we can laugh at all his cursed cruelty--we can laugh, and we can die laughing, and we can die when we please. Yes, that's one thing he can't do--torment us an hour more than we choose." Suicide was always a familiar thought with this man, but it had never been farther from his mind than of late. Cowardly in himself, his love for Chris Blanchard was too great to suffer even the shadow of self-slaughter to tempt him at the present moment. What might happen in the future, he could not tell; but while her happiness was threatened and her life's welfare hung in the balance, his place was by her side. Then he looked into Will Blanchard's future and asked himself what was the worst that could result from his pending treachery. He did not know and wished time had permitted him to make inquiries. But his soul was too weary to care. He only looked for the ordeal to be ended; his aching eyes, now bent on his temporal environment, ranged widely for the spectacle of a rider on a brown horse. A red flag flapped from a lofty pole at the foot of Steeperton, but Hicks, to whom the object and its significance were familiar, paid no heed and passed on towards Oke Tor. On one side the mass rose gradually up by steps and turrets; on the other, the granite beetled into a low cliff springing abruptly from the turf. Within its clefts and crannies there grew ferns, and to the north-east, sheltered under ledges from the hot sun, cattle and ponies usually stood or reclined upon such a summer day as this, and waited for the oncoming cool of evening before returning to pasture. On the present occasion, however, no stamp of hoof, snort of nostril, whisk of tail, and hum of flies denoted the presence of beasts. For some reason they had been driven elsewhere. Clement climbed the Tor, then stood upon its highest point, and turning his back to the sun, scanned the wide rolling distances over which he had tramped, and sought fruitlessly for an approaching horseman. But no particular hour had been specified, and he knew not and cared not how long he might have to wait. In a direction quite contrary to that on which the eyes of Hicks were set, sat John Grimbal upon his horse and talked with another man. They occupied a position at the lower-most end of Taw Marsh, beneath the Belstones; and they watched some seventy artillerymen busily preparing for certain operations of a nature to specially interest the master of the Red House. Indeed the pending proceedings had usually occupied his mind, to total exclusion of all other affairs; but to-day even more momentous events awaited him in the immediate future, and he looked from his companion along the great valley to where Oke Tor appeared, shrunk to a mere grey stone at the farther end. Of John Grimbal's life, it may now be said that it drifted into a confirmed and bitter misogyny. He saw no women, spoke of the sex with disrespect, and chose his few friends among men whose sporting and warlike instincts chimed with his own. Sport he pursued with dogged pertinacity, but the greater part of his leisure was devoted to the formation of a yeomanry corps at Chagford, and in this design he had made good progress. He still kept his wrongs sternly before his mind, and when the old bitterness began to grow blunted, deliberately sharpened it again, strangling alike the good work of time and all emotions of rising contentment and returning peace. Where was the wife whose musical voice and bright eyes should welcome his daily home-coming? Where were the laughing and pattering-footed little ones? Of these priceless treasures the man on the Moor had robbed him. His great house was empty and cheerless. Thus he could always blow the smouldering fires into active flame by a little musing on the past; but how long it might be possible to sustain his passion for revenge under this artificial stimulation of memory remained to be seen. As yet, at any rate, the contemplation of Will Blanchard's ruin was good to Grimbal, and the accident of his discovery that Clement Hicks knew some secret facts to his enemy's disadvantage served vastly to quicken the lust for a great revenge. From the first he had determined to drag Clement's secret out of him sooner or later, and had, until his recent offer of the Red House Farm, practised remarkable patience. Since then, however, a flicker of apparent prosperity which overtook the bee-keeper appeared to diminish Grimbal's chances perceptibly; but with the sudden downfall of Clement's hopes the other's ends grew nearer again, and at the last it had scarcely surprised him to receive the proposal of Hicks. So now he stood within an hour or two of the desired knowledge, and his mind was consequently a little abstracted from the matter in hand. The battery, consisting of four field-guns, was brought into action in the direction of the upper end of the valley, while Major Tremayne, its commanding officer and John Grimbal's acquaintance, explained to the amateur all that he did not know. During the previous week the master of the Red House and other officers of the local yeomanry interested in military matters had dined at the mess of those artillery officers then encamped at Okehampton for the annual practice on Dartmoor; and the outcome of that entertainment was an invitation to witness some shooting during the forthcoming week. The gunners in their dark blue uniforms swarmed busily round four shining sixteen-pounders, while Major Tremayne conversed with his friend. He was a handsome, large-limbed man, with kindly eyes. "Where's your target?" asked Grimbal, as he scanned the deep distance of the valley. "Away there under that grey mass of rock. We've got to guess at the range as you know; then find it. I should judge the distance at about two miles--an extreme limit. Take my glass and you'll note a line of earthworks thrown up on this side of the stone. That is intended to represent a redoubt and we're going to shell it and slay the dummy men posted inside." "I can see without the glass. The rock is called Oke Tor, and I'm going to meet a man there this afternoon." "Good; then you'll be able to observe the results at close quarters. They'll surprise you. Now we are going to begin. Is your horse all right? He looks shifty, and the guns make a devil of a row." "Steady as time. He's smelt powder before to-day." Major Tremayne now adjusted his field-glasses, and carefully inspected distant earthworks stretched below the northern buttresses of Oke Tor. He estimated the range, which he communicated to the battery; then after a slight delay came the roar and bellow of the guns as they were fired in slow succession. But the Major's estimate proved too liberal, for the ranging rounds fell far beyond the target, and dropped into the lofty side of Steeperton. The elevation of the guns was accordingly reduced, and Grimbal noted the profound silence in the battery as each busy soldier performed his appointed task. At the next round shells burst a little too short of the earthworks, and again a slight modification in the range was made. Now missiles began to descend in and around the distant redoubt, and each as it exploded dealt out shattering destruction to the dummy men which represented an enemy. One projectile smashed against the side of Oke Tor, and sent back the ringing sound of its tremendous impact. Subsequent practice, now that the range was found, produced results above the average in accuracy, and Major Tremayne's good-humour increased. "Five running plump into the redoubt! That's what we can do when we try," he said to Grimbal, while the amateur awarded his meed of praise and admiration. Anon the business was at an end; the battery limbered up; the guns, each drawn by six stout horses, disappeared with many a jolt over the uneven ground, as the soldiers clinked and clashed away to their camp on the high land above Okehamptou. Under the raw smell of burnt powder Major Tremayne took leave of Grimbal and the rest; each man went his way; and John, pursuing a bridle-path through the marshes of the Taw, proceeded slowly to his appointment. An unexpected spring retarded Grimbal's progress and made a considerable detour necessary. At length, however, he approached Oke Tor, marked the tremendous havoc of the firing, and noted a great grey splash upon the granite, where one shell had abraded its weathered face. John Grimbal dismounted, tied up his horse, then climbed to the top of the Tor, and searched for an approaching pedestrian. Nobody was visible save one man only; amounted soldier riding round to strike the red warning flags posted widely about the ranges. Grimbal descended and approached the southern side, there to sit on the fine intermingled turf and moss and smoke a cigar until his man should arrive. But rounding the point of the low cliff, he found that Hicks was already there. Clement, his hat off, reclined upon his back with his face lifted to the sky. Where his head rested, the wild thyme grew, and one great, black bumble-bee boomed at a deaf ear as it clumsily struggled in the purple blossoms. He lay almost naturally, but some distortion of his neck and a film upon his open eyes proclaimed that the man neither woke nor slept. His lonely death was on this wise. Standing at the edge of the highest point of Oke Tor, with his back to the distant guns, he had crowned the artillerymen's target, himself invisible. At that moment firing began, and the first shell, suddenly shrieking scarcely twenty yards above his head, had caused Hicks to start and turn abruptly. With this action he lost his balance; then a projection of the granite struck his back as he fell and brought him heavily to the earth upon his head. Now the sun, creeping westerly, already threw a ruddiness over the Moor, and this warm light touching the dead man's cheek brought thither a hue never visible in life, and imparted to the features a placidity very startling by contrast with the circumstances of his sudden and violent end. CHAPTER XVI BEFORE THE DAWN It proclaims the attitude of John Grimbal to his enemy that thus suddenly confronted with the corpse of a man whom he believed in life, his first emotion should have betokened bitter disappointment and even anger. Will Blanchard's secret, great or small, was safe enough for the present; and the hand stretched eagerly for revenge clutched air. Convincing himself that Hicks was dead, Grimbal galloped off towards Belstone village, the nearest centre of civilisation. There he reported the facts, directed police and labourers where to find the body and where to carry it, and subsequently rode swiftly back to Chagford. Arrived at the market-place, he acquainted Abraham Chown, the representative of the Devon constabulary, with his news, and finally writing a brief statement at the police station before leaving it, Grimbal returned home. Not until after dark was the impatient mother made aware of her son's end, and she had scarcely received the intelligence before he came home to her--with no triumphant news of the Red House Farm, but dead, on a sheep-hurdle. Like summer lightning Clement's fate leapt through the length and breadth of Chagford. It penetrated to the vicarage; it reached outlying farms; it arrived at Monks Barton, was whispered near Mrs. Blanchard's cottage by the Teign, and, in the early morning of the following day, reached Newtake. Then Will, galloping to the village while dawn was yet grey, met Doctor Parsons, and heard the truth of these uncertain rumours which had reached him. "It seems clear enough when Grimbal's statement comes to be read," explained the medical man. "He had arranged a meeting with poor Hicks on Oke Tor, and, when he went to keep his appointment, found the unfortunate man lying under the rocks quite dead. The spot, I must tell you, was near a target of the soldiers at Okehampton, and John Grimbal first suspected that Hicks, heedless of the red warning flags, had wandered into the line of fire and been actually slain by a projectile. But nothing of that sort happened. I have seen him. The unfortunate man evidently slipped and fell from some considerable height upon his head. His neck is dislocated and the base of the skull badly fractured." "Have you seen my poor sister?" "I was called last night while at Mrs. Hicks's cottage, and went almost at once. It's very terrible--very. She'll get brain fever if we're not careful. Such a shock! She was walking alone, down in the croft by the river--all in a tremendously heavy dew too. She was dry-eyed and raved, poor girl. I may say she was insane at that sad moment. 'Weep for yourself!' she said to me. 'Let this place weep for itself, for there's a great man has died. He was here and lived here and nobody knew--nobody but his mother and I knew what he was. He had to beg his bread almost, and God let him; but the sin of it is on those around him--you and the rest.' So she spoke, poor child. These are not exactly her words, but something like them. I got her indoors to her mother and sent her a draught. I've just come from confining Mrs. Woods, and I'll walk down and see your sister now before I go home if you like. I hope she may be sleeping." Will readily agreed to this suggestion; and together the two men proceeded to the valley. But many things had happened since the night. When Doctor Parsons left Mrs. Blanchard, she had prevailed upon Chris to go to bed, and then herself departed to the village and sat with Mrs. Hicks for an hour. Returning, she found her daughter apparently asleep, and, rather than wake her, left the doctor's draught unopened; yet Chris had only simulated slumber, and as soon as her mother retreated to her own bed, she rose, dressed, crept from the house, and hastened through the night to where her lover lay. The first awful stroke had fallen, but the elasticity of the human mind which at first throws off and off such terrible shocks, and only after the length of many hours finally accepts them as fact, saved Chris Blanchard from going mad. Happily she could not thus soon realise the truth. It recurred, like the blows of a sledge, upon her brain, but between these cruel reminders of the catastrophe, the knowledge of Clement's death escaped her memory entirely, and more than once, while roaming the dew alone, she asked herself suddenly what she was doing and why she was there. Then the mournful answer knelled to her heart, and the recurrent spasms of that first agony slowly, surely settled into one dead pain, as the truth was seared into her knowledge. A frenzied burst of anger succeeded, and under its influence she spoke to Doctor Parsons, who approached her beside the river and with tact and patience at length prevailed upon her to enter her home. She cursed the land that had borne him, the hamlet wherein he had dwelt; and her mother, not amazed at her fierce grief, found each convulsive ebullition of sorrow natural to the dark hour, and soothed her as best she could. Then the elder woman departed a while, not knowing the truth and feeling such a course embraced the deeper wisdom. Left alone, her future rose before Chris, as she sat upon her bed and saw the time to come glimmer out of the night in colours more ashy than the moonbeams on the cotton blind. Yet, as she looked her face burned, and one flame, vivid enough, flickered through all the future; the light on her own cheeks. Her position as it faced her from various points of view acted upon her physical being--suffocated her and brought a scream to her lips. There was nobody to hear it, nobody to see the girl tear her hair, rise from her couch, fall quivering, face downward, on the little strip of carpet beside her bed. Who could know even a little of what this meant to her? Women had often lost the men they loved, but never, never like this. So she assured herself. Past sorrows and fears dwindled to mere shadows now; for the awful future--the crushing months to come, rose grim and horrible on the horizon of Time, laden with greater terrors than she could face and live. Alone, Chris told herself she might have withstood the oncoming tribulation--struggled through the storms of suffering and kept her broken heart company as other women had done before and must again; but she would not be alone. A little hand was stretching out of the loneliness she yearned for; a little voice was crying out of the solitude she craved. The shadows that might have sheltered her were full of hard eyes; the secret places would only echo a world's cruel laughter now--that world which had let her loved one die uncared for, that world so pitiless to such as she. Her thoughts were alternately defiant and fearful; then, before the picture of her mother and Will, her emotions dwindled from the tragic and became of a sort that weeping could relieve. Tears, now mercifully released from their fountains, softened her bruised soul for a time and moderated the physical strain of her agony. She lay long, half-naked, sobbing her heart out. Then came the mad desire to be back with Clement at any cost, and profound pity for him overwhelmed her mind to the exclusion of further sorrow for herself. She forgot herself wholly in grief that he was gone. She would never hear him speak or laugh again; never again kiss the trouble from his eyes; never feel the warm breath of him, the hand-grip of him. He was dead; and she saw him lying straight and cold in a padded coffin, with his hands crossed and cerecloth stiffly tying up his jaws. He would sink into the silence that dwelt under the roots of the green grass; while she must go on and fight the world, and in fighting it, bring down upon his grave bitter words and sharp censures from the lips of those who did not understand. Before which reflection Death came closer and looked kind; and the thought of his hand was cool and comforting, as the hand of a grey moor mist sweeping over the heath after fiery days of cloudless sun. Death stood very near and beckoned at the dark portals of her thought. Behind him there shone a great light, and in the light stood Clem; but the Shadow filled all the foreground. To go to her loved one, to die quickly and take their mutual secret with her, seemed a right and a precious thought just then; to go, to die, while yet he lay above the earth, was a determination that had even a little power to solace her agony. She thought of meeting him standing alone, strange, friendless on the other side of the grave; she told herself that actual duty, if not the vast love she bore him, pointed along the unknown road he had so recently followed. It was but justice to him. Then she could laugh at Time and Fate and the juggling unseen Controller who had played with him and her, had wrecked their little lives, forced their little passions under a sham security, then snapped the thread on which she hung for everything, killed the better part of herself, and left her all alone without a hand to shield or a heart to pity. In the darkness, as the moon stole away and her chamber window blackened, she sounded all sorrow's wide and solemn diapason; and the living sank into shadows before her mind's accentuated and vivid picture of the dead. Future life loomed along one desolate pathway that led to pain and shame and griefs as yet untasted. The rocks beside the way hid shadowy shapes of the unfriendly; for no mother's kindly hand would support her, no brother's stout arm would be lifted for her when they knew. No pure, noble, fellow-creature might be asked for aid, not one might be expected to succour and cherish in the great strait sweeping towards her. Some indeed there were to look to for the moment, but their voices and their eyes would harden presently, when they knew. She told herself they must never know; and the solution to the problem of how to keep her secret appeared upon the threshold of the unknown road her lover had already travelled. Now, at the echo of the lowest notes, while she lay with uneven pulses and shaking limbs, it seemed that she was faced with the parting of the ways and must make instant choice. Time would not wait for her and cared nothing whether she chose life or death for her road. She struggled with red thoughts, and fever burnt her lips and stabbed her forehead. Clement was gone. In this supreme hour no fellow-creature could fortify her courage or direct her tottering judgment. Once she thought of prayer and turned from it shuddering with a passionate determination to pray no more. Then the vision of Death shadowed her and she felt his brief sting would be nothing beside the endless torment of living. Dangerous thoughts developed quickly in her and grew to giants. Something clamoured to her and cried that delay, even of hours, was impossible and must be fatal to secrecy. A feverish yearning to get it over, and that quickly, mastered her, and she began huddling on some clothes. Then it was that the sudden sound of the cottage door being shut and bolted reached her ear. Mrs. Blanchard had returned and knowing that she would approach in a moment, Chris flung herself on the bed and pretended to be sleeping soundly. It was not until her mother withdrew and herself slumbered half an hour later that the distracted woman arose, dressed herself, and silently left the house as we have said. She heard the river calling to her, and through its murmur sounded the voice of her loved one from afar. The moon shone clear and the valley was full of vapoury gauze. A wild longing to see him once more in the flesh before she followed him in the spirit gained upon Chris, and she moved slowly up the hill to the village. Then, as she went, born of the mists upon the meadows, and the great light and the moony gossamers diamonded with dew, there rose his dear shape and moved with her along the way. But his face was hidden, and he vanished at the first outposts of the hamlet as she passed into Chagford alone. The cottage shadows fell velvety black in a shining silence; their thatches were streaked, their slates meshed with silver; their whitewashed walls looked strangely awake and alert and surrounded the woman with a sort of blind, hushed stare. One solitary patch of light peered like a weary eye from that side of the street which lay in shadow, and Chris, passing through the unbolted cottage door, walked up the narrow passage within and softly entered. Condolence and tears and buzz of sorrowful friends had passed away with the stroke of midnight. Now Mrs. Hicks sat alone with her dead and gazed upon his calm features and vaguely wondered how, after a life of such disappointment and failure and bitter discontent, he could look so peaceful. She knew every line that thought and trouble had ruled upon his face; she remembered their coming; and now, between her fits of grief, she scanned him close and saw that Death had wiped away the furrows here and there, and smoothed his forehead and rolled back the years from off him until his face reminded her of the strange, wayward child who was wont to live a life apart from his fellows, like some wild wood creature, and who had passed almost friendless through his boyhood. Fully he had filled her widowed life, and been at least a loving child, a good son. On him her withered hopes had depended, and, even in their darkest hours, he had laughed at her dread of the workhouse, and assured her that while head and hands remained to him she need not fear, but should enjoy the independence of a home. Now this sole prop and stay was gone--gone, just as the black cloud had broken and Fate relented. The old woman sat beside him stricken, shrivelled, almost reptilian in her red-eyed, motionless misery. Only her eyes moved in her wrinkled, brown face, and reflected the candle standing on the mantelpiece above his head. She sat with her hands crooked over one another in her lap, like some image wrought of ebony and dark oak. Once a large house-spider suddenly and silently appeared upon the sheet that covered the breast of the dead. It flashed along for a foot or two, then sat motionless; and she, whose inclination was to loathe such things unutterably, put forth her hand and caught it without a tremor and crushed it while its hairy legs wriggled between her fingers. To the robbed mother came Chris, silent as a ghost. Only the old woman's eyes moved as the girl entered, fell down by the bier, and buried her face in the pillow that supported her lover's head. Thus, in profound silence, both remained awhile, until Chris lifted herself and looked in the dead face and almost started to see the strange content stamped on it. Then Mrs. Hicks began to speak in a high-pitched voice which broke now and again as her bosom heaved after past tears. "The awnly son of his mother, an' she a widow wummon; an' theer 's no Christ now to work for the love of the poor. I be shattered wi' many groans an' tears, Chris Blanchard, same as you be. You knawed him--awnly you an' me; but you 'm young yet, an' memory's so weak in young brains that you'll outlive it all an' forget." "Never, never, mother! Theer 's no more life for me--not here. He's callin' to me--callin' an' callin' from yonder." "You'll outlive an' forget," repeated the other. "I cannot, bein' as I am. An', mind this, when you pray to Heaven, ax for gold an' diamonds, ax for houses an' lands, ax for the fat of the airth; an' ax loud. No harm in axin'. Awnly doan't pitch your prayers tu dirt low, for ban't the hardness of a thing stops God. You 'm as likely or onlikely to get a big answer as a little. See the blessin' flowin' in streams for some folks! They do live braave an' happy, with gude health, an' gude wives, an' money, an' the fruits of the land; they do get butivul childer, as graws up like the corners of the temple; an' when they come to die, they shut their eyes 'pon kind faaces an' lie in lead an' oak under polished marble. All that be theers; an' what was his--my son's?" "God forgot him," sobbed Chris, "an' the world forgot him--all but you an' me." The old woman shifted her hands wearily. "Theer's a mort for God to bear in mind, but 't is hard, here an' there, wheer He slips awver some lowly party an' misses a humble whisper. Clamour if you want to be heard; doan't go with bated breath same as I done. 'T was awnly a li'l thing I axed, an' axed it twice a day on my knees, ever since my man died twenty-three year agone. An' often as not thrice Sundays, so you may count up the number of times I axed if you mind to. Awnly a li'l rubbishy thing you might have thought: just to bring his fair share o' prosperity to Clem an' keep my bones out the poorhouse at the end. But my bwoy 's brawk his neck by a cruel death, an' I must wear the blue cotton." "No, no, mother." "Ess. Not that it looks so hard as it did. This makes it easy--" and she put her hand on her son's forehead and left it there a moment. Presently she continued: "I axed Clem to turn the bee-butts at my sister's passing--Mrs. Lezzard. But he wouldn't; an' now they'll be turned for him. Wise though the man was, he set no store on the dark, hidden meaning of honey-bees at times of death. Now the creatures be masterless, same as you an' me; an' they'll knaw it; an' you'll see many an' many a-murmuring on his graave 'fore the grass graws green theer; for they see more 'n what we can." She relapsed into motionless silence and, herself now wholly tearless, watched the tears of Chris, who had sunk down on the floor between the mother and son. "Why for do _you_ cry an' wring your hands so hard?" she asked suddenly. "You'm awnly a girl yet--young an' soft-cheeked wi' braave bonny eyes. Theer'll be many a man's breast for you to comfort your head on. But me! Think o' what's tearin' my auld heart to tatters--me, so bleared an' ugly an' lonely. God knaws God's self couldn't bring no balm to me--none, till I huddle under the airth arter un; but you--your wound won't show by time the snaw comes again." "You forget when you loved a man first if you says such a thing as that." "Theer's no eternal, lasting fashion o' love but a mother's to her awn male childer," croaked the other. "Sweethearts' love is a thing o' the blood--a trick o' Nature to tickle us poor human things into breeding 'gainst our better wisdom; but what a mother feels doan't hang on no such broken reed. It's deeper down; it's hell an' heaven both to wance; it's life; an' to lose it is death. See! Essterday I'd 'a' fought an' screamed an' took on like a gude un to be fetched away to the Union; but come they put him in the ground, I'll go so quiet as a lamb." Another silence followed; then the aged widow pursued her theme, at first in the same dreary, cracked monotone, then deepening to passion. "I tell you a gude wife will do 'most anything for a husband an' give her body an' soul to un; but she expects summat in return. She wants his love an' worship for hers; but a mother do give all--all--all--an' never axes nothin' for it. Just a kiss maybe, an' a brightening eye, or a kind word. That's her pay, an' better'n gawld, tu. She'm purty nigh satisfied wi' what would satisfy a dog, come to think on it. 'T is her joy to fret an' fume an' pine o' nights for un, an' tire the A'mighty's ear wi' plans an' suggestions for un; aye, think an' sweat an' starve for un all times. 'T is her joy, I tell 'e, to smooth his road, an' catch the brambles by his way an' let 'em bury their thorns in her flesh so he shaa'n't feel 'em; 't is her joy to hear him babble of all his hopes an' delights; an' when the time comes she'll taake the maid of his heart to her awn, though maybe 't is breakin' wi' fear that he'll forget her in the light of the young eyes. Ax your awn mother if what I sez ban't God's truth. We as got the bwoys be content wi' that little. We awnly want to help theer young shoulders wi' our auld wans, to fight for 'em to the last. We'll let theer wives have the love, we will, an' ax no questions an'--an' we'll break our hearts when the cheel 's took out o' his turn--break our hearts by inches--same as I be doin' now." "An' doan't I love, tu? Weern't he all the world to me, tu? Isn't my heart broken so well as yours?" sobbed Chris. "Hear this, you wummon as talks of a broken heart," answered the elder almost harshly. "Wait--wait till you 'm the mother of a li'l man-cheel, an' see the shining eyes of un a-lookin' into yourn while your nipple's bein' squeezed by his naked gums, an' you laugh at what you suffered for un, an' hug un to you. Wait till he'm grawed from baby to bwoy, from bwoy to man; wait till he'm all you've got left in the cold, starved winter of a sorrowful life; an' wait till he'm brought home to 'e like this here, while you've been sittin' laughin' to yourself an' countin' dream gawld. Then turn about to find the tears that'll comfort 'e, an' the prayers that'll soothe 'e, and the God that'll lift 'e up; but you won't find 'em, Chris Blanchard." The girl listened to this utterance, and it filled her with a sort of weird wonder as at a revelation of heredity. Mrs. Hicks had ever been taciturn before her, and now this rapid outpouring of thoughts and phrases echoed like the very speech of the dead. Thus had Clement talked, and the girl dimly marvelled without understanding. The impression passed, and there awoke in Chris a sudden determination to whisper to this bereaved woman what she could not even tell her own mother. A second thought had probably changed her intention, but she did not wait for any second thought. She acted on impulse, rose, put her arms round the widow, and murmured her secret. The other started violently and broke her motionless posture before this intelligence. "Christ! And he knawed--my son?" "He knawed." "Then you needn't whisper it. There's awnly us three here." "An' no others must knaw. You'll never tell--never? You swear that?" "Me tell! No, no. To think! Then theer's real sorrow for you, tu, poor soul--real, grawin' sorrow tu. Differ'nt from mine, but real enough. Yet--" She relapsed into a stone-like repose. No facial muscle moved, but the expression of her mind appeared in her eyes and there gradually grew a hungry look in them--as of a starving thing confronted with food. The realisation of these new facts took a long time. No action accompanied it; no wrinkle deepened; no line of the dejected figure lifted; but when she spoke again her voice had greatly changed and become softer and very tremulous. "O my dear God! 't will be a bit of Clement! Had 'e thought o' that?" Then she rose suddenly to her feet and expression came to her face--a very wonderful expression wherein were blended fear, awe, and something of vague but violent joy--as though one suddenly beheld a loved ghost from the dead. "'T is as if all of un weern't quite lost! A li'l left--a cheel of his! Wummon! You'm a holy thing to me--a holy thing evermore! You'm bearin' sunshine for your summertime and my winter--if God so wills!" Then she lifted up her voice and cried to Chris with a strange cry, and knelt down at her feet and kissed her hands and stroked them. "Go to un," she said, leaping up; "go to Clem, an' tell un, in his ear, that I knaw. It'll reach him if you whisper it. His soul ban't so very far aways yet. Tell un I knaw, tu--you an' me. He'd glory that I knawed. An' pray henceforrard, as I shall, for a bwoy. Ax God for a bwoy--ax wi'out ceasin' for a son full o' Clem. Our sorrows might win to the Everlasting Ear this wance. But, for Christ's sake, ax like wan who has a right to, not fawning an' humble." The woman was transfigured as the significance of this news filled her mind. She wept before a splendid possibility. It fired her eyes and straightened her shrivelled stature. For a while her frantic utterances almost inspired Chris with the shadow of similar emotions; but another side of the picture knew no dawn. This the widow ignored--indeed it had not entered her head since her first comment on the confession. Now, however, the girl reminded her,-- "You forget a little what this must be to me, mother." "Light in darkness." "I hadn't thought that; an the gert world won't pity me, as you did when I first told you." "You ban't feared o' the world, be you? The world forgot un. 'T was your awn word. What's the world to you, knawin' what you knaw? Do 'e want to be treated soft by what was allus hell-hard to him? Four-and-thirty short years he lived, then the world beginned to ope its eyes to his paarts, an' awnly then--tu late, when the thread of his days was spun. What's the world to you and why should you care for its word, Chris Blanchard?" "Because I am Chris Blanchard," she said. "I was gwaine to kill myself, but thought to see his dear face wance more before I done it. Now--" "Kill yourself! God's mercy! 'T will be killing Clem again if you do! You caan't; you wouldn't dare; theer's black damnation in it an' flat murder now. Hear me, for Christ's sake, if that's the awful thought in you: you'm God's chosen tool in this--chosen to suffer an' bring a bwoy in the world--Clem's bwoy. Doan't you see how't is? 'Kill yourself'! How can 'e dream it? You've got to bring a bwoy, I tell 'e, to keep us from both gwaine stark mad. 'T was foreordained he should leave his holy likeness. God's truth! You should be proud 'stead o' fearful--such a man as he was. Hold your head high an' pray when none's lookin', pray through every wakin' hour an' watch yourself as you'd watch the case of a golden jewel. What wise brain will think hard of you for followin' the chosen path? What odds if a babe's got ringless under the stars or in a lawful four-post bed? Who married Adam an' Eve? You was the wife of un 'cordin' to the first plan o' the livin' God; an' if He changed His lofty mind when't was tu late, blame doan't fall on you or the dead. Think of a baaby--his baaby--under your breast! Think of meetin' him in time to come, wi' another soul got in sheer love! Better to faace the people an' let the bairn come to fulness o' life than fly them an' cut your days short an' go into the next world empty-handed. Caan't you see it? What would Clem say? He'd judge you hard--such a lover o' li'l childer as him. 'T is the first framework of an immortal soul you've got unfoldin', like a rosebud hid in the green, an' ban't for you to nip that life for your awn whim an' let the angels in heaven be fewer by wan. You must live. An' the bwoy'll graw into a tower of strength for 'e--a tower of strength an' a glass belike wheer you'll see Clem rose again." "The shame of it. My mother and Will--Will who's a hard judge, an' such a clean man." "'Clean'! Christ A'mighty! You'd madden a saint of heaven! Weern't Clem clean, tu? If God sends fire-fire breaks out--sweet, livin' fire. You must go through with it--aye, an' call the bwoy Clem, tu. Be you shamed of him as he lies here? Be you feared of anything the airth can do to you when you look at him? Do 'e think Heaven's allus hard? No, I tell 'e, not to the young--not to the young. The wind's mostly tempered to the shorn lamb, though the auld ewe do oftentimes sting for it, an' get the seeds o' death arter shearing. Wait, and be strong, till you feel Clem's baaby in your arms. That'll be reward enough, an' you won't care no more for the world then. His son, mind; who be you to take life, an' break the buds of Clem's plantin'? Worse than to go in another's garden an' tear down green fruit." So she pleaded volubly, with an electric increase of vitality, and continued to pour out a torrent of words, until Chris solemnly promised, before God and the dead, that she would not take her life. Having done so, some new design informed her. "I must go," she said; "the moon has set and dawn is near. Dying be so easy; living so hard. But live I will; I swear it, though theer's awnly my poor mad brain to shaw how." "Clem's son, mind. An' let me be the first to see it, for I feel't will be the gude pleasure of God I should." "An' you promise to say no word, whatever betides, an' whatever you hear?" "Dumb I'll be, as him theer--dumb, countin' the weeks an' months." "Day's broke, an' I must go home-along," said Chris. She repeated the words mechanically, then moved away without any formal farewell. At the door she turned, hastened back, kissed the dead man's face again, and then departed, while the other woman looked at her but spoke no more. Alone, with the struggle over and her object won, the mother shrank and dwindled again and grew older momentarily. Then she relapsed into the same posture as before, and anon, tears bred of new thoughts began to trickle painfully from their parched fountains. She did not move, but let them roll unwiped away. Presently her head sank back, her cap fell off and white hair dropped about her face. Fingers of light seemed lifting the edges of the blind. They gained strength as the candle waned, and presently at cock-crow, when unnumbered clarions proclaimed morning, grey dawn with golden eyes brightened upon a dead man and an ancient woman fast asleep beside him. CHAPTER XVII MISSING John Grimbal, actuated by some whim, or else conscious that under the circumstances decorum demanded his attendance, was present at the funeral of Clement Hicks. Some cynic interest he derived from the spectacle of young Blanchard among the bearers; and indeed, as may be supposed, few had felt this tragic termination of his friend's life more than Will. Very genuine remorse darkened his days, and he blamed himself bitterly enough for all past differences with the dead. It was in a mood at once contrite and sorrowful that he listened to the echo of falling clod, and during that solemn sound mentally traversed the whole course of his relations with his sister's lover. Of himself he thought not at all, and no shadowy suspicion of relief crossed his mind upon the reflection that the knowledge of those fateful weeks long past was now unshared. In all his quarrels with Clement, no possibility of the man breaking his oath once troubled Will's mind; and now profound sorrow at his friend's death and deep sympathy with Chris were the emotions that entirely filled the young farmer's heart. Grimbal watched his enemy as the service beside the grave proceeded. Once a malignant thought darkened his face, and he mused on what the result might be if he hinted to Blanchard the nature of his frustrated business with Hicks at Oke Tor. All Chagford had heard was that the master of the Red House intended to accept Clement Hicks as tenant of his home farm. The fact surprised many, but none looked behind it for any mystery, and Will least of all. Grimbal's thoughts developed upon his first idea; and he asked himself the consequence if, instead of telling Blanchard that he had gone to learn his secret, he should pretend that it was already in his possession. The notion shone for a moment only, then went out. First it showed itself absolutely futile, for he could do no more than threaten, and the other must speedily discover that in reality he knew nothing; and secondly, some shadow of feeling made Grimbal hesitate. His desire for revenge was now developing on new lines, and while his purpose remained unshaken, his last defeat had taught him patience. Partly from motives of policy, partly, strange as it may seem, from his instincts as a sportsman, he determined to let the matter of Hicks lie buried. For the dead man's good name he cared nothing, however, and victory over Will was only the more desired for this postponement. His black tenacity of purpose won strength from the repulse, but the problem for the time being was removed from its former sphere of active hatred towards his foe. How long this attitude would last, and what idiosyncrasy of character led to it, matters little. The fact remained that Grimbal's mental posture towards Blanchard now more nearly resembled that which he wore to his other interests in life. The circumstance still stood first, but partook of the nature of his emotions towards matters of sport. When a heavy trout had beaten him more than once, Grimbal would repair again and again to its particular haunt and leave no legitimate plan for its destruction untried. But any unsportsmanlike method of capturing or slaying bird, beast, or fish enraged him. So he left the churchyard with a sullen determination to pursue his sinister purpose straightforwardly. All interested in Clement Hicks attended the funeral, including his mother and Chris. The last had yielded to Mrs. Blanchard's desire and promised to stop at home; but she changed her mind and conducted herself at the ceremony with a stoic fortitude. This she achieved only by an effort of will which separated her consciousness entirely from her environment and alike blinded her eyes and deafened her ears to the mournful sights and sounds around her. With her own future every fibre of her mind was occupied; and as they lowered her lover's coffin into the earth a line of action leapt into her brain. Less than four-and-twenty hours later it seemed that the last act of the tragedy had begun. Then, hoarse as the raven that croaked Duncan's coming, Mr. Blee returned to Monks Barton from an early visit to the village. Phoebe was staying with her father for a fortnight, and it was she who met the old man as he paddled breathlessly home. "More gert news!" he gasped; "if it ban't too much for wan in your way o' health." "Nothing wrong at Newtake?" cried Phoebe, turning pale. "No, no; but family news for all that." The girl raised her hand to her heart, and Miller Lyddon, attracted by Billy's excited voice, hastened to his daughter and put his arm round her. "Out with it," he said. "I see news in 'e. What's the worst or best?" "Bad, bad as heart can wish. A peck o' trouble, by the looks of it. Chris Blanchard be gone--vanished like a dream! Mother Blanchard called her this marnin', an' found her bed not so much as creased. She've flown, an' there's a braave upstore 'bout it, for every Blanchard's wrong in the head more or less, beggin' your pardon, missis, as be awnly wan by marriage." "But no sign? No word or anything left?" "Nothing; an' theer's a purty strong faith she'm in the river, poor lamb. Theer's draggin' gwaine to be done in the ugly bits. I heard tell of it to the village, wheer I'd just stepped up to see auld Lezzard moved to the work'ouse. A wonnerful coorious, rackety world, sure 'nough! Do make me giddy." "Does Will know?" asked Mr. Lyddon. "His mother's sent post-haste for un. I doubt he 'm to the cottage by now. Such a gude, purty gal as she was, tu! An' so mute as a twoad at the buryin', wi' never a tear to soften the graave dust. For why? She knawed she'd be alongside her man again 'fore the moon waned. An' I hope she may be. But 't was cross-roads an' a hawthorn stake in my young days. Them barbarous ancient fashions be awver, thank God, though whether us lives in more religious times is a question, when you see the things what happens every hour on the twenty-four." "I must go to them," cried Phoebe. "I'll go; you stop at home quietly, and don't fret your mind," answered her father. "Us must all do what us can--every manjack. I be gwaine corpse-searchin' down valley wi' Chapple, an' that 'mazin' water-dog of hisn; an' if 't is my hand brings her out the Teign, 't will be done in a kind, Christian manner, for she's in God's image yet, same as us; an' ugly though a drownin' be, it won't turn me from my duty." BOOK III HIS GRANITE CROSS CHAPTER I BABY Succeeding upon the tumultuous incidents of Clement's death and Chris Blanchard's disappearance, there followed a period of calm in the lives of those from whom this narrative is gleaned. Such transient peace proved the greater in so far as Damaris and her son were concerned, by reason of an incident which befell Will on the evening of his sister's departure. Dead she certainly was not, nor did she mean to die; for, upon returning to Newtake after hours of fruitless searching, Blanchard found a communication awaiting him there, though no shadow of evidence was forthcoming to show how it had reached the farm. Upon the ledge of the window he discovered it when he returned, and read the message at a glance: "Don't you nor mother fear nothing for me, nor seek me out, for it would be vain. I'm well, and I'm so happy as ever I shall be, and perhaps I'll come home-along some day.--CHRIS." On this challenge Will acted, ignored his sister's entreaty to attempt no such thing, and set out upon a resolute search of nearly two months' duration. He toiled amain into the late autumn, but no hint or shadow of her rewarded the quest, and sustained failure in an enterprise where his heart was set, for his mother's sake and his own, acted upon the man's character, and indeed wrought marked changes in him. Despite the letter of Chris, hope died in Will, and he openly held his sister dead; but Mrs. Blanchard, while sufficiently distressed before her daughter's flight, never feared for her life, and doubted not that she would return in such time as it pleased her to do so. "Her nature be same as yours an' your faither's afore you. When he'd got the black monkey on his shoulder he'd oftentimes leave the vans for a week and tramp the very heart o' the Moor alone. Fatigue of body often salves a sore mind. He loved thunder o' dark nights--my husband did--and was better for it seemin'ly. Chris be safe, I do think, though it's a heart-deep stroke this for me, 'cause I judge she caan't 'zactly love me as I thought, or else she'd never have left me. Still, the cold world, what she knaws so little 'bout, will drive her back to them as love her, come presently." So, with greater philosophy than her son could muster, Damaris practised patience; while Will, after a perambulation of the country from north to south, from west to east, after weeks on the lonely heaths and hiding-places of the ultimate Moor, after visits to remote hamlets and inquiries at a hundred separate farmhouses, returned to Newtake, worn, disappointed, and gloomy to a degree beyond the experience of those who knew him. Neither did the cloud speedily evaporate, as was most usual with his transient phases of depression. Circumstances combined to deepen it, and as the winter crowded down more quickly than usual, its leaden months of scanty daylight and cold rains left their mark on Will as time had never done before. During those few and sombre days which represented the epact of the dying year, Martin Grimbal returned to Chagford. He had extended his investigations beyond the time originally allotted to them, and now came back to his home with plenty of fresh material, and even one or two new theories for his book. He had received no communications during his absence, and the news of the bee-keeper's death and his sweetheart's disappearance, suddenly delivered by his housekeeper, went far to overwhelm him. It danced joy up again through the grey granite. For a brief hour splendid vistas of happiness reopened, and his laborious life swept suddenly into a bright region that he had gazed into longingly aforetime and lost for ever. He fought with himself to keep down this rosy-fledged hope; but it leapt in him, a young giant born at a word. The significance of the freedom of Chris staggered him. To find her was the cry of his heart, and, as Will had done before him, he straightway set out upon a systematic attempt to discover the missing girl. Of such uncertain temper was Blanchard's mind at this season, however, that he picked a quarrel out of Martin's design, and questioned the antiquary's right to busy himself upon an undertaking which the brother of Chris had already failed to accomplish. "She belonged to me, not to you," he said, "an' I done all a man could do to find her. See her again we sha'n't, that's my feelin', despite what she wrote to me and left so mysterious on the window. Madness comed awver her, I reckon, an' she've taken her life, an' theer ban't no call for you or any other man to rip up the matter again. Let it bide as 't is. Such black doin's be best set to rest." But, while Martin did not seek or desire Will's advice in the matter, he was surprised at the young farmer's attitude, and it extracted something in the nature of a confession from him, for there was little, he told himself, that need longer be hidden from the woman's brother. "I can speak now, at least to you, Will," he said. "I can tell you, at any rate. Chris was all the world to me--all the world, and accident kept me from knowing she belonged to another man until too late. Now that he has gone, poor fellow, she almost seems within reach again. You know what it is to love. I can't and won't believe she has taken her life. Something tells me she lives, and I am not going to take any man's word about it. I must satisfy myself." Thereupon Blanchard became more reasonable, withdrew his objections and expressed a very heartfelt hope that Martin might succeed where he had failed. The lover entered methodically upon his quest and conducted the inquiry with a rigorous closeness and scrupulous patience quite beyond Will's power despite his equally earnest intentions. For six months Martin pursued his hope, and few saw or heard anything of him during that period. Once, during the early summer, Will chanced upon John Grimbal at the first meeting of the otter hounds in Teign Vale; but though the younger purposely edged near his enemy where he stood, and hoped that some word might fall to indicate their ancient enmity dead, John said nothing, and his blue eyes were hard and as devoid of all emotion as turquoise beads when they met the farmer's face for one fraction of time. Before this incident, however, there had arisen upon Will's life the splendour of paternity. A time came when, through one endless night and silver April morning, he had tramped his kitchen floor as a tiger its cage, and left a scratched pathway on the stones. Then his mother hasted from aloft and reported the arrival of a rare baby boy. "Phoebe 's doin' braave, an' she prays of 'e to go downlong fust thing an' tell Miller all 's well. Doctor Parsons hisself says 't is a 'mazing fine cheel, so it ban't any mere word of mine as wouldn't weigh, me bein' the gran'mother." They talked a little while of the newcomer, then, thankful for an opportunity to be active after his long suspense, the father hurried away, mounted a horse, and soon rattled down the valleys into Chagford, at a pace which found his beast dead lame on the following day. Mighty was the exhilaration of that wild gallop as he sped past cot and farm under morning sunshine with his great news. Labouring men and chance wayfarers were overtaken from time to time. Some Will knew, some he had never seen, but to the ear of each and all without discrimination he shouted his intelligence. Not a few waved their hats and nodded and remembered the great day in their own lives; one laughed and cried "Bravo!" sundry, who knew him not, marvelled and took him for a lunatic. Arrived at Chagford, familiar forms greeted Will in the market-place, and again he bawled his information without dismounting. "A son 'tis, Chapple--comed an hour ago--a brave li'l bwoy, so they tell!" "Gude luck to it, then! An' now you'm a parent, you must--" But Will was out of earshot, and Mr. Chapple wasted no more breath. Into Monks Barton the farmer presently clattered, threw himself off his horse, tramped indoors, and shouted for his father-in-law in tones that made the oak beams ring. Then the miller, with Mr. Blee behind him, hastened to hear what Will had come to tell. "All right, all right with Phoebe?" were Mr. Lyddon's first words, and he was white and shaking as he put the question. "Right as ninepence, faither--gran'faither, I should say. A butivul li'l man she've got--out o' the common fine, Parsons says, as ought to knaw--fat as a slug wi' 'mazin' dark curls on his wee head, though my mother says 'tis awnly a sort o' catch-crop, an' not the lasting hair as'll come arter." "A bwoy! Glory be!" said Mr. Blee. "If theer's awnly a bit o' the gracious gudeness of his gran'faither in un, 'twill prove a prosperous infant." "Thank God for a happy end to all my prayers," said Mr. Lyddon. "Billy, get Will something to eat an' drink. I guess he's hungry an' starved." "Caan't eat, Miller; but I'll have a drop of the best, if it's all the same to you. Us must drink their healths, both of 'em. As for me 'tis a gert thing to be the faither of a cheel as'll graw into a man some day, an' may even be a historical character, awnly give un time." "So 'tis a gert thing. Sit down; doan't tramp about. I lay you've been on your feet enough these late hours." Will obeyed, but proceeded with his theme, and though his feet were still his hands were not. "Us be faced wi' the upbringing an' edication of un. I mean him to be brought up to a power o' knowledge, for theer's nothin' like it. Doan't you think I be gwaine to shirk doin' the right thing by un', Miller, 'cause it aint so. If 'twas my last fi'-pun' note was called up for larnin' him, he'd have it." "Theer's no gert hurry yet," declared Billy. "Awnly you'm right to look in the future and weigh the debt every man owes to the cheel he gets. He'll never cost you less thought or halfpence than he do to-day, an', wi'out croakin' at such a gay time, I will say he'll graw into a greater care an' trouble, every breath he draws." "Not him! Not the way I'm gwaine to bring un up. Stern an' strict an' no nonsense, I promise 'e" "That's right. Tame un from the breast. I'd like for my paart to think as the very sapling be grawin' now as'll give his li'l behind its fust lesson in the ways o' duty," declared Mr. Blee. "Theer 's certain things you must be flint-hard about, an' fust comes lying. Doan't let un lie; flog it out of un; an' mind, 'tis better for your arm to ache than for his soul to burn." "You leave me to do right by un. You caan't teach me, Billy, not bein' a parent; though I allow what you say is true enough." "An' set un to work early; get un into ways o' work so soon as he's able to wear corduroys. An' doan't never let un be cruel to beastes; an' doan't let un--" "Theer, theer!" cried Mr. Lyddon. "Have done with 'e! You speak as fules both, settin' out rules o' life for an hour-old babe. You talk to his mother about taming of un an' grawing saplings for his better bringing-up. She'll tell 'e a thing or two. Just mind the slowness o' growth in the human young. 'T will be years before theer's enough of un to beat." "They do come very gradual to fulness o' body an' reason," admitted Billy; "and 't is gude it should be so; 't is well all men an' women 's got to be childer fust, for they brings brightness an' joy 'pon the earth as babies, though 't is mostly changed when they 'm grawed up. If us could awnly foretell the turnin' out o' childern, an' knaw which 't was best to drown an' which to save in tender youth, what a differ'nt world this would be!" "They 'm poor li'l twoads at fust, no doubt," said Will to his father-in-law. "Ess, indeed they be. 'T is a coorious circumstance, but generally allowed, that humans are the awnly creatures o' God wi' understandin', an' yet they comes into the world more helpless an' brainless, an' bides longer helpless an' brainless than any other beast knawn." "Shouldn't call 'em 'beastes' 'zactly, seem' they've got the Holy Ghost from the church font ever after," objected Billy. "'T is the differ'nce between a babe an' a pup or a kitten. The wan gets God into un at christenin', t' other wouldn't have no Holy Ghost in un if you baptised un over a hunderd times. For why? They 'm not built in the Image." "When all's said, you caan't look tu far ahead or be tu forehanded wi' bwoys," resumed Will. "Gallopin' down-long I said to myself, 'Theer's things he may do an' things he may not do. He shall choose his awn road in reason, but he must be guided by me in the choice.' I won't let un go for a sailor--never. I'll cut un off wi' a shillin' if he thinks of it." "Time enough when he can walk an' talk, I reckon," said Billy, who, seeing how his master viewed the matter, now caught Mr. Lyddon's manner. "Ess, that's very well," continued Will, "but time flies that fast wi' childer. Then I thought, 'He'll come to marry some day, sure's Fate.' Myself, I believe in tolerable early marryin's." "By God! I knaw it!" retorted Mr. Lyddon, with an expression wherein appeared mingled feelings not a few; "Ess, fay! You'm right theer. I should take Time by the forelock if I was you, an' see if you can find a maiden as'll suit un while you go back-along through the village." "Awnly, as 'tis better for the man to number more years than the wummon," added Billy, "it might be wise to bide a week or two, so's he shall have a bit start of his lady." "Now, you'm fulin me! An' I caan't stay no more whether or no, 'cause I was promised to see Phoebe an' my son in the arternoon. Us be gwaine to call un Vincent William Blanchard, arter you an' me, Miller; an' if it had been a gal, us meant to call un arter mother; an' I do thank God 'bout the wee bwoy in all solemn soberness, 'cause 'tis the fust real gude thing as have falled to us since the gwaine of poor Chris. 'Twill be a joy to my mother an' a gude gran'son to you, I hope." "Go home, go home," said Mr. Lyddon. "Get along with 'e this minute, an' tell your wife I'm greatly pleased, an' shall come to see her mighty soon. Let us knaw every day how she fares--an'--an'--I'm glad as you called the laddie arter me. 'Twas a seemly thought." Will departed, and his mind roamed over various splendid futures for his baby. Already he saw it a tall, straight, splendid man, not a hair shorter than his own six feet two inches. He hoped that it would possess his natural wisdom, augmented by Phoebe's marvellous management of figures and accounts. He also desired for it a measure of his mother's calm and stately self-possession before the problems of life, and he had no objection that his son should reflect Miller Lyddon's many and amiable virtues. He returned home, and his mother presently bid him come to see Phoebe. Then a sudden nervousness overtook Will, tough though he was. The door shut, and husband and wife were alone together, for Damaris disappeared. But where were all those great and splendid pictures of the future? Vanished, vanished in a mist. Will's breast heaved; he saw Phoebe's star-bright eyes peeping at him, and he touched the treasure beside her--oh, so small it was! He bent his head low over them, kissed his wife shyly, and peeped with proper timidity under the flannel. "Look, look, Will, dearie! Did 'e ever see aught like un? An' come evenin', he 'm gwaine to have his fust li'l drink!" CHAPTER II THE KNIGHT OF FORLORN HOPES The child brought all a child should bring to Newtake, though it could not hide the fact that Will Blanchard drifted daily a little nearer to the end of his resources. But occasional success still flattered his ambition, and he worked hard and honestly. In this respect at least the man proved various fears unfounded, yet the result of his work rarely took shape of sovereigns. He marvelled at the extraordinary steadiness with which ill-fortune clung to Newtake and cursed when, on two quarter-days out of the annual four, another dip had to be made into the dwindling residue of his uncle's bequest. Some three hundred pounds yet remained when young Blanchard entered upon a further stage of his career,--that most fitly recorded as happening within the shadow of a granite cross. After long months of absence from home, Martin Grimbal returned, silent, unsuccessful, and sad. Upon the foundations of facts he had built many tentative dwelling-places for hope; but all had crumbled, failure crowned his labours, and as far from the reach of his discovery seemed the secret of Chris as the secrets of the sacred circles, stone avenues, and empty, hypaethral chambers of the Moor. Spiritless and bitterly discouraged, he returned after such labours as Will had dreamed not of; and his life, succeeding upon this deep disappointment, seemed far advanced towards its end in Martin's eyes--a journey whose brightest incidents, happiest places of rest, most precious companions were all left behind. This second death of hope aged the man in truth and sowed his hair with grey. Now only a melancholy memory of one very beautiful and very sad remained to him. Chris indeed promised to return, but he told himself that such a woman had never left an unhappy mother for such period of time if power to come home still belonged to her. Then, surveying the past, he taxed himself heavily with a deliberate and cruel share in it. Why had he taken the advice of Blanchard and delayed his offer of work to Hicks? He told himself that it was because he knew such a step would definitely deprive him of Chris for ever; and therein he charged himself with offences that his nature was above committing. Then he burst into bitter blame of Will, and at a weak moment--for nothing is weaker than the rare weakness of a strong man--he childishly upbraided the farmer with that fateful advice concerning Clement, and called down upon his head deep censure for the subsequent catastrophe. Will, as may be imagined, proved not slow to resent such an attack with heart and voice. A great heat of vain recrimination followed, and the men broke into open strife. Sick with himself at this pitiable lapse, shaken in his self-respect, desolate, unsettled, and uncertain of the very foundations on which he had hitherto planted his life, the elder man existed through a black month, then braced himself again, looked out into the world, set his dusty desk in order, and sought once more amidst the relics of the past for comfort and consolation. He threw himself upon his book and told himself that it must surely reward his pains; he toiled mightily at his lonely task, and added a little to man's knowledge. Once it happened that the Rev. Shorto-Champernowne met Martin. Riding over the Moor after a visit to his clerical colleague of Gidleigh, the clergyman trotted through Scorhill Circle, above northern Teign, and seeing a well-known parishioner, drew up a while. "How prosper your profound studies?" he inquired. "Do these evidences of aboriginal races lead you to any conclusions of note? For my part, I am not wholly devoid of suspicion that a man might better employ his time, though I should not presume to make any such suggestion to you." "You may be right; but one is generally unwise to stamp on his ruling passion if it takes him along an intellectual road. These cryptic stones are my life. I want to get the secret of them or find at least a little of it. What are these lonely rings? Where are we standing now? In a place of worship, where men prayed to the thunder and the sun and stars? Or a council chamber? Or a court of justice, that has seen many a doom pronounced, much red blood flow? Or is it a grave? 'T is the fashion to reject the notion that they represent any religious purpose; yet I cannot see any argument against the theory. I go on peeping and prying after a spark of truth. I probe here, and in the fallen circle yonder towards Cosdon; I follow the stone rows to Fernworthy; I trudge again and again to the Grey Wethers--that shattered double ring on Sittaford Tor. I eat them up with my eyes and repeople the heath with those who raised them. Some clay a gleam of light may come. And if it does, it will reach me through deep study on those stone men of old. It is along the human side of my investigations I shall learn, if I learn anything at all." "I hope you may achieve your purpose, though the memoranda and data are scanty. Your name is mentioned in the _Western Morning News_ as a painstaking inquirer." "Yet when theories demand proof--that's the rub!" "Yes, indeed. You are a knight of forlorn hopes, Grimbal," answered the Vicar, alluding to Martin's past search for Chris as much as to his present archaeologic ambitions. Then he trotted on over the river, and the pedestrian remained as before seated upon a recumbent stone in the midst of the circle of Scorhill. Silent he sat and gazed into the lichens of grey and gold that crowned each rude pillar of the lonely ring. These, as it seemed, were the very eyes of the granite, but to Martin they represented but the cloak of yesterday, beneath which centuries of secrets were hidden. Only the stones and the eternal west wind, that had seen them set up and still blew over them, could tell him anything he sought to know. "A Knight of Forlorn Hopes," mused the man. "So it is, so it is. The grasshopper, rattling his little kettledrum there, knows nearly as much of this hoary secret as I do; and the bird, that prunes his wing on the porphyry, and is gone again. Not till some Damnonian spirit rises from the barrow, not till some chieftain of these vanished hosts shall take shape out of the mists and speak, may we glean a grain of this buried knowledge. And who to-day would believe ten thousand Damnonian ghosts, if they stirred here once again and thronged the Moor and the moss and the ruined stone villages with their moonbeam shapes? "Gone for ever; and she--my Chris--my dear--is she to dwell in the darkness for all time, too? O God, I would rather hear one whisper of her voice, feel one touch of her brown hand, than learn the primal truth of every dumb stone wonder in the world!" CHAPTER III CONCERNING THE GATE-POST So that good store of roots and hay continue for the cattle during those months of early spring while yet the Moor is barren; so that the potato-patch prospers and the oats ripen well; so that neither pony nor bullock is lost in the shaking bogs, and late summer is dry enough to allow of ample peat-storing--when all these conditions prevail, your moorman counts his year a fat one. The upland farmers of Devon are in great measure armed against the bolts of chance by the nature of their lives, the grey character of even their most cheerful experiences and the poverty of their highest ambitions. Their aspirations, becoming speedily cowed by ill-requited toil and eternal hardship, quickly dwarf and shrink, until even the most sanguine seldom extend hope much beyond necessity. Will grumbled, growled, and fought on, while Phoebe, who knew how nobly the valleys repaid husbandry, mourned in secret that his energetic labours here could but produce such meagre results. Very gradually their environment stamped its frosty seal on man and woman; and by the time that little Will was two years old his parents viewed life, its good and its evil, much as other Moor folks contemplated it. Phoebe's heart was still sweet enough, but she grew more selfish for herself and her own, more self-centred in great Will and little Will. They filled her existence to the gradual exclusion of wider sympathies. Miller Lyddon had given his grandson a silver mug on the day he was baptised, though since that time the old man held more aloof from the life of Newtake than Phoebe understood. Sometimes she wondered that he had never offered to assist her husband practically, but Will much resented the suggestion when Phoebe submitted it to him. There was no need for any such thing, he declared. As for him, transitory ambitions and hopes gleamed up in his career as formerly, though less often. So man and wife found their larger natures somewhat crushed by the various immediate problems that each day brought along with it. Beyond the narrow horizon of their own concerns they rarely looked, and Chagford people, noting the change, declared that life at Newtake was tying their tongues and lining their foreheads. Will certainly grew more taciturn, less free of advice, perhaps less frank than formerly. A sort of strangeness shadowed him, and only his mother or his son could dispel it. The latter soon learnt to understand his father's many moods, and would laugh or cry, show joy or fear, according to the tune of the man's voice. There came an evening in mid-September when Will sat at the open hearth and smoked, with his eyes fixed on a fire of scads.[13] He remained very silent, and Phoebe, busy about a small coat of red cloth, to keep the cold from her little son's bones during the coming winter, knew that it was not one of her husband's happiest evenings. His eyes were looking through the fire and the wall behind it, through the wastes and wildernesses beyond, through the granite hills to the far-away edge of the world, where Fate sat spinning the threads of the lives of his loved ones. Threads they looked, in his gloomy survey of that night, much deformed with knot and tangle, for the Spinner cared nothing at all about them. She suffered each to wind heedlessly away; she minded not that they were ugly; she spared no strand of gold or silver from her skein of human happiness to brighten the grey fabric of them. So it seemed to Will, and his temper chimed with the rough night. The wind howled and growled down the chimney, uttered many a sudden yell and ghostly moan, struck with claws invisible at the glowing heart of the peat fire, and sent red sparks dancing from a corona of faint blue flame. [13] _Scad_ = the outer rind of the peat, with ling and grass still adhering to it. "Winter's comin' quick," said Phoebe, biting her thread. "Ess, winter's allus comin' up here. The fight begins again so soon as ever 't is awver--again and again and again, 'cordin' to the workin' years of a man's life. Then he turns on his back for gude an' all, an' takes his rest, wheer theer's no more seasons, nor frost, nor sunshine, in the world under." "You'm glumpy, dear heart. What's amiss? What's crossed 'e? Tell me, an' I lay I'll find a word to smooth it away. Nothin' contrary happened to market?" "No, no--awnly my nature. When the wind's spelling winter in the chimbley, an' the yether's dead again, 't is wisht lookin' forrard. The airth 's allus dyin', an' the life of her be that short, an' grubbing of bare food an' rent out of her is sour work after many years. Thank God I'm a hopeful, far-seem' chap, an' sound as a bell; but I doan't make money for all my sweat, that's the mystery." "You will some day. Luck be gwaine to turn 'fore long, I hope. An' us have got what's better 'n money, what caan't be bought." "The li'l bwoy?" "Aye; if us hadn't nothin' but him, theer's many would envy our lot." "Childer's no such gert blessin', neither." "Will! How can you say it?" "I do say it. We 'm awnly used to keep up the breed, then thrawed o' wan side. I'm sick o' men an' women folks. Theer's too many of 'em." "But childer--our li'l Will. The moosic of un be sweeter than song o' birds all times, an' you'd be fust to say so if you wasn't out of yourself." "He 'm a braave, small lad enough; but theer again! Why should he have been pitched into this here home? He might have been put in a palace just as easy, an' born of a royal queen mother, 'stead o' you; he might have opened his eyes 'pon marble walls an' jewels an' precious stones, 'stead of whitewash an' a peat fire. Be that baaby gwaine to thank us for bringing him in the world, come he graw up? Not him! Why should he?" "But he will. We 'm his faither an' mother. Do 'e love your mother less for bearin' you in a gypsy van? Li'l Will's to pay us noble for all our toil some day, an' be a joy to our grey hairs an' a prop to our auld age, please God." "Ha, ha!--story-books! Gi' me a cup o' milk; then us'll go to bed." She obeyed; he piled turf upon the hearth, to keep the fire alight until morning, then took up the candle and followed Phoebe through another chamber, half-scullery, half-storehouse, into which descended the staircase from above. Here hung the pale carcase of a newly slain pig, suspended by its hind legs from a loop in the ceiling; and Phoebe, many of whose little delicacies of manner had vanished of late, patted the carcase lovingly, like the good farmer's wife she was. "Wish theer was more so big in the sties," she said. Arrived at her bedside, the woman prayed before sinking to rest within reach of her child's cot; while Will, troubling Heaven with no petition or thanksgiving, was in bed five minutes sooner than his wife. "Gude-night, lad," said Phoebe, as she put the candle out, but her husband only returned an inarticulate grunt for answer, being already within the portal of sleep. A fair morning followed on the tempestuous night, and Winter, who had surely whispered her coming under the darkness, vanished again at dawn. The Moor still provided forage, but all light was gone out of the heather, though the standing fern shone yellow under the sun, and the recumbent bracken shed a rich russet in broad patches over the dewy green where Will had chopped it down and left it to dry for winter fodder. He was very late this year in stacking the fern, and designed that labour for his morning's occupation. Ted Chown chanced to be away for a week's holiday, so Will entered his farmyard early. The variable weather of his mind rarely stood for long at storm, but, unlike the morning, he had awakened in no happy mood. A child's voice served for a time to smooth his brow, now clouded from survey of a broken spring in his market-cart; then came the lesser Will with a small china mug for his morning drink. Phoebe watched him sturdily tramp across the yard, and the greater Will laughed to see his son's alarm before the sudden stampede of a belated heifer, which now hastened through the open gate to join its companions on the hillside. "Cooshey, cooshey won't hurt 'e, my li'l bud!" cried Phoebe, as Ship jumped and barked at the lumbering beast. Then the child doubled round a dung-heap and fled to his father's arms. From the byre a cow with a full udder softly lowed, and now small Will had a cup of warm milk; then, with his red mouth like a rosebud in mist and his father's smile magically and laughably reproduced upon his little face, he trotted back to his mother. A moment later Will, still milking, heard himself loudly called from the gate. The voice he knew well enough, but it was pitched unusually high, and denoted a condition of excitement and impatience very seldom to be met with in its possessor. Martin Grimbal, for it was he, did not observe Blanchard, as the farmer emerged from the byre. His eye was bent in startled and critical scrutiny of a granite post, to which the front gate of Newtake latched, and he continued shouting aloud until Will stood beside him. Then he appeared on his hands and knees beside the gate-post. He had flung down his stick and satchel; his mouth was slightly open; his cap rested on the side of his head; his face seemed transfigured before some overwhelming discovery. Relations were still strained between these men; and Will did not forget the fact, though it had evidently escaped Martin in his present excitement. "What the deuce be doin' now?" asked Blanchard abruptly. "Man alive! A marvel! Look here--to think I have passed this stone a hundred times and never noticed!" He rose, brushed his muddy knees, still gazing at the gate-post, then took a trowel from his bag and began to cut away the turf about the base of it. "Let that bide!" called out the master sharply. "What be 'bout, delving theer?" "I forgot you didn't know. I was coming to see you on my way to the Moor. I wanted a drink and a handshake. We mustn't be enemies, and I'm heartily sorry for what I said--heartily. But here's a fitting object to build new friendship on. I just caught sight of the incisions through a fortunate gleam of early morning light. Come this side and see for yourself. To think you had what a moorman would reckon good fortune at your gate and never guessed it!" "Fortune at my gate? Wheer to? I aint heard nothin' of it." "Here, man, here! D' you see this post?" "Not bein' blind, I do." "Yet you were blind, and so was I. There 's excuse for you--none for me. It's a cross! Yes, a priceless old Christian cross, buried here head downward by some profane soul in the distant past, who found it of size and shape to make a gate-post. They are common enough in Cornwall, but very rare in Devon. It's a great--a remarkable discovery in fact, and I'm right glad I found it on your threshold; for we may be friends again beside this symbol fittingly enough--eh, Will?" "Bother your rot," answered the other coldly, and quite unimpassioned before Martin's eloquence. "You doubted my judgment not long since and said hard things and bad things; now I take leave to doubt yours. How do 'e knaw this here 's a cross any more than t' other post the gate hangs on?" Martin, recalled to reality and the presence of a man till then unfriendly, blushed and shrank into himself a little. His voice showed that he suffered pain. "I read granite as you read sheep and soil and a crop ripening above ground or below--it's my business," he explained, not without constraint, while the enthusiasm died away out of his voice and the fire from his face. "See now, Will, try and follow me. Note these very faint lines, where the green moss takes the place of the lichen. These are fretted grooves--you can trace them to the earth, and on a 'rubbing,' as we call it, they would be plainer still. They indicate to me incisions down the sides of a cross-shaft. They are all that many years of weathering have left. Look at the shape too: the stone grows slightly thinner every way towards the ground. What is hidden we can't say yet, but I pray that the arms may be at least still indicated. You see it is the base sticking into the air, and more's the pity, a part has gone, for I can trace the incisions to the top. God knows the past history of it, but--" "Perhaps He do and perhaps He doan't," interrupted the farmer. "Perhaps it weer a cross an' perhaps it weern't; anyway it's my gate-post now, an' as to diggin' it up, you may be surprised to knaw it, Martin Grimbal, but I'll see you damned fust! I'm weary of all this bunkum 'bout auld stones an' circles an' the rest; I'm sick an' tired o' leavin' my work a hunderd times in summer months to shaw gaping fules from Lunnon an' Lard knaws wheer, them roundy-poundies 'pon my land. 'Tis all rot, as every moorman knaws; yet you an' such as you screams if us dares to put a finger to the stone nowadays. Ban't the granite ours under Venwell? You knaw it is; an' because dead-an'-gone folk, half-monkeys belike, fashioned their homes an' holes out of it, be that any cause why it shouldn't be handled to-day? They've had their use of it; now 'tis our turn; an 'tis awnly such as you be, as comes here in shining summer, when the land puts on a lying faace, as though it didn't knaw weather an' winter--'tis awnly such as you must cry out against us of the soil if we dares to set wan stone 'pon another to make a wall or to keep the blasted rabbits out the young wheat." "Your attitude is one-sided, Will," said Martin Grimbal gently; "besides, remember this is a cross. We're dealing with a relic of our faith, take my word for it." "Faith be damned! What's a cross to me? 'Tisdoin' more gude wheer't is than ever it done afore, I'll swear." "I hope you'll live to see you're wrong, Blanchard. I've met you in an evil hour it seems. You're not yourself. Think about it. There's no hurry. You pride yourself on your common sense as a rule. I'm sure it will come to your rescue. Granted this discovery is nothing to you, yet think what it means to me. If I'd found a diamond mine I couldn't be better pleased--not half so pleased as now." Will reflected a moment; but the other had not knowledge of character to observe or realise that he was slowly becoming reasonable. "So I do pride myself on my common sense, an' I've some right to. A cross is a cross--I allow that--and whatever I may think, I ban't so small-minded as to fall foul of them as think differ'nt. My awn mother be a church-goer for that matter, an' you'll look far ways for her equal. But of coourse I knaw what I knaw. Me an' Hicks talked out matters of religion so dry as chaff." "Yet a cross means much to many, and always will while the land continues to call itself Christian." "I knaw, I knaw. 'Twill call itself Christian long arter your time an' mine; as to bein' Christian--that's another story. Clem Hicks lightened such matters to me--fule though he was in the ordering of his awn life. But s'pose you digs the post up, for argeyment's sake. What about me, as have to go out 'pon the Moor an' blast another new wan out the virgin granite wi' gunpowder? Do'e think I've nothin' better to do with my time than that?" Here, in his supreme anxiety and eagerness, forgetting the manner of man he argued with, Martin made a fatal mistake. "That's reasonable and business-like," he said. "I wouldn't have you suffer for lost time, which is part of your living. I'll give you ten pounds for the stone, Will, and that should more than pay for your time and for the new post." He glanced into the other's face and instantly saw his error. The farmer's countenance clouded and his features darkened until he looked like an angry Redskin. His eyes glinted steel-bright under a ferocious frown; the squareness of his jaw became much marked. "You dare to say that, do'e? An' me as good a man, an' better, than you or your brother either! Money--you remind me I'm--Theer! You can go to blue, blazin' hell for your granite crosses--that's wheer you can go--you or any other poking, prying pelican! Offer money to me, would 'e? Who be you, or any other man, to offer me money for wasted time? As if I was a road scavenger or another man's servant! God's truth! you forget who you'm talkin' to!" "This is to purposely misunderstand me, Blanchard. I never, never, meant any such thing. Am I one to gratuitously insult or offend another? Typical this! Your cursed temper it is that keeps you back in the world and makes a failure of you," answered the student of stones, his own temper nearly lost under exceptional provocation. "Who says I be a failure?" roared Will in return. "What do you know, you grey, dreamin' fule, as to whether I'm successful or not so? Get you gone off my land or--" "I'll go, and readily enough. I believe you're mad. That's the conclusion I'm reluctantly driven to--mad. But don't for an instant imagine your lunatic stupidity is going to stand between the world and this discovery, because it isn't." He strapped on his satchel, picked up his stick, put his hat on straight, and prepared to depart, breathing hard. "Go," snorted Will; "go to your auld stones--they 'm the awnly fit comp'ny for 'e. Bruise your silly shins against 'em, an' ax 'em if a moorman's in the right or wrong to paart wi' his gate-post to the fust fule as wants it!" Martin Grimbal strode off without replying, and Will, in a sort of grim good-humour at this victory, returned to milking his cows. The encounter, for some obscure reason, restored him to amiability. He reviewed his own dismal part in it with considerable satisfaction, and, after going indoors and eating a remarkably good breakfast, he lighted his pipe and, in the most benignant of moods, went out with a horse and cart to gather withered fern. CHAPTER IV MARTIN'S RAID Mrs. Blanchard now dwelt alone, and all her remaining interests in life were clustered about Will. She perceived that his enterprise by no means promised to fulfil the hopes of those who loved him, and realised too late that the qualities which enabled her father to wrest a living from the moorland farm were lacking in her son. He, of course, explained it otherwise, and pointed to the changes of the times and an universal fall in the price of agricultural produce. His mother cast about in secret how to help him, but no means appeared until, upon an evening some ten days after Blanchard's quarrel with Grimbal over the gate-post, she suddenly determined to visit Monks Barton and discuss the position with Miller Lyddon. "I want to have a bit of a tell with 'e," she said, "'pon a matter so near to your heart as mine. Awnly you've got power an' I haven't." "I knaw what you'm come about before you speak," answered the other." Sit you down an' us'll have a gude airing of ideas. But I'm sorry we won't get the value o' Billy Blee's thoughts 'pon the point, for he's away to-night." Damaris rather rejoiced than sorrowed in this circumstance, but she was too wise to say so. "A far-thinkin' man, no doubt," she admitted. "He is; an' 't is straange your comin' just this night, for Blee's away on a matter touching Will more or less, an' doan't reckon to be home 'fore light." "What coorious-fashion job be that then?" "Caan't tell 'e the facts. I'm under a promise not to open my mouth, but theer's no gert harm. Martin Grimbal's foremost in the thing so you may judge it ban't no wrong act, and he axed Billy to help him at my advice. You see it's necessary to force your son's hand sometimes. He'm that stubborn when his mind's fixed." "A firm man, an' loves his mother out the common well. A gude son, a gude husband, a gude faither, a hard worker. How many men's all that to wance, Miller?" "He is so--all--an' yet--the man have got his faults, speaking generally." "That's awnly to say he be a man; an' if you caan't find words for the faults, 't is clear they ban't worth namin'." "I can find words easy enough, I assure 'e; but a man's a fule to waste breath criticising the ways of a son to his mother--if so be he's a gude son." "What fault theer is belongs to me. I was set on his gwaine to Newtake as master, like his gran'faither afore him. I urged the step hot, and I liked the thought of it." "So did he--else he wouldn't have gone." "You caan't say that. He might have done different but for love of me. 'T is I as have stood in his way in this thing." "Doan't fret yourself with such a thought, Mrs. Blanchard; Will's the sort as steers his awn ship. Theer's no blame 'pon you. An' for that matter, if your faither saved gude money at Newtake, why caan't Will?" "Times be changed. You've got to make two blades o' grass graw wheer wan did use, if you wants to live nowadays." "Hard work won't hurt him." "But it will if he reckons't is all wasted work. What's more bitter than toiling to no account, an' _knawin_ all the while you be?" "Not all wasted work, surely?" "They wouldn't allow it for the world. He's that gay afore me, an' Phoebe keeps a stiff upper lip, tu; but I go up unexpected now an' again an' pop in unawares an' sees the truth. You with your letter or message aforehand, doan't find out nothing, an' won't." "He'm out o' luck, I allow. What's the exact reason?" "You'll find it in the Book, same as I done. I knaw you set gert store 'pon the Word. Well, then, 'them the Lard loveth He chasteneth.' That's why Will's languishin' like. 'T won't last for ever." "Ah! But theer's other texts to other purpose. Not that I want 'e to dream my Phoebe's less to me than your son to you. I've got my eye on 'em, an' that's the truth; an' on my li'l grandson, tu." "Theer's gert things buddin' in that bwoy." "I hope so. I set much store on him. Doan't you worrit, mother, for the party to Newtake be bound up very close wi' my happiness, an' if they was wisht, ban't me as would long be merry. I be gwaine to give Master Will rope enough to hang himself, having a grudge or two against him yet; then, when the job's done, an' he's learnt the hard lesson to the dregs, I'll cut un down in gude time an' preach a sarmon to him while he's in a mood to larn wisdom. He's picking up plenty of information, you be sure--things that will be useful bimebye: the value of money, the shortness o' the distance it travels, the hardness o' Moor ground, an' men's hearts, an' such-like branches of larning. Let him bide, an' trust me." The mother was rendered at once uneasy and elated by this speech. That, if only for his wife and son's sake, Will would never be allowed to fail entirely seemed good to know; but she feared, and, before the patronising manner of the old man, felt alarm for the future. She well knew how Will would receive any offer of assistance tendered in this spirit. "Like your gude self so to promise; but remember he 'm of a lofty mind and fiery." "Stiff-necked he be, for certain; but he may graw quiet 'fore you think it. Nothing tames a man so quick as to see his woman and childer folk hungry--eh? An' specially if 't is thanks to his awn mistakes." Mrs. Blanchard flushed and felt a wave of anger surging through her breast. But she choked it down. "You 'm hard in the grain, Lyddon--so them often be who've lived over long as widow men. Theer 's a power o' gude in my Will, an' your eyes will be opened to see it some day. He 'm young an' hopeful by nature; an' such as him, as allus looks up to gert things, feels a come down worse than others who be content to crawl. He 'm changing, an' I knaw it, an' I've shed more 'n wan tear awver it, bein' on the edge of age myself now, an' not so strong-minded as I was 'fore Chris went. He 'm changing, an' the gert Moor have made his blood beat slower, I reckon, an' froze his young hope a bit." "He 's grawiug aulder, that's all. 'T is right as he should chatter less an' think more." "I suppose so; yet a mother feels a cold cloud come awver her heart to watch a cheel fighting the battle an' not winning it. Specially when she can awnly look on an' do nothin'." "Doan't you fear. You 'm low in spirit, else you'd never have spoke so open; but I thank you for tellin' me that things be tighter to Newtake than I guessed. You leave the rest to me. I knaw how far to let 'em go; an' if we doan't agree 'pon that question, you must credit me with the best judgment, an' not think no worse of me for helpin' in my awn way an' awn time." With which promise Mrs. Blanchard was contented. Surveying the position in the solitude of her home, she felt there was much to be thankful for. Yet she puzzled her heart and head to find schemes by which the miller's charity might be escaped. She considered her own means, and pictured her few possessions sold at auction; she had already offered to go and dwell at Newtake and dispose of her cottage. But Will exploded so violently when the suggestion reached his ears that she never repeated it. While the widow thus bent her thoughts upon her son, and gradually sank to sleep with the problems of the moment unsolved, a remarkable series of incidents made the night strange at Newtake Farm. Roused suddenly a little after twelve o'clock by an unusual sound, Phoebe woke with a start and cried to her husband: "Will--Will, do hark to Ship! He 'm barkin' that savage!" Will turned and growled sleepily that it was nothing, but the bark continued, so he left his bed and looked out of the window. A waning moon had just thrust one glimmering point above the sombre flank of the hill. It ascended as he watched, dispensed a sinister illumination, and like some remote bale-fire hung above the bosom of the nocturnal Moor. His dog still barked, and in the silence Will could hear a clink and thud as it leapt to the limit of its chain. Then out of the night a lantern danced at Newtake gate, and Blanchard, his eyes now trained to the gloom, discovered several figures moving about it. "Baggered if it bau't that damned Grimbal come arter my gate-post," he gasped, launched instantly to high wakefulness by the suspicion. Then, dragging on his trousers, and thrusting the tail of his nightshirt inside them, he tumbled down-stairs, with passion truly formidable, and hastened naked footed through the farmyard. Four men blankly awaited him. Ignoring their leader--none other than Martin himself--he turned upon Mr. Blee, who chanced to be nearest, and struck from his hand a pick. "What be these blasted hookem-snivey dealings, then?" Will thundered out, "an' who be you, you auld twisted thorn, to come here stealin' my stone in the dead o' night?" Billy's little eyes danced in the lantern fire, and he answered hastily before Martin had time to speak. "Well, to be plain, the moon and the dog's played us false, an' you'd best to knaw the truth fust as last. Mr. Grimbal's writ you two straight, fair letters 'bout this job, so he've explained to me, an' you never so much as answered neither; so, seem' this here's a right Christian cross, ban't decent it should bide head down'ards for all time. An' Mr. Grimbal have brought up a flam-new granite post, hasp an' all complete--'t is in the cart theer--an' he called on me as a discreet, aged man to help un, an' so I did; an' Peter Bassett an' Sam Bonus here corned likewise, by my engagement, to do the heavy work an' aid in a gude deed." "Dig an inch, wan of 'e, and I'll shaw what's a gude deed! I doan't want no talk with you or them hulking gert fules. 'T is you I'd ax, Martin Grimbal, by what right you'm here." "You wouldn't answer my letters, and I couldn't find it in my heart to leave an important matter like this. I know I wasn't wise, but you don't understand what a priceless thing this is. I thought you'd find the new one in the morning and laugh at it. For God's sake be reasonable and sensible, Blanchard, and let me take it away. There's a new post I'll have set up. It's here waiting. I can't do more." "But you'll do a darned sight less. Right's right, an' stealin's stealin'. You wasn't wise, as you say--far from it. You'm in the wrong now, an' you knaw it, whatever you was before. A nice bobbery! Why doan't he take my plough or wan of the bullocks? Damned thieves, the lot of'e!" "Doan't cock your nose so high, Farmer," said Bonus, who had never spoken to Will since he left Newtake; "'t is very onhandsome of 'e to be tellin' like this to gentle-folks." "Gentlefolks! Gentlefolks would ax your help, wouldn't they? You, as be no better than a common poacher since I turned 'e off! You shut your mouth and go home-long, an' mind your awn business, an' keep out o' the game preserves. Law's law, as you'm like to find sooner'n most folks." This pointed allusion to certain rumours concerning the labourer's present way of life angered Bonus not a little, but it also silenced him. "Law's law, as you truly say, Will Blanchard," answered Mr. Blee, "an' theer it do lie in a nutshell. A man's gate-post is his awn as a common, natural gate-post; but bein' a sainted cross o' the Lard sticked in the airth upsy-down by some ancient devilry, 't is no gate-post, nor yet every-day moor-stone, but just the common property of all Christian souls." "You'm out o' bias to harden your heart, Mr. Blanchard, when this gentleman sez 't is what 't is," ventured the man Peter Bassett, slowly. "An' so you be, Blanchard, an' 't is a awful deed every ways, an' you'll larn it some day. You did ought to be merry an' glad to hear such a thing 's been found 'pon Newtake. Think o' the fortune a cross o' Christ brings to 'e!" "An' how much has it brought, you auld fule?" "Gude or bad, you'll be a sight wuss off it you leave it wheer 't is, now you knaw. Theer'll be hell to pay if it's let bide now, sure as eggs is eggs an' winter, winter. You'll rue it; you'll gnash awver it; 't will turn against 'e an' rot the root an' blight the ear an' starve the things an' break your heart. Mark me, you'm doin' a cutthroat deed an' killin' all your awn luck by leavin' it here an hour longer." But Will showed no alarm at Mr. Blee's predictions. "Be it as 't will, you doan't touch my stone--cross or no cross. Damn the cross! An' you tu, every wan of 'e, dirty night birds!" Then Martin, who had waited, half hoping that Billy's argument might carry weight, spoke and ended the scene. "We'll talk no more and we'll do no more," he said. "You're wrong in a hundred ways to leave this precious stone to shut a gate and keep in cows, Blanchard. But if you wouldn't heed my letters, I suppose you won't heed my voice." "Why the devil should I heed your letters? I told 'e wance for all, didn't I? Be I a man as changes my mind like a cheel?" "Crooked words won't help 'e, Farmer," said the stolid Bassett. "You 'm wrong, an' you knaw right well you 'm wrong, an' theer'll come a day of reckoning for 'e, sure 's we 'm in a Christian land." "Let it come, an' leave me to meet it. An' now, clear out o' this, every wan, or I'll loose the dog 'pon 'e!" He turned hurriedly as he spoke and fetched the bobtailed sheep-dog on its chain. This he fastened to the stone, then watched the defeated raiders depart. Grimbal had already walked away alone, after directing that a post which he had brought to supersede the cross, should be left at the side of the road. Now, having obeyed his command, Mr. Blee, Bonus, and Bassett climbed into the cart and slowly passed away homewards. The moon had risen clear of earth and threw light sufficient to show Bassett's white smock still gleaming through the night as Will beheld his enemies depart. Ten minutes later, while he washed his feet, the farmer told Phoebe of the whole matter, including his earlier meeting with Martin, and the antiquary's offer of money. Upon this subject his wife found herself in complete disagreement with Blanchard, and did not hesitate to say so. "Martin Grimbal 's so gude a friend as any man could have, an' you did n't ought to have bullyragged him that way," she declared. "You say that! Ban't a man to speak his mind to thieves an' robbers?" "No such thing. 'T is a sacred stone an' not your property at all. To refuse ten pound for it!" "Hold your noise, then, an' let me mind my business my awn way," he answered roughly, getting back to bed; but Phoebe was roused and had no intention of speaking less than her mind. "You 'm a knaw-nought gert fule," she said, "an' so full of silly pride as a turkey-cock. What 's the stone to you if Grimbal wants it? An' him taking such a mint of trouble to come by it. What right have you to fling away ten pounds like that, an' what 's the harm to earn gude money honest? Wonder you ban't shamed to sell anything. 'T is enough these times for a body to say wan thing for you to say t'other." This rebuke from a tongue that scarcely ever uttered a harsh word startled Will not a little. He was silent for half a minute, then made reply. "You can speak like that--you, my awn wife--you, as ought to be heart an' soul with me in everything I do? An' the husband I am to 'e. Then I should reckon I be fairly alone in the world, an' no mistake--'cept for mother." Phoebe did not answer him. Her spark of anger was gone and she was passing quickly from temper to tears. "'T is queer to me how short of friends I 'pear to be gettin'," confessed Will gloomily. "I must be differ'nt to what I fancied for I allus felt I could do with a waggon-load of friends. Yet they 'm droppin' off. Coourse I knaw why well enough, tu. They've had wind o' tight times to Newtake, though how they should I caan't say, for the farm 's got a prosperous look to my eye, an' them as drops in dinnertime most often finds meat on the table. Straange a man what takes such level views as me should fall out wi' his elders so much." "'T is theer fault as often as yours; an' you've got me as well as your mother, Will; an' you've got your son. Childern knaw the gude from the bad, same as dogs, in a way hid from grawn folks. Look how the li'l thing do run to 'e 'fore anybody in the world." "So he do; an' if you 'm wise enough to see that, you ought to be wise enough to see I'm right 'bout the gate-post. Who 's Martin Grimbal to offer me money? A self-made man, same as me. Yet he might have had it, an' welcome if he'd axed proper." "Of course, if you put it so, Will." "Theer 's no ways else to put it as I can see." "But for your awn peace of mind it might be wisest to dig the cross up. I listened by the window an' heard Billy Blee tellin' of awful cusses, an' he 's wise wi'out knawin' it sometimes." "That's all witchcraft an' stuff an' nonsense, an' you ought to knaw better, Phoebe. 'T is as bad as setting store on the flight o' magpies, or gettin' a dead tooth from the churchyard to cure toothache, an' such-like folly." "Ban't folly allus, Will; theer 's auld tried wisdom in some ancient sayings." "Well, you guide your road by my light if you want to be happy. 'T is for you I uses all my thinking brain day an' night--for your gude an' the li'l man's." "I knaw--I knaw right well 't is so, dear Will, an' I'm sorry I spoke so quick." "I'll forgive 'e before you axes me, sweetheart. Awnly you must larn to trust me, an' theer 's no call for you to fear. Us must speak out sometimes, an' I did just now, an' 't is odds but some of them chaps, Grimbal included, may have got a penn'orth o' wisdom from me." "So 't is, then," she said, cuddling to him; "an' you'll do well to sleep now; an'--an' never tell again, Will, you've got nobody but your mother while I'm above ground, 'cause it's against justice an' truth an' very terrible for me to hear." "'T was a thoughtless speech," admitted Will, "an' I'm sorry I spake it. 'T was a hasty word an' not to be took serious." They slept, while the moon wove wan harmonies of ebony and silver into Newtake. A wind woke, proclaiming morning, as yet invisible; and when it rustled dead leaves or turned a chimney-cowl, the dog at the gate stirred and growled and grated his chain against the granite cross. CHAPTER V WINTER As Christmas again approached, adverse conditions of weather brought like anxieties to a hundred moormen besides Will Blanchard, but the widespread nature of the trouble by no means diminished his individual concern. A summer of unusual splendour had passed unblessed away, for the sustained drought represented scanty hay and an aftermath of meagre description. Cereals were poor, with very little straw, and the heavy rains of November arrived too late to save acres of starved roots on high grounds. Thus the year became responsible for one prosperous product alone: rarely was it possible to dry so well those stores gathered from the peat beds. Huge fires, indeed, glowed upon many a hearth, but the glory of them served only to illumine anxious faces. A hard winter was threatened, and the succeeding spring already appeared as no vision to welcome, but a hungry spectre to dread. Then, with the last week of the old year, winter swept westerly on hyperborean winds, and when these were passed a tremendous frost won upon the world. Day followed day of weak, clear sunshine and low temperature. The sun, upon his shortest journeys, showed a fiery face as he sulked along the stony ridges of the Moor, and gazed over the ice-chained wilderness, the frozen waters, and the dark mosses that never froze, but lowered black, like wounds on a white skin. Dartmoor slept insensible under granite and ice; no sheep-bell made music; no flocks wandered at will; only the wind moaned in the dead bells of the heather; only the foxes slunk round cot and farm; only the shaggy ponies stamped and snorted under the lee of the tors and thrust their smoking muzzles into sheltered clefts and crannies for the withered green stuff that kept life in them. Snow presently softened the outlines of the hills, set silver caps on the granite, and brought the distant horizon nearer to the eye under crystal-clear atmosphere. Many a wanderer, thus deceived, plodded hopefully forward at sight of smoke above a roof-tree, only to find his bourne, that seemed so near, still weary miles away. The high Moors were a throne for death. Cold below freezing-point endured throughout the hours of light and grew into a giant when the sun and his winter glory had huddled below the hills. Newtake squatted like a toad upon this weary waste. Its crofts were bare and frozen two feet deep; its sycamores were naked save for snow in the larger forks, and one shivering concourse of dead leaves, where a bough had been broken untimely, and thus held the foliage. Suffering almost animate peered from its leaded windows; the building scowled; cattle lowed through the hours of day, and a steam arose from their red hides as they crowded together for warmth. Often it gleamed mistily in the light of Will's lantern when at the dead icy hour before dawn he went out to his beasts. Then he would rub their noses, and speak to them cheerfully, and note their congealed vapours where these had ascended and frozen in shining spidery hands of ice upon the walls and rafters of the byre. Fowls, silver-spangled and black, scratched at the earth from habit, fought for the daily grain with a ferocity the summer never saw, stalked spiritless in puffed plumage about the farmyard and collected with subdued clucking upon their roosts in a barn above the farmyard carts as soon as the sun had dipped behind the hills. Ducks complained vocally, and as they slipped on the glassy pond they quacked out a mournful protest against the times. The snow which fell did not melt, but shone under the red sunshine, powdered into dust beneath hoof and heel; every cart-rut was full of thin white ice, like ground window-glass, that cracked drily and split and tinkled to hobnails or iron-shod wheel. The snow from the house-top, thawed by the warmth within, ran dribbling from the eaves and froze into icicles as thick as a man's arm. These glittered almost to the ground and refracted the sunshine in their prisms. Warm-blooded life suffered for the most part silently, but the inanimate fabric of the farm complained with many a creak and crack and groan in the night watches, while Time's servant the frost gnawed busily at old timbers and thrust steel fingers into brick and mortar. Only the hut-circles, grey glimmering through the snow on Metherill, laughed at those cruel nights, as the Neolithic men who built them may have laughed at the desperate weather of their day; and the cross beside Blanchard's gate, though an infant in age beside them, being fashioned of like material, similarly endured. Of more lasting substance was this stone than an iron tongue stuck into it to latch the gate, for the metal fretted fast and shed rust in an orange streak upon the granite. Where first this relic had risen, when yet its craftsman's work was perfect and before the centuries had diminished its just proportions, no living man might say. Martin Grimbal suspected that it had marked a meeting-place, indicated some Cistercian way, commemorated a notable deed, or served to direct the moorland pilgrim upon his road to that trinity of great monasteries which flourished aforetime at Plympton, at Tavistock, and at Buckland of the Monks; but between its first uprising and its last, a duration of many years doubtless extended. The antiquary's purpose had been to rescue the relic, judge, by close study of the hidden part, to what date it might be assigned, then investigate the history of Newtake Farm, and endeavour to trace the cross if possible. After his second repulse, however, and following upon a conversation with Phoebe, whom he met at Chagford, Martin permitted the matter to remain in abeyance. Now he set about regaining Will's friendship'in a gradual and natural manner. That done, he trusted to disinter the coveted granite at some future date and set it up on sanctified ground in Chagford churchyard, if the true nature of the relic justified that course. For the present, however, he designed no step, for his purpose was to visit the Channel Islands early in the new year, that he might study their testimony to prehistoric times. A winter, to cite whose parallel men looked back full twenty years, still held the land, though February had nearly run. Blanchard daily debated the utmost possibility of his resources with Phoebe, and fought the inclement weather for his early lambs. Such light as came into life at Newtake was furnished by little Will, who danced merrily through ice and snow, like a scarlet flower in his brilliant coat. The cold pleased him; he trod the slippery duck pond in triumph, his bread-and-milk never failed. To Phoebe her maternal right in the infant seemed recompense sufficient for all those tribulations existence just now brought with it; from which conviction resulted her steady courage and cheerfulness. Her husband's nebulous rationalism clouded Phoebe's religious views not at all. She daily prayed to Christ for her child's welfare, and went to church whenever she could, at the express command of her father. A flash of folly from Will had combined with hard weather to keep the miller from any visit to Newtake. Mr. Lyddon, on the beginning of the great frost, had sent two pairs of thick blankets from the Monks Barton stores to Phoebe, and Will, opening the parcel during his wife's absence, resented the gift exceedingly, and returned it by the bearer with a curt message of thanks and the information that he did not need them. Much hurt, the donor turned his face from Newtake for six weeks after this incident, and Phoebe, who knew nothing of the matter, marvelled at her father's lengthy and unusual silence. As for Will, during these black days, the steadfast good temper of his wife almost irritated him; but he saw the prime source of her courage, and himself loved their small son dearly. Once a stray journal fell into his hands, and upon an article dealing with emigration he built secret castles in the air, and grew more happy for the space of a week. His mother ailed a little through the winter, and he often visited her. But in her presence he resolutely put off gloom, spoke with sanguine tongue of the prosperity he foresaw during the coming spring, and always foretold the frost must break within four-and-twenty-hours. Damaris Blanchard was therefore deceived in some measure, and when Will spent five shillings upon a photograph of his son, she felt that the Newtake prospects must at least be more favourable than she feared, and let the circumstance of the picture be generally known. Not until the middle of March came a thaw, and then unchained waters and melted snows roared and tumbled from the hills through every coomb and valley. Each gorge, each declivity contributed an unwonted torrent; the quaking bogs shivered as though beneath them monsters turned in sleep or writhed in agony; the hoarse cry of Teign betokened new tribulations to the ears of those who understood; and over the Moor there rolled and crowded down a sodden mantle of mist, within whose chilly heart every elevation of note vanished for days together. Wrapped in impenetrable folds were the high lands, and the gigantic vapour stretched a million dripping tentacles over forests and wastes into the valleys beneath. Now it crept even to the heart of the woods; now it stealthily dislimned in lonely places; now it redoubled its density and dominated all things. The soil steamed and exuded vapour as a soaked sponge, and upon its surcharged surface splashes and streaks and sheets of water shone pallid and ash-coloured, like blind eyes, under the eternal mists and rains. These accumulations threw back the last glimmer of twilight and caught the first grey signal of approaching dawn; while the land, contrariwise, had welcomed night while yet wan sunsets struggled with the rain, and continued to cherish darkness long after morning was in the sky. Every rut and hollow, every scooped cup on the tors was brimming now; springs unnumbered and unknown had burst their secret places; the water floods tumbled and thundered until their rough laughter rang like a knell in the ears of the husbandmen; and beneath crocketed pinnacles of half a hundred church towers rose the mournful murmur of prayer for fair weather. There came an afternoon in late March when Mr. Blee returned to Monks Barton from Chagford, stamped the mud off his boots and leggings, shook his brown umbrella, and entered the kitchen to find his master reading the Bible. "'Tis all set down, Blee," exclaimed Mr. Lyddon with the triumphant voice of a discoverer. "These latter rains be displayed in the Book, according to my theory that everything 's theer!" "Pity you didn't find 'em out afore they comed; then us might have bought the tarpaulins cheap in autumn, 'stead of payin' through the nose for 'em last month. Now 't is fancy figures for everything built to keep out rain. Rabbit that umberella! It's springed a leak, an' the water's got down my neck." "Have some hot spirits, then, an' listen to this--all set out in Isaiah forty-one--eighteen: 'I will open rivers in high places and fountains in the midst of the valleys; I will make the wilderness a pool of water and the dry land springs of water.' Theer! If that ban't a picter of the present plague o' rain, what should be?" "So 't is; an' the fountains in the midst of the valleys be the awfullest part. Burnish it all! The high land had the worst of the winter, but we in the low coombs be gwaine to get the worst o' the spring--safe as water allus runs down-long." "'T will find its awn level, which the prophet knawed." "I wish he knawed how soon." "'T is in the Word, I'll wager. I may come upon it yet." "The airth be damn near drowned, an' the air's thick like a washin'-day everywheers, an' a terrible braave sight o' rain unshed in the elements yet." "'T will pass, sure as Noah seed a rainbow." "Ess, 't will pass; but Monks Barton's like to be washed to Fingle Bridge fust. Oceans o' work waitin', but what can us be at? Theer ban't a bit o' land you couldn't most swim across." "Widespread trouble, sure 'nough--all awver the South Hams, high an' low." "By the same token, I met Will Blanchard an hour agone. Gwaine in the dispensary, he was. The li'l bwoy's queer--no gert ill, but a bit of a tisseck on the lungs. He got playin' 'bout, busy as a rook, in the dirt, and catched cold." Miller Lyddon was much concerned at this bad news. "Oh, my gude God!" he exclaimed, "that's worse hearin' than all or any you could have fetched down. What do Doctor say?" "Wasn't worth while to call un up, so Will thought. Ban't nothin' to kill a beetle, or I lay the mother of un would have Doctor mighty soon. Will reckoned to get un a dose of physic--an' a few sweeties. Nature's all for the young buds. He won't come to no hurt." "Fust thing morning send a lad riding to Newtake," ordered Mr. Lyddon. "Theer's no sleep for me to-night, no, nor any more at all till I hear tell the dear tibby-lamb's well again. 'Pon my soul, I wonder that headstrong man doan't doctor the cheel hisself." "Maybe he will. Ban't nothin 's beyond him." "I'll go silly now. If awnly Mrs. Blanchard was up theer wi' Phoebe." "Doan't you grizzle about it. The bwoy be gwaine to make auld bones yet--hard as a nut he be. Give un years an' he'll help carry you to the graave in the fulness of time, I promise 'e," said Billy, in his comforting way. CHAPTER VI THE CROSS UPREARED Mr. Blee had but reported Will correctly, and it was not until some hours later that the child at Newtake caused his parents any alarm. Then he awoke in evident suffering, and Will, at Phoebe's frantic entreaty, arose and was soon galloping down through the night for Doctor Parsons. His thundering knock fell upon the physician's door, and a moment later a window above him was opened. "Why can't you ring the bell instead of making that fiendish noise, and waking the whole house? Who is it?" "Blanchard, from Newtake." "What's wrong?" "'T is my bwoy. He've got something amiss with his breathing parts by the looks of it." "Ah." "Doan't delay. Gert fear comed to his mother under the darkness, 'cause he seemed nicely when he went to sleep, then woke up worse. So I felt us had better not wait till morning." "I'll be with you in five minutes." Soon the Doctor appeared down a lane from the rear of the house. He was leading his horse by the bridle. "I'm better mounted than you," he said, "so I'll push forward. Every minute saved is gained." Will thanked him, and Doctor Parsons disappeared. When the father reached home, it was to hear that his child was seriously ill, though nothing of a final nature could be done to combat the sickness until it assumed a more definite form. "It's a grave case," said the physician, drearily in the dawn, as he pulled on his gloves and discussed the matter with Will before departing. "I'll be up again to-night. We mustn't overlook the proverbial vitality of the young, but if you are wise you will school your mind and your wife's to be resigned. You understand." He stroked his peaked naval beard, shook his head, then mounted his horse and was gone. From that day forward life stood still at Newtake, in so far as it is possible for life to do so, and a long-drawn weariness of many words dragged dully of a hundred pages would be necessary to reflect that tale of noctural terrors and daylight respites, of intermittent fears, of nerve-shattering suspense, and of the ebb and flow of hope through a fortnight of time. Overtaxed and overwrought, Phoebe ceased to be of much service in the sick-room after a week without sleep; Will did all that he could, which was little enough; but his mother took her place in the house unquestioned at this juncture, and ruled under Doctor Parsons. The struggle seemed to make her younger again, to rub off the slow-gathering rust of age and charm up all her stores of sense and energy. So they battled for that young life. More than once a shriek from Phoebe would echo to the farm that little Will was gone; and yet he lived; many a time the child's father in his strength surveyed the perishing atom, and prayed to take the burden, all too heavy for a baby's shoulders. In one mood he supplicated, in another cursed Heaven for its cruelty. There came a morning in early April when their physician, visiting Newtake before noon, broke it to husband and wife that the child could scarcely survive another day. He promised to return in the evening, and left them to their despair. Mrs. Blanchard, however, refused to credit this assurance, and cried to them to be hopeful still. In the afternoon Mr. Blee rode up from Monks Barton. Daily a messenger visited Newtake for Mr. Lyddon's satisfaction, but it was not often that Billy came. Now he arrived, however, entered the kitchen, and set down a basket laden with good things. The apartment lacked its old polish and cleanliness. The whitewash was very dirty; the little eight-day clock on the mantelpiece had run down; the begonias in pots on the window-ledge were at death's door for water. Between two of them a lean cat stretched in the sun and licked its paws; beside the fire lay Ship with his nose on the ground; and Will sat close by, a fortnight's beard upon his chin. He looked listlessly up as Mr. Blee entered and nodded but did not speak. "Well, what 's the best news? I've brought 'e fair-fashioned weather at any rate. The air 's so soft as milk, even up here, an' you can see the green things grawin' to make up for lost time. Sun was proper hot on my face as I travelled along. How be the poor little lad?" "Alive, that's all. Doctor's thrawed un awver now." "Never! Yet I've knawed even Parsons to make mistakes. I've brought 'e a braave bunch o' berries, got by the gracious gudeness of Miller from Newton Abbot; also a jelly; also a bottle o' brandy--the auld stuff from down cellar--I brushed the Dartmoor dew, as 't is called, off the bottle myself; also a fowl for the missis." "No call to have come. 'T is all awver bar the end." "Never say it while the child's livin'! They 'm magical li'l twoads for givin' a doctor the lie. You 'm wisht an' weary along o' night watchings." "Us must faace it. Ban't no oncommon thing. Hope's dead in me these many days; an' dying now in Phoebe--dying cruel by inches. She caan't bring herself to say 'gude-by' to the li'l darling bwoy." "What mother could? What do Mrs. Blanchard the elder say?" "She plucks up 'bout it. She 'm awver hopeful." "Doan't say so! A very wise woman her." Phoebe entered at this moment, and Mr. Blee turned from where he was standing by his basket. "I be cheerin' your gude man up," he said. She sighed, and sat down wearily near Will. "I've brought 'e a chick for your awn eatin' an'--" Here a scuffle and snarling and spitting interrupted Billy. The hungry cat, finding a fowl almost under its nose, had leapt to the ground with it, and the dog observed the action. Might is right in hungry communities; Ship asserted himself, and almost before the visitor realised what had happened, poor Phoebe's chicken was gone. "Out on the blamed thieves!" cried Billy, astounded at such manners. He was going to strike the dog, but Will stopped him. "Let un bide," he said. "He didn't take it, an' since it weern't for Phoebe, better him had it than the cat. He works for his livin', she doan't." "Such gwaines-on 'mongst dumb beasts o' the field I never seen!" protested Billy; "an' chickens worth what they be this spring!" Presently conversation drifted into a channel that enabled the desperate, powerless man to use his brains and employ his muscles; while for the mother it furnished a fresh gleam of hope built upon faith. Billy it was who brought about this consummation. Led by Phoebe he ascended to the sick-room and bid Mrs. Blanchard "good-day." She sat with the insensible child on her lap by the fire, where a long-spouted kettle sent forth jets of steam. "This here jelly what I've brought would put life in a corpse I do b'lieve; an' them butivul grapes, tu,--they'll cool his fever to rights, I should judge." "He 'm past all that," said Phoebe. "Never!" cried the other woman. "He'm a bit easier to my thinkin'." "Let me take un then," said the mother. "You'm most blind for sleep." "Not a bit of it. I'll have forty winks later, after Doctor's been again." Will here entered, sat down by his mother, and stroked the child's little limp hand. "He ban't fightin' so hard, by the looks of it," he said. "No more he is. Come he sleep like this till dark, I lay he'll do braave." Nobody spoke for some minutes, then Billy, having pondered the point in silence, suddenly relieved his mind and attacked Will, to the astonishment of all present. "'Tis a black thought for you to knaw this trouble's of your awn wicked hatching, Farmer," he said abruptly; "though it ban't a very likely time to say so, perhaps. Yet theer's life still, so I speak." Will glared speechless; but Billy knew himself too puny and too venerable to fear rough handling. He regarded the angry man before him without fear, and explained his allusion. "You may glaze 'pon me, an' stick your savage eyes out your head; but that doan't alter truth. 'T 'as awnly a bit ago in the fall as I told un what would awvertake un," he continued, turning to the women. "He left the cross what Mr. Grimbal found upsy-down in the airth; he stood up afore the company an' damned the glory of all Christian men. Ess fay, he done that fearful thing, an' if 't weern't enough to turn the Lard's hand from un, what was? Snug an' vitty he weer afore that, so far as anybody knawed; an' since--why, troubles have tumbled 'pon each other's tails like apple-dranes out of a nest." The face of Phoebe was lighted with some eagerness, some deep anxiety, and not a little passion as she listened to this harangue. "You mean that gate-stone brought this upon us?" she asked. "No, no, never," declared Damaris; "'t is contrary to all reason." "'T is true, whether or no; an' any fule, let alone a man as knaws like I do, would tell 'e the same. 'T is common sense if you axes me. Your man was told 't was a blessed cross, an' he flouted the lot of us an' left it wheer 't was. 'T is a challenge, if you come to think of it, a scoffin' of the A'mighty to the very face of Un. I wouldn't stand it myself if I was Him." "Will, do 'e hear Mr. Blee?" asked Phoebe. "I hear un. 'T is tu late now, even if what he said was true, which it ban't." "Never tu late to do a gude deed," declared Billy; "an' you'll have to come to it, or you'll get the skin cussed off your back afore you 'm done with. Gormed if ever I seed sich a man as you! Theer be some gude points about 'e, as everything must have from God A'mighty's workshop, down to poisonous varmints. But certain sure am I that you don't ought to think twice 'pon this job." "Do 'e mean it might even make the differ'nee between life an' death to the bwoy?" asked Phoebe breathlessly. "I do. Just all that." "Will--for God's love, Will!" "What do 'e say, mother?" "It may be truth. Strange things fall out. Yet it never hurted my parents in the past." "For why?" asked Billy. "'Cause they didn't knaw 't was theer, so allowance was made by the Watching Eye. Now 't is differ'nt, an' His rage be waxing." "Your blessed God 's got no common sense, then--an' that's all I've got to say 'bout it. What would you have me do?" Will put the question to Mr. Blee, but his wife it was who answered, being now worked up to a pitch of frenzy at the delay. "Go! Dig--dig as you never digged afore! Dig the holy stone out the ground direckly minute! Now, now, Will, 'fore the life's out of his li'l flutterin' body. Lay bare the cross, an' drag un out for God in heaven to see! Doan't stand clackin' theer, when every moment's worth more'n gawld." "So like's not He'll forgive 'e if 'e do," argued Mr. Blee. "Allowed the Lard o' Hosts graws a bit short in His temper now an' again, as with them gormed Israelites, an' sich like, an' small blame to Him; but He's all for mercy at heart, 'cordin' to the opinion of these times, so you'd best to dig." "Why doan't he strike me down if I've angered Him--not this innocent cheel?" "The sins of the fathers be visited--" began Mr. Blee glibly, when Mrs. Blanchard interrupted. "Ban't the time to argue, Will. Do it, an' do it sharp, if't will add wan grain o' hope to the baaby's chance." The younger woman's sufferings rose to a frantic half-hushed scream at the protracted delay. "O Christ, why for do 'e hold back? Ban't anything worth tryin' for your awn son? I'd scratch the stone out wi' my raw, bleedin' finger-bones if I was a man. Do 'e want to send me mad? Do 'e want to make me hate the sight of 'e? Go--go for love of your mother, if not of me!" "An' I'll help," said Billy, "an' that chap messin' about in the yard can lend a hand likewise. I be a cracked vessel myself for strength, an' past heavy work, but my best is yours to call 'pon in this pass." Will turned and left the sick-room without more words, while Billy followed him. The farmer fetched two picks and a shovel, called Ted Chown and a minute later had struck the first blow towards restoration of his granite cross. All laboured with their utmost power, and Will, who had flung off his coat and waistcoat, bared his arms, tightened his belt, and did the work of two men. The manual labour sweetened his mind a little, and scoured it of some bitterness. While Mr. Blee, with many a grunt and groan, removed the soil as the others broke it away, Blanchard, during these moments of enforced idleness, looked hungrily at the little window of the upper chamber where all his hopes and interests were centred. Then he swung his pick again. Presently a ray of sunlight brightened Newtake, and contributed to soothe the toiling father. He read promise into it, and when three feet below the surface indications of cross-arms appeared upon the stone, Will felt still more heartened. Grimbal's prediction was now verified; and it remained only to prove Billy's prophecy also true. His tremendous physical exertions, the bright setting sunshine, and the discovery of the cross affected Will strangely. His mind swung round from frank irreligion, to a sort of superstitious credulity, awestricken yet joyful, that made him cling to the saving virtue of the stone. Because Martin had been right in his assertion concerning the gate-post, Blanchard felt a hazy conviction that Blee's estimate of the stone's virtue must also prove correct. He saw his wife at the window, and waved to her, and cried aloud that the cross was uncovered. "A poor thing in holy relics, sure 'nough," said Billy, wiping his forehead. "But a cross--a clear cross? Keep workin', Chown, will 'e? You still think 'twill serve, doan't 'e, Blee?" "No room for doubt, though woful out o' repair," answered Billy, occupied with the ancient monument. "Just the stumps o' the arms left, but more'n enough to swear by." All laboured on; then the stone suddenly subsided and fell in such a manner that with some sloping of one side of the excavated pit they were able to drag it out. "Something's talking to me as us have done the wan thing needful," murmured Will, in a subdued voice, but with more light than the sunset on his face. "Something's hurting me bad that I said what I said in the chamber, an' thought what I thought. God's nigher than us might think, minding what small creatures we be. I hope He'll forgive them words." "He's a peacock for eyes, as be well knawn," declared Mr. Blee. "An' He've got His various manners an' customs o' handlin' the human race. Some He softens wi' gude things an' gude fortune till they be bound to turn to Him for sheer shame; others He breaks 'pon the rocks of His wrath till they falls on their knees an' squeals for forgiveness. I've seed it both ways scores o' times; an' if your little lad 's spared to 'e, you'll be brought to the Lard by a easier way than you deserve, Blanchard." "I knaw, I knaw, Mr. Blee. He 'm surely gwaine to let us keep li'l Willy, an' win us to heaven for all time." The cross now lay at their feet, and Billy was about to return to the house and see how matters prospered, when Will bade him stay a little longer. "Not yet," he said. "What more's to do?" "I feel a kind o' message like to set it plumb-true under the sky. Us caan't lift it, but if I pull a plank or two out o' the pig's house an' put a harrow chain round 'em, we could get the cross on an' let a horse pull un up theer to the hill, and set un up. Then us would have done all man can." He pointed to the bosom of the adjacent hill, now glowing in great sunset light. "Starve me! but you 'm wise. Us'll set the thing up under the A'mighty's eye. 'Twill serve--mark my words. 'Twill turn the purpose of the Lard o' Hosts, or I'm no prophet." "'Tis in my head you 'm right. I be lifted up in a way I never was." "The Lard 's found 'e by the looks of it," said Billy critically, "either that, or you 'm light-headed for want of sleep. But truly I think He've called 'e. Now 't is for you to answer." They cleaned the cross with a bucket or two of water, then dragged it half-way up the hill, and, where a rabbit burrow lessened labour, raised their venerable monument under the afterglow. "It do look as if it had been part o' the view for all time," declared Ted Chown, as the party retreated a few paces; and, indeed, the stone rose harmoniously upon its new site, and might have stood an immemorial feature of the scene. Blanchard stayed not a moment when the work was done but strode to Newtake like a jubilant giant, while Mr. Blee and Chown, with the horse, tools, and rough sledge, followed more slowly. The father proceeded homewards at tremendous speed; a glorious hope filled his heart, sharing the same with sorrow and repentance. He mumbled shamefaced prayers as he went, speaking half to himself, half to Heaven. He rambled on from a petition for forgiveness into a broken thanksgiving for the mercy he already regarded as granted. His labours, the glamour of the present achievement, and the previous long strain upon his mind and body, united to smother reason for one feverish hour. Will walked blindly forward, now with his eyes upon the window under Newtake's dark roof below him, now turning to catch sight of the grey cross uplifted on the hill above. A great sweeping sea of change was tumbling through his intellect, and old convictions with scraps of assured wisdom suffered shipwreck in it. His mind was exalted before the certainty of unutterable blessing; his soul clung to the splendid assurance of a Personal God who had wrought actively upon his behalf, and received his belated atonement. Far behind, Mr. Blee was improving the occasion for benefit of young Ted Chown. "See how he do stride the hill wi' his head held high, same as Moses when he went down-long from the Mount. Look at un an' do likewise, Teddy; for theer goes a man as have grasped God! 'Tis a gert, gay day in human life when it comes." Will Blanchard hurried through the farm gate, where it swung idly with its sacred support gone forever; then he drew a great breath and glanced upwards before proceeding into the darkness of the unlighted house. As he did so wheels grated at the entrance, and he knew that Doctor Parsons must be just behind him. Above stairs the sick-room was still unlighted, the long-necked kettle still puffed steam, but the fire had shrunk, and Will's first word was a protest that it had been allowed to sink so low. Then he looked round, and the rainbow in his heart faded and died. Damaris sat like a stone woman by the window; Phoebe lay upon the bed and hugged a little body in a blanket. Her hair had fallen down; out of the great shadows he saw the white blur on her face, and heard her voice sound strange as she cried monotonously, in a tone from which the first passion had vanished through an hour of iteration. "O God, give un back to me; O God, spare un; O kind God, give my li'l bwoy back." CHAPTER VII GREY TWILIGHT In the soft earth they laid him, "the little child whose heart had fallen asleep," and from piling of a miniature mound, from a small brown tumulus, now quite hid under primroses, violets, and the white anemones of the woods, Will Blanchard and his mother slowly returned to Newtake. He wore his black coat; she was also dressed in black; the solitary mourning coach dragged slowly up the hill to the Moor, and elsewhere another like it conveyed Mr. Lyddon homeward. Neither mother nor son had any heart to speak. The man's soul was up in arms; he had rebelled against his life, and since the death of his boy, while Phoebe remained inert in her desolation and languished under a mental and bodily paralysis wherein she had starved to death but for those about her, he, on the contrary, found muscle and mind clamouring for heroic movement. He was feverishly busy upon the farm, and ranged in thought with a savage activity among the great concerns of men. His ill-regulated mind, smarting under the blows of Chance, whirled from that past transient wave of superstitious emotion into an opposite extreme. Now he was ashamed of his weakness, and suffered convictions proper to the narrowness of an immature intellect to overwhelm him. He assured himself that his tribulations were not compatible with the existence of a Supreme Being. Like poor humanity the wide world over, his judgment became vitiated, his views distorted under the stroke of personal sorrow, and, beneath the pressure of that gigantic egotism which ever palsies the mind of man at sudden loss of what he holds dearest upon earth, poor Blanchard cried in his heart there was no God. Here we are faced with a curious parallel, offered within the limits of this narrative. As the old labourer, Blee, had arrived at the same conclusion, then modified it and returned to a creed in the light of subsequent events, so now Will had found himself, on the evening of his child's funeral, with fresh interests aroused and recent convictions shaken. An incipient negation of Deity, built upon the trumpery basis of his personal misfortunes, was almost shattered within the week that saw its first existence. A mystery developed in his path, and startling incidents awoke a new train of credulity akin to that already manifested over the ancient cross. The man's uneven mind was tossed from one extreme of opinion to the other, and that element of superstition, from which no untutored intellect in the lap of Nature is free, now found fresh food and put forth a strong root within him. Returning home, Will approached Phoebe with a purpose to detail the sad, short scene in Chagford churchyard, but his voice rendered her hysterical, so he left her with his mother, put on his working clothes, and wandered out into the farmyard. Presently he found himself idly regarding a new gate-post: that which Martin Grimbal formerly brought and left hard by the farm. Ted Chown had occupied himself in erecting it during the morning. The spectacle reminded Will of another, and he lifted his eyes to the cross on the undulation spread before him. As he did so some object appeared to flutter out of sight not far above it, among the rocks and loose 'clatters' beneath the summit of the tor. This incident did not hold Will's mind, but, prompted to motion, restless, and in the power of dark thoughts, he wandered up the Moor, tramped through the heather, and unwittingly passed within a yard of the monument he had raised upon the hill. He stood a moment and looked at the cross, then cursed and spat upon it. The action spoke definitely of a mental chaos unexampled in one who, until that time, had never lacked abundant self-respect. His deed done, it struck Will Blanchard like a blow; he marvelled bitterly at himself, he knew such an act was pitiful, and remembered that the brain responsible for it was his own. Then he clenched his hands and turned away, and stood and stared out over the world. A wild, south-west wind blew, and fitful rain-storms sped separately across the waste. Over the horizon clouds massed darkly, and the wildernesses spread beneath them were of an inflamed purple. The seat of the sun was heavily obscured at this moment, and the highest illumination cast from sky to earth broke from the north. The effect thus imparted to the scene, though in reality no more than usual, affected the mind as unnatural, and even sinister in its operation of unwonted chiaro-oscuro. Presently the sullen clearness of the distance was swept and softened by a storm. Another, falling some miles nearer, became superimposed upon it. Immediately the darkness of the horizon lifted and light generally increased, though every outline of the hills themselves vanished under falling rain. The turmoil of the clouds proceeded, and after another squall had passed there followed an aerial battle amid towers and pinnacles and tottering precipices of sheer gloom. The centre of illumination wheeled swiftly round to the sun as the storm travelled north, then a few huge silver spokes of wan sunshine turned irregularly upon the stone-strewn desert. Will watched this elemental unrest, and it served to soothe that greater storm of sorrows and self-condemnation then raging within him. His nature found consolation here, the cool hand of the Mother touched his forehead as she passed in her robe of rain, and for the first time since childhood the man hid his face and wept. Presently he moved forward again, walked to the valleys and wandered towards southern Teign, unconsciously calmed by his own random movements and the river's song. Anon, he entered the lands of Metherill, and soon afterwards, without deliberate intention, moved through that Damnonian village which lies there. A moment later and he stood in the hut-circle where he himself had been born. Its double stone courses spread around him, hiding the burrows of the rabbits; and sprung from between two granite blocks, brave in spring verdure, with the rain twinkling in little nests of flower buds as yet invisible, there rose a hawthorn. Within the stones a ewe stood and suckled its young, but there was no other sign of life. Then Blanchard, sitting here to rest and turning his eyes whither he had come, again noticed some sudden movement, but, looking intently at the spot, he saw nothing and returned to his own thoughts. Sitting motionless Will retraced the brief course of his career through long hours of thought; and though his spirit bubbled to white heat more than once during the survey, yet subdued currents of sense wound amid his later reflections. Crushed for a moment under the heavy load of life and its lessons, he presented a picture familiar enough, desirable enough, necessary enough to all humanity, yet pathetic as exemplified in the young and unintelligent and hopeful. It was the picture of the dawn of patience--a patience sprung from no religious inspiration, but representing Will's tacit acknowledgment of defeat in his earlier battles with the world. The emotion did not banish his present rebellion against Fate and evil fortune undeserved; but it caused him to look upon life from a man's standpoint rather than a child's, and did him a priceless service by shaking to their foundations his self-confidence and self-esteem. Selfish at least he was not from a masculine standard, and now his thoughts returned to Phoebe in her misery, and he rose and retraced his steps with a purpose to comfort her if he could. The day began to draw in. Unshed rains massed on the high tors, but towards the west one great band of primrose sky rolled out above the vanished sun and lighted a million little amber lamps in the hanging crystals of the rain. They twinkled on thorns and briars, on the grass, the silver crosiers of uncurling ferns, and all the rusty-red young heather. Then it was that rising from his meditations and turning homeward, the man distinctly heard himself called from some distance. A voice repeated his name twice--in clear tones that might have belonged to a boy or a woman. "Will! Will!" Turning sharply upon a challenge thus ringing through absolute loneliness and silence, Blanchard endeavoured, without success, to ascertain from whence the summons came. He thought of his mother, then of his wife, yet neither was visible, and nobody appeared. Only the old time village spread about him with its hoary granite peering from under caps of heather and furze, ivy and upspringing thorn. And each stock and stone seemed listening with him for the repetition of a voice. The sheep had moved elsewhere, and he stood companionless in that theatre of vanished life. Trackways and circles wound grey around him, and the spring vegetation above which they rose all swam into one dim shade, yet moved with shadows under oncoming darkness. Attributing the voice to his own unsettled spirit, Blanchard proceeded upon his road to where the skeleton of a dead horse stared through the gloaming beside a quaking bog. Its bones were scattered by ravens, and Will used the bleached skull as a stepping stone. Presently he thought of the flame-tongues that here were wont to dance through warm summer nights. This memory recalled his own nickname in Chagford--"Jack-o'-Lantern"--and, for the first time in his life, he began to appreciate its significance. Then, being a hundred yards from his starting-place in the hut-circle, he heard the hidden voice again. Clear and low, it stole over the intervening wilderness, and between two utterances was an interval of some seconds. "Will! Will!" For one instant the crepitation of fear passed over Blanchard's scalp and skin. He made an involuntary stride away from the voice; then he shook himself free of all alarm, and, not desirous to lose more self-respect that day, turned resolutely and shouted back,-- "I hear 'e. What's the business? I be comin' to 'e if you'll bide wheer you be." That some eyes were watching him out of the gathering darkness he did not doubt, and soon pushing back, he stood once more in the ruined citadel of old stones, mounted one, steadied himself by a young ash that rose beside it, and raised his voice again,-- "Now, then! I be here. What's to do? Who's callin' me?" An answer came, but of a sort widely different from what he expected. There arose, within twenty yards of him, a sound that might have been the cry of a child or the scream of a trapped animal. Assuming it to be the latter, Will again hesitated. Often enough he had laughed at the folk-tales of witch hares as among the most fantastic fables of the old; yet at this present moment mystic legends won point from the circumstances in which he found himself. He hurried forward to the edge of a circle from which the sound proceeded. Then, looking before him, he started violently, sank to his knees behind a rock, and so remained, glaring into the ring of stones. * * * * * In less than half an hour Blanchard, with his coat wrapped round some object that he carried, returned to Newtake and summoned assistance with a loud voice. Presently his wife and mother entered the kitchen, whereupon Will discovered his burden and revealed a young child. Phoebe fainted dead away at sight of it, and while her husband looked to her Mrs. Blanchard tended the baby, which was hungry but by no means alarmed. As for Will, his altered voice and most unusual excitement of manner indicated something of the shock he had received. Having described the voice which called him, he proceeded after this fashion to detail what followed: "I looked in the very hut-circle I was born, an' I shivered all over, for I thought 'twas the li'l ghost of our wee bwoy--by God, I did! It sat theer all alone, an' I stared an' froze while I stared. Then it hollered like a gude un, an' stretched out its arms, an' I seed 'twas livin' an' never thought how it comed theer. He 'in somethin' smaller than our purty darling, yet like him in a way, onless I'm forgetting." "'Tis like," said Damaris, dandling the child and making it happy. "'Tis a li'l bwoy, two year old or more, I should guess. It keeps crying 'Mam, mam,' for its mother. God forgive the woman." "A gypsy's baby, I reckon," said Phoebe languidly. "I doan't think it," answered her husband; "I'm most feared to guess what 'tis. Wan thing's sure; I was called loud an' clear or I'd never have turned back; an' yet, second time I was called, my flesh crept." "The little flannels an' frock be thick an' gude, but they doan't shaw nought." "The thing's most as easy to think a miracle as not. He looked up in my eyes as I brought un away, an' after he'd got used to me he was quiet as a mouse an' snuggled to me." "They'd have said 'twas a fairy changeling in my young days," mused Mrs. Blanchard, "but us knaws better now. 'Tis a li'l gypsy, I'll warn 'e, an' some wicked mother's dropped un under your nose to ease her conscience." "What will you do? Take un to the poorhouse?" asked Phoebe. "'Poorhouse'! Never! This be mine, tu. Mine! I was called to it, weern't I? By a human voice or another, God knaws. Theer's more to this than us can see." His women regarded him with blank amazement, and he showed considerable impatience tinder their eyes. It was clear he desired that they should dwell on no purely materialistic or natural explanation of the incident. "Baan't a gypsy baaby," he said; "'tis awnly the legs an' arms of un as be brown. His body's as white as curds, an' his hair's no darker than our awn Willy's was." "If it ban't a gypsy's, whose be it?" said Phoebe, turning to the infant for the first time. "Mine now," answered Will stoutly. "'Twas sent an' give into my awn hand by one what knawed who 'twas they called. My heart warmed to un as he lay in my arms, an' he'm mine hencefarrard." "What do 'e say, Phoebe?" asked Mrs. Blanchard, somewhat apprehensively. She knew full well how any such project must have struck her if placed in the bereaved mother's position. Phoebe, however, made no immediate answer. Her sorrowful eyes were fixed on the child, now sitting happily on the elder woman's lap. "A nice li'l thing, wi' a wunnerful curly head--eh, Phoebe? Seems more 'n chance to me, comin' as it have on this night-black day. An' like our li'l angel, tu, in a way?" asked Will. "Like him--in a way, but more like you," she answered; "more like you than your awn was--terrible straange that--the living daps o' Will! Ban't it?" Damaris regarded her son and then the child. "He be like--very," she admitted. "I see him strong. An' to think he found the bwoy 'pon that identical spot wheer he fust drawed breath himself!" "'Tis a thing of hidden meaning," declared Will. "An' he looked at me kindly fust he seed me; 'twas awnly hunger made un shout--not no fear o' me. My heart warmed to un as I told 'e. An' to come this day!" Phoebe had taken the child, and was looking over its body in a half-dazed fashion for the baby marks she knew. Silently she completed the survey, but there was neither caress in her fingers nor softness in her eyes. Presently she put the child back on Mrs. Blanchard's lap and spoke, still regarding it with a sort of dull, almost vindictive astonishment. "Terrible coorious! Ban't no child as ever I seed or heard tell of; an' nothin' of my dead lamb 'bout it, now I scans closer. But so like to Will! God! I can see un lookin' out o' its baaby eyes!" BOOK IV HIS SECRET CHAPTER I A WANDERER RETURNS Ripe hay swelled in many a silver-russet billow, all brightened by the warm red of sorrel under sunshine. When the wind blew, ripples raced over the bending grasses, and from their midst shone out mauve scabious and flashed occasional poppies. The hot July air trembled agleam with shining insects, and drowsily over the hayfield, punctuated by stridulation of innumerable grasshoppers, there throbbed one sustained murmur, like the remote and mellow music of wood and strings. A lark still sang, and the swallows, whose full-fledged young thrust open beaks from the nests under Newtake eaves, skimmed and twittered above the grass lands, or sometimes dipped a purple wing in the still water where the irises grew. Blanchard and young Ted Chown had set about their annual labour of saving the hay, and now a rhythmic breathing of two scythes and merry clink of whetstones against steel sounded afar on the sleepy summer air. The familiar music came to Phoebe's ear where she sat at an open kitchen window of Newtake. Her custom was at times of hay harvest to assist in the drying of the grass, and few women handled a fork better; but there had recently reached the farm an infant girl, and the mother had plenty to do without seeking beyond her cradle. Phoebe made no demur about receiving Will's little foundling of the hut-circle. His heart's desire was usually her amibition also, and though Timothy, as the child had been called, could boast no mother's love, yet Phoebe proved a kind nurse, and only abated her attention upon the arrival of her own daughter. Then, as time softened the little mound in Chagford churchyard with young green, so before another baby did the mother's bereavement soften, sink deeper into memory, revive at longer intervals to conjure tears. Her character, as has been indicated, admitted of no supreme sustained sorrow. Suffer she did, and fiery was her agony; but another child brought occupation and new love; while her husband, after the first sentimental outburst of affection over the infant he had found at Metherill, settled into an enduring regard for him, associated him, by some mental process impossible of explanation, with his own lost one, and took an interest, blended of many curious emotions, in the child. Drying hay soon filled the air with a pleasant savour, and stretched out grey-green ribbons along the emerald of the shorn meadows. Chown snuffled and sweated and sneezed, for the pollen always gave him hay fever; his master daily worked like a giant from dawn till the owl-light, drank gallons of cider, and performed wonders with the scythe. A great hay crop gladdened the moormen, and Will, always intoxicated by a little fair fortune, talked much of his husbandry, already calculated the value of the aftermath, and reckoned what number of beasts he might feed next winter. "'Most looks as if I'd got a special gift wi' hay," he said to his mother on one occasion. She had let her cottage to holiday folk, and was spending a month on the Moor. Mrs. Blanchard surveyed the scene from under her sunbonnet and nodded. "Spare no trouble, no trouble, an' have it stacked come Saturday. Theer'll be thunder an' gert rains after this heat. Be the rushes ready for thatchin' of it?" "Not yet; but that's not to say I've forgot." "I'll cut some for 'e myself come the cool of the evenin'. An' you can send Ted with the cart to gather 'em up." "No, no, mother. I'll make time to-morrow." "'Twill be gude to me, an' like auld days, when I was a li'l maid. You sharp the sickle an' fetch the skeiner out, tu, for I was a quick hand at bindin' ropes o' rushes, an' have made many a yard of 'em in my time." Then she withdrew from the tremendous sunshine, and Will, now handling a rake, proceeded with his task. Two days later a rick began to rise majestically at the corner of Blanchard's largest field, while round about it was gathered the human life of the farm. Phoebe, with her baby, sat on an old sheepskin rug in the shadow of the growing pile; little Tim rollicked unheeded with Ship in the sweet grass, and clamoured from time to time for milk from a glass bottle; Will stood up aloft and received the hay from Chown's fork, while Mrs. Blanchard, busy with the "skeiner" stuck into the side of the rick, wound stout ropes of rushes for the thatching. Then it was that Will, glancing out upon the Moor, observed a string of gypsy folk making slow progress towards Chagford. Among the various Romany cavalcades which thus passed Newtake in summer time this appeared not the least strange. Two ordinary caravans headed the procession. A man conducted each, a naked-footed child or two trotted beside them, and an elder boy led along three goats. The travelling homes were encumbered with osier-and cane-work, and following them came a little broken-down, open vehicle. This was drawn by two donkeys, harnessed tandem-fashion, and the chariot had been painted bright blue. A woman drove the concern, and in it appeared a knife-grinding machine and a basket of cackling poultry, while some tent-poles stuck out behind. Will laughed at this spectacle, and called his wife's attention to it, whereon Phoebe and Damaris went as far as the gate of the hayfield to win a nearer view. The gypsies, however, had already passed, but Mrs. Blanchard found time to observe the sky-blue carriage and shake her head at it. "What gwaines-on! Theer's no master minds 'mongst them people nowadays," she said. "Your faither wouldn't have let his folk make a show of themselves like that." "They 'm mostly chicken stealers nowadays," declared Will; "an' so surly as dogs if you tell 'em to go 'bout theer business." "Not to none o' your name--never," declared his mother. "No gypsy's gwaine to forget my husband in his son's time. Many gude qualities have they got, chiefly along o' living so much in the awpen air." "An' gude appetites for the same cause! Go after Tim, wan of 'e. He've trotted down the road half a mile, an' be runnin' arter that blue concern as if't was a circus. Theer! Blamed if that damned gal in the thing ban't stoppin' to let un catch up! Now he'm feared, an' have turned tail an' be coming back. 'Tis all right; Ship be wi' un." Presently the greater of Will's two ricks approached completion, and all the business of thatch and spar gads and rush ropes began. At his mother's desire he wasted no time, and toiled on, long after his party had returned to Newtake; but with the dusk he made an end for that day, stood up, rested his back, and scanned the darkening scene before descending. At eveningtide there had spread over the jagged western outlines of the Moor an orange-tawny sunset, whereon the solid masses of the hills burnt into hazy gold, all fairy-bright, unreal, unsubstantial as a cloud-island above them, whose solitary and striated shore shone purple through molten fire. Detail vanished from the Moor; dim and dimensionless it spread to the transparent splendour of the horizon, and its eternal attributes of great vastness, great loneliness, great silence reigned together unfretted by particulars. Gathering gloom diminished the wide glory of the sky, and slowly robbed the pageant of its colour. Then rose each hill and undulation in a different shade of night, and every altitude mingled into the outlines of its neighbour. Nocturnal mists, taking grey substance against the darkness of the lower lands, wound along the rivers, and defined the depths and ridges of the valleys. Moving waters, laden with a last waning gleam, glided from beneath these vapoury exhalations, and even trifling rivulets, now invisible save for chance splashes of light, lacked not mystery as they moved from darkness into darkness with a song. Stars twinkled above the dewy sleep of the earth, and there brooded over all things a prodigious peace, broken only by batrachian croakings from afar. These phenomena Will Blanchard observed; then yellow candle fires twinkled from the dark mass of the farmhouse, and he descended in splendid weariness and strode to supper and to bed. Yet not much sleep awaited the farmer, for soon after midnight a gentle patter of small stones at his window awakened him. Leaping from his bed and looking into the darkness he saw a vague figure that raised its hand and beckoned without words. Fear for the hay was Will's first emotion, but no indication of trouble appeared. Once he spoke, and as he did so the figure beckoned again, then approached the door. Blanchard went down to find a woman waiting for him, and her first whispered word made him start violently and drop the candle and matches that he carried. His ears were opened and he knew Chris without seeing her face. "I be come back--back home-along, brother Will," she said, very quietly. "I looked for mother to home, but found she weern't theer. An' I be sorry to the heart for all the sorrow I've brought 'e both. But it had to be. Strange thoughts an' voices was in me when Clem went, an' I had to hide myself or drown myself--so I went." "God's gudeness! Lucky I be made o' strong stuff, else I might have thought 'e a ghost an' no less. Come in out the night, an' I'll light a candle. But speak soft. Us must break this very gentle to mother." "Say you'll forgive me, will 'e? Can 'e do it? If you knawed half you'd say 'yes.' I'm grawed a auld, cold-hearted woman, wi' a grey hair here an' theer a'ready." "So've I got wan an' another, tu, along o' worse sorrow than yours. Leastways as bad as yourn. Forgive 'e? A thousand times, an' thank Heaven you'm livin'! Wheer ever have 'e bided? An' me an' Grimbal searched the South Hams, an' North, tu, inside out for 'e, an' he put notices in the papers--dozens of 'em." "Along with the gypsy folk for more 'n three year now. 'Twas the movin' an' rovin', and the opening my eyes on new things that saved me from gwaine daft. Sometimes us coined through Chagford, an' then I'd shut my eyes tight an' lie in the van, so's not to see the things his eyes had seen--so's not to knaw when us passed the cottage he lived in. But now I've got to feel I could come back again." "You might have writ to say how you was faring." "I didn't dare. You'd bin sure to find me, an' I didn't want 'e to then. 'Tis awver an' done, an' 'twas for the best." "You'm a woman, an' can say them silly words, an' think 'em true in your heart, I s'pose. 'For the best!' I caan't see much that happens for the best under my eyes. Will 'e have bite or sup?" "No, nothin'. You get back to your bed. Us'll talk in the marnin'. I'll bide here. You an' Phoebe be well, an'--an' dear mother?" "We'm well. You doan't ax me after the fust cheel Phoebe had." "I knaw. I put some violets theer that very night. We were camped just above Chagford, not far from here." "Theer's a li'l gal now, an' a bwoy as I'll tell'e about bimebye. A sheer miracle't was that falled out the identical day I buried my Willy. No natural fashion of words can explain it. But that'll keep. Now let me look at'e. Fuller in the body seemin'ly, an' gypsy-brown, by God! So brown as me, every bit. Well, well, I caan't say nothin'. I'm carried off my legs wi' wonder, an' joy, tu, for that matter. Next to Phoebe an' mother I allus loved 'e best. Gimme a kiss. What a woman, to be sure! Like a thief in the night you went; same way you've comed back. Why couldn't 'e wait till marnin'?" "The childer--they grawed to love me that dear--also the men an' women. They've been gude to me beyond power o' words for faither's sake. They knawed I was gwaine, an' I left 'em asleep. 'T was how they found me when I runned away. I falled asleep from weariness on the Moor, an' they woke me, an' I thrawed in my lot with them from the day I left that pencil-written word for 'e on the window-ledge." "Me bein' in the valley lookin' for your drowned body the while! Women 'mazes me more the wiser I graw. Come this way, to the linhay. There's a sweet bed o' dry fern in the loft, and you must keep out o' sight till mother's told cunning. I'll hit upon a way to break it to her so soon as she's rose. An' if I caan't, Phoebe will. Come along quiet. An' I be gwaine to lock 'e in, Chris, if't is all the same to you. For why? Because you might fancy the van folks was callin' to 'e, an' grow hungry for the rovin' life again." She made no objection, and asked one more question as they went to the building. "How be Mrs. Hicks, my Clem's mother?" "Alive; that's all. A poor auld bed-lier now; just fading away quiet. But weak in the head as a baaby. Mother sees her now an' again. She never talks of nothin' but snuff. 'T is the awnly brightness in her life. She's forgot everythin' 'bout the past, an' if you went to see her, she'd hold out her hand an' say, 'Got a little bit o' snuff for a auld body, dearie? 'an' that's all." They talked a little longer, while Will shook down a cool bed of dry fern--not ill-suited to the sultry night; then Chris kissed him again, and he locked her in and returned to Phoebe. Though the wanderer presently slept peacefully enough, there was little more repose that night for her brother or his wife. Phoebe herself became much affected by the tremendous news. Then they talked into the early dawn before any promising mode of presenting Chris to her mother occurred to them. At breakfast Will followed a suggestion of Phoebe's, and sensibly lessened the shock of his announcement. "A 'mazin' wonnerful dream I had last night," he began abruptly. "I thought I was roused long arter midnight by a gert knocking, an' I went down house an' found a woman at the door. 'Who be you?' I sez. 'Why, I be Chris, brother Will,' she speaks back, 'Chris, come home-along to mother an' you.' Then I seed it was her sure enough, an' she telled me all about herself, an' how she'd dwelt wi' gypsy people. Natural as life it weer, I assure 'e." This parable moved Mrs. Blanchard more strongly than Will expected. She dropped her piece of bread and dripping, grew pale, and regarded her son with frightened eyes. Then she spoke. "Tell me true, Will; don't 'e play with a mother 'bout a life-an'-death thing like her cheel. I heard voices in the night, an' thought 't was a dream--but--oh, bwoy, not Chris, not our awn Chris!--'t would 'most kill me for pure joy, I reckon." "Listen to me, mother, an' eat your food. Us won't have no waste here, as you knaw very well. I haven't tawld 'e the end of the story. Chris, 'pearin' to be back again, I thinks, 'this will give mother palpitations, though 't is quite a usual thing for a darter to come back to her mother,' so I takes her away to the linhay for the night an' locks her in; an' if 't was true, she might be theer now, an' if it weer n't--" Damaris rose, and held the table as she did so, for her knees were weak under her. "I be strong--strong to meet my awn darter. Gimme the key, quick--the key, Will--do 'e hear me, child?" "I'll come along with 'e." "No, I say. What! Ban't I a young woman still? 'T was awnly essterday Chris corned in the world. You just bide with Phoebe, an' do what I tell 'e." Will handed over the key at this order, and Mrs. Blanchard, grasping it without a word, passed unsteadily across the farmyard. She fumbled at the lock, and dropped the key once, but picked it up quickly before Will could reach her, then she unfastened the door and entered. CHAPTER II HOPE RENEWED Jon Grimbal's desires toward Blanchard lay dormant, and the usual interests of life filled his mind. The attitude he now assumed was one of sustained patience and observation; and it may best be described in words of his own employment. Visiting Drewsteignton, about a month after the return of Chris Blanchard to her own, the man determined to extend his ride and return by devious ways. He passed, therefore, where the unique Devonian cromlech stands hard by Bradmere pool. A lane separates this granite antiquity from the lake below, and as John Grimbal rode between them, his head high enough to look over the hedge, he observed a ladder raised against the Spinsters' Rock, as the cromlech is called, and a man with a tape-measure sitting on the cover stone. It was the industrious Martin, home once again. After his difference with Blanchard, the antiquary left Devon for another tour in connection with his work, and had devoted the past six months to study of prehistoric remains in Guernsey, Herm, and other of the Channel Islands. Before departing, he had finally regained his brother's friendship, though the close fraternal amity of the past appeared unlikely to return between them. Now John recognised Martin, and his first impulse produced pleasure, while his second was one of irritation. He felt glad to see his brother; he experienced annoyance that Martin should thus return to Chagford and not call immediately at the Red House. "Hullo! Home again! I suppose you forgot you had a brother?" "John, by all that's surprising! Forget? Was it probable? Have I so many flesh-and-blood friends to remember? I arrived yesterday and called on you this morning, only to find you were at Drewsteignton; so I came to verify some figures at the cromlech, hoping we might meet the sooner." He was beside his brother by this time, and they shook hands over the hedge. "I'll leave the ladder and walk by you and have a chat." "It's too hot to ride at a walk. Come you here to Bradmere Pool. We can lie down in the shade by the water, and I'll tether my horse for half an hour." Five minutes later the brothers sat under the shadow of oaks and beeches at the edge of a little tarn set in fine foliage. "Pleasant to see you," said Martin. "And looking younger I do think. It's the open air. I'll wager you don't get slimmer in the waist-belt though." "Yes, I'm all right." "What's the main interest of life for you now?" John reflected before answering. "Not quite sure. Depends on my mood. Just been buying a greyhound bitch at Drewsteignton. I'm going coursing presently. A kennel will amuse me. I spend most of my time with dogs. They never change. I turn to them naturally. But they overrate humanity." "Our interests are so different. Yet both belong to the fresh air and the wild places remote from towns. My book is nearly finished. I shall publish it in a year's time, or even less." "Have you come back to stop?" "Yes, for good and all now." "You have found no wife in your wanderings?" "No, John. I shall never marry. That was a dark spot in my life, as it was in yours. We both broke our shins over that." "I broke nothing--but another man's bones." He was silent for a moment, then proceeded abruptly on this theme. "The old feeling is pretty well dead though. I look on and watch the man ruining himself; I see his wife getting hard-faced and thin, and I wonder what magic was in her, and am quite content. I wouldn't kick him a yard quicker to the devil if I could. I watch him drift there." "Don't talk like that, dear old chap. You're not the man you pretend to be, and pretend to think yourself. Don't sour your nature so. Let the past lie and go into the world and end this lonely existence." "Why don't you?" "The circumstances are different. I am not a man for a wife. You are, if ever there was one." "I had him within a hair's-breadth once," resumed the other inconsequently. "Blanchard, I mean. There 's a secret against him. You didn't know that, but there is. Some black devilry for all I can tell. But I missed it. Perhaps if I knew it would quicken up my spirit and remind me of all the brute made me endure." "Yet you say the old feeling is dead!" "So it is--starved. Hicks knew. He broke his neck an hour too soon. It was like a dream of a magnificent banquet I had some time ago. I woke with my mouth watering, just as the food was uncovered, and I felt so damned savage at being done out of the grub that I got up and went down-stairs and had half a pint of champagne and half a cold roast partridge! I watch Blanchard go down the hill--that's all. If this knowledge had come to me when I was boiling, I should have used it to his utmost harm, of course. Now I sometimes doubt, even if I could hang the man, whether I should take the trouble to do it." "Get away from him and all thought of him." "I do. He never crosses my mind unless he crosses my eyes. I ride past Newtake occasionally, and see him sweating and slaving and fighting the Moor. Then I laugh, as you laugh at a child building sand castles against an oncoming tide. Poor fool!" "If you pity, you might find it in your heart to forgive." "My attitude is assured. We will call it one of mere indifference. You made up that row over the gate-post when his first child died, didn't you?" "Yes, yes. We shall be friendly--we must be, if only for the sake of the memory of Chris. You and I are frank to-day. But you saw long ago what I tried to hide, so it is no news to you. You will understand. When Hicks died I thought perhaps after years--but that's over now. She 's gone." "Didn't you know? She 's back again." "Back! Good God!" John laughed at his brother's profound agitation. "Like as not you'd see her if you went over Rushford Bridge. She 's back with her mother. Queer devils, all of them; but I suppose you can have her for the asking now if you couldn't before. Damnably like her brother she is. She passed me two days ago, and looked at me as if I was transparent, or a mere shadow hiding something else." A rush of feeling overwhelmed Martin before this tremendous news. He could not trust himself to speak. Then a great hope wrestled with him and conquered. In his own exaltation he desired to see all whom he loved equally lifted up towards happiness. "I wish to Heaven you would open your eyes and raise them from your dogs and find a wife, John." "Ah! We all want the world to be a pretty fairy tale for our friends. You scent your own luck ahead, and wish me to be lucky too. I ought to thank you for that; but, instead, I'll give you some advice. Don't bother yourself with the welfare of others; to do that is to ruin your own peace of mind and court more trouble than your share. Every big-hearted man is infernally miserable--he can't help it. The only philosopher's stone is a stone heart; that is what the world 's taught me." "Never! You're echoing somebody else, not yourself, I'll swear. I know you better. We must see much of each other in the future. I shall buy a little trap that I may drive often to the Red House. And I should like to dedicate my book to you, if you would take it as a compliment." "No, no; give it to somebody who may be able to serve you. I'm a fool in such things and know no more about the old stones than the foxes and rabbits that burrow among them. Come, I must get home. I'm glad you have returned, though I hated you when you supported them against me; but then love of family 's a mere ghost against love of women. Besides, how seldom it is that a man's best friend is one of his own blood." They rose and departed. John trotted away through Sandypark, having first made Martin promise to sup with him that night, and the pedestrian proceeded by the nearest road to Rushford Bridge. Chris he did not see, but it happened that Mr. Lyddon met him just outside Monks Barton, and though Martin desired no such thing at the time, nothing would please the miller but that his friend should return to the farm for some conversation. "Home again, an' come to glasses, tu! Well, they clear the sight, an' we must all wear 'em sooner or late. 'T is a longful time since I seed 'e, to be sure." "All well, I hope?" "Nothing to grumble at. Billy an' me go down the hill as gradual an' easy as any man 's a right to expect. But he's gettin' so bald as a coot; an' now the shape of his head comes to be knawed, theer 's wonnerful bumps 'pon it. Then your brother's all for sport an' war. A Justice of the Peace they've made un, tu. He's got his volunteer chaps to a smart pitch, theer's no gainsaying. A gert man for wild diversions he is. Gwaine coursin' wi' long-dogs come winter, they tell me." "And how are Phoebe and her husband?" "A little under the weather just now; but I'm watchin' 'em unbeknawnst. Theer's a glimmer of hope in the dark if you'll believe it, for Will ackshally comed to me esster-night to ax my advice--_my_ advice--on a matter of stock! What do 'e think of that?" "He was fighting a losing battle in a manly sort of way it seemed to me when last I saw him." "So he was, and is. I give him eighteen month or thereabout--then'll come the end of it." "The 'end'! What end? You won't let them starve? Your daughter and the little children?" "You mind your awn business, Martin," said Mr. Lyddon, with nods and winks. "No, they ban't gwaine to starve, but my readin' of Will's carater has got to be worked out. Tribulation's what he needs to sweeten him, same as winter sweetens sloes; an' 't is tribulation I mean him to have. If Phoebe's self caan't change me or hurry me 't is odds you won't. Theer's a darter for 'e! My Phoebe. She'll often put in a whole week along o' me still. You mind this: if it's grawn true an' thrawn true from the plantin', a darter's love for a faither lasts longer 'n any mortal love at all as I can hear tell of. It don't wear out wi' marriage, neither, as I've found, thank God. Phoebe rises above auld age and the ugliness an' weakness an' bad temper of auld age. Even a poor, doddering ancient such as I shall be in a few years won't weary her; she'll look back'ards with butivul clear eyes, an' won't forget. She'll see--not awnly a cracked, shrivelled auld man grizzling an' grumbling in the chimbley corner, but what the man was wance--a faither, strong an' lusty, as dandled her, an' worked for, an' loved her with all his heart in the days of his bygone manhood. Ess, my Phoebe's all that; an' she comes here wi' the child; an' it pleases me, for rightly onderstood, childern be a gert keeper-off of age." "I'm sure she's a good daughter to you, Miller. And Will?" "Doan't you fret. We've worked it out in our minds--me an' Billy; an' if two auld blids like us can't hatch a bit o' wisdom, what brains is worth anything? We'm gwaine to purify the awdacious young chap 'so as by fire,' in holy phrase." "You're dealing with a curious temperament." "I'm dealing with a damned fule," said Mr. Lyddon frankly; "but theer's fules an' fules, an' this partickler wan's grawed dear to me in some ways despite myself. 'T is Phoebe's done it at bottom I s'pose. The man's so full o' life an' hope. Enough energy in un for ten men; an' enough folly for twenty. Yet he've a gude heart an' never lied in's life to my knawledge." "That's to give him praise, and high praise. How's his sister? I hear she's returned after all." "Ess--naughty twoad of a gal--runned arter the gypsies! But she'm sobered now. Funny to think her mother, as seemed like a woman robbed of her right hand when Chris went, an' beginned to graw into the sere onusual quick for a widow, took new life as soon as her gal comed back. Just shaws what strength lies in a darter, as I tell 'e." The old man's garrulity gained upon him, and though Martin much desired to be gone, he had not the heart to hasten. "A darter's the thing an'--but't is a secret yet--awnly you'll see what you'll see. Coourse Billy's very well for gathered wisdom and high conversation 'bout the world to come; but he ban't like a woman round the house, an' for all his ripe larnin' he'll strike fire sometimes--mostly when I gives him a bad beating at 'Oaks' of a evenin'. Then he'm so acid as auld rhubarb, an' dots off to his bed wi'out a 'gude-night.'" For another ten minutes Mr. Lyddon chattered, but at the end of that time Martin escaped and proceeded homewards. His head throbbed and his mind was much excited by the intelligence of the day. The yellow stubbles, the green meadows, the ploughed lands similarly spun before him and whirled up to meet the sky. As he re-entered the village a butcher's cart nearly knocked him down. Hope rose in a glorious new sunrise--the hope that he had believed was set for ever. Then, passing that former home of Clement Hicks and his mother, did Grimbal feel great fear and misgiving. The recollection of Chris and her love for the dead man chilled him. He remembered his own love for Chris when he thought she must be dead. He told himself that he must hope nothing; he repeated to himself how fulfilment of his desire, now revived after long sleep, might still be as remote as when Chris Blanchard said him nay in the spring wastes under Newtake five years and more ago. His head dinned this upon his heart; but his heart would not believe and responded with a sanguine song of great promise. CHAPTER III ANSWERED At a spot in the woods some distance below Newtake, Martin Grimbal sat and waited, knowing she whom he sought must pass that way. He had called at the farm and been welcomed by Phoebe. Will was on the peat beds, and, asking after Chris, he learnt that she had gone into the valley to pick blackberries and dewberries, where they already began to ripen in the coombs. Under aisles of woodland shadows he sat, where the river murmured down mossy stairs of granite in a deep dingle. Above him, the varying foliage of oak and ash and silver birch was already touched with autumn, and trembled into golden points where bosses of pristine granite, crowned with the rowan's scarlet harvest, arose above their luxuriance. The mellow splendour of these forests extended to the river's brink, along which towered noble masses of giant osmunda, capped by seed spears of tawny red. Here and there gilded lances splashed into the stream or dotted its still pools with scattered sequins of sunshine, where light winnowed through the dome of the leaves; and at one spot, on a wrinkled root that wound crookedly from the alder into the river, there glimmered a halcyon, like an opal on a miser's bony finger. From above the tree-tops there sounded cynic bird-laughter, and gazing upwards Martin saw a magpie flaunt his black and white plumage across the valley; while at hand the more musical merriment of a woodpecker answered him. Then a little child's laugh came to his ear, rippling along with the note of the babbling water, and one moment later a small, sturdy boy appeared. A woman accompanied him. She had slipped a foot into the river, and thus awakened the amusement of her companion. Chris steadied herself after the mishap, balanced her basket more carefully, then stooped down to pick some of the berries that had scattered from it on the bank. When she rose a man with a brown face and soft grey eyes gleaming through gold-rimmed spectacles appeared immediately before. "Thank God I see you alive again. Thank God!" he said with intense feeling, as he took her hand and shook it warmly. "The best news that ever made my heart glad, Chris." She welcomed him, and he, looking into her eyes, saw new knowledge there, a shadow of sobriety, less of the old dance and sparkle. But he remembered the little tremulous updrawing of her lip when a smile was born, and her voice rang fuller and sweeter than any music he had ever heard since last she spoke to him. A smile of welcome she gave him, indeed, and a pressure of his hand that sent magic messages with it to the very core of him. He felt his blood leap and over his glasses came a dimness. "I was gwaine to write first moment I heard 'e was home. An' I wish I had, for I caan't tell 'e what I feel. To think of 'e searchin' the wide world for such a good-for-nought! I thank you for your generous gudeness, Martin. I'll never forget it--never. But I wasn't worth no such care." "Not worth it! It proved the greatest, bitterest grief of all my life--but one--that I couldn't find you. We grew by cruel stages to think--to think you were dead. The agony of that for us! But, thank God, it was not so. All at least is well with you now?" "All ban't never well with men an' women. But I'm more fortunate than I deserve to be, and can make myself of use. I've lived a score of years since we met. An I've comed back to find't is a difficult world for those I love best, unfortunately." Thus, in somewhat disjointed fashion, Chris made answer. "Sit a while and speak to me," replied Martin. "The laddie can play about. Look at him marching along with that great branch of king fern over his shoulder!" "'T is an elfin cheel some ways. Wonnerful eyes he've got. They burn me if I look at'em close," said Chris. She regarded Timothy without sentiment and her eyes were bright and hard. "I hope he will turn out well. Will spoke of him the other day. He is very fond of the child. It is singularly like him, too--a sort of little pocket edition of him." "So I've heard others say. Caan't see it at all myself. Look at the eyes of un." "Will believes the boy has got very unusual intelligence and may go far." "May go so far as the workhouse," she answered, with a laugh. Then, observing that her reply pained Martin, Chris snatched up small Tim as he passed by and pressed him to her breast and kissed him. "You like him better than you think, Chris--poor little motherless thing." "Perhaps I do. I wonder if his mother ever looks hungry towards Newtake when she passes by?" "Perhaps others took him and told the mother that he was dead." "She's dead herself more like. Else the thing wouldn't have falled out." There was a pause, then Martin talked of various matters. But he could not fight for long against the desire of his heart and presently plunged, as he had done five years before, into a proposal. "He being gone--poor Clem--do you think--? Have you thought, I mean? Has it made a difference, Chris? 'T is so hard to put it into words without sounding brutal and callous. Only men are selfish when they love." "What do you mean?" she asked. A sudden inspiration prompted his reply. He said nothing for a moment, but with a hand that shook somewhat, drew forth his pocketbook, opened it, fumbled within, and then handed over to Chris the brown ruins of flowers long dead. "You picked them," he said slowly; "you picked them long ago and flung them away from you when you said 'No' to me--said it so kindly in the past. Take them in your hand again." "Dead bluebells," she answered. "Ess, I can call home the time. To think you gathered them up!" She looked at him with something not unlike love in her eyes and fingered the flowers gently. "You'm a gude man, Martin --the husband for a gude lass. Best to find one if you can. Wish I could help'e." "Oh, Chris, there's only one woman in the world for me. Could you--even now? Could you let me stand between you and the world? Could you, Chris? If you only knew what I cannot put into words. I'd try so hard to make you happy." "I knaw, I knaw. But theer's no human life so long as the road to happiness, Martin. And yet--" He took her hand and for a moment she did not resist him. Then little Tim's voice chimed out merrily at the stream margin, and the music had instant effect upon Chris Blanchard. She drew her hand from Martin and the next moment he saw his dead bluebells hurrying away and parting company for ever on the dancing water. Chris watched them until they vanished; then she turned and looked at him, to find that he grew very pale and agitated. Even his humility had hardly foreseen this decisive answer after the yielding attitude Chris first assumed when she suffered him to hold her hand. He looked into her face inquiring and frightened. The silence that followed was broken by continued laughter and shouting from Timothy. Then Martin tried to connect the child's first merriment with the simultaneous change in the mood of the woman he worshipped, but failed to do so. At that moment Chris spoke. She made utterance under the weight of great emotion and with evident desire to escape the necessity of a direct negative, while yet leaving her refusal of Martin's offer implicit and distinct. "I mind when a scatter of paper twinkled down this river just like them dead blossoms. Clem thrawed them, an' they floated away to the sea, past daffadowndillies an' budding lady-ferns an' such-like. 'T was a li'l bit of poetry he'd made up to please me--and I, fule as I was, didn't say the right thing when he axed me what I thought; so Clem tore the rhymes in pieces an' sent them away. He said the river would onderstand. An' the river onderstands why I dropped them dead blossoms in, tu. A wise, ancient stream, I doubt. An' you 'm wise, tu; an' can take my answer wi'out any more words, as will awnly make both our hearts ache." "Not even if I wait patiently? You couldn't marry me, dear Chris? You couldn't get to love me?" "I couldn't marry you. I'm a widow in heart for all time. But I thank God for the gude-will of such a man as you. I cherish it and 't will be dear to me all my life. But I caan't come to 'e, so doan't ax it." "Yet you're young to live for a memory, Chris." "Better 'n nothing. And listen; I'll tell you this, if 't will make my 'No' sound less hard to your ear. I loves you--I loves you better 'n any living man 'cept Will, an' not less than I love even him. I wish I could bring 'e a spark of joy by marryin' you, for you was allus very gude, an' thought kindly of Clem when but few did. I'd marry you if 't was awnly for that; yet it caan't never be, along o' many reasons. You must take that cold comfort, Martin." He sighed, then spoke. "So be it, dear one. I shall never ask again. God knows what holds you back if you can even love me a little." "Ess, God knaws--everything." "I must not cry out against that. Yet it makes it all the harder. To think that you will dedicate all your beautiful life to a memory! it only makes my loss the greater, and shows the depths of you to me." She uttered a little scream and her cheek paled, and she put up her hands with the palms outward as though warding away his words. "Doan't 'e say things like that or give me any praise, for God's sake. I caan't bear it. I be weak, weak flesh an' blood, weaker 'n water. If you could only see down in my heart, you'd be cured of your silly love for all time." He did not answer, but picked up her basket and proceeded with her out of the valley. Chris gave a hand to the child, and save for Tim's prattle there was no speaking. At length they reached Newtake, when Martin yielded up the basket and bade Chris "good-night." He had already turned, when she called him back in a strange voice. "Kiss the li'l bwoy, will 'e? I want 'e to. I'm that fond of un. An' he 'peared to take to 'e; an' he said 'By-by' twice to 'e, but you didn't hear un." Then the man kissed Tim on a small, purple-stained mouth, and saw his eyes very lustrous with sleep, for the day was done. Woman and child disappeared; the sacking nailed along the bottom of Newtake Gate to keep the young chicks in the farmyard rustled over the ground, and Martin, turning his face away, moved homewards. But the veil was not lifted for him; he did not understand. A secret, transparent enough to any who regarded Chris Blanchard and her circumstances from a point without the theatre of action, still remained concealed from all who loved her. CHAPTER IV THE END OF THE FIGHT Will Blanchard was of the sort who fight a losing battle, "Still puffing in the dark at one poor coal, Held on by hope till the last spark is out." But the extinction of his ambitions, the final failure of his enterprise happened somewhat sooner than Miller Lyddon had predicted. There dawned a year when, just as the worst of the winter was past and hope began to revive for another season, a crushing catastrophe terminated the struggle. Mr. Blee it was who brought the ill news to Monks Barton, having first dropped it at Mrs. Blanchard's cottage and announced it promiscuously about the village. Like a dog with a bone he licked the intelligence over and, by his delay in imparting the same, reduced his master to a very fever of irritation. "Such a gashly thing! Of all fules! The last straw I do think. He's got something to grumble at now, poor twoad. Your son-in-law; but now--theer--gormed if I knaw how to tell 'e!" Alarmed at this prelude, with its dark hints of unutterable woe, Mr. Lyddon took off his spectacles in some agitation, and prayed to know the worst without any long-drawn introduction. "I'll come to it fast enough, I warn 'e. To think after years an' years he didn't knaw the duffer'nce 'twixt a bullock an' a sheep! Well--well! Of coourse us knawed times was tight, but Jack-o'-Lantern be to the end of his dance now. 'T is all awver." "What's the matter? Come to it, caan't 'e?" "No ill of the body--not to him or the fam'ly. An' you must let me tell it out my awn way. Well, things bein' same as they are, the bwoy caan't hide it. Dammy! Theer's patches in the coat of un now--neat sewed, I'll grant 'e, but a patch is a patch; an' when half a horse's harness is odds an' ends o' rope, then you knaw wi'out tellin' wheer a man be driving to. 'T is 'cordin' to the poetry!-- "'Out to elbows, Out to toes, Out o' money, Out o' clothes.' But--" "Caan't 'e say what's happened, you chitterin' auld magpie? I'll go up village for the news in a minute. I lay 'tis knawn theer." "Ban't I tellin' of 'e? 'Tis like this. Will Blanchard's been mixin' a bit of chopped fuzz with the sheep's meal these hard times, like his betters. But now I've seed hisself today, lookin' so auld as Cosdon 'bout it. He was gwaine to the horse doctor to Moreton. An' he tawld me to keep my mouth shut, which I've done for the most paart." "A little fuzz chopped fine doan't hurt sheep." "Just so. 'Cause why? They aint got no 'bibles' in their innards; but he've gone an' given it same way to the bullocks." "Gude God!" "'Tis death to beasts wi' 'bibles.' An' death it is. The things caan't eat such stuff' cause it sticketh an' brings inflammation. I seed same fule's trick done wance thirty year ago; an' when the animals weer cut awpen, theer 'bibles' was hell-hot wi' the awfulest inflammation ever you heard tell of." "How many's down? 'Twas all he had to count upon." "Awnly eight standin' when he left. I could have cried 'bout it when he tawld me. He 'm clay in the Potter's hand for sartain. Theer's nought squenches a chap like havin' the bailiffs in." "Cruel luck! I'd meant to let him be sold out for his gude--but now." "Do what you meant to. Doan't go back on it. 'Tis for his gude. 'Twas his awn mistake. He tawld me the blame was his. Let un get on the bed rock. Then he'll be meek as a worm." "I doubt it. A sale of his goods will break his heart." "Not it! He haven't got much as'll be hard to paart from. Stern measures--stern measures for his everlastin' welfare. Think of the wild-fire sawl of un! Never yet did a sawl want steadin' worse'n his. Keep you to the fust plan, and he'll thank'e yet." Elsewhere two women--his wife and sister--failed utterly in well-meaning efforts to comfort the stricken farmer. Presently, before nightfall, Mrs. Blanchard also arrived at Newtake, and Will listened dully with smouldering eyes as his mother talked. The veterinary surgeon from Moreton had come, but his efforts were vain. Only two beasts out of five-and-twenty still lived. "Send for butcher," he said. "He'll be more use than I can be. The thing is done and can't be undone." Chris entered most closely into her brother's feelings and spared him the expressions of sorrow and sympathy which stung him, even from his mother's lips, uttered at this crisis. She set about preparing supper, which weeping Phoebe had forgotten. "You'll weather it yet, bwoy," Mrs. Blanchard said. "Theer's a little bit as I've got stowed away for'e; an' come the hay--" "Doan't talk that way. 'Tis done with now. I'm quite cool'pon it. We must go as we'm driven. No more gropin' an' fightin' on this blasted wilderness for me, that's all. I be gwaine to turn my back 'pon it--fog an' filthy weather an' ice an' snow. You wants angels from heaven to help 'e, if you're to do any gude here; an' heaven's long tired o' me an' mine. So I'll make shift to do wi'out. An' never tell me no more lies 'bout God helpin' them as helps themselves, 'cause I've proved it ban't so. I be gwaine to furrin' lands to dig for gawld or di'monds. The right build o' man for gawld-seekin', me; 'cause I've larned patience an' caan't be choked off a job tu easy." "Think twice. Bad luck doan't dog a man for ever. An' Phoebe an' the childer." "My mind's made up. I figured it out comin' home from Moreton. I'm away in six weeks or less. A chap what's got to dig for a livin' may just as well handle his tools where theer's summat worth findin' hid in the land, as here, on this black, damned airth, wheer your pick strikes fire out o' stone twenty times a day. The Moor's the Moor. Everybody knaws the way of it. Scratch its faace an' it picks your pocket an' breaks your heart--not as I've got a heart can be broken." "If 'e could awnly put more trust in the God of your faithers, my son. He done for them, why shouldn't He do for you?" "Better ax Him. Tired of the fam'ly, I reckon." "You hurt your mother, Will, tellin' so wicked as that." "An' faither so cruel," sobbed Phoebe. "I doan't knaw what ever us have done to set him an' God against us so. I've tried that hard; an' you've toiled till the muscles shawed through your skin; an' the li'l bwoy took just as he beginned to string words that butivul; an' no sign of another though't is my endless prayer." "The ways of Providence--" began Mrs. Blanchard drearily; but Will stopped her, as she knew he would. "Doan't mother--I caan't stand no more on that head today. I'll dare anybody to name Providence more in my house, so long as 'tis mine. Theer's the facts to shout out 'gainst that rot. A honest, just, plain-dealin' man--an' look at me." "Meantime we're ruined an' faither doan't hold out a finger." "Take it stern an' hard like me. 'Tis all chance drawin' of prize or blank in gawld diggin'. The 'new chums,' as they call 'em, often finds the best gawld, 'cause they doan't knaw wheer to look for it, an' goes pokin' about wheer a skilled man wouldn't. That's the crooked way things happen in this poor world." "You wouldn't go--not while I lived, sure? I couldn't draw breath comfortable wi'out knawin' you was breathin' the same air, my son." "You'll live to knaw I was in the right. If fortune doan't come to you, you must go to it, I reckon. Anyways, I ban't gwaine to bide here a laughing-stock to Chagford; an' you'm the last to ax me to." "Miller would never let Phoebe go." "I shouldn't say 'by your leave' to him, I promise'e. He can look on an' see the coat rottin' off my back in this desert an' watch his darter gwaine thin as a lath along o' taking so much thought. He can look on at us, hisself so comfortable as a maggot in a pear, an' see. Not that I'd take help--not a penny from any man. I'm not gwaine to fail. I'll be a snug chap yet." The stolid Chown entered at this moment. "Butcher'll be up bimebye. An' the last of em's failed down," he said. "So be it. Now us'll taake our supper," answered his master. The meal was ready and presently Blanchard, whose present bitter humour prompted him to simulate a large indifference, made show of enjoying his food. He brought out the brandy for his mother, who drank a little with her supper, and helped himself liberally twice or thrice until the bottle was half emptied. The glamour of the spirit made him optimistic, and he spoke with the pseudo-philosophy that alcohol begets. "Might have been worse, come to think of it. If the things weren't choked, I doubt they'd been near starved. 'Most all the hay's done, an' half what's left--a load or so--I'd promised to a chap out Manaton way. But theer't is--my hand be forced, that's all. So time's saved, if you look at it from a right point." "You'm hard an' braave, an' you've got a way with you 'mong men. Faace life, same as faither did, an' us'll look arter Phoebe an' the childer," said Chris. "I couldn't leave un," declared Will's wife. "'T is my duty to keep along wi'un for better or worse." "Us'll talk 'bout all that later. I be gwaine to act prompt an' sell every stick, an' then away, a free man." "All our furniture an' property!" moaned Phoebe, looking round her in dismay. "All--to the leastest bit o' cracked cloam." "A forced sale brings nought," sighed Damaris. "Theer's hunderds o' pounds o' gude chattels here, an' they doan't go for a penny less than they 'm worth. Because I'm down, ban't no reason for others to try to rob me. If I doan't get fair money I'll make a fire wi' the stuff an' burn every stick of it." "The valuer man, Mr. Bambridge, must be seen, an' bills printed out an' sticked 'pon barn doors an' such-like, same as when Mrs. Lezzard died," said Phoebe. "What'll faither think then?" Will laughed bitterly. "I'll see a few's dabbed up on his awn damned outer walls, if I've got to put 'em theer myself. An' as to the lists, I'll make 'em this very night. Ban't my way to let the dust fall upon a job marked for doin'. To-night I'll draw the items." "Us was gwaine to stay along with 'e, Will," said his mother. "Very gude--as you please. Make shake-downs in the parlour, an' I'll write in the kitchen when you'm gone to bed. Set the ink an' pen an' paper out arter you've cleared away. I'm allowed to be peart enough in matters o' business anyway, though no farmer o' course, arter this." "None will dare to say any such thing," declared Phoebe. "You can't do miracles more than others." "I mind when Ellis, to Two Streams Farm, lost a mort o' bullocks very same way," said Mrs. Blanchard. "'Tis that as they'll bring against me an' say, wi' such a tale in my knawledge, I ought to been wiser. But I never heard tell of it before, though God knows I've heard the story often enough to-day." It was now dark, and Will, lighting a lantern, rose and went out into the yard. From the kitchen window his women watched him moving here and there; while, as he passed, the light revealed great motionless, rufous shapes on every hand. The corpses of the beasts hove up into the illumination and then vanished again as the narrow circle of lantern light bobbed on, jerking to the beat of Will's footsteps. From the window Damaris observed her son make a complete perambulation of his trouble without comment. Then a little emotion trembled on her tongue. "God's hand be lifted 'gainst the bwoy, same as 't was 'gainst the patriarch Job seemin'ly. Awnly he bent to the rod and Will--" "He'm noble an' grand under his sorrows. Who should knaw but me?" cried Phoebe. "A man in ten thousand, he is, an' never yields to no rod. He'll win his way yet; an' I be gwaine to cleave to un if he travels to the other end o' the airth." "I doan't judge un, gal. God knaws he's been the world to me since his faither died. He'm my dear son. But if he'd awnly bend afore the A'mighty breaks him." "He's got me." "Ess, an' he'm mouldin' you to his awn vain pride an' wrong ways o' thinking. If you could lead un right, 't would be a better wife's paart." "He'm wiser'n me, an' stronger. Ban't my place to think against him. Us'll go our ways, childern tu, an' turn our backs 'pon this desert. I hate the plaace now, same as Will." Chris here interrupted Phoebe and called her from the other room. "Wheer's the paper an' ink to? I be setting out the things against Will comes in. He axed for 'em to be ready, 'cause theer's a deal o' penmanship afore him to-night. An' wheer's that li'l dictionary what I gived un years ago? I lay he'll want it." CHAPTER V TWO MIGHTY SURPRISES Will returned from survey of his tribulation. Hope was dead for the moment, and death of hope in a man of Blanchard's character proved painful. The writing materials distracted his mind. Beginning without interest, his composition speedily absorbed him; and before the task was half completed, he already pictured it set out in great black or red print upon conspicuous places. "I reckon it'll make some of 'em stare to see the scholar I am, anyways," he reflected. Through the hours of night he wrote and re-wrote. His pen scratched along, echoed by an exactly similar sound from the wainscots, where mice nibbled in the silence. Anon, from the debris of his composition, a complete work took shape; and when Phoebe awoke at three o'clock, discovered her husband was still absent, and sought him hurriedly, she found the inventory completed and Will just fastening its pages together with a piece of string. He was wide awake and in a particularly happy humour. "Ban't you never comin' to bed? 'T is most marnin'," she said. "Just comin'. What a job! Look here--twelve pages. I be surprised myself to think how blamed well I've got through wi' it. You doan't knaw what you can do till you try. I used to wonder at Clem's cleverness wi' a pen; but I be purty near so handy myself an' never guessed it!" "I'm sure you've made a braave job of it. I'll read it fust thing to-morrow." "You shall hear it now." "Not now, Will; 't is so late an' I'm three paarts asleep. Come to bed, dearie." "Oh--if you doan't care--if it's nought to you that I've sit up all night slavin' for our gude--" "Then I'll hear it now. Coourse I knaw 't is fine readin'. Awnly I thought you'd be weary." "Sit here an' put your toes to the heat." He set Phoebe in the chimney corner, wrapped his coat round her, and threw more turf on the fire. "Now you'm vitty; an' if theer's anything left out, tell me." "I lay, wi' your memory, you've forgot little enough." "I lay I haven't. All's here; an' 't is a gert wonder what a lot o' gude things us have got. They did ought to fetch a couple o' hunderd pound at least, if the sale's carried out proper." "They didn't cost so much as that." "By Gor! Didn't they? Well, set out in full, like this here, they do sound as if they ought to be worth it. Now, I'll read 'em to see how it all sounds in spoken words." He cleared his throat and began: "'Sale this day to Newtake Farm, near Chagford, Dartmoor, Devonshire. Mr. William Blanchard, being about to leave England for foreign parts, desires to sell at auction his farm property, household goods, cloam, and effects, etc., etc., as per items below, to the best bidder. Many things so good as new.' How do 'e like that, Phoebe?" "Butivul; but do 'e mean in all solemn seriousness to go out England? 'T is a awful thought, come you look at it close." "Ess, 't is a gert, bold thing to do; but I doan't fear it. I be gettin' into a business-like way o' lookin' 'pon life of late; an' I counts the cost an' moves arter, as is the right order. Listen to these items set out here. If they 'm printed big, wan under t'other, same as I've wrote 'em, they'll fill a barn door purty nigh!" Then he turned to his papers. "'The said goods and chattels are as follows, namely,'--reg'lar lawyer's English, you see, though how I comed to get it so pat I caan't tell. Yet theer 'tis--'namely, 2 washing trays; 3 zinc buckets; 1 meat preserve; 1 lantern; 2 bird-cages; carving knife and steel (Sheffield make)--'" "Do'e judge that's the best order, Will?" "Coourse 't is! I thought that out specially. Doan't go thrawin' me from my stride in the middle. Arter 'Sheffield make,' 'half-dozen knives and forks; sundry ditto, not so good; hand saw; 2 hammers; 1 cleaver; salting trendle; 3 wheelbarrows--'" "Doan't forget you lent wan of 'em to Farmer Thackwell." "No, I gived it to un, him bein' pushed for need of wan. It slipped my memory. '2 wheelbarrows.' Then I goes on, 'pig stock; pig trough; 2 young breeding sows; 4 garden tools; 2 peat cutters; 2 carts; 1 market trap; 1 empty cask; 1 Dutch oven; 1 funnel; 2 firkins and a cider jib; small sieve; 3 pairs new Bedford harrows; 1 chain harrow (out of repair).' You see all's straight enough, which it ban't in some sales. No man shall say he's got less than full value." "You'm the last to think of such a thing." "I am. It goes on like this: '5 mattocks; 4 digging picks; 4 head chains; 1 axe; sledge and wedges; also hooks, eyes, and hasps for hard wood.' Never used 'em all the time us been here. '2 sets of trap harness, much worn.' I ban't gwaine to sell the dogs--eh? Us won't sell Ship or your li'l terrier. What do 'e say?" "No. Nobody would buy two auld dogs, for that matter." "Though how a upland dog like Ship be gwaine to faace the fiery sunshine on furrin gawld diggings, I caan't answer. Here goes again: '1 sofa; 1 armchair; 4 fine chairs with green cloth seats; 1 bedstead; 2 cots; 1 cradle; feather beds and palliasses and bolster pillows to match; wash-stands and sets of crockery, mostly complete; 2 swing glasses; 3 bedroom chairs; 1 set of breeching harness--'" "Hadn't 'e better put that away from the furniture?" "No gert odds. 'Also 1 set leading harness; 2 tressels and ironing board; 2 fenders; fire-irons and fire-dogs; 1 old oak chest; 1 wardrobe; 1 Brussels carpet (worn in 1 spot only)--'" "Ban't worn worth namin'." "Ess fay, 'tis wheer I sit Sundays--'9 feet by 11; 3 four-prong dung forks.' I'll move them. They doan't come in none tu well theer, I allow. '5 cane-seated chairs, 1 specimen of wax fruit under glass.'" "I caan't paart wi' that, lovey. Faither gived it to me; an' 'twas mother's wance on a time." "Well, bein' a forced sale it ought to go. An' seein' how Miller's left us to sail our awn boat to hell--but still, if you'm set on it." He crossed it out, then suddenly laughed until the walls rang. "Hush! You'll wake everybody. What do 'e find to be happy about?" "I was thinkin' that down in them furrin, fiery paarts we'm gwaine to, as your wax plums an' pears'll damned soon run away. They'll melt for sartin!" "Caan't be so hot as that! The li'l gal will never stand it. Read on now. Theer ban't much left, surely?" "Scores o' things! '1 stuffed kingfisher in good case with painted picture at back; 1 fox mask; 1 mahogany 2-lap table; 1 warming-pan; Britannia metal teapot and 6 spoons ditto metal; 5 spoons--smaller--ditto metal.'" "I found the one us lost." "Then 'tis '6 spoons--smaller--ditto metal.' Then, 'ironing stove; 5 irons; washing boiler; 4 fry pans; 2 chimney crooks; 6 saucepans; pestle and mortar; chimney ornaments; 4 coloured almanacs--one with picture of the Queen--'" "They won't fetch nothin'." "They might. 'Knife sharper; screen; pot plants; 1 towel-rail; 1 runner; 2 forms; kitchen table; scales and weights and beam; 1 set of casters; 4 farm horses, aged; 3 ploughs; 1 hay wain; 1 stack of dry fern; 1-1/2 tons good manure; old iron and other sundries, including poultry, ducks, geese, and fowls.' That's all." "Not quite; but I caan't call to mind much you've left out 'cept all the china an' linen." "Ah! that's your job. An' I just sit here an' brought the things to my memory, wan by wan! An' that bit at the top came easy as cutting a stick!" "'Tis a wonnerful piece o' work! An' the piano, Will?" "I hadn't forgot that. Must take it along wi' us, or else send it down to mother. Couldn't look her in the faace if I sold that." "Ban't worth much." "Caan't say. Cost faither five pound, though that was long ago. Anyway I be gwaine to buy it in." Silence then fell upon them. Phoebe sighed and shivered. A cock crew and his note came muffled from the hen-roost. A dim grey dawn just served to indicate the recumbent carcasses without. "Come to bed now an' take a little rest 'fore marnin', dearie. You've worked hard an' done wonders." "Ban't you surprised I could turn it out?" "That I be. I'd never have thought 'twas in 'e. So forehanded, tu! A'most afore them poor things be cold." "'Tis the forehandedness I prides myself 'pon. Some of us doan't know all that's in me yet. But they'll live to see it." "I knaw right well they will." "This'll 'maze mother to-morrow." "'Twill, sure 'nough." "Would 'e like me to read it just wance more wi'out stoppin', Phoebe?" "No, dear love, not now. Give it to us all arter breakfast in the marnin'." "So I will then; an' take it right away to the auctioneer the minute after." He put his papers away in the drawer of the kitchen table and retired. Uneasy sleep presently overtook him and long he tossed and turned, murmuring of his astonishment at his own powers with a pen. His impetuosity carried the ruined man forward with sufficient speed over the dark bitterness of failure confessed, failure advertised, failure proclaimed in print throughout the confines of his little world. He suffered much, and the wide-spread sympathy of friends and acquaintance proved no anodyne but rather the reverse. He hated to see eyes grow grave and mouths serious upon his entry; he yearned to turn his back against Chagford and resume the process of living in a new environment. Temporary troubles vexed him more than the supreme disaster of his failure. Mr. Bambridge made considerable alterations in his cherished lucubration; and when the advertisement appeared in print, it looked mean and filled but a paltry space. People came up before the sale to examine the goods, and Phoebe, after two days of whispered colloquies upon her cherished property, could bear it no longer, and left Newtake with her own little daughter and little Timothy. The Rev. Shorto-Champernowne himself called, stung Will into sheer madness, which he happily restrained, then purchased an old oak coffer for two pounds and ten shillings. Miller Lyddon made no sign, and hard things were muttered against him and Billy Blee in the village. Virtuous indignation got hold upon the Chagford quidnuncs and with one consent they declared Mr. Lyddon to blame. Where was his Christian charity--that charity which should begin at home and so seldom does? This interest in others' affairs took shape on the night before the Newtake sale. Then certain of the baser sort displayed their anger in a practical form, and Mr. Blee was hustled one dark evening, had his hat knocked off, and suffered from a dead cat thrown by unseen hands. The reason for this outrage also reached him. Then, chattering with indignation and alarm, he hurried home and acquainted Mr. Lyddon with the wild spirit abroad. As for Blanchard, he roamed moodily about the scene of his lost battle. In his pockets were journals setting forth the innumerable advantages of certain foreign regions that other men desired to people for their private ends. But Will was undecided, because all the prospects presented appeared to lead directly to fortune. The day of the sale dawned fine and at the appointed hour a thin stream of market carts and foot passengers wound towards Newtake from the village beneath and from a few outlying farms. Blanchard had gone up the adjacent hill; and lying there, not far distant from the granite cross, he reclined with his dog and watched the people. Him they did not see; but them he counted and found some sixty souls had been attracted by his advertisement. Men laughed and joked, and smoked; women shrugged their shoulders, peeped about and disparaged the goods. Here and there a purchaser took up his station beside a coveted lot. Some noticed that none of those most involved were present; others spread a rumour that Miller Lyddon designed to stop the sale at the last moment and buy in everything. But no such incident broke the course of proceedings. Will, from his hiding-place in the heather, saw Mr. Bambridge drive up, noted the crowd follow him about the farm, like black flies, and felt himself a man at his own funeral. The hour was dark enough. In the ear of his mind he listened to the auctioneer's hammer, like a death-bell, beating away all that he possessed. He had worked and slaved through long years for this,--for the sympathy of Chagford, for the privilege of spending a thousand pounds, for barely enough money to carry himself abroad. A few more figures dotted the white road and turned into the open gate at Newtake. One shape, though too remote to recognise with certainty, put him in mind of Martin Grimbal, another might have been Sam Bonus. He mused upon the two men, so dissimilar, and his mind dwelt chiefly with the former. He found himself thinking how good it would be if Martin proposed to Chris again; that the antiquary had done so was the last idea in his thoughts. Presently a brown figure crept through Newtake gate, hesitated a while, then began to climb the hill and approach Blanchard. Ship recognised it before Will's eyes enabled him to do so, and the dog rose from a long rest, stretched, sniffed the air, then trotted off to the approaching newcomer. It was Ted Chown; and in five minutes he reached his master with a letter. "'Tis from Miller Lyddon," he said. "It comed by the auctioneer. I thought you was up here." Blanchard took it without thanks, waited until the labourer had departed, then opened the letter with some slight curiosity. He read a page of scriptural quotations and admonitions, then tore the communication in half with a curse and flung it from him. But presently his anger waned; he rose, picked up his father-in-law's note, and plodded through it to the end. His first emotion was one of profound thanksgiving that he had done so. Here, at the very end of the letter, was the practical significance of it. "Powder fust, jam arter, by God!" cried Will aloud. Then a burst of riotous delight overwhelmed him. Once again in his darkest hour had Fortune turned the wheel. He shouted, put the letter into his breast pocket, rose up and strode off to Chagford as fast as his legs would carry him. He thought what his mother and wife would feel upon such news. Then he swore heartily--swore down blessings innumerable on Miller Lyddon, whistled to his dog, and so journeyed on. The master of Monks Barton had reproved Will through long pages, cited Scripture at him, displayed his errors in a grim procession, then praised him for his prompt and manly conduct under the present catastrophe, declared that his character had much developed of recent years, and concluded by offering him five-and-thirty shillings a week at Monks Barton, with the only stipulation that himself, his wife, and the children should dwell at the farm. Praise, of which he had received little enough for many years, was pure honey to Will. From the extremity of gloom and from a dark and settled enmity towards Mr. Lyddon, he passed quicker than thought to an opposite condition of mind. "'Tis a fairy story--awnly true!" he said to himself as he swept along. Will came near choking when he thought of the miller. Here was a man that believed in him! Newtake tumbled clean out of his mind before this revelation of Mr. Lyddon's trust and confidence. He was full to the brainpan with Monks Barton. The name rang in his ears. Before he reached Chagford he had planned innumerable schemes for developing the valley farm, for improving, saving, increasing possibilities in a hundred directions. He pictured himself putting money into the miller's pocket. He determined to bring that about if he had to work four-and-twenty hours a day to do it. He almost wished some profound peril would threaten his father-in-law, that he, at the cost of half his life, if need be, might rescue him and so pay a little of this great debt. Ship, taking the cue from his master, as a dog will, leapt and barked before him. In the valley below, Phoebe wept on Mrs. Blanchard's bosom, and Chris said hard things of those in authority at Monks Barton; up aloft at Newtake, shillings rather than pounds changed hands and many a poor lot found no purchaser. Passing by a gate beneath the great hill of Middledown, Will saw two sportsmen with a keeper and a brace of terriers, emerge from the wild land above. They were come from rabbit shooting, as the attendant's heavy bag testified. They faced him as he passed, and, recognising John Grimbal, Will did not look at his companion. At rest with the world just then, happy and contented to a degree he had not reached for years, the young farmer was in such amiable mood that he had given the devil "good day" on slightest provocation. Now he was carried out of himself, and spoke upon a joyous inclination of the moment. "Marnin' to 'e, Jan Grimbal! Glad to hear tell as your greyhound winned the cup down to Newton coursing." The other was surprised into a sort of grunt; then, as Will moved rapidly out of earshot, Grimbal's companion addressed him. It was Major Tremayne; and now the soldier regarded Blanchard's vanishing figure with evident amazement, then spoke. "By Jove! Tom Newcombe, by all that's wonderful," he said. CHAPTER VI THE SECRET OUT NOW many different persons in various places were simultaneously concerned with Will Blanchard and his affairs. At Newtake, Martin Grimbal was quietly buying a few lots--and those worth the most money. He designed these as a gift for Phoebe; and his object was not wholly disinterested. The antiquary could by no means bring himself to accept his last dismissal from Chris. Seeing the vague nature of those terms in which she had couched her refusal, and remembering her frank admission that she could love him, he still hoped. All his soul was wrapped up in the winning of Chris, and her face came between him and the proof-sheets of his book; the first thoughts of his wakening mind turned to the same problem; the last reflections of a brain sinking to rest were likewise occupied with it. How could he win her? Sometimes his yearning desires clamoured for any possible road to the precious goal, and he remembered his brother's hint that a secret existed in Will's life. At such times he wished that he knew it, and wondered vaguely if the knowledge were of a nature to further his own ambition. Then he blushed and thought ill of himself But this personal accusation was unjust, for it is the property of a strong intellect engaged about affairs of supreme importance, to suggest every possible action and present every possible point of view by the mere mechanical processes of thinking. The larger a brain, the more alternative courses are offered, the more facets gleam with thought, the more numerous the roads submitted to judgment. It is a question of intellect, not ethics. Right actions and crooked are alike remorselessly presented, and the Council of Perfection, which holds that to think amiss is sin, must convict every saint of unnumbered offences. As reasonably might we blame him who dreams murder. Departure from rectitude can only begin where evil thought is converted into evil action, for thought alone of all man's possessions and antecedents is free, and a lifetime of self-control and high thinking will not shut the door against ideas. That Martin--a man of luminous if limited intellect--should have considered every possible line of action which might assist him to come at the highest good life could offer was inevitable; but he missed the reason of certain sinister notions and accused himself of baseness in giving birth to them. Nevertheless, the idea recurred and took shape. He associated John's assertion of a secret with another rumour that had spread much farther afield. This concerned the parentage of little Timothy the foundling, for it was whispered widely of late that the child belonged to Blanchard. Of course many people knew all the facts, were delighted to retail them, and could give the mother's name. Only those most vitally concerned had heard nothing as yet. These various matters were weighing not lightly on Martin's mind during the hours of the Newtake sale; and meantime Will thundered into his mother's cottage and roared the news. He would hear of no objection to his wish, that one and all should straightway proceed to Monks Barton, and he poured forth the miller's praises, while Phoebe was reduced to tears by perusal of her father's letter to Will. "Thank Heaven the mystery's read now, an' us can see how Miller had his eyes 'pon 'e both all along an' just waited for the critical stroke," said Mrs. Blanchard. "Sure I've knawed him these many years an' never could onderstand his hard way in this; but now all's clear." "He might have saved us a world of trouble and a sea o' tears if he'd awnly spoken sooner, whether or no," murmured Chris, but Will would tolerate no unfriendly criticism. "He'm a gert man, wi' his awn way o' doin' things, like all gert men," he burst out; "an' ban't for any man to call un in question. He knawed the hard stuff I was made of and let me bide accordin'. An' now get your bonnets on, the lot of 'e, for I'm gwaine this instant moment to Monks Barton." They followed him in a breathless procession, as he hurried across the farmyard. "Rap to the door quick, dear heart," said Phoebe, "or I'll be cryin' again." "No more rappin' after thicky butivul letter," answered Will. "Us'll gaw straight in." "You walk fust, Phoebe--'tis right you should," declared Mrs. Blanchard. "Then Will can follow 'e; an' me an' Chris--us'll walk 'bout for a bit, till you beckons from window." "Cheer up, Phoebe," cried Will. "Trouble's blawed awver for gude an' all now by the look of it. 'Tis plain sailing hencefarrard, thank God, that is, if a pair o' strong arms, working morning an' night for Miller, can bring it about." So they went together, where Mr. Lyddon waited nervously within; and Damaris and Chris walked beside the river. Upon his island sat the anchorite Muscovy duck as of yore. He was getting old. He still lived apart and thought deeply about affairs; but his conclusions he never divulged. Yet another had been surprised into unutterable excitement during that afternoon. John Grimbal found the fruit of long desire tumble into his hand at last, as Major Tremayne made his announcement. The officer was spending a fortnight at the Red House, for his previous friendship with John Grimbal had ripened. "By Jove! Tom Newcombe, by all that's wonderful!" he exclaimed, as Will swung past him down the hill to happiness. "That's not his name. It's Blanchard. He's a young fool of a farmer, and Lord knows what he's got to be so cock-a-hoop about. Up the hill they're selling every stick he's got at auction. He's ruined." "He might be ruined, indeed, if I liked. 'Tom Newcombe' he called himself when he was with us." "A soldier!" "He certainly was, and my servant; about the most decent, straightforward, childlike chap that ever I saw." "God!" "You're surprised. But it's a fact. That's Newcombe all right. You couldn't forget a face and a laugh like his. The handsomest man I've ever seen, bar none. He borrowed a suit of my clothes, the beggar, when he vanished. But a week later I had the things back with a letter. He trusted me that far. I tried to trace him, of course, but was not sorry I failed." "A letter!" "Yes, giving a reason for his desertion. Some chap was running after his girl and had got her in a corner and bullied her into saying 'Yes,' though she hated the sight of him. I'd have done anything for Tom. But he took the law into his own hands. He disappeared--we were at Shorncliffe then if I remember rightly. The chap had joined to get abroad, and he told me all his harum-scarum ambitions once. I hope the poor devil was in time to rescue his sweetheart, anyway." "Yes, he was in time for that." "I'm glad." "Should you see him again, Tremayne, I would advise your pretending not to know him. Unless, of course, you consider it your duty to proclaim him." "Bless your life, I don't know him from Adam," declared the Major. "I'm not going to move after all these years. I wish he'd come back to me again, all the same. A good servant." "Poor brute! What's the procedure with a deserter? Do you send soldiers for him or the police?" "A pair of handcuffs and the local bobby, that's all. Then the man's handed over to the military authorities and court-martialled." "What would he get?" "Depends on circumstances and character. Tom might probably have six months, as he didn't give himself up. I should have thought, knowing the manner of man, that he would have done his business, married the girl, then come back and surrendered. In that case, being peace time, he would only have forfeited his service, which didn't amount to much." So John Grimbal learned the secret of his enemy at last; but, to pursue a former simile, the fruit had remained so long out of reach that now it was not only overripe, but rotten. There began a painful resuscitation of desires towards revenge--desires long moribund. To flog into life a passion near dead of inanition was Grimbal's disgusting task. For days and nights the thing was as Frankenstein's creation of grisly shreds and patches; then it moved spasmodically,--or he fancied that it moved. He fooled himself with reiterated assurances that he was glorying in the discovery; he told himself that he was not made of the human stuff that can forgive bitter wrongs or forget them until cancelled. He painted in lurid colours his past griefs; through a ghastly morass of revenge grown stale, of memories deadened by time, he tried to struggle back to his original starting-point in vanished years, and feel as he felt when he flung Will Blanchard over Rushford Bridge. Once he wished to God the truth had never reached him; then he urged himself to use it instantly and plague his mind no more. A mental exhaustion and nausea overtook him. Upon the night of his discovery he retired to sleep wishing that Blanchard would be as good as his rumoured word and get out of England. But this thought took a shape of reality in the tattered medley of dreams, and Grimbal, waking, leapt on to the floor in frantic fear that his enemy had escaped him. As yet he knew nothing of Will's good fortune, and when it came to his ears it unexpectedly failed to reawaken resentment or strengthen his animosity. For, as he retraced the story of the past years, it was with him as with a man reading the narrative of another's wrongs. He could not yet absorb himself anew in the strife; he could not revive the personal element. Sometimes he looked at himself in the glass as he shaved; and the sight of the grey hair thickening on the sides of his head, the spectacle of the deep lines upon his forehead and the stamp of many a shadowy crow's-foot about his blue eyes--these indications served more than all his thoughts to sting him into deeds and to rekindle an active malignancy. CHAPTER VII SMALL TIMOTHY A year and more than a year passed by, during which time some pure sunshine brightened the life of Blanchard. Chagford laughed at his sustained good fortune, declared him to have as many lives as a cat, and secretly regretted its outspoken criticism of Miller Lyddon before the event of his generosity. Life at Monks Barton was at least wholly happy for Will himself. No whisper or rumour of renewed tribulation reached his ear; early and late he worked, with whole-hearted energy; he differed from Mr. Blee as seldom as possible; he wearied the miller with new designs, tremendous enterprises, particulars concerning novel machinery, and much information relating to nitrates. Newtake had vanished out of his life, like an old coat put off for the last time. He never mentioned the place and there was now but one farm in all Devon for him. Meantime a strange cloud increased above him, though as yet he had not discerned so much as the shadow of it. This circumstance possessed no connection with John Grimbal. Time passed and still he did not take action, though he continued to nurse his wrongs through winter, spring, and summer, as a child nurses a sick animal. The matter tainted his life but did not dominate it. His existence continued to be soured and discoloured, yet not entirely spoiled. Now a new stone of stumbling lay ahead and Grimbal's interest had shifted a little. Like the rest of Chagford he heard the rumour of little Timothy's parentage--a rumour that grew as the resemblance ripened between Blanchard and the child. Interested by this thought and its significance, he devoted some time to it; and then, upon an early October morning, chance hurried the man into action. On the spur of an opportunity he played the coward, as many another man has done, only to mourn his weakness too late. There came a misty autumn sunrise beside the river and Grimbal, hastening through the valley of Teign, suddenly found himself face to face with Phoebe. She had been upon the meadows since grey dawn, where many mushrooms set in silvery dew glimmered like pearls through the mist; and now, with a full basket, she was returning to Monks Barton for breakfast. As she rested for a moment at a stile between two fields, Grimbal loomed large from the foggy atmosphere and stood beside her. She moved her basket for him to pass and her pulses quickened but slightly, for she had met him on numerous occasions during past years and they were now as strangers. To Phoebe he had long been nothing, and any slight emotion he might awaken was in the nature of resentment that the man could still harden his heart against her husband and remain thus stubborn and obdurate after such lapse of time. When, therefore, John Grimbal, moved thereto by some sudden prompting, addressed Will's wife, she started in astonishment and a blush of warm blood leapt to her face. He himself was surprised at his own voice; for it sounded unfamiliar, as though some intelligent thing had suddenly possessed him and was using his vocal organs for its own ends. "Don't move. Why, 't is a year since we met alone, I think. So you are back at Monks Barton. Does it bring thoughts? Is it all sweet? By your face I should judge not." She stared and her mouth trembled, but she did not answer. "You needn't tell me you're happy," he continued, with hurried words. "Nobody is, for that matter. But you might have been. Looking at your ruined life and my own, I can find it in my heart to be sorry for us both." "Who dares to say my life is ruined?" she flashed out. "D' you think I would change Will for the noblest in the land? He _is_ the noblest. I want no pity--least of all yourn. I've been a very lucky woman--and--everybody knaws it whatever they may say here an' theer." She was strong before him now; her temper appeared in her voice and she took her basket and rose to leave him. "Wait one moment. Chance threw us here, and I'll never speak to you again if you resent it. But, meeting you like this, something seemed to tell me to say a word and let you know. I'm sorry you are so wretched--honestly." "I ban't wretched! Never was a happier wife." "Never was a better one, I know; but happy? Think. I was fond of you once and I can read between the lines--the little thin lines on your forehead. They are newcomers. I'm not deceived. Nor is it hidden. That the man has proved faithless is common knowledge now. Facts are hard things and you've got the fact under your eyes. The child's his living image." "Who told you, and how dare you foul my ears and thoughts with such lies?" she asked, her bosom heaving. "You'm a coward, as you always was, but never more a coward than this minute." "D' you pretend that nobody has told you this? Aren't your own eyes bright enough to see it?" The man was in a pitiful mood, and now he grew hot and forgot himself wholly before her stinging contempt. She did not reply to his question and he continued,-- "Your silence is an answer. You know well enough. Who's the mother? Perhaps you know that, too. Is she more to him than you are?" Phoebe made a great effort to keep herself from screaming. Then she moved hastily away, but Grimbal stopped her and dared her to proceed. "Wait. I'll have this out. Why don't you face him with it and make him tell you the truth? Any plucky woman would. The scandal grows into a disgrace and your father's a fool to stand it. You can tell him so from me." "Mind your awn business an' let me pass, you hulking, gert, venomous wretch!" she cried. Then a blackguard inspiration came to the man, and, suffering under a growing irritation with himself as much as with Phoebe, he conceived an idea by which his secret might after all be made a bitter weapon. He assured himself, even while he hated the sight of her, that justice to Phoebe must be done. She had dwelt in ignorance long enough. He determined to tell her that she was the wife of a deserter. The end gained was the real idea in his mind, though he tried to delude himself. The sudden idea that he might inform Blanchard through Phoebe of his knowledge really actuated him. "You may turn your head away as if I was dirt, you little fool, and you may call me what names you please; but I'm raising this question for your good, not my own. What do I care? Only it's a man's part to step in when he sees a woman being trampled on." "A man!" she said. "You'm not in our lives any more, an' we doan't want 'e in 'em. More like to a meddlin' auld woman than a man, if you ax me." "You can say that? Then we'll put you out of the question. I, at least, shall do my duty." "Is it part of your duty to bully me here alone? Why doan't 'e faace the man, like a man, 'stead of blusterin' to me 'bout it? Out on you! Let me pass, I tell 'e." "Doan't make that noise. Just listen and stand still. I'm in earnest. It pleases me to know the true history of this child, and I mean to. As a Justice of the Peace I mean to." "Ax Will Blanchard then an' let him answer. Maybe you'll be sorry you spoke arter." "You can tell him I want to see him; you can say I order him to come to the Red House between eight and nine next Monday." "Be you a fule? Who's he, to come at your bidding?" "He's a--well, no matter. You've got enough to trouble you. But I think he will come. Tell him that I know where he was during the autumn and winter of the year that I returned home from Africa. Tell him I know where he came from to marry you. Tell him the grey suit of clothes reached the owner safely--remember, the grey suit of clothes. That will refresh his memory. Then I think he will come fast enough and let me have the truth concerning this brat. If he refuses, I shall take steps to see justice done." "I lay he's never put himself in the power of a black-hearted, cruel beast like you," blazed out the woman, furious and frightened at once. "Has he not? Ask him. You don't know where he was during those months? I thought you didn't. I do. Perhaps this child--perhaps the other woman's the married one--" Phoebe dropped her basket and her face grew very pale before the horrors thus coarsely spread before her. She staggered and felt sick at the man's last speech. Then, with one great sob of breath, she turned her back on him, nerved herself to use her shaking legs, and set off at her best speed, as one running from some dangerous beast of the field. Grimbal made no attempt to follow, but watched her fade into the mist, then turned and pursued his way through the dripping woodlands. Sunrise fires gleamed along the upper layers of the fading vapours and gilded autumn's handiwork. Ripe seeds fell tapping through the gold of the horse-chestnuts, and many acorns also pattered down upon a growing carpet of leaves. Webs and gossamers twinkled in the sunlight, and the flaming foliage made a pageant of colour through waning mists where red leaves and yellow fell at every breath along the thinning woods. Beneath trees and hedgerows the ripe mosses gleamed, and coral and amber fungi, with amanita and other hooded folk. In companies and clusters they sprang or arose misshapen, sinister, and alone. Some were orange and orange-tawny; others white and purple; not a few peered forth livid, blotched, and speckled, as with venom spattered from some reptile's jaws. On the wreck of the year they flourished, sucked strange life from rotten stick and hollow tree, opened gills on lofty branch and bough, shone in the green grass rings of the meadows, thrust cup and cowl from the concourse of the dead leaves in ditches, clustered like the uprising roof-trees of a fairy village in dingle and in dene. At the edge of the woods John Grimbal stood, and the hour was very dark for him and he cursed at the loss of his manhood. His heart turned to gall before the thought of the thing he had done, as he blankly marvelled what unsuspected base instinct had thus disgraced him. He had plumbed a possibility unknown within his own character, and before his shattered self-respect he stood half passionate, half amazed. Chance had thus wrecked him; an impulse had altered the whole face of the problem; and he gritted his teeth as he thought of Blanchard's feelings when Phoebe should tell her story. As for her, she at least had respected him during the past years; but what must henceforth be her estimate of him? He heaped bitter contempt upon himself for this brutality to a woman; he raged, as he pursued long chains of consequences begot of this single lapse of self-control. His eye was cleared from passion; he saw the base nature of his action and judged himself as others would judge him. This spectacle produced a definite mental issue and aroused long-stagnant emotions from their troubled slumbers. He discovered that a frank hatred of Will Blanchard awoke and lived. He told himself this man was to blame for all, and not content with poisoning his life, now ravaged his soul also and blighted every outlook of his being. Like a speck upon an eyeball, which blots the survey of the whole eye, so this wretch had fastened upon him, ruined his ambitions, wrecked his life, and now dragged his honour and his very manhood into the dust. John Grimbal found himself near choked by a raging fit of passion at last. He burnt into sheer frenzy against Blanchard; and the fuel of the fire was the consciousness of his own craven performance of that morning. Flying from self-contemplation, he sought distraction and even oblivion at any source where his mind could win it; and now he laid all blame on his enemy and suffered the passion of his own shame and remorse to rise, as it had been a red mist, against this man who was playing havoc with his body and soul. He trembled under the loneliness of the woods in a debauch of mere brute rage that exhausted him and left a mark on the rest of his life. Even his present powers appeared trifling and their exercise a deed unsatisfying before this frenzy. What happiness could be achieved by flinging Blanchard into prison for a few months at most? What salve could be won from thought of this man's disgrace and social ruin? The spectacle sank into pettiness now. His blood was surging through his veins and crying for action. Primitive passion gripped him and craved primitive outlet. At that hour, in his own deepest degradation, the man came near madness, and every savage voice in him shouted for blood and blows and batterings in the flesh. Phoebe Blauchard hastened home, meanwhile, and kept her own counsel upon the subject of the dawn's sensational incidents. Her first instinct was to tell her husband everything at the earliest opportunity, but Will had departed to his work before she reached the farm, and on second thoughts she hesitated to speak or give John Grimbal's message. She feared to precipitate the inevitable. In her own heart what mystery revolved about Will's past performances undoubtedly embraced the child fashioned in his likeness; and though she had long fought against the rumour and deceived herself by pretending to believe Chris, whose opinion differed from that of most people, yet at her heart she felt truth must lie hidden somewhere in the tangle. Will and Mr. Lyddon alone knew nothing of the report, and Phoebe hesitated to break it to her husband. He was happy--perhaps in the consciousness that nobody realised the truth; and yet at his very gates a bitter foe guessed at part of his secret and knew the rest. Still Phoebe could not bring herself to speak immediately. A day of mental stress and strain ended, and she retired and lay beside Will very sad. Under darkness of night the threats of the enemy grew into an imminent disaster of terrific dimensions, and with haunting fear she finally slept, to waken in a nightmare. Will, wholly ignorant of the facts, soothed Phoebe's alarm and calmed her as she clung to him in hysterical tears. "No ill shall come to 'e while I live," she sobbed: "not if all the airth speaks evil of 'e. I'll cleave to 'e, and fight for 'e, an' be a gude wife, tu,--a better wife than you've been husband." "Bide easy, an' doan't cry no more. My arm's round 'e, dearie. Theer, give awver, do! You've been dreamin' ugly along o' the poor supper you made, I reckon. Doan't 'e think nobody's hand against me now, for ban't so. Folks begin to see the manner of man I am; an' Miller knaws, which is all I care about. He've got a strong right arm workin' for him an' a tidy set o' brains, though I sez it; an' you might have a worse husband, tu, Phoebe; but theer--shut your purty eyes--I knaw they 'm awpen still, for I can hear your lashes against the sheet. An' doan't 'e go out in the early dews mushrooming no more, for 't is cold work, an' you've got to be strong these next months." She thought for a moment of telling him boldly concerning the legend spreading on every side; but, like others less near and dear to him, she feared to do so. Knowing Will Blanchard, not a man among the backbiters had cared to risk a broken head by hinting openly at the startling likeness between the child and himself; and Phoebe felt her own courage unequal to the task just then. She racked her brains with his dangers long after he was himself asleep, and finally she determined to seek Chris next morning and hear her opinion before taking any definite step. On the same night another pair of eyes were open, and trouble of a sort only less deep than that of the wife kept her father awake. Billy had taken an opportunity to tell his master of the general report and spread before him the facts as he knew them. The younger members of the household had retired early, and when Miller Lyddon took the cards from the mantelpiece and made ready for their customary game, Mr. Blee shook his head and refused to play. "Got no heart for cards to-night," he said. "What's amiss, then? Thank God I've heard little to call ill news for a month or two. Not but what I've fancied a shadow on my gal's face more'n wance." "If not on hers, wheer should 'e see it?" asked Mr. Blee eagerly." I've seed it, tu, an' for that matter theer's sour looks an' sighs elsewheer. People ban't blind, worse luck. 'Tis grawed to be common talk, an' I've fired myself to tell you, 'cause 'tis fitting an' right, an' it might come more grievous from less careful lips." "Go on then; an' doan't rack me longer'n you can help. Use few words." "Many words must go to it, I reckon. 'Tis well knawn I unfolds a bit o' news like the flower of the field--gradual and sure. You might have noticed that love-cheel by the name of Timothy 'bout the plaace? Him as be just of age to harry the ducks an' such-like." "A nice li'l bwoy, tu, an' fond of me; an' you caan't say he'm a love-cheel, knawin' nothin' 'bout him." "Love-cheel or changeling, 'tis all wan. Have'e ever thought 'twas coorious the way Blanchard comed by un?" "Certainly 'twas--terrible coorious." "You never doubted it?" "Why for should I? Will's truthful as light, whatever else he may be." "You believe as he went 'pon the Moor an' found that bwoy in a roundy-poundy under the gloamin'?" "Ess, I do." "Have'e ever looked at the laddie close?" "Oftentimes--so like Will as two peas." "Theer 'tis! The picter of Will! How do'e read that?" "Never tried to. An accident, no more." "A damn queer accident, if you ax me. Burnish it all! You doan't see yet, such a genius of a man as you tu! Why, Will Blanchard's the faither of the li'l twoad! You've awnly got to know the laws of nature an' such-like to swear to it. The way he walks an' holds his head, his curls, his fashion of lording it awver the birds an' beasts, the sudden laugh of un--he's Will's son, for a thousand pound, an' his mother's alive, like as not." "No mother would have gived up a child that way." "'Zactly so! Onless she gived it to the faither!" said Billy triumphantly. Mr. Lyddon reflected and showed an evident disposition to scoff at the whole story. "'Tis stuff an' rubbish!" he said. "You might as well find a mare's nest t'other side an' say 'twas Will's sister's child. 'Tis almost so like her as him, an' got her brown eyes in the bargain." "God forbid!" answered Billy, in horror. "That's flat libel, an' I'd be the last to voice any such thing for money. If a man gets a cheel wrong side the blanket 'tis just a passing sarcumstance, an' not to be took too serious. Half-a-crown a week is its awn punishment like. But if a gal do, 'tis destruction to the end of the chapter, an' shame everlasting in the world to come, by all accounts. You didn't ought to think o' such things, Miller,--takin' a pure, gude maiden's carater like that. Surprised at 'e!" "'Tis just as mad a thought wan way as t'other, and if you'm surprised so be I. To be a tale-bearer at your time o' life!" "That gormed Blanchard's bewitched 'e from fust to last!" burst out Billy. "If a angel from heaven comed down-long and tawld 'e the truth 'bout un, you wouldn't b'lieve. God stiffen it! You make me mad! You'd stand 'pon your head an' waggle your auld legs in the air for un if he axed 'e." "I'll speak to him straight an' take his word for it. If it's true, he 'm wickedly to blame, I knaw that." "I was thinkin' of your darter. 'Tis black thoughts have kept her waking since this reached her ears." "Did you tell her what people were sayin'? I warrant you did!" "You'm wrong then. No such thing. I may have just heaved a sigh when I seed the bwoy playin' in front of her, an' looked at Blanchard, an' shook my head, or some such gentle hint as that. But no more." "Well, I doan't believe a word of it; an' I'll tell you this for your bettering,--'tis poor religion in you, Blee, to root into other people's troubles, like a pig in a trough; an' auld though you be, you 'm not tu auld to mind what it felt like when the blood was hot an' quick to race at the sight of a maid." "I practice same as I preach, whether or no," said Billy stoutly, "an' I can't lay claim to creating nothing lawful or unlawful in my Maker's image. 'Tis something to say that, in these godless days. I've allus kept my foot on the world, the flesh, an' the Devil so tight as the best Christian in company; an' if that ban't a record for a stone, p'raps you'll tell me a better. Your two-edged tongue do make me feel sometimes as though I did ought to go right away from 'e, though God knaws--God, He knaws--" Billy hid his face and began to weep, while Mr. Lyddon watched the candle-light converge to a shining point upon his bald skull. "Doan't go against a word in season, my dear sawl. 'Tis our duty to set each other right. That's what we'm put here for, I doubt. Many's the time you've given me gude advice, an' I've thanked 'e an' took it." Then he went for the spirits and mixed Mr. Blee a dose of more than usual strength. "You'm the most biting user of language in Chagford, when you mind to speak sour," declared Billy. "If I thought you meant all you said, I'd go an' hang myself in the barn this instant moment. But you doan't." He snuffled and dried his scanty tears on a red handkerchief, then cheered up and drank his liquor. "It do take all sorts to make a world, an' a man must act accordin' as he'm built," continued Mr. Lyddon. "Ban't no more use bein' angered wi' a chap given to women than 'tis bein' angered wi' a fule, because he's a fule. What do 'e expect from a fule but folly, or a crab tree but useless fruit, or hot blood but the ways of it? This ban't to speak of Will Blanchard, though. 'Pon him we'll say no more till he've heard what's on folks' tongues. A maddening bwoy--I'll allow you that--an' he've took a year or two off my life wan time an' another. 'Pears I ban't never to graw to love un as I would; an' yet I caan't quite help it when I sees his whole-hearted ferment to put money into my pocket; or when I hears him talk of nitrates an' the ways o' the world; or watches un playin' make-believe wi' the childer--himself the biggest cheel as ever laughed at fulishness or wanted spankin' an' putting in the corner." CHAPTER VIII FLIGHT On the following morning Miller Lyddon arose late, looked from his window and immediately observed the twain with whom his night thoughts had been concerned. Will stood at the gate smoking; small Timothy, and another lad, of slightly riper years, appeared close by. The children were fighting tooth and nail upon the ownership of a frog, and this reptile itself, fastened by the leg to a stick, listlessly watched the progress of the battle. Will likewise surveyed the scene with genial attention, and encouraged the particular little angry animal who had most claim upon his interest. Timothy kicked and struck out pretty straight, but fought in silence; the bigger boy screamed and howled and scratched. "Vang into un, man, an' knock his ugly head off!" said Will encouragingly, and the babe to whom he spoke made renewed efforts as both combatants tumbled into the road, the devil in their little bright eyes, each puny muscle straining. Tim had his foe by the hair, and the elder was trying to bite his enemy's leg, when Martin Grimbal and Chris Blanchard approached from Rushford Bridge. They had met by chance, and Chris was coming to the farm while the antiquary had business elsewhere. Now a scuffle in a cloud of dust arrested them and the woman, uninfluenced by considerations of sportsmanship, pounced upon Timothy, dragged him from his operations, and, turning to Will, spoke as Martin Grimbal had never heard her speak before. "You, a grawed man, to stand theer an' see that gert wild beast of a bwoy tear this li'l wan like a savage tiger! Look at his sclowed faace all streaming wi' blood! 'S truth! I'd like to sarve you the same, an' I would for two pins! I'm ashamed of 'e!" "He hit wi' his fistes like a gude un," said Will, grinning; "an' he'm made o' the right stuff, I'll swear. Couldn't have done better if he was my awn son. I be gwaine to give un a braave toy bimebye. You see t'other kid's faace come to-morrow!" Martin Grimbal watched Chris fondle the gasping Timothy, clean his wounds, calm his panting heart; then, as though a superhuman voice whispered in his ear, her secret stood solved, and the truth of Timothy's parentage confronted him in a lightning flash of the soul. He looked at Chris as a man might gaze upon a spectre; he stared at her and through her into her past; he pieced each part of the puzzle to its kindred parts until all stood complete; he read "mother" in her voice, in her caressing hands and gleaming eyes as surely as man reads morning in the first light of dawn; and he marvelled that a thing so clear and naked had been left to his discovery. The revelation shook him not a little, for he was familiar with the rumours concerning Tim's paternity, and had been disposed to believe them; but from the moment of the new thought's inception it gripped him, for he felt that the thing was true. As lamps, so ordered that the light of each may fall on the fringe of darkness where its fellow fades, and thus complete a chain of illumination, so the present discovery, duly considered, was but one point of truth revealing others. It made clear much that had not been easy to understand, and the tremendous fact rose in his mind as a link in such a perfect sequence of evidence that doubt actually vanished before he had lost sight of Chris and passed dumfounded upon his way. Her lover's sudden death, her own disappearance, the child's advent at Newtake, and the woman's subsequent return--these main incidents connected a thousand others and explained what little mystery still obscured the position. He pursued his road and marvelled as he went how a tragedy so thinly veiled had thus escaped every eye. Within the story that Chris had told, this other story might be intercalated without convicting her of any spoken falsehood. Now he guessed at the reason why Timothy's mother had refused to marry him on his last proposal; then, thinking of the child, he knew Tim's father. So he stood before the truth; and it filled his heart with some agony and some light. Examining his love in this revelation, he discovered strange things; and first, that it was love only that had opened his eyes and enabled him to solve the secret at all. Nobody had made the discovery but himself, and he, of all men the least likely to come at any concern others desired to hide from him, had fathomed this great fact, had won it from the heart of unconscious Chris. His love widened and deepened into profound pity as he thought of all that her secret and the preservation of it must have meant; and tears dimmed his eyes as he pictured her life since her lover's passing. To him the discovery hurt Chris so little that for a time he underrated the effect of it upon other people. His affection rose clean above the unhappy fact, and it was some time before he began to appreciate the spectacle of Chris under the world's eye with the truth no longer hidden. Then a sense of his own helplessness overmastered him; he walked slowly, drew up at a gate and stood motionless, leaning over it. So silent did he stand, and so long, that a stoat hopped across the road within two yards of him. He realised to the full that he was absolutely powerless. Chris alone must disperse the rumours fastening on her brother if they were to be dispersed. He knew that she would not suffer any great cloud of unjust censure to rest upon Will, and he saw what a bitter problem must be overwhelming her. Nobody could help her and he, who knew, was as powerless as the rest. Then he asked himself if that last conviction was true. He probed the secret places of his mind to find an idea; he prayed for some chance spark or flash of genius to aid him before this trial; he mourned his own simple brains, so weak to aid him in this vital pass. But of all living men the accidental discovery was most safe with him. His heart went out to the secret mother, and he told himself that he would guard her mystery like gold. It was strange in a nature so timorous that not once did a suspicion he had erred overtake him, and presently he wondered to observe how ancient this discovery of the motherhood of Chris had grown within his mind. It appeared as venerable as his own love for her. He yearned for power to aid; without conscious direction of his course he proceeded and strode along for hours. Then he ate a meal of bread and cheese at an inn and tramped forward once more upon a winding road towards the village of Zeal. Through his uncertainty, athwart the deep perplexity of his mind, moved hope and a shadowed joy. Within him arose again the vision of happiness once pictured and prayed for, once revived, never quite banished to the grey limbo of ambitions beyond fulfilment. Now realities saddened the thought of it and brought ambition within a new environment less splendid than the old. But, despite clouds, hope shone fairly forth at last. So a planet, that the eye has followed at twilight and then lost a while, beams anew at dawn after lapse of days, and wheels in wide mazes upon some new background of the unchanging stars. Elsewhere Mr. Lyddon braced himself to a painful duty, and had private speech with his son-in-law. Like a thunderbolt the circling suspicions fell on Will, and for a moment smothered his customary characteristics under sheer surprise. The miller spoke nervously, and walked up and down with his eyes averted. "Ban't no gert matter, I hope, an' I won't keep 'e from your work five minutes. You've awnly got to say 'No,' an' theer's an end of it so far as I'm concerned. 'Tis this: have 'e noticed heads close together now an' again when you passed by of late?" "Not me. Tu much business on my hands, I assure 'e. Coourse theer's envious whisperings; allus is when a man gets a high place, same as what I have, thanks to his awn gude sense an' the wisdom of others as knaws what he's made of. But you trusted me wi' all your heart, an' you'll never live to mourn it." "I never want to. You'm grawing to be much to me by slow stages. Yet these here tales. This child Timothy. Who's his faither, Will, an' who's his mother?" "How the flaming hell should I knaw? I found him same as you finds a berry on a briar. That's auld history, surely?" "The child graws so 'mazing like you, that even dim eyes such as mine can see it." A sudden flash of light came into Blanchard's face. Then the fire died as quickly as it had been kindled, and he grew calm. "God A'mighty!" he said, in a voice hushed and awed. "They think that! I lay that's why your darter's cried o' nights, then, an' Chris have grawed sad an' wisht in her ways, an' mother have pet the bwoy wan moment an' been short wi' un the next." He remained marvellously quiet under this attack, but amazement chiefly marked his attitude. Miller Lyddon, encouraged by this unexpected reasonableness, spoke again more sternly. "The thing looks bad to a wife an' mother, an' 'tis my duty to ax 'e for a plain, straightforward answer 'pon it. Human nature's got a ugly trick of repeatin' itself in this matter, as we all knaws. But I'll say nought an' think nought till you answers me. Be the bwoy yourn or not? Tell me true, with your hand on this." He took his Bible from the mantelpiece, while Will, apparently cowed by the gravity of the situation, placed both palms upon it, then fixed his eyes solemnly upon Mr. Lyddon. "As God in heaven's my judge, he ban't no cheel of mine, and I knaw nothing about him--no, nor yet his faither nor mother nor plaace of birth. I found un wheer I said, and if I've lied by a fraction, may God choke me as I stand here afore you." "An' I believe you to the bottom!" declared his father-in-law. "I believe you as I hopes to be believed myself, when I stands afore the Open Books an' says I've tried to do my duty. You've got me on your side, an' that's to say you'll have Phoebe an' your mother, tu, for certain." Then Blanchard's mood changed, and there came a tremendous rebound from the tension of the last few minutes. In the anti-climax following upon his oath, passion, chained a while by astonishment, broke loose in a whirlwind. "Let 'em believe or disbelieve, who cares?" he thundered out. "Not me--not a curse for you or anybody, my awn blood or not my awn blood. To harbour lies against me! But women loves to believe bad most times." "Who said they believed it, Will? Doan't go mad, now 'tis awver and done." "They _did_ believe it; I knaw, I seed it in theer faaces, come to think of it. 'Tis the auld song. I caan't do no right. Course I've got childer an' ruined maids in every parish of the Moor! God damn theer lying, poisonous tongues, the lot of 'em! I'm sick of this rotten, lie-breeding hole, an' of purty near every sawl in it but mother. She never would think against me. An' me, so true to Phoebe as the honey-bee to his awn butt! I'll go--I'll get out of it--so help me, I will--to a clean land, 'mongst clean-thinking folk, wheer men deal fair and judge a chap by his works. For a thought I'd wring the neck of the blasted child, by God I would!" "He've done no wrong." "Nor me neither. I had no more hand in his getting than he had himself. Poor li'l brat; I'm sorry I spoke harsh of him. He was give me--he was give me--an' I wish to God he _was_ mine. Anyways he shaa'n't come to no harm. I'll fight the lot of 'e for un, till he 's auld enough to fight for hisself." Then Will burst out of Monks Barton and vanished. He passed far from the confines of the farm, roamed on to the high Moor, and nothing further was seen of him until the following day. Those most concerned assembled after his departure and heard the result of the interview. "Solemn as a minister he swore," explained Mr. Lyddon; "an' then, a'most before his hands was off the Book, he burst out like a screeching, ravin' hurricane. I half felt the oath was vain then, an' 't was his real nature bubblin' up like." They discussed the matter, all save Chris, who sat apart, silent and abstracted. Presently she rose and left them, and faced her own trouble single-handed, as she had similarly confronted greater sorrows in the past. She was fully determined to conceal her cherished secret still; yet not for the superficial reason that had occurred to any mind. Vast mental alterations had transformed Chris Blanchard since the death of Clement. Her family she scarcely considered now; no power of logic would have convinced her that she had wronged them or darkened their fame. In the past, indeed, not the least motive of her flight had centred in the fear of Will; but now she feared nobody, and her own misfortune held no shadow of sin or shame for her, looking back upon it. Those who would have denied themselves her society or friendship upon this knowledge it would have given her no pang to lose. She could feel fiercely still, as she looked back to the birth of her son and traced the long course of her sufferings; and she yet experienced occasional thrills of satisfaction in her weaker moments, when she lowered the mask and reflected, not without pride, on the strength and determination that had enabled her to keep her secret. But to reveal the truth now was a prospect altogether hateful in the eyes of Chris, and she knew the reason. More than once had she been upon the brink of disclosure, since recent unhappy suspicions had darkened Phoebe's life; but she had postponed the necessary step again and again, at one thought. Her fortitude, her apathy, her stoic indifference, broke down and left her all woman before one necessity of confession; her heart stood still when she remembered that Martin Grimbal must know and judge. His verdict she did, indeed, dread with all her soul, and his only; for him she had grown to love, and the thought of his respect and regard was precious to her. Everybody must know, everybody or nobody. For long she could conceive of no action clearing Will in the eyes of the wider circle who would not be content to take his word, and yet leaving herself uninvolved. Then the solution came. She would depart once more with the child. Such a flight was implicit confession, and could not be misunderstood. Martin must, indeed, know, but she would never see him after he knew. To face him after the truth had reached his ear seemed to Chris a circumstance too terrible to dwell upon. Her action, of course, would proclaim the parentage of Timothy, and free Will from further slanderings; while for herself, through tears she saw the kind faces of the gypsy people and her life henceforth devoted to her little one. To accentuate the significance of the act she determined to carry out her intention that same day, and during the afternoon opportunity offered. Her son, playing alone in the farmyard, came readily enough for a walk, and before three o'clock they had set out. The boy's face was badly scratched from his morning battle, but pain had ceased, and his injuries only served as an object of great interest to Timothy. Where water in ditch or puddle made a looking-glass he would stop to survey himself. A spectator, aware of certain facts, had viewed the progress of Chris with some slight interest. Three ways were open to her, three main thoroughfares leading out of Chagford to places of parallel or greater importance. Upon the Moor road Will wandered in deep perturbation; on that to Okehampton walked another man, concerned with the same problem from a different aspect; the third highway led to Moreton; and thither Chris might have proceeded unchallenged. But a little public vehicle would be returning just then from the railway station. That the runaway knew, and therefore selected another path. In her pocket was all the money that she had; in her heart was a sort of alloyed sorrow. Two thoughts shared her mind after she had decided upon a course of action. She wondered how quickly Tim would learn to call her "mother," for that was the only sweet word life still held; yet of the child's father she did not think, for her mind, without special act of volition, turned and turned again to him upon whom the Indian summer of her love had descended. CHAPTER IX UNDER COSDON BEACON Beneath a region where the "newtakes" straggle up Cosdon's eastern flank and mark a struggle between man and the giant beacon, Chris Blanchard rested a while upon the grass by the highway. Tim, wrapped in a shawl, slept soundly beside his mother, and she sat with her elbows on her knees and one hand under her chin. It was already dusk; dark mist wreaths moved upon the Moor, and oncoming night winds sighed of rain. Then a moment before her intended departure from this most solitary spot she heard footsteps upon the road. Not interested to learn anything of the passer-by, Chris remained with her eyes upon the ground, but the footsteps stopped suddenly before her, whereupon she looked up and saw Martin Grimbal. After a perambulation of twenty miles he had now set his face homewards, and thus the meeting was accomplished. Utmost constraint at first marked the expression of both man and woman, and it was left for Martin to break the silence, for Chris only started at seeing him, but said nothing. Her mind, however, ranged actively upon the reason of Grimbal's sudden appearance, and she did not at first believe it accidental. "Why, my dear, what is this? You have wandered far afield!" He addressed her in unnatural tones, for surprise and emotion sent his voice up into his head, and it came thin and tremulous as a woman's. Even as he spoke Martin feared. From the knowledge gleaned by him that morning he suspected the meaning of this action, and thought that Chris was running away. And she, at the same moment, divined that he guessed the truth in so far as the present position was concerned. Still she did not speak, and he grew calmer and took her silence as an admission. "You're going away from Chagford? Is it wise?" "Ess, Martin, 'tis best so. You see this poor child be breedin' trouble, an' bringing bad talk against Will. He ban't wanted--little Timothy--an' I ban't wanted overmuch, so it comed to me I'd--I'd just slip away out of the turmoil an' taake Tim. Then--" She stopped, for her heart was beating so fast that she could speak no more. She remembered her own arguments in the recent past,--that this flight must tell all who cared to reflect that the child was her own. Now she looked up at Martin to see if he had guessed it. But he exhibited extreme self-control and she was reassured. "Just like your thoughtful self to try and save others from sorrow. Where are you going to, Chris? Don't tell me more than you please; but I may be useful to you on this, the first stage of the journey." "To Okehampton to-night. To-morrow--but I'd rather not say any more. I don't care so long as you think I'm right." "I haven't said that yet. But I'll go as far as Zeal with you. Then we'll get a covered cab or something. We may reach the village before rain." "No call for your coming. 'Tis awnly a short mile." "But I must. I'll carry the laddie. Poor little man! Hard to be the cause of such a bother." He picked Timothy up so gently that the child did not wake. "Now," he said, "come along. You must be tired already." "How gude you be!" she said wearily. "I'm glad you doan't scold or fall into a rage wi' me, for I knaw I'm right. The bwoy's better away, and I'm small use to any now. But I can be busy with this little wan. I might do worse than give up my life to un--eh, Martin?" Then some power put words in his mouth. He trembled when he had spoken them, but he would not have recalled them. "You couldn't do better. It's a duty staring you in the face." She started violently, and her dark skin flamed under the night. "Why d'you say that?" she asked, with loud, harsh voice, and stopping still as she did so. "Why d'you say 'duty'?" He, too, stood and looked at her. "My dear," he answered, "love's a quick, subtle thing. It can make even such a man as I am less stupid than Nature built him. It fires dull brains; it adds sight to dim eyes; it shows the bookworm how to find out secrets hidden from keener spirits; it lifts a veil from the loved one and lets the lover see more than anybody else can. Be patient with me. I spoke because I love you still with all my heart and soul, Chris; I spoke, because what I feel for you is lifelong, and cannot change. Had I not still worshipped the earth under your feet I would have died rather than tell you. But love makes me bold. I have watched you so long and prayed for you so often. I have seen little differences in you that nobody else saw. And to-day I know. I knew when you picked up Timothy and flew at Will. Since then I've wandered Heaven can tell where, just thinking and thinking and wondering and seeing no way. And all the time God meant me to come and find you and tell you." She understood; she gave one bitter cry that started an echo from ruined mine-workings hard at hand; then she turned from him, and, in a moment of sheer hopeless misery, flung herself and her wrecked ambitions upon the ground by the wayside. For a moment the man stood scared by this desperate answer to his words. Then he put his burden down, approached Chris, knelt beside her, and tried to raise her. She sat up at last with panting breast and eyes in which some terror sat. "You!" she said. "You to knaw! Wasn't my cup full enough before but that my wan hope should be cut away, tu? My God, I 'mauld in sorrow now--very auld. But 't is awver at last. You knaw, an' I had to hear it from your awn lips! Theer 's nought worse in the world for me now." Her hands were pressed against her bosom, and as he unconsciously moved a little towards her she shrank backwards, then rose to her feet. Timothy woke and cried, upon which she turned to him and picked him up. "Go!" she cried suddenly. "If ever you loved me, get out of my sight now, or you'll make me want to kill myself again." He saw the time was come for strong self-assertion, and spoke. "Listen!" he said. "You don't understand, but you must. I'm the only man in the world who knows--the only one, and I've told you because it was stamped into my brain to tell you, and because I love you perhaps better than one creature has any right to love another." "You knaw. Isn't it enough? Who else did I care for? Who else mattered to me? Mother or brother or other folk? I pray you to go an' leave me. God knaws how hard it was to hide it, but I hugged it an' suffered more 'n any but a mother could fathom 'cause things weer as they weer. Then came this trouble, an' still none seed. But 't was meant you should, an' the rest doan't matter. I'd so soon go back now as not." "So you shall," he answered calmly; "only hear this first. Last time I spoke about what was in my heart, Chris, you told me you could love me, but that you would not marry me, and I said I would never ask you again. I shall keep my word, sweetheart. I shall not ask; I shall take without asking. You love me; that is all I care for. The little boy came between last time; now nothing does." He took the woman in his arms and kissed her, but the next moment he was flying to where water lay in a ditch, for his unexpected attitude had overpowered Chris. She raised her hands to his shoulders, uttered a faint cry, then slipped heavily out of his arms in a faint. The man rushed this way and that, the child sat and howled noisily, the woman remained long unconscious, and heavy rain began to fall out of the darkness; yet, to his dying day that desolate spot of earth brought light to Martin's eyes as often as he passed it. Chris presently recovered her senses, and spoke words that made her lover's heart leap. She uttered them in a sad, low voice, but her hand was in his, pressing it close the while. "Awften an' awften I've axed the A'mighty to give me wan little glint o' knawledge as how 'twould all end. If I'd knawed! But I never guessed how big your sawl was, Martin. I never thought you was the manner of man to love a woman arter that." "God knows what's in my heart, Chris." "I'll tell 'e everything some day. Lookin' back it doan't 'pear no ways wicked, though it may seem so in cold daylight to cold hearts." "Come, come with me, for the rain grows harder. I know where I can hire a covered carriage at an inn. 'Tis only five minutes farther on, and poor Tim's unhappy." "He'm hungry. You won't be hard 'pon my li'l bwoy if I come to 'e, Martin?" "You know as well as I can tell you. There's one other thing. About Chagford, Chris? Are you afraid of it? I'll turn my back on it if you like. I'll take you to Okehampton now if you would rather go there." "Never! 'Tis for you to care, not me. So you knaw an' forgive--what's the rest? Shadows. But let me hold your hand an' keep my tongue still. I'm sick an' fainty wi' this gert turn o' the wheel. 'T is tu deep for any words." He felt not less uplifted, but his joy was a man's. It rolled and tumbled over his being like the riotous west wind. Under such stress his mind could find no worthy thing to say, and yet he was intoxicated and had to speak. He was very unlike himself. He uttered platitudes; then the weight of Timothy upon his arm reminded him that the child existed. "He shall go to a good school, Chris." She sighed. "I wish I could die quick here by the roadside, dear Martin, for living along with you won't be no happier than I am this moment. My thoughts do all run back, not forward. I've lived long enough, I reckon. If I'd told 'e! But I'd rather been skinned alive than do it. I'd have let the rest knaw years agone but for you." Driving homewards half an hour later, Chris Blanchard told Martin that part of her story which concerned her life after the birth of Timothy. "The travellin' people was pure gawld to me," she said. "And theer's much to say of theer gert gudeness. But I can tell 'e that another time. It chanced the very day Will's li'l wan was buried we was to Chagford, an' the sad falling-out quickened my awn mind as to a thought 'bout my cheel. It comed awver me to leave un at Newtake. I left the vans wheer they was camped that afternoon, an' hid 'pon the hill wi' the baaby. Then Will comed out hisself, an' I chaanged my thought an' followed un wheer he roamed, knawin' the colour of his mind through them black hours as if 'twas my awn. 'Twas arter he'd left the roundy-poundy wheer he was born that I put my child in it, then called tu un loud an' clear. He never knawed the voice, which was the awnly thing I feared. But a voice long silent be soon forgot. I bided at hand till I saw the bwoy in brother Will's arms. An' then I knawed 'twas well an' that mother would come to see it. Arterwards I suffered very terrible wi'out un. But I fought wi' myself an' kept away up to the time I'd fixed in my mind. That was so as nobody should link me with the li'l wan in theer thoughts. Waitin' was the hard deed, and seein' my bwoy for the first time when I went to Newtake was hard tu. But 'tis all wan now." She remained silent until the lengthy ride was ended and her mother's cottage reached. Then, as that home she had thought to enter no more appeared again, the nature of the woman awoke for one second, and she flung herself on Martin's heart. "May God make me half you think me, for I love you true, an' you'm the best man He ever fashioned," she said. "An' to-morrow's Sunday," she added inconsequently, "an' I'll kneel in church an' call down lifelong blessings on 'e." "Don't go to-morrow, my darling. And yet--but no, we'll not go, either of us. I couldn't hear my own banns read out for the world, and I don't think you could; yet read they'll be as sure as the service is held." She said nothing, but he knew that she felt; then mother and child were gone, and Martin, dismissing his vehicle, proceeded to Monks Barton with the news that all was well. Mrs. Blanchard heard her daughter's story and its sequel. She exhibited some emotion, but no grief. The sorrow she may have suffered was never revealed to any eye by word or tear. "I reckoned of late days theer was Blanchard blood to the child," she said, "an' I won't hide from you I thought more'n wance you was so like to be the mother as Will the faither of un. Go to bed now, if you caan't eat, an' taake the bwoy, an' thank God for lining your dark cloud with this silver. If He forgives 'e, an' this here gude grey Martin forgives 'e, who be I to fret? Worse'n you've been forgived at fust hand by the Lard when He travelled on flesh-an'-blood feet 'mong men; an' folks have short memories for dates, an' them as sniggers now will be dust or dotards 'fore Tim's grawed. When you've been a lawful wife ten year an' more, who's gwaine to mind this? Not little Tim's fellow bwoys an' gals, anyway. His awn generation won't trouble him, an' he'll find a wise guardian in Martin, an' a lovin' gran'mother in me. Dry your eyes an' be a Blanchard. God A'mighty sends sawls in the world His awn way, an' chooses the faithers an' mothers for 'em; an' He's never taught Nature to go second to parson yet, worse luck. 'Tis done, an' to grumble at a dead man's doin's--specially if you caan't mend 'em--be vain." "My share was half, an' not less," said Chris. "Aye, you say so, but 'tis a deed wheer the blame ban't awften divided equal," answered Mrs. Blanchard. "Wheer's the maiden as caan't wait for her weddin' bells?" The use of the last two words magically swept Chris back into the past. The coincidence was curious, and she remembered when a man, destined never to listen to such melody, declared impatiently that he heard it in the hidden heart of a summer day long past. She did not reply to her mother, but arose and took her child and went to rest. CHAPTER X BAD NEWS FOR BLANCHARD On the morning that saw the wedding of Chris and Martin, Phoebe Blanchard found heart and tongue to speak to her husband of the thing she still kept locked within her mind. Since the meeting with John Grimbal she had suffered much in secret, but still kept silence; and now, after a quiet service before breakfast on a morning in mid-December, most of those who had been present as spectators returned to the valley, and Phoebe spoke to Will as they walked apart from the rest. A sight of the enemy it was that loosed her lips, for, much to the surprise of all present, John Grimbal had attended his brother's wedding. As the little gathering streamed away after the ceremony, he had galloped off again with a groom behind him, and the incident now led to greater things. "Chill-fashion weddin'," said Will, as he walked homewards, "but it 'pears to me all Blanchards be fated to wed coorious. Well, 't is a gude matter out o' hand. I knaw I raged somethin' terrible come I fust heard it, but I think differ'nt now, specially when I mind what Chris must have felt those times she seed me welting her child an' heard un yell, yet set her teeth an' never shawed a sign." "Did 'e note Jan Grimbal theer?" "I seed un, an' I catched un wi' his eye on you more 'n wance. He 's grawed to look nowadays as if his mouth allus had a sour plum in it." "His brain's got sour stuff hid in it if his mouth haven't. Be you ever feared of un?" "Not me. Why for should I be? He'll be wan of the fam'ly like, now. He caan't keep his passion alive for ever. We 'm likely to meet when Martin do come home again from honeymooning." "Will, I must tell you something--something gert an' terrible. I should have told 'e 'fore now but I was frightened." "Not feared to speak to me?" "Ess, seeing the thing I had to say. I've waited weeks in fear an' tremblin', expecting something to happen, an' all weighed down with fright an' dread. Now, what wi' the cheel that's comin', I caan't carry this any more." Being already lachrymose, after the manner of women at a wedding, Phoebe now shed a tear or two. Will thereupon spoke words of comfort, and blamed her for hiding any matter from him. "More trouble?" he said. "Yet I doan't think it,--not now,--just as I be right every way. I guess 't is your state makes you queer an' glumpy." "I hope 't was vain talk an' not true anyway." "More talk 'bout me? You'd think Chagford was most tired o' my name, wouldn't 'e? Who was it now?" "Him--Jan Grimbal. I met him 'mong the mushrooms. He burst out an' said wicked, awful things, but his talk touched the li'l bwoy. He thought Tim was yourn an' he was gwaine to do mischief against you." "Damn his black mind! I wonder he haven't rotted away wi' his awn bile 'fore now." "But that weern't all. He talked an' talked, an' threatened if you didn't go an' see him, as he'd tell 'bout you in the past, when you was away that autumn-time 'fore us was married." "Did he, by God! Doan't he wish he knawed!" "He does knaw, Will--least he said he did." "Never dream it, Phoebe. 'T is a lie. For why? 'Cause if he did knaw I shouldn't--but theer, I've never tawld 'e, an' I ban't gwaine to now. Awnly I'll say this,--if Grimbal really knawed he'd have--but he can't knaw, and theer 's an end of it." "To think I should have been frighted by such a story all these weeks! An' not true. Oh! I wish I'd told 'e when he sent the message. 'T would have saved me so much." "Ess, never keep nothin' from me, Phoebe. Theer 's troubles that might crush wan heart as comes a light load divided between two. What message?" "Some silly auld story 'bout a suit of grey clothes. He said I was to tell 'e the things was received by the awner." Will Blanchard stood still so suddenly that it seemed as though magic had turned him into stone. He stood, and his hands unclasped, and Phoebe's church service which he carried fell with a thud into the road. His wife watched him change colour, and noted in his face an expression she had never before seen there. "Christ A'mighty!" he whispered, with his eyes reflecting a world of sheer amazement and even terror; "he _does_ knaw!" "What? Knaw what, Will? For the Lard's sake doan't 'e look at me like that; you'll frighten my heart into my mouth." "To think he knawed an' watched an' waited all these years! The spider patience o' that man! I see how 't was. He let the world have its way an' thought to see me broken wi'out any trouble from him. Then, when I conquered, an' got to Miller's right hand, an' beat the world at its awn game, he--an' been nursing this against me! The heart of un!" He spoke to himself aloud, gazing straight before him at nothing. "Will, tell me what 't is. Caan't your awn true wife help 'e now or never?" Recalled by her words he came to himself, picked up her book, and walked on. She spoke again and then he answered,-- "No, 't is a coil wheer you caan't do nought--nor nobody. The black power o' waitin'--'t is that I never heard tell of. I thought I knawed what was in men to the core--me, thirty years of age, an' a ripe man if ever theer was wan. But this malice! 'T is enough to make 'e believe in the devil." "What have you done?" she cried aloud. "Tell me the worst of it, an' how gert a thing he've got against you." "Bide quiet," he answered. "I'll tell 'e, but not on the public road. Not but he'll take gude care every ear has it presently. Shut your mouth now an' come up to our chamber arter breakfast an' I'll tell 'e the rights of it. An' that dog knawed an' could keep it close all these years!" "He's dangerous, an' terrible, an' strong. I see it in your faace, Will." "So he is, then; ban't no foxin' you 'bout it now. 'T is an awful power of waitin' he've got; an' he haven't bided his time these years an' years for nothin'. A feast to him, I lay. He've licked his damned lips many a score o' times to think of the food he'd fat his vengeance with bimebye." "Can he taake you from me? If not I'll bear it." "Ess fay, I'm done for; credit, fortune, all gone. It might have been death if us had been to war at the time." She clung to him and her head swam. "Death! God's mercy! you've never killed nobody, Will?" "Not as I knaws on, but p'r'aps ban't tu late to mend it. It freezes me--it freezes my blood to think what his thoughts have been. No, no, ban't death or anything like that. But 't is prison for sure if--" He broke off and his face was very dark. "What, Will? If what? Oh, comfort me, comfort me, Will, for God's sake! An' another li'l wan comin'!" "Doan't take on," he said. "Ban't my way to squeal till I'm hurt. Let it bide, an' be bright an' cheery come eating, for mother 's down in the mouth at losin' Chris, though she doan't shaw it." Mrs. Blanchard, with little Timothy, joined the breakfast party at Monks Barton, and a certain gloom hanging over the party, Mr. Blee commented upon it in his usual critical spirit. "This here givin' in marriage do allus make a looker-on down in the mouth if he 's a sober-minded sort o' man. 'T is the contrast between the courageousness of the two poor sawls jumpin' into the state, an' the solid fact of bein' a man's wife or a woman's husband for all time. The vows they swear! An' that Martin's voice so strong an' cheerful! A teeming cause o' broken oaths the marriage sarvice; yet each new pair comes along like sheep to the slaughter." "You talk like a bachelor man," said Damaris. "Not so, Mrs. Blanchard, I assure 'e! Lookers-on see most of the game. Ban't the mite as lives in a cheese what can tell e' 'bout the flavour of un. Look at a married man at a weddin'--all broadcloth an' cheerfulness, like the fox as have lost his tail an' girns to see another chap in the same pickle." "Yet you tried blamed hard to lose your tail an' get a wife, for all your talk," said Will, who, although his mind was full enough, yet could generally find a sharp word for Mr. Blee. "Bah to you!" answered the old man angrily. "_That_ for you! 'T is allus your way to bring personal talk into high conversation. I was improvin' the hour with general thoughts; but the vulgar tone you give to a discourse would muzzle the wisdom o' Solomon." Miller Lyddon here made an effort to re-establish peace and soon afterwards the meal came to an end. Half an hour later Phoebe heard from her husband the story of his brief military career: of how he had enlisted as a preliminary to going abroad and making his fortune, how he had become servant to one Captain Tremayne, how upon the news of Phoebe's engagement he had deserted, and how his intention to return and make a clean breast of it had been twice changed by the circumstances that followed his marriage. Long he took in detailing every incident and circumstance. "Coming to think," he said, "of coourse 't is clear as Grimbal must knaw my auld master. I seed his name raised to a Major in the _Western Morning News_ a few year agone, an' he was to Okehampton with a battalion when Hicks come by his death. So that's how't is; an' I ban't gwaine to bide Grimbal's time to be ruined, you may be very sure of that. Now I knaw, I act." "He may be quite content you should knaw. That's meat an' drink enough for him, to think of you gwaine in fear day an' night." "Ess, but that's not my way. I ban't wan to wait an enemy's pleasure." "You won't go to him, Will?" "Go to un? Ess fay--'fore the day's done, tu." "That's awnly to hasten the end." "The sooner the better." He tramped up and down the bedroom with his eyes on the ground, his hands in his pockets. "A tremendous thing to tumble up on the surface arter all these years; an' a tremendous time for it to come. 'T was a crime 'gainst the Queen for my awn gude ends. I had to choose 'tween her an' you; I'd do the same to-morrow. The fault weern't theer. It lay in not gwaine back." "You couldn't; your arm was broke." "I ought to have gone back arter 't was well. Then time had passed, an' uncle's money corned, an' they never found me. But theer it lies ahead now, sure enough." "Perhaps for sheer shame he'll bide quiet 'bout it. A man caan't hate another man for ever." "I thought not, same as you, but Grimbal shaws we 'm wrong." "Let us go, then; let us do what you thought to do 'fore faither comed forward so kind. Let us go away to furrin paarts, even now." "I doubt if he'd let me go. 'T is mouse an' cat for the minute. Leastways so he's thought since he talked to 'e. But he'll knaw differ'nt 'fore he lies in his bed to-night. Must be cut an' dried an' settled." "Be slow to act, Will, an'--" "Theer! theer!" he said, "doan't 'e offer me no advice, theer's a gude gal, 'cause I couldn't stand it even from you, just this minute. God knaws I'm not above takin' it in a general way, for the best tried man can larn from babes an' sucklings sometimes; but this is a thing calling for nothin' but shut lips. 'T is my job an' I've got to see it through my own way." "You'll be patient, Will? 'T isn't like other times when you was right an' him wrong. He's got the whip-hand of 'e, so you mustn't dictate." "Not me. I can be reasonable an' just as any man. I never hid from myself I was doin' wrong at the time. But, when all's said, this auld history's got two sides to it--'specially if you remember that 't was through John Grimbal's awn act I had to do wan wrong thing to save you doin' a worse wan. He'll have to be reasonable likewise. 'T is man to man." Will's conversation lasted another hour, but Phoebe could not shake his determination, and after dinner Blanchard departed to the Red House, his destination being known to his wife only. But while Will marched upon this errand, the man he desired to see had just left his own front door, struck through leafless coppices of larch and silver beech that approached the house, and then proceeded to where bigger timber stood about a little plateau of marshy land, surrounded by tall flags. The woodlands had paid their debt to Nature in good gold, and all the trees were naked. An east wind lent a hard, clean clearness to the country. In the foreground two little lakes spread their waters steel-grey in a cup of lead; the distance was clear and cold and compact of all sober colours save only where, through a grey and interlacing nakedness of many boughs, the roof of the Red House rose. John Grimbal sat upon a felled tree beside the pools, and while he remained motionless, his pipe unlighted, his gun beside him, a spaniel worked below in the sere sedges at the water's margin. Presently the dog barked, a moor-hen splashed, half flying, half swimming, across the larger lake, and a snipe got up and jerked crookedly away on the wind. The dog stood with one fore-paw lifted and the water dripping along his belly. He waited for a crack and puff of smoke and the thud of a bird falling into the water or the underwood. But his master did not fire; he did not even see the flushing of the snipe; so the dog came up and remonstrated with his eyes. Grimbal patted the beast's head, then rose from his seat on the felled tree, stretched his arms, sat down again and lighted his pipe. The event of the morning had turned his thoughts in the old direction, and now they were wholly occupied with Will Blanchard. Since his fit of futile spleen and fury after the meeting with Phoebe, John had slowly sunk back into the former nerveless attitude. From this an occasional wonder roused him--a wonder as to whether the woman had ever given her husband his message at all. His recent active hatred seemed a little softened, though why it should be so he could not have explained. Now he sometimes assured himself that he should not proceed to extremities, but hang his sword over Will's head a while and possibly end by pardoning him altogether. Thus he paltered with his better part and presented a spectacle of one mentally sick unto death by reason of shattered purpose. His unity of design was gone. He had believed the last conversation with Phoebe in itself sufficient to waken his pristine passion, but anger against himself had been a great factor of that storm, apart from which circumstance he made the mistake of supposing that his passion slept, whereas in reality it was dead. Now, if Grimbal was to be stung into activity, it must be along another line and upon a fresh count. Then, as he reflected by the little tarns, there approached Will Blanchard himself; and Grimbal, looking up, saw him standing among white tussocks of dead grass by the water-side and rubbing the mud off his boots upon them. For a moment his breath quickened, but he was not surprised; and yet, before Will reached him, he had time to wonder at himself that he was not. Blanchard, calling at the Red House ten minutes after the master's departure, had been informed by old Lawrence Vallack, John's factotum, that he had come too late. It transpired, however, that Grimbal had taken his gun and a dog, so Will, knowing the estate, made a guess at the sportsman's destination, and was helped on his way when he came within earshot of the barking spaniel. Now that animal resented his intrusion, and for a moment it appeared that the brute's master did also. Will had already seen Grimbal where he sat, and came swiftly towards him. "What are you doing here, William Blanchard? You're trespassing and you know it," said the landowner loudly. "You can have no business here." "Haven't I? Then why for do'e send me messages?" Will stood straight and stern in front of his foe. His face was more gloomy than the sombre afternoon; his jaw stood out very square; his grey eyes were hard as the glint of the east wind. He might have been accuser, and John Grimbal accused. The sportsman did not move from his seat upon the log. But he felt a flush of blood pulse through him at the other's voice, as though his heart, long stagnant, was being sluiced. "That? I'd forgotten all about it. You've taken your time in obeying me." "This marnin', an' not sooner, I heard what you telled her when you catched Phoebe alone." "Ah! now I understand the delay. Say what you've got to say, please, and then get out of my sight." "'T is for you to speak, not me. What be you gwaine to do, an' when be you gwaine to do it? I allow you've bested me, God knaws how; but you've got me down. So the sooner you say what your next step is, the better." The older man laughed. "'T isn't the beaten party makes the terms as a rule." "I want no terms; I wouldn't make terms with you for a sure plaace in heaven. Tell me what you be gwaine to do against me. I've a right to knaw." "I can't tell you." "You mean as you won't tell me?" "I mean I can't--not yet. After speaking to your wife I forgot all about it. It doesn't interest me." "Be you gwaine to give me up?" "Probably I shall--as a matter of duty. I'm a bit of a soldier myself. It's such a dirty coward's trick to desert. Yes, I think I shall make an example of you." Will looked at him steadily. "You want to wake the devil in me--I see that. But you won't. I'm aulder an' wiser now. So you 'm to give me up? I knawed it wi'out axin'." "And that doesn't wake you?" "No. Seein' why I deserted an' mindin' your share in drivin' me." Grimbal did not answer, and Will asked him to name a date. "I tell you I shall suit myself, not you. When you will like it least, be sure of that. I needn't pretend what I don't feel. I hate the sight of you still, and the closer you come the more I hate you. It rolls years off me to see your damned brown face so near and hear your voice in my ear,--years and years; and I'm glad it does. You've ruined my life, and I'll ruin yours yet." There was a pause; Blanchard stared cold and hard into Grimbal's eyes; then John continued, and his flicker of passion cooled a little as he did so,-- "At least that's what I said to myself when first I heard this little bit of news--that I'd ruin you; now I'm not sure." "At least I'll thank you to make up your mind. 'T is turn an' turn about. You be uppermost just this minute. As to ruining me, that's as may be." "Well, I shall decide presently. I suppose you won't run away. And it 's no great matter if you do, for a fool can't hide himself under his folly." "I sha'n't run. I want to get through with this and have it behind me." "You're in a hurry now." "It 's just an' right. I knaw that. An' ban't no gert odds who 's informer. But I want to have it behind me--an' you in front. Do 'e see? This out o' hand, then it 's my turn again. Keepin' me waitin' 'pon such a point be tu small an' womanish for a fight between men. 'T is your turn to hit, Jan Grimbal, an' theer 's no guard 'gainst the stroke, so if you're a man, hit an' have done with it." "Ah! you don't like the thought of waiting!" "No, I do not. I haven't got your snake's patience. Let me have what I've got to have, an' suffer it, an' make an' end of it." "You're in a hurry for a dish that won't be pleasant eating, I assure you." "It's just an' right I tell 'e; an' I knaw it is, though all these years cover it. Your paart 's differ'nt. I lay you 'm in a worse hell than me, even now." "A moralist! How d' you like the thought of a damned good flogging--fifty lashes laid on hot and strong?" "Doan't you wish you had the job? Thrashing of a man wi' his legs an' hands tied would just suit your sort of courage." "As to that, they won't flog you really; and I fancy I could thrash you still without any help. Your memory 's short. Never mind. Get you gone now; and never speak to me again as long as you live, or I shall probably hit you across the mouth with my riding-whip. As to giving you up, you're in my hands and must wait my time for that." "Must I, by God? Hark to a fule talkin'! Why should I wait your pleasure, an' me wi' a tongue in my head? You've jawed long enough. Now you can listen. I'll give _myself_ up, so theer! I'll tell the truth, an' what drove me to desert, an' what you be anyway--as goes ridin' out wi' the yeomanry so braave in black an' silver with your sword drawed! That'll spoil your market for pluck an' valour, anyways. An' when I've done all court-martial gives me, I'll come back!" He swung away as he spoke; and the other sat on motionless for an hour after Will had departed. John Grimbal's pipe went out; his dog, weary of waiting, crept to his feet and fell asleep there; live fur and feathers peeped about and scanned his bent figure, immobile as a tree-trunk that supported it; and the gun, lying at hand, drew down a white light from a gathering gloaming. One great desire was in the sportsman's mind,--he already found himself hungry for another meeting with Blanchard. CHAPTER XI PHOEBE TAKES THOUGHT That night Will sat and smoked in his bedroom and talked to Phoebe, who had already gone to rest. She looked over her knees at him with round, sad eyes; while beside her in a cot slept her small daughter. A candle burned on the mantelpiece and served to illuminate one or two faded pictures; a daguerreotype of Phoebe as a child sitting on a donkey, and an ancient silhouette of Miller Lyddon, cut for him on his visit to the Great Exhibition. In a frame beneath these appeared the photograph of little Will who had died at Newtake. "He thinks he be gwaine to bide his time an' let me stew an' sweat for it," said the man moodily. "Awnly a born devil could tell such wickedness. Ban't theer no ways o' meetin' him, now you knaw? If you'd speak to faither--" "What 's the use bringing sorrow on his grey hairs?" "Well, it's got to come; you knaw that. Grimbal isn't the man to forgive." "Forgive! That would be worst of all. If he forgived me now I'd go mad. Wait till I've had soldier law, then us'll talk 'bout forgiving arter." Phoebe shivered and began to cry helplessly, drying her eyes upon the sheet. "Theer--theer," he said; "doan't be a cheel. We 'm made o' stern stuff, you an' me. 'T is awnly a matter of years, I s'pose, an' the reason I went may lessen the sentence a bit. Mother won't never turn against me, an' so long as your faither can forgive, the rest of the world's welcome to look so black as it pleases." "Faither'll forgive 'e." "He might--just wance more. He've got to onderstand my points better late days." "Come an' sleep then, an' fret no more till marnin' light anyway." "'Tis the thing hidden, hanging over my head, biding behind every corner. I caan't stand it; I caan't wait for it. I'll grow sheer devil if I've got to wait; an', so like as not, I'll meet un faace to faace some day an' send un wheer neither his bark nor bite will harm me. Ess fay--solemn truth. I won't answer for it. I can put so tight a hand 'pon myself as any man since Job, but to sit down under this--" "Theer's nought else you can do," said Phoebe. She yawned as she spoke, but Will's reply strangled the yawn and effectually woke her up. "So Jan Grimbal said, an' I blamed soon shawed un he was out. Theer's a thing I can do an' shall do. 'T will sweep the ground from under un; 't will blaw off his vengeance harmless as a gun fired in the air; 't will turn his malice so sour as beer after thunder. I be gwaine to give myself up--then us'll see who's the fule!" Phoebe was out of bed with her arms round her husband in a moment. "No, no--never. You couldn't, Will; you daren't--'tis against nature. You ban't free to do no such wild thing. You forget me, an' the li'l maid, an' t' other comin'!" "Doan't 'e choke me," he said; "an' doan't 'e look so terrified. Your small hands caan't keep off what's ahead o' me; an' I wouldn't let 'em if they could. 'T is in this world that a chap's got to pay for his sins most times, an' damn short credit, tu, so far as I can see. So what they want to bleat 'bout hell-fire for I've never onderstood, seeing you get your change here. Anyway, so sure as I do a trick that ban't 'zactly wise, the whip 's allus behind it--the whip--" He repeated the word in a changed voice, for it reminded him of what Grimbal had threatened. He did not know whether there might be truth in it. His pride winced and gasped. He thought of Phoebe seeing his bare back perhaps years afterwards. A tempest of rage blackened his face and he spoke in a voice hoarse and harsh. "Get up an' go to bed. Doan't whine, for God's sake, or you'll drive me daft. I've paid afore, an' I'll pay again; an' may the Lard help him who ever owes me ought. No mercy have I ever had from living man,--'cept Miller,--none will I ever shaw." "Not to-morrow, Will--not this week. Promise that, an' I'll get into bed an' bide quiet. For your love o' me, just leave it till arter Christmas time. Promise that, else you'll kill me. No, no, no--you shaa'n't shout me down 'pon this. I'll cry to 'e while I've got life left. Promise not till Christmas be past." "I'll promise nothing. I must think in the peace o' night. Go to sleep an 'bide quiet, else you'll wake the li'l gal." "I won't--I won't--I'll never sleep again. Caan' t'e think o' me so well as yourself--you as be allus thinking o' me? Ban't I to count in an awful pass like this? I'm no fair-weather wife, as you knaws by now. If you gives yourself up, I'll kill myself. You think I couldn't, but I could. What's my days away from you?" "Hush, hush!" he said. "Be you mad? 'T is a matter tu small for such talk as that." "Promise, then, promise you'll be dumb till arter Christmas." "So I will, if you 'm that set on it; but if you knawed what waitin' meant to the likes o' me, you wouldn't ax. You've got my word, now keep quiet, theer 's a dear love, an' dry your eyes." He put her into bed, and soon stretched himself beside her. Then she clung to him as though powers were already dragging him away for ever. Will, bored and weary, was sorry for his wife with all his soul, and kept grunting words of good cheer and comfort as he sank to sleep. She still begged and prayed for delay, and by her importunity made him promise at last that he would take no step until after New Year's Day. Then, finding she could win no more in that direction, Phoebe turned to another aspect of the problem, and began to argue with unexpected if sophistic skill. Her tears were now dry, her eyes very bright beneath the darkness; she talked and talked with feverish volubility, and her voice faded into a long-drawn murmur as Will's hearing weakened on the verge of unconsciousness. "Why for d' you say you was wrong in what you done? Why d' you harp an' harp 'pon that, knawin' right well you'd do the same again to-morrow? You wasn't wrong, an' the Queen's self would say the same if she knawed. 'T was to save a helpless woman you runned; an' her--Queen Victoria--wi' her big heart as can sigh for the sorrow of even such small folks as us--she'd be the last to blame 'e." "She'll never knaw nothin' 'bout it, gude or bad. They doan't vex her ears wi' trifles. I deserted, an' that's a crime." "I say 't weern't no such thing. You had to choose between that an' letting me die. You saved my life; an' the facts would be judged the same by any as was wife an' mother, high or low. God A'mighty 's best an' awnly judge how much you was wrong; an' you knaw He doan't blame 'e, else your heart would have been sore for it these years an' years. You never blamed yourself till now." "Ess, awften an' awften I did. It comed an' went, an' comed an' went again, like winter frosts. True as I'm living it comed an' went like that." Thus he spoke, half incoherently, his voice all blurred and vague with sleep. "You awnly think 't was so. You'd never have sat down under it else. It ban't meant you should give yourself up now, anyways. God would have sent the sojers to find 'e when you runned away if He'd wanted 'em to find 'e. You didn't hide. You looked the world in the faace bold as a lion, didn't 'e? Coourse you did; an' 't is gwaine against God's will an' wish for you to give yourself up now. So you mustn't speak an' you must tell no one--not even faither. I was wrong to ax 'e to tell him. Nobody at all must knaw. Be dumb, an' trust me to be dumb. 'T is buried an' forgot. I'll fight for 'e, my dearie, same as you've fought for me many a time; an' 't will all fall out right for 'e, for men 's come through worse passes than this wi' fewer friends than what you've got." She stopped to win breath and, in the silence, heard Will's regular respiration and knew that he slept. How much he had heard of her speech Phoebe could not say, but she felt glad to think that some hours at least of rest and peace now awaited him. For herself she had never been more widely awake, and her brains were very busy through the hours of darkness. A hundred thoughts and schemes presented themselves. She gradually eliminated everybody from the main issue but Will, John Grimbal, and herself; and, pursuing the argument, began to suspect that she alone had power to right the wrong. In one direction only could such an opinion lead--a direction tremendous to her. Yet she did not shrink from the necessity ahead; she strung herself up to face it; she longed for an opportunity and resolved to make one at the earliest moment. Now that night was the longest in the whole year; and yet to Phoebe it passed with magic celerity. Will awakened about half-past five, rose immediately according to his custom, lighted a candle, and started to dress himself. He began the day in splendid spirits, begotten of good sleep and good health; but his wife saw the lightness of heart, the bustling activity of body, sink into apathy and inertia as remembrance overtook his wakening hour. It was like a brief and splendid dawn crushed by storm-clouds at the very rise of the sun. Phoebe presently dressed her little daughter and, as soon as the child had gone down-stairs, Will resumed the problems of his position. "I be in two minds this marnin'," he said. "I've a thought to tell mother of this matter. She 'm that wise, I've knawed her put me on the right track 'fore now, an' never guess she'd done it. Not but what I allus awn up to taking advice, if I follow it, an' no man 's readier to profit by the wisdom of his betters than me. That's how I've done all I have done in my time. T' other thought was to take your counsel an' see Miller 'pon it." "I was wrong, Will--quite wrong. I've been thinking, tu. He mustn't knaw, nor yet mother, nor nobody. Quite enough knaws as 't is." "What's the wisdom o' talkin' like that? Who 's gwaine to hide the thing, even if they wanted to? God knaws I ban't. I'd like, so well as not, to go up Chagford next market-day an' shout out the business afore the world." "You can't now. You must wait. You promised. I thought about it with every inch of my brain last night, an' I got a sort of feeling--I caan't explain, but wait. I've trusted you all my life long an' allus shall; now 't is your turn to trust me, just this wance. I've got great thoughts. I see the way; I may do much myself. You see, Jan Grimbal--" Will stood still with his chin half shorn. "You dare to do that," he said, "an' I'll raise Cain in this plaace; I'll--" He broke off and laughed at himself. "Here be I blusterin' like a gert bully now! Doan't be feared, Phoebe. Forgive my noise. You mean so well, but you caan't hide your secrets, fortunately. Bless your purty eyes--tu gude for me, an' allus was, braave li'l woman! "But no more of that--no seekin' him, an' no speech with him, if that's the way your poor, silly thought was. My bones smart to think of you bearin' any of it. But doan't you put no oar into this troubled water, else the bwoat'll capsize, sure as death. I've promised 'e not to say a word till arter New Year; now you must promise me never, so help you, to speak to that man, or look at un, or listen to a word from un. Fly him like you would the devil; an' a gude second to the devil he is--if 't is awnly in the matter o' patience. Promise now." "You 'm so hasty, Will. You doan't onderstand a woman's cleverness in such matters. 'T is just the fashion thing as shaws what we 'm made of." "Promise!" he thundered angrily. "Now, this instant moment, in wan word." She gave him a single defiant glance. Then the boldness of her eyes faded and her lips drooped at the corners. "I promise, then." "I should think you did." A few minutes later Will was gone, and Phoebe dabbed her moist eyes and blamed herself for so clumsily revealing her great intention,--to see John Grimbal and plead with him. This secret ambition was now swept away, and she knew not where to turn or how to act for her husband. CHAPTER XII NEW YEAR'S EVE AND NEW YEAR'S DAY From this point in his career Will Blanchard, who lacked all power of hiding his inner heart, soon made it superficially apparent that new troubles had overtaken him. No word concerning his intolerable anxieties escaped him, but a great cloud of tribulation encompassed every hour, and was revealed to others by increased petulance and shortness of temper. This mental friction quickly appeared on the young man's face, and his habitual expression of sulkiness which formerly belied him, now increased and more nearly reflected the reigning temperament of Blanchard's mind. His nerves were on the rack and he grew sullen and fretful. A dreary expression gained upon his features, an expression sad as a winter twilight brushed with rain. To Phoebe he seldom spoke of the matter, and she soon abandoned further attempts to intrude upon his heart though her own was breaking for him. Billy Blee and the farm hands were Will's safety-valve. One moment he showered hard and bitter words; the next, at sight of some ploughboy's tears or older man's reasonable anger, Will instantly relented and expressed his sorrow. The dullest among them grew in time to discern matters were amiss with him, for his tormented mind began to affect his actions and disorder the progress of his life. At times he worked laboriously and did much with his own hands that might have been left to others; but his energy was displayed in a manner fitful and spasmodic; occasionally he would vanish altogether for four-and-twenty hours or more; and none knew when he might appear or disappear. It happened on New Year's Eve that a varied company assembled at the "Green Man" according to ancient custom. Here were Inspector Chown, Mr. Chapple, Mr. Blee, Charles Coomstock, with many others; and the assembly was further enriched by the presence of the bell-ringers. Their services would be demanded presently to toll out the old year, to welcome with joyful peal the new; and they assembled here until closing time that they might enjoy a pint of the extra strong liquor a prosperous publican provided for his customers at this season. The talk was of Blanchard, and Mr. Blee, provided with a theme which always challenged his most forcible diction, discussed Will freely and without prejudice. "I 'most goes in fear of my life, I tell 'e; but thank God 't is the beginning of the end. He'll spread his wings afore spring and be off again, or I doan't knaw un. Ess fay, he'll depart wi' his fiery nature an' horrible ideas 'pon manuring of land; an' a gude riddance for Monks Barton, I say." "'Mazing 't is," declared Mr. Coomstock, "that he should look so black all times, seeing the gude fortune as turns up for un when most he wants it." "So 't is," admitted Billy. "The faace of un weer allus sulky, like to the faace of a auld ram cat, as may have a gude heart in un for all his glowerin' eyes. But him! Theer ban't no pleasin' un. What do he want? Surely never no man 's failed on his feet awftener." "'T is that what 's spoilin' un, I reckon," said Mr. Chappie. "A li'l ill-fortune he wants now, same as a salad o' green stuff wants some bite to it. He'd grumble in heaven, by the looks of un. An' yet it do shaw the patience of God wi' human sawls." "Ess, it do," answered Mr. Blee; "but patience ban't a virtue, pushed tu far. Justice is justice, as I've said more 'n wance to Miller an' Blanchard, tu, an' a man of my years can see wheer justice lies so clear as God can. For why? Because theer ban't room for two opinions. I've give my Maker best scores an' scores o' times, as we all must; but truth caan't alter, an' having put thinking paarts into our heads, 't is more 'n God A'mighty's Self can do to keep us from usin' of'em." "A tremenjous thought," said Mr. Chapple. "So 't is. An' what I want to knaw is, why should Blanchard have his fling, an' treat me like dirt, an' ride rough-shod awver his betters, an' scowl at the sky all times, an' nothin' said?" "Providence doan't answer a question just 'cause we 'm pleased to ax wan," said Abraham Chown. "What happens happens, because 't is foreordained, an' you caan't judge the right an' wrong of a man's life from wan year or two or ten, more 'n you can judge a glass o' ale by a tea-spoon of it. Many has a long rope awnly to hang themselves in the end, by the wonnerful foresight of God." "All the same, theer'd be hell an' Tommy to pay mighty quick, if you an' me did the things that bwoy does, an' carried on that onreligious," replied Mr. Blee, with gloomy conviction. "Ban't fair to other people, an' if 't was Doomsday I'd up an' say so. What gude deeds have he done to have life smoothed out, an' the hills levelled an' the valleys filled up? An' nought but sour looks for it." "But be you sure he 'm happy?" inquired Mr. Chapple. "He 'm not the man to walk 'bout wi' a fiddle-faace if 't was fair weather wi' un. He've got his troubles same as us, depend upon it." Blanchard himself entered at this moment. It wanted but half an hour to closing time when he did so, and he glanced round the bar, snorted at the thick atmosphere of alcohol and smoke, then pulled out his pipe and took a vacant chair. "Gude evenin', Will," said Mr. Chapple. "A happy New Year, Blanchard," added the landlord. "Evening, sawls all," answered Will, nodding round him. "Auld year's like to die o' frost by the looks of it--a stinger, I tell 'e. Anybody seen Farmer Endicott? I've been looking for un since noon wi' a message from my faither-in-law." "I gived thicky message this marnin'," cried Billy. "Ess, I knaw you did; that's my trouble. You gived it wrong. I'll just have a pint of the treble X then. 'T is the night for 't." Will's demeanour belied the recent conversation respecting him. He appeared to be in great spirits, joked with the men, exchanged shafts with Billy, and was the first to roar with laughter when Mr. Blee got the better of him in a brisk battle of repartee. Truth to tell, the young man's heart felt somewhat lighter, and with reason. To-morrow his promise to Phoebe held him no longer, and his carking, maddening trial of patience was to end. The load would drop from his shoulders at daylight. His letter to Mr. Lyddon had been written; in the morning the miller must read it before breakfast, and learn that his son-in-law had started for Plymouth to give himself up for the crime of the past. John Grimbal had made no sign, and the act of surrender would now be voluntary--a thought which lightened Blanchard's heart and induced a turn of temper almost jovial. He joined a chorus, laughed with the loudest, and contrived before closing time to drink a pint and a half of the famous special brew. Then the bell-ringers departed to their duties, and Mr. Chapple with Mr. Blee, Will, and one or two other favoured spirits spent a further half-hour in their host's private parlour, and there consumed a little sloe gin, to steady the humming ale. "You an' me must see wan another home," said Will when he and Mr. Blee departed into the frosty night. "Fust time as ever you give me an arm," murmured Billy. "Won't be the last, I'm sure," declared Will. "I've allus had a gude word for 'e ever since I knawed 'e," answered Billy. "An' why for shouldn't 'e?" asked Will. "Beginning of New Year 's a solemn sarcumstance," proceeded Billy, as a solitary bell began to toll. "Theer 's the death-rattle of eighteen hunderd an' eighty-six! Well, well, we must all die--men an' mice." "An' the devil take the hindmost." Mr. Blee chuckled. "Let 's go round this way," he said. "Why? Ban't your auld bones ready for bed yet? Theer 's nought theer but starlight an' frost." "Be gormed to the frost! I laugh at it. Ban't that. 'T is the Union workhouse, wheer auld Lezzard lies. I likes to pass, an' nod to un as he sits on the lew side o' the wall in his white coat, chumping his thoughts between his gums." "He 'm happier 'n me or you, I lay." "Not him! You should see un glower 'pon me when I gives un 'gude day.' I tawld un wance as the Poor Rates was up somethin' cruel since he'd gone in the House, an' he looked as though he'd 'a' liked to do me violence. No, he ban't happy, I warn 'e." "Well, you won't see un sitting under the stars in his white coat, poor auld blid. He 'm asleep under the blankets, I lay." "Thin wans! Thin blankets an' not many of 'em. An' all his awn doin'. Patent justice, if ever I seed it." "Tramp along! You can travel faster 'n that. Ess fay! Justice is the battle-cry o' God against men most times. Maybe they 'm strong on it in heaven, but theer 's damned little filters down here. Theer go the bells! Another New Year come. Years o' the Lard they call 'em! Years o' the devil most times, if you ax me. What do 'e want the New Year to bring to you, Billy?" "A contented 'eart," said Mr. Blee, "an' perhaps just half-a-crown more a week, if 't was seemly. Brains be paid higher 'n sweat in this world, an' I'm mostly brain now in my dealin's wi' Miller. A brain be like a nut, as ripens all the year through an' awnly comes to be gude for gathering when the tree 's in the sere. 'T is in the autumn of life a man's brain be worth plucking like--eh?" "Doan't knaw. They 'm maggoty mostly at your age!" "An' they 'm milky mostly at yourn!" "Listen to the bells an' give awver chattering," said Will. "After gude store o' drinks, a sad thing like holy bells ringing in the dark afar off do sting my nose an' bring a drop to my eye," confessed Mr. Blee. "An' you--why, theer 's a baaby hid away in the New Year for you--a human creature as may do gert wonders in the land an' turn out into Antichrist, for all you can say positive. Theer 's a braave thought for 'e!" This remark sobered Blanchard and his mind travelled into the future, to Phoebe, to the child coming in June. Billy babbled on, and presently they reached Mrs. Blanchard's cottage. Damaris herself, with a shawl over her head, stood and listened to the bells, and Will, taking leave of Mr. Blee, hastened to wish his mother all happiness in the year now newly dawned. He walked once or twice up and down the little garden beside her, and with a tongue loosened by liquor came near to telling her of his approaching action, but did not do so. Meantime Mr. Blee steered himself with all caution over Rushford Bridge to Monks Barton. Presently the veteran appeared before his master and Phoebe, who had waited for the advent of the New Year before retiring. Miller Lyddon was about to suggest a night-cap for Billy, but changed his mind. "Enough 's as gude as a feast," he said. "Canst get up-stairs wi'out help?" "Coourse I can! But the chap to the 'Green Man's' that perfuse wi' his liquor at seasons of rejoicing. More went down than was chalked up; I allow that. If you'll light my chamber cannel, I'll thank 'e, missis; an' a Happy New Year to all." Phoebe obeyed, launched Mr. Blee in the direction of his chamber, then turned to receive Will's caress as he came home and locked the door behind him. The night air still carried the music of the bells. For an hour they pealed on; then the chime died slowly, a bell at a time, until two clanged each against the other. Presently one stopped and the last, weakening softly, beat a few strokes more, then ceased to fret the frosty birth-hour of another year. The darkness slipped away, and Blanchard who had long learned to rise without awakening his wife, was up and dressed again soon after five o'clock. He descended silently, placed a letter on the mantelpiece in the kitchen, abstracted a leg of goose and a hunch of bread from the larder, then set out upon a chilly walk of five miles to Moreton Hampstead. From there he designed to take train and proceed to Plymouth as directly and speedily as possible. Some two hours later Will's letter found itself in Mr. Lyddon's hand, and his father-in-law learnt the secret. Phoebe was almost as amazed as the miller himself when this knowledge came to her ear; for Will had not breathed his intention to her, and no suspicion had crossed his wife's mind that he intended to act with such instant promptitude on the expiration of their contract. "I doubted I knawed him through an' through at last, but 't is awnly to-day, an' after this, that I can say as I do," mused Mr. Lyddon over an untasted breakfast. "To think he runned them awful risks to make you fast to him! To think he corned all across England in the past to make you his wife against the danger on wan side, an' the power o' Jan Grimbal an' me drawed up 'pon the other!" Pursuing this strain to Phoebe's heartfelt relief, the miller neither assumed an attitude of great indignation at Will's action nor affected despair of his future. He was much bewildered, however. "He'll keep me 'mazed so long as I live, 'pears to me. But he 'm gone for the present, an' I doan't say I'm sorry, knawin' what was behind. No call for you to sob yourself into a fever. Please God, he'll be back long 'fore you want him. Us'll make the least we can of it, an' bide patient until we hear tell of him. He've gone to Plymouth--that's all Chagford needs to knaw at present." "Theer 's newspapers an' Jan Grimbal," sobbed Phoebe. "A dark man wi' fixed purposes, sure enough," admitted her father, for Will's long letter had placed all the facts before him. "What he'll do us caan't say, though, seein' Will's act, theer 's nothin' more left for un. Why has the man been silent so long if he meant to strike in the end? Now I must go an' tell Mrs. Blanchard. Will begs an' prays of me to do that so soon as he shall be gone; an' he 'm right. She ought to knaw; but 't is a job calling for careful choice of words an' a light hand. Wonder is to me he didn't tell her hisself. But he never does what you'd count 'pon his doing." "You won't tell Billy, faither, will 'e? Ban't no call for that." "I won't tell him, certainly not; but Blee 's a ferret when a thing 's hid. A detective mind theer is to Billy. How would it do to tell un right away an' put un 'pon his honour to say nothing?" "He mustn't knaw; he mustn't knaw. He couldn't keep a secret like that if you gived un fifty pounds to keep it. So soon tell a town-crier as him." "Then us won't," promised Mr. Lyddon, and ten minutes after he proceeded to Mrs. Blanchard's cottage with the news. His first hasty survey of the position had not been wholly unfavourable to Will, but he was a man of unstable mind in his estimates of human character, and now he chiefly occupied his thoughts with the offence of desertion from the army. The disgrace of such an action magnified itself as he reflected upon Will's unhappy deed. Phoebe, meantime, succumbed and found herself a helpless prey of terrors vague and innumerable. Will's fate she could not guess at; but she felt it must be severe; she doubted not that his sentence would extend over long years. In her dejection and misery she mourned for herself and wondered what manner of babe would this be that now took substance through a season of such gloom and accumulated sorrows. The thought begat pity for the coming little one,--utmost commiseration that set Phoebe's tears flowing anew,--and when the miller returned he found his daughter stricken beyond measure and incoherent under her grief. But Mr. Lyddon came back with a companion, and it was her husband, not her father, who dried Phoebe's eyes and cheered her lonely heart. Will, indeed, appeared and stood by her suddenly; and she heard his voice and cried a loud thanksgiving and clasped him close. Yet no occasion for rejoicing had brought about this unexpected reappearance. Indeed, more ill-fortune was responsible for it. When Mr. Lyddon arrived at Mrs. Blanchard's gate, he found both Will and Doctor Parsons standing there, then learnt the incident that had prevented his son-in-law's proposed action. Passing that way himself some hours earlier, Will had been suddenly surprised to see blue smoke rising from a chimney of the house. It was a very considerable time before such event might reasonably be expected and a second look alarmed Blanchard's heart, for on the little chimney-stack he knew each pot, and it was not the kitchen chimney but that of his mother's bedroom which now sent evidence of a newly lighted fire into the morning. In a second Will's plans and purposes were swept away before this spectacle. A fire in a bedroom represented a circumstance almost outside his experience. At least it indicated sickness unto death. He was in the house a moment later, for the latch lifted at his touch; and when he knocked at his mother's door and cried his name, she bade him come in. "What's this? What's amiss with 'e, mother? Doan't say 't is anything very bad. I seed the smoke an' my heart stood still." She smiled and assured him her illness was of no account. "Ban't nothing. Just a shivering an' stabbing in the chest. My awn fulishness to be out listening to they bells in the frost. But no call to fear. I awnly axed my li'l servant to get me a cup o' tea, an' she comed an' would light the fire, an' would go for doctor, though theer ban't no 'casion at all." "Every occasion, an' the gal was right, an' it shawed gude sense in such a dinky maid as her. Nothin' like taaking a cold in gude time. Do 'e catch heat from the fire?" Mrs. Blanchard's eyes were dull, and her breathing a little disordered. Will instantly began to bustle about. He added fuel to the flame, set on a kettle, dragged blankets out of cupboards and piled them upon his mother. Then he found a pillow-case, aired it until the thing scorched, inserted a pillow, and placed it beneath the patient's head. His subsequent step was to rummage dried marshmallows out of a drawer, concoct a sort of dismal brew, and inflict a cup upon the sick woman. Doctor Parsons still tarrying, Will went out of doors, knocked a brick from the fowl-house wall, brought it in, made it nearly red hot, then wrapped it up in an old rug and applied it to his parent's feet,--all of which things the sick woman patiently endured. "You 'm doin' me a power o' gude, dearie," she said, as her discomfort and suffering increased. Presently Doctor Parsons arrived, checked Will in fantastic experiments with a poultice, and gave him occupation in a commission to the physician's surgery. When he returned, he heard that his mother was suffering from a severe chill, but that any definite declaration upon the case was as yet impossible. "No cause to be 'feared?" he asked. "'T is idle to be too sanguine. You know my philosophy. I've seen a scratched finger kill a man; I've known puny babes wriggle out of Death's hand when I could have sworn it had closed upon them for good and all. Where there 's life there 's hope." "Ess, I knaw you," answered Will gloomily; "an' I knaw when you say that you allus mean there ban't no hope at all." "No, no. A strong, hale woman like your mother need not give us any fear at present. Sleep and rest, cheerful faces round her, and no amateur physic. I'll see her to-night and send in a nurse from the Cottage Hospital at once." Then it was that Miller Lyddon arrived, and presently Will returned home. He wholly mistook Phoebe's frantic reception, and assumed that her tears must be flowing for Mrs. Blanchard. "She'll weather it," he said. "Keep a gude heart. The gal from the hospital ban't coming 'cause theer 's danger, but 'cause she 'm smart an' vitty 'bout a sick room, an' cheerful as a canary an' knaws her business. Quick of hand an' light of foot for sartin. Mother'll be all right; I feel it deep in me she will." Presently conversation passed to Will himself, and Phoebe expressed a hope this sad event would turn him from his determination for some time at least. "What determination?" he asked. "What be talkin' about?" "The letter you left for faither, and the thing you started to do," she answered. "'S truth! So I did; an' if the sight o' the smoke an' then hearin' o' mother's trouble didn't blaw the whole business out of my brain!" He stood amazed at his own complete forgetfulness. "Queer, to be sure! But coourse theer weern't room in my mind for anything but mother arter I seed her stricken down." During the evening, after final reports from Mrs. Blanchard's sick-room spoke of soothing sleep, Miller Lyddon sent Billy upon an errand, and discussed Will's position. "Jan Grimbal 's waited so long," he said, "that maybe he'll wait longer still an' end by doin' nothin' at all." "Not him! You judge the man by yourself," declared Will. "But he 's made of very different metal. I lay he's bidin' till the edge of this be sharp and sure to cut deepest. So like 's not, when he hears tell mother 's took bad he'll choose that instant moment to have me marched away." There was a moment's silence, then Blanchard burst out into a fury bred of sudden thought, and struck the table heavily with his fist. "God blast it! I be allus waitin' now for some wan's vengeance! I caan't stand this life no more. I caan't an' I won't--'t is enough to soften any man's wits." "Quiet! quiet, caan't 'e?" said the miller, as though he told a dog to lie down. "Theer now! You've been an' gived me palpitations with your noise. Banging tables won't mend it, nor bad words neither. This thing hasn't come by chance. You 'm ripening in mind an' larnin' every day. You mark my word; theer 's a mort o' matters to pick out of this new trouble. An' fust, patience." "Patience! If a patient, long-suffering man walks this airth, I be him, I should reckon. I caan't wait the gude pleasure of that dog, not even for you, Miller." "'T is discipline, an' sent for the strengthening of your fibre. Providence barred the road to-day, else you'd be in prison now. Ban't meant you should give yourself up--that's how I read it." "'T is cowardly, waitin' an' playin' into his hands; an' if you awnly knawed how this has fouled my mind wi' evil, an' soured the very taste of what I eat, an' dulled the faace of life, an' blunted the right feeling in me even for them I love best, you'd never bid me bide on under it. 'T is rotting me--body an' sawl--that's what 't is doin'. An' now I be come to such a pass that if I met un to-morrow an' he swore on his dying oath he'd never tell, I shouldn't be contented even wi' that." "No such gude fortune," sighed Phoebe. "'T wouldn't be gude fortune," answered her husband. "I'm like a dirty chamber coated wi' cobwebs an' them ghostly auld spiders as hangs dead in unsecured corners. Plaaces so left gets worse. My mind 's all in a ferment, an' 't wouldn't be none the better now if Jan Grimbal broke his damned neck to-morrow an' took my secret with him. I caan't breathe for it; it 's suffocating me." Phoebe used subtlety in her answer, and invited him to view the position from her standpoint rather than his own. "Think o' me, then, an' t' others. 'T is plain selfishness, this talk, if you looks to the bottom of it." "As to that, I doan't say so," began Mr. Lyddon, slowly stuffing his pipe. "No. When a man goes so deep into his heart as what Will have before me this minute, doan't become no man to judge un, or tell 'bout selfishness. Us have got to save our awn sawls, an' us must even leave wife, an' mother, and childer if theer 's no other way to do it. Ban't no right living--ban't no fair travelling in double harness wi' conscience, onless you've got a clean mind. An' yet waitin' 'pears the only way o' wisdom just here. You've never got room in that head o' yourn for more 'n wan thought to a time; an' I doan't blame 'e theer neither, for a chap wi' wan idea, if he sticks to it, goes further 'n him as drives a team of thoughts half broken in. I mean you 'm forgettin' your mother for the moment. I should say, wait for her mendin' 'fore you do anything." Back came Blanchard's mind to his mother with a whole-hearted swing. "Ess," he said, "you 'm right theer. My plaace is handy to her till she 'm movin'; an' if he tries to take me before she 'm down-house again, by God! I'll--" "Let it bide that way then. Put t' other matter out o' your mind so far as you can. Fill your pipe an' suck deep at it. I haven't seen 'e smoke this longful time; an' in my view theer 's no better servant than tobacco to a mind puzzled at wan o' life's cross-roads." CHAPTER XIII MR. LYDDON'S TACTICS In the morning Mrs. Blanchard was worse, and some few days later lay in danger of her life. Her son spent half his time in the sick-room, walked about bootless to make no sound, and fretted with impatience at thought of the length of days which must elapse before Chris could return to Chagford. Telegrams had been sent to Martin Grimbal, who was spending his honeymoon out of England; but on the most sanguine computation he and his wife would scarcely be home again in less than ten days or a fortnight. Hope and gloom succeeded each other swiftly within Will Blanchard's mind, and at first he discounted the consistent pessimism of Doctor Parsons somewhat more liberally than the issue justified. When, therefore, he was informed of the truth and stood face to face with his mother's danger, hope sank, and his unstable spirit was swept from an altitude of secret confidence to the opposite depth of despair. Through long silences, while she slept or seemed to do so, the young man traced back his life and hers; and he began to see what a good mother means. Then he accused himself of many faults and made impetuous confession to his wife and her father. On these occasions Phoebe softened his self-blame, but Mr. Lyddon let Will talk, and told him for his consolation that every mother's son must be accused of like offences. "Best of childer falls far short," he assured Will; "best brings tu many tears, if 't is awnly for wantonness; an' him as thinks he've been all he should be to his mother lies to himself; an' him as says he has, lies to other people." Will's wild-hawk nature was subdued before this grave crisis in his parent's life; he sat through long nights and tended the fire with quiet fingers; he learnt from the nurse how to move a pillow tenderly, how to shut a door without any sound. He wearied Doctor Parsons with futile propositions, but the physician's simulated cynicism often broke down in secret before this spectacle of the son's dog-like pertinacity. Blanchard much desired to have a vein opened for his mother, nor was all the practitioner's eloquence equal to convincing him such a course could not be pursued. "She 'm gone that gashly white along o' want o' blood," declared Will; "an' I be busting wi' gude red blood, an' why for shouldn't you put in a pipe an' draw off a quart or so for her betterment? I'll swear 't would strengthen the heart of her." Time passed, and it happened on one occasion, while walking abroad between his vigils, that Blanchard met John Grimbal. Will had reflected curiously of late days into what ghostly proportions his affair with the master of the Red House now dwindled before this greater calamity of his mother's sickness; but sudden sight of the enemy roused passion and threw back the man's mind to that occasion of their last conversation in the woods. Yet the first words that now passed were to John Grimbal's credit. He made an astonishing and unexpected utterance. Indeed, the spoken word surprised him as much as his listener, and he swore at himself for a fool when Will's retort reached his ear. They were passing at close quarters,--Blanchard on foot, John upon horseback,--when the latter said,-- "How 's Mrs. Blanchard to-day?" "Mind your awn business an' keep our name off your lips!" answered the pedestrian, who misunderstood the question, as he did most questions where possible, and now supposed that Grimbal meant Phoebe. His harsh words woke instant wrath. "What a snarling, cross-bred cur you are! I should judge your own family will be the first to thank me for putting you under lock and key. Hell to live with, you must be." "God rot your dirty heart! Do it--do it; doan't jaw--do it! But if you lay a finger 'pon me while my mother 's bad or have me took before she 'm stirring again, I'll kill you when I come out. God 's my judge if I doan't!" Then, forgetting what had taken him out of doors, and upon what matter he was engaged, Will turned back in a tempest, and hastened to his mother's cottage. At Monks Barton Mr. Lyddon and his daughter had many and long conversations upon the subject of Blanchard's difficulties. Both trembled to think what might be the issue if his mother died; both began to realise that there could be no more happiness for Will until a definite extrication from his present position was forthcoming. At his daughter's entreaty the miller finally determined on a strong step. He made up his mind to visit Grimbal at the Red House, and win from him, if possible, some undertaking which would enable him to relieve his son-in-law of the present uncertainty. Phoebe pleaded for silence, and prayed her father to get a promise at any cost in that direction. "Let him awnly promise 'e never to tell of his free will, an' the door against danger 's shut," she said. "When Will knaws Grimbal 's gwaine to be dumb, he'll rage a while, then calm down an' be hisself again. 'T is the doubt that drove him frantic." "I'll see the man, then; but not a word to Will's ear. All the fat would be in the fire if he so much as dreamed I was about any such business. As to a promise, if I can get it I will. An' 'twixt me an' you, Phoebe, I'm hopeful of it. He 's kept quiet so long that theer caan't be any fiery hunger 'gainst Will in un just now. I'll soothe un down an' get his word of honour if it 's to be got. Then your husband can do as he pleases." "Leave the rest to me, Faither." A fortnight later the cautious miller, after great and exhaustive reflection, set out to carry into practice his intention. An appointment was made on the day that Will drove to Moreton to meet his sister and Martin Grimbal. This removed him out of the way, while Billy had been despatched to Okehampton for some harness, and Mr. Lyddon's daughter, alone in the secret, was spending the afternoon with her mother-in-law. So Miller walked over to the Red House and soon found himself waiting for John Grimbal in a cheerless but handsome dining-room. The apartment suggested little occupation. A desk stood in the window, and upon it were half a dozen documents under a paper-weight made from a horse's hoof. A fire burned in the broad grate; a row of chairs, upholstered in dark red leather, stood stiffly round; a dozen indifferent oil-paintings of dogs and horses filled large gold frames upon the walls; and upon a massive sideboard of black oak a few silver cups, won by Grimbal's dogs at various shows and coursing meetings, were displayed. Mr. Lyddon found himself kept waiting about ten minutes; then John entered, bade him a cold "good afternoon" without shaking hands, and placed an easy-chair for him beside the fire. "Would you object to me lighting my pipe, Jan Grimbal?" asked the miller humbly; and by way of answer the other took a box of matches from his pocket and handed it to the visitor. "Thank you, thank you; I'm obliged to you. Let me get a light, then I'll talk to 'e." He puffed for a minute or two, while Grimbal waited in silence for his guest to begin. "Now, wi'out any beatin' of the bush or waste of time, I'll speak. I be come 'bout Blanchard, as I dare say you guessed. The news of what he done nine or ten years ago comed to me just a month since. A month 't was, or might be three weeks. Like a bolt from the blue it falled 'pon me an' that's a fact. An' I heard how you knawed the thing--you as had such gude cause to hate un wance." "'Once?'" "Well, no man's hate can outlive his reason, surely? I was with 'e, tu, then; but a man what lets himself suffer lifelong trouble from a fule be a fule himself. Not that Blanchard 's all fule--far from it. He've ripened a little of late years--though slowly as fruit in a wet summer. Granted he bested you in the past an' your natural hope an' prayer was to be upsides wi' un some day. Well, that's all dead an' buried, ban't it? I hated the shadow of un in them days so bad as ever you did; but you gets to see more of the world, an' the men that walks in it when you 'm moved away from things by the distance of a few years. Then you find how wan deed bears upon t' other. Will done no more than you'd 'a' done if the cases was altered. In fact, you 'm alike at some points, come to think of it." "Is that what you've walked over here to tell me?" "No; I'm here to ax 'e frank an' plain, as a sportsman an' a straight man wi' a gude heart most times, to tell me what you 'm gwaine to do 'bout this job. I'm auld, an' I assure 'e you'll hate yourself if you give un up. 'T would be outside your carater to do it." "You say that! Would you harbour a convict from Princetown if you found him hiding on your farm?" "Ban't a like case. Theer 's the personal point of view, if you onderstand me. A man deserts from the army ten years ago, an' you, a sort o' amateur soldier, feels 't is your duty to give un to justice." "Well, isn't that what has happened?" "No fay! Nothing of the sort. If 't was your duty, why didn't you do it fust minute you found it out? If you'd writ to the authorities an' gived the man up fust moment, I might have said 't was a hard deed, but I'd never have dared to say 't weern't just. Awnly you done no such thing. You nursed the power an' sucked the thought, same as furriners suck at poppy poison. You played with the picture of revenge against a man you hated, an' let the idea of what you'd do fill your brain; an' then, when you wanted bigger doses, you told Phoebe what you knawed--reckoning as she'd tell Will bimebye. That's bad, Jan Grimbal--worse than poisoning foxes, by God! An' you knaw it." "Who are you, to judge me and my motives?" "An auld man, an' wan as be deeply interested in this business. Time was when we thought alike touching the bwoy; now we doan't; 'cause your knowledge of un hasn't grawed past the point wheer he downed us, an' mine has." "You're a fool to say so. D' you think I haven't watched the young brute these many years? Self-sufficient, ignorant, hot-headed, always in the wrong. What d' you find to praise in the clown? Look at his life. Failure! failure! failure! and making of enemies at every turn. Where would he be to-day but for you?" "Theer 's a rare gert singleness of purpose 'bout un." "A grand success he is, no doubt. I suppose you couldn't get on without him now. Yet you cursed the cub freely enough once." "Bitter speeches won't serve 'e, Grimbal; but they show me mighty clear what's hid in you. Your sawl 's torn every way by this thing, an' you turn an' turn again to it, like a dog to his vomit, yet the gude in 'e drags 'e away." "Better cut all that. You won't tell me what you've come for, so I'll tell you. You want me to promise not to move in this matter,--is that so?" "Why, not ezackly. I want more 'n that. I never thought for a minute you would do it, now you've let the time pass so far. I knaw you'll never act so ugly a paart now; but Will doan 't, an' he'll never b'lieve me if I told un." The other made a sound, half growl, half mirthless laugh. "You've taken it all for granted, then--you, who know more about what 's in my mind than I do myself? You're a fond old man; and if you'd wanted to screw me up to the pitch of taking the necessary trouble, you couldn't have gone a better way. I've been too busy to bother about the young rascal of late or he'd lie in gaol now." "Doan't say no such vain things! D' you think I caan't read what your face speaks so plain? A man's eyes tell the truth awftener than what his tongue does, for they 'm harder to break into lying. 'Tu busy'! You be foul to the very brainpan wi' this job an' you knaw it." "Is the hatred all on my side, d' you suppose? Curse the brute to hell! And you'd have me eat humble-pie to the man who 's wrecked my life?" "No such thing at all. All the hatred be on your side. He'd forgived 'e clean. Even now, though you 'm fretting his guts to fiddlestrings because of waiting for 'e, he feels no malice--no more than the caged rat feels 'gainst the man as be carrying him, anyway." "You're wrong there. He'd kill me to-morrow. He let me know it. In a weak moment I asked him the other day how his mother was; and he turned upon me like a mad dog, and told me to keep his name off my lips, and said he'd have my life if I gave him up." "That's coorious then, for he 's hungry to give himself up, so soon as the auld woman 's well again." "Talk! I suppose he sent you to whine for him?" "Not so. He'd have blocked my road if he'd guessed." "Well, I'm honest when I say I don't care a curse what he does or does not. Let him go his way. And as to proclaiming him, I shall do so when it pleases me. An odious crime that,--a traitor to his country." "Doan't become you nor me to dwell 'pon that, seeing how things was." Grimbal rose. "You think he 's a noble fellow, and that your daughter had a merciful escape. It isn't for me to suggest you are mistaken. Now I've no more time to spare, I'm afraid." The miller also rose, and as he prepared to depart he spoke a final word. "You 'm terrible pushed for time, by the looks of it. I knaw 't is hard in this life to find time to do right, though every man can make a 'mazing mort o' leisure for t' other thing. But hear me: you 'm ruinin' yourself, body an' sawl, along o' this job--body an' sawl, like apples in a barrel rots each other. You 'm in a bad way, Jan Grimbal, an' I'm sorry for 'e--brick house an' horses an' dogs notwithstanding. Have a spring cleaning in that sulky brain o' yourn, my son, an' be a man wi' yourself, same as you be a man wi' the world." The other sneered. "Don't get hot. The air is cold. And as you've given so much good advice, take some, too. Mind your own business, and let your son-in-law mind his." Mr. Lyddon shook his head. "Such words do only prove me right. Look in your heart an' see how 't is with you that you can speak to an auld man so. 'T is common metal shawing up in 'e, an' I'm sorry to find it." He set off home without more words and, as chance ordered the incident, emerged from the avenue gates of the Red House while a covered vehicle passed by on the way from Moreton Hampstead. Its roof was piled with luggage, and inside sat Chris, her husband, and Will. They spied Mr. Lyddon and made room for him; but later on in the evening Will taxed the miller with his action. "I knawed right well wheer you'd come from," he said gloomily, "an' I'd 'a' cut my right hand off rather than you should have done it. You did n't ought, Faither; for I'll have no living man come between me an' him." "I made it clear I was on my awn paart," explained Mr. Lyddon; but that night Will wrote a letter to his enemy and despatched it by a lad before breakfast on the following morning. "Sir," he said, "this comes to say that Miller seen you yesterday out of his own head, and if I had knowed he was coming I would have took good care to prevent it. "W. BLANCHARD." CHAPTER XIV ACTION Time passed, and Mrs. Blanchard made a slow return to health. Her daughter assumed control of the sick-room, and Martin Grimbal was denied the satisfaction of seeing Chris settled in her future home for a period of nearly two months. Then, when the invalid became sufficiently restored to leave Chagford for change of air, both Martin and Chris accompanied her and spent a few weeks by the sea. Will, meantime, revolved upon his own affairs and suffered torments long drawn out. For these protracted troubles those of his own house were responsible, and both Phoebe and the miller greatly erred in their treatment of him at this season. For the woman there were indeed excuses, but Mr. Lyddon might have been expected to show more wisdom and better knowledge of a character at all times transparent enough. Phoebe, nearing maternal tribulation, threw a new obstacle in her husband's way, and implored him by all holy things, now that he had desisted from confession thus far, to keep his secret yet a little longer and wait for the birth of the child. She used every possible expedient to win this new undertaking from Will, and her father added his voice to hers. The miller's expressed wish, strongly urged, frequently repeated, at last triumphed, and against his own desire and mental promptings, Blanchard, at terrible cost to himself, had promised patience until June. Life, thus clouded and choked, wrought havoc with the man. His natural safety-valves were blocked, his nerves shattered, his temper poisoned. Primitive characteristics appeared as a result of this position, and he exhibited the ferocity of an over-driven tame beast, or a hunted wild one. In days long removed from this crisis he looked back with chill of body and shudder of mind to that nightmare springtime; and he never willingly permitted even those dearest to him to retrace the period. The struggle lasted long, but his nature beat Blanchard before the end, burst its bonds, shattered promises and undertakings, weakened marital love for a while, and set him free by one tremendous explosion and victory of natural force. There had come into his head of late a new sensation, as of busy fingers weaving threads within his skull and iron hands moulding the matter of his brain into new patterns. The demon things responsible for his torment only slept when he slept, or when, as had happened once or twice, he drank himself indifferent to all mundane matters. Yet he could not still them for long, and even Phoebe had heard mutterings and threats of the thread-spinners who were driving her husband mad. On an evening in late May she became seriously alarmed for his reason. Circumstances suddenly combined to strangle the last flickering breath of patience in Will, and the slender barriers were swept away in such a storm as even Phoebe's wide experience of him had never parallelled. Miller Lyddon was out, at a meeting in the village convened to determine after what fashion Chagford should celebrate the Sovereign's Jubilee; Billy also departed about private concerns, and Will and his wife had Monks Barton much to themselves. Even she irritated the suffering man at this season, and her sunken face and chatter about her own condition and future hopes of a son often worried him into sheer frenzy. His promise once exacted she rarely touched upon that matter, believing the less said the better, but he misunderstood her reticence and held it selfish. Indeed, Blanchard fretted and chafed alone now; for John Grimbal's sustained silence had long ago convinced Mr. Lyddon that the master of the Red House meant no active harm, and Phoebe readily grasped at the same conclusion. This night, however, the flood-gates crumbled, and Will, before a futile assertion from Phoebe touching the happy promise of the time to come and the cheerful spring weather, dashed down his pipe with an oath, clenched his hands, then leapt to his feet, shook his head, and strode about like a maniac. "Will! You've brawk un to shivers--the butivul wood pipe wi' amber that I gived 'e last birthday!" "Damn my birthday--a wisht day for me 't was! I've lived tu long--tu long by all my years, an' nobody cares wan salt tear that I be roastin' in hell-fire afore my time. I caan't stand it no more--no more at all--not for you or your faither or angels in heaven or ten million babies to be born into this blasted world--not if I was faither to 'em all. I must live my life free, or else I'll go in a madhouse. Free--do 'e hear me? I've suffered enough and waited more 'n enough. Ban't months nor weeks neither--'t is a long, long lifetime. You talk o' time dragging! If you knawed--if you knawed! An' these devil-spinners allus knotting an' twisting. I could do things--I could--things man never dreamed. An' I will--for they 'm grawing and grawing, an' they'll burst my skull if I let 'em bide in it. Months ago I've sat on a fence unbeknawnst wheer men was shooting, an' whistled for death. So help me, 't is true. Me to do that! Theer 's a cur for 'e; an' yet ban't me neither, but the spinners in my head. Death 's a party easily called, mind you. A knife, or a pinch o' powder, or a drop o' deep water--they 'll bring un to your elbow in a moment. Awnly, if I done that, I'd go in company. Nobody should bide to laugh. Them as would cry might cry, but him as would laugh should come along o' me--he should, by God!" "Will, Will! It isn't my Will talking so?" "It be me, an' it ban't me. But I'm in earnest at last, an' speakin' truth. The spinners knaw, an' they 'm right. I'm sick to sheer hate o' my life; and you've helped to make me so--you and your faither likewise. This thing doan't tear your heart out of you an' grind your nerves to pulp as it should do if you was a true wife." "Oh, my dear, my lovey, how can 'e say or think it? You knaw what it has been to me." "I knaw you've thought all wrong 'pon it when you've thought at all. An' Miller, tu. You've prevailed wi' me to go on livin' a coward's life for countless ages o' time--me--me--creepin' on the earth wi' my tail between my legs an' knawin' I never set eyes on a man as ban't braver than myself. An' him--Grimbal--laughing, like the devil he is, to think on what my life must be!" "I caan't be no quicker. The cheel's movin' an' bracin' itself up an' makin' ready to come in the world, ban't it? I've told 'e so fifty times. It's little longer to wait." "It's no longer. It's nearer than sleep or food or drink. It's comin' 'fore the moon sets. 'T is that or the madhouse--nothin' else. If you'd felt the fire as have been eatin' my thinking paarts o' late days you'd knaw. Ban't no use your cryin', for 't isn't love of me makes you. Rivers o' tears doan't turn me no more. I'm steel now--fust time for a month--an' while I'm steel I'll act like steel an' strike like steel. I've had shaky nights an' silly nights an' haunted nights, but my head 's clear for wance, an' I'll use it while 'tis." "Not to do no rash thing, Will? For Christ's sake, you won't hurt yourself or any other?" "I must meet him wance for all." "He 'm at the council 'bout Jubilee wi' faither an' parson an' the rest." "But he'll go home arter. An' I'll have 'Yes' or 'No' to-night--I will, if I've got to shake the word out of his sawl. I ban't gwaine to be driven lunatic for him or you or any. Death's a sight better than a soft head an' a lifetime o' dirt an' drivelling an' babbling, like the brainless beasts they feed an' fatten in asylums. That's worse cruelty than any I be gwaine to suffer at human hands--to be mewed in wan of them gashly mad-holes wi' the rack an' ruins o' empty flesh grinning an' gibbering 'pon me from all the corners o' the airth. I be sane now--sane enough to knaw I'm gwaine mad fast--an' I won't suffer it another hour. It's come crying and howling upon my mind like a storm this night, an' this night I'll end it." "Wait at least until the morning. See him then." "Go to bed, an' doan't goad me to more waiting, if you ever loved me. Get to bed--out of my sight! I've had enough of 'e and of all human things this many days. An' that's as near madness as I'm gwaine. What I do, I do to-night." She rose from her chair in sudden anger at his strange harshness, for the wife who has never heard an unkind word resents with passionate protest the sting of the first when it falls. Now genuine indignation inflamed Phoebe, and she spoke bitterly. "'Enough of me'! Ess fay! Like enough you have--a poor, patient creature sweatin' for 'e, an' thinkin' for 'e, an' blotting her eyes with tears for 'e, an' bearin' your childer an' your troubles, tu! 'Enough of me.' Ess, I'll get gone to my bed an' stiffen my joints wi' kneelin' in prayer for 'e, an' weary God's ear for a fule!" His answer was an action, and before she had done speaking he stretched above him and took his gun from its place on an old beam that extended across the ceiling. "What in God's name be that for? You wouldn't--?" "Shoot a fox? Why not? I'm a farmer now, and I'd kill best auld red Moor fox as ever gave a field forty minutes an' beat it. You was whinin' 'bout the chicks awnly this marnin'. I'll sit under the woodstack a bit an' think 'fore I starts. Ban't no gude gwaine yet." Will's explanation of his deed was the true one, but Phoebe realised in some dim fashion that she stood within the shadow of a critical night and that action was called upon from her. Her anger waned a little, and her heart began to beat fast, but she acted with courage and promptitude. "Let un be to-night--auld fox, I mean. Theer 'm more chicks than young foxes, come to think of it; an' he 'm awnly doin' what you forget to do--fighting for his vixen an' cubs." She looked straight into Will's eyes, took the gun out of his hands, climbed on to a chair, and hung the weapon up again in its place. He laughed curiously, and helped his wife to the ground again. "Thank you," she said. "Now go an' do what you want to do, an' doan't forget the future happiness of women an' childer lies upon it." Her anger was nearly gone, as he spoke again. "How little you onderstand me arter all these years--an' never will--nobody never will but mother. What did 'e fear? That I'd draw trigger on the man from behind a tree, p'r'aps?" "No--not that, but that you might be driven to kill yourself along o' having such a bad wife." "Now we 'm both on the mad road," he said bitterly. Then he picked up his stick and, a moment later, went out into the night. Phoebe watched his tall figure pass over the river, and saw him silhouetted against dead silver of moonlit waters as he crossed the stepping-stones. Then she climbed for the gun again, hid it, and presently prepared for her father's return. "What butivul peace an quiet theer be in ministerin' to a gude faither," she thought, "as compared wi' servin' a stormy husband!" Then sorrow changed to active fear, and that, in its turn, sank into a desolate weariness and indifference. She detected no semblance of justice in her husband's outburst; she failed to see how circumstances must sooner or late have precipitated his revolt; and she felt herself very cruelly misjudged, very gravely wronged. Meantime Blanchard passed through a hurricane of rage against his enemy much akin to that formerly recorded of John Grimbal himself, when the brute won to the top of him and he yearned for physical conflict. That night Will was resolved to get a definite response or come to some conclusion by force of arms. His thoughts carried him far, and before he took up his station within the grounds of the Red House, at a point from which the avenue approach might be controlled, he had already fallen into a frantic hunger for fight and a hope that his enemy would prove of like mind. He itched for assault and battery, and his heart clamoured to be clean in his breast again. Whatever might happen, he was determined to give himself up on the following day. He had done all he could for those he loved, but he was powerless to suffer more. He longed now to trample his foe into the dust, and, that accomplished, he would depart, well satisfied, and receive what punishment was due. His accumulated wrongs must be paid at last, and he fully determined, an hour before John Grimbal came homewards, that the payment should be such as he himself had received long years before on Rushford Bridge. His muscles throbbed for action as he sat and waited at the top of a sloping bank dotted with hawthorns that extended upwards from the edge of the avenue and terminated on the fringe of young coverts. And now, by a chance not uncommon, two separate series of circumstances were about to clash, while the shock engendered was destined to precipitate the climax of Will Blanchard's fortunes, in so far as this record is concerned. On the night that he thus raged and suffered the gall bred of long inaction to overflow, John Grimbal likewise came to a sudden conclusion with himself, and committed a deed of nature definite so far as it went. In connection with the approaching Jubilee rejoicings a spirit in some sense martial filled the air, and Grimbal with his yeomanry was destined to play a part. A transient comet-blaze of militarism often sparkles over fighting nations at any season of universal joy, and that more especially if the keystone of the land's constitution be a crown. This fire found material inflammable enough in the hearts of many Devonshire men, and before its warm impulse John Grimbal, inspired by a particular occasion, compounded with his soul at last. Rumoured on long tongues from the village ale-house, there had come to his ears the report of certain ill-considered utterances made by his enemy upon the events of the hour. They were only a hot-headed and very miserable man's foolish comments upon things in general and the approaching festival in particular, and they served but to illustrate the fact that no ill-educated and passionate soul can tolerate universal rejoicings, itself wretched; but Grimbal clutched at this proven disloyalty of an old deserter, and told himself that personal questions must weigh with him no more. "The sort of discontented brute that drifts into Socialism and all manner of wickedness," he thought. "The rascal must be muzzled once for all, and as a friend to the community I shall act, not as an enemy to him." This conclusion he came to on the evening of the day which saw Blanchard's final eruption, and he was amazed to find how straightforward and simple his course appeared when viewed from the impersonal standpoint of duty. His brother was due to dine with John Grimbal in half an hour, for both men were serving on a committee to meet that night upon the question of the local celebrations at Chagford, and they were going together. Time, however, remained for John to put his decision into action. He turned to his desk, therefore, and wrote. The words to be employed he knew by heart, for he had composed his letter many months before, and it was with him always; yet now, seen thus set out upon paper for the first time, it looked strange. "RED HOUSE, CHAGFORD, DEVON. "_To the Commandant, Royal Artillery, Plymouth._ "SIR,--It has come to my knowledge that the man, William Blanchard, who enlisted in the Royal Artillery under the name of Tom Newcombe and deserted from his battery when it was stationed at Shorncliffe some ten years ago, now resides at this place on the farm of Monks Barton, Chagford. My duty demands that I should lodge this information, and I can, of course, substantiate it, though I have reason to believe the deserter will not attempt to evade his just punishment if apprehended. I have the honour to be, "Your obedient servant, "JOHN GRIMBAL, "Capt. Dev. Yeomanry." He had just completed this communication when Martin arrived, and as his brother entered he instinctively pushed the letter out of sight. But a moment later he rebelled against himself for the act, knowing the ugly tacit admission represented by it. He dragged forth the letter, therefore, and greeted his brother by thrusting the note before him. "Read that," he said darkly; "it will surprise you, I think. I want to do nothing underhand, and as you're linked to these people for life now, it is just that you should hear what is going to happen. There's the knowledge I once hinted to you that I possessed concerning William Blanchard. I have waited and given him rope enough. Now he's hanged himself, as I knew he would, and I must act. A few days ago he spoke disrespectfully of the Queen before a dozen other loafers in a public-house. That's a sin I hold far greater than his sin against me. Read what I have just written." Martin gazed with mildness upon John's savage and defiant face. His brother's expression and demeanour by no means chimed with the judicial moderation of his speech. Then the antiquary perused the letter, and there fell no sound upon the silence, except that of a spluttering pen as John Grimbal addressed an envelope. Presently Martin dropped the letter on the desk before him, and his face was very white, his voice tremulous as he spoke. "This thing happened more than ten years ago." "It did; but don't imagine I have known it ten years." "God forbid! I think better of you. Yet, if only for my sake, reflect before you send this letter. Once done, you have ruined a life. I have seen Will several times since I came home, and now I understand the terrific change in him. He must have known that you know this. It was the last straw. He seems quite broken on the wheel of the world, and no wonder. To one of his nature, the past, since you discovered this terrible secret, must have been sheer torment." John Grimbal doubled up the letter and thrust it into the envelope, while Martin continued: "What do you reap? You're not a man to do an action of this sort and live afterwards as though you had not done it. I warn you, you intend a terribly dangerous thing. This may be the wreck of another soul besides Blanchard's. I know your real nature, though you've hidden it so close of late years. Post that letter, and your life's bitter for all time. Look into your heart, and don't pretend to deceive yourself." His brother lighted a match, burnt red wax, and sealed the letter with a signet ring. "Duty is duty," he said. "Yes, yes; right shall be done and this extraordinary thing made known in the right quarter. But don't let it come out through you; don't darken your future by such an act. Your personal relations with the man, John,--it's impossible you should do this after all these years." The other affixed a stamp to his letter. "Don't imagine personal considerations influence me. I'm a soldier, and I know what becomes a soldier. If I find a traitor to his Queen and country am I to pass upon the other side of the road and not do my duty because the individual happens to be a private enemy? You rate me low and misjudge me rather cruelly if you imagine that I am so weak." Martin gasped at this view of the position, instantly believed himself mistaken, and took John at his word. Thereon he came near blushing to think that he should have read such baseness into a brother's character. "I beg your pardon," he said. "I ought to be ashamed to have misunderstood you so. I could not escape the personal factor in this terrible business, but you, I see, have duly weighed it. I wronged you. Yes, I wronged you, as you say. The writing of that letter was a very courageous action, under the circumstances--as plucky a thing as ever man did, perhaps. Forgive me for taking so mean a view of it, and forgive me for even doubting your motives." "I want justice, and if I am misunderstood for doing my duty--why, that is no new thing. I can face that, as better men have done before me." There was a moment or two of silence; then Martin spoke, almost joyfully. "Thank God, I see a way out! It seldom happens that I am quick in any question of human actions, but for once, I detect a road by which right may be done and you still spared this terrible task. I do, indeed, because I know Blanchard better than you do. I can guess what he has been enduring of late, and I will show him how he may end the torture himself by doing the right thing even now." "It's fear of me scorching the man, not shame of his own crime." "Then, as the stronger, as a soldier, put him out of his misery and set your mind at ease. Believe me, you may do it without any reflection on yourself. Tell him you have decided to take no step in the affair, and leave the rest to me. I will wager I can prevail upon him to give himself up. I am singularly confident that I can bring it about. Then, if I fail, do what you consider to be right; but first give me leave to try and save you from this painful necessity." There followed a long silence. John Grimbal saw how much easier it was to deceive another than himself, and, before the spectacle of his deluded brother, felt that he appreciated his own real motives and incentives at their true worth. The more completely was Martin hoodwinked, the more apparent did the truth grow within John's mind. What was in reality responsible for his intended action never looked clearer than then, and as Martin spoke in all innocence of the courage that must be necessary to perform such a deed, Grimbal passed through the flash of a white light and caught a glimpse of his recent mental processes magnified by many degrees in the blinding ray. The spectacle sickened him a little, weakened him, touched the depths of him, stirred his nature. He answered presently in a voice harsh, abrupt, and deep. "I've lied often enough in my life," he said, "and may again, but I think never to you till to-day. You're such a clean-minded, big-hearted man that you don't understand a mind of my build--a mind that can't forgive, that can't forget, that's fed full for years on the thought of revenging that frightful blow in the past. What you feared and hinted just now was partly the truth, and I know it well enough. But that is only to say my motives in this matter mixed." "None but a brave man would admit so mucn, but now you wrong yourself, as I wronged you. We are alike. I, too, have sometimes in dark moments blamed myself for evil thoughts and evil deeds beyond my real deserts. So you. I know nothing but your sense of duty would make you post that letter." "We've wrecked each other's lives, he and I; only he's a boy, and his life's before him; I'm a man, and my life is lived, for I'm the sort that grows old early, and he's helped Time more than anybody knows but myself." "Don't say that. Happiness never comes when you are hungering most for it; sorrow never when you believe yourself best tuned to bear it. Once I thought as you do now. I waited long for my good fortune, and said 'good-by' to all my hope of earthly delight." "You were easier to satisfy than I should have been. Yet you were constant, too,--constant as I was. We're built that way. More's the pity." "I have absolutely priceless blessings; my cup of happiness is full. Sometimes I ask myself how it comes about that one so little deserving has received so much; sometimes I waken in the very extremity of fear, for joy like mine seems greater than any living thing has a right to." "I'm glad one of us is happy." "I shall live to see you equally blessed." "It is impossible." There was a pause, then a gong rumbled in the hall, and the brothers went to dinner. Their conversation now ranged upon varied local topics, and it was not until the cloth had been removed according to old-fashioned custom, and fruit and wine set upon a shining table, that John returned to the crucial subject of the moment. He poured out a glass of port for Martin, and pushed the cigars towards him, then spoke,-- "Drink. It's very good. And try one of those. I shall not post that letter." "Man, I knew it! I knew it well, without hearing so from you. Destroy the thing, dear fellow, and so take the first step to a peace I fear you have not known for many days. All this suffering will vanish quicker than a dream then. Justice is great, but mercy is greater. Yours is the privilege of mercy, and yet justice shall not suffer either--not if I know Will Blanchard." They talked long and drank more than usual, while the elder man's grim and moody spirit lightened a little before his determination and his wine. The reek of past passions, the wreckage of dead things, seemed to be sweeping out of his mind. He forgot the hour and their engagement until the time fixed for that conference was past. Then he looked at his watch, rose from the table, and hurried to the hall. "Let us not go," urged Martin. "They will do very well without us, I am sure." But John's only answer was to pull on his driving gloves. He anticipated some satisfaction from the committee meeting; he suspected, indeed, that he would be asked to take the chair at it, and, like most men, he was not averse to the exercise of a little power in a small corner. "We must go," he said. "I have important suggestions to make, especially concerning the volunteers. A sham fight on Scorhill would be a happy thought. We'll drive fast, and only be twenty minutes late." A dog-cart had been waiting half an hour, and soon the brothers quickly whirled down Red House avenue. A groom dropped from behind and opened the gate; then it was all his agility could accomplish to scramble into his seat again as a fine horse, swinging along at twenty miles an hour, trotted towards Chagford. CHAPTER XV A BATTLE Silent and motionless sat Blanchard, on the fringe of a bank at the coppice edge. He watched the stars move onward and the shadows cast by moonlight creep from west to north, from north to east. Hawthorn scented the night and stood like masses of virgin silver under the moon; from the Red House 'owl tree'--a pollarded elm, sacred to the wise bird--came mewing of brown owls; and once a white one struck, swift as a streak of feathered moonlight, on the copse edge, and passed so near to Blanchard that he saw the wretched shrew-mouse in its talons. "'Tis for the young birds somewheers," he thought; "an' so they'll thrive an' turn out braave owlets come bimebye; but the li'l, squeakin', blind shrews, what'll they do when no mother comes home-along to 'em?" He mused drearily upon this theme, but suddenly started, for there came the echo of slow steps in the underwood behind him. They sank into silence and set Will wondering as to what they might mean. Then another sound, that of a galloping horse and the crisp ring of wheels, reached him, and, believing that John Grimbal was come, he strung himself to the matter in hand. But the vehicle did not stop. A flash of yellow light leapt through the distance as a mail-cart rattled past upon its way to Moreton. This circumstance told Will the hour and he knew that his vigil could not be much longer protracted. Then death stalked abroad again, but this time in a form that awoke the watcher's deep-rooted instincts, took him clean out of himself, and angered him to passion, not in his own cause but another's. There came the sudden scream of a trapped hare,--that sound where terror and agony mingle in a cry half human,--and so still was the hour that Blanchard heard the beast's struggles though it was fifty yards distant. A hare in a trap at any season meant a poacher--a hated enemy of society in Blanchard's mind; and his instant thought was to bring the rascal to justice if he could. Now the recent footfall was explained and Will doubted not that the cruel cry which had scattered his reveries would quickly attract some hidden man responsible for it. The hare was caught by a wire set in a run at the edge of the wood, and now Blanchard crawled along on his stomach to within ten yards of the tragedy, and there waited under the shadow of a white-thorn at the edge of the woods. Within two minutes the bushes parted and, where the foliage of a young silver birch showered above lesser brushwood, a man with a small head and huge shoulders appeared. Seeing no danger he crept into the open, lifted his head to the moon, and revealed the person and features of Sam Bonus, the labourer with whom Will had quarrelled in times long past. Here, then, right ahead of him, appeared such a battle as Blanchard had desired, but with another foe than he anticipated. That accident mattered nothing, however. Will only saw a poacher, and to settle the business of such an one out of hand if possible was, in his judgment, a definite duty to be undertaken by every true man at any moment when opportunity offered. He walked suddenly from shadow and stood within three yards of the robber as Bonus raised the butt of his gun to kill the shrieking beast at his feet. "You! An' red-handed, by God! I knawed 't was no lies they told of 'e." The other started and turned and saw who stood against him. "Blanchard, is it? An' what be you doin' here? Come for same reason, p'r'aps?" "I'd make you pay, if 't was awnly for sayin' that! I'm a man to steal others' fur out of season, ban't I? But I doan't have no words wi' the likes o' you. I've took you fair an' square, anyways, an' will just ax if you be comin' wi'out a fuss, or am I to make 'e?" The other snarled. "You--you come a yard nearer an' I'll blaw your damned head--" But the threat was left unfinished, and its execution failed, for Will had been taught to take an armed man in his early days on the river, and had seen an old hand capture more than one desperate character. He knew that instantaneous action might get him within the muzzle of the gun and out of danger, and while Bonus spoke, he flew straight upon him with such unexpected celerity that Sam had no time to accomplish his purpose. He came down heavily with Blanchard on top of him, and his weapon fell from his hand. But the poacher was not done with. As they lay struggling, he found his foot clear and managed to kick Will twice on the leg above the knee. Then Blanchard, hanging like a dog to his foe, freed an arm, and hit hard more than once into Sam's face. A blow on the nose brought red blood that spurted over both men black as ink under the moonlight. It was not long before they broke away and rose from their first struggle on the ground, but Bonus finally got to his knees, then to his feet, and Will, as he did the same, knew by a sudden twinge in his leg that if the poacher made off it must now be beyond his power to follow. "No odds," he gasped, answering his thought aloud, while they wrestled. "If you've brawk me somewheers 't is no matter, for you 'm marked all right, an' them squinting eyes of yourn'll be blacker 'n sloes come marnin'." This obvious truth infuriated Bonus. He did not attempt to depart, but, catching sight of his gun, made a tremendous effort to reach it. The other saw this aim and exerted his strength in an opposite direction. They fought in silence awhile--growled and cursed, sweated and swayed, stamped and slipped and dripped blood under the dewy and hawthorn-scented night. Bonus used all his strength to reach the gun; Will sacrificed everything to his hold. He suffered the greater punishment for a while, because Sam fought with all his limbs, like a beast; but presently Blanchard threw the poacher heavily, and again they came down together, this time almost on the wretched beast that still struggled, held by the wire at hand. It had dragged the fur off its leg, and white nerve fibres, torn bare, glimmered in the red flesh under the moon. Both fighters were now growing weaker, and each knew that a few minutes more must decide the fortune of the battle. Bonus still fought for the gun, and now his weight began to tell. Then, as he got within reach, and stretched hand to grasp it, Blanchard, instead of dragging against him, threw all his force in the same direction, and Sam was shot clean over the gun. This time they twisted and Will fell underneath. Both simultaneously thrust a hand for the weapon; both gripped it, and then exerted their strength for possession. Will meant using it as a club if fate was kind; the other man, rating his own life at nothing, and, believing that he bore Blanchard the grudge of his own ruin, intended, at that red-hot moment, to keep his word and blow the other's brains out if he got a chance to do so. Then, unheard by the combatants, a distant gate was thrown open, two brilliant yellow discs of fire shone along the avenue below, and John Grimbal returned to his home. Suddenly, seeing figures fighting furiously on the edge of the hill not fifty yards away, he pulled up, and a din of conflict sounded in his ears as the rattle of hoof and wheel and harness ceased. Leaping down he ran to the scene of the conflict as fast as possible, but it was ended before he arrived. A gun suddenly exploded and flashed a red-hot tongue of flame across the night. A hundred echoes caught the detonation and as the discharge reverberated along the stony hills to Fingle Gorge, Will Blanchard staggered backwards and fell in a heap, while the poacher reeled, then steadied himself, and vanished under the woods. "Bring a lamp," shouted Grimbal, and a moment later his groom obeyed; but the fallen man was sitting up by the time John reached him, and the gun that had exploded was at his feet. "You 'm tu late by half a second," he gasped. "I fired myself when I seed the muzzle clear. Poachin' he was, but the man 's marked all right. Send p'liceman for Sam Bonus to-morrer, an' I lay you'll find a picter." "Blanchard!" "Ess fay, an' no harm done 'cept a stiff leg. Best to knock thicky poor twoad on the head. I heard the scream of un and comed along an' waited an' catched my gen'leman in the act." The groom held a light to the mangled hare. "Scat it on the head," said Will, "then give me a hand." He was helped to his feet; the servant went on before with the lamp, and Blanchard, finding himself able to walk without difficulty, proceeded, slowly supporting himself by the poacher's gun. Grimbal waited for him to speak and presently he did so. "Things falls out so different in this maze of a world from what man may count on." "How came it that you were here?" "Blamed if I can tell 'e till I gather my wits together. 'Pears half a century or so since I comed; yet ban't above two hour agone." "You didn't come to see Sam Bonus, I suppose?" "No fay! Never a man farther from my thought than him when I seed un poke up his carrot head under the moon. I was 'pon my awn affairs an' comed to see you. I wanted straight speech an' straight hitting; an' I got 'em, for that matter. An' fightin' 's gude for the blood, I reckon--anyway for my fashion blood." "You came to fight me, then?" "I did--if I could make 'e fight." "With that gun?" "With nought but a savage heart an' my two fistes. The gun belongs to Sam Bonus. Leastways it did, but 't is mine now--or yours, as the party most wronged." "Come this way and drink a drop of brandy before you go home. Glad you had some fighting as you wanted it so bad. I know what it feels like to be that way, too. But there wouldn't have been blows between us. My mind was made up. I wrote to Plymouth this afternoon. I wrote, and an hour later decided not to post the letter. I've changed my intentions altogether, because the point begins to appear in a new light. I'm sorry for a good few things that have happened of late years." Will breathed hard a moment; then he spoke slowly and not without more emotion than his words indicated. "That's straight speech--if you mean it. I never knawed how 't was that a sportsman, same as you be, could keep rakin' awver a job an' drive a plain chap o' the soil like me into hell for what I done ten year agone." "Let the past go. Forget it; banish it for all time as far as you have the power. Blame must be buried both sides. Here's the letter upon my desk. I'll burn it, and I'll try to burn the memory often years with it. Your road's clear for me." "Thank you," said Blanchard, very slowly. "I lay I'll never hear no better news than that on this airth. Now I'm free--free to do how I please, free to do it undriven." There was a long silence. Grimbal poured out half a tumbler of brandy, added soda water, then handed the stimulant to Will; and Blauchard, after drinking, sat in comfort a while, rubbed his swollen jaw, and scraped the dried blood of Bonus off his hands. "Why for did you chaange so sudden?" he asked, as Grimbal turned to his desk. "I could tell you, but it doesn't matter. A letter in the mind looks different to one on paper; and duty often changes its appearance, too, when a man is honest with himself. To be honest with yourself is the hardest sort of honesty. I've had speech with others about this--my brother more particularly." "I wish to God us could have settled it without no help from outside." Grimbal rang the bell, then answered. "As to settling it, I know nothing about that. I've settled with my own conscience--such as it is." "I'd come for 'Yes' or 'No.'" "Now you have a definite answer." "An' thank you. Then what 's it to be between us, when I come back? May I ax that? Them as ban't enemies no more might grow to be friends--eh?" What response Grimbal would have made is doubtful. He did not reply, for his servant, Lawrence Vallack, entered at the moment, and he turned abruptly upon the old man. "Where 's the letter I left upon my desk? It was directed to Plymouth." "All right, sir, all right; don't worrit. I've eyes in my head for my betters still, thank God. I seed un when I come to shut the shutters an' sent Joe post-haste to the box. 'T was in plenty of time for the mail." John emptied his lungs in a great respiration, half-sigh, half-groan. He could not speak. Only his fingers closed and he half lifted his hand as though to crush the smirking ancient. Then he dropped his arm and looked at Blanchard, asking the question with his eyes that he could find no words for. "I heard the mail go just 'fore the hare squealed," said Will stolidly, "an' the letter with it for certain." Grimbal started up and rushed to the hall while the other limped after him. "Doan't 'e do nothin' fulish. I believe you never meant to post un. Ess, I'll take your solemn word for that. An' if you didn't mean to send letter, 't is as if you hadn't sent un. For my mind weer fixed, whatever you might do." "Don't jaw, now! There 's time to stop the mail yet. I can get to Moreton as soon or sooner than that crawling cart if I ride. I won't be fooled like this!" He ran to the stables, called to the groom, clapped a saddle on the horse that had just brought him home, and in about three minutes was riding down the avenue, while his lad reached the gate and swung it open just in time. Then Grimbal galloped into the night, with heart and soul fixed upon his letter. He meant to recover it at any reasonable cost. The white road streaked away beneath him, and a breeze created by his own rapid progress steadied him as he hastened on. Presently at a hill-foot, he saw how to save a mile or more by short cuts over meadow-land, so left the highway, rode through a hayfield, and dashed from it by a gap into a second. Then he grunted and the sound was one of satisfaction, for his tremendous rate of progress had served its object and already, creeping on the main road far ahead, he saw the vehicle which held the mail. Meanwhile Blanchard and the man-servant stood and watched John Grimbal's furious departure. "Pity," said Will. "No call to do it. I've took his word, an' the end 's the same, letter or no letter. Now let me finish that theer brandy, then I'll go home." But Mr. Vallack heard nothing. He was gazing out into the night and shaking with fear. "High treason 'gainst the law of the land to lay a finger on the mail. A letter posted be like a stone flinged or a word spoken--out of our keeping for all time. An' me to blame for it. I'm a ruined man along o' taking tu much 'pon myself an' being tu eager for others. He'll fling me out, sure 's death. 'T is all up wi' me." "As to that, I reckon many a dog gets a kick wheer he thinks he 's earned a pat," said Will; "that's life, that is. An' maybe theer's sore hearts in dumb beasts, tu, sometimes, for a dog loves praise like a woman. He won't sack 'e. You done what 'peared your duty." Blanchard then left the house, slowly proceeded along the avenue and presently passed out on to the highroad. As he walked the pain of his leg diminished, but he put no strain upon it and proceeded very leisurely towards home. Great happiness broke into his mind, undimmed by aching bones and bruises. The reflection that he was reconciled to John Grimbal crowded out lesser thoughts. He knew the other had spoken truth, and accepted his headlong flight to arrest the mail as sufficient proof of it. Then he thought of the possibility of giving himself up before Grimbal's letter should come to be read. At home Phoebe was lying awake in misery waiting for him. She had brought up to their bedroom a great plate of cold bacon with vegetables and a pint of beer; and as Will slowly appeared she uttered a cry and embraced him with thanksgivings. Upon Blanchard's mind the return to his wife impressed various strange thoughts. He soothed her, comforted her, and assured her of his safety. But to him it seemed that he spoke with a stranger, for half a century of experience appeared to stretch between the present and his departure from Monks Barton about three hours before. His wife experienced similar sensations. That this cheerful, battered, hungry man could be the same who had stormed from her into the night a few short hours before, appeared impossible. CHAPTER XVI A PAIR OF HANDCUFFS Mr. Blee, to do him justice, was usually the first afoot at Monks Barton, both winter and summer. The maids who slept near him needed no alarum, for his step on the stair and his high-pitched summons, "Now then, you lazy gals, what be snorin' theer for, an' the day broke?" was always sufficient to ensure their wakening. At an early hour of the morning that dawned upon Will's nocturnal adventures, Billy stood in the farmyard and surveyed the shining river to an accompaniment of many musical sounds. On Monks Barton thatches the pigeons cooed and bowed and gurgled to their ladies, cows lowed from the byres, cocks crew, and the mill-wheel, already launched upon the business of the day, panted from its dark habitation of dripping moss and fern. Billy sniffed the morning, then proceeded to a pig's sty, opened a door within it, and chuckled at the spectacle that greeted him. "Burnish it all! auld sow 's farrowed at last, then. Busy night for her, sure 'nough! An' so fine a litter as ever I seed, by the looks of it." He bustled off to get refreshment for the gaunt, new-made mother, and as he did so met Ted Chown, who now worked at Mr. Lyddon's, and had just arrived from his home in Chagford. "Marnin', sir; have 'e heard the news? Gert tidings up-long I 'sure 'e." "Not so gert as what I've got, I'll lay. Butivul litter 't is. Come an' give me a hand." "Bonus was catched poachin' last night to the Red House. An' he've had his faace smashed in, nose broke, an' all. He escaped arter; but he went to Doctor fust thing to-day an' got hisself plastered; an' then, knawin' 't weern't no use to hide, comed right along an' gived hisself up to faither." "My stars! An' no more'n what he desarved, that's certain." "But that ban't all, even. Maister Jan Grimbal's missing! He rode off last night, Laard knaws wheer, an' never a sign of un seed since. They've sent to the station 'bout it a'ready; an' they 'm scourin' the airth for un. An' 't was Maister Blanchard as fought wi' Bonus, for Sam said so." "Guy Fawkes an' angels! Here, you mix this. I must tell Miller an' run about a bit. Gwaine to be a gert day, by the looks of it!" He hurried into the house, met his master and began with breathless haste,-- "Awful doin's! Awful doin's, Miller. Such a sweet-smellin' marnin', tu! Bear yourself stiff against it, for us caan't say what remains to be told." "What's wrong now? Doan't choke yourself. You 'm grawin' tu auld for all the excitements of modern life, Billy. Wheer's Will?" "You may well ax. Sleepin' still, I reckon, for he comed in long arter midnight. I was stirrin' at the time an' heard un. Sleepin' arter black deeds, if all they tell be true." "Black deeds!" "The bwoy Ted's just comed wi' it. 'T is this way: Bonus be at death's door wi' a smashed nose, an' Blanchard done it; an' Jan Grimbal's vanished off the faace o' the airth. Not a sign of un seed arter he drove away last night from the Jubilee gathering. An' if 't is murder, you'll be in the witness-box, knawin' the parties same as you do; an' the sow 's got a braave litter, though what's that arter such news?" "Guess you 'm dreamin', Blee," said Mr. Lyddon, as he took his hat and walked into the farmyard. Billy was hurt. "Dreamin', be I? I'm a man as dreams blue murders, of coourse! Tu auld to be relied on now, I s'pose. Theer! Theer!" he changed his voice and it ran into a cracked scream of excitement. "Theer! P'r'aps I'm dreamin', as Inspector Chown an' Constable Lamacraft be walkin' in the gate this instant moment!" But there was no mistaking this fact. Abraham Chown entered, marched solemnly to the party at the door, cried "Halt!" to his subordinate, then turned to Mr. Lyddon. "Good-day to you, Miller," he said, "though 't is a bad day, I'm fearin'. I be here for Will Blanchard, _alias_ Tom Newcombe." "If you mean my son-in-law, he 's not out of bed to my knawledge." "Dear sawls! Doan't 'e say 't is blue murder--doan't 'e say that!" implored Mr. Blee. His head shook and his tongue revolved round his lips. "Not as I knaws. We 'm actin' on instructions from the military to Plymouth." "Theer 's allus wickedness hid under a alias notwithstanding," declared Billy, rather disappointed; "have 'e found Jan Grimbal?" "They be searchin' for un. Jim Luke, Inspector to Moreton, an' his men be out beatin' the country. But I'm here, wi' my staff, for William Blanchard. March!" Lamacraft, thus addressed, proceeded a pace or two until stopped by Mr. Lyddon. "No call to go in. He'll come down. But I'm sore puzzled to knaw what this means, for awnly last night I heard tell from Jan Grimbal's awn lips that he'd chaanged his mind about a private matter bearin' on this." "I want the man, anyways, an' I be gwaine to have un," declared Inspector Chown. He brought a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and gave them to the constable. "Put up them gashly things, Abraham Chown," said the miller sternly. "Doan't 'e knaw Blanchard better 'n that?" "Handcuffed he'll be, whether he likes it or not," answered the other; "an' if theer's trouble, I bid all present an' any able-bodied men 'pon the premises to help me take him in the Queen's name." Billy hobbled round the corner, thrust two fingers into his mouth, and blew a quavering whistle; whereupon two labourers, working a few hundred yards off, immediately dropped their tools and joined him. "Run you here," he cried. "P'lice be corned to taake Will Blanchard, an' us must all give the Law a hand, for theer'll be blows struck if I knaw un." "Will Blanchard! What have he done?" "Been under a alias--that's the least of it, but--God, He knaws--it may rise to murder. 'T is our bounden duty to help Chown against un." "Be danged if I do!" said one of the men. "Nor me," declared the other. "Let Chown do his job hisself--an' get his jaw broke for his trouble." But they followed Mr. Blee to where the miller still argued against Lamacraft's entrance. "Why didn't they send soldiers for un? That's what he reckoned on," said Mr. Lyddon. "'T is my job fust." "I'm sorry you've come in this high spirit. You knaw the man and ought to taake his word he'd go quiet and my guarantee for it." "I knaw my duty, an' doan't want no teachin' from you." "You're a fule!" said Miller, in some anger. "An' 't will take more 'n you an' that moon-faced lout to put them things on the man, or I'm much mistaken." He went indoors while the labourers laughed, and the younger constable blushed at the insult. "How do 'e like that, Peter Lamacraft?" asked a labourer. "No odds to me," answered the policeman, licking his hands nervously and looking at the door. "I ban't feared of nought said or done if I've got the Law behind me. An' you'm liable yourself if you doan't help." "Caan't wait no more," declared Mr. Chown. "If he's in bed, us'll take un in bed. Come on, you!" Thus ordered to proceed, Lamacraft set his face resolutely forward and was just entering the farm when Phoebe appeared. Her tears were dry, though her voice was unsteady and her eyelids red. "Gude mornin', Mr. Chown," she said. "Marnin', ma'am. Let us pass, if you please." "Are you coming in? Why?" "Us caan't bide no more, an' us caan't give no more reasons. The Law ban't 'spected to give reasons for its deeds, an' us won't be bamboozled an' put off a minute longer," answered Chown grimly. "March, I tell 'e, Peter Lamacraft." "You caan't see my husband." "But we'm gwaine to see un. He've got to see me, an' come along wi' me, tu. An' if he's wise, he'll come quiet an' keep his mouth shut. That much I'll tell un for his gude." "If you'll listen, I might make you onderstand how 'tis you caan't see Will," said Phoebe quietly. "You must knaw he runned away an' went soldiering before he married me. Then he comed back for love of me wi'out axin' any man's leave." "So much the worse, ma'am; he'm a desarter!" "The dark wickedness!" gasped Mr. Blee; "an' him dumb as a newt 'bout it all these years an' years! The conscience of un!" "Well, you needn't trouble any more," continued Phoebe to the policemen. "My husband be gwaine to take this matter into his awn hands now." Inspector Chown laughed. "That's gude, that is!--now he 'm blawn upon!" "He 's gwaine to give himself up--he caan't do more," said Phoebe, turning to her father who now reappeared. "Coourse he caan't do more. What more do 'e want?" the miller inquired. "Him," answered Mr. Chown. "No more an' no less; an' everything said will be used against him." "You glumpy auld Dowl!" growled a labouring man. "All right, all right. You just wait, all of 'e! Wheer's the man? How much longer be I to bide his pleasure? March! Damn it all! be the Law a laughing-stock?" The Inspector was growing very hot and excited. "He's gone," said Phoebe, as Mr. Lamacraft entered the farm, put one foot on the bottom step of the stairs, then turned for further orders. "He's gone, before light. He rested two hours or so, then us harnessed the trap an' he drove away to Moreton to take fust train to Plymouth by way o' Newton Abbot. An' he said as Ted Chown was to go in arter breakfast an' drive the trap home." "Couldn't tell me nothin' as had pleased me better," said the miller. "'T is a weight off me--an' off him I reckon. Now you 'm answered, my son; you can telegraph back as you corned wi' your auld handcuffs tu late by hours, an' that the man's on his way to give hisself up." "I've only got your word for it." "An' what better word should 'e have?" piped Billy, who in the space of half a minute had ranged himself alongside his master. "You to question the word o' Miller Lyddon, you crooked-hearted raven! Who was it spoke for 'e fifteen year ago an' got 'em to make 'e p'liceman 'cause you was tu big a fule to larn any other trade? Gert, thankless twoad! An' who was it let 'em keep the 'Green Man' awpen two nights in wan week arter closin' time, 'cause he wanted another drop hisself?" "Come you away," said the Inspector to his constable. "Ban't for the likes of we to have any talk wi' the likes o' they. But they'll hear more of this; an' if theer's been any hookem-snivey dealin's with the Law, they'll live to be sorry. An' you follow me likewise," he added to his son, who stood hard by. "You come wi' me, Ted, for you doan't do no more work for runaway soldiers, nor yet bald-headed auld antics like this here!" He pointed to Mr. Blee, then turned to depart. "Get off honest man's land, you black-bearded beast!" screamed Billy. "You 'm most like of any wan ever I heard tell of to do murder yourself; an' auld as I be, I'd crawl on my hands an' knees to see you scragged for 't, if 't was so far as the sun in heaven!" "That's libel," answered Mr. Chown, with cold and haughty authority; "an' you've put yourself in the grip of the Law by sayin' it, as you'll knaw before you 'm much aulder." Then, with this trifling advantage, he retreated, while Lamacraft and Ted brought up the rear. "So theer's an end of that. Now us'll fall to wi' no worse appetites," declared Miller. "An' as to Will," he added, "'fore you chaps go, just mind an' judge no man till you knaw what's proved against him. Onless theer's worse behind than I've larned so far, I'm gwaine to stand by un." "An' me, tu!" said Mr. Blee, with a fine disregard for his recent utterances. "I've teached the chap purty nigh all he knaws an' I ban't gwaine to turn on un now, onless 't is proved blue murder. An' that Chown 's a disgrace to his cloth; an' I'd pull his ugly bat's ears on my awn behalf if I was a younger an' spryer man." CHAPTER XVII SUSPENSE The fate of John Grimbal was learned within an hour or two of Inspector Chown's departure from Monks Barton; and by the time that Martin Grimbal had been apprised of the matter his brother already lay at the Red House. John had been found at daybreak upon the grass-land where he rode overnight on his journey to intercept the mail. A moment after he descried the distant cart, his horse had set foot in a hole; and upon the accident being discovered, the beast was found lying with a broken leg within twenty yards of its insensible master. His horse was shot, John Grimbal carried home with all despatch, and Doctor Parsons arrived as quickly as possible, to do all that might be done for the sufferer until an abler physician than himself reached the scene. Three dreary days saw Grimbal at the door of death, then a brief interval of consciousness rewarded unceasing care, and a rumour spread that he might yet survive. Martin, when immediate fear for his brother's life was relieved, busied himself about Blanchard, and went to Plymouth. There he saw Will, learned all facts concerning the letter, and did his best to win information of the prisoner's probable punishment. Fears, magnified rumours, expressed opinions, mostly erroneous, buzzed in the ears of the anxious party at Monks Barton. Then Martin Grimbal returned to Chagford and there came an evening when those most interested met after supper at the farm to hear all he could tell them. Long faces grouped round Martin as he made his statement in a grey June twilight. Mr. Blee and the miller smoked, Mrs. Blanchard sat with her hand in her daughter's, and Phoebe occupied a comfortable arm-chair by the wood fire. Between intervals of long silence came loud, juicy, sounds from Billy's pipe, and when light waned they still talked on until Chris stirred herself and sought the lamp. "They tell me," began Martin, "that a deserting soldier is punished according to his character and with regard to the fact whether he surrenders himself or is apprehended. Of course we know Will gave himself up, but then they will find out that he knew poor John's unfortunate letter had reached its destination--or at any rate started for it; and they may argue, not knowing the truth, that it was the fact of the information being finally despatched made Will surrender. They will say, I am afraid, as they said to me: 'Why did he wait until now if he meant to do the right thing? Why did he not give himself up long ago?'" "That's easy answered: to please others," explained Mr. Lyddon. "Fust theer was his promise to Phoebe, then his mother's illness, then his other promise, to bide till his wife was brought to bed. Looking back I see we was wrong to use our power against his awn wish; but so it stands." "I ought to go; I ought to be alongside un," moaned Phoebe; "I was at the bottom of everything from fust to last. For me he run away; for me he stopped away. Mine's the blame, an' them as judge him should knaw it an' hear me say so." "Caan't do no such vain thing as that," declared Mr. Blee. "'T was never allowed as a wife should be heard 'pon the doin's of her awn husband. 'Cause why? She'd be one-sided--either plump for un through thick an' thin, or else all against un, as the case might stand." "As to the sentence," continued Martin, "if a man with a good character deserts and thinks better of it and goes back to his regiment, he is not as a rule tried by court-martial at all. Instead, he loses all his former service and has to begin to reckon his period of engagement--six or seven years perhaps--all over again. But a notoriously bad character is tried by court-martial in any case, whether he gives himself up or not; and he gets a punishment according to the badness of his past record. Such a man would have from eighty-four days' imprisonment, with hard labour, up to six months, or even a year, if he had deserted more than once. Then the out-and-out rascals are sentenced to be 'dismissed her Majesty's service.'" "But the real gude men," pleaded Phoebe--"them as had no whisper 'gainst 'em, same as Will? They couldn't be hard 'pon them, 'specially if they knawed all?" "I should hope not; I'm sure not. You see the case is so unusual, as an officer explained to me, and such a great length of time has elapsed between the action and the judgment upon it. That is in Will's favour. A good soldier with a clean record who deserts and is apprehended does not get more than three months with hard labour and sometimes less. That's the worst that can happen, I hope." "What's hard labour to him?" murmured Billy, whose tact on occasions of universal sorrow was sometimes faulty. "'Tis the rankle of bein' in every blackguard's mouth that'll cut Will to the quick." "What blackguards say and think ban't no odds," declared Mrs. Blanchard. "'Tis better--far better he should do what he must do. The disgrace is in the minds of them that lick theer lips upon his sorrow. Let him pay for a wrong deed done, for the evil he did that gude might come of it. I see the right hand o' God holding' the li'l strings of my son's life, an' I knaw better'n any of 'e what'll be in the bwoy's heart now." "Yet, when all's said, 'tis a mournful sarcumstance an' sent for our chastening," contended Mr. Blee stoutly. "Us mustn't argue away the torment of it an' pretend 'tis nought. Ban't a pleasing thing, 'specially at such a time when all the airth s gwaine daft wi' joy for the gracious gudeness o' God to the Queen o' England. In plain speech, 't is a damn dismal come-along-of-it, an' I've cried by night, auld though I am, to think o' the man's babes grawin' up wi' this round theer necks. An' wan to be born while he 'm put away! Theer 's a black picksher for 'e! Him doin' hard labour as the Law directs, an' his wife doin' hard labour, tu--in her lonely bed! Why, gormed if I--" "For God's sake shut your mouth, you horrible old man!" burst out Martin, as Phoebe hurried away in tears and Chris followed her. "You're a disgrace to humanity and I don't hesitate--I don't hesitate at all to say you have no proper feeling in you!" "Martin's right, Billy," declared Mr. Lyddon without emotion. "You 'm a thought tu quick to meet other people's troubles half way, as I've told 'e before to-night. Ban't a comely trait in 'e. You've made her run off sobbing her poor, bruised heart out. As if she hadn't wept enough o' late. Do 'e think us caan't see what it all means an' the wisht cloud that's awver all our heads, lookin' darker by contrast wi' the happiness of the land, owing to the Jubilee of a gert Queen? Coourse we knaw. But't is poor wisdom to talk 'bout the blackness of a cloud to them as be tryin' to find its silver lining. If you caan't lighten trouble, best to hold your peace." "What's the use of cryin' 'peace' when us knaws in our hearts 'tis war? Us must look inside an' outside, an' count the cost same as I be doin' now," declared Mr. Blee. "Then to be catched up so harsh 'mong friends! Well, well, gude-night, all; I'll go to my rest. Hard words doan't break, though they may bruise. But I'll do my duty, whether or no." He rose and shuffled to the door, then looked round and opened his mouth to speak again. But he changed his mind, shook his head, snorted expressively, and disappeared. "A straange-fashioned chap," commented Mrs. Blanchard, "wi' sometimes a wise word stuck in his sour speech, like a gude currant in a bad dumpling." CHAPTER XVIII THE NIGHT OF JUBILEE Unnumbered joy fires were writing the nation's thanksgiving across the starry darkness of a night in June. Throughout the confines of Britain--on knolls arising beside populous towns, above the wild cliffs of our coasts, in low-lying lands, upon the banks of rivers, at the fringes of forests and over a thousand barren heaths, lonely wastes, and stony pinnacles of untamed hills, like some mundane galaxy of stars or many-tongued outbreak of conflagration, the bonfires glimmered. And their golden seed was sown so thickly, that from no pile of those hundreds then brightening the hours of darkness had it been possible to gaze into the night and see no other. Upon the shaggy fastnesses of Devon's central waste, within the bounds, metes, and precincts of Dartmoor Forest, there shone a whole constellation of little suns, and a wanderer in air might have counted a hundred without difficulty, whilst, for the beholders perched upon Yes Tor, High Wilhays, or the bosom of Cosdon during the fairness and clearness of that memorable night, fully threescore beacons flamed. All those granite giants within the field of man's activities, all the monsters whose enormous shades fell at dawn or evening time upon the hamlets and villages of the Moor, now carried on their lofty crowns the flames of rejoicing. Bonfires of varying size, according to the energy and importance of the communities responsible for them, dotted the circumference of the lonely region in a vast, irregular figure, but thinned and ceased towards the unpeopled heart of the waste. On Wattern, at Cranmere, upon Fur Tor, and under the hoary, haunted woods of Wistman, no glad beacons blazed or voices rang. There Nature, ignorant of epochs and heeding neither olympiad nor lustrum, cycle nor century, ruled alone; there, all self-centred, self-contained, unwitting of conscious existence and its little joys, her perfection above praise and more enduring than any chronicle of it, asking for no earthborn acclamations of her eternal reign, demanding only obedience from all on penalty of death, the Mother swayed her sceptre unseen. Seed and stone, blade and berry, hot blood and cold, did her bidding and slept or stirred at her ordinance. A nightjar harshly whirred beneath her footstool; wan tongues of flame rose and fell upon her quaking altars; a mountain fox, pattering quick-footed to the rabbit warren, caught light from those exhalations in his round, green eyes and barked. Humanity thronged and made merry around numberless crackling piles of fire. Men and women, boys and girls, most noisily rejoiced, and from each flaming centre of festivity a thin sound of human shouting and laughter streamed starward with the smoke. Removed by brief distance in space, the onlooker, without overmuch strain or imagination, might stride a pace or two backward in time and conceive himself for a moment as in the presence of those who similarly tended beacons on these granite heights of old. Then, truly, the object and occasion were widely different; then, perchance, in answer to evil rumour moving zigzag on black bat-wings through nights of fear, many a bale-fire had shot upwards, upon the keystone of Cosdon's solemn arch, beckoned like a bloody hand towards north and south, and cried danger to a thousand British warriors lurking in moor, and fen, and forest. Answering flames had leapt from Hay Tor, from Buckland Beacon, from Great Mis Tor in the west; and their warning, caught up elsewhere, would quickly penetrate to the heart of the South Hams, to the outlying ramparts of the Cornish wastes, to Exmoor and the coast-line of the north. But no laughter echoed about those old-time fires. Their lurid light smeared wolfskins, splashed on metal and untanned hide, illumined barbaric adornments, fierce faces, wild locks, and savage eyes. Anxious Celtic mothers and maidens stood beside their men, while fear and rage leapt along from woman's face to woman's face, as some gasping wretch, with twoscore miles of wilderness behind him, told of high-beaked monsters moving under banks of oars, of dire peril, of death and ruin, suddenly sprung in a night from behind the rim of the sea. Since then the peaks of the Moor have smiled or scowled under countless human fires, have flashed glad tidings or flamed ill news to many generations. And now, perched upon one enormous mass of stone, there towered upward a beacon of blazing furze and pine. In its heart were tar barrels and the monster bred heat enough to remind the granite beneath it of those fires that first moulded its elvan ingredients to a concrete whole and hurled them hither. About this eye of flame crowded those who had built it, and the roaring mass of red-hot timber and seething pitch represented the consummation of Chagford's festivities on the night of Jubilee. The flames, obedient to such light airs as were blowing, bent in unison with the black billows of smoke that wound above them. Great, trembling tongues separated from the mass and soared upward, gleaming as they vanished; sparks and jets, streams and stars of light, shot from the pile to illuminate the rolling depths of the smoke cloud, to fret its curtain with spangles and jewels of gold atid ruby, to weave strange, lurid lights into the very fabric of its volume. Far away, as the breezes drew them, fell a red glimmer of fire, where those charred fragments caught in the rush and hurled aloft, returned again to earth; and the whole incandescent structure, perched as it was upon the apex of Yes Tor, suggested at a brief distance a fiery top-knot of streaming flame on some vast and demoniac head thrust upward from the nether world. Great splendour of light gleamed upon a ring of human beings. Adventurous spirits leapt forth, fed the flames with faggots and furze and risked their hairy faces within the range of the bonfire's scorching breath. Alternate gleam and glow played fantastically upon the spectators, and, though for the most part they moved but little while their joy fire was at its height, the conflagration caused a sheer devil's dance of impish light and shadow to race over every face and form in the assemblage. The fantastic magician of the fire threw humps on to straight backs, flattened good round breasts, wrote wrinkles on smooth faces, turned eyes and lips into shining gems, made white teeth yellow, cast a grotesque spell of the unreal on young shapes, of the horrible upon old ones. A sort of monkey coarseness crept into the red, upturned faces; their proportions were distorted, their delicacy destroyed. Essential lines of figures were concealed by the inky shadows; unimportant features were thrown into a violent prominence; the clean fire impinged abruptly on a night of black shade, as sunrise on the moon. There was no atmosphere. Human noses poked weirdly out of nothing, human hands waved without arms, human heads moved without bodies, bodies bobbed along without legs. The heart-beat and furnace roar of the fire was tremendous, but the shouts of men, the shriller laughter of women, and the screams and yells of children could be heard through it, together with the pistol-like explosion of sap turned to steam, and rending its way from green wood. Other sounds also fretted the air, for a hundred yards distant--in a hut-circle--the Chagford drum-and-fife band lent its throb and squeak to the hour, and struggled amain to increase universal joy. So the fire flourished, and the plutonian rock-mass of the tor arose, the centre of a scene itself plutonian. Removed by many yards from the ring of human spectators, and scattered in wide order upon the flanks of the hill, stood tame beasts. Sheep huddled there and bleated amazement, their fleeces touched by the flicker of the distant fire; red heifers and steers also faced the flame and chewed the cud upon a spectacle outside all former experience; while inquisitive ponies drew up in a wide radius, snorted and sniffed with delicate, dilated nostrils at the unfamiliar smell of the breeze, threw up their little heads, fetched a compass at top speed and so returned; then crowded flank to flank, shoulder to shoulder, and again blankly gazed at the fire which reflected itself in the whites of their shifty eyes. Fitting the freakish antics of the red light, a carnival spirit, hard to rouse in northern hearts, awakened within this crowd of Devon men and women, old men and children. There was in their exhilaration some inspiration from the joyous circumstance they celebrated; and something, too, from the barrel. Dancing began and games, feeble by day but not lacking devil when pursued under cover of darkness. There were hugging and kissing, and yells of laughter when amorous couples who believed themselves safe were suddenly revealed lip to lip and heart to heart by an unkind flash of fire. Some, as their nature was, danced and screamed that flaming hour away; some sat blankly and smoked and gazed with less interest than the outer audience of dumb animals; some laboured amain to keep the bonfire at blaze. These last worked from habit and forgot their broadcloth. None bade them, but it was their life to be toiling; it came naturally to mind and muscle, and they laughed while they laboured and sweated. A dozen staid groups witnessed the scene from surrounding eminences, but did not join the merrymakers. Mr. Shorto-Champernowne, Doctor Parsons, and the ladies of their houses stood with their feet on a tumulus apart; and elsewhere Mr. Chapple, Charles Coomstock, Mr. Blee, and others, mostly ancient, sat on the granite, inspected the pandemonium spread before them, and criticised as experts who had seen bonfires lighted before the greater part of the present gathering was out of its cradle. But no cynic praising of past time to the disparagement of the present marked their opinions. Mr. Chapple indeed pronounced the fire brilliantly successful, and did not hesitate to declare that it capped all his experience in this direction. "A braave blaze," he said, "a blaze as gives the thoughtful eye an' nose a tidy guess at what the Pit's like to be. Ess, indeed, a religious fire, so to say; an' I warrant the prophet sat along just such another when he said man was born to trouble sure as the sparks fly up'ard." Somewhat earlier on the same night, under the northern ramparts of Dartmoor, and upon the long, creeping hill that rises aloft from Okehampton, then dips again, passes beneath the Belstones, and winds by Sticklepath and Zeal under Cosdon, there rattled a trap holding two men. From their conversation it appeared that one was a traveller who now returned southward from a journey. "Gert, gay, fanciful doin's to-night," said the driver, looking aloft where Cosdon Beacon swelled. "You can see the light from the blaze up-long, an' now an' again you can note a sign in the night like a red-hot wire drawed up out the airth. They 'm sky-rockets, I judge." "'T is a joyful night, sure 'nough." The driver illustrated a political ignorance quite common in rural districts ten years ago and not conspicuously rare to-day. He laboured under uneasy suspicions that the support of monarchy was a direct and dismal tax upon the pockets of the poor. "Pity all the fuss ban't about a better job," he said. "Wan auld, elderly lady 's so gude as another, come to think of it. Why shouldn't my mother have a jubilee?" "What for? 'Cause she've borne a damned fule?" asked the other man angrily. "If that's your way o' thought, best keep it in your thoughts. Anyhow, I'll knock your silly head off if I hears another word to that tune, so now you knaw." The speaker was above medium height and breadth, the man who drove him happened to be unusually small. "Well, well, no offence," said the latter. "There is offence; an' it I heard a lord o' the land talk that way to-night, I'd make un swallow every dirty word of it. To hell wi' your treason!" The driver changed the subject. "Now you can see a gude few new fires," he said. "That's the Throwleigh blaze; an' that, long ways off, be--" "Yes Tor by the look of it. All Chagford's traapsed up-long, I warn 'e, to-night." They were now approaching a turning of the ways and the traveller suddenly changed his destination. "Come to think of it, I'll go straight on," he said. "That'll save you a matter o' ten miles, tu. Drive ahead a bit Berry Down way. Theer I'll leave 'e an' you'll be back home in time to have some fun yet." The driver, rejoicing at this unhoped diminution of his labours, soon reached the foot of a rough by-road that ascends to the Moor between the homesteads of Berry Down and Creber. Yes Tor now arose on the left under its cap of flame, and the wayfarer, who carried no luggage, paid his fare, bid the other "good-night," and then vanished into the darkness. He passed between the sleeping farms, and only watch-dogs barked out of the silence, for Gidleigh folks were all abroad that night. Pressing onwards, the native hurried to Scorhill, then crossed the Teign below Batworthy Farm, passed through the farmyard, and so proceeded to the common beneath Yes Tor. He whistled as he went, then stopped a moment to listen. The first drone of music and remote laughter reached his ear. He hurried onwards until a gleam lighted his face; then he passed through the ring of beasts, still glaring fascinated around the fire; and finally he pushed among the people. He stood revealed and there arose a sudden whisper among some who knew him, but whom he knew not. One or two uttered startled cries at this apparition, for all associated the newcomer with events and occurrences widely remote from the joy of the hour. How he came among them now, and what event made it possible for him to stand in their midst a free man, not the wisest could guess. A name was carried from mouth to mouth, then shouted aloud, then greeted with a little cheer. It fell upon Mr. Blee's ear as he prepared to start homewards; and scarcely had the sound of it set him gasping when a big man grew out of the flame and shadow and stood before him with extended hand. "Burnish it all! You! Be it Blanchard or the ghost of un?" "The man hisself--so big as bull's beef, an' so free as thicky fire!" said Will. Riotous joy sprang and bubbled in his voice. He gripped Billy's hand till the old man jumped and wriggled. "Free! Gude God! Doan't tell me you've brawke loose--doan't 'e say that! Christ! if you haven't squashed my hand till theer's no feeling in it! Doan't 'e say you've runned away?" "No such thing," answered Will, now the centre of a little crowd. "I'll tell 'e, sawls all, if you mind to hear. 'Tis this way: Queen Victoria, as have given of the best she've got wi' both hands to the high men of the land, so they tell me, caan't forget nought, even at such a time as this here. She've made gert additions to all manner o' men; an' to me, an' the likes o' me she've given what's more precious than bein' lords or dukes. I'm free--me an' all as runned from the ranks. The Sovereign Queen's let deserters go free, if you can credit it; an' that's how I stand here this minute." A buzz and hum with cheers and some laughter and congratulations followed Will's announcement. Then the people scattered to spread his story, and Mr. Blee spoke. "Come you down home to wance. Ban't none up here as cares a rush 'bout 'e but me. But theer 's a many anxious folks below. I comed up for auld sake's sake an' because ban't in reason to suppose I'll ever see another joy fire 'pon Yes Tor rock, at my time o' life. But us'll go an' carry this rare news to Chagford an' the Barton." They faded from the red radius of the fire and left it slowly dying. Will helped Billy off rough ground to the road. Then he set off at a speed altogether beyond the old man's power, so Mr. Blee resorted to stratagem. "'Bate your pace; 'bate your pace; I caan't travel that gait an' talk same time. Yet theer's a power o' fine things I might tell 'e if you'd listen." "'T is hard to walk slow towards a mother an' wife like what mine be, after near a month from 'em; but let's have your news, Billy, an' doan't croak, for God's sake. Say all's well wi' all." "I ban't no croaker, as you knaws. Happy, are 'e?--happy for wance? I suppose you'll say now, as you've said plenty times a'ready, that you 'm to the tail of your troubles for gude an' all--just in your auld, silly fashion?" "Not me, auld chap, never no more--so long as you 'm alive! Ha, ha, ha--that's wan for you! Theer! if 't isn't gude to laugh again!" "I be main glad as I've got no news to make 'e do anything else, though ban't often us can be prophets of gude nowadays. But if you've grawed a streak wiser of late, then theer's hope, even for a scatterbrain like you, the Lard bein' all-powerful. Not that jokes against such as me would please Him the better." "I've thought a lot in my time, Billy; an' I haven't done thinking yet. I've comed to reckon as I caan't do very well wi'out the world, though the world would fare easy enough wi'out me." Billy nodded. "That's sense so far as it goes," he admitted. "Obedience be hard to the young; to the auld it comes natural; to me allus was easy as dirt from my youth up. Obedience to betters in heaven an' airth. But you--you with your born luck--never heard tell of nothin' like it 't all. What's a fix to you? You goes in wan end an' walks out t' other, like a rabbit through a hedge. Theer you was--in such a tight pass as you might say neither God nor angels could get 'e free wi'out a Bible miracle, when, burnish it all! if the Jubilee Queen o' England doan't busy herself 'bout 'e!" "'T is true as I'm walkin' by your side. I'd give a year o' my wages to knaw how I could shaw what I think about it." "You might thank her. 'T is all as humble folks can do most times when Queens or Squires or the A'mighty Hisself spares a thought to better us. Us can awnly say 'thank you.'" There was a silence of some duration; then Billy again bid his companion moderate his pace. "I'm forgetting all I've got to tell 'e, though I've news enough for a buke," he said. "How's Jan Grimbal, fust plaace?" "On his legs again an' out o' danger if the Lunnon doctor knaws anything. A hunderd guineas they say that chap have had! Your name was danced to a mad tune 'pon Grimbal's lips 'fore his senses corned back to un. Why for I caan't tell 'e. He've shook hands wi' Death for sartain while you was away." "An' mother, an' wife, an' Miller?" "Your mother be well--a steadfast woman her be. Joy doan't lift her up, an' sorrow doan't crush her. Theer's gert wisdom in her way of life. 'T is my awn, for that matter. Then Miller--well, he 'm grawin' auld an' doan't rate me quite so high as formerly--not that I judge anybody but myself. An' your missis--theer, if I haven't kept it for the last! 'Tis news four-an-twenty hour old now an' they wrote to 'e essterday, but I lay you missed the letter awin' to me--" "Get on!" "Well, she've brought 'e a bwoy--so now you've got both sorts--bwoy an' cheel. An' all doin' well as can be, though wisht work for her, thinkin' 'pon you the while." Will stood still and uttered a triumphant but inarticulate sound--half-laugh, half-sob, half-thanksgiving. Then the man spoke, slow and deep,-- "He shall go for a soldier!" "Theer! Now I knaw 't is Blanchard back an' no other! Hear me, will 'e; doan't plan no such uneven way of life for un." "By God, he shall!" The words came back over Will Blanchard's shoulder, for he was fast vanishing. "Might have knawed he wouldn't walk along wi' me arter that," thought Billy. Then he lifted up his voice and bawled to the diminishing figure, already no more than a darker blot on the darkness of night. "For the Lard's love go in quiet an' gradual, or you'll scare the life out of 'em all." And the answer came back,-- "I knaw, I knaw; I ban't the man to do a rash deed!" Mr. Blee chuckled and plodded on through the night while Will strode far ahead. Presently he stood beside the wicket of Mrs. Blanchard's cottage and hesitated between two women. Despite circumstances, there came no uncertain answer from the deepest well-springs of him. He could not pass that gate just then. And so he stopped and turned and entered; and she, his mother, sitting in thought alone, heard a footfall upon the great nightly silence--a sudden, familiar footfall that echoed to her heart the music it loved best. THE END. 
54304	----	generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/urithtaleofdartm00baririch URITH A Tale of Dartmoor by S. BARING GOULD Author of "Mehalah," "Arminell," "Old Country Life," etc. London Methuen and Co. 18, Bury Street, W.C. 1891 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. CHAPTER I. DEVIL TOR. In the very heart of Dartmoor, far from human habitation, near two thousand feet above the level of the sea, but with no prospect in the clearest weather on any side upon cultivated land, stands at present, as stood two hundred years ago, and doubtless two thousand before that, a rude granite monolith, or upright stone, about fourteen feet high, having on it not a trace of sculpture, not the mark of any tool, even to the rectification of its rugged angles and rude shapelessness. In every direction, far as the eye can range, extends brown, desolate moorland, broken here and there with lumps of protruding rock, weathered by storm into the semblance of stratification. A bow-shot from this upright stone rises such a hump that goes by the name of Devil Tor; and the stone in question apparently formed originally the topmost slab of this granite pile. But when removed, by whom, and with what object, remains a mystery. The beauty of a vast upland region lies not in its core, but in its circumference, where the rivers have sawn for themselves valleys and gorges through which they travel to the lowlands in a series of falls, more or less broken. About the fringe, the mountain heights, if not so lofty as in the interior, show their elevation to advantage, towering out of the cultivated plains or undulating woodland at their bases. In the centre there is less of beauty, because there is no contrast, and it is by comparison that we form our estimates. In the heart of the upland all is equally barren, and the variations of elevation are small. This is especially the case with the interior of that vast elevated region of Dartmoor, which constitutes bog from which flow the rivers that pour into the Bristol Channel on one side, and into the English Channel on the other. The monolith, blackened by lichen, standing in such utter solitude, was no doubt thought to bear some resemblance to the Great Enemy of Man, and the adjoining Tor was regarded as his throne, on which he seated himself but once in twelve months, on Midsummer Eve, when the Bale-fires flamed on every hill in his honour. On all other occasions he was erect in this eyrie region, peering east and west, north and south, to see what evil was brewing in the lower world of men. Devil Tor is reached by very few, only now and then does a shepherd pass that way, as the bogs provide no pasturage. The peat there has grown from hoar antiquity undisturbed by the turf-cutter on account of the remoteness of the spot and the difficulty of transport. The fisherman never reaches it, for it lies above the sources of all streams. The surface of the moor is chapped and transformed by the chaps into a labyrinth, of peaty hummocks and black and oozy clefts, the latter from six to twelve feet deep, running in every direction, and radiating out of each other at all angles. Why the peat is so cleft is hard to say, there is no running water in the gashes, which in many cases go down to the white granite like the fissures in the body of a leper that in places disclose the bone. It would almost seem as though the bitter cold of this region had chapped its surface, and that no soft warm weather ever came to mollify, and to heal its gaping wounds. Evening had closed in, but not attended by darkness, for the whole sky was glowing. The moor was on fire. The season was that early spring in which what is locally termed "swaling" takes place, that is to say, the heather is set fire to after the dry winds of March, so as to expose and to sweeten the herbage. The recent season had been exceptionally dry, even for so rainless a season, and the fires that had been kindled near the circumference of the moor had run inwards, gained the mastery, and rioted over the whole expanse beyond control. They leaped from bush to brake, they crossed streams, throwing over tufts of flaming bracken, pelting the further shore, till that also was ignited. They circumvented bogs, they scrambled up moraines of granite, locally termed _clatters_, they ran up the hills on one side, enveloped their rocky crests in lambent flame, and descended the further side in a succession of bounds, and now they raged unchecked in the vast untrodden interior, where the wiry heather grew to shrubs, and the coarse grass and rushes were dust dry. There it ate its way along, a red advancing tide, working to windward, with a low roar and crackle, snapping at every bush, mumbling the tufts of rush, tossing up sparks, flame, and smoke, so that in the general glow and haze every landmark was disguised or effaced. To no distance could the eye reach, because the whole atmosphere was impregnated with smoke, the smoke red and throbbing with the reflection of the fires over which it rolled. Indeed, the entire firmament was aglow, at one time flashing, at another darkening, then blazing out again as a solar photosphere, responsive to the progress and force of the conflagration. Crouched at the foot of the great upright stone, that rose over her as the Devil triumphing over his pray, was a girl, with sullen, bewildered eyes, watching the fires as they folded about her, like flame fingers interlacing to close in and squeeze, and press the life out of her. Her hands were bandaged. She rested her chin on them. She was a handsome girl, but with the features irregular. She had large dark eyes--possibly at this moment appearing unduly large, as they stared with a vacant unconcern at the mingled darkness and flame. Her complexion was by nature a transparent sallow, but now it glowed--almost vermilion in the light of the burning moor. Her brow was broad, but low and heavy. The face was strange. When the long dark eyelashes fell, then there was in the countenance, in repose, a certain pathos, a look of sadness, of desolation; but the moment the eyes opened, this was gone, and the eyes proclaimed a sullen spirit within, underground, a smoulder of fierce passion that when stirred would burst forth into uncontrolled fury--akin to madness. When the lids fell, then the face might be pronounced beautiful, but when they rose, only the sullen, threatening eyes could be seen, the face was forgotten in the mystery of the eyes. As the girl sat beneath the great black monolith her brooding eyes were turned as a brake exploded into brilliant flame. She watched it burn out, till it left behind only a glow of scarlet ash; then she slowly turned her head towards Devil Tor, and watched the fantastic shapes the rocks assumed in the flicker, and the shadows that ran and leaped about them, as imps doing homage to their monarch's chair. Then she unwound the bandages about her hands, and looked at her knuckles. They were torn, and had bled, torn as by some wild beast. The blood was dry, and when she wrenched the linen from a wound to which it adhered, the blood began again to ooze. Her wounds were inflamed through the heat of the fires and the fever in her blood. She blew on them, but her breath was hot. There was no water within the engirdling ring of fire in which she could dip her hands. Then she waved them before her face, to fan them in the wind, but the wind was scorching, and charged with hot ash. Sitting thus, crouched, waving her bloodstained hands, with the bandage held between her teeth, under the black upright stone of uncouth shape, she might have been taken for a witch provoking the fires to mischief by her incantations. Suddenly she heard a voice, dropped the kerchief from her mouth, and sprang to her feet, as a shock of fear--not of hope of escape--went through her pulses to her heart. Whom was she likely to encounter in such a spot, save him after whom the Tor was named, and which was traditionally held to be his throne? On the further side of the encompassing fires stood a young man, between her and Devil Tor; but through the intervening smoke and fire she could not discern who he was, or distinguish whether the figure was familiar or strange. She drew back against the stone. A moment ago she was like a witch conjuring the conflagration, now she might have been taken for one at the stake, suffering the penalty of her evil deeds. "Who are you? Do you desire to be burnt?" shouted the young man. Then, as he received no reply, he called again, "You must not remain where you are." With a long staff he smote to right and left among the burning bushes, sending up volumes of flying fiery sparks, and then he came to her, leaping over the fire, and avoiding the tongues of flame that shot after him maliciously as he passed. "What!" he exclaimed, as he stood before the girl and observed her. Against the ink-black, lichened rock, her face, strongly illumined, could be clearly seen. "What! Urith Malvine?" She looked steadily at him out of her dark, gloomy eyes, and said, "Yes, I am Urith. What brings you here, Anthony Cleverdon?" "On my faith, I might return the question," said he, laughing shortly. "But this is not the place, nor is this the time, for tossing questions like shuttlecocks on Shrove Tuesday. However, to satisfy you, I will tell you that I came out in search of some ponies of my father's--scared by the fires and lost. But come, Urith, you cannot escape unaided through this hoop of flame, and now that you are contented with knowing why I am here, you will let me help you away." "I did not ask you to help me." "No, but I am come, unasked." He stooped and caught her up. "Put your arms around my neck," said he. "The fire will not injure me, as I am in my riding boots, but your skirts invite the flame." Then he wrapped together her gown about her feet, and holding her on his left arm, with the right brandishing his staff, he fought his way back. The scorching breath rushed about them, ten thousands of starry sparks, and whirled round and over them. He took a leap, and bounded over and through a sheet of flame and landed in safety. He at once strode with his burden to the pile of rocks where were no bushes to lead on the fire--only short swath, and a few green rushes full of sap. "Look, Urith," said he, after he had recovered breath, "between us and the next Tor--whose name, by the Lord, I don't know, but which I take to be the arm-chair of Lilith, the Devil's grandam--do you see?--the very earth is a-fire." "How, the earth?" "The peat is so dry that it has ignited, and will smoulder down into its depths for weeks, for months, mayhap, till a Swithurn month of rains has extinguished it. I have known a moor burn like this all through the summer, and he that put an unwary foot thereon was swallowed like the company of Korah in underground fire." The girl made no reply. She had not thanked the young man for having delivered her from the precarious position in which she had been. "Where am I?" she asked, turning her head about. "On Devil Tor." "How far from home?" "What--from Willsworthy?" "Yes, from Willsworthy, of course. That is my home." "You want to find your way back? How did you come here?" "You ask me two questions. Naturally, I want to get to my home. As for how I came here--on my feet. I went forth alone on the moor." "And lost your way?" "Certainly, or I would not be here. I lost my way." "You cannot by any possibility return direct over the bog and through the fire to Willsworthy. I could not guide you there myself. No man, not the best moor-shepherd could do this at such a time. But what ails your hands? You have hurt yourself." "Yes, I have hurt myself." "And, again, what induced you to come forth on the moor at such a season as this?" The girl made no answer, but suddenly looked down, as in confusion. She was seated on the rock of the Tor. Anthony Cleverdon stood somewhat below, on the turf, with one hand on the stone, looking up into her face, that was in full illumination, and he thought how handsome she was, and what a fortunate chance had befallen him to bring him that way to rescue her--not from death, but from a position of distress and considerable danger. Even had she escaped the fire, she would have wandered further into the recesses of the waste, becoming more and more entangled in its intricacies, without food, and might have sunk exhausted on the charred ground far from human help. As Anthony looked into her face and saw the sparks travel in her eyes as the reflections changed, he thought of what he had said concerning the hidden fire in a moor, and it seemed to him that some such fire might burn in the girl's heart, of which the scintillations in her eyes were the only indication. But the young man was not given to much thought and consideration, and the notion that started to his mind disappeared from it as suddenly as it flashed out. "You cannot remain here, Urith," he said. "I must take you with me to Two Bridges, where I have stabled my horse." "I should prefer to find my way home alone." "You are a fool--that is not possible." She said nothing to his blunt and rude remark, but revolved in mind what was to be done. The situation was not a pleasant one. She was well aware that it would be in vain for her to attempt to discover the way for herself. On the other hand, she was reluctant to commit herself to the guidance of this youth, who was no relation, not even a friend, only a distant acquaintance. The way, moreover, by which he would take her home must treble the distance to Willsworthy. That way would be, except for a short portion of it, over high road, and to be seen travelling at night with a young man far from her home would be certain to provoke comment, as she could not expect to traverse the roads unobserved by passengers. Although the journey would be made by night, the packmen often travelled at night, and they were purveyors, not only of goods, but of news and scandal. She could not calculate on reaching home till past midnight; it would be sufficient to render her liable to invidious remark were she to make this journey with such a companion alone by day, but to do this at such a time of night was certain to involve her in a flood of ill-natured and ugly gossip. This thought decided her. "No," she said, "I will stay here till daylight." "That you shall not." "But if I will?" "You will find another will stronger than your own." She laughed. "That can hardly be." "Why do you refuse my guidance?" "I do not want to go with you; I prefer to remain here." "Why so?" She looked down. She could not answer this question. He ought not to have asked it. He should have had the tact to understand the difficulty. But he was blunt of feeling, and he did not. Without more ado, he caught her in his arms and lifted her off the rock. "If I carry you every step of the way," he said, roughly, "I will make you come with me." She twisted herself in his grip; she set her hands against his shoulders and endeavoured to thrust him from her. He threw aside his staff, with an oath, and set his teeth. Her hands were unbandaged. She had not been able to tie them up again, but she held the kerchiefs that had been wrapped round them in her fingers, and now they fell, and in her struggles her hands began to bleed, and the kerchiefs became entangled about his feet, and nigh on tripped him up. "You will try your strength against me--wild cat?" he said. She writhed, and caught at his hands, and endeavoured to unclinch them. She was angry and alarmed. In her alarm and anger she was strong. Moreover, she was a well-knit girl, of splendid constitution, and she battled lustily for her liberty. Anthony Cleverdon found that he had to use his whole strength to hold her. "You are a coward?" she cried, in her passion. "To wrestle with a girl! You are a mean coward! Do you mark me?" she repeated. "On my soul, you are strong!" said he, gasping. "I hate you!" she said, exhausted, and desisting from further effort, which was vain. "Well!" said he, as he set her down, "which is the strongest--your will or mine?" "Our wills have not been tested," she answered, "only our strength; your male muscles and nerves are more powerful than those of a woman. God made them so, alack! That which I knew before, I know now, that a man is stouter than a woman. Boast of that, if you will--but as for our wills!" she shrugged her shoulders, then stooped and recovered her kerchiefs, and began impatiently, to cover her confusion, to re-adjust them about her hands, and to twist them with her teeth. "And you will remain unbent, unbroken--to continue here in the wilderness?" "My will is not to go with you." "Then I use the advantage of my superior strength of nerve and muscle, and make you come along with me." She took a step forward, still biting at the knots, but suddenly desisted, turned her head over her shoulder, and said, sullenly, "Drive--I am your captive." The step she had taken was acknowledgment of defeat. "Come, Urith," said he, picking up his fallen staff, "it was in vain for you to resist me. No one opposes me without having in the end to yield. Tell me the truth--captive--captive if you will, tell me what brought you out on the moor? Was it to see the fires?" "No, I ran away." "Why did you run away?" She was silent and strode forward, still pulling and biting at the knots. "Come, answer me, why did you run away?" "I was in a passion, slave-driver! Why do you say to me, 'Come, Urith?' I do not come, I go--driven forward by you." "In a passion! What about?" "My mother and Uncle Solomon worried me." "What about?" "That I will not tell you, though you beat me with your long stick." "You know well enough, little owl, that I will not strike you." "I know nothing, save that you are a bully." "What! because I will not leave you on the moor to perish? Be reasonable, Urith. I am doing for you the best I can. I could not suffer you to remain uncared for on this waste. That would indeed be inhuman. Why, at sea it is infamy for a sailor to leave a wrecked vessel uncared for if he sights it." There was reason in what he said. That she admitted in her heart. In her heart, also, she was constrained to allow that the difficult situation into which she had fallen was due to her own conduct. Anthony Cleverdon was behaving towards her in the only way in which a generous lad could behave towards one found astray in the wilderness. But she was angry with him because he was too dull to see that there were difficulties in the way in which he proposed to restore her to her home, difficulties which she could not, in delicacy, express. Anthony did not press her to speak further. He led the way now, and she followed; whereas, at first, she had preceded, in her angry humour, and to maintain the notion that she was being driven against her will. Occasionally he turned to see that she had not run away. She was chary of speech, out of humour, partly with him--chiefly with herself. The way led from one granite tor to another, through all the intricacies of fissured bog, till at length the two travellers reached a sensible depression or slope of the land, and now the water, instead of lying stagnant in the clefts, began to run, and presently in a thousand rills filtered down a basin of turf towards a bottom, where they united in a river-head. The aspect of the country at once changed. It was as when a fever-patient passes from incoherent and inarticulate mutterings into connected syllables, and then to clearly distinct sentences. The wandering veins and seams in the bog had found direction and drift for their contents, acquired a cant down which the water ran, and valley, stream, and river were the definite result. "Now," said Anthony, "our course is clear; we have but to follow the water." "How far?" "About four miles." "And then?" "Then I will get my horse, and we shall have a direct course before us." "What, the high road to Tavistock?" "No. You shall not go that way." "By what way then will you take me?" "By the Lyke-Way." CHAPTER II. THE LYKE-WAY. The whole of Dartmoor Proper is included within the bounds of a single parish, the parish of Lydford. The moor belongs to the Duchy of Cornwall, and at Lydford stood the Ducal Castle. For two hundred years this castle has been in ruins, but stands a monument of possession, and just as the estate has been eaten into and pillaged through a long course of years, so has the castle of the Duke been broken into and robbed, to furnish cottages with stone, and cowstalls with timber. Parishes when first constituted followed the boundaries of manors, consequently, as the Duke of Cornwall claimed the entire Forest of Dartmoor, that whole forest was included within the parish limits. It is the largest parish as to acreage in England, and that with the scantiest population in proportion to its area. In former times the moor attracted miners, it does so still, but to a very limited extent; extensive operations were anciently carried on in every stream bed in quest of tin. The vast masses of upturned refuse testify to the vastness of the mining works that once made the moors teem with people. The workers in the mines lived in huts merely constructed of uncemented granite blocks, thatched with turf; the ruins of which may still be inspected. But even these ruins are comparatively recent, though dating from the Middle Ages, for there were earlier toilers on the same ground, and for the same ends, who also lived on the moor, and have also left there their traces; they dwelt in circular beehive huts, like those of the Esquimaux, warmed by a central fire, and covered in by a conical roof that had a smoke-vent in the midst. Tens of thousands of these remain, some scattered, most congregated within circular enclosures, and hundreds of thousands have been, and are being, annually destroyed. In connection with these are the megalithic circles and lines of upright stones, cairns that contain tombs made of rude stone blocks set on end, and covered with slabs equally rude. Who were the people that made of Dartmoor at a remote period a scene of so much activity? Probably a race that occupied Britain before the British, and which was subjugated by the inflowing, conquering Celts. Throughout the Middle Ages, down to the Civil Wars, the tin was much worked, and men living on the moor also died there; and dying there had to be buried somewhere, and that somewhere was properly in the parish churchyard. Now, as there is but a single road across the moor from Tavistock to Two Bridges, where it forks, one road going to Moreton, the other to Ashburton, and as the main road was of no great assistance to such as desired to reach Lydford for the sake of their burying their dead, a way was made, rudely paved, and indicated where not paved by standing stones, for the sole purpose of conveying corpses to their final resting place. This way, of which at present but faint traces exist, was called the Lyke-Way. Since the establishment of the prison at Prince's Town, first for French captives in the European War, then for Irish and English convicts, a church has been erected, and a graveyard enclosed and consecrated, for the convenience and accommodation of those who live and those who die on Dartmoor. The Lyke-Way has accordingly been abandoned for three-quarters of a century; nevertheless it is still pointed out by the moor-men, and is still occasionally taken advantage of by them. In former days, when for weeks the moor was covered with snow, and its road and tracks deep in drifts, corpses were deliberately exposed to the frost, or were salted into chests, to preserve them till the Lyke-Way was once more passable. Where the Lyke-Way touches a stream, there double stepping-stones were planted in the bed, for the use of the bearers, occasionally a rude bridge was constructed, by piling up a pier in midwater, and throwing slabs of granite across, to meet in the midst on this pier; but these were always wide enough to permit of the bearers to cross the bridge with the bier between them. It is not to be marvelled at that superstition attaches to this road, and that at night, especially when the moon is shining, and the clouds are flying before the wind, the moor-men aver that there pass trains of phantom mourners along this way, bearing a bier, gliding rather than running, shadows only, not substantial men of flesh. And as, in the old days, the funeral train sang hymns as they went along with their load, up hill and down dale, so do the moor-men protest at the present time that when the phantom train sweeps along the Lyke-Way, a solemn dirge is wafted on the wind of such overwhelming sadness, that he who hears it is forced to cover his face, and burst into tears. It is said that if one be daring enough to hide behind a rock on the side of the corpse-track when the phantom procession is on the move, so as to suffer it to pass near him, he will see his own face upturned to the moon on the bier that goes by. Then must he make the best of his time, for within a year he will be dead. Along the Lyke-Way, as the nearest way to her home, and also to his own, in defiance of the superstition that clung to it, did Anthony Cleverdon purpose to conduct Urith. When she heard him suggest this way she shivered, for she was, though a strong-minded girl, imbued with the belief of the age. But the power to resist was taken from her. Moreover, along that way there was less chance than on any other of encountering travellers, and Urith shrank from being seen. On reaching the point where she and her companion touched the Lyke-Way, a point recognisable only by Anthony, who was familiar with it--for here it was but a track over smooth turf, then Cleverdon bade his companion seat herself on a stone and await him. He would, he said, go to the tavern and fetch his horse. Her opposition to his determination had ceased, not because her will was conquered, but because she was without an alternative course to cling to, without a purpose to oppose to his. She was weary and hungry. She had rambled for many hours before Cleverdon had discovered her, and had eaten nothing. Fatigued and faint, she was glad to rest on the stone, and to be left alone, that she might unobserved give way to the tears of annoyance and anger that welled up in her heart. In an access of inconsiderate wrath--wrath is ever inconsiderate--she had run away from home--run from a sick mother--and she was now reaping the vexations that followed on what she had done. Her annoyance was aggravated, not tempered, by the thought that no one was to blame for the unpleasant predicament in which she was placed but her own self. As Urith sat, awaiting the return of Anthony, gazing around her, it appeared to her that the scene could hardly be more awful at the consummation of all things. The whole of the world, as far as she could see, was on fire; it looked as if a black crust were formed over an inner glowing core, like the coal-dust clotted in a blacksmith's forge above the burning interior. There were wandering sparks ranging over it, and here and there a quiver of lurid flame. All that was needed to excite to universal conflagration was a thrust with an iron rod, a blast of concentrated wind, and then the crust would break up, and through its rents would flare out rays of fire too dazzling to look upon, that would swallow up all darkness and dissolve mountain and granite into liquid incandescent lava, and dry up every river with a breath. There was water near the rock where Urith sat, and she again unwound her hands and dipped the bandages in the cool stream. She was thus engaged, when softly over the velvet turf came Anthony, leading his horse. "Let me look," said he, bluntly; "let me tie up your rags. How did you injure your knuckles?" She obediently held out her hands. "I did it myself." "How? Against the rocks?" "No--with my teeth." "What! You bit your hands?" "Yes. I bit my hands. I was in a rage." "We men," said Anthony, "when we are angry, hurt each other, but you women, I suppose, hurt your own selves?" "Yes. We have not the strength or the means to hurt others. Not that we lack the will--so we hurt ourselves. I would rather have bitten some one else, but I could not, so I tore my own hands--with my teeth." "You are strange beings, you women," said Anthony. Then he threw the bridle on the ground, and set his foot on it, so as to disengage his own hands. He took hold of Urith's wrist, and the kerchiefs, one after the other, and arranged the bandages, and fastened them firmly. Whilst thus engaged, he suddenly looked up, and caught her sombre eyes fixed intently on him. "Would you hurt me--bite and mangle me?" he asked, with a laugh. "Yes--if you gave me occasion." "And if I gave you opportunity?" "Assuredly, if I had the occasion and the opportunity." "Which latter I would not be such a fool as to allow you." "Opportunities come--are not made and given." "You are a strange girl," he said; holding her hands by the bandaged knots at the wrists, and looking into her gloomy eyes; "I should be sorry to rouse the wild beast in you--there is one curled up in your heart--that I can see. Your eyes are the entrance to its lair." "Yes," answered Urith, without shrinking, "it is true there is a wild beast in me." "And you obey the wild beast. It stretched itself and sniffed the moor air--than away you ran out into the wilderness." He continued to study her face; that exercised a strange fascination upon him. "Yes; I was in one of my fits. I was angry, and when I am angry I have no reason--no thought--no feelings, nothing save anger. Just as the moor now is--all fire; and the fire consumes everything. I could not hurt my mother--I did not want to hurt my Uncle Solomon. That other---- He was beyond my reach, and so I bit myself." Anthony made an attempt to shake himself free from the sensation that stole over his senses, a sensation of giddiness. The effort was ineffectual, it lacked resoluteness, and again the spell settled over him; he was falling into a dream, with his hands on her wrists, and her pulses throbbing against his fingers, a dream woven about him, enlacing, entangling mind and heart and consciousness; a dream in which he was losing all power of seeing anything save her eyes, of hearing anything save her breathing, of feeling anything save the dull throb of her pulse--a dream in which he was being caught and bound, and thrown powerless at her feet--a dream of mingled rapture and pain and undefined terror. She had called herself his captive a little while ago, and now she, without a word or a movement, was subjecting him absolutely. How long he stood thus fascinated he could not conjecture, he was startled out of it by his horse jerking his bridle from under his foot, and then at once, as one starting out of a trance, he passed into a world of other sensations, he heard the rush of water and the wail of wind, he saw the fires about him, and Urith's eyes no longer filled the entire horizon. "Come," said he, roughly, as he caught the bridle, "get on the horse; we must waste no more time talking folly." He put his hands under her foot, and with a leap she was in the saddle. "You can ride of course," said he, churlishly; he detested the spell that had been thrown over him; the conviction that he had been very nearly falling wholly into her power. "Of course I can ride--I am a moor-maid." With his hand at the bit he urged the horse on, and strode forward, looking down at the turf, without speaking. The sudden drunkenness of brain that had come over him left its vapours that were not withdrawn wholly and at once. But Anthony was not a man to brood over any sensation or experience, and when Urith asked, "Did you find your father's colts?" he recovered his good humour and gaiety, and answered in his wonted tone, "No, the fire must have driven them further north, maybe they are lost in Cranmeer." Then, with a laugh, he added, "I have been like Saul seeking my father's beasts, and like Saul, have found something better." He looked up at her with a flashing eye. She turned her head away. "You came to the moors alone?" she asked. He did not reply, but pointed to the west. "The wind is shifting, I hold. The direction of the smoke and flames is changed." She did not observe that he evaded giving her a reply to her question. The way now dipped into a broad valley, where the fire had already burnt, and had exhausted itself. It lay before them a dark trough, and yet scintillating in points where ashes glowed after the flames had exhausted themselves. An auroral light pervaded the sky overhead, especially bright above the hills to the east, and against it the granite piles of rock on the mountain tops, stood forth as ruined castles crumbling away in the conflagration, and above one huge block, like an altar, smoke rose in columns intermingled with flame, as though on it a gigantic sacrificial oblation were being made. "I suppose you were angry with me when I snatched you off Devil Tor, and you strove to free yourself?" said Anthony. "Not angry, but reluctant," she replied; "for I knew that you wished me well, and that your violence was kindly meant." He drew the reins sharply and arrested the horse, then turned, put his arm over the neck, and looked up at Urith. "Verily," said he, "I have the fancy that I should like to put you into one of your fits--as you term them." "Indeed," she answered; "it is a cruel fancy, for my fits end in some hurt. When the devil entered into the child it cast him into the fire or into the water, and tore him before it came out. You see what one fit has cost me"--she extended her bandaged hands. "But you do not feel how they sting and burn. It may have been rare sport for such as looked on to see this child half scorched by the fire, half smothered by the water, and prostrate, mangled by the devil--but I question if any one would have had the heart to invoke the devil to possess the child; yet that is what you would do." "Nay," said Anthony, a little confounded by her vehemence and the charge against him; "nay, I would not have you again hurt." "Then would you stand to be torn yourself?" "What--would you tear and bite me?" "I cannot say. When I have one of my fits on me I do not know what I am about." "Are you repentant for your action afterwards?" "Assuredly I am repentant when I have gnawed my hands, for they are full of pain." He turned away. The girl disturbed him. The young man was not accustomed to meet with damsels who were not honey and cream, smiles and allurements--the frank avowal of savagery in Urith, mingled with the consciousness that she exerted over him a certain fascination against which he had no counter-spell, caused him uneasiness. He turned abruptly round and went forward with lowered head, and the vapours recently lifted from his brain began to settle over them again. Presently he came to the side of a foaming tumbling river. He halted, and, without looking into Urith's face, said---- "Now we have come to the Walla, and my cob has been restive at crossing water to-day, shall I help you to dismount? You can go over by the stepping-stones. I must ride him across." He put forth his hand, but she slipped to her feet unassisted, and handed to him the crop or long-lashed whip that had hung at the saddle-bow, but which she had taken in hand. "Yes," he said, "I shall require the crop." Then he leaped into the saddle and spurred the horse down into the water. Urith tripped along the stones till she reached a broad block in the midst of the river. She found no difficulty in crossing, as the light overhead mirrored itself in the water, making of the Walla a very Phlegethon. But for the same reason Anthony's cob objected to enter. He reared and plunged, and when whipped and spurred, wheeled about. Urith watched the futile efforts of her companion. Presently she called to Anthony, "The cob will go into the water if you pat him. You further frighten him by your violence when he is already frightened. The river seems to roll down fire and blood." "What!" laughed Anthony; "will you teach me how to manage a horse?" "I have had to do with horses every whit as much as yourself," she replied. "Remember, I am the Wild Maid of the Moors." He made no reply, but again essayed to force the cob to enter the water. Suddenly Urith, still stationed in midstream, uttered an exclamation of surprise, not unmingled with alarm. She saw black figures emerge on the hill shoulder, visible against the lurid sky, and then descend along the Lyke-Way, coming along the same track, in the same direction. At once there rushed upon her the stories she had heard of ghostly trains of mourners, sweeping at night along this road, and of the ill-luck that attended such as cast eyes on them. "Look!--look!" she exclaimed, now in real terror. "Who are they?--what are they? They are following us, Anthony Cleverdon! Do not let us see them more. Do not let them overtake us." CHAPTER III. CAUGHT UP ON THE WAY. Anthony looked back. Strange was the appearance of the moor side, half-lighted by the skies reddened with the reflection of fires beyond the hills, but with its surface travelled ever by sparks. An imaginative mind might have thought that mountain gnomes were alert, and were rambling torch in hand over the moor. Now one red spark wandered along in solitude, then out flashed a second, and ran to meet it; as if they were the lights of comrades hailing each other. Suddenly a score sparkled and danced in a ring, and were as suddenly extinguished. Or it might be supposed that the spirits of the primeval tin-workers had returned to earth once more, and were revisiting their ancient circles and avenues of stone, to perform in them the rites of a forgotten religion. To the south-east rose Mistor, one of the loftiest summits on the moor, on whose rocky crest, scooped out by wind and water, is a huge circular bowl, called by the natives the Devil's Fryingpan, in which he prepares the storms that lash and explode on the moor. And now it really seemed as though the Spirit of the Tempest were at work, brewing in his bowl. In the strange after-glow that partially lighted the hill-side could be seen dark figures descending the Lyke-Way, and approaching the ford where Anthony was vainly endeavouring to force his cob to cross. Anthony uttered an oath, and then redoubled his attempts to drive the brute into the water. But it came to the edge, snuffed, and recoiled. "What is it?" asked Urith, still watching the pursuing shadows. Urith ran back over the stones. "Only some folks coming after us. By heaven! I wish I could get this cursed beast over." "If you take the bridle on one side, I on the other, and coax the horse, we can cross by the double stones, and he can go in the middle." "As the bearers with the dead," said Anthony. Urith patted the frightened beast, talked to him, praised him, and taking the bridle, quietly led him down to the stream. Ever and anon, she turned to look back, and saw the shadowy figures rapidly nearing. Who could they be? Would they recognise her? Were they such as would be likely to recognise her? What, if they knew her, would they think of her being at such a time, and in such a place, alone with Anthony Cleverdon? Would it be advisable to step aside, and let these travellers pass without seeing her? But she was too ashamed to make such a proposal to her companion. So, as she was caressing the horse, and urging him into the water, these pursuers, whoever they were, drew nearer. She could distinguish that they were mounted. Anthony stood on the stepping-stones on one side, Urith on those upon the other. The frightened horse cautiously put his hoofs in, snuffed at the water, began to drink, recovered confidence, and allowed himself to be led along through the stream. They were past the middle of the river when the pursuers came to the side of the stream, and a loud male voice exclaimed---- "There is the runaway, and by God--not alone!" Urith shuddered, her hand twitched at the bridle, and made the horse start. She knew the voice well. It was not a pleasant one, harsh, and with mockery and insult in its tones. As her hand contracted, so did her heart, and sent a rush of blood tingling to her temples. "That is Fox Crymes!" she said to her companion, "the last, the very last man I would have had see me here." "Why the last?" asked Anthony, stepping on the bank, and leading the horse up on the land. "Why the last that you would have see you, Urith?" "Because it was on his account I ran away." "What," laughed Anthony, "Then it is Fox whom you would have bitten, had he allowed you to fasten your teeth on him?" Urith's colour deepened; if Anthony had had pity, he would not have said this. If he had looked in her face, he would have seen how dark it was with shame and vexation. "You wring all out. You are cruel--yes, Fox Crymes," she muttered. "And I am not surprised. I would like to thrash him," said Anthony. "For one thing, for coming up with us now." The pursuing party consisted of but three, Fox--his real Christian name was Anthony--and two others, Bessie, the sister of Anthony Cleverdon, and Julian, Fox Crymes' half-sister. Both Crymes and Cleverdon had the same Christian name. Old Cleverdon, the father, had been sponsor to Crymes, and in compliment to him had received at the font his godfather's name. Fox was the only son of Fernando Crymes. Since childhood he had borne the nickname, partly because of his red hair, partly because of his pointed features, also, in a measure, because it was thought that somewhat of the craft and subtlety of Reynard was intwined in his nature. He did not object to the designation; it had attached itself to him at an early age, when it conveyed no meaning to his mind, and in mature years he accepted it without demur, and was perhaps a little proud that he should be credited with superior shrewdness. After the death of Fox's mother, old Fernando Crymes had married an heiress--a Glanville--and by her had a single daughter, Julian, at whose birth this second wife had died. Fernando Crymes, though belonging to a very ancient and estated family, had frittered away such remains of the property as had come to him, and would have been reduced to threadbare circumstances had not his second marriage rehabilitated him. He was trustee for his daughter, and lived on her estate. His son, Anthony, was but too well aware that the portion of goods that would fall to himself must be small, whereas his half-sister would be wealthy. The consciousness of this disparity in their prospects affected their relations to each other. Julian was disposed to imperiousness, and Fox let no opportunity pass of saying or doing something to annoy her. "You have played us a scurvy trick, Anthony," said Fox, as he splashed through the river, and came up with the two on the further bank; then pushing close to Urith, whom Anthony had remounted on his saddle, he peered rudely into her face. He uttered an exclamation of rage as he recognised her, and turned away towards Cleverdon, and said, in a rasping tone, "We awaited you at the tavern an endless age, ever expecting you to come and let us know whether you had found the colts or not. I assured your sister and mine that you were after game of some sort, and the colt-seeking was a mask, but they would not believe me. Finally, I went to the stable, and found that you had slipped away without a word." "Was I bound to let you know I was going home?" asked Anthony Cleverdon, without an effort to disguise his ill-humour. "Bound, certainly, by all the ties of breeding and good-fellowship," answered Fox. "But, in good faith, when a woman is concerned, all other considerations are thrown to the winds." Then he fell back, and addressing his sister Julian and Bessie Cleverdon loud enough to be overheard by those in front, he said, "I never doubted but that Anthony came after something other than colts, and to make a mock of us. I told you as much when we were at the Saracen's Head, and you scouted my words. You said the Fox was ever suspicious, but the Fox has his eye and his nose, and ear keen, and I saw, and smelt, and heard what was hidden to duller senses." Cleverdon turned round. He was angry, but he said nothing. Fox Crymes went on, tauntingly. "There is game of all sorts on the Moor; but, good Lord! it is sometimes hard to say which is the game and which the sportsman, and which has been in pursuit of the other." "Silence that malicious tongue of yours, or _I_ will silence it for you," said Anthony, angrily. "O! I am always to be threatened whenever I draw my bow, but you--are to be scatheless, whatever your conduct be." "You fight unfairly, with poisoned weapons." "And you retaliate, like a wild man, with a bludgeon," answered Crymes. "Are we to hold our hands when treated by you as it has pleased you? You invited us to attend you to the Moor and spend with you a merry day, and then you desert us. Are we not free to question why we are thus treated?" Then Bessie rode forwards beside Urith, and asked, "Tell me, how came you here?" "She lost her way in the smoke, and no marvel," said Anthony Cleverdon. "I discovered her strayed among the bogs, and engirded with flames; and had I not done so, she would have stayed all night." "But what brought her on to the moors?" "The same occasion that brought you, Bess--she came to see the fires. She became distraught with the smoke, wandered, and lost all knowledge of her direction." "It is well, brother, that you found her," said Elizabeth; and then, in a lower tone, "Brother, brother, speak to Julian. You have been short of courtesy to-day, and she resents it." Anthony shrugged his shoulders. "I will ride alongside of Urith," said Elizabeth Cleverdon. "You must not allow it to be observed that you lack manners, brother Anthony. You persuaded Julian and me to come with you and see the moor on fire, and you have left us to ourselves, and now disregard her markedly." Whilst the brother and sister were in conversation near the horse on which Urith was mounted, Julian Crymes passed them with averted head, and took the lead along the Lyke-Way. Anthony, admonished by Bessie, strode forward after her, but with a frown and curl of the lips. Julian Crymes was a handsome dark-haired girl, with a rich, warm complexion, and full lips and rounded chin. Her eyes were large, with that droop in the lids that gives an impression of sensuous languor. She heard Anthony tread at her side, but did not deign to cast on him a look, neither did she throw a word at him. Indeed, she was angry and offended, her bosom was heaving, her blood was simmering, and her lips she bit to prevent their quiver. Anthony was out of humour at having been caught up by the party, and was conscious that he had not behaved with civility, but was too proud in himself, too indifferent to the feelings of others, to acknowledge himself to be in the wrong, and to make amends for his lack of courtesy to others. Accordingly they pursued their way, side by side, she riding with averted head, he pacing with knitted brows and downcast eyes, in silence, and for some considerable distance. The situation was irksome. Each, instead of speaking, was endeavouring to catch what was said in the rear, each with suspicion that Fox was saying something behind their backs which would cause the left ear to tingle. Julian was the first to find the situation intolerable, and to break from it. She turned her head over her shoulders and said, "Bessie could hardly be persuaded to leave the Saracen's Head, even when she heard that you had taken your horse and had ridden away. She has a marvellous faith in you, not shaken by a thousand evidences that you are wanting in those qualities on which faith can be reared. After this day's experience, even if I at any time shared in her estimation of your qualities of cavalier, I shall cease to do so for the future. The first obligation of a cavalier is to be mannerly towards ladies." "You had Fox with you. I found Urith lost in the morasses, and was forced to help a damsel who was in jeopardy--that, I take it, is the first duty of a cavalier. You were in no straits and she was. You had help, she none." "You might have called us to aid you in extracting her from the morass, or in assisting her to reach her home afterwards." Anthony made no reply to this. No reply was possible. "Come!" said Julian, the pent-up anger in her heart flashing forth. "Have you no apology to offer for your misconduct?" "What would you have me say?" "Nay! It is not for me to put the words into your mouth." "I have told you my reason." "A poor and pitiful reason, ungarnished with excuse to hide its sorry nature. If the reason be bad, so much the more should it be trimmed with excuses." "If I have offended you, I am sorry. I cannot help it." Julian tossed her head. She was highly incensed. He made no attempt to mollify her. Fox came alongside. "I hope, Julian," he said, "that you have soundly rated Anthony for his ill-conduct." She did not answer. "We might have had a merry canter home over the turf," continued Fox, "had not Anthony spoiled our fun by setting all our tempers on the edge. But it may be that it better comports with the character of the Lyke-Way that we should travel over it rather as mourners than as merrymakers, and that, forsooth, we are, bearing dead fellowship between us." "There is no occasion for that," said Anthony. "In truth there is, though you who have slain it may not be aware." "I have no desire to spoil your mirth," said Cleverdon. "Ride on yourself, Fox, with your sister, and leave me behind." "Julian and I are the worst of company together. We snarl and snap at each other when a third, not of the family, is not by to control us. We will certainly not leave you. I can see that Julian is already in no agreeable mood, and I dare not venture myself in her company unprotected." "I--!" said Julian Crymes, tossing her head, "I--you mistake, Tony, I am merry." Fox Crymes laughed mockingly, and spurred on his horse, leaving his sister with Anthony. Bessie brought up the rear with Urith. The train was, as he said, more in character with the way than if it had been composed of merrymakers. Urith and Bessie spoke together in a low tone; now that Fox had ridden forward, silence again fell on Anthony and Julian. He could not have seen the face of Julian had he essayed to do so, for he walked on the off-side, and she kept her head averted, and he his eyes depressed. She was glad that her face was hidden from observation, so agitated was it with disappointment, wounded pride, and jealousy. Then Fox, ahead, began to sing to himself in strident tones a snatch of an old ballad, and every word in it fell on Julian's heart as a drop of burning phosphorous that no water will extinguish, but that burns down where it has fallen, burying itself, till it has exhausted its fire. If I of marriage spake one word, I wot it was not true. Man loveth none so easy won, So over fond as you. All in your garden grows a herb, I think they call it rue; There willows weep o'er waters deep-- That is the place for you. The tears of mortification rushed into Julian's eyes. Her bosom heaved, and sharply she wheeled her horse about, rode back to those that followed, and said to Bessie, in a voice quivering with emotion, "Go on to the two Anthonys. I want a word with Urith." Without demur Elizabeth left her place and passed Julian, who drew up across the road to force Urith to rein in. Urith looked at her with some surprise. She did not know Julian except by sight; she had never spoken to her in her life. And now this latter stayed her course as though she were a highwayman demanding her purse. Julian at first was unable to speak, choked by her passion. She panted for breath and laboured for words, and both failed her. With nervous hands she plucked at her gloves, and dragged rather than drew them off. "Will you allow me to go forward?" asked Urith coldly. Then all at once Julian broke forth into a stream of words, disconnected, fiery with the fury that raged within. "You would snatch him away! You! And you do not know, or you do not care, that he and I are destined for each other--have been ever since our cradles. Who are you to come between us? What are you, Urith Malvine, but a half-savage moor-girl? I have heard of you. Folks have tongues, and tell tales. Why did you come forth on the moor, but because you were aware that he was here? You came to play the forlorn damsel--to attract the pity and ensure the attention of this knight-errant. Are you crafty? I am not. I am straightforward, and do not deign to wear a false face, and put the domino on my heart. I have heard of you; but I never supposed you were crafty." She half-started up her stirrups: "Would we might fight out our quarrel here, on this spot." She had reared her arm with her whip, the horse started, and she sank back on her seat; she had exhausted her words for the moment. Her blood tumbled, roared, flowed in her arteries like the river on the moor behind them. "You are mistaken," said Urith with composure. "You flare forth unprovoked; or is it that you are angry with me because I have refused to have anything to say to your brother?" "To Fox!" Julian laughed contemptuously. "I respect you for that. I never supposed that you or any sane girl would care for him. But the wherefore of his rejection I did not know till this day. I little suspected that Fox was cast aside because you were questing him who is mine--is mine, do you hear? Do you understand that he is not, and never shall be, yours? He is mine, and neither you nor any other shall pluck him from me. I would we might fight this out together with these weapons!" She reverted to the thought that had occupied her when the horse started and interrupted the thread of her ideas. "You, I see, have Anthony's crop that I gave him on his birthday; and I have but this lady's switch. I do not consider the difference. Just as we are--as we sit on our horses, here, on the turf and heather, with our whips--would to God we might fight it out!" Again she paused for breath, and panted, and put both her hands to her bounding heart--the hand that held the whip and that in which was the bridle and her gloves. Then she began to cut with her whip, and the horse she rode to curvet. "Even with this little lash I would fight you, and slash you up and down across your treacherous face; and if you struck me I should not feel the blows--but there, it would not be seemly. Alack the day in which we are fallen--when we are covered with a net of such delicacy that we may not lift hand or foot to right ourselves!" She drew a long breath and laid both her hands on the whip and bridle over the mane of the horse, and, leaning forward, said-- "But who--what could interfere if we went a race down the hillside among the bogs and rocks, so that one or other would be flung at a stumble of our steeds, and dash out the brains from our heads on the boulders? Would that please you? Would that approve itself to you? I should draw rein and laugh were that to chance to you." Then in an explosion of jealousy and rage, she dashed her gloves in the face of Urith. "I dare you! Yes, I dare you to wrest him from me!" Urith sat on the horse unmoved. She was surprised, she was not angry. This was the foaming over of boiling passion, but not a frenzied paroxysm such as came upon herself. The charges brought against her were monstrous, untrue--so monstrous and so untrue that they bore no sting that could pain her. She replied in her rich deep tones, and with composure. "You mistake. I will not take up your challenge. What is Anthony to me? What am I to him? You are beautiful, clever, and rich--and I," she laughed, "I am but an ungroomed, undisciplined moor colt, who never gave a thought to her looks, whether fair or foul. I am without wit, without scholarship, living with my mother on our poor manor, so poor in means as to be hardly accounted gentle, yet, by birth, too gentle to be esteemed boors. No, I will not contest with you. We are furnished unequally for a contest, you have the long whip and I but the switch." At that moment the wind, blowing strongly, carried a tuft of ignited gorse overhead, and as it bore the tuft, fanned into fragrance, and the glare momentarily kindled the faces of the two girls planted in opposition. Each saw the other clearer than in daylight, for the light fell on their faces and the background was sable, unillumined. As Urith looked, she saw how handsome was her opponent, with fluttering locks, her colour heightened by wrath, her full lips trembling, her eyes flashing. She thought that if she were to match herself against such an one she would come away with ignominious defeat; and Julian, by the same light, and at the same moment, formed her opinion of the rival facing her, recognised her strength, her charm, and felt that she was a girl who would jeopardise her hold over Anthony, and imperil her happiness. Both were strong women, one threatening, the other reluctant to fight. Would they come into real conflict? Would the reluctance of the one be overborne? Would the threat of the first lead to action? And, if they fought, which would win? "No," said Urith, "I do not covet the prize. So much for one thing. For the other, as I said, the odds are unequal." "Then," said Julian, "return me my gloves." "I suppose they have fallen. Would you have me dismount to search the grass for them? Get off your horse yourself, or call Fox to your aid. I will not stoop to look for them for you." "You have my gloves. They are not on the ground. Return them to me, or I--" Then Urith impatiently whipped her horse and thrust Julian aside. "This is arrant folly," she said; "I want to be at home. I will be stayed by you no longer." CHAPTER IV. THE SUSPENSE. The ill-assorted, discordant party pushed on as fast as possible along a road that, as it neared inhabited country, became rough and uncertain, and under a sky of diminished light, for the heather on this portion of the moor had been burnt early in the day, and hardly any of the embers remained aglow. No combination was possible that would content all, for every one except the good-humoured Bessie had some private grudge against another, and Bessie herself was depressed by the general dissatisfaction. Anthony Cleverdon was vexed that he had not been left to convey Urith to her home undisturbed, though he admitted to himself that for her sake the present accidental arrangement was the best. Julian Crymes, still incandescent in her anger and jealousy, was unwilling to speak to Anthony, and unwilling to allow him to leave her side to address a word to, and show attention to, Urith. When she did speak to him, it was in a taunting tone, and his answers were curt, almost to rudeness. The temper of Fox Crymes, never smooth, was now fretted to considerable asperity; for he was smarting under the sense of rejection. He had asked for the hand of Urith, and had been refused, and he saw, or suspected that he saw, a reason for his rejection--an attachment for Anthony Cleverdon. Fox was vain and conceited, and envious of his namesake, who had superior physical powers, a finer person, and a better fortune than himself. He was not sorry that his half-sister was disappointed, for whatever might distress her, gave pleasure to him. However, the occasion of her distress on this occasion was something that wounded him as well as her. Fox loved Urith, as far as he was capable of loving, but the jealousy he now felt was no measure of his love; like the famous Serpent's Egg, it was bred of a score of parents. It was the produce of mortified vanity, of envy of Anthony Cleverdon's superior gifts of nature and fortune, of disappointed avarice, quite as much as of rejected love. Fox Crymes' suit for Urith was not instigated wholly by his admiration for her charms; it sprang quite as much out of his desire to obtain the small patrimony which would fall to her on her mother's decease. Willsworthy was an ancient manor, never of great importance, and without fertility, yet not despicable in the eyes of a poor gentleman. It lay on the extreme limits of cultivated land, or rather it may be said to have occupied the debateable ground between the waste and culture. It occupied a hill that ran as a spur out of the moorland, between torrents, and seemed to be what, no doubt, it was, a portion of wilderness snatched from savagery, and hedged in. It possessed no good soil, it lay too high for wheat to ripen on it, it was destitute of these pasture meadows by the waterside, where the grass grows knee-deep, and is gold-sprinkled in spring with buttercups; it was dominated by rugged tors, and stood near the entrance of the gorge of the Tavy, where it roared and leaped, and shot as it came down into the lowlands, and with it came down the cold blasts that also roared and whirled, and beat about the lone Manor of Willsworthy. Mrs. Malvine talked disparagingly of her farm, her brother Solomon Gibbs averred it was an estate on which to starve, and not to live. Urith accepted their verdict as final, she knew the need for money that ever prevailed in her house; and yet Fox Crymes cast greedy eyes upon the estate. He saw that it possessed capabilities that were disregarded by the widow and her brother. The manor owned considerable rights. It had the freedom of the moor, to send out upon it an unlimited number of sheep and cattle and colts; at a time when English wool was fetching a high price, and was exported to the Mediterranean, to Cadiz, to Leghorn, to Palermo, to Marseilles; this was important--it afforded exceptional opportunities of making money. There needed but the initial outlay on the stock, their keep was free. Not only so, but sheep in lowlands were, in wet seasons, afflicted with disease which slew them in great numbers, which sometimes exterminated entire flocks. But sheep on the moor were never known thus to suffer; they enjoyed perfect immunity from the many maladies which attend keeping them on cultivated land. The climate in the West of England is so mild that it was possible to let the sheep run on the moor through the major portion of the year, only for a few months in the depth of the winter, possibly only when snow lay on the moor, was it needful to provide them with food; and the meadows of Willsworthy, though they did not produce rank grass, yet produced hay that was extraordinary sweet and nutritious, and in sufficient abundance to support a large number of sheep and cattle for the short time during which they were debarred from foraging for themselves. Anthony Crymes saw plainly enough, that if he had the management of the estate of Willsworthy he would make it a mine of gold; and that the reason why it did not now flourish was the lack of capital in the acres, and mismanagement. Anthony Crymes knew that some money would come to him from his father, not indeed much, but just sufficient for his purpose, should he acquire this property--and he was very ambitious of obtaining it. At present, Mrs. Malvine entrusted the conduct of the farm to her brother Solomon who belied his name; he was a man without any knowledge of farming, and with no interest save in his violin, and who took delight only in good company. The farm was allowed to take its course, which was naturally a retrograde one--a relapse from former culture into pristine wilderness. At the period of this tale, some two hundred years ago, every squire farmed, if not his entire estate, at all events a portion of it. Men of ancient pedigree, proud of their ancestral properties and mansions, of their arms and their alliances, did not disdain to ride to market and cheapen cattle. The Civil War ruined most of the squires who had taken up arms for the King, litigation ruined others; then came in the great merchants and bought the old owners out, and established themselves in their room. They understood nothing of farming, and esteemed it despicable and unworthy of their new-fangled gentility to pursue it. With the gall of envy bitter in his heart did Fox see the other Anthony walk alongside of Urith, and assume towards her an intimacy to which he himself had never attained. The girl had ever avoided him, had treated him with coldness tinged with ill-disguised disdain. She had not made that effort to veil her dislike which will gloss over a repulse. Fox saw another man better favoured than himself, reach at a bound a position he had laboriously tried to mount, and had failed. Hall, or as the country-folk called it "Yall," was the house of the Cleverdons. It had belonged to the Glanville estates--had been bought by old Judge Glanville, in the reign of Elizabeth, who had founded the family. The Glanvilles had flourished for awhile, and had spread over the country-side, taking up estate after estate, and had collapsed as suddenly as they had risen. The Cleverdons had been farmers, renting Hall, and when that estate was sold old Cleverdon by some means got together sufficient money to purchase it, and since the purchase had laid out considerable sums to transform what had been a modest farmhouse into a pretentious squire's mansion. Old Anthony was in that transitional state in which, passing from one rank of life to another, he was comfortable in neither. He was sensitive and ambitious--sensitive to slights, and ambitious to push himself and his son into a better social position than that which had been occupied by his ancestors; and, indeed, by himself in early life. The Crymes family had been connected with the Glanvilles by marriage, and now old Anthony schemed on the acquisition of another portion of the Glanville property, through the marriage of his son and heir with Julian Crymes. The old man's success had fostered his ambition. He indulged in a dream of the Cleverdons, by skilful management, assuming eventually the position once maintained by the Glanvilles. The Civil Wars had produced vast displacement in the social strata. The old gentry were failing, and those who had taken part with neither side, but had waited on their own interests in selfish or indifferent neutrality, were rewarded by emerging, where others were falling into ruin, into ripe prosperity. After that Anthony Cleverdon, the elder, had acquired the freehold of Hall, he had become a widower, and showed no disposition to take to himself another wife. His marriage had not been a happy experience, and none had felt the disagreement in it more than Elizabeth, his eldest daughter, who, after her mother's death, had been called to manage the household. If the opinion of Magdalen Cleverdon were to be taken--the unmarried sister of Anthony, senior--who lived in a small house in Tavistock, the blame of the unhappiness of her brother's married life lay with his wife; but then the judgment of Magdalen was warped and partial. When Anthony brought home his young wife, she--Magdalen--had endeavoured to remain at the head of the house, to interfere where she could not direct, Mrs. Cleverdon had taken a very decided line, and refused all intermeddlement, and Magdalen, after a sharp struggle for supremacy, had left the house routed. Disappointment had embittered her estimate of her sister-in-law. But there were other and more substantial grounds for her charging her sister-in-law with having rendered the marriage an unhappy one. Mrs. Anthony had been a portionless girl, the daughter of a poor parson; Margaret Penwarne might have been regarded as a suitable match socially, but pecuniarily, she was most unsuitable, especially to an ambitious and money-grasping man. What her brother could see to admire in Margaret Penwarne, Miss Cleverdon protested she never could see--she entirely forgot that Margaret had been endowed with surpassing beauty. Others beside Magdalen Cleverdon had marvelled at the choice of Anthony, knowing the character of the man. What could induce a man, whose main features were ambition and greed, to select as his partner one who had not a penny, nor was connected with any of the gentle families of the neighbourhood? Magdalen had not reckoned on the girl's beauty; the others who wondered had not counted on Anthony's ambition, which would exert itself in other directions than they considered. His ambition was deeply tinctured with, if it did not originate in, personal vanity. Vanity is but ambition in a fool's cap, and that of Cleverdon was well hung with bells. Because he considered himself the richest man in the neighbourhood of his class, he esteemed himself also irresistible as a wooer. He had been treated with considerable severity by his father in his early years, for the old man had been a strait Puritan, though not such an one as to risk any money for his cause, or compromise his safety for it in any way. He allowed his son no freedom, consulted his wishes in no particular, and allowed him no pocket-money. When the old man died, Anthony was left with a good deal of hoarded money, and freedom to act as he listed. His fancy was taken by Margaret Penwarne, and his vanity and ambition stimulated by the knowledge that she was already the object of the attentions of Richard Malvine, the son of a neighbouring parson, without profession and without inheritance. Richard Malvine was a handsome man, and Margaret Penwarne certainly was attached to him, but the marriage could not be thought of till Richard had a competence on which to support himself and a wife. Anthony Cleverdon entered the list against the handsomest young man in the district, but he had money and a good farm to set against good looks. He and Richard had been together at the Grammar School, and had been rivals there, Richard ever taking the lead, and on one occasion had thrashed Anthony severely. It was with eagerness that Cleverdon seized the opportunity of gratifying his malice by snatching from Malvine the girl of his heart, and it flattered his vanity to have it said of him that he had won the most beautiful girl of the district over the head of the handsomest man. Margaret struggled for some time between her affection and her ambition; the urgency of her father and mother prevailed, she cast off Malvine and accepted Cleverdon. Anthony Cleverdon's pride was satisfied. He had gained a triumph, and was wrapped up in the sense of victory for a while, then the gloss of novelty wore off, and he began to regret his precipitancy in taking to him a wife who brought nothing into the family save good looks. The thriftiness of the father now came out in the son. He did not grudge and withhold money where he could make display, but he cut down expenses where no show was made, to the lowest stage of meanness. Margaret's father died. She thought to take her mother to live with her at Hall, but to this her husband would not consent, nor could she wring a silver coin from him wherewith to assist her mother, reduced to great poverty. This occasioned the first outbreak of domestic hostilities. Margaret was a woman of temper, and would not submit tamely to the domination of her husband. His sister Magdalen took sides against her, and fanned the embers of strife when they gave token of expiring. If Margaret had been of a meek and yielding temperament, the marriage might not have been so full of broils; her husband would have crushed her, and then ignored her. But her spirit rose against him, and stirred the discord that was only temporarily allayed. She could not shut her eyes to his infirmities, she would not condescend to flatter him. In her heart she contrasted him with the man she had loved and had betrayed; her heart never warmed to her husband; on the contrary, indifference changed into hatred. She made no scruple about showing him the state of her mind, she pitilessly unmasked his meannesses, and held them up to mockery; she scoffed at his efforts to thrust himself into a position for which he was not born; he found no more penetrating, remorseless critic of all he did, than his own wife. Anthony Cleverdon believed, and was justified in believing, that his old rival, Richard Malvine, stood between him and domestic peace, as a shadow that blighted and engalled his relations to his wife; that, though he had triumphed formally over his rival, that rival had gained the lasting and substantial success. Anthony Cleverdon might prize himself as high as he pleased, but he could no longer blind himself to the fact, that his money bags which had won his wife for him, were unavailing to buy her affections, and secure to him the fruits of his triumph. This consciousness stimulated his hatred of Malvine to fresh acridity, and in his meanness, he found a base satisfaction in humiliating his wife by every means in his power, and on every available opportunity. The birth of Bessie did not serve to unite the pair, for Anthony Cleverdon had set his heart on having a son, and when, after the lapse of a considerable interval of time, the desired son arrived, it was too late to serve as a link of reconciliation. Mrs. Cleverdon died shortly after his birth, her only regret being that she had to leave her daughter, whom she loved with double passion, partly because her desolate heart naturally clung to some object, and had none other to which to attach itself, partly also because little Bessie was totally disregarded by her father. Richard Malvine consoled himself for his disappointment by marrying Marianne Gibbs, of Willsworthy; he took her for the sake of Willsworthy, as Margaret Penwarne had taken Anthony Cleverdon for the sake of Hall. He was a feckless man, who had lived at home in the parsonage with his father, had hunted, had shot, and had never earned a penny for himself. He died, thrown from his horse, in hunting, a few years after his marriage, leaving an only child, Urith. The death of the mother produced no alteration in the conduct of Anthony Cleverdon towards her daughter. What love he had in his heart was bestowed on his son--the heir to his name and estate. In nature all forces are correlated. Indeed it is said that force is a pure and unique factor, and that light, heat, sound, etc., are but various manifestations or aspects of the one primal force. It would be hard to say whether old Anthony's love for his boy might not be considered as another phase of his ambition. He had never himself been a firm-built, handsome man; undersized and of mean appearance, he had felt the slight that this physical defect had entailed on him. But the young Tony was robust of constitution, burly of frame, and had inherited his mother's beauty. At Hall, from the hour of his birth, young Anthony had become a sovereign, and every one was placed beneath his footstool. Every inmate of the house laboured to spoil him, either because he was himself provocative of love, or out of a desire to curry favour with the father. He tyrannised over his sister, he was despotic with his father, he was wayward and exacting with the servants. Nothing that he did was wrong in his father's eyes; he grew up into manhood demanding of the outer world, as a right, that which was accorded to him in his home as a favour. CHAPTER V. THE GLOVE TAKEN UP. Every member of the little party felt sensible of relief when they came out on the high road and left the moor behind. For some time all had been silent; the efforts to start and maintain conversation had signally failed, and a funeral party would have been livelier. As soon as the hoofs of the horses rang on the roadway, the fetters that had bound the tongues were thrown aside, and words a few were interchanged. After ten minutes or a quarter of an hour a little tavern by the wayside was reached, named the Hare and Hounds; and then Anthony Cleverdon laid his hand on the bit of the horse Urith rode. "My cob must bait here," he said--"at least, have a mouthful; so must you. I will go in and see what can be provided, and bid the landlady lay the table." "I thank you," said Urith; "but I desire to go home at once. The distance is in no way considerable. I know where I am. But surely I hear my uncle's voice." That individual appeared at the open door. He was a stout man, with a very red face and a watery eye. His wig was awry. He stood with a pipe in one hand and a tankard in the other. "Aha!" shouted Solomon Gibbs. "I said the truth! I knew that it was in vain for me to go in quest of you on the moors, niece. Told your mother so; but she wouldn't believe me. Come on--come, and let's be jolly--drive away dull melancholy! I knew that you must come on to the road somewhere; and, if on to the road, then to the inn. For what is the inn, my boys, but the very focus and acme to which all gather, and from which all radiate? Come in--come in." "I wish to push on," said Urith. "How can you without my cob?" asked Anthony roughly. "I have said--she baits here. You, also--you must be perishing for food. We all are; have been mum all the way home--no fun, no talking. So, come in." "That is right--urge her, young man, to follow the advice of age and experience," shouted Mr. Gibbs. Then he began to sing: Come my lads, let us be jolly, Drive away dull melancholy, For to grieve it is a folly When we're met together. So, my friends, let us agree, Always keep good company, Why should we not merry, merry be When we're met together? He brandished his tobacco-pipe over his head, in so doing striking his wig with the stem, and at once breaking the latter, and thrusting the wig over his ear, and then dived into the alehouse again. He was half tipsy. "You are right," said Elizabeth to Urith. "You must go on. Your mother is anxious, probably in a state of serious alarm." "My uncle's horse is in the stable, I doubt not," answered Urith, "and as he will not be disposed to leave till he be unfit to accompany me, I will borrow the horse, and send it back by a servant." "I will accompany you," said Elizabeth, "and the serving man that brings back the horse can accompany me. The distance is inconsiderable, yet you must not at night travel it alone. Fox and Julian have, I see, turned their horses' heads homewards without bidding us a farewell. I cannot stay outside whilst Anthony is within, and I do not care to enter when men are drinking." "Your brother will hardly leave you alone outside." "My brother will probably forget all about me when he gets with Mr. Gibbs and others who can sing a good song and tell a merry tale." She said this without any reproach in her tone. She was so accustomed to be neglected, forgotten, to find herself thrust aside by her brother, that she no longer felt unhappy about it; she accepted it as her due. Urith sent a stable-boy for Mr. Gibbs' horse, and having mounted it, gratefully accepted Bessie Cleverdon's company for the ride of three miles to Willsworthy. Urith knew Bessie very little. Old Mr. Cleverdon did not care that his children should associate with the Malvines. His bitterness against the father, Richard, overflowed all his belongings--wife and child and estate; but he published no reasons for his dislike to association with the owners of Willsworthy, who, moreover, on account of their poverty, kept to themselves. The Cleverdons mixed with those who were in prosperous circumstances, and kept themselves, or were kept, aloof from those on whom Fortune turned her back. Mrs. Malvine had for some time been a woman in failing health, and, having no neighbours, Urith had grown up accustomed to be solitary, and not to know the value of the friendship, or at least the companionship, of girls of her own age and rank. She was too proud to associate, like her Uncle Solomon, with those of a lower grade, and she had not the opportunity of forming acquaintanceship of those fitted to be her comrades. As Urith rode beside Bessie, her heart stirred with a sensation of pleasure strange to her. There was a kindness, a sympathy in the manner of Elizabeth Cleverdon that found a way at once to Urith's heart, and she warmed to her and shook off reserve. And Elizabeth on her side was touched by the simplicity, the loneliness of the girl's mind, and when they reached the entrance gates to Willsworthy she held out her hand to Urith, and said: "This must be the beginning of our friendship. I do not know how it is that we have not met before, or rather, have not met to make acquaintance. Promise me that you will not let this be the beginning and the ending of a friendship." "That lies with you," said Urith, with timidity. It was to her too surprising a glimpse into happiness for her to trust its reality. "If it lies with me," said Elizabeth, "then you may be assured it will be warm and fast; expect to see me again soon. I will come over and visit you. But here--let us not part thus. Give me a kiss and take mine." The girls drew their horses alongside each other and kissed. The tears came into Urith's eyes at this offered and given pledge of kindness. It was to her a wholly new experience, and was to her of inexpressible value. Then Urith called a serving man, alighted, and delivered her horse up to him that he might attend Bessie Cleverdon on her way back to the Hare and Hounds, and leave it there for her uncle when it pleased Mr. Solomon Gibbs to return home. Bessie found that her brother was angry and offended when he came out of the alehouse and discovered that Urith had departed without a word; he had felt himself obliged to wait for his sister, because it would not be seemly to allow her to ride home in the dark alone; but he vented his ill-humour on her when she appeared. Bessie bore his reproaches with patience. She was accustomed to be found fault with by her father, and less frequently, nevertheless sometimes, and always unreasonably, by her brother. "I've promised the ostler a shilling to attend you to Hall," said Anthony. "There is Fox returned, and there is Solomon Gibbs here, and--I don't feel inclined to go home." "Father will be ill-pleased at your remaining away so long," remonstrated Bessie. "Father has seen so little of me to-day that another hour's absence won't signify. The weather is going to change--we shall have a thunderstorm. Get home as fast as you can. Here, Samuel, attend my sister." Then Anthony returned to the alehouse. At Willsworthy, Urith had stood for a moment in the porch in hesitation. She knew that she deserved to be reproached for her conduct, and she expected it. Her mother was not a person to spare words. She was repentant, and yet was certain that directly her mother addressed her with rebuke her spirit would rise up in revolt. To her surprise, when she did enter her mother's room, Mrs. Malvine said no more than this, "Oh, Urith! what a many hours you have been absent. But, my child, what is that? You have gloves hanging to your dress." Urith stooped and looked. It was as her mother had said--the gloves of Julian Crymes had not fallen to the ground, they had been caught by the tags in the gown of Urith, and hung there. She disengaged them, and held them in her hand. She had unwittingly taken up the gage. CHAPTER VI. MAGDALEN'S PLANS. Magdalen Cleverdon had come out for that day from Tavistock to visit her brother at Hall. She did not appear there very often, but made a point of duty to visit Hall once a quarter. Old Anthony had not interfered when his wife resisted the interference of her sister-in-law, and discouraged her visits to the house, and after his wife's death he had not invited her to be more frequent in her expeditions thither; nor had he shown her the slightest inclination to defer to her opinions, and attend to her advice. Magdalen's visits can hardly have conduced to her own pleasure, so ungracious was her reception when she appeared, except only from Bessie, who was too tender-hearted to be unkind, unconciliatory to any one. Anthony, senior, regarded and spoke of his sister as an old and stupid harridan, and the younger Anthony took his tone from his father, and did not accord to his aunt the respect that was due to relationship and age. Although one of her periodical visits to Hall usually brought on Magdalen a rebuff, yet she did not desist from them, partly because it satisfied her curiosity to see how matters fared in the old house, and partly, if not chiefly, because she gave herself in Tavistock considerable airs as the sister of the Squire of Hall, and she liked to appear to her neighbours as if on the best of terms with her kindred there. Magdalen had never been pretty. Hers was one of those nondescript faces which Nature turns out when inventive faculty is exhausted, and she produces a being, much as a worn-out novelist writes a tale, because she is expected to be productive, though she has nothing but hackneyed features to produce. Or her face may be said to have resembled a modern hymn-tune that is made up of strains out of a score of older melodies muddled together, and void of individual character. Magdalen had, however, not a suspicion that her personal appearance was unattractive. If she had not been sought in marriage, that was due wholly to the inadequate manner in which she had been provided for by her father's will; he had, she held, sacrificed her to his ambition to make a rich man of Anthony. She was a short, shapeless woman, with a muddy complexion and sandy hair, now turning grey, and therefore looking as if it were full of dust. Her eyes were faded, so were the lashes. She had bad teeth, and when she spoke she showed them a great deal more than was necessary. Any one conversing with her for the first time found nothing in her to notice except these teeth, and carried away from the interview no other recollection of her than one of--teeth. She made a point of being well-dressed when she made her periodical visits to Hall, to show her consequence, and to let her brother see that she held herself in condition equal to his pretensions. When she learned that her nephew and niece were not at Hall, but had gone to the moor for the day to watch the fires, and to endeavour to recover some colts that had been turned out on it by old Cleverdon, she expressed her satisfaction to her brother. "It is as well, Tony," she said, "for I want to have a talk with you; I am thinking----" "What? Talk first and think after? That is the usual way," said Cleverdon, rudely. Magdalen tossed her chin. She did not think it prudent to notice and resent her brother's discourtesy. She was not likely to gain much by flattering or humouring him; but to quarrel with him was against her wishes. "Really, Tony, I have your interests so much at heart----" "I never asked you to cupboard them there; but, if they be there, turn the key on them, and let them abide where they are." "You are clever and witty--that every one knows--and you like to snap your lock under my eyes and make me wince as the sparks fly out; but I know very well there is no powder in the barrel, and I do not mind. You really must attend to me, brother. There has been so much small-pox about, and it has been so fatal, that upon my word, as a woman, you should lend me your ear." "What has the small-pox to do with my interests?" "Much. Have you made your will, or a settlement of the property?" "What now!" exclaimed Anthony Cleverdon roughly. "You came to scare me with thoughts of small-pox, and want me to draw my will, and provide for you?" "About that latter point I say nothing, though I do feel that I was ill-treated by my father. You had the kernal and I had the rind of the nut." "I dispute that altogether. You are an incumbrance on the estate that I feel heavily." "I am likely to encumber it somewhat longer," said Magdalen, not showing resentment at his brutality. "I do not fear the small-pox. I have had it, and it has marked me; though not so as to disfigure. The Lord forbid!" Observing that her brother was about to make a remark, and being confident that it would be something offensive, she hastily went on: "But what, Tony--what if it were to attack your Anthony? What if it were to take him off? You have but a single son. To whom would Hall go then?" Old Squire Cleverdon started to his feet, and strode, muttering, about the room. "Ah! It is a thought to consider. The Knightons have lost their heir, and he was a fine and lusty youth. Our Anthony is so thoughtless; he runs where he lists, and does not consider that he may be near infection. Please the Lord nothing may happen; but suppose that he were carried off, who would have Hall? Bessie?" "Bessie! Are you mad?" Old Cleverdon put his hands in his breeches-pocket and turned and scowled at his sister. "No. I reckon Bessie would be put off with scant treatment, like myself. Then, Luke?" "Luke!" Cleverdon burst out laughing. "Never a parson here in Hall, if I can help it. A shaveling like he----" "Then, who would have it?" "Not you, if you are aiming thereat," said Cleverdon. "I was not aiming at that. Such a prospect never rose before me. I do not want Hall. I could not manage the estate." "I shall take care you have not the chance." "I have no doubt you will. But consider what are the accidents of life. If you were to lose Anthony----" "But I shall not. Anthony is flourishing, and not a thought of small-pox, or the falling sickness, or the plague about him. He is sound as a bell; so have done with your croak, you raven. I will call up the servants and have in dinner. You can eat, I suppose?" "Yes, I can eat, and digest your unkindness; but I cannot forget my anxiety. I am considering the welfare of the family. I am looking beyond myself and yourself. You have raised the Cleverdons from being tenant-farmers into being gentlefolks. You have been to the Heralds to grant you a coat of arms and a crest, and, now every one calls you the Squire, who used to call your father a farmer. You have altered Hall into a very handsome mansion, that no gentleman of good degree need be ashamed to live in. I consider all that, brother, and then I think that you are no fool, that you have wonderful wits to have achieved so much, and I am only anxious lest after having achieved so much for the family and the name of Cleverdon, all should go down again, as it did with the Glanvilles--just because there was no heir male." "Have done with your croak--here comes dinner." During the meal old Anthony was very silent. He pulled long and often at the tankard, and neglected the courtesies due to his sister as a guest. She observed that he was uneasy, and was wrapped in thought. What she had said had stuck, and made him uncomfortable. She was too shrewd to revert to the topic during dinner, and when it was over he went out, and left her alone. She knew her brother's ways, his moods, and the turns of his mind, and was convinced that he would come back to her presently and broach anew the subject. She leaned back in the arm-chair, and indulged herself in a nap. The doze lasted about three-quarters of an hour. Whilst she slept her brother was walking about the farm, in great restlessness of mind and body. He was quick-witted enough to see that Magdalen was right. He could not count on matters not falling out as she had said, and then all his labour to build up the Cleverdons would come down like a pack of cards. His son was the main prop of the great superstructure raised by his pride and ambition. If his son, by the dispensation of Providence, were to fail him, he had none to sustain the succession save his daughter Bessie and his cousin Luke, a delicate, narrow-chested lad, who had been an encumbrance thrown on him, had been reared by him, and sent to school by him, and then thrust into sacred Orders as the simplest way of providing for him, and getting him out of the way. Hall to pass to Bessie or to Luke! The idea was most distasteful to him. He returned to the oak parlour, where he had left his sister, and shook her until she roused from her nap. "Sit up--gather your senses! You do not come here to sleep like a frog," said old Anthony with his wonted rudeness. "I beg pardon, brother. I was left alone and had nought to occupy my mind, and dozed for a minute." "I say to you, Mawdline!"--Squire Cleverdon paced the room with his hands knotted behind his back, writhing with the inward agitation of his nerves--"I tell you Mawdline, that you did not come here to scare me about small-pox without some design lurking behind. Let me hear it. You have emptied the pepper-box, now for the salt-box." "I do not know anything of a design behind," answered Magdalen, rallying her scattered senses, and then plunging into the main communication with less caution than if she had been fully awake; "but I think, brother, you should get them both married as quickly as you may." "Both!--what Anthony and Bess?" "To be sure. Anthony might take Julian at any time; and for Bessie----" Cleverdon laughed. "I never heard that Bessie had a gallant as yet, and she never had good looks to lure one. If Tony takes a wife that is sufficient." "No, brother, it is hardly sufficient. He might, if he married, chance to have no children. Besides, it is well to have alliances on all sides. If only I had married----" "Fernando Crymes," muttered her brother. "You tried hard for him before he took his first wife." Magdalen tossed and shook her head. "You indeed misunderstand me. You try to provoke me, brother; but I will not be provoked. I am too desirous to advance the family to be browbeat by you and forced to hold silence. Elizabeth is getting forward in years, and she might be the means of alliance to a good family that would help to give ours firmer hold in the position it has won. There is Anthony Crymes, for instance." "What!--Fox for Bessie? This is sheer folly." "Yes, Fox. What against him?" "Nay, naught other against him, save that he does not lay his fancy to Bessie." "I am not certain of that. Why else has he rid this day to the moor? He has not gone for love of his sister, that all the world knows. Now see this, brother Tony. If you was to marry Anthony to Julian, and Bessie to Fox, then you would be close allied to one of the best families of the country-side, and he who would lift a word against you would rouse all the Crymes that remain. They were not unwilling to draw to us, or else why did Squire Crymes bid you to be his son's godfather? Fox will not be rich, but he will have something from his father, and that will be enough with what you let Bessie have to make them do well. Then, if there come a family of children on either side, it is well, for there will be a large kindred in the district, and if there be none on one side, but only on the other then what property there is, this way or that, does not fall out of the family." "If Bessie is to be married, we might look elsewhere for one richer." "Where will you look? Who among the neighbours is old enough or young enough? Some are over her age. You would not give her to Master Solomon Gibbs. Some be too young and hot-blooded to care for her, not very well favoured, and without much wealth." Old Anthony stood still before the window and looked out. "Then," said Magdalen, "there's another side of the matter to be considered. What if Bessie should set her heart on some one of whom you would not approve?" Old Anthony laughed mockingly. "Not much chance of that I reckon." "Do you reckon?" asked his sister, with some heat. "Yes, you men make up your minds that we spinsters have no hearts, go through no trials, because you do not see them. As our love is not proclaimed on the house-tops you assume that it does not exist in the secret chambers of the heart. If you are forced to admit that there is such a thing in us, you suppose it may be killed with ridicule, as you put salt on weeds. As for your own headlong, turbulent passions, they brook no control, they are irresistible, but we poor women must smother our fires as if always illicit, like a chimney in a blaze that must be choked out with damp straw stuffed in. You men never consider us. You permit a pretty girl to love, and you consider her feelings somewhat--just somewhat; but it never occurs to your wise heads, but shallow thoughts, that the plain faces and the ordinary-favoured girls may have hearts as tender and susceptible as those who are regarded as beauties. Now, as to Bessie----" "Well, what as to Bessie?" asked Anthony roughly. He knew that his sister was lightly lifting the corner of a veil that covered her past, and he knew how that by a little generosity on his part, he might have made it possible for her to marry. "As to Bessie?" resumed Magdalen. "I can only speak what I suspect. I have thought for some time she was fond of her cousin." "What--of Luke?" "Of Luke, certainly." Old Anthony turned angrily on her, and said, "A pack of folly! He is her cousin." "I said so. Does that prevent her liking him? Have you aught against that?" "Everything. I will not hear of her marrying a pigeon-breasted, starveling curate. I will speak to her." "If you meddle you will mar. Take a woman's advice, and say not a word." "Then be silent, on this matter." "If you marry Tony," said his sister, "what are you going to do with Elizabeth? Fernando Crymes has Kilworthy for his life, so that the young people will, I doubt not, live here; and Julian will no more let Bessie remain than would your Margaret suffer me." "She shall abide here as I choose it." "No, indeed. You may will it; but women's wishes, when they go contrary, can make a bad storm in the house, and spoil it as a port of peace. You take my counsel and mate the twain together--the one to Julian and the other to Fox." "Pshaw!" said the old man turning away from the window. "Because I was godfather to Fox, it does not follow that he wants to be my son." Then the old man came over to the table that stood near his sister, seated himself, and began to trifle with a snuff-box upon it. "I shall not part with Bess," he said, "till Tony is matched." "Then let him be matched with speed," said Magdalen sharply. "How know you but that, if you delay, Julian Crymes may turn her fancy elsewhere. She is a wayward hussy." "Pshaw! Where is there such a lad as my Tony? He is the chiefest of all the youths about. Not one can compare with him. Are you mad to think of such a thing?" "There is no reckoning on a maid's eyes; they do not see like ours. Moreover, there is no saying what freak might take your Tony, and he might set his mind on some one else." "No fear of that," answered the squire roughly. "He knows my will, and that is law to him." "Indeed! Since when? I thought that the cockerel's whimsies and vagaries set the law to the house; and that you, and Bess, and every one of the family danced to such tune as he whistled." "I reckon he knows his own interests," said the old man grimly. He was angered by his sister's opposition. "None can trust to that in young men," answered his sister, "as you ought best to know, brother." Old Anthony winced, and became purple at this allusion to his own marriage. He started up, struck the snuff-box across the table, then seated himself again, and said grimly: "I asked you, sister, if you could eat and digest a good, wholesome dinner, and I gave it you; but, by Heaven, you have come here and fed me with unwholesome and unsavoury diet that I cannot digest, and that gives me a worry and heartburn. I wish you had never come." CHAPTER VII. IN THE HARE AND HOUNDS. In the tavern with the sign of the Hare and Hounds, a fire of peat was burning on the hearth. A huge oak settle occupied the side of the fireplace opposite to the window; and beneath and before the window was a long table, the end of which admitted of being drawn out so as to make it serve as a shuffle-board for the use of such as liked to play at that game so popular in the reign of Elizabeth, illicit in the time of the Commonwealth, and at the epoch of my story almost obsolete, except in stray corners remote from fashion. The settle was of a construction then usual, now rarely met with, and therefore deserving a description as a domestic curiosity. The seat was on hinges, and could be raised, disclosing beneath it a cavity like a clothes chest; the settle back opened in compartments and revealed sides of bacon and hams that had been smoked, and there awaited cutting up. Above the heads of those who sat in the settle was a sort of projecting roof to cut off all down draught; but this also served as a cupboard for vinegar, salt, spices, and other groceries. The chest, that was also seat, to a mother with an infant, was of extraordinary service; when she was engaged at the fire, baking or cooking, she raised the lid or seat and buttoned it back, then she planted the babe in the box, where it lay warm and secure, close to her, without the chance of coming to harm. If the child were in the age of toddledum, then it ran up and down in the box with the little hands on the edge, saw its mother, crowed to her, watched her proceedings, and ran no risk of falling into the fire, or of pulling over and breaking the crockery. Altogether the settle was a great institution, and the march of culture, instead of improving it, has abolished it. More is the pity. The fireplace was of granite uncarved, but rudely chamfered, very wide and very deep, so deep as to allow of a seat recessed in the wall at the side, in which a chilly old man might sit and toast his knees, protected from the down draught and falling soot by the arched roof of the recess. It used to be said of one of these great fireplaces, in which wood and peat were burned, that a necessary accompaniment was an old man and a pair of tongs, for the logs when burnt through in the midst fell apart, and required some one at hand to pick the ends up, and reverse them on the hearth, and to collect and repile the turfs when they fell down. At the fire-breast burnt, what was called a "spane," that is, a slip of deal steeped in resin, which lighted the housewife at her operations at the fire. But the "spane" emitted more smoke than light. Opposite to the ingle-nook was the "cloam" oven, that is, the earthenware oven let into the wall for baking. In more ancient times ovens were constructed with enormous labour out of granite blocks, which were scooped out in the middle, but the disadvantage attendant on granite was that it became in time resolved into sand by heat, and crumbled away like sugar.[1] These were rapidly got rid of when the earthenware oven was introduced, and hardly a specimen remains. Not so, however, with the stone frying-pan, which is only just, and not altogether, superseded. Housewives contend that the iron pan is not so good at frying as the scooped-out pan of stone, and that rashers of bacon done in the latter are incomparably superior to those burnt in iron. Thus, it will be seen that in the West we are only recently, in some particulars emerging from the Stone-Age, but it is with a leap over that of Bronze into the era of Iron.[2] The walls of the "mug-house" of the Hare and Hounds were well white-washed and ornamented with a quantity of broadside ballads, the illustrations very generally bearing no intelligible relation to the letterpress. A single rush-candle burning on the table, served to light the room. The servant-wench was expected to act as snuffer, and she regularly at intervals of ten minutes left the work on which she was engaged, cooking, washing, drawing ale, and like the comet that sweeps up to and about the sun, and then dashes back into obscurity, so did she rush up to the candle, snuff the wick between the forefinger and thumb, and plunge back to the work on which she was engaged, at the fire, in the back-kitchen, or in the cellar. At the fire and about the table were seated Anthony Cleverdon, Fox Crymes, the host of the Hare and Hounds. Mr. Solomon Gibbs, also a quaint old grey-haired man in sorry garb, and a couple of miners from the moor. At the time of the tale, and, indeed for a century after, it was customary for men of all classes to meet at the alehouse, parson and Squire, surgeon, farmer, and peasant, comrades all in merry-making--and at that period there was no social-democracy, no class-hatreds--how could there be, when all classes met, and gossiped, and smoked, and boozed together? No good thing comes without bringing a shadow after it. Perhaps it is well that parson and Squire do not now go to the tavern to take pipe and glass with yeoman and ploughboy, but--the misfortune is that there has come class-alienation, along with this social amelioration of the better sort. Mr. Solomon Gibbs was at the table. He had occupied the corner of the settle all the afternoon, searching for his niece in the bottom of his tankard, but after a while, as evening settled in, he declared he felt the heat too greatly by the fire, and then withdrew to the table. In fact, when occupying the settle, his can of ale had stood on a three-legged stool between his feet, and whenever he lusted after a drink he was obliged to stoop to take it up. As the ale got into his head, he found that this stooping produced a fulness of the veins that made him giddy, and he had fallen forward once on his hands, and upset the stool and his ale. Then he deemed it advisable to retire to the table, but as men never give direct and true reasons for their proceedings, he explained to those who were present that---- "There was thunder in the air, and when there was, he was liable to fits of giddiness; moreover, the heat of the fire was insufferable." His wig was very much awry; underneath it was a strong stubbly growth, for Mr. Gibbs had not had his head shaved for a fortnight. His mulberry coat was much stained with ale, and the elbows were glossy. The old man in the threadbare coat occupied a chair near the table, and he stood up, turned his eyes to the ceiling, extended his arms rigidly before him, planted his legs apart, and began to sing a song at that time exceedingly popular, "The Catholic Cause;" his voice ranging through an extensive scale, from bass to falsetto. O the Catholic Cause! now assist me, sweet Muse, How earnestly I do desire thee! Faith I will not go pray to St. Bridget to-day, But only to thee to inspire me. The singer was interrupted by a groan from all in the room, and a shout from Mr. Solomon Gibbs, "Calvinist Géneva and Hollands for me! Catholic French Claret is thin--deuced thin liquor!" Then the Church shall bear sway, the State shall obey, Which in England will be a new wonder! Commons, Nobles, and Kings, and Temporal things Shall submit, and shall truckle under! The miners jumped to their feet, and began to swear that they'd rather be crushed in their adits, than live to see that day. "Things are coming fair on towards it, sure as the clouds have been rolling up, and portending a thunderstorm," said the host. "Ah!" growled Solomon; "give the Devil his due. Old Noll, who didn't sit by right Divine, knew how to make Britain free and honoured." "No Dutch in the Medway, then! No burning of Spithead and His Majesty's fleet under His Majesty's nose," said the old singer. "'Tis a pity," said one of the men present, "that there were not a few more drowned on the Lemon and Ore than those who did. Nay, rather, that certain who escaped should not have sunk, and such as drowned should not have escaped." This had reference to a sandbank near Yarmouth, on which the frigate bearing the Duke of York had struck, when about a hundred and thirty persons were drowned. "Here!" called Sol Gibbs. "Here's bad luck to Lemon and Ore for doing the work so foully!" and he put his jug of ale to his lips. "Lemon and Ore," said each who drank, "better luck next time." "Folks do say," put in the landlord, "that the King, God bless him, was really married to Lucy Walters. If that be so, why then the Duke of Monmouth should be King after him." Then he shook his head, and added, "But, Lord! I know nought about such matters." "Here's a health to the Protestant Duke!" said the miners, and looked about them. "Now, my masters! Won'ty all drink to the Protestant Duke?" "To be sure I will--drink to any one," said Solomon Gibbs. "Why should he not have married her?" asked the singer. "Didn't the Duke of York marry Mistress Ann Hyde? And Lucy Walters was a gentlewoman every whit as much. When the Duke of Monmouth was born, then His Majesty was Prince Charles, in France, with small chance of coming to his own again; for Old Noll was then in full flower, and making the earth quake at the name of England." "When the Duke of Savoy was persecuting the Protestants, did not Old Noll hold up his finger, and at the sight of his nail the Duke stayed his hands?" said Anthony Cleverdon. "By the Lord! If it had been in my time, I would have drawn the sword for them." "When all the giants are dead, every Tom Thumb boasts he would have been a Jack of Cornwall," sneered Fox Crymes. "What is that you say?" asked Anthony, hotly. "I was merely saying that it ill becomes a man of spirit to boast of what he would have done had things been other than they are." "Do you mean to hint that I am a coward?" "I hinted nothing of the sort. I made a general observation. If the time should come when your sword would be wanted to sustain the Protestant cause, I make no doubt that you will be ready to prop it up--on the point." "No quarrels here," shouted Solomon Gibbs; then he sang:-- Let nothing but harmony reign in your breast, Let comrade with comrade be ever at rest. We'll toss off our bumper, together we'll troll, Give me the punch-ladle--I'll fathom the bowl. Then he called to the united assembly, "What say you all--shall we have a punch-bowl? _Nem. con._ Carried. That is it which lacked to establish sweetest concord. Landlord! Bring us the needful, and we'll brew." From France cometh brandy, Jamaica gives rum, Sweet oranges, lemons from Portugal come. Of ale and good cyder we'll also take toll, Give me the punch-ladle--I'll fathom the bowl. The host called to his wife to produce the requisite ingredients, and went in quest of the ladle, which he kept upstairs, as it had a silver piece of Charles I. let into it. "I ax," said one of the miners, throwing out his arm as if proclaiming defiance, "how it came about that London was burnt? Warn't them Poperies seen a doing of it--a firing it in several places?" "And Sir Edmondbury Godfrey--weren't he cruelly and bloodily murdered by 'em?" asked the second. "Ay! and whose doing is it that that worthy gentleman, my Lord Russell, has been done to death? That every one knows. 'Tis said the Earl of Bedford offered a hundred thousand pounds to save his life; but the Catholic Duke would not hear of his being spared. And the Duke of York will be King after his present Gracious Majesty. By heavens! I would draw sword for the Protestant Duke and swear to his legitimacy." "I'll tell you what it is," said Fox Crymes, "if this sort of talk is going on here, I'm off and away. If you are not speaking treason, you go pretty nigh to it, too nigh it for safety, and I'll be off." "There are no informers and spies here," said the yeoman. "I reckon us be all true Protestants and loyal to the Crown and Constitution. The Constitution! God bless it!" "You can't go, Fox," said Anthony, "for here comes the storm we have been expecting." He spoke as a flash illuminated the room, and was followed by a boom of near thunder, then down came the rain like the fall of a water-spout on the roof. Our brothers lie drowned in the depths of the sea, Cold stones for their pillows, what matters to me? Mr. Solomon Gibbs was erect, supporting himself on the table by his left hand, whilst he mixed the bowl of punch and stirred it, and sang in snatches: We'll drink to their healths and repose to each soul, Give me the punch ladle--I'll fathom the bowl. "Now, then, landlord! Where's the lemons? Bless my soul, you're not going to make us drink unlemoned punch? As well give us a King without a Crown, or a parson without a gown." Your wives they may fluster as much as they please-- Haven't got one, I'm thankful--a sister don't count-- Let 'em scold, let 'em grumble, we'll sit at our ease. In the ends of our pipes we'll apply a hot coal. Give me the punch ladle--I'll fathom the bowl. "--So! the lemons at last? Where's a silver knife to cut them with? Bless my soul! How it rains! I thank Providence the water is without, and the spirit is within." "This rain will dowse the fires on the moor," said the yeoman. "And would have washed your Tory zeal out of you," laughed Anthony, "had you gone out in it just now, shocked at our Whiggery." "Oh! you," sneered Fox, "you took good care to say nothing. You were wise not to come within seeing distance with a pair of perspective glasses of Tyburn gallows, where men have been hung, disembowelled, and drawn for less offence than some of the words let drop to-night." "Now--no more of this," shouted Mr. Solomon Gibbs, "I am president here. Where the punch-bowl is, there is a president, and I waive my sceptre, this ladle, and enforce abstention from politics, and all such scurvy subjects. You began it, Taverner, with your damnable ballad of the Catholic cause, and you shall be served last. Comrades! 'To the King, God bless him!'" "And the Protestant cause!" shouted Taverner. "Ay, ay, which His Majesty swore to maintain," said the miners. "Bar politics!" cried Mr. Gibbs, "or, curse it, I'll throw the punch out of the door. I will, I swear I will. Taverner, give us something cheerful--something with no politics in it to set us all by the ears." "Shall I give you something suitable to the evening, Mr. Gibbs?" "Certainly--tune up. I wish I had my viol with me to give a few chords; but I set out to look for my niece who had strayed, and I forgot to take my viol with me." The grey-haired ballad-singer stood up, cleared his throat, and with the utmost gravity sang, throwing marvellous twirls and accidentals into the tune, the following song: My Lady hath a sable coach And horses, two and four, My Lady hath a gaunt bloodhound That runneth on before. My Lady's coach has nodding plumes, The coachman has no head. My Lady's face is ashen white, As one that long is dead. "Now, pray step in," my Lady saith, "Now, pray step in and ride!" "I thank thee, I had rather walk, Than gather to thy side." The wheels go round without a sound Of tramp or turn of wheels, As a cloud at night, in the pale moonlight, Onward the carriage steals. "Now, pray step in," my Lady saith, "Now, prithee, come to me." She takes the baby from the crib, She sets it on her knee. The wheels go round, etc. "Now, pray step in," my Lady saith, "Now, pray step in, and ride," Then deadly pale, in wedding veil, She takes to her the bride. The wheels go round, etc. "Now, pray step in," my Lady saith, "There's room I wot for you." She waved her hand, the coach did stand, The Squire within she drew. The wheels go round, etc. "Now, pray step in," my Lady saith, "Why shouldst thou trudge afoot?" She took the gaffer in by her, His crutches in the boot. The wheels go round, etc. I'd rather walk a hundred miles, And run by night and day, Than have that carriage halt for me, And hear my Lady say: "Now, pray step in, and make no din, I prithee come and ride. There's room, I trow, by me for you, And all the world beside."[3] FOOTNOTES: [1] Such a granite-oven was discovered in the author's own house in an old and long-abandoned chimney-back, in 1866. It was impossible to preserve it. [2] Two such stone frying-pans are to be seen in the Museum at Launceston. The one was given by a gentleman from his kitchen, where it had been long in use, the other was found among the ruins of Trecarrel--probably coeval with the buildings, the middle of the sixteenth century. [3] Published with the traditional melody in "Songs of the West, Traditional Songs and Ballads of the West of England," by S. Baring-Gould and H. Fleetwood Sheppard (Methuen, Bury Street, London, 1889). CHAPTER VIII. ST. MARK'S EVE. The ballad of the "Lady's Coach," sung to a weird air in an ancient mode, such as was becoming no more usual for composers to write in, and already beginning to sound strange and incomplete to the ear, at once changed the tenor of the thoughts of those in the tavern, and diverted their conversation away from politics into a new channel. The wind had risen, and was raging round the house, driving the rain in slashes against the casement; and puffing the smoke down the chimney into the room. "You came back from the moor along the Lyke-Way, did you?" asked the farmer of Anthony. "Yes; it is many miles the shortest, and there was plenty of light." "I wouldn't travel it at night for many crowns," said the yeoman. "Why not!" asked one of the miners. "What is there to fear on the moor? If there be spirits, they hurt no one." "I should like others to risk it before me," said the yeoman. "Anthony took good care not to ride it alone," muttered Fox, with a side glance at young Cleverdon. "You forced yourself on me," answered Anthony, sharply. "Of course you wanted to be quite alone--I understand," sneered Fox. "You can comprehend, I hope, that your company is no advantage to be greatly desired on the Lyke-Way or elsewhere," retorted Anthony, angrily. "It is possible enough that it was distasteful to others beside myself." "And your society was infinitely preferable. I make no question as to that," scoffed Fox. "Now, no quarrels here. We have banished politics. Must we banish every other topic that arises?" asked Solomon Gibbs. "What is this that makes you bicker now?" "Oh, nothing!" said Crymes. "Anthony Cleverdon and I were discussing the Lyke-Way, and whether either of us cared to go along it at night. I shrink from it, just as does Farmer Cudlip. Nor does Cleverdon seem more disposed to walk it." "I am not disposed to travel over it in rain and wind, in the midst of a thunder-storm. I would go along it any other night when moon and stars show, to allow of a man finding his road." "I'll tell you what," said the yeoman; "there's worst places than the Lyke-Way on such a night as this." "Where is that?" "Do you know what night it be?" "A very foul one." "Ay, no doubt about that! after a fair day. But this is St. Mark's Eve, and I'll tell you what befel my grandfather on this night some years agone. 'Twas in Peter Tavy, too--it came about he'd been to the buryin' of his uncle's mother's sister's aunt, and, as he said hisself, never enjoyed hisself more at a buryin'. There was plenty o' saffron cake and cyder, and some bottles of real old Jamaica rum, mellow--Lor' bless you--soft and mellow as a cat's paw. He lived, did my grandfather, at Horndon, and it were a night much such as this. My grandfer had rather a deal stayed wi' the corpse, but he was a mighty strict and scrupulous old man, and he knowed that his wife--my grandmother as was--would expect him home about--well, I can't say for sartain, but, anyhow, some hours afore daybreak. Us poor fellers in this world o' misery and trial, can't a'ways have what we desires, so my grandfer had to sacrifice hisself on the alter of dooty, and not to bide with the corpse and the Jamaica rum, not to mention the saffron cake. 'Tes surprising, gentlemen," said Farmer Cudlip, looking round at Cleverdon, Crymes, and Solomon Gibbs, "'tes surprising now, when you come to reckon up, how soon one comes to the end o' eating cake, and yet, in Jamaica rum, and punch--I thanky' kindly, Mr. Gibbs, to fill me the glass. Thanky', sir!--As I was saying, in drink one's capacity is, I should say, boundless as the rolling ocean. Ain't it, now, Mr. Gibbs?" "Ah! Solomon the Wise never said a truer word," answered Solomon the Foolish. "'Tes curious, when you come to consider, now," said the farmer; "for meat and drink both goes the same way and into the same receptacle; yet how soon one is grounded on cake, but can float, and float--I thank you Mr. Gibbs, my glass is empty--float forever in liquor." "We should like to hear what your grandfather did," said Cleverdon, laughing. "What he did? Why, he sot down," said Cudlip. "After leaving the house of tears and bereavement, he was going home, and was very tired, his legs began to give way under him. And as he came along by the wall o' Peter Tavy Church, sez he to hisself, 'Why, dash me if it bain't St. Mark's Eve, and many a time have I heard tell that they as wait on that eve in the church porch is sure to see go by in at the door all they that is sure to die in the rest o' the year.' Well, gentlemen, my grandfer, he knewed he was a bit late, and thought his wife--my grandmother--wouldn't take it over kindly, so he thinks if he could bring her a bit of rare news, she'd mebbe forgive him. And, gentlemen, what more rare news could he bring than a tale of who was doomed to die within the year? So he went in at the churchyard-gate, and straight--that is to say, as straight as his legs, which weren't quite equal, could take him--to the porch, and there, on the side away from the wind, he sot hisself down." "I wouldn't have done it," said one of the miners, nudging his fellow; "would thou, Tummas?" "Not I," responded his comrade. "If it had been the Lyke-Way, that's different. I'd walk that any night. But to go under a roof, in the churchyard--it were tempting o' Providence." "Go on with your story," said Solomon Gibbs. "Those that interrupt lose a turn of filling from the bowl." "Well, then," continued Cudlip, "my grandfather was seated for some time in the porch, and uncommon dark it was, for there are a plenty of trees in the churchyard, and the night was dirty, and the sky covered with clouds. How long he sat there I cannot tell, but long enough to get uneasy; not that he was afraid, bless your souls, of what he might see, but uneasy at being there so long and seeing nothing, so that he must go home to my grandmother without a word o' explanation or information that might pacify her, should she be inclined to be troublesome. Just as he was about to get up, in a mighty bad temper, and to go home, cursing the fools who had got up the tale of St. Mark's Eve, why, looking along the avenue in the yard, what should he see but some curious long, white things, like monstrous worms, crawling and tumbling, and making for the church porch. You will understand, gentlemen, that my grandfather thought he would do better to wait where he was, partly, because he did not wish to pass these worm-like creatures, but, chiefly, that he might have something to report to his missus, to make her placable and agreeable." "But what where they?" asked Anthony Cleverdon. "I'll tell you, Master Anthony. They was human arms, from the shoulder, walking of themselves; first they laid along from shoulder to elbow, then the hand from elbow forward lifted itself and looked about, and then came down flat on the palm, and lifted all the hinder part from the elbow-joint till it stood upright, and then turned a somersault, and so on again, two steps, as it were, and then a somersault; a coorious sort of proceeding, I take it." "Very," said Crymes, with a sneer. "There was about nine of 'em coming along, some fast as if racing each other, some slow, but creeping on, and overtaking the others that was going too fast, and fell over on the elbow-joint, when up went hand and shoulder kicking in the air like a beetle on his back. My grandfather felt that now sartainly he'd have news to tell his old woman. Presently a lot of the arms was about the step to the church porch, shy-like, not knowing whether to come in or no--some standing up on the shoulder and poking the hands in, some curlin' of themselves up on the step, as a-going to sleep, and some staggering about anyways. At last one of the boldest of them made a jump, and came down on my grandfather's knee, and sat there, with the shoulder part on his knee, like as a limpet fastens on a rock, or the end of a barnacle on a log of wood, and there it sat and curled itself about, and turned the hand just as it saw out of the nails--which was very white, and served as eyes. It was curious, my grandfather said, to see the fingers curling one over the other, just as a fly preens its wings. My granfer' couldn't make it out at first, till at last he saw it was pulling and picking at a gold ring on the last finger but one. It was a very broad ring--and directly my granfer' knowed it, and said, 'Why, blazes!' said he, 'that's Mistress Cake's wedding ring!' And no sooner had he said that, than the arm jumped off his knee and went on to the church door, and he saw it no more. Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, that Mistress Cake, of Wringworthy, died a month later of the falling sickness. But he had not a moment for consideration, as in came another arm, that stood at his foot bowing to him with the hand, and then patting him on the shin. This arm didn't like to seem to make so bold as to come up and sit on his knee, so my granfer stooped and looked at it. It stood up on the shoulder, and it had very strong muscles; but rather stiff, they seemed, wi' age, for they cracked like when the arm bent itself about, which it did in a slow and clumsy fashion. 'Twas a brown arm, too, and not white, like Madam Cake's; and the hand was big, and broad, and hairy, and it turned itself over and showed the palm, and then it held up one finger after another, which was all covered with warts. Then my granfer said, 'Lor' bless and deliver! but this be the hand of Ploughman Gale!' And, sure enough, I reckon it was. It seemed quite satisfied, and folded itself up, and made a spring like a cricket--went out of sight to the church door." "I should like to know how your grandfather saw all this," said Anthony Cleverdon, "if it was, as you say, a dark night, and it was in the church porch?" "No interfering!" exclaimed Mr. Gibbs. "You've forfeited. Here's your glass, Master Cudlip. Go on." "There's not much more to be said," continued the yeoman. "One or two more arms came on, and granfer said there was a sight o' difference in their ways: some was pushing like, and forward; and others rayther hung back, and seemed to consider small bones of themselves. Now it was a fact that all those he saw and named belonged to folks as died within the year, and in the very order in which they came on and presented themselves before him. What puzzled him most to name was two baby-arms--purty little things they was--and he had to count over all the young children in the parish before he could tell which they was. At last, up came a long, lean, old, dry arm, tossing its hand in a short, quick, touchy fashion, and went up on grandfer's knee without so much as a 'By your leave.' And there it sat, and poked its hand about, wi'all the fingers joined together like a pointed serpent's head. It moved in a queer, irritable, jerky manner, that was familiar, somehow, to my grandfather. After a bit he put his head down to look at the elbow, where he fancied he saw a mole, when--crack! the hand hit him on his cheek such a blow that he tumbled over, and lay sprawling on the pavement; and he knew, by the feel of the hand as it caught him, that it was--my grandmother's. When he had picked himself up, he saw nothing more, so he went home. You may be very sure of those two things, gentlemen--[Thank you, Mr. Gibbs. I'll trouble you to fill my glass. Talking has made me terrible dry]--he never told his missus that Madam Cake's arm had sat on his knee, nor that he had seen and recognized her _own_ arm and hand." "I wouldn't go on this night to the church porch, not for a king's crown," said one of the miners. "Did not your grandfather suffer for his visit?" "Well," answered the yeoman, "I reckon he did ever after feel a sort o' cramp in his knees--particularly in wet weather, where the arms had sat--but what was that to the relief? My grandmother died that same year." "I wouldn't go there for any relief you might name," said the miner again, who was greatly impressed by the story. "I've heard the pixies hammering down in the mines, but I think naught of them. As for the Lyke-Way, what goes over that is but shadows." "Some folks are afraid of shadows," said Fox, "and don't think themselves safe unless they have at least a woman with them for protection." "You are again levelling at me!" exclaimed Anthony Cleverdon. "I have no fear either of shadows or substances. If you choose to come out and try with me, you will see that I am not afraid of your arm, and that I can chastise your tongue." "Oh! my arm!" laughed Crymes. "I never supposed for a moment you dreaded that. But it is the arms without bodies, moving like worms in the churchyard at Peter Tavy, on this St. Mark's Eve, you are more likely to dread." "I am not afraid of them," retorted Cleverdon. "So you say; but I do not think you seem inclined to show you are not." "Do you dare me to it?" "I don't care whether you go or not. If you do, who is to stand surety for you that you go where I say--to the churchyard of Peter Tavy?" "One of you can come and see." "There!" laughed Fox, "crying off already! Afraid to go alone, and appealing for company." "By heaven, this is too bad!" cried Anthony, and started to his feet. "Don't go," shouted Mr. Solomon Gibbs. "It's folly, and break up of good company." "There's good company with Fox Crymes girding at me at every minute. But, by heaven, I will not be jeered at as a coward. Fox has dared me to go to Peter Tavy churchyard, and go I will--alone, moreover." "No such thing," said the host; "it is too bad a night. Stay here and help finish this brew; we'll have another bowl, if Mr. Solomon approves--and Mr. Cudlip." "I will go," said Anthony, thoroughly roused, and rendered doubly excitable by the punch he had been drinking. "You have done wrong to spur him," said Gibbs, addressing Crymes. "Faith! I am a sceptic," said Fox. "I disbelieve altogether in the walking arms, and I shall be glad to learn from a credible witness whether the same be a mere fiction and fancy, or have any truth in it. Master Cudlip's grandfather lived a long time ago." "I do not believe in it either," said Cleverdon; "but although I did I would not now be deterred. Fox casts his gibes at me, and I will show him that I have metal enough to make such a trifling venture as this." He threw on his coat, grasped his long walking-stick, and went out into the storm. A furious gale was sweeping about the little hamlet of Cudlip town, where stood the tavern. It was not possible to determine from which quarter the wind came, it so eddied about the inn and the open space before it. Anthony stood against the wall outside for a moment or two till his eyes accustomed themselves somewhat to the dark. Every few moments the glare of lightning in the sky illumined the rocky ridges of White Tor and Smeardun, under which Cudlip town lay, and the twisted thorns and oaks among blocks of granite that strewed the slopes before the three or four old farmhouses that were clustered about the inn. Then Anthony, having satisfied himself as to his direction, set down his head against the wind, and strode forward, with his staff feeling the way. On his right, below in this valley, roared the Tavy, but the song of the water was mixed up with that of the wind so inextricably that Anthony, had he tried it, could not have distinguished the roar of one from that of the other. The lane was between stone walls and hedges of half stone and half earth, in summer adorned with magnificent foxgloves. For a while the rain slackened, and where the walls were high Anthony had some shelter against the wind. Peter Tavy Church lay outside the village, and he would reach it without passing another house. The principal fury of the storm seemed to be concentrated over White Tor, a lofty peak of trap rock fortified in prehistoric times, and with beacons and cairns of angular fragments piled up within the enclosure. In one place a huge fang of black rock stood upright, and was split by lightning, with a block of basalt fallen into the cleft, where it swung among the rocks. Over the cairns and embankments the thunder-cloud flamed white, and threw out dazzling fire-bolts. Anthony stood one moment, looking up at the Tor; it was as though the spirits of the air were playing at tossball there with thunderbolts. Then he again pushed forward. The wind, the cold--after the warmth of the tavern and the spirits he had drank--confused his brain, and though he was not intoxicated, yet he was not judge of his actions. At the next explosion of the electric fluid he saw before him the granite tower of the church, and the trees in the churchyard bare of leaves. Those in the tavern became grave and silent for a moment after Anthony left. "It is a folly," said one of the miners; "it is tempting heaven." "I don't care whether he sees aught or not," said Cudlip; "my grandfather's story is true. It don't follow because Anthony Cleverdon comes back having seen nothing that my grandfather told an untruth. Who can tell? perhaps nobody in the parish will die this year. If there is to be no burials, then no arms will be walking." "I hope he's not gone the wrong road and tumbled into the river," said Solomon Gibbs. "I'll tell you what he will do," said Fox. "He will let us sit expecting his return all night, and he will quietly take himself off to Hall, and laugh at us for our folly to-morrow." "Not he," said the innkeeper; "that's not the way with Master Cleverdon. _You_ might have done that, and we should not ha' been surprised." "I would have done it, most assuredly. If Tony does not, then he is more of a fool than I took him. He loves a bit of brag as much as another, and with brag he went forth." "There is no brag in him," said Taverner, the ballad-singer. "Every one knows what Anthony Cleverdon is; if he says he will do a thing, he will do it. If we wait long enough, he will return from the churchyard." "Or say he has been there." "If he says it, we will believe him--all but you, Mr. Crymes, who believe in nobody and nothing." "Now, we have had threats of quarrel already more than once; I must stop this," said Solomon Gibbs. "Storm outside is sufficient. Let us have calm within over the sea of punch." "Oh!" said Fox, contemptuously, "I don't quarrel with old Taverner; no man draws save against his equal." "Punch! more punch!" shouted Gibbs. "Landlord, we are come to the gravel. And, Taverner! give us a song, but not one so dismal as 'My Lady's Coach.' That set us about speaking of St. Mark's Eve, and sent Cleverdon on this crazy adventure." "What shall I sing?" asked the songman, but he did not wait for an answer. He stood up and began:-- Oh! the trees they are so high, And the trees they are so green! The day is past and gone, sweet love, That you and I have seen. It is cold winter's night, You and I must bide alone, Whilst my pretty lad is young, And is growing. The door was burst open, and Anthony entered, with the water pouring off him. He was blinded with the rain that had beat in his face, as he came toward Cudlip's town. In his arms he bore something like a log. "There!" said he, and cast this object on the table, where it struck and shattered the porcelain punchbowl, sending its last contents over the table and the floor. "There!" shouted Anthony, "will you now believe I have been in the churchyard?" "By the Lord!" shouted Solomon Gibbs, "this is past a joke. This is a mortal insult." That which Anthony had cast on the table was one of the oak posts which marked the head of a grave, square, with a sort of nick and knob on the top. Such a post as was put up by those who could not afford granite tombstones. "It is an insult! It is an outrage!" roared Gibbs, "look there!" He pointed to the inscription on the post--it ran thus:-- RICHARD MALVINE, OF WILLSWORTHY, GENT. CHAPTER IX. WILLSWORTHY. The night of storm was succeeded by a fresh and sparkling morning. The rain hung on every bush, twinkling in prismatic colours. There still rose smoke from the moor, but the wind had shifted, and it now carried the combined steam and smoke away to the east. The surface of Dartmoor was black, as though bruised all over its skin of fine turf. Hardly any gorse bushes were left, and the fire had for more than one year robbed the moor of the glory of golden blossom that crowned it in May, and of the mantle of crimson heath wherewith it was enfolded in July. Luke Cleverdon, Curate of Mary Tavy, walked slowly up the hill from the bridge over the brawling River Tavy towards Willsworthy. He was a tall, spare young man, with large soft brown eyes, and a pale face. His life had not been particularly happy. His parents had died when he was young, and old Cleverdon, of Hall, had taken charge of the boy in a grumblingly, ungracious fashion, resenting the conduct of his brother in dying, and encumbering him with the care of a delicate child. Luke was older than young Anthony, and possibly for a while old Anthony may have thought that, in the event of his wife giving him no son, Hall and his accumulations would devolve on this frail, white-faced, and timid lad. The boy proved to be fond of books, and wholly unsuited for farm life. Consequently he was sent to school, and then to College, and had been ordained by the Bishop of Exeter to the Curacy of Tavy St. Peter, or Petery-Tavy, as it was usually called. His uncle had never shown him affection, his young cousin, Anthony, had been in everything and every way preferred before him, and had been suffered to put him aside and tyrannise over him at his will. Only in Bessie had he found a friend, though hardly an associate, for Bessie's interests were other than those of the studious, thoughtful boy. She was a true Martha, caring for all that pertained to the good conduct of the house, and Luke had the dreamy idealism of Mary. The boy had suffered from contraction of the chest, but had grown out of his extreme delicacy in the fresh air of the country, and living on the abundant and wholesome food provided in a farm. His great passion was for the past. He had so little to charm him in the present, and no pursuit unfolding before him in the future, that he had been thrown as a lad to live in the past, to make the episodes of history his hunting fields. Fortunately for him, Dartmoor was strewn with prehistoric antiquities; upright stones ranged in avenues, in some instances extending for miles, with mysterious circles of unhewn blocks, and with cairns and kistvaens, or stone coffins, constructed of rude slabs of granite. Among these he wandered, imagining strange things, peopling the solitude, and dreaming of the Druids who, he supposed, had solemnised their ritual in these rude temples. Old Cleverdon was angered with the pursuits of his nephew. He utterly despised any pursuit which did not lead to money, and archæology was one which might, and often did, prove expensive, but was not remunerative from a pecuniary point of view. As soon as ever Luke was ordained and established in a curacy, the old man considered that his obligation towards him had ceased, and he left the poor young man to sustain himself on the miserable salary that was paid him by his non-resident Rector. But Luke's requirements were small, and his only grief at the smallness of his stipend was that it obliged him to forego the purchase of books. He was on his way to Willsworthy, four miles from the parish church, at the extreme end of the parish, to pay a pastoral visit to Mistress Malvine, who was an invalid. Before reaching the house he came to a ruined chapel, that had not been used since the Reformation, and there he suddenly lighted upon Urith. His pale face flushed slightly. She was seated on a mass of fallen wall, with her hands in her lap, occupied with her thoughts. To her surprise, on her return late on the preceding night, before the breaking of the storm, her mother had not followed her accustomed practice of covering her with reproaches; and this had somewhat disconcerted Urith. Mrs. Malvine was a woman of not much intelligence, very self-centred, and occupied with her ailments. She had a knack of finding fault with every one, of seeing the demerits of all with whom she had to do; and she was not slow in expressing what she thought. Nor had she the tact to say what she thought and felt, and have done with it, she went on nagging, aggravating, exaggerating, and raking up petty wrongs or errors of judgment into mountains of misdemeanour, so that when at one moment she reproved such as had acted wrongly, she invariably in the next reversed positions, for she rebuked with such extravagance, and enlarged on the fault with such exaggeration as to move the innate sense of proportion and equity in the soul of the condemned, and to rouse the consciousness of injustice in the accused. Such a scene had taken place the previous day, when her mother, aided by the blundering Uncle Solomon, had driven Urith into one of her fits of passion, in which she had run away. When Mistress Malvine discovered what she had done--that she had actually pressed her child beyond endurance, and that the girl had run to the wilderness, where she could no more be traced, when the day and evening passed without her return, the sick woman became seriously alarmed, and faintly conscious that she had transgressed due bounds in the reprimand administered to Urith for rejecting the suit of Anthony Crymes. Consequently, when finally the girl did reappear, her mother controlled herself, and contented herself with inquiring where she had been. Luke Cleverdon knew Urith better than did his cousins; in his rambles on the moor, as a boy, he had often come this way, and had frequently had Urith as his companion. The friendship begun in childhood continued between them now that he was curate in charge of souls, and she was growing into full bloom of girlhood. He now halted, leaning both his hands on his stick, and spoke to her, and asked after her mother. Urith rose to accompany him to the house. "She is worse; I fear I have caused her trouble and distress of mind. I ran away from home yesterday, and might have been lost on the moor, had not"--she hesitated, her cheek assumed a darker tinge, and she said--"had not I fortunately been guided aright to reach home." "That is well," said Luke. "We are all liable thus to stray, and well for us when we find a sure guide, and follow him." For a young man he was gaunt. He was dressed in scrupulously correct clerical costume, a cassock and knee-breeches, white bands, and a three-cornered hat. Urith spoke about the fire on the moor, the bewilderment caused by the smoke, and then of the storm during the night. He stood listening to her and looking at her; it seemed to him that he had not before properly appreciated her beauty. He had wondered at her strange temper--now frank, then sullen and reserved; he did not know the reason why this was now for the first time revealed to him--it was because in the night a change had taken place in the girl, for the first time she had felt the breath of that spirit of love which like magic wakes up the sleeping charms of soul and face, gives them expression and significance. Not, however, now for the first time did the thought cross his mind that, of all women in the world, she was the only one he could and did love. He had long loved her, loved her deeply, but hopelessly, and had fought many a hard battle with himself to conquer a passion which his judgment told him must be subdued. He knew the girl--wild, sullen, undisciplined--the last to mould into the proper mate for a village pastor. Moreover, what was he but a poor curate, without interest with patrons, without means of his own, likely, as far as he could judge, to live and die, a curate. He knew not only that Urith was not calculated to make a pastor's wife, but he knew also that hers was not a character that could consort with his. He was studious, meek, yet firm in his principles; she was hardly tame, of ungovernable temper, and a creature of impulse. No, they could not be happy together even were circumstances to allow of his marrying. He had said all this to himself a thousand times, yet he could not conquer his passion. He held it in control, and Urith, least of all, had a notion of its existence. She exercised on him that magic that is exercised on one character by another the reverse at every point. The calm, self-ruled, in-wrapped nature of Luke looked out at the turbulence or the moroseness of the wild girl with admiration mingled with fear. It exercised over him an inexplicable but overpowering spell. He knew she was not for him, and yet that she should ever belong to another was a thought that he could not bear to entertain. He walked at her side to the house listening to her, but hardly knowing what she said. The glamour of her presence was on him, and he walked as in a cloud of light, that dazzled his eyes and confused his mind. Willsworthy was a very small and quaint old manor house--so small that a modern farmer would despise it. It consisted of a hall and a couple of sitting-rooms and kitchen on the ground floor, with a projecting porch, with pavise over it. The windows looked into the little court that was entered through old granite gates, capped with balls, and was backed by a cluster of bold sycamores and beech, in which was a large rookery. Mrs. Malvine was in the hall. She had been brought down. She was unable to walk, and she sat in her armchair by the hearth. The narrow mullioned lights did not afford much prospect, and what they did reveal was only the courtyard and stables that fronted the entrance to the house. To the back of the house was, indeed, a walled garden; but it was void of flowers and suffered from the neglect which allowed everything about Willsworthy to sink into disrepair and barrenness. It grew a few pot-herbs, half-choked by weeds. There was no gardener kept; but a labourer, when he could be spared off the farm, did something in a desultory fashion to the garden--always too late to be of use to it. "Peace be to this house!" said Luke, and passed in at the door. He found that, for all his good wish, nothing at the moment was farther removed from Willsworthy, than peace, Solomon Gibbs had slept long and heavily after his carouse, and had but just come down the stairs, and had just acted the inconsiderate part of telling his sister of the outrage committed by Anthony Cleverdon on her husband's grave. The poor widow was in an hysterical condition of effervescent wrath and lamentation. The story was repeated, when Luke and Urith appeared, in a broken, incoherent fashion--the widow telling what she knew, with additions of her own, Solomon throwing in corrections. Urith turned chill in all her veins. Her heart stood still, and she stood looking at her uncle with stony eyes. Anthony Cleverdon, who had behaved to her with such kindness--Anthony, who had held her in his arms, had carried her through the fire, who had looked into her face with such warmth in his eyes--he thus insult her father's name and her family! It was impossible, incredible. Luke paced the little hall with his arms folded behind his back. He had heard nothing of this at Peter Tavy when he left it. He hoped there was some mistake--some exaggeration. What could have been Anthony's object? Mr. Solomon Gibbs's account was certainly sufficiently involved and obscure to allow of the suspicion that there was exaggeration, for Mr. Solomon's recollection of the events was clouded by the punch imbibed overnight. But the fact that the headpiece of the grave had been brought to the tavern by his cousin could not be got over. Luke's heart was filled with commiseration for the distress of the widow, and pain for Urith, and with bitterness against Anthony. He had nothing but platitudes to say--nothing that could pacify the excited woman, who went from one convulsion into another. Suddenly the door was thrust open and in, without a knock, without permission, came Anthony himself--the first time he had crossed that threshold. Urith's arms fell to her side, and her fists became clenched. How dare he appear before them, after having committed such an offence? Mistress Malvine held up her hands before her face to hide the sight of him from her eyes. "I have come," said Anthony, "I have come because of that bit of tomfoolery last night." Luke saw that his cousin was approaching the widow, and he stepped between them. "For shame of you, 'Tony!" he said, in quivering voice. "You ought never to show your face after what has been done--at all events here." "Get aside," answered Anthony roughly, and thrust him out of the way. "Madame Malvine," said he, planting himself before the hysterical widow, "listen to me. I am very sorry and ashamed for what I did. It was in utter ignorance. I was dared to go to the churchyard last night when the ghosts walk, and Fox said no one would believe me that I had been there unless I brought back some token. We had all been drinking. The night was pitch-dark. I got up the avenue under the trees, and pulled up the stake nearest to the church porch I could feel. Whose it was, as Heaven is my witness, I did not know. I was wrong in doing it; but I was dared to do something of the kind." "You must have known that my brother-in-law lay on the right-hand side of the porch," said Solomon Gibbs. "How should I know?" retorted Anthony. "I am not sexton, to tell where every one lies. And on such a pitch-black night too, I could find my way only by feeling." "Your offence," said Luke, sternly, "is not against this family only, but against God. You have been guilty of sacrilege." "I will ask you not to interfere," answered Anthony. "With God I will settle the matter in my own conscience. I am come here to beg forgiveness of Mistress Malvine and of Urith." He turned sharply round to the latter, and spoke with a deep flush in his cheek, and with outstretched arm. "Urith! you will believe me! You will forgive me! With my best heart's blood I would wipe out the offence. I never, never dreamed of injuring and paining you. It was a misadventure, and my cursed folly in sitting drinking at the Hare and Hounds, and of allowing myself to be taunted to a mad act by Fox Crymes, who is my evil genius." "It was Fox Crymes who urged you to do it?" asked Urith, her rigidity ceasing, and the colour returning to her cheeks and lips. "He goaded me to the act, but he had nothing to do with my bringing your father's headpiece to the tavern--that was the devil's own witchcraft." "Mother," said Urith, "do you hear; it was Fox Crymes's doing. On him the blame falls." "You believe me, Urith--I know you must! You know I would not injure you, offend you, grieve you in any way. You must know that, Urith--you do in your heart know it; assure your mother of that. Here, give me your hand in pledge that you believe--that you forgive me." She gave it him at once. "Now see, Mistress Malvine, Urith is my testimony--Good God! what is the matter?" Mrs. Malvine had fallen back in her chair, and was speechless. CHAPTER X. LUKE CLEVERDON. Luke Cleverdon left the house. He could no longer endure to remain in it. He saw the flash in Urith's eye as she put her hand in that of Anthony in answer to his appeal. He had seen sufficient to shake and wring his heart with inexpressible pain. He walked hastily down the hill, but stopped at the ruined chapel, and entered there. The old broken altar lay there, one of its supports fallen. Luke seated himself on a block of granite, and rested his arm against the altar-slab, and laid his head on his arm. That he had long loved Urith he knew but too well for his peace of mind, but never before had his passion for her so flamed up as at that moment when she took his cousin's hand. What had occurred on the previous day on the moor was repeated again; a smouldering fire had suddenly caught a great tuft or bush, almost a tree, of gorse, and had mounted in a pillar of flame. Was Anthony in all things to be preferred to him? In the house at Hall, Luke had submitted without demur to be set aside on all occasions, for Anthony was the son, and Luke but the nephew, of the old man; Hall would one day be the inheritance of Anthony, and in Hall the son of old Anthony's brother had no portion. But now that he had left his uncle's house, now that he was independent, was Anthony still to stand in his way, to lay his hand on and claim the one flower that Luke loved, but which he dared not put forth his hand to pluck? Timid and humble-minded as Luke was, he had never considered that he could win the affections of any girl, leastways of one such as Urith. But it was a delight to him to see her, to watch the unfolding of her mind, and character, and beauty, to know that she was a wild moor-flower, regarded by no one else but himself, sought by none, or, if sought, rejecting such seekers with disdain. He was so simple and single in his aims, that it would have well contented him to merely admire and humbly love Urith, never revealing the state of his heart, asking of her nothing but friendship and regard. But--when, all at once, he saw another stand beside her, take her hand, and seize on her heart with bold temerity, and by his boldness win it--that was too much for Luke to endure without infinite pain, and a battle with himself. If he had formed any ideal picture of the future, it was the harmless one of himself as the friend, the gentle, unassuming, unasserting friend of Urith, suffered by her, after some little resistance, to divert her headlong character, brighten the gloomy depths of her strange mind. He knew how greatly she needed an adviser and guide, and his highest ambition was so to help her that she might become a noble and generous woman. That he had not formed this hope out of pure pastoral zeal he knew, for he who taught others to search their own consciences, not lightly, and after the manner of dissemblers with God, had explored his own heart, and measured all its forces; but till this moment he had never realized that there was a selfishness and jealousy in his love, a selfishness which would have kept back Urith from knowing and loving anyone, and a jealousy intense and bitter against the man who obtained that place in Urith's heart to which he himself laid no claim, but which he hoped would be forever empty. He tried to pray, but was unable to do more than move his lips and form words. Prayers did not appease the ardor, lessen the anguish within. As he looked up at the moor he saw now that it was still smoking. The storm of rain in the night had not quenched the fires, nor could the dews of Divine consolation put out that which blazed within his breast. He had never envied Anthony till now. When he had been at school, he had been but scantily furnished with pocket-money. There had been many little things he would have liked to buy, but could not, having so small a sum at his disposal; on the other hand, Anthony could at all times command his father's purse, had spent money as he liked, had wasted it wantonly, but Luke had accepted the difference with which they had been treated without resentment; yet, now that Anthony had stepped in between him and Urith, something very much like hatred formed like gall in his heart. He tried to think that he was angry with his cousin for having given Mistress Malvine pain, with having been guilty of sacrilege, but he was too truthful in his dealings with himself to admit that these were the springs of the bitterness within. Suddenly he looked up with a start, and saw Bessie before him, observing him with sympathetic distress. His pale forehead was covered with sweat-drops, and his long, thin hands were trembling. They had been clasped, the one on the other, on the altar-stone, and Luke's brow had rested on them, his face downward; thus he had not seen Bessie when she approached. "What is it, Luke?" she said, in kindly tones, full of commiseration. "Are you ill, dear cousin?" He looked at her somewhat vacantly for a moment, gathering his senses together. As in bodily pain, after a paroxysm, the mind remains distraught for a moment, and is unable to throw itself outward, so it is with mental pain to an even greater degree. As Bessie spoke, Luke seemed to be brought, or to bring himself, by an effort, out of a far-off world into that in which Bessie stood surrounded by the old chapel walls, hung with hartstongue leaves, still green, untouched by winter frost. "What are you suffering from?" she asked, and seated herself at his side. "It is nothing, cousin," he answered, and shook his head to shake away the thoughts that had held him. "It is indeed something," she said, gently; "I know it is; I see it in your white and streaming face." She took his hand in hers. "I know it from your cold hand. Luke, you have had no one but me to talk to of your troubles in boyhood, and I had none but you to tell of my little girlish vexations. Shall we be the same now, and confide in each other?" O, false Bessie! knowing she was false, as she said this. The keen eye of her Aunt Magdalen had seen what Bessie supposed was hidden from every one, that she loved her cousin Luke. But to Luke would that secret assuredly never be entrusted. It was to be a one-sided confidence. "Are you ill? Are you in bodily pain?" she asked. He shook his head--not now to shake away thought, but in negative. He passed his disengaged hand and sleeve over his brow, and was at once composed. "I am sorry you saw me like this, Bessie. I thought no one would come in here." "I have come to see Urith, after last night. I promised her I would come some time, and I thought that I would ask if she were quite well, for the day was to her long and trying." "Do not go on there now," said Luke gently, releasing his hand. "There has something happened. You have not heard, but it will be noised everywhere shortly, and the shock has been too much for Mistress Malvine; she has fallen into a fit." "Then I had better go on, cousin; I may be of help to Urith." "You have not heard----" Then he told her of what Anthony had done the preceding night. Bessie was greatly disturbed; the act was so profane, and so inconsiderate. The inconsiderateness might, indeed, partially excuse the act, but hardly redeem it from sacrilege, and was certain to arouse general and deep indignation; the inconsiderateness showed an unbalanced mind, wanting in ordinary regard for the feelings of others. "And yet," said Elizabeth, "this is not what has made you so unhappy. You have not told me all." Luke remained silent, looking before him. "Bessie," said he, "has it never been observed by you that Anthony had an affection for Urith?" "Never," answered Elizabeth; "I do not see how there could have sprung up such a liking. They hardly ever can have spoken to each other before yesterday, though they may have met; as, for instance, seen each other in church. I never heard Anthony name her." "He does not tell you what he has in his heart." "I did not believe that he had any particular regard for any one. He has not been a person to seek the company of young maidens; he has affected to utterly scorn them, and has held himself aloof from their company." "I think--I am sure that he likes her," said Luke slowly. Then Bessie turned her face and looked at him steadily. "Oh, Luke! Luke!" she exclaimed, and there was pain in her tone. "I have read your heart. Now I know all." And now that she had discovered his secret, Luke was glad to be able to pour out his heart into her sympathetic ear, to tell her how that he did love Urith, but also how that he had never dreamed of making her his wife. "My wife!" said he, with a sad smile; "that is not a name I shall ever be able to give to any woman. It is not one that any woman would care for me to call her by." Bessie listened as he talked, without a sign in her face of other emotion than pity for him. Not in the slightest did she raise a fold of the veil that concealed her heart, the rather did she wrap it round her the more closely. After a while Luke rose relieved. He took Bessie's hand in his, and said, "Now, dear cousin, you must make me a promise. When you have any trouble at heart, you will come and tell me." She pressed his hand and raised her eyes timidly to his, but made no other answer. They walked together down the hill, and then, at the bridge, parted. When they parted, Bessie's eyes filled with tears. But the heart of Luke was relieved, and he walked homewards encouraged to fight out the battle with himself, and overcome the jealousy with which he began to regard his cousin Anthony. CHAPTER XI. THE GLOVES AGAIN. Anthony remained at Willsworthy. He had behaved exceedingly badly, had wounded the good lady of the house where most susceptible to pain, and so acutely that she had fallen into unconsciousness; yet he remained on. He was accustomed to consult his own wishes, not those of others, and to put on one side all considerations of expediency and good feeling, where his own caprice was concerned. Urith and the servant wench had carried Madame Malvine to her room, and Solomon Gibbs had dashed off to the stables to get his horse, so as to summon the surgeon from Tavistock. Anthony was alone in the little hall, and he leaned his elbows on the window-sill and looked out. There was nothing for him to see; nothing to interest him in the barn wall opposite, which was all that was commanded by the window; so he turned his eyes on a peacock butterfly that had hybernated in the hall, and now, with return of spring, shook off sleep and fluttered against the leaded panes, bruising its wings in its efforts to escape into the outer air. There were no flowers in the window; nothing at all save some dead flies and a pair of lady's riding-gloves folded together. Anthony looked round the hall. It was low, not above seven feet high, unceiled, with black oak unmoulded rafters. There was a large granite fireplace, no sculptured oak mantelpiece over it; nothing save a plain shelf; and above it some arms, a couple of pistols, a sword, a pike or two, and a crossbow. The walls were not panelled save only by the window, where was the table, and where the family dined. The walls elsewhere were plainly white-washed, and had not even that decoration that was affected at the tavern--ballads with quaint woodcuts pasted against them. There was no deer park attached to the house; there never had been even a paddock for deer, consequently there were no antlers in the hall. Near the window was a recess in the wall over a granite pan or bowl partly built into the wall. At first sight it might be taken as a basin in which to wash the hands; but it had no pipe from it to convey the fouled water away. Such pans are found in many old western farmhouses and manor halls, and their purport is almost forgotten. They were formerly employed for the scalding of the milk and the making of clouted cream. Red-hot charcoal was placed in these basins, and the pans of milk planted on the cinders. The pans remained there, the coals being fanned by the kitchen maid, till the cream was formed on the surface, and in this cream-coat the ring of the bottom of the pan indicated itself on the surface. This was the token that the milk had yielded up all its quotient of fatty matter. Thereupon the pan was removed to the cool dairy. The presence of the granite cream-producer showed that the hall served a double purpose: it was not only a sitting- and dining-room, but one in which some of the dairy processes were carried on. Moreover, near the entrance-door was what was called the "well-room," entered from the hall. This was a small lean-to apartment on one side of the porch, paved with cobble-stones, in which was a stone trough always brimming with crystal moorland water, conducted into it from outside, and, running off, was carried away outside again. As this was the sole source whence all the water-supply required for the house was obtained--for dairy, for kitchen, and for table--it may be imagined that the hall was a passage-room, traversed all day long by the servant-wenches with pails, and pans, and jugs. Such an arrangement was suitable enough in the time before the Wars of the Roses, when Willsworthy was built; but its inconvenience became apparent with the improved social conditions of the Tudor reigns, and in the time of Elizabeth an addition had been made to the house, so that it now possessed two small parlours looking into the garden at the back; but these Anthony had not seen. In these some attempt was made at ornament. A manor house before the Tudor epoch rarely consisted of more than a hall, a lady's bower, kitchen, and cellars, on the ground-floor; Willsworthy had been enlarged by the addition of a second parlour, with the object of abandoning the Hall, to become a sort of second kitchen. But the family had been poor, and continued in its ancestral mode of life. The second parlour had its shutters shut, and was never used, and Madame Malvine sat, as had her husband, and the owners of Willsworthy before them, in the Hall, and endured the traffic through it, and the slops on the stone floor from the overflowing pails. The paving of the Hall was of granite blocks, rudely fitted together, and was strewn with dry brown bracken. We marvel at the discomfort of ancient chairs, because the seats are so high from the ground. We forget that the footstool was an attendant inseparable from the chair, when ladies sat in these stone-floored halls. They were necessary adjuncts, holding their feet out of the draught, and off the stone. Small and mean as the manor house would appear in one's eyes now, yet it was of sufficient consequence in early days to have its chapel, a privilege only accorded to the greater houses, and wealthiest gentry. The chapel was now in ruins. It had not been used since the Reformation. Anthony became impatient of waiting. He would not leave, and he was vexed, because he was kept loitering at the window without some one to speak to. He was tired of looking at the butterfly battering its wings to pieces, so he took up the gloves and unrolled them--a pretty pair of fine leather ladies' gloves, reaching to the elbow, and laced with silk ribbon and silver tags. Elegant gloves; more handsome, Anthony thought, than suited the usual style of Urith's dress. He had nothing else to do but turn them inside out, unfold, and refold them. As he was thus engaged, he thought over an interview he had had that morning with his father. With all his faults, and they were many, the young man was open and direct, and he had told his father what he had done the night before. To his surprise, directly old Cleverdon heard that he had pulled up Richard Malvine's head-post, and thrown it on the tavern table before the topers, he burst into an exultant laugh, and rubbed his hands together gleefully. When, moreover, Anthony expressed his intention of going to Willsworthy to offer an apology, the old man had vehemently and boisterously dissuaded him from so doing. "What are the Malvines?" he had said; "a raggle-taggle, beggarly crew. I won't have it said that a son of mine veiled his bonnet to them. That was a fair estate once, but first one portion and then another portion has been sold away, and now there is but enough to starve on left. Pshaw! let them endure and pocket the affront. If they try to resent it, and prosecute you in court of law, I will throw in my money-bag against their moleskin purse, and see which cause then has most weight in the scales of justice." The intemperance of his father's conduct and words had on young Anthony precisely the opposite effect to that intended. It opened the young man's eyes to the gravity of his conduct. Without answering his father he went to Willsworthy, leaving the old man satisfied that he had overborne his son's resolution to make amend for his offence. Whether this would have happened had not Urith produced so strong an impression on his heart the previous day, and enlisted him on her side, may well be questioned; for the visit of apology involved an acknowledgment of wrong-doing which was not readily made by Anthony. He was thinking over, and wondering at, his father's conduct, when Urith entered the hall, and expressed surprise at seeing him. "I tarried," said he, "to know how it fared with your mother." Urith replied, somewhat stiffly, "The shock of hearing what you have done has given her a fit." "She has had them before." "Oh, yes. She cannot endure violent emotion, and your behaviour----" "I have said I am sorry; what can I do more? Tell me, and I will do it. The stake was rotten, and broke off. If you will, I will have a stone slab placed on the grave at my own cost." Urith flushed dark. "That I refuse in my mother's name and in mine. We will not be beholden to you--to any stranger--in such a matter; and after what has been done, certainly not to you." Anthony stamped with impatience. "I have told you I am sorry. I never made an apology to any one in my life before. I supposed that an apology offered was at once frankly accepted. I have told you it was all a mistake. I intended no ill. It was a pitch-black night--I could not see what I laid hold of. My act was, if you will, an act of folly--but have you never committed acts of folly? You ran away from home yesterday. Did not that trouble your mother, and occasion greater perturbation of feeling?" Urith looked down. "Yes," she said, "one foolery followed another. First came mine, then yours. The two combined were too much for my mother to endure." "We are a couple of fools; be it so," said Anthony. "Now that is settled. Young folks' brains are not ripened, but are like the pith in early hazel nuts. It is not their fault if they act foolishly. That is settled. You believed my account. I never lie, though I be a fool." "Yes, I have accepted your account, and I, in part, forgive you." "In part! By Heaven, that is a motley forgiveness--a fool's forgiveness. I must have a complete one. Come here. Come to this window. Why should I shout across the hall to you, and you stand with your back turned to me, as though we were on opposite sides of the Cleave?" He spoke with as much imperiousness as if he were in his own house, commanded her as though he expected of her as ready submission as was accorded him by his sister. "What do you want with me? I do not care to go near a man subject to such outbreaks of folly." "You are one to declaim!" said Anthony, scornfully. "You who run away, and bite your knuckles till they are raw." Urith's brow darkened. "You might have spared me that taunt," she said; "you would have done so had you been generous." "Come over here," commanded Anthony. "How can I measure my words when I have to throw them at you from a furlong off? It is like a game of quoits when one has not strid the distance, and knows not what force to employ." Urith without further demur came to him. This was a new experience to her to be addressed in tones of command; her mother scolded and found fault, and gave, indeed, orders which she countermanded next moment, so that Urith had grown up with the habit of following her own desires, and disregarding the contradictory or impossible injunctions laid on her. "Come here, Urith," said Anthony; "I do not see why we have been such strangers heretofore. Why do you never come to Hall?" "Because Hall has never come to Willsworthy." "But my sister; you would like Bessie--I am sure of that." "I like her now." "Then you will come and see her at Hall?" "When she has first been to see me, and has asked me to return the visit." "She shall do that at once." "She has promised to come here. She was very kind to me last night." "She is a good creature," said Anthony, condescendingly. "And no fool," threw in Urith. "I don't say she is clever, but what brains she has are full ripe. She is considerably older than I am." To this Urith made no response. Then Anthony took up the gloves, drew them out, and passed them under the ribbon of his hat. "I was your true knight yesterday, achieving your deliverance, and every true knight must wear either his lady's colours or some pledge to show that she has accepted him as her knight. That, I have heard say, is how some crests were given or taken. Now I have assumed mine--your gloves. I take them as my right, and shall wear them in your name." "They are not mine," said Urith; "you will do me a favour if you will take them for me to her to whom they of right belong, and say that I return them to her. She lost them last night, and I found them. I never go near Kilworthy--never have an opportunity of seeing her--and her brother I am not likely to see. Therefore I beseech you to convey them to her from me." "To whom? Not Julian?" "Yes, to Julian." Anthony muttered an oath. "I will take them from my hat and throw them under foot," he said, angrily. "I did not ask for a favour of Julian Crymes, but for something of yours, Urith." "You did not ask any one for a favour," she replied, gravely. "You took the gloves unasked." He pulled them from his hat, and was about to cast them back on the window-sill, when Urith arrested his hand. "No," she said; "I asked you a favour, and you will not be so discourteous a knight as to refuse it me." "You take me as your knight!" exclaimed Anthony, with a flash of pleasure from his eyes that met hers, and before which hers fell. "My errand boy," she said, with a smile, "my foot-page to carry messages from me. You will take the gloves to Julian Crymes." "Not in my hat, but in my belt--thus," said Anthony, passing them under his girdle. Then, after a pause, he said, "You have given me nothing." "Yes, I have." "What? Only another maid's gloves?" "Something else. My forgiveness." "Full?" "Yes--full. Go now, and take the gloves." "I shall return another day for something of your own." Still he loitered; then suddenly looked up, with a laugh. "Mistress! What is your livery? What is your colour?" "My colour! Yellow--yellow as the marigold, for I am jealous." "Then, here is my hat. You shall put your badge in it." "Not till I admit your service." "You have--you have given me a commission." Urith laughed. "Very well. There are marsh marigolds in the brook. You shall have them." CHAPTER XII. AND AGAIN. Anthony went home to Hall. He was on foot--if he must go to Kilworthy and return the gloves to Julian Crymes, he would ride. They hung in his girdle. His hat was gay with marsh marigolds. A sudden, overwhelming intoxication of happiness had come over Urith. She was loved, and loved in return. Her heart had hitherto known no love, or only that which was rendered as a duty to an exacting and trying mother. The world to her had become wider, brighter, the sky higher. The condition in which her mother was forgotten for a moment, for a moment only, as with fluttering heart and trembling fingers, and pulses that leaped and then were still, she picked the marigolds and put them in his cap. Then he was gone, and she returned at once to her mother's room. Anthony wore his hat ajaunt as he strode into the yard of Hall, and when he saw his sister Bessie in the door, he called to her to come to him, to save himself the trouble of taking a dozen steps to her out of his way to the stable. She obeyed the summons at once. "Bess!" said he, "I have made a promise for thee. I have been to Willsworthy, and have said that thou wilt go there to-day." "Oh, Anthony!" said Elizabeth, in return. "How could you do as you have done concerning the headpiece?" "There, there! that is finished and done for. I sent it back the same night. I called up the sexton to help me. But the matter is at an end, and I will not have it stirred again. Do you hear, you must go to Willsworthy to-day. I have passed my word." "I cannot, Tony. I was on my way there when I met Luke, and he told me what you had done. Then for shame I could not go on, but returned home." "I went there and made my peace," said Anthony. "Do not blow a drop of soap into a vast globe. It is all over and mended. I said I was sorry, and that was the end of the matter." "But Luke told me that Mistress Malvine has had a fit because of it." "She has had the like before, and has recovered; she will be herself again to-morrow--and, it matters not! sickly and aged folk must expect these accidents. You shall go to Willsworthy to-day." "I cannot indeed, brother, for my father has forbidden it." "Forbidden you going there?" "Yes, brother, when I came back, he asked where I had been, and when I told him he was wrath, and bade me never go there again. He would not, he said, have it appear that he was begging off from the consequences of what you had done." "I have begged off. That is to say--I explained it was all a mistake. I meant no wrong, and so it is covered up and passed over." "That may be, Tony, but against my father's command I cannot go." "It is such folly," said Anthony, "I will go see him myself. You shall go there. I told Urith that I would send you. My father shall not make my word empty." He went by her. She caught his arm, and said, in a low tone, "Brother, why do you make so much now of Urith Malvine? And you treating her as your true love?" "True love!" repeated he, scornfully. "That is the way with all you woman-kind. If one but sees a handsome girl, and speaks two words to her, at once you arrive at the notion that we have chosen each other as true lovers, passed rings and promises, and wished for a marriage licence. Let me go by." He walked into the house, and to his father's room, which he entered without announcing himself. The old man sat by the fire. His account-books were on the table, at his side. The fire was of turf and wood. "What is this, father?" began Anthony, in his imperious fashion, "That you have forbidden Bess to go to see the Malvine family, and the Madame is ill, had a falling fit this morning." "It is not for us to make a scrape and a cringe to the like of them," answered the old man, raising himself in his chair by a hand on each arm, as he had sunk together in the seat. "I take it the Cleverdons need not stoop to that beggar brood." "I did wrong," said Anthony, shortly. "And I have been to Willsworthy, and said I was sorry. I offered to put up a monument of stone to Master Richard Malvine at our own cost." "You did!" "Yes, father, I did, I would do it at my own expense." "You have not a penny but what I allow you, and not one penny would I hand out for such a purpose." "Then it is as well that my offer was refused." "I bade you forbear going to that house when you spake of it this morning." "You advised me not to go; but my conscience spoke louder than your voice, father, and I went." "How were you received?" asked old Cleverdon, with a malignant leer. Anthony shrugged his shoulders: "The old Madam fell into a fit at the sight of me. There was also Luke there." "Oh, Luke!" said Anthony senior, with a sneer. "He may go there; but no son or daughter of mine. We do not consort with beggars. That is enough. You have been. Do not go again. If they bring the matter into a court of law I am well content--more than content, for it will bring them to utter beggary, and they will have, maybe, to sell, and I will buy them out." He turned to the fire and laughed at the thought. Then, turning his face round again over his pointed shoulder, he said, in an altered tone, "I am glad you are in here; you do not often give me a chance of a talk, and now I wish to speak with you of serious matters. You are getting to be a man, Tony--quite a man--and must think of settling in life. It is high time for us to have the arrangement with Julian Crymes----" "What arrangement?" "Oh, you know. It has been an understood thing. You have not been ignorant, though you may affect to know nothing about it. Fine property hers! All the Kilworthy estate after her father's death. He has it for his life. But there is money. A good deal, I doubt not, will go with her hand at once. If we had that we could clear the mortgage off Hall." Anthony frowned, and folded his arms. "I am against delaying marriage till late," continued old Cleverdon; "so I propose that you have a talk with Julian at once, and get her to say when it is to be. Some time this year; but not in May--May marriages are unlucky." The old man chuckled, and said, "I reckon your honeymoon you will find a harvest moon." "I have no fancy for Julian Crymes," said Anthony; "I never had." "Pshaw! Of course you have a fancy for Kilworthy. It will fit on with Hall bravely; and so the old Glanville property will come together all in time to the Cleverdons." "I am not going to take Julian for the sake of Kilworthy. That you may be assured of," said Anthony. "Oh, yes, you will; but I dare say you want to keep out of chains a little longer. If so, I do not press you. Nevertheless, in the end it comes to this--you must take Julian and her estate." "I will have neither one nor the other," said Anthony. "I do not want to marry--when I do I will please myself." "You will consult my wishes and my plans," said the father. "But there, I have said enough. Turn the thing over in your head; the girl likes you, small blame to her--you are the bravest cockrell in the district, and can crow loud enough to make all others keep silence." "I will never take Julian," again said Anthony. "It is of no use, father, urging this; she has been thrown at me, and has thrown herself at me. I may have prattled and laughed with her, but I never cared much for her. I shall never take but the maid that pleases me; I give you assurance of this, father." "Well, well, that will suffice. I was too early in speaking. Take your time; in the end you will see through my spectacles. Now I am busy; you may go." Anthony left. He was irritated at his father for endeavoring to force him to marry Julian Crymes, irritated with him for his depreciatory tone when speaking of the Malvines, irritated with him for not allowing his sister to go to Willsworthy. At the present moment he felt very reluctant to go to Kilworthy and see Julian, to return to her the pair of gloves. After she had been thrust on him and he had declined to think of her, he felt out of humour for a visit to her; he had lost command of himself, in his annoyance, and might speak with scant courtesy. "If I could light on Fox I would give him the gloves," said Anthony, as he mounted the horse. He rode out on a down near Hall, and there drew rein, uncertain whether he would go direct to Kilworthy or not. "No," said he, "I will ride first to Peter Tavy and see that the head-post of Master Malvine be secure. I will give the sexton something to have the foot scarfed, that it may not fall over or give way. After that I can go to Kilworthy." So he turned his horse's head in the direction of the inn, the Hare and Hounds at Cudliptown, where he would fall into the road to Peter Tavy. In his irritation at what his father had proposed, he forgot about the bunch of flowers in his hat. He left them there disregarded, fretting in his mind at his father's attempt to force him to a union that was distasteful to him. He liked Julian well enough; she was a handsome girl. He had admired her, he had played the lover--played without serious intent, for his heart had not been touched--but now he entertained an aversion from her, an aversion that was not old; it dated but from the previous day, but it had ripened whilst his father spoke to him of her. Anthony was this day like a charged electric battery, and any one that came near him received a shock. His father had seen that the mood of the young man was not one in which he would bear to be contradicted; the old man was aware that his son would discharge his feelings against him quite as readily as against another, and he, therefore, had the discretion not to press a point that irritated Anthony, and was like to provoke an outburst. And now, as Anthony rode over the down, past many old tumuli covering the dead of prehistoric times, he had no eyes for the beauty of the scene that opened before him, eyes for no antiquities that he passed, ears for none of the fresh and pleasant voices of early spring that filled the air; he was occupied with his own thoughts, grumbling and muttering over the matters of dissatisfaction that had risen up and crossed him. He had apologised for the outrage committed on Richard Malvine's grave, but he could not excuse himself of having occasioned a shock to Mistress Malvine. He was angry with his father for the slighting manner in which he spoke of the Malvines, for having forbidden Bessie going to them, for having endeavoured to force him into an engagement with Julian. He would please himself, murmured Anthony to himself; in such a matter as this he would brook no dictation. His liking for Urith was too young to have assumed any shape and force, and he had no thoughts of its leading any further. Such as it was, it had been fed and stimulated by opposition--the interference on the moor, the opposition of his father, the difficulties put in his way by his own act--but then Anthony was just the man to be settled in a course by encountering opposition therein. He crossed the river, reached Cudliptown, and saw the surgeon's horse hitched up outside the tavern. The doctor had been to Willsworthy, and had halted at the Hare and Hounds for refreshment on his way home. Anthony at once dismounted. He would go in there and ask tidings of the health of the widow. He fastened up his horse and entered the tavern, in his usual swaggering, defiant manner, with his hat on, and a frown on his brow. He found in the inn, not the surgeon only, but James Cudlip, and to his surprise Anthony Crymes. The relationship in which Anthony Cleverdon stood to Fox was intimate but not cordial. They had known each other and had associated together since they were children; they had been at school together; they hunted, and rabbited, and hawked together. Anthony was not one who could endure to be alone, and as he had no other companion of his age and quality with whom to associate, he took up with Fox rather than be solitary. But when together they were ever bickering. Fox's bitter tongue made Anthony start, and with his slow wit he was incapable of other retort than threat. Moreover, from every one else young Anthony received flattery; only from Fox did he get gibes. He bore in his heart a simmering grudge against him that never boiled up into open quarrel. Fox took a malicious delight in tormenting his comrade, whom he both envied and disliked. That Anthony Crymes had paid his addresses to Urith, and had been refused, was unknown to Anthony Cleverdon, to whom Crymes confided no secrets of his heart or ambition. When Anthony caught sight of Fox at the table, he checked the question relative to the condition of Madame Malvine that rose to his lips, and came over to the settle. "Why! what a May Duke have we here!" exclaimed Fox Crymes, pointing with a laugh at Anthony's cap. "What is the meaning of this decoration?" Instead of replying, Anthony called for ale. "And wearing his mistress' gloves as well!" shouted Crymes. "They are not my mistress' gloves," answered Anthony, hastily, and in a tone of great irritation. "If you would know, Fox, whose they are, then I tell you, they belong to your sister." "How came you by them? And wherefore wear them?" "I was on the lookout for you, Fox, to return them to you for her. I do not want them. She lost them overnight." "And where did you find them? On the moor?" "They were given to me by the finder. Will that satisfy you? I will answer no more questions." Crymes saw that Anthony Cleverdon was in an irascible mood--such a mood as gave him special opportunities of vexing Anthony and amusing himself. "And now about your posie of golden cups?" he asked tauntingly. "I said I would answer no more questions." "It is not necessary. I know very well where you have been." "I have been home--at Hall," said Anthony, going over to the table from the settle, where he felt himself uneasy with all eyes fixed on him. He pulled the gloves out of his belt and laid them before him, and drew them their full length on the table, then smoothed them with his finger. He wished he had not entered the inn; his face was clouded, and his muscles twitched, Crymes enjoying his evident annoyance. He sat on the further side of the table, with his mug of beer by him. "I know very well where you have been," said he again, with his twinkling, malicious eyes fixed on Anthony. "So was I the day before yesterday; and also came off with a posie--but a better one than yours." "It is a lie!" burst from the irritated young man, starting. "Urith never----" Then he checked himself, as Fox broke into ironical laughter at the success of his essay to extract from Anthony the secret of his bunch of marigolds. Anthony saw that he had been trapped, and became more chafed and hot than before. "Do you know what she meant by giving you those flowers?" asked Crymes, and paused with his eyes on the man he was baiting. Anthony answered with a growl. "You know what they are called by the people?" said Crymes. "Drunkards. And, when you were presented with that posie, it was as much as to say that none save one to whom such a term applied would have acted as you had done last night by your offence against a dead man's grave, and by adding insult to injury by your visiting the widow and child to-day." The blood poured into Anthony's face and dazzled his eyes. A malevolent twitch of the muscles of the mouth showed how Fox enjoyed tormenting him. "Go again a little later in the season, and Urith will find another, and even more appropriate, adornment for your hat--a coxcomb!" Yeoman Cudlip and Surgeon Doble laughed aloud, so did the serving wench who had just brought in Anthony's ale. The young fellow, stung beyond endurance, sprang to his feet with a snort--he could not speak--and struck Fox across the face with the gloves. Crymes uttered a cry of pain and rage, and with his hand to his eye drew the hunting-knife from his belt, and struggled out of his place to get at Anthony. The surgeon and yeoman threw themselves in his way and disarmed him, the girl screamed and fled to the kitchen. "He has blinded me!" gasped Fox, as he sank back into a seat. "I cannot see." Anthony was alarmed. Water was brought, and the face of Crymes washed. One of the silver tags of the glove had struck and injured the right eyeball. CHAPTER XIII. WIDOW PENWARNE. There are epochs in the lives of most men when a sad fatality seems to dog their steps and turn athwart all that they do. Anthony had come to such an epoch suddenly since that ride and walk along the Lyke-Way. He had allowed himself to be taunted into a foolish visit to the churchyard on St. Mark's Eve, when there he had desecrated a grave, then he had thrown Madame Malvine into a fit, had disagreed with his father, and now had injured the eye of his comrade. Anthony's anger cooled down the moment he was aware of what he had done, but this was not a piece of mischief that could be put to rights at once, like the replacing of the headpiece of the grave. His presence in the room was a distraction and cause of irritation to the man he had hurt, now in the hands of the surgeon, and he deemed it advisable to leave the inn, mount his horse, and ride away to Peter Tavy Church, where he desired to have a word with the sexton and carpenter relative to the old head-post of Malvine's grave. Peter Tavy Church, or the Church of St. Peter on the Tavy, is a grey granite edifice, mottled with lichen, with moorstone pinnacles, and a cluster of fine old trees in the yard. Externally the church is eminently picturesque, it was beautiful within at the time of our tale, in spite of the havoc wrought in the period of the Directory; of more recent times it has undergone a so-called restoration which has destroyed what remained of charm. For a long time it has been matter of felicitation that the old opprobrium attaching to the men of the West Country of being wreckers has ceased to apply; the inhumanity of destroying vessels and their crews for the sake of the spoil that could be got from them has certainly ceased. But we are mistaken if we suppose that wrecking as a profession or pastime has come to an end altogether. The complaint has been driven inwards, or rather, wrecking is no longer practised on ships, which the law has taken under its protection, but on the defenceless parish churches. The havoc that has been wrought in our churches within the last thirty years is indescribable. In Cornwall, with ruthless and relentless activity, the parish churches have, with rare exceptions, been attacked one after another, and robbed of all that could charm and interest, and have been left cold and hideous skeletons. I know nothing that more reminds one (speaking ecclesiologically) of the desert strewn with the bones of what were once living and beautiful creatures, scraped of every particle of flesh, the marrow picked out of their bones, the soul, the divine spark of beauty and life, expelled for ever. No sooner does a zealous incumbent find himself in the way of collecting money to do up his church, than he rubs his hands over it and says, "Embowelled will I see thee by and by." Falstaff was fortunately able to get away from the knife. Alas! not so our beautiful old churches. The architect and the contractor are called in, and the embowelling goes on apace. All the old fittings are cast forth, the monumental slabs broken up, the walls are scraped and painted, plaster everywhere peeled off, just as the skin was taken off St. Bartholomew, and the shells are exulted over by architect, contractor, parson, and parishioners, as shells from which the bright soul has been expelled--_sans_ beauty, _sans_ interest, _sans_ poetry, _sans_ everything. The man of taste and feeling crosses the threshold, and falls back with the same sense as comes on the reader of a young lady's novel, as at a mouthful of bread from which the salt has been omitted, of something inexpressibly flat and insipid. Before its restoration, Peter Tavy Church had the remains of a beautiful roodscreen nicely painted and gilt, and an unique pew of magnificent carved oak for the manorial lord to sit in, with twisted columns at the angles supporting heraldic lions. Anthony Cleverdon dismounted from his horse at the church-yard, hitched up his beast, and entered the graveyard. He saw the sexton there, and talking to him was an old woman in threadbare dress, grey hair, very dark piercing eyes, bent, and leaning on a staff. She was a stranger, at all events, he did not know her, and yet there was a something in her features that seemed peculiar to him. The sexton said something to her, and she at once came down the church path to meet Anthony, extending to him her hand. "Ah!" she said. "I can see, I can see my Margaret in your face--you have her eyes, her features, and the same toss of head. I know you. You have never, maybe, heard of me, and yet I am your grandmother. Have you come here to see your mother's grave? I am glad, I am glad it is cared for, not, I ween, by your father. Which of you thinks of the mother, and has set flowers on the grave--see, it is alight with primroses?" "I believe that was Bessie's doing," answered Anthony; then involuntarily he looked at her shabby gown, patched and worn. "I would like to see Bessie. Is she like you? If so--she is like your mother. Ah! my Margaret was the handsomest girl in all the West of England. You have not forgotten your mother, I hope, young man." "I do not remember her--you forget she died shortly after I was born." "How should I know?" The old woman took his hand, and held it fast as she peered into his face with eager eyes. "How should I know, when your father never took the trouble to let me know that my own, my dear and only child, was dead? If I had known she was ill, I would have come to her, though he took, as he threatened to take, the pitchfork to me, if I crossed his threshold. I would have come and nursed her; then, maybe, she would not have died. But he did not tell me. He did not ask me to her burial, and not till long after did I hear she was no more. He was a hard and a cruel man." The clear tears formed in the old woman's eyes, and trickled down her cheeks. "I have been ill all the winter, and very poor; but that was not known, and if known would not have concerned your father. When I got better, I came here to ask if I might be buried, when I die, near my Margaret. Or are you Cleverdons too great and fine now for that? Well--you will let me lie at her feet, though I was her mother, just as I have seen a dog put under the soles of the figures in old churches. You are her son, you are my own grandchild, though you have never known me and cared for me, and given me a thought. Please the Lord, you are not hard as your father, and you will grant me this." "I did not know I had a grandmother," said Anthony. "If there is anything you want, it shall be done." "No, I do not suppose that your father ever spoke of me. Your mother's father was the parson here, and died leaving no money. I had to leave, and become a housekeeper to maintain myself, and what little money I then earned has been expended in my illness. Now, will you let me see Bessie? She is good, she remembers her mother, and thinks of her." Anthony endeavoured to withdraw his hand from the grasp of the old woman, but she would not suffer it; she laid the other caressingly on his, and said, "No, my boy, you will not be unkind, you will not go from me without a promise to bring me Bessie. I must see her." "You shall come to Hall, and see her there." She shook her grey head. "Never! never! I could not bear to be in that house where your mother, my poor Margaret, suffered. Moreover, your father would not endure it! He threatened to take the pitchfork to me--when your mother was alive." "He would not do that now," said Anthony. "But as you will. I will bring Bessie to you. Where shall I find you?" "I am staying at Master Youldon's. He knew my dear husband in the old times, and knew me, and does not forget old kindnesses." "Very well. You shall see Bessie. I have some business with the sexton." Then he withdrew his hand from the old woman, and went to the grave of Richard Malvine, where he gave directions what was to be done to that and the headpiece. Widow Penwarne came to him. "What is this?" she asked. "What have you to do with this grave?" "I have some orders to give concerning it," answered Anthony, vexed at her interference. "I will speak with you later, madam." "But what does the grave of Richard Malvine matter to you?" again she asked. "Ah!" she exclaimed, and went and picked some of the primroses from the mound over her daughter, and then strewed them over the grave of Richard, "Ah!" she said. "Here lie two whose hearts were broken by your father--two for whom he will have to answer at the Judgment Day, and then I will stand up along with them, and point the finger at him, and accuse him. If there be a righteous God, then as He is righteous so will He judge and punish!" "Why, well, now, is not this strange?" exclaimed Anthony. "Here comes my sister Elizabeth. I wonder much what has brought her." Bessie appeared, with a wreath of spring flowers in her hand. She had ridden, attended by a serving-man. She was surprised and pleased to see Anthony at Richard Malvine's grave. "Oh, brother!" she said, "I have been so troubled over what has been done that I set to work to make a garland to hang on the grave, as some token of respect, and regret for what had been done." "What, you also!" exclaimed the old woman, and went to her and clasped her hands. "You are Bessie Cleverdon, the dear child of my Margaret. Let me kiss you, ay, and bless you." She drew the head of Elizabeth to her and kissed her. "This is our grandmother, Bessie," exclaimed Anthony. "Ay!" said the old woman, studying the girl earnestly with her dark, eager eyes. "Yes, I am the grandmother of you both; but you are not like my Margaret, not in face, and yet not like your father--please God in heaven--not like him in soul!" she said, with vehemence. "Let us go aside," said Anthony, "out of earshot of the sexton, if you cannot speak of my father without such an overflow of spleen." "Then we will go to your mother's grave," said Madame Penwarne. "I see you stand by your father; but I can see this in you--that you will stand by him so long as he does not cross your will. Let him but oppose you, young man, where your headstrong will drives, and there will be trouble between you. Then, maybe, your father will begin to receive the chastisement from the hand of the Lord that has been hanging over him ever since he took Margaret to Hall. That is a strange turn of the wheel, that his two children should meet at the grave of Richard Malvine to care for its adornment. And I warrant you do not know, either of you, what is owing to him who lies there--ay! and to her who rests at our feet." "I can't understand riddles," said Anthony, "and it is no pleasure to me to hear hard words cast at my father. If you are in poverty, grandmother, you shall be helped. I will speak to my father about you, and when I speak he will listen and do as is fitting. Of that be assured. If you have anything further to say of my father, say it to him, not to me." "I will take nothing, not a farthing of his," answered the old woman, sharply. "Why not, grandmother?" asked Bessie, gently, and kissed the old woman's quivering cheek. "It will be the greatest unhappiness to Anthony and me to think that you are not provided for in your age, and in comfort. We shall not be able to rest if we suppose that you are in want. It would fill us with concern and self-reproach. My father is just, and he also----" "No," said the old woman, interrupting her, "just he is not. Moreover, he owes me too much--or rather he owes my dead daughter, your mother, too much--he cannot repay it: not one thousandth part with coin. You, Elizabeth, are older than your brother. You must know that your mother's life was made miserable, that she had no happiness at Hall." "And I trust and believe," said Bessie, "that my dear mother, in the rest of Paradise, has long ago forgotten her troubles, and forgiven my father if he had in any way annoyed her." "Do not be so sure of that, child," exclaimed the old woman, with vehemence. "If I were to go out of this life to-morrow, I should go before the throne of God to denounce your father, and I would call Richard Malvine and your mother as witnesses against him. Shall I tell you what he did? These who lie here--he yonder, where you have placed the garlands, and my poor Margaret--loved each other, and would have been happy with each other. But her father died, I was poor, and then for the sake of his money, Margaret was persuaded to take Anthony Cleverdon, and give up Richard Malvine." "If that be so----" began young Anthony. "It is so," said the old woman, vehemently. "Then the blame lies with you," said he. "You pressed her to take the rich man and refuse the poor. My father was guiltless." The widow drew back and trembled; but presently recovered herself and said, "That may be--I bear in part the blame. But if he had been kind to her it would have been other. I would not reproach him; but it was not so, and Bessie was old enough to remember that little love passed between them, that he was hard, and cruel, and unkind. He broke her heart--and there she lies." "I am not here," said Anthony, "to hear my father reproached. I respect you as my grandmother; but you have doubtless a jaundiced eye, that sees all things yellow. I will see what can be done for you. It does not befit us that the mother of our mother should be in want." As they spoke, from out of the church came Luke Cleverdon. His face was pale, and his eyes were sunken. The sexton had not known that he was in the sacred building. Luke came towards the little group, treading his way among the graves with care. The tomb of the Cleverdons was near the chancel south window. He extended his hand to Mistress Penwarne, saying, "I was within. It was not my fault if I heard much that was said; and now I have but come into your midst, Anthony, Bessie, and you, Madame, to make a humble petition. I am curate in charge here; the rector is not resident. I live in the old parsonage, that must be so familiar to Mistress Penwarne--every room hallowed with some sweet recollection--and I am alone, and need a kinswoman to be my housekeeper, and"--he smiled at the old woman--"be to me as a mother. Madame, will you honour my poor roof by taking up your abode therein? It is, forsooth, more yours than mine, for there you lived your best days, and to it you are attached by strongest ties; but I am but a casual tenant. It is not mine--I am but the curate. Here we have no continuous city, and every house is to us but a tavern on our pilgrimage where we stay a night." CHAPTER XIV. THE CLEAVE. Throughout the day Willsworthy was full of visitors. Never before had it been so frequented. The act of Anthony Cleverdon had been bruited through the neighbourhood, and aroused general indignation against the young man and sympathy for the widow. Mistress Malvine was sufficiently recovered in the afternoon to receive some of those who arrived in her bedroom, and Mr. Solomon Gibbs entertained the rest in the hall. Those who had known the Malvines well--these were not many--and those who knew them distantly, persons of the gentle class, of the yeoman and farmer ranks, all thought it incumbent on them to come, express their opinions, and inquire after the widow. Not only did these arrive, but also many cottagers appeared at the kitchen door, full of sympathy--or at all events, of talk. It really seemed as if Willsworthy, which had dropped out of every one's mind, had suddenly claimed supreme regard. It was a source of real gratification to the sick woman to assume a position of so much consequence. It is always a satisfaction to hear other persons pour out the vials of wrath and hold up hands in condemnation of those who have given one offence, and Madame Malvine was not merely flattered by becoming the centre of interest to the neighbourhood, but was influenced by the opinions expressed in her ear, and her indignation against Anthony was deepened. Wherever in the house Urith went, she heard judgment pronounced on him in no measured terms, the general voice condemned him as heartless and profane. Question was made what proceeding would be taken against him, and abundance of advice was offered as to the course to be pursued to obtain redress. Urith was unable to endure the talk of the women in her mother's room, and she descended to the hall, there to hear her Uncle Solomon, amongst farmers and yeomen, tell the story of Anthony's deed with much exaggeration, and to hear the frank expressions of disapproval it elicited. Then she went into the kitchen, where the poorer neighbours were congregated. Everywhere it was the same. Condemnation fell on Anthony. No one believed that he had not acted in wilful knowledge of what he was about. Urith could not fail to observe that there was a widespread latent jealousy and dislike of the Cleverdons in the neighbourhood, occasioned partly, no doubt, by the success of the old man in altering his position and entering a superior class, but chiefly due to his arrogance, hardness, and meanness. All the faults in Anthony's character were commented on, and his good qualities denied or disparaged. Urith could with difficulty restrain herself from contradicting these harsh judges, and in taking on her the defence of the culprit, but she saw clearly that her advocacy would be unavailing, and provoke comment. She therefore left the house. Her mother was so much recovered as not to need her. Whether the old lady acted wisely in receiving so much company after her fit, Urith doubted, but her mother had insisted on the visitors being admitted to her room, and under the excitement she rallied greatly. To be away from the clatter of tongues, she left the farm and went forth upon the moor. To the north of Willsworthy rises a ridge of bold and serrated rocks that rise precipitously above the River Tavy, which foams below at a depth of three hundred feet; they present the appearance of a series of ruined towers, and are actually in places united by the remains of ancient walls of rude moorstone, for what purpose piled up, it is not possible to say. A bar of red porphyritic granite crosses the ravine, and over this leaps the river into a deep pool, immediately beneath the boldest towers and pinnacles of rock that overhang. Among these crags, perched like an eagle above the dizzy abyss, sat Urith on a rock, listening to the roar of the river wafted up to her from beneath. Away to the north and east of the moor extended shoulder on shoulder, to the lonely peak of Fur Tor that rises in uttermost solitude near the sources of the Tavy, amidst all but untraversable morasses. She was glad to be there, alone, away from the lips that spit their venom on the name of Anthony. The human heart is full of strange caprices, and is wayward as a spoiled child. The very fact that the whole country side was combined to condemn Anthony made Urith in heart exculpate him--that every mouth blamed him made her excuse him. It was true that he had acted with audacious folly, but there was merit in that audacity. What other youth would have ventured into the churchyard on such a night? The audacity so qualified the folly as almost to obliterate it. He had been challenged to the venture. Would it have been manly had he declined the challenge? Did not the blame attach to such as had dared him to the reckless deed? She repeated to herself the words that had been spoken in her mother's house about him, so extravagant in expression, exaggerated in judgment as to transcend justice, and her heart revolted against the extravagance and forgave him. If all the world stood up in condemnation, yet would not she. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled. She recalled his chivalry towards her on the moor; she heard again his voice; recollected how he had held her in his arms; she felt again the throb of his heart, heard his breathing as he strode with her through the flames, as he wrestled with her for the mastery; and she laughed aloud, she rejoiced that he had conquered. Had she overmastered him, and her will had been submitted to by him, she would have despised him. Because he was so strong in his resolution, so determined in carrying it out, she liked and respected him. There flashed before her something like lightning--it was his eyes, lifted to hers, with that strange look that sent a thrill through all her veins and tingled in her extremities. That look of his had revealed to her something to which she dare not give a name, a something which gave him a right to demand of her that morning testimony to his integrity of purpose, a something that constrained her, without a thought of resistance, to give him what he asked, first her hand in witness that she believed him, then the bunch of flowers in token that she accepted him as her knight. As her knight? Her heart bounded with pride and exultation at the thought! He her knight! He, the noblest youth in all the region round, a very Saul, taller by the head and shoulders than any other, incomparably handsome, more manly, open, generous, brave--brave! who feared neither man nor midnight spectre. Yet--when Julian Crymes had charged her with attempting to rob her of her lover, she, Urith, had repelled the charge, and had declared that she did not value, did not want him. Nor had she then; but the very violence, the defiance of Julian, had forced her to think of him--to think of him in the light of a lover. The opposition of Julian had been the steel stroke on her flinty heart that had brought out the spark of fire. If anything had been required to fan this spark into flame, that had been supplied by the chattering, censorious swarm of visitors that afternoon. And Anthony? How stood he? At that moment he was weighed down with a sense of depression and loneliness such as he had never felt previously. He had been accustomed to be flattered and made a great deal of. His father, his sister, his cousin, the servants, Fox Crymes, every one had shown him deference, had let him see that he was esteemed a man born to fortune and success; he had been good at athletic exercises, good in sport, a good horseman, taller, stronger than his compeers, and heir to a wealthy gentleman. But all at once luck had turned against him; he had committed blunders and had injured those with whom he had come in contact; possibly blinded Fox, had offended the Malvine family, thrown the old dame into a fit, had quarrelled with his father, brought down on his head the reproach and ridicule of all who knew him. Then came the encounter with his grandmother, and the discovery of the wrong done to his mother and to the father of Urith by his own father. Bold, self-opinionated as Anthony was, yet this sudden shock had humbled him and staggered him: he had fallen from a pinnacle and was giddy. A sort of irrational, blind instinct within him drove him back in the direction of Willsworthy. He felt that he could not rest unless he saw Urith again, and--so he explained his feeling--told her more fully the circumstances of the previous night's adventure, and heard from her own lips that her mother was not seriously injured in health by the distress he had caused her, and that she, Urith, forgave him. His imagination worked. He had not been explicit enough when he came to Willsworthy. The fainting fit of the mother had interrupted his explanation. Afterwards he had forgotten to say what he had intended to say, and what ought to have been said. When he was gone, Urith would consider it strange that he had been so curt and reserved, she would hear her Uncle Solomon's stories, tinged with rum punch past recognition of where truth shaded into fiction. Moreover, he felt a craving for Urith's sympathy; he wanted to acquaint her with what he had done to Fox Crymes before the story reached her embellished and enlarged. To his discredit it would be told, and might prejudice her against him. He must forestall gossip and tell her the truth himself. So he rode in the direction of Willsworthy, but when he came near the place, an unusual diffidence stole over him--he did not dare to venture up to the house, and he hung about the vicinity in the road, then he went out on the moor, and it was when on the down that he thought he caught sight of her at some distance in the direction of the Cleave. A labourer came by. "Who is that yonder?" he asked. "I reckon any fool knows," answered the clown. "That be our young lady, Mistress Urith." "Take my horse, fellow," said Anthony, and dismounted. He went over the moor in pursuit of the girl, and found her seated on the rock with a foot swinging over the precipice. She was so startled when he spoke to her as almost to lose her balance. He caught her hand, and she rose to her feet. They stood on a ledge. Two towers of rock rose with a cleft between them like a window. The shelves of the granite were matted with whortleberry leaves, now all ranges of colour from green, through yellow to carmine, and with grey moss. A vein of porphyry penetrating the granite striped it with red, and Nature had tried her delicate pencil on the stone, staining or stippling it with her wondrously soft-toned lichenous paints. Below, at the depth of five hundred feet, the river roared over its red porphyry barrier, throwing into the air foam bubbles that were caught by the wind and carried up, and danced about, and sported with as are feathers by a wanton child. The great side of Stannon Down opposite, rising to sixteen hundred feet, was covered by flying shadows of forget-me-not blue and pale sulphurous gleams of sun. As the light glided over it, it picked out the strange clusters of old circular huts and enclosures, some with their doors and lintels unthrown down, that were inhabited by an unknown race before history began. Anthony put his arm round Urith. "We stand," said he, "on the edge of a chasm; a step, a start, and one or other--perhaps both--fall into the abyss to sheer destruction. Let me hold you; I would not let you go--if you went, it would not be alone." Urith did not answer; a trembling fit came on her. She stood, she felt, at the brink of another precipice than that before her eyes. "I could not keep away," said Anthony. "I have got into trouble with every one, and I was afraid that you also would be set against me; so, after I had been to see about your father's grave, that all was right there--and Bessie had laid a garland of flowers on it--then I came back here. I thought I must see you and explain what I forgot to say this morning." "You need say no more about that matter," answered Urith. "I told you at the time that I believed your word. You said you intended no ill. I am sure of that, quite sure. I know it is not in you to hurt." "And yet I have hurt you and your mother, and also Fox Crymes." Then he told her how he had struck him, and that he was afraid he had seriously injured his eye. "And you have brought back the gloves!" exclaimed Urith. "Yes; here they are." "You have not fulfilled my commission?" "I will do it if you wish it; I have not done it yet. I was going to give Fox the gloves; I did not desire to see Julian. You must understand that my father has been speaking to me to-day about Julian--it seems he has set his mind on making a pair of us. I do not know what Julian thinks, but I know my own mind, that this is not my taste. After he had spoken to me about her, I could not go on direct to her house and see her. My father would think that I gave in to him, and--I should have been uneasy myself." Urith said nothing, she was looking down at the tossing, thundering torrent far below. "I never cared much for Julian," continued Anthony, "and after yesterday I like her less." "Why so?" Urith looked up and met his eyes. "Why so? Because I have seen you. If I have to go through life with any one, I will take you in the saddle behind me--no one else." Urith trembled more than before; a convulsive, irrepressible emotion had come over her. Sometimes it happens when the heavens are opened with a sudden flare of near and dazzling lightning, that those who have looked up have been struck with blindness. So was it now; Urith had seen a heaven of happiness, a glory of love--a new and wondrous world open before her, such as she had never dreamed of, of which no foretaste had ever been accorded her, and it left her speechless, with a cloud before her eyes, and giddy, so that she held out her hands gropingly to catch the rock; it was unnecessary, the strong arm of Anthony held her from falling. The young man paused for an answer. "Well!" said he. "Have you no word?" None; she moved her lips, she could not speak. "Come," said he, after another pause, "they who ride pillion ride thus--the man has his leather belt, and to that the woman holds. Urith, if we are to ride together on life's road, lay hold of my belt." She held out her hands, still gropingly. "Stay!" she said, suddenly recovering herself with a start. "You forgot; you do not know me. Look at my hands, they are still torn; I did that in one of my fits of rage. Do you not fear to take me when I go, when crossed, into such mad passion as these hands show?" Anthony laughed. "I fear! I!" Then she put her right hand to lay hold of his girdle, but caught and drew out the gloves. "I have these again!" she exclaimed. "Even these gloves cast at me in defiance. Well, it matters not now. I refused to take them up, yet I could not shake them off; now I take them and keep them. I accept the challenge." She grasped him firmly by the girdle, and with the other hand thrust the gloves into her bosom. "I do not understand you," said Anthony. "There is no need that you should." Then he caught her up in his arms, with a shout of exultation, and held her for a moment hanging over the awful gulf beneath. She looked him steadily in the eyes. She doubted neither his strength to hold her, nor his love. Then he drew her to him and kissed her. It is said that the sun dances on Easter day in the morning. It was noon now, but the sun danced over Urith and Anthony. "And now," said the latter, "about your mother. Will she give her consent?" "And your father?" asked Urith. "Oh, my father!" repeated Anthony, scornfully, "whatsoever I will, that he is content with. As to your mother----" "I know what I will do," said Urith; "Luke has great influence with her. I will tell him all, and get him to ask her to agree and bless us. Luke will do anything I ask of him." CHAPTER XV. FATHER AND SON. When Anthony came home, he found that his father had been waiting supper a while for him, and then as he did not arrive, had ordered it in, and partaken of the meal. The old man's humour was not pleasant. He had been over that afternoon to Kilworthy, and had heard of his son's act of recklessness. Fears were entertained for Fox's sight in one eye. He was ordered to have the eye bandaged, and to be kept in the dark. When Anthony entered the room where was his father, the old man looked up at him from the table strewn with the remains of his meal, and said, roughly, "I expect regular hours kept in my house. Why were you not here at the proper time? About any new folly or violence?" Anthony did not answer, but seated himself at the table. "I have been to Kilworthy," said the old man, "I have heard there of your conduct." "Fox insulted me. You would not have me endure an insult tamely?" His father's tone nettled the young man. "Certainly not; but men pink each other with rapiers, instead of striking with lace tags." "That is the first time any one has let fall that I am not a man," said Anthony. There was always a certain roughness, a lack of amiability in the behaviour of father to son and son to father, not arising out of lack of affection, but that the old man was by nature coarse-grained, and he delighted in seeing his son blunt and brusque. He--young Tony--was no milk-sop, he was proud to say. He was a lad who could hold his own against any one, and fight his way through the world. The old man was gratified at the swagger and independence of the youth, and at every proof he gave of rude and over-bearing self-esteem. But he was not pleased at the brawl with Fox Crymes; it was undignified for one thing, and it caused a breach where he wished to see union. It threw an impediment in the way of the execution of a darling scheme, a scheme on which his heart had been set for twenty years. "I do not know what it was about," said the father, "more than that I had heard you had been squabbling in an alehouse about some girl." "The insult or impertinence was levelled at me," said Anthony, controlling himself; "I did not mean to injure Fox, on that you may rely. I struck him over the face because he had whipped me into anger which I could not contain. I am sorry if I have hurt his eye. I am not sorry for having struck him, he brought it on himself." "It is not creditable," pursued old Cleverdon, "that your name should be brought into men's mouths about a vulgar brawl over some village drab or house wench." The blood surged into Anthony's face, he laid down his knife and looked steadily across the table at his father. "On that score," said he, "you may set your mind at rest. There has been no brawl over any village wench." "I can quite understand," said the father, "that Fox Crymes was jealous and did not measure words. He can pepper and spice his speeches till they burn as cantharides. What is he beside you? If you cast a fancy here or there, and there be naught serious in it, and it interferes with his sport, he must bear it. But, Tony, it is high time you was married. We must have no more of these wrangles. Whose name came up between you? Was it his sister's? I can well understand he does not relish her marriage. There has ever been rough water between them. She has the property--and when old Justice Crymes dies--where will he be? Was that the occasion of the dispute?" "No, father, it was not." "Then it was not about Julian?" "About Julian? Certainly not." "Nor about some village girl?" "Nor about any village girl, as I have said." "Then what was it about? or rather, about whom was it?" "There is no reason why you should not know," answered Anthony, with coolness, "though that is a side matter. Fox told me that a suitable ornament for my cap was a coxcomb. That is why I struck him." The old man laughed out. "You did well to chastise him for that." "As you asked what girl's name was brought up, I will tell you," said Anthony. "It was that of Urith Malvine." "Urith Malvine!" scoffed old Cleverdon, his eyes twinkling malevolently. "Not surprised at that light hussy bringing herself into men's mouths in a tavern." "Father!" exclaimed the young man, "not a word against her. I will not bear that from you or from any man." "You will not bear it!" almost screamed old Anthony. "You--you! make yourself champion of a beggar brat like that?" "Did you hear my words?" said the young man, standing up. "No one--not even you--shall speak against her. It was because Fox sneered at her that I struck him; he might have scoffed at me, and I would have passed that over." "And you threaten me? You will knock out my eye with your tags?" "I merely warn you, father, that I will not suffer her name to be improperly used. I cannot raise my hand against you, but I will leave the room." "It is high time you were married. By the Lord! you shall be married. I will not be rasped like this." "I will marry when I see fit," said Anthony. "The fitness is now," retorted his father. "When a young gallant begins to squabble at village mug-houses about----" "Father!" "The near time is ripe. I will see Squire Crymes about it to-morrow." "I am not going to take Julian Crymes." "You shall take whom I choose." "I am to marry--not you, father; accordingly, the choice lies with me." "You cannot choose against my will." "Can I not? I can choose where I list." "Anyhow, you cannot take where I do not allow. I will never allow of a wife to you who is not of good birth and rich." "Of good birth she is--she whom I have chosen; rich she is not, but what matters that when I have enough." "Are you mad?" screamed the old man, springing from his chair and running up and down the room, in wild excitement. "Are you mad? Do you dare tell me you have chosen without consulting me--without regard for my wishes?" "I shall take Urith, or none at all." "Then none at all," snapped old Cleverdon. "Never, never will I consent to your bringing that hussy through my doors, under my roof." "What harm has she done you? You have not heard a word against her. She is not rich, but not absolutely poor--she has, or will have, Willsworthy." "Willsworthy! What is that compared with Julian's inheritance?" "It is nothing. But I don't want Julian, and I will not take her for the sake of her property. Come, father, sit down, and let us talk this matter coolly and sensible." He threw himself into a chair, and laid his hands on the arms, and stretched his legs before him. The Squire stopped, looked at his son, then staggered back to his chair as if he had been struck in the breast. He thought his son must have lost his wits. Why--he had not known this girl, this daughter of his most deadly enemy, not more than a day, and already he was talking of making her his wife! And this, too, to the throwing over of his grand opportunity of uniting the Kilworthy property to Hall! "Come, father, sit down, and keep cool. I am sorry if you prefer Julian to Urith, but unfortunately the selection has to be made, not by you, but by me, and I greatly prefer Urith to Julian. Indeed, I will not have the latter at any price--not if she inherited all the Abbey lands of Tavistock. You are disappointed, but you will get over it. When you come to know Urith you will like her; she has lost her father--and she will find one in you." "Never!" gasped the old man; then with an oath, as he beat his fist on the table, "Never!" Bessie heard that high words were being cast about in the supper-room, and she opened the door and came in with a candle, on the pretence that she desired to have the table cleared if her brother had done his meal. "You may have all taken away," said Anthony. "My father has destroyed what appetite I had." "Your appetite," stormed the old man, "is after most unwholesome diet; you turn from the rich acres to the starving peat bog. By heaven! I will have you shut up in a mad-house along with your wench. I will have a summons out against her at once. I will go to Fernando Crymes for it--it is sheer witchcraft. You have not seen her to speak to half-a-dozen times. You never came to know her at all till you had played the fool with her father's grave, and now----. By Heaven, it is witchcraft! Folks have been burnt for lighter cases than this." Bessie went over to her father, and put her arms round him, but he thrust her away. She looked appealingly to her brother, but Anthony did not catch her eye. "I do not see what you have against Urith," said Anthony, after a long pause, during which the old man sat quivering with excitement, working his hands up and down on the arms of his chair, as though polishing them. "That she is not rich is no fault of hers. I have seen her often, and have now and then exchanged a word with her, though only yesterday came to see much of her, and have a long talk with her. I did her a great wrong by my desecration of her father's grave." "Oh! you would make that good by marrying the daughter. Well, you have put out Fox's eye. Patch that up by marrying his sister." The old man's voice shook with anger. Anthony exercised unusual self-control. He knew that he had reached a point in his life when he must not act with rashness; he saw that his father's opposition was more serious than he had anticipated. Hitherto he had but to express a wish, and it was yielded to. Occasionally he had had differences with the old man, but had invariably, in the end, carried out his own point. He did not doubt, even now, that finally his father would give way, but clearly not till after a battle of unusual violence; but it was one in which he was resolved not to yield. His passion for Urith was of sudden and also rapid growth, but was strong and sincere. Moreover, he had pledged himself to her, and could not draw back. Bessie was resolved, at all costs, to divert the wrath of her father from Anthony, if possible to turn his thoughts into another channel; so she said, stooping to his ear, "Father; dear father! We met to-day our grandmother in the churchyard." The old man looked inquiringly at her. "Madame Penwarne," exclaimed Bessie. He had forgotten for the moment that she could have a grandmother on any other side than his own, and he knew that his mother was long dead. "Yes, father," said Bessie. "And she says Anthony is the living image of our dear, dear mother." The old man turned his eyes slowly on his son. The light of the candle was on his face, bold, haughty, defiant, and wonderfully handsome. Yes! he was the very image of his mother, and that same defiant smile he had inherited from her. The old man in a moment recalled many a wild scene of mutual reproach and stormy struggle. It was as though the dead woman's spirit had risen up against him to defy him once more, and to strike him to the heart. Then Anthony said, "It is true, father. We both of us met her; and it is unfit that she should find a shelter elsewhere than in this house. Something must be done for her." "Oh! you will teach me my duty! She is naught to me." "But to us she is. She is the mother of our mother," answered Anthony, looking straight into his father's eyes, and the old man lowered his; he felt the reproach in his son's words and glance. Then he clenched his hands and teeth, and stood up, and wrung his hands together. Presently, with a gasp, he said, "Because I married a beggar, is this mating with beggars to be a curse in the family from generation to generation, entailed from father to son. It shall not be; by heaven! it shall not be. You have had your own way too long, Anthony! I have borne with your whimsies, because they were harmless. Now you will wreck your own happiness, your honour, make yourself the laughing-stock of the whole country! I will save you from yourself. Do you hear me? I tried the sport, and it did not answer. I had wealth and she beauty, and beauty alone. It did not answer. We were cat and dog--your mother and I. Bessie knows it. She can bear me witness. I will not suffer this house to be made a hell of again." "Father," said Anthony, "it was not that which caused you unhappiness--it was that you had interfered with the love of two who had given their hearts to each other." Bessie threw herself between her father and brother. "Oh, Anthony! Anthony!" she cried. "You say that!" exclaimed the old man. "I do--and now I warn you not to do the same thing. Urith and I love each other, and will have each other." "I tell you I hate the girl--she shall never come here." "Father," said Anthony--his pulses were beating like a thundering furious sea against cliffs, as a raging gale flinging itself against the moorland tors--"father, I see why it is that you are against Urith. You nourish against her the bitterness you felt against her father. You laughed and were pleased when I had dishonoured his grave. That surprised me. Now I understand all, and now I am forced to speak out the truth. You did a wrong in taking our mother away from him whom she loved, and then you ill-treated her when you had her in your power. You have nothing else against Urith--nothing. That she is poor is no crime." Bessie clasped her arms about the old man. "Do not listen to him," she said. "He forgets his duty to you, only because he has been excited and wronged to-day." Then to her brother: "Anthony! do not forget that he is your father, to whom reverence is due." Anthony remained silent for a couple of minutes, then he stood up from his chair, and went over to the old man. "I was wrong," he said. "I should not have spoken thus. Come, father, we have had little puffs between us, never such a bang as this. Let it be over; no more about the matter between us for a day or two, till we are both cool." "I will make an end of this affair at once," said Squire Cleverdon. "What is the good of putting off what must be said?--of expecting a change which will never take place. You shall never--never obtain my consent. So give up the hussy, or you shall rue it." "Nothing is gained, father, by threatening me. You must know that. I have made up my mind." He folded his arms on his breast. "And so have I mine," answered old Cleverdon, folding his arms. Father and son stood opposite each other, hard and fixed in their resolves--both men of indomitable, inflexible determination. "Hear mine," said the Squire; "you give the creature up. Do you hear?" "I hear and refuse. I will not, I cannot give up Urith. I have pledged my word." "And here I pledge mine!" shouted the old man. "No--no, in pity, father! Oh, Anthony, leave the room!" pleaded Bessie, again interposing, but again ineffectually; her brother swept her aside, and refolded his arms, confronting his father. "Say on!" he said, with his eyes fixed on the old man. "I swear by all I hold sacred," exclaimed the father, "that I will never suffer that beggar-brat to cross my threshold. Now you know my resolution. As long as I am alive, she shall be kept from it by my arms, and I shall take care that she shall never rule here when I am gone. Now you know my mind, marry her or not as you please. That is my last word to you." "Your last word to me!" repeated Anthony. He set his hat on his head, the hat in which hung the utterly withered marsh marigolds. "Very well; so be it." He walked to the door, passed through, and slammed it behind him. CHAPTER XVI. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. Luke Cleverdon walked slowly, with head bowed, towards Willsworthy. The day was not warm, a cold east wind was blowing down from the moor over the lowlands to the west, but his brow was beaded with large drops. Anthony had come to him the night before, and had asked to be lodged. He had fallen out with his father, and refused to remain at Hall. Luke knew the reason. Anthony had told him. Anthony had told him more--that Urith was going to request his, Luke's, intercession with her mother. Neither Anthony nor Urith had the least suspicion of the burden they were laying on the young man. It was his place, thought Anthony, to do what could be done to further his--Anthony's--wishes. Luke was under an obligation to the family, and must make himself useful to it when required. That he should employ his mediation to obtain an end entirely opposed to the wishes of the old man who had housed and fed, and had educated him, did not strike Anthony as preposterous. For the moment, the interests, credit of the family were centred in the success of his own suit for Urith, his own will was the paramount law, which must be obeyed. Urith thought of Luke as a friend and companion, very dear to her, but in quite another way from that in which she regarded Anthony. Luke had been to her a comrade in childhood, and she looked on him with the same childlike regard that she had given him when they were children; with her this regard never ripened into a warmer feeling. Anthony had slept soundly during the night. Care for the future, self-reproach, or self-questioning over the past had not troubled him. His father would come round. He had always given way hitherto. He had attempted bluster and threats, but the bluster was nothing, the threats would never be carried out. In a day or two at the furthest, the old man would come to the parsonage, ask to see him, and yield to his son's determination. "I don't ask him to marry Urith," argued Anthony. "So there is no reason why he should lie on his back and kick and scratch. There is no sense in him. He will come round in time, and Bessie will do what she can for me." But Luke had not slept. He was tortured with doubts, in addition to the inward conflicts with his heart. He asked himself, had he any right to interfere to promote this union, which was so strongly opposed by the father--so utterly distasteful to him? And, again, was it to the welfare of his cousin, and, above all, of Urith, that it should take place? He knew the character of both Urith and Anthony. He was well aware how passionate at times, how sullen at others, she was wont to be. He attributed her sullenness to the nagging, teasing tongue, and stupid mismanagement of her mother, and the blunderheadedness of her uncle--interfering with her liberty where they should have allowed her freedom, crossing her in matters where she should have been suffered to follow her own way, and letting her go wild in those directions in which she ought to have been curbed. He knew that this mismanagement had made her dogged and defiant. He knew, also, how that his cousin, Anthony, had been pampered and flattered, till he thought himself much more than he was; did not know the value of money; was wilful, impetuous, and intolerant of opposition. Would not two such headstrong natures, when brought together, be as flint and steel? Moreover, Luke knew that Anthony had been regarded on all sides as the proper person to take Julian Crymes. It had been an open secret that such an arrangement was contemplated by the parents on both sides, and the young people had, in a measure, acquiesced in it. Anthony had shown Julian attentions which were only allowable on such an understanding. He may have meant nothing by them; nevertheless, they had been sufficiently marked to attract observation, and perhaps to lead the girl herself to conclude that his heart was touched, and that he only tarried a few years to enjoy his freedom before engaging himself. But Luke was so sensitively conscientious that he feared his own jealousy of his cousin was prompting these suspicions and doubts; and he felt that his own heart was too perturbed for him at present to form a cool and independent survey of the situation. As he expected and feared, so was it. Urith arrested him on the way up the hill to Willsworthy. She knew he would come to see her mother, and was on the lookout for him. She asked him to plead her cause for her, and in his irresolution he accepted the office, against his better judgment, moved thereto by the thought that he was thus doing violence to his own heart, and most effectually trampling down and crushing under heel his own wishes, unformed though these wishes were. Luke found Mistress Malvine in her bedroom. She had been greatly weakened by the fit on the previous morning, still more so by the exhaustion consequent on the visits of the afternoon. However ill and feeble she might be, her tongue alone retained its activity, and so long as she could talk she was unconscious of her waning powers. In the tranquillity that followed, when her acquaintances and sympathisers had withdrawn, great prostration ensued. But she had somewhat rallied on the following morning, and was quite ready to receive Luke Cleverdon when announced. She was in her bed, and he was shocked to observe the change that had come over her. She held out her hand to him. "Ah, Master Luke!" she sighed, "I have need of comfort after what I have gone through; and I am grateful that you have come to see me. Whatever will become of my poor daughter when I am gone! I have been thinking and thinking, and wishing that it had pleased God you were her brother, that I might have entrusted her into your hands. You were here and saw how she went on and took sides with that Son of Belial, that Anthony, when he came concerning the grave of my dear husband. She has no heart, that child. I know she will be glad when I am gone, and will dance on my tomb. I have not spared her advice and counsel, nor have I ever let her go, when I have my rebuke to administer, under half an hour by the clock." "Madam," said the young curate, "do not now make boast of the amount of counsel and admonition you have administered; it is even possible that this may have been overdone, and may have had somewhat to do with the temper of your daughter. It is now a time for you to consider whether you are prepared, should it please God to call you--" "Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Malvine, "I am thankful to say I am always prepared. I have done my duty to my husband, to my brother, and my child. As for Urith, I have perfectly fed her with my opinions on her conduct in every position and chance of life. My brother has, I am sure, also not to charge me with ever passing it over when he comes home drunk, or gets drunk off our cider, which is no easy matter, but it can be done with application. I have always, and at length, and with vehemence, told him what I think of his conduct." "You must consider," said the curate, without allowing himself to be drawn into admiration for the good qualities of the sick woman, "you must consider, madam, not how much you have harangued and scolded others, but how much you deserve rebuke yourself." "I have never spared myself, heaven knows! I have worked hard--I have worked harder than any slave. There are five large jars of last year's whortleberry jam still unopened in the store-room. I can die happy, whenever I have to die, and not a sheet unhemmed, and we have twenty-four." "There are other matters to think of," said Luke, gravely, "than whortleberry jam--five pots, sheets--twenty-four, rebuke of others--unmeasured, incalculable. You have to think of what you have left undone." "There is nothing," interrupted the sick woman, "but a few ironmoulds in Solomon's shirts, which came of a nail in the washing-tray. I gave the woman who washed a good piece of my mind about that, because she ought to have seen the nail. But I'll get salt of lemon and take that out, if it please the Lord to raise me up again; at the same time, I'll turn the laundress away." "It is by no means unlikely that heaven will not raise you up," said the curate, "and in your present condition, instead of thinking of dismissing servants for an oversight, you should consider whether you have never left undone those things which you ought to have done." "I never have," answered the widow, with disdain, "except once. I ought to have had Solomon's dog Toby hung, but I was too good, too tender-hearted, and I did not. The dog scratched, and was swarming with fleas. Solomon never cared to have him kept clean, and I told him if he did not I would have Toby hung, but I did not. I have, I admit, this on my conscience. But, Lord! you are not comforting me at all, and a minister of the Word should pour the balm of Gilead into the wounds of the sick. Now, if you would have Urith up and give her a good reprimand, and Solomon also, and if you would hang that dog--that would be a comfort to my soul, and I could die in peace." "With your complaint, Mistress Malvine, you must be ready to die at any moment--whether in a true or false peace depends on your preparation. I am not here to lecture your brother and daughter, and hang a dog because it has fleas, but to bid you search and examine your own conscience, and see whether there be not therein inordinate self-esteem, and whether you have not encouraged the censorious spirit within you till you have become blind to all your own defects, in your eagerness to pull motes out of the eyes of others." "There! bless me!" exclaimed the widow. "Did you hear that? The soot has fallen down the chimney. I told Solomon to have the chimney swept, and, as usual, he has neglected to see to it. I'll send for him and give him what I think; perhaps," she added, in a querulous tone, "when he considers that the words come from a dying sister he may be more considerate in future, and have chimneys swept regularly." "I have," said the young curate, "one question on which I require an answer. Are you in charity with all the world? Do you forgive all those who have trespassed against you?" "I am the most amiable person in the world, that is why I am so imposed on, and Solomon, and Urith, and the maids, and the men take such advantage of me. There is that dog, under the bed, scratching. I hear it, I feel it. Do, prithee, Master Luke, take the tongs and go under the bed after it. How can I have peace and rest whilst Toby is under the bed, and I know the state his hair is in?" "You say you are on terms of charity with all the world. I conclude that you from your heart forgive my cousin Anthony his unconsiderate act on St. Mark's Eve." "What!" exclaimed the sick woman, striving to rise in her bed, "I forgive him that--never--no, so help me Heaven, never." "So help you Heaven!" said Luke, starting up, and answering in an authoritative tone, whilst zeal-inspired wrath flushed his pale face. "So help you Heaven, do you dare to say, you foolish woman! Heaven will help to forgive, never help to harbour an unforgiving spirit. If you do not pardon such a trespass, committed unintentionally, you will not be forgiven yours." "I have none--none to signify, that I have not settled with Heaven long ago," said the widow, peevishly. "I wish, Master Luke, you would not worry me. I need comfort, not to be vexed on my deathbed." "I ask you to forgive Anthony, will you do so?" She turned her face away. "Now listen to me, madam. He has fallen into disgrace with his father. He has had to leave his home, and his father will have no word with him." "I rejoice to hear it." "And the reason is this--the young man loves your daughter Urith." He paused, and wiped his brow. The widow turned her face round, full of quickened attention. "That he did not purpose a dishonour to the grave you may be assured, when you know that he seeks the hand of Urith. How could one who loves think to advance his suit by an outrage on the father's memory? It was an accident, an accident he deplores most heartily. He will make what amends he can. Give him your daughter, and then he will have the right of a son-in-law to erect a handsome and suitable tomb to your husband, and his father." As he spoke, he heard the steps creak, Urith was ascending the stairs, coming to her mother, to throw herself on her knees at her side, clasp her hand, and add her entreaties to those of Luke Cleverdon. "Help me up!" said Mrs. Malvine. Then the curate put his arm to her, and raised her into a sitting position. Her face had altered its expression from peevishness to anger. It was grey, with a green tinge about the nose and lips, the lines from the nostrils to the chin were deep and dark. Her eyes had a hard, threatening, metallic glimmer in them. At that moment Urith appeared in the doorway. Luke stood, with his hand to his chin, and head bowed, looking at the woman. "You are here, Urith!" said she, holding out her hand towards her spread out. "You have dared--dared to love the man who has dishonoured your father's grave. You have come here to ask me to sanction and bless this love." She gasped for breath. Her face was livid, haggard; but her dark eyes were literally blazing--shooting out deadly-cold glares of hate. The sweat-drops ran off her brow and dropped upon the sheet. The lips were drawn from the teeth. There was in her appearance something of unearthly horror. "You shall never--never obtain from me what you want. If you have any respect for your father's name--any love lingering in your heart for the mother that bore you--you will shake him off, and never speak to him again." She remained panting, and gulping, and shivering. So violent was her emotion that it suffocated her. "I know," she continued, in a lower tone, and with her hands flat on the coverlet before her, "what you do not--how my life has been turned to wormwood. His mother stood between me and my happiness--between me and your father's heart; and, after what I have endured, shall I forgive that? Aye, and a double injury--the wrong done by Margaret Penwarne's son to my husband's grave?--Never!" She began to move herself in bed, as though trying to scramble up into a standing posture, and again her hand was threateningly extended. "Never--never shall this come about. Urith! I charge you----" The girl, alarmed, ran towards her mother. The old woman warned her back. "What! will you do violence to me to stay my words? Will you throttle me to prevent them from coming out of my lips?" Again she made an effort to rise, and scrambled to her knees: "I pray heaven, if he dares to enter my doors, that he may be struck down on my hearth--lifeless!" She gave a gasp, shivered, and fell back on the bed. She was dead. CHAPTER XVII. THE COUSINS. Some days passed. Mistress Malvine had been buried. No direct communication had taken place between Anthony and his father. The gentle Bessie, full of distress at the breach, had done what she could to heal it; but ineffectually. Each was too proud and obstinate to make the first advance. Bessie's influence with her father was of the slightest--he had never showed love towards his plain daughter; and Anthony was too much of a man, in his own idea, to allow himself to be guided by a woman. Luke was perplexed more than ever. Urith was now left wholly without proper protection. Her uncle was worse than useless--an element of disorder in the household, and of disintegration in the pecuniary affairs of the family. The estate of Willsworthy did not come to him. It had belonged to his mother, and from his mother had gone to his sister, and now passed to his niece. It was a manor that seemed doomed to follow the spindle. But, though it had not become his property, he was trustee and guardian for his niece till she married; and a more unsatisfactory trustee or improper guardian could hardly have been chosen. He was, indeed, an amiable, well-intentioned man; but was weak, and over-fond of conviviality and the society of his social inferiors, from whom alone he met with deference. He had been brought up to the profession of the law; but, on his father's death, had thrown up what little work had come to him that he might be with his mother and sister, as manager of the estate. When his sister married Richard Malvine he was again thrown on his own resources, and lived mainly on subventions from his sister and friends, and a little law business that he picked up and mismanaged, till his brother-in-law died, when he returned to Willsworthy, to the mismanagement of that property which Richard Malvine had barely recovered from the disorder and deterioration into which it had been brought by Solomon Gibbs's previous rule. The old fellow was unable to stick to any sort of work, to concentrate his thoughts for ten minutes on any object, was irresolute, and swayed by those with whom he associated. His sister lectured and scolded him, and he bore her rebuke with placid amiability, and promises of amendment; promises that were never fulfilled. One great source of annoyance to his sister was his readiness to talk over all family matters at the tavern with his drinking comrades, to explain his views as to what was to be done in every contingency, and dilate on the pecuniary difficulties of his sister, and his schemes for the remedy of the daily deepening impecuniosity. This public discussion of the affairs of the family had done much to bring it into disrepute. Those who heard Mr. Gibbs over his cups retailed what they heard to their friends and wives with developments of their own, and the whole neighbourhood had come to believe that the Malvines were a family irretrievably lost, and that Willsworthy was a poor and intractable estate. Those who used their eyes--as Crymes--did not share in this latter opinion, they saw that the property was deteriorated by mismanagement, but they all readily accepted the opinion that bankruptcy was inevitable to the possessors at that time of Willsworthy. Luke Cleverdon, knowing all the circumstances, and having gauged the character and abilities of Solomon Gibbs, was anxious concerning the future of Urith. She had tendered a dubious, sullen, and irregular submission to her mother, but was not likely to endure the capricious, unintelligent domination of her uncle. His sister had, moreover, exercised a very considerable restraint on Solomon. He always lived in wholesome dread of her tongue; when relieved of every restraint, there was no reckoning on what he might do with the money scraped together. Urith herself was unaccustomed to managing a house. Her mother had been an admirable disciplinarian in the house, and kept everything there in order, and Urith had run wild. Her mother had not attempted to join her with herself in domestic management, and had driven the girl into a chronic condition of repressed revolt by her unceasing fault-finding. The girl had kept herself outside the house, had spent her time on the moors to escape the irritation and rebellion provoked by her mother's tongue. The only tolerable solution would have been for Luke to have made Urith his wife, and taken on himself the management of the property, but such a solution was now impossible, for Urith's heart was engaged. It had never been a possibility to Luke's imagination, for he had sufficient cool judgment to be quite sure that he and Urith would never agree. He was quiet, reserved, devoted to his books or to antiquarian researches on the moor, and she had an intractable spirit--at one time sullen, at another frantic--with which he could not cope. Besides this uncongeniality of temperament, he had no knowledge of or taste for agricultural pursuits, and to recover Willsworthy a man was needed who was a practical farmer and acquainted with business. If he were, moreover, to live at Willsworthy and devote himself to the estate, he must abandon his sacred calling, and this Luke could not justify to his conscience. The choice of Urith, fallen on Anthony, was unobjectionable as far as suitability for the place went. Anthony had been reared on a farm, and was familiar with all that pertained to agriculture. He had energy, spirit, and judgment. But the strong unreasoning opposition of old Squire Cleverdon, and the refusal of Urith's mother to consent to it, made Luke resolve to do nothing to further the union. Luke spoke to Anthony on the matter, but was met with airy assurance. The old man must come round, it was but a matter of time, and as Mistress Malvine was but recently dead, it could not be that the daughter should marry at once. There must ensue delay, and during this delay old Cleverdon would gradually accustom himself to the prospect, and his anger cool. Time passed, and no tokens of yielding on the part of the father appeared. Luke spoke again to his cousin. Now Anthony's tone was somewhat altered. His father was holding out because he believed that by so doing he would prevent the marriage, but he was certain to relent as soon as the irrevocable step had been taken. Just as David mourned and wept as long as the child was sick, but washed his face, and ate and accommodated himself to the situation when the child was dead, so would it be with the Squire. He would sulk and threaten so long as Anthony was meditating matrimony, but no sooner was he married than the old man would ask them all to dinner, kiss, and be jolly. Luke by no means shared his cousin's sanguine views. Mistress Penwarne was in the house, and from her he learnt the circumstances of the marriage and subsequent disagreement of old Anthony and Margaret; and he could to some extent understand the dislike the old Squire had to his son's marrying the daughter of his rival. He knew the hard, relentless, envious nature of the man, he had suffered from it himself, and he doubted whether it would yield as young Anthony anticipated. It was true that Anthony was the Squire's son and heir, that he was the keystone to the great triumphal Cleverdon arch the old man had been rearing in imagination; it was certain that there would be a struggle in his heart between his pride and his love. Luke was by no means confident that old Cleverdon's affection for his son would prove so mastering a passion as to overcome the many combined emotions which were in insurrection within him against this union, and impelling him to maintain his attitude towards his son of alienation and hostility. When Luke spoke to Anthony of the difficulties that stood in his way, Anthony burst forth impatiently with the words, "It is of no use you talking to me like this, cousin. I have made up my mind, I will have Urith as my wife. I love her, and she loves me. What does it matter that there are obstacles? Obstacles have to be surmounted. My father will come round. As to Urith's mother, the old woman was prejudiced, she was angry. She knows better now, and is sorry for what she said." "How do you know that?" "Oh! of course it is so." "But do you suppose that Urith will go in opposition to her mother's dying wish?" "She will make no trouble over that, I reckon. Words are wind--they break no bones. I appeal from Alexander drunk to Alexander sober, from the ill-informed and peppery old woman, half-crazed on her death-bed, to the same in her present condition. Will that content you?" "You have not spoken to Urith on this matter?" "No--I have not seen her since the funeral. I have had that much grace in me. But I will see her to-day, I swear to you. I will tell you what I think," said Anthony, with vehemence. "You are as cold-blooded as an eel. You have never loved--all your interest is in old stones, and pots and pans dug up out of cairns. You love them in a frozen fashion, and have no notion what is the ardour of human hearts loving each other. So you make one difficulty on another. Why, Cousin Luke, if there were mountains of ice I would climb over them, seas of fire, I would wade through them, to Urith. Neither heaven nor hell shall separate us." "Do not speak like this," said the curate, sternly. "It is a tempting of Providence." "Providence brought us together and set us ablaze. Providence is bound to finish the good work and unite us." "There has been neither consideration nor delay in this matter, and Providence, maybe, raises these barriers against which you kick." "I will kick them over," said Anthony. "Yes," said Luke, with a touch of bitterness; "always acting with passion and inconsideration. Nothing but headlong folly would have led you to do violence to Master Malvine's grave. The same rash impetuosity made you injure Fox Crymes' eye; and now you will throw yourself headlong into a state of life which involves the welfare of another, just because you have a fancy in your head that may pass as quickly as it has arisen." "I am not going to listen to a sermon. This is not Sunday." "I do not believe you will make Urith happy." "No, not in the fashion you esteem happiness. Certainly not in that. In grubbing into barrows after old pots and counting grey stones on the moor. No. Urith would gape and go to sleep over such dull happiness as this. But I and she understand happiness in other sort from you. We shall manage somehow to make each other happy, and I defy my father and the ghost of old Madam Malvine to stand between us and spoil our bliss." Luke bowed his head over the table, and put his hand before his eyes, that his cousin might not observe the emotion that stirred him at these cutting but thoughtlessly uttered words of his cousin. He did not answer at once. After some pause he said, without looking up, "Yes, you may be happy together after your fashion, but something more than passion is wanted to found a household, and that is, as Scripture tells us, the blessing of the parents." "My father is all right," said Anthony. "He has set his head on my uniting Kilworthy to Hall, and trebling the family estate. He can't have that, so he is growling. But Urith does not come empty; she has Willsworthy. If we do not extend the kingdom of Cleverdon in one direction, we shall in another. My father will see that in time, and come round. The weathercock does not always point to the east; we shall have a twist about, a few rains, and a soft west, warm breeze of reconciliation. I will make you a bet--what will you take?" "I take no bets; I ask you to consider. In marriage each side brings something to the common fund. What do you bring? Urith has Willsworthy." "And I Hall." "No; recollect your father's threat." "It was but a threat--he never meant it." "Suppose he did mean it, and perseveres; you will then have to be the receiver, not the giver." "The place is gone to the dogs. I can give my arms and head to it, and bring it round from the kennel." "That is something, certainly. Then, again, you are wilful, and have had your way in all things. How will you agree with a girl equally wilful and unbending?" "In the best way; we shall both will the same things. You don't understand what love is. Where two young creatures love, they do not strive, they pull together. It is of no profit talking to you, Luke, about love; it is to you what Hebrew or Greek would be to me--an unintelligible language in unreadable characters. I will be off to see Urith at once." "No," said Luke, "you must not go to Willsworthy; you will cause folks to talk." "I care nothing for their talk." "If you care nothing for what people say, how is it you fell out with and struck Fox? You must consider others besides yourself. You have no right to bring the name of Urith into discredit. Do you not suppose that already tongues are busy concerning the cause of your quarrel with your father?" "But I must see her, and come to some understanding." "I will go to Willsworthy at once, and speak to her of your matter. I have not done so hitherto--I have only sought to comfort her on the death of her mother." "I do not desire a go-between," said Anthony, peevishly. "In these concerns none can act like the principals." "But I cannot suffer you to go. You must think of Urith's good name, and not have that any more put into the mouths of those who go to the pot-house. It has been done more than enough already. Stay here till I return." Luke took up his three-corner hat and his stick and went forth. On reaching Willsworthy he did not find Urith in the house, but ascertained from a maid-servant that she was in the walled garden. Thither he betook himself across the back courtyard. The rooks were making a great noise in the sycamores outside. He found the girl seated on the herb-bank in the neglected garden, with her head on her hand, deep in thought. She was pale, and her face drawn; but the moment she saw Luke she started up and flushed. "I am so glad you are come. You will tell me something about Anthony?" She was only glad to see him because he would speak of Anthony, thought Luke; and it gave a pang to his heart. "Yes," said he, taking a seat beside her, "I will speak to you about Anthony." She looked him full in the face out of her large, earnest, dark eyes. "Is it true," she asked, "what I have been told, that he has fallen out with his father, and is driven from Hall?" "He has taken himself off from Hall," answered Luke, "on your account. His father refuses to countenance his attachment to you." "Then where is he? With you?" "Yes, with me. I have come to know your mind. He cannot always remain with me and at variance with his father." "On my account this has happened?" she said. "Yes, on your account. How is this to end?" She put her hands to her brow, and pressed her temples. "I am pulled this way and that," she answered, "and I feel as if I should go mad. But I have made my resolve, I will give him up. I have been an undutiful daughter always, and now I will obey my mother's last wishes. In that one thing that will cost me most, I will submit, and so atone for the wrong I did all the years before." "Then you determine to give up Anthony, wholly?" The colour came and went in her cheek, then deserted it entirely. She clasped her hands over her knee--she had reseated herself--and she said in a low voice, "Wholly." "You give me authority to tell him this?" "Yes. It can never be that we can belong to each other after what my mother said. You heard. She hoped if he ever passed through this door, that he might be struck dead on the hearth." "They were awful words," said Luke, "but----" "They were her last words." Luke returned to his home and found Anthony there, pacing his little parlour, to work off his impatience. When he heard what Luke had to say, he burst into angry reproach. "You have spoken like a parson! It was wrong for you to meddle, I knew no good would come of it! I will not hear of this! I will go to Urith myself!" "You must not." "I will! Nothing shall stay me." He caught up his hat and swung out of the room. CHAPTER XVIII. A LOVER AND HIS LASS. Anthony strode along the way to Willsworthy. That way took him past Cudliptown. The landlord was at the door of his inn. "What! pass my house without a step inside?" asked he. "There's Master Sol Gibbs there and Moorman Ever." "I cannot stay," answered Anthony. "Oh!" laughed the taverner, "I see;" and he began to whistle a country song--"An evening so clear." Instantly the strains of a viol-de-gamba were heard from within taking up the strain, and Uncle Solomon's voice singing lustily: An evening so clear I would that I were, To kiss thy soft cheek With the faintest of air. The star that is twinkling So brightly above, I would that I were To enlighten my love! Anthony walked on. His brow knitted, and he set his teeth. The innkeeper had guessed that he was going to Willsworthy, and suspected the reason. That idiot Solomon Gibbs had been talking. As he strode along, the plaintive and sweet melody followed him; all that was harsh in the voice mellowed by the distance; and Anthony sang to himself low, as he continued his course: I would I were heaven, O'erarching and blue, I'd bathe thee, my dearest, In freshest of dew. I would I the sun were, All radiance and glow, I'd pour all my splendour On thee, love, below! He remembered how--only a few weeks agone--when he had been at the tavern with some comrades, and songs had been called for, he had expressed his impatience at this very piece, which he said was rank folly. Then he had not understood the yearning of the heart for the loved one, had not conceived of the desire to be all and everything to its mistress. Now he was expelled from his father's house, threatened with being disinherited, and was actually without money in his pocket wherewith to pay for ale or wine at the tavern, had he entered it. He who had been so free with his coin, so ready to treat others, was now unable to give himself a mug of ale. That was what had driven him past the tavern door without crossing the threshold, or rather that was one reason why he had resisted the invitation of the host. Yes--he had suffered for Urith, and he rather plumed himself on having done so. She could not resist his appeal when he told her all he had risked for her sake. Besides, Anthony was stubborn. The fact of his father's resistance to his wish had hammered his resolution into inflexibility. Nothing in the world, no person alive or dead--neither his father nor her mother--should interfere to frustrate his will. Anthony's heart beat fast between anger and impatience to break down every obstacle; he sang on, as he walked:-- If I were the waters That round the world run, I'd lavish my pearls on thee, Not keeping of one. If I were the summer, My flowers and green I'd heap on thy temples, And crown thee my Queen. He had reached the ascent to Willsworthy, he looked up the lane--and saw Urith in it; outside the entrance gates to the Manor House. She was there looking for her uncle, who had been required about some farm-business. She saw Anthony coming to her, with the sun glistening on him over the rude stone hedge hung with fern. She heard his song, and she knew the words--she knew that he was applying them to her. For a moment she hesitated, whether to meet him or to retire into the house. She speedily formed her resolution. If there must be an interview, a final interview, it had better be at once, and got over. The evening sun was low, the moor peaks over the manor house were flushed a delicate pink, as though the heather were in bloom. Alas! this year no heather would wrap the hills in rose flush, for it had been burnt in the great fire. High aloft the larks were shrilling. She could hear their song in broken snatches between the strophes of Anthony's lay as he ascended the hill. He had seen her, and his voice became loud and jubilant:-- If I were a kiln, All fire and flame, I'd mantle and girdle thee Round with the same. But as I am nothing Save love-mazed Bill, Pray take of me, make of me, Just what you will. He had reached her. He held out his arms to engirdle her as he had threatened, and the flame leaped and danced in his eyes and glowed in his lips and cheek. She drew back proudly. "You have had my message?" "I take no messages--certainly none sent through parsons. The dove is the carrier between lovers, and not the croaking raven." "Perhaps it is as well," said Urith, coldly. She had nerved herself to play her part, but her heart was bounding and beating against her sides like the Tavy in one of its granite pools beneath a cataract. "I sent by Master Luke Cleverdon to let you know that we must see each other no more." "I will take no such message. I will--I must see you. I cannot live without." "My mother's wishes must be followed. I have promised to see and speak to you no more." "You promised! To whom? To her?" Urith was silent. "I will know who twisted this promise out of you. Was it Luke? If so his cassock and our cousinship shall not save him." "It was not Luke." "It was your mother?" "I did not actually promise anything to my mother. But--I must not shrink from telling you--I have made the promise to myself, we can be nothing to each other." "Unsay the promise at once--do you hear? At once." "I cannot do that. I made it because I considered it right. Your father is against our--acquaintance----" She hesitated. "Go on--he is against our being lovers, and more against our marrying. But what of that? He always gives way in the end, and now the only means of bringing him to his senses is for us to go before the altar." "My mother, with her last breath, warned me from you." "I know perfectly well for what reason. My mother and your father were to each other what are now you and I; then, by some chance, all went wrong, and each got wed to the wrong person. Neither was happy after that, and my father on one side and your mother on the other, could not forget this, so they have carried on the grudge to the next generation, and would make us do the wrong that they did, and give you to--the Lord knows who?--perhaps Fox Crymes; and me, certainly, to Julian. I have seen what comes of wedding where the heart is elsewhere. I will not commit the folly my father was guilty of. Julian Crymes shall take another, she shall never have me. And you, I reckon, have no fancy for another save me; and if your mother had made any scheme for you, she has taken it with her to the grave, and you are not tied to make yourself unhappy thereon." As he spoke, Urith retreated through the gateway into the court, and Anthony, vehement in his purpose, followed her. They were as much alone and unobserved in the little court as in the lane, for only the hall windows and those of an unused parlour looked into it. But Anthony raised his voice in his warmth of feeling. "Urith," said he, "I am not accustomed to take a No, and what I am not accustomed to I will not take." "No!" she answered, and looked up, with a kindling of her eye. "And what I say, to that I am accustomed to hold; and what I am accustomed to hold, that hold I will. I say No." She set her foot down. "And I will not take it. I throw it back. Why, look you, you have said Yes. We are pledged to each other. You and I on The Cleave. There I have you, Urith. You passed your word to me, and I will not release you." She looked on the paved ground of the court, with grass sprouting between the cobble-stones, and played with her foot on the pebbles. Her brows were contracted, and her lips tight closed. Presently she looked up at him steadily, and said-- "It is for the good of both that I withdraw that word, stolen from me before I had weighed and appraised its worth. I will not be the cause of strife between you and your father, and I dare not go against the last words of my mother. Do you know what she said? She prayed that you might be struck dead on the hearth should you dare enter our doors again." "Very well," said Anthony, "let us see what her prayer avails. Stand aside, Urith." He thrust her away and walked forward to the entrance of the house, then he turned and looked at her and laughed. The sun shone on the porch, but it was dark within. He put out his hands and held to the stone-jambs, and looking at Urith with the dazzling evening sun in his eyes, he said-- "See now! I defy her. I go through!" and walking backwards, with arms outspread, he passed in through the porch, then in at the second doorway. Urith had remained rooted to one spot, in astonishment and terror. Now she flew after him, and found him standing in the hall on the hearthstone, his head above the dark oak mantel, laughing, and with his legs wide apart, and his hands in his belt. "See, Urith!" he jeered, "the prayers are of no avail. Prayers bring blessings, not curses. Here am I on the hearthstone, alive and well. Now--will you fear an idle threat?" He laughed aloud, and broke out into a snatch of song. "If I were a kiln, All fire and flame, I'd mantle and girdle thee Round with the same." Then he caught her round the waist and drew her towards him; but by a sharp turn she freed herself from his grasp. "No," she said; "one must give way, and that shall not be I." "Nor I," he said, resolutely, and the blood rose in his cheeks; "I am wholly unwont to give way." "So am I." "Then it is--which is strongest." "Strongest in will--even so; there I doubt if you will surpass me." "I tell you this is folly, mad folly," said Anthony, with violence; "my happiness--my everything depends on you. I have broken with my father. I am too proud to go back to Hall and say to him, 'Urith has cast me off, now she finds that I am penniless.' What am I to do? I cannot dig, to beg I am ashamed, and I have no stewardship in which to be dishonest. If I cannot have you, I have nothing to live for, nothing to work for, nothing, and no one to love." He stamped on the hearthstone. "By heavens, may I be struck dead here if only I get you, for without you I will not live. Let it be as your mother wished, so that I have you." She remained silent, with hands clasped, looking down--her face set, colourless, and resolved with a certain dogged, sullen fixity. "Am I to be the laughing-stock of the parish?" asked Anthony, angrily. "Turned out of Hall, turned out of Willsworthy! My father will have naught to do with me because of Urith Malvine, and Urith Malvine will have naught to say to me because of Squire Cleverdon. This is too laughable--it would be laughable if it concerned another than me--but I am the sufferer, I am the ball tossed about and let drop by every hand. I will not be thus treated. I will not be the generally rejected. You must and you shall take me." "Listen to me, Anthony," said Urith, in tones that hardly vibrated, so complete was her self-control. "If you will not ask your father's pardon----" "What for? I have done him no harm." "Well, then, if you will not, go to your father and say I will not take you, and therefore all is to be as before." "No, that I will not do; I will have you even against your will. You may give me up, but I will not so lightly let you fall." "Hear me out. If you will not do this, go away from this place." "Whither?" "Nay, that is for you to decide. I should say, were I a man, that I could always find a where--in the King's army." Anthony laughed scornfully. "In the King's forces, that on the accession of the Duke of York will be employed to put down the Protestants, and treat them as they have been treated in Savoy and in France? No, Urith, not at your wish will I do that; but if the Duke of Monmouth or the Prince of Orange were----" Urith held up her hand. In at the door came her uncle, red and wine-flushed, carrying his viol. "Halloo!" shouted Mr. Solomon Gibbs, "_in vino veritas_. Hussey, you don't understand Latin. I have learnt something--slipped out unawares from Moorman Ever. To-morrow--What think you? A Drift." "A Drift!" For the moment Urith forgot all about the presence of Anthony, in the excitement of the announcement. "A Drift!" Anthony tossed up his head and clasped his hands, and forgot Urith and all else, for a moment, in the excitement of the announcement. "Ay," said Uncle Solomon; "and Tom Ever would have bitten out his tongue when he said it, he was so vexed." CHAPTER XIX. A DRIFT. A Drift? What is a Drift? The vast expanse of Dartmoor, occupying nearly a hundred and fifty thousand acres, for the most part, but not altogether, belongs to the Duchy of Cornwall. Considerable, and, in many cases, fraudulent encroachments have been made on Duchy property--slices taken out of it in past times--and the Duchy agents bribed to turn their eyes away; or simply taken and secured to the squatters by prerogative of long squatting unmolested. The main mass of moor constitutes the ancient and Royal forest of Dartmoor; but much waste land exists outside the forest bounds in the possession of private owners, or as common land, over which the lord of the manor has but manorial rights. Around the circumference of the moor are, and always have been, stationed certain men having a position under the Duchy, corresponding to that of foresters elsewhere. But, as there are no trees on Dartmoor, these men have no care of timber; nor have they, as foresters elsewhere, the custody of the deer, as there are no red deer in this Royal forest. Red deer there were in times past; but they were all destroyed at the close of the last century, when large plantations were made on the moor and in its confines, because the deer killed the young trees. On account of the rugged and boggy nature of Dartmoor, no Royal hunters had come there since the Saxon kings; consequently, no pains were taken to preserve the deer, and every moorman and squire neighbouring on the wilderness considered that he had a right to supply himself with as much venison from off it as he could eat, and every farmer regarded himself as justified in killing the deer that invaded his fields and swarmed over his crops. The men answering to foresters elsewhere, living under the Duchy, and posted around the borders of the moor, inherited their offices, which passed in families for generations, and it is probable that the Evers, the Coakers, and the Widdecombes of to-day are the direct descendants of the moormen who were foresters under the Conqueror--nay, possibly, in Saxon times. They are a fine-built race, fair-haired, blue-eyed, erect, better able to ride than to walk, are bold in speech, and perhaps overbearing in action, having none above them save God and the Prince of Wales--_the_ Duke, the only Duke above their horizon. Around the forest proper is a wide tract of common land, indistinguishable from moor proper, and this does not belong to the Duchy, but the Duchy exerts, for all that, certain rights over this belt of waste. The parishes contiguous on the moor have what are termed Venville rights, that is to say, rights to cut turf and to free pasturage on the moor; the tenants in Venville may be said to have the right to take anything off the moor that may do them good except green oak and venison, or more properly, vert and venison. This has led to the most ruthless destruction of prehistoric antiquities, as every farmer in Venville carries away as his right any granite-stone that commends itself to him as a gate-post, or a pillar to prop a cowshed; sheep, bullocks, and horses are turned out on Dartmoor, and the horses and ponies live in all weathers on the wilderness, defy all boundaries, and ask for no care, no shelter, no winter quarters. Bullocks and sheep have their lairs, and want to be levant and couchant, and to be cared for in winter, and therefore are not driven on to the moors till spring, and are driven off in autumn. The moor is divided into regions, and over each region is a moorman. In each quarter of the moor a special ear-mark is required for the ponies turned out in that district, a round hole punched in the ear, through which is passed a piece of distinguishing tape, scarlet, blue, white, and black. Ponies wander widely: a herd will disappear from one place and appear at another like magic, in search after pasture; but the moormen of each region claim the fines on the ponies belonging to their region, and, to a certain extent, exercise some sort of supervision over them. Although every tenant in Venville has an undisputed right to free pasturage, yet it is usual for him to fee the moorman for each horse or beast he sends out, and, if this be refused, he may find his cattle stray to a very remarkable extent, and be liable to get "stogged" in the bogs and be lost. As horses, etc., that are driven on parish commons, or on moors belonging to private individuals, very often leave these quarters for the broader expanse of the Royal Forest, it is necessary, or deemed advisable, on certain days arbitrarily determined on, without notice to anyone, to have a "Drift." A messenger is sent round in the night or very early in the morning to the Venville tenants, from the moorman of the quarter, to summon them to the Drift; on certain tors are upright holed stones, through which horns were passed and loudly blown, to announce the Drift. All the neighbourhood is on the alert--dogs, men, boys are about, squires and farmers armed with long whips, and formerly with pistols and short swords and bludgeons. All the ponies and colts on the quarter, not only on Dartmoor Forest, but on all the surrounding zone of waste land, are driven from every nook and corner by mounted horsemen and dogs, towards the place of gathering, which is, for the western quarter, Merrivale Bridge. The driving completed, a vast number of ponies and horses of all ages, sizes, colours, and breeds, and men and dogs, are collected together in a state of wild confusion. Then an officer of the Duchy mounts a stone and reads to the assembly a formal document with seals attached to it. That ceremony performed, the owners claim their ponies. Venville tenants carry off theirs without objection; others pay fines. Animals unclaimed are driven off to Dinnabridge Pound, a large walled-in field in the midst of the moor, where they remain till demanded, and if unclaimed are sold by the Duchy.[4] To this day a Drift causes violent altercations; formerly free fights between Venville tenants and those who were outside the Venville parishes were not uncommon, and blood was not infrequently shed. That a Drift should excite a whole neighbourhood to the utmost may be imagined. The dispersion of the horses by the fire on the moor occasioned the Drift at this unusual time of early spring. The morning was windy, clouds large and heavy were lumbering over the sky, turning the moor indigo with their shade, and where the sun shone the grey grass, as yet untinged with spring growth, was white as ashes. On the top of Smerdon stood a gigantic moorsman, with lungs like blacksmith's bellows, blowing a blast through a cow's horn that was heard for miles around. But the yelping of dogs, the shouts of men proclaimed that the whole world was awake and abroad, and needed no horn to call to attention. Men in rough lindsey and frieze coats and leather breeches, high boots, with broad hats, wild-looking as the horses they bestrode, and the hounds that bayed about them, galloped in all directions over the turf, shouting and brandishing their long whips. Colts, ponies of every colour, with long manes and flowing tails, wild as any bred on the prairies, leaped, plunged, raced about, snorting, frightened, and were pursued by dogs and men. Although there was apparent confusion, yet a rude order might be observed. All the men were moved by one common impulse--to drive the horses and ponies inwards, and though these frightened creatures often broke the ring that was forming and careered back to the outer downs whence they had been chased, to be pursued again by a host of dogs and men, yet there was observable a rough chain of drivers concentrating towards a point on the Walla, spanned by a bridge under Mistor. The whole neighbourhood was there--Anthony had come, ashamed to be seen afoot, and yet unwilling not to be there. He saw one of his father's servants on his own horse, and he demanded it; the fellow readily yielded his saddle, and Anthony joyously mounted his favorite roan. Fox Crymes was there with his eye bandaged, and glancing angrily at Anthony out of the one uninjured eye. Old Squire Cleverdon did not come out, he could no longer sit at ease on horseback, and had never been much of a rider. Mr. Solomon Gibbs was out in a soiled purple coat, and with hat and wig--as was his wont--awry. And Urith was there. She could not remain at home on such an occasion as a Drift. Her uncle was not to be trusted to recognise and claim the Willsworthy cobs. He was not to be calculated on. There was a tavern at Merivale Bridge, and there he would probably sit and booze, and leave his colts and mares to take care of themselves. There was no proper hind at the manor, only day-labourers, who were poor riders. Therefore Urith was constrained to attend the Drift herself. She was the only woman present; Julian Crymes had not come out. When Anthony saw Urith he approached her, but she drew away. "Why, how now!" shouted Fox. "Whose horse are you riding?" "My own," answered Anthony, shortly. "Oh! I am glad to hear it. I understood that you had been bundled out of Hall without any of your belongings; but your father, I suppose, allowed you to ride off on the roan?" "I will thank you to be silent," said Anthony, angrily. "Why should I, when even dogs are open-mouthed? And as for Ever and his horn, he is calling everyone to speak in a scream, so as to be heard at all. Were you allowed to take off oats and hay as well?" Anthony spurred his horse, to be out of ear-shot of his tormentor; but Fox followed him. "What was it all about?" he asked. "All the country-side is ringing with the news that you and your father are fallen out, and that he has turned you out of doors; but opinions are divided as to the occasion." "Let them remain divided," answered Anthony, and dug his spurs in so deeply that his horse bounded and dashed away. Fox no longer attempted to keep up with him, but turned to attach himself to Urith. She saw his intention, and drew near to her uncle, who was in conversation with Yeoman Cudlip. They were now riding through a broad vale or dip between a range of serrated granite heights to the east, and the great trap-rounded pile of Cox Tor crowned with vast masses of cairn piled about the blistered basaltic prongs that shot through the turf at the summit. These cairns were probably used as beacons, for all were depressed in the middle to receive the heaps of fern and wood that were ignited to send a signal far away to the very Atlantic on the north, from a warning given on the coast of the English Channel. The turf was free from masses of boulder, but was in places swampy. At the water-shed was a morass with a spring, and from this point the stream had been laboriously worked in ancient times for tin; the bed was ploughed up and thrown into heaps in the midst of the course. "Look yonder," said Cudlip. "Do you see that pile o' stones with one piece o' granite atop standing up? There's P. L. cut on that. Did you ever hear tell how Philip Lang came by his death there? and how he came to lie there? For I tell y' there he is buried, and it is the mark where Peter Tavy parish ends and Tavistock parish begins, and they say he do lie just so that the parish bound goes thro' the middle of him. It all came about in the times of the troubles between the King and the Parliament. Sir Richard Grenville was in Tavistock, and was collecting men for the King; and Lord Essex came up with the Roundheads, and there was some fighting. Then some of the train bandmen were out here, and among them was Philip. He was a musketeer; but, bless your soul! he didn't know how to use the piece, and I've heard my father say that was the way with many. It was an old matchlock, and to fire it he had a fuse alight. Lord Essex was skirmishing round the country and Sir Richard had set a picket at this point. Well, Philip Lang, not knowing but the enemy might surprise him from one side or the other, had his fuse alight, and his musket charged. But by some chance or other, the fuse was uncoiled, and the lighted end hung down behind him and touched the horse on the croup. The beast jumped and kicked, and Lang could not make it out, for the fuse was behind him. Every time the horse bounded, the burning end struck him again in another spot, and he sprang about, and ran this way and that, quite mad; and Philip Lang, who was never a famous rider, let go his matchlock, and had hard to do to keep his seat. But, though he had dropped the musket, the fuse was twisted round him and kept bobbing against the horse, and making it still madder. Then the beast dashed ahead across the valley, and went head over heels down into the old miners' works, and Philip was flung where you see that stone, and he never breathed or opened his eyes after. 'Twas a curious thing that he fell just on the boundary of both parishes, and there was no saying whether he lay in one or the other. There was mighty discussion over it. The Peter Tavy men said the body belonged to Tavistock, and the Tavistock men said it belonged to Peter Tavy; and neither parish would bury him, for, you see, he was a poor man, without friends or money." "Say, rather," threw in Fox, "without money and friends." "As you like," answered the yeoman, and continued. "Well, it was thought that the parishes would have to go to law over it, to find out which would have to bury him, but after a deal o' trouble they came to an agreement to bury him where he fell, and three Peter Tavy men threw stones over him on one side, and three Tavistock men threw stones the other; and when the stone was set up the Peter Tavy men went to the expense of cutting one letter, P, and the Tavistock men went to the cost of the other letter, L." "Come," said Mr. Solomon Gibbs, "we are fallen into the rear." They pricked on, and descended the slope to the River Walla, that foamed and plunged over a floor of broken granite at some depth below. In the valley, where was the bridge, two or three mountain-ash trees grew; there was an inn and by it a couple of cottages. Here was now a scene of indescribable confusion and noise. The wild, frightened horses and ponies driven together, surrounded on all sides by the drivers, were leaping, plunging over each other, tossing their manes and snorting. The ring had closed about them. Every now and then a man dashed among them, on foot or mounted, when he recognized one of his own creatures, and by force or skill separated it from the rest, shouted to the drivers, who instantly opened a lane, and he drove the scared creature through the lane of men back on to the free wild moor. To effect this demanded daring and skill, and the men rivalled each other in their ability to claim their animals, and extricate them from the midst of the crowd of half-frantic creatures plunging and kicking. Neither Urith nor Solomon Gibbs had any intention of attempting such a dangerous feat, but purposed waiting till all other horses had been claimed, when they would indicate their own creatures, and the good-humoured moor-men of their quarter would discharge them. Accordingly they remained passive observers, and the sight was one full of interest and excitement; for the extrication of the horses claimed was a matter of personal danger, and demanded courage, a quick eye, great resolution, and activity. Fox Crymes had no intention of venturing within the ring; he was standing on foot near Anthony's horse. Anthony was awaiting his time when he would rush in to the capture of his father's colts. All eyes but those of Urith were riveted on the struggle with the horses. There were some tall men, or men on large horses, between her and the herd of wild creatures, and as she could not well see what went on within the ring, she looked towards Anthony. She was a little surprised at the conduct of Fox. In the first place, he seemed to be paying no attention to what was engrossing the minds and engaging the eyes of the rest. He held a little back from Anthony, and was striking a light with a flint and a steel which he had taken from his pocket. What could be his purpose? Urith was puzzled. Fox was no smoker. She noticed that he had a piece of amadou under the flint, and the sparks fell on it; it kindled, and Fox enclosed it within his hollowed hand and blew it into a glow. Then he looked hastily about him, but did not observe Urith. His bandaged eye was towards her, or he must have seen that she was watching him, and watching him with perplexity. Then he took three steps forward. Urith uttered a cry of dismay. Fox had thrust the fragment of burning amadou into the ear of the horse Anthony rode. FOOTNOTE: [4] See an article on Venville rights on Dartmoor, by W. F. Collier, Esq, in the Devon Association Transactions for 1887. CHAPTER XX. A BLOODY HAND. The effect on Anthony's horse was instantaneous. With a snort it bounded into the air, threw back its head, then kicked out and began to dance and revolve, put its head down between the fore-legs, then reared into the air, every violent motion fanning the burning bunch of amadou into stronger heat. Anthony was taken by surprise, but maintained his seat. The horse quickly scattered those around. One man, struck by the hoofs, was drawn away in a state of unconsciousness. Some men were driven in among the enclosed ponies, but quickly ran away; and, in less time than it takes to write, the circle of lookers-on had reformed, enclosing Anthony on his maddened steed in the same arena with the wild cobs and colts. A scene of indescribable confusion ensued. The tortured horse bounded in among the throng of ponies, and threw them, if possible, into wilder disorder. All that could be seen for some moments was a tumult of heads, flying manes, hoofs, beasts leaping on and over each other, and Anthony with difficulty, and in extreme danger, carried up and down above the sea of horses' heads and heels. If he had fallen, his brains would have been dashed out in one minute. He knew this, and endeavoured to force his horse by deep spur out of the tangle; but, agonised by the fire in its ear, it disregarded rein and spur. Of its own accord, however, it disengaged itself, or by chance found itself free for an instant from the surrounding tossing, plunging mass of its fellows; and then, with a scream rather than a snort, it dashed right among the surrounding men. They divided at once--not a man ventured forward to catch the rein and stay the mad beast. In front was the river, with the low wall of the bridge over it, and under the arch, among huge masses of granite, leaped, and roared, and tumbled the Walla, as mad as the frightened moorland ponies--of a rich brown, but transparent, colour, where not whipped into foam. Anthony's horse was dashing at the wall. The brute's head was now round biting itself, then down between its fore-hoofs, in a frantic paroxysm of kicks. Then it rushed forward, halted, spun round, then leaped with all four feet into the air, uttering screams. Everyone was cowed--no one dared approach, and yet the situation of Anthony was critical. Another bound, maybe, and his horse would be over the wall, and roll with him among the masses of rock big as haystacks, over and among which the river dashed itself to threads and flakes of foam, or went down into one of the wine-dark pools, where the eddies swirled and dissolved their foam before taking another leap. Instinctively, overawed by one of those waves of feeling which come on men and beasts alike, all sounds ceased, the men no longer spoke, nor did the dogs bark. Only the churning of the colts' and ponies' feet was heard within the living ring of men, and the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of a sheep-bell beyond the river. The horse was rearing to leap. At that moment--a shot, and the horse fell like lead. Urith had snatched the pistol from the holster of her uncle's saddle, had leaped to the ground, run forward, and fired. Silence remained as unbroken as before, save for the tinkle of the sheep-bell, till Anthony disengaged himself from his fallen horse, stood up, shook himself, and then a cheer burst from all the men present, who pressed forward to congratulate him. "Stay!" said Urith, still on the bridge, and with the pistol in her hand. She was white with emotion, and her eyes flaming with wrath. "Listen to me--you--all of you. I saw him do it--I saw him light a ball of tinder and thrust it into the horse's ear, to drive the beast mad." She looked round--her flashing eyes sought out him of whom she spoke. "I saw him do it, when all were looking elsewhere after their cobs. He hated him, and he sought this mean, this cruel, this treacherous revenge on him." She panted, her heart was beating furiously, and the blood rushed to her temples, and then ebbed away again, leaving her giddy. "Take him!" she cried. "He deserves it. Take him and fling him among the horses, and let them trample him down into the dirt. The man who did what he has done deserves no better." "Who!--who!--name!" shouted the bystanders. "Who it was who did this? Did I not name him? It is he." She had caught sight of him with his bandaged eye. "Bring him forward--Fox Crymes." In a moment Fox was hustled forth out of the throng into the foreground. "I would," gasped Urith, in quivering fury, "that I had another pistol, and I would shoot you as I have the horse, base, vile coward." Fox looked at her contemptuously out of his one eye. "It is well that none is in your hand--a maniac should not be trusted with firearms, or should practise them on herself." "What has he done?" shouted Farmer Cudlip. "What is the charge against him?" "I say," answered Urith, "that whilst all were engaged looking for their colts, I saw him light a piece of tinder with flint and steel, and then thrust it into the ear of the horse." Silence followed this announcement. The men had been too surprised to follow her charge when first made. "What do you say to that, Master Crymes?" asked Cudlip. "It is a lie," retorted Fox. "She did it herself, so as to make a spectacle and appear as the preserver of her lover." Again silence, save only for the trampling of the enringed ponies. The sheep-bell had ceased; maybe the sheep that bore the bell was lying down. Urith spoke slowly, in her deepest tones. "On the moor there is no law--or only the plain law of God that all can understand and obey. He is a murderer in heart. He tried to kill Anthony Cleverdon, and now he--coward that he is--insults me. Take him up and throw him among the horses." At once a score of hands were laid on Fox Crymes. It was true, there was no law on the moor. There every man was a law unto himself. The Stannary Court sat but once in the year on the top of one of the central Tors, but that took cognisance only of offences against the mining laws. There was no criminal jurisdiction over the moor lodged anywhere--or, it was supposed that there was none. But then--crime was unknown on Dartmoor. When an act of violence is to be done, especially when sanctioned by some rough rule of justice, there is no lack of hands to commit it. Fox Crymes was generally disliked, his stinging tongue, his lack of geniality had alienated every acquaintance from him; the farmers present were rude men of the moor confines, brought under little or no control, kings on their own estate, and free of the moor to do thereon what they listed, take thence what they desired, fight thereon any with whom they were at feud, avenge themselves with their own arms for any wrong done to them. Never had a lawyer been invoked to unravel a doubtful claim, or to settle a dispute. Every knot was, if not cut through with a sword, at all events beaten out with the quarterstaff; and every dispute brought to an end by silencing one side with a bludgeon or a pistol. In one moment, Fox Crymes was caught up, with a roar of many voices giving consent to the execution of the sentence pronounced by Urith, at once accuser and judge. "Hold off!" cried Fox, and drew his knife; freeing himself by a twist of the body from those who held him, and who shrank back at the flash of steel. His one eye glared. "I will drive it up to the haft in the first man who touches me!" he said. "Strike it out o' his hand!" shouted Cudlip. Fox, stabbing with his blade to right and left, backed from his assailants towards the wall. Cudgels were raised and aimed at him, but he dexterously withdrew his arm as each descended. The sight of the drawn weapon kindled the blood of the moor men, and those who had held back at first, now pressed forward to take him. A shout! the colts and horses had made a rush, a dash, and had broken through the ring. It was quickly reformed, and away after those who had escaped rushed some of the men with their whips whirled about their heads. This caused a momentary diversion. Anthony took advantage to leave his place by the fallen horse, come forward, and with his elbows force his way through to Crymes, and then, planting himself between Fox and his assailants, he shouted: "No harm has been done. It was a joke. He and I had sport together, and I hit him in the eye and hurt him; he knows I never designed to injure him. Now he tried a merry prank on me. He designed no hurt to me--but it has gone further than he would, as did mine with him. Hands off--here, Fox, show them we bear each other no malice--here before all, give me your right hand, good friend." Crymes held back. Cudgels were lowered, and the men drew away. Fox slipped his hunting-knive up his sleeve, and sullenly extended his arm. "You see!" called Anthony, looking round, and not regarding Crymes. "You see! We are good friends, and hearty comrades." Then he clasped the right hand of Fox. As he did so, the blade slipped down the sleeve into the hand of Crymes, and as Anthony clenched his fingers about those of Fox, they closed on the blade in his hand, which was keen, and cut. He felt the knife, but he did not relax his grasp, and when he drew his hand away it was covered with blood. "It was a mischance," said Crymes, with a malicious laugh. "You did not give me time to sheath the knife." "Many a mischance falls between us," answered Anthony, hastily, drawing his glove over the wounded hand, lest it should attract attention. Then he strode up to Urith, who stood palpitating near. "I have saved you from yourself to-day," he said. "Yes--I thank you." "You can thank me but in one way." "How so?" "Give me your hand. Take me forever." She put her hand into his: "I cannot help myself," she said, in a low tone. "Oh, mother, forgive." Then she loosed her hand, looked on it, and said, "There is blood!" The blood had oozed through his glove. "It is my blood," answered Anthony, "on your hand." CHAPTER XXI. FIXED. Squire Cleverdon gave no token of relenting towards his son. Bessie had her brother's interests so at heart that she ventured, without sufficient tact, to approach him on the subject, but was roughly repelled. The old man was irritated when she spoke, and irritated when she was silent; for then her eyes appealed to him in behalf of Anthony. The father held out, believing that by so doing he would break down Anthony's resolution. He did not believe in the power of love, for he had never experienced love. His son had taken a fancy, a perverse fancy for this Urith, as a child might take a fancy for a new toy. When the lad had had time to feel how ill it was to be an exile from his father's house, without money, without authority over serving-men, hampered and clipped in every direction and all sides, he would come to a better sense, laugh at his folly, and return to obedience to his father and to the suit for Julian Crymes and Kilworthy. His heart overflowed with gall against Urith. The thought of having a poor daughter-in-law could never have been other than distasteful to him, when he had set his mind on the wealthy Julian; but there were special reasons which made the acceptance of Urith impossible to him. She was the daughter of the man over whom he had gained a triumph in the eyes of the world, but it was a triumph full of shame and vexation inwardly. It was due to that man that his married life had been one of almost intolerable wretchedness. Not for a moment did he consider himself to blame in the matter; he cast all the responsibility for his unhappiness on Richard Malvine; on him he heaped all the hate that flamed out of envy at the personal superiority of the latter, jealousy because he had won the heart of his wife, and held it so firm that he--Anthony Cleverdon--had never been able to disengage it and attach it to himself; revenge for all the slights and insults he had received from her unsparing, barbed tongue, slights and insults she had known well how to administer, so as to leave rankling wounds which no time would heal. Even now, as he brooded over his quarrel with Anthony, the sneers, the mockery she had launched at him for his meanness, his pride, his ambition, rose up fresh in his memory, charged with new poison, and rankled in him again. But he did not feel anger against his dead wife for that, but against him who had used her as his instrument for torturing him; and as Richard Malvine was dead, he could but retaliate on his daughter. Old Cleverdon attributed the worst motives to Urith. Margaret Penrose had married him for his money, and, naturally, Urith Malvine compassed the capture of Anthony, his son, for the same reason; he did not see how he involved himself in contradiction, in that he charged Urith with her attempt to become the wife of his son for the sake of his wealth, as if it were a deadly crime, whilst he himself acted on no other motive than ambition and money-greed. She had entangled the young fellow in her net, and he would tear this net to pieces and release him. He would break down his son's opposition. He was not one to be defeated in what he took in hand, and no better means could be chosen by him for his purpose than making Anthony feel what poverty and banishment signified. Anthony had hitherto had at command what money he needed, and now to be with empty pockets would speedily bring him to reason. To attempt gentle means with his son never occurred to him; he had been accustomed to command, not to persuade. He became harder, more reserved, and colder than before; and Bessie in vain looked for a gentle light to come into his steely eyes, a quiver to come on his firm-set lips, and a token of yielding to flicker over his inflexible features. And yet the old man felt the absence of his son, and had little sleep at night thinking of him; but never for one moment did he suppose that he would not in the end triumph over his son's whim, and bring the young man back in submission to his usual place. Luke had been to Hall to see his uncle, in behalf of, but without the knowledge of, young Anthony. "Oh! tired of keeping him, are you?" asked the old Squire. "Then turn him out of the parsonage. I shall be the better pleased; so will he be the sooner brought to a right mind." Nothing was effected by this visit. After it, with bent head, full of thought, Luke took his way to Willsworthy. On entering the house, he found Anthony there, in the hall, with Urith and Uncle Solomon, the latter on the settle smoking, with a table before him on which stood cider. The light from the window was full and strong on the toper's face, showing its blotched complexion. Mr. Gibbs appeared to his best when partially shaded, just as a lady nowadays assumes a gauze veil to soften certain harshnesses in her features. I saddled my horse and away I did ride Till I came to an ale-house hard by the road-side, I called for a glass of ale humming and brown, And hard by the fireside I sat myself down, Singing tol-de-rol-de-rol, tol-de-rol-dee, And I in my pocket had one penny! Uncle Sol sang in subdued tones till he came to the tol-de-rol! when he drew the pipe from the corner of his mouth and sang aloud, rattling his glass on the table. He was not intoxicated, but in that happy, hilarious mood which was his wont, even out of his cups. "Oh, uncle! do be silent," pleaded Urith. "Here comes Mr. Luke, and we want to talk of serious matters, and not of----" "I in my pocket had one penny!" shouted Uncle Sol, diving into the depths of his pouch and producing the coin in question, which he held out in his open palm; "never got more--never from this confounded place. Squeeze, squeeze, and out comes one penny. Never more. If Anthony can do better with it, let him try. I have done my utmost, toiled and moiled, and at the end of all these years I in my pocket have one penny:-- I tarried all night, and I parted next day; Thinks I to myself, I'll be jogging away-- but you won't send me off with in my pocket but one penny?" "We will not send you off at all, uncle," said Urith. "But here is Master Luke. Let us talk the matter over with seriousness, and without snatches of song." "I can't help myself, I must sing," said Mr. Gibbs. "You say on, and I will warble to myself. It is your affair rather than mine." Luke looked at Anthony and Urith, who stood near each other. He folded his hands behind his back, that he might conceal the nervous twitching of his fingers. "What is it, Anthony?" he asked. "Luke, we want your help. I know very well that this is early times since the death of Urith's mother; but that cannot be helped. I cannot live on upon you longer. You are poor, and----" "I grudge you nothing that I have." "I have a vast appetite. Besides, I like to have money of my own to spend; and I am not like Mr. Solomon Gibbs, who has in his pocket one penny, for I have none." "I will give you what I can." "I will not take it, Luke; what I have and spend shall be mine own. So Urith and I will ask you to make us one, and give me a right to a penny or two." Luke was confounded; this was acting with precipitation, indeed. He quite understood that Squire Cleverdon would not receive Urith as a daughter-in-law with open arms, and that he would oppose such an alliance by all means in his power. Like Anthony, he supposed that the old man's violence of language and threats of disinheritance meant nothing. He would cut off his right hand rather than give up his ambitions set upon his son. But in the end he would yield to the inevitable, if inevitable this were. But this haste of Anthony in precipitating the marriage, in disregard to all decency, must incense the old father, and, if anything could do so, drive him to act upon his word. Luke became, if possible, graver; the lines in his face deepened. He withdrew his hands from behind his back. "Anthony," said he, "this will not do. You are acting with your usual hot-headedness. You have angered your father, and must seek reconciliation and the abatement of his wrath, before you take such a step as this." "I said so," threw in Urith. "My father never will yield so long as he thinks that I may be brought to change my mind. When he finds that I have taken the irrevocable step, then he will buckle under." "And is it for the son to bid the father do this?" asked Luke, with some warmth. "No, I will be no party to this," he added, firmly, and set his thin lips together. "I love her, and she loves me; we cannot live apart. God has made us for each other," said Anthony; "my father can't alter that; it is God's will." Luke did not meet Anthony's glowing eyes, his were resting on the ground. He thought of his own love, and his own desolate heart. For a moment the bitterness therein overflowed; he looked up sharply, to speak sharply, and then his eyes fell on the two young things--Anthony big, sturdy, wondrously handsome, and full of joyous life, and at his side Urith, in her almost masculine and sullen beauty. Yes, they were as though made for each other--the bright, light temper to be conjoined to the dark and sombre one, each qualifying, correcting the exuberance in the other, each in some sort supplementing the deficiencies in the other. The harsh words that were on his lips remained unspoken. On the settle Uncle Sol was murmuring his tune to himself, every now and then breaking forth into a louder gush of song, and then at once suppressing it again. Perhaps it was God's will that these two should belong to each other; perhaps the old hostility, and wrath, and envy that had embittered the lives of their several parents were to be atoned for by the mutual love of the children. Luke was too true a Christian to believe that the words of hate that had shot like fire-coals from a volcano out of the mouth of Madam Malvine, when dying, could avail aught now. In the better light into which she had passed, as he trusted, in the world of clearer vision and extinguished animosity, of all-enwrapping charity, she must, with inner anguish, repent, and desire to have unsaid those terrible words. The dying utterances of the woman did not weigh with Luke, or, if they had any weight, it was to turn the scale against them. No better comfort to the soul of the dead could be given than the certainty that those words had been reversed and cast aside. Luke passed his hands over his brow, and then said, "I will see your father again, Anthony." "That will avail nothing; you have spoken with him already. I tell you he will not alter till he sees that his present conduct does not affect me. What can he say or do after I am married? He may, indeed, cut me off with a shilling; but he will not do that. He loves me too well. He is too proud of having founded a family to slay his firstborn. Whom could he make his heir but me? You do not suppose he would leave all to you?" "No," answered Luke. "If he did--as an extreme measure--it would all come to you. I would not keep one penny of it." "And I in my pocket----" "Do be quiet, uncle!" pleaded Urith. "Then what _can_ he do? He must come round. He is as certain to come round as is the sun that sets every evening in the west." "I hope so." "I am sure of it. I know my father better than do you, Luke. See here. Urith has Mr. Solomon Gibbs as her guardian, and he is quite willing." "Oh, heartily!--heartily!" shouted Mr. Gibbs. "I'm quite incompetent to guardian any one, especially such a defiant little devil as my niece. She snaps her fingers in my face." Luke stood biting his thumb. He was as fully confident as was Anthony that the old man would not leave Hall away from his son. He might be angry, and incensed against Anthony; but his pride in the family position which he had won would never suffer him to disinherit his son, and leave the estate away from him--away from the name. "I cannot--I cannot!" exclaimed Luke, with pain in his tone, for he felt that it was too great a sacrifice to be required of him that he should pronounce the nuptial blessing over Anthony and Urith. He laboured for breath. His brow was beaded with sweat. His pale face flushed. "Anthony! this is unconsidered. You must postpone all thought of marriage to a later season. Consider that Urith's mother is but recently dead." "I know it; but whether now or in three months, or three years, it makes no matter--I shall love her all the same, and we belong to each other. But, see you, Luke, I cannot go on three years--nay, nor three months, and hardly three weeks--without an occupation, and without money, and without a position. I am as impatient as you are for my reconciliation with my father. But we can be reconciled in one way only--through Urith's wedding-ring. Through that we will clasp hands. The longer the delay, the longer the estrangement, and the longer does my father harbour his delusion. If you will not marry me at once to Urith----" "That I will not." "Then I shall remain here, and work for her as her steward, look after the farm and the estate, and put it straight for her. Why, this is the time of all the year of the greatest importance to a farmer--the time that my direction is most necessary. I tell you, Luke, I stay here, either as her husband or as her steward." "That cannot be, that must not be," said Luke, with heat, "and that Urith herself must feel." Urith did feel it. But Urith's mind was disturbed by what had taken place. She had no knowledge of the world, and Anthony's arguments had seemed to her conclusive, so conclusive as to override her own repugnance to an immediate marriage. She had resolved to give him up altogether, and yet she had yielded; that resolve had gone to pieces. She had resolved that if she did take him it should be at some time in the future, but when he pointed out to her that his only chance of reconciliation with his father was through marriage, as to abandon her was an impossible alternative, and that he was absolutely without work, without a position, without means--sponging on his cousin, a poor curate, then she saw that this, her second resolve, must go to pieces, like the first. "Anthony," said Luke; "you will have to go away for a year--for some months at the least." "Whither?--To whom?" "Surely Justice Crymes knows of----" "How can I accept any help from him when I refuse his daughter, and when I have blinded his son?" "That is true--and your mother had no relatives?" "None that I know of but my grandmother, who is with you." "Then go to sea." "I have no taste to be a sailor." "Be a soldier?" "No, Luke, here I can serve Urith--save Willsworthy from going to destruction. It is not a bad estate, but has been mismanaged. Here I can be of utility, and here I can be a help to Urith, and find work that suits me, and which I understand. It seems plain to me that Willsworthy is crying out for me to come and take it in hand; and, unless it be taken in hand at once, a whole year is lost." "That is true," threw in Solomon Gibbs, whose great eagerness now was to be disembarrassed of a task that was irksome to him, and obligations that were a burden. "You see, I was never reared to the farm, but to the office. I can draw you a lease, but not a furrow; make a settlement, but not a turf-tye. I wash my hands of it all." "Then, in God's name," said Luke, in grey pallor, and with quivering features, "if it must be, then so be it. May be His finger points the way. As you will. I am at your service--but not for one month. Concede me that." "From to-day," said Anthony. "So be it. That is fixed." CHAPTER XXII. BANNS. Sunday morning. A more idyllic and peaceful scene than Peter Tavy Church on Sunday could hardly be found. The grand old granite church with its bold grey tower and rich pinnacles standing among trees, now bursting with leaf; overhead, the soaring moors strewn with rock; the river or brook bounding, brawling down between the hills, with a pleasant rush that filled the air with a fresh, never-failing music. The rooks cawing, pee-whits calling, larks thrilling, wood-pigeons cooing, and the blackbirds piping during the pauses of the church-bells. And within the church, after the service had begun, when the psalm was not sung, as an accompaniment to the parson's prayer came in through the open door, with the sweet spring air and the sunlight, and through the ill-set and cracked wavy-green glass of the windows--that wondrous concert of Nature. As an organist sometimes accompanies the Confession and the Creed and Lord's Prayer, with a subdued change of harmonies on the instrument, so did mighty awakening Nature give its changing burden to this voice of prayer within, without a discord, and never unduly loud. A quaint old church, with fragments of stained glass in the windows, with old oak-carved benches representing on shields various strange sea-monsters, also rabbits running in and out of their holes, moor-birds fluttering over their young, and along with these symbols of trade, a spit with a goose on it, a flax-beating rack, a sheaf of wheat, and a sickle, and again the instruments of the Lord's Passion, and armorial bearings of ancient families, a queer jumble of subjects sacred and profane, a picture of human life. The screen existed almost intact, richly sculptured and gilt, and painted with the saints and apostles. Above this a great Royal Arms. The church was full. In the great carved pew, mentioned in a former chapter, were the Crymes family; in another, newly erected, were Squire Cleverdon and his daughter. Urith and her uncle sat in the old bench belonging to the Willsworthy Manor; the family had not had the stray cash at command to replace this with a deal pew, according to the new fashion. Anthony was within the screen, in the rectory seat. Looking through the screen, he could see his father, with his blue coat--the collar dusted over with powder--his dark eyebrows and sharp features. The old man looked straight before him, and purposely kept his eyes away from the chancel and his son when he stood up during Psalm and Creed. The Second Lesson was read, and then ensued a pause. Even Anthony's heart gave a leap and flutter then, for he knew what was to follow. Luke, in distinct tones, but with a voice in which was a slight tremor, announced: "I publish the banns of marriage between Anthony Cleverdon, of this parish, bachelor, and Urith Malvine----" He was interrupted by a strange noise--something between a cry of pain and the laugh of a madman. Squire Cleverdon, who had risen to his feet on the conclusion of the Lesson, had fallen back in his pew, with livid face and clenched hands. The curate waited a moment till the commotion was abated; then he proceeded--"Urith Malvine, of this parish, spinster. If any of you know any just cause why these persons may not be joined together in holy matrimony----" Squire Cleverdon staggered to his feet, and, clasping the back of the pew with both hands, in a harsh voice that rang through the church, cried, "I forbid the banns." "This is the first time of asking." Luke proceeded, with a voice now firm: "If any objection be raised, I will hear it immediately after Divine Service." Little attention was given through the rest of public worship to anything save the old father, his son, and to Urith. All eyes wandered from the Cleverdon pew, in which the Squire sat screened, and in which he no more rose, to Anthony in the chancel, and then to Urith, who was deadly pale. Luke's sermon may have been eloquent and instructive; not a person in the congregation gave heed to it. There was another person present who turned white at the announcement, and that was Julian Crymes; but she speedily recovered herself, and, rising, looked across the church at Urith with eyes that flamed with jealousy and hate. Her hand clenched her gloves, wrapped together in it. Yes, that wild moor-girl had won in the struggle, and she--the rich, the handsome Julian--was worsted. Her heart beat so furiously that she was afraid of leaning against the carved oak sides of the pew lest she should shake them. Her eye encountered that of her half-brother, twinkling with malice, and the sight gave back her self-possession; she would not let Fox see, and triumph over her confusion. The congregation waited with impatience for the conclusion of the service, and then, after defiling into the churchyard, did not disperse; they tarried to hear the result of the objection raised to the publication. Urith hastened away with her uncle, but she had difficulty in persuading him to go with her. He had so many friends in the churchyard, there was such a topic for discussion ready; but her will prevailed over his, and after a forlorn look back at his friends, and a shrug of the shoulders, he left with her. But Anthony remained with head erect; he knew that no objection his father could make would avail anything. He nodded his head to acquaintances, and held out his hand to friends with his wonted confidence; but all showed a slight hesitation about receiving his advances, a hesitation that was so obvious that it angered him. He was at variance with his father, and the father held the purse-strings. All knew that, and none liked to be too friendly with the young man fallen out of his fortune, and out of place. Fox alone was really friendly. He pushed forward, and seized and shook Anthony's hand, and congratulated him. The young man was pleased. "Bygones are bygones," said Fox, whose eye was covered with a patch, but no longer bandaged. "My sight is not destroyed, I shall receive it again, the doctor says. As for that affair on the moor, at the Drift--you know me better than to suppose I meant you harm." "Certainly I do," answered Anthony with warmth. "Just as you knew that when I struck you with the glove, I had not the smallest desire to hurt you. It was--well, what you like to call it--a passage of arms or a frolic. It is over." "It is over, and all forgotten," said Fox. "You will not be deterred by your father's refusal to give consent to this marriage?" "Certainly I will not," answered Anthony. "He will come round in time. It is but a question of time." There was no vestry. Old Cleverdon waited in the church till Luke had taken off his surplice, and then went up to him in the chancel. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked, rudely. "How dare you--who have eaten of my bread, and whose back I clothed, take the part of Anthony against me?" Luke replied gravely, "I have done my office; whoever asks me to read his banns, or to marry him, I am bound to execute my office." "I will send to the rector, and have you turned out of the cure." "You may do so, if you please." Luke maintained his calm exterior. The old man was trembling with anger. "If you have objections to the marriage, state them," said Luke. "Objections! Of course I have. The marriage shall not take place. I forbid it." "On what grounds?" "Grounds!--I do not choose that it shall take place; let that suffice." "That, however, will not suffice for me. I am bound to repeat the banns, and to marry the pair, if they desire it, unless you can show me reasons--legitimate reasons--to make me refuse. Anthony is of age." "He _shall_ not marry that hussy. I will disinherit him if he does. Is not that enough? I will not be defied and disputed with. I have grounds which I do not choose to proclaim to the parish." "Grounds I know you have," answered Luke gravely; "but not one that will hold. Why not give your consent? Urith is not penniless. Willsworthy will prove a good addition to Hall. Your son loves her, and she loves him." "I will not have it. He shall not marry her!" again broke from the angry man. "He does it to defy me." "There you are in error. It is you who have forced him into a position of estrangement, and apparent rebellion, because you will not suffer him to obey his own heart. He seeks his happiness in a way different from what you had mapped out; but it is _his_ happiness, and he is better able to judge what conduces thereto than are you." "I do know better than he. Does it lead to happiness to live separated from me--for I will never see him if he marries that hussy? Will it be to his happiness to see Hall pass away into other hands? Never, so help me God! shall he bring her over my threshold--certainly never as mistress. Answer me that." The blood mounted to Luke's cheeks, and burnt there in two angry spots. "Master Cleverdon," he said, and his voice assumed the authority of a priest, "your own wrongdoing is turning against you and yours. You did Urith's father a wrong, and you hate him and his daughter because you know that you were guilty towards him. You took from him the woman he loved, and who loved him, and sought to build your domestic happiness on broken hearts. You failed: you know by bitter experience how great was your failure; and, instead of being humbled thereby, and reproaching yourself, you become rancorous against his innocent child." "You--you, say this! You beggar, whom I raised from the dunghill, fed, and clothed?" "I say it," answered Luke, with calmness, but with the flame still in his cheek, "only because I am grateful to you for what you did me, and I would bring you to the most blessed, peace-giving, and hopeful state that exists--a state to which we must all come, sooner or later--some soon, some late, if ever we are to pass into the world of Light--a knowledge of self. Do not think that I reproach you for any other reason. You know that I speak the truth, but you will not admit it--bow your head and beat your breast, and submit to the will of God." The Squire folded his arms and glared from under his heavy eyebrows at the audacious young man who presumed to hold up to him a mirror. "You will not refrain from reading these banns?" "Not without just cause." "And you will defy me--and marry them?" "Yes." The old man paused. He was trembling with rage and disappointment. He considered for a while. His face became paler--a dusky grey--and the lines between his nostrils and the corners of his mouth hardened and deepened. Forgetting that he was still in the church, he put his hat on his head; then he turned to walk away. "I have shown all--all here, that I am against this; I have proclaimed it to the parish. I will not be defied with impunity. Take care you, Luke! I will leave no stone unturned to displace you. And as for Anthony, as he has made his bed so shall he lie--in his pigstye. Never--I call God to my witness--never in Hall." As he passed through the richly-sculptured and gilt and painted screen, an old woman stepped forward and intercepted him on his way to the church door. He put out his hand impatiently, to wave her away, without regarding her, and would have thrust past. But she would not be thus put aside. "Ah, ha! Master Cleverdon!" she exclaimed, in harsh tones. "Look at me. Do you not know me--me, your wife's mother. Me, whom you threatened with the stick should I venture through your doors to see my daughter?" Old Cleverdon looked at her with a scowl. "Of course I know you--you old beldame Penwarne." "There is a righteous God in heaven!" cried the old woman, with vehemence--extending her arms to bar his passage. "Now will he recompense to you all the heartache and misery you brought on my child--aye, and through your own child too. That is well! That is well!" "Stand aside!" "I will not make a way for you to go," continued the old woman. "If you venture to go away until I have spoken, I will run after you and shriek it forth in the churchyard where all may hear. Will you stay now?" He made no further attempt to force his way past her. "You thought that with your money you could buy everything--even my child's heart; and when you found you could not, then you took her poor heart, and trampled on it; you spurned it; and you trod it again and again under your cursed foot till all the blood was crushed out of it." Her eyes glowed, there was the madness of long-retained and fostered hate in her heart. "You made a wreck of her life, and now your own child spurns you, and tramples on all your fatherly love, laughs at your ambition, mocks all your schemes, and flings back your love in your face as something too tainted, too base, to be worth a groat. Ah, ha! I have prayed to see this day. I see it, and am glad. Now go." She stepped on one side, and the Squire walked down the church. In the porch he found Bessie, or rather Bessie found him, for he did not observe her. She put her hand on his arm, and looked earnestly, supplicatingly into his eyes. He shook off her hand, and walked on. Half the congregation--nearly all the men, and a good many of the women, were in the churchyard in groups, talking. Fox was with Anthony, but as soon as the Squire appeared, he fell from him and drew back near one of the trees of the church avenue, and fixed his keen observant eye on the old man. But every other eye was on him as well. Cleverdon came slowly, and with that mixture of pomposity and dignity which was usual with him, but which was this day exaggerated, down the avenue, he nodded and saluted with his hat the acquaintances whom he observed, but he said no word of greeting to any one. Presently he came opposite his son, then he stayed his foot, looked at him, and their eyes met. Not a muscle was relaxed in his face, his eye was cold and stony. Then he turned his head away, and walked on at the same leisurely pace. The blood boiled up in Anthony's arteries. A film passed over his sight and obscured it, then he turned and went down another path, and abruptly left the graveyard. CHAPTER XXIII. IN THE PORCH. The marriage had taken place; the banns were no further opposed. Old Cleverdon, indeed, sought a lawyer's advice; but found he could do nothing to prevent it. Anthony was of age, and his own master. The only control over him he could exercise was through the strings of the purse. The threads of filial love and obedience must have been slender, they had snapped so lightly. But the Squire had never regarded them much, he had considered the others tough to resist any strain--strong to hold--in the wildest mood. He was not only incensed because Anthony defied him, but because the defiance had been open and successful. He had proclaimed his disapproval of the match by forbidding the banns before the entire parish; consequently, his defeat was public. Urith had been carried, as by a whirlwind, out of one position into another, without having had time to consider how great the change must necessarily be. She had, in her girlhood, hardly thought of marriage. Following her own will, independent, she had not pictured to herself that condition as invested with any charm which must bring upon her some sort of vassalage--a state in which her will must be subordinate to that of another. The surroundings were the same: she had spent all her days since infancy in that quaint old thatched manor-house; looked out on the world through those windows; seen what of the world came there flow in through the same doors; had sat at the same table, on the same chairs; heard the tick-tick of the same clock; listened to the same voices--of Uncle Sol and the old family maid. The externals were the same; but her whole inner life had assumed a new purpose and direction. She could think, at first, of nothing save her happiness. That rough home was suddenly invested with beauty and fragrance, as though in a night jessamine and rose had sprung up around it, covered its walls, and were breathing their fragrance through the windows. The course of her life had not been altered, broken by a leap and fall, but had expanded, because fuller, and at the same time deeper. Now and then there came a qualm over her conscience at the thought of her mother. She had defied her last wishes, and her marriage had followed on the burial with indecent haste, but in the dazzle of sunshine in which she walked the motes that danced before her served but to intensify the brilliance of the light. Summer was advancing. The raw winds of early spring were over, and the east wind when it came down off the moor was no longer edged as a razor, but sheathed in velvet. The world was blooming along with her heart, not with a lone flower here and there, but with exuberance of life and beauty. Her mother had kept but a single domestic servant, a woman who had been with her for many years, and this woman remained on. A charwoman came for the day, not regularly, but as frequently as she could. The circumstances of the Malvines had been so bad that they could not afford a large household. Mistress Malvine had helped as much as she was able, and Urith, now that she was left mistress, and had introduced another inmate into the house, was called on to consider whether she would help in the domestic work, or keep another servant. She wisely resolved to lend a hand herself, and defer the enlargement of the household till the farm paid better than it did at present. That it would be doubled in value under prudent management, neither she nor Anthony doubted. She believed his assurances, and his assurances were well-grounded. To make it possible to double its value, however, one thing was wanted, which was not available--capital, to buy sheep and cattle. Anthony attacked the task with great energy. He knew exactly what was wanted, and he had great physical strength, which he did not spare. Some of the walls of moonstone--uncemented, unbound together by mortar, piled one on another, and maintaining their place by their own weight--had fallen, and presented gaps through which the moor-ponies and cattle invaded the fields, and their own beasts escaped. Anthony set to work to rebuild these places. The stones were there, but prostrate, and, through long neglect, overgrown with moss, and embedded in the soil. Urith brought out her knitting and sat on a stone by him, as he worked, in the sun and sweet air. Never had Urith been so happy--never Anthony so joyous. Never before had Urith cared about the preparation of a meal, and never before had Anthony so enjoyed his food. They were like children--careless of the morrow, laughing, and in cloudless merriment. The old servant, who had grumbled and shaken her head over the precipitate marriage of Urith, was carried away by the joyousness of the young couple, unbent, smiled, and forgave the indiscretion. They received visitors--not many, but some. Urith and her mother had had few acquaintances, and these came to wish the young couple happiness. Those of old Cleverdon kept aloof, or came hesitatingly: they were unwilling to break with the rich father for the sake of the son out of favour. Luke made his formal call. He came seldom; he had not sufficiently conquered his own heart to be able to look on upon the happiness of his cousin and Urith without a pang. When, a month after the wedding, he met Anthony one day, the latter flew out somewhat hotly in complaint of the neglect with which he had been treated. "I suppose you also, Cousin Luke, are hedging, and trying to make friends with my father by showing me the cold shoulder." "You say this!" exclaimed Luke, in pained surprise. "You have rarely been to see me since my marriage. I hardly know what is going on in the world outside our boundary-walls. But it does not matter--I have a world of work, and of content within." Luke made no reply. "There is Bessie, too--I thought better of her--she has not been over to us. I suppose she knows on which side her bread is buttered." "There you wrong her," answered Luke, hotly. "You little have understood and valued Bessie's generous, unselfish, loving heart, if you can say such a word as that of her." "Then why has she not been near me?" "Because she has been forbidden by your father. You know, if you have any grace in you, Anthony, that this prohibition troubles her, and costs her more tears and heartaches than you." "She should disobey in this matter. I see neither reason nor religion in blind obedience to irrational commands." "She may serve your interests better by submission. You may be well assured that your welfare is at her heart; and that she seeks in every way to bend your father's stubborn will, and bring him to a reconciliation with you." "By the Lord, Luke!" exclaimed Anthony, "I wish you would take Bessie yourself. She would make an admirable parson's wife." Luke paused a moment before he replied, then he answered, in a constrained voice, coldly: "Anthony, in such matters I follow my own impulse, and not the directions of others. You speak thinking only of yourself, and your wish to be able once more to see your sister makes you suggest what might be distasteful to her and unsuitable to me." "There, there, it was a joke," said Anthony. "Excuse me if I be a little fretted by separation from Bessie. She would be of the greatest possible assistance to Urith, and Urith has no one----" "There is still one course open to you, which may lead to reconciliation," said Luke. "And that----?" "Is to go to Hall and see your father. Try what effect that has on him. It cannot make matters worse, and it may make them better." "Oh, repeat the story of the Prodigal Son! But I am not a prodigal. I feel no repentance. I cannot say, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and against thee--make me as one of thy hired servants.' I cannot say what I do not feel. It is he who has transgressed against me." "And you expect him to come to you, beating his breast; and then you will kill the fatted calf and embrace and forgive him?" Anthony laughed, with a heightened colour. "Not so, exactly; but--it will all come right in the end. He can't hold out, and in the end must take me back into favour. To whom else could he leave Hall?" One market day Anthony and Urith were in Tavistock. Every one was there that he knew; market was attended by all the gentry, the farmers, and tradespeople of the country side; by all who had goods to sell or wanted to buy, and by such as wanted to, or were able to do, neither one the other, but who could exchange news and eat and drink at the ordinary, and perhaps thereat get drunk. Urith rode to market on pillion behind Anthony, holding to the leather belt about his waist. The day was bright, and as they rode, he turned his head over his shoulder and spoke to her, and she answered him. They were as children full of mirth, only one little cloud on the horizon of each--on that of Anthony the lack of warmth with which his old acquaintance greeted him, a matter that vexed him more than did the estrangement from his father; on that of Urith, the consciousness that she had disobeyed her mother's last wishes; but in the great splendor of their present happiness these little clouds were disregarded. In Urith's bosom was a rose--the first rose of summer--that Anthony had picked, and he had himself fastened in with a pin to her bodice, and she had kissed his head as he was engaged thereon. The day was not that of ordinary market; it was the Whitsun fair as well; and, as Anthony approached Tavistock, numbers of holiday makers were overtaken, or overtook him, on his way to the town. The church bells were ringing, for there was Divine Service on such festival days, and this was usually attended by all the women who came to fair, whilst their husbands saw to the putting away of their horses, saving only such as had wares for sale, and these occupied themselves during worship with their stalls, if they had them; if not, with spreading their goods on the ground in such advantageous manner as best to attract purchasers. "You will come to me to the church porch, Tony!" said Urith, as she dismounted. "In the crowd we may miss each other, and I shall like to go on your arm." So it was agreed, and Urith entered the church. This, a fine four-aisled building, was in ancient times, as it is now, the parish church; it stood in the shadow of the mighty Minster of the Abbey, dwarfed by it, a stately pile, second only in size in the county to the Cathedral Church of Exeter. Ruins of it remained at the time of this tale, tall pillars and arches, and the main road from Plymouth had, out of wilful wickedness, been run, in the days of the commonwealth, up what had been the nave, and the east end torn down, so that market could be held in the desecrated House of God, under the partial shelter of the vaulted aisles. All is now gone, quarried away to supply every man with stone who desired to rebuild his house; most of it removed for the construction of the stately mansion of the Earls of Bedford, who were possessed of the Abbey property.[5] "What--you here! So we see you again?" exclaimed Fox, as Anthony dismounted in the inn-yard. Fox Crymes held forth his hand, and it was warmly grasped by Anthony, who at once looked at his eye. Crymes had discontinued the bandage, but all did not seem right with the orb. "I can see with it," said the latter, observing the look of Anthony, "but with a cloud; that, I fear, will ever hang there." "You know that I would pluck out one of my own eyes and give it you," said Anthony, with sincerity and emotion. "I shall never forget that unhappy blow." "Nor I," answered Crymes, dryly. "Is your sister here?" asked Anthony. "Yes--in the church. By the way, Tony, how is it that we never see you at the Hare and Hounds? Does not the apron-string extend so far? Or are your legs so clogged with the honey in the pot into which you are dipping for you to be able to crawl so far?" "Oh, you will see me there some day; but now I am too hard-worked. All Sol Gibbs's muddles to mend, you understand, and neglects to be made up for. I work like a slave?" "How about your father? Any nearer a reconciliation?" There was a leer in Fox's eye as he asked this. Anthony shrugged his shoulders. "I must be off," said he. "Where to?" "To the porch. I promised Urith to meet her there." "Oh! she is pulling at the apron-string. Let me not detain you." Anthony walked away. He was annoyed. It was absurd, preposterous of Fox to speak to him as if he were in subjection to his wife. The words of Fox left an uneasy feeling in his breast, as if it had been touched by a nettle, a tingle, a sting, nothing to signify--but a perceptible discomfort. He reached the church-porch as Urith and Julian were leaving the church, and he arrived at a critical moment. That morning before leaving Willsworthy, Urith had taken her gloves to draw them on, when she found them stuck together with some adhesive matter. On pulling them over she found that the palms and fingers were covered with pitch. It then occurred to her that she had laid her hands on some rails that been recently blackened with pitch to preserve them from decay, by her husband and that it was not dry as she had supposed. The gloves were spoiled--she could not wear them. She was not possessed of another pair, and could not ride to Tavistock with hands uncovered. Her eyes fell on the pair that had belonged to Julian, and which had been cast at her in defiance. After hesitating for a moment, she drew these on, and resolved to purchase herself fresh gloves in the fair. On reaching church, she drew off her gloves, and laid them across the rail of the pew. Julian Crymes was near, in the Kilworthy pew--that belonging to the Glanvilles, as did the pew in Peter Tavy Church also, attached to another house owned by the family in that parish. Urith did not give her gloves a thought till she saw Julian's eyes fixed on them, and caught a dark glance from her. Then she coloured, conscious of the mistake she had made, but recovered herself immediately. She had won in the match--a fair one, and had carried off the stakes. A sense of elation came upon her, she held up her head, and returned Julian's look with one of haughty triumph. She saw Julian's colour darken, and her lips tremble; a passage of arms took place in the church, the weapons being but glances of sharp eyes. What was played and sung neither considered, each was engaged on her own thoughts. Elated Urith was--happiness fills the heart with pride. She--she whom no one hitherto had regarded, had wrested away the great prize against tremendous odds--Julian's beauty, family position, wealth, and the weight of his own father's advocacy. For her sake he had thrown away everything that others esteemed. She had cause to be proud--reason to feel her heart swell with the sense of victory: and who that has won a victory does not desire a public triumph? No sooner was service over, than Urith, with a little ostentation, drew on the gloves, then took the rose Anthony had pinned to her stomacher, and looking fixedly at Julian, loosened it, pressed it to her lips, and replaced it. Her rival read in the act the very thoughts of her heart. That rose which had been given her was the pledge of Anthony's love. Julian panted with anger. It was well for her that none was in the pew by her to notice her emotion. At the last Amen she flung open the door, and stepped out into the aisle, at the same moment as Urith, and both made their way to the porch, side by side, without a look at each other. They passed through the doorway together, and saw Anthony standing there. Instantly--the whole thing was done so quickly as to escape Anthony's notice--Julian turned with flashing eye on Urith, plucked the rose from her bosom, pressed it to her own lips, then threw it on the ground and crushed it under her foot. There was no time--that was no place for retaliation. Urith's blood rushed to her heart; then she caught her husband's arm, and with him walked away. All that day a sense of alarm and unrest troubled her. Julian had renewed her defiance; had threatened both her and Anthony. Would this threat be as vain as her former defiance? Urith swallowed her fears, scorned to entertain them--but the sting remained. In the evening, when about to start on her return, when his horse was ready--"You must wait for me a moment, Tony," she said, and hurried back to the porch. The rose, trampled out of shape, trodden on by many feet, lay there, soiled and petalless. If Julian were to snatch him away, were to cast him down under foot and crush him--what would she do? Would she wear him again? Would she stoop to him? She stood in the grey, cool porch, looking at the battered flower. Then she bent, picked up the rose, and hid it in her bosom. FOOTNOTE: [5] Now the Bedford Inn. CHAPTER XXIV. KILWORTHY. Anthony helped Urith to the saddle, saying, "I am not coming home just now. You must ride back alone." "But why not?" Urith asked, in surprise, and a little disappointment. "Must I account to you for all my acts?" said Anthony, somewhat testily. "Not at all," answered Urith; "but surely there is no objection to my asking so innocent a question as that. If, however, it gives you displeasure, I will abide without an answer." "Oh!" said Anthony, the cloud passing from his face, "I have no reason not to answer. I am going with Fox. He has asked me to return with him to Kilworthy; and as I have seen no one for a couple--nay, for three months, and have well-nigh lost the use of my tongue, I have accepted." "I do not like Fox. I do not like you to be with him." "Am I to consult you as to whom I make my friends? He is the only one who has come forward with frankness, and has braved my father's displeasure by showing me a countenance of old friendliness." "I do not like Fox--I mistrust him." "I do not," said Anthony, bluntly. "I am not going to take my opinions from you, Urith." "I do not suppose you will," retorted she, with a little heat; "but do not forget what he did to you at the Drift. That was a false and cowardly act." "Oh!" laughed Anthony, somewhat contemptuously; "you maidens do not understand the sort of jokes we men play on each other. He meant no harm, and things went worse than he intended. None can have been more vexed at the turn they took than himself. He told me so." "What! That a horse should go mad when burning touchwood is set in his ear?" "He did not purpose to put it into his ear. The horse tossed his head, and Fox's hand slipped." "And his hand slipped when your fingers were cut?" "No, not his hand, but his knife; it was in his sleeve. You would not have had it slip upwards?" Urith was silent; she was angered, vexed--angered and vexed at Anthony's easy good-nature. Any excuse satisfied him. So with regard to his father's displeasure; it did not concern him greatly--cost him not an hour's wakefulness. All would come right in the end, he said, and satisfied himself with sanguine hope. His was a buoyant nature, the opposite to her own, which was gloomy and mistrustful. She raised no further objection to Anthony leaving her to return home alone. He was in a touchy mood, and, for the first time since their marriage, answered her testily. But she made allowance for him. He had been cut off from his friends, he had been forced out of his wonted course of life. He had been pinched for money, obliged to work hard. Was it not reasonable that on a fair-day and holiday he should wish to be with his old companions and make merry, and have a glass of ale or a bottle of sack? Uncle Sol could not or would not accompany her home; he also had friends to detain him, and purposed to pass the evening in an alehouse singing and making merry. Urith's knowledge of men, their ways, and their fancies, was limited to the study of her uncle; and though she could not believe that her Anthony was a sot and witless, yet she supposed that he partook of the same taste for society and for the bottle, which she regarded as much a characteristic of men as a rough chin and a masculine voice. Anthony, with unconcern, was on his way to Kilworthy. This ancient mansion stood high, with its back to the north wind; before it the hills fell away in noble park-land studded with oak and beech over a century old--trees that had been planted by Judge Glanville in the reign of Elizabeth--and beyond the valley of the Tavy rose the tumbled, desolate ridges of Dartmoor, of a scabious blue, or wan as ashes. The side of the hill was hewn away near the house into a series of terraces, one planted with yews, the others rich with flowers. The house itself had that stately beauty that belongs to Elizabethan mansions. When Anthony arrived along with Fox, he was not a little surprised to see a large company assembled. Many of the young people and their parents of the best families around were there, sauntering in the gardens, or playing bowls on the green. He was surprised, for Fox had not prepared him to meet company, but he was pleased, for he had been cut off from society for some months, had hardly seen old friends, and now he was delighted to be among them, and--his father being absent--on the old familiar terms. The depression of his spirits gave way at once, and he was filled with cheerfulness and fun; he played bowls, and when the dew fell, and it was deemed advisable for all to retire from the garden, he was most ready of all for a dance. Julian was also in high spirits; she was looking remarkably pretty in a light summer dress. She met Anthony with frankness, and he engaged her for the first dance. The beauty of the place, the pleasant society, the profusion of good food and wines, united to give Anthony satisfaction. He appreciated all this so much the more, as he had been deprived of these things for some time. It was true that he had enjoyed the company of Urith, but then Urith's circle of associates was almost nothing; she did not know those people that he knew, was not interested about matters that woke in him curiosity. She could talk only of Willsworthy, and Willsworthy as a subject of conversation was easily exhausted. There was a freedom in the society of those he now met, a want of constraint that delighted him. When one topic ran dry another was started. With Urith conversation flagged, because there was no variety in the subjects of conversation. Then again the beauty and richness of the place gratified his eye after the bleakness of Willsworthy. There, high on the moor side, only sycamores would grow--here were trees of royal appearance, huge-trunked, with broad expanding branches, the aristocracy of trees as only seen in English parks, where they are given scope to expand from infancy. At home, moreover, the general narrowness of means and lack of management had not made of the table a place of enjoyment. A meal was necessary, something to be scrambled through and got over. No effort was made by Mrs. Malvine in earlier days to make it a gratification for the palate, and it did not occur to Urith when she was married and mistress of the household that things might in this respect be improved. Anthony was no epicure, but young men as well as old like to have palatable dishes set before them, and to have not only their wives well-dressed and tricked out, but also their dishes. Here also Urith failed. She disregarded personal adornment. Handsome though she was, she would have looked far handsomer had she cared to set off her charms with tasteful dress. She despised all solicitude about dress, and it was a little disappointment to Anthony that she took so little pains to do justice to herself in this respect. Now that he was in the midst of pretty girls, charmingly set off by their light gowns and bright ribbons, he felt as if he had stepped out of association with moths into that of butterflies--out of a vegetable, into a flower-garden. Again, since his marriage--indeed, ever since he had left Hall, he had felt the irksomeness of being without money, he had discovered the value of coin, and had learned that it could not be thrown away. He had nothing of his own, what coins he had in his pocket came to him from his wife. Now he was in a house where money seemed to be disregarded. He need not drink sour cider, but take his choice of wines. He was not served at table by one old maid-of-all-work, but by liveried footmen, in the blue and yellow Glanville colours. The table was furnished with abundance of plate, engraved with the Glanville stags or the Crymes martlet. At Willsworthy he had used bone-handled knives and forks, and had eaten off pewter. He danced with Julian once more. She was bright, sparkling with merriment, full of lively sally, and she looked marvellously pretty. Anthony wondered at himself for not having observed it before, or at not having sufficiently appreciated it. His sister arrived, somewhat late, and Anthony at once went to her, with both hands extended. "Is Urith here?" she asked. "No." "Why not?" "She was not invited." "Then why are you here?" "For this good reason, that I was invited." "But, Tony," said Bessie, "you ought not to have accepted unless she was asked as well." "Nonsense! Bet," exclaimed Anthony, fretfully. "I am not tied to her apron-strings. We have not met for months, and your first address to me is--a rebuke." He walked away, annoyed, and rejoined Julian. What! was he to be debarred visiting his friends--spending a pleasant social evening with them--because he was asked without his wife! "I say, Tony," said Fox, into his ear, "what do you think of Kilworthy now? You have thrown it away for the sake of a pair of sulky eyes--aye, and Hall, too? Well I have always heard say that love was madness; but I never believed it till I heard what you had done." Anthony's pleasure was spoiled. The contrast between Kilworthy and Willsworthy had been unconsciously drawn in his mind before; now it was fixed and brought into prominence, and he saw and realised in a moment the tremendous sacrifice he had made. From this minute he looked on all around him with other eyes. He saw what might have been his position, his wealth--how he would have been esteemed and envied had he followed the course mapped out for him by his father--had he taken Julian instead of Urith. He looked again at Julian--his eyes insensibly followed her--and again he marvelled that hitherto there had been a veil over them, so that he had not appreciated her beauty. He could not withdraw his eyes: they pursued her wherever she went. All at once she turned, with the consciousness that he was looking at her. Their eyes met, and he coloured to the temples. He blushed at his thoughts, for he was asking himself whether life, with such comfortable surroundings, would not have been more than bearable--even delightful--at her side. In a moment he had recovered himself; but not his lightheartedness--that was gone. He asked for his horse, and then remembered that he had none. Urith had ridden home on his horse, therefore he must walk. CHAPTER XXV. GATHERING CLOUDS. Next day Anthony's brow was clouded, and his manner had lost its usual cheerfulness. He was angry with himself for having been to Kilworthy. Bessie was right, he acknowledged it now--a slight had been put on his wife by his being invited without her. He ought to have seen this before. He ought to have refused the invitation. Then he remembered that he had been told nothing about a party at the house, so his anger was turned upon Fox, who had entrapped him into a false position. But this was not all. He was ashamed at himself for having for a moment reconsidered his conduct in taking Urith instead of Julian. In vain did he reason with himself that he had done something heroic in resigning such enormous advantages for the sake of a girl; whether he liked it or not, the odious thought lurked in a corner of his heart and would not be expelled--Was Urith worth the sacrifice? There was much to humiliate him in his present state. He who had been wont to spend his money freely, had now to reckon his coppers and calculate whether he could afford the small outlay that slight pleasures entailed. And then--these coppers were not his, but his wife's. He was living on her bounty, indebted to her for every glass of ale he drank. Of his own, he had nothing. His confidence that his father's obstinacy would give way, and that he would be taken into favour again, was shaken. He began to fear that so long as his father lived he would remain in disfavour. That, on his father's decease, he would inherit Hall, he did not doubt for a moment. There was no one else to whom the old man could bequeath the estate. Bessie was a girl, and Luke a parson--disqualifications absolute. Most heartily did he wish that the misunderstanding with his father were at an end. It was a degradation for him--for him, the heir of the Cleverdons--to be sponging on his wife. The situation was intolerable. But how was it to be altered? He could not force his father to reconciliation. His pride forbade his going to him and acting the prodigal son. His heart grew hot and bitter against the old man for his unreasonable and persistent hostility, which had reduced him to a position so pitiable and humiliating. Then there arose before his mind's eye the beautiful grounds and noble mansion of Kilworthy, the pleasant company there--and Julian. He shook his head impatiently, set his teeth, and stamped on the floor, but he could not rid himself of the thoughts. "I do not see, 'fore Heaven, why we should not have a clean table-cover," he said at dinner; "nor why every dish should be huddled on to the board at once. I am not a pig, and accustomed to feed as in a stye." Urith looked at him with surprise, and saw that displeasure was lowering on his brow. She answered him gently, but he spoke again in the same peevish, fault-finding tones. He complained that the pewter dishes were hacked with knives, and the mugs bent out of shape and unpolished. If they must eat as do servants in a kitchen, let them at least have the utensils in trim order. Urith sought in vain to dispel the ill-humour that troubled him; this was her first experience of domestic disagreement. The tears came into her eyes from disappointment, and then his ill-humour proved contagious. She caught the infection and ceased to speak. This annoyed him, and he asked her why she said nothing. "When there are clouds over Lynx Tor there is vapour over Hare Tor as well," she answered. "If you are in gloom I am not like to be in sunshine. What ails you?" "It is too maddening that my father should remain stubborn," he said. "You cannot expect me to be always gay, with the consciousness that I am an outcast from Hall." She might have answered sharply, and the lightning would then have flashed from cloud to cloud, had not, at that moment, Luke entered the house. "Come at last!" was Anthony's ungracious salutation. "I have not been here often, certainly," said Luke, "for I did not suppose you wanted me; the parson is desired by those in sorrow and tears, not by those in perfect happiness." "Oh!" said Anthony, "it is not as the parson we want you, but as a cousin and comrade." Urith asked Luke if he would have a share of the meal just concluded. He shook his head; he had eaten before leaving the rectory. He had taken his meal early, so as to be sure of catching Anthony at home before he went abroad. As Luke spoke he turned his eyes from his cousin to Urith, and saw by the expression of their faces that some trouble was at their hearts; but he had the tact not to advert to it, and to wait till they of their own accord revealed the cause. "Have you been to Hall lately? Have you seen my father?" asked Anthony, after a pause, with his eyes on the table. "I have not been there; your father will not see me. He cannot forgive the hand I had in making you happy." "Then you have no good news to bring me?" "None thence. I have talked to Bessie----" "So have I. I saw her yesterday at Kilworthy, and she scolded me instead of comforting me." "Comforting you! Why, Anthony, I do not suppose for an instant that she thought you needed comfort." "Should I not, when my father shuts me out of his house--out of what should be mine--the house that will be mine some day! It is inhuman!" "I can quite believe that your father's hardness causes you pain, but no advantage is gained by brooding over it. You cannot alter his mood, and must patiently endure till it changes. Instead of altering his for the better, you may deteriorate your own by fretful repining." Anthony tossed his head. "You, too, in the fault-finding mood! All the world is in league against me." "Take my advice," said Luke; "put Hall out of your thoughts and calculations. You may have to wait much longer than you imagined at one time till your father relents; you know that he is tough in his purpose, and firm in his resolution. He will not yield without a struggle with his pride. So--act as if Hall were no more yours than Kilworthy." Anthony winced, and looked up hastily, his colour darkened, and he began hastily and vehemently to rap at the table. "Kilworthy!" Why had Luke mentioned that place by name? was he also mocking him, as Fox had yestereven, for throwing away his chance of so splendid a possession. Luke did not notice that this reference had touched a vibrating string in his cousin's conscience. He went on, "Do not continue to reckon on what may not be yours. It is possible--though I do not say it is likely--that your father may disinherit you. Face the worst, be prepared for the worst, and then, if things turn out better than you anticipated, well!--you unman yourself by living for, reckoning on, dead men's boots; make yourself shoes out of your own hide, and be content that you have the wherewithal to cover your feet." "You think it possible that my father may never come round--even on his death-bed?" "God grant he may," answered Luke, gravely. "But he entertains an old and bitter grudge against your wife's father, and this grudge has passed over to, and invests her. God grant His grace that he may come to a better mind, for if he goes out of this life with this grudge on his heart, he cannot look to find mercy when he stands before the throne of his Judge." Anthony continued drumming on the table with his fingers. "My recommendation is," continued Luke, "that you rest your thoughts on what you have, not on what you have not. And you have much to be thankful for. You have a wife whom you love dearly, and who loves you no less devotedly. You are your own master, living on your own estate, and in your own manor house. So--live for that, care for that, cultivate your own soil, and your own family happiness, and let the rest go packing." "My own house! my own land!" exclaimed Anthony. "These are fine words, but they are false. Willsworthy is not mine, it belongs to Urith." "Anthony!" cried his wife, "what is mine you know is yours--wholly, freely." "Well," said Luke, with heat, "and if Hall had been yours when you took Urith, it would have been no longer mine or thine, but ours. So it is with Willsworthy. Love is proud to receive and to give, and it never reckons what it gives as enough, and accepts what it receives as wholly its own." Anthony shrugged his shoulders, then set his elbows on the table, and put his head in his hands. "I reckon it is natural that I should grieve over the alienation from my father." "You are not grieving over it because it is an alienation from your _father_, but from Hall, with the comforts and luxuries to which you were accustomed there." "Do you not see," exclaimed Anthony, impatiently, "that it is I who should support my wife, and not my wife who should find me in bread and butter? Our proper positions are reversed." "Not at all. Willsworthy has gone to rack and ruin, and if it be brought back to prosperity, it will be through your energy and hard work." "Hard work!" echoed Anthony. "I have had more of that since I have been here than ever I had before." "Well, and why not? You are not afraid of work, are you?" "Afraid! No. But I was not born to be a day labourer." "You were born, Anthony, the son of a yeoman family which has worked hard to bring itself up into such a condition that now it passes for a family of gentry. Do not forget that, and do not blush for yourself when you use the muck-fork or the spade, or you are unworthy of your stout-hearted ancestors." Anthony laughed. The cloud was dispelled. This allusion to the family and its origin touched and pleased him. He had often joked over his father's pretensions. He put forth his hand to his cousin, who clasped it warmly. "All well, old friend, you are right. If I have to build up a new branch of the Cleverdons, it is well. I am content. Fill the tankard to the prosperity of the Cleverdons of Willsworthy--and to the dogs with Hall!" Anthony put his arm round Urith's waist. The clouds had cleared, and, as they rolled off his brow that of Urith brightened also. Luke rose to depart. He would not suffer his cousin to attend him from the door. He went forth alone; and, when he had passed the gate, he halted, raised his hand, and said, "Peace be to this house!" Yet he said it with doubt in his heart. He had seen a ruffle on the placid water, and that ruffle might forebode a storm. CHAPTER XXVI. ON THE TERRACE. Months had passed. On the 6th of February, 1685, died Charles II., and James, Duke of York, succeeded to the throne. At once, through England, the story was spread that he had been poisoned by the Jesuits to secure the succession for James, and forestall the purpose of the King to declare the legitimacy of his son, the Duke of Monmouth. So great was the suspicion entertained against James, that this slander was very widely believed, and alarm and resentment grew in the hearts of the people. On the very first Sunday after his father's death James went in solemn state to Mass, and at his Coronation refused to receive the Sacrament at the hands of the Archbishop of Canterbury. When the crown was set on his head it slipped, and nigh fell on the floor; and this little incident was whispered, then bruited, through England, and was regarded as a token from heaven that he was not the rightful Sovereign, but an usurper. Then came the punishment of that scoundrel, Titus Oates, richly deserved; but Oates was a popular favourite, and his chastisement raised him to the pedestal of a Protestant martyr. It was well known that James aimed at the repeal of the Habeas Corpus Act, and at the toleration--even promotion--of Popery, and the country was in fevered agitation and brooding anger at what was menaced. Such was the condition of affairs in the spring of 1685. There had been catching weather, a few days of bright sunshine, and then thunder-showers. Then the sky had cleared, the wind was well up to the north, and, though the sun was hot, the air was fresh. It was scented, everywhere except on the moor, with the fragrance of hay. Julian Crymes was out of doors enjoying the balmy air and the sloping, golden rays of the evening sun. She had some embroidery in her hands; but she worked little at it. Her eyes looked away dreamily at the distant moor, and specially at a little grey patch of sycamores, that seemed--so remote were they--against the silvery moor, to be a cloud-shadow. Behind that grey tuft rose Ger Tor, strewn with granite boulders; and on one side opened the blue cleft of the Tavy, where it had sawn for itself a way from the moor-land into the low country. The dark eyes of the girl were full to spilling--so full that, had she tried to continue her needlework, she would have been unable to see how to make her stitches. Her breath came short and quick, for she was suffering real pain--that gnawing ache which in its initiation is mental, but which becomes sensibly physical. Julian had loved Anthony. She loved him still. When he had come that evening of the fair to Kilworthy, her heart had bounded: her head had been giddy with pleasure at seeing him again--above all, at seeing him without his wife. Towards Urith she felt implacable, corroding hatred. That girl--with no merit that she could see, only a gloomy beauty--a beauty as savage as the moors on the brink of which she lived, and on which Anthony had found her--that girl had shaken to pieces at a touch her cloud-castle of happiness, and dissolved it into a rain of salt disappointment. Anthony was taken from her, taken from her for ever, and her own hopes laid in the dust. Julian had battled with her turbulent heart; her conscience had warned her to forget Anthony, and at times she really felt as if she had conquered her passion. No sooner, however, did she see Anthony again, than it woke up in full strength; and whenever she saw Urith, her jealous rage shook itself and sharpened its claws. Her father was away in London, and on the seat beside her lay a letter she had that day received from him. He had written full of uneasiness at the political and religious situation. Recently the Earl of Bath had been down in the West of England with new charters to towns in Devon and Cornwall, constituting new electoral bodies, or altering the former bodies, and a hurried election had ensued, in which great pressure had been used to obtain the return of the Court party, of Catholics and Tories, by intimidation on the one side and by bribery on the other. Mr. Crymes, however, supported by the authority of the Earl of Bedford, had been returned for Tavistock in the Protestant interest, and he was now in London, sitting in the first Parliament summoned by James II. Titus Oates, whom the Protestants, or at all events the more ignorant and prejudiced among them, believed in as a faithful witness, had been whipped from Aldgate to Newgate one day, and two days after, again from Newgate to Tyburn, for having revealed the Popish Plot, which was declared to be a fabrication of his own imagination. He and Dangerfield, another of these witnesses, had been pilloried. The King meditated the repeal of the Habeas Corpus and the forcible introduction of the Roman Catholic religion. It was rumoured that there was a rising in Scotland, headed by the Duke of Argyle; there was a great uneasiness in London, and a disturbance of spirits throughout the country. Though the Members of Parliament had been elected in a questionable manner, so as to bring together an undue preponderance of creatures of the Court; yet it had not proved itself as submissive as the King expected. The letter concluded with the words:--"How this will all end, God knows. For myself, I doubt whether there will not be great troubles again even as there were in the times of His Sacred Majesty King Charles I. For mine own part, I would resist even unto blood, rather than see our religion set at naught, and our liberties trampled under foot by Jesuits; and my daily prayer is that the Lord will avert such things from us, and yet with such extravagance and determination do things appear to be pressed forward with this end, that I have not hope myself of a peaceable issue." Had Mr. Crymes been then beside his daughter, he might have supposed that the sad political outlook had disturbed her mind, and had brought the tears to her eyes and the flush to her cheeks; but she had read his letter with indifference. His gloomy forecasts had hardly affected her at all, for her heart was filled with its own peculiar bitterness. What prospect of happiness opened before her? She cared for no one; she could care for no one after having given up her heart to Anthony. From childhood she had looked up to him as her allotted husband--she had grown up with a daily-increasing devotion to him. His good looks, his frankness had helped to make of him an idol before whom she bowed down and worshipped. He was swept out of the horizon of her ambition, and it had left that prospect utterly blank and colourless. She had valued her fortune, her home, only as means of enriching Anthony, and giving him a worthy position in the county. Her fortune was now wholly without value to her. She would have been contented to be a beggar with him, if she could have possessed him wholly as her own. Suddenly she started, and lost her colour; she saw Anthony coming up the drive to the house. He also saw her on the terrace, in her white gown under the yew-trees, and he waved his hat to her. She beckoned to him; she could not help herself. She knew that it would have been right for her to fly up the steps and hide in the walled garden which occupied the slope of the hill above the terraces, but she was powerless to move--to withhold her hand from signing to him to draw near. He obeyed at once, and came up the steps to the first terrace with a shouted salutation. How handsome he was! What dark, sparkling eyes! What wavy long hair, that fell over his brow and cheeks as he took off his broad-brimmed hat, so that he was forced to put his hands to his face and brush the thick curly locks back. Julian did not rise; she sat on her bench as though frozen, and her blood stood still in her arteries. She looked at him with eyes large and trembling between the lashes. Then he came striding towards her, with his hearty salutation, and at once all the blood that had been arrested in her veins, as Jordan when the Ark stood in its course, rushed back in pent-up, burning floods, and so blinded and stunned her that for a moment or two she could neither see nor speak. After a few moments, during which he stood respectfully by her, hat in hand, she looked up into his eyes, and asked why he had come. He was warm with walking, and the drops stood on his brow, and he had a heightened glow in his face. He was handsomer than ever, she exclaimed inwardly, and then thought, "Oh! if he had been mine! been mine! as he ought to have been--as he would have been but for----" Then she checked herself, assumed a coolness she did not feel, and asked, "Has anything else brought you here than the desire to give us honest pleasure at seeing again an old friend?" "Indeed, Julian," answered Anthony, "I have come on more self-seeking purposes. We are behind with our hay at Willsworthy. The place lies so high, and is so bleak, that we are a fortnight behind you here; and then the weather has played us tricks, so that none has as yet been saved. I want additional help; there are none save our two men and myself. Solomon Gibbs counts naught, and I cannot ask help from Hall, as you well know. I do not desire to ask a favour elsewhere, and so I have come here to see Fox, and ask his help." "Fox is away--I believe he is at Hall. But I can answer your question, and grant your petition, which I do with a ready heart. How many men do you want? I will send all you desire--I will come myself and help toss the hay--No," she checked herself, as the thought of Urith rose within, "no, I will not go near Willsworthy myself, but I will send the workmen." "I thank you," answered Anthony. "We do not grow rich shears of hay as you do here; but what does grow is said to be sweet. I hope it may be so, for it is not over-much." There was a tone of disparagement in reference to Willsworthy that struck Julian. "I have heard Fox comment on the place," she said, "and he thinks well of it." "A thing may look well at a distance, that won't bear looking into close at hand," said Anthony. She looked at him, and his eyes fell. He had not meant more than he had said, but when she thus glanced up with a query in her eyes, he thought that perhaps his words might apply to other things than grass fields and tumble-down farm buildings. Julian took up the letter from the seat by her, and passed her hand lightly over the seat, as a sign to him to take it. He did so, without more ado. He was heated and tired with his walk. Then Julian resumed her embroidery, and bowed her head over it. She waited for him to start some topic of conversation. But he was silent. He who had formerly been full of talk and mirth, had become reserved and grave. After a long and painful silence, Julian asked, in a low voice, "What is Urith about?" "I beg your pardon?" asked Anthony, roused out of a reverie. "Urith--what about Urith?" "I asked what she was about." "I cannot tell. Nothing in particular, I suppose." The same tone as that in which he had spoken about Willsworthy. "Your marriage does not seem to have improved your spirits. I miss your olden gaiety." "I have enough to take that out of me. There is my father's continued ill-humour. What think you of that, Julian? Is there any immediate prospect of his coming to a better mind?" "My brother could answer this question better than I, for I have no occasion or opportunity for speaking with your father, whereas Fox is over at Hall twice or thrice in the week." "What makes him go there?" "There you ask me what once more I cannot answer. But let us say he goes in your interest. He is your friend." "About the only friend I have left," said Anthony, with bitterness. "Fox is not the man I would choose if I had the selection," said Julian. "I should know him better than most, as he is my brother--that is to say, my half-brother. I thank God--only my half-brother. Take heed to yourself, Anthony, that he does not play you a scurvy trick." "What can he do?" "You are generous and forgiving. Fox is neither. He has not forgiven you that blow with the glove that injured his eye." "You wrong him, Julian." "All I can say to you is--do not trust him. I never--never trust him. If he says one thing he means the contrary. Did he tell you that he went to Hall with the end of persuading your father to forgive you?" "He did not even mention to me that he saw my father often." "Well," said Julian, drawing a long breath, "whilst we are together, which is not often now, not as it was, let us talk of matters more pleasant than the habits and ways of action of Fox." "What shall we talk about?" "There!" said Julian, putting her father's letter into his hand. "Read that. If you cannot find a topic, I must help you to one." Anthony read the letter with an elbow on each knee and his legs wide apart, so that his head was bent low. As he read, Julian's eyes were on him. Involuntarily a sigh escaped her bosom. If he thought of it at all he attributed it to sympathy with her father's anxiety; had he looked up and seen her face, he would have been undeceived. It was well for him that he did not. The letter interested him greatly. Like the bulk of the young men of the West, he was keenly alive to the political situation, and was a hot partisan. The gathering together of the men in taverns led to eager discussion of politics; the orderly Government of the Protector, and the extravagance and exactions of the restored Royalty, had aroused comparison. Under Old Noll the name of England had been respected abroad, and the English people could not forget and forgive the humiliation of the Dutch fleet in the Medway and the burning of Chatham. Those who had no love for Puritanism were, nevertheless, ardent supporters of Liberty, and firmly resolved that their country should not be brought under Roman Catholic despotism. The ill-treatment of the Waldenses had roused great feeling in England, collections for them had been made in every parish church, the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes was not forgotten, the exiled Protestants filled all England with the tale of the cruelties and oppression to which they had been subjected, and had helped to deepen to a dogged determination in men's hearts the resolve never to suffer the Roman religion to obtain the mastery again in the land. Anthony's brow darkened and his lips tightened as he read. When he had done the letter he started to his feet, planted his hat on his head, and exclaimed: "My God! I wish it would come to blows, and that I could carry a pike." "Pshaw!" said Julian; "what excitable creatures you men are concerning matters that move us not a whit. I have forgotten what my father wrote about. Against whom would you trail a pike? With whom come to blows?" Anthony did not answer, for it was not easy to reply to these questions. He would fight for liberty and religion. But against whom? He dare not breathe even to himself the thought that it would be against his King. "And, pray, why come to blows?" "If you had read your father's letter with attention, you would know. For my part, I should hail war, if there were a chance of it, that I might have some occupation for my hands." "You have the hay," said Julian, ironically. "I want space to move, air to breathe. I am cramped. I--I do not know what I want," he said, and dashed his hat on the ground again, and threw himself into the seat by Julian. "How would Urith relish you taking the pike for any cause?" Anthony did not answer. He was looking sullenly, musingly before him. He had found out what troubled him--what took the brightness out of his life. The circle in which he moved, in which his energies were expended, was too cramped. To make hay! Was that a fitting work to occupy his mind and powers of body? His world--was that to be the little two-hundred-acre estate of Willsworthy? "You have not been married above two months, and you are already sighing with impatience to be away in a battle-field--anywhere but at home, poor Anthony!" Her face was turned from him that he might not see how her cheeks flamed. He said nothing. He did not even bid her a good-by; but he rose, resumed his hat, and walked away, with his head down, absorbed in his thoughts. CHAPTER XXVII. MATRIMONIAL PLANS. Squire Cleverdon did not often visit his sister. She was vastly proud when he did. What she would have liked would have been for him to drive up to her door in a coach and four, the driver cracking his whip on the box; but Squire Cleverdon did not keep a coach. Why should he? He had no womankind to consider in his household. Of the fair and inferior sex there was but Bessie, and Bessie never counted in old Anthony Cleverdon's calculations. Had his wife lived, he probably would have had his coach, like other gentlemen, not to please and accommodate her, but out of ostentation. But as his wife had departed to another world, and Bessie was too inconsiderable a person to be reckoned, he was glad to be able to spare his purse the cost of a coach, which he could hardly have purchased under a hundred pounds. As Magdalen Cleverdon could not see her brother drive up in a coach, she was forced to be satisfied to see him come as he would, on horseback, followed by two serving-men in his livery, and to be content that her neighbours should observe that the Cleverdons maintained so much state as to have men in livery to attend on the head of the house. She was much surprised one day to see him come on foot without attendants. He was not a man to show his thoughts in his face, which was hard and wooden, but his eyes expressed his feelings when the rest of his face was under control--that is, when he did not screw down the lids and conceal them. Accordingly Magdalen could not gather from her brother's countenance the purport of his visit, though she scrutinised it curiously. He seated himself in one of her chairs, near the table, and laid his stick across his knees; Magdalen waited with the deference she usually paid him till he began the conversation; but he also, with unwonted hesitation, deferred his communication to allow her to open the ball. The silence became irksome to her, and she was the first to interrupt it, and then with the remark that she was surprised to see him arrive alone, and on foot. "One does not require to have all the town know I am here, and know how many minutes I remain," said he rudely, in reply. Then again silence fell on both. After another painful pause, Magdalen began: "Really, brother, I should like to know for what reason you have come to do me the honour, and afford me the _pleasure_ of your company. The white witch has a crystal into which he looks, and in which he reads what he desires to know; but you veil your eyes, and I cannot discover, or attempt to discover, thence what your purport might be in coming hither." Old Cleverdon fidgeted in his chair, dropped his stick, picked it up again, and blurted forth: "I suppose you get that disobedient son of mine tumbling in here every few days." "Indeed, I do not, brother. Do you suppose that I countenance such rebellious conduct?" "I did not know. I considered, as he might not show his face in Hall, that he came here for news about the place and me." "I do not deny that I have seen him; but only rarely. He never did affect my company greatly, and I cannot say that he visits me more frequently since his marriage than he did before." "I am glad to hear it. How is he getting on in his pigstye." "I have not been there to see. He and she are content with it for a while, and make no doubt that in the end you will forgive them, and be the best of fathers." "Do they?" exclaimed the Squire, with a harsh laugh and a flame on his cheek. "Do they think that I have a head of dough, to be moulded into what shape they list?" He struck the table with his stick, so as to startle his sister and make her jump in her chair. "Good heavens, brother! How excitable you are," said Magdalen; "and I dare be bound you do not know that Mistress Penwarne is taken into the Rectory at Peter Tavy, as housekeeper to your most dutiful and respectful nephew Luke--an ancient harridan who, having set her daughter against you, now does her utmost to make wildfire between your son and you." "What wildfire burns atwixt us is of his own kindling," said Squire Cleverdon. "And does she reckon on setting herself in my armchair, and ruling in my house, indeed! My son I might forgive had he married any other, but not for having taken Urith." "One beggarly marriage is enough in the family," said Magdalen. The expression had slipped her tongue without consideration. She saw at once, by the twitching of her brother's muscles, that she had stung and enraged him. She hastened to amend her error by saying, "Yes, you were drawn in by their designing ways. You had not then the knowledge of the world that you now have. Having been entangled by unscrupulous and poor wretches yourself, you would not have your son fall a prey to the like--but he would sow his wild oats, and now must reap his crop." "Yes," said old Anthony, "he must reap his crop, which will not grow one of oats, but of thistles and nettles. 'Tis a cruel shame that Kilworthy should go from the family." "It has never been in it." "That is true--never in actual possession, but so long in prospect as to almost constitute a claim." "But gone it is. Gone past the possibility of your getting it." "I am not so confident of that as you seem to be," said Old Cleverdon, snappishly. "In faith, sister Magdalen, you appear wondrous blind. Is there no way of it coming, nevertheless, to be joined to Hall?" "None that I can see. If Fox took Bessie to wife, he could not bring Kilworthy with him, for that goes with Julian." "Exactly. It goes with Julian; but who will take her?" "You have no second son." "No, I have not." "Surely you do not dream of making Luke your heir, and marrying him to Julian Crymes?" "Luke!--who defied me by marrying Anthony to that hussy?" "I thought not, brother, but--as the Lord is my helper--I see no other way of compassing it." "It has never lightened on your mind that I might take a second wife." "You!"--Magdalen fell back in her chair, and raised her hands in amazement. "You, brother Anthony! You!" "Even so," he answered, grimly. "I am not young, but I am lusty; I am a man of substance, and I reckon that Mistress Julian is not so besotted as was my son. She, I presume, has had a desire like to mine, that the two estates should be united, so as to make a large domain, and as she cannot effect this by marrying an unripe fool, she can gain the same end by taking me, a wise and mellow man of the world. The end is the same. The two properties are united, and Julian Crymes has ever struck me as having a clear and healthy mind. So--I doubt not--she will be as content to have me as that Merry Andrew and Jack o' the Green, who has thrown himself away at Willsworthy." Magdalen's astonishment held her speechless for some time; at last, seeing that her brother was offended at the astonishment she exhibited, she said, "But, brother! has she given you any--hopes?" "She has not. I have not approached her on the subject, but I thought that you, as a woman, might sound her. Yet, I am not without my reasons for believing that my suit would be accepted--though not immediately. Fox Crymes has given me reason to hope." "Fox!--But what----" "If you will have patience, Magdalen, and will allow me to conclude what I was saying, your mind will be more enlightened, and you will cease to express so unbecoming, such indecorous, so gross incredulity. You forget my position and my wealth. I am not, indeed, a Member of Parliament, as is my friend Crymes, but I might have been had my views been more favourable to the Catholic party. I have seen a good deal of Master Anthony Crymes, my godson, of late; he has been to Hall several times in the week, and then I threw out--in an uncertain way, and as if in sport--the notion that, as Anthony had proved false, and had disappointed Julian of her ambition to have the two estates united, that I would consider about it, and might persuade myself to accommodate her views by stepping into the position thrown up by my son." "And what did he say?" "He did not open his mouth and eyes into a stare unbecoming to the face, and impertinent to me. He accepted the proposition cordially. He saw nothing strange, preposterous, ridiculous in it. I should like to see," said the squire, working himself up into a white heat, "I should like to see anyone, you, sister Magdalen, excepted, who would dare to find anything strange, preposterous, ridiculous in me, or in any proposition that I make." "I tender ten thousand excuses," said Magdalen, humbly. "But, brother, you entirely misunderstand me. If I gaped--" "You did gape." "I know I gaped and stared. I admit I opened my eyes wide, it was with astonishment at your genius, at the clever and unexpected way in which you overcame a great difficulty, and rallied after a great disappointment." "Oh! It was that, was it?" asked the Squire, relaxing some of his severity and cooling. "On my word as a gentlewoman. I never employed those words you attribute to me. Indeed I did not. The only expletives becoming are of a very different quality. So Fox agreed to the proposal?" "Most heartily and warmly." "But, brother, I misdoubt me if Fox has much influence with his sister. They are ever spitting and clawing at each other, and it hath appeared to me--and yet I may be wrong--that whatsoever the one suggests the other rejects; they make a point of conscience of differing from each other." "All that," said the squire, "all that have I foreseen, and I have provided against it. The proposal shall not be covertly favoured by Fox. He shall, indeed, appear to set his face against it, but we shall make Bessie our means of breaking the ice, and drawing us together. I have some notion of letting Fox become Bessie's suitor--now, when he is accepted, and has----" "But--brother!" "What in the name of the seven stars do you mean by your buts thrown in whenever I speak? It is indecorous, it is insulting, Magdalen." "I meant no harm, brother--all I ask is, has Bessie given her consent?" "Bessie is not Anthony. What her father chooses, that she is ready to submit to. I have always insisted on her obedience in all things, and without questioning, to my will, and I have no reason to suppose that in this matter she will go against my interests." "But--brother!" Master Cleverdon impatiently struck the table. "Did I not tell you, sister Magdalen, that your _buts_ were an offence to me? Will you join with Anthony in resistance and rebellion against me--_me_, the head of the house? I have not come here, pray understand, to discuss this matter with you, as though it needed to be considered and determined upon conjointly between us, but to tell you what I have decided upon, and to require you, as you value my regard, and look for any advantages to be gotten from your connection with Hall, to support me, and to exercise all your influence for me, and not against me." "You cannot suppose for one moment, brother, that I would do anything against you." "I cannot say. Since Anthony revolted I have lost all confidence in everyone. But I have no time to squander. Understand me. Persuade Bessie, should she show tokens of disobedience--which is catching as the plague--a dislike to submit herself in all things to my wishes, then you may hold up Anthony as a warning to her, and let her understand that as I have dealt by him, so I will deal by her if she resists me. Now you will see what is my intention. When Bessie is married to Anthony Crymes, they will live with me, for Anthony and Julian will be much forward and backward between the two houses, as Bessie is her best of friends; and thus she will come to see much of me and of Hall, and will be the more ready insensibly, so to speak, to slide into my arms, and into the union of the two estates. Not that I suppose at present she has any objection to me, but, as Fox says, she will require some justification before the world for taking the father after having been rejected by the son. If she is often over at Hall, why--all wonder will cease, and it will come about with the smoothness of an oiled wheel." "I suppose so, brother--but----" The Squire started up with an oath. "I shall regard you as an opponent," he said, "with your eternal objections. Consider what I have said, act on it, and so alone will you maintain your place in my regard." Then he left the house, grumbling, and slammed the door behind him, to impress on his sister how ill-pleased he was with her conduct. Time had not filled the cleft between Anthony and his father; and Fox Crymes had done his best to prevent its being filled or being bridged over; for he now saw a good deal of the old Squire Cleverdon, and he took opportunity to drop a corrosive remark occasionally into the open and rankling wound, so as to inflame and anger it. Now it was a reported speech of Anthony, showing how he calculated on his father's forgiveness; or a statement of what he would do to the house, or with the trees, when his father died and he succeeded to Hall; or else Fox told of some slighting remark on the beggary of everything at Willsworthy, made by a villager, or imagined for the occasion by himself. The old man, without suspecting it, was being turned about the finger of the cunning young Crymes, who had made up his mind to obtain the hand of Elizabeth and with it Hall. So could he satisfy his own ambition, and best revenge himself on Anthony and Urith. The wit and malice of Fox acted as a grinding-stone on which the anger of the Squire was being constantly whetted, as if it had not at the first been sharp enough. The old man could not endure the idea of his property ever falling to the daughter of Richard Malvine--of Malvine blood ever reigning within the walls of his mansion. He had not yet altered his will, and he could not resolve how to do this. He did not desire to constitute Bessie his heiress. He could not reconcile himself to the thought of Hall passing out of the direct line, of another than a Cleverdon owning the estate where his ancestors had sat for centuries, and which he had made into his own freehold. All the disgust he had felt when Elizabeth was born, and he found himself father of a daughter as his first-born, woke up again, and he could not bring himself to constitute her his heiress. Yet, on the other hand, it was equally, if not more, against his will that it should pass to his revolted son and the daughter of his mortal enemy. As he was thus tossing between two odious alternatives, the idea of marrying Julian himself lightened on his mind, and he seized it with desperate avidity; yet not without a doubt he refused to give utterance to, or permit in another. In a vague manner he hoped that the union of Fox and Bessie might pave the way to his own marriage with Julian. CHAPTER XXVIII. A WIDENING OF THE RIFT. "Urith," said Anthony, "we are to go together to the dance at the Cakes; I have said we would." "The dance, Anthony! It cannot be." "Why not? Because I particularly desire it?" "Nay--not so, assuredly; but the time is so short since my mother's death." "But our marriage makes that as nought. It has turned the house of mourning into one of merriment--or--it should have done so. It suffices I intend to go, and I will take you with me." "Nay--Anthony, I would not cross you----" "You do--you object." He spoke with irritation. "Do you not see, Urith, that this life of seclusion is intolerable to me? I have been unaccustomed to the existence which befits a hermit. I have been wont to attend every merry-making that took place--to laugh and dance and sing there, and eat and drink and be happy. I protest that it is to me as displeasing to be without my amusement as it would be to a kingfisher to be without his brook, or a peewhit to be condemned to a cage." "But cannot you go without me?" asked Urith, disconcerted. "No; it will be noted and remarked on. You are my wife--you are a bride. You ought to, you must, appear where others are. Why should you spend all your life in the loneliness of this--this Willsworthy? Do you not feel as cramped by it as must have felt Noah in the Ark?" "I do not, Anthony." "You do not, because you have never been out of the Ark; bred in it, you are accustomed to its confined atmosphere. I am not. I love to meet with and be merry with my fellows, and I cannot go alone. Why, Urith, on the fair day I went to Kilworthy, and there was Bessie. What did she say to me, but--'You should not be here, be at any entertainment in a neighbour's house without Urith?'" "Did Bessie say that?" "Yes, she did." "Then I will go with you to the Cakes, Anthony." It was customary in former times for the gentlefolks of a neighbourhood to meet at each other's houses, at intervals, for dances and carouses--the young folks for dances, their elders for carouses. On such occasions the burden of entertainment did not fall wholly, or to any serious extent, on the host in whose house the assembly took place. Each guest brought with him or her a contribution to the feast--ducks, geese, capons, eggs, cheese, bottles of wines, pasties, honey, fruit, candles, flowers--very much as at a picnic nowadays, each party invited contributes something. The host actually furnished little more than the use of his house. Even the servants of the guests were expected to assist, and generally attended on their own masters and mistresses, behind whose chairs they stationed themselves. The Cakes occupied a quaint old barton, named Wringworthy, in a central position for the neighbourhood; and they had an excellent hall for a dance, well appreciated by the young gentlefolks of the neighbourhood. The evening for the dance arrived. Folk went early to a dance in those days, before the darkness had set in. Many were on the road; none in coaches; all on horseback--the young ladies seated on pads behind their grooms. Clattering along at a good pace came Fox, riding alongside of Elizabeth Cleverdon. He had gone to Hall to fetch her. She was annoyed: she did not understand the attention, in her simple mind. The idea never entered that he had designs on her hand. She did not wish to feel prejudiced against him; at the same time she did not like him, and was unable to account to herself for this dislike. Her father made much of him. Fox was now constantly at Hall, and he made himself companionable to the old man. Bessie with pain contrasted his conduct with that of her brother, who had never put himself out of the way to be agreeable to his father--had not courted his society and sought to be a companion to him. She was grateful to Fox for his efforts to relieve the old Squire of his desolation by giving him so much of his society. Fox was her brother's friend, and she had no doubt that he was at Hall with the purpose of doing his utmost to further a reconciliation between Anthony and his father. For this she thanked him in her heart, yet she could not stifle the dislike that would spring up and assert itself notwithstanding. Nor did she like the look that Fox cast at her occasionally. He meant no harm, doubtless; he was but showing her that he was acting as her confederate in the cause which, as she trusted, both had at heart. Nevertheless, she wished he would not look at her with that cunning, wounding twinkle in his eyes. Presently Fox and Bessie caught up Anthony riding with Urith on pillion behind him. Fox greeted them boisterously, and Bessie threw him and Urith a kiss. Anthony acknowledged Fox's greeting with warmth, but that of his sister with a little coldness. He was annoyed with her for her tameness in submitting to her father. There was no opportunity for more than a word, as Fox urged on his horse and that of Elizabeth Cleverdon, with his whip, to a pace with which Anthony was unable to keep up. The old Willsworthy mare was a clumsy piece of horseflesh, not comparable in any way with the beasts from Hall and Kilworthy stables. Anthony was aware of this, and somewhat ashamed. On reaching the house of the Cakes, the sound of music was audible--a couple of fiddles, a bass, and a clarionette; but, in the noise of voices, salutations, and laughter, the melody was drowned; only occasionally the deep grunt of the bass, and the shrill wail of the clarionette, like that of a teething babe, were audible. The hall was full. It was not large, as we nowadays reckon size; but it was of sufficient size to accommodate a good many, and not so large as to make them feel chilled by the vastness of the space. From the hall opened a parlour, in which were set out card-tables for the elders. Directly Anthony and his wife entered, Bessie signed to Urith to sit by her. She was uneasy at the pointed way in which Fox paid her attention, kept near her, and talked with her. She could see that his conduct had attracted notice, and that she was the subject of a good deal of remark. She was sad at heart--little inclined for merriment; but she had come as her father desired it; and always conscientious, and desirous to sink her own feelings so as not to disturb and distress others, she concealed her inner sadness, assumed a gentle, pleased manner natural to her when in company. She had been wont from early childhood to shut up her troubles within her heart from every eye, and to wear a composed exterior; consequently this was less difficult to her now than it might have been to others less self-disciplined. Urith, moreover, was not best satisfied to find herself at a merrymaking so shortly after her mother's death; and, besides, was so wholly unaccustomed to one, that she felt frightened and bewildered. She snatched at once at the chance of sitting by Bessie, as a relief to the painful sense of loneliness and confusion in which she was, confused by the crowd that whirled about her--lonely in the midst of it, because strange to most of those composing it. Anthony was among friends. He knew every one, and was greeted heartily by all the young people, male and female; but she was thrust aside by them as they pushed forward to welcome him, and she was jostled outside the throng which had compacted itself around him. At the most favourable time she would have felt strange there, for her mother had never taken her to any rout at a neighbour's house; she had been to no dances, no dinners--had been kept entirely aloof from all the whirl of bright and butterfly life that had made country life so enjoyable; and now she was oppressed with the inner consciousness of the impropriety of appearing at a dance at such a brief interval after the earth had closed over her mother. At once, with nervous self-consciousness, Urith rushed into self-exculpation. "I would not have come--indeed, I did not wish to come; but Anthony insisted. He said he would not come without me; you had told him that, and--I did not wish to stand in the way of his pleasures. He has worked very hard; he has been cut off from his usual associates; he has had no holiday--so I thought it well to come." "Yes, you did right. You will find Anthony exacting. That he always was, but good at heart," said Bessie. "I do not dance myself--I cannot dance," said Urith, in further self-excuse; "so that it will not seem so very strange my being here, if I simply look on." "You will have to dance--to open the ball with Anthony, I suppose, as you are the bride." "I! Oh, but I do not know how to dance. I never have danced. I do not understand the figures. I do not distinguish between a brawl, a rant, and a jig." "That is unfortunate--but it will serve to excuse you; yet I think you must essay to foot it once with Anthony. He is certain to insist on it." "But I do not know----" Urith flushed. "How can I dance when I have never practised the measures and the paces?" At that moment Anthony came up. "Come, Urith," said he; "we must open the ball. All are waiting for you." "But I cannot, Anthony." He made a movement of impatience. "Nonsense, you must!" That was in his old imperious manner, which Bessie knew so well. Bessie said aside to Urith, "Make the attempt. You cannot well go wrong." Urith stood up--nervous, trembling, turning white and red, and with the tears very near the surface. "Look here," said Anthony. "Father thinks, because I am thrust out of Hall, that everyone may kick at me--that I am of no account any more. Let us show that it is otherwise. Let them see that I am something still, and that my wife is not a nobody. Come!" He whisked her to her place at the head of the room. Urith saw that all eyes were on her, and this increased her nervousness. As she passed Fox she caught his malicious eye, and saw the twirl of laughter and cruel jest on his lip. "I cannot--and let me alone, Anthony," escaped her again. She was frightened. "Have done. I do not want you here to make a fool of yourself and me; and that you will do if you slink back to your place." "But I cannot dance, Anthony." "Folly! I will put you to-rights. With half a pinch of wit you cannot go wrong." The music struck up, the clarionette squealed, the violins sawed, and the bass grunted. In a moment Urith was caught away--felt herself swung, flying, she knew not where. She knew not what she was doing. She could neither keep step with the music, nor discover the direction in which she had to go. She saw faces--faces on every side--full of laughter, amusement, mockery. She was thrown adrift from Anthony, was groping for his hand; could not tell where he was, what she had to do; got in the way of other dancers, was knocked across the floor, knocked back again; ran between couples--then, all at once, she was aware of Anthony pushing his way to her, with an angry face, and an exclamation of, "You are no good at all; get back to your chair. I won't dance with you again and be made a laughing-stock of." He left her, where he had thrust her out of the dance, to find her way back to Bessie, and strode off to Julian, caught her by the hand, and in a moment was fully engaged. He was maddened with vexation. It was unendurable to him that he had been the occasion of laughter. Every other girl and woman in the room, however plain, could dance--only his wife not. She alone must sit against the wall! That it was his fault in forcing her to come against her wishes--his fault in making her attempt to do what she had protested her ignorance of--he did not recognise. The wife of Anthony Cleverdon ought to take a prominent place--ought to be able to dance, and dance well--ought to be handsomer, better dressed, more able to make herself agreeable, than any other woman! And there she was--helpless! Handsome, indeed; but with her beauty disguised by an unbecoming dress; silent, sulky, on the verge of tears. It was enough to make his heart fill with gall! On the other hand, here was Julian Crymes in charming costume, bright of eye, fresh of colour, full of wit and banter, moving easily in the dance, light, confident, graceful. Julian was glowing with pleasure; her dark eyes flashed with the fire that burned in her soul, and the hot blood rolled boiling through her veins. For some moments after she had taken her seat Urith was unable to see anything. The tears of shame and disappointment filled her eyes, and she was afraid of being observed to wipe them away. But Bessie took her hand, and pressed it, and said, "No wonder you were agitated at this first appearance in company. No one will think anything of it, no doubt they will say you are a young and modest bride. There, do not be discouraged; the same would have happened to me in your circumstances. What--must I?" The last words were addressed to Fox, who came up to ask her to dance with him. She would gladly have excused herself, but that she thought a dance was owing to him for his courtesy in coming to Hall to accompany her. "I am not inclined for more than one or two turns this evening," she said to Fox; "for there are many here younger than I, and I would not take from them the dances they enjoy so much more than myself." As the tears dried without falling in Urith's eyes, and her heart beat less tumultuously, she was able to look about her, and seek and find Anthony. It was with a stab of pain in her heart that she saw him with Julian. They were talking together with animation, her great eyes were fixed on him, and he bent his head over her. Urith knew the heart of Julian--knew the disappointed love, the rage that consumed it; and she wondered at her husband for singling this girl out as his partner. Then she reproached herself; for, she argued, that this heart, with its boiling sea of passion, had been revealed to her, not to him. He was unconscious of it. Urith followed him and Julian everywhere; noted the changes in his countenance when she spoke; felt a twinge of anguish when, for a moment, both their eyes met hers, and they said something to each other and laughed. Had they laughed at her awkwardness in the opening dance? Elizabeth passed before her on Fox's arm, and, as they did so, she heard Fox say, "Yes, your brother is content now that he is with Julian. You can't root old love out with a word." Bessie winced, turned sharply round, and looked at Urith, in the hope that this ill-considered speech had not been heard by her. But a glance showed that Urith had not been deaf: her colour had faded to an ashen white, and a dead film had formed over her sombre eyes, like cat-ice on a pool. Bessie drew her partner away, and said, with agitated voice, "You should not have spoken thus--within earshot of Urith." "Why not? Sooner or later she must know it--the sooner the better." Bessie loosened herself from him, angry and hurt. "I will dance with you no more," she said. "You have a strange way of speaking words that are like burrs--they stick and annoy, and are hard to tear away." She went back to take her place by Urith, but found it occupied. She was therefore unable at once to use her best efforts to neutralise the effect produced by what Fox had said. Urith's face had become grave and colourless, the dark brows were drawn together, and the gloomy eyes had recovered some life or light; but it was that of a Jack-o'-Lantern--a wild fire playing over them. Anthony danced repeatedly with Julian. The delight of being with him again, of having him as her partner--wholly to herself--if only for a few minutes, filled her with intoxication of pleasure, and disregard of who saw her, and what was said concerning her. Her heart was like a flaming tuft of gorse, blazing fiercely, brightly, with intense heat for a brief space, to leave immediately after a blank spot of black ash and a few glowing sparks; and Anthony stooped over her enveloped in this flame, accepting the flattering homage, forgetful of his responsibilities, regardless of the future, without a thought as to the consequences. Her bosom heaved, her breath came hot and fast, her full lips trembled. Urith's eyes were never off them, and ever darker grew her brow, more sinister the light in her eyes, and the more colourless her cheek. Suddenly she sprang up. The room was swimming around her; she needed air, and she ran forth into the night. The sky was full of twilight, and there was a rising moon. Though it was night, it was not dark. She stood in the road, gasping for air, holding the gate. Then she saw coming along the road a dark object, and heard the measured tramp of horses' hoofs. It was a carriage. Along that road, at midnight, so it was said, travelled nightly a death-coach, in which sat a wan lady, drawn by headless horses, with on the box a headless driver. For a moment Urith was alarmed, but only for a moment. The spectral coach travelled noiselessly; of this that approached the sound of the horse-hoofs, of the wheels, and the crack of the whip of the driver were audible. The carriage drew up before the entrance-gates of the house, and a gentleman thrust forth his head. "Ho! there! Do you belong to the house? Run in, summon Anthony Crymes. Tell him his father wants him--immediately." CHAPTER XXIX. CAUTIONS. Urith entered the hall again, and told Fox that his father was without, and wanted him. "My father!" exclaimed young Crymes. "Oh! he is home from the Session of Parliament, where they and the King have been engaged in offering each other humble pie, for which neither party has a taste. What does he want with me?" "I did not inquire," answered Urith, haughtily. Mr. Crymes had not known her in the road, when he called out to her to send his son to him. Fox was annoyed to have to leave the dance, but he could not disobey his father, so he took his hat and coat, and went forth. Mr. Crymes was waiting for him, in the coach. "I heard you were here, on my way. Stirring times, my boy, when we must be up and doing." "So am I, father; you took me off from a saraband." "Fie on it! I don't mean dancing. Come into the coach, and sit with me. I have much to say." "Am I to desert my partners?" "In faith! I reckon the maids will be content to find another better favoured than thee, Tonie." Fox reluctantly entered the carriage, but not till he had made another effort to be excused. "Julian is here, is she to be left without an escort?" "Julian has her attendants, and will be rejoiced to be free from your company, as when together ye mostly spar." When the coach was in movement, Mr. Crymes said, "I have come back into the country, for, indeed, it is time that they who love the Constitution of their country and their religion should be preparing for that struggle which is imminent." "I thought, father," said Fox, "you were sent up to Westminster to fight the battle there. It is news to me that warfare is to be carried on by Cut and Run. I suppose you were in risk of being sent to the Tower?" The old man was offended. "It will oblige me if you reserve your sarcasms for others than your own father. I come home, and you sneer at me." "Not at all; you mistake. I wondered how the Constitution was to be preserved here, when the great place of doctoring and drenching the patient, of bleeding and cupping, is at Westminster, and you were sent thither to tender your advice as to how that same Constitution was to be dealt with." "The battle is not to be fought there," said Mr. Crymes, "nor with tongues. The field of conflict will be elsewhere, and the weapons keener and harder than words." "The field of conflict is, I trust, not to be here," remarked Fox; "your sagacity, father, has assuredly taken you to the furthest possible distance from it. As soon as these weapons stronger than tongues are brandished, I shall betake me to Lundy or the Scilly Isles." "You are a coward, I believe," said Mr. Crymes, in a tone of annoyance. "I expect to find in you--or, rather, but for my experience of you, I might have reckoned on finding in my son--a nobler temper than that of a runaway." "But, my good father, what other are you?" "If you will know," said Mr. Crymes, petulantly, "I have come into the country--here into the West--to rouse it." "What for?" "For the cause of the Constitution and Religion." "And when the West is roused, what is it to do? Stretch itself, and lie down to sleep again?" "Nothing of the kind. Tonie. I do not mind confiding to you that we expect a revolution. It is not possible to endure what is threatened. The country will--it must--rise, or will lose its right to be considered a free and Protestant country." Mr. Crymes waited, but, as his son said nothing, he continued. "The Duke of Monmouth is in the Low Countries, and is meditating an invasion. The Dutch will assist; he is coming with a fleet, and several companies levied in Holland, and we must be organised and ready with our bands to rise as soon as he sets foot in England." "Not I," said Fox. "If you, father, venture your neck and bowels for Monmouth and the Protestant cause, I content myself with tossing up my cap for King James. Monmouth's name is James as well as his Majesty's, so my cap will not compromise me with either; and, father, I only toss up my cap--I will not risk my neck or bowels for either by drawing sword." "You are a selfish, unprincipled rogue," said Mr. Crymes. "You have neither regard for your country nor ambition for yourself." "As for my country, I can best care for it by protecting such a worthy member of it as myself, and my ambition lies in other lines than political disturbance. I have not heard that either side got much, but rather lost, by taking parts in the Great Rebellion, whether for the Parliament or for the King. The only folk who gained were such as put their hands in their pockets and looked on." "By the Lord!" exclaimed the old gentleman, "I am sorry that I have such a son, without enthusiasm, and care for aught save himself. I tell you the Earl of Bedford secretly inclines to the cause of Monmouth, and has urged me to come down here and stir the people up. Now, when his Lordship----" "Exactly," scoffed Fox. "Exactly as I thought, he keeps safe and throws all the risk on you. Nothing could so induce me to caution as the example of the Earl of Bedford." In the meantime, Bessie, at the dance, was in some uneasiness. She had missed Urith when she went out of the house, and, after her return, noticed that her face was clouded, and that she was short of speech. Bessie took Urith's hand in her lap and caressed it. She did not fully understand what was distressing her sister-in-law. At first she supposed it was annoyance at her failure in dancing, but soon perceived that the cause was other. Urith no longer responded to her caresses, and Bessie, looking anxiously into her dark face and following the direction of her eyes, discovered that the conduct of Anthony was the occasion of Urith's displeasure. Anthony was not engaged to Julian for every dance, but he singled her out and got her as his partner whenever he could, and it was apparent that she took no pleasure in dancing with anyone else; she either feigned weariness to excuse her acceptance of another partner, or danced with him without zest, and with an abstracted mind that left her speechless. Bessie Cleverdon, the last person in the room to think hardly of another, the most ready to excuse the conduct of another, was hard put to it to justify her brother's conduct. He did not come to his wife between the dances, treating her with indifference equal to a slight, and he lavished his attentions on Julian Crymes in a manner that provoked comment. "They are old friends, have known each other since they were children, have been like cousins, almost as brother and sister," said Bessie, when she felt Urith's hand clench and harden within her own as Anthony and Julian passed them by without notice, engrossed in each other. "You must think nothing of it--indeed you must not. Anthony is pleased to meet an old acquaintance and talk over old times. It is nothing other," again she protested, as Urith started and quivered. The bride had encountered Julian's eye, and Julian had flashed at her a look of scorn and gratified revenge. She was fulfilling her threat, she was plucking the rose out of Urith's bosom. Presently, Julian came across the room to Bessie with eyes averted from Urith. "Come with me," said she to Bessie Cleverdon, "I want a word with you. I am hot with dancing. Come outside the porch." She put her arm within that of Anthony's sister, and drew her forth on the drive, outside. When there, Julian said, "Bessie, what is this I hear on all sides. Are you engaged?" "Engaged! What do you mean?" "Engaged to Fox. I am told of it by first one and then another; moreover, his attentions to you were marked, and all noticed them; that has given strength to the general belief." "It is not true. It is not true!" exclaimed Bessie, becoming crimson with shame and annoyance; "who can have set such a wicked story afloat?" "Nay, I cannot tell that. Who can trace a piece of gossip? But the talk is about, in the air, everywhere. There must be some foundation for it." "None at all, I assure thee--most seriously, and most honestly, none at all. You pain me inexpressibly, Julian. Deny it whenever you hear it. Contradict it, as you love me." "I do love thee," answered Julian, "and for that reason I have hoped it was false, for I pity the maid that listens to Fox's tongue and believes his words. If it be true----" "It is not true; it has not a barleycorn of truth in it." "But he has been much at Hall, every week, almost every other day." "Because he is Anthony's friend, and he is doing what he can for him with my father." Julian laughed. "Nay, never, never reckon on that. Fox will do no good turn to anyone, leastwise to Anthony. He go twice or thrice a week to Hall on other concern than his own! As well might the hills dance. Trust me, if he has been to Hall so oft, it has been that he sought ends and advantages of his own. I never knew Fox hold out the end of his riding-whip to help a friend." "That may be," said Bessie Cleverdon. "But he has not come for me. I pray let my name be set aside. I have nothing to do with him. He has not so much as breathed a word touching such a matter to me. I pray you deny this whenever you hear it, and to whomsoever you speak concerning it." Julian laughed. "I am glad I have thy word that there is naught in it, as far as thou art concerned. I spoke of it to Anthony, and he also laughed me out of countenance thereat. But he trusts Fox. I would not trust him save to trip up or stab in the back, an enemy. Do'st know, Bess, what notion came on me? I fancied that Fox was seeking thee, because he reckoned that the strife between Anthony and his father would never skin over, and that the old man would make thee his heir." "No! no!" exclaimed Elizabeth, in distress. "Do not say such things, do not think such things. I am certain that you mistake Fox. He is not so bad as you paint him." "What! you take up the single-stick to fight in his defence?" "I will fight in defence of any man who is maligned. I cannot think of Fox what you say. I pray say no more hereon. You pain me past words to express, and there really is no ground for what you do say." "Take care! take care! Bess. I know Fox better than do you, better than does anyone else, and he may yet play you such a move as will checkmate you." Elizabeth did not answer. The two girls took a turn on the lawn together, and Bessie drew Julian's arm tighter to her side; she even laid her disengaged hand on her shoulder, clinging to her as a supplicant. The attitude, her manner was so full of entreaty, that Julian halted in her walk, turned to her, and asked, "What is it that you want, Bess?" "My dear--dear Julian," Elizabeth stroked Julian's arm with her gentle hand, "O Julian! Do, I pray thee, not dance any more with Anthony." "Why not, Bess?" Elizabeth hesitated. She was unwilling, almost unable to express her reasons. An unrest was in her bosom, a fear in her heart, but nothing had taken distinct shape. "My dear, dear Julian, I entreat you not. You should feel that it were fit that my brother should dance this evening with his wife--with Urith." "She can no more dance than a goose," answered Julian, bluntly. "That is true--I mean she cannot dance very well; but it is not seemly that she be left out altogether, and that he should be so much with you." "Why not? We are old friends." "Do you not feel, Julian, that it is unfitting? She--I mean Urith--must feel hurt." "She is hurt!" repeated Julian, with a thrill of triumph in her voice; but this Bessie did not notice. It never for a moment occurred to her that it could give exultation to Julian to know that she had pained another. "Indeed, you must consider," pursued Bessie. "The poor young thing has not had the chance of learning to dance, and Anthony is without much thought; he seeks his pleasure. Young men do not think, or do not understand the hearts of girls. I watched Urith, and I believe that every step you took trod on her heart." "It did!" Her tone shocked Bessie, who for a moment released her arm and looked in her face, but in the darkness could not see the expression. "Indeed it did," she continued; "for, as she could not dance, it seemed a slight to and forgetfulness of her that she was left to sit out, and Anthony amused himself with you and with others. He meant no harm, I know that very well; but, nevertheless, he hurt her much, and she bled with inward pain. She was shamed, and should not have been shamed before a great many people on her first appearance after her marriage, at a rout." "You should administer your exhortations, Bess, to Anthony. I have not the custody and responsibility of that wild, vixenish colt, Urith." "I cannot get a word with Anthony, and you, Julian, are dancing with him three times to any other partner's one." "Would you have him sit down at her side and twiddle his thumbs, like a disgraced child in a corner?" "I would have him and you think of the feelings of a young girl who is sad at heart," said Bessie, gravely. Julian's tone distressed her; a glimmer of the true condition of affairs entered her mind and filled it with horror and indignation. "Julian," she said, in a firmer tone, with less of appeal in it and more of command, "at one time I used to think that we were like to become sisters----" "What, by your taking Fox? It is not too late." "Do not--do not banter on that subject. You know my meaning. I did suppose that Anthony would have sought his happiness in you. But it has pleased God to order it otherwise. Now he must find his happiness--not at Kilworthy, nor at Hall, but at poor little Willsworthy, that bleak moor farm, and not with you, but with Urith. He has sacrificed a great deal for her--lost his home, lost his father, almost lost me, has given up wealth and position, and he must be compensated for these losses in his own new home. It is not right that you--that anyone should do anything to spoil this chance, to rob him of his compensation in full. Anthony can be nothing to you for the future. Leave him alone. Do not play with him, do not draw him away from Urith. He has now already mighty odds against him; do not, for God's sake, do anything that may make the odds overwhelming, and blight and ruin his happiness here and for ever. For, Julian, it is now, in the first months of marriage, that his state will be determined one way or the other. Mar the concord between him and his wife now, and it may never again be found; and that concord lost, with it to wreck goes the whole life of my brother. If ever, Julian, you had any love for Anthony, if now you have any kindly feeling towards him, let him alone." She paused and waited for an answer. None came, Julian walked faster, dragged her up and down the lawn as she clung to her. "It was Anthony's doing that Urith came to-night; she was averse to appear, but he insisted on it. She told him she could not dance; he forced her to take her place with him at the head of the room for a measure. Did she ever seek him out? Never. He thrust himself upon her. When her mother died, she had no desire to be hurried into marriage, but he overruled all her objections. He, ever thoughtless, inconsiderate of others, has taken her up out of her old course of life----" "Enough, enough about her," said Julian, "when you speak of her my anger foams. Speak of him, of his happiness jeopardised, and I cool. What! Has it come to this, that I--I in my gloveless hands hold the fortunes, hold the hearts of these two, to beat and batter them together, and crush and break them both? What if I threaten to do it?" "You are too good at heart to make the threat, or, if made, to make it good." Julian was silent again. She took several turns in front of the house. The sounds of revelry streamed out to them. Through the open porch door, along with the light, and occasionally in the porch itself, came a flash of colour as a girl stood there in her bright-tinted dress with the blaze of the candles upon her. Bats were wheeling, and their shrill scream pierced the ear. "Let me alone, Bess," said Julian. "I cannot breathe, I cannot think when you are by me; my head is like a weir, and all my thoughts tumble, boiling, spattering over, beaten to foam." Elizabeth withdrew to the porch, where she seated herself, and watched the excited girl on the lawn. She had put her hands to her head and was still pacing up and down, now fast, then slowly, according as her passion or her good nature prevailed. Then out at the door came Anthony, shouting, "Where is Julian? She promised to dance the Mallard with me! Bessie, have you seen her? I claim her for the Mallard." Julian heard his voice, and stepped back under the shade of a bank of yews. There was before her gravel, and in that gravel a piece of white spar that shone like a flake of snow in the dark. If she stepped out to that piece of spar he would see her, claim her, and--her evil nature would have got the upper hand. Whither would it lead her? She did not ask that. She saw before her now only the alternative of a half-hour's mad pleasure on the arm of Anthony, of cruel triumph over his already humiliated wife, and abandonment of the contest. The struggle was over with unexpected brevity. The tune of the Mallard struck up, and Anthony went back into the hall without her, to seek for her there, or to find there another partner. Then Julian heard the burst of voices in song, for the Mallard was a country dance led by two, with chorus by all the performers as they turned their partners, and went in chain with linked, reversed arms, down the room. SHE: When lambkins skip, and apples are growing, Grass is green, and roses ablow, When pigeons coo, and cattle are lowing, Mist lies white in the vale as snow. CHORUS: Why should we be all the day toiling? Lads and lasses along with me! Done with drudgery, dust, and moiling, Come along to the greenwood tree. HE: The cows are milked, the teams are a-stable, Work is over with set of sun. Ye farmer lads, all lusty and able, Ere the moon rises begins our fun. CHORUS: Why should we, etc. Julian came to the porch to Elizabeth. "Go," said she, "tell my servants to make ready. I will return home. I will not go indoors again, till the horses are at the door. My father has returned, and Fox is with him. Be that my excuse." Bessie put up both her hands to the face of Julian, drew down her head to her, and kissed her. Then she disappeared. Julian remained without, listening to the ballet. SHE: O sweet it is to foot on the clover, Ended work, and revel begun, Aloft the planets never give over, Dancing, circling round of the sun. CHORUS: Why should we, etc. HE: So Ralph and Phil, and Robin and Willie, Kiss your partners, each of you now; Bet and Prue, and Dolly and Celie, Make your curtsey; lads! make a bow. CHORUS: Why should we be all the day toiling? Lads and lasses along with me! Done with drudgery, dust, and moiling, Come along to the greenwood tree. CHAPTER XXX. THE RIDE HOME. When Julian Crymes had departed, it appeared to Anthony that the dance had lost its principal charm, and he wearied of it. "Come, Urith," said he; "I think we will go. It is late." This was almost the only time he had spoken to her since the opening dance. "I am ready," she answered; "have been for two hours." He went forth to see after the horse, and had it brought round to the door. He took his place in the saddle, and Urith sat behind him. They rode forth from the grounds into the high road, along which their course lay for a mile and a half, after which it diverged over moor. Anthony did not speak, and Urith remained equally silent. She had her hand on his belt, and he felt the pressure. He was vexed with her; she had not done him credit that evening. She was uncouth, and unfit to associate with people accustomed to social intercourse--unable to take a part in the amusements such as is expected of every young person. She was decently dressed, but without richness and refinement of taste, and in an old-fashioned gown that had been her mother's. The blood rushed into his head as he thought of how folks must have laughed at him and her when she failed in the opening dance. She was the bride of the evening; every one was prepared to concede to her the place of pre-eminence, but she had shown herself wholly incapable of occupying the place offered her. Then how uninteresting she had appeared beside the other girls present! Their faces had been radiant with mirth, hers dull with discontent and ill-humour. What if he had appeared there with Julian as his bride? How different all would have been! She would have been well, handsomely dressed, and in all the inherited jewelry of the Glanvilles. She would not have sat a whole evening mum against the wall. She would have shown herself queen of the revel. A warm breath, sweet as if laden with gorse essence, fanned his face at the thought, and was followed at once by a sharp and icy blast. Julian had been refused by him with all her wealth, her rank, her accomplishments, her beauty, and what had he acquired instead? How could he have supposed that Urith was devoid of all those feminine delicacies of manner which enable a woman to place herself at ease in all society? She had thrown a cold, wet blanket over his joy on this first coming forth into the world from his seclusion at Willsworthy. Then Anthony went on spinning at the same dark thread of ideas. He asked himself what there was in Urith that had attracted him, why it was that he had been so infatuated as to throw his luck to the winds so as to possess her. When the head begins to reckon, then the heart is on the way to bankruptcy. He counted over the advantages he had rejected, measured the sacrifices he had made for Urith's love, and he asked what she could throw into the scale to outweigh all this? His hand twitched the bridle, and made the horse toss his head and plunge. Urith also was occupied with her own thoughts. It had been a relief to her to get away from the laughter and music and revelry of Wringworthy; she thought that, could she be away from the heated room and swaling candles, in the cool night air, under the stars, her tranquillity of mind would return. But it was not so. Anthony's silence, her sense of having offended him by her clumsiness, her dread lest his love for her should be cooling; above all, the haunting spectre of a fear lest Julian should be fulfilling her threat, and be weaning from her the heart of her husband, followed her, and filled her blood with fever. But she strove against this fear, fought it with all the weapons at her command. It was impossible that his love, so strong, so unselfish, which had cost him so much, should evaporate, and that his heart should sway about like a weathercock. The resolution wherewith he had pursued his end, that proved him to have a strong character, and not one that is turned about in every direction. He had some excuse for being out of humour. He was proud of her. He had desired to let all see what a woman he had got as his wife. He was disappointed, and the depth of his disappointment was the measure of his pride in her. But then there rose up before her mind the picture of Julian on Anthony's arm, with burning cheeks and bright eyes, looking up in his face, and his eyes resting upon her with a warmth that should be in them only when fixed on the face of his wife. Did she not know that glow in his countenance? That fire in his eye? Had he not looked at her in the same way before they were married? "Do you intend to drag me off my horse?" asked Anthony, "that you pull at my belt so roughly?" "And you, that you draw the rein so short and make the mare rear?" Urith knew nothing of the world. It had ever seemed to her inconceivable that after the bond and seal of marriage the thought of either should stray; that any one should dare to dream of loving a man who was pledged in heart and mind and soul to another woman. Yet Julian as much as told her she still loved Anthony, would use all her fascinations to draw him to her and away from his wife. Was Anthony so weak that his conscience would suffer him to be thus attracted from the place of duty? No--a thousand times, no. He was not so feeble, so lacking in moral strength as this. They had turned off the high road upon the moor. Here was no stoned road, no road that lay white in the darkness before them, but turf, by daylight recognisable as a road by hoof marks, and the fret of feet over the turf. By night it could be followed only by observing stones set up at intervals and capped with whitewash. Stones had been picked off the roadway and thrown on one side, so that the turf was smooth almost as a racecourse. The head of the horse was turned now somewhat easterly. The sky above the rugged moor range was silvery, and from behind a rocky crest rose the moon, doubled in size by the haze that hung over the moor, and seemed like a mighty flame of the purest white light. "There, there!" said Urith. "Do you see, Anthony; the moon is up above that old Lyke Way, along which we made our first journey together." She disengaged her hand from his belt, and put it round his waist. He raised his head and looked away to the east, at the ridge of moor and rock, black against the glittering orb. He remembered then how he had mounted her on his horse--how he had stood by her and looked into her eyes! He recalled the strange magic that had then come over him--a longing for her, mingled with a presentiment of evil--a fear lest she were drawing him on to destruction. That fear was verified--she had lured him on to his ruin. He was a ruined man; he had lost all that he valued--the esteem of his fellows, the comforts and luxuries of life. Then began again the odious and monotonous enumeration of the sacrifices he had made. Why did Urith remind him of that ride? Did she want to find occasion to reproach him? Was it not enough that he was scourging himself with the whips of his own thoughts for his precipitate folly in marrying her? But Urith was not at that moment thinking of reproach. She breathed moor air, was beyond hedges and enclosures, in the open, vast, uncultivated heather-land, and there her brain had cooled, and her heart had recovered composure. The atmosphere was other than that of a ball-room, which had filled her with intoxication, and had bred phantoms that had affrighted her. As he rode on, with the light of the rising moon on his face, Anthony felt the pressure of Urith's hand below his heart. The pressure was slight, and yet it weighed heavy on him, and interfered with his breathing; that light hand, as it rose and fell with the motion of the horse, and at each inhalation, seemed to strike reproachfully against his side, to knock, and bid him open to better thoughts. How was it that he was so changed--that he, who had forced himself on the reluctant Urith, had not let her alone till she had yielded to his persistency to precipitate the marriage--that he should be trying to shift the blame on her? If he had made sacrifices to win her, she had not invited him to do so; he had done it with his eyes open--he had done it moved by no other influence, urged by his own caprice solely. It had never occurred to him that Urith had made sacrifices on her part; that he had demanded them of her, and given her no rest till they were made. He had made her marry him against her conscience and wishes, too quickly after her mother's death, and against her mother's dying orders. But he considered that what was done could not be undone, that as he had made his bed, so must he lie, as he had laden himself, so he must trudge. What then was the use of repining, and fretting over the past? "Yet--it was the Lyke Way," he said, in a low tone, "the way of death, on which we set our feet together." "No," she said, "not altogether." She released her hand from his heart, and placed it on the arm that held the bridle. "Stay the mare a moment, Tonie." "Why?" "I have something to tell you." "Can you not say it as we ride on--it is late?" "No--stay the mare." He drew rein. "Well--what is it?" he asked, a little impatiently. She looked round. "We are quite alone?" "Yes--of course--who else could be here?" Then she put her hand on his shoulder. "Turn your ear to me, Tonie. I will not say it aloud." He did as required. But she did not speak for a few moments. He showed signs of impatience. Then she gathered resolution, and whispered something into his ear; only a word or two, but he started, and turned in his saddle. "What! Urith--is it true?" "I must not ride with you more after to-night," she said, and her eyes fell. Then he put his arm round her, and drew her to him, and kissed her on one cheek, then on the other, then on her mouth, and laughed aloud. "Hold tight!" he said. "Put both arms round me, both hands on my heart! O Urith! Urith! What will my father say when he knows this? He will relent. He must." CHAPTER XXXI. FAMILY JARS. "What is the meaning of the strange talk that is about concerning thee and Elizabeth Cleverdon?" asked Julian of her brother, at breakfast next morning. "Nay, that is putting on me more than I can do. I should be sorry to account for all the idle talk that blows and drifts about on the stream of conversation, like leaves of autumn on a trout pool." "I heard it yesterday, and you certainly showed her great attention so long as you were at the dance." "Did I show her more attention than you showed to one I do not name? Faith! if I had listened to and picked up the scraps of scandal cast about, I might have filled an apron with what wanton words I heard concerning thee." He looked hard at Julian, and their eyes met. She coloured, but shook off her embarrassment, and turned to her father and said: "The saying is that my brother is setting his cap to catch Bessie Cleverdon." Mr. Crymes became grave, and looked at his son. He was a stern and Puritanical man, who had kept himself aloof from his children, never entering into their amusements, and concerning himself with what they did. Julian's fortune was assured to her, and his son would inherit something, the relics of the paternal estate, and what he had saved when managing for Julian. "Is there anything in this, Anthony?" he asked. "On my honour, I am surprised." "There is truth and there is falsehood in it," answered Fox, carelessly. "It has come to this, that as Julian cannot be Anthony Cleverdon's wife, it lies open to her to become his mother. Old Master Cleverdon is nothing loth, and, if she will accept him, she will have the opportunity of bringing the father to good terms with the son, for, from what I have seen, the happiness of Tonie lies very near to my sister's heart. If she declines the old man, I shall try my fortune with his daughter." "This is absurd, Fox," said Julian, highly incensed. "Absurd it may be--but the old gentleman has his head full of it, and has commissioned me to sound his way with you." "Be silent," said Julian, very red, very angry, "I do not believe one word of this; but that you are aiming at Bessie, that I do believe, though when I asked her about it, she had no knowledge of anything of the kind." "Before we proceed to consider my affairs, let us settle yours," said Fox. "Am I to tell Squire Cleverdon of Hall that you will not favour his suit, being already too deep gone in attachment to the son?" "Silence to that slanderous tongue!" said Mr. Crymes, wrathfully. "Julian at one time was thought of in reference to young Tony Cleverdon, but he did not fancy her, but took Urith Malvine. From that moment the name of Tony Cleverdon, in connection with my daughter and your sister, is not to be employed in jest or earnest, by you or any other. Understand that." "Then," said Fox, with his eye on his father, out of the corner, "let her keep herself out of folks' mouths, and not be like a rat I saw 'tother day, that ran into the jaws of my terrier, mistaking his open mouth for a run." "What is he aiming at?" inquired Mr. Crymes, turning to his daughter. "I know he has a wicked tongue, but I cannot think he can speak without some occasion." "There is nothing--that is to say--" Julian became confused. "Why may I not speak to--why not dance with an old, old friend?" "I have no command to lay on you not to speak to, not to dance with an old friend," said her father, "but everything in moderation; take notice from your brother that evil eyes look out for occasion, therefore give none. If Ahab had no weak places in his armour, the bow drawn at a venture would not have sent an arrow to him with death at the point. No bluebottles are bred where carrion is not found." Julian looked down abashed, then, with woman's craft, shifted the subject. "It is nonsense that Tony speaks. I do not believe for an instant that Master Cleverdon has any suit for me in his head--if he has, no marvel if folk talk, but God be wi' me, it will not be I who occasion it." "What do you mean by this?" asked the father, now turning to his son. "Has my friend Cleverdon said aught to justify you?" "My dear father, if you wish it, and Julian does not object, he will step from the position of good friend into son. He has cast an eye on Kilworthy, and as Kilworthy cannot be had without Julian, i' faith, he will take both." "Let him dare to offer this to me!" exclaimed Julian, "and until he does, pass it over. I refuse to accept any message through such a go-between." "It is no fault of mine," said Fox, "if the father thinks that some of the overspill of love and languishment for his son may rebound to him. I do not see how Jule, if she desire to chastise her faithless lover for having despised her charms, can do so more effectually and more cuttingly than by taking his father. Then Tony Cleverdon is in her hands absolutely. She can reconcile her father to him or tear them apart for ever. She can bring him, if she will, to bite the dust at her feet, to fawn at her knee, and to a woman such power is precious." "That suffices," said Mr. Crymes; "you heard what was her answer. She will speak no more on this matter with you. If Cleverdon comes to me with the suit, I will know what reply to make; if he goes to Julian, she can answer him herself. Meanwhile do you keep silence thereon. I but half trust what thou sayst. Such fancies breed in thy perverse mind. Come now to the other matter. Is it true that you see Elizabeth Cleverdon? For her sake I trust not, for I esteem her exceeding well, as much as I reckon thee below the general level of good men. If I thought there was aught mendable in thee that could be shaped by the hands of a good wife, I would say God prosper thee. But I fear me thou art over-rotten at the heart to be ripened to any good, over-hard to be moulded to a vessel of honour." "I do not see why you should think so ill of me, father," said Fox, sullenly; "unless it be that your ear has drunk in all the complaints Julian has poured out against me. What she says you accept, what I say you cast away. Then, I fancy, the time is come when you will be glad to have me married and got rid of." "You do seek marriage?" "I seek to be away from those who flout and despise me, who cross me and mistrust me. At least Squire Cleverdon and I understand each other, and regard each other." "Yes," broke in Julian; "for in each is the same yeast of sourness." "Be silent, Julian," commanded her father. "Let me hear the boy out." "What concern me the quirks and hints I hear concerning Jule?" pursued Fox, unable, in spite of his father, to contain himself from a stroke at his sister; "let them fly about thick as midges, they are naught to me--they do not sting me. Why, father, you should grudge me Bessie Cleverdon, I cannot see. If you respect her so highly--think so excellent well of her--I doubt but no other maid would so content you as a daughter-in-law as she." "A better girl does not exist," answered Mr. Crymes. "I would desire her a better fate than to be united to thee." "She is not comely, that is a fact," continued Fox, "but she will be the richest heiress in all the Tavistock district--between here and Plymouth and Exeter. Now that Master Cleverdon has fallen out with his son, and that there is no riddance by Anthony of the wife with whom he has saddled himself, not to please his father, or himself--or Jule yonder----" Mr. Crymes brought his fist down on the table. "I will drive thee out of the room at another word against thy sister." "Do you notice, father," exclaimed Julian, with flaming cheeks, "it is poor Bessie's money and the lands of Hall that he covets, and he seeks this by levering out of his place his best friend and old comrade." "Did I lever him out of his place?" retorted Fox. "He did it himself, and never a little finger did I put to help in his upsettal." "No, but you are ready to profit by his loss; ready, if you could, to get me as your confederate in fencing every inlet by which he might return to his father," said Julian, vehemently. "Because one man is a fool, is that reason why his friend--as you choose to term me--should not be wise? Because one man throws away a diamond, why his comrade should not pick it up and wear it on his finger?" "The case is not the same. It is taking the jewel, and smiting the rightful owner in the face when he puts forth his hand to reclaim it, and that rightful owner--your friend." "My friend!" exclaimed Fox, angrily. "Why should you call Anthony Cleverdon 'my friend?' Was it an act of a friend--a dear, considerate friend--to strike me in the eye and half blind me? Look!" Fox turned his left side towards his sister. "Do I not carry about with me a mark of friendship--a pledge to be redeemed? Trust me, I shall return that blow with usury some day, when the occasion comes." "And you will employ poor Bessie as your lash wherewith you filip him in the face. You are a coward--a mean----" "Silence!" commanded Mr. Crymes. "There is no grain of brotherly love between you two----" "Not a grain," threw in Julian, hotly. Fox bowed sarcastically. "You observe, father," he said, "that here I am at a disadvantage, between a sister who spars at me and a father who treads me down." "I do not tread on you save when you grovel in the dirt," answered Mr. Crymes, "in base and dishonest matters, and I do esteem this suit of Elizabeth Cleverdon as one such." "Opinions vary. You make me willing to leave my home, though it be not mine, nor thine neither, father, but that of sister Julian, who stuffs my pillow with thorns and the seats of her chairs with nettles. I would be away at any price, and if I can go to Hall and live there with Squire Cleverdon, I doubt not I shall be more content than I be here." "You will live there?" said his father. "No doubt. Master Cleverdon has ever had his daughter Elizabeth with him. He might have sent her packing, as he sent his own sister packing, when he needed her no more, and that would have been when Anthony brought home a wife to his taste. As he has not--if Julian still persists in declining to be my mother-in-law--why, I reckon that Bess will remain at Hall. A man must leave father and mother and cleave to his wife--so it will be scriptural, and that should content thee, father." The old man drew forth his 'kerchief and wiped his face. "I suppose, father," continued Fox, "that you will hardly let me go penniless out of the house? That would be a pretty comment on your professions. You must have saved something, and there is that little scrap of land still ours in Buckland----" Mr. Crymes again wiped his face. He did not know what answer to make. "Or, is the fashion set by Squire Cleverdon of cutting his son off without a shilling infectious, that my father has taken it, and will follow suit, and sicken into the same green infirmity?" "No," said Mr. Crymes, "I will do what is right; but you spring this on me, I am taken aback----" "I did not spring it on you. That is one of the many kindnesses I have received from Jule." "I do not know what to say. You must give me time to consider. This journey to London has cost me a considerable sum of money." "There comes the usual excuse for shirking out of a money obligation which cannot be enforced by law. Say on, father--the times have been bad, the hay was black with rain, the corn did not kern well, the mottled cow dropped her calf, the tenants have not paid, and so my poor boy gets nothing but advice in bushels and exhortations in yards." "Having insulted your sister, now you throw your jibes at me. That is not encouraging to me to deal handsomely towards you." "I did not think, father, that you needed to be coaxed and caressed to do an act of justice." "I do not ask that of thee, but I must consider. It ill pleases me that you should have thought of Bessie Cleverdon." "If I had chosen some worthless wench without a penny to bless herself withal, you would have shaken the head and broken the staff over me. Now that I have chosen one who is in all ways unexceptional, who is a wealthy heiress of irreproachable manners of life, the favourite of everybody, a dutiful daughter, it is all the same--you disapprove. Is there aught I could do--any change that I could make--that would give thee pleasure?" "None--till I saw there was an amendment in thyself." "If I can give satisfaction in no way to thee, father, I may assuredly make choice for myself. Bess may not be beautiful, but she pleases me--she has what is better than beauty, all Hall estate on her back. It will be to your advantage and to that of Jule that I should take her--you will thus be rid of me, who content neither of you, simply because my tongue has a point to it, and I do not suffer it to lie by and be blunted." Then Julian laughed out. "What avails all this reckoning and debating over a matter that cannot be settled till the main person concerned has been consulted? Bessie, I am very sure, has not the faintest waft of a notion that such schemes are being spun about her, or had not till I spoke with her yestreen. She will never take thee, Fox. Bessie has a good heart and a shrewd understanding, and neither will suffer her to take thee." "You think not?" asked Fox, superciliously. "I am sure she will not," answered Julian. "We shall see," said Fox. "She is not as was her brother, one to fly in the face of a father. He has set his mind to it, and if Julian will not have him, then he will yet have an Anthony Cleverdon to sit on his seat, and reign in his stead, when he has been gathered to his old yeoman fathers." "How mean you?" "Why, thus--I am Anthony. I was thus christened. And if I take Bess, I will throw aside my surname of Crymes, which brings me little--and take that of my father-in-law. So he will have an Anthony Cleverdon to carry on the name, and I--" his face assumed a malevolent expression--"I shall have spoiled for ever his own son's chances. It shall be down in black-and-white, and bound as fast as I can bind him. See if I cannot manage for myself." He stood up, took his hat, and set it jauntily on his head, then at the door turned, and with a mocking laugh, said: "There, sister Jule! Is not that a slap in the face for Anthony that will make his cheek tingle?" He left the room. Mr. Crymes laid his brow in his hand, and his elbow on the table. "'Fore heaven!" he sighed, "I curse the day that gave me such a son." CHAPTER XXXII. MORE JARS. A drizzling rainy day. A day on which nothing could be seen but a wavering veil of minute dust of water. A drizzle that was wetting, and which penetrated everywhere. The air was warm, laden with moisture, oppressive, and depressing. From a window could be seen nothing beyond a hedge. Trees seemed to be bunches of cotton wool; the drizzle crawled or was drawn along by a damp wind over the grass along the hedge, beading every blade and twig with the minutest drops of moisture. The shrubs, the plants stooped, unable to support the burden deposited on them, and shot the impalpable water-dust down on the soil in articulate drops. Although the drizzle was excluded by roof and walls from the house, the moisture-charged atmosphere could not be shut out, and it made the interior only less wretched than outside the house. The banisters, the jambs of the door, the iron locks were bedewed, and the hand that touched them left a smear and came off clogged with water. The slates of the floor turned black, and stood with drops, as though the rain had splashed over them. Wherever there was a stone in the wall of a slatey or impervious nature, it declared itself by condensing moisture, sweating through plaster and whitewash, and sending tears trickling down the walls. The fireirons became suddenly tarnished and rusty. The salt in the cellar and salt-box was sodden, and dripped brine upon the floor, as did the hams and sides of bacon hung up in the kitchen. The table-linen and that for the beds adhered to the fingers when touched. Anthony stood at the window in the hall looking out, then he went to the fire; then took down a gun from over the mantel-shelf, and looked at the lock and barrel; stood it in the corner of the fire, and resolved by and by to clean it. Then he went to the window again, and wrote his initials on the window-pane, or tried to do so, and failed, for the condensation of moisture was not inside but without, on the glass. He had nothing to occupy him; no work could be done on the farm, and employment or amusement lacked in the house. Where was Urith? She might come and talk to and entertain him. What is the good of a wife, unless she sets herself to make home agreeable to her husband, when he is unable to go out-of-doors? Where was Solomon Gibbs? He might have talked, fiddled, and sung, though, indeed, Anthony had no relish just then for music, and he knew pretty well all the topics on which Uncle Sol had aught to say. His anecdotes had often been retailed, and Anthony loathed them. He knew when Sol was preparing to tell one, he knew which he was about to produce, he was acquainted with every word he would use in telling his tale. Anthony had grown irritable of late with Sol, and had brushed him rudely when he began to repeat some hacknied anecdote. On such a day as this, however, even Uncle Sol were better than no one. At length, Anthony, impatient and out of humour, went upstairs and called Urith. She answered him faintly from a distance. "Where are you hidden? What are you about?" he called. "In the lumber-room," she replied. He followed the direction of her voice, and came to a sort of garret full of every kind of discarded article of domestic use, old crocks that had lost a leg, broken-backed chairs, a dismantled clock, corroded rushlights, bottles that were cracked, a chest of drawers which had lost half the brass handles by which the drawers could be pulled out. In the obscurity, dishevelled, covered with dust, and warm with her exertions, stood Urith. She put her hand to her face, and pushed her strayed hair from her eyes. "I want thy help, Tony," she said. "I have been searching, and at length, I have found it. But I cannot carry it forth myself." "Found what?" "O--how can you ask? Do you not see what it is?" It was an old, dusty, cobweb-covered, wooden cradle. "What do you want, Urith, with this wretched bit of rummage?" "What do I want it for? O--Tony, of course you know. It is true I shall not need it immediately--not for some months, but I shall like to have it forth, and clean it well, and polish its sides, and fit it up with little mattress and pillows, and whatsoever it need, before the time comes when it is required to be put in use." "I will not have this wretched old cradle," said Anthony. "It is not meet for my son--the heir to Hall and Willsworthy." "You are reckoning too soon--" laughed Urith. "Perhaps you may have a daughter, not a son." "A daughter! I do not want a maid; no--I shall never forgive you, if it be not a boy. Urith, My--everything depends on that. When there is a new Anthony Cleverdon, my father can hold out in his obstinacy no longer. He must give way. An Anthony Cleverdon of Willsworthy, and _not_ of Hall! It would go against all his pride, against his most cherished ambition. It cannot, it shall not be. Urith, a boy it must be, and what is more, he shall not lie in that dusty, cobweb-clad pig-trough. It would not become him." "But, Tony," laughed Urith, "it was mine, I was rocked in that. It was not so bad that I could not sleep therein." "Oh, you!" he spoke disparagingly in tone. "You were only heiress of Willsworthy, but my young Anthony will be something much different from that." "I want my child to lie in the same crib in which I was rocked. It will be a pleasure to me." "I will not have it. This is too mean." "What does it signify?" "If it does not signify, then let me go and buy a new cradle." "No," said Urith. "No--there I lay when a poor little feeble creature; and there, in the same, it shall lie when it comes." "I will go into Peter Tavy to the carpenter, and order a new cradle." "I will not use it if you do. We have not the money to waste on luxuries. A child will sleep as well in this as in a painted cradle." All at once, Anthony flushed to the roots of his hair. A thought had struck him, that if he bought a new cradle he must do so with his wife's money. He had nothing of his own. He was her pensioner. There stood at his side an old rusty bar of iron; in his anger and disgust he grasped this, raised it, and brought it down on the cradle, breaking down its side. "Anthony!" exclaimed Urith. "Anthony! you would not have done that had any love, any respect remained in your heart for me. You would have loved the little crib in which I was laid, if you loved me." He did not answer her. Ashamed at his own conduct, embittered at her opposition to his wishes, discontented with his lot, he left the garret and descended the stairs. On reaching the hall, he found Solomon Gibbs there; he had been out in the rain, and had come in very wet. His face was red and moist, proclaiming that he had been drinking, but he was not intoxicated, only hilarious. He had cast his hat on the table, a broad-brimmed felt hat that had absorbed the rain like a sponge, and was now giving it forth in a stream that made a puddle on the table and ran over the side, dripped on to a bench, and having formed a slop there fell again to the floor, there producing another pool. The water ran off Uncle Sol's dress and oozed from his boots that were rent, and had admitted water within, which now spirited forth from the gaps at every step. Solomon had taken down a single-stick, with basket handle, from the wall, and was making passes, wards, and blows in the air at an imaginary opponent, and, as he delivered his strokes, he trilled forth snatches of song:-- I'm a hearty good fellow, as most men opine. Then he whacked from right to left-- So fill up your bumpers, and pass round the wine, Singing, Tol-de-rol-lol-de-rol. He fell to the ward. "Come on, Tony lad! 'Tis cursed moist weather, and no fun out of doors. I've been to the Hare and Hounds, but no one there, and not even I can drink when there be no comrades with whom to change a word. Come, Tony, take a stick and let us play together, perhaps it will dry me, for I am damp, uncommon damp." "Take your hat off the table," said Anthony, in ill-humour. He was accustomed to order and cleanliness in his father's house, and the ramshackle ways of Willsworthy displeased him; Uncle Sol was a prince of offenders in disordering and befouling everything. "Take your hat off. We shall have the board spread shortly, and how can we eat off it when it is slopped over by the drainage of your dirty beaver?" "Nay, Tony, boy; let it lie. See--here I be. I will stand on the defence, and you take t'other stick; and, if you beat me off, you shall remove my hat; but, if I remain master, you shall pull off my boots. Can't do it myself, by heaven, they be so sodden with water." "I will make you both remove your hat and kick off your own boots," said Anthony, angrily. "Dost think because I have married the niece that I am abased to be the uncle's serving-man? 'Fore heaven, I'll teach thee the contrary." He went to the wall, took down a stick, and attacked Solomon Gibbs with violence. Uncle Sol, for all the liquor he had drunk, was sober enough to be able to parry his blows, though handicapped by his drenched garments, which weighed on his shoulders and impeded rapid movement. Anthony was not an accomplished single-stick player; he had not a quick eye, and he had never possessed that application to sports which would render him a master in any. Satisfied if he did fairly well, and was matched with inferiors who either could not or would not defeat him, he had now small chance against the old man, who had been a skilful player in his youth--who, indeed, had stuck to his sports when he ought to have held to his studies. The old man held the stick between his hands over his head jauntily--carelessly, it seemed--but with perfect assurance; whereas Anthony struck about at random and rarely touched his antagonist. Anthony was in a bad temper--he faced the window; whereas Uncle Sol stood with his back to the light, and to the table, defending his soaked hat. Anthony was the assailant; whereas Sol remained on the defensive, with an amused expression in his glossy face, and giving vent at intervals to snatches of melody--showing his unconcern, and heightening his opponent's irritability, and causing him every moment to lose more control over his hand and stick. Once Anthony struck Uncle Sol on the side, and the thud would have showed how dead with wet the old man's coat was, even had not water squirted over the stick at the blow. "Well done, Tony! One for thee!" Then Mr. Gibbs brought his stick down with a sweep, and cut Anthony on the left shoulder. The sting and numbness roused Anthony's ire, and he made a furious attack on his antagonist, which was received with perfect equanimity and the hardly-broken strain of-- I sing of champions bold, That wrestled--not for gold. With ease, and without discontinuing his song, Sol caught a blow levelled at his skull, dealt with such force that Tony's hand was jarred by it. And all the cry Was Will Trefry, That he would win the day. So Will Trefry, huzzah! The ladies clap their hands and cry-- Trefry! Trefry, huzzah! Down came Sol's stick on his antagonist's right shoulder. "There, there! You are no match for me," laughed the old man. "Will you give over--and pull off my boots?" "Never!" shouted Anthony, and struck at him again, again ineffectually. "Look out, Tony! save your head!" The old man, by a dexterous back-handed blow, struck up Anthony's staff, and with a light stroke he touched his ear. He had no intention to hurt him, he might have cut open his head had he willed; but he never lost his good-humor, never took full advantage of the opportunities given him by the maladroitness of his antagonist. It was exasperating to the young man to be thus played with, trifled with by a man whom he despised, but who he felt was, at all events at single-stick, his master. "Hah!" shouted Anthony, triumphantly. His stick had caught in Sol's wig, and had whisked it off his skull, but instantly the old man with a sweep of his staff smote his stick from the hand of Anthony, leaving him totally disarmed. "There, boy, there! Acknowledge thyself vanquished." Then the old fellow threw himself down on the bench, with his back to the table. "Come, lad, pull off my boots." "I will not," said Anthony, savagely, "you had unfair odds. You stood with your back to the window." "I was guarding my hat. Leave it where it lies, dribble, dribble--drip, and take my place on the floor, and try another bout, if thou wilt. Come on, I am ready for thee." Mr. Solomon Gibbs stood up, resumed his single-stick, and stepped into the midst of the hall. Anthony, with face on fire with annoyance and anger, stooped for his own weapon, and then took the place with the table behind him, where previously Mr. Gibbs had stood. "Ready!" called Sol. "Come along! so be I." Another bout, staves whirling in the air, feet dancing forward, backward, to this side, then to that. Reports as of pistols, when the sticks met. Anthony was no match for the old gentleman even now that he had the advantage of the light. Sol was without his wig, he had not resumed it, and his shaven pate exhibited many a scar, the mark of former encounters in which he had got the worst, but in which also he had acquired his skill. "My foot slipped!" said Anthony, as, having dealt an ineffectual blow from which Uncle Sol drew back, Anthony went forward to his knee, exposing himself completely to the mercy of his antagonist. "It is that cursed wet you have brought in--not fair." "Choose a dry spot," said Sol. "You have puddled the whole floor," answered the young man. "Then it is equal for both of us. I have given thee many advantages, boy." "I want none. I will have none." His eye was on the old man's bald head; the sting of the blows he had received had exasperated him past consideration of what was due to an aged man, the uncle of his wife. The blows had numbed in him every sense save anger. He longed to be able to cut open that smooth round skull, and so revenge his humiliations and relieve his ill-humour. But he could not reach that glossy pate, not smite which way he would, so dexterous was the ward of Uncle Sol, so ready was his eye, and quick his arm in responding to his eye. Not an advantage of any kind could he get over his adversary; he rained his blows fast, in the fury of his disappointment, hoping to beat down his guard by mere weight of blows; and Uncle Sol saw that he was blinded with wrath and had lost all sense of play, having passed into angry earnest. Then he twirled the stick from Anthony's hand once more, so that it flew to the ceiling, struck that, and fell by the hearth. Mr. Gibbs laughed. "Mine again, Tony, boy!" He cast himself into the settle by the fire, stretched forth his legs, and said, "Come, pull off my boots." Anthony stood lowering at him, panting and hot. "He strip't him to the waist, He boldly Trefry faced, I'll let him know That I can throw As well as he to-day! So little Jan, huzzah! And some said so--but others, No, Trefry, Trefry, huzzah!" Sol sang lustily, with his hands in his pockets and his legs extended. "Come, lad, down on your knees, and off with my boots." Anthony did stoop, he went on one knee, not on both, and not to pull off the old man's boots, but to pick up his single-stick, whirl it round his head, and level a blow at the head of the undefended Uncle Sol; the blow would have fallen, had not Urith, who had entered the room at the moment, sprung forward, and caught it in her hand. "Coward!" she exclaimed, "coward!--my uncle! an old man! I hate you. Would God I had never seen you!" He had hurt her hand, he saw it, for she caught it to her bosom, then put it to her mouth, but her eyes glared at him over her hand like white lightning. "A scurvy trick, lad--did not think thee capable of it," said Uncle Sol. "Has he hurt thee, child?" He stood up. Anthony flung the single-stick from him with an oath, put his hand to his brow, stood for a minute confronting Urith, looking into her fiery eyes, without exculpation, without a word. Then he turned, took up Uncle Sol's hat, without observing that it was not his own, flung it on his head, and went forth. CHAPTER XXXIII. INTO TEMPTATION. Never is man so inflamed with anger, so overflowing with gall against others, as when he is conscious that he has laid himself open to animadversions. Anthony was bitter at heart against his wife and against her uncle, because he was aware, without being ready to acknowledge it, that he had acted ill towards both. Why should not Urith have yielded at once to his wishes about the cradle? How obtuse to all delicate and elevated feeling she was to think that such a dusty, dingy, worm-eaten crib would suffice for his son, the representative of the house of Cleverdon--the child who was to be the means of reconciliation between himself and his father--the heir of Hall, who would open to him again the internal mansion, and enable him to return there and escape from Willsworthy, a place becoming daily more distasteful, and likely to become wholly insupportable! That he had seen the cradle under disadvantage, in its abandoned, forgotten condition, and that it could be made to look well when a little feminine skill and taste had been expended on it, did not occur to him. Moreover, his wife had no right to resist his wishes. He knew the world better than she--he knew what befitted one of the station his child would assume better than she. What might do for an heir to Willsworthy would be indecent for the heir to Hall--what might have suited a girl was not adapted to a boy. A wife should not question, but submit; the wish of her husband ought to be paramount to her, and she should understand that her husband in requiring a thing acted on his right as master, and that her place was to bow to his requisition. The old sore against his father that had partially skinned over broke out again, festered and hot. He was angry against his father, as he was against Urith. He was angry also with Mr. Gibbs for having proved a better man than himself at single-stick. Of old, Anthony had shown himself a tolerable wrestler, runner, single-stick player, thrower of quoits, player at bowls, among the young men of his acquaintance, and he had supposed himself a match for any one. Now he was easily disarmed and defeated by a half-tipsy old loafer, who had done no good to himself or any one in his life. He had gone down in public estimation since his marriage--he who had been cock of the walk. And now he was not even esteemed in his own house; resisted by his wife, who set at naught his wishes, played with and beaten by that sot--her uncle. There was no one who really admired and looked up to him any longer, except Julian Crymes. He had wandered forth in the wet, without a purpose, solely with the desire to be away from the house where he had met with annoyance, where he had played--but this he would not admit, though he felt it--so poor a figure. He took his way to Peter Tavy, and went into the little inn of the Hare and Hounds at Cudliptown, the first hamlet he reached. No one was there. Uncle Sol had sat there, and tippled and smoked; but had finally wearied of the solitariness, and had gone away. Now Anthony sat down where he had been, and was glad to find no one there, for in his present humour he was disinclined for company. The landlord came to him and took his order for _aqua vitæ_, brought it, and seated himself on a stool near him. But Anthony would not speak, or only answered his questions shortly, so as to let the man understand that his society was not desired. He took the hint, rose, and left the young man to his own thoughts. Anthony put his head in his hand, and looked sullenly at the table. Many thoughts troubled him. Here he had sat on that eventful night after his first meeting and association with Urith on the moor. Here he had sat, with his heart on fire from her eyes, smouldering with love--just as an optic-glass kindles tinder. Here he had drunk, and, to show his courage, had gone forth to the churchyard and had broken down her father's head-post. He had brought it to this house, thrown it on this table--there! he doubted not, was the dint made by it when it struck the board. How long was it since that night? Only a little over a twelve-month. Did Urith's eyes burn his heart now? There was a fire in them occasionally, but it did not make his heart flame with love, but with anger. Formerly he was the well-to-do Anthony Cleverdon, of Hall, with money in his pockets, able to take his pleasure, whatever it cost him. Now he had to reckon whether he could afford a glass before he treated himself to one, was warned against purchasing a new cradle as a needless expense, a bit of unpardonable extravagance. He tossed off his glass, and signed for it to be refilled. Then he thought of his father, of his rebellion against him, and he asked whether any good had come to him by that revolt. He, himself, was like to be a father shortly. Would his son ever set him at defiance, as he had defied his father? He wondered what his father was thinking of him; whether he knew how straitened his circumstances were, how clouded his happiness was, how he regretted the unretraceable step he had taken, how he was weary of Willsworthy, and how he hungered to hear of and to see Hall once more. There was little real conscious love of his father in his heart. He did not regret the breach for his father's sake, think of the desolation of the old man, with his broken hopes, his disappointed ambitions; he saw things only as they affected himself; he was himself the pivot about which all his meditations turned, and he condoled with, lamented over, himself as the worst-used of men, the man most buffeted by misfortune. Anthony kicked the legs of the table impatiently. The host looked at him and smirked. He had his own opinion as to how matters stood with Anthony. He knew well enough that the young man was unlike Mr. Gibbs, was no toper; he had rarely stepped within his doors since his marriage. As the host observed him, he chuckled to himself and said, "That fellow will come often here now. He has a worm at the heart, and that worm only ceases to gnaw when given _aqua vitæ_ or punch." What if the old Squire were to remain obdurate to the end? What if he did not yield to the glad news that he was grandfather to a new Anthony Cleverdon? Anthony's heart turned sick at the thought. His son to be condemned to a toilful life at Willsworthy! But what if Urith should at some future time be given a daughter, then her estate would pass away from the young Anthony, and the representative of the Cleverdons would be adrift in the land without an acre, with hardly a coin--and Hall would be held by an alien. He stamped with rage. His father was possessed with madness; the whole blame fell on his father. Why was the old grudge against Richard Malvine to envenom the life of the son and grandchildren of the Squire? By the course he took the Squire was not hurting the man whom he hated, who was in his grave and insensible to injury, but his own living direct descendants! Anthony was stabbing at his own family, in his insensate malice. He thought over his quarrel with the old man, and he regretted that he had not spoken plainer, given his father sharper thrusts than he had--that he had not dipped his words in pitch, and thrown them blazing into his father's face. His cheeks were burning; he clenched his fists and ground his teeth, and then bowed his hot brow upon his clenched hands. No doubt his father would hear how absurdly Urith had danced at the Cakes, and would laugh over it. He held up his head and looked round him, thinking he heard the cackle of his father, so vividly did he portray the scene to his imagination. No one was in the room save the taverner; but Anthony caught his eye fixed on him, and he turned impatiently away. Urith was not--there was no blinking the matter--a wife suitable to him. He compared her with his sister. Bessie was sweet, gentle, and with all her amiability dignified; Urith was rough, headstrong, and sullen. She was uncouth, unyielding--did not understand what were the tastes and requirements of a man brought up on a higher plane of refinement. He was weary of her lowering brow, of her silence, her dark eyes with a sombre, smouldering fire in them. He wondered how he could ever have admired her! He never would feel content with her. He had sacrificed for her the most splendid prospects that any man had, and she did not appreciate the sacrifice, and bow down before him and worship him for it. He knocked over his glass and broke it. By heaven! He wished he had never married Urith. Anthony stood up, and threw down some coin to pay for his brandy and for the broken glass. He had knocked over the glass in the gesture and start of disgust, when he had wished himself unmarried, and now--he must pay for the glass with money that came to him from Urith. He knew this, it made him writhe, but he quickly deadened the spasm by the consideration that for every groat he had of his wife, he had given up a guinea. She was in debt to him, and the ridiculous little sums placed at his disposal were but an inadequate acknowledgment of the vast indebtedness under which she lay. He stood for a few minutes irresolute in the rain, uncertain in which direction to turn. Home?--To Willsworthy? To the reproaches of Urith, to the tedious jests and drawled-out songs of Mr. Gibbs? To the sight of Urith ostentatiously holding her hand in a sling to let him know that he had hurt her, when she intercepted the blow aimed at her uncle? "Pshaw!" said Anthony. "She is not hurt, she cannot be hurt. She caught the stick in her palm. It stung her, no doubt, but will pass. But what an outcry and fuss will be made over it." Yet his heart reproached him for these complaints. He knew that it was not the way with Urith to make an outcry and a fuss. If he had hurt her, she would disguise the fact. Anyhow, he resolved not to go back to Willsworthy. Should he go on to Peter Tavy, and visit his cousin Luke? No--he had no desire for the society of a parson. Luke had married him to Urith; Luke was in part to blame for his present condition of dissatisfaction. Luke might surely; if he had poked about in his books, have discovered some canonical reason why the marriage could not have taken place, at least as early as it did. Then--with delay--his love might have abated, his head would have become cooler, he would have been better able to balance loss and gain. "Loss and gain!" scoffed Anthony; "all loss and no gain!" Luke would surmise that all was not right, he was keen-sighted--he had already had the impertinence to give an oblique admonition to Anthony to be tender and forbearing to his wife. If he went to him now, Luke would nail him, and hammer remonstrances into him. By heaven! no--he wanted no sermons preached to him on week-days. He walked to the door of Farmer Cudlip. The Cudlips had been on that estate much as the Cleverdons had been at Hall, for centuries, but the Cudlips had owned their own land, as yeomen, whereas the Cleverdons had been tenant-farmers. Now the Cleverdons had taken a vast stride up the ladder, whereas the Cudlips, who had given their name to the hamlet, had remained stationary. The Cudlips, though only yeomen, were greatly respected. Some of the gentle families were of mushroom growth compared with them. It was surmised that the Cudlips had originally been Cutcliffs, and that this yeoman family had issued from the ancient stock of Cutcliffe of Damage, in North Devon, which had gone forth like a scriptural patriarch and made itself a settlement on the verge of the moor, and called the land after its own name; but there was no evidence to prove this. It was at one time a conjecture of a Hector of Peter Tavy, who mentioned it to the Cudlip then at Cudliptown, who shrugged his shoulders and said, "It might be for ought he knew." In the next generation the descent was talked about as all but certain, in the third it was a well-established family tradition. Anthony stood in the doorway of the old ancestral farm. He had knocked, but received no answer; no one had come to the door in response. He knew or guessed the reason, for overhead he heard Mistress Cudlip putting the youngest child to bed; he had heard the little voice of the child raised in song, chanting its evening hymn:-- Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, Bless the bed that I lay on. Four angels to my bed, Two to bottom, two to head; Two to hear me when I pray, Two to bear my soul away. Probably Farmer Cudlip was not within. Had he been, the knock of Anthony would have been responded to by a loud and hearty call to come in. Anthony did not repeat the knock. It was of no use his entering that house if the master were out; he did not want to pass words with women folk. But he halted where he was in order to make up his mind whither he should go. He craved for--not exactly flattery, but something of that adulation which had been lavished on him by all alike--old and young, men and maids--when he was Anthony Cleverdon of Hall, and which had been denied him since he had become Anthony Cleverdon of Willsworthy. Under the humiliation he had received in his own house, under the sense of disgrace which he had brought on himself, first by his anger over the cradle, and the breaking it down with a blow of an iron bar; then, by his hand raised over an old man, defenceless; he felt a real need for adulation. He could not hold up his head, recover his moral elasticity till he had encountered some one who did not flaunt and beat him down. Fox--should he go and see Fox at Kilworthy? Fox was his friend; Fox had a sharp tongue and could say cutting things that would make him laugh, would shake the moths out of his fretted brain. Yes, he would go to Kilworthy and see Fox. As he formed this resolution he was conscious that he was false to himself. He did not want to see Fox. Fox would not look up to him with eyes full of loving devotion. Fox's colour would not flush to the cheek when he entered. Fox's pulses would not bound when his step was heard on the gravel. Fox would not in words encourage him to think well of himself, to esteem himself again as the old cock of the walk in plumage, instead of a wretched draggled fowl. No--he did not want to see Fox, but Fox's sister. He would go to Kilworthy to see, to hear Julian Crymes, but he repeated to himself--"I must have a talk with Fox." Then he heard the little child's voice upstairs repeating the Prayer of Prayers after its mother. "Forgive us our trespasses," said Mistress Cudlip. "Tespusses," said the child. "As we forgive them that trespass against us." "As we 'give them----" a pause. The mother assisted the little one, and it completed the sentence. "And lead us not into temptation." "And lead us not----" Anthony drew his cloak closer about him, shook the water from Solomon's hat, that he wore, and set it again on his head. "Into temptation," said the mother. "Lead us not into temptation," repeated the child. Anthony bent his head, and went out into the rain, went heedless of the warning that hammered at his heart, went wilfully--into temptation. CHAPTER XXXIV. A COLD WOOING. "Get yourself ready," ordered Squire Cleverdon, looking at Bessie across the table. "Your aunt is unwell, and I have sent word that we would come and see her. A wet day, and nothing better to be done, so we can find out what is the matter with her." "Certainly, father," answered Elizabeth, with alacrity. "I hope nothing serious is the matter with her?" "Oh, serious, no." The manner of the Squire was never gracious to his daughter; always imperious, but this day there was a peculiarity in it that struck her. There was, she felt instinctively, something in the background. "What is it, father? I pray you tell me. She is not in any danger?" "Oh, danger? No." A twitching of his cheeks marked inner uneasiness. Bessie looked anxiously at him. "I am sure, father, you are hiding something from me." "Go at once and get ready! Do not stop chattering here like a parrot," he roared forth, and Bessie fled. Elizabeth had no anxiety over the weather. That was not the day of umbrellas, but then, neither was it the day of fine bonnets. The skirts were worn short, and did not trail in and collect the mud. A woman pinned up her gown, or looped it at the girdle, exposing a bright coloured petticoat, and below that her ankles, and there were many inches between the mud and the petticoat. A thick serge mantle covered gown and petticoat; it was provided with a hood that was drawn over the head, and bright eyes looked out of the hood and laughed at the rain and cold. We sometimes wonder now how the world got on before the introduction of the umbrella. Very well. It was dryer, warmer, better protected in former days. It is only since the invention and the expansion of the parapluie, that those marvels of millinery, the nineteenth-century bonnet, piled up of feathers and flowers, and bead and lace, became possible. The umbrella has been a bell-shade under which it has grown. Mr. Cleverdon was not communicative on the ride to Tavistock. Now and then he growled forth a curse on the weather, but said nothing against Magdalen. This surprised his daughter, who was accustomed to hear him grumble at his sister if she occasioned him any inconvenience; but she charitably set it down to real concern for Magdalen, and this increased her fear that more was the matter with her aunt than her father chose to admit. Aunt Magdalen really was indisposed; but the indisposition was partly, if not chiefly, due to her distress of mind about her niece. She knew that her brother had resolved to act upon her own to marry Bess to young Crymes, and that he expected his sister to help him to overcome any opposition that might be encountered from Bessie. Poor Elizabeth had as little suspicion, as she accompanied her father to Tavistock, that he was about to sacrifice her, as had Isaac when he ascended Moriah at the side of Abraham. When Mr. Cleverdon and Bessie arrived at the house of Miss Magdalen, near the Abbey Bridge, they observed a man's hat and cloak hung up in the hall. "Oh!" exclaimed Elizabeth, "the doctor is here! I am sure my aunt is really very ill." At the same moment the side door opened, and the old lady appeared, and caught her niece in her arms. "He is here," said Magdalen--"arrived only a minute before you." "Who is here?" asked Bessie. "What do you mean?" "Come aside with me into my snuggery," said her aunt. "I have a word with you before I speak with your father, and in the parlour he will find Anthony." "Anthony! My brother!" with a joyful flash from Bessie; and she flung her arms round her aunt. "Oh, you dear--you good Aunt Magdalen! You have----" "Have done with this folly," said the Squire, angrily. "Are you still such a fool as to think that when I say a thing I shall change about? No--your brother is not in there, but your bridegroom." Miss Cleverdon put up her hand entreatingly to stop her brother, and hastily brought her niece into the adjoining room and shut the door. "What is the meaning of this?" asked Bessie, with some composure. She had now a suspicion that the visit concerned herself, and not her aunt. "My dear," said Magdalen, "do seat yourself--no, not in that chair; it is hard, and there is something wrong with the back--the bar comes exactly where it ought not, and hurts the spine--at least, I find it so. I never sit in it myself, never. Take that seat by the fireplace. I am so sorry there is nothing burning on the hearth, but, on my word, I did not expect to have you in here. I thought I might have spoken a word with you in the parlour before he came, or--but, bless my heart, Bess! I am so distracted I hardly know what I thought." Bessie shook down her skirt over her dark-blue petticoat, and seated herself where her aunt desired, then laid her hands in her lap, and looked steadily at Miss Cleverdon. "You are not ill, then?" she said. "Oh, my dear, ill! I have not slept a wink, nor had a stomach for aught. I should think I was indeed ill, but all about you. You must remember that the commandment with promise is that which refers to the submission of a child to the parent; but, Lord! Bess, I would not have you forced against your wishes. Your father's mind is made up, and he has met with a sore disappointment in the case of Anthony. I do think it will be a comfort to him, and heal over that trouble somewhat, if he finds you more pliant than was Anthony. But, Lord! Bess, nothing, I trust, hinders you--no previous attachment. Lord! I did at one time think that your heart was gone a-hankering after Luke." Bessie, who had become very pale, flushed, and said, "I entreat thee, aunt, not to have any fancies concerning me. I never gave thee grounds for any such opinion." "I know that, I know that, child. But, Lord! an old woman like me must have her thoughts about those she loves and wishes well for." "Aunt," said Bessie, "I think I can understand that my father desires to have me married, and has asked you to see me thereon. I have had some notions thereupon myself, but I would gladly hear from you whom he has fixed on, though, indeed, I think I can guess." "It is Fox," answered Miss Cleverdon, and looked down on the floor, and arranged her stool, which was slipping from under her feet. "There, there, I have told thee; thy father put it on me. And I can only say to thee that which thou knowest well thyself. He belongs to an ancient family, once well estated, but now sadly come down; nevertheless, there is something of the old patrimony remaining. He is thy father's friend's son; and as it has come about that the families that were to be united by my nephew have not been thus joined, it is not wonderful that your father would see them clipped together by thee." "I cannot indeed take Fox," said Bessie, gravely. "Well--well--the final choosing must be with thee, wench. All that thy father can do is to say he desires it, and all I can do is to support him. God forbid that we should constrain thee unwilling, and yet a blessing does rain down from above the clouds on the heads of such children as be obedient. Now look to Anthony, and see if he be happy, having gone against his father's wishes." "Is he unhappy?" asked Bessie. "I do not think him the same at all. He is restless, and his mood has lost all brightness. I have not seen much of him, but what I have seen has made me uneasy concerning him, and what Fox tells me still farther disconcerts me." "I may not go to Willsworthy. I may not see my brother nor Urith--except by very chance I meet them," said Bessie, heaving a sigh, and her eyes filling. "My father seems no nearer forgiving than he was at first." "I do not think that aught will move him to forgiveness save, perchance, the finding of ready obedience in thee." "I cannot--indeed I cannot, in this," said Bess. "Lord! I would not counsel thee against thy happiness," pursued Magdalen. "But see how ill it has worked with Anthony. He followed his own will, and went against the commandment of his father, and it eats as a canker into his heart, I can see that; now if then----" Then the door was thrown open, and the Squire appeared in it, with Fox behind his back in the passage. "Sister," said old Cleverdon, "time enough has been spent over preparing Bess for what must be. As you have not brought her unto us, to the parlour, we've come in here to you. Come in, Tony! Come in! Look at her--there she sits; kiss her, lad! She is thine!" But Fox did not offer to do what he was required; Bessie started and drew back, fearing lest he should, but was at once reassured by his deprecatory look and uplifted hand. "May I enter?" asked Fox. "Come in, boy, come in!" said the old man, answering for his sister, as though the house were his own; and his own it might be considered, for it was paid for and furnished out of Hall; the maintenance of Miss Cleverdon fell on him and his estate. "Come!" said the Squire, roughly, "shut the door behind you boy. Go over beside her. Take her hand. Hold out yours, Bess. Doy' hear? It is all settled between us." Fox entered the room, fastened the door, and remained fumbling at the lock, with his face to it, affecting great diffidence. Mr. Cleverdon took him by the arm and thrust him away, and pointed imperiously to where Bess sat, near the fireplace, on which burnt no spark; her hands lay in her lap folded, and her eyes on the hearth. The window was behind her. The little room was panelled with dark oak that was polished. There were no pictures, no ornaments on the wall--only one oval pastel over the mantelshelf of Magdalen when she was a girl. The colour had faded from this, the pink gone wholly--it was a poor bleached picture of a plain maiden; and now beneath it sat one as blanched, for all the colour had gone out of Bessie's face, and she had assumed the same stiff attitude that her aunt had maintained when drawn by the artist. Fox, with apparent reluctance, went over to the fireplace; Elizabeth looked at her father with great drops formed on her brow, as though the damp of the atmosphere had condensed on that surface of white alabaster. "Give him your hand. Are you deaf?" Elizabeth remained with her hands folded as before, her eyes wide open, fixed reproachfully on her father. She had given her young life to him, borne his roughness, experienced from him no love, no consideration--in every way sacrificed herself to make his home happy, and now he cast her happiness from him, gave her up to a man for whom she had no regard, without considering her feelings in the smallest degree. Then Magdalen looked at the crayon drawing of herself and down at Bessie, and some reminiscence at once painful and yet sweet in its bitterness came back to her--a remembrance, may be, of some sacrifice she had been called to make when about Bessie's age, and the tears came into her eyes. "Brother," she said, "you are too hasty. The poor child is overcome with surprise. You handle her too roughly. Tell her that her well-being is dear to you, tell her that this plan of yours has been considered by you as the best for her, but do not attempt to drive her, as you might a sheep into the fold to be shorn, with a crack of whip and bark." "You keep silence, Magdalen," said the Squire. "You have had time to say what you had, and have, it seems, wofully mismanaged the task set thee. I ought to know how to deal with my children." "Nay, brother, I cannot be sure of that, after what has fallen out with Anthony." Magdalen regretted having made this sharp reply when it was too late to recall it. "You understand me, Bess," said the old man; "I have let you see by the way in which I have treated that rebellious son of mine, that my wishes are not to be slighted, my commands not to be disobeyed. You do as I tell you. Give your hand to Tony Crymes, or else----" Bessie's calm, steadfast eyes were on him. He did not finish his sentence. "Or else, what, father?" she asked. He did not answer her; he put out one hand to the table, leaned on it, and thrust the other behind him under the coat-tails. His brows were knit, and his eyes glittered into stony hardness and cruel resolve. "I cannot obey you, father," said Bessie. "You will not!" shouted the old man. "Father, I neither will, nor can obey, you. I have known Fox, I mean Anthony Crymes, ever since I have been a child, but I have never cared for him." She turned to Fox apologetically; even then, in that moment of trial and pain to herself, she could not endure to say a word that might seem to slight and give a pang to another. "I beg your pardon, Fox, I mean that I have never cared for you more than, in any other way than, as a friend, and as Julian's brother." "Pshaw! What of that?" asked the old man, somewhat lowering his voice, and attempting to keep his temper under control. "Love comes after marriage where it did not precede it. See what love comes to when it is out of place before it, in your brother's case." "I cannot promise Anthony Crymes my love, for I know it never will come. I am glad he is the friend of my brother, and as such I regard him, but I esteem him only for what merits he has in him. I never can love him--never--never!" "Disobedient hussy!" exclaimed the old man, losing the slight control he had exerted momentarily over himself. "Am I to be set at defiance by you as well as by Anthony? By heaven, I did not think there was such folly in the family. It did not come from me--not from my side. I will be obeyed. I will not have it said in the town that I cannot have my own way with my children." He looked so angry, so threatening, that Fox interfered. He slipped between Bessie and her father, and said: "Master Cleverdon, I will have no constraint used. If you attempt to coerce Bessie, then I withdraw at once. I have known and loved her for many years, and would now have hardly dared to offer myself, but that you cast out the suggestion to me. I saw that Bessie did not love me, and I held back, hoping the time might come when she would, perhaps, be guided less by the feelings of the heart and more by the cool reason of the brain. If she refuses me, it shall be a refusal to me, to an offer made in my own way, with delicacy and consideration for her feelings, not with threat and bluster. Excuse plain speaking, Squire, but such are my views on this matter, and this is a matter that concerns Bessie and me first, and you, Master Cleverdon, afterwards." "Yes," said Magdalen, "your violence, brother, will effect nothing. You will only drive your remaining child from under your roof, as you drove Anthony." "Be silent, you magpie!" shouted old Cleverdon, but he looked alarmed. "Now," said Fox, "you have frightened and offended Bessie, and effected no good. Let her walk home, although it is raining, and I will accompany her part of the way, if not the whole, and speak to her in my own manner, and hear her decision from her own lips." Bessie stood up. "I am content," she said; "but do not for a moment think that my determination is to be changed. Have with you, Fox. Father, you will follow when your business in the town is over, and will catch me up. You said, I think, that you were going up to Kilworthy to see Mr. Crymes." CHAPTER XXXV. A WET WOOING. Bessie and Fox walked side by side, but without speaking, as long as they were in the street of Tavistock, with houses on both sides. Here there were, perhaps, more mud, more numerous puddles, than outside the town. Moreover, the water that fell on the roofs dripped or shot in streams down on the heads of such as ventured to walk near the walls, and the only escape from these cataracts and douches was in the well-worn midst of the street where the dirt was deepest because the roadway was there most trampled. The douching from the descending shoots of water, the circumventing of the pools, caused the walk of the two to be no more than approximately side by side. No walk could be direct, but must consist of a series of festoons and loops; but on passing the last house, Fox came boldly up to the side of Elizabeth Cleverdon, and said: "Bessie, I am at a disadvantage; who can be the lover in such weather, and how can I lay myself at thy feet when the road is ankle-deep in mire? I should sink into the slough of despond and the mud close over my head and back or ever I had an answer from thee." "There can and will be no romance in the matter," answered Elizabeth. "It is to me a sad and serious business, for if there be truth in what you say--that you have cared for me, then I am sorry to disappoint you; but, on my honour as a maid, Fox, I never suspected it." "That may well be, for thou art so modest," replied Fox Crymes. "Yet I do assure thee the attachment has been of a long time, and has thrown its roots through my heart. Even now--or now least of all, would I have held my tongue had not thy father encouraged me to speak." "Why least of all now?" "Because now, Bessie, that thy brother Anthony is out of favour thou art an heiress with great prospects; and neither would I seem to make my suit to thee because of these prospects, nor to step into the place and profits that should have belonged to Anthony." Bessie looked round at him gratefully. "I am glad you think of Anthony," she said. "Of course I think of him. He is my friend. None have mourned more than I at his estrangement from his father. It has affected him in many ways. Not only is he cut off from Hall and his father, but disappointment has soured him, and I do not believe he is happy with his wife." "What!--Anthony not happy with his wife!" Bessie sighed and hung her head. She remembered the dance at the Cakes, Anthony's neglect of Urith, and the attention he paid to Julian. No doubt this had occasioned a quarrel when he reached his home. Poor Anthony! Poor Anthony! "And now," said Bessie, gently--"now that we are quite alone together, let me assure you that, though I am thankful to you for the honour you have done me by asking for me, that yet I must beg you to desist from pressing a suit that must be unsuccessful. I can--after what you have said, and after the good feeling you have shown--I will, respect you. I can do no more." "You have given your heart to another?" half-asked Fox, with a leer that she did not notice. "No--no one has my heart, for no one has thought it worth his while to ask for it, except you; and, alas! to you I cannot give it." "But, if it is still free, may I not put in a claim for it?" "No--it can never be yours." "I will not take such a refusal. At bob-apple any boy may jump for the fruit, till it is carried away. Your heart is hung up to be jumped for, and I will not be thrust aside, and refused permission to try my luck along with the rest." "No one else will think of coming forward." "There you are mistaken, Bess. Consider what you are now--at all events what you are esteemed to be. You will inherit Hall and all your father's savings. Your father has made no secret of his determination to disinherit Anthony. He has told several persons that he has made his will anew, and constituted you his heiress, your husband to take the name of Cleverdon. This is known and talked about everywhere. Do you suppose that with such a prospect there will not be a score of aspirants ready to cast off their names and become at once the husband of the most charming girl anywhere in South Devon, and a rich Squire Cleverdon of Hall?" Bessie was infinitely hurt and shocked. She to rob her brother of his birthright! God forbid! "Fox," she said, "this can never be. If I should at any time become owner of Hall, I would give it up immediately to dear Anthony." "But," said Fox, with a mocking laugh on his face, "is it not likely that your father knows what you would do, and will take precautions against it, by settling the estate through your husband on your eldest son? You could not, were the estate so settled, do as you propose." Bessie was silent, looking down into the mud, and forgetting to pick her way among the puddles. The rain had formed drops along the eave of her hood, and there were drops within on the fringes of her eyes. "You will be persecuted by suitors," Fox continued, "and I ask you is there any you know about here whom you would prefer to me?" She did not answer him, she was thinking, with her hood drawn by one hand very close about her face, that no one approaching, nor Fox, should see her distress. "Do not speak of others," said Bessie, at length; "sufficient to let things be till they come. I am, and you need not pretend it is not so--I am but a plain homely girl, and that will dampen the ardour of most young men who sigh for pretty faces." "You do yourself injustice, Bessie. For my part I look to the qualities of the heart and understanding, and you have a generous and noble heart, and a clear and sound understanding. Beauty withers, such qualities ripen. I never was one to be taken with the glitter of tinsel. I look to and love sterling metal. It was your good qualities which attracted my admiration, and, 'fore Heaven, Bess, I think you uncommon comely." "I pray you," urged Bessie, "desist from your suit. I have told thee it is fruitless." "But I will not desist without a reason. Give me a reason, and I am silent. Without one, I will press on. I have a better right than any of the unknown who will come about thee like horseflies after awhile." "I do not love thee. Is not that a reason?" "None at all. I do not see why thou mayest not come to like me." Bessie walked on some way in silence. Presently she said, in a plaintive, low voice: "I will give thee, then, a reason; and, after that, turn on thy heel and leave me in peace. I have--" Her voice failed her, and she stepped on some paces before she could recover it. "I tell thee this, Fox, only because thou hast been frank with me, and hast shown me a generous heart. My reason is this--and, Fox, there must, I reckon, be some confidence between two situated as we are--it is this, that long, long ago I did dearly love another, and I love him still." "Now, Bessie!" exclaimed Fox, standing still in the road, and she halted also, "you assured me that you had given your heart to none." "I have given it to none, for none asked it of me." "I do not understand. You speak riddles." "Not at all. Cannot a poor, ugly girl love a man--noble, wise and good--and never let him know it, and never expect that it will be returned? I have heard a tale of a Catholic saint, that he wore a chain of barbed iron about his body, under his clothing, where it ate into his flesh and cankered his blood; but none suspected it. He went about his daily tasks, and laughed with the merry-makers; yet all the while the barbs were working deeper into him, and he suffered. There may be many poor, ill-favoured--ay, and well-favoured--wenches like that saint. They have their thorny braids about their hearts, and hide them under gay bodices, that none suspect aught. But--God forgive me," said Bessie, humbly, with soft, faltering voice--"God pardon me that I spoke of this as a chain of iron barbs, festering the blood. It is not so. There is no iron there at all, and no fester whatsoever--only very long-drawn pains, and now and then, a little pure, honest blood runs from the wound. There, Fox, I have shown this only to thee. No one else knows thereof, and I have shown it thee only as a reason why I cannot love thee." Fox Crymes made a grimace. Bessie stepped along her way. Fox followed. Presently she turned, hearing his steps, with a gesture of surprise, and said, "What, not gone yet?" "No, Bessie, I admire thee the more, and I do not even now give over the pursuit. I would yet learn, hast thou any thought that he whom thou lovest will be thine." "No! no! never; I do not desire it." "Not desire it?" "Nay, for he has loved another; he has never given me a thought. I must not say that. Kind and good he has ever been--a friend; but he can and will be nothing more." "There you mistake, Bessie. When he learns that you are the heiress to Hall his eyes will be wonderfully opened to your charms, and he will come and profess he ever loved thee." He spoke bitterly, laying bare his own base motives in so doing. But Bessie was too guileless to suspect him. She reared herself up; his words conveyed such a slight on the honor of Luke that she could not endure it. "Never! never!" she said, and her eyes flashed through her tears. "Oh, Fox! if you knew who he was you would never have said that." "But if he should come and solicit thy hand?" "He cannot. He has told me that he loved another." She resumed her walk. Fox continued to attend her, in silence. He was puzzled what line to adopt. What she had told him had surprised and discomfited him. That Bessie--the ordinary, plain-faced, methodical Bessie--should have had her romance was to him a surprise. How little do we know of what passes under our very feet. Who dreamed of magnetic currents till the magnetometer registered their movements? Waves roll through the solid crust of earth without making it tremble at all; magnetic storms rage around us without causing a disturbance in the heavens, and but for the unclosing of our eyes through the scientific instrument we should know nothing about them--have laughed at the thought of their existence. "I must needs walk on with thee," said Fox; "for I cannot leave thee till thy father come and overtake thee. And if I walk at thy side, well--we must talk, at all events I must, for my tongue has not the knack of lying still behind my teeth." Fox was at heart angry at his ill-success; he had hoped to have made a great impression on Bessie by the declaration of his love. She was but an ordinarily-favoured girl, as he knew well enough had never been sought by young men, always thrust aside, accustomed to see others preferred to herself--at a dance to be left against the wall without a partner, after church to be allowed to accompany her father home, without any lad seeking to attach himself to her and disengage her from the old man. To a girl so generally disregarded his addresses ought to have come as a surprise, and have been accepted with eagerness. He was in a rage with her for the emphatic and resolute manner in which she refused him. "Let us talk of Anthony," said he. "With all my heart," she replied, with a sigh of relief. "Do you see any way in which your brother can be received again into favour?" he inquired. She shook her head. "Nothing that I can say has any effect on my father. He will not permit me to go near Willsworthy." "Then I can say what is the only way in which peace and good will may be brought back into the family. It lies in your hands to build a bridge between your father and Tony. I am certain that in his heart the old Squire is discontented that things should remain as they are, but he has spoken the word, and he is too proud to withdraw it. If it could have come to pass that you took my hand, then I do not believe that your father would resist our united persuasion. See how much weight we could have brought to bear on him, how we could have watched our opportunities, how--if it should happen at any time that Tony should have a child, we might have brought it to the old man, set it on his knees, and then together have taken the right moment to plead for Anthony." Bessie drew a long breath. "I would do a great deal, almost anything, to bring about what you speak of, but this means is beyond my power. It cannot be. I know now how good and faithful a friend you are to my dear, dear brother Anthony. I must again speak very plainly. I do desire, Fox, in all ways to spare you a wound, but you will take no refusal. You said, 'Let us talk of Anthony,' and you work it round to the same point. I shall never marry; I cannot marry you; I shall take no one else. I pray you desist from your pursuit. You heard what Aunt Magdalen said, that my father, if he persisted, would drive me to run away, as did Anthony. It will be so. If my father will not accept my refusal, then I must go. I shall go to Anthony and his wife, or to my aunt. I could not swear what is false to you or to any one else. Before the minister of God I would not promise love, and love to my husband only, knowing that I could not love, for my love was elsewhere. No," added Bessie, shaking her head, "I must be true, always true, to myself, and before God." As she spoke, both heard the clatter of horse's hoofs. They halted, parted, one on each side of the road, and looked back. A man was galloping along with his head down against the rain, he did not look up, but remained bowed as he approached. "Father!" called Bessie, for she recognised both the horse and the rider. He did not draw rein, apparently he did not hear her. Certainly he saw neither her nor Fox. Wrapped in his own thoughts, forgetful of his daughter, of his promise to take her up, he galloped past, and sent the mud flying from his horse's hoofs, bespattering her as he passed. CHAPTER XXXVI. IN TEMPTATION. Anthony entered the little parlour, or bower, of Kilworthy. It looked comfortable and bright. A fire of logs burnt on the hearth, with turf thrust into the interstices between the logs, and the pleasant fragrance of the peat filled the room, without being strong enough to be offensive. Outside, everything was grey and moist and dull, within a red and yellow sparkle, and a sense of dryness. The walls were hung with good paintings, in silvered frames, richly carved. A crimson mat was on the polished floor and embroidered crimson curtains hung by the window. Julian was doing no work. She was sitting by the fire in a day-dream, in much the attitude that was assumed by Bessie at that very time in the little parlour of Aunt Magdalen's house, beside her cold, cheerless hearth. Anthony had thrown off his wet cloak and sopped hat; and was fairly dry beneath them, he wore high and strong boots, and these he had made as clean as was possible on the mats before entering. "How are you, Julian? Where is Fox?" Julian started as he spoke. Her mind had been engaged on him, and the sound of his voice came on her unwelcome at that moment. Sitting over her fire she had been considering her conduct, asking herself whither she was going, what was to be the end of her encouragement of Anthony. She repeated to herself as excuse, that she had thrown the glove at Urith, and that the challenge had been accepted. The contest was a fair and open one; each used what weapons she had. If men might call each other out and fight, why not women also contend on their own special ground, in their own manner? Urith had won in the first round, had carried off the prize, but in this second round, she--Julian--was beating her adversary. She could not take the prize over to herself, and wear it as her own; that she knew well enough; but she could render it worthless in the eyes of Urith--spoil irretrievably her pleasure in it. Was she justified in pursuing her advantage? Was the result she would arrive at one to fill her with content? She would destroy the happiness of Urith, perhaps that also of Anthony, break in pieces all domestic concord for ever in Willsworthy, to satisfy her own pride and revenge. She loved Anthony, always had loved him, but had sufficient cool resolution not to go a step with him beyond what she would allow herself, to establish the completeness of her triumph over Urith. She loved him out of pure selfishness, without the smallest regard for his well-being, hardly more compunction for the torture she was administering than has the child that plays with a cockchafer by thrusting a pin through it, attaching a thread to the pin, and whirling the insect round his head. But Julian was not suffered to proceed without some qualms of conscience, some warnings given by her better nature, and when Anthony entered it was at a moment when she had almost resolved to give up the contest, satisfied with what she had gained. Fox was out, answered Julian to Anthony's inquiry, he had gone into the town. Then she was silent. Anthony went into the window, where was a box seat, and planted himself there, not looking at her, but looking away, at the door; and he took his knee between his hands. Both remained silent. He was weary, not with the length of his walk, but with walking wrapped in a cloak that had become heavy with moisture, and with the closeness of the day. He was, moreover, in no good mood, dissatisfied with himself, discontented with the world, and at a loss what to say, now that he found himself in the company of the girl he had come to see. Julian pouted, and looked at the fire. The day, with its continuous drizzle, had been one of tedium to her. She was not accustomed to work, like Bessie, whose hands were never idle. She took up some embroidery, tried to paint, attempted knitting, and threw all aside, after ten minutes, with restless impatience. She had taken a book in the afternoon, read a chapter, remembered that she had read the same book before, and cast it into the window seat. She did not even replace it on its proper shelf. Then she had fallen to her desultory musings, to listening languidly to her conscience, and answering its remonstrances evasively. She had, as already said, almost resolved to leave Anthony alone, and to be content with what mischief she had already done. But the resolution was no more than _almost_ arrived at; for she had not the moral courage to make a final resolution to which she would force herself to adhere. Anthony, on his side, had been spoiled, so, on her side, had Julian. He had been flattered and made much of as the heir to Hall; she had been treated in a similar manner as heiress to Kilworthy. Her mother had died early, her father was an unpractical political and religious dreamer, who had exercised no control over her; and she had been brought up chiefly by servants, who had fawned on her, and given her whatever she wanted. She was therefore wayward, wilful, and selfish, with no fixed principles, and no power of self-control--a feminine reflex of Anthony, but with more passion and latent force of character than he. The two sat silent for full ten minutes, each looking in an opposite direction, and each with a shoulder turned to the other. Anthony had come hoping to be received with pleasure; but Julian showed no alacrity in receiving his visit, and this helped to depress him. Presently Julian turned her face over her shoulder, and said, "I suppose you do not know where Fox is, or you would not have come to his lair." "Certainly I do not know." Anthony looked at the window-glass. Either the fire had considerably heated the atmosphere of the room, or the wind without had veered northward and made the air colder, for breath had condensed on the glass. He put up his finger, and wrote on a pane "A. C." "I know, for he was too full of his plans to keep them from bursting forth at his mouth," said Julian. "I dare be bound it was so," answered Anthony, listlessly; then on another pane he wrote "J. C." "And you are not interested to know whither he has gone and what he seeks?" "No," said Anthony, "I came here to see him. I found no one at Cudliptown, and Sol Gibbs is dull company at Willsworthy." "You have other company there than Sol Gibbs." "Whom do you mean?" "There is Urith--your wife," with a sharp flash of her eye out of the corner; and insensibly she put one knee up and hugged it as did Anthony. "Oh! Urith," he repeated, in a tone in which she discerned something like a sneer. "Your wife." "One cannot be talking to a wife all day," he said, peevishly, and let fall his leg and loosened his plaited fingers. She instinctively did the same. "Can you not? Oh, indeed, that is news to me. I should have thought that you would never have lacked material for talk. Flames, darts--hymeneal altars smoking." He looked sullenly out of the window, turning his back to her, and made no reply. She waited for a response, then said, "If not these subjects, then chickens and goslings." He turned his head impatiently, and said, "You are mocking me. You!--and I came here for comfort from you--you, Julian!" There was pain in his manner and expression, and she was somewhat touched. "Oh, Anthony, you said you had come here after Fox, and now you say you came to see me." He passed his hand over his forehead to wipe away the drops formed there. He did not answer her, to correct the effect of his words, but put up his hand to the glass, and with a shaking finger drew on the diamond pane, between the initials, a lover's knot. "Anthony," she said, after a pause, "I suppose I must tell you why Fox has gone into Tavistock, for it concerns you mightily, and you should not be kept in the dark concerning him. Do you recall what I said when we were dancing together at Wringworthy?" "No, Julian, nothing. That was a bright and delightful dream. I have awaked out of it, and remember nothing." "I told you that Fox had set his mind on Bessie--your Bessie. You scouted the notion, but I spoke the truth. And he has been as open to his father and me thereon as is possible for him. You, Anthony, have a good and kind nature--you are too ready to trust any one. Always upright and straightforward yourself, never thinking evil in your heart, never putting forth a foot to trip up an enemy--certainly never a friend." Anthony's head was raised. This was what he wanted--a few words of commendation came down as warm rays of sunshine on his depressed and drooping heart. "You, Tony, have never mistrusted Fox, for it was not in you to mistrust any one. But I know his real nature. He is seeking his own ends. He has been over at Hall two and three times a week, and----" she laughed, "will you believe it? has been cajoling the old man, your father, into the belief that it is possible he may win and wear me, as--as--" she hesitated. "As he was disappointed----" Anthony turned and looked at her, and their eyes met. Hers fell, and he looked again hastily at the window-pane--at the initials, and the lover's knot between them. The moisture had collected in the figures he had described, and had formed drops at the bottom of each downstroke. "That is not all. Whether your father builds greatly on this or not I cannot say; but Fox has dangled the prospect before him, whilst he snatched at something for himself--even at Bessie, the heiress of Hall, now that you are thrown out into the wet and cold." Anthony sighed involuntarily. Yes, he was out, indeed, in the wet and cold at Willsworthy--not metaphorically only, but actually as well. "Now," continued Julian, "you shall hear the whole plan as worked out. Fox has gone in to-day to meet Bessie and your father at your Aunt Magdalen's house, and your aunt has been inveigled into uniting her persuasion to the commands of your father to induce Bessie to jump down the Fox's throat." "It cannot be," said Anthony. "Bess will never--and she does not care for Fox." "She may not have the power to resist. Girls have not the daring and independence of you men. When Fox has got his way, then he intends to change his name, and live at Hall with your father, who will re-settle the property on him and his heirs, that so there may still be an Anthony Cleverdon of Hall." "Never! No--never!" exclaimed Anthony, springing to his feet. "He cannot--he shall not do that. Fox will never play me such a base trick as that! Bessie never will lend herself to be made a tool of like that!" "Bessie is true to you--that never doubt; but do not lean on my brother: he is false to every one." "He never shall become a Cleverdon. What! Good heavens! He take my name, my place, my rights, my inheritance, my everything?" "Not everything," said Julian, maliciously. "He does not stretch a hand for your Urith and for Willsworthy--only for what you tossed away as valueless." Anthony uttered an oath, and cast himself back where he had been before, in the seat in the window, and put his hands to his brow and clasped them there, leaning his head against the window sill. Then, for some while, both remained silent, but Julian turned herself about in her seat to look at him. Was that the same Anthony she had loved and admired? This dejected, sad man, with his head bowed, his face pale, and lined with trouble? it was certain that he was vastly altered. Her woman's eye detects a difference in his clothing. Formerly he had been ever dapper; without foppishness, his dress always of the best and well cared for; now it was old and worn, in places threadbare. Nor was it, though poor, yet with the merit of being attended to. Timely stitches had not been given where they had been needed, nor tags and buttons added that had fallen off. His boots were shabby and trodden down at the heel. The wet and dirt undoubtedly gave to them a special shabbiness on that day, but Julian could see that they were out of shape and past their best days. The trimness and gloss had gone out of Anthony's outer case and his spirit within had lost as much, if not more. There was none of the ancient merriment, none of the self-conscious swagger, none of the old assurance of manner in him. He had become morose, peevish; he showed a diffidence which was the reverse of his former self. It was a diffidence mingled with resentment, the product of his consciousness that the world was turned against him, and of his bitterness at knowing this. Anthony's nature was one that required sunshine, as a peacock demands it that its beauty and splendour may appear. Come rain, and how the feathers clog and droop and draggle--how squalid a fowl it appears! So was Anthony now--a faded disconsolate shadow of his old self, without the nerve to bear up against what depressed him, the adaptability to shape himself to his new surroundings. As Julian looked at him she pitied him. Her love for him warmed her, and made her forget the cruelty of the part she was playing. The child of impulse, feeling this qualm of compassion, she rose and gently came across the room to him. He heard her not, coming in her light slippers on the carpet, so engrossed was he in his wretched thoughts. Every one had turned against him--every one in whom he had trusted. His friend Fox, the only man who had seemed not to be affected by the general adverse tone of opinion, he had given him the most stinging blow of all. He was now at variance with his father, with his friend--if Bessie consented to take Fox, he could never regard her with esteem again; at home he had quarrelled with Uncle Solomon, and raised his hand against him; he had alienated from him his wife; his aunt was in league against him; the servants at Willsworthy would take sides with their mistress. What wretchedness! what hopelessness was his! There was no one--no one but Julian who had a word of kindness, a spark of feeling for him. He heard the rustle of her gown and looked up. She was standing by him, looking down on his ruffled hair, that hung over his hands, clasped upon his forehead. He hastily brushed away the scattered locks. "Oh, Anthony!" she said, "what have you been doing here? What drawn on the glass?" He slightly coloured, put his hand to the panes and covered them. "Nay," she said, taking hold of his hand, and drawing it away, "nay, let me read it." "I have writ," said he, bitterly, "what might have been, and then----" he gulped down his rising emotion, "then I had been----" She stooped and kissed him on the brow, "Poor boy!" Instantly he threw his arms round her neck and drew her face to his, and kissed her cheeks and lips, passionately. She--she alone remained to him--and yet--how far apart they were. She sprang away with a cry. The door was open, and in it stood old Anthony Cleverdon. CHAPTER XXXVII. ANOTHER TEMPTATION. Anthony rose, when he saw his father, with instinctive filial respect, but he did not look him in the face. He could not do this. "Hah!" said the old man, entering the room, and closing the door behind him. "I had come here with an intent that is now set aside. I had come, Julian, to tell thee that it was yet in thy power to weld together the estates of Hall and Kilworthy, notwithstanding what has occurred--that is, if thou wouldst overlook a certain disparity in years, and keep thine eye fixed on the main advantage. But that is over. I am glad I came when I chanced, and in time to save me from running a great risk. Thou art too free with thy kisses, too lavish in thy love to please me." He spoke as though what he said must wither Julian, crush her under the sense of her great loss. His assurance that she must be attracted by the same ambition as himself was so grotesque that Julian at once rallied from the confusion that had covered her, laughed, and said: "You do me a mighty honour." "Not at all--I decline to show you the honour." "So much the better. When I walk through a wood I do not like to have the bramble claw at me. If it does, then I must turn and put my foot on it. Let the bramble hug the nettle, and not aim at the lady." Her impudence staggered him. "It is mighty sport," she continued, "to hear that little Hall desired to hitch itself on to the skirts of Kilworthy. But Master Cleverdon, if thou art in a marrying mood, prithee go to the next giglet fair, and choose thee there a wench." Her insolence had its effect; the effect designed. Instead of being attacked by the old Squire, she was the assailant, and she hit him where she knew she could keenly wound him, so as to draw off his thoughts from what he had just seen. He was offended and angry. "There," said she--"sit down in my seat by the fire. I meant no harm; but as you were absurd on your side, I made grimaces on mine. I am glad you are here, and face to face with Anthony, for, mayhap, I can persuade you to that which, unpersuaded, you were loth to do." The old man was so angry that he did not answer her. He remained near the door, doubtful whether to retire or to come forward. He had not expected to meet his son there, and was unprepared for an interview; though hardly regretting it, for, in his bitter and resentful spirit he was willing that Anthony should hear from his own lips what he designed--learn to the full the completeness of the severance between them. "Whatever persuasion you may attempt," said he, looking at Julian, "comes at a wrong time, after you have shown me that you are a person who, not respecting herself, deserves no respect from another, and after you have grossly insulted me. But I will listen to you, though, I tell you, what you say will not weigh with me as a feather." "If that be so," laughed Julian, "I will spare myself the trouble. But look at your son; look at him calmly, and tell me whether I was wrong in pitying him, ay, and if, in consideration of old, tried friendship, that has been almost cousinship--so well have we known each other since childhood--was I so very wrong in lightly touching his brow with my lips, for from my heart I was sorry for him. Think what it would have been for you, when you married, had your father lived and treated you as you have treated Anthony! Is a man to be cast out of every home because he has committed one folly? I dare stake my word that Anthony has rued his act almost daily; and is all his regret to count for nothing?" "A man must take the consequences of what he has done." "Julian, I do not wish you to plead my cause," said Anthony, coming before his father; "I will speak to him myself. I want to ask of him a question or two." "I will answer them," said the old man. "Say on." "I desire to know for certain whether you intend to give Bessie to Fox Crymes?" "Yes, I do." "And she consents?" "All are not so disobedient as yourself." "And if she refuses?" "She will not refuse. I can but let her go, as I let you go. But she will not refuse; I have that to say to her which will make her give way." "Then if she takes Fox, do you intend to take him into Hall?" "Yes, I do." "And under my name?" "Certainly. He changes his name of Crymes to that of Cleverdon when he becomes my son." "Then I tell you it shall not be. There shall not be another Anthony Cleverdon in Hall. I give you and Fox fair warning. There cannot--there shall not--be a supplanter in Hall bearing my name." "We shall see." "Yes you shall see. Tell Fox what I have said." "Tell him yourself. I will be no bearer of messages between you." "Mr. Cleverdon," said Julian, "I cannot let you meet and part in my presence, spoiling all my pleasure in this little room forever with the remembrance of this scene, without one more effort to bring you to agreement. Come, now--what if Anthony returns to you?" "Returns to me?" "Yes, what if he throws up all connection with Willsworthy? He is wretched there--poverty-stricken. He is unhappy in a hundred ways. Look at his face. Where is the old brightness--where the old pride? He has lost all the ancient merry Anthony, and now is a sad one. Let him come back to Hall, and leave Urith to manage with her uncle--to manage, or mismanage--as before, till all goes there to pieces. He has committed a boyish folly, and he knows it. He has thrown away gold for dross, and he has found it out. He will now be twice the Tony to you that he was. Then he was thoughtless, careless, devil-may-care; now he has learned a lesson, and learned it so sharply that he will never forget it again. He has learned what disobedience costs--what it is to go against a father--what boy's fancies are compared with matured plans in the head of a man. Give him that chance. Come, you do not know Fox as I know him. Take him into your house, and he will not be more dutiful to you than has been your own Tony. He will make you unhappy, and your Bessie wretched. I saw by Tony's face, when he came here, that he had quarrelled with his wife. He came here because his home was hateful to him--because it was unendurable to him to be there any more. We cannot retain him here. Let him go to thee, and there will be an end to Fox and his story with Bessie. Anthony will be dutiful and loving henceforth, and cling to thee, and esteem thee, as he never clung to thee and esteemed thee heretofore." Anthony was speechless. The blood rushed into his face. Everything might be as it was--or almost everything. Old Anthony Cleverdon stood irresolute. He had misgivings relative to Fox. One crafty malevolent nature mistrusts another of the same quality. His daughter's peace of mind troubled him little, but he was by no means certain that Fox, once in the house, might not presume, and that there would not be sharp contests between them. Moreover, when Fox was there, married to his daughter, his place would be assured, and the old man could not well drive him from it. There were other reasons which made the old Squire feel that, to some extent, Fox would be unassailable, and might be eminently disagreeable. The suggestion made by Julian was inviting. In the depths of his heart lurked love for his only son; his old pride in him was there, and was wounded and sore with the spectacle of the lad humbled, sinking out of men's favour, and out of his old dignity. He looked at him, and saw what an alteration had taken place in him--how oldened and worn in face he was, how shabby in his clothing. "Do you know, Mr. Cleverdon," pursued Julian, "why it was that poor Tony caught me by the neck and kissed me? It was because he was so utterly forlorn and disconsolate; he had lost all his friends, his heart was void through bereavement from his father; he was estranged from that Jacob, that supplanter, Fox; he saw his own sister turning against him, and--I doubt not he has not found that solace and sufficiency in his own home that would make up for these mighty losses. He held me, because he had none other. I do not want him, I have no right to him--let me cast him off--but only on to his father's bosom, into his father's arms." The old man went to the window and looked forth. His face was agitated. He must have time to consider. Anthony, moreover, remained mute, and his face was troubled. A terrible temptation was presented to him. He believed that now, were he to throw himself at his father's feet, take his hand, and ask his forgiveness, the old man would receive him back at once into favour on the terms proposed by Julian. That he would forgive him on any other, he might not expect. That he knew full well. And the old man saw that an opportunity was offered to deal the most insulting and cruel stroke to the daughter of the man who had incurred his undying hatred. He could by a word rob her of her husband, of the prize she had laboured to win, but which he could prevent her from retaining. To Julian was offered the most complete and open triumph over her enemy. A triumph more complete than she could have hoped to gain. Anthony could be nothing to her, he would remain as a friend, that was all; but she would see, and show to Urith, her threat made good to wrench Anthony away from her. Anthony stood with downcast eyes. The temptation was a strong one--strong, to a young man who had been humoured and allowed to have his own way uncontrolled, allowed to follow his pleasure or whim without hindrance. He could not return home without having to face his wife, angered and resentful, without having to acknowledge himself to have been in the wrong. Anthony Crymes was playing him a treacherous and cruel trick, and here was a chance offered him of at once recovering his old position, wiping out his past mistake, and discomfiting Fox when on the eve of success. Was he sure that he could ever be on the same terms as before with Urith? Had she not been gradually estranged from him, till she had declared to him that she hated him, that she wished she had never seen him? Would it not be a relief to be rid of him, to be spared any more domestic broils? Old Anthony Cleverdon was at the window, and as he stood there he marked the initials drawn on the fogged glass, and turned and looked at his son. Young Anthony noticed the look, and observed what had attracted his father's attention. He moved hastily to the window, and his father drew away, went to the fireplace, and rested his elbow against the mantel-shelf and fixed his eyes intently on his son. So also did Julian. Both saw that the moment was a crucial one. The young man was forced to make up his mind on a point which would determine his whole after-life. It was more than that, it was a crucial moment in his moral life. He must now take a step upward or downward, in the path of right or that of wrong. This neither Julian nor his father considered, intent only on their selfish ends. But this appeared clearly to Anthony. His inner consciousness spoke out and told him plainly where went the path of duty and where lay the deflexion from it. But the path of duty was a painful one full of humiliations, promising no happiness, only a repetition of contests with a sulky wife, and jars with the foolish Solomon Gibbs, of struggle against poverty, of labour like a common hired workman, of loss for ever of his old position, and deprivation of all the amusements that had filled his former life. He and Urith did not suit each other. His temperament was sanguine, his spirit mirthful; he was sociable, and full of the sparkle of youth; whereas she was moody, almost morose, had no humour and laughter in her soul, brooded over imagined wrongs as well as those that were real, and could as little accommodate herself to his mood as could he to hers. Surely it were best, under these circumstances, that they should part. Now Anthony was standing at the window where he had stood before when he drew those initials on the panes, in the place occupied recently by his father. So full was he of his thoughts, of the rolling of conflicting waves of feeling, that he forgot where he was, forgot the presence of his father and of Julian--the very sense of the lapse of time was gone from him. Though he looked through the window, he saw nothing. Then, all at once, uncalled for, there broke and oozed forth in his heart the old vein of love which had been filled with so hot and full a flood when he was Urith's suitor; he saw her with the old eyes once more, and looked in mental vision once more into the sombre eyes, as he had on the moor, when he lifted her into his saddle, and there came over him that sensation of mingled love and fear. It seemed to him that now only did he understand the cause of that fear; it was fear lest he himself should prove a wreck through lack of love and devotion to her. He thought now of how, after their wedding, on his coming to Willsworthy he had taken her in his arms, how her dark head had lain on his bosom, and he had stooped and kissed her brow, and she had looked up into his face with eyes expressive of perfect confidence, of intensest love. He thought now how he had forced her against her will, against her conscience, to marry him prematurely, after her mother's death, and against the dying command of that mother. He thought how that he had lived on her estate, had been, as it were, her pensioner. He thought also of the efforts she had made, efforts he had perceived, to accommodate herself to him, to meet his humour, to overcome her own gloom, to struggle against the bad habits of slovenliness into which the household had fallen, and to correct her own want of order, because she saw it pained her husband. She had done a great deal for him, and what had he done for her? Grumbled, been peevish, disappointed her. He recalled that evening at the Cakes, where he had slighted her. He thought of how he had trifled with his old regard for Julian, allowed her to lure him away from his wife, and had let her see that he was no more at one with Urith, and that he wished he could have undone the marriage and re-tied the old threads that had bound him to Julian. She--this Julian, had been playing with him--she, for her own ends, had been making mischief between him and his wife--and what had he done? His eyes were opened, and he saw the initials on the glass, and the love-knot between them. With the blood surging to his brow and cheeks, and a fire in his eye, he raised his hand, and angrily brushed his palm over the three panes, effacing utterly the characters there inscribed, then he remained with uplifted hand and forefinger extended, still, as in dream, unconscious that he was being watched. A new thought had occurred to him--that he was about to become a father. A father! and he away at Hall, while the deserted Urith sat at Willsworthy--wan, with tears on her cheek, drip, drip, over the cradle he had treated so insultingly--her cradle, which he had deemed unworthy of his child, and which, for all that, with his child in it, he was inclined to abandon! Then the blood went out of Anthony's face, went back to his heart, as he grew pale and still with the thought of the infamy of the conduct that had been his, had he yielded to the temptation. And tears, tears of shame at himself, of love for Urith, of infinite longing for that little child that was to be his, and to nestle in his arms, filled his throat and choked him. With a trembling finger on another clouded pane he drew an U and interlaced with it an A, twisting and turning the initials about, weaving them inextricably together, till the U was lost in the A, and the A confounded with the U. He could not speak. He did not look round. With his eyes fixed before him, and his mind full of the thoughts that opened to him, he went out of the room, out of the house, and spoke to no one. But old Anthony and Julian knew his decision--knew it from his finger-writing on the little diamond pane. Yet the old man would not accept it--he called after his son. "I give thee three days. I will do no more for three days in the matter." But Anthony did not turn his head or answer. CHAPTER XXXVIII. ON THE ROAD. Fox Crymes walked on toward Hall with Bessie. He could not well leave her to take the rest of her course alone, after the old man, her father, had ridden past, forgetting her, and leaving her to make her way home without him. They therefore walked on together, speaking at intervals and disconnectedly to each other. Bessie feeling the irksomeness of her position, and he unwilling further to jeopardize his suit by pressing it on her any more. He had said what was sufficient and he left the father to use pressure to force her to comply with his wishes. The two had not, however, proceeded more than a mile before they saw Squire Cleverdon riding back to meet them. He had recalled his promise before he reached home, and then remembered having passed two persons whom he did not particularly observe, but whom he concluded were his daughter and Fox. The first impression he had received from Anthony's conduct was that he put the offer from him altogether; and yet, on further consideration, he persuaded himself that he had been mistaken. Had Anthony finally decided to reject his offer, why had he not said so in words? The old man's nature was coarse--he could not understand the struggles of a generous mind and resistance to mean motives. Anthony had not spoken, because he did not choose to speak before Julian, because he thought it seemly to affect difficulty of persuasion, because he wanted time in which to consider it, because--because--the father could find many reasons why Anthony should not immediately close with the proposal. The more the old Squire turned the matter over, the more obvious it became to him that Anthony would do as he wished. It was inconceivable to him that he should persist in a course of opposition to his best interests. The boy was proud; but he had learned, by sore experience, that pride brought to misery. He had tried his strength against his father's--had shown what he could do; and now, if he gave way, he was not humiliated. Why, in the Civil Wars, when Salcombe Castle was held by Sir Edmund Fortescue for five months against the Roundheads, and held after every other fort in the country had been taken or had surrendered; and then, when starved into yielding, it was on the most honourable terms, and Sir Edmund marched forth with all the honours of war, bearing away with him the key of the castle he had so gallantly defended. This was no disgrace to him, it was a proud act of which all Devon men would speak with elation. Why then should not Anthony surrender? He should march forth with flying colours, and it would be no blow to his self-respect, no jar to his pride. The old man, having worked himself into the conviction that his case was won, was full of elation, and, with the petty spite of a mean mind, he resolved at once to show Fox he had no longer need of him. Then it was that he remembered that Fox and Bessie were to walk towards Hall till he caught them up, and he turned his horse's head and rode back till he met them. "Heigh, there!" shouted the old man; "how goes the suit, Tony Crymes? Hast thou won her consent?" He paused for an answer. "Her mother brought her naught," he continued, when Fox remained silent, not well knowing what answer to make. "That I know," said Fox; "but he who wins Bessie Cleverdon wins a treasure." "I am glad thou thinkest so. I hope that will satisfy thee. Come, Tony, lend a hand to the maid's foot, and help her up on the pillion behind me." Fox obeyed; the dirty road had soiled Bessie's boot so that he could not preserve a clean hand. "Find her heavy, eh?" asked the Squire, in a mocking tone. "Much gold and many acres stick to thy hand when thou puttest it forth to her, eh?" Fox looked questioningly at the old man. His tone was changed. "Bessie will bring luck that will adhere to whatever hand holds her," said the young man. "No doubt--no doubt," said the Squire. "You may walk at our side, and I will have a word with thee. Come on to Hall if it give thee pleasure. The road is well known to thee, thou hast trod it many a time of late. I doubt but soon thou thinkest to set up thy home there, and not to have to run to and fro as heretofore." Fox looked again inquiringly and uneasily at the old man. He did not understand this new style of banter. "Thou hast helped Bessie now into pillion, and I suppose thou art reckoning on the stuffing of the pad on to which thou thinkest her hand will help thee up, eh?" Fox, usually ready with a word, was uncertain how to meet these sallies, and still remained silent. The old man rode on, casting an occasional glance, full of cynicism, at young Crymes, who walked at the side of the horse. Fox would not return till he was enlightened on this change in his manner; nor would he say much, resolving on silence as the best method of forcing old Cleverdon to show what was in his mind. "What dost say to Anthony coming home?" asked the Squire of his daughter, turning his head over his shoulder. "Anthony--is he really coming to Hall?" gasped Bessie, her heart leaping with gladness. "It will be a pleasure to thee to be able to retain the name of Crymes," sneered the Squire, turning to the walker. "A fine, ancient, gentle name; thou did'st doubt about exchanging it for one less venerable--that of Cleverdon, though of better sound, and the name that goes up, whilst Crymes goes down?" Anthony Crymes's colour changed; "I do not understand what you aim at," he said, in uncertain tone. "Nay, there is naught hard to be understood in what I say. If Anthony should come back to me, then there will be no need for Tony Crymes to spend some forty guineas to obtain license to call himself Cleverdon." "Then Anthony is coming back! Oh, father!" exclaimed Bessie, "this is glad tidings." She disregarded all his hints and allusions to her marriage with Fox. "This it is--you, Bess, say you are pleased to hear it, and I am very sure it will delight Tony Crymes. This it is--my Anthony has had the offer made him by me that he shall return to Hall, and all be forgiven and forgot that was between us." "Oh, father, and you will receive Urith!" "Not so fast, Bess. Anthony comes back, but never, never, will I suffer that hussy to cross my threshold. I swore that when he married her, and I will not go from my oath. No--Anthony returns, but not with that creature--that beggar wench. He comes himself. He comes alone." "He cannot, father; he cannot--she is his wife." "She is, as his madness made it to be--she is his wife. But he is tired of the folly; he repents it. He will be glad to be quit of her. He comes back to me, and she remains in her beggary at Willsworthy." "Never, father! never. Anthony could not have agreed to that." "I tell thee he did; that is, he has almost agreed to it. He did not close with the offer I made at once, but, for appearance sake, made some difficulty--yet only for appearance sake. I have given him three days, and in that time he will have let the matter be noised abroad, have broken his intention to the girl, and have made himself ready to return to me." "Father!" said Bessie, in a voice choked with agitation, "I can never regard--never think of Anthony again, in the old way, if he do this. He must not leave his wife. He swore before God to hold to her in poverty or in wealth till death, and thou wilt make him forswear himself?" "His first duty he owes to me--nay, he owes it to himself, to return from the evil ways in which he has gone. Heaven set him in Hall, and he went against Heaven when he left it; now he is the prodigal that has been among swine, but comes back to his father. That is Scripture--that is the Word of God, and stands before all foolish words said in oath, without weighing what they meant." Fox Crymes caught the bridle, and stayed the horse. "Is this jest, or is it earnest?" he asked, huskily. "It is most serious and solemn earnest," answered the Squire. "Then I insist on a word with thee, and I will hold the bridle till thou dismount. I will not let thee go on till I have spoken alone with thee. Let Bessie go forward, we must say somewhat together." Squire Cleverdon had no whip, but he struck spurs into the flanks of his horse; but Fox held the rein, and, though the beast plunged and kicked out, he would not let it break away. Bessie was almost thrown off, and in her danger threatened to drag her father with her. "Nay, thou shalt not escape me," said Fox. "Dismount, Master Cleverdon, and tell me plainly what this new matter is between thee and thy graceless fool of a son, or I will make the horse fling thee into the mud, and perhaps break thy neck." The old man thought best to comply, and, growling, he dismounted. Then Fox let go his hold of the rein, and bade Bessie ride forward beyond earshot. "What is the meaning of this?" asked Fox, who was livid with rage and mortification, so livid, that the freckles on his face stood out as black spots on the hide of a coach-dog. "It is ill to trifle with me. You arranged all with me. I was to have your daughter, and succeed to Hall, I was to take your name, and step into all the rights forfeited by Anthony. You brought me face to face with Bessie at her aunt's, and then sent me walking back toward Hall with her, to press my case. When all is nearly over, then you turn round, cast me over, and reinstate that son who has maltreated and half-blinded me, and make a mock of me for my pains?" "It is you who have trifled with me," retorted the Squire, with less heat, but more bitterness. "You told me that you would urge my suit with your sister; you brought me weekly accounts of how she was becoming more disposed to think of me, you flattered and encouraged me, and all the while you knew----" "I knew what? I knew nothing, save that you are old, and she young." "That is not it," said the Squire, peevishly, "that is not what I refer to. You knew that she was encouraging my son, and that the old attachment that subsisted before this hateful affair with Urith Malvine had reasserted itself." "It is false," answered Fox, furiously, "not content with making your sport with me, you insult my sister." "I suppose you will not dispute the testimony of my own eyes," sneered old Cleverdon. "And to what do they bear testimony?" "To what I said. I entered the parlour where they were, she standing over him, at the window; he seated, with his arms thrown about her neck, kissing her, and above them on the glass, scrawled by his finger, their initials woven together, with a true lover's knot." Fox glared at him, in speechless wrath. "Now--what say you to that?" asked the old man. "With such proceedings, allowed, connived at in your house, I am to be lured on to offer myself to your precious sister, and then to be laughed at, and scouted for my folly--a folly into which you were drawing me." "It is false"--that was all Fox could say, so disconcerted, so choked was he with rage. "It is not false. I have but just come from your house, and saw that, and because I saw it, I made overtures to Anthony to return. It was clear to me that all the fever of fancy for that hussy at Willsworthy was dead as ashes. That the reputation of Julian will need looking to, should he return to me, and be separate from Urith, is naught to me." "He has enough to answer to me without this," gasped Fox. Then, by an effort, he steadied his voice and resumed his usual manner. "Now," said he, "let us have all brought into measure and rhyme between us. You tell me that Anthony comes back to Hall and abandons his wife." "Aye! That is my offer to him. Let him leave Willsworthy and return to me, and all shall be forgiven. 'Tis a misfortune that he cannot be rid of his wife, but the tie by law alone will remain. She shall never be mentioned between us." "And he agrees to this?" "I have granted him three days to consider. In three days he gives me his answer, but who can doubt what that answer will be? Is he not wearied with his toy? Has he had good cheer at Willsworthy? Has he aught there now to retain him?" "And what about Bessie?" "Oh! you are welcome to her, as I said before; but after my death Hall will go to Anthony, only the reversion to thee and any child thou hast by Bess. Should my Anthony survive Urith and marry again, then to his son by his second wife, never--that I have ever maintained--never to any child of his by Urith Malvine." Fox laughed contemptuously. "A poor prospect for Bess and her husband." "A poor prospect, mayhap, but the only one on which they can look through their windows when they set up house together." "And what allowance will you make Bessie when she marries?" "But a trifle--I cannot more." "So her husband and she are to live on the expectation of succession should they survive Anthony, and should Anthony not be remarried." "That is all." "But what if Anthony refuses your offer?" "Then all remains as before. He will not refuse." "I will hear that from his own mouth. Where is he?" "I did not overtake him on the road. He had not yet left the town. I doubt not he has gone to his Aunt Magdalen." "One word more. Hold up your hand to Heaven and swear that he dared--dared to put his arms round and kiss my sister! He--he--Anthony Cleverdon!" "I will do it! It is true!" Fox remained in the midst of the road, and his hand convulsively caught and played with his hunting-knife that hung to his belt. His red, thick brows were knitted. As old Cleverdon looked at his mottled face, he allowed to himself that Bess would have bad taste to choose such an one wittingly; and that, unwilling, it would take some compulsion to drive her to accept him. "And, if Anthony does not come within three days, all remains as heretofore?" again asked Fox, looking furtively up at the father, and then letting his eyes fall again. "Yes, all as heretofore. Should he dare to disappoint me in this, not a thread from my coat, nor a grass-blade from my land, shall fall to him." Fox waved his hand. "That will do," he said, and turned away. He was at the junction of the road or track that led from Willsworthy with the main highway along which Squire Cleverdon had been riding. He remained at this point, waiting till the old man had remounted, and had trotted away, with Bessie behind him. There he stood, still playing with the handle of his hunting-knife, his red, lowering brows contracted over his small eyes, watching till the riders disappeared over the hill. Then he turned along the track-way that led to Willsworthy, with his head down against the drizzling rain, which had come on again, after having ceased for an hour; which came on again thick, blotting out the scenery--all prospect within a hundred feet--as effectually as though veils of white gauze had been let down out of the heavens, one behind another. CHAPTER XXXIX. TWO PARTS OF A TOKEN. Anthony had, as his father surmised, gone to see his Aunt Magdalen. His heart was soft within him--softened at the sense of his own unworthiness, and with the return flow of his old love to Urith. And as he did not desire at once to go back to Willsworthy, and at the same time remembered that some time had elapsed since he had seen his aunt, he went to her house. There he found his grandmother, Mistress Penwarne. Some of the bitterness of the old woman seemed to be rubbed away. Perhaps daily association with the gentleness of Luke Cleverdon had done this. She was in tears when Anthony entered. Magdalen had been talking with her over the plan mapped out for Bessie, to the complete, final exclusion of Anthony from return to his father's house. "Now--now does the righteous God pay back to old Anthony Cleverdon all the wrong he did my daughter," she said. "See--drop for drop of gall. Where there fell one on my child's heart, his own son spirts a drop on to his father's heart. There is retribution in this world." "Oh, Mistress Penwarne," remonstrates Magdalen. "How can you take delight in this?" "I delight only in seeing justice done," answered the old woman. "You hold with your brother--naturally--to some extent; but you never loved my daughter. You never showed her kindness----" "Indeed, now," interrupted Magdalen, "there you do me a wrong. It was Margaret who would not suffer me to enter the house and be of any consequence more in Hall, who withstood me when I would draw near to my brother." "She had no power to withstand any one. That you know full well. She weighed naught with her husband. But let that be. If you sinned against her, God is bringing the whip down on your shoulders as well, for I know that what is now falling out is to you great pain and affliction." "That it is indeed," sighed Magdalen. "Anthony is used by the hand of Providence as its rod with the father; Heaven rewards on the proud Squire of Hall every heartache, every humiliation to which he subjected my child. You know not how I have prayed that I might be suffered to see the day when the rod should fall and beat and bruise the back of the offender." "You do not reckon," said Magdalen, "that the chief suffering falls, not on my brother, but on your daughter's son. Is not Anthony the very image of his mother? Has he not her eyes and hair--all the upper part of his countenance? Does not her blood run in his veins? You have desired revenge on my brother, and you have got it through the breaking to pieces of your own grandson." Mistress Penwarne was silent. It was as Magdalen said. "Yes, and whom does Bessie resemble most? She has none of the handsomeness of your Margaret. It is true that she is her child, but she has inherited the plain homeliness of the Cleverdons. Look at yonder picture over the mantel-shelf. That was drawn of me when about her age. Does she not so resemble me at that time that you would say she had taken nothing of the Penwarnes, that she was altogether and only Cleverdon? Yet to her will come Hall. She will be mistress there, and to her child it will descend, to the utter exclusion of Anthony. Nay, I cannot think that the judgment of God, to which thou appealest ever, is falling all to thy side in its weighted scale." The old woman was about to answer when Anthony entered. He was pale, and his pallor reminded her of her daughter as the wan picture recalled Bessie. Mrs. Penwarne rose from her chair and stepped up to him, took him by both his hands, and looked him steadily in the face. As she did so great tears formed in her eyes and rolled down her wrinkled cheeks. "Ah!" said she, seeing in him her dead daughter, and her voice quivered, "how hardly did the Master of Hall treat her, but Magdalen--aye, and Bessie--know that better than thou. He was rough and cruel, and now thou hast felt what his roughness and cruelty be--now thou canst understand how he behaved to thy poor mother; but thou art a man and able to go where thou wilt, fight thine own way through the world, carve for thyself thine own future. It was not so with my poor Margaret. She was linked to him--she could not escape, and he used his strength and authority and wealth to beat and to torment and break her. And Margaret had a spirit. Have you seen how a little dog is mended of lamb worrying? It is attached to an old ram--linked to it past escape, and at every moment the ram lets drive at the little creature with his horns, gets him under his feet and tramples him, kneels on him and kneads him with his knees, ripping at him all the while with his horns. Then, finally, the little dog is detached and taken away, covered with wounds and bruises, before the ram kills it. It was so with my Margaret, but she was no lamb-killer--only had a high spirit--and she was tied to that man, your father. He rent her away from Richard Malvine, whom she loved, just because it was his pleasure, and he broke her heart. Look here." The old grandmother drew from her bosom a token, a silver crown-piece of Charles I., on which the King was figured mounted on horseback; but the coin was broken, and to her neck hung but one half. "Look at this," said Mrs. Penwarne. "Here is the half-token that Richard Malvine gave to my daughter, and the other half he kept himself. That was the pledge that they belonged to each other. Yet Anthony Cleverdon of Hall would not have it so. He took her away, and on her marriage day she gave me the broken half-token. She had no right to retain that; but with her broken heart she could not part so readily. As if it were not enough that he had torn her away from the man she loved, your father left not a day to pass without ill-treating her in some way. He was jealous, because he thought her heart still hung to Richard Malvine; though, as God in heaven knows, she never failed in her duty to him, and strove faithfully to cast out from her heart every thought of the man she had loved, and to whom the Squire of Hall had made her unfaithful. As he could not win her love, he sought to crush her by ill-treatment. Now, O my Lord! how it must rejoice my poor Margaret, and Richard also, in Paradise, to think that their children should come together and be one--be one as they themselves never could be." She ceased and sobbed. Then with shaking hands, she put the ribbon to which the broken token depended round Anthony's neck. "Take this," she said. "I never thought to part with it; but it of right belongs now to thee. Take it as a pledge of thy mother's love, that her broken heart goes with thee to Willsworthy, and finds its rest there; and with it take my blessing." Anthony bowed his head, and looked at the silver coin, rubbed very much, and placed it on his breast, inside his coat. "Thank thee, grandmother," he said. "I will cherish it as a remembrance of my mother." "And tell me," said she, "is it so, that thou art forever driven away from Hall, that thy father will take thy name, even, and give it to another, and that thou and thy children are forever to be shut off and cast away from all lot and inheritance in the place where thy forefathers have been?" "It is even so," answered Anthony. "But hark!" A horn was being blown in the street, and there was a tramp of running feet, and voices many in excitement. "What can be the matter?" exclaimed Magdalen, going to the window. "Mercy on us! What must have taken place?" Anthony ran out of the house. The street had filled; there were people of all sorts coming out of their houses, asking news, pressing inward toward the man with the horn. Anthony elbowed his way through the throng. "What is this about?" he inquired of a man he knew. "The Duke of Monmouth has landed at Lyme in Dorsetshire. Hey! wave your hat for Protestantism! Who'll draw the sword against Popery and Jesuitism?" More news was not to be got. The substance of the tidings that had just come in was contained in the few words--the Duke has landed at Lyme; with how many men was not known. What reception he had met with was as yet unknown. No one could say whether the country gentry had rallied to him--whether the militia which had been called out in expectation of his arrival had deserted to his standard. Anthony remained some time in the street and market-place discussing the news. His spirits rose, his heart beat high; he longed to fly to Lyme, and offer himself to the Duke. His excitement over, the tidings dispelled his concern about his own future and gloomy thoughts about his troubled home. In that home there was at the time much unrest. After he had departed from Willsworthy, Uncle Sol Gibbs had burst into laughter. "Ah, Urith!" said he, "I hope, maid, thy hand is not hurt. It was not a fair hit. The lad was nettled; he thought himself first in everything, and all at once discovered that an old fool like me, with one hand behind my back, could beat him at every point. Your young cockerells think that because they crow loud they are masters in the cockpit. It disconcerts them to find themselves worsted by such as they have despised. There, I shall bear him no grudge. I forgive him, and he will be ashamed of himself ere ten minutes are past in which his blood has cooled. None of us are masters of ourselves when the juices are in ferment." He took his niece's hand and looked at the palm; it was darkened across it, by the stroke of the stick. "So! he has bruised thee, Urith! That would have cracked my old skull had it fallen athwart it, by heaven! Never mind, I kiss thee, wench, for having saved me, and I forgive him for thy sake. Look here, Urith, don't thou go taking it into thy noddle that all married folks agree like turtle-doves. Did'st ever hear me sing the song about Trinity Sunday? When bites the frost and winds are a blowing, I do not heed and I do not care. When 'Tony's by me--why let it be snowing, 'Tis summer time with me all the year. The icicles they may hang on the fountain, And frozen over the farmyard pool, The east wind whistle upon the mountain, No wintry gusts our love will cool. That is courtship, Urith--summer in the midst of winter. Now listen to matrimony--what that is:-- I shall be wed a' Trinity Sunday, And then--adieu to my holiday! Come frost, come snow on Trinity Monday, Why then beginneth my winter day. If drudge and smudge on Trinity Monday, If wind and weather--I do not care! If winter follows Trinity Sunday, It can't be summer-time all the year. That's the proper way to regard it. After marriage storms always come; after matrimony nipping frosts and wintry gales. It can't be summer-time all the year. Now just see," continued Uncle Sol, climbing upon the table and seating himself thereon, and then fumbling in his pocket. "Dos't fancy it was ever summer-time with thy father and mother after they were wed? Not a bit, wench--not a bit. They had their quarrels. I don't say that they were exactly of the same sort as be yours, but they were every whit as bad--aye! and worse, and all about this." He opened his hand and showed a broken silver crown piece of Charles I., perforated, and with a ribbon holding it. "I'll tell thee all about it. Afore thy father was like to be married to my sister, he was mighty taken in love with someone else. Well, Urith, I won't conceal it from thee--it was with Margaret Penwarne, that afterward married old Squire Cleverdon, and became the mother of thy Anthony. Everyone said they would make a pair, but he was poor and she had naught, and none can build their nest out of love; so it was put off. But I suppose they had passed their word to each other, and in token of good faith had broken a silver crown and parted it between them. This half," said Uncle Sol, "belonged to thy father. Well, I reckon he ought, when he married thy mother, to have put away from his thoughts the very memory of Margaret Cleverdon. I could not see into his heart--I cannot say what was there. Maybe he had ceased to think of her after she was wed to Anthony Cleverdon, and he had taken thy mother; maybe he had not. All men have their little failings--some one way, some another. Mine is--well, you know it, niece, so let it pass. I hurt none but myself. But thy father never parted with the broken half-token, but would keep it. Many words passed between them over it, and the more angry thy mother was, the more obstinate became thy father. One day they were terrible bad--a regular storm it was, Urith. Then I took down my single-stick, and I went up to Richard, and said I to him, 'Dick, thou art in the wrong. Give me up the half-token, or, by the Lord, I'll lay thy head open for thee!' He knew me, and that I was a man of my word. He considered a moment, and then he put it into my hand--on one condition, that I should never give it to my sister. I swore to that, and we shook hands, and so peace was made for the time. There"----said the old man, descending from the table. "I will give thee the half-token, maid, for my oath does not hold me now. Thine it shall be; and when thou wearest it, or holdest it, think on this--that there is no married life without storms and vexations, and that the only way in which peace is to be gotten is for the one in the wrong to give up to the other." He put the half-token into Urith's hand. She received it without a word, and held it in her bruised palm. Her face was lowering, and she mused, looking at the coin. Yes, he who is in the wrong must abandon his wrongful way--give up what offended the other. What had she to yield? Nothing. She had done her utmost to retain Anthony's love. She had not been false to him by a moment's thought. She had striven against her own nature to fit herself to be his companion. She loved him--she loved him with her whole soul; and yet she hated him--hated him because he had slighted and neglected her at the Cakes, because he was suffering himself to be lured from her by Julian, because he was dissatisfied with his house, resented against her his quarrel with his father. She could hardly discriminate between her love and her hate. One merged into the other, or grew out of the other. "Come!" said the old man, looking about for his hat. "By the Lord! the boy has gone off with my wet cap. Well, I shall wear his, I cannot tarry here. I will go seek out my friend Cudlip at the Hare and Hounds. I shall not be late, but I want to hear news. There is a wind that the Duke of Monmouth has set sail from the Lowlands. The militia have been called out and the trainbands gathered. Come, Urith, do not look so grave. Brighten up with some of the humours of the maid who sang of winter on Trinity Monday. It cannot be summer-time all the year--why, neither can it be winter." Then he swung out of the house trolling:-- So let not this pair be despised, That man is but part of himself; A man without woman's a beggar, If he have the whole world full of wealth, A man without woman's a beggar, Tho' he of the world were possessed, But a beggar that has a good woman, With more than the world is he blessed. CHAPTER XL. "THIS FOR JULIAN." Urith was left alone looking at the broken token. It did not bring to her the cynical consolation that her uncle intended it to convey. It was not even poor comfort, it was no sort of comfort whatever to learn that others had been unhappy in the same way as herself--that there had been discord between her father and mother. The broken token was to her a token of universal breakage--of broken trust, broken ambitions, broken words, broken hearts--but that all the world was in wreck was no relief to Urith, whose only world for which she cared was contained within the bounds of Willsworthy. She had dreamed with reverence of her father; but Uncle Sol had shown her that this father had been false in heart to her mother. Her own story was that of her mother. Each had married one whose heart had been pre-engaged. After a little while, no doubt of sincere struggle, the heart swung back to its eldest allegiance. As Urith sat in the hall window, looking out into the court, her eyes rested on the vane over the stables. Now that arrow pointed to the west! Sometimes it veered to other quarters, but the prevailing winds came from the Atlantic, and that vane, though for a few days it may have swerved to north or south, though for a whole month, nay--a whole spring it may have pointed east, as though nailed in that aspect, yet round it swung eventually, and for the rest of the year hardly deviated from west. So was it with the heart of Anthony; so had it been with the heart of her father. Each had had a first love; then there had come a sway towards another point, and eventually a swing round into the direction that had become habitual. Fox's words at the dance in the house of the Cakes returned to her:--"You cannot root out old love with a word." With Anthony it had been old love. Since childhood he and Julian had known each other, and had looked on each other in the light of lovers. It was a love that had ramified in its roots throughout his heart and mind. It was with this love as with the coltsfoot in the fields. When once the weed was there, it was impossible to eradicate it; the spade that cut it, the pick that tore it up, the sickle that reaped it down, only multiplied it; every severed fibre became a fresh plant--every lopped head seeded on the ground and dispersed its grain. For a while a crop of barley or oats appeared, and the coltsfoot was lost in the upright growth; but the crop was cut and carried, and the coltsfoot remained. Was this a justification for Anthony? Urith did not stay to inquire. She considered herself, her anguish of disappointment, her despair of the future--not him. With all the freshness and vehemence of youth, she had given herself wholly to Anthony. She had loved--cared for--no one before; and when she loved and cared for him it was with a completeness to which nothing lacked. Hers was a love infinite as the ocean, and now she found that his had been but a love, in comparison with hers, like a puddle that is dried up by the July sun. She did not consider the matter with regard to Anthony's justification, only as affecting herself--as darkening her entire future. The coltsfoot must go on growing, and spread throughout the field. It could not be extirpated, only concealed for a while. She could never look into Anthony's face--never kiss him again, never endure a word of love from him any more, because of that hateful, hideous, ever-spreading, all-absorbing, only temporarily-coverable weed of first love for Julian. An indescribable horror of the future filled her--an inexpressible agony contracted her heart as with a cramp. She threw up her hands and clutched in the air at nothing; she gasped for breath as one drowning, but could inhale nothing contenting. Everything was gone from her with Anthony, not only everything that made life happy, but endurable. Down the stream belonging to the manor was a little mill, furnished with small grinding-stones, and a wheel that ever turned in the stream that shot over it. No miller lived at the mill. When rye, barley, or wheat had to be ground, some person from the house went down, set the mill, and poured in the grain. Night and day the wheel went round, and now in her brain was set up some such a mill--there was a whirl within, and a noise in her ears. The little manor-mill could be unset, so that, though the wheel turned, the stones did not grind unless needed; but to this inner mill in her head there was no relaxation. It would, grind, grind as long as the stream of life ran--grind her heart, grind up her trust, her hopes, her love, her faith in God, her belief in men--grind up all that was gentle in her nature, till it ground all her nobler nature up into an arid dust. The day declined, and she was still looking at the broken token. The mill was grinding, and was turning out horrible thoughts of jealousy, it ground her love and poured forth hate, it ground up confidence and sent out suspicion. She sprang to her feet. Where was Anthony now? What was he doing all this while? He had been away a long time; with whom had he been tarrying? The mill was grinding, and now, as she threw in the jealous thoughts, the hate, the suspicions, it had just turned out, it ground them over again, and sent forth a wondrous series of fancies in a magic dust that filled her eyes and ears; in her eyes it made her see Anthony in Julian's society, in her ears it made her hear what they said to each other. The dust fell into her blood, and made it boil and rage; it fell on her brain, and there it caught fire and spluttered. She was as one mad in her agony--so mad that she caught at the stanchions of the window and strove to tear them out of the solid granite in which they were set, not that she desired to burst through the window, but that she must tear at and break something. Why had Anthony marred her life, blistered her soul? She had started from girlhood in simplicity, prepared to be happy in a quiet way, rambling over the moors in a desultory fashion, attending to the farm and garden and the poultry yard. She would have been content, if left alone, never to have seen a man. Her years would have slipped away free from any great sorrow, without any great cares. Willsworthy contented her where wants were few. She loved and was proud of the place; but Anthony, since he had been there had found fault with it, had undervalued it, laughed at it; had shown her how bleak it was, how ungenerous was the soil, how out of repair its buildings, how lacking in all advantages. Anthony had taught her to depreciate what she had highly esteemed. Why need he have done that? The wheel and the grindstones were turning, and out ran the bitter answer--because Willsworthy was _hers_, that was why he scorned it, why he saw in it only faults. She paced the little hall, every now and then clasping her hands over her burning temples, pressing them in with all her force, as though by main strength to arrest the churn of those grindstones. Then she put them to her ears to shut out the sound of the revolving wheel. On the mantel-shelf was a brass pestle for crushing spices. She took it down. Into it were stuffed the old gloves of Julian Crymes. It was a characteristic trait of the conduct of the house; nothing was put where it ought to be, or might be expected to be. After these gloves had lain about, at one time in the window, at another on the settle, then upon the table, Urith had finally thrust them out of the way into the pestle, and there they had remained forgotten till now. In the train of her thoughts Urith was led to the challenge of Julian, when she recalled where the gloves were, and these she now took from the place to which she had consigned them. She unfolded them and shook the dust from them. Then she stood with one foot on the hearthstone, her burning head resting against the granite upper stone of the fireplace, looking at the gloves. Had Julian made good her threat? Was she really, deliberately, with determinate malice, winding Anthony off Urith's hand on to her own? And if so--to what would this lead? How would she--Urith--be tortured between them? Every hair of her head was a nerve, and each suffering pain. She lifted her brow from the granite, then dashed it back again, and felt no jar, so acute was the inner suffering she endured. It were better that Anthony, or she--were dead. Such a condition of affairs as that of which the mill in her head ground out a picture, was worse than death. She could not endure it, she knew--she must go mad with the torment. Oh, would! oh--would that Fox's fuse had been left to take its effect in the ear of Anthony's horse, and dash him to pieces against the rocks of the Walla! She could no longer bear the confinement of the house. She gasped and her bosom laboured. She put the gloves between her teeth, and her hands again to her head, but her dark hair fell down about her shoulders. She did not heed it. Her mind was otherwise occupied. In a dim way she was aware of it, and her hands felt for her hair, how to bind it together and fasten it again, but her mind was elsewhere, and her fingers only dishevelled her hair the more. The air of the room oppressed her; the walls contracted on her; the ceiling came down like lead upon her brain. She plucked the gloves out of her mouth and threw them on the table, then went forth. The rain had ceased. Evening had set in, dark for June, because the twilight could not struggle through the dense vapours overhead. "Where is Anthony? I must see Anthony!" Her words were so hoarse, so strange that they startled her. It is said that when one is possessed, the evil spirit in the man speaks out of him in a strange voice, utterly unlike that which is natural. It might be so now. The old demon in Urith that had gone to sleep was awaking, refreshed with slumber, to reassert his power. Where was Anthony? What delayed his return? Had he on leaving Willsworthy gone direct to Julian to pour out into her sympathetic ear the story of his domestic troubles? Was he telling her of his wife's shortcomings?--of her temper?--her untidiness?--her waywardness? Were they jeering together in confidence at poor little moorland Willsworthy? Were they talking over the great mistake Anthony had made in taking Urith in the place of Julian? Were they laughing over that scene when Anthony led out Urith for the dance at the Cakes? She saw their hands meet, and their eyes--their eyes--as at the Cakes. Then there issued from her breast a scream--a scream of unendurable pain; it came from her involuntarily; it was forced from her by the stress of agony within, but the voice was hoarse and inhuman. She was aware of it, and grasped her hair and thrust it into her mouth to gnaw at, and to stifle the cries of pain which might burst from her again. She had descended the hill a little way when she thought she discerned a figure approaching, mounting the rough lane. It might be Anthony--it might be Solomon Gibbs. She was unprepared to meet either, so she slipped aside into the little chapel. The portion of wall by the door was fallen, making a gap, but further back grew a large sycamore, out of the floor of the sacred building, near the angle formed by the south and west walls. Behind this she retreated, and thence could see the person who ascended the path, unobserved. She was startled when Fox Crymes stepped through the gap where had been the door. There was sufficient light for her to distinguish him, but he could not observe her, as the shadows thrown by the dense foliage of the sycamore from above, and the side shadows from the walls, made the corner where Urith stood thoroughly obscure. She supposed at first that Fox had stopped there for a moment to shake out his wet cloak and readjust it; he did, in fact, rearrange the position of the mantle, but it was not so as more effectually to protect himself from rain as to leave his right arm free. Moreover, after that he had fitted his cloak to suit his pleasure, he did not resume his ascent of the lane to Willsworthy. For a while Urith's thoughts were turned into a new channel. She wondered, in the first place, why Fox should come to Willsworthy at that hour; and next, why Fox, if Willsworthy should be his destination, halted where he was, without attempting to proceed. His conduct also perplexed her. He seated himself on a stone and whistled low to himself through a broken tooth in front that he had--a whistle that was more of a hiss of defiance than a merry pipe. Then he took out his hunting-knife, and tried the point on his fingers. This did not perfectly satisfy him, and he whetted it on a piece of freestone moulding still in position, that formed a jamb of the old door, of which the arch and the other jamb were fallen. This occupied Fox for some time, but not continuously, for every now and then he stood up, stole to the lane, and cautiously peered down it, never exposing himself so as to be observed by any person ascending the rough way. The air was still, hardly any wind stirred, but what little there was came in sudden puffs that shook the foliage of the sycamore burdened with wet, and sent down a shower upon the floor. Urith could not feel the wind, and when it came it was as though a shudder went through the tree, and it tossed off the burden of water oppressing it, much as would a long-haired spaniel on emerging from a bath. Bats were abroad. One swept up and down the old chapel, noiseless, till it came close to the ear, when the whirr of the wings was as that of the sails of a mill. An uneasy peewhit was awake and awing, flitting and uttering its plaintive, desolate cry. It was not visible in the grey night-sky, and was still for a minute; then screamed over the ruins; then wheeled away, and called, as an echo from a distance, an answer to its own cry. Fox stood forward again in the road, and strained his eyes down the lane; then stole a little way along it to where he could, or thought he could, see a longer stretch of it; then came back at a run, and stood snorting in the ruins once more. Again, soft and still, came on a comminuted rain--the very dust of rain--so fine and so light that it took no direction, but floated on the air, and hardly fell. Fox turned to the sycamore-tree. No shelter could be had beneath its water-burdened leaves, that gathered the moisture and shot it down on the ground. But he did not look at it as wanting its shelter. He stepped toward it, then drew back; exclaimed, "Ah! Anthony. Here's one for Urith," and struck his knife into the bole. The blade glanced through the bark, sheering off a long strip, that rolled over and fell to the ground attached to the tree at the bottom. "You took her and Willsworthy from me," said Fox, drawing back. Then he aimed another blow at the tree, cursing, "And here is for my eye!" Urith started back; each blow seemed to be aimed at and to hit her, who was behind the tree. She felt each stroke as a sharp spasm in her heart. Fox dragged at his knife, worked it up, down, till he had loosened it; then withdrew it. Then he laid his left hand, muffled in his cloak, against the sycamore trunk, and raised his knife again. "That is not enough," he whispered, and it was to Urith as though he breathed it into her ear. He struck savagely into the side of the tree, as though into a man, under the ribs, and said, "And this for Julian." Before he could release his blade, Urith had stepped forth and had laid her hand on him. "Answer me," she said: "What do you mean by those words, 'And this for Julian?'" CHAPTER XLI. "THAT FOR URITH." Fox cowered, and retreated step by step before Urith, who stepped forward at every step he retreated. He seemed to contract to a third of his size before her eyes, over which a lambent, phosphorescent fire played. They were fixed on his face; he looked up but once, and then, scorched and withered, let his eyes fall, and did not again venture to meet hers. Her hands were on his shoulders. It might have been thought that she was driving him backward, but it was not so. He recoiled instinctively; but for her hands he might have staggered and fallen among the scattered stones of the old chapel that strewed the floor. "Answer me!" said Urith, again. "What did you mean, when you said--'This for Julian?'" "What did I mean?" he repeated, irresolutely. "Answer me--what did you mean? I can understand that in thought Anthony stood before you when you struck--once because I had cast you over, and had taken him--once because he touched and hurt your eye--but why the third time for Julian?" He lifted one shoulder after the other, squirming uneasily under her hands, and did not reply, save with a scoffing snort through his nostrils. "I know that you are waiting here for Anthony--and like yourself, waiting to deal a treacherous blow. It is not such as you who meet a foe face to face, after an open challenge, in a fair field." "An open challenge, in a fair field!" echoed Fox, recovering some of his audacity, after the first shock of alarm at discovery had passed away. "Would that be a fair field in which all the skill, all the strength is on one side? An open challenge! Did he challenge me when he struck me with the gloves in the face and hurt my eye? No--he never warned me, and why should I forewarn him?" "Come!" said Urith, "go on before--up to Willsworthy; I will not run the chance of being seen here talking with you, as if in secret. Go on--I follow." She waved him imperiously forth, and he obeyed as a whipped cur, sneaked through the broken doorway forth into the lane. He looked down the road to see if Anthony were ascending, but saw no one. Then he turned his head to observe Urith, hastily sheathed his knife, and trudged forward in the direction required. Urith said nothing till the hall was entered, when she pointed to a seat, and went with a candlestick into the kitchen to obtain a light. She returned directly, having shut the doors between, so that no servant could overhear what was said. The candlestick she placed on the table, and then planted herself opposite Fox Crymes. He was sitting with his back to the table, so that the light was off his face, and such as there was from a single candle fell on Urith; but he did not look up. His eyes were on the skirt of her dress and on her feet, and by them he could see that she was quivering with emotion. He seemed to see her through the flicker of hot air that rises from a kiln. He wiped his eyes, thinking that his sight was disturbed, but by a second look ascertained that the tremulous motion was in Urith. It was like the quiver of a butterfly's wings when fluttering at the window trying to escape. "I am ready," said Urith. "What did you mean when you said 'This for Julian?'" He half-lifted his cunning eyes, but let them fall again. He had recovered his assurance and decided on his course. "I suppose," sneered he, "that you will allow that I have a right to chastise the man who insults our good name, to bring my sister into the mouths of folk?" "Has he done so?" "You ask that?" he laughed, mockingly. "How remote this spot must be to be where the breath of scandal does not blow. You ask that? Why, 'fore heaven, I supposed that jealousy quickened and sharpened ears, but yours must be singularly blunt, or, mayhap, deadened by indifference." "Tell me plainly what you have to say." "Do you not know that your Anthony was engaged, or all but engaged--had been for some fifteen years--to my sister? Then he saw you under remarkable circumstances, saw and attended you along the Lyke Way that night of the fire on the moor. Then a spark of the wild fire fell into his blood, and he forgot his old, established first love, and in a mad humour took you. Take a scale," pursued Fox. "Put in one shell my sister with her wealth, her civilized beauty, her heritage, the grand old house of Kilworthy, and her representation of a grand old line. Put in also"--he suited the action to his word, in imaginary scales in the air before him, and saw the shrink of Urith's feet at each item he named--"put in also his father's favor, Hall--where he was born and bred, the inheritance of his family for many generations, with its associations, his sister's company, the respect of his neighbours; all that and more that I have not named into the one shell, and into the other.--Come, come!"--he crooked his finger, and made a sign with his knuckle, and a distorted face full of mockery and malice--"come, skip in and sit yourself down with a couple of paniers of peat earth, that grows only rushes. What say you? Do you outweigh Julian and all the rest? And your peat earth, sour and barren, does that sink your scale heavier than all the bags of gold and rich warm soil of Kilworthy and Hall combined?" He glanced upward hurriedly, to see what effect his words had. All this that he said Urith had said it to herself; but though the same thoughts uttered to herself cut her like razors, they were as razors dipped in poison, when coming articulate from the lips of Fox. "Do you not suppose," continued he, "that after the first fancy was over, Anthony wearied of you, and went back in heart out from this wilderness, back to Goshen and to the Land of Promise rolled into one, with the flesh-pots, and without hard labour? Of course he did. He were a fool if he did not, or your hold over him must be magical indeed, and the value of Willsworthy altogether extraordinary." Again he furtively looked at her. Her eyes were off him, he felt it, before he saw it. She was looking down at the floor, and her teeth were fastened into her clenched hands. She was biting them to keep under the hysteric paroxysm that was coming over her. He took a malevolent delight in lashing her to a frenzy with his cruel words, and so avenging himself on her for his rejection, avenging himself on her in the most terrible way possible, by making her relations with her husband henceforth intolerable. She could no longer speak. He saw it, and he waited for no words. He went on: "You married him; you married him, notwithstanding that he had offered the grossest insult to the memory of your father. You married him indecently early after your mother's death, and that was an outrage on her memory. Whether you have the blessing of father and mother on your union is more than doubtful. I should rather say that out of heaven they fling their united curses on you for what you have done." A hoarse sound issued from her throat. It was not a cry, nor a groan, but like the gasp of a dying person. "And now the curse is working. Of course Anthony is hungering after what he has thrown away. But he cannot get Kilworthy. You stand in the way. He can get Hall only by casting you over. That he will do." Suddenly Urith became rigid as stone. She could not speak, she dropped her hands, and looked with large fixed eyes at Fox. He saw, by the cessation of the quiver of her skirt, that she had become stiff as if dead. "That," repeated Fox, "he is prepared to do. His father made him the offer. If he would leave you, then, said the old Squire, all should be as before. Anthony should go back to Hall, live with his father, be treated as heir, and command his pocket--only you were to be discarded wholly, and he was not to see you again." Fox paused, and began his hissing whistle through his broken tooth. He waited to let the full force of his words fall on her to crush her, before he went on still further to maltreat her with words more terrible than blows of bludgeons or stabs of poisoned knife. Now he twisted his belt round, and laid the scabbarded hunting knife before him on his lap, played with it, and then slowly drew forth the blade. "But now--" he said leisurely, "now I reckon you can see why I took out my knife, and why I would strike him down before he leaves you and returns to Hall. Already has there been talk concerning him and my sister. He gave rise to it at the dance at the Cakes. But you know better than I what happened there, as I went away with my father, who arrived from London. When young blood boils, it is forgotten that the sound of the bubbling is audible. When hearts flame, it is not remembered that they give out light and smoke. I suppose that Anthony and my sister forgot that they were in the midst of observant eyes when they met again, as of old so often; just as they forgot that you existed and were a bar between them. I tell you I do not know what took place then, as I was not there, but you had eyes and could see, and may remember." He put the knife upright with the haft on his knee, and set his finger at the end of the blade, balancing it in that position. She saw it, her eyes were attracted by the blade; the light of the candle flashed on the polished steel; then Fox turned the blade and the light went out, then again it flashed, as the surface again came round over against the candle. "When Anthony is back at Hall, I know well what will take place. Even now he comes over often to Kilworthy, too often, forgetful of you, forgetful of all save his old regard, his love for Julian, that draws him there; he cannot keep away even now. When he is at Hall nothing will retain him, and he will bring my sister's fair name into the dirt. Have I not a cause to take out this knife? Must I not stand as her guardian? My father is old, he has no thoughts for aught save the Protestant cause and Liberty and Parliamentary rights. He lets all go its own way, and, unless I were present to defend my sister, he would wake, rub his eyes, and find--find that all the world was talking about the affairs of his house, and his grey hairs would be brought in shame to the grave. Julian has no mother, and has only me. She and I have bickered and fought, but I value the honour of my family, and for that I can, when need be, strike a blow. You know now what it is I fear; you know what it is I meant when I took out my knife and waited in the chapel for the man who would bring my sister to dishonour. I could tell you more--I could tell you that which would make you kiss the blade that tapped his blood, that entered his false heart and let out the black falsity that is there, but----" He looked hesitatingly at her, then slowly rose, and, watching her, went backwards to the door. She stood motionless, white, as though frozen, and as still; her hands were uplifted. She had been about to raise them to her mouth again, but the frost had seized them as they were being lifted, and were held rigid, in suspense. Her eyes were wide and fixed, her mouth half-open, and her lower jaw quivered as with intense cold, the only part of her in which any motion remained. So stiff, so congealed did she seem, that it occurred to Fox, as he looked at her, that were he to touch and stir her wild flowing hair, it would break and fall like icicles on the floor. He stepped back to the door, then held up his finger, with a smile about his lips-- "I am coming back again. I am not going to run away." A convulsive movement in her arms. Her hands went up with a jerk to her mouth. "No," said Fox; "do not bite your pretty hands. There"--he turned to the table and picked up the old pair of gloves that lay there--"if you must tear something, tear these. They will do you good." He put the gloves to her hands, and they mechanically closed on them. Her eyes were as stones. All light had deserted them, as fire had deserted her blood, had died out of her heart. Fox went out, and remained absent about five minutes. Suddenly the door was dashed open, and he came in excitedly. "He is coming--he is hard at hand. I have more to say. Do you mistrust me? Do you think I am telling lies? I will say it to his face; and then----" He drew his knife and made a stroke with it in the air, then sheathed it again. "Go," said he, "go in yonder." He pointed to the well-chamber that opened out of the hall. "Remain there. The rest I will tell Anthony to his face." He caught her by the wrist and led her to the door, and almost forced her into the little chamber. Then he went across the hall to the door that led to the kitchen, opened it, and looked into a small passage; crossed that to another door communicating with the kitchen, and turned the key in it. He returned to the hall, and was shutting the door behind him when Anthony entered from outside. Anthony raised his brows with surprise at the sight of Fox there, and flushed with anger. This was the man who was going to displace him at Hall, occupy his inheritance, and take his very name. And Fox--this treacherous friend--had the daring to come to his house and meet him. "What brings you here?" asked Anthony, roughly. "An excellent reason, which you might divine." Fox had completely recovered his assurance. He came across the room toward the seat he had occupied before, and, with a "By your leave," resumed it. He thus sat with his face in shadow, and his back to the door of the well-chamber. "And, pray, what are you doing in my house? Hast come to see me or Master Gibbs?" "You--you alone." Anthony threw himself into the settle; his brow was knit; he was angry at the intrusion, and yet not altogether unwilling to see Fox--for he desired to have a word with him relative to his proposed marriage with Bessie, and assumption of his name. "And I," said he; "I desire an explanation with you, Fox." "Come, now!" exclaimed young Crymes. "I have a desire to speak with you, and you with me. Which is to come first? Shall we toss? But, nay! I will begin; and then, when I have done, we shall see what desire remains in you to talk to me and pluck thy crow." "I want then to know what has brought you here? Where is my wife? Where is Urith? Have you seen her?" Anthony turned his head, and looked about the room. "What!" said Fox, with a jeer in his tone, "dost think because thou runnest to Kilworthy to make love to my sister Julian, that I came here to sweetheart thy wife?" "Silence!" said Anthony, with a burst of rage, and sprang from his seat. "I will not keep silence," retorted Fox, turning grey with alarm at the hasty motion, and with concentrated rage. "Nay, Anthony, I will not be silent! Answer me; hast thou not been this very day with Julian?" "And what if I did see her? I went to Kilworthy to find you." "You go there oftentimes to find me, but, somehow, always when I am out, and Julian is at home. When I am not there, do you return here, or go elsewhere? Nay, you console yourself for my absence by her society--bringing her into ill-repute in the county." "You lie!" shouted Anthony. "I do not lie," retorted Fox. "Did you not remain with her to-day. Where else have you been? Who drew your initials on the glass beside hers, and bound them together with a true lover's knot?" Anthony's head fell. He had planted himself on the hearthstone, with his back to the fireplace--now without burning logs or peat in it. The flush that had been driven by anger to his face deepened with shame to a dark crimson. Fox observed him out of his small keen eyes. "Tell me this," he pursued. "Was it not indiscreet that thy father should come in and find thee and Julian locked in each other's arms, exchanging lovers' kisses?" Anthony looked suddenly up, and in a moment all the blood left his face and rushed to his heart. He saw behind the chair in which sat Fox, the form of his wife. Urith--grey as a corpse, but with fire spirting from her eyes, and her nostrils and lips quivering. Her hand was lifted, clenched, on something, he could not see what. "Tell me," repeated Fox, slowly rising, and putting his hand to his belt. "Tell me--can you deny that?--can you say that it is a lie? Your own father told me what he had seen. Did he lie?" Anthony did not hear him, did not see him; his eyes were fixed in sorrow, shame, despair, on Urith. Oh, that she should hear this, and that he should be unable to answer! "Strike--kill him!" her voice was hoarse--like that of a man; and she dashed the gloves, torn to shreds by her teeth, against his breast. Instantly, Fox's arm was raised, the knife flashed in the candle-light, and fell on him, struck him where he had been touched by the gloves. "That," the words attended the blows, "that for Urith." Anthony dropped on the hearthstone. Then, as Fox raised his arm once more--without a cry, without a word, Urith sprang before him, thrust him back with all her force, that he reeled to the table, and only saved himself from a fall by catching at it, and she sank consciousless on the hearthstone beside Anthony. CHAPTER XLII. ON THE BRIDGE. Fox soon recovered himself, and seeing Anthony moving and rising on one hand, he came up to him again and thrust him back, and once more stooping over him, raised the knife. "One for Urith," he said, "one for myself, and then one for Julian." Before he could strike he was caught by the neck and dragged away. Luke Cleverdon was in the hall; he had entered unobserved. Fox stood leaning against the table, hiding his weapon behind him, looking at Luke with angry yet alarmed eyes. "Go," said Luke, waving his left hand. "I have not the strength to detain you, nor are there sufficient here to assist me were I to summon aid. Go!" Fox, still watching him, sidled to the door, holding his knife behind him, but with a sharp, quick look at Anthony, who was disengaging himself from the burden of Urith, lying unconscious across him, and raising himself from where he had fallen. Blood flowed from his bosom and stained his vest. "It was she. She bade me!" said Fox, pointing towards Urith. Then he passed through the door into the porch, and forth into the night. Luke bent over Urith, who remained unconscious, and raised her to enable Anthony to mount to his feet, then he gently laid her down again, and said: "Before any one comes in, Anthony, let me attend to you, and let us hide, if it may be, what has happened from other eyes." He tore open Anthony's vest and shirt, and disclosed his breast. The knife had struck and dinted the broken token, then had glanced off and dealt a flesh wound. So forcible had been the blow that the impress of the broken crown, its part of a circle, and the ragged edge were stamped on Anthony's skin. The wound he had received was not dangerous. The token had saved his life. Had it not turned the point of Fox's knife, he would have been a dead man; the blade would have entered his heart. Luke went to the well-chamber, brought thence a towel, tore it down the middle, passed it about the body of Anthony, and bound the linen so fast round him as to draw together the lips of the wound, and stay the flow of blood. He said not one word whilst thus engaged. Nor did Anthony, whose eyes reverted to Urith, lying with face as marble and motionless upon the floor. When Luke had finished his work, he said, gravely, "Now I will call in aid. Urith must be conveyed upstairs; you ride for a surgeon, and do not be seen. Go to my house, and tarry till I arrive. Take one of your best horses, and go." Anthony obeyed in silence. When Mistress Penwarne had returned from the visit to Magdalen Cleverdon, she had communicated the intelligence of Fox's suit, and of the old Squire's resolution, to Luke, and he at once started for Willsworthy, that he might see Anthony. Of the offer made by the father to Anthony he, of course, knew nothing; but the proposal to marry Bessie to Fox, and for the latter to assume the name of Cleverdon, filled him with concern. Bessie would need a firmer supporter than her Aunt Magdalen to enable her to resist the pressure brought upon her. Moreover, Luke was alarmed at the thought of the result to Anthony. He would be driven to desperation, become violent, and might provoke a broil with Fox, in which weapons would be drawn. He arrived at Willsworthy in time to save the life of Anthony, and he had no doubt that the quarrel had arisen over the suit for Bessie, and the meditated assumption of the Cleverdon name. Anthony was hot-headed, and would never endure that Fox should step into his rights. But Luke could not understand what had induced Fox to run his head into danger. That he was audacious he knew, but this was a piece of audacity of which he did not suppose him to be capable. Anthony saddled and bridled the best horse in the stable, and rode to Tavistock, where he placed himself in the hands of a surgeon. He did not explain how he had come by the wound, but he requested the man to keep silence concerning it. Quarrels over their cups were not infrequent among the young men, and these led to blows and sword thrusts, as a matter of course. The surgeon confirmed the opinion expressed by Luke. The wound was not serious, it would soon heal; and he sewed it up. As he did so, he talked. There was a stir in the place. Squire Crymes of Kilworthy had been sending round messages to the villages, calling on the young men to join him. He made no secret of his intentions to march to the standard of the Duke of Monmouth. "It is a curious fact," said Surgeon Pierce, "but his Lordship the Earl of Bedford had been sending down a large quantity of arms to his house that had been built out of the abbey ruins. His agent had told folks that the Earl was going to fit up a hall there with pikes, and guns, and casques, and breastplates, for all the world like the ancient halls in the days before Queen Elizabeth. Things do happen strangely," continued the surgeon. "All at once, not an hour ago it was whispered among the young men who were about in the market-place talking of the news, and asking each other whether they'd fight for the Pope or for the Duke, that there were all these weapons in his Lordship's hall; and that no one was on the spot to guard them. Well, they went to the place, got in, and no resistance offered, and armed themselves with whatever they could find, and are off the Lord knows where." When Anthony left the surgeon's house, he considered what he should do, after having seen his cousin. To Luke's lodgings in the rectory at Peter Tavy he at once rode. His cousin he must speak to. To Willsworthy he could not return. The breach between him and Urith was irreparable. She knew that he had tampered with temptation, and believed him to be more faithless to her than he really had been. He would not, indeed he could not, explain the circumstances to her, for no explanation could make the facts assume a better colour. It was true that he had turned for a while in heart from Urith. Even now, he felt he did not love her. But no more did he love Julian. With the latter he was angry. When he thought of her, his blood began to simmer with rage. If he could have caught her now in his arms, he would have strangled her. She had played with him, lured him on, till she had utterly destroyed his happiness. What had he done? He had kissed Julian. That was nothing; it was no mortal crime. Why should he not kiss an old friend and comrade whom he had known from childhood? What right had Urith to take offence at that? Had he written their initials on the glass, and united them by a true lovers' knot? He had; but he had also effaced it, and linked his own initial with that of Urith. He loved Urith no longer. His married life had been wretched. He had committed an act of folly in marrying her. Well, was he to be cut off from all his old acquaintances because he was the husband of Urith? Was he to treat them with distance and coldness? And then, how Julian had looked at him! how she had bent over him, and she--yes, she--had kissed him! Was he to sit still as a stone to receive the salutation of a pretty girl? Who would? Not a Puritan, not a saint. It was impossible--impossible to young flesh and blood. A girl's kiss must be returned with usury--tenfold. He was in toils--entangled hand and foot--and he sought in vain to break through them. But he could not remain thus bound--bound by obligation to Urith, whom he did not love--bound by old association to Julian, whom he once had loved, and who loved him still--loved him stormily, fervently. What could he do? He must not go near Julian--he dare not. He could not go back to Urith--to Urith who had given to Fox the mandate to kill him! He had heard her words. It was a planned matter. She had brought Fox to Willsworthy, and had concerted with him how he, Anthony, was to be killed. And yet Anthony knew that she loved him. Her love had been irksome to him--so jealous, so exacting, so greedy had it been. If she had desired and schemed his death, it was not that she hated him, but because she loved him too much--she could not endure that he should be estranged from her and drawn towards another. But one course was open to him. He must tear--cut his way through the entangled threads. He must free himself at one stroke from Urith and from Julian. He would join Monmouth. He rode, thus musing, towards Peter Tavy, and halted on the old bridge that spanned in two arches the foaming river. The rain that had fallen earlier had now wholly ceased, but the sky remained covered with a dense grey blanket of felt-like cloud. A fresher air blew; it came from the north, down the river with the water, and fanned Anthony's heated brow. His wound began now to give him pain; he felt it as a line of red-hot iron near his heart. It was due to pure accident that he was not dead. If matters had fallen out as Urith desired, he would now be lying lifeless on the hearthstone where he had dropped, staggered and upset by the force of Fox's blow, when unprepared to receive it. Now he recalled that half-challenge offered on the moor when first he met Urith, and had wondered over her bitten hands. He had half-threatened to exasperate her to one of her moods of madness, to see what she would do to him when in such a mood. He had forgotten all about that bit of banter till this moment. Unintentionally he had exasperated her, till she had lost all control over herself, and, unable to hurt him herself, had armed Fox to deal him the blow which was to avenge her wrongs. He could not go back to the house with the girl who had sought his life. No--there was nothing else for him to do than throw in his lot with Monmouth, and, at the moment, he cared little whether it should be a winning or a losing cause. "Anthony?" "Yes. Is that you, Luke?" A dark figure stepped on to the bridge, and came to the side of the horse. "I have been home," said the curate. "Urith is ill; she scarce wakes out of one faint to fall into another. I have sent your grandmother to Willsworthy to be with her." "It is well," answered Anthony. "And, now that we have met here, I wish a word with you, Luke. I am not going back to Willsworthy." "Not--to Urith?" "No, I cannot. I am going to ride at once to join the Duke of Monmouth. You have the Protestant cause at heart, Luke, and wish it well; so have I. But that is not all--I must away now. I do not desire to meet Fox for a while." "No," said Luke, after a moment of consideration; "no, I can understand that. But Bessie must not be left without some one to help her." "There is yourself. What can I do? Besides, Bess is strong in herself. She will never go against what she believes to be right. She will never step into my shoes, nor will she help Fox to draw them on." "You cannot ride now, with your wound." "Bah! That is naught. You said as much yourself." "Tony, there is something yet I do not understand," said Luke, falteringly. "Did you first strike Fox?" "No--no. I had my hands behind me. I stood at the hearth." "But the quarrel was yours with him, rather than his with you. If you did not strike him, why did he aim at you?" "Luke, there were matters passed of which you need know naught--at least no more than this. My father had offered to receive me back into his good-will once more, to let the past be blotted out, no longer to insist on Bess being wed to Fox, and to return to live at Hall." "Indeed!" exclaimed Luke, joyously. "Now can I see why Fox came to you, and why he struck you." "It was on one condition." "And that was----" "That I should leave Urith, and never speak to her again." "Anthony!" Luke's tone was full of terror and pain. "Oh, Anthony! Surely you never--never for one moment--not by half a word--gave consent, or semblance of consent, to this! It would--it would kill her! Oh, Anthony!" Luke put up both his hands on the pommel of the saddle, and clasped them. What light there was fell on his up-turned, ash-grey face. "Anthony, answer me. Has she been informed of that? She never thought you could be so cruel--so false; and she has loved you. My God! her whole heart has been given to you--to you, and to no one else; and you have not valued it as you should have done. Because you have had to lose this and that, you have resented it on her. She has had to bear your ill-humour--she has suffered, and has been saddened. And now--no! I cannot think it. You have not let her know that this offer was made." The sweat drops poured and rolled off Luke's brow. He looked up, and waited on Anthony for a reply. "She did know it," answered the latter, "but that was Fox's doing. He told her; and told her what was false, that I intended to accept the offer, and leave her. No, Luke, I have done many things that are wrong, I have been inconsiderate, but I could not do this. And now I bid you go to-morrow to my father, see him, and tell him my answer. That is expressed in one word--Never." Luke seized his hand, and wrung it. "That is my own dear cousin Anthony!" he said, and then added, "But why away at once, and Urith so ill?" "I must away at once. I cannot return to her." Anthony hesitated for some while; at last he said, in a low tone, "I will tell you why--she thinks me false to her, and in a measure I have been so. She thinks I no longer love her--and it is true. My love is dead. Luke--I cannot return." "Oh, Urith--poor Urith!" groaned the curate, and let his hands fall. "Now I go. Whatever haps, naught can be worse than the state of matters at present. If you can plead in any way for me, when I am away, do so. I would have her think better of me than she does--but I love her no more." Then he rode away. Luke remained on the bridge, looking over into the rushing water--the river was full. "Poor Urith! My God--and it was I--it was I who united them." Then he turned into the direction of Hall. "I will go there, and bear Anthony's message to his father at once." CHAPTER XLIII. AN EXPIRING CANDLE. When Squire Cleverdon arrived at Hall, he found there awaiting him a man booted, spurred, whip in hand, bespattered with mire. The old man asked him his business without much courtesy, and the man replied that he had ridden all day from Exeter with a special letter for Master Cleverdon, which he was ordered to deliver into his hands, and into his alone. Old Cleverdon impatiently tore away the string and broke the seal that guarded the letter, opened it, and began to read. Then, before he had read many lines, he turned ghastly white, reeled, and sank against the wall, and his hands trembled in which he held the page. He recovered himself almost immediately, sufficiently to give orders for the housing and entertainment of the messenger; and then he retired to his private room, or office, into which he locked himself. He unclosed a cabinet that contained his papers, and, having kindled a light, brought forth several bundles of deeds and books of accounts, and spread them on the table before him. Some of the documents were old and yellow, and were written in that set courthand that had been devised to make what was written in it unintelligible save to the professionals. Squire Cleverdon took pen and a clean sheet of paper and began calculations upon it. These did not afford him much satisfaction. He rose, took his candle, opened and relocked the door, and ascended the stairs to his bedroom, where he searched in a secret receptacle in the fireplace for his iron box, in which were all his savings. Thence he brought the gold he had, and, having placed the candle on the floor, began to arrange the sovereigns in tens, in rows, where the light of the candle fell. After the gold came the silver, and after the silver some bundles of papers of moneys due that had never been paid, but which were recoverable. Having ascertained exactly what he had in cash, and what he might be able at short notice to collect, the old man replaced all in the iron case, and reclosed the receptacle. In the mean while, during the evening, after darkness had set in, to Bessie's great annoyance, Fox appeared. Directly he left Willsworthy, he thought it advisable to visit Hall before going home, and forestall with old Cleverdon the tidings of what had occurred. He did not doubt that the story of his attack on Anthony would be bruited about--that Anthony, or Luke, or both, would tell of it, to his disadvantage, and he determined to relate it his own way at once, before it came round to the ears of the Squire, wearing another complexion from that which he wished it to assume. "You desire to see my father," said Bessie. "He is engaged, he is in his room; he would not be disturbed." "I must see him, if but for a minute." Bessie went to the door and knocked, but received no answer. She came back to the parlour. "My father is busy; he has locked himself into his room. You had better depart." "I can wait," said Fox. "Then you must pardon my absence. There has come a messenger this evening for my father, with a letter that has to be considered. I must attend to what is fitting for the comfort of the traveller." When left to himself, Fox became restless. He stood up, and himself tried the door of old Anthony's apartment. It was locked. He struck at the door with his knuckles, but received no answer. Then he looked through the keyhole; it was dark within. The old man was not there, but at that moment he heard him cough upstairs. He was therefore in his bedroom, and Fox would catch him as he descended. He returned to the parlour. Presently Bessie entered with Luke; she had gone to the door, had stood in the porch communing with herself, unwilling to be in the room with her tormentor, when Luke appeared, and asked to see her father. "Verily," said she, with a faint smile, "he is in mighty request this night; you are the third who have come for him--first a stranger, then Fox----" "Fox here?" "Yes, he is within." "I am glad. A word with him before I see your father, and do you keep away, Bessie, for a while till called." Fox started to his feet when Luke came in, but said nothing till Bessie left the room, then hurriedly, "You, raven--what news? But mark you. I did it in self-defence. Every man must defend his own life. When he knew that I was to take his place in Hall, he rushed on me, and I did but protect myself." "Anthony's wound is trifling," said Luke, coldly. "So! and you have come to prejudice me in the ear of his father." "I am come with a message from Anthony to his father." "Indeed--to come and see his scratch, and a drop of blood from it; and then to clasp each other and weep, and make friends?" "The message is not to you, but to his father." "And--he is not hurt?" "Not seriously hurt." "I never designed to hurt him. I did but defend my own self. I treated him as an angry boy with a knife." "No more of this," said Luke. "Let the matter not be mentioned. I will say naught concerning it, neither do you. So is best. As for Anthony, he is away." "Away? Whither gone?" "Gone to-night to join Monmouth. Your father is gathering men for the Protestant cause, Anthony will be with him and them." Fox laughed. His insolence had come back, as his fears abated. "Faith! he has run away, because I scratched him with a pin. At the first prick he fainted." Luke went to the door, and called in Bessie. He could not endure the association with Fox. "Bess!" he said, "can I see your father?--I have a message for him from Tony." "He is upstairs--in his bedroom," said Bessie. "I will tell him you are here when he descends." "Come here," exclaimed Fox, who had recovered all his audacity, and with it boisterous spirits. "Come here, Bess, my dear, and let Cousin Curate Luke know how we stand to each other." "And, pray," said Bessie, colouring, "how do we stand to each other?" "My word! you are hot. We shall be asking him ere long to join our hands--so he must be prepared in time--he will have a pleasure in calculating the amount of his fee." "Cousin Luke," said Bessie, "I am not sorry that he has mentioned this, for so I can answer him in your presence, and give him such an answer before you as he has had from me in private, but would not take. Never, neither by persuasion, nor by force, shall I be got to give my consent." In spite of his self-control, Fox turned livid with rage. "Is that final?" he asked. "It is final." "We shall see," sneered he. "Say what you will, I do not withdraw." "For shame of you!" exclaimed Luke, stepping between Bessie and Fox. "If you have any good feeling in you, do not pester her with a suit that is odious to her, and after what has happened to-night, should, to yourself, be impossible." "Oh!" jeered Fox, "you yourself proposed silence, and are bursting to let the matter escape." "Desist," said Luke. "Desist from a pursuit that is cruel to her, and which you cannot prosecute with honour to yourself." "I will not desist!" retorted Fox. "Tell me this. Who first sought to bring it about? Was it I? No. Magdalen Cleverdon was she who prepared it, then came the Squire himself. It's the Cleverdons who have hunted me--who try to catch me; not I who have been the hunter. You call me Fox, and you have been hue and tally ho! after me." "There is my father!" gasped Bessie, and ran from the room. She found the old man in the passage with his candle, unlocking his sitting-room door. "Oh, father!" she said, breathlessly, for the scene that had occurred had taken away her breath, "here is Luke come--he must see you." "What! at night? I cannot. I am busy." "But, father, he has a message." "A message? What, another? I will not see him." "For a moment, uncle. It is a word from Anthony," said Luke, entering the passage. "One word, shall I say it here, or within?" "I care not--if it is one word, say it here; but only one word." He was fumbling with the key in the lock. His hand that held the candle shook, and the wax fell on his fingers and on the cuff of his coat. He had the key inserted in the door, and could not turn it in the wards. "Very well," said Luke. "You shall have it in one word--Never." The old man let the key fall--he straightened himself. His voice shook with anger. "It is well. It is as I could have wished it. I take him at his word. Never. Never--let me say it again. Never, and once again, never; and each never shuts a door on him for all time. Never shall he have my forgiveness. Never shall he inherit an acre or a pound of mine. Never will I speak to him another word. Nay, were he dying, I would not go to see him; could I by a word save his life, I would not do it. Go tell him that. Now go--and Elizabeth, hold the candle. I will open the door; go in before me to my room; I'll lock the door on us both. Now all is plain. The wind has cleared away the mists, and we must settle all between us this night, with the way open before us." He managed to unfasten the door, and he made his daughter pass in, carrying the light. Then he turned the key in the lock. The little table was strewn with deeds and papers and books. Bessie cast a glance at it, and saw no spot on which she could set the candle. She therefore held it in her hand, standing before her father, who threw himself into his chair. She was pale, composed, and resolved. He could have nothing further to urge than what had been urged already, and she had her answer to that. The candle was short, it had swaled down into the tray, and could not burn for more than ten minutes. "Elizabeth," said her father, "I shall not repeat what has been said already. I have told you what my wishes, what my commands are. You can see in Anthony what follows on the rebellion of a child against the father. Let me see in you that obedience which leads to happiness as surely as his disobedience has brought him to misery. But I have said all this before, and I will not now repeat it. There are further considerations which make me desire that you should take Anthony Crymes without delay." He drew a long breath, and vainly endeavoured to conceal his agitation. "I bought this place--Hall--where my forefathers have been as tenants for many generations; I bought it, but I had not sufficient money at command, so I mortgaged the estate, and borrowed the money to pay for it. Then I thought soon and easily to have paid off the debt. The mortgagee did not press; but having Hall as mine own was, I found, another thing to having Hall as a tenant. My position was changed, and with this change came increased expenditure. Anthony cost much money, he was of no use in the farm, and he threw about money as he liked. But not so only. I rebuilt nearly the whole of the house; I might have spent this money in paying off the mortgage, or in reducing it, but instead of that I rebuilt and enlarged the house. I thought that my new position required it, and the old farmhouse was small and inconvenient, and ill-suited to my new position. But I had no fear. The mortgagee did not require the money. Then of late we have had bad times, and I have had the drag of the mortgage on me. A little while ago I had notice that I must repay the whole amount. I did not consider this as serious, and I sought to stay it off. The messenger who has now come from Exeter, comes with a final demand for the entire sum. The times are precarious. The Duke of Monmouth has landed. No one knows what will happen, and the mortgagee calls in his money. I have not got it." "Then what is to be done?" Bessie became white as the wax of the candle, and the flame flickered because the candle shook in her hand. "Only one thing can be done. Only you can save Hall--save me." "I! Oh, my father!" Bessie's heart stood still, she feared what she should hear. "Only you can save us," pursued the old man. "You and I will be driven out of this place, will lose Hall, lose the acres that for three centuries have been dressed with our sweat, lose the roof that has covered the Cleverdons for many generations, unless you save us." "But--how, father?" she asked, yet knew what the answer would be. "You must marry Anthony Crymes at once. Then only shall we be safe, for the Crymes family will find the money required to secure Hall." "Father," pleaded Bessie, "ask for help from some one else! Borrow the money elsewhere." "In times such as this, when we are trembling in revolution, and none knows what the issue will be, no one will lend money. I have no friend save Squire Crymes. There is no help to be had anywhere else. Here"--said the old man, irritably--"here are a bundle of accounts of moneys owed to me, that I cannot get back now. I have sent round to those in my debt, and it is the same cry from all. The times are against us--wait till all is smooth, and then we will pay. In the mean time my state is desperate. I offered to Anthony but this day to forgive the past and receive him back to Hall--but the offer came too late. Hall is lost to him, lost to you, lost to me, lost forever, unless you say yea." "Oh, Luke! Luke!" cried Bessie; "let me speak first with him;" then suddenly changed her mind and tone, "Oh, no! I must not speak to him--to him above all, about this." "Bessie!" said the old man; his tone was altered from that which was usual to him. He had hectored and domineered over her, had shown her little kindness and small regard, but now he spoke in a subdued manner, with entreaty. "Bessie! look at my grey hairs. I had hoped that all future generations of Cleverdons would have thought of me with pride, as he who made the family; but, instead, they will curse me as he who cast it forth from its home and brought it to destruction." Bessie did not speak, her eyes were on the candle, the flame was nigh on sinking, a gap had formed under the wick, and the wax was running down into the socket as water in a well. "I have hitherto commanded, and have usually been obeyed," continued the old man, "but now I must entreat. I am to be dishonoured through my children, one--my son--has left me and taken to himself another home, and defies me in all things. My daughter, by holding out her hand, could save me and all my hopes and ambitions, and she will not. Will she have me--me, an old grey-headed father, kneel at her feet?" He put his hands to the arms of his seat to help him to rise from the chair that he might fall before her. "Father!" She uttered a cry, and, at the shock that shuddered through her, the flaming wick sank into the socket, and there burnt blue as a lambent ghost of a flame. "O father!--wait!--wait!" "How long am I to wait? The answer must be given to-night; the doom of our house is sealed within a few hours, or the word of salvation must be spoken. Which shall it be? The messenger who is here carries my answer to Exeter, and, at the same time, if you agree, the demand for a licence, that you may be married at once. No delay is possible." "Let me have an hour--in my room!" "No; it must be decided at once." "Oh, father--at once?" She watched the blue quiver of light in the candle socket. "Very well--well--when the light goes out you shall have my answer." He said no other word, but watched her pale face, looking weird in the upward flicker of the dying blue flame, and her eyes rested on that flame, and the flicker was reflected in them--now bright, then faint, swaying from side to side as a tide. Then a mass of wax fell in, fed the flame, and it shot up in a golden spiral, revealing Bessie's face completely. "Father! I but just now said to Fox Crymes 'Never! never! never!'" She paused, the flame curled over. "Father! within a few minutes must I go forth to him and withdraw the 'Never?'" He did not answer, but he nodded. She had raised her eyes from the dying flame to look at him. Again her eyes fell on the light. "Father! If I withdraw my 'Never,' will you withdraw yours about Anthony?--never to forgive him--never to see him in Hall--never to count him as your son?" The flame disappeared--the old man thought it was extinguished, but Bessie saw it still as a blue bead rolling on the molten wax; it caught a thread of wick and shot up again. "Father! I do not say promise, but say perhaps." "So be it--Perhaps." The flame was out. Bessie walked calmly to the door, felt for the key, turned it, went forth, still holding the extinguished candle in her hand. It was to her as if all that made life blessed and bright to her had gone out with that flame. She went into the parlour and composedly put out her hand to Fox. "Take me," she said. "I have withdrawn the 'Never.' I am yours!" CHAPTER XLIV. LADING THE COACH. Fox hastened back to Kilworthy. He also knew that time was precious. His father was in a fever of excitement about the landing of Monmouth, and was certain to give him all the assistance in his power both with men and with money. Not only so, but he would so compromise himself that, in the event of the miscarriage of Monmouth's venture, he would run the extremest risk of life and fortune. He had for some time past been acting for the Duke in enlisting men in his cause. The whole of the West of England was disaffected to the King--was profoundly irritated at his overbearing conduct, and alarmed lest he should attempt to bring the realm back to Popery. The gentry were not, however, disposed to risk anything till they saw on which side Fortune smiled. They had suffered so severely during the Civil War, and at the Restoration had encountered only neglect, so that the advisability of caution was well burnt into their minds. The Earl of Bedford, who owned a vast tract of property about Tavistock, secretly favoured Monmouth, but was indisposed to declare himself. He had not forgotten--he bitterly resented the execution of his son, Lord William Russell, for complicity in the Rye House Plot--a plot as mythical as the Popish Plot revealed by Titus Oates, and which he attributed to the resentment of the Catholic party. He was willing that Squire Crymes should act for him, and run the risk of so doing. Fox had the shrewdness to see this, but his father was too sincere an enthusiast, and too indifferent to his own fortunes to decline the functions of agent for Monmouth pressed on him by the Earl of Bedford. "What dost want? I cannot attend to thee," said Mr. Crymes, when his son entered the room. On the table lay piled up several bags tied with twine, and sealed. "What do I want?" retorted Fox. "Why, upon my honour, you have forestalled my thought. I came for money; and, lo! there it is." "I am busy," said the old man. "Dost see, though it be night, I am ready for a journey? I have the coach ordered to be prepared. I must travel some way ere day-dawn." "If you are going away, father, so much the more reason why you should give ear to me now." "Nay, I cannot. I have much to do--many things to consider of. I would to God thou wast coming with me! But, as in the case of those that followed Gideon, only such as be whole-hearted and stout may go to the Lord's army." "I have the best plea--a scriptural one--for biding at home," laughed Fox; "for I am going to be married. Ere ten days be passed, Bess Cleverdon will be my wife." "I am sorry for her. I esteem her too well," said the old man, impatiently. "But away with thy concerns; this is no time for marrying and giving in marriage, when we approach the Valley of Decision in which Armageddon will be fought. Go out into the yard and see if any be about the coach." "I passed through the court in coming here. The coach was there--no horses, no servants." "I must take the coach," said the old man. "I was a poor rider when young; I cannot mount a horse now in my age." "Then, verily, father, thy coach and four will be out of place in the Valley of Decision," scoffed Fox. "Of what good canst thou be in an army--in a battle--if unable to mount a horse? Stay at home, and let the storm of war blow across the sky. If thou wantest Scripture to justify thee, here it is: 'Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft.'" "The cause of true religion is in jeopardy," retorted the father. "I know what is right to be done, and I will do it. Go I must, for, though I cannot fight myself, my counsel may avail; and I bear to the Duke the very nerves of war." He pointed to the money-bags. "I did not know thou hadst so much gold by thee, in the house," said Fox, going to the table, taking up, and weighing one of the bags. "A hundred pounds in each," said his father; "and good faith! I had not the coin. There, thou art right. But it has fallen out that the Earl of Bedford has called to mind certain debts to me, or alleged debts for timber, wool, and corn, and has sent orders to the steward to pay me for the same in gold. The Earl--" he stopped himself. "But there, I will say no more. The money is not mine." "What, no real debt?" "I say nothing. I take it with me, whether mine or not signifies naught to thee; it goes to the Duke of Monmouth." "It concerns me, father, for I want, and must have money. I am shortly to be married, and I cannot be as a beggar. I have sent to the College of Arms for licence to change my name, and that will cost me a hundred pounds. I want the money." "I cannot let you have it." "But it is here. Let me toll it." "Never--get thee away, I cannot attend to thee now." "But, father; I cannot be left thus, your clearing away all the money in the house, and I about to marry; who can say but Armageddon may turn all contrary to your expectations." "Put off the marriage till I return." "It cannot be put off. What if all goes wrong, and the land be given up to the Jesuits? What then with thy neck? What with thy money? Will either be spared? Give me, at least, the gold, and take care of thy neck thyself; then one will be safe at all events." "If it be the Lord's will," said the old man, with a look of dignity, "I am well content. If I follow Lord William Russell's steps, I follow a good man, and die in a righteous cause. I shall seal my faith with my blood." "And the Jesuits will lay their hands on all thou hast----" "I have nothing. Kilworthy belongs to thy sister. As for what I have saved, it is not much. I have some bills, I have contributed to the suffering saints, I have helped the cause of the Gospel with my alms----" "More the reason, if so much has been fooled away that this should be secured. The cause of the Gospel is the providing for thine own household, and there never yet was a more suffering saint than myself. I will lay hands on this coin, and take it as my wedding portion!" "Hands off!" shouted the old man, half drawing his sword. "Though thou art mine own son, I would run thee through the body or ever thou shouldst touch this, which is for the justest, truest, holiest cause, and I am a steward that must give account for the same. I will give thee twenty pounds." "That will not pay the clerks of the Herald's College." "I will not pay for that--to change the ancient name of Crymes for another." "What! Not when one name brings to me a vile twenty pounds, and the other name will give me a thousand pounds a year!" "Heaven gave thee to me, for my sorrow," said the old man, "and in giving thee to me, covered thee with my name. It is tempting heaven to cast it off and take another. But there! I have no time for talk. Would God I could persuade thee to draw a sword for the good cause." "Not a bodkin!" mocked Fox, who was very angry. The sight of the bags of money fevered him. "But you have one after your own heart ridden forward, and that is 'Tony Cleverdon. I heard as much from Luke." "'Tony Cleverdon!" repeated Mr. Crymes. "I am rejoiced at that. Ah! would that Providence had given him to me as a son! 'Tony Cleverdon! That is well. He will take my place at the head of a brigade from this region. My infirmities and age will not suffer me to ride, but I will speak to the Duke, and he shall be the captain over our men from Tavistock. But come now, and be of good mind for once, and help me, lad." The old man took up one of the money bags. "I have sent the men to the kitchen for their supper, and I would remove all these to the carriage whilst they are away, as they know naught about the treasure, and it is well that they should remain ignorant. Not that I misdoubt them, they be honest men and true, and would not rob me of a shilling, but their tongues might clack at the taverns, and so it get noised that there was money in the coach, and come to the ears of scoundrels, and we be waylaid. Not but that we shall be well provided against them; for I shall be armed, so also the footman on the box beside the driver, and there will be two riders armed, with each a horse led to hitch on when we go up the hills, so as to have six to pull the coach up. And I shall have two of our recruits to go on, with carbines, ahead, and spy about, that there be no highwaymen awaiting us on the road. So! Anthony Cleverdon is gone on without tarrying for me to ask him. That is like the lad. 'Fore Heaven! even were a party of footpads to waylay us, if I said, 'Gentlemen of the Road, I am travelling for the Protestant cause, bearing specie to the camp, and we are rising against the Jesuits and the Inquisition, and the Pope of Rome, join us and march along!' I believe not one of them would touch a coin, but all would give a cheer and come along. Why, who will stay us? There is but the High Sheriff, John Rowe, is a Catholic, and perhaps three or four more among the gentry, and among the common, simple folk ne'er an one that would stay us, and not wish us God speed! Come, lend a hand with the bags; I will hold the candle. Let all be stowed away whilst the men are supping." In the courtyard of Kilworthy stood the glass coach of Mr. Crymes--a huge and cumbrous vehicle, so cumbrous that it required four horses to draw it along the roads, and six to convey it to the top of a hill. Travelling on the highways was not smooth and swift in those days; the roads were made by filling the ruts with unbroken stones of all sizes, unbroken as taken off the fields. Where there was a slough, faggots were laid down, and the horses stumbled over the faggots and soused into the mire between them as best they could. Travelling in saddle was in those days slow, especially in wet weather, but travelling in a coach was a snail-like progress, and the outrunners had not to exert themselves extraordinarily to distance the horses, for they could trip along on the turf at the side of the ways, which were part slough, part rubble-beds of torrents, without the inconvenience and perils that assailed the travellers on wheels. Mr. Crymes always journeyed in his coach, for, owing to an internal malady, he was unable to sit a horse; but a coach-journey tried him greatly, owing to his age, and the jolting he went through in his conveyance. The courtyard was deserted, the monstrous vehicle looked in the darkness like a hearse, so black and massive was it, only the flicker from the reflection of the light relieved its sombreness as Mr. Crymes crept round to the back with his lantern, and a bag of gold under one arm. Fox sulkily obeyed his father. At the back of the carriage was the boot that had a flap which, when unlocked, fell down. The old man fumbled for and produced the key, unfastened the receptacle, and thrust his bag inside. "Now give me thine, and go for two more," said he, "and I will tick them off in my note-book as they are placed in the boot." "It is a pity, father," said Fox, "that you have not a stouter lock." "Nay, it sufficeth," answered Mr. Crymes. "None will know what is fastened within. If we were--and the chance is not like to come--overpowered by highwaymen, I trow they would demand the key and open the boot though the lock were twice as strong. My own luggage shall travel in the front boot. Go, lad, fetch me more of the gold. Even in the best cause men will fight faintly unless they be paid." Fox obeyed, and brought all the bags in pairs to the carriage, and saw the old man stow them away. He was in an ill-humour, and cursed his father's folly in his heart. "How if the venture fails?" he asked, "and then you be led to Tyburn. It will be a sorry end to have lost all this gold as well as thy life. Thy life is thine own to throw away, but the gold I may claim a right to. I am thy son, I want it; I am about to be married, and have a use for the money; now it will all go into the pockets of wretched country clowns, who will shoulder a musket and trail a pike for a shilling--if it were given to me, I could put it to good usage." "Come with me to my study," said the old man. "Here come Jock and Jonas from the kitchen. Come along with me, and thou shall have twenty pound in silver and gold, and a hundred more in bills that may be discounted when the present troubles are over." "I will ride with thee, father, some part of the road as thy guard--till the daybreak." CHAPTER XLV. UNLADING. The hour was past midnight and before dawn when the great coach of Squire Crymes approached the long hill of Black Down. The road from Plymouth to Exeter was one of singular loneliness for a considerable part of its course, but in no part did it traverse country so desolate and apart from population as in the stretch, a posting stage between Tavistock and Okehampton, a distance of sixteen miles. It ran high up on the flanks of Dartmoor, mounting it nearly nine hundred feet above the level of the sea, with the trackless waste of the forest on one hand, and on the other a descent by ragged and rugged lanes to distant villages. Lydford, almost the sole one at all near the road, was severed from it by ravines sawn through the rock, through which the moor rivers thundered and boiled, ever engaged in tearing for themselves a deeper course. Precisely because this track of road was the most inhospitable and removed from human haunts, was it one of the safest to travel even in the most troublous times, for no one dreamed of traversing it after nightfall, when aware that for sixteen miles he would be cut off from help in the event of a breakage of his carriage or the laming of a horse; and as no one ever thought of taking this road except in broad day, when it was fairly occupied by trains of travellers, no footpads and highwaymen thought it worth their while to try their fortunes upon it. Roads in former days to a large extent made themselves, or were made by the travellers. In the first place the bottoms of valleys were deserted by them as much as might be, because of the bogs that were there, and the lines of communication were laid on the ridges of hills above the springs that undermined and made spongy the soil. Then the roads were traced before the enclosures were made, and originally were carried as directly as possible from point to point. But obstacles, sometimes temporary, intervened: perhaps a slough, perhaps a rut of extraordinary depth had torn into the road, and became the nucleus of a pool; perhaps an unduly hard and obstinate prong of rock appeared after the upper surface had been worn through. Then the stream of travellers swayed to one side, and gave the course of the road a curve, which curve was followed when hedges were run up. These hedges following the curves stereotyped the line of road, which thenceforth became permanently irregular in course. A roadway in those days was about as easy to go over, and to go over with expedition, as the beach of Brighton. Consequently it was slow work journeying on such highways on horseback; and it was journeying like a snail, when travelling in a coach. The outrunner had no very arduous task to outstrip the horses. He put his foot on the turf by the road-side, and tripped along at his ease, leaping the puddles and stones which were occasional by the road-side; whereas they were continuous in the roadway. Fox rode sulkily beside the coach, as it rolled and rocked along the highway from Tavistock to the North. The night was overcast, after midnight, as it had been before the turn of the night; no wind was blowing, nor did rain fall, but the aspect was utterly sombre and uncheering. Every light was out in such houses as were passed, and not a passenger was met, or overtook the carriage that lumbered along, sending squirts of muddy water to this and that side as the wheels plunged into ruts. Fox came occasionally to the coach window, and said something to his father, and was bespattered from head to foot, boots, clothes, and face. Presently the point was attained where the road left the valley of the brawling Tavy and climbed Black Down. There was a directness in the way in which old roads went at hills that was in keeping with the characters of our forefathers. A height had to be surmounted, and the road was carried up it with a rush, and with none of our modern zig-zags and easy sweeps. The hill must be ascended, and the sooner it was surmounted the better. Now, the great road to the North from Plymouth by Tavistock had the huge hogsback of Black Down to surmount, and it made no hesitating and leisurely attempts at it; it went up four hundred feet as direct as a bow-line. On reaching the foot of the Down, the driver paused and the footman on the box dismounted. The men with the spare horses went ahead and hitched on their beasts. Then ensued loud cries and shouts, and the cracking of whips, each man attending to a horse, and encouraging it to do its uttermost to haul the great coach up the hill. The only men who kept their places were the driver on the box, and Mr. Crymes within. Now, a good many other coaches had halted at the same spot, and halting there had ground away the soil, so as to make a very loose piece of road; moreover, the water falling on the road had run down it to the lowest level, and finding this rotten portion there had accumulated and done its utmost to assist the disintegration. The result was that the wheels sank in liquid mire to the axles, and six horses did little more than churn the filth and jerk the coach about. Mr. Crymes having been subjected to several violent relapses as the coach was half pulled out of the pit and then sank back again, thrust his head out of the window and called:--"Wilkey! will it not be best to have all the horses harnessed? There is rope in the box." "Well, perhaps it were best, your worship." Thereupon much discussion ensued, and much time was spent in attaching ropes; and finally, with great hooting, and with imprecations as well, and some words of encouragement, the whole team was set in motion, and the coach was hauled out of the slough, and began slowly to snail the way up the two-mile ascent. Again Mr. Crymes thrust forth his head. "Wilkey! Perhaps if Mr. Anthony were to ride forward, it might be an encouragement to the horses to go along with more spirit." "Your worship, I do not see Mr. Fox! I beg pardon, Mr. Anthony. I think he has returned." "What! without a farewell? The boy is unmannerly, and inconsiderate of what is due to a father. But such is the decay of the world, alas! Go on, Wilkey! there was no necessity for all the men and horses to halt to hear what I had to say to thee." Again there ensued a cracking of whips, objurgations, and cheers, a great straining at ropes, and a forward movement of the coach. The vehicle proceeded some way with more ease, for the stream of water that had here flowed over the road had smoothed it, and cleared it of obstructions. Presently the men and horses came to a dead halt, and there ensued ahead much conversation, some expostulation, and commotion. Again Mr. Crymes' head was thrust out of the window, and he called, "Wilkey! I say; come here, Wilkey! What is the matter? Why dost thou not go on? Has any rope broken?" But several minutes elapsed before Wilkey responded to his master's call, and when finally, in answer to further and more urgent shouts, he did come, it was not alone, but attended by several of the other men, dragging with them by the arms a man whom they had found in the road. "What is it? Who is he? What does he here?" "Oh, I will be good! I promise--I swear, I will be good! I'll say my prayers! I'll not get drunk any more! I do not want to go inside--I'd rather walk a hundred miles and run by night and day, than have this carriage stop for me, and hear----" "Who are you? What are you doing here?" asked Mr. Crymes. "Some of you bring the lantern. Let me look at him. Is he a footpad?" "No--never--never robbed any one in my life. I pray you do not ask me to step in. I thank thee, I had rather walk than gather to thy side. I really will be good. 'Pon my soul I will. Drive on, coachee!" "Why--'fore Heaven!" exclaimed Mr. Crymes, "this is Mr. Solomon Gibbs--and, the worse for liquor. Mr. Gibbs, Mr. Gibbs!" "Eh!" said the gentleman, coming to the coach door, "why, by cock! it isn't my Ladye at all! By my soul, you must excuse me, Master Crymes. I was in that state of fright! At this time of night, and on Black Down! I thought it could be no other than the Death Coach, and that my Ladye wi' the ashen face was inside, and would make me ride by her." Then half-humorously, but half-scared still, and not wholly sober, Mr. Solomon Gibbs trolled forth in broken tones, I'd rather walk a hundred miles And run by night and day, Than have that carriage halt for me And hear my Ladye say-- "Now pray step in and make no din, Step in with me to ride; There's room I trow, by me for you, And all the world beside." "Why, how came you here?" asked Mr. Crymes. "My men took you for a highwayman, and might have fired their holsters or carbines at you." "And I might ask, how came you here at night, in your coach! By cock! You do not know the scare you gave me, at the very midnight--too--and I on the very road that my Ladye goes over in her Death Coach! But--I thought it stopped for me, and that upset my mind altogether. When I saw something--black horses, and a coach coming along, I tried to skip out of the way and hide somewhere, but, not a hiding-place could I find on the moor. I did suppose at first that it was on its way for my poor niece--for Urith, but when it stopped--when it stopped--" he shivered. "I felt my heart go into my boots. And I have been looking for him everywhere, in every ale-house, and not so much as a thread of his coat, nor the breath of a word as to his whereabouts, and she--so ill--dying. I should not be surprised, dead. By cock! when I saw the coach come along, and at or about midnight, I made sure my Ladye was on her way to Willsworthy, to fetch Urith; but when the coach stopped--when it stopped--" again he shuddered. "Whom are you seeking?" asked Mr. Crymes. "Anthony, to be sure, my nephew-in-law. But I say, Justice, thou art a religious man and a bit of a Puritan; now solve me this. When I thought this was my Lady's coach, and that she was about to put out her bony hand, and to wave me to come in, then I swore and protested I'd not touch another drop of drink and be good as any red-letter day saint. Now, as the carriage is not hers, but yours, and instead of the Lady wi' the Ashen Face it is the Right Worshipful Justice Crymes, what say you? Does it hold? Mind you, the oath was taken under misapprehension. Does it hold?" "What is that you say, Master Gibbs, about your niece? Is she really so ill?" "Ill! So ill that I made sure the coach was on its way for her. I've been running about the world all night like the Wandering Jew, to first one ale-house and then another, after Anthony. Confound the fellow! what does he mean, running away, hiding where none can find him, when Urith is so ill?" "What ails her?" asked Mr. Crymes. "Step in by me----" "No. 'Fore Heaven, I don't like the risk. You may be my Lady in disguise, and I may rub my eyes and find that a trick has been put on me, I will into no coach whatever to-night. I will keep to my own feet, though, indeed, they are so shaken with much running about that I can't rely on them. I'll to the surgeon and have him examine them, and let me know why they do not hold up under me as they was wont." "How long has Urith been ill?" "Now, look here!" said Mr. Solomon Gibbs, approaching the window closer, and lowering his voice. "Poor thing, poor thing! Prematurely, and the babe dead--she out of her mind, crazed like--the house upside down, and me running about the country, looking into every alehouse I can call to mind, to make inquiries after Anthony, and not a footprint of him anywhere, and he has gone off with a horse--the apple-grey--you know him." "I can tell thee where Anthony Cleverdon is--he has followed the highest call--the voice of religion and of his country's need. He has ridden away to join the Duke of Monmouth." "Whew!" whistled Solomon. "And his wife like every minute to die! I'll go back and tell her. This is ugly tidings--he tried to give me a blow 'gainst all laws of the game, this past day, but that I forgive him. But to run off and never leave a word at home, and Urith dying! That I'll never forgive." "If I encounter him in the camp I will tell him the tidings; and now I must along. This delay has been great. Wilkey! what are you standing there agape for? Urge the horses on; by this time we should have been at the top of Black Down. Fare thee well, Master Gibbs." He waived his hand out of the window. The whips were cracked, shouts, oaths, and entreaties recommenced, and the vehicle was again in motion. Mr. Solomon Gibbs remained standing. But the carriage had not gone forward many yards before Mr. Gibbs came striding up to the window; he put his head through and said, "Your worship! Are you aware that the boot-flap behind is down?" "Boot--behind!" almost screamed Mr. Crymes. "Let me out! Heigh! Stay the horses! Wilkey! the door!" He scrambled out of the coach, called for the lantern, and ran behind. The flap was down, the boot open--and empty. The coach had been unladen either at the slough at the foot of the hill, or during the commotion occasioned by the discovery of Mr. Solomon Gibbs. CHAPTER XLVI. AN EVENING SO CLEAR. Luke paced his room at the parsonage, Peter Tavy, the greater part of the night. He had much, very much to trouble him. Urith was seriously ill. Mistress Penwarne was with her, otherwise she would have been left to servants who, with the best intentions, might not have known what to do. Her fainting fits had continued one after another, and then had been succeeded by an event which left her in fever and delirium. Luke's hands clenched with wrath as he thought of Anthony--Anthony, to whom had been entrusted the care of this precious jewel, who had undervalued her, wearied of her, neglected her, and broken her heart, perhaps destroyed her young life. He was gone before, indeed, that he suspected how ill Urith was, and unaware of the danger she was in. Luke could not communicate with him, and if he did send a message after him, this might reach him when too late, or when unable to return. Urith's life hung on a thread; and, as Luke paced his room, he could not resolve whether it were better to pray that it should be spared or taken. If her life were spared, it would be to what? To a renewal of misunderstandings, to the greatest of unhappiness, probably to deep-seated, embittered estrangement. Anthony and Urith were unsuited to each other--she sullen, moody, and breaking forth into bursts of passion; he impulsive, reckless, and without consideration for others. Was it conceivable that they could become so tempered and altered as to agree? He did not think this possible, and he folded his hands to pray for her release; but again he shrank from framing such a prayer lest, by making it, he should bring upon himself a sense of guilt, should his petition be answered. What was to become of Urith if she lived? Best of all that Anthony should fall on the battle-field fighting for liberty and his religion. That would ennoble a life that lacked dignity, that had been involved in one disaster after another, that had alienated the hearts most attached--his father's, his own, Luke's, and, lastly, his wife's. But what if it were so? What if Urith were left a widow? Luke's heart gave a leap, and then stood still and grew faint. She would then be free. Dare he--he, Luke--think of her, love her, once more? He had the strength of moral power to think out the situation, and he saw now that it must ever remain impossible that they should unite. He had his sacred calling, that brought on him obligations he dare not cast aside; and Urith's husband must be one to live at Willsworthy, and recover her property from the ruin into which it had fallen by devoting thereto all the energies of his mind and body. Moreover, the radical difference in their characters, in the entire direction of their minds, must separate them, and make them strangers in all that is best and stoutest in the inner nature. No, not even were she left a widow, could Luke draw nearer to her. With his delicate conscientiousness, he took himself to task for having for a moment anticipated such a contingency springing out of the possible death of Anthony. Then Luke turned his thoughts to Bessie, and saw almost as dark a cloud over Hall as that which hung upon Willsworthy. If Anthony and Urith were unsuited for each other, far greater was the difference which existed between Fox and Bessie. Luke knew Fox--knew his unscrupulousness, his greed, his meanness, his moral worthlessness; and he valued no woman he knew higher than he did Bessie, for her integrity, her guilelessness, and self-devotion. By no right could Fox claim the hand of Bessie, for by no possibility could he make her happy. To unite her to him was to ensure the desolation of her whole life, the blighting of all that was beautiful in her. It was to consign her to inevitable heartbreak. She would take an oath to do what was impracticable; she could neither honour nor love such a man as Fox; she would strive to do both, but must fail. Luke vowed that nothing would induce him to pronounce the marriage benediction over their heads. Luke was still up and awake, but kneeling at his table, and with his head in his hands, when a rattle of gravel at his window-panes brought him to his feet with a start, and he went to see who was in want of him. He opened the casement and looked out, to see Mr. Solomon Gibbs below. Luke descended and unfastened the door. "Is Urith worse?" was his breathless question. "Whew! I can say nothing," answered Mr. Gibbs. "I am cold. Always dullest before dawn, it is said, and daybreak cannot be a bowshot off. What dost think? High-way robbery on Black Down--this night Justice Crymes plundered whilst on his way to Exeter in his glass coach. The rascals prised open the boot behind, and though there were six men with the carriage, no one either saw the robber or heard him at work. It must have been done whilst they were urging the horses up the ascent; but it is passing strange. The highwayman must have been mounted, for he could not have escaped with the plundered goods had he not bestrid a horse. How it was done, when it was done, by whom, no one can tell anything, and by cock they're all talking, and every one has an opinion." "Where is Mr. Crymes now?" "Gone on. He was as one distraught--what with losing his money, and the call of the business he was on." "His money taken!" "Ay, and more than his own--in all about four hundred pounds, that was to be conveyed to the Duke of Monmouth at Taunton. He told me about it, as I have to go to Mr. Cleverdon about it, and see that the neighbourhood be searched for footpads. It must have been done quickly, for Fox rode behind the carriage, and now and then alongside it, to the rise of Black Down, when he turned and went back to Kilworthy. 'Twas dexterously done, and must have been the deed of a skilled hand. Now, what I am come here for is that I do not care myself to go to Squire Cleverdon. There has not been pleasantness between him and my family, so seeing your light, I came here to ask you to do the matter. Tell him that steps must be taken to have the neighbourhood searched for strangers--strangers they must be. We've none here could do the trick; all honest folk. And I can be of better service going round to the ale-houses. I am well known there, and there I can pick up information that may be of use. Every cobbler to his bench, and that is mine. Will you go to Hall as soon as you can in the morning?" "I will do so, certainly. Now tell me about Urith." "Urith! I cannot. I have not seen her; nor been near Willsworthy since you came away. I have been going about the country, to the taverns looking for Anthony, and not hearing any tidings of him." "I can tell you where he is." "I know myself now. Squire Crymes informed me that he had ridden across the moor towards Exeter, also bound for Taunton. Let me sit down. Nothing can be done yet; every one sleeps. The Hare and Hounds at Cudliptown will be closed. Do you hap to have any cider that can be got at? I am dry as old hay." Mr. Gibbs took a seat. "Lord, I have had a day," said he, "enough to parch up all the juices of the body. There was the affair with Tony to begin with, and I should not be surprised if the cut of the single-stick he gave her----" "What!" exclaimed Luke, with a cry. "He strike her!" "Well--not that, exactly. He and I were playing at single-sticks, when he gave me a cut out of all rules, and might have laid my skull bare had not Urith caught it on her hand. I doubt not it stung. It must have stung, and that may have begun the trouble. No--he never ill-treated her to that extent, intentionally, but they have not been happy together, and she has been very miserable of late." Luke sighed, and said nothing. He had covered his face with his hand. "Poor wench!" continued Uncle Sol, "she has no pleasure in anything now--that is to say, she has not for some while, not even in my stories and songs. Everything has gone contrary. Anthony has found fault with all I do--has complained of the state of the farm and the buildings, as if I could better matters without money. He has been discontented with everything, and Urith has seen it and fretted over it, and now things are at their worst; he is away; she dying, if not dead; and, Heavens help us--here, have you any cider? I am dried up with troubles." "Come!" said Luke, "I can bear to be here no longer; I will go with you to Willsworthy; I must know how Urith is. I cannot endure this uncertainty longer." Luke walked to Willsworthy with Mr. Gibbs, who was somewhat reluctant to pass Cudliptown without knocking up the taverner of the Hare and Hounds to tell him what had happened that night on Black Down, and to obtain from him a little refreshment before he traversed the last stage of his walk. The grey of dawn appeared over the eastern ridge of moors by the time Willsworthy was reached, and the birds were beginning to pipe and cry. No one had gone to bed that night in the house, a rush-light was burning in the hall, unregarded, a long column of red-hot snuff. The front door was open. Mr. Gibbs strode into the kitchen, and found a servant-maid there dozing on the settle. He sent her upstairs to call Mrs. Penwarne down, and the old lady descended. When she saw Luke, she was glad, and begged him to come upstairs with her and see Urith. It was possible that his presence might calm her. She was excited, wandering in mind, and troubled with fancies. Luke mounted to the room where Urith was. By the single candle contending with the grey advancing light of dawn he saw her, and was alarmed at her condition. Her face was pale as death, save for two flames in her cheeks, and her eyes, unusually large, had a feverish fire in them. She was sitting up. Mrs. Penwarne had striven all night to induce her to lie down, but Urith incessantly struggled to rise, and she had taken advantage of her nurse's absence to do so. Luke went to her side and spoke. She looked up at him with hot eyes, and without token of recognition. "I have killed him," she said. "I did it so!"--she raised her hand, clenched it, and struck downwards, imitating the action of Fox. "He fell on the hearthstone, as mother said he would, and then I tried to strike him again, and again, but was torn away." She began to grapple in the air with uplifted hands--"Where is the knife? Where are the gloves? That for Urith!" Luke took her burning right hand, and said, "Lie down, lie down and sleep. You must be very quiet, you must not distress yourself. Anthony is well." "Anthony is dead. I killed him. And my baby is dead. They killed it, because I had killed Anthony." "Anthony is alive, he is but little hurt." "Where is he? You have carried him away and buried him. I know he is dead. Why does he not come if he is not dead. I am sure he is dead. Look!"--she again struggled with her hand to be free, and show how the blow was struck--"Look! You shall see how I did it!" "No--Urith, lie down! Hush! I will pray with you." Luke knelt at her side, but she turned her head impatiently away. "I will not be prayed for. I cannot pray. I killed him. I am glad I killed him, he was untrue to me. He had always loved Julian, and he grew tired of me. I killed him. I would not give him up. Julian should not have him back." "Listen--I will pray." "It is of no use. I do not regret that I struck him--I struck him to the heart. Answer me. Is there forgiveness if there be no repentance?" She looked eagerly, almost fiercely, at Luke, who did not know what to answer. She was, it seemed to him, partly conscious, but partly only, of what had taken place--to be in a state of half dream. She knew him, she could reason, but she believed herself to have done that which was done actually by Fox Crymes. "There!" she exclaimed, and threw back her head on the pillow. "It cannot be. I am glad I killed him. I could not do other. He brought it on himself. He was untrue to me. He loved Julian all his life, all but for a little while, when he fancied me. But you--you gave him to me at the altar. He could not remain mine. He was drawn away. But I could not let Julian have him. She defied me--it was a fair strife. She won up to a certain point, then I won the last point. Look! I will show you how I did it." Once more she strove to sit up in the bed, and raised her hand, and clenched it. "Do not be afraid. I have no knife now. They have taken it away to wash off the blood. I have heard them cleaning it. But my hand has the stain. That they cannot clean away. I had his blood on me once before--at the Drift. But then I did not know what that meant. See--this is how I did it. Here is a feather, a feather from my pillow. That will do. I will let you see how I killed him. I will strike him with the feather. Then take that and clean it too." Luke held her wrist, and gently forced her back on her pillow. "Urith!" he said, "leave him to God. Commit the matter to God. Do not take the revenging of your wrongs, real or fancied, into your own hands." She allowed him to compose her for a moment, and closed her eyes. But presently opened them again, and they were as full of fire as before. "All is to pieces," she said, "all is broken, and Anthony broke it. Look here!" she plucked at her neck, and drew forth the halved token that was suspended there. "Look, he gave me this--but it was false. He has only given me one half, he has given the other to Julian. If she comes here, I will put my hand in between the ribbon and her throat and throttle her. Then there will be three dead--Anthony and my baby and she; and I will die next. I hope I shall. I long to die." "You must not desire death, it is sinful." "But I do; I have nothing to live for. I have killed Anthony, and my baby is dead; they say it was born dead. Then I will kill Julian. Look! you shall see how I killed Anthony." Again she struggled to sit up. Luke rose from his knees, and said, peremptorily, "Lie down." She obeyed, and he laid his cool hand on her burning temples. Below could be heard Solomon Gibbs tuning his fiddle, and then playing a few snatches. Urith began to struggle under Luke's hands. "Do you hear? He is playing Anthony's song. Let him play it out and sing it also." Mrs. Penwarne went to the head of the stairs and told Mr. Gibbs the request of Urith; then he put the violin to his chin and played: An evening so clear I would that I were To kiss thy soft cheek With the faintest of air. The star that is twinkling So brightly above, I would that I were To en-lighten my love. He played very softly, and as he played the words of the song formed and passed faintly over Urith's lips. She may have recalled that evening when Anthony sang it, coming up the hill, and so was carried away from the torturing present back into a pleasant past. If I were the seas, That about the world run, I'd give thee my pearls, Not retaining of one. If I were the summer, With flowers and green, I'd garnish thy temples, And would crown thee my queen. She was quieter, lying with eyes closed, murmuring the words as Uncle Sol played in the room below. If I were a kiln, All in fervour and flame, I'd catch thee, and then be Consumed in--the--same. Luke lightly raised his hand, and put his finger to his lip. Urith was asleep. CHAPTER XLVII. IN THE HALL GARDEN. Bessie was in the garden, the following afternoon, with scissors and an apron pinned up, trimming her flowers, yet with her mind away from the plants; she was unhappy on her own account, yet strove after resignation, and she felt the consciousness of having done right in sacrificing herself for her father. He must now behave more kindly towards her; be more ready to listen to her intercession for poor Anthony. Poor Anthony! she had heard that morning that he was gone, gone to extreme risk, and that Urith was in danger. She had resolved that now she must go to Willsworthy and see her sister-in-law, and be of what use to her she could. Her father could no longer forbid that. Even if he did, in that she would not obey him. She was stooping over her plants, with tears in her eyes, snipping, picking off dead flowers and leaves, and tying up the carnations, when she heard behind her the voice of Fox. "What!--busy?" She winced, but rose, and with a little hesitation, held out her hand to him. "Yes," she said, "I must do something with my hands to keep my thoughts from resting on troubles." "Troubles! what troubles?" Bessie gave him a look of reproach. "I must feel anxious about my brother, and also for Urith. How is it that you did not go as well as your father and my Anthony, to draw a sword for the good cause?" "You ask that? Why, you are my attraction. I cannot leave you to venture my precious life in crack-brain undertakings. Before either of them returns, I suppose we shall be married." "I am ready to fulfil my promise at any time," said Bessie. "The sooner the better. Your father has already sent a messenger for a licence. I shall not rest till you are mine." Bessie knew that what Fox desired was to have his foot in Hall, and be established there in the position of heir, and that his pretence of caring for her was hollow. A colour came into her cheeks like the carnations she was tying up. "Enough of that," she said; "you know the conditions on which I take you?" "Conditions! On my soul I know of none." "I told you that I did not love you, that I never had felt any love for you." "You had the frankness to inform me of that, and to say that you had thrown your heart away on some one else, who declined the gift altogether." Bessie bowed her head over her flowers. "Yes, you told me that as we walked in the mud on the road; and then you refused me, but changed your mind before many hours had passed. I have no doubt that, when I am your husband, you will learn to love and admire me. However, this is no condition." "No condition?" asked Bessie, rising, and looking him in the face. "Surely it is. I will take you, as you insist on it, and as my father desires it; but it must be on the understanding that you do not ask of me at once what is not in my power to give, I will try to love you, I promise you. I will strive with my whole heart to give you all I undertake; but I cannot do that at once." "Oh! you call that a condition. It is well. I accept it." There was a veiled sneer in his tone. "Then, again," continued Bessie, "I made my father promise, if I gave my consent, that he would try to forgive Anthony." "What!--forgive and reinstate him?" asked Fox, sharply. "There was nothing said about reinstating him. I suppose that my father and you have talked about Hall, and everything that concerns the property, and that you understand the circumstances fully." "To be sure I do," said Fox. "Then, of course, I said nothing to him about reinstating Anthony, except in his old place in my father's heart. I believe that he will, himself, be glad to forgive the past. He cannot have cast out all the old love for, and pride in Anthony." "And he has promised that?" "He has promised to try and forgive him. And now, Fox--I mean Tony Crymes--you are ready to take me, knowing that I do not love you, and can only try to render you that love which will be due from a wife to a husband?" "Oh, yes! I take you as you are." Of course he would. It was indifferent to him whether Elizabeth loved him or not, so long as his ambition and greed were satisfied. "You see, Bess, I have a sharp tongue, and have made many enemies with it, who say in return sharp things of me, but with this difference--I say these things to their faces, they malign me behind my back. When we are married you will know me better, and not believe all you hear said of me." Bessie slightly shook her head, and stooped again over her carnations. "There is one thing further," she said; "you must help me to persuade my father to be completely reconciled to Anthony." "To be sure I will," answered Fox. "You want to see how good a fellow I am, in spite of all that is said of me. Here, take my hand, in token that I will do all you ask of me." He gave her a cold, moist hand. "And you promise me," she said, taking it, "on your honour that you will stand by me and back me up when I try to bring Anthony and my father together once more on the old terms?" His mistrust was roused, and he did not answer at once. Her frank grey eyes rested full on his face, and his eyes fell before her steady glance. "I will do what you will," he said; "but I do not suppose that your father will prove as wax in our hands, to mould as we like. Anthony has too deeply offended him, and Urith he will never see." They dropped hands, for at that moment Julian entered the garden. "I will go, see your father at once, and make trial in this matter," said he. "You will find him in his room; he is looking at some papers." Fox walked away, giving Julian a nod and a sneer as he passed, and entered the house. Julian came hastily up to Bess. "My dear Bessie! Is it true? Are you really going to take my brother? It cannot--it must not be. It is intolerable to be in the house with him when one is master, and he there only on sufferance; but to have him lord superior, and to be his slave!" Julian shivered. "It is settled. I have passed my word, and I will not withdraw it." "Bess! And after the lesson you have had from Anthony!" "How a lesson, Julian?" "Why, dear child, a lesson that it does not answer to marry without love." "Surely, Julian, there was love there, on both sides." "Oh! love! A passing caprice. Do you not know that Anthony always loved me? Why has he gone off to join the Duke of Monmouth? Do you suppose it is because he cares so greatly for the Protestant cause? Nay, wench, it is that he may escape from me--and from the sight of Urith. I am dangerous, Urith is odious to him. Better be where balls are flying than where my eyes flash with temptation and Urith's dart with jealousy." "Julian! how canst thou speak thus?" Bessie stepped back from her visitor, without offering to take her extended hands. "Nay! do not be so offended. What I speak is the truth, and it all comes of marrying where there is no true affection. I am holding up thy brother as a warning to thee. Dost think that Fox cares a rush for thee? Not half a rush--all he looks to is Hall; he takes thee because he cannot have Hall without thee; and to have Hall is double pleasure to him, for he will have the place as his own, spiced with the satisfaction of having robbed his friend of it." "I cannot help myself. I have passed my word, and stand to it." "Look how things are now at Willsworthy. There is Urith dying, maybe; and Anthony far away. I hope she may die. It is best so, for she will have no happiness any more with Anthony. He is weary of her, he has found out that he cannot find his rest in her, his heart is with me. It has come back to me. It flew away a little while, and now it has returned. Anthony is mine. He does not belong any more to Urith." "Shame on you!" said Bessie. "But I am glad you have spoken on this matter. You have acted sinfully, you have striven to turn Anthony from his duty." "I have done so. Urith and I have wrestled a hitch together, and I have given her the turn, a fair back--three points. That is what she knows, and she is eating her heart out at the thought." "Do you know what has happened? Urith has become a mother of a dead child." "Is it so?" Julian was startled and changed colour. She had not heard this, she only knew that Urith was ill. "She is in high fever and derangement of mind. If you have driven Anthony away, driven him to his death in the battle-field, and Urith also dies, then there will be the lives of all three you will be answerable for. It may be that Anthony was too hasty in marrying Urith, but once married, you should have left him alone. I do not believe, Julian, that he ever loved you. No, you may look at me in anger and doubt, but I am sure of it; I am his sister, I have seen and heard him, and if you fancy that he ever loved you, you are utterly in error. He never did. He never loved any girl till he saw Urith. She was his first love, not you. No, you never stirred his heart. He liked you. It flattered his vanity to see that you admired, almost worshipped him, but love you he did not. No, Julian, never--never! Urith was his first love, and, please God! will remain his only love." Julian Crymes turned deadly white, and clenched her hands against her bosom. "I saw what you were doing at that dance at the Cakes. Then you strove to draw him from his wife--then you threw the seeds of mistrust into her heart! You played a cruel and wicked game. But do not think, even although you may for a while have lured Anthony away from his wife, that you will separate them for ever. No! She was his first love, and to her he will return with redoubled love when this misunderstanding, this estrangement, is at an end--that is to say, if they live." Bessie did not speak reproachfully, but sadly. "Julian, you have been thoughtless, not malicious. I can tell you what the end will be, if Anthony do come back and find Urith dead. He will not go to you, and throw himself at your feet. No; he will hate you with a hatred that will be lasting as his life. He will look on you as--if not his wife's murderer--at all events, as one who engalled the last hours of her life--who drew briars and thorns between them, tearing their hearts when they last met. What passed between them I cannot say; but something must have--something terrible--to account for her present condition, and for his absence. You are answerable for that. Your thoughtlessness, and Anthony's love of flattery, have contrived to ruin a home. Anthony and Urith might have been happy parents of a sweet, innocent little one, who would have bowed the heart of his grandfather, and wiped off it all the rust that has gathered there. That little life, with all it might have been to itself, or to others, is destroyed--by you! You and Anthony broke the heart of Urith, and brought about what has taken place. You cannot give back the little life--you cannot mend the wreckage of happiness you have brought about. Pray to God to have pity on you, and forgive you your sins!" "I have no cause to repent," answered Julian; but she did not speak with her old confidence, and she spoke with veiled eyes, resting on the gravel of the walk. "I am sorry Urith is ill. I am sorry that she and Anthony are disappointed in their hopes. I have always loved Anthony. There is no sin in that. If Urith succeeded in drawing him away from me to whom he was all but assured, must I not feel it? May I not resent it? She stole him from me, and the blessing at the altar does not hallow her theft." "What are you saying!" exclaimed Bessie, fixing her eyes on Julian. "Is it not a sin to love a man who has sworn before heaven that he will be true to one, and one only, and that not yourself? Is it not a sin to endeavour to make him false to his oaths?" "I cannot force him to be true to Urith, and to love her. You are going to marry Fox. You will swear to love and honour him, and you know you can do neither. You will swear and be false to your oath, for it is an impossibility to keep it. Anthony swore, but he could not keep his oath, he found out that he had make a mistake----" "You tried to persuade him that he had. Be sure he will return to Urith with tenfold deeper, sincerer love, and will bitterly rue that he let himself be deluded by you." Julian stood brooding, with her eyes on the ground. She recalled how Anthony had brushed out her initials linked with his, and interwoven in their place his own with those of Urith. "There," said she, hastily, "I came here for something else than to be judged and condemned by you." "I neither judge nor condemn you," answered Bessie, "but I tell you the truth. Anthony can never be yours, not even if Urith dies. He never did love you." Julian stamped. "You do not know--he did, and I loved him." "What token did he give that he cared for you?--answer me now." "I loved him, I love him still. In love all is fair. If I thought he did not love me----" "Well," said Bessie, "what?" She looked steadily into Julian's eyes. "I would dash my head against the stones, and kill thought for ever." CHAPTER XLVIII. A WEDDING DAY. The marriage took place so speedily after the report of the engagement as to take every one by surprise; for everywhere a wedding is expected to be much discussed and prepared for beforehand. In the case of Fox and Bessie, all was over almost as soon as it was known to be in the air. No great ceremony was made of it. Indeed, there was not time to make great preparations; nor did Squire Cleverdon care for display, or, on this occasion, for expense. His one desire was to have it over, and Fox settled in his house, for his affairs were causing him the utmost alarm--they were gathering to a crisis. It was with them but a matter of days; and, unless Fox were married to Bessie before the crisis arrived and became known, it was possible that the engagement, on which now all his hopes for the salvation of the property hung, might be broken off. The licence was obtained, and almost simultaneously came the grant from the Garter King of Arms, and Clarenceaux King of Arms, "of the South, East, and West parts of England, from the River Trent southwards," to the effect that "whereas His Majesty, by warrant under his Royal Signet and Sign Manual, had signified to the Most Noble the Earl Marshal that he had been graciously pleased to give and to grant unto Anthony Crymes, Gent., son and heir apparent to Fernando Crymes, Esquire," the licence to bear henceforth the arms and name of Cleverdon, in lieu of that of Crymes; that therefore a patent to this effect was issued, etc. Consequently, Anthony Crymes was married, not in his paternal name, but in that which he had acquired. The day was grey and sunless, with a raw northeast wind blowing. Bessie returned, after the marriage, to the house where she had been born, and Fox came with her. She went to her old room, and there laid aside her wedding-dress, and then came quietly down the stairs into her father's chamber, where she patiently awaited him. The old man had been giving orders without, and she heard his voice in the passage. She had not long to wait before he came in. He looked at her with lifted eyebrows, and took off his hat, and asked what she wanted there. "One word with you, dear father," said she, gently. "Very well; make haste--I am busy. There is much to see to to-day. Where is Fox?" He threw himself into his armchair, and crossed his feet. "Father," said Bessie, "I have done what you desired, and with this day a new life begins with me. I have come to ask your pardon for any grief, annoyance, or trouble I may have at any time caused you. I also ask you to forgive me for having opposed your wishes at first when you wanted me to marry Fox. I did not then understand your reasons. But it has been a hard thing for me to submit. I dare say, dear father, you can have no idea how hard it has been for me. Now I have sworn to love Fox, and I will try my best to do so." "Oh, love! love!" said the old man; "that is a mere word. You will get accustomed to each other, as I am to this chair." "That may be. And yet--there is love--love that is more than a word. I suppose you loved my mother." The old man made a deprecatory motion with his hand. "Oh! father, without love in the house, how sad life is! I ought to know that, for I have had but little love shown me by you. Do not think I reproach you," she said, hastily, a little colour mounting into her pale face; "but I have felt the want of what, perhaps, I was not worthy to receive." "Come--come!" said the old man; "I have no time for such talk that leads to nothing." "But it must lead to something," urged Bessie; "for that very reason have I come here. You know, my dear father, that you made me a promise when I gave my consent, and I come now to remind you of it." "I made no promise," said the old man, impatiently. "Indeed, father, you did; and on the strength of that promise I found the force to conquer my own heart, and make the sacrifice you required of me." "Oh, sacrifice! sacrifice!" sneered Squire Cleverdon. "I have been a cruel father, to be sure; I have required you to offer yourself up as a victim! Pshaw! You keep your home--it becomes doubly yours--you get a husband, and retain your own name of Cleverdon. What more do you require? It is a sacrifice to become heiress of Hall! Good faith! Your brother would give his ears for such a sacrifice as this. Go and get ready for the guests." "I cannot go from you, father," answered Elizabeth, with gentleness, and yet, withal, with firmness. "I should be doing an injustice to myself, to my brother, and to you, were I not now to speak out. There was a compact made between us. I promised to take him whom you had determined on for me because it was your wish, and because it was necessary for the saving of the estate. I suppose Fox made it a condition. He would not help you out of your difficulties unless I gave him my hand." "Fox knows nothing about them." "What!" Bessie turned the colour of chalk. "Father! you do not mean what you say? He has been told all. He is aware that the mortgage is called in, and must be paid." The old man fidgetted in his chair; he could not look his daughter in the face. He growled forth: "You wenches! what do you understand of business--of money concerns--mortgages, and the like? Say what you have to say and be gone, but leave these money-matters on one side." "I cannot, father," exclaimed Bessie, with fluttering heart; "I cannot, indeed, father. Is it so that Fox has been drawn on to take me without any knowledge of how matters stand with regard to the property?" "All properties are burdened more or less with debts. He knows that. He does not keep his wits in his pocket. I have told him nothing, but he must know that there are mortgages. Show me the estate without them. But there, I will not speak of this matter with you; if you will not leave the room, I shall." He half rose in his seat. "Very well, father, no more of that now. Time will show whether he was aware of, or suspected the condition Hall is in; and I trust that he may not then have to reproach you or me. That is not what I desired to speak of when I came here. I came about Anthony." "I know but one Anthony Cleverdon, and he is your husband." "I came in behalf of my brother and your very flesh and blood, which Fox is not. Father, you must--you must indeed suffer me to pour out my heart before you." He growled and turned uneasily in his chair, and began to scrape the floor with his heel. His brows were knit, and his lips close set. "Father," said Bessie, with her clear, steady eyes on him, "you speak of love as empty air, but it is not so. What but love induced me to submit myself to your will? I love you. To me Hall is nothing; a cottage with love in it, where I might sit at your feet and kiss your hand, were a thousand times dearer to me than this new, cold house, where all is hard, and love does not settle to live." She drew a long breath. "I love you, therefore I have bowed myself before you; and I love Anthony, and for his sake I have made the greatest sacrifice any mortal can make. I have given my life up to another, whom as yet I can neither love nor respect, that I might by so doing obtain from you pardon for my brother." "A fine pattern of love Anthony has shown!" "Father, there is great sorrow and sickness in his house, and he is far away, venturing his life for a cause that he thinks right. He may never return. His babe is dead, his wife ill. See what misery there is hanging over him! Nothing but my love for my brother, my desire to see him again in your arms, has kept me here. When I was plagued about Fox--that is to say, when I first heard about him as seeking me--I had resolved never to marry him, and rather than marry him, I would have run away to Anthony; he would have taken me in. But I thought of you alone in this house, deserted by both your children, and I thought that by staying here I might do something for Anthony, find a proper time for speaking in his favour, and so I stayed; and then, father, when you told me in what peril the property stood, when I saw what agony of mind was yours, when I thought that with the break down of the whole ambition of your life, your grey hairs would certainly be bowed to the dust--then I conquered myself and gave up my will to yours. There is love that is more than a mere word, it is a mighty force, and oh! father, I would that you knew more of it! Father, you--your own self--have suffered most of all through your lack of love. I have seen how the consequences of your harshness towards Anthony have fallen on you, and you have suffered. I dare say you may have loved him, but I think, as you say love is nought but a word, that you can have had only pride in him, and not love--for love suffereth long and is kind. He rebelled against you because you showed him pride--not love. He offended your ambition because you had set your heart on his taking Julian and winning with her Kilworthy; he embittered your heart because he married the daughter of a man that was your enemy. What has been wounded in you has been ambition, not love. Well, Anthony has done wrong. He ought to have considered you. He has ill repaid you all that was lavished upon him from infancy. But, father, if you had given him love, instead of setting your ambition on him, it would not have been so light a matter for him to resist your will. I feel his conduct more than do you. It is because of him that I have married Fox. I have loved and cared for him since he was an infant, as though I were his mother as well as his sister. I promised my mother and his to be his guardian angel, and I have been what I could to him, and now, dutiful to my promise to her and my love of him, and my desire for your own happiness, I have given up myself. So now, father, accept the sacrifice I have made, and forgive Anthony his inconsiderate offence against you." The old man felt rather than saw that she was nearing him with extended hands, with tearful eyes fixed entreatingly on him. He thought how he had almost gone on his knees to her to obtain her consent to marry Fox, and he was ashamed of his temporary weakness, the outcome of his distress; now he thought he must compensate for this weakness by obstinate perseverance in his old course. "Now, Bess," said he, roughly, "no more of this. What I did promise that I will keep. I did not undertake to forgive Anthony. I never--no, not for one instant--gave way to your intercession for that girl--that Urith. Her I will never forgive!" "What, father! Not if she dies?" "No, never! not if she dies!" "Then how can you expect forgiveness for your transgressions? Father, consider that it was not her will to marry Anthony. It was his. You taught him to be headstrong, self-willed, imperious. You taught him to deny himself nothing that he wished. He acted on the teaching you gave, and yourself is answerable for the result." The old man drew back in his armchair and clenched his hands on the arm of the seat, so that the tendons stood out as taut strings, and the dark veins were puffed with blood. "Father! You have now a son-in-law, taking the place in the house that should have been--that was--Anthony's. He takes his place, occupies his seat, wears his very name. Compare the two. Which is the most worthy representative of the Cleverdons, of whom you are so proud? Which is the finest man--the tall, strong, splendidly-built Tony, your own son, with his handsome face and honest eyes, or this other Anthony--this Fox who has stolen into his lair? Which is the better in heart? Tony, with all his faults, has a thousand good qualities. He has been vain, self-willed, and self-indulgent, but all this came on him from outside; you and I, and all who had to do with him, nurtured these evil qualities. But in his inner heart he is sound, and true, and good. What is Fox? What good do we know of Fox? Will anything make of him a generous and open-hearted man?" It seemed to Bessie as though the hands of her father that clenched the chair-arms were trembling. He moved his fingers restlessly; and for a moment she caught his eye, and thought she saw in it a tender look. She threw her arms about him, and, stooping, kissed the backs of his hands. It was the first time she had dared to kiss him. He thrust her from him. "Pshaw!" said he. "Do you suppose I am to be cajoled against my judgment?" "Is that all you have to say?" asked Bessie, drawing back. "No, father, you shall not put me off. I will not be put off. I have won a right to insist on what I ask being heard and granted." "Indeed!" He looked up at her with recovered hardness in his eye, and with his hands nerved to the same icy grip. "Indeed! You have acquired a right over me?" "I have, father. I will be heard!" "Very well; I hold to what I promised. Perhaps," he laughed bitterly, "perhaps I may think of the possibility of Anthony obtaining my forgiveness. Yes," said he, as a sudden access of better feeling rushed over him, as in his mind's eye the form of his handsome son rose up before him; "yes, let him come to me as the prodigal son, and speak like the prodigal, and desert his swine-husks, and then I will kill the fatted calf and bring forth the ring." Still the same. He could see no fault in himself--no error in his treatment of his son. Bessie would have answered, but that the door was thrust open, and in came Fox, agitated, angry, alarmed. "What is the meaning of this?" he shouted, addressing the Squire, regardless of the presence of Bessie. "What is this about? Here is that fellow--that man from Exeter--here again at the door, with two others--and----" "And what?" "He says they are bailiffs, come to take possession." "What! to-day! Then, son-in-law, you must pay them off. I cannot. Save Hall for yourself." CHAPTER XLIX. THE PIGEON-COTE. "What is the meaning of this?" asked Fox. "Are these wedding-guests invited to help to make merry?" Old Cleverdon looked at Fox, then at the door, in which, behind his son-in-law, entered the stranger from Exeter. "This is Master French," said the Squire. "I do not care what be his name, but what his business?" said Fox, rudely. "Come in, Master French, and let us have this load winnowed. You had better go." The last words were addressed to Bessie. "This is what I have come about," said the stranger, entering: "The bill for foreclosure has been filed; and, unless the mortgage-money be paid within fourteen days, then, Master Cleverdon, you stand absolutely debarred and precluded from all rights, title, suit, and equity of redemption in or to the premises, which thenceforth become the absolute property of the mortgagee." "And this," exclaimed Fox--"this is the meaning of my being constituted heir to Hall! Come, Squire, you must take me into council; for, please to know that now you have hooked me into your family and house, I must eat off the same trencher as you. You don't suppose I married Bess for her beauty, do you? What have you there?" The old man had gone to his desk, and unlocked it. Fox pressed after him, put his hand on his shoulder, and thrust him aside. "Let me see your accounts, your mortgages, and whatever you have beside stuffed into that cabinet of mysteries." "Is there no means of raising the requisite money?" asked French. "Times are bad; but--still money is to be had somewhere. You must have friends and relatives who can help." "Relatives--none," said the old man. "Friends--I have but Justice Crymes." "And he is away," said Fox, looking over his shoulder "Away, putting his head into a noose." "You have a fortnight," said French. "I was sorry for you, but--I must perform my duty. If in a fortnight the sum be not forthcoming----" "A pretty sum it is!" shouted Fox, who had got hold of the mortgage. "And this is what my father is to be cajoled into finding? That is the meaning of all the hurry and scramble of the marriage?" "I have debts due to me, but I cannot get the money in--in time," said old Cleverdon. "If not in time, then as well never," said Fox. "Come, you French, tell me all about it." The stranger--an attorney from Exeter--looked at Mr. Cleverdon, who nodded his head. He knew that eventually the whole matter must be made known to his son-in-law, but he had not reckoned on it coming to a crisis so soon. Mr. French plainly stated all the circumstances. A large sum had been borrowed on the property some years ago when purchased by Anthony Cleverdon, the elder, and this sum had been called in. His client, the mortgagee, was dead, and the executors were resolved, obliged, in fact, to realise the estate, and could not be put off. Mr. Cleverdon had been given due notice, and had neglected to attend to it; the mortgage money had not been paid, consequently a bill had been filed in Chancery, and unless the entire sum were forthcoming within fourteen days, the Cleverdons would have to leave the place, which would pass over to the executors, who would sell it. Fox followed what was said with close attention, and without interruption. The only token of his feelings was the contraction and twitching of his hard sandy eyelashes. When Mr. French ceased speaking, he laughed aloud, hoarsely and hysterically, and became deadly white. His eyes turned to old Cleverdon, and with lips curled and livid over his teeth, he looked at him in speechless rage for some minutes. He was like a mean and angry beast, driven to bay, and watching his opportunity to fly out and bite. Then all at once, with a voice half in a scream, half-choked, he poured forth reproaches on the Squire. "By heaven! I did suppose that no one could get the better of me; but I had not reckoned on the craft of an old country farmer, in whom sharp dealing has gone down from father to son, and roguery has been an heritage never parted with, never diminished, always bettered with each generation. And I have had to take this scurvy name of Cleverdon so as to involve me in the disgrace of the family, and mated with it to a maid with an ugly face and no wit--all to get me entangled so that I must with my own hands pull the Cleverdons--the Cleverdons," he sneered and spat on the floor, "pull with my hands, these Cleverdons out of the ditch into which they have tumbled, or lie down and be swallowed up in the mire with them. I will not do it. I will neither help you nor go into the dirt with you. I will leave you to yourselves, and laugh till my sides crack when you are turned out of the house. Where will you go--you and your beggarly daughter? Shall I see if there be room in the poorhouse at Peter Tavy? Listen!" he screamed and turned to the attorney, "listen to what this man, this old grey-haired rascal has done. He comes of a breed of sheep-dealers, accustomed to get a wether between the knees and sheer her; got horny hands from the plough-tail, boots that smell of the stables, arms accustomed to heave the dung-fork--this is what they have been, and he goes and buys Hall with other folks' money, and buys himself a coat of arms with other folks' money, and builds a mansion in place of his old tumble-about-the-ears farmhouse with other folks' money, and puts what money he will into the hands of that brag and bombast talker, his son, to humble and insult the young gentles of good blood and name--and, mark you, it is other folks' money--and then--then he offers to make me his heir if I will take his daughter, whom no one else will look at and give a thank-you for, and assume his name--his name that reeks of the stable-yard. When I do so, then I find I am heir to nothing but beggary!" He shrieked with rage, and held out his hands threateningly at the old man. The Squire became at first purple with rage; he rose from his seat slowly. His eyes glittered like steel. He was not the man to be spoken to in this manner, to be insulted in himself and his family! His hand clenched. Old though he was, his sinews were tough and his hands were heavy. Fox came at him with head down between his shoulders, his sharp chin extended, his hand like the claws of a hawk catching the air. The attorney stepped between them, or father and son-in-law would have done each other an injury. He laid hold of Fox by the shoulder and thrust him back, and bade him cease from profitless abuse of an unfortunate man, who was, moreover, his father, and to collect his thoughts, consider the situation, and decide whether he and his father would find the money and save Hall. "Find the money!" said Fox. "Do you not hear that my father is away on a fool's errand, gone to join the rebels; was taking them money, several hundreds of pounds, when he was robbed by the way." He burst into harsh, hysterical laughter once more. "My father will not be home for a fortnight if he does come home at all. How am I to find the money? Kilworthy is not mine. It belongs to my sister." "Cannot your sister assist you?" "She would not if she could, but she can touch nothing, it is held in trust, and my father is trustee. Let Hall go, and the Cleverdons along with it. What care I?" "You are now yourself a Cleverdon," retorted the Squire. "By heavens," gasped Fox, "that I--that I should be outwitted, and by you!" Then he swung through the door and disappeared. The old man remained standing with clenched hands for some minutes. The sweat had broken out on his brow, his grey hair, smoothed for the wedding ceremony, had bristled with rage and shame, and become entangled and knotted on his head. If it had not been for the convulsive twitching of the corners of the mouth, he might have been supposed a statue. Presently he put his hands down on the arms of his chair, and slowly let himself sink into the seat. The colour died out of his cheeks and from his brow, and he became ashen in hue. His hands rested on the chair-arms, motionless. His lips moved as though he were speaking to himself; and he was so--he was repeating the insolent words--the words wounding to his pride, to his honour, that had been shot at him from the envenomed heart of Fox; and these hurt him more than the thoughts of the disaster that menaced. "Do not be overcome by his spite," said French. "He is disappointed, and his disappointment has made him speak words he will regret. He must and will help you. My clients would not deal harshly with you--they respect you, but are forced to act. They do not want your estate but their money--that they are compelled to call together. If this young gentleman be your son-in-law and heir, it is his interest to save the property, and he will do it if he can. His father can be found in a couple of days, and when found can be induced to lend the money, if he has the means at his disposal. Perhaps in a week all will be right." Squire Cleverdon did not speak. "And now," said French, "with your consent I will refresh myself, and leave you to your own thoughts. It is a pity that you did not take steps earlier to save yourself." "I could not--I could not. I was ashamed to ask of any one. I thought, that is, I never thought the demand was serious." Fox had gone forth to the stable to saddle a horse; finding no one about in the yard, he seated himself on the corn-box, and remained lost in thought, biting his nails. All the men connected with the farm were in the kitchen having cake and ale, and drinking the health of the bride heartily, and secretly confusion to the bridegroom, whom they detested, both for his own character, which was pretty generally judged, and also, especially, because he had stepped into the place and name of their beloved young Anthony, who, though he had tyrannised over them, was looked up to, and liked by all. All was silent in the stable save for the stamp occasionally of a horsehoof and the rattle of the halters at the mangers. Bessie's grey was nearest to Fox, and the beast occasionally turned her head and looked at him out of her clear, gentle eyes. Fox put his sharp elbows on his knees, and drove his fingers through his thin red hair. He was in a dilemma. He was married to Bessie, and adopted into the family. As the old man had said to him, he was now a Cleverdon. It had cost him a large sum to obtain this privilege, and he could not resume his patronymic without the cost of a fresh grant from the College of Arms. Moreover, that would not free him from his alliance. Nothing, perhaps, so galled the thoughts of Fox as the consciousness that he had been over-reached--he who had deemed himself incomparably the shrewdest and keenest man in the district; who had despised and laughed at old Cleverdon--never more than when luring him on with the hopes of winning Julian. He had done this out of pure malice, with the desire of making the old man ridiculous, and of enjoying the disappointment that was inevitable. He had played his trick upon his father-in-law; but the tables had been turned on him in compound degree. His father-in-law was right--he was a Cleverdon, and his fortunes were bound up with Hall. If Hall were lost, he had lost all but the trifle he was likely to receive from his father. If Hall was to be saved, it must be saved by him; and, had he known that it was likely to be sold, he would never have encumbered himself with a wife--with Bessie--and degraded himself to take the name of Cleverdon instead of his own ancient and honourable patronymic. He would have waited a fortnight; and, if he could get the money together, would have bought Hall, and enjoyed the satisfaction of turning the Cleverdons out of it. It was now too late. He must decide on his course of conduct. He did not think of doing what Mr. French supposed he would--ride in quest of his father. He would not venture himself near the quarters of Monmouth, and run the risk of being supposed to have any sympathy or connection with the rebellion. Moreover, he very much doubted whether his father could, if he would, assist in this matter. Presently he stood up, went to the grey, saddled her, and rode to Kilworthy. On reaching that place he put up the horse himself, and stole up the steps to the first terrace, on which grew a range of century-old yews, passed behind the yews to the end of the terrace, where was an abandoned pigeon-house, a circular stone building, with conical roof. The door was open, and Fox went in. The wooden door had long disappeared, for the pigeon-house had been given up. Within were holes in tiers all round the building, in which pigeons had formerly built and laid. But the owls and rats had so repeatedly and determinedly invaded this house, and had wrought such havoc among the pigeons, that at last it had been abandoned wholly, and the pigeons were accommodated in the adjoining farm-yard, on casks erected on the top of poles, where, if not out of reach of owls, they were secure from rats. The neglected pigeonry was too strongly built to fall to ruin, but the woodwork was rotted away, and had not been replaced. It was a dark chamber, receiving its light from the door, and was not used for any purpose. Into this, after looking about him cautiously, Fox entered. A short ladder was laid against the wall, and this he took, and after carefully counting the pigeon-holes, set the ladder, and after ascending it, thrust his hand into one of the old resting-places, and drew out a canvas bag. It had been sealed, but the seal was broken. It had been opened and then tied up again. Then Fox went to the next pigeon-hole, and felt in that, and again drew forth a bag similar to the first. "Here is the money," muttered he. "Enough to save Hall, but whether I shall risk doing it is another matter." Suddenly the place was darkened--the light entering by the door was intercepted. Fox's heart stood still. For a moment only he was in darkness. He fell rather than climbed down the ladder, hastily put it back where he found it, and ran outside. At the further end of the terrace was Julian. As he caught sight of her he attempted to withdraw, but she had seen him, and she beckoned, and came to him with quick steps. "Why, Fox! you here!--and you were married but an hour or two agone! Why here? Why not at the side of Bessie at table answering the toasts?" "Where have you come from?" retorted Fox, uneasily. "Nay? that is for me to ask. I have but just come to walk up and down for air, and you--you spring out of the earth. What has brought you back? Quarrelled already with your bride?" "I have returned for you, Julian. Bess is pained and aggrieved that you have not come to Hall to be with her. She has none as a friend but you." "What! you have come after me?" "For what else should I come?" "Nay," laughed Julian; "who can sound thy dark and deep thoughts, and thread thy crooked mind? I cannot believe it." "I have ridden Bess's own mare." "That may be. And you came here to fetch me? And for that only?" "I did." "I won't go." Julian looked at Fox with twinkling eyes. "Oh, Fox! I do love and pity Bess too greatly to bear to see her at thy side. So you came for me? You came out here on the terrace after me?" "I have told you so. How long have you been here?" "But this minute. I took one walk as far as the old pigeon-house and back, and then--saw you. Did you come up the other way? From the yard?" "I did." "Oh! I will not go with you. Return to Bess. Tell her I love her and wish her well, but I cannot see her; I cannot now, I love her too well. Get thee gone, Fox." CHAPTER L. ANOTHER FLIGHT. The day was drawing to its decline before Fox returned to Hall. He had been alarmed at having been seen by his sister in the dove-cote, and he tried by craft to extract from her whether she had observed what he had been doing in it. He hung about Kilworthy for several hours, uncertain what course to pursue. He could draw nothing from Julian to feed his alarm, and he persuaded, or tried to persuade, himself that she had no suspicions that he had been in the dove-cote; then he considered what he had best do with the money-bags concealed there. He could remove them only at night, and if he removed them, where should he hide them? No more effectual place of concealment could well be imagined than the pigeon-house with its many lockers, the depths of which could not be probed by the eye from below, and only searched by the hand from a ladder. He puzzled his brain to find some other place, but his ingenuity failed him. He was angry with Julian for having come on the terrace at the inopportune moment when he was in the pigeon-house, and he was angry with himself for having gone there in daylight. He asked, was it probable that Julian, had she suspected anything, would not at once have assailed him with inquiries wherefore he had gone to that deserted structure, and what he was doing within it, on the ladder. It would be unlike her not immediately to take advantage of an occasion either against him, or of perplexity to him, and he almost satisfied himself that she had believed his account, and was void of suspicion that there was concealment behind it. Even if she did suspect and search the lockers of the pigeon-cote, he must know it. He would find she had been there, and he deemed it advisable not to disturb his arrangement, but leave the money hidden there till he was given fresh cause for uneasiness relative to its safety, at all events for a few days, till he could discover another and more secret place for stowing it away. He remained for some hours, lurking about and watching; for he argued that, if Julian entertained any thought that he had been in the dove-cote on private ends, like a woman she would take the earliest occasion of trying to discover his ends, and would go, as soon as she thought she was unobserved, to the place and explore its lockers. But though he kept himself hidden, and narrowly watched her proceedings, he could find no cause for mistrust. She left the terrace and went off to the stables to see her horse; she ordered it out for a ride; then, as rain began to fall, she countermanded it; then she went to the parlour, where she wrote a letter to her father to give him an account of the marriage of his son, and to express her views thereon. Finding her thus engaged, and with his mistrust laid at rest, Fox left Kilworthy and went to Tavistock, where he entered a tavern and called for wine. He had not resolved what to do about the mortgage money on Hall. He believed that, with the five hundred pounds stowed away in the pigeon-holes at Kilworthy, and with what money old Cleverdon was able to raise, sufficient, or almost sufficient, could be paid to secure Hall. If more had to be found, it could perhaps be borrowed on the security of the small Crymes estate in Buckland; but Fox was most averse to having his own inheritance charged for this purpose. If Hall were let slip, then he was left with nothing save his five hundred pounds and the small Buckland property. He sat in the tavern for long, drinking, and trying to reach a solution of his difficulty, consumed with burning wrath at the manner in which he had been imposed upon, and entangled in the embarrassments of a family into which he had pushed his way, believing that by so doing he was entering into a rich heritage. When he reached Hall, at nightfall, he had drunk so much, and was in such an inflamed and exasperated frame of mind, as to promise trouble. Bess saw the condition he was in the moment he entered the door, and she endeavoured to turn him aside from her father's room, towards which he was making his way, unsteadily. The serving-men and maids were about, and a few guests. Comments, unfavourable to Fox, had passed with some freedom, and not inaudibly, relative to his absence on that afternoon. No one desired his presence, and yet the fact of his being away provoked displeasure. It was taken as an insult to those present. That some trouble had fallen on Squire Cleverdon, that his position in Hall was menaced, was generally known and commented on in the house, by guests and servants alike. That Fox had left in connection with this difficulty was admitted but nevertheless not excused. French was there disposed to make himself merry, with a fund of good stories to scatter among the guests. When Fox appeared, all present, guests and servants, were in jovial mood, having eaten and drunken to their hearts' satisfaction; some were in the passage, some in the dining-room that opened out of it, with the door open. Mr. Cleverdon was with the guests, and when he beheld his son-in-law in the entrance, he started up and came towards him. Fox saw him at once, and hissed, caught at the side-posts of the door with his left, and pointed jeeringly at the Squire. "I want to have a talk with you, my plump money-bag, my well-acred Squire father-in-law, and if there are others by, so much the better. It is well that all the world should see the bubble burst. Ha! ha! ha! This is the man who was a little farmer, and pushed himself to become a justice! The little shrivelled toad who would blow himself out to be like an ox. His sides are cracking, mark you!" "Take him away," said the old man, "he is drunk." "Go--I pray you go!" pleaded Bessie. "Prithee, respect him, at least in public, look at his grey hairs, consider the trouble he is in." "His grey hairs!" retorted Fox. "Why should I respect them? They have grown grey in rascality. So many years of sandy locks, so much roguery, so many more with grey hair, double the amount of roguery. Why should I respect an old rogue? I would kick and thrash a young one out of the house. His trouble--forsooth! His trouble is naught to mine, hooked on to a disreputable, drowning family, and unable to strike out in their faces, and wrench their hands away, and let them swallow the brine and go down alone." The Squire and the guests stood or sat spell-bound. What was to be done with the fellow? How could he be brought to silence? The stream of words of a drunken man is no easier stopped than is a spring by the hand laid against it. "Ha! ha!" jeered Fox, still pointing at his father-in-law; "there is the man who has ruled so tyrannically in his house, who drove his son out-of-doors because he followed his own example and married empty pockets. But his son did better than the father, he did take a girl with a few lumps of granite and a few shovelfuls of peat, but the father's own wife had nothing. What he suffered in himself he would not suffer in his son." The old man, shaking with rage as with the palsy, and deadly white, turned to the servants, and called to them to take away the fellow. "Take me away!" screamed Fox. "Take and shake me, and see if there be any gold in my pockets that will fall out, and which he may pick up. I tell you I am rich; I have the money all ready, I could produce that in an hour, which would save Hall, and send that fellow there, the lawyer, and his men back to Exeter to-night, if they cared to go over Black Down in the dark, where robbery is committed and coaches stopped and plundered. I have the gold all ready, but do not fancy I will give one guinea to help a Cleverdon. I hate them all--father, daughter, and son; I curse the whole tribe, I dance on their heads, I trample on their hearts, I scorn them. They hold out their hands to me, but I will not pick them up." Bessie put her arms about him, and, with eyes that were full of tears, and face blanched with shame, entreated him to go, to control himself, to remember that this old man that he insulted was his father-in-law, and that, for better, for worse, in riches or poverty, he was her husband. "I am not like to forget that," hissed Fox. "O, troth, no! Linked to thee--to thee, with thy ugly face and empty purse; thee, whom no one else would have, who has been hawked about and refused by all, and I am to be coupled to thee all my life. 'Fore heaven, I am not like to forget that." This, addressed to Bessie, whom every servant in the house loved, and every guest who knew her respected, passed all bounds of endurance. An angry roar rose from the men and maids who had crowded into the entrance-hall from the kitchen, from the courtyard, from the stables. The guests shouted out their indignation, and a blow was aimed at Fox from a groom behind, that knocked him over, and sent him down on his knees into the dining-room. He was not seriously hurt--not deprived of his senses--but other blows would have followed from the incensed servants had not Bessie thrown herself in the way to protect him. "Take him up--throw him into the horse-pond!" "Get a bramble, and thrash him with it till he is painted red." "Cast him in with the pigs." Such were the shouts of the servants, and, but for the interposition of Bessie, serious results would have followed. She gave Fox her hand, and, leaning on her shoulder, he was able to stagger to his feet. The blow he had received had driven the final remains of caution he had about him from his brain; he glared around in savage rage, with his teeth showing, and his short red hair standing up on his head like the comb of an angry cock. "Who touched me? Bring him forth, that I may strike him." He drew his hunting-knife, and turned from side to side. "Ah! let him come near, and I will score him as I did Anthony Cleverdon." Bessie uttered a cry and drew back. Fox looked at her, and, encouraged by her terror and pain, proceeded. "It is true, I did. We had a quarrel and drew swords, and I pinked him." "A lie!" shouted one present. "Thou wearest no sword." Fox turned sharply round, and snarled at the speaker. "I have not a bodkin--a skewer--but I have what is better--a carving-knife; and with that I struck him just above the heart. He fell, and ran, ran, ran"--his voice rose to a shriek--"he ran from me as a hare, full of fright, lest I should go after him and strike him again, between the shoulder-blades. Farmer Cleverdon! Gaffer Cleverdon! Thou hast a fool for a son--that all the world knows--and a knave as well, and add to that--a coward." He stopped to laugh. Then, pointing with his knife at his father-in-law, he said: "They say that he has gone to join the rebels. It is false. He is too great a coward to adventure himself there, and add to that I have cut too deep and let out too much white blood. He is skulking somewhere to be healed or to die." Bessie had staggered back against the wall. She held her hands before her mouth to arrest the cries of distress that could barely be controlled. The old man had become white and rigid as a corpse. "I would he were with the rebels. I hope he will be so healed, and that speedily, that he may join them, and then he will be taken and hung as a traitor. I' faith, I would like to be there! I would give a bag of gold to be there--to see Anthony Cleverdon hung. I'd sit down on the next stone and eat my bread and cheese, and throw the crusts and the rinds in his face as he hung.--The traitor!" An hour later there came a tap at the door of Willsworthy. Uncle Sol opened, and Bessie Cleverdon entered, pale. She asked to see her grandmother, Mistress Penwarne, who was still there. "I am come," she said, "to relieve you. Go back to Luke, and I will tarry with Urith. Luke must need you, and I can take your place here. I will not lay my head under the roof of Hall whilst Fox is there. It is true that I promised this day to love and obey him, but I promised what I cannot perform. He has forfeited every right over me! Till he leaves Hall I remain here--with Urith--both unhappy--maybe we shall understand each other. My poor father! My poor father! I cannot remain with him whilst Fox is there!" CHAPTER LI. ON THE CLEAVE AGAIN. Ever full of pity and love for others, and forgetfulness of self, Bessie sat holding Urith's hand in her own, with her eyes fixed compassionately on her sister-in-law. Urith's condition was perplexing. It was hard to say whether the events of that night when she saw Anthony struck down on the hearthstone, and her subsequent and consequent illness, with the premature confinement and the death of the child, had deranged her faculties, or whether she was merely stunned by this succession of events. Always with a tendency in her to moodiness, she had now lapsed into a condition of silent brooding. She would sit the whole day in one position, crouched with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, looking fixedly before her, and saying nothing: taking no notice of anything said or done near her. It almost seemed as though she had fallen into a condition of melancholy madness, and yet, when spoken to, she would answer, and answer intelligently. Her faculties were present, unimpaired, but crushed under the overwhelming weight of the past. Only on one point did she manifest any signs of hallucination. She believed that Anthony was dead, and nothing that was said to her could induce her to change her conviction. She believed that everyone was in league to deceive her on this point. And yet, though sane, she had to be watched, for in her absence of mind and internal fever of distress, she would put her hands into her mouth, and bite the knuckles, apparently unconscious of pain. Mrs. Penwarne, who was usually with her, would quietly remove her hands from her mouth, and hold them down. Then Urith would look at her with a strange, questioning expression, release her hands, and resting the elbows on her knees, thrust the fingers into her hair. The state in which Urith was alarmed Bessie. She tried in vain to cheer her; every effort, and they were various in kind, failed. The condition of Urith resembled that of one oppressed with sleep before consciousness passes away. When her attention was called by a question addressed to her pointedly by name, or by a touch, she answered, but she relapsed immediately into her former state. She could be roused to no interest in anything. Bessie spoke to her about domestic matters, about the rebellion of the Duke of Monmouth, about the departure of Mr. Crymes, finally, after some hesitation, about her own marriage, but she said nothing concerning the conduct of Fox on the preceding evening, or of her desertion of the home of her childhood. Urith listened dreamily, and forgot at once what had been told her. Her mind was susceptible to no impressions, so deeply indented was it with her own sorrows. Luke, so said Mistress Penwarne, had been to see her, and had spoken of sacred matters; but Urith had replied to him that she had killed Anthony, that she did not regret having done so, and that therefore she could neither hope in nor pray to God. This Mrs. Penwarne told Bessie, standing over Urith, well aware that what she said passed unheeded by the latter, probably unheard by her. Nothing but a direct appeal could force Urith to turn the current of her thoughts, and that only momentarily, from the direction they had taken. "She has been biting her hands again," said Mrs. Penwarne. "Bessie, when she does that, pull out the token that hangs on her bosom and put it into her palm. She will sit and look at that by the hour. She must be broken of that trick." Urith slowly stood up, with a ruffle of uneasiness on her dull face. She was conscious that she was being discussed, without exactly knowing what was said about her. Without a word of explanation, she went out, drawing Bessie with her, who would not let go her hand; and together, in silence, they passed through the court and into the lane. Their heads were uncovered, and the wind was fresh and the sun shone brightly. Urith walked leisurely along the lane, accompanied by Bessie Cleverdon, between the moorstone walls, thick-bedded with pink and white flowering saxifrage, and plumed with crimson foxgloves. She looked neither to right nor to left till she reached the moor-gate closing the lane, a gate set there to prevent the escape of the cattle from their upland pasturage. The gate was swung between two blocks of granite, in which sockets had been cut for the pivot of the gate to swing. Urith put forth her hand, thrust open the gate, and went on. It was characteristic of her condition that she threw it open only wide enough to allow herself to pass through, and Bess had to put forth her disengaged hand to check the gate from swinging back upon her. This was not due to rudeness on the part of Urith, but to the fact that Urith had forgotten that any one was with her. On issuing forth on the open waste-land among the flowering heather and deep carmine, large-belled heath, the freedom, the fresh air seemed to revive Urith. A flicker of light passed over her darkened face, as though clouds had been lifted from a tor, and a little watery sunlight had played over its bleak surface. She turned her head to the west, whence blew the wind, and the air raised and tossed her dark hair. She stood still, with half-closed eyes, and nostrils distended, inhaling the exhilarating breeze, and enjoying its coolness as it trifled with her disordered locks. Bessie had tried her with every subject that could distract her thoughts, in vain. She now struck on that which nearly affected her. "Urith," she said, "I have heard that a battle is expected every day, and Anthony is in it. You will pray God to guard him in danger, will you not?" "Anthony is dead. I killed him." "No, dear Urith, he is not dead; he has joined the Duke of Monmouth." "They told you so? They deceived you. I killed him." "It is not so." Bessie paused. Her hand clenched that of Urith tightly. "My dearest sister, it is not so. Fox himself told me, and told my father--_he_ struck Anthony." "I bade him do so--I had not strength in my arm, I had no knife. But I killed him." "I assure you that this is not true." "I saw him fall across the hearthstone. My mother wished it. She prayed that it might be so, with her last breath; but she never prayed that I should kill him." "Urith! Poor Anthony, who is dear to you and to me, is in extreme danger. There is like to be bloody fighting and we must ask God to shield him." "I cannot pray for him. He is dead, and I cannot pray at all. I am glad he is dead. I would do it all over again, rather than that Julian should have him." "Julian!" sighed Elizabeth Cleverdon. "What has been told you about Julian?" "She threatened to pluck him out of my bosom, and she has done it; but she shall not wear him in hers. I killed him because he was false to me, and would leave me." "No--no--Urith, he never would leave you." "He was going to leave me. His father asked him to go back to Hall." "But he would not go. Anthony was too noble." "He was going to desert me and go to Julian, so I killed him. They may kill me also; I do not care. God took my baby; I am glad He did that. I never wish for a moment it had lived--lived to know that its mother was a murderess. It could not touch my hand with his blood on it; so God took my baby. I am waiting; they will take me soon, because I killed Anthony. I am willing. I cannot pray. I have no hope. I wish it were over, and I were dead." On her own topic, on that which engrossed all her mind, on that round which her thoughts turned incessantly, on that she could speak, and speak fairly rationally; and when she spoke her face became expressive. They walked on together. Bessie knew not what to say. It was not possible to disturb Urith's conviction that her husband was dead, and that she was his destroyer. They continued to walk, but now again in silence. Urith again relapsed into her brooding mood, went forward, threaded her own way among the bunches of prickly gorse, now out of flower, and the scattered stones, regardless of Bessie, who was put to great inconvenience to keep at her side. She was forced to disengage her hand, as it was not possible for her to keep pace with her sister-in-law in such broken ground. Urith did not observe that Bessie had released her, nor that she was still accompanying her. She took a direct course to Tavy Cleave, that rugged, natural fortress of granite which towers above the river that plunges in a gorge, rather than a valley, below. On reaching this she cast herself down on the overhanging slab, whereon she had stood with Anthony, when he clasped her in his arms and swung her, laughing and shouting, over the abyss. Bessie drew to her side. She was uneasy what Urith might do, in her disturbed frame of mind; but no thought of self-destruction seemed to have crossed Urith's brain. She swung her feet over the gulf, and put her hands through her hair, combing it out into the wind, and letting that waft and whirl it about, as it blew up the Cleave and rose against the granite crags, as a wave that bowls against a rocky coast leaps up and curls over it. Bessie allowed her to do as she liked. It was clearly a refreshment and relaxation to her heated and overstrained mind thus to sit and play with the wind. Rooks were about, at one moment flashing white in the sun, then showing the blackness of their glossy feathers. Their nesting and rearing labours were over: they had deserted their usual haunts among trees, to disport themselves on the waste lands. The roar of the river came up on the wind from below--now loud as the surf on reefs at sea, then soft and soothing as a murmur of marketers returning from fairing, heard from far away. Something--Bessie knew not what--induced her to turn her head aside, when, with a start of alarm, she saw, standing on a platform of rock, not a stone's throw distance, the tall full form of Julian. Her face was turned towards her and Urith. She had been watching them. The sun was on her handsome, richly-coloured face, with its lustrous eyes and ripe pouting lips. Bessie's first impulse was to hold up her hand in caution. She did not know what the effect produced on Urith might be of seeing suddenly before her the rival who had blighted her happiness; and the position occupied by Urith was dangerous, on the overhanging ledge. Bessie rose from her place and walked towards Julian, stepping cautiously among the crags. Urith took no notice of her departure. On reaching Julian Crymes, Bessie caught her by the arm and drew her back among the rocks, out of sight and hearing of Urith. "For heaven's sake," she entreated, "do not let her see you! Do you see what has fallen on her? She is not herself." "Well," retorted Julian, "what of that? She and I staked for the same prize, and she has lost." "And you not won." "I have won somewhat. He is no longer hers, if he be not mine." "He is not, he never was, he never will be yours," said Bessie, vehemently. "Oh, Julian! how can you be so cruel, so wicked! Have you no pity? She is deranged. She thinks she has killed Anthony--dead; but you have seen--she cannot speak and think of anything now but of her sorrow and loss." "We played together--it was a fair game. She wrested from me him who was mine by right, and she must take the consequences of her acts--we must all do that. I--yes--Bess, I am ready. I will take the consequences of what I have done. Let me pass, Bess, I will speak to her." "I pray you!" Bess extended her arms. "No--let me pass. She and I are accustomed to look each other in the face. I will see how she is. I will! Stand aside." She had a long staff in her hand, and with it she brushed Bess away, and strode past her, between her and the precipice, with steady eye and firm step, and clambered to where was Urith. She stood beside her for a minute, studying her, watching her, as she played with her hair, passing her fingers through it, and drawing it forth into the wind to turn and curl, and waft about. Then, her patience exhausted, Julian put forth the end of her staff, touched Urith, and called her by name. Urith looked round at her, but neither spake nor stirred. No flush of anger or surprise appeared in her cheek, no lightning glare in her eye. "Urith," said Julian, "how stands the game?" "He is dead," answered Urith, "I killed him." Julian was startled, and slightly turned colour. "It is not true," she said hastily, recovering herself, "he has gone off to serve with the Duke of Monmouth." "I killed him," answered Urith composedly. "I would never, never let you have him, draw him from me. I am not sorry. I am glad. I killed him." "What!" with a sudden exultation, "you know he would have been drawn by me away! I conquered." "You did not get him away," said Urith, "you could not--for I killed him." Julian put out her staff again, and touched Urith. "Listen to me!" she said, and there was triumph in her tone. "He never loved you. No never. Me he loved; me he always had loved. But his father tried to force him, he quarrelled with him, and out of waywardness, to defy his father to show his independence, he married you; but he never, never loved you." "That is false," answered Urith, and she slowly rose on the platform to her feet. "That is false. He did love me. Here on this stone he held me to his heart, here he held me aloft and made me promise to be his very own." "It was naught!" exclaimed Julian. "A passing fancy. Come--I know not whether he be alive or dead. Some say one thing and some another, but this I do know, that if he be alive, the world will be too narrow for you and me together in it, and if he be dead--it is indifferent to both whether we live, for to you and me alike is Anthony the sun that rules us, in whose light we have our joy. Come! Let us have another hitch, as the wrestlers say, and see which gives the other the turn." Urith, in her half-dreamy condition, in rising to her feet, had taken hold of the end of Julian's staff, and now stood looking down the abyss to the tossing, thundering water, still holding the end. "Urith!" called Julian, imperiously and impatiently, "dost hear what I say? Let us have one more, and a final hitch. Thou holding the staff at one end, I at the other. See, we stand equal, on the same shelf, and each with a heel at the edge of the rock. One step back, and thou or I must go over and be broken on the stones, far below. Dost mark me?" "I hear what you say," answered Urith. "I will thrust, and do thou! and see which can drive the other to death. In faith! we have thrust and girded at each other long, and driven each other to desperation. Now let us finish the weary game with a final turn[6] and a fair back."[6] Urith remained, holding the end of the staff, looking at Julian steadily, without passion. Her face was pale; the wild hair was tossing about it. "Art ready!" called Julian. "When I say three, then the thrust begins, and one or other of us is driven out of one world into the other." Urith let fall the end of the staff; "I have no more quarrel with you," she said, "Anthony is dead. I killed him." Julian stamped angrily. "This is the second time thou hast refused my challenge; though thou didst refuse my glove, thou didst take it up. So now thou refusest, yet may be will still play. As thou wilt: at thine own time--but one or other." She pointed down the chasm with her staff, and turned away. FOOTNOTE: [6] Terms in wrestling. A "turn" is a fall; a "fair back" is one where the three points are touched--head, shoulders, and back. CHAPTER LII. THE SAW-PIT. At Hall, that same morning had broken on Squire Cleverdon in his office or sitting-room--it might bear either name--leaning back in his leather armchair, with his hands clasped on his breast, his face an ashen grey, and his hair several degrees whiter than on the preceding day. When the maid came in at an early hour to clean and tidy the apartment, she started, and uttered a cry of alarm, when she saw the old man in his seat. She thought he was dead. But at her appearance he stood up, and with tottering steps left the room and went upstairs. He had not been to bed all night. Breakfast was made ready, and he was called; but he did not come. That night had been one of vain thinking and torturing of his mind to find a mode of escape from his troubles. He had reckoned on assistance from Fox or his father, and this had failed him. Fox, may be, for all his brag, could not help him. The Justice might, were he at home; but he had gone off to join the Duke of Monmouth, and, if he did return, it might be too late, and it was probable enough that he never would reappear. If anything happened to Mr. Crymes, then Fox would step into his place as trustee for Julian till Julian married; but could he raise money on her property to assist him and save his property? Anyhow it was not possible for matters to be so settled that he could do this within a fortnight. The only chance that old Cleverdon saw was to borrow money for a short term till something was settled at Kilworthy--till the Rebellion was either successful or was extinguished--and he could appeal to Fox or his father to secure Hall. But to have, ultimately, to come to Fox for deliverance, to have his own fate and that of his beloved Hall in the hands of this son-in-law, who had insulted, humiliated him, publicly and brutally, the preceding night, was to drink the cup of degradation to its bitter and final dregs. It was about ten o'clock when the old Squire, now bent and broken, with every line in his face deepened to a furrow, reappeared, ready to go abroad. He had resolved to visit his attorney-at-law in Tavistock, and see if, through him, the requisite sum could be raised as a short loan. The house was in confusion. None of the workmen were gone to their duties; the serving-maids and men talked or whispered in corners, and went about on tip-toe as though there were a corpse in the house. His man told the Squire that Fox was gone, and had left a message, which the fellow would not deliver, so grossly insolent was it; the substance was that he would not return to the house. The Squire nodded and asked for his horse. After some delay it was brought to the door; the groom was not to be found, and one of the maids had gone to the stable for the beast, and had saddled and bridled it. The old man mounted and rode away. Then he heard a call behind him, but did not turn his head; another call, but he disregarded it, and rode further, urging on his horse to a quicker rate. Next moment the brute stumbled, and nearly went down on its nose; the Squire whipped angrily, and the horse went on faster, then began to lag, and suddenly tripped once more and fell. Old Cleverdon was thrown on the turf and was uninjured. He got up and went to the beast, and then saw why it had twice stumbled. The serving girl, in bridling it, had forgotten to remove the halter, the rope of which hung down to the ground, so that, as the animal trotted, the end got under the hoofs. That was what the call had signified. Some one of the serving-men had noticed the bridle over the halter as the old Squire rode away, and had shouted after him to that effect. Mr. Cleverdon removed the bridle, then took off the halter, and replaced the bridle. What was to be done with the halter? He tried to thrust it into one of his pockets, but they were too small. He looked round; he was near a saw-pit a bow-shot from the road. He remembered that he had ordered a couple of sawyers to be there that day to cut up into planks an oak-tree; he hitched up his horse and went towards the saw-pit, calling, but no one replied. The men had not come; they had heard of what had taken place at Hall, and had absented themselves, not expecting under the circumstances to be paid for their labour. The old man wrapped the halter round his waist, and knotted it, then drew his cloak about him to conceal it, remounted, and rode on. Had the sawyers been at the pit he would have sent back the halter by one of them to the stable. As none was there, he was forced to take it about with him. Five hours later he returned the same way. His eyes were glassy, and cold sweat beaded his brow. His breath came as a rattle from his lungs. All was over. He could obtain assistance nowhere. The times were dangerous, because unsettled, and no one would risk money till the public confidence was restored. His attorney had passed him on to the agent for the Earl of Bedford, and the agent had shaken his head, and suggested that the miller at the Abbey Mill was considered a well-to-do man, and might be inclined to lend money. The miller refused, and spoke of a Jew in Bannawell, who was said to lend money at high rates of interest. The Jew, however, would not think of the loan, till the Rebellion was at an end. All was over. The Squire--the Squire!--he would be that no more--must leave the land and home of his fathers, his pride broken, his ambition frustrated, the object for which he had lived and schemed lost to him. There are in the world folk who are, in themselves, nothing, and who have nothing, and who nevertheless give themselves airs, and cannot be shaken out of their self-satisfaction. Mr. Cleverdon was not one of these, he had not their faculty of imagination. The basis of all his greatness was Hall; that was being plucked from under his feet; and he staggered to his fall. Once on the ground, he would be proper, lie there, an object of mockery to those who had hitherto envied him. Once there, he would never raise his head again. He who had stood so high, who had been so imperious in his pride of place, would be under the feet of all those over whom hitherto he had ridden roughshod. This thought gnawed and bored in him, with ever fresh anguish, producing ever fresh aspects of humiliation. This was the black spot on which his eyes were fixed, which overspread and darkened the whole prospect. The brutality with which he had been treated by Fox was but a sample and foretaste of the brutality with which he would be treated by all such as hitherto he had held under, shown harshness and inconsideration towards. He had been selfish in his prosperity, he was selfish in his adversity. He did not think of Anthony. He gave not a thought to Bessie. His own disappointment, his own humiliation, was all that concerned him. He had valued the love of his children not a rush, and now that his material possessions slipped from his grasp, nothing was left him to which to cling. He had ridden as far as the point where his horse had fallen, on his way back to Hall, when the rope twined about his waist loosened and fell down. The old man stooped towards his stirrup, picked it up, and cast it over his shoulder. The act startled his horse, and it bounded; with the leap the rope was again dislodged, and fell once more. He sought, still riding, to arrange the cord as it had been before about his waist, but found this impracticable. He was forced to dismount, and then he hitched his horse to a tree, and proceeded to take the halter from his body, that he might fold and knot it together. Whilst thus engaged, a thought entered his head that made him stand, with glazed eye, looking at the coil, motionless. To what was he returning? To a home that was no more a home--to a few miserable days of saying farewell to scenes familiar to him from infancy; then to being cast forth on the world in his old age, he knew not whither to go, where to settle. To a new life of which he cared nothing, without interests, without ambitions--wholly purposeless. He would go forth alone; Bessie would not accompany him, for he had thrown her away on the most despicable of men, and to him she was bound--him she must follow. Anthony--he knew not whether he were alive or dead. If alive, he could not go to him whom he had driven from Hall, and to Willsworthy, of all places under the sun, he would not go. Luke he could not ask to receive him, who was but a curate, and whom he had refused to speak to since he had been the means of uniting his son to the daughter of his deadly rival and enemy. What sort of life could he live with no one to care for him--with nothing to occupy his mind and energies? How could he appear in church, at market, now that it was known that he was a ruined man? Would not every one point at him, and sneer and laugh at his misfortunes? He had not made a friend, except Mr. Crymes; and not having a friend, he had no one to sympathise with, to pity him. Then he thought of his sister Magdalen. Her little annuity he would have to pay out of his reduced income; he might live with her--with her whom he had treated so unceremoniously, so rudely--over whom he had held his chin so high, and tossed it so contemptuously. What would Fox do? Would he not take every occasion to insult him, to make his life intolerable to him, use him as his butt for gibes, anger him to madness--the madness of baffled hate that cannot revenge a wrong? Anything were better than this. The old man walked towards the saw-pit. The tree was there, lying on the frame ready to be sawn into planks, and already it was in part cut through. The men had been there, begun their task; then had gone off, probably to the house to drink his cider and discuss his ruin. Below his feet the pit gaped, some ten or eleven feet, with oak sawdust at the bottom, dry and fragrant. Round the edges of the pit the hart's-tongue fern and the pennywort had lodged between the stones and luxuriated, the latter throwing up at this time its white spires of flower. A magnificent plume of fern occupied one end of the trough. Bashes and oak-coppice were around, and almost concealed the saw-pit from the road. That saw-pit seemed to the old man to be a grave, and a grave that invited an occupant. He knelt on the cross-piece on which the upper sawyer stands when engaged on his work, and round it fastened firmly the end of the rope; then fixed the halter with running knot about his own neck. He stood up and bent his grey head, threw his hat on one side, and looked down into the trough. He had come to the end. Everything was gone, or going, from him--even a sepulchre with his fathers, for, if he died by his own hand, then he would not be buried with them, but near that saw-pit, where a cross-way led to Black Down. It was well that so it should be; so he would retain, at all events, six foot of the paternal inheritance. That six foot would be his inalienably, and that would be better than banishment to the churchyard of Peter Tavy. But he would make sure that he carried with him something of the ancestral land. He crept along the beam, with the rope about his neck, fastened near the middle of the saw-pit, like a dog running to the extent of his chain, and scrabbled up some of the soil, with which he stuffed his ears and his mouth, and filled his hands. Thus furnished, he stepped back, and again looked down. He did not pray. He had no thought about his soul--about heaven. His mind was fixed on the earth--the earth of Hall, with which he must part, with all but what he held, and with which he had choked his mouth. "Earth to earth!" No words of the burial office would be said over him; but what cared he? It would be the earth of Hall that went back to the earth of Hall when he perished and was buried there. His flesh had been nourished by the soil of Hall, his mind had lived on nothing else. He could not speak as his mouth was full. How sweet, how cool tasted that clod upon his tongue under his palate! Though he could not speak he formed words in his mind, and he said to himself-- "Thrice will I say 'Earth to earth!' and then leap down." Once the words were said, and now he said them again, in his mind-- "Earth to earth." There was a large black spider on the oak-tree, running up and down the chopped section, and now, all at once, it dropped, but did not fall--it swung at the end of its silken fibre. Mr. Cleverdon watched it. As the spider dropped, so, in another minute, would he. Then the spider ran up its thread. The old man shook his head. When he fell he would remain there motionless. What then would the spider do? Would it swing and catch at him, and proceed to construct a cobweb between him and the side of the pit? He saw himself thus utilised as a sidestay for a great cobweb, and saw a brown butterfly, with silver underwings, now playing about the pit-mouth, come to the cobweb and be caught in it. He shook his head--he must not yield to these illusions. "Earth to----" A hand was laid on his shoulder, an arm put about his waist; he was drawn to the side of the pit, and the rope hastily disengaged from his throat. With blank, startled eyes old Squire Cleverdon looked on the face of his preserver. It was that of Luke, his nephew. "Uncle!--dear uncle!" Luke took the halter, unloosed it from where it had been fastened to the beam, knotted it up, and flung it far away among the bushes. The old man said nothing, but stood before his nephew with downcast eyes, slightly trembling. Luke was silent also for some while, allowing the old man to recover himself. Then he took his arm in his own and led him back to the horse. "Let me alone! Let me go!" said old Cleverdon. "Uncle, we will go together. I was on my way to you. I had heard in what trouble you were, and I thought it possible I might be of some assistance to you." "You!" the Squire shook his head. "I want over a thousand pounds at once." "That I have not got. Can I not help you in any other way?" "There is no other way." "What has happened," said Luke, "is by the will of God, and you must accept it, and look to Him to bless your loss to you." "Ah, you are a parson!" said the old man. Luke did not urge him to remount his horse. He kept his arm, and helped him along, as though he were conducting a sick man on his walk, till he had conveyed him some distance from the saw-pit. As the Squire's step became firmer, he said, "A hard trial is laid on you, dear uncle, but you must bear up under it as a man. Do not let folk think that it has broken you down. They will respect you when they see your courage and steadfastness. Put your trust in God, and He will give you in place of Hall something better than that--better a thousand times, which hitherto you have not esteemed." "What is that?" asked the old man, loosening his arm, standing still, and looking Luke shyly in the face. "What is that?" repeated Luke. "Wait! Trust in God and see." CHAPTER LIII. BAD TIDINGS. On reaching Hall, the first person that came to meet them was Bessie. She had returned, anxious about her father, and to collect some of her clothes. On arriving, she had been told that he had not gone to bed all night, that he looked ill and aged; that he had ordered his horse and had ridden away without telling any one whither he was going, and that some hours had elapsed without his re-appearing. Bess was filled with uneasiness, and was about to send out the servants to inquire as to the direction he had taken, and by whom he had been last seen, when the old man returned on foot, leaning on Luke, who led the horse by the bridle. "Has any accident happened?" she asked, with changing colour. The old man gave a shy glance at her, then let his eyes fall to the ground. He said nothing, and went into the house to his room. Bess's uneasiness was not diminished. Luke spared her the trouble of asking questions. He told her that he had met her father on the way, and that they had come to an understanding, so that the estrangement that had existed between them since Anthony's marriage was at an end. Bessie's colour mounted to her temples, she was glad to hear this; and Luke saw her pleasure in her eyes. He took her hand. Then she lowered her eyes and said:--"Oh, Luke! what am I to do? Can I withdraw the promise made yesterday? I cannot fulfil it. I did not know it then. Now it is impossible. I can never love Fox--never respect him. He has behaved to my father in a manner that even if forgiven is not to be forgotten. And, indeed, I must tell you. He said he had struck Anthony and half killed him. I do not know what to think. Urith----" "I know what Urith says. I was present. I saw the blow dealt. Fox did that--Urith bade him do it." Bessie's breath caught. Luke hastened to reassure her. "Anthony was not seriously hurt. Something he wore--a token on his breast--turned the point of the knife; but I am to blame, I am greatly to blame, I should have come and seen your father before your marriage and told him what I knew, then you would not have been drawn into this----" "Oh, Luke!" interrupted Bessie, "I do not think anything you said would have altered his determination. He was resolved, and when resolved, nothing will turn him from his purpose. As we were married at Tavistock and not in your church, you were not spoken to about it." "No--but I ought to have seen your father. I shall ever reproach myself with my neglect, or rather my cowardice, and now I have news, and that sad, to tell you. It is vague, and yet, I believe, trustworthy. Gloine, who went from my parish to join the Duke of Monmouth, has come back. He rode the whole way on a horse that belonged to some gentleman who had been shot. There has been a battle somewhere in Somersetshire. Gloine could not tell me the exact spot, but it does not matter. The battle has been disastrous--our side--I mean the side to which nearly all England wished well, has been routed. There was mismanagement, quarrelling between the leaders: bad generalship, I have no doubt; it was but a beginning of a fight; and then a general rout. Our men--I mean the Duke's--were dispersed, surrendered in batches, were cut and shot down, and those who fled were pursued in all directions, and slain without mercy. What has happened to the Duke I do not know, Gloine could not tell me. But Mr. Crymes is dead. He passed the coach and saw the soldiers plundering it, and the poor old gentleman had been shot and dragged out of it, and thrown on the grass." "But Anthony!" "Of him, Gloine could not tell me much. He was greatly in favour with the Duke and with Lord Grey. There was a considerable contingent of men from Tavistock and the villages round, who had been collected by the activity of Mr. Crymes and one or two others, whose names we will now strive to keep in the background; and, as Mr. Crymes himself was incapacitated by age and infirmity from officering this band of recruits, Anthony was appointed captain, and I am proud to say that our little battalion showed more determination, made a better fight, and was less ready to throw away arms and run, than was any other. That is what Gloine says." "And he can say nothing of Anthony?" "Nothing, Gloine says that when the rout was complete, he caught a horse that was running by masterless, and mounting, rode into Devon, and home as hard as he could, but of Anthony he saw nothing. Whether he fell, or whether he is alive, we shall not know till others come in; but, Bess, we must not disguise from ourselves the fact that, supposing he has escaped with his life, he will stand in extreme danger. He has been one of the few gentlemen who has openly joined the movement, he has commanded a little company drawn from his own neighbourhood, and has given the enemy more trouble than some others. A price will be set on his head, and if he be caught, he will be executed--almost certainly. He may return here if alive, he probably will do so; but he must be sent abroad or kept in hiding till pursuit is over." "O, poor Anthony!" said Bessie. "Will you tell my father?" "Not at present. He has his own troubles now. Besides, we know nothing for certain. I will not speak till further and fuller news reaches me. But, Bess, you must be with him--he is not in a state to be left alone. Now, may be, in his broken condition, he may feel your regard in a manner he has not heretofore." "Heigh, there. Have you heard?" The voice was that of Fox. He came up heated, excited. "Heigh, there! Luke, and you, Bess, too? Have you heard the tidings? There's our man, Coaker, come back--came on one of the coach-horses. There has been a pretty upset at the end, as I thought. My father is dead--the soldiers shot him as he sat in the coach, and proceeded to turn everything out in search of spoil. What a merciful matter," he grinned, without an audible laugh, "that the five or six hundred pounds had been lifted on Black Down instead of falling into the hands of the Papist looters! Aye?" Neither Luke nor Elizabeth answered him. "You know that now I am owner of the little estate in Buckland," said he, "such as it is--a poor, mean scrap that remains of what we Crymes----" "You are now a Cleverdon," said Luke, dryly. "But not for long. I shall change my name back, if it cost me fifty pounds. There is something more that I am. I am trustee for Julian till she marries--I step into my father's place. How do you suppose she will like that? How will she find herself placed under my management?" He laughed. "Your father dead," said Luke, "one might expect of you some decent lamentation." "Oh! I am sorry, I assure thee! But Lord! what else could I expect? And I thank Heaven it is no worse. I expected him to be drawn to Tyburn, hung, and disembowelled as a traitor. I swear to thee, Luke, I was rejoiced to hear he died honourably of a shot, since die he must. And Anthony dead----" "Anthony! Have you heard?" "Nay--I cannot swear. But Coaker says it is undoubted. The troopers were in full pursuit of our Tavistock company of Jack-Fools, cutting them down and not sparing one. Anthony cannot escape. If he ran from the field, he will be caught elsewhere. If they spitted the common men, they will not spare the commanding officer." "Poor Anthony!" sighed Bess. "Ay! poor Anthony, indeed, with nothing left at all now--not even the chance of life! But never mind poor Anthony, Bess; please to consider me. I know not but what now I shall be able at my ease to pay that attorney from Exeter--if I choose; but that shall only be to make Hall my own, and no sooner has my money passed hands than out turns your father. He and I will never be able to pull together. He has his notions and I mine. No man can serve two masters, as Parson Luke will tell thee; and neither can a land be held by and serve two masters, one choosing this and t'other that. No sooner is Hall cleared with my money than out walks the old Squire. Then you and I Bess----" "You and I will remain as separate as we are at present," answered Elizabeth. "I go with my father. Never will I be with you." "As you will," said Fox, contemptuously. "Your beauty is not such as to make me wish to keep you." "Then so let it be. We have been married, only to part us more than ever," said Bess. Then, turning to Luke, she said, "I cannot help myself. I swore with good intention of keeping my oath, but I cannot even attempt to observe it. He--" she pointed to Fox, "he has shown me how impossible it is." Luke did not speak. The words of Fox had made him indignant; but he said nothing, as any words of his he felt would be thrown away, and could only lead to a breach between him and Fox, in which he must get the worst, as unable to retort with the insolence and offensiveness of the latter. He looked with wonder at Bessie, and admired her quiet dignity and strength. He could see that, with all his rudeness to her, Fox stood somewhat in awe of her. "Yes," said Fox, "Anthony is dead; I do not affect to be sorry, after having received from him a blow that has half blinded me--a continuous reminder of him." "His sister strove to make amends for that yesterday," said Luke, unable further to control his wrath. "You then demanded of her an atonement far more costly than any wrong done you." Fox shrugged his shoulders. "A pretty atonement--when she flouts me, and refuses to follow me." Bessie, shrinking from hearing her name used, entered the house, and went into her father's room. She found the old man there, lying on a long leather couch against the wall, asleep. She stood watching him for a moment in silence, and without stirring. His hair was certainly more grey than it had been, and his face was greatly changed, both in expression and in age. The old hardness had given way, and distress--pain, such as never before had marked his countenance, now impressed it, even in sleep. He had probably hardly closed his eyes for many nights, as he had been full of anxiety about the fate of Hall, and the success of his scheme for its preservation. The last night had been spent in complete and torturing wakefulness. Now Nature had asserted her rights; weary to death, he had cast himself on his couch, and had almost immediately lost consciousness. After observing her father for some little while, Bessie stepped lightly back into the passage, closed the door, then sought Luke, who was standing before the house with his finger to his lips, a frown on his brows, looking at the ground steadily. Fox was gone. Bessie touched him, and beckoned that he should follow, then led him to her father's parlour, opened the door gently, and with a sign to step lightly and keep silence, showed him the sleeping Squire. A smile lighted her homely but pleasant face; and then she gave him a token to depart. For herself, she had resolved to remain there, her proper post now was by her father. She knelt at his couch, without touching him, and never turned an eye from him. In her heart swelled up a hope, a belief, that at length the old man might come to recognise her love, and to value it. An hour--then another passed, and neither the sleeper nor the watcher stirred; when suddenly the old man opened his eyes, in full wakefulness, and his eyes rested on her. He looked at her steadily, but with growing estrangement; then a little hectic colour kindled in his pale face, and he turned his head away. Then Bessie put her arm under his neck, and drew his head to her bosom, pressed it there, and kissed him, saying, "My father! my dear, dear father!" He drew a long and laboured breath, disengaged himself from her arms, and putting down his feet, sat up on the couch. She was kneeling before him, looking into his face. "Go--" said he, after a while, "I have been hard with thee, Bess! I have done thee wrong." She would have clasped and kissed him again, but he gently yet firmly put her from him, and yet--in so doing kept his eyes intently, questioningly, fixed on her. Was it to be--even as Luke said, that in losing Hall he was to find something he had not prized hitherto? CHAPTER LIV. A DAISY. As briefly as may be, we must give some account of the venture of Monmouth, which ended in such complete disaster. Charles, natural son of Charles II. by Lucy Walters, born in 1649, created Duke of Monmouth in 1663 by his father, was, as Pepys writes, "a most pretty spark;" "very handsome, extremely well made, and had an air of greatness answerable to his birth," says the Countess D'Aulnay; was his father's favourite son, and for some time it was supposed that King Charles II. would proclaim his legitimacy and constitute him heir to the Throne. He was vastly popular with the nation, which looked up to him as the protector of the Protestant religion against the Duke of York, whose accession to the Throne was generally dreaded on account of his known attachment to the Roman Church. James therefore always regarded him with jealousy and suspicion--a jealousy and suspicion greatly heightened and intensified by a memorable progress he had made in 1680, in the West, when incredible numbers flocked to see him. He first visited Wiltshire, and honoured Squire Thynne, of Longleate House, with his company for some days. Thence he journeyed into Somersetshire, where he found the roads lined with enthusiastic peasants, who saluted him with loud acclamations as the champion of the Protestant religion. In some towns and villages the streets and highways were strewn with herbs and flowers. When the Duke came within a few miles of White Ladington, the seat of George Speke, Esq., near Ilminster, he was met by two thousand riders, whose numbers rapidly increased to twenty thousand. His personal beauty, the charm of his manners, won the hearts of every one, and thus the way was paved for the enthusiastic reception he was to receive later when he landed at Lyme, in Dorsetshire, as a defender of religion and a claimant for the Throne. On June 14th, 1680, that landing took place. It had been arranged between him and the Duke of Argyle that each should head an expedition with the same end, and that a landing should be effected simultaneously, one in Scotland, under Argyle, the other in England, under Monmouth. Money and nearly everything else was wanting, and Monmouth was dilatory and diffident of success. But finally, two handfuls of men were got together, some arms were purchased, and some ships freighted. Argyle sailed first, and landed before the Duke of Monmouth, loth to tear himself from the arms of a beautiful mistress in Brussels, could summon resolution to sail. Argyle was speedily defeated and lodged in Edinburgh Castle on June 20th. Six days before his capture, Monmouth landed in Dorsetshire. He had with him about eighty officers and a hundred and fifty followers of various kinds, Scotch and English. Lord Stair, who had fled from the tyranny of James when Duke of York and Commissioner in Scotland, did not join the expedition; but Lord Grey did, an infamous man, who was one main cause of its miscarriage. The ablest head among the party was that of Fletcher of Saltoun, who in vain endeavoured to dissuade the Duke from an enterprise which he saw was premature and desperate, but from which he was too brave and generous to withdraw. On landing at Lyme, Monmouth set up his standard, and issued a proclamation that he had come to secure the Protestant religion, and to extirpate Popery, and deliver the people of England from "the usurpation and tyranny of James, Duke of York." This was dispersed throughout the country, was passed from hand to hand, and with extraordinary rapidity was carried to the very Land's End, raising the excitement of the people, who chafed at the despotism of King James II., and were full of suspicion as to his purposes. In the Declaration, promises were made of free exercise of their religion to all kinds of Protestants of whatever sect; that the Parliament should be annually chosen; that sheriffs should also be annually elected; that the grievous Militia Act should be repealed; and that to the Corporations of the towns should be restored their ancient liberties and charters. Allured by these promises, the yeomanry and peasantry flocked to Monmouth's standard, and had the Duke entrusted the volunteers to the direction of a man of talent and integrity, it is not impossible that he would have met with success. But the infamous Lord Grey was made commander, and when, shortly after landing, the Earl of Feversham, a French favourite of King James, threw a detachment of regular troops into Bridport, some six miles from Lyme, and Monmouth detached three hundred men to storm the town, Lord Grey, who was entrusted with the command, deserted his men at the first brush, and galloping back into Lyme, carried the tidings of defeat, when actually the volunteers, with marvellous heroism, had accomplished their task, and had obtained a victory. Monmouth inquired of Captain Matthews, what was to be done with Lord Grey. Matthews answered as a soldier, "You are the only General in Europe who would ask such a question." The Duke, however, dared not punish Lord Grey, and actually entrusted to him the command of the cavalry, the most important arm he had. Having thus given a position of trust to the worst man he could, he lost the ablest man in his party, Fletcher, who had quarrelled with a Somersetshire gentleman about his horse, which led to a duel, in which the Somersetshire man was shot, and Fletcher had to be dismissed. On June 15th, four days after landing, the Duke marched from Lyme with a force that swelled to three thousand men. He passed through Axminster, and on the 16th was at Chard; thence he marched to Taunton, his numbers increasing as he advanced. At Taunton his reception was most flattering; he was welcomed as a deliverer sent from heaven; the poor rent the air with their joyful acclamations, the rich threw open their houses to him and his followers, his way was strewn with flowers, and twenty-six young girls of the best families in the town appeared before Monmouth, and presented him with a Bible. Monmouth kissed the sacred book, and swore to defend the truth it contained with his life's blood. Here it was that he was met by the detachment from Tavistock and its neighbourhood. The men came in singly or in pairs, and somewhat later Mr. Crymes appeared in his coach. Anthony was immediately presented to the Duke, who, taken by his manly appearance, at once appointed him to be captain of the contingent from Tavistock. On June 20th Monmouth claimed the title of King. It was a rash and fatal mistake, for it at once alarmed his followers, and deterred many from joining him. Many of those who followed him, or were secretly in his favour, still respected the hereditary rights of kingship; and others had a lingering affection for Republican institutions. These two opposite classes were dissatisfied by this assumption. Moreover, the partisans of the Prince of Orange, already pretty numerous, considered this claim as infringing the rights of James's eldest daughter, Mary, Princess of Orange, who, by birth and by religion, stood next in order of succession. On June 22d Monmouth advanced to Bridgewater, where he was again proclaimed King; and here he divided his forces into six regiments, and formed two troops out of about a thousand horse that followed him. We need not follow his extraordinary course after this, marked by timidity and irresolution. Few of the gentlemen of the counties of the West joined him, and the influx of volunteers began to fail. Discouragement took possession of the Duke's spirits; and, when St. Swithin's rains set in before their proper time, not only was his ardour, but also that of his followers, considerably damped. At length, on July 5th, it was resolved to attack the Royal army, encamped on Sedgmoor, near Bridgewater, where the negligent disposition made by Lord Feversham invited attack. Here the decisive battle was fought. The men following Monmouth's standard showed in the action an amount of native courage and adherence to the principles of duty which deserved better leaders. They threw the veteran forces into disorder, drove them from their ground, continued the fight till their ammunition failed them, and would at last have obtained a victory, had not the misconduct of Monmouth and the cowardice or treachery of Grey prevented it. In the height of the action, when the fortune of the day was wavering, Lord Grey told Monmouth that all was lost--that it was more than time to think of shifting for himself. Accordingly, he and Monmouth, and a few other officers, rode off the field, leaving the poor enthusiasts, without order or instructions, to be massacred by a pitiless army. The battle lasted about three hours, and ended in a rout. The rebels lost about fifteen hundred men in the battle and pursuit; but the Royal forces had suffered severely. Urith sat in the parlour at Willsworthy. She had reverted to the stolid, dark mood that had become habitual with her. Her hands were in her lap. She was plucking at the ring affixed to the broken token, through which passed the suspending ribbon. But for this movement of the fingers of the right hand she might have been taken to be a figure cut out of stone, so still was her face, so motionless her figure; not a change of colour, not a movement of muscle, not a flicker of the eyelid betrayed that she was alive and sentient; no tears filling the eye, no sigh escaping her lips. The heat of her brow showed that she was labouring under an oppressive sorrow. She spoke and acted mechanically when roused into action and to speech, and then instantly fell back into her customary torpor. Only when so roused did the stunned spirit flutter to her eyes, and bring a slight suffusion of colour into her face. Next moment she was stone as before. She had been given, by Mrs. Penwarne, some flowers to arrange for the table. "For his grave?" asked Urith, "and for my baby." She took them eagerly, began to weave them, then they fell from her fingers into her lap, and she remained unconscious, holding the stalks. The old lady came to her again, and scolded her. "There! there! this is too bad. Take your token, and give me the flowers. I must do everything." She put the broken medal again into Urith's hand; and left her, carrying the flowers away. Urith was at once back again under her overwhelming cloud--the ever-present conviction that Anthony was dead, and that she had killed him. She saw him at every moment of the day, except when roused from her dream, lying across the hearthstone with his heart pierced. She had seen a little start of blood from the wound, when it was dealt, and this she saw day and night welling up inexhaustibly in tiny wavelets, flowing over his side, and falling in a long trickle sometimes connected, sometimes a mere drip upon the hearthstone, and then running upon the pavement in a dark line. This little rill never dried up, never became full; it pushed its way along slowly, always about the breadth of the little finger, and standing up like a surcharged vein, hemmed in by grains of dust and particles of flue. Urith was ever watching the progress of this rivulet of blood, as it stole forward, now turning a little to this side from some knot in the floor, then running into a crevice and staying its onward progress till it had filled the chink, and converted it into a puddle. She watched it rise to the edge of a slate slab, swell above it, tied back, as it were, by each jagged in the slate edge, then overleap it, and run further. The rill was ever advancing towards the main entrance to the hall, yet never reaching it, making its way steadily, yet making no actual progress. On more than one occasion Urith stooped to remove a dead wasp that stood in the way of its advance, or to sop up with her kerchief some plash of water which would have diluted its richness. Now, on the floor, lay a daisy head that had fallen from the flower bunch Mistress Penwarne had brought to her and then had taken away. Urith's eyes were on the daisy, and it seemed to her that the red rill was touching it. It was nothing to Urith that she was in the parlour, and that Anthony had fallen in the hall. Wherever she went, into whatsoever room, into the garden, out on the moor--it was ever the hall she was in, and the floor everywhere, whether of oak boards or of soft turf, or of granite spar, was in her eyes the pavement of the hall, and ever over that pavement travelled the little thread of blood, groping its way, like an earthworm, as endowed with a half consciousness that gave it direction without organs of sense. And now on the floor lay the garden daisy-head, and towards it the purple-red streamlet was pushing on; was the daisy already touched, and the edges of the fringe of petals just tinctured? Or was its redness due to the reflection on the pure white of the advancing blood? The dye or glow was setting inward, whatever it was, and would soon stain the petals crimson, and then sop the golden heart and turn it black. How long this process would require Urith did not ask, for time was nothing to her. But she looked and waited, she fancied that she saw the clotting together of the rays, and their gradual discoloration as the red liquid rose up through the yellow stamens. And now the flower-head began to stir and slide over the floor, and the blood-streak to crawl after it. Urith slowly rose to her feet, and, with bent head, observing the flower, step by step followed it. There was a draught blowing along the floor from a back-door that was open, and this stirred and carried forward the light blossom. Urith never inquired what moved the daisy; it was natural, it was reasonable, that it should recoil from the scent and touch of blood. As the daisy-head slid forward--now with easy motion, now with a leap and a skip--so did, in Urith's diseased fancy, the rill of blood advance in pursuit, always just touching it, but never entirely enveloping it. Urith stepped forward slowly towards the hall-door and opened it, to let the flower-head escape. Had she not done so, in a moment the daisy would have been caught, and have sopped up the blood like a sponge, lost all its whiteness, and become but a shapeless clot in the stream. The draught, increased by the opening of the door, carried the little delicate blossom forward rapidly, into the hall and along its floor, and after it shot the head of the rivulet, pointed, like that of a snake darting on its prey. Then the daisy was arrested suddenly; it had struck against an obstruction--a man's foot. Urith rose from her stooping position, and saw before her the man whose foot had stopped the daisy--it was Anthony, standing on the hearthstone. To her dazed sense it was nothing that the blood-stream should run in the course opposed to that it might have been supposed to run, from the parlour to the hall, from the door to the hearth. To her mind the ideal hall and the actual hall only coincided when they overlapped. And now, standing on the actual hearthstone, with the fancied blood-stream running up to, and dancing about his foot, was Anthony. "Urith!" The voice was that of Anthony. He had seen Luke, he knew in what condition he might expect to find her; and he had come to the house to see her, to let her light unsuspecting on him, in the hopes that the surprise might rouse her, and change the tenor of her thoughts. He looked at her with love and pity in his heart, in his eyes, and with a choking in the throat. Urith remained standing where she had risen from her bowed position, and for a long time kept her eyes steadily fixed on him; but there was neither surprise nor pleasure in them. Presently she said slowly, with a wave of her hand, "No! I am not deceived. Anthony is dead. I killed him." Then she averted her face, and at once fell into her usual trance-like condition. CHAPTER LV. FATHER AND SON AGAIN. Anthony sat in the house of his cousin Luke, his head in his hand. Bessie had come there to see him. She had been told of his return, and Luke had advised her to meet him at the parsonage. "O Tony!--dear, dear Tony! I am so glad you are back. Now, please God, all things will go better." "I do not see any turn yet--any possible," said Anthony. His tone was depressed, his heart was weighed down with disappointment at his inability to rouse Urith. "Do not say that, my brother," said Bessie, taking his hand between both of hers, "God has been very good in bringing you safe and sound back to Willsworthy." "No exceeding comfort that!" Anthony responded, "when I find Urith in such a state. She does not know me again." "You must not be discouraged," urged Bess. "She has this darkness on her now, but it will pass away as the clouds rise from off the moor. We must wait and trust and pray." "Remember, Anthony," added Luke, "that she received a great shock which has, as it were, stunned her. She requires time to recover from it. Perhaps her reason will return gradually, just as you say she herself came groping along step by step to you. You must not be out of heart because at the first meeting she was strange. Perhaps some second shock is needed as startling as the first to restore her to the condition in which she was. I have heard of a woman thrown into a trance by a flash of lightning, unable to speak or stir, and a second thunderstorm, months after, another flash, and she was cured, and the interval between was gone from her recollection." Anthony shook his head. "You both say this because you desire to comfort me, but I have little expectation, Bess," said he, pressing his sister's hand. "God forgive me that I have never hitherto considered and valued your love to me, but have imposed on you, and been rough and thoughtless. One must suffer one's self to value love in others." His sister threw her arms about his neck, and the tears of happiness flowed down her cheeks. "Oh, Tony! this is too much! and father also! He loves me now." "And you, Bess, you have been hardly used. But how stands it now betwixt you and Fox?" Bessie looked down. "My father forced you to take him; I know his way, and you had not the strength to resist. Good heavens! I ought to have been at your side to nerve you to opposition." "No, Tony, my father employed no force; but he told me how matters stood with regard to Hall, and I was willing to take Fox, thinking thereby to save the estate." "And Fox, what is he going to do?" "I cannot tell. Nothing, I think. He says he has the money, but he will not pay the mortgage; and yet I cannot believe he will allow Hall to slip away. I think he is holding out to hurt my father, with whom he is very angry because the state of matters was not told him before the marriage." "You suffered her to throw herself away?" asked Anthony, turning to Luke. "I did wrong," he said. "I ought to have spoken to your father, but he had forbidden me the house, and--but no! I will make no excuse for myself. I did wrong. Indeed--indeed, Anthony, among us all there is only one who stands blameless and pure and beautiful in integrity--and that is our dear Bessie. I did wrong, you acted wrongly, your father, Fox, all--all are blameworthy, but she--nay! Bess, suffer me to speak; what I say I feel, and so must all who know the circumstances. The Squire must have eyes blinder than those of the mole not to see your unselfishness, and a heart harder than a stone not to esteem your worth." "I pray you," pleaded Bessie, with crimson brow, "I pray you, not another word about me." "Very well, we will speak no more thereof now," said Luke, "but I must say something to Anthony. You, cousin, should now make an attempt to obtain your father's forgiveness." "What has he to forgive?" asked Anthony, impatiently. "Are not his own hard-heartedness and his hatred of Richard Malvine, the cause of all this misery?" "His hard-heartedness and hatred have done much," said Luke, "but neither of these is the cause of Urith's condition. That is your own doing." "Mine?" Though he asked the question, yet he answered it to himself, for his head sank, and he did not look his cousin in the face. "Yes--yours," replied Luke. "It was your unfaithfulness to Urith that drove her----" "I was not unfaithful," interrupted Anthony. "You hovered on the edge of it--sufficiently near infidelity to make her believe you had turned your heart away from her for another. There was the appearance, if not the reality, of treason. On that Fox worked, and wrought her into a condition of frenzy in which she was not responsible for what she said and did. From that she has not recovered." "Curse Fox!" swore Anthony, clenching his hands. "No, rebuke and condemn yourself," said Luke. "Fox could have fired nothing had not you supplied the fuel." Anthony remained with his head bowed on the table. He put up his hands to it, and did not speak for some time. At last he lowered his hands, laid the palms on the table, and said, frankly, "Cousin! sister! I am to blame. I confess my fault freely, and I would give the whole world to undo the past." "Then begin a new life, Tony," said Luke, "by going to your father and being reconciled to him." "I cannot. I cannot. How can I forget what he has done to Bess?" "And how can your Heavenly Father forgive you your trespass if you remain at enmity with your earthly father?" said Luke, sternly. "No, Tony, begin aright. Do what is clearly your first duty, and then walk forward, trusting in God." A struggle ensued in Anthony's breast. Then Bess took his hand again between her own, and said, "You have been brave, Tony, fighting on the battle-field; now show your true courage in fighting against your own pride. Come!" She held his hand still, and drew him after her. She had risen. "Very well!" said Anthony, standing up. "In God's name." "He has heard that you are returned," added Bessie. "It will be a pleasure to him to see you again." On reaching Hall, Elizabeth found her father in his room. He was seated at his table, engaged on his accounts, turning over the list of sums due to him, reckoning his chances of recovering these debts, considering what money he could scrape together by cutting down timber, and by the sale of stock. He thought that he might raise five or six hundred pounds at once, and perhaps more, but the time was most unpropitious for a sale. It was the wrong season in which to throw oak, and to sell the crops in the ground would at that time be ruinous at the prices they would fetch. When the door opened and Bessie entered with Anthony, the old man looked up, and said nothing. His sleep had restored his strength, and with it something of his natural hardness. His lips closed. "Well, father!" said Anthony, "here am I, returned, without a shot through me." "So I see," said his father, dryly. Anthony, disappointed with his reception, was inclined to withdraw, but mastered his disappointment, and going up to the table, extended his hand, and said, "Come, father, forgive me, if I have vexed you." Old Cleverdon made no counter-movement. The request had been made somewhat coolly. "Father! what did you promise me?" asked Bessie, her heart fluttering between hope and discouragement. "Here is Anthony, whose life has been in jeopardy, come back, asking your forgiveness, and that is what you required." Then the old man coldly placed his hand in that of his son; but he said no word, nor did he respond to the pressure with which Anthony grasped him. His hand lay cold and impassive in that of his son. Then Anthony's cheeks flamed, and a sparkle of wrath burnt in his eye. Bessie looked up to him entreatingly, and then turned pleadingly to her father, and implored him to speak. Anthony did not await the word, but drew his hand away. "So," said the old man, "you are back. Take care of yourself; you are not yet out of danger." And he took up again the papers he had been examining. "I am interrupting you," said Anthony; "anything is of more interest to you than your own son." He would have left the room, but Bessie held him back. Then she went up to her father and drew the papers away from him. In her fear lest this meeting should prove resultless she became bold. The old man frowned at her audacity, but he said nothing. "Father," said Anthony, "I came here as a duty to you, to tell you that I ask nothing of you but your forgiveness for having been hot-headed in marrying without and against your will." "I have nothing else to give," answered Mr. Cleverdon. "I no longer call this place mine. The place where I was born, and for which I have toiled, which I have dreamed about, loved--I have nothing more, nothing at all." He was filled with bitter pity for himself. "I, in my destitution, must thank you that it has seemed worth while to you to come and see me." "Father!" gasped Bessie. The old man proceeded: "I cannot forget that all this comes to pass because you disregarded my wishes. Had you married Julian, had you even proposed to marry her, this could not have happened. It is this," his voice rang hard and metallic, and the light in his eye was the glisten of a flint; "it is this that is the cause of all. It brings my grey head into the dust. It deprives the Cleverdons of a place in the county, it blots them out with a foul smear." The pen he had been holding had fallen on a parchment, and, with his finger, the old man wiped the blotch and streaked it over the surface. "I could not marry Julian," said Anthony, with difficulty controlling himself. "A man is not to be driven to the altar as is a poor girl." He turned to his sister. "I am sorry for your sake that Hall goes--not for mine; I do not care for it. It has been the curse that has rested on and blasted your heart, father, turning it against your own children, marring the happiness of my mother's life, taken all kindness and pity out of yours. It is like a swamp that sends up pestilential vapours, poisoning all who have aught to do with it." The old man raised himself in his seat, and stared at him with wide-open eyes. This was not what he had deemed possible, that a child of his, a Cleverdon, should scoff at the land on which he was born, and which had nourished him. "What has been cast into thankless soil?" asked Anthony. "All good feelings you ever had for my mother, all, everything, has been sacrificed for it. But for Hall, she would have never taken you, but have been happy with the man of her heart. But for Hall, I would have been better reared, in self-restraint, in modesty, and kept to steady work. But for Hall, Bess's most precious heart would not have been thrown before that--that Fox! Very well, father. I am glad Hall goes. When it is gone clean away, I will see you again, and then maybe you will be more inclined for reconciliation." The old man's blood was roused. "It is easy to despise what can never be yours. The grapes are sour." "The grapes were never other than sour," retorted Anthony, "and have set on edge all teeth that have bitten into them. Sister--come!" He went out of the door. CHAPTER LVI. EURYDICE. In the hall again, seated in the window, is Urith. The window is planted high in the wall, so high, that to look out at it a sort of dais must be ascended, consisting of a step. On this dais is an ancient Tudor chair, high in the seat, as was usual with such chairs, made when floors were of slate and were rush-strewn, calculated to keep the feet above the stone, resting on a stool. Thus, elevated two steps above the floor, to whit, on the dais and the footstool, sat Urith as an enthroned queen, but a queen most forlorn, deadly pale, with sunken eyes that had become so large as to seem to fill her entire face, which remained entirely impassive, self-absorbed. She made no allusion to Anthony; after he had withdrawn, she forgot that she had seen him. His presence when before her rendered her uneasy, so that, out of pity for her distress, he removed, when at once she sank back into the condition which had become fixed. But Anthony was again in the hall on this occasion, resolved again to try to draw her from her lethargy. She sat uptilted in her chair, trifling with a broken token. She was swinging it like a pendulum before her, and to do this she leaned forward that the ribbon might hang free of her bosom. Though her eyes rested on the half-disc, its movement did not seem to interest her, and yet she never suffered the sway entirely to cease. So soon as the vibration became imperceptible, she put a finger to the coin and set it swinging once more. Anthony had seated himself on the dais step, and looked up into her face, and, as he looked, recalled how he had gazed in that same face on Devil Tor, when he had carried her through the fire. An infinite yearning and tenderness came on him. His heart swelled, and he said low, but distinct, with a quiver in his voice---- "Urith!" She slowly turned her head, fixed her eyes on him, and said, "Aye." "Urith! Do you not know me?" She had averted her head again. Slowly, mechanically, she again turned her face to him, seemed to be gathering her thoughts, and then said: "You are like Anthony. But you are not he. I cannot tell who you are." "I am your Anthony!" He caught her elbow to draw her hand to him, to kiss it, but she started at the touch, shivered to her very feet, so as to rattle the stool under them, plucked her arm from him, and said quickly: "Do not touch me. I will not be touched." He heaved a long breath, and put his hand to his head. "How can you forget me, Urith? Do you not recall how I had you in my arms, and leaped with you through the fire, on Devil Tor?" "I was carried by him--he is dead--not by you." She looked steadily at him. "No--not by you." "It was I!" he exclaimed, with vehemence. "I set you on my horse, dearest. It was I--I--I. Oh, Urith! do not pretend not to know me! I have been away, in danger of my life, and I thought in the battle of you, only of you. Urith! my love! Turn your eyes on me. Look steadily at me. Do you remember how, when I had set you on my horse, I stood with my hand on the neck, and my eyes on you. You dazzled me then. My head spun. Urith! dear Urith, then I first knew that you only could be mine, that nowhere in the whole world could I find another I would care for. And yet--whilst I discovered that, I foresaw something dreadful, it was undefined, a mere shadow--and now it has come. Look me in the eyes, my darling! look me in the eyes, and you must know me." She obeyed him, in the same mechanical, dead manner and said, "I will not thus be addressed, I am no man's darling. I was the darling of Anthony once--a long time ago; but he ceased to love me; and he is dead. I killed him." "Anthony never ceased to love you. It is false. He always loved you, but sometimes more than at other times, for his self-love rose up and smothered his love for you--but never for long." "Did Anthony never cease to love me? How do you know that? How can you know that? You are deceiving me." "It is true. None know it as I do." She shook her head. "Listen to me, Urith. Anthony never loved any but you." "He had loved Julian," answered Urith. "He had from a child, and first love always lasts, it is tough and enduring." "No, he never loved her. I swear to you." She shook her head again, but drew a long breath, as though shaking off something of her load. "I cannot think you know," she said, after a pause. "I knew Anthony as myself." He caught her hand. "I insist--look me steadily in the face." She obeyed. Her eyes were without light, her hand was cold and shrinking from his touch, but he would not let it go. For a while there was symptom of struggle in her face, as though she desired to withdraw her eyes from him, but his superior will overcame the dim, half-formed desire, and then into her eyes came a faint glimmer of inquiry, then of vague alarm. "Urith?" "It is a long way down," she said. "A long way down? What do you mean?" "I am looking into hell." "What! through my eyes?" "I do not know; I am looking, and it goes down deep, then deeper, and again deeper. I am sinking, and at last I see him, he is far, far away down there in flames." She paused, and intensity of gaze came into her eyes. "In chains." She still looked, the iris of each orb contracting as though actually strained to see something afar off. "Parched." Then she moaned, and her face quivered. "All because he loved Julian when he was mine, and I shall go there too--for I killed him. I do not care. I could not be in heaven, and he there. I will be there--with him. I killed him." Anthony was dismayed. It seemed impossible to bring her to recognition. But he resolved to make one more attempt. He had let go her hand, and as he withdrew his eyes, her head returned to its former position; and once more she began to play with the pendant token. Her profile was against the window. The consuming internal fire had burnt away all that was earthly, common in her, and had etherialised, refined the face. "Urith!" "Why do you vex me?" "Turn fully round to me, Urith. What is that in your hand?" "A token." "Who gave it you?" "It belonged to my father." "It is broken." "Everything is broken. Nothing is sound. Faith--trust--love." She paused between each word, as gathering her thoughts. "Everything is broken. Words--promises--oaths--." Then she looked at the token. "Everything is broken. Hearts are broken--lives--unions--nothing is sound." "Look at this, Urith." Anthony drew from his breast the half-token that had belonged to his mother, and placed it against that which Urith held. "See, Urith! they fit together." It was so, the ragged edge of one closed into the ragged edge of the other. She looked at it, seemed surprised, parted the portions, and reclosed them again. "Everything broken may be mended, Urith," said Anthony. "Faith--trust--love. Do you see? Faith shaken and rent may become firm and sound again, and trust may be restored as it was, and love be closed fast. Unions--a little parted by misunderstanding, by errors, may be healed. Do you see--Urith?" She looked questioningly into his eyes, then back at the token, then into his eyes again. "Is it so?" she asked, as in a dream. "It is so, you see it is so. See--this broken half-token belonged to your father; that to my mother. Each had failed the other. All seemed lost and ruined forever and ever. But it could not be--the broken pledge must be made whole, the promises redeemed, the parts must be reunited--and Urith! they are so in us." He caught her by both hands, and looking into her face, began to sing, in low, soft times:-- An evening so clear I would that I were To kiss thy soft cheek With the lightest of air. The star that is twinkling So brightly above I would that I might be To enlighten my love! A marvellous thing took place as he sang. As he sang he saw--he saw the gradual return of the far-away soul. It was like Orpheus in Hades with his harp charming back the beloved, the lost Eurydice. As he sang, step by step, nay, hardly so, hair'sbreadth by hair'sbreadth, as the dawn creeps up the sky over the moor, the spirit returned from the abysses where it had lost its way in darkness. As he sang, Anthony doubted his own power, feared the slightest interruption, the least thing to intervene and scare the tremulous spirit-life back into the profound whence he was conjuring it. The soul came, slow as the dawn, and yet, unlike the dawn in this, that it came under compulsion. It came as the treasure heaved from a mine, responsive to the effort employed to lift it; let that strain be desisted from, and it would remain stationary or fall back to where it was before. An explosion of firearms, the crash of broken glass, and the rattle of bullets against the walls. Instantly Anthony has leaped to his feet, caught Urith in his arms, and carried her where she was protected by the walls, for the bullets had penetrated the window and whizzed past her head. At the same moment he saw Solomon Gibbs, who plunged into the hall, red, his wig on one side, shouting, "Tony! for God's sake, fly! the troopers are here, sent after you. I've fastened the front door. Quick--be off. They'll string you up to the next tree." He was deafened by blows against the main entrance, a solid oak door on stout iron hinges let into the granite. It was fastened by a cross-bar--almost a beam--that ran back into a socket in the jamb, when the door was unbarricaded. "Tony! not an instant is to be lost. Make off. But by the Lord! I don't know how. They are clambering over the garden wall to get at the back door. There are a score of them--troopers under Captain Fogg." Anthony had Urith in his arms. He looked at her, her eyes were fixed on him, full of terror, but also--intelligence. "Anthony!" she said, "what is it? Are you in danger?" "They seek my life, dearest. It is forfeit. Never mind. Give me a kiss. We part in love." "Anthony!" she clung to him. "Oh, Anthony! What does it all mean?" "I cannot tell you now. I suppose it is over. Thank God for this kiss, my love--my love." The soldiers were battering at the door; two were up at the hall window, ripping and smashing at the panes. But there was no possibility of getting in that way, as each light was protected by stout iron stanchions. "By the Lord! Tony. I'll fasten the back-door!" shouted Gibbs. "Get out somehow--Urith! if you have wits, show him the trapway. Quick! not a moment is to be lost--whilst I bar the back-door." Solomon flew out of the hall. "Come," said Urith. "Anthony! I will show you." She held his hand. She drew it to her, and pressed it to her bosom. It touched the broken token--and she had his half-token in her hand. "Anthony! when joined--to be again separate?" They passed behind the main door, whilst the troopers thundered against it, pouring forth threats, oaths, and curses. They had drawn a great post from the barn over against the porch, and were driving this against the door. That door itself would stand any number of such blows, not so the hinges, or rather the granite jambs into which the iron crooks on which the hinges turned were let; as Anthony and Urith went by, a piece of granite started by the jar flew from its place, and fell at their feet. Another blow, and the crook would be driven in, and with it the upper portion of the door. On the further side of the entrance passage, facing the door into the hall, was one that gave access to a room employed formerly as a buttery. In it were now empty casks, old saddles, and a variety of farm lumber, and, amongst them that cradle that Anthony had despised, the cradle in which Urith had been lulled to her infantine slumbers. Urith thrust the cradle aside, stooped, lifted a trap-door in the wooden-planked floor, and disclosed steps. "Down there," she said, "fly--be quick--grope your way along, it runs in the thickness of the garden wall, and opens towards the chapel." "One kiss, Urith!" They were locked in each other's arms. Then Anthony disengaged himself. A shout! The door had fallen in. A shot--it had been fired through the window by a soldier without who had distinguished figures, though seen indistinctly, through the cobwebbed, dusky panes of the buttery window. Anthony disappeared down the secret passage. Urith put her hand to her head a moment, then a sudden idea flashed through her brain; she caught with both arms the cradle, and crashed it down the narrow passage, blocking it completely, and threw back the door that closed the entrance. Next moment she and Solomon Gibbs were in the hands of the troopers who had burst in. "Let go--that is a woman!" called the commanding officer. "Who are you?" This to Mr. Gibbs. "Are you Anthony Cleverdon? You a rebel?" "I!--I a rebel! I never handled a sword in my life," answered Mr. Gibbs, without loss of composure; "but, my lads, at a single-stick, I'm your man." "Come!--who are you?" "I am a man of the pen, Mr. Solomon Gibbs, attorney," answered the old fellow; "and, master--whatever be your name, I'd like to see your warrant--breaking into a house as you have done. I can't finger a sword or a musket, but, by Saint Charles the Martyr, I can make you skip and squeak with a goose-quill; and I will for this offence." "Search the house," ordered Captain Fogg, the officer in command of the party. "I know that the rebel is here; he has been seen. He cannot have escaped; he is secreted somewhere. Meanwhile keep this lawyer-rascal in custody. Here--you, madame!"--to Urith--"what is your name, and who are you?" "I am Anthony Cleverdon's wife." "And he--where is he?" "Gone." "Where is he gone to." "I do not know." "Who is this fellow in the hands of my men?" "He is my uncle, my mother's brother, Mr. Solomon Gibbs." "Search the house," ordered the captain. "Madame, if we catch your husband, we shall make short work of him. Here is a post with which we broke open the door; we will run it out of an upstair window and hang him from it." "You will not take him; he is away." In the mean time the soldiers had overrun the house. No room, no closet, not the attics were unexplored. Anthony could not be found. "What have we here?" A couple of troopers had lifted the trap and discovered the passage. "It is choked," said the captain. "What is that? An old cradle thrust away there? 'Fore heaven! he can't have got off that way, the cradle stops the way. The bird had flown before we came up the hill." CHAPTER LVII. ANOTHER PARTING. Immediately after Sedgemoor, a small detachment had been sent under Captain Fogg to Tavistock from the Royal Army to seek out and arrest, and deal summarily with, such volunteers as had joined the rebels from thence. Not only so, but the officer was enjoined to do his utmost to obtain evidence as to what gentlemen were disaffected to the King in that district; and to discover how far they were compromised in the attempt of Monmouth. Mr. Crymes's papers had been secured in his coach. They contained correspondence, but, for the most part, letters of excuse and evasion of his attempt to draw other men of position into the rebellion. With the letters were lists of the volunteers, and names of those who, it was thought, might be induced later to join the movement. There existed in the mind of James and his advisers a suspicion that the Earl of Bedford, angry at the judicial murder of his son, was a favourer of Monmouth, and Captain Fogg was particularly ordered to find out, if such existed, proofs of his complicity. The part Anthony had taken was too well known for him to remain neglected; and Fogg had been enjoined to seize and make short work of him. Between two of the tors or granite crags that tower above the gorge of the Tavy where it bursts from the moor, at the place called The Cleave, are to be seen at the present day the massive remains of an oblong structure connecting the rocks, and forming a parallelogram. This was standing unruined at the time of our story. For whatever purpose it may have served originally, it had eventually been converted into a shelter-hut for cattle and for shepherds. There was a doorway, and there were narrow loophole windows; the roof was of turf. At one end, against the rock, a rude fireplace had been constructed; but there was no proper chimney--the smoke had to find its way as best it might out of a hole in the roof above, which also admitted some light and a good deal of rain. A huge castle of rock in horizontal slabs walled off the hut from the north, and gave it some shelter from the storms that blew thence. There was a door to the opening that could be fastened, which was well, as it faced the southwest, whence blew the prevailing wind laden with rain; but the windows were unglazed--they were mere slots, through which the wind entered freely. The floor was littered with bracken, and was dry. The crushed fern exhaled a pleasant odour. Outside the hut, in early morning, sat Anthony with Urith among the rocks, looking down into the gorge. The valley was full of white mist, out of which occasionally a grey rock thrust its head. Above the mist the moor-peaks and rounded hills glittered in the morning sun. Anthony sat with his arm about Urith; he had drawn her head upon his breast, and every moment he stooped to kiss it. Tears were in her eyes--tears sparkling as the dewdrops on bracken and heather--tears of happiness. The dusky shadows of the past had rolled away: a shock had thrown her mind off its balance, and a shock had restored it. What led to that brief period of darkness, what occurred during it, was to her like a troubled dream of which no connected story remained--only a reminiscence of pain and terror. She knew now that Anthony loved her, and there was peace in her soul. He loved her. She cared for nothing else. That was to her everything. That he was in danger she knew. How he had got into it she did not dare to inquire. But one thought filled her mind and soul, displacing every other--he loved her. It was so. Anthony did love her, and loved her alone. When he was away--in the camp, on the march, in the battle-field--his mind had turned to Urith and his home. Filled with anxiety about her from what he had heard from Mr. Crymes, he had become a prey to despair; and, if he had fought in the engagement of Sedgemoor with desperate valour, it had been in the hopes of falling, for he believed that no more chance of happiness remained to him. After his escape, an irresistible longing to see Urith once more, and learn for certain how she was, and how she regarded him, had drawn him to Willsworthy. And now, that she was restored to him in mind and heart, he stood, perhaps, in as great peril as at any time since he had joined the insurgents. He knew this, but was sanguine. The vast extent of the moor was before him, where he could hide for months, and it would be impossible for an enemy to surprise him. Where he then was, on the cliffs above the Tavy, he was safe, and safe within reach of home. No one could approach unobserved, and opportunities of escape lay ready on all sides--a thousand hiding-places among the piles of broken rock, and bogs that could be put between himself and a pursuer. Nevertheless, he could not remain for ever thus hiding. He must escape across the seas, as he was certain to be proscribed, and a price set on his head. That he must be with Urith but for a day or two he was well aware, and every moment that she was with him was to him precious. She did not know this: she thought she had recovered him for ever, and he did not undeceive her. Now he began to tell her of his adventures--of how he had joined the Duke, and been appointed Captain of the South Devon band; of how they had been received in Taunton; how they had marched to Bristol, and almost attacked it; and then of the disastrous day at Sedgemoor. "Come!" said Anthony, "let us have a fire. With the mists of the morning rising, the smoke from the hut will escape notice." The air of morning was cold. Holding Urith still to his side, he went with her into the hut. It was without furniture of any sort. Blocks of stones served as seats; but there was a crook over the hearth, and an iron pot hanging from it. A little collection of fuel stood in a corner--heather, furze-bushes, dry turf--that had been piled there by a shepherd in winter, and left unconsumed. Urith set herself to work to make a fire and prepare. They were merry as children on a picnic, getting ready for a breakfast. Urith had brought up what she could in a basket from Willsworthy, and soon a bright and joy-inspiring fire was blazing on the hearth. Anthony rolled a stone beside it and made Urith sit thereon, whilst he threw himself in the fern at her feet, and held her hand. They talked watching and feeding the fire, and expecting the pot to boil. They did not laugh much, they had no jokes with each other. Love had ceased to be a butterfly, and was rather the honey-bearing bee, and the honey it brought was drawn out of the blossoms of sorrow. To Urith it gave satisfaction to see how changed Anthony was from the spoiled, wayward, dissatisfied fellow who had thought only of himself, to a man resolute, tender, and strong. As she looked at him, pride swelled in her heart, and her dark eyes told what she felt. But a little time had passed over both their heads, and yet in that little while much had been changed in both. How much in herself she did not know, but she marked and was glad to recognise the change in him. As they talked, intent in each other, almost unable to withdraw their eyes from each other, the door opened, and Mr. Solomon Gibbs entered. "There!--there!" said he, "a pretty sharp watch you keep. You might have been surprised for aught of guard you kept." "Come here," said Anthony; "sit by the fire and tell me what is being done below." Mr. Solomon Gibbs shook his head. "You cannot remain here, Tony; you must be off--over the seas--and I will take care of Urith, and have the windows patched at Willsworthy." "I know I must," said Anthony, gloomily, and he took Urith's hand and drew it round his neck; never had she been dearer to him than now, when he must part from her. "Oh! uncle!" exclaimed Urith, "he must not indeed go hence now that he has returned to me." "I am safe here for a while," said Anthony, and he pressed his lips to Urith's hand. "Can you say that, with the rare look-out you keep?" asked Mr. Gibbs. Then he gazed into the fire, putting up his hand and scratching his head under the wig. He said no more for a minute, but presently, without looking at Anthony, he went on. "Those fellows under their Captain--Fogg is his name--are turning the place upside down; they have visited pretty nigh every house and hovel in quest of rebels, as they call them. The confounded nuisance is that they have a list of the young fellows who went from these parts. As fast as any of them come home, if they have escaped the battle, they drop into the hands of the troopers." Anthony said nothing, he was troubled. Urith's large dark eyes were fixed on her uncle. "The Duke of Monmouth has been taken, I hear; he hid in a field, in a ditch among the nettles. No chance for him. His Majesty, King James, will have no bowels of compassion for such a nephew. For the Protestants of England there is now no hope save in the Prince of Orange." Then Uncle Solomon put his hand round behind Anthony and nudged him, so as not to attract the attention of Urith. "And whilst we are waiting we may be consumed," said Anthony. Then Solomon nudged Anthony again, and winked at him, and made a sign that he desired to have a word with him outside the door. "'Fore Heaven, Tony!" said he, "we are as careless as before. I who bade you keep a watch have forgotten myself in talking with you. Go forth, lad, and cast a look about thee." Anthony rose from the fern, and went to the door. He stood in it a moment, looking from side to side, then closed the door, and went further. Mr. Gibbs took off his wig and rubbed his head. "The mist in the valley has taken the curl out, Urith. I wish you would dry my wig by the blaze, and I will clap my hat on and go out and help Anthony to see from which quarter the wind blows, and whether against the wind mischief comes." Then he also went forth. Urith at once set herself to prepare the food for breakfast; her heart was heavy at the thought of losing Anthony again as soon as she had recovered him, when all the love of their first passion had rebloomed with, if not greater beauty, yet with more vigour. When Anthony re-entered the hut, he was alone, very pale, and graver than before; Urith saw him as he passed the ray of light that entered from one of the loop-holes, and she judged at once that some graver tidings had been given him than Uncle Sol had cared to communicate in her presence. She uttered a half-stifled cry of fear, and started to her feet. "O Anthony! What is it? Are the soldiers drawing near?" "No, my darling, no one is in sight." "But what is it, then? Must I lose you? Must you go from hence?" She threw herself on his breast and clung to him. "Yes, Urith, I must go. You must be prepared to lose me." "But I shall see you again--soon?" "We shall certainly meet again." She understood that he was no longer safe there, that he must fly further, and that she could not accompany him on his flight; but her heart could not reconcile itself to this conviction. He spoke to her with great affection, he stroked her head, and kissed her, and bade her take courage and gather strength to endure what must be borne. "But, Tony!--for how long?" "I cannot say." "And must you cross the seas?" He hesitated before he answered. "I must go to a strange land," he replied in a low tone, and bowed his head over hers. She felt that his hand that held her head was trembling. She knew it was not from fear, but from the agony of parting with her. She strove to master her despair when she saw what it cost him to say "Farewell" to her. If she might not share his fate, she could save it from being made more heavy and bitter by her tears and lamentations. "Tony," she said, "you gave me that other half-token, take it again; hang it about your neck as a remembrance of me, and I will wear the other half--wherever we may be, you or I, it is to each only a half, a broken life, an imperfect life, and life can never be full and complete to either again till we meet." "No," he said, and took the token, "no, only a half life till we meet." He hung the ribbon round his neck, and placed the half token in his breast. Then he said: "I must go at once, Urith. Come with me a part of the way. Uncle Sol will take you from me." They left the hut together. Urith pointed to the food, but Anthony's appetite was gone. He drew her to his side, and so, silently, folded together with interlaced arms, they walked over the dewy short grass without speaking. After a while they reached a point where Solomon Gibbs was awaiting them, a point at which their several ways parted. There Anthony staved his feet. Overcome by her grief Urith again cast herself into his arms. He put his hands to her head and thrust it back, that he might look into her eyes. "Urith!" he said. "Yes, Anthony!" She raised her eyes to his. He was pale as death. "Urith, your forgiveness for all the sorrow I have caused you." "Oh, Anthony!" she clung to him, quivering with emotion. "It is I--it is I--who must----" "We have been neither of us free from blame. One kiss--a last--in token of perfect reconciliation." A kiss that was long--which neither liked to conclude--but Anthony at length drew his lips away. "We shall meet again," he said, "and then to part no more." CHAPTER LVIII. ON THE WAY TO DEATH. Anthony had seen Urith for the last time. They would meet again only in Eternity. Though the moor was wide before him and he was free to escape over it, yet he might not fly. Captain Fogg had taken his father prisoner, had conveyed him to Lydford Castle, which he made his headquarters, and had given out that, unless Anthony Cleverdon the younger, the rebel, who had commanded the insurgent company from the neighbourhood of Tavistock, surrendered himself within twenty-four hours, he would hang the old man from the topmost window of the castle keep. This was the tidings that Mr. Solomon Gibbs had brought to Anthony. Mr. Gibbs made no comment on it, he left Anthony to act on what he heard unpersuaded by him, to sacrifice himself for his father, or else to let the old man suffer in his stead. There could be little doubt that Squire Cleverdon had done his utmost to forfeit the love of his children. All the unhappiness that had fallen on Anthony, Urith, and Bessie was due in chief measure to his pride and hardness of heart; nevertheless, the one great fact remained that he was the father of Anthony, and this fact constituted an ineradicable right over the son, obliging him to do his utmost to save the life of his father. Moreover, the old man was guiltless of rebellion. Anthony's life was forfeit, because he had borne arms against his rightful sovereign, and his father had not compromised his loyalty in any way. Anthony had never, as a boy, endured that a comrade should be punished for his faults, and could he now suffer his father to be put to death for the rebellious conduct of the son? Not for one moment did Anthony hesitate as to his duty. But a struggle he did undergo. He thought of Urith. He had sinned against her, led astray by his vanity and love of flattery; and, after having suffered, he had worked his way to a right mind. And at the very moment of reunion, when his love and exultation over his recovered wife shot up like a flame--at that very moment he must pronounce his own sentence of death; at the moment that he had felt that she forgave him, and that all was clear for beginning a new and joyous life together, he must be torn from her, and exchange the pure and beautiful happiness just dawning on him for a disgraceful death, and the grave. He knew that Urith's grief over his death would be intense, and, maybe, bring her down almost into the dust; but he knew, also, that the day would come when she would acknowledge that he had acted rightly, and then she would be proud of his memory. On the other hand, were he to allow his father to die in his room, he would remain for ever dishonoured in his own sight, disgraced before the world, and would lose the respect of his wife, and with loss of respect her love for him would also go. The worst was over: he had bidden her farewell without betraying to her that the farewell was for ever. He took his way to Lydford, there to hand himself over to the Royal officers. He had not left the moor, but was on the highway that crosses an outlying spur of it, when he suddenly encountered Julian Crymes. Julian had heard of the return of Anthony before Captain Fogg and his soldiers arrived. She heard he was at Willsworthy, but he had not been to see her; and yet he had an excellent excuse for so doing--he must be able to tell her about her father. She had waited impatiently, hourly expecting him, and he had not come. She did not like to leave the house for a minute, lest he should come whilst she was away. Every step on the gravel called her to the window, every strange voice in the house caused her heart to bound. Why did not he come? She went to the window of her little parlour and looked forth; and as she looked, her hot, quick breath played over the glass, and in so doing brought out the interwoven initials "A" and "U." They had long ago faded, and yet under the breath they reappeared. When she had heard a rumour of his return, the life blood had gushed scalding through her veins, her eye had flashed, and her cheek flamed with expectation. Her father was dead, but the sorrow she felt for his loss was swallowed up in the joy that Anthony was home and in safety. Now all was right again, and in glowing colours she imaged to herself their meeting. She could hardly contain the exultation within; yet her reason told her that he could be no nearer to her than he was; he was still bound to Urith. The reproaches of Bess had stung her, but the sting was no longer felt when she heard that he was back. But as she breathed on the window-pane, and first the interwoven initials "A" and "U" reappeared, and then the smirch where Anthony had passed his hand over her own initials linked to his, it sent a curdle through her arteries. He came not near her. He loved her no more--he had forgotten her. Little by little the suspicion entered, and made itself felt, that he did not love her. It became a conviction, forming as an iron band about her heart, rivetted with every hour, firmer, contracting, becoming colder. She was too haughty to betray her feelings, and she had not suffered a question relative to Anthony to pass over her lips. Then she heard that Captain Fogg had arrived, and was searching the neighbourhood for Anthony, and was arresting every returned insurgent. The Captain visited Kilworthy, and explored the house for treasonable correspondence, but found none. The anxiety and alarm of Julian for the safety of Anthony became overmastering. She could no longer endure imprisonment in her own house. Moreover, there was now no need for her to remain there. Anthony was in hiding somewhere, or he was taken--she knew not which--and could not come to her. She had not slept all night, and when morning dawned she rode forth, unattended, to obtain some tidings about him. She would not go to Willsworthy. She could not face Urith, but she would hover about between Willsworthy and Hall, and wait till she could hear some news concerning him. In this restless, anxious condition of mind, Julian Crymes was traversing the down when she lit on Anthony himself. She greeted him with an exclamation of joy, rode up to him, sprang from her horse, and said, "But surely, Tony! this is reckless work coming on to the highway when they seek thy life." "They will not have long to seek," said he. "What do you mean?" He made no answer, and strode forward to pass her, and continue his course to Lydford. "Anthony!" exclaimed Julian, "you shall not meet and leave me thus. I have not seen you since your return." "I cannot stay now." "But you shall!" She threw herself in his road, holding the reins of her horse with one hand, and extending her whip in the other. "Anthony! what is the meaning of this?" "I must pass," said he, stepping aside to circumvent her. "Anthony!" she cried--there was pain and despair in her tone--"where are you going? and why will you not speak to me?" He stood still for a moment, and looked steadily at her; then she saw how pale he was. "Julian," said he, quietly, "you have acted towards me in a heartless----" "Heartless, Tony!" "In an utterly cruel manner, and have brought me to this. It was you who sowed the seeds of strife between Urith and me; you who drove her off her mind; you who forced me to leave home and go to the standard of the Protestant Duke; and it is you now who bring me to the gallows." "The gallows!" "The captain at the head of the troopers has taken my father, and threatens to hang him within a day unless I surrender to the same fate." "But, Anthony!" She could hardly speak, she was trembling, and her colour flying about her face like storm-driven cloudlets lit by a setting sun, red and threatening. "Anthony!--not to--to death?" "To death, Julian!" She uttered a cry, let go the bridle, dropped her whip, and ran to him with extended arms. "Anthony!--O Anthony!" He put forth his hand and held her from him. No; not on his breast where his Urith had just lain, that should never be touched by another--not by such another as Julian Crymes. "Stand back," he said, sternly. "Anthony! say you love me! You know you have--have always loved me." "I never loved you, Julian. No--never." She shook herself free, drew back, pressed her clenched fists against her bosom. "You dare to tell me that--you!" "I never loved you," he said. Her face became white as that of a corpse. She drew on one side and said, "Go--and may you be hanged! I hate you. I would I were by to see you die." CHAPTER LIX. A LAST CHANCE. Julian was left alone. She watched Anthony depart, till he had disappeared round a turn of the road and a fall of the hill; then she cast herself upon the heather in a paroxysm of agony. She drove her fingers into the bushes of dwarf gorse, and the needles entered her flesh and drew the blood; but she heeded it not. The rough heather was against her cheek, a storm of sobs and tears shook and wetted the harsh, dry flowers. He did not love her! He never had loved her! She had fought against this conviction that, like a cold, gliding snake, had stolen into her heart and dripped its poison there. Now she could resist it no more. It was not told her by Bessie--it was not a new conjecture formed on certain scribblings on the glass; it had been proclaimed by his own lips, and at a solemn moment when he would not lie--when he was on his way to death. He had trifled with her heart, and he dared to reproach her! She had loved him before ever he had known Urith, and then he had shown her attention. Had she mistaken that attention for love? Had not her own flaming passion seen in the reflection it called up in him a real reciprocal flame? After he was married she could not hide from her conscience that she had made a struggle to win back his heart--had disregarded the counsels of prudence and the teachings of religion in the furious resistance she had offered to the established fact that he had been given to another, and belonged to that other. He did not love her! He never had loved her! And his life had been to her precious only because she loved him, and believed that he loved her. She drew herself up in the heather; her cheeks were flaming, scratched by the heather branches, and her hair dishevelled. Her great dark eyes were like a storm-cloud full of rain, and yet with fire twinkling and flashing out of it. He was on his way to death. He would be no more in this life to be fought for, to be won by her or by Urith. "I am glad he is going to die!" she cried, and laughed. Then she threw herself again on the ground in another convulsive fit of sobs. Urith had won. She--Julian, had dared her to the contest for the prize. Each had come off ill; but Urith had gained the object--gained it only to lose it--won Anthony's heart, only to have it broken as her own brain was broken. "It is well," moaned Julian, catching at the tufts of heath and tearing at them, but unable either to break them or root them up. "It is well! I would never have suffered her to regain him. I would have killed her!" Rage and disappointment tore her, as the evil spirit tore the possessed under Tabor, and finally left her, exhausted and sick at heart. A cool air came down off the moor and fanned her hot cheek, and dried the tears that moistened them. A few hours--perhaps only an hour--and Anthony would be dead. She saw the gallows set up below Lydford Castle, and Anthony brought forth, in his shirt; his eyes bandaged; his hands bound behind his back. She heard the voices of the soldiers, and the hum of compassion from the bystanders. She saw the rope fastened about his neck, and cast over the crosstree of the gallows. Then one of the soldiers leaped, and caught the free end of the rope, and began to haul at it. Julian uttered a cry of horror, struggled to her knees, clasped her palms over her eyes, as though to shut out a real sight from them, and swayed herself to and fro on her knees. The black 'kerchief, with the jerk, fell from his eyes, and he looked at her. Julian threw up her hands to heaven, and screamed, with horror, "My God, save him!" Then she saw, indistinctly, through her tears, and out of her horror-distended eyes, some one standing before her. She could not see who it was; but, overmastered by her terror, she cried, "Save him! Save him!" "Julian!" said a voice; and it had a composing effect at once on her disordered feelings. "Bess! O, Bess! is that you? O, Bessie! do you know? He has given himself up. Anthony! Anthony!" She cowered no more; her bosom labored, and she bowed herself, with her head in her lap, and wept again. Bessie put her hand under her arm, and raised her. "Stand up, Julian. I did not know it; but I was quite sure he would do this. I am glad he has. It was right." "Bess, you are glad?" "It is like himself; he has done right. He is my own dear, dear Anthony." "O Bess!--such a death!" "The death does not dishonour; to live would have dishonoured. He has done right." "He has betrayed my love!" gasped Julian, "and I should be glad he died, yet--I cannot bear it. Indeed--indeed, I cannot. O Bess! I would that it were I who was to die--not he. Bess! will they take me and let him go? He has been false to me, and I am true to him." "He has not been false to you," said Bessie; "he has come to a sense of the wrong course he was engaged in, into which you drew him. But he never was false to you, for he never cared for you. Come! poor unhappy girl. I know how full of sorrow you must be--so must all who love Tony." "But, Bess! is there no way of saving him?" Elizabeth shook her head, and said:-- "I do not suppose so. It is true that Gloine has got off, and there is a whisper that his uncle saw the captain, and some money passed, but----" "Oh! if money were all----" "But, remember, Gloine was only a common soldier, and Anthony was the captain who led the men from these parts. I do not think any money could save him." "Let us try." Julian sprang to her feet. "Where is money to be had? Enough, I mean. You know the state we are in." "But Fox has it." "Fox!" Bessie considered; then, turning colour, said, "I do not think that even to save Anthony's life I would ask a favour of Fox." "Then I will. He can and must save Anthony. Where is he?" "At Hall. He has gone over there; that is why I left, and I was on my way to Willsworthy when I saw your horse; I caught him by the bridle, I knew whose it was, and came in search of you. I feared some accident. But, Julian, I am very certain nothing can be done for Anthony, save by our prayers. I have heard that special orders were issued that he was to be hung. The captain came here on purpose to take and execute him. He cannot, he dare not spare him." "O Bess!--we will try!" "Prayer alone can avail," said Bessie, sadly. "Come with me. Come back to Hall. You must be with me. I will see Fox. He alone can help us." "I will go with you," said Bessie. "But I know that it is hopeless." "He must be saved. He must not die!" gasped Julian. She remounted her horse, mechanically, and Bessie walked at her side. Julian said no more. She was a prey to conflicting emotions. A little while ago she had wished Anthony's death, and now she was seeking to save it. If she did succeed in saving it, it was for whom? Not for herself. He did not love her--he never had loved her. For Urith--for her rival, her enemy! She knew that Urith was in a strange mental condition. She did not know that she was recovered from it. But she gave no heed to the state in which Urith was. She thought of her as she had seen her, handsome, sullen, defiant. That was the girl Anthony had preferred to herself, and she would save Anthony to give him to the arms of Urith, that Urith might take him by the neck, and cover his face with kisses, and weep tears of joy on his breast. Julian set her teeth. Better that he should die than this! But, next moment, her higher nature prevailed. She had loved Anthony--she did love Anthony--and true love is unselfish. She must forget herself, her own wrongs, real or imagined, and do her utmost for him. How could she love him, and let him die an ignominious death? How could she let him die, when, by an effort, she might save him, and bear to live an hour longer? She would feel as though his blood lay at her door. "Bessie, I cannot stay. You walk. I must ride on as fast as I can. Time must not be wasted. Every moment is important." Then she struck her horse, and galloped in the direction of Hall. Her hair, wild and tangled, flew about her ears. Her hands were full of gorse-spikes, and every pressure on the bridle made the pain great, but she did not regard this. Her mind was tossed with waves of contrary feeling, and yet, as in a storm, when the surges seem to roll in every direction, there is yet a prevailing set, so was it now. There had been a conflict in her heart, but her nobler, truer nature had won the day. As she drew up in the courtyard of Hall, Fox came out, and uttered an exclamation of surprise at seeing her. He was in a high condition of excitement. Without waiting to hear her speak, he burst forth into a torrent of complaint. "I will have the law of them--soldiers though they be, and with a search-warrant, they are not entitled to rob--we have been treated as though we were foreigners, and subjected to all the violence of a sack. They have torn open every cupboard, broken into every drawer and cabinet, thrown the books and letters about--I can find nothing, and what is worst, I cannot lay my hands on the money. To-morrow is the last day, to-morrow the mortgage must be paid, and I know that my father-in-law had some coin in the house. By the Lord! I wonder whether he had the wit to secrete it somewhere, or left it where any plunderer would go straight in quest of it. And he is to be hanged in an hour, and I cannot ask him." "Fox, it is not true; Master Cleverdon escapes." "I know he will be hanged, and I do not suppose that set of ruffians will let me see him and find out where the money is. I have searched everywhere, and found nothing but broken cabinets and overturned drawers, account-books, title-deeds, letters, bills, all in confusion along with clothing. It drives me mad. And--unless the money be forthcoming to-morrow, Hall is lost. I have heard that the agent of the Earl of Bedford will offer a price for it--and that there is like to be another offer from Sir John Morris. They would out-bid me. The mortgage must be paid, or Hall lost, and if the old man be hanged to-day, Hall is mine by this evening. It will drive me crazed--where can the money be? He was fool enough for anything--to put it in his cabinet, or in a box under his bed, or in the chimney, tied in an old nightcap like as would have done any beldame. If he has done that--then the soldiers have taken it. Who was to interfere? Who to observe them? They drove all the servants out. They took the Squire in custody, and I was not here. I was at Kilworthy, as you know." "Fox," said Julian. "It is no matter to me whether Hall be saved or lost. Anthony has surrendered, and the Squire is free." "Anthony surrendered!" Fox fell back and stared at her, then laughed. "'Fore heaven! we live in crack-brained times when folk take a delight in running their heads into nooses. There was my father did his best to get hung, drawn, and quartered. A merciful Providence sent him into the other world with a bullet in his heart, and saved the honour of the family, and made a more easy exit for him. And now there is Tony--runs to the gibbet as though to a May-dance! Verily! there are more fools than hares. For them you must hide the snare, for the fools expose it, cross-piece, loop, and rope, and all complete, and ring a bell and call--come and be hanged! Come!" "Fox, we must save Anthony." "Save him? Why, he will not be saved! He had the world before him, and he might have run where he would; now he has gone where he ought not, and must take the consequences. Save him! Let him be hanged. I want his father. I want to know what money he has, and where it is. I can't find the whole amount. I know he has, or had, some hundreds of sovereigns somewhere." "Fox, you must assist me to save Anthony; we cannot let him die. I will not! I will not! He must not die!" Her passion overcame her, and she burst into tears. "Pshaw! He is past salvation. If he is in the hands of Captain Fogg, he is in a trap that has shut on him and will not let him go. Besides--nothing can be done." "Yes, there can. Gloine escaped. His uncle, the rich old yeoman at Smeardon, bought him off." "No money will buy Anthony off. Besides, where is the money to come from?" "You have some. Fogg let off Gloine, and he will let Anthony off if he be paid a sufficient sum. If he was a rascal in small game, he will be rascal in great." "I do not care to have Tony escape; I owe him a grudge. Besides, and that is just as well, his father is not here; what money the old fellow has is hidden in some corner or other, where I cannot find it, unless it has been carried off by those vultures, those rats." "If this is not available you must help." "I! pshaw! I cannot, and I will not." "You can; you have a large sum at your disposal." Fox turned mottled in face. He stared at his sister with an uneasy look in his eye. "What makes you suppose that?" he said. "It is a folly; it is not true. I am poor as the yellow clay of North Devon. No small sum would serve, and I have but a couple of groats and a crown in my pouch." "You have the money; you yourself admitted it, two minutes ago. You said that if you could find the money Squire Cleverdon had laid by, you would be able to make up the rest." "Oh! that was talk! I would mortgage my Buckland estate." "You have the money. Fox, this is evasive." "What will satisfy you? Here is a crown, and here two groats, and, by Heaven--there is a penny as well. Take this and go--try your luck with Captain Fogg." "I will have nothing under five hundred pounds. Fox, you can help me, and you will." "I have not the coin. If I had I would not spare it. I will not throw Hall away. What is Tony to me? If he puts his neck into the noose, who is to blame if the rope be pulled and he dangles? No; here is the extent of my help--a crown, two groats, and one penny." "Fox! I will sell you all my rights in Kilworthy. I will make over to you everything I have there--land, house--all--all--if you will give me five hundred pounds in gold." Fox looked down, considered, then shook his head. "There is not time for it. By the time we had got the transfer engrossed and signed, all would be over. Fogg won't let the grass grow under his feet, nor the rope rot for lack of usage. No; if there were time, I might consider your offer; but, as there is not, I will not. Let Tony hang: it is his due. He ran his head into the loop." "Your final answer is--you will not help?" "To the extent of one crown, two groats, and a penny." "Then, Fox, I shall help myself." CHAPTER LX. EXIT "ANTHONY CLEVERDON." Old Squire Cleverdon had spent the night in Lydford Castle. The Castle was more than half ruinous; nevertheless, there were habitable rooms still in it, and one or two of these served as prison cells. The walls were damp, and the glass in the windows broken; but it mattered not, he had but that night longer for earth, and the season was summer. The Squire did not lose his gravity of deportment. He had held up his head before the world when things went well with him; he would look the world defiantly in the face as all turned against him. He knew that he must die. He did not entertain a hope of life; it may also be said that he was indifferent whether he lived or died. His only grievance was that the manner of his death would be ignominious. It was hardly likely that the news of his capture and of Captain Fogg's threat should reach Anthony. Where his son was he did not know, but he supposed that he had taken refuge in the heart of the wilderness of moors, and how could he there receive tidings of what menaced his father? Or, if the news did reach him, almost certainly it would reach him when too late to save his father. But, supposing he did hear, and in time, what was menaced, was it likely that he would give himself up for his father? His life was the more valuable of the two; it was young and fresh, he had a wife dependent on him, he had an estate--his wife's--to live on; and the old man was near the end of his natural term of life, was friendless, he had cast from him his children, and was acreless, he had lost his patrimony. Anthony would be a fool to give himself up in exchange for his father. What did the Squire care for the scrap of life still his? So little that he had been ready to throw it away; and if the mode of passage into eternity was ignominious, why it was the very method he had chosen for himself at the sawpit. He was an aged ruined man, who had failed in everything, and had no place remaining for him on earth. He did not ask himself whether he had been blameworthy in his conduct to his children, in his behaviour to Anthony. He slept better that night in Lydford Castle than he had for many nights, but woke early, and saw the dawn break over the peaks of the moor to the east. He would not be brought before the captain and sent to execution for a few more hours. From his cell he had heard and been disturbed by the riot and revelry kept up by the captain and some boon comrades till late. The morning was well advanced when Julian Crymes rode to the Castle gates, followed by a couple of serving men and laden horses. At her command the men removed the valises from the backs of the beasts and threw them over their own shoulders. The weight must have been considerable, judging by the way in which the men walked under their burdens. Julian asked for admittance. She would see Captain Fogg. The sergeant at the gate hesitated. "Captain Fogg was at Kilworthy yesterday in search of papers--my father's papers. I have found them, and bring them to him--correspondence that is of importance." The sergeant ascended to the room where was the captain, and immediately came down again with orders for the admission of Julian. Followed by the men, she mounted the stone flight that led to the upper story, where Captain Fogg had taken up his quarters, and bade the servants lay their valises on the table and withdraw. Captain Fogg sat at the table with a lieutenant at his side; he was engaged on certain papers, which he looked hastily over, as handed to him by the lieutenant, and scribbled his name under them. Julian had time to observe the captain; he was a man of middle height, with very thick light eyebrows, no teeth, a blotched, red face, and a nose that gave sure indication of his being addicted to the bottle. He wore a sandy scrubby moustache and beard, so light in colour as not to hide his coarse purple lips. When he did look up, his eyes were of the palest ash colour, so pale as hardly to show any colour beside the flaming red of his face, and they had a watery and languid look in them. His appearance was anything but inviting. He took no notice of Julian, but continued his work with a sort of sulky impatience to have it over. Not so the younger officer, who looked at Julian, and was struck with her beauty. He turned his eyes so often upon her that he forgot what he was about, and Fogg had to call him to order. Then Fogg condescended to observe Julian. "Well," said he, roughly, "what do you want? Are these papers? What is your name?" "I sent up my name," answered Julian. "Ah! to be sure--the daughter of that rebel. I know--I know. What do you want?" "I have come to ask the life of Anthony Cleverdon," she answered. "He does not deserve death; it was all my fault that he joined the Duke. He was no rebel at heart; but I drove him to it. See what a man he is--to come and surrender himself in order to save his old father from death." "Bah! A rebel! He commanded--a chief rebel! He shall die," answered Fogg, roughly. "I implore you to spare him! Take my life, if you will. It was all my doing. But for me he never would have gone. I sent him from his home--I drove him into the insurgent ranks. I alone--I alone am guilty." "And who are you that you plead for him so vehemently?" asked the Captain, his watery eye resting insolently on her beautiful, flushed face. "Are you his wife?" "No--no; I am not." "Ah, you are his sweetheart." Julian's colour changed. "He does not love me. He is innocent, therefore I would buy his life." "Buy!" echoed the Captain. "Yes--buy it." "It cannot be done. It is forfeit. In a quarter of an hour he dies! Look here, pretty miss: I have my orders. He is to die. I am a soldier: I obey orders. He dies." He put his hand to his cravat and drew it upwards. The action showed how Anthony was to die. "I have brought you here something worthy of your taking," said Julian, lowering her voice--"documents of the highest value. Documents, letters, and lists--what you have been looking for, and worth more than a poor lad's life. What is his body to you when you have driven out of it the soul? A cage without a bird. Here, in these valises, I have something of much more substantial value." "Let me look," said Fogg. "By heaven!" he swore, after he had leaned across the table and taken hold of one. "Weighty matters herein." Julian gave him the key, and he opened; but not fully. Some suspicion of the contents seemed to have crossed his mind. He peered in and observed bags, tied up. "Ah!" said he. "State secrets--State secrets only for those in the confidence of the Government. Friswell!" he turned to the lieutenant, "leave me alone for a few minutes with this good maiden. She has matters of importance to communicate that concern many persons high up--high up--and young ears like yours must not hear. Wait till you have earned the confidence of your masters." The lieutenant left the room. Then Captain Fogg signed to the soldiers at the door to stand without as well. "So--matters of importance concerning the Government," said Fogg. "In confidence, tell me all--I mean about these valises and their contents." "I have come here," said Julian, "to implore you to save the life of Anthony Cleverdon. I am come with five hundred guineas, some in silver, some in gold--some in five-guinea pieces, the rest in guineas; they are yours freely and heartily, if you will but grant me the life of your prisoner." "Five hundred guineas!" exclaimed the Captain; and his pale eyes watered, and his cheeks became redder. "Let me look." He thrust his hand into the saddle-bag before him on the table, and drew forth a canvas bag that was tied and sealed. He cut the string and ran out some five-guinea pieces on the table. A five-guinea piece was an attractive--a beautiful coin. James I. had struck thirty-shilling pieces, and Charles I. three-pound gold pieces, but the five-guinea coin had been first issued by Charles II. Noble milled coins, on the reverse with the shields arranged across, and each crowned. Captain Fogg took three in his hand, tossed them, rubbed one with his glove, put his hand into the bag and drew forth more. "Five hundred guineas!" he said. "Upon my soul, it is more than the cocksparrow is worth. I wish I could do it. By the Lord, I wish I could. Give me up that other bag." Julian moved another over the table to him. "Why," said he, "what do you reckon it all weighs?" "I cannot say for certain; one of my men thought about eighty pounds." "More, I'll be bound; and mostly gold. Why, how come you by so much down here? You country gentry must be well off to put by so much; and all coins of his late Majesty. You may have been nipped and scraped under Old Noll, but under the King you have thriven. Five hundred pounds! Where the foul fiend did you get it? You have not robbed the Exchequer?" Julian made no answer. The Captain continued to examine, rub, weigh, and try the coins; he ranged them in rows before him, he heaped them in piles under his nose. "Upon my word, I never was more sorry in my life," he said. "But I can't do it. My orders are peremptory. If I do not hang him I shall get into trouble myself. But I'll tell you what I'll do--give him a silk sash, a soldier's sword-sash, and hang him in that. It's another thing altogether--quite respectable. Will that do?" After a pause. "Now look at me," said the Captain; "it is cursed unpleasant and scurvy treatment we gentlemen of the sword meet with. I know very well that such prisoners as we deliver over to be dealt with by the law, supposing they be found guilty and sentenced to transportation or death, will be given the chance of buying off. Why, I've known it done for ten or fifteen pounds. Look at me and wonder! Ten or fifteen pounds in the pocket of this one or that--may be a Lady-in-Waiting. But here be I--an honest, blunt, downright soldier, and five hundred guineas, and many of them five-guinea pieces, too, that smile in one's face as innocent as a child, and as inviting as a wench, and, by my soul! I can't finger them. Orders are peremptory, I must hang him. 'Tis enough to make angels weep?"[7] He wiped his watery eyes. "By the Majesty of the King, I'll do my best for you, saving my honour. I'll hang the old man, the father, and let the young one go free." "Sir," said Julian, "Anthony will never accept life on those terms." "Then, by my sword and spurs, I can't help you! But I'll do what I can for you--I will, upon my soul! I'll make him dead drunk before I hang him. Will that do? Then he won't feel. Not a bit. He'll go off asleep, and wake in kingdom come, as easy as if he were rocked in a cradle. No unpleasantness at all, and I'll stand the liquor. He shall have what he likes. By Heaven, they're making noise enough outside! Here, help to put this money into the valise. I will call to order." He set to work and pocketed as many five-guinea pieces as he could, then thrust the rest into the bags. Having assumed a grave manner, he knocked with the hilt of his sword on the table, and roared to the sentinel to open the door. He was at once answered. The commotion without had not ceased. "I will go in. I insist!--I must see Captain Fogg." "Who is without?" asked the Captain. "Who is that creating such an uproar?" "It is some one who desires to be admitted into your presence, Captain!" said the Lieutenant. "He says he has been robbed; he claims redress." "I can't see him--I am busy---- State secrets? Very well, let him in." He changed his order as Fox burst into the room in spite of the efforts of the sergeant and sentinel to stay him. "Who are you? What do you here?" asked Fogg. "Stand back. Guard, hold his hands. Take him into custody. What is the meaning of this?" "I have been robbed," said Fox, his face streaming with sweat and red with heat. "I have had my money taken; she has brought it here; she is trying to bribe you with it; she would buy off that fellow; he deserves to be hung. I will denounce you if you take the money; it is mine. You have come here to hang him, and hanged he shall be. You shall not take my money and let him escape." He gasped for breath; he had been galloping, and galloping in a state of feverish excitement and rage. Some time after Julian had left him at Hall, her final remark had occurred to him, "Then I shall help myself," and he asked himself what she could mean by that, what she possibly could do. Suddenly he remembered his doubts about whether she had seen him in the pigeon-cote, and at once he was overwhelmed with fear. He mounted his horse and rode to Kilworthy, to hear that his sister had left an hour before with servants and horses. He flew to the dove-cote and explored the pigeon-holes. Every one had been rifled. Sick, almost fainting with dismay, with baffled avarice and ambition, he remounted his horse, and rode at its fastest pace to Lydford. "You are an impudent scoundrel," said Captain Fogg; "an impudent scoundrel to dare insinuate--but, who are you, what is your name?" "I am Anthony Crymes of Kilworthy," said Fox. "It is a lie!" exclaimed Julian, starting forward. "Captain Fogg, take him, if you must have a victim. Take him. He is Anthony Cleverdon, son of the old Squire, and heir to Hall." "What is that?--what is that? Clear the room," shouted Fogg. "Stand back you rascal!--traitor!--rebel! Sergeant, keep hold of him till you can get a pair of manacles--or stay, take your sash, bind his hands behind his back, and leave the room. Friswell, you need not stay; I will call you when wanted. Matters of State importance, secrets against the Government and his sacred Majesty the King, are not for ears such as yours--till tried, tried and proved worthy. Go." When the room was cleared of all save Julian and Fox, the Captain said, "Now, then, what is the meaning of this?" "I have been robbed," said Fox, trembling between apprehension and rage. "My sister has taken advantage of having seen where I keep my money, and has carried it off--therewith to bribe you to let off"--he turned fiercely at Julian, his white teeth shining, his lips drawn back, and his eyes glittering with hate--"to let off--her lover." "You are quite mistaken," said Fogg, stroking his moustache. "These saddle-bags and valises contain documents of importance, correspondence of the rebels----" "They contain my money," screamed Fox--"five hundred pounds." "Five hundred guineas," said the Captain, and thrust his hand into his pocket, "and some of them five-guinea pieces?" "Even so. They are mine." "And you are----?" "Anthony Crymes. Most people know me as Fox Crymes." "Captain Fogg," said Julian, "that is false. I do not deny that he was once called Crymes, but he obtained a royal license to change his name; he is Anthony Cleverdon." "Anthony Cleverdon!" echoed Captain Fogg. "By the Lord, you seem to be a breed of Anthony Cleverdons down here! How many more of you are there?" "There are three," said Julian--"the father, the old squire; there is his son, an outcast, driven by his father from his home; and there is the Anthony Cleverdon of Hall, who has assumed the name, stepped into the rights and place of the other, and walks in his shoes." "And, by Heaven!--why not wear his cravat? You swear to this." "I will swear." "Come--I must have another to confirm your word." "Call up the old father, if he be not already discharged." Fox for a moment was stunned. He realized his danger. He had run his head into the noose prepared for Anthony, and that five hundred pounds had saved Anthony and sold him. The paralyzing effect of this discovery lasted but for a moment. Then he burst forth into a torrent of explanation, confused, stuttering in his rage and fear, now in a scream, then in a hoarse croak. Captain Fogg rapped on the table. "Gag him," ordered he, "stop his mouth. We have made a mistake--locked up the wrong man. This is the veritable Anthony Cleverdon, the rebel. Stop his mouth instantly. He deafens me." Fox--writhing, plunging, kicking, struggling to be free--was quickly overmastered, his mouth gagged, his feet bound as well as his hands. He stood snorting, his eyes glaring, the sweat pouring from his brow, and his red hair bristling. In another moment old Squire Cleverdon was introduced, looking deadly pale. He had not been released--had not as yet heard that his son had delivered himself up. He looked with indifference about him. He believed he was brought up to receive sentence, and he was prepared to receive it with dignity. "Old man," said the Captain, "a word with you. Friswell, you may stay. Sergeant, keep at the door. I want a short and direct answer to a question I put to you. Prisoner, do you know that fellow there, with his hair on end and his mouth stopped?" "I know him very well. I have good reason to know him," answered the Squire. "What is his name?" "His name is the same as mine--Anthony Cleverdon." "And his place of residence?" "Hall." "Is he your son?" "He is my son-in-law; he----" "Enough. He is your son?" "Yes; that is to say----" "Exactly," interrupted Captain Fogg. "I want to hear no more; the lady says the same. Say it again. This is your assert----" "Anthony Cleverdon, the younger, of Hall," said Julian. "Sergeant," said Fogg, "is the beam run out?" "Yes, your honour." "And the rope ready?" "It is, your honour." "Then take this prisoner--Anthony Cleverdon the younger--and hang him forthwith. The two other prisoners are discharged. They were apprehended, or gave themselves up, by mistake. That is the true Anthony Cleverdon. Hang him--at once. He who steps into another man's shoes may wear as well his cravat." FOOTNOTE: [7] This was the case. Among those sentenced by Judge Jeffreys, the majority escaped with a payment. The Queen had 98 delivered to her order, Jerome Nimo had 101, Sir Wm. Booth 195, Sir Christopher Musgrave 100, Sir Wm. Howard 205, and so on. They paid sums varying in amount, and got off clear. See Inderwick's "Sidelights on the Stuarts," 1889. CHAPTER LXI. EXEUNT--OMNES. Anthony was in his cell. He expected every moment to be called forth, and to hear his doom. He was perfectly calm, and thought only of Urith. He had the half-token about his neck, and he kissed it. Urith had given it to him: it was a pledge to him that she would ever be heartaching for him, living in the love and thought of him. Time passed without his noticing it. Steps approached his cell, and he rose from his seat, ready to follow the soldier who would lead him forth to death. But, to his astonishment, in the door appeared Julian, with the lieutenant. Anthony's face darkened, and he stepped back. Why should this girl--this girl who had poisoned his life--come to torment and disturb him at the last hour? Perhaps she read his thoughts in his face by the pale ray of light that entered from the window; and, with a voice trembling with emotion, she said, "Anthony, you are free!" He did not stir, but looked questioningly at her. She also was pale, deadly pale, and her whole frame was quivering. "It is true," said Friswell. "You are free to depart, you and the old man; both are discharged. There has been a mistake." "I do not understand. There can have been no mistake," said Anthony. "Come, quick; follow me," said Julian. Then, in a low tone, turning to the lieutenant, she said, "Suffer me one moment to speak to him alone." "You may speak to him as much as you will," said the young man. "I only wish I were in his place." "Anthony," said she, "say not another word to anyone here. I have delivered you." "You, Julian! But how?" "I have bought your life, with gold and----" "And with what?" "With--but I will tell you outside, not here. Come, your father awaits you." "I thank you for what you have done for me, Julian. If I have wronged you in any way hitherto, I ask your forgiveness. Indeed, we have been in the wrong on all sides--none pure, none--save Bessie." "None, save Bessie," repeated Julian. "Come with me," she added, after a silence; and he obeyed. Near the castle stands the weather-beaten church of St. Petrock, with its granite-pinnacled tower. Outside this church, on a tombstone, sat the old Squire. He first had been released, not at all comprehending how he had escaped death; not allowed to ask questions, huddled out of the castle, and sent forth into the street, bewildered and in doubt. Now, with wide-opened eyes, he stared at Julian and his son as they came to him, as though he saw spirits from the dead. "He is free, he is restored to you!" said Julian. The old man tried to rise, but sank back on the stone, extended his arms, and in a moment was locked in those of his son. He could not understand what had taken place. He knew only that both he and Anthony were free, and in no further danger, but how that had come about, and how it was that Fox was in bonds, he could not make out. The reaction after the strain on his nerves set in. Great tears rolled out of his eyes, and he sobbed like a child on the breast of Anthony. Then Julian told him how that his son had come and had surrendered himself to save his father. The old man listened, and as he listened, his pride, his hardness gave way. He put his hand into that of his son and pressed it. He could not speak, his heart was overfull. But how had Anthony escaped? That he could not understand. Then Julian told how that she had discovered that Fox had a hidden store of gold in the pigeon-cote at Kilworthy. She was convinced that this was the money that her father had lost, the money he was conveying to Monmouth at Taunton. Fox must have robbed the coach, robbed his own father, secreted the bags near the place where he had stolen them, and conveyed them by night, one by one, to the pigeon house at Kilworthy, where he had supposed they were safe, as the cote was deserted and no one ever entered it, least of all ascended a ladder to explore the pigeon-holes. She, by accident, had observed him, but had not allowed him to suppose that he had been seen. When Anthony gave himself up, then Julian had entreated Fox to use this money to obtain the freedom of his friend and brother-in-law. As he had refused to do so, Julian had gone home, and taken the gold, brought it to Lydford, and with it had purchased Anthony's freedom. As they spoke, the sexton passed them, rattling the keys of the church. He took no notice of them, nor they of him. They, indeed, were immersed in their own concerns. "But," said Anthony, "you said something more to me. You had sacrificed something for me besides the gold. What was it----?" "A life," answered Julian, in a low tone. Hark! as she said the word, the bell of the church began to toll. "There is some one dying," said the old man, rising from the gravestone. "Let us pray for him as he passes." There was a noise of voices in the street, exclamations, heard between the deep deafening notes of the bell. Presently the old man said. "What did you say, Julian! A life--whose life?" She did not answer. He looked round. She was gone. "And what did the Captain mean," he added, "when he said--he who has stepped into another man's shoes must wear his cravat?" As he looked about, searching for Julian--he saw his question answered; understood why the bell tolled, why the whole of the population of the little place was in the street, talking, gesticulating, crying out, and looking at the topmost window of the Castle. He who had stepped into Anthony's shoes, assumed his name, occupied his place, was wearing the cravat intended for his neck. But where was Julian? That was a question asked often, repeatedly, urgently, and it was a question that was never answered. A shepherd boy declared that he had seen her going over the moor in the direction of Tavy Cleave. Search was made for her in every direction, but in vain. When the writer was a boy, he was with a party at a picnic at Tavy Cleave, and was bidden descend the precipitous flank to the river to bring up water in an iron kettle. He went down--jumping, sliding, scrambling, and suddenly slid through a branch of whortleberry plants between some masses of rock that had fallen together, wedging each other up, and found himself in a pit under these rocks. To his surprise he there found a number of bones. His first impression was that a sheep had fallen from the rocks into this place, and had there died, but a little further examination convinced him that the remains were not those of a sheep at all. Among the remains, where were the little bones of the hand, was a ring. The ring was of gold and delicately wrought. It probably at one time contained hair, but this had disappeared, and the socket was empty, within the hoop was engraved "Ulalia Crymes, d. April 6, 1665." It was clearly a mourning ring. Now Ulalia Glanville was the last of that family, the heiress who married Ferdinando Crymes, and the day of her burial was April 10th, therefore, probably she died about April 6th, in that very year, 1665. And this was the mother of Julian. Can this have been the ring commemorative of her mother worn by Julian Crymes, and does this fact identify the bones as the remains of that unhappy girl? If so she must have either slipped or precipitated herself from the rocks over head, and fallen between these masses of stone, where her crushed body escaped the observation of all searchers, and of accidental passers-by. As already said in an earlier chapter, the parish church of Peter Tavy has gone through that process which is facetiously termed "restoration," on the principle of the derivation of _Lucus à non lucendo_; restoration meaning, in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases the utter destruction of every element of interest and loveliness in an ancient church. Among the objects on which one of those West of England wreckers, the architects, exhibit their destructive energies are the tombstones. Now, in Peter Tavy Church, previous to its restoration, there were--in the interest of my story--two tombstones, fortunately transcribed before the wrecker began his work. Here is one, cut on a slate slab let into the floor:-- "TO THE MEMORY OF ANTHONY CLEVERDON, GENT., [_Then a pair of clasped right hands_] AND URITH, HIS WIFE, DAUGHTER AND HEIRESS OF RICHARD MALVINE, OF WILLSWORTHY, GENT." Under this stone the corps of them abide What lived and tenderly did love, and dyed. Wedlock and Death had with the Grave agreed To make for them an everlasting marriage bed, Where in repose their mixed dust might lye. Their souls be gone up hand in hand on high. Curiously enough, there was no date to this tomb. It would appear that for a hundred years the descendants of Anthony and Urith remained at Willsworthy, and then the family became extinct. It would also appear that Hall passed completely out of the family of Cleverdon, the old Anthony Cleverdon, on his death, being entered in the register as "Anthony Cleverdon the Elder, once of Hall, but now of Willsworthy, Gentleman;" and the date of his burial was 1689, so that he just survived the accession of the Prince of Orange. It cannot be doubted that the few remaining years of his life saw him an altered man, and that he had discovered that with the loss of Hall he had gained something, as Luke had said, far more precious--the love of his children, and the knowledge how precious it was. In the floor of the chancel, below the Communion-rails, was another Cleverdon monument, but not one of a Cleverdon of Willsworthy, but of a rector of Peter Tavy. His Christian name was Luke. We may therefore conclude that Luke from being curate became incumbent of the church and parish he had served so faithfully. Beneath his name stood a second. The inscription ran thus:--"Also of Elizabeth, his true helpmeet, daughter of Anthony Cleverdon, formerly of Hall." There was no mention on it of the marriage with Fox. Below stood the text from Proverbs:-- "Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her. She will do him good, and not evil, all the days of her life." THE END _THE GRESHAM PRESS_, UNWIN BROTHERS, CHILWORTH AND LONDON. _18, Bury St., W.C., Sept. 1891._ MESSRS. METHUEN'S NEW BOOKS AND ANNOUNCEMENTS. 1891-2. CONTENTS. 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The book will contain numerous portraits of Mr. Ruskin, and also some sketches by Mr. Arthur Severn. _S. BARING GOULD._ THE TRAGEDY OF THE C�SARS: The Emperors of the Julian and Claudian Lines. With numerous Illustrations from Busts, Gems, Cameos, &c. By S. BARING GOULD, Author of 'Mehalah,' &c. 8vo, 21s. [_November, 1891._ This book is the only one in English which deals with the personal history of the Cæsars, and Mr. Baring Gould has found a subject which, for picturesque detail and sombre interest, is not rivalled by any work of fiction. The volume is copiously illustrated. _F. T. PERRENS._ THE HISTORY OF FLORENCE FROM THE TIME OF THE MEDICIS TO THE FALL OF THE REPUBLIC. By F. T. PERRENS. Translated by HANNAH LYNCH. In 3 vols. Vol. I. 8vo, 12s. 6d. [_November, 1891._ This is a translation from the French of the best history of Florence in existence. These volumes cover a period of profound interest--political and literary--and they are written with great vivacity. The work will be in three volumes, of which this is the first. _EDITED BY A. CLARK, M.A._ THE COLLEGES OF OXFORD: Their History and their Traditions. By Members of the University. Edited by A. CLARK, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of Lincoln College. 8vo, 12s. 6d. [_October, 1891._ This is the first book which has dealt with the history of the Oxford Colleges as distinct from that of the University. The various chapters are contributed by distinguished Oxford men, and the book will be of permanent historical value. _EDITED BY C. WHIBLEY._ SWIFT'S JOURNAL TO STELLA. Edited, with Introduction and Notes, by CHARLES WHIBLEY. 2 vols. 8vo. [_January, 1892._ _EDITED BY W. E. HENLEY._ BYRON'S LETTERS. Edited, with Introduction and Notes, by W. E. HENLEY. 8vo. [_In preparation._ _EDITED BY J. WELLS, M.A._ OXFORD AND OXFORD LIFE: With Chapters on the Examinations. By Members of the University. Edited by J. WELLS, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of Wadham College. Crown 8vo. [_March, 1892._ IN TWO PARTS:-- I. Oxford Life, 3s. 6d. II. The Examinations, 3s. 0d. This work will be of great interest and value to all who are in any way connected with the University. It will contain an account of life at Oxford--intellectual, social, and religious--a careful estimate of necessary expenses, a review of recent changes, and a statement of the present position of the University. The second part will treat fully of the various examinations. _WITH PREFACE BY SIR EDWIN ARNOLD._ THE IMITATION OF BUDDHA: Being Quotations from Buddhist Literature for each Day in the Year. By E. M. BOWDEN. With Preface by Sir EDWIN ARNOLD. 12mo, 2s. 6d. [_October, 1891._ _HENRIK IBSEN._ BRAND. A Drama by HENRIK IBSEN. Translated by WILLIAM WILSON. Crown 8vo, 5s. [_October_, 1891. This is the first English translation of the most famous and powerful of Ibsen's dramas. It is a work of extraordinary interest, and on it Ibsen's fame abroad chiefly rests. _W. CUNNINGHAM, D.D._ THE PATH TOWARDS KNOWLEDGE: Essays on Questions of the Day. By W. CUNNINGHAM, D.D., Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, Professor of Economics at King's College, London. Crown 8vo, 4s. 6d. [_Ready._ _P. ANDERSON GRAHAM._ NATURE IN BOOKS: Studies in Literary Biography. By P. ANDERSON GRAHAM. Crown 8vo, 6s. [_October_, 1891. This is an attempt to trace the influence of surrounding circumstances, and especially the influences of nature on some great writers. The chapters are entitled: I. 'The Magic of the Fields' (Jefferies). II. 'Art and Nature' (Tennyson). III. 'The Doctrine of Idleness' (Thoreau). IV. 'The Romance of Life' (Scott). V. 'The Poetry of Toil' (Burns). VI. 'The Divinity of Nature' (Wordsworth). New and Cheaper Editions. _W. CLARK RUSSELL._ THE LIFE OF ADMIRAL LORD COLLINGWOOD. By W. CLARK RUSSELL, Author of 'The Wreck of the Grosvenor.' With Illustrations by F. BRANGWYN. New and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo, 5s. [_In preparation._ This will be a cheaper edition uniform with the author's 'Nelson.' This book has been cordially welcomed in its more expensive form, and has taken its place as a standard work of naval history. _S. BARING GOULD._ HISTORIC ODDITIES AND STRANGE EVENTS. By S. BARING GOULD. First Series. Third Edition. Crown 8vo, 6s. [_December_, 1891. FREAKS OF FANATICISM. By S. BARING GOULD. Crown 8vo, 6s. [_December_, 1891. A new and cheaper edition of the book originally published as a second series of 'Historic Oddities.' FICTION. _W. CLARK RUSSELL._ MY DANISH SWEETHEART. By W. CLARK RUSSELL, Author of 'The Wreck of the Grosvenor.' Crown 8vo, 3 vols., 31s. 6d. [_October_, 1891. _F. MABEL ROBINSON._ HOVENDEN, V.C. By F. MABEL ROBINSON, Author of 'The Plan of Campaign.' Crown 8vo, 3 vols., 25s. 6d. [_October_, 1891. _THE AUTHOR OF 'MEHALAH.'_ MARGERY OF QUETHER. By S. BARING GOULD, Author of 'Mehalah,' &c. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. [_Ready._ _W. E. NORRIS._ JACK'S FATHER. By W. E. NORRIS, Author of 'Matrimony.' Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. [_Ready._ _W. H. POLLOCK & A. G. ROSS._ BETWEEN THE LINES. By WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK and A. G. ROSS. Post 8vo, 1s. [_Ready._ _MRS. WALFORD._ A PINCH OF EXPERIENCE. By L. B. WALFORD, Author of 'Mr. Smith.' With Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, 6s. [_November, 1891._ _MRS. MOLESWORTH._ THE RED GRANGE. By MRS. MOLESWORTH, Author of 'Carrots.' With Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, 6s. [_Ready._ _MRS. CUTHELL._ IN TENT AND BUNGALOW: Stories of Indian Sport and Society. By MRS. CUTHELL. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. [_December, 1891._ _J. MACLAREN COBBAN._ A REVEREND GENTLEMAN. By J. MACLAREN COBBAN. Crown 8vo, 6s. [_October, 1891._ _E. M'QUEEN GRAY._ ELSA. A Novel. Crown 8vo, 6s. [_Ready._ "A charming novel. The characters are not only powerful sketches, but minutely and carefully finished portraits."--_Guardian._ New and Cheaper Editions. _S. BARING GOULD._ URITH. A Story of Dartmoor. By S. BARING GOULD, Author of 'Mehalah,' 'Arminell,' &c. Crown 8vo, 6s. [_Ready._ A cheaper edition of a story which has had a very cordial reception. _F. MABEL ROBINSON._ MR. BUTLER'S WARD. By F. MABEL ROBINSON, Author of 'The Plan of Campaign.' Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. [_In October._ _LESLIE KEITH._ A LOST ILLUSION. By LESLIE KEITH, Author of 'The Chilcotes,' 'A Hurricane in Petticoats,' &c. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. [_October_, 1891. _G. MANVILLE FENN._ A DOUBLE KNOT. By G. MANVILLE FENN, Author of 'The Vicar's People,' 'Eli's Children,' &c. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. [_Ready._ _W. CLARK RUSSELL._ A MARRIAGE AT SEA. By W. CLARK RUSSELL, Author of 'The Wreck of the Grosvenor,' &c. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. [_November_, 1891. A cheap edition of one of Mr. Clark Russell's exciting sea stories. _M. BETHAM EDWARDS._ DISARMED. By M. BETHAM EDWARDS, Author of 'Kitty.' Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. [_Ready._ _EDNA LYALL._ DERRICK VAUGHAN, NOVELIST. By EDNA LYALL, Author of 'Donovan.' Crown 8vo, 1s. [_Ready._ A cheap edition of a book which in a more expensive form has passed into its 30th thousand. _MRS. LYNN LINTON._ THE TRUE HISTORY OF JOSHUA DAVIDSON. By E. LYNN LINTON. Post 8vo, 1s. [_Ready._ A new edition, being the eleventh, of this famous book. New Two Shilling Editions. ARMINELL. By the Author of 'Mehalah.' [_Ready._ ELI'S CHILDREN. By G. MANVILLE FENN. [_Ready._ THE QUIET MRS. FLEMING. By RICHARD PRYCE. DISENCHANTMENT. By F. MABEL ROBINSON. NEW BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. _L. T. MEADE._ HEPSY GIPSY. By L. T. MEADE. Illustrated by EVERARD HOPKINS. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. [_October_, 1891. THE HONOURABLE MISS: A Tale of a Country Town. By L. T. MEADE, Author of 'Scamp and I,' 'A Girl of the People,' &c. With Illustrations by EVERARD HOPKINS. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. [_October_, 1891. _MRS. LEITH ADAMS._ MY LAND OF BEULAH. With a Frontispiece by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. [_October_, 1891. _AUTHOR OF 'MDLE. MORI.'_ THE SECRET OF MADAME DE MONLUC. By the Author of 'The Atelier du Lys.' Illustrated by W. PARKINSON. Crown 8vo, 5s. [_November_, 1891. New and Cheaper Editions. _W. CLARK RUSSELL._ MASTER ROCKAFELLAR'S VOYAGE. By W. CLARK RUSSELL, Author of 'The Wreck of the Grosvenor,' &c. Illustrated by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. [_Ready_. _G. MANVILLE FENN._ SYD BELTON: Or, The Boy who would not go to Sea. By G. MANVILLE FENN, Author of 'In the King's Name,' &c. Illustrated by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. [_Ready_. NOVEL SERIES. Three Shillings and Sixpence. MESSRS. METHUEN will issue from time to time a Series of copyright Novels, by well-known Authors, handsomely bound, at the above popular price. The first volumes (ready) are: 1. THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN. _F. MABEL ROBINSON._ 2. JACQUETTA. _S. BARING GOULD_, Author of 'Mehalah,' &c. 3. MY LAND OF BEULAH. _Mrs. LEITH ADAMS_ (_Mrs. De Courcy Laffan_). 4. ELI'S CHILDREN. _G. MANVILLE FENN._ 5. ARMINELL: A Social Romance. _S. BARING GOULD_, Author of 'Mehalah,' &c. 6. DERRICK VAUGHAN, NOVELIST. With Portrait of Author. _EDNA LYALL_, Author of 'Donovan,' &c. 7. DISENCHANTMENT. _F. MABEL ROBINSON._ 8. DISARMED. _M. BETHAM EDWARDS._ 9. JACK'S FATHER. _W. E. NORRIS._ 10. MARGERY OF QUETHER. _S. BARING GOULD._ 11. A LOST ILLUSION. _LESLIE KEITH._ Other Volumes will be announced in due course. ENGLISH LEADERS OF RELIGION. _Edited by A. M. M. STEDMAN, M.A._ Under the above title MESSRS. METHUEN have commenced the publication of a series of short biographies, free from party bias, of the most prominent leaders of religious life and thought in this and the last century. Each volume will contain a succinct account and estimate of the career, the influence, and the literary position of the subject of the memoir. The following are already arranged:-- CARDINAL NEWMAN. _R. H. HUTTON._ [_Ready_. "Few who read this book will fail to be struck by the wonderful insight it displays into the nature of the Cardinal's genius and the spirit of his life."--WILFRID WARD, in the _Tablet_. "Full of knowledge, excellent in method, and intelligent in criticism. We regard it as wholly admirable."--_Academy._ "An estimate, careful, deliberate, full of profound reasoning and of acute insight."--_Pall Mall Gazette._ JOHN WESLEY. _J. H. OVERTON, M.A._ [_Ready._ "It is well done; the story is clearly told, proportion is duly observed, and there is no lack either of discrimination or of sympathy."--_Manchester Guardian._ "Admirable alike in tone and style."--_Academy._ CHARLES SIMEON. _H. C. G. MOULE, M.A._ [_Shortly._ BISHOP WILBERFORCE. _G. W. DANIEL, M.A._ [_Ready._ JOHN KEBLE. _W. LOCK, M.A._ F. D. MAURICE. _COLONEL F. MAURICE, R.E._ THOMAS CHALMERS. _MRS. OLIPHANT._ CARDINAL MANNING. _A. W. HUTTON, M.A._ Other Volumes will be announced in due course. SOCIAL QUESTIONS OF TO-DAY. _Edited by H. de B. GIBBINS, M.A._ Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. MESSRS. METHUEN beg to announce the publication of a series of volumes upon those topics of social, economic, and industrial interest that are at the present moment foremost in the public mind. Each volume of the series will be written by an author who is an acknowledged authority upon the subject with which he deals, and who will treat his question in a thoroughly sympathetic but impartial manner, with special reference to the historic aspect of the subject and from the point of view of the Historical School of economics and social science. _The following form the earlier Volumes of the Series:_-- 1. TRADES UNIONISM--NEW AND OLD. _G. HOWELL, M.P._, Author of 'The Conflicts of Capital and Labour.' [_Ready._ 2. THE CO-OPERATIVE MOVEMENT OF TO-DAY. _G. J. HOLYOAKE_, Author of 'The History of Co-operation.' [_Ready._ 3. MUTUAL THRIFT. _REV. J. FROME WILKINSON, M.A._, Author of 'The Friendly Society Movement.' [_Ready._ 4. PROBLEMS OF POVERTY: An Inquiry into the Industrial Conditions of the Poor. _J. A. HOBSON, M.A._ [_Ready._ 5. POVERTY AND PAUPERISM. _REV. L. R. PHELPS, M.A._, Fellow of Oriel College, Oxford. 6. ENGLISH SOCIALISM OF TO-DAY. _HUBERT BLAND_, One of the Authors of 'Fabian Essays.' 7. THE COMMERCE OF NATIONS. _C. F. BASTABLE, M.A._, Professor of Economics at Trinity College, Dublin, and Author of 'International Commerce.' [_Nearly ready._ 8. ENGLISH LAND AND ENGLISH MEN. _REV. C. W. STUBBS, M.A._, Author of 'The Labourers and the Land.' 9. MODERN LABOUR AND OLD ECONOMICS. _H. de B. GIBBINS, M.A._ (Editor), Author of 'The Industrial History of England.' 10. CHRISTIAN SOCIALISM IN ENGLAND. _REV. J. CARTER, M.A._, of Pusey House, Oxford, Editor of 'The Economic Review.' 11. LAND NATIONALIZATION. _HAROLD COX, M.A._ 12. THE EDUCATION OF THE PEOPLE. _J. R. DIGGLE, M.A._, Chairman of the London School Board. UNIVERSITY EXTENSION SERIES. Under the above title MESSRS. METHUEN are publishing a series of books on historical, literary, and scientific subjects, suitable for extension students and home-reading circles. The volumes are intended to assist the lecturer and not to usurp his place. Each volume will be complete in itself, and the subjects will be treated by competent writers in a broad and philosophic spirit. _Edited by J. E. SYMES, M.A., Principal of University College, Nottingham._ Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. _The following volumes are already arranged, and others will be announced shortly_. THE INDUSTRIAL HISTORY OF ENGLAND. _H. de B. GIBBINS, M.A._, late Scholar of Wadham Coll., Oxon., Cobden Prizeman. With Maps and Plans. [_Ready._ "A compact and clear story of our industrial development. A study of his concise but luminous book cannot fail to give the reader a clear insight into the principal phenomena of our industrial history. The editor and publishers are to be congratulated on this first volume of their venture, and we shall look with expectant interest for the succeeding volumes of the series. If they maintain the same standard of excellence the series will make a permanent place for itself among the many series which appear from time to time."--_University Extension Journal._ "The writer is well-informed, and from first to last his work is profoundly interesting."--_Scots Observer._ "A careful and lucid sketch."--_Times._ A HISTORY OF ENGLISH POLITICAL ECONOMY. _L. L. PRICE, M.A._, Fellow of Oriel Coll., Oxon., Extension Lecturer in Political Economy. [_Ready._ PROBLEMS OF POVERTY: An Inquiry into the Industrial Conditions of the Poor. _J. A. HOBSON, M.A._, late Scholar of Lincoln Coll., Oxon., U. E. Lecturer in Economics. [_Ready._ VICTORIAN POETS. _A. SHARP_, formerly of Newnham College, Cambridge. [_Ready._ THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. _J. E. SYMES, M.A._, Principal of University Coll., Nottingham. [_In the Press._ PSYCHOLOGY. _F. S. GRANGER, M.A._, Lecturer in Philosophy at University Coll., Nottingham. [_Ready._ ENGLISH SOCIAL REFORMERS. _H. de B. GIBBINS, M.A._, late Scholar of Wadham Coll., Oxon., Cobden Prizeman. NAPOLEON. _E. L. S. HORSBURGH, M.A._, Camb., U. E. Lecturer in History. ENGLISH POLITICAL HISTORY. _T. J. LAWRENCE, M.A._, late Fellow and Tutor of Downing Coll., Cambridge, U. E. Lecturer in History. SHAKESPEARE. _F. H. TRENCH, M.A._, Fellow of All Souls' Coll., Oxon., U. E. Lecturer in Literature. THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. _G. C. MOORE-SMITH, M.A._, Camb., U. E. Lecturer in Language. AN INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY. _J. SOLOMON, M.A._, Oxon., late Lecturer in Philosophy at University Coll., Nottingham. ENGLISH PAINTERS. _D. S. MACCOLL, M.A._, Oxon., Fellow of Univ. Coll., London, U. E. Lecturer in Art and Literature. ENGLISH ARCHITECTURE. _EARNEST RADFORD, M.A._, Camb., U. E. Lecturer in Art. With Illustrations. THE EVOLUTION OF PLANT LIFE: Lower Forms. _G. MASSEE_, Kew Gardens, U. E. Lecturer in Botany. With Illustrations. [_In October._ THE CHEMISTRY OF LIFE AND HEALTH. _C. W. KIMMINS, M.A._, Camb., U. E. Lecturer in Chemistry. GENERAL LITERATURE. _Works by S. BARING GOULD_, Author of 'Mehalah,' &c. OLD COUNTRY LIFE. With Sixty-seven Illustrations by W. PARKINSON, F. D. BEDFORD, and F. MASEY. Large Crown 8vo, cloth super extra, top edge gilt, 10s. 6d. Third Edition. [_Ready._ "'Old Country Life,' as healthy wholesome reading, full of breezy life and movement, full of quaint stories vigorously told, will not be excelled by any book to be published throughout the year. Sound, hearty, and English to the core."--_World._ "Mr. Baring Gould is well known as a clever and versatile author; but he never wrote a more delightful book than the volume before us. He has described English country life with the fidelity that only comes with close acquaintance, and with an appreciation of its more attractive features not surpassed even in the pages of Washington Irving. The illustrations add very much to the charm of the book, and the artists in their drawings of old churches and manor-houses, streets, cottages, and gardens, have greatly assisted the author."--_Manchester Guardian._ HISTORIC ODDITIES AND STRANGE EVENTS. Demy 8vo, 10s. 6d. Second Edition. Cheap Edition, 6s. "A collection of exciting and entertaining chapters. The whole volume is delightful reading."--_Times._ "The work, besides being agreeable to read, is valuable for purposes of reference. The entire contents are stimulating and delightful."--_Notes and Queries._ FREAKS OF FANATICISM. (First published as Historic Oddities, Second Series.) Demy 8vo, 10s. 6d. Cheap Edition, 6s. "Mr. Baring Gould has a keen eye for colour and effect, and the subjects he has chosen give ample scope to his descriptive and analytic faculties. A perfectly fascinating book. Whether considered as merely popular reading or as a succession of studies in the freaks of human history, it is equally worthy of perusal, while it is marked by the artistic literary colouring and happy lightness of style."--_Scottish Leader._ SONGS OF THE WEST: Traditional Ballads and Songs of the West of England, with their Traditional Melodies. Collected by S. BARING GOULD, M.A., and H. FLEETWOOD SHEPPARD, M.A. Arranged for Voice and Piano. In 4 Parts (containing 25 Songs each), 3s. each. Part I., Fourth Edition. Part II., Second Edition. Part III., _ready_. Part IV., 5s. In one Vol., roan, 15s. "A rich and varied collection of humour, pathos, grace, and poetic fancy."--_Saturday Review._ YORKSHIRE ODDITIES AND STRANGE EVENTS. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo, 6s. [_Ready._ JACQUETTA, and other Stories. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. Boards, 2s. ARMINELL: A Social Romance. New Edition. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. "To say that a book is by the author of 'Mehalah' is to imply that it contains a story cast on strong lines, containing dramatic possibilities, vivid and sympathetic descriptions of Nature, and a wealth of ingenious imagery. All these expectations are justified by 'Arminell.'"--_Speaker._ URITH: A Story of Dartmoor. New Edition. Crown 8vo, 6s. "The author is at his best."--_Times._ "He has nearly reached the high water-mark of 'Mehalah."'--_National Observer._ MARGERY OF QUETHER, and other Stories. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. [_October_, 1891. MESSRS. METHUEN'S NEW & RECENT BOOKS. FICTION. _E. LYNN LINTON._ THE TRUE HISTORY OF JOSHUA DAVIDSON, Christian and Communist. By E. LYNN LINTON. Eleventh and Cheaper Edition. Post 8vo, 1s. _G. MANVILLE FENN._ A DOUBLE KNOT. By G. MANVILLE FENN, Author of 'The Vicar's People,' &c. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. HISTORY AND POLITICS. _W. CLARK RUSSELL._ THE LIFE OF ADMIRAL LORD COLLINGWOOD. By W. CLARK RUSSELL, Author of 'The Wreck of the Grosvenor.' With Illustrations by F. BRANGWYN. 8vo, 15s. "A surprisingly good book."--_Manchester Guardian._ "A really good book."--_Saturday Review._ "A most excellent and wholesome book, which we should like to see in the hands of every boy in the country."--_St. James's Gazette._ _HANNAH LYNCH._ GEORGE MEREDITH: A Study. By HANNAH LYNCH. With Portrait. Crown 8vo, 5s. A limited Large-Paper Edition, 21s. "We strongly recommend this essay to Meredithians, still more to not yet Meredithians."--_Journal of Education._ _E. LYNN LINTON._ ABOUT IRELAND. By E. LYNN LINTON. Second Edition. Crown 8vo, boards, 1s. "A brilliant and justly proportioned view of the Irish Question."--_Standard._ _T. RALEIGH, M.A._ IRISH POLITICS: An Elementary Sketch. By T. RALEIGH, M.A. Fellow of All Souls', Oxford, Author of 'Elementary Politics.' Foolscap 8vo, paper boards, 1s.; cloth, 1s. 6d. "A very clever work."--MR. GLADSTONE. "Unionist as he is, his little book has been publicly praised for its cleverness both by Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Morley. It does, in fact, raise most of the principal points of the Irish controversy, and puts them tersely, lucidly, and in such a way as to strike into the mind of the reader."--_The Speaker._ "Salient facts and clear expositions in a few sentences packed with meaning. Every one who wishes to have the vital points of Irish politics at his finger's end should get this book by heart."--_Scotsman._ _F. MABEL ROBINSON._ IRISH HISTORY FOR ENGLISH READERS. By F. MABEL ROBINSON. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo, boards, 1s. GENERAL LITERATURE. _EDITED BY F. LANGBRIDGE, M.A._ BALLADS OF THE BRAVE: Poems of Chivalry, Enterprise, Courage, and Constancy, from the Earliest Times to the Present Day. Edited, with Notes, by REV. F. LANGBRIDGE. Crown 8vo. "A very happy conception happily carried out. These 'Ballads of the Brave' are intended to suit the real tastes of boys, and will suit the taste of the great majority. It is not an ordinary selector who could have so happily put together these characteristic samples. Other readers besides boys may learn much from them."--_Spectator._ "The book is full of splendid things."--_World._ Presentation Edition. Handsomely Bound, 3s. 6d. (School Edition, 2s. 6d.) Or, in Three Parts, 1s. each, for School Readers. I. TROY TO FLODDEN. II. BOSWORTH TO WATERLOO. III. CRIM�A TO KHARTOUM. _P. H. DITCHFIELD, M.A._ OUR ENGLISH VILLAGES: Their Story and their Antiquities. By P. H. DITCHFIELD, M.A., F.R.H.S., Rector of Barkham, Berks. Post 8vo, 2s. 6d. Illustrated. "A pleasantly written little volume, giving much interesting information concerning villages and village life."--_Pall Mall Gazette._ "The object of the author is not so much to describe any particular village as to give a clear idea of what village life has been in England from the earliest historical times. An extremely amusing and interesting little book, which should find a place in every parochial library."--_Guardian._ _P. H. DITCHFIELD, M.A._ OLD ENGLISH SPORTS. By P. H. DITCHFIELD, M.A. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. Illustrated. "A charming account of old English Sports."--_Morning Post._ _A. M. M. STEDMAN, M.A._ OXFORD: Its Life and Schools. Edited by A. M. M. STEDMAN, M.A., assisted by members of the University. New Edition. Crown 8vo, 5s. "Offers a full and in most respects a satisfactory description of the country through which students must travel, and affords to parents who are desirous of calculating the expenses and rewards of University education, a mass of useful information conveniently arranged and brought down to the most recent date."--_Athenæum._ "We can honestly say of Mr. Stedman's volume that it deserves to be read by the people for whom it is intended, the parents and guardians of Oxford students, present and to come, and by such students themselves."--_Spectator._ _J. B. BURNE, M.A._ PARSON AND PEASANT: Chapters of their Natural History. By J. B. BURNE, M.A., Rector of Wasing. Crown 8vo, 5s. "'Parson and Peasant' is a book not only to be interested in, but to learn something from--a book which may prove a help to many a clergyman, and broaden the hearts and ripen the charity of laymen."--_Derby Mercury._ BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. _W. CLARK RUSSELL._ MASTER ROCKAFELLAR'S VOYAGE. By W. CLARK RUSSELL, Author of 'The Wreck of the Grosvenor,' &c. Illustrated by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. "Mr. Clark Russell's story of 'Master Rockafellar's Voyage' will be among the favourites of the Christmas books. There is a rattle and 'go' all through it, and its illustrations are charming in themselves, and very much above the average in the way in which they are produced. Mr. Clark Russell is thoroughly at home on sea and with boys, and he manages to relate and combine the marvellous in so plausible a manner that we are quite prepared to allow that Master Rockafellar's is no unfair example of every midshipman's first voyage. We can heartily recommend this pretty book to the notice of the parents and friends of sea-loving boys."--_Guardian._ "In the frank and convincing narrative of Master Rockafellar there happens to be set a short story which should make the fortune of the book. 'La Mulette' is as fine a piece of story-telling as ever Mr. Russell has given us, and we heartily commend it to any boy who has the sense to distinguish between the author who has a story to tell, and the author who has to tell a story."--_Speaker._ _G. MANVILLE FENN._ SYD BELTON: Or, The Boy who would not go to Sea. By G. MANVILLE FENN, Author of 'In the King's Name,' &c. Illustrated by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. "Who among the young story-reading public will not rejoice at the sight of the old combination, so often proved admirable--a story by Manville Fenn, illustrated by Gordon Browne! The story, too, is one of the good old sort, full of life and vigour, breeziness and fun. It begins well and goes on better, and from the time Syd joins his ship exciting incidents follow each other in such rapid and brilliant succession that nothing short of absolute compulsion would induce the reader to lay it down."--_Journal of Education._ "The pick of the adventure-books for this season. There is not a dull page in it. 'Syd Belton' is a capital book."--_Speaker._ "From beginning to end the book is a vivid and even striking picture of sea-life."--_Spectator._ _MRS. PARR._ DUMPS. By MRS. PARR, Author of 'Adam and Eve,' 'Dorothy Fox,' &c. Illustrated by W. PARKINSON. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. "One of the prettiest stories which even this clever writer has given the world for a long time."--_World._ "A very sweet and touching story."--_Pall Mall Gazette._ _L. T. MEADE._ A GIRL OF THE PEOPLE. By L. T. MEADE, Author of 'Scamp and I.' &c. Illustrated by R. BARNES. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. "An excellent story. Vivid portraiture of character, and broad and wholesome lessons about life."--_Spectator._ "One of Mrs. Meade's most fascinating books."--_Daily News._ EDUCATIONAL WORKS. METHUEN'S SCIENCE SERIES. MESSRS. METHUEN propose to issue a Series of Science Manuals suitable for use in schools. They will be edited by Mr. R. Elliot Steel, M.A., F.C.S., Senior Natural Science Master in Bradford Grammar School, and will be published at a moderate price. The following are ready or in preparation-- THE WORLD OF SCIENCE. Including Chemistry, Heat, Light, Sound, Magnetism, Electricity, Botany, Zoology, Physiology, Astronomy, and Geology. By R. ELLIOT STEEL, M.A., F.C.S., Senior Natural Science Master in Bradford Grammar School. 147 Illustrations. Second Edition. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. "Mr. Steel's Manual is admirable in many ways. The Book is well calculated to attract and retain the attention of the young."--_Saturday Review._ "If Mr. Steel is to be placed second to any for this quality of lucidity, it is only to Huxley himself; and to be named in the same breath with this master of the craft of teaching is to be accredited with the clearness of style and simplicity of arrangement that belong to thorough mastery of a subject."--_Parents' Review._ Elementary Light with numerous Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3s. " Electricity and Magnetism. " Heat. Other Volumes will be announced in due course. _R. E. STEEL, M.A._ REVISED FOR NEW SESSION. PRACTICAL INORGANIC CHEMISTRY. For the Elementary Stage of the South Kensington Examinations in Science and Art. By R. E. STEEL, M.A., Senior Natural Science Master at Bradford Grammar School. Crown 8vo, cloth, 1s. _R. J. MORICH._ A GERMAN PRIMER. With Exercises. By R. J. MORICH, Chief Modern Language Master at Manchester Grammar School. [_In the Press._ _H. de B. GIBBINS, M.A._ COMPANION GERMAN GRAMMAR. By H. DE B. GIBBINS, M.A., Assistant Master at Nottingham High School. Crown 8vo, 1s. 6d. _E. McQUEEN GRAY._ GERMAN PASSAGES FOR UNSEEN TRANSLATION. By E. MCQUEEN GRAY. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. CLASSICAL WORKS. TACITUS: The Agricola. With Introduction, Notes, &c. By R. F. DAVIS, M.A., Assistant Master at Weymouth College. Crown 8vo. [_In the Press._ SELECTIONS FROM HERODOTUS. With Introduction, Notes, and Vocabulary. By A. C. LIDDELL, M.A., Assistant Master at Nottingham High School. Fcap. 8vo. [_In preparation._ CICERO. De Oratore I. Translated into English by N. P. MOOR, M.A., Assistant Master at Clifton. Crown 8vo. [_November_, 1891. WORKS by A. M. M. STEDMAN, M.A. WADHAM COLLEGE, OXON. FIRST LATIN LESSONS. Second Edition, Enlarged. Crown 8vo, 2s. FIRST LATIN READER. With Notes adapted to the Shorter Latin Primer and Vocabulary. Crown 8vo, 1s. 6d. EASY LATIN PASSAGES FOR UNSEEN TRANSLATION. Second Edition, Enlarged. Fcap. 8vo, 1s. 6d. EASY LATIN EXERCISES ON THE SYNTAX OF THE SHORTER AND REVISED LATIN PRIMERS. With Vocabulary. Third Edition. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. Issued with the consent of Dr. Kennedy. NOTANDA QUAEDAM: Miscellaneous Latin Exercises on Common Rules and Idioms. New Edition. With Vocabulary. Fcap. 8vo, 1s. 6d. LATIN VOCABULARIES FOR REPETITION: Arranged according to Subjects. Third Edition. Fcap. 8vo, 1s. 6d. FIRST GREEK LESSONS. [_In preparation._ EASY GREEK PASSAGES FOR UNSEEN TRANSLATION. EASY GREEK EXERCISES ON ELEMENTARY SYNTAX. [_In preparation._ GREEK VOCABULARIES FOR REPETITION: Arranged according to Subjects. Fcap. 8vo, 1s. 6d. GREEK TESTAMENT SELECTIONS. For the use of Schools. New Edition. With Introduction, Notes, and Vocabulary. Fcap. 8vo, 2s. 6d. FIRST FRENCH LESSONS. Crown 8vo. 1s. EASY FRENCH PASSAGES FOR UNSEEN TRANSLATION. Fcap. 8vo, 1s. 6d. EASY FRENCH EXERCISES ON ELEMENTARY SYNTAX. With Vocabulary. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. FRENCH VOCABULARIES FOR REPETITION: Arranged according to Subjects. Fcap. 8vo, 1s. See also School Examination Series, below. SCHOOL EXAMINATION SERIES. Edited by A. M. M. STEDMAN, M.A. Crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ each. In use at Eton, Harrow, Winchester, Repton, Cheltenham, Sherborne, Haileybury, Merchant Taylors, Manchester, &c. FRENCH EXAMINATION PAPERS IN MISCELLANEOUS GRAMMAR AND IDIOMS. By A. M. M. STEDMAN, M.A. _Fifth Edition._ A KEY, issued to Tutors and Private Students only, to be had on application to the Publishers. _Second Edition._ Cr. 8vo. 5_s._ LATIN EXAMINATION PAPERS IN MISCELLANEOUS GRAMMAR AND IDIOMS. By A. M. M. STEDMAN, M.A. _Third Edition._ KEY (issued as above), 6_s._ GREEK EXAMINATION PAPERS IN MISCELLANEOUS GRAMMAR AND IDIOMS. By A. M. M. STEDMAN, M.A. _Second Edition, Enlarged._ KEY (issued as above), 6_s._ GERMAN EXAMINATION PAPERS IN MISCELLANEOUS GRAMMAR AND IDIOMS. By R. J. MORICH, Manchester Grammar School. _Second Edition._ KEY (issued as above), 5_s._ HISTORY AND GEOGRAPHY EXAMINATION PAPERS. By C. H. SPENCE, M.A., Clifton College. SCIENCE EXAMINATION PAPERS. By R. E. STEEL, M.A., F.C.S., Chief Natural Science Master, Bradford Grammar School. In three volumes. Part I. Chemistry. Part II. Physics (Sound, Light, Heat, Magnetism, Electricity). Part III. Biology and Geology. [_In preparation._ GENERAL KNOWLEDGE EXAMINATION PAPERS. By A. M. M. STEDMAN, M.A. KEY (_as above_), 7_s._ EXAMINATION PAPERS IN BOOK-KEEPING, with Preliminary Exercises. Compiled and arranged by J. T. MEDHURST, F. S. Accts. and Auditors, and Lecturer at City of London College. 3_s._ ENGLISH LITERATURE, Questions for Examination in. Chiefly collected from College Papers set at Cambridge. With an Introduction on the Study of English. By the Rev. W. W. SKEAT, Litt. D., LL.D., Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Cambridge University. _Third Edition, Revised._ ARITHMETIC EXAMINATION PAPERS. By C. PENDLEBURY, M.A., Senior Mathematical Master, St. Paul's School. KEY, 5_s._ TRIGONOMETRY EXAMINATION PAPERS. By E. H. WARD, M.A., Assistant Master at St. Paul's School. KEY, 5_s._ +-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+