THE BEACON
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 THE HAVEN 
 WILD FRUIT 
 demeter's DAUGHTER 
 THE THIEF OF VIRTUE 
 TALES OF THE TENEMENTS
 
 THE BEACON 
 
 BY 
 
 EDEN PHILLPOTTS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 JOHN LANE COMPANY 
 
 MCMXI
 
 Copyright, 1911 
 By EDEN PH1LLP0TTS 

 
 » I 1 
 
 5; 
 
 THE BEACON 
 
 a 
 
 a
 
 THE BEACON 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 SPRINGING directly from the lowland marches, 
 with never a foothill to break her northern steeps, 
 Cosdon, that great frontier height of Dartmoor, al- 
 most assumes the noble contour of a mountain. High 
 Willes and Yes Tor, Fur Tor, and Great Mis soar 
 nearer to the blue, and ascend above all earth piled 
 southerly of Snowdon, while other hills and uplifted 
 wastes of the tableland are only a little lower than 
 they ; but Cosdon Beacon's immense and far-flung arc, 
 seen featureless against the southern sky, arrests and 
 challenges among the needles and turrets of the tors 
 by reason of its distinction, its difference and its 
 might. 
 
 From Hoga de Cossdonne, when the third Henry 
 reigned, there set forth trusty perambulators to define 
 the bounds, metes, precincts of the Royal Forest, and 
 all future topography of the district was built upon 
 their labour. From here, too, prehistoric man looked 
 over the lowlands in fear and hope. Mediaeval monu- 
 ments are few upon this hill, but the neolith has left 
 many a mark scribbled in stone and still enduring. 
 
 Cosdon links present with past after the manner of 
 mountains and inviolate waste places. For a jewel 
 in her diadem of cairns she holds the dust of remote 
 dead ; from her bosom to-day she gives welcome and 
 yields warmth to those who, still dwarfed within the 
 
 7
 
 8 THE BEACON 
 
 stature of the living, struggle around her feet and 
 pass their moment beneath her shadow. Here lie 
 hamlets, with little trembling fingers of roads lifted 
 to the Beacon. They creep tentatively towards her, 
 now vanish in the woodlands that rise about her knees ; 
 now climb, with many a halt and hindrance, onward 
 beyond all boundaries to the naked sweep of her as- 
 cension. 
 
 A river skirts the western faces of Cosdon; while 
 to the south she breaks into lesser hills and flows out 
 by the undulations of Metheral, Hound Tor, and Ken- 
 non upon midmost Moor. Eastward her approaches 
 to the land of farm and fallow are also gradual, for 
 there lie the great swamp of Raybarrow and the Com- 
 mons of Throwleigh and Tawton; but northerly she 
 leaps sheer aloft, flings off a forest like a garment and 
 towers to the high places of her dead. 
 
 Earth holds no deeper loneliness than that upon a 
 mountain's summit. Such secret places are hidden 
 from the valleys and the lesser hills ; the shoulders that 
 sustain them know them not. They appear only to 
 their peers and the noonday sun, to the full moon and 
 the southing stars. Cosdon's high top is thus seques- 
 tered, and from it the prehistoric people, with bonfire 
 or balefire, sent messages of good or evil through the 
 night to the Beacon's giant kindred of the four quar- 
 ters. Their tidings leapt flame on flame from the 
 cressets of Buckland and Pen to the sea, by Kit Hill 
 and Carrodon to Cornwall, over the barrows to Ex- 
 moor, to Dunkery and the Mendips. Those fiery em- 
 bassies of joy or woe woke remote lodges of the stone 
 heroes, sent the fighting men to their weapons, and 
 herded the women together, while screams or laugh- 
 ter set necklaces of wolf's teeth chattering on their 
 bosoms and the babies crying in their arms. So 
 flashed the fall of Troy to Agamemnon's queen — 
 " Joy's herald, through the darkness gleaming." 
 
 Her sides and slopes are a playground for light and
 
 THE BEACON 9 
 
 darkness and a theatre for storms. They bear the 
 burden of a snow argosy upon their shoulders ; spread 
 a bosom as wide as the diamond arch of the light- 
 ning; support both feet of a rainbow; display the full 
 pageant and procession of the seasons. 
 
 Yet Cosdon's immensity is compressed within a 
 space but small. It is apparent rather than real ; for 
 Nature has built her, rounded her and ordered her up- 
 rising with such adjustment of cunning architecture 
 that the hill's dimensions, in their perfection of pro- 
 portion and balance, imply an amplitude that they do 
 not possess. The mount, while within compass of the 
 wayfarer's daily pilgrimage, yet attains to a sublimity 
 and asserts a vastness beyond man's senses to refute, 
 though within the measuring-rod's power to deny. 
 Similarly do human achievements, in the lifting of 
 stone on stone, depend not upon size for their glory 
 or height for their fame. A Parthenon — that marble 
 song of victory and gratitude — dwarfs to dust the 
 mightier temples of succeeding ages, whose religion 
 lifted its fanes and its prayers alike under the menace 
 of a retributive eternity. 
 
 Little brooks gush out from the hill to swell larger 
 rivers beneath, and there are many water springs 
 within her ; for armature she has the granite ; her ves- 
 ture is the great and lesser furze, brake fern and 
 heath. Marsh flowers adorn her and the fragrant 
 shrub that haunts water. Her jewels, the sphagna 
 mosses, make light by spring and mire ; they gleam, 
 there in emerald and pale gold, here with orange and 
 the colour of red wine. Cotton grass nods its pearls, 
 and the seeding rush enriches every bog with russet 
 and tawny. 
 
 In springtime there spread green grasses all spat- 
 tered and ruled and ring-streaked with the granite's 
 cobweb grey. Now the alignments and reaves, the 
 cairns and hut-circles, vanish under growing hillocks 
 of heather, and presently they reappear, after swaling
 
 10 THE BEACON 
 
 fires have shorn away the herbage. In summer the 
 heath smiles and the rolling leagues of it sing and 
 shine out their highest colour music. With autumn 
 and the sere, the stones turn blue against the fiery 
 splendour of fern, and many another ring and ridge, 
 only less fleeting than those left behind by man, take 
 their punctual places. Then glimmer the hooded and 
 cowled fungi, and springs burst from their secret foun- 
 tains to furrow lines of silver down the slopes. In 
 winter the snow buries all again, or frost freezes deep 
 into the hill so that animation is suspended. Only 
 the wind moves then and man and beast shrink from 
 facing its terrific breath. Incarnate Cosdon and its 
 spirit belongs to light rather than darkness. Unlike 
 some haunts of eld she has a heartening, welcoming 
 genius within her. She is not tender, though she can 
 smile ; she is not gentle, though she opens her bosom 
 to the dead ; but gloomy she is not ; melancholy she is 
 not; despondent she is never. Rather she offers a 
 tonic and a discipline from her high places; her se- 
 verity is serene ; her own obedience to Nature she ex- 
 acts again from all lesser things. She does not brood 
 or yearn or repine; she murmurs of no pain, nor la- 
 ments her ages of endurance. She is the haunt of 
 earliest and latest light. She welcomes the dawn and 
 echoes dayspring from her crest of stones ; she signals 
 back to the sunset its final fire; she treasures the 
 earliest tremor of the foreglow, and of the afterglow 
 the last. In high summer she scarcely sleeps, but 
 records on her grey crown the faint pulse and ashy 
 glimmer of the sun creeping northerly under the hills 
 upon his way to the east. She hides herself indeed, 
 but it is in light oftener than darkness that she hides, 
 and then, having communed with grey and silver 
 mists, or the depth of storm clouds — dark by com- 
 parison with the upper air, but all light against her 
 own purple bosom — forth she comes again, and un- 
 furls and emerges out of her hidden hour, as a vestal
 
 THE BEACON 11 
 
 from vigil. She is secluded for high purposes ; she 
 is not austere but simple ; there is a homeliness about 
 her, a rough and drastic understanding, an elemental 
 shrewdness. The mother-wit of mother earth belongs 
 to her; nor will she be found wanting in spirit of sym- 
 pathy for the creatures that creep to her and call her 
 home. 
 
 Her tenants are birds and beasts; her visitors, 
 beasts and men. Curlew and plover, heathlarks and 
 small birds of prey abound about her; foxes and lesser 
 animals have their holts and burrows within her ; sheep 
 and cattle, horses and ponies throng her sides ; and 
 man pilfers fuel from her, or scratches deeper for 
 more precious things. But few indelible scars re- 
 main ; her wounds heal quicklier than the generations 
 pass that made them; swiftlier than the bilberry heals 
 after its harvest has been plucked away by beaks and 
 fingers. 
 
 Certain epichorial legends, as of dancing stones and 
 the Black Hunter, belong to the Beacon ; but no par- 
 ticular stories have been gleaned ; her history is not 
 knit into local folklore and traditions, and she has 
 no special sanctities. And yet we may find her a 
 close if unconscious influence on many lives that have 
 been and are to be ; we imagine her as the eternal 
 companion of our race — a creature that was before 
 we were, that will persist long after we are not. We 
 regard her as the very symbol and index of endurance ; 
 we cannot feel that she is pervious, penetrable, per- 
 ishing as the animated dust that peeps about her. 
 
 Nevertheless she, too, sinks surely ; and though man 
 fails to mark it, as he fails to mark the passage of the 
 stars, or their altered relations, or their diminution 
 of fire upon the firmament, yet every moment leaves 
 sensible impression on the Beacon ; and at the last 
 her might and permanence amount to no more than 
 the sun-set dance of midges by her water-ways or the 
 melting glitter of a snow crystal on her forehead.
 
 12 THE BEACON 
 
 Cronos devours all his children indifferently, and this 
 gracious hill, with those who come and go thereon, 
 offers only another crumbling testimony to the truth 
 that matter alone is eternal, but no form of it; that 
 the stars of heaven and the mountains of earth are 
 but sparks and smoke before the face of everlasting 
 time.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THERE was a barmaid in a small London hotel 
 who, wearying of life among the streets, sought 
 to change it. A man frequented her place of service 
 because he cared for her, and he came from Devon- 
 shire and was familiar with the county. He told her 
 about it and fired her mind with tales of its beauty, 
 so that when there came from the west country an 
 offer of such work as she was contented to do in the 
 world, she made application. Her credentials were 
 good ; she gained the post and left London. Many 
 felt sorry to see the last of her; not a few, who knew 
 something of her spirit, energy and tastes, foretold 
 that work in a village inn at Dartmoor edge would 
 not suffice to fill her life for a month. 
 
 Elisabeth Densham was twenty-three, and save for 
 two brothers in Canada and a sister, a waitress in a 
 London eating-house, she possessed no near relations. 
 Orphaned at sixteen she had fought her own battle 
 against some odds, with the added handicap of 
 beauty. But Sarah Densham, who was ten years 
 older than Elisabeth, had helped to steer the younger 
 by strait paths. The girl had not known passion, or 
 met the man who could waken it. She was clever, 
 thoughtful and of a high spirit. She cared for read- 
 ing and possessed some imagination. She and her 
 sister had been born in the country, and while the 
 elder desired not to return to it, Elisabeth now felt 
 glad to do so. 
 
 She was upon the way and sat at the window of a 
 third-class carriage on the South-Western Railway. 
 The train had carried her from Waterloo, and would 
 presently bring her to Okehampton. 
 
 13
 
 14 THE BEACON 
 
 She was dressed in a dark blue skirt and jacket, and 
 wore beneath the latter a blouse of white linen. At 
 her throat was a little pearl brooch, and her straw 
 hat was perched on a fine mound of dark brown hair. 
 This beauty she wore in the style of her class, divided 
 into three portions, of which two were brought about 
 her ears, and the third spread upon the crown. The 
 carriage was hot, for it had roasted all day under an 
 August sun. She wiped her face presently, and then 
 fanned it gently with her pocket-handkerchief. She 
 had pale brown eyes of the colour of honey, and they 
 were the home of light. Their peculiar tone chal- 
 lenged the sunbeams and echoed a warm glint, that 
 she was soon to see, where moorland pools are pene- 
 trated by the direct ray and flash it back again. Her 
 eyebrows were wonderful and arched true as the bow 
 upon the cloud. They were dark and a little heavy, 
 but, since her face showed much strength of character 
 in the chin and mouth, they were not too heavy, and 
 their perfect form and steady pencilling prevented any 
 suggestion of the irregular or unguarded in her 
 character. She had a well-shaped mouth and a round, 
 beautiful chin, wherein a dimple dwelt. Her face was 
 strong, but also sweet. She looked too pale, but her 
 skin shone clear and promised to grow warmer when 
 brought into communion with the sun and the wind. 
 Her nose was short and strongly modelled ; her upper 
 lip was somewhat long and detracted from her facial 
 charm when in repose, but that accident vanished if 
 she laughed. Then sheer loveliness belonged to her 
 in the opinion of discerning spirits. It was, however, 
 the elusive loveliness that fires the connoisseur. Com- 
 monplace minds did not always admire her. She 
 stood of average woman's height and was somewhat 
 thin, but a restless mind and small appetite contributed 
 to the last state. Her friend had foretold that Devon 
 would alter that particular. 
 
 And now Elisabeth was come to the good red earth
 
 THE BEACON 15 
 
 and gazed on it with some wonder and delight. Then 
 Exeter appeared and disappeared. She reached Yeo- 
 ford and guessed that her journey must be nearly 
 ended. 
 
 " Excuse me, please," she said, and rose and filled 
 the window for a moment. 
 
 Then she returned to her seat and her strong little 
 hands, in white thread gloves, folded upon her lap 
 again. 
 
 An educated man sat opposite. He had entered 
 the train at Exeter and admired her. He spoke to 
 her now that he might hear her speak. 
 
 "Were you expecting anybody at Yeoford?" he 
 inquired as the train proceeded. 
 
 " No. But I thought, perhaps, that I might get a 
 glimpse of the Dartmoor hills. I've heard a lot about 
 them. And I'm coming down to a place called South 
 Zeal that's close by them, and I thought maybe that 
 I could get a sight of them by now." 
 
 " Look out again ! " he said quickly. " Look 
 straight across the valley before the train gets into the 
 cutting." 
 
 She leapt up and made her eyes small against the 
 great welter of light. 
 
 Here were elms upon broad meadows, and then 
 woods and the glint of kerning corn, that challenged 
 the sunlight and rippled to the wind upon a gentle hill. 
 Beyond, a heat-haze danced and the country rolled 
 away into close perspective dimmed by distance and 
 drenched in the splendour from the sky; while at the 
 horizon a small shadow, like a blue mole-hill, rose — a 
 mere dwarfed hillock under the brightness of golden 
 cumuli that towered their mighty heads beneath the 
 throne of the sun. 
 
 " Where's Dartmoor, sir ? " asked Elisabeth. 
 
 " Yonder," he said, and pointed. " That's Cosdon 
 Beacon." 
 
 The train sank between green hedges, and the
 
 16 THE BEACON 
 
 traveller fell back with acute disappointment on her 
 face. 
 
 " My word ! The very place where I'm going. 'Tis 
 nothing at all ! and I was told — " 
 
 Her fellow-traveller laughed. 
 
 " You don't understand. You mustn't look in the 
 sky for our little hills, unless you stand under them. 
 But sometimes distance doesn't lend enchantment; 
 sometimes familiarity doesn't breed contempt. Don't 
 be cast down. Cosdon's a good big lump of earth 
 when you are there. Nothing is absolute, you know; 
 nothing is real. Everything only seems. If you 
 were in a balloon above the Beacon, it would look as 
 flat as a pancake. It's all make-believe and pretence. 
 Nature's full of tricks like that; and we copy her and 
 make believe too, don't we? " 
 
 He chaffed her and admired her eyebrows, but she 
 looked puzzled and drew the inner corners of those 
 beautiful arches a little closer together. 
 
 " The hill's a long way off, I suppose? " 
 
 " A few miles. You climb to the top to-morrow. 
 Then you'll understand it; and you'll measure South 
 Zeal better from the top of Cosdon than you will 
 when you're in it. At least I did when I was there." 
 
 Here she followed him. 
 
 " I understand that," she said. 
 
 " Yes, a busy, bustling, gossipy place, if you're in 
 the midst, no doubt. But you're too near to see it 
 then. From Cosdon you'll mark a smudge down be- 
 low, like the skeleton of a troglodyte flattened out — 
 backbone, tail, head, all complete. The field hedges 
 stretching away to right and left are the ribs, and the 
 village is the carcase. And the truth of Zeal, if we 
 could only get at it, might lie nearer the troglodyte 
 skeleton than what we think about it. Perhaps its 
 only a dead thing really. But nobody will ever know 
 the truth of Zeal, any more than they will of one per- 
 son in it."
 
 THE BEACON 17 
 
 She smiled doubtfully, but barely glimpsed his 
 meaning. 
 
 " I'll tell you what I think about the truth if you 
 like," he said, rattling nonsense to watch the play of 
 her face. " My belief is that there's no such thing. 
 Truth's just as much a wild-goose chase as the elixir 
 of life. There never was any absolute truth. Ab- 
 solute truths couldn't contradict absolute truths, could 
 they? Yet who has found out anything so true that 
 nobody doubts it? There's nothing known — nothing 
 so certain that everybody believes it." 
 
 She showed interest and reflected. 
 
 " There's death," she said. 
 
 " Good heavens ! What an instance ! Why, the 
 soul of man cries out louder against death than any 
 other fact of Nature. Immorality — who wouldn't 
 cling to it if he could? Death is doubted by nearly 
 everybody. I'm sure you don't believe in it a bit. 
 More do I." 
 
 Cosdon appeared again now. It had grown into 
 something respectable. It shone with the misty bloom 
 of the grape, and flung itself up mightily above lesser 
 hills. 
 
 At Okehampton station a brisk, young-looking man 
 with a clean-shaved face appeared before Elisabeth. 
 
 " You'll be Miss Densham I reckon," he said slowly. 
 " I know most of the people on the platform, but 
 you're strange. Be you for South Zeal ? " 
 
 She shook hands with her fellow-servant. 
 
 " That's right," she answered. The accent of the 
 county, and the great deliberation of this particular 
 native interested her. 
 
 11 Hope you've had a good journey, I'm sure. My 
 name's Ned Startup. I'm first driver to the Oxen- 
 ham Arms, and I've come to fetch you. Where's 
 your box to? I'll put it in the wagonette, and you can 
 sit up alongside me if you mind to." 
 
 " I should like that very well."
 
 18 THE BEACON 
 
 " We go through Okehampton, and I've got a few 
 places to call to pick up things. The wedding be 
 coming near now. 'Twill be a great event, of course." 
 
 Elisabeth's little yellow tin trunk was put behind 
 in the body of the carriage and she sat beside the 
 driver. An old grey horse then started on his return 
 journey, while Ned chatted and told her about the 
 country and the places of importance. They climbed 
 the great hill from Okehampton, sank to Sticklepath, 
 and so passed presently to a little hamlet that was to 
 be the newcomer's home. 
 
 Before they had gone very far Ned Startup warmed 
 to Elisabeth, enjoyed her company and appreciated 
 her ready understanding of his points and jests. For 
 there was something in her voice, responsive eyes and 
 sympathy that made men desire a closer intimacy and 
 feel she would not deny it. Beyond a very elementary 
 point, however, the girl had never been tempted to go. 
 When youth desired to become personal, or middle- 
 age showed a tendency to grow silly, she chilled them 
 alike, and had the art to leave them not angry with 
 her, but with themselves.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE thatched roofs of Zeal fall in grey steps or 
 gold from west to east, where the village lies 
 upon a hill. First comes a row of white-washed cots, 
 with white-washed walls between their gardens; then 
 a little inn appears and other dwellings under tar- 
 pitched roofs. Half-way down the descent, Elisabeth 
 marked a small, dark, limestone house, solid, stern and 
 new. The walls about it shone white or rosy, and 
 their thatches were moss-grown and full of genial col- 
 our; but this dwelling was different. It looked grim 
 as a torpedo-boat moored in a fleet of mellow-sailed 
 fishers. 
 
 " That's Abraham Mortimore's house. Him as 
 rents the limestone quarry and has a finger in other 
 pies beside. A terrible curious man — rich and cranky. 
 'Twill take all your time to please him when he comes 
 for his evening drop." 
 
 Mr. Startup explained other objects of interest as 
 he drove slowly down through the village to where 
 stood the Oxenham Arms, the stateliest and most an- 
 cient abode of the hamlet. 
 
 In the midst of Zeal rose a graceful cross above 
 four crooked steps. It lifted with a long stalk and 
 short arms, and the road divided here to right and 
 left, leaving the cross and an open space and a little 
 chapel together in the midst. A shining clock 
 beamed from the chapel, and the hands moved over 
 golden figures ; while above, two exposed bells hung 
 together in a tiny turret and twittered thinly like birds, 
 to call the people at times of prayer. 
 
 The village was quite soaked in sunshine. Zeal 
 basked happy as a lizard beneath Cosdon's uplifted 
 
 19
 
 20 THE BEACON 
 
 heights. It lay like a nest in the hollow of a desert 
 place, and the sun burnt into it and lighted the cot- 
 tage faces and blazed in the little flower-gardens by 
 the way and cast deep purple shadows between the cots 
 to make cool places for the children to play in and the 
 dogs to rest. Sweet-peas and asters, dahlias and sun- 
 flowers, geraniums and fuchsias brightened each little 
 garth; and through them ran red brick and dark blue 
 limestone paths from wooden wickets to open doors. 
 Sometimes a half-door or hatch crossed the portals 
 and kept the babies in. 
 
 Elisabeth took joy of this vision. She told Startup 
 that she had seen something like it on the stage. 
 
 " But 'tisn't always so," he said. " 'Tis all mucks 
 and mire half the year. However I be glad 'tis 
 favourable for your coming." 
 
 "And that's the Beacon?" 
 
 " 'Tis so — a very queer old place up top. Then 
 across t'other side you see Red Wheal Copper Mine — 
 them chimneys and machines and puffs of steam on 
 that high broken ground yonder. A very busy place ; 
 and down to the bottom of the village there's a stream 
 and a tree or two and a few small inns. But nothing 
 to our inn as we'm just coming to. And northerly 
 lies old Mortimore's famous quarries, and South Taw- 
 ton and the church. Be you church or chapel, 
 miss? 
 
 The question startled Elisabeth. None had ever 
 asked her that before. 
 
 " Church, I suppose," she said. " What are you? " 
 
 " Church, for certain. We all go somewhere — or 
 say we do — ban't like you people in London. Not 
 but what a man here and there scoffs at it, like Rey- 
 nold Dunning for instance to Clannaboro' Farm. But 
 we'm mostly of some persuasion." 
 
 He drew up where an old sixteenth-century build- 
 ing stood with deep porch and oriel windows. A tar- 
 pitched slate roof, that undulated like running waves,
 
 rp 
 
 THE BEACON 21 
 
 crowned the ancient place ; a great archway opened to 
 the stables at one end, and before the entrance was a 
 granite porch of fine proportions, where winter 
 weather or summer sun might be escaped. As she 
 entered, a cool freshness touched Elisabeth's forehead 
 and welcomed her. A draught blew straight through 
 the dwelling. She heard a voice cry out : 
 
 " She's come, Tom," and then appeared two figures 
 — a man and an old woman. 
 
 Tom Underbill, master of the Oxenham Arms, ad- 
 vanced, took off his hat, and shook Elisabeth's hand; 
 his aunt, who approached behind him, waited to dry 
 her hands on her apron before doing the same. The 
 man was very fair and ruddy, with a face like a boy's, 
 and a great frame bulking large enough to fill his own 
 spacious portal ; the woman had equal breadth, but 
 she sloped like a hill from her head outward. From 
 neck to breast, from breast to stomach she expanded. 
 She revealed a pendulous chin with little tags of hair 
 upon it. She had a manlike voice and manlike opin- 
 ions, save in her comprehensive contempt for man. 
 
 " This is Miss Cann, my aunt, who's helping for 
 the minute till I'm married," explained Mr. Under- 
 bill. " She'll show you your room. There's a rotten 
 board in the floor of it as you'll have to mind. I be 
 going to have it mended in a minute, but along of my 
 coming marriage there's a few things have got to wait. 
 You can understand that ? " 
 
 " Of course I can." 
 
 " Now you shall look in the bar, if you please. My 
 aunt will make tea, and no doubt you'll be glad of it. 
 Here's the bar parlour this side, and our big room for 
 public meetings and dinners and audits and such like 
 is up over. The skittle alley's behind and — " 
 
 " Shut up, Tom, and go about your business," said 
 his aunt. " Come with me, Miss — what's your 
 name ? " 
 
 " Elisabeth. But you'll call me Lizzie, I hope."
 
 22 THE BEACON 
 
 it 
 
 I shall do. I ban't one to waste breath; haven't 
 got none to waste for that matter. Here's the bar. 
 The busy time's after seven o'clock. 'Tis a very fine 
 bar, as you can see. How long it will bide so under 
 my nephew I can't tell." 
 
 The newcomer regarded her theatre of work with a 
 professional eye. It was strangely small after the 
 London bar, but it was bright and sweet, fresh and 
 cool. 
 
 " I like it," said Elisabeth. 
 
 " So you should. 'Twas all planned and thought 
 out by a very clever man. My late brother, in fact. 
 Then he was carried off by a carbuncle in his neck, 
 just when he'd got all shipshape and spent an ocean of 
 money. And then my nephew gave up a small place, 
 at Throwleigh village, a few mile from here, and took 
 up this. But he's one of them ' to-morrow ' sort of 
 men and a great putter off. He would have put off 
 being married only the girl weren't that sort. But 
 now 'tis to be. In fact Friday week's the day. You 
 like the bar, Lizzie?" 
 
 " I do like it. I've got a few ideas. Mr. Under- 
 bill won't mind if I arrange things my way? ' 
 
 " Mind? He was never known to mind in his life. 
 Easiness made alive be that man. But his wife's dif- 
 ferent. I fix my hope on her and you. I trust you 
 be made of pretty tough stuff? " 
 
 " Yes, I think I am. I've had a hard life and none 
 the worse for it." 
 
 Miss Cann nodded. 
 
 " You girls behind the bar see what they are." 
 
 When Fanny Cann used the word ' they ' she in- 
 dicated the male sex, and when she said ' us ' she al- 
 ways implied her own. 
 
 " There's all sorts — good and bad — here like every- 
 where else, I suppose," said the younger. 
 
 " All sorts, mostly caddling, worthless creatures. 
 Be you tokened or anything like that? "
 
 THE BEACON 23 
 
 "' Tokened ' ? What's tokened?" asked Elisa- 
 beth. 
 
 " Engaged to be married." 
 
 " No, I'm not." 
 
 "Not a friend?" 
 
 The technical meaning of ' friend ' was familiar to 
 Miss Densham. 
 
 " Not in that sense," she said. 
 
 " Well, don't be in no hurry. There's a lot of miners 
 and small farmers and quarrymen and such like here. 
 But they'm all rubbish. Now I'll fetch you up to your 
 chamber, and then us'll have some tea. 'Tis a queer 
 old place and I'm frightened of my life to move off 
 the ground floor, for fear of bringing down the stairs, 
 or one of the ceilings. There's a lot wanting to be 
 done in the matter of rats and rotten wood that my 
 brother meant to do ; but whether Tom will ever carry 
 out anything till a floor lets him through and breaks 
 his neck, I can't say." 
 
 Elisabeth laughed. 
 
 " He's a very fine man." 
 
 " A big size in boots, I grant you ; but a terrible 
 small size in hats — like most of 'em about here. They 
 don't run to brains in this generation. Here's your 
 room, and I see Ned and Nelly haven't fetched up 
 your box yet. I'll hurry 'em." 
 
 Miss Cann lumbered heavily away and Elisabeth 
 looked about her. It was a pleasant little chamber 
 facing upon the street. White blinds covered the win- 
 dow; the floor was bare and still damp after scrub- 
 bing. A rag mat of many colours lay beside the bed. 
 At one end extended boards perforated with worm 
 holes, and a piece of paper was pinned to the wall 
 above with these words in a large sprawling hand : 
 
 "Keep off here!" 
 
 Somebody knocked at the door. Then Ned Startup 
 and a maiden entered with the box between them. 
 
 They put it where Elisabeth directed, and Startup
 
 24 THE BEACON 
 
 introduced the girl. She wore a long blue apron over 
 a print frock. Her face was bright and high coloured, 
 her eyes and hair were black. The latter was drawn 
 back and tied in a bunch on her neck. She was tall 
 and well favoured. 
 
 " This be Miss Densham, Nelly, and this be Nelly 
 Jope, our shoemaker's daughter. She works here 
 and we be keeping company." 
 
 The girls shook hands. 
 
 " Hope you'll like it, I'm sure," said Nelly. " 'Tis a 
 funny little old place and will seem terrible wisht after 
 London I should think." 
 
 " I shall like it for certain. It's so beautiful all 
 round about." 
 
 Nelly gave a short laugh. 
 
 " Me and Ned would go to London to-morrow if 
 we could," she declared. 
 
 Half an hour later Lizzie drank tea with Tom Un- 
 derbill and his aunt. They told her of the things that 
 would concern her work, and she was surprised to 
 learn how light it promised to be. 
 
 "I shall feel lost at first," she declared. "Of a 
 morning you'll have to find a bit for me to do." 
 
 A bell sounded and Tom rose. 
 
 " The bar," he said. 
 
 "Let me go, then." 
 
 They went together to find a man at the counter. 
 
 " Hullo, Dunning! Don't often see you here." 
 
 " Good-evening, Tom. Not often. 'Tis a thought 
 out of my beat most times. A pint of Burton, miss, 
 please." 
 
 Lizzie drew the beer. 
 
 "This be our new barmaid — Miss Densham," ex- 
 plained the publican. " She've come along, so as she 
 shall settle down afore I get married and go off for 
 the honeymoon. She's a Londoner and doubts we 
 don't know what work is here."
 
 THE BEACON 25 
 
 Reynold Dunning nodded. 
 
 " Some of us do; some of us don't," he answered. 
 
 He was a man near forty years old, clean shaved 
 and featured like a Northern Indian, with rather high 
 cheek-bones, bright hard eyes and straight dark hair. 
 His face was handsome, and his lips finely moulded 
 and very firm. He was tall and slightly built. Grey 
 already showed in his hair, but not sufficiently to dis- 
 colour it. Dunning was a bachelor, and women liked 
 him for his good looks and his masterful attitude to- 
 ward the sex. He knew something about them, not 
 because he sought them or cared for them, but be- 
 cause his was a nature before which they were prone 
 to reveal themselves a little. He breathed masculin- 
 ity and unconsciously they felt it and responded. 
 
 Many held him to be cruel. He was a farmer and 
 lived in the neighbouring hamlet of Throwleigh, at 
 the eastern foothills of the Beacon. 
 
 The newcomer interested him and he looked boldly 
 at her. 
 
 " A change from London," he said. 
 
 " I want the country and I want hills," she an- 
 swered. " I was told there were fine hills." 
 
 " Plenty of hills." 
 
 He finished his beer, paid for it, and went out with- 
 out another word. A moment later he had mounted 
 a bay horse and ridden away. 
 
 Lizzie laughed. 
 
 " Funny manners," she said. 
 
 " Yes, he's an odd man. Was disappointed in love 
 they say, though none can prove it, for nobody ever 
 knowed the woman, if woman there was. His ways 
 be rather blunt like that. There was a girl lived at 
 Throwleigh who cared a lot about him — a rich girl 
 too, and he knowed it. And to church, one Sunday 
 evening, she dropped her book in the aisle right under 
 his nose as he was carrying round the alms-dish, and 
 instead of picking it up for her, he kicked it pretty
 
 26 THE BEACON 
 
 near to the altar steps and didn't turn a hair. But the 
 poor girl very near fainted — so 'twas said. Though 
 I believe she thought more of the prayer-book after 
 that than all the rest of her possessions. That was 
 in his church-going days when his mother was alive. 
 But he gived up all that when she died. He lives 
 alone with his head man and his head man's wife to 
 Clannaboro' Farm, nigh Throwleigh. He's a terrible 
 hard worker and fears nought. Makes lot of money, 
 but 'tisn't known that he spends it. He've got ene- 
 mies. Abraham Mortimore of this place hates him 
 worse than the Dowl. Both hungry as hawks for 
 money, and the sparks fly when they meet, I assure 
 you. But ' Iron ' Mortimore, as we call him, be gen- 
 erally held to get out of it best." 
 
 " He's very good-looking, however." 
 
 Tom laughed. 
 
 " There you are ! Just like t'others. The women 
 all bow down afore Reynold Dunning, and the men 
 all wonder what the mischief they see in such a glum, 
 short-speeched man." 
 
 " You'll not catch me bowing down, Mr. Underhill. 
 I'm like your aunt, Miss Cann — shall be an old maid 
 for certain." 
 
 " Don't you say that. Us'll find a good husband 
 for 'e come presently if you bide here." 
 
 He helped her with alterations and explained the 
 contents of certain bottles. 
 
 " There's a good few old blades have their own 
 taps of a night. Jack Jope, the shoemaker — that's 
 his drink — Hollands he takes, and Abraham Morti- 
 more has gin. His bottle's paid for on the nail so 
 soon as it's opened, and he knows to an eyelash where 
 the liquor ought to stand in it. Then his man at the 
 quarry, Frank Madders — ' Lucky ' he's called. 
 Lucky's bottle be there. We're all very friendly most 
 times and give and take. Some of the miners from 
 Red Wheal be a thought rough, but I never allow any
 
 THE BEACON 27 
 
 coarse speech in the bar more than I can help, because 
 I doant like it." 
 
 " I shall very soon get the run of everything, I 
 hope." 
 
 " No doubt. You ask my Aunt Fanny if you stand 
 in need of ought. I'm going out now to see Minnie 
 — that's the young woman I'm going to marry next 
 week." 
 
 Evening brought the regular customers, and though 
 Mr. Underhill proposed postponement until after a 
 night's rest, Lizzie chose to begin her work at once. 
 She saw certain local characters of importance, 
 snubbed an unpleasant stranger, and created a favour- 
 able impression.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 BEYOND the blacksmith's shop and the inn of the 
 ' Seven Stars ' there stands at South Tawton a 
 great elm. Beside its foot are bedded a drinking- 
 fountain and a pillar-box; behind it rise steps to the 
 lich-gate of St. Andrew's, a fine old perpendicular 
 fane with tower embattled and pinnacled, and a heavy, 
 south-facing porch. A motto from Juvenal decorates 
 the wall ; about the open place before the door lie 
 gravestones in the gravel and stands an ancient font 
 of granite; the large yard is remarkable for the num- 
 ber of unrecorded dead whose mounds are scattered 
 within it. 
 
 The bells were ringing for Tom Underhill and Min- 
 nie Burgoyne, and a thin stream of the folk threaded 
 into South Tawton from the neighbour hamlet of 
 Zeal. The life of Zeal was at doors and windows, 
 and those who could not attend, watched two car- 
 riages, with white horses and satin streamers on the 
 whips, as they departed to church. 
 
 The guests went on foot, though a few, from more 
 distant homesteads, drove. Among these was Rey- 
 nold Dunning, who came from Clannaboro' with Noah 
 Vallance, his head man, and Mercy Vallance, his 
 housekeeper. 
 
 Many girls and young men went to the wedding. 
 They marched chattering along in Sunday best 
 through deep, hot lanes to the throb of the little bells 
 of South Tawton. 
 
 The girls wore blouses of bright colours and flam- 
 ing hats. Elisabeth Densham and Nelly Jope came 
 together, and with them walked a little black-eyed 
 
 girl with dark hair — Nelly's younger sister, Emma. 
 
 28
 
 THE BEACON 29 
 
 She was quick and alert as a mouse, humorous and 
 clever for her age. She had the art to make men 
 laugh, though she was only sixteen. 
 
 A crowd of slatternly women, with children tum- 
 bling over them, collected at the church door. Each 
 remembered a similar event when they had played 
 heroine a few years before. Some were passive as 
 sheep and stared stupidly before them; others laughed 
 and chaffed and tip-toed to see the bride when she ar- 
 rived. 
 
 In church presently assembled silent people clad in 
 their best. These sought to be near the ceremony, 
 but other men and women, in workaday clothes, kept 
 at the back. A murmur of low talk persisted in the 
 porch, where the four bridesmaids were waiting. 
 They wore white dresses and blue sashes. Each car- 
 ried a small bunch of sweet-peas and maidenhair fern 
 tied with a pale pink ribbon. A row of young men 
 just within the church kept attracting their attention 
 and making them laugh. 
 
 Lizzie appeared with Nelly Jope and walked up 
 the aisle. The young men openly admired her. She 
 wore a white hat and a white lace garment over the 
 body of an apple-green dress. On her breast was a 
 white rose, and she had tied up her hair with a big 
 black velvet bow. A long pin with a purple glass 
 head fastened her hat on. 
 
 There was a rattle and noise at the entrance, and 
 Tom Underhill arrived with his best man, one Charles 
 Trevail. Both wore black coats and grey trousers, 
 and both were men above the average height ; but the 
 bridegroom's girth dwarfed his friend, who was of 
 lighter mould. 
 
 As they went along Trevail searched the pews with 
 his eyes and saw Lizzie in her place. He approached 
 her and handed her a little bunch of stephanotis and 
 maidenhair. She smiled, pointed to the rose that she 
 wore, and gave the exotic to Nelly. The incident oc-
 
 30 THE BEACON 
 
 cupied but a moment and the heroine thereof forgot 
 it immediately. 
 
 The homage of flowers was an everyday experience 
 with her, but her act ruined the approaching festivity 
 for Tom Underbill's best man. 
 
 Mr. Trevail was fair, with a big amber moustache, 
 high forehead and kindly eyes. He had a strong hand 
 and a deep intonation that suggested power. He was 
 handsome, genial, fortunate in the possession of good 
 health and a future cloudless. Charles Trevail was, 
 in fact, the nephew of the man known as ' Iron ' 
 Mortimore, and other near relative the miser had none. 
 
 Now came Jack Jope, the shoemaker of the full 
 quiver, and beckoned to his girl Emma, who sat with 
 Nelly and Elisabeth. She left them and retired to a 
 less conspicuous place, where her widowed father had 
 seated four children in a row behind the font. Frank 
 Madders, from the limestone quarry, arrived beam- 
 ing, and after him followed a crowd of the Knapman 
 and Burgoyne people — relations of the bride. 
 
 Miss Fanny Cann, with Tom's mother, a gigantic 
 woman in red velvet, appeared next, and soon after- 
 wards the bride approached on her father's arm. She 
 came up the aisle with her bridesmaids behind her, 
 and at the rear was a slithering and whispering where 
 certain female spectators, with dirty aprons and down- 
 trodden shoes, crept in and brought their children and 
 babies to empty places at the rear of the church. 
 
 Minnie Burgoyne wore white, and tall though she 
 was reached only to her parent's shoulder. He stood 
 very upright for all his sixty years, and as he went up 
 the aisle his bald head caught reflections from stained 
 glass and shone first purple as a swede, then red as a 
 beet. The girl was large-featured, blue-eyed and 
 good-looking. Her face was strong, her self-posses- 
 sion was complete. She glanced about her, nodded 
 to friends and picked up her father's button-hole when 
 it fell suddenly from his coat.
 
 THE BEACON 31 
 
 A clergyman with a red country face and iron-grey 
 whispers fluttered from the vestry door; the bells 
 ceased, the bridegroom rose and ranged his bulk beside 
 the bride. For all his size Tom was the diffident 
 party, and he spoke in a voice stiller and smaller than 
 that of conscience. But Minnie answered like a bell. 
 The future adjustment of power between them might 
 have been predicted from these responses. 
 
 When all was done Elisabeth and Nelly walked 
 back to the Oxenham Arms together, and on the way 
 the carriage with the bride and bridegroom passed 
 them. Ned Startup drove it, and her new friend 
 praised him to his sweetheart. 
 
 " A fine chap and kindness itself. You are very 
 fortunate to get such a man." 
 
 " So I was without a doubt. Thinks a lot of me, I 
 believe — more than I do of myself anyway. I axed 
 him whatever he saw in me and he couldn't tell. More 
 can honest lovers ever really tell, when it comes to 
 pulling the other party to pieces." 
 
 " Love is like the lightning, Mr. Dunning says — 
 said it in that grim way of his. You can't tell where 
 it comes from." 
 
 " Or where it goes to either." 
 
 " I don't believe it dies once it's started." 
 
 " Oh, yes, it does," declared Nelly. " It burns out. 
 Can't go on without oil, any more than a lamp. My 
 poor mother hated father proper before she died." 
 
 " And yet Mr. Jope was very fond of her. He cries 
 still — in the bar — when he talks about her." 
 
 " So fond that he shortened her days," answered 
 the shoemaker's daughter. " So fond that he had 
 fourteen children by her, and wrecked her, and over- 
 worked her till there was hardly enough left of her to 
 fill a proper-sized coffin. I never like my father when 
 I think of that. And to hear him fling it all on God 
 with a light heart ! "
 
 32 THE BEACON 
 
 Lizzie laughed. 
 
 " You won't have fourteen, I reckon ? " she said. 
 
 " Fourteen ! No — nor yet five. Me and Ned be 
 of a mind there. We've got our self-respect nowa- 
 days. We'm better educated than our mothers. The 
 quality think all we'm fit for be to breed soldiers and 
 sailors and servants to wait on them and fight their 
 battles; but we begin to know a bit wiser than that 
 now. As one of fourteen I've seen too much nasty 
 pity and patronage to want to suffer it myself." 
 
 Lizzie nodded. 
 
 " I'm like that too," she said. " So's Mr. Dun- 
 ning. But Mr. Trevail's different. He'll be a rich 
 man some day, I suppose." 
 
 " He's all right. I like him better than anybody 
 in these parts after Ned. A very kind, easy chap. I 
 wish ' Iron ' Mortimore would die and leave Mr. Tre- 
 vail his money." 
 
 " He is easy — too easy," declared the other. " He 
 wants a bit of Mr. Dunning's hardness. If you could 
 roll those two men into one you'd get a very fine 
 chap." 
 
 " Dunning's gone on you, I believe. Ned was say- 
 ing but yesterday that we'd seen him more this last 
 week than for a year before." 
 
 Lizzie shook her head. 
 
 " Tis Mr. Underhill he comes to see. But Mr. 
 Dunning is interesting, I will allow. Something new 
 about him. Never says the expected thing. Terribly 
 scornful of workaday men and women, and scornful 
 of himself too, seemingly." 
 
 " He don't talk very nicely about marriage — 
 haven't got no patience with all the nonsense about 
 love and devotion and all that. But, after all, 
 there's something in love. We don't marry a man 
 only to feed him. Granted we cook their food and 
 are their food ; but we get something back too, in ex- 
 change for ourselves and our life-long work and
 
 THE BEACON 33 
 
 thought of 'em. But I'd sooner marry Trevail than 
 Reynold Dunning. He'd wear better." 
 
 Lizzie did not note the last remark. She was ar- 
 rested by the earlier speech. 
 
 " What you say about what we do for them and they 
 do for us is very interesting," she declared. " Some 
 girls are built to seek a strong man, and let him shield 
 'em and be the oak to their ivy ; and some want to 
 give and take; and some would rather before all else 
 be useful and lift the man a bit." 
 
 " Men don't want girls to lift 'em," declared Nelly. 
 " They'd think 'twas a great bore if a woman began 
 that sort of thing." 
 
 " Yet I'm the kind that would want to do it. I be- 
 lieve I'd sooner have an easy, weak chap and feel my- 
 self working on him and stringing him up — I'd sooner 
 have such a man than a strong, close man that I 
 couldn't touch. I should always feel with such a man 
 that he was hidden from me, and that I was no more 
 really inside his life than the flower in his button-hole. 
 But with the other sort I should know I was being 
 useful and helping him to something better than he 
 could have been without me." 
 
 She lifted her eyes to Cosdon as she spoke. The 
 hill towered under noon-tide light, but the light was 
 broken by clouds. Rain swept over the Beacon, and 
 its curtains of grey, tagged with glittering silver, ex- 
 tended for a few moments into the valley. The Bea- 
 con sank behind this brief storm; light and colour 
 died out of it, and until its higher and lower ridges 
 rolled huge and dim and removed, like a cloud upon 
 a cloud. But the rain quickly passed, the vapours 
 thinned and feathered away, and the sun shone again. 
 
 The wedding feast was served in the public room 
 of the Oxenham Arms — a long, low chamber on the 
 second floor. The new barmaid did not attend it, but 
 having quickly changed her best gown, put on black
 
 34 THE BEACON 
 
 and went to her work. Little was doing, however, 
 and when presently, after proposing the bridesmaids, 
 Mr. Trevail slipped from his seat and came down to 
 the bar upon a pretext, he found her alone there. 
 
 Trevail plunged straight to the matter that had trou- 
 bled him so much. 
 
 " Look here, why didn't you take the flower? ' ! 
 
 " I'd got one." 
 
 " I had that rare, sweet flower specially for you 
 from the gardener at Oxenham House." 
 
 " He's a very nice chap. He comes in here some- 
 times. He's offered me to go over the houses any 
 day I like." 
 
 " Well, I think you might have taken it after all 
 my trouble, Miss Densham." 
 
 She looked up at him with a sudden smile few could 
 withstand. 
 
 " I did take it." 
 
 " And gave it to Nelly Jope." 
 
 " What does that matter ? A flower's only a flower. 
 They'll miss you, won't they ? " 
 
 " No, I'm not going back. Made an excuse about 
 my uncle." 
 
 " He's the most peculiar man in South Zeal, I should 
 think — Mr. Mortimore, I mean — " 
 
 " He s not a bad sort really." 
 
 " I shouldn't have thought he was your sort, how- 
 
 ever." 
 
 " More he is," declared Charles Trevail. " I'm 
 easy-going and would sooner walk than run any day. 
 But as the more he saves, the more I shall have to 
 spend — " 
 
 She interrupted him impatiently. 
 
 " I call that a feeble thing to say. If you think 
 meanness and hardness and stinting are wrong, why 
 don't you tell him so ? " 
 
 The man was startled. 
 
 "Good gracious ! Quarrel with Uncle Abraham!
 
 THE BEACON 35 
 
 Not likely. I'm the only friend he's got in the 
 world." 
 
 " He's a terrible old man, I think. Money-grub- 
 bing does make them that do it terrible. I've known 
 the like." 
 
 " Money's power, however." 
 
 " It wouldn't be with me. I'd set other things high 
 above it." 
 
 He was a good deal interested at this. 
 
 " Don't you want to be rich then ? " 
 
 " No, it's the last thing I've ever hankered to be." 
 
 His face fell and he felt that this was bad news. 
 The girl had done mighty things in the heart of 
 Charles Trevail. He was in love with her and en- 
 during tremendous novel and secret experiences for 
 her sake. His monotonous life had been broken in 
 upon by the gigantic thing. He was miserable and 
 distracted. He had trusted to his prospects as the 
 major hope with her ; and he could ill bear to believe 
 now, on her bare word, that she did not care much for 
 money. 
 
 " Not as a master — not like my uncle — but as a 
 servant. Money's a good servant, Miss Densham," 
 he argued. 
 
 " You think a lot about it no doubt," she said, 
 " but 'twill never interest me to talk about it." 
 
 " Then I never will again. You don't judge me 
 mean and close, I hope." 
 
 " I don't know anything about you, except you're 
 a farmer." 
 
 " I'll tell you more come our walk. You haven't 
 forgot your promise for Sunday ? " 
 
 " No, I haven't. I'm longing to see the Beacon. I 
 look at it and think what 'tis like up there every day." 
 
 " You'll be cruel disappointed. 'Tis only a lonely 
 old rogue's roost of a place. A good view round 
 about certainly, but the Beacon itself is nought. 
 You'll be tired to death afore you get to the top."
 
 36 THE BEACON 
 
 He had suggested the walk some days before, and 
 she had agreed to take it with him. He pleased her 
 by his attention and she admired him. Especially 
 she appreciated his deference to her opinions and his 
 interest in her London life. 
 
 Presently a noise overhead told that the feast was 
 done, and a few moments later Tom Underbill's bride 
 descended into the bar. But she found Lizzie alone, 
 for at the sound of the rising company above them 
 Charles had departed. 
 
 The newly-made wife came forward. 
 
 " You slip upstairs and have a bit of chicken and a 
 glass of wine," she said. " I'll mind the bar. I want 
 for Tom to see me behind it when he comes down. 
 I told him I'd be there the very day we was mar- 
 ried!" 
 
 Minnie took her place calmly and, as a customer 
 came in at the same moment, she was able to draw a 
 glass of beer and charge three halfpence for it. 
 
 Some of the wedding party entered the bar and sa- 
 luted her uproariously. 
 
 " There," she said, showing them a penny and a 
 halfpenny. " That's my luck, that is. I shall keep 
 them coins for evermore, and Tom will have to get 
 'em made up in a brooch for me to wear." 
 
 Two hours later the wedded couple drove away to 
 Okehampton and the guests departed.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 /^■HARLES TREVAIL was an orphan and had 
 ^ neither brothers nor sisters. An accident de- 
 prived him of his mother before he was old enough to 
 miss her, and his father died when the child had 
 reached five years. Then, for his sister's sake, the 
 man Abraham Mortimore adopted his nephew, edu- 
 cated him, and, when he was old enough, made over to 
 him the tenancy of North Combe Farm, near the great 
 quarry below South Tawton. 
 
 A willing submission to destiny was natural to this 
 mild-mannered young man. And indeed his lines so 
 far had run easily. ' Iron ' Mortimore exacted rent 
 and exercised a complete control at North Combe, 
 but the farm was prosperous and Charles knew no 
 discomfort at his subordinate position. He was in- 
 deed absolutely contented with life as he found it, and 
 had not felt any desire to modify the even tenor of 
 the years. He had never thought for himself or ex- 
 perienced the least ambition to do so until now. But 
 with the advent of Elisabeth Densham all was changed 
 and he began to taste the many-flavoured dish of 
 love. 
 
 He came from her presence elated or cast down by 
 the trend of their converse ; and sometimes she seemed 
 a little nearer and sometimes far off again. Her ef- 
 fect upon his life was extraordinary, and on many 
 a sleepless night he had leisure to consider it and mark 
 and some shadowy experiments in romance occurred 
 the symptoms. Philanderings he could remember, 
 to him also ; but the present signs and miseries had 
 never appeared before, and by these he doubted not 
 that here, beyond all question, was the real thing at 
 
 37
 
 88 THE BEACON 
 
 last. For despite his fret of mind and ceaseless care 
 he found himself better in health, more vigorous, 
 more interested in life than he had ever been until 
 this time. Though eaten up with anxiety, he was 
 cheerfuller and braver than he remembered to have 
 been. He laughed and joked more with other men; 
 he went out of his way to do acquaintances a service, 
 and found himself entering into the affairs of his 
 neighbours, though in reality they interested him 
 not at all. He made promises to advance this man's 
 welfare or do that man a good turn. At the back 
 of his mind was a light always burning and beckoning. 
 And yet he could not summon the magic face at will. 
 Lesser features and other countenances of women 
 were mirrored without an effort — this face, like the 
 owner of it, was elusive and subtle and not to be 
 pictured by his hungry mind. The very arch of her 
 wonderful eyebrows escaped him when he was not 
 in her presence. But to be in her presence was the 
 master desire; and when he could not be, he thought 
 of those who were. A sensation of discomfort and 
 doubt with respect to other men got hold of him. 
 Once, in the bar, he saw a man lift his hand and 
 thrust a hairpin into place in Lizzie's mound of hair; 
 and he grew hot and sulked and hated the man for 
 daring to take such a liberty, and even the woman a 
 little for allowing it. He, a stranger to jealousy or 
 envy until now, became both jealous and envious. 
 He was very impatient and inexperienced. 
 
 His love-making appeared crude in the eyes of a 
 girl familiar with the operation as exhibited before 
 her by many men, but she liked Trevail the better for 
 that. His simplicity and earnestness were equally 
 apparent, and she smiled in secret at his transparent 
 little shifts and wiles. 
 
 But she grew more and more interested in him as 
 she learned more of him. Because here was a man 
 made to be helped not hindered by a woman; here
 
 THE BEACON 39 
 
 was a man who would put the woman he loved on his 
 throne, not offer her a footstool alongside of it. He 
 was the type that she had always thought of as most 
 likely to attract her; but whether he would prove 
 more than an example of the type, or presently come 
 to be to her the chosen, that remained to be seen. 
 She was in no hurry and, not knowing love, felt no 
 particular pity for Mr. Trevail. 
 
 Sometimes she helped him a little and sometimes 
 she did not. Sometimes his speeches and gifts 
 missed fire, and he was wretched until another oppor- 
 tunity offered ; sometimes he pleased her, and the 
 meeting went neatly and brilliantly. Then he 
 rejoiced and hoped again, and went home, treading 
 on air, to hunger for the next opportunity and busy 
 his wits in making it. At forging opportunities he 
 proved so cunning and full of resource that he aston- 
 ished himself. Lizzie was never out of his thoughts. 
 
 Within a fortnight of her arrival there came the 
 great walk to Cosdon Beacon. This proved a 
 revelation every way, and the woman learned far 
 more from it than she expected to learn ; but the man 
 sank for the time being into a lesser thing than the 
 hill he showed her. The Beacon obliterated Mr. 
 Trevail. Indeed, upon its bosom, in his Sunday 
 clothes, he struck a wrong note, and his sentiments 
 also seemed ludicrous to her on this occasion ; though 
 fortunately for himself, Charles did not discover the 
 fact. 
 
 They passed through the valley behind the inn; 
 then they crossed the main road and began their 
 climb. The Sunday afternoon shone fair and, since 
 it was the season of harvest, out of the immense 
 tesselation spread beneath them through the un- 
 dulating leagues of Devon, there gleamed intermit- 
 tently the glory of corn. It lay in little squares and 
 wedges upon the face of the earth ; and where dis- 
 tance reigned, and forest and farm lands blended and
 
 40 THE BEACON 
 
 melted together in a blue haze, the harvest still flashed, 
 like far-off signals, or burnt in dazzling patches of 
 gold when a sunbeam touched it and picked it out of 
 the welter. 
 
 Tellus, fertile in flocks and fruits, had woven 
 coronets of corn for the brow of Ceres. 
 
 A chance spectator might have been struck by the 
 wealth of woodlands displayed in this great scene. 
 The hedgerows alone, where they merged in vanish- 
 ing perspective, seemed to transform the world into 
 one forest, and seen nearer, many deep woods and 
 spinneys and copses, that marked the ways of water, 
 abounded and hemmed in the champaign on every 
 side. Cosdon's own breast was clad in fir and spruce 
 at one point, where a forest crept a little way upward ; 
 and above it there still persisted evidences of man's 
 fight with the Beacon. His fields stretched to right 
 and left of the stony road and fought aloft; his walls 
 and pathways scored the hill, like the varied lines 
 scratched by science on a terrestrial globe ; but ridge 
 after ridge and billow upon billow the Beacon swept 
 above these assaults and finally rose unconquered to its 
 crown. 
 
 At a height of about a thousand feet Charles Tre- 
 vail called the first halt and made Lizzie rest awhile 
 above Horder's Wood. The bosky valley of Taw 
 wound away immediately before them, and South 
 Tawton's tower peeped above its grove; while far 
 beneath, upon their right hand, like a brown and blue 
 snake, wound Zeal's solitary and straight street across 
 the meadows of hill and vale. Easterly rose the build- 
 ings and nakedness of Red Wheal ; while to the parallel 
 bright ridges of the distant sky, earth spread, in her 
 darkness of high summer foliage and brightness of 
 barley and of wheat. 
 
 Elisabeth beheld all and found herself moved to a 
 wonder beyond words. Such far horizons were a new 
 vision to her. The man talked and told her the names
 
 THE BEACON 41 
 
 of the villages and hills, showed her where rolled the 
 Severn Sea, where Exmoor stretched grey against the 
 north, and where his own farm might be seen at their 
 feet beyond the great quarry. She listened without 
 comment, but in reality she heard only a little of what 
 he uttered, for her mind was absorbed by the first 
 great natural view of earth that her eyes had ever 
 seen. 
 
 Yet presently she could find it in her to turn to him, 
 listen to him and thank him for showing her this 
 wonder. She did not yet see him small against his 
 background. That was to come. For the moment 
 she felt that he had shown her a precious sight and 
 that she must thank him deeply for doing so. And 
 his apparent knowledge of this theatre and familiarity 
 with each hamlet and twinkling atom of a dwelling 
 spread within it was remarkable to her. He em- 
 braced a world with a sweep of his arm. His in- 
 difference to such immensity seemed fine and she read 
 a sort of greatness into it. She was ever swift to mark 
 the manlike in man and ever glad to welcome it. 
 Now, in a mood rather emotional before this glimpse 
 of summer earth, she glorified Mr. Trevail a little 
 with the rest. His handsome face was handsomer 
 for his climb; his limitations of ambition and intellect 
 she did not yet perceive as serious faults. 
 
 But presently a side of him was revealed in senti- 
 ments that gave her little joy. 
 
 They climbed on, and when they had ascended 
 some hundred yards higher up Cosdon's side, the 
 village beneath was hidden from them ; the forest trees 
 disappeared and the upper loneliness of the Beacon 
 began to encompass them and make itself felt. Tre- 
 vail did not share his companion's increasing ex- 
 citement. 
 
 " I hate it up here," he said. " Down lower the 
 sight of the houses and lew places makes all this bear- 
 able by contrast — for the feeling of thankfulness that
 
 42 THE BEACON 
 
 home is there and not up here. But once you lose 
 sight of them, like we have now, and find nought but 
 mire and rocks and desert round us — miles and miles 
 of it — well, then I feel daunted for one, and so will 
 you. I like the ' in country ' and haven't got no use 
 for the Moor, though some get joy of it I grant you. 
 'Tis what you've been born to. That chap, Reynold 
 Dunning, neighbours very kindly with it. But he's 
 like it himself in a way — harsh and rough and a bit 
 brutal." 
 
 " I seem as if I'd been waiting for this all my life," 
 answered the other. " 'Tis terrible grand, I think. 
 I was told I'd love it, or hate it. A friend I had in 
 London said that. ' There's no half measures with 
 the Moor,' he said. ' You'll love it or you'll hate it.' 
 And he went on to say he thought that I'd love it; 
 and he was right." 
 
 "Who was he then? I've never heard you name 
 him afore." 
 
 He spoke sharply and she knew that he was jealous. 
 For a brief moment he bored her. Any display of 
 such emotion at this moment was jejune. 
 
 " Don't be talking. Let me just suck this in as we 
 go along. I understand a bit already. A keen, 
 searching place in winter, I warrant ! " 
 
 " Who was the man who told you about it? 
 
 She paid no attention and Mr. Trevail felt con- 
 sumed with irritation. Then he answered her last 
 remark. 
 
 " Yes, in winter the very birds leave it, I believe. 
 'Tis like a fierce, wild beast sometimes then. No 
 man have ever tamed Cosdon, though you can see 
 how often they have tried to do so." 
 
 She was thinking and feeling. The heath seemed 
 to stretch out invisible hands to her. It happens in 
 the world sometimes that there are arenas of life 
 whither we come, not only to find them and feed upon 
 their disclosures, but to find ourselves also. The Bea- 
 
 >*
 
 THE BEACON 43 
 
 con now, as it rolled upward before her, began to 
 quicken the mind of Elisabeth Densham. She felt 
 that she had met a friend and a spark of sentiment 
 touched her. 
 
 ' I'll always remember that you were the first to 
 show me all this," she said suddenly. 
 
 ' I'll show you what is a deal better in the valley." 
 
 " Never ! Give me the thing that's not been tamed, 
 as you said just now." 
 
 " Not been tamed I grant — but it have tamed a 
 good many others — broken them you might say in 
 heart and pocket." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " My pocket's empty. And it won't break my 
 heart." 
 
 " Don't get too fond of it. Belike 'twill make you 
 hard, like itself, if you were to." 
 
 " I don't feel 'tis hard," she declared. 
 
 " It is though — a snarling thing at odds with the 
 winds that batter it, and the frosts that freeze it, and 
 the men that come to it to tear peat and gravel out 
 of it. It makes the people hard, I tell you. A Moor- 
 man's always as hard again as a man from the valleys. 
 My uncle's got a saying: ' If you want to the 'appy 
 you must be 'ard.' And I suppose that's what this 
 place has taught him." 
 
 She shook her head. A side of her he had not seen 
 flashed up. 
 
 They stood among the cairns at last and he ex- 
 plained that they were graves of ' the old men.' 
 
 " Of a night you could see their ghosts, I daresay," 
 she said. " I'm a great reader, I must tell you, and 
 I've a power of picturing things. This hill, that you 
 call lonely, don't seem so to me. I'd find all sorts of 
 queer living creatures about it in time." 
 
 " Pixies and all that. But surely you'd laugh at 
 such silly nonsense? Even old gaffers are ashamed to 
 name it nowadays."
 
 44 THE BEACON 
 
 ' I might or I might not," she answered. " I be- 
 lieve in ghosts anyway. And why shouldn't I ? And 
 I'll make my own stories about Dartmoor and the 
 stones and things. I don't want the old stories. I'll 
 have fresh ones." 
 
 ' The old ones are queer enough. I can tell you a 
 few. But nowadays such nonsense is dead and gone. 
 The schools have sent it to the right about." 
 
 She asked many questions, but they were chiefly 
 such as Charles could not answer. 
 
 At the summit of the Beacon was rough, broken 
 ground over which a fierce west wind roared mightily, 
 while the crystal air throbbed at heath level along 
 the lifting planes of the hill. Earth hereabouts was 
 torn and deeply scarred. A torrent had scratched 
 Cosdon to her granite bones and left a deep wound 
 in the black peat ; a wilderness of stone scattered the 
 waste and great patches of sward stretched upon it. 
 Here, too, were rhomboidal scars where man had 
 stripped the pelt off the hill and carried it away. 
 Bilberry, heath and furze made a spasmodic splen- 
 dour, but the summit of the hill, where the actual 
 beacon pile of grey granite crowned all, was desolate 
 with mire and sedge and morass. 
 
 Lizzie stared about her and the man found himself 
 forgotten for a season. 
 
 " I've never seen so much of the world all at once 
 before," she said. " It's wonderful ; it's wonderful. 
 I'd like to be buried here myself when I die; but I 
 don't want to die: I never want to die. Oh, if I 
 could come here every day of my life, I'd never die! ' : 
 
 " 'Tis what they call a free horizon — a very fine 
 view no doubt. But all the same I'd sooner see the 
 Beacon from North Combe, than North Combe from 
 the Beacon." 
 
 "You don't care for it?" 
 
 " No more than I care for the inky berries the 
 people gather off it."
 
 THE BEACON 45 
 
 They sat sheltered from the wind by a great ring 
 of piled stones at the summit. He pointed out Chag- 
 ford and Moreton, Hameldown and Hey Tor far 
 away to the south, the valley of Teign and the mouth 
 of Teign open to the misty sea. 
 
 " That's Throwleigh down under," he said, " and 
 the common's called Clannaboro' — the same as Dun- 
 ning's farm." 
 
 She asked the name of knap and knoll and hamlet 
 in the encircling panorama. Some he knew, but those 
 without the radius of his own activities were for the 
 most part unknown to him. Unconsciously he let it 
 be perceived how narrow was his own sphere. It lay 
 far within the horizons now lifting round Elisabeth. 
 She felt disappointed at this, and the more so because, 
 within an hour, they met one whose pur-view em- 
 braced a wider range than Trevail's and whose knowl- 
 edge was greater, though his limitations were also 
 greater. 
 
 Silence fell between them; then Charles uttered a 
 violent expression of annoyance and used an oath. 
 
 " Be damned if he isn't coming here! " he said, and 
 pointed to a horseman who climbed the hill from the 
 south above Rayborrow Pool. Lizzie was not yet 
 trained of eyesight to see at so great a distance. 
 
 "What's the matter?" she asked, and the other 
 pointed below. 
 
 " 'Tis Dunning, and he's coming here." 
 
 "What if he is?" 
 
 He uttered a sound of impatience but made no other 
 reply. Then he resigned himself, scowled at the 
 rider and took a pipe from his pocket. Dunning was 
 beside them in five minutes. He had seen them long- 
 ago, when they began their ascent, had guessed the 
 Beacon was their goal, and had determined with him- 
 self to surprise them there. He knew exactly what 
 must be the state of Trevail's feelings; but that did 
 not trouble him. He entertained no admiration for
 
 46 THE BEACON 
 
 Charles, but held him a slight thing and little more 
 than his uncle's creature. 
 
 He was callous now and ignored the younger man's 
 annoyance. He began talking to Lizzie and interest- 
 ing her, albeit she understood very well that by all 
 laws of good manners Dunning should not have thrust 
 himself upon this walk. But he was arresting. He 
 knew far more of the world outspread beneath them 
 than did Charles and her enthusiasm for the Beacon 
 won from him the heartiest commendation. 
 
 Usually silent, and sometimes cynical, here, on his 
 native heath, he appeared more human and unsophis- 
 ticated. He told her the names of the grasses under 
 her feet. He spoke of the fragrant candleberry myrtle 
 that grew not a mile off on the slopes above Taw and 
 offered to lead Elisabeth to it. 
 
 With unconcealed ill-humour Trevail acceded to 
 the interruption. He walked on one side of the girl, 
 and Dunning, dismounting, proceeded upon the other. 
 
 Words passed between them presently and the mas- 
 ter of Clannaboro' proved by much the mightier with 
 those weapons. It was Trevail who provoked the at- 
 tack, but showed himself quite unequal to repelling it 
 when the elder man hit back. 
 
 " So my uncle was one too many for you at Oke- 
 hampton I hear? " he asked. 
 
 " He was," admitted Dunning. " He's one too 
 many for most plain-dealers. A very hateful fashion 
 of man." 
 
 " You don't hate him worse than he hates you." 
 
 " Probably not. We always hate them we've 
 wronged. And time and again he's wronged me. 
 No tongue likes a sharp tooth, and a sharp tooth he's 
 been to me ever since I tried to get the limestone 
 quarry away from him and failed. But I'll try again 
 and not fail. I've got the pull of him by fifteen years, 
 and they laugh best who laugh last. A man who 
 ban't content with honest gain, and who's only pleas-
 
 THE BEACON 47 
 
 ure is to shut other men out from prosperity if he 
 can — such a man's place is the horse-pond; and there 
 ' Iron ' Mortimore should be thrown if I had my 
 will of him." 
 
 " You speak as one who's felt his lash and deserved 
 to feel it," answered Trevail. 
 
 " Yes, every man who doesn't knuckle under and 
 sing small falls foul of him. The man that's friendly 
 with him is a second-rater — same as you. You're the 
 mean sort that only think which side your bread is 
 buttered and cares not for anything else — the spaniel 
 sort that don't count in the world. We must have 
 'em, but to us they're no more than the ground we 
 walk on." 
 
 Here the woman protested. 
 
 " If you've only come to quarrel, Mr. Dunning, I'd 
 liefer you were away," she said. 
 
 " Quite right," he answered instantly. " Quarrels 
 of men look what they are up here — no more than the 
 fighting of ants. 'Twas only the mention of his uncle 
 put my back up. I forgot my company. I respect 
 Mortimore for his strength, though I hate him for 
 himself." 
 
 Trevail expressed regret also. 
 
 " We can talk about it another time if you want to," 
 he said. " 'Twas I began it, and I'm sorry I did. 
 'Twasn't civil. But you vexed me by coming to join 
 
 us." 
 
 " I knew Miss Densham wanted to climb the Beacon 
 and I was set on hearing what she thought of it." 
 
 Elisabeth talked and Trevail sulked. Then sud- 
 denly, with an abruptness in leave-taking peculiar to 
 him, Dunning mounted and left them. 
 
 " I'm not wanted in this party," he said. " Another 
 time perhaps. What I don't know about Cosdon Bea- 
 con is like what Charles here do know about it — not 
 worth knowing. Some other day then. Yonder's the 
 candleberry by that stream on ahead."
 
 48 THE BEACON 
 
 He galloped off without any sort of salute or fare- 
 well. 
 
 " That's Moore manners," declared Trevail, while 
 Lizzie laughed. " Doesn't even wear Sunday clothes, 
 you see." 
 
 " He's rough and queer, but he's a pretty strong, 
 fearless sort of man seemingly. His clothes suit the 
 place somehow better than ours." 
 
 The subtlety of the observation was quite wasted 
 on Trevail. 
 
 " He's rough enough, as you say, and he hates my 
 Uncle Abraham. He was different when his mother 
 lived. He's what I call an uncomfortable sort of man. 
 Rasps you whenever you meet him." 
 
 " You began it though." 
 
 " He put me out by coming to us. 'Twasn't fair or 
 proper." 
 
 " Well, leave it, please. He's gone now." 
 
 " I believe you like him." 
 
 " How could I ? Don't know anything at all about 
 him. Here's the place. Are these little trees — ?" 
 
 They were come to a spot where marshes fell in 
 steps between tussocks of grass and heather. Through 
 the midst a stream ran over granite gravel and 
 splinters of quartz. It dropped here and there in lit- 
 tle falls, where grass hung with dripping, sodden 
 beards ; and along its way sprang clumps of neat sage- 
 green bushes. 
 
 " That's the bog-myrtle," said Charles. He plucked 
 some sprigs in fruit and handed them to her. " Crush 
 the leaves and smell 'em. You'd never think such a 
 sweet thing could live on Cosdon." 
 
 Lizzie obeyed and enjoyed the scent of this fragrant 
 foliage. 
 
 " Lovely ! " she cried. " And why shouldn't it come 
 from here? I never smelt anything so good. I'll 
 never buy another bottle of scent again. I love it. 
 'Tis the Beacon's own smell ! "
 
 THE BEACON 49 
 
 She gathered some to take home with her. 
 
 " I've been on the lookout all this while for a bit 
 of white heather," he said. " 'Twas thought to mean 
 luck, and I daresay you'd believe that." 
 
 " No ! I believe in finding your own luck. No- 
 body else can find it for you." 
 
 This sentiment chilled him, though he did not know 
 why. He had made a little plot with himself and re- 
 solved that if he found white heather he would give 
 it to her and ask for something in exchange. He 
 had soared to the thought of a kiss. But now he 
 drooped and felt the idea many sizes too bold. 
 
 The smell of the sweet gale rejoiced Lizzie. Sev- 
 eral times she stopped and crushed a leaf of it and put 
 her nose to it and shut her eyes, that vision might not 
 interfere with complete satisfaction of the lesser sense. 
 
 They returned presently through the valley of the 
 Taw, and the girl became very quiet when they had 
 descended. She often stood still and looked back. 
 
 " I'm sorry in a silly sort of way to have fetched 
 these poor little leaves from their home," she said. 
 
 He tried to become personal, but failed. He felt 
 physically weary and mentally numb before they re- 
 turned to Zeal ; but her parting words served largely to 
 console him. 
 
 " Thank you very, very much, Mr Trevail. 'Twas 
 more than kind to spend such a long time with me." 
 
 " Don't you say that. I'll spend as long a time 
 with you as ever you like, and as often as you like," 
 he answered. 
 
 He shook her hand while he spoke and held it some 
 moments afterwards. She looked into his face with 
 grateful eyes that seemed to cry for kissing. 
 
 " By God, you're lovely ! " he said under his breath 
 to her. Then he hurried off without waiting to see 
 how she took it. 
 
 He did not sleep that night.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 MISS FANNY CANN, while easy with her own 
 sex, could be exceedingly severe when chance 
 put her in authority over the other. Thus during 
 the fortnight of her nephew's honeymoon, when she 
 reigned at the Oxenham Arms, the men and boys em- 
 ployed there found little leisure, but Elisabeth, Nelly, 
 the cook and a young girl who completed the staff, 
 had no cause to complain. 
 
 Thus it happened that the newcomer began her 
 ministrations under gentle auspices. She found time 
 for thought and time for happiness, apart from work. 
 Miss Cann liked her and unquestionably spoiled her. 
 With the elasticity of a youthful mind Lizzie Densham 
 threw herself into the new interests and the new life. 
 She wondered not a little sometimes to think of the 
 great gulf of experience that separated her from the 
 old days. London had vanished like a roaring dream. 
 Its sounds were stilled ; its sordid aspect, as seen from 
 her standpoint, was cleaned out of her spirit. Here it 
 seemed to her that poverty was not so mean. She was 
 quick to think well of the people and grateful for the 
 spirit of goodwill and friendship they extended to 
 herself. It seemed impossible that such immense in- 
 terests should have risen in her lonely life so swiftly. 
 Yet they had done so. Nature was speaking to her 
 through the mouth of the Moor, and, beyond that, as 
 a thing her brains told her must be more vital still, 
 there stood a man at the door of her life and loved 
 her. She felt no aversion from him ; she guessed, in- 
 deed, that she might presently love him and be useful 
 to him. It was the thought of the power of service 
 
 So
 
 THE BEACON 51 
 
 that attracted her to him, and his unconscious revela- 
 tions of some weakness, accentuating the possibility of 
 that power, by no means repelled her. 
 
 At present, however, rustic life in its sharp antago- 
 nism to the policy of cities, most profoundly affected 
 Elisabeth. And the Beacon it was, rather than the 
 rural order of the hamlet, that spoke this great mes- 
 sage. She came, as a child comes to to-morrow, with 
 a mind upon which experience had bitten nothing very 
 deep; her new environment spread gentle and kindly 
 arms to her; the watch-tower lifted above it had al- 
 ready uttered one salutary word and lifted her young 
 heart to heights unfelt till now. 
 
 She first saw the hill at its gayest, when that brief, 
 brilliant hour before autumn bedecked Cosdon. She 
 marked much and more every day. A general per- 
 ception of the splendour of it became a pleasant, grate- 
 ful passage of thought, where her mind often joyed to 
 tarry. As yet there was no nice observation of detail : 
 she was still busy with appreciation of large partic- 
 ulars. The dozen different shades of roses and pink 
 in a long patch; the play of dead grass blades flashing 
 upon living herbage; the shadows of clouds and the 
 changed purple of the heather light subdued thereby; 
 the flickering colours of the granite and the altered 
 harmonies of all great and lesser relations at the chal- 
 lenge of the sky — these things she had not seen. And 
 they mattered not at all. For her awoke a hungry 
 and thirsty joy of the place. She read into it all man- 
 ner of meanings and waited eagerly, sometimes fear- 
 fully, for fresh revelations. The Beacon explained 
 things in herself that she had not understood. Within 
 a month she yearned for it and felt no week quite 
 full that had not found her feet climbing the hill. Cos- 
 don's rounded mass upon the sky and its diurnal mes- 
 sage through sun and storm, winter snow and summer 
 cloud, in halo of moonlight and nimbus of mist — each 
 manifestation in its turn would surely be good. She
 
 52 THE BEACON 
 
 loved everything, to the least hollow and secret spring 
 and hidden place of flowers. 
 
 She was a superstitious woman and enjoyed the 
 emotion of possible presences unseen, and of phenom- 
 ena not understood. These often greeted her in 
 Cosdon's arcana, but they never came when she had a 
 companion, and sometimes, therefore, she took her 
 weekly walk alone, that the gods of wood and waste 
 might see her unattended and whisper to her. She 
 accepted no myth of old time from any mouth. Only 
 some old woman's doubtful mumbling of pixies was 
 received and translated into her personal imaginings. 
 There was a little art in her, that had perhaps found 
 a medium had she been born to a different environ- 
 ment. But the germ was destined not to put forth 
 other fruit than dreams. Such visions trembled 
 mistily, like rainbows, upon her own heart, and van- 
 ished there, when the sun that lighted them had set. 
 Life brought her much, but nothing supremely pre- 
 cious, nothing of a sort to unseal the fountains of the 
 deep for her. And that is the common way of things, 
 for much minor beauty of thought and much hum- 
 ble creative power are lost by accident or garnered 
 only by good chance. The giant spirits cry their 
 mighty news for all time, and issue forth from art's 
 many mansions indifferent to their greeting, jealous 
 only for the imperishable treasure intrusted to them ; 
 but many lesser messages — sane, sweet, valuable — de- 
 pend for their existence upon the accident of sympathy 
 and understanding and environment. Love has been 
 the tender nurse of many lovely things. But Elisabeth 
 saw the new world as a barmaid and inchoate dreams 
 were all that resulted. The effect of the change upon 
 herself, however, was valuable. It touched her spirit 
 finely, because there was that in her waiting for these 
 things and now hurrying to meet them. 
 
 Nelly Jope foretold that their liberties and leisure 
 would be much curtailed when Mr. Underhill and his
 
 THE BEACON 53 
 
 wife returned home, and she was right. The new 
 mistress began as she intended to proceed; Aunt 
 Fanny returned to her cottage on the edge of Cosdon; 
 the men breathed again ; the women soon felt that a 
 holiday had ended. The demoralisation of transitory 
 ease bore fruit in one direction, for the cook gave 
 warning. In a week she reconsidered this step and 
 proposed to stay, but the new mistress belonged to a 
 Spartan order. The cook was not permitted to 
 change her mind, and a stable-man, to whom she was 
 affianced, reluctantly departed also. Tom Under- 
 bill had much desired to keep this man, and the ques- 
 tion bred the first difference between him and his 
 wife. Each felt, hidden from the other, that the 
 matter was far more tremendous than on its face it 
 appeared; each understood that precedent was about 
 to be created. The affair kept them waking at night, 
 and indirectly it banished sleep from other eyes. 
 Tom Underbill's voice, while pitched in a key not 
 very masculine was of a penetrating calibre, and while 
 he argued, Lizzie in her chamber, and Nelly and the 
 cook, who shared another not far off, were kept awake. 
 
 Tom tossed and turned, but his wife remained 
 motionless. She lay on her back and swung up and 
 down easily, like a light ship at anchor, while her hus- 
 band's bulk set the bed shaking. 
 
 " I killed my old dog because you didn't like him in 
 the parlour, though he'd have held out another year 
 if I hadn't," said the man. " I did that for you, and 
 now 'tis your turn to meet me I should think. I 
 can't let Bill go. He's very useful and very clever. 
 And she's a rare good cook — you can't deny that. So 
 if she sees she was mistaken, and is sorry for it, well, 
 who can do more ? '' 
 
 " I'll never take back a servant that's once given 
 notice. 'Tis a question of right and wrong. When I 
 was to service myself I learned all about that. She's 
 got to go, and if she's that malicious to make William
 
 54 THE BEACON 
 
 go too, don't that show what she is? Be you to be 
 dictated to by your servants? Not if I'm anybody. 
 You've been too easy all your life and 'tis time I 
 was here to look after your interests; and I'm going 
 to." 
 
 He heaved about and snorted. 
 
 " If she couldn't cook I'd say nothing." 
 
 " She can cook — I know that. That's what she's 
 here for. But you're like all men: if you get a decent 
 servant you think you've found the only one, and 
 that the world will come to an end if you have to 
 change. She's going, Tom, and you know very well, 
 as a self-respecting woman, that I've got to make 
 her." 
 
 " 'Twill upset all the others," he grumbled. " You 
 know what they be — like sheep. If one goes, the 
 others will be after her." 
 
 " Let 'em. 'Tis a free country. 'Twouldn't sur- 
 prise me either. After your easy ways, 'tis like 
 enough the men and women both will find the new 
 style irk 'em a bit." 
 
 " If I'd known — " he began, but she cut him short. 
 
 " You did know," she said. " Now, my dear, good 
 man, don't you begin like that. You knew — as well 
 as you knew the price of beer — what I was. I never 
 hid it ; I never pretended I was different. The very 
 day you offered and I said ' Yes,' I told you what I 
 wanted and meant to have. The Burgoynes are all 
 the same — every blessed one of 'em. We've got a 
 good conceit of ourselves, and why not? And we will 
 have our money's worth and why not? And we will 
 have things just so, and why not? " 
 
 " The men be my part and you oughtn't to interfere 
 in that." 
 
 " Granted. I never shall. 'Tis very unfortunate 
 indeed, but you can't keep men away from women." 
 
 " Bill's got to choose between us and his girl. Well, 
 naturally — "
 
 THE BEACON 55 
 
 " And I've got to choose between what I think right 
 and what I think wrong. Well, naturally again — " 
 
 "But ban't I nobody? Don't my wish count? If 
 I'm set on it — surely then, Minnie? Besides, 'tis no 
 question of right and wrong at all. 'Tis only a ques- 
 tion of opinion. Look at it in the large. The girl 
 gives notice in a minute of temper. Who's always 
 wise? 'Twas a silly thing and she repented — " 
 
 " Yes, after she found she couldn't get the place 
 she wanted to Okehampton." 
 
 1 No matter for that. She repented and said she 
 was sorry, and — and — " He turned over and put his 
 great arms round her and hugged her up close to him- 
 self and rubbed his cheeks against hers. 
 
 ' Be sporting about it ! I want Bill very bad. I 
 ax as a favour. I won't forget it if you can meet me. 
 'Twill be a jolly fine thing in you to give way — just 
 this once. And you know me. I'll give way twenty 
 times for your once — you see if I don't." 
 
 He coaxed with elephantine love-making, but she 
 would not yield. So he released her, and swore, and 
 ordered her to be silent when she began to speak again. 
 In this particular she obeyed, but it was dawn before 
 either of them slept. 
 
 Thus there opened before Lizzie's eyes and mind 
 another interest : the early scenes of a drama whose 
 players were a disparate twain drawn together by the 
 sleight of love, and subsequently chained together by 
 the law of man. Life was interesting from every 
 standpoint. She found matter for laughter and re- 
 gret, for sympathy and antipathy, for wonder and all 
 the shades of emotion between wonder and fear. 
 
 With time there emerged steadily, against the back- 
 ground of the Beacon, the figures of two men, who 
 surpassed in interest all other human beings she had 
 known. One had forced himself upon her from the 
 first; the other, in a manner verv different, similarly 
 stood out from the rest. The company of the Oxen-
 
 56 THE BEACON 
 
 ham Arms were but the crowded middle distance 
 of a picture for twin protagonists in the foreground. 
 One man was humble, obstinate, generous, kind and 
 weak; the other was sardonic, covert, harsh and 
 strong. 
 
 Trevail's attitude and intentions were obvious, and 
 she had come to take them for granted. She liked 
 him and Dunning she did not like ; but Dunning was far 
 the more interesting man. His thoughts went deeper 
 and challenged more approval or censure. He seldom 
 dealt in the obvious thing, and generally took a pleas- 
 ure in denying the obvious thing. When he was in 
 the bar platitudes perished, and talk became a tameness 
 when he was silent. There was one other man built in 
 a similar pattern, but his taciturnity and acerbity 
 were greater than Dunning's. Abraham Mortimore's 
 native genius cut him off from the company of fellow- 
 creatures. Them he only regarded as means to an 
 end, as the pieces on that board where he was playing 
 his own game of life single-handed. But Dunning 
 did not eschew men. He affected them. He possessed 
 a cynical mind, but one not misanthropic. His atti- 
 tude to women had, however, been very narrow all 
 his life. From his mother onward he had dominated 
 them unconsciously. He was that sort of man who 
 exudes a masculine atmosphere and wins the sex 
 without an effort. He owned a power not to be ac- 
 quired and not necessarily used by the possessor — a 
 power often denied to the professed amorist and often 
 wasted as a natural gift on one who care nothing for 
 women. 
 
 Dunning had cared nothing for them until now, 
 but the tables were turned at last, and not a few who 
 had suffered at heart for him, and loathed him while 
 they loved him, were to see the man enslaved and 
 their sex indemnified for his slighting. 
 
 Quick eyes and hungry hearts here and there marked 
 the thing that had happened, and a few females bosoms
 
 THE BEACON 51 
 
 fluttered in secret to know the bear of Clannaboro' 
 was in love. Certainly few wished him good court- 
 ing or any joy of it. 
 
 He moved slowly, but he was always interesting 
 to Elisabeth Densham, even when he angered her. 
 Then there came a day in the bar when Dunning and 
 Trevail met, and the former reminded her of a prom- 
 ise. 
 
 Trevail was about to depart and spoke as he did so. 
 
 " You'll meet me to-morrow and we'll go down in 
 the valley. You promised, if I went again to the 
 Beacon last Sunday, you'd come to the valley next 
 time." 
 
 " She can't," said Dunning, shortly. " On Friday 
 of last week Miss Densham told me that she'd come 
 and see Clannaboro' and stop tea along with Mrs. 
 Vallance and Noah and me. 'Twasn't convenient to 
 ask her sooner, or very like I should have done. 
 She promised, however." 
 
 " Did I ? " asked Lizzie, a glass in one hand, a 
 duster in the other. 
 
 " Don't say ' Did I ' ? You know you did. You've 
 got a very good memory, as I've proved." 
 
 " I did — I remember." 
 
 " I hold you to it. We'll go up the hill if 'tis fair 
 weather. You can mess about in the valley with 
 Charles here another dav." 
 
 " I'll come then, and I hope you'll be civil to me. 
 What a snappy man you are! " 
 
 " I'm myself. Come if you want to, — not else. 
 I've got no Sunday manners." 
 
 He looked sternly upon her, and Trevail, now at 
 the door, waited to hear the girl's answer. 
 
 " I promised to come and that's enough," she said. 
 
 The younger farmer went off and his spirit raged. 
 He rejoiced to think that the strongest man in Zeal 
 was Dunning's enemy. But this was a battle that no 
 other — not even his Uncle Abraham — could fight for
 
 58 THE BEACON 
 
 him. He guessed that the time had come to speak. 
 Dunning's tardy methods he knew and felt no im- 
 mediate concern ; yet his power he also knew, and, 
 thinking upon it, began to grow anxious. 
 
 He considered the things that he had heard Lizzie 
 say concerning the man, and could recall none that 
 suggested admiration. Indeed there was much about 
 him that she had frankly disliked. He remembered 
 once in the bar how she had reproved Dunning to his 
 face and told him he had too little care for other peo- 
 ple, too much for himself. And he recollected the 
 master of Clannaboro's answer. 
 
 " You're right," he said. " I know it. But wait 
 till I find them that be worth caring about ! " 
 
 When Trevail was gone Reynold Dunning declared 
 that he should expect Lizzie soon after three o'clock 
 at his farm. 
 
 " You might come and fetch me, I should think," 
 she told him, but he refused. 
 
 " You can't miss the way. Keep your eye on Trow- 
 leigh church tower and you'll find us. If you'd like 
 to ride a pony up over, I'll have one ready for you ; if 
 not, we'll walk." 
 
 " I can't ride." 
 
 " I suppose not. Then we'll travel afoot." 
 
 He went as far as the door, omitting any parting 
 salutation in his usual abrupt style. He stopped, 
 however, and came back and looked her straight be- 
 tween the eyes with his steady, searching stare. 
 
 " I'm glad you're coming," he said. 
 
 Then he turned and was gone. But she felt quite 
 conscious of the force behind his words. She had 
 heard much of him and his ways and egregious man- 
 ners towards her sex, and she knew that never before 
 in his life had he told a woman he would be glad to 
 see her.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 BEYOND the village of South Tawton is a natural 
 fault or fissure in the country-side. Here are 
 things useful to man, and for generations, dating back 
 to time mediaeval, he has gathered from this place blue 
 limestone for his needs. The earlier workings round 
 about have passed back into Nature's hand, and at the 
 entrance to the great quarry, rented from the manor 
 lord by Abraham Mortimore, lofty, artificial slopes 
 arise, and a deep tarn spreads amid them. The little 
 hills and the great pit are alike human work, but now 
 larch and oak clothe the one and water fills the other. 
 
 On an autumn day the hollow beneath these well- 
 fledged elevations was shining like a cat's-eye stone 
 set in rich borders of emerald and jade. The season 
 had set a flame along the fringes of the pond, and to 
 its banks came the first fret of clematis seed and the 
 jewels of wild fruit. Haws shone crimson on the 
 thorn, and the scarlet heps of the dog-rose hung where 
 pale flowers had blushed beside the dark pool in 
 June. Here and there a floating pond weed broke the 
 face of the lake ; and so clear was the water that the 
 plants might be seen flinging down their anchors 
 six feet through the crystal and finding roothold in 
 the stones below. Dragon flies glittered with green 
 and topaz fire upon the weeds at the brink and hawked 
 overhead with crisp rustle of flashing gauzes ; a moor- 
 hen clucked danger to her chicks, and the tiny black 
 creatures seemed to run along the face of the water to 
 safety in their mother's secluded haunt. The pond 
 was very deep and, beneath the sky picture painted on 
 its bosom, displayed that gloom proper to a great 
 density of water crowded between narrow walls of 
 
 59
 
 60 THE BEACON 
 
 earth. Round the margins, where they sloped to shal- 
 lows at one side, ascended jungles of rosy willow 
 herb and rush, and the flesh-coloured blossoms of 
 hemp agrimony. Elsewhere shone the starry gold of 
 fleabanes, and spikes of green mare's tail also ascended 
 from the water. But southerly the wooded banks rose 
 sheer from the deep, and here dark limestone ribs thrust 
 through the foliage to support overhanging branches of 
 ilex and oak, hazel and many a great ivy tod whose 
 grey roots twined like snakes among the low crags of 
 the cliffs. 
 
 A glitter of sudden sliver broke the polished sur- 
 face of the pool and frosted it; a vole splashed in and 
 set great circles widening out under the bank ; a swal- 
 low fell to water-face, touched it with her purple 
 feathers and was gone again. These tremors of wing 
 and breeze passed by, and the tarn once more spread 
 clear for inverted reflections of her banks and the 
 broken blue above. 
 
 Mystery brooded upon the face of this hollow and 
 an air sinistrous filled its cup in dark hours before 
 storm, or at the approach of night. The atmosphere 
 that haunts abandoned undertakings of men homed 
 here; humanity felt it according to the measure of 
 the mind ; children, with imagination still untarnished, 
 fearfully loved the place, sought perils about it, and 
 wove around it the highest terrors that their infant 
 brains could summon. 
 
 A rude punt was moored to the bank and now there 
 came to it a man. He carried a hazel rod and a can, 
 and he unmoored the boat, pushed off into the water 
 and anchored with a stone and a coil of rope at the 
 distance of twenty yards from the shore. He scat- 
 tered ground bait to attract the coarse fish that pros- 
 pered here ; then, having waited a while, he cast out 
 a line and began to fish. 
 
 The angler was some sixty years of age, and pre- 
 sented a tough and sturdy mien. His clothes were
 
 THE BEACON 61 
 
 patched but not ragged ; he wore no hat upon his 
 thick and short grey hair; round, immensely power- 
 ful shoulders supported a neck too short but very 
 strong. He was undersized and muscle-bound. The 
 face was leonine as to the jowl, but an aquiline nose 
 and eyes confused the type and left an observer 
 conscious of mingled attributes, of courage mixed with 
 cunning, of physical strength and mental craft un- 
 usually combined. His short grey beard covered the 
 man's chin and round chin and came up high on his 
 cheek-bones; his nose was heavy and dropped a little 
 over his shaven upper lip. The under lip protruded. 
 His eyes were small and the palest blue — a colour so 
 faint that the black pupils almost killed it. The frontal 
 bones were thrust forward in bold Simian ridges above 
 the eyes, and flat black eyebrows surmounted them. 
 His skull was broad above the ears, but the forehead 
 w T as very receding, and the cranium appeared to be flat- 
 tened under its close, upstanding thatch of grey. This 
 man had kinship with elemental things and stood out 
 from his kind somewhat sharply by reason of his na- 
 ture. A student had pronounced him as one belated 
 in the advance of evolution. He was primitive; he 
 bridged a gulf between past and present. His vigour, 
 strength, ferocity and singleness of purpose were pre- 
 historic. He was more than an atavist, for his endow- 
 ment stretched through a vast unchronicled ancestry, 
 and seemed to stand as a link between the neolith and 
 the present-day natives of the Moor. He approached 
 nearer to early than to late man ; he scorned his fellows 
 and lived the most detached life possible for a gregar- 
 ious creature, for he was a herd hater, and everyday 
 minds felt something akin to a sense of outrage when 
 they considered the existence of him. He seemed to 
 be an anachronism, a freak of Mother Nature, who, 
 scorning the uplifting labours of countless centuries, 
 had turned back, built a man in the old image and 
 thrust him here among her latest patterns to mark the
 
 62 THE BEACON 
 
 contrast. It might have been supposed that such a 
 jest was likely to make the subject somewhat misera- 
 ble, but this had not happened. ' Iron ' Mortimore was 
 no more miserable than any other pedatory creature. 
 He had the saving virtues of his nature. He trampled 
 through life like a wild boar, and held himself a man 
 gifted above common men, in that he was superior to 
 their weaknesses. He was not honest, but had a re- 
 spect for law, because in youth a term of imprisonment 
 had in forced the same. At eighteen he worked on a 
 farm and was turned off for wrong-doing. There- 
 upon he burned his master's ricks and went to gaol for 
 three years. From that time forward he had broken 
 no written law. His sole interest in life was the get- 
 ting of money. None knew his secrets, and he lived 
 absolutely alone. His schemes were many and he had 
 a mind quick to over-reach and pitiless in act. He 
 was absolutely unmoral, and, at an earlier date in the 
 world's history, might have bulked large as a buc- 
 caneer by sea or land. But an environment con- 
 trolled by modern conditions found him powerless, 
 save in the peddling possibilities open to a village 
 miser and misanthrope. He was ignorant and frit- 
 tered away none of his energies on thought or the ac- 
 quiring of knowledge. His waking hours were 
 devoted to his ruling passion. He pursued it with im- 
 mense energy and unsleeping watchfulness. He quar- 
 relled with none who left him alone, but any collision 
 of interests, any opposition offered where his will was 
 set, woke in him a frank hostility and found him re- 
 morseless, obstinate and unforgiving. Whether he 
 triumphed or failed, his attitude to the opposing force 
 was for ever afterwards the same. He never forgot 
 and he never forgave. Such a figure in its dimensions 
 bulked as large over Zeal as Cosdon's self. Mr. Morti- 
 more made history and furnished an unceasing theme 
 for indignant comment. His force of character, his 
 isolation and savage gifts lifted him into an unpleasant
 
 THE BEACON 63 
 
 eminence which he enjoyed. Sooner or later he 
 clashed with most men round about, for his enterprises 
 embraced all rural affairs, and in these exchanges he 
 generally conquered. A battle extending over ten 
 years had raged between him and Reynold Dunning, 
 but so far the elder could count a dozen victories to one 
 defeat. 
 
 Among Mortimore's interests the largest was the 
 limestone quarry. Its products were in ceaseless re- 
 quirement, and the brown lime turned out of his kilns 
 possessed more than common value both to the house- 
 builder and agriculturist. But many other means of 
 making money he also practised. He owned houses 
 and land ; he ran sheep and cattle upon the Moor ; the 
 least habitable building of all that he possessed was the 
 granite house in South Zeal where he himself resided, 
 and which he had built largely with his own hands. 
 
 And now this archaic spirit sat in his home-made 
 punt and fished for his dinner — after the primeval 
 fashion. One might have guessed that such a man 
 would have deputed mean work to mean hands and not 
 wasted time on anything but magistral labours; but 
 here the neolith appeared again, and his cunning and 
 distrust of others came between Abraham Mortimore 
 and any large achievement. He permitted none to fish 
 in his pond for him, because he knew that fish would 
 be stolen if he did so. He calculated that the discov- 
 ery of these coarse fish had saved him ten pounds a 
 year in food. He made many meals off them, and 
 when he discovered that a king-fisher had chosen the 
 place for a home, he did not rest until he had shot the 
 bird. He liked killing, but he only killed to cat or to 
 sell. And the things that he was contented to eat were 
 such as none would buy. He fed largely on the 
 coarsest. " What don't fill fattens, and what don't fat- 
 ten fills," was a favourite maxim of his. 
 
 He lived alone and performed all his offices for 
 himself. His evening visit to the Oxenham Arms
 
 64 THE BEACON 
 
 was the only conventional act of his day, and he went 
 there for business, not pleasure. By drinking in the 
 public bar nightly he learned what was doing — a sort 
 of information none vouchsafed to him for choice. 
 Few but his nephew had ever been inside his doors, 
 and few desired to go. He employed twenty men at 
 the limestone quarry, and had the habit of watching 
 them, himself unseen, from the edge of the neigh- 
 bouring wood. 
 
 Now the man sat and watched his float. He caught 
 his fish by weight and knew to an ounce when two 
 pounds were taken. They represented a meal, and 
 the length of the sport depended on the size of the 
 prey. In an hour he had killed two dozen small perch 
 and a half-pound dace. These he cleaned, threw the 
 offal into the water, and then rowed himself ashore. 
 He strung the fish up on a rush, hung them to a tree 
 until he returned, and then set off for his quarry. 
 
 Behind the lake, winding into a larger fissure be- 
 yond, roads of blue limestone extended amid old work- 
 ings to the present site of activity. Gorse and colts- 
 foot, bramble and thorn buried the mounds along the 
 way, and beside it went a bustling stream. Presently 
 this water ran out upon a trestle bridge, where the land 
 fell, and so reached a water-wheel and set the simple 
 machinery of the quarry in motion. A rail for trolleys 
 spanned the way and sank into the great cavity of the 
 mine. Upon it ran little trucks that brought up the 
 stone from the pit and carried it to the carts, for road 
 metal and building, or to the kilns for lime. A mighty 
 mass of masonry, like a fortress, was the double kiln. 
 On one side ivy climbed ; above a ruined, battlemented 
 wall extended ; beneath gaped a hollow, where the 
 mouths of the kilns opened. Here the air was full of 
 dust of lime, and great mounds of calcined stone 
 awaited removal. 
 
 Outside, the water-wheel thudded and panted in- 
 termittently. Now it hung fire between the pulses ;
 
 THE BEACON 65 
 
 now it galloped again. Round about the quarried 
 stone lay in heaps. It was of a rich, dark blue-black, all 
 veined and shot with glittering quartz. Elsewhere 
 the stone in the trolleys, dragged by a steel wire, 
 climbed an ascent to the mouth of the kilns. 
 
 One only was alight, and Mortimore now ascended 
 to it and began to talk with the old man, ' Lucky ' 
 Madders, the kiln-master, than whom no more genial 
 soul ever ministered in a hot place. Mr. Madders was 
 seventy and seemed to breathe out yellow dust of lime. 
 His little eyes twinkled from encrustations of the 
 burnt stone; his fringe of whiskers, his hair and cap 
 were all delicately coloured pale saffron by his work. 
 Sometimes he coughed and spat, for the air above the 
 kiln was foul and acrid, and the atmosphere below it 
 full of dust. The powder had plastered on to his hot 
 skin and neck. Indeed every visible part of him was 
 painted, save his lips, which came redly through, kept 
 clean by constant licking. 
 
 Seen from above the gaping crater of the kiln 
 opened in a wide circle with steep brick sides. Sul- 
 phurous fumes ascended from it, and even in daylight 
 the mass below glimmered with red-hot eyes through 
 the crackling stone. On such a floor Satan tramped 
 over the burning marl of hell. A subdued, sullen 
 spluttering came from the kiln, and a sharp, sour smell 
 rose out of it. Slowly the stone crumpled and turned 
 white, as coal dust was flung thinly upon it and fur- 
 ther layers from the quarry thrown in. For months 
 the process of burning lime would continue, while 
 Lucky replenished from the top and drew out the lime 
 from the bottom. Upon the fierce floor of the kiln, 
 where blue flames shot and danced, broke out little ex- 
 plosions of the bursting marble as stone after stone 
 was shattered by the terrific heat from beneath. 
 
 Mortimore went no further into his quarry, but 
 stopped here and began to quarrel with his old lime 
 burner.
 
 66 THE BEACON 
 
 " Wasting my coal again," he said. " Haven't I 
 told you, till I'm sick of it, that I won't have you 
 fling in coal as if it was straw? Where's the last ton? 
 Gone, of course, and what to show for it? ' : 
 
 " You'll not find the man to do better. I'm ten 
 years older than you and I was burning lime afore 
 you were born," answered Lucky. " Afore you was 
 born I was at it, for my father taught me the ways of 
 it at that tender age, and if you think you can find a 
 man as'll fetch more stuff out of this kiln than what I 
 do, and cheaper too, then I tell you that you think 
 wrong. And if you was to throw me into the kiln this 
 instant moment I'd still say the same." 
 
 Mr. Madders was one of the very few people who 
 did not fear his master. He had worked at the kiln 
 long before Mortimore came to rent the quarry. 
 Drawing lime was the labour of his life, and he never 
 yielded to any man on the subject of his own business, 
 though modest enough in other particulars. 
 
 The other growled now and looked a ferocity he 
 did not feel. 
 
 " I'll throw you in the kiln if you talk like that to 
 me," he said. 
 
 " Not you ; you know my worth too well for that. 
 And this I'll tell you, I'm getting mighty old, ' Iron ' 
 Mortimore. I shan't draw much more lime for you, 
 and instead of snarling at me for a handful of coal- 
 dust, you'll do better to bethink you if I didn't ought 
 to be pensioned off, to wash the dust out of my hair 
 for ever and grow aged in dignity and cleanliness, like 
 my father afore me." 
 
 " Pensions be damned ! You'll get no pensions 
 from me — none of you. You've had more wages than 
 you'm worth for twenty years from me alone. And 
 me sweating and slaving and living on orts to keep 
 the likes of you in fatness ! What do I get out of the 
 quarry but trouble? " 
 
 " A lot," answered Lucky. " Be you the man to
 
 THE BEACON 67 
 
 farm this here quarry twenty year for fun? And, 
 be that as it will, if you don't pension me afore I'm ten 
 year older, 'twill be a very great crime and disgrace. 
 Not that you'll care for that." 
 
 " You're right there. I'm only feared of one thing 
 in this world and that's to quarrel with the law. I've 
 had enough of law. 'Tis a master you can't fight. 
 Tis a headless, tailless devil that can lay you by the 
 heels, but you can't hit back. But as for men, the 
 man ban't born I care a turnip for. A worthless flock 
 of trash." 
 
 He stopped and strained his ear. 
 
 " Why ban't they working in the quarry this min- 
 ute?" 
 
 " Because Tawton church clock have gone twelve. 
 'Tis only men like me that pay no heed to hours and 
 work early and late for their masters." 
 
 The miser looked at his watch and prepared to 
 depart. 
 
 "If there's any tomfoolery in your mind about a 
 pension, get it out," he said. " The thing won't 
 happen to any men of mine. You've had the luck to 
 be able to earn your bread for sixty years, and if you 
 haven't put away a nest-egg in all that time, the more 
 fool you. I'd sooner chain the gang of you in the 
 bottom of the quarry and stop the pumps and let the 
 water drown you by inches than give you pensions. 
 God's light! Who'll ever offer me a pension? And 
 who've worked so hard as me ? " 
 
 " Nobody but the devil," answered Mr. Madders. 
 " But because you like to live on pigs' food, to save 
 farthings, be that any reason why us Christian mem- 
 bers should do it and go without our comforts? If 
 you heard what I heard about you, you'd have a very 
 unrest ful night sometimes." 
 
 The other laughed at that. 
 
 " I'd be unrestful if people spoke good of me. I 
 should judge something was amiss if they got bleating
 
 68 THE BEACON 
 
 praise of me. I want their fear and their blame. 
 Blast 'em — what are they but a lot of rotten cattle 
 with foot-and-mouth disease? If they dared — but 
 they dare nought. Too fond of their own carcasses 
 and their own comforts for that ! ' Comforts ! ' You 
 talk of comforts. 'Tis only cowards and women and 
 kennel-kept cur-dogs that want comforts. The battle 
 don't go to the comfortable or the race to the cool. 
 Let them that call themselves men sweat for it and 
 fight for it and starve for it, and go bloody-fingered 
 and ragged for it! 'Tis the likes of them that get 
 things, not your slaves — gelded, comfortable trash, 
 only fit to break stones and run errands." 
 
 He went off, and Lucky, very familiar with these 
 explosions, shrugged his shoulders and joined half a 
 dozen men sitting within earshot behind the wall of 
 the wheel house. 
 
 He opened a red cotton handkerchief and took his 
 dinner from it — some cold meat and potatoes in a 
 pie-dish. 
 
 " Have he gone ? " asked a thin man with one droop- 
 ing eyelid and a long, anxious face. 
 
 " Yes, he's gone. I'm the safety-valve as usual. 
 'Tis I get all the blow-off of him, because, though I be 
 the oldest among ye, I'm the valiantest and ban't 
 afeared of his noises and gnashings." 
 
 " You've got the weight of seventy years behind 
 you," said the thin man. " For my part I tremble 
 like a leaf afore him and always shall do. There's 
 fierce beasts in the world and there's timid beasts; 
 but the timid beasts be a damned sight use fuller than 
 the fierce ones when all's said." 
 
 " You'm sheep to his wolf — all but me," declared 
 Lucky Madders. 
 
 " What I say is this," replied an elderly, black- 
 bearded man who had finished his food. ' What I 
 say, and what I pray in my prayers and ban't ashamed 
 to own to, be this, that ' Iron ' Mortimore won't get
 
 THE BEACON 69 
 
 the lease when the time comes for renewing of it. 
 The new landlord don't like him and 'tis odds but he'll 
 be flinged out. Then we shall all breathe again." 
 
 " Not us," answered another middle-aged worker. 
 " Tenants may come and go, but they'm all the same 
 from our point of view. We're only machinery, like 
 this here wheel; but when we rot, we can't be mended 
 like it can, and so we get cast out." 
 
 Meantime the master had returned to his fish and 
 carried them home. Arrived, he broke up a banked 
 fire, put on a frying-pan, cooked his meal and ate it 
 quickly with some bread and dripping. He flung 
 the bones to a large black-and-white cat that waited 
 for them in the yard, and then went out again into 
 the village.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ELISABETH'S leisure vanished under the new 
 rule, and she could claim no more time than that 
 prescribed by custom. She had her afternoon out and 
 was free also for some hours during Sunday. A 
 spirit of bustle and business spread over the Oxenham 
 Arms, and some considered it an improvement, while 
 others mourned the old, easy haphazard style and 
 declared that peace and comfort were things of the 
 past under Minnie's reign. All sane folks liked the 
 new mistress, however, for she was strong. She set 
 her own fashion and did as much work herself as she 
 demanded from others. 
 
 Underhill, however, smarted at the new calls upon 
 his purse. Business remained much the same, but 
 the need for money increased. Minnie belonged to 
 the order of Martha. She could not live happily in a 
 house with a broken window or a room with a treach- 
 erous chair. She had a marvellous eye for weak 
 spots, dry rot, wet rot, damp and disorder. She 
 turned her new home inside out before she had been 
 in it a month, and Tom Underhill experienced much 
 discomfort, but he was loyal and said no word except 
 in private to her. Soon he learned that opposition 
 was useless and accepted the changes in a silent spirit. 
 He paid a visit to his mother, who dwelt at Chag- 
 ford, and after that event Minnie was very glad to 
 find her husband in a more reasonable mind, as a 
 result of maternal counsel. She loved Tom well, but 
 so convinced was she that her way was the right one 
 and her husband's the wrong, that she would bate 
 nothing and make no concessions. Her pain was real, 
 
 70
 
 THE BEACON 71 
 
 but she looked forward and felt very sure that a time 
 would come when her husband must turn round and 
 call her blessed. She predicted an increased pros- 
 perity ; she fired the man to new ambitions ; she even 
 deprecated his pleasures and sought to change them. 
 He was weak and endured all this. 
 
 To Lizzie Densham the spectacle of such a married 
 pair presented problems of very absorbing interest. 
 Heart and soul she sympathised with the young wife 
 and told herself that even thus would she labour with 
 love, to lift a man above his own ideals, and make him 
 better and wiser by her sleepless care on his behalf, 
 but like all lookers-on she saw both sides of the 
 game, and she could not fail to mark the troubles of 
 the man. He hid them from many eyes, but not from 
 hers. Once or twice, when his wife was at market 
 and the bar chanced to be empty, Tom had come there 
 to chat with her and lift unconsciously a corner of 
 the curtain that hid his mind. The ready sympathy 
 and understanding of the young woman attracted him. 
 Moreover, he knew that Lizzie and her mistress were 
 the best of friends, and that Minnie often cited the 
 barmaid as a type of what a woman worker ought 
 to be. He felt it no crime, therefore, to talk to the 
 girl, and even confide at a point or two. And Lizzie, 
 very quick to appreciate this attitude, felt a great 
 emotion of friendship for the plump and harassed 
 giant. Presently her conviction that his wife could 
 do no wrong was a little shaken, and with further 
 lapse of time she came to hold the balance pretty 
 evenly between them. She learned no little from 
 each, and told herself that when her time came she 
 would preserve a golden mean in marriage, and strive 
 to practise a fine reciprocity. She compared Tom 
 Underbill with Charles Trevail to the advantage of 
 the latter. She assured herself that the young farmer 
 had a larger intellect and larger ideas than the publi- 
 can. She doubted not that it would be easy to help
 
 72 THE BEACON 
 
 him without the painful self-assertion that Minnie 
 Burgoyne had brought into married life. 
 
 Then came the visit to Clannaboro' and some speech 
 with a different spirit in the shape of Reynold Dun- 
 ning. 
 
 His farm was a long, low building, two hundred 
 years old. Its chimneys were granite and brick rose 
 out of a deep, silver-brown thatch mottled with moss. 
 A few elms sprang beside it, and in the garden that 
 opened before the front, was a single great fir, with a 
 flat head. A lauristinus and a rhododendron grew 
 beside the door, and over the white-faced face of 
 the homestead a mighty cydonia flourished and spat- 
 tered half the house front with crimson in the spring 
 time. The porch was deep and the door massive. 
 The rooms were low but large, and there were many 
 of them unoccupied. Byres and cattle houses of mod- 
 ern build, mostly roofed with iron, clustered a little 
 apart from the dwelling, while before it spread a 
 wedge-shaped expanse of turf, whereon was a wooden 
 seat or two. At the end of the garden a rill from 
 the adjacent moor fed a fern-fringed pond. Behind 
 Clannaboro' towered the Beacon, and before it the 
 hill sank into a bottom of forest that rose again to 
 green fields beyond. Then ascended a further slope, 
 whose wooded ridges were surmounted by the church 
 tower of Throwleigh. 
 
 Reynold Dunning was smoking in his garden when 
 his visitor arrived. 
 
 " You're welcome," he said. " I've planned to go 
 for a walk along with you and show you Raybarrow 
 Pool, which you wanted to see. Then we'll come 
 back to tea." 
 
 He turned to an old woman who came out of the 
 farm. 
 
 " This is Mrs. Vallance, my housekeeper. By the 
 look of that thing on her head she is going to after- 
 noon church at Throwleigh."
 
 THE BEACON 73 
 
 A little desiccated woman with a very brown face 
 greeted the visitor. She wore her black Sunday gown 
 and a bonnet with red flowers in it. 
 
 " You'll be Miss Densham from the inn, I suppose? 
 Wonders never cease. 'Twas not heard that this here 
 man ever went walking with a maiden afore. You 
 can snort, Dunning, but well you know that such a 
 thing hasn't happened to you till now." 
 
 " See you're back to boil the kettle, and mind your 
 own business till then," retorted the other ; but Mercy 
 Vallance was not concerned at his harsh tongue. She 
 had seen him grow from childhood and loved him. 
 
 " You teach the master manners and cut his claws 
 if you know how," she said to Lizzie, "and then I'll 
 reckon you're the cleverest girl that ever came to 
 Dartymoor." 
 
 " You're fortunate to have such a nice old lady to 
 keep house for you," declared the girl when Mrs. 
 Vallance was out of earshot. 
 
 But Dunning, though he knew it, made no con- 
 cession. 
 
 " A jolly good billet for her and her husband too. 
 They don't know their luck. Be you ready to start? ' : 
 
 " No, I'm not. I want to rest a bit. I'll sit here 
 in the garden. What a pretty old house to be sure ! ' : 
 
 " A lonely place for one man." 
 
 " You're not the sort to be lonely — too busy for 
 that." 
 
 " The busiest be lonely — off and on. You can't be 
 doing figures and planning how to get the best out of 
 life all the time. There's the nights — the long nights, 
 when you lie awake and know that for all you've got, 
 you've missed what's best." 
 
 She stared at this streak of sentiment — flashing like 
 a gracious beam of light from the usual dark welter 
 of his mind. He saw her surprise and sneered at 
 himself. 
 
 " Well you may look astonished ! That's the sort
 
 74 THE BEACON 
 
 of stuff Charlie Trevail bleats, I expect. But d'you 
 like it? I doubt you do. I've seen you a score of 
 times now and heard you talk to all sorts, and I 
 should say you was a pretty strong fashion of woman 
 and hadn't much use for drivel." 
 
 " What do you call drivel ? " 
 
 "If you're rested we'll start and then I'll tell you. 
 There's a queer thing about me, I can't talk standing 
 still, or sitting still. I want for my legs, or a horse's 
 legs, to be moving under me afore I can talk." 
 
 " I'll be ready in a minute. D'you know I've put 
 on three pounds weight since I came from London? " 
 
 " A good thing too. You won't be one of them 
 tubby women. You can afford to fatten up a bit." 
 
 They started presently, and as he led her by a path 
 to the Moor he took up her question. 
 
 " I call love-making drivel, so far as I can see it. 
 'Tisn't real — 'tisn't the true thing — only playing at it. 
 Love don't twitter. It eats you alive. All the small 
 talk of the bar be drivel. It frets me sometimes to 
 hear you answering back the fools so quick and pert. 
 Clever, no doubt, and smart and all that. But I hate 
 it. There's no dignity to it. Yet, when you get 
 back on this fool or that, I see Charlie grin all over 
 his face, as if he was proud of you. But I ban't 
 proud of you. I despise you for it." 
 
 Her colour rose. 
 
 " What do you come to the Oxenham Arms for 
 then? Nobody wants you. You never add any 
 pleasure to the place, or bring a laugh into the bar. 
 And if you despise me, I'd like to know why I'm 
 walking with you now? I've got to earn my living, 
 and I'm earning it honest, and a barmaid isn't paid 
 for keeping her mouth shut and looking like a death's 
 head behind the counter. She's got to be cheerful 
 and ready, and she's got to know how to please the 
 fools, because nine out of every ten men who come to 
 hotel bars are fools."
 
 THE BEACON 75 
 
 " Why are you a barmaid then ? " 
 
 1 Why are you a farmer ? You told that old 
 woman to mind her own business just now. And I 
 tell you the same." 
 
 " That's right," he said. " Now we're on bed- 
 rock, and that's where I like to be when I'm talking to 
 man or woman. You tell me my faults and see if you 
 can tell me one I don't know about ; and I'll tell you 
 yours." 
 
 " A cheerful subject for a Sunday afternoon." 
 
 " Not cheerful — cheerful things be all wind in the 
 trees. Let's be real and see how we like it. Your 
 great fault is that you're a long way too impatient. 
 You want things to happen all in a minute. You 
 rush at your work. Does a week go without you've 
 broke a tumbler or two? You wash up carelessly, 
 and then you look at the broken glass as if 'twas 
 its fault and not yours that it scats abroad. You 
 want everything to be dead right, and you want 
 to have your own way all the time. And you 
 don't think none the better of them that thwart 
 you." 
 
 "Well! I'm hearing things!" 
 
 " Deny it," he said. 
 
 She considered. 
 
 " I'm impatient, yes." 
 
 " And you want to lead. You wouldn't be led. 
 That's why you let Trevail take you out so often. 
 You can trundle him this way and that, like a child 
 trundles a hoop. You can trundle him to the top of 
 Cosdon, though he hates the place. Dartmoor's too 
 plain-spoken for him. Does he satisfy you? Be- 
 cause if he does, you're a doomed thing." 
 
 " You're a cleverer man than I thought," she an- 
 swered irrelevantly. 
 
 " Not clever — only cunning. I've seen a lot of 
 women, chiefly the humble and meek sort, that go 
 down on their knees when they see you coming and
 
 76 THE BEACON 
 
 ask you for the love of goodness and human kindness 
 to pick 'em up and kiss 'em. Hateful toads ! ' : 
 
 " I didn't know there were any such women left." 
 
 " Here and there. But you're different. I hope 
 you'd never do anything like that. Pity's a vile 
 thing." 
 
 Her eyes flashed. 
 
 " I was very well educated and I've read a great 
 many books. And I've learned that you've got to live 
 your life to yourself. I wouldn't sink myself to be 
 any man's squaw. And as to pity — what decent- 
 spirited woman will stand that from anybody?' 1 
 
 " All the same, your tame women have a better 
 time than the fighting sort." 
 
 " What does a wife want to fight for? " 
 
 "Ask 'em! They'll tell you. There's not a wife 
 ever I knowed wasn't called to fight sooner or later. 
 That is if they happen to be married to a man. And, 
 same way, if a man marries a woman and not a piece 
 of putty, the sparks must fly sometimes. If I mar- 
 ried a woman — " 
 
 "You!" 
 
 " Yes, me. Be that a thing unthinkable ? " 
 I should never have thought you'd feel to want 
 
 one." 
 
 "I said 'it.' If I did, she'd learn what 'will' 
 means ; and I'd expect to see her flash back — and hit 
 back if need be." 
 
 " A pretty unquiet sort of life." 
 
 " Yes — there's only one thing I hate like hell, and 
 that's tameness. Me and ' Iron ' Mortimore are the 
 same there. If we weren't life-long enemies we'd be 
 close friends. We've brought a bit of salt into each 
 other's lives and shall bring a good bit more yet. I 
 see that. I've got youth on my side. But he's 
 worth fighting — I will say that for him. The fur flies 
 when we meet."
 
 THE BEACON 77 
 
 She did not answer and he returned to the starting 
 point. 
 
 " Us was talking of you. Well, I guess you'd have 
 no use for a strong man, because you're shaping for a 
 strong woman yourself. Come a few more years and 
 you'll get crusted over and baked hard by the fire of 
 life — then, from my point of view, you'll be over- 
 cooked and spoiled. But perhaps you'd be happier 
 so yourself; 'twould be pleasanter work to reign over 
 a weak man than be reigned over by a strong one." 
 
 She laughed at that. 
 
 " You seem to reckon there's no such thing as fair 
 give and take in marriage then — that 'tis all ruling or 
 being ruled? " 
 
 " I don't know nothing about it and maybe never 
 shall ; I only speak what I see around me. Wedlock ! 
 Damn the word! It sounds to me like a rat-trap 
 going off. You expect to hear something shriek the 
 minute you've used it. And oftentimes you do." 
 
 "You've thought a lot upon it seemingly? ' 
 
 " Yes. I've watched it in life and you've read about 
 it in story books. And so we've come to have a dif- 
 ferent view." 
 
 "Did you ever care for a woman?" she asked; 
 " not that you need answer if 'tis too close a ques- 
 tion." 
 
 He replied indirectly. 
 
 " I shouldn't answer if I didn't please. Perhaps I 
 can't ezacally say. But this I'll say, I'm a man that 
 could rise to a pretty good heigh f oi love, but not 
 single-handed. I'd want the woman to help. I 
 couldn't worship a woman, no matter what she was, 
 if she hadn't nothing to give in exchange. I'd never 
 pour out my best for a woman if she'd got nothing 
 to give back and no use for my gifts. I'd give all I've 
 got — all — all, but I'd want all she've got for it. And 
 less than all wouldn't content me, and half an eye for
 
 78 THE BEACON 
 
 any man but me, after she'd once come to me, would 
 mean they nasty things we read in the papers." 
 
 " Some women have got so little to give," said Liz- 
 zie. 
 
 " Right ! You've found that out ? And some have 
 got less than a little. Still, we can't demand more 
 than all, and the sort of woman that I'd be like to care 
 about would be enough for any sane man." 
 
 " More than enough may be ? " 
 
 " Not for me. She might swamp a smaller pattern 
 of man, but not me. There are them about, for in- 
 stance, that your love would be a good few sizes too 
 large for. But not for me. I've got more to give 
 than any woman born could give again." 
 
 From a strange expression of active interest her face 
 broke into laughter and her eyes sparkled. 
 
 " You're on pretty good terms with your powers, to 
 be sure! " she said. 
 
 " Yes, I am. And I've the right to be, because I've 
 not squandered them." 
 
 " You're heart-whole still? " 
 
 He did not answer this. . 
 
 " Take a halt here," he said. " That's Blackavon 
 Brook. Many a good trout I've catched in it. It 
 flows from the east of Raybarrow Pool to Blackavon 
 Hole. 'Tis a nice lonely place with a good holt here 
 and there for a man to hide and think." 
 
 "You come here?" 
 
 " Yes, I do, when I've got a spare hour sometimes 
 and a weight on my thoughts." 
 
 " You don't take your troubles to other people ? ' 
 
 " You know I don't. That's a fool's trick most 
 times. Fifty to one when you get good advice it 
 jumps contrary to your own will, so you don't take it. 
 'Tis a confession of weakness to want it anyway." 
 
 " You'd never let no woman really share your life 
 then for all you say she would ? " 
 
 "What's that to do with it?"
 
 THE BEACON 79 
 
 " Everything to the likes of me. If a man took 
 me and kept me outside of things, I'd not stop with 
 him. If I found that I was no more than — but there, 
 'tis all nonsense this talk." 
 
 " So it is," he answered. " You girls with your 
 ' ifs ' amuse me. So easy to be wise afore you fall in 
 love and so difficult to be afterwards — till you fall out 
 again. When you love a man there's no mo;e ' ifs ' 
 in the case. Everything goes by the board then — 
 and ought to. Why, 'tis the test of the size of love — 
 the giving up every other damn thing and casting the 
 rest of life to the wind for a man. I hate the mean, 
 measuring sort of love in most of you. 'Tis supposed 
 to rise to its full height in marriage. That's the goal. 
 Marriage! as if anything wrecked and choked and 
 strangled love like marriage does. Whoever loved 
 truer for that? Whoever loved longer for that? 
 Love dies, like every other mortal thing, and marriage 
 be only an unclean way of keeping the stinking corpse 
 above ground so often as not. But, if I had my way, 
 I'd say to the men and women, ' when love's dead, 
 bury it and part and don't let the poison of a festering 
 thing make your lives foul.' " 
 
 " That's all right," answered she. " I understand 
 that. A very fine idea, but it won't get you a wife. 
 Only I don't suppose you want one. You go to a girl 
 and say, ' I love you, but when we're tired of one 
 another we'll part.' Well, how many would think 
 that good enough ? ' : 
 
 " None — just because they don't think at all and 
 were never taught to do so. But I'll say to all women, 
 * Don't let love fool you.' " 
 
 " You're like to go a bachelor then." 
 
 " Wrong again. I'm the pattern of man that can 
 marry, because I don't change. If all was like me, 
 marriage would do very well and breed no misery. 
 Once such a man as I am loves he don't change, and I 
 shan't change where I love. But I'm only telling you
 
 80 THE BEACON 
 
 that a smaller pattern of man than me can change, and 
 does." 
 
 " And I don't change neither," she said. " If I 
 was to love a man, there'd be no changing — not if he 
 didn't change." 
 
 " There you are — another ' if.' You wait ; you keep 
 off saying what you would be and what you wouldn't 
 be till life shows you what you can be. We all build 
 very fine pictures of what we hope to rise to — till the 
 time comes. I know myself, because I've been a 
 lonely man and had plenty of time to study the mud 
 I'm built of; but you don't know yourself, because no 
 woman ever does, and no woman ever yet guessed how 
 high or how low she could go till the hour come and 
 astonished her." 
 
 " You've thought in your time," she said. 
 
 " And you've read, and I'll back thinking against 
 reading, so long as you don't fool yourself and keep 
 your mind from making fancy pictures of things. 
 What you want in a man is this : you want a fair, 
 average, well-looking, well-to-do man who'll rip open 
 his heart for you and let you go in. And there you'll 
 bide and take the place of his heart. You'll not be 
 hungry for outside credit so long as he gives it to you ; 
 you'll care little about praise so long as you have his; 
 you'll be well content for the world to say he's a 
 clever one, so long as he never tires of telling you that 
 'tis all your work. So you'll be likely to fix on a 
 weakish man, and he'll be lucky; but you won't. 
 You'll lift such a man up, I daresay; but think of the 
 sort of man who can lean on a woman. You'll do a 
 bit for him, I grant, but what will he do for you? 
 And what will be the end of it? Why, you'll come 
 to despise him, and he'll get wind of it that you do, 
 and then he'll grow restive, and — " 
 
 " Not if we loved proper. I want to do my share 
 in any home that ever comes to me. I've had to work 
 for myself all my life, and I shouldn't care to sit down
 
 THE BEACON 81 
 
 and let somebody else work for me. Can't there be 
 fair give and take? Can't the man do his work and 
 the woman do hers? " 
 
 " Yes, but not often. Few be built so steady and 
 even of temper as to mind their own business and let 
 t'other partner do the same. You ban't for one. 
 You'd want a finger in every pie. You'd have advice 
 ready for every happening and opinions for every day 
 of the week — Sundays included. You're a very fine 
 character — the sort that's nearly always squandered 
 on a poor make of man. And you'd rule from the 
 outset, and your sweetness would be lost, and your 
 strength would increase, and you'd end by being a 
 shrew — tied to a sly husband. I've seen it; and if you 
 open your eyes wide enough you'll see it — at the Oxen- 
 ham Arms afore a year be gone. That's going to be 
 an extreme case, I grant you. Let the strong go to 
 the strong, and let the weak strangle the weak ; let the 
 dead bury their dead and drop into the grave after 
 em. 
 
 " Shouldn't a woman want to bring something to 
 her marriage ? " she asked. " You're a long way be- 
 hind the times if you think women are contented to be 
 nought but wives nowadays. More and more are 
 coming to despise the state." 
 
 " Glad of it. The more the better. They'm 
 screaming to be man's equal, I'm told — some of 'em ; 
 and the louder they scream, the more it appears that 
 they ban't his equal and never can be. Men know you 
 don't get things by screaming for 'em. The women 
 taught him that afore they weaned him. But they 
 can't lam it themselves seemingly. Let they sort of 
 females keep away from men — and they won't keep 
 further off than men wants 'em to. They'll die out in 
 a generation, because, with all their cleverness, they 
 haven't found a way to have a finger in the next gen- 
 eration single-handed. There's a few gelded worms 
 called men that creep about with 'em and be on their
 
 82 THE BEACON 
 
 side, I believe. But they'm all a laughing-stock to- 
 gether, and only make passing work for policemen." 
 
 " That's your ignorant man's view. But I under- 
 stand it how you see it all the same," she answered. 
 " You've got to live in the country, like I'm doing now, 
 and as you've done all your life, to understand the 
 divisions of work and mark the things men have to do 
 that 'twould be shameful to ask us to do." 
 
 "Yes; and if women offered to do 'em, we'd hate 
 them for it." 
 
 " 'Tis the beautiful plan of share and share alike 
 that I'd wish to take part in. I'd be unhappy to have 
 nought on hand but keep my husband's house tidy 
 and mend his clothes. Surely to God no proper man 
 would care for a wife that could do no more than 
 that?" 
 
 He looked at her with a fierce, almost ravenous ex- 
 pression, but her face was from him and she did not 
 see it. 
 
 " Leave it," he answered abruptly. " I've troubled 
 you enough. I've not got the wit to say clever, kind, 
 useful things to women — or men either. Do'e see 
 those birds? They mean that winter is on the 
 way." 
 
 Along the brown hill, like a galaxy of stars, there 
 flashed a flock of plovers with the sunlight glinting 
 under their wings as they flew and wheeled together. 
 
 " You think you begin to know the Beacon," he 
 said. " You know nought yet. Summer's but a mask 
 for truth up here. Us'll see what you think of it come 
 the New Year. 'Tis only a place for cheerful folk 
 just now; but wait." 
 
 " I'm waiting. It won't frighten me." 
 
 He fell into a silence then and they walked some way 
 without speaking. At the edge of the great mire 
 called Raybarrow they stood awhile and he told her 
 stories of the Moor — mostly tragic. And yet with 
 all his asperity and bluntness she felt no fear or dis-
 
 THE BEACON 83 
 
 trust of him. He interested her. She knew that he 
 was stronger than she. He was a tonic — salutary 
 perhaps in small doses, suffocating in large ones. She 
 told herself that a little of Reynold Dunning would 
 go a long way. But she was glad to have him for a 
 friend. He taught her the charm of contrast. A 
 dozen times she set him, in her mind's eye, beside 
 Charlie Trevail and felt the extremity of their oppo- 
 sition. 
 
 She amused herself with a few little tests. A be- 
 lated tuft of bog heather made a pearly pink jewel at 
 the edge of Raybarrow Pool. It was separated from 
 the firm ground by a tract of bog, but Lizzie affected 
 not to see this. Even such a blossom had she bade 
 Charles gather for her on a bygone Sunday, and with- 
 out a remonstrance he had done so, and fouled him- 
 self to the knee. 
 
 " Could you get me that bit of heather, Mr. Dun- 
 ning? " she asked, pointing to it. 
 
 " Don't you see the bog between? " he asked. 
 
 " Never mind if 'twill wet you." 
 
 He looked at the heath and then regarded the waste 
 all round it. 
 
 " Can't be done," he said curtly. " If you'd used 
 your eyes half a minute you'd see it couldn't." 
 
 " Mr. Trevail would have got it." 
 
 " Yes, we know that." 
 
 They turned northerly, because Elisabeth expressed 
 a wish to visit certain old stone rows that stretched 
 there. For a time they spoke on general subjects, 
 then, suddenly, without warning, he returned to the 
 flower. 
 
 " Never waste your time asking me to do silly 
 things. I won't do 'em. 'Tis no sign of a man's re- 
 spect for a woman to humour her foolishness. When 
 you be feeling silly, go to Charles Trevail — he'd stand 
 on his head 'pon top of Cosdon for 'e, I dare swear. 
 But I wouldn't. If you want sane things done for
 
 << 
 
 84 THE BEACON 
 
 you, and 'tis in my power and in my reason to do 'em, 
 I will — coit what they would." 
 
 Mr. Trevail is sane enough too." 
 Sizes too small, I tell you — sizes too small that 
 man for you. There'll be a misfit if you take him." 
 
 She did not know whether to be gratified or angry 
 at this. Upon the whole she felt annoyed and grew 
 impatient. She determined to show another side of 
 her mind, because she felt it would irritate Dunning. 
 
 They came to those remains of neolithic man's work 
 locally known as the ' Cemetery.' 
 
 " I love these stones," she said. " I make up stories 
 in my mind about 'em — and about other things, and, 
 after a time, I get to believe the tales. I know there 
 are all sorts of things — live things too — that haunt the 
 Moor. They see us, but we can't see them, though 
 we can feel them." 
 
 She expected an explosion, but none came. 
 
 " You'm as like to be right as anybody else. I 
 thought once that I saw my dead mother coming to 
 meet me. Then a thorn rose out of the fog, and I 
 marked 'twas just a trick; but I never laugh at an- 
 other person's hidden things, so long as they don't 
 laugh at mine." 
 
 " Fancy that! " she said. " And have you got hid- 
 den things too, Mr. Dunning? I'd love to hear tell 
 of them." 
 
 " I wonder if you would? " he said. 
 
 " 'Tis strange what men think silly and what men 
 think sensible. Mr. Trevail only laughed at me but 
 once, and 'twas when I said I believed in ghosts and 
 dark things like that." 
 
 " Let him laugh. He'll see ghosts too some day — 
 unless he's too big a fool to see 'em." 
 
 They wandered for another hour upon the eastern 
 side of the Beacon and then returned to Clannaboro'. 
 
 A tea not sumptuous awaited them, and neither 
 talked much while they ate it. Mrs. Vallance and
 
 THE BEACON 85 
 
 her husband, Noah, joined them at this meal, and the 
 old people chatted freely. 
 
 Lizzie noticed that neither had any fear of their 
 master. 
 
 She asked Dunning to accompany her home and he 
 agreed to do so. 
 
 " I'll go as far as Red Wheal," he said. 
 
 They set out presently, but he spoke little, and for 
 once she found herself talking to him instead of lis- 
 tening. 
 
 When he had gone she considered the experience, 
 and was surprised to find how intimate had been their 
 speech. She grew hot once or twice in reconsidering 
 it. Again came over her the conviction that Dunning 
 was a man of character and worthy of some admira- 
 tion. She found it in her to pity him for the things 
 he lacked. But she abstained, remembering his esti- 
 mate of pity. 
 
 Trevail came to the bar that evening and stayed 
 till closing time, and asked her many things concern- 
 ing her walk with ' that savage,' as he called Dunning. 
 But she told him little and regretted that he had 
 appeared so closely upon her experience with the 
 other. 
 
 That night she reviewed the past and alternated in 
 a manner somewhat interesting between anger and 
 pleasure, as her thoughts retraced the conversation 
 and its points. What annoyed her then, annoyed her 
 again now ; and yet she felt that, given time to adjust 
 the matter, his views might bear a more favourable 
 interpretation. A fact that specially struck her sleep- 
 less mind was this: the quality of the talk was unlike 
 any she had before listened to from a man. Trevail's 
 discourse left her vaguely contented and happy. He 
 was a great listener. But Dunning, albeit famed for 
 taciturnity, had spoken far more than she. She 
 blamed herself for having been a dull companion, and 
 finally went to sleep wondering what he on his side
 
 86 THE BEACOX 
 
 had thought of her. With Trevail she never won- 
 dered, because his frank mind had windows through 
 which she could look at will and see herself shrined 
 within. 

 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 TIME passed and winter came, not as a turbulent 
 conqueror, but shyly, with slow approach and a 
 tentative frost or two forgotten at rise of the sun. 
 
 By Horders Wood under Cosdon was an old wall 
 that bounded a copse of wind-dwarfed spruce, fir and 
 beech. Here offered many a snug and protected nook 
 in the fern. Whortleberries and heath fledged the 
 wall, and above it hung ripe scarlet harvests of the 
 rowan. It was in this place that Trevail usually pro- 
 posed to stop when he walked with Elisabeth ; but she 
 must needs always clamber to the top of the Beacon 
 before she was satisfied. These attitudes were typical 
 of the two people. And sometimes the woman re- 
 fused all escort and went her way alone. 
 
 She did so now on a day in December. There was 
 a little cottage by Hordes Wood where dwelt Miss 
 Fanny Cann alone, and thither Lizzie meant presently 
 to go, that she might drink tea with the spinster. 
 The elder liked her and was glad to see her when she 
 cared to call. Great matters were in the girl's heart 
 and she wanted advice, or imagined that she did. 
 
 She had seen more of Dunning and much more of 
 Charles Trevail. She was practical and not blind to 
 the situation. She understood now that both these 
 men loved her and that either would marry her if she 
 desired it. What she did not know and could not see 
 was the different standpoint from which they regarded 
 her. 
 
 Reynold Dunning, to his own fierce amazement, 
 loved her, and the love of her mastered his spirit. He 
 perceived her fineness, fearlessness and courage. 
 What he loved in her was just the thing that a little 
 
 87
 
 88 THE BEACON 
 
 discomfited his rival. Trevail loved too, with the 
 full strength of his milder nature; but it was not for 
 those traits attractive to Dunning that his heart was 
 lost to Lizzie. Indeed, he wished she was a little 
 more like other women in her mind, while so superior 
 to them in loveliness of body. He adored the things 
 she did ; but her resolute ambitions, and a certain 
 tempestuousness of soul that manifested itself some- 
 times, left him uneasy. Dunning loved her character; 
 Trevail was mastered by her charm; the one hun- 
 gered for her strength; the other yearned for her 
 sweetness. 
 
 Elisabeth did not speculate as to what drew them; 
 she only weighed their relative virtues and merits and 
 her own emotions with respect to each. Dunning was 
 the rarer lover and a man to boot ; but the weakness 
 of Trevail appealed more to her than the strength of 
 the other. It left wider scope for her own part on 
 the stage ; she came from Trevail with a cheerful con- 
 ceit of herself; from Dunning in a mood somewhat 
 self-conscious and cast down. She liked Trevail's 
 love-making in its humility better than Dunning's in 
 its bluff imperiousness ; but against that she knew the 
 praise of Trevail was to the other's a field of daisies 
 to the sudden sparkle of a rare wild flower. She 
 knew that she might be immensely valuable to Charles 
 Trevail, but hardly to Dunning. He could only be 
 valuable to her. She admitted that much in some 
 moods ; but not even that much always. At times she 
 denied him all value higher than that of a sermon. 
 
 She had continued to make feminine experiments 
 to learn which man was the quicker to do her bidding 
 and take trouble for her ; and she found the initial test 
 of the heather held good in greater things. Trevail 
 would make himself ridiculous on her account with the 
 blind unconsciousness of a dancing dog. Like a 
 monkey, rendered contemptible in a coat and hat, he 
 proceeded to satisfy any whim, till she was ashamed 

 
 THE BEACON 89 
 
 of herself and could have wept ; but Reynold Dunning 
 rebuked her openly, in the bar or elsewhere, if she 
 sought to put any slight on him. 
 
 " Laugh at fools, if you think 'tis worth while," he 
 said ; " but you shall never laugh at me." 
 
 She quarrelled with him once bitterly on the sub- 
 ject of Trevail, and she went to Trevail very sore 
 from some harsh, cathartic speeches that angered as 
 much as they hurt her. And Trevail, not knowing or 
 guessing the reason of her trouble, was very gentle 
 and soothing, and offered to do unnumbered heroic 
 things on her behalf — if she would but tell him what 
 they were to be. 
 
 So she stood between them and guessed that she 
 might make the weak man stronger, and believed that 
 the strong man was beyond woman's power to change. 
 She made the mistake of supposing that a weak man 
 is easier turned from his weakness than a strong man 
 from his strength. She knew in what particulars she 
 would alter Trevail. That was an obvious and a 
 beautiful task ; but the alternative offered a harder 
 problem and therefore a more interesting. How 
 would she alter Dunning — even if she could? The 
 theme often occupied her, often even amused her. 
 
 She was thinking of it now as she climbed the Bea- 
 con alone, and she laughed to herself — a little, short, 
 sudden laugh, like a chaffinch's song. She saw no 
 light there and turned to the pleasure of the hill. 
 
 The rough road climbed between dry-built walls 
 among little fields reclaimed off the lower slopes of 
 Cosdon. Most of these crofts stood under permanent 
 grass, and at one corner of each there squatted a little 
 rick, with a heavy stone or two to keep down the 
 thatch and a gash on the windward side, where it had 
 been carved into for hay. Seen afar, the walls hung 
 like a tattered grey net on the bosom of the hill; many 
 were ruined, and fern and furze often broke the grass 
 land and showed where Cosdon had made a counter-
 
 90 THE BEACON 
 
 stroke and won again some outpost from the armies 
 of man. Lizzie rejoiced to mark civilization beaten 
 back in this fashion, for her sympathies were all with 
 the inviolate spirit of the mount. 
 
 Chance visitors had found the winter waste deso- 
 late and forbidding. In its stern, brutal coat Cosdon 
 rolled all dun and drab, lit only by the ash-coloured 
 pallor of heath-bells and livid grass. Water-logged, 
 lifeless and dark, the hill ascended under a low sun, 
 that now seemed to creep in the actual arc of the 
 Beacon — to follow its rise, hang at noon above its 
 loftiest barrows and then slide westerly by its sweep 
 and descent into night again. To-day the air was full 
 of moisture and the top of the hill burnt in a radiant, 
 silvery mist of cool fire. Lances and shafts of light 
 broke briefly along the crest of the hill. But the fog 
 shredded away before Elisabeth reached it, and the 
 splendour of that afternoon was not with Cosdon, but 
 with the world spread out beneath. 
 
 A magnificent and dusky earth met her gaze. It 
 was swept with grey rainstorms and lighted by win- 
 dows in the high clouds, through which fell broad 
 fans of pale sunshine, chilled by the sodden heaviness 
 of the air. The light roamed from west to east over 
 the surface of the land and rolled onwards, like a 
 flood rather than a fire, through the midst of the preva- 
 lent gloom. Earth heaved to her knaps and knolls, 
 fell again to her coombs and valleys and deep, river- 
 haunted denes; but a great darkness and heavy pres- 
 sure of atmosphere was upon her. Her forests were 
 painted in colours of purple; her fallows and fields 
 in umber and lead. All were washed together and 
 harmonized by great passages of gloom, where up- 
 lifted Exmoor mingled afar off with the clouds of a 
 storm. The thick air released the light reluctantly, 
 and Cosdon presently stood — almost pallid by con- 
 trast with a sinister blackness to windward. So dark 
 were the approaching clouds that the wayfarer, while
 
 THE BEACON 91 
 
 she rejoiced at the tremendous sights spread out above 
 and beneath her, yet turned her back to the coming 
 storm and made haste to descend where shelter might 
 be found. Now the Moor rolled darkly to her feet, 
 unlighted save for the wan flicker of granite dust upon 
 the pathway. She turned and ran, but her heart sank 
 with her body, for she loved the toil of climbing here 
 and felt her spirit subside a little with the declivity 
 when the time came to descend. 
 
 Elisabeth made haste and had reached the cottage 
 where Fanny Cann lived before the next storm broke. 
 The spinster, who liked her well, now extended a 
 great hair-tagged jowl to be kissed. Then she 
 marked Lizzie's colour and panting bosom. 
 
 ' What a girl — to go dancing up there this weather ! 
 You'll do it once too often and be caught in a scat as 
 will drown you and give you your death very like. 
 All the same I'm glad to see you aloft there. It gives 
 them a lesson. They think women be afeared of the 
 Beacon in winter, and what I say and always shall 
 say be just this: that women fear nought that men 
 don't fear." 
 
 " You've got no use for men, Miss Cann? " 
 
 " No, I have not — know 'em too well. It makes 
 me mad sometimes how they trample ; but I'll tell you 
 why 'tis: they've got the wit to band together. All 
 the feeble sort of creatures — like sheep and grass-eat- 
 ing things in general — band together. And that's 
 their strength. If men didn't band against us we 
 should be all over 'em and they'd find themselves in 
 their proper place again. 'Tis a sin and a shame that 
 we go under like we do, for there be more of us than 
 them. Which shows, if it wanted showing, that 
 Heaven likes us best. But, for all our numbers, we 
 haven't got the art to band and so 'tis as it is." 
 
 Miss Cann took breath and then proceeded on her 
 favourite subject. 
 
 " But the time is coming. I see signs. They be
 
 92 THE BEACON 
 
 awake to their danger and our power at last. The 
 old way of bowing and scraping to us, and then wink- 
 ing behind our backs to one another — that's all gone. 
 They won't take off their hats to us much longer; 
 they'll have to take off their coats to us instead. Our 
 turn be coming." 
 
 " You do run on so, Miss Cann, but I'm sure they're 
 not all what you think them." 
 
 " Be sure of nought where they're concerned save 
 this: that man and selfishness be two words for the 
 same thing. Take love-making itself — and that's 
 about the only business where they even pretend to 
 lift us above themselves — what is it? Only a trick 
 to do what they can't do without us. They'm made 
 terrible uncomfortable at such times, because Nature's 
 at 'em for all she's worth, to hand on their ugly images 
 to the next generation ; and Nature says, ' You go for 
 the women, and I won't give you no more peace till 
 I've done what I want you to do.' And then, after- 
 wards, they just sink back again into the banding 
 wretches they are, and creep off to their clubs and 
 pubs as before, and haven't got no more use for their 
 wives and children than Nature have got more use for 
 them. Perched up here I see these things, and I tell 
 you the truth without passion — just the cold, bitter 
 truth. I'm not even angry with 'em now; they can't 
 help it — poor trash." 
 
 " 'Tis rather unlucky you're so set up against the 
 men to-day," declared Lizzie, " because, before all 
 else, I wanted your advice about two of 'em." 
 
 " Two, or ten, or ten thousand, my opinion will be 
 the same." 
 
 "Don't say that. Even you must allow there are 
 good and bad. I've known you praise your father." 
 
 " My father was one of the rare sort. He knew his 
 place. He banded along with my mother and my 
 aunts."
 
 THE BEACON 93 
 
 " But I don't think as you think, and I hope very 
 much for a home of my own some day." 
 
 " Well, save for it, like I did. I've got a home of 
 my own, haven't I? " 
 
 " I want to be married, and I should be very sorry 
 indeed to keep single," said Lizzie. 
 
 " You're frank. I should have thought now that 
 seeing them from behind a bar was like to choke a 
 woman off them pretty near quicker than anything? ' : 
 
 " We don't think alike there, but you're large- 
 minded ; you won't mind giving me a bit of advice." 
 
 "And if 'tis good you won't take it. That's the 
 way with advice. I always know when this or that 
 person haven't took advice, that 'twas sure to have 
 been good. And yet the people sensible enough to 
 give good advice be generally sensible enough to give 
 none. Tis like the matter of health. I never will 
 touch it with man or woman. Because if they be 
 fools, you'm only wasting your time, and if they be 
 wise, you'm only wasting theirs. However, I'm thirty 
 years older than you, if not more, and I'll very will- 
 ingly let you have my opinion, because you're a dear 
 maid and I like you." 
 
 They ate and drank; then the younger stated her 
 case. 
 
 " There are two men want to marry me. It may 
 seem vain to say such a thing, especially as neither of 
 them have asked me yet, but I know the signs. What 
 woman don't? It comes naturally to us to know 
 them." 
 
 " And one's called Dunning and t'other's called Tre- 
 
 vail." 
 
 Lizzie nodded. 
 
 " Couldn't keep secrets from you if I would," she 
 said. " Perched up here, you look down at Zeal, and 
 nothing's hidden. They are both very nice men, I'm 
 sure, but very different, of course."
 
 94 THE BEACON 
 
 " Caterpillars and wasps be different," answered 
 Fanny, " but they'm both varmints and both alike in 
 thinking of nobody but themselves, from the time they 
 get up in the morning till the time they go to bed at 
 night. Dunning and Charlie are pretty fair samples 
 of pretty common sorts. The one's a pushing, driv- 
 ing, hard-headed, hard-hearted chap, as I never 
 thought to see bowled over by any woman; and the 
 other's an easy, simple soul, as don't know his luck 
 and just lives at the beck and call of that monster of a 
 man, his uncle. Trevail's only a creature of Morti- 
 more's. He belongs to Mortimore body and soul. 
 He wouldn't no more dare do anything on his own 
 account, without asking ' Iron ' Mortimore, than a 
 two-year-old child will dare to go very far from his 
 mother. He wouldn't dare to ask you to marry him 
 unless he first asked his uncle if he might." 
 
 " I'm sure you know little of him to say such things. 
 He's quite free and independent. He farms his un- 
 cle's land and pays rent. But he's not bound to him 
 except in the way of gratitude for all he did for him 
 when he was a friendless orphan child." 
 
 " He belongs to Mortimore body and soul," repeated 
 Miss Cann, " and if he says different, you wait till you 
 know better and satisfy your own eyes. Charlie's all 
 right. I ought to praise him from my point of view; 
 because he's milk for babes, and any pretty strong 
 woman, such as you, could do what she pleased with 
 him. Yes, if I stuck to my true colours I'd always 
 say to any woman who must marry, ' Marry a weak 
 one for the sake of the future of the female race ' ; 
 but there it is, we brag and we blow and we talk big, 
 and yet, when it comes to the point, we often eat our 
 own opinions and go back on the thing we said 
 yesterday. We ban't much better than them in 
 that." 
 
 " You think Mr. Trevail's weak? " 
 
 " So do you," answered Fanny. " Leastways, you
 
 THE BEACON 95 
 
 don't think about it: you know he is. And you'm 
 strong, and that's why he draws you. And as for 
 t'other, he's not weak, no more than a bull is weak. 
 He's got all the male faults and he spurns us, and I 
 know what I think of him exactly. But the point of 
 view is different. You want to be married and mean 
 to be, I suppose. I've got to look at Dunning now — 
 not as one of them ; but as a husband for you." 
 
 " Yes, and Trevail the same." 
 
 " And Trevail the same, and that's why I said just 
 now I'm not true to my own colours, because for me 
 not to say ' marry Trevail and be the grey mare,' is to 
 be false to my opinions. And yet — yet, Lizzie dear — 
 I'm fond of you and I can't fool myself in the matter 
 and I know — but for God's sake don't you say I said 
 it — I know that the time ban't altogether ripe for my 
 great ideas. And when it comes to practice, marriage 
 means the happiness or misery of a woman every time. 
 And — well, there it is — I want your happiness, and I 
 believe for the minute — though it won't be so much 
 longer — for the minute the women of your genera- 
 tion be happier doing the old work. I blush to say 
 it — I wouldn't say it to another soul. But I do say 
 that Dunning, though he's a brute, might love prop- 
 erly, so far as a man knows how, and even love last- 
 ingly — that is so long as he had the mastery. But 
 Charlie never would have the mastery, because he's 
 not built to master anything, and where they haven't 
 got the mastery, they be always uncertain and trouble- 
 some. I know, I tell you. You look at my nephew 
 Tom. Afore he wedded, that man hadn't a secret 
 from the sun. But he have now. Minnie's got a lot 
 to larn yet. And that's why I say that, though it may 
 be better for their natures to be under our dominion 
 and taught their places, yet they've a nasty way of get- 
 ting back on us. They're horrid creatures, take 'em 
 how you please, but better if they'm allowed to go 
 their own way than if we try to pull 'em ours. Be-
 
 96 THE BEACON 
 
 tween these two men, Lizzie, you've got to choose, 
 and one you'll rule and one will rule you. There 'tis 
 in a nutshell. The ruled man soon forgets how to 
 love and, so like as not, goes somewhere else to be 
 taught again ; and the ruled woman — well, more shame 
 to 'em, they're often happy enough — so is a mean- 
 spirited bird in a cage." 
 
 " Is there no middle way? Can't husband and wife 
 give and take? " 
 
 " Yes, it happens — about so often as an eclipse of 
 the sun happens, or the great comets wander over the 
 sky. We can call such things to mind." 
 
 " You'd say ' marry neither,' but suppose I want to 
 marry one ? " 
 
 " Marry Dunning," said Miss Cann. "If wed you 
 must, take him. I like Charlie best, and so do you, I 
 believe, but marry Dunning if you want even to pre- 
 tend you're a happy woman ten years hence. Of 
 course you won't, I know that. 'Tis enough for me 
 to have said ' Dunning ' for you to go t'other. You 
 think you're strong enough to lift him up and make 
 a man of him. But you're not. ' Make men of 'em ! ' 
 what twaddle we females tell ! They don't talk about 
 making women of us. No — all they do most times is 
 to make fools of us, and that's been easy from the 
 first, but it won't be easy much longer. The boot's on 
 the other leg. 'Tis they that begin to look bigger 
 fools every day." 
 
 " You say Mr. Dunning? " 
 
 " Yes, and I say further that, when the time comes, 
 'twill be Charlie. Perhaps it was just because I knew 
 you was bound to run counter that I named the man 
 at Clannaboro'. Well, go your way on it, and you 
 can take this for your comfort that the weak man will 
 be mighty rich some day — unless he falls out with his 
 uncle." 
 
 Elisabeth was surprised.
 
 THE BEACON 97 
 
 " I'm sure you don't mean that, or I'd be vexed," 
 she said. " You know well enough I'm not thinking 
 about their riches; I'm thinking about them." 
 
 " Well, go on thinking," answered Fanny. " My 
 experience is that the more you think of them, the 
 worse they shape under it. Go on thinking, and per- 
 haps, before either of 'em offer, you'll have thought 
 them into their proper places and decided against both. 
 And they be thinking of you no doubt; and I daresay 
 if you could but look into their minds and see how 
 they thought of you, that would decide you against the 
 pair of 'em quicker than a flap of lightning." 
 
 They talked awhile longer and then, at night-fall, 
 the guest went her way conscious that Miss Cann's 
 advice had left her cold. 
 
 Going home there flashed an inspiration into her 
 head. 
 
 " I've half a mind to take the one that asks me 
 first ! " she thought. But the idea perished still-born. 
 She was not the sort of girl to let so mighty a de- 
 cision rest on so small an accident. So she assured 
 herself. 
 
 A man was standing smoking at the bottom of the 
 lane from Cosdon, where the high road girdled the 
 hill. 
 
 "I thought you'd let me just see you back from 
 here," Trevail said. " I feared you'd be vexed, but 
 I've risked it. Hope you'll excuse me." 
 
 She was gracious. His gentle but masculine voice 
 stroked her ear pleasantly after the vibrating tones 
 from the cottage aloft. 
 
 " I've been drinking tea with Miss Cann." she told 
 him. 
 
 " Yes — a soured woman. Her great misfortune in 
 life have turned her acid." 
 
 " Her great misfortune? " asked Lizzie. 
 
 " Why, yes — can't you see she's one of those poor 
 
 7
 
 98 THE BEACON 
 
 creatures muddled in the making? She ought to have 
 been born a man." 
 
 " She'd kill any man that told her so," answered 
 Lizzie. 
 
 They laughed together rather foolishly.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 TO the east of the kilns the immense embouchure 
 of Mortimore's limestone quarry broke the hill. 
 The surface line was a long ridge inclined upward, 
 with grass lands running to a fence at the top, and be- 
 low, riven earth showed all the secrets of her bosom. 
 Here dragged in parallel lines upward, here dipping 
 abruptly, here broken and crumpled every way upon 
 itself in folds and wrinkles, the limestone ran. Like 
 sand in an hour-glass, great mounds of earth spread 
 out from faults and fissures in the face of the cliffs. 
 The trend of the strata was always upward, but its 
 progress had been broken by lateral and fundamental 
 pressures so that beautiful loops and semi-circles and 
 precious patterns had been drawn upon the quarry 
 faces. The layers and ripples rose and fell, billowed, 
 like broken waves of a turbulent sea, sank again into 
 the severe, ascending lines of the mass. Superim- 
 posed upon the limestone lay a rind of rusty-coloured 
 earth that penetrated the mineral below and was im- 
 penetrated by it. Manifold hues made rich work upon 
 the quarry, but the prevalent tones were sepia and 
 russet, brightening to rose above, and darkening to 
 blue-black streaked with silver below. The upper 
 cliff was barred and banded like an agate; the lower 
 showed the limestone veined with pure white quartz, 
 all clean and bright where the last blastings had left 
 its faces bare. 
 
 Sunlight playing among these rifts and scarps im- 
 parted a glittering radiance to them, and proclaimed 
 that marble was chief component of the whole. 
 Shining indeed they could be, but the quarry was a 
 haunt of shadows and mystery when days grew dark, 
 and when, at the gloaming time, the sudden voice woke 
 
 99
 
 100 THE BEACON 
 
 echoes or loosened a stone. Then whispers and mur- 
 murs and counter-murmurs seemed to speak of other 
 life, close hid through the working day, and the rustle 
 and fall of earth hinted superhuman activities to an 
 imaginative watcher. 
 
 Hither came Elisabeth Densham on the occasion of 
 her weekly holiday, and with her was Trevail. The 
 circumstances of her life caused courting to take place 
 in the open air. Indeed she liked it better so, and was 
 never within doors when she might be out. 
 
 Now the farmer showed her the wonders of his 
 uncle's quarry, and he dwelt on the price of lime and 
 the process of burning it, while she, faced with the 
 writhings and throes of this marble hill in the making, 
 cared not for industrial details. These frozen con- 
 vulsions thus gigantically revealed, by pick and 
 dynamite, impressed the woman. Her nature turned 
 to large things and the quarry attracted her. 
 
 " I knew you'd like it if I once got you down here," 
 he said. " 'Tis just the sort of rum, savage old place 
 you do like. You'll find hobgoblins and all sorts of 
 queer devils here come presently. All that brown rub- 
 bish atop of the limestone makes it expensive work. 
 'Tis called the ' over-hang ' and is worthless, but as 
 more and more of the limestone is got out the over- 
 hang has got to come away, or else 'twould fall and 
 kill people." 
 
 " The quarry is full of queer faces," said Lizzie. 
 "You see where that dead tree hangs out? If you 
 look just under, there's a horrid thing like a monkey 
 poking its head from between two rocks." 
 
 But he could not see it. 
 
 Reduced to the size of dolls a dozen men worked 
 beneath them, for they stood over against the quarry 
 on high ground and looked across into it. The mid- 
 gets below crept about upon the broken places, and 
 some toiled at the bottom, and some, tethered by ropes 
 to crowbars, worked aloft and hammered holes for
 
 THE BEACON 101 
 
 explosives. The ring and clink of steel upon the stone 
 rose musical from the depths, while another sound 
 was uttered by the dull and hollow drumming of great 
 hammers, that smashed the fragments of the latest 
 blast for the kiln. 
 
 " They look like mice in a great ripe cheese," said 
 Lizzie, and Trevail applauded the simile. 
 
 [ You clever girl ! Whoever but you would have 
 thought of such a thing? We'll go now and see the 
 kilns if you've had enough of this." 
 
 " Not nearly enough," she answered. " 'Tis a very 
 interesting and wonderful place. I should dearly like 
 to come here by night, when all the men have 
 gone. I'll get fond of it presently. I'll find the 
 faces of friends and enemies looking out at me. I 
 love to make my own flesh creep a bit sometimes. 
 But I can only do it when I'm all alone in some 
 desolate spot. I like a spice of danger to a thing, as 
 you know." 
 
 " Well, I don't, and I wish you didn't. Give me 
 comfort and security. My farm lies up yonder; you 
 can see the roof." 
 
 Lizzie had visited North Combe on a previous occa- 
 sion, with Ned Startup and his betrothed. She was 
 reminded of this as Trevail spoke, and the recollection 
 put another fact into her head. 
 
 " Have you heard that Nelly Jope and Ned are going 
 to be married at Easter? 'Tis all settled. She will 
 leave us then, but Ned is going to stop on. They've 
 taken a very nice cottage at Tawton." 
 
 " Hope they'll be happy. I wish to God — " He 
 broke off". " Come and see the water-wheel and the 
 kilns now. Everything is worked by water. The 
 trolleys are drawn up by it and the quarry is pumped 
 by it. If the pumps weren't always going, the place 
 would be under water in a month. That's what has 
 happened to the old quarry, where my uncle keeps a 
 boat and catches fish."
 
 102 THE BEACON 
 
 " Let's go out in the boat ! " she said presently, but 
 Charles hesitated. 
 
 " I think not. He wouldn't like it." 
 
 " Well, I would," she said, remembering a prophecy 
 of Dunning's. 
 
 " Don't you want to see the kiln? " 
 
 " No, I want to go in the boat on the pond." 
 
 " Then you shall. Come on," he answered, with a 
 show of resolution bred from uneasiness. 
 
 They approached the little tarn, and soon Lizzie sat 
 aft on Trevail's coat in Abraham Mortimore's punt, 
 while Charlie took the oars and paddled out into deep 
 water. 
 
 The man was uncomfortable and his companion 
 had leisure to note it. She sat and dabbled her hand 
 in the dark water. The banks of the tarn were naked 
 and a cold wind crept hither and thither in cat's paws 
 on its surface. 
 
 They said little for a while, then Trevail spoke. 
 
 "What's the fun of this? I'm sure you'll get 
 chilled to the bone." 
 
 She had seen a man running through the woods 
 some distance off and knew that it was Mortimore. 
 She rejoiced at this. There would be words, and the 
 attitude of Charles before the ferocious elder promised 
 to interest her. 
 
 He spoke again. 
 
 " I don't know whatever my uncle would say to 
 this." 
 
 ' Don't you? Well, you soon will," answered Liz- 
 zie. " He's coming. I saw him on the top just now 
 — running too. I expect he thinks some strangers 
 have got his boat. No doubt he'll be in a grand rage." 
 
 The man showed great annoyance. 
 
 " I wouldn't have had this happen for — " 
 
 He broke off and began to paddle ashore. The 
 struggle was at hand. She had it on her lips to bid 
 him stop where he was, but, before she could speak,
 
 THE BEACON 103 
 
 Abraham Mortimore stood on the bank and shouted 
 to them. 
 
 He was very angry and did not pick his words. 
 
 " What the hell be you doing here, Charles Trevail ? 
 Ban't it enough as I ordered you to Okehampton this 
 morning about they new gates? And you disobey 
 there and you disobey here ? Come ashore ; come 
 ashore, I tell you! You shall smart for this. You 
 dare to break faith with me again and I'll cast you 
 out, you lazy dog ! " 
 
 " I should wait till he calms down a bit," said Liz- 
 zie, but Trevail was already paddling to the bank. 
 
 " He won't calm down," he said under his breath. 
 
 "Faster!' roared Mortimore. "Damn your 
 cheek, taking a woman out in my boat, and wasting 
 your time playing the fool! What next, I wonder? ' : 
 
 They came ashore and the rower helped Lizzie to 
 land. 
 
 "If you wasn't a man, and supposed to be a re- 
 spectable one, I'd fling you in the water and trample 
 on you for this," cried the miser. " God's light ! 
 What next — what next will you do? And you or- 
 dered to be in Okehampton for they gates. And, in- 
 stead, you flaunt my commands, and worse — worse, 
 you dare to come here and take my boat." 
 
 " I was going to Okehampton to-morrow. It was 
 Miss Densham's afternoon out, and she wanted to see 
 the quarry, and she wanted to go in the boat. Surely, 
 uncle, you won't say no more where a lady's in the 
 case? " 
 
 " Damn your lady and you too. Get going — get 
 going, I say — now, this instant moment! And if you 
 don't come in to me to-night and tell me they gates 
 are in hand and to be here next week — if you don't 
 do that, God's my judge but I'll turn you out of the 
 farm!" 
 
 " To-morrow — " 
 
 " To hell with to-morrow ! 'Tis always to-morrow
 
 104 THE BEACON 
 
 with loafing rogues here. To-morrow you'll be home- 
 less, so sure as the sun rises, if you don't go to Oke- 
 hampton to-day. I'm tired of your ways — for ever 
 mooning after this woman. And why do she keep 
 you dangling — why? Don't you know? Then I'll 
 tell you. 'Tisn't because she cares a cuss for you. 
 She's not the sort to fancy a slack-twisted worm like 
 you. 'Tis because she thinks you'll have my money, 
 and she's a fool for her pains. And I tell her so to 
 her face." 
 
 He stopped and snorted. 
 
 " Go on ! " said Elisabeth. " I've never heard you 
 talk before, Mr. Mortimore." 
 
 He glared at her. 
 
 " Don't you think to face me, you minx. Don't I 
 know what you're worth — what you're all worth? 
 Yes, you see yourself counting my money when I'm 
 gone. Gone! Be I the sort to go? They don't call 
 me ' Iron ' for nothing. Iron inside and out. I'll see 
 him in the dust, and you too belike. My father lived 
 till he was a hundred and got me when he was sixty- 
 five! Now, begone you — to Okehampton, or you'll 
 wake a pauper to-morrow." 
 
 Trevail looked at Elisabeth, as a naughty boy looks 
 at his mother when his father is scolding him. 
 
 " You'll do well to go, Mr. Trevail," she said 
 quietly. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, took off his hat to her 
 and went without another word. 
 
 She was angry and humiliated, and she turned on 
 the old man fiercely. 
 
 " Well may the people hate you," she said. " They 
 were right, I see, and I was wrong. I've stood up 
 for you till to-day. When they said the truth about 
 you in the bar, I always doubted, because I'd only seen 
 you there of a night — quiet, watchful, behaving de- 
 cently, and only laughing in your sleeve at the fools. 
 But now I know what you really are — a coarse, evil-
 
 THE BEACON 105 
 
 minded old man, with nothing in his head but the 
 nasty thought of how to get money. And never you 
 dare to drag me into your speech again, because I 
 won't have it! And I hate money, and if ever I took 
 your nephew, the first thing I should try to do would 
 be to make him brave and not frightened of your 
 noise." 
 
 He stared at her. 
 
 " A chit like you can talk like that. Brave ! Let 
 me see the man that's brave afore the sight of a sov- 
 ereign — or the woman either. You vain, ignorant lit- 
 tle fool, what be the likes of you to tempt a man away 
 from money ? Who'd starve in a ditch with you ? Go 
 back to your work and leave that young ass alone. I 
 know him better than you do. Putty — putty — soft 
 dough — clay in my hand. If I was to tell him never 
 to see your face again, he never would. But I shan't 
 do that. My willing slave and servant — that's what 
 he is. A good uncle to him I've been, as he's told you 
 no doubt. He's got some good points — a dog's vir- 
 tues. A faithful chap and won't hear me abused." 
 
 He talked on and his anger abated. She was going, 
 but he stopped her and bade her listen still. 
 
 " You said a bit back that you had withstood the 
 slight men that thought and spoke ill of me. Well, 
 go on doing it. Them as bend to me find me a very 
 good sort of man. 'Tis onlv them I've broke here 
 and there be rude. And the fault's theirs. I will 
 have my way. I'm stronger than all of 'em put to- 
 gether, and harder and cleverer. I move while they 
 stand and gape; I strike afore they put their hands 
 up; I wake while they sleep; T'm proud of myself, 
 you see. Like a fox I am — oftener heard about than 
 seen. Yes — I set the dogs baying, but 'twill take a 
 strong pack to pull me down." 
 
 " You can't have it all your own way in this world, 
 Mr. Mortimore. You must know that very well." 
 " Depends — all depends. 'Tis only a question of
 
 106 THE BEACON 
 
 cleverness. Brains can get anywhere, and brains 
 and cash combined can only be stopped by God Al- 
 mighty." 
 
 He walked beside her. 
 
 " You may come in my quarry when you have a 
 mind to, but don't you go near that boat again, or 
 tempt my young fool to do so." 
 
 She, however, was occupied with his last speech. 
 
 " D'you believe in God ? I never should have 
 thought it," she said. 
 
 " Yes, I do. Because I see His hand busy. There's 
 a God, but He's not the poor, soft-hearted God the 
 people bleat about in church nowadays. He's the God 
 you'll find in the Old Book, not the New one. Je- 
 hovah's my pattern. I try to be like Him. And I 
 am like Him ; and that's why they hate me. I never 
 do nothing in my small way He didn't do in His big 
 one. He's the joker for me — strong, cunning, full 
 of surprises, jealous as the grave — never forgetting. 
 He strikes like the lightning! He's rage alive when 
 He's crossed. A good friend to them as keep faith, 
 bu. what an awful enemy! Why, the devil's a worm 
 compared with Him ! A strong tower, I tell you. 
 Leave mercy and fogiveness and all that mess to 
 them that can feel to want it and fill their feeble bellies 
 with it. I'm a Jehovah man, and 'tis along of that I 
 stand where I do stand." 
 
 She was deeply interested. 
 
 " Mr. Dunning thinks much like you, but he doesn't 
 believe in anything." 
 
 He raged instantly and his face blazed. 
 
 "Him! You wait till you see. Between me and 
 that man there's naught alike, and I'll wring your 
 neck if you say there is. Believes nothing, don't he? 
 Wait and see if he don't believe something afore I've 
 done with him. Mark that — green girl as you are. 
 Him and me can't breathe the same air for ever, and 
 he'll go under. I'm stronger than him. I've got a
 
 THE BEACON 107 
 
 better pattern to follow than him. I'll teach him to 
 believe and shake. He's my play and game, that man 
 — the only bit of sport in my life. He's got home on 
 me once or twice. He's worth fighting. But he'll 
 sing small and drop on his knees yet. I shall handle 
 him when the time comes, as I've handled other men. 
 He knows it too. There's fear in him behind his 
 rough speech. I'll have him in my hand presently. 
 And he knows it, I tell you. He's waiting to see 
 where I shall strike." 
 
 " He can strike too." 
 
 " Can he ? Like the fledgling strikes when the jack- 
 daw comes. I'll eat that man alive yet ! " 
 
 " I shall tell him that," said Lizzie. " The poor 
 chap ought to be warned." 
 
 They talked a little longer and then Mortimore left 
 her with much to think about. She could not stamp 
 out of her mind the sorry spectacle cut by Charles. 
 But she found herself making excuses for him and 
 she forgave him. 
 
 When, somewhat shamefaced, he entered the bar 
 that night and began to whisper extenuating circum- 
 stances, she told him that she quite understood the 
 position ; she blamed herself, not him, for what had 
 happened, and she asked him not to speak any more 
 upon the subject. 
 
 " It calls for a very strong pattern of man to resist 
 such a person as your uncle," she said. 
 
 " None can — not one," he assured her, " and in my 
 case 'tis more difficult than for another. He thinks 
 a lot of me really, despite his scorn, and 'tis no good 
 my angering him and making him an enemy. My 
 future prosperity depends upon him, and I owe him 
 my past." 
 
 She would hear no more upon the subject, but she 
 thought very long upon it when the day was done. 
 Waking visions kept her sleepless. She even saw her- 
 self pitted against ' Iron ' Mortimore — fighting Tre-
 
 108 THE BEACON 
 
 vail's battle for him, helping him to higher independ- 
 ence and self-respect, lifting him above this state of 
 subjection. She felt strong enough to do so, even on 
 the day that she had heard and spoke with the fierce 
 old ruffian. 
 
 Here was work worthy of her. She fancied that 
 she already loved the man who could bring her such a 
 task; but she deceived herself a little. It was thought 
 of the task as much as the man that she loved.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE chronicle of Elisabeth at this period may 
 largely be confined to her brief weekly hours of 
 leisure. These advanced her life and brought its possi- 
 bilities before her, but the daily round and task had 
 lost its old salt. She did her work perforce, yet there 
 came into her manner of doing it something perfunc- 
 tory, a shadow of indifference and a little abatement 
 of the old active and willing spirit. Her own affairs 
 seemed to intrude upon her labours. Greater things 
 occupied her mind. The impatience that Dunning had 
 pointed out increased. She was taken to task by Min- 
 nie Underhill. 
 
 Lizzie confessed her sins and showed contrition. 
 As the crucial point in her relations with her lovers 
 approached, she experienced some fret of nerves, but 
 she strove to keep this to herself, and succeeded in so 
 doing save from one pair of eyes. Dunning under- 
 stood, yet on the occasions of seeing him she found 
 small consolation. He was sane and salutary but 
 never sympathetic. Trevail, on the contrary, adored 
 her, and more than once the expected word hung on 
 his lips. But he was very shy ; he needed a shadow 
 of help and she could not bring herself to give it. 
 Again and again she asked herself what would be the 
 answer, and still she did not know. She felt the issue 
 must depend largely on the .way they would ask. Yet 
 that was a vain conclusion, for she knew the way they 
 would ask. She could frame their proposals. 
 
 Trevail got her to go for a walk again a month after 
 
 the meeting with his uncle. The day was threatening 
 
 and he urged against Cosdon. 
 
 109
 
 110 THE BEACON 
 
 " Come down in the valley by the river," he said. 
 " 'Tis lovely there and I'll pick you some prim- 
 roses." 
 
 But she would not. 
 
 " Cosdon or nothing," she said. 
 
 " 'Tis offering for a storm." 
 
 " Let it, who cares ? " 
 
 " If you ban't afeared for your Sunday clothes — ? ' : 
 
 " Not I. I'm sick for a breath of air." 
 
 " 'Tis blowing a fine gale up there." 
 
 " So much the better. I want sweet air to-day and 
 plenty of it." 
 
 " Where you are the air is always sweet," he said, 
 but she was in no mood for compliments. 
 
 They set out then and he braced himself for the 
 delayed task. He began by being personal, and his 
 personalities were a failure, so he became discour- 
 aged. 
 
 " 'Tis curious that you always seem like two peo- 
 ple to me. When you're in the bar, with the counter 
 between us and work going on, you're like a queen, 
 and you even seem to stand a foot taller. And you're 
 that brave and ready and dashing, and speak and 
 joke, and always have the laugh with you, for none 
 ever scores off you. In your black you reign over 
 us all and we're as humble as beetles afore you. Even 
 my Uncle Abraham only grunts. Nobody can flout 
 you there. But when you come out, you're so quiet 
 as a little mouse, and seem to grow smaller and be, 
 in a sort of way, more near to anybody. You can't 
 think what store I set upon these walks. 'Twas very 
 kind of you to let me be a friend." 
 
 "Very kind of you to offer. Not much of the 
 queen about me — in the bar or out of it. I'm only a 
 very stupid girl. I'm in trouble too. Mrs. Underhill 
 have been rapping me over the knuckles, and well I 
 deserved it." 
 
 " I won't believe that."
 
 THE BEACON 111 
 
 «< V 
 
 Tis true however. She was quite right. And 
 Mr. Dunning warned me long ago. No self-control — 
 I dash at things so." 
 
 " 'Tis a virtue, not a fault. Such amazing energy 
 I never heard tell of in another woman. Don't you 
 believe anybody blames you. As for Mrs. Underbill, 
 I should have thought you couldn't be too energetic 
 for her." 
 
 " She's worth a thousand of me. Her mind is 
 balanced. She's always fair." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " Ask Tom. He don't think so, I believe." 
 
 " Yes, he does — in his sensible moments. She's 
 done a lot for him and he knows it." 
 
 " He tells you that ; perhaps he tells some people 
 different." 
 
 She did not answer. They were on the hill and the 
 sky grew darker. 
 
 " D'you know," he said, " 'tis a most curious thing 
 that other girls, who are nothing to me, often come 
 up in my mind's eye as clear as pictures — though I 
 don't want 'em there in the least. But one, that I'm 
 always trying to see, never comes. She won't. She 
 tricks me you might say. I can't even catch a glimpse 
 of her wonderful eyebrows unless they are right be- 
 fore my face." 
 
 " You told me all that the last time we went for a 
 walk." 
 
 The retort struck him into silence. Then he grum- 
 bled. 
 
 " What the deuce you can see in this water-logged 
 desert of a hill I never understand. I'll swear there's 
 nothing but perversity in it. You must know every 
 blade of grass up there by now — an ugly, black, bleak, 
 lowering place. You can't pretend 'tis beautiful or 
 pleasant to-day." 
 
 "To me it is. Truth is beautiful to me. This is 
 all stark truth. As true as the wind that strikes
 
 112 THE BEACON 
 
 through your clothes and makes you shiver. It don't 
 talk silliness about eyebrows anyway." 
 
 " You're in a bad way and I'm sorry. What's 
 worrying you ? " 
 
 She did not answer but stood still and panted. She 
 was unhappy, and a spirit of helplessness and dark- 
 ness held her. She knew what was in his mind, but 
 felt in no mood for him. It was an hour when his 
 gentleness irritated her. She wished for once — for 
 the first time in her life — that Reynold Dunning could 
 take Trevail's place and apply some of his caustic to 
 her bruises. She wanted to be hurt. She knew that 
 pain only could cast out pain. Her mood puzzled her. 
 The man looked at her reproachfully and sadly. 
 
 " You're not happy," he said. " I wish to God 
 'twas in my power to make you so." 
 
 A tear dropped from her eye and he saw it, and pre- 
 tended he had not. 
 
 She fumbled for her handkerchief and he looked 
 away. She yearned for no companionship then but 
 the Beacon's self. That understood and could min- 
 ister to every phase of feeling. Her few tears cheered 
 her and soothed her mind. A beautiful spectacle pre- 
 sented itself close at hand and she marked it and 
 pointed it out to Trevail. 
 
 A flash of sunlight breaking out of the storm- 
 clouds along the hill's shoulder touched a dozen sheep 
 that fed together some distance beneath the summit 
 of the Beacon. They had the light behind them and, 
 until this transformation, were dark as the waste on 
 which they gazed; but a sudden thread of gold now 
 flashed along each woolly back and outlined each 
 horned head, so that every creature moved about in 
 an aureole of pure sunshine. The flock had been 
 almost invisible in the gloom of the heath until this 
 ray revealed them ; now, outlined in delicate fire, they 
 lent a great beauty to the stormy hill-side and softened 
 the threatening desolation with their brightness.
 
 THE BEACON 118 
 
 " There," said the woman, " that's the kind of sur- 
 prise Cosdon always has for me. Never, never do I 
 come up but I note some beautiful thing like that." 
 
 " Young Scotch sheep. The best for the Moor — 
 those black-faced chaps. They belong to Dunning I 
 believe — yes, there's his ' R. D.' on their sides." 
 
 " Don't you see they look fine? " 
 
 "Of course I do — with the sun on 'em ; but now 'tis 
 gone behind the clouds again. I wish you'd turn. 
 We shall get a proper downpour in a minute." 
 
 " I feel I want it. I don't care for anything to-day. 
 I should like to be struck by lightning. I'm going to 
 get to the top anyhow." 
 
 He restrained his impatience and went on. 
 
 " I'd never have thought you could have been so 
 rash and wilful," he said. 
 
 " That's because you know nought about me. If 
 Dunning was here, d'you know what he'd do? He'd 
 take me by the shoulder and order me back." 
 
 " But you wouldn't go, I should hope? " 
 
 " Yes, I should." 
 
 " Well, I don't order, I only ask. I beg you to come 
 down, Lizzie." 
 
 " I never told you that you could call me Lizzie." 
 
 " I'm going to, however, in future." 
 
 The remark pleased her better than anything he 
 had said that day ; but he knew it not, and she did 
 nothing to show him. 
 
 " Men are all bullies," she said. " Miss Cann's right 
 there. You treat us like — Here's the rain. I'm 
 going to the top all the same." 
 
 The wind woke in a sudden, furious squall and 
 sheets of grey rain swept them. For a moment they 
 could not hear their voices; then he heard her shout 
 to him. 
 
 " I love this! I'm better alreadv. Things that are 
 hard in the valley are nought on the hill. I've felt 
 of late there's not enough salt and sugar in my life —
 
 114 THE BEACON 
 
 too terrible tasteless. But I never feel that when I 
 come up here." 
 
 She was very wet now and he felt troubled for her. 
 
 " Well, if you've had enough, we'd better go back. 
 'Tisn't at all wise for you to be soaked to the skin in 
 this biting wind — Lizzie." 
 
 " Twill do us good," she said. " Our life is too 
 soft and easy. We think of nought but comfort. We 
 take small views — like everybody else down there." 
 
 She pointed to Zeal — a dim smudge in the rain be- 
 neath. 
 
 "If you want to put that little hole in its proper 
 place, come up here. Then you see what it is." 
 
 " Come back to it anyway. You ban't a plover 
 or a pony to stand this weather. I shall be feared to 
 death now that you'll fall ill. And as to salt and 
 sugar in your life. Well, God knows you've brought 
 sugar and salt both into — " 
 
 " Look down at the view," she said. " 'Tisn't the 
 time for silly talk about ourselves. The world's a 
 grand world to-day and I'm sorry I was cranky. 
 'Tis to be out of tune with everything to snap and 
 snarl." 
 
 Far away under the storm Exmoor shone in full 
 sunshine like a picture painted in gold and opal, soft- 
 ened to unreality by distance and set in a frame of 
 night. From above the Severn Sea the sunlight came 
 and gleamed gloriously against the edges of the 
 storm. All was dimmed by the curtains of the rain 
 that swept between. 
 
 Trevail now asserted himself and made his com- 
 panion descend. She was more cheerful, and he had 
 grown rather glum. She decided that they should 
 visit Fanny Cann, and he agreed to do so, but reluc- 
 tantly. 
 
 " Much better you go home quick and keep warm 
 till you can get out of these clothes." 
 
 " 'Tis nothing but a drop of wet. I shall be dry
 
 THE BEACON 115 
 
 again in five minutes by Miss Cann's fire. She likes 
 me. She'll give us a cup of tea if I ask her." 
 
 " She doesn't like me though." 
 
 " She thinks better of you than most men. She's 
 talked to me about you." 
 
 He was interested. 
 
 " I'd dearly liked to hear what she said." 
 
 Lizzie laughed. 
 
 " No, you wouldn't," she answered. " But all the 
 same, as men have got to be, she'd sooner have them 
 in your pattern than — some." 
 
 "Why's that?" 
 
 " You ask her." 
 
 They made haste down the hill and were quickly at 
 Fanny Cann's. She rated them for their folly in ven- 
 turing on the hill in such weather, and Elisabeth took 
 the blame. 
 
 'Twas all my fault. I wanted a breath of air. 
 That stuffy it is in the valley sometimes." 
 
 " Yes, stuffy place and stuffy opinions. You get 
 to the fire, Lizzie, and you take off your coat and put 
 near enough to catch heat, Charles. I'll brew the tea 
 in a minute. 'Tisn't often a man comes into this 
 house, but since Lizzie here be daft enough to have 
 one of you for her friend, I'll make you welcome for 
 once in a way." 
 
 " And thank you, I'm sure. I feel the compli- 
 ment." 
 
 " I was telling Mr. Trevail that you reckon he's a 
 head and shoulders above many men, Miss Cann. 
 And he asked me why, and I told him that you best 
 know." 
 
 " You will have your fun — you sly girl ! " 
 
 " Twas only truth." 
 
 ' Bad's the best of 'em. Charlie have got fewer 
 faults than most. But I daresay 'tis only because he 
 hides 'em better." 
 
 ' I haven't got any faults at all," declared the
 
 116 THE BEACON 
 
 farmer, boldly. ' That is, no faults that you ought 
 to count faults. I think the world of your sex, and 
 would serve 'em any day of the week." 
 
 " Your virtue isn't that. It lies in the fact that 
 you're fairly easy to be turned and twisted. The 
 more woman can do with men, the better for the 
 nation; and if the world was full of your sort, we 
 should be where we ought to be." 
 
 He considered this. 
 
 " You mean I couldn't refuse you anything. Be 
 that sense in me or weakness ? " 
 
 " According to the point of view," answered Miss 
 Cann. " I say 'tis sense, and if you was married to 
 some women I could name, your happiness would de- 
 pend upon your easiness. I speak of strong women. 
 But if you was married to a weak one, then the pair 
 of you would go to the wall. If I had my way, no 
 woman should be married that wasn't strong enough 
 to rule her husband. Then, in a generation or two, 
 we should be reigning." 
 
 " And for the same reason, I suppose, you wouldn't 
 let the strong man marry? " 
 
 " Not if I could help it," she confessed. " But who 
 can? They always go for the soft, cow-like women, 
 and so the female race is kept under." 
 
 They chatted and chaffed. Mr. Trevail argued for 
 reciprocity, and declared that the man-like woman and 
 the woman-like man were equally objectionable. 
 
 They departed presently, and though the time and 
 opportunity had slipped for the great question, he put 
 a lesser one to Lizzie as they returned home. The 
 rain was ended, and the dusk was clear when they set 
 off for Zeal. The earth-born lights glittered and 
 twinkled beneath them. 
 
 "Will you do me a large favour?' he asked. 
 " Twill cost you nothing and be a very great joy to 
 
 me." 
 
 She thought he was going to beg for a kiss and felt
 
 THE BEACON 117 
 
 in a mood to grant it now. The cloud had swept off 
 her and she was happy. He had pleased her during 
 the last two hours. She loved him and she knew it. 
 There was a mixture of masculinity and childish help- 
 lessness in him that cried out to her. If he had asked 
 her to marry him at that moment she would have 
 agreed to do so. 
 
 " Would you mind calling me ' Charlie ' ? I should 
 feel very proud and flattered if you could do so. 
 'Twould show that you — well — I can't say exactly 
 what it would mean to me, but it would mean a lot." 
 
 " Of course I will if you like." 
 
 " Thank you ever so much. It means a sort of 
 closeness. It means — it points — but I'll say no more 
 to-night. You've pleased me and made me joyful 
 somehow to-day. And you've forgiven me for calling 
 you ' Lizzie ' so bold ? " 
 
 " Why ever should I mind ? 'Tis always under- 
 stood if a girl's got a friend, he does it." 
 
 " I should like to invent a beautiful, secret name for 
 you that only you and me know." 
 
 She laughed at that. 
 
 " You're not clever enough, I expect." 
 
 "Give me leave to try then? Now, I'll lie awake 
 all night seeing what I can hit upon." 
 
 He left her at the top of the hill that descended into 
 the valley, and went his way, while she returned to 
 the inn. 
 
 They met again that evening, however, for Trevail 
 called to drink during the hours of company between 
 eight and ten. He came explicitly to learn whether 
 she was the worse for her wetting. In his heart he 
 was there to hear her call him ' Charlie ' before other 
 men. Chance brought a good audience and among 
 them his rival. There were present Lucky Madders, 
 the lime burner, Jack Jope, the shoemaker and father, 
 half a dozen miners from Red Wheal. Ned Knap- 
 man, a local sportsman with a doubtful reputation,
 
 118 THE BEACON 
 
 and Mr. Mortimore, who sat in his usual corner and 
 preserved his usual silence. 
 
 Tom Underhill was helping Lizzie in the bar, and 
 the place hummed with noise and reeked with the 
 smells of beer and tobacco. 
 
 To this throng entered Charles Trevail. Chance 
 brought him beside Lucky, who was talking to a miner. 
 
 " I'll back limestone against your copper, my son," 
 he declared. " To our quarry you know where you 
 are and what you be doing; in your work, you can't 
 tell one nor t'other. 'Tis all a speculation, and though 
 you and your mates may be pleased and get your 
 money very regular, I'd like to hear the opinion of the 
 adventurers in the mine. What do they get?" 
 
 " Mostly nought," answered Mr. Jope. " But 'tis 
 a very successful sort of mine — for everybody else. 
 I haven't heard the 'venturers be drawing anything; 
 but after all, they ban't everybody, and they've got 
 the pleasure of knowing they be keeping a lot of men 
 busy and a lot of women and children contented." 
 
 " There's a rumour of a dividender," said Mr. Knap- 
 man. 
 
 " So there have been any time this five year. 
 There's also a rumour that the sharers be getting a 
 thought weary of waiting. But I hope they ban't im- 
 patient people. 'Twould be a cruel pity if the place 
 was shut down." 
 
 " Have no fear," said Mortimore, suddenly. " If 
 they shut it, 'twill only be for a time. Where there's 
 mines, there's always fools to venture in 'em, and 
 wise men to pick up their money. Let this bitten lot 
 get clear, and in a year or two 'twill all begin over 
 again. I know." 
 
 The vicissitudes of the enterprise occupied other 
 tongues. Then Trevail changed the subject. 
 
 " I must congratulate you, Tom," he said. " Only 
 heard the great news to-day. So you're to be a 
 father."
 
 THE BEACON 119 
 
 Underhill nodded. 
 
 "Tis so. And thank you." 
 
 " Here's good luck I'm sure. Give me a pint, 
 please, Lizzie." 
 
 Others drank to the fortune of the publican's com- 
 ing first-born. 
 
 Neddy Knapman ventured on a sly jest with Tom. 
 
 " There will be a little peace about the house now — 
 eh?" 
 
 But Underhill made no answer, though he smiled. 
 Married life had changed him. He had become a 
 more considerable person than of old, and a less happy 
 one. 
 
 " Here's your drink — Charlie." 
 
 Trevail's heart jumped as she spoke, for the words 
 were uttered with her usual clearness and all heard 
 them. Above all one had just entered, and he, too, 
 had marked the intimate appellation. Dunning most 
 certainly heard, and a moment or two later Lizzie 
 uttered the name in asking her lover for his money. 
 But the elder man took no notice and presently ad- 
 dressed her. 
 
 "You wanted to see a trout caught, didn't you? 
 Well, I shall be fishing in Blackaton Brook this week, 
 and can fit in the time if you'll tell me when you're 
 free." 
 
 " I've changed my mind," she said. 
 
 " I want you to come, however, and you will, 
 please." 
 
 Mr. Knapman intervened. 
 
 " You come along with me, miss, and I'll show you 
 how to catch a trout." 
 
 " Shut up, Ned, and get out of the way," said Dun- 
 ning. " I'm talking to her." 
 
 " Talking to her as if she was a plough-boy," said 
 Trevail. 
 
 All expected a collision, and even Mortimore bent 
 forward. To hear his nephew beard Dunning thus
 
 120 THE BEACON 
 
 was good to him. But nothing came of the challenge. 
 Apparently the master of Clannaboro' had not heard 
 it. He turned to Lizzie again, and it seemed his 
 rival's reproof bore fruit. 
 
 " You know my rough, harsh way, and what's under 
 it," he said in a voice that only she could hear. " Will 
 you come? I should think it a favour." 
 
 But her mind was full of the other man. She felt 
 she owed him something. 
 
 " I'm afraid I can't do that," she said. " What can 
 I serve you, Mr. Dunning? " 
 
 " Half a pint of beer." 
 
 She drew it and he paid for it and drank it. 
 
 He next talked to Ned Knapman for a few mo- 
 ments on the subject of fishing. Trevail he entirely 
 ignored until about to depart. Then he walked up 
 to Mortimore and addressed the master of the 
 quarry. 
 
 ' I won't speak to yonder babbling, red-faced chap, 
 your nephew, just now, because he's a bit above him- 
 self and 'twouldn't be fair, but you know me better 
 than he does and you know my ways. You and me 
 understand and can give hard knocks and take 'em. 
 He ban't built for hard knocks, so he'll be wiser not 
 to court 'em. But if he wants a quarrel, he's wel- 
 come. Only tell him not to be rude to me again 
 afore yonder woman. It won't pay him. I'm a fair 
 fighter, and I don't want to put that man in the saw- 
 dust of the bar under her eyes, because she's the sort 
 would never forget that sight. But if he wants a turn 
 up, he can always find me at Clannaboro'." 
 
 " I see," said Mortimore, " but you forget I'm his 
 side, Reynold Dunning." 
 
 " Are you ? I didn't know that. Well, you and me 
 never waste words, and we never leave each other in 
 doubt of our meaning. Sorry you haven't got a bet- 
 ter man to second. But I daresay he suits you all 
 right. You couldn't pull long with any first-rate man
 
 THE BEACON 121 
 
 — too strong for that. You must rule. And so 
 must I." 
 
 " You want that woman," said Mortimore. " And 
 so does my chap. That's how it stands. More 
 damned fools the pair of you. I can understand him, 
 but you — I'm surprised! Not that she have much 
 use for you seemingly." 
 
 " Women, or quarries, or our neighbour's goods — 
 we all want something and must be after something. 
 'Tis the salt of life, as none know better than you. 
 Talking of quarries, you'll have trouble presently, 
 you're wasting money there. I'm astonished you don't 
 see it." 
 
 " You liar ! What do you know about it that I 
 don't?" 
 
 " Perhaps you'll live to find out. Then you'll 
 dance a fine bear's dance to mark the fool you was. 
 But you'll be too late then — when I get the quarry." 
 
 Having thus assumed the offensive and left ' Iron ' 
 Mortimore in a rage, Dunning went out. His enemy 
 was roaring, and Underhill was trying to silence him. 
 
 " Whatever's amiss? Be your drink wrong?" he 
 cried from behind the bar. 
 
 " That man — that beast ! I'll have his eyes yet, and 
 his farm and everything! To dare — such as him 
 oughtn't to be allowed inside your bar, or any decent 
 man's house." 
 
 " He's vexed you proper, I see," said Lucky. 
 ■ Why, now I should never have thought any living 
 man could do it." 
 
 " The quarry — the quarry — he dared — " Then the 
 miser got up and departed without more speech. 
 
 "Looks as if he'd like to knock Dunning on the 
 head," declared Jope. 
 
 " No great loss if he did," answered a miner; " for 
 a hatefuller pattern don't hang out in these parts. I'd 
 sooner work for Mortimore than him." 
 
 The defects of the two men were contrasted, and
 
 122 THE BEACON 
 
 Trevail did not hesitate to take his uncle's side. He 
 hardly realized the relation in which Dunning stood 
 to him respecting Elisabeth Densham; otherwise he 
 had not perhaps abused the other farmer so roundly. 
 The woman liked him little for his attitude and pres- 
 ently silenced him by praising Dunning. Thus a good 
 day ended badly for him, and he left her conscious 
 that his tongue had destroyed some of the precious 
 work of the afternoon.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 LIZZIE waited in the quarry for Charles Trevail 
 and he did not come. The day was Saturday, 
 and the hour half-past three. She had the place to 
 herself, and sitting on the high ground above the 
 workings looked across at the sunny cliffs and fol- 
 lowed her fancy. Sometimes she whistled and woke 
 echo, and pictured the little spirits of the place peeping 
 from clefts and ledges to listen ; once she uttered a 
 low cry and heard the note come back changed and 
 saddened, like a wail of distress. As her custom was 
 upon the Moor, she wove stories out of the gaping rift 
 in the earth; she saw faces in the ragged outlines of 
 the quarry and imagined monsters chained there in 
 the marble, imprisoned until doom, gazing with im- 
 potent malice and frustrated power upon the pigmy 
 race of men. She found a likeness, where accidents 
 of frost and flood had flung upon the cliff a gigantic 
 bas-relief of ' Iron ' Mortimore. The discovery de- 
 lighted her, and she longed to show it to the man him- 
 self. 
 
 He was fishing in his pond, and sat there motionless 
 on the dark water in his boat. Round about, the 
 woods were bursting with spring green, for winter 
 was gone, and in the valleys sap and scent were rising 
 to the sunshine of April. 
 
 Lizzie went down to the water presently. 
 
 " I've found the living image of you on a great rock 
 in the quarry, Mr. Mortimore. Do come and see it," 
 she cried to him. 
 
 But he waved her away. 
 
 " Be gone, you lazy wench," he said. 
 
 123
 
 124 THE BEACON 
 
 " Lazy! " she answered indignantly. " What next? 
 You know better than that, and so does everybody." 
 
 " Why the hell don't you marry him and have done 
 with it? " shouted Mortimore. " I'm sick of this fool- 
 ing. Take him or leave him. He's not worth a curse 
 to any man since you came here. I'll turn him out of 
 the farm if it goes on much longer." 
 
 This onslaught effectually silenced Elisabeth. 
 Mortimore bawled from the middle of the tarn and 
 might have been heard a quarter of a mile off. She 
 made no answer, but fled back to the quarry blushing 
 and indignant. 
 
 " I should much like to know how a woman's going 
 to take a man before he asks her to," she thought. 
 The incident ruffled her not a little, and she was in a 
 gloomy mood when Trevail presently appeared, has- 
 tening down the valley from his farm. 
 
 She had grown to care much for this man now, be- 
 cause she knew that not only did he love her, but he 
 was also influenced by her. He kept her alternating 
 between moods of hope and despair. She hoped and 
 was glad when he approved her sentiments, and de- 
 clared that he won personal profit from them; she 
 hoped when he told her that he had availed himself 
 of her advice in sundry particulars, and was prosper- 
 ing in mind as a result of so doing. And she de- 
 spaired sometimes before his own sentiments and 
 slight ambitions and mean contentment. Above all 
 she hated his subservient attitude to his uncle, and 
 the spirit he displayed before the older man's stronger 
 will and ferocious domination. He could not feel the 
 tyranny and he would not see the figure that he cut 
 under it. He excused all on the plea of expediency, 
 and explained at length that it was policy and not 
 cowardice that directed his conduct. 
 
 The woman who loved him was accordingly elated 
 and cast down. ' The mixture that is not shaken,
 
 THE BEACON 125 
 
 rots,' declared Heraclitus, and though she knew not 
 the Weeping Philosopher or his works, Elisabeth ap- 
 preciated this truth, and felt that an inherent lethargy 
 and leaning to all things easy and comfortable was 
 the danger for Trevail. Unconsciously she knew it. 
 By instinct and intuition, not through any deliberate 
 process of reasoning came the enunciation. She 
 strove therefore very energetically to shake him up 
 and shake him out of this lentor, this natural inertia 
 and indolence of mind and body. Often she succeeded 
 and often she failed. 
 
 To-day he was preoccupied and troubled about his 
 concerns. He came to her for rest and peace, help 
 and distraction. But she was out of tune herself. 
 She made one effort to be cheerful and entertaining, 
 and it failed. 
 
 " Come and see your uncle on the cliff," she said. 
 " I've found his likeness large over the quarry. I'll 
 show it to you." 
 
 But the sun had moved on his way, and the image 
 of mingled rock and shadow was gone. Trevail be- 
 gan to grumble about the tenant of the quarry and 
 she cut him short. 
 
 " Don't talk about him. 'Tis always the same. 
 One day you're smarting from him and feel like any 
 other self-respecting man would; the next you go 
 under and let him order you about like a dog." 
 
 He showed impatience. 
 
 " How often are you going to tell me that? Can't 
 you live and let live, Lizzie? We're not all made on 
 your pattern, and we're not all so unreasonable for 
 that matter. To tell a man to quarrel with his own 
 bread-and-butter is rather silly in my opinion — not 
 worthy of any sense anyway." 
 
 " You think everything's silly that doesn't fit in 
 with your opinions," she said. " 1 hate your uncle, 
 and so does everybody else. All the same 1 admire
 
 126 THE BEACON 
 
 him for one thing, and that's his power of getting his 
 own way. But what I hate most of all is his opinion 
 of you." 
 
 The man's pride was touched. 
 
 " If you're going to talk like that, I'll leave you," 
 he answered. " Never was heard such nonsense. 
 What do you know about his opinion of me ? Should 
 I be where I am, or what I am to him, if he felt for 
 me — what you seem to ? What have I done ? Oh ! 
 Lizzie, don't say things like that. You forget them 
 afterwards, but I don't. They make me feel bad. 
 You know what I think of your sense, but what's the 
 use of being — of being what we are to each other if 
 you're going to get cross every time we have a dif- 
 ference of opinion? I don't thing everything silly 
 that doesn't fit in with my views. I allow other peo- 
 ple to think as they please." 
 
 " No, you don't then — not me anyway. You know 
 very well how you hate my liking for the Beacon. 
 And when I humour you, and come down here instead, 
 this is all I get for it." 
 
 " You began it all the same. Of course you puzzle 
 me sometimes. You wouldn't be a woman if you 
 didn't. But I'm always ready to learn. I grant I 
 don't quite see what fun you get out of Cosdon. 
 Then, why don't you explain ? You can't say I'm not 
 a good listener. You tell me the Beacon means a lot 
 to you. Well, what does it mean ? " 
 
 " I can't tell you — and you wouldn't understand if 
 I could." 
 
 " I know you think I'm a fool, but where you're 
 concerned my brains move pretty quick. And what 
 you won't tell me — what you think I can't understand, 
 I'll tell you. I hate you to go up there, and though 
 you imagine it does you good, I know it does you 
 harm. It puts your mind out of gear, and makes you 
 see things different from what they are. It makes you 
 contemptuous and impatient, and it makes you out of 

 
 THE BEACON 127 
 
 sympathy with people and your work and everything. 
 Yes, I hate you to go up there." 
 
 "Then I'll go oftener," she said. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " It isn't for me to preach to you. You do the preach- 
 ing always, and God knows I've taken to heart many 
 a thing you've said to me; but, after all, I've got eyes 
 in my head if I haven't got brains in it, and — and 
 — well, it isn't the time to say what you are to me. 
 But I'm set on your well-being and I want nought 
 so much as your happiness. Cosdon don't make you 
 happy; it makes you miserable and out of conceit 
 with things as they are. You know that." 
 
 " Yes, I do. And that's why I go there — to 
 breathe and see and look down and make things take 
 their proper sizes. Mr. Dunning says the way to judge 
 of people is to see what they seek or shun in the 
 world ; and if you see them running after small things, 
 then you know they're small-minded; and Cosdon 
 makes everything small. And I will be out of conceit 
 with small things, even though I have got to live a 
 small life myself. You're small-minded, and you 
 know it." 
 
 " Say so and think so, then. And go to Dunning 
 and see what he is and what he seeks and shuns. 
 You hate my uncle, just because he's my uncle, I sup- 
 pose, and then you turn to a man like Reynold Dun- 
 ning, who's only my uncle over again without his 
 cleverness, and pretend you like him. You'd better 
 go and live on Cosdon I should think. There's no 
 reason in you to-day and you've no right to talk to 
 me so." 
 
 " Why do you stand it then ? Why don't you go 
 away ? I don't want to talk to you. I hate this hole. 
 Let me clear out and get up there! '' 
 
 She pointed where the Beacon towered to the west 
 of them. It swept in a right arc, broken at the sum- 
 mit by a flat cloud full of sunshine. The sides were
 
 128 THE BEACON 
 
 dark by contrast; then in the middle-distance of the 
 scene rose the rounded heads of elms, still rosy with 
 their last inflorescence; and among them stood the 
 tower of Tawton church. 
 
 " Go where you please. I'm not company for such 
 a high and mighty woman as you. I'll get back to 
 work." 
 
 " Work— that's all you think of." 
 
 " You know better than that. I'm sorry — I'm cruel 
 sorry things have fallen awry to-day. 'Tis all my 
 fault. Good-bye." 
 
 He took off his cap and left her. She watched him 
 go but did not call him back. She was in a hard 
 mood and could only see his faults. Then, with his 
 departure, her attitude changed and she forgave him 
 and blamed herself. Who was she to take such a 
 stand ? Who was she to ' preach ' to him ? He had 
 not used the word offensively; yet it carried great 
 offence to her ear. She knew his patience with her 
 was lovely and beautiful, but she hated it to-day. 
 " Why did he say the fault was his and that he was 
 sorry?" she asked herself. It was this humility and 
 meekness that made her despair. She wanted impossi- 
 bilities after the universal way. She desired the man 
 to be strong and still easily influenced. She disliked 
 the defects of his qualities. She did not object to his 
 humility before her, but she resented his humility be- 
 fore others. To wed a humble man was a pleasant 
 thought to her ; but he must not take his humility out- 
 side his own door. She had a vague ideal of the 
 knight of romance, a lamb with his lady, a lion in the 
 world. 
 
 And now there came to her as she sat on above the 
 quarry, not a lion, but him folk called ' the bear ' of 
 Clannaboro'. He had been standing for some time 
 regarding the quarry from the larch woods that rose 
 on the hills above it. Unseen, he had pursued his
 
 THE BEACON 129 
 
 own thoughts respecting the place, and then, ignorant 
 that Mortimore was fishing in his private preserve, 
 Dunning had gone down and inspected the works. 
 At the kilns he met and spoke with Lucky, who never 
 took a half-holiday and might be seen, six days out 
 of every seven, like a yellow beetle crawling about the 
 unsleeping fire. 
 
 And now Dunning, back again at the edge of the 
 lofty woods and about to depart, caught sight of Elisa- 
 beth alone, growled a blessing on his luck and de- 
 scended to her. 
 
 " Something told me I was going to see you to-day," 
 he said. " But I don't believe in that nonsense, so I 
 just turned my back on it and went my way. Yet it 
 had to be." 
 
 " You didn't count to find me here, how- 
 
 ever 
 << 
 
 No, I did not. If I'd given heed to the voice I'd 
 have gone aloft." 
 
 He pointed to the Beacon. Then he sat down on 
 a stone not far from her. 
 
 She did not speak and the listlessness following her 
 quarrel was upon her. He observed her mood, how- 
 ever, and seemed more cheerful than usual. 
 
 " Why for are you here? " he asked, searching her 
 face. 
 
 " Why are you here for that matter ? " 
 
 " Business. I'm interested in this place and shall 
 be more so some day. You can keep secrets ? Well, 
 I mean to get the quarry away from ' Iron ' Mortimore 
 presently." 
 
 " You'll never do that. He thinks more of it than 
 anything in the world." 
 
 " We shall see. I've had a few hard knocks from 
 him. He's one of the fighting sort, and any weapon 
 be good enough for his hand. I can't lie; if I could 
 I should be the equal of him. But in the matter of
 
 130 THE BEACON 
 
 craft he beats me. However, there's other ways to 
 best him. And the first way is not to be frightened 
 of the man. Everybody is but me." 
 
 " I'm not and he knows it." 
 
 " No, you're not, but you're a woman. He don't 
 take them seriously." 
 
 " More do you.' 
 
 He did not answer but repeated his former ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " What are you doing here — all alone, too ? ' : 
 
 " Thinking. I come here sometimes, because 
 Charlie Trevail likes it." 
 
 " Does he? I should have thought 'twas too harsh 
 and strange for him. I like it myself, therefore 'tis 
 curious that he should." 
 
 "You think you're different from everybody else." 
 
 " I know I am — so do you. Different from him 
 — in everything but one thing." 
 
 "What might that be?" 
 
 "You know." 
 
 She did not speak ; then he came nearer to her. 
 
 " What are you ambitious for? " he asked. " What 
 is it you want? You've taught me a bit here and 
 there since I knew you. Yes, you have. You're the 
 most interesting creature that ever I met. And I 
 often catch you in my thoughts. But what d'you 
 want? D'you want to be the stem of a man's flower; 
 or do you want the man to be the stem to your flower ? 
 D'you want to shine like the moon, with borrowed 
 light, or d'you you want to shine on your own? ' : 
 
 She had often asked herself the same question. 
 
 " I'd like to help a man. I'd like to come to be so 
 much to him that he put me before all else in his life. 
 But so long as he puts me first and gave me all credit, 
 and knew what I was good for, I shouldn't care what 
 anybody else thought. I'd be the stem to his flower, 
 and proud to be, so long as he knew it and felt it. I
 
 THE BEACON 131 
 
 wouldn't marry a man that wouldn't be the better for 
 marrying me." 
 
 " You ban't ambitious for yourself then? ,: 
 
 " Yes, I am. I'm ambitious to lift a man higher 
 than he could get without me. The love that leaves a 
 man as it finds him is nought. My love, if 'tis any 
 worth, should lift him so that he'd never be the same 
 man after, and never walk so humble or think so 
 humble or do so humble again after once he'd wedded 
 me. 
 
 He knew that she was thinking of Trevail. 
 
 " Could you do all that for a man? " 
 
 " Yes, and he'd do the like for me. I'm not proud 
 of my strength. Tis weakness compared to a man's 
 strength. If I married a man, I should look to him 
 to do the man's part." 
 
 "Ah! I'm glad you feel that. 'Twould be weary 
 work having to do all. A strong man is a fine thing 
 in a woman's life — a man that never flinches, never 
 changes, never falters. But you can't lift up each 
 other, can you? Tell me. Surely one's got to hold 
 the reins from the start. He or she must be the whip 
 hand. Both can't have it. It isn't possible." 
 
 " Then drop the whip and do without it. Who 
 talks of whips nowadays? I say they can lift each 
 other." 
 
 " Tisn't possible." 
 
 " I'd make it possible," she said. " The first thing 
 is a love large enough. You remember we spoke of 
 that long ago. If man and woman both love enough, 
 they can do miracles." 
 
 " Love that size is a miracle. You hear of it, but 
 you never see it." 
 
 "Those that can picture it can feel it," she an- 
 swered, and the reply loosened his spirit. 
 
 "By God! you're one in ten thousand. There's 
 none like you and never was! Too good — too good —
 
 132 THE BEACON 
 
 a million times too good for any that ever lived. Not 
 worthy to black your shoes, none of us. I'll think 
 better of all women for knowing you. I'll bear my- 
 self more kindly to all women for knowing you. And 
 if you wait for the man that's worthy of you, you'll 
 die a maid." 
 
 She stared at him, but a flush of joy touched her 
 heart. Grapes from a thorn had been a lesser won- 
 der than such sudden splendid fruit of praise from 
 Dunning. 
 
 "What's come over you?" she asked blankly, and 
 her eyes looked widely upon him. 
 
 " You've come over me," he answered. " You've 
 done what nothing but you could have done. You've 
 opened my eyes to the thing that's better worth than 
 anything else in this whole blackguard world. I've 
 seen fairer women than you and I've seen wiser 
 women than you. But I've never seen and never shall 
 see anything like you. You've got fine thoughts. 
 You've made me feel small sometimes. I love you. 
 Come to me and I'll teach you what love like mine 
 can do. And I'll learn what life can be, shared with 
 such a wonder. Come to me, Elisabeth Densham, and 
 teach me ; and I'll teach you too. My laming be use- 
 ful in its way. Come, and we'll see which shall lift 
 t'other, as you say. I want you something terrible ! 
 I want to be fighting for you. I want to show you 
 that you can't stand alone, though you think you 
 can." 
 
 He ceased but she did not immediately reply. Her 
 thoughts wandered and she found herself retracing 
 the recent quarrel. He did not know of that, but he 
 knew of whom she was thinking. 
 
 " Never," he said. " That man never can and never 
 will be what I should be. Better perhaps, but dif- 
 ferent. He's a smaller pattern than me. You know 
 that. He can fight too, you think. Yes, love makes 
 man or beast brave for a while. He'd fight for 'e —
 
 THE BEACON 133 
 
 in a feeble sort of way from under his uncle's wing. 
 But for nought else ; and he won't fight for 'e when 
 he's got 'e. Remember that. You'll have to fight for 
 him. You'll tire of that. He'll cloy in the house. 
 He'll — but I won't speak of him. 'Twouldn't be fair 
 — I don't know him well enough. I love you and I 
 want to marry you. I've kept it back till now, not for 
 doubt of love but for doubt of myself. The better I 
 knew you, the more I knew what you were worth — 
 far more than I can offer in exchange. But you don't 
 care for goods, or I shouldn't have cared for you. 
 Can you think of it? " 
 
 She had a strange feeling that, but for the recent 
 quarrel, she might have accepted him. Yet, in the 
 face of what had just passed, her spirit told her that 
 she could not in honour do so. Again she saw Tre- 
 vail creeping away forlorn from her. She believed 
 that a sort of treachery must lurk in going for ever 
 from him to the other man at this moment. Right 
 well she knew that Dunning would finely match her; 
 yet she dreaded his power of will. She was proud 
 to have won him ; she throbbed to see him tamed at 
 her feet. She liked him better now than she had ever 
 liked him. But still he grated harshly here and there. 
 She argued with herself and made every sort of ex- 
 cuse but the true one. Yet when she answered, the 
 true one came. 
 
 Her thoughts moved swiftly and she did not keep 
 the farmer waiting very long. 
 
 She shook her head and spoke gently. 
 
 " I couldn't do that. I admire you very much. 
 You're the sort of man I do admire. You're strong 
 and safe ; and if you're hard, you're just. But I d< >n't 
 love you." 
 
 " Perhaps you've never thought upon it ? " 
 
 "Yes I have. I felt, somehow, long ago that you 
 liked me. I was a good hit flattered to think you 
 could. And so I wondered sometimes. But T don't
 
 134 THE BEACON 
 
 feel like that. I hope you'll be my friend still. 'Tis 
 a power of strength to a girl alone in the world to 
 know she has a strong and a kind friend." 
 
 He got up. 
 
 " You're wrong," he said. " 'Tis beyond guessing 
 what things you and me might have done pulling in 
 double harness. But, if you don't love me, there's no 
 more to be said. Only remember this: life's harder 
 than the hardest and stronger than the strongest ; and 
 two hearts can often bear a load that will break one. 
 Marry that man and you'll be a lonely woman as sure 
 as you're born. You'll bear his burdens and he won't 
 know you're doing it; you'll wear your wits to the 
 bone for him, and he won't thank you for your trou- 
 ble; you'll plot and plan his life for him and he'll wish 
 to Christ you'd let him go his own way. He can't 
 understand your mind, because his own ban't built to 
 do it. Can a hawk eat corn? He'll want to keep 
 near the ground, and if you try to teach him to fly 
 you'll get worse than your trouble for your pains. 
 Because if, to please you, he tries, he'll hurt himself. 
 You don't love me. So much the worse for me. I 
 must bear that as I can. And you do love him. So 
 much the worse for you. A friend I'll be to you 
 while I'm above ground — if 'tis only for the sake of 
 what you've taught me. I'm sorry to have wasted 
 so much of your time. And now I'll be gone. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 He prepared to leave her and she rose and put out 
 her hand. 
 
 " Thank you for your friendship. I'll value it far 
 higher than you know. You'll find a better than me 
 before long." 
 
 " Perhaps I shall." 
 
 He was gone, but not before he had swept aside 
 her sophistries and told her the truth. She knew that 
 she loved Trevail more than anything on earth, and 
 she believed that her destiny was to lift his head in
 
 THE BEACON 135 
 
 the land and play the shield, under whose protection 
 he would advance safely to the high places of his life. 
 Obscured by that conviction, she lost sight of Dun- 
 ning and his bleak outlook now; but, later on, she 
 thought upon his love-making and was amazed to re- 
 member the humility of it — as compared with his 
 usual attitude. He had, however, known fairer and 
 wiser women ; and he had been at pains to say so. 
 When Trevail asked, he would not say that. Elisa- 
 beth doubted not that fairer than she had passed be- 
 fore Reynold Dunning' s judgment; but honestly she 
 did not suppose that Dartmoor had offered him any- 
 thing so clever. She had plenty of sense and knew 
 it. She was self-taught, but soundly taught, and 
 towns had sharpened a natural power of observation. 
 Yet — yet he had said she was a wonder; and that he 
 should consider any woman a wonder was remark- 
 able. On second thoughts she liked his love-making 
 and it would have filled a larger part of her subsequent 
 reflections, but for the paramount matter of the quar- 
 rel with Trevail. 
 
 Elisabeth felt cold and rose and went down to the 
 lime kilns. Morbidly sometimes she stood above the 
 gaping pit of red-hot stone and speculated on the fate 
 of any unfortunate creature who might fall in. 
 
 Having warmed her hands and gazed aloft at Cos- 
 don, sinking now into the twilight hour, she prepared 
 to return home. She looked up the valley first and 
 saw the roof of Trevail's farm, and then she de- 
 scended. 
 
 Lucky Madders was below and she spoke with him. 
 He was at the furnace mouth of the kiln ' pulling lime.' 
 Masses of the calcined stone were liberated through 
 the floor of the fire, and Lucky threw what was not 
 ' cooked ' into one pile and collected the lime in heaps 
 upon another. The place reeked with hot and dusty 
 air in which lime particles hung thickly. 
 
 " This here pulling lime be the thirstiest work in
 
 136 THE BEACON 
 
 nature," he sSid; "and that's why for I like it, I ex- 
 pect!" 
 
 He showed her the nature of his toil and expatiated 
 on the value of the material. 
 
 " 'Tis brown lime you see — the very bestest sort 
 for the bricklayer, or the farmer either. White lime 
 be nothing to it and haven't got half the vartue. If 
 I don't know, who should? I've been burning lime 
 for more than half a century. But there's one or 
 two besides me understands. There's master for one, 
 though he wants everything for nothing and often 
 says I'm a wasteful old blid. And Reynold Dunning 
 — he was here a bit ago — he understands too. A 
 very clever man and hates master. He's lusting after 
 this here place and knows a lot about it. He says 
 we waste tons of money working it. ' Better tell Mr. 
 Mortimore where then,' I said to him in my sly way, 
 well knowing how they feel to each other. ' No,' he 
 answered, ' but perhaps I'll show him where some 
 day, when I get the quarry over his head.' 'Tis pull 
 devil pull baker between them men and, sometimes, 
 for all I know what master is, I can't help thinking 
 the battle will go to the younger chap in the long run. 
 And I and a few more ancient men stand and look on 
 very peaceful, for it is all one to us who makes his 
 fortune so long as we get our wages. We all hoped 
 to make our fortunes once; but that dies out, you 
 know. 'Tis just a youthful complaint, and life mighty 
 soon cures it. Then we are contented to hope for a 
 bit of happiness; and then even that goes; and at last 
 we ask no more than to be allowed to creep about and 
 escape from pain." 
 
 He prattled on and presently, having thanked him 
 for telling her so many interesting things, she left him 
 and returned to Zeal. From that hour the azure of 
 her youth's bright sky was clouded. Gloom encom- 
 passed her when she tried to sleep and she wept. 
 Thought and care were already busy with her brow,
 
 THE BEACON 137 
 
 to stamp their impress upon it ; for she belonged to 
 the children of thought and could not escape her her- 
 itage. Her mind tormented her until the day broke, 
 and she tasted the torture that may spring from a 
 man's true love.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ALLIED to superabundant hardiness, energy and 
 vitality, that seemed to link him with a prehis- 
 toric order of beings, Abraham Mortimore, as we have 
 said, observed a rule of conduct, though that, too, was 
 antiquated. His father had been ' an Old Testament 
 man,' as he was fond of declaring; he had received 
 his name from the mythical common father of the 
 Semitic tribes; and upon the tribal God of the Jews 
 did he build his ferocious and egoistic morality. Je- 
 hovah's way with man satisfied this archaic spirit. He 
 did not perceive its shortcomings but only envied its 
 paramountcy. He stood at the point of pure mono- 
 theism reached by Israel after the return from cap- 
 tivity. There was one God for Mortimore, and he 
 conducted his operations, not so much on that God's 
 preaching through the mouth of men, as upon his 
 practice, exemplified in the Pentateuchal narrative. A 
 supernatural being sprung in direct descent from 
 stones and ancestral spirits, was good enough for him ; 
 this fetish justified to himself his own attitude to 
 man. He had a sort of vulpine subtlety, and while he 
 fretted at the injustice of modern laws built for the 
 weak, he obeyed them; but his own gifts of parsimony, 
 thrift and self-control made him a strong man in an 
 age enfeebled by high civilization at so many points. 
 In a town he had proved less powerful; among the 
 rural folk his strength was manifest. 
 
 In reality Abraham Mortimore liked his nephew 
 well. From early youth he had known and befriended 
 Charles, and if his attachment to the younger was 
 more the friendship that a man feels to a dog than 
 to a fellow-man, yet the emotion could be called gen- 
 
 138
 
 THE BEACON 139 
 
 nine. Certainly it exceeded any entertained by Morti- 
 more for another. Trevail was grateful to him, faith- 
 ful to him and useful to him. The amenities of Tre- 
 vail had even served him at a pinch and succeeded with 
 men impervious to his own methods. Trevail, like 
 the sun, succeeded in making a traveller part with his 
 coat sometimes, when the east wind of his uncle failed 
 to win it. " We hunt in couples," Mortimore actu- 
 ally said on a gracious occasion. But long ago the 
 elder had perceived the futility of making Charles a 
 man like himself. He took him now as he was, held 
 him at a certain valuation and used him, when Tre- 
 vail's own peculiar and minor gifts of tact and ur- 
 banity seemed better suited to an occasion than his 
 own drastic methods. At first the younger was thus 
 employed, to succeed where Mortimore had failed; 
 but with time the old man grew more crafty and 
 avoided the risk of failure before any clash of opin- 
 ions had precipitated hot blood. In his own way he 
 was a judge of character, and as Trevail came to 
 man's estate and matured his personality, with its 
 genial good-will and reasonableness, he grew more 
 useful to his uncle. 
 
 But neither influenced the other for good or harm 
 save in one particular. Mortimore was powerless to 
 put any of his iron into the farmer; but insensibly he 
 led him along one of his own paths, and the lust for 
 possessions, that was a part of the elder, began to 
 grow upon the younger also. To this infirmity Tre- 
 vail appeared very pervious. He was conscious of it 
 dimly — sufficiently conscious to conceal it from all 
 eyes but his uncle's. And there revealed it stood to 
 him as a virtue. Mortimore's common sense deserted 
 him in this particular and a quite primitive simplicity 
 was revealed. He hoarded. He distrusted institu- 
 tions and wasted money by keeping it with him. He 
 lent a little indeed at extravagant rates to those who 
 were in distress ; but he was uneasy in this business
 
 140 THE BEACON 
 
 and hated risk. He was fond of bargains; he showed 
 an irrational spirit by collecting all manner of things 
 and storing them. For years he had dwelt in a small 
 thatched cottage at the top of the village. Then his 
 increasing possessions made him fear, and he erected 
 the square and solid dwelling in which he now 
 dwelt. He drew the plan himself, and built the house 
 himself with stone and lime and gravel from the 
 quarry. 
 
 Hither, seven days after his disastrous talk with 
 Elisabeth, came Trevail at dawn. It yet wanted some 
 minutes of four o'clock when he appeared, but his 
 uncle was waiting for him, and together in the pure 
 light of a cloudless morning they set out together to 
 walk to Chagford. The matter in hand concerned 
 the purchase of a house in the adjacent hamlet, and 
 Mortimore, familiar with the present owner, judged 
 that his nephew might haggle to better purpose with 
 such a man than he could. 
 
 They passed by Clannaboro' from which no feather 
 of smoke as yet ascended. But Mortimore saw Rey- 
 nold Dunning ride off in front of them on a pony and 
 his eyes glared lightning at the back of the vanishing 
 figure. 
 
 He said nothing, however, for some time, though 
 the master of Clannaboro' continued to occupy his 
 thoughts. 
 
 " That man's after a woman ! " he broke out sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "What man?" asked Trevail, unaware of the 
 train of thought in his uncle's mind, for there had 
 passed twenty minutes of silence between them. 
 
 " The Clannaboro' man. And I'm hopeful he'll get 
 her. 'Twill be a tower of strength — to me. Halve 
 your interests with somebody else and you weaken 
 your fighting power a lot. If he had a wife and 
 maybe children — it's like offering yourself naked to 
 the world. Your armour be gone. You've got to de-
 
 THE BEACON 141 
 
 fend yourself at fifty places; and you've got less power 
 of doing it." 
 
 " You mean Miss Densham? " 
 
 Trevail's voice faltered. 
 
 " Yes, Lizzie at the inn. I see you know." 
 
 " I know this : that the man that wins her will be 
 a thousand times stronger for it, not weaker. There's 
 not many women like her in the world." 
 
 Mortimore scoffed. 
 
 " A woman's a woman — clay to man's stone always 
 — meant to be ; built to be ; invented to be. And they 
 make up their weakness by craft, as the way of the 
 female creature is. The first man was just like you 
 — else the history of the world would be different. 
 If he'd been like me — well, I might have disobeyed 
 my Maker and ate of the tree ; but I'd have took damn 
 good care my female didn't. That's neither here nor 
 there. They be another name for guile, the best of 
 'em, and I'll not believe that any man worth calling a 
 man is better for tying himself hard and fast to one 
 em. 
 
 " Dunning's like you, but not in that. He wouldn't 
 have thought of her, or looked at her, if he hadn't 
 known she was one in ten thousand — one in ten mil- 
 lion. When was it ever heard that he ever did any- 
 thing but flout women till she came? And I tell you 
 this, Uncle Abraham, if you'd met such a woman as 
 Lizzie when you were thirty years younger, you'd 
 loved her and wanted her — for her strength." 
 
 The other considered. 
 
 "No — wanted her I might; and if I'd wanted her, 
 I'd have got her. But love her I should never. I 
 don't know what that is. And you — you're after her, 
 too, and the work's going to hell in consequence." 
 
 "If you must know, I love her with my whole heart 
 and soul." 
 
 " He'll beat you easy enough." 
 
 Trevail flushed and his lips tightened.
 
 142 THE BEACON 
 
 (< 
 
 Will he? How d'you know? You talk as if we 
 were two men fighting for a granite gate-post. Lizzie 
 Densham is alive. Brute force can't do everything — 
 or anything in that quarter. She's got a mind." 
 
 " So's a tiger got a mind — or a wolf, or any other 
 beast of prey. And she's a beast of prey — every 
 woman is — like every cat is. They only pretend dif- 
 ferent — to hoodwink such of us as can be hoodwinked. 
 But never was a tiger born but could be broke under 
 the will and whip of man. And never was a woman 
 born that couldn't. Don't I know? Haven't I had 
 dealings with them and bested them? But they've 
 never bested me. I saw a man at a beast show once — 
 years agone. He made a gert leopardess do tricks. 
 She curled and coiled and snarled and showed a set of 
 teeth at him like a man-trap. She thrust towards 
 him ; she came as near as she dared. But his whip 
 was in his hand and his eyes were on the creature ; 
 and the beast jumped through a hoop of fire for him, 
 and other fool's tricks. But by God! there was no 
 love lost. ' A great lesson that,' thought I — ' Tis the 
 way to treat men and women — especially women. 
 Never take your eye off.' I talked to the tamer after 
 and looked at his whip. The handle was lead, the 
 lash was leather and steel. He could have cut to the 
 bone with it if need be. And the leopardess knowed 
 that from experience." 
 
 " Your bark is worse than your bite, uncle." 
 
 "Wait till you've felt my bite." 
 
 " I'm going to offer for Lizzie. I'd meant to tell 
 you, but I thought you had guessed. You say that 
 man will beat me. I say he might if she was a stock 
 or a stone. But she cares for me. I've found that 
 
 out." 
 
 "Why? Because you're my nephew." 
 
 " Not so at all. I'll be plain. She don't care for 
 
 you." 
 
 " Naturally — what woman does — or man either ?
 
 THE BEACON 143 
 
 I'm not the sort folk care for. I'd take shame to 
 myself to think I was." 
 
 " Money and promises of money don't tempt her. 
 She's got strange thoughts. They are grand in a 
 sort of way for a young woman to have. But they're 
 above me altogether." 
 
 " Moonshine." 
 
 " Not to her. No doubt time will make her more 
 sensible. But she's very ambitious and always at me 
 to take larger ideas and all that." 
 
 Mortimore was interested. 
 
 "Is she? Well, I don't find fault with her there. 
 I've tried to do the same." 
 
 " No you haven't. You want me harder : she wants 
 me higher. But 'tis all talk between us. I love her : 
 that's what matters. And I know that I'd be a brisker 
 and cleverer and usefuller man a thousand times over 
 if I had her." 
 
 " And what do she think of t'other? " 
 
 " She don't often name him except to quote some- 
 thing he's said. I should reckon she likes his ideas 
 better than she likes him." 
 
 The elder reflected. 
 
 " Well, taking the rough with the smooth, you'll do 
 wiser to drop it. She may have sense, but how far 
 does it reach? To be in love at all is to be a fool, if 
 only for a time. And where the marriages are happy, 
 it means that both are fools in grain ; and where they 
 aren't, which is generally, it means that one or both 
 have recovered. Then there's children. No sane 
 woman wants them surely? Let Dunning get her if 
 he can, and you go your way and watch her mess up 
 his life for him." 
 
 They came to Chagford presently, and at the bridge 
 over Teign, in the valley beneath the village, met Rey- 
 nold Dunning on his return journey. He stopped 
 his pony in answer to Trevail's nod, but addressed his 
 uncle.
 
 144 THE BEACON 
 
 " Good morning, Mortimore," he said. " I may- 
 save you a journey. Are you come about Nicholas 
 Perrott's house — the one he wants to sell? " 
 
 "What's that to you?" 
 
 " Nothing now. I've just bought it. One to me 
 — eh? You save a penny too often, my old bird ; and 
 too often lose a shilling by it. If you went about 
 quicker on four legs and didn't trust so much to your 
 own two, you'd win many a market that you miss 
 nowadays ! " 
 
 He laughed grimly in the other's face and was gone. 
 
 Mortimore stood still upon the bridge. Then he 
 rested at the parapet and crossed his arms, stared at 
 the flowing river beneath, and busied himself with his 
 thoughts. 
 
 " All rubbish I dare say," suggested Trevail. 
 
 But the other put up his hand for silence. 
 
 " Don't you be twittering," he said. " No ; that 
 man never talks rubbish. He's got the house and he's 
 given me a lesson in the bargain. The most useful 
 knowledge in the world is what we get from our ene- 
 mies." 
 
 For once he showed no rage before defeat but rather 
 a sullen amusement. 
 
 " Didn't know he was good for a house like that," he 
 said — to himself rather than to his nephew. 
 
 Then he turned his back on Chagford without more 
 words and began to walk home. In a lane he plucked 
 a handful of dandelion leaves and ate them. For a 
 long time he said nothing ; then he spoke to some pur- 
 pose and surprised Trevail mightily. 
 
 " Get that woman away from him ! " he said sud- 
 denly. " I believe 'tis a rare case where she'd do 
 more good than harm to the man. He's cunning and 
 he's clever, and if he wants her, 'tis not for nonsense 
 but for business. You go for her and get her away. 
 You can dangle a bit of money afore her if you like.
 
 THE BEACON 145 
 
 Buy the woman a gift. I've got a golden brooch that 
 I'll sell cheap." 
 
 The bar of the Oxenham Arms faced north, but 
 upon the opposite side of the street stood a double 
 cottage with a white-washed front, and when the sun 
 shone upon it the light was reflected brilliantly across 
 and flashed into Lizzie's workshop. Often it gleamed 
 upon her face and hair, touched the polished brass and 
 pewter, warmed the darkest nooks and crannies of the 
 old tap-room. The debt was repaid at night, for then 
 a great disc of light thrown from the bar windows 
 flamed out against the opposite walls, and often a 
 grand silhouette of Lizzie's head appeared for a mo- 
 ment there as she bent and eclipsed the light. 
 
 Trevail saw this spectacle now and his heart quick- 
 ened. He entered the bar and waited for a little while 
 until a customer was gone. He came early that he 
 might escape the habitual visitors, for he had much to 
 say, and he knew not how difficult it might be to make 
 his peace. Their last parting had been in anger at 
 the quarry — a week earlier. He came to his apology 
 gradually and found the woman in a gentle mood. 
 She smiled and shook hands with him; but he felt* a 
 barrier. His sensitive spirit told him that there had 
 come a change over him and he wrongly attributed it 
 to their quarrel. 
 
 " 'Tis wonderful how that light shines over the way," 
 he said. " 'Tis just like a magic lantern, and when 
 your head gets between it and the window you can 
 see a shadow picture of you against the front of Mr. 
 Knapman's house. 'Tis like they black outline pic- 
 tures Tom Underbill have got of his grandparents. 
 There's many in cottages and they belong to a time 
 before photographs, I believe. But against the wall 
 opposite you come out huge." 
 
 She was amused.
 
 146 THE BEACON 
 
 " I suppose I do." 
 
 " Let me in the bar a moment and you run out to 
 the door. Then you'll see." 
 
 She agreed and saw Trevail's profile upon the white- 
 wash. He did not know it but the straight lines of 
 his face thus made gigantic were fine. Lizzie admired 
 the effect more than she confessed. 
 
 " 'Tis give and take on the sides of the street," she 
 said. " Mrs. Knapman's a very early riser, and often 
 in the winter 'twas the flash of her kitchen fire, touch- 
 ing the ceiling over my bed, that has told me the time 
 had come to get up." 
 
 Her lover laughed. 
 
 " You're near as bad as my uncle. He makes it 
 his boast that in winter he rises by the light of a 
 morning candle from t'other side of the street. Old 
 White, the woodman, lives there — a bachelor too — 
 and so soon as uncle sees his light glimmering across, 
 he rises up and dons his clothes by it ! " 
 
 The conversation, thus pleasantly begun, kept cheer- 
 fully on until Charles had achieved his purpose. 
 
 " I'm cruel sorry once for all about — about that 
 business in the quarry. It served me very well right 
 for not going up the hill as you wanted me to. And 
 never, never again, Lizzie, will I ask you to go walking 
 anywhere else. You're right and I'm wrong about 
 it and I want to tell you that I'm very grieved for they 
 silly things I said." 
 
 " I've forgotten them, Charlie." 
 
 " Thank goodness for that ; but I haven't. Trash, 
 that's what 'twas, and I can't for the life of me think 
 whatever I was dreaming about. Got out of bed the 
 wrong side no doubt." 
 
 " 'Twasn't all your fault," she answered, but he 
 would not hear that. 
 
 " All — all. I hadn't got a leg to stand upon, and 
 who be I, anyway, to dictate where you shall take 
 your walks? I was properly ashamed of myself after-
 
 THE BEACON 147 
 
 wards — so much so that I couldn't face you sooner. 
 But I'm very well paid out, so I beg you'll forgive 
 me. 
 
 " We can forgive each other," she said. " But you 
 make too much of it I'm sure. People can't always 
 agree." 
 
 "If people don't agree with you, they're in the 
 wrong." 
 
 She shook her head impatiently. 
 ' Don't say things like that. They make me feel so 
 silly. Few women are oftener wrong than me — worse 
 luck. I know that much, however little else I know. 
 We'll say no more." 
 
 " Prove that I'm forgiven then and let me come to 
 the top of the Beacon with you next week. There for 
 choice, for that's the place you love best in these parts. 
 Please, please, Lizzie, I've got a tremendous good 
 reason for asking." 
 
 "The candleberry's leaves are sweet again?" 
 
 " Please say you'll come." 
 
 Two men entered the bar and hastened her answer. 
 
 " Very well, I will. Thursday of next week." 
 
 " Bottom of the lane at three o'clock? " 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " Thank you with all my heart. 'Tis far, far more 
 than I deserve," he said ; and then he was gone. 
 
 A moment later Jack Jope came in with Lucky, 
 while others soon followed behind them. Underhill 
 appeared presently wiping his mouth from his supper. 
 
 " What's this I hear, souls, that Reynold Dunning 
 have bought Perrott's house at Chagford over Morti- 
 more's head? " he asked. 
 
 " 'Tis true enough," declared Jack Jope. The face 
 of this father of a flock was owl-like. He wore a 
 white pointed beard and large, black-rimmed specta- 
 cles. 
 
 " Yes, 'tis gospel. Dunning went off after dawn 
 and 'twas all done by the time Mr. Mortimore arrived.
 
 148 THE BEACON 
 
 He's a good bit surprised it seems. Of course we 
 know what he thinks of Dunning already. But this 
 will make him rage terrible furious without a doubt. 
 He'll be a roaring lion amongst us now." 
 
 " I heard there was an adder got in ' Iron ' Morti- 
 more's house," said Underhill. " He swore he seed 
 it curled up afore the hearth when he corned down 
 yester morning. And it slipped from him like light- 
 ning and went in under the wainscot afore he could 
 slay it." 
 
 Mr. Knapman looked round. 
 
 " We'm all friends here I believe. Let's hope the 
 man will put his foot on it one fine night getting into 
 bed, my dears ! " 
 
 Lucky laughed. 
 
 " Mortimore ! Do'e think one long-cripple* could 
 hurt him? Why, 'twould take the poison of fifty of 
 'em to make him mind. He'd set no more score on a 
 single sarpent than I would on the nip of a flea. I've 
 seen him take a honey-comb from his bee-butts and 
 care no more about the stinging of the varmints than 
 a bear." 
 
 A sudden silence fell, for Mortimore himself arrived 
 to take his evening potion. 
 
 * Long-cripple — a viper. 

 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 MORNING had long broken and the sun, hidden 
 behind soft grey clouds, poured down great 
 fans of pale gold upon the Moor. Earth seemed 
 wrought of nebulous hazes beneath this illumination. 
 They appeared to roll impalpably fold upon fold to 
 the dim foreground ; and across their tender gloom 
 shot broad wedges of watery light from above. A 
 single stream wound out of these brooding vapours 
 and flashed a note of brightness in the midst. It 
 twinkled over shallows and meandered in a ribbon of 
 dull silver through the shadowy earth. Light roam- 
 ing touched a ridge here and there and brought it out 
 of the blur. Then the radiant finger wandered for- 
 ward and the elevation vanished again into the vague. 
 Presently a little blue was revealed above the place of 
 the sun; but the secret of the day did not declare itself 
 until after noon. Then the sky settled into a lifeless 
 opacity unbroken by any rift or passage of moving 
 cloud. One dome of grey shrouded the sky and the 
 light values scarcely changed until evening. 
 
 There was no promise of rain and when the time 
 for her tryst arrived, Lizzie set forth with gladness 
 and frank joy. Because more than a climb to the 
 Beacon's crown awaited her and she knew it. 
 
 No actual word of Trevail's could be said to justify 
 this conviction, yet there was that in his manner of 
 asking her to go upon this walk that spoke without 
 words. 
 
 She understood that he was going to ask her to 
 marry him ; and she knew what she would answer. 
 
 They met at the foot of the lane that ran upward 
 to the Beacon, and having climbed it, they took a 
 
 149
 
 150 THE BEACON 
 
 southern path and came gradually to the summit. 
 They talked but little at first; then he put a question 
 that opened into conversation. 
 
 " 'Tis very nearly a year since you came here, Liz- 
 zie. And what d'you think of it? D'you like coun- 
 try life? Can you look forward to living here for 
 evermore, or do you reckon you're about tired of it? " 
 
 " No," she said. " I'm happier every way than I 
 was. In London I seemed to live by fits and starts. 
 'Twasn't always living. Here I live all the time — if 
 you can understand that." 
 
 " Yes, I can," he answered. " I hadn't the wit to 
 light on such a thought; but well I know what you 
 mean. I lived like that once — just felt I was alive 
 off and on. Months and months used to pass and I 
 didn't get no forwarder and didn't feel anything. 
 Life was just eating and working and sleeping — over 
 and over again. I lived off and on. But I've lived 
 every moment of my life — since you came here." 
 
 She looked up at him and he saw the delicious am- 
 ber flash of her eyes ; then her head fell. 
 
 He did not speak again until they were at the sum- 
 mit — poised on the cairn, like two birds between the 
 sad-coloured earth and sad-coloured sky. 
 
 " Few signs of spring up here yet," he said. 
 
 But she would not have it so. 
 
 " 'Tis here if you look for it. The candleberry's 
 making leaf. The plovers are building their nests." 
 
 " Will you sit here? " he asked. 
 
 In the crater formed at the summit of the hill Tre- 
 vail had long ago made a seat with stones. They oc- 
 cupied it now and sat together in that granite cup 
 under the grey air hidden from all seeing life. Where 
 the pre-Adamite dead had been laid under the stones 
 of this rifled grave, their hearts came together, and 
 a sort of common consciousness, that scorned words, 
 leapt in them naturally and made the man's labour 
 light.
 
 THE BEACON 1.51 
 
 They had known each other nearly a year; they 
 had learned a great deal about each other. He could 
 not choose but feel that she cared for him. His na- 
 ture was of the sort that depends on that knowledge 
 and waits for it before offering. In life as in love he 
 had never taken any risks or set fortune on a hazard. 
 He had reached a point with Elisabeth where he knew 
 that his eyes could ask and hers answer. And the an- 
 swer he felt inevitable, even as she felt his coming 
 question was. Perhaps love seldom declares itself 
 after this jog-trot fashion, since the heart of man is 
 not built often to receive any grand passion so equita- 
 bly. But Trevail was designed upon that mean pat- 
 tern. His love, while a reality, had not sufficed to 
 lift him into any chaos of spirit. He had been uncom- 
 fortable, hungry, troubled, sorry for himself; but his 
 native soul found it possible and indeed incumbent to 
 endure and learn the truth by other channels than 
 asking. 
 
 He came to the matter placidly. He put out his 
 hand and took hers. Then he told her to look at him. 
 
 " Oh, Lizzie, you lovely darling, I know what you 
 are to me. But what am I to you ? " he asked. 
 
 " You know that too," she answered. 
 
 His arms were around her; but his caress was tame 
 to hers. She began to teach him from the moment 
 that they touched. As Venus throws herself upon 
 Mars in the opening thunder of the Lucretian epic, 
 so she now gloriously embraced him. She flung her- 
 self into his arms. She wrapped him in her own. 
 She pressed her hot face and her whole body with 
 passion upon him. Nor did her unexpected ardour 
 find him lacking. He hid his amazement at such a 
 revelation and responded like a strong man. His 
 frame mastered hers and she felt it and shut her eyes 
 and rejoiced. Then she relaxed a little and he tight- 
 ened his embrace. 
 
 He cried to her.
 
 152 THE BEACON 
 
 "Cleave hold — cleave hold of me! My God — and 
 I thought I'd lived afore ! " 
 
 They panted into each other's faces and their calen- 
 ture was primitive, primogenial. Their moments be- 
 longed to the early morning of man's days, when love 
 first began to break loose from sense a little, and run 
 to meet spirit and return again cold. The woman had 
 lifted her betrothal far from Cosdon's summit to an- 
 other environment. Or rather, where love raged over 
 ashes in a cairn, she had wakened echoes of the fierce, 
 far-off time when Dionysus reigned. To a watching 
 and sympathetic soul the ring of granite about them 
 faded now, the grey sky lifted and a westering sun 
 shone red-gold through laurel and myrtle. And be- 
 neath that sudden springing of a sylvan dell, there 
 flashed bright eyes and waved wild tresses; there rose 
 whispered laughter of goat-footed things and whirled 
 a dance of brown thighs and white, where flying faun 
 and nymph ringed round the lovers to the throb of 
 their shepherd god's own syrinx. 
 
 Light had grown dim and evening fallen upon that 
 uplifted earth when, like children hand-in-hand, they 
 came down to the valley again. 

 
 BOOK II 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 MR. LUCKY MADDERS had a home, though 
 the folk pretended that he lived in the lime kilns 
 and only came forth by night to drink at the Oxen- 
 ham Arms. 
 
 At the east end of the long street of Zeal, where it 
 climbs from the valley crookedly, stood a small 
 thatched cottage. The roof was ragged and the face 
 was unclean. The garden, unlike well-kept patches 
 round about, showed nothing but a crop of weeds and 
 willow herb, while from behind them, the cot scowled, 
 like a naughty and dirty child in company of good, 
 clean ones. Thus it naturally became the most inter- 
 esting on the hill. 
 
 Lucky dwelt here with an aged, widowed sister. 
 They were indifferent to appearances and when Mr. 
 Madders fell ill his doctor protested loudly at the 
 state of the cottage and advised that the old man 
 should be removed. But Lucky refused to go, for he 
 had a mighty dread of hospital. 
 
 Now he was recovered from bronchitis, and his sis- 
 ter, who had no false delicacy about what a com- 
 munity owes to its indigent members, went round beg- 
 ging for eggs and other luxuries to forward convales- 
 cence. She collected ample stores, for the invalid was 
 a favourite. 
 
 There came to him now a visitor and Elisabeth 
 Trevail, wife of the master of North Combe Farm, 
 appeared with a little basket. 
 
 This was her first visit to Zeal since her marriage, 
 a month before, and she returned rather shyly. 
 
 iS3
 
 154 THE BEACON 
 
 Mrs. Bolt, Lucky's sister, was in the village, and at 
 the old man's entreaty, Lizzie sat down to talk for a 
 few minutes. 
 
 " You are far too stuffy in here," she said. " Let 
 me open the window." 
 
 Mr. Madders was full of his own symptoms and 
 having detailed them, with dreadful particularity, he 
 asked the other how she liked being married. 
 
 " I never entered the state myself," he said ; " but 
 'tis one of they things you can argue for and against, 
 and I keep my own opinion." 
 
 " I'm as happy as the days are long," she declared. 
 " "Pis a wonderful and beautiful thing to be married 
 to the right man, Lucky." 
 
 " No doubt — a wonderful thing, as you say. The 
 betting's all against hitting on the right one — specially 
 for a pretty piece like you be. However, you seem to 
 have done it, and nobody better pleased than me. I 
 only wish 'twas so vitty down to the Arms." 
 
 " 'Twas cruel bad luck — the little one — " 
 
 " Born dead — yes. Mrs. Underhill is one of they 
 never-stand-still women. Like Martha in the Bible. 
 If thicky Martha had found a husband — which she 
 did not do, the men having no use for her — 'tis any 
 odds but she'd have miscarried. They energetic, tire- 
 less towsers ban't meant for childer. 'Tis the easy- 
 going sort breed best. Tom was a good deal put 
 about by it. And I may tell you that he isn't home 
 so much as he might be." 
 
 " Don't say that." 
 
 " Why not ? You know all about it. You wasn't 
 there for a year for nothing. My sister — Susan Bolt 
 — came upon Tom and that saucy girl, Emma Jope, 
 shoemaker's daughter up in Whiddon Down a bit ago. 
 Susie was walking back from Sandy Park, and she 
 surprised 'em a good bit closer together than any mar- 
 ried man should be to another female than his own. 
 I say these things to you, because you're one of the 

 
 THE BEACON 155 
 
 married ones yourself now and have a large heart 
 and a still tongue. Of course you won't let it go no 
 further." 
 
 " I hope your sister didn't." 
 
 " Oh dear no. Susie had hell for thirty-eight years 
 along with the late Felix Bolt. He ran away with 
 her in her teens — him being under-gardener where 
 she worked as cook-maid. ' A Bolt from the blue ' 
 we used to call him. By God, he was a bad 'un ! So 
 she understands a lot about life in general, and she 
 wouldn't breathe a word to hurt Tom or his misses no 
 more than I would." 
 
 " I hope they'll be happier as time passes," said 
 Mrs. Trevail. " If they were but heart to heart, 
 Lucky, nothing could come between them." 
 
 " You brides be framed for hopefulness," he said. 
 " And a good thing too. If you ban't hopeful now, 
 when should you be ? But the long and the short with 
 Tom is that he done what wiser than him have done 
 and will do : he married the wrong one. They Bur- 
 goynes be the pushing, masterful sort that make his- 
 tory and get in the papers in a creditable way. They 
 win to testimonials and serve on parish councils and 
 catch the eye and thrive. And she's the same. He 
 wanted a let-well-alone woman, as could make time for 
 cuddling and comfort. Then to kill his child unborn 
 through her terrible gift of work — 'twas a very hard 
 blow to the man." 
 
 " You oughtn't to say that." 
 
 " Well, doctor did — that's all I know. He told — 
 however 'tis all one. The people go their own way 
 and life pans out according to the liver." 
 
 " I'm going to Oxenham Arms now — to see them 
 all. Charlie's away in Exeter and Mrs. Underhill has 
 asked me to have dinner with them." 
 
 " The new bar-maid is a failure I'm told. Neddy 
 Knapman was in yesterday to smoke a pipe and give 
 me the news. And a very nice young rabbit he
 
 156 THE BEACON 
 
 brought with him. The kindness you find in 'people 
 as you'd think didn't know the world ! 'Twas almost 
 worth while having the tubes go wrong to see the hu- 
 man nature in this place." 
 
 " We're all very fond of you, Lucky." 
 
 " And well I know it. But the new girl won't do 
 I'm told. She comes from Plymouth and be a cat- 
 handed thing — moves to the crash of broken glass 
 by all accounts. A very violent woman and narrow- 
 minded also." 
 
 " I'm sorry." 
 
 " Narrow-mindedness is a vain vice, and nowhere 
 vainer than in a bar-maiden." 
 
 " Well, I must be gone. I'm very glad you're bet- 
 ter." 
 
 " How's my master? He was in here raging a bit 
 ago. Said I ought to be shamed of myself to lie abed 
 and me no more than threescore and ten. But all 
 things have their uses. My being laid by have showed 
 him that he can't get a lime-burner like me off any 
 hedge." 
 
 ' Uncle knows that very well now. He's storming 
 about as usual. He has missed you a great deal. 
 My husband says you ought to have a bit on to your 
 wages when you go back." 
 
 " Does he? One for him! 'Tis a very proper idea 
 and I shall advance it and I hope you will, if you've 
 got any power with Mr. Mortimore." 
 
 " I haven't. Who has? We are civil to each other 
 and that's all we ever shall be. He likes some things 
 about me and he hates some things." 
 
 " 'Tis a harsh vartue in the man that you can never 
 go in doubt of his meaning." 
 
 " Never for an instant. And that saves an im- 
 mense deal of time. But you want to be very brave 
 to be quite clear with your fellow-creatures always." 
 
 " That's true," he admitted. " Now I never could 
 do it — must always soften the edge of a harsh word."
 
 THE BEACON 157 
 
 " Like my husband. I'm different. I'm more like 
 Uncle Abraham in that. No virtue all the same — 
 just according to your nature. That's the beauty of 
 being married to something different from yourself, 
 Lucky. You learn so much. ' A soft answer turn- 
 eth away wrath ' for instance. Charlie has shown me 
 that." 
 
 She was still in the halcyon hour of wedded life. 
 She loved and she saw her husband through rose 
 colour. 
 
 " A soft answer may turn away wrath," answered 
 the old man, "but it often don't turn away trouble; 
 it often leaves him who speaks it very sick with him- 
 self after. What I say is, if you'm in the wrong and 
 know it, then be so soft as you please; but if you'm 
 right, then don't budge an inch. 'Tis better to have 
 wrath than contempt, and if you turn away the one, 
 you'll be opening the door to t'other." 
 
 " I understand that," she answered. " I'm built to 
 understand that — none better. But I'm going to find 
 the middle way now I'm married." 
 
 " Then you'll find it single-handed," he said, " for 
 not your husband and not ' Iron ' Mortimore will show 
 it to you." 
 
 She left him, walked out of his desolate garden 
 and started down the hill to Zeal. Then another 
 more familiar face than Lucky's confronted her; she 
 passed a horseman and looked up and saw Reynold 
 Dunning. 
 
 He was riding to Oxenham House, where it stood 
 in its secluded groves some distance above the valley 
 beyond North Combe; and business of gravity took 
 him there; but he reined up at sight of Lizzie, hid the 
 fierce sudden throb at his heart and dismounted. 
 
 She smiled and offered her hand. He held it and 
 shook it strongly. 
 
 "Well met,'' he said. 
 
 They had not spoken together since her marriage,
 
 158 THE BEACON 
 
 but they were friends still, for after her betrothal he 
 had reminded her of her promise to count him a friend 
 always. His nature was such that the relation was 
 possible to him ; moreover in his mind the acquaintance 
 embraced remote future chances and added a salt to 
 his life. He had suffered at her refusal, but when 
 he heard that she was to marry Trevail, he told him- 
 self he had not done with her. He took the defeat in 
 a spirit apparently generous and reasonable ; but only 
 because he believed that he knew the woman better 
 than she knew herself. Her friendship for the pres- 
 ent was all that he could hope for; but he looked on 
 starkly, crudely, through a space of five years. 
 
 They spoke a little on general subjects and she 
 asked him where he was going. 
 
 " No matter," he answered. " You can't have my 
 secrets no more. You're on the side of the enemy 
 now." 
 
 "The enemy!" 
 
 " Be the words too strong? Of course your in- 
 ests are with Charlie, and his are with Mortimore ; but 
 you very well know that with Mortimore and me 'tis 
 * which he should ' all the time." 
 
 " I haven't thought of these things." 
 
 " But you will. You're built to think and take life 
 too serious. So much the worse for you." 
 
 " What a croaker you are ! Because you won't be 
 happy, is that a reason why none should be? " 
 
 " Happiness isn't the question. 'Tis the will-power 
 and the hunger to have things different from what 
 they are. You've got it; I've got it. That's the sign 
 of brains. We'd have pulled together and pulled 
 down Cosdon Beacon between us if we'd wanted to. 
 But see the picture of will-power and hunger on one 
 side, linked to the wish to let be on the other. Look 
 at the Oxenham Arms." 
 
 " I'm going there now to see Mrs. Underhill. It 
 will come right, I hope."
 
 THE BEACON 159 
 
 " Don't waste words hoping. Hopes never sowed 
 a seed or gleaned a ear. You know it can't come 
 right. Be Nature going to change to suit a publican 
 and his wife? " 
 
 "Whose fault is it?" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " You've lost your old quick wits, Lizzie Trevail. 
 You ' hope ' and you ask ' who's fault ? ' You'd 
 never have done one nor t'other six months agone. 
 Why do you say ' who's fault ? ' as though either Tom 
 or his missis was to blame? Fault's not the word, 
 unless 'tis the man's fault for being Tom Underhill 
 and the woman's for being Minnie Burgoyne. The 
 Burgoynes are a proud race — yeomanry people and 
 they don't forget it. Terrible alive to what they owe 
 themselves — very jealous for their good name. And 
 she's all that and more. She took easy Tom, be- 
 cause she saw a bit of stuff that she could soak with 
 Burgoyne ideas and make Burgoyne all through. And 
 he took her because he loved her — just that reason 
 and no other. All this ought to be a bit interesting 
 to you." 
 
 " They'll learn to give and take." 
 
 " You watch how it's going to go ; and then you'll 
 see a picture of — " 
 
 He kept the rest of his thoughts to himself and 
 prepared to depart. 
 
 " I won't talk of enemies no more," he said. 
 " Maybe 'twill be your lot to bring us all into friend- 
 ship — eh? You're strong enough to do it if you want 
 to. And never trouble yourself to ask ' who's fault? ' 
 when things happen. We don't say 'who's fault?' 
 when the bullock's hoof goes into the lark's nest; we 
 don't say 'who's fault?' when a spring frost ruins 
 the apple harvest; I didn't say 'who's fault?' when 
 you took Giarlie instead of me. If you want to ax 
 yourself a question, let it be a different one." 
 
 He nodded and rode off and she stood a moment
 
 160 THE BEACON 
 
 and felt the old tonic emotion at sound of him. She 
 associated Dunning with the Beacon now. He seemed 
 to have won his soul from that fastness. Since she 
 had refused him, a gentler spirit had animated him, 
 and this had much impressed her. 
 
 She sat presently at dinner with the Underhills 
 and was happy to see great apparent amity between 
 them. 
 
 The new barmaid and her idiosyncrasies formed 
 the theme of conversation. Tom said little but ap- 
 peared to be easy in his mind and cheerful. Mrs. 
 Underhill had recovered from the bitter disappoint- 
 ment of her child. There was no restraint or cold- 
 ness. They discussed Elisabeth's hopes and am- 
 bitions and promised to drink tea with her at North 
 Combe on a coming Sunday. As Dunning and 
 Lucky had been, they were interested to learn how 
 she prospered with her uncle. It seemed to Lizzie 
 that everybody who knew her apprehended a diffi- 
 culty in that direction. She had done so herself be- 
 fore marriage, but not since. This problem was not 
 allowed to shadow her thoughts in the early days of 
 the new life. 
 
 From Mrs. Underhill the visitor, of course, heard 
 nothing of a private nature. The publican's wife was 
 notorious for reticence and none at the Oxenham 
 Arms had ever won her confidence. She was proud 
 and hid her private griefs and fears from all eyes. 
 Not her mother or father knew from her of the dark- 
 ness that haunted her life, or the disappointments 
 hidden in it. She kept a bold face for the world; 
 did the thing at hand ; hoped still that with time her 
 husband would acknowledge more generously her 
 powers and virtues. She knew that he was not a 
 happy man, but could not see any way possible to her 
 by which his happiness might be increased. Work 
 was her panacea and filled her life; but work by no 
 means satisfied Tom's requirements and she made the
 
 THE BEACON 161 
 
 mistake of supposing her own standards the only 
 right ones. She strove with him to have a higher 
 conceit of his position and consider what he owed 
 himself. When this failed, she reminded him of all 
 that he owed her ; then he challenged her to show 
 him in what his defection consisted. She endeav- 
 oured to do so and hurt him in one mood, and 
 angered him in another. They had many secret quar- 
 rels and as many reconciliations. She had not the 
 synthetical mind to group and measure the relative 
 value of things and their bearing upon each other. 
 She would not yield in minor particulars, that the 
 major issues might the more readily be decided in her 
 favour. Minnie's simple rule was to have her way in 
 everything that nearly or distantly concerned her. 
 She possessed no genius for apt concessions ; but rating 
 her husband as a man of poor judgment and faulty 
 ambition, she ran counter to him almost as often as 
 their opinions differed. 
 
 She admitted no confidantes to share her uneasi- 
 ness ; but her husband could not keep his secrets and 
 took them to sympathetic ears. Sometimes he hated 
 himself for disloyalty but, after he had been married 
 a year, that emotion wore off; he entered upon a 
 sullen phase and convinced himself that he was misun- 
 derstood and much wronged. He found no difficulty 
 in meeting with men and women of the same opinion. 
 His own sex would often loaf at the inn and listen and 
 express commiseration for the sake of the free drinks 
 that flowed out while Tom talked ; and a woman there 
 was who honestly did feel for the publican and did 
 not hesitate to console his bruised spirit whenever he 
 sought her. Perhaps she hardly knew what might 
 come of the friendship at first; but it seemed that a 
 time was near when Emma Jope would have to solve 
 some problems on her own account, for presently 
 both she and Mr. Underhill found that he could not 
 
 well do without her. 
 ii
 
 162 THE BEACON 
 
 When Elisabeth left the inn she saw the girl of her 
 thoughts. A great scarlet tank drawn by two black 
 horses stood before the dwelling of shoemaker Jope. 
 1 Royal Daylight Oil ' was printed in black letters on 
 the receptacle and behind it, chaffing the driver, ap- 
 peared Emma with a can in her hand. 
 
 She saw Lizzie, set down the can, ran across the 
 road to her and shook hands. 
 
 " What a stranger ! And how do you like being 
 Mrs. Trevail? You'm blooming I'm sure! ' : 
 
 The girl was bright and happy. The elder noted 
 that her eyes were brown and beautiful, her mouth 
 small but hard. She had a comely figure and pretty 
 hair, but she was a little creature. 
 
 " And how's your sister getting on — Nellie, I 
 mean? " 
 
 " She likes being married so well as you do. Ned 
 Startup's doing well. There's nothing like being mar- 
 ried seemingly." 
 
 Elisabeth risked a remark to see what the girl would 
 answer. 
 
 " 'Twill be your turn soon — such a maiden for the 
 boys as you." 
 
 But Emma tossed her head. 
 
 " Boys ! I haven't got no use for boys. If I marry, 
 'twill be a man and a rich one. But I shall be an old 
 maid I expect." 
 
 They talked a little while longer, and Emma made 
 no allusion to the Underhills. Her father had found 
 a widow and proposed to marry again shortly. 
 
 " 'Tis Mrs. Cottle from Tawton. She says father 
 always puts her in mind of Moses in her family Bible. 
 I don't stop home an hour after she come. Every- 
 body knows she's a drinker." 
 
 "What'll you do then?" 
 
 " Look round," declared Emma.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 NORTH COMBE FARM was happily planted in 
 the hollow of the land beneath Tawton. It 
 stood half a mile beyond Mortimore's quarry and the 
 blue-stone face of the dwelling-house contrasted pleas- 
 antly with the grey and mossy thatches that covered 
 it. The building faced south, and from her bed Liz- 
 zie's wakening eyes could see Cosdon rising into the 
 morning sky. 
 
 The place was prosperous but too small every way 
 for Mrs. Trevail's ambitions. She did not think that 
 North Combe offered a theatre large enough for her 
 husband's energies. At present, however, Charles 
 had but little money saved ; his uncle exacted an ade- 
 quate rent for the farm ; indeed as her knowledge ex- 
 tended and she began to understand the value of ara- 
 ble land, Lizzie judged that her husband paid too 
 much. Others confirmed the opinion and she felt at 
 this point must the inevitable labour for Charlie begin. 
 In many other directions it seemed that his life cried 
 to her dumbly for help; but she was clever; not for 
 nothing had she seen the wedded life of the Under- 
 bills bud and blossom. The trouble there appeared 
 in too ready and inexorable self-assertion. She saw 
 very plainly indeed where Minnie Underhill was ruin- 
 ing the happiness of her home; and she was full of 
 resolutions to avoid a like catastrophe. In contrasting 
 the two cases she found points of great difference 
 between them. These need not be detailed, since they 
 existed largely in Elisabeth's own opinion and the dis- 
 parity was not so great as naturally she imagined. 
 But on one article of difference she chose most to 
 dwell and told herself very stoutly that in the matter 
 
 163
 
 164 THE BEACON 
 
 of a great, abundant and perfect love her case was 
 quite unique. Honestly she believed that the Under- 
 bills could never have known the full splendour of 
 the passion as it existed between her and her hus- 
 band. Such love, she felt very confident, must sur- 
 vive all stress. 
 
 She had been married nearly eight months and not 
 a cloud was above the horizon ; but her native spirit, 
 having now mastered the situation in all its bearings, 
 began at last to cry out. The honeymoon should end, 
 she told her heart; it was time that she became more 
 to Trevail. She found him a man to love through 
 and through ; she believed that his nature only wanted 
 her sympathetic understanding and intuition to rise 
 far higher. Speaking generally she supposed that 
 only one over-mastering and serious obstacle stood be- 
 tween Trevail and attainment of her ideal for him. 
 
 Mr. Mortimore and she were never friends from 
 the first. He soon perceived a fundamental opposi- 
 tion of principle and wished her away again. He 
 held her presence calculated to unsettle and spoil his 
 nephew's usefulness, from his point of view; while 
 she believed that Mortimore alone bulked as the great 
 stumbling block in the life of her husband. 
 
 Everything centred on this; every mistaken senti- 
 ment and ambition in the life of Charles hinged upon 
 his uncle; every higher thought and purer hope was 
 uttered beyond and without the radius of ' Iron ' 
 Mortimore's influence. So she believed. The older 
 man acted as a permanent eclipse on Trevail's percep- 
 tions, dwarfed his ambitions, sullied his aspirations, 
 made him think meanly ; but Elisabeth fancied that 
 when her husband thought and acted for himself, 
 without reference to Mortimore, he proceeded on 
 nobler lines and showed more of the truth of his char- 
 acter. 
 
 To wrest him from this earthly influence was the 
 mighty task she hopefully considered. And the elder 

 
 THE BEACON 105 
 
 man guessed what she desired to do and watched her 
 closely. It amused him to think of a woman coming 
 between him and the only creature on earth for whom 
 he cared. He knew her husband better than Lizzie 
 knew him; he understood the intrinsic characteristics 
 of Charles and did not for an instant imagine that 
 the influence of any other was going to alter his 
 nephew's outlook or shake his own dominion over 
 him. 
 
 Sometimes, to please Trevail, the young wife would 
 abandon her favourite pilgrimage and, instead, pass 
 pleasant hours with him in those valley regions he 
 liked better. At such hours Lizzie turned her back 
 on the Beacon and dawdled beside Taw, where the 
 river after its long and swift descent from the Moor 
 runs sleek and lazy through the valley reaches. The 
 flat lands spoiled this stream, so thought Elisabeth. 
 All the sparkle and glitter were gone from it ; all the 
 fire and energy were dead; its merry mountain song 
 had departed; it murmured drowsily and lagged in 
 weedy backwaters — a stream demoralized. 
 
 Taw Green was a favourite haunt of the farmer's. 
 Here the river meandered, purring and peaceful, 
 among flat meadows and beneath many trees. It 
 came at length to a bridge of one span. A little 
 gravel beach spread to the brink under it; alders 
 thronged the bank and trailed their lower branches 
 in the water; and the stream, taking a sudden turn 
 and running deeply in a channel, widened again, 
 spread out her shining tresses over a comb of stones 
 and then stole silently away into the green shadows 
 of great oaks. 
 
 To-day the sun shone brightly upon the water after 
 noon ; a trout rose under the bridge, where was dark- 
 ness that fell like a velvet pall across the water be- 
 tween two expanses of sparkling light. Overhead 
 trembled reflected illumination from the river. It 
 flashed up under the bridge and found little stalactites
 
 166 THE BEACON 
 
 that made pearly pendants about the keystone of the 
 arch. 
 
 Here came Charles and Elisabeth. Then they 
 moved to a more secluded place and sat together in 
 a dingle beside the stream. The woman long remem- 
 bered that spot and found every tree trunk and river 
 growth unconsciously impressed upon her mind; be- 
 cause it was the theatre of her first effort to help her 
 husband, the scene in which she began to play her 
 part. Until now she had been passive and content 
 to lean and love. Now it seemed to her that her own 
 self must rise and be up and doing. 
 
 " Life's lovely," she said to him as he lit his pipe 
 and yawned ; " but it's not all love, Charlie." 
 
 " Don't you say that. Let's think it is so anyway. 
 I can't see why you should fancy otherwise. If life 
 isn't all love, love's the best thing in life, and I want 
 nought better." 
 
 " There's nothing better ; but there's other things 
 that matter too." 
 
 " Leave that to me. I'm pretty wide awake — eh ? 
 I've got you, and the nest's worthy of the bird. You 
 needn't fear. Everything that is mine is yours. You 
 just go on loving, Lizzie, and leave the rest to me." 
 
 " You mustn't divide the work like that," she said. 
 " You wouldn't have me a miserable woman twiddling 
 my thumbs all day and never doing my share. Deeds 
 show love more than words." 
 
 " I love words and deeds both," he told her. " I 
 love your speeches better than anything; and your 
 arms round my neck; and your lovely body pressed 
 tight against me. Shine at that — I don't want yon 
 to shine at anything else. Damn the work. Let men 
 work. I hate work and always shall, and I hate to 
 see you work. I look to a time when we'll knock off 
 all that — both of us." 
 
 " Whatever are you saying, you silly boy ! Don't 
 you know how I love work — a regular glutton for it.
 
 THE BEACON 167 
 
 That's the only thing I like about Uncle Abraham, 
 and that's the only thing he hates about you." 
 
 ' Well, let him work if he's so fond of it. Our 
 first and most important bit of work is to keep on his 
 right side. And now we're on it, Lizzie, I do wish 
 you could give and take a bit more there. You have 
 more in common with him really than I have. Be- 
 cause he does like a worker, and he respects you for 
 the way you face things and get through what's to 
 do; but somehow I feel you pull against him a good 
 bit." 
 
 Her husband was carrying the war right into Lizzie's 
 own camp — a thing she had not expected. 
 
 " I hate his meanness. I can't help it. So do you." 
 
 " Why call it that ? Why not say he's more than 
 common thrifty? You must admire his self-denial 
 and stern mode of life. If I was like that, I believe 
 you'd think twice as much of me as you do." 
 
 She took his hand and squeezed it between her own 
 and kissed it. 
 
 "You darling! You know I couldn't think twice 
 as much of you. It's only love that makes me want 
 to help you to have a better time. I wouldn't have 
 you different — only happier and always happier. Oh, 
 Charlie, what you've taught me ! But love can't 
 stand still. It's got to burn brighter and brighter or 
 else dimmer and dimmer. Somehow I feel that. 
 And we — " 
 
 " Go on about us and leave out everything else in 
 the world. I'm never tired of hearing you tell about 
 me. Come here — nearer. Good Lord, Lizzie, I 
 could sit with my arm round you for ever! Work — 
 I cuss the work that takes me out of your sight ; and 
 if it wasn't for you that I did it, not another stroke 
 would I do." 
 
 She came to him and he fondled her and she forgot 
 all about everything but her passion for him. They 
 were lovers still and lived for each other.
 
 168 THE BEACON 
 
 Presently she tried to be serious again and said a 
 bold thing. 
 
 ;< I hate North Combe — what d'you think of that 
 now? " 
 
 ' I think 'tis the first wicked fib you've told me 
 since we were married." 
 
 " I hate it, because it's too small, Charlie — far too 
 small for a man like you. I mean that. I want you 
 to have a bigger farm and bigger views and bigger 
 everything." 
 
 " You greedy rascal ! My views not big enough — 
 eh? My views about loving you not big enough? 
 I'm a bad husband in fact — a sour, curmudgeonly old 
 devil that keeps his poor little ill-used wife — " 
 
 Her arms were round his neck again and she stopped 
 him with kisses. 
 
 " Be serious," she said, " and let me begin at the be- 
 ginning." 
 
 " I won't be serious. I didn't marry you to be 
 serious. The serious part was courting. Thank God 
 that's over. What torments you did give me! But 
 now I've got you for ever and ever — serious? No, 
 not likely." 
 
 " I mean it — a bigger farm — worthy of you and 
 your amazing cleverness at all farming. And then 
 you'll get bigger views." 
 
 " All in good time. The first thing is a bigger 
 purse. We mustn't quarrel with our bread and but- 
 ter, Lizzie. If I left North Combe, 'twould be ' good- 
 bye ' to Uncle Abraham. And I ban't hungry for 
 more. I want to provide against less. Good luck 
 never lasts for ever. But don't you pull a long face — 
 don't you pout — all in good time. You shall have a 
 coach and four horses, and rings on your fingers and 
 bells on your toes yet, if I'm anybody." 
 
 The glamour of the possession of a man was still 
 upon her. She made no further effort then. But 
 she was unhappy in secret. She could not under-
 
 rp 
 
 THE BEACON 169 
 
 stand herself. Trevail had never thrown dust in her 
 eyes before they were married: only her love for him 
 had blinded her then ; but now — now that they were one 
 — it seemed as though a little of his weakness was 
 stealing into her. She felt it — she felt his power to 
 silence her with laughter, and his masculine scorn of 
 her seriousness. This was not good to her and she 
 began to be ashamed of herself and her supinity. Had 
 some of her strength gone into him in exchange for 
 his weakness, she might easier have tolerated the situa- 
 tion; but from the enervations of their love and com- 
 mon worship, there came only something of his spirit 
 into hers, nothing of her spirit into his. 
 
 She felt that not for this she had wedded Charles 
 Trevail. The Sunday under the trees was a mark 
 on her road henceforth. It stood for the hour when 
 she began to struggle with the cloying love that threat- 
 ened to drown her. She knew that she was power- 
 less to help either herself or Trevail while she was 
 content to bathe in these sweet waters ; she became 
 alive to what appeared a danger. She told him as 
 they walked onward together presently that love was 
 precious, but a thing to be kept in bounds and har- 
 nessed to high issues. 
 
 " We've got souls as well as bodies, Charlie," she 
 said. " I'm not going to have you sing small all your 
 life, I promise you. If happiness is to make us cow- 
 ards, then let's taste a bit of trouble." 
 
 "You pretty, brave bit of loveliness! Isn't that 
 just what I'm telling you? Don't you know we must 
 taste trouble sooner or later? That's a dish nobody 
 may refuse, for if we don't clip in it with the best 
 grace we can, Providence crams us — like we cram 
 poultry. Ha — ha — ha — we'll be miserable all right 
 presently! But, hang it all, to think my clever 
 Lizzie wants to taste before her turn! Happiness 
 won't make cowards of us — we're not the cowardly 
 sort. But you can learn a lot through happiness, just
 
 170 THE BEACON 
 
 as well as through trouble; and if happiness don't 
 teach anything else. I reckon it teaches the worth of 
 being happy. Let's be happy all we can and every 
 moment we can — that's what I say. Why, good God 
 — I hate sleeping all night when I wake up and see 
 what's in my bed beside me! Sleep — 'tis to miss hear- 
 ing you breathe — 'tis so much precious time wasted 
 from happiness — 'tis just to be dead when I might be 
 alive." 
 
 " We've been married nearly a year and I begin to 
 feel it's time we took it differently." 
 
 " You naughty woman ! I'll kiss you again, afore 
 them men coming down the road, if you talk like 
 that." 
 
 " Then leave it there," she said. " You're in your 
 schoolboy humour to-day, and so a sensible woman, 
 like I am, is wasted on you. But I'll get you on the 
 Beacon next Sunday — up in the cairn. Then 'twill 
 be my turn and you'll have to listen to reason." 
 
 " Listen — yes — to your blackbird's voice. Be I ever 
 tired of it?" 
 
 " I hope you never will be." 
 
 " 'Tis the only music that I ever want to hear," he 
 said. 
 
 Her heart warmed to him. The road was empty 
 again. She put up her face to be kissed. 
 
 Yet she felt the failure. It braced her — perhaps 
 more than a semblance of success might have done. 
 Some shadowy concession or promise of considera- 
 tion from her husband had perhaps left her elated 
 and impressed with the idea that, after all, her great 
 life's task was not to be so difficult as she had feared. 
 But this laughing attitude — this muffling of every real 
 thing with kisses — irked her. Even as the caress that 
 she had herself invited fell now upon her lips, the 
 woman's smothered spirit struggled to get free. She 
 knew the truth and felt the change ; but for that day 
 she did no more. His love and worship were un-
 
 THE BEACON 171 
 
 utterably precious to her and she believed that life 
 would be worthless if they vanished from it. There- 
 fore she retired within her own soul after that hour 
 and for the time being gave him the victory. She 
 noted, however, how he took it — in a large, indiffer- 
 ent, good-humoured spirit. He accepted her silence 
 on the unpleasant theme, not as a triumph for him, 
 but as a thing inevitable between them. He had won 
 by laughing and kissing. There had been no need to 
 put out his powers. But did he possess powers ? She 
 knew that laughing and kissing do not conquer the 
 world. She had heard indeed that love can. But 
 then what was the whole truth about love? There 
 was so much to learn still, and the time had come for 
 learning. 
 
 He took her to the ford and there together they 
 sat in a secret place — a nest of fern, where thickets of 
 thorn skirted the shallows and the river wound be- 
 tween flowery margins. From here the lovers could 
 see Cosdon's mighty mound rising above the river 
 valley and the woodlands that girdled it. 
 
 The Beacon had entered upon one of its moments 
 of colour and the sunshine of early evening warmed 
 the mass into a glowing whole. The highest lights 
 were on the heath that burned to redness under the 
 serial glow. To the crown of the hill light shone, and 
 where its southern shoulder fell, smoke of fire spread 
 in a transparent blue veil and ascended rosily in the 
 light that came over the edge of the hill. All the east- 
 ern sky was blue. 
 
 Elisabeth held Trevail's hand, but her eyes were 
 lifted to the high places. Silence fell between them. 
 
 " How beautiful it looks to-night," she said. 
 
 " Not so beautiful as a cup of tea will," he an- 
 swered. " And, as for your old hill, I grant it looks 
 fine seen afar off; and the further off the better. 
 That place would be the ruin of you, body and soul, 
 if I hadn't come between. And very well you know
 
 172 THE BEACON 
 
 it, you silly, soaring creature ! I won't have you fly 
 no further than my arms, Lizzie. The nest be the 
 place for the mated bird, and my arms be your nest, 
 you darling dear." 
 
 " I know it, Charlie, I know it," she told him.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A FORTNIGHT later Trevail's wife was daw- 
 dling in the quarry alone. Her husband re- 
 fused to go out after Sunday dinner and declared that 
 he had eaten too much and must sleep. She left him 
 and started for the Beacon; then accident modified her 
 purpose. 
 
 There were a dozen little children playing in the 
 quarry and Elisabeth joined them and warned them 
 of danger in the steep places. 
 
 ;< Come over here," she said. "If you were to slip, 
 you'd break your necks. There's plenty of black- 
 berries this side." 
 
 They followed her and she was directing them when 
 loud voices fell upon her ear and, looking upward, 
 she saw two men in the larches that plumed the 
 quarry crest. One she recognized as the lord of the 
 manor and owner of the quarry ; the other was Abra- 
 ham Mortimore. He spoke in anger ; but the younger 
 man laughed. They separated presently and Lizzie's 
 uncle descended into the quarry, while the owner went 
 over the hill to Oxenham House. 
 
 Mortimore, who was in his work-a-day clothes, had 
 seen the woman and children below and now advanced 
 upon them. Lizzie quickly perceived that he was in 
 a rage and prepared to withstand him. 
 
 " I was telling these little ones to keep away from 
 the dangerous places," she said as he arrived. 
 
 " Was you? Then you'd better have told them to 
 keep away altogether. I'm not going to have the 
 young devils here stealing my blackberries. Money's 
 dirt to you no doubt, because you're a fool — Begone! 
 and if I see you here again, I'll wring your necks! ' 
 
 i73
 
 174 THE BEACON 
 
 This last threat was addressed to the children. A 
 few of them who had already met with Mr. Morti- 
 more to their detriment, were fled already; but half 
 a dozen little girls and an infant remained with 
 Lizzie. 
 
 Now one screamed at the terrifying aspect of the 
 foe, and all hastened away with fear on their small 
 faces. The incident served to tune the woman to a 
 passage-of-arms she had long expected. She was not 
 in a good humour and now accosted Mortimore in a 
 manner that astonished him. 
 
 " You coward ! " she said. " Isn't it enough always 
 to be brow-beating and frightening men and women? 
 Must you bully the babies too? Because yonder man 
 wasn't afeared of you but laughed at your anger, you 
 must come to vent it on a woman and children. What 
 harm are the little ones doing any more than I am? 
 Can't they pick a handful of blackberries without mak- 
 ing you behave like a wild animal ? " 
 
 "That's your sort is it? I thought it was! I've 
 known we should clash and kock up a few sparks 
 sooner or late. Now list to me. If you talk like 
 that to me again I'll turn you out of North Combe 
 neck and crop. And more: you're my nephew's wife 
 now and I expect from you what I expect from him, 
 and I will have it as a right. If you think to speak 
 to me as you used to speak to the people behind 
 the public-house bar, you make a very big mistake. 
 You've thrown in your lot with Charles Trevail, and 
 you don't know what that means yet. But I'll show 
 you." 
 
 " I married him — not you. If I can get him to see 
 you as you are, I shall do. I'm trying all the time to 
 make him a man." 
 
 " Don't you talk. Listen — as becomes you. 
 D'you think I'm going to argue with you more than I 
 argue with him? My will's law, and if you shirk it, 
 down you'll go. Take that man from me and the
 
 THE BEACON 175 
 
 workhouse is all you'll find to cover his soft head. 
 You've got woman's wits anyway. There's cunning 
 in you, else you'd never have took up with him. D'you 
 think I don't see through you? And now I order 
 you to do your share of my work. I didn't let him 
 marry you for nothing. You've got to suit your neck 
 to the collar, my fine, flashing-eyed creature ; you've 
 got to do your share for me — such work as a woman 
 can do. Blackberries are plenty this year, and next 
 time you load your market cart of Okehampton, see 
 that four good quarts of my berries go too. My 
 berries — do'e hear? I look for three shilling and not 
 less. And what's over you may put in your pocket. 
 So now then ! " 
 
 Elisabeth was frankly amused to think that the great 
 collision she had so long anticipated should come about 
 over a matter so ridiculous. Mr. Mortimore's moun- 
 tains of rage often produced such mice as this. He 
 lacked all sense of proportion and could be as wroth 
 about nothing as the most vital issue. 
 
 " You mean you want me — me — to come out here 
 caddling about and wasting my time to pick black- 
 berries for you? " 
 
 " I mean that," he answered. " And I intend it. 
 You've giving yourself too many airs and forgetting 
 the dirt you sprang from. If you intend to be a good 
 wife to Charles Trevail, you'll have to be a good niece 
 to me. Your fate is in my hand and your husband's 
 fate is in yours. At this rate he'll damned soon have 
 to make a choice between you and me; and if I know 
 him he won't hesitate. So you pick my blackberries 
 as a start and find your proper place afore we go any 
 further." 
 
 " You'd better learn a bit about me now," she an- 
 swered quietly. " You've poured out your rude in- 
 sults for five minutes and seem to think I'm only on 
 the level of sheep and cattle or dogs to be ordered 
 about by you. You tell me I sprang from dirt.
 
 176 THE BEACON 
 
 You're a liar. I'm better than you anyway, for my 
 parents were sane, human creatures and yours might 
 have been a pair of lunatics to judge by you. And 
 you say you'll have my husband and me away from 
 North Combe if I'm not careful. Well, that's what 
 I want to happen more than anything on God's 
 earth ! He's thrown away in a two-penny half-penny 
 place like North Combe, and if you drive him out of it 
 you'll only be doing what I'm trying to do; and if 
 you can't, I will — sooner or late. So we think alike 
 there ; and as for your berries, you silly man, you for- 
 get yourself and you forget who you're talking to. 
 Gather your berries yourself, if you can't do better 
 with your time." 
 
 He stared. 
 
 " By God ! " he said. " I'd like to strangle you, 
 you bitch ! " 
 
 " Try and be civil. Men don't strangle women 
 nowadays — not for a quart of blackberries anyway. 
 I'm glad we've had this row. I was feeling wicked 
 to-day and it's done me good. And you came down 
 the hill pretty wicked also. Have as many quarrels 
 with me as you please. I like them. I know what 
 you feel. I feel the same often and often. You 
 want to make things bend to you; so do I. But you 
 won't make me bend. I'll never bend to your 
 sort." 
 
 " Then you'll be broke," he said. " You'll be scat 
 abroad and cast in pieces, like cracked cloam. I've 
 no patience to have any truck with a cheeky girl not 
 twenty-five, and you needn't think it. Pick them 
 blackberries for me you shall; and, come winter, you 
 shall pluck the sloan off the blackthorns for me and 
 scratch your eyes out doing it for all I care. Slaves — 
 slaves, that's what you and your husband be, and the 
 sooner you know it the better. I've waited and waited 
 and give you enough rope ; but I knew by your saucy 
 nature 'twould come to this. So now it stands on a
 
 THE BEACON 177 
 
 simple turn. You pick them blackberries afore next 
 Saturday, or 'twill be the worse for you." 
 
 " You're behind the times," she answered. " Tis 
 strange that such a clever, wide-awake man as you, 
 Uncle Mortimore, shouldn't know where the world 
 has got to. It's left you all behind. Women aren't or- 
 dered about nowadays. You men have taught us 
 quite differently. We're what you made us, and 
 you've made us think for ourselves and take our own 
 views and go our own ways. We don't pick black- 
 berries just because we're told to. I can't pick your 
 blackberries for you, but you may gather some for me 
 if you like. Gather 'em this minute! You haven't 
 had the decency to put on your Sunday black yet, so 
 you won't hurt yourself. Pick 'em, and I'll go and 
 get a basket." 
 
 " D'you want we to fling you down that quarry? " 
 
 ' Use your wits, uncle, and don't ask silly questions 
 like that. I'll tell you what I want; but not now. 
 I can help you a great deal if you'll let me, because 
 I know a great many things you don't know that will 
 be useful to you. But we must understand where we 
 are. We both want to help Charlie I suppose ; but 
 we're too far apart as yet to do it. While you talk 
 nonsense and think nonsense about us being slaves, 
 we can't do any good for you." 
 
 "True I tell you! Slaves you are and slaves you 
 shall be and — and — pick them blackberries or you'll 
 feel the weight of my hand ! " 
 
 " 'Tis only tigers and wolves talk like that among 
 themselves. You'll go to church to-night? Well, 
 come in and have supper with us after. You never 
 have yet, and you'll be welcome." 
 
 ' Don't you think to come over me like that," he 
 growled. " Be I the sort to break bread with 
 people? " 
 
 ' No ; but you might learn. You're so narrow- 
 minded. Why, you'd make twice as much money if
 
 178 THE BEACON 
 
 you spent twice as much. Tis all cheese-parings and 
 green stuff out of the hedges, your savings. If you 
 come to me, I'd soon make you take larger views." 
 
 He stared savagely, stupidly at her, like an animal 
 cornered. 
 
 " Pick them blackberries ! ' he thundered again, 
 " and if you don't, you shall have hell for your pains." 
 
 " You've been practising selfishness for fifty years 
 so no doubt you've grown pretty clever at it," she 
 answered ; " but that's not the way to get on. 'Tis 
 a very silly idea to think you can play a lone hand. 
 Come to me and I'll enlarge your mind a great deal. 
 Why, Charlie could teach you a thousand things 
 you'd do well to learn ! Get a bit more modern : that's 
 what you must try to do — else you'll be left all be- 
 hind — with the foxes and wild things. We want to 
 be friends; we want nothing better than that. Is it 
 likely that I should wish Charlie to quarrel with you 
 unless he's got to do it? But if you mean to treat 
 him as a slave, then 'tis about time we stirred our- 
 selves I'm sure. Be reasonable — " 
 
 But he ended the argument then by an appeal to 
 force. He leapt forward and boxed Lizzie's ears 
 with an open palm. He hit hard and sent her stagger- 
 ing from left to right with one blow, then steadied her 
 with another. Her ears burnt like fire and her hear- 
 ing was disturbed. The outrage left her staggering 
 — panting, blushing with rage. 
 
 " Pick them blackberries ! " he cried for the last 
 time, " and never more do you dare to talk to me." 
 
 She sank down dazed on a stone above the quarry 
 and he went off; but if her mind endured storm, it 
 was nothing to the tempest in his. Him she under- 
 stood. She had only erred in her estimate of his irra- 
 tionalism ; she had only over-estimated his power of 
 self-control before assault. But her sharp, clean- 
 turned words had utterly staggered him and shaken 
 up his estimates of life and his values in general. 

 
 THE BEACON 179 
 
 His rage had risen from a muddy, distracted sense 
 that she was stronger than he, that the thoughts she 
 stabbed into him were true; that he had missed what 
 she possessed. The brute in him arose before this 
 contemptuous attack. He had lost his temper and 
 now went off like a dog who has bitten a man and 
 bolted. The dog knows dimly that there must come 
 a day of reckoning for this ; and Abraham Mortimore 
 knew it. He had not met such an enemy before — 
 an enemy who offered friendship. His sex instinct 
 was non-existent and no sense of chivalry controlled 
 his actions. He dimly felt, as perhaps a bullock feels 
 when butting a heifer, that you must not strike a 
 woman as hard as a man — that in the one case an open 
 palm may be used, where a fist is the natural weapon 
 in the other ; but beyond that he had scarcely reached. 
 A sense of bewilderment crowded down upon him 
 now, that he could have raised his hand at all in a 
 matter of mere words between himself and a woman. 
 What had she said to provoke him beyond words? 
 He seldom resorted to violence unless beaten in argu- 
 ment. And how had she beaten him? "She made 
 me feel a fool," he thought. "And I'll stand that 
 from no living creature." But then he resented his 
 own criticism of the event. None living had ever made 
 him feel a fool before; and was it left to a girl to 
 do it? He remembered his experience of the lion- 
 tamer and the leopard and what he had learned and 
 practised as a result of it. But now he felt that the 
 postions were reversed. He was the leopard. " But 
 she'll not dare again," he said to himself. " Damn 
 the little toad ; she won't court my claws again ! To 
 try to tame me — 'tis her to be the fool when all's said, 
 to think such madness. But she've had her lesson." 
 He could not, however, by taking thought calm the un- 
 easiness in his mind. 
 
 As fur Elisabeth, with singing ears and a painful 
 headache she sat on until the discomfort lessened ; then
 
 180 THE BEACON 
 
 she turned homeward and found her husband in the 
 best of tempers waiting for his tea. He was in the 
 garden and had just picked her a great pear. She 
 said nothing of what had happened but waited to do 
 so until her own mind had grown a little clearer upon 
 the subject. She was questioning her past attitude 
 to Mortimore and asking herself in what she had 
 erred. Actual physical violence from a man to a 
 woman seemed a preposterous notion — crude and 
 brutal. She had heard such things of her husband's 
 uncle, but had not dreamed that they could be true. 
 The revelation astounded and bewildered her. She 
 felt little anger at first — no more than one feels with 
 a refractory child. What to do next was the problem 
 in her thoughts. Life, she told herself, was now 
 about to become an earnest thing and a difficult. She 
 must begin to work — to work upon the rich material 
 of her husband's love. What would he do, she won- 
 dered, on receiving news of this assault? She did 
 not know, and she told herself that it was absurd that 
 she did not know. There could be no shadow of 
 doubt what a husband's attitude to the event should 
 be. Provocation? What provocation could justify 
 a man in striking a woman thus? She grew angry 
 gradually; she even found herself annoyed with Tre- 
 vail — not for anything that he had done, but for what 
 he might do. Then she came to a sweeter mind, and 
 decided to tell him calmly of what had happened, at a 
 later hour, when she was further removed from the 
 event and could consider it with more self-control. 
 He perceived that there was something on her mind 
 and asked for information ; but she put him off. She 
 admitted that an incident had vexed her and promised 
 to speak of it at the end of the day. 
 
 They went to church in the evening and sat in a 
 familiar pew. There was a monument opposite them, 
 the only object in the building that held any charm 
 for Elisabeth. The mural tablet told that beneath
 
 THE BEACON 181 
 
 lay the body of " William Oxenham, Gent., who was 
 buried Feb. 19, 1731, aged 52, and by will gave five 
 hundred pounds yearly to the poor of the parish of 
 Southtawton for ever." 
 
 The finality of this always impressed her and in 
 some subtle fashion produced an impression of pleas- 
 ure. To-night, however, she was distracted. Her 
 Uncle Abraham also came to church, and from his 
 place continually caught her eye and blared at her. 
 She strove to look away from him, but an unpleasant 
 fascination again and again drew her gaze ; and when 
 she looked, she found that he was also looking with 
 a scowl upon his features. She felt helpless before 
 him now. He had revived a Neolithic attitude to 
 woman, and her weapons, if equal to coping with the 
 man of her time, were powerless before this primitive 
 spirit. She told herself that ' Iron ' Mortimore ought 
 to be horse-whipped, but certainly Trevail was not the 
 one to undertake such a task. Of course no younger 
 man could lift his hand to the veteran. The whole 
 situation was grotesque. It belonged to another time 
 and another people. Once a sense of absurdity nearly 
 made her laugh aloud. The folk were singing a hymn 
 and her merriment was concealed; but Mortimore saw 
 it. She was smiling broadly to herself at the thought 
 of having her ears boxed for plain speaking, and he 
 marked her amusement. It angered him as further 
 insolence ; but it did Lizzie good. She believed that at 
 last she had come to the right way of looking upon 
 this extraordinary incident. She now knew more of 
 the man with whom she had to deal. She would not 
 err again. He must be managed differently. He 
 must be treated as a child, humoured, coaxed, dealt 
 with tenderly. The truth only made him lose his 
 temper. And that was a thing of all others to be 
 avoided. She felt that until Mortimore was educated, 
 little could be hoped for. Her main task seemed to 
 .shift its centre from diaries 'Prevail to his uncle.
 
 182 THE BEACON 
 
 That night, when they were gone to bed, she told 
 her husband much that happened in the quarry, but 
 not all. She described her attitude and Mortimore's 
 anger; but she did not mention that he had struck her. 
 
 Trevail listened with deep interest. 
 
 " 'Twas a very dangerous thing to do," he said. 
 " You really must be careful, Lizzie. You don't 
 know him yet, or you'd not have dared to beard him 
 like that. You under-value his cleverness too. No 
 wonder he was in a rage. Whatever were you think- 
 ing about? " 
 
 " The future," she answered. " I'm not a wooden 
 doll, Charlie ; I've dawdled and wasted time here 
 enough. There must be something all wrong all round 
 when that man can tell me seriously to spend my time 
 picking blackberries for him." 
 
 " 'Twas only his rough way of showing you he had 
 the power." 
 
 " Was it ? Well, I've been angry once to-day and 
 I'm not going to be again; but you must be clear, 
 Charlie, before we go to sleep. Do you want me to 
 pick blackberries for your uncle, or do you think, as 
 your wife and a responsible creature, that's not proper 
 work for me? " 
 
 " Of course it isn't. You do get so deadly serious 
 over things. I lay 'twas only his joke. You'd riled 
 him and he's not a patient man, so he riled you back 
 and talked that nonsense and pretended he was in 
 earnest." 
 
 " He never pretends." 
 
 " Then — then I must talk to him — I suppose — I — " 
 
 He broke off and showed irritation. 
 
 " I wish to God this hadn't happened. 'Tis a thou- 
 sand pities, so clever as you are, you can't get on the 
 blind side of him. I see now why he was scowling at 
 us in church. I suppose he thinks I knew all this and 
 am taking your part." 
 
 Lizzie started.
 
 THE BEACON 183 
 
 "And aren't you taking my part? " 
 
 " I don't want to take no part," he answered. '* I 
 want for us to go on steady and quiet as we have been. 
 You must try to see how that man looks to me and 
 how I look to him. I owe him everything, and I'm 
 the only friend he's got in the world. And if you are 
 going to be different and cut him up and anger him, 
 then God knows what he'll do and where we'll be this 
 time next year." 
 
 " You've got money saved. Can't you stand 
 alone?" 
 
 " There's such a thing as gratitude. I'll hear no 
 more of this. I'm not going to quarrel with him ; and 
 more are you. I'm very sorry he was surly and I wish 
 I'd been there to temper it. I'm only thankful you 
 didn't agg him on to strike you. It wouldn't have 
 surprised me and if that had happened, knowing you 
 as I do, I can guess that all the fat would have been in 
 the fire with a vengeance." 
 
 " We must know each other better even yet, 
 Charlie." 
 
 He clasped her close to him and kissed her neck and 
 kept his face against her. 
 
 " You blessed thing — yes, better and better and 
 sweeter and sweeter we'll know each other ! And 
 don't you think I'm not your side body and soul. 
 What's life to me away from you? What's a million 
 uncles and a million farms to me against you ? You'll 
 never know — I swear you never will — all that you are 
 to me. There's nothing else in the world that counts 
 
 but you — nothing. And you'll live to know it, Liz- 
 
 _• >> 
 zie. 
 
 She was comforted. 
 
 " I believe that," she said. " I do believe it. And 
 you mustn't think that I'm only a picture on a wall — 
 to keep inside my frame whatever happens. I'm half 
 yourself, and I'm going to do half the work and have 
 half the trouble and half the blame and half the praise
 
 184 THE BEACON 
 
 and everything. I didn't handle him right perhaps. 
 He's different to any other man I ever saw." 
 
 " Don't handle him at all. Keep clear of him. He 
 can be all right when he's in a good humour. We 
 must be worldly wise, Lizzie. Love mustn't blind us 
 to facts. I want to keep close friends with my uncle 
 — if it can be done without losing my self-respect." 
 
 " The very thing," she said. " 'Tis just your self- 
 respect I'm jealous for — yours and my own. They're 
 the same for that matter." 
 
 " Of course — of course. We'll leave it at that, then." 
 
 His voice told her how thankful he felt to drop the 
 subject, and Elisabeth ceased; but she knew that her 
 notion and her husband's of what constituted self-re- 
 spect were as yet very dissimilar. She asked herself 
 how far her hand would stretch to meet his — how far 
 he must rise and she descend. Then, from this shadow 
 of concession, she turned passionately and burnt at 
 heart long after he slept. Could it be that already she 
 was beginning to sink from her lofty standpoint to 
 meet her husband on some dreary common ground — 
 alike painful to each? Were they both to be miser- 
 able? Was he not to be lifted clear of his own easy 
 ideals into the finer air for hers ? She told herself that 
 she was feeble and weak to let the word ' concession ' 
 enter the argument. She would try for everything 
 and be content with no paltry reciprocity. For his 
 sole sake she would try. 
 
 Her sense of duty kept her awake until dawn and 
 it begot much mental pain. Little demons of thought 
 were busy in the darkness with tiny chisels between 
 Elisabeth's splendid brows. Not forgotten were the 
 Greek moments on Cosdon, but implanted instincts, 
 sprung from a far heredity of introspective and soul- 
 torturing human beings, belonged to her birthright. 
 The bugbear of ' duty ' was all that her parents had 
 been able to leave to Elisabeth Trevail, and already 
 the bequest began to chill her heart a little.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 AT four o'clock on a morning in mid-winter a very 
 wonderful and beautiful night picture offered 
 from the bedroom window of Tom Underhill. Out 
 of the great darkness, without one atom of detail to 
 disturb it, there emerged the dim, white-washed face of 
 the opposite cottages, and such light as never leaves 
 the open air, even at darkest hours, was gathered mys- 
 teriously here. The cottage fronts stared out of noth- 
 ing. Earth and sky were merged into an absolute and 
 impenetrable blank and in the midst the faint plane 
 of white-wash stood ghostly between the upper and 
 lower gloom. One patch of white paper on the in- 
 visible road conveyed the idea of solidity below ; and 
 above, as Underhill looked forth, heaven was also in- 
 dicated, for, through a rift in the sky, twinkled the 
 North Star, with the Dragon swinging round it. 
 Nothing broke the infinity of space between the tragic 
 grey faces of the cots and the remote suns that ap- 
 peared above them; for, through mighty passages of 
 absolute darkness, the eye was lifted straight from the 
 crepuscular glimmer of the whitewash of the stars. 
 They and the human home and the atom of pallid pa- 
 per completed the picture and represented all that was 
 to be seen of the universe at that hour. To the spec- 
 tator, as he peered forth, it seemed as nothing ; yet the 
 spectacle was more by many worlds than he might have 
 witnessed at high noon. 
 
 Underhill rose and dressed. He had ceased to oc- 
 cupy the same room as his wife, and the psychological 
 result of that separation between a man and woman, 
 wont to join in sleep, ha4 served to hasten a moral 
 and spiritual divorce. 
 
 185
 
 186 THE BEACON 
 
 Now the man was leaving his wife for ever. Their 
 heads would not so much as rest beneath the same 
 roof again. She did not know it, but within two hours 
 she was destined to do so. Where she slept peace- 
 fully, with her pressing anxieties forgotten awhile, 
 Care waited in shape of a letter from her husband — 
 husband no more. 
 
 Underhill rayed himself, then went downstairs. He 
 carried a small portmanteau. He took his driving 
 coat from a peg in the hall of the inn, let himself out 
 and soon harnessed a horse into a high dog-cart. No 
 glimmer of dawn as yet broke night, but a fine rain 
 began to fall. He led his horse down the hill and 
 climbed out of Zeal on the eastern side. Already a 
 spark or two of fire in cottage windows told that the 
 folk were rising. 
 
 At the summit of the hill he stopped and lighted 
 his lamps. Then, from a gate by the way, there came 
 a woman to him. She was enveloped in a big coat 
 that hid her shape and turned her into one amorphous 
 smudge. She carried a ' hold-all/ and her hands were 
 cased in white wool gloves, which made them visible 
 against the obscure background of her body. 
 
 Underhill took her bundle and put it at the back of 
 the dog-cart. Then he caressed her. Their breath 
 steamed in a bright fog together under the ray of the 
 lamp. 
 
 "Be it all right, Emma?" 
 
 " Quite all right, Tom." 
 
 " You didn't forget to leave a letter for your 
 father?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 He helped her into the trap, then mounted himself. 
 He wrapped a rug round her and she snuggled close 
 to him. Despite her coat she was so small that he 
 could put his arm round her and still hold the reins 
 with it. 
 
 They started on a trot on the journey to Exeter.
 
 THE BEACON 187 
 
 Dawn broke tardily and the grey was faintly laced with 
 streaks of silver above the eastern hills. They had 
 not spoken as yet. Then the man broke silence. 
 
 " We've done it, Em," he said. 
 
 For answer she lifted up her face and kissed his 
 cheek. 
 
 He looked at his watch. 
 
 " Minnie's reading my letter this minute." 
 
 ' And father's waking and wondering why the mis- 
 chief he don't hear anybody about down house." 
 
 " I'm going to do all that mortal man can do for 
 her." 
 
 " Trust you for that. She's that sensible — Mrs. 
 Underhill. 
 
 " I shall always respect her something tremendous, 
 Em." 
 
 " Yes, Tom." 
 
 " What d'you reckon that she'll do about it ? " 
 
 " She'll pack up her boxes and go back to her peo- 
 ple." 
 
 " She'll find a better man presently — eh?' : 
 
 " No, she won't. There's none better than you. 
 She'll find a different man, that's all." 
 
 " I doubt whether she'll try again." 
 
 " There be those that will tempt her to." 
 
 " I know the very pattern of man for her," de- 
 clared the run-away husband. " But all the same I'm 
 very doubtful if she'll take another. She'll divorce 
 me, and after that I don't know what she'll do." 
 
 " Now let's talk about us," said Emma Jope. But 
 he was too tender-hearted to be in a holiday mood. 
 The sun rolled over the edge of the horizon presently 
 and the dripping hedge-rows flamed with countless 
 gems. Ahead the road glittered and the harness of 
 the horse flashed. 
 
 "What a beautiful morning 'tis going to be," said 
 the girl. Then she grew serious to see that he re- 
 mained so.
 
 188 THE BEACON 
 
 ' Don't you fret for her. 'Twill be no very cruel 
 surprise. She's understood these many days how it 
 was with you. None's to blame. She'll make no 
 scene. She's fine and proud." 
 
 " I've offered her half of all I've got in the world, 
 Emma. 'Tis hers in truth, not mine; and if she 
 was to refuse it, I'd still hold it hers and put it by for 
 her." 
 
 " She may refuse it, however." 
 
 " I hope not." 
 
 Light flooded the earth and life was afoot again. 
 
 " You'll be wanting your breakfast," he said. 
 
 She shook her head ; then she burst out, " Oh, Tom, 
 I will try so hard to make you happy ! " 
 
 'Don't I know it? Don't I understand how 'tis 
 between us? You love me all right, and you under- 
 stand the stuff I'm made of. There's nought grand 
 or pushful or hard about me. I'm just common mud, 
 I am, and 'tis no good axing common mud to be china 
 clay. She was too good for me, Emma." 
 
 " No, she wasn't. You shan't say that to me, Tom. 
 She was too different, that's all. You be made of just 
 so good stuff as she ; and so be I." 
 
 " You're all right. We'll leave it now. Time have 
 got to pass and I've got you for my very own, you 
 dear little mite — that's all that matters to me." 
 
 " I'd go through fire and water for you, Tom." 
 
 " Don't begin that stuff. I don't want no more of 
 that ! " he answered. " So would she — she's said that 
 very same word. Let's have no more fire and water 
 talk. I'm common mud, I tell you, and I will be 
 treated so. I want comfort and peace, and to be let 
 go my own humble way. I want to wear what I like 
 and eat what I like and mess along just as I please. 
 And if you be content to take me as I am and feel 
 satisfied, then I shall be a happy man and you'll be a 
 happy woman. But if you think to alter me and 
 worry about what I owe to myself and all that stuff,
 
 THE BEACON 189 
 
 that frets every nerve in my body — if you begin upon 
 me like that, Emma, then 'tis ' good-bye ' to any joy 
 of life for us." 
 
 " I know — I know." 
 
 " You're young for me ; but you'll make me ten 
 years younger myself in six months and I'll make you 
 a bit older; so 'twill work very well, please God." 
 
 " ' Well ' ban't the word, Tom. I love you and, 
 what's of more account if we'm going to live together, 
 I understand you. I've always been terrible interested 
 in the men, ever since I was a little one; and why not? 
 They'm the most interesting things in the world to a 
 woman — and so they ought to be." 
 
 " I suppose they are." 
 
 " Yes. I hungered after my own man when I was 
 sixteen, and my father said it was beastly unmaidenly 
 in me. But that's how 'twas and I always liked you, 
 from the time you come in the shop and chucked me 
 under the chin and kissed me, and thought I was a 
 child and little knew that I was a grown woman. And 
 your good's mine now; and if you don't care to wear 
 new clothes I shan't want to see you in 'em ; and if 
 you call me I'll come to you, Tom, and your right 
 will be my right and your wrong will be my wrong. 
 And I don't care no more about what any other per- 
 son on God's earth thinks of me than I care what they 
 sheep thinks of me. And that's how I stand." 
 
 " You couldn't say nothing to suit me better," he 
 answered. " And for my part I believe every word 
 you say. We've knowed each other pretty close in 
 secret this longful time ; and you understand the sort 
 of easy man I am, and I understand yon, and I love 
 you body and soul. I never thought 'twas in me to 
 love two women ; but it was to be — along of nature 
 saying I couldn't do justice to the first. And if I 
 don't suit you neither, then I shall reckon there's a 
 screw loose in me, and string myself up." 
 
 " You'll have to behave mighty queer not to suit
 
 190 THE BEACON 
 
 me," she said. "Who be I to fall foul of a man 
 whose chose me — a little go-by-the-ground creature 
 you could put in your pocket? Tis a very wonderful 
 thing you ever lowered your eyes to such a mite ; and 
 if I can't pay you back with body and soul and life- 
 long service, I ban't worthy to lace your boots." 
 
 " I don't ask for nothing impossible — just to be let 
 alone to work out my own life my own way." 
 
 They said no more and, at the village of Cheriton 
 Bishop, Underhill decided they would take breakfast. 
 
 " Be you known here? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " I be — very well known in- 
 deed. The master here is a bachelor with a great 
 fondness for minding his own business." 
 
 Her first instinct was to oppose his idea. But she 
 did not. 
 
 " 'Tis your will and I'm as hungry as you," she an- 
 swered. He alighted and helped her down. Then a 
 boy took the horse and they went in together. 
 
 Elsewhere Mrs. Underhill had risen and found her 
 husband's letter waiting for her. There was a look- 
 ing-glass in their little sitting-room and Tom had 
 thrust his missive into the rim, where she could not 
 fail to mark it. 
 
 Minnie read and stood there alone with her life in 
 ruins round her. For this she had toiled ; for this 
 she had fretted her brains by day and night; for this 
 she had risen early and late taken rest. Her cares 
 had recently been lulled somewhat by Underhill, and 
 the future began to promise more hopefully. Yet 
 even so this news found the woman not very greatly 
 astonished. Rumours had reached her through her 
 own people. The Burgoynes were proud, and Tom's 
 indifference and lack of what they took to be a 
 righteous self-respect had fretted Minnie's parents as 
 well as herself. She had felt suspicious at his very 
 assiduity; she had guessed that a recent access of
 
 THE BEACON 191 
 
 amenity and tenderness might have its roots in other 
 soil than her heart. Now he wrote plainly, hid noth- 
 ing, declared that he was going to live with Emma 
 Jope, who understood him and his nature, and offered 
 Minnie half his money. He wished to be reasonable 
 and just, but he felt that their lives lived together were 
 both being wrecked and he hoped that she would see 
 the futility of a continuance. " You think very 
 meanly of me," he wrote, " and no doubt from your 
 point of view I am pretty well everything I oughtn't 
 to be. But that's not pleasant to know. And if a 
 person makes you stink in your own nostrils and feel 
 ashamed to look other people in the face, then that's 
 not the person you ought to live with. You are much 
 too lofty-minded and all that to get any satisfaction 
 from a common man like me ; and so we must be free 
 to try again. I've got what I want, and I hope you'll 
 divorce me according to law so quick as you're able, 
 and then you must try again too. Luckily your child 
 died, so there's nought to link us together no more." 
 
 Minnie read all; then she ate her breakfast and saw 
 to the ordering of the day's work. There were two 
 lodgers stopping at the inn and she heard what they 
 needed. She let it be known that her husband had 
 gone to Exeter, but said no more on the subject. Then 
 at leisure she dressed and went home to her parents. 
 Her father was a farmer and owned land two miles 
 from Zeal. 
 
 The situation was received with marvellous philoso- 
 phy by Minnie's mother, but Fabian Burgoyne took 
 it in another spirit. The good name and fame of his 
 race was in the mire. Such a catastrophe had never 
 before overtaken the family. 
 
 Tom Underbill had left an address in Exeter and 
 his wife's father now declared an intention of going 
 there to see him before the day was done; but Minnie 
 and her mother argued against any such course and 
 finally convinced him.
 
 192 THE BEACON 
 
 Minnie indeed had decided what to do: she pro- 
 posed to return home as quickly as possible. 
 
 " He and everything to do with him must go," she 
 said. " I'll come back as I went — in all but sorrow 
 and understanding. I've done my best to better the 
 man, and I've failed." 
 
 " You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear," 
 declared her mother. " And for my part I'm thank- 
 ful to God it happened now and not ten years later. 
 You can get rid of him according to law, I suppose, 
 and then you can set to work to forget there ever was 
 such a man." 
 
 That night Fabian Burgoyne consulted his lawyer 
 at Okehampton and the village of Zeal was thrown 
 into profound excitement by the news that Tom Un- 
 derbill had run away from his wife. 
 
 Minnie would have hidden it for the moment, until 
 she was able to return home; but it could not be hid- 
 den, for Jack Jope found a letter waiting for him also 
 on the fateful morning and learned that his daughter, 
 Emma, had thrown in her lot with the publican. Mr. 
 Jope found it quite impossible to conceal his news. 
 His white beard and owl-like spectacles were seen up 
 and down the village all that day. He had affected 
 some concern, but felt none. Towards night, indeed, 
 after not a few potations, the truth slipped in a full bar 
 and the shoemaker spoke to Neddy Knapman, Lucky 
 Madders, Charles Trevail and others who were col- 
 lected at the Oxenham Arms. Mrs. Underhill had 
 not been seen since the morning and some rumoured 
 that she was actually gone home already. 
 
 " You might have blowed me out of my window, 
 like a mote in a beam," said Mr. Jope. " I corned 
 down house at my usual hour to find no fire nor noth- 
 ing and the childer all abed. Then her letter faced 
 me, like the eye of doom, stuck against a mustard tin 
 on the kitchen mantel. In a word the man's singled 
 her out to take the place of his wife. He feels 'tis
 
 THE BEACON 193 
 
 better that him and Mrs. Underhill should go dif- 
 ferent ways, and he's long seen in my Emma the fash- 
 ion of female to suit him. And so they've hooked it 
 together, and come presently, of course, she'll marry 
 him. Tis a very sudden and shattering thing no 
 doubt." 
 
 " Sudden to us — not to them," said Knapman. 
 " Where I go sneaking about after fish or birds, I oft 
 surprise more than game. And I may tell you, now 
 the murder's out, that Tom and your girl have been 
 devilish thick for a longful time." 
 
 " So much the better for that, since it had to be," 
 declared Lucky. " We'll hope that innkeeper have 
 done wisely this time and that your young darter will 
 prove a useful pattern of woman to him. 'Twill be a 
 cruel pity if they have to go through all this trouble 
 and disgrace for nought." 
 
 " There's the disgrace — as you say," admitted Mr. 
 Jope. " 'Tis a shameful thing in a sort of a way for 
 a maiden to mich off with a married man ; but we that 
 know the married state and understand the women can 
 afford to be large-minded. Tom comes to Emma and 
 he says no doubt — well — he tells her what's no news 
 to any thinking creature here: that he's had no luck 
 with his wife. She listens and says she's sorry to 
 hear it. Then — there 'tis. They go from strength 
 to strength. He holds her hand. She lets him do it 
 — for sympathy. She airs her opinions and tells him 
 what be the perfect married life. And well she knew 
 it, for didn't she see the united home of her parents 
 and grew up in the sight of what marriage should be? 
 Then Tom finds out that small piece though my Emma 
 is, 'tis with her like the saying, that little parcels hold 
 the biggest treasures. In a word he offers for her and 
 she — loving the man with her whole heart — for so she 
 says in her letter to me — in a word, neighbours, she 
 takes him outside marriage." 
 
 "'Tis a pretty big come down if you ax me," said 
 
 '3
 
 194 THE BEACON 
 
 a miner. " To go for your little thread-paper of a girl 
 against that splendid, tall, round creature, his wife." 
 
 " We weary of the flesh," answered Jope. " Flesh 
 is grass. 'Tis the spirit in 'em keeps wedded people 
 close, or thrusts 'em apart. When you'm thirsty you 
 take your pint ; but you don't want to live up to the 
 neck in a barrel of beer. Flesh is a passing thing and 
 becomes a habit — a right and proper habit, but no 
 more than that. But between a man and his wife you 
 want understanding souls, and the power to give and 
 take, and the ready twist to see what t'other wants 
 afore he or she knows it themselves. 'Tis very ad- 
 vanced learning that I put before you; but I don't 
 speak off book ; and I've little doubt my Emma will 
 come to be a precious helpmate and wife to the man." 
 
 " In fact you're mighty glad it's happened appar- 
 ently," said Trevail. 
 
 "Of course he is," said Knapman. " It means free 
 drinks for the man for the rest of his natural life, 
 don't it, Jack?" 
 
 " Certainly not. I wouldn't suffer that in any case. 
 There's a very painful side that I can't hide from my- 
 self. My darter's living in sin for the minute. Of 
 course 'tis nothing at all and the law of the land makes 
 it necessary for her to do so." 
 
 " To sin by law's a very queer word," said Lucky. 
 
 " So 'tis then, and you might say that to follow the 
 law is lawful and that to keep in the bounds of the 
 law is to escape sin. But I won't make any pretence 
 of that sort," continued the shoemaker. " Fornica- 
 tion is deadly sin, we all know, outside church or reg- 
 istry office; and then the ugly word drops off from 
 the deed and it grows beautiful and innocent and we 
 call it something else ; but, so far as I can see, in a 
 matter of this sort, they be doing evil that good may 
 
 come." 
 
 What if she don't divorce him? " asked Trevail, 
 What if she can't? " added Knapman.
 
 THE BEACON 195 
 
 " There must be cruelty," admitted Jack Jope. 
 " Cruelty there must be, for that's the added crux of 
 the law, in its wisdom, puts in the path of the woman 
 against the man. But no doubt her lawyers will find 
 that Tom was cruel. In fact 'twould have been very 
 cruel not to be cruel, if I make myself clear; because 
 she don't want to be handcuffed to him no more after 
 this. For that matter she's young and handsome and 
 won't have to wait long to find another sort of man 
 better suited to her bustling and cleansing nature." 
 
 They debated the problem with all its aspects and 
 agreed in this: that Mrs. Underhill would most cer- 
 tainly divorce her husband at the earliest possible op- 
 portunity. There was no feeling or animus in any 
 heart. All appeared to consider that Underhill had 
 shown a very sane spirit in breaking a bond that had 
 become unbearable. And all likewise hoped that his 
 wife would soon find herself suited with a type of hus- 
 band better able to appreciate her manifold virtues. 
 
 Trevail took the news home to Lizzie and they 
 talked long into the night over it. She had little to 
 say and hid her fierce sympathy with the woman ; but 
 the little that she did utter won a negation from her 
 husband. 
 
 " 'Tisn't all his fault and you mustn't think it, Liz- 
 zie. 'Tis a case where the love wasn't strong enough 
 to stand the strain. If she'd loved him better, she 
 couldn't have been so hard all round. She should 
 have yielded a little for his sake. The poor devil 
 found himself with his back against the wall fighting 
 to call himself a man. That couldn't have happened 
 if they'd loved properly." 
 
 " 'Tis just because she did love him so truly, that 
 she was at such pains to lift him above himself and 
 make him take higher views." 
 
 " No," he said. " That was self-love in her. She 
 wanted to mould him anew on the Rurgoyne pattern 
 and hadn't wit to see that it couldn't be done. And
 
 196 THE BEACON 
 
 if she'd loved him better, she'd long ago have stopped 
 torturing him; and if he'd loved her better, he'd have 
 tried even harder to change for her sake and meet her 
 half-way. Look at them and then look at us. You can 
 see it all there in a nutshell. Such things will never 
 happen to us, Lizzie, even though we don't always see 
 eye to eye; because the love we've got for each other 
 would laugh at such a miserable mess and serve to 
 keep us clear of it for ever." 
 
 " I'll believe that with my whole heart," she said. 

 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IN the deep woods under Clannaboro' twilight of 
 evening already hastened not much after three 
 o'clock on a late December day. The sun was low 
 above Cosdon and under the trees the lemon light of it 
 touched dead brake fern to splendour, glittered over 
 the hollies, flashed upon their crimson harvest and 
 found the hazels also, where they straggled, naked 
 save for the little tight catkins awaiting spring. This 
 beauty spread beneath a net-work of ash-coloured oak 
 boughs that lifted trunks, mossy and ivy-clad. Here 
 and there leaves still clung to them and made a pillar 
 of fire seen afar through the grey forest; here and 
 there a blue fir lifted its distinctive colour amid the 
 duns and drabs of the hibernal wood. Aloft a fresh 
 wind sighed; a pigeon sometimes clattered away, like 
 a noisy arrow ; and small birds flittered with subdued 
 twittering forward from tree to tree. They were 
 long-tailed tits and moved in a little company together. 
 Blackbirds sped with shrill outcry amid the under- 
 growth and at the fringes of it ; where an old gate 
 opened upon a track, hung the fruit of the dog rose, 
 gemming a great tangle of briars with scarlet. Above 
 all. through sun-touched reticulations of the boughs, 
 there shone out pale December blue flecked here and 
 there with feathers of golden cloud. These were 
 touched to rose by the sinking light of day. At the 
 gate a horse and trap stood tethered, and deep in the 
 recesses of the wood a man and woman walked to- 
 gether. Lizzie Trevail and Reynold Dunning moved 
 beside a brook that flashed through the brown, leaf- 
 covered earth of the woods. He had promised her 
 good store of holly for winter decorations at North 
 
 197
 
 198 THE BEACON 
 
 Combe and she was come to fetch it. But, as they 
 walked and talked together, the berries were forgot- 
 ten and they spoke of matters more interesting to both. 
 
 She was asking the man for advice. 
 
 " It's long ago now, but I smart still when I remem- 
 ber it. And yet I never told Charlie. I couldn't dare 
 to think of what he'd do." 
 
 " Couldn't you ? It wasn't difficult to guess." 
 
 " A man's own wife to be struck! " 
 
 " Yes — you'd reckon there wasn't much choice for 
 the man of course. But the case is made a bit more 
 difficult than it looks by the nature of things. The 
 man — Mortimore I mean — is old to begin with and 
 unlike other men. Then you must remember how 
 your husband stands to him and what your husband 
 is. In fact all the rest is nothing beside that last point. 
 Trevail is Trevail, and no man will ever see him being 
 much use in a row — even though you're the centre of 
 it. But perhaps I wrong him? Perhaps, if he'd come 
 to know about it, he'd have risen up like a man and 
 flogged that old gorilla within an inch of his life. 
 Can't you see him? " 
 
 " Don't laugh about it. You know he couldn't do 
 any such thing. As a matter of fact he did hear that 
 his uncle had struck me." 
 
 " You didn't tell him however? " 
 
 " No. Mr. Mortimore himself told him." 
 
 " Ah. Swore and growled and said he'd do it again 
 belike?" 
 
 " Something of the sort." 
 
 " And Charlie was terrible angry — with you ? " 
 
 " How d'you know that ? " 
 
 "Don't I know him?" 
 
 " Angry he was — with both of us. He talked pretty 
 straight to his uncle — " 
 
 " So he told you." 
 
 " And I believe it. He told the old man that such 
 things would get him locked up and that he was
 
 THE BEACON 199 
 
 ashamed of him for laying his finger on a grown-up 
 woman. And he told him if ever he did such an in- 
 decent deed again, he should have to leave North 
 Combe." 
 
 " That was all right. I should like to have heard 
 him saying it." 
 
 " You don't believe me, Reynold? " 
 1 Yes I do. But I'm doubtful of him. You might 
 say that I both do and don't believe the man. 'Tis all 
 the way we speak — not the words we use. If I'd said 
 them things to Mortimore, the fur would soon have 
 been flying between us; but with Charlie — I reckon 
 he was about as angry as a wood-pigeon when you take 
 her eggs; and no doubt Mortimore cared less for his 
 rage than for the blow of a thistle-seed on the face. 
 You know how your husband quarrels — as gentle as 
 a dove. He can't help it. He's made so. But when 
 he came to talk to you afterwards, I dare say he was 
 braver and bullied you a bit." 
 
 She stamped her foot. 
 
 " How mean and small you make him ! Can't you 
 see the good side of the man? " 
 
 " Quite as well as you can. You allow yourself 
 that he was angry with you for having made Morti- 
 more angry. And all I say to that is that it looks 
 mean to me." 
 
 " He was right to be angry. I went too far with 
 his uncle. And don't suppose that it all passed like 
 nothing. I tell you that Charlie will never do any- 
 thing really small. He has great self-respect. He's a 
 man and I'm more — far more to him — than anybody 
 else, his uncle included. You must allow for his 
 peace-loving nature." 
 
 " Of course. But you'll find that them as love 
 peace so much, soon get to sacrifice all else for it. In 
 this world you have to pay a heavy price for peace, re- 
 member. You've got to sink your own self, if you 
 have got any character worth calling such ; you've got
 
 200 THE BEACON 
 
 to eat dirt, and offer the other cheek, and tell false- 
 hoods, and hide your own heart close out of the light 
 of day. Peace means all the lies that every herd of 
 men be called upon to tell every time they open their 
 mouths. Peace means saying what you know ban't 
 true, because other people will like you the better for 
 saying it; peace means doing what you despise your- 
 self for doing, because other people will find you more 
 agreeable if you dance to the same tune as them. 
 Peace means other people and what they think — all the 
 time — peace with them — but war with yourself, re- 
 member. Real peace means war with your neigh- 
 bours. So I've found it anyway. You know all this 
 — none better." 
 
 " 'Tis yourself, or the other people; and if you're a 
 Christian, I suppose you must put the others first." 
 
 " Must you ? Then thank God you're no more a 
 Christian than me. For you don't put your hus- 
 band's peace afore your own, else that line on your 
 forehead, between your eyes, wouldn't get so deep so 
 quick. It's come to a stop — and others too." 
 
 " Marriage makes a woman feel a lot older." 
 
 " So much the worse for marriage." 
 
 "Welfare is more than peace. If I can lift 
 Charlie—" 
 
 " You stagger me! " he burst out. " You — so sane 
 every other way — still to bleat that trash. Lift him! 
 Haven't you lived a year with him? Don't you know 
 what he's made of yet?" 
 
 " I do, and I find more reason to hope every day of 
 my life." 
 
 " You don't look like it, and you don't speak like it." 
 
 " I must go on trying." 
 
 " For how long?" 
 
 " For ever." 
 
 " I suppose Minnie Underhill thought the same. 
 Things like that don't go on for ever."
 
 THE BEACON 201 
 
 "How can you mention us in the same breath? 
 'Tis as different as two cases ever were. The Under- 
 hills never loved like my husband and I love. They 
 were never like what we are to each other. And I've 
 a right to say it, without one pinch of unkindness to 
 either, because I lived with them through the first six 
 months of their married life." 
 
 ' They're a lesson to you all the same, and I'll wager 
 you've thought a lot upon them ? " 
 
 " Naturally." 
 
 " And they've frightened you a bit ? " 
 
 " They have not. I was terrible sorry about it, for 
 I liked them both well and both were very good to me ; 
 but there's no need for me to see anything in their 
 trouble that makes me frightened for Charlie and my- 
 self. We love one another so much that there's no 
 room for misunderstanding between us. Everything 
 is small in the light of love like ours." 
 
 " Well, I'm your side and you know it. We must 
 each go our own way, and your way is to try and 
 waken a bigger conceit of himself in Charlie and my 
 way is to — " 
 
 He broke off and began again. 
 
 " It's a curious case. Because if I can put a spoke 
 in Mortimore's wheel, as I'm bound to do presently — 
 then how do we all stand? " 
 
 " Why must you do that? " 
 
 " He forces me to do it. He's never still where 
 I'm concerned. And I ban't the other cheek sort of 
 man. If the old savage will fight, then he shall find 
 me as savage as he is. And I've got more friends 
 than him, so he'll go down. Then what'll Charlie 
 do? He'll tell you I'm an enemy and order you to 
 treat me as such. Yet, from your point of view, if 
 Mortimore was brought to his marrow-bones and your 
 husband found him going down — " 
 
 " He'd stick to him all the more. You don't under-
 
 202 THE BEACON 
 
 stand what Charlie feels to him. 'Tis a very peculiar 
 feeling and I don't think he knows himself all that it 
 means. He has a most ridiculous idea of him." 
 
 " You can't put that right." 
 
 " Not yet." ' 
 
 "If the old ruffian knocked you about again — ? " 
 
 " He won't." 
 
 " He may ; Charlie can't stop it. You don't know 
 half what I know of Mortimore, either of you. He 
 runs his show under the old rule and your Christian 
 ideas be no more than the wind in the trees to him. He 
 shouts for 'self' and you shout for 'duty'; and the 
 man that's playing for No. I always smothers the man 
 that's only playing for principle, because he's in earnest 
 and t'other generally ban't. Duty's always difficult, to 
 begin with, if you're a Christian — difficult and dull 
 and hateful. Why? Because it's only a scarecrow 
 as oft as not, with nothing inside it — no heart or life 
 or anything else. And them as started it knew it was 
 such a fraud that they had to promise a hatful of 
 sugarplums and everlasting life to any that would do 
 it. They stick the vile thing up between us and our- 
 selves — between us and every natural, healthy hope 
 and desire. And who's going to fight for that shadow 
 against a strong man who's got no use for it, and 
 knows what he wants and how it can be won? I'm 
 going to knock the stuffing out of Mortimore pres- 
 ently; but I'm not going to do it by doing my duty 
 according to you Christians. I'm going to do my 
 pleasure — not my duty; and presently in the matter 
 of Charlie, you'll see how far your fancied duty con- 
 tributes to your own happiness, or his either." 
 
 " What helm is there to steer a man or woman, if 
 you take away duty ? " 
 
 " Why, the love you make such a fuss about I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 " And if you love, don't you want to lift and take 
 the burden from the back of them you love? "
 
 THE BEACON 203 
 
 " The burden — yes. I want to take your burden, 
 Lizzie — such as it is. And I shall some day, if you 
 live long enough. But there's many burdens you can't 
 lift; there's many burdens none asks another to lift. 
 And our characters be such. You can't take a man's 
 character from him and give him a new one; and I 
 never yet met the man or woman who would thank 
 you to try, or do anything but curse you if you suc- 
 ceeded. Everybody's character looks a bit burden- 
 some to everybody else ; but only the bearer knows 
 where the shoe pinches, or what he or she would have 
 changed. Take yourself." 
 
 " I'd be thankful for patience." 
 
 " Cant. You wouldn't. None despises patience 
 more than you do. You don't want that." 
 
 "What do I want then?" 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 : There you are! You don't know. We none of 
 us know what we want — only what we think we want. 
 We're all humbugs and hypocrites to ourselves. And 
 none will come fearless to his neighbour and say, 
 1 Friend, better me, or show me how I can better my- 
 self.' " 
 
 " You're not very helpful to-day, Reynold." 
 
 " I love you too well to say smooth things, Lizzie. 
 What is it in your book? Something I can remem- 
 ber about the folly of crying out peace when there is 
 no peace. I tell you a hawk can't bide in the same 
 cage as a linnet. 'Twould love the little bird so much 
 that 'twould end by eating it." 
 
 " You get harder and harder to understand," she 
 said, " and yet well enough I know you only want for 
 me to be happy. Sometimes I ask myself what the 
 mischief I've got to worry about, and for my life I 
 can't see." 
 
 He was inconsequent. 
 
 " I'm always here, and I'm ready to fight all the 
 devils in hell to do you a service," he answered.
 
 204 THE BEACON 
 
 " Better fight the bushes and pick me some berries. 
 The dark's coming down very quick." 
 
 He worked for her, took out a heavy clasp knife 
 and soon gathered a great pile of holly. He added 
 many sprays of ivy torn off the trees, and from a 
 clump of butcher's broom he cut a sprig or two, with 
 red fruits shining upon the leaves. 
 
 " That's for a buttonhole for you," he said and she 
 thanked him and thrust it into her jacket. He looked 
 at the beautiful round of her bosom. 
 
 " I bleat about character, and what we want and 
 what we don't want, and what we can do and what 
 we can't do ; and yet all the time I know you're right 
 and I'm wrong," he told her. 
 
 " How d'you mean? " 
 
 " Why, if you can change one man, you can change 
 another; if you can make one man a thought softer 
 here and there, why shouldn't you make another man 
 a thought harder ? You'll turn the word ' cant ' back 
 against me I reckon, when I talk thus." 
 
 " No, I shan't. There's no cant in you." 
 
 " I don't know. A man's very thoughts may be 
 tinged with cant though he don't know it. And yet — 
 and yet — can we mistake? If I surprise myself and 
 find myself gentler to other people and quick to make 
 excuses for a fool here and there, where afore I was 
 quick to trample? If I find that, mustn't I seek a 
 reason?" 
 
 " I'd sooner help you than any man living — but one." 
 
 " And if you've helped me, who be I to say others 
 shall be out of the reach of help? " 
 
 She glowed and blushed with pleasure through the 
 fading light. 
 
 " And now in your turn you've helped me ! '" she 
 cried. " You've put a glad heart in me and turned a 
 dark evening into a light one. You couldn't have said 
 anything in the world to please me better. 'Tis so 
 very beautiful to help and be helped."
 
 THE BEACON 203 
 
 He sneered at himself even while she spoke, but 
 Lizzie did not see. She was looking away through 
 the woods and her heart went out to the man who had 
 uttered this comforting thought. In her mind was a 
 real flash of hope and joy; in his, more emotions than 
 one, contended. He had told her the truth and knew 
 that it would gladden her to hear it; but the deduc- 
 tion he did not really admit. He had always believed 
 that his nature and Elisabeth's would blend nobly — 
 that a united and sufficing life might have been lived 
 by them ; but he had never believed, and did not now 
 believe, that she and Trevail could lastingly live in 
 unison. His own love for her he understood and 
 knew its quality. It was not fierce but persistent. He 
 imagined it of the finest temper and made the mistake 
 of supposing that a weaker man than himself could 
 neither love so well nor so finely. But the power and 
 quality of love cannot always be inferred from charac- 
 ter. Strong men may be weak lovers and weak men 
 may rise to greatness in that one particular. Dun- 
 ning did not overrate his own affection for this woman, 
 but he underrated Trevail's; and the comfort, beauti- 
 ful and sudden as the last expiring sunset fires, which 
 Lizzie had won from his final reflection was justified ; 
 for the thing that he had said was truer than he knew. 
 
 Her own heart told her that it was true, and pres- 
 ently, when they drove away together, she thanked him 
 once more for saying it. 
 
 " Tis long since I ever felt at such peace with my- 
 self, or so proud," she told him. "You, that never 
 lie, declare to me that you've got something from me 
 worth having. That in itself is a precious thing for 
 a woman like me to hear; and what follows is better 
 still — because if one, why not another? And we can 
 do much for each other for certain, for look how much 
 you've done for me." 
 
 " Leave it," he answered. " 'Tis a stupid act to 
 beat out any thought too thin. But mind, there's
 
 206 THE BEACON 
 
 none understands you like what I do, and none ever 
 will — never! It's been the salt of my life to read all 
 the wonder of you, and I'm beginning dimly to see 
 what you are. Much more to know yet — much — 
 much — but already I know a lot that none else knows 
 or ever will know. You couldn't marry me ; but I mar- 
 ried your innermost part, if you understand that." 
 
 She did understand and felt uncomfortable at such 
 an asserted intimacy. 
 
 " Tis a good thing to me to have you for a friend." 
 
 " I'll prove it yet. But, mind you, not every man 
 could have kept your friend like what I did. Tre- 
 vail couldn't have — not if you had took me instead of 
 him." 
 
 She turned the tables then. 
 
 " There lies the difference between you. Life bites 
 deeper into him. He's more hot-blooded than you. 
 He couldn't have stood by and watched like you. He 
 feels sharper, if he doesn't think so deep." 
 
 " That's interesting and worth turning over," he 
 answered. " D'you reckon that thinking kills feeling? " 
 
 " It deadens it." 
 
 " I wonder." 
 
 " I'd sooner sing with the bird on the bough, than 
 sit with the toad under the stone." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " That's poetry and not my road. Now light down 
 from your cart and come to tea. Mercy Vallance be 
 looking for you. You're one of her favourites." 
 
 Mrs. Trevail had promised to drink tea at Clanna- 
 boro' after the holly gathering and now she entered, 
 while Dunning fetched a cloth and threw it over the 
 horse. The night promised frost. 
 
 Under the opening stars Lizzie drove away home 
 presently, and her thoughts were good as she jogged 
 forward to the rustle and whisper of the holly behind 
 her.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ON a winter's morning early in February, the mid- 
 day sun hung like a lamp above Cosdon Beacon 
 and a dazzling mist spread beneath it in a nimbus over 
 the crown of the hill. Thus the summit was hidden 
 in pure light and Lizzie Trevail, looking upward, be- 
 held new manifestation of beauty unseen till now. 
 
 She walked here alone, for her husband was away 
 on Mortimore's business and leisure offered. She in- 
 tended presently to visit Fanny Cann and drink tea 
 with her; but now it seemed that this holiday would 
 be spoiled, for grey vapours sullied the silver aloft, 
 swallowed it up and smothered Cosdon's head with 
 storm. 
 
 Lizzie took refuge amid great stones on the hillside, 
 but only the edge of the rain touched her ; its rage was 
 spent upon the hill top and presently it swept easterly ; 
 the darkness broke and a blue weather-gleam set in sil- 
 ver winked cheerily over the shoulder of the hill. 
 
 The woman was glad and started again to a favour- 
 ite spot upon the further side of Cosdon. A great 
 wind buffeted her and she pressed against its invisible 
 breast and bent forward. The Moor flashed up with 
 passing sheafs of sunlight that seemed to sink, bog- 
 foundered, in the marshes. They swept about her fit- 
 fully ; but darkness was the gathering note of the day 
 and Cosdon's shoulders, lead and slate colour, sulked 
 storm-swept above her as she tramped forward to the 
 west, with her skirts flapping. 
 
 She sought a very favourite haunt, where a stream 
 leapt from Cosdon's side and fell by a little glen to 
 Taw river beneath. This rivulet was linked with 
 happy dreams in Lizzie's mind. The water of it al- 
 
 207
 
 208 THE BEACON 
 
 ways seemed sweeter than any other that gushed from 
 the mother hill. There were holts beside the brook 
 where she would be safe from the rain and might eat 
 her sandwiches and think her thoughts in the lonely 
 peace of the place and time. For, at this season, 
 weeks would pass without a human footfall on the hill. 
 
 She won to her goal before the next storm had sped 
 hurtling over the Belstones, and when it found the side 
 of the Beacon and emptied its grey vials there, Lizzie 
 had reached a dry crannie and could gaze out without 
 concern at the hail and rain as they lashed the hill to- 
 gether and left a bleak glimmer of white ice under 
 their passing. 
 
 Her thoughts were uncertain as the day and acci- 
 dent willed that the weather of her mind chimed with 
 that Nature meted to Dartmoor. Doubt beat up now 
 and then against hope; it vanished before some sunny 
 memory ; then it swept her mind once more and left a 
 fleeting chill at her heart for the next happier thought 
 to banish. 
 
 Upon the whole, however, though the day grew foul 
 and more foul, the reflecting woman's mind did not 
 share in this deterioration. She argued herself into a 
 good temper, and her reason told her that to feel other- 
 wise was vain. When fear of her own attitude and 
 doubt as to the future got hold upon her; when dis- 
 quiet and the brooding sense that she was not justify- 
 ing existence made her miserable, she always fell back 
 upon the great love that her husband bore her. Dif- 
 fer as they might; argue as they might on the mani- 
 fold problems that beset Lizzie's path, the end was 
 always the same. But she never wearied of hearing 
 him declare his love and joy in her; and if he could 
 not always convince her that her difficulties were ghosts 
 born of a faulty and morbid conscientiousness, yet 
 sometimes he achieved that end ; and when he had laid 
 a spectre and convinced her soul of error, she felt 
 thankful beyond measure, exalted his cleverness and
 
 THE BEACON 209 
 
 [ sense and told herself that she was wrong to feel so 
 [ untrustful and uncertain concerning Trevail's theory 
 I of life. She did not help him much, though daily he 
 
 assured her that she did. It became a habit with him 
 j to say so, and her quick ear presently perceived that 
 I the familiar words were sinking to a mere, lifeless 
 i formula. But when she had done a useful thing, 
 
 from his point of view, or when she did agree with 
 i some proposition that he advanced, then his tone rang 
 
 I true and rose into reality. 
 
 He was stronger than she had guessed in some par- 
 
 I I ticulars, weaker in others. He loved ease and he loved 
 I the equivalent of ease : money. At present he worked 
 
 hard, but he looked ahead to the time when it would 
 no longer be necessary to do so. He was frightened 
 of poverty and privation. Hard circumstances de- 
 pressed him ; physical comfort appeared essential to his 
 mental happiness. He lacked moral courage and 
 paraded instead a very unusual tact in his dealings 
 with other men. He was clever in a diplomatic way ; 
 and herein his wife discovered the unsuspected 
 strength. But it was a strength of intellect, and she 
 found it allied with an instinct towards the devious. 
 She knew that Trevail was disingenuous sometimes. 
 He admitted it ; but with her he never was. She saw 
 and regretted the characteristic and she had wit to see 
 what provoked it. She told herself that she must be 
 above all measure cautious not to bring down this ter- 
 rible weapon upon herself. She believed then that if 
 he hid a part of his heart from her, she would soon 
 cease to want any of it. She was still at the exacting 
 stage of her marital life when monogamic woman de- 
 mands all. 
 
 The stormy day brought a great measure of peace 
 and she turned back presently in a happy frame of 
 mind to her friend. Miss Cnnn however had another 
 visitor and Lizzie presently found herself in the com- 
 pany of one who was nol happy, and for whom happi- 
 
 '4
 
 210 THE BEACON 
 
 ness must now at best be an uncertain possession hid- 
 den in the far future. 
 
 Minnie Underhill sat with the old woman. She 
 had returned to her father. As for Tom, he was back 
 at his home, and Emma Jope lived with him. 
 
 " I'm telling Minnie here what may be worth your 
 while to know too," said Miss Cann, " and that is that 
 Nature makes you handsome girls pay at a ruinous 
 rate for her gifts. You be both pretty clever — you 
 two, but oftener than not with beauty there's no brains 
 to name, and then the poor wretch will find herself 
 bankrupt presently — as they so often do." 
 
 " The clever, plain women get more out of the world 
 than the silly, pretty ones," declared Mrs. Underhill. 
 " You can see that all round you." 
 
 " And even the comely, witty ones, like you, may 
 come to grief," said Fanny Cann, " though I couldn't 
 say a thing like that to you, Minnie, if I wasn't very 
 sure what looks bad for the moment is a blessing in 
 disguise." 
 
 " You needn't fear to speak. I've got over it. I 
 never did suffer so much as my father and mother 
 suffered. That's because I was behind the scenes all 
 the time, but took good care they shouldn't be." 
 
 " You'm not the sort to speak about your own af- 
 fairs, and I admire you for it." 
 
 " No ; but there was a bad side to my silence : they 
 thought I was happy, because I took care not to say I 
 wasn't. And when I just went home and told what 
 had happened, father was a good deal put about." 
 
 " Though he is my nephew, you know what I think 
 upon it; but to be angry with the weak-minded is to 
 be as bad as them. You was not his pattern and I 
 lay you found that out long ago. You marrying 
 women all do, sooner or late. Men be going down 
 as we be going up. They've kept us under all these 
 years; but no more of it. We've escaped at last. 
 'Tis our turn if I read the signs. There's no great
 
 THE BEACON 211 
 
 men now — they've all shrunk into smallness. Tis for 
 us to show 'em what they've forgot: the way to be 
 great ; and you'll live, you girls, to see it done." 
 
 " I was reading a book a bit ago," said Lizzie. 
 " You'll remember a visitor left it at the inn, Mrs. 
 Underhill, and I asked if I might keep it, and you said 
 I might. And the man that wrote it thought that 
 we are unfitted by our mental attributes to take the 
 all round views that are needful in big affairs. He 
 said — " 
 
 " Stop ! " said Miss Cann. " That's enough. 'Tis 
 all summed up in those two words, ' He said.' They 
 write their books for themselves and their all round 
 views be all round ' Number One ' every time. You 
 wait a little longer till there's a few women about writ- 
 ing books for us. Then I'll listen. As for them, 
 they've had their say from the first, and a very ugly 
 say it's been for the most part. Even Paul in the 
 Bible forgets himself when he touches us — because 
 some sensible woman had no use for him, I reckon." 
 
 They drank tea and talked of local matters. Mrs. 
 Underhill had passed through the darkest stages of 
 her tragedy. She did not regard her life as closed. 
 [ To think that girl was barely eighteen! " she said. 
 
 " That needn't surprise you," answered the hostess. 
 " A woman can be as wicked and clever at eighteen 
 as at any age. That's where we beat them again. 
 They be slow in everything and don't come to their 
 full wickedness till their hair begins to turn or fall. 
 We're quicker-minded for good or evil. That little 
 toad he's got now — why, she was a man-trap at 
 twelve." 
 
 " The people go there just the same — so Mr. Dun- 
 ning tells me." said Minnie. 
 
 1 dare say. The common, unclean things will like 
 it better now you're away. You was like a blast of 
 fresh air in the place, and most men be like vermin 
 can't abide change. Oon't think I've been there since
 
 212 THE BEACON 
 
 you went, Minnie, because I have not; and more has 
 Lizzie or any other decent woman. You wouldn't ex- 
 pect it to make any difference to men — until the liquor 
 falls off. That's all they care about. They'll go to 
 any pigstye for their drink — so long as the liquor be 
 strong enough. But I've washed my hands of Tom 
 now. I'll never darken his door again and he knows 
 it." 
 
 "What does your husband do?" asked Minnie of 
 Elisabeth. 
 
 " He thinks—" 
 
 " I don't ask what he thinks: what does he do? " 
 
 " Charlie's a man that takes good care to keep out 
 of other people's affairs. He says that 'tis often a 
 very impertinent thing even to pass an opinion on 
 what happens in other homes. He goes to the 
 Arms to meet this man or that and pass the time of 
 day." 
 
 " He's one of they wise cowards," said Miss Cann. 
 " For my part I've no great liking for them as keep 
 their mouths shut for caution. But 'tis always the 
 way : men take men's side. Your Charlie's no better 
 than the rest." 
 
 " That's quite wrong," answered Elisabeth. " He's 
 a very modest fellow and he shirks taking things on 
 to his shoulders, not because they aren't strong 
 enough to bear them, but because he doubts his own 
 strength." 
 
 " Not so," said the man-hater. " He's like they 
 foreign camels I've read about, that know to an ounce 
 what's their load and make a proper fuss if you put 
 too much on 'em. He won't stand loading and has 
 the craft to know it." 
 
 " You mustn't quarrel with my husband, Miss Cann, 
 for that's the same as quarrelling with me." 
 
 " I felt like that once," said Minnie Underhill. 
 
 The talk waxed desultory but always returned to 
 the theme in their minds. Tom Underbill's mother
 
 THE BEACON 213 
 
 and her attitude to the incident was mentioned by 
 Fanny Cann. 
 
 " Just to show what women are," she said, " and 
 just to show how motherhood may poison their in- 
 stincts, you can't do better than look at my sister, 
 Martha Underhill. Now there's a woman that was 
 wont to think pretty much as I do. But Underhill 
 come along with his airs and graces, like an elephant 
 trying to make love, and at first she scorned him, and 
 then she gave heed, and then she began arguing for 
 him. ' I'm such a whacker,' she said to me, ' that 
 'tis any odds I shall never falls in with a man that 
 stands three inches taller than what I do again.' 
 ' Why for do you want to fall in with a man, at all ? ' 
 I asked her. ' For my part,' I said, ' I've got a lot 
 more respect for the woman that falls out with a 
 man than for her that falls in with him.' But she 
 turned it over, and as you know, took him. Her 
 wedded life was happier than such things go. Then 
 my brother-in-law got too heavy for his heart to work, 
 and so he died. And Martha, left with Tom and his 
 sister, became very religious. And now where are 
 we? Where's her religion now?" 
 
 " You mean she's her son's side," suggested Lizzie. 
 
 " Of course she is. The man can't do no wrong 
 in her opinion. Religion goes like the dew upon the 
 fleece. What was her word to me last week when I 
 was over to Throwleigh? 'Much happens, Fanny, 
 that we can't understand or explain.' she says. ' And 
 this break between my daughter-in-law and Tom is 
 like that. None be more sorrowful than me; hut out 
 of sorrow comes rejoicing,' says Martha, 'ami Tom's 
 far too clever a man to take a leap in the dark. lie's 
 done this with his eyes open, for his peace — and for 
 Minnie's peace.' Yes, she -aid that. ' For Minnie's 
 peace. And Tom be happier than I've known him 
 thi^ two years; and I'm very hopeful that Minnie will 
 soon be the same.' That's her cowardly mother's
 
 214 THE BEACON 
 
 way. But if you'd done it — if you'd marched off 
 some fine morning with another man and left a letter 
 on your pincushion for my nephew, I'd like to know 
 what Martha would have thought then!" 
 
 They discussed Minnie's own intentions. These 
 she herself declared to them, for neither mentioned 
 the subject. 
 
 It was dark before the women parted. The things 
 that Lizzie had said — her judgments on life and her 
 hearty sympathy — attracted the woman who had 
 failed as a wife. They left Miss Cann together and 
 walked side by side for some distance. 
 
 " You've got eyes in your head," said Minnie, 
 " and I always knew you had ; but I didn't know 
 you'd thought so much. With all your cleverness, I'm 
 a bit surprised you didn't take a bit more to Miss 
 Cann's view and keep off marriage." 
 
 " She never loved a man." 
 
 The other sighed. 
 
 " Lucky her ! Well, here's my way. I must get 
 home. I'd like to see you again. I'll come over and 
 visit you one day." 
 
 " Please do, I'd be proud, Mrs. Underhill." 
 
 " Don't call me that. Call me Minnie. I wonder 
 how many have looked back at their old maiden 
 names and hungered to return to them and all that 
 they mean? However, 'tisn't my way to talk that 
 stuff. But somehow you've touched me to-day. You 
 don't pity; you don't bleat. There's a hard grain in 
 you, like there is in me. You've comforted me to-day. 
 You link up things in a way I haven't heard in my 
 family. You look all round and don't miss the 
 brighter side. Good-bye." 
 
 She shook hands and Lizzie kissed her. That 
 subtle, horrible, unconscious sense of the future — an 
 endowment of such women — drew her to the deserted 
 wife. 
 
 She spoke on an impulse.
 
 THE BEACON 215 
 
 " I wish you'd left him! " she said. 
 ' Don't you wish that," answered the elder. 
 
 'Tisn't worthy of you. I wouldn't do much differ- 
 ent if it had to come over again — not much. But 
 one thing I'd do. I'd take greater care of myself. 
 If I could sink to wish anything, Lizzie, where all 
 wishing is but foolishness now, 'twould be that my 
 little one had lived. Oh, my God, how different it 
 would all have been then ! " 
 
 It was dark and Mrs. Trevail could not see the 
 other's face. Nor did Minnie stop for more words. 
 She walked quickly away, while Elisabeth stood some 
 moments in astonished thought. 
 
 At the time of the catastrophe, Tom's wife, true to 
 family traditions, had maintained a stoical composure 
 before the misfortune of a still-born child. Her hus- 
 band it was who suffered most in the event ; and now 
 looking back, the listener perceived that had Minnie 
 revealed her heart a little to him, much good might 
 have come from it. Had she wept when Tom was 
 wet-eyed ; had — 
 
 Lizzie broke out of her futile thoughts impatiently 
 and went home. But introspection's intermittent 
 fever never left her mind for long. She probed her 
 own attitude that night at the edge of sleep ; and she 
 found that unconsciously her feminine company had 
 aroused a wave of anti-masculine instinct. The dis- 
 covery amused her. She turned over, snuggled to 
 her sleeping Charlie and kissed the back of his neck.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 WHEN Minnie Underhill declared that Mrs. Tre- 
 vail had the art to look all round a thing, she 
 paid the younger woman a just compliment. Some 
 accidental twist of brain matter had furnished Lizzie 
 with an unconscious gift of relation hardly to have 
 been expected from her ancestry or training. She 
 possessed a little of that gift of relativity which may 
 be held the supreme test of intellectual breath; but 
 in excess it paralyses action, and, while a proper en- 
 dowment to the metaphysician, often stands between 
 a worker and the thing to be done. The more possible 
 courses, the longer delay in decision. 
 
 Elisabeth's instinct was to survey those links that 
 bound her husband to his environment and judge 
 which most galed and impeded. Had she been able 
 to prove her contention, Trevail would doubtless have 
 broken such links if possible; but the relations that 
 she most wished to see modified were exactly those on 
 which he held the whole welfare of his life depended. 
 In many minor matters she gave way and did not 
 press him, but she believed him seriously mistaken in 
 some particulars; and it puzzled him that she could 
 do so and annoyed him that he was unable to convince 
 her of error. 
 
 His mind was small and established no large re- 
 lations. Indeed he held that to limit interests was 
 wise and to evade responsibility, sagacious. His wife 
 urged him to enlarge his horizons, for she entertained 
 a high opinion of his natural ability and knew that 
 his tact won men and made friends ; but he deprecated 
 the idea. He was profoundly happy in his home; 
 Lizzie filled his leisure abundantly; he wanted no 
 
 216
 
 THE BEACON 217 
 
 more friends and no more occupation than a small 
 farm gave him. He looked to his uncle for the rest 
 and knew that Abraham Mortimore would resent any 
 increased activities that embraced other interests than 
 his. 
 
 Lizzie saw this clearly enough, but she believed it 
 to be a fatal error. That Mortimore should dom- 
 inate her husband's finer mind with his coarse one, 
 she felt to be death for Trevail. She was morbidly 
 quick to mark the influence and there came a time, 
 presently, when she began to feel that his uncle was 
 ruining Charlie. They wrangled, but they loved on. 
 As yet no diminution of passion had blown with chilly 
 blast upon them. Their differences always ended 
 with an embrace, and each secretly determined to go 
 a little way further to meet the other. But sometimes 
 a breath of real acerbity sprang from argument, and 
 the man was generally responsible for it. Lizzie's 
 attitude to ' the main chance ' exceedingly vexed him. 
 With the usual male instinct he held his brain the 
 clearer and the larger. Therefore sometimes she an- 
 noyed him by what appeared a wilful blindness and 
 lack of common sense. Had they stopped to define 
 his favourite expression already mentioned ; had they 
 weighed the meaning of those words, ' the main 
 chance,' some nearer approach to understanding might 
 have arisen from the examination. Because then 
 Trevail must have discerned that widely different 
 ideals existed and that Lizzie's vision of ultimate good 
 differed from his own. But he continued to pursue 
 a personal standard of wordly wisdom, so that her 
 vague aspirations to a loftier and less sordid outlook 
 annoyed him when he was in a bad humour, and bored 
 him when he was happy. 
 
 He, too, had grievances against her, but he had 
 never formulated them until an occasion when she 
 returned from the Beacon late and found him injured. 
 He had cut his hand badly, and since she was away
 
 218 THE BEACON 
 
 from home at the time of the accident, he had been 
 at some difficulty to wash and bind the wound with 
 the help of a clumsy girl. 
 
 He greeted her angrily when she came back, in a 
 dreamy and reflective temper. 
 
 " I wish to God you'd mind your proper work and 
 stop here a bit more instead of messing about on that 
 damned hill and always being out of the way when I 
 want you," he began. 
 
 " I go but once a week and not so often," she an- 
 swered. Then she saw his hand and was all concern. 
 He rated her while she took off the blood-stained 
 binding and prepared to make him more comfortable. 
 
 "If you could only see yourself; but that's what 
 you never do or try to do. You're always at me to 
 throw up this and throw up that and make friends of 
 strangers and show at the shows and do a thousand 
 silly things; but you never get tit for tat; you never 
 hear me say where you might learn a bit more sense." 
 
 " I'm always very ready to listen, Charlie." 
 
 " Well, listen now then and don't talk. I say this 
 business of mooning on Cosdon is foolish nonsense 
 and worse — wicked nonsense. You can't see your- 
 self, or won't; but I can, and I tell you that I've got 
 quite as much cause to be vexed with you as you have 
 to be vexed with me. I see what it's doing. It's get- 
 ting on your nerves and altering your disposition. 
 You come back from the place full of crochets and 
 cranks and want to turn everything upside down. It's 
 cruel work and I'm getting sick of it." 
 
 " It only brisks up my mind and makes me take 
 larger ideas for us both. It's always done that." 
 
 " It unsettles you ; but it isn't the Beacon. A lump 
 of mud and stones surely can't alter a woman's brains 
 and addle them and make her think all wrong. It 
 isn't Cosdon — I won't believe it. It's that sharp- 
 tongued old woman up there that's got a bee in her 
 bonnet and hates men — just because they are men.
 
 THE BEACON 219 
 
 We're never right in her opinion, and if you're going 
 to listen to her twaddle, I suppose you'll think the 
 same; and then life's like to be a pretty poor thing for 
 both of us." 
 
 " That's better," she said, speaking of his hand. 
 " No wonder you're vexed, you poor man. And I'm 
 sure I'm ashamed to think of myself wandering about 
 amusing myself and you wanting me. 'Tis a very 
 ugly cut and I think I'll drive you into Sticklepath now 
 this minute and get doctor to look at it." 
 
 " No need for that. 'Twill be all right in the morn- 
 ing. 'Tis clean." 
 
 She gave him his tea and explained that she had 
 not seen Miss Cann. 
 
 " Don't you ever think she influences me against 
 men. Men have made the world what it is ; and 'tis 
 no good for us women pretending they haven't. And 
 so long as they can make us love 'em, they'll have the 
 whip hand. And don't you be cross with your Lizzie, 
 because she won't stand it. You know I never think 
 for anybody but you; I never worry and plan and 
 plot for anybody but you. You're all I've got in the 
 world and more — far more than ever I dreamed to 
 have. I'll not vex you again. 'Tis only my love and 
 longing to be of use that makes me do it. I can't 
 bear to be outside your life. I want to be in it — 
 part of it, being helpful and wanted and cried out 
 for at each turn. I won't be a dummy — you know 
 that well enough. And we see alike in so much thai 
 the things where we don't are nothing by compari- 
 son." 
 
 They both knew that this was not true, because 
 the vital matters were exactly these in which they 
 could not agree ; but Trevail relented at this soft an- 
 swer and expressed instant regret for his heat. 
 
 " We must give and take," he said. " I know 
 you're as right as possible. I must get bigger ideas. 
 And so I do. You can't see the change; but T can.
 
 220 THE BEACON 
 
 I'm a lot more ambitious than I used to be. I think 
 in hundreds where I used to think in tens. I've opened 
 my old man's eyes in some directions, I can tell you. 
 I've got a larger mind than him, though not so many 
 horse power." 
 
 " A larger mind ! I should think you had, Charlie. 
 Don't compare yourself to him." 
 
 " Leave that. We're friends again and I tell you 
 'tis all nonsense what I said. 'Twas only the sting 
 of this gash over my ringers. We're all right, the pair 
 of us. And don't you think I don't look ahead too. 
 I'm not going to sing small for ever. I've got big 
 ideas in my head; but I mean to keep them there for 
 a bit. I'm not going to work all my life, or let you, 
 Lizzie." 
 
 Thus amity was restored between them; but the 
 woman remembered the sharpest speeches she had ever 
 heard from her husband. They interested her; they 
 did not hurt in the least. Trevail had no more power 
 to hurt her than a child has to hurt its guardian; 
 and there was a danger in that. She felt dispirited 
 at her failures, but blamed herself, not him; and when 
 he was annoyed she instantly set about to soothe him. 
 She loved him as well as ever, and sometimes with a 
 fierce frenzy that embarrassed him ; but she loved her- 
 self too. She cherished her self-respect, and her fail- 
 ure to leaven his weakness with her strength made 
 her cold at times. She had counted on achieving that 
 as a matter of course. She had seen her life's work 
 beautifully knit into her life's love. Whether, with 
 passage of time, the failure of the one would destroy 
 the other remained to be seen. As yet the question 
 had not occurred to her and she felt quite unpre- 
 pared to accept failure. Indeed there were not want- 
 ing many minor evidences of success. 
 
 There came a day when spring had returned again 
 and Trevail was with his sheep. Then Iron Morti- 
 more swept into Lizzie's kitchen.
 
 THE BEACON 221 
 
 " Where's the man ? " he asked. 
 
 " With the eaning ewes. He'll be back to dinner 
 in an hour. 
 
 " Tell him I want him — sharp. He's got to do 
 something for me this afternoon and it won't keep." 
 
 " I'll tell him, uncle." 
 
 He had not seen her for two months except at 
 church. 
 
 " Be us friends? " he said. 
 
 " Depends on you." 
 
 He looked her up and down with his naked stare. 
 
 " No child coming yet ? " 
 
 She understood him and was not more troubled than 
 had a horse or dog regarded her. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " So much the better. Mind, the minute he's swal- 
 lowed his food I want him at Zeal. And bid him put 
 on tidy clothes." 
 
 He went out and then returned. 
 
 " When's your birthday? " 
 
 She told him. 
 
 " I've got a gift for you." 
 
 He departed and she laughed to herself. But the 
 laugh died swiftly. She loathed to hear her husband 
 ordered about in this fashion by a savage. 
 
 Trevail was with his uncle soon after two o'clock, 
 and he wore his market suit of grey tweed, riding- 
 breeches and yellow leggings. 
 
 He found Mortimore impatient and perturbed. 
 
 " It's the quarry," he said. " That blasted chap 
 at Oxenham House is one of the pinnicking, polite 
 sort, and I can't get him to come to grips. The lease 
 runs out in two years from Michaelmas and I want 
 to renew it and have done with it. There's one or 
 two after it a'ready, and I've been told as that devil, 
 Dunning, have been seen up at the House." 
 
 " Have you been up? "
 
 222 THE BEACON 
 
 " Twice. Fust time he wouldn't see me, because 
 he was engaged, and second time, afore I'd been with 
 the man two minutes, he rang for one of his male 
 servants and had me shown out. Plain English ban't 
 no good to him, so I want for you to go up this after- 
 noon. I've found out he's to home and I want in so 
 many words to know if he'll renew my lease, and if 
 he won't, why he won't." 
 
 " Perhaps 'tis a bit too soon to go into it." 
 
 " Be damned to that ! Nothing can be done too 
 soon when you've got a lot of sly rogues trying to 
 chouse you out of your own. I've a right to the re- 
 fusal of the lease and he can't in reason or justice give 
 it to any man over me." 
 
 " Perhaps he's going to put up the rent, uncle." 
 
 " Then why don't he say so and be straight instead 
 of crooked? " 
 
 " What did he say to you? " 
 
 " Nought. Wouldn't discuss it. He had his ideas 
 as to the future of the quarry, but in his opinion the 
 time wasn't ripe or some such jargon." 
 
 " He'll say the same to me." 
 
 " Not if you use your wits. You know how to 
 soap over these men and get ' yes ' or ' no ' out of 
 'em — I don't. So get along to him and then come 
 back here." 
 
 The farmer went immediately and presently spoke 
 with a young man who had lately entered into his 
 patrimony. The estates were involved and the heir 
 felt impressed with the fact that his revenues ought 
 to be far higher than they were. 
 
 Trevail pleased him with a display of civility and 
 respectful sympathy. He knew something of the 
 young man's problems and hinted that he was already 
 popular in the district. Upon the subject of the 
 quarry, however, the owner was not prepared to dwell. 
 
 " I couldn't discuss the matter with Mr. Mortimore, 
 because he made such a noise and forgot himself. The
 
 THE BEACON 223 
 
 facts are clear enough : the quarry is worth a higher 
 rent than he pays, and at the termination of his lease, 
 the rent will be raised to the next tenant." 
 
 " Certainly, sir. If it's worth more, you ought to 
 get more for it. I'm sure my uncle will see that. 
 But he's proud of the quarry work and has built up a 
 steady little business on it, and he feels that, perhaps, 
 you wouldn't take it amiss if he asked for the first re- 
 fusal of the new lease. He's been a good tenant for 
 a great many years now and I don't think that any- 
 body in these parts would work it better or keep all the 
 machinery in such good-going order." 
 
 " I've nothing to grumble at. But I'm not pre- 
 pared to commit myself to any promise. Mr. Morti- 
 more has the place for two years yet. At the end of 
 that time I may invite tenders, or devise some other 
 scheme for the quarry. 
 
 " You won't give him any advantage by reason of 
 his long lease and good tenancy? " 
 
 The younger man considered. 
 
 " I want to be reasonable. I will say nothing at 
 present. You had better act for him and see me or 
 my agent again on this subject next Michaelmas 
 twelvemonth. By that time I shall have straightened 
 things out a little I hope. This will serve as a re- 
 minder to us both." 
 
 He made a brief memorandum and handed it to 
 Trevail. 
 
 The latter thanked him and added a few more 
 words on Mortimore's behalf. 
 
 " He's rough, but he's a good sort and your quarry 
 be more to him than anything in the world. Wrapped 
 up in it you might say. And he wanted me to say 
 that if you meant to lime the big field under the wood, 
 he'd esteem it a great favour to have twenty tons ready 
 for you for nothing when you're ready for it." 
 
 " On no account. I shall be buying the lime pres- 
 ently and shall, of course, come to my quarry for it.
 
 224 THE BEACON 
 
 And I trust Mr. Mortimore may prove to be the future 
 tenant. There is no sentiment about the matter, but, 
 other things being equal, I shall favour him. Don't 
 let him come here, however. His manners annoy 
 me. 
 
 " His bark is worse than his bite, sir." 
 " No doubt ; but I hate men who bark." 
 Trevail took his leave with a courtesy and deference 
 natural to him; and presently another of his inherent 
 qualities appeared in a subsequent conversation with 
 Abraham Mortimore. 
 
 He related the substance of his interview, but he 
 was politic and tempered it. An independent hearer 
 had gathered from his narrative more promise for the 
 present tenant than really existed. But the old man 
 was not very grateful to his nephew. He had hoped 
 for something definite. It was his way to look ahead, 
 and uncertainty upon a subject so vital at the lime- 
 stone quarry exasperated him not a little.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 MINNIE UNDERHILL had to make choice be- 
 tween a judicial separation, under which the law 
 would prevent her husband from marrying again until 
 her death ; or a divorce at the end of two years from 
 her desertion. She decided upon the latter course; 
 and now nearly half the time was gone when her name 
 rose upon two tongues, where Elisabeth Trevail and 
 Reynold Dunning talked beside the quarry pool. 
 
 The leaves had fallen and a network of grey and 
 brown boughs made tender colour round the tarn. 
 Mist hung about the place and all the tones of ink- 
 black water and shadowy banks were sombre, save 
 where, springing from the cliff face there towered 
 twin birches silvery bright. Silence homed here in 
 an hour at the edge of dusk. Only the voices of the 
 man and woman broke it. She sat on the edge of 
 Iron Mortimore's punt, which had been drawn up 
 out of the water; and Dunning stood beside her. 
 
 " Minnie's in London along with her brother. He 
 lost his wife three months ago and she's gone to look 
 after him for a bit. I almost envy her sometimes." 
 
 " Because Tom chucked her? " 
 
 "Good gracious no, Reynold! Because she's in 
 London. I hated it when I left it — but now — some- 
 times — I can't help wondering if 'twould do Charlie 
 good to be there." 
 
 " 'Twould choke him. Charlie won't stand trans- 
 planting. He's like a maggol in a pear. Pull him 
 • nit and he'll die. He's known no other home than 
 this and couldn't flourish nowhere else." 
 
 " He's so uneven — my Charlie. Talk of women 
 being uneven! I've often thought that I've got him 
 15 225
 
 226 
 
 THE BEACON 
 
 to see at last, and fallen to sleep with a light heart. 
 Then, in the morning, he's gone back on it." 
 
 " Got him to see what ? " 
 
 " You know well enough; or if you don't, 'tisn't for 
 want of telling." 
 
 " You're not the woman you were." 
 
 " What do you mean by that? " she asked starting 
 and staring into his face. 
 
 " The same to me — the same to me — more to me 
 for that matter. But not to him." 
 
 "Whose fault if—?" 
 
 " There you begin with your parrot question. I've 
 told you fifty times there's no fault in either of you." 
 
 " I'm not the same to him — not quite — I grant you." 
 
 " And he's not the same to you? " 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 " Nothing is. Hope's not the same. I used to fall 
 back on hope. And it never failed me. But now — 
 sometimes — even the Beacon — " 
 
 " Don't you say that, because I won't believe it. 
 The Beacon's the Beacon, and though I always told 
 you that you talked a good bit of nonsense about it 
 and fancied still more, still it have left its mark on you 
 and you're different from what you would have been 
 if you'd never climbed it." 
 
 " Charlie went up with me a bit ago. 'Twas one 
 of our happy Sundays." 
 
 " You can't lift up what can't be lifted, or cast 
 down what won't be cast down." 
 
 " We see nearer together in many things however. 
 The close life — " 
 
 " Don't tell me that, Lizzie. Is he altering you ? 
 Is he making you hungrier to be snug and comfort- 
 able? Is he bringing you to like Mortimore any 
 better? Be honest." 
 
 " Yes he is then. He's making me like my uncle 
 better." 
 
 " Don't you think it. Iron Mortimore himself may
 
 THE BEACON 227 
 
 be making you like him better. 'Tisn't Charlie that 
 is. What you like about Mortimore is what you like 
 about me." 
 
 " You always compare yourself to him." 
 
 " I say that if you like him better, 'tisn't Charlie 
 have made you. He can't alter your nature by a 
 hair and you know it; and more can you alter his. 
 He may pretend and even do things; but 'tis only for 
 love and all against the grain." 
 
 " And don't good things, done for love, become a 
 habit, like other habits? Can there be a better reason 
 to do good things than for love of her that begs you 
 to do them?" 
 
 ' Love — love — you always drag in love ! What 
 d'ye mean by it? 'Tis twaddle so often as not. You 
 get the word running in your head and think it stands 
 for something real. You don't love him as well as 
 once you did, and that's not your fault. There's not 
 enough fuel in the man to keep your fire of love burn- 
 ing. I always told you there wasn't." 
 
 " That's not true." 
 
 " You say so, but your tone of voice allows it is 
 true. It must be. The fire shoots up and flickers 
 and then sinks again; and ashes be the end of every 
 fire, so sure as flame be the beginning. The thing 
 sends up a feeble spark or two when he makes an 
 effort and does your bidding." 
 
 "There it is!" she interrupted him. "'Tis the 
 beautiful efforts that he makes. Wouldn't any woman 
 love him for that? I know how hard it often is to 
 him. But he does try — he does try." 
 
 " I know it — poor devil." 
 
 "You think to hurt me by saying that. Hut you 
 won't. You'll see yet." 
 
 " Yes, I shall see all right. ' Hard to do your bid- 
 ding!' T shouldn't have found it hard. I loved 
 you better than you love him, and a million limes 
 fiercer than he loves you; because I'm a million times
 
 228 THE BEACON 
 
 fiercer myself. But suppose you had belonged to me 
 and I had set out to mould you into my pattern — ?" 
 
 "Well, what if you did? Don't we all do it? 
 Aren't we all moulding somebody, or trying to ? ' : 
 
 " I shouldn't do it to hurt. I shouldn't mould you. 
 You'd mould yourself. We'd change each other, like 
 whetstone and scythe. I shouldn't preach and bore 
 you, like you bore Charlie." 
 
 She stared again and showed annoyance. 
 
 "How can you say that?" 
 
 "Of course you bore him. Don't the old parson 
 to church bore you with his sermons? You're a life- 
 long sermon — that's what you are. And Charlie must 
 love on a pretty stout pattern, when all's said, to 
 stand it so cheerful." 
 
 " How little you know what our life is." 
 
 He yawned. 
 
 " Let's go to the quarry," he answered. " The old 
 badger's away to-day and I want to have a look at 
 it." 
 
 But she was not disposed to change the subject. 
 
 " I've got Charlie to admit that money isn't every- 
 thing anyway." 
 
 "We all say it. But who feels it? 
 
 " The things that can be bought aren't worth buy- 
 ing," she declared. " Look at them- — goods, land, 
 men, women. The things that have no price are the 
 things worth winning." 
 
 " And those are just the things you can't win and 
 never will at North Combe. 'Tis a poor, rotten world, 
 where the only real treasures are a matter of chance 
 and luck. Look at me — money gets easier and easier 
 to come by as your pile grows. But the things worth 
 having — I've got none — none — none. Like Iron Mor- 
 timore there again — with this difference, that he don't 
 want the things worth having — and I do." 
 
 " You're the strong sort. You ought to be able to 
 win them." 
 
 >>
 
 THE BEACON 229 
 
 " Perhaps I shall." 
 
 They stood above the quarry now and sight of it 
 thrust the tenant into Dunning' s mind. 
 
 He lifted his eyes to the massive ' over-burden.' 
 Many tons of worthless matter had to be removed 
 regularly, at a price which largely lessened the value 
 of the stone below. 
 
 " And so your old savage says he can't offer to 
 pay much more rent for this place? What his 
 reason? " 
 
 " He's got fifty. The cost of moving the rubbish 
 and the fact that farmers take more and more to 
 foreign manures and chemicals and want less and less 
 lime." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " That's true. And so they get their ground full of 
 poisonous, foreign varmints and wireworms and the 
 devil knows what. But presently — before very long 
 I hope — they'll be crying out for brown lime again. 
 'Twill be too late to repair the mischief in many quar- 
 ters then." 
 
 " Are you trying for it? " 
 
 " You know I am." 
 
 " Uncle would sooner any living man had it than 
 you, if he loses it." 
 
 " Yet I shall be the man. He's like a donkey carry- 
 ing bread for others to eat — your uncle ; but he doesn't 
 know that yet. You'd think he was too clever — 
 wouldn't you? Yet the money wasted here — " 
 
 He looked into the quarry. Already darkness be- 
 gan to fall upon it. 
 
 " I like it when everything gets all blurred and 
 gloomy and solemn," she said. 
 
 But now he changed the subject again and showed 
 her that he had not forgotten a previous remark. 
 
 " I'm the strong sort and Charlie's the good sort — 
 that's how it stands between us — eh?" 
 
 " And always did."
 
 230 THE BEACON 
 
 " What is there about goodness that takes your 
 fancy such a lot? " 
 
 " What a question ! " 
 
 " Good — when you've said a man's good — faint 
 praise and cuts off everything else. He's good, and 
 there's nothing more to be said. None knows that 
 better than you do, Lizzie. Good — like bread and 
 potatoes. Have you ever thought how damned stupid 
 goodness generally be ? Good — what for ? Good for 
 what? Good to send you to sleep — like a soft bed. 
 Is that all you ax of a man? Is the Beacon good? 
 No, by God ! A tingling, stormy, raging thing that 
 makes you freeze and sweat and smart and feel small.'' 
 
 " 'Tis the contrast from my Charlie that makes me 
 like Cosdon." 
 
 " No it isn't. You liked Cosdon afore you liked 
 him. 'Tis the contrast from Cosdon that made you 
 like him. 'Twas a silly, thoughtless act to set your- 
 self to like him. And I'll tell you another thing. 
 You know, but you'd rather not know it. And 'tis 
 this: I interested you afore he did. Didn't I? 
 Think before you answer. You always speak true." 
 
 She did think, but she did not answer. Her silence 
 was an implicit admission, however, and satisfied Dun- 
 ning. He did not press the point. 
 
 " The dimpsy be falling," he said. " Are you go- 
 ing to ax me in for a cup of tea? " 
 
 "Of course: you came for that." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 At North Combe Trevail was already arrived and 
 they ate and drank together. 
 
 Between the men obtained a reticent friendship. 
 The younger was a little jealous of Dunning — as he 
 was a little jealous of Cosdon Beacon; and in the same 
 sense. He held that Lizzie won no good of him. But 
 they differed only upon the question of Dunning' s 
 opinions, for the master of North Combe entertained 
 no fear of his old rival. Cordiality, however, was
 
 THE BEACON 231 
 
 impossible at any time with Reynold, and least of 
 all between him and the nephew of Abraham Morti- 
 more. 
 
 Both knew that a day was coming when their in- 
 terests must violently clash on a major issue, and Tre- 
 vail was now working hard upon his uncle's side to 
 preserve the quarry to him. They never spoke of it 
 and Lizzie's husband was astonished to hear the other 
 do so now. 
 
 " I'll talk business half a minute, Trevail, if you 
 please," he said, when the meal was done and both 
 loaded their pipes. 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 " You know very well. You've got sense, though 
 your uncle has not. He goes driving on, like a steam 
 roller, and it answers all right when you've only got 
 to flatten a road or ride rough-shod over fools. But 
 it don't answer in this matter and you know it don't 
 — else you wouldn't be so busy for him." 
 
 " I'd rather not discuss it." 
 
 " As you please. I speak out of friendship. I am 
 not troubled for him. Him and me will fight like a 
 pair of bull-terriers till one of us drops. But I don't 
 like you to waste your time. I want you to do well 
 and keep snug and untroubled. Trouble isn't good 
 for you. 'Tis the warm sun sweetens you, not the 
 frost. So I tell you in a word that I shall get the 
 quarry promised to me next fall, and not even your 
 clever tongue will beat me. I know how to win, you 
 see, and you don't; so you'd better save your time 
 and make him understand that after next Michaelmas 
 he'll enter on his last year." 
 
 " Since when did you take to bluff, then? " 
 
 " I've no use for bluff. I never talk off book to 
 man or woman." 
 
 He looked at Elisabeth who was clearing the tea 
 things. 
 
 " No," he continued, " I never tell as truth what
 
 232 THE BEACON 
 
 ain't dead true. But I know that I'll get the quarry 
 and so your trouble's vain." 
 
 " I have the first refusal, however. Perhaps you 
 didn't know that ? " 
 
 "Yes; but 'twill be a question of tender." 
 
 "And if my uncle doesn't know how to work it 
 cheaper than anybody else in the world after all these 
 years, who should?" 
 
 " That's just the point. He doesn't know. How- 
 ever, you didn't want to talk about it and I won't do 
 so — more than to say that if a hundred tenders went 
 in, I should win." 
 
 " You know more about the quarry than we do 
 then?" 
 
 " You can't expect me to go into that. I've only 
 spoken for friendship and to save you trouble. Tell 
 your old man to fling up the sponge and go without a 
 fuss. Go he must. He's bested me often enough and 
 will again; but in the matter of the quarry — no — 'tis 
 mine." 
 
 Trevail and his wife were impressed with this 
 finality of statement. Dunning was harsh and definite 
 always, but he never bragged. 
 
 " Have you got an understanding with Sir Ralph? ' 
 
 " Not I. But he's looking after the pence pretty 
 sharp. There'll only be me in it." 
 
 "If you offer better money for it than Mortimore, 
 you either don't know what you're doing, or else know 
 a lot more about the place than us." 
 
 " Well, I leave you to guess which. Anyway, 
 Lizzie here shall always be free to wander there and 
 see faces in the cliffs, as she do now. And I'll make 
 you special terms for your lime if you'll cart it your- 
 self. You shall have it cheaper from me than from 
 your own uncle — and the blackberries shall be hers 
 too." 
 
 " We shan't stop at North Combe for ever," said 
 Lizzie.
 
 THE BEACON 233 
 
 " Shan't you ? I think you will, so long as the old 
 boy knows how to be obeyed. You must come over 
 to Clannaboro' presently. I want to show you a new 
 knife for mangel, Charles." 
 
 He picked up his hat and departed abruptly with- 
 out any formal farewell, according to his custom. 
 Behind him he left soreness in two hearts. Trevail 
 was troubled about the quarry and Elisabeth about 
 herself. She had no immediate opportunity for 
 thought, however, because her husband began to ques- 
 tion her closely. 
 
 " Tis going to be the biggest fight we've ever yet 
 had," he said, " and I reckon that you might be use- 
 ful to us. You're as thick as thieves with the man, 
 and what's the good of that if we can't win something 
 out of it?" 
 
 She showed surprise. 
 
 " Whatever do you mean, Charlie ? " 
 
 " Well, 'tis craft for craft, surely? You see he has 
 a secret and if I had it — If we know what he knows, 
 we could tend as he tends; and so we should win. 
 Can't you see? " 
 
 " You don't mean I should try and get his secret 
 out of him? " 
 
 "If he has one — yes. And I believe he has. 
 'Twould be a very clever thing to score off him if we 
 could. And if we don't, he'll score off us. You're 
 our side anyway." 
 
 " I'm not one side more than the other." 
 
 " Aren't you, by God? Then you ought to be! " 
 
 " For some things I'd be rather glad if Uncle 
 Mortimore didn't get it. He'd keep away more then," 
 she said. 
 
 " 'Twould pretty well kill him to lose it — if Dun- 
 ning got it." 
 
 She laughed and he grew angry. 
 
 They quarrelled and did not make it up for two 
 days. He was much incensed that she refused to
 
 234 
 
 THE BEACON 
 
 help him; and she was hurt that he could think it a 
 seemly thing to propose such a course. In her eyes 
 some dishonour clung to him for suggesting it.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 ON the first day of March the earth was frozen in 
 yard and croft; cattle with steaming breath 
 gnawed great yellow roots unearthed from storage, or 
 tugged at trusses of hay. The birds, tamed by the 
 weather, could almost be handled ; plover ran about at 
 the edge of the farmyards. A naked field at North 
 Combe was partially hurdled for the eaning ewes; 
 they fed on swedes and awaited parturition; while 
 close by, in a green meadow, new-made mothers lay 
 and little, shaky-legged lambs blinked under the 
 shrewd greeting of north wind and snow. The 
 stream that ran at the bottom of the Zeal meadows 
 was feathered and scurfed with ice, beneath which 
 strange blobs and blotches of darkness passed along 
 — oily and amorphous — to mark where running water 
 worked its way through prisoned air. The spring 
 was tardy and scarce showed a sign as yet, save where 
 the lemon tassels of the hazel shivered. 
 
 Here Trevail, moving early, met with the master 
 of the Oxenham Arms. Only the frozen streamlet 
 separated them and Charlie crossed it. 
 
 He had not the vocabulary or perhaps the patience 
 to shade his meaning very clearly in certain argu- 
 ments now of frequent occurrence at home; and the 
 result was that he often conveyed a wrong impression, 
 was more positive than he meant to be sometimes, 
 and at others undertook more than he proposed. 
 After the failure of such a promise, and his subse- 
 quent explanation that he had meant less than his 
 wife assumed, moments of bitterness passed between 
 them. Because words are responsible for more tri- 
 bulation than deeds; and if those who use them skil- 
 
 235
 
 236 THE BEACON 
 
 fully so often fail on some sheer breakdown of verbal 
 definition, it will readily be perceived how fruitful a 
 source of difference must the spoken word become 
 amongst that greater number who lack exactitude of 
 diction or of thought. His wife had just told Trevail 
 that he had said what was not true, and he smarted 
 under the accusation, because he was acutely con- 
 scious of having done no such thing. 
 
 He came in gloom to a cheerful man, for Underhill 
 had an item of news which he longed to impart. 
 
 " My luck's in," he said. " Early though 'tis I've 
 met four men a ready this morning, and it couldn't 
 have fallen out better than that I met you, because 
 I'd sooner you and your wife knew it than most." 
 
 " What good fortune's happened ? " 
 
 " Minnie be going to marry a Londoner ; and now 
 that sad affair be happily at an end. I heard from 
 her lawyer, and I wrote a most affectionate letter, 
 and I'd send her a wondrous fine present, but that I 
 know too well 'twould be sent back." 
 
 " You be married too they tell me." 
 
 " Yes, it's known now, though a month and more 
 old — to please Jope. The law's a very funny thing 
 and the church be a funnier thing still. You see, 
 when I left Minnie and took up with Emma, 'twas 
 desertion and adultery, but not cruelty, so she couldn't 
 divorce me. The law wouldn't let her. She could 
 have got separated, but if she'd done that, she couldn't 
 have had a divorce after. So she wanted two years, 
 at the law's command, and all that time me and Emma 
 was living in what the church calls sin. You'd think, 
 wouldn't you, that the law and the church would pull 
 together to stop such a disgrace? However I hope I 
 shan't have no more use for either of 'em. I'm very 
 happy and contented, and so's my girl; and so far as 
 I can see 'tis only very silly people want either con- 
 trivance." 
 
 Trevail nodded.
 
 THE BEACON 237 
 
 " I'm glad Minnie have found the right man." 
 
 " Not so glad as me. And I hope he is the right 
 
 one." 
 
 " How's business?" 
 
 " Never better." 
 
 " And what's the difference between Minnie and 
 Emma, Tom? We're old friends or I wouldn't ask 
 such a home question; but I've got a reason for ask- 
 ing." 
 
 " The difference be one of understanding. The 
 difference be a little more dust in the corners of the 
 rooms and perhaps a broken window-pane waiting for 
 mending and the fires not lit quite so early on winter 
 mornings. Custom's the same — neither worse nor 
 better. My father-in-law gets a good lot of liquor for 
 nothing, but against that me and Emma have our 
 shoe leather free. As to my comfort, you can see it 
 in my waistband. I'm getting too fat altogether. 
 'Twas one of the things Minnie was always on to. 
 For ever at me, poor dear, to take walking exercise 
 and so on. But of course I shall go like my father, 
 in my sixties; and I know it, and what's the hell the 
 good of pretending otherwise?" 
 
 " Emma's an understanding girl ? " 
 
 "A masterpiece — that woman! There, I'm silly 
 even when I think of her. I oft call her to me and 
 make her sit on my lap, just for love of the Hghl 
 weight of her — even now. She'd beard the devil for 
 
 me. 
 
 " Don't ever cross you? " 
 
 " Not she. She's got a most amazing talent to do 
 just the other thing. Plans the very fun I like afore 
 I've thought of it. Meets me more than half way 
 every time. Talks when I want to talk; shuts up 
 when I want to think; comes cuddling to me when 
 I'm down; keeps out of the way when I'm busy; be- 
 in my lap afore the word's out of my lips when I'm in 
 a merry mood. If I'm thirsty, she's at the beer barrel
 
 238 THE BEACON 
 
 afore I can get there; if I'm hungry, she hastens 
 dinner; if I'm late, she's waiting to have it with me. 
 If I'm off writing letters, I find she's answered them; 
 if — but, damn it, what's the good of telling you all 
 this, Charlie? Don't you know it ? Ban't you one of 
 the lucky ones too? " 
 
 " Yes, thank God ; but Lizzie's — well in a word 
 she's a very high-minded woman." 
 
 " So she is then; and didn't Minnie often say so? 
 ' No common girl ' she always called your wife. She 
 had a great respect for her opinions and cleverness. 
 They was like each other in a way ; and I may tell you 
 that I found that out." 
 
 "You did, Tom?" 
 
 " Yes, I did. Because I went sneaking to Lizzie 
 sometimes when my fine wife had found it needful to 
 dress me down rather sharper than usual, or when I'd 
 wanted a thing to go one way and Minnie, according 
 to her high ideas, meant for it to go another. Yes, I'd 
 often creep in the bar and have a tell with your wife; 
 and for a bit she'd understand and sympathise with 
 me. But after a while, to be frank, she took t'other 
 side and stood for the missis. Not that I was hurt by 
 it, because like will to like, and you'll know by now 
 without my telling you what a terrible high stand your 
 wife takes. So big as Cosdon were her ideas — like 
 Minnie's. And she be marrying a big man by all 
 accounts — a hotel proprietor up Paddington way. 
 Lord! how London dirt will try that woman! But 
 she'll fight it and conquer it of course." 
 
 Trevail was interested in these reminiscences. 
 
 " Minnie was ever at you to take grander ideas — 
 eh, Tom?" 
 
 " Just so. ' Grand ' wasn't the word. They Bur- 
 goynes be all very haughty as you know; but she was 
 the top flower of the bunch in mind and body. A 
 proud creature, and I've always wondered what the
 
 THE BEACON 239 
 
 devil she saw in me. If she'd just left me alone and 
 suffered me to black her shoes and go on my own way 
 rejoicing, all would have been different ; but as 'twas, 
 though I told her a score of times that I couldn't soar 
 to her lofty standpoint, she never would believe it." 
 
 " Did you ever try? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Mr. Underhill, " God's my holy 
 judge I did try, and many a time you might say I was 
 breathless and sore with trying. But there 'tis — in 
 a word, the one thing that priceless woman never 
 could grasp, for all her large brain and lofty ideas, 
 was the simple fact that a pint measure won't hold a 
 quart. You'd think that wasn't difficult to under- 
 stand; yet these big-minded people are awful prone 
 to miss it. My Aunt Fanny's just the same. Every 
 man of us would have to be born again, and born 
 different, if she could have her way." 
 
 Now Trevail listened to this genial discourse and 
 understood it, and yet, feeling a great intellectual 
 and moral gulf fixed between himself and Mr. Under- 
 hill, he despised the publican. He knew well enough 
 how Tom's experiences applied to himself, but with 
 this difference: Underhill aired his own inferiority, 
 Trevail was not prepared to do any such thing. He 
 had confessed a little of similar sort to himself; he 
 had declared like opinions to Lizzie ; but to none else 
 had he admitted such disparities and, in his cool mo- 
 ments, he did not admit them at all. His answer, 
 therefore, was hardly what might have been expected. 
 He adopted a lofty tone himself and he believed what 
 he said ; indeed he had a right to believe it. 
 
 11 I hold with differences between man and wife. 
 They are the cogs in the wheel and help each other 
 along. Lizzie and I don't always see alike. But 
 often and often I convince her that she's mistaken." 
 
 " Well done you ! " said Mr. Underhill. " That's 
 your cleverness. If a man can do that — then it's all
 
 240 THE BEACON 
 
 right. I could do that with Emma — if she ever 
 doubted me, which she never does — but I couldn't 
 with my first." 
 
 " Yes, Lizzie will show me a thing, for a woman's 
 mind sees much that we miss; and I'll show her a 
 thing; and so she helps me and I help her. I see the 
 force of her ideas. Now in your case, you never saw 
 the force of Minnie's — eh, Tom?" 
 
 " No, I felt the force. She despaired of me ; and 
 'tis very uneasy going if a woman despairs of her 
 husband. I'm not a proud man as you know, but if 
 you're dead certain your wife thinks you're past pray- 
 ing for, it make you down-daunted — if you care for 
 her opinion." 
 
 " It weakens love no doubt." 
 
 " That's so ; you can't long love a party that despises 
 you — unless you're a dog." 
 
 " Not that I go all the way with my wife always," 
 continued the farmer. " You couldn't expect it, be- 
 cause she's a very strong-minded woman with a good 
 many fads and fixed opinions." 
 
 " And very impatient of what she takes to be wrong 
 of course." 
 
 " Yes — very impatient ; but not with me. She'll al- 
 ways listen to reason." 
 
 " 'Tis a great and a rare gift in a woman to do that. 
 With my Emma, my reasons are good enough; with 
 my Minnie, they never were." 
 
 " With us we give and take." 
 
 " And that's the whole art of living," summed up 
 Tom. " Now a bit of fluff in the corner of a room, or 
 a cobweb hanging from the ceiling leaves me free to 
 go on living my life quite easily. And with you I 
 suppose that your prospects, and so on, are all right 
 and you're content to let the future take care of itself. 
 But there's a certain grand pattern of females who 
 have no use for the present, but be always planning 
 the time to come ; though for my part I always say, 

 
 THE BEACON 241 
 
 ' Let sleeping dogs lie and don't try and do Time's 
 work for him.' " 
 
 " Lizzie wants me to plunge out, you know. She's 
 got a great idea of my parts; she thinks I'm very 
 clever and all that, and naturally I don't want to make 
 myself small in my own wife's eyes." 
 
 " Who does ? But man must be at the helm. We 
 can't let women steer the ship, Charlie." 
 
 " That's what I say — not of course that the ques- 
 tion ever arose in my case, but sometimes the cleverest 
 women will worry about what they don't understand." 
 
 " Exactly so ! And because they don't understand 
 it, they think we don't." 
 
 " Now 'tis different with us men," argued Trevail, 
 " and that's where you'll find us cleverer than them. 
 We know they know a lot we don't; and we be ever 
 ready to let them mind their own business without let 
 or hindrance from us ; but they can't feel the same, 
 and a real busy woman wants to be busy in every- 
 thing." 
 
 "Gospel truth. If I don't know, who should? 
 That's where you are cleverer than I was no doubt, 
 and have kept the whip hand. 'Tis a matter of self- 
 respect ; and once I lost that, I knew too well 'twould 
 take a terrible strong step to win it back." 
 
 " I shall never lose it, Tom." 
 
 " Mind you don't. Dunning was saying — " 
 
 But Trevail interrupted. 
 
 " Funny you should name him. Now there's a man 
 I don't reckon be much use to any woman." 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but for acid sense you won't beat 
 him. His speech bites like mustard." 
 
 "And if he can't sting, he keeps silent." 
 
 " I won't say that. I've got no quarrel with him. 
 He stuck up for me well — all the time." 
 
 " We men can take him at his proper value, but 
 there's that in him that blinds the women." 
 
 ' He didn't blind your woman anyway." 
 
 16
 
 242 THE BEACON 
 
 " No ; because she's the rare sort that knows her 
 own mind and can't be choked off it. But sometimes 
 I'm not sure if Dunning's wholesome. We're very 
 good friends and all that; and yet I've marked my 
 wife to be a bit unsettled by him now and again. I 
 can't forget, of course, he was after her." 
 
 " He's straight enough." 
 
 " No doubt, and if he wasn't I shouldn't mind. 
 When you're dealing with such a pair as Lizzie and 
 me — but the man has a way to throw cold water on 
 life and make it look poor — just because his own's so 
 empty." 
 
 " Pity he can't find a wife. He might for the seek- 
 ing." 
 
 " He told me slap out that there had only been one 
 woman for him in all his life, and that woman was my 
 wife. I gasped in his face. And he laughed in mine. 
 He's a caution. And for my part I can't say I care 
 about him. His mind's like the Moor: nought worth 
 a damn comes out of it. Why don't he try to be more 
 like other people and go to church?" 
 
 Tom Underhill laughed. 
 
 " We always feel a bit unrest ful with a mind that's 
 built on a strange pattern to our own." 
 
 " In his case I couldn't be a friend exactly — even if 
 I wished it. There's my uncle to be thought upon." 
 
 " Iron Mortimore was so near market merry as ever 
 I saw him in my bar last night. He's just had a 
 terrible big score off Dunning and drank half a bottle 
 of gin on the strength of it." 
 
 " Dunning has been laid up with a lung out of 
 order — got a chill or something — and my uncle cut 
 him out over a useful lot of ponies that bankrupt at 
 Belstone had to sell. Dunning couldn't do anything 
 for the minute, and so we had it all our own way." 
 
 " That was it, was it ? I didn't know the man had 
 been ill." 
 
 " Properly ill by all accounts. Lizzie went but last
 
 THE BEACON 243 
 
 week to ask for him, and she took a dainty or two. 
 But I expect he gave 'em to his dogs." 
 
 " 'Tis just a thing he would do — under her nose for 
 her to see him do it." 
 
 They parted presently, but not before the master of 
 the Oxenham Arms had asked another personal ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " And how does your old boy get on with the missis ? 
 I remember when Lizzie was with us that he always 
 said she had more sense than most females." 
 
 " They get on very fair most times. She don't like 
 him — can't see his good side in fact. But 'tis all 
 right. He gave her a wedding present — a gold brooch 
 as he had off that widow-man, Chastey, for a bad 
 debt." 
 
 " Come ! That's pretty good for him. 'Twill soon 
 bring Dunning on his legs again — to see how busy you 
 and your uncle can be when he's laid by. But I must 
 get over and visit the chap. He's always stuck up for 
 me, though we'm so different, and one good turn de- 
 serves another." 
 
 " He only stuck up for you because you was law- 
 less and flouted the countryside. 'Tis his way of 
 looking at life : he's got no use for regular behaviour." 
 
 Trevail crossed to his own side of the stream again 
 and the men parted.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 ON Cosdon's eastern flank, between the summit and 
 South Tawton Common flung out below, there 
 runs a triple row of stones. The shattered monument 
 extends from east to west and its fragments are thrust 
 at all angles from the supporting earth. Seen now, 
 in a spring gloaming, they appeared to totter up the 
 hill, like an army of weary grey trolls, that crept 
 through the fading light to their home in the moun- 
 tain's heart. 
 
 The rows, however, led to no cavern of treasure. 
 They terminated at broken cairns; and on the frag- 
 ments of a grave Elisabeth Trevail now sat and 
 waited for the coming of a man. She liked the 
 ' cemetery,' as this spot was called, and wondered 
 often for what these withered stones, here thrust 
 awry by weight of centuries, once stood to the van- 
 ished folk who raised them. Did they tell of a dead 
 hero's fame, or chronicle some great victory? Did 
 they mark a nation's mourning, or record triumphant 
 carnage? She had imagination to dream over the 
 problem; and then, reflecting upon the night of time 
 into which those people had sunk, remembering that 
 these splinters of granite were all that remained to 
 tell of either sorrow or joy, she turned from them with 
 a cold heart. The spectacle of that chill, dreamless 
 past set against the fiery and flying present saddened 
 her. She clung to time, yet envied something in the 
 case of the vanished Stone men; for were not their 
 tribulations ended, their problems solved, their pains 
 at peace? 
 
 The present now appeared to her in the shape of 
 
 244 

 
 THE BEACON 245 
 
 Reynold Dunning. He had been fishing not fax dis- 
 tant and had mistaken their tryst. 
 
 "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting; but I'd got 
 into my head we were to meet in the old place, under 
 the blackthorns by the brook. There I waited awhile 
 and then feared 'twas here. I've brought you a brave 
 basket of trout. They're going like tigers to-day." 
 
 He slung an old creel off his shoulders and sat down 
 beside her. 
 
 This man's attitude toward Lizzie was one of 
 Oriental patience. Love in no way filled his life, 
 otherwise such an ordeal must have proved impossible ; 
 but the passion salted all else and leavened the lump 
 of his days. In a word he believed that a time must 
 come when Trevail and his wife would part. He 
 stood as a spectator deeply interested, and he certainly 
 made no effort to prolong the relation between the 
 pair; but for the rest he did not meddle. He had 
 told Lizzie in plain words more than once that the 
 end was inevitable; but she refused to believe him. 
 That she permitted him to say so and still valued his 
 friendship was significant however. And he knew it. 
 For the rest he went on his way, worked hard, saved 
 money and believed that in a few years Elisabeth 
 would come to him. It might be two; it might be 
 ten. He could wait. He loved her and longed for 
 her; but he was careful and his natural speech and 
 attitude to life made it easy enough to him to conceal 
 his feelings from all men. She, however, knew what 
 he felt from casual utterances. He assumed, as a 
 matter of course in their conversations, that she must 
 know his mind. At first these assumptions had 
 startled her; now she was accustomed to them. She 
 liked and admired him as much as before; but whereas 
 she had sought him after marriage to win help from 
 him in her wifely part; whereas she had formerly be- 
 lieved that Dunning's caustic counsels might aid her 
 with her husband; now she came, and often came, to
 
 246 THE BEACON 
 
 the master of Clannaboro' for personal refreshment 
 and a little mental tonic at times of depression. He 
 always did her good; but that he could do Charlie 
 good, she had long given up hoping. 
 
 His nullifidian attitude had been accepted by her 
 almost unconsciously; and this he marked and felt 
 glad. A time was coming, as he guessed, when per- 
 haps the only bar to his hope might have appeared 
 in faith and some superstitious clinging to creed. 
 But that began to fail, and to-day for the first time, 
 the woman herself declared as much. 
 
 She asked after his health and he answered that he 
 had entirely recovered. 
 
 " 'Twas the good things you sent I believe. My 
 old woman can't cook for a sick stomach. I flung 
 doctor's physic out of the window and was soon well 
 after your broth. How's Charles? Chuckling over 
 they ponies I expect. They had me there I grant; 
 but 'twas only because I was on my back and there 
 was none to fight for me." 
 
 Lizzie thought of the quarry. 
 
 " Charlie's all right — very busy for his uncle as 
 usual. If we only had a bigger place, he'd think more 
 for himself. I hate it all — all this mean dancing about 
 after the old man." 
 
 " Yes, you would ; but Charlie's built to be a 
 sucker. 'Tis his nature. Have you dragged him up 
 the Beacon of late?" 
 
 " No, and shan't try again. It's silly and indecent 
 between two grown people — like a child being taken 
 by its mother to school. He hates the place, and it 
 only makes him wicked, and all he does is to turn 
 round and say it makes me wicked. ' Give me more 
 work to do,' I say to him, ' and I shan't have time to 
 wander so much.' But I'm in hot water myself just 
 now. I said 'twas boring me to death to go to church 
 last week, and my husband took it rather ill. I've 
 got too light a touch for him. He always puts the
 
 THE BEACON 247 
 
 face value on a word and don't know how to see 'tis 
 the tone of the voice that shows how much, or little 
 a woman may mean. I didn't mean it in earnest 
 exactly; but when he turned round and began to 
 preach, then I decided mighty quick that I did mean 
 it. And I shan't go back on it again either." 
 
 " You're right there. The old forms and old 
 hymns and old dusty pulpit twaddle — 'tis all of the 
 past and no more use than are they white bones bleach- 
 ing there to a hungry bird or beast. Be yourself and 
 go your own way and stick to what's alive. 'Tis part 
 of Charlie's mean nature to believe everything he's 
 told to believe. He'll go to anybody and everybody 
 but you for his wisdom. That's what makes me 
 despair of the man." 
 
 " He's not mean — at least." 
 
 " He's mean, Lizzie ; and it won't help you with 
 him to pretend different. You must know what the 
 material be, or you'll mar the working. You can't 
 make a silk purse — It isn't reasonable to think so." 
 
 " I'm a woman," she said, " so I needn't look for 
 reasons. All the same I'm reasonable enough." 
 
 ' Love — that you're always chattering about — 
 blinds you." 
 
 " No, it does not. It makes me see.' 
 
 " And makes you miserable at what you see." 
 
 " So little would do it — so little. Just an ounce of 
 self-respect and — oh, I hate his plans for us. They're 
 
 >> 
 
 so — • 
 
 Yes, I know ; and remember this : they'll get 
 worse and more and more choking to an air-lover like 
 you. If at his age he can think of comfort and thirst 
 for a coward's paradise beyond all fear, what d'you 
 think he'll come to presently?" 
 
 " Bigger thoughts — if I can make him." 
 "Smaller ones, because yon can't. 'Twill all turn 
 on money saved. All he wants to be is safe — the 
 safety of smallness. He don't want no fighting. All
 
 248 THE BEACON 
 
 for peace and soft answers to turn away wrath he is. 
 To think you've married a coward — you ! 'Tis funny 
 seen so." 
 
 " I'd leave him sooner ! " she cried. " Yes, I would 
 — loving him as I do. But you can't understand that. 
 You can't understand how I might love him too well to 
 stop with him and see — " 
 
 " See him shrinking deeper and deeper into his shell 
 — against the buffet of the world — see him growing 
 tamer and tamer and more and more of a — there, 
 what's the use of talking? I don't want to cast you 
 down. It will come gradual — so gradual that it won't 
 shock you, I dare say." 
 
 " I'd leave him sooner," she repeated. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " You know where to come, if you do." 
 
 It was the boldest hint he had made at the future 
 and he felt some interest to see what she would say. 
 
 She said nothing. 
 
 " Well, here's the dimpsy coming down and I'll 
 see you on your road. After all we're talking a 
 deal of nonsense and leaving you out of the count 
 altogether." 
 
 " You always do." 
 
 " Only to cool off your hopefulness. You think 
 you're stronger than you are ; and think you're weaker 
 than you are. I mean where he's concerned. The 
 truth lies midway. You certainly can't do much; but 
 perhaps it isn't fair to say you can do nought." 
 
 " I've told you I can do much." 
 
 " Well," he said rising, and lifting up his cree 1 
 again, " don't you talk to me no more about him. I 
 can't help you there. But talk about yourself as oft 
 as ever you please. You I can help, and you know 
 there's nothing on earth I better like to do." 
 
 " I know that." 
 
 " Always remember it. You're the only human 
 creature I'd go across the road for ; but for you I'd go
 
 THE BEACON 249 
 
 to the bitter world's end. There! You little thought 
 to ever hear me make such a fool's speech as that." 
 
 " I've got to thank you for many useful words." 
 
 He changed the subject. 
 
 " Spring be still-born by the look of it this year. 
 Everything is that lifeless still, and the late frosts have 
 cut the early potatoes to ribbons and browned the 
 early flowers. But the japonica on Clannaboro' be 
 making a brave show. You'd best to come and see it 
 in full blooth a week or ten days hence." 
 
 He generally linked a parting now with some more 
 or less vague undertaking to meet her again ; and to- 
 day, with her wits sharpened by things that he had 
 said to her, she recognised this. 
 
 " I can't promise," she answered and left him. 
 
 At home she found Trevail awaiting her in anger. 
 She had promised to return at tea-time and the hour 
 was now past six o'clock. 
 
 He rated her and followed her up to their room 
 when she went to take off her hat and jacket. 
 
 " I'm sick of this," he said. " And I'm not going 
 to have it any more. It's your own fault, but with 
 your mighty fine views, there's one view that you miss 
 and that's the view of your home. You've got to 
 pull yourself together and remember you didn't marry 
 me for fun, but for better or worse. I know I'm a 
 failure ; but you've got to face that ; and you'll do well 
 in future to make friends from those who believe mi 
 me, not those who despise me." 
 
 " I'm sorry I'm late. 1 was talking with Reynold 
 Dunning on the Moor." 
 
 "Of cmusc: and lie was telling you what a damned 
 fool I am — and a few other tilings. Well, he may be 
 right; but you're not. You're wrong- — dead wrong 
 — to listen while your husband's despised and sneered 
 at; and, in a word. I wmi'l have it -d'you hear? 1 
 won't have it. If you don't know what becomes a 
 man's wife, so much the worse for you. I've been a
 
 250 THE BEACON 
 
 good husband to you, though you don't think so; and 
 now if you're going to be restive, 'tis time you felt the 
 curb." 
 
 "Charlie!" 
 
 " I mean it. Tis your own fault. I hate to say 
 such things, but you've brought them on yourself. I 
 won't have you see that man no more. I forbid you. 
 I'm not jealous or any nonsense like that; but I'm 
 not a fool and I'm not going to sacrifice your peace of 
 mind for another man's amusement." 
 
 " How can you think so badly of me? " 
 
 " Your peace of mind I say — not mine. I don't 
 care. I'm well used to being always wrong now, and 
 if your lips don't say it, your eyes do. But I'm 
 thinking of you, not myself, and I know, if I know 
 anything, that Dunning's only putting you out of con- 
 ceit with yourself." 
 
 " Charlie, listen to me. I'd rather — why, what is 
 anything to me — anything in the world set against 
 you? And you cut me to the quick when you say 
 that I'm always against you. I'm always on your 
 side — on your best side — and many's the time you've 
 told me so. Think, think, Charlie. What's my life 
 to me away from you? Think of all you've done for 
 me. And am I to do nothing for you?" 
 
 " You do too much. That's the whole quarrel. 
 Can't you see how galling for a man it is that his wife 
 should treat him as though she was his mother? 
 Can't you see how damned sickening it is for a man 
 to know his wife talks about him to another man, and 
 asks for advice as to how to improve him? " 
 
 " I never did that." 
 
 " Yes, you did. If not, what do you talk about to 
 Dunning and Fanny Cann and Lord knows who else? 
 If I was to go running about like that, what would 
 you say? I'm myself and I try all I know and look 
 ahead; and I'm going to take my own views of life, 
 not yours; and have my own ambitions, not yours;
 
 THE BEACON 251 
 
 and live my own way, not yours. And if my way 
 don't suit you, then set about trying to make it suit 
 you. I love you with all my heart, and how hard I've 
 tried to please you and shall again you'll never guess. 
 But for God's sake stick to me and grumble to me 
 and plague me with your fine uplifting ideas; and I'll 
 do all I know how; but don't run about to other peo- 
 ple — 'tisn't decent and 'tisn't fair." 
 
 He threw a new light and showed a sensitiveness 
 and perception for which she had never given him 
 credit. 
 
 She did not answer immediately; then she put her 
 arms round him and held him close and kissed him. 
 He looked away and frowned for a moment; but he 
 was always clay at her touch. His expression 
 changed. 
 
 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry; I'm very, very sorry," she 
 said. " I see what you mean and you're right enough. 
 I love you and worship you, Charlie — same as you do 
 me ; and I'll come to you — only you ; and I'll not hurt 
 you, or goad you with my stupid ideas. I'm a fool 
 to do it, for what man would stand it? Dunning 
 told me an hour ago that I should bore you to 
 death with my preaching, and he was right I'm 
 ashamed." 
 
 " No more of it," he answered mollified. " You 
 don't preach and 'twas damned cheek of the man to 
 use the word. I love well to listen to you, and you 
 know how much you've done for me and will yet do. 
 But if you fail here and there, don't tell other people. 
 Our life's too close and precious a thing to be stripped 
 naked for Dunning to see. I'm sorry I forbade you 
 to see him. That's silly of course. See him when 
 you please and where you please ; but — " 
 
 He caressed her and she again expressed contrition. 
 She was genuinely sorry and she respected him 
 greatly at that hour. But he spoiled all before the 
 day was done. He was excited by this scene and her
 
 252 THE BEACON 
 
 attitude. He told her that henceforth they would be 
 heart to heart, make common cause against the world 
 and together fight the battle of life. 
 
 ' I want to double our savings in the next two 
 years," he said. " I don't intend to see you working 
 for ever, and I don't intend to work for ever myself 
 neither. Work's a mean thing when all's said. You 
 weren't built to labour but with your brains. Money's 
 the thing, and you'll find 'tis very much easier to take 
 large ideas with a large purse than without. The 
 future's as plain sailing as need be. We've only got 
 to keep Uncle stroked the right way. And I've long 
 learned how to do that. One has to eat a bit of dirt 
 now and again, but nobody's any the wiser and the 
 game's well worth the candle. Don't think I forget 
 your high notions; but we'll stoop a bit now in order 
 to climb the better presently." 
 
 He talked on in this strain and endeavoured to set 
 their unique good fortune before her. He argued 
 that by pursuing his policy their ultimate position 
 would be secured. 
 
 " Then you'll be able to play fine lady, if you 
 like, and be the first to see I was in the right. 'Tis 
 only that I look further ahead and don't live so much 
 in the moment," he explained. " But you don't quite 
 see our luck. Most times them as have the power to 
 get the full flavour out of the world haven't got the 
 means; and others, who have the means haven't got 
 the power; but us — why, what could fall out better? 
 Come presently we shall have both the power and 
 the means. The power's yours, Lizzie, and the means 
 shall be mine. There's fortune ! " 
 
 " I don't want you to lose your — " 
 
 " Stop ! " he said. " Not a word on the other side 
 to-night. You must look at it all my way to-night. 
 And, if you steadfastly look at it my way, then sooner 
 or late you'll see it my way. Leave your happiness 
 in my keeping; trust my love, if you can't trust my
 
 THE BEACON 253 
 
 wits. Don't love sharpen every man's sense for that 
 matter?" 
 
 Thus he struck a wrong note at the finish and left 
 her sleepless and disturbed. She was incapable of 
 trusting his weaker will or respecting his system. 
 Life stood between them exactly as it had always 
 stood. If she could not change him, she would never 
 be content with him; yet to-day he set about chang- 
 ing her; he preached utility to her. The positions 
 were reversed; and she told herself that if her counsel 
 struck as vainly on her husband's ear as his now fell 
 upon hers, then most certainly no hope of a true 
 communion was ever possible between them. But 
 she did not give up hope. She even examined his 
 theory and saw its reasonableness. Yet to persist 
 in such a life looked vile to her; the man who could 
 contentedly sacrifice his liberty and self-respect to a 
 lower nature than his own, was not a man that any 
 honest man would admire. She was in a strenuous 
 vein and more than ever determined to influence her 
 husband. Influenced he must be, because his was a 
 nature bound to take its colour from other natures. 
 Its native tone was nought; therefore, since it was in- 
 evitable that he must be influenced, she and not an- 
 other should exercise the control and tinge his pellucid 
 simplicity. She was of course convinced that her way 
 and only her way would meet the case of Trevail. 
 But in one direction he made her reflect. What he 
 had said about discussing him with others was true 
 and sane. She would pour out her energy and skill, 
 all love-lighted, upon him. But she would never 
 mention him again to anybody else. She strung her- 
 self to an impassioned attitude and sleep deserted 
 her. She saw herself sacrificing herself if need be for 
 him; but the sacrifice should be worth making. She 
 would not waste her life for any man. She became 
 morbid and her wearied brain refused to work co- 
 herently any more.
 
 254 
 
 THE BEACON 
 
 She did not sleep till light and then but a short 
 while. She wakened with a headache and went as 
 usual to pull up the blind and look at the day and 
 report upon it to her husband. The Beacon stood 
 grey as a cobweb washed with curtains of rain, 
 through which its billows rolled under a dark and 
 wind-torn sky. 
 
 " Foul weather," she said. 
 
 " So much the better. 'Twill keep me close to you 
 and we'll have a warm, snug day together. Come 
 back to bed for a bit."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 AT the Oxenham Arms a party of familiars drank 
 on an evening in late spring, and each declared 
 that he was overworked by the increasing demands of 
 
 the time. 
 
 Only to the miners the seasons made no difference, 
 and they were not interested when those who toiled 
 above ground dilated on their labours. 
 
 " As for me," said Neddy Knapman, " I haven't 
 touched a fishing-rod for a month." 
 
 " And I'm never away from my bench," declared 
 Jack Jope, " except when I run over here for two 
 minutes at mid-day to see my daughter." 
 
 Emma herself was behind the bar and she did not 
 contradict him. 
 
 " All the same when you've catched thicky widow 
 we all know you'm hunting, you'll have to bide a bit 
 closer," declared Knapman. 
 
 " Mustn't talk like that to my white beard," said 
 Mr. Jope, " else I'll ask Emma there to serve you no 
 more. I ban't hunting — 'tis only you hunt — other 
 people's birds and fish. But of course 'tis well known 
 I'm paying my respects in a certain quarter ; and why 
 not?" 
 
 Lucky Madders arrived. He declared himself 
 overdone with toil like the rest. 
 
 " But then I've worked ever since I could walk," 
 he said, " and work's my second nature." 
 
 " Have 'e seen the apple blooth in the valley, 
 missis?" asked a labourer of Emma. " 'Tis very 
 purty I'm sure and did ought to stand for an amazin' 
 good year of cider." 
 
 255
 
 256 THE BEACON 
 
 " No — too busy, Henry, but I shall hope to get 
 down to visit a neighbour or two when Tom comes 
 home to-morrow." 
 
 " As for the apples," said Mr. Jope, " 'tis only a 
 very hopeful sort of fool, Henry, as smacks his lips at 
 the sight of the blooth. Every flower ban't an apple 
 no more than every egg's a chick; but we're past May 
 and all's promising fair." 
 
 " St. Dunstan's Day be the ticklish moment, so my 
 gran'faither used to tell," declared Lucky. "But 
 times have changed since then and the seasons have 
 shifted. Do'e know the story of St. Dunstan and the 
 Dowl, souls ? " 
 
 "Tell it out, Mr. Madders," said Emma; "ban't 
 often us hears a tale from you." 
 
 " Well, you must remember that the holy Saint had 
 a weakness, and once upon a time he bought up all 
 the barley in the land to make malt liquor. ' Good ! ' 
 he says to himself, ' and now, if things but fall out a 
 bit unkind with the apple trees, I shall surely win a 
 fortune.' And the Dowl, as have the terrible power 
 to hear what we think in the secret places of our 
 hearts, he came along that instant moment and made 
 his bow to the Saint. ' 'Twould be a mighty fine 
 thing for your holiness if by unfortunate chance the 
 cider season failed,' says the Dowl. ' For sure 
 'twould,' answers the Saint. ' It can be done — for a 
 consideration,' says the Dowl; but what he got for 
 his trouble my gran'faither never knew. Be that as 
 'twill, Saint Dunstan tipped him the wink to do his 
 worst and there corned such a terrible cruel master- 
 piece of a frost that the blossom was stricken from 
 the bough like snow and there wasn't enough cider 
 to drown a wasp that season. But the Saint done 
 very well and sold his liquor at fancy prices no 
 doubt!" 
 
 They applauded Lucky 's legend and were still ap- 
 plauding when there entered a rare visitor, though
 
 THE BEACON 257 
 
 one familiar enough in time past amid these sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 Miss Cann appeared, clad in a long black cloak 
 which enlarged her shape to the form of a gigantic 
 extinguisher. 
 
 "Where's my worthless nephew?" she said to the 
 barmaid. But Emma she ignored explicitly. 
 
 The wife pretended, however, not to see this slight 
 and answered the question. 
 
 " My husband's in Exeter on business. He'll be 
 home to-morrow, Miss Cann." 
 
 Fanny hesitated. It was not her practice to be 
 uncivil where women were concerned. 
 
 Mr. Jope spoke. 
 
 " 'Tis a comely sight to see you under the old roof, 
 Fanny Cann," he said. 
 
 "Is it? I'm doubtful if 'tis safe, however. 
 There's none to look after anything now, and the old 
 roof be like to fall on the top of all you idle topers 
 afore long; and good riddance if it do." 
 
 " We was all talking about our work, if you must 
 know," declared Neddy Knapman. 
 
 " Yes — talking about it. You can do that." 
 
 Miss Cann, who had not heard her own voice or 
 another's for a week, now showed an inclination to 
 stop, and Emma — always lightning quick to serve her 
 husband and lacking not for intuition that Tom often 
 called ' white magic,' now came boldly from behind 
 the bar with a glass of cordial. She got a cushion, 
 drew an old chair to the fire and insisted upon her 
 husband's aunt sitting down for a while. 
 
 Fanny frowned, hesitated and was lost. The 
 little woman rose on tip-toe and soon removed Miss 
 Cann's great cloak. 
 
 " I know what you like of an evening," she said. 
 " Tom have wished time and again that he could see 
 you with your glass of his cherry-gin in your hand. 
 He'll be terrible sorry to miss you. I'll mend the
 
 258 THE BEACON 
 
 fire if you please. The evenings run chilly still and 
 we light it, because my father here and another old 
 man or two like it." 
 
 " Of course. I know 'em. What's this I hear tell 
 about Mrs. Price, Jack Jope? " 
 
 " I can't say what you hear tell, Fanny Cann," he 
 answered. " But it you've heard tell that she's very 
 like to take me and go down the vale along with me, 
 you've heard the truth." 
 
 " I never knew such a loathsome, lecherous place 
 as this in my born days ! " she cried. " And you're 
 the ring-leader." 
 
 " You'm always sticking up for women, and so you 
 ought to praise shoemaker here for being so addicted 
 to 'em," declared Neddy Knapman. " You can't pay 
 no female a greater compliment than by offering to 
 marry her I should think." 
 
 " In such a case as this, you couldn't offer 'em a 
 greater insult," answered the old woman. " Look at 
 that owl-eyed, old goat there ! What be he offering 
 but a barrel-load of a dead woman's children — five 
 of 'em still not fifteen year old?" 
 
 " You put it too vulgar and coarse," said Mr. Jope. 
 " You do indeed, Fanny Cann. Well I know your 
 scornful spirit, but you argue without knowledge of 
 the passions. Love — " 
 
 " Stop ! " cried the other, " or I'll up and go. 
 Don't you talk to me about love — 'tis too nasty alto- 
 gether — indecent you might say." 
 
 Mr. Jope flushed a rosy red and his eyes flashed 
 behind his glasses. 
 
 " There speaks a neuter I'm sadly afraid," he re- 
 torted. " Why — God Almighty — because a man's 
 beard have turned white, be that any reason why his 
 blood should run cold ? I tell you, you unfinished 
 woman, that love keeps the heart young, and if my 
 beard be a matter of threescore and five, my heart 
 can rage like a furnace still."
 
 THE BEACON 259 
 
 " You're a very nasty old thing in my judgment, 
 whether I be unfinished or not; and come Sally Price 
 takes you, she'll be a nasty old thing also, and so 
 enough said," summed up the man-hater. Then she 
 asked a question. "Why ban't the bear here? I 
 miss his growl." 
 
 "Do 'e mean Mortimore or Dunning?" asked 
 Lucky. " They both go by the name nowadays, 
 though for my part I shall always hold that Dunning 
 earns it best. My master — why ' bear ' be far too 
 meek a word for him. A bear's a tame beast along- 
 side him. And us shall all suffer mighty soon, or I'm 
 no prophet." 
 
 "The quarry you mean?" asked the man called 
 Henry. 
 
 " Yes, I do. I smell brimstone and sulphur there 
 whichever way it goes, for if he loses 'twill be hell let 
 loose upon us; and if he wins, it can only be by send- 
 ing in a tender as will beggar us all." 
 
 " Your wages won't suffer," said Emma. " You 
 and the other men will be left where they are." 
 
 " So they think, but I feel terrible anxious upon it." 
 
 " You can go if it comes to that," declared a miner. 
 
 "I can; but where to?" 
 
 " What does Mr. Trevail say ? " asked Mr. Jope. 
 
 " Too busy to say much ; he's trying to get by 
 skill what Mortimore can't get by force ; but 'tis all a 
 question of cash. Mrs. Trevail — she'll oft times 
 come in the quarry and mount the lime kiln and watch 
 me at my work. She don't want Iron Mortimore to 
 have the quarry no more." 
 
 " That's silly of her," said Emma. " What's the 
 good of her wishing things to fall different from how 
 her husband wishes?" 
 
 " She have her reasons and very good ones," de- 
 clared Miss Cann ; "and in your new state, Emma, 
 you'll do wisely to remember the powers that a 
 woman has. Lizzie knows what they are; and you
 
 2(50 THE BEACON 
 
 know — or ought to by now. However it's no use my 
 preaching to you." 
 
 " I'd sooner pleasure you than anybody alive but 
 my husband," answered Emma frankly; "but in the 
 matter of men we women have different ideas about 
 tackling 'em. We've all got our systems, Miss 
 Cann." 
 
 " You'd like to tackle 'em with a red-hot poker, 
 Fanny Cann," declared Jack Jope; "yes, you would 
 — you cannot hide your contempt and scorn of the 
 race ; but Emma here — she's my daughter, and as I've 
 had the art to move women, so she's had the art to 
 move men, haven't you, Emma?" 
 
 " Yes, I have." 
 
 " Yes ; she've always had the art to move 'em — 
 and why? Because of her understanding. Now you, 
 to say it in all civility, don't like 'em. In fact it 
 wouldn't be stretching truth to say you hate 'em. 
 And we can't properly understand what we hate. 
 You'll bear me out there, neighbours." 
 
 " 'Tis just because I so properly understand 'em 
 that I do hate 'em," returned the spinster. " And if 
 other women was to see through your shifty ways and 
 humbug and selfishness like what I do, we should 
 soon band together and work something against you. 
 Even the best and most seeing of us, such as Lizzie 
 Trevail, though she's on the right track, be on it from 
 wrong motives. She won't be under her man's 
 thumb; but she's trying to lift him up to her high 
 opinions and can't believe me when I say 'tis wasted 
 time her trying to." 
 
 " Don't you say that. She'm terrible fond of him 
 and he's terrible fond of her. I've seen 'em kiss like 
 lovers in the quarry," declared Mr. Madders. " My 
 eyes be sharper than anybody knows and I've got a 
 long sight that will put to shame many a younger man 
 still. And, only two days agone, she was seeking for 
 .wood strawberries on the banks, and he come along
 
 THE BEACON 261 
 
 quite by accident and went to her and kissed her. 
 So if they can kiss at a chance meeting 'tis very well 
 with them." 
 
 " She'll lift him if it may be done," said Mr. Jope. 
 " But the danger lies in her strong feeling again>i 
 comfort and conveniences and all that. She's a un- 
 comfortable sort of woman, owing to her great dislike 
 of letting well alone. 'Twas Trevail's own word to 
 me and he made no secret of it. A soaring woman 
 no doubt." 
 
 " As we all should be," said Miss Cann. " But 
 she's found now, like many another, that you can't 
 soar — not with a wingless creature like a man tacked 
 on to you." 
 
 'Tis the thing we love best we understand best," 
 ventured Emma. " With my Tom I never will ask 
 him to soar, because it ban't his way. But I know 
 him so well that I know just what he can do and 
 what's within his power. I surprise him by telling 
 him what he can do; I don't weary him by telling him 
 what he can't." 
 
 " My sense to a hair ! " said the shoemaker. 
 "'Twas even so with my wife. When she grew 
 weary of well-doing and said us mustn't have an- 
 other child, I told her to leave all such problems in 
 Higher Hands; and in due time she brought forth 
 again and felt honest pride in her own amazing pow- 
 ers. But we must not ask our fellow men to do im- 
 possibilities. 'Tis very disappointing work and it 
 makes 'em cruel impatienl and lessens love. For love 
 they'll try anything; and then, if they fail, turn round 
 and cast the blame on us. The true wisdom, as Emma 
 says, is to see whal a man can do and spur him to do 
 it. But if you ax him to do what you know right 
 well be outside his nature, why 'tis a fool's trick and 
 breeding trouble." 
 
 "None knows what they can do till they try," an- 
 swered Miss Cann, "and though few women be bet-
 
 262 THE BEACON 
 
 ter aware of your limits than what I am, still this 
 nonsense of loving blinds our eyes too often; and we 
 see you not as you are, but as we think you are. And 
 you look almost worthy of us; and we make a wrong 
 and silly picture of you and ask you to do more than 
 you can. Every high-minded wife has a false picture 
 in her mind, and the ticklish time in a marriage be 
 when her false picture's found out and the true one 
 takes its place. After that happens, the wise woman 
 keeps her mouth shut and don't ask the man she's 
 chained to, to do more impossible things. Too late 
 she sees how the love fever fooled her ; and she comes 
 down and down and down in her demands; till at 
 last she's content if the creature keeps sober and faith- 
 ful and fairly honest." 
 
 A man or two stole away before these remarks. 
 But Miss Cann had not finished. 
 
 " I'll say to you what I said to Lizzie," she con- 
 tinued, addressing Mrs. Underhill. " Don't you hope 
 too much. Tom be like Charles Trevail in some 
 ways — a slight creature for all his fifteen stone. If 
 he's to be happy, you'll have to leave him alone; and 
 if you do your duty, you won't leave him alone, so 
 there you stand — like every other married woman — 
 in a proper fix between your conscience and your com- 
 fort. No high-minded female has the right to let 
 them go their own wretched way; but they being 
 what they are, so sure as you do your duty, so sure 
 will they disgrace themselves. 'Twill take centuries 
 of battle before they'm got under. We shan't live to 
 mark it; we shall never see them all to heel and in 
 their proper places; but every dog has his day, and 
 ban't the bitches to have theirs? The time's ripe for 
 it in my opinion." 
 
 Before this attack the men fell off and dispersed. 
 Soon not one was left, and then Fanny returned to a 
 former and particular theme. 
 
 " It scatters 'em, like the chaff they are, to hear the
 
 THE BEACON 263 
 
 truth," she declared. " But leave them for the mo- 
 ment and tell yonder woman to go out of the bar. I 
 want to speak to you." 
 
 Emma bade the barmaid depart. 
 
 " Tis just closing time," she said. " I'll call if I 
 want you." 
 
 "When this here thing happened," began Miss 
 Cann, " my first thought was never to have nothing 
 to do with you; but to-night I've changed my mind. 
 I'm fond of Tom, not because he's a man, but because 
 he's my nephew. Minnie had too lofty a touch. 
 She ought to have married a bishop, or some such 
 thing, for such a man could have appreciated her 
 parts. But to Tom she was gall ever — like the sun- 
 shine to an owl. You be clean-minded and quick- 
 witted seemingly and you've said a thing or two that 
 pleased me to-night. Guide him easy, but never let 
 go. In the case of Lizzie Trevail and Charles you can 
 see a bit how not to do it. God knows I'm talking 
 treason, for I ought to be all her side; and so I am 
 really. But the brutes can't stand fine air. They 
 can't breathe it — they're too coarse for it. 'Tis no 
 good taking a man by the scruff of his neck and try- 
 ing to drag him out of his skin and make him be born 
 again in Scripture phrase. It can't be done. A 
 snake can cast its slough; but a man can't; and we 
 can't do it for him. In Lizzie's case her many-sided 
 nature be fighting against his narrow-mindedness ; her 
 thirst for change and advancement is up against his 
 stubborn will to stick. And each in the heart of 'em 
 thinks they be going to win; and so sure as death 
 both will lose. I blush to say these things, for I 
 ought to take a higher view and back Lizzie for all 
 I'm worth. But there's a cruel lot of difference be- 
 tween what's right and what makes for happiness; 
 and you — for all you'm only a chit and a scandal and 
 all the rest of it — you have the commonsense to see 
 you can't turn Jack o' lantern into a star. You say
 
 264 THE BEACON 
 
 you be going to surprise Tom by showing him what 
 he can do. And that's sense. Lizzie be mixing 
 ' can't ' and * won't ' in my opinion. But there's a 
 wide difference and because her lump of clay can't 
 turn into a china ornament, 'tis no good tearing and 
 fretting and saying he won't. Every wife's sorrow- 
 ful duty be to cut her coat according to her cloth." 
 
 " And they didn't ought to begin cutting too soon," 
 declared Emma. " 'Tis no good dashing and slashing 
 at a man and beginning to shape the material afore 
 you know the size and quality." 
 
 " Sense again. You appear to know what you'm 
 talking about. I don't praise you for it, mind. 
 These large-thinking women, like Tom's first wife 
 and Lizzie to North Combe, be far finer and grander 
 than you ; and their fineness and grandness shows itself 
 when they be called to clash with men; but you've 
 got what they have not — a seeing eye. You can sum 
 the men up better than they can. You be more alive 
 to their narrow limits and mean needs. How do 
 you hit it off with your mother-in-law? 'Tis to 
 oblige her more than anything else that I came to see 
 you to-night." 
 
 " We get on very well indeed. She's easy to please. 
 Tom's face tells her all she wants to know." 
 
 " Don't pander to her, however." 
 
 Emma filled Miss Cann's glass again. 
 
 " 'Tis closing time," she said. " Would you like 
 for one of the men to see you up over? 'Tis a dark 
 and rough night." 
 
 " No thank you," answered the elder. " I've got 
 my stick and my lantern. When the time comes 
 I've no doubt they will make my coffin and carry me 
 to my grave and lower me into it and load the earth 
 on ; but that's all I shall ever ax of them."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 LIZZIE often enjoyed to break from work for half 
 an hour, stroll down to the quarry and climb 
 to the mouth of the kilns. From here Tawton 
 church, framed in trees, filled up the middle distance 
 and above it Cosdon's arch completed the earth picture 
 and spread in a right bow whose apex stood above 
 the battlemented church tower. Hither she came 
 with troubled thoughts on a day in late August, when 
 the darkness of the foliage was as yet unbroken by 
 any gleam of autumn. Above the world ranged 
 mountains of golden cumuli sailing along the blue, 
 and their shadows stained the Beacon's bosom with 
 dim purple as they passed before a gentle western 
 wind. 
 
 In a moment of weakness Trevail had hinted to his 
 uncle of Elisabeth's attitude toward the quarry, and 
 a period of tolerance was ended. Charlie mourned 
 his confession too late and Mortimore raged. 
 
 The thing had happened three days before and a 
 collision between the man and woman was inevitable. 
 Trevail felt full of vain regrets and begged Lizzie to 
 forgive him. But she did not blame him and made 
 no effort to avoid the old man as her husband begged. 
 He would seek her she knew, and she had reached a 
 point when she cared very little what might come of 
 the collision. Her husband's attitude to the quarry, 
 the shifts that he had made to win it, the indignities 
 to which he had submitted on his uncle's behalf — all 
 tortured her. The general attitude of mankind to 
 Trevail also tortured her. She loved him dearly still, 
 
 but hope was dying. She began to know that it was 
 
 265
 
 266 THE BEACON 
 
 beyond her power to be of any service to him. It 
 remained also beyond her power to be neutral and 
 watch him slink along the paths that his nature indi- 
 cated. Yet his overmastering love for her seemed 
 not to falter. He sank under her strenuous moods 
 and bent to them as the twig to the storm, but he 
 sprang upright again when, out of sheer weariness, 
 she relaxed awhile. He tried to please her and she 
 knew it; but his ingenuous attitude to the world, his 
 lack of reticence, his love of the easy path and com- 
 fortable resting-place — these she could not change. 
 Neither could she endure them. 
 
 Now the woman looked down from her perch and 
 saw Iron Mortimore below. He had marked her 
 some time before and was hurrying towards her. She 
 reflected, then left the top of the kiln and went into 
 the valley to meet him. 
 
 " He might throw me over ! ' : she thought, yet 
 laughed at her thought. 
 
 " I want to speak to you," he shouted before they 
 met. 
 
 " I know it," she answered. " I'm come to meet 
 you." 
 
 " Just list to me, please. I've had about enough 
 of this. If you're going to play fast and loose with 
 your husband and choose your friends from his 
 enemies, 'tis time he knew it." 
 
 " It would be, but you're talking nonsense." 
 
 " Don't you answer me. You listen and speak 
 after. You've always done all you could to come be- 
 tween me and my nephew ever since you took him ; 
 and 'tis time you stopped if you don't want your 
 blasted neck wrung. How do you dare to side against 
 him and me in this matter? You might just so soon 
 be unfaithful to the man, and, for all I know, you are. 
 But you've got to choose and that mighty quick be- 
 tween your friend and your husband now. The tend- 
 ers go in next week and I've found out all about all
 
 THE BEACON 267 
 
 of 'em but Dunning's. And I order you to find out 
 his and report it to me afore Thursday night, or I'll 
 cast you out. By God I'm in earnest! I can do it. 
 And a damned good riddance too. Who be you — 
 some nameless London dirt — to come between me and 
 Charles Trevail? What be you to him compared to 
 what I be ? What are you good for but to weary and 
 nag the fool's soul out of his body, and spoil his 
 nights, and torment his days and turn the food sour on 
 his stomach? Blast you! I'll hear no more on you. 
 You find out, and damned quick, which side you stand 
 for and larn from me that you can't hunt with the 
 hounds and run with the hare." 
 
 He stopped and Lizzie thought a moment before 
 answering. 
 
 Tis hard to make you understand," she said, " be- 
 cause you're not a common sort of man and haven't 
 got a common man's sense. Something's been left 
 out when you were making — or else something was 
 put in. But the very way you talk to a woman shows 
 what you are. And I have tried to come between you 
 and Charlie, and I always will try; because you can't 
 teach Charlie the only thing you've got worth learn- 
 ing." 
 
 "What's that then?" 
 
 " Your power to work and your hardness, and 
 your scorn of all that's feeble and soft and cowardly. 
 If you could teach him that I'd be glad enough; but 
 what you do teach him is love of money, and that's 
 poison to a man like him. It don't hurt you, because 
 you're three parts a savage and you'd be just as happy 
 to hoard beads or shells, if they was as hard to come 
 by as money. You hoard for the sake of hoarding, 
 and money don't make you soft and silly : it makes 
 you hard and strong. But my husband's different 
 from that and you know it. He can use money. He 
 likes what money can do. He's always looking for- 
 ward to ease and idleness and laziness — all to be
 
 268 THE BEACON 
 
 bought with money. And that's why I try to make 
 him change." 
 
 " What about Dunning then ? Your smooth tongue 
 won't explain that so easy." 
 
 " Your rough tongue don't. You've said things 
 to-day that none but you, or a madman, would dare 
 to say. Dunning is my friend, and a good friend, 
 and a wise man. But as to his business, I know no 
 more of it than I know of yours. And as to trying 
 to learn ought of it — why, what do you take people 
 to be? Because you're my husband's uncle, is that 
 reason why I should try to steal Reynold's secrets 
 about the quarry? Let me mind my own business. 
 To run your errands and plot to get secrets for you 
 is none of my work. What do I care for the quarry? 
 It only means money. I'm sick of the word, for it 
 stands between my husband and every proper thought. 
 If I was to ask Dunning for his tender, what would 
 he say? Laugh at me I should think." 
 
 "Don't pretend that. He'd tell you. He'd trust 
 you." 
 
 " It isn't the tender," she said. " I know that 
 much. He made no secret of that. It's what lies 
 behind the tender. He's a cleverer man than you are 
 and he understands something about the quarry you 
 don't. It's the knowledge behind the tender. The 
 figures wouldn't help you. You can't go below a cer- 
 tain sum and still quarry at a profit." 
 
 " Now you're talking sense. We'll mince no 
 words. The man loves you, or behaves as if he did. 
 Well — there 'tis — you be the only creature on God's 
 earth can get his secret out of him. Ask for it and 
 let him make his price. What the devil do it matter? 
 Give him what he wants, and I'll give you what you 
 want — that's a bargain." 
 
 She was familiar with the crudity of Mortimore's 
 mind and his proposition did not astonish or dismay 
 her. It was like the man, and she could discuss any
 
 THE BEACON 2(59 
 
 subject without a blush when alone with him, as 
 easily as she could disrobe in the presence of a cat or 
 dog. He belonged to another order of beings and she 
 always felt it. There was something of the child and 
 much of the brute in him. 
 
 " A very good thought from your point of view no 
 doubt," she answered. " But there are pretty strong 
 objections. First of all Reynold Dunning doesn't 
 want me any more than you do." 
 
 " That's a lie and you know it," he interrupted. 
 
 " Well — even supposing that he did; what about 
 the payment? What payment could you make me if 
 I told you his secret to-morrow ? " 
 
 " I'd name you in my will. I'd give you whatever 
 you asked for in reason." 
 
 "Would you give me Charlie?" 
 
 " Yes, and welcome. I'm very near so sick of 
 Charlie as you are. He means well — he's done a 
 good thing here and there for me ; but he's failed over 
 this. You succeed where he's failed and show me 
 how I can work my quarry and cut out that chap and 
 I'll give you — I'll give you — " 
 
 He broke off and she spoke. 
 
 " Don't tease your brains to think what you can 
 easiest part with. 'Tis a thousand pities, Uncle, 
 you're not a thought more like other people, for then 
 you and me would have got on very well ; but we 
 never can now. I know how you feel to me — wicked 
 — wicked. You'd like to tear my heart out. But 
 I'm not afraid of you now, though once I was. 
 You're only a sort of clever tiger — wonderful wits for 
 a beast, but not enough for a man. I hate the \\a\ 
 you look at things. I'm sorry for you — very near as 
 sorry as I am for Charlie. But you're both past pray- 
 ing for. I'd have done great things for you botli if 
 I could; but I'm not clever enough for that. I can't 
 do any good now. I can't make my Charlie see \\ ith
 
 270 THE BEACON 
 
 my eyes. I can't make him — there, what's the use of 
 talking?" 
 
 He stamped and swore. 
 
 " Talking — talking — 'tis all a woman can do. 
 They'm no use for anything else. Never mind me or 
 him. What'll you try to get Dunning's secret out of 
 him for?" 
 
 " I'd rather never see him again than do it. I 
 don't care how soon he has the quarry." 
 
 He blinked at her like a wounded hawk. 
 
 " You say that, you traitor ! Very well then — 
 hear me. If he wins now, 'tis your fault — if he wins, 
 'tis because you've helped him to win; and so sure as 
 that happens, you shall have your throat slit for it! 
 God's my judge if I lose the quarry I'll — I'll — you 
 and your leaman shan't enjoy it anyhow — I know — I 
 know how 'tis. I see at last. You've got my tender 
 out of your husband — wormed it out of him — and 
 took it to that dog! 'Tis hard to keep my fingers off 
 your throat when I — " 
 
 " Ask Charlie if he has told me your tender, or if 
 I ever asked to know it. Haven't you got a soul? 
 Don't you believe in God? Can't you see where 
 these rages will land you? You'd like to throw me 
 down and trample me this moment; but why? 
 What's the use? Think — think more ! If I can teach 
 you nothing else, I can teach you that." 
 
 " You bleat your hardest, but life's life and 
 death's death," he said. " And when you be in the 
 shadow of death, we'll see how you talk then. Warn 
 him — warn him if you value him — use your chattering 
 tongue for a sensible purpose for once and warn him 
 that if he takes my quarry away from me, he can go 
 and dig your grave in it! No man shall steal my 
 quarry and no woman shall help him to reap my har- 
 vest. For I'll reap them if they do — both of them — 
 and God in heaven kill me with lightning as I stand 
 afore you now if I'm making a vain boast. I'm calm 

 
 THE BEACON 271 
 
 — calm as yonder pool. Take heed to yourself then, 
 for what I say is solemn truth." 
 
 He left her a little impressed by his threats. She 
 knew that Dunning would laugh at them, yet guessed 
 that they might not be idle.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 CHARLES TREVAIL was not the man to find 
 any peaceful road through the coming crises of 
 his life. He recognised a wide and deep obligation 
 to his uncle; he loved his wife passionately; and be- 
 tween them now he began to suffer. Mortimore was 
 consistent, Elisabeth was not. The man never bated 
 from his fierce policy and Trevail knew how he would 
 think and feel on every occasion ; but with the woman 
 he certainly could not reckon, because she could not 
 certainly reckon with herself. She made concessions 
 to-day and to-morrow withdrew them; to-day she 
 yielded a point and admitted the necessity of rela- 
 tions with Mortimore; to-morrow she turned upon 
 herself and scorned herself for weakness and con- 
 demned her own admission. Now she would be ad- 
 amant and declare his soul's welfare and health de- 
 manded a complete upheaval and escape from local 
 influences; and then, after he had gone in much 
 trouble, and fought with himself, and considered her 
 views and debated on the future, should he comply 
 with them, she had yielded at sight of his woe-begone 
 face and confessed that her ideas might be unreason- 
 able. Thankfully then he returned to the present; 
 and his renewed comfort at the respite only served to 
 fire his wife to fresh impatience and drive her to 
 further efforts on his behalf. 
 
 The husband was weak, but he was not a fool and 
 he perceived the ethical significance of his wife's opin- 
 ions far more clearly than she supposed. He knew 
 that to separate himself from Iron Mortimore was 
 a course of double value; because it must relieve his 
 
 spirit of an incubus and a degradation and it must 
 
 272
 
 THE BEACON 273 
 
 serve mightily to increase Elisabeth's happiness. 
 Against that, however, he set a duty owed to the old 
 man. He thought much upon the difficulty and won- 
 dered whether he could serve Mortimore elsewhere 
 as well as at North Combe. A factor that weighed 
 far more heavily than his wife supposed was the 
 elder's attitude to Lizzie. Under that Charles suf- 
 fered indeed and it became daily a more serious tribu- 
 lation. A point was reached when Mortimore refused 
 ever again to break bread with his nephew's wife. 
 
 Trevail had called early at his uncle's house and 
 Mortimore burst forth upon the matter. 
 
 ' Don't let me see the torment no more or I'll do 
 her an injury. You be daft on the carcase of her 
 and can't see the beastly nature in it. My fingers 
 twitch when I sight that woman! Damnation — to 
 think that a creature of that age — there, I'll suffer 
 no more of it. 'Tis wrecking your life, and if she 
 was my wife I'd knock her on the head, like a trouble- 
 some cat, and put her in a sack and sink her in my 
 pond some fine night with a hundredweight of lime- 
 stone to keep her out of sight. You do that, and I'll 
 help you ; and then you'll have peace. A plotting devil 
 — but you, so blind as you are, can't see. She's hatch- 
 ing God knows what against you with that anointed 
 villain at Clannaboro'. Yes, she is ; I'm never wrong 
 and you needn't shake your head, because it's true. 
 Choke the ginger-eyed hag! I'd — " 
 
 " Don't you take on. 'Tis the difference in your 
 natures. She means well. She's got a peculiar mind. 
 Women are unreasonable. 'Tis a sort of fineness in 
 them no doubt, but they're never very sane where 
 money's concerned. Either they undervalue it alto- 
 gether and despise it and all that; or else they sell 
 their souls for it. Lizzie thinks I'm too fond of 
 money." 
 
 "And I've made you so. Can't the fretful, mad- 
 dening fool see that — ? Blast such creatures! Why 
 18 J
 
 274 THE BEACON 
 
 the mischief, if you must have one, don't you get one 
 without such a lot of beastly ideas? Get a woman 
 with the mind of a sheep; then you'll be at peace. 
 One's so good as another every way but in their minds. 
 We don't want minds in 'em. If they'd been left 
 mindless and brains had run in the man mould only, 
 'twould be a better world and a happier. They be 
 at the bottom of half the plagues of life. They don't 
 know the meaning of truth, and if they belong to a 
 wretch, 'tis enough to make 'em scheme and plot to 
 ruin him. Always against them that they ought to 
 back up. Always wanting a new thing — not built to 
 be faithful and true. There's not a cur dog but can 
 teach them what they'd be better for knowing." 
 
 " You're too hard. She is faithful and true. She's 
 got a noble heart in her. She's right often enough. 
 'Tis I ban't worthy of her." 
 
 " She thinks so — baggage. Worthy of her ! Damn 
 her! 'Tis for you to be worthy of me, not her. At 
 best they'm only ornaments and at worst they'm — 
 look here, be rids of her afore she works more harm ! 
 Do what Tom Underhill done. 'Tis only a question 
 of time. Pick up another, as have larned in some hard 
 school to mind her own business. To meddle — to 
 pry — to lift her cursed voice in men's affairs — who 
 ever heard the like? And my quarry — my quarry — 
 why, how the devil I've suffered it I don't know. I'd 
 like to chain her in the midst and fire a ton of 
 dynamite under her feet ; I'd like to throw her in the 
 kiln and let her roast a bit till she shrieked for mercy ; 
 I'd like to stone her to pulp and feed my fishes with 
 her." 
 
 He tramped up and down his kitchen, flung his 
 arms about him, stamped with his feet, showed his 
 teeth and snapped them like a trap. His nephew 
 strove to allay this wrath but Mortimore bade him be 
 silent.
 
 THE BEACON 275 
 
 " Not a word for her — not a word ! You know 
 I'm right ; you know she's a snake and have bit the 
 hand that have fed her. A birthday present I gave 
 the wretch; and now she's scheming with her lover to 
 get the quarry." 
 
 " Uncle ! you shan't say these things to me. The 
 horror of it ! I can't bear no more." 
 
 ' Bear ' ! — you'll bear till your weak back breaks. 
 You've only just begun to know what she is. And 
 may God judge me if I lose the quarry — " 
 
 ' You won't lose the quarry; 'tis folly to think it." 
 
 " If I do, 'tis her work and you'll be called to choose 
 between us. I might kill her. But that's no good — 
 I can't kill people. But you — you're the only thing 
 in man's shape 1 care a curse for and if you — there it 
 is. You'll be called to choose, and if you cling to her, 
 you may go with her and live in hell for the rest of 
 your fool's days. And if you throw her off and spurn 
 her, then I'll show you 'tis true what you've told me 
 oft enough — that I be your master and your first 
 friend. We was all right afore this gnat stung you; 
 and we'll be all right again. But she's death and 
 damnation both and you'll never draw a quiet breath 
 so long as you knuckle under to her." 
 
 " You're not yourself to-day. This business is un- 
 settling you. The tenders all go in next week and we 
 shall know before Michaelmas. You'll feel easier 
 then." 
 
 " Wouldn't give up his secret, though I'll sware she 
 knows it. Wants him to have it I tell you; and then, 
 so like as not, if you don't throw her off, she'll do the 
 same for you, and run to thai devil and laugh at you. 
 It" you was a man, or half a man, you'd take a man's 
 care that the laugh should be <»' your side, not hei , 
 Kick her out oi your house and tell her to go to him 
 and ruin him body and soul. Kick the whore to him, 
 and then, so like as not, she'll begin plotting against
 
 276 THE BEACON 
 
 him and torturing him and making his life a plague. 
 He's always hungered for her — let him have her. 
 'Twould be a very good revenge." 
 
 Trevail perceived the helplessness of argument 
 against this whirlwind. Mortimore went out pres- 
 ently breathing threats and curses, while his nephew 
 returned home. There was a thought in his mind 
 to approach Dunning on the subject of the quarry and 
 try if diplomacy might still conquer. But he was 
 not sanguine. In some recent exchanges Mortimore 
 had got the better of the master of Clannaboro'. It 
 was improbable that under any circumstances Dun- 
 ning would yield in such a great matter as the quarry. 
 
 Trevail dismissed the idea for the moment and 
 thought deeply upon his wife as he returned to her. 
 Iron Mortimore's savagery and brutality defeated 
 their own object, and he smarted to think of the fear- 
 ful things he had been called upon to hear. That his 
 uncle was not as other men, he knew ; but never until 
 now had he heard him pour out such vile invective 
 upon any woman. He was angry and sore at such 
 indecency. He felt that he owed his wife amends, 
 though she had not heard the scene. He approached 
 her in sympathy, but she, knowing nothing that was 
 in his mind, happened not to be in a sympathetic 
 spirit. 
 
 " I've been with uncle," he said, " and I'm afraid 
 we're going to have trouble before long." 
 
 " What else do we have? " she asked. 
 
 " Well, it's no good pretending this can go on, 
 Lizzie. You and him — you know. He's been in one 
 of his mad fits to-day." 
 
 " He's always mad. That's what I know and you 
 don't. If I could only make you see that — " 
 
 " He seems so to you, because you're so sane." 
 
 " Not always — not lately. You must be a little 
 mad if you want to be happy. But I'm saner than 
 him and so are you." 

 
 THE BEACON 277 
 
 " I've got great and unsettling ideas in me to-day. 
 I want you to comfort me a bit, Lizzie." 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 " Wish I could. It isn't for want of trying that I 
 fail." 
 
 " You can and you always do. D'you know what 
 he said to me an hour ago ? " 
 
 She shook her head listlessly. She was weary of 
 life at this time and consciousness of utter failure had 
 hung like a fog thick upon her for many days. 
 
 " Tisn't often you come to me for sympathy from 
 him. Generally the other way about: you go to 
 him from me — to learn how to manage me, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 " Don't talk like that. He said just now that I'd 
 pretty soon have to choose between him and you — a 
 bit of a startler, eh? " 
 
 "He saw that?" 
 
 " He put it so. And sometimes in a downcast way, 
 like now, I am half inclined to think he's right. But 
 then I come to you, for you know that's nonsense." 
 
 " I know how you'd choose if you had to." 
 
 " I should hope you do, Lizzie. I should feel 'twas 
 the beginning of the end with a vengeance if you 
 didn't. But of course it's all part of his madness, 
 talking like that. We must give and take and pull 
 together still. We're not children, if he is some- 
 times." 
 
 " You calmed him down of course and told him — 
 what? That he was more to you than anything else 
 in the world ; and that you'd see that I behaved bet- 
 ter and didn't cross him." 
 
 "Don't talk so; you know how little I do without 
 consulting you. I'm a fool and weak and feeble and 
 all else you think me; but I respect you and respect 
 your name and take good care that others shall re- 
 spect it. If you'd heard me speak to him you would 
 not treat me like this; but you're always quick to
 
 278 THE BEACON 
 
 think I can do no right; always doubtful of my pow- 
 ers." 
 
 " I'm doubtful of my powers, not yours. I thought 
 I had more power, that's all. You're much more 
 powerful than I thought you were." 
 
 " We won't drag over the old ground again," he 
 said. " I'm idle to-day. Will you come for a long 
 walk? We'll go up on Cosdon." 
 
 " I can't. I'm busy." 
 
 " Do come, Lizzie." 
 
 " It isn't possible now. If you'd asked me sooner." 
 
 " I can't do right to-day." ' 
 
 She was angry — with the stupid, unreasoning, 
 causeless anger that overtakes every human soul some- 
 times. She knew it; and she was angry with herself 
 for being angry. But the poison had to flow. 
 
 " You're always right in your own eyes and you 
 reproach me every hour of the day for thinking dif- 
 ferently. I'm a ceaseless grievance — that's what I 
 am. I'm a grievance all the time, because I try to be 
 a help and work my fingers to the bone and fret my 
 hair grey for you. And I can't stand it much longer. 
 I'll give you one more bit of advice and only one; and 
 that is to decide which side your bread is buttered on. 
 I'm not going to give way to that evil old ruffian for 
 you or anybody; but if you are going to, then do it, 
 and have done with it. He's right for once : it will 
 be me or him before long, and the sooner you settle 
 which, the better for your peace of mind. Only take 
 care that you don't land yourself where the likes of 
 you always land yourself sooner or late, and fall to 
 the ground between two stools." 
 
 He had seldom seen her so angry or with such little 
 reason. He stared at her and she passed him and left 
 him staring. There was a coarse grain in her temper 
 that he had never known until now. He felt that 
 something had demoralised her; he knew, despite her 
 hail of words, that she was angrier with herself than
 
 THE BEACON 279 
 
 with him. He tuned himself to patience — not a high 
 or noble resignation; only the mean patience of a 
 lowly creature. He did not follow her but stuck to 
 his purpose and went out alone. Some whim made 
 him persist in the idea of visiting Cosdon ; and he did 
 so. He roamed the familiar spots sacred to his 
 romance and his mind traversed many moods. Now 
 he burned with love for Lizzie; now he resented her 
 unkindness; now he felt gratitude to Mortimore; 
 now he became deeply incensed when he reflected on 
 the recent conversation with him. He told himself 
 that there was much to be said on both sides and that 
 both Mortimore and Lizzie were right in a measure. 
 But what must be his course between them? He 
 began to be very sorry for himself. Then he adopted 
 a more masculine attitude and told himself that it 
 should be within his tact and skill to reconcile these 
 opposites and establish peace between them. Hours 
 of futile thought passed over him. He suffered and 
 the character of his reflections were not sanguine. A 
 ray lighted the cloud from time to time, but it 
 swiftly vanished. He loved his wife fondly and the 
 balance, as he turned homeward, belonged to her. If, 
 indeed, it became a question of choice between the 
 man and the woman, he could not conceive of him- 
 self as hesitating. But now he declared that no such 
 last resort need be apprehended. For the moment 
 the problem of Abraham Mortimore appeared more 
 pressing than any other. If he lost the quarry, his 
 nephew knew not what might happen, and he felt 
 that now, while yet a little time remained, no trouble 
 would be too great to retain the property in his 
 uncle's hands. Lizzie could wait. She was tacitly 
 against her own in this question, and the less that the 
 matter came to her ear the better. The thought 
 angered him against her again. He was plucking 
 some spikes of bog myrtle to carry- to her when he 
 remembered it, and he actually hesitated in doubt
 
 280 THE BEACON 
 
 whether to fling them away. His unstable mind was 
 framed on this pattern, and so frail appeared its con- 
 stitution that one thought thus for ever confounded 
 another. It was the commonest circumstance with 
 him to let a chance act of memory interfere with deeds 
 to be executed, or in actual process of execution. 
 
 But he kept the bog myrtle and, as he descended 
 the hill towards evening, there came a sunset glow 
 that touched him to sentimentality and moved him 
 to emotions, not maudlin but not manly. He de- 
 cided henceforth to throw in his lot with Lizzie and 
 set her above all other temporal interests. He saw 
 that her prophecy might actually come true if he was 
 not careful. He felt frightened for himself a little 
 between his uncle and his wife. He returned home 
 weary and dispirited, but affirmed to stand by Lizzie, 
 come what might, after the destination of the quarry 
 was determined. 
 
 None the less he looked at the future with grief and 
 was blown back into a dull dislike and resentment 
 when he thought upon his wife. He doubted the love 
 that could call him to such suffering as this day had 
 brought him. He did not believe that she cared for 
 him as she was wont to care. He asked himself 
 whether his own love was built of stuff to stand dim- 
 inution in hers. He felt that she was cruel, and a love 
 that could be cruel was not the love that he coveted. 
 He argued in a circle helplessly and came home mind- 
 weary. 
 
 But a very penitent woman welcomed him and 
 fondled him into cheerful hope. 
 
 Lizzie wept when he returned with his bunch of 
 bog-myrtle. She heaped all manner of reproaches on 
 herself and declared that until they had walked to- 
 gether again on Cosdon and sat together in the cairn 
 crown of it, she would not have another happy mo- 
 ment. They planned a journey thither before they 
 slept.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 CHARLES TREVAIL went to see Dunning at 
 Clannaboro'. He came by appointment, but 
 knew that his mission was vain even before he started. 
 Yet, in his battle for Abraham Mortimore, no chance 
 of success however slight was overlooked, and if an 
 infirm purpose and uncertainty of decision marked 
 most of his life's relations, it could not be brought 
 against him that he had left one stone unturned to 
 assist his uncle in the matter of the quarry. Elisabeth 
 had not failed to mark this sustained effort, and the 
 resolute endeavour that had led Trevail to make such 
 immense sacrifices of time and energy impressed her. 
 Had it been for any other cause; had he laboured 
 in some forlorn hope which she too favoured, such 
 efforts must have brought her wide satisfaction; as 
 it was they gave no pleasure. 
 
 Dunning was at the gate of his farm when Trevail 
 arrived and suggested that they should sit in the 
 garden. He was taciturn and listened without inter- 
 ruption while the other spoke. 
 
 " I suppose I oughtn't to have come on this errand, 
 Dunning, but you know the last effort may some- 
 times save a cause. It's the quarry. I want to speak 
 to you afore the tenders go in. I want to ask you if 
 by any power of mine I can make you see different. 
 Of course I'm interested for my uncle. You know 
 what that place is to him. He's worked it for count- 
 less years; it's his life in a sort of way. Nothing 
 else matters in his mind beside the quarry. But 
 you — you have such a lot of interests. You're 
 younger and cleverer than him. He's getting old, too. 
 He'll drop out afore long anyway, and if you could 
 
 281
 
 282 THE BEACON 
 
 but see your way to meet him there — And for my 
 part I should feel under a great debt, Dunning." 
 
 Trevail ceased, but the other made no answer. 
 
 Presently the younger proceeded. 
 
 "Of course I know it looks absurd," he said; " but 
 the absurd things often happen. I'm not asking you 
 to hold back fcr nothing. I can promise that we 
 should make pretty substantial concessions and never 
 again come between you and anything you were set 
 on in any other quarter. You and my uncle have 
 been rivals, in a sort of way, for years and years — 
 haven't you? And sometimes you have bested him 
 and sometimes he has bested you; but 'tis very certain 
 you'd have him for a friend for ever more over this 
 job if you gave way to him in it. And he's a friend 
 worth having — you can't deny that. He's a strong 
 man and gets his way; but he's clever enough, too, 
 and he knows very well, at the bottom of his heart, 
 that you and he are the only ones that count in this 
 matter." 
 
 "How does he know that?" asked Dunning. 
 
 " Because he knows you. He knows that if you 
 had not been pretty sure of yourself, you wouldn't 
 have tendered for the quarry." 
 
 " What's he frightened of? Does he think I under- 
 stand more about the quarry than him ? ' 
 
 " He's frightened of your tender. He knows that 
 he has bested you here and there of late, and he guesses 
 that you've sent in a lower tender than his, for the 
 sake of getting him out." 
 
 " He thinks I'd lose on a tender — just to spite 
 him?" 
 
 " He thinks you might do that." 
 
 " You're lying," said Dunning bluntly. ' Morti- 
 more in his maddest moments never thought I'd lose 
 money for the pleasure of seeing him smart. I care 
 no more whether he smarts than whether the worm 
 smarts when I put my spade into the ground, or
 
 THE BEACON 283 
 
 whether you smart to hear me now. You're lying — 
 'tis your thought, not his, that I'm tendering for the 
 quarry to spite him. You may so soon say I ten- 
 dered for your wife to spite you. I offer for the 
 quarry because I want it, and I probably offer more 
 for it than Mortimore, because I know how to make 
 it pay better than he does. As for you, you're a fool 
 to know me all these years and not to know me better. 
 To come over here and bleat this twaddle to a man 
 like me! What'll you do next? I'd never have be- 
 lieved it. But I suppose you think you're all power- 
 ful." 
 
 " Little enough power about me. I only came for 
 friendship to my uncle. He doesn't know I'm here. 
 It seemed to me a hard thing that he should lose the 
 quarry, and so I strained a point to help him keep it. 
 But you're right: I might have known that things 
 being as they are between us, you would hardly see 
 that it might be a fine deed to yield. Might's right 
 with you always." 
 
 "But not with Mortimore — eh? Not when he's 
 got his soft-hearted, God-fearing nephew to stroke 
 him down the right way? Such a gentle, kindly old 
 man, isn't he? Always stretching out his hands to 
 do the people a good turn. Just the man that any 
 decent person would be proud to sacrifice himself for 
 — eh? I ought to blush to tender for the quarry at 
 all. It would better become me and the others to 
 subscribe and pay his rent for him, so that he shan't 
 be troubled in his old age and have all the profits and 
 none of the pains? Tell him when I have the quarry, 
 he can come and work in it for me if he pleases. And 
 now you'd best begone." 
 
 Trevail was angry. 
 
 " Civility costs nought," he said, " else I wouldn't 
 urge it upon you: but a civil tongue you might keep 
 in your teeth for me. I've as much right to work for 
 my uncle as you have to work against him. And
 
 284 THE BEACON 
 
 more — since I can't avail him, I'll speak for myself, 
 though I hadn't meant to do that. I'm not afeared 
 that you can do my wife any harm by your talk, but 
 I know, to my cost, that it don't do her any good ; 
 and when you next meet, I'll thank you to remember 
 she's a Christian woman and the wife of a Christian 
 man." 
 
 " That's better," answered the other. " Now you 
 be saying something that interests me and looks to be 
 worth answering. Your wife is all right; but you'll 
 have to change a lot if you think to keep her all right." 
 
 "You told her that no doubt?" 
 
 " Not a chance ! She told me. No news either. 
 You would have liked for her to get my tender out of 
 me, no doubt; and find out how 'twas that I could 
 send it in so clever ; and what I knew about the quarry 
 that your old turtle-dove don't know." 
 
 " She told you that ! " 
 
 " Wrong again. But I know Mortimore and I 
 know you. I know what you'd think was a smart 
 thing to do ; and I know what price Mortimore would 
 pay if he could learn what I know. You're a fine 
 pair. Brute strength and cleverness combined — hunt- 
 ing in a couple — and I snap my fingers at the both of 
 you ; because I'm stronger than him and cleverer than 
 you; and you'll know it afore you kill your Michael- 
 mas geese I daresay." 
 
 Trevail considered and then spoke. 
 
 " You mustn't talk like that." 
 
 " That I should correct a husband in his view of 
 his wife! A funny world by God! But there 'tis: 
 Mrs. Trevail's no traitor. She'd so soon have told 
 me Mortimore's tender as told you mine. I rate her 
 higher than you do. I understand her better. I told 
 her my tender. Yes, she knows it, and you can stop 
 on your knees after you say your prayers to-night 
 and pray to her to tell you what it is. But she 
 won't. You must learn to trust her and lift your
 
 THE BEACON 285 
 
 eyes to her fine nature. You mustn't call her a 
 traitor; because if you say that sort of thing, she'll 
 damned soon chuck you." 
 
 The younger took this banter ill. 
 
 " You're poison for any woman, and I'll have no 
 more of it. If she's so blind to what is right as to 
 listen to you, and let you ruin her faith in God, and 
 in me, and in everything — then 'tis time her husband 
 spoke. You're doing wrong and you know you are. 
 There ought to be no confidence between you and 
 her, and I forbid it once for all. If you know her well 
 enough to tell her your secrets, then you know her 
 better than you ought to, and weak as you may think 
 me, I'm not weak there. I've had enough of it and 
 I've heard your opinions preached too often of late. 
 Not that she comes back from you happy, Reynold 
 Dunning. She don't — 'tis just the other way. She 
 knows the stuff you tell be trash; but it unsettles her 
 mind and makes my practical way of looking at 
 things all seem dull and silly. 'Tis very easy to talk 
 wildly and wickedly, when you know that you've not 
 got to pay the cost; 'tis very easy to poison a mind, 
 when you know that you'll not have to purify it again. 
 But I'll stand no more of it. I order you to let my 
 wife be, and forbid you to see her any more. And 
 when I get home, I'll tell her so." 
 
 " I shouldn't do that. We must give and take and 
 she's a lot wiser than you. She wants a bit of joy in 
 her life still — she's not too old for that. She wants 
 to be free, and she wants to see you free. If you tell 
 her to cut me, d'you know what she'll be like to do? " 
 She'll obey." 
 
 She might or might not. If she told you never 
 to have no more truck with Mortimore on pain of her 
 displeasure, what would you do?" 
 
 "The cases aren't the same." 
 
 "Nearer than you might guess. 'Tis her soul 
 you're bothering over seemingly. You think 1 shall 
 
 ..
 
 286 THE BEACON 
 
 spoil it. And 'tis your poor little chick of a soul she's 
 sighing for. Fancies 'twill make a full-sized eagle 
 some day; thinks that your old uncle be spoiling it. 
 So if you distrust me, she distrusts him. That's a 
 good friendly hint — eh?" 
 
 " I'll hear no more of this ! Do I want you to 
 teach me my duty — and to my wife of all people? 
 It's an outrageous and indecent and sickening thing, 
 and I've had enough, and I order you never to speak 
 to her again! " 
 
 Dunning laughed. He had an appointment with 
 Lizzie for a day in the future on Cosdon Beacon. 
 
 " An order's an order no doubt ; but you can't 
 order me not to see your wife any more than you can 
 order me not to win the quarry. If I'd ordered you 
 not to marry Mrs. Trevail a bit ago, you would have 
 thought I was gone in my head. No, no; you 
 mustn't order people. You must leave that to your 
 old man. You're not strong enough, Trevail. You 
 must sing small and creep along by the hedge with 
 the caterpillars; and if you be bold enough to launch 
 out and cross the road, you must take your life in 
 your hands and only hope that no wheel or hoof will 
 spoil you. Don't you order people; you obey them. 
 Your pattern of happiness is best got through doing 
 what you're told. And here's another tip, since I'm 
 feeling in a kindly mood. The sort that Lizzie would 
 set store by be the Mortimore sort, not you. She 
 don't hate your uncle because he's your uncle: she 
 hates him because he makes you look such a poor 
 thing. If you fought him and beat him, she'd put a 
 crown on your head and go an inch higher herself. 
 But you can't do that. She thought she'd teach you 
 how to. But she can't do that. If you was to knock 
 me on the head this minute; if you was to kill me, 
 she'd say her prayers to you for evermore. But. 
 again, you can't do that. Yet, what a fine stroke 
 'twould be — eh? I drop and you tell her. Then she
 
 THE BEACON 287 
 
 suddenly finds out that she's married a man after all ; 
 and Mortimore gets the quarry. Think of it! Tis 
 well worth the pains." 
 
 " You're a mocking, evil devil at heart, and I could 
 wish you were away from here. I'll waste no more 
 of your time or my own. But keep far from my wife 
 and don't see her no more, else I may take you at your 
 word and surprise you painfully. None loves peace 
 better than I do; but I mean real peace, not a fancied 
 pretence of it. I've spoke, and I look to you as an 
 honest man to heed me. Life is a difficult matter, 
 Dunning; but we needn't make it more difficult than 
 it is — for ourselves or our neighbours. I've told you 
 what I wish, and there can be no honest reason why 
 you shouldn't fall in with my wish." 
 
 " What if to fall in with your wish be to fall out 
 with your wife? " 
 
 The other leapt up in a fury. 
 
 " No more of this! " he said. "You're a damned 
 scoundrel and I'm glad I know it. Now take heed 
 where you stand, or it will be the worse for you! I'm 
 a mild man, but when you do rouse a mild man, he's 
 often the hardest to stop." 
 
 Trevail went off and the other watched him go. 
 There was neither scorn nor concern upon his face. 
 He entered his house a moment later and pursued 
 the tenor of his thoughts in a question to Mrs. Val- 
 lance, who was laying the tea-table. She, however, 
 spoke first. 
 
 " Ban't Mr. Trevail coming in to tea?' 
 
 " No, I've vexed him. Look here, Mercy, have 'e 
 ever heard what the cock-robin did when the weasel 
 robbed his wife's nest? ' 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Well, him and his wife raged at it something 
 terrible and cried out that they'd have justice if 
 heaven fell for it. And they planned to do such 
 things against the weasel as would make the whole
 
 288 THE BEACON 
 
 world shiver. And everybody waited in a cold sweat 
 to see what they would do. And what was it, do you 
 think?" 
 
 "What could they do?" 
 
 " Exactly so ! They did what they could. And it 
 was — nought."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 SHORT of the summit itself Elisabeth's favourite 
 haunt on Cosdon was a narrow cleft that fell west- 
 ward between two high ridges of heath and stone. It 
 carried a little stream to Taw river in the valley far 
 beneath, and the beck wound and tumbled and sang 
 beneath stout sallows dwarfed by the winds that 
 rushed up the cleft like a chimney. The place was 
 knee-deep in ling and fern, and the water ran beneath, 
 peeped out in occasional pools, flashed -now and then 
 from tiny falls and showed a twinkling face before it 
 vanished again to sing unseen. Green grass and the 
 sky-blue bells of the ivy-leaved campanula made dewy 
 cushions about its marge ; round a little granite goblet 
 there grew asphodels and rosy sundews, pale butter- 
 wort and the marsh violet; while the banks rose high 
 on either side and the hollow offered many a snug 
 nook and hiding-place, holt and harbour. It was 
 sheltered from east and north ; but the west wind 
 found it and the westering light before sunset time 
 often warmed it with the delicious apricot glow — 
 roseal, gentle and tender — that Lizzie best loved of 
 all radiant things and called ' her light.' And as the 
 sun sank behind the Belstones, their shoulders threw 
 a broad shadow across the valley and slowly swal- 
 lowed up the cleft until detail departed from it and it 
 lay darkling, like a wound, on the round bosom of the 
 Beacon. 
 
 She was superstitions concerning the stream — or 
 pretended to be. But of late her woven fancies and 
 gift for building romance from the uplifted loneliness 
 had suffered under fret of living. The strength and 
 virtue, the imagined magic and mystery of Cosdon 
 '9 289
 
 290 THE BEACON 
 
 dwindled in her heart and the dreaming times were 
 fewer. She was becoming an unhappy woman and 
 reality began to tumble down her airy castles. 
 
 Reality appeared now, for a man came to her at 
 the tryst. Indeed he had been there before her and 
 ascended from a lower spot in the same gap that she 
 had reached from above. 
 
 " I thought you was used to drink of this rill and 
 count it precious," he said. " You often told me that 
 all the hill's virtue bubbled up with the stream; and 
 you drank it in — like the wild savages think they 
 drink a fallen enemy's strength and cunning with his 
 blood." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " The time's past for fancies and nonsense. I've 
 got to be stronger and wiser now. There's things 
 happening where the Beacon can't help me." 
 
 " I don't believe that." 
 
 A large bird was fluttering near them — restless and 
 unhappy. Dunning looked about and presently called 
 the woman's attention to what he found. Two tiny 
 fledgelings sat on a stone together and their colour 
 was that of the mottled granite. 
 
 " They be young churn owls — come too late," he 
 said. " Well may the mother bird go in fear. She'll 
 never rear 'em now with winter at the door again." 
 
 " Let's go further off, so as the poor bird can bring 
 food to them." 
 
 " 'Tis no use. 'Twould be kinder to crush 'em and 
 have done." 
 
 They moved, however, and Lizzie watched the 
 parent return. 
 
 " Nature's full of things like that," said Dunning. 
 " Countless — countless the cruel blunders she makes 
 — in minds and bodies both. We all get under her 
 wheel some time or other ; and some she kills and some 
 she maims; and her truest kindness is a swift death. 
 'Tis all I'd ever pray to her for."
 
 THE BEACON 291 
 
 " You can always see the dark side," she said. 
 " You can always mark the last year's dead leaves, 
 but never the spring flowers. You see the battle un- 
 der every leaf and in every breast; but never the beau- 
 tiful things. Have you never had a joy? " 
 
 ' Not yet ; but I'm hopeful still. I'd like to dream 
 that dream as well as anybody." 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 " I didn't understand you once ; but I do now. 
 You're right enough. Joy is only a dream. We fool 
 ourselves to think that happiness is a real state, for 
 'tis a fancied thing at best." 
 
 ' Don't you say that. Happiness is just possible, 
 but, like all real good things, terrible hard to come at. 
 You must fight for it; you must sweat and sting and 
 bleed for it. You must be pretty strong and pretty 
 tough and pretty sure of yourself to get it. The 
 weak never can have it. Because you can't oft get 
 happiness without hurting somebody, and to hurt an- 
 other spoils their happiness in the very bud. List to 
 me, Lizzie. What I'm telling yon now, you taught 
 me. Yes, you come to me to learn; but remember 
 this : 'twas you showed me there could be such a thing 
 as the joy of life. I didn't believe in it till I met 
 you. Now I do; and I'll rest no more till I've won it. 
 You can't influence Charlie, but you can influence me. 
 You can't make anything beautiful and fine out of 
 putty, but you can out of stone. And it's worth your 
 pains." 
 
 She knew what he meant and she often thought of 
 it now. It was true that she had influenced him. 
 Her only joy lay in the knowledge. Some might have 
 held it a dangerous joy. It had come as a revelation 
 at first, but now she accepted the fact as her sole 
 anchor to self-respect in the painful turmoil of life. 
 She no longer felt any need to pour such ceaseless 
 contempt upon her failure to justify existence, while 
 a strong man thus loved her and bent to her. She
 
 292 THE BEACON 
 
 had made Dunning something finer than he was before 
 she knew him. She had marked her influence and he 
 frankly admitted it. At first she thought he was pre- 
 tending; but now she knew that he had spoken the 
 truth. There was, however, reciprocity. He had 
 tinged her hope with gloom and saddened it for ever; 
 he had corrected her estimates and values; he had 
 chastened her sanguine soul. Sometimes they specu- 
 lated on the force of the exchange and he declared 
 that he was the richer, and she the poorer by it. But 
 she denied this. 
 
 " 'Tis a painful thing to find myself so much less 
 powerful than I thought," she told him once ; " but 
 'tis better I should know it and not go on in ignor- 
 ance." 
 
 " You're powerful enough," he answered then, " but 
 power wants something to show itself. What's the 
 use of wielding a strong arm if there's nought to smite 
 with it but air? A straw's so good for air-beating 
 as a flail." 
 
 He found her depressed and out of tune now and 
 he spoke to her bluntly. 
 
 " There was a fool once," he said, — " God knows 
 who, but he ought to have been crucified for it, who 
 told a lie about women; and it's made thousands of 
 the silly things more miserable than any other man- 
 made lie about 'em. They've believed it against the 
 cry of their own hearts and thought that they've 
 done something contrary to nature and outraged their 
 womanhood. The tears that have flowed over that 
 lie! D'you know what it is?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " 'Tis this : that a woman can love but once. The 
 weakness of it! The cant of it! Who denies a 
 woman can love deeper than a man? And can't she 
 love as wide? Love — love — 'tis like the lightning. 
 Be a place safe and proof for evermore because it 
 have been struck once? A woman built to love will 

 
 THE BEACON 293 
 
 love, same as a bird built to sing will sing; and if the 
 man that makes a girl's life good goes out of it from 
 some cause or another — if his body dies or his soul 
 rots, or what not — is that woman to love no more? 
 Be woman's love such a trickling stream that one man 
 can dry it all up? He'll dam it for himself, and 'twill 
 rise so high as his heart and maybe higher; but if the 
 dam breaks and so much love runs to waste, ban't 
 the fount still there, and can't another man stay the 
 waste and collect the stream again? Well I know it 
 may be done — and so do you. A woman that stops 
 loving a man for one cause or another be like a widow. 
 For her the man's dead. But can death freeze love 
 beyond the power of life to thaw? Charlie's dead, 
 and well you know he's dead. Get away from him 
 and let him come to life in a gentler atmosphere than 
 you cast around him. Let them stick to the valley 
 air as can't breath the east wind aloft. There — I've 
 said enough. I'm dry." 
 
 She argued against him and held for a single heart. 
 She cited certain widows and deserted women who 
 had loved no more, when the sun set upon their fever 
 and rose again to find them whole. He marked an 
 uncertainty and dubiety foreign to her nature and nut 
 often revealed by her moods. 
 
 " Where have you been since last I saw you?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " To church." 
 
 "Where!" 
 
 " To church, I tell you." 
 
 "Lord! Where'll you go next? I thought you 
 ha<l made Charlie understand you was done with that 
 once for all." 
 
 "So I did; but he begged and I went." 
 
 " Did it pay for the trouble? I warrant not — only 
 made more. You but whet your conscience there, and 
 what's the use of that when you know what conscience 
 means and what it came out of? 'Tis no more than
 
 294 THE BEACON 
 
 what you learned, at your mother's knee. It only 
 teaches you Christians that you oughtn't to be men 
 and women, but worms. It only blinds you to your 
 fate; but it can't alter it. It can't lift you above that. 
 Take Charlie — will he ever do more than creep? 
 What's the good of his conscience to him? It hurts 
 and torments him — it can't change him. He knows 
 that he ought to be stronger and surer and make the 
 world bend a bit; but he can't — he can't. And you 
 know he can't. He can't rise above himself and he 
 can't sink below himself either." 
 
 " How do we know what is himself? How do we 
 know the highest in a man or woman's power to 
 reach? Don't people surprise us every day?' : 
 
 " Yes — and the surprise is only because we were 
 ignorant of them. Ask yourself how high Charlie 
 can go, and don't fool yourself to think you don't 
 know. You do know. You know you're too strong 
 meat for him. You know a baby can't drink wine. 
 You're poisoning him — d'you ever think of that? 
 And if you can't help the poor soul, why hinder? 
 And if you can't lift, why fling down? You're mak- 
 ing him sick and ill and out of all hope. I know, be- 
 cause I spoke with him awhile ago and found him 
 feebler than usual. Leave him, for his own good, and 
 come to me for mine. That's what you ought to do, 
 if you're a sane woman, and a clean-minded woman, 
 and have learned anything of the truth from this hill 
 we're sitting on. Justify your life afore 'tis gone. 
 Life's damnably short remember." 
 
 She looked before her where sunshine soaked the 
 Moor. His proposition did not startle her, for she 
 had heard it before. 
 
 " 'Tis your will and longing and ruling passion to 
 uplift and help somebody," he continued. ' Then 
 come where you can do it. You be no sort of good to 
 him; but to me — countless good — untold good — " 
 
 Still she was silent and he adopted a minatory tone.
 
 THE BEACON 295 
 
 " For God's sake don't mess and muddle and tinker 
 with your short days; don't think you can do for 
 others what you can't do for yourself. Trying to 
 make loaves afore you can make bread — that's what 
 you are — trying to get a man in hand afore you've 
 got yourself in hand. Yes, — you know I'm telling 
 true. You know what a storm's beating through 
 your brain and heart about it. Oh, Lizzie, you're so 
 young yet — such a young, beautiful thing to be trying 
 to lead others. And here's one weathered by many 
 storms — here's a haven for 'e! Help me! And 
 haven't you already? Haven't you tamed me and 
 made me bigger-hearted? Right well you know you 
 have. And failure — one failure — what's that? Who 
 be there who hasn't failed oftener than once? Cut a 
 loss — that's what you've got to do — and we've all got 
 to do it again and again — in business and in life. Cut 
 a loss and leave the man for his own good and begin 
 again. You'll sing in that cage no more. Begin 
 again at Clannaboro', and find self-respect and self- 
 control along with me, that loves you better far than 
 anything in the wide world. Don't you stop with 
 Charlie if you want him to be a happy man." 
 
 He harped on this last argument, feeling it to be his 
 strongest; and the woman was weakened a great deal 
 by it. 
 
 She declared presently that she was the first thought 
 in Trevail's mind; but Dunning would not grant as 
 much. 
 
 " He tells you so and he thinks so belike, for 'tis a 
 quality of weak men to believe what they say, even 
 while their head gives 'em the lie. His heart makes 
 him think so, but when it comes to the pinch, how 
 does it go? He can't put you first, poor devil, no 
 more than a sick man longing for ease can put his 
 pain first and count it a good thing. You're his pain, 
 and though he may know you mean his good, his real 
 self screams out to be left alone. And it always will;
 
 296 THE BEACON 
 
 and if you conquer and kill his real self, then what 
 have you done? Made a fine man? Not you. 
 You've knocked the poor little chance of happiness 
 out of a weak one. No more than that. 'Tis just 
 trash for him to say he loves you better than his own 
 ease and prospects and future laziness — to be spent 
 battening on Mortimore's money. How can a man 
 love a woman better than his own highest ambitions 
 and highest hope of good? He can't do it, and if you 
 say to him that he must choose between Mortimore 
 and you, which will he choose? You know. Don't 
 torture him more than you're bound to. Let him 
 down light. Break the heart of the job merciful at 
 one stroke — don't butcher him by inches and let him 
 bleed to death." 
 
 " I love him, Reynold." 
 
 "Should I preach sense to you if you didn't? If 
 you didn't, you'd bide with him and let him go his 
 way while you went yours; you'd share his cash and 
 his prosperity and luck and everything but his life. 
 If you didn't love him, you could do all that without a 
 twinge. 'Tis just because you do love him that I'm 
 at you to leave him and come to me. You oughtn't 
 to love him. 'Tis wasting good, precious stuff to love 
 him — spoiling it for nothing. Jump in a dangerous 
 river if the man drowning there be worth saving; but 
 don't fling yourself in and risk your own life for rub- 
 bish. Not that Charlie's drowning. He can swim 
 very well. 'Tis me that be drowning. Come and 
 save me, Lizzie. Oh, for the love of light, come and 
 do that!" 
 
 She was very silent, but he felt that he had gained 
 ground. She marvelled at his speeches and perceived 
 how much she had changed him. His old love-mak- 
 ing was frigid compared with the prayers he poured 
 out to her now. He appealed to her mightily since he 
 had become humble. But she knew that he was un-
 
 THE BEACON 297 
 
 changed to everybody but herself. He had done a 
 great deed for her also. He had opened her eyes in 
 many directions, destroyed many illusions and hard- 
 ened and clarified her thinking. She found him the 
 most satisfying element of life and she did not pre- 
 tend to deny it. 
 
 They moved presently and passed into the valley. 
 Then they followed Taw, by many a glittering apron 
 and singing fall, downward beneath the hills and the 
 woods. September's robe had brushed the beeches 
 now and dimmed them. As yet no flash of autumn 
 fire broke over the forest at Cosdon's feet, but a dull, 
 sere note was upon the trees and the setting sunshine 
 found it and seemed to prophesy the more permanent 
 light of the fall to come. The woods were aglint and 
 aglow. The light laid little rosy touches on each 
 spray and bough; it brought out the finials of the 
 pine and feathered the horizontal arms of the birch 
 with delicate fire. Where open spaces broke these 
 hanging woods, the light burnt tenderly on dying 
 fern, touched the granite ridges of the hills where they 
 broke and swept upward, and lighted with a red flame 
 the foliage of sister birches twined together upon a 
 bluff. 
 
 The man and woman sat again beside the river and 
 watched light die. It seemed, as the day faded, that 
 the water sang louder and louder. 
 
 For a long time no more speech passed between 
 them. Then he uttered another warning suddenly. 
 
 "And remember this. Your will to be doing for 
 him is broken again and again — broken against his 
 cast-iron ambition to be small. Broken — do you 
 know what that means? He's the strong one — not 
 you. Your strength be nothing against his weakness. 
 He's smothering all the heart out of you — he's suck- 
 ing up all your fine fire and not giving back one spark. 
 And you'll wither presently; you'll get old afore your
 
 298 THE BEACON 
 
 time; you'll cry out that 'tis all a blighted, heartless, 
 hopeless failure, and wring your hands for sorrow 
 that you was ever born." 
 
 They sat on until light thickened and the earth 
 took on the vague vesture of the crepuscule. Then 
 they rose and went down, and he left her without 
 farewell and she turned homeward.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 BETWEEN the villages of South Tawton and Zeal 
 there stands the stump of an old wayside cross 
 where three roads meet. Beside it is a barn, and here, 
 by night, a man tramped restlessly up and down, like a 
 tiger caged, and kept tryst with fierce impatience. 
 The hunter's moon was in the sky and once or twice 
 by the light of it the man stood still and scanned cer- 
 tain announcements in large letters that were pasted in 
 bills on the barn door. But he knew them by heart 
 and had already attended more than one of the sales 
 which they advertised. He marked a notice a month 
 old and tore it down. The recollection awakened by 
 it caused him fleeting satisfaction, for at that bank- 
 rupt sale of stock he had prospered. 
 
 Abraham Mortimore was waiting for his nephew, 
 and the latter would meet him here presently with 
 news from Oxenham House. The quarry tenders 
 had been in a fortnight and information respecting 
 them was promised for this day. 
 
 Mortimore's impatience increased and he strode up 
 and down with shorter and shorter turns. He never 
 wore a hat and his stiff, cropped hair bristled in the 
 silver light. 
 
 Then came the quick step of Trevail. 
 
 " As you feared ! " he shouted while yet forty yards 
 away. " Dunning's got it ! " 
 
 "What's the tender?" 
 
 " They wouldn't tell me. I pressed to know. I 
 only saw the bailiff. You was second, but a good bit 
 higher than Dunning." 
 
 Mortimore said nothing for some moments and 
 
 then he burst into a storm of rage. He walked up 
 
 299
 
 300 THE BEACON 
 
 and down irregularly panting and snorting. He lost 
 self-control and cursed. For some time nothing but 
 a lunatic frenzy held him and he howled and fought 
 the air like a madman. He beat the hedge and the 
 ground with his stick; then, coming beside the cross, 
 he struck it savagely and the stout staff he carried 
 broke in half. He stamped and cast the handle from 
 him. 
 
 Trevail walked up and down beside him, but made 
 no attempt for some time to arrest his fury. He 
 believed it would be better for the old man to wear 
 himself out; but for half an hour his pent-up wrath 
 blazed furiously; then, of a sudden, his temper began 
 to sink. He was physically exhausted and his strides 
 grew slower and his outburst more intermittent. He 
 sat down presently on the cross stump and squatted 
 there panting up at the moon. 
 
 Then Trevail began his soothing task and presently 
 persuaded his uncle to rise and turn to the village. 
 
 " This don't end here," said Mortimore at last. 
 " I'm not to be flung aside like a broken pot. No 
 man shall have the quarry as long as I want it, and if 
 'tis denied to me, then I'll deny it to all others. Not 
 a penny — not a penny shall any creature earn there 
 when I go out. I'll blow all to hell, and what I can't 
 fire, I'll drown. I know the secrets of the place I tell 
 you ! I'll ope the well-springs, I'll plague this devil 
 who has stole it from me and break his heart and ruin 
 him." 
 
 " Don't talk like that. He'll very like ruin him- 
 self without any help from you. Let him go — he 
 can't cut you down and make a profit. He'll have 
 had enough of it in a year and cry out to you to take 
 the lease off his shoulders." 
 
 " Ruin — ruin," cried the other. " Ruin shall be 
 his portion, and all the sleepless, watchful strength in 
 me, all the power to grind and throw down and crush 
 in me — all — all I'll pour out against him. I'm so
 
 THE BEACON 301 
 
 cold and steadfast as a frog now. I've gone over the 
 ground a thousand times afore to-day. I'm ready for 
 him. Better that he should cut his own throat and 
 get out of it, than go on against me now. I'll tear 
 him to pieces slowly; I'll batter and bruise him and 
 break his heart; I'll make him call on the hills to cover 
 him. And soon — soon — I can't wait for it. I'll be- 
 gin with to-morrow's light." 
 
 " Much may happen before next autumn remember. 
 You've got the quarry till next Michaelmas — a year 
 you may say." 
 
 " And I'll pick the eyes out of it long afore that, 
 and what I can't save, I'll spoil. He shall have 
 nought for his pains — nought but a long year's work 
 and no gain. I'll — I'll — " 
 
 He broke off and Trevail argued as best he could 
 to lessen the force of the blow. 
 
 " You'll have all the more time for other things. 
 The quarry takes up too much of your thought, come 
 to think of it, and if you put all the brain and trouble 
 you've poured out there into cattle, or houses, or what 
 not, I'm positive certain you'd double your money. 
 Me and Lizzie was talking not a week agone touch- 
 ing that, and she held out for it with your gifts you 
 might easily get more money for less work than you 
 do for your lime and stone." 
 
 " Because she knows what that anointed scamp 
 knows. Han't they thick as thieves? Don't she 
 (mow all about him? Don't she take all your secrets 
 and mine to him? Didn't I see 'em a week agone 
 walking along so close together as husband and wife, 
 when they thought none was in sight? And me 
 behind a hedge, and one bullet would have killed the 
 pair of 'cm — <me charge of gunpowder would have 
 sent 'cm to the devil together. She's my enemy — 
 always — always. Can't I read men and women? 
 The proof of the pudding is in the eating. If she'd 
 been our side in this — why. with her cleverness
 
 302 THE BEACON 
 
 she'd have got his secret as easy as Delilah got the 
 strong man's. She'd have found out what he knows 
 — she'd have brought his trap to us and we'd have 
 set it again with a new bait and catched him in it. 
 But all's one now. The cat be on his side, not ours, 
 and she shall go down with him, mark me ; and if you 
 cleave to her worthless carcase, you shall go down 
 too." 
 
 ' You'll drive me mad," cried the younger. " How 
 can you insult a man's wife to his face so wickedly? 
 You know what I feel for you; you know how I've 
 worked to stave this off; and now you say — you say 
 — and, coming from any but you, I'd not stand it." 
 
 "Could she have got his secret or couldn't she? 
 Tell me that." 
 
 " I'll swear she never asked him for it." 
 
 " Bah ! Be you so cold ? Don't you know what 
 you felt when you got the woman? Can't you see 
 what that damned man feels now he knows the crea- 
 ture's a failure as a wife and may be in his claws yet? 
 He wants her far more than he wants the quarry, and 
 if it had been her or the quarry, he'd have left the 
 quarry alone. 'Twas one of them cases where a 
 female may get on the blind side of a strong man and 
 make him harmless. She could have twisted him 
 round her finger if — " 
 
 " I'll not hear this. You're far ways off your true 
 self to talk to me so. What have I done to be — ? ' 
 
 " Get gone ! " said the miser. " You're a whining 
 whelp at best and the little use you ever was be lost 
 now that — " he broke off. " No," he continued. " I 
 won't say that. I'll be fair to you. You're all right. 
 You wouldn't have married that bit of foreign rag if 
 it hadn't been for me. I don't quarrel with you. 
 We hunt together, but we've lost our game too often 
 since you took that vixen into partnership. She's 
 got to go; and if I was you I'd sweep her to the 
 devil, her master, and not let my honour hang on a
 
 THE BEACON 303 
 
 hair of her head, same as it do now. She could have 
 helped you and didn't; she could have give me my 
 quarry and didn't — ban't that enough? She's a 
 traitor by your own hearth — a liar and a whore. 
 She'll be fathering another man's brats on you afore 
 you can look round. Be rid of her while there's time. 
 Bid her begone, and if she won't go, then hurl her 
 out. Give the woman her proper deserts. Haven't 
 she robbed your pocket and stood between you and 
 what would have been yours? And thinks to batten 
 on my money some day no doubt." 
 
 Mortimore poured his venom on Trevail's wife 
 and orderd the other to stop and listen. To some 
 extent, in spite of his hyperbolic language and primi- 
 tive coarseness, he influenced Trevail, because in the 
 main cause at difference he was with his uncle. He 
 did not now insist that Lizzie should have played the 
 spy and won the pregnant secret ; but he had resented 
 her friendship with Dunning and had told her more 
 than once that she was wrong to persist in it. She 
 continued to do so, however; and when she had assured 
 her husband that the quarry did not form the matter 
 of their conversation, he took leave to doubt it and 
 told her so. 
 
 Now Mortimore went his way homeward and re- 
 fused to let Trevail enter his house with him. 
 
 1 You begone," he said. " I've got to think to- 
 night. You can let a man wrong you under your nose 
 and do nought but ax God to forgive everybody 
 when you go to church. God don't forgive His 
 enemies and more won't I. I'm different. There's 
 work ahead of me, and if that woman gets in the way, 
 as I hope she will, then she'll go down with him. 
 Greedy as the grave I be for the pair of 'em ! They 
 be more one than you and she be one. Mind that 
 and wait and see how 'twill go. I shan't hit for the 
 minute; but when I do, 'twill be but once. No sec- 
 ond blow will I give, because no second blow will be
 
 304 THE BEACON 
 
 wanted. I'll keep to myself for a week now and see 
 how it looks then. And the plagues of Egypt will be 
 a scratched ringer to what I plan and what I carry out 
 against that fleering, jeering wretch." 
 
 He banged his door in Trevail's face and the 
 younger man went slowly home. He had listened 
 long and said but little; but now it was his turn to 
 talk and he entered upon a fierce tirade against his 
 wife. He blamed her for no actual sin of commis- 
 sion; but he reported the things that Abraham Morti- 
 more had said and he censured her vigorously that it 
 should have become possible even for such a spirit as 
 his uncle to say such things. She attended to his 
 words patiently, made few efforts to excuse or explain 
 herself and angered him the more by her apathy be- 
 fore the attack. She was only concerned to hear who 
 had won the tender. 
 
 "'Tis the 'overhang,'" she said. "You'll find 
 that Reynold have thought out a plan to clear it off 
 far, far cheaper than your uncle or anybody else 
 knows how." 
 
 " Yes; and if you'd been a woman worth your salt 
 and true to us, Lizzie, you'd have — " 
 
 " Don't tell me that again," she interrupted. " If 
 you knew how it stabbed me — to think that you can 
 even feel such a thing. It's dreadful enough in your 
 uncle, but you — is that all your church-going does for 
 you, Charlie ? " 
 
 " You don't understand, because you won't. I 
 never stood in your light. I never much minded your 
 going to see Dunning in the past, though strongly 
 I've felt it wasn't no great compliment to me. But 
 since you did choose to make him a friend, then surely 
 to God you might have used his friendship to help 
 those who are more to you than friends? At least I 
 suppose so. Here was a case, if ever case was, where 
 you might have been useful to us. What does Dun- 
 ning care for the quarry — or anything in particular? 
 
 i
 
 THE BEACON 305 
 
 If you'd wanted to do it and been clever, as you easily 
 might have been, you could have choked him off the 
 quarry altogether, as easily as putting your hand in 
 your pocket. And you know it too." 
 
 " Even that's a base thing to say. But you put it 
 a bit higher than what your uncle does. You thought 
 of that, not he. I'm sorry — I'm sorry about it all. 
 I don't want to preach, or anything like that, but 
 friendship isn't a thing to use for your own ends 
 surely. You oughtn't to try to draw me in. You 
 can forbid my seeing him I suppose." 
 
 " Oh, my God ! " he burst out. " Worse and worse 
 it gets — nothing but sighs and wranglings and misery. 
 What's the good of it, or the sense of it? I'm sick 
 and weary of telling you that — there — still to accuse 
 me of being under my uncle's influence when I work 
 night and day to lift him up and enlarge his ideas! 
 How can you do it ? " 
 
 But she was hard to-night and said so. 
 
 " I'm hard to-night. I can't go through the usual 
 business of making it up, and kissing and fooling, and 
 thinking 'twill never happen again, and knowing it 
 must in a week. I'm not well; I'm burning out — 
 and so are you. The old, happy look in your face is 
 gone — driven away — stamped out by me. You're 
 puzzled — stupid — like a dog at a cross roads. You'll 
 do well to cut a loss — ' cut a loss ' is a very good word 
 for it — 'twas Reynold Dunning's to me. That's how 
 it is. You take your liberty and do what you please 
 — and so will I." 
 
 He grew angry. 
 
 " It's come to that — eh? And you can stand there 
 and say that ! You — that promised such eternal 
 love as never a woman promised a man before in this 
 world ! Take my liberty and give you yours — to run 
 to that godless, hard-hearted wretch. Like to like 
 'twill be then — stone to stone; for you've no more 
 real goodness or patience in you than — What is it — 
 
 20
 
 30(7 THE BEACON 
 
 what is it in me that brings out nought but the worst 
 in you? How have I changed? I'm not a feather in 
 a gale of wind for any fool's breath to puff this way 
 or that. I don't go wasting my time, God knows 
 where, listening to other women and then coming to 
 you with their tales. I'd like to know how you'd face 
 that! I'll choose then, since it's got to be and you've 
 made up your mind to drive me from you. I'll go 
 to my uncle, and throw in my lot with him, and be- 
 lieve him, and curse the day when ever we met — curse 
 it for your sake more than mine." 
 
 He broke off and waited for her to speak, but she 
 was silent. Her hard mood faded quickly enough 
 before his fierce speeches; she began to weep; and 
 then followed the usual, pitiful, empty business of 
 comfortable words and regrets from him and assur- 
 ances that he had not meant what he said and so 
 forth. Both felt the futility and the unreality of the 
 reconciliation; both at heart dimly understood the 
 tragedy under the farce. But they pretended other- 
 wise, effected a complete agreement and assured 
 themselves, until long after midnight, that no such 
 dark hour should ever come between them any more. 
 Neither perceived the radical changes that had ren- 
 dered such collisions possible; neither looked back 
 and appreciated the crises that preceded their grow- 
 ing divergence. They reiterated the fond assurance 
 that they were heart to heart again and both believed 
 it, before, weaned in mind and body, they fell asleep 
 together. They had blunted their emotions on one 
 another so often that the business began to grow 
 mechanical; and it was the more cruel for that. The 
 very fineness of their quarrels perished and they were 
 reduced to mean wranglings that followed an inevita- 
 ble path through unchanging scenery and storm. 
 Their differences ground away their nervous energy 
 and threatened swiftly to spoil their lives. 

 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 NOW did Elisabeth and her husband strive hon- 
 estly to come closer, and sometimes it seemed 
 that they succeeded. Then, clouds separated them and 
 they felt that barriers insuperable had risen between. 
 To-day he yielded; to-morrow she did; but upon the 
 reconciliation and glad embrace, like a mist over the 
 Moor, like a forgotten sorrow revived, like the 
 stealthy, steady oncoming of disease, the disseverance 
 set in again. Trevail gradually perceived that things 
 aforetime spoken in heat and afterwards laughed 
 aside as ridiculous, were now true. They had become 
 trite, and the bitter speeches now held ridiculous when 
 reconciliation began, were worse than the worst 
 thoughts and utterances of a year ago. He had 
 reached the cross roads and knew that he must choose 
 his way or be driven upon it. 
 
 There came a dark storm and he left her and went 
 out alone to the high ground. The Beacon attracted 
 him of late, but it did not call her. He had noted 
 that for many weeks she had not sought it. Nor had 
 she seen anything of Dunning or Clannaboro'. Her 
 ways took her to the valleys. The Beacon was never 
 on her lips. When they went out together, she did 
 not lift her eyes to it mechanically as of old. 
 
 The man set forth on this day to face life as he had 
 never faced it. He welcomed the discomfort of the 
 time. The east wind, the steep wet road and the 
 cheerless desolation above were a fit theatre for his 
 task. He climbed until the last roof trees of Zeal had 
 vanished from beneath and he stood alone. Cosdon 
 had not yet donned her brumal coat, but the waste 
 rolled in lead-coloured planes sullenly, and round 
 
 307
 
 308 THE BEACON 
 
 about the tors thrust black and ragged from the 
 welter of driving cloud. The air was cold and raw 
 with shed rain. The fading autumn gorse had taken 
 upon itself the darkness of the day and sank sodden 
 into death. There was no light on earth, save where 
 a river wound beneath, ashy against its banks of dark- 
 ness. The secret of the hour was a stern, uncomplain- 
 ing and silent surrender to death. A carrion crow 
 flapped and croaked before Charles Trevail and the 
 wind whimpered and stung him as he walked forward. 
 He did not stop at Cosdon but breasted it, sank down 
 on the other side and held on, until he came to Steep- 
 erton's crown, high lifted above the mist-laden plains 
 of Taw. 
 
 Here he fought. 
 
 Before the added darkness told that day was fad- 
 ing, he started homewards and had reached the famil- 
 iar slopes of the Beacon once again ere it was night. 
 The wind had backed to south-east and rain fell 
 heavily. Below him, through the wet air, twinkled 
 out Zeal's constellation of earth-born stars, and be- 
 yond them he knew that the windows of North Combe 
 were flinging light to the darkness. From the hill to 
 the valley he descended and brought with him a 
 final determination. He had made his choice and 
 hastened to declare it. There was much to be done 
 and he did not mean to sleep until he had done it. 
 He hesitated in Zeal and even stood a moment at 
 the gate of his uncle's dwelling; but he was wet and 
 very weary. He determined to go home, don dry 
 clothes, eat and then act. He returned, therefore, 
 fortified himself and rested until it was nine o'clock. 
 He was kind to Elisabeth, but met her tearful regrets 
 at the morning tribulation with few words. He was 
 at peace; but a sort of stoic hardness marked him. 
 He imparted no information respecting his day and 
 asked for none concerning hers. Her intuition told 
 her that something had happened, but she did not 

 
 THE BEACON 309 
 
 speak of personal concerns until after they had supped. 
 Then she came to him and sat near him while he 
 smoked and looked into the fire. 
 
 Still he said nothing, though she waited for him to 
 do so. At last her patience failed her and she ad- 
 dressed her husband in a weary voice. 
 
 " This can't go on, Charlie," she said. 
 
 " No," he answered. " I've found that out at last, 
 my dear. And it's not going on. It's coming to an 
 end." 
 
 She looked a question; but he did not see it for his 
 eyes were still on the fire. 
 
 " How oft have I told you that your happiness is 
 more to me than anything on God's earth ? " he asked 
 suddenly. 
 
 " Yes, I know that. You can't help being yourself 
 any more than I can. Nobody's to blame." 
 
 " Well, I should be to blame if I talked more and 
 did nought. I've tried everything but one thing, 
 Lizzie, and now I'll try that. 'Tis not much use say- 
 ing I love you if I leave one stone unturned to show 
 it. There's one stone unturned and I'll turn it to- 
 night." 
 
 " You've done everything in your power." 
 
 " Very near — not quite." 
 
 " The fault's all mine.' 
 
 " Not that neither. I've thought to-day, and I've 
 seen a thing or two. I've frozen and sweated and 
 toiled and panted to-day. I've taken a lot of your 
 favourite physic up over — on the hill. Life's short 
 and 'tis no good ruining your own and another's too. 
 We be both pretty young yet. 'Tis a pity to grow 
 old so much quicker than we need." 
 
 He rose and went into the scullery for his boots. 
 Then he came back to the kitchen and began leisurely 
 to put them on again. 
 
 "Where are you going?" she asked. "Surely 
 you've been out enough to-day ? "
 
 310 THE BEACON 
 
 " I'm going to my uncle." 
 
 She was silent. His voice had something in it 
 that struck unfamiliar upon her ear and sense. It 
 rang firm and definite. There was almost a knell in 
 it. She mourned and yet rejoiced. Was he on the 
 point of decision? Had Cosdon found even some 
 splinter of iron in him? 
 
 " For your own happiness you've decided then," 
 she answered. 
 
 " How you read me ! Yes, Lizzie, for my happi- 
 ness — and yours I hope." 
 
 " You won't change again ? " 
 
 " You do well to be doubtful," he said bitterly. 
 " A poor, shifty, feeble thing am I — between him and 
 you. But even I can — " 
 
 He broke off and sought his hat. 
 
 She believed that he was gone indeed, and she told 
 herself that she was very thankful he was gone. 
 Then her heart sank and the world shook. 
 
 " It will be better for both of us," she declared in 
 a feeble voice. 
 
 " I hope so. Get me my coat, there's a dear — the 
 best one. T'other's wet." 
 
 She went upstairs and fetched him a coat. He 
 was looking out of the window when she returned. 
 
 " 'Tis fine and starry now," he said. " I shan't be 
 very long." 
 
 She helped him into his coat but did not speak. 
 His face was set and firm. 
 
 He thanked her and went to the door; then he 
 turned and saw that she had sunk down by the table 
 with her face hidden. He came back and put his 
 hands on her shoulders. 
 
 " Best you go to bed and don't worry either on 
 your own account or for me," he said kindly. 
 
 " Don't go, Charlie." 
 
 " Yes, I must go." 
 
 He went out and of intention left her in some
 
 THE BEACON 311 
 
 doubt of his determinations. His magnanimity and 
 love had done mighty things with him on this day; 
 but the small cruelty of leaving her thus uncertain 
 for a time he deliberately perpetrated. His motive 
 was mixed. He told himself that the pending joy 
 would be by so much the greater when he returned 
 presently with his news; but he did not tell himself 
 (because he knew without telling) that a shadow of 
 malice lurked in the act. He had suffered enor- 
 mously that day. He had suffered in many directions 
 and resented with exceeding bitterness the familiar 
 fact that a man cannot have his cake and eat it too. 
 He had kicked against the pricks; and though he was 
 now tamed and affirmed to do what he must do in or- 
 der to keep what he valued most in the world, yet his 
 heels were raw. In the arcanum of his heart he still 
 felt aggrieved that such unreasoning and unreason- 
 able demands should have been made against his peace. 
 It did not hurt him for the moment to know that Liz- 
 zie was in pain and doubt. Her doubt and pain were 
 as nothing to what his had been, and they would not 
 endure so long. 
 
 He left her now without more words and sup- 
 posed that her state was one of suspense. He had, 
 however, created a very different impression and when 
 he was gone, his wife's mind faced a certainty. 
 
 Her day had been one of much tribulation also. 
 She had never wandered further from her husband in 
 heart ; she had never more thoroughly perceived the 
 folly and cruelty of remaining with him. And now 
 she gathered from his words that he had arrived at 
 the same conclusion. All her toil for him had ended 
 in this. He was lower than when she started to lift 
 him. He would always be kind and just and gener- 
 ous ; but it was to Abraham Mortimore that his small 
 soul clung. They would plan her future together 
 now ; they would thrust her out of their lives with a 
 portion of money, and then they would breathe again.
 
 312 THE BEACON 
 
 She had herself thought upon going a thousand times; 
 and now she found that, after all, her husband was 
 about to be strong and perhaps hasten her on the road 
 she herself had designed to take. 
 
 She grew hysterical, then battled with her soul. 
 Her pride came to her aid; but it was transformed 
 and vitiated by the agitated state of her brain. 
 Terrific emotion stifled her and hustled her into 
 action. Bitterly she resented any sort of initiative 
 being taken against her. She flushed hot ; she raged 
 and clenched her fingers together ; she could have torn 
 her hair when she pictured Trevail returning with 
 plans matured and propositions for her acceptance. 
 They would talk her over — the man and the brute — 
 and they would decide what she should be directed to 
 do, where directed to live, how supported. She raged 
 for a little; then she exercised self-control and took 
 her way. 
 
 In half an hour from the time that her husband 
 set out, Elisabeth had also gone into the night. Be- 
 hind her she left a letter for him and, in it, she en- 
 closed her wedding-ring. 
 
 Light-headed she wandered under a sky blown 
 clear by the night wind. She avoided the road on 
 which Charles must return home and presently 
 climbed a little way up Cosdon. Then she crept 
 down again faint and sick. Storms raged through 
 and through her. At the wicket of Fanny Cann's 
 cottage she hesitated. But she passed it and went 
 down to the Throwleigh road and set her face for 
 Clannaboro.' Her mind was empty, listless and in- 
 different to every call of life or duty. Her solitary 
 interest was to find whether she had strength left to 
 get to Dunning or must sink beside the way.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 ELISABETH reached Clannaboro' at last and did 
 not stay at the door but entered, as one who pos- 
 sessed the right. She had not a thought of Noah Val- 
 lance or his wife and felt no surprise to find Dunning 
 alone, though by an accident his housekeeper and head 
 man were both away. 
 
 He was sitting by the fire smoking, and save for 
 the firelight the room was in darkness. For a mo- 
 ment he did not recognise her, then her voice brought 
 him to his feet. 
 
 " Hullo — you ! This is a sporting hour to turn up ! 
 What the deuce have you come for now ? ,: 
 
 " To stop," she said. 
 
 " D'you mean it? " 
 
 She collapsed into the chair that he had risen from 
 and sat there shivering. 
 
 " There's a bitter cold come over me," she said. 
 
 He lighted a candle and carried it and looked at 
 her. He preserved an astounding coolness. Then 
 she burst out into speech and he perceived that she 
 was unhinged and distracted. 
 
 " Never, never again, so help me God, will I thrust 
 myself on any man's will or seek to help or lift! 'Tis 
 all over. I'll go on my own way no more ; I'll go 
 yours; and when you're weary of me, I'll drown my- 
 self." 
 
 For answer he put his arms around her. 
 
 " Your way be mine," he said. " and mine be yours 
 — you know that. But do you know yourself? Do 
 you know exactly what you're doing? I don't want 
 to take you unawares — unstrung — smarting from the 
 folly of that fool. But once you conic, you stop, and 
 
 3U
 
 314 THE BEACON 
 
 the devil and his angels won't get you away from 
 me again." 
 
 He did not wait to hear her answer. He went to a 
 cupboard and brought out a bottle. Then he sought 
 elsewhere and found a green wine-glass. He half- 
 filled the wine-glass with spirits and added water. 
 
 " Drink," he said. " Swig it off. I know you're 
 coming to me ; and I've known it for many a long day. 
 But you shan't do anything in a moment of trouble, 
 while your mind is weak and worn. You shan't do 
 anything that you'll ever regret after. Drink, you 
 lovely thing! I wish you could drink away all mem- 
 ory of the past and come to me with your mind so 
 empty as a baby's. 'Tis my turn now — 'tis my turn 
 to pay back a little of what I've had from you. 
 You've made me — d'you know that, you wet-eyed, 
 wild creature? You've changed my life into a finer 
 and better life — every way — every way — and if there 
 is a God, let Him strike me dead if I ban't telling true. 
 You've changed my life, and I'm a fit mate for you 
 now if I wasn't before. Yes, you've done mighty 
 deeds in my heart, young Lizzie, and you've lifted me, 
 and if I never saw you again I'd still be the better 
 for the past. You've made your bed — now come and 
 lie on it ! And remember I'm not the Trevail sort. 
 I'm a cold, frog of a man most times — I only burst 
 out like a volcano off and on. I shall never be such 
 a lover as him. But you know me — else you wouldn't 
 be here I reckon." 
 
 He talked and she answered in brief single words. 
 Then, as she grew calmer, he became grimly excited 
 and began to measure all that this must mean. He 
 had expected it, but he had not expected it so soon. 
 
 " You're mistress here," he said. " For evermore. 
 You'll never be tired of me, and if I found out that 
 you were, 'tis I that would drown myself, not you. 
 We're above small tongues and small minds and small 
 ideas. We make our own laws, you and me. We're
 
 THE BEACON 315 
 
 one, and 'tis you that shall think and plan and I that 
 shall carry out. And mark this: your good's my 
 good henceforth, and if you can't face this hole and 
 the people in it; if you'd like to be gone from here 
 and begin again elsewhere, I'll up and away. You're 
 my life from this day, young Lizzie, and I'll go to the 
 North Pole or the South with you. But only this 
 I'll bargain for : I'm an open-air beast and I can't be 
 mewed in bricks and mortar. Tis no use doing that 
 with me for I'd — " 
 
 " Know me better," she said. " And don't think 
 I'm going to lead — or try to. I've had enough of 
 that. I follow, and I've chose you to follow, because 
 you're strong and you love me and you won't drive 
 me mad. And mind this: I shall never think un- 
 kindly of Charlie. Never a man meant better than 
 him. He couldn't help being what he was." 
 
 " Don't talk about him. He'll make a good bit of 
 noise I reckon; but the belving cow soonest forgets 
 her calf. He'll find another woman on his own pat- 
 tern. There's plenty of his sort everywhere." 
 
 Silence fell between them. Then he burst out into 
 a loud triumph and worshipped her with such praise 
 and lover-like fire that she marvelled, never having 
 guessed the possibility in him. His grimness died 
 out of him. A very strange sensation, as though she 
 had mistaken her man and come to a stranger instead 
 of Reynold Dunning, flitted over Elisabeth. She 
 could have wished that at this moment he had been 
 more reserved, more saturnine and self-possessed. 
 She desired to feel his immense strength and will 
 power. 
 
 He perceived this without any word from her. 
 Her eyes told him. They were lovely in the candle 
 light and lustrous with tears and wistful with doubt. 
 
 " Come to the table," he said, " and sit out of reach 
 of me on t'other side of it and we'll talk business. 
 Now, Lizzie, how d'you want it to be? I — "
 
 316 THE BEACON 
 
 They were interrupted. Unheard, someone had 
 approached over the grass of the garden and reached 
 the house. Now there came a single knock upon the 
 front door. Dunning leapt to his feet; Lizzie did 
 not move. 
 
 " Is it him do you reckon ? " he asked. 
 
 "Very like," she said. 
 
 He reflected a moment, then laughed. 
 
 " You chose the right night," he declared. " My 
 old folks are away at a funeral near London. We've 
 got Clannaboro' to ourselves. Come ! " 
 
 He pointed to the stone flight of stairs that led up- 
 ward from the kitchen to his bedroom and opened 
 the door that concealed it. Again a single knock — 
 hollow and deep — fell on the door. There was some- 
 thing sinister about the sound to Elisabeth's ear. She 
 put her hand on his arm, but he spoke and drove her 
 thought out of her head. 
 
 " Go up — go up quick and make fast the door at 
 the top of the stairs. I'll call you down in five min- 
 utes. It won't take longer." 
 
 " Be gentle — and be careful of yourself." 
 
 The knock sounded again. 
 
 He thrust the candle into her hand and pushed her 
 toward the stairs. A moment later she heard him 
 shut the door behind her. Then she ascended the 
 steps, entered a room at the top and locked the door 
 of it as he had directed. For a few moments she 
 stood listening; but she could hear nothing.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 WAR has been called the supreme test of human- 
 ity — the ultimate court of appeal that proves 
 the worth of man. From that scorching ordeal at 
 rare intervals he emerges deified ; but such occasions 
 seldom happen and the bulk of men may be satisfied 
 if battle detracts nothing from them and leaves them 
 still men, not slaves. War is the first founder of 
 states, the chaos on which every cosmos of social rela- 
 tions must be based. And war in some sort every 
 human creature is called upon to wage, unless he be 
 contented from the outset with a slave's portion. 
 
 Charles Trevail, by accident of character and con- 
 dition, was born a slave, nor could it ever have come 
 within his power, under any environment, to be other- 
 wise and stand four-square a man. Yet now he went 
 to war; and he believed, rightly, that he had won a 
 mighty victory over himself. He had done so, but 
 he had won none over life. His fate was to choose 
 a master: he had been called to no higher destiny 
 than that. The battle — great for such a fighter — was 
 fought on Cosdun, and what now awaited him did not 
 by comparison seem a very serious matter to Trevail ; 
 but it became necessary to relate his victory and declare 
 his determination to another; and he began to realise 
 that all was not over yet. The conclusion with him- 
 self must be only part of his total task and much re- 
 mained to be done. The resl had looked easy seen far 
 off. but now he stood at the threshold and found it 
 hard. He began, indeed, to perceive that only half 
 the battle was won and the foe nov» likely to be ranged 
 against him might prove far more formidable than he 
 himself, when ranged against himself, bad proved. 
 
 317
 
 318 THE BEACON 
 
 For he belonged to that sort of spirit that may, indeed, 
 conquer self, but nothing else. 
 
 He came now to his uncle, and the accident of the 
 moment caused his intention to prove even harder 
 than he had expected. 
 
 Abraham Mortimore had taken his defeat badly 
 and made no secret of the fact that he intended to be 
 revenged on Dunning. He raved publicly against 
 his victor and hesitated not to declare that he would 
 ruin the quarry before his date of departure should 
 come. His threats were futile; but Dunning knew 
 that ferocity was a familiar weapon with the old man 
 and he guessed that at this juncture his usual caution 
 in sundry particulars might be over-ridden by sheer 
 hunger for vengeance. It was typical of Mortimore's 
 state that he could still speak and think of nothing but 
 Dunning. He assumed that the listener in every case 
 was similarly concerned. 
 
 " You're well come," said Trevail's uncle. " I want 
 you. I don't know when I'm beat and I've new ideas 
 about this man. Nothing's done yet. We've tried 
 fair means; now we'll try foul." 
 
 " Don't say things like that. What's the use ? It 
 isn't your way to waste your energy on a failure, or 
 batter your hand at a locked door. The quarry's 
 gone, and if you're wise you'll admit it and look 
 round for other things. I've thought this longful 
 time that this stone pit was hardly worthy of you. 
 'Tis a rough and tumble job and you, with your brains 
 and your money, ought to be doing something higher 
 — in the way of mortgages and all that. Leave such 
 things as quarries and sheep and so on to smaller men. 
 You ought to be working in figures and only figures. 
 You're too big to go down into the dirt and fight such 
 chaps as Dunning." 
 
 The other shook his head. 
 
 " No; I'll never be that sort. I like land and stone 
 and heaps of muck and potatoes and corn and what
 
 THE BEACON 319 
 
 not. Or beasts that you can punch and handle. I 
 belong to the dirt, and I've made my pile out of it, 
 and I'll not be driven away from it. What's tbe use 
 of mortgages and such like to me? I want to feel 
 and touch and smell the things that belong to me. I've 
 got a plot. I — " 
 
 " Hear me," interrupted his nephew. " 'Tisn't 
 because you talk of tackling Dunning and want for 
 me to help you, 'tisn't because of that, but because of 
 many other things I've wound myself up to take a 
 strong step next spring. You see, Uncle, a married 
 man can't live to himself alone, and he can't serve two 
 masters. You know how 'tis with me better than I 
 can tell you. You know my Lizzie. You and she 
 are a bit too much alike really and that's why you've 
 never been friends and never will be; and I've got to 
 feel that between you there's no middle course for me. 
 I've got to understand that in this matter 'tis for me 
 to take a strong and determined step and, in a word, 
 I'm going to do it." 
 
 " So much the better. Get clear of her and you'll 
 be useful to me again. She've ruined more of my 
 schemes than I like to think about — damn her — and 
 I shall always know that but for her the quarry 
 wouldn't have gone. I wish to God she'd took Dun- 
 ning and not you. Then much would have fallen 
 different and she'd have been under his feet, in her 
 proper place, long afore now. But you — you're too 
 weak to conquer her and kick her into sense ; so 'tis 
 better you be rid of her once for all. Give her a bit 
 of money and send her packing." 
 
 " No, I can't do that. I've suffered a lot to see 
 how ill she got on with you, because I was powerless 
 to help it, and felt pretty bad betwixt you; but a wife's 
 a wife; and that's what I know and you do not. I 
 can't leave her. I must stick to her. I love her 
 dearly and she's a rare good, brave woman and full of 
 high opinions. I've not done anything in a hurry,
 
 320 THE BEACON 
 
 Uncle Abraham, I've thought long and deep and I've 
 come to see that it can't go on — for her peace or for 
 yours. We must leave. I mean to go come Lady- 
 day. From North Combe I mean. You'll easily find 
 as good or better to take it again. I'm going further 
 off. And don't mistake my motives for doing such a 
 big thing. 'Twill seem a terrible rash act to you; 
 but 'tisn't really; 'tis the wisest and properest act 
 that ever I did ; and I hope you'll look all around it, as 
 your^custom is, and see that only so can there be any 
 peace for me or her. You must understand how 
 greatly I love the woman, or else I shouldn't do it. 
 But I put her first — always first henceforth — accord- 
 ing to my duty, and I hope to God you'll see I'm do- 
 ing what's for the best." 
 
 Mortimore stared; then he gave off an impatient 
 snort — a loud guttural expiration, half a growl. 
 
 " You've bleated enough," he said, " and you show 
 yourself a thankless, cold-hearted creature even to 
 dream of such things — let alone say 'em to me. Good 
 God ! Who d'you think I am ? You — you to say 
 you'll leave North Combe — you to turn on a man when 
 he's down, and that man me ! Must I jog your mem- 
 ory a bit? But I won't, I'd scorn to do that. 'Tis 
 master and man between us, I can tell you, since you 
 seem to have forgot it. You give me notice — eh? 
 You silly worm ! 'Tis for me to give you notice when 
 I please. You'd go from North Combe, would you? 
 You'll go from North Combe when I tell you to go and 
 not sooner. You want wakening — why — fire and 
 hell ! you'll call your soul your own next !" 
 
 He burst into a fierce laugh, but Trevail perceived 
 the anxiety under it. And the evidence of that anxi- 
 ety strengthened him. 
 
 " I know what I owe you and I'm not likely to for- 
 get it," he answered. " You are an amazing man — 
 the most remarkable that I've ever seen or shall see — 
 or any of us in these parts. And you've been a good 
 
 21
 
 THE BEACON 321 
 
 uncle to me; and I've tried to be a good nephew to 
 you; but a man must be allowed to be a free thing 
 and you can't talk to me like this. You know it isn't 
 proper. You take such Old Testament ideas in your 
 head; but times are different and women are differ- 
 ently thought upon; and a man's wife isn't a chattel, 
 but half himself and more — far more to me — than 
 anything else can be." 
 
 " You set her up between us and think she'll 
 shelter you from my anger." 
 
 " Don't show anger. You've been angry enough 
 and too angry of late. What use have you got for 
 anger — a wise man like you? Life's life, and none 
 can have it all his own way. 'Tis giving and taking 
 at best, and if you don't give, the world will look to it 
 you don't take." 
 
 " A coward's motto ; but you was always a coward 
 and a cur to the marrow in your bones. You set up 
 this curse made alive between us and pretend you 
 love her, and must wreck your life for her; and think, 
 when I've thrown you over, you can slink away and 
 live in some hole with her and still have a conceit of 
 yourself. But I know better and I say you shan't do 
 it. Let the traitor go and wash your hands of her. 
 You to go ! Don't you see that you're the only thing 
 on this earth built in my own image that I care about ? 
 Not another living man is there that I'd cross the 
 way to save from death. I'm headed off here, and 
 I'm headed off there, and I'm hatching hell for one or 
 two that be laughing in their sleeves this moment ; 
 but you — you — you've been my right hand too long 
 to part now. I was angry when you began this 
 twaddle, now I laugh. I threatened; I'll threat no 
 more, but laugh. Don't bring it to blows between us. 
 Do as you're bid and be sane, Charlie." 
 " Sane I will be, and help you to be." 
 " This is a new way of talking to me." 
 " I've got to do it, Uncle. As a man alone I was 
 
 31
 
 822 THE BEACON 
 
 well pleased to be your right hand where I could, and 
 do your pleasure, and feel deep in your debt; but I'm 
 married now and I've got a grand, good wife though 
 you don't understand her, and she stands first — since 
 it's come to be a doubt of what stands first. I'm sorry 
 to God that the question ever had to rise and I've 
 put off" and off answering it, till 'twould be a feeble 
 and unmanly thing to leave it unanswered any 
 longer." 
 
 " You put her higher than me? " 
 
 " Since it must be so, I do." 
 
 "Have you thought what it means to do it? 
 Have you seen yourself limping along without me and 
 nought but that nagging wretch to push behind?' 1 
 
 Trevail showed a flash of spirit. 
 
 " If anything could make me know I'm right, 'tis 
 your bitter tongue. Yes, I've thought and thought 
 again; and the more I've thought, the more I've 
 known that there was but one thing for it. And now, 
 looking back, I'm amazed and ashamed — ashamed of 
 myself — to think I could hesitate. I owe you a great 
 deal—" 
 
 " And now you shall pay it back. By God to the 
 last sixpence you shall ! " 
 
 " I'll pay back all in my power to pay back." 
 
 " There's nought in your power to pay back. You 
 go from me a bankrupt and you bide from me a bank- 
 rupt. While I live you owe me service, and if you 
 take it from me to think to calm your conscience, you 
 fool yourself, for your conscience will call you a thief 
 to your dying day — a thief and a rogue. I've done 
 far, far more for you than you can ever pay back — 
 far more than money can pay back. And if you 
 
 go-" 
 
 He broke off and tramped up and down the room. 
 Trevail found himself coming out as the strong and 
 determined man. The experience gratified him. 
 
 " I shan't forget, and I shall have it in my power
 
 THE BEACON 323 
 
 to do you many a service yet. Don't think that life 
 ever comes between us and the power to obey con- 
 science. I shall be a useful nephew to you and never 
 be deaf to your call ; but a man can't live for duty to 
 the past alone. Duty's a thing of every day and 
 comes fresh with every morning and certain as the 
 sun. I've got a great duty to my wife, and I see it 
 clearer than ever I saw it before, and I'm going to do 
 it, God helping. And that duty is to take her away 
 from North Combe and begin a new life with her 
 somewhere else. Her pattern is a fine pattern and 
 her aims and ends are all right and proper — as you'd 
 be the first to allow if you hadn't come to hate her. 
 And more and more I see that it is so. In the matter 
 of Dunning even, though I felt she might have got his 
 secret out of him, I've come now to know very well 
 she was right to scorn the thought. She's large- 
 minded and she's generally in the right and Tin 
 lifted up and strong to make her life a happier thing." 
 
 " You put her higher than me? " 
 
 " Yes, I do." 
 
 "Then wreck your life and be a pauper forever! 
 Tis all up with you if you once turn on me. Leave 
 me and I'll hunt you like a dog hunts a rabbit and — " 
 
 " Don't talk that way. Don't—" 
 
 But the elder roared him down. 
 
 "Have done!" he said. "Get out of my sight, 
 you thankless wretch, and see how 'tis between us 
 when we meet again. I'll be revenged for this — 
 such a vengeance as a brain like yours can't think. 
 But you'll feel it. 'Tis all over with you and your 
 hag now — both — both shall lie in the dirt! Every- 
 thing's gone now. I wasn't built to have any 
 human creature for my friend — not even you. And 
 vet you to turn — like this — such friendship as I've 
 shown you — such money poured out!' 
 
 " Listen and try to see — " 
 
 "Gall — gall! No more of it. And I cared for
 
 324 THE BEACON 
 
 you — I was gentle for you — and only for you. And 
 if I'd been a tiger to you, like the rest, and played a 
 lone hand and let you bide a workhouse boy, I should 
 never have been deserted in my grey hairs." 
 
 Trevail rose. 
 
 " I've said enough for now. I don't want to be 
 unkind or ungrateful or thankless. Far from that. 
 I'm only going from North Combe to the other side 
 of the Moor. I'll be within call." 
 
 " Yes — you shall hear from me — don't fear that. 
 In striking distance — near enough for me to hear you 
 yelp when the lash comes down. Nothing left — noth- 
 ing left now — d'you understand what that means? 
 When your woman trash has run away from you, as 
 she will presently — then you'll know what 'tis to have 
 nothing left too. But don't you come creeping back 
 to me then — don't you do that. Go out of that door 
 and God's my judge I'll never let you in again — 
 
 never." 
 
 The younger spoke a little longer and was then or- 
 dered away. He offered his hand but Mortimore 
 refused it. Finally Trevail went out and breathed the 
 night air thankfully. His mind longed and panted 
 for sympathy. He was hunger-starved for the se- 
 quel of this day and already pictured the price that 
 Elisabeth would pay for his great renunciation. The 
 worst was over now; she would be at his side for 
 evermore; such battles as remained for them to fight 
 must be fought together. And he felt also no little 
 of the weak man's desire for praise. He yearned for 
 it. He wanted much to hear his wife listen to what 
 he was about to tell her. Already he saw the light of 
 joy in her face — the glorious surprise at the thing he 
 had done — the pride in him, the applause. He felt 
 that only Elisabeth could round off and complete so 
 terrific a day. For once he had moved among giant 
 emotions and fought with lions and conquered them.
 
 THE BEACON 825 
 
 He felt stronger than ever he had felt — drunk with 
 strength. He was excited when he returned home; 
 he seemed to be walking on air; he wondered at him- 
 self. Life appeared to be a changed thing. He 
 looked at it for a moment through new spectacles ; 
 he felt just then that he had mastered it, that he had 
 it by the throat; that the world was his — a thing to 
 pluck up and throw in his wife's lap carelessly. He 
 surprised himself again and again and examined his 
 sensations curiously. He had experienced these 
 sensations once or twice before — after taking too much 
 to drink. 
 
 He gave Elisabeth all the credit and meant to do so 
 when they met; but well he knew that she would 
 refuse it and return it to him a thousandfold. Her 
 praise was always splendid and limitless when she 
 poured it out. She had lifted him to this, he assured 
 himself, and knew not that for true, pure love he had 
 worked and that the impulse came from within him- 
 self alone. The greatest passion he had ever felt, 
 perhaps the only great passion he was capable of 
 feeling, centred in his worship of this woman; and 
 through that channel, he had flowed out into this sea, 
 had made her cause his own, her desire his desire, her 
 welfare his welfare. This, while no mighty thing for 
 love to accomplish in a larger nature, or among emo- 
 tions cast in a grander matrix, was a considerable 
 feat for a man of these humble proportions. Trevail 
 had not risen above himself, but he certainly had 
 ascended to the utmost limits of his stature and the 
 loftiest possibilities of his soul. 
 
 He came home rejoicing, to find his house empty 
 and a letter awaiting him. Elisabeth explained that 
 their united life was killing them by inches and 
 poisoning every possibility of clean and fine living 
 for them both. They could not help each other; 
 they would therefore be better apart for evermore.
 
 326 THE BEACON 
 
 She had left him and never meant to return to him 
 again. She knew that he had gone to his uncle and 
 was sure he had done the wisest thing possible. 
 
 She wrote with a marked lack of self-restraint. 
 The letter was blotted and wrongly spelled. She 
 stated that she had gone to Dunning. She made no 
 apology for the appalling suddenness of her act. In- 
 deed she left it clear that in her opinion Trevail 
 would not feel great surprise. To act, so she wrote, 
 was her familiar part ; and she knew that he would not 
 be astonished that she had done so and thus forced 
 him, for once, into a necessary activity. 
 
 It was half an hour after his wife had left North 
 Combe when Trevail returned to it. 

 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 FOR ten minutes Elisabeth sat on the only chair in 
 Dunning's bedroom and waited until he should 
 call her again. Her eyes looked inward and she 
 ranged in thought over the past years. The spectacle 
 of herself surprised herself. She examined her career 
 from the outside and judged it impartially as the 
 achievement of another. She mourned it, but she 
 found no fault with it. That Trevail would quickly 
 recover from the blow, she felt positive. She had 
 been kind to him in leaving him and, after the first 
 shock had swept over him, he would undoubtedly re- 
 joice and breathe again. Already she felt herself 
 breathing again. Dunning was the necessary com- 
 plement to her own nature. He had often proved 
 infinitely useful to her; and he had declared her value 
 to him. He was no liar, and, indeed, she knew, with- 
 out any word from him, that she had influenced his 
 life and been a valuable force in it. He had declared 
 as much and she had marked it through other, subtler 
 manifestations than Dunning himself recognised. 
 Her regard for him was fierce — akin to the affection 
 of an artist for the last thing that he has made. She 
 had time now to contrast her present and past emo- 
 tions and wonder that loves could be so dissimilar. 
 
 Three parts of an hour sped and the woman came 
 back to reality, speculated as to what manner of con- 
 versations was passing beneath her and marvelled that 
 one so short of speech as Dunning could, at this junc- 
 ture of his life, spend so much time upon it. 
 
 She looked round the room and took note of im- 
 plicit statement. Reynold Dunning seemed reflected 
 in his sleeping place. The walls were whitewashed 
 
 327
 
 328 THE BEACON 
 
 and the floor was bare. A narrow bed stood in one 
 corner, a chest of drawers in another, a washing- 
 stand in a third. Some boots and leggings were 
 heaped beside the bed ; the grate was empty, but on 
 the mantel-shelf appeared a picture in a wooden frame. 
 It was the portrait of the master's mother. 
 
 Elisabeth examined this faded photograph and 
 found that it resembled the man with whom she had 
 now thrown in her lot. Hence came his eyes and the 
 melancholy cast of his features. 
 
 She turned to the window and opened it and looked 
 into the darkness. Unfamiliar outlines of tree and 
 roof rose against the starry sky. "This is my 
 house," she whispered to herself. 
 
 She sat down again presently; then, after waiting 
 for another half-hour, opened the bedroom door and 
 listened. No sound rose up the staircase and she de- 
 scended gently to the door below. Still silence held 
 the room and she perceived that Dunning and her 
 visitor must have departed together. She opened the 
 kitchen door to find the fire nearly out and the room 
 empty. A clock ticked and she heard the cheerful 
 chirrup of a house cricket from the hearth. 
 
 She stood and hesitated what to do. Then a whim 
 took her to mend the fire, seek the larder and prepare 
 Dunning some supper against his return. 
 
 She approached the grate; but her foot caught in 
 something stretched upon the ground and she fell on 
 to a man. He was half under the table and his head 
 and shoulders thrust forth toward the fire. 
 
 She rose to find one of her hands wet and red. She 
 knew not where to find a light so went back to the 
 bedroom and brought the candle down with her. 
 Then she found that Reynold Dunning was lying by 
 his hearth with much blood about the place where his 
 head had fallen. 
 
 She held the light to his face, and, though she had 
 never seen a corpse in her life, understood well that
 
 THE BEACON 329 
 
 she gazed upon one. His face was disfigured and half 
 painted with blood; his eyes and mouth were open. 
 She took his hand and found it cold. A great house 
 beetle darted from beneath the dead and ran into his 
 blood and stuck there. She stared at it and watched 
 it struggle from the slough and disappear beyond the 
 ring of light cast by her candle. 
 
 She knelt down beside Dunning, and spoke to him 
 and kissed his forehead. 
 
 Then she rose from him and stood and wondered 
 what she should do. The man's blood was upon her 
 hands and her face. She forgot every living creature 
 in the world and her heart poured out to this dead one. 
 She was unshaken now and her mind had strung itself 
 up to face Dunning's murder. " This is my home," 
 she said aloud, as she had whispered it not long be- 
 fore. 
 
 It seemed but a moment ago that this battered dust 
 was a strong, joyous man, crowing with exultation — 
 the goal of his hope in sight. Alive, his welfare must 
 henceforth have been her own; dead, he was still a 
 name to confess and justify and defend.
 
 BOOK III . 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 CERTAIN details of incident which followed the 
 death of Reynold Dunning may be dismissed as 
 speedily as possible. 
 
 Elisabeth Trevail, standing before the corpse, felt 
 as yet no grief, but grappled with the tremendous prob- 
 lem before her and planned her actions. Pity actu- 
 ated her, and first the flickering hope that, after all, 
 Dunning might not be dead. 
 
 There was a doctor at Zeal and she went to him and 
 dispatched him to Clannaboro'. Then she sought a 
 nurse and returned with this woman to the farm. 
 The doctor was already there and stopped for a short 
 time with the women. He left presently and called 
 at the police-station. 
 
 At dawn came Charles Trevail and spoke with his 
 wife. He had read her letter and having read it had 
 roamed through the night for many hours. Wander- 
 ing thus nigh Clannaboro', in doubt whether to go 
 there and see Dunning, he met a policeman returning 
 to Zeal from the farm and so heard what had hap- 
 pened. Thereupon he hastened thither and learned 
 that his wife was sleeping in the parlour. The nurse 
 had laid out Dunning and busied herself about the 
 place until Mr. and Mrs. Vallance should return. A 
 labourer was gone for the undertaker ; and the police, 
 who remained in authority, told Trevail that the in- 
 quest would probably take place on the morrow. 
 
 Charles then went into the dwelling-room and stood 
 and looked at Lizzie, who slept heavily upon a sofa 
 
 330
 
 THE BEACON 831 
 
 under the window. He woke her and they talked to- 
 gether for a long time. 
 
 She told him all that she knew and he received it 
 calmly and believed her. He mentioned that he had 
 read her letter on returning from his uncle and that it 
 had caused him the greatest suffering of his life. He 
 had spent the night afoot in the air. 
 
 " I've heard you, Elisabeth," he said. " Now you 
 must listen to me. I shouldn't trouble you with the 
 past at a minute like this; but we may not have the 
 chance to go into it again. And so far as I can see, it 
 will be the past that they'll have to probe through 
 and through before they get to the secret of this." 
 
 She looked at him in the gathering light; then she 
 drew the blind up that she might see him better. 
 
 " We won't talk about ourselves more than we can 
 help. They may think you did it after getting my 
 letter; or they may think I did." 
 
 " Listen," he said. " When I tell you why I went 
 to my uncle last night, you'll understand better. You 
 thought I was going to throw you over, Lizzie. I 
 knew you thought so, and like a fool — a fool always 
 and for ever — I let you think so. I left you meaning 
 to do one thing, but knowing you fancied I was going 
 to do another. God knows what whim made me 
 leave you in doubt — or more like the devil. This is 
 all my work in a way. Even at the moment of doing 
 the best and most decent deed I ever did, I let some 
 small spite creep in; and so all's lost and we stand to 
 each other as we stand now." 
 
 She stared at him in great horror. She spoke 
 slowly after a silence. 
 
 " Yes, I thought you had chosen once for all. I 
 didn't blame you. It was natural. Then I felt what 
 Reynold was — a tower of strength to me. I'm proud. 
 I couldn't wait to be told to go, Charlie." 
 
 He rehearsed the scene with his uncle and she re- 
 lated it with the tragedy of the night.
 
 332 THE BEACON 
 
 When he had finished, she summed up. 
 
 " You were coming back to me? " 
 
 " 'Twas to be the great moment of a great day." 
 
 Her mind trembled. Instinctively she gripped at 
 the side of the sofa on which she sat and shut her eyes 
 to avoid the whirling image of the man before her. 
 He sat on a chair and looked straight into her face. 
 
 " You must think of me as having gone — long, 
 long ago. Time's nothing. I stand here now as the 
 widow of that slain man. He was good to me and 
 understood me and loved me. Time's nothing I say. 
 Though 'twas but last night I came, yet 'tis half a 
 life-time—" 
 
 " We'll talk about you another day, Lizzie," he 
 answered quietly. " You've done what you wanted 
 to do, and I've done what I wanted to do — hard, 
 difficult things both. We've parted and can leave it 
 so. You can tell me as much or as little as you please 
 about your secret life with Dunning some other time 
 if you want to. He's dead and you hold yourself his 
 widow. Let it stand like that. And now what are 
 you going to do about — the man who killed him ? ' 
 
 " I would hang him with my own hand if I could 
 do it." 
 
 "You know how it fell out? 'Twas my uncle — 
 driven frantic by me." 
 
 " He must have struck him down when his back 
 was turned. I'd been with him not half an hour 
 when somebody knocked. I suppose Reynold was 
 getting drink for him. The cupboard door was 
 open." 
 
 " You swear to me you know no more of it than 
 that, Lizzie? " 
 
 " Yes, I do. I want you to tell nought but the 
 stark truth when they come to question you. About 
 how I'd left you and everything." 
 
 " If I do, they'll say that I might have killed the 
 man myself. There's motive enough."
 
 THE BEACON 833 
 
 " None that knows you would think that." 
 
 " The Law don't know me." 
 
 " Are you afraid of that happening? " 
 
 " No," he answered. " I'm afraid of nought now. 
 I've got nothing left to lose, so what should I be 
 afraid of? My life ended last night. You hold me 
 too cheap even now. I've got a character, and I'm 
 a bigger, stronger creature than ever you or I guessed. 
 I found it out yesterday; and if I'd told you the 
 instant moment I'd found it out, Dunning might be 
 dead, same as he is now, but you'd be my wife to 
 North Combe still, not his ' widow,' as you call your- 
 self, now at Clannaboro'. Good God! what a thin 
 thread the things that matter hang upon! Can't you 
 see — can't you see ? " 
 
 " I can see very well, Charlie." 
 
 " And I'd have confessed to you, and you'd have 
 confessed to me — and — " 
 
 " I had nought to confess before last night." 
 
 " You swear that, Lizzie ? " 
 
 " You know me. Till I left you, I was faithful in 
 word and deed." 
 
 " That's light — light in the darkness then." 
 
 " But not news — you knew that well enough." 
 
 He did not speak and she, feeling a traitress to the 
 dead, qualified her last speech. 
 
 " But I loved him — I loved him better than I loved 
 you. I'd left you in heart long before I did it. I 
 was quite alone for ages of time before I turned to 
 him. And he came to fill my empty, useless life and 
 make it useful again. I won't excuse anything 1 
 thought or hoped, or the plans I made. Nothing — 
 nothing will I excuse. He was a good, honest man, 
 and he was honest to me and he warned me a thou- 
 sand times that I was ruining your life." 
 
 " Who made me do what I did ? Who made me 
 choose to begin all over again — just with you and only 
 you? Who lifted me to that, Lizzie? You know
 
 334 THE BEACON 
 
 well enough. Be honest and fair to the dead — I 
 don't quarrel with you for that; but be honest and 
 fair to the living too." 
 
 " 'Tis too late to talk so. I know all that's hap- 
 pened. And it's happened well for you, Charlie." 
 
 " You can say so ! " 
 
 " And you'll say it presently. Leave it all — leave 
 us — me and my dead. You have no place here." 
 
 " I'll go, but listen first. See how it fell out. 
 Look all round it. I do a thing that drives my old 
 man frantic, and the savage nature of him breaks 
 bounds. He must be letting blood out of somebody. 
 And naturally he strikes here — at his first enemy. 
 He'd link Dunning with all his trouble — with the 
 quarry and with you and with everything. If you'd 
 been along with the man — Dunning I mean — and 
 Mortimore had found you together — he'd have killed 
 you both." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " No, he wouldn't," she answered. " If I'd known 
 that it was Mortimore, I should not have gone up to 
 the bedroom. Because I should have felt what was 
 brewing and been able to save him. If your uncle had 
 seen me here, he'd have been happy. He'd have left 
 us and known very well that you were free and would 
 soon be back with him again. I thought 'twas you : 
 that's why I hid myself. 'Twasn't for me to see you 
 then. Do you understand how 'tis with me, Charlie? 
 I thought to save two men. Instead I've ruined 
 two." 
 
 He did not speak and they pursued their thoughts. 
 
 After a considerable silence he told her that she 
 might return to his home for the present if she cared 
 to do so; but she refused. 
 
 " Only I know of your letter to me," he said. 
 
 " 'Tis generous, but you must think of me as if he 
 was alive." 
 
 " I can't do that, Lizzie." 

 
 THE BEACON 335 
 
 " You shall, you shall," she cried passionately. 
 " He is alive to me ! 'Twill take cruel long days and 
 months before I can think of him as dead. And for 
 you — tell the truth and fear nothing. Your state is 
 good. You are to be envied by all men. You've 
 done right — you've risen above yourself and shown 
 yourself a strong and a wise man. And you're well 
 paid — well paid. There's two thorns out of your 
 path at one stroke; and if they catch that old man 
 and hang him, as they surely will — then — don't you 
 see?" 
 
 " How can you — oh, my God, Lizzie ! How can 
 you be so mean? " 
 
 He got up and started to go. Then he turned. 
 
 " Remember I'm at hand. Lift your finger and I'll 
 come to help you through this." 
 
 "Thank you," she answered. "I've thought that 
 I was standing alone in the world often and often 
 before this hour. Fool that I was! But now — now 
 I am alone and shall find what it means. Now I'll 
 see if I'm worth any man's pains. And, since he 
 had to die, I'm glad — I'm glad, I tell you, to be so 
 utterly alone. For life's given me the chance to 
 know myself — such a chance as never a woman had 
 yet. I'll see him into his grave and weep myself 
 blind for him when I come to feel he's gone. That 
 I'll do and then— then— " 
 
 She broke off and smiled before her ; while he went 
 out haunted by her look for ever. 
 
 The coroner's jury brought in a verdict of murder 
 against persons unknown and, having regard for her 
 blood-stained clothes, Elisabeth was detained in cus- 
 tody while the police made inquiries. 
 
 For three days she remained at Okehampton and 
 was then liberated — to learn that her husband had 
 been arrested on suspicion.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 DURING the silent hours in which she was with- 
 drawn from the world, Elisabeth Trevail had 
 leisure to consider of the past and determine her ac- 
 tions in the future. She welcomed the in forced peace, 
 but did not fear the attitude of the people when she 
 returned among them. 
 
 Grief paid a heavy visitation, but between the in- 
 tervals of poignant sorrow and vain regret, she 
 weighed the meaning of her life and balanced its good 
 and evil. First she thought upon Dunning and again 
 saw herself standing with the Vallances at his grave. 
 A mob attended the funeral, but none came, save 
 from curiosity, excepting herself and his two old 
 attendants. She was his widow in every moral sense, 
 and she clung to the idea and won a sort of consola- 
 tion from it. He died intestate and his goods passed 
 into the hands of strangers. As for her, she had 
 directed that her clothes and a few personal posses- 
 sions should be sent from North Combe to Clanna- 
 boro'. 
 
 And now she reviewed life and measured the influ- 
 ence of two men on her own existence and her influ- 
 ence on theirs. The closed chapter of Dunning's 
 days first occupied her and she saw with vivid clarity 
 all that he had meant to her. She associated him 
 with the Beacon as a tonic, a potent energy, a drastic, 
 dynamic agent. Indeed she confused his force with 
 the Beacon's. He had been the incarnation of the 
 heath and granite under certain of its moods. His 
 effect had been salutary, sane and harsh. She had 
 lost as well as won from contact with him; but she 
 had won far more than she had lost. She loved him 
 
 336
 
 THE BEACON 337 
 
 better, now that he was dead, than she had loved him 
 living. The rational process of thought appeared to 
 be reversed with her at this juncture and she felt not 
 sorry for herself that Dunning was dead, but sorry 
 for him. Yet such sorrow he would have been the 
 first to mock. His familiar motto was to call no man 
 lucky until he was dead. Yet she remembered his ex- 
 ultation and lover-like worship in the last moment that 
 they had stood together. She remembered how he 
 seemed to grow younger under her eyes; how the joy 
 of life thus suddenly within his reach, softened the 
 very lines of his face. She wasted hours in speculat- 
 ing as to the probable course of their united lives if 
 he had lived. And, as often as she did so, the woman 
 caught herself up, smothered her tears and turned im- 
 patiently to more practical reflection. 
 
 Dunning had strengthened her character at cost of 
 certain qualities: she admitted that as she retraced 
 her married days. What she had done for him it 
 was too late to consider; time only would have re- 
 vealed the extent of her past and future influence on 
 him; but she gauged with fair correctness his mark 
 upon her; and loyalty made her dwell with love on 
 the valuable knowledge that she had received from 
 him. 
 
 Yet those attributes that had helped to ruin her 
 career could not be ignored. She felt that, but for 
 Dunning and his counsel, she would never have left 
 her husband. Even in her fervent moments, when 
 the dead seemed to live again and she saw him in the 
 darkness, Elisabeth felt that more for a principle 
 than for a man had she deserted Charles Trevail. She 
 knew it, but understood the absurdity of expecting 
 any other creature to believe it. She had no excuses 
 to offer for the past; indeed the idea of an excuse 
 entered not her thoughts. She knew, however, that 
 her husband would make excuses for her, because it 
 was his nature to do so for all mistaken and erring 
 
 32
 
 338 THE BEACON 
 
 things; but they had finished with one another now, 
 and it was subjectively alone that she considered him. 
 
 She felt intensely interested in him and immeasur- 
 ably proud of what he had sacrificed for her. She 
 wasted no time in considering further that nothing 
 but the incident of his reticence at the last moment 
 had sent her to Dunning; she did not dwell upon the 
 fact that had Charlie told her of his business with 
 Mr. Mortimore instead of hiding it, she would be his 
 wife still. For her that catastrophe was as nothing 
 beside the reality of the thing that Trevail had done. 
 When as she supposed all was lost, all had been gained. 
 Defeat was turned into victory; her influence and his 
 single-hearted love had triumphed over his character, 
 lifted him above it, and performed a miracle. 
 
 She was shaken deeply as she worked out these 
 ideas, ior they meant much to her. They gave the 
 lie to the dead; they seemed to contradict Dunning's 
 prophecies that no man could rise above himself; they 
 shattered Elisabeth's own sorrowful conclusions on 
 the same plane. The thing declared impossible had 
 happened : for pure love, this man had done a deed, 
 mighty and heroic, when considered in connection 
 with the attributes of his character. Her maiden 
 dreams and hopes had come true. The ideal vision, 
 long since shattered by communion with Dunning and 
 with life, trembled back upon her heart out of the 
 long darkness, like a rainbow declared fitfully between 
 passages of storm. But it persisted now — the sole 
 light in her gloom. It was a good and gracious thing 
 to feel that from this welter of tribulation one at least 
 had struggled free and emerged stronger, wiser, bet- 
 ter armed to fight the battle ahead of him. She dwelt 
 very long upon her past years with Charlie and began 
 to trace, like a thread of gold through the uneven 
 texture of their married life, the thing that saved him 
 at the last. But she had not seen it in time ; she had 
 not perceived how his great love had struggled on
 
 THE BEACON 339 
 
 and persisted against every obstacle ; that in truth and 
 despite all, she had been his beacon through the dark- 
 est night. 
 
 She confessed frankly to herself that Trevail's love 
 was cast in a far grander pattern than her own. She 
 had loved herself better than her husband; she had 
 put her self-respect and ambition and sense of obliga- 
 tion to her own character higher than her love for him. 
 His canine patience and faithfulness had wearied her, 
 because his protestations had appeared to be unequal 
 to her tests. But now he had risen in might and done 
 a great thing; and it was her punishment that he had 
 done it too late. She was justly treated and felt that 
 none could have measured a more fitting reward. 
 
 She much wondered what Trevail would do with 
 his future life, now that the sacrifice was vain. She 
 saw him, between two stools, upon the ground and 
 was terribly sorry for him. She asked herself if she 
 would pick him up, did the power still remain to 
 her; but she knew that the power was for ever gone. 
 She planned his future in thought and guessed that 
 he might even atone to his uncle — supposing that 
 Mortimore was not convicted of the crime. For how 
 could Trevail — now that the reed on which he had 
 leant had broken and pierced him thus — believe any 
 further in its value? His love must of a surety turn 
 to hate at last; and yet she knew well enough that 
 would not happen, for gifted though he might be as a 
 lover, her husband lacked power to hate. She guessed 
 that a period of acute torment would dull gradually 
 into indifference, as time blunted his memory. He 
 would drag out certain length of days, and then 
 another woman would enter his life and recompense 
 him worthily and reawaken his power of loving. So 
 she planned his future — still under-valuing him. But 
 she could not deny herself the task of measuring her 
 own influence upon his subsequent days. Her moods 
 and fancies ran over the theme, and now again she
 
 340 THE BEACON 
 
 told herself that he must stamp her and her image 
 out of his soul for ever — that he must turn with 
 hatred and loathing from every instinct and prompt- 
 ing that could be traced to her. But then she felt that 
 it would not be so and that, think of her as he might, 
 Trevail must bear her imprint to the grave, her mark 
 upon his soul for evermore ; and his soul would be in- 
 deed the sadder, but also the sweeter and stronger for 
 it. 
 
 She sickened utterly of life before she was liberated, 
 because her own soul, that had interested her so pro- 
 foundly, was now hateful to her. Yet she brimmed 
 with vitality, despite her suffering, and sorrow could 
 not lessen that. She wanted to begin living again. 
 She craved for time to pass and her new life to open. 
 She missed the presence of a man in her days, and 
 marvelled at herself that she could do so. She 
 longed to plunge back to work, to toil from dawn till 
 night without ceasing and so tame her body by 
 drudgery. Her purpose was to live in complete isola- 
 tion so far as she could do so. She shuddered at the 
 thought of trying to influence any living thing again. 
 
 She worked herself into a great emotion and sleep 
 deserted her. 
 
 At more peaceful moments she became introspec- 
 tive and measured the depth of the mark these men 
 had made on her. At first it appeared that her hus- 
 band had left no impression and that the changes 
 were due to Dunning alone. But she found that, 
 whatever might have been the failure of Trevail in 
 the past, he had influenced her mightily in the present 
 and probably taught her the most valuable thing that 
 she had ever learned. Now that they were separated 
 for ever, she began to entertain a respect for him un- 
 known until now. She was impatient with herself for 
 doing so and tried to assure herself that did she re- 
 turn to him, she would find him radically unchanged. 
 
 Her conscience was clear. She did not blame her-
 
 THE BEACON 841 
 
 self in any respect whatever. Her act had hastened 
 no tragedy and struck no blow. She began to wonder 
 what expression would sit on the human faces of Zeal 
 when she returned among them for some few brief 
 days before departing. 
 
 Her thoughts drifted to the Beacon then. She an- 
 ticipated the parting from it and she was not surprised 
 to find that, since Dunning's death, the hill was only 
 a mighty grief to her and she longed to see it no more. 
 That discovery opened a dark channel with deep places 
 of sorrow in it. Could it be that she had confused 
 him with the hill and credited stones with teaching 
 that came in truth from a man's heart? The Bea- 
 con's joy was gone from her, like a morning cloud, 
 and only its torment remained. It had been a delu- 
 sion and a shadow, had come between her and a 
 fellow soul; had deceived her in some sort and ap- 
 propriated what was a man's. The thing in itself 
 now seemed as nought; its spirit had passed from it 
 and a barren pile of stones and fern, lifted against 
 the sky and tortured by storm, was all that remained. 
 Its magic had passed out of it; its romance was dead; 
 the stories she had woven around it were untrue; the 
 misty people that she had dreamed of were vanished 
 quite before this grey morning of reality. Now she 
 hated the great hill because it seemed to be trying to 
 rob the dead man of his due. Then she felt a frantic 
 wish that he might have been buried on the top of it; 
 and then, again, she recollected that Cosdon's crown 
 was sacred to Trevail. 
 
 Facts soon thundered upon her at every turn and 
 she grew dazed and bruised before them. They liber- 
 ated her and she returned instantly to Clannaboro'; 
 but the house was shut against her and a strange man 
 bade her fetch her boxes and depart. 
 
 " 'Tis an ill wind blows none good," he said. " I'm 
 the cousin of this dead chap and all that he had be 
 mine. But there's plenty depend upon me. Anyway
 
 342 THE BEACON 
 
 there's nothing here for you — you understand that?' 1 
 
 " Yes, I understand," she said. " I'll send for my 
 things this evening." 
 
 " They're waiting. 'Tis all going to be sold. I've 
 got no use for Clannaboro'. Well, I'll wish you 
 good-day." 
 
 She turned to go and he spoke again. 
 
 " I've got no quarrel with you and ain't no great 
 stickler for vartue — no more than my cousin was. 
 You can take a momentum of the man if you like — 
 a pocket-knife or some trifle like that. He had but 
 few goods." 
 
 " Thank you — 'tis kindly meant. But I don't want 
 anything." 
 
 " As you please," he said and went into the 
 house. 
 
 Elisabeth considered for a while what she should 
 do, and then she sought the home of Fanny Cann. 
 The huge bulk of the old woman filled her cottage 
 door and it quivered from crown to heel before the 
 vision of the visitor. 
 
 " Good powers — you ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Cann. I don't know how you feel to 
 me, but I know how the rest do. Can you put me up 
 for two nights — or even three? I've got a good few 
 matters to arrange before I go." 
 
 "If there's one creature here that ought to cold 
 shoulder you, I am that creature," said Fanny. 
 ' Dragging woman in the dirt like this! " 
 
 ' You know that's all nonsense," answered the 
 other. "Dreadful things have fallen out; but those 
 that are alive have got to go on living. 'Twas no act 
 of mine that slew Reynold Dunning, and if I could 
 have saved him I should have." 
 
 "No act of yours! And how if 'tis proved that 
 your husband did it ? " 
 
 Then Fanny bade Elisabeth enter and presently ex- 
 plained to her what she had not yet learned.
 
 THE BEACON 343 
 
 " Charlie's locked up, and 'twill take him all his 
 time to explain that terrible night." 
 
 "Is Abraham Mortimore locked up?' : she asked. 
 
 " No. They went for him too ; but he proved he 
 couldn't have been there. Of course everybody to 
 Zeal knows Charlie didn't do it and Mortimore did; 
 but the cunning fox — Mortimore I mean — can make 
 facts look as if he didn't." 
 
 " There's not a shadow of doubt who did it." 
 
 " Not in any thinking mind ; but the wrong men 
 have hung before and may again. The law don't take 
 character into account. It ain't got no time to do 
 that. You'll have worked pretty fair all around 
 havoc, Elisabeth Trevail, if they send Charlie after 
 the other." 
 
 " I've told the truth about it." 
 
 " I know that, else I wouldn't ask you in here. 
 The naked truth you told; and knowing you, I know 
 you did. And being as I am, large-minded and far- 
 seeing, I understand the whole story. In fact it has 
 all fallen out pretty much as I promised it would when 
 you took Charles. You done what you thought was 
 right and I'm not going to cast a stone. Stop by all 
 means. You've had your dose of men now anyway 
 — and they've had their dose of you." 
 
 " I'll go and send a cart from the village for my 
 boxes," said the younger. " Then I'll come back. 
 Don't you put yourself about. I'll sleep on the par- 
 lour sofa." 
 
 " You needn't trouble as to that," answered Fanny. 
 " My bed's big enough for us both."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 FEW subjects were discussed in Zeal at this season 
 but the murder of Reynold Dunning, and it hap- 
 pened that legal presumption and local knowledge ar- 
 rived at different conclusions respecting the criminal. 
 
 Both Charles Trevail and his uncle were arrested 
 on suspicion; but the latter was able to offer proofs 
 of his non-complicity which satisfied the court, while 
 the former had not been able to do so and was com- 
 mitted to the Assizes. Zeal, from personal knowl- 
 edge of the man, flouted this situation and the general 
 opinion was fairly presented night after night in the 
 bar of Tom Underbill's public-house. 
 
 " You can sum it in a word," declared Lucky 
 Madders for the benefit of a stranger. " We know 
 the men as men; but in the Law's eyes they be only 
 equal living creatures, with like power to evil. And 
 the Law, finding that they'd both got a big crow to 
 pluck with the chap now in his grave — the Law says 
 ' Either of these men, or both, may have committed 
 murder.' But us here, being higher than the Law in 
 knowledge of the culprits, know that one man wasn't 
 built to take a human life, whereas the other one very 
 well might do it, by reason of his character. But the 
 Law, having no regard for persons, and still less for 
 the inner nature of men, have decided that Morti- 
 more couldn't have done it and that Trevail might. 
 Whereas we in this bar know, to a man, that 'tis 
 Trevail couldn't have done it and Mortimore might. 
 Do I put the case fair before this foreigner, neigh- 
 bours?" 
 
 " You're fair to the case, but not fair to the Law," 
 declared Mr. Jope. "The case is as you say; but 
 
 344
 
 THE BEACON 345 
 
 you mustn't blame the Law for not looking under the 
 surface of facts. Remember how much it's got to do. 
 If it set to work to worm out the inner nature of each 
 man or woman as come to be haled afore it, the work 
 would never be done and for every ten judges we've 
 got now, we'd want a hundred. As 'tis the delay of 
 the Law is a byword. No, we can't blame the Law, 
 for why? On the face of things the Law have acted 
 wisely. For how stands it? The man is slain, and 
 him first thought to have done it is known to have 
 been in this bar drinking gin at the very moment 
 when, so far as we can tell, Dunning was being struck 
 down. There's a large doubt if he could have killed 
 Dunning and come here after. 'Tis true none know 
 the truth but himself, since he lives and goes his ways 
 alone. But what the Law says is this, ' the man must 
 have the benefit of the doubt ' ; and, taking one con- 
 sideration with another, the Law holds, so far, that 
 Dunning didn't die till after Mortimore came into 
 this bar. But in the case of Trevail, the time, so far 
 as they can judge, fits in very nice, and human 
 nature in general being what it is, the Law says that 
 he played a very common part and killed Reynold 
 well inside the ways of human nature. 'Tis a most 
 usual thing for a husband to do what Trevail did, and 
 in fact, seeing he couldn't say nothing clear about how 
 he spent his time on the night his wife left him, we 
 might agree with the Law that the case is black 
 against him. But that's where our knowledge of the 
 man comes in and the Law, though a great student of 
 human nature in the gross, can't be in it with us over 
 this particular person, because we've had him amongst 
 us since he was a child, and we understand his nature 
 and know that he could no more hammer in a man's 
 head bones than he could shift Cosdon Beacon. 
 That's what we know and the Law don't. But with 
 t'other, though the Law be satisfied that he was in 
 this bar afore Dunning died, we, that understand him
 
 346 THE BEACON 
 
 and his rash and fierce nature, would bet a week's 
 wages that he's the man." 
 
 " To say it without prejudice. You must add the 
 words ' without prejudice,' declared Neddy Knap- 
 man, " else you may get within the clutch of the Law 
 yourself. I know a bit about it, for I've heard the 
 clerk coach the justices more'n once, when I've come 
 up afore 'em." 
 
 " Without prejudice certainly," continued the shoe- 
 maker. " There's none can say, whether in the Law 
 or out, that I'm a man of prejudice. I leave such 
 small things to small natures. Iron Mortimore's an 
 Old Testament man and goeth by the awful fierce rule 
 of the Five Books. He belongs to a time before 
 Christ, so to say, and it ban't his way when smote on 
 one cheek to offer t'other." 
 
 "Just straight Jehovah," said Mr. Madders. 
 " And there's others like him, as pin their faith to a 
 broken reed in my opinion, for, without the New 
 Testament, none can be saved; and the ways of they 
 Israelites, if followed now, would land a man in 
 prison in this world and in hell in the next. I've 
 figured it out very careful since poor Dunning was 
 knocked on the head, and I know I'm right." 
 
 " 'Tis to your credit, Lucky, that you should have 
 thought upon such a deep matter," answered Mr. 
 Jope. " But you name hell rather too lightly. Other 
 men, other manners, as the saying goes; and we 
 mustn't sweep the Old Testament heroes into the bad 
 place, like a lot of rubbish into a dust-bin. You 
 must allow a very great deal to the age, and you 
 mustn't forget that the Almighty took a close and 
 active interest in His chosen folk. He knew the 
 world wanted rough handling in them days. 'Twas 
 the time for deeds, not words, and hell — being in a 
 sense a new contrivance then — wasn't in the work- 
 ing order it is now. I wouldn't say even yet, that the 
 Old Testament rule if followed would earn hell for a
 
 THE BEACON 347 
 
 man. Clink in this world certainly; but remember 
 that God's ways are not as man's ways and 'tis a very 
 parlous opinion to state that what David did, who 
 was a man after God's own heart, be going to damn 
 this generation if followed now. Right must be 
 right, and wrong must be wrong." 
 
 ' In argument I can't withstand you, Jack Jope," 
 admitted the lime burner. " But this I will say : under 
 the New Testament, David stands in about as tight a 
 fix as any man in the Book; and if he was God's 
 chosen, I can't for the life of me see why Mortimore 
 shouldn't be ; and yet we've all agreed that my master 
 is a very ungodly man." 
 
 " Ungodly, no," said Jope ; " unchristian, yes. You 
 might say that Father and Son differ in a few points 
 of morals — as fathers and sons differ in this world 
 for that matter. The Son pleads with the Father, 
 and gets over him in argument no doubt; and many 
 hold that 'twill come to this in the long run: that 
 mercy will win over justice and that not a single soul 
 will be lost." 
 
 " That's to make hell a laughing-stock," declared 
 Tom Underhill from behind the bar. 
 
 " And that's exactly what Christ did do," answered 
 Jope. " That's the great fact of the New Testament 
 surely." 
 
 "If 'tis, why do the Creed damn all unbelievers? " 
 asked Mr. Madders. 
 
 " As a matter of form, my dear. The Creed very 
 well knows there won't be no unbelievers at the end, 
 and so there won't be anybody to damn. In fact 
 when hell's once empty, the world will end ; and not 
 till then. No doubt 'tis far off; yet a sure thing. 
 You may say, though far apart there's a road from 
 hell to heaven and Christ came into the world to show 
 it and save the lost." 
 
 " Now you'm going beyond history and sense," re- 
 plied Lucky, " and I'll hear you no more. There's
 
 348 THE BEACON 
 
 hell and there's heaven, but as to a road betwixt them 
 I'll never believe it. Anyway Satan's self haven't 
 found it if there be. He fell out of one into t'other 
 and, since he's a darned sight cleverer than anybody 
 else, he'd be the very first to nip back again if he 
 could. And if he gets back again, what's the good of 
 anything? " 
 
 A laugh greeted Lucky's question and it had not 
 died when Mortimore himself entered. 
 
 He had savagely resented incarceration and as 
 savagely rejoiced in the death of his enemy. He de- 
 clared that some secret foe must have destroyed Dun- 
 ning; and he openly asserted that his nephew's wife 
 knew more about it than she pretended to know. 
 
 They returned now to the theme and Iron Morti- 
 more in his own words repeated what Jope had al- 
 ready said. 
 
 " The fools are blind. If I had my way, I'd screw 
 the truth out of that woman if I had to tear her fin- 
 gers and toes off afore she'd squeak. She knows who 
 'twas — so like as not she helped — but Charles — 
 Charles — be he the fashion of man to kill anything? " 
 
 " 'Twill go hard with him all the same," answered 
 Underhill. " I've had some speech with the in- 
 spector and others, and they say that Charles can't 
 prove he didn't do it, and the only question is whether 
 the Law can prove he did. You know what the 
 police are. They've got to make their living, like 
 the rest of us, and to catch a murderer is remembered 
 in their favour. If there was anybody else, I'm sure 
 they'd sooner hang him, than Charles — and they'd 
 have sooner hanged you, if they could, as you know. 
 But you was one too many for them. And I'm sure 
 we all hope that Charles will be." 
 
 " Are you going to help him with a chap to fight 
 the Law for him at 'sizes ? " asked Neddy Knapman ; 
 but Mortimore scoffed. 
 
 What fools you be! Do'e think the Law will 
 
 <(
 
 THE BEACON 349 
 
 string him up without a jot of evidence? 'Twill very 
 soon be shown as he had no hand in it. 'Tis a person 
 unknown laid Dunning out, and if I knowed who 
 'twas, I'd richly reward him." 
 
 " Be you going to get the quarry again?" 
 
 " Yes, I be. That wretch have taken his silly secret 
 to hell with him, whatever 'twas, and there's none to 
 come between me and the quarry no more." 
 
 " You always said 'twould be death for the man 
 that did; and you was right, sure enough," said 
 Lucky. 
 
 His master looked darkly at him. 
 
 " Have a care," he said. " My ear is quick to catch 
 two meanings when people stop me and talk to me 
 now." 
 
 " The Law have ordained that you had no hand in 
 it, and there's an end," declared Mr. Jope. " Libel's 
 libel and the Law may be a good friend, though a bad 
 enemy. No doubt you'd put in a summons against 
 any man who named your name in this matter again ; 
 and since the Law's white-washed you, 'tis very cer- 
 tain nobody be going to say that you did it." 
 
 " Whatever they may think," added Knapman. 
 
 " I suppose you want your nephew to get off, how- 
 ever, Mr. Mortimore ? " asked Emma Underbill from 
 behind the bar. 
 
 " Yes, I do — or any other man that hadn't done it. 
 I want him to get off, because he's innocent, and I'd 
 want him to get off a deal more still if he was guilty." 
 
 " 'Tis all or none in these cases," explained the 
 shoemaker. " A man up for murder gets free again 
 or gets hanged. True sometimes they'll split the 
 difference and give him penal servitude for life, which 
 the Law seems to reckon the happy medium betwixt 
 freedom and death. And in this example, seeing 
 'twas Charlie's wife threw him over, if there's a 
 majority of married men in the jury, they may take 
 the Law in their own hands and justify it. A judge
 
 350 THE BEACON 
 
 is powerless afore a jury — mere dust in their hands; 
 and though law-learned judges have been known to 
 writhe under a jury's commonsense sometimes, yet, 
 life or death lies with the twelve, not the one." 
 
 " Somehow I can't see Charlie in the drop," mused 
 Neddy Knapman. " We've all of us met men very 
 well suited to it in our time; but not him." 
 
 " And what shall you do, as the man's uncle, if it 
 comes to that ? " asked Underhill. 
 
 Mortimore grunted. 
 
 " Because a fool axes questions, a wise man ban't 
 bound to answer 'em," he said. " His whole life 
 stands afore the world to witness this was no heed of 
 his doing. There's none in this place but would go 
 bail for him — none but me. I won't; but that's the 
 man's own fault. He threw me over afore his wife 
 threw him over — I don't forget that — He nought 
 to me no more." 
 
 But Mortimore wavered in his speech and less than 
 his usual ferocity marked it. 
 
 It was a strange atmosphere that this man created 
 now, for perhaps none in his presence but knew with 
 moral certainty that he was the murderer. Indeed a 
 sort of unconscious revulsion spread like a chill mist 
 among them. When he went out, they agreed among 
 themselves that they would know him no more. 
 
 Tis in the air of him — death," said Mr. Madders. 
 
 You smell it when he's up along side of you. For 
 my part I'll think twice afore I work under him again 
 — if they put away his nephew. There's a creepy- 
 crawly something in him — his eyes make me go goose- 
 flesh down the spine." 
 
 " And he knows that we know," declared the subtle 
 Knapman. " He knows that we see through it. 
 Even the like of him can't take human life and go on 
 as if nothing was the matter. The beast in him be 
 glad, but the man in him will get back on him now. 
 He knows that he has damned himself and he'll suffer 
 
 it
 
 THE BEACON 351 
 
 a dreadful lot if they hang Charlie. For my part I 
 wish we were in America, because in that country 
 they'd take Mortimore and march him under the first 
 sizable tree and hang him. Judge Lynch often does 
 right and serves the ends of justice." 
 
 " To hang up the man would be a resounding feat," 
 said Lucky. " I wonder how many of us 'twould take 
 to do it!" 
 
 " 'Twill be easier to send him to Coventry," de- 
 cided Underhill ; " and I'll take the lead and tell him 
 next time he comes in my bar that I don't want him 
 here no more." 
 
 They decided one and all henceforth to treat Morti- 
 more as though he did not exist. 
 
 " Us'll pass the man, just as though he was naked 
 air," said Knapman. " Us'll look through him at 
 the hedge. And when he curses and raves, we'll pre- 
 tend to hear nought and feel nought." 
 
 ' Have a care lest he strike, however," warned Mr. 
 Jope. ' For he hits cruel hard and cruel sudden, and 
 not the best born play-actor amongst us could pre- 
 tend he felt nought, if he was down on his stern in the 
 high-road with a broken nose."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 ELISABETH obtained permission to see her hus- 
 band. He was awaiting trial and, as time pro- 
 ceeded, the lot of the innocent in like case fell upon 
 him. From an attitude of impatient indifference at 
 this reverse and a conviction of security in the issue, 
 he lost courage, grew anxious and began to feel 
 despondent. 
 
 At first it was not so ; at first the minor misfortune 
 of imprisonment looked small beside the shattered 
 life that faced him afterwards. He would presently 
 be free again; but to what purpose? He considered 
 the future, with his wife gone for ever and his uncle 
 turned from him. The latter fact troubled him little, 
 and, since all would be changed, it was well that he 
 should begin again. He imagined himself a labourer 
 working for hire; and he was very sorry for himself, 
 until he remembered that he had always _ been a 
 labourer working for hire. He considered his forth- 
 coming freedom and wondered what his wife would 
 do. He determined to share his savings with her. 
 
 With passage of time and beneath the withering 
 ordeal of imprisonment his attitude changed. He 
 forgave Lizzie everything and began to make excuses 
 for her. He retraced the ground already travelled 
 in their last interview and he told himself that despair 
 had driven her from him. A dozen words from him 
 before Dunning's end must have changed the whole 
 situation between them. 
 
 When his wife came to see him he rejoiced and 
 even told her that the past must be buried between 
 them. 
 
 " I've thought it through and through," he said. 
 
 352
 
 THE BEACON 353 
 
 " I've got no doubts left. I've seen the past, as 
 clearly as ever a mortal man could see it, and I've 
 walked each step of our way. Hand in hand always, 
 Lizzie; but 'twas you that was for ever pulling for- 
 ward and I for ever dragging back. Dragging is the 
 word. I was a sled on your wheel. You're to blame 
 too, Lizzie, for taking other counsel so willingly ; but 
 I'm most to blame. And then, when you had won, 
 and I started to go to uncle and throw him over, I 
 just lacked a pinch of something to tell you before I 
 went, but decided, instead, to tell you when I came 
 back." 
 
 "I know, I know, Charlie. Leave all that now. 
 We can't change it. And I won't think of it any 
 more. I haven't come about the past. When I 
 think of it, my brain shakes. We must keep it out of 
 our minds for ever, if we want to be useful in the 
 world any more. You've forgiven me, and that's as 
 big a thing as giving up your uncle was. And if you 
 hadn't, I doubt I couldn't have gone on living. But 
 you've forgiven me and that's my new starting-point. 
 And you — how is it now ? I want to know when they 
 are going to set you free ? " 
 
 " Perhaps they won't. It all looked absurd — to 
 think anybody who knows me would suppose I could 
 kill a man; but now it don't look so absurd as it did 
 apparently. Anyway my lawyer makes a devil of a 
 fuss about it, and he's got so serious of late that I 
 begin to feel the same. Being chained up here knocks 
 my nerve to pieces. The point is that many a hus- 
 band would have done it on the provocation. In 
 fact, I was more provoked to kill Dunning than the 
 old man was, because a wife be a mightier matter 
 than a quarry whether or no. But, of course, taking 
 into account the parties and their characters, there's 
 no question about it. Only against that, Uncle has 
 proved, so clear as can be, that he must have been at 
 the Oxenham Arms at the moment when Dunning 
 
 33
 
 354 THE BEACON 
 
 was being killed; while I can't prove nothing, except 
 that I was out of my house roaming about God knows 
 where at that hour. To the best of my memory I 
 never went further than the stream side in the valley 
 and not within a mile of Clannaboro', but the Law — " 
 
 " They can prove nothing." 
 
 " Nothing, and if the jury brought it home guilty, 
 they wouldn't hang me, seeing the provocation. So 
 lawyer says. But 'tisn't all over by a long way. I 
 may go to prison for it." 
 
 She considered and he spoke again. 
 
 "And if I do, Lizzie? Oh, Lizzie, if I do — for 
 years ? " 
 
 " Don't think it. 'Twill never happen. They 
 must find out 'twas Mortimore. Everybody knows 
 that he did it." 
 
 " You, Lizzie — you. I've thought deep through 
 these cruel days. You say I forgive you ; but do you 
 forgive me? Yes, I've reached the point of asking 
 that." 
 
 "Don't," she said. "'Tis unmanly in you. 
 Don't put things upside down so." 
 
 " There's two sides to all questions. And I say 
 again there's two sides to this. Forgive me for not 
 telling you what I was going to do. Look here, 
 Lizzie, in a word, if I get out of this scot free — will 
 you, will you come back to me ? " 
 
 "Would you take me back?" she asked in deep 
 surprise. 
 
 " 'Tis fitting and reasonable and the proper thing 
 every way." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "He never—?" 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 "Poor Charlie," she said. "Can you draw the 
 line there? And you such a Christian as you are! 
 No — not that. He only had my soul." 
 
 " Never — never ! None can lay hands on another's
 
 THE BEACON 355 
 
 soul, Lizzie. We're clay and fire — we're clay and 
 fire, I say, but none can meddle with another's fire." 
 
 She stared at his simplicity. 
 
 " Poor Charlie," she said again. 
 
 " Come back to me ! Come back to me ! You 
 love me; you do, you do, Lizzie. You loved me 
 when you heard I'd flung the old man over." 
 
 His crude attitude showed the gulf that still 
 yawned between them. Never before had she so felt 
 the childishness of the man. That he might secretly 
 want her back, she guessed ; but that he could already 
 cry out to her thus, before one single wound had 
 ceased to torture, amazed her. 
 
 She told herself that she could never go back. 
 
 "Don't think of it; don't dream of it," she said. 
 " You're weak and run down — as well you may be 
 cooped up here. If you could take me back, Charlie, 
 I should feel that, after all, I had done nothing for 
 you. And I want to feel that, though I've wrecked 
 myself on it, I haven't wrecked you. 'Tis a very 
 strange thing that I, who thought myself strong, 
 should have been served like this; and still stranger 
 that you I thought so weak should be so strong. But 
 be strong still, and don't feel a shadow less than what 
 you ought to feel against me ; don't you feel a shadow 
 less than what I should have felt against you, if it 
 had been the other way. Don't be weaker than a 
 woman about this." 
 
 " You don't love me no more then," he said. 
 
 " More than I ever did," she assured him, " but 
 we can't talk of such things any more. It isn't 
 seemly. It's common and unclean and not worthy 
 of us. I feel vile even to say I care for you now — 
 vile and false to the dead and the living both. It 
 chokes up my soul to touch the matter." 
 
 " It's all one to me then. I hope they'll hang me. 
 If you won't come back, I'm very like to plead guilty," 
 he said.
 
 356 THE BEACON 
 
 " You're broken and down, and well you may be," 
 she answered. " But look at the real cause of all 
 your suffering and don't be weak. I meant well by 
 you; but I did evil — fearful evil I suppose it was. I 
 know it now and you must keep that in your mind. 
 The children flung stones and the women at a door 
 or two spat in the road when I went down Zeal two 
 days ago. Miss Cann says that I'd have been whipped 
 round the bounds of the village tied to a cart-tail in 
 her grandfather's time. I deserve that in her opin- 
 ion." 
 
 " If I was out of this—" 
 
 But the interview ended and Elisabeth learned that 
 she must depart. 
 
 " They'll let me see you again before you go up to 
 Exeter, Charlie," she said. " And don't fret, and 
 don't think about me. Be clean every way, and when 
 you get free, keep free. Don't meddle in other peo- 
 ple's lives — mind your own and mend your own. 
 That's one of the many things I tried to teach before 
 I'd learned how myself." 
 
 She rose to leave him. 
 
 " Where are you biding for the minute ? " he asked. 
 
 " With Miss Cann." 
 
 " And where are you going now? " 
 
 " To see your uncle. The thought's just flashed 
 into my mind to do it." 
 
 " For God's sake don't ! 'Tis another trouble 
 added to the rest if I'm to picture you facing him." 
 
 " No call to fear for me," she answered and so left 
 him. 
 
 They had spoken in whispers, and the policeman 
 present at the interview had made no effort to over- 
 hear them. 
 
 Elisabeth kept her word and visited Abraham 
 Mortimore during the evening of that day. She be- 
 lieved that some element of danger might lurk in the 
 action, but welcomed it. Danger was tonic at this
 
 THE BEACON 357 
 
 juncture and she cared little for the promise of life. 
 It occurred to her that by seeing Mortimore and 
 speaking fearlessly with him, she might be of service 
 to her husband. Moreover the adventure chimed 
 with her own inclination and mood. 
 
 It was dark when she reached the miser's granite 
 house. She knocked and he opened the door him- 
 self. 
 
 " Good-evening, Uncle Mortimore," she said. 
 " Can you spare me a bit of your time? " 
 
 They had not met for many weeks, and he started 
 violently at sound of her voice, put his face close to 
 hers and peered into it. 
 
 " Time — time ! ' he answered. " You've played 
 with your time and other people's time enough, you 
 scarlet wretch! And you come to me — now! Do 
 you want me to shorten your time ? " 
 
 " That's a little matter. We're past all that. You 
 never frightened me much, even in the old days, and 
 you never will again." 
 
 He retreated and she followed him. 
 ; You're playing with fire to come in here," he said. 
 
 " Very like, but that's all one to me. Do you think 
 I'd mind if you treated me like you treated Dunning? 
 There's no need for lies between us. You're safe 
 enough, if you want to be safe, and I can't harm you 
 if I would. And I've no wish to. I've done good 
 and harm in this place — harm to you and the man you 
 killed — good to Charlie." 
 
 " You say that — and the man's neck in a halter ! " 
 
 "Your work, not mine. I've lifted him; I've torn 
 him away from you. He'll never go back now." 
 
 She sat down in the kitchen. There was a single 
 candle burning on the table and by it some bread, 
 some dripping on a plate, and a Bible. 
 
 " I didn't count on this visit — luckily for you — or 
 I might have been ready for you — with a gaping hole 
 digged in the garden," he said.
 
 358 THE BEACON 
 
 " Dig it — I can wait," she answered. " D'you think 
 I'd have come into your den if I minded what you 
 might do to me? Just let me go over my life, and 
 then you'll see how I stand. I'm here defenceless 
 and care not if I never go again." 
 
 She hastily sketched her days at Zeal and he listened 
 and comprehended. 
 
 " My work in life — the one thing that I toiled and 
 laboured for after I married Charlie — was to lift him 
 higher and make him see that your way was bad. I 
 thought I'd failed; I thought he'd gone to you from 
 me for good and all; and so I left him for good and 
 all. Not till too late did I know the truth of what 
 he'd done. And then — see how it struck, like a two- 
 edged knife. His great deed of throwing you over 
 was the last straw on your back, and, little thinking 
 how you'd strike both your enemies at one blow, you 
 came and killed Dunning." 
 
 "If I'd known you was there, nought on God's 
 earth would have saved you." 
 
 " But if I'd known you was there, I might have 
 saved you and him too," she answered. 
 
 Thus he explicitly confessed his crime; but her 
 heart did not beat the faster for it. She was only 
 interested to find that she angered him so little. He 
 sat scowling upon her; but he threatened no vio- 
 lence. 
 
 " 'Twas my work that killed poor Reynold, though 
 I've denied it to myself," she continued. " Your 
 hand, but my work. D'you see how much I've done 
 in this place? D'you see how one woman in earnest 
 can play deadly pranks with men, if there's that in 
 her to influence them ? All my work at bottom. You 
 wouldn't have killed Dunning if I hadn't got Charlie 
 away from you. You had to strike hard and heavy 
 after that, and you were sore plagued and madder 
 than ever before and you went there and then — " 
 
 " You talk of killing like a maiden talks of mar-
 
 THE BEACON 359 
 
 riage," he said. " Let only them as have killed talk 
 about killing." 
 
 He panted and walked about the room. 
 
 "There's little you can tell me I don't know," she 
 answered. " While I was mewed in his bedroom, and 
 afore I'd had time to look round at the nakedness of 
 it, you'd come and finished him and gone again. The 
 triumph was hardly out of his eyes when I found him. 
 I'm glad for his sake. The hope of me and 
 the winning of me were better things — far better 
 things for him than I myself would ever have been. 
 I never was very sorry for him." 
 
 " Listen," he said. " I be terrible anxious to hear 
 how it sounds spoken aloud. You're right; I wasn't 
 with the man two minutes all told. I found him 
 alone and he greeted me like a friend instead of an 
 enemy. I'd ridden you must know — they never 
 thought I might have done that. But I had — hell for 
 leather when Charlie left me. I thought of you first; 
 then I fastened on him. Terribly friendly he was — 
 as victorious men can afford to be — and well he might 
 be, for he'd done us all round you see — got my quarry 
 and Charlie's wife in his bedroom. In a large and 
 easy mood after such a day's work. I must have a 
 drink with him, and he turned and went to the cup- 
 board. 'Twas all over in a moment. He had his 
 back against me and his arm up to fetch down a bot- 
 tle. A little coal-hammer I took with me. And I 
 hit him twice. The first dropped him and the second 
 went through his head bones. I heard 'em scrunch, 
 like an egg-shell. Then I dragged him under the 
 table and was gone. I guessed his people — they 
 Vallances — couldn't be far off, for I didn't know 
 they was away; and though when I went to kill the 
 man, I cared not a jot whether the whole parish saw 
 me do it, yet, when he dropped so quick and secret 
 and none knowed, there came a mighty keen hope 
 that none ever might know. The quarry — the
 
 360 THE BEACON 
 
 quarry — the quarry I tell you was in my thoughts. 
 'Twas lost and found again. So I walked my pony 
 over the grass to the gate and crept off and had the 
 clever thought to go in a field of mine and turn him 
 loose there and then walk in the bar of the Arms. I 
 was drinking in less than fifteen minutes after I left 
 Clannaboro', and you didn't come down and find the 
 dead man for an hour. That's how it fell out. I'm 
 safe enough you see." 
 
 "Yes," she said. "You're safer than your 
 nephew is." 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 " How d'you feel about it? " she asked. " Is it all 
 they say to kill a man and go free? Does it trouble 
 you or not? " 
 
 " When it comes over me, I think on him," 
 answered Mortimore. " I think of his ways and what 
 he did against me and how he stung and tormented 
 me and robbed me and Charlie, and made me a scorn 
 among the people. To kill a man is a great thing and 
 not a good thing; but the instrument's nought. The 
 hand of God smote him — I'll cleave to that." 
 
 Nevertheless he spoke without conviction and she 
 saw that a new emotion had come into his life. 
 
 " You're frightened of what you've done," she said. 
 " I never would have expected that to have happened 
 to you. I'm not frightened, but I'm haunted. 
 What is it that frightens you — that they will find it 
 out?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "I'm feared for Charlie." 
 
 " I've come about that." 
 
 "They wouldn't hang him, mind you. 'Twas 
 never known, lawyer says, that a man was hanged on 
 such a case. And, even if it could be brought nearer 
 to him — if it could be proved out of the mouths of 
 witnesses that he done it — even then, lawyer say, see- 
 ing the man had sloaked his wife from him — "
 
 THE BEACON 861 
 
 " Suppose Charlie was to say he'd done it ? " 
 
 " Say he'd done it! " 
 
 " He threatened to do that this morning. I was 
 allowed to see him for half an hour." 
 
 " Say he'd done it ! Good God, he don't want to 
 be shut up for his life! " 
 
 " He's like you and me. He's not very sweet on 
 life just now. D'you know the size of his heart? I 
 thought I did ; but even I didn't. He asked me to go 
 back to him if they let him free!" 
 
 " Now I know what you be come to me for then." 
 
 " No, you don't. I'm not as bad as that. I'll 
 never go back to him. I've done him good and awful 
 harm. I'll never go back." 
 
 "And so he'll say he killed Dunning? 'Tis your 
 aim and hope to have 'em both in the pit yet ? " 
 
 " Why don't you finish what you've begun and kill 
 me too ? " she asked. " I'll help you. Then Charlie's 
 free every way." 
 
 " Kill yourself," he said. " You've taught us all a 
 hell of a lot ; now larn a bit. You think you've done 
 him good and lifted him up. If you've done him 
 good, God defend them that suffer evil from you. 
 Your work's finished here, and if you want to round 
 it and complete the job, go out of it. Drown your- 
 self, poison yourself, cut your throat, jump in my 
 quarry. He wants you back; but you'd gone to 
 t'other, and even you have your pride, it seems, and 
 won't sink to slink back to the man you've horned. 
 But so long as you're alive the drivelling fool will 
 hanker for you and you'll go on wrecking him. So 
 die and be damned, and then, once you're under- 
 ground, he may be a man yet." 
 
 She looked at him without speaking and he 
 lifted the candle and peered searchingly into her 
 face. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said ; " it's marked you too, I see. 
 You be white as curds and your eyes look out of
 
 362 THE BEACON 
 
 black rings. You're done for — you'll never be fair 
 to see again. You round the job and set the man 
 free." 
 
 " D'you think I haven't thought of it? " 
 
 " Bah ! Thought of it ! You, with your boasted 
 pluck and strength — stronger and wiser than all us 
 men together — can't do that. Your blasted life be 
 done — you've sucked two men dry and now — come 
 to me to kill you. Practise what you've drove two 
 men mad by preaching. You've done your work on 
 him. Now get out of it and leave him free to find 
 another! " 
 
 " If that was all he had to find," she said. 
 
 " Kill yourself — kill yourself — kill yourself," he re- 
 peated. "Be you a feared? I ban't. If I was you 
 I'd knife myself so soon as a pig. 'Tis made too 
 much of I tell you. When Dunning dropped, he was 
 grinning; and grinning he died. Grinning he lived 
 and grinning he died." 
 
 Elisabeth rose and left him then. She walked to 
 the door and he followed her. 
 
 The candle that he carried threw a shadow, and 
 looking round suddenly she found his arm lifted above 
 her head. 
 
 " I was only thinking how easy it would be ; but 
 easier for you than for me." 
 
 She went out. The road was empty and the hour 
 was late. 
 
 " Grinning he lived — grinning he died ! ' : shouted 
 Mortimore loudly into the silence after her. 
 
 She returned to the cottage of Miss Cann but said 
 nothing of what had passed, or where she had been. 
 New channels of thought opened for her. She per- 
 ceived that the thing he had done had changed Abra- 
 ham Mortimore, and she marvelled. As soon would 
 she have expected a wild beast to mourn slaughter. 
 Some spark of humanity, mothered by that close kin-
 
 THE BEACON 863 
 
 ship with a far-off ancestry, was struggling to the sur- 
 face of him. What might result therefrom she could 
 not tell. She was chiefly concerned with a thing more 
 characteristic of him: his advice to her.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE upheaval in the mind of Abraham Morti- 
 more begat strange issues and from a small be- 
 ginning broke up the deep springs of his nature and 
 laid the fabric waste. He began to endure pain from 
 the course of events. His constricted mind was in la- 
 bour and suffered terrific transitions. Ever in ex- 
 tremes, his ferocity turned now upon himself. He 
 hated his days in one breath and in the next, from a 
 boundless vitality, spurned the thought of ending 
 them ; with frantic desire at one moment he longed 
 for his nephew to be free; and in the next, he cared 
 not what might become of him. But from this 
 matter there emerged a purpose and a rooted con- 
 sciousness that life had now given him all that was 
 possible. He reviewed his days, and retraced them 
 through the misty channels of his memory, as a beast 
 might be supposed dimly to glimpse the past. What 
 more could he win out of living? He was old; he 
 had conquered and slain his enemy. The quarry was 
 to be his again. He missed Dunning and that keen 
 edge the other had put to his life. No dread goaded 
 him; he had almost welcomed dread as an emotion 
 mordant and acute. For himself he cared nothing, 
 and the ease with which he had accomplished his 
 purpose and continued to go free in the heart of a 
 suspecting community made him forget how differ- 
 ently the crime and its sequel might have fallen out. 
 He felt a large contempt for his fellow man. His 
 immature mind had been lit up by murder. The deed 
 exercised a distinct functional effect and increased the 
 clearness of Mortimore's intellect. 
 
 He was largely occupied with the problem of 
 
 364
 
 THE BEACON 365 
 
 Charles Trevail and once even thought to see his 
 nephew; but he changed his purpose, for deep un- 
 easiness marked him in the atmosphere of the law. 
 
 He despised it, but terribly he dreaded it. The 
 instinct, however, was mechanical and built upon his 
 experience in the far past. For himself at the present 
 juncture, he could not be said to feel any fear. But 
 his alarm for Trevail increased, and he believed that 
 a futile law might presently throw the punishment on 
 his nephew's shoulders. He still hated and cared for 
 Trevail in a gust. He could not separate the emo- 
 tions. Dislike conquered when he remembered how 
 Charles had abandoned him at his wife's behest; then 
 he looked back and remembered the younger man's 
 long years of faithful service. The problem of 
 Charles bewildered him, and maddened him. And it 
 was urgent, because the trial approached. Had it 
 been possible easily to save Charles he would have 
 done so; but time progressed; other matters cleared 
 themselves; his life, as a tale recorded, resolved into 
 a jejune and flat experience — into an anti-climax that 
 promised no change for the better, no further fla- 
 vours, and no more large events. To be hanged, in- 
 deed, was in his power ; but he might do that for him- 
 self without help of man. 
 
 Seen from one standpoint it appeared no longer 
 difficult to save Trevail. Yet did he desire to do so? 
 Finally he told himself that he did not. Though the 
 line that he began to consider would tend to his 
 nephew's salvation, the result of his actions on other 
 people ceased to interest him and he cared no more 
 what might befall Trevail. He was indifferent as 
 to any issue. The personal interest of the thing he 
 imagined now quite shut from his mind every ancil- 
 lary consequence. 
 
 He began to occupy himself with his possessions 
 and, for a time, thought upon them weakened his 
 purpose. He linked himself up with the world again,
 
 366 THE BEACON 
 
 saw Trevail's lawyer and considered Trevail's wife. 
 He heartily wished that Elisabeth would destroy 
 herself and wondered whether the matter was in her 
 mind. Then he did what before he had not done: 
 he looked all round himself and strove to see how the 
 thing that he thought to do would affect his world; 
 he endeavoured to picture, to the last ripple, the wave 
 cast up by his contemplated plunge. But his intellect 
 lacked any synthetic power and he could not proceed 
 with the investigation. He devised how to leave his 
 money away from Charles, yet knew none who might 
 better possess it. Then he was inspired to take it 
 with him. The possibility of this, once proved, gave 
 him large satisfaction. There lacked time to realise 
 all his goods; but much wealth might be banished 
 from the earth for ever when he left it. This discov- 
 ery accelerated his movements. He collected a large 
 sum of money under his roof in cash. The accumu- 
 lations of years he sold and emptied the chamber of 
 his house where he had kept them. Suspicions were 
 rife that he was about to run from Zeal and the folk 
 guessed that he would disappear and be seen and heard 
 of no more. 
 
 Mortimore received a summons to attend the 
 Assizes and bear witness of his nephew's visit to him 
 on the night of the murder. He inquired concerning 
 the train and learned that he must start for Exeter 
 at an early hour. He forgot nothing and bargained 
 over the sale of his possessions as of old. He 
 smarted, too, by instinct when the prices were lower 
 than he had hoped. His last rage for money proved 
 keen and bitter, because this whim : to take all the cash 
 possible out of the world with him, grew by what it 
 fed on. He turned his money into notes, and one 
 night, sitting alone, he burned fifty pounds — to taste 
 the emotion engendered. 
 
 He liked it not, and though his life was now timed
 
 THE BEACON 367 
 
 to endure but a week longer, he kept his wealth to 
 the end and ordained that it should share his own 
 fate. 
 
 He went fishing one day and then remembered that 
 his boat was of value. Therefore he sold this 
 also, and a man, who owned a pond one mile distant, 
 was glad to purchase it. This sale, for private rea- 
 sons, caused Mortimore a measure of satisfaction 
 which the actual price of the punt by no means rep- 
 resented. A day was fixed and, in consideration of 
 the sum of two pounds, Mortimore undertook the 
 transit of the punt to its destination. 
 
 There came a night when Lucky Madders and the 
 rest of the men and boys who worked at the quarry, 
 were bidden to call at the house of their master. 
 
 Greatly wondering what he might have to say to 
 them and guessing gloomily that he proposed to lower 
 their wages, they came. They found him in his 
 kitchen clad in his Sunday suit. He dismissed them 
 and gave each a month's wages. He explained that 
 he was going to the Assizes on the following morning 
 and should stop at Exeter until Trevail's fate was 
 determined. He added that his future movements 
 were uncertain and would depend on the result of the 
 trial. Then he bade all depart save Madders and 
 one other. 
 
 To their ears he told another story: the true one. 
 In a hundred sledge-hammer words he explained how 
 he had killed Reynold Dunning; how he had ridden 
 swiftly away from Clannaboro' the moment after- 
 wards; how, owing to the fact that Elisabeth Trevail 
 did not discover the dead until an hour later than his 
 departure, it was within his power apparently to prove 
 an explicit alibi. 
 
 " You'll remember that I came in the bar of the 
 1 Arms ' and drank and raged against my nephew," 
 he said.
 
 368 THE BEACON 
 
 Having spoken and made all clear, he bade Mad- 
 ders proclaim it and fetch officers to arrest him. 
 
 " They'll quickly come," he declared. " All men 
 know that I killed Dunning, though none can prove 
 it but me. Now begone and tell them what you've 
 heard and lead 'em here." 
 
 They left him and after lengthy speech between 
 themselves did as he bade them. His companion sup- 
 posed that Mortimore would await the police; Mr. 
 Madders did not. 
 
 " Mortimore chose us two old blids," he said, " be- 
 cause he knew that we couldn't grapple with him 
 and keep his hands off himself; but that's his mean- 
 ing. He's going out of it and Charlie Trevail will be 
 cleared. You mark me, he'll be a deader long afore 
 the constables get to his house." 
 
 Twenty minutes later it was attempted to arrest 
 Abraham Mortimore; but his place proved empty 
 and, in the darkness of night, none could tell or guess 
 which way he had gone. 
 
 A policeman knew something of his affairs. 
 
 " 'Twas on the cards that he might have been took 
 again to-morrow at Exeter," he said. " Us have 
 been watching very close to see what he meant to do. 
 He's sold everything that he could sell — even to this 
 house. He let things go at any prices to be rid of 
 'em. He's got very near three thousand pounds of 
 money in his pocket at this moment no doubt." 
 
 " Maybe he'll turn up in Exeter as ordained," sug- 
 gested Lucky. " Such a fantastic man as him may 
 have planned to rise up in court and tell the judge 
 and all — just for the pleasure of making a flare up." 
 
 " Not him," declared the inspector of police. "If 
 he'd meant to do that, he wouldn't have told you and 
 this here man about it. 'Twill take us all our time to 
 set eyes on him again." 
 
 They talked into the night but instituted no search 
 until the morrow.
 
 THE BEACON 369 
 
 And Mortimore meanwhile had departed towards 
 North Combe and the quarry. The night was dark, 
 but he moved swiftly with the gait of one well used to 
 night. He hastened under the wood to the little tarn 
 and approached his punt. With the merciful swift- 
 ness of an executioner, he carried out the details for 
 death, and his expedition was extreme. He cast off 
 the chain, loaded the boat with some heavy stones, 
 until it sank gunwale deep in the still water, and then 
 paddled slowly to a familiar spot in the middle of the 
 lake. Now he took the chain that usually moored his 
 craft and bound it tightly about his own body, so 
 that he should be firmly fastened to the bottom of the 
 punt. One arm alone remained free and seizing his 
 oar, he smote the planking under him and drove it in. 
 
 His last act was to feel for his money, which he had 
 sewn into the pocket of his coat. 
 
 Thus did Abraham Mortimore pass after his enemy 
 and their recalcitrant forces destroy one another. 
 
 *4
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 CHARLES TREVAIL spoke with Fanny Cann, 
 and he desired one thing and she advised another. 
 But the question between them depended for the an- 
 swer upon a third person and she had determined 
 what to do. 
 
 When Trevail was freed, he came instantly to his 
 home and desired to see his wife; but she would not 
 see him. She remained for one more day at Miss 
 Cann's cottage, and then she left the place and pro- 
 posed never more to return. Trevail was making a 
 final struggle for happiness, like a drowning man 
 clutching at a straw. Though free again, his freedom 
 seemed of little worth and life threatened to submerge 
 him for ever in a chill twilight. 
 
 He spoke passionately to the old woman. 
 
 " Why, why won't she come back ? I've done all 
 I could do. I've—" 
 
 " Ban't what you've done, Charlie ; 'tis what she's 
 done. You must at least give her credit for common 
 decency. Things such as these can't happen and be 
 forgot, like yesterday's shower of rain." 
 
 " That's all over and I've a perfect right to forget 
 if I choose. We have our lives all smoothed out 
 clear ahead. Ban't I never to know what happiness 
 means after working so terrible hard for it? Didn't 
 I fairly earn it? She knows that well enough. I'm 
 broken, and I'm broken in; I'm changed; I'm good 
 enough for her now ; and I know that if I'd done what 
 I did do one day sooner, she'd never have left me. 
 Therefore why should she leave me now? Am I to 
 lose all — after I thought to have won all? Am I a 
 dumb beast, to be tormented and over-driven till I 
 
 370
 
 THE BEACON 371 
 
 drop? Haven't I had enough? I'm changed to the 
 very roots; tell her that. My desires for simple joy 
 and lazy leisure be dead. I know they were natural 
 to me; but they're dead now. Everything is dead 
 but what she wants to live. I'll be a tireless worker 
 and hunger for nought else but work. I'll fling over 
 the joy of life, like dross, for her sake — everything — 
 everything for her sake. She's moulded me into her 
 very pattern of man, and if she leaves me now is it 
 fair, is it just? " 
 
 " Don't you take on, but list to me. Here's a mat- 
 ter for time to work at." 
 
 "If she goes, she'll never come back — I know that 
 well enough." 
 
 "Not here; she'll never come back in sight of 
 Cosdon Beacon, and who shall blame her? But 'tis 
 for you to plot and plan, not me. She's broken down 
 in body and soul, and she must get away alone to 
 cleanse herself. That was her own word. She came 
 pretty near finishing herself, Charlie. The old man, 
 under water now, advised her to do it, and if he 
 hadn't, 'tis possible I do believe that she might have. 
 Don't you pester her for the moment. Let her go 
 right away and work — work her fingers to the bone. 
 She'll recover ; but she won't recover in sight or sound 
 of you. Let her go far ways off, and learn, and get 
 humble and teachable, which she never has been yet ; 
 and then may be, once the habit of humble learning 
 comes upon her, she'll change and in time to come 
 learn even from you." 
 
 " She'll never come back I tell you — not if once she 
 goes." 
 
 "Who can tell? But go she will, and no sane 
 man or woman would wish to keep her. Let her go 
 without any fuss. She's got a great sense of what's 
 fitting. 'Tis a sense most women have and most men 
 have not. She couldn't come back to you now ; and 
 God knows 'tis upsetting my own opinions and eating
 
 372 THE BEACON 
 
 my own words even to think or hope she ever will do 
 so. But, all the same, the case being as it is and you 
 being what you are, I believe and hope as you'll come 
 together again. For you are you and Lizzie is Lizzie, 
 and so it may happen." 
 
 " Then help me to make it." 
 
 " Your only chance — your only chance is to let her 
 go free, without any more attempts to stop her, or 
 see her. She's ill, but 'tis an illness that will soon 
 mend once she's out of sight of this place. Let her 
 get away and follow her bent, while you look round 
 and sell North Combe and take up work out of sight 
 of here. You'll do well to get off Dartmoor alto- 
 gether, I reckon, for your own sake as well as hers. 
 She's had her dose of that. Try the in-country and 
 let her bide alone for a full year — a full year, Charlie 
 — and then see how life looks to her and you." 
 
 " She'll be gone and I shall never know where to 
 find her again." 
 
 " You needn't fear that. I know what she means 
 to do. I made her tell me. She's got the old sort 
 of work again in London. And leave her to it. She 
 said yester-night that she'd done what she wanted to 
 do for you ; but she didn't feel just then the result of 
 it; she didn't think what it would be if you did what 
 you wanted to do for her. Such twisted tangles be- 
 tween a man and a woman be beyond me of course — 
 'tis like a pink dodder choked in a fuzz bush to see 
 most women's lives messed up by going to live with a 
 man. But as to your case I won't say that exactly. 
 You know how much I've thought upon it, and if she's 
 the dodder and you're the fuzz, she haven't choked 
 you to death anyway and you haven't pricked her to 
 death. She've got to know your uses now ; but she've 
 also got to know what hard labour tastes like after the 
 easy days at North Combe. She'll go at it like a 
 demon and try to kill herself with work at first. She's 
 in a cruel, remorseful sort of state and haven't got no
 
 THE BEACON 373 
 
 opinions and no hopes left. She wants ideas now, 
 not opinions, and she'll never judge man nor mouse 
 again. That's all to the good; and the next thing is 
 what will happen to her mind when she begins to look 
 back. Well, she'll see a live man and a dead one for 
 sartain, and she'll measure up what good and ill she's 
 got and given. And she'll begin to see what you are 
 and what — well, I ban't going to praise any man to 
 his face — least of all you; but you've got your qual- 
 ities; and such as they are, she'll miss 'em. I say to 
 you, ' If you want her back, then let her go; and the 
 farther she goes away and the less she hears or sees of 
 you, the more likely she'll want to come closer again 
 and to see and hear once more.' " 
 
 " Where is she now ? " 
 
 " Up over — taking leave of it." 
 
 He started to climb the hill. 
 
 " Don't you do that ! " she cried out ; but he only 
 pushed on. He knew that he was wrong; yet no 
 power, short of physical, could then have prevented 
 the man from endeavouring to reach his wife. 
 
 "Fool!" shouted Miss Cann after him; and in 
 anger and impatience she went into her house and 
 banged the door. 
 
 Trevail tramped the pathless places and sought for 
 Lizzie until it grew dark. He did not see her; but 
 she saw him far off and hid from him. She did not 
 return to Fanny before the night had fallen, nor did 
 she enter the house until satisfied that her husband 
 was not in it. 
 
 The women talked long together, but Miss Cann 
 hid her mind and did not speak of the things that had 
 passed between her and Trevail. 
 
 " 'Tis understood," she said, " that you let me 
 know how you are faring and how life goes on in 
 general. You've had your dose of men and I don't 
 fear you'll ever find any more use for them. And, 
 as for Charles, you'll excuse me \<<v naming him, he's
 
 374 THE BEACON 
 
 going to be as busy as a bee leaving Zeal and seeking 
 a new place out of sight of Dartmoor." 
 
 " We can never forget." 
 
 " You will. He won't. You know the unchange- 
 ableness of the silly man. A great power of faithful- 
 ness without a doubt. Worth a thousand of you he 
 was in that matter. However, we must help him to 
 forget you since 'tis your wish. We want to pleasure 
 you, Elisabeth. Some of us still care about you 
 above a bit and be sorry for the cruel mess your 
 nature has thrust you and others into." 
 
 " Tell him that my last word was that I hope he 
 would fight and fight with himself and not forgive 
 me — never, never. He oughtn't to if he's a man." 
 
 " I'll tell him. But the way to make him hate you 
 properly, if you want that, would be to stop with him. 
 You're doing the very thing to make a man forgive 
 you — especially one like him. Finish up your bread 
 and milk and be off to your bed."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 ELISABETH TREVAIL sat in a train that 
 hastened from Okehampton to London. She 
 wore black and her face was very pale. By her nerv- 
 ous motions and unrest it was easy to see that she suf- 
 fered mental excitation. The day was dark and rain 
 swept the window of the carriage. 
 
 As the train approached Yeoford, she rose, begged 
 pardon of a woman who sat beside the door, bent over 
 her, lowered the glass and leant out. 
 
 A man spoke. 
 
 "Be careful," he said; "we're not near the station 
 yet." 
 
 But she did not hear him. Her eyes were fixed at 
 edge of earth, where a slate-grey mound, washed by 
 leagues of wet air, rose — small and dim — beyond the 
 hills and dales. It persisted in her sight for a mo- 
 ment ; then patches and ribbons of steam swept past 
 the train and the vision vanished. 
 
 Elisabeth drew up the window and returned to her 
 place. 
 
 THE END 
 
 375
 
 THE RED LANTERN 
 
 BY 
 
 EDITH WHERRY 
 
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 WILLIAM J. LOCKE 
 The Usurper 
 
 " Contains the hall-mark of genius itself. The plot is masterly in 
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 pen. It is impossible to read and not marvel at the skilled work- 
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 Derelicts 
 
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 THE COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM J. LOCKE 
 
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 The Morals of Marcua Ordeyne The Demagogue and Lady Phayre 
 
 At the Gate of Samaria The Beloved Vagabond 
 
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 Simon the Jeater The Usurper 
 
 Where Love la Septimus 
 
 Derelict* Idols 
 
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 BY 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 
 
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